In the Mountains of East Java - Part 1 - Mount Bromo (1282) [DRAFT 1]

 

In the Mountains of East Java

Part 1 - Mount Bromo (1282)

The drive up to the Bromo region from Malang takes about three hours. We had set off at midnight, so it is still dark when we arrive in an unknown village to change our car for a bright blue jeep. This is all arranged by Adi our guide, and we go and sit in a harshly lit porch while a deal is struck with the jeep’s owner. It’s three in the morning and cold, an unusual feeling in Java. It’s been a steep climb in the car but its all been on tarmac. From now on it will be on dirt tracks.

In the jeep it is another hour’s drive, in the mysterious dark, still not really knowing what to expect. It must be even more enticing, exciting, for the children. Our two sons are fourteen and twelve, our daughter is nine.

Still in darkness we stop on a dusty plain for my middle son to pee. The air is thin, and the stars are bright. As I stand a few steps away from the jeep, I can see my breath. In the headlamps I can see ice crystals on the tufts of grass that grow in the dust. I momentarily worry if I am dressed warmly enough for what is to come next.

We finally arrive in an area of buildings lit by the lights of dozens of vehicles parking up on the narrow road, decanting tourists. It has the hustle of a busy bus station, a small army of appropriately dressed walkers, a muddled throng completing the last hundred metres on foot. We found ourselves  in a dimly lit compound. There is an excitement in the air, anticipation.

We have tea in an open shack, and talk to a young backpacker couple from Yorkshire. They work (something to do with music), but from hotel rooms and hostels. They tell us that their packs had sat on the floor of their flat throughout 2020 while the pandemic raged, but now they are living the life they had planned back when they had bought them. Nomads with laptops.

I take in the other people as they come and go, a mix of local east-Asian tourists, a smattering of Westerners. All dressed for the cold. It feels jarring after the heat of the city. Malang is far below somewhere, still sleeping.

Do I want to join the Asr prayers, my wife asks? Sure. I can see now that one of the other lit up buildings is a Mosque. Me and the boys go to the men’s wudu room and perform our ritual wash before prayers, then go over to the glass-walled prayer room. It is small, with no separate area for the women, so they are at the back. My wife and daughter are behind me and to my left, while my sons and I are up closer to the front. It is nice to see them back there with the other women and children as usually they would be off in another room entirely. There are about thirty men at the front with us. We form our lines and wait.

I don’t often join in prayers with the family, but there is something special about this moment. With everyone dressed for the mountains it almost feels as if we are in a temple at the foot of Everest. Something from a film.

As we wait for the Iman to start, I wonder if other Muslim men take pride in praying with their sons? They surely must. I have prayed with them when they were little, rolling around on the floor and being silly, but now they know the ritual better than I do. I just follow what everyone else is doing. Mosques are always warm and welcoming places for me. They like converts.

I am not a spiritual person, but if I was ever to truly believe, it would be in a place like this. We are so high up the air is noticeably thin. In this Mosque on top of a mountain, you feel closer to God. We pray, then leave the compound and follow our guide to the start of the trail.

In the end, after the spiritual build up, the walk to the viewpoint is disappointingly short. Barely fifteen minutes. I was looking forward to a good trek, something to make the reward at the end feel earned. To stretch out my legs a bit at least.

The viewpoint, a flat area on an outcrop is still dark. Dozens of tourists, tightly packed. Slowly, Semeru reveals itself, a massive volcano, thirteen miles away, flanked by smaller mountains and smoking craters. The scale is difficult to gauge. Every few minutes a puff of smoke that must be the size of a block of flats emanates from its top.

The tourists jostle about, taking photos and selfies. We do the same. In the dawn light, I imagine a time before tourism. There can be no doubt that Semeru would have been a god to those that lived here long ago and if someone isn’t worshipping it now, then they should be, just to be on the safe side.

The rising sun picks out the detail of the surrounding mountains, the forest, and the dust plane at the foot of the volcano that we passed along in the dark. It is called Lautan Pasir, the Sea of Sand. I try my best to take it all in, but it is almost too alien, too vast. All the photos I took did not do Semeru justice, they look strangely like paintings. 

Eventually, in the warm morning air, we drive back down to the Sea of Sand, a vast dust-bowl of volcanic ash. Adi instructs the driver to stop at a long line of tourist shops and cafes. The children and tired, so they lay down in the back and sleep. Me and the wife, still eager for adventure, walk to the Tengger Caldera. Local men offer horse rides to get us there, but it is a short walk and besides the horses all look too small and thin to carry my well-fed Western bulk.

There is a temple of some kind at the bottom, although it might just be another gift shop. The stone steps with their ornately carved bannisters that take us all the way up to the lip of the crater again give me the sensation of having wandered onto a film set.

The roar of the cauldron is sudden and unexpected, only hitting us when we reach the very top. There is a stone handrail, but it is broken in many places and the drop on the other side of it to the pit below looks terminal. The smoking, roaring, sulphur deep at the bottom of the cauldron looks as close to Hell as I ever wish to get. When the wind changes, we choke on the sulphur and turn away to catch our breath. There are lots of tourist here now, it is getting very hot now as we go back down. We pass old people taking the stairs cautiously one at a time. Only on the way down do I notice the stone of the steps is worn as smooth as glass by the dust and passage of feet and I decide to descent the same way the old people do.

Back at the hotel I am glad to wash the dust and the smell of sulphur off. The packed lunch the hotel has provided contains cold toast, butter, and sugary jam. I spread the toast with a teaspoon and eat all of it.

The pool is closed for maintenance, so the children watch cartoons on their phones.