Java: a long weekend among the gods

Brian and I took a long weekend to travel to Central and East Java to visit local friends' we made in Jakarta in their village as well as a beautiful beach we heard about. The trip also allowed us to explore some more far-flung temples that few people visited. This is a piece I wrote directly after returning that fills in many gaps in the earlier blog posts.

1996

Yogyakarta

Whump!

What a hard landing, the final insult from Merpati Airlines after a two-hour wait in the poorly air conditioned terminal in Jakarta. I departed the airport and fielded the usual questions from the taxi driver (yes, I had been to Borobudur; no, I didn't need a driver for tomorrow) on the way to Sartika Homestay, my preferred hotel in Yogyakarta.

Malioboro Street. Horse-drawn carriage (Andong). August 2014

At the hotel I was greeted by Ernawan, the front desk clerk.

Ernawan: Mr. Matt, you're back!

Matt: Hi Ernawan. It's nice to see you again

E: Do you want to see the new rooms on top? You haven't been here in such a long time; they are finished now. Oh your moustache is so handsome.

M: Thank you. Yeah, let's see the new rooms

(I am led up the stairs in the embrace of Ernawan, literally)

E: I missed you so much (both arms still around me)

M: I missed you, too, Ernawan.

How can I hate a country like this? But I often do.

After check in and to Ernawan's disappointment, I have to leave immediately to meet Agung, a travel agent who is arranging the car. He has already come to the hotel once looking for me.

Agung and I make some idle chit-chat. Yes, the car is ready for tomorrow. He complains business has been slow. He's heard all about Brian and my adventures in Lombok from Ketut, who is now back in Yogya (the local name for the city - the cultural capital of the Javanese). We set off to locate him, but he was not at home so we left a message. Back at Agung's shop, he tells me about his plans.

Agung: I really want to expand the business, but I'm not sure what to do. The market here is saturated - we don't need more tours. I want something different. What about rafting?

Matt: If there's a reasonable river nearby (not too difficult, not too easy), that's a good possibility. The guy who's doing it in Bali charges $70 per head and I have already counted twenty rafts with six people each on the river in one hour alone. If it works, you could make a killing.

A: Yeah, I heard the same thing. Are the rafts expensive?

M: I have no idea, but I don't think so. Anyway, you could start out small and work your way larger. I don't think it would require too much of an initial investment.

A: Do you think there is a river nearby that would be good?

M: You live here. Get a map.

After studying the map, (I swear map-reading is beyond most people), I noted that the Serayu River originating in the Dieng Plateau looked to be a likely candidate simply because of its size and mountain course.

As we discuss those possibilities, Ketut shows up. We joke around a lot, but in between the jokes I see he is in pain. He quit his job of several years in Yogya on bad terms with his boss and sought his fortune in the new tourist destination of Lombok. He quit after only three months there because he hated it. He returned to Yogya looking for a job in a market that is permanently saturated with qualified people (with inside connections). I recommended he try Jakarta as well. I was not very hopeful - he doesn't hold an S1 (BA degree), and even if his experience is great (and he is extremely handsome), a person needs that degree to get an even mediocre job.

Matt: you guys want a beer?

Ketut & Agung: yeah!

Matt: I'll go buy some.

Incredible! Two nice people willing to share a cold beer with me in public place. Jakarta is just too influenced by religious conservatives. My friends in Jakarta usually try to conceal the fact that they drink. But both Ketut and Agung are Muslim, and it doesn't seem to bother them a bit. Sometimes I hate Jakarta.

After more conversation, I bid my friends a good evening and go off to sleep. Agung assures me that Totok, our driver from last time, will be there to pick me up at 7:30am. Ernawan has gone home - I go straight to bed.

The morning brought conversation with Pak Afiando, the proprietor, a very progressive Javanese who was permanently 22 years old in spirit. He had just been biking around the area with a group of Belgians and gone caving as well. He took me to the new rooms on top of the hotel by the light of day to see the view of Mt. Merapi. In the distance was its hazy outline issuing a huge plume of ash. Merapi could flatten Yogya in a major eruption.

Agung arrived and announced the car is ready. Totok was appropriately thrilled to see me (after all, he would be paid based on both driving skill and service). Ernawan, since returned, expressed devastation at my short stay. Again, why did I so often hate my adopted country?

