In the end, I went for a full Indonesian breakfast in a tiny little warung round the back of the station and while I was eating I was approached by a middle aged local guy saying 'where you from? where you from?'. Turns out he just wanted to practice his English rather than sell me some lude, tacky souvenirs, like I thought he would. He was actually a really nice guy, with surprisingly good English and he was more than willing to help out with my transport troubles. He recommended using a public bus from the bus terminal about 20 mins south of the centre, where they do a hourly service to Probo, which takes 2 hours and costs less than half what the train would have cost me. He even offered to drop me there (for a fee of course).
The bus trip was quite an experience. I was the only white person on board and there was a steady stream of buskers and beggers (some disturbingly young), getting on, singing hideously out of tune, spotting the white person sitting sheepishly in the corner, heading down the bus to then sing really loudly into my face, proffering plastic cups under my nose, asking for money, singing even louder when I said no, finally receiving a few coins and jumping off the moving bus, only to be followed by another busker, this time with an out of tune ukulele and an even worse voice. This cycle continued for the whole two hour journey and by the end, I was in a less than pleasant mood.
The bus came to Probo and the bus driver got off and helped me out of the bus and ushered me into a 'tourist information' place. I'm familiar with these from around Bali and they don't provide information, they provide overpriced tickets for tours and they're pretty difficult to leave once you're inside. Until your wallet opens, that is. Sleep deprivation and a foul headache meant that I was probably an easy target for them and indeed I agreed to use them to get up to Cemero Lawang, where Mt Bromo is and I bought a land rover tour from them, which I'd intended to do in Cemero anyway. So having paid an extortionate amount of money for all this, a minibus pulled up outside and I got in, while the driver tied my bag to the roof.
There was an American couple, Michael and Lily, on the bus already, so at least I wasn't the only idiot to get conned into this trip and I'd have some people to talk to on the way up. I got in at about 2pm and it turns out they'd been sitting in the bus since 11am. The driver said he was waiting for the bus to fill up before he left. Oh great, I'd be sitting in a hot, stuffy minibus that was filling up at a rate of one person an hour. Thankfully it only took about half an hour before a large group of Indonesian tourists got on and I thought we'd be able to leave. But the definition of a full bus here is quite different to that at home. It took another two hours (yes, two hours!) before the bus was sufficiently rammed with people, sitting on the floor, hanging off the ladder at the back, on each others laps and hanging out the side door. I'd managed to get a front seat with two chain smokers, but I was still better off than those in the back.
Slowly but surely the bus emptied out as people got off along the road and towards the end it was quite comfortable. We arrived in Cemero in the dark and in the rain and checked out the two cheapest places to stay, which were both pretty expensive and both fairly hideous. We went for the least cell-like rooms, chucked our stuff down and went to check out the restaurant, which, though similarly expensive, was actually very nice and apparently had good views over the volcano during the day. I ate with Michael and Lily and when they went to bed, I was joined by a dutch guy called Nolke, who was in the room opposite me and we had a beer together. He'd done the jeep tour I would be doing the following morning and he told me that the view point was covered by a big cloud when he was there, so they couldn't see a thing. Didn't sound too good, so I didn't get my hopes up. Like me, Nolke was going to Yogyakarta the next day and we decided to make the journey together.
3.30am there was a knock on my door and a voice saying 'Jeep... 15 minute,' so I hauled myself out of bed, chucked on as many layers of clothes as I could find (it was bloody freezing!) and headed out to the front. My jeep was a nice burnt orange Toyota Land Cruiser and the driver was semi-suicidal, with taste for speed. Needless to say, the journey to the view point was great fun! Woke me up more than any amount of caffeine could. The sunrise itself was distinctly disappointing though. Just dark and cloudy and the view from the view point wasn't that great. Plus it was difficult to get to the front to get and pictures due to the throngs of people lining the railing.
The jeep ride down from the viewpoint to the crater itself was, again, great fun. We'd been tailing an identical Land Cruiser down the mountain and once the land flattened out onto a plain of volcanic sand and ash, it was an all out race to the crater! The jeep ride alone was well worth the money I spent on it and more than made up for the crap sunrise.
The crater lip was spectacular. The sun was up by now and it was a clear morning (apart from the smoke billowing from the bottom of the crater), so there were some impressive views to be had.
The jeep took us back to the prison - I mean err, guest house... sorry - and I walked down the road to a tiny little warung with Nolke for a breakfast of Nasi Goreng (fried rice with a fried egg on top) before getting back in the minibus (this time with the same number of people as there were seats!). The journey to Yogyakarta went much smoother that I'd thought it would. We got off the minibus in Probolinggo and there was our next (aircon!) minibus waiting, ready to take us the 8 hours to Yogya. Okay, so the aircon didn't really work and yet again, the driver was a maniac, but we got there in one piece and more than that, we'd made a new friend :) Bob, from Ireland, was the only other English speaker on board and the three of us, on arriving in Yogya, went in search of some budget beds together.
