January 16: Kamikaze Horse
Finally, the blog I’ve planned for months: Mount Bromo.
Mount Bromo is an active volcano in East Java, Indonesia. It’s inside a national park, and even the surrounding area is high enough that I get altitude sickness every time I go there. It’s over 2,300 metres (yes, metres) above sea level, and is certainly not the highest point around. The region is about ten degrees cooler than nearby parts of Indonesia.
Since our camera responded to the Great Wall of China by going on strike, I’ve had to take these pics off the net.
After a lengthy drive (or a short walk/drive from the hotels nearby), most people take a horse across the dead edges of the national park. It is a vast plain of sand and mud and ash – black and grainy underfoot.
The whole region is peppered with volcanoes, and Bromo has two sisters.
Of the three volcanoes here, Bromo is the wide and steaming crater on the left. You can also just see the Hindu temple at its feet (the temple gets rebuilt fairly often, as you’d imagine).
Bromo exudes a constant cloud of sulphuric steam (usually MUCH more than is pictured here), and the volcano behind it puffs out smoke at least once or twice an hour. Nearby cities are absolutely filthy from volcanic smoke and steam and ash (and by “nearby” I mean several hours’ drive away). The air is still clearer than Beijing, though.
We crossed the sea of sand on the backs of rather unwell horses (passing many other mounds of green or yellow droppings). My partner’s horse never stopped drooling a white and green goo. As we began to climb winding and soggy paths up onto Bromo, my own horse revealed its own little quirk: given a choice between a path and a sheer cliff, it would always head directly for the cliff. That certainly enlivened the trip for me (plus the increasingly ungentle sloshing of my belly).
After a couple of kilometres spent riding suicidal and drooly horses, we reached the bottom of Bromo’s concrete stairs (built onto the part of the montain that is too steep for the horses). We dismounted and climbed by foot.
Bromo’s entire crater (which is about a kilometre in circumfrence) was shrouded by the smoke, and I knew enough to know things were about to get nasty.
Any reasonably healthy person can get up Bromo’s stairs, but I don’t think anyone would find them particularly easy. About halfway up, when I was breathing hard and trying not to think about the journey back (and how far away the nearest toilet was), the sulphur cloud hit us. It hit hard, and I physically restrained myself from vomiting.
Sulphur smells like rotten eggs. Climbing Bromo, olfactorily speaking, is a little like cracking several eggs into a bowl, leaving them in the sun for a week, then covering your head with a towel as you lean over the bowl and breath deeply.
Bromo is absolutely worth visiting, and the journey is relatively simple. But don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s easy.
Coughing, retching, and gasping, we reached the crater’s rim. When the wind blows the smoke away, you can see all the way down to the fissure where the sulphur comes from. What breath you have left gets taken away by the glimpse of earth’s secret fires.
Because it was wet season, Bromo was largely deserted. I looked for Fu and Jimmy and Mrs Fu, but saw nothing. My partner and I both heard the eerie howling of the wind inside the crater, however, so perhaps Mrs Fu’s ghost was wailing for revenge.
January 15: Story so far
Sun3
The name’s Bind. Jimmy Bind. On mission to China. I can tell the flight attendant wants me diced on a tiny tray. Time for some airline food.
*
He comes at me with a poison toothpick. I click my pen and squirt gas in his eye. He reels and hits the Wong twins. Two Wongs make it right.
*
The Wongs knock the flight attendant out cold. I unclick my pen and accidentally poison myself. When I wake up, we’re in Beijing. Smooth.
Mon4
Tracked the faux attendant to a meeting in Chinatown. Too bad Beijing IS Chinatown. Got distracted buying shoes. Stumbled across baddie.
*
Baddie is Mr Fu. The girl with him is Yen. I chase him and he throws a shoe at me. It explodes. He runs. I bind my wounds with duct tape.
*
I follow Fu and corner him in an alley. He throws some kung fu, and I throw some bricks. “Who’s your boss?” I scream.
“It’s her!” he weeps.