Off to Solo, second in importance only to Yogyakarta for the Javanese.

Totok loves to talk, even though I can only understand about a third of what he says. I think he knows that, but he just keeps talking all the same. He is a pleasant young man and his prattling is more soothing than annoying. We arrive at Solo Airport in under two hours to find Brian's plane is on time. At least we will start the trip as planned.

In search of our friends' kampung

Getting out of Solo was stiflingly hot in our non-AC car. What was I thinking when I told Agung that AC wouldn't be necessary since "we'll be in the mountains most of the time"? Finally, we were on the road south of Solo heading straight toward a small range of mountains that loom over a sea of green rice paddies. The road runs dead straight to the foot of the mountains and then starts snaking upward just as we entered the town of Wonogiri.

This was a town I had to see. Probably more than half of the servants in Jakarta claim it as their hometown even if they live miles away. In fact, after Solo, it is the regional capital for a large number of people living in the mountains and hills between Solo and the south coast of Java. Given that mostly poor folk originated from the place, I expected a grungy little town. I was surprised to find a pleasantly clean place laid out on a series of hills in an orderly grid with impressive views, many trees, and clean streets. Why would someone abandon Wonogiri for the cesspool of Jakarta?

The city quickly came and went and we started the long, winding road up the flank of Mt. Lawu toward our ultimate destination, Purwantoro. The road climbed slowly through a series of gentle turns. As we gained elevation, the scenery grew dramatic. Huge waves of rice fields cascaded down the mountain as if they had burst forth from a dam. The scene looked like Bali, in some ways even better, as there wasn't a tourist in sight.

The kilometer markers clicked ever lower... finally we arrived in Purwantoro, the last town in Central Java. We stopped to buy a drink of water and Totok got out of the car to ask directions to the small village of Bakalan, our goal. He came back quickly and told us he could locate it - no problem. Just as we made the turn onto the road out of Purwantoro, I saw Yatmin, one of our friends, running toward the van. Apparently, they had been waiting for us to come by.

Another adventure had just begun.

Why come to Purwantoro (and Bakalan)? Since Brian and I moved to Jakarta we often shopped at a small store on the street leading to our homes. A group of young guys worked there - all from the same village. Over time, we came to know them and they became friendly with us. When they heard we might be going to Solo, they insisted we visit their "kampung" (village) in the mountains. Given that it was a rare opportunity for Brian and I to experience a "real Javanese" village, I made plans with them for a visit. Almost all of the guys from the shop went back home in order to meet us (I am sure their boss was not happy). So, finally we were being greeted by our Jakarta friends in their native village - they were pleased beyond belief we actually showed up.

They invited us for a quick lunch in town of fried chicken, fried river eel, and rice. I was an instant fan of the eel (lele), but Brian was dubious of the meal throughout. Apparently they were worried we wouldn't like the food in their village (Brian was less worried about taste than health). I sat beside Yatmin who periodically just burst out laughing. He could not believe I was actually sitting next to him in his hometown.

We set off for their village of Bakalan, a long, bumpy 7 km ride. Even if it was only a short distance, most of the way was cobblestone and worn - it felt longer. The asphalt lasted just a short distance out of Purwantoro - after that rough stones and later, gravel. The trip took about 30 minutes. At times the road dropped down steeply or climbed uphill ridiculously - only possible in a land of no snow. Yatmin and our other friends waved at those on foot. We made many turns at unmarked junctions - I wondered if Totok really could have found it on his own?

As we left the modern world behind - electricity, vehicles, pollution, noise - we entered the realm that had always been Java: rice farmers eking out an existence on the side of a fertile volcanic peak. We passed over clear mountain streams and waterfalls. Rice terraces seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the landscape. Everyone watched us pass from the roadside. Only a few public mini-vans (buses) travelled those roads - a private car was a big event. One final steep drop and ascent - we arrived in Bakalan.

The thing that struck me initially was the low density of the buildings. The houses weren't crammed together like the villages on the plains. Instead, they were sprawled out over the hills punctuated by forests and fields. It felt surprisingly suburban as houses were surrounded by yards and gardens. Bakalan was comprised of the village head's house, a mosque, and an elementary school (government built) plus a LOT of "rumah tinggal" - houses people lived in.

