The journey from Bromo to Senggigi was epic, if uneventful. I took a bus from Bromo to Probolingo then from there a bus and ferry over to Denpassar Bali. I holed up for a couple of hours in a nearby hotel before hopping on another bus and ferry to Mataram on Lombok. All that was left then was a bemo to Senggigi and I was ready to sleep. I had departed at seven in the morning and arrived in Senggigi at five in the afternoon the following day.
In truth the journey was not over. The next morning I was up early and on a bus to Bagsal where I caught another boat to Gili Meno, one of three islands that make up the Gili islands. Each island seems to have its own niche. The Lonely Planet described Meno as an island where you can live out your Robinso Crueso fantasies. It sounded like the one for me yet being peak season and with the Gili islands being relatively close to Bali I thought fat chance.
Sometimes though you land on your feet. On my walk up the coast I bumped into a builder. He said his friend had a hut. Normally that corresponds to commission galore but the price he quoted was under what I had budgeted so I took off after him. What he showed me was not hidden a mile away from the beach, nor was it a chicken coop, it was one of three well designed huts, ten meters from the sea with nothing in the way to spoil the view. The sight of a hammock only added to my smile.
Digging out my book I was struck by the silence. The three huts were isolated from anything else. There is also no motorised forms of transport on the Gili islands. The only means of getting around is either on foot, bicycle or horse drawn cart. Sounds idyllic? It certainly was. My days on the island quickly found routine. Up by seven, snorkel, breakfast, snorkel, write, lunch, read, dinner, bed. Time flew by at the expense of doing very little. I’ve been on the move for such a long time that a week of doing nothing in such a beautiful and relaxing place was just wonderful.
I thought that the above would be enough for me to remember Gili Meno in a very positive light but one experience dominated all others.
Four out of the five days that I snorkeled I swam with turtles, directly outside my hut. The only day I failed was because I overslept. At seven thirty I would get up and go straight to the water. They lived around fifty meters out, over sand and then onto the coral reef. Against the currents it would take a while before spotting one of those magnificent animals swimming with such grace. On the third day I swam with one for twenty minutes, it was a real treat. On my final snorkel I swam with three different turtles, one of them was huge, I dread to think how old. It had another decent sized fish attached to its underbelly. A truly unforgettable experience.
The reef on my patch was vast if not in the greatest condition. There were spots of blue and some noticeably living parts but the best was around the other side of the island with some good patches. The fish too were smaller than I had seen on Koh Tao or Pulau Weh. There were a couple of Trigger fish but none of those huge fluorescent fish that I had gotten used to seeing in other snorkel spots. It didn’t matter though; it was all about the turtles!
Meno wasn’t quite Robinso Crueso. It had a restaurant within a couple of minutes but that was good for breakfast. The three main restaurants which formed the busy area of the island was a good fifteen minute walk along a sandy path passing very little on the way except trees and empty land. It had enough amenities to make life easy and such was the island that despite nearly every piece of accommodation taken, the island was beautifully quiet and peaceful.
If there was to be one drawback it would be that come midday low tide would kick in and the ocean would become un-swimmable. But in some ways that was nice. I didn’t want to much physical exertion! On a couple of evenings I would take the hour long stroll around the island as the sun was setting. That was all rather nice and whilst the beach that circles the whole of the island is scarred with dead coral, it is still far better than most I have been on.
I stayed for seven nights. That was about right. By the end of my stay I felt recharged and ready to go again. Upon leaving however, I found it hard to pass over the key to paradise.
Thursday, 1 September 2011
Bromo
Textbook. I arrived in the village of Cemoro Lawang mid morning for a cost of less than I would normally pay for a night’s accommodation. Sure I was tired but the Dieng effect kicked in as I looked out over the sharp drop below and across the Laotian Pasir (sea of sand) to a smoldering Mount Bromo. Tiredness immediately evaporated and I reached for possibly one last time for my much abused walking shoes.
The activity around Bromo appeared to be something that happened during the morning. From my vantage point I could see that the clouds were not in and hatched a plan to head up to the crater after lunch when I guessed it would be noticeably quieter. Over food I met the first English traveler in Indonesia. We talked for a while and I convinced him as to the merits of my idea. We cleared the bill and set off.
To make it a little more interesting (and as it turned out avoided the ticket booth) we scrambled down a small insignificant path that ran down the cliff to the plateau below. By the time I had reached the bottom I had become covered in ash. The whole surrounding area to Bromo has become cloaked in volcanic ash. It creates a landscape that is so unique that it is the definition of breathtaking.
From above the Laotian Pasir appears relatively flat and covers a couple of kilometers until the foot of Bromo. On the ground it is indeed flat for the most part but then changes and becomes far more reminiscent of the Sahara desert, except there is no sand here just layers and layers of ash. I couldn’t help but recall Hampi in India. Not because they shared any similarities in how they looked but rather in just how different both places are to anything I had seen before. In Bromo I found myself continuously stopping and surveying the mountains that surrounded me, the volcanoes in the distance and this layer of ash to battle over. It was just incredible.
A closed off Hindu temple stands at the foot of Bromo where it is then a hundred or so steps to the top. Mount Bromo’s collapsed crater was very quickly reached. The top precarious, it looked as if there once was a fence that has long fallen away. Sitting on a ledge, dangling my feet over the crater; the wind was blowing the right direction keeping the smoke well away.
