Ethiopia Letters (Part Three): North to Mek'ele

(In the following series of posts, I revisit a journey taken in early 2007 to Ethiopia, through correspondence. You can see part one here and part two here.)

February 16, 2007


Friends:

Heading northwards into Tigray, Ethiopia's northern province, en route to Aksum.  First stop is the capital, Mek'ele.  I've opted to fly over enduring a three day busride after hearing a friend's story of breakdowns and a harrowing accident on the less than ideal Highway 1.  I'm excited to get out of the chaos and the stinking diesel of Addis for a while. 

Getting on the flight itself was somewhat unnerving.  I had to pass through the domestic terminal, the aging and soon to be disbanded former international terminal, overtaken by its new shining heir, Bole International. It's as if Bole molted, and I'm in its ruddy shell. The terminal is in a state of terminal decay, frozen in time with its abandoned kiosks and clocks set to a once time in, say, Moscow. Everything is bathed in dust grey light; it is architecture in its twilight years. And I'm stuck thinking: Christ, what are the airplanes going to be like?

But I'm lucky.  If Ethiopia has one thing going in terms of transportation, it's Ethiopia Airlines, one of the more reliable carriers on the continent. The planes were cozy turboprops. And with a decent buna to top it off.

local transport

The flight: magical.  The northern part of Ethiopia is raw and dry, with large flats surrounded by deep carved valleys, and few rivers.  Flats were connected by a spiderweb of mountain trails  - there are few roads of any size. Flashes revealed the metal roofs of small villages, and single dwelling huts dotted the hills in clumps. I saw now what it means to be the most rural country on earth.  

Arrival in Mek'ele was like stepping into a furnace; the weather was even hotter and drier than Addis. The geography is more barren and desert-like, with rolling scrubby hills and the occasional patch of green.  With the cacti, I could almost be in Arizona. 

Mek'ele is about 8km from the airport, the town is similar to Awassa: clean, orderly, with plenty of trees (surely irrigated).   To the north of the city are the famous cave monasteries of Tigray, where monks and priests have practiced for well over a thousand years, and continue to do so to this day.  To the south lies Lalibela, home to the famous rock churches.

detail, Coptic cross

I am only a few hours south of the Eritrean border and the UN presence is high here, which means plenty of gleaming white UNMEE Landcruisers and their ubiquitous black communications antennaes bobbing in the wind.  I've been told that Adigrat, a small town 90 mins north has one of the heaviest UN contingents in Ethiopia, due to the ongoing border tensions with Eritrea.

The locals are exceptionally friendly and there are few tourists about. Most tourists don't hang around long here, using it as a stopover for northward treks.  I'm a tall, blond curiosity as I wander a few local markets casually searching for a memento.  I am intrigued by the little girls with Coptic crosses tattooed to their foreheads and the distinct way that the women here braid their hair.


My temporary home is the Atse Yohannes Hotel, overlooking the main roundabout, with a large stone-tiled patio restaurant that's perfect for people watching and subtlety snapping a few pictures. it's got two international channels - CNN and Al Jazeera - so I get a good dose of the news and more importantly a chance to suss out Al Jazeera, which I haven't had the chance to watch.  After two days, still can't see what the fuss is about.


Yesterday, I struck up conversation with a few locals at an adjacent table and before I knew it I was being whisked away for lunch at one of the local spots. One of my hosts was a restaurant owner in Japan, and was back in his hometown on vacation. I couldn't help think how vastly different Japan must be to this place.  He was fluent in Japanese.


It was Friday and two days before Lent, which meant that for 55 days no one (except the muslims of course) could eat after 3pm. Meat and dairy were forbidden. What this translated into was a lot of gorging at the restaurant.  Everyone was tucking into huge boiling pots of tibs (meat strips cooked with onions and peppers) and gored gored (raw meat cubes served at room temperature). This was a last chance protein fest; a stocking up before long hungry mornings and a simpler vegetarian diet (my preference anyway).  I politely declined the numerous offers of tibs and settled in on a beautiful lentil stew, soaked up with big handfuls of spongy injera.  

main square at night - those fountains worked once, for a wedding.

Nighttime activities included the required bar crawl, followed by the jotting down of some of their wonderful names:  'Milk Bar'; 'Khidi (kiddy) Bar'; 'My Place'; 'Your Place'; 'Badme Bar', 'Bar Bar'; and finally, just 'Bar'.  I was serenaded to (by men) to their favourite singers, none other than Celine Dion and Brian Adams.  I assumed some kind of magnetic attraction to some of these gentleman, who demanded my attention constantly.  And of course the questions and opinions loomed as soon as they heard my English:

"You are from Canada? I love George Bush!"

"You are from Canada? I hate George Bush!"

"You are from Canada!  I love England!"

"You are from Canada?  Ah, good country" 

One of the other great highlights was sitting around watching Ethiopian Idol.  Yes, there is an Ethiopian version, where men and women show off their great (and often not so great) traditional singing and dancing skills.  I watched the American version for the first time in the UK, and the ranking panellists were loud, garish and often plainly brutal to these aspiring singers.  Quite different in the Ethiopian version; the panelists were all men and very soft spoken.  Still the same was the stricken look on the contestant's faces.  Classic.

