Indonesia: Illustrated story of a visit to Java and Bali

Travelogue: Indonesia

Indonesia is a feast for the eyes … and the ears … and all the other senses: colorfully costumed dancers, the echo of Muslim calls to prayer, exotic cuisine, sea-scented breezes, beach sand between the toes, scenes that invite you to linger.

Stretching more than 3,000 miles from east to west, Indonesia consists of 17,000 islands, only 6,000 of them inhabited. At 254 million, its population is the fourth largest on earth—trailing only China, India, and the U.S. It boasts the world’s largest Islam population with approximately 87% identifying as Muslim; 9% as Christian; 2% as Hindu, and less than 1% as Buddhist or Confucian. It claims more than 300 ethnic groups.

It’s too much to take in during a brief trip—maybe too much for a lifetime.

The Indonesia I had read about in Ring of Fire and In the Time of Madness bore little resemblance (as I knew would be the case) to the Indonesia I saw in two short weeks on the islands of Java and Bali.

Flying from Hanoi, my traveling companions and I changed planes in Kuala Lumpur and for the final leg of the trip I was seated with two sisters, Jakarta natives, one a doctor and the other a fledgling interior designer, who were delighted to fill me in on what to expect in their city: Traffic (“terrible”), malls (“a lot of them specialize; one sells only tools!”); high rises; poverty; noise.

Hotel Challenges

We reached our Jakarta hotel well past midnight and after a quick shower I was ready to call it a day. But it wasn’t quite that simple. Preparing for our late arrival, the staff had turned on our room lights before we checked in. Flipping an assortment of switches, I managed to turn them off—overhead light, desk lamp, bathroom light, closet light … light above the head of the bed … light above the head of the bed … light above the head of the bed. I tried all the switches again. Spotlighting the place I longed to lay my sleepy head, that light remained stubbornly on. Finally, feeling foolish, I called the front desk.

“I, uh, can’t figure out how to turn the light out above the bed,” I reported.

“We’ll send somebody right up,” the receptionist said. I had the distinct impression I wasn’t the first clueless guest.

The young man who came to my rescue quipped, “It’s hiding,” strode into the room, pulled the head of the mattress out from the wall, flipped a switch, and went on his way. There must be a moral to this story, but I don’t know what it is.

After a short night, we met with our tour leader, Jun, a native of Bali; his Javan assistant Hendy, and an Overseas Adventure district manager, Thant, who had come from Burma to share the tour with us. We soon boarded our bus and were on our way.

A young dancer performs during the elaborate show at Udjo's House of Angklung in Bandung on the island of Java in Indonesia.

A temple on the grounds of one of our hotels

Our guides in Java, left to right, Hendy, local guide; Thant, OAT district manager; Jun, trip leader.

My First Visit to a Mosque

First stop in Jakarta? The gleaming, modern Istiqlal Mosque, the largest in Southeast Asia. Surrounded on three sides by a series of four balconies, the cavernous worship area can accommodate a congregation of 120,000. We stood on the lowest of the balconies and observed as worshippers came and went (males on one side, females on the other) while prayers uttered by the imam spilled from invisible speakers high above.

Though Java is overwhelmingly Muslim, there is widespread acceptance of other beliefs, and the congregation of this mammoth mosque and that of the much smaller Catholic Cathedral directly across the street assist each other in many ways. Most visibly, since major celebrations of the two groups rarely occur on the same days, they often share parking lots and provide traffic control for each other, we were told.

Minaret and outdoor worship space of the Istiqlal Mosque

Worship space inside the mosque, taken from the lowest of four balconies. The mosque was designed by a Christian who later converted to Islam.

Sanctuary of the neighboring Catholic Cathedral, tiny by comparison with the mosque

On both Java and Bali, I was impressed by the way religion pervades daily life in sight and sound and action. In Java, of course, there are the five daily prayer calls broadcast from speakers high in the minarets; women in headscarves; tiny prayer rooms in businesses and homes; mosques, neatly maintained and stately.