Not as active as Kericini, the crater was far more easy to observe. It was a long way down and quite frankly a little unnerving. We made our way back both lost a little for words as to the landscape. Chris asked whether it was the best volcano I had seen. I couldn’t say. They’ve all been very different, each one special in their own way.
The following morning I was up at three in the morning and began my solitary walk up to Gunung Penanjakan. Chris had pre booked himself onto one of the dozens of four by fours that appear from nowhere shepherding people up the mountain in time for sunrise. I can’t think of a moment on this trip where I have felt so smug. It was a true triumph both for the local business men and for the three or so people and me who walked it.
After half an hour of walking I noticed the string of four by fours had ground to a halt. They could go no further. People had paid incredible sums of money to not have to walk half an hour! I skipped on ahead of the early arrivals and reached the view point in just over an hour. Looking back to the road it was alight with queues of these four by fours. I still have no idea where all these people came from, although it did make me laugh to see the car park stretching almost as far back as I had started walking from.
Expecting a lot of people I scrambled up the mud bank and continued walking up the mountain. Finding a good ledge I awaited the sun to rise. It was as beautiful as expected. The sea of sand, Bromo and various other more dominating volcanoes completed one of the most iconic images of Indonesia. Walking back, photos snapped I saw the viewing point and couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have enjoyed such a special moment in peace and quiet without the hoards below. I had heard of some people finding the area disappointing, I now understood why some would feel that. I however loved the place, all I had to do was use some common sense and stay away from the tours!
It might be strange to read that after Mount Bromo all I wanted to do was stand up and shout in anger but it was strangely the case. Indonesia appears to be able to do nothing wrong. Every country needs a Jaipur, a Pai, a Hikkaduwa but so far Indonesia seems incapable of throwing up a disappointment. Not that that should be a bad thing. It just all feels a little unreal. Every place I have visited has been on a level of beauty that I did not know existed. It really is an incredible country.
The activity around Bromo appeared to be something that happened during the morning. From my vantage point I could see that the clouds were not in and hatched a plan to head up to the crater after lunch when I guessed it would be noticeably quieter. Over food I met the first English traveler in Indonesia. We talked for a while and I convinced him as to the merits of my idea. We cleared the bill and set off.
To make it a little more interesting (and as it turned out avoided the ticket booth) we scrambled down a small insignificant path that ran down the cliff to the plateau below. By the time I had reached the bottom I had become covered in ash. The whole surrounding area to Bromo has become cloaked in volcanic ash. It creates a landscape that is so unique that it is the definition of breathtaking.
From above the Laotian Pasir appears relatively flat and covers a couple of kilometers until the foot of Bromo. On the ground it is indeed flat for the most part but then changes and becomes far more reminiscent of the Sahara desert, except there is no sand here just layers and layers of ash. I couldn’t help but recall Hampi in India. Not because they shared any similarities in how they looked but rather in just how different both places are to anything I had seen before. In Bromo I found myself continuously stopping and surveying the mountains that surrounded me, the volcanoes in the distance and this layer of ash to battle over. It was just incredible.
A closed off Hindu temple stands at the foot of Bromo where it is then a hundred or so steps to the top. Mount Bromo’s collapsed crater was very quickly reached. The top precarious, it looked as if there once was a fence that has long fallen away. Sitting on a ledge, dangling my feet over the crater; the wind was blowing the right direction keeping the smoke well away.
Not as active as Kericini, the crater was far more easy to observe. It was a long way down and quite frankly a little unnerving. We made our way back both lost a little for words as to the landscape. Chris asked whether it was the best volcano I had seen. I couldn’t say. They’ve all been very different, each one special in their own way.
The following morning I was up at three in the morning and began my solitary walk up to Gunung Penanjakan. Chris had pre booked himself onto one of the dozens of four by fours that appear from nowhere shepherding people up the mountain in time for sunrise. I can’t think of a moment on this trip where I have felt so smug. It was a true triumph both for the local business men and for the three or so people and me who walked it.
After half an hour of walking I noticed the string of four by fours had ground to a halt. They could go no further. People had paid incredible sums of money to not have to walk half an hour! I skipped on ahead of the early arrivals and reached the view point in just over an hour. Looking back to the road it was alight with queues of these four by fours. I still have no idea where all these people came from, although it did make me laugh to see the car park stretching almost as far back as I had started walking from.
Expecting a lot of people I scrambled up the mud bank and continued walking up the mountain. Finding a good ledge I awaited the sun to rise. It was as beautiful as expected. The sea of sand, Bromo and various other more dominating volcanoes completed one of the most iconic images of Indonesia. Walking back, photos snapped I saw the viewing point and couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have enjoyed such a special moment in peace and quiet without the hoards below. I had heard of some people finding the area disappointing, I now understood why some would feel that. I however loved the place, all I had to do was use some common sense and stay away from the tours!
It might be strange to read that after Mount Bromo all I wanted to do was stand up and shout in anger but it was strangely the case. Indonesia appears to be able to do nothing wrong. Every country needs a Jaipur, a Pai, a Hikkaduwa but so far Indonesia seems incapable of throwing up a disappointment. Not that that should be a bad thing. It just all feels a little unreal. Every place I have visited has been on a level of beauty that I did not know existed. It really is an incredible country.
Friday, 26 August 2011
Yogya
Yogyakarta is a critically endangered species in Indonesia. With close to a million people it is a big city but unlike most in Indonesia it is relatively pleasant.
