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

Thursday, 28 February 2013

Exploring Lawu's Sacred Slopes

The sights and legends of Gunung Lawu, Central Java


Originally Published in Bali and Beyond Magazine, March 2013

There is a soft scent of incense on the cool mountain air, and the black basalt stonework of the temple is cool to the touch.  The roofs of the inner shrines rise in shaggy cones of black thatch, and on the weathered thresholds stand little leaf trays loaded with petals, the offerings left by worshippers at first light.  The wind runs swiftly through the surrounding pine trees, and a cockerel crows somewhere in the little red-roofed village at the temple gates. 
Below, the land tumbles away in a series of interlocking ridges, swaddled in the green blanket of the tea gardens. 

            This enigmatic place of Hindu worship, perched high on the flanks of a sacred mountain, is not Besakih, or some other temple in Bali’s mountainous hinterland.  It is Candi Cetho, a 15th century relic from the days of the Majapahit Empire, looking out over the heartlands of Central Java from the slopes of Gunung Lawu.
            Gunung Lawu is one of Java’s preeminent mountains.  A great volcanic hulk, it straddles the border between East and Central Java provinces, its 3265-metre summit swimming in the bruised clouds of the tropics.  Today, some four centuries after most of Java converted from Hinduism to Islam, it remains a place charged with a profound spiritual energy in local folklore.  For adventurous travelers, meanwhile, the mountain’s slopes offer a wealth of hidden corners, relics of lost empires, and places of living faith, nestled in the pine trees above the tideline of history.

            The grand old city of Solo is the starting point for travelers heading for Gunung Lawu.  Though it plays second fiddle these days to its better known royal cousin, Yogyakarta, Solo has a more venerable royal pedigree – this was once the center of Mataram the last great Javanese kingdom before the 18th century rise of Dutch colonialism.  It has its own Kraton, or royal palace, still the seat of the reigning Susuhunan, direct descendent of the kings of Mataram, and its own rich, courtly culture of art, dance, and sumptuous batik. 

            Built by the king Pakubuwono II in 1746, Solo was deliberately situated at a place of profound mystical energy – it lies exactly halfway between the summits of Merapi and Gunung Lawu, the two most sacred mountains of Central Java. 
Today, you can head east from the city along a rising road through the town of Karanganyar.  The air cools and clears, stepped rice terraces slant away on either side, and Gunung Lawu looms ahead, waiting to divulge its secrets.

            The first stop on a journey around this sacred mountain is the spectacular Candi Sukuh, one of the most unusual of Java’s myriad classical temples.

            The temple stands in the forest at the head of an almost impossibly steep road.  It may not have the scale of Borobudur or Prambanan, but it certainly has a heart-stopping setting – settled on a buttress of level land, 900 meters above sea level, and looking right down onto the flatlands around Solo. 
            And then there is the temple itself.  Dating from middle of the 15th century, this was one of the last Hindu temples to be built before Java turned to Islam, and wandering its quiet levels, it is hard not to trace the echoes of an ending epoch.  The control and refinement of earlier centuries seems to have given way here, and Sukuh is a riot of lewd statuary.  There are winged figures like something from an Aztec nightmare, potbellied demons, and overt fertility symbols. 

            The place was first recorded by the British, who ruled Java for five years between 1811 and 1816.  The first full survey was conducted by Dutch archeologists in the 1880s, and the place was given an unusually sensitive restoration in the early years of the 20th century.
            Wandering between the weird and wonderful stonework at Sukuh you will usually come across little heaps of petals and the curls of burnt-out incense sticks.  Many local Javanese, though officially Muslim, still come to places like this to make offerings, and to meditate in search of the sacred power said to run deep in the island’s rich volcanic soils.  But at another sacred spot, still higher up the slopes of Gunung Lawu, there is a place where the original Hindu faith still endures.

            Candi Cetho tops even Sukuh’s stunning setting.  To get here you must follow a winding road through the tea gardens, bending up ever steeper slopes until the tropical vegetation begins to give way to an alpine world.  The temple, dating from the same fin-de-siècle era as Candi Sukuh, and featuring similar phallic symbolism and turtle-shaped altars, occupies one of Java’s most spectacular spots.  The thirteen levels rise up a slanting slope, and look out on the full breadth of Central Java.