Having been ushered round the little alleyways by a local, eager for us to use his travel agency, we found Nuri Losmen, a small and very cheap affair, with sparse rooms and no hot water, but surprisingly comfortable beds and unlimited free tea. They had only a single and a twin left, so Bob took the single and myself and Nolke shared to twin. Okay, so you do lose a little privacy, but it meant we only paid half each and the result was 3 nights of decent accommodation for the grand total of about five pounds fifty. Not too shabby.
All of us were absolutely shattered, having had rubbish nights sleep in the cell-like mountain rooms (see picture below), so we decided to find somewhere for a quick dinner, maybe a beer and then bed. But only bed for a few hours because the Man U - Barca final was on at 2am and none of us would be missing that! We ended up having dinner at about half 9 in the 'Bintang Cafe', listening to a really quite good live instrumental band (think early Pink Floyd music coupled with late-60's hair and fashion... actually no. Imagine Jimmy Hendrix but Indonesian, right handed, not quite as good [though still pretty decent] and with less fire and there you have the lead guitarist of this band. If only I'd had my camera with me...), but we had to pull ourselves away after a few songs, because we desperately needed some sleep before the game. Thankfully Nolke seems to be a light sleeper because he actually heard his alarm, got up and (with difficulty) woke both me and Bob up.
The game itself was an odd one for me. I fully intended to watch as a neutral, but was swayed in part by patriotism but mostly by the fact that 90% of people watching (including one very annoying, vocal and downright ignorant American sitting next to me) were supporting Barca. So for the first time I can remember, I actually wanted Man U to win a game. Of course, I was only to be disappointed and had I watched as a neutral I would probably have quite enjoyed the result.
Next morning was supposed to be a well deserved lay-in, but I was awake and beyond sleep by about 8.30 in the morning, as was Nolke. So we went to a little cafe down the road to have breakfast and then to a little travel agency to book a tour to see the vast Buddhist Temple of Borobodur at sunset. The tour left at 2pm and we hopped onto a little minubus and set off for the temple. Bob was going to explore Yogya, so we left him in bed.
Borobodur was bloody huge! Like really properly big. But the most amazing thing wasn't the sheer size of it. It wasn't even the mind-bogglingly intricate detail on every inch of it's surface. It was the evidence of what I can only presume to be the most backwards education system on the planet. Local students roved by the dozen all over the temple, having been sent here not on a history trip or even one for RE, but an English trip. Their English homework involves going to tourist hotspots, armed with cameras, pens and pieces of paper, in search of Westerners, whom they have to interview, get a signature from and be in a photo with. So me and Nolke spent most of our time there looking for deserted corners and didn't dare venture towards the top where the majority of them were prowling. Needless to say we couldn't stay inconspicuous for long and once one group has got hold of you, they all follow and block off any means of escape. In the end we glanced up at each other and both decided now was the best time to leave. So shoulders down, we pushed our way out of the crowd (they were mostly young kids... no match for a good shoulder barge or well placed elbow), jumped down the stairs and headed for the empty grounds around the temple.
The way out towards the car park was just as treacherous. Now just because their education techniques are questionable, doesn't mean that Indonesian people aren't clever. The way in to the temple had been a clear walk down a nice tree lined path, but on the way out we found this way blocked. As were all other the routes except for just one. And that route was a maze of market stalls, beggars and touts all eager to get your money and not in the least shy about asking for it. This time, chin up, pretend you can't see anything but what's directly ahead of you and walk fast! That way you only get the most determined sellers pushing garish souvenirs into your face. There was one man who deserves particular credit for his efforts though. He followed us right to our minibus, trying to sell what looked to us like pieces of wood that a child had drawn on, had to be forcibly moved just so we could shut the door and then stood, face gaunt, about an inch from the window, pointing to these bits of wood while everyone on board tried to keep a straight face and pretend he didn't exist. He stood there for a full 5 minutes until the last two people arrived at the bus and we could finally leave.
