Week 20: The Lazy Volcano and a Mysterious Mud Lake

Last weekend Jenna, Hannah and I paid a visit to East Java. Failing miserably to learn from our mistakes, we booked ourselves onto an overnight train. The conditions of our 'business' class carriage lead me to ponder the horrors of economy class. The promised 'air conditioning' turned out to be a single fan attached to the ceiling and the seats didn't recline, forcing us to sleep in improbable positions; heads lolling, limbs stuffed into awkward spaces. The aisle was full of passengers sleeping on rolled out bits of newspaper, most of them chainsmoking or talking noisily. At each station the carriage was flooded with food sellers clambering over the inert bodies, shouting out their wares (“nasi nasi nasi nasi, kopi kopi kopi kopi”). Suffice to say the conditions were not conducive to sleep and we were exhausted by the time we arrived in Surabaya at 6.30am.

We were met from the station by our companion, Sisworo, who had offered to show us around the area when he met Hannah at a recent conference. Our first stop was nearby Sidoarjo, where a massive mud eruption has displaced hundreds of homes. The jury is still out as to who or what caused the eruption. Most people blame the oil company - except the oil company themselves, naturally, who blame an earthquake - but the destruction is plain for everyone to see. The mud has engulfed the surrounding area, forming a giant lake from which you can actually see the mud bubbling out. This is not a small-scale problem: approximately 2,500 square meters of mud is expelled per day (equivalent to the contents of a dozen Olympic-size swimming pools, according to Wikipedia). Most worrying of all, opposite the lake, amidst the surrounding buildings (which are, incredibly, still inhabited), exists the beginning of a second eruption; a great tower of steam and gas spurting into the atmosphere. The worst part is that the dispute over blame has precluded corrective action from being taken, including compensation for the displaced families. It probably seems a bit morbid to pay a visit to a site of destruction like that but it's such an incredible, improbable phenomenon that we wanted to see it for ourselves. Naturally, the lake has already been transformed into a tourist site, with enterprising locals charging you to climb up to the viewing plateau and trying to persuade you to buy DVDs entitled Sidoarjo: the Tragedy of the Mud.

From Sidoarjo we traveled on to Mount Bromo, a volcano reputed to offer the best sunrise in Indonesia. It was wonderful being up in the mountains. It felt like we had entered a different country, not least because there was a definite chill in the air! The scenery was very pretty; lots of sloping fields, vegetables plots and cute little houses painted bright colours. Jenna and I went on a horse trek around the village and down into the valley where there was a Hindu temple. Unfortunately, whilst we were down there the heavens decided to open ('dry' season is a relative concept). Fortunately, there was a little warung (cafe) next to the temple, so we took shelter under a tarpaulin and drank instant coffee as the rain battered down outside.

When we returned to the hotel we discovered that the facilities did not fare well on the S.H.I.T scale. A squat toilet and a bucket of water is pretty standard in Indonesia, but I have to admit I was a little peeved to discover that this also constituted the shower facilities. The experience prompted me to consider another addition to the S.H.I.T criteria; namely the presence/absence of creepy crawlies. I was mid-way through my 'shower' (i.e. poised with a bucket of tepid water over my head) when I realised I was not alone. I was, in fact, sharing the experience with two leaches, a spider and cockroach. Lovely!

The contrast between Mt Bromo and Mr Merapi cannot be exaggerated; one entails a gruelling twelve hour trek, the other a brief, if bumpy, jeep ride. Compared to Merapi, Bromo was gloriously undemanding – it truly is the Lazy Volcano. We did, however, have to leave the hotel at 3.30am, and were astonished to find that a hundred or so other people had done the same. The top of the mountain was covered in little stalls selling coffee and woolly hats (oh how refreshing to be in need of a woolly hat!). At first I was a little put out to be sharing the experience with so many people, all jostling for the prime viewing spots, but in the end the atmosphere added to the experience. There was a collective woop of excitement as the sun finally emerged over the horizon. After the sunrise we were driven to the bottom of Mt Bromo and climbed the hundred or so steps to the top in order to view the smoke-filled crater.