            What makes this spot so very special is that it is not just another relic of a lost age – the temple was so high and remote, at 1496 meters, that the little community clustered around it somehow escaped the shifting currents of history.  Half a millennium after the fall of the Majapahit Empire, the few hundred families who live in the attendant hamlet of Gumeng, which clings to the slopes below the temple like a mussel-bed on a half-tide rock, are still Hindu.  Cetho is a living temple, and beyond the restored upper terraces there is a modern Balinese-style puri, dedicated to the goddess Saraswati, and a more ancient stone-line pool, Sendang Pundi Sari, where worshippers bathe in the cool, clear spring-water.
            As well the local Hindus, Cetho draws in pilgrims from far and wide.  During important festivals Balinese worshipers travel here, and those Javanese Muslims who still follow the older traditions of mysticism and meditation come here at auspicious times.  Even the former president, Suharto, was reportedly a regular visitor – and he chose a burial place for himself not far away, in the crinkled green foothills of Gunung Lawu at Giribangun.

            There are several simple guesthouses in the village outside the great split temple gates, and there are paths through the forest to other places of hidden power, like the nearby Candi Kethek, an ancient pyramid of stone, in a grove of whispering trees.
            For more sophisticated accommodation on Lawu’s slopes, you’ll find the little hill resort of Tawangmanggu.  This is the place where weekending Solo residents come in search of pine-scented breezes, but if you visit on a weekday you’ll have the place mostly to yourself.  There are walks through the woods, to the towering Grojogan Sewu waterfall, and simple bamboo stalls where you can feast on rabbit sate with peanut sauce.

            Tawangmanggu is the jumping off point for those wishing to go all the way to the top.  Some ten kilometers uphill, along a road that leads across a misty pass into East Java, is the trailhead village of Cemoro Sewu, the starting point for the seven-hour trek to Lawu’s sacred summit.

            According to legend, the last king of Hindu Majapahit, Brawijaya, retreated to the mountaintop when his empire fell to Islamic Demak in the 16th century.  Today those seeking the spiritual power he left behind take to the trail – usually setting out in the hours of darkness – along with trekkers with more temporal ambitions of a sunrise view from a windswept summit.  The climb is a hard one, but once you find yourself floating high above the history-laden heartlands of Java with the great bulk of Lawu’s mysterious form beneath you, you’ll be glad that you made the journey…

©Tim Hannigan 2013

Friday, 21 December 2012

Following History's Footsteps at Prambanan

Tracing the route of a 19th century in Central Java


Originally published in the Jakarta Globe, 26/05/12

Dark clouds are rolling in across Central Java, and away to the north the smooth cone of Gunung Merapi rises into a grey sky.  I turn out of the roaring flow of traffic on the main Yogyakarta-Solo highway, park my motorbike, and make my way into the neatly tended gardens beyond.  Ahead, the great black peaks of the Prambanan temples tower above the treetops.
            This vast 9th century Hindu temple complex is one of Indonesia’s best known tourist attractions.  But it is a gloomy midweek afternoon; the tour buses have departed; the souvenir hawkers have already gone home, and the place is almost deserted.  It is a perfect moment to make the connection, for I have come to Prambanan to trace the footsteps of another foreign visitor, a British surveyor who trod these pathways exactly 200 years ago.

            At 9am on 19 January 1812, a similarly gloomy day, Colonel Colin Mackenzie, a 57-year-old Scotsman serving as a military engineer in the temporary British administration of Java, arrived at the little roadside village of Prambanan.  Mackenzie was a professional soldier, but his real passion was archaeology.  He had come to Java tantalized by tales of relics out amongst the rice fields.

Prambanan was no lost city – princes from the Javanese courts often rode out for picnics amongst the ruins; a Dutchman named Hermanus Cornelius had made a preliminary survey in 1807, and just a few months before Mackenzie’s visit the first British emissary to Yogyakarta had noted the “ruins of several Hindoo Monuments and temples falling to pieces” beside the road.  But now Mackenzie was about to embark on the exploration that would produce the first extensive account of Prambanan in English.

