Left alone, I read a school scribbler I find at the entrance. In childlike writing, it informs me that this, the most famous Buddhist temple in Bangladesh, was built in 1877. The temple holds the large bronze Buddha, cast at the end of the last century, seven smaller Buddha images - six bronze, one white stone - and a row of plaster Buddhas. Another wood temple nearby is stocked with Burmese handicrafts and 23 Buddhas.
Anywhere else, a place like this would be overrun with tourists and lined with snack and souvenir shops. Instead, I spend an hour here in blissful solitude, savoring a kind of serenity I haven’t experienced since traveling around Southeast Asia in the 1970s.
Back at Coxybar, as some call it, a band of locals resembling the 17th-century Mogh pirates who ravaged the Bay of Bengal loiter around an old blue Toyota. After hard bargaining, I rent the wreck for a short drive up the long beach. Although I am the only paying customer, a half-dozen of the driver’s friends pile in the back, and we take off for a long, smooth drive along the world’s longest stretch of flat sand. There is no solitude here, however. In this crowded country, people live in thatched huts all along the beach.
My newfound companions take me to a waterfall, apparently one of the local attractions. It is just a thin trickle coming down the cliff, with a woman in a bright sari gathering water in a large metal pot while naked kids splash around her.
After more bargaining, I get these roguish land pirates to drive me further along the hard sand. The beach goes on seemingly forever, and if we continued for a few hours we would eventually reach Burma. Apparently my time has run out, as we turn into some soft sand dunes, drive around some basic thatched houses, where yards of colorful, filmy sari fabric dry in the sun, then head back.
As we return in the late afternoon, a silver sheen shines over everything, blending the sky, water and wet sand beach without a visible break. Back at the main beach, I await the sunset, a major nightly event here, anticipating the noble elephant of the tourist brochure.
It seems as though at least 2 million of Bangladesh’s zillion people are here, along this stretch of sand. While waiting, I chat with a few young locals who insist on getting their photo taken with me. And I watch the beach action, the women in brilliant saris, veiled or with kohl-blackened eyes, and the family groups. Small boys sell peanuts, bead necklaces and chains of sweet-scented jasmine; men stand thigh-deep in the calm sea fishing with long poles or nets; kids play soccer on the sand; a motorcyclist races by.
I am sitting on the hard, sandy beach, finally alone, watching the sun drop like melted butter into the shimmering sea, when from the side ambles a forlorn, cud-chewing black shape.
I wanted an elephant. I get a cow.
INDONESIA
TORAJA
Dead to Rites
March 1987
SOMEWHERE east of Java lie lands of timeless mystery, demons and magic, of ancient rituals, of sultan’s palaces, and noisome white tribes roaming village streets. Centuries-old Dutch forts and the debris of World War II lie buried deep in the jungle or in the clear warm seas. Sacred eels dine on fresh chicken eggs, sad-faced orangutans peer balefully from trees, Komodo dragons gorge on carrion - including their fellow dragons.
Indonesia, the world’s largest archipelago, stretches 3,200 miles like a great Muslim crescent from west Malaysia to north Australia. Although not much visited, these 13,000 islands with their vast diversity of peoples and cultures, are easily accessible by Garuda, the Indonesian national carrier named for a mythical bird, which flies to most of them.
Sulawesi
From Makassar, now, more dully, Ujung Padang, it is a jarring eight-hour jeep ride north on the trans-Sulawesi highway to the heart of orchid-shaped Sulawesi island. My driver, Captain Hornblower, leans on the Toyota’s klaxon as he races past bi cycles and buffaloes and tiny ponies pulling cart loads of farm families in traditional dress. Hornblower, in Che Guevara beret and mirror sunglasses, rocks with childlike glee as he forces a bicycle rickshaw and passengers over into a ditch.
A pair of lateen-rigged Bugis pinis ships, part the world’s last large sailing fleet, glide along just offshore. Small tin-domed mosques, like over-turned teakettles, dot the crowded road. Women in umbrella-sized cone hats work the rice paddies, and giant, gentle, mud-slathered water buffaloes with horns like Honda handlebars wallow in the ponds. A frantic hour from the airport, we reach the central mountains. Broad rivers brown as a water buffalo’s’ eyes slice through emerald green, terraced rice paddies reaching like steps up to the peaks.
