The Volcanic Wonders and Ancient Temples of Dieng Plateau

I still remember the moment I decided to visit Dieng Plateau. It was 3 AM, and I was doom-scrolling through Instagram when I stumbled upon a photo of mist-shrouded temples surrounded by volcanic landscapes. Something about it just grabbed me – not the polished, influencer-perfect beaches of Bali that flood social media, but something raw and mysterious. “Where the heck is this place?” I wondered, and down the rabbit hole I went.

Fast forward three months, and there I was, shivering in the back of a rickety minivan climbing up winding mountain roads in Central Java. I’d packed what I thought was enough warm clothing (spoiler alert: it wasn’t), and was questioning all my life choices as we swerved around another hairpin turn. The driver, seemingly unbothered by concepts like “safe following distance” or “appropriate speed for mountain roads,” cheerfully told me we were almost there while overtaking a truck on a blind corner.

“This better be worth it,” I muttered to myself, clutching my daypack like a security blanket. I’m not usually one for off-the-beaten-path adventures – I like my creature comforts a bit too much – but something about Dieng had called to me. Ancient Hindu temples older than Borobudur? Active volcanic craters you can walk right up to? A landscape that locals call “Land of the Gods”? Yeah, I could suffer through a few hours of nausea-inducing mountain roads for that.

Little did I know that this highland plateau, sitting at over 2,000 meters above sea level, would turn out to be one of the most peculiar, frustrating, and ultimately magical places I’ve ever visited.

First Impressions: Beauty and Bewilderment in the Highlands

The minivan finally deposited me in the small town of Dieng around noon, and my first thought was, “Wait, that’s it?” Dieng village isn’t much to look at – a single main street lined with simple warungs (local eateries), a few homestays, and shops selling knit caps and potatoes (the region’s main crop, as I’d soon learn). But then I looked up and around, and that’s when Dieng’s magic started to sink in.

The town sits in a bowl surrounded by volcanic peaks and terraced hillsides in a thousand shades of green. Wisps of fog clung to the mountaintops, and in the distance, I could make out thin plumes of steam rising from the earth. The air felt different too – crisp and cool, with a faint sulfuric scent that reminded me I was standing in an active volcanic caldera.

“Hotel?” a local man asked, noticing my obvious tourist-with-luggage vibe. I nodded, and he pointed me toward a homestay I’d booked online. As I started walking, I realized I had absolutely no idea which direction to go. My phone had zero reception, and my downloaded map was showing me as being in the middle of nowhere. Great start, Jack.

After wandering for about 20 minutes (the town isn’t big, but somehow I still managed to get lost), I finally found my accommodation – a simple family home with rooms for travelers. The owner, a woman named Ibu Sari, greeted me with a warm smile and, bless her, a cup of hot ginger tea that immediately thawed my chilled bones.

“Weather change quick here,” she warned me in limited English, pointing to the sky that had gone from clear blue to threatening gray in the span of our brief conversation. “Always bring jacket.”

I nodded sagely, as if I hadn’t just been shivering in my completely inadequate light sweater. I’m nothing if not stubborn about admitting when I’m underprepared.

That first afternoon, I decided to just wander around the village and get my bearings. The altitude hit me harder than I expected – just walking up a slight incline had me breathing like I’d run a marathon. Locals zipped past me on motorbikes, some giving me curious glances. Tourism exists here, but it’s mostly domestic Indonesian travelers, and Western faces are still uncommon enough to warrant a second look.

I stopped at a small warung for lunch, pointing at what the locals were eating – a simple dish of nasi goreng (fried rice) with fresh local vegetables that turned out to be absolutely delicious. The owner seemed amused by my enthusiasm, especially when I tried to compliment the food with my pathetic handful of Indonesian phrases.

As I sat there eating, the threatening clouds made good on their promise, and rain began to pour down in sheets. My plans for afternoon exploration evaporated as quickly as the dry ground. I huddled under the warung’s awning with a few locals, watching motorbike riders dash through the downpour wrapped in colorful ponchos.

“Dieng weather,” an elderly man said to me with a shrug and a smile. I’d learn that this was the plateau’s constant refrain – beautiful one minute, biblical deluge the next, then back to sunshine. It was my first lesson in Dieng’s unpredictability, a theme that would repeat throughout my stay.

