Mount Bromo: My Mercurial, Mesmerizing Janus

A trip breezing by without a glitch rapidly fades into the recesses of blasé memories. This is not one of those easy, breezy journeys. It will be long remembered for poor planning, gritty sand and unmet expectations. I can now provide the ingredients for a sure-proof formula for having a blunderous trip. The first misstep is to cavalierly saunter to Mount Bromo or any other geographical region without adequate planning. This decision qualifies as either the epitome of arrogance or stupidity.

As I’m sitting in the break room, Jean thrusts a travel brochure at me. She says: You have to go with us. It will be great.” I obligingly read: “Mount Bromo is an active volcano, towering at 7,641 feet in East Java, Indonesia.” I continue to read more. “Come meet this mercurial, moody soul, sometimes, tranquil, other times, angry, always mesmerizing. Janus-like in nature, Mount Bromo, can choose to display a face of calmness or a face of rage. Once seen in all its’ glory, you will never forget this phenomenon and the surrounding lunar-esque landscape.” I am easily hooked. I have to see Mount Bromo, firsthand.

As I slip into a dream-like consciousness, I try to regain my grip on reality. Here’s my list of why I shouldn't go. First, I can’t afford it. Second, I learn that two other unknown people are going. Third, I’ve been on my job for one month and it would take a bona-fide miracle for me to get time off. Fourth, I struggle with occasional bouts of claustrophobia. I imagine my ability to handle several flights is like betting your entire future on one lotto ticket and expecting you’ll win.  

 Yet, I am not always known for being judicious in my decision-making. Whoa. It’s time to slow down and remember my internalized words of wisdom: stop, look and listen. Logic quickly evades me. I am almost jumping on the bandwagon of this great offer that simply requires a lightning decision on my part to seal the deal. My inner voice of rationality is fading. I am susceptible to both peer influence and the offer of exploration into unknown regions. This could be a great adventure. I am slipping.

“Kate, please come. It’s the only way we can all go. There are four spots left according to my travel agent who says this is a package deal of a lifetime.”

“I don’t have the money.”

“Don’t worry, you can pay me back when you can.”

I should stop. I don’t. I get caught in the whirlwind of excitement. I try to walk it back by interjecting: “I don’t know if I can go. I’ve only been at my job for a month.”

Jean, who has been employed at the same company for four years in a senior position, comes to an unwelcome rescue: “Don’t worry, I’ll help you. This is our slow time of the year. If I put out some feelers, I bet I can get people to cover you.” 

My anemic-like backtracking does not work, thanks to Jean, the scheduling magician. Two weeks later, all four of us are on our way to Surabaya, Indonesia. I don’t sleep much during the journey, but my stress reduction techniques get me through three flights without emitting any blood-curdling screams. Besides stress, there are additional penances in the future. I’ll be working two months of weekends for coworkers who are covering my shifts and I have to pay Jean back. I hope this is worth the effort and sacrifice. 

As we travel into the wild blue yonder, we transit through Bali. We don’t have time to even stop for a refreshing swim in the Indian Ocean. This is an express trip, limited to the areas of Mount Bromo and the Komodo Island. 

Jean, a former English major, is now calling our traveling group a quad and she turns on the teaching role when she says: “The word quad can mean a foursome or a very awesome group of people.” Jean plans on having us live up to this awesome labeling. The two other tour participants are Bill, an extreme extrovert who never stops talking and Bruce, a self-appointed geographical and geological expert. It should be fun watching Bill and Bruce, the alpha males, battle each other for the dominant position.