He and his companions, a Dutchman called Johan Knops, and an Anglo-Indian draughtsman called John Newman had arranged to stay with the Chinaman who ran the tollgate on the road nearby.  Mackenzie – always an enthusiast – was so excited by the chance for a little practical archaeology that as soon as he arrived he dashed out alone across the road “to explore the field of Antique Research that lay displayed before me...”

Thanks to the extensive reconstructions of the 20th century the main Prambanan complex, a trio of temples dedicated to the Hindu trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Siva, today looks much as it did when it was first built by the artisans of the Sanjaya dynasty.  But Mackenzie described the structures as “vast mounds covered with Trees and Bushes”, which only revealed themselves as “the vestiges and Debris of so many once beautiful Temples” as the explorer drew close.
As he traversed the terraces a group of local farmers began to follow Mackenzie.  He spoke only a little pidgin Malay, while the locals spoke only Javanese.  But they “seemed desirous of cultivating an amicable understanding”, and they led him to the largest of the temples and told him its popular name – Candi Loro Jonggrang, the Temple of the Slender Maiden.

Today this huge 47-metre hulk of masonry is fenced off after the damage caused by a 2006 earthquake.  But there were no barriers in Mackenzie’s way: “I clambered higher, over vast heaps of the stones”, he wrote.  He explored the inner chambers before heading back to the village, rounding up his companions, and setting out northwards once more, carried by the Chinese toll-keeper’s servants “in chairs provided with canopies of leaves”.


I make my own way northwards from the Loro Jonggrang temple on foot.  The air is damp, and the clouds seem to be growing darker by the minute.  A few gardeners are cutting the grass between the trees.
I am carrying a photocopy of Mackenzie’s notes, and as I reach the threshold of the Candi Sewu complex I catch my breath, for I recognize his description instantly.  The gateway was flanked, Mackenzie wrote, by “two gigantic figures of porters, apparently resting on the knee on pedestals facing each other resting on clubs held in each hand”.  It still is, and I pass between this pair of monstrous dwarapala guardians and into the avenues of miniature temples beyond.   

By the time Mackenzie and his friends had finished sketching and measuring it was almost dark.  They returned to the village “much fatigued tho’ highly gratified”, and that night they “enjoyed a profound repose undisturbed by any fears or want of security or any noise”.

I return in the same direction, collect my bike and head across the highway.  This road was already the main link between Yogyakarta and Solo in 1812.  Mackenzie noted that it was busy with horse carts and pedestrians, and lined with little booths “where Tea and Coffee, Rice boiled in heaps, Soups, Vegetables, Fruits, Nuts, Betel, the eternal Tobacco and the never failing Opium are prepared ready for the nourishment, comfort or intoxication of the weary traveller”.  Today the road is flanked by cheap warungs and a huge, cream-colored mosque.

Just a kilometer to the south, however, the rice fields that Mackenzie traversed are still there.  Mackenzie came here the morning after his exploration of Prambanan, with a “venerable Javanese” leading the way.  I wonder, fancifully, if the gaggle of cheerful schoolchildren who point me in the right direction might be the descendants of my predecessor’s guide.

It was pouring with rain when Mackenzie visited this temple, and he “waded through the mire” to get there.  Clambering out of the mud he spotted another monstrous dwarapala, and then stepped nervously into the inner chamber of the crumbling building: “it is not without awe,” he wrote, “that on looking up one perceives a thousand heavy blocks retained by little visible force just ready to tumble in and crush and overwhelm the curious Beholder.”

Today the place is a little more secure, after extensive restoration in the last decade.  But I find Mackenzie’s dwarapala kneeling at the side of a well-kept garden.


