After a twenty hour journey with the bus, I arrived safe and sound in Jakarta this morning. That concludes my whirlwind trip to East and Central Java, and back. It’s been an eventful, and also fruitful week. But to my disappointment, somehow the 300 odd pictures I took (some of which were intended to be evidence in the upcoming trial…) has vanished into the abyss of my flash disk. My one last hope of retrieving them is to get help from the computer programmer at my kos (lodging).
The last few days I was completed alone, after I realised that the guide and translator I needed for contacting various NGOs and peoples had turned from an asset to a big financial burden. She suddenly dropped the shock that I should be responsible for paying her travel to Jakarta from her village (Jember in East Java, around 1,000km away!). I think it’s fair that I should pay for her travel to be with me, but never before my arrival was I ever told that she would need to travel from so far just for me. My tight budget therefore did not take into account a sudden bleed of Rp. 400,000 (EUR 40). In Semarang, I told her I will risk going alone if I have to. So, after a few silent prayers before Bodhisattva (Guan Shi Yin) and my godmother Matsu, I ventured alone into the deep heart of Central Java.
Yogyakarta (Yogya) is known as the spiritual heart of Java. It is here, the Yogyans will tell you (as I’ve been told by people I’ve encountered), that the resistance against Dutch colonisation was fiercest. Much of the traditional cultures, music and foods have been preserved, despite the onslaught of modernising forces. Indeed, Yogya, since from the remnants of a fort behind the Bird Market, is a green and pleasant city, compared to others I’ve been to.
Shortly after arriving in Yogya, I rushed off to the nearby Borobodur. After a two hour bus journey, into a valley surrounded by three majestic mountain ranges and at the foot of one of eruptive volcanoes on Earth, the ‘Temple on the Hill" is the biggest Buddhist temple in the world. Despite the
Rp.100,000 (EUR 10) entrance fee for foreign tourists (as compared to Rp.7,000 for locals), the few hours I spent walking around the sculptured walls of the temple depicting the wonders of Buddhism were definitely awe-inspiring. Hundreds of buddhas, each with different hand gestures and body postures adorn the walls. Buddhas facing the
Hundreds of stupas (cone shaped structures pointing the way to a higher form of enlightened life line the terraces and crevices of the eight-storey temple. The lower sections symbolise human life without enlightenment, a life filled with earthly and material desires, a life of suffering because of unfulfilled wants. The sculptured walls, though mostly eroded by time and treasure hunters, depict people indulging in food, drink, erotic pleasures and other temporary pleasures. Further up, the story of the first Buddha Suddhita is depicted in engraved reliefs. Other motives show stories of compassion, forgiveness and of love of others. The top of Borobodur is a circle, symbolising the most perfect shape in the universe, a shape without beginning or end, a shape of perfection. The circle is further topped with some 92 stupas, each with a Buddha statue hidden inside. The highest pinnacle is the biggest stupa, and it has no Buddha. Maybe the builders left it empty to symbolise that emptiness, of life, of desires, of emotions and aversions, is the most divine and most enlightening stage, the stage known as nirvana.
I stood there, watching the serene buddhas, many beheaded, many with missing limbs and fingers, against a backdrop of green and of mountains captured in the dazzling dusk light. Tourists rushed to hug and pose with the Buddhas, even though signs say ‘no touching’, ‘no climbing’. Preying vendors chased me away, as I made my way to the smaller Mendut Temple 5km away. There the temple can be entered, and upon entering three giant statues of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas towered above me. I felt so small and insignificant. For brief moments, only interrupted by brief cackling of hen and cocks outside, I enjoyed the silent temple all to myself, I wallowed in the slow rising scent of incense sticks, and basked in the shade of the damp interiors of Mendut. The Buddhas, with lowered eyes, with faces radiating with compassion and love watched over little me.
The evening was filled with vendors and stalls as I walked down the busy thoroughfare of Jalan Malioboro. It is a busy street, on both sides souvenir, food and batik sellers and tourists. I sat on the floor, and ate nasi gudeg (jackfruit curry with rice) and ayam goreng (fried chicken). The bright lights and crowd did not interest me, nor did I interest them. Unexpectedly, I wandered the streets of Yogya at night, and managed to find myself in front of Puriwisata, the famed fairground with much singing and dancing in the evenings. To my luck, a dangdut singing contest was being held that night. Underneath the stars, amongst the harmonious melodies of Javanese music and dance, with dancing and cheering youngsters, the night quickly passed.
The next day, I made my way to the usual attractions of Yogya. In the heart of the city sits Kraton, a walled city within the city where the sultan continues the century old traditions brought over from India. The palace is open for visitors to see, but besides some royal robes on display, a few colourful cocks in rusty cages, there is disappointingly little impressive which caught my eye. More impressive is the sultan’s swimming resort next door, the Taman Sari (Water Castle). Built by a Portuguese architect, who was reported executed after its completion to hide secrets of buried treasures in the compound, it is a piece of peace away from the traffic all around. It’s recently been restored to recollect memories of a grandieus resort where the sultan and his forty wives (and countless children) retreated to for a cool bathe. As I walked toured the castle, men in batik clothes swarmed around me, offering ridiculously cheap tours of other surrounding sights (as little as Rp1,000; EUR 0.10!)…my guide, the authors of Lonely Planet had warned me about these ploys to lure tourists into batik and handicraft salons. Unashamedly I told them my bus to Jakarta leaves shortly, which was not too far from the truth. When they heard that, like flies sensing movement, they parted.
Thinking back, the last few days were exciting and of whole new experiences. Somehow, with my broken bahasa Indonesia, a bit of bargaining and playacting, I’ve managed to get from where I wanted to go to where I never expected to see. And doing so, with good memories, without being mugged or pickpocketed (…the danger of which every Indonesian I encounter alert me of wherever I go), is a small achievement.
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