Indonesia is dangerously beautiful. Not only can you find 20 per cent of Earth’s biodiversity in this country, but also the highest number of active volcanoes. We decided to climb the most active of them all. “Merapi is an asshole, but a friendly one.”
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Take an island the size of Greece and put 143 million people on it. Congratulations, you’ve just created one of the most densely populated places on Earth. Now, plant 45 active volcanoes on this tiny piece of land and let the Earth rumble more often than the British parliament during Brexit discussions. The setting for an improbable disaster film in which Tom Cruise has to save the planet? Nope. It is, matter-of-factly, the geographical background of Java, the most prominent of the 17.000 islands that form Indonesia.
Java lies amidst the Ring of Fire, a 40.000-kilometre long horseshoe that stretches from the southwestern edge of Latin-America northwards until Alaska and dives past Eastern Russia, Japan, the Philippines and Indonesia to the islands of the Pacific Ocean. Excessive amounts of earthquakes happen in the Ring of Fire, an area which contains 452 volcanoes.
To understand the mechanics behind the Ring of Fire, we have to go underground.
You probably won’t notice it whilst pouring pints down your throat in the pub, but the coat of the Earth is divided into tectonic plates. And these plates move — towards each other, away from each other or along one another. Which doesn’t happen without a struggle, but creates a bit of friction. Where two plates rub, mountains and volcanoes pop up and earthquakes take place. Now you realise why we don’t have these problems in Belgium. Our little country is simply too far removed from the border of the Eurasian plate.
Which is in sharp contrast with Java, where the Indo-Australian plate rapidly glissades under the Eurasian one. The island is therefore almost entirely of volcanic origin. Mudslides spread ash and lava and have turned the country into what it is, an immensely fertile green paradise. But also one of the most seismologically active regions on the planet.
We have to hop one island westward to grasp the possible consequences. To Sumatra, where the vast Lake Toba is a silent witness of the last ever super eruption. Male readers might try to convince themselves that they’ve achieved such a feat yesterday in bed, but in reality, the last supervolcano erupted around 74.000 years ago.
Toba’s explosion induced six years of volcanic winter. It ruined the climate for decades and, according to certain geneticists, almost lead to the end of humanity. They believe that only three to ten thousand people survived the catastrophe – less than the population of, say, Sindi, Estonia. According to the scientists, everyone alive today descend from these few surviving Chuck Norisses.
Not every expert agrees with this theory, but still: volcanoes have had a serious impact on mankind. And Sumatra and Java are strewn with potential Tobas.
The call of Merapi
May 2006. It’s a rotten time to be god-fearing in Yogyakarta. The inhabitants of the Javanese city must believe that someone up there bears a grudge against them. In the southern district of Bantul, an earthquake and a tsunami have killed 5000 people and destroyed almost all the houses. At the same time, volcano Merapi up north has been grunting and mumbling for weeks.
Yogyakarta lies bang smack in the middle of Java, in one of the epicentres of the Ring of Fire. Even though Jakarta governs the country (or does it?), the heart of Java beats the loudest in Yogyakarta. And that heartbeat follows the rhythm of Merapi, the colossus that towers over the city. Yogyakarta lives by the grace of its volcano, the most active in the country. According to some sources, the most active in the world. Since 1768, Merapi has erupted at least 85 times. The volcano torments the population once every three to four years on average. That’s almost as regular as Nickleback’s album releases.
Once every 30 to 100 years, Merapi goes completely bonkers, when the Mountain of Fire – the literal translation from Javanese – is on collision course and victims are inevitable. 2006’s grumble turns out to be mostly a sham manoeuvre, but Yogyakarta isn’t so lucky four years later. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
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When we moved to Yogyakarta for a year, we dreamed of waking up every morning, pulling open the curtains and admiring that big mountain on the horizon. The reality is less romantic. And not only because of the local lack of curtains. Merapi is more often veiled in smog or clouds than the local beauties in hijabs. But on those rare days that the contours of the mountain stand out clearly on the horizon, our fascination grows. Merapi pulls us harder than an all-you-can-eat buffet attracts a fatso. It’s a dream of a mountain, a beautiful giant with a blue-grey hue and a dramatically pointed top, like a child would draw it. Not like Merbabu, the other volcanic tit in the Central-Javanese landscape. The friendly twin of Merapi almost never shares her wrath with the environs and has been in a coma since 1791.
To canalise our boyish fascination for the mountain, we drive our motorbike to Kaliurang. A mountain village founded in the 18th century by Dutch colonists who couldn’t handle the open-air sauna called Yogyakarta. Christian Awuy has been organising Merapi tours for 32 years. We’ve set our mind on climbing this big guy, so we can use some of Christian’s expertise.
