Renaissance Looms for Lurik Fabric

Labodalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: Dec. 26, 2011

photos: Labodalih Sembiring

What: lurik fashion show | Who: Ninik Darmawan | Where: Ambarrukmo Hotel, Yogyakarta | When: December 21, 2011

For a long time, handwoven cloths have been part of the Indonesian lifestyle across the archipelago. Some ancient inscriptions refer to these traditional fabrics, which also appear in artistic relics like statues.
But among the country’s many kinds of handwoven cloths, such as the ikat, songket and ulos, the Javanese lurik is one of the simplest in terms of design.

The cloth’s name comes from the word “lorek,” which means “stripe” in Javanese. Lurik cloth is traditionally made with cotton strands, though it can vary in color and in the number of stripes used to make a certain pattern. These stripes run horizontally or vertically, and the colors can break into little streaks.

With more than two decades in the fashion industry, fashion designer Ninik Darmawan has always been attracted to simple materials. Although lurik may be a humble material, she finds it interesting and comfortable to wear. So when she learned that the typically coarse and stiff cloth can be smoothed out with an updated production technique, she decided to use it for a lineup of modern outfits and accessories.

In her latest fashion show in Yogyakarta on Dec. 21, Ninik showcased 60 different lurik pieces. At the event, called “Lurik Jawa: Perjalanan Kesederhanaan” (“The Javanese Lurik: A Journey of Simplicity”), she also distributed a book she had researched, showed a documentary film about lurik, and displayed lurik supplies from Klaten, Central Java.

She said that although lurik had become less popular in recent decades, the fashion industry could revive the traditional cloth with a few steps.

“First, you have to enhance the skills of the weavers, either by training them or with books,” she said. “Unfortunately, I have found very few books on lurik.”

Hoping to add to the collection, she is now conducting research for another book.

“It will be more comprehensive,” she said. “I’m doing this for the traditional lurik weavers, and I’ll make sure they receive the book.”

In addition to training weavers, Ninik said it was also important to expand the market for authentic lurik fabric.

“The current number of traditional lurik weavers won’t be able to meet the huge demand, and their roles can easily be taken over by those with big capital,” she said.

Consumers today can buy mass-produced fabrics with lurik-like stripes, although those should not be called lurik at all.

Still, she said a lurik renaissance was possible if weavers imbued the simple cloth with more sophistication. And that’s what she tried to achieve with her fashion show. At the event, held at the Ambarrukmo Hotel, a dark ballroom gradually brightened after the documentary aired, and a group of children entered the room, scattering rose petals on the runway.

Then the models pranced in, sporting lurik dresses in various hues, motifs and styles, including handkerchief, draped, party and simple dresses. Other models followed in lurik bustiers, coats, shirts, pants, skirts, scarves and gowns.

Ninik used the simple fabric to create several edgy gems, including a halter-neck lurik dress with diagonal cuts. A lurik waistline bustier also made the subdued vertical lines seem chic and elegant, especially paired with a taffeta circle skirt in neon pink.

Among Ninik’s favorite pieces was a poncho that incorporated a rare lurik motif called kembang nanas, or the pineapple flower, which uses large black and yellow lines. The flowing dress was a real show-stopper, as it seemed to tame the challenging, rigid quality of the fabric.

“The transition of image from strictly cultural to practical has been attained by the batik but not by lurik,” Ninik said.

At least not yet. Lurik’s growing practicality is clear, she said, as Klaten’s local government has asked its civil servants to wear lurik uniforms.

And as she demonstrated in her fashion show, practicality is only the beginning. Lurik’s transition can go up another notch, she said, as fashion designers prove that the simple fabric is not only functional but also fashionable.

The Merapi Eruptions Series

What: the Merapi eruptions | Where: Yogyakarta & Central Java | When: October – November 2010

Villagers Still Cling to Mount Merapi’s Slopes

Photo: Labodalih Sembiring

Dessy Sagita & Dalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: October 31, 2010

Sleman, Yogyakarta. “I know I have lost a lot and I cannot really explain it, but Kinahrejo is my home. I was born there. My father and mother were born there,” said Marsono Redjo, who plans to return to his village buried in volcanic ash this week.

“It’s the only life I know. I can’t imagine living somewhere else,” Marsono told the Jakarta Globe on Friday at an evacuation shelter as the mountain continued to erupt and officials warned the volcanic activity could last for months.

Kinahrejo, a tiny village just four kilometers from the peak, suffered the worst damage and the most deaths when Merapi breathed fire on Tuesday.

The entire village was destroyed and covered in thick volcanic debris, including Marsono’s house and livestock.

“There is nothing left,” said Marsono, 60, who was evacuated before the eruption.

But it went far beyond property. His son, Slamet Ngatiran, was killed while trying to rescue a neighbor, leaving behind his wife, Wijinem, who is two-months pregnant.

A son-in-law named Giono is missing and presumed dead. He was working in the fields when the volcano released its lava. Another son-in-law, Muhammad Bilal Ngatiran, suffered severe burns and was in critical condition at Sardjito Hospital in Yogyakarta.

Narmiyati, a 33-year-old woman from Kedung Sriti, a hamlet near Kinahrejo, agreed with Marsono. She wants to go home.

“I have experienced eruptions several times, but I don’t think moving to a new place is necessary. It’s hard to adapt to a new environment,” she said.

Ngatini, also from Kedung Sriti, said she was equally eager to get back to the village.

“Merapi only erupts once every few years,” she said. “It’s too bothersome to move.”

After enduring several eruptions, Marsono conceded that the eruption on Tuesday was the most dangerous he had known.

“It happened before, but never bad enough to force me to evacuate,” he said.

This time he had no choice. “It was like a war,” he said. “Devastating and the temperature was unbelievably hot.”

To an outsider, it sounds strange to want to go back to such a place after the eruption, but Marsono said life with Merapi as a neighbor was good most of the time.

“The land is very fertile. Grass and other plants needed to feed our cows are abundant, and there are many clean springs for them to drink from,” he said.

He said the people in his village respected the mountain because it had given them a good life.

Edi Harmana, a disaster official in Cangkringan subdistrict, said it was very unlikely that people living near Merapi would agree to be relocated even though they were fully aware that their lives would always be at risk.

“It is frustrating sometimes, but these people are tightly bound to their villages. It won’t be easy to ask them to move,” Edi said. “Right now they cannot go back to reclaim their old lives, but eventually they will.”

