The Abode of the Gods

Catching local buses through the Central Javan countryside is an activity for which i have long had high regard. From the moment you step onto the step of the first bus you are hurtled with polite intensity towards your destination, no matter how off the track that my be. I say hurtled for two reasons. The more obvious is that buses rule the roads here. They are bigger and for some strange reason generally faster than other vehicles on the undulating rural roads. And buses, with their drivers steeped in a tradition of aggressive driving, take full advantage of their dominance which, it has to be said, makes for a more exciting and efficient journey. The second reason is something i had long suspected, but was only confirmed for me recently. In Central Java, with its high, dense population and freemarket transport industry, buses are incredibly frequent and regular and are always on the prowl for paying customers. Thus whenever you arrive at one bus station, maybe a little apprehensive of where you will find your next bus and how long you will have to wait, your bus has found you and hurtled off to your next destination before you have really had sufficient time to process your apprehension. Finally, because catching a bus in the Central Javan countryside is not on the average tourist itinery, the conductors don't even think to overcharge you. Thus you have the added benefit of travelling very far for very cheap - it doesn't get any better.

And so it was that i arrived in Dieng Village after a rapid succession of five buses from Yogyakarta. Until about half way through the third bus trip we moved steadily through an almost endless series of town, punctuated occassionally by waterlogged ricefields. Then as we began the steep climb up Kledung Pass to the town of Wonosobo, the landscape change dramatically. Kledung pass is the only road winding up between two towering volcanos - Sundoro (3151m) and Sumbling (3371m). As the engine strained ever upwards I enjoyed the view of fluffy cumulus gathered behinds their majestic summits. After we reached the pass and began our descent into the West i turned to gaze at them again but all i saw was swirling mist.

Wonosobo lies at 900m and already the temperature was almost agreeable. On the main road i flagged down a bemo and entered to for the entertainment of an amazed assesmbly. "Does this bus head to Dieng?" i asked. "Kami orang Dieng" (We are Dieng people) said a starry eyed man with pride and although he didn't answer my question i was reassured. The bemo stopped soon afterwards and we boarded a ramshackle bus for the final 21 kilometres up to the plateau and Dieng Village itself. The road twisted up ever higher and higher amongst the terraced hillsides. All along the sides of the roads whole extended families of farmers tapped out tried mats of tobacco and hoed the earth for potatoes filling giant baskets as they went. The air outside grew almost chilly and i relished the feeling as it cooled the sweat on my legs. The bus quickly became crowded as we stopped to pick up anyone heading up the mountain on the only road. Most people were returning to their homes after morning excursions to valley markets and were laden with produce. I asked a young couple without a load why they had gone to town and they told me they'd been visiting a sick friend in hospital. Everyone, it seemed, was moving up with road with clear purpose and intent - except me not even aware of my own reasons for being there. As the bus climbed ever upwards we began to get spectacular views of the valleys far below. Amongst the green terraced fields i could see the faded brown of the roofs of scattered hamlets and the gold and silver glints of mosque bells reflecting the sun. The terraces rose up to meet us and then climbed further still to unfathomable heights just shy of volcanic summits. Then the road dipped and after a few turns the land opened up again to reveal a plateau and the small village of Dieng.

At over 2000 metres above sea level, the Dieng plateau is thought to have been a flourishing temple city of Hindu priests in the 8th and 9th centuries. Centuries later Islam became firmly entrenched as the religion of the Javanese sultans and the plateau today has more mosques than temples. The name 'Dieng' comes from Di Hyong meaning 'Abode of the Gods'. The temples that remain are thought to be the oldest in Java and are scattered around the volcanicaly active plateau amongst mineral lakes and steaming sulphur vents.

After checking into my Losmen (the aptly named 'Bu Jono') I set out to visit the mineral lakes to the south of the village. Along the way i make a short detour to Tuk Bima Lukur - confirmed by a few wandering boys as a fountain of eternal youth. Down at the ancient spring (long since concreted) a young woman washes bare breasted, her mouth foaming with toothpaste. She mouths a few words but i cannot hear her over the rythmic hum of a high powered electric pump. It's an eclectic mix of the crass and the serene, something i'm becoming increasinly used to. I reach the lakes which are serenely blue and surrounded by yet higher hills. On the narrow isthmus between the lakes is a holy meditation cave. But when i look inside it looks more like a damp space between fallen rocks behind a metal grill and throngs of Indonesian tourists (it is Saturday). So i head off along a small dirt track hoping to circumnavigate the two lakes. After passing fisherman at the further end of the first lake i find no trace of a path continuing around the waters. Reluctant to backtrack i take a trail leading up into the terraced fields above. Up above the lakes i find farmers tended fields in a vast cropgrowing area while hardy folk saunter through the network of trails with heavy loads. The landscape is pure agrarian beauty and i don't mind if i eventually have to retreat all the way back along the trail to the cave. But eventually the trail snakes back out to the second lake and i'm able to skirt back around to the circuit head and back to my losmen.

As the sun sets the air becomes decidedly chilly. So tied to the sticky heat is my perception of this country, that i no longer recognise the village as Indonesia. On the street the townpeople wrap garments around their heads and huddle under blankets compounding my confusion. It is as though i've been unintentionally transported at an Andean village in Bolivia or Peru. After a dinner of fried rice i order a banana pancake and it comes out Quran thick and still mushy on the inside. I eat past the point of enjoyment and have to shuffle around the deserted streets beneath a glowing full moon to settle my beseiged tummy before sleep.

At 4am the next morning, still full of sticky dough and mashed banana, i was striding down the road in search of a mountain whose summit promised dramatic views of the sunrising in the East. As i swept along in the darkness the mosques of the plateau began to erupt with phonetically enhanced chanting. I passed a small village and was directed up a steep road by an old man fetching his morning water from the stream. But at its pitiful summit i found only a descent to fields below from which the sounds of tools scraping the earth could be heard in the darkness. So i ran back down the hill and back along the road until almost two hours after setting off i came across another village that i initially mistook for the first.

Passing through the village streets that early morning i felt i had stepped back into a different age. The town .... I was later to learn is not only the highest in Java, but, thanks to the potatoes they grow, quite wealthy and sends a sizable number of pilgrims to Mecca each Haj. The townpeople directed me to a trail skirting a lake and passing into hills beyond. Despite my suspicions every person i asked told me that if i continued on the trail for about an hour i would reach Dieng again - I had since given up on the mountain and the sun was already casting faint light on the hills.

So i took the trail through a pass and from there saw the trail plunging ever downwards into the valley below. On closer inspection i recognised a road as the one from Wonosobo and decided to walk down to it and catch a bus back to town. Just as i set off down the into the valley i heard my name called from high above. I looked up to see my Losmen owner shepharding a group of people down from the mountain that i had been too cheap to be guided up. It was a salutory lesson. The sun had clearly rised by now, but I climbed to the top of the mountain anyway. The views were spectacular and i vowed to be at the top of my next mountain for sunrise.