Aksum, home of the famous Stellae, is the next stop...

Ethiopia Letters (Part Two): Awassa and Beyond

(In the following series of posts I revisit a journey in early 2007 to Ethiopia, through correspondence. You can see part one here.)


February 3, 2007


Friends:


I've just returned from a four day trip into the Sidama region, home to some of the world's finest coffee plantations.  


German Martin suggested it.  A good getaway from the city was what he needed; he knew of an old colonial resort with bungalows and asked if we wanted to join. The destination: Awassa, a midsized town about 300kms south of Addis. To get there we would travel the gradually arcing highway 6, one of the main paved roads that eventually winds its way down to the Nairobi border (I think the same highway that Paul Theroux describes during his own journey through Ethiopia in Dark Star Safari). This would take us down into the great Rift Valley, which cuts across Ethiopia and gives the country its reddish lakes - Ziwa, Shala and Abaya.  We cruised out of Addis in style this time  via Martin's old green mercedes, with its plush seats and plenty of power to overtake the wobby-axled lorries.  

The Great Rift Valley

It didn't take long for the change of scenery and soon the the hubbub of peripheral urban sprawl, littered and dusty streets gave way to smaller smoother roads, wide open plains, big sky and classic flat-topped acacia trees (more like the classic wide panoramic Africa that I pictured in my head). The grass is parched, hardy and like little thick spears.  The driving dangers changed from donkey carts and toyota corollas to just donkeys and the occasional traffic congestion (two cars) due to cattle herds.  Ethiopian donkeys appear to enjoy bolting out of the bush and picking the middle of highway in the bare sun as a good spot to rest.  Best to drive slow and wide.  And don't forget about those lethal acacia spikes that are tough enough to puncture a tire.

Highway 6 heading south

the gloriously lethal acacia tree

 Awassa is a university town of about 200,000, where the streets are impeccably clean and everyone seems to ride the classic style Indian-made bicycles.  The town runs along Lake Awassa, where the crowds congregate to promenade along the shore path, selling wares, meeting loves, eating snacks. These are Ethiopia's wetlands, packed tightly against the dry plains and red soils, and are naturally a habitat for birds of all sorts.  Here I saw iridescent kingfishers snatching minnow sized fish, while magnificent long beaked black and white coloured storks with huge wingspans  shuffled around on flat feet like penguins.  

Our little resort was in fact more of a decaying colonial villa with tin roofed bungalows on a sprawling unkempt acreage. Everything gracefully run down; the evidence of an ancient pool at the centre, now home to a mosquito factory. The ever-present cockroach.  I tucked my mosquito net tightly around the bed.  


It was all worth it to wake in the early morning to see the warm glimmer of early morning sunshine on the lake, sipping fresh coffee and scoffing fresh bread with jam.  Complimentary big stick to keep the thieving monkeys away, which were well aware of the routine and would make their way in packs to the patio surroundings, hoping to snatch a meal.  I fed a local begging cat some bread bits - never have I seen a cat eat bread before.


We took a day trip down to Dila, about 100 or so km south of Awassa. Here the geography changed again, now rolling hills of jungle, green grass and deep red earth.  It is deeply rural, everyone seemed to be munching on chunks of sugar cane.  Along the sides of the road people were selling fresh papayas, pineapples, green coffeebeans (a dollar a kilo), and huge bundles of chat (also known as khat in Somalia, Kenya and Yemen).  Here, they mix coffee with rancid butter.

Cactus fencing is effective

We also made our way to Wondo Genet - home of Hailie Selassie's former private hot springs. An aging pool - actually a series of pools - jutting out in the moutainside, with a great view down the valley.  The mineralized water was piping hot - gushing through a makeshift system, and was soothing after the bone jutting  three kilometre donkey cart ride up to the top!


I've observed that the paper money gets worse the farther you get from the capital.  In Awassa and beyond, the bills fell victim to what I call 'Ethiopian wallet' syndrome -- for fear of thieves, the locals hide their money under their armpits.  That and the dirt make the bills truly rancid -- some are so bad you don't even want to touch them.  So there is a bit of a game here -- you are always trying to get rid of the worst bills (and the servers in restaurants do the same to you!). 


All the best from Addis,

Ciaran

Ethiopia Letters (Part One): A New Flower

(In the following series of posts, I revisit a journey to Ethiopia, with a brief pause in the United Arab Emirates, that I took in early 2007. Armed with a journal and Canon G5 camera, I ventured out on my first trip to the African continent.  I was apprehensive but excited - Ethiopia is one of the most rural countries on earth, a society with deep Christian roots, marked by a violent history of invasions and civil war, home of some of the world's finest coffee. Here are some of my dispatches that I sent to friends, family and colleagues.)