Refugees Risk All for Livelihood, or Just for A Photo

Photo: Labodalih Sembiring

Candra Malik, Dessy Sagita & Dalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: October 29, 2010

Yogyakarta & Klaten, Central Java. Mount Merapi erupted again on Thursday, underlining the continuing threat as officials struggled to keep residents in evacuation shelters and prevent them from going home.

Surono, the head of the Volcanology and Geological Disaster Mitigation Agency (PVMBG), said the eruption at 4:13 p.m. spewed heat clouds as far as 3.5 kilometers, but was tamer than the first eruption on Tuesday that has so far claimed 34 lives.

“Although no larger than Tuesday’s eruption, the heat clouds are predicted to slide into Gendol River and be carried by winds to the west toward the Senowo River. It remains dangerous. We warned refugees not to go home and to stay in the temporary shelters,” he said.

Widi Sutikno, the head of the Merapi Disaster Mitigation Command Post, said no new casualties had been reported from Thursday’s eruption. “They’ve retreated to the shelter after seeing the heat clouds,” he said.

Keeping the villagers in the shelters appears to still be a major struggle.

Central Java Governor Bibit Waluyo said he regretted the attitude of the villagers who went home even though the volcano’s alert level remained high.

“It happened in all areas in Boyolali, Klaten and Magelang. I advise villagers to return to shelters,” he said while accompanying Vice President Boediono and four ministers when they visited the refugees.

He said the number of refugees has reached 37,754.

Sigit Riyanto, an official from the Kemalang subdistrict of Klaten, said the volunteers at the evacuation centers were frustrated because evacuees ignored their warning.

“Merapi is still very dangerous. We have told them time and again that the mountain could emit a cloud of hot ash anytime, but they still insist on going back to their houses,” he said.

Sigit said that for most people who live around Merapi slopes, their livestock is also their pride.

“Sometimes they value their livestock more than their own lives,” he added.

That was the reason given by Nanto Prayitno, a resident of a village in Klaten called Tegalmulyo, about seven kilometers from the source of the eruption.

“I know it is dangerous, but my cows are my whole fortune. They are my investment for my family’s future,” he said.

Nanto is staying in an evacuation center in the village of Dompol, five kilometers south of Tegalmulyo, and takes turns with his son to go home to feed their cows and goats.

“We leave the shelter in the morning and return before sunset,” he said. “What else are we to do? Our cattle mean the education of our children.”

Nanto and his son are not the only villagers willing to risk their lives for their “savings.”

Interviewed in their ash-filled living room in Tegalmulyo, Warno and his daughter-in-law just finished feeding their cattle with grass they collected by hand.

“We have to keep them alive,” they said.

Miyatun, who also stays in the Dompol shelter, said she was extremely worried every time her husband left the shelter for Ngger Tengah, a village near Tegalmulyo, to feed their cows.

“Honestly, I am still traumatized by the eruption. But I have to let my husband go, otherwise our cows will be dead,” she said.

On the other hand, there are people bracing the dangers just for the sake of curiosity.

Along the small, bumpy path connecting Kemalang and Cangkringan in Sleman, Yogyakarta, people gather with their cameras to see Merapi as it bursts out thick clouds, ignoring unguarded barricades and signs saying “dangerous hot cloud ahead.”

Jatmiko, a local present at the funeral of Mount Merapi’s guardian Mbah Maridjan in Srunen village, suggested pilgrims go up to the destroyed village of Kinahrejo to see the flowing lava more closely.

“It’s only about four kilometers north from here,” he said. “Go, it’s beautiful.”

Javanese Spiritual Beliefs Called Into Question as Volcano Death Toll Climbs to 36

Photo: Labodalih Sembiring

Dessy Sagita, Dalih Sembiring & Candra Malik | Jakarta Globe | print: October 31, 2010

Yogyakarta. As Mount Merapi continues to belch deadly clouds of superheated gas, a debate has sprung up over the Javanese spiritual approach to one of nature’s most terrifying phenomena.

The volcano, one of earth’s most active, holds a special place in Central Javanese tradition, which has for centuries assigned to it a gatekeeper to quell its frequent rumblings.

The last gatekeeper, Mbah Maridjan, was killed at his home when Merapi erupted on Tuesday. His refusal to evacuate has invoked praise for the strength of his convictions, as well as criticism for the superstitions centered on the mountain.

Poniman, 59, from Umbulharjo village in Sleman, Yogyakarta, says the deaths, now at 36, may have been prevented if a traditional ceremony had been held in time.

“We’d long planned to perform a selamatan [thanksgiving ceremony], which should have been done on Thursday,” he said. “In a selamatan, we pray together that if the mountain does erupt, the lava and the hot clouds don’t pass through our village.”

Poniman said villagers also held a special ritual on the first day of the Javanese New Year in which “we send prayers to the spirits of our ancestors, who we believe stay with us on the slopes of the mountain.”

Marsono Redjo, an assistant of the late Mbah Maridjan, said Merapi should be respected because it provided fertile land and clean springs to those living around it.

“We regularly prepare offerings for the mountain as a sign of gratitude,” he said. “Not because we’re afraid that it might get angry and erupt, but because we respect it.”

Wangsafyudin, known as Ki Demang, a Yogyakarta-based spiritualist and close friend of the late gatekeeper, said most residents of Yogyakarta and Central Java had “the utmost respect for Merapi as a source of power.”

“They understand that Merapi erupted not because it was angry at the people,” he said.

“It was just a cleansing ritual that has to be done every so often. That might sound ridiculous to some people, but that’s exactly what makes Yogyakarta and parts of Central Java unique. It’s that traditional wisdom that we need to preserve.”

However, Kartowiyono, also from Umbulharjo village, said it was “a mistake” for people to cling to the traditions surrounding the volcano.

“It’s dangerous that people could ever believe Mbah Maridjan would be able to calm Merapi down,” he said. “As a result, many people stayed up there despite the warning. That was a big blunder.”

Villagers in Central Java’s Boyolali district, on the northern slope of Merapi, have also cited spirits as their excuse for not

evacuating. They said they were told in their dreams by the spirits of the mountain not to flee.

Legend has it that the mountain spirits are linked to the Yogyakarta Palace and the queen of the South Sea, Nyi Roro Kidul, by a straight line running north to south from Merapi’s crater, through the palace and all the way to Parangkusumo Beach on the Indian Ocean.

Meanwhile, the Yogyakarta Palace, which appoints the mountain’s gatekeeper, said it would not rush in naming Mbah Maridjan’s replacement.