The Volcanic Heart of Dieng: Sikidang Crater and Beyond

The next morning, I woke before sunrise, partly due to jet lag and partly because the paper-thin walls of my homestay meant I could hear every rooster, motorcycle, and prayer call within a five-kilometer radius. But I was eager to get to what I’d really come for – Dieng’s volcanic wonders.

After a breakfast of banana pancakes and more life-saving ginger tea, I arranged for a motorbike taxi to take me to Kawah Sikidang, the most accessible of Dieng’s volcanic craters. My driver, a young guy named Agus, seemed amused by my death grip on the back of his bike as we puttered along roads that alternated between decent pavement and what I can only describe as “nature’s attempt to create a motocross course.”

“First time Dieng?” he asked over his shoulder.

“First time Indonesia,” I replied, which made him laugh for some reason.

The road to Sikidang Crater winds through potato fields and past small farms, offering glimpses of local life that feel a world away from Bali’s tourist centers. Farmers in wide-brimmed hats tended to crops, and children waved enthusiastically as we passed. I waved back, momentarily forgetting my fear of toppling off the bike.

Getting Up Close—Too Close?

Nothing quite prepares you for your first volcanic crater. Sikidang appears suddenly – a barren patch of gray-white earth in the middle of green highlands, with steam billowing from multiple vents and the unmistakable rotten-egg smell of sulfur hanging in the air.

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“Kawah Sikidang,” Agus announced proudly, as if he’d personally created it. “Very famous. Very hot.”

He wasn’t kidding about the “hot” part. As I approached the wooden walkways that meander through the crater, I could feel heat radiating through the soles of my shoes. The ground was literally cooking beneath my feet. Bubbling mud pools gurgled and sputtered, occasionally shooting up small fountains of gray slurry.

I followed the path closer to the main vent, where a continuous plume of steam shot forcefully from the earth. The wooden walkway felt… less than sturdy, and I found myself wondering about the wisdom of building tourist infrastructure on top of an active volcanic feature. I mean, they say it’s safe, but standing there with sulfuric steam enveloping me and the ground literally boiling a few feet away, my imagination ran wild with visions of suddenly being swallowed by a surprise eruption.

“Can take photo for you?” a local guide offered, gesturing to my camera. I handed it over, and he directed me to stand with my back to the main steam vent. “Little closer,” he urged.

“I’m good right here, thanks,” I replied, already feeling like I was tempting fate. He shrugged and took the shot, which later turned out to be mostly me looking anxious with a cloud of steam behind me. Not exactly Instagram gold, but an accurate representation of the experience.

What struck me most about Sikidang wasn’t just its otherworldly appearance, but how accessible it is. There’s something both thrilling and slightly unsettling about being able to walk right up to volcanic activity with minimal barriers. In the US, there’d be double railings, warning signs every three feet, and probably a waiver to sign. Here, there was just a casual wooden path and an unspoken agreement that you wouldn’t be stupid enough to step off it.

I spent about an hour exploring Sikidang, fascinated by how the landscape changed every few meters – from bubbling mud to steaming vents to strangely colored mineral deposits. The smell was overwhelming at times, and I found myself holding my breath as I passed through particularly sulfuric patches. My eyes stung, and I wished I’d brought the face mask that was sitting uselessly back in my room.

Other Volcanic Spots Worth a Peek

After Sikidang, Agus suggested we visit some of Dieng’s other volcanic features. “Kawah Sileri very nice,” he said. “Different from Sikidang. More like lake.”

I agreed, though I was starting to feel the effects of the sulfur and altitude – a mild headache was forming behind my eyes. Still, when would I be here again?

Kawah Sileri turned out to be completely different – a large crater lake with milky blue-green water that occasionally bubbles with volcanic activity. It was quieter than Sikidang, both in terms of visitors and volcanic drama. The setting was more peaceful, surrounded by hills and with fewer infrastructure intrusions. I actually preferred it to the more famous Sikidang, though I didn’t have time to explore it fully.

We also stopped briefly at Kawah Candradimuka, which honestly was a bit of a letdown after the other two – just some steaming ground with less impressive features. I think Agus could tell I wasn’t that impressed, as he quickly suggested we move on to something else.

“Not all craters same-same,” he said philosophically. “Like people – some loud, some quiet.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic.

One disappointing aspect of these volcanic areas was the amount of trash scattered around some of the sites. At Sikidang especially, plastic bottles and snack wrappers collected in corners of the pathways and beyond the main viewing areas. It seemed such a shame in a place of natural wonder, and I found myself picking up bits of garbage as I walked, earning approving nods from a few local guides.

