This weekend I went to Yogyakarta, Indonesia. It’s pronounced Joeg-ya-karta. The locals call it Jogja. I chose this city, south and east of Jakarta, in the central plain of Indonesia’s main island of Java, because it is the jumping off point for 2 famous Buddhist temples, or Candi (p: Chan-dee): Borobudur and Parambanan. I had wanted to visit AngorWat, in Cambodia, but as the time grew near, and I hesitated in making my reservations, the prices rose dramatically, whereas the trip to Jogja remained fairly cheap. And someone had told me that the temples were, in their mind, even more amazing.
I left the house about 4 a.m. Friday morning, caught a 7 a.m. flight, and arrived in Jogja about 9. Took a cab to the hotel and checked in. My room was, well, pretty much a dump, so I went down to ask for another one, and this second room was much better. I spent Friday wandering Malioboro Street, the main drag in town. It’s lined with little shops and big malls, and a million motor scooters parked cheek-to-jowl along the sidewalk. There are street vendors working from little stalls, scarcely more than converted shipping boxes, that line both sides of the street one right after the other. There are thousands of pedaled rickshaws called becak. And for each stall, each becak, there is a voice, calling to you, beckoning, hawking. The whole city is an endless come on to ride, to look, to buy. Buy, buy, buy. It’s more than a little overwhelming, and didn’t take long to wear me down. “Come on guys, can’t I just look, browse, choose on my own? Cut me some slack!” It wears me out. But I strolled from the hotel to the Sultan’s Palace, and back. And yes, I bought: t-shirts mostly. They were incredibly cheap.
Now money in Indonesia is a little intimidating. 1 US dollar is worth 10,000 Rupia. So 10 dollars is 100,000 Rupia. The shear number of zeroes gets to be nerve-wracking. Being from a country where 100 dollars is still a lot of money--at least to me--to be shelling out 25,000 dollars for a t-shirt is just plain scary. Until my mind makes the adjustment, and the realization, that “Hey, it’s only $2.50 US”. The day of the $2.50 t-shirt is long gone at home. $25 is more often the case (and that still chaps me—25 bucks for t-shirt!). So it was kind of refreshing that things were so cheap. And they really are. A Diet Coke is $6500 Rupia--oh wait, that’s 65 cents.
During all the hubbub a guy started up a conversation: where was I from, how did I like Indonesia, that sort of thing. I could feel the come-on coming. And sure enough he invited me to see the batik exhibition being held by local artists to support tsunami relief. So I think, “Oh, what the heck….” And off I go. He takes me down a fairly dingy little alleyway, and my guard goes up. “Ok pal, what’s up with this?” I wonder. But half a block down he turns into another, even narrower, lane--but it’s clean, nicely paved in geometric stone, and blessedly quiet compared to Malioboro Street. And little banners (all announcing batik galleries) flutter overhead. The shops are small, single-story, connected and well maintained. Their gable roofs sawtooth the skyline on one side, and form a vivid contrast to the 3 to 5 story buildings not 10 feet away on the other side, like some pedestrian canyon. He takes me to one, shows me some things that he professes to be his work (I’m not so sure—he seems more like a vaudeville carney than an artist), and he introduces me to Adi. Adi gives me the song-and-dance about local artists contributing their work, so a school can be built under the auspices of Save the Children. It’s was probably all a con, but it a low key, and the artwork was good, some of it very good. Adi served tea, and I wasn’t the only shopper (we were all white folk—foreigners), and I listened and looked. I did finally buy one. It was of Borobudur, where I would be going the next day, and the detail and the play of color really caught my eye. Now, of course he subtly, if insistently, tried to sell me every darned thing in the shop, but I expected no less. And as we talked and closed the deal, he asked if I was looking for transport to the temples, and quoted me a price that was over 30% less than what the hotel was asking. So we struck that deal as well.
