Indonesia

Bali

“Taksi? Taksi? Where you going?”

Every island seems to have a different greeting. Despite the zen-like quality attributed to Bali, when we land in Denpasar, we are greeted by hoards of people all shouting the same chant but with wildly different Rupiah amounts. All are declared the best prices.

It’s night time, and we manage to find a couple girls who are headed in our same general direction to get a good deal on a group taxi together. By the time we get to Seminyak, our first destination, all we can do is sleep.

The next morning, we have a plan. There’s a beach to see, some walking around to do and for the main event, we’re making our way to Tanah Lot. More on that later. We find our way to the beach, our feet burning a little as we step onto the hot sand. The ocean is the temperature of a comfortable bath, and we see lines of beach shacks with drinks, fruit juices and more importantly: Shade.

We get out onto the street to get a feel for the city. Seminyak is an indulgent place, with fancy bars, fashion shops and spas. Interspersed between the boutiques, there are temples everywhere. We take a drink on the patio of a restaurant and watch the dogs trot by and flop down in patches of shade, rolling up to show their bellies to the sky. The time flies by today, and we realize it’s time to leave if we want to catch our date with the sunset.

Our main attraction for the day is Tanah Lot, a Hindu temple built on a small rock face built off of the shore. The tide is low when we arrive, so some tourists managed to walk over to the base, but the temple itself was roped off. As high tide swiftly rolls in, some tourists were stuck and had to be helped over, wading through the current, waist-deep. The area is beautiful, and there were several temples actually on shore for us to get a good look at. They were built on the edge of the cliffs, and Mod and I sit near one on the grass while waiting for the sun to set so we can see Tanah Lot in its most photographed form.

It takes us almost two hours to get back to Seminyak. We get out onto the street, where a man zips past with the guttural groan of his scooter, which also holds two kids and a basket of green leaves. As we walk, the sweet smell of wood from a furniture store drifts by us, and now that we’ve had our bit of rest here, we decide to take a ride to Ubud.

Our minivan is engulfed in traffic and herds of scooters flock aggressively by us, fluidly squeezing through the impossible spaces between cars at an unknown speed. I say unknown, because our driver’s speedometer is completely broken, to which Mod shrugs and says lightly, “Who needs to know the speed?”

We beep for everything. To say hello and goodbye. We beep to you know you’re in our way, to ask you if you want a ride in this taxi, to tell you’re too slow and you’re pissing us off. If you’re in danger of hitting our car, if we are about to hit you, if we are trying to turn, or back up or if we decide to go the opposite way of traffic to pass you.

We watch as the city change into a countryside with lush forests. The closer we get to Ubud, the greener things become. On the dusty road, we pass by open air shops lined with statues of elephants smiling at rows of young, slender and serene Buddhas, ready to bestow blessings on a family’s home temple.

When we arrive in Ubud, all we can smell is incense. The sweet smell is heady and it’s everywhere. All the buildings have small packages of woven palm leaves filled with flowers, rice, fruit, incense or any combination of the four. These are offerings to God, and making them is as much a part of the daily life here as is sweeping the front step.

Our local guide, who will show us around, also has an offering in his car.

“Every morning, I put the offering in the car for God to watch over us and keep us in good condition. And keep the bad away,” he told us.

He says half jokingly, half proudly that Bali might as well be the island of God; there are so many temples here. The island is primarily Hindu, and God is present in everyone’s every day lives. Our guide told us that you go to your family temple every day, and for every full moon and “dark moon” you go to a temple as well. Every six months, you go to a big temple, and the big temples were what we were there to see. Our guide explains that there is one God but with many manifestations. And so we go to see these many different forms at Goa Gajah (Elephant Cave temple), Pejeng (Moon temple), Gunung Kawi (Rocky temple) and Tampa Siring (Holy Water temple), as explained to us by our guide.

Bali is full of coffee plantations. It’s also the best place to try the Kopi Luwak, the most expensive coffee, produced from the coffee beans which have been digested by a civet. The coffee is thicker and more chocolatey.

Gili Trawangan is also known as Party Town (capitalization necessary). As much as we enjoyed the food and live reggae music, the real reason we had come to this island was so that I could get my PADI Open Water Diving certification. So, while I spent my days from 8:30am - 5/6pm learning to check my air, stay neutrally buoyant and constantly breathe underwater at Blue Marlin Dive, I’m not quite sure what Mod did. He’ll have to tell you himself.

