Dreaming on Bali

I must admit I was skeptical. After nine months in Indonesia, I had seen enough of Indonesia to know it’s got more to offer the world than Bali alone. Stories of watching surfers at Dreamland, lounging on the beach Kuta, and soaking in the culture at Ubud left me hopeful, yet skeptical, about Bali’s Island- of-the-Gods reputation.

Well the truth is that Bali did cast a bit of spell. I loved the simple things that felt extravagant. Small woven offerings with petals, food, and fruits lying on the sidewalk in front of store fronts. Plumeria blooms resting between dark stones on pathways.

And then there are the lotus flowers.

One afternoon in Ubud I thought I heard rain, but it was just a bunch of ducks waddling their way through a newly planted rice field, webbed feet and beaks meeting the surface of the water.

After a day of surf and sun we watched a kecak dance peformance, the ocean and a spectacular sunset as the only backdrop.

In Tulamben, east Bali, I went snorkeling off a black stone beach. There in the middle of the coral was a solitary, indigo starfish, perhaps 18 inches in diameter, resting there as if it was waiting for me to show up.

Our break on Bali also felt a bit like coming full circle. Early in April when Todd visited, we passed thru Bali’s airport on our way to nearby Lombok and the Gili Islands. This time we came and stayed. We enjoyed the visit of our friend, Lyndsey. Seeing her felt reminded me of what it felt like begin life in Indonesia.

It’s no secret that beginning life in Indonesia is something I’d like to do over. Rewind and replay. I suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve loved it so much. I finally dreamt in Indonesian on Bali. In the dream I had a brief conversation with some Indonesian women. I told them I was a teacher (for some unknown reason) and I was preparing for my lesson.

The next night, the night before we left Bali, our hippie, Humbolt-dwelling hotel neighbor said “Hey guys, have nice dreams. The dreams here really take you places.” That, or the places here seem like dreams.

Oleh Oleh

As I was leaving my friend’s hometown a few weeks ago, her family members gave me parting gifts to remember them by. From her cousin who owns a shoe shop: red flip flops. From the sister who owns a clothing shop: a blouse and a jilbab (head covering for Muslim women). More often than not, this works in the opposite direction in Indonesia. When Indonesians visit relatives in other cities or villages or islands, they bring gifts (called oleh oleh) with them and these are distinctively from their own hometown. Many times Indonesians bring local foods to share. Which reminds me, I have one more bag of oleh oleh my research assistant had his father send from Sumatra.

As we near our time to return to the U.S., I think about the things I will remember Indonesia by and what I can share with friends and family upon return. It’s nothing I can really physically take with me or bring to you, as you’d probably expect. Rather, it’s a surplus of moments living in a place I’d never visited a year ago. A place where I now feel at home. Where a life is carved out. Where friends are found. Where my worldview has been met by many others. Ever since June I have dreaded the part where I leave Indonesia; and before that it seemed I had enough time not to think about it yet. While I am looking forward to reunions and resuming life in the U.S., there’s still a loss, a letting go, that awaits. And I am not looking forward to that.

A few days ago we waved goodbye to our friends, Nancye and Paul. They will be away until January, weeks after we return to the U.S. We would wander into their house almost daily and chat for a bit before heading home. You can do that here. It’s a place where doors stay open, where neighborly visits are not the exception, where life is more shared. I will miss that, and I will miss them. It was the first of many goodbyes.

Until it’s time to go, I’ll just try to take in as much as I can. My morning drive over the bridge and up the hill in the photo above brings me by this t-shirt design shop in the photo below. I know it’s cliché, so I won't say it, I’ll let the sign say it for me.

So there you have it--my sentimental post on how I am feeling about leaving Indonesia. I just don’t want to.

