Indonesia 1985

It was goodbye Malaysia, hello Indonesia. Our Merpati flight from Kuching delivered us into the jaws of Indonesian bureaucracy. The immigration office in Pontianak was disorganized, to say the least, but the officer was able to collect whatever small bribes he could. We spent an hour in the Pontianak airport before taking off to Jakarta. Pontianak was a sleepy lumber town, sitting right on the equator. We had decided not to break our journey there and later discovered that most accommodation was fully booked for the National Koran Reading Championships. We arrived at the new Jakarta airport before 3:00pm and hustled our way through the city. It was noisy, sprawling, without a distinctive character and four hours later, our train eased out of Gambir Station. We travelled overnight in hot and smoky 2nd class to Yogyakarta.

A USD was worth 1,100 Rupiah, so items sometimes sounded expensive, but they weren't. Orang barat (western people) were expected to pay a little more than locals, so even bus travel required negotiation. Sometimes, we haggled over the price of a bowl of rice. Invariably, we paid a little more, but what's a few rupiahs?. I cashed some travellers cheques and suddenly I had a few hundred thousand Rupiah.

Indonesia has transport. There were motorcycles, bicycles, becak (bicycle rickshaws), bemos (Motorized trishaws), Colt mini-buses. and full size buses. There were also horse carts. The Colt drivers were constantly looking for more fares and rarely drove more than two intersections without making a turn, searching for more passengers. They filled up like sardine tins. When it started to rain, the windows would close and the inside would become a steambath. Sometimes, we wished the vans would take on more passengers just so they would open the door for a few brief moments. The air was warm and always full of the aroma of kretek (clove cigarettes).

Yogyakarta was a "travellers' hangout. There were all sorts of westerners walking around in sleeveless t-shirts and short shorts, eating in travellers restaurants and trading information on transport and hotels. We hadn't seen many tourists while we were in Sabah and Sarawak, so it was a novelty for us. It allowed us to mix and match our food. Indonesian sate and beer for two cost 2 1/2 dollars. Avocados and guacamole were available as was keffir cultured milk. Then there were the cheese jaffles (an Australian cross between a grilled cheese sandwich and a waffle). Traveller's food made a nice break from the rice based diet of South East Asia. There didn't seem to be a corner without a batik shop or batik workshop. If you didn't find a batik to your taste, the travelling batik ladies that went to the guesthouses would.

We watched a "wayang kulit" (puppet-shadow performance) supported by a gamelan (orchestra). The puppet master skilfully maneuvered his tools. Rather than string, they use sticks to move the hands in a fluid manner. The gamelan is a mystical, strange assortment of the Indonesian xylophone, drums and bonangs (rows of small bronze kettle shaped gongs with raised nipples). The musicians worked without a score, but there was unity, each instrument complementing the other.

Borobudur, an easy 40km day trip from Yogyacarta, is the world's largest Buddhist temple built back in the 9th Century. We knew that there was a temple in there somewhere when we passed through the maze of hawkers and souvenir stands. Borobudur is a massive monument of stone, with intricate carvings that is square in shape like a mandela. The Borobudur architects knew their Buddhism. We were astonished by the number and quality of the carvings. There were Buddhas, Buddha relief panels and stupas everywhere. As we walked around and around, upwards, we slowly left the earthly world and closer to an ethereal, heavenly existence. The reliefs, stupas and Buddhas became more spiritual until finally we reached nirvana.

Nirvana looked a little different than expected. There were hundreds of Indonesian tourist milling about with cheap cameras. Many asked us to pose with them; we were in demand as photographic subjects.

Prambanan, built a century prior to Borobudur, is just 17km from Yogyakarta and certainly echoes the influence of India on Indonesia. It is the second largest Hindu temple site in South East Asia, after Angkor Wat. There was major reconstruction taking place at the time of our visit.

From Yogyakarta, we travelled first class on the night train to Surabaya. Sleep was still hard to come by. From Surabaya, we caught a warm three hour ride in a mini-bus to Ngadisari, up at a refreshing elevation of 1800m. The following morning we walked up a cobblestone road past market gardens to the rim of a huge volcanic crater of Mt Bromo. We descended into the large crater and walked across black ash. We then ascended the rim of the live volcano to see steam rising while the heavy sulphur air almost gagged us. As the sun rose, the steam dissipated and the crater became visible. I descended almost 100 metres down the steep crater wall for a better look. We were spellbound.