From Candi Sojiwan Mackenzie and his companions headed south towards a great green rampart of hills, rising sharply from the rice fields.  I follow suit, and I’m soon wending my way along a bumpy track through the forest.  Eventually I reach a hidden back entrance to the vast Ratu Boko kraton complex, a mass of walls and foundations cut into the living rock on the westernmost promontory of the hills.
Mackenzie must have followed the same path, for he wrote of how he first stumbled upon a cave, carved in a cliff face, which his guide told him was used as a meditation chamber by the Sultan of Yogyakarta.  The cave – Goa Lanang – is right next to the spot where I park my bike.  I can hear the distant roar of the road, and see rooftops and minarets rising into a fine lavender haze from the great sweep of green country below.  
From here Mackenzie returned to Prambanan village.  He spent the following morning making a last series of sketches, before heading back to the east.  He was a busy man, and he had an appointment at the Solo Kraton.  Within a few months he would be called upon to plan the British attack on Yogyakarta of June 1812, and he would then be ordered to make a full survey of Java’s agricultural lands, before sailing back to India in 1813 to become Surveyor-General. 

Before he left Java, Mackenzie, who had been a bachelor his entire life, married a locally born Indo-Dutch girl named Petronella Jacomina Bartels.  She was 43 years his junior, and when he died of fever in Calcutta in 1821 she inherited his minor fortune.

Today Mackenzie is remembered for his extensive surveying work in in India, where he helped to lay the foundations of academic study of Hindu architecture.  But for me, on this damp and sticky afternoon, it is his role as the first English-speaking foreigner to describe the temples of Central Java – and his palpable, boyish enthusiasm for the task – that makes him such an intriguing character.

As Mackenzie left Prambanan on 21 January 1812 he did so with “with mixed emotions of regret and pleasure”.
“It was not without reluctance I left these interesting ruins,” he wrote.  Two hundred years later, I make my way slowly back down the green hillside towards the roaring traffic of the 21st century in similar frame of mind.
© Tim Hannigan 2012

Saturday, 6 October 2012

Sumatra's Forgotten Lake


Exploring Danau Ranau in the mountains of Southern Sumatra


Originally published in the Jakarta Globe, 17/06/12

Soft sunlight cuts through the forest, and the road winds around another steep hillside.  It is three hours since the minibus left the scruffy town of Baturaja, straddling the Trans-Sumatra Highway, and I am nearing my destination.  Houses appear between the trees – sturdy, shuttered buildings of weathered timber, rising above the ground on stilts – and then, as the road begins to roll downhill, the lake appears – a sheet of smooth steel-grey water ringed by a rampart of green ridges in the very heart of the Bukit Barisan range.  Welcome to Danau Ranau, Sumatra’s forgotten mountain lake.