My destination, Toraja Land, is a full-day journey on this hairy, though scenic, road. The Tana Toraja people, like Southeast Asia’s Golden Triangle hill tribes in their mountain fastness, cling to their unique religion, costumes and customs. The Torajans, who it is said “Live to Die,” are known for their elaborate funeral rituals. Dead noblemen are mummified and buried or stored in a back room until the family has sufficient wealth in water buffalo and palm wine for a proper wake. It leads to interesting aromas in the houses, a guidebook notes, although the introduction of formaldehyde greatly reduced the odors.
The bodies are finally stashed in caves or buried in Hanging Graves, holes dug in the cliffs, like filing cabinets for corpses. Goggle-eyed wooden effigies, mute guardians in colorful garb, line the railings of balconies built alongside the Hanging Graves. Outside burial caves, youthful entrepreneurs scramble to escort me with kerosene lanterns (“You need two sir, one in front and one behind. Only one thousand rupiahs each”) to show us the caves full of skulls and skeletons of ancient relatives. Sulawesi sightseeing involves considerable crunching over ancient bones.
This is a lucky day for us. A nearby village is celebrating a Festival of the Dead, with singing, dancing, religious ceremonies and an animal sacrifice. Along country roads, men carrying Toraja six-packs -- frothy, tuak palm wine in half a dozen three-foot bamboo tubes slung over their shoulders like crosscut saws -- make for the wake.
In Tallun Lipu village, traditional Toraja houses on stilts with upswept roofs face a muddy common crowded with 14 farmers caressing and murmuring to their water buffaloes. Relatives and friends of the deceased squat in numbered sections under the houses, like privileged baseball fans in box seats. At a command from an electronic megaphone, 14 knives flash at 14 throats and, within minutes, dead buffalo lie in black heaps on the rich red ground. Youngsters rush out with bamboo tubes to collect blood for the stew pot. A young mourner shoots souvenir photographs of his children proudly posing on top of the family beast. A half-dozen ashen-faced Europeans, hands clutching their throats, goggle at this unexpected extra to their package tour.
Moluccas
After the damp, cool Toraja mountain air, Ambon, capital of the former Spice Islands, is South Seas tropical. Near Papua New Guinea, the island is more Polynesian than Asian, with rows of graceful coconut palms arcing over empty beaches, spiky sago trees, clove and nutmeg trees, outrigger canoes and thatched sago leaf huts. A South Seas influence shows in the number of tall church steeples interspersed with domed mosques. Visiting them all would take a month of Sundays.
Only two other whites -- missionaries or businessmen, it is hard to tell with their clipped haircuts, short-sleeved shirts and briefcases -- arrive at Pattamura airport today.
George, a man who could be king, meets us on behalf of Indonesian Tourism. George’s father is the hereditary ruler of Tanmbar, one of Moluccas 999 islands. His older brother, the rightful heir, has lived in Amsterdam for decades, and will not return to claim the throne. But George, seduced by the bright Ambonese lights, will likely leave the title to his younger brother upon his father’s death.
We ride into the capital in a gaudily decked out van, with gewgaws hanging from the ceiling and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” playing whenever the driver brakes.
Along the road, shirt-sleeved King George stops to pick cloves from a blossoming tree in the luxuriant jungle, crushing them in his hand to release the rich, sweet perfume of the Spice Islands. These, a
long with nutmeg, mace and pepper, were the “Green Gold,” that made the islands the world’s richest for a time, attracting rapacious European adventurers. The Spice Islands have a longer history of European colonization than North America. “In 1674, the British traded Banda, one of these tiny islands, to the Dutch for Manhattan,” George adds as a historical footnote.
The Portuguese, British, Dutch and Japanese all had their day here. More Dutch and Portuguese forts with ancient rusting cannons and thick, moss-covered walls molder in their jungle graves here than in the rest of this vast country.
Bailey Bridges across deep gullies and abandoned airstrips recall the bloody Pacific Theater battles during World War II. U.S. bombers flattened all of Ambon city during the war, except for the banana-green mosque. The Japanese scuttled some of their ships in the harbor when they fled, and locals still hear explosions of bombs going off underwater. The well-maintained Australian War Memorial cemetery, including two Royal Canadian Air Force graves, is a somber reminder of past troubles in this paradise. George explains that many of the graves are unmarked, because after the Japanese beheaded captured soldiers, they could not be identified by their dog tags.
