Tag Archives: Yogyakarta

All Indonesian losmen’s have their idiosyncrasies, and Setia Kawan is no exception.  Usually the idiosyncrasy is in the toilet department and in particular dodgy flushing mechanisms.  In some places the cistern is just not connected to the water supply, whilst in others the mechanism is so fragile it may work once, if luck allows, and then give up.  So there is almost always a tap on the wall under which stands a bucket with a plastic scoop  to provide an manual means of clearing the toilet bowl.  At Setia Karwan the cistern generally works perfectly and we have little need to call on the bucket and scoop arrangement.  What is missing though, is a basin.  Where to wash our hands and clean our teeth?  Washing hands is easily dealt with – the tap on the wall and the bucket suffice.  But for cleaning teeth it’s either directly over the toilet or the bucket which then has to be emptied into the toilet.  Neither terribly ideal, but hey, this is Indonesia.

Mandis, or showers, are another interesting feature of the Indonesian bathroom although they rarely seem to feature in the hotels that westerners frequent.   Sometimes they are to be found alongside public toilets and can only be distinguished from the latter by the fact that there is no ‘squatty’ present.  In both there is a large tank of water with a plastic scooper, but in the mandi the scoop is used to pour the water over yourself. 

Andy recently came across something which looked similar to a mandi but was actually a toilet – where you just pee on the floor.  Fortunately, he’d read about it in Lonely Planet beforehand – but you do have to careful!

Today, is pretty much a ‘do nothing’ day.  A bit of time on the internet, some lunch, reading, chilling and finalising our travel plans to Pangandaran on the south coast.  After much too-ing and fro-ing between travel agents and considering all the options – two trains;  two buses;  or train and bus combos –  the tourist shuttle direct to Pangandaran seems to be a no-brainer.  Tourist shuttles cater for small groups in air conditioned mini-buses and generally travel door-to-door.  More expensive, of course, than the train or public bus, but still quite cheap by UK standards, much more comfortable, convenient and far less hassle.  We leave tomorrow at 9am. 

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It’s 5am when we set off on a seven hour tour to visit the temples at Panabaran and Borobudur in the countryside outside Yogyakarta.  We are sharing a mini-bus with a Dutch couple on honeymoon and an Australian with his Javanese partner.  Despite the early hour there is lots of chatter along the way as we swap travel stories.  We stop just after dawn to take pictures of the smoking ‘fire mountain’, Gurung Merapi looming over the paddy fields.  By the time we reach our first destination of Borobudur it already 6am;  we have two hours before breakfast to look around what is claimed to be the world’s largest Buddhist stupa/temple depending on the source.  Constructed around 750 AD, and measuring 118 meters square at the base, it comprising 55,000 cubic meters of stone it is an impressive construction by any standard.   Candi Burobudur consists of nine superimposed  terraces, six square and three round each smaller than the one below, symbolising  the nine levels of the holy Mount Meru and corresponding to the three levels of existence.   A steep central staircase rise up each of the four sides of the temple to reach the main stupa at the top.  Hundreds of buddhas, many headless,  sit cross-legged in niches around the first four galleries,  the walls and balustrades of which are decorated with beautifully carved pictorial scenes of ships, elephants, trees, musicians, dancing girls, warriors and kings.    On the three circular terraces there are 72 latticed stupas inside which sit partically visible buddhas.  A huge, plain and empty stupa crowns the edifice.  The mist pervading in the lush vegetation and obscuring the mountains beyond imbues the surroundings with an ethereal quality befitting such a spiritual place. 

A couple of schoolgirls in jilbabs approach as we are about to a make our way to breakfast.  Would we mind spending some time talking to them so that they can practise their English?  And so we strike up a conversation with these two 17-year-olds who look about 12 and speak excellent English with perfect accents.  Both intend to go to university (of course) one to study medicine and the other to become a teacher and are delighted to learn how much we are enjoying Indonesia.   We could probably have spend half-an-hour or more chatting, but we have to hurry away as by this point we are already late for breakfast.  

After breakfast we make for the temple complex at Prambanan, stopping on the way at the small temple of Mendut which filled by three enormous and impressive statues;  a 3m high figure of Buddha unusual in that rather than sitting in the normal lotus position, he sits western style with feet on the ground, flanked by Bodhisattvas Lokesvara on the left and Vairapana on the right.  We make another less welcome stop at a silver outlet which isn’t on the itinerary and is thrown into the tour so that the driver can get a kick-back.  On the plus side, though Andy gets two rings cleaned with fruit soap.  This amazing brown fruit which looks rather like a wizened nut produces a foam when rubbed with water which polishes gold and sliver to sparkling brilliance.  If only they sold it in the shop the visit would have been worthwhile!  We are delayed longer than necessary waiting for the Australian and his partner to purchase two pieces of jewellery.  It later transpires that they didn’t have enough money to pay and unbelievably they had been allowed to leave with the purchase on the promise of payment to be collected from them at their hotel later in the day!  Not only were the staff prepared to let them walk out with jewellery worth about £70, which is a considerable amount of money here, but they were prepared to send someone to Yogyakarta to collect payment!

