abby in wonderland

The final touristy place I went to in Indonesia was Borobudur, Yogyakarta.

I’m incredibly proud that the final touristy thing I did is something that’s actually on the World Heritage list. Win on my part!

Borobudur is a 19^th Century Mahayana Buddhist monument. It’s located in Central Java, close to Yogyakarta in a place called Magelang.

The monument is HUGE.

It’s a temple compromised of size GIANT square platforms with three circular platforms on top. It has 2 672relief panels and 504 Buddha statues. On the top platform is a main dome surrounded by 72 Buddha statues, which are hiding inside perforated stupa (which is another word for ‘heap’… personally, I think they look like mini-domes, but whatever).

It’s a temple compromised of six GIANT square platforms with three circular platforms on top. It has 2 672relief panels and 504 Buddha statues. On the top platform is a main dome surrounded by 72 Buddha statues, which are hiding inside perforated stupa (which is another word for ‘heap’… personally, I think they look like mini-domes, but whatever).

The monument is a shrine to Buddha and also a place for Buddhist pilgrimage. What a journey! Climbing up the monument left everyone panting and melting! We had to stop twice in order to rehydrate and get our breath back before reaching the top level. The pilgrims’ journey begins at the base of the monument and follows a path that goes around and around the monument while rising to the top – we took the stairs, so I can do nothing but feel sorry for the poor Buddhists who have to do this trek!

Apparently, the top three levels represent levels of Buddhist cosmology, namely Kāmadhātu (the world of desire), Rupadhatu (the world of forms) and Arupadhatu (the world of formlessness).Throughout the trek of the pilgrims, the monument guides the journey with stairways, corridors and 1 460 narrative relief panels on the walls and balustrades.

 During the journey the monument guides the pilgrims through a system of stairways and corridors with 1,460 narrative relief panels on the wall and the balustrades.

A pilgrimage to Borobudur still takes place once a year. The Buddhists in Indonesia celebrate Vesak at the monument…

Hopefully the peddlers leave THEM alone. Because we weren’t on any particular religious mission, the peddlers followed us everywhere, thrusting postcards/wall-decorations/toy-planes/ash-trays in the shape of Borobudur at us…

Yikes.

It figures though. Borobudur is Indonesia’s most visited tourist destination. If the people come, the peddlers follow.

It was pretty majestic. Up high on top of that monument you can see for a fair stretch. All you can see is green. It’s beautiful, untouched (because the World Heritage Trust’d whoop your ass if you tried) land that still holds a certain ancient mystique…

The legend that goes with the monument says that genies helped to build the monument (and many others nearby) in just one night.

It’d take a lot of magic to reach such a feat!

Perhaps that’s why it felt so magical sitting there…

On our second day in Yogyakarta, we planned to take a trip up the mountains to visit Pur’s family.

“It’s a two and a bit hour trip,” Dad assured me. “Not long at all.”

FOUR HOURS LATER we arrived.

Just. Pur’s son drove like a madman. So much like a madman that we had to stop for ten minutes along the way because WE HAD HIT A MOTORIST!

Cringe.

I eventually found out that Pur’s son had only had one day’s practice of driving before this day.

One day of driving. EVER. In a manual car.

Oh lord.

No wonder I was terrified.

I spent a lot of our car journey clinging to my seat, wishing I had a seatbelt, and playing ‘what would I do if….?’

The game didn’t end well for me as I had no idea where I was, nor did I know the emergency number to call for help.

So all  I could do was close my eyes and pray for a safe arrival.

And arrive safely, we did!

We pulled up to Pur’s little house in the mountains. Within minutes, people began spilling out of the door to welcome us. It appeared that the entire family had come to welcome us.

Little children, cousins, brothers, mothers, aunties, friends of the family… even the town chief had come by to see what was going on. (The ancient town chief eventually engaged Dad in a long conversation about his time during the Japanese occupation in WWII…. I’m really glad I don’t speak Indonesian sometimes!)

It was an incredibly familial atmosphere. As I approached cautiously, arms flung out and pulled me in for hugs and kisses on my cheeks, stroking my hand and jabbering away to me in Indonesian. From their tone I guess it was lovely welcoming things, they were all really nice people, but I can say for certain that I had NO idea what they were saying OR how to respond.

So I smiled and clung to Dad’s side, just like any good daughter would.

This sparked his fatherly intuition and, after we had some lunch, he suggested that I take a nap in the bedroom while they contained talking.

THANK GOD.