The journey home was, unfortunately, even more traumatic than the train there. For starters, I was traveling by myself (Hannah was staying on for another couple of days and Jenna had very sensibly booked herself on a plane home), plus I was stupid with tiredness having just endured two consecutive nights of little sleep. I spent the journey paranoid I would get on the wrong train/ miss my stop/ loose my belongings, so I ended up traveling with my bag clutched on my lap, waking up in a confused panic every couple of hours. It ended up being a twenty-three hour journey - longer than my journey back to the UK. When I finally got home I was so tired that my springy old mattress actually felt comfortable!

Weeks 18 and 19: Model Behaviour

Quotidian, mundane activities can serve as a powerful reminder of how far you are from home. One such experience, for me, was going to get passport photos for my visa renewal.

Rathing than sitting in a cramped, plastic box hidden away at the back of the supermarket, as would be the case at home, I had to pay a visit to my local Kodak shop. After explaining that I wanted passport photos I was asked how I wanted my hair and make-up, whether I would like to make use of any of the wigs and constumes available and whether I wanted a background superimposed on my picture (I declined on the grounds that the Immigration Office might not approve of an 'artistic' approach). After recounting this experience to the other volunteers we decided that it would be a dreadful shame not to make use of the facility. The pictures really speak for themselves, but suffice to say we went for 'themed' poses. The Kodak staff were initially a little puzzled by our efforts, but as soon as they caught onto the fact that we were doing it as a joke they joined in, offering suggestions and encouraging us to do 'one more pose, just one more pose' (we didn't end up leaving the studio until about 10pm)

Weeks 16 and 17: Confessions of a Workaholic

Reading this blog you would be forgiven for thinking that I was enjoying a six month holiday in Indonesia. In all honesty, this is not far from the truth. Don't get me wrong - I had every intention of having a meaningful professional experience, but this has proven more difficult than anticipated.

Let me get straight from the outset than I am enormously grateful to the NGO I have been volunteering for. They have been extraordinarily kind and generous and I have no doubt that their intentions are good. However, if I am honest the 'work' part of my Indonesian experience has been dissapointing, frustrating and, at times, infuriating.

The problem, to put it bluntly, is that I have not really been given any work to do. I feel very welcome here - people are thrilled to have foreign volunteers in the office - but they don't seem to want us to actually do anything. I know what you're thinking - why don't I just ask for more work? - and believe me we have tried, but it's not that simple. We have tried to arrange meetings to discuss what the volunteers could do, but even when we manage to get everyone in the same room (no mean feat in Indonesia, I assure you) no progress is made.

One big obstacle is the language barrier. Before I signed up to the placement I was told that the two working languages in the office would be English and Indonesian. However, although they produce English language proposals and reports most members of staff struggle to express themselves in English. From their perspective it is often more effort to explain a task to us in English than it is to simply do it themselves. It also makes it difficult for us to understand the tasks that we are assigned. A cloud of mutual miscomprehension seems to hang like a specre over every conversation I have in the office.

Another factor contributing to this lack of understanding is the reliance on development jargon: governance, capacity building, think tank etc. I'm sure that these terms are useful, but it seems to me that they are often employed in order to avoid specifying what you actually mean, or stating what you actually intend to do. These terms are so vague as to be almost nebulous and when I ask people to elaborate on their meaning their responses often verge on the tautological ('what does capacity building mean?' 'it means building the capacity of the local population', 'what exactly do you mean by a knowledge centre?' 'it's like a centre for knowledge'. GREAT. THANKS).