As we stop to buy flowers outside the Chinese cemetery, dozens of children shouting “Balanda, Balanda” (Hollander, any white foreigner) besiege us, begging for autographs. In crowded, curious Indonesia, a foreigner with a camera attracts onlookers like a crumb of sugar on the ground attracts ants. At the sacred Waai pool, with water as clear as a mountain stream, a man feeds raw eggs to a long, spotted black eel, a sacred, serpentine pet, too heavy for him to lift from the water. The eel’s appearance signifies good tidings and a happy future for us visitors.
On our last evening, George and his friends take us to the town’s leading hotel for dinner. Trishaw wheels whisper along the pavement, and sweet Polynesian-like hymns drift from the Gereja (church) Marantha in the otherwise silent evening. The hotel dining room is decorated in standard Southeast Asian Chinese style: acrylic pictures of playful kittens and northern sunsets decorate the wall, while a plastic banana tree, a rude imitation of those lining the road outside, sits in the corner. One of our hostesses goes to the Yamaha organ in the corner to serenade us, we hope with a traditional Moluccan song.
“This is the moment, of sweet Aloha.”
LOMBOK
Beyond Bali
August, 1995
THE mysterious stone head, big as a beach bungalow, glowers in the tropical sun like one of the ancient faces of Cambodia’s Angkor Wat. Hollow eyes stare out from under a fringe of vines growing over its forehead like bangs. A small, jagged palm sprouts from the top in a spiky punk rock haircut, and mist steams from the mouth and eyes.
It is like a brooding scene out of Apocalypse Now -- until a bikinied figure shoots out of the mouth and lands with a whopping splash in the turquoise, sun-dappled water. Laughter and happy shouts resound across the swimming pool.
This is not a strange, pagan god spitting out human sacrifices, but an imaginative poolside fixture, with its tongue a water slide. The artistic head in the Sheraton Senggigi Beach Resort swimming pool is patterned after the traditional style of mask of the local Sasak people in Lombok, Indonesia. The unique sculpture cleverly adapts local art to modern play in one of Southeast Asia’s newest destinations.
Lombok, a 20-minute flight or four-hour boat ride from Bali, was just a stop on the backpackers’ long trail from Europe to Australia until recently. Now it is on the verge of major tourist development.
“Lombok is a new place, close to nature,” says a Lombok local over poolside Bintang beers. “People save it for the last stop on a tour of Indonesia. It is a place to relax before going home.”
Visitors from big-city Jakarta, appreciate the easy island pace. “This is still a fresh area, with no traffic jams and friendly people,” a guest explains while wandering the resort’s lush grounds.
“Lombok was once an adventure travel destination,” he points out. But in the past few years, resorts have made a beachhead in this once remote island, mainly on the wide, sandy crescent of Senggigi Beach on the west coast. Now, people are beginning to see that it is different, and more couples and families are coming.
Lombok has the same rugged mountain-and-seaside scenery as better-known Bali, but without the crowds. It is easy to explore this 80 by 80-kilometer island by car, although the lack of road signs makes navigating on the back roads stimulating, and sometimes adventurous.
The rental vehicle of choice, a four-wheel drive Suzuki Jimmy jeep, seems unnecessary for the paved roads, but my friends and I soon learn otherwise. Driving is easy, except when weaving around pony carts, motorbikes and trucks in the town. In the countryside, traffic disappears. In an hour along the west coast one morning, we only see a truck hauling coconuts, and a few little pony carts, the popular rural taxis, their steeds not much bigger than Great Danes, clop-clopping down the road.
Lombok’s back roads lead to sleepy, rural Indonesia of brown rivers cutting through lush jungles and orderly rice paddies like burnished emeralds turning a silvery sheen as the sun dips low over the hills. In the Pusuk monkey forest, hundreds of curious simians, young and old, line the road, hirsute pilgrims in pursuit of bananas or other offerings from passing cars.