Tue5
I’ve a yen for Yen. She’s small, dark, and deadly, like an expresso. I track her by smell and find her sleeping. “Where’s the jewel?” I ask.
*
She yawns, briefly distracting me. Her leg wraps around my neck (also distracting). Suddenly she yields to my good looks and leans closer.
*
I wake up strapped to the side of the Great Wall; tied firmly with two rolls of my own duct tape. Curses!
Wed6
After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, I notice writing on the wall: “Forgive me, mother. The ruby is at. . .”
I fall.
*
I fall among Shaolin monks, who immediately attack! Luckily I have my blow-up gum and I spit it at them just in time. Kaboom! No more monks.
*
Due to budget cuts, my car is a matchbox car. Luckily it has vertical grip and a camera. I discover the ruby is at Solo – in Indonesia.
Th7
I go shoe-shopping, hoping to dispatch Yen and/or get hiking boots before I leave. An old saleswoman is suspiciously attractive.
*
I neck-chop the woman and she says blearily, “Yen? Is that you?”
“Yes,” I say (femininely).
She says, “Your stupid brother stole the ruby.”
*
Is my wall-writer Yen’s naughty brother? Is Fu as powerless as he seems? Is the boss Yen or her Mum? And are these boots the best or what?!
Fri8
Another flight. Fu appears dressed as a fat woman and slips me a note. “Meet me in Solo,” it says – “come solo!”
I nod.
*
“Yen’s my sister,” Fu explains over unripe-coconut milk. He tells me to search in the temple.
I put sleeping-gas in his drink just in case.
Sat9
The temple staff make me nervous after the Shaolins. Suddenly they spit acid! Luckily I’d already wrapped my torso in duct tape.
*
The holy men’s acid burns through my precious tape. I grab some gum but all it does is freshen my breath! The Indonesians close in. . .
Sun10
I can hear tourists jabbering above my cell. Even when I beg for help in nine languages, all they do is clap. My last meal was airline food.
*
I make a gun using duct tape and my matchbox car (which is made mainly of cast iron and black powder, plus of course matches), and wait.
*
Yen appears. As I scrabble to light the match to shoot her I accidentally click my pen, gassing us both. We instantly sleep. Together.
Mon11
Yen slaps me awake. I sit up fast. If she spoils my good looks all will be lost. “Where’d you take the ruby?” she says.
I say, “Huh?”
*
She shoves me back onto the floor and storms out, slamming the door so hard she breaks the lock. I run out and shoot the guard dead.
Tue12
I find Fu shoe-shopping, and demanded the truth. “It’s a bomb,” he says, showing me the glowing ruby,“and only a volcano can destroy it.”
*
“Give it to me,” I say.
He says, “No.”
“But –”
“No.”
“I –”
“No.”
“Pretty please?” I say.
He says, “Oh, if you put it like that. . . no.”
Wed13
Fu and I walk up Mount Bromo at dawn. He says, “I don’t like my family, and I don’t like you!” and shoves me into the steaming crater.
*
Sulphuric rain falls, choking my lungs and coating the crater’s sides in poison! Luckily my duct tape retains some adhesiveness. I climb.
*
Mrs Fu appears on the crater’s rim. “Not so fast!” She stomps on my fingers but I grab her ankles.
She tumbles down and smashes to bits!
Th14
The waiter at my hotel smells of sulphur. My foe, Fu! “Your mother is dead,” I say.
He says, “Thanks,” and stabs a fork into my shin.
*
I grab for his apron but the strings slip through my fingers. Luckily I catch a glimpse of an Aussie flag on his boxers. So that’s next.
Fri15
Yen sits beside me on my flight to Canberra. “Mum wanted you to have this,” she says – and kisses me on the cheek.
It burns! Acid!
*
I rush to the tiny bathroom but my face is permanently scarred. In a white-hot rage I pull Yen’s hair until she screams. Then I gas her.
*
Yen is arrested at the airport. That leaves Fu – and a bomb shaped like a precious jewel.