“I have not appointed a royal servant to replace Mbah Maridjan. I do not even have names. First let’s handle the eruption of Mount Merapi and those who have been displaced,” Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono X said.

Caring for Babies in Merapi’s Shadow

Photo: Labodalih Sembiring

Dalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: November 24, 2010

Maguwoharjo Stadium has, for more than two weeks now, been an evacuation center for thousands of people displaced from their homes around the slopes of Mount Merapi, mainly from the district of Sleman in Yogyakarta. Among them are hundreds of infants and toddlers, who require special care.

“Initially we got a lot of complaints from mothers at the shelter about how most of the food is too spicy or too hard, not suitable for their young children,” said Usye Umayah, head of Mercy Corps Jakarta’s healthy food for infants and children program.

The team from Mercy Corps, a nongovernmental organization focused on building secure communities in places affected by disasters and other crises, has been working hard to change the situation by providing a steady supply of healthy food for infants and young children. It is an effort that is much needed in the evacuation shelters, where most of the food distributed is for adults and not particularly nutritious.

Other groups and government bodies including Sleman’s Manpower and Transmigration Agency, the Sleman Health Agency, the Yogyakarta Health Agency and the Indonesian Nutritionists Association (Persagi) have joined forces with Mercy Corps to ensure the specific needs of children are not neglected.

They have set up one tent as a kitchen, where porridge and soft rice are prepared three times a day in accordance with international health standards, and another tent filled with toys where children can play.

The kitchen also provides snacks such as fruit twice a day.

These meals and snacks were shared with two other evacuation centers in Sleman district before the team opened another kitchen providing healthy food for young children in Sleman’s Youth Center, which is also a shelter for evacuees.

The team has been proactive, not waiting for parents and children to come to the tents to collect the food.

With plastic containers, they take turns circling the stadium, calling out to those with children who have not eaten.

“Our emergency program is an integrated one. So while their children play, mothers get counseling about the importance of breast-feeding and healthy food,” said Hastamik Purbatin Wahyuningsih, health coordinator for Mercy Corps Yogyakarta.

Ayu Windi, one of the counselors at the evacuation center, said the approach they had taken was geared toward sharing knowledge about maternal issues and breast-feeding through discussions, rather than simply trying to tell the mothers what they should or should not do.

“Right not we are focusing on the importance of breast-feeding,” Ayu said. “It is easier when the mothers share their knowledge using their own language. It can seem like a simple chat at first, but it eventually leads to various realizations. One being why breast-feeding and staying away from formula milk is important.”

The widespread use of formula milk became a big concern for the members of the team when they first arrived at Maguwoharjo Stadium.

“Formula was donated and handed out without restraint,” Hastamik said.

“There are strict rules regarding giving formula milk to children from zero to six months old, whose right to receive nothing but mother’s milk is protected by Indonesia’s Health Law.

Babies from six months to at least two years old should receive mother’s milk and healthy soft food only.

“The conditions at the evacuation centers make it harder for mothers to follow all the strict rules regarding the correct preparation of formula milk, such as the availability of clean water that has been heated to a specific temperature,” she added.

The local government of Sleman has been informed about the issue, and the distribution of formula to evacuees has now stopped. Counseling on the issue has led most mothers to stop asking for the product.

Diyati, a 31-year-old evacuee from Ngepring, said she recently stopped giving formula to her 10-month-old daughter, Nursela Maharani.

“I just found out that too much formula is not good for my baby,” she said. “Now I only breast-feed her and give her the food distributed by this tent.”

“We received information that mothers with babies here thought they had stopped producing milk because they were under stress,” Hastamik said.

“That’s a myth. The truth is that the amount of milk produced depends on how much is taken out by their babies. It is possible that because they were stressed, they did not feel like breast-feeding their babies, which led their bodies to temporarily stop producing milk.”

But the kelompok pendukung ibu [mothers’ support group] counseling and the distribution of healthy food for babies and young children does not stop here.

The Sleman government has taken the initiative to continue the effort through the Sleman Health Agency, especially now that evacuees have started returning to their villages as the volcanic activity at Merapi has slowed down and the danger zones have been pushed back .

Mujiyana, head of the nutrition subdivision at the health agency, said it had amended its proposed budget for 2011 to continue the effort started by Mercy Corps.

“We have planned a meeting with various governmental sectors in Sleman. The ongoing effort will be centered in Puskesmas [community health centers] in the subdistricts of Cangkringan, Turi, Pakem and Ngemplak,” Mujiyana said.

The biggest problem the organizations are currently facing is how to proceed during the transition from the emergency situation to the proposed start of the district-level programs, which Mujiyana said should begin next May.

“The evacuees are beginning to leave the shelters. Mercy Corps only has the budget to cover the emergency period and May is still a long way away,” Hastamik said.

“We have to find a way because these mothers actually told us that they wanted the program to follow them home.”

Yogya’s Malioboro Music Phenom

Abmi Handayani | Jakarta Globe | print: April16, 2010

photos: Abmi Handayani

Who: Calungfunk | What: street musicians | Where: Malioboro Street | When: Nighttime

For years, Jalan Malioboro has been one of Yogyakarta’s most famous tourist attractions. Domestic and foreign sightseers and shoppers often stroll down the atmospheric one-kilometer street on their must-do lists.

Thus many businesses in the area have been blessed with steady streams of shoppers looking to spend their rupiah. On the arcades and alleys on both sides of the street, one sees souvenir shops and stands, malls, a traditional market, restaurants, luxury hotels, humble inns and becak (rickshaw) and andong (horse-drawn carriage) drivers persistently hawking sightseeing tours.

And let’s not forget about the beggars and street musicians. Most of the latter come to food stalls and sing Indonesian pop songs in return of a meager amount of money.

But there is always something different on Malioboro. At the right time of day, from across Malioboro Mall there comes the sound of what seems to be the angklung, a traditional musical instrument used by the Sundanese people of West Java since ancient times that produces distinctive rattling sounds through the shaking of small bamboo tubes. Angklung became a source of dispute when Malaysia claimed it as a national heritage a few years back.

On a typical night the street is crowded with tourists and locals. Some of them stop in front of a group of six young men playing different musical instruments. A cardboard box sits on a plastic chair before them. Javanese songs are the order of the night, but not the soft and slow flow of tunes with which Javanese traditional music has been commonly associated.