Most of the time we are expected to amuse ourselves in the office and to sit quietly at the back of meetings that we cannot understand or contribute to. I have also noticed that we are never included in important conversations, even those that relate directly to us. Last weekend Hannah, Raphaelle and I were taken on a trip to one of the regional offices in Serang, West Java. It was a great opportunity and we were, once again, blown away by the generosity shown to us. Not only did they put us up in a hotel but they made a huge effort to entertain us, even driving us for four hours to visit an indigenous community called the Baduy. However, we couldn't help but take issue with the way that we were treated on this trip. Firstly, it was clear that we were just being taken along for the ride and weren't really expected to contribute to the work side of things ('Now we must discuss the project. Would you like to go and lie down in the other room?'). Moreover, we were not consulted about any of the decisions which meant that we spent the whole weekend unsure of what was going on. We were supposed to return on Saturday afternoon but this ended up being pushed back until late evening. This in itself didn't bother me - as I have mentioned before, planning in Indonesia is an inprecise art - but it did bother me that no one thought to ask us if we minded. It simply did not occur to them to include us in the decision making process.

I think part of the problem is difficult cultural attitudes to young people and their status in society. In Indonesia, I am a child. If I were a twenty-two year old Indonesian woman I would most likely be living at home, waiting for a man to propell me inte adulthood. It is definitely an adjustment to have you social status 'demoted' in this sense and I am very much looking forward to being a grown-up again when I get home.

It is a little more complicated than this, however. As volunteers we are treated like a weird child/development expert hybrid. People tend to assume a rather frightening level of knowledge and compentancy based on the fact that you have a Western degree. Working life generally follows a pattern whereby I have nothing to do for a long period of time until someone approaches me to do something for which I am woefully underqualified. A case in point was last week when I was asked to prepare a presentation for the Ford Foundation (a very prestigious development agency). One of the directors of the NGO is trying to set up a research institute/think tank and she was presenting her plan to the Ford Foundation. Unsuprisingly I had great difficulty understanding precisely what her plans were (she plans to set up a think tank which will be like a knowledge centre, carrying out training in order to build the capacity of local government officials). So, I had to bodge together this PowerPoint presentation detailing the (non-existent) plan of action. In the absence of any real understanding of the project I simply reproduced her empty development jargon. What I hadn't anticipated, however, was that she intended for me to actually present it. I was mortified. I just read out what was written on the slides, hoping that he didn't require further clarification (He didn't. Apparently, reliance on jardon is di rigueur in the development field). Afterwards, I cringed as my director explained to him that I had a degree from the London School of Economics. This is, of course, true, but in the absence of any projects concerning immediate return hunter-gathering systems or Foucaultian social theory, it seems to be of little relevance.

The outcome of this working arrangement is (a) that I have no intention of ever working in development and (b) I have a lot of time on my hands. When I reported this state of affairs to a friend of mine he immediately drew a reverse analogy with a Soviet forced labour camp. In a way, he is right - I find myself in something akin to a forced 'un-labour' camp. Whilst I was initially frustrated about the working situation, I have come to see it as a blessing in disguise. As most of you probably know, I have a tendency to overwork myself. For the first time in my adult life I am not exhausted and it is incredible how much clarity it brings. I finally have time to think. However, one of the main things I have been thinking about is great it is to spend your time doing something meaningful, engaging and challenging (if only I had understood how amazing it is being a student when I was one!) As great as it is to have this time off (I can hardly complain when my day to day life is a gruelling schedule of gym sessions and dvd marathons) I want something more. I'm not ashamed to admit it: I like work. I miss work.

What this means is that I spend a considerable proportion of my time thinking about what I want to do when I get home. Finally, I am at the stage where I feel ready to take on a new challenge. This time last year all I felt when I thought about my career was a sort of paralysing fear; I didn't do anything about it because I didn't feel ready to make a decision about what it was I wanted to do. Now I've realised that it doesn't really matter what I'm doing as long as it is sufficiently interesting and challenging. So, I spend quite a lot of my time here making plans, most of them wildly unrealistic (if anyone has a spare fifteen thousand pounds to fund my masters please let me know). My friend Jenna described working as a volunteer here as a preview of retirement - which is very true - but I sure as hell want a career before I sample the real thing.

