23

1am: I can't believe I've still got these pants on. Haven't had a chance to do any laundry because of the relentless need to keep moving of the last few days, so the ones I have on are already recycled from last week and after today, even the fact they're on back-to-front doesn't dilute the unmistakable stench of piss as I slip between the sheets. I feel a bit ashamed, but too tired to care. I've pulled the bed towards the fan I finally managed to prise from the owner's death grip and I'm grateful for it now as the room's fusty, damp and hot as hell. Still as a corpse and twice as smelly, I'm drifting off in a heady fug of wet heat and damp tramp crotch smell and barely have time to consider the contrasts of the day. From the morning's glory to the night's terrors in just under 24 hours - this must be what life's like for coffee beans. They always start life in exotic surroundings, but then end up in a Norbury greasy spoon. With that thought the sandman appears, with a peg on his nose, takes hold and I'm gone.

11:30pm: The bus finally rolls into Dempasar station and with it the familiar dread of clambering hands and discarded notions of personal space boundaries. Dismounting, I'm clothes-lined into the side of the door by an over-zealous taxi driver and angrily shove back, spitting my distemper through a sagging mouth and rolling pie eyes. Everything's sore and aching and tired and confused. I silently pray for a quick solution - that a shiny guesthouse lies just behind the station's fuming hub of noise with food, beer and breakfast included. Maybe a nice story to help me drift away and take my mind off my pants - something with a reckless mole who's blind to his own shortcomings - but I know it's never that easy and wheeling Daddy Bag onto my back, with Mummy Bag on my front, me and the others walk the wrong way for 10 minutes before realising our mistake.

By then it's too late and any hope of finding somewhere to bed down at this time of night quickly begins to dribble out of me like cranberry sauce at the Stroke Society's Christmas do. I find myself Goleming after another group, misguidedly hoping to limpet onto their successes, but, as is seasonal, for all of us now, there's no room at any inn. Casting eight ninja turtles shadows against the crumbling streets around the bus station a decision is made to rent a minivan and when the deal is finally made I'm struck by how much emphasis the driver places on the prefix of the term. Mini is entirely accurate and with the appropriate grunts, tsks and ninja moves, eight stinking, tired and grumpy (me leading the field in all categories) travellers shoehorn themselves into the mini(scule) van and head down the road to Kuta. It must have more instant food and sleep options. It's the right decision.

The guidebook calls Kuta not pretty, but I'd go further than that and suggest its positively disfigured. As we approach bass pounds and vibrates through the tin walls of our can-pram and eventually we're tipped out into the ketchup streets; late and in full swing. Shirtless, drooling dirtbags crab alongside us with a late-night swagger I mirror through fatigue and finally we settle for a hostel, embelished by the forgiving cloak of sundown. The room's got the customer review of three turd streaks wiped down the wall behind the toilet, but it's too late, in every sense of the word, for me to give that much of my own shit and change my mind. I just need to pursuade the owners to lend me an extra fan as the ceiling-mounted offering is set to suck, neatly emulating its own ability to function. Now for dinner - after a wait of over 12 hours anything will do, and in the kebab we settle for, literally anything could be in it. I squelch into the flakey meat and sweet sauces with the promise of cheap beer to wash it down and firm up my plans to leave this place tomorrow. Like the guesthouse, it stinks.

4pm: I'm feeling surprisingly upbeat. They may have sat me next to the fattest narcaleptic in Indonesia, whose idea of bonding has been his adhesively sweaty thighs sticking to mine throughout the bus journey while he peacefully slumbers, but we've reached the ferry port now and that means we're making progress. Getting on board is a dieselly affair, but above the fumes there's an air-conditioned room and shouting us above deck are a couple of nutters slicking about in the oily water of the pier. They're shouting for coins, apparently, and when they're thrown overboard the oily ticks penguin beneath the surface to snatch them up. I'm made a little uncomfortable by their life-limiting escapades, but beaming up at the boat, they appear happy and it's nothing a good soak in Fairy Liquid won't solve.*

As I watch Java shrink into the distance I'm relieved. It's been a sleepless couple of weeks and just downright tough at times, but today more than made up for it and thoughts of the morning colour my memories a rosy hue. The AC room has kicked off now and amongst the insistent cries for various instant noodle treats, the room has erupted into a karaoke den. I'm more tempted than you will ever know, but the crowd's hostile at best - at worst genuinely angry when I try to encourage the participators with applause - so I decide to give this one a miss. The boat finally begins to slow as we approach Bali, which is actually a relief as the 'singing' is testing everyone's screechy thresholds, and we start to load back up on the bus. Bali - land of beauty in more ways than one as it's here that I'll reunite with Nabila. Can't wait. Fatty-fatty sleep-sleep has disembarked and I have a seat of my own now. It's all good.

