power within, Ijen, Java

Written in Ubud in the lovely little oasis that is Oka Wati on Tuesday 14th June about Thursday 9th June through to yesterday (and a bit about Wednesday 8th June at the bottom!) 

As our jeep bumps and grinds up the mountain roads to Ijen, we smile with relief that our new hosts – Pak Poer driving and Rian as guide – chatter and smile and are completely awake: which is what we want now we’re in four wheeled jeep and the road seems to turn back in on itself at every corner. As we scoot past palm trees I look upwards towards the sky through the shadows of the fashionable parasol-shaped ferns: I’m excited about this next trip to Ijen – the crater lake is aqua marine and looks just stunning in all the photos.

As we begin our hike it becomes clear that Rian’s decision not to fast today “because I need power” was an entirely sensible one because it is steeeeeep and unrelenting to get to the top of this volcano. It’s a 3km climb not for the fainthearted. (I’m not sure if I’m just not as fit or whether it’s just steeper but it feels much harder than the climbs we did when I trekked with my fellow air ambulance lot in Nepal’s Annapurna region).

When you learn a bit more about the Sulphur miners – and how ridiculously heavy the bright yellow mineral (?) is – you can’t help but gasp and gaffaw. We meet one with a big smile on his way down with a barrow choc full of what looks like chunks of luminous yellow honeycomb and Emma has a go at lifting the end of the barrow (which sends them into a bit of a panic and he rapidly takes over after we nab a photo).

Rian tells us that they get just Rp1000 per 1kg of this substance which is used for colouring in beauty products the world over. A hard life. No two ways about it. And bringing it down the slope is just the easy part! Their core strength must be like that of an Ox. Apparently they get just Rp1000 for 1kg I ask Rian if there’s a minimum wage but it’s not something that exists here (surprise) or that he’s happened across before. How lucky we are as a nation. If only more people knew.

We dig a gifted knobbley finger of sulphur each into the side nets of Emma’s haliborange back pack and carry on up. The deep green mountains and volcano spouts surround us on every side as we ascend and it’s marked out as different to your usual sort of trail, thanks to a scattering of yellow sherbert dust which we tramp deeper into the soily ground as we pass.

We stop for a break every little while, take a photo and Em and I agree that coming up this at midnight (when you can’t even see and imagine how much slope is still ahead of you in the dark) would not have been our first choice. Who cares that much about blue fire anyway? Nothing staring at a camping stove for five minutes won’t fix!

We chat to Rian about our charity work and discover more about his involvement in ecotourism and disaster planning. The volcano(oes?) erupted before he was born (I think he may have said 1981?) and it may only be a matter of time before it happens again. We eventually emerge onto a ridge – a sulphur scattered trail ahead of us, betraying how to reach the volcano’s mouth.

Emma: “You know what we need to do here don’t you?”
Me: “What?”

Just the best place for a jumping photo of epic proportions.

The pinks, blues, greens, and oranges at the top here are still impressive, even when aren’t as vibrant as they might usually be because of the black curled smoke which the volcano blows casually from it’s mouth.

 

Rian exchanges information with one of the wirey sulphur miners who’s skin is the sun singed as dark as a hazelnut: the blue fire was the biggest it’s been last night (Oh. Maybe a bit better than a camping stove then, lol). The black of the smoke betrays it’s increased intoxication – the fumes are more deadly than usual.

It crosses my mind that an eruption may be imminent but the thought disappears as fast as it came as I’m distracted by the depth of aquamarine to our right where the wind has considerately cleared a hazy patch of lake for us to spy on. A group of french hikers with the proper gas mask get-up sweat past us and we conclude that 1/ Emma’s hip can’t quite face the steep steps 2/ we don’t fancy being gassed with toxic poison as we pant with the exertion and 3/ we possibly need to reserve some energy for the downward leg. We’ve probably seen as much as we will anyways and pause for a moment by the ‘Beware Cliff’ sign to watch Mr brown as a sun-beaten hazelnut negotiate the steep upward steps. He has two baskets of bursting with sulphur suspended either side of his sinewy frame and he swings the carry frame from one body-builder-defiant-shoulder to the other as each exchange rest-time in this unrelenting relay.

