Thursday, 12 March 2015

Through the Atlas Mountains

Trekking on the Mgoun Massif in Morocco 

Originally published in Venture Magazine

The path spooled away behind me across stony slopes.  I paused on the sharp elbow of a switchback and leant against my trekking pole, struggling for breath in the thin air.  Looking back the way I had come I could just make out the green levels of the Ait Bougmez Valley between iron-grey ridges, but its wheat fields and orchards seemed impossibly distant now. I was 3000 meters above sea level, inching my way towards the Tizi-n-Tarkeddit Pass, high in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains, and every upwards step was taking its toll. 
When eventually I reached the top, a lost world opened ahead.  Across a cold void the huge hulk of the Mgoun Massif rose; beneath it was my destination for the night – the Tessaout Plateau, walled in by sky-scraping ridges.  Thin trickles of smoke rose from rough campsites; great flocks of sheep picked their way across the stony soil, and as I dropped from the pass and ambled towards a likely campsite a little caravan passed me – four thin camels laden with dusty bundles and three men in long brown robes, heading east into the evening.

            The Atlas Mountains form the spine of Morocco, stretching some 500 kilometers across the country, and walling off the Sahara from the fertile Atlantic coast.  These mountains are the heartland of the Berbers, the indigenous people of North Africa who have endured the invasions of Romans, Vandals, Arabs and Europeans, and have somehow always come out on top. 
            The Berbers have deep roots in this top corner of Africa. The Romans called them “Maures”; later Arab invaders gave them the derogatory moniker “Berber”, drawing on an older Greek term, “Barbarian”.  But they call themselves the Imazighen, the “Free Men” – and that is what they have always been.  Their own name for the Atlas, meanwhile, is Idraren Draren, “the Mountains of Mountains”. 
            Throughout their long experience of outside incursions, the Berbers have often managed to turn foreign rule deftly on its head.  The greatest of Morocco’s dynasties – the Almoravids and the Almohads – have sprung from the Berber tribes rather than from the immigrant Arab elite, and violent resistance to later French rule saw the colonialists leave the tribes to function under their own customary laws.
            But in the 21st century a new kind of outside influence is threading its way into the mountains, a double-header of tarmac and tourism that may, finally, bring the people of the High Atlas into the fold.

            From the old imperial city of Marrakech I had traveled east to the Ait Bougmez Valley, a locked world, deep in the mountains.  Closer to Marrakech adventure tourism has long form, and snaking lines of trekkers traverse the passes around Jebel Toubkal, Morocco’s highest peak.  But Ait Bougmez, 200 kilometers to the east, lies further from the beaten track.  Until the surfaced road arrived in 2001 the place could be cut off for months by the winter snows.
I found myself a place to stay in the village of Agouti, then set out to explore the patchwork of wheat fields and apple orchards.  Frogs croaked in the irrigation ditches, and a soft breeze ran through the leaves of the poplars. 


            That evening I sat out on the roof terrace, sipping mint tea and chatting to Mustapha Ben Ali, one of the dynasty of experienced trekking guides who owned the guesthouse.  He told me that tourism had increased markedly in Ait Bougmez since the arrival of the surfaced road.  Guidebooks now dub the place “the Happy Valley”, and in the soft summer sunlight it was easy to see why. But the whole place lies 2000 meters above sea level, and in the winter, once the last trekkers have gone, life is still hard.
            “But things are much easier than they used to be,” Mustapha said.
            The Moroccan government has been steadily pushing roads deeper and deeper into the mountains in recent decades, bringing essential services to remote communities, but also finally binding the Berbers into the Moroccan state – and that, some cynics suggest, is the point.  And there is already a tension developing between the road projects and the demands of tourism.  In the Toubkal region some one-time trekking paths have turned into roads, robbing village guesthouses of passing trade in trekkers.
            This is an issue in mountain regions across the world.  Foreign trekkers bring a cash economy to remote communities, while roads bring easy access to markets, schools and hospitals.  The two things are not always compatible.  In Ait Bougmez, however, Mustapha was unconcerned.
            “We can always make a new route if they build a road on an old one,” he said, and poring over the map he helped me to plot one for myself, across the Tizi-n-Tarkeddit to Tessaout, and then east to journey’s end in the village of El Mrabakine.
            On the map El Mrabakine appeared to be many days’ walk from the nearest town.  But Mustapha smiled and shook his head.  “There’s a road now,” he said; “they built it last year…”


            The driving wind seemed to slice through every layer of clothing.  I had camped out amongst the herds on the Tessaout Plateau, then set out at first light for the summit of Jebel Mgoun, the 4068-metre hulk that is the Atlas’ second highest mountain.  It had been a hard slog up a stony cwm, but now the effort all seemed worthwhile.
Far away to the west I could pick out the distant snow peaks of the Toubkal National Park.  To the south the land poured away in a chaos of interlocking ridges towards the last bastion of the mountains, the Jebel Sarhro; beyond that lay the sands of the Sahara.  It was an epic prospect, and though Mgoun does attract a steady trickle of trekkers, today I had it all to myself.
When the cold wind got too much, I headed back down to my campsite with aching limbs.  Along the way I passed the Berber camps that were slotted into every sheltered corner of the plateau.  These temporary dwellings – usually just a stone wall and a roof of branches and tarpaulins – are known as azibs.  Many families from the lower villages still spend the summers in the high pastures with their livestock.  It was these herders who originally broke the trails now traversed by trekkers.