The music they play belongs to the Banyumasan style. The beat is quite fast, tempting listeners to swing their hands and feet. In fact, when they play a song, a local boogies to it in the middle of the street, as if hypnotized by the uplifting rhythms. Others just stare and listen, yet cannot help but shake their heads to the music. Many people shoot pictures and videos and a girl and boy dance secretly in the crowd.

After three songs, the group takes a break. Istiqlal, 33, who seems to be the leader, talks about the group: “We call ourselves Calungfunk. The calung is a musical instrument from West Java.”

Like the angklung, a calung is made of small bamboo tubes arranged together. But instead of being shaken to produce sounds, the calung must be struck to create the melody.

The story of Calungfunk began a year ago, when six street musicians from Purbalingga, Central Java, came to a kampung around Jalan Mataram, north of Malioboro, where Istiqlal lives.

“We accepted them in our neighborhood,” he says. “But as time went by three of them found other jobs, so they stopped singing on the street. The other three, however, stayed, and we formed this group with them.”

Besides calung, the band’s instrumentation includes the kentongan, a big bamboo tube that is rapped with a stick; tambourine; tripuk, or small drums; and peduk bas. The peduk bas is a homemade instrument — a large plastic drum wrapped with a Balinese sarong and topped with the rubber from a tire.

“We may be looking for money just like other street musicians,” Istiqlal says. “But we also want to keep traditional music alive so people don’t forget about it.”

Calunfunk regularly plays along Jalan Malioboro, setting up across from the mall at around 7 p.m., and moving right in front of the mall from 9 p.m. until around 11 p.m.

The group manages itself quite professionally. They do not only play for spectators on the streets.

“Sometimes people book us for weddings and other events. We normally charge Rp 300,000 [$35] per hour or Rp 1 million per event,” Istiqlal says.

And how much for calls outside of town? “It’s double,” he says.

A creative, pleasant and friendly way to earn money on the streets of Yogyakarta.

A Trove of Batik Stitched Together

Labodalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: Oct. 25, 2011

photos: Labodalih Sembiring

Yogyakarta is known for its art, but hand-stitched portraits by a local batik collector are an attraction like no other.

What: Yogyakarta’s first embroidery and batik museum | Where: Jl. Dr. Soetomo no 13A Yogyakarta | Contact: Tel. +62 274 541 755, +62 274 541 766 Fax +62 274 541 755

The frame of a walker supports the tiny figure of a woman as she steps into a dimly lit museum room. Around her hang portraits of important figures, from the ninth sultan of Yogyakarta to Pope John II. The most prominent item in the room is a huge painting depicting the crucifixion of Jesus on Golgotha.

But upon closer inspection, these are no ordinary portraits. Dewi Sukaningsih embroidered them all by hand over the course of 30 years.

At 81, Dewi speaks of the collection with great pride, as if she were talking about her 15 great grandchildren.

“Look at the embroidered portrait of Ibu Tien [wife of the late President Soeharto]. You can see the skin of her shoulder through her kebaya. And her hair — the strands are noticeable,” Dewi said, adding that the photograph on which the portrait was based had been mailed to her by the late first lady herself.

Dewi is a descendant of established batik merchants from Solo, and scores of her works are featured at Museum Batik Yogyakarta, which Dewi owns. It is the first batik museum in Yogyakarta, a city widely considered  to be the center of traditional Javanese fine arts. Museum Batik is also the second oldest textile museum in Indonesia after Jakarta’s Museum Tekstil, which was opened by Ibu Tien in the mid-1970s.

In addition to Dewi’s own pieces, the museum features scores of works she has collected over the years as well as items that she and her husband inherited from their families. So dedicated has Dewi been in her efforts that she received the 2011 Nugraha Lastari Awards from Kabare, a magazine in Yogyakarta, for the preservation of classical batik.

“Ibu [Dewi] comes from a long line of batik merchants in Solo, while Bapak [her late husband] came from a line of batik merchants in Yogya,” museum manager Prayogo said. He explained that batik merchants marrying their children off to one another was common practice in the 1930s, around the time that the couple’s families first met, and that the museum’s oldest items came from their union.

In 1980, Hadi Nugroho, the husband, suffered a stroke and was hospitalized for years. As she tells it, Hadi was a “mollycoddle” and wanted her at his side at all times. Not used to sitting still, Dewi took up embroidery to pass the time.

“I didn’t learn the techniques first. Everything about embroidery is calculated; having to put this here, that there, make a curve by employing this and those stitches. It was too much for me. I simply did it, just ngawur,” she said, using a Javanese word that means to do something without a plan.

But the result, according to her, was satisfactory. Dewi made more embroideries, and learned which materials and what colors to use to create certain effects. Dewi named the technique she employed sulam acak, or scramble stitching, based on the principle that a thread can go in any direction as long as it does not overlap with another.

“I embroidered portraits of my family members, based on photos,” she said. “They said the results looked better than the photos.”

Taking up a much bigger challenge, Dewi weaved silent prayers for her husband by creating the embroidered version of Jan Styka’s painting “Crucifixition of Christ” on a piece of fabric measuring about four meters by one meter. The Indonesian Museum of Records (MURI) called it the single largest work of embroidery in Indonesia.

“I finished it in three and a half years, scaling the painting purely in my head,” Dewi said of the masterpiece. “As I worked on it, Bapak slowly got better. God answered my prayers.”

Hadi died just three years ago of old age.

The works in the other rooms of the museum are just as divine as Dewi’s embroideries. In one wing, there are nearly 1,500 priceless pieces of batik, 500 sheets of batik prototypes, hundreds of wooden and copper block batik stamps, kebaya encim (a type of blouse with Chinese influence) and piles of canting, a type of pen used to draw the batik motifs.

Piles of batik pesisir (coastal batik) are also neatly stored in the museum, including many colorful sarongs with floral patterns from the early 1900s. Some of the classical batik motifs date back to the 18th and 19th centuries.

Two hundred years before that, Chinese explorers who came to the northern shores of Java brought along their distinct painting style and introduced it to the Javanese batik makers, resulting in an assimilation of designs and colors that gave birth to batik pesisir.

The Javanese often imbue their batik designs with philosophical symbols, Prayogo said.

“The kawung sawut motif here refers to the kawung, or cotton flower, which denotes sincerity,” he said. “Included in this design are the garuda [eagle], a symbol of power; parang, or a steep, rocky cliff by the sea, meaning chivalry; kolam [pond], symbolizing a big heart; and the stars, symbolizing continuity.

