The Long and Winding Road

Somewhere around these parts we cross an invisible 'line' where the flora and fauna changes from Asian to Australasian. The people on Flores also look different - less Malay, more Melanesian maybe, with broader noses and wiry hair. It feels like we're a long way from Java. (We are.) The towns are smaller and a little scruffy, but the people seem genuinely friendlier - probably because there are less tourists travelling here. I'd started to feel a bit tired of the journeys here and didn't feel that Indonesia was really 'grabbing' me. This might be because we've been travelling so long now, or that we're only getting out of it what we put into it and it's difficult to motivate ourselves when we're put off by the overcharging and the effects of mass tourism. Thankfully Flores offers enough to revive us, although it's only as we are about to leave the island that we actually find a place nice enough to stay more than a couple of nights. Indonesia seems to have a lot of charmless towns.

The cross-island journey is made easier by a freshly-tarmacced road and the use of travels. A travel is just a minibus or large car, which offers greater speed and more comfort than a normal bus. They are used by locals as well as tourists and are especially good for enjoying the views as the roads on Flores twist and climb over high passes and ridges, with rice terraces and volcanoes, coffee trees and sweeping coastal bays. The travels are often driven by young men with poor taste in music. Appropiately for a volcanic island, they all appear to chain smoke. Windscreens are also decorated with bright cuddly toys and 'trophy' wing-mirrors - each one presumably marks the demise of a poor unlucky motorcyclist bumped off the road. We almost leave the road one day as a combination of these factors come into play. Our driver is busy trying to find another lousy tune on his cd player, one hand on the wheel and fag in hand, overtaking a motorcyclist, when the rainbow-coloured stuffed caterpillar stuck to the top of his windscreen comes unstuck and obscures his view. We can see our own horrified faces aghast reflected in the multiple mirrors as we swerve towards the abyss.

From Bajawa we visit a couple of villages with Judith and Kent where traditional beliefs and customs are still followed, despite the spread of Christianity on the island. The houses are laid out in two facing rows, some decorated with carvings and buffalo horns (these reflect the status of the household) and in the middle are flat terraces with graves, crucifixes, standing stones and representations of male and female deities. Piles of freshly picked coffee and cacao are sitting out to dry. The villagers are used to tourists coming to take a look and some are selling vanilla pods and ikat weaving. At the end of our day trip we bathe at the junction of two rivers, one coming from a hot spring. It's the first hot water we've had for some time and it's lovely.

We spend a night in Ruteng to break the onward journey. I get a haircut while Gayle watches 'Titanic' in the restaurant where we have a late lunch. I learn from a man at the hotel that there's been bombs at two hotels in Jakarta. He seems less upset about the bombing itself than the fact that Manchester United have now cancelled their visit. Funny old place, Ruteng. Next morning we are picked up by another travel doing the rounds of the hotels looking for punters. We stop for two nights in Ende although there's no real reason to. Down at the seafront there's a sorry looking market with a cheerful bunch of fishermen and vendors selling their bits and pieces. A restaurant advertises its dishes with pictures of a pig and a dog on its awning. In one shop I buy new batteries. The man behind the counter advises me to take the Sanyo over the Sony. They are priced the same - what's the difference? The Sony ones are fake, he says. Everywhere we walk people shout out the all-too familiar greeting "Hello mister! Where are you going?" Big grins all round. Not much happens in Ende.

Another twisty road leads on to Moni from where we can visit the volcanic lakes of Kelimutu. It's one of those places that everyone visits on their way across the island, and early the next morning we can see why - three huge crater lakes at the top of the mountain in different hues. There are wonderful views and the surrounding landscape is green and lush. On our walk down we pass towering tree ferns and coffee bushes.

Our last week on Flores is spent at a lovely little guesthouse on the north coast, with just three stilted bungalows. Here we have a good time with Stephane and Marine, two French 'routards' who we first met back in Bajawa. They too want to rest up and Wodong Beach is one of those places where you can. The beach itself is shallow and black with volcanic sand, but the water is calm, the view out to the islands is great, and the guesthouse is peaceful. Well, almost. Most mornings the cockerels get rather vocal but they quieten down after seven. There's another French couple, Davide and Emmanuelle, and at dinner it's almost possible to imagine we are silent extras in a French film. Marine has a great laugh - reminds me of Sid James. A couple of times we hire a boat to go snorkelling off some of the islands - the water is crystal clear and there's coral reefs that just drop away. Even I finally get into the water, it looks so inviting. We both feel refreshed when we eventually leave - possibly from the ambience here but certainly from the company of Marine and Stephane, who's enthusiasm for travelling and for places they have been is quite infectious.

