If, like me, you like pub quizzes, this blog is for you. If you are forever surprised at the wealth of random information, most of it useless, that pops out of the dusty drawers of your mind, here is more of them for you to store.
In a country of 18 000 islands or thereabouts, 6000 of them inhabited, Indonesia is the largest archipelago in the world, from the jungles of Borneo and Papua New Guinea to the tiniest pimple of coral beauty surrounded by crystal waters. Upon visiting the National Museum in Jakarta, I was amazed by the ethnic diversity of these islands, Papuan, Malay, Mongol, all speaking different languages, more than 700 of them. Bahasa Indonesia (the language of Indonesia) is a standardised version of Malay, with local words threaded in and is the 6th most widely spoken language in the world. Originally used in Sumatra in the 9th century, it spread from there to the whole archipelago. Indonesia is also the 4th most populated country in the world after China, India and the USA, with 270 million people and is, alas, a major contributor of plastic pollution, by the way, a lethal combination of improved standards of living and little government enthusiasm about rubbish collection and disposal. One wonders what is done with the money raked in from tourism. More than half of its people live on the island of Java and more than half live in cities. That's a lot of people in the countryside.
There you go. Facts, facts, facts. Pub quiz.
I don't know about you but I didn't know any of this. What incredible variety... I was bound to feel itchy and I am not talking (yet) about the countless mosquito bites I seem to collect wherever I go.
I start island hopping on the short ferry ride from Gilimanuk (North West Bali) to Banyuwangi (East Java) with Mount Ijen looming blue and hazy over the Bali Strait. A quiet observer in that old rust bucket, I immediately notice the contrast between Hindu Bali and Moslem Java. Most but certainly not all, girls, young women, ladies, are thoroughly covered (long sleeves, trousers, full length dresses and skirts) in spite of the warm sun and are wearing scarves. But this is a tolerant crowd and I don't feel conspicuous with my lighter attire and uncovered head. I am told men can only have one wife. This is Islam light. Still, I am not able to find a small Bintang anywhere, a refreshing Indonesian lager, with a piffling 4.7% alcohol and it finally dawns on me why not, silly me, after trudging in the afternoon heat from warung to supermarket. These are the ways of the world.
It is remarkable how things take time. In my early 20s, I saw in Paris a documentary about the volcanoes of Indonesia that fired (haha) my imagination. One day, I would come to this country and I would climb at least one.
Mount Ijen, near Banyuwangi, East Java, is still active and last erupted in 1999. Its crater contains the largest acidic lake in the world, Kawah Ijen, famous for its turquoise colour (more pub quiz info). The sulphur deposits are quarried by wiry, hardy men who don't live long. They discovered they made more money ferrying tourists up and down the steep path to the rim in low, 4 wheel contraptions. Not pleased, the mining companies are blocking the gas seepage that create the magical blue lights visible at night, to minimise the appeal and subsequent tourism and put their guys back to work. They never thought of giving them a higher salary, funny, that...I huff and puff behind our guide, Bari, a former miner himself, in the dead of night and find it increasingly difficult to breathe the sulphur-laden air.On the rim at dawn, twisted branches, like the limbs of the dead, emerge, imploring, from a river of thick clouds. A lunar landscape reveals itself as daylight slowly creeps on and shreds the fog... I am speechless, stunned, by its stark and thankless beauty.
East Javanese people seem to have a strong sense of colour, in contrast with Bali's classical houses of stately bricks, cornices of dark stone and grand, extravagant sculptures. I get lost in Banyuwangi's warren of tiny streets, rejoicing in the multicoloured walls and the sweet smiles of children.
I stay in a lemon yellow B and B, with incongruous blood red Hello Kitty bedsheets. The hostess has a bright cheerful face and points me towards the terrace where I half doze in the late afternoon sun and eat small local bananas.
A commotion shakes me from my torpor, a mixture of birdsong, shouts and exclamations. In the street below, an excited crowd of men is bringing bird cages to a large open-sided hall where tens of cages already swing from the rafters. This is a birdsong competition, someone informs me in broken English. I am charmed by this poetic Sunday pursuit but make myself scarce, wondering whether it is fitting to be the only woman in the vicinity. I go back to my perch and my bananas to observe the proceedings, puzzled as to the rules of the competition in the overall pandemonium.
