("Jalan-jalan" means "just walking" and is the common response to
the common question in Indonesia: Where are you going? It's English equivalent
is "How are you?")
My travel writing is mostly in journal form, but consider these pages a
valuable resource for information regarding Indonesian culture as well as specifics
on where to stay, what to do. My travels began in Jakarta and took me through West Java to
Cibodas, then down to the South Java Sea to a beach town called Pangandaran. From
there I went on to Yogyakarta and finally, Mt. Bromo in the East. The final portion of
my trip was spent entirely on the island of Bali.
SHORTCUTS
Weather forecast for Jakarta.
"Welcome to immigration. Give us your money."
Christmas Day in Pangandaran: Food, paradise and martial arts.
The Big Scam in Yogya: Batik "artists".
The other-worldly trek to Mt. Bromo.
Skip Java, go straight to Bali.
Jakarta---Cibodas---Mt. Gede Pangrango National Park
I got into Jakarta on the evening of December 23rd and proceeded
to immigration where I was promptly detained. The expiration date
on my passport was one month short (you have to have a passport valid for
six months from date of entry to Indonesia), so there I sat, off in one
of those side rooms like some bad Mexican movie, sitting humbly before two
Indonesian guys smoking Djarums at an old wooden desk, stamping and denying
passports. Fellow deviants flowed in and out of the room as the passports
continued to stack up on the floor and spill over the desk. Finally my moment
of judgment came to this: "Okay. You pay here." Fortunately, however, my
American Express traveller's checks pulled through in an unexpected way, as I
explained to my interrogator I had no money to offer unless he let me through
immigration to get to the cash exchange. "Is this your first time to Indonesia?"
he asked me for the second time. I gave the most pathetic "yes" I could manage
and a few minutes later I found myself free and boarding a bus to Gambir Station
in Jakarta.
After initially snubbing the Indonesian guy next to me on the bus (he asked where
I was going. "Jakarta," I snapped.), I realized I didn't have to be paranoid to the
point of incivility. So we started talking and he offered to get me a cab
to the area I was going. We arrived at Gambir Station and cabbed it to Jalan
Jaksa (a popular backpacker's flop area); this guy got the taxi, navigated by
asking people on the streets how to get to my hostel, got me to the very door,
and then wouldn't accept any money. My faith in humanity--and Indonesia--
was instantly restored.
I spent one night at the Bintang Kejora Hostel (Jl KS Barat Palam
No. 52, tel: 323-878), a real hole (albeit a clean one, but still a hole). But for
15,000 rupiah a night (about $7.50) I slept safely and comfortably, interrupted
only by the rhythmic chanting of Muslim men at 4 in the morning. Toast and coffee
(eventually you get used to those grinds floating on top) were included for breakfast,
and the guys at the front desk drew me maps and details of how to get a bus to
Kampung Rhambutan, a central bus station where I could catch a bus to my next
stop, Cibodas.
Out on the street, I hopped a moving bus (they never really stop) and
settled in, thinking I'd be at the bus station in one hour. A few minutes later
I noticed everyone getting off and getting in the bus behind. When in Java...
So we rode along for while in the second bus until someone said to me, "This
bus finish--That bus! That bus!" pointing to the one coming up behind and pushing
me toward the door. So again I jumped off a moving bus into moving traffic, and
ran madly for the one behind (which was still moving of course) and I settled
in once more.
There were several times I wondered if I was still going to the bus station as I
could see we were heading out of the city. But at that point I was too embarrassed
to ask so I figured anywhere we ended up was better than Jakarta. We did
eventually make it to the bus station and a lady walking beside me asked, "Miss,
where you go?" I told her and she guided me to the bus for Cibodas (pronounced
"Chibodas" I learned at that point), and I boarded an A/C bus bound for the Puncak
Pass. The Puncak mountain range has a number of towns and small villages
nestled throughout out; Cibodas is one of them. Puncak refers to a series of mountains in the area,
one called Mt. Gede, or "mountain of mists". It was a sunny day but
there was always a thick mist floating around the mountains.
We wound our way up into the mountains, past lush green fields, and long paths
leading up to small villages you could see from the main road. We passed
women in huge bamboo hats working in the fields, toting bushels of beans in
sacks carried on their heads, and young boys hanging out in front of roadside
stalls.
