Probolinggo, Java, Indonesia. February 29, 2016

---

Hi everyone! Here we are in Aqaba, Jordan desperately trying to update our blog. Decent wifi still very difficult to find. So the next few entries will not be accompanied by photos. We will add them later, however. Still having an amazing time and we so enjoy sharing our experiences when we can!

Probolinggo, Java. Mount Bromo.

Same island, different port. We are making several stops on Java, this one on the north coast of east Java. The area, and indeed the whole island is densely populated with a deeply varied ethnic, indigenous and religious mix.

It is easy to forget the sheer size and diversity of where we are. The population of Indonesia rivals that of the US, and being the largest archipelago in the world, comprises 13,667 islands, perhaps a few more at low tide, and fewer as sea levels rise.

As we disembark, we are greeted by dancing children, magnificently costumed. It is easy to forget that today we head off hunting for a view of Mt. Bromo, an active volcano in Bromo Tengger Semeru National Park. The crater is 600 meters east/west and 800 meters north/south. In keeping with our personal history of brushes with natural disasters, mighty Mt. Bromo erupted a few days before and access to the park was restricted to a 1.5km radius around the volcano. A bit of lava escaped, but the result of the eruption was mostly ash, which hung thickly on the humid air. The danger to us is neither from lava nor ash, but from gases which can settle in pockets in low-lying areas: not necessarily toxic, but definitely lacking in oxygen.

We started with a bus ride to a transfer station. On the way, guide Roni gave us a history of the area and talked of the many indigenous and ethnic groups in the region of northern east Java.

The Tengger Caldera, the walls of which we would soon climb from the outside, is a collapsed volcano and forms a steeply-walled crater 10km in diameter. The sandy floor is fertile in many areas and fed by runoff and the odd spring. The dormant volcano, Mt. Betok, rises directly from the caldera, and Mt. Semeru, Java's most active volcano, lies outside the caldera wall to the south. Bromo, also active, but less so, stands at 2,392 meters inside the caldera.

At the transfer point, we boarded six 4X4s for the trek up the mountain to the edge of the caldera. The jeeps were simple: a seat up front for the driver and another for shotgun. The back seats consisted of two hard benches laid lengthwise, so two by two and facing each other. The jeeps were advertised as holding eight, so someone expected six people to fit into the back part. Six very small people, sure.

We have had several big men on these tours, and fitting them into far-east size seats is a problem - legroom, bum width, and height - none of these qualities are accommodated by local transport. Eric, for example, is a very large and not at all overweight Dutchman who took up almost a third of the small space on his own. He endured the tight ride with good humour, although the heat of the lowlands and the cramped conditions could not have been pleasant.

Roni was in one jeep, and it was we five tourists alone in ours, with a steely eyed driver who, throughout the whole ride, looked like he really, really, really wanted a cigarette. He spoke no English and smiled rarely, encouragingly concentrating hard on his task. The Spartan jeep was interesting in itself, with instrumentation consisting of a nonfunctioning speedometer, a dubious gas gauge, and an oil light which flickered occasionally. The driver performed fascinating gymnastics to engage and disengage the 4-wheel drive, and the 4X4 swung back and forth on the narrow switchbacks, expertly dodging the rare oncoming vehicle, and the more frequent pothole, landslide or chicken.

As we gained altitude, the road became more narrow, and homes and businesses crept closer to the pavement's edge, with some hanging over the rear cliff edge. Passing through the last couple of villages before the summit access, we saw rather nice homes, shops and temples raised up on concrete walls which were the road's shoulders. No room for error here.

As we climbed higher, the road quality diminished, and we passed a couple of places where parts of the pavement had washed away in the heavy rains, the new ditch surrounded by sandbags and reducing passage to a single lane. A good move, because if you put a wheel into one of those holes, you will tumble a long way down the mountainside.