It was a long day of 11 hours on buses and a ferry to reach the north side of Bali at black sands of Lovena Beach. We were somewhat disappointed with the Lovena beach scene, catering to holidaying Australians and Germans. However, we walked away from the bungalows, tourist restaurants, sarong sellers and snorkelling boats towards the kampong (village). There we found chickens scavenging for food, children splashing in the water and men conversing by their outrigger boats. On our return walk, people were setting up tables and chairs on the beach for a night food market. Everyone seemed all smiley and we gorged ourselves on sate, nasi campur (mixed items on rice), tea and pancakes. Later, we talked to Arbon, a village fisherman. He explained how they use kerosene lanterns to attract fish which the catch with nets or baited lines. This was the Bali we came to see.

Our next stop was Ubud, in the hills of central Bali. Out two-year old Moon guidebook indicated that there were about 15 losmen (guesthouses) to choose from. By the time we got there, about a hundred losmen lined the main road, yet it still had a village-like feel to it. When we returned to Ubud in 2008, it was a small city. Ubud may be an important tourist and wood carving centre, but its roots are in agriculture. Biking and walking are the way to see the countryside: brilliant rice paddies were often terraced on hillsides, tiny lanes, nice homes, smiling faces with a volcanic backdrop. A man walking his ducks down a lane, people bathing in rivers, women walking with baskets on their heads, a pile of coconuts slung over a man's shoulder were all powerful images. Magnificent.

Ubud is characterized by its vibrant Hindu culture. We signed up for an evening of dance at the old royal palace courtyard. Colourfully dressed dancers performed in an exotic setting. Their arms, legs, hands and eyes all seemed to be in perfect unison with the gamelan music. The following day we were out on a bicycle ride to nearby Bidulu where people from all over Bali were making their offerings to the Hindu gods. Women arrived with such grace, carrying large open baskets and platters of fruits & flowers on their heads. They carried the offerings into the temple courtyard and the women were blessed with sprinkled water, flowers and sticky rice on their temples and foreheads.

There was a great deal of anticipation for that evening at the Bidulu temple and we staked our places near a small stage. Legong is a form of Balinese dancing that features elaborate finger movements supported by complex footwork and facial expressions. It didn't get rolling till 10:00pm. The Balinese are early risers and it was no surprise that many of the spectators were nodding off during the performances. It looked like it would go on all night. We made it through to midnight and then rode the 5km home in darkness, past rice paddies and the occasional barking dog.

We were fortunate that our Ubud visit coincided with a mass cremation. There were a lot of people on site. The day was joyous in nature and it symbolized the journey of the deceased to the afterlife.

There were no ATM's in 1985. We used an American Express card at AMEX offices that allowed us to purchase travellers cheques with personal cheques. However, we were advised that we had to wait an additional week to cash another cheque for our upcoming trip through eastern Indonesia, onto Papua New Guinea. So rather than press onto Sulawesi, we decided to visit the Gilli Air.

From Bali, we took a four hour ferry ride to Lombok, followed by a couple of bus rides, a horse cart ride and a boat to reach the small island of Gili Air. There were three losmens established on the island for the few tourists who made it that far. There were no restaurants, nor hawkers on the beach, We figured that the peaceful island would become a mini-Bali. When we returned to the Gili's in late 2008, the islands had been completely transformed from a fishing village to a full-on tourist island.

Life was slow on Gili Air with the locals setting the pace. As the tide went out, fisherman stood out chest deep in the water, holding their thin bamboo poles with lines tied to the ends. Women waded through the shallows in search of small shelled creatures (called "seesaws"). The afternoons were slow as people often found cool, shady spots to stretch out in. Late in the day, a few locals would sit by the water's edge with crudely made guitars and drums to sing Indonesian love songs. On the last day of our four day visit, things slowed right down as Ramadan had begun and most everyone refrained from doing much in the day, except sit in the shade.

This was the stereotypical tropical island with its coral sand, sea gardens off the beach. Lombok, across the strait, provided the backdrop and the mountains of Bali could be seen in the distance. By night, the slight ocean breeze blew, the southern stars illuminated the black sky and a ring of small fishing boats surrounded the island with their lanterns alight to attract fish into their nets. We stayed in a small bungalow with wooden floors, woven wicker walls and a palm frond roof. The veranda was a lovely place to sit on. We slept with all the doors and windows open, without fear of theft.

Before dinner, a group of we tourists would gather to swap tales; a Norwegian, a couple of Dutchmen and two Aussies to add flavour. A big attraction was the excellently prepared food. On a typical day,we had a lunch of octopus in an exquisite sauce accompanied by cucumber salad and grilled fish on a bed of rice. Dinner was curried, smoked fish, noodles and green beans & sprouts on the delicious rice.

