The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step

I fell out of bed and opened the door. It was dark apart from the lights of the dining area where everyone was seated waiting for breakfast. It was very cold. I threw on my carefully laid out clothes and went to join them, amazed at being allowed to sleep in until this time. Everyone had already put their breakfast orders in so I wandered over to the kitchen and added mine to the list. As breakfast began arriving we ate with very little banter.

It was 5.00 when a bemo first arrived stacked with various gear. I went to sort out my stuff in my room and then carried my rucksack to reception. I sat back down with the French guys and started chatting. After a short while one of them turned to me.

"Weren’t you supposed to be going with the French girl?"

"Yes. Where’s she got to?"

"She left a few minutes ago."

I looked at them, too tired to get stressed out by this.

"Oh well, I’m sure it’s in hand."

The bemo in the forecourt was being loaded with stuff and we were all waiting in anticipation. The French guys were called over and I wondered why I was still waiting, as were Billa and Julian. They were all beckoned on to the bemo and I thought now was the time to find out what was happening. I collared one of the organisers.

"Shouldn’t I be going with these?"

"No. You go next time," he replied in a tone of voice which was either extremely curt or a cultural/language difference.

"But I should have gone with French girl. Your boss say so."

He had a brief conversation with another guy and turned back to me.

"No. You go next time."

Thank you. Very helpful. It can be very frustrating organising trips in this part of the world and getting straight, clear answers is virtually impossible. At the end of the day all you can do is keep in perspective the amount you are paying and be as aware as possible of cultural differences in things like timekeeping and trade descriptions. This can be difficult when you were up at 4.30.

The French guys were observing the conversation and the friendly one beckoned to me from the back of the bemo.

"Come with us now."

I wasn’t sure what to do but luckily the serious one spoke Indonesian and spoke to one of the guesthouse crew. After a minute’s conversation he turned to me.

"It’s OK. Another bemo will be along for you three soon. We will wait at the start to make sure you arrive."

There didn’t seem to be much else I could do so I relented and bid them au revoir – it had gone 5.30. They left. I looked at Billa.

"This is a bit poor isn’t it?"

She mumbled something in agreement.

"Where’s Julian?" I asked.

"Gone to sleep," she said. He was obviously expecting a long wait.

We returned to our seats and sat there glumly reflecting on crap Indonesian organisation – it was an hour past our estimated time of departure of 5.00. I was desperately trying not to let it spoil what was supposed to be the beginning of an amazing experience.

We chatted intermittently and I eventually got round to asking her how much she’d paid. She told me 400,000Rp which coincidentally was what the owner had told me to say I had paid if asked; I didn’t feel it would be politic to say that I’d paid 225,000, so I told her it was around 300,000.

It was getting lighter when Billa said she could hear a vehicle; I thought she was making it up, but a bemo turned into the guesthouse and we were beckoned over. We jumped up and Billa shouted for Julian a number of times until he was woken from his slumbers. It was around 6.30 and we were off almost immediately but as we descended the hill I looked at the gear that the tall porter had loaded and thought it didn’t look like much for three people. My fears were alleviated as we got to the village and a second porter got on with his own broad bamboo pole with all sorts of boxes and bags tied to it. This was to be my porter, Rana, a cheerful chap who spoke pretty good English. He told us he’d been waiting there since 4.30 but apparently they’d forgotten to order an extra bemo. Genius. The guy I’d first haggled with at the guesthouse stuck his head in and apologised for the cock-up. I was too relieved to do anything other than nod my acceptance as he thrust a bottle of water at me. Finally everything was looking fine as we set off on the forty minute drive to the starting point. A few words were exchanged on the bumpy, winding journey as we made our way to the other side of the volcano but we were generally quiet due to a mixture of anticipation, tiredness and discomfort.

We finally reached the village of what must have been Sembalun Lawang at around 7.15 and as we left it the bemo slowed to a standstill. A collection of villagers were concentrated by the entrance to a track. The French guys were there but disappeared quickly on our arrival; they had obviously been waiting for us to check that we got there. We unloaded our gear amongst the curious locals and I wondered how I was going to relieve the burning urge I had to go to the toilet.