“Together they describe a constant, sincere energy in coping with whatever problems life brings.”

Also extinct is the lar kupu-kupu lar rambutan batik motif, which Prayogo said once served as a uniquely Javanese type of sex education. It shows repetitive prints of two intricately drawn butterflies.

“Both look similar, but the male sign on top only has the representation of a seed in its core, while the female carries the fire of eternity,” Prayogo said. “In the olden times, couples could engage in their first sexual intercourse as newlyweds only after they had received this kind of batik.”

The embroidery and batik museum lies in a location Dewi described as ndelik, or hidden. To get to the old building, one must enter an alley by Jalan Soetomo, a street south of Yogyakarta’s Lempuyangan train station. The entrance fee is Rp15.000 ($1.70). Because the collections are privately owned, Dewi relies on private donations for their maintenance.

She also runs Hotel Museum Batik, located just down the alley, and said batik had become more popular in recent years.

“We also run a batik-making course at the back, and usually receive visitors in large groups,” Dewi said. She then moved slowly on her walker, passing through multiple generations of her carefully preserved collection.

A Living from Death

Dalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: Dec. 11, 2011

photos: Labodalih Sembiring

Some think the dead give no benefits, but these women survive by caring for graves.

Who: tomb cleaners | Where: Krapyak Cemetery, near Krapyak Fortress (7°49’39.40″S 110°21’37.87″E) | When: everyday from 7 a.m. until dusk

It had started to drizzle when Sirap arrived at the intersection inside Krapyak Cemetery. Clutching a clove cigarette between her fingers, she stood under a Jamaican cherry tree, smoking and looking at a floral offering wrapped in a banana leaf, placed right in the middle of the crossing paths.

“If pilgrims can’t find the grave they have come to visit, they will be told to put the flowers here,” she said under her smoky breath. “The petals can find their way with the wind.”

Krapyak Cemetery is in the village of Krapyak in Bantul Regency, a few meters east of the famous Krapyak Fortress, an old building constructed by the first king of Yogyakarta to mark the area as a hunting ground.

Covering over a hectare of land, the area that has been used as burial site for around 70 years is now almost full, but the demand for a final resting place never ceases. It is also home to hundreds of trees and flowers, which makes it a pleasant place to walk around.

“My sister bought this strip for the family,” a local named Supri said, pointing to a portion of land outside the cemetery’s fence. He added that it had cost her Rp 1 million ($93) per square meter.

As can be seen in the area, many families have bought their own parcels of land. Some have been filled and some lie half-occupied with the vacant part available for the next family member who dies. But the graves also need to be maintained, a job that Sirap and about 20 other women do willingly.

On the main path across the graveyard, there are three groups of grave cleaners: the groups of the north, the middle, and the south. Women congregate into clusters every morning at around 7 a.m., returning to their homes in the surrounding hamlets at the sound of the evening call to prayer.

Sirap belongs to the middle group, whose base camp is at the path intersection. When they know for sure that a pilgrim, or a group of pilgrims, is coming to visit a grave within their territory, they will weed out any shrubs, clear away the dry leaves, wipe the tomb with a piece of cloth and occasionally join the visitors for the delivery of prayers. As they clean the graves of each enclave together, each member gets a share of whatever amount of money given by the visitors.

“One group gets around Rp 10,000-20,000 per clean,” Sirap said.

The drizzle turned into heavy rain. An old woman slept between two roofed tombs, while three others sheltered at the gate of a Javanese family burial lot on the southern side. A 58-year-old woman called Mbah Cokro — mbah being the common title for an elderly Javanese woman or man — sat next to a broom and her lunch basket along with another cleaner called Siti. Another middle-aged woman, Jum, was seated on a different bench.

“Jum there can clean, pull buckets of water from the well, and everything else, even though she only has one arm,” Siti said, explaining that she was born without a left arm. Although Jum owns a house in a neighboring regency, she comes to Krapyak every now and then to visit her son and to make some money at the burial site.

Asked why they chose this particular occupation, Siti answered in a cheerful tone that she made more money here than in the textile factory where she used to work. She is a housewife and comes here to make some extra money after she sends her children to school. Siti also confessed to a superstition: She claims to get a ringing in her ear every time an affluent pilgrim is about to visit the graves.

Cokro, who was wearing a wornout orange blouse and always put on a wide smile before she talked, said she had been cleaning graves for four years. “I used to sell secondhand clothes in Beringharjo Market, but part of the market burned down in 2004, including my lot.”

The sudden loss of her main source of income drove Cokro to the Krapyak burial ground to follow the example of other women who make money cleaning graves. “Of course, what we get depends on how many pilgrims there are each day,” Cokro said. “No pilgrims, no money.”

“There will always be pilgrims,” Siti added quickly, “especially on Nyadran,” referring to the day when the Javanese come and pray at the graves of their ancestors, a week or two before the start of the fasting month. Even when there are no pilgrims around, some of these women still clean the tombs just to kill time, meanwhile memorizing the names on the inscriptions.

Other women chat gleefully and gossip at their base camps. All of them use the Indonesian word main, which means “to play” or “to hang out” to refer to their work. But why are there no men here?

According to Siti, men either have better jobs or are too embarrassed to tidy graves. “They will be put to use when graves need to be dug,” said Siti. She continued: “There are 28 juru kunci for this cemetery. They are all related by blood.” Juru kunci is usually translated as a caretaker, but Siti said that those who held the job title of juri kunci at Krapyak Cemetery do not take care of the graves, but “sit nicely at a funeral and yet get the most money” because they own the land.

No one knows exactly when women took over the role of caretakers, but there are clearly many people here who, like Mbah Cokro, who just want to make some extra money or, like Siti and Jum, are willing to sacrifice their energy about 10 hours of each day keeping the cemetery in order.

According to Sirap, at any time, on any day, anyone can show up and become part of this cleaning family. “There is no competition,” she said. “The graveyard is large enough for everyone.”

Borobudur: The largest Buddhist Temple in the World

Dalih Sembiring | Latitudes.nu | February 12, 2011

photos: Labodalih Sembiring

What: the largest Buddhist monument in the world | Where: Borobudur Temple (S7°36’028.8″ E110°12’014.4″)

One early morning in February, a group of men and women from all over the world arrived at the foot of Borobudur, a candi or ancient temple in a sub-district of the same name in Magelang, Central Java. Led by Lama Gangchen Rinpoche from western Tibet, they circumnavigated the six platforms all the way up starting from the eastern stairway.