The dense, humid air slams us as we exit the plane in Indonesia. I’m glad I packed light. So far, this trip is going well. We’ve made all our connections and our luggage arrives on the baggage carousel within minutes and without fanfare. We use our voucher and take a cab to the Sweet Flower Inn. Fifteen minutes later, at the inn, the guide reviews our trip. At the end, he announces: “You’ll get to witness the sunrise at Mount Bromo within a few hours. It’s majestic. You are lucky it’s part of your tour experience.  This will be a lifetime memory. Your driver will pick you up at midnight.” Lucky, what? I’m not feeling lucky, just tired. I need some time to luxuriate in my jet lag. Let’s skip the sunrise, buy a postcard of it shining over Mount Bromo, and call it good. I quickly learn, I’m the weak link in this fabulous foursome, this awesome group. I get voted down by the trio when I say: “Let’s leave tomorrow afternoon when we’re rested and refreshed.” Bill barks: “C’mon Kate, it will be fun.” I mumble: “Yes, I love hiking when I am exhausted. I can’t wait.” No one listens or responds.  

Our quad is given one key and I learn we are sharing one room, part of our bargain package. Taking turns, we each have a much-needed shower.  We share the only two towels in the bathroom. I’m third in line. I get a dripping wet towel and I attempt to dry myself. It does not work.   

When we go to the dining room, we learn that there are many more items on the menu than what they actually serve. I settle for Ramen Noodle Soup. By the time we finish, it’s 11 P.M. There’s no point in taking a nap because we leave in one hour. 

The driver arrives as scheduled and I have some restless jags of sleep, accentuated by head bobbing throughout the drive. At 2:30 A.M., I hear: “Now you’re going to take a Jeep because this car can’t handle the terrain.” Ut-oh. Goodbye, comfortable car. We will miss you sooner than we expect. 

vehicle change sounds like potential trouble. The four of us gather up our things. We move into an awaiting Jeep. This must be another thing I missed when I read the travel brochure. All the pictures I remember seeing showed gleaming, brand new Jeeps, not this clunker. As we rock and roll up and down the pot-holed road, I search in my bag for my motion-sickness pills. This crusty, brown Jeep long ago left its’ good days and its' shock absorbers in the dust. It reticently rumbles forward. I gain a new-found reverence for the luxury of seat belts as I fly onto the floor of the Jeep. I may not need my motion-sickness pills. I may not survive.  

We get a respite when we make a brief pit stop to allegedly snap a photo. I’d like to take a few prize-winning photos of Mount Bromo, but all I see is darkness. We return back to our roller-coaster ride and a few minutes later, the Jeep driver bellows: “I’ll drop you off as close as I can to the entrance. From there, you can walk to the volcano.” Bruce replies: “No problem. We got it under control.” Since he is a self-proclaimed, expert geologist and geographer, I figure it's all good.  

I check my watch. It is now 4:15, pre-dawn. The surrounding area is teeming with crowds and Jeeps on both sides of the road and motorbikes roar through the small spaces interspersed between the parked cars. Our driver announces: “We can’t go any further. You’ll have to walk. I’ll meet you back here at the Jeep at noon.” I don’t want to get out of the Jeep. I’m all for hiking when I can see where I am going. No one told me to pack night-vision goggles. Fortunately, Bill has brought a flashlight. Within ten minutes the flashlight starts flickering and it’s lights out. Bill has no extra batteries, so we stumble along in the intermittent darkness. The motorbikes, some with their headlights on, some not, whiz by as if we are invisible. We judiciously decline a ride with any of these daredevil motor bikers after witnessing their death-inviting maneuvers.  

After an hour of trekking into oblivion, we arrive at the entrance of the park. I expected that this trip would be serene, but that fantasy is obliterated by overly-enthusiastic dancers and chanters. The motor bikers, taking center stage, display their death-defying skills as if they are expendable Hollywood stuntmen. 

We cannot walk any further. Crowds and mayhem rule. Bruce expresses disappointment: “I can’t even set up a tripod here because someone will knock it over.” I reply: “I feel claustrophobic.” I take a few deep breaths. It’s not working. Jean tells me: “Don’t worry, it’s almost over.”