Traveling Companions

I have less than two months left in Indonesia. I promise to share some more meaningful reflections on how I am feeling about this. But, for now, I am posting on a more superficial topic. I want to introduce you to some of my companions. While they've not quite reached the relational status of Wilson in Cast Away (I only recently started calling some of them by name), they are very much a part of my daily life and on occasion I may be heard talking to them.

And here they are:

First, meet my Patagonia Atom backpack, which features an easy-to-access hp (cell phone) pouch. I don't have to hunt for my phone and I can pretty well guarantee nobody will try to snatch it from beneath my nose. There's an outer slim pocket where I keep my flash drive and flash cards. On the outside I can attach my beach towel, sarong, or extra shirt. The Atom is ideal for getting around by motorbike. I can swing it in front of me when I need to grab my wallet, rather than having to take it off as I would with a backpack with two straps.

My friend Katy sent me a SIGG bottle via Todd. I had decided not to pack my large SIGG because I figured I'd be stuck buying bottles of drinking water. But, as it turns out, we have dispenser in our place so the SIGG has seen its share of Java. It goes to the gym, campus, on day trips, and to restaurants with me.

Before departing, my friend Allison gave us a beautiful lime-green leather journal. It has become my language/field note journal and I am always glad for the times I remember to bring it with me. Looking at my earlier notes reminds me of how much I had yet to learn.

This sarong is a more recent purchase. It's lightweight and versatile and 100% Indonesian.

When it comes to research, my sweet Lenovo netbook has been clutch, as we say in So Cal. It's fallen from overhead storage on a bus and the case is as dirty as my childhood blankie. And, it survives the heat, intense electrical currents, and the daily grind. Yet another plug for Atom (the backpack): the Lenovo fits inside.

Finally, since I can't carry around my exhaustive dictionaries, this pocket dictionary has seen a lot of love in the past few months.

So happy together

Schooling in the Art of Jamu

They ride on bicycles with straw baskets strapped to their back. Behind them tall and short bottles filled with various shades of amber-colored liquid peak out of the top. Stop them and buy a glass of jamu, a traditional, medicinal drink containing a mix of spices including turmeric, tamarind, and palm sugar. Jamu gendong, or a woman selling jamu around the village, will have an assortment of jamu in tote. With the varieties of jamu comes a host of health benefits, many of which are intended for women. Jamu can increase circulation, cure a cough, or keep you looking young.

I buy jamu from a dear friend who makes it and sells it to her network of friends. Yesterday she let me watch her make jamu just in case I can’t kick the addiction when I get back to the U.S.

Ingredients are best purchased at traditional markets in the morning hours. A kilo of turmeric (about 40 cents), a bag of palm sugar cubes (about $1), and a bag of tamarind (about 50 cents). Anti begins by peeling the turmeric the root you see in one of the photos below. She then slices it into pieces and puts it in a strainer. She runs water over it into a large bowl. The sediment which forms is more sticky than glue and apparently is not good to ingest. That’s why she lets it settle overnight. The paste also stains skin and clothes.

The next day when I watched she poured the turmeric mixture into a larger stainless steel pot for boiling. She droped in eight or 10 cubes of palm sugar and wads of tamarind and added two pitchers of water. We waited for a half an hour for the jamu to boil. Meanwhile, she finished drying the soaked and cleaned bottles to fill her orders. She added a few more palm sugar cubes.

When the jamu had boiled long enough she removed the tamarind clumps and then poured it over a strainer again. She let it cool for an hour or two before bottling it. While jamu is mass-produced and even comes in the form of a pill, nothing replaces the earthy taste of Anti's jamu.

To Borneo and Back

One week ago we boarded an eight meter boat for a three night, four day excursion into the Tanjung Puting National Park in the Indonesian part of Borneo. Todd and I and our crew of three snaked down the Sekonyer River mid-morning on Saturday. A few short hours later we found ourselves watching orangutans (from 'orang' which means 'person' and 'hutan' which means 'forest') emerging from the canopy of trees. We fell silent listening to the sound of their arms grasping branches or their mouths chomping into a banana. It was awesome in the most profound sense of that word.

