Climbing Mt. Bromo

In many ways I identify with a volcano. I am aware of the smoldering fires that rage inside, the occasional eruptions, the destruction, the long periods of dormant relief. I believe that we all hide these unquenchable fires within us - afraid to acknowledge our hidden volcanoes, the latent energy, fire, power.

Volcanoes dot the length of Java's spinal cord, some extinct, some dormant but with boiling cauldrons, some very recently, very active. I got a sense of Java's fires flying down its length recently.

Of all the volcanoes in Java, Mt.Bromo is the most famous, at least amongst the tourist circles. I still remember the first photo I saw of Mt. Bromo - a volcano emerging out of a sea of ashes, golden in the early morning light. It seemed a world lofty and high, fuming with internal fires hidden deep inside. And, one could climb Mt. Bromo, lean over its burning heart to glimpse this molten heat, the power, a core that kept this world alive, and us kicking.

We arrived to find that Mt. Bromo was one of three eruptions within an original volcano crater that covered a ten square km area and was now part of the Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National park. Our hotel was perched right on the rim of this volcanic crater giving us a view of the Bromo-Bartok-Kursi peaks across a sea of ashes beginning right under us. Temperatures were freezing when we arrived and the trek next morning started at 3:30am under a full moon.

What we saw and experienced was a walk with spectacles beyond compare. These photos below hold barest hints of what it was like to be there!

Discovering Utopia

Togean islands are placed within the liquid turquoise womb of the orchid shaped island of Sulawesi, Indonesia. Everything that I read, or mostly the scarcity of what was written about it, had me beeline to these remote islands in escape from all the real, concrete, commonplace, mundane. I was headed towards ideas and ideals - constructs of my head, in search of an earthly paradise, of a simple life immersed within astounding beauty - bountiful, natural. I sought a return to womb, of life before emergence, identity, before a crafting of myself into me.

I found paradise in these tiny emerald droplets floating on iridescent blue lagoons whose depths I plunged in awe struck wonder, again and again, many many hundred times over, looking into turquoise and jade reeling away to navy infinity filled with sunlit coral gardens of golds, copper, pink and mauve, swaying gentle whites with chocolate fronds, bouquets of chrysanthemums between japanese scapes, filled with flashes of darting fish in unimaginable colors, shapes, sizes. Stingrays rays glided and sharks romped these waters with lethal assurance, while a giant whale blew huge spouts as it crossed our path, ignoring us.

The islands were covered with swaying palms and steep rock faces that cascaded with wild orchids. The sands were golden and fair, the water world a mere thirty feet from our tiny hut. We ate simply, whiled away hours on hammocks in silence, or in quiet companionship of our new found friends, sang songs and heard guitar played to popular bollywood numbers. We slept like babies to a loud chorus of cicadas and awoke at early hours with the cock crowing. Mostly we swam, snorkeled, watched the ocean and were aware that our eyes were just too inadequate to grasp so much beauty that filled our world here.

We spent eight perfect days in Togeans and left it with hearts wiped clean with infinite ocean, infinite sky, a mind mindful of living in the present and ready to return, and be reborn.

In Tana Toraja

Some say that their ancestors were seafarers who came upstream along the Sadan river to settle in the dense jungled lands of central Sulawesi. In order for their ways to not be forgotten, they made houses on stilts with roofs that resembled their boats. To this day the people remember the ways of their ancestors, build homes with boat roofs, practice ancient rituals of sacrifice and purification, elaborate funeral ceremonies to appease the dead, mount their dead in hanging graves protected by Tau-Tau or life sized wooden effigies of moving limbs, crafted to resemble the dead. Mystery and macabre combined irresistibly compelling me towards Tana Toraja.

We sped between emerald rice fields, my sister and I, sitting on motorcycles behind our Toraja guides. Villages appeared in distance like fleets of boats,rising out of green seas. Homes with bamboo and bale roofs sheltered incredibly carved ornate homes in distinctive Toraja motifs of buffalo and fowl, pig, sun. The designs were detailed in mineral colors of white, black, ochre and red, while the fronts hung with tall rows of stacked buffalo horns signifying the family's importance in the village hierarchy. Walks past village led to burial sites in caves or carved into rock faces guarded by rows of Tau-Tau with blank wide eyed glares, while piles of bones, skulls spilled out of caskets shaped like pigs. Families were buried together along with their possessions like a favorite pipe, telephone directory, a bottle of arak, a favored dagger, a snuff pouch.

We walked through darkened forests, carrying our bundles of sugar and a large pouch of arak, towards the site of a house warming ceremony. Our approach was heralded by unbearable high pitched screeches of sacrificial pigs. Soon the forest path upwards to the clearing was covered with rivulets of blood crisscrossing under our feet. Sounds of great excitement and clamor accompanied guests bearing gifts of sacrificial pigs carried on highly colorful towers borne on shoulders of strong young men. We were told that a new home was inaugurated when covered fully with pig blood. We were offered some glutinous rice and banana wrapped in leaves that we ate with both suspicion and great reluctance, cleaned it down with an arak gulp, and fled!

When Fairies Descended from Heavens

The palace pavilion glittered to the top with oil lamps flickering in the night breeze. The night itself was colored ink blue, and the royal courtyard suspended in golden light. The Gamelan began, slowly with lingering tinkles, gentle gongs and magical flutes. And then... fairies flew out in gold and red, orange and green, ruby lips, black eyes, with crowns, and jewels, swathed in sarongs and scarves, trailing long swirls of floating silks, descending lightly within the gold light to begin their magical dance - a Legong of slow and sensual grace, flashes of sparky eyes, shivering pointy fingers, flicks of their trailing scarves in graceful disregard, holding us rapt with dances on life, beasts, courtship, valor, humor - one memorable evening in Ubud, Bali.