Weeks 14 and 15: Bali and Lombok

I would advise that if you are (a) cold (b) bored (c) tired (d) fed up with the miserable British weather you stop reading NOW. Having just returned from a two week holiday to Bali and the Gili islands, I can only apologise if this entry reads like an extended brag.

The Gili islands, somewhat confusingly named since 'Gili' actually means 'island' (try explaining to someone from the biggest archipelago in the world that you are going to visit 'the islands'), are three small islands off the coast of Lomok. We stayed on Gili Trawangan, the biggest and most densly populated of the three, which has an overall circumference of only 4 miles. Trawangan has an incredibly relaxed atmosphere, no doubt helped along by the abundance of cheap alcohol and Bob Marley playing on loop. There are no cars on the island, only bicyles and horse-drawn carriages, adding to the relaxed, unhurried pace of life. Our villa was right on the beach and included a private bar and swimming pool, so we were free to be as lazy as we pleased!

I was staying with some friends of Jenna's - all Americans living in Asia for the year. I was initially a little apprehensive about being the newcomer tagging along with such a tight-knit group of friends, but I needent have worried. Seemingly Americans share none of the social ineptitude of the British - they all made a big effort to get to know me and make me feel included. The others were all in Asia on a full scholarship, so we ended up living a little more 'extravogantly' than I am used to. Extravogance' is, of course, a relative concept and when you think about how far your money would go at home it seems foolish not to live a little luxuriously (our villa was probably equivalent in cost to a night in a Travel Lodge back home). I have always thought - and continue to believe - that some of the best food in Asia can be be bought for pittance on the streets. However, the food we had on Trawangan was incredible - grilled fish straight out of the water, fresh salads, creamy Gelato ice-cream - and I couldn't begrudge the extra cost. All in all it was nice to leave behind the 'backpacker' mentality for a week or two, but it did make it hard to come home. It was somewhat demoralising to return to my room in Jakarta, with its uncomfortable bed, nosiy neighbours and unsanitary bathroom facilities.

After leaving Trawangan we spent the next few days in Ubud, Bali, and I fell in love with the town almost immediately. Ubud is a sleepy little town, with beautiful architecture and more art galleries than you could ever hope to visit in a single trip. It is also very small, which means that you only need to walk for a few minutes to find yourself standing in a field of rice paddies. One evening we had dinner and cocktails in a hotel overlooking a valley of rice fields. It was one of those moments where you have to pinch yourself in order to believe you're really there. Another night we went to a traditional Balinese 'fire and trace' dance, which didn't dissapoint. I particularly enjoyed the bit at the end where the lead dancer set alight a pile of coconut shells and kicked them into the audience, leaving some observers looking rather startled (I think I've mentioned before the absence of health and safety regulations in this country). Basically, I've had a lovely time, but I find that leaves me with strangely little to say. No doubt I'll find more to whine and moan about after I've been back in Jakarta a little longer.

Week 13: 'Democrazy'

A few weeks ago I observed that 'organised chaos' could be used as a motif to sum up a great many things about Indonesia, including, I have learnt, the political system. Next Thursday (the 9th) is election day in Indonesia, a fact impossible ignore in Tebet where every spare inch of space is plastered with campaign posters.

There are a total of 44 political parties in Indonesia (no, that wasn't a typing error, I really do mean 44). The parties compete in each region to place a representative in the People's Representative Council. However, rather than putting forward one candidate and directing all of their resources at promoting them, each party nominates 11 (yes, ELEVEN) candidates. This means that each voter has literally hundreds of candidates to choose from and that the ballot paper is almost as tall as the average Indonesian citizen.

It seems to me that this system forces voters to make a partial and uninformed choice. Don't get me wrong - I'm all for democratic choice - but too much choice is inimical to true democracy. Voters cannot possibly be informed about the manifestos of 484 candidates, so for the most part people just seem to stick to what they know. One of my collegues, Dini, is running for elections and the polls place her second in terms of name recognition with 0.2% (even the leader just scraped 3%). At the risk of sounding culturally insensitive and - dare I say it? - ethnocentric, it sounds more like democrazy than democracy to me.