East of Bali

Nusa Tenggara is the collective name for the islands stretching east of Bali. We head straight to Gili Meno, a tiny island off Lombok, where Gayle had been on her previous trip here about 18 years ago. It is one of three tiny islands that are now at different stages of tourist development. Meno is the quieter island: no full-moon parties or booming sound systems, except for the mosque, the only vehicles are horse drawn buggies and the greatest disturbance is the chorus of cockerels just before daybreak. We notice the cockerels more because we are staying in a stilted bungalow in the village and it sometimes sounds like their favourite spot. As a result, we actually catch a couple of sunrises during our 12-day stay. The island is the perfect place to recover from our travels thus far in Indonesia and prime us for the run to East Timor. Needless to say there is lots of sunbathing, reading, beachcombing and swimming. It might not be the perfect beach place, but it's one of the best we've found so far. We meet here Chris and his son Craig, from Newcastle, who are on a diving holiday and we meet up each evening to chew the fat and eat as well, accompanied by some very welcome duty-free vodka and tonics. They're great company and a good laugh. Chicken curry and rice hasn't tasted so good in ages, as Gayle and Craig will testify. During the day we can enjoy the white sandy beach, Gayle goes snorkelling with Chris and Craig, or there's the circumperambulation (?!) of the island. The time flies by too quickly. Gayle celebrates her 40th birthday - Chris and Craig rustle up some candles. We eventually say our fond farewells to our new friends, who are kindly carrying a parcel home for us, and who also donate a snorkelling mask to our travel kit.

We don't dither on Lombok but catch a luxurious air-conditioned bus all the way to the end of Sumbawa. Now this is the way to go - legroom for a basketball player, no loud Indo pop to keep us awake (it's a night bus) and just before sundown a pleasant two hour ferry across to Sumbawa. The reality comes at 3.30 am when the bus turfs us out short of our destination and we have to cram into the usual rusty tin-can minibus for the final two hours. But first we have to wait for two hours. There's a few other westerners going this way, including Judith and Kent, a friendly Canadian couple who are also heading to East Timor. Good company for the next stage which is an all-day ferry ride over to Flores. The weather is good as we pass by the infamous Komodo island, too far off to catch sight of those big flabby lizards. At last we arrive and find a 'cheap' hotel (it's high season and somewhat overpriced) and it feels good to shower and eat a good square meal.

(I don't want to go to) Kuta

It's easy to love and loathe Ubud at the same time. We have a comfortable room in a friendly little guesthouse on the edge of the rice paddies. The place used to be a village, or a collection of villages and is now becoming a town. "Tourist Central" is how it's been described to us, and there are echoes of Thamel in Kathmandu. But step off the main roads and you can find yourself walking around a sleepy kampung, or amongst rice paddies. Not for long though. There's always an art gallery just around the corner. Balinese art seems to have evolved into the mass production of modern art, all of it looking rather similar. There are other more traditional arts and crafts such as stone and wood-carving, and these also seem to be mass-produced for the tourists. It's everywhere. Tucked away on a quiet lane we find a shop promoting the weaving of women from all the islands. It's a unique Fair Trade place and those involved have worked hard to revive traditional weaving techniques and local styles, particularly of ikat.

What's most striking and visible here are the daily rituals of the mainly Hindu population. Balinese Hinduism is quite different to the original Indian variety. It was only brought to the island in the 14th century by a kingdom fleeing a Muslim conqueror in Java. The religion was incorporated with the already strong animistic practices of the Balinese. And so ancestor and spirit worship fits alongside the worship of the Hindu trinity of gods. In addition, there is a single overarching god. Every building and every village seems to have a shrine or collection of shrines, where offerings are made and incense lit daily. The shrines don't feature any particular god, and are empty, although occasionally we see a Ganesh perched at a doorstep, or on a ledge. In front of every door and gateway are the tell-tale offerings of rice and flowers and incense sticks. It's the first time that I comprehend that Indonesia is a country made up of many different peoples and cultures.
One thing that remains constant is nasi campur (pronounced champur). This might just be the national dish, although it's a close run thing with nasi goreng. The latter is just fried rice with a fried egg, whereas nasi campur is plain rice with a selection of different meat and vegetable dishes. Sometimes you can get chicken, jackfruit curry, greens, and fried anchovies, all topped with fried peanuts, coconut and chilli. It's become our favourite dish and is usually available everywhere we go.

