Friday August 25th
2011
Our arrival to Yogyakarta seemed only fitting as we
stumbled from our train, cobwebs hanging from our thoughts as we attempted to
engage our mental compass and locate our bearings. As a traveler you can only assume so much
when arriving in the dark morning hours in a potentially hostile location. We still had gleaned little of Indonesia
except for the confirmations from the friendly, but space consuming man at our
feet, who was quite adamant that danger lurked everywhere and we had better
stay vigilant. We exited the station and
within moments were greeted by an overly cheerful man, considering the hour,
but were easily convinced to follow him down numerous alleys until he arrived
in front of a supposed guesthouse. As it
would turn out he was a sincere fellow who wanted nothing more than for us to
be his Facebook friend. It’s a shame we
lost the paper with his name because our guesthouse proved safe and quite
reasonably priced. Well, everything
sounds like a bargain when it’s 5:00 am.
Yogyakarta is an Indonesian town that would appear to be,
and with sound intention, unlike Jakarta in almost every way. Welcoming to a traveler and humming with
activity, in the downtown there was a certain vibe that was welcoming to
us. It was here that numerous strangers
would stop us, invariably trying to persuade us with some negotiation but
eventually falling short as their interest turned toward conversation more than
persuasion. Unlike the crooks of the previous
SE Asian countries, here in Indonesia the people seemed genuinely interested in
just talking with you. Yes, it can
become bothersome as what would normally be a 15 minute walk took us2 hours as we
were frequently stopped by any passerby that held even the slightest ability
with the English language.
Yet we made the most of our time in this hot but amicable
city. It’s most common item for sale is
Batik art, a type of painting that involves hot wax and canvas. Every silver tongued street salesman and
subsequent vendor is certain of his products perfection while seemingly
astonished that his competition could ask such prices for their art. Of course, the prices rarely exhibited any
real fluctuation but the looks on their faces could have convinced you otherwise. It was with certain pleasure for me to merely
view the art and slowly nod and sway to the ramblings of the vendor as he
dispelled any myths of the art while spinning his words in hopes that you would
purchase. Honestly, some of pieces were
quite engaging and the price was relatively low compared to many other items
that had been cast before me throughout my travels in hopes of luring me in
like a crow to a polished stone. But I
insisted my travels would cease to exist if I were to haggle, purchase and
carry every treasure that was offered to me.
Pictures and postcards have been my motto and it was with charming
resilience that I brushed off their continual advances.
The food of Indonesia was again a welcome change for
Dustin and I both as the flavors of what appeared to be yet another dish of
noodles shocked our tongue with unfamiliar flavors. Maybe it was their sauce or maybe it was all
in our heads. Either way this was a
welcome change for us. And with new foods
in every country come new snacks!
Wandering the main thoroughfare of Yogyakarta we entered one of many
snack shops only to find stacks of snacks, from the floor to the ceiling,
lining every wall. Samples were allowed
for some items and if it hadn’t been for some modest self-restraint, a full
meal could have been devoured, one tiny new and delicious morsel at a time. I
left with a pound of banana chips that should have lasted longer than it did. Burgeoning with a belly ache I vowed next time
to take it easy on such a delight. In my
defense, these banana chips had been fried and glazed with honey; a combination
no man can refuse.
Saturday August 26th
2011
Although we had escaped the congestion and torments of
Jakarta we were still contending with the same issues surrounding
Rammadan. We were still trapped within
the one week prior to the final day and this was continuing to cause some difficulty
for us whilst traveling. Our next
destination was to be Mt. Bromo, a volcano further East in Java. I knew very little of the finer details
surrounding our next location but Dustin needed little time to persuade me into
going. Frankly I was happy to tag along
with someone else and allow them to pick and choose what we would see. By this point we had both experienced poor
traveling conditions and so provided we secured a seat on some forward moving
apparatus I figured we’d be fine.
The afternoon before departing from our latest treasure
of a town, we ventured just slightly out of the city to visit the Pramaban
ruins. Now, I know I had put a firm foot
down after visiting the Angkor Wat Temples and proclaimed that my temple touring
days were over. Yet I found myself
wandering through Pramaban anyway, as if there would be something in these old
stones that I may have missed in others.
If anything, Pramaban plays host to ruins in the truest sense, as not
many months earlier an earthquake had caused serious damage to this site. Former temples were now just heaps of stones,
scattered about a field as if they were a child’s toys left in a sandbox. Nothing will ever surpass the enormity of
Angkor Wat, but Pramaban made a fair effort to entertain me for at least a modest
hour. My photos seemed to be blurring
one into the other and I was finding it difficult to find any real value in my
latest sites, but I knew that this would still be better than the 12 hour
minibus ride I would have the following morning.