I escaped into the bedroom and dozed off; incredibly thankful that I didn’t have to pretend what was going on for one minute longer… it was beginning to hurt my head!

After a while, I was woken up and we were taken to Pur’s family home, a little way down the street. There I met Pur’s father, who insisted I take the comfiest seat in the house, and fretted when I didn’t drink my coffee immediately (their hospitality standards are pretty high!).

I used the little Indonesian I knew to converse with Pur’s father, brother and son, with Dad. All the women were hiding in the kitchen. Apparently the lounge room was for men, and fancy guests –yay me.

It was kind of nice to be in a family home. Everywhere I looked there were pictures of the family, and everyone spoke to one another in such soft terms, with touches and looks that only family members can give one another.

It made me miss home…

I felt the love though.

When it was time to leave I was dragged into embraces left, right and centre. I couldn’t escape the love even if I wanted to!

This was kampung life. Tiny houses, filled with love. Chickens walking by the front door every now and then.

It was lovely.

After eating, we went back to the hotel where I slept for a good solid 5 hours.

Once awake, I stumbled down to reception to meet Dad and Pur so we could go and hunt down some food.

The night was simply spent wandering and shopping. We found cheap places with fantastic clothes and jewellery and cloth… The shopping in Jogja is pretty spectacular and I did very well out of it.

As is so often found in Indonesia, the crowds were a bit intense. It would take forever to get from store to store simple because you get stuck into a wave of people so thick that it felt like wading through sand to take a step down the street. Ugh.

Eventually, we gave up on the walking around idea and hopping into a horse and carriage for a tour of the city centre.

I had ‘Surry with the fringe on top’ stuck in my head the ENTIRE way. That and ‘Rawhide.’

It’s the trotting that gets you.

Anyway, we took a tour of the city, people on the streets marvelling at the two bules presented to them like royalty (my sister would be proud) in the carriage.

One of them cried out ‘HOW ARE YOU?’ to me. Or so I thought. Turns out, as Pur is from Java she speaks Javanese, and he was actually using slang to tell me I was beautiful… and it sounds an awful lot like how are you.

Haha.

Still attempting to keep my ego to a minimum here people, insult me quick!!

After our carriage ride we strolled to the hotel and I ran myself a steaming hot bath… hopefully to wash away the haunting cries of those damn babies on that train.

Sometimes I wonder whether my bravery with food is actually stupidity.

For lunch that day in Jogja… or I guess breakfast, given that it was about 10am… we had traditional Yogyakarta food – Nasi Gudeg.

The rice I recognised.

The egg I recognised.

There was something on my plate that looked like beef.

All of those I ate happily.

However, I also chowed down on what looked like chopped liver. That’s not an expression of speech – I actually was convinced in my head that what I was eating was tiny pieces of liver.

Ew?

It had a smooth, yet definitely fibrous texture, making me concerned that they had painted woodchips and passed them off to me as liver…

My desire to try everything had led me to eat wood??? Or liver?? Ew?

Know this: I believed for two entire days that I had consumed wood/liver. It was not a happy place to be in my mind.

It wasn’t until I was at Pur’s son’s in-laws place (where I got to pat a cow and chase some baby chickens around… so fun!), and they pointed out the spiky looking object hanging from a tree… and pur pointed to dad, and dad pointed to me, that it all made sense.

Turns out it was something called a ‘Jack Fruit.’ It’s native to Southeast Asia, and is the largest tree-borne fruit in the world.

Whatever, it was still gross, and I never want to eat anything without questioning first ever again!

That is, until we realised that the palace didn’t open until 10am.

It was 9:20 by the time we got there… and that included the reverse-park of the century. Pur’s son was guided into the parking spot about fifty times until we got it right.

Thus began my suspicions about his inability to drive… but more on that later.

We began walking towards the palace, passing by the beggars and street peddlers with polite nods of discouragement.

On our way, we came upon a friendly fellow who insisted on ‘helping’ us.

‘Visit palace? This way! This way!’

Somewhat bemused, all five of us followed him and found ourselves winding through alleyways.

Clothes-lines formed a ceiling for the pavement, young men with ukeles serenaded us as we walked, and younger women with babies on their knees eyed us balefully as we went by.

Yikes.

Perhaps the correct etiquette for such a situation would be to give them my change? I’m not entirely sure on what the correct protocol for this would be, as if I gave my money to everyone I passed I’d be bankrupt by my destination.

The destination, by the way, was not the one I expected.

We didn’t find ourselves at the palace.

Nor a museum.

Nor any other official place.