This is how pilgrims usually perform worship at this largest Buddhist monument in the world.

It was early morning. The group of pilgrims peacefully worshipped the relief panels, stupas, and Buddha statues, as well as the breathtaking view as the sun slowly rose from behind the hills of the Kedu Plain, a land also known as “The Garden of Java.”

The beautiful vistas all around this temple are enhanced by the presence of Merapi and Merbabu volcanoes in the east and Sindoro and Sumbing volcanoes in the north. Rivers, big and small, crisscross the fertile area; two of them, Elo and Progo, are famous among local rafters.

It is estimated that Borobudur took 75 years to build, at the peak of the Syailendra dynasty in the 9th century. It consists of ten platforms — six of square shape, three round, and one main stupa at the center of the top platform. Indeed, the temple’s original name as proposed by Dutch philologist J.G. de Casparis, is Bhumi Sambhara Budhara, Sanskrit for “the mountain of combined virtues of the ten stages of Boddhisattvahood.”

The lowest platform represents the Kamadhatu, or the world of desire, in Buddhist cosmology.  The next four platforms symbolize the four stages of the Rupadhatu or the world of forms, while the last three platforms signify the Arupadhatu, the formless world, suggested by the absence of reliefs. The stupas on the highest platforms are perforated, unlike the biggest stupa that crowns the monument.

For over four hundred years since the 14th century, the temple was abandoned following the decline of Buddhist and Hindu kingdoms as well as the spread of Islam in Java. The intended purpose of its construction is still not clear. However, its major renovation between 1975 and 1982 has allowed thousands to flock the temple every year, during the full moon in May, to commemorate Waisak, or the day of the birth, enlightenment, and death of Prince Siddharta or Buddha Gautama.

Borobudur is sometimes mistaken to be located in Yogyakarta, a neighboring province on the south. It is understandable as the nearest international airport is located there, and the province is indeed dotted by many temples, such as the Prambanan. It takes around an hour from Yogyakarta City to Borobudur by motored vehicles.

Many buses at the Jombor Bus Terminal — about 10 kilometers from the airport to the west — carry passengers to the Pal Bapang T-section through the Yogyakarta-Magelang Road for Rp 10,000-15,000. From Pal Bapang to the Borobudur Bus Terminal, one can take another bus for Rp 3,000-4,000. Passing by the border gate between Yogyakarta and Central Java, one will not miss seeing the stone handicrafts for sale lining both sides of the road. Those driving a car might want to take the more scenic route from Godean on the west side of Yogyakarta to the north. Car rentals are available all around Yogyakarta, price starting from Rp 300,000 per 12 hours.

Finding a place to stay is not difficult for those planning to stay around the temple. Various hotels for different budgets are available, the closest being Manohara, Amanjiwo, Rajasa, Saraswati Borobudur, and Lotus Guest House. Those interested in learning about life in the surrounding villages can stay at the locals’ humble homes, where there are rooms offered for low prices, such as in the village of Candirejo.

Once in Borobudur, do not pass the opportunity to visit the nearby Mendut and Pawon temples, the Borobudur traditional market, as well as the Sasana Gunarasa puppet museum. Talk to locals to locate charming springs in the area, and check for schedules if you are interested in meditating in the Mendut Buddhist Monastery or watching art performances at Pondok Tingal. The string of hills called Menoreh also offer a wonderful hiking experience worth taking.

The entrance fee to Borobudur Temple Complex ranges from Rp12,500 to Rp17,500 per person — depending on the day — for adult locals, and $15 per person for foreign tourists. For children and elementary or high school students in a group of at least 20 people, the price is Rp10,000-11,000 (local) and $8 (foreign) per person. The price is much higher during peak seasons (Ied, Christmas, New Year holidays). One ticket covers the entrance permit to the temple, the Samudra Raksa Museum, and the Karmawibangga Museum, as well as a screening of a documentary about the history of Borobudur and the permit to bring a camera or video camera. The temple opens from 6 a.m. until 5 p.m. every day, but many hotels and travel agents in Yogyakarta and Central Java offer a Borobudur sunrise tour package.

A Life of Dancing in the Street

Dalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: August 11, 2011

photos: Labodalih Sembiring - photo of Didik Nini Thowok courtesy of the artist

What: traditional street dancers/buskers | Where: crossroads | When: morning till afternoon

Like most days for the past two years, Paniyem wakes up at 2:30 in the morning. But this is the second day of Ramadan, so she prepares a simple meal for her two children. She then gets the costumes ready for her and her husband, Edi Santoso, who wakes an hour later. The couple is not fasting because Paniyem has gastritis and Edi’s typhoid fever could act up at anytime.

The sun is peeking up from behind the hills when they hop on a bus near Parangkusumo Beach. From this southern part of Yogyakarta, they head north. Two hours later, having secured their usual spot at a busy intersection near the Condong Catur ring road, they change into their black-and-yellow costumes.

Paniyem and Edi are jathilan buskers. Jathilan is a traditional Javanese dance that features energetic movements and bende gong accompaniment.

There are plenty of jathilan buskers in Yogyakarta, but Paniyem and Edi are probably the oldest. By 9 a.m., 47-year-old Edi is sitting in front of a set of bende gongs, which produce the typical tong-cling-tong-cling accompaniment to the dance. And Paniyem, 38, dressed as a white-faced, pink-cheeked male clown, is in the middle of the street.

Jathilan is usually performed with a whip and a bamboo horse, and incorporates dangerous acts like eating shards of glass or walking over burning coals. But that kind of act would be too much for Paniyem and Edi to perform every day out on the street.

“I should have brought my whip. It’s dangerous, but it always makes for a more impressive spectacle,” Paniyem said.

She takes a bow, dances to the jathilan music, and moves around with a plastic cup into which bills and coins are dropped. This goes on until 3 p.m., with just a half-hour midday break.

“I disguise myself as a man so that my relatives won’t recognize me should they turn up. Our neighbors are OK with us busking, but my relatives…” Paniyem said, trailing off and making a stabbing motion toward her chest.

From his office in Yogyakarta, renowned dancer and choreographer Didik Nini Thowok said that as an art form, jathilan belonged to the people.

“It was created as a tribute to the servants of [the Jenggala Kingdom’s Prince] Panji Asmarabangun, and is one of several dances usually associated with barangan, or busking. Other barangan dances include ledhek tayub, the Cirebon mask dance and ketoprak ongkek,” said Didik, who is well-known for his transgendered dances.

