Warung in My Mind: Climbing Anak Krakatau

Warung Bu Atun it was called. Strangely, this is what sticks to mind after the weekend at Krakatau--the warung.* 

It was one of those makeshift stalls like the kapehan and painitan we usually see along the streets in the Philippines, standing outside cockpits during gamecock derbies, or cropping up alongside any event that draws crowds. The only thing that lent this warung a sense of permanence was its galvanised iron canopy sheltering Ibu Atun and her customers from the Sebesi island sun and rain. There was nothing extraordinary or intriguing about the modest canteen. It was just another lucrative family-run "cafe" attached to the concrete wall that fenced the cluster of cottages for rent to tourists visiting the Krakatau islets. But days after I left the island, the warung had morphed in my mind into a symbol of sorts for the things I saw, felt and learned over that short weekend at the famous and historic Krakatau.

We were three or four groups under one tour organiser, all jumping at the chance of climbing Anak Krakatau and of hopping across its surrounding islands for a cut-rate fee. At IDR 950,000.00 for 2 days (PHP3,250; USD75)--all in, including bed, fare and meals--the trip was practically a giveaway. And quite a mixed bag we were, too--the group that docked on the small Sebesi wharf in the Sunda Strait that day. People from different walks of life thrown together for a weekend of exploration, enjoyment, and reverence of what nature had once savagely destroyed and brought back. Right from the start, I had been amazed at the assortment of passengers on the bus with me. I had half-expected the outdoorsy types in trekking sandals, cargo shorts and heavy backpacks. I hadn't, however, bargained for the designer bags and sunnies piled alongside sturdy rucksacks and plastic bags of roti bakar; or, the author of that beautiful photo essay collection Indonesia A World of Treasures being part of the team; or, the charmingly vivacious and direct tour organiser. I didn't expect the disparity of ages, either--from yuppies who looked like they were barely out of their teens, to the grands who surely must have had some half a century of mileage in them--not to mention the hodgepodge of ages and genders in between! Looking  at this lively array of personalities and hearing them bantering and laughing in a mix of Bahasa Indonesia and English (but mostly Bahasa Indonesia), I knew this trip would be anything but boring.

It was past midnight when we reached Merak Port where we will cross from Java to Sumatra by ferry. Everybody had to lie down on the floor of the air conditioned cabin. There were no cots and no chairs, although the floor was lined with mats and a few futons could be had if someone wanted one. Again, I was at a loss for a bit. There was no rhyme nor reason to the rolling-on-the-floor stint. It seemed you just lie wherever and however you liked, so I did the same. Strangers were head to head, foot to head, cheek to butt, mouth to heel--but nobody minded. It was kind of cool. We actually slept until a friend's alarm--left over from city life--started sounding off. Then someone else's chimed in. And another's. And as if the cacophony wasn't enough, a child began bawling and caterwauling like it was the Titanic all over again. There was no choice but to just wake up!

Certainly happy in the ferry

Driving along the Lampung countryside

As soon as the ferry reached Lampung, Sumatra, we lost no time climbing back into the bus again for the drive to Canti Port where a boat will take us to Sebesi island. The countryside had narrow paved roads lined with either trees or small houses--a topography not much different from what you'd see in the provinces of the Philippines. What struck me, though, was the unusual number of youthful mamas/papas we passed sunning their babies in plastic, colorful strollers. There were no breathtaking views until we reached Canti Port--and then I saw the islands across silhouetted by the warm yellow-orange glow of the rising sun. My heart leapt when I recognised the picturesque wharf framed by mountains and leafy tree--the same one I found among my Googled images of Sebesi! 

I was there. For real. I couldn't help grinning. 

A newly-awakened, excited buzz rose from all 35 of us. We scattered--taking pictures, looking for toilets, grabbing a bite, stretching our cramped legs.  People were friendly but no new friends were made yet. Our faces were just starting to get familiar to one another after 11 hours of travelling. It was a beautiful, cool early morning in Canti Port.

At Canti Port

About to dock at Sebesi port

The cottages

The islands had seemed close by when I snapped photos of them that morning, but it took us some time to reach Sebesi Island by motorboat. It was where we would stay for the night; it would be our base, so to speak. Sebesi is no developed resort island. The accommodations there are simple and modest. A few steps from the beach and we found the cottages we were to sleep in. Mine, along with the girls from work, was a small square concrete house. Mattresses lined the floor from end to end, freshly made (and, later I learned, comfortable). There were two crude but clean bathrooms inside. My guess was that all the other cottages were similar--unostentatious and utilitarian. Electricity from the island generator only came on at night. There were no shops; no restaurants; no bars. Only Bu Atun's warung.

It became our hearth--the hub where everybody would eventually gather after an eventful day was done, regardless of which group they came from; which cottage; what socio-economic background; what rank and position they left in the city; what race; or how old. Around the warung was where I'd really see the faces without the perennial cameras poised for a shot; where I'd hear relaxed laughter and chatter as people smoked perched on the makeshift bench, listened to Indonesian tunes from a radio, drank our ordered tea and kopi (not from cups but from small glasses), gulped down teh botols, or ate Ibu Atun's indomie and pesang goreng with appetites whetted by a day in the sea and a trek up a famous volcano. It was the place where no one had to explore, or swim, or climb, or must have a photo taken. It was the place to chill and be. 

At a different time, that warung could have been the campfire; in a foreign culture, the fireplace; in our own tradition, the kitchen. 

I could tell of lively, interesting stories when we swam in the waters of Mother Krakatau, or climbed to the first stop of Anak Krakatau, or when we waited for sunset at tranquil Umang-umang island. I could paint word pictures of untouched beaches and beautiful waters of different colors around Pulau Sebuku. All those tales we did together separately, with our own old clique. But it was the warung that called out to my memory. For it was where people, who otherwise wouldn't have anything in common with each other--much like in everyday life--became together regardless. 

In its crudeness and temporariness, the warung was the fitting foil for the perfection and magnificence of Krakatau. In its very simplicity, it affirmed the one thing we cannot do without--kinship with humanity.

*warung: a type of small family-owned business — often a casual shop, a modest small restaurant or café -- which has become an essential part of daily life in Indonesia. For foreign visitors it refers to a modest Indonesian restaurant or a place that sells things Indonesian, mostly groceries or foodstuff. (Wikipedia)