Ijen crater to Ubud, Bali, Indoensia

At midnight I woke up and stuffed items back in my travel pack. I had a spot of tea too, to even out the lack of sleep. We drove down the bumpy path to Ijen crater and soon met with a local guide who could accompany us to the summit. The guide also handed us face masks because the sulfur was apparently quite strong. It was also rumoured that Ijen crater had been closed to tourism by the government for being unsafe in terms of air pollution. I found this our after booking the tour, of course. Nothing like a little added danger.

We started up the path with a gradual ascent, then mountain steep, and gradual again at the very end. Flashlights afforded us the luxury of not tripping and twisting our ankles in the crevices or on the tree roots along the way. I did appreciate the extra traction on the path, which meant I was less likely to fall, in theory. My shoes were long past functional at this point as the sole and boot had become enemies, refusing to stay together despite my best intentions. We made good time and even passed a group of older Japanese tourists on the one and a half hour hike to the top.

During the ascent, the guide would yell, "Smoke! Go, go, go!" I thought he spoke to our group, urging us to hasten our pace and avoid the fumes, but it also felt as if he were speaking to the smoke as well. Either way, I pulled up my hospital face mask and ran like stink.

Once we reached the summit, we sat on the edge and looked at the tiny blue lights through the smoke rising. If I really squinted I could see the three, but it certainly didn't compare with the picture where the photographer had come on a brilliant night and been allowed a closer look at the lava area. I had expected as much and wasn't too disappointed. It took a lot of tweaking with settings on my camera, but I finally almost captured the 'blue fire'. It was blurry as all heck, but I got it.

Since it was 3:30 a.m., we only had several hours to wait for the sun to rise. I tugged my wool scarf closer to my neck and wished I had actually brought a jacket on this whole trip to Asia. Some woman had told us back in Canada that bringing a jacket was just a waste of space and I had sadly listened.

When I had heard that it would be only four degrees at Ijen, I had gone into panic mode back at the hotel and dressed like I was trying to smuggle discount clothes back over the border after a shopping trip to the United States. I wore a tank top, t-shirt and my only sweater paired with a pair of leggings that almost reached my ankles and baggy capri sweats. The Canadian in me was a bit ashamed I was being such suck. 'You'd be breaking out the t-shirts if this were spring, you ninny,' it harped.

The other part of me that hadn't experienced single digit temperatures in nearly a year had no qualms except the fact that I had neither toque nor mittens. Why had those not made my packing list?

One guide up here had the brilliant idea to start a fire. Between the dozen of us looking to take advantage of the heat, some took turns foraging for firewood until we had a good base to light. The promise of warmth drew more people closer from different tour groups. Squatting next to the fire, I found the balance between frozen as an iced cap and hot spring scalding hard to manage. The hours passed at a glacial pace as the flames danced.

The sky's light began to transform the landscape as dawn broke. A large peak to our left had more pronounced ridges and gray lines. Below in the smoking 'blue fire' area, a teal/gray lake surrounded the entire crater, just missing the smoke covered lava. Plenty of other volcanoes and mountains surrounded us as well. The sun finally breached the horizon and gave us permission to make the hike back down to the vans.

We passed men selling sulfur carvings of turtles and flowers to tourists. The area near blue fire served as sulfur mining territory with the miners having the awful job of transporting each piece in baskets connected by a wood rod on their shoulders. Or maybe the one rigged basket set we passed along the way had just been for show.

When we returned, our van guide told us more about our Ijen crater guide over our chocolate sandwich and a hardboiled egg breakfast. The man was a 52 year old military worker who had been featured in a magazine for his work. He was known as the famous guide. The magazine page was even posted on the wall.

It took another hour and a half to drive to the ferry. I had learned yesterday that going to Surabaya actually meant driving to the ferry to Bali, without getting on, and then I had to take an eight hour drive back just so I could catch a flight to Bali the following afternoon. Logic and geography argued with my hostel and flight reservations, so I had opted to skip out on the cheap flight and hostel to get to Bali a whole day earlier. Time to trade money for happiness.

Luckily, the other van guide, the one who had been knocking on my door all last night, got me a discounted ticket on the ferry and bus journey. I knew because I watched the Dutch guy pay a higher price, while the guide knocked down my price when I was being indecisive. He expressed how sad he was I was leaving, but I didn't take him too seriously. Mainly because we didn't really know each other.

"Tomorrow, you'll have new tourists. They'll be more fun. You'll be fine." I reassured him.

That was how the cycle worked and why I assumed so many men in tourism turned into such flirts. The constant influx of thrill seekers who knew they only had a few days only reinforced the behaviour. I tried not to be one of them often.

"No, not Java. We don't get many tourists. This isn't Bali. You should stay here." 

He smiled wide. His red eyes stared back and I could tell he was being honest. I hoped he also got a day to rest those drained eyes between tours.

"I have to meet my friends in Bali." A true statement, that I was growing more and more excited about as the days past.

