Malang

April 2011

A rutted road that twists and drops to rice fields below. There are no guardrails. Our van teeters, brushed to the right by a truck traveling the opposite way, the wheels searching for stability in the shoulder. A motorcycle skitters along the gutter and passes us in the rain. 

In May 2006, mud flowed from a natural gas drilling site and has continued to flow, causing landslides and the closure of the Porong-Gempol road. The detour from Surabaya to Malang is arduous. 

Malang’s history dates back to the Mataram Kingdom. When the Dutch colonized Indonesia, it became a European tourist destination. Cool air greets us at the higher elevations where views of Mount Arhuna and Mount Bromo are spectacular. At sea level, the beaches benefit from a breeze off the Indian Ocean. 

Much of the Dutch colonial architecture remains intact in the heart of the city. By contrast, shantytowns line the rivers and railway tracks. In between, there is an affluent Chinese community. Homes are walled and very private. The Chinese are savvy collectors and deal in antiques that are pricey and rare. 

Leaving Malang, we stop at the compound of a hoarder. There is no other word for this man who collects anything and everything stacked in monumental piles that extend into rafters, nooks and crannies. Among the old Dutch furniture and pieces of art are animated carvings made-for-tourists prior to World War II. Comically grotesque, these fantastic creatures retell the Hindu myths with haunting clarity. Whimsical gods with gaping eyes and open mouths performing awkward activities sidetrack us from what we came to buy – old Dutch iron gates and windows. 

Dusk becomes dark and there are torrential rains. We wade in water to our ankles past the hoarder’s wife who sits on a stool and watches a wall-mounted TV. Rats run the inside perimeter. They screech in a chorus. I wonder, do rats sing? 

We purchase a sampling of iron with a promise we will return on our next Indonesian visit. It’s the rats that have inspired us to hit the road. We escape into the night through a maze of ruts and ditches.

The Mahakam River Against The Wind

October 2010

We travel upriver, leaving behind us the Makassar Strait, as we make our way against the currents towards the mountains of central Kalimantan (Borneo). We are fortunate to have caught the tail end of the east monsoons winds that prolong our evenings by scattering the local dive-bombing insects. 

Barges carrying coal and timber cross our paths. Navigation on this mighty river – the largest in East Kalimantan – requires an understanding of its shallow regions, narrow channels, and swampy lakes that isolate one village from the next.

Banjar houses are perched on stilts that encroach upon the river. The Banjar are mostly farmers. Evenings, they gather along the river where they swim, fish, bathe, wash their laundry, and dispose of their waste. Children standing in the muddy waters wave as we pass. 

Nights, the call to prayers echoes from village to village. The Banjar’s ethnic identity is inseparable from Islam. Regardless, animist traditions prevail. Technology is shunned and nature is embraced for its inherent supernatural powers. Development in education, health care, sanitation and water purification is limited. There is no exchange of resources. The Banjar prefer their insularity. 

The same can be said for the Dayak, Borneo’s indigenous people. These notorious headhunters only recently declared peace among the tribes. Still, they battle with the river, the source of epidemic dysentery and malaria. In all the villages we visit, we ask about available medical resources. There is never enough fresh water or medicine to eradicate health problems. Nor, do we learn, is there faith in modern medicine that is preventative. 

Rats are a problem. As are the crocodiles, rated the second deadliest in the world. We witness a ten-foot specimen stalk a cow and her calf along the bank. We are warned to beware of even stealthier hazards, such as the irritable Vipera Russellii, responsible for more human fatalities than any other venomous snake in the world. Yet, we are fascinated by regional wildlife: orangutans, the comically long-nosed proboscis monkey, freshwater dolphins, and spectacular birds such as the hornbill and kingfisher. 

Oil drilling along the river began over a century ago, and adds to the ecological challenges presented by climate change and the rising sea level. Regardless, this dirt-colored tributary remains profoundly beautiful, especially at night when the sun squats on folds of burnt reds and metallic gold. Life and death. We are humbled by this surreal river that gives and takes without restraints.

Christmas In Ubud

December 2009

Shadow and light. December 24^th. Dinner was a family gathering beneath a bewildering teak-branch and banana-leaf Christmas tree. Now we approach temple gates where torched lights and flashes of red silk and gold brocade create the entrance to a realm at once intimate and vast. Here, heaven and earth merge in the shadow world.  

The headiness of the incense takes me back. I indulge myself in thoughts of childhood Christmases pageants and the mystical Magi, three Kings so mysterious and wise. But this is Indonesia. And the dance performed is a ritual presented nightly. The King we meet is not wise and while drawn to light, will let darkness destroy him.  

A tiny dancer bound in gold from head to toe sets the stage. We are swept away into a mystical forest where a princess has lost her way. Our King, bewitched by her radiance, captures this beauty and locks her in a house of stone. A fluttering raven brings the king this ill omen: he will die in a battle waged to set this princess free. 