A guy from Portland had asked me to try and find a certain kind of cigarette—Djarum Vanilla (clove and vanilla—hardly leaves any room for any tobacco!). So I ask Adi, and he isn’t sure, but he takes me down the canyon/alley, zigzags thru some equally narrow little walks, and we end up on another, busier street. Down this road a bit is a little market, and he claims that they are the supplier for all the local market, and that if they don’t have it, no one will. It’s probably owned by his sister, but who cares. Well, they didn’t have it—they have menthol, tea flavored, cappuccino flowered, plain, black, you-name-it—but no vanilla. And over the next couple of days any time I asked about the mysterious Djarum Vanilla, I was greeted with the most perplexed looks. I guess it’s something they make only for export.
As we spent some time together, I began to relax in Adi’s company, and found him to be a most likeable fellow. And his English was good—not great, but very good indeed—so that helped. And of course he managed to hook me into another batik gallery, where a little harder sell was on, but I stuck with my “no,” polite but firm, and really only managed to “escape” by taking a picture of one piece and sending it to Jessica, saying I’d get it if my wife liked it. And that little ruse got me out of there, thank god.
I wormed my way back to the hotel thru the hawkers and the beggars, and at 8 the next morning, true to his word, Adi showed up with a driver and a nice 4WD mini van, and off we went. It’s a good half hour drive to Borobudur, but worth it. The temple is set in a huge and beautifully landscaped garden—more of a park, really. It sit atop a hill like some huge black stone crown—all concentric terraces and points. Admission--$12.50 (US). A sign on the way toward the temple proper explained the method and the reasons for approaching the temple—entering from the east, taking a full clockwise turn around each level, and climbing up and up to the top. Well, I may have not done it by the book, but I worked my way up slowly, generally choosing my route by avoiding the crowds. And it was busy, I was far from alone, but not that bad. I spent a couple of hours wondering at the carved friezes, the statues of the sitting Buddha placed in arched niches, and the intricate, well-laid stonework. It’s pretty amazing. Buddha here, Buddha there, Buddha-Buddha everywhere. I didn’t see anything in the brochure about how many images of Buddha there are, but it’s a lot. And the views down and across the dark-grey stone terraced levels—all points and angles, are remarkable. Couple those with the views out over the valley treetops and lawns, and it’s a real contrast—the temple always turning and rising and moving inward, and the views out, across, over and up to the surrounding low mountains: outward and vast.
At the top are square geometry gives way to three sets of circular rings, each festooned with little bell shaped domes. Inside each dome—you guessed it—a statue of Buddha. And to top it all off, a huge bell shaped spire, the bells handle towering above its massive inverted cup, and above me. Made me feel kinda small. This apex is solid, deep grey stone, and almost foreboding. One of the Buddha’s is exposed, and it’s said to grant wishes made when you place your hand on his head. [You bet I did it—and I’ll never tell!]
As I clambered up, I was accosted several times by groups of school-age kids, who were there with their teachers, to practice their English. They were cute, and their English ranged from fairly conversant, to mere Q and A. And the dutifully recorded the answers to their preset questions in their little notebooks. They wanted me to sign their books, and got real mystified when I told them to sign for me. I told them my signature was just a bunch of circles, and gestured in the air. Some thought I was nuts, and others got into it—practicing on back pages until I assured them hey had it right. Basically, I was just having a little fun with them, but I brought out laughs and giggles all around. And most had never heard of Portland, Oregon, but responded positively when I said it’s “by California.” Everybody knows where California is!
At last I descended, and tried to pretended I was invisible as I ran the gauntlet of hawkers before the exit, and thru the lanes of wooden shops that the exit gate siphons you into—no avoiding us, you rich tourists! Then we’re off again.