We arrived to Ibu Darti's place as she was the senior member of the group. In fact, it was her connection in Jakarta that gave all those young men their job. We entered a stone house with a tile roof - the interior was completely empty. It gave the feeling of being in a large barn. Apparently, she was in the process of renovating it (with her Jakarta income). A table with four chairs was placed in the middle of the large expanse, apparently for Brian and me. It all felt weird, but then again - it was the only place to sit down. We relaxed there while the word went out that we had arrived in the village. People started to gather on the street outside to have a look at us. Some of our other friends from the Jakarta shop showed up. We made idle conversation and I asked questions about life in the village. We drank tea, coffee, and coke and were given some fresh apples (grown locally because of the altitude).

The conversation ran dry, we wondered what was next. By this time, Pak Marmo, one of the older guys from the shop arrived. Although claiming to be dreadfully embarrassed to show us his home, I could tell he was pleased when we indicated we would stop by (anything to get us out of the strange empty house with one table, four chairs, and many people). Luckily, the house was literally across the street. Only after profuse apologies on his part and insistence from Brian and me did we leave to visit his home.

Pak Marmo: Why do you want to see such a dirty old house?

Matt: But it is where you live, right?

PM: Yes. It is so terrible.

M: We are not going to live in your house; we are not going to buy your house; we only want to see it.

PM: OK, but you will hate it.

His house was a traditional one of wood and bamboo with a tile roof. The kitchen was a partitioned corner in the back where his wife cooked over an open fire. The floor was packed earth and they slept on woven mats right on the floor. The house was dark, yet not oppressive. It felt light and airy, too (unlike Ibu Darti's house we had just exited). Pak Marmo's place had an ancient feel to it. But it didn't feel much like a home - was it the absence of comfort conveniences that I associated with the word "home"? Or was it that the house was basically used for its original purpose, protection from the elements? Pak Marmo's family spent most of their time outside in their sunny front garden or under the long sloping porch. Perhaps their front yards were their "living rooms" where they worked in the cool mountain air (so refreshing after Jakarta). Given such a lovely environment, who would object?

Although Pak Marmo insisted we have tea at his house, we declined. Not because the abode was humble, but because there were other friends' homes to visit and we were already running short on time. Our friends piled into our now crowded car and we drove up to some other people's houses about a kilometer away. The road dropped down into a small valley and rose steeply on the opposite side. After our car struggled up the hill, we stopped at the village spring ("mata air" - literally, eye of water) where cool water naturally gushed forth. There people were drawing water to carry to their homes for washing, cooking, and bathing. Some of the water was crudely "piped" to nearby homes with PVC along the roadside. The spring was located at the base of a huge banyan tree and held back by a large retaining wall - one side was for general use, but the other was strictly for drawing water only (to maintain cleanliness). Even though I was dubious of the water, it looked lightyears better than anything drawn out of the ground in Jakarta. I thought life in Bakalan simply had to be healthier.

We returned via Parno, another friend's, place. His house consisted of an old "rumah adat" (traditional house like Pak Marmo) to which a very Western addition was being added. We had a look at both the old and new parts. I asked if he planned to tear down the old part and he said they would use it for storage and for the kitchen (which was quite smoky). In contrast, a few paces down he road was Lono's house who was in the process of a big renovation, too. He preferred to keep the traditional Javanese style although with brick walls, more windows, and a better roof. Interestingly, after talking to them in Jakarta I would have guessed their choices would have been the opposite as Lono seemed more interested in Western things and Parno was more conservative. In any case, we didn't tarry at either place, but all were invited (with their families) to the last stop, Yatmin's house.

I think Yatmin's house was chosen as the place to "entertain" simply because his was the only house that was not under construction or renovation. His was a remodeled Javanese-style house (like Lono's). We all sat around a table and drank tea and coffee while snacking on fruit and crackers. By this time, I had drunk so much tea and eaten so many snacks, I thought I would burst. We all sat around and talked - only the men. The women sat on mats on the floor nearby and only moved when some of the food ran low - very traditional.

I wondered what Totok, our driver, thought of it all. After all, he was a city born Javanese from Yogya no less, the cultural capital. I am certain he had dozens of relatives who lived in similar villages, but I couldn't help but think his attitude was a little aloof. He lived in a real city with running water, inside toilets, a tile floor, electricity, and TV (at least). He was not a "petani" (subsistence farmer) who toiled in the rice fields like the people of our friends' village.