I heard their voices before I saw them – bursts of laughter and foreign accents.  From the plateau I had headed east, crossing the Tizi-n-Agoumar Pass and descending a long valley. I had camped beside a stream, and now, picking my way along a gorge in the heat of the morning, I had run into a large French trekking party, all reflective eyeshades and bare limbs.  They were a very different vision from the camel caravan I had passed three days earlier, but they greeted me cheerily, and their guide – a Berber from Ait Bougmez – told me that they were on a circuit of Mgoun.
This kind of organized, high-spend tourism is a strange presence in these remote mountains, but the Berbers have been guiding wealthy outsiders along their trails for centuries.  Once they were traders and pilgrims; today they come with gortex and guidebooks, but the net result is the same – a flow of cash and opportunity to poor villages.
I walked on.  There were tangles of willows beside the stream, and soon I saw the first buildings – not the bleak azibs of the high pastures these, but more substantial mud-walled dwellings, lived in year-round. 
I was hot and tired by the time I shambled into the village of Tighremt-n-Ait Ahmed, and I was glad when a man in a stripy jalabiya called me into his house for tea.  His name was Omar, and he had a guestroom for passing trekkers.  But I would not be staying the night.  In a mind-bending mix of French, English and Arabic Omar explained that the only bus for the week would be leaving the valley on the new road that night. 
Once I had rested through the heat of the afternoon Omar sent me on my way down the valley to El Mrabakine.  The bus – a spectacularly battered shell on bald tires – left at nightfall.  The drivers were local men who had seen an opportunity when the government bulldozers finally broke the road the previous year.  Now they made the journey a couple of times a week, carrying out produce from the villages and bringing back orders of manufactured goods from the town of El Kelaat Mgouna, south of the mountains.
Tonight I was the only passenger, squeezed in amongst the grain sacks.  The road was a raw scar driven along the line of an old goat trail; tarmac was still several years away, and snow would still block the way in winter.  But the people of this remote valley were now just eight hours from the towns – closer than they had ever been to urban modernity.
We thundered through the night in low gear.  I lolled in and out of sleep until the driver shook me awake with a grin and pointed.  We were at the summit of the Tizi-n-Ait Ahmed Pass and far, far below El Kelaat Mgouna was glittering in a clot of lights…


I am sitting at a little table in a street-side café in the town, waiting for the bus to Marrakech.  A waiter in a shabby black waistcoat has just brought me a croissant and a café-au-lait.  It is warm in the morning sunshine and I can smell fresh bread from the bakery across the way.  To the north, out across the stony foothills, I can pick out a great bank of mountains: the Idraren Draren, the Atlas.  It all looks impossibly distant, though I now know that this wild range is not quite as isolated as it once was…

© Tim Hannigan 2015

Thursday, 18 September 2014

Indonesia, Etc.

Review of Indonesia, Etc. by Elizabeth Pisani

Originally published in the Asian Review of Books, 22/06/14

Indonesia is vast, stretching more than 5,000 kilometers from top to toe and home to almost quarter of a billion people. And yet for much of its recent history it has had an international media profile far smaller than its status as the world’s fourth most populous nation deserves. Newspaper readers in America, Europe, and even much of Asia could be forgiven for thinking that Indonesia is a place where little happens besides the occasional natural disaster. When it comes to English-language books, meanwhile, Indonesia has largely been the preserve of scholars and specialists. The last general travelogue about the country was probably John Keay’s Indonesia: From Sabang to Merauke, and that was nearly two decades ago.
But in the last few years there have been hints of a change. With its burgeoning middle class and impressive growth figures, some commentators have begun proclaiming Indonesia a rising economic superpower, set to take to the podium alongside India and China. If such a rise to prominence really comes to pass it may well prompt a rush of books attempting to explain the place to outsiders, and Elizabeth Pisani and her publishers have got in ahead of the field with Indonesia, Etc.: Exploring the Improbable Nation.

* * *

At first glance Indonesia, Etc. looks like a book of the familiar sort in which a Western travel writer descends on a far-flung country for a few months to produce a “portrait of the nation” complete with potted history and pithy descriptions of grueling bus rides – and probably a certain amount of oversimplification. But unlike some travel writers of the past Pisani is exquisitely well-qualified for the task in hand.
Her relationship with Indonesia, the country she regards as her “bad boyfriend”, has been a long one. She first lived there as a Reuters journalist under Suharto’s New Order government, and then as an epidemiologist working on HIV for the post-New Order Ministry of Health. These qualifications, and her decision to draw inspiration from the epidemiologist’s principle that “the best way to get a picture of what’s going on in a large population is to draw a sample at random”, have enabled her to produce a formidably insightful and engaging book on Indonesia for a general readership.
Beginning at Sumba in the southeast, Pisani traced a meandering route north through Maluku and Sulawesi, onwards to Sumatra and Kalimantan, before finally descending on Java. She travelled hard and light, and in gloriously informal fashion, often boarding ferries with no particular destination in mind. She was on the road for just over a year, and along the way she took up any number of offers of a place to stay with chance-met strangers.
Pisani’s fluency in Bahasa Indonesia, the Indonesian national language, gives the encounters with village school teachers, fishermen and minibus drivers a depth that would be missing if they had to pass through the warping prism of English, and they form the foundation of the book. She uses these encounters to explore many facets of modern Indonesia – corruption; environmental issues; separatism; poverty and more – and she is able to bring to such topics the deep knowledge of someone who has worked within Indonesian government and society, but who retains the objective eye of an outsider.
Occasionally the blend of travelogue and critical assessment creates a slight tension: an armchair traveler might feel a little left behind by a lengthy discussion of political patronage, while a reader seeking serious insight might be rather nonplussed when the latter segues into a description of New Year celebrations with backpackers on the Banda islands. But for the most part Pisani’s brisk, journalism-forged prose—and her sense of humor—will carry readers from both sides of the coin happily from island to island. The descriptive passages on markets, landscapes and boat trips are thoroughly convincing, and she captures perfectly the peculiar mix of torment and pleasure that marks a five-day ferry trip through Maluku – with bad karaoke and perfect sunsets.