Rustics loiter outside village houses with red-tiled roofs; young boys scramble up tall coconut palms; and women in batik sarongs walk to the fields carrying primitive farming instruments or bundles of firewood delicately balanced on their heads. Small, whitewashed mosques the size of cottages, with pink trimmed wooden windows and domes like silver onions, lie half-hidden in the jungle. On these narrow dirt roads with pot holes big as bath tubs, we appreciate the jeep with its rugged suspension and high clearance.
The winding, dipping coast road north from Senggigi is as stunning as the California Coast, or Kauai, Hawaii, with its high cliffs. The road climbs high up a cliff to give a sweeping view of Bali’s volcanoes across Lombok Strait, then drops to run along perfect beaches with outriggers pulled up on the sand, but not a tourist in sight.
Our destination this day is the small port of Bangsal, to catch an outrigger to one of the three small islands known for their tranquillity, and coral. At the end of the short road, village urchins, all budding entrepreneurs, try to get us to park in the shade near their homes for 2,000 rupiahs (US$1). When we park under a palm tree instead, they warn us, “Boss, a coconut will fall on your car.”
Looking at the battered Jimmy, I ignore the self-appointed parking attendant’s warning.
Shuttle boats leave for the three small islands when they have 15 passengers, for only 1,500 rupiahs (75 cents) each. But it is past noon, and there are only three people waiting. Gili Air, the closest island with a small village, gets the most visitors. Gili Trawangan, the largest, has a party every day with tour boats from Senggigi, they tell us, as though that were a major attraction. So we book a private boat for 35,000 rupiahs (US$17) return to Gili Meno, the quietest island about a 50-minute ride away, and climb aboard the Kontiki, an outrigger with a hull the color of a ripe mango.
As we bounce along the choppy water, we look back to Lombok’s majestic Gunung (Mount) Rinjani on the north side of the island. The perfect cone of the 3,726-meter active volcano could have been the model for the hat one of our boatmen wears. The scenic Sidenggile Waterfall on the slopes of the volcano is an hour’s hike from the end of the road. Energetic and athletic types climb to the peak to see Segara Anak, a crater lake deep in the caldera. But that three-day excursion, with camping in tents, is best left for another time.
Our destination, Gili Meno, is not totally undiscovered. Basic rental bungalows on stilts line the beach and a group of temporary islanders, weekend beachcombers, sits at a little open air cafe sipping fruit juices or Bintang beer and inspecting new arrivals.
Well-used face masks, snorkels and fins hang from a bamboo frame like forgotten objects in a lost-and-found department. The proprietor asks 7,000 rupiahs rental, immediately d
ropping to 6,000, but it seems pricey. Instead, we walk past the bungalows to a fine sand beach near the end of the island. There, a cheerful old fellow rents masks for only 2,000 rupiahs. Alone, we snorkel the warm green waters, like swimming in a massive private aquarium of exotic, radiant tropical fish darting through the feathery coral.
While Lombok equals the larger Bali in these physical attractions, it lacks that Hindu island’s abundance of man-made sights, the timeless temples, palaces and ubiquitous artwork. However, those attractions we happen upon have an understated charm. Narmada, the water palace 12 kilometers west of the main town, Mataram, is a pleasant spot with the added allure of being devoid of other visitors when we arrive. The King of Lombok built this summer palace in 1727 as place of worship -- and a pleasure garden with a series of swimming pools. The old rogue reputedly had a hidden spot from where he would select village maidens for his recreation.
On this hot day, it is a serene, riverside setting with a flock of truant school boys swimming in the Hindu-style temple pools. Below, the large, modern swimming pool stands empty, while in an ancient pool nearby, modern plastic peddle boats shaped like swans stand alongside age-old, moss-covered stone statues.
South of here, in traditional Sasak villages with stilt houses, locals make pottery, carvings, baskets and weavings. This part of the island is arid and barren compared with the lush north. At the end of the road south, through the dry, dusty hills, down the steep road to the coast, a sign advertises the Matahari Inn. “Kuta Beach, 1 km, Matahari Inn Hotel and Restaurant, The Place Where All Nations Are Together. Reasonable Price and Nice People.”
Seaweed and coconut fronds cover the large, curved Kuta Beach facing an open bay, fishermen stand ready to launch outrigger canoes and water buffalo graze on the sand vines, but no one swims in the clear water.
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