Matt: Totok, when you were a kid, did the houses in Yogya look like this?

Totok: What do you mean?

M: You know, traditional homes like this, but with no running water, no electricity, dirty floors...

T: Ever since I was a child we've had all those things, Mr. Matt. This is a country house.

The rural/urban gulf in Java seemed huge.

We bought beer for everyone and they insisted we open it on the spot, but it was early afternoon and the beer was warm. We told them to drink it later - it was a gift. To this Pak Marmo replied that there was not enough for each person to take a bottle. I told him that they'd all have to gather once more and share. I was not surprised as Pak Marmo was extremely focused on money and material things. Conversations with him in Jakarta were rarely on any other topic. Of course only he would be the one to complain about a gift.

Perhaps that was the counterpoint to all the beauty and friendliness - poverty. I had never met people who so constantly asked for things as the Javanese common folk. It seemed they constantly had their hands out. If someone is seen as wealthy in Indonesia, people thought nothing of asking them for things directly. Although I eventually got used to it (tolerated is a better word), I always found it frustrating that practically every interaction involved someone asking for something. Being Western, I wondered if the overtures of friendship were sincere or just fronts to "get something". I hated to be so cynical, but the issue was very real.

Pak Marmo wanted more beer: how selfish from my point of view - how normal from his.

Then our friends asked us if we wanted to see the village mosque. They claimed it was quite old and interesting (and it was right next to Yatmin's house). Given my thoughts on religious conservatism and life in Jakarta, seeing a mosque was not high on my agenda, but if we were to get the "true experience" of a Javanese village, we needed to have a look. As it turns out, it was a highly rewarding experience.

We entered a small building that looked little different from most of the traditional homes around it. The style was basically the same. We peered inside... it had a tile floor!

Matt: Why is it mosque has a tile floor and you guys don't?

Guys: No one has a tile floor here yet (lit. we can't have one yet)

M: Tiles aren't that expensive. Wouldn't it be better than a dirt floor?

Guys: Yes, it would. No one has tile floors yet.

M: Of course...

No one was brave enough to make a tile floor as good as the mosque or the village head perhaps? "Showing off" in Javanese culture is an extreme faux pas.

As I peered into the gloom, the mosque looked dead. I asked if people still prayed there and they said, "yes", but it looked amazingly unused - like some open crypt, thick with dust. Most of the time in Indonesia a mosque is a place where many people gather at all times of day. That old mosque was completely devoid of life.

Matt: Lono, what is that wooden thing over there? (points to a small set of stairs)

Lono: What are you talking about?

M: It has a few steps. I think it's a "minbar". And is that area the "mirhab"? (the niche that points toward Mecca).

L: I don't understand.

M: I think you haven't been to mosque in a while, Lono

(they all laugh, but none of them know what I am talking about either. I was sure I used the words correctly)

As we exited, I noticed another entry to the side of the main entrance facing toward the mountain. We put our heads into a very small room, completely divided off from the mosque - like a small open closet. A pile of ash from incense with some dried flowers was at the center.

Matt: What is it?

Yatmin: People offer prayers here.

M: Prayers? what do you mean?

Y: They perform traditional prayers here.

M: You mean in the old religion?

Y: Yeah.

My heart skipped a beat. There on the slopes of Mt Lawu amongst the rice terraces and forests, the people of Bakalan lived as they had for millennia. Even Islam could not triumph over their traditional beliefs, just as Hinduism had failed before. The animistic soul of the Javanese lived on in that small, well-used niche in the side of their lifeless mosque. "Allahu Akbar", I thought. God is great, but perhaps it was not Allah who watched over the village after all. It was one of the most amazing moments of the trip.

The visit was coming to an end. We were ready to move on. Little did we know that the experience at the mosque presaged upcoming events that weekend.

We bid everyone a fond farewell. We took lots of photos of them with their families for posterity. Ibu Darti accompanied us back to Purwantoro to make sure Totok didn't get lost. Soon we were on the main road entering East Java and descending into Ponorogo on the plains below. We left behind a village that had been there for centuries and would likely be there for years to come. From that humble place came our friends at the shop up the street from our house. Our purchases there indirectly helped with the cash flow that enabled their village to enter the 20th century (just as we prepared to leave it).

