I was standing on the slopes of an Indonesian volcano, covered in mud, trying to remember how exactly I came to be there.

I cast my mind back to my teen years when I read a fascinating book about the magical beauty of Bali. Buried in my subconscious, Bali resurfaced forty years later when I saw a travel agent advertising Balinese tour packages, and promptly added it to my bucket list. When my husband and I eventually booked a trip to Bali, we decided to include a side excursion to the smaller neighbouring island of Lombok.

I remembered standing on a Balinese beach staring west across the strait towards the setting sun. I saw the perfect volcanic cone of Lombok’s Mount Rinjani, the second highest mountain in Indonesia, floating in the misty distance between the ocean and the sky, and wondered what fascinating discoveries awaited. As the sun set, the dim shape of the mountain darkened and assumed an air of intriguing mystery.

Arriving in Lombok, I discovered a lovely tropical island that rivalled Bali in its beauty. However, while Bali is a crowded tourist mecca, Lombok is a quiet, unspoiled natural destination more suited for surfers and snorkelers.

Bali is Hindu while Lombok is predominantly Muslim. Instead of Bali’s ornately carved temples you see the unadorned domes of Lombok’s mosques, and instead of the tinkling chimes of temple bells you hear the chanting of the muezzin’s call to prayer.

As a woman I was concerned about the dress code on the island. However, the locals did not appear to be particularly devout, many being what my tour guide referred to as “three time” Muslims who pray on only three occasions: birth, marriage and death. Consequently, the majority of women do not observe the extreme dress codes of some Islamic countries.

Nevertheless, I decided to dress conservatively. So when our driver came to pick us up for a private island tour I was demurely dressed in a long, loose Balinese batik skirt and soft ballet slippers.

Suitably attired, I sat in the van admiring our driver’s skill as he manoeuvred through flocks of motor scooters, many with whole families perched on them clutching a week’s worth of groceries. We drove around the coast enjoying vistas of deserted beaches and distant islands, and as we crossed the countryside we saw rice farmers winnowing grain by hand and a family gleaning peanuts from a harvested field.

Our guide drove us to the foot of Mount Rinjani and casually suggested that we might want to “walk to the waterfall.” It sounded as if he was proposing a pleasant afternoon stroll. He certainly did not drop any hints about the suitability of my attire for the suggested “walk” as he introduced us to the young man who would escort us.

Our guide was a little under five feet tall and slightly built. As he stood smiling at us in ragged khaki cut-offs and carrying a worn backpack I estimated that he was probably in his early twenties, although his small stature, casual dress and open smile gave the impression that he was much younger.

Our excursion began with an easy, pleasant walk along a canal. Our young guide explained that this was part of an irrigation system built by the Dutch in the nineteenth century when Lombok was part of the Dutch East Indies. Built to carry water down to the rice fields, the canal also provided water for the nearby villages as well as public bathing and laundry facilities. My husband was intrigued to see some women washing clothes on the far bank. He joked that he would love to see me washing my clothes in a stream and I gave a suitably ironic reply.

This easy path turned out to be the deceptive beginning of a challenging mountain hike. It had rained the day before and as we left the canal to begin our climb we came to a steep, slick slope of oozy brown mud. There were no steps or handrails. The only things to hold on to were frail-looking twigs and clumps of grass.

Because I shoes were more appropriate for sliding around on a dance floor than climbing a mudslide, I faced an impossible challenge. Every time I took a step up the slope, my feet lost their grip and I slid back. There were no solid branches to hold onto and my skirt twisted around my knees, preventing me from taking decent strides.

My husband climbed to the top of the slope and tried to pull me up. He succeeded in getting me halfway up before he lost his grip, leaving me to skeeter back down, getting thoroughly coated with mud in the process.

“The hell with modesty,” I announced, and tucked the hem of my mud-soaked skirt into the legs of my underwear to gain more freedom of movement. As I did so, I turned around to look at our guide, only to see him wielding a machete which he had just pulled from his backpack.

It fleetingly occurred to me that perhaps he was about to hack me to pieces for violating Islamic dress codes. But instead of attacking me he used the machete to cut steps into the slick mud of the hillside. Finally able to get some purchase with my feet I reached for my husband’s hand while our guide pushed me up from below. Petrified that if I slipped down again I would crush the poor wee fellow to death, I made a supreme effort and finally made it to the top.

