MERAPI


So, Mt.Merapi, after 11 ½ years of quiet, is flexing its muscles again, and looks like a major eruption is imminent.
Ten years ago I went to the magical island of Java for the first time. I started out intending to go to Bali for a few days, then on to Jogyakarta for the main purpose of the visit – the temples of Borabadur and Prambanan. Spent most of the flight thinking “I don’t want to go to Bali” so on arrival at Denpasar I walked over to the domestic terminal and caught the first flight to Jogya.
We circled over Jogya a few times before landing, and the soaring towers of Prambanan were easy to pick out from the air. Borabadur was impossible to pick out.
Two days later when I visited it at sunrise I could see why. While Hindu Prambanan soars and lifts the spirit, Buddhist Borabadur is of the earth, solidly and massively grounded. It is the climb up through walled in corridors lined with bas-reliefs, the symbolic effort of getting to the top, that uplifts the spirit. And at the top, finally, open space. It feels incredibly high up, the surrounding plain lush with ripening rice paddies and clumps of forest, rimmed by soft grey hills, and dominating it all Merapi, my first active volcano, a perfect cone with a peaceful seeming plume of smoke rising straight up in the still morning air, a quietly powerful and awesome presence.

Bayu. the young man on the front desk at the hotel had for some reason taken quite a fancy to me (but that’s another story) and the next day he took me up the mountain.
The 30k drive was glorious, through the rice paddies and into the forest at the foot of the mountain, climbing up through the lush green jungle to the beautiful, neat little hill resort of Kaliorang where we hired a guide to take us up the mountain.
It was cooler there than on the plains, no breeze, but a cloudy day, so only a gentle light filtering through the trees, unseen birds singing to a constant undertone of water dripping off the leaves. Our guide, a tiny, wiry man of middle-age set off with a crate of soft-drink on his head, a clutch of umbrellas under is arm. We climbed for about two hours, there was a gem of a tiny, moss-covered waterfall we stopped at about half-way, glad of that crate of soft-drink. Soon after it started to rain, gentle and warm, and we were glad of his umbrellas. How I wish I had a photo of that faintly ludicrous image I treasure of the three of us climbing a volcano, gentleman’s umbrellas resolutely held high.
After two hours we found ourselves with a group of a dozen or so other climbers on a ledge perched high above a mist filled valley. The end of the climb as it turned out. The clouds were so low you felt you could reach up and touch them, but that meant the rest of the trail was too dangerous. Where we had so far been climbing around the mountain, a comparatively easy hike, from this point on it was a narrow trail on the crest of a ridge, then on the steep side of the upper cone, the lack of visibility and the wet slippery path too dangerous for tourists.
Still, the view was stunning, and something about knowing we were perched on the side of a volcano meant everyone was speaking, if at all, in subdued tones. I found myself almost wishing Merapi would grumble or belch a reminder she was there underneath and above us. Suddenly our guide started talking, quietly but rapidly. I had to wait for Bayu to translate. The guide was telling us that a year ago that day he had been sitting at this very spot with a group of tourists when Merapi blew her top. The flow of superheated gas that killed 60 people went down the other side of the mountain, but they fled down through falls of ash. Somehow I was glad Merapi held her peace that day.