The biggest shock upon arriving was that so much of the tourist accommodation was full. So far in Indonesia tourists have been few and far between. Yogya however was bustling at the seams. I eventually bumped into an owner of a place hidden within the alleyways and gladly accepted. It was a great little find with a very sociable crowd.
Yogya has a little tourist enclave but it is very tastefully done. It almost reminded me a little of New Delhi in that the guest houses sit within the community as a whole unlike in Thailand where they dominate over them. Normal life continues around them. That said it was still a place where I got to go all a bit Western.
On arrival I crossed over the main road and went to MacDonalds. I make no excuses, no fast food since Sri Lanka, it was a craving I could not deny. By the next morning I had handed over my washing and been for a shave and hair cut. Entering back out onto the streets I felt hideously exposed. I always feel very vulnerable when not sporting a well seasoned traveller look. Hawkers and scammers who would normally pass me by seem to latch on thinking that I’ve just arrived in their country.
Yogya is seen as Java’s artistic and intellectual heritage. I visited the Kraton, the home of the sultans of Yogya. It was a nice stroll through the complex but nothing remarkable. Thorough enjoyment was hindered by the lack of any noticeable information. Far more interesting was the enclaves that surrounded it containing twenty five thousand people, a thousand of which are directly employed by the sultan on all sorts of things such as puppet and batik making. It was very easy to get lost in the maze of streets and simple houses.
I then took in the Taman Sari, the private water park of Sulatans of old. It felt very Mediterranean and was a pleasant if short walk around. The bird market that was supposed to be nearby seemed to have finished which was disappointing but a few shops remained with various birds chirping from within their cages. It’s very common for houses to have at least one bird inside their house in Java.
The following day I was tempted to head to the temples of Prambanan but tiredness from the non-stop journeying meant I took it relatively easy knowing I had another night journey to complete come the evening. Instead I did a very unlike Rob thing and wondered around the markets and shopping malls.
A couple of souvenirs later and I was ready to get a bus to Surabaya. With the influx of tourism to Yogya, it has decided it needs tourist busses to get people to destinations because of course tourists cannot be expected to travel on the very friendly and fairly efficient local busses. With a little Indian side to Yogya there are a number of scams in the city and that extends to the tourist busses. I was having no part in that and so concocted a right old plan that would get me to the volcano of Bromo in no more than three changes. Oh and around another thirteen hours on busses. Joy.
The biggest shock upon arriving was that so much of the tourist accommodation was full. So far in Indonesia tourists have been few and far between. Yogya however was bustling at the seams. I eventually bumped into an owner of a place hidden within the alleyways and gladly accepted. It was a great little find with a very sociable crowd.
Yogya has a little tourist enclave but it is very tastefully done. It almost reminded me a little of New Delhi in that the guest houses sit within the community as a whole unlike in Thailand where they dominate over them. Normal life continues around them. That said it was still a place where I got to go all a bit Western.
On arrival I crossed over the main road and went to MacDonalds. I make no excuses, no fast food since Sri Lanka, it was a craving I could not deny. By the next morning I had handed over my washing and been for a shave and hair cut. Entering back out onto the streets I felt hideously exposed. I always feel very vulnerable when not sporting a well seasoned traveller look. Hawkers and scammers who would normally pass me by seem to latch on thinking that I’ve just arrived in their country.
Yogya is seen as Java’s artistic and intellectual heritage. I visited the Kraton, the home of the sultans of Yogya. It was a nice stroll through the complex but nothing remarkable. Thorough enjoyment was hindered by the lack of any noticeable information. Far more interesting was the enclaves that surrounded it containing twenty five thousand people, a thousand of which are directly employed by the sultan on all sorts of things such as puppet and batik making. It was very easy to get lost in the maze of streets and simple houses.
I then took in the Taman Sari, the private water park of Sulatans of old. It felt very Mediterranean and was a pleasant if short walk around. The bird market that was supposed to be nearby seemed to have finished which was disappointing but a few shops remained with various birds chirping from within their cages. It’s very common for houses to have at least one bird inside their house in Java.
The following day I was tempted to head to the temples of Prambanan but tiredness from the non-stop journeying meant I took it relatively easy knowing I had another night journey to complete come the evening. Instead I did a very unlike Rob thing and wondered around the markets and shopping malls.
A couple of souvenirs later and I was ready to get a bus to Surabaya. With the influx of tourism to Yogya, it has decided it needs tourist busses to get people to destinations because of course tourists cannot be expected to travel on the very friendly and fairly efficient local busses. With a little Indian side to Yogya there are a number of scams in the city and that extends to the tourist busses. I was having no part in that and so concocted a right old plan that would get me to the volcano of Bromo in no more than three changes. Oh and around another thirteen hours on busses. Joy.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Dieng Plateau and Borobudur
After finally finding my way to the ticket office and a highly amusing conversation with the lady behind the desk who spoke about as much English as I do Indonesian, I discovered that the bus to Yogyokarta had left. I sat down and started to scan the board outside of destinations. I find it’s always best to be moving rather than sitting around and waiting. I saw a bus to Wonsobo; that was the closest I could get. I bought a ticket and was on a delightful bus with a beaming conductor and driver.