Indonesian politics seems to be above all else an exercise in PR. Now, to be fair, this might be said of politics in any democratic country (the recent fixation with Michelle Obama's wardrobe a case in point), but it seems particularly true of Indonesia. In a country where voters cannot possibly be knowledgeable about all the candidates, public image becomes paramount. For instance, it seems that some candidates even go to the effort to change their name to attract attention to their campaign (Astro Cinderella Isobella being my personal favourite). The other day when we were watching TV this advert came on that featured a crowd of attractive people dressed in blue dancing Bollywood-style down a street. It was only when we reached the end of the advert that we realised it was promoting a political party. No mention of political issues or policy debates; just pretty people dancing. It's democracy, for sure, but not as we know it . . . .

Weeks 11 and 12: A Tale of Two Cities

After living in Jakarta for three months I can attest that it is a city of extremes. It is almost as if there are two separate Jakartas; one dirty, cogested, full of noise, people and pollusion; the other empty, sanitised and strangely characterless.

The area I live in, Tebet, falls firmly into the first category. Primarily a residential area, it is comprised of a dense labyrinth of streets with back-to-back houses and a few makeshift shops, their proprietors lounging outside enjoying a game of chess or an afternoon snooze. The main street is a different story. Walking out onto it you are hit by a wave of noise, pollution and general chaos. The traffic is perenially static except for those cars brave enough to negotiate into the paking spaces haphazardly placed at the side of the road. Designated attendants do their best to control the traffic, their shouts and whistles adding to the immense noise. You have to be constantly on guard for motorcyclists weaving in and out of the traffic, some of whom get impatient and drive along the pavement. Sometimes the pavement is so damaged that walking on the rubble is actually more dangerous than walking in the road and some stretches of road simply have no pavement at all. Even negotiating the short walk back to my boarding house sometimes feels like an enormous effort.

The most striking thing about the scene is the sheer density of people. In Tebet there are people everywhere. Visitors flock to the main street each evening to frequent the area's numerous restaurents and cafes and impromptu stalls spring up selling cheap food and pirate DVDs. A number of beggars roam the streets and children playing miniture guitars busk for diners whether they like it or not (in Indonesia you pay buskers to go away rather than to express your appreciation for their playing). It is this aspect of the environment that I find most difficult; the constant stream of bodies pressing into you, the complete absence of personal space. Although the locals have become familiar with us, the attention we engender as foreigners has not abated. Whenever I venture out into the streets I am greeted by constant stares and comments. I understand that the comments are jovial and innocuous, that it is inevitable that I will be the object of curiosity to the locals, but I continue to find the attention both imposing and irritating. It frustrates me that I am unable to move beyond what is in essence a culturally conditioned aversion to attention from strangers, but I cannot.

Thankfully, there is a way to escape the chaos. Central Jakarta, just a short taxi ride from Tebet, is a million miles away in cultural and economic terms. Central Jakarta, for me, will always be defined by what it is not. The first thing you notice is the absence of crowds and the distance between you and other people, which seems vast, even comically so, exaggerated by the contrast with everyday life. Central Jakarta is a few square miles of unadulterated, unapologetic capitalist enterprise; an impressive collection of designer shopping malls, expensive restaurents and luxury apartment blocks. Perhaps the most interesting thing about these spaces is that when you are inside them you could be anywhere. The other day I was in one of the malls when I realised that all I could see were British shops: Topshop, Debenhams, Marks and Spencer. However, it would be wrong to dismiss these spaces as acultural or non-Indonesian. Last weekend we ended up doing a grand tour of shopping malls, visiting 5 in 2 days, and afterwards we joked that we were finally acting like native Jakartans. Other cities have museums, galleries, temples and palaces; Jakarta has shopping malls. However, you can't help but be aware that the places you are visiting are accessible only to the wealthy minority and are hardly representative of how most Indonesian people spend their leisure time.