Sirip and Rana began to check their loads and finely balance each end of their stout bamboo poles. I took the opportunity to pull out my camera and grab a quick shot of the last minute preparations. Sirip was tall and gangly, aged around forty, with short hair and a long face. Covering his legs was a checked sarong which only just came over his knees and so accentuated his long legs which were finished with that classic hiking footwear – flip-flops. Rana was small and stocky with a darker complexion and dark curly hair – almost aboriginal in appearance. Dressed in deck shoes, tracksuit bottoms, white t-shirt and baseball cap, he possessed a stock expression which spoke something along the lines of ‘I haven’t eaten breakfast, the train was late again and I’m slightly concerned about the central heating’ but this could easily be replaced by a cheerful smile which said ‘you know, Nick, you’re all right and of course I’ll give you a hand fixing your car.’

Billa was behind them, correctly kitted out in walking boots, walking shorts and fleece, with her curly hair tied back. She was helping Julian whose tall slim frame and blond hair stood out amongst the villagers who were carefully taking notes.

Once the bamboo poles, bristling with pans, water bottles, boxes and bags were perfectly balanced, Sirip and Rana hoisted them onto their shoulders. Rana’s pole was probably as long as he was tall but he held it nonchalantly across his right shoulder with one hand. With the water attached it must have been extremely heavy and I wandered what sort of supplies we would be able to get on the way; the sort of thing you would expect to check beforehand but I knew that the question would be answered with ‘no problem, don’t worry’, so I trusted in Allah’s grace.

It looked as if everyone was ready to go so Julian and I scuttled up the track and found a convenient place to empty our bladders. Billa wandered by, grinning, and we made some comment about it being a male bonding / guy thing. As Sirip and Rana began to come up the track we turned to begin our journey. We were already at around 5000 feet but it didn’t feel particularly high. The track leading from the road was like a classic English bridle path with high hedges on either side; gently sloping fields were in the distance dominated by the mass of the volcano. I led the party with Rana behind me and said a few words. I felt uneasy about how I should be walking – should I be in front of him or let him lead, should we talk or does one just walk – these thoughts of explorer-porter etiquette shot through my head.

We reached the end of the bridle path and I stopped to let Rana point me to the right through a field of knee-length grass. I looked ahead to see if I could see the French party but to no avail. We began our march through the grass and I let the group move on ahead as I took some photos of the scenery; a brisk march and I was back with them. As I turned to look behind me I could see our route with hills in the background and low-lying mist. I stopped once again to capture the scene. The grass was getting longer now, over waist height, and though a narrow track went through it, it wasn’t easily discernible. I already felt tired but had been walking for less than an hour; my constant stopping for photos and the quick marches to catch up with the group probably didn’t help. I was also slightly worried about the grass thrashing against my bare legs and had visions of tiny razor cuts all over them; stopping to check them, however, I could see no evidence of this. At this point Julian raised the spectre of ticks in the grass burrowing into me; this stopped me worrying about tiny razor cuts and instead I spent the next few hours periodically checking my legs for ticks - especially the ones which crawl up into the genital area.

After about an hour and a half we reached forest and followed a winding track through dense undergrowth. I shot on ahead to try and get some pictures of the group pushing through the jungle and looking like the hopeless explorers in the old Tarzan movies who get picked off one by one by the natives. We soon caught up with the French connection as we continued to weave our way through the trees and undergrowth.

As we left the forest, we entered an undulating area of long grass which was up to shoulder height in parts and after another half an hour we reached an open hut with the title ‘Position 1’. It wasn’t yet 10.00. We sat on the large covered deck and Rana handed me a packet of biscuits – a nice surprise, I thought. I also grabbed a banana and ate some oranges and grapes which I shared with Billa in exchange for some of her biscuits which were nicer than mine – a bit like rich tea. I guzzled down water and asked Billa to take a photo. It was now getting hot and I took the opportunity to slap on some sunblock, factor 20, above the shoulders.

We set off again with the peak to our left. The track was still through long grass but began to involve steeper slopes both up and down. We continued for about an hour, crossing over a couple of ravines using old bridges until we reached what I assumed was ‘Pos 2’ – a relatively wide wooden bridge with a large sign saying the next stop was one and a half hours.