* * *

Throughout Indonesia, Etc., Pisani adds helpful notes of caution to all the recent talk about the country’s economic ascendency, drawing attention to the new layers of corruption and inefficiency created by devolution of power to the districts, and highlighting the chronic infrastructure problems. She pulls no punches in criticizing Indonesia’s woeful educational deficiencies. This is a country with near-universal literacy—a legacy of the paternalistic New Order regime—and smaller average class sizes than the USA, but which routinely comes close to the bottom in international league tables of numeracy and reading skills.
She also highlights the phenomenon of credit-fuelled gengsi—a concept often translated as “face”, but which Pisani calls “showing off, keeping up with the Joneses”—in which Indonesians of the nascent middle classes lumber themselves with crippling debts to build ostentatious houses and buy the most fashionable motorbikes. It is, Pisani writes, “a habit that most Indonesians say they despise, and many engage in with great enthusiasm”.
A writer with a less intimate knowledge of Indonesia might miss these problems or shy away from addressing them – or alternatively descend to petty sneering. But Pisani deals with them clearly and honestly, without ever being patronizing or condemnatory.
While tempering hyperbolic predictions of economic glory on the one hand, Pisani also skewers prophecies of doom on the other. Indonesia, she convincingly argues, is unlikely to fragment, bound by many threads of collectivism, patronage, and migration.
Perhaps most refreshing of all is how little emphasis the book gives to Islam. Indonesia is the world’s most populous Muslim-majority nation, and some more hysterical foreign commentators have conflated the disparate phenomena of increasing public observance of Islam, the emergence of Islamist parties at the ballot box, and a smattering of suicide bombings against Western targets into a single sinister whole, proclaiming an inexorable slide towards intolerant theocracy. Pisani deftly dismisses all that, arguing, for example, that the PKS, the Partai Keadilan Sejahtera or Prosperous Justice Party, one of the most discussed of the Islamist parties, has been effectively stripped of its ideology by the nature of Indonesian politics:

The Muslim Brotherhood-inspired PKS ... has been thoroughly Indonesianized, its formerly idealist members woven tightly into the country’s deeply transactional political system. Patronage is proving an effective way of taming religious extremism.

Pisani also points out that the FPI, the Front Pembela Islam or Islamic Defenders Front, a sporadically violent rabble of Islamist activists, is really little more than a traditional Indonesian street gang under a Muslim flag of convenience. Islam in this book is for the most part simply a background fact of life—as it is for most Indonesians—rather than a dynamic political force.
Given the fact that Pisani leaves Java—the lodestone of Indonesia, home to its biggest cities and most of its population—to the very end of her journey, the island does become something of a brooding, unseen presence during the course of the book, the place from which all political power and television soap operas emanate. In this there’s a danger of giving credence to the simplistic notion of a “Javanese colonialism” dominating the country, but Pisani is careful to counterbalance this effect once she actually reaches the final landfall.
She also winds up on a note of quiet optimism, amongst the local collectives that have turned Surabaya—Indonesia’s second biggest city—into a remarkably “clean and green” place.

* * *

If Indonesia’s economic advancement does continue, and if the attention it then receives does create a rush of explanatory books about the place, then Pisani’s excellent offering will provide a high benchmark.
On another level, meanwhile, the book also provides a model for “portrait of the nation” travelogues fit for the 21st-century, in which properly qualified authors like Pisani produce not tired misconceptions and glib generalizations, but authentic insight and real understanding.