Three principal dancers pantomime the story. They have practiced this form, called Legong, since the age of five. They dance, not as a profession, but to serve the gods. They are young and full of energy precisely delivered. The complicated footwork, animated gestures and dramatic eye movements mesmerize. Torchlight flickers. Our eyes deceive us. Did our dancers multiply, or have their shadows joined the dance?  

According to legend, Legong evolved from the fever-induced dream of a young prince. The audience is invited to enter this dream. We too lose our way. In this world of shadows, the real and the imagined are tightly paired. Two dancers enter as the double image of one character. They split. Each enacts a separate role. Then they are one again. Duality. Shadow and light. Mirrored images. Echoed illusions.  

We speak often of the spirit of Christmas, and how to achieve it throughout the year. Could we benefit a nightly ritual? In reliving the stories we have chosen to define us, could we inherit the spirit of our chosen heroes? Could we lose ourselves and gain what we were meant to be? 

The performance ends, and we leave the temple amidst throngs of tourists. It is Christmas in Ubud. For the dancers, who perform nightly for the gods and their community, it’s the end of another day.

Ocean To Sea

February 2009

We are feasting on fresh seafood in the harbor village of Popoh, having crossed Java by car from the Indian Ocean to the Java Sea. Rains have driven us under cover in a beachfront warung where the fisherman are gathered.  The catch today has not been good. No one smiles. Somewhere in my head rings the words of Joseph Conrad. “There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than life at sea.”

We face that tumultuous sea, the crossroads for trade for over 2000 years. Here, monsoon winds breed unpredictable storms while treacherous currents stir a graveyard of sunken ships. Recently, a 10^th century shipwreck was excavated and revealed a startling array of artifacts and treasure.  

Pirates add to the archipelago’s lore. The Bugis once ruled the seas, traveling with the monsoon winds between Makassar and the Spice Islands in prahu, the largest working sailing ships in the world. The Bugis were acclaimed sea traders and warriors often hired as mercenaries. This, and their involvement in the opium and firearms trade, inspired those frightening tales of Boogey man.  

Stories regarding fish with women’s faces gained momentum around the same time. Even George Eberhard Rumphius, the botanist employed by the Dutch East India Company in the 17^th century, penned a mermaid into his factual drawings of Indonesia’s flora and fauna. Perhaps he had seen the Indian Ocean’s shape-shifter and soul-robber, Nyi Roro Kidul. This mermaid reeks havoc in southern Java. Especially when someone dares to wear her favorite color, green. 

The Indian Ocean and the Java Sea are connected by the Lombok Straits between Bali and Lombok. This is part of the boundary referred to as the Wallace Line, named after the man who first noted the striking differences between species present in Indo-Malaysia and those found in Australia.  

Musing over this, I make my own comparisons. The ancient Balinese believed the ocean represented the underworld and the source of their demons. Across the Wallace line, in Lombak, the ocean is home to a female immortal whose status is equal to sainthood.  

Folklore has it that wars were waged to compete for this beauty’s hand when she was merely a princess. To end the dispute, she threw herself into the sea. Here, she earned her immortality when her hair spawned thousands of colorful sea worms.  

Here and now. My musings have done little to curb my appetite. I’ve wolfed down my portion of this seafood feast. I lean back as the rain breaks through the warung’s tin roof and douses me in dirty water. Across the room a fishermen smiles.

Surabaya To Solo

November 2008

We’ve traveled this road before so anticipate the emerald lushness of rice fields, teak forests, mushroom-shaped hills, and the more distant and indigo volcanic mountains.  One can hear the jungle hiss its promise of insects and snakes. The effect, in this humidity, is claustrophobic. 

Once when crossing a bridge we were accosted by monkeys. They were squatted in a haphazard row, haggling for handouts. The leader among them stood and screamed. The group became aggressive, even jumping on the vehicle behind us. We left to a chorus of shrill verbal assaults.  

Rural roads throughout Java are traveled at tremendous speed. Often, these roads are not paved and are pitted with cracks and potholes. Hens and their chickens scuttle under our wheels in their careless determination to reach the other side. Pigs, goats and donkeys scratch the dirt just inches from the path our tires tread. Children stand unattended, their hair and skin caked in dust. 

To the Western eye, the villages of rural Java are most beautiful viewed from behind. Dwelling fronts are painted. Not so the sides and back. The unpainted, natural hue of the mud-colored bricks is especially soothing when humbly paired with roofs of grass or thatch. 

What I find bucolic from a distance is the raw-end of life in a village nature refuses to bless.  We’ve traveled 15 km from the sea. Here the basalt soil is stingy in its yield of crops. Able farmers seek work in Malaysia. Some return embittered, demanding change. 

A minority returns practicing a rigid form of Islam imported from the Middle East. Some join groups who fought for Indonesia’s independence, and were outraged when it was declared a secular state. Within these groups are those who retaliate with violence. They target temples, hotels and nightclubs with collateral damage the Hindu-Balinese, foreigners, and even other Muslims who, like the majority of Indonesians, practice a relaxed form of Islam.   