We met some characters throughout our stay in the park. There's Pedro who chased down two females to mate with in the short time we watched him at Camp Leakey. On the dock we met Siswi who was in poor condition because she found some soap and ate it. We saw the suds on her arm. There's Tut who likes to hang out below the dock. See she is older and quite comfortable in the shade there. Princess and her two kids, Putri and Percy, are known as the genius family. Princess can row a boat. And, if you ask her what she wants she will tell you (with her hands) that she would like some water. Then there's Tom. He is the dominant, uncompromising king of Camp Leakey. Everyone knows when Tom is coming because the other male orangutans run the other direction.

These friends put a face to the forest. Sadly, Borneo's forests are rapidly disappearing. A UN report predicts that 98% of the orangutans natural habit will be destroyed by 2022 as a result of illegal logging and palm oil plantations. Deforestation accounts for 20% of the world's green house gas emissions. In Indonesia it accounts for four fifths of all carbon emissions. In addition to articles on deforestation in Borneo, you can also check out the Orangutan Foundation International website for more information.

Here's a slide show of photos from our trip, during which we also celebrated Todd's 30th birthday. The crew celebrated the end of Ramadan, Idul Fitri, aboard the boat.

Beautiful digits

We passed a date with a beautiful number: 09/09/2009. Before it's a distant memory, let me just say if it was a hand phone number here in Indonesia, it would cost a bit more than your average sequence of numbers. A nomor cantik (beautiful number) is placed in a premium category, where the numbers are more appealing for the repitition, the order, the ease with which they roll off the tongue. It's not a huge difference in cost to buy a beautiful number, so it may be worthwhile for the one who will want to turn heads in hopes of hearing "Hey baby, those are some beautiful digits you have."

Ramadan in Photos

As Todd said about a week ago, “It’s time to get our Ramadan on”. Ok, so no we are not fasting for the month, and we’re not even sure we will make it through one day, but we are experiencing Ramadan here in the world’s most populous Muslim country. Ramadan began on Saturday and will last through late September. Fasting during Ramadan is one of the five basic tenants of Islam. Muslims forego eating or drinking between the hours of approximately 4:15 am and 5:45 pm. One should be finished eating by the time the call prayer comes in the morning, which is around 4:30. People eat around 3 am and then again around 6 pm and following. It’s a wonder to me that so many people can go without eating or drinking for so long each day over the course of an entire month, in a tropical environment no less. My amazement probably has a lot to do with the fact that I am an American, and well, as you know, that just wouldn’t fly where we come from.

Interestingly, while one would think that if all the country’s Muslims are fasting, the demand for food would be at its lowest level of the year. But, last week a newspaper surveyed people in the 10 largest cities in Indonesia and found that most people spend more money on food during Ramadan. I would be interested to know if that was the same for villages. The survey seemed to show people buy more nutritious foods like fruits, vegetables, and snacks to sustain them during the day.

Some restaurants and streetside, portable eateries called 'warungs' do not open during the day. They adjust their schedules during Ramadan. One of our coffee spots opens at 5 pm rather than 3 pm and they serve dates (customary) and fresh juices for people to break the fast, or 'buka puasa'.

I’ve gone to campus to see how students break the fast. It’s a great scene—lots of stands are set up along the roads and there are people selling iced fruit soup and iced fruit drinks with rice. Hundreds of students park their motorbikes and meet to break the fast together. I saw some people waiting with bowls of ice fruit soup in front of them waiting for the evening prayer to come.

Here's Ramadan in photos:

Man selling Pisang Ijo ('Pisang' means banana, and I believe 'ijo' is a shortened version of the word for green or 'hijau')
Students selling donuts with ice-cream and sprinkles on top

I also came across a striking group. The majority had bleached hair and looked shall we say, alternative, for Indonesia. They were very friendly and insisted on a photo. As it turns out, this is the staff of Yogya’s most happening night club, Hugo’s. They were also breaking the fast together.
It is considered disrespectful to be seen eating or drinking while people fast. So if restaurants decide to open they often have strategically placed curtains, such as Starbucks in the mall.