The man from Sulawesi shares our love for Merapi. “For years, I worked on a ship. Every time we floated in the Indian Ocean south of Yogyakarta, I saw Merapi in the distance. When we shipwrecked at the end of the 70s, I’d had it with the sailing life.” Christian looks for a job in the city, as a construction worker, and his employer sends him to Kaliurang to build a dam. He eats his rice in the same restaurant every evening. He does not only have an eye for Merapi: Christian marries the beautiful daughter of the house and takes over the business of her parents. “Merapi was calling me”, he explains.
Melted nose
In the 35 years that Christian Awuy has been living in Kaliurang, he has been forced to leave his mountain several times. In October and November 2010, Merapi spits volcanic matter more than a mile high into the air. The ground shakes, lava rolls down the flanks and it hails stones. Locals stand knee-deep in ash. But most of the damage is caused by pyroclastic flows, scorching avalanches of lava, debris, stones and glowing hot gas that rages from the volcano at speeds of 150 kilometres an hour.
The government, fortunately, keeps a close eye on Merapi with seismographs, magnetic metres, lava sensors and the likes. Tens of thousands of people have been moved to camps in the days leading up to the eruption. Not everyone listens to the call for an evacuation. Most locals have been living all their lives on the slopes of Merapi and think they know the Mountain of Fire by now. They know from experience that the lava does not reach their villages. But this time they’re wrong. It’s the worst eruption in 140 years. Pyroclastic flows flood villages, overthrow houses and burn people alive. Rescue workers carry injured people away by the truckload, their clothes, blankets and mattresses glued to their bodies.
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In the early morning, Christians son Aldrin takes us to the places of disaster, on the southern flank of the volcano. It’s forbidden to reach the summit from Kaliurang — the mouth of the volcano opens dangerously in this direction — but hikers can still make enjoyable treks. The power of nature is excessively present, as evidenced by the concrete picnic pavilion that has been overturned as if it were a piece of Playmobil.
The bunker further down wasn’t resistant to the fury either. Two unfortunate visitors experience this firsthand in 2006. When they see pyroclastic flows rushing towards them, they quickly hide in the metal shelter. Alas, the lava turns their ersatz accommodation into a roasting oven. “One of them wanted to cool down in the bathroom and was boiled alive, the other one was barbecued”, Aldrin reports dryly. Admittedly, it’s a different dilemma than the choice between muesli or toast for breakfast. “I opened one of the body bags”, says Aldrin, “His nose was melted and had dropped to the position of his chin.”
Forbidden to wear green
The remains of the village Kinahrejo lie just a stone’s throw away from the bunker. This was the residence of Grandpa Maridjan, appointed by the Sultan of Yogyakarta as the spiritual guardian of Merapi. The Javanese are crazy about mysticism and they’re incredibly superstitious. Merapi is a sacred mountain for them. All the more so because the volcano forms an important symbolic axis with the palace of the Sultan and the Queen of the South. The latter is an ocean goddess, equally worshipped and feared by the Javanese. According to the legend, she regularly swallows beach-goers dressed in green. As if those five remaining fans of Cercle Brugge aren’t struggling enough as it is!
Each village has its own myth about the creation of Merapi. According to one of them, Java is unbalanced when the gods create the Earth. Their solution is to plant a mountain in the middle of the island. When the gods arrive at the place of construction, they find two smiths in the process of fabricating daggers. The gods ask them to fuck off, but the smiths ignore that command. Which, in turn, does not fare well with the gods. They bury the two dimwits under Merapi.
Fortunately for them, they can call themselves commanders of all mystical beings in the region ever since. They found a kingdom inside the mountain, the spiritual counterpart of the sultanate of Yogyakarta, completely with a palace, roads, soldiers, princes, vehicles and pets. When residents of the flanks of Merapi swap the temporary for the eternal, they move into the underground city. On the condition, obviously, that they’ve lived an honest life and have muttered their Quranic verses every day. Islam and old animistic religions go hand in hand in Java. In the underground world, the spirits of the deceased are being employed as royal servants. Whenever the volcano is about to erupt, they warn their descendants about the impending doom.
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It is, in other words, vitally important to keep the Merapi spirits on your side. Grandpa Maridjan plays a crucial role. As the spiritual guardian, he has the most direct line to the spirits. He leads a procession every year, in which he donates rice, flowers, textiles, perfume and incense to the spirits. Judging by the regularity with which the volcano expresses his discontent, those spirits must be often thinking: ‘Oh god, is he there again with his junk?’
Nevertheless, Grandpa is a national hero, a status he owes to his ‘heroic’ deeds in 2006. When the government starts evacuating, Maridjan remains stoic. He does not flee but goes to the mosque to pray instead. Why? The gods haven’t given the right signals yet. The lava finally doesn’t flow to his house, although let’s leave it in the middle whether he owes that to a divine interception or a large part of good fortune.
He’s convinced of the latter and his fellow villagers are with him. In a rare 2010 interview, he says that it’s “my job to prevent the lava from flowing down. Let the volcano breath, but not cough.” Too bad for Maridjan but the eruption of that year looks more like the death rattle of a lifelong smoker. Even the guru can’t stop pyroclastic flows of 1000 degrees Celsius. Numerous stubborn acolytes imagine themselves indestructible in his presence and accompany Maridjan to death.