We were in the guys art gallery.

All of our meandering through the alleys was a long sales pitch in the hopes that we’d buy his art, as all good tourists should.

Needless to say, Dad was unimpressed. I followed suit – which wasn’t difficult as I was already cranky-pants from my lack of sleep.

We did a quick u-turn and high-tailed it out of there, eventually finding the correct route to a museum.

I can’t give you further details on the museum, unfortunately, as I was completely out of my mind with lethargy by this time. The museum held all of the old carriages the Sultan used to get out and about in the town – complete with giant fake horses standing next to them.

Of course, Dad insisted my picture be taken with the fake horses.

No make up. No sleep. No happiness. I was reluctant. As I’m sure you can tell with all the faux-smiles in the pictures, I was about ready to wrestle him for the camera and smash it to pieces on the tiled floor… but I was too tired.

Eventually – around the time that it opened, fortunately enough- we made it to the Kraton (palace).

The Kraton makes up a sort of city-within-city. It was built in the middle of the 18^th century, and the walled-in city serves as home to the Mataram kingdom Sultans. In it we saw ornate gazebos in the shady courtyard, adjacent to large reception/dining areas with vast marble floors and intricate ceilings and pillars. You can also walk through the rooms showcasing the favourite mementos of the Sultans, including a boy-scout uniform, old binoculars, old thrones, and each of the personalized batik designed used for the royal family. There’s also a gallery displaying the royal family tree, photographs and paintings of many in the royal family – personally, I was a fan of a large painting of the sultan, with his ears drawn to be overtly large and pointy, like an elf. Apparently, large pointy ears were a sign of wisdom.

This guy had to be pretty wise with giant ears like that.

Or the artist was particularly gracious. Whatever.

That’s pretty much the only tidbit I remember from what the tour guide told us… and she told us a lot of things.

Most of the time I was too busy reveling in the air conditioning to pay attention, or too busy hating the swarm of obnoxious school students that seemed to follow us everywhere…

Nevertheless, we had a peaceful walk around the grounds and through the different rooms in the palace.

It was nice.

We eventually settled in one of the reception halls, where they began a traditional shadow-puppet show, complete with Javanese music.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t eaten, drank water, or slept in an increasingly long time and I was about ready to faint.

I rested my head upon my knees, and Dad realised the situation.

Clinging to him to stop myself from fainting in public, he escorted me to the car.

And to a restaurant for some re-fuelling. Win.

Just so you all know: I think I’m actually cursed.

The curse of the crying baby.

It’s like they KNOW that I’m going to be travel and they send secret semaphore signals to their mothers “get me close to that lady, mommy, I must burst her ear-drums with my wailing!”

I shudder.

The horror settled in on me when I saw the little one park down in the seat in front of me. Likewise when, on the train back to Jakarta, another little one sat opposite me.

DOOOOOM….DOOOOOOM!!!

They cried throughout the night. I think the one on the second one was worse… he was more strategic about it.

The first child would just cry and cry for about two hours. Then slept. Then cried again while we pulled into Yogyakarta.

But the second child was sneaky. You’d be asleep, or at least mildly comfortable, and there would be a lovely peace around the carriage (Christmas Eve was, after all, just a few hours away) and then

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He SCREAMED. Not your average baby cry but a ‘oh I’m about to DIE’ cry of terror.

How fun for yours truly.

Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep that first train journey. We travelled from 8:45pm to about 5:30am and I didn’t get one minute of sleep. At around 2am, Pur brought out the thermos of coffee and pack of beef rendang and potatoes she’d carried along for us. We feasted, eating potatoes like apples and guzzling the beef like famished stray dogs. But even on that full stomach I did not get any more rested.

Which did wonders for my mood.

Pale, shaky, and wanting to hurt anyone who made me use my precious energy, I arrived in Yogyakarta.

This is actually a nice city, even though I hated everything about it upon arrival. To be fair, I hated everything full stop. Me, dad, the people on the train, the train, the world, etc.

Yogyakarta is actually a province – the second smallest of Indonesia (the first being Jakarta) – located in the south-central region of the island of Java. This is where Pur’s family live, so we made plans to go up the mountain and visit them as soon as was possible.  Its name is derived from the Dutch spelling ‘Jogjakarta’ and is often heard of as its nickname, ‘Jogja.’