The walk began to get much harder and we stopped briefly under the shade of a rock for biscuits, oranges and water. Julian decided to use this as an opportunity to climb a tree and have his photo taken. With a scarf wrapped around his head he looked utterly ridiculous and one of the French guys decided he looked like Brian of Monty Python fame – for the rest of the day, this was to be his name. I decided to sit with shades and baseball cap beneath the rock and have my presence recorded on film that way. We climbed a short hill, descended into a ravine and crossed an extremely narrow, rickety bridge which a couple of us took photos of in order to record its ricketiness. More walking, another ravine and within an hour we were climbing into a gorge with a steep cliff side, sheltered, with smoke rising from various points – tea, coffee and lunch was being prepared from a collection of small fires that had been started. Around a dozen people were congregated here in the throes of well-earned relaxation – we were happy to join them. Within ten minutes Rana and Sirip had caught us up and began to prepare their own areas for whatever culinary delights they had in store; I took the opportunity to grab a roll-mat from Rana, carefully messing up his carefully organised pack. I laid it out beneath the cliff and lay down with a sigh – it wasn’t even midday.

It was wonderfully comfortable lying there until one of the porters decided to light a fire within a few feet of myself and Julian. Smoke began funnelling its way across me and after a few minutes I announced ‘bollocks, I’ll have to move,’ to the amusement of the group of people who had been watching this happen and had probably put bets on as to how long it would take me to move. I found another spot a few feet away and once again made myself comfortable.

Looking over at Rana, I could see him busily looking for firewood. I began to feel a little guilty as he had carried so much so I went over to help him. We brought several bundles of wood back to the site and he started preparing a fire. I went back to my comfy spot and before long Rana was approaching with a steaming cup of coffee and some bananas, some of which Billa decided to nick. I lay there wonderfully relaxed, only moving to take a photo of the busy cooking that was going on. Once again Rana was soon walking towards me with a massive plate of fried noodles and vegetables. I certainly hadn’t been expecting cuisine of this standard. I fussily asked for some soy sauce and began guzzling. Julian and Billa’s porter, Sirip, was soon plying them with goodies and I noticed that this included hot chocolate – it now became my personal mission to obtain some of this. I managed most of my lunch and then lay there chatting to Julian.

I scribbled some notes to myself:

Past Sembalun Lawang at 7.15

Up track like bridle path

Turn right through long grass

Continue into forest

Out of forest grass reaches shoulders

Pos 1 = hut - peak on left

Over bridges

Pos 2 = bridge with sign 1.5 hours

Walk gets harder

Into ravine, over rickety bridge down into another ravine

Takes one hour to steep sheltered cliff – pos 3? – 10.15

Hill with windy track on right

After around an hour I was once again getting restless. It was still not yet noon. I took a couple more photos, one of a porter skinning a pineapple and also of a very strange looking tree, and wandered up the gorge and back again. Billa and Julian were also shaping to move so I took the roll-mat back to Rana, thanked him for lunch and checked it was okay to go on. The trail was pretty clear from here.

Julian, Billa and I were pointed up a track leading out of the gorge and off we went.

More waist high grass but the terrain was now more undulating and was becoming steeper. I used the last of my black and white film and switched to colour. We had asked Rana the approximate time to our campsite and to our surprise he had said around three hours – we had made excellent time to our lunch stop and were likely to get to the campsite by 4.00 at the latest. We had decided to move on quickly in order to gain altitude before the hot mid-afternoon sun attacked us and as we climbed higher the air began to get noticeably cooler and gradually swirling clouds began to envelop the whole area.

We continued to chat through our ascent, taking short breaks every forty minutes or so. Julian shot on ahead for a while and Billa and I continued trekking steadily upwards.

From time to time we would reach long ridges with long grass, scattered trees, and steep slopes either side which were bathed in clouds. Looking back I could see Rana and other parties following on behind us, the land appearing to float in a misty sea.

The dirt track was now very steep as we moved through grassland and then woodland. Billa and I caught up with Julian as we climbed up to a wooded area. Halfway through we stopped for a quick break and for some reason I decided to carve my initials into a tree trunk, something I’d never done before. I pulled out my penknife and made a feeble start. Julian, who was obviously much more skilled at this kind of thing, informed me that I was doing it all wrong and took over. I completed it with his help at which point he told me it was an act of vandalism and his brother wouldn’t be impressed. The relevance of this became apparent when he informed us that his brother had been one of the last protesters evicted from the bypass at Twyford Down, Newbury, and had gone to prison. Very impressive, despite our disparaging comments about tree huggers.