I was told when we were approaching Cibodas and I had some assistance leaping out the
back door as the bus slowed down (sort of). |A sign pointed up a side road
to hostels so I hoisted my gear and started the hike up to Freddy's Homestay
(it's the firwst homestay you come to, nestled on the righthand side,
advertised by a small hanging sign that's easy to miss--about 15,000 rupiah;
tel: 515-473). I got a ride up what turned out to be a very long road
uphill in the back of a pickup truck driven by three young guys. I came down
a rocky path (off the street) to this beautiful little house owned and run by an Indonesian
man and his wife. Freddy speaks English, but his specialty is Dutch, which he
speaks fluently (very uncommon, as the language of the oppressor was mostly
rejected). I got in just before lunch, had some hot "gado-gado"--a typical
Indonesian vegetable dish with peanut sauce--and checked into a nice, clean
room before setting off for a hike in the Mt. Gede Pangrango National Park.
The entrance was just up the road.
Walking up there elicited friendly smiles and waves from people on
all sides. Women would often nudge their children to look up and wave and
say hello. In the mountain, rural communities, most everyone farms, or sells,
so there were rows and rows and rows of stalls lined up all the way up the hill
with bunches of bananas hanging, massive quantities of fresh fruits and
vegetables like pineapples and avocados, and people--always hanging.
I signed in and got my hiking permit at the park entrance and made my way up the
mountain--only a 1-1/2 hour hike to the waterfalls (you can take a longer hike
to the summit or mineral springs). I passed and spoke to several young Muslim
women and men, and a few foreigners who seemed uninterested in me, and then I was
on my own. I never passed another living soul as I wound my way up a rocky path in this
tropical rainforest, one of the last surviving ones in West Java--and along with it several
endangered species. One of which is the leopard, which I really hoped I wouldn't
run into. I was trying to remember tips for leopard encounters--or was that
mountain lions? or bears? Make yourself look big, don't run away, don't make
eye contact (or do?)--all this pressing on my brain as I wiped away the pouring
sweat. I climbed, marvelling at the tropical rain misting through all the green--
and finally I heard the thundering of the falls. I came to a clearing and there
the three falls were gushing over huge moss-covered cliffs in an area graced with
massive ferns and palms and just green everywhere. It was as if I had the whole
place, the whole mountain and forest to myself. I laid down in the sun for
awhile but I was afraid I'd fall asleep and wake up to a leopard coming down
from the summit to hunt deer and wild pig (as the sign pointed out). I figured
I fell under the "wild pig" category.
When I came down from the park it was misting again (November to January
is considered the rainy season), so I headed back for dinner. Freddy's wife
cooked me up some hot steamed vegetables and fried banana, and Trisna, Freddy's
nephew, came over to practice his English with me. We talked for awhile when
suddenly he said with a smile, "Kennerly, I'm sorry, I Mus-leem. I go to pray,
six o'clock. As he spoke the sound of singing prayers and chants rose to my ears;
everyone was heading for the mosque.
I woke up at 5 a.m. the next day, had a cold shower and breakfast, and got a ride down to
the main road. There was no direct bus to Bandung because it was Christmas Day
(yet nobody I'd met so far was actually celebrating it), so I got on a bus
for Cianjur (Chianjur), where I got another bus for Bandung, and then on
to Pangandaran, a beach town situated on the South Java Sea.
Christmas Day----Pangandaran
We wound for hours and miles through tropical mountain ranges, deep, green
gorges followed by lush green valleys--banana and palm trees, and vast expanses
of totally unspoiled, undeveloped land, touched only by the people who farm it. there was a
mid-afternoon downpour but the sun came out again as we got closer and closer to
the coast. When we finally rode into town I hired a "becak" (trishaw) which took
me a little way before the driver found out I wanted to go to Delta Gecko. "It's
7 km!" he protested, and tried to persuad me to go to another place for the same
price per night. "I'm meeting a friend there," I lied. (You must insist on
going to Delta Gecko. Apparently buses coming in from other towns will make an
extra stop past the Pangandaran terminal--though they might do so grudgingly--so rather
than getting off there with everyone else, get off at Jl. Pamugaran, Cikembulan, where
you can get a motorcycle taxi to Delta Gecko. I did it all the hard way.) So
we kept going and when we got within 2 km or so I told him I'd walk the rest of
the way.
