Of Indonesia’s 17,000 islands, Java is not only the most populous island nationally; it is the most populous island world-wide. Home to an estimated 150 million on a landmass the size of New York, just hop on any long distance bus to get a front row (or 11th row) seat to a population explosion that must be seen to believe.
Geographically, Java runs parallel to the equator, realistically, Java runs parallel to any and every major highway. Think of the capital city, Jakarta, as Java’s heart, the center of life from which dozens of arteries branch off and bring life to the rest of the island.
Crucial to transport, trade, and the millions of roadside vendors who rely on mobilized passerbies for business, highways have emerged these arteries.
Each foot of motorway is accompanied by two feets worth of inhabitants, villages once separated by rolling countryside now require detailed maps to distinguish where one township ends and the other begins, and highway scenery is stuck on perpetual repeat; House, shop, water buffalo, landfill. Java has become one hopelessly large city.
Highways are clogged from morning to night. Poor drivers, driving even poorer vehicles cause part of the delay but insufficient (more like, non-existent) traffic laws, cause the bulk. No yielding to the person on your right (or left...depending which country you're from), no painted lines between lanes, and no radar guns to regulate speed, since most vehicles cannot break 60 miles/hour without blowing up anyways. Come to think of it, I can't recall one speed limit sign either. Basically, the road is whatever you want it to be. Pass whomever, wherever and for as long as you want because no one is going to stop you. Well, except oncoming traffic. The Indonesian approach, “Move out of the way because I’m coming through!”. The level-headed and law regulated Western tourists position, “Are you bloody crazy?” If both directions of travel adhere to this belief who will win the mobile game of chicken? Simple. The bigger vehicle.
We began our cross-country bus trip in far-west Java bound for the city of Yogyakarta (located in Central Java), but the promised 10-hour trip extended to an agonizing 18. It was at about hour 13 that Clay and I began to seriously question our whereabouts. The bus driver’s response to our query, a stout laugh. "Yogyakarta? We aren't going there."
Our ticket stub read Yogyakarta and the bus driver's assistant confirmed Yogyakarta, yet somewhere in between, we were placed on a cross-island bus, final destination, far-east Java. Our driver’s solution to a dilemma he claimed no fault in (which we found hard to believe) was to drop us on the side of the road.
Not to be discouraged, we plunked down next to the driver seat and engaged in a round of the childhood game, “Are we there yet”, Are we there yet?” But in this case, we repeated...Yogyakarta, Yogyakarta, Yogyakarta (try saying that three times fast). He would either take us to a real bus station and place us on the correct bus, not to mention pay for our transfer ticket, or slowly go mad at the hands of two infuriating tourists.
Eventually, our aggravating performance succeeded and the driver stopped at the next main bus terminal. The driver's assistant was quick to usher us off the bus but this little man was our collateral, and we were not letting go. Grabbing each arm, Clay and I assertively led him to the terminal ticket desk to guarantee appropriate transfer and payment for their error. Peeling out of the terminal parking lot, the driver gave us one final disgruntled sneer followed by an international sign known in all countries, the finger.
5 hours later we arrived at our initial destination. Yogyakarta.
Known to locals as, Yog-Ya (Joke-Ja), Yogyakarta is the cultural center of Java. The self-proclaimed originator of Batik clothing and paintings, at least one, if not all members of Yog-Ya families, sell Batik. Leaving Yog-Ya without some form of Batik is worse then going to Disney World and not buying a Mickey Mouse souvenir. So, I just had to buy….(I love how I justify purchases).
Besides shopping, Yog-Ya is famous for it's proximity to the most famous Buddhist and Hindu temples on the island. Borobodur and Prambanan.
Borobudor is the largest Buddhist temple in Indonesia. The central pulse of a brief Buddhist reign over Central Java, the gigantic structure was built in the 8th century to represent the various steps humans take in life to reach nirvana.
Broken off the nearby mountain and chiseled into perfect cubes, 2 million stone blocks were used to create the gigantic 4-sided pyramid. 4 staircases, one ascending each of its 4 faces, supply the walkways for humans between the levels in life. There are 10 levels to Borobudor.
The first 6 square terraces form the bottom layers of the pyramid, representing the everyday world we humans endure. Stone reliefs are etched throughout these levels, representing life's temptations and the factors considered in reincarnation. In other words, doing harm to others is categorized by what kind and caliber of damage you inflict which will then dictate what you are reincarnated as. Spending my next life as a rock doesn’t really appeal, I’d much prefer the eagle or dolphin. 3 smaller, circular levels sit atop "everyday life" and denote the final steps a human takes towards enlightenment. The top tier, of course, symbolizes nirvana.
432 Buddha statues are spread over the lower levels with another 72 Buddha's, encased in perforated Stupa (concrete lattice), placed on the top 3 circular tiers.
Buddhist or not, visitors should always walk through the temple counter clockwise (to the left) for good luck. Walking to the right is considered evil and bad luck. But, since some tourists forget (like myself, whoops) a little bit of good luck can be regained by touching one of the 72 higher Buddha's hands (if you're male) or feet (if you're female). Phew, I can use all the good karma I can get. I’m still shooting for that eagle reincarnation.
50 years after Borobudor was erected, the largest Hindu complex, the Prambanan, was completed. Built within close proximity to each another - 1 hour by car today, 5 hours by horse or mule back then, the Prambanan was not created to compete with Buddhist Borobudor, but instead, help meld the two religions. Although most temples are dedicated to only HIndu gods, a few are what I refer to as, hybrids.
Stone Buddha's share platforms with stone Shiva's and Hindu etchings mix with those of Buddhism in a beautiful representation of two religions living together in harmony. In theory, exactly what religion should be.
The temples are still used for yearly pilgrimages by a handful of devout Buddhists and Hindu's but mostly they stand as reminders of the religious diversity that once existed in Central Java.
Departing Yog-Ya, we bravely embarked on our next cross-Java bus ride. This time, a promised 8 hours was completed in 12.
Rising up from the floor of a colossal 10 km wide crater, product of the area’s last big eruption, Mt. Bromo, along with two other lively cones, have emerged the late volcanoes successors.
Waking up long before the sun, Clay and I set out across the dormant, exterior crater floor hoping to reach Bromo’s active peak by dawn. We, of course, had our trusty headlamps, but the moon shown so bright ovehead that we hardly needed them. As for direction, easy, just follow the column of steam rising from Bromo’s interior. Illuminated by the moon, the steam shown metallic silver, and its dark cone silhouetted against the ghostly light.
Traipsing through years of eruption ash, the walk there felt more like a walk on the beach, then a crater. The thick black ash swallowed each step whole, complicating any and every form of forward movement.
Racing daylight, we arrived at Bromo’s base with no time to spare. Scaling the cone in record time, we arrived just as the sun crested over the exterior crater walls. Pouring overtop, light raced into the barren crater below, exposing all the hidden contours and ancient lava flows otherwise hidden in the darkness of night.
Peering down into Bromo’s steamy interior, I found heaven staring back. Hell would have lava and fire, but Bromo had fluffy white steam, billowing upwards. The trepidation I felt climbing her dynamic, could blow at any moment, walls suddenly dissolved. Staring into the belly of mother earth herself, a calm reverence washed over me. What a magnificent sight.
The smell of rotten eggs (sulfuric acid) mixed with daylights extreme heat, eventually forced us to leave her sublime crater’s edge, returning to civilization by the same desolate, ash laden path we traversed that morning.