We use the gym facilities at a local hotel. I’m amused by the camel scene they’ve created. Much like our winter wonderlands or manger scenes, I believe this is a reminder that we are in a special holiday season. I don’t think it’s worth overthinking this benign camel, but it is a little out of place seeing as the deserts of Arabia are a far cry from Indonesia's tropical landscape. But, then again, it doesn't really snow in San Diego either.

My Alibi

While our friends, Liz and Charlie, were tying the knot in Nashville, we were climbing a mountain on Java. Of the drawbacks to being abroad, missing events like their wedding ranks at the top for me.  

So this is what I could come up with: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avzkUzQ2kOc

Guess work

Admittedly, experimenting with foreign recipes in Indonesia is becoming a bit of a hobby. I realize it’s not at all sustainable if I need to buy (or ask people to send) imported ingredients. In the case of these Lemon Ricotta Cookies, I bought imported lemons, but the other ingredients are from Java. Go figure. I love the fact that the task requires reliance on intuition (in the absence of measuring tools) and openness to small-scale risk (much like learning a language, except a less public one).

It was earlier this year that I tried this recipe from Giada and I loved it. Since our new place is equipped with a pseudo-oven, I wanted to try to bake something. I asked my landlord to come up to our place and show me how to use the contraption. I didn’t realize that it was as straightforward as putting the box on the burner and then turning the burner on. That’s pretty much all there is to it.

While I had all the right ingredients, I lacked a mixer, measuring tools, a zester, and parchment paper. So in place of such I items I gave the batter a good stir, relied on my best judgment, zested with a sharp knife, and lined the tray with foil. After a few minutes of testing the pseudo-oven, I found a creature baking on one of the sheets. So I gave it another good cleaning before lopping on the ricotta dough.

The end result: zesty, undercooked, lemon pancakes! They typically are much more pillow-like. The pancake-like attribute of this batch probably owes itself to the pseudo-oven. I suspect it does not heat to 375 farenheit, but I’m only guessing.

All Aboard

When my language teacher invited me to what sounded like her destination wedding a few months ago, I eagerly accepted. For starters I really enjoy my teacher, Fina. I also really enjoy weddings. As it turns out, what I agreed to attend was the second wedding reception in her fiancé’s home town around three hours from Yogyakarta. So that meant I could attend the reception here in Yogyakarta given by her family, as well as her husband’s hometown celebration. All the better—more occasions to celebrate.

What can I tell you about Javanese weddings? Well, I’ve only experienced a few, but I can say that for those who prefer the kinds of weddings where you can eat and run, I think you’d enjoy crashing weddings here. First, the ceremony is very much optional. For Muslim ceremonies, even the bride does not attend (so really if the bride is not there, who is going to notice if you aren’t there?). Then comes the reception (often much later in the day). First, you arrive and sign a guestbook, collect a favor, and drop off a gift. Then you proceed to the stage where the couple and the couple’s parents await your arrival. You greet them and keep on walking down the steps straight to the buffet. Then you sit or stand and watch other people greet the bride and groom while you listen to the band and eat sate and bakso. Then, you are free to go.

So for those who like to mingle, dance, watch people dance, compete for the bouquet, or blow bubbles on the newlyweds, you may find Javanese weddings leave you desiring something more. That is, unless you participate in the procession to the reception site. Since I was staying with the bride and groom, the bride’s family, and her friends in Temanggung, I relied on them for transport during our getaway. I assumed we’d ride in the same cars we took to the town. So you can imagine my delight when I learned we would proceed to the reception by way of a miniature train (below). Our procession included the bride and groom, who traveled by decorated Jeep, and then some family members who perched in two horse-drawn carts. Our train brought up the rear. There was the ice-cream man on a bike who followed us there and a few men on motorbikes who had walkie talkies. We rode through town to the tune of a car alarm (I never identified which component of our procession was responsible for this). I recorded our ride on the love train in the video below.

