Mount Bromo: Getting to take a walk in the clouds
Mount Bromo: Getting to take a walk in the clouds
Placido, Contributor, Bromo, East Java
As a child I used to say to my mother, "I want to walk over the
clouds." She smiled at my infant naivete. Many years later,
coincidences and curiosity have taken me to Mount Bromo and ...
yes Mom, I have walked above the clouds!
It is cold, very cold at 4 a.m. in Cemara Lewang, a little
village in East Java, built right on the rim of the 10-km wide
Tengger crater.
My budget accommodation offers only cold water; it stings my
face and I smile thinking that I am -- after all -- in tropical
Indonesia. It doesn't seem normal but, then again, there is very
little that is normal in getting up at this ungodly hour and even
more so in the area surrounding Mt. Bromo. A feeling of weirdness
is pervasive.
I had arrived the afternoon before with a bus from
Probolinggo that took me up to the village via Ngadas at an
altitude of well over 2,000 meters.
The village is really unattractive and -- at that time -- was
disarmingly quite; no noise could be heard. A light mist slightly
engulfed it, giving it a grave appearance and causing the
temperature to drop even further.
I searched for a restaurant and when I found it, I was pleased
to order soup and hot tea.
The local people are, in many respects, different from their
compatriots. They have maintained their Hindu faith, and are now
the last such "pocket" left in Muslim Java. But it is not only
about the religion, they also look different -- their demeanor
and features set them apart from the lowlanders. Maybe it is the
weather, or maybe the colorful blankets they constantly wear on
their shoulders or the hats that cover most of their faces.
Somehow they remind me of the Andes inhabitants, Bolivian and
Peruvian, more than Javanese. They are friendly but very much
business oriented -- the isolation puts them in a strong
bargaining position. Prices are inflated everywhere and --
contrary to most other Indonesian places -- bargaining doesn't
reap much benefit.
After dinner I checked out the short route from the hotel to
the edge of the main crater and spent quite a while admiring the
moon-like landscape.
Bromo (2,392 m) is an active volcano but it is only one of the
three peaks that have emerged within the caldera of the ancient
Tengger. Standing in the middle of it, Bromo is flanked by Batok
(2,440 m) and Kursi (2,581 m). The three peaks are surrounded by
three kilometers of dark lava-sand, best known as "the sea of
sand". The scenery is eerily imposing and barren.
I was back in my hotel room by early evening and with the
anxiety of missing my wake-up time, I struggled to get to sleep.
But here I am at twenty past four, after having washed my face
and ready to go. Several layers of clothes, comfortable walking
shoes, a bottle of water, a map and a torch are all I deem to be
indispensable.
Stepping outside it is dark, pitch-black dark. It is a
moonless night, so the road and the entire landscape fade into
blackness. My flashlights earn me no more than a meter of
visibility. What is meant to be a short walk becomes much longer
and difficult. Stumbling is the rule and the rocky unevenness of
the surface makes me feel like a child attempting his first
steps.
The town is slightly more alive than the previous afternoon.
Locals with jeeps or with ponies approach tourists offering their
services and expertise -- most take-up the offer, while other
carry-on independently. Yet the business contractions are carried
in an unnatural quietness, almost a "church-like" whispering.
The slight edginess of "going-solo" disappears fast once I get
to the sea-of-sand. Apart from few racing jeeps and some lonely
horsemen, the walk is quite solitary with the sand and the stars
as the only companions. The other travelers keep to themselves
and I am pleased to be able to enjoy the stillness of the
setting. Anyway, footprint and hoof prints to and from the crater
remind me that I am not alone.
Orienting oneself doesn't prove difficult with well-positioned
white stone markers on the ground leading me by hand. Also the
perfect shape of Batok -- visible even in almost complete
darkness -- is reassuring, as I know that Bromo is just on its
left.
Slightly after 5 a.m., a thin light begins to emerge as a new
day breaks through the darkness. Harmoniously, the mysterious and
strangely magnificent outline of Bromo's crater begins to come
into focus just in time to start the 246 steps from the bottom of
its crater that will take me to the summit. Looking back, a
steady flow of walking people is visible, and the hurrying of
jeeps pollutes the silence.
Overtaking wheezing flabby tourists, I swiftly make my way up
to the top where, suddenly, I am among many others. Sulfuric
fumes smelling like rotten eggs hit my nostrils and for a second
I am almost fearful to look inside the crater. It is wide, deep,
barren and with a steady and nauseating stream of smoke bellowing
out.
Then the sun starts appearing and my sentimental side takes
over: I am in awe. From the rim of the volcano, the first light
is more a lived experience than a mere observation. The horizon's
colors change rapidly, from night-deep-blue to a light mixture of
blue-red-yellow-white.
A group of chanting Indonesian students don't seem to be here
for any soul-searching experience, so I walk clockwise on the rim
to get away from them and, after a few minutes, I am rewarded
with peace and quite.
The air is definitely crisp but it doesn't get chilly.
Squatting on the ground I only wish I had someone to share these
emotions with.
When the timid sunrays touch the cold sand, mist is formed. It
gets thicker and thicker and the sea of sand soon gets covered,
which adds to its mystique.
The sun rises rapidly and majestically with its perfect
rounded red shape, growing above the clouds. It is quite a
spectacle.
The mist rising from the sea of sand mixes with the smoke of
the crater. Dreaming with childish longing, I feel like finally
walking over the clouds.