The ribbon of asphalt stretched endlessly before us, a shimmering highway under the dying sun. Lasem was soon a fading memory, its vibrant history replaced by the hypnotic rhythm of the road. Three to four hours, they said, to Surakarta, or Solo as some called it.
(Credit: Clara)
Clara, our frontseat shutterbug, seized the moment. The fiery sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a riot of crimson and gold. Flanking this spectacle were the hulking silhouettes of Gunung Merapi and Gunung Merbabu, their volcanic slumber etched against the canvas of dusk. A sight both awe-inspiring and faintly unsettling, a reminder of the volatile heart that beats beneath Java's serene surface.The journey wasn't without its interruptions. Patches of dusty brown punctuated the emerald landscape, a testament to the silent toil of Jati farmers. These sentinels of Indonesian hardwood, teak trees, stood in stoic rows, a testament to both the island's natural bounty and its past ecological sins. Dimas, our ever-informative guide, explained the government's efforts to revive teak cultivation, a stark counterpoint to the rampant deforestation of earlier decades. The golden light glinted off the yellow lines that bisected the road, a marker, Dimas pointed out, of federally funded highways.
As the sun dipped further, casting long shadows across the endless paddy fields, we were a symphony of phone camera taps, desperate to capture the fleeting beauty of the golden hour. But the allure of the destination battled with the artistic impulse, and we pressed on, yearning for the comfort of our hotel beds.
Restaurant Adem Ayem in Solo welcomed us with open arms, and the promise of a steaming bowl of "Nasi Sup Timlo." Dimas' choice, a beef stew nestled in a comforting broth, arrived with a flourish. Bits of beehoon noodles, a lone egg, and an assortment of unidentified bovine parts disappeared in a flurry of famished gusto. Hunger, it seemed, trumped culinary curiosity.
The Ibis Styles Solo offered efficient check-in, but its Wi-Fi, alas, proved unreliable. A quest for a bar beckoned – Clara, Susan, Yit Peng, and myself – but Google Maps, it seemed, had succumbed to the passage of time. The watering hole I envisioned was a phantom, a ghost haunting the digital realm. We backtracked, seeking solace in the Novotel's bar, the Ibis' flashier sibling. Plush decor failed to mask the bar’s eerie emptiness – not a soul to share a drink or a story with. Undeterred, we rallied, suddenly we bumped into Tony, bidding him to join our ranks, and thus, we toasted the day's end, the fatigue laced with the quiet satisfaction of a journey well-made.
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