In near Indian fashion the buses on Java seem to run to strange times aiming to dump you as close to two in the morning as possible. There is a reason for that though I quickly discovered. Java contains something like seventy per cent of Indonesia’s population. That means lots and lots of traffic. My bus didn’t arrive until five hours later than expected. That gave me plenty of time on the bus to find out where I was heading. Great news, I was almost within walking distance of the Dieng Plateua. Plans changed I was no longer aiming for Yogyakarta it was all Dieng from here on in.
The journey up to the village of Dieng was beyond belief. Climbing up the mountains, with volcanoes all around and rows of crops it was stunning. The village is small and quiet, at two thousand one hundred meters it is noticeably colder. Normally after night busses all I feel like doing is go into zombie mode and sleep out the day. Not here however, the hiking shoes were straight away on. I scoffed down breakfast, grabbed a map and raced out of the door. I couldn’t wait.
The three hour walk I did was just lovely. It took in various sites, the first of which were some ancient Hindu temples. From there I went up to a volcanic crater with bubbling mud ponds. It was bizarre seeing so many random spots boiling away. I watched where I placed my feet carefully! I then wondered over to a lovely lake with its distinctive turquoise colour. By then the clouds had begun to drift in and I headed back and rested the rest of the day.
I was up at three thirty the next morning. The owner of my guest house pulled up his scooter and we motored off into the hills, a car followed with another couple of people and a guide. After twenty of so minutes we went on foot up a mountain and prepared for sunrise. It was cloudy. But then, the clouds started to disappear.
Volcanoes appeared, including the recently erupted Merapi. I think Everest sunrises excluded, this was the finest of the trip with the fog clinging to the forests below and the volcanoes dominating tall. The dutch couple I was with asked our guide whether the tiers running up the mountains were tea plantations. “No” he said “they are potatoes, lots of potatoes.” He paused, pondering that comment and then said “but we don’t eat potatoes, we eat rice.” He looked confused by the revelation and started off down the hill. On arrival at the bottom I went around on the bike to a few more sights all of which were just as good as the others before arriving back in time for breakfast!
Dieng Plateau was superb, scenically it was one of the most beautiful places I have visited. I not only struck gold on by chance arriving here but also on getting out. My guest house owner got me into a private taxi, although I must say I felt sorry for its two French occupants considering they had not booked the taxi to go to where I was going! But alas, it made things easier and quite possibly cheaper than any other way.
I was heading to Borobodur, one of if not the largest Buddhist monument in the world. I had seen a picture whilst in Cambodia. As soon as I saw it, I latched onto the idea of wanting to go to Indonesia for two rather than just the one month. I had always thought of Indonesia as beaches. Sumatra showed me the rainforests and volcanoes, Borobodur showed a historical aspect I had not expected.
The town itself was uninspiring but I wasn’t here to see that. For the second day in a row I was up before sunrise and first at entrance gate. When walking up to the monument it looms over you. It’s huge. Square, with six square terraces and three circular ones you walk around each one clockwise. The carvings are by all accounts the best I have seen. Each one tells a story and they are in remarkably great condition. Unfortunately the top was closed due to the cleanup operation after the eruption of Merapi had left the monument covered in ash but it didn’t matter, it was still darn impressive. I spent around an hour and a half admiring this incredible feet in human craftsmanship. People pale in comparison to it. It was only relatively recently discovered in 1815, it amazes me how something like that can go missing.
Just like the temples of Angkor it is on a different scale to pretty much anything else. Whilst visiting I had to keep reminding myself that it was built around 750AD. It’s a mind boggling thought. That afternoon I left after a great couple of days for Yogyakarta, apparently a nice Indonesian city!
In near Indian fashion the buses on Java seem to run to strange times aiming to dump you as close to two in the morning as possible. There is a reason for that though I quickly discovered. Java contains something like seventy per cent of Indonesia’s population. That means lots and lots of traffic. My bus didn’t arrive until five hours later than expected. That gave me plenty of time on the bus to find out where I was heading. Great news, I was almost within walking distance of the Dieng Plateua. Plans changed I was no longer aiming for Yogyakarta it was all Dieng from here on in.
The journey up to the village of Dieng was beyond belief. Climbing up the mountains, with volcanoes all around and rows of crops it was stunning. The village is small and quiet, at two thousand one hundred meters it is noticeably colder. Normally after night busses all I feel like doing is go into zombie mode and sleep out the day. Not here however, the hiking shoes were straight away on. I scoffed down breakfast, grabbed a map and raced out of the door. I couldn’t wait.
The three hour walk I did was just lovely. It took in various sites, the first of which were some ancient Hindu temples. From there I went up to a volcanic crater with bubbling mud ponds. It was bizarre seeing so many random spots boiling away. I watched where I placed my feet carefully! I then wondered over to a lovely lake with its distinctive turquoise colour. By then the clouds had begun to drift in and I headed back and rested the rest of the day.
I was up at three thirty the next morning. The owner of my guest house pulled up his scooter and we motored off into the hills, a car followed with another couple of people and a guide. After twenty of so minutes we went on foot up a mountain and prepared for sunrise. It was cloudy. But then, the clouds started to disappear.
Volcanoes appeared, including the recently erupted Merapi. I think Everest sunrises excluded, this was the finest of the trip with the fog clinging to the forests below and the volcanoes dominating tall. The dutch couple I was with asked our guide whether the tiers running up the mountains were tea plantations. “No” he said “they are potatoes, lots of potatoes.” He paused, pondering that comment and then said “but we don’t eat potatoes, we eat rice.” He looked confused by the revelation and started off down the hill. On arrival at the bottom I went around on the bike to a few more sights all of which were just as good as the others before arriving back in time for breakfast!