Rana caught us up with a smile and a wipe of the brow. His t-shirt was stuffed into the band of his trousers and his baseball cap was on backwards; either sheltering his neck from the sun or a statement of style. Despite the distance and height we had walked I didn’t think he was really that tired. He wasn’t a big guy but his broad shoulders and strong, defined arms pointed to a level of strength and stamina that I couldn’t even begin to aspire to.

We continued climbing – now very tired and with the hope that every ridge ahead of us was the top, too often it wasn’t. Eventually, however, the edge of the rim did come into sight with a narrow path leading upwards along a ridge and through trees towards it; with clouds either side it was like the entrance to some mythical land. The ground began to flatten out and I felt that I should be able to see something of note, but still nothing. The sky around us was bleached white and either side of the ridge there was nothingness. Finally, there was the campsite, perched on the edge of a cliff. The view, however, was non-existent. A white canvas stretched out downwards, sideways and upwards with just the edge of the cliff clearly visible – no crater, no lake, yet no anti-climax – we had made it this far and the anticipation was enough to keep the excitement simmering. We descended to the campsite where there were already a couple of tents erected by other adventurers. Rana picked a prime spot for my tent and began to sort out the gear. I sat on the ridge resting, impressed at the short time we had taken – we had walked around 12km, climbing from 5000 to 9000feet – an estimated nine hour journey had taken six hours.

Within minutes we were being investigated by the local monkey population. Initially they were extremely wary but gradually they began to slowly venture within ten metres of the site. As soon as any of us raised our cameras, however, they were off; grey balls of fluff tumbling through the undergrowth.

The French party arrived and the skies slowly began to clear. Julian bounded up to a small ridge overlooking the camp for his picture to be taken – it looked very impressive so I followed suit – Indiana Jones conquers the world.

The sun was now burning brightly but the altitude kept the temperature down. The area around the campsite was now clear and I took the opportunity to photograph the scrubby, uneven slopes punctuated by small trees and bushes; our rocky outcrop the only flattish piece of land in sight and ending in a steep cliff which fell down into the clouds of the caldera.

I asked someone to take a picture of me looking strong and proud with the cliffs and the seas of clouds behind me but instead succumbed to the amusement of everyone at my pomposity and burst out laughing. As this was happening, the clouds beneath us began to clear and there was my first glimpse of the massive caldera with the crater lake looking like a sea and the towering cliffs on the other side like a far away impenetrable island. The segara anak (child of the sea) crater lake, bluer than turquoise, was brushed by intermittent areas of soft cloud but on the other side of its 800 metre high cliffs were dense piles of cloud pushing hard against the rim but seemingly unwilling or unable to cross it. It was like dry ice for a performance of mythical proportions. Above was clear blue sky accompanied by a few undecided strands of cloud who should have known better. I attempted to capture it all on film as best I could and wandered back.

Rana was busy chopping firewood so I watched this for a while. Above us the ridge which led to the summit was beginning to clear and finally for the first time we could see the peak. Red rock with clear blue sky on one side and clouds rushing up from the lake on the other. It really didn’t look at all far, once on the ridge that led up to it, Julian and I estimated an hour and a half. We even vaguely discussed going up there for sunset but decided to preserve our strength. (Exactly how ridiculous our estimates were would become apparent.) In the caldera below we could see no sign of Gunung Baru (Mountain New), the cone which had risen from the water, but we assumed that it must be to our left where the lake curved round behind the ridge. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

There was now little to do but relax. Rana had lit the fire and erected the tent so I grabbed the roll-mat and found a spot on the edge of the cliff. It was at this point that I finally got chatting properly to the French guys. They were obviously all avid photographers and were snapping anything that stayed still for long enough. The one I’d labelled friendly had a particularly annoying camera which beeped as he focused it. Tall, dark hair and annoyingly good-looking, he spoke good English but had done himself some serious damage last week. Apparently whilst experiencing Indonesian roads on a motorbike, he went to overtake a bus which then decided to overtake a car with drastic results. He was sent skidding off the road at speed and left lying in a ditch. Luckily he was seen by some passing tourists but the damage involved losing a large amount of skin from his legs and arm. In the circumstances, perhaps this could be considered lucky but the damage looked awful, had to be uncovered so it could heal, and obviously caused a lot of discomfort. He dealt with it by shrugging his shoulders, covering it with a sheer sarong and having it bathed with iodine by his friends.