The incongruence between the two Jakartas suddenly dawned on me the other day when I realised I had taken to showering at the gym almost every day. I had good reason: the gym has a power shower, hot water and - joy of joys! - a hairdryer whilst my room at home has only a bucket, a cold tap and a hole in the floor. However, there was something about this set up - the contrast between the austerity of my living accommodation and my luxury gym membership - that struck me as absurd. And, indeed it is absurd, an absurdity symptomatic of living between two parallel cities. At home the concept of value is relatively straightforward; there is a consistant and fairly predictable scale of value associated with various commodities. But when you have a situation where vastly different scales of value co-exist, things are not quite so predictable. In this context it becomes entirely rational to spend on a night out what you normally spend on food for the week; the costs simply aren't directly comparable because they derive from different systems of value.


Living in a foreign economy, where different goods are defined as luxury, can be confusing. For instance, at home eating out is an occastional treat, but here I have to buy every meal. I might be an extreme case given that I cannot so much as boil a kettle in my boarding house, but eating out does seem to be the norm. My trips to the supermarket reveal that it is possible to eat out for less than it would cost to buy the ingredients yourself and cook from scratch. At the same time, however, it is possible to spend rather a lot on food and drink, particularly if you have Western tastes. In Jakarta, a coffee at Starbucks is a weekend treat (yes, I realise how weird it is to start drinking coffee in a tropical climnate) and a 'Western' breakfast an occasional extravagance (I have yet to find a good fry up but, at the danger of sounding disloyal, American style pancakes are even better). I often find myself justifying purchases - say 30,000R for a coffee - on the grounds that this amount would cover two meals in Tebet. I am aware that some of my choices would seem irrational or inconsistant to an outsider, or to someone who resides exclusively in one or other of the Jakartas. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that if you live like I do, negotiating between the two Jakartas, then there is no cohesive system of value with which to assess the relative expense of each purchase. The only way to make any sense of it seems to be to pick a weekly or monthly budget and consider each purchase as a proportion of that amount. Alternatively, you could bury your head in the sand, throw all caution to the wind and refuse to check your bank balance (not that I've done this, you understand . . . . )

Weeks 9 & 10: Yogyakarta

I have just returned from a long weekend to Yogyakarta (pronounced 'jog-jakarta'), a city in central Java famous for its temples, arts, crafts and volcanoes. Jenna, Kamran and I decided to go as a final holiday for Kamran, who leaves Indonesia at the end of the month. Hannah very sensibly decided to stay at home on the grounds that she did not want to die (more of this later).

After spending Friday morning in Yogyakarta's Batik markets, we headed to Borobudur temple to watch the sunset. After finding our way to the entrance (fee 12,500R) we were promptly guided round to the 'international visitor/VIP' entrance (fee 125,000R) (the only difference between the two being a complimentary cup of coffee on arrival). After we had finished grumbling about the price discrepancy, we started to make our way up to the temple. Among other things, Borobudur is impressive for its sheer size. It has 9 levels, each representing different planes of existence, and no less than 504 statues of the Buddha. In stark contrast to heritage sites at home, visitors are free to clamber all over the statues, which makes its preservation even more impressive.

One of the best things about Borobudur is the view it affords of the local scenery, the skyline dominated by the imposing silhouette of Mt Merapi. From the top of Borobudur we could see the top of Merapi rising out of the clouds, a somewhat intimidating sight given that we had agreed to climb it the following day. When we decided to climb Merapi we were aware that it was a bit dangerous. Merapi erupts every few years, often violently, and since it has been a couple of years since the last eruption experts recommend against climbing it. However, a friend of Jenna's, Andy, agreed to be our guide despite the imminent threat of eruption and the seasonal danger of what he described as 'deadly storm winds'. Until we saw it with our own eyes, however, I don't think any of us really appreciated the scale of what we had signed up for. Merapi stands at 9,738 ft, an intimidating prospect, especially for novices like us.