As we left Purwantoro, we passed a procession of children, some wearing masks, some with fiercely painted faces, all surrounding a man in a grotesque headdress so large it was supported by several others. It was the famous "Reog Ponorogo", a traditional procession from Ponorogo (famous across Indonesia). An old, animistic rite with some strong Hindu overtones was being performed in the mountains of Java. The gods were sending Brian and I a message of which we were still oblivious.

As we came down off the mountain through yet more green terraces, they radiated the late afternoon sun. Behind them, the low, ragged peaks of "Gunung Seribu" (the thousand peaks) glowed as a backdrop. We twisted down the flank of Mt Lawu and entered Ponorogo. There was still just enough light to make it to our destination, Pacitan, on the south coast before nightfall. We turned south into the glowing hills hoping to make it before the total darkness of rural Java consumed us.

The Realm of the Sea Goddess

Winding up into the hills, we alternately passed in and out of shadow. The landscape was still rice-terraced and lush as we climbed into the mountains. Finally, we reached a pass and met the headwaters of a river that became ever larger as road and river snaked down toward the sea. The road followed the narrow valley and wound through hairpin curves. The descent was relentless. The sun had not set but we were in the depths of a river valley where it was practically night. The sky above, however, appeared blue and the mountain peaks were still alight. Although we had confidence in Totok's driving, we did not want to be on a winding mountain road in the middle of nowhere after dark. The river grew larger and more turbulent. Brian, unaware of my earlier conversation with Agung, said: "This would make great white water rafting". We had found Agung's river - the scenery was spectacular.

Finally, the valley let out into a small plain barely lit by the dying rays of the sun. There was the town of Pacitan, in a small sea of rice fields ringed by mountains, facing the sea. None of us (including Totok) had been there before, so we had some nervous moments in the swiftly approaching darkness finding a decent hotel room. Our nervousness was justified - we found the last available room that evening (in a reasonable hotel). It was a holiday weekend, so many people had come to Pacitan. We checked in and collapsed. It had been a long day - a lot of driving for poor Totok. I am sure he rested well in the "driver rooms" that most decent hotels provided. At last we were in Pacitan, supposedly holding one of the best beaches in Java.

Our dinner was grilled fish at a Chinese restaurant next to the hotel. Our fatigue and hunger made the meal even more delicious than it probably was. Totok, I am certain, was happy to rest and have some good food. After dinner, Brian and I turned in for an early night. The next day we would wake up early and go to the beach - perhaps to find accommodation there. Our hotel also informed us that the room was only available for one night. We hoped the next day we would be lulled to sleep by the sea.

Fat chance...

We woke early and drove out of Pacitan toward the water. Pacitan's beach was certainly a wide strand of sand, but the sand was neither volcanic black nor coral white - it was a very unattractive shade of brown. Adding to the disappointment was that the whole seafront was devoid of trees - even in the early morning, the sun beat down unforgivingly. The river we had followed into Pacitan let out into the bay before us releasing all its silt into the usually clear waters of the Indian Ocean. The effect was nothing like we expected. In the morning light, it was obvious that Pacitan had a very dramatic setting with its little mountain bowl facing the sea, but it did NOT possess a "great" beach. Disappointment does not even begin to describe how we felt. The highpoint of the weekend was supposed to be Pacitan Beach.

Totok at Pacitan Beach

After a few obligatory photos, we left, noting that the only hotel (actually a small rest house) on the beach was full judging from all the clothes drying in front of the rooms. We couldn't have stayed even if we wanted. So, looking at the map, we decided to head back to Solo (with good hotels), but take a different more "scenic" route. As was usually the case with our map of Java, it turned out to be extremely inaccurate. After making a few inquiries and a detour off the main road, we found ourselves bumping down a narrow path toward what we thought were some caves. In fact, the road led us to a beach instead (as explained to us later by people we met). Pacitan had been a let down, perhaps we would have luck at a different beach? Our decision turned out to be excellent.