January 27, 2007

Friends,

I have arrived in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, after long haul transit that was both grueling and fascinating. Grueling because as a tall man, air travel and its cramped seating make for self-induced agony.  Fascinating because our flight path from Dubai to Addis followed the Iran-Iraq border by night, the ground illuminated by hundreds of flare-offs from oil wells.  In the north these lit up mountain villages covered with thick snow, while in the south the vast desert landscapes were dotted with little flickering oil candles, casting an eerie orange haze across the vastness of the Iraqi desert.  In the distance was Basra. I can only imagine what kind of chaos I was flying over.  As the skies lit up in the morning we flew over the raw landscape of Yemen, with its jagged naked mountains, intersected by long winding roads and the occasional town.

The friendly staff at Martin's Cozy Place

I am staying at Martin's Cozy Place, tucked away down a dimly lit road, just off Bole Road, one of the main streets that eventually weaves its way into the centre of Addis Ababa (translation: "new flower").  It's a small place, well placed and with a German touch (this means beer and german food on the menu). Martin, a transplant from Frankfurt is jovial and perpetually smoking, always sporting a cleanly shaved head and in search of a great spa. It is a bit of an oasis from the busy Addis roads just around the corner and also affordable. Finding reasonably priced accommodation in Africa in general is not too difficult, but finding a well run place with friendly staff, clean sheets and decent security can be tricky. Lacking the low-budget backpacking crowd (they are here but in much fewer numbers than, say,  Southeast Asia) accommodation tends to range from dingy, brothel-like dives to four star hotels, with much less to choose from in between.  This was a word-of-mouth gem and not in the Lonely Planet (ed: now it is).

Addis is buzzing.  The African Union is holding a conference for the next few days and preparations are visible throughout the centre. The blue fatigued military is everywhere now, one every 10-15 metres on the main roads.  Mostly they stand around with their AK-47s looking bored.  Right outside our guest house is a brand new and formidable-looking water cannon. It has been in the same spot for days and its bulk is an ominous and powerful presence.  Read: if you are having any ideas, don't bother. I steal a glance at the brand and I think it's German-made.

I have spent the last few days touring around getting a feel for the city.  It is a sprawling mass with few traffic lights, choked by diesel fumes.  Main roads are paved, but side roads are not, the worst offenders being a bone jarring mixture of lumpy rock and potholes.  According to a recent census, Addis has three and a half million residents.  It's probably double that. According to Martin, the city has expanded tremendously over the last several years, and rampant construction is everywhere, fuelled by a white hot real estate market. Occasionally a patch of serenity can be found amongst the hustle bustle: one being the Addis Ababa University campus, with its large gardens and places to sit.  The other being the Trinity Church, burial site of Haile Selassie, the former emperor of Ethiopia and, according to the Rastafarians, the manifested resurrection of Jesus.

The King of Kings

The University is on the old palace grounds.  It hosts the Ethnological museum, which is Haile Selassie's former mansion, which is actually not too much to look at.  The artifacts on the other hand are incredible -- the top floor consists of an absolutely stunning collection of Ethiopian art, dating back to the 13th century. I think that art historians would be both amazed and horrified seeing some of these pieces -- the artistic quality and beauty of stories depicted, in contrast to the fairly abysmal way much of these artistic pieces are maintained, many of which are fully exposed to air and light ( which equals a slow death for pigments).  Here we see depictions of St. George, the saint of Addis, slaying the dragon, as well as his subsequent martyrdom (killed either seven or eleven times, depending on where you read).

Equally fascinating is a tromp through Haile Selassie's private chambers, the pinnacle being the emperor's bathroom.  His Majesty's personal bidet and toilet surely would have been something gold-plated (it's standard for despots isn't it?) but no, the fantasy was shattered - only gaudy circa 1950s blue porcelain.  Haile Selassie ruled Ethiopia from 1930 to 1974, where he was overthrown by the Derg, the Marxists led by Mengistu, who 'socialized' Ethiopia until the early 1990s.  It is rumoured that Mengistu himself strangled Haile Selassie to death with his bare hands.  His body was only found in 1992, buried unceremoniously under Mengistu's toilet. 

Enjoying a buna at the National Museum

As the subject heading suggests, I discover pizza in Addis.  This is not merely a western fast food import but a historical leftover from Ethiopia's association with colonial Italy. I say "association" as Ethiopia was never colonized and remains one of Africa's few historically independent nations, a historical legacy that is also a source of great national pride amongst Ethiopians. The Italians may have tried to colonize Ethiopia but were unsuccessful - what they left behind was their cuisine and their espresso machines. Now some enterprising Ethiopians are even building their own machines out of old ordinance.  There is a little restaurant down the road that makes a mean tuna pizza for about two dollars (no cheese unfortunately, but plenty of spicy peppers).

If I'm lucky, I'm off to the south on monday to explore some southern towns and maybe even a bit of jungle.  En route we will pass Shashamene, the home of the rastas who "returned" to Africa.  


your nomad,

CA

travel diary: asia through motion

A blustery icy spell has blown into the west coast and everyone is in shivers.  I watch snow fall outside my office window, blown up by big gusts of wind, listen to the sound of idle office chatter: the irritation of driving in the snow, the cold in people's bones, those early days when snow fell every year. I sit in the auditorium of a former convent for a meeting and feel the cold creep through my legs, to the point at which it is uncomfortable.  I like cool weather but I am not used to this, yet. I must move, shake up, walk.  I must move to remove myself from this. 