In 1994, Didik performed on the side of Yogyakarta’s busiest road, Malioboro. After several numbers he would walk around with a straw hat or a helmet in hand, asking for money.

By then, he had already made a name for himself. His main intention was to reintroduce traditional dances to the people.

“I did the same thing in 2004 to celebrate my birthday. I then proposed to the [local] tourism agency that barangan on Malioboro be made a regular program,” Didik said.

The agency funded his program until 2007. That same year, an incident dramatically changed the lives of Paniyem, Edi and their two children.

The two had met in 2003 on the set of religious TV drama “Wali Songo” in Yogyakarta, where they had landed small parts as a market vendor and a Dutch soldier. After getting married, they moved to Purwokerto in Central Java.

“I ran two restaurants there and he ran a service center for electronics devices,” said Paniyem, who was born and raised in Gunung Kidul, Yogyakarta.

“Then a couple from East Java came and asked us to join them in a business venture,” said Edi, from Semarang, the capital of Central Java. “They suggested that we sell off everything that we had to open a big business in Purwodadi [Central Java]. They said they had the place for it. So we did. We went to Purwodadi, handed them the money and then they disappeared.”

With little money left, the family returned to Yogyakarta. Too ashamed to ask their family and relatives for help, they stayed at the Giwangan bus terminal, making ends meet by collecting scraps, busking, and giving massages.

“Months later, a group of jathilan buskers from Temanggung arrived in town and performed around Sleman [district]. One day they met us and asked if our son Dion wanted to join,” Paniyem said.

Seeing the offer as an opportunity to make money, the couple gave their consent. It was from Dion that Edi learned how profitable performing jathilan on the street could be. The group was making up to Rp 200,000 ($23) for about five hours of work.

Edi decided to buy his own bende gongs and rent costumes. Together with two more dancers, the couple and their son tried their luck at different crossroads in the city, learning their art on the job.

Big companies sometimes hire them for street shows to promote their products. Last June, Paniyem and Edi had a brush with global fame, when they were asked by “The Amazing Race,” the hit American reality TV show, to teach contestants how to earn money by performing jathilan on Jalan Malioboro.

But those are highlights. Day to day, life can be rough and unjust.

“The police, the public order officers, and the [government’s] social agency officers are after jathilan performers’ money,” Paniyem said. “We have been detained time and time again. They seized our bende and then tell us that we had to pay Rp 150,000 to Rp 250,000 ($17 to $29) to get them back. They are really, really mean. Just the sight of them can make us run away.”

Edi said one of their two bende sets was still being held at a social agency facility in Kalasan.

“It’s the older brother of the one we have here. It’s dangerous to keep them apart; the other bende will misbehave, wanting to come home,” he said.

Edi’s anthropomorphic description of his musical instruments is suggestive of the kejawen animistic way of thinking common among rural Javanese.

Paniyem, who calls herself “the woman who faced the tigers,” said she was always ready to confront anyone who tried to make easy money off of the hard work of her family.

“One night we were brought to a facility in the middle of some rice fields — me, my husband, several punk kids, other buskers and a transvestite,” she said.

“One public order officer tried to snatch away our bende, but I was holding them so tight he didn’t succeed. I said, ‘If you take these, you are killing me and you are killing my family.’

“He called me a hard-headed woman. I have to be. Life on the streets is tough. It has changed me,” she said.

Edi said they had to leave for work so early in the morning because of how hard it was to make money on the streets. Jathilan groups always look for the busiest locations. Sometimes Edi spends the night on the street, near a prime location, so they can claim it the next morning.

“If you leave your bende unattended, another group might throw them away so they can take over your spot,” he said.

Only a year ago, most jathilan groups in Yogyakarta consisted of up to six performers. Today most of the groups are down to one musician and one dancer. The two other dancers who used to accompany Paniyem and her son have started their own groups.

This was not always the case. Didik said he remembered that when he was a child, one ledhek tayub group would consist of up to 10 dancers.

“The musician would stay in one place where his gamelan could be heard from afar. The dancers would then perform simultaneously in front of different houses,” Didik said. “Today it is all about making easy money.”

His words ring true for the jathilan street performers and their adversaries, who engage in cat-and-mouse games.

Told how Paniyem and Edi were considered a nuisance by public order officers, Didik quickly lost his smile .

“That’s preposterous! I am a busker too,” he said. He quickly reached for his BlackBerry and sent a message to an acquaintance in the local government, asking if anything could be done on the couple’s behalf. The message closed with: “What can we do about this?”

Whatever the response, Paniyem and Edi know the show must go on.

“Right now we’re trying to save up so we will have enough capital to open a business,” Paniyem said.

Homophobia in Yogyakarta, An Unfinished Story

Daniel Rose | The Jakarta Post | print: June 1, 2008

photo: Putri Fitria

What: International Day Against Homophobia | Who: LGBT community in Yogyakarta | When: May 17

At least three acts of homophobia took place in one nightclub in Yogyakarta city in the last two years.

First, a waria (or, in its oversimplified translation, transvestite) was dragged out by the club’s security after she danced on stage. Second, two lesbians were removed from the dance floor after they embraced.

Third, an HIV/AIDS organization was about to hold a rehearsal for an AIDS Day event, but was told to leave after it became apparent to the club manager that there would be “men wearing high-heels” involved. The club and the organization had signed a contract; the event was to be held there that night.

“The manager didn’t care about the contract. The organization was told to find another place,” Matius Indarto, 21, said.

Matius heads PLU-Satu Hati (People Like Us-One Heart), a non-governmental organization that runs programs related to LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered person/transsexual) issues in Yogyakarta.

Formally legalized just last year, the organization has tried to tackle a number of legal cases regarding discrimination or violence against LGBT, including those taking place in the infamous club, especially since it has refused to explain the incidents.

Coordinating events to call for respect for LGBT, May 17 is the date chosen to celebrate International Day Against Homophobia (IDAHO). PLU-Satu Hati, in cooperation with various organizations such as Perkumpulan Keluarga Berencana Indonesia (Indonesian Planned Parenthood Association) and Jakarta’s Arus Pelangi (Rainbow Flow), took part in the marking of the removal of homosexuality from the International Classification of Diseases of the World Health Organization on May 17, 1990, with a painting and photo exhibition, public discussion, film screenings, musical performance, and charity works from May 15-19.

