When the clock strikes 11 in the morning, golden beams pierce through the roof of Jomblang Cave, creating a moment of silent awe and bathing the cavern in what is called the “Divine Light”.
Somewhere deep in Yogyakarta’s Gunung Kidul regency, behind stretches of cassava fields and whispering teak forest, a wound wide and round opens in the earth.
Locals call it Luweng Jomblang – the Jomblang Sinkhole. A name spoken with a mix of reverence and unease.
It’s not a cave that invites. It demands surrender.
Roughly 50m across and nearly as deep, the sinkhole formed thousands of years ago when the land simply collapsed, taking trees, soil and everything else with it.
What’s left is a near-perfect circle in the forest floor – like a forgotten crater or the eye of something ancient.
The trees at the rim seem to lean back, their roots gripping the edge in defiance.
You approach carefully, instinctively aware that gravity isn’t always your friend here.
To enter the cave, you don’t hike. You descend – suspended by rope, body tilted back, legs dangling.
There’s no machine, whirring winch or diesel hum. Just a dozen local men gripping a thick cord, their palms hardened by practice – only muscle, sweat and trust.
A cave climber lowering himself into the 60m-deep sinkhole, suspended on a rope against a backdrop of ancient rock and forest.
When the call is given, they pull – or lower. Slowly. Surely. Silently.
You drop into cool air, the green canopy shrinking above you.
The shift is immediate. The temperature falls. Moisture clings to your neck.
The scent changes – now thick with mud and minerals.
Light fades. And for a few minutes, there is only rope and stone.
At the bottom, your boots meet mud. The earth is soft, waterlogged.
Here, the forest floor is gone, replaced by ferns and moss growing sideways.
Trees once toppled now grow from the walls. Sunlight filters down weakly, like it’s learning how to reach this far.
The lush greenery at the mouth of Jomblang Cave offers a surreal contrast to the shadows below, as explorers emerge from the cave’s underground tunnel system.
But this is only the beginning.
A 300m tunnel leads deeper – to Grubug Cave, Jomblang’s subterranean sibling.
Inside, the limestone glistens with crystals and damp.
Stalactites drip overhead. Stalagmites rise from the floor. Some meet in the middle, forming pillars shaped over millennia.
There is no sound but the splash of distant droplets and, if you listen carefully, the far-off growl of an underground river flowing somewhere in the dark.
And then you reach it – the cathedral- like chamber where the sun sends a single beam through the mouth of the cave.
It’s called the “Divine Light”. But it isn’t always there.
It appears for only one hour, from 11am to noon, when the sun is at just the right angle. If you miss that window, there is no second chance.
Cavers walking a steep slope to enter the earth’s belly, secured only by thick ropes and local guides.
The shaft of sunlight spears through the ceiling and lands in the chamber like a spotlight from the heavens.
Photographers crouch quietly with their cameras, using night mode settings to capture the ethereal glow.
Visitors are given 90 minutes, enough to wander the tunnel, press a palm to the ancient rock and maybe catch the beam.
And then it’s time to go.
You return the way you came – via rope, this time squinting into the daylight.
The men haul you back with rhythmic effort, a team built on quiet coordination. It’s almost ceremonial.
Back at the rim, the forest feels louder. The insects, the heat, the distant voices of tourists.
But something stays with you – a sense of having touched the planet’s underbelly. Briefly. Carefully. Above all, in awe.
When the clock strikes 11 in the morning, golden beams pierce through the roof of Jomblang Cave, creating a moment of silent awe and bathing the cavern in what is called the “Divine Light”.
A cave climber lowering himself into the 60m-deep sinkhole, suspended on a rope against a backdrop of ancient rock and forest.
The lush greenery at the mouth of Jomblang Cave offers a surreal contrast to the shadows below, as explorers emerge from the cave’s underground tunnel system.
Cavers walking a steep slope to enter the earth’s belly, secured only by thick ropes and local guides.
A pair of visitors sharing a harness as they are carefully lowered into the sinkhole, where human effort, not machines, does the lifting and lowering.
Local guides preparing for the next descent at the cave’s edge, managing ropes with steady hands, their technique refined by years of practice and trust in each other.
Climbers re-entering the world of sunlight after their subterranean exploration, the cave’s natural staircase carved through moss and vines over millennia.