We don't attend any of the 'cultural evenings' in Ubud of dance and music, put off by the touts pushing tickets - there are perhaps five events each evening, some advertising 'fire dance'. We don't think we have the patience for a two hour show. Instead we shove off south and finally arrive in Kuta, a place we've been dreading. It's not so awful - just a very large beach resort for package holiday makers and surfers alike. Blackpool's worse. The beach is nothing special, in fact disappearing under the onslaught of big waves. And it's the waves that attract the surfers. We have come to see Greg, our friend who we last met in Varanasi. He lives here, and like a true Californian, loves the surf. Kuta has expanded considerably since he first came here and it's become more built up with shops and swish restaurants, bars, clubs and one large traffic jam. Height restrictions have stopped the building getting out of hand, but the place is spreading with development. The place is full of Aussies on holiday and some of the local touts greet us with a "mate" tagged on. We are very happy to catch up with Greg, who has just returned from the States, and we have a couple of nice evenings with him. One night he takes us one at a time on the back of his motorbike to eat. I think it's fair to say he cannot drive like this in the States. When it's time to get off I have to peel my fingers off the pillion I've been gripping. Gayle is treated to a short ride up on the pavements mid-journey. You can pay to ride pillion like this with motorcyclists, called ojeks. I swear after this that I will never go near one.

Greg's charms and hospitality can't hold us in Kuta though and we want to move on. We are about to hunt down a bemo, a local minibus to take us to the bus terminal when we pass a travel agent offering private transport for tourists. We finally crack. We pay what feels like a large sum but probably isn't for a transfer out of Kuta and off Bali by boat to the Gillis - small islands just off the north west coast of Lombok. We're in a rush to get away and find a quiet place.......

Bounty

Tropical Paradise? Tourist Honeypot? To be honest, we don't have high expectations of the island of Bali, if only because it is Indonesia's most popular destination, although we aren't so certain when we step off the ferry and find our way to the bus terminal. There is a languid air about the place and of the twenty or so people there, only four look like they are waiting for transport. Then we spot a minibus going in the direction we want, but it's jammed tight, and we aren't tempted. Soon after it leaves. And so does our hope of any further onward travel today. It's only just gone 4 on a Sunday afternoon, but there's not much action going on. What little there is focuses on the Bakso Man. We succumb. There's not much else to do but chew on the rubbery little meatballs. Time passes. We keep on chewing. What we need are other prospective passengers to fill up another minibus, but there's more chance of a snowstorm. Just after 7, whilst we're considering kipping down for the night on the benches, three lads appear. There's now 9 of us, and after a quick conflab with the flabby conman, I mean driver, where everyone agrees to pay a bit more (except us two, because the driver forgets he'd already quoted us a higher price than everyone else) we finally depart for Lovina, a quiet beachy place on Bali's north coast. I'm convinced it's snowing as we leave the terminal, but it could be a bakso-induced hallucination.

We spend a few days lounging in Lovina, a fairly peaceful place, where a few tourists come to escape the party scene in the south. There are more hotels than tourists. I'm not sure if this is a reflection on the tourists, or the optimistic locals. However, we are thrilled to have a room big enough to play frisbee in and an attached bathroom that's larger than most of the rooms we normally get. The Balinese are renowned for their friendliness and openness. So many conversations start with a hello, how are you, where are you from, where are you going? but too many end with the conversation-killing you want transport? Every shop and cafe has a blackboard offering the same services - tours, transport and laundry. One entrepreneur is even offering "laundry transport" - presumably to save you taking it down to the shop yourself. We head on to Ubud, stopping on the way in the hills to visit a small Hindu-Buddhist temple dedicated to the goddess of the waters, Dewi Danu, worshipped by all the farmers. Bali is after all a big rice-producer and there are paddies everywhere. However, we have heard that less and less people want to farm on the island, presumably as tourism is recovering from the 2002 and 2005 bomb attacks and there are other,easier, ways of earning a living. (One popular way is to stand around around on street corners, offering transport. Another one, the woman at our hotel was thinking of starting, is a laundry service for "the prostitutes that come here from Java". Hmm.) It's at the temple that we finally come face to face with Bali's mass tourism. Coach after coach disgorges tourists from other parts of Indonesia, Taiwan, Singapore, Europe, Australia and the US of A. The temple is built in Balinese style, with a series of thatched roofs, on a small island in a lake. Most of the tour groups don't stay long, unless they have opted for the boat ride around the lake. It's fresh up here and we have a chilly evening at our guesthouse chatting with a friendly Dutch couple.