"Okay." He held his arms out for a hug and I obliged. He had been nice enough to discount my ticket and friendly since I met him last night.

The guides took off, leaving us just with our tickets. The bus pulled up a few minutes later. The driver found seats for all of us and I was with the absurdly tall Danish guy who insisted on taking the aisle seat because of his long legs. He also complained incessantly about the fact that we had to sit three to a row and that there was no air conditioning.

The tickets were maybe $9, or his was, so I had no idea why he was fussing. I knew the trip was status quo given all the buses I had taken in Thailand. It cost more for space and air conditioning. Even when we had the good fortune of having our third party get off at an early stop, he had nothing but grievances about the space, expressed to anyone he could find like the poor employees forced to trip over the feet he insisted on stretching out in the aisle. 

The bus pulled straight onto the ferry and we all got off. I went to find my own secluded space free of the Dane downer. I couldn't find a seat, but I did find an area where the breeze rolled through and I could sit on the floor.

On the bus ride to inner Bali, the Danish guy finally settled on a nap, across both his seat, the empty one and part of mine. His greasy hair sat on part of my lap for several hours it took to get there. It baffled me how someone could feel entitled to so much space, place themselves so above the locals who clearly lived these conditions regularly, and even encroach on a stranger's space without so much as an apology or recognition of 'oh hey, I was pretty much sleeping on you'. Perhaps I was acting too politely Canadian, but people like that drove me nuts. The world didn't owe anyone anything.

We arrived at a station that wasn't Denpassar: the destination most of the tourists on board had chosen. Ubud was my first stop. After finding out there was no one making a similar journey and some negotiations with the drivers, I got a real bargain of a cab ride. 'Call the supervisor to confirm they could take such an offer' low. The driver was nice and explained all the decorations up in the towns we were visiting. The Kuningan celebration occurred on the sixth of this month.

Everything about Bali's towns and villages was ornate. Carved stone immortalized Hindu religious figures in arched entryways. Bamboo penjors created gentle arches every few meters, filling the streets with colour and waving in the air with coconut leaves. All sorts of trees grew and when they thinned, the coast was visible. The roads, however, only had a two lanes, making driving a touch slower.

The driver dropped me off in Ubud's city center since he said he didn't know of any reasonable guesthouses. I rubbed my eyes and yawned, not even wanting to think about the last time I had more than four hours of sleep. As a result, the responses I gave other hopeful Ubud cab drivers were indirect and sarcastic laments. I was typically a nicer person, but the energy wasn't there.

I went down a side street to avoid being further overwhelmed by Ubud's touristic nature. Too many tour desks, souvenir shops and inauthentic businesses solely there to cater to the tourist's needs. The first man I talked to about a hotel described a place with a moderate price and little character, so I told him I might come back.

I kept going down the street that had been brought to life by a local art and food market. A sign 'Yuni's Guesthouse' hung outside a gated area. I peered inside long enough for an older woman to ask if I was looking for a room. From the art to the gate and the private looking nature of the residence, I had assumed this was not a guesthouse. She invited me inside to prove me wrong.

The tranquility kept me rooted on spot. The room behind the front desk area in the courtyard had dozens of paintings -- some wall mounted, some covered in plastic, but all beautiful. I waited nearly ten minutes for someone to come by and show me around after the woman had gone to fetch her son.  A middle aged man came to show me the room, a Balinese looking cabin, with a bed and a bathroom so long you could toss a football back and forth in it. The sink even had a plug to go with the laundry rack outside. I could have clean clothes again!

Breakfast came included, off a menu with several choices and delivered to the little table on my porch along with tea served any time of day. He even brought out some afternoon tea to welcome me as soon as I agreed to three nights stay with an ear to ear smile. If Bali was anything like the guesthouse, I was sure to love it.

As it turned out, the beauty carried through Bali's streets, adorned with banners and decorations. The stone carvings continued to captivate me and I could catch glimpses of impressive temples through the fenced off areas. Perhaps tomorrow they would be open. I began to look at a few signs for restaurants and accommodations to get a feel for prices. The rooms were more than reasonable, but the food was a bit steep for South East Asia. More massage parlours than I could count lined nearly every street.

I found a cute looking restaurant for supper and went upstairs to sit on the floor cushion at a low table. They had a whole write up on their founders and their environmentally sound vision. They even described a cooking class they offered. Tourists like me ate that kind of stuff up and I was ready to see when their next class was, until I tried out the diluted curry soup. What a shame. It sounded so promising.

I walked the streets back to the guesthouse and a thought struck me. Reality put tourism front and center: tour desks, daily dance shows, and out of place businesses like gelati shops or an abundance of Western food and sushi restaurants. Locals only existed to cater to the whims of visitors and try as I might, I couldn't escape the tourist bubble. 

The dogs outside the guesthouse all stood up as I drew closer, barking and growling to let me know I didn't belong down this street. I tried saying a few things to them, but their message remained. I sneaked by the in them end and settled in for a full night of rest.