January 14: The Women
PS: My partner and I are safely home from China and Indonesia – with plenty more to blog about here in the next little while. Meanwhile, here’s the secret past of the two women of “The Spy Who Shoved Me”.
Mrs Fu
All mothers want what’s best for their children, and Mrs Fu is no exception. She can and will blow up anything if she believes one of her dear children would enjoy it. She spent most of her youth in orphanages after blowing up Beijing’s Temple of Heavenly Peace at the age of four (her parents were blamed, and imprisoned).
Yen
Yen, due to a deaf servant, was accidentally apprenticed to a circus from age two until age thirteen. She made the most of it, however, and can backflip until her attackers get dizzy and pass out. She can also kill a bull with her little finger (without breaking a nail).
Still Not Dead
We’re safely home. More data after much sleepliness.
I’m still sick but eating meals now, so it’s under control.
January 13: Not Dead
I’m sitting in an internet cafe in Denpasar, sick and grumpy. So instead of blogging about Mount Bromo, here’s a few domestic Indonesian airline slogans I’ve collected along the way:
Wings Air – flying is cheap (especially when you recycle airplanes that would be illegal if you were an international airline)
Adam Air – now anyone can fly (but for how long?)
Sriwijaya Air – your flying partner (because our pilots like to nap during flights so you get to help fly the plane, hurrah!)
And Lion Air (our flight with them just ended; they have prayer cards in every seat pocket) – We make you fly (because we prefer to save funds by not using professional pilots at all).
January 12: Sumatra
This story has absolutely nothing to do with the island of Sumatra, but here’s a photo of Sumatra anyway.
I visited Sumatra in early 2007, after yet another devastating earthquake (Sumatra was badly damaged by the Asian Tsunami on Boxing Day 2004). The landscape is stunningly beautiful, with truly extreme mountains because it’s such a centre of geological upheaval. In the photo, the tourist market in Bukit Tinggi has been burnt by a fire (caused by the earthquake).
While I was there, I helped make food packages for people whose homes had been destroyed. For each family, we measured out two kilos of rice, a kilo each of oil and sugar, and two small cans of fish.
At the time, people in Sumatra were still rebuilding after the Boxing Day tsunami.
Hasty Reflections
This is the post where I talk about China and how it looks to my mind now I’m in Indonesia. It’s hasty because we’re going to go out to a fancypants restaurant soon (Indonesia is a bit like Aslan – “I call all times soon”). The fun events of today are at http://twittertales.wordpress.com
Right now I’m sitting in the study of an Aussie family I’m calling Mr and Mrs Baik. Behind me there is a frenzied mass of trees and vines and bushes and bamboo and flowers and mountains. The sun is setting, shining golden through the chinks in the clouds (it’s wet season).
China VS Indonesia:
Weather:Beijing is horrid. Indonesia is humid and hot and often very very rainy, but at least it’s consistent. And I like wearing T-shirts, and not constantly having to put on and take off Winter clothes (going in and out of subways, homes, and restaurants).
Internet:China is sooo much better. I know there’s the Great Firewall issue, but with a proxy server you’re fine. Indonesia’s internet is astonishingly slow – it can take several minutes for a page (each page) to load. And then sometimes it doesn’t work. Right now hotmail doesn’t seem to work – I can open my account and see my 22 messages, but can’t do anything else. So Mum (and Mum-in-law), please keep an eye on the blogs if you’re worried about our safety. We’re flying Lion air to Denpasar on Wednesday afternoon, and you have the rest of the itinery.
Food:China wins. By lots. But then, I hate chilli, and love fried food. (Fried food is very typical of Beijing – there’s PLENTY of other types of Chinese food.) There’s lots of fried food in Indonesia too, and sweet food – but Chinese food is better.
Pollution:Indonesia is MUCH nicer – even in Jakarta.
