I’d stopped in Probolinggo because I wasn’t done with volcanoes. South-west of the city was active Mt Bromo where we travelled to find a lunar landscape around a smoking crater.
A pony ride to the crater was in order for my daughter because she was still counting down the days with a sorrowful air. In spite of the ride, she later told me she was angry because the pony’s owner kept control of the reins, a fact I was grateful for.
We climbed the steps to the rim and looked down some 200 metres into the bowl of the earth where sulphuric fumes swept from the bottom spewing over us. It was only nine years since the volcano last erupted and several years after our visit, when I heard Mt Bromo erupted again.