The first time in the ocean was awesome. Emphasis on the awe, as we were lucky enough to see turtles, which caused my group to inhale so much air we all started rising to the surface. Tom and Mia, our instructors, shook their heads and had a good laugh at us. We had been doing so well. We were Mia’s first certifications as a new diving instructor, which is why we were lucky enough to have Tom as well, and I can’t imagine a better experience. They were amazing.

After dive school was over, Mod and I headed to the north of the island by foot. There are no cars on this island, only bicycles and horse carts, and we watched the sunset, ate dinner and apparently made silly faces.

We headed back to Bali to enjoy some quiet time in Amed. It was my favourite place in Bali so far: very few tourists, laid back traffic to try out riding a scooter, a beautiful coast, a water temple, and an amazing dive with Bo exploring the USS Liberty Shipwreck.

All the pictures from Bali: https://goo.gl/photos/aDAVU7eseaeebMzL9

Java

After traveling by car, boat and bus from Amed, we arrived at Banyuwangi, a city at the base of the Ijen Volcano. Our first impression made us understand that we were not in a touristic place: Everybody was looking at us.

A driver picked me up at the hotel at 1 A.M. to drive me 3km from the Ijen Crater. We climbed to the top, then went down into the crater to see the blue fire during the remaining time. The most impressive thing was seeing these miners carrying 80-100kg of sulfur, 3 times a day, from inside the crater to the base of Ijen, for $0.06/kg. And they kept smiling.

This time, I convinced Bo to join me for another beautiful sunrise over Bromo and other volcanoes. We climbed a hill in front of the valley in the early morning, crossing farm fields. Later in the day, we crossed that valley to go up smoldering Bromo.

Our last stop in Java is Yogyakarta, the second biggest city of the island.

As we were arriving, Bo points out a restaurant in our book and says, “Let’s try this restaurant, they have weird things, so you’ll like it.”

The Devil Drink, made of Cobra’s Blood, the snake’s guts, and honey, is actually not so bad. Bo said it tasted like Welch’s grape juice. I was a bit scared as our waiter said, “In any case, don’t bite the guts.” I finished it with a big gulp.

For the actual dinner, I ate some cooked Python & Cobra in a soy sauce glaze. It was pretty delicious. But always bizarre when you try something for the first time. Bo preferred her chicken cooked in coconut milk, watching me from the sidelines.

We explored the city a bit, but we didn’t find much that to fall in love with. We went to the local water temple, which was dry; the pool had been drained and there was no water in sight. We went to the Kraton, but the inner city was randomly closed (which no one told us until after we bought tickets to go in), but one thing we did see was batik. Batik is the painstakingly detailed art of dyeing fabric by hand with a small tool called tjanting, which allows you to create lines or dots. These lines and dots create can be used to depict symbols of good luck for various life events, or just beautiful patterns. It is a wonderful kind of art.

Afterwards, Mod and I walked around the markets, something we try to do in every place we go.

Borobudur is a Buddhist temple built in the 9th century. Our guide said it consisted of two million blocks of lava rock, with no glue or cement to hold them together. Each part of the temple walls has depictions of Buddha, some in incredible detail. Out guide was also careful to say that Buddhism is a culture, not a religion, noting that the island of Java is predominantly Muslim. He said that preserving this temple respects the soul of the ancestors, which gives good energy to the new generation.

Our guide kept dancing around, laughing and doing what he claimed was Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, while telling us that the point of Buddhism is “Hakuna Matata,” or “Don’t worry, be happy.” As I was picturing Timón and Pumba popping out of the stonework, our guide took a more serious tone with us. He had studied Feng Shui, and wanted to read our palms. Mod was first.

“It’s just suggestion, yeah?” our guide said. He touched a few points on Mod’s left palm and pronounced, “You not too friendly, mister. Too selective. Not much romantic, only 40 percent. 50 percent not patient character. Bad concentration.” He told Mod to hold his hands together just below his stomach for balance and recommended meditation to help the concentration. He told Mod he should be a leader who chooses what to do, because he has good instincts. But, he would be bad with people.

