The Breathtaking Mount Prau

The concrete passage soon became natural path with vegetable farms on the sides. What was planted I couldn’t see; the sky was still dark though. It was 2 am, way too early for the light to come. Above Dieng Plateau the wind never stopped shooing every clouds covering the pale moon and glittering stars. The valley was decorated with high columns of solfatara, illuminated by mellow lamps of geothermal power generator. Yellow lights emanating like fireflies from houses dwelling in the old valley below beckoned a hiker like me to come down and take shelter on its warmth, comfort, and stability—it is natural though for a hiker to regret his decision right after he takes his first step to scale a mountain, yet as he walked his way the feeling would peter out.

The lane ended to give way to a cobblestone road, which was even more difficult to walk on than the previous. Though it was less steep than the dirt road, the moss growing on the stones made it more slippery. My feet felt heavy; my stomach was empty. Yesterday, both Roiz and I only ate twice—once in the morning, then at 8 pm at Eko’s. While hiking, a heavy rucksack and an empty stomach weren’t a good combination—trust me! To make it worse I didn’t jog or do any other sports before starting this journey. I used to then—during one or two weeks before hiking I’d run or swim to put my lungs together. Consequently, my right-head felt warm and throbbing, cold sweat started falling down from my temples. I had already lost my breath while the journey was still young—I hadn’t even reached the first shelter yet.

I bet Roiz was surprised when he got last minute call from me on Thursday to schedule a Monday hiking. Quite impulsive though. But what was to be done? I missed the thin air so bad for I hadn’t hiked more than four months. The last mountain I visited was Lawu on the Islamic New-Year’s eve, 1 Suro, before the end of kemarau.

The first rain then saw the last day of 2015’s hiking season. Most of the mountains were hitherto closed to outdoor activities. The weather was still unpredictable—and mountains should be given a break to conserve themselves.

Under such uncertain weather I longed to hike. Through the misty disctrict of Wonoboyo, we went to the basecamp of Mount Prau without finding out whether it was open for hiking or not. We swerved our way through gardens of cabbage, carrot, coffee, and other plants and vegetables. The road was too narrow and winding that once we had to stop to give way for a cabbage truck that almost jumped into a valley. The road eventually ended at a triple-junction right in the middle of Kejajar market. The traffic then again became packed. It wasn’t too long until my vision came to rows of houses bulit on hills, like that of Nepal or Tibet which I had seen on books. We drove through gardens laid out on impossible places—from the valley to the top of the hills. Zigzagging for a while, the road at last came to an end: Dieng! The temples, where the cutting of gimbal hair is annually held, were towering in the distance.

We turned left to Eko’s house located three doors down from Telaga Warna. Thereon we visited the legendary hostel cum cafe of Bu Jono.

Roiz had so many friends around Dieng that our spot became packed with people in no time. Cups of hot black coffee brewed on the table. Unfortunately, Mount Prau was still closed for hiking and would be open on April 1st. All the time, the rain poured and thunders roared. It was dangerous and ill-advised to spend the night on the peak. “They say the top of Prau is all iron,” said S. I didn’t know whether it was true or not—all I know is thunders tend to strike pointed things on top of the hills or mountain, or any other higher-grounds. I gazed at Roiz. Our plan was doomed then—I brought a ukulele to play at the campsite, but now that we couldn’t camp up there, well…

“But it’s still open for a day trip without camping,” said S, relieving us. He suggested to hike from Patak Banteng which is steeper but shorter than other routes. The most popular gate, Dieng, that starts from the back yard of Bu Jono’s, was still closed for bushes growing during the rainy season were still covering the path. Let alone the landslides. S simply didn’t want us to get into trouble.

As one of the local-youth leaders, S words could be counted on. Out of curiosity, I asked him about someone who died while hiking Prau around one and a half year ago. S was a great story teller. Listening to him was like paying attention to an investigative TV programme.

The deceased came from a group of thirty people from Semarang. From the capital of Central Java they went by a truck. Arriving in Dieng at 11 pm, they soon started hiking without resting, aclimatizing, or briefing. Before the sun rose, around 3 am, they had summitted the mountain. No way it wasn’t cold. Then out of the blue, at 6.30 am, the base camp of Patak Banteng was phoned by the Semarang group, telling one of their friends was seriously ill.

“How about the team leader?” The first thing I always asked if a calamity like this happened was the team leader. Taking care a group of people to a dangerous place and condition is not easy. It surely takes a lot of knowledge, courage, wisdom, and experience. The leader should be prepared for the worse.