© Tim Hannigan 2014

Friday, 16 May 2014

Secrets of Southern Sumatra

Exploring the southern regions of Sumatra

Originally published in Bali and Beyond Magazine

The lake stretches before me in a sheet of steely grey water.  Small boats creep across the glassy surface, and skeins of white mist cling to the green ridges that rise on either side.  To the west the smooth cone of Gunung Seminung rises, and olive-grey monkeys shift through the branches of the trees.  I am standing on the shores of Danau Ranau, a large lake locked in the jungle-clad hills of Southern Sumatra.  It is a beautiful, peaceful place, and there is not another traveler in sight.
            Sumatra is a land of superlatives.  A great green oblong, tilting at the Indian Ocean, it is the world’s sixth largest island, a place studded with towering volcanoes and speckled with lakes.  Most travelers stick to the string of fine attractions in striking distance of the heaving northern city of Medan – Lake Toba, Bukit Lawang, and Berastagi – while others head for Padang to trek the nearby mountains or the jungle trails of the offshore Mentawi Islands.  But I am here to explore Sumatra’s forgotten side, the great sweep of the southern provinces, where the tracks remain resolutely unbeaten.
            Danau Ranau, on the borders of Lampung and South Sumatra provinces, is my first stop.  Lack of temples notwithstanding, the setting reminds me of Bali’s Lake Batur – but here, locals tell me, tigers still slip down into the villages from time to time.  Villages built on stilts – an anti-tiger defense – stand amongst the trees, and the potholed roads that loop around the shores are free from traffic. 
            Danau Ranau is cradled in the hills of the Bukit Barisan, a great ridge of mountains that stretches along the entire length of Sumatra, walling off the rugged west coast from the forested flatlands to the east.  After leaving the lake I cut through these hills and head north past stormy beaches to Bengkulu, a sleepy little city with a very strange history.  While most of Indonesia was once a Dutch colony, until 1824 Bengkulu, and the surrounding province which bears its name, was British territory. 
Bengkulu was Southeast Asia’s original hardship posting; it made an unremitting loss for the British government, and many of the men sent to run the place died of fever and alcoholism.  Today it is a sleepy, friendly town, studded with echoes of an earlier age.  I explore the tranquil cemetery where the crooked graves of soldiers and civilians stand amongst the tall grass, and admire the rusting cannons on the ramparts of Fort Marlborough, an imposing hulk of masonry looking out across the red roofs of the old town to the empty sweep of the ocean, and the dark line of the Bukit Barisan.
            The most famous British resident of Bengkulu was Thomas Stamford Raffles, who founded Singapore while serving as governor there.  After taking up the post in 1818, Raffles set out on an expedition into the mountains, discovering the famous Rafflesia, the world’s biggest – and smelliest – flower along the way.  After a few days exploring Bengkulu I set out in his footsteps.
            The great sweep of the Pasemah Highlands lies far beneath me under a blanket of creamy cloud.  A bitter wind is blowing, and the light of a steely dawn is leaching into the South Sumatra skies.  I am approaching the summit of Gunung Dempo, the 3173-metre mountain that looms over these green uplands. 
            After arriving in the cool township of Pagaralam, I have explored waterfalls and villages of carved teakwood, and picked my way through the rice fields to find the enigmatic 2000-year-old megaliths that dot the countryside.  This region, the Pasemah Highlands in South Sumatra province, is a place of tea gardens and fresh air.  Again, I find myself wondering why so few tourists come here. 
The area is dominated by the looming presence of Gunung Dempo, and now I am approaching the summit in the company of a local mountaineering enthusiast called Maman.  We set out at midnight from the trailhead deep in the sprawling tea gardens which cloak the lower slopes, clambering through dense forest in the hours of darkness.  Maman tells me that the mountain was traditionally viewed as the receptacle for the souls of departed ancestors, ruled over by a deity called Puyung Raja Nyawe.  Now, finally, we are approaching our goal, passing through stunted bushes cloaked with the grey-green lichen known here as jengot angin, “the beard of the wind”.  It has been a hard climb, but the views are worth it.  The mountain is a dormant volcano, and from the summit we look down on a deep, lake-filled crater.  To the east the coppery cloud is melting over the highlands, and the dark ridges of the Bukit Barisan rise like sharks’ fins.  To the west, meanwhile, beyond a descending tangle of green ridges, I can see the pale coastline of Bengkulu province.
Once I descend from the mountain my journey takes me on east to Palembang, the seething capital of South Sumatra, and once the seat of an independent Malay kingdom.  This is a watery down, straddling the banks of the great Musi River.  I make my escape by boat, heading downstream to the beaches of nearby Bangka Island.  A handful of low key resorts dot the coast here, but there are no other tourists in sight, and I relax and let my Dempo blisters heal in splendid isolation.
Beyond Bangka I return to the mainland and head north once more to my final destination in this unexplored quarter of Sumatra.
The jungle stretches away on either side, full of furious insect noise.  The air is damp and clammy, and very still, and I wonder nervously for a moment about those tigers.  I am standing in a clearing in the forest at Muara Jambi, feeling a little like Indiana Jones.  Before me lies a chaos of tumbled red bricks and knotted creepers – I am looking out on the ruins of a civilization.
This spot, 25 kilometers from the modern regional capital, Jambi, was the seat of the Melayu Kingdom in the 11th and 12th centuries.  This powerful Hindu-Buddhist realm ruled over a vast swathe of territory, and controlled much of the trade that passed through the Straits of Melaka.  Far from the mountainous sources of basalt, the rulers hear built their massive temple complexes from red brick, and when the kingdom collapsed in the 13th century, they jungle took over, the buildings crumbled, at Melayu was forgotten.
European explorers first came across this place in the 19th century.  Since then the central temples have been restored.  But there are hundreds of other structures out in the forest, some only recently discovered.

As I wander alone along the forest trails fragments of 1000-year-old pottery crunch beneath my feet.  Eventually I emerge beside a narrow creek where a local villager is dipping a cantilevered Chinese-style fishing net into the green water.  I sit down at the edge of a bamboo bridge to watch him work.  Muara Jambi is a far cry from the crowded relics of Indonesia’s other ancient civilizations at Borobudur and Prambanan in Java, and indeed the whole of this untraveled region is a world away from tour bus routes and beaten tracks.  But my journey has taken in everything from white beaches to mountain peaks, Buddhist temples to colonial relics, and all along the way I’ve met with warm welcomes from local people, eager to welcome travelers to their forgotten corner of Indonesia.  I’m sure I will be back!
© Tim Hannigan 2013

Monday, 24 February 2014

The Myth that Shaped Nations

Tim Hannigan introduces the story behind the myth of Thomas Stamford Raffles in the city with which he will forever be associated - Singapore.

from Hurrah Productions on Vimeo.

The story of Raffles' forgotten role in Indonesian history is told in Tim Hannigan's latest book, Raffles and the British Invasion of Java, published by Monsoon Books.