Eventually we arrive at the temple complex at Prambanan.  There are several temples of Hindu and Buddhist provenance  spread across an area of the Prambanan plain which were constructed between 8^th and 9^th centuries AD of which the Candi Siwa is the largest and most important.   A considerable amount of restoration work has been undertaken to reconstruct the temples and still continues although many still remain in ruins. The earthquake of 2006 resulted in further damage and whilst the main edifices are still standing they have had to been closed off to visitors  So we have to be content to wander round the exterior of these magnificent conical monuments,  admiring them at a distance.   Disappointingly it means that we cannot view the statues of Siwa, Ganesha or Siwa’s wife housed inside or fully appreciate the detailed friezes that decorate the terraces. 

There whole complex contains the remains of over 250 temples in varying states of collapse and reconstruction.  In the immediate vicinity of Candi Siwa are two smaller temples, Candi Brahma and Candi Wishnu which are also fenced off and out of bounds.  Only three smaller shrines facing Candi Siwa are open to the public and in one, Candi Nandi is a stone statue of the bull Nandi, the vehicle of Siwa and of any one of a number of children who scramble onto to it to have their photos taken.   The rebuilding of this grouping of elaborate Hindu temples must have been a colossal task and result is breathtakingly beautiful.

The only other temple which has been reconstructed to anything like it’s original state is Candi Sewu about 1km from Candi Siwa. ‘The thousand Temples’ dates back to 850 AD and consists of a large, almost completely rebuilt Buddhist temple surrounded by four rings of 240 smaller temples of which all but a couple stand in complete ruin.   The original grandeur of such a huge complex must have been quite staggering.

We are back at the minibus by 1pm to meet up with the others and go on for lunch before returning to Yogya.  But only the Dutch couple have returned and due to a mix up over the arrangements have ordered lunch at one of the many warungs that surround the entrance to the temple complex.  The other couple turn up 20 minutes later and we are now so far behind schedule that the driver won’t stop for lunch on the way back.  Starving hungry we have to wait until 3.30 before we are able to tuck in at the Bedhot Resto which is just round the corner from our losmen and is one of several  restaurants in the area that are popular amongst the western tourists.  It’s owned by the same people as our losmen and sports the same zany interior decor, laid back ambience, good food and provides an English language newspaper.  All of which make it a top spot in my book.

It’s time to think of moving on;  we want to spend a few days on the coast on our way to Jakarta.  So we visit the train station to investigate the availability of train tickets to Banjar where we will then need to pick up a mini bus to the seaside town of Pangandaran.  It is a confusing and unsuccessful experience.  We are not sure of the name of the train we want and that puts us at an immediate disadvantage.  Someone helpfully explains the process and the train we should take.  The next step is to consult a computer terminal on the counter to determine how many seats are available on any given train and then complete a ticket request slip.  Easier said than done when people are milling around the monitor and the form is in Indonesian.   From what we can understand there are no seats available until Monday.  It’s a holiday period and everyone wants to travel.  There’s a numbered queuing system to purchase tickets with 35 people waiting and things don’t seem to be moving very fast.  We decide to consult a travel agent – it seems the easier option.

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We pick up a becak to take us to Taman Sari the former water castle complex of the sultans, now abandoned.  Our driver is tiny even for < ?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /?>
Indonesia and can’t be more than about 4’ 6” and slightly built.  It’s a wonder he can reach the peddles and see over the top of the rickshaw, never mind find the strength to transport the two of us, albeit downhill most of the way.  Bu eventually we arrive having taken a detour via the Kraton due to a mix-up over our destination.  The Taman Sari is behind the bird market to the west of the kraton in the maze of alleyways that criss-cross the city away from main thoroughfares.  We have to pick our way through the market taking directions along the way until we come on the ruins of the water castle which provides an excellent view of across the low-rise city.  The castle is linked by subterranean walk way to the walled swimming pool s where the sultan and his entourage bathed in what must once have been rather beautiful surroundings, but now empty and forlorn.  The whole complex of palaces, pools and waterways, including an underground mosque, was build between 1758 and 1765 as a pleasure park for the sultan and his entourage and now mostly lies in ruins.