The road descended to a tiny inlet with a small beach. It was crowded with fishing boats pulled onto the sand and held a small pavilion for the fisherman to sell their catch. Totok located a parking space under some trees - the setting was tranquil. We walked to the beach and looked over a blue water cove surrounded by large, black outcrops and turbulent crashing waves. It was scenic. I scaled some of the rocks and found a fissure that led to another beach. It was just large enough to pass through. The lookout on the other side provided me a view of the coast.

What greeted me exceeded all expectations of what might exist for a beach in Java. The Thousand Peaks dropped into the Indian Ocean in sheer cliffs interrupted occasionally by small coves and inlets. Where the ocean met the rocks, it crashed and sprayed riotously sending plumes of white foam high into the air. The Javanese believed that to be the realm of the Sea Goddess, a mean-spirited deity to whom the Sultan of Yogya still made yearly sacrifices. Below, directly behind the fishing cove, was a pure white sand beach backed by an empty field, deserted. As far as I could see in both directions, the pattern repeated of cliffs, coves, and beaches. I returned to Brian and excitedly invited him to see - only a five-minute walk, it was invisible from the fisherman's cove and the road. The wind blew in off the sea and the waves pounded the shore. The Southern Ocean was a beautiful deep blue. Paradise... and no doubt to stay that way because the place was miles from anywhere and the Javanese dared not populate an area so close to the Sea Goddess' abode.

We went back to have a look at the fishermen's catch and then got in the car to continue the journey to Solo. The guys on the beach assured us that if we stayed on the road, it would take us to the main road to Solo (but they knew of no caves). The condition of the road actually worsened, but we did eventually find it and it actually passed by a cave.

We were in limestone hill country and there were supposedly caves everywhere around us. One of the most famous was the "Music Cave" where the stalactites could be struck to produce tones similar to gamelan (an Indonesian traditional gong-like instrument). After parking, we walked to the entrance past many stalls selling cut and polished agate (a popular stone for rings and pendants in Indonesia). We entered the cave and saw the price (quite high in local currency) to hear a musical performance on the stones. We easily could have paid, but the place was filled with people - assumedly all waiting for "someone" to pay the fee so they could get a "free-listen". Brian and I were so sick of being ripped off as tourists that we informed the cave owners we would only have a peak inside (the ticket was cheap) rather than entertain everyone who happened to be there. We only briefly entered the cave - the light was dim, there were many people, and not much was visible. We quickly exited and wondered why we had even bothered to stop.

However, the memory of the beach was fresh in our minds. Nothing else mattered that much. The road slowly began its descent out of the Thousand Peaks and down onto some plains surrounding a huge reservoir. The clouded cap of Mt Lawu floated in the distance. We had left the world of the fearsome Sea Goddess and entered once again the domain of volcanic peaks where the much friendlier Javanese gods still resided.

Our route took us through Baturetno, another small town on the plains. It also happened to be the home village of our gardener and maid (who were married). The town was grotty and dirty - not nearly as clean as Wonogiri. I made a mental note of our passing so we could let our staff know upon returning. Again, the road climbed up the flank of Mt Lawu briefly and then joined the road back to Wonogiri and Solo. Soon we were on the plains surrounding Solo and urban Indonesia. We were amazed at the variety of experiences we had in only two days.

Stumbling upon the Gods

Our last day in Solo, we thought we would drive to a temple on the side of Mt. Lawu and then continue on for lunch at one of the mountaintop resorts. We had to return to the airport by 5:00pm, so we didn't want to stray too far - yet we wanted to use the day for travel. We woke very early to beat the traffic and exit the city. Even so, it took a long time to get out of the built up areas (and Indonesia's famous traffic). Eventually we were back in a sea of green ready to climb the flank of Mt. Lawu. How could Indonesian cities be so faceless and its countryside so lovely? Would anyone want to live in a large city given a choice?

Just before the road began its serious ascent of the mountain through a series of switchbacks, we made a detour onto a minor, but well-maintained road. It climbed slowly upward through small villages and rice fields. Was the road in good condition because it led to a minor tourist attraction or was it because the many villages through which we passed depended on it to reach Solo? Road conditions in Indonesia vary with little relation to their transportation importance - heavily traveled roads were often in desperate need of repair and seldom used ones lay in the middle of nowhere in pristine condition. I was told it was pork-barrel politics. If a politician in Jakarta could manage, he would funnel as much money as possible back to his home region. Was the road we traveled's good condition due to politics or tourism? We had no idea.

