To get to Pancasila village from Bima will take at least a day Wan and the key point is your time of arrival in Bima. You would have to arrive early morning to have ANY chance of reaching Pancasila by nightfall. You can get a bus from Bima to Dompu (maybe 2 hours) and depending on the time, overnight there. Next day, a bus from Dompu to Calabai will take 6-7 hours – the road is bad for the last 6 hours. From Calabai to Pancasila is about 15 – 20 km. You can get a motorbike or maybe a car. Chartering a vehicle from Bima would be possible I’m sure but it would be expensive, I imagine. All the best.

Thanks Merantau for the updates. Yes I’m from Malaysia, so I do speak & understand a lot Indonesia if not 100%. My plan is to fly from Kuala Lumpur-Jakarta-Bima in order to save a lot of travelling time. Leading to my another question, is that easy enough to get a transport from Bima airport to Desa Pancasila and how long this will take ?

Many thanks again.

Hi Wan. I just called Saiful the Ranger at K-PATA. Climbing this month is possible but be prepared for rain. There has been a lot of rain recently and it is usual for Jan too. Do you speak Indonesian? If so give Saiful a call. +6285937030848. I told him your name and asked if it was OK to pass on his number to you. He is a good guy.

What the status of Tambora now ? I’m planning to climb in January 2012. Possible ?

Hello Abdi. Give Saiful a call. He is the Ranger/Ko-ordinator for K-PATA (Kelompok Pencinta Alam Tambora). His number is: 085937030848

Hi Abdi. I very much doubt you can climb at the moment. Better wait til next year (assuming the beast doesn’t erupt and give us another ‘year without summer’ for 2012!)

Hi there i would like to know the status for tambora for this October can we treks there.? or where we can get the info..

Minor signs of unrest at Tambora…..

http://bigthink.com/ideas/39980

http://portal.vsi.esdm.go.id/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=203:peningkatan-status-g-tambora-dari-normal-ke-waspada&catid=35:aktifitas-terkini-gai

Dear hikers and wanderers, I would like to bring to your attention that there is a guest-house in the Tambora coffee-plantation which can accommodate numerous people and has full board. It is nearest to where you start your climb of Tambora. Please have a look at the blog that I made. http://visittambora.wordpress.com/
I do this to attract more and more people to the area, in order for the local population to develop.
On my side this is a non-profit effort, but it would be nice if you make mention to the people there of how you came to know of this. I hope you will come and visit Tambora!!

Below is an excerpt from Steve Campbell’s account of his recent climb up Tambora……