2002. An explosion in a Kuta nightclub leaves 202 dead. Days ago, rioting cut short our business in Denpasar where three men faced a firing for their role in the bombing. 

Now, in rural Java, we are confronted by images we left behind. On entering the village, armed police swarm our vehicle. Civilians shoulder up to our windshield and press against our windows and doors. We cannot see. For a moment, our driver’s foot on the accelerator loses all impact. The sensation is one of being lifted. We are sucked into the chaos, funneled forward in darkness, and then released. Within seconds, the village is behind us.  

Later, I will relive each moment and weigh the danger so briefly encountered.

I will recall our driver’s face. How sweat poured from his brow. I will recall those minutes when hands blackened my world and wonder. Which among them were meant to threaten? To protect? Whose palms hit our windshield the hardest? 

Following the execution, the bodies of thee terrorists were flown by military helicopter from the Batu Island prison to their home villages in Java. Here, violence occurred when mourners clashed with riot police.  

With eyes wide open, we resume our travels. I glance back at the village, beautiful from a distance. I see a mud-colored hamlet rooted organically in arid soil. Our car swerves. Another hen and her chickens cross the road unscathed.  

Borobudur During Ramadan

September 2007

Looking out from above clouds splintered in golden light as the sun sets on Borobudur. We are perched at the top, having made the pilgrimage up the temple’s circumambulating system of corridors and stairs. 72 stone Buddha are our companions, each in their own perforated stupa – a bell-shaped dome. This utmost tier represents the third realm of the Buddhist cosmology. Arupadhatu. The formless ocean of nirvana.  

Water is inherent to Borobudur legends. A Dutch artist and scholar claimed this lotus-shaped temple once floated on an ancient lake. Clay unearthed from the site contains sediments that support his theory. Java’s earliest people were animists who acknowledged the life force of rivers and lakes. Water was empowered by an especially potent spirit. Perhaps this is why, in the 8^th century, this was the chosen site for a holy Buddhist temple. 

100 drainspouts carved into the stone at each corner combat torrential rains and the area’s high storm-water run-off. Among the gargoyles carved into these drainspouts are the mythical makara – half elephant and half fish – said to be the water-chariots of the gods.  Is the hum I hear rising from below their song? Or are the whisperings among the spirit of that long forgotten lake. Even silence echoes in this holy place where the wind communes with a host of Buddha.  

Even in its absence, water is an eroding factor, destabilizing this ancient temple of Borobudur. The footprint left by the paleolake is soft and moves in waves during Java’s numerous quakes. Add to this the damage done by the twin volcanoes. Water and fire. With the Hindu and Buddhist empires in decline, and Islam on the rise, Borobudur was abandoned in the 14^th century. Nature lovingly buried it in vegetation and ash.  

Java was under British administration when rumor of this lost temple sparked excavation. The year was 1814. I wonder what it was like, to uncover this topmost level and begin the intended pilgrimage backwards. From the formless ocean of nirvana to a dried-up bed of an ancient lake – this is the path the sun is taking now. All radiance is lost to a creeping blackness.   

 

And still we linger. It is Ramadan, Indonesia’s month of fasting and prayers. From village to village and mosque to mosque, across rice fields and two rivers, we hear the rising crescendo of the call to prayers. Fervent and relentless as the currents of the sea, it builds in collective energy.  

Fire and water. Soon there will be fireworks. Followed by rain.

Blitar On Independence Day

August 2006

“Dirgahayu Ri!” The cries elevate to a roar and are echoed by our English-speaking companions. “Long Live Indonesia.” 

It’s August 17^th. Independence Day. In Blitar, where Indonesia’s first President Soekarno is buried, the entire city celebrates. Buildings shed of a year’s grime boast newly painted facades in red and white. Banners broadcast these colors of the Indonesian flag amidst a parade of students marching in uniform.  

Wiry old men flash us the peace sign. Here, where life expectancy is a mere 65 years, few gathered and witnessed the event that sparks this celebration. 1945. The Japanese surrender to the Allies. Indonesia, free of Japanese occupation, proclaims its independence from the sovereign Netherlands. Thus begins four years of diplomatic and armed resistance that culminates in Indonesia’s independence.  

We move with the crowds and the parade of marching students, past storefronts that dual as residences. Independence has had little impact on urban poverty. Cement floors polished to a marble sheen defy the insularity of soot-covered walls.  Furniture is sparse: cots with piles of sheets, a vinyl sofa, an oversized TV, a shrine or prayer alter, and wall art most often political or religious by nature

By tonight, celebrants will gather more intimately. The city will glow with the acrid smoke of miniature fires kindled along the sidewalks for meal preparation or the nightly burning of garbage. Families who traveled from nearby villages to be part of the celebration will board a motor scooter – father and mother with children between – to share the road with cars, becaks, wandering pedestrians and the occasional horse or donkey. This rush of late traffic will generate enough wind to lift an abandoned streamer and set it free. A flash of red and white like the tail of an invisible kite, this streamer will dance on currents of air in a sky that threatens rain. Dirgahayu Ri.