I look at my watch. Sunrise is supposed to happen at 5:26. I give myself a pat on my back for looking up this information. Fifteen minutes to go. A half-hour later, there is no rising sun over Mount Bromo to witness but there is plenty of dust for one and all to inhale. I missed this possibility of a no show in my research. The sun is on a holiday but the angry, scorching sands are not. I am beginning to understand why this area is called: “A Desert on a Mountain.”  

Edging forward, I see the masses of people, horses and muffler-less motorbikes growing exponentially by the moment. How can this place be so crowded? Lo and behold, I learn today is an Indonesian National Holiday. No wonder this trip is so cheap. I now understand why the travel agent got us such a “great bargain.” 

Descending further into lunacy, we discover the perfect shooting locale, complete with lots of “extras” for a Mad Max sequel. Lava dust swirls into cyclonic shapes as viral-like contagions of motor bikers ascend like aimlessly flying apparitions. This backdrop would undoubtedly complement Mad Max’s tale of dystopia, followed by apocalyptic social destruction and decay. Anticipatory dreams of tranquility are replaced with the reality of cacophonous chaos. Panoramic idealizations continue to vanish as my 360-degree dust-ridden visual field is reduced to about eighteen inches.

With every step, the insanity escalates as whirling desert sands set the stage for an incomparable experience. The madness magnifies as we hear the sounds of ear-splintering, roaring motorbikes, coughing as they regurgitate mounds of dust, horsemen vigorously trying to sell rides on skeletal-like horses that look like they should be given a lift instead of offering rides, chickens, maniacally running in circles and people, proliferating, like viruses compressed into microscopic, subway-like spaces.  

Pilgrims and tourists are here with the intent of climbing to the object of their desire, Mount Bromo. Many, including my quad, are ill-equipped for fighting the deluge of sand that sprays in all directions. The only way up is to stumble vertically and sidestep when necessary to keep from slipping or falling. I must have missed the “Proceed with Caution” warning in the travel brochure. My second misstep punishingly reveals itself:  being unprepared for the gritty sand. 

My fictional expectation of 250 actual steps leading to Mount Bromo evaporates. Wending through mini-mountains of volcanic ash coupled with my suction-less feet, challenge my ability to complete this spider-woman like climb. This allegorical journey of 250 steps feels like a thousand miles. Time to initiate battle mode; I fuel my upward crawl with positive affirmations. I whisper: “You can do this, it’s just a little further, if all these people can do this climb, so can you.” It’s working but with each awkward step, the smell of sulfuric gas punctuates the air with a rotten egg stench.

It’s time to actively work upon transporting my mind to my pre-Bromo mythical climb. I envision sapphire, turquoise-imbued skies and emerald jewel-toned foliage draping upon the taupe desert floor. These fantastical visions momentarily invigorate me and then they evaporate as I huff, puff and climb. 

Breathless and coughing, I finally arrive on the summit. Bromo rewards my efforts by releasing additional billows of white, sulfurous-laden smoke. Sudden bursts of erratic wind send loose sand and volcanic ash in my direction. Through a smoky veil, I peer down into the deep crater of Mount Bromo. The entire top of this volcano has been blown off. The sheer magnificence and force of Mount Bromo is inescapable and humbling.  

Meanwhile, the show on top of Bromo registers: serenity score-0, calamity score-100. Incessant chattering, clanging off-key musical instruments, trance-like dancers and clucking chickens squelch any hope of spiritual tranquility. Wall-to-wall people clamor for a piece of the rapidly dwindling bleached-beige real estate. Soon, I expect I’ll have to stand on one leg like a stork to reduce my claimed space on this territory. Sellers are offering tied-together green sprigs and flowers. These bundles are thrown into the crater of Mount Bromo to appease its’ wrath. 

My third misstep reveals itself in all its’ resonance: unmet expectations abound. This atmosphere surely does not match the mesmerizing pictures of a serene and surreal topography shown in the brochure. Those pictures would beckon any professional photographer and want-to-be photographer, like me, to make this journey.  