That evening, Bob was nowhere to be found, so me and Nolke went into Yogya to explore the night stalls buy presents for people at home. Don't get your hopes up, he was the one buying presents, not me. Yogyakarta (pron: Jogjakarta), is a very arty and cultural place and full of batik artwork (more on that tomorrow), leatherwork and amazing food, but mostly full of tourists. Not that it was that bad though; probably my favourite place in Indonesia and certainly the most relaxed and laid back place that I've been to. Nolke bought a load of t-shirts for his nephews and some new headphones for his ipod while I gawked at the rock bottom camera prices and vowed one day to come back to this place with nothing but an empty suitcase and a large baggage allowance on the return flight. We ate dinner in a tiny little place well away from the markets and all the tourists and were pleasantly surprised by the 'Bakso' we'd ordered. This place served only meal - a really nice beef and noodle soup - for 5000Rp or in British terms, 30p, and one drink - a lemony, sweet tea - for 1500Rp... 10p!
Right, now for Friday. Bob had turned up again and he and Nolke were going to head off to some other nearby temples, while I stayed in Yogya to by Sarah's birthday present, post that and some other stuff home and then go and explore a batik art gallery. In the post office, I was asked by a worker there if I wanted a hand. Evidently I looked as lost and confused as I felt. So I showed him what I had to post and told him where it was going to and he took me round the back to the packaging department where I watched as some other workers packed it up very neatly. So if it arrives broken Sarah, it's not my fault. While this was happening I got talking to the first guy about where I'm from, what I'm doing here etc and when I told him I was going to a batik gallery later, he told me not to trust anyone round the touristy spots as it's all fake and massively overpriced and recommended a small place about a kilometer east of town that I should visit. Once the package was done and they saw the look of horror on my face at the price to post it via airmail, the same man said I should go to a different post office to get it send by boat, which would take up to 2 months, but would cost about 10% of the airmail price. It just so happened that he had to go to this post office himself to pick up a delivery of paper and he offered me a free ride on the back of his motorbike. Not one to sniff at anything free, I gratefully accepted. Once there, he helped me fill out all the forms, explained to the lady behind the counter what needed to happen and once everything was done, he told me that the good batik gallery was only two blocks from here and that he'd happily drop me there. Score! If only everyone were this friendly...
The batik gallery was fascinating. Batik is a process where you apply a pattern to fabric with molten wax, dye the fabric and the waxed parts stay white. Then you chuck the whole thing into boiling water and the wax comes off. With multiple dyings and waxing, some truly stunning effects and images are possible. I walked through to the back and two women and one man were working on new pieces, sitting on the floor, waxing bits of fabric. The man got up, introduced himself (in perfect English) and offered me a free tour of the gallery and an explanation of the process. Having done a fair bit of batik stuff for work at Brampton, I was fairly familiar with the process and able to truly appreciate just how bloody amazing some of these pieces of art were. Now no offense to the students at Brampton Manor, but the stuff in this gallery makes the batik work hanging around T6 look like something a blind child with no arms has done.
All the exhibits are either hanging on the walls or piled against each other along the edges of the room and there's so much in this little place that it'd take at least a day to look at it all; they have stuff from hundreds of artists across the globe. Now my room at home is decidedly bare and could do with some art to liven it up, so I figured I'd see if anything took my fancy. Looking round, I made a shortlist of about 30 pieces and the guy who'd given me the tour came over and remarked that I had very good taste. There were about 6 of his own in my little collection. I asked if I could see any more of his work and if he had any particular favourites. When asked this question, he pointed to a piece that had escaped me until now. Hanging opposite the main desk was an absolute masterpiece. A mountain landscape at least two and a half meters across and one and a half deep, so intricately detailed and perfectly made that I was almost speechless. It had taken him 17 weeks to complete and was the only piece he'd been working on at the time. Now most of the ones I'd picked out already were in the 150,000Rp - 300,000Rp range (about 10-20 quid) and all now seemed slightly poor in comparison. 1.75 Million Ruppiah this was valued at and me, never willing to spend any money on anything, was sorely tempted. So some hard bargaining followed and I got him down to 1.1m (about 67GBP), which seemed pretty good to me, so I bought it. It's now nice and safe at the bottom of my bag, waiting for me to get home and build a stretcher frame for it. If you're reading this Tom, I'll be paying the tech department a visit once I'm home, looking for some assistance.
This post is now failing to save as a draft, so I'll have to post it up. I'm off to get dinner somewhere in Kuala Lumpur's chinatown, where I'm staying at the moment. I will be back to add more to it!
Photos...
Bromo:
Pathetic sunrise
Borobodur:
Just a quick update on my plans for the next few weeks. I'm heading to the Camron Highlands tomorrow, and then to Penang. From there I'll have to move bloody quickly to Chiang Mai in north Thailand, because I've applied for a week long volunteering thing with a load of elephants on Jo's advice. If i'm successful, that starts on Monday morning. From there, Laos, Hanoi, Vietnam coast to Ho Chi Minh, Cambodia, Siem reap and the temples there, Bangkok, New York, HOME!!!
Byesy bye.
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