The Sulphurs of Ijen

(For more pictures from this trip, click here.)

Just after sunrise, we leave Catimor homestay at the coffee factory and set out for the Ijen volcano. The ride takes just under an hour, but we tell the driver to pull over several times: the landscape is just too mesmerizing not to form part of our photo albums. The pastel colours are reminiscent of Europe in early October. Brown is the dominant colour, with dozens of shades of black, and white. The air is chilly, though not as cold as during the sunrise at Mount Bromo the day before.

Moreover, there is a calmness in the air, so unexpected after the two consecutive days in a permanent traffic jam. (On the way from Surabaya to Bromo, it was impossible to distinguish one town from another; they were glued to one another by an uninterrupted mass of houses. Indonesia is the fourth most populous country in the world, according our Lonely Planet guide. Looking out of the window, I swear it is true.)

In the distance, haunting volcano cones puff fumes and ashes down their slopes. Mist gathers on their tops and never really clears away.

We park the car at the entrance to the Ijen park. There should have been a guide waiting for us, according to our booking. The guide is, however, nowhere to be seen. Judging by our experience from Mt. Kinabalu, when our guide miraculously disappeared on the way up and equally miraculously re-appeared on the mountain peak, we are not worried. Well, we don’t really have a choice.

On the dusty path weaving through the forest, we meet porters who carry chunks of solidified sulphur in simple bamboo baskets. They make the journey to the volcano crater two or three times per day. I try lifting one deserted half-empty basket but it doesn't budge an inch. They make a few dollars per day, certainly not enough to afford regular massages for their disformed back muscles. Certainly not enough to afford swimming pools when they grow old - if they are lucky to live long enough to grow old at all.

The view is magnificent once we reach the mountain ridge. It is like the reverse side of the Moon. Stumps of dried trees remind us that Ijen is still an active volcano. It last manifested its might and power about thirty years ago, when it erupted a huge bubble of sulphuric dioxide into the air. A dozen workers were asphyxiated. Nevertheless, they believe it is the price to be paid for the treasures they retrieve from its depths.

I hesitate for a moment before venturing down the slope to the volcano lake. The air reeks of rotten eggs, an entire football team having eaten cabbage.

Once in the Shadows of Mordor, my heart stops beating once again. Complaining about working conditions in Europe is such a laughable matter. These guys spend entire days encompassed in the thick stench of fumaroles, with wet headscarves around their mouths and noses as their only protection.

My own head swirls for the lack of oxygen. It makes you not eat white sugar (bleached by sulphur) any more. But deep down, the acidic volcano lake is beautiful, turquoise blue. It is warm and the air (depending on the wind) is clearer, making it possible to breathe again. Making you understand why you ever wanted to descend to this hell.

Looking back over my shoulder, I feel like throwing my precious ring to the fires and go back, back from these Shadows of Mordor.

In the meantime, Kachnicka has found the love of her life. A little Turtle moulded from warm condensed sulphur. He was so soft and orange (burning with love at first sight?) when they fist met. It is now light yellow and solid, occupying its rightful place on our Singaporean balcony. So there is a happyend, at least for those two.