Friendship's Worth A Thousand Pictures


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Asia » Indonesia » Java » Borobudur
June 22nd 2009
Published: September 7th 2009
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Have you ever ridden a motorbike in a foreign land, densely populated, completely and utterly unlike your native country? Have you ever taken yourself to where the obscure organized tours only sometimes lead and beyond? Have you ever narrowly escaped death only to be stopped by the police without a valid license, asked to pay a small fine and sent on your way? Have you done all this on the last day of your vacation? gulp, gulp, gulp.

It started with a trip to Jogja. A series of quick shots capture the scenery rolling past the train window: a sway of sugarcane, a small town station, the excitement of Prabamanan, a stack of temples zipping past, and the varied position of passengers, growing restless. I'm seated next to my friend Irwan. By friend, i mean lover and by lover I mean same sex partner. It's midday afternoon when we arrive at Tugu station and locate across the street a sign Sewa Motor out front a wee family owned business offering reasonable rates and strong bikes. Irwan will drive but the young man who writes up my contract, answers my question that it's no problem I don't have a license. Though
when in Prambanan...when in Prambanan...when in Prambanan...

Irwan & I, early morning
his estimate is, in hindsight, 50/50. Following Mataram Canal east out of the city, a pleasent escape from some of the nation's densent development, we lose our way in the maze of villages and busy expressways and find back our way and almost lose our way anew in search of a losmen in the environs of Prambanan. And find back our way when a right turn leads past a field of dry rice stalks revealing beyond the crumbling towers of Candi Sewu, to a small grungy hotel, a kind old proprietress, and a cleaner little hotel nextdoor. A late lunch/ early dinner down the road in a non-descript tidy little warung where a green canopy hangs above a white wood table displaying bowls of delicious foods. We sit munching on chicken curry. A woman from the neighbourhood herds goats through an opening in the fence where following our meal my friend, an accomplice, and I cut the ticket booth and follow a tree-lined path to a temple's profile cast by a setting sun. Candi Sewu is a low series of geometretic rubble dating to an eighth century Buddhist past. I've been to Bagan and to Angkor Wat. My attention quickly
kereta kelinci, Jogjakereta kelinci, Jogjakereta kelinci, Jogja

yet another 'rabbit train'
wanders.

A simple little back road leads to Plaosan, impressive for its 1200 years, or for its collection of surviving architectural details and statuary, but even moreso impressive for what it lacks, a fancy entrance ticket, a gift shop, a museum or the droves who descend on Borobodur and to a lesser extent to the nearby Arjuna Complex. The older fellow seated next to the satpam - a feature common to all Majapahit and Mataram temples across Java - shares a few words in broken English, determines my interest in the temple architecture and offers me a small over-priced pamphlet that describes the site in a similar broken English. The evening sun lingers a finger width above the horizon, its rays paint a soft glow entering through the open doorways and windows, illuminating a pair of statues inside the three altar rooms. Plaosan Lor, the northern set of temples, is said to combine Hindu and Buddhist elements, Boddhisatvas alongside Guardian statues, and a curious congress of Buddhas, monks and Boddhistavas encircle a raised stage to the north of the temples. An inscription stone states that Plaosan Lor Temple was built by Queen Sri Kahulunan daughter of the King of the Buddhist Syailendra dynasty, with the support from her husband, who it's believed was Rakai Pikatan of Sanjaya Dynasty, who was a Hindu. Oh, to travel back in time...

Or to jump ahead to next morning. Irwan understands my eagerness and wakes with me at the crack of dawn. We are the first to enter the temple grounds, even the satpams have not yet arrived. I have read about the reliefs carved on the complex at Prambanan, the Ramayana, statues of Shiva, of Ganesh, the Krishnayana, reliefs of the Vishnu temple depicting scenes of the life of Krishna, the theory that much of the temple art and architecture is meant to reflect the Hindu cosmos. I've read too of the millenium old statues tucked inside their chambers, a 4 handed Krishna standing on a yoni pedestal, an 8 armed Durga, and Indra, Brahma, and Nandi. However, I failed to read about a tall metal fence blocking entry. A bright orange steel scaffolding remains harnessed to most of the temples still under repair three years after a magnitude 6.2 earthquake rocked the region late May 2006 killing over 6000. Access is permitted only to the Wahana or Vehicle temples, void
Vihara PlaosanVihara PlaosanVihara Plaosan

IX century Buddhist/ Hindu temple, Prambanan
of narrative relief, and only one still houses a statue, that of Nandi the bull, Shiva's 'vehicle'. Strange though, the ticket price does not reflect the lack of access.