For more information see

Tuesday, 3 December 2013

An Island Apart

The Island of Sabu in Nusa Tenggara

Originally published in Bali and Beyond Magazine

Sabu is an island apart.  Six hundred kilometers east of Bali, it drifts alone in an empty sea – a strip of pale sand, a line of white surf, and a long, green bank of lontar palms. 
Of Indonesia’s myriad landfalls, this is one of the remotest of all, a place still straining at the furthest end of tenuous transport links.  Flashy motorbikes and mobile phones have yet to dominate here.  Small boys ride half-wild horses across the windswept hillsides, old women weave dark ikat cloth on bamboo verandas, and a warm welcome in thatch-roofed villages comes in the form of a mouthful of betel nut and a mug of palm wine.  If you’re looking for the Indonesia of travel fantasy, a place where you can feel as though you are following only a few steps behind the earliest European sailors, this might just be it…
            Sabu is part of East Nusa Tenggara Province, and getting there is half the adventure.  It is just 450 square kilometers in size, and home to some 60,000 people, one of the archipelago’s most isolated communities.  Kupang, the capital of West Timor, lies 250 kilometers to the east; Waingapu on Sumba is a similar distance to the west; to the south there is nothing until Australia.  Kupang is well connected by air to Bali and Java, but beyond that point you’re at the mercy of time and tide.  When the weather is good a rickety government ferry makes the crossing – 16 empty hours rolling over the swells of the Sabu Sea – once or twice a week, and a somewhat faster if equally unreliable air connection is maintained by Merpati with its smallest twin-prop planes.  But once you arrive, banking in over the tree tops, or stepping ashore with wobbly legs on the little jetty, you’ll find that the journey was worthwhile.
            The point of arrival in Sabu is the little township of Seba.  This is the quintessential tropical outpost – a place of potholes and puddles where a handful of motorbikes heading for market counts as the rush hour.  The electricity supply often fades and falters, and the arrival of the ferry from Kupang is the highpoint of the week.  Tin-roofed mosques and churches stand between the palm trees, and vendors preside over mounds of betel nut, or lengths of dark, hand-woven ikat cloth.  There are a few friendly homestays here, where adventurous travelers can bed down and plot excursions to the wilder parts of the island.
            For a place that still seems to teeter on the edge of the known world Sabu has had a remarkably long history of European engagement.  Sometime early in the 17th century Portuguese travelers from neighboring Flores and Timor made it here, and in 1674 a lost Dutch trading ship ran aground, prompting the first open conflict between the people of Sabu and the outside world: the terrified islanders killed the shipwrecked sailors, and when the Dutch authorities heard the news they launched a punitive raid.  At the time Sabu was ruled by five warring kings, each master of a miniscule realm.  The Dutch formed an alliance with the ruler of Seba, but they failed to defeat the neighboring principalities, being beaten back by Sabunese warriors lodged behind high defensive walls. 
You can still see the stone defenses of the local stronghold at the village of Hurati in the east of the island.  An old Dutch cannon lies in the undergrowth.  Eventually the Dutch signed treaties with the chiefs, but the European presence amounted to nothing more than a single lonely administrator, camped out among the lontars and left to his own devices for years on end.
            In 1770 the great English navigator Captain Cook stumbled upon Sabu on his way home from exploring the Pacific.  The island, rising unexpectedly from the horizon, was “so little known that I never saw a map or chart in which it is clearly or accurately laid down,” he wrote.  Cook and his crew spent several days exploring the island, bartering with the locals for cloth and supplies.
            Cook’s writings about Sabu form the earliest significant foreign account of the island, but what is striking is that much that he saw remains recognizable today.  And standing on Sabu’s white beaches in the 21st century, it sometimes seems as if the topmasts of the Endeavour have slipped over the western horizon only a few days earlier.      
            Today most of the people of Sabu are Christians, and barnlike churches stand on the steep hillsides of the interior.  But old traditions are still strong, and in some of the more remote villages families still pursue their own Jingi Tiu faith, with its ancestor worship and sacrifices.  The village of Namata, south of Seba, is a stronghold of old ways.  Great stone graves dot the village outskirts, and the roofs of the wooden houses rise in long ridges of lontar palm thatch.  Locals here will tell you that the first settlers came to Sabu from India, and when they arrived they upended their open boats for shelter.  The ship-like rooftops of the village houses commemorate these first dwellings.  On the edge of Namata, on a slab of soft yellow sandstone, there is a carving of a European sailing ship, a record of some early landfall by outsiders.  It looks as though it was carved yesterday.
            Travelling further afield from Seba you will find white roads winding through rolling hills.  Sabu is a dry island, grazed by fine horses brought to the island by Arab traders in centuries past.  At times the windswept landscape looks more like African savannah than the Indonesian tropics.  The southern shoreline is a place of bony limestone outcrops and angry seas, but on other, more sheltered coasts there are empty beaches of soft white sand where seawater is left in upturned clamshells to evaporate – the old way of collecting salt.  Hollow waves wrap along the offshore reefs: most of the trickle of travelers who make it here are wayward surfers seeking to escape the crowds of Bali and Lombok.
            The shores of Sabu are studded with lontar palms.  For local people this is “the tree of life”, a source of fiber for thatch and clothing, of sugar, and of course, of alcohol.  Captain Cook noted that the locals brewed “a very sweet agreeable Cooling liquor” from the sap of the lontar, and they still do today, collecting the liquid each day in cups made of leaves.  It ferments as it collects and is ready to drink straight from the tree.  Visit any village here, and once the excitement has died down you’ll likely be offered a cup of this mild, refreshing wine.
            The other mainstay of Sabunese culture is the island’s distinctive ikat cloth, died by hand and woven on back-strap looms by local women.  While the cloth of neighboring islands is all bright colors and wild motifs, Sabunese ikat is dark and understated in a series of earthy browns and blacks.  The key designs are creamy floral whorls, borrowed from Indian cloth shipped into the east of Indonesia before the arrival of European sailors.
            When Captain Cook left Sabu, sailing west, past the hulking offshore island of Raijua, then one of Sabu’s five separate kingdoms, and clipping the tiny uninhabited islet of Dana, home of departed souls in the Jingi Tiu faith, he swore his crewmen to secrecy about the place they had just visited.
            More than 200 years later the secret is still well kept…