Streets/Walking around/transport: Beijing is a (predominantly) wealthy urban landscape, beautifully and efficiently done. Indonesia is very, very messy. Every journey takes hours (no matter what form of transport you take, and no matter what time of day it is). Poverty is obvious wherever you go. In general, people are smaller and thinner (and much darker).
Reactions to Westerners:In Beijing, foreigners are reasonably common – as they are here in Java. In Beijing, people rarely look at you much, and even more rarely dare to talk to you. When I spoke in Chinese, people exclaimed to their friends (never to me). In Indonesia, everyone wants to talk to me, and as soon as I open my mouth I have a best friend. Our taxi driver (from the local airport) invited us to come hang out with his family. That kind of friendliness is absolutely typical of Indonesia. Two Indonesian ladies along the way -and this is in airports (not friendly places) were clearly keeping an eye on us, and making sure we were okay. Beggars and roadside salespeople are more strident in Indonesia, but not by much. China was slightly less caring than Australia – Indonesia is infinitely more caring of strangers.
Language:Indonesian is one of the easiest languages in the world. Possibly the easiest. Mandarin Chinese (selected as a national language because it was the easiest of several possibilities) is one of the hardest. Both have very easy grammar, and when Chinese is written in pinyin it’s just as easy as Indonesian to spell (although some sounds are difficult for English speakers to distinguish).
Health:I’m already sick (and recovered – it was no big deal). Not sure how, because I’ve been careful. Beijing people don’t drink the water, but Indonesians usually do. Health-wise, Indonesia is more hazardous.
Wherever you are, a roadside stall is more hazardous than a restaurant (and you’re more likely to see a squat toilet than a western-style toilet – and you must never flush the paper).
Sheer wackiness: China has a government that controls the weather, and the number of children you have. It also has colossal monuments (which beat a castle-style mansion, I’m afraid). Indonesia, however, is insane from the ground up – literally. In China (for us at least), the landscape was elegant; starkly beautiful and mostly white. In Indonesia, it’s a hysterical series of greens. You don’t get greens like that out of the tropics. Disorganisation and corruption are rife and blatant. The roads are desperately disorganised (much more so than Beijing, which is merely quirky), and you never, EVER know what is going to happen next.
So Indonesia wins on friendliness and weather, and on sheer insanity. Beijing is much better for national monuments, for getting around, and for food.
Taste of the day: We ate soto (Javanese chicken soup) but it wasn’t great (I’ve eaten really excellent soto, and this wasn’t it). However we also ate dodol, a lolly served in individually-wrapped rectangles that is made from sticky rice (plus much sugar, cocoa, etc). I think they’re kind of like giant, subtley-flavoured jelly beans. They’re squishy inside but slightly tough on the outside (like jelly beans). I love them (although only the chocolate flavour. Picnic brand is the best).
January 11: Toilet Travails
At some point soon I’ll be writing something comparing Beijing and Indonesia (which I know a lot better) on my other blog, at https://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com
Why is it that Indonesian adventures are always somehow toilet-related?
My partner and I are in Indonesia now, on the same island as the illustrious Jimmy Bind (no sightings yet, though, sadly). We’ve spent two days getting to our current location (and we’re getting picked up at 5am tomorrow to go and see Mount Bromo, an active volcano) so today was a rest day.
Rest days are usually boring. *I* certainly didn’t do anything exciting. My husband, however, dutifully picked up the slack.
We’re staying in a rather nice area of a quite nice city. All the houses around here have a series of annoying security things – fences are locked down on various roads at night (you can still get to any house by wandering around, so it’s really just annoying), and each house has a huge gate out the front, which residents need to reach through to unlock (sometimes blind and one-handed). My husband, who likes security, approves of this arrangement. I don’t – if it was up to me (which it isn’t), I’d leave at least one door of our house unlocked at all times.
However.
Our house is empty because the people who live there are away. We’re staying in the guest area out the back, which has a bedroom and bathroom (both lockable) coming off a tiled verandah.
Oh yeah, and a castle. Honestly.