As we drove, the Indonesian countryside was tropical and lush: rice paddies rimmed in low mounds of dirt, palm trees, and dense thickets o bamboo. I think it was more of what I expected from Malaysia. Little villages sprang up and disappeared just as quickly, lining short stretches of the road with colorfully painted houses and shacks with woven rattan walls. Farmers worked their fields, and little ladies with the ubiquitous conical straw hat bent in the paddies, lifting their heads to deliver broad, if essentially toothless, smiles. Like everywhere in Asia, if you can’t carry it on 2 wheels, it isn’t worth doing. Meaning mopeds with bags full of coconuts lashed behind their drivers, and bicycles carrying literally bushels of greens (goat food, Adi explained). Just amazing.
We saw a lot of little roadside stands selling snakefruit (sala), a local fruit that gets its name from its skin: diamond shaped copper-colored scales wrap tightly around a fruit shaped like a small pointed pear. We stopped at a place just off the main road, and met the lady who owned the plantation. Snakefruit grows at the bas of a thorny (!) little palm about 15 feet tall, in clusters of 10 or so. After peeling the skin, there are 4 meaty sections of quite firm white flesh, each surrounding a nut about the size of brazil nut. It’s good! Sweat, with an almost drying sensation on the palate for a finish. And here I am, in Indonesia, in a snakefruit plantation, eating right off the tree, with chickens and ducks running around me feet, hollering for handouts. Ya know, this really wasn’t in any of the BIG PLANS I ever had—not at all. And it’s wonderful! Then it’s back in the car, and off to Parambanan.
Parambanan looks a little more like I’d expect a Hindu temple to look—tall spires of stone with corbels and cornices and that jagged sort of edge that seems to make them d. shimmer against the sky. Sadly, some of the more recent earthquakes have forced several of the larger structures to be closed, but there is a lot of activity underway to restore, refurbish, and I assume reinforce them. These smaller, individual, vertical expressions of piety are a real change from the man-made mountain of Borobudur.
At Parambanan it rained—not a gentle Oregon rain, but a tropical deluge. I got so wet, I just embraced it. At the time, I was a long walk from any sort of real shelter, so I went with it, ducking under trees—until they became so wet it was dripping harder, larger droplets beneath their canopies than beyond. I was wet: not damp, not moist, but soaked.
So between the rain, and the earthquake damage, I guess I’d have to say I liked Borobudur better.
I left the house about 4 a.m. Friday morning, caught a 7 a.m. flight, and arrived in Jogja about 9. Took a cab to the hotel and checked in. My room was, well, pretty much a dump, so I went down to ask for another one, and this second room was much better. I spent Friday wandering Malioboro Street, the main drag in town. It’s lined with little shops and big malls, and a million motor scooters parked cheek-to-jowl along the sidewalk. There are street vendors working from little stalls, scarcely more than converted shipping boxes, that line both sides of the street one right after the other. There are thousands of pedaled rickshaws called becak. And for each stall, each becak, there is a voice, calling to you, beckoning, hawking. The whole city is an endless come on to ride, to look, to buy. Buy, buy, buy. It’s more than a little overwhelming, and didn’t take long to wear me down. “Come on guys, can’t I just look, browse, choose on my own? Cut me some slack!” It wears me out. But I strolled from the hotel to the Sultan’s Palace, and back. And yes, I bought: t-shirts mostly. They were incredibly cheap.
Now money in Indonesia is a little intimidating. 1 US dollar is worth 10,000 Rupia. So 10 dollars is 100,000 Rupia. The shear number of zeroes gets to be nerve-wracking. Being from a country where 100 dollars is still a lot of money--at least to me--to be shelling out 25,000 dollars for a t-shirt is just plain scary. Until my mind makes the adjustment, and the realization, that “Hey, it’s only $2.50 US”. The day of the $2.50 t-shirt is long gone at home. $25 is more often the case (and that still chaps me—25 bucks for t-shirt!). So it was kind of refreshing that things were so cheap. And they really are. A Diet Coke is $6500 Rupia--oh wait, that’s 65 cents.