The journey to Ubud seems strangely complicated. First we have to take a bemo to Denpasar, Bali's capital, then another across town between bus terminals, and then a third to Ubud, which is a little bit northwards. (If you're wondering why I'm always writing about the transport on these pages it's because it sometimes comes back to haunt me and writing is a cathartic process. And besides, this is a travel blog.) At the first terminal in Denpasar we seem to hit an invisible brick wall. There is a bemo lined up to go to the next terminal but it is empty. There are no punters waiting, just the strong smell of urine, which reminds us nostalgically of India. No problem, we can wait. We wait over an hour and a half, turning down a few offers of a "special" bemo, or seats on buses going "close to Ubud". We see only one other foreigner in this terminal and we know it's because so few actually use the public transport network. Of course, we are starting to understand why. You need the patience of a saint, and we ain't saints. Mind you we have legs, so we get up to walk. Just as we are striding off a driver catches up with us with a tempting offer to take us to Ubud. Sixty thousand. Thirty each? we ask, and he indicates to us to get in. It's double what we were going to pay, but it's still the best offer we've had. We say yes and finally depart. It all seems too good to be true, and we both have our doubts when the driver tries to dump us on the edge of Ubud into the hands of waiting hotel touts. We ask him to take us to the centre, as agreed. A couple more times he tries to offload us, but we finally reach the gridlocked centre. We pay him the fare and get out. He shouts after us. He wants another 60 thousand! We stride off down the street, ignoring him, and only afterwards do we start to wonder who ripped who off? We're convinced we agreed 60 thousand for two, but maybe......No, we're certain. However, as we walk down the street and merge with all the other tourists, we realise that as long as we're here, there'll always be a bounty on our heads. A man smiles at us as we pass him:
"Transport?"

The Big Smoke

"Bromo?" "Bromo?" "Bromo!" A chorus goes up from the touts as we approach the minibus stand. "How much is it?" we ask in perfect Bahasa Indonesia. "25 thousand" "Oooh, that's too expensive. The usual price is 15" "Ahh, you'll bankrupt me!" says the driver. This dialogue is almost word for word from our scripted conversation from our language course notes. There's a couple of local tourists stood to one side. We ask them quietly what they're paying, but they too have been quoted the higher rate, so they're waiting to see if the driver will drop his price. We wait with them, and are joined by Francesco and Matteo, the two Italian brothers we've already met. After an early lunch and the appearance of more local punters the minibus is about to leave. We are offered twenty thousand. We take it, and are about to drive off when the driver notices the other two guys hanging back. Eventually they too agree a price and finally we're off up into the hills and are soon climbing up a good road through farmland on the edges of a huge volcanic caldera. At the top is a small village where we are turfed out. We have a magnificent view overlooking the 'sea of sands' - a vast pit full of volcanic sand in the middle of which sits a small perfectly coned volcano and another flatter crumbled cone which is belching smoke. This latter is Mount Bromo. But we are stood on the edge of what was a much larger volcano, about 6 kilometres across. Volcanos within volcanos. After the larger one had blown its top, new ones emerged in the ashes. It's a fabulous view. But the best view, we are told, is from the high point around the rim and we can go there by jeep early next morning for sunrise. Of course, there's the small consideration of a fee.
With the Italians we join the two Indonesian guys and two young Indonesian women in search for a cheap hotel and all take rooms in a simple losmen (guesthouse). Whilst the Indonesians are keen to take a jeep the next day, we decide to take the path that climbs up the ridge. Francesco and Matteo are keen too so we arrange to set off about 4 am in the dark. There are still a couple of hours of daylight so Gayle and I wander down onto the 'sea of sands'. It's only a half hour walk across to the foot of Bromo and we are soon peering over the edge into the pit of the volcano. A continuous cloud of sulphurous fumes are streaming out of the centre. Enough to put us off boiled eggs for a month. On the way back we are offered horse rides, jeep rides, motorcycle rides. "Jalan jalan" we say, just walking. But after a while there's only so many "jalan jalans" we can utter and we end up ignoring them. As the sun drops so does the temperature and there's a strange feeling of relief as we actually begin to feel cold. And colder. We're so happy to have our sleeping bags. The locals are walking around the village with towels and shawls and hats and scarves. Down below it's probably about 24C at night.
Although Bromo is quite small, it is also quite big. Big business. We haven't seen many tourists around so the next morning comes as a bit of a shock. After a good walk up the ridge we come out onto a road that is lined with old Toyota jeeps. Hundreds of them. At the viewpoint at the top there is a mass of tourists, all wrapped up against the cold. We are probably the only four people who are toasty warm. As luck has it, the sun immediately appears on the horizon, and the crowd emits a united "Ooooooh" as it lurches eastwards to the barrier to get that all important photo. About an hour later they've all gone. We can see where as down below on the sands the jeeps reappear in a cloud of dust to eject their passengers at Bromo's foot. Peace at last. And fabulous views. On the edges of the wider crater the land is green, thick with vegetation and fields of crops. Within it's a dry and fairly barren place. In the distance are other volcanic peaks sticking up above the clouds. Bromo's smoke drifts benignly across the panorama.
Later we retrace our steps down to the hot lowlands and spend a sultry night in a motel-style place near to the bus stand. It's a charming little place that looks like they'd rent rooms by the hour. But it's convenient for us - tomorrow we need an early start to Bali.