The track to Pancasila, about twenty kilometres distant, passed by cultivated fields and pastures where cattle grazed contentedly. The road provided a stark counterpoint to this bucolic scene. A nightmare of mud and washaways, punctuated with deeply rutted sections, where trucks had gouged tracks into the rich volcanic soil, it rose steadily, winding its way around Tambora’s lower contours. Haris led the way unerringly. I followed in his wake, glad to be the beneficiary of his local knowledge. An hour beyond Calabai and we were there. We crossed the football field, where a mob of bare foot boys played a spirited game, and pulled up in front of a sign board announcing that this was the headquarters of K-PATA – Kelompok Pencinta Alam Tambora – the Nature Lovers’ Group of Tambora.
Haris and I were met on the veranda by the ranger, Saiful Baharin, who invited us inside. Ordering his young daughter Dinda to prepare coffee, he ushered us into a small room where we sat on cane mats and began to talk. Saiful explained his role as custodian of the Tambora Nature Park. He produced the visitors’ book and a pamphlet on the history of the mountain and its famous eruption. Tambora saw few visitors. It was May and, for the year, only a lone Frenchman and a group of eight Indonesians had made the trip. In its five years existence the book had recorded about 20 foreign tourists – just one of them an Australian. On average about 30 people a year made the trip up – mostly groups of Indonesian students from university adventure clubs. Saiful explained the dangers of the trek and insisted that I take two guides – common sense really as, if anything untoward happened, there was no mobile phone coverage and the injured person would have to be left alone while the other went for help. Seeing so few visitors, the track was heavily overgrown. The ascent, let alone any rescue mission, was sure to be a challenge.
And so, I was introduced to Farouk, a married man in his 30s. Wiry and compact, he’d made the trip many times. He looked at me a little warily wondering if, at 60 years old, I’d be up for the journey. I assured him that I’d be fine and that I’d be carrying my own gear too. It was arranged that we set out at 7.00 am next morning. The plan was to reach a spot called ‘Post 3’ in the late afternoon. There we would rest up, eat and sleep before the final push to the summit which would begin at 1.00 am and hopefully terminate at the crater rim just on dawn. A few hours at the top and then it was back down with the expectation of reaching K-PATA headquarters by nightfall.
We shook hands all round and, after a good meal of rice, cassava leaves, spinach and salted fish, prepared by Saiful’s wife, the local primary school teacher, Farouk and Haris departed. I headed off for a shower and bed. My wounded knee had stiffened up a bit but the cut was clean with no redness – the tell-tale sign of infection. My left wrist was still a little sore but I’d get by.
Sleep came easily that night; it had been a long day. I was awake with the village roosters at first light. Coffee and pisang goreng, (banana fritters), were on the go and, before long, the four of us, Haris and Farouk having arrived at 6.30 am, were being served by Dinda and her mother. All was in readiness and refreshed with full bellies, and the stimulation provided by tall glasses of thick, black, Sumbawa coffee, we made our farewells and stepped out onto the track that ran beside the house.
It felt good to get underway. The air was chill and the grass wet with dew. The track rose gently uphill through a coffee plantation, the trees laden with ripening berries. After thirty minutes walking we came to a bamboo boom gate which announced the entrance to the Park. We slipped past and began to climb more steeply now. This was indeed a footpath only. Narrow and ill-defined it was for the most part, totally overgrown with trailing creepers and bracken. It was not long before the parang (machete) came out and Farouk and Haris began taking turns, slashing vigorously at the dew-laden vegetation. We were soon saturated. The greenery was like a thick curtain enveloping us, trying to swallow us up. Our choices were stark – we either resist or succumb to our verdant host. We pressed on.
We were now deep in primary jungle. It had become increasingly difficult for light to penetrate the dense canopy overhead. Forest giants, home to a riot of climbing vines, with lush, bushy epiphytes clinging to their trunks, reached skywards, their crowns melding into the curtain of greenery which blocked out most of the sky. An occasional opening, revealed a dense blanket of rainclouds and it was not long before we heard the thunder rolling over the mountain. We trudged on wondering how long it would be before the storm broke. The peals of thunder came closer splitting the air with their reverberations.
The first heavy droplets to reach us were refreshing; we had been sweating and staining our way up a steep incline fit for the labours of Sisyphus. But within minutes we were drenched as water streamed from every leaf and tendril. And so it continued for three hours as we hacked our way up the forested slopes. At each rest point we’d remove our shoes to get rid of the leeches. Haris made good use of his parang to make sure they would not return for second helpings! It was pointless changing into dry gear – we didn’t have any! I later discovered that even my passport, which I’d placed in a zip-lock bag inside my money belt, did not escape the deluge; it remains water damaged to this day.
At 3.00 pm, eight hours after leaving Pancasila, we staggered into Post 3, a rude shelter fashioned out of bush timber and roofed with corrugated iron that some hardy souls had dragged up from below. Built up on stilts and set in a tiny clearing, it was as welcome as any Hilton had ever been. By now the rain had ceased. Farouk ferreted some dry wood out from beneath the shelter and got a fire going. I rigged up a line. We emptied our packs and began the big dry out. In the steamy afternoon humidity this was more a gesture of hope than of expectation.