With our own motorbike and the directions of kind strangers, my friend and I make a pleasent morning of temple hopping, taking in Candi Sojiwan, worst hit by the three year old earthquake. It stands on the edge of a quiet kampung hidden by thick wood beam scaffolding. Along its base mid 9th century reliefs depict scenes from the Jataka, or animal stories of the Buddha, including one stone's surface depicting a strange garuda like bird. Lost in the hills behind the kampung, we stumble across a back entrance to Ratubaku, the old hilltop palace, once again foiling the ticket booths. A make-shift warung offers a pleasent place in the shade to enjoy some breakfast noodles a stone's throw from the old crematorium, the baths, gates and more temples and gardens than a commoner knows what to do with. We lose our way winding among the hills before reaching the heavily trafficked thoroughfare that cuts a swath through the Prambanan Valley narrowly avoiding the splendid temple of Kalasan and nearby
VisnuVisnuVisnu

detail of Plaosan
Sari. Built in the eighth century, Kalasan is dedicated to Dewi Tara, the mother of all Buddhas. Sari is believed to be the temple's respective monastary. Its facade is impressive, covered in life size human figures.

Traffic is ugly in and around Yogya but by mid afternoon we arrive at Manohara Hotel. A staff member dressed traditionally in a fine sarong and white dress shirt leads us to our room where a refershing shower and strong air-con inspires a deep nap. From our room, a garden stretches towards the base of the temple. I lead Irwan up the east steps and along the lower register of reliefs depicting the Jataka tales, countless scenes, hundreds of figures, telling of the Buddha's previous incarnations as virtuous animals. The sun is quickly descending. A public announcement in an old man's angry tone prompts the crowds to fliter out through the cardinal staircases, though stragglers, the handful of foreigners, enjoy one last look. I ignore the guards and photograph the friezes cast with the end of day's golden light. It is a beautiful moment. Having studied art for so many years, having wandered both the Louvre and the British Museum on several occassions and having explored the major Hindu and Buddhist temples of South East Asia, Angkor Wat, MySon and Bagan, I feel an accomplishment to have arrived at Borobodur. Stubbornly I follow the guard's instructions.

For an extra charge of 35$ it is possible to enter the temple grounds a couple hours before the gates officially open at 6 am. The latter seems sufficiently early however. Contrary to the originally intended pilgrimage circumambulating clockwise, starting at the south gate, repeating each terrace, first following the stories depicted on the outer wall, then the inner wall before ascending to the next level, eventually passing through the three levels of Buddhist cosmology, the world of desire, of forms and of formlessness where upon the highest terrace leads to a giant stupa where the Buddha has reached nirvana, the endless crowds of highschool students, of families posing for photo opps, etc, etc, inspires most tourists to pick and choose their way through the 2500 square metres of sculpted relief narrated over some 1460 panels on the walls and balustrades. For a few hours my enthusiam guides my friend and I through the less crowded passages, each of us examining the rough stones for disappearing
tree of lifetree of lifetree of life

detail of Vishnu shrine, Prambanan a kalpatura tree flanked by pair of monkeys
details, attempting to piece together their story