“The one that was sick was the team leader himself,” answered S. I was speechless. On a hiking organized by, for instance, a university outdoors-club, a hiking trip is more organized. If the leader couldn’t perform, the one appointed as the deputy would be consequently obliged to take the lead, following the standard operating procedure.

Anyway, the Semarang group didn’t have to waste time by calling the base camp because the rangers had set a camp nearby, signed with the national flag of Indonesia—red and white—which would be more than happy to help hiker-in-needs. It was S’ duty to stand-by at the camp that morning. Afterwards, the basecamp forwarded the call to S. ”The tent is Rei” was the only clue given by the base camp. There were dozens of Rei then. S had to walk around and kept talking to his handy-talkie for some time before reaching the tent eventually.

S then tried helping: he boiled him water, covered him with sleeping bag and warm-blanket. Yet his condition was still the same—he didn’t even move anymore.

S accidentally uttered: “Well, he’s dead.” Upon hearing it, some of the Semarang group spread it to their friends. Many of them started crying histerically. Realizing that he had to be decisive in order to take the deceased down, S gave them options: either they stopped crying or the corpse would be burried here and now on top of Mount Prau.

They obviously didn’t want their friend to be burried there. S asked them to help him. They couldn’t use a dragbar because it had to be carried by four people—the path is too narrow. They had to improve. So they cut a tree branch big enough to hold a person and tied the deceased like a hunted beast and wrapped it with sleeping bags. To get to the base camp fastly, they descended through emergency pathway. On the way down, they met a group of people who shouldn’t use the path—for it is for emergency only. They asked what they were carrying. To prevent mass-hysteria, S answered that they were carrying a sick hiker. “Should carrying a sick person be like that?” Were they knew, they’d zipped their mouth. At the base camp, an ambulance was waiting.

We swapped stories for a while at Bu Jono’s, sipping our hot black coffee. As we talked a couple entered and checked in. The weather was overcast, but as the hours passed by people started appearing on the road, some on foot and others by vehicles. The wall on which “DIENG” was written just across Bu Jono became crowded with tourists taking photos.

In the afternoon, we strolled to Petak Sembilan through vegetable farms behind Eko’s house and arrived there to see the twilight. Years ago I went there with a group of friends, memories of which are still preserved on photographs, when the ticket booth was still a shack. On a pine tree they had built a platform so that people could take good snapshots with Telaga Warna.

In the evening, Eko took us to his grandma’s house on the western side of Dieng, where we sat in the living room circling around an anglo and seventeen birdcages, listening to her—Eko’s grandma who is believed to be a centenarian—recollections of her childhood.

We fell asleep at Eko’s at 11 pm and woke up before 2 am, after which we went to the basecamp of Patak Banteng. Mamat, who voluntarily led us to the top, had been waiting us for a while there—like I said, Roiz has many friends around Dieng. No one at the information booth. Stretching for a little, we started hiking.

As a guide, his pace was a little bit different from us. So not so long after we reached the cobblestone, I lost my breath.

I hadn’t vomited before in all my hikes, though I had lost my strenght on two of them for different reasons. But it was the most unprepared hiking I had ever done, and I had to pay the price: before reaching the first shelter, some kind of liquid surged out from my throat, I threw up, letting out crumbs of bread I had eaten. I was hungry and my stomach was upset. It rejected my simple meal to protest, as simply as that. Yet I gained my spirit afterwards. By the time we reached the camping ground around the top, the sun was about to climb out from its limbo.

Sehari di Negeri Tembakau

Beberapa tahun yang lalu di Kaldera Rinjani, matahari sudah condong ke barat dan stok rokok saya sudah menipis. Tepian Segara Anak masih jauh. Di sisi jalur saya mengistirahatkan kaki bersama beberapa pendaki dari Mataram. Demi menghemat rokok, saya hanya duduk diam melihat pemandangan. Perjalanan masih panjang.

“Rokok, Bang?” Salah seorang dari mereka menawarkan. “Terima kasih,” saya menjawab. “Masih ada, kok.”

Lubang di Bukit Siguntang

Dalam sebuah perjalanan yang berlangsung berminggu-minggu terkadang engkau merasa menjadi terlalu terbiasa untuk berpindah angkutan; dari kereta ke kereta, dari bis ke bis, dari kapal ke kapal. Apa yang kau rasakan, apa yang kau lakukan, secara aneh berubah jadi rutinitas. Semua yang awalnya menyenangkan perlahan berubah menjadi biasa, kemudian memuakkan.

Tak ada yang istimewa dari berganti-ganti moda transportasi. Apalagi ketika melihat cahaya lindap di rumah-rumah yang kau lewati di malam hari, dengan siluet orang-orangnya yang tampak nyaman bercengkerama di ruang keluarga, berbagi kisah yang mereka alami sepanjang hari yang keras dan melelahkan. Hangat. Kehangatan yang jauh lebih menenangkan ketimbang sumuk berbalut keringat dalam bis yang melaju di pulau ribuan kilometer jauhnya dari rumah.

Menuju Empang

Konon dua jenis ferry inilah yang berkeliaran di Selat Lombok: yang lambung kapalnya bergambar lumba-lumba, dan satu lagi yang tidak. “Yang ada lumba-lumbanya lebih bagus biasanya,” Jibi menjelaskan sementara kami melangkah di atas ubin keramik putih ruang tungggu pelabuhan yang sepi dan telantar, seusai menebus dua tiket kapal.

Kebetulan siang itu kami menumpang ferry jenis kedua. Sungguh nyaman di dalamnya. Pengondisi-udara ruangannya terasa. Kursinya empuk meskipun masih dipasang berhadap-hadapan. Hampir tiap pojok dihiasi televisi layar datar yang kali ini memutar film Fast and Furious semasa Paul Walker masih hidup. Mujur sekali memang. Dulu dalam perjalanan pulang ke Jawa seusai roadtrip motor Jawa-Lombok, kami dapat ferry yang mengenaskan; bangkunya kecil, tidak empuk sama sekali, sementara lantainya coklat karatan–bau pula. Di lantai karatan itulah saya menghabiskan setengah malam tidur berselimut kantong tidur. Oleng kanan, oleng kiri, kadang kepala saya berbenturan dengan tiang penyangga kursi.

Ajaib

Meskipun Bali secara administratif masuk wilayah Indonesia, prosedur masuk via laut ke pulau itu agak berbeda; harus memperlihatkan kartu identitas. Saya telah mengisi data sejak setahun yang lalu namun belum menerima hak saya – e-KTP. Kartu identitas yang saya punya hanyalah KTP lama yang keadaannya sudah mengenaskan. Beberapa kali terkena rembesan air setelah berenang, tulisan dalam KTP itu pun menjadi kabur sehingga sulit dibaca.

Maka dinihari itu saya bersiap untuk mengeluarkan paspor jika TNI yang bertugas mengecek identitas tidak menerima KTP itu. Tapi ternyata tidak terjadi apa-apa. Setelah berusaha sedikit keras, tampak dari ekspresinya, tentara itu berhasil membaca biodata saya. Terima kasih pada kacamata yang ia pakai.

Rencana B

“Don’t think about what you’ll tell people afterward. The time is here and now. Make the most of it.” – Paulo Coelho, Aleph.

 

Empat menit setelah kereta berangkat, saya baru tiba di Stasiun Lempuyangan. “Sudah, mas,” jawab satpam stasiun ketika saya memastikan sekali lagi. “Sudah berangkat.”

Rencana yang saya susun berantakan sudah. Padahal ini baru perjalanan hari pertama! Dari seminggu yang lalu saya sudah mulai mencorat-coret jadwal di catatan, semacam itinerary sederhana yang detilnya saya sesuaikan begitu rupa dengan anggaran yang saya punya. Dalam angan, hari ini saya akan menumpang Kereta Api Ekonomi Sri Tanjung ke Banyuwangi. Saya hanya perlu duduk manis di dalam gerbong yang kini sudah dilengkapi pendingin ruangan, sesekali barangkali akan membuka Coelho yang saya bawa, sampai tiba di Banyuwangi kisaran pukul delapan malam. Setelah istirahat sejenak di sekitar pelabuhan, mengisi perut yang keroncongan, membiarkan mulut seharian masam merasakan nikmatnya kretek, saya akan menyeberangi Selat Bali dengan kapal roro kemudian sandar di ujung barat Pulau Dewata. Setiba di Gilimanuk, pukul tiga dinihari, saya akan menumpang bis langsung pertama yang bakal mengantarkan saya sampai tepat ke depan terminal keberangkatan Padang Bai.

April

The night was still young in late April–or early May–when Dimas, Ficher, and I were riding our bikes along the empty Brawijaya St., the main road of Tulungrejo, Pare. Though it was only few minutes past ten, we saw no motor vehicle. It made me feel that I was being left behind by the rest of the people in the world.

Ficher was by himself but I rode along with Dimas. In the cold dark night, our faces were still filled by the reminiscence of laughter from Jendela Mimpi Cafe. We then turned to Dahlia Street. Ficher’s boarding house was not far from the three way junction intertwining the roads of Dahlia and Brawijaya. From its yard, I could see Ficher’s friends were still busy talking in the living room.