We then followed a narrow path clinging to the hillside. Trying to avoid vertigo I looked away from the steep drop to my left and concentrated on the hillside to the right. Oddly, I noticed porthole-like apertures spaced at regular intervals along the way. I wondered what they were but was so busy concentrating on my footing that I never bothered to ask.

Finally, we arrived at the waterfall and I heaved a sigh of relief. Until, that is, I found out that this was the first falls, Sindang Gila. We were only at the halfway point and would be continuing to the second falls, Tiu Kelep.

While we were taking a break, I used the opportunity to clean off the generous coating of caked-on mud which covered me from the waist down, trying to ignore my husband’s delight at seeing me wash my clothes in a stream.

The next part of the trek was a fascinating encounter with a nineteenth century Dutch water engineering project. We climbed a long cement staircase to a “bridge” which was actually an aqueduct covered with cement slabs spaced a foot apart. As I stepped from one slab to the next I could see water rushing through the channel below. I became dizzy and made it to the far side clinging to the handrail for dear life.

On the far side of the aqueduct our guide showed us a lock designed to direct the water from the mountain into designated channels to irrigate different farming areas in the valley below. After about an hour’s hike we crossed a fast-flowing, boulder-strewn stream (which was quite a challenge considering my footwear) and arrived at the second falls which were truly spectacular. Tiu Kelep means “flying water” and the falls did literally fly out and away from the hillside before crashing down into the pool at their feet.

Our return journey followed the stream we had crossed earlier to the viaduct and down to the canal way. Our guide jumped down into the canal and beckoned us to follow him into a dark, cavernous tunnel.

Standing up to my waist in cold, rapidly flowing water, I fought to stay upright, to avoid hitting my head on rocky outcrops above, and to prevent my loosely fitting shoes from washing away. The uneven cement surface beneath the water had broken away in places, leaving only deep holes spanned by reinforcing bars which we used as balance beams. As I stared into the darkness I realized that this cool, dank tunnel was lit by soft, green light filtering through clumps of emerald ferns growing around regularly spaced holes. In an “aha” moment, I realized these were the hillside portholes I had noticed on the way up.

It took about 20 minutes to walk through the emerald twilight to the end of the tunnel. We climbed out of the canal and continued back through the forest to the visitors’ centre to meet our driver. As we drove away, I treasured unforgettable memories of walking across an aqueduct, spelunking in a water tunnel, and receiving the ultimate compliment from our wonderful little guide:

“Lady, you have heart!”

Private Tour: Amazing Waterfalls of Lombok

If You Go:

Footwear should be sturdy enough for clambering over rocks and suitable for walking through mountain streams. Sturdy non-leather sandals without socks are probably best.

Locals believe that bathing in the pool below Tiu Kelep will add years to your life. If you want to do this, you will need to wear your bathing suit as there are no changing facilities. If you take a towel, carry it in a small back pack rather than a loose bag which you could lose in the canal.

Getting there:

International flights arrive at Denpasar (Ngurah Rai) airport in Bali.

There are two options to get to Lombok. The first is the fast ferry, which takes about two and a half hours. The second is the Indonesian national airline, Garuda, named after the mythical bird that carried the Hindu god Vishnu.

Since it is only a half-hour flight from Denpasar to Lombok this might seem the better choice. However, with an hour’s pre-boarding wait time, security checkpoints and the usual wait at baggage claim total travel time is probably similar. Also, while we had no problems with our flight, I later discovered that Garuda is not approved by European travel agents, who generally book clients on the ferry.

Hiking and Trekking Mount Rinjani Lombok Island Indonesia

About the author:
Lesley Hebert is a graduate of Simon Fraser University. Now retired from teaching English as a second language in the classroom, she teaches ESL to international students via Skype. She also writes on-line articles which reflect a lively, inquiring mind and a love of travel, language, history and culture. Read more of Lesley’s articles at http://www.infobarrel.com/Users/HLesley

Photos by Mike Hebert
Sunset View of Mount Rinjani from Bali
Deserted beach in Lombok
Totally covered in mud!
The first waterfall, Sindang Gila
The Second Waterfall, Tiu Kelep (Flying Waters)

by Kris Williamson

Curled up in a fetal position, I shivered through the night. With only my sweat-dampened clothes to keep me warm, I wondered why I was so cold in the tropics. It was the middle of the night, and I was staying in a Javanese losmen, the kind of place that has four walls, a roof, a mattress, and an endless supply of mosquitoes.