Dieng Plateau was superb, scenically it was one of the most beautiful places I have visited. I not only struck gold on by chance arriving here but also on getting out. My guest house owner got me into a private taxi, although I must say I felt sorry for its two French occupants considering they had not booked the taxi to go to where I was going! But alas, it made things easier and quite possibly cheaper than any other way.
I was heading to Borobodur, one of if not the largest Buddhist monument in the world. I had seen a picture whilst in Cambodia. As soon as I saw it, I latched onto the idea of wanting to go to Indonesia for two rather than just the one month. I had always thought of Indonesia as beaches. Sumatra showed me the rainforests and volcanoes, Borobodur showed a historical aspect I had not expected.
The town itself was uninspiring but I wasn’t here to see that. For the second day in a row I was up before sunrise and first at entrance gate. When walking up to the monument it looms over you. It’s huge. Square, with six square terraces and three circular ones you walk around each one clockwise. The carvings are by all accounts the best I have seen. Each one tells a story and they are in remarkably great condition. Unfortunately the top was closed due to the cleanup operation after the eruption of Merapi had left the monument covered in ash but it didn’t matter, it was still darn impressive. I spent around an hour and a half admiring this incredible feet in human craftsmanship. People pale in comparison to it. It was only relatively recently discovered in 1815, it amazes me how something like that can go missing.
Just like the temples of Angkor it is on a different scale to pretty much anything else. Whilst visiting I had to keep reminding myself that it was built around 750AD. It’s a mind boggling thought. That afternoon I left after a great couple of days for Yogyakarta, apparently a nice Indonesian city!
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Padang to Bogor
From Kericini we took a car with a Dutch couple back to Padang. A few days earlier I had been quite convinced that I was going to overland it to Java. The journey from Lake Toba had changed my mind instantly. On arrival I wondered around travel agents and airplane shops hoping to secure a ticket for the following day. At first it wasn’t successful, the prices were high and availability low. To my rescue however came a travel agent that might as well have been shut with how it carried itself but somehow it found my a great price on the correct day of departure.
With tickets in hand we wondered over to Padang beach which doesn’t exist outside of a few rocks being bashed by waves full of rubbish. The market closer to it was a little more interesting with horse drawn carriages and frantic atmosphere.
The next day I flew to Jakarta as Paul returned to England. It was the first domestic flight I have ever taken and was incredibly smooth. On arrival in Jakarta I got a bus straight from the airport to the town of Bogor an hour and a half away. Jakarta is the definition of urban sprawl. I had absolutely no intention of spending any time there at all.
Not that that much more can be said for Bogor. It has almost been engulfed by Jakarta and its traffic seems to standstill most of the time. That said there is a reason for coming, a reason that I imagine made my parents wonder what has happened to their son over the past year. At the center of Bogor with chockablock roads surrounding it lays one of the most impressive botanical gardens in the world. With the help of Kew it covers a substantial amount of ground and is very impressive. When George Bush visited in 2006 the only site he saw in Indonesia were these gardens.
I have little interest in plants beyond thinking they look nice, or oh that’s pretty tall, so apart from seeing the world’s tallest plant, my time in the gardens consisted of a pleasant stroll for a number of hours. It was made all that more enjoyable by going on a Sunday. The lonely planet warned against it because of the huge numbers of locals who flock then, but frankly it made it that much more fun. There were family gatherings everywhere, playing sports and having competitions such as the egg and spoon race. It was a joy seeing so many people making the most of the gardens.
I left Bogor that evening. I hoped to go all the way to Yogyokarta, but as is typical with local bus services nothing ever works out the way you understand it should.
With tickets in hand we wondered over to Padang beach which doesn’t exist outside of a few rocks being bashed by waves full of rubbish. The market closer to it was a little more interesting with horse drawn carriages and frantic atmosphere.
The next day I flew to Jakarta as Paul returned to England. It was the first domestic flight I have ever taken and was incredibly smooth. On arrival in Jakarta I got a bus straight from the airport to the town of Bogor an hour and a half away. Jakarta is the definition of urban sprawl. I had absolutely no intention of spending any time there at all.
Not that that much more can be said for Bogor. It has almost been engulfed by Jakarta and its traffic seems to standstill most of the time. That said there is a reason for coming, a reason that I imagine made my parents wonder what has happened to their son over the past year. At the center of Bogor with chockablock roads surrounding it lays one of the most impressive botanical gardens in the world. With the help of Kew it covers a substantial amount of ground and is very impressive. When George Bush visited in 2006 the only site he saw in Indonesia were these gardens.
I have little interest in plants beyond thinking they look nice, or oh that’s pretty tall, so apart from seeing the world’s tallest plant, my time in the gardens consisted of a pleasant stroll for a number of hours. It was made all that more enjoyable by going on a Sunday. The lonely planet warned against it because of the huge numbers of locals who flock then, but frankly it made it that much more fun. There were family gatherings everywhere, playing sports and having competitions such as the egg and spoon race. It was a joy seeing so many people making the most of the gardens.