Enough

Tonight Manchester United was scheduled to play a friendly pre-season game with Indonesia’s team in Jakarta during their Asia Tour. In the last month we’ve passed billboards featuring Manchester United players with the line “Mau?” (“Want?”) beneath it. TVs ads brought the same players asking the same simple question. A few weeks ago, after a half a dozen trips to a sponsoring store, I purchased tickets to the match. While the tragedy of the recent bombings surely does not lie in the fact the game was canceled, the billboards and unused tickets serve as a bitter reminder of what could have been.

On Friday morning I was negotiating a price for a motorbike ride around Malang in east Java. Just before we left, I received a text about the bombings from one of my language instructors. The messages continued throughout the morning and ranged from “It is not humane. We denounce all violence and terrorism. I hope you are always well” to “I’m so sorry, so very very sorry.” While on one hand the attacks were indeed directed at Westerners in light of the choice of hotels and timing, in many ways this feels equally to be an assault on Indonesians.

Just last week I posted about our day at the polls and the relative calm surrounding the election. I was not alone in my optimism regarding Indonesia’s presidential election. As the details of Friday’s bombings surface, it’s not entirely clear to what extent they are related to the election. But, many feel they were a desperate attempt on the part of extremists to call attention to their agenda, an agenda that appeals to few in this country, as the elections have shown. The majority of Indonesians continue to favor secular political life much to the dismay of those who would rather see Indonesia turn away from its history of pluralism toward an Islamic state. To some extent, I suppose the terrorists have succeeded in drawing the attention of the world, yet they don't have what it takes to gain support through legitimate means here. Enough is enough already.

What the Polls Say

Indonesians headed to the polls last Wednesday to elect their next president. The incumbent, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, enjoyed a strong lead up to the election and has all but been officially declared the winner (story). For the majority of people, he’s the cleanest (clean as in the least corrupt) and best leader for Indonesia. Indonesia’s economy is expected to grow by 4% this year due to domestic markets, precisely at a time when some other countries are experiencing shrinkage. So, many conclude something is going right here. And, given this is a young democracy, and only the second time Indonesians have directly elected a president, the election brings cause to celebrate insofar as it was largely uneventful. No democracy is perfect, however. Most voters are village-dwelling and believe that they must vote, a way of thinking that is a consequence of 30 years of New Order regime under Suharto. In other words, they don't realize they have a choice not to vote.

On Wednesday my research assistant and I went to the polls to observe. I saw many similiarities between voting in the US and voting in Indonesia. There are people from the community who work the polls, there’s a line-up of boths, a stamp that one has completed the deed (for Indonesians its indelible ink on a finger, for the US it’s the “I voted” sticker). We also witnessed last minute decision-making based on a coin toss. What seemed different at the polls in Indonesia is the familiarity among voters. Perhaps I have missed out on amiable interactions living in a city like L.A. Here in Yogya, the people greeted the guards (presumably their neighbors) and chatted before heading into vote. A group of three guys waited for their friend to arrive so they could go into together. At another site, we were invited to sit down under the tent that was the polling station. The officials offered us something to drink, which we were reluctant to accept the first time around. Once we accepted the drink, we were offered lunch, which we also eventually accepted. So there I was eating satay and drinking a palm sugar coconut drink on election day. If you ask me, a day at the polls says that Indonesians, perhaps especially Javanese, live up to the stereotype of being exceptionally friendly.

Tana Toraja: where death meets life

In Tana Toraja they say you live to die. A region in the southern part of Sulawesi, Tana Toraja preserves elaborate funeral traditions and burial customs against the backdrop of rugged rock formations, rice paddies, and bow-roofed traditional houses. We traveled to Tana Toraja last weekend to see funerals and graves.