If you’re planning to visit Dieng’s volcanic features (and you absolutely should), wear sturdy shoes with thick soles – the ground gets HOT. Bring a mask or bandana for the sulfur fumes, which can be overwhelming. And maybe avoid wearing white clothing unless you want permanent yellow stains as a souvenir. Oh, and visit early in the day if possible – by afternoon, tour buses from Yogyakarta start arriving, and the peaceful otherworldliness gets somewhat diminished by selfie sticks and loud groups.

Stepping Back in Time at Dieng’s Ancient Temples

After a lunch break and some much-needed coffee to clear my sulfur-induced headache, I was ready to explore the other main attraction of Dieng Plateau – its ancient Hindu temples. Dating back to the 8th and 9th centuries, these structures are among the oldest in Indonesia, predating even the famous Borobudur temple complex.

The main cluster, known as the Arjuna Complex, consists of five small temples arranged in a row on a flat piece of land. Approaching them through the morning mist (I’d returned the next day, having learned that mornings offer the best weather), they appeared almost like a mirage – weathered stone structures emerging from the fog like ancient sentinels.

My first thought, I’ll admit, was: “They’re smaller than I expected.” After seeing photos online, I’d imagined more substantial structures. Each temple stands only about 5-6 meters tall, with simple square designs and pyramidal roofs. But as I got closer, their modest size became part of their charm.

What these temples lack in grandeur, they make up for in atmosphere and historical significance. Named after characters from the Hindu epic Mahabharata (Arjuna, Semar, Srikandi, Puntadewa, and Sembadra), they’re built from volcanic andesite stone that has withstood over a thousand years of harsh mountain weather.

I arrived early enough to have the place almost to myself, save for a groundskeeper sweeping fallen leaves from the stone courtyard. The silence was profound – just the whisper of wind through the surrounding trees and the distant clucking of chickens from a nearby farm.

Unlike Borobudur or Prambanan, there are no crowds here, no souvenir sellers, no elaborate entrance gates. Just ancient stones standing quietly in a highland plateau, much as they have for centuries. I found myself whispering, as if normal speaking volume would somehow disturb the temples’ dignified slumber.

Inside each temple is a simple chamber, most empty now of whatever statues or relics they once held. The stone interiors are cool and damp, with intricate carvings still visible on some walls and lintels. I ran my fingers over the patterns, marveling at their persistence through the centuries.

I think that’s what moved me most about these temples – not their beauty (though they are beautiful in their understated way) or their architectural significance, but their sheer endurance. These structures have witnessed a millennium of human history, surviving volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, colonial occupations, and the transition from Hinduism to Islam across Java. They’ve outlived their builders, their worshippers, and countless visitors like me.

I had a moment of embarrassment when I confidently told another visitor that these were Buddhist temples, only to be gently corrected by the groundskeeper who had wandered over. “Hindu,” he said simply, pointing to some of the carvings that apparently made this obvious to those who know what they’re looking at. I nodded as if I’d simply misspoken, rather than being completely wrong. Sometimes it’s better to just own your ignorance, but my pride got the better of me.

The morning I spent at the temples was one of my favorite parts of the Dieng experience. I found a spot on a low wall near the main complex, pulled out the terrible instant coffee I’d brought from my homestay, and just sat watching the mist roll through the ancient stones as the sun gradually strengthened. A few local kids on their way to school passed by, giggling and waving at the foreigner having his coffee in such an odd spot.

In addition to the main Arjuna complex, there are a few other scattered temples around the plateau – Gatot Kaca and Bima temples are worth visiting if you have time. I only made it to Gatot Kaca, which stands alone in the middle of potato fields, looking somewhat forlorn and forgotten. A farmer working nearby nodded at me as I approached, seemingly unsurprised that someone would trek through muddy fields to see these old stones.

I wish the temple sites had more information available – a few small signs exist, but they provide only basic facts. I found myself hungry to know more about who built these structures, how they were used, and what they meant to the people who worshipped here. It’s a common issue at historical sites off the main tourist track – the stories get lost or remain untold to visitors.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the temples of Dieng hold a special kind of magic – one that comes from discovery and imagination rather than guided tours and information overload. There’s something to be said for experiencing ancient places with questions left unanswered, leaving room for wonder.