I left Bogor that evening. I hoped to go all the way to Yogyokarta, but as is typical with local bus services nothing ever works out the way you understand it should.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Gurung Kerinci
The Kilimanjaro of the tea estates? Gurung Kerinci is Indonesia’s highest non-Papuan peak. It’s also one of the most active volcanoes in Sumatra having last erupted in 2009. Kesik Tua, a small village in amongst the hills and tea plantations was our base. Looking out from our homestay I was struck by how imposing the volcano looked. It sticks out like a sore thumb shooting up towards the sky amongst fields of tea plantations and cabbage plants. Frequently hidden by cloud, when it was revealed in its full glory it was hard not to be humbled by just how isolated it actually is.
There wasn’t a lot to do on the first day other than rest after the thirty six hour bus journey. We did break at one point from the books to indulge in a first taste of a Durian fruit. Frequently controversial because of its smell, I thought its taste was utterly addictive. It was like eating fruit custard out of a fruit!
It was a first in terms of organising a hike. From waking up in the morning the owner asked why we were in Kesik Tua. There are three possible answers to this. Bird watching, flower hunting or hiking, there are no hang abouts here. It is a place not frequently visited and has no hotels, only a couple of homestays. We were of course after the latter of the options and pointed out of the window to Gurung Kericini. The next day we had sleeping bags, roll mats, torches to add to our already considerable warm weather gear and a personal guide waiting at eight in the morning. Neither of us have ever organised our own personal hike before.
Our guide was Duri, one of the sons of the owner. Another son drove us in his jeep through the tea estates and to the park entrance. I say park entrance although I mean where the road became impassable. A small hut may once have been home to a park ranger but few people pass through here. The hike up to base camp two where we would stay the night was initially a gentle stroll uphill through the forest. Clambering over fallen trees and avoiding encroaching plants it was all very pleasant as birds sang as we passed by and gibbons played up in the trees. A few shelters down the path began to get more technical. The flow of water down the volcano over the years has produced deep channels. Increasingly it was a case of scrambling and swinging from tree to tree to tree.
One of the joys of Kericini is that it does not mess around. It’s all up. As the hours slipped by so did the scenery. From thick jungle to ferns and shrubberies the trees began to disappear the higher we got. After around six hours we got to where we would be staying the night. The tent went up as the rain came down, good timing was an understatement. At around 3,200 meters it was cold. The down jacket was once again out, proving it’s worth every few months. With no watches the rest of the day and night was sat around chatting unsure what the time was. It eventually got dark and the three of us crammed into one tiny tent!
At some unearthly hour, Duri brought us coffee and roti. It was cold, very cold. Torches on we headed up towards the summit. The climb was brilliant fun, plotting our route up a path in absolute tatters, in pitch darkness. Dangerous but highly entertaining, the greenery finally gave way and as the sun came up, the rock and scree infested volcanic peak came into view. It was a torturously slow ascent; many steps were taken only to find ourselves back to square one.
Beautiful views of the landscape a million miles away from the world we were now inhabiting peaked in and out of the clouds. It was an ugly last hour, it was everything that you would want from a volcano. Bleak, bare and violent. At 3,800 meters the air was noticeably thin. At the top it was made that much worse curtsey of the plumes of sulphur that pumped out of the crater. As we sat, with our coats over our mouths, coughing at times uncontrollably we began to estimate how many years we were losing of our lives inhaling the smoke.
We didn’t stay up top too long, the smell and smoke made it almost unbearable, but it felt brilliant to have conquered such an imposing structure. The descent of some two thousand meters was full of all the fun of the ascent. It was a challenge and at times made me think that I was the luckiest man alive having access to such a fantastic theme park. The sight of several varieties of carnivorous plants only capped it off further. Eventually we made it to the bottom, cloaked in mud.
Gurung Kericini in terms of its contrasts and its challenges made for an unforgettable walking experience. Off the beaten track and surrounded by so much natural beauty its one of those places that will live long in the memory.
There wasn’t a lot to do on the first day other than rest after the thirty six hour bus journey. We did break at one point from the books to indulge in a first taste of a Durian fruit. Frequently controversial because of its smell, I thought its taste was utterly addictive. It was like eating fruit custard out of a fruit!
It was a first in terms of organising a hike. From waking up in the morning the owner asked why we were in Kesik Tua. There are three possible answers to this. Bird watching, flower hunting or hiking, there are no hang abouts here. It is a place not frequently visited and has no hotels, only a couple of homestays. We were of course after the latter of the options and pointed out of the window to Gurung Kericini. The next day we had sleeping bags, roll mats, torches to add to our already considerable warm weather gear and a personal guide waiting at eight in the morning. Neither of us have ever organised our own personal hike before.
Our guide was Duri, one of the sons of the owner. Another son drove us in his jeep through the tea estates and to the park entrance. I say park entrance although I mean where the road became impassable. A small hut may once have been home to a park ranger but few people pass through here. The hike up to base camp two where we would stay the night was initially a gentle stroll uphill through the forest. Clambering over fallen trees and avoiding encroaching plants it was all very pleasant as birds sang as we passed by and gibbons played up in the trees. A few shelters down the path began to get more technical. The flow of water down the volcano over the years has produced deep channels. Increasingly it was a case of scrambling and swinging from tree to tree to tree.
One of the joys of Kericini is that it does not mess around. It’s all up. As the hours slipped by so did the scenery. From thick jungle to ferns and shrubberies the trees began to disappear the higher we got. After around six hours we got to where we would be staying the night. The tent went up as the rain came down, good timing was an understatement. At around 3,200 meters it was cold. The down jacket was once again out, proving it’s worth every few months. With no watches the rest of the day and night was sat around chatting unsure what the time was. It eventually got dark and the three of us crammed into one tiny tent!