In Bali, religion is a messier and busier affair. Towns are seas of color as brightly festooned shrines adorn temples, businesses and family compounds. Food is prepared daily and placed on the shrines as offerings to ancestors or, as I learned the hard way, sometimes placed along with sticks of burning incense on the ground at entrances to shops—hence, the burned toe when I put my sandal clad foot in the wrong place as I stopped to look at the merchandise in a kite shop.

Before eating lunch at the home of a Balinese family, we helped prepare offerings to place on the shrines to ancestors in their family compound.

Betty places a food offering on one of the family shrines.

One of several shrines in the complex

My two angklungs beneath an Indonesian elephant carving

Visiting the House of Angklung

Two events stand out as I think of our stay in Java. Both occurred in Bandung, the capital of West Java with an urban population of more than 8 million. The first was at Udjo’s House of Angklung. Don’t know what an angklung is? I didn’t either. It’s a bamboo instrument which plays only one note. You play that note by holding the instrument loosely in one hand and shaking it with the other. In order to play a tune, of course, you need at least seven compadres armed with angklungs of their own to round out the octave.

The House of Angklung is a large complex of gardens, workshops, outdoor lecture space, covered amphitheater, and craft shop. After leading us on a walk through the grounds, our Udjo guide introduced us to a master angklung maker who demonstrated how he assembles the instrument and tunes it by shaving the bamboo to just the right shape. He then gave us some partially assembled angklungs and taught us how to tie the vertical supports to the rest of the frame. Our reward? We got to take the finished angklungs with us when we left.

Before we went, however, we were treated to an eye-popping performance of dance and music by colorfully clad young performers, students at the House of Angklung. At the end of their performance, angklungs were handed out to the entire audience, and following the hand signals of the hostess, we played a more than passable rendition of "I Believe in Music."

Unexpected Impact

Starkly contrasting with this lively event was our visit later that day to the Bandung veterans’ center. There, men and women, many of whom had served in the military during the war to free Indonesia from the Dutch after World War II, spoke to us about their country’s struggles. In a hot, stuffy room, the session proceeded slowly. Everything that was said had to be said twice—first by the speaker, then by a translator. Post-lunch, energy lagged—until one of the women in our group forged an unlikely connection to the retired Indonesian general who was leading the discussion.

A native of the Netherlands, she said she had learned for the first time during this trip about the mistreatment of Indonesians by the Dutch and, though it had happened before she was born, she felt moved to apologize. It was a powerful moment. Even more extraordinary, however, was what happened later. In speaking with the general after the meeting broke up, she mentioned that her uncle had been an attache of the Vatican and had been sent to Jakarta during the Indonesian war with the Dutch. Upon learning her uncle’s name, the general realized that he had met him during that conflict. The connection the two of them made turned the aftermath of the meeting into a social occasion as the "language barrier" melted away.

The master angklung maker

Young musicians and dancers perform in Udjo's large performance space.

A traveler and the Indonesian general who spoke to us connect and pose for a photo.

Typical rural scene enroute to Yogyakarta

To Yogyakarta by Train

The next day we journeyed to Yogyakarta by train through a lush green landscape of terraced rice paddies, hilly forests, and rural villages. After checking into our Yogyakarta hotel, we traveled to dinner by “cyclo-rickshaw” (a rickshaw powered by a bicyclist) through a balmy local holiday evening. Celebration was in the air as families shopped, gathered in plazas and parks, and took advantage of our presence to speak with us and practice their English as we made our way slowly through the crowds.

To visit the Yogyakarta region is to be transported to the wonders of another time. Though our two days there included a tour of a batik workshop, the most indelible impressions were left by the temple complexes of hundreds of years ago.

Borobudur: A massive structure with a 150,000 square foot base, Borobudur is one of the largest Buddhist temples in the world. Built during the 8th and 9th centuries, it is believed to have been abandoned in the 1300's. Most of us in the OAT group climbed to the top via very steep steps.

