Ijen – The Toxic Mount of Instagram

A sulphur-burping volcano called Ijen looms over Banyuwangi on East Java. 

It’s famous for its highly Instagrammable turquoise crater lake and blue flames, I bet you’ve seen those photos before if you ever googled Indonesia. Of course, Ijen has become a must-do tourist activity… oh, pardon me, adventure, that only a government high on social media hashtags and gusts of foreign cash could get behind.

I guess, when you have enough Insta-adventurers queuing for their fifteen seconds at the toxic Mount of Fame, all health concerns melt into the hypnotising acidic lake and eyes go 🤑

Ka-ching!

My Ijen saga started at a galaxy far, far away… oops, wrong intro. Although, to be fair, East Java’s volcanoes do have a Martian quality. 

Anyhow, it all started in a cramped minivan in Cemoro Lawang. After my draining Probolinggo and Bromo ordeal, I decided a reward was way overdue. And it came in the shape of an oversubscribed group tour! 

My homestay in Bromo had given me an unbeatable deal, and it supposedly even came with a private room. So, I opted for comfort. You know, a girl couldn’t penny-pinch every second of a trip. And that’s precisely how I ended up in a van full of twenty-somethings. 

After two months in Malaysia, I thought I’d manoeuvred past the backpacker party crowds, but apparently they’d all flocked to the next exotic hotspot, leaving Thailand to the monsoon rains.

So we met again. Sweaty and running on fumes, en route to Ijen. 

A fellow Brit scooted over to make space for me. “You realise I’m doing you a huge favour,” he quipped and immediately took it upon himself to narrate his whole life story. Exactly what I was looking for. He was closer to my age, yet more at ease with the youth surrounding us. His Southeast Asia itinerary revolved around partying, getting drunk and prowling for women in their 20s, you know, the usual. This was his native playground, and the kids embraced him with the kind of gusto they had yet to show me. Sure, they were kids, but they could still sniff an outsider when they saw one.

After seven hours of camaraderie, we arrived at the homestay where we’d be resting before our midnight huddle. We had maybe five hours to settle in, have dinner, and pretend to get some shut-eye, a true triathlon of box-ticking before the adventure began. 

Having done another midnight hike just the day before, my body was dead tired, and you’d think that would help me fall asleep. Well… The pressure of needing to rest turned me off the whole concept of drifting off. I surrendered to tossing around in bed. Eyes closed with a restless mind. Counting sheep. Pretending to meditate. I even gave up being the master of my domain. Nada. 

And then—

I jolted awake at 11:30 p.m., dazed and confused. The alarm sounded like an alien wail, announcing my impending abduction. But I was up, alright. In the damp chill of my temporary abode, I couldn’t help but ponder: “Why am I doing this? Am I really an adventurer?” 

I scanned my head for an answer, but all I got was a disoriented growl. So, I peeled myself off the mattress, washed my armpits out of respect—saved the shower for after the hike, like any wise hiker would do—and put on my makeshift hiking gear: leggings, T-shirt, linen shirt, hoodie, raincoat, shawl—pretty much whatever warm thing I could find—and a poncho in case it really rained. 

I was finally ready to face my destiny and show the world—well, mainly my ex and his judgmental friends—that I wasn’t some passive sloth without an adventurous bone in my body. Here I was, about to put on a gas mask and dive into the stinky underworld of an active volcano to see some rare blue flames that I didn’t particularly care about, but, you know what, it was a must-see according to every single travel blog I’d read on the matter, especially if you didn’t want a cliché get-drunk-on-the-cheap Balinese experience. And I didn’t want a cliché Balinese experience!

I was this close to flying over to Medan and travelling solo in Sumatra without a car or motorbike license, before the logistical mess started to overwhelm me—aka, I chickened out. So take that bitch! I bet you don’t even know what Sumatra is. And no, it’s not an Indian sex manual. But I digress…

We drove for an hour to reach the starting point. Our tour guide, Bayu, greeted the group and showed us to a bucket full of gas masks that might as well have been children’s toys. I tried three different masks before figuring out they were all the same. Flimsy. 

Later, Bayu walked around with a box of goggles, urging everyone to rent one for an extra cost. “The smoke can be rough up there.” He eyed up the group for buyers. Maybe I was still too groggy, or simply too naive, to register the depth behind that sentence, but I just shrugged it off as yet another scam to make money off stupid tourists. I wasn’t alone in thinking that either. A few of us started exchanging knowing glances and ironically muttered “Uh-huh” as we handed out our hard-earned cash. Some even questioned the functionality of these goggles, claiming their sunglasses would serve the same purpose. And if they were so crucial, why weren’t they included in the package instead of being an extra? Bayu just gave up and told us to go fuck ourselves in politer terms. Being me, a chronic worrier, I opted for the optional goggles, even though they seemed as shoddy as the gas masks. Still, I thought, better than nothing. This was just a precaution anyway. A worst-case scenario drill. It would all be fine. Right? 

Around 2 a.m., a time I’d normally be greeting a candy-coloured clown Roy Orbison called the Sandman, I found myself plodding up a steep, dark path to redemption. At least it felt like it must have been redemption. Or else what on earth was I doing there at such an ungodly hour? 