Sunday August 28th
2011
We arrived last night into what is now one of the best
places I have visited yet. Dustin and I
made our way out of Yogyakarta via a 12 hour minibus ride towards Gunung
Bromo. Much to our pleasant surprise the
bus was lacking many passengers, allowing us to stretch our legs and watch the
scenery pass us by. Boasting around 135
million people, the island of Java is the most populous in the world; more so
than Japan, Hong Kong or any other. While we had originally expected to cruise
on some highways it became apparent that the entire journey was a seeming trip
through endless suburbs and small towns, rarely ever allowing our speed to
exceed 40 mph. As a point of clarification though, one should not picture
suburbs in the same way as they would in the USA. In Indonesia it is more of a permanent
sprawl, expanding from coast to coast with an occasional rice field thrown in
for good measure. But so long as you are comfortable though, such trips give
you opportunity to pensively sit and stare, forgetting all else but what passes
you by.
Although our surroundings had turned to night, the final
hour of our journey was the most telling of our newest destination. My ears struggled to pop as we slowly
ascended into the darkness, our driver methodically turning the steering wheel
every few seconds as we wound ourselves further onward, up into the mountains
of Indonesia. When we stopped to let out
the first passengers I couldn’t help but notice a very strong chill in the
air. Frankly speaking, it was just damn
cold. The locals that were seated
outside the hotel were wrapped in blankets, smoking their cigarettes and lazily
watching us. We both felt as though we
had left Indonesia and were somewhere completely different; perhaps Patagonia
or somewhere else, but surely not on the island of Java!
The next morning provided an epic display of our
location. Gunung Bromo is a volcano that
lies at 7600 feet with a surrounding area of beauty and simplicity that took
hold of me. The village sits on the edge
of a ridge, one that forms a nearly complete and giant ring around the volcano
itself. Within this enormous semi-circle
lies a desert of sorts, a mixture of sand and ash that display a morbid reality
of the monotone effects from volcanic eruptions. Standing at the edge of this village one need
only raise his gaze slightly to see the volcano that draws the tourists to this
enchanting destination. Much like the
experience in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, there was some intangible
element about this place that seemed to draw me in with a familiar feeling of
ubiquitous calm.
Like any other place we had visited the resourceful
locals were there to offer any visitor the option of taking a jeep or a horse
to the volcanic rim. While we scoffed at
such a proposition Dustin did make the wise choice of purchasing a mask from a
local vendor while I was already armed with my blue bandana. Dustin looking like an asbestos removal
worker and myself something of a shabby bank robber, we made our way down the
hill into the flat of the desert (known as the Sea of Sand) towards the
crater. Having erupted earlier this
year, Bromo had released great quantities of ash that now blanketed the ground
beneath our feet. Whatever had once been
lush and green now resembled a canine’s view as if a part of the visual spectrum
itself had been thrown away. Wind swept
at our every step and waves of sand and ash would wash over us as Jeeps and
horses alike thundered past. We were not
in any hurry to reach our destination and yet we made it in nearly an
hour. Mounting the hand carved steps we
climbed from the floor to the rim and stood in amazement. Standing on the rim with the wind and the ash
our senses were bombarded. Sulfuric odor
penetrated our noses while the heat emanating from the steam caused further
perspiration. It was awesome.
I could not help but be amazed, finally to be standing on
one of the greatest forces that our world contains. My amazement was only slightly tainted by a
mild unease that such a force would pick this very moment to erupt again,
sending me to a most painful, if not unique demise. One cannot help to conjure such thoughts when
finally exposed up close and personal to the brutal strength that the earth possesses. Needless to say we made our way down after
sufficient photos were taken to prove of our adventure.
The following morning we awoke at the brutal hour of 4 am
to ready ourselves for the hike up the other side of the gorge’s rim to elevate
ourselves for what was promised to be a most spectacular sunrise overlooking
the village and the volcano. Guided by
our headlamps and a faint glow from the moon we struck out on the trail only to
be forced to the shoulder time and time again as the same Jeeps that had
trundled through the desert were now carrying passengers up the hill for
sunrise. As we began to lose count of
the Jeeps we couldn’t help but wonder where they were all coming from. This village could be no more than a few
hundred people and yet surely 50+ Jeeps had rampaged past us as if the today
was the last day the sun would reveal itself.
It was with some satisfaction that upon reaching the parking lot for the
Jeeps we learned that everyone would have to hike the final bit to the
top. So we lowered our heads and pressed
on, passing those in front of us until finally elevating ourselves above all others
even farther up the trail. Temperatures
were literally freezing and yet it was almost welcoming to experience such a
sensation having spent 99% of my trip sweltering under the languid, yet
menacing sun. The view was as spectacular as one could hope
for and we spent the following hour taking way too many photos as the sky
changed from black to grey to blue.
Bromo stood before us with ceaseless patience as smiled and clicked our
cameras, wishing I could capture my ecstasy as much as the beauty that stood
before me.
