Java

Bleary eyed and feeling slightly nauseas, I swallowed hard and looked out the window to the dark night skies. With only a few hours sleep and the prospect of a lengthy trek on an empty stomach I wasn’t feeling at my best. Mount Bromo is best seen at sunrise and we were running late.

The rusty 4x4 jangled along the pot-hole ridden road at a ferocious pace, only careering to a stop when faced with a stray donkey or a lonely chicken scampering in a frantic fashion across the uneven surface. “Cepat, cepat” the driver, shouted at no one in particular as we made the race against the rising sun.

Shrugging off the waves of tiredness enveloping me I wound down the window and was pleasantly surprised as whispers of cool air blew into the car. I was used to sticky, humidity and polluted grey skies. The fresh mountain air made a refreshing change. I began to regret my choice of clothing. The thin layers and feelings of exhaustion made me shiver and I wrapped my arms around my chest rubbing my arms for a little warmth.

As we neared towards the starting point of the trek, the empty roads gave way to a hustling frenzy as locals tried to sell everything from fresh fruit to a mule and accompanying guide. The car had now slowed as we trundled behind several vehicles up ahead. I began to wind up my window, shivering again as I did so. I wasn’t ready to face the sellers just yet.

As I did so a small voice came out of the darkness.
“Handsock”.
Not sure whether I heard correctly I wound down the window and looked out.
“Handsock”
The determined little voice said again before a small hand appeared at the window encased in a large glove.
“Handsock”, he repeated and waved his hand around. Then a small face and a cheeky grin peered up at me.

I smiled. In a country with a year round temperature of 30C, gloves are somewhat superfluous yet here was a time and a place for them. At 3.30am, in a dimly lit street in the middle of nowhere, entrepreneurial spirit was thriving.