Deep down inside Kawah Ijen’s volcanic crater, liquid sulphur exudes from steaming fissures. The surrounding landscape is jagged and lunar, like the setting of a sci-fi movie, and the silence is evocative of stepping onto some uninhabited planet.
Large plumes of smoke escape fumaroles, piling on thickly the farther I descend.
Smelling like eggs and ammonia, the noxious gases are unbearably acrid and abrasive on my windpipe even though I am wearing a gas mask. My goggles are fogging up and my eyes are mildly stinging.
But despite all signs telling me to head back, I remain driven by curiosity to continue into this hellish pit to observe a natural phenomenon up close: the formation of one of Indonesia’s most lucrative commodities – sulphur.
Standing at 2,799 metres, Kawah Ijen is one of 130 active volcanoes scattered across the Indonesian archipelago. Located within the most seismically active region in the world – the Pacific Ring of Fire – it last erupted in 1999, sending clouds of ash, steam and rock into the air. Though volcanoes are always depicted as hell in holy texts, the mineral-rich eruption produced a surrounding nature best likened to heaven on Earth. The forests here are so fertile that a local joke describes it best: “Be careful where you throw your durian seeds as you could come back the following day and find yourself a durian tree.”
But the most alluring feature of East Java’s 22-kilometre-wide volcano complex is not what lies beyond Kawah Ijen but in fact what lies within its caldera.
Kawah Ijen Crater Lake is the world’s largest acid soup – one km wide with a maximum depth of 200 metres. Due to its high levels of hydrochloric acid – with an average pH of 0.4 it could easily eat through – it bears a rich turquoise colour.
When darkness falls, an electric-blue fire burns at vents near the lake; it is only visible after sunset, which incidentally is also the time when sulphur concentrations are bearable. Attracting daring midnight trekkers into the crater’s bowels, this enigmatic flame is not, as many believe, a river of blue lava. It is sulphur gas, which combusts upon coming in contact with oxygen.
When these gases cool, yellow sulphur deposits form around the lake. Pipes installed by a mining company speed up the process using condensation; what looks like lava but is, in fact, liquid sulphur, bubbles up through the ground. “The process is beautiful,” says Paidi, 38, a sulphur miner for 15 years and my guide for the day. “The liquid magma seeps out from the earth and then hardens to sulphur in just a few minutes. We then break it apart, load it up into our baskets and carry it to the weigh station. The sulphur is mostly exported to the United States and is used to bleach sugar; for the cosmetics industry; and for making dynamite.”
As we carefully step down a staircase of rock I ask him about the burden afflicting almost every miner at Ijen – poor health. “No problems,” he says with amusement while showing me his cigarette. “I still smoke.” Though he appears to be fit as an ox, he begins coughing dryly.
The levels of hydrogen sulphide inside the crater are 40 times the safe limit for humans. Yet, on any given day, 200 miners work the pits, braving the fumes with only shreds of moist fabric stuffed into their mouths or sleeves from their shirts wrapped around their heads mummy-style. Unlike me, fully geared up for chemical warfare, the miners’ eyes are open to the elements; their hands are rough and callused, as they rarely wear gloves.
The men each carry a load of 60 kilograms to 90 kilograms up 200 metres to the crater’s lip, then back down a two-km stretch of mountain to be loaded onto trucks. They work for short periods of time as prolonged exposure to the sulphur gas can induce bloody coughs, damaged skin and teeth and cause dizzy spells that can be dangerous on the slippery slopes. (A French tourist plummeted to his death the previous year.)
“It’s dangerous for everyone,” Paidi says, “but you’re not going to see a miner drop from the sulphur gas, only from the cold. We do this every day so it isn’t as bad as for the tourists who come down.”