Where the trishaw had come to a stop, we had just turned right down a long
dirt road that hugged the South Java Sea/Indian Ocean, with the wind blowing the
palms and waves crashing on the beach as the sun started to set. Finally
reaching Delta Gecko Village I ducked into a pathway covered by a wooden bamboo
archway and ivy-covered trellis, and soon entered an enchanted world of two-story
bamboo and thatch-roof huts built on stilts, in an enclave of trees and gardens.
Thoroughly exhausted from my journey, I was taken to the office to meet Kristina
(described in Let's Go Southeast Asia as an "eco-groovy Aussie") who greeted
me with a lit Djarum dangling from her lips and a hearty welcome, "You're just in
time for Christmas dinner!" If you've ever seen Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City
about San Francisco in the 70s, she's a Mrs. Madrigal-type; you feel as though you've been
"chosen" to arrive at this special place.
I settled into a dorm-style hut with one bed up and two down, our own "mandi"
(a toilet hole in the floor and a well of clean water in the corner to pour
over yourself and down the toilet hole). There was no electricity but all the huts
and gardens were lit by the soft glow of kerosene lamps in the evening. My roommate
was Milly, a dynamic 29 year-old Australian girl. When I asked her how long she'd been
on the road she replied matter-of-factly+ "Five years." She'd done Africa,
South America, and had just returned from five months in India. I inundated
her with questions about travelling alone as a female and she said she wouldn't have
had it any other way. People look out for you and always want to help you if
you're travelling alone. I realized I'd already experienced some of that on
my way there.
What was really spectacular about Pangandaran was that it wasn't a
tourist spot, at least not for foreigners. And Delta Gecko, with its semi-
isolation and remoteness, is a haven for backpackers and people who really want
to kickback and mingle with the natives.
The price of a dorm-style room was about 10,000 rupiah per night (approx. $5)--
but this was high season! Rates are usually slightly less. Christmas dinner included
traditional Sundanese dancing and martial arts. Gathered around 3 large dining tables were about 30 people--
foreign travellers and Indonesian friends and neighbors--served from a huge buffet of
Indonesian food, under a bright full moon on Christmas Day (we were told the next full moon
on Christmas wouldn't be for another 100 years).
Kristina explained the first act of the evening, a traditional
Sundanese dance (Pangandaran officially marks a divide between Sundanese and
Javanese--two entirely separate ethnic groups with different languages and related,
but distinctly unique cultures). With apologies to the Dutch in the audience
she talked about the Dutch occupation of Java, and how the Sundanese had been
the main victims of oppression. During that time (several hundred years), they were
not allowed to practice their traditional martial arts so they disguised it as a
dance (similar to slaves in Brazil who developed kapoera to disguise
fighting techniques, so they could continue their martial art tradition). A
beautiful dance was performed by a young Indonesian girl (all performers were
friends of Delta Gecko), and then there were demonstrations of the martial art itself
(called Pencak Silat), which is accompanied by beating drums and flute music--
very fluid and rhythmical.
After dinner everyone was invited out to the beach for a bonfire. Milly did a flame-throwing
demo and the Indonesian guys sat around with their guitars singing Bob Marley and Tracy
Chapman. More of the magic...
The next morning I was up with the sunrise again and rode a rickety old bike into
town looking for sunscreen; Pangandaran doesn't cater to white-skinned people
so it's a good idea to get sunscreen before you get there. I rode through
little villages nestled throughout Pangandaran and then back, riding along the
sea road, looking at the "warungs" (food stalls) and markets. Though I didn't
go out to eat in Pangandaran (you hardly need to leave Delta Gecko once you get
there), there is a good selection of restaurants, and Kristina provides
you with maps of the area, places to eat, hike, explore. I got back in the late-
afternoon to do my laundry in a bucket by the well and hung it out on the line
by my hut.