The farms are lush and fertile, and cultivated terraces run almost straight up on some almost vertical sections of the mountains. Mangos, sugar cane, rice, potatoes, onions and grapes are popular crops. Plateaus appear regularly, every inch cultivated. Again, the ash from the volcano is great for farming, terrible for unprotected animals, homes, cars and especially the water supply.

However, a beautiful drive through nicer farming villages. Questions to our guide during a stop taught us that the whole area is a federal park. Since these families have lived here for longer than Indonesia has been federalised, the locals retain land rights in the traditionally occupied areas. This means they can farm, and can live there, but they do not own the land. The farms are village co-ops, where villagers share in the labour and in the profits. The division of labour is clear. Gangs move from field to field. One group plants, another weeds, the next harvests and others transport, distribute and sell. If you don't participate in the project, you don't participate in the spoils.

Some of the farms are mechanised, but using a tractor is impossible on all but the flattest terrain, and flat is a rare commodity up here.

The higher we got, the cooler and less humid it became, but never to the point of chilly, even at the highest point that we reached along the caldera.

We arrived at the point where even the 4X4s could not continue, and dozens of the tourist vehicles jockeyed for parking spaces. Some passengers stared, dismayed, at the remaining climb, while the rest of us struck out immediately. Some elected to stay at the "base camp," where hawkers sold cold drinks, coffee, t-shirts and trinkets.

When the tourists come, the young men of the region stash their motorcycles and ride their ponies up to the base camp, where for about $10 US, one of these unhappy beasts will carry your spoiled, flabby ass up the final climb to the summit. I elected to walk. Jane declined the pony and, after climbing 3/4 of the way, she decided to sit in the roadway and wait for me. She now wishes she had taken photos of the many determined climbers and remarked, "There were a lot of knee replacements and artificial hips up there!"

Of the ponies, I say unhappy beasts because their owners had great faith in their ability to carry large American and European men and thereby make a good buck. One large Dutchman clambered onto a pony, his feet dragging in the dust and the pony clearly unhappy at his at least 250 lb. load. One pony threw a nasty kick at one lady who was clearly uncomfortable at mounting in the first place, and then terrified that the next kick would connect and launch her into the caldera. It didn't help when another pony nipped the arm of an oblivious tourist, who was unaware that the animal was even there.

Smaller people, however, were treated to a rapid ascent, the ponies knowing they could get rid of their easy load at the top and enjoy a casual amble back down. I neglected to ask if there was a separate charge for the descent. Judging from the number of people who walked back down, it would seem so.

A sequence of several flights of stairs, both natural and installed, ramps and pathways led to various lookouts, and at each one, just like the Painted Caves of Hambantota, tired climbers peeled of with dismissive waves, "I'll wait for you here."

Although we have had incredible luck with great views in all kinds of seasons and weather, the clouds, temperature gradient, humidity and hanging ash conspired to rob us of our view of Mt. Bromo. The view of the caldera, though, with its lush greens, rich browns and meandering streams was spectacular in itself.

A young Dutch couple, clearly travel-wise and prepared, unfolded a travel guide containing a two-page, full colour spread of the same view from where we stood, absent today's clouds, ash and mist. They propped the book open at the beautiful photo, positioned so that it duplicated the angle of view, and took their selfies with the haze over the caldera behind them. An excellent compromise, at least showing what was supposed to be there.

The scramble back down was just a little easier, with people struggling to not break into a run down the steep pathways. As I descended, our guide came collecting stragglers. He asked me if any of our group were still at the summit, and I replied that I saw a couple from our ship, but was unsure, because we had been split into jeep groups, whether they were actually part of our tour or on another. He sighed good-naturedly, regarding the steep pathway. "I guess I'd better go check," and off he climbed. As it turned out, he found someone I had not noticed at all, as that one had ventured up another pathway.

I collected Jane at her resting spot, where she had had an entertaining time watching tourists of varying capacities attempt the summit, either on foot or astride the ponies.