And I thought of travel - the heat, the humidity, the dust and sweat in your hair.  Of a scene in the Italian film Baaria where the Torrenuova family, searching for their own escape from a punishing hot and humid day, removed all the furniture from their living room, stripped down to their underwear, and lay flat on the cool white tiles.

It all brought me back to last spring, travelling through warm climates, where movement provided respite from the heat. And so I find myself revisiting those moments, where warmth and movement also brought memories.  Asia through Motion is a video travel diary of some of these fine moments as I travelled through regions of Cambodia, Laos, Bali and Thailand.


As I pieced these memories together, I found myself watching the clips over and over, pulling small details with each viewing that in themselves brought their own sensations.  I took myself back momentarily: to karst mountains and green rice paddies, to the wet smell of charcoal and incense, to the rumble of dusty motorbikes, to a split second image of a hunter making his way into the hazy Laotian jungle, crossbow strapped to his back.  

One of the great memories is roaring through the old jungle roads in southern Laos, discovering one waterfall after another, with not a soul around. A segment of that journey is here.  And I also loved traveling through Phnom Penh at night, breezing past the glorious-at-night national monument whether by moto or touktouk, which is also captured.

Cardomom Adventures in Southwest Cambodia

It was high time for a motorbike ride.  The weather has become ridiculously hot, in fact some of the hottest weather that Cambodia has had in years.  Phnom Penh is pushing into the 40s, and even the Khmers are melting (evident by the fact that even on the weekends, there are less locals out on the streets). I am feeling the heat too – a room without a/c, even with two fans blasting at full strength cannot relieve me from the pool of sweat I am swimming in when I wake in the morning.  Most people can't sleep in this heat but I can – albeit a deep, enveloping, almost suffocating coma-like sleep that leaves the mind flowing thick like treacle.

Original plans to bike to Mondulkiri, in Cambodia's southeastern corner were scuttled, as plans to meet friends changed.  The Cardomoms were a natural second option – Cambodia's pristine virgin forests, some of the last in southeast asia, that run from Koh Kong all the way into Laos – some 4 million hectares.  It is here where tigers and leopards roam, the gibbons sing and strange insects await.

the rumbling beast

I rented the same bike as I had before, during a previous day trip through the outskirts of Phnom Penh.  Lee, my Cambodian bike rental guy with a thick Australian accent (allo mate!) was excited to see me, and helped me plan the adventure.  The bike had been slightly modified from before, fitted with a growling muffler (the bike had no horn, so it was to make sure people could hear me coming – more of an excuse than anything I think) and this time rear view mirrors.  Only in Cambodia would this bike be considered street legal, if that means anything at all on the general anarchy of Cambodian roads.

I left in the morning, after a fine breakfast, and headed down the NH 3, on the basic premise of avoiding the more direct route via the NH4, which while a beautiful stretch of road, is notorious for its mad drivers and reckless minivan/bus drivers.  The NH3 was a second, although less glamourous road, full of construction that left me covered in red dust and a sore behind from the potholes.  The destination was Sihanoukville, and specifically Otres Beach, where friends were staying for the long weekend (the King's birthday).  I was excited to return to Otres, as it was one of the first places that I'd travelled in Cambodia when I arrived, now some five months ago.  I stopped in Kampot, which was sleepy as usual, looking like a true road warrior – body armour, jeans, goggles caked in red dust.  I travelled the stretch between Kampot and Sihanoukville, past Bokor National Park, with its ever-looming misty clouds and rain drenched slopes.  My greatest obstacles were the wandering water buffaloes that lumbered across the highway, not a care in the world.

Otres was just as beautiful as I remember – this time I was seeing it on the edge of the rainy season.  The waters were shallow and hot, and refreshment meant a good swim out to the deeper areas.  The heat also attracted the sea urchins and jellyfish, and I was stung by one for the first time.  A little vinegar did the trick.  We were blessed with big sky, thunder and lightning – amidst the sunset the dark looming clouds pushed southward, bringing cooling winds.  I stayed for three nights, fuelled by yummy fish tacos and margaritas at Cantina Del Mar.

sunset on Otres Beach, south of Sihanoukville

(Note:  it is in Sihanoukville where I saw the most blatant examples of the trade in illegal vehicles – I saw two Lexus SUVs on the road with American license plates – one from Kentucky, the other from Massachusetts.  Apparently the latest fad is to leave the license plates on?  The audacity of some in this country!)