The Challenges of Dieng—Not All Sunshine and Rainbows

Let’s be real for a minute – as magical as Dieng Plateau is, it’s not an easy place to visit, and it’s definitely not for everyone. The journey alone is enough to test your commitment. From Yogyakarta, it’s a solid 3-4 hour drive on roads that seem designed to test both your vehicle’s suspension and your stomach’s fortitude. From Semarang, it’s not much better. And public transportation options are limited and confusing at best.

I opted for a shared minivan from Yogyakarta, which seemed like a good idea until I found myself wedged between a woman with a basket of live chickens and a man who apparently believed deodorant was optional. The van stopped approximately 37 times along the way for reasons ranging from legitimate passenger drop-offs to the driver’s cigarette breaks to a mysterious 20-minute pause that was never explained.

By the time we reached the winding mountain roads that lead up to Dieng, half the passengers (including yours truly) were looking a bit green around the gills. The driver, meanwhile, took each hairpin turn as if he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Java Drift.

Once you’re actually in Dieng, the challenges continue. Accommodation options are limited and basic. Most are homestays run by local families, which can be a wonderful cultural experience but don’t expect luxury. Hot water is hit or miss (mostly miss), Wi-Fi is practically non-existent, and heating is not a thing – despite temperatures that can drop to single digits Celsius at night.

My room at Ibu Sari’s homestay was clean but spartan – a bed, a small table, and a bathroom where the shower, toilet, and sink all occupied the same two square meters of space with no dividers. Everything got wet when I showered, including the toilet paper that I forgot to remove the first time. Rookie mistake.

The weather, as I’ve mentioned, is wildly unpredictable. I experienced all four seasons in a single day more than once. You might set out under clear blue skies only to find yourself caught in a torrential downpour 20 minutes later. Then the sun comes out and steam rises from the ground, creating an eerie mist that’s beautiful but makes photography challenging.

Speaking of challenges, let me tell you about my attempt to negotiate with a motorbike driver for a day tour. My Indonesian is limited to about five phrases, none of which include “That price is ridiculous” or “I know you’re charging me triple because I’m foreign.” The driver started at 500,000 rupiah for a day tour, and I tried my best to bargain.

“Too expensive,” I said, using one of my five phrases. “400,000?”

He looked amused. “450,000. Best price.”

I should have countered again, but I’m terrible at this game and was already feeling awkward. “OK,” I agreed, only to later discover from another traveler that they’d paid 300,000 for the same tour. The driver must have seen me coming a mile away – a sweaty foreigner with a guidebook and a look of confusion. Easy target.

Food options in Dieng are also limited. There are several warungs serving Indonesian basics – nasi goreng, mie goreng, and various soups – but if you’re expecting diverse cuisine or have specific dietary requirements, you might struggle. I’m not complaining – the food I had was delicious and dirt cheap – but by day three, I’d tried everything on every menu in town.

And then there’s the altitude. At over 2,000 meters above sea level, Dieng can literally take your breath away. I found myself winded after climbing even short flights of stairs, and the first night I experienced a mild headache that I attribute to altitude adjustment. If you have respiratory issues, this is something to consider seriously.

Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, I found Dieng to be one of the most rewarding places I’ve visited in Indonesia. The challenges are part of what keeps it special – they filter out the casual tourists and preserve its character. But it’s worth being honest: if your idea of a good vacation involves poolside cocktails and air conditioning, Dieng might not be your cup of tea (or glass of arak, as the case may be).

Local Life and Culture—A Glimpse Beyond the Sights

One of the unexpected highlights of my time in Dieng was simply observing daily life on the plateau. This is farming country, first and foremost, and the rhythm of life revolves around the land. Potato fields stretch across the landscape in neat patchwork patterns, tended by farmers who work the steep slopes with remarkable agility.

Early mornings in Dieng are a hive of activity. Farmers head to their fields before sunrise, often wrapped in scarves and jackets against the morning chill. Women set up small stalls along the main road, selling produce or hot drinks. Children in neat school uniforms walk in groups, their laughter carrying across the valley.

I spent one morning just sitting at a small coffee stall, watching this daily pageant unfold. The owner, an elderly man with deeply creased skin and a perpetual smile, seemed amused by my interest in ordinary life. He spoke no English, and my Indonesian was pathetic, but we managed a kind of communication through gestures, expressions, and the universal language of food appreciation.

He served me a plate of fried tempeh with chili sauce alongside my coffee, and when I expressed my delight with the taste (lots of appreciative nodding and “enak!” – delicious), his face lit up. He brought out more food – some kind of sweet potato fritter that wasn’t on any menu – and refused payment, pushing away my rupiah with a firm hand gesture. That small interaction, that moment of connection across language and cultural barriers, somehow meant more to me than any of the grand sights I’d seen.