As we descended and the temperature rose, fewer and fewer of the homes had their drapes open in the front windows. The more modern homes, although small, were almost all glass facing west and south, and the open drapes revealed clean, bright rooms and ample and comfortable furniture, a far cry from the Jakarta overpass jungle camps. Nevertheless, these nice homes are earned through the backbreaking labour of mostly manual farming.

We reached the staging area and were reloaded into our bus. The air conditioning was a welcome respite from the heat that had become more and more pervasive during our descent. The bus took us to a local roadside restaurant, complete with art gallery and gift shop, menus in Indonesian only. To the dismay of many, squat toilets only. Lunch was simple, rice, vegetables, choice of meats and fish, and for the adventurous, blindly picking things off the menu.

This was a good place to see the variety of food available. Indonesian food is a blend of Chinese, Indian, Middle-Eastern and European. All kinds of noodles in all kinds of broths, any kind of curry you can imagine, fish roasted in banana leaves, vegetable mixes done in woks or steamed or pickled, and served with peanut sauces and an array of chilis. Nasi goreng is the catch-all fried rice. I discovered the sweet, thick soy sauce called kecap.

A brief tour downtown to see some imposing building and colonial residences. A highlight was a walk through the local spice and food market. Crossing the busy multi-lane street seemed an impossible task; trucks and trishaws and tuktuks and cabs and city buses and motorcycles and scooters zipped back and forth, performing their intricate dance in impossible proximity. This was a deadly game of Frogger, with no crosswalks or traffic controls. Locals seemed to flow effortlessly through the traffic stream at improbable right angles, emerging safely on the far side and seeming not at all perturbed.

This proved impossible for our urban nerves, and clearly he who hesitates gets shmucked. Some suggested that it was like Vietnam, where one merely proceeded across at a slow, steady pace, and as long as you didn't stop or bolt, traffic flowed safely and easily around you as if you were a boulder moving perpendicularly across a stream. Here, however, there seemed to be horns, eye contact and hand signals.

Roni gathered us on the sidewalk, and judging his moment carefully, led us into the traffic. He waved down vehicles, which cooperatively paused and as a group we managed to mostly get across. One of our number hesitated, though, and was instantly cut off by the flow around her. She stood stock-still in whizzing traffic, an island of anguish in the flow of noise, metal and exhaust. Roni moved back into the traffic and waving off scooters and trucks, easily guided her the rest of the way.

We moved on to the local food market, a barely lit open warehouse overflowing with colours and smells, and also with friendly locals eager to have their photos taken and shown to them. People bought pieces of ginger root and unfamiliar fruits, and the ethnically varied women running the stalls interacted with us in hand signs and whatever language or dialect was theirs. Trishaw drivers waved and grinned happily, even more so when we showed them their photos. One exception was a lady squatting by her wares, who gave a friendly wave and a toothy smile, but turned away in embarrassment, wrapping her head in her sari when I pointed my camera at her. Her neighbors made loud comments with big smiles, it did not seem unkind.

Strolling along the thronged avenue, with motorcycles and trishaws whizzing by, calculated inches from elbows and toes, we chatted amiably with Roni until a woman in our party, a tough, streetwise retired California cop, came over and cried in despair and frustration, "I need an Indonesian man to help me across the street!"

Mangy cats, many missing the ends of their tails, prowled the stalls and stalked amongst the bags and boxes of colourful peppers and chilis and fruits lined the narrow pathways through the warehouse-like building. No doubt they earn their keep by hunting the vermin which surely lurk in the darker corners, awaiting their chance to thieve.

I have noticed an interesting Indonesian linguistic affectation, this being the many uses of the sound, "Ah."

Looking for agreement, "Aaaaah?"

Getting agreement. "Aaahh."

To emphasise a point, "Aah."

Having made one's point, "Aaaaahhhhh."

Dismay, "Aaahh!"

As occasional punctuation, "Ah? Ah."

Caution, "aAh!"

Yes. "Ah."

Related item: see Malaysian, "Mm."

---