We encountered our first meticulously planned rip-off travelling on Lombok, back to Bali. After our boat trip from Gili Air and the horse cart and then a bemo ride, we sat for forty minutes in Cakranegra on a min-bus. The Indonesian passengers slipped away and took another bus, while we waited with a few other tourists. Then when it looked like we wouldn't catch the next ferry to Bali, the driver drove at speed (he hit a dog along the way) and we reached the ferry port just before the scheduled sailing time of 11:00am. The bus staff, jumped up on to the roof and ratcheted all the luggage down while the conductor demanded triple the going rate for our passage. A large tourist, grabbed him by the throat and almost lifted the little guy off his feet and suddenly our luggage was released, we paid our fares and caught the ferry to Bali.

We did stay at Kuta Beach between travel legs. We probably got there a couple of decades too late. It was a holiday haven for vacationing Australians. The streets were lined with hotels, western restaurants, souvenir stalls, discos, bars, massage parlours, clothing stores, peddlers flogging postcards, jewelry, blowguns and there were bemo drivers screaming "transport, charter!". And when you went down to the beach, there were hawkers along with lady masseurs offering body massages for 1,000 Rupiah. Kuta was a Mecca of bootleg cassette tapes. You could buy quality tapes for under $2, and some of which featured some fantastic original artwork.

The beach itself is miles long and the ocean is cool with a gentle surf, perfect for beginner surfers. It had a real party atmosphere. We had a last dip in the ocean at sunset before the next day's flight to Sulawesi.

We walked from our losman in Kuta, along the sweeping expanse of the beach to the Denpasar airport. The flight north to Sulawesi passed above seas of clouds with volcanoes jutting out into the sky. The Ujung Pandang airport was north of the city, so we carried on to Parepare without going into the city. We found a hotel on the waterfront; it was Ramadan and Parepare was dead asleep. Men returned from the mosque with their prayer mats over their shoulders while some slipped discretely into covered food stalls for a bite to eat.

Next, we moved onto Makale. We sat out on the balcony of our losmen and took in all the sounds. Bemos were blasting their horns, looking for business and the church bells rang every half hour. The church seemed to be competing with the wailing of mosque, also calling to the faithful. A truck was blaring a dreadful noise to advertise a cheap Hong Kong flick, "A Swordsman". Later on, we approached the wonderful sound of a gas light perched on a street vendor's trolley. We were treated to some first-class murtabaks (filled flatbread but in Makale is was more like a flattened egg roll). Our sleep was abbreviated by the 4:00am muezzin call. Once it subsided, it was replaced by the horns of bemo drivers searching for passengers to make the 8 hour journey to Ujung Padang. Another day in Torajaland had begun.

We pressed on to nearby Rantepao, the heart of Torajaland, It is the main market and business centre of the area. However, it was not much more than a hot, dirty and dusty town. It was a Sunday, and we attended a Pentecostal church service. there was a great deal of crying, some singing and judging by people's reactions, an uninspiring sermon. It was all in Indonesian and the congregation looked like it would fall dead asleep at any moment. We heard that there was a Toraja funeral nearby and we took a walk in the country but did not locate the festivities. Toraja funerals are elaborate affairs.

We began a Torajaland trek from Rantepao, and walked through a lot of rice fields. Once the hills began, the road disappeared and we climbed steadily for two hours and visited the burial sites at Pana. We admired the square niches carved into the rock, protected by wooden doors that were often embellished with carvings of buffalo or Toraja geometric designs. As many as half the houses were the traditional style Toraja homes. They featured large sweeping roffs and fantastic carvings. They were attractive to look at and with a little imagination, looked like boats sailing across the rice paddies. The people seemed quite friendly. However, almost every kid along the way greeted us with "kasi gula-gula". It didn't mean hello, but rather "give candy". We weren't sure if it was part of their culture, or the French and German tourists doled out huge quantities of sugar. We didn't see any westerners on our 4 day trek. We watched hundreds of women working diligently in the rice fields that were mixed between bright green and golden mature rice. As dusk approached, we watched a long parade of women passing by with heavy loads of un-husked rice on their backs. It was difficult to see their faces because they were so hunched over and they were wearing tightly woven broad rimmed hats.

We stayed in Batutamonga our first night, with a Christian family of 11 boys. The two eldest sons attended school outside of the district, sot the father used the spare room for boarding passing tourists. The air was cool and we were provided with traditional Toraja blankets for the evenings. We had woven straw mats to sleep on. Our dinner was white rice, a squash-like vegetable and tinned sardines. We ate with our hands.