The noisy bird market – Pasar Ngasem – is an interesting place to wander with stalls selling all kinds of birds and ornamental cages.  Here we solve the mystery of the street vendors in Banyuwangi (see earlier blog) whose cockroaches and ant-covered mixture we couldn’t fathom.  The latter, based on a closer inspection in the bird market, is a crawling maggot-and-ant mixture which along with the cockroaches is one of several rather gruesome kinds of bird feed on sale here.

We stumble on a rather charming vegetarian café in the back alleys between the bird market and the Taman Sari and stop for lunch.   We seat ourselves on what once upon a time must have served as a day bed at a large refectory-style table on a bamboo framed veranda.  From this vantage point we can watch comings and goings of local life.  We are the only customers all lunchtime despite several tourists passing on their way to and from the Tasman Sari. 

The alleyways of Yogya are the heart of this bustling, intense city.  Everyday life spills out into the narrow traffic-free ginnels which are  just wide enough for two people to walk comfortably abreast.  People wash clothes, scrubbing them on slabs that double as seats and washboards, food is cooked on small portable stoves and people stand around passing the time of day.  Round the corner from our losmen the alleyway passes a small open space, probably where a building once stood,  now home to a improvised badminton court which regularly attracts a crowd of children and adults to play, socialise  and eat at the food carts that are stationed here.

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At the heart of the old city of < ?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /?>
Yogya is the Kraton or palace of the Sultans and centre of a walled city.  According to Lonely Planet more than 25,000 people live in the maze of alleyways that make up greater kraton compound – a city within a city.  The current sultan still resides in the innermost group of buildings, but much of the one kilometer square royal palace is open to the public.  One of the finest examples of Javanese palace architecture,  it is a complex of elegant pavilions, halls and shady courtyards.  There is a small museum displaying a motley collection of faded photos, clothes and effects of the current sultan, peeling royal portraits, as well as gifts of china and glass presented by foreign governments and a rather odd inexplicable display of commonplace kitchen implements.  Elderly retainers in traditional dress with sheathed swords tucked into their sarongs wander the compound smiling and posing for photographs.  Some renovation work is in progress and one of the pavilions has recently been restored to its former glory with a striking black ceiling and red and gold detailing.

After lunch we brave the throng on Jalan Maliboro, side stepping the stalls and street vendors to reach Pasar Beringharjo, Yogya’s main market.  Its two floors are closely packed with stalls selling an enormous selection of batik cap (stamped batik) and cheap clothes;  row upon row heaving with people and hung to the ceilings with a seemingly endless collection of shirts, sarongs, bags and the like.  The choice seems too impossibly vast to contemplate.

We have tickets for the Ramayana Ballet this evening which we have purchased through the losmen.  There are two Ramayana performances offered in Yogya;  one in the centre of the city and the other 17km way at Prambanan.   We think we have purchased tickets to the former,  but it soon becomes apparent that our driver is taking us out of town and  45 minutes later we arrive at the theatre and restaurant complex at Prambanan.   It is a superb setting against the backdrop of the floodlight Prambanan Hindu temples, the largest of which towers 47m high behind the stage.  There is also a superb view of the temples from the outdoor restaurant which serves a (mediocre) buffet dinner on an immaculately tended lawn directly in front of the temple complex.

 The Ramayana Ballet is a famed Javanese traditional dance drama which tells the story of Rama (the human incarnation of Lord Shiva) and his wife, Shinta who is abducted and subsequently found and rescued by Hanuman the monkey god and Sugriwa the white monkey general.  Once a month at full moon the story is enacted over four consecutive nights and by all accounts is a spectacular performance involving a huge cast and full gamelan orchestra.  However, we have opted for the condensed, 2-hour version which is a much scaled-down and abridged affair for the more dilettante audience.  The theatre is far from full and we have the best front row tickets which come with goody bags and padded seats. 

The performance is beautiful to look at – graceful and controlled with some exquisite costumes and accomplished lead dancers.  Disappointingly, the overall effect is marred by poorly choreographed and out of sync performances by few of the minor members of the cast,  some of whom seem distinctly under-rehearsed and out of step.  There is a thrilling climax at the end of the first act when the white monkey general sets fire to the enemy village and the heat as the resulting blaze sweeps across the stage can be felt in the auditorium.  After that, the short second act is something of an let-down! 

A case of all fur coat, unfortunately and not a patch on the performances we saw in Ubud.