The climb began when we were picked up from out hotel at 9.30pm the next evening. Our guide Andy drove us to a village part way up the mountain from which we would start the trek. Andy is obviously one of those people for whom the danger of voncanoes is part of their appeal (we are talking about a man who called his firstborn child 'Lava'). In the car he was excitedly explaining how dangerous Merapi is, telling us how many people have died climbing it etc. By the time we arrived at the village we were all visibly nervous.

In retrospect it was a good decision to climb Merapi at night. Although we had torches, it was difficult to see far ahead, which forced us to concentrate on each individual step, rather than thinking about how far we had to go. Much to my surprise I didn't find the climb too physically demanding, although my legs did start to ache as the climb progressed. We took a couple of long breaks - one planned and one necessitated by the aforementioned deadly storm winds - during which we ate chocolate sitting round an impromptu campfire. During the second break we realised that the sun was rising, and climbed up on a rock to get a better view. I can honestly say that sunrise was the most beautiful thing I have seen in my life; deep oranges and intense yellows spreading across an open horizon - it just knocked all the breath out of me. The three of us didn't know what to do with ourselves. We just stood there, laughing, taking photographs that would inevitably fail to adequately represent the incandescent beauty that stood before us.

Unfortunately we still had a way to go before the summit. After a short distance we reached a plateau from which it was possible to view the top of the mountain. It was a demoralising moment. The terrain was intimidatingly steep, comprised of hundreds of crumbling limestone rocks. We ended up pretty much crawling up on all fours, holding on for dear life. As we were climbing this precipitous terrain, the ridiculousless of what we were trying to achieve hit me. Here we were, complete novices, dressed in cheap platic raincoats and old trainers, with no safety equipment, climbing a mountain that might start spurting hot lava at any moment.

But reach the summit we did, and it made everything worthwhile. The view of the surrounding countrying side was just astonishing. There was a bit of an other-worldly feel to standing there above the clouds looking down on the world. At the same time, however, it was impossible to forget we were standing on an active volcano. The smell of sulphur was overpowering and the rocks around us were billowing out steam (the first time I caught a glimpse of some steam I thought we were doomed for sure, but I was soon reassured that it always did that). At the summit Andy suprised us all by unpacking a small camping stove. We were soon presented with a sandwhich and a hot cappachino, which after a 7 hour hike tasted absolutely amazing.

Suprisingly, I found the journey down more challenging than the climb up. No doubt exacerbated by sleep deprivation, I found myself slipping and sliding everywhere, and I became terrified of falling down and breaking my legs. Reaching the bottom was a relief, not least because we had been walking for 12 hours. That day the three of us were just exhausted. Even now - after two decent meals and a good night's sleep - my limbs still feel like cotton wool. The physical pain seems to be a small price to pay, though, for an experience like that.

In other news in the last fortnight . . . . I went to my first Indonesian wedding. I hadn't actually met the bride or groom before - they both work for the same NGO as me - but I was assured our attendance was welcome. On arrival we went to meet the wedding party, posed for photos, had some lunch, and then it was time to go. I think it was a pretty typical experience of an Indonesian wedding - they certainly don't have receptions that go on into the evening like we do - still, I did feel a bit bad about that.

I also spent two days at a conference organsed by UNIFEM about women's rights in Muslim societies. I'm not really sure why I was asked to attend because I don't work on any gender related projects, but I was grateful for the opportunity. It's a subject I find really interesting (I wrote my dissertation on Islamic feminism) and some of the speakers were great. For instance, there was a talk from a female MP from Afghanistan, about what it is like to be a female politician in a country that does not approve of women's political participation. However, the conference reinforced my perception of the development field in general; that is involves a lot of talking and very little actual doing. There were a lot of descriptions of the situation in such-a-such country, and little effort to address wider questions about how to promote women's rights in a more pragmatic sense.