I wanted to stay longer in Pangandaran but I realized that it took longer to
get from place to place (the seeming proximity on the map is deceptive), so Kristina
arranged for a van to pick me up from Delta Gecko early the next morning. I then took a
ferry boat--about a four-hour trip--down the Tanduy River (fascination because
Javanese is spoken on one side while Sundanese is spoken on the other) where we
stopped off at various "sea villages" to pick up rice and other market items, as
well as villagers going to sell their wares. We then boarded a bus bound for
Yogyakarta (pronounced "Jogjakarta"--nickname: "Yogya"). About 8 hours after
I originally left Delta Gecko I got into Yogya and headed for Ella's Homestay, one
recommended to me by Kristina. It's in the Sosrowijiyan area, off the main street (bus
drivers and locals are familiar with its location).
Before I reached Ella's this guy came up to me and introduced himself, said he was with
Ella's, carried my bag, brought me to the door, helped me get signed in and got
me a room, then offered to take me around the next day, my only day in Yogya.
Come to find out he was a bit of a con, but I didn't figure it out until I'd already
spent more money in Yogya than I had anywhere else. Up to that point I'd spent
four nights and travelled hundreds of miles and spent less than $100! Edy was
one of many local guys who knew everybody in town, knew all the tourist spots,
spoke English and German, was charming and funny--but was basically a "tourist-hunter."
He, and others like him, will tell you they are batik art students and will offer
to take you to a gallery supposedly run by the school with which they study.
You will also be told that sale of students' work benefits homeless people and the
exhibition is, of course, for one day only. I bought, and I paid too much, but I like
what I bought and I learned from my naivete. Getting ripped off is not worth harboring
resentments against all of Indonesia. The next day I warned Edy I didn't have
much money to give him for being my "guide" but we went anyway. I paid for
gas and breakfast and saw a lot of Yogya in the most frightening, but definitely
the most authentic way: on the back of a motorcycle. People drive insanely
in Java. Even on tour buses it's like playing "chicken" on the road. The drivers
make two lanes out of one and pass wildly into oncoming traffic. When there are
two buses headed straight for each other the competition intensifies and you
can observe the driver laughing maniacally, and honking and waving as he just
misses his "opponent" swinging back into his own lane.
Unfortunately, I didn't see the Deung Plateau or the ancient Buddhist temple
Borobudur--two must-sees near Yogya--but I did visit Prambanan, an impressive and
massive stone Hindu temple built in the 9th century, as well as the
Sultan's Palace (which wasn't so exciting, but if you go first thing in the morning
you can get a pretty clear view of Mt. Merapi, an active volcano in the distance).
The guys that run Ella's were exceptionally gracious and protective of me. I
learned that my "tourist hunter" wasn't even associated with Ella's in any way,
though the warning came too late. I quickly became friends with the guys at Ella's and we spent
an unforgettable evening on the front porch, playing guitar and singing rock-n-roll
ballads and drinking Coca-cola. I was sorry to be leaving the next morning.
By 8:30 a.m. I was on a 12-hour bus bound for a hotel in Probolinggo,
a small town near Mt. Bromo (a volcanic crater). The cost of the bus/hotel
package was about 40,000 rupiah ($20) and was prepaid in Yogya. (The guys
at Ella's can arrange everything.) The trek up to Mt. Bromo begins at 3+30 a.m.
in order to catch the sunrise at 5, so I got the wake-up knock at 3 and staggered
out into the cold night. I was taken to the starting point and began the 45-minute
hike through the dark. (There are plenty of guides offering rides on horseback but
you can hold out for a ride on the way back if you want.)
The wind was whipping around and the air was cool, yet dry and dusty, and when
we reached the vast "sea of sand" you have to cross to reach the crater, it was as
if we were exploring another planet. The surrounding land formations were
silhouetted sharply against the sky and the wind blew the volcanic ash and san, and
everywhere you looked it was dark, dark, dark. Very eerie. When we got up
closer to the crater, singing and chanting could be heard from a Hindu temple at
the base of the crater, adding more to the strangeness of the event.
The sun soon started to peek over the fringes as we climbed the "Stairway to
Heaven," a long stretch of steps going straight up the side of the crater. It
was just 5 a.m. when we reached the top along with a huge pilgrimage of people,
all trying to find a spot to sit and rest. Bromo was my last stop in Java before
meeting my friend in Bali. I had only travelled in Java for six days, yet what
I had seen on my journey, and the friends I had made there, made it seem as though
I had lived a brief lifetime in a strange land.
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