Onwards to Koh Kong, a 140km ride to near the edge of the Thai border, a town notorious for smuggling, gambling and prostitution, although it seems to have cleaned up in recent years (or at least the sins had become a little less obvious).   I met with Nick Berry, the owner of JungleCross, a motorbike tour company, who I was hoping could give me a few tips on getting into the Cardomoms.  Nick is a former Londoner, self-described anarchist, and quasi-alcoholic with and unending thirst for Angkor Draft who had lived in Koh Kong for nearly 10 years.  A rabid trail bike fanatic, he'd found love in the Cardomom mountains, which he described as a trail rider's dream.  Over beers he described how rapid developments were changing the Cardomoms – the trail that coursed through the mountains had only recently been classified as a road, and last December a bulldozer had carved a wider path through the jungle.  Nick must have taken a liking to me, as he decided to come for a ride with me up to the first river, about 55 km from Koh Kong, where the start of the “real jungle” began.

The road was your typical red dust, somewhat rutted.  It was obvious that even the work of a bulldozer could only temporarily tame these mountains, the rain and the jungle. Already in parts the jungle was fighting back, reclaiming the road for its own.  Jungle deluges had already washed away sections of the new road, requiring tricky manoeuvring down steep declines among ruts and rock.

We stopped at the first river, and Nick determined that its level was easily doable, and good indication that the rest of the rivers (there were two more major ones) would be passable.  My first river crossing on a dirt bike! 

On Nick's suggestion, I decided to camp at the first river – here was no-one around, the waters were cool and refreshing, and it had a nice secluded camp spot, sometimes used by the rangers that patrolled the mountains.  I had brought with me a military-style hammock (with built in mosquito net) and a few provisions, including a poncho, which made for good rain cover.  Nick and I parted ways, and there I was on my own, in the jungle, nothing but me and the winding sound of cicadas, and the family of eagles that lived on the edge of the river.  I could hear the thunder in the distance, so I quickly set up camp, just in time to feel the first drops of rain.  I climbed into the hammock and took a nap.

butterflies sucking salt from my shorts

Deluge.  My poncho-turned-tart offered little protection as the rain bounced off the ground, soaking my   non-waterproof bag.  I had nothing to cover my bag, so in minutes everything was soaked.  I managed to keep my precious few belongings – journal, camera, phone – out of the direct rain, but the dampness of the jungle left everything damp, pages curling, my phone instantly developing a hazy screen due to condensation.  Despite the wet, there was nothing I could do but curl up and hope for the best – it was getting dark, the lightning strikes were getting closer, and I could hear the rain walls as they travelled through the valley.  Soon the rain tapered off, and as the light faded, the glowbugs and eery sounds of strange insects emerged.  In the distance I could hear the gibbons singing to each other in the trees.  I half-slept through the night, slightly uncomfortable by the dampness and legs falling asleep, waiting for light to break.

I woke the next morning to early sun – everything steaming.  Worried that the rains may mean an impassable next river, i quickly packed up camp and set off, my bag doubled in weight from sogginess. Nick was right – this was getting into true jungle territory.  The roads became steeper and the jungle became thicker, at several times I found myself manoeuvring through thick bamboo walls that had already taken over the road.  Everywhere were butterflies – intense yellows and blue, and huge black monarchs as big as birds.  At one point just ahead of me, I came across an entire family of wild boars -  a pack of twenty animals including piglets – who scattered frantically when I came into sight.  Periodically I travelled through makeshift camps, locals living on the edge of the road, presumably the families of rangers. 

The Cardomoms are rich in resources – animals, minerals, trees.  And as such, they fall prey to poaching, illegal logging and the pressure from very interested mining companies.  Sadly there is little protection against these threats and the mountains are notorious for illegal trade.  The remoteness of this region is no match for corruption, poorly paid officials and outright greed.  Big cats are poached (in one recent case, a famous tiger poacher was caught with 64 paws – he's now in jail for 10 years), monkeys are caught (gibbon babies can fetch upwards of 1000 USD) and its rare woods (ebony, sassafrass) are harvested at tremendous profit (the latter is valued for its chemical components, which are used in the production of ecstasy).  Smuggling across the borders is rife, and there is a very active trade route that runs through Thailand and Burma.  The military is one of the chief actors in this trade – and they seem to poach/illegal log with virtual impunity, while the poorly paid rangers are no match for such types, often themselves turning a blind eye for a cut in the profits.

everything soaked and drying in the sun - even the camera was damp

30 km past the first river and I hit the second.  This was a larger river, and the assumption was that I would cross via a bamboo bridge.  Well, there was no bridge – presumably washed away – making my journey impossible from this point on.  I was disappointed that my trek would apparently go no further, there was simply no way to pass these waters without risking the loss of my bike.  Even if I did make it across, the depth of the water would have meant a submerged engine, and I did not have the expertise to deal with that.  Sadly, I turned back and followed the red road back towards Koh Kong.  By the time I reached the first river again, the sun was shining hot and hard, so I decided to make the best of it and took a good spell lounging next to the water, cleaning up, drying my soaked belongings on the hot rocks.  I briefly considered staying another night on the river, but I was lacking food (all I had in my belly was a few cookies that I had brought with me the day earlier, not expecting to kip out in the forest).

