The Mountain that Shook up the World. Part 1.

On April 15, 1815 the little known island of Sumbawa, in the Dutch East Indies, played host to an event of global proportions. Mt Tambora blew its top and catapulted 150 cubic kilometres of its brooding mass skywards in an act of monumental malevolence. A mountain that Sir Stamford Raffles had measured to be 4200 mts high was reduced to 2800 mts. It now sported a crater one kilometre deep and seven kilometres wide. The explosion obliterated the entire population of West Sumbawa, its culture and language lost - forever.

News of the disaster did not travel fast. There were no eye witnesses to recount the event. Loud booms were heard 2600 kilometres away in Batavia. The mystified inhabitants sent a detachment of soldiers to Banten, thinking there had been an attack. Ash began falling in Bali, Lombok and Java. Two English ships reported sailing through a massive sea of pumice stone. Something big had happened - but what?



On the ground there was utter devastation. Perhaps 30,000 people lost their lives immediately. Those outside the critical zone were to suffer terribly from disease and, eventually, from starvation. The eruption has been estimated to be the equivalent of a 22 gigaton blast of TNT. Thousands of square kilometres of Sumbawa and neighbouring Lombok were covered in ash up to two metres deep. Water sources were totally polluted. The simple act of drinking became a lottery where the booby prize was death from cholera. Arable land ceased to exist so people starved or became refugees living the most precarious of existences.



In far off Europe and North America the population was blissfully ignorant of the Tambora disaster. All they realised, as the months passed, was that the weather seemed to be getting a little cooler, the sunsets a lot more spectacular and the days more hazy and murky. As the year went on conditions worsened. The new year, 1816, saw an intensification of the unusually cold conditions. Each passing day the sun shone more weakly from behind an ever-thickening veil of volcanic debris which, by now, had circled the globe. The ground froze; nothing grew as expected. Crops either failed completely or yields were drastically lowered. Throughout Northern Europe and North America famine devastated entire districts. In London the River Thames froze. 1816 soon became known as “The Year without Summer.”



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My first encounter with Tambora was in April 2009. I rode a Honda Vario over from Bali and, after a week on the road, I found myself turning left at the roundabout in Soriutu town and heading north-west, bound for Tambora. It lay about 100 kilometres distant, along the decayed ribbon of bitumen that was once a road. After four hours of torturous, snail-pace riding I had an “off” and lost a bit of bark from my knee; no damage to the bike save a scratched muffler. All good.


I think I was one of the first outsiders to climb Tambora. It was an epic trip. Just two guides and me. Drenching rain for hours on end. Up and back in thirty-three hours. Little sleep, maximum effort. But the view from the crater lip at dawn? Words fail me. You just have to experience it for yourself.

Since that first trip I’d made two more attempts to summit but both ended in failure. In 2012, aboard a Kawasaki KLX150, I attempted to ride from Doro Ncangga in the west via a track that led to a shelter located at 1800mt. I was ill-prepared for the attempt. To begin with, I had my luggage strapped to the fuel tank which restricted my manoeuvrability. Then there was the track. It was dry season, so lots of deep sand. I really struggled up the steep sections and had a number of minor offs. It was hot and exhausting work extricating the bike and, to my alarm, my water supply was looking rather light on. Furthermore, the bike was really difficult to re-start due to a flooding and perhaps vapour lock. In the torrid heat the exertion required to keep moving onwards and upwards was debilitating. Around mid-afternoon, after another spill, I bailed out and headed for the coast to lick my wounds.


I went back again to Doro Ncangga in April 2015 better prepared and wiser. With a functional luggage rack, plenty of water and a bank of experience to draw on, I charged up the track without incident. I took a break at Pos 2, located at 900mt. Refreshed, I pressed on. Pos 3, was just five kilometres away. The track was getting steeper but it was still manageable. I descended a deep gully and made it up the other side - just. I pressed on. Another steep downhill led to a dry stream bed bordered by large trees clothed in a mantle of vines and epithytes. It was eerily dark down there; I made it to where the ascent levelled out a little and had a rest. It was not yet 11 am. Pressing on I reached a point about two kilometres past Pos 2, took a wrong line and snookered myself, largish rocks in front of each wheel. I made a couple of valiant attempts, with plenty of right hand, to free myself but, alas, nothing was happening at the back wheel.



I got off. The clutch housing was scalding hot. There was little free play at the lever. What to do? Wait. Let it cool down, adjust for free play and hope I didn’t have a burnt out clutch. I sat beside the bike, lay back and took in my surroundings. I was on a ridge that dropped away quite sharply to the right. It was savannah country. Some sections of the track had been bordered by grasses up to two metres high. Here the grass was shorter and I had an unimpeded view of the valley below. To my alarm the weather was closing in. A band of cloud was slowly making its way toward me. A stiff cold wind sprang up propelling a maelstrom of writhing, tumbling mist ahead of it. I was soon enveloped in its clammy embrace. Visibility was compromised alarmingly - to perhaps just 50 metres. All I could do was wait and ... hope.