The countryside resembled the foothills of Nepal with its steep valleys, terraced rice fields and occasional bamboo groves. We hiked four days, up and down hills along small footpaths and rocky roads, through clusters of houses, some traditional, some not. It was not a popular trekking area, so there were few established guesthouses, but when we asked where we could sleep, there was often a house that took in travellers and fed them. On our second night, we stayed in Pangala. I played dominoes at a warung (roadside stall) with three children. I didn't know all the rules, nor for a long time, who my partner was, but it didn't really matter.

We made a long day's walk to Bittuang the following day. We passed through magnificent rice paddies, up and down several valleys. The kids were friendly and there were no calls of "kasi gula-gula". We staggered up one of the steep valley walls and stumbled into a group of Toraja houses, where a girl motioned for us to follow her. We were led to her house where a smiley woman (albeit with beetle nut stained mouth) quenched our thirsts and fed us well. the remainder of the day was more hard walking. Closer to Bittuang, we encountered a mischievous group of children, that followed us and one tried to grab my bag.

Bittuang had electricity, so the call of the muezzin was amplified in the mostly Christian town. Bittuang was a larger settlement and we stayed in a losmen. The hotel register indicated that perhaps a dozen westerners had stayed there in the past year. Our dinner in Bittuang was notably horrible. Burnt eggs, flavoured with coconut and soy sauce, were only possible to eat with a liberal covering with chilies. However, Toraja coffee was always exquisite. We'd often hear our hosts pounding away to grind the beans. It was either grown on the premises or purchased in the local markets and an excellent way to start the mornings.

We made our way out of Bittuang down a very mucky and slippery road, and caught a couple of "mobila's" back to Makale. We had a couple of days of bemo rides, skulls, effigies and coffins around Makale. We toured around the tourist spots which were largely grave sites. Toraja funerals are grandiose affairs and involve slaughtering buffalo which are revered as symbols of fertility, strength and protection from evil. Death is one part of life before the individula goes on to Puya, the land of souls. The Toraja dead are often placed in large wooden boat shaped coffins (erong), some of which are hung in caves while others are scattered at the foot of mountains. Still others are buried in stone graves, carved out of the rock, sometimes with effigies placed in front on a wooden gallery on the cliff face, to serve as a receptacle for the spirits and to look out over the ancestors.

We made our way back to Ujung Pandang (8 hours in a mini bus) to coincide with the beginning of the business week, so we could organize our passage out. However, it was an official holiday, marking the anniversary of Buddha's enlightenment. Indonesia is almost 90% Moslem and 10% Christian, with a smattering of Hindus, largely in Bali. The Buddhist population is listed at .03%. As a result most offices and stores were closed but ironically, most of the Chinese run shops were open as usual.

Ujung Pandang, renamed Makassar subsequent to our 1985 visit, was a low point of our Indonesia trip. Most of the streets were unpaved, there were all kinds of garbage and open ditches, it was dusty and darn hot without much of interest. It was Ramadan and the muezzins seemed to blare all day and all night. Most of the inhabitants seemed to sleep through the heat of the day. We found sleep hard to come by. It was uncomfortably warm and we had fleas and mosquitoes to contend with, cats fought up on the roof, people in the hotel hallways would come and go at night, and the wailing of the mosques all combined to make sleeping a real challenge. After a while, we felt like zombies and we had fallen into the jaws of an obscure cult that wouldn't allow us to sleep.

The waterfront was wonderful. It was a long esplanade lined with palm trees and traditional Pinisi sailing boats. As the sun dropped, food stalls appeared and increasing numbers of people began to mill about. Our routine included having "es-telur", ice shavings with strawberry and chocolate flavours. Then we would sit up on the second floor of a "kios", knocking back a few cold beers, enjoying the sea breeze while watching the street action and the sun disappearing into the ocean. For dinner, we went down to the food stalls, including a very tidy cart run by a Chinese fellow. A plate of fried rice or fried vegetables cost RP 500 (50 cents).

We were out of sync with the Pelni (passenger ships) schedule so we opted for a Merpati flight further east to Jayapura via Ambon.

We landed at the Ambon airport mid-afternoon and learned that it would not be possible to proceed to our intended destination of Along for reasons unknown. We took a "mobili" to Ambon, some 34km away, for much less than the going rate, also for reasons unknown. The city of Ambon seemed like the antithesis of the island's natural beauty. It was horrible with crowded, muddy streets. Ambon is part of the fabled spice islands. The hillsides are rich in cloves and nutmeg. Clouds hung over the mountains and the ocean was almost always in sight. These were the islands that Columbus meant to find when he accidentally "discovered" the Americas. It took Magellan 27 months at sea to reach the Spice Islands. Our hotel was accessed by walking through a store room rich with the smell of cloves.