Sambisari: This much smaller Hindu temple, located in a rural area near Yogyakarta, is believed to have been built early in the 9th century. Later buried under volcanic ash from Mount Merapi, it was discovered by a farmer in l966. Unlike the more renowned temples, this one was tranquil, with very few visitors.

Prambanan: With 240 structures, Prambanan is the largest Hindu complex in Indonesia. Built in the 10th century and destroyed by an earthquake in the 16th, the temple was rediscovered in 1811 and is still in the process of restoration. Piles of stones on the perimeter of the site await their proper placement.

During major Hindu celebrations, roads are lined with graceful penjor, decorated bamboo poles, each with a small altar near the base for food offerings.

A community gathers at their local temple to celebrate Kuningan.

A rare young male dancer performs at the Sudi Dancing School.

On to Bali

We arrived in Bali during what some religions would call high holy days, the colorful Hindu celebrations of Galungan and Kuningan. Roads and streets were lined with festive penjor (photo left), each with an altar adorned with bright yellow cloth, and we caught frequent glimpses of similarly fashioned shrines as we passed family compounds and village temples. Hindus believe that during the 10 days of Galungan, their ancestors return to earth. On Kuningan, the day that marks the end of the Galungan period, ancestors return to heaven. The occasion is marked by joyous celebration, and as we drove through a rural area on Kuningan, we came upon a village where inhabitants, clad in traditional garb, were gathering at a temple to celebrate the day. Their hospitality put us all at ease as we attempted to communicate, captured the festivities with our cameras, and lost ourselves in the moment.

As you might surmise, the trip leader is a vital ingredient in the success of a group venture such as ours, and Jun provided us with much information—and sometimes a laugh or two in the process—as we traveled. From him, for instance, we learned …

Traditionally, Hindus wear sarongs in the temples to ensure coverage of private parts of the body--and to show respect. (At many temples, visitors, regardless of religious belief, are required to wear sarongs when on the temple grounds.)
Hindu men must wear traditional headgear, caps tied in front, when in the temples; this headgear is believed to control sexual desire.
Helmets are required when driving a moped unless the driver is wearing traditional headgear.
And Indonesian drivers being of daredevil bent, the only rule of the road (in the world according to Jun) is "Don't hit anybody."

Our first stop in Bali was not at a temple, however; it was at the Sudi Dancing School in the village of Blahbatuh where children, mostly girls, learn the exotic art of Balinese dance. Very different from western performance dance, there’s great emphasis on eye, hand, and finger movement, all the while moving the body into stylized and unnatural poses. After we watched the students perform, they challenged us to participate, asking the women to join them first while the men observed. All of us—some more eagerly than others—took the floor. Next, the students invited the men. Are you surprised that—to a man—they refused? Nonetheless, great fun was had by all and the guys were fairly good-natured when we razzed them for their timidity.

With offerings in baskets on their heads, a mother and daughter make their way to the temple on Kuningan.

Wearing traditional headgear--no helmet required--a man arrives to celebrate Kuningan with others in his community.

A Sudi student assumes a pose. Visible behind her is the instructor.

King of the roost: A macaque snacks while observing the humans around him.

The proprietor of the tiny shop where I purchased a wall plaque of elephants was a happy guy.

A human in trouble. Wonder what she had in that bag. The monkey wondered, too!

The master of shadow puppetry, an ancient art.

Another Challenge

Our next stop provided a challenge of a different sort. With some trepidation, we ventured into the Sacred Monkey Forest of Ubud, where hundreds of macaques descend from the giant nutmeg trees to run freely through the grounds and walkways below. We had been warned that they like to snatch eyeglasses, cameras, and other items from unwary visitors so caution was the order of the day. While the forest is viewed by the Balinese as an example of the harmonious existence of humans and nature, that harmony requires some vigilance. We all emerged unscathed, but a few others weren’t quite so lucky.

We had a rare free day in Ubud, where I filled the time shooting photos of everyday scenes, soaking up the atmosphere of this center of Balinese culture, and perusing wares from clothing to kites to first aid supplies. (Bandaids sold one at a time at a walk-up pharmacy counter! Who would have guessed?)