The funny one was the tallest of the three. Dark-skinned and tall he was quick with a smile or an amusing comment; he seemed to enjoy everyone’s company. The third, the most serious of the three, was slim with short hair and less gregarious than the others; as time went on I realised that this was more to do with his quieter personality than my original unwarranted and poorly judged perception of gallic reticence.

We relaxed happily on the edge of the cliff for the rest of the afternoon. Rana made me drinks and some nasi goreng (fried rice) which I couldn’t finish and we all chatted amiably. A favourite topic of conversation was the chicken which had first appeared at the guesthouse. It was a relatively healthy if not scrawny thing and was now attached to a young porter who was ambling around aimlessly carrying this creature by the legs. The chicken would cluck from time to time in a resigned ‘do you really have to wander around with me upside-down’ kind of way.

The French had been told they were getting fresh chicken curry but none of us had quite believed it. The chicken continued its constitutional for about an hour until for ten minutes we didn’t notice it. But then it appeared again and we began to think that maybe it was just a pet. This thought was banished twenty minutes later when the boy ambled past clutching a scrawny piece of white flesh by a pair of legs. None of us were quite sure how to react, so we all laughed. The French got their curry later on and were distinctly unimpressed by it – the chicken had died in vain.

Approaching 6.00 and we psyched ourselves up for the sunset. I had spent the last hour lying on my stomach looking at what had to be one of the best views in the world. The air was beginning to chill slightly and so I changed into warmer gear for the evening. We lined up and waited for the show.

The clouds built up in even greater ranks below us on the other side of the rim with long stretches of cloud above us. As the sun sank over Bali, due west, we could see the clear outline of Agung, an impressively high volcano, which was dwarfed by this one. The sky filled with oranges, browns and pinks as the sun slowly disappeared into the clouds; a noticeable chill quickly set in.

I lay flat on my mat, pulled my sweatshirt hood over my head and looked up at the sky awaiting the stars. We chatted and laughed and set challenges about who would be first to the top – would it be claimed by England, Germany or France? We also discussed the time we should start and the porters suggested a three to four hour climbing time so we should be up at 3.00.

One of the porters planted a candle amongst us with a plastic bottle to protect it from the wind. Everyone congregated around it as if it would keep them warm. As the sky darkened and it got colder, Julian and I grabbed our sleeping bags and brought them outside. Around us we could see small fires and candles. Slowly people wandered to their tents until just Julian and I were left trying to work out constellations. There were so many yet we could identify so few. The most obvious was Scorpio but it was partly eclipsed by a thin but very obvious belt of cloud going right across the sky. Both of us commented on this but it wasn’t until later that I realised the obvious - it was the clearest view I had ever had of the Milky Way. We chatted for a while until Billa yelled from her tent.

"Could you two stop talking so loud?!!"

"Yeah, bloody rosbif," added one of the French. We apologised and Julian decided to make his way to bed.

I still felt I had to make the most of such a beautiful night. I took my diary from my tent and lay outside writing for about twenty minutes; as my arm tired I turned over to look at the smooth black sky, awash with flecks of bright silver; I reluctantly packed up my stuff and went to my tent. I took off my sweatshirt in order to feel the benefit the next morning and crawled into my sleeping bag in socks, trousers and a shirt. It was 8.00.

I awoke with a start. I was sure people were stirring and all I could do was visualise the French setting off and claiming the peak for themselves. I frantically scrambled around for my torch – where was the fucking thing – eventually I found it and turned it on to check the time – it was 9.30 – I’d been asleep an hour and a half. I cursed myself quietly and went back to sleep.

The rest of the night was miserable. I awoke at least every hour, freezing cold and would attempt to change position to make myself warmer. Eventually there was movement outside.

"Where are you England?"

It was 3.00 and time to move.

I put on my boots, sweatshirt, baseball cap and scarf and crawled out into the freezing night. Water was already being boiled and before long I had a hot coffee in my hands; looking back this probably made all the difference ....

CopyrightNickLangston-Able2000