After four hours of trying to sleep, I cursed my alarm for dashing that hope. My short, sleepless night bled into what would be a long and memorable day.

I dressed and packed my overnight bag as the mosquitoes took their last nips of me. Outside the losmen I found the Australian backpacker who had convinced me that staying at this place would be a good idea for getting an early start. She looked well-rested. But how? Before I had time to complain about the accommodation, a white minivan pulled up. There was an Italian couple inside. Aside from a brief exchange of hellos, nobody spoke for the remainder of the trip.

I was fairly certain that this was the transport I had booked to take me to Borobudur, the largest Buddhist temple in the world, only forty-five minutes away. My thoughts ran rampant on the drive to this holy site. Would it be checkered with monks in deep-colored robes burning incense? Would there be an ancient ceremony underway when I arrived? Could I find a decapitated Buddha statue, stand behind it, and get someone to take my picture?

The villages we passed on the way from the Islamic sultanate of Yogyakarta to the host town of Magelang, a small and uninteresting town in central Java, were uninspired and characterless. ‘Humble’ would be a more appropriate description as these towns would have served as the gateway to a center for Buddhist scholarship and worship.

The minivan turned off the two-lane road to a pot-holed one-lane road that would lead to Borobudur. There were short stone stupas beginning to appear alongside the road, a few idle monks, and souvenir shops and makeshift art galleries, though still closed. The sun was still not visible but managed to light the sky a shade of deep blue-grey. I started to see more people and wondered if they were pilgrims making an annual trek. Would I be so inspired that I too would come back to this spot regularly?

The driver stopped in a large dirt lot where a few cars and minivans were parked. I walked to the entrance gates, still unable to see the temple itself.

At the ticket counter, I paid the ‘foreigner’ rate and presented my ticket to the smiling man in military dress who stood at the entrance gate. He told me that the gates would open in another ten minutes. I looked to the sky, by now turning a brighter shade of blue with hints of orange as the sun rose. I wanted to be at the top of Borobudur by the time the sun cleared the mountains and volcanoes that flanked the monument from the east.

The sun rose, and as if he knew what I was wishing, the guard open the gate and let me in. I had missed my chance to reach the summit by sunrise so I took my time strolling through the peripheral gardens. It was not colorful and not very tidy, but the symmetry of the plants on each side of the walkway seemed to give it an orderly appearance. The oil drums cum trash cans scattered around the gardens, however, did nothing to enhance the beauty.

Turning the corner, I found myself on the main path that led straight up to the front of the temple. It was massive, like a layered pyramid of dark grey stone rising out of the dirt. I picked up my pace to get to there quickly until I realized that I didn’t need to rush the moment. I just stopped and stared in wonder.

At the base of the temple, I could see quite clearly that what had looked like layering from afar were indeed layers: nine of them. This pyramid is a series of massive stone platforms stacked on one another, each one smaller than the one it sat upon, with circular platforms at the top. This allowed me to walk around each level individually. The walls are lined with over 2,600 bas relief carvings from stone, telling the story of the Buddha and his teachings. They are large enough to span the circumference of a few football stadiums if stretched out.

By the time I neared the top of the monument, at the end of the chiseled story, I mentally rejoined the present. The monument was now packed with people. Screaming children were swinging from the stone demon heads which were once used for water runoff. Tourists, both locals and foreign, were taking pictures of themselves and the stone edifices and the hundreds of Buddha statues in various forms of decay around the monument.

I had been unaware that the sun was approaching its high-noon position in the sky. I had spent the entire morning in another dimension and awakened to the present day chaos, drenched in sweat. I tried to get to Nirvana, the peak of the monument which had more recently been complimented with a lightning rod, but now it was too crowded with visitors.