That evening, we visited the workshop of a shadow puppet master who not only puts on shows, but with the help of his son also creates the colorful puppets he uses. Since in shadow puppetry the audience sees only the shadows and never the puppets themselves, we asked why they were so painstakingly painted, to which the puppeteer responded, “I get my inspiration, as all puppeteers do, from what I see as I’m performing behind the screen.”

He manipulates the puppets with rods attached to them, but he also does much more; he’s the voice (or perhaps I should say voices) of all of them in performances which may last as long as eight (yes, eight!) hours. We were treated to a brief shadow puppet performance without the shadow—in other words with no screen between us and the puppeteer—so that we were able to see how he manages that, all while seated in the lotus position, a block of wood lodged between his toes and used to make knocking sounds as needed. And did I mention? He’s 73 years old.

The puppet master (wearing white) is seated behind his carefully painted puppets prior to the "shadowless" demonstration of his art.

Action during the performance. Visible on the left is the puppet master's son who provided background music. Notice the offering on the floor in front of the puppeteer.

Close-up of the puppeteer's foot holding the wooden "knocker" which he tapped against the wooden box when the plot called for a knock on the door.

Men use machetes to cut overgrown vegetation in preparation for a burial.

Digging the grave

As we left the workshop, located in a large compound behind the family’s home, we watched his grandchildren reel in a kite that we had seen far above as we arrived. Driving into Ubud earlier we had noticed kites of all shapes and sizes in the sky above the city. Kite flying, it turns out, is a favorite recreation of the Balinese. The summer months are kite-flying season and at the end of August, contests are held; some of the kites are three meters wide and require as many as 10 people to fly them. It seems a fitting pastime for this generally joyous island.

Of course, there are dark times, too. Driving along a rural road, we passed a large group of men carrying machetes and walking rapidly, definitely on a mission. I thought we were going to drive on by—which was all right with me, men with machetes not being the most hospitable-looking folks. However, Jun had the driver stop, hopped out, spoke to some in the group, then came back and said, “They said it’s all right. You can take pictures. Bring your cameras. Follow me.”

As it turned out, the men were on their way to their community’s burial ground to clear weeds and dig a grave for one who had recently died. Though Hindus practice cremation, it’s expensive so families often bury their dead until they can save enough to pay for the traditional Hindu ceremony. These were friends and neighbors helping out others in need.

Poverty continues to plague a substantial number of Indonesians. One of our more distressing visits was to the isolated village of Trunyan, reached by taking a motorboat across Lake Batur. Set on the shore of the lake with a view of Kintamani Volcano on the other side, the view was peaceful, but life in the village was hard. It was the only place I saw begging, and it felt almost intrusive to be there. The one bit of levity we saw was a group of men and boys playing a simple game of chance in which they invited us to participate.

The trip continued with less troubling stops—Gitgit Waterfall; a temple in a park-like setting on the shores of Lake Bratan; seaside stays in Lovina and Jimbaran; a village school; a rain-drenched hike at the site of a temple on a cliff high above the sea. Pictures tell some of the story.

A group of men and boys play a game of chance in Trunyan. They invited us to join in.

We hiked down to Gitgit Falls. Unfortunately, we then had to hike back up.

Scene at Ulun Bratan Temple: the grounds are quite large and many family groups gathered there.

At our farewell dinner the evening before we boarded planes and headed home, we were asked to reflect on the highlights and lowlights of our journey. As would be expected, responses varied widely. For me, most of the highlights were the unplanned adventures--seeing the men of a community come together to clear burial grounds and dig a grave; feeling a part of the Kuningan celebration as we stopped to snap photos and join the festivities during an impromptu stop; experiencing the impact of a chance meeting of an aging Indonesian general and a middle-aged woman not yet born when the general battled forces from the country of her birth. The impromptu, the unexpected is often the best part of a trip.

(For another account of the Bali experience, go to Mike's Place)

Factoids/Indonesia

Photo Gallery/Indonesia