Soon a larger road will cut into the forest, running from Koh Kong, upwards to Osom and to the northern part of the mountains in Pramaoy.  Construction is continuing at a rapid pace.  This will inevitably mean more traffic, and in Cambodian tradition, more garbage littering the jungle (styrofoam,   drink bottles and plastic bags continue to be the bane of the developing world).  Each day, a little more of this pristine wilderness is chewed up and lost to development and modernity.

I will return to the Cardomoms, soon, and complete my voyage through its ranges and valleys.  But it will have to wait.  Anyone interested in a little adventure in the next year or so? 

The Sulphur Jets and Grasslands of East Java

It was damp and rainy in Ketapang, the ferry terminal across the straight and the closest point on Java to Bali. Transport towns all have a similar transient feel – plenty of transport trucks, grubby road stalls and potholes.

I was travelling with my good friend Natasha, meeting in Bali after spending a week in the Maluku islands in the far eastern region of Indonesia (the famed “spice” islands, historically renowned the lucrative trade in nutmeg and other once rare and exotic spices). Our intent for this leg of the trip was to rent some kind of 4wd and spend a good week exploring this region. We figured it would be much the same as Bali, where vehicles are easy to rent.

“Java is not the same as Bali. No one will rent you a 4wd drive here without a driver,” said Leo, the friendly man working in tourist office. We were not interested in hiring a guide, preferring to make our way around ourselves, at our own pace, and cheaper. We were naturally suspect and looked for a second opinion. And it was true. Nobody would rent us anything, not even a moto, without some kind of driver. 

Leo offered to rent us a small hatchback, as he had contacts in Banyuwangi, the closest town just south of us, so we gave up on the idea of a 4wd and as we had no other options we thought what the hell, it's better than nothing. And I liked the idea that we were probably the only foreigners in East Java with a car of our own.

It was the afternoon by the time everything was settled, and we decided on our first destination: the Kawah Ijen plateau, a steep hill climb through the jungle. As it was late in the day, Leo suggested that we take the eastern road to Kawah Ijen. “It's a bit steep, but you won't have a problem,” he said. Perfect.

Have you ever driven on the left hand side of the road? Stepping into the right side of the vehicle, the instruments and gearshift felt oddly placed, and I hesitated a bit when i saw the traffic. The local owner of the car gave me a look down, clearly worried about the prospect of this foreigner behind the wheel of his pride and joy, wondering if it would return in one piece. 

I was not concerned about driving on the left hand side – I'd spent the last couple of weeks on the moto in Bali and my mind was thinking this way. But the road rules for a car is so much different. A car is higher on the food chain in southeast asia, more priority on the road than a moto, but less than trucks or buses. But it lacked the manoeuvrability of the moto, which I was used to, and now I had become an object to overtake by the more nimble scooter, a national pastime it seems. Everybody is gunning to overtake and get beyond everyone else. Traffic becomes this organic form, as motos madly rush to overtake cars and trucks, often death defying manoeuvres playing chicken with the oncoming traffic, horns blaring, high beams flicking to say hey! out of my way! Buses take the cake for the most aggressive, and plainly crazy driving styles, overtaking around corners, edging in at the last moment, pushing oncoming traffic out of its way. In Asia, the bus reigns supreme on the highway.

We climbed up the mountain side for close to an hour – green and lush, this area gets plenty of rain. We passed small villages, local honey farms, farmers making their way to and from coffee plantations lining the road (this is Java afterall – a heartland of coffee production). At first, the road was pockmarked, but the higher we went, the worse the road became. Whole sections were washed out, rocky and pitted. I pushed the little sewing machine through some nasty spots until finally it was simply too much for the car. I was doing my best to inch us upwards, hoping that the bad stretches would soon come to an end, but soon the road became simply too steep, too rough, and too much of a liability. I'm going to burn the clutch out on this thing I thought, smelling that familiar burnt metal smoke - not worth it.

It was getting dark, so we heading down the mountain and eastwards, towards the town of Jember, staying overnight in a former dutch plantation turned hotel with an exquisite garden and working organic farm, growing coffee, vanilla, nutmeg and selat (snakefruit) with its own melk bron, complete with dutch cows and milking stalls. Here we saw bumblebees the size of a thumb travelling orchid to orchid collecting nectar, and flocks of doves that flew circular patterns above us, making an eery high pitched dull buzz whistling noise. It stopped us dead in our tracks, never had we heard such a strange chorus coming from birds.

Second run at Kawah Ijen. The alternative, longer road was poor and washed out (Lonely Planet needs to update their section, noting that this road is easily passable. Clearly not true!). Made it to the top and the skies grew dark and then opened up – the road suddenly coverted itself into a river (a good indication of why these roads are so washed out). 

Gunung Kawah Ijen is a smoldering and wide mouthed volcano, with a one-kilometre wide turquoise coloured crater lake (one of the most acidic in the world). The brim of its crater accessible after a steep 3km climb. Here your lungs are assaulted with the acrid smell of sulphur, as it jets out in large plumes from an active vent, and whether you get truly gassed depends on the direction of the wind.