The exertions of the day had left us ravenous and we attacked our food with relish. Rice, instant noodles, hard boiled eggs and sweet buns were washed down with coffee and Haris and Farouk luxuriated in their first smoke for quite a few hours. We stoked the fire, producing a cheery blaze and did our best to dry some clothes prior to the hoped-for night’s sleep. We chatted about the track ahead and our plan for the night ascent. Farouk and Haris were agreed. We should rise at midnight, eat a hot meal, drink plenty of coffee and break camp before 1.00 am. I asked about the going and was dismayed to learn we still had some work to do before we got above the tree line. What’s more we were yet to reach the region of the dreaded jelantik, or stinging nettle. Brushing against this little nasty was, according to Haris, like being seared with a welder’s torch. To make our way through parts of it we would have to shinny up two fallen forest giants. Each lay against the mountainside at a 30 degree angle and on either side the jelantik lay waiting to enclose a falling climber in its poisonous embrace. The thought of this happening under torchlight at 3.00 am was, needless to say, sobering.
It was time to rest. We lay down on the hard teak boards and tried to get comfortable. Still-damp clothes, hard boards, a coolish breeze and, just on dusk, the arrival of a squadron of noisy mosquitoes, conspired to keep us awake. Furthermore, every time I made a move to seek some comfort, I’d cramp in the quadriceps, or hamstring or calf – at times it seemed like all three at once! Thus, I discovered, it’s very difficult to sleep and massage your screaming muscles at the same time.
Darkness closed over us with the rapidity of a stage curtain and we were left to contemplate the night sounds of the ever-present jungle. Far off were heard the faint rumble of thunder; each of us secretly hoped it was not coming our way. Close by, a burung hantu, which literally means ghost bird, began to hoot eerily. The undergrowth rustled and swished with the passage of a large beast – maybe a wild pig or a small deer. Sleep would not come and I began to worry about the hours ahead. Would this enterprise end in failure or even worse, end disastrously with one of us injured precipitating an emergency rescue? Thankfully, my wounded knee had not troubled me so far. Or, by some conspiracy of the clouds, would we be denied a view of Tambora’s awesome crater by the onset of more atrocious weather? I pushed the thoughts from my mind and entered the twilight zone of dozeland – unsure if I was dreaming or thinking, vaguely aware of my physical discomfort, but not able, or not willing, to move lest I jerk myself back into wakefulness.
In this way I cobbled together an hour’s rest before my mobile’s alarm came to life with The Eagles crooning, ‘Welcome to the Hotel California’. I stirred, moving gingerly so as to not bring on cramp. The breeze had abated but the air was cold. Haris blew on the embers and soon had a blaze going, its halo a red glow pushing against the black night. Our clothes – and most importantly – shoes and socks had dried, so, at least we would be comfortable for a while. Plenty of warm food and hot coffee primed us for the off, and at 1.00 am precisely we left camp and struck out into the green curtain ahead of us.
The narrow trail wound steadily on. We climbed under and over fallen trees eventually reaching the first fallen giant that would carry us safely above the forest of jelantik. The tree was too slippery to walk along. Perhaps 40 meters long we could just straddle it and, using our hands, drag ourselves up its length. On either side the jelantik lay, just a metre below, waiting. My head torch lighting the way, I inched myself forward after the others. Its silvery beam illuminating the seemingly endless wall of greenery, I wondered aloud: “When will this forest end?” The answer came back from Farouk, “Just one more hour.” Could I hang on? Could I make it till we reached the easier going?
True to his word, shortly after negotiating a second fallen monster and tasting my first brush of jelantik against an exposed cheek, we found ourselves in flatter, more open country. Trees were smaller, thinner – a different species altogether – and instead of alang grass, bracken and trailing creepers, we were pushing our way through tussocky grass and could feel scoria, not slippery earth, beneath our feet. The end of the green hell distracted me from the burning sensation left by the jelantik – at last some easier going! The lightening sky brought promise of a soon-to-come rendezvous with the summit. Our hopes rose with each step. We quickened our pace eager to take in the long-anticipated vista. The open sky above was clear. The firmament blinked and twinkled a greeting to the first rays of dawn – we were assured of clear, uninterrupted views all the way to Lombok!
The last few hundred metres were a scramble over a moonlike surface of sand, scoria and small rocks. With perfect timing we reached the crater’s edge. In the dim light we could sense we were standing, looking down into an awesome chamber. Gradually the sky lightened and our eyes feasted on a stupendous sight – Tambora’s crater bathed in the sun’s first rays. Seven kilometres wide, 21 kilometres in circumference, 350 metres deep, its sombre presence defied description. It was simply – THERE! – the result of the most cataclysmic event in modern history. No words were needed to describe the feelings we experienced at that moment. We smiled and embraced and my steadfast companions lit up a smoke. Below us the mountain fell away to the coast, beyond which lay the islet of Satonda with its salt water lake, created courtesy of the tsunami which followed the explosion – the explosion ‘which shook up the world.’ Far away to the west waves caressed the fractured, indented northern Sumbawa coastline whilst we contemplated the massive power of nature and the inevitability of the trip back down the mountain.
We stayed up top for a couple of hours, resting, eating bananas and sweet buns, and congratulating ourselves.