I waited an hour. There was no sign of the cloud abating. Even if I could get the bike moving, continuing upwards might prove futile as there could be a white out at the crater lip. I turned my attention to the bike. The clutch housing was just warm to the touch - good. I managed to get a bit of free play at the lever - good. I started the engine, engaged first and, with hopes high released the clutch. The bike moved! I was mobile again. I turned around and headed back down the mountain, worried about making it up the two steep gullies before Pos 2. Throwing caution to the wind, I attacked each gully with gusto and, heart thumping, made it up to level ground without mishap. Upon reaching Pos 2 I took a break and a swig of water before heading downhill to the bitumen twelve kilometres away.

When I reached the roadway it was early afternoon. I took the opportunity to test the bike thoroughly for clutch slip. On the flat, in top gear with minimal throttle, there wasn’t a problem. But, as soon as the engine was put under load it roared - but in vain. There was no way I’d be able to tackle that track again so I reluctantly headed home for Lombok and repairs.

And so to July 2019. New Zealander, Mike Betts, also on a KLX, and I, took off from Kuta, Lombok and made our way up the east coast to Pelabuhan Kayangan to catch the Sumbawa ferry. Our luck was in. As we approached the harbour we came across a line of trucks exiting the Port gates and we spied the ferry tied up at the dock. The ticket for the ninety minute crossing to Poto Tano was an absolute steal at just AUD$5.50.

We joined the line of bikes waiting beneath an awning. Blue uniformed ASDP Officials patrolled the parking area barking orders to truck and bus drivers, arm waving and pointing vigorously. Passengers trooped by lugging cases, boxes and kids. Vendors strolled by hawking rice and chicken, smokes, drinks and snacks. An old blind man, being lead by a young lad, begged for alms. Kiosk operators did a busy trade. All eyes were on the official controlling the chain which blocked access to the ferry. Trucks and buses had priority. We got to fill up the gaps - if any! It was a tense situation. There were thirty bikes ahead of us, fifty behind. Would we make it?

As soon as the official began to approach the chain helmets were donned and engines roared to life. The chain was unhooked. I latched on to the stream of bikes heading quayside. Just as I exited from beneath the awning, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the official move to re-attach the chain. Mike’s exit had been barred! I made a quick u-turn and called out in Indonesian, “Hey bro, what about my mate? We’re travelling together!” Somehow Mike had got held up in the rush to exit and was now a few bikes adrift of the chain. The official spotted him, gave me a nod, unhooked the chain and waved Mike though. We were on!

I’ve always loved the Angkatan Sungai Danau Penyeberangan (ASDP) ferries. This Government- run institution stitches the world’s largest archipelago together. It’s vital to trade and to the lives of the “orang kecil”, the “little people”, for whom the cost of air travel is way out of reach. Throughout eastern Indonesia there is constant movement of people back and forth between the larger and smaller islands. The former have universities and jobs in the developing tourism, agriculture and service economies; the smaller have subsistence farming and fishing - but little else. So, people migrate for work and study opportunities or to conduct business as small traders. Consequently the ferries are usually crowded and, I guess, sometimes overloaded. Indonesia is possibly the only country in the world where, if you lose your passport as the result of a shipping disaster, you can get a new passport at a discount rate. Some may find that alarming, but not me. I’d much rather take my chances in the sea with the sharks than be on a jet plane plummeting to terra firma!

The vehicle deck was packed solid with trucks, buses and bikes. The waves, if any, could do what they liked; nothing could topple over. We contented ourselves seated in the shade to stern, our ferry’s twin screws scribing a trail of turbulence on the mirror surface of the Alas Strait. Little islets - rocky, brown, bare - poked their heads up to port and the looming bulk of Sumbawa appeared ahead, its mountainous spine cloaked in heat haze.

After a ninety minute crossing we entered the sheltered bay that is Poto Tano. Monte Carlo it is not. Just two berthing ramps, some warehouses, administration buildings and a Bugis stilt village at bay’s end. The vehicle deck was a hive of activity. Truck drivers revved their engines, passengers shoe-horned their way aboard buses, motorcyclists donned helmets and loaded their wives and kids - three on a bike was common, four less so. At last the ramp came down and we were free.

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We roared out the port gates along a road bathed in sunshine. The run to our lunch stop at Kencana Beach Hotel took us inland through scrubby hills, fields of corn and then along the coast. We passed Bungin Island, reputedly the most densely populated spot on earth where, if you want to get married and build a house, you first have to collect enough coral to extend the island. Thus it is an organic entity that has been expanding for years, its Bugis inhabitants content to live their lives anchored to the unchanging rhythm of the tides.

We cruised through dusty Alas township weaving our way in and out of the knot of pony carts, pick-ups and scooters that jostled for space outside the cavernous market. Utan came and went and before long we reached the coast at Batu Gong. In the far distance we spied the bulk of the Tambora Peninsula, its outline hazy and indistinct against the blue of the sky.

Kencana Beach Hotel sits on a quiet cove 12 km west of Sumbawa Besar city. It’s been around for years and has an excellent restaurant. Mike and I were greeted warmly and we soon tucking into to a delicious lunch washed down with superb local coffee. We were the only diners as the hotel was devoid of guests - Sumbawa has never been front and central in the Department of Tourism’s thinking. But that’s ok!

We said our goodbyes - “Till next time” - and motored up the rutted driveway to join the main road again; next stop, Lesehan Telok Santong, a 100 km further east for a catch up with old friends and to have a coffee.

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