These were not the monks and pilgrims I had expected. These tourists, who had come here for the sights, did not seem to appreciate the significance of the temple. This man made holy mountain had served as the center of the world for the Javanese back in the 9th century. Could they have imagined then that, over a millennia later, its reliefs would be ignored, its statues defaced, and its revered position would be downgraded to a tourist attraction on the extreme outskirts of a regional city?

That thought bothered me, not as a Javanese or Buddhist, but as a person. I wandered around the monument and its grounds a while longer but did not enjoy the environment as much as I had when I was virtually alone there. I made my way for the exit, turned, took one last photo, and left the gates.

The exit gate was highly symbolic of leaving the illusion of an ancient abode of peace and entering the modern, capitalist-oriented society that had replaced it. The path to the parking lot wound through a market selling souvenirs at overinflated prices. The vendors were aggressive and nullified my relaxed mood. I felt assaulted, verbally accosted from both sides with claims of needing money for rice or to feed babies strapped to their chests with a batik cloth. I kept my head down not wanting to make eye contact. Surely this was not what the teachings and life story of Buddha intricately recorded on the walls of Borobudur had recommended as a path for living one’s life happily.

I struggled with these thoughts, feeling angry that Borobudur was not treated more respectfully and its message had been disregarded. But there I was myself, a tourist, camera in hand. I got what I wanted from this monument in the end, a new window to view life and human history, albeit nothing more than a superficial glance. And the other tourists and vendors and beggars, were also getting what they wanted from the monument.

Did my trip constitute a pilgrimage? That is difficult to say. But I suppose visiting Borobudur over a thousand years after the rise and fall of its builders’ culture is, at least, a sign of respect for it. And I will go back.

Borobudur Sunrise and Village Tour

If You Go:

HOW TO GET THERE:
Borobudur is in the town of Magelang, a 45 minute drive from Yogyakarta. Door-to-door minivans are easily arranged from Yogyakarta’s tourist areas of Prawirotaman and Sosrowijayan and cost $5 to $6 for the round trip. Public bus #5 from Umbulharjo bus terminal costs a few dollars less but takes twice as long to reach there. Taxis are a pricey option compared to the buses and will require some heavy negotiating. From Bali long and expensive package trips can easily be arranged as well.

WHEN TO GO:
Borobudur opens its entrance gates at 6am, just after sunrise. Some local hotels and losmen in Magelang will charge $5 – 10 extra to get you inside the temple an hour earlier though. This is not legal but is usually not a problem. Sunrise and sunset times offer stunning sky colors for experiencing the temple and are often the least crowded and coolest times of day to go. On the full moon in May, a vibrant procession of monks honoring the birth of the Buddha takes place.

WHAT TO BRING:
Money – The temple entrance fee costs around $10 per person (non-Indonesian) and a camera/video fee may also apply.
Sunscreen and a hat – Once on the temple, there is no shelter from the sun, and it gets quite hot.
Walking shoes – The stairs are numerous and steep here, and a pair of flip-flops will not do you any favors.

ASIDES:
Candi Mendut – This smaller temple sits three kilometers to the east of Borobudur and contains a three meter high stone Buddha statue sitting in a rare position.
Guide – Unless you are a Buddhist scholar, hiring a private guide provides the most informative experience on the hundreds of pictures carved into the temple walls, each piece telling a part of the larger story. Guides can cost from $5 to $10.
Accommodation – There are a few places to stay in Magelang, ranging from losmen for a few dollars per night to luxury resorts starting at $600 and beyond.
Market – Exiting the temple will take you into the market, where very persistent vendors will try to sell you their wares for two or three times the cost of the same items in Yogyakarta. If you are not interested, politely decline and (most importantly) keep walking.

For more information visit the Official Website of Indonesia Tourism – Wonderful Indonesia

About the author:
Kris Williamson is a freelance writer and editor living in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He has traveled extensively throughout Southeast Asia. When not roaming the world, he writes about past travel experiences and tries to figure out where next to travel and which non-direct way to get there.

Photo credits:
First photo of Borobudur in the mist by Bill Fairs on Unsplash
All other photographs by David Ashley and Oscar & Khalil Ayoub.