The following day we made a spectacular drive across the island to reach the village of Hila in the rain. It was a little tense for a while. There was no losmen (guest house) in Hila, so we trundled over to the Raja's home (town chief) and spoke with two nice old ladies in my broken Indonesian. They apologized that they could not feed or lodge us because of Ramadan. We were guided to the "pastori's" home where we explained our wishes. We didn't wish to return to Ambon City. He was a little dismayed at first, but he offered us a place to sleep, we suspect his own bedroom. The pastor's house was behind the oldest church on Ambon. It was originally a Portuguese Catholic church, then Dutch Protestant and finally an Indonesian Protestant church. There was a Dutch inscription from 1790 on the wall.

In the first evening, we sat with the pastor in the parlour, listening to religious songs played on his cassette player. The parlour was lined with small narrow sofas of red shiny vinyl. Three coffee tables with plastic arrangements of flowers on each, and a few footstools sat in the middle of the room. In one corner was a tall wooden plant stand and on the top was a Bintang beer can holding dry flowers. On the far wall stood the pink acrylic wall unit complete with shiny knobs and see-through plastic doors. It held a TV that worked when the generator was on, a cassette player, a pink wedding album, a few coloured glass plates and cups and on the very top was a silver looking candle holder with a crucifix. There were three curtained doorways leading to the bedrooms. Our bedroom had a beautiful canopy bed covered in lace material. The pink bedspread was decorated with fancy stitches made by their Singer sewing machine. We had a little oil lantern for light with a small picture stuck to the back of it of the Toronto City Hall. On our second evening, the man of the house was out and the Ibu (Mrs), kids and half the neighbourhood all had fun with us. We conversed with a very limited vocabulary.

It rained a lot while we were in Hila, but when it stopped, we would go for walks. The ground was thick with vegetation, the hills were rich in coconut and sago palms. At one stage, we led a parade of children along the main street of Hila. Many of them were chanting "mister, mister", all in good fun but sometimes an onlooking adult cooled the excited kids down.

They were a sincerely warm family, bending over backwards to please us with specially prepared meals served on their best dishware. We made every attempt to be as courteous as possible, even remembering to say grace before eating. After a couple of days, we started to feel that we were part of the family. We gave the kids Canadian pins and presented the pastor with money for the church, otherwise he would not have accepted payment. We left Hila on a very good note. The whole family was out on the balcony, waving us goodbye.

Our eastward journey continued with a Merpati flight to Biak, Irian Jaya. This was like flying in the "old days"; the flight crew and passengers stayed at Biak for the night before continuing on to Jayapura the following day. We stayed at the Irian Hotel, which was a hundred metres from the tiny airport and the ocean. It took a little gentle persuasion to get the free night's accommodation (we had broken our journey from Sulawesi). It was the best hotel in Biak, but nothing to get excited about; there were no carpets, no shower, no telephone, just a mandi (wash basin), two single beds and two clean towels. We sat down with other passengers for dinner. We talked with an undercover policeman. He whispered that his mission was to search out for three escaped convicts from a Jakarta prison who may have been hiding out in Jayapura. There wasn't much to do except watch the lobby television and an ancient Brady Bunch show and then part of a Hong Kong Kung Fu movie. With a manhunt going on, an old episode of Dragnet would have been quite a coincidence.

The first thing that we noticed about Jayapura was that the people were different; they are Melanesians. We spent some time looking for a hotel and settled on Losmen Hamadi, in southern Jayapura. Prices were much higher than in the rest of Indonesia. For $10, we got a sea-foam green room lit by one bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The two windows looked directly into the street, so we had to draw the curtains to prevent onlookers. The furniture consisted of two iron framed, prison looking spring beds with inch thin mattresses, two chairs and a coffee table. In the corner was a non-functioning sink. Three mosquito coils seemed to keep the bugs at bay.

Jayapura was a nondescript town with plenty of small stores, smelly ditches and numerous government buildings. The beach was pretty but had plenty of garbage. We received many warm greetings and walked by the rusted remains of U.S. WWII landing craft. We bought some New Guinea currency and dawdled for a couple of days before our flight to Wewak.

We were denied boarding on the Air Niugini flight June 12 because we did not have PNG visas. We had been advised by the PNG embassy and by the airline that we didn't need visas, however, they had overlooked the specific border crossing that required visas. We explored other options to enter PNG and ruled them out. Westbound flights towards Jakarta were booked out for at least a week. It was a low point for us.

After conversations with American missionaries (particularly Edith Hansen), we opted to fly into the interior of Irian Jaya. We quickly made travel arrangements and acquired a travel permit. We went from disappointment to trembling with excitement for our Baliem Valley trek.