9am: How can I have been up for six hours already? I'm completely exhausted, but totally exhilarated. What a morning! It's been 12km of winding mountainous paths, up and down, but the sights and the colours and the feeling of achievement - these are the reasons I've done this trip and this was another one of those moments to feel blessed. The guesthouse is so basic but now that we've got back, the planet requires that I have a wash. The bathroom is cold - as cold as I've experienced in Asia and although I'm still flushed from the trek, getting naked is an instantly diminishing affair. No shower here, just a trough of freezing water and a plastic jug.

I countdown from five, squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth - bracing for impact and condensing even further from the anticipation... The water tips, it hits, it saturates - then I scoop more and do it again and again, discharging the strange language icy water exudes from humans while furiously lathering the soap onto my smelly bits. Every bit. Goo-gaa-cak-cak-bah-baa-chis-chis-hahh-ha...! And it's over. I'm clean. I'm refreshed. I'm alive. It feels great and the lethargy just slips away. It's nearly half past now and our first leg of the long journey to Bali is about to begin, but I'm ready for it. Bring it on.

4:30am: The sun is about to rise. We've been walking uphill now for two hours and the layers (it's all about layers) have been gradually peeled off one by one. Started with five, now I'm on two. Looking over to the summit of Mount Bromo, it's quite a sight as the cloud florets mushroom into the tangerine spaces invented by the rising sun. The volcano is spoiled by this every morning, but for me, it's a moment to savour. We consume the view for another five minutes before moving on - gotta get to the top, make it all worth the work. We walk on for another 30 minutes and the path turns to road, we have to be nearly there. The sun's beating us now and I'm struck by how many times in Asia it's been a race against the firey star - sundown, sunset, sunrise; get there, see it, be there - a small window, but when will you get the opportunity again? I need the sun to burn this image onto my memory and I will make it. For the last 100 metres I run up the stairs - like Challenge Anneka, people are pointing upwards and shouting encouragement and my bum wobbles dutifully as I reach the top.

Wow. Ignore the people, this is stunning. It looks like a painted backdrop and can't possibly be real, but it is. Bromo sits eternally and the reds of the sun erupt the volcano for all of us to see. Shadows quickly turn to faces and light begins to lick life into the scene before you know it. But I was there. I saw it. Pictures and videos ensue and then the trek continues as we don't have much time. It's downhill, but the sun is hot now and rising fast. The path eventually flattens out into a plateau leading to the volcano itself. It's moon-like and its emptiness catches in your throat; the stillness and peace a surprise given the hoards of tourists at the summit. They couldn't walk the walk though and this is our reward. The hostel is just the other side of Bromo, a mere hour's trot in the sun. It's dusty and volcanic and at 7:30am it feels good to already be able to say, what a day.

2am: Shivering. Cold. Didn't sleep as much as I should. Probably got off at around 11pm in the end. Felt like Christmas as a kid where all you want is for it to be the other side of this wait. Sod it - I'm getting up early and putting on my layers (it's all about layers). I have my torch ready, woolly hat on and two pairs of socks. It seems almost perverse to hear the alarm go off at 2:30am, especially as I'm already dressed in preparation for the day. I open the door and start to see dark figures emerging from their rooms. It's time to leave and we all know this is gonna be a long day. I just hope it doesn't rain.

Well, there you go. Thought I'd try something a little different this week. Had a week off for Christmas - but you got the video, so what're you complaining about? Hope you all had a fantastic day and have a great new year too. Nabila has been here for a week now and we've had the most incredible time at beautiful hotels and restaurants, but I'll save that for another time. Merry Christmas, Everyone. X

(*It is. They will definitely die young)