A journal, part deux

21:59. I'm in the soul of Indonesia, the ancient city of Yogyakarta. Hm. Yogyakarta that I have seen so far is a quiet small town in Central Java where people are more relaxed and friendlier than where I came from. The streets are dead quiet after 7. So I got to town after 2.30 and headed straight to Prambanan temple compounds on a taxi whose driver keep badgering me into paying an expensive fare for the ride back. I figured I'd take my chances and figure something out. And word of caution to Indonesians: bring your ID. Yours truly was silly enough to fork out USD10 for entry fee when local Indonesians could get in for less than USD1. Lucky for me, a guide noticed and helped me save that 9 bucks. Naturally, I bought his service.

So we took a walk around the beautiful Hindu monuments, majestic candi that stood there for almost 12 centuries now. The ruins, the temples resemble those of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, typical in its tall and pointed architecture. The compound is home to many Candis; there's Candi Shiva the Destroyer, Candi Vishu the Keeper, Candi Brahma the Creator, Candi Nandi the Bull, Candi Garuda (undergoing reconstructed due to the very damaging 2006 Java earthquake), and Candi Sewu 1 km from the main temples. Some say the temples are even more beautiful than that of its Buddhist neighbor, Borobudur. I think these two are not comparable, beautiful in their own rights. The skies were not forgiving during this period, it soon looked like a heavy storm was going to hit anytime. So I quickly took some pictures and tried in vain to protect my camera when it finally hit. I was soaked by the time I got to Candi Sewu. The tourists all went back but I didn't see a lot of them anyway. I pretty much had the temples to myself that afternoon. The damage I've done to the camera? Oh well, let's just say it's still working. However, as the guide's story goes, the villages around Yogyakarta were all destroyed, people were left homeless as the result of the quake.
After two years, they were just beginning to rebuild their lives again. We were allowed to go and touch the temples before during my first trip, but today, I was circling and admiring the temples outside a wired fence. Things are just too fragile. Perhaps they should do this in Angkor Wat too before the overwhelming tourists do any further damages.

I began to ask the guide how I was supposed to go back to town as the complex is 18 km east of the city. I got the details, buses I should change to, the guide to walk me to the bus stop when he spotted his friend who works as a driver for a local tour agent. Finally, things work out just fine! As I waited for his passengers, I sat on one of the many roadside stalls catering to the returning passengers having a cup of hot tea that is just out of this world and watching the rain. It was just lovely. On the way back, I got to know two Indonesians living in the US, and a French-Canadian who's in the middle of his 6-month-long Asian trips. We arranged for a dinner meet-up at ViaVia Cafe, a hip local cafe south of Kraton and had a blast talking through the evening.

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It felt so good to enjoy a cup of the wonderful fragrant hot tea and your breakfast reading your newspapers. That's how I started the morning, then I was off to walk along the famous Malioboro street. It's still very early, the street sellers were still setting up their stalls, the becak drivers parking their vehicles and waiting for passengers. As I walked, the stuff they sell were repeatedly the same: Dagadu T-shirts with funny words that made them famous, beads, wayangs, paintings, wooden ornaments. If you bargain hard enough, you'll get plenty of stuff for close to nothing here. On one flanking one side of Kraton, you can see the imposing and well-preserved Bank Indonesia building, the reminder of colonial times that is perhaps lost of many locals and myself included, of the legacy the Dutch has left us, simply because it has always been there all these years when my generation were growing up. There was apparently a pasar malam, complete with bianglala (ferris wheel) and toy stalls set up on the lawn in front of Kraton Yogyakarta. It was not the most prettiest sight to be greeted with when you were intending to lavish in the grandeur of the sultan's palace. Speaking of which, the Kraton wasn't what I imagined it to be. Instead of tall majestic whitewashed buildings you see in other parts of the world, the Kraton is comprised of small structures scattered within a compound, complete with ceremonial halls, performance halls, sultan's residence, museums.

The guide showed me the various colorful costumes royal family and the royal soldiers don in ceremonies. To this date, the many Abdi Dalem or the palace servants who work voluntarily without pay out of loyalty to the sultan still live in in the palace compounds and the surrounding. They are elderly Javanese who are able to tell autobiographical stories and, as I stood close to one giving a lengthy explanation on the emblem of the kraton to a group of foreign tourists in a hall, who still speak what I guessed was Dutch language. The abdi dalem wears aviator sunglasses which I now realize is a favorite of many men(including Soeharto)! We walked past ceremonial halls where kings, princes, and princesses were crowned, where annual ceremonies are held. The kraton is old, no doubt, and it emits a kind of quietness that resembles a kampung (village), albeit one of royal stature. A walk just outside the kraton walls found me stopping at the Museum Kereta (Royal vehicle museum). The collection of sultan's horse carriages is staggering. It started from Sultan Hamengkubuwono IV to the IX, the most revered of all and the current sultan's father, most of the carriages were made-to-order in Holland and carried the part manufacturer's symbols still. Some were even so lavish they were made with plated gold! All carriages have their own names and are used til this date in certain ceremonies. The condition of the museum and its unused horse stables are in need of touch-up, but then one might say that would take away its old grandeur and what had once been there.