The Torajanese are an ethnic group in south Sulawesi. The name Toraja comes from the Bugis word toriaja meaning "uplands" and connotes "hillbillies" essentially. The Torajanese originally had animistic beliefs, but many of the people are Christian now since Dutch colonization. Some are also Muslims.

Funerals do not take place on Sundays so we spent Sunday touring the burial sites of Tana Toraja. To guard against the threat of thieves stealing bodies, the Torajanese place the bodies of loved ones high in caves, or at great heights in rock formations. In addition, they create tau tau, a wooden figurine that represents the person who is inside the grave. Some of the more recent tau tau look quite realistic. At one site, we were told that people at the highest points were in the highest class. They construct bamboo platforms and ladders like what you see in the photo below in order to transport the body to that height. We also visited a place where they previously placed babies who had died. The babies were placed in holes in the trees and then the holes were covered it until the tree mended itself. There’s rich symbolism in that the tree continues to grow, and with it, so does the child. This strikes me as a beautiful way to let go of a child.

Tau tau
Bamboo ladder, enabling placement at greater heights

Baby graves

On our second day, we caught wind of a funeral in Rembon, an hour or so away from our base in Rantepao. We dressed in black out of respect. We were told that we should bring something like a large package of cigarettes, or, had we been a larger group, a pig. We went with the cigarettes. We knew to expect an elaborate day of events. We arrived at the village in Rembon and walked to the central area where temporary houses and structures had been built for the funeral. The deceased woman had passed away two years prior, and she was over 100 when she died. Until the funeral, they keep the deceased in a coffin sort of encasement in the back of their homes. They spend the time saving for the funeral and making the necessary preparations.

We were ushered into a pavilion where we ate traditional cakes and drank Torajanese coffee. After awhile we walked around to see the preparations. We saw where they were digging into a rock, preparing a place for her body. We saw men preparing the Torajanese food known as pa’piong, which consists of pork, coconut, and vegetables, placed inside of bamboo and cooked over a fire. We also saw pig intestines, stomach, and a whole pig roasting on a fire--images which I have withheld from this post (available upon request).

Men making pa'piong by stuffing bamboo with the pork mixture. We never figured out why some were wearing helmets.

By this time, the service was underway. We were invited to watch it. It was a Christian service and some of the hymns were familiar to my friend Melanie, who grew up in a Dutch reformed church. After the service we ate the traditional food and chatted with some people there. We also admired the Torajanese attire of the girls below. Before long the procession would begin, when they transport the body to the central ceremony area. She was placed in a small replica of the houses there, which are known as tongkonan. The men formed a circle around her and started yelping and jumping up and down. A long strip of red fabric extended in front. In the middle of this procession, a buffalo escaped the grip of his owner and the crowd scattered. We moved along with the procession to the central area where they transported the body again to another traditional house. They also had her tau tau ready and waiting in a nearby pavilion.

They sacrifice one water buffalo on the first day (on subsequent days they kill many). Fortunately, I did not see it when it was killed, but I did see the aftermath of skinning. Then, the water buffalo fights began. We loved the humor in this—they paint names on the buffalo and place bets (illegally) on who will win. These fights are not exciting when the buffalo are locked head to head, but they become quite thrilling when the buffalo start to run into the crowd or a up a hill. By the time we had watched a few buffalo fights, we were ready to retire for the day.

The next day we saw portions of other funerals. In between our stops we could not get enough of the landscape from our spots on the back of motorbikes. I am convinced the best way to see a country is on the back of a motorbike. Mundane life floats in images of laundry spread across shrubery to dry, children chasing one another and the chickens, men smoking in the shade, a boy leading a buffalo to its water source. The tongkonan are clustered in villages and decorate the landscape. These homes and the rice barns are covered in decorative wood carvings. The more buffalo horns on the front of the house, the higher the status of the family who lives there. We visited a village where we met a woman who invited us into her home. As it turns out, her father had passed away two years prior, so we saw where he was kept in her home.