Our destination was Candi Sukuh (candi = temple in Indonesian), an unusual temple among the vestiges of the golden age of the great Hindu-Javanese Civilization. It was constructed in a style completely divergent from the more famous temples on the plains below. In addition, it was crudely erotic having been devoted to fertility. I visited once before and I wanted Brian to see it, too.

We reached the turnoff for the temple, paid an exorbitant fee at the entrance, and started the climb up a steep, narrow road. The road was frightening as it literally went straight up with little regard for the grade of the slope. The drop offs were deadly - no margin for error. We felt as if we were on a pathway to the sky. Although misty at times, the views down to the plains were amazing. We arrived at the car park just as a group of European tourists were leaving.

We had the place to ourselves. Totok laughed at seeing the earthy images of the gods with their huge, swollen members. For Brian and I, the stone reliefs were interesting - they were remarkably well-preserved. The temple itself looked like a small, Mayan pyramid transported to Java - squat with a flat top. We walked to the main gate of the complex (we had entered at the side) to find a large relief of a penis and vagina that had to be stepped over to enter the complex. Little was left the the imagination - people coming to pray knew what the temple was about. Even so, we found it tame compared to the truly graphic temple sculptures we had seen in India. The guide book stated there used to be stairs to the place from the plains. I wondered who could possibly have though about procreation after such a grueling climb?!

The air was cool and refreshing and we walked freely around the place without the usual hassle at other tourist sites. One of the caretakers was present and I asked him if he knew about the other temple nearby, Ceto. I heard of it from a group of tourists last time I visited Candi Sukuh. He said it was at the top of a very steep road at an even higher elevation. The road was apparently not in good condition. We almost declined the opportunity, but Totok was game to try to drive us there. After all, if the road was bad, we could always turn around and head back down. We still had plenty of time. So, we left Candi Sukuh's gods in their permanent state of arousal to find another temple - a place conspicuous in its absence from all tourist literature and guidebooks.

Road conditions after Candi Sukuh declined rapidly and from the turn onto the road leading to Ceto, things got even worse. We were more concerned, however, about the road grade than the surface - compared to the roads near the beach the day before, they were still passable. Luckily, the grades were never got worse than those we faced reaching Candi Sukuh. What was amazing about the road to Ceto was that it continued to go up. Just when we thought the road couldn't climb any further, it ascended even more. Equally amazing was that there were villages all the way to the top (even though we had left rice cultivation far behind - it was too cold near the top of the mountain for rice). How did these people get to Solo if needed?

As we climbed, we saw the two vans of the Europeans we encountered earlier in front of us headed in the same direction. We actually felt relief since they were likely headed to Candi Ceto, too. At least we were on the correct road and we thought if they could make it - so could we. The road finally ended at a village laid out on the mountain slope. We had entered the realm of the clouds long before - everything appeared in shades of gray, not green. The air was cold and damp. A most unpleasant environment in which to live (I thought), but perhaps there were sunny days, too. We walked toward the temple located above the town.

Ahead of us, fading in and out of the mist stood what appeared to be a huge Balinese gateway. After seeing so many on Bali, it was easily recognizable. We were in Java, however, looking at exactly the same thing - a stone tower cleaved into two equal parts forming an entrance. It shouldn't have been so surprising. After all, it is the Balinese who copied their architecture from the Javanese centuries before. The gateway felt different - somehow ominous in the mountain gloom. Beyond it lay only gray fog. After passing through, we registered our names in the temple guest book. We found ourselves looking at a fully restored, Hindu-Javanese temple that climbed the hill before us. The temple was built in a series of ascending terraces, similar to those we saw in Bali. Each terrace had a small split gate flanked by low, simple structures. The temple was not ornate, but the state of preservation (or restoration?) was nearly perfect. As we walked through the complex, one thing became increasingly apparent, the temple was still in use.

It is not unusual for old temples to be used occasionally - as we noted in our friends' village of Bakalan, even the mosques in rural villages still held places for "traditional prayers". Candi Ceto did not look like it was the site of the occasional stray offering; however, it was in daily use. How could that be in Muslim Java? Even the most agnostic Javanese had limits.

