I wake up groggily for early set off to catch sunrise at Borobudur, the 9th century Buddhist temple complex. While not on the scale of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, it is better preserved, and the misty mountain surrounds at dawn add to the mystical atmosphere. Rather than being imposing, I find it really very beautiful, pyramiding up with numerous Buddhas in bell shaped housings facing outwards and still intricate relief panels.
Exploring the pyramiding complex, there is a group of university students who have been brought here by their English teacher to practice their English on the tourists. Still feeling groggy I decide to dodge them, while many others in our group get into lengthy conversations with them.
After several hours, our tour moves onto see two smaller temples which involve a walk through the countryside and farm fields. The temples themselves though seem insignificant compared to what we have seen already though. It’s has started to rain too, so I am glad to get back on the bus.
The next stop is at a volcanic spring. The rain has become a downpour and I am dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts. There are hawkers renting out umbrellas, but I have become so tight that I won’t spend 30 pence to save myself a drenching. Walking up toward the spring, there is an overwhelming stench of sulphur. In fact I find it hard to stand next to the spring and with the rain coming down and the steam emanating from it, the visibility is such that we can see all the way around the spring, which is about ten or fifteen metres in diameter. I had been thinking that I might be able to take a dip in the ‘spring’, but if I had I would have been crispy fried dinner.
Our last stop is to visit a lake, but as the rain still teems down and there is an entrance fee, only the adventurous Germans take up the chance, Mario coming back claiming there were young naked ladies there inviting him to jump in.
After a long drive back to Yogyakarta, I have dinner with Caz, Stephen and Barbara. The latter two have been staying here with a friend, who has apparently said that she wouldn’t spend over 30,000 Rupiah (£2 / $3) for a Batik painting.
Later in the evening, I sit in the hotel reception with the ‘manager’, whose ‘staff’ treat him with mocking irreverence. He is a nephew of the owner and I think the all male staff must be his extended family. We are drinking some of the local wine, with him explaining that he does this every night (no doubt often fuelled by other intoxicants too) to inspire his art, which he works on through the night. I offer to buy another couple of bottles and he leads me through the streets to somewhere to buy the wine, although it is approaching midnight.
After acquiring the prescribed bottles, he leads me around to Eddie’s gallery to show me some of his art. Eddie’s family is in bed on the floor of the gallery, but this doesn’t stop him welcoming us in to share some wine. In conversation, the hotel manger tells me he has an impression of the English as football hooligans, having lived there at one time with his former wife.
Meanwhile, Eddie does his best to sell me one of the hotel manager’s paintings, but I am tired and eventually decline and go to bed, leaving them to finish the remaining bottles.
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