During all the hubbub a guy started up a conversation: where was I from, how did I like Indonesia, that sort of thing. I could feel the come-on coming. And sure enough he invited me to see the batik exhibition being held by local artists to support tsunami relief. So I think, “Oh, what the heck….” And off I go. He takes me down a fairly dingy little alleyway, and my guard goes up. “Ok pal, what’s up with this?” I wonder. But half a block down he turns into another, even narrower, lane--but it’s clean, nicely paved in geometric stone, and blessedly quiet compared to Malioboro Street. And little banners (all announcing batik galleries) flutter overhead. The shops are small, single-story, connected and well maintained. Their gable roofs sawtooth the skyline on one side, and form a vivid contrast to the 3 to 5 story buildings not 10 feet away on the other side, like some pedestrian canyon. He takes me to one, shows me some things that he professes to be his work (I’m not so sure—he seems more like a vaudeville carney than an artist), and he introduces me to Adi. Adi gives me the song-and-dance about local artists contributing their work, so a school can be built under the auspices of Save the Children. It’s was probably all a con, but it a low key, and the artwork was good, some of it very good. Adi served tea, and I wasn’t the only shopper (we were all white folk—foreigners), and I listened and looked. I did finally buy one. It was of Borobudur, where I would be going the next day, and the detail and the play of color really caught my eye. Now, of course he subtly, if insistently, tried to sell me every darned thing in the shop, but I expected no less. And as we talked and closed the deal, he asked if I was looking for transport to the temples, and quoted me a price that was over 30% less than what the hotel was asking. So we struck that deal as well.
A guy from Portland had asked me to try and find a certain kind of cigarette—Djarum Vanilla (clove and vanilla—hardly leaves any room for any tobacco!). So I ask Adi, and he isn’t sure, but he takes me down the canyon/alley, zigzags thru some equally narrow little walks, and we end up on another, busier street. Down this road a bit is a little market, and he claims that they are the supplier for all the local market, and that if they don’t have it, no one will. It’s probably owned by his sister, but who cares. Well, they didn’t have it—they have menthol, tea flavored, cappuccino flowered, plain, black, you-name-it—but no vanilla. And over the next couple of days any time I asked about the mysterious Djarum Vanilla, I was greeted with the most perplexed looks. I guess it’s something they make only for export.
As we spent some time together, I began to relax in Adi’s company, and found him to be a most likeable fellow. And his English was good—not great, but very good indeed—so that helped. And of course he managed to hook me into another batik gallery, where a little harder sell was on, but I stuck with my “no,” polite but firm, and really only managed to “escape” by taking a picture of one piece and sending it to Jessica, saying I’d get it if my wife liked it. And that little ruse got me out of there, thank god.
I wormed my way back to the hotel thru the hawkers and the beggars, and at 8 the next morning, true to his word, Adi showed up with a driver and a nice 4WD mini van, and off we went. It’s a good half hour drive to Borobudur, but worth it. The temple is set in a huge and beautifully landscaped garden—more of a park, really. It sit atop a hill like some huge black stone crown—all concentric terraces and points. Admission--$12.50 (US). A sign on the way toward the temple proper explained the method and the reasons for approaching the temple—entering from the east, taking a full clockwise turn around each level, and climbing up and up to the top. Well, I may have not done it by the book, but I worked my way up slowly, generally choosing my route by avoiding the crowds. And it was busy, I was far from alone, but not that bad. I spent a couple of hours wondering at the carved friezes, the statues of the sitting Buddha placed in arched niches, and the intricate, well-laid stonework. It’s pretty amazing. Buddha here, Buddha there, Buddha-Buddha everywhere. I didn’t see anything in the brochure about how many images of Buddha there are, but it’s a lot. And the views down and across the dark-grey stone terraced levels—all points and angles, are remarkable. Couple those with the views out over the valley treetops and lawns, and it’s a real contrast—the temple always turning and rising and moving inward, and the views out, across, over and up to the surrounding low mountains: outward and vast.