We reached the uppermost terrace and looked down over the complex. The European tourists were listening to an explanation from someone who worked at the temple, translated by their guide. We heard nothing - the voices were muffled in the heavy atmosphere. The great entrance gate disappeared and reappeared in the fog. When visible, it became an entrance into the void, into chaos. If there ever were a clear day from that vantage point, much of Central Java would be visible. Inasmuch as we could hear the echoes of the gods of Candi Sukuh in the reliefs scattered across that temple, and we could see the ashes of prayers to those same gods in the simple mosque at Bakalan, at Candi Ceto we saw nothing but swirling, silent mist. The atmosphere was laden with the old gods of Java - still worshipped with names taken from the Hindu pantheon so long ago that the originals had been forgotten.

The place was solemn, yet invigorating. On our way back to the main gate, I stopped the Indonesian guide for the European tourists and asked if the place was still in active use. He told me, yes, and proceeded to give a dry commentary on its history. Apparently, it was one of the last temples built before the Javanese royalty fled the Muslim invasions to Bali. So, Candi Ceto was the last temple built on Java.

Coming to the great gateway again it looked even more forbidding. On the other side was a steep flight of stairs down - all that could be seen was the gate and the grayish white of the shifting clouds. Sitting there in the portal between the realm of the gods and our own was a young man.

Matt: Do people still use this temple?

Man: Yes.

Matt: It was restored. When was that?

Man: Back in the 70s.

Matt: Are some people here still Hindu?

Man: Yes, many.

Matt: Is there a mosque in your village?

Man: Mister we are all Hindu. No one is Muslim here.

Wow! Candi Ceto was it - the place I heard about, but didn't believe existed. The last remaining Javanese Hindus, not the tourist variety one finds around Mt. Bromo to the east, but the real original inhabitants. For two days, the gods of Java had been subtly pushing Brian and I to that place. With typical Javanese indirection, they dropped hints and nudged us in the right direction. Finally, we had arrived near the top of Mt. Lawu at a temple built by the last rulers of Java in a village where Islam had never reached. There the ancient gods found sustenance from their remaining worshippers. The European tourists listened to their guide's explanation of deities presumed dead (or worse, fictional), yet they did not take their eyes out of their cameras long enough to see that the gods surrounded them. They had finally revealed themselves.

Matt: If it's clear, can you see very far?

Man: You can see all of them.

Matt: All of what?

Man: Merapi, Merbabu, Sundoro, Sumbing... all of them.

Sitting in the portal between worlds he spoke the names of the Mt Lawu's siblings - visible only when the mists receded. In spite of the intervening time and religious influences, the residents of the last Hindu village still recognized the mountains were the old gods of Java, even before Hinduism arrived. Long before people populated the island, those mountain spirits had released their fiery souls onto the earth to become the ultra-fertile soil that supported the Javanese from the very beginning. The creator/destroyer gods (so like Shiva who would arrive centuries later) came to be worshipped by both peasants and royals because it was the gods who held everyone's lives in balance. I wished the sky had cleared if only for a moment so I could see them, but the ancients chose not to reveal themselves. We climbed back in the van and asked Totok to take us back to the main road so we could have lunch at a small town not far away famous for its cool, mountaintop weather.

We arrived about an hour later in Sarangan, filled with people escaping the heat of the plains below. We headed to a restaurant I had eaten in before which gave sweeping views of East Java. As we ate, we looked out over Ponorogo, the Thousand Peaks, and the crenellated flank of Mt Lawu in whose folds the the little village of Bakalan was hidden. We had come full circle. The dreamy days in the mountains of Java and the southern coast were coming to an end. Shortly after, Totok drove us back over the dizzying pass and down the switchbacks into Central Java and the city of Solo safely. We arrived at the little airport and soon were on our way back to Jakarta and the modern world. Now, however, we knew where the gods lived and they knew us, too. I would return - frequently.

Java remains one of my favorite places I ever lived. The Javanese most resemble Japanese in their culture and language (something rarely commented on). The essence of being Javanese is to be "refined". A "good" person is never too happy, nor too sad - in fact, being too "anything" is frowned upon. The Javanese were Buddhist for several centuries. I wondered if that had an impact on their culture. I appreciated their syncretic culture and their tolerance. Many people love Bali - but for me, I prefer Java - the true "Island of the Gods".