By Wari Wicatman
Editorial Board, Jayanews.com
The year was 2018.
I set foot in Cigondang Village, Labuan District, Pandeglang Regency, Banten Province. I was visiting a friend’s home.
The village air was a mix of heat and coolness—the area sits on the coast near the mountains—while the roads were still unpaved earth, and the sound of crickets provided the night’s music.
I stayed at the home of my friend, Santoso—a native of Lampung whose wife was from Cigondang, Labuan. It was a wooden stilt house; the upper-floor boards creaked whenever stepped upon, though the ground floor was tiled. We chatted for a long time on the veranda over my favorite black coffee, discussing the sea, market trading, and political news from the city.
At midnight, the atmosphere shifted.
In the distance, toward the Sunda Strait, the sky suddenly turned red. It turned out that Anak Krakatau (Child of Krakatoa) was erupting.
That was “Anak Krakatau.”
The people of Banten call it “Rakata.”
The mountain was erupting.
Tongues of glowing lava spewed upward, reflecting off the clouds and illuminating the entire Labuan coastline as if it were day. Even the waves took on a reddish hue.
Before I could recover from the shock, the ground beneath us trembled slightly—like an earthquake, though the coastal people of Labuan call it *lini*. Glasses on the table clinked. My heart leapt into my throat; I feared something terrible was about to happen.
In a panic, I asked, “Is this dangerous?”
My friend simply smiled calmly and patted my shoulder.
“Don’t panic, *Om*; events like this happen all the time,” he said.
Those words calmed me. Outside, Rakata continued to glow. Inside, the fluorescent light kept shining. That night, I learned one thing: living near a volcano means living side-by-side with its power. It is okay to be afraid, but don’t lose your composure.
I tried drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette to calm myself down. The night grew late, yet sleep eluded me. I kept chatting with my friend until the early hours, and we only managed to rest as dawn approached.
To this day, I still remember that brilliant glow. Not because it was frightening… but because it was beautiful, reminding me just how small we are in the face of nature.
I hope everything is well there, even though that event keeps replaying in my mind.
Indramayu, September 5, 2026.
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