Traveloka, an Indonesian website I recommend for any travel booking online, informs me I can take the train from Banyuwangi to Jogjakarta. The executive class costs the equivalent of 20 euros to cover the distance in 12 hours. Armed with a Nasi Goreng take away, two downloaded films and a few books on my kindle, I am ready. I wallow in a wide seat, with heaps of leg room and watch the landscape roll, small towns, rice paddies under a low sky of rainloaded clouds.
Jogjakarta, from the Sanskrit, 'the place of no war' is a city of 700, 000 souls in Central Java, small by Indonesian standards. Still, not fond of dusty busy places, I make a beeline for Elo Progo, a countryside property owned by Sony, an artist friend of my Balinese acquaintance, a mere 2 km away from the temple of Borobodur.
My room has a 1001 night mosquito net, plenty of delightful quirky touches and I am rocked into sleep by the music of the river below, a constant soothing rush behind the chirruping of crickets.
Sony is from Sumatra and looks like a Mongol. He welcomes me to a sumptuous breakfast of cakes steamed in banana leaves and an esoteric conversation about art and destiny. Upon his return from a few years in France, he happened on this magical place at the confluence of the rivers Elo and Progo, a 'mystical land'. His creativity explodes all over the rambling buildings of his property, a throne with bull horns, a brick wall embedded with bottles and a rusty motorbike, a well for the moon which one has to circle in an anticlockwise direction, a dragon twirling around a pillar, paintings inspired by Borobodur, rambling cottages surrounded by palms and bougainvillae... His children play among strutting turkeys and cats with green eyes rub against my legs.
What else to do but stay at least for a quiet day in this otherworldly place and discover yet more hidden wonders.
As it happens, I am invited to share lunch with a group of artists, who had congregated in town for an international conference. Mur, Sony's wife, displays a wonderful spread of homemade food and, around the table, I chat in French with Serge, a friendly young architect from Madagascar who describes to me how he uses natural materials and traditional styles in his buildings. A couple of elegant south Chinese student fashion designers join us and we talk about their theses, whose fascinating topics are the contrast between Chinese and Thai silks (the latter much thicker, I am told) and the cultural symbolism of king cobras and dragons and how clothes tell a story. I go to bed early, my head full of tales, protected from mosquitoes by 1001 night's veils.
I escape the crowds and wander by Pawon and Bendut temples, simple, ancient buildings but it is the rambling banyan tree, a forest in itself, that casts its spell on me.
Across the river from Elo Progo, a stage is set on the bank. A strident orchestra accompanies the tales of the Ramayana. Warriors, Rama with his bow, Hanuman, leap in their incredible costumes. I reflect how Islam, imported in the 10th century is a recent veneer on the traditions of this island whose cultural roots tell other stories.
Lion air is the Indonesian version of Ryan air. Like its European twin, it is a low cost affair. No frill (no drinks, no food) and no thrill, apart from the dubious excitement of delayed flights, of probably missing my connection in Surabaya (the second biggest city in Indonesia, 'the place of shark and crocodile spirits'), of a last minute change of flight and of wondering where, in all that, my checked-in rucksack in going to end up. It all works, thanks to the can-do good nature of airport staff. I will find this truly caring friendliness everywhere I go in Indonesia, with top points for Bali.
My destination is Palangkaraya, in Central Kalimantan, the Indonesian part of Borneo, a recent city founded in the forested wilderness in 1957. Its name, a blend of Dayak's Ngaju language and of sanskrit, means 'a vast sacred place'. The Indonesian government has its eye on it to make it the new capital of Indonesia, Jakarta showing signs of sinking, like quite a few other cities in the world, a combination of rising sea levels and pumping of underground water.
But before airport mishaps and jungle adventures, I am convinced by a French lady who lives in Bali, to at least wander the little streets of Jogjakarta and I dedicate a delightful morning to visit the Water Castle or 'Taman Sari', a former garden of the Sultanate of Jogjakarta from the 19th century and to get lost in the shady alleys around it, a bevy of colourful shops, sarongs, batik and suchlike, cafés, restaurants and private homes. I find good coffee (essential) and discover an artist studio, shared by 6 friendly painters, with fountain and plants in the courtyard. It all has a relaxed, quirky, quiet buzz.
Central Kalimantan is Dayak country, a population mostly converted to Christianity in the 19th century. They were known as headhunters, a practice successfully discouraged by the Dutch at the beginning of the 19th century. Not completely, though. In 2001, a conflict arose in Central Kalimantan between local Dayaks and Madurese migrants, people from the island of Madura, displaced by the Dutch in 1930. Hundreds of Madurese were found decapitated by the Dayaks. You really don't want to get on the wrong side of them.
