Throughout the years, I’ve subjected myself to some pretty hellacious conditions. The 41-hour bus ride from Mauritania to Mali, the feast on my flesh insects through the jungles of Congo, and the trek up Niragongo in the midst of a storm — all of which I willingly signed up for. Self-inflicted suffering in the name of what exactly, I’m still not sure. Curiosity? Adventure? Maybe a little of both? While in the act, I usually say never again, but time has a way of filtering things and helping us to remember the positive.
That list wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the Ijen Plateau, so naturally, I felt as though I had to go. Who doesn’t want to hike through the night, up and into a crater that’s spewing sulfur dioxide, alongside men performing backbreaking work — the most dangerous job in the world, they say — while sporting a gas mask, and still struggling to breathe. Sign me up! Sounds like a brilliant idea.
Sarcasm aside, seeing Ijen was truly something I’ve wanted to do for a while — a bucket list item, if you will. When I mentioned this to Frans, he said that he knew of a “crazy old Brit” that runs a small guesthouse in Banyuwangi, who could coordinate it for me. He made a phone call, gave me an address, and off to the airport I went.
Let’s just say that when I arrived, the first words that came to mind were “what the f___k.” Now, I’m pretty easy-going and I’ve stayed in some very questionable places, but this… this was literally a dilapidated shit hole. And that’s putting it politely. Thirty minutes after receiving the keys to my room, I walked to the bar area which doubled as reception, but the lights were off, and the place had cleared out. Interesting. I took a seat on the steps assuming someone would return, but they did not. In fact, after walking around the entire property and peering in windows, I concluded that not only am I a lone guest, I am the only person on the property, period.
With the sun setting and an empty stomach, I walked to the main road in search of a restaurant or street vendor, but I found neither. I returned to the property and fired off an email to the address that was listed on the back of my door. It basically read “Feed me. When am I going to Ijen?” Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, I had a response: the restaurant was closed (Really? It is? I hadn’t noticed.) and I’d be picked up at midnight with a trail time of 2:00 a.m.
I crawled in my sleeping bag liner (bed bugs seemed like a possibility) in hopes of getting 2-3 hours of sleep, but that was wishful thinking. We stopped along the way to collect two others – a guy from Spain and a girl from Canada. It was a welcome surprise, as I thought I might be going it alone with a guide who doesn’t speak any English. I was told the hike would be about 2.5 hours in the dark, up steep switchbacks, and then descending into the crater, which is home to a sulfur mine and the world’s largest acidic lake.
Halfway up, the other girl fell ill and opted to turn back. As we started the descent, we strapped on our masks and were told that the winds were stronger than usual, so to proceed with caution. We made it to the edge, just above the mining point to wait with two other groups for the sun to rise, before pressing to the bottom.
Sure enough, soon after stopping, the wind sped up and we were engulfed in the gas plumes. Everything around me just disappeared and the masks were no match. I felt as though I was suffocating. I couldn’t breathe, as it was burning my lungs, and I couldn’t see, as the clouds were too thick. I dropped to the ground and attempted to cover my face – especially my eyes that were gushing – but I couldn’t contain my coughing and quickly became completely disoriented. I knew I was somewhere near the edge, but I was no longer sure of my direction. Panic set in and then everything went blank. For how long, I’m not exactly sure. Seconds? Minutes, maybe? I came to when another guide latched onto my backpack, pulling me towards a clearing.
I’m sure that it’s an experience I will truly appreciate with time, as the setting is stunning and the work that’s performed makes you pause and appreciate what you have, and what you do for a living. It really is the luck of the draw. We don’t choose where we’re born or how we’re raised – so much of it is up to chance. For these men, this is all they know – hauling 150-pound louds up and over a mountain, often twice a day. And what do they get for this grueling work? About $3 a load. Three whole dollars. You can’t even leave a Starbucks line for that.
It actually makes my stomach turn and my heart hurt. We are so sickeningly lucky. And half the time we neglect to see it.
