Key to the stairway to heaven

Stairway to the royal graves of Imogiri. (Photo: Michael Day)

(Story published by The West Australian)

Starting the long climb to the royal graves, I carried with me the hope that my visit would give me a lesson in the mystic secrets of traditional Javanese culture.

It was mid-afternoon at Imogiri (“misty hill”), 17km south of Yogyakarta, the ancient cultural capital of Indonesia’s (and the world’s) most populous island.

Way up ahead on the stone staircase, a lone woman was silhouetted against the sky, framed by the towering trees which lined the route.

I copied her climbing technique and so zigzagged the 454 steps to the summit, where a woman with a beautiful oval face appeared before me.

“Do you want some water, father? “she asked, using the polite Indonesian term for an adult man.

“No thank you, mother, I have some with me.”

“You can have this map of the graves, father, for only 1000 rupiah,” she said.

I bought the map and, after consulting it, turned right, heading for the grave of Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX, a hero of the war waged for independence in the late 1940s.

At the narrow doorway in the high wall surrounding the grave sat an elderly man, two women and two girls.

The grave was officially closed, but it was worth a try: “Good afternoon, many I enter?”

‘Are you able to pay 10,000 rupiah, father?” one of the women asked.

It was a pittance to me. I nodded and then accompanied the man to a pavilion where he dressed me in a sarong, a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt and a Javanese-style cap.

We climbed yet more stairs, lined by graves of members of the Yogyakarta royal family. Near the entrance to the sultan’s tomb were two Javanese men, one with unusual, lustrous, purple-black skin.

He asked me if I wanted the special power which came from visiting the graves. I said I did.

Pray

One of the men accompanied me inside and told me how to sit and pray.

The flower-bedecked grave was a narrow slit in a stone floor. A big golden umbrella was raised over it, and white cloth was suspended on both sides and at the back.

I closed my eyes. Was it only my imagination or did I receive a soft image of coloured stripes? Or was that just the impression on my retina of the jacket worn by my guide? And that exhilaration. Was that just my heart beating after all that climbing?

Eventually I left the graveside. I made a donation. (“It will come back to you manifold,” I was told.) I took off my borrowed Javanese clothes and opened my wallet to sort out the payment. I did not know it then but that very act would bring me back for a memorable experience.

At the nearby graves of the sultans of the Mataram Kingdom of the 17^th and 18^th centuries, a group of schoolchildren and teachers listened to a guide describe the graves, recite royal genealogy and tell a joke or two. He invited them to drink the sacred water from four big urns.

Relaxed and inspired, I enjoyed the drive home through the intense green of the rice paddies and under the pastel pink of the sky at dusk.

Lost

It was back at my hotel that I discovered I had lost the only key to the security box containing my passport. The penalty was $150, the price of replacing the box if it had to be forced open.

I guessed the key must have dropped from my wallet so I returned to Imogiri.

In the darkness, my taxi driver, Paino, led the way towards the stairs.

We greeted groups of locals sitting along the way. They were enjoying a chat or a game of cards, their smiling faces golden under the soft lights. We explained our mission and received the traditional blessing in the Javanese language: “Please, please”.

We continued climbing. Suddenly Paino froze mid zigzag.

“Look, sir, the snake!” He pointed to a small coil on a step. “It’s a weling. If it bites you, you will die. There is no medicine.”

I shuddered, partly from fear, partly from some perverse excitement.

Paino grasped me by the elbow to guide me forward. We advanced slowly, fear and exhaustion taking their toll. Paino shone his torch on each darkened stop until we reached the top.

Again there were soft tones of inquiry by friendly, smiling men near the entrance to the Mataram graves. They ushered us in.

A group of elderly men and a woman were performing the last Muslim prayers of the day. In the dimly-lit, open-sided pavilion, their prostrations in the direction of Mecca were an unworldly sight. At one end of the pavilion a grandfather clock chimed.

Stars

Then the same old man, who a few hours ago had dressed me in Javanese clothes led Paino, two other men and me along the stone path to the robing pavilion below the sultan’s grave. The stars were brilliant in the tropical darkness.

We entered. Paino shone his torch. The old man switched on a weak bulb. I looked down, spotting the key. I grabbed it as if were a priceless jewel.

The old man grinned broadly, and everyone else laughed in happiness.

It was a magic moment, a key to happiness for that special time in that powerful place.