From Rags to Ritzy

June 5, 2011


Our transportation 'package' began to stray slightly from the brochure once we left Bromo. In Yogyakarta we had procured AC transport to Bali, with a stop half way to see the famous Mt. Bromo. The nice AC bus turned into a minibus, which turned into a 15 passenger sardine can, which turned into a sweatbox local bus. The arrival time moved from 7pm, to 10 pm, then finally to 2am.

ASIDE: I've been swindled more in Indonesia than any other country, but for some reason it hasn't bothered me in the least. It's all still outrageously cheap, and given the lack of available alternate services, I likely would have paid more if they asked. I think it has to do with the Indonesian tendency to be 'yes' people. If you ask directions, they will give you some, regardless of whether they know the way or not. And if you ask for climate controlled transport to another island, they will sell you something, whether or not they can actually provide it. It's quite an ironic twist, but in my head, Indonesians screw you because they're friendly. END ASIDE.

We got off the bus, bleary eyed and grumpy, only to find that all the hostels in the area were all full. We were kicking ourselves for not packing a tent... that's what could have happened, but here's what actually happened:
We were greeted by Agung, staff driver for the Villa Uman Niepi; welcomed with glasses of ice water, and put down to sleep in pillowy soft beds and delicious air conditioning. That's right... Ice water!!

The villa is owned by Theodoor Bakker, an old friend of my dad, who has been working in Indonesia most of his life; Lawyer, sailor, and chief returning officer for Dutch nationals in Indonesia. That sounds like a lot to handle, but typically only about 20 people vote in any given election. It does, however, look very good on a CV. Even after not seeing each other for almost 40 years, upon hearing we were in the area, he insisted that we come by to stay a few nights.

We spent 4 days relaxing by the pool, strolling the streets of Ubud, and indulging in the delicious meals prepared by the Villa staff. Classically huge Indonesian feasts of curries, vegetables, peanut sauce, tofu, tempe, chicken, fish and/or duck. A world apart from the Aussie flooded beaches of Kuta. The stay in the villa felt like a vacation in a vacation. In the lap of luxury or a few short days before returning to the standard saggy double bed, clinging mosquito net and humming ceiling fan.

As time ticked away on our visas, we finally resolved to leave the villa and continue our trek east. Stops included: the Gili islands, a set of three small islands off the northwest coast of Lombok; Rantung beach, a small surfer village on the south coast of Sumbawa; and a very brief evening in the town of Bima, where we actually did have to sleep in the bus station waiting for an early morning shuttle to the ferry. There, unfortunately, was no luxury villa in the vicinity to crash at. (While the Gilis and Sumbawa were spectacular destinations, our activities included sitting, tanning, drinking and swimming... Not much to write about :-) ). Two weeks after leaving the cocoon of Ubud, we arrived in Labuan Bajo, capital of Flores, and port for some of the most mind-blasting diving on the planet.

Sander

Location:Bali/Lombok

Barefoot in warm volcanic ash...

 May 20, 2011

Best I figure, all God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. Thus, it is very VERY important that we never become boring. With that in mind I dragged myself out of bed at 3:30am to hike up an active volcano. Already at an elevation of 2300m and perched on a slope in eastern Java, Indonesia, my feet were cold for the first time in Asia. Everyone in our small group fitted up with heavy jackets, and hiking boots ... I slipped on my flip-flops. 'No sense - no feeling', my parents are fond if saying. Maybe a few frozen toes would be the coolest sacrifice the lonely volcano gods would have received in decades? Maybe, as a friend told me once, everything is just better in bare feet. Five of us stuffed our shivering selves into the back if a 4x4 designed to seat two, and we set off towards the smoking mountain in the pre-dawn darkness. Out the rattling windows, it looked like M.C. Escher had thrown up all over the hills: the twisted road shimmies between cultured plots that are set at such extreme angles, you'd swear you were looking at them from directly above. I was busy calculating how many summersaults it would take to get to the bottom, and whether wearing a very big hat would factor into the equation, when we arrived at the base of the ancient crater. Up, up, and up we trekked - like that little dog pulling the Grinch's sleigh - only I had a granola bar, not a bunch of stolen Who-presents. At the top of the switchbacking trail, we perched ourselves precariously on a rock ledge, securing what I was convinced would be a prime view of the sunrising over the smoking Bromo. I wasn't at all prepared for what appeared as the sun crept skyward to our left. The sweeping and desolate crater directly below us was dominated by the soaring purple volcano at its center, as yellow clouds swept by. Black smoke rolled out of it's peak and its ash fell, while the twilight stars disappeared into a haunting orange sky. Otherworldly and breathtaking, it was everything all at once: the writhing goop of primordial creation, the smoldering hours of a post-apocalyptic earth. Only one thing could have completed my soul shattering experience: a pint sized Sherpa with the La Pavoni EPBB-8 Europiccola 8-cup prized espresso machine and some go-cups strapped to his back. But, since we're always told we can't have everything, I settled for another granola bar and a few more minutes of perfect brewing silence. When it was light enough to match the shade if my toes to the violet stones of the trail, we scurried down to get closer to smoldering Bromo. Our 4x4 drove us through the great rolling planes of quiet grey ash, and dropped us near the base if the volcano. I flipped off my flops and dug my toes into the warm volcanic ash as we made fresh tracks past a partially buried temple and upwards into the strange canyons and sweeping dunes created by the shattering blast. Everything living was muted and dead, suspended under almost fluffy layers of ash that was falling like Christmas snow in the not-so-far distance. Everything is just better in bare feet. Getting closer and closer to the Tolkien-like stairs that the locals had carved out of the volcano side before it became active again in November 2010, we were turned back by resolute local men who were determined to save my lungs from being devoured by sulphuric gases. At the inclining slopes of Bromo I left my hand print in the cooling ash ... and added an extra finger, so that when aliens rediscover our obliterated earth, they will have some archaeological discrepancies to chat about over coffee.

Slaughter.