“This is the second time IDAHO is being celebrated in Yogya. Our primary target is, of course, to reduce the stigma associated with LGBT, and therefore gradually eliminate homophobia,” Matius said, “whereas the specific target is to bring all LGBT in Yogya together, working hand in hand to attain that main goal.”

On the afternoon of the big day, PLU-Satu Hati went to Malioboro Street in a peaceful act of handing out 1,000 roses to the people as a sign of good intentions. Three young women wearing headscarfs and a man in Muslim dress came to show their support.

“We are taking this Introduction to Peace Studies class at university and are required to step out of our comfort zones and research the lives of people we aren’t familiar with, and we chose them,” Sukmawani Bella Pertiwi, 19, added.

“It wasn’t easy for me to step out of my comfort zone and interact with gay people because I usually spend my time in the mosque,” Ade Nuansa Wibisono, 20, Sukmawani’s research partner, confessed. “It’s worth it, though, because we’ve come to understand them better and it’s proven that the negative assumptions I used to have about them are not true.”

PLU-Satu Hati members are aware of the misperceptions people have about LGBT. “They should realize that heterosexuals also have the tendency to do most of the things homosexuals are guilty of, like hedonism and free sex. But what happens is that people tend to emphasize our negative side,” PLU-Satu Hati member Dudy Iskandar, 32, commented.

The consequences of homophobia are upsetting. PLU-Satu Hati members gave copious examples of violence in public places, discrimination in the workplace that mostly ended in resignation and dismissal, backbiting, verbal harassment, and many others. “Being a woman alone is hard in a patriarchal country like Indonesia. Imagine being a woman and a lesbian,” Deo, 22, who was fired from her job for being a lesbian, pointed out.

The theme chosen by Indonesia’s LGBT network for this year’s IDAHO is “Homophobia: The Unfinished Story.” Besides in Yogyakarta, banners bearing this slogan were simultaneously put up in Jakarta, Surabaya, Purwokerto, and Makassar. To respond to the constant threat of homophobia, the network sees communication as the best way to establish an understanding and friendship between LGBT and the majority of heterosexuals, and plans to hold more discussions in the future.

“Last year we invited a homophobe to a discussion about homophobia, and we learned that he wasn’t really against homosexuals, but homosexuals who act like complete fools, like talking loudly in public or making a pass at strangers,” Dudy explained. “Many of us still have to learn that as a part of society LGBT have to act like respectable citizens too.”

To learn more about homophobia, please visit www.idahomophobia.org.

This article was published alongside this one.

Bags of Friendship from People Like Us

Daniel Rose | The Jakarta Post | print: June 1, 2008

photos: Labodalih Sembiring

What: LGBT organization, its activities | Who: PLU Satu Hati | Where: Jl. Nagan Tengah No. 46, Yogyakarta (office) | Contact: Matius Indarto +62 819 317 27630

May 18, 2008. In the dark, hot kitchen of her house, just meters away from the beach, 45-year-old Surati and three other women are preparing dinner for 45 new arrivals from Yogyakarta City.

Some of the guests occupy the semi-open common room, sitting on a wooden platform, or lying around on mattresses; others chat and sing in the bamboo house in front of the main abode. Almost everyone there is under the age of 30 and describes themselves as gay, lesbian, or transgendered.

Calling themselves PLU-Satu Hati (People Like Us-One Heart), the troop arrived at Sundak Beach, Gunung Kidul, Yogyakarta, by bus, cars, and motorcycles, bringing bags of sembako (daily necessities such as cooking oil, sugar, and milk), second-hand clothing, and a banner that reads International Day Against Homophobia 2008.

“We’re going to hand out over 100 bags, as well as provide free medical help to the people here tomorrow. We did the same thing in 2005, on the beach on the other side of that hill,” Uki says, pointing to a rocky hill on the west side of Sundak. At 38, Uki (last name omitted at his request) is one of the respected seniors of PLU-Satu Hati. The young ones lovingly call him Mamak — Mother. “We want to help a little, but we also have this mission to reduce homophobia by introducing people to our friends of various sexual orientations,” Mamak adds.

The sun is slowly sinking behind that same hill, but the evening sky is exceptionally clear and the moon nearly full. A number of guys and girls, and those who have decided to stay in between, are sitting on the sand, facing the horizon, singing loudly. Many of them have impressive voices.

“Just so you know, a waria friend of mine once made it to the ‘big 20′ round of a dangdut singing audition. If only the committee didn’t find out about her sexuality, she would’ve made it to Jakarta, I’m sure,” 29-year-old Sonya (not her real name), also a waria, says.

It is tricky to translate the word “waria” into English because of the whole bundle of homosexual, transvestism, and sex-for-money connotations it carries.

“Yes, some waria work as prostitutes, but that’s only because it’s so hard to find decent jobs elsewhere. Many (waria) work in beauty salons, but not all of us have the skills,” Sonya says, and quickly adds that another waria friend of hers had to choose between changing the way she dressed or leaving. She decided to quit.

Maybe it is a waste of space to write that homosexuals in Indonesia continue to come up against discrimination; many longer, more comprehensive articles on the subject have been written and published, and more are yet to come. However, it is important to note that, according to the members of PLU-Satu Hati, the discrimination — and  sometimes violence — stems from the public’s failure to recognize that LGBT (lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgendered persons/transsexuals) deserve to be treated as positively as any other person.

But it is not always the public’s fault. “The media has long been focusing on the negative stereotypes and characteristics of LGBT. That’s why we’re doing this. To balance things up,” says Mamak.

May 19, 2008. Three members of PLU-Satu Hati are standing in a queue in front of four toilet stalls not too far from Surati’s house. Fresh water is not scarce here, but it is not in abundant supply either. An old woman is seen pulling bucket after bucket of water from a well next to the stalls, pouring the contents into an opening until it flows through a PVC pipe into the bathroom vessels.

The fishermen of Sundak and nearby beaches have not been able to go out to sea for around a month now, reporting “strange” weather. High tide or low tide, it has been too shallow to sail. And when some do go out to the ocean, strong winds force them to head back. For the old woman by the well, providing water for visitors is an alternative way of making money.

Parsinah, Sarilah, and Supen are among the people gradually filling the seats of the bamboo house. Asked about the meaning of gay or lesbian, they shook their heads with an apologetic shy laugh. “We are here because we got tickets,” Parsinah says. But they have seen the waria all around them, priming and preening, minutes away from delivering a performance. