It’s 1985. A group of school students are in the Lake District, throwing oranges into a stream. Why, I’m not so sure. Apparently it’s something to do with measuring the rate of the river’s flow, although how we would benefit from that particular life skill, is beyond me. Learning how not to freeze to death in a Cumbrian river would have been far more useful.
It’s a school ‘A-level’ Geography trip to study first-hand the impact of glaciation on the landscape. Corries and tarns. U-shaped and V-shaped valleys. Drumlins and roches moutonnées – which still look sod all like sheep to me.
None of the students share the same enthusiasm as the teachers, although I suspect even for them these annual trips are something of a chore. I’m sure they’d rather be at home watching tv with their loved ones. Or popping down the local for a pint. Or anything other than being stuck in a youth hostel with a bunch of sulky teenagers whose interest in all things glacial is minimal to say the least. To the bored, insolent students, it’s nothing more than an excuse to be away from home for a week. To have noisy, messy water fights in the dormitory each night. Or to sneak out back for a crafty cigarette and think they’re really pulling a fast one.
Each morning we’re escorted to different parts of the Lakes so that we can see up close what have hitherto been sketches and diagrams in textbooks. And to conduct experiments which I assume are a practical means of trying to drum something into our thick skulls. Although I would emerge from Sixth Form with an A level in Geography, I suspect that came from a good understanding of what they then called ‘Human Geography’ – the movement of people, the composition of societies, demographics and population theories; and which would somehow provide an albeit tenuous link to a career in market research – rather than an understanding of ‘Physical Geography’. None of this really meant much to me, despite how spectacular the Lake District is.
One day we were instructed to walk up a valley, sketch the tarn at the top and explain how it was formed. And on no account to visit the nearby pub. The teacher then drove off. Weeks later, back in the classroom he gave us a slideshow of the photos he took on the trip. And there was this same valley, complete with the pub in the foreground, and four of his students sitting at a picnic table nursing a few beers. Ooops.
But unbeknownst to me something of that experience did sink in. Something about being able to identify various features of the landscape, and, even better, being able to explain how they came about, seeped through the porous, limestone-like membrane of my skull. It was probably more to do with being able to show off, or answer some Trivial Pursuit questions correctly. But whatever it was, it sneaked in and it stayed.
Fast forward to Java, Indonesia, in 1993, backpacking, and heading east from Yogjakarta towards Bali. We had a bum-numbing eleven hour train journey to endure to reach our destination of Mount Bromo. It began reasonably enough but each station heralded more passengers, more baggage, more goods, more livestock. Space was at a premium. The hard bench seats became grimly uncomfortable but could not be left for a second lest they be commandeered by another passenger and their wares. Or a chicken. There was arguably more livestock on board than humans. By the time we got to Probolingo the relief of getting off my arse was immense. I feared I’d bear the bruises for a while to come.
A certified lunatic behind the wheel of a dilapidated jeep then took us towards the volcano and we found ourselves in a hostel perched on the lip of the outer crater. By the light of a full moon Bromo looked like a moonscape. It was white and ghostly and very eerie. And by the light of the following morning, it still retained that otherworldliness. Mount Bromo itself is a crater within the massive, 10km-wide Tengger caldera; a landscape of rugged, barren volcanic peaks and gravel plains; and surrounded by a vast sea of sand. It seemed not of this planet.
At 2,329 metres (7,641 ft) Mount Bromo is by no means the tallest in the region, but it is the most well known. And for good reason. Aside from being active, it’s accessible, and quite frankly, stunning. Learning how volcanoes and plate tectonics make and shape the land in a classroom in the middle of Northumberland is one thing. Seeing it for yourself is something else entirely.
Even though erosion is still shaping the Lake District there is a sense of ancientness; that the mountains and valleys formed long ago will remain the same for time immemorial. Here in East Java, the earth is active. It is visibly alive. You can see the plumes of steam rising from the vents in the crater; smell the noxious sulphur in the air; feel the heat of the rocks. And while those continuous columns of steam and smoke will do little to change the shape of the mountain, no one knows when its latent energy will manifest itself in the form of an eruption.
Indeed, Bromo burped, if not exploded, into life in 2004, spewing ash and hurling rocks high into the sky. And again in 2010. Ditto 2011. 2015.
To say I was impressed is an understatement. Sitting on the crater-rim of an active volcano while it spewed out gases and smoke over a hundred feet below was completely unique. Being that close to the earth as it does what the earth does – regenerating, changing, evolving – is quite primeval.
Indonesia is a land of volcanoes, sitting as it does between two continental plates: the Eurasian Plate and Australian Plate; and between two oceanic plates: the Philippine Sea Plate and Pacific Plate. So you don’t have to wander very far before you come across another one. Just 269 kilometres east of Mount Bromo sits Mount Batur, on the adjacent island and tourist paradise of Bali. The day I got to Mount Batur incidentally was the ninetieth day of my backpacking travels. Phileas Fogg had gone around the world and got back home by this stage. He should have squandered the bet and taken more time.
Gunung Batur, to give it its local name, is also an active volcano, this time located at the centre of two concentric calderas, the south east side of which contains a caldera lake. On the shores of that lake, in the wonderfully named village of Toya Bungkah, nature again bubbles to the surface, quite literally, in the form of hot springs in which the entire village appeared to take its evening bath; and do the dishes; and the laundry. I wrote in my diary at the time that “‘Toya’ apparently means holy water and not punk doyenne with a lithp” however several internet searches have failed to back up this claim. It’s a shot in the dark. A big question mark. In history. It’s a mystery.
Those internet searches also revealed that Toya Bungkah is now rather well developed with several resorts and spas and swimming pools. On Saturday November 6th, 1993, there were precisely five tourists in the village. Although we were staying in different hostels, we figured we may as well all go up the mountain together – a suggestion which didn’t go down well with the local guides. As far as we were concerned, we were going to pay the money anyway, and we didn’t really mind who we gave it to, so why have three guides going up when one would do? Obviously the rationale worked in reverse for the guides – if they didn’t go up the hill, they didn’t get paid. And you have to respect that. My guide subsequently turned out to be a bit grumpy.
Climbing Batur involved a 4am start in order to reach the top for sunrise with, in my case, a sullen guide. It was 4am, it was dark, we had no lights, and my guide was wearing flip flops. He was also carrying a bag of eggs which, after an arduous two hour climb to the summit at 1,717 metres, he boiled for breakfast simply by finding an appropriate hot-spot in the earth and burying them for a wee while.
Compared to Mount Bromo, Mount Batur was a bit of an anti-climax, missing the unearthly character of the former. Batur had last been active in 1974. But it erupted again in 2000, another testament to the unpredictability of our planet. I wouldn’t have liked to have been boiling my eggs for breakfast on that day.
Two weeks later and I was still heading east through Indonesia, now on the island of Flores, home of yet more volcanoes. In this case it was Kelimutu, famous for its three crater lakes which are not only three different colours but even change colour periodically; a result of chemical reactions to the minerals in the lake with different gases produced by volcanic activity. You could contend that a volcano is a volcano, yet each of the three I’d visit in the space of four weeks in Indonesia had totally different characteristics.
And in the case of Kelimutu, cracking names. Tiwu Ata Bupu (Lake of Old People) is blue in colour. Tiwu Ko’o Fai Nuwa Muri (Lake of Young Men and Maidens) is green. And Tiwu Ata Polo (Bewitched or Enchanted Lake) is red. A red lake? It’s bonkers. Mind you, I had to rely on the guide books to tell me that. When I got there, the early morning cloud more or less obscured the lakes.
To get from Ende to Mone required a hellish journey in an old flat-bed truck. It had some rough seats and a roof added but no extra thought to suspension or comfort. It was so crowded I was perched on the tailgate, getting a bruised backside if not spinal damage. Seeing that I was travelling in the company of two women, a local guy asked if I wanted to sell one of them to him. I considered entering into negotiations but the ladies didn’t look too impressed.
The Regal Homestay was anything but regal but with good reason. In December of the previous year, an earthquake destroyed the original structure, along with half the village and four villagers. Some of the hostels listed in the Lonely Planet no longer existed. The roads had not been repaired so getting even basic provisions in and out was a slow process. The water supply had not been fully restored. The ruined shells of former homes were dotted round and about and the whole area of Eastern Flores between Ende and Maumere had been badly affected. The lack of hot water and the lumpy mattress paled into insignificance.
When we did actually make it up onto the volcano for sunrise in the morning we were given only a very brief glimpse of the green lake as the wind cleared the cloud momentarily. But aside from that it was a view of clouds. Clouds, clouds and more clouds. I was up against a deadline and couldn’t afford to miss the bus to the next town, so I couldn’t wait to see if the clouds would clear, and opted to leave the ladies shivering away in the morning cold waiting for some clarity.
Ten days later I bumped into one of the girls in Kuta, Bali. They had waited at Kelimutu to see if the weather improved. It did, and they had a fantastic view of all three lakes in the blazing sunshine. I knew I should have sold them when I had the chance.
And that, as they say, is that. My interest in all things geological, piqued in the ancient hills of the Lake District and fuelled by the active volcanoes of Indonesia, more or less stalled. Thereafter to remain dormant.
Until 2014.
Go to Chapter 2: Of mountains and men