The guide asked me to stand in a particular pose for 9 seconds, then proceeded to read my palm. I’m very friendly, he said, and very romantic. I should be a teacher, he said. My dad would be so pleased; he’s been trying to get me to become a teacher ever since I declared that I was going to be an English major, and despite the fact that I’ve never taken his advice when it comes to my career once, he never fails to remind me at least once every other month. (We’ve played this “game” for over a decade now.)

“Just suggestions,” our guide reminded us as he moonwalked away.

Borobudur has over 500 statues of Buddha, but as you can see, many of the heads have been removed so that they could be sold.

Our guide left us to watch the sunset at the top of the temple, reminding us laughingly, “Hakuna Matata.”

I was really excited to see Ramayana Ballet, which was supposed to be a fusion of the beauty of ballet with the culture of the Javanese. The story is basically about a beautiful woman who is kidnapped, and her betrothed must rescue her by fighting many battles. Eventually, he wins her back but suspects she’s not kept faithful to him so he requests that she burn herself. Apparently, if the fire consumes you, then you were guilty. She emerges from the fire unscathed, and they go off and I suppose they get married and live happily ever after.

It’s a beautiful production, and it was a great follow up to the traditional dance we saw in a Bali temple.

All the pictures from Java: https://goo.gl/photos/WxMGUkoje27NNgny7

Sulawesi

If there is a sentence for this island, it would be, “Hello Mister!” This was the friendliest of islands we felt, and the culture here was really unique. We took many bus and boat rides to travel through, averaging about 10-12 hours per ride. The challenge was worth it, as you will see. Our first stop is to experience a burial ceremony near Rantepao, a place in which one seems to live life always aware of and preparing for death.

There are two priests here. One Christian, as the majority of Torajan people in Rantepao and its surrounding region are Christian. The other is a Torajan priest, stemming back to a time far before missionaries reached this shore. In their turn, they as their respective deities, ancestors and the spirit of the buffalos to bless them. The native priest stands with a red loudspeaker, asking the spirit of the buffalos if it is alright with them to sacrifice the buffalos. The buffalo spirit gives its consent, and it is confirmed: One buffalo will be sacrificed today, others to follow on the subsequent days. A burial ceremony can take between 5-6 days. Today is the day of preparation as the extended family and their honored guests come to pay their last respects to the deceased, sometimes bringing with them, a buffalo.

The ancestors of the buffalo came from the sky. To come down to earth, they made a deal with god, and it is the buffalo when sacrificed during a burial ceremony that helps the spirit of the deceased to go to paradise. The spirit rides on the back of the buffalo, and the more buffaloes you sacrifice when it is time, the more comfortably the spirit can ascend, first to purgatory, then to paradise. Sometimes, more than 20 buffaloes are sacrificed for the burial of a noble person, making for a swift and easy ride. The buffalo are strong, but not smart, and so pigs are sacrificed as well, to help the buffaloes and spirits find their way to heaven.

Not all buffaloes are created equal. Most buffalos are a plain black, which costs about 30 million Indonesian Rupiah (~$2000). But the best buffalos are a combination of black and white, symbolizing a mix of earth and sky. These are the best for sacrificing and thus can cost more than 200 million Rupiah (~$15000).

Buffaloes carry meaning for the living as well. They were a form of currency, as you could purchase a piece of land with a number of buffalos. This currency is treated well, as buffaloes spend their days in the field eating, are bathed daily and rubbed down with grass, and are even hand fed to speed their growth. It takes two years for a buffalo to grow fully. If you have no need of a buffalo at this time, you can sell your buffalo at the market and use some of that money to buy a young calf, which you can again grow until you need it. The rest is money in your pocket.

These animals forge and strengthen relationships between families. Members of other clans may bring your family one or more buffaloes for a burial and so you will owe buffaloes in the future. If you cannot pay, perhaps your children will pay back your debt. And so, buffalos represent the tying together of the earth, the sky, your family’s honor, your money, your livelihood and, of course, death.

After the spirit of the buffalos agrees to the sacrifice, the buffalos are taken to a rice field while the preparations for the sacrificial ceremony are underway. Buffalos are entertainment too, and they are prodded into fighting each other while viewers can place their bets as the body of the deceased is carried out to witness the upcoming ceremony.

When you die in Torajaland but are not buried, you are commonly referred to as sick, and so you are preserved, either with herbs or with injections of formaldehyde, and you rest in the house with your family until your time comes. We were at the funeral of a patient man, who had been waiting, preserved in herbs, for two years to begin his journey to paradise.