Immediately over the back fence is a castle, complete with crenellations (bigger than on the Great Wall), turrets, and everything a megalomaniac could want. The owner is from Saudi Arabia, and he had the castle built specially (coz it’s pretty. Obviously).
Technically we’re not alone in the house – a dog walker comes every day (which means we need to unlock everything), and so does a “pembantu” (literally a “helper”) who cooks and cleans and generally becomes a paid member of the family. Our pembantu is called Mrs Ani. She’s one of the best.
Indonesia is tropical, and it’s wet season. Breathing is a little bit like drinking, and a little bit like being dunked upside down in warm soup. It’s smelly (one reason Indonesians shower twice a day), but it’s great. The doors to our bedroom and bathroom are made of wood, and they’ve expanded in the heat. That’s less great.
So my husband went to the bathroom, and since there were two Indonesians in the house (who could choose to use and/or clean the bathroom at any time, and who don’t speak English), he closed the door.
Big. Mistake.
Mrs Ani heard his calls for help, and was the first on the scene (somewhat bemused at this wacky Australian habit of actually closing bathroom doors). I heard her yelling and came to help.
The three of us pushed and pulled at the door, and yanked and kicked it and placed our backs against it. It did nothing. My partner told me later he was all right – his only concern was how we’d get food in to him over the next few days.
Mrs Ani and I began gathering an assortment of tools. We used two screwdrivers, a hammer (whacked against a thong so we didn’t break our absent hosts’ house), a plywood shovel-thing, large quantities of detergent, an electric fan, and a crowbar.
Mrs Ani became increasingly concerned and phoned our host (who, incidentally, we’ve never met – he’s a friend of some friends, Mr and Mrs Baik, which is how we ended up in his house), our actual friends, and the dog walker. No-one answered.
Because it’s so hot and the bathroom has no windows, Mrs Ani was afraid my husband would pass out.
Later Mrs Baik told us that Mrs Ani’s message had got through to the house owner. Too bad he’s on holiday in Australia. Nonetheless, he phoned Mr Baik long distance to let him know their mutual guests were locked in the toilet. My husband has already incited an international incident. That’s not bad after two days.
After about an hour, Mrs Ani gave the door yet another hefty shove, and it suddenly opened. My husband and Mrs Ani and I stood in shock for a moment, staring at one another.
Then there was much laughing and hugging, and much drinking of cold water and having a nice sit down. Mrs Ani left us alone and went to spread the tale (with abundant joy and, presumably, embellishments). Mr Baik arrived soon afterwards, and we went to their house. About 15 people are currently staying there, and all of them knew part of the tale and wanted to hear the rest.
Welcome to Indonesia.
We also discovered an oh-so-exclusive coffee that has an unusual claim to fame. Civets (big cats) apparently have exquisite taste when it comes to eating coffee beans – they only eat the most fresh; the most succulent. So after ten-twelve hours, when those amazingly good beans exit the civet, they are picked up by this coffee company and made into very very expensive cappucinos.
I’m afraid I chose not to have one. Apparently it has a lovely aftertaste, though – sweet and pleasant.
Liquid Water Falls From Sky
My partner and I are now safely ensconced in our home for the next few days. No adventures (unless you count the magical increase in every single booked expense so far. . . ah, Indonesia. How I’ve missed you).
Our net is fairly limited, but this is Indonesia, and anything can happen at any time.
It’s SO nice to be warm, and speaking a language I know well. The rain seems unnatural after Beijing. . . and shouldn’t everywhere be white, not a frenzied multitude of green?
January 10: Indonesian Phrases
More data for the up-and-coming supervillians (especially you, Ben):
It’s over, fool! = Sudah Selesai, si bodoh!
Excuse me, may I please steal your government secrets? = Permisi, boleh saya curi rahasia pemerintahmu?
Don’t look at me. I’m a perfectly innocent pineapple. = Jangan melihatiku. Aku nenas suci.
Take that, naughty person! = Menerima itu, si nakal!
Your place or mine? = Rumahmu atau rumahku?
Felicity Banks 