I am staying in the mixed Indonesian/Western Subud community, Rungan Sari, by the Rungan river. It sits 30 km or so away from Palangkaraya, behind the ribbon of asphalt that splits the jungle. On the way, small warungs and villages are scattered along the road. Though it is the dry season, the temperature is warm, the air humid and my skin covered by a constant sheen of sweat during the day. Like most newcomers, I am an easy prey to mosquitoes, a deterrent for helping in the permaculture garden behind the school where I am eaten alive in the 15 minutes I am shown around.
An eco-village offers quiche and coffee on Sundays and the land is dotted by private homes and beautiful halls.
The hotel's swimming-pool, my favourite (life-saving) place, is a stone's throw away from the house where Reuben welcomes me. A retired South-African gentleman with a lot of practical know-how, he fixes someone else's home that needs a lot of TLC. I have a nice room and can stay for free in exchange of some cooking, which I enjoy doing, trying new recipes learnt in Bali like Tempeh with chili and sweet soy sauce and experimenting with local ingredients.
The jungle is all around and I can feel its powerful presence, like an ever-growing living creature. I hear tales of Djinns, those huge forest spirits, that some claim they have seen or felt and who manifest their displeasure when their territory is threatened, like the year when forest fires were so widespread that people had to leave the area. Choked with smoke, the air became unbreathable. The thick peaty soil cover continued to smoulder for 3 months over the dry season and did not stop until the rains came, by October.
Nature is powerful and never far. A lipan finds its way into the verandah. It is a black centipede, this one about 10cm long. They will have a go at you and their sting is worse than a scorpion's. Laughing, a young man tells me how he was bitten on the butt by one of those creatures that had been hiding in his underwear. He cannot remember anything more painful. Gasp. My wish to help Ihsan, the handyman, in the garden, wavers somewhat when he shows me a bucket swarming with a few black scorpions the length of my hand. They are released in the jungle, far too close to the house, in my opinion. One morning, we find that a small snake had managed to coil itself on some sticky electrical tape that was lying around in the verandah. Is it poisonous? Can we free it without being bitten? Hum... It appears it is a Haas tree snake, 'only a little bit dangerous' explains Rudi, one of the security guards. With oil and Q-tips, he frees it from its sticky trap and it is released too, in the vicinity. King cobras are found around the area too. I was told the tale of the angry one that couldn't get out of an empty swimming-pool. I didn't see any, nor did I see the hornbills and proboscis monkeys that hide around us within the thick foliage. But I did see orang-utans, whose name means 'man of the forest'.
Reuben has a Dayak friend, Yadi, who owns a klotok, one of the small homemade local wooden boats. This is no Trip Advisor adventure, the more precious for it. For a few rupiahs, he takes me to the island sanctuary. We embark from a rickety pontoon and motor upriver. Spellbound, sitting quietly in the boat, I observe a whole group of those shaggy beasts including a mother and baby.
Up the road from Rungan Sari, I visit Permakultur Kalimantan Foundation where Jayadi and his wife Fredericka are caretaker of this community project and live on the farm with their 3 daughters. Keen to help, I spend the day making cooking coconut oil in the traditional way with Sulfiati, the director of the foundation. It is quite a process. It requires little investment and quite a bit of elbow grease. Nothing is wasted and it tastes fantastic. In its modest way, it contributes to protect the rainforest as palm oil consumption, in food, chemicals and bio fuels is the main cause for deforestation. When I arrive, I find that the pulp is already shredded and mixed with water. We press it and the resulting thin milk sits for a couple of hours to obtain two separate layers of water and coconut milk. The former is used to water the garden, the latter is boiled in a wok over a fire of dry coconut husks until it separates into a delicious crumbly curd and an amber oil. It is hot work on a hot day but time flies in Sulfiati's and Frederika's cheerful company and I am so happy to contribute in a a modest way to local initiatives. With the coconut oil, they also make lemongrass-scented soap that is so soft, you can use it as a shampoo.
This link leads to their Facebook page. They need volunteers! http://www.permakulturkalimantan.org/permakultur-kalimantan/
I meet many kind souls in this spiritual community. Reuben drives me around on his scooter, Imron gives us his delicious homemade sourdough bread, Jen, a volunteer from Australia, joins me at the pool, Randika lends me his guitar, Amma welcomes me and shares a wealth of tips, Nuraini gives me a lot of her time and we have a heart to heart as I find myself suspended in the midst of my travels, thrown into a degree of inactivity by the strong, raw energy of the place and the limitations imposed by the natural environment. I feel stuck. The only way to leave this small haven in the jungle is by walking through it, and I am not doing this alone, or along a dusty road. What is the meaning of what I am doing? This is a watershed moment of enforced reflexion and introversion.