There are three classes of people in Torajaland: The rich noblemen, the middle class and the slaves. Yes, there are still slaves here, and once you come from this caste, you can never move beyond it. Marriages are arranged between clans of the same caste, and even if you become smart and successful and rich, the only way to escape your caste is to run away and call a new place home. Usman, our guide, explains to us that much of the hard work during this ceremony is being done by the slave caste, and so we watch as they erect two large coconut tree trunks in the center of the courtyard, to which they tie their designated buffalo’s foot to. The sacrificer comes, and without further ado, whacks the knife into the throat of the buffalo. Blood pours onto the earth while the buffalo thrashes, falling to the floor. The buffalo is skinned and sectioned into chunks of meat efficiently.

“It’s a good life they have,” said Usman, “But wow! The end is … .” He shakes his head.

We only witnessed the preparation day of the burial ceremony, as we could not watch all six days. But we could imagine the carrying of the body to the burial site, of which there are several in Torajaland. The oldest form are the caves, which have small alcoves in which to place coffins. The richer people got the higher positions and created special dolls to symbolize each of their dead. People put their family’s dead into the same coffin until they can hold no more people. Sometimes, these coffins fall down, but they require an expensive ceremony to resurrect, so many skeletons and skulls end up on the floor, neatly arranged. Then there are the graves carved into the rock faces. In the old days, they would take up to two years to build, but now with modern tools it takes six months and a lot of money. The most modern gravesites are more easily accessible and are built like box-shaped houses. It’s easy to put the dead in through a window. These tend to be adorned with crosses and painted a variety of colors. The government set up a cemetery, but no one wants to bury their loved ones in the ground, explained Usman.

Families visit these graves to clean them or pay their respects. Papa always smoked Marlboro Light, one might say, and place a cigarette in the skull’s nose. Or maybe a grandmother loved a particular sweet, so one would bring a handful of colorful bonbons and lay them in front of her mouth.

Babies have a different path to paradise, and thus a different kind of grave. If a baby died before it had teeth, it was buried in the side of a special tree, whose cloudy white sap resembled a mother’s milk. When the tree healed and grew around the baby, it would be in paradise. Babies skip purgatory, and so they wait patiently on their way, slowly making their way into the sky.

Torajaland is beautiful. We followed Usman on a scooter, meandering through small roads up hills through the greenery, sampling tamerella juice and learning more about the life of regular people instead of just the noble class, whose ceremonies and houses are the reason why many tourists, including us, had come to visit the area. Usman took us by his village, offered us some tea and we took shelter in his roadside shop when the rain, so anxiously awaited by the farmers in Sulawesi, finally poured down, signaling the late beginning of the rainy season.

“Look, a dolphin!” Nuir, our host, points far away into the sea.

“Jump into the boat,” he says, and we’re off, chasing after the animal.

Going to the Togean Islands takes a lot of time. From Rantepao, we travelled twelve hours in an old bus to Tentana. The next day, it took another five hours in a shared car to reach the coastal city called Ampana, from which we took a public boat for eight hours to Malenge Island, seated on the floor.

After three days of traveling this way, we arrived at Malenge’s harbor at 7 p.m. A man is yelling, “Sera Beach Cottages?” We follow Andy onto his boat with a French guy for a short ride to paradise. It’s nighttime now, and in the water, the boat glides past some plankton. The plankton wakes up and responds by glowing unexpectedly blue. The sky above us is full of stars.

Bo is very tired of the journey. The cottages are very simple. But when we wake up the next day, we realize why people struggle to arrive here; we are alone in a small cove on white sand, with a view of the crystal clear blue water.

We spend our days in the warm sea, reading and resting in the hammocks, snorkeling over a coral reef, trekking through the jungle, visiting the nearby village to buy lobsters, and eating fishes.

At the end of the afternoon, Nuir comes to me with his goggles. “Baby shark. Come,” he says. We swim 3 minutes and soon I see the small black tip shark circling us looking for food.

This is indeed the paradise people wrote about in many travel blogs. The staff is so nice, they want us to have the best time, and they entertain us as often as they can. In between two games of Uno, they bring us in the dark to the edge of the sea and slap the wet sand with their feet until a trail of blue light appears. The magic lighting plankton sticks to our skin.

All the pictures from Sulawesi: https://goo.gl/photos/HHa9iR6BhgpKbfuP7