Mid-morning, over water. Parked behind two coconut trucks. We get out and seek a shady spot. School girls in white jilbab, green skirts, cushy foam sandals crowd the deck, eat pop mie and laugh together. The strait is calm, glinting turquoise blue, a few rolling swells. (Water does weird things when switching seas.) The tip of Ijen shows through its topping of whipped cream, in front of us, with Baluran a hulking silhouette to the north. Our way lies between them.
Arrival at the pier in Ketupang. Men and boys swim at the waterline and heckle us for cash, slipping between boat and bumpers as we maneuver into place. School girls toss them crumpled bills, everyone is laughing. Lines secured and everything is a rush. Pick through the crowds, squeeze past the trucks, climb into the car. Azan sounds as we drive off the ramp (rumble and clank of steel joints) and onto the island of Java.