Midday, Irwan and I return to Jogja to discover a pleasant little guesthouse in the quiet back alleys of Sosrowijayan, and soon after to learn that nearly all of Jogja is closed on Sunday afternoons. Malioboro, its unending Batik shops fronted by narrow sidewalks taken over with trinket stands, motorbike parking lots, panhandlers, warungs, becaks and clippity-clop dogans is a slow stumble of urban Javanese kitsch. Pasar Kembang offers a curious diversion through its narrow walkways crammed full of all imaginable wares. For 7000Rp I purchase for my niece a little toy rat made of painted leather. Fronting the market, in the welcome shade of leafy trees, boisterous shoppers and sight seers sit at make shift tables munching delicious home-cooked edibles. A pistachio ice cream cone later Malioboro cuts through a block of stately Dutch colonial relics before reaching the Palace, or Kraton, where lies the Alun-alun. Once an important square where officials had to dismount carriages and horses before entering and where commoners had to wait beneath the banyan trees - still standing today, the trees that is - to address a Palace official in hopes of meeting with the Regent,
sacred bull Nandisacred bull Nandisacred bull Nandi

celestial mount of Shiva, Prambanan
the square’s purpose and appearance has since become a tourist coach car park where the wind blows dirt in tourist faces and carries grime across dishes served in surrounding warungs. Following a confused geriatric detour into the front precincts of the sultan’s grounds, our walk takes in the ever requisite hurdle of knickknack hawkers and false claims of nearby batik museums and other misinformation keen to part tourists with their dollars. A block further inside the walled city the crowds dissipate and in the yellow glow of afternoon emerge quaint avenues of a bygone day. Irwan and I climb atop the south wall to overlook flourishing gardens and to find our way further south to Jalan Prawirotaman, an area of guesthouses and western delicacies, where at a price we satiate our craving for Belgian beer, and French pastries.

It has been a whirlwind weekend temple tour which has taken its toll on my friend. He has caught a bug of sorts, he claims, from driving the smoggy highways. He naps most of the evening while I sit reading in the guesthouse’s little balcony, listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood, the call to prayer, the chatter of housewives. The caged birds arrest their chirrup and are brought indoors. Irwan will catch the red eye from Tugu Station to arrive in Surabaya shortly before his workday begins. Our farewell is unceremonious.

A week later Irwan and I are reunited. All my affairs have been packed inside a giant suitcase and two stuffed rucksacks. Early next morning Eddy, Dheena and Irwan will drive me to the airport. I will spend too long arguing over baggage allowance as published in the carrier’s online info - and I’ll win my argument. I’ll be left with a half minute to hold my friends tight and to realize only at the last minute that we’re parting. My breath and body will shake with this sudden misfortune. And salty tears will glare my way through customs where a young official looks twice at my pitiful expression. I will fail to recover one hundred photos of Borobodur, of Prambanan and of Irwan & I, taken with great pride and accomplishment - and know that I must return.




Additional photos below
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Apit - north gateApit - north gate
Apit - north gate

Merapi smoking in background
Vishnu templeVishnu temple
Vishnu temple

still recovering from an earthquake in late May 2006


9th September 2009

Reincarnation
I think I'd like to reincarnate as YOU in my next lifetime.... or a fly in your suitcase. ; )
12th May 2010

Hi, my name is yaya. I am study about heritage sites for Borobudur and Prambanan right now. I was wondering before you went to Indonesia Borobudr and Pambanan, where your information comes from was. And where were your information in your blog came from? Were you used the wikitravel or other web site to search your information about Borobudur and Prambanan? And what were you looking for or experience in those two heritage? What's the most attract you in Borobudur and Prambanan? I really need your information! Thank you for your apply!!! Yaya
13th May 2010

helping Yaya
one of the best sites I came across: www.borobudur.tv
2nd January 2016

wow
"A week later Irwan and I are reunited. All my affairs have been packed inside a giant suitcase and two stuffed rucksacks. Early next morning Eddy, Dheena and Irwan will drive me to the airport. I will spend too long arguing over baggage allowance as published in the carrier’s online info - and I’ll win my argument. I’ll be left with a half minute to hold my friends tight and to realize only at the last minute that we’re parting. My breath and body will shake with this sudden misfortune. And salty tears will glare my way through customs where a young official looks twice at my pitiful expression. I will fail to recover one hundred photos of Borobodur, of Prambanan and of Irwan & I, taken with great pride and accomplishment - and know that I must return. " poignant piece of writing- thanks Gill

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