At some unearthly hour, Duri brought us coffee and roti. It was cold, very cold. Torches on we headed up towards the summit. The climb was brilliant fun, plotting our route up a path in absolute tatters, in pitch darkness. Dangerous but highly entertaining, the greenery finally gave way and as the sun came up, the rock and scree infested volcanic peak came into view. It was a torturously slow ascent; many steps were taken only to find ourselves back to square one.
Beautiful views of the landscape a million miles away from the world we were now inhabiting peaked in and out of the clouds. It was an ugly last hour, it was everything that you would want from a volcano. Bleak, bare and violent. At 3,800 meters the air was noticeably thin. At the top it was made that much worse curtsey of the plumes of sulphur that pumped out of the crater. As we sat, with our coats over our mouths, coughing at times uncontrollably we began to estimate how many years we were losing of our lives inhaling the smoke.
We didn’t stay up top too long, the smell and smoke made it almost unbearable, but it felt brilliant to have conquered such an imposing structure. The descent of some two thousand meters was full of all the fun of the ascent. It was a challenge and at times made me think that I was the luckiest man alive having access to such a fantastic theme park. The sight of several varieties of carnivorous plants only capped it off further. Eventually we made it to the bottom, cloaked in mud.
Gurung Kericini in terms of its contrasts and its challenges made for an unforgettable walking experience. Off the beaten track and surrounded by so much natural beauty its one of those places that will live long in the memory.
Lake Toba to Kericini
The journey down to Lake Toba was similar to Berastagi. Read: triple the number of people to seats and Paul unable to get his legs in between the seats and his head from popping out of the roof. Oh how good it is to be of a smallish height. As we approached the ferry I listened to one of my many podcasts, ‘from our own correspondent’. It brought a smile to my face to hear one of the radio four news reporters doing a piece on why people in Cambodia find foreigners cycling so funny! They were specifically focusing on Kampot province, the area where I did my three days on a one speed bike.
Danau Toba is the largest lake in Southeast Asia covering 1707 square kilometers. It is big. The ferry into the center took close to an hour. Tuk Tuk, attached to a lager island, with over a one hundred kilometer circumference is the tourist heart. In days gone by it was one of the major stops on the traveler’s itinerary, championing a party scene that Hat Rin on Koh Phan gan, Thailand now holds. These days the island verges on a ghost town, with only a sprinkling of foreign tourists.
It’s a real shame that this is the case as the area is absolutely stunning. Renting bicycles and cycling out into the countryside was one of my finest cycling experiences to date.
Mountains to one side, glistening blue waters to the other, locals called out hello at almost every house we passed. We didn’t seem to find any of the noteworthy sights but it didn’t matter, with nearly thirty miles covered, up and down hills, it was a joy to see such a beautiful area of the world.
It would have been nice to have stayed there a couple more days although I’m not entirely sure what else I would have done. Unfortunately Sumatra is not kind in terms of getting from place to place. Our next stop, Kericini lay some five hundred kilometers away.
We started what turned into the most epic journey of my travels at two in the afternoon where we caught a ferry to the mainland. From there we walked to the clearly marked bus station, large and well organized, just with no busses. One travel agent sold us a ticket on the one bus going anywhere that by luck, happened to be our bus. The problem was it was a Sunday; that meant lots of locals on the move. We got given ‘extra’ seats or in other words a plastic seat in the isle. Considering the journey was overnight this was not great news but sometimes needs must. As luck would have it, someone upstairs intervened and two people failed to make the bus on time hence giving us…two seats!
I sat next to an English university student which was nice. She practiced her English and taught me some more Indonesian although I had to give up on how to ask for a room because the vibration on the final word was just impossible for me to say. It surprised her that I had never heard of England’s greatest export, Mr Duncan, and frankly alarmed her when I said we don’t eat rice three times a day.
The rest of the journey was a typical night bus affair, bumpy, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, the barest of sleeping times. Considering we were on the wonderfully named Trans-Sumatran Highway, finding ourselves on mud tracks and roads only just big enough for a car, with two busses attempting to pass each other, the journey was hard going. Unlike most night busses it was not over at first light. No, we didn’t make it to base until two in the afternoon, that’s twenty two hours, with only two fifteen minute breaks and a couple of packets of biscuits.
Actually it wasn’t all that painful, what was, was when we arrived at the bus office in Padang. Now the Lonely Planet has a lovely piece on Padang, with a good map and plenty of information. Except then it contains a box which states that just before going to print there was an earthquake that destroyed much of the city. With no reference points, no one speaking English and worst of all no form of transport, we were stranded in the pouring rain.
Eventually a couple of students passed by. One was Indonesian, the other Malaysian. With their help we navigated a number of oplets before arriving at a different office which could book us on a bus to Kerinici. I can’t explain just how stuck we would have been without them. We went over the road and had a taste of the famous Padang cuisine. The waiter puts around fifteen dishes on your table and you pay for what you eat. I enjoyed the beef rendang, a morning glory dish, omlette, oh and a whole dish of cow intestines. No one else wanted to help me out with that one. At one point an older lady came over and sat a chair away. She starred at us continuously whilst at the same time holding an in-depth conversation with our new found friends. She looked bewildered and confused. Was it the white skin? The language? The handling spicy food? No it was confusion over why we were eating rice with a fork and not a spoon.