Comrade Merapi
If you’ve always wanted to know what happens when you leave your car on an erupting volcano, you better investigate the charred vehicle in Kinahrejo. Aldrin instructs us to hold our hand over the lava stone. Five years after the eruption, it still produces enough warmth to fry an egg.
A bit further, excavators are digging. The stones and volcanic sands that the volcano has deposited, is full of minerals and extremely suitable for construction. Near the ruins of the village and the bunker, wrinkled grannies sell drinks and snacks to disaster tourists. Farmers mow grass for their cattle.
Aren’t these people afraid of a new eruption? Aldrin sees our confusion and explains: “We are in the red zone, which means that no one can live here. Most of these people live lower on the flanks nowadays, and come here only to work.”
There are, however, others who ignore the ban completely. Back in Kaliurang, we ask Christian why. “Merapi is not an enemy for them, but a friend. He’s an asshole, yes, but a friendly one. He kills people with his lava, pyroclastic flows and lahars, mudflows that bring down volcanic matter. But, at the same time, the mountain rewards them. Volcanic minerals are very fertile. The people consider them gifts from the spirits.”
It other words: Merapi is an occasional bringer of death, but a constant giver of life. Consider the families which lost their houses in 2010. Before the eruption, they live from the land. They barely make it through the day, living from hand to mouth. Now, there’s a jeep and two motorbikes parked in front of each of the families’ houses. Thanks to the volcanic sand, which raises a lot of money. They rent out their vehicles to Indonesian tourists for a bit of extra cash. The whims of Merapi support a whole economy.
When we say goodbye, we ask Christian if he thinks the volcano will erupt soon. “Merapi is one of the few volcanoes whose cycle allows for accurate predictions. Every four or five years, the mountain erupts. Merapi has rumbled a few times since 2010, but that didn’t mean much. We’re expecting a new eruption any minute now.” Thanks for the encouragement, Christian! We, who are about to die, salute you.
Lord of the Rings
And all of a sudden, there you are, struggling on the flanks of the most active volcano in the world. We’ve gathered some friends — if we’re going to be facing a pyroclastic flow, it’s better to have a hand to squeeze whilst peeing our pants.
We do not have much faith in the government’s early warning system. Instead, we try to remember the rules of thumb of Christian, who has learned to recognise nature’s warnings. First, birds make a hell of a noise whilst flying down the mountains. Then, snakes come to the surface. They live in underground caves and retreat from the heat. If you also hear dogs barking towards the volcano, you better start running faster than a Liverpool supporter in a bar full of Manchester United hooligans, because the volcano will erupt anytime.
It gives us some peace of mind, but we still wonder what the hell we’re doing, climbing ourselves to complete exhaustion in the middle of the night, surrounded by a bunch of overly loud Indonesians who all want a selfie? Why didn’t we choose a more quiet hobby, like whist or stamp-collecting? But then we remember how the famous Everest climber George Mallory answered why he wanted to climb that mountain: “Because it’s there.” Then again, Mallory died on Everest, so maybe not the most motivational example.
But okay, the night is so beautiful and bright that we don’t even need a headlamp to climb. Merbabu shines in the light of the full moon. Our journey leads us out of Selo, in the fertile valley between Merapi en Merbabu, over a steep trail through plantations. Before we know it, we’re clambering amidst untouched nature. This is where we feel at home, where no one can disturb us, where…
“Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahuuu Akbar!”
It is four o ‘clock and it sounds like a pig is being slaughtered in the valley. The imam of Selo calls for the morning prayer. We almost forgot that we’re still in Java, one big village where you’re never further away from a mosque than from a McDonald’s in the USA.
Two hours later. We’ve passed the tree line, the underground consists of nothing but rocks. It can’t be far now. When we witness a mass photoshoot next to a memorial plaque for Merapi victims, my acolytes throw their arms up in the air. “Hooray”, they cheer, “We’re on top of Merapi.”
“Uh, friends, not to spoil the fun, but look over there.” The arms lower, the faces go sad. One of my fellow climbers suddenly remembers she has a fear of heights. The last part of the climbs looms before us, a frighteningly steep mini-Merapi on Merapi. Human dots are struggling up like ants.
Each step means sliding two metres down in the loose sand. The slope rises almost 60 per cent. For cycling fans, that’s three times steeper than even the steepest parts of the steepest hills in the Tour de France. Trying to avoid the rolling stones, pushed down by fellow climbers, we close in on the summit. The reward is worth the hurdles race. The top looks like a scene from Lord of the Rings, and not just because the Indonesian climbers look like hobbits. Congratulations, Merapi, you’re one hell of a Drama Queen.
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The original version first appeared in the now-defunct Flemish weekly P-magazine. This post has been translated and edited for clarity.
Gunnung Bagging has all the information you need on climbing the volcanoes of Indonesia, including Gunung Merapi.
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