Last August, the government decided to cash in on night excursions by hiking the price of entrance tickets from 25,000 rupiahs ($2.30) to 150,000 rupiahs ($13.70) (100,000 rupiahs on weekdays). This entrance fee permits visitors to ascend the mountain and to walk along the crater’s rim, but there is a sign that clearly prohibits tourists from entering beyond a certain point, the moment when the trail starts to lead down into the crater. Whether this is meant to heighten the fear factor, allow miners to earn some extra cash by being unofficial guides or clear the government of any form of negligence in the event of an accident isn’t clear, but the most adventurous visitors are still able to freely enter at their own risk or with an unofficial guide, such as Paidi.
I hand Paidi some money as well as some Indonesian kreteks (cigarettes), wish him good luck and descend farther despite being seized by a coughing fit.
I soon run into another miner named Isroni, 45, who commutes every day from Licin, a nearby village. Carrying two large shards of sulphur balanced in separate wicker baskets, he explains to me his system of porting his precious cargo. “There are six rest stops for us miners,” he says. “I carry 90 kg from Post 1 to Post 2 and then go back to Post 1 and fetch another 90 kg to bring to Post 2. In total, I do two trips, yet in short spurts. I then carry 90 kg from Post 2 to 3 and then go back for the other load to bring from 2 to 3 and so on. I do this every day, from when the gates open [2 a.m.] until about 9 a.m.”
Like many miners, Isroni has been hewing sulphur since graduating from primary school. He is bow-legged and with the weight on his shoulders his lower limbs look as if they’re about to snap in two. His left trapezius muscle, grossly disfigured, appears to be devouring the bamboo pole, or sinking into his broken shoulder bone. The work is painfully Sisyphean yet Isroni is determined to finish his shift, collect his pay and go home to his six children. I asked him how long he’ll be able to keep up such work.
“Sampai rusak,” he replies with a toothy smile. (“Until broken.”)
The wage per kilo of sulphur is 800 rupiahs (7 cents) and it has been like this for as long as Isroni can remember. The mine’s jurisdiction falls under the mayor of Banyuwangi, yet when he was asked to negotiate a 200-rupiah pay raise a few years back, the idea was quickly shot down by Candi Ngrimbi, the corporation that pays the workers for the raw material. The idea of setting up a clinic to deal with health afflictions and complaints was likewise rejected, as the miners are considered freelancers: There is no coverage, security, pension or benefits. The men of Kawah Ijen must endure their suffering in silence.
Still, they appear grateful for earning anywhere from 100,000 rupiahs to 150,000 rupiahs a day, more than two to three times the national average. (This figure tops the higher end of pay, as older miners usually carry significantly less weight, garnering a day’s pay equivalent to $2 to $3.)
To supplement their income, many miners peddle profitable sulphur trinkets to tourists for anywhere from from 10,000 rupiahs to 20,000 rupiahs. And they often ask for handouts when they hear a camera’s shutter button going off near them. Rather than giving a royalty payment, many travellers instead give pocket change, a few cigarettes or a consolatory mask or goggles. Not that the safety gear is much help.
I’m halfway down when I realize that I’ve gone too far. The air is suffocating and I start to cough. Out of panic I begin clambering back up, taking off my useless mask; the air is simply too void of oxygen for it to be effective. The miners work day to day, descending and ascending this toxic crater without protection just to make ends meet. I could not do it even with my “specialized” equipment.
When I get to the rim, coughing and spitting yellow phlegm, my body hits the ground and I start fading in and out of consciousness. My lesson is learned.
“Don’t go down into the crater after sunrise,” a tour guide yells to me. “It is too dangerous for tourists!”
If you go
Though Kawah Ijen lies on the eastern tip of Java, the closest airport is located on the neighbouring island of Bali. Ngurah Rai International Airport services daily flights through Hong Kong and Singapore from most major Canadian cities. From there, a minivan ride and ferry takes about five to six hours to Ketapang, Indonesia.
The closest town to the volcano is Sempol. Night tours are organized from there to Paltuding, the volcano’s base camp, from which it is another two- to three-hour trek to the volcano itself. If descending into the crater, a mask and goggles are recommended. The gates to Khawah Ijen open up at 2 a.m. for tourists and miners alike.
Accommodations in Sempol are limited. Booking in advance is recommended.