After lunch, the first proper meal for twenty four hours we collapsed and waited for the bus. Alex and James disappeared at various times and brought back local snacks for us to try. By far the strangest was chicken feat in a curry sauce.
Approaching zombie status it was time for the mini bus to leave for Kericini. We got in and then the driver did. Finally a chance to sleep. But wait, no! We were in for a treat. Unknown to us the mini bus that we booked happened to have the best speaker system in the whole of Asia! Cue dance and then local music throughout the night at a near deafening sound volume. My tolerance levels were tested to their absolute limits. But the whole grin and bear it approach did just about work as we were dropped off in a tiny village at around three in the morning. It was all very picturesque with the volcano dominating above the tea plantations but my zombie status renders that image nearly defunct. Rather my enduring memory was Paul knocking on a homestay’s door and a wonderful if sleepy man greeting us and ushering us into a room. We hit the hay almost instantly.
Thirty six hours, the next day was a right off.
Danau Toba is the largest lake in Southeast Asia covering 1707 square kilometers. It is big. The ferry into the center took close to an hour. Tuk Tuk, attached to a lager island, with over a one hundred kilometer circumference is the tourist heart. In days gone by it was one of the major stops on the traveler’s itinerary, championing a party scene that Hat Rin on Koh Phan gan, Thailand now holds. These days the island verges on a ghost town, with only a sprinkling of foreign tourists.
It’s a real shame that this is the case as the area is absolutely stunning. Renting bicycles and cycling out into the countryside was one of my finest cycling experiences to date.
Mountains to one side, glistening blue waters to the other, locals called out hello at almost every house we passed. We didn’t seem to find any of the noteworthy sights but it didn’t matter, with nearly thirty miles covered, up and down hills, it was a joy to see such a beautiful area of the world.
It would have been nice to have stayed there a couple more days although I’m not entirely sure what else I would have done. Unfortunately Sumatra is not kind in terms of getting from place to place. Our next stop, Kericini lay some five hundred kilometers away.
We started what turned into the most epic journey of my travels at two in the afternoon where we caught a ferry to the mainland. From there we walked to the clearly marked bus station, large and well organized, just with no busses. One travel agent sold us a ticket on the one bus going anywhere that by luck, happened to be our bus. The problem was it was a Sunday; that meant lots of locals on the move. We got given ‘extra’ seats or in other words a plastic seat in the isle. Considering the journey was overnight this was not great news but sometimes needs must. As luck would have it, someone upstairs intervened and two people failed to make the bus on time hence giving us…two seats!
I sat next to an English university student which was nice. She practiced her English and taught me some more Indonesian although I had to give up on how to ask for a room because the vibration on the final word was just impossible for me to say. It surprised her that I had never heard of England’s greatest export, Mr Duncan, and frankly alarmed her when I said we don’t eat rice three times a day.
The rest of the journey was a typical night bus affair, bumpy, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, the barest of sleeping times. Considering we were on the wonderfully named Trans-Sumatran Highway, finding ourselves on mud tracks and roads only just big enough for a car, with two busses attempting to pass each other, the journey was hard going. Unlike most night busses it was not over at first light. No, we didn’t make it to base until two in the afternoon, that’s twenty two hours, with only two fifteen minute breaks and a couple of packets of biscuits.
Actually it wasn’t all that painful, what was, was when we arrived at the bus office in Padang. Now the Lonely Planet has a lovely piece on Padang, with a good map and plenty of information. Except then it contains a box which states that just before going to print there was an earthquake that destroyed much of the city. With no reference points, no one speaking English and worst of all no form of transport, we were stranded in the pouring rain.
Eventually a couple of students passed by. One was Indonesian, the other Malaysian. With their help we navigated a number of oplets before arriving at a different office which could book us on a bus to Kerinici. I can’t explain just how stuck we would have been without them. We went over the road and had a taste of the famous Padang cuisine. The waiter puts around fifteen dishes on your table and you pay for what you eat. I enjoyed the beef rendang, a morning glory dish, omlette, oh and a whole dish of cow intestines. No one else wanted to help me out with that one. At one point an older lady came over and sat a chair away. She starred at us continuously whilst at the same time holding an in-depth conversation with our new found friends. She looked bewildered and confused. Was it the white skin? The language? The handling spicy food? No it was confusion over why we were eating rice with a fork and not a spoon.
After lunch, the first proper meal for twenty four hours we collapsed and waited for the bus. Alex and James disappeared at various times and brought back local snacks for us to try. By far the strangest was chicken feat in a curry sauce.
Approaching zombie status it was time for the mini bus to leave for Kericini. We got in and then the driver did. Finally a chance to sleep. But wait, no! We were in for a treat. Unknown to us the mini bus that we booked happened to have the best speaker system in the whole of Asia! Cue dance and then local music throughout the night at a near deafening sound volume. My tolerance levels were tested to their absolute limits. But the whole grin and bear it approach did just about work as we were dropped off in a tiny village at around three in the morning. It was all very picturesque with the volcano dominating above the tea plantations but my zombie status renders that image nearly defunct. Rather my enduring memory was Paul knocking on a homestay’s door and a wonderful if sleepy man greeting us and ushering us into a room. We hit the hay almost instantly.
Thirty six hours, the next day was a right off.
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