Solo (Together)

The city has another name, Surakarta, but is known as Solo. Coming out of the train station we are met by some cheery becak and taxi drivers who smell fresh blood. But we decline their kind offers of lifts to the city centre and catch a bemo instead. The banter has got us a little excitable and Gayle sticks her tongue out at them as we drive off on the minibus, to the amusement of bystanders. Our moment of triumph is short-lived when we realise it's going the wrong way. Nevertheless we're happy to escape all the unwanted attention and it's only a couple of kilometres out of our way. We have no high hopes for the city itself, with a population of over a million and a half, and counting, but it's a stepping stone in the right direction, eastwards, and there's usually good grub to be found if you look hard enough. Sure enough we find a street stall in the evening that has an inspiring number of local punters and a large team of staff to rustle up steaming bowls of seafood noodle soup. We even to get to try out our basic Bahasa Indonesia with the owner, a smiling elderly gent who turns out to speak more English than he initially cracks on.

Out of the city there's one of Java's last Hindu temples, built in the 15th century even as Islam was sweeping the island. Candi Sukuh sits on the flanks of a volcano, and is notable for it's 'erotic' carving. In fact, the carving perhaps reflects the animist beliefs that most Indonesian Hinduism overlays, and the temple is reknown for its fertility symbols and powers. At least it was. The large, and judging by the photos rather graphically carved, lingam over which childless women are said to have jumped in order to improve their odds, has been removed to the national museum in Jakarta. We see no leaping ladies today. However, there is the main temple still standing amongst the trees and in the clouds, looking a bit Aztec, and several statues and carved reliefs featuring such an array of characters we haven't seen the like before. Some remind me of chucking out time at the Whitworth. (That's the pub, not the art gallery.) To add to the mysterious ambience of the place, it starts to rain and we seek shelter with two young Italian brothers, Francesco and Matteo, and about a hundred Balinese teachers who have arrived in a fleet of buses just in time to put their coats on and buy snacks from the Bakso Man. The Bakso Man looks rather unfazed by this, but he's making a killing on what looked like was going to be just another slow Wednesday morning. (Bakso is a delightful concoction of minced meatballs that are boiled until they lack almost all flavour, but at the same time retain their compacted chewy texture. They are usually served in a broth so watery it makes consomme look like porridge. This Bakso Man is serving his in tiny polythene bags with a toothpick. To be fair to him, it's a tricky operation when all your supplies and equipment are racked up on the back of a rusty old bicycle.)

After the rain has stopped we take a track that winds around and down the mountainside, through steep farmland, every fertile inch of which is being cultivated - mostly maize, potatoes, carrots, onions and enormous cabbages - not what I'd have imagined for a tropical island. Dotted throughout the verdant landscape everywhere we look are clutches of houses with tiled roofs or rusting corrugated iron. There are lots of villages and lots of people. The farming looks tough - done by hand on steep terrain - but there's no sign of extreme poverty here, that you might see in India for instance. We greet and are greeted by people we pass by and are helped along our way with directions at the various road junctions. Sometimes it's handy to be in an overcrowded country - otherwise we might still be on that mountain now looking for the right road down.

Shaken but not stirred

Welcome to our new and improved blog with the added benefit, thanks to Google's new microbiological computer interface, of Scratch-and-Sniff (c) technology. Just click on this symbol # and scratch and sniff away.