At the top are square geometry gives way to three sets of circular rings, each festooned with little bell shaped domes. Inside each dome—you guessed it—a statue of Buddha. And to top it all off, a huge bell shaped spire, the bells handle towering above its massive inverted cup, and above me. Made me feel kinda small. This apex is solid, deep grey stone, and almost foreboding. One of the Buddha’s is exposed, and it’s said to grant wishes made when you place your hand on his head. [You bet I did it—and I’ll never tell!]
As I clambered up, I was accosted several times by groups of school-age kids, who were there with their teachers, to practice their English. They were cute, and their English ranged from fairly conversant, to mere Q and A. And the dutifully recorded the answers to their preset questions in their little notebooks. They wanted me to sign their books, and got real mystified when I told them to sign for me. I told them my signature was just a bunch of circles, and gestured in the air. Some thought I was nuts, and others got into it—practicing on back pages until I assured them hey had it right. Basically, I was just having a little fun with them, but I brought out laughs and giggles all around. And most had never heard of Portland, Oregon, but responded positively when I said it’s “by California.” Everybody knows where California is!
At last I descended, and tried to pretended I was invisible as I ran the gauntlet of hawkers before the exit, and thru the lanes of wooden shops that the exit gate siphons you into—no avoiding us, you rich tourists! Then we’re off again.
As we drove, the Indonesian countryside was tropical and lush: rice paddies rimmed in low mounds of dirt, palm trees, and dense thickets o bamboo. I think it was more of what I expected from Malaysia. Little villages sprang up and disappeared just as quickly, lining short stretches of the road with colorfully painted houses and shacks with woven rattan walls. Farmers worked their fields, and little ladies with the ubiquitous conical straw hat bent in the paddies, lifting their heads to deliver broad, if essentially toothless, smiles. Like everywhere in Asia, if you can’t carry it on 2 wheels, it isn’t worth doing. Meaning mopeds with bags full of coconuts lashed behind their drivers, and bicycles carrying literally bushels of greens (goat food, Adi explained). Just amazing.
We saw a lot of little roadside stands selling snakefruit (sala), a local fruit that gets its name from its skin: diamond shaped copper-colored scales wrap tightly around a fruit shaped like a small pointed pear. We stopped at a place just off the main road, and met the lady who owned the plantation. Snakefruit grows at the bas of a thorny (!) little palm about 15 feet tall, in clusters of 10 or so. After peeling the skin, there are 4 meaty sections of quite firm white flesh, each surrounding a nut about the size of brazil nut. It’s good! Sweat, with an almost drying sensation on the palate for a finish. And here I am, in Indonesia, in a snakefruit plantation, eating right off the tree, with chickens and ducks running around me feet, hollering for handouts. Ya know, this really wasn’t in any of the BIG PLANS I ever had—not at all. And it’s wonderful! Then it’s back in the car, and off to Parambanan.
Parambanan looks a little more like I’d expect a Hindu temple to look—tall spires of stone with corbels and cornices and that jagged sort of edge that seems to make them d. shimmer against the sky. Sadly, some of the more recent earthquakes have forced several of the larger structures to be closed, but there is a lot of activity underway to restore, refurbish, and I assume reinforce them. These smaller, individual, vertical expressions of piety are a real change from the man-made mountain of Borobudur.
At Parambanan it rained—not a gentle Oregon rain, but a tropical deluge. I got so wet, I just embraced it. At the time, I was a long walk from any sort of real shelter, so I went with it, ducking under trees—until they became so wet it was dripping harder, larger droplets beneath their canopies than beyond. I was wet: not damp, not moist, but soaked.
So between the rain, and the earthquake damage, I guess I’d have to say I liked Borobudur better.
BOROBUDUR
PARAMBANAN
BIKES
Need a ladder? Go get one!---------Becaks-----------------Endurance Athelete
SNAKEFRUIT
Snakefruit----------Adi and "The Snakefruit Lady"-------------Streetside Chess
SCENES ON THE ROAD
Nice coachwork!----- World's record:coconuts on moto!-----Mr. Safety!
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