I followed the sound of music to the other side of kraton, to the performance hall where the gamelan ensemble performers practice every Tuesday. They are made up of almost all elderly people.The sound of gamelan and the many accompanying instruments are very soothing, very old, very...Javanese. As I watched the visitors come and go, the music pieces changed, I believe the Javanese is a peaceful society, as reflected by their love of music, their artistry, their culture, their boundless creativity. It's part of their life, art is not distinguished as "art" to them, it's simply part of who they are. Just directly outside the performance hall, I found an arca, the exact replica of the ones I saw in Candi Sewu! Maybe these arca served the same purpose as the lion statues guarding the palaces and office buildings in Chinese cities.

When it's time to go, a becak driver kept walking alongside me to offer his service at reduced rate so he could bring me to places that would give him commission. I rejected his offer but asked him to take me to alun-alun kidul (the south square) where the twin banyan trees stand amidst a patch of green. Legend has it that if you could walk blindfolded past the banyan trees, good luck will come your way. I decided I could use a little luck and it wouldn't hurt to try. The becak driver gave me his intructions. He would follow me and make sure I was out of harm's way but he was not allowed to speak or direct me in any way. Okay, ready. So I closed my eyes, concentrated, and started walking. After about a minute or so, he told me to stop, and there I was, standing in between the banyan trees. I've made it!! He later told me he has tried hundreds of times and never succeeded. And to know that I did it on my first try felt really good! He asked me to try three times. So I did. But clouded by my excitement or greediness perhaps, I made a half-moon diversion to the left and to the right the second and third time. Total failure. Haha!

After a tremendously satisfying lunch of nasi goreng and jasmine tea, I departed for Candi Borobudur. As it's rainy season, I was hard-pressed to find a tour agent that was willing to take one passenger to the monument. So I waited what seemed like hours but only a good 25 minutes under the scorching sun for a public bus to Terminal Jombor, then changed bus to Borobudur. This was perhaps the first time I took a public bus in Indonesia for many many years! Squeezed in a seat half the width of those inside public bus here, I sat next to an old lady who was on her way to one of the small towns along the way. The ride took a good 1.5 hours because they kept stopping anywhere to pick up passengers. I forgot how the public bus ride in the country was until that day. It was a good reminder. Anyway, the wind was strong as we closed in on Borobudur's entrance and the sky was greyish blue. Please, don't rain. I said to myself. I was about to enter the place I have been wanting to visit for the past few years. The greatest Buddhist monument in the world. I clearly didn't want rain to start pouring.

I walked a few minutes before I finally caught glimpse of the familiar pyramid-like structure. Happiness! The Borobudur of my childhood and the Borobudur of my adult-life feels different. It was smaller, I thought, than the last time I saw it. I circled the monument for a while, then slowly made my way up to the empty main stupa. Along the walls on the different levels encircling the Candi to the main stupa, the bas reliefs tell the story from the birth of Buddha and his journey to enlightenment. On that day, a group of students from Jakarta were visiting as well. I squirmed at the way they sat and put their feet up the stupas while laughing at each other's jokes. Some tourists from Japan were climbing down inside of a exposed stupa until a speaker announcement kept them away. I remember when I was 5, I was told that if my hand could reach the navel of the Buddha statues seated inside the stupas, I will have good luck in my life (again - these stories of luck are everywhere!). I still had that picture of the five-year-old me trying vainlessly to reach the navel by extending my hand inside the stupa's diamond-shaped holes. The more realistic me today didn't even try, the navel was pretty far in from the hole. I met the two ladies again, which I had hoped for. They were on their way back from a hike to Pegunungan Dieng and stopped for a tour of Borobudur in sunset. I hitched a ride with them back to the city. We left before the sun set, and as we drove away from the place, the golden hues of the sun were reflected on the side of the temple facing the west. It was such a beautiful sight and would have made a great capture had I stayed. Nonetheless, I count myself lucky to be able to catch that sight in the afternoon without rain.

The evening was spent watching Ramayana ballet. The reason they termed it ballet was confusing, since there was no actual ballet performed. The Hindu epic tells the story of Rama, trying to save his devoted wife Sita, who was abducted by the demon king Ravana, that culminated in the battle of Lanka. The dancers executed their movements flawlessly, every twist and turn of the wrist and leg is carefully choreographed. The movements of the eye, the fight scene, the jumps, the actual fire, are all very well-executed, leaving a long applause at the end of the show. I was the only Indonesian that night, doing the tourist thing in my own country, and even the usher was surprised, as there were virtually no locals attending the shows. But who would miss a performance like this, under the starry rainless night?

Yogyakarta that I saw embodies the spirit of the old Indonesia, the new Indonesia, the spiritual Indonesia, the peaceful Indonesia, and the creative Indonesia. The smiles of the becak driver, the kindness of the usher, the laid-back atmosphere of the city, the strength of their faith, all bear their marks on my memory of the city that is Yogyakarta.

More pictures here.