Escaping volcanic gasses are channeled through a network of ceramic pipes, resulting in condensation of molten sulfur. The sulfur, which is deep red in color when molten, pours slowly from the ends of these pipes and pools on the ground, turning bright yellow as it cools. The cooled material is broken into large pieces and carried out in baskets by the miners. Typical loads range from 70–100 kilograms, and must be carried to the crater rim approximately 200 metres above before being carried several kilometres down the mountain. Most miners make this journey twice a day. It is truly something out of the 19th century and a clear nomination for one of the worst jobs in the world.

We decided to make an expedition down the rocky trail to see the plumes up close, and watch the workers chip away a the thick plates of sulphur. We wind was blowing northward and away from us, so we could avoid the stench. Half way down we took a breather on a large stone lip. A couple of other adventurers were heading up the trail, scarves wrapped around their faces, teary eyed. “If I'd known how terrible that was, I would have never gone down there,” he said continuing his climb upward. And soon we found out. The winds changed and we were hit with the warm noxious smell of thick sulphur. The trail itself led down through the thicker parts of plume – no way am I venturing down through that I said to myself – and so turned around. Nevertheless, we all felt as though we had experienced some form of natural chemical gassing. Nature's revenge!

Expedition #2. Venturing to Gunung Bromo requires more travel on Java's main highways, which after a couple of hours of unending, sometimes hair-raising traffic, I was glad when we turned left and back onto the smaller winding roads up the volcano. Fresh alpine honey was bought en route, and as the roads ventured higher, we were met with an incredible vista of the steep valley, with its manicured hills of cabbage, beans and carrots and pines, all peeking through rolling mountain mists. The air was decidedly colder too and the whole thing felt as though we'd left Indonesia and found ourselves in Switzerland. We bought some wool scarves and hats (the most unlikely purchase of the trip) in anticipation for our early morning climb the following day.

Forget Switzerland, this was volcano country. Climbing to the outer brim, we saw the sunrise and saw the region in its true beauty – the volcanoes Tengger and Semeru and the eternally smoking Bromo (another sulphur gas jetting monster) to its left-hand side. Surrounding the area is the 'sand sea', a wide perimeter of sand, mud and ash that encircles the inner brims (the volcanoes are actually inside the brim of the larger, older volcano head, some 7-10 kilometres across). We hiked upwards and around the brim of Bromo and made it to an even higher point overlooking the craters from the other side. Not a soul around, and barely even a footprint. It was apparent that only the more adventurous (and that's not saying much) ever walked farther than the viewing platform of Bromo, the 253 stair climb to the lip of the crater enough exertion for one day.

We headed eastward the following day, starting early to avoid the worst of the traffic (drivers seem to reach a particular point of insanity after about 3pm). The destination was Baluran National Park, on the northeastern tip of Java. Baluran is akin to an Indonesian savannah – with large open grasslands hosting kijang (indonesian deer) and a species of peacock. It is said that leopards also live in this park, but are seldom seen. Poaching is also a part of reality here, a difficult job for the handful of park rangers that have to patrol its sometimes thick bush.

We stayed in an eery-feeling homestay, also the hometurf for several groups of monkeys. At dusk, as the tide was low, the monkeys would venture out and forage for clams, sea grass, little crabs and shells in the shallow waters of the bay. I had never seen monkeys on a beach before, let alone those that had a taste for seafood (I always thought monkeys generally avoided the water). Capping the experience was an early morning jaunt to the observatory post, where we had a 360 degree view of the grasslands, wild jungle and the ancient crater of gunung Baluran at the centre of the park. One day I will hike in there...

The Winding Roads of Bali

Arriving in the Denpasar International Airport gives you the first two indicators that you've arrived in Indonesia. Customs officials smoking clove-heavy kretek cigaret and the pleasant rhythm of gamelon music as they eye over your passport. (Only later do I realize that this was likely Javanese style gamelon, which is much softer than the rich clang! clang! clang! clang! Of Balinese-style gamelon.)

We already knew that Denpasar was nothing special – Malcolm had been here 4 years ago – so we made our way to Ubud, about one and a half hours north of Denpasar. Ubud is considered Bali's cultural epicentre and source of locally made handicrafts, and because of its draw, you can also find plenty of craftwork from other regions of Bali. Ubud is Bali's second largest tourist haven, although it is a far cry from Kuta which hosts an impressive beach and much of the alcohol fuelled party town atmosphere with the usual drugs and prostitution, clubs and glitzy Russian vodka bars.

Despite a fairly constant flow of tourists, Ubud attracts an older crowd, and those who have a few more bucks to spend. This means beautiful little boutique hotels alongside rice paddies, and pleasant hang outs for food and drink (fond memories of Casa Luna and the Jazz Cafe). I also found what is officially the best mango lassi I have found. My brother immediately scoped out the best place for good coffee, and it was a daily trip every time we found ourselves in Ubud.