© Tim Hannigan 2013

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

Eastern Promise


An East Java Road Trip

Originally published in Garuda in-flight magazine August 2012
Driving south from Surabaya into the great green hinterlands of Java is like coming up for air.  The heat and dust of the coastal plains recedes; the traffic thins, and in the distance monumental mountains rise into the clouds.
            The East Java capital is a place for top-notch shopping and fine food, but when you’ve had enough of the malls, it’s time to hit the road on a three-day journey which will take you from enigmatic temples to haunted hotels, from colonial relics to steaming volcanoes, and through some of the lushest of all Indonesia’s exotic landscapes.  So climb into the driving seat, leave downtown Surabaya behind and bear south through the town of Sidoarjo, to embark on a journey along historical highways and beautiful byways…
            You can see the smooth 1650-meter cone of Gunung Penanggungan from the center of Surabaya on a clear day, and as its green slopes slip by to your right, south of Sidoarjo, your journey has begun.  This perfectly formed peak is the outer bastion of the great mountainous heartlands of East Java.  It is said to be the tip of the mythical Mount Meru, home of the gods, which broke off when the mountain was shifted from India to Java with the arrival of Hinduism.  The forested slopes are dotted with temples.
The most easily reached of these relics stands in the roadside village of Prigen, a short detour west of the main route.  Rising through tapering tiers of carved basalt in a neat, moat-lined garden, is the 13th Century Candi Jawi temple, built by the rulers of the Singosari Kingdom.
Back on the main road, continue towards Malang.  The road is already rising now; in the distance tiers of forest climb the lower slopes, while higher up the plum-colored mountain walls vanish into cooling haze.  As you approach the little roadside town of Lawang, you’ll spot a distinctive building rising through five art-deco pink and white floors.  This is Hotel Niagara, originally built as a private home for a Chinese businessman in the early 20th century.  The interior still features tiled floors, teak paneling, and wrought iron banisters, but perhaps you’ll prefer to press on after checking out the rooms – the place is said to be haunted…
There’s another fine temple further up the road in Singosari, the spot that was once the capital of the kingdom of the same name.  It is a place where grimacing, bug-eyed shrine guardians stare out from the stonework.  There are more of these ancient relics to explore nearby – Candi Jago, Candi Kidul, Candi Sumberawan.  But lunchtime is looming, so it’s time to press on to Malang.
Today Malang is a bustling upland town with a fine climate.  In the 19th century it was an administrative centre and a refuge from the heat of the coast for the Dutch colonialists.  There are echoes of this era in the city’s cathedral, and in the fine colonial mansions that still stand on the quieter suburban avenues.  The city’s most famous colonial throwback, meanwhile, makes for a fine lunch stop.  Toko Oen restaurant, not far from the bustling town center, has scarcely changed since the 1930s – with slow moving ceiling fans, checked table cloths, low chairs and homemade ice cream. 

