I have only been in the southern Indonesian city of Yogyakarta two hours, and am already being told to ready myself for a 3am start the next morning. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, I will negotiate my ascent up Merapi, the forbidding volcano that looms over the north of Yogyakarta. My lack of readiness for this dawn wake-up call – and the journey in general – is reflected by my footwear: a pair of fragile flip-flops.
Not wanting to haul myself out of bed only to be turned away for inappropriate shodding, I ask the tour operator if I can still make the climb. He wonders if they are trekking sandals. I’ve traversed many a terrain wearing them, I tell him. He replies that it’s not the rough ground I should be concerned about, but the snakes. Have I got any socks? A 3am start and now I have to worry about snakes… terrific.
The next day, despite my lack of sleep (thanks to a night spent Googling Indonesia’s indigenous reptile population), it’s difficult to begrudge the early rise. Invigorated by the cool air, we journey by torchlight into the dense forest that encircles Merapi’s baron slopes. As daylight begins to colour the black canvas of night, the silhouettes of tangled trees, bamboo and vines become visible, and the forest soon resonates with a chorus of birdsong and the call to prayer from nearby villages – an eerie but mesmerising duet of man and nature.
Merapi, black and brooding, imposes itself on the skyline with all the authority you’d expect from a landmark with a name meaning ‘mountain of fire’. The volcano has been consistently ranked as the world’s most active. It erupted as recently as 2010, though was at its most destructive in 2006, when related earthquakes caused the deaths of around 5,000 people – many of whom refused to evacuate despite repeated warnings from the authorities. Our guide explains that there is still a deep-seated belief among many locals that Merapi embodies the soul of a benevolent ancient king. Rather than fear volcanic activity, they welcome it because it ensures the surrounding land remains fertile enough to support their subsistence farming.
Our tour group only makes it as far as the foot of the volcano, not the result of poor footwear, but rather because Merapi has been showing signs of volatility. Being spared the exertion of the climb means I still have sufficient energy to explore the city that same day. Yogyakarta, or Jogja as it is also known, is as renowned for its cultural heritage as it is for its natural wonders. This is exemplified by the Keraton (the Sultan’s palace), which lies at the heart of the city.
While this structure embodies the pomp of Jogja’s royal past, the city’s humble yet equally fascinating traditions live on at the nearby Pasar Burung Ngasem. The bird market is a living, breathing, squawking assault on the senses. For some, the notion of caged animals may be distasteful, but it’s difficult not to be enthralled by the sights, smells and sounds of this truly unique place. Just south of the market’s flutter is Taman Sari, which was effectively the Sultan’s personal water park. Natural and man-made disasters have since reduced it to ruins, but the area is still a lot of fun to explore.
The jewel of Yogyakarta’s historical attractions lies on the city outskirts, which means, somewhat inevitably, another early morning for me. For the second day running, I find myself squeezed into a rattling bus, hurtling through dark, empty streets towards Borobudur, a ninth-century Buddhist monument commonly referred to as Indonesia’s Angkor Wat. Personally, I find such comparisons unhelpful – anyone travelling here should do so with an open mind, rather than have Cambodia’s finest cultural attraction as a mental point of reference. Borobudur is an impressive site to behold, especially at sunrise. Or so I’m told. The tour I’m on arrives after the glowing embers of dawn. If you want to catch the golden rays, leave Jogja at 4am, not 5am.
While I’m disappointed to miss that sunrise moment, the relatively early start to my tour at least means I’m there before most tourists arrive. Borobudur is Indonesia’s biggest tourist attraction after Bali, with about 2.5 million visitors each year, so I’m pleasantly surprised that I’m able to stroll around the site without interruption, enjoying its intricate reliefs and watching the morning mist slowly retreat from the surrounding valleys.
Returning to the bus, I’m overcome with a pleasant fatigue, happy with what I’ve experienced, and pleased that so much of the day still lies ahead. Yet my main satisfaction is reserved for a far more sartorial matter: I’ve managed to avoid the indignity of sightseeing in socks and sandals.
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