So, change of plan: instead of travelling to Lombok, the next island east of Bali, I decide to fly to Jakarta, where I will stay in Wisma Subud, in the Cilandak area, hoping for a return to peace, a sense of direction.
But, before that, I give myself a couple of days in Palangkaraya and pursue a couple of childhood dreams. A Swiss couple has created Bukit Raya Hotel, a crescent of rooms around a lush garden and a ... tree house! Like a kid, I climb up the ramp and the steps leading to a spacious room in the canopy. It sways and creaks as the wind rises in the evening, as clouds gather, as thunder rumbles and lightning flashes. Wow, I think, all existential questions forgotten, here I am, in a tree house and I am given a spectacular light show! I feel some measure of trepidation. Surely, there are safer places to be in a thunderstorm.
But rain doesn't fall, the storm leaves the sky and I wake up in the midst of the dawn chorus to another adventure. I go with a guide in a klotok on the marshes of the Sebangau river and upriver to the jungle all the way to base camp, created by WWF for the protection of orang-utans. There is not a tourist in sight. I marvel at the reflections on the still waters, at monkeys looking for food under stranded logs, at the trek in the jungle, where the path is nothing but a continuous knot of tangled roots, at the sight of a rubber tree bleeding its white sap, at orang-utans' nests perched high up, only ever for one individual and for one night, at the turquoise flash of bekaka (kingfishers) swooping across the tranquil channels and, back at the guesthouse, very amused by the cheeky puppy who steals one of my jungle-scented socks.
Jakarta, with its almost 11 millions inhabitants (Pub Quizz fact) is probably the last kind of place where I would long to live. Still, Wisma Subud is like an oasis of trees and lawns in the hustle, bustle and pollution of the metropolis. I am the only guest in Archive house with its shady pool and relish my beautiful air-conditioned room. I find in this spiritual community the same quiet care, true kindness and inspiration I encountered in Rungan Sari and with all the Subud people met since the beginning of my journey.
I haven't been in a big city since Sydney and I have a Shopping Centre moment. I see fantastic dresses with fabrics and cuts unknown in Europe. I turn my back. No! I will not! I would have to carry the damn things. I return the next morning, to try them on, my bank card at the ready and buy three. One can resist only so much.
Riding pillion on a scooter in Jakarta's traffic promises to be terrifying. Gojek, an Indonesian app, provides me with a scooter driver who weaves in and out of 3 or 4 lanes traffic, brushing cars and pedestrians. Not even the sidewalk is safe from him. I can't count the times when we are a hair's breadth away from disaster. Knuckles white, I hang on for dear life. It's definitely the most exciting trip to a museum I ever had. He was an expert driver but I take public transport on the way back.
Amma, my Kalimantan friend, had whispered in my ear, 'Go to Palau Macan, Tiger Island'. With only one day to spare, I book a trip and have 28 hour of Paradise on earth. It is the furthest of the 1000 islands, an archipelago off Jakarta and far enough to be pristine... Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be so lucky as to stay one day in a driftwood shack with white drapes flapping in the breeze and a deck over the turquoise waters of the lagoon. Never. I canoe to a small island with a golden beach and mangroves. I swim and snorkel in a variety of live corals, the brightest underwater garden I have ever seen, just off the jetty. Three Italian friends, Benedetta, Sara and Cristina, join me to admire the sunset from the deck. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to miss one minute of dreamtime but will be defeated by the sound of quiet lapping waves and the rustle of a warm breeze in the palm trees.
Not since Hongkong have I been so struck by the fact there are too many humans on this planet, that cities are an aberration, that we could live better with more sharing and less consumerism (says she who just bought not one, not two but three dresses) and that the animal world, of which we are a part, isn't going to survive very long at this rate.
As I write this, I have just been travelling down the desert of Australia's west coast and the internet is full of the horrors of fires in Indonesia and the Amazone... In Central Kalimantan, a 4th daughter was born to Frederika and Jayadi, the beautiful couple from Kalimantan Permakultur Foundation. She was welcomed lovingly into this world on Indonesia Independence day, August 17th. The next day, the rains came. Her name means 'rainmaker'.
May more little rainmakers be born.