The bundle behind her is her dad

Later we saw the remnants of 18 buffalo that had been killed. Men were preparing the skins to be sold. The guests were sent home with buffalo meat. It was gory, but it was not unbearable. We saw some boys who toted the hooves around on strings. The buffalo cost anywhere from $400-$9,000. We went to the buffalo market on another day and posed with an albino water buffalo (these are the most expensive).

Tana Toraja is a place unlike any other place I have visited. While its cultural richness has no doubt evolved and perhaps diminished as a result of boom in tourism twenty years ago, it remains other-worldly in many respects.

A place called Yogyakarta

Yogyakarta. Now that I’ve had a few months to live in this city, I can see what draws people here. Yogyakarta is an artistic and cultural hub—the place to find traditional dances, textiles, Javanese hospitality, historical sites, famous food, beautiful legends. It’s the only the place in Indonesia still governed by a pre-colonial monarchy, the Sultanate of Yogyakarta. And, for now, it’s my home.

I thought I’d post a bit more on this place, and this weekend is a great place to start. It was a quintessential tourist’s weekend in Yogya. On Friday evening my friend Melanie (another Fulbrighter) and I saw the Ramayana Ballet in an open air theatre under a nearly full moon. In the background we could see Prambanan Temple lit in red hues. The performance was mesmerizing between the gamelan, the costumes, the dances, and the absence of dialogue. We had an unexpected intermission due to rain. Melanie and I, along with two other people, were equipped to deal with it. So we stayed in our seats in the empty theatre and from beneath our umbrella we watched men mop off the stage.

Cute kids as rabbits! Photos by Melanie

On Saturday I went with a group of Americans to Borobodur, the local highlands, and to Prambanan. It was my second trip to Borobodur, the world’s largest Buddhist Temple, built approximately in the eighth century A.D. The temple was covered in volcanic ash when Merapi erupted in 1006. At that point the lake that had surrounded it disappeared. It was later uncovered under the direction of Thomas Stamford Raffles.

Photo by Melanie

After lunch we drove up into the highlands, where the temperature is cooler and on a clear day you can see the nearby mountains and Merapi. When Todd visited in April we climbed Merapi, the most active volcano in the archipelago. I’m including a photo taken from Merapi because we were in the vicinity on Saturday, but we did not see this kind of view.

We traveled from there to Prambanan, a Hindu Temple built around the ninth century A.D. It’s one of the largest Hindu temples in Southeast Asia and suffered severe damage in the 2006 Yogya earthquake.

That night a couple of us went on to meet two anthropologists, an American and Argentinean, who are here for a week before looking for research sites in eastern Indonesia. We met them at Via Via, a traveler’s restaurant where you can find great live music on the weekends and bacon (the real deal).

On Sunday morning, Melanie, her boyfriend and I went to Ganjuran Church outside of Yogya. This church has a structure that resembles a Hindu temple, yet it houses a statue of Jesus (a Javanese version). The Stations of the Cross are also Javanese depictions. It’s believed that the water here has special power. You can even purchase the water as a souvenir or bottle it up on your own. We washed in each of the nine springs.

We returned in time to eat lunch in the vicinity of the Kraton, where the Sultan of Yogya lives. We ate Gudeg, a central Javanese dish known especially in Yogya. While there are a few varieties, all are made of jackfruit and coconut milk.

While we were there we bought fruit from this woman.


You can read more about the Kraton and how it is positioned to be the center of the universe, situated between Merapi and the South Sea. One of these days I will post on the legends that surround the Kraton. Yogya is certainly feeling like the center of the universe. My aim has been to entice you to see this place for yourself. So who's coming to visit?