            Danau Ranau lies some 340km from Palembang.  It is a crooked 16km-long lozenge of water, straddling the Lampung-South Sumatra border and surrounded by lush upland landscapes.  But while Sumatra’s other mountain lakes – Toba in the north and Maninjau in the west – have long earned a place on travelers’ itineraries, Ranau lies far from beaten track.  I have braved the rattling bus ride to see what the place has to offer.
            I get down from the bus in the sleepy little lakeside township of Banding Agung and I am soon comfortably installed on the terrace of a little guesthouse, sipping sweet black coffee and chatting with the owner, a retired policeman called Armando.
            The view of the lake is magnificent.  From the bottom of Armando’s stony garden the unruffled water rolls away under a pearly evening sky.  Tiny fishing canoes creep across the surface, dark figures silhouetted in the sterns.  On the far shore the hillsides drop steeply down to the water, and the smooth cone of Gunung Seminung, Ranau’s 1881-metre guardian peak, rises towards the high clouds.  Like Sumatra’s other mountain lakes, Ranau is the flooded crater of a huge volcano.  But according to local legend, Armando tells me, it was formed when a huge tree toppled over and water gathered in the hollow left by the roots.
            The panorama is certainly worthy of a long journey, but Armando tells me that tourists are a rarity.  He blames the provincial government for Ranau’s low profile:  “They haven’t built any tourism objects here,” he says.  But it seems to me that isolation rather than a lack of concrete facilities and car parks has kept these waters undisturbed.  As darkness falls and the blank sky gives way to a thin speckling of stars I am rather glad that I have the place to myself.
In the watery sunlight of the morning I set out along a forest trail to explore the countryside west of Banding Agung.  Men on ramshackle motorbikes come slithering past with shotguns over their shoulders.  They are heading for the coffee and cacao plantations that stud the hillsides – agriculture is the mainstay here – and the guns are to ward off visitors from the deep forest: Armando has told me that a few tigers still haunt the more remote shores of Ranau, turning up from time to time in the plantations.
I pass beneath shady stands of bamboo, and through neat little stilt-house hamlets, where barefoot children play football on muddy fields.  The lake drops in and out of view, glimpses of grey water showing between high green headlands.
One of the gaggles of football-playing kids abandon their game and appoint themselves my impromptu guides, leading me up a boulder-studded slope to a waterfall.  Cool water plunges over the mossy black rocks into dark pools, and the hillside is knotted with creepers.  It starts to rain, and the children lead me back down the slope to take shelter in the house of a local farmer called Udin.  He is originally from Java, he tells me, but he has been here for 30 years and now speaks the local Ogan language better than his Javanese mother tongue.
It is almost dark when I get back to Banding Agung, and Armando tells me he was about to send out a search party: he was worried that I had been eaten by a tiger.
The next day I borrow a motorbike from Armando’s son, Ateng, and set out to explore the more distant corners of the lake.  A breeze is blowing today, rumpling the surface and slapping small wavelets onto the little beaches that edge the lake.
In the hamlet of Pusri I find a hotel, apparently built during a bout of ambitious speculation over Ranau’s tourism potential.  There are impressive bungalows built on stilts over the water’s edge, but when I rouse a member of staff to show me around I find the paint peeling and the timber cracked.  Guests are a rarity, he tells me.
I ride onwards, crossing the border between South Sumatra and Lampung provinces and stopping for lunch in the scrappy little town of Kota Batu at the easternmost inlet of the lake.  My meal is a plate of grilled mujair, a large, carp-like fish with a mesh of grey-gold scales that thrives in Ranau’s clear waters.
Beyond the town I skirt the flanks of Gunung Seminung and head out along the southern shore.  The afternoon has brought bright sunlight and the lake is blue under a clear sky.  Eventually the road begins to give way to a rutted track, so I turn back.  But before I return to Kota Batu I take a detour, intrigued by a glossy signboard pointing along a narrow side-road.  It leads to an unexpectedly lavish development – Hotel Seminung Lumbok.  The place seems to be deserted.  A few brown cows are grazing in the children’s play area, and a troop of black monkeys eye me suspiciously from the trees.
Eventually I rouse the only member of staff on duty, a young man called Jamie.  He tells me that the hotel is owned by the West Lampung regency government.  It was opened in 2007.  I ask if there are many guests.
He shakes his head: “The hotel is owned by the government, so the only guests are government people.  There are no tourists because there’s no promotion.”
Back at Kota Batu I park my bike and take a local ferry across the bay to a hot spring that Armando told me about.  The springs stand at the very foot of Gunung Seminung, and as we draw in to the landing stage I catch a smell of sulfur rising from the turquoise-tinted surface of the lake. 
A pool has been walled off around the springs, where clear water bubbles from the fractured rocks.  It is deliciously hot.  I share the waters with a local woman and her son, who have stopped off for a bath on the way home from the chili fields up on the slopes of the mountain.  It’s a three hour walk to reach the summit, she tells me.
I can just make out the rusting roofs of Banding Agung on the far shore, and closer at hand the little islet of Pulau Marisa.  According to local legend the island was the upshot of the efforts of a pair of rival suitors for a mythical local princess, Putri Aisah.  To win the lady’s hand the two heroes were challenged to build a bridge from the hot springs across the lake to Banding Agung.  They were convinced they could do it, but rather like those who would install upscale hotels on the lake’s shores, they were suffering from a surfeit of ambition.  Little Pulau Marisa was all they managed to build.  Thanks to their failure I have to go the long way back to the guesthouse. 
Tomorrow I will be heading back to civilization, but the bus ride will be worthwhile, for Ranau has proved a fine and tranquil spot.  Had it lain closer to a major city it could have been as famous as Lake Toba.  But for now it is a well-kept secret, locked in the green heart of southern Sumatra.
© Tim Hannigan 2012