It’s time to surface some positive thinking. The good news: Mount Bromo is quiet today. Other days it has been known to extract vengeance. This duality mirrors the two-faced Roman god, Janus who is known for beginnings, transitions, and endings. Mount Bromo, like Janus, has two faces: an external face that emanates an exoskeleton of quiescence and an internal face, deep within its’ placid facade, that hides a fire-breathing dragon. 

In January 2011, the beast awakens. People scramble to higher grounds; flights are cancelled and volcanic ash emissions spew more than 18,000 feet upwards. Several months later the Indonesian Center for Volcanology signals it’s safe to return to Mount Bromo. This mercurial monster returns to a state of slumber. 

I refocus my attention on my bird's eye view downward into the crater of Mount Bromo for my last look. I remark: “This has been a lot of work. The crowds have more than doubled since we got up here. I’m heading down.” As tough as this upward journey has been, the Roman goddess of luck, Fortuna, is smiling upon us. We all find pockets of air to breathe and there are no molten eruptions today.  

To bolster my downward trajectory, a cadre of new, positive affirmations, crystallize. First, I'm given a free dental procedure, each tooth mercilessly sandblasted by fine gritty dust. Second, my ever-stylish, neon-green snorkel mask that seemed like histrionic overkill when originally packed, allows limited visibility. Third, I receive a complimentary micro-dermabrasion treatment. Fourth, my intensive aerobic program pays off, my lungs work despite the likelihood that I’ve inhaled the equivalent of five packs of cigarettes today. Seeing my ascending compatriots, I want to yell: “Turn back before it’s too late,” but I cannot waste my oxygen. I long lost sight of the trio but I know we will all meet at the Jeep and head back to civilization.  

Mad Max motorbike aficionados are now visible and auditorily, I cannot ignore the accompanying eardrum-breaking, ground-shaking bravado. Temporary, makeshift stands selling hats, art, chickens, goats and vegetables dot the lava-scape. I am back in the flat lands; I congratulate myself on completing this hike on my own “woman-power.” I did not surrender to those persistent purveyors of horse rides. In a mirage-like hallucination, I spot my traveling companions. Those turncoat adventurers caved in. They are using horse-power rather than foot-power. I see them arriving at the Jeep. From my revamped vantage point, the Jeep looks like a golden chariot in the distance.  

That trio is just like Mount Bromo: mercurial in nature. They break our pact of hiking up and down on their own power. I keep my word, but they surrender to the elements.  

My camera surrenders too. It rebels after its’ arduous workout. It expresses its’ anger against the inhumane exposure to the gritty ash and sand by refusing to open its’ lens. The lens error message is flashing. This must be a sign of artificial intelligence, and self-preservation.  

Days later, our group of four, grows to a sixsome. We are joined by an Italian couple, Elisabetta and Lorenzo. All of us step on to a boat headed to the land of the famed Komodo dragons. Elisabetta and Lorenzo were at Mount Bromo, the day after us. They had a "mesmerizing" encounter, untarnished by noise or crowds, but I’m willing to wager my splintered memories will long outlast their blissful recollections.

I now understand, every off the beaten track exploration, comes with a price. I have no photos of Mount Bromo to share. These transient images fade away like sand in the wind, never to be captured again. My camera is ruined, the pictures are gone but the four of us remain. We are already planning our next destination. 

I surrender Elisabetta and Lorenzo. Feel free to glow in your glorious, glossy, postcards of perfection. I, meanwhile, will relish my eidetic recollections of Mad Max motor bikers and ash billowing Bromo. 

Truly, it is in the eye and experience of the beholder as to whether Mount Bromo records as a mercurial or mesmerizing adventure. You will not know until you go and when you do, only then can you weave this hard-earned strand of multi-colored yarn into your skein of memorable travel tapestries.