Yogyakarta is governed by the areas pre-colonial monarchy. It’s the only province in Indonesia that still does so! Its elected governor is The Sultan of Yogyakarta, who lives in a palace in the capital of the province, also named ‘Yogyakarta.’ The palace, or ‘Kraton,’ is at the centre of the city. Throughout the rest of the city there are some of the best universities in the country, along with a notable collection of classical Javanese fine arts to be seen – batik, ballet, music, poetry, puppet shows and drama can be found in practically every street.

In 2003 the area had a population of approximately 3 000 000 – one of the highest population densities of Java. Add to that number the amount of tourists and you have yourself some mighty dense crowds to manoeuvre through. Window shopping is an effort!

Anyway.

Pur’s son and his friend picked us up from the station. This was a welcome thing as he carried my bags for me, of which I thought I might collapse under in my weakened state.

We stored our bags at our hotel (as it was so ridiculously early, we couldn’t properly check in) and I was taken to a coffee-house. A beautiful traditional café (who knew they had traditional cafes!) where the coffee was like the elixir of life to me. I woke up.

We killed time there, with me attempting to follow the conversation between the four Indonesian-speakers at the table. Eventually, I happily gave up and drowned my thoughts in caffeine. Win for all.

When we’d killed just about enough time (it was around 9am by this point) I was taken to see the Kraton – The Sultan’s palace.

Here’s a couple more I can add to my list:

Be chummy with cafe staff. (Did this in Gloria Jeans in Bali while killing time before my plane - happy Luce?)

Get my hair coloured. (I’m officially that reddy colour now!)

Watch Oprah. (Which I’m doing right now :) WIN)

Go see a Christmas show (If you can call Dad’s panto that…)

Throughout this week Dad has been teaching at BINUS University in the city as a substitute.

It’s the last week of semester there, and to celebrate they’ve been having ‘ENGLISH WEEK!’ - A fun-filled activity-ridden fair of sorts for students and teachers alike.

The culmination of this week came in the form of a Christmas-but-not-remotely-involving-Christmas pantomime, in which Dad starred.

Well, he was in it.

The panto was set in a classroom,with a pretty scary-looking teacher in drag and the most rebellious students (all the teachers dressed up to look crazy) I’ve ever witnessed.

Dad was one of these students.

They marched in procession, to some blaring rock music, supposedly ‘25 minutes late!’

Each of them had either a water-pistol or a bottle of alcohol. Guess which Dad had?

Yup! Dad slumped in a desk-chair for the entire performance with a cigarette in one hand (not lit) and a giant bottle of Vodka next to him.

I assumed that they had filled the bottles with iced tea or water (a VERY musical theatre move).

I find out later from a slightly wobbly Dad, that he had thought so too…

Until he took a big swig from the bottle.

And the vodka burned his throat.

Yikes.

Photos of the ‘staged’ debauchery to come!

So, this morning I threw my first hissy fit in Jakarta (how’s THAT for ‘things you do at home..’?).

It wasn’t a giant one, but I was so cranky and snappy that Dad caved and let us get a taxi to the city instead of a copet-laden angkut… I was that lovely shade of biatch that I turn sometimes when I get frustrated.

I was about ready to cross my arms and stomp my foot.

Wonder what it was about?

Nothin’ big or consequential…. just the weather.

I know, wah wah wah weather, who cares, right?

BUT SERIOUSLY!!

It’s almost too hot to function.

What’s the point of washing? I take the tiny walk from the bathroom to my bedroom and I’m already covered in sweat!

What’s the point of putting on nice clothes? Within two seconds they’re drenched with visible sweat patches - and not just on the armpits either, I’m talking EVERYWHERE.

What’s the point of make-up? It literally MELTS off of my face. I’ll have some nice eyeliner and foundation to cover up the crappy skin all the sun/pollution/sweat has given me, and …DRIP….DRIP…DRIP…. It’s pouring off my nose in a steady rhythm.

Fans don’t cut it. I stand directly in front of them and all it does is blow the sweat back into my hair (don’t even get me STARTED on my hair…!!).

For about half an hour this morning, I LOATHED Indonesia.

I’m feeling much better about it now, obviously. What with my imminent departure and my celebratory last day of working at ILP today.

I’ve even planned fun learning activities for my class, instead of testing them. If they’re doing tests all I have to do is babysit (which I actually did for one class I covered a few weeks ago. All they had in the lesson plan was to watch Tom & Jerry….educational, non?), but I really liked my TOEFL class. They’re good kids. They deserve a little fun AND learning.

Win on both sides.

Anyway, once we were in a nice air-conditioned taxi, the hissy-fit rolled off me and I was back to being myself again.

Hooray.