It was time to ride. This was a week long meet-up, long planned with my brother – to ride around the island as a troupe, the route that he had done on his own on his last trip here. The mood was a bit melancholy as we were missing a key person, our father, whom at the last minute was unable to come. We headed eastward, aided by a locally bought travel map which turned out to be completely out of date. From Ubud we travelled through the towns of KlungKlung (one of many former kingdoms in Bali) to Padang Bai (the ferry terminal for travel to the islands of Lombok and beyond), then up along the coast, carving through the hills as we moto'd between gunung Agung and gunung Seraya, two ancient volcanoes.

By evening we made it to Tulamben, a well known scuba diving town, where the USAT Liberty is shipwrecked right off shore. Due to a nasty cut, Malcolm couldn't swim, so I snorkelled into the tepid waters above the wreck, watching parrot fish, needle fish, clown fish and so many more coloured fish that I cannot name (to be a marine biologist...). Apart from the coral covered wreck that sat 10 metres below me, the highlight was snorkeling with a lazy school of tuna (maybe 100) who eyed me nervously as swam a few feet away. A wall of tuna eyes.

(note: I ate many of their brethren over the next couple of weeks (in steak form), along with barracuda, a beautifully firm muscly fish similar in texture to tuna but even more delectable. Served best grilled, with garlic butter sauce. For about three bucks for a huge plate of fish, you really are in a sea-foodie paradise.)

We found ourselves in the outskirts of Singaraja, on the northern coast of Bali, in a pleasant oceanside hotel, where the sand was a salt and pepper in colour due to volcanic stone. Shared perfectly calm sea waters and big sky with a few fisherman, and skipped perfectly rounded stones, amusing the little kiddies with my prowess (and nursing a sore arm for days afterwards!) Our evening was interrupted by a four hour drunken domestic dispute between a Kiwi ex-special forces soldier (whom I previously overheard describing in detail when he shot a man in Afghanistan who “made the wrong move”), an obviously mortified Greek woman, and an extremely pickled Calgarian ex-pat.

We made a quick getaway in the early morning and climbed the long winding hill to the mountain town of Kintamani, overlooking gunung Batur, where we were accosted by suspect guides perpetually asking if we were interested in trekking, even driving alongside your moto at 50 km/h, shouting “trekking? Trekking?”. Seasoned persistence or desperation, I suppose it was low season after all. We made a quick getaway and travelled south, then east, taking the winding side roads through valleys, countless rice paddies, small towns, banyan trees and local temples).

Despite being one of Indonesia's premier tourist destinations, Bali remains very much true its religious traditions and ceremonies, arts and culture. The Balinese are primarily Hindu, and local animism mixed with Hindu traditions can be seen everywhere. Everywhere you go in Bali, there are temples great and small. Any house with sufficient space will have a family temple. The greatest temples use carved stone, which is a rich grey-black colour, telling its volcanic origins. They are chunky block forms, mixed with peaks and flowing arches, detailed with rich expressions of wide-eyed gods, guardians and local forms (Goa Lawah, for example, is a bat temple, nestled alongside a large cave where thousands of bats reside. The front face of the temple includes a very interesting gold painted bat carving.)

It is said that spirits reside everywhere, and must be respected and provided offerings. As with other parts of southeast asia, many houses offer small temples at their doorstep, where the spirits may reside instead of wandering, and possibly staying, in the house. Offerings are an everyday ritual, and are placed in front of houses, hostels, hotels, businesses, and just about anywhere than people may reside. Often you will see women and men with wet rice applied to their foreheads to symbolize that they have attended a religious ceremony or provided offerings to gods, or spirits. Immediately once the offering has been given it is no longer useful, so i didn't feel bad when I occasionally stepped on them – an inevitability because they are simply everywhere.

Spent many calm days lazing about in Padang Bai, gorging on fish dinners and jumbo grilled prawns, listening to the horns of the ferry, spending hours on its little white sand beach, where hawkers addressed you in funny ways (hello sarong! Hello cold drink! Hello coconut!) but even after a short while also wound their ways back to a shady spot under a palm The waters were warm and salty, bloodshot eyes an inevitable consequence of splashing around in the balmy brine.

Two weeks in Bali made me lose my initial feelings of hesitation about going to Bali in the first place. I was worried that this often described “paradise” (as I have heard from so many people over the years) would be a tourist trap but I realized quickly that maybe ninety percent of the tourism is localized and it was easy to find yourself in small villages, local warungs, swimming in coral reefs, with nary a tourist in site. Bali has the infrastructure to be whatever you want it to be, but I found myself exploring little roads winding through valleys and alongside volcanoes, hiking to hidden waterfalls, and meeting so many ever gracious, soft spoken and dignified Balinese people, warm embraces, and down to earth people. Often the tourist count for an entire day would be less than the fingers on one hand.

Leaving Bali meant a four hour bus journey westward, across the southwestern coast to the ferry port of Gilimanuk, fuelled by vegetable fritters complimented with spicy green peppers (nibbled strategically between mouthfuls, careful to bite with your teeth so as not to spill hot chili oil on tender lips) followed by sesame balls, packed with sweet bean paste. Across the shores lay the brooding, mist covered mountain peaks of Java, to be crossed in an aging, rusty hulk of a ferry, slowing cutting its way through the slate coloured waters of Selat Bali.