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We are signed up to an all-day batik course which is run in the losmen’s internet room among the computers and the motorbikes.  Our teacher, Giman, is a 49-year-old batik artist who supplements the income from his studio by introducing tourists to the rudiments of this skilful and painstaking art.  All the equipment for the course is laid out on piece of lino about 4 foot square and covered in newspaper for good measure – two oil burners warming dishes of wax, a selection of pens with nozzles of varying thicknesses for applying the wax to the fabric and an assortment of brushes.  The first step is to trace a design onto a piece of white fabric.  I’ve chosen geckos whilst Andy is making a freehand copy of the Spurs emblem.  After some rudimentary practice using the pens to apply liquid wax onto fabric without spilling it or creating unsightly blobs, which is much harder than it looks, we begin the task of out-lining our designs.  Straight-away we both spill a large scar of wax across them.  Fortunately for Andy his mistake comes out looking like ‘go faster’ stripes trailing from the word ‘Spurs’, but mine is more like an alien life-form or a mummified baby and is beyond any attempt to craftily incorporate what will be a large white splodge across the finished piece.   Once the outlining is complete the first dyeing takes place followed by blocking all the parts of the design which will be retained in the initial colour.    The process in repeated, with another layer of colour and more blocking to achieve until the required combination of colours is achieved.  Finally I apply a mix of wax and paraffin to the background, to create a cracked effect when the final colour, black, is applied.  The end result is a combination of yellow, orange, red and black and looks quite good for a first attempt, despite the ‘splodge’.  Andy’s design is only requires one colour, blue, and he has his finished well before lunch so he starts on another piece, this time the subject is a couple of fish.  But very soon a splodge appears which he creatively turns into a squid-like creature along with another couple of splodges to make it look intentional.  All the dyeing is done by Giman probably because there are no gloves available to protect our hands and he doesn’t seem to mind having to dip his hands in chlorine at the end of the day.   He applies colour washes to Andy’s design rather than block colour and the end result is a mélange of blues, pinks and greens.  And the white splodges seem almost part of the intended design.

All-in-all a fun, if rather tiring, day and we came away with two pieces of ‘art’ which might just bear framing when we get home!  It also gave us an appreciation of the remarkable skill of the women in the batik factories who chat away while they create intricate patterns with seemingly effortless ease.

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The door-to-door cost of travelling from Solo to < ?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /?>
Yogyakarta x kilometers away amounts to a grand total of 28,000 rupiah (£1.70) for the two of us!  Improbable as it might seem, that included a taxi cab to the station in Solo and two’ bisnis’ class train tickets.  There are no footbridges over the tracks in the station, simply a dip in the platforms to allow passengers to walk across the tracks.  Trains are boarded from low platforms either side of the line and, if the carriage only has a foothold rather than a step, getting on an off can be an ungainly and awkward affair.  The train station is not overly busy but there are no seats available by the time we have hauled our luggage on to the train, so rather than stand for what is scheduled as a 45-minute journey we park ourselves on our luggage in the wide central aisle.  The journey is delayed for about half-an-hour at the next station and finally arrives at Yogjakarta (pronounced Jogjakarta) three-quarters of an hour late.  The losmen, Setia Kaweng,  which we booked this morning before leaving Solo is only about 50 meters from the station and an easy walk even with our bulky luggage.  It turns out to be a good choice.  This old-style building is bursting with character.  Situated down a small alleyway well away from the noise of the main road, the rooms are small but clean and well maintained.  Arcane  murals and surrealist paintings by a local artist known as ‘Bedhot’ adorn the rooms and communal areas.  A perfectly restored Lambretta stands on the beautiful tiled floor in the corridor outside our room and there is another in the internet room alongside a couple of veteran motorbikes that wouldn’t look out of place in ‘The Great Escape’.

This is the heart of the tourist quarter around Sosrowijayan, an area of delightful gangs (alleys), cheap backpacker hotels and attractive and well patronized eating places. 

We are only a short stroll from Jalan Marliboro the main shopping street, its pavements crammed with stalls selling cheap clothing, handbags, shoes, jewelry and souvenirs as well as warungs offering street food.  We shuffle the length of the crowded street, across the alun alun as far as the Sultan’s Palace, which is closed, and back.  People are eager to stop and engage us in friendly and inquisitive conversation which always leads to an attempt to persuade us to visit a batik arts centre where they get commission and we would get ripped off.  They even follow us along the street to make sure we find our way.  After a while we get wise to these solicitous approaches and find that the touts soon lose interest when we mention that we’ve already been to the batik centre. 

The streets are full of becaks, the bicycle rickshaws that throng Java’s towns and, even at tourist rates, are incredibly good value at around 10,000-15,000 rupiah (60-90p) for a typical journey, negotiable of course.   The rate being determined by a combination of factors;  distance, number of people and whether the journey is up or downhill.  There seems to be an over-supply in the city centre, and many empty becaks, their sleeping drivers reclining awkwardly on their small seats, are to be seen lined up along the streets and around tourist sites.  Horse-drawn andong are also a common sight clip-clopping around Yogya although in nothing like the numbers of becak.

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