            After sampling the steaks, cakes and coffee at Toko Oen, it’s time to head back to the road, bearing past the churches, mosques and mansions of Malang, and back into the countryside.
            The road bears west to Blitar, taking you through in an overwhelmingly green world.  Rice fields roll away, veiled in a thin skein of lavender haze.  To the north the dark eminence of Gunung Butak rises beyond a tangle of dark ridges, scored by tumbling streams.  Farmers in conical hats work in the fields, and red-roofed villages line the roads.
            As the day draws to a close this jaunt through Java brings you to Blitar.  This is the quintessential small Javanese town, with a grassy central square flanked by huge banyan trees, and in the backstreets the rattle of becak still rules over the roar of motorbikes.  The best place to take a break from the road lies just a few steps off Blitar’s main street, at Hotel Tugu Blitar, an attraction in its own right.  The hotel features a restored colonial mansion decked out in the finest of Javanese style.
            Blitar’s greatest claim to fame is as the childhood home and final resting place of Sukarno, independent Indonesia’s first ruler.  He was buried here in 1970.  The tomb features an impressive Javanese double gateway, and a magnificent three-tiered joglo pavilion with an intricately carved ceiling.  Pilgrims from across Indonesia come here to pray, and to absorb a little of the great man’s karisma.
            Once you’ve paid your own respects, stop off for breakfast across the way on Jl Slamet Riyadi for a portion of Blitar’s best known specialty – nasi pecel, rice with fresh greens, crackers, and a peanut and chili sauce that manages to be as fiery as a Sukarno speech and as fresh as a mountain breeze all at the same time.  The best is served here at the simple little Mbok Bari café…
            After a quick round of Blitar’s other sights – including Istana Gebang, the lovingly preserved house where Sukarno grew up – it’s time to head back to the road, and further back into the past.
            Knee-deep in the rice fields, 15 kilometers north of Blitar, stands the magnificent Candi Penataran, an epic14th century temple complex built by the rulers of the realm that replaced Singosari – Majapahit.  If you come on a weekday you’ll likely get to admire the stunning carvings, Ramayana friezes and bug-eyed garudas in solitude.
            Beyond Penataran the journey takes you through some of the finest countryside in all Java.  Fields of sugarcane and pineapples slant away on either side; boulder-filled brooks slip beneath the bridges, and old women wander down dusty lanes to hidden villages.  To the east, close at hand, the mountains rise into ominous bruise-colored cloud, and this is where the next stop lies.
            Gunung Kelud, 1731-meter western buttress of the great mountain complex that surrounds Malang, is one of Java’s most active volcanoes.  Happily, however, when it’s not letting off steam, it offers the best chance to see volcanic activity close-up for those who don’t want to hike – you can drive right to the top!
            From the car park it’s a short walk through a gloomy tunnel to the crater.  Razor-sharp ridges rise on all sides, surrounding a vast, steaming heap of black rubble, coughed up from the bowels of the earth in the most recent bout of activity in 2007.  This is a new landscape, but somehow it feels older than the temples you have seen earlier on the journey.
            After taking in Kelud’s surreal spectacle, head north to meet the road from Kediri to Batu.  Smooth switchbacks wind through cool forest, the palm trees on either side giving way to pines on the ridges above.  The mountains fall back at the tranquil lake at Selorejo, a lozenge of pale water, cupped between green hillsides.  Then it’s onwards and upwards, the road rising alongside dancing streams.  The sunsets from the high vantage points here are spectacular, and once you cross the little pass above Songgoriti, a great sweep of lights opens below you, like an inverted star-scape showing through the trees.  Batu, the stopping point for the second night, is in view.
            Batu sits in the belly of the mountains – Arjuna, Welirang and Kawi rise on all sides, and the nights are cool.  There are dozens of places to stay, and this is the place to feast on rabbit sate, grilled over hot coals and dished up with sweet peanut sauce. 
            After a night here it’s time to take the final mountain road on this long loop through Java, heading uphill past the gardens and swimming pool at Selekta and into a high landscape swollen with neat little onion and cabbage plots, and studded with apple orchards – the crops which grow best in the temperate cool of the hills.
            The great peak of Welirang, trailing a smear of smoke from its highest point, rises ahead and the road crosses a narrow pass and drops into dense, green forest.  A little way below the pass are the Cangar hot springs, the perfect place to stop for a relaxing soak in the thermally heated pools, surrounded by cool jungle where leopards are still said to hunt.
From here it’s downhill all the way.  The forest falls back to reveal a spectacular landscape of ridges and gorges; shy ebony leaf monkeys watch from the braches, and eventually the road reaches the little town of Pacet.  From here it’s an easy cross-country ride through the fields to Krian, and back to Surabaya.  But the smog and the traffic can wait a while: find a spot in a roadside café; order a glass of coffee, and take in the distant view of Penanggungan, that same sentinel peak which marked the start of this Javanese odyssey…

© Tim Hannigan 2013

Friday, 24 May 2013

The Red-Coat Conquest of Yogyakarta


The British Assault on Yogyakarta in 2012


Originally published in The Jakarta Globe, 21/06/12

At 4 a.m. on June 20, 1812, a column of red-coated British and Indian soldiers came trotting out of the old Dutch fort in Yogyakarta. They jogged swiftly across the grassy sweep of the Alun-Alun, heading for the northeast corner of the Kraton, the great fortified royal city of Central Java.

As the first light began to seep across the rice fields, they surged up bamboo ladders onto the ramparts and overwhelmed the bleary-eyed Javanese defenders.  By mid-morning, the Kraton had fallen, hundreds of its inhabitants had been killed, the Sultan and his heir had been taken prisoner and an orgy of looting had erupted.

The fall of Yogyakarta was one of the most dramatic and significant events of 19th century Indonesian history, but two centuries later it has been largely forgotten.  Britain had seized Java and the other outposts of the nascent Dutch empire the previous year after Holland itself was annexed by Napoleon. A young clerk named Thomas Stamford Raffles, later to find fame in Singapore, was left in charge.

Raffles had brought with him a new set of European ideals. The preceding two centuries — in both the Dutch East Indies and British India — had often been typified by uneasy compromise between the European newcomers and the local rulers, with both sides quietly convinced it was they who were really calling the shots. But Raffles was determined to exert outright dominance over Java, and especially over Yogyakarta, which, under Sultan Hamengkubuwono II, was the island’s most significant indigenous power.

In April 1812, the British uncovered a correspondence between the royal courts of Java in which the ruler of Surakarta had attempted to incite the Yogyakarta Sultan to rise against the foreigners. But instead of punishing the Surakarta instigators, Raffles decided to use it as a pretext for an attack on Yogyakarta to “impress upon them the character and power of our government.”

The British invasion of Yogyakarta was an exercise of huge bravado. Most of the colonial troops were tied up in South Sumatra at the time, and Raffles had just 1,200 men at his disposal, a mix of British redcoats and Indian sepoys. The Sultan, meanwhile, had an army 11,000 strong.   As one British soldier noted, “To assault a place of such magnitude with so small a force, and the knowledge that we had to contend with a vast superiority of numbers, could not fail to give a very serious and appalling aspect to our enterprise.”