Miners around us were offering their “Ferrari” services for the faint-hearted adventurers who would rather nap and wake up fresh at the summit than break a sweat. Depending on the weight of the hiker, two or three miners would wheel a makeshift car up the gravel path until the explorer had to hop off to make their way down the crater. 

One wonders whether hiring them is the kind and gracious thing to do. The extra cash was worth more than a day’s mining wages. Or does that make you an accomplice in their exploitation and suffering? Soon enough, though, I’d discover this wasn’t the only, or worst, exploitation these miners endured every single day.

I’m not a great hiker. I don’t have the grand ambitions of climbing up the K2 or Mount Everest. I mean, I don’t even have the funds to finance that sort of self-torture. And quite frankly, even if I did, I’d probably spend it on decadent desserts or a luxury Robinson Crusoe experience. 

But I still enjoy a walk in the mountains. I can even handle multi-day treks, as long as they don’t involve chains, crampons, or anything with the word “technical” attached to it. Pacing has always been my arch-nemesis. I start off galloping like a show pony eager to impress and then burst into flames within a minute of a moderate incline, wheezing like an asthma sufferer, eyeing a spot for a quick lie-down. 

I’m far better hiking alone. When no one is counting my water sips or rolling their eyes at each one of my “photo breaks.” But in a group, my need for approval kicks in and my sense of pacing goes straight out the window. 

During one of my much-needed “photo breaks”, I bumped into Greta. She was also in no rush to see the legendary blue flames, so we trudged together, bonding over our less-than-perfect pace. Bayu was dismayed. He kept shoving his watch into our faces, warning we were too slow to see the blue flames, which only reinforced our desire to go slower.

When we made it to the top, I briefly considered skipping the whole spectacle and waiting for the sunrise up on the rim instead. The descent to the lake looked like an Everest gridlock; a human traffic jam shuffling down the rocky terrain, trying their best not to slip and end up with another gash. The recent downpours hadn’t helped with the trail either, making every step extra slimy and adding a few hundred more thrill-seekers to the misery march. 

The burning stench of sulphur hit me before I even saw the crater. “Put on your masks!” The guides barked and mimed, as we trickled down toward the blue flames. A thick fog of acrid fumes hovered above, and people scattered, coughing and spitting, trying to escape the very thing, up until this moment, had been the sole purpose of the hike. 

The guides started handing out surgical masks to wear under the gas masks, like that would magically purify the air. It all felt like a post-apocalyptic survival scene than a fun Instagram escapade. Were we extras in the latest George Miller movie?

Bayu shouted that he’d take us one by one to see the iconic flames. Because of overcrowding and the weather, we would each have fifteen seconds to take a photo before being escorted back. 

Hiding on the sidelines, I watched the guides lead hordes of tourists to the crater, only to run back to puke and cough their lungs out. After the third tourist, Bayu joined their ranks too. He collapsed in front of me, vomiting and rubbing his wet, red eyes. I helped him move away from the fumes so he could catch his breath. He was worried about running behind. It was almost sunrise, and we all paid to see the blue flames. The show must go on, as it seemed, even when half the cast is sick over each other. 

A younger guide seized my hand and pulled me to the flames.

Fire! My eyes were on fire! And the natural fire hydrants of my eyes were doing overtime. No wonder I couldn’t see a thing. The toxic fumes formed a lump in my throat. I was gagging. Unable to inhale. Unable to think. I yanked my hand out of his grip and got as far away from that hellscape as possible. 

I always say there is no shame in quitting, and on this occasion, quitting wasn’t about meekness; it was pure survival.

Bayu somehow hunted me down, asking if I wanted to go back for my photo. “No way I’m going back there!!!” I cried. Yes, with multiple exclamation marks. “And neither should you.” Which probably sounded privileged, or tone-deaf, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. 

I knew that he was a miner too, and the miners weren’t even wearing gas masks. They were walking into that poisonous smoke day in, day out, with only a handkerchief around their necks. Was this the real purpose of this hike? A showcase of human torment in the thick of it all? A chilling wake-up call to all these so-called adventurers?   

It didn’t seem to be the case, since most of these adventurers were busy comparing their blue flame photos or finding the perfect angle to make it look like they had the place all to themselves. 

It’s not like I was cut from a different cloth, either. What did I really do besides observing and forming self-righteous views on the working conditions of these men? What could I really do to make a difference? 

Form an Indonesian sulphur miners’ union demanding better care?

Move to Indonesia to live and work with these miners, live-streaming my days to expose the truth about electric cars? 

Or write a shitty little self-deprecating essay that nobody’s going to read? 

The sun rose in all its glory, giving us a reason to take in what had been surrounding us all along. We were no longer walking with blinkers on. No. How did we miss all this? This portrait of sublime ruggedness in the middle of… Hell? 

Just after dawn, a new group of hikers emerged on the crater rim. This was an older, and dare I say, wiser crowd. I didn’t even know they had early morning tours, the kind that focus on the majestic vista Ijen reveals when it’s not too busy putting on a blue flame show. I probably should have been in their group. They had walking sticks, well-rested eyes, and better stories than seeing the blue flames of Ijen.