I tried to engage with locals throughout my stay, though my language limitations made deep conversations impossible. Still, I found people generally friendly and patient with my mangled attempts at Indonesian. Children were especially curious, sometimes following me for short distances or practicing English phrases – “Hello mister! Where you from? What your name?”

One afternoon, I stumbled upon a small celebration in a village just outside the main town. I never quite figured out what the occasion was – a wedding, perhaps, or a religious event – but I was immediately waved over by a group of women who were preparing food. Before I knew it, I was seated with a plate piled high with rice, vegetables, and some kind of spiced chicken, being watched expectantly as I took my first bite.

The food was incredible – complex flavors I couldn’t begin to identify – and my enthusiastic response earned approving nods and smiles. I stayed for about an hour, feeling simultaneously welcomed and very much an outsider, before thanking everyone and continuing my walk. These unplanned moments often become the most treasured memories of travel, don’t they?

I’m ashamed to admit I missed the famous Dieng Culture Festival, which happens annually (usually in August) and features a unique ritual involving children with naturally dreadlocked hair. These children, considered blessed in local tradition, have their dreadlocks ceremonially cut during the festival, which also includes traditional arts performances and a torch-lit procession. My visit was in May, so I missed it by a few months, but locals spoke of it with such pride that I’ve added it to my “next time” list.

What struck me about life in Dieng was its unhurried pace and the apparent contentment of its people despite what outsiders might see as limited opportunities or hardships. It made me reflect on my own constantly connected, always-rushing existence back home. I’m terrible at slowing down – my friends joke that I have two speeds: fast and asleep – but places like Dieng remind me of the value in pausing, in observing, in simply being present.

Of course, I’m wary of romanticizing what is undoubtedly a challenging life for many locals. Farming at this altitude is physically demanding work with uncertain returns. Young people often leave for opportunities in cities. Modern challenges – climate change affecting crop patterns, economic pressures, the double-edged sword of tourism – are very real here. But there’s a resilience and dignity in the community that left a deep impression on me.

Why Dieng Plateau Stays With Me

It’s been several months since my trip to Dieng, and I find my thoughts returning there often, especially on days when city life feels particularly frantic. There was something about that misty landscape, those ancient temples, and the simple rhythms of plateau life that seeped into my consciousness in a way few places have.

I think what Dieng taught me – or perhaps reminded me – is the value of places that don’t make things easy for visitors. In an age of overtourism, where popular destinations are increasingly packaged for easy consumption, Dieng demands a certain commitment. You have to want to be there. You have to accept its challenges and idiosyncrasies. And in return, it offers experiences that feel genuine and undiluted.

The physical environment of Dieng – its thin air, its temperamental weather, its rumbling volcanic heart – also served as a humbling reminder of nature’s power and indifference. Standing at Sikidang Crater, watching superheated mud bubble from the earth’s core, I felt very small and very temporary. Those temples, too, with their quiet endurance through centuries of human drama, put my own brief existence into perspective.

I do have one regret: I wish I’d stayed longer. Three days wasn’t enough to fully explore the plateau, to hike all the trails I’d planned to, or to see the famous “mirror lakes” that reflect the sky so perfectly on still mornings. I’d allocated more time to Yogyakarta and Borobudur, following conventional wisdom about Indonesia’s highlights, but in retrospect, I’d have happily traded some of those days for more time in Dieng.

There’s a particular memory that keeps coming back to me. On my last morning, I woke before dawn and hiked up a small hill near my homestay, hoping to catch the sunrise. The path was muddy from overnight rain, and I nearly lost my shoe in a particularly deep puddle. Cursing and hopping on one foot, I almost turned back. But I persisted, reaching a clearing just as the first light began to break over the eastern mountains.

As the sun rose, the entire plateau was revealed beneath a blanket of mist that filled the valleys between hills, making the landscape look like something from a Chinese watercolor painting. Farmers were already at work in distant fields, tiny figures moving through the fog. Temple roofs poked through the mist like ancient ships on a cloudy sea. And above it all, the volcanic peaks stood sharp against the brightening sky.

I sat there for nearly an hour, just watching the day begin, feeling privileged to witness this place awakening. No photos I took captured the magic of that moment – some experiences simply resist digital preservation.

About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.

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