Hostilities began as soon as the British advance reached the old Dutch fort on the outskirts of Yogyakarta on June 17, and for three days observers were treated to “the singular spectacle of two contiguous forts, belonging to nations situated at opposite extremes of the globe, bombarding each other.”

And then, during the early hours of June 20, the British ceased fire to lull the defenders into a false sense of security. But just before dawn, they launched their attack under the command of Rollo Gillespie, a short-statured, short-tempered Irish aristocrat with an improbable list of conquests on the battlefield and in the bedroom to his name. Raffles was left behind to watch from the Dutch fort.

Inside the Kraton things had already begun to fall apart before the first redcoats even reached the walls. For 200 years the Javanese had been dealing with the Dutch, and though the relationship had often been marked by bickering and brinkmanship, confrontations had always ended with the signing of a treaty, rather than with flying bullets. The Sultan and his subjects were so taken aback by the violent turn of events that the defense collapsed as soon as the British troops began to surge into the city.

The crown prince, heir to the throne, ended up on the run in the alleyways of the walled city. Accompanied by a clutch of loyal relatives, he had to clamber over dead horses and fallen tamarind trees, dodge bullets and sidestep rampaging sepoys. For a scion of a court built on rigid protocol, it was a shocking experience. It was also a shocking experience for the crown prince’s 26-year-old son, a fiery young man named Diponegoro. He would remember this early trauma at the hands of Europeans in the years to come.

By 9 a.m. the British had made a full circuit of the walls while Gillespie and a cabal of cavalrymen galloped around, driving back anyone who tried to flee. The Crown Prince was found cowering in the locked doorway of the Taman Sari, the Water Palace, and was arrested. Meanwhile, a few hard-core defenders took refuge in the royal mosque, just outside the Kraton walls. They managed to hold off the attackers for a while, and one of the Javanese sharpshooters even managed to score a direct hit, leaving Gillespie with a bullet wound in his arm.

But before long, a welter of cannonballs silenced the last resistance. British troops burst into the sacred Inner Kraton, opened fire on the remaining defenders and closed in on the Sultan, who was still ensconced on the Bangsal Kencono, the Golden Pavilion at the heart of the palace. He was arrested, marched on foot across the Alun-Alun to the Dutch fort and locked in a back room.

It had taken an outnumbered British advance just three hours to overturn centuries of refined royal protocol with the loss of just 23 soldiers; unknown hundreds of Javanese died.

Meanwhile, the Kraton itself had erupted in an orgy of looting as British and Indian soldiers went on the rampage, plundering royal treasuries, dredging ditches and ripping up floors in their search for valuables. Gillespie and the other top brass had staff loot on their behalf — the commander’s personal haul of gold, jewels and cash was valued at 15,000 pounds (around $750,000 in today’s terms). Raffles and the British Resident at Yogyakarta, John Crawfurd, seized the entire contents of the court archive, taking away a mass of manuscripts which are today largely locked in British museums.

The next day the British placed the bruised crown prince on the battered throne as Sultan Hamengkubuwono III. Instead of the usual carefully calibrated ritual on the Siti Inggil pavilion, the coronation was a hastily contrived affair in the old Dutch Residency. Raffles was seated beside the Sultan, and when the courtiers rose to greet their new king, Crawfurd physically forced them onto the ground to kiss Raffles’ knees. It was the first time Javanese aristocrats had ever had to pay such homage to a European.

A treaty was hastily penned, which declared that the new Sultan would acknowledge “the supremacy of the British Government over the whole Island of Java.” The old Sultan was shipped off to exile in Penang, and one of his younger brothers, a prince named Notokusumo, who had gone over to the British ahead of the invasion in the hope of being appointed a puppet ruler, was granted hereditary title to 3,000 households, a little kingdom within a kingdom, under the new royal moniker Paku Alam.

On June 23, Raffles headed back for the colonial quarters of the coast.  “The blow which has been struck at Djocjo Carta has afforded so decisive a proof to the Native Inhabitants of Java of the strength and determination of the British Government, that they now for the first time know their relative situation and importance,” he wrote. “The European power is now for the first time paramount in Java.”

Today, there is little popular recollection in Indonesia of the traumatic events of June 20, 1812. Even in Yogyakarta itself, the only story told about the British invasion — that they renamed the city’s main street, Jalan Malioboro, after the Duke of Marlborough — seems to be untrue. There is no record of such a rebranding in the British accounts, and the name is probably an older corruption of malybhara , a Sanskrit word meaning “adorned with flowers.”

But you can still explore the remnants of the ramparts which the British stormed, the Dutch fort that they occupied and the royal mosque, the Masjid Agung, where the defenders made their last stand. The ninth Paku Alam is still the head of the royal house the British founded and is the hereditary vice-governor of the Special District of Yogyakarta.

The wider significance of the conquest of Yogyakarta was that it really did mark — if only in theory — the point at which European power became “for the first time paramount in Java.” Diponegoro, the young royal who had been beside his father the crown prince during that humiliating flight through the Kraton, would eventually launch a violent five-year last-stand against outright subjugation in the form of the Java War of the 1820s.  However, there would be no more room for the old power-sharing and compromise of the 18th century. When Britain handed Java back to the Dutch in 1816, the scene had been set for an unrivaled European empire in Indonesia that would last for 130 years.

© Tim Hannigan 2012

The full story of the British Interregnum and Raffles' forgotten role in Indonesian history is told in Tim Hannigan's new book, Raffles and the British Invasion of Java, published by Monsoon Books.
For more information see