These guys are a feat of nature: once he’s dug up and then carried up four of these loads (which are 70-80kg each, so a little less than the weight of the two of us put together) from the belly-bottom of the volcanoes smoking side, the loads are bundled together into a sack-barrow and he’ll inch back down the calmer greener side as sweat beads race from hair line to toe.

On the way back down poor Rian goes over twice on his ankle and I try to encourage him to snake from side to side to help with the grip on his trainers. He’s not convinced and he and Emma go headfirst as I continue snow-plough’ing from side to side.

The muscles at the top of my bum are complaining but I’m grateful for grippy ankle-protecting hiking boots, even if they do make my feet sweat and add to the inner furnace I’ve discovered I generate from my inside when visiting hot countries. By the time we finally arrive back at the jeep (I have to go for a wee stop, tucked back in the undergrowth, before we get there) we’re thoroughly ready for a little snooze. Our admiration blossoms still further for those unfathomabley strong and determined men barrowing bright heavy bubbles of yellow treasure up and down an active volcano every long hard day.

Master Coffee Roaster Mr Nidom then makes a perfectly timed appearance in our journey. He resides in a hand crafted and perfectly circular oasis (the plot is circular, the gazebo we sit under is circular, even the rough-hewn toilet/shower room is circular).

He is not roasting today but we take a look anyway at the (circular) shallow clay bowls, cracked and burnt charcoal by the fire pit they sit in. There is a giant (circular – you get the idea right?) glass jar of coffee as big as three people’s heads in the middle of the table so we do as invited and stick our faces deep into the jar and draw the hypnotic aroma into the bottom of our lungs).

“Which coffee you want? Traditional Javanese way or filter?”

We say whichever is easier, so they proceed to make both. Ping! I’m awake again. I have to be careful with caffeine or I turn into an (annoying) jack-in-a-box with a scarily fast heartbeat. Somehow though, the coffee here has a less palpative affect and I’m sped back just to my usual level.

We chat with the chap who just arrived who has a smile as big as Buddha’s and music in his soul. He plays blues in a band in Bali sometimes and I show him some of the playlist from my own band. He sings a couple back at us but concludes that hes too young to know a lot of them. Fair point. I am wise and old. Well maybe not so wise. Ha!

As I write now it’s quarter past four on the cloud covered afternoon following the morning when I started writing this entry. I can hear some murmured talking from the building to my left where Emma is having a massage (she was hoping she could just lay there and be pampered and body scrubbed without having to communicate so I wonder if she may not have got her heart’s desire). It’s her turn for a pampering treat. I have already been treated to two traditional Javanese massages. The first was bestowed to me by a girl at our posh Sanika hotel in Banuwangi: her fingers were as strong and unforgiving as my Nanna’s pasta beating ones and she beat the tension in my shoulders, lower back (and feet – what’s that about??) into submission. The second we treated ourselves to together in Seminyak at Amadea Hotel – whilst wearing the most unflattering of black crepe pants (unisex -go figure!). So yeah, we’re definitely into the relax and treat ourselves phase of the holiday.

It was a good job relaxing was where we were at really when we got to Seminyak. It’s a weird old place. The main drags are choc-full of uber-expensive designer shops and (mostly Aussie?) tourists. Pretty much everyone who is local is ‘staff’ and treated as such which feels just a bit odd. We realise that we don’t like being waited on and shared our thoughts with the guy from our neighbouring room:

“Yeah, great isn’t it”. 

Hmmm.

They probably think we’re snobs and we can’t help ourselves: when fellow tourists (or even the cocktail waiters or desk staff) ask how long we’ve been here for, we pipe up

“Oh just three nights. We visited Jogja and Kalimantan before we came here…and we’re going to Ubud and Nusa Lembongan next”.

But at least we’ve seen more of the (real) Indonesia. To give Semiyak it’s due we met some cool people (including a potential pro-surfer who alternatively might just make Green Banana Paper in Micronesia – also cool of course), drank some delicious lychee martinis and enjoyed dancing and singing along to some fabulous live bands feeling out numbered by a army of Australians (maybe it’s not the English trying to take over the world after all, or any more).

