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.

Poking around in Ponorogo

Reyog dancer in Ponorogo (Photo: T. Rizzo)

(Story published by Perth Edition magazine)

Amri was unusual for a Javanese.

Instead of smiling for most of his waking hours, he wore a lugubrious expression on his drooping face.

We were in the East Javanese city of Ponorogo, and although it was tempting for me to hive off with some of the more personable Indonesians about the place, it eventually proved worth my while to spend long hours chatting to Amri.

At about 5am one day we were sitting together in the foyer of the Kencana Dewi, the city’s premier hotel. Now don’t get any fancy ideas. We’re talking one star maximum here.

Amri decided to teach me a poem which uses English, Javanese and Bahasa Indonesia to produce a lilting rhyme. Translated it goes: “Good morning, good morning, your yellow shirt is attractive”.

I learned it because I knew if I could recite the poem to locals it would have the same kind of effect a foreigner’s intimate knowledge of cricket has in Australia. It would win hearts and open doors.

Pick the foreigner (the author) in Ponorogo.

Keys to a good time

There are three keys to having a good time in Java. The first it to get up early. The air is crisp, the coffee is fresh and the people perky. If it is after 9 am the locals are almost ready for their midday snooze.

The second key is to avoid the tourist traps. The third is to give the language a go.

Those keys open the padlock that guards the real treasure of Indonesia — the charm of its people.

That early morning rave with Amri was the start of a great day. Look, Ponorogo is on  nobody’s map of the wonders of the world. It’s a bit hard to get to. It is stuck between the cool mountain city of Malang and the sophisticated cultural centre that is Solo.

Ponorogo is, yes, a bit hicksville. But that is partly why it is worth visiting. Western visitors are still a curiosity but not a star attraction. You get attention but few hassles.

Amri and I strolled out of the hotel and hopped into a becak (a bicycle powered rickshaw). The driver wore a hat that looked like a flowerpot, a fashion for his trade.

We headed for the centre of town, stopped at a gap in a row of shops, paid the driver and plunged into the shadowy alley that is the market.

No tourist gimmicks there. On sale were plastic sandals and schoolbags, sleeping mats and prayer rugs, badges and books, fruit, rice and brightly coloured pyramids of spices. Everyday items for the locals transform into objects of interest for a foreigner.

Half-wit

“Why didn’t you say it to her?” Amri’s voice pierced my hypnotic focus on what is usual in Java — the unusual. “Who? What?” was my dazed reply. “That woman,” he said, with the  irritated impatience of someone who believed he was dealing with a half-wit. “She was wearing a yellow dress.”

Curses, I had missed that chance. Indonesians love word play. As I discovered on later occasions, a Westerner delivering a line about her attractive yellow clothing would have won a smile at least but more likely a few jokes and then a cheery farewell.

I obviously needed a pick-me-up and they’ve got just the thing in Java. It is Indonesia’s famous health drink, jamu.

The beauty of the local women is attributed to the herbal concoctions. There are many varieties: some to induce good muscle tone after childbirth, some to keep the skin taut  and glowing, and some used by both sexes just to give the system a boost.

I chose the last one. It was a bit hot but easy enough to swallow. I didn’t notice much change in my condition. Maybe you need to take it three times a day before meals.

Rest

Ponorogo is one of the few places on the planet that lacks a Chinese restaurant but that’s okay. The eating place along from the Kencana Dewi has the standard fare for that part of the world. We gobbled up our rice and veggies and then it was time for my midday rest.

Amri slouched off to his room. I went into mine and was grateful the air conditioning made such a racket. It drowned out all the noises of the outside world.

I woke up in time to head for the Reyog Festival procession, beginning in the late afternoon. This mind-blowing parade occurs in July and is worth timing your visit  for.

Troupes of traditional dancers, complete with their spiritual and physical strongman, the Warok, danced and played their way down streets lined with so many people it became easy to recognise that this is one of the most densely populated areas in the world.

But no need to worry. Indonesians know how to operate in big crowds. Nobody pushed and shoved, the kids were safe.

We all admired the towering tiger mask backed by arches of peacock feathers, the men in black jackets and red and white shirts, the dainty, colourfully-dressed young women.

Dancers

We followed the parade into town. Speeches preceded the performances by the dancers, who demonstrated their prowess under colourful banners.

Night markets are always a buzz but that festive evening in Ponorogo all the stops were out in the dimly-lit town square. Medicine peddlers used anatomical models with detachable body parts to sell their pills, martabak pancakes were on sale, gamblers tried their luck,  and hawkers pushed everything from rings to T-shirts.

A stallholder called me over. “Where are you from?” she asked in Indonesian, adding: “My goodness, you’ve got a long nose.” That was my opening for a tease about her great beauty. It got everybody laughing. The crowd gathered round for more joking.

There are plenty of interesting places an hour or two from Ponorogo: Lake Ngbel with its delicious mangosteens, the erotic temple of Candi Sukuh, and the burial place of President Sukarno at Blitar.

But for me the real fun, the true satisfaction was being among the ordinary people in an ordinary city in extraordinary Java.

Factbox: Get there by flying to Bali and then taking a domestic flight to Surabaya. Take a bus or tax for a night in Malang