Anak Krakatau 2010
You could safely say I’ve been on volcanoes with that man! I worked with Peter in Indonesia on our energy-efficiency project—he built the software for a school-wide Energy Efficiency Competition in Jakarta, and I designed the content and how it all worked.
I’d long heard about Krakatoa, the great volcano that once sat in the middle of the Sunda Strait—the stretch of water between Sumatra and Java. When it exploded in 1883, the glow in the sky was said to be visible as far away as Berlin and Copenhagen. The eerie light came from sunlight refracting through the dust circling the globe for months after the blast. The effect was worldwide: in Trinidad the sun turned blue; in Sri Lanka it was green. They say the detonation remains the loudest sound ever recorded.
I decided I had to see what was left of this infamous volcano. I asked Peter if he was up for it, and he was. I did the legwork: found a guide, then booked a local driver to take us to the west coast of Java, where we could hire a boat out to the small cluster of islands that are all that remains of the once-mighty Krakatoa.
In the middle of the group a new cone had risen—Anak Krakatau, the “Child of Krakatoa.” It first poked its head above the waves in 1927 and has grown ever since, with fresh eruptions every two or three years. It’s a truly virgin piece of land, colonized naturally by whatever plants and animals managed to find their way there.
As often happens when you plan anything in places that are a touch less organized, the adventure nearly sank at the dock. The car meant to collect us in Jakarta didn’t show on time, and we began to worry we’d miss our chance to reach the little hotel before nightfall. Eventually it arrived, and we made it to the Sunset Hotel in the West Javan town of Labuhan. The hotel’s guide had our Krakatoa trip lined up: we’d sail out the next morning and spend the night on the volcano.
And so, at first light, off we went—two locals, Peter, and me. It’s hard to describe just how excited I felt. Not only would we be boating through the very waters where mighty Krakatoa once stood, but we’d also get to curl up for the night in the warm embrace of its daughter, Anak. For me, that was huge.
over hovedet, i hver tilfælde ikke for at holde varmen.
After three or four hours of hard, deafening motoring, the first leftover islands slid into view. We were headed into the center of the caldera—the name for what’s left when a volcano collapses and the magma chamber still lurks below. Sometimes that chamber is empty and the site goes quiet; in this case, it still needed to vent its temper every so often.
We rumbled past the smaller island, Krakatau Kecil—“Little Krakatoa”—and there, a little farther on, stood our goal: a perfect volcanic cone rising straight out of the sea. A thin breath of smoke curled from the summit and even from a few vents along the flanks, a clear sign the old lady was very much alive. All three islands were uninhabited: no jetty, no buildings—just a rickety lean-to, likely thrown together by local fishermen who occasionally popped in to clean their catch or sneak a nap.
We dropped anchor off Lagoon Cabe and waded ashore onto a beach as black as spilled ink. The sand alone was a wonder. We’d landed on a stretch of the island that, over the years, had grown a respectable cloak of vegetation—trees eight to ten meters tall, with a dense understory stitched together by smaller plants.
The beach was six to ten meters wide before the greenery took over. Low, flat creepers reached inland, slipping under the first line of shrubs in the shade of taller trees—a natural gradient from calm water to thick growth. Our guide picked a spot in the trees’ cool shadow and we pitched our tent. The guide and the captain didn’t bother with one, and—as we soon learned—Peter and I hardly needed a roof either, at least not for warmth. The island itself supplied all the heat anyone could ask for.
Of course we wanted to stand right on the rim of the cone—nothing less would do. With a bottle of water each, we slipped into the thicket, quickly joined by a drift of spectacular butterflies.
Soon we stepped into a clearing of loose lava gravel. We set a slow, steady pace up the volcano’s flank. The danger was obvious. All around us lay boulders of lava—cannonballs hurled from the cone and abandoned on the slope. A direct hit from one of those and you wouldn’t be telling the tale.
From the top we had a fine view of the other islands. In many places the ground exhaled in thin white puffs—sure proof of life below. The vents were far enough away not to worry us, but the air still carried that unmistakable sulphur tang.
As we neared the rim, bracing for a glimpse into hell, we were surprised—and a little disappointed. No open crater, no boiling lava. Instead, another little volcano was poking up from the center: a fresh cone in the making. Between our rim and that newborn peak yawned a kind of moat. We lacked the courage to scramble down and back up again. There are limits to what you should put yourself through.
After that furnace of a climb, throwing ourselves into the water was pure bliss. There’s nothing more beautiful than lying on your back on a jet-black beach, on a deserted island in the Sunda Strait, watching the Milky Way sweep across the sky, hearing soft Indonesian voices from the trees while the waves whisper at your feet. It’s the kind of moment that naturally nudges your thoughts toward infinity—you lose all sense of time, space, even your body. You don’t feel alone; you feel part of a whole you rarely get to notice.
That night on Anak Krakatau was one of the most beautiful I’ve ever known.
As glorious as the star-black sky was, sleeping in a tent was another story. During the day we hadn’t noticed how hot the ground really was—sun on stone felt normal. But at night, with your whole body pressed to the surface, you could tell something more than sunshine was at work. The air stayed warm, but the earth itself was hotter. A sleeping bag? Useless. I unzipped it and used it as an extra pad over the thin mat. T-shirt? Cozy in theory—off it went. Even with every trick, I was still pouring sweat. I felt like a panini in a sandwich press—well on my way to well done. Let’s just say it wasn’t a night for great sleep.
At first light I stood up with the sun and dove straight into the crystal-clear, glass-calm sea. I’ve never had a more welcome cool-down in my life.