 

We’re much more comfortable now we’re in Ubud. There’s the mild annoyance of Taxi drivers who won’t let you just walk. Well I suppose we could just ignore them. But that would be rude. Oh the curse of our polite English/Irish upbringings. Some (the ones more likely to get our custom) just have a ‘TAXI’ sign that they wave and no intention to disturb your day. Others try the “Taxi YES! Where you want to go? Where you going? Where you from?” tactic. A head shake, wave down and forward look seems to keep us fairly safe. The market’s the same though. We discovered this yesterday (a lot of shopping was done at ridiculously bargain some bargaining prices): you are pretty much chased around a shop and are offered all manner of things you don’t want “I give you good price”.

There are some bizarre items on sale which we wouldn’t have expected. All the usual of course, like pashminas (1 each), colourful sheets of batik (2 for Emma’s eventual house), beautiful jade green silk dresses (1 for me), hareem pants in all the brightest shades you could wish for (an orange pair, a pink pair and two turquoise – all for me), unique flip flops with tiny gold flowers across the straps (a pair each), tangerine light silk robes (1 each). But then there’s things like those ubiquitous wooden ducks wearing welly boots (+ Doc Martins?) which I can buy down the road from Buntingford in Ware’s Van Hage Garden Centre. Ubud also seems to have a thing about frogs (may have to investigate this further). They jump out at us with goofy smiles on giant garish green canvas and I pick one up and put it down again in any number of shops and market stalls. There are also wooden painted willy shaped carvings, pestle and mortars and bottle openers?! Needless to say, we won’t be adding one of those to our household paraphernalia.
By the end of our shopping jaunt yesterday I’ve barely spent £50 but it feels like millions. Rupiah is helpful in that way. Plus when you find something really expensive, like Rp8 million you stop a moment to convert, to £400, and realise yes that is a prohibitive amount: let’s veer away from the RpX million price tags….. except maybe with the exception of that amazing gold and silver jewellery shop, Ananda Soul with it’s fair trade products, some of which are made by the mothers of street kids, and the sale of which contributes to their education. Perhaps we can make an exception for that…..

So far I’ve resisted the gorgeous gold handmade necklace but I have the feeling that by tomorrow I may have been succumbed by it’s delicate charms and the healing karma enhancing properties of it’s tiny rose quartz gems. For someone who’s usually satisfied by hand-me-across-or-up-or-downs I feel a little greedy but you can’t argue with the value. Maybe I should stop indulging and buy something for someone else too at some point. Perhaps I need to buy two frog-loving people in my life a funny faced frog each.. (UPDATE Sunday 19th May: my selfish shopping continued and I got the necklace(!) whilst sadly no frogs presented themselves as good enough, so I may have two less frogs for respective collections. Well – actually – I got one for Rp 40,000 as we left Nusa Lembongan but both his front legs have now fallen off and I’m not even home yet – still got to get from Amsterdam to Stansted…so… chocolates from the airport it may have to be!)

I’ve just realised that I’ve totally missed telling you about Baluran, Taman National Park which we went to on Thursday 9th June, before Rian and Pak Poer came to our rescue. Let’s just say it wasn’t a trip highlight. I’m sure that what’s known as the Javanese Savannah is pretty spectacular…. when you know what animals and birds to look for as pointed out by Guide. But when he/she doesn’t materialise and your non-speaking driver doesn’t explain what’s going on and the ‘tour’ instead involves being led up to a viewing platform (good view no arguement there, what of we’re not sure with our lack of local knowledge or geograhical sense), a walk across to some Oxen (cue blank blinks between homosapian and bovinae through a barbed wire fence), a wander through a mangrove (with a perfectly polite and lovely chap who wasn’t expecting us and is looking a bit ruffled towards the end of his daily fast) and a meander down a dirty beach where you can observe monkeys licking out dirty rubbish packets…well.

Still, the sunset (before scary drive home #2 occured) was pretty gorgeous.