There are over 240 million people in Indonesia and half of them live in Java, which is about the same size as England. It's kind of crowded. Sometimes it seems that everyone owns a motorbike too, especially when you're trying to cross the road in Yogya. This isn't a big city by Javanese standards, so we go for a walk around, eschewing the multiple offers of a ride from the becak drivers who are everywhere. The becak is a three-wheel cycle-rickshaw, and at each one we pass we are hailed with a "Hello mister, where do you want to go?" Away from you, is what we want to say. Down at the kraton there's a traditional puppet show going on for the visitors, accompanied by a gamelan orchestra. I'm not quite sure how to describe gamelan, which is a complex music created by striking various brass gongs, upturned pots, and vibraphonic thingummyjigs in a harmonic and rhythmnic fashion. After a while it starts to sound a bit like Pharoah Sanders' backing band. You hear this Indonesian music everywhere and it can be at turns hypnotic and/or mildly irritating. The puppet show itself is rather slow, with one man handling the two-dimensional puppets and speaking all the parts. After a long period of inaction there's a quite dramatic fight scene, which would have impressed anyone who was brought up on Sooty and Sweep. The kraton itself is a rather dull affair - a series of walled compounds with covered tiled sitting areas and some small rooms full of the kind of bric-a-brac you'd see on Antiques Roadshow. There's also plenty of batik on display. Back on the narrow maze of streets surrounding the kraton we pass by the bird market # . There's a variety of songbirds in wicker cages, alongside roosters and pigeons, bats, and boxes of writhing grubs and other critters. A flim-flammer approaches us and in his chat-up he claims to have met Prince Charles in this same bird market last year. We look suitably unimpressed.
Another morning we have a 3-hour introductory class in Bahasa Indonesia with a young student called Curri. The language seems incredibly simple as there are no verbs to conjugate, no tenses and phrases are often distilled to their core words. Mind you, there's four ways to say hello, depending on what time of day it is. After one hour we're already constructing some simple questions and phrases. After two hours we are learning numbers and carrying out some simple interactions. But after two and a half hours the heat and effort is taking its toll and soon after we find ourselves in a rather sparse market with glazed eyes and sweaty brows trying to haggle for fruit # that neither of us wants. We eventually escape with 250 grams of (undiscounted) peanuts. As we depart Curri encourages us to practise practise practise.
Not far from Yogya are the ruined Hindu and Buddhist temples of Prambanan. They are UNESCO listed and thus attract a high ticket entrance fee. We feel slightly disappointed to find then that the most impressive temples, inside of which, according to our guidebooks, are detailed carvings of scenes from the Ramayana, are currently closed for repair work following an earthquake in 2006. (We had to be in earthquake territory - Indonesia is comprised of so many volcanic islands.) Our disappointment is tempered with the knowledge that we have used our fake and out of date ISIC cards to get in for half price. The temples we can access are still mildly interesting, and stand in green shady surroundings, and hungry for more we wander off along a side road to two more remote structures surrounded by paddy fields.
We now embark on a 3 day whirlwind of a journey that takes on 12 buses and a train, heading first into the hills to Dieng Plateau where there are the oldest Hindu temples in Indonesia. The setting is more impressive than the temples themselves, as we climb to over 2,000 metres to the plateau, which looks more like the top of a vast collapsed volcano. As all over Java, there's still plenty of people around, and no surprising, as this is prime farming country. Every inch of available land is cultivated, and the main crop looks to be potato. A good walk takes us around a sulphurous turquoise lake and to a steaming vent of broiling bubbling mud.
From here we return to Borobudur, Java's finest temple ruins, and a claim to be the world's largest Buddhist complex. Built around the same time as Prambanan, between 700 and 900 AD, the temple is laid out like a mandala but in the shape of a vast hill, built from millions of stone blocks on a large plain. The effect is of one big stupa. Get up close and each tier surrounding the structure is covered in fine relief carving. At the top are three tiers of small stupas, each containing a statue of Buddha gazing out over the land, with a larger stupa at the pinnacle. It's a fantastic construction and we are happy to see the fine carving detailing a huge variety of religious and other scenes. Worth getting up at sunrise for, and this is quite a rare sentiment coming from me. When the temple was uncovered it was quite badly damaged, and the reconstruction is impressive. A lot of reinforcing concrete has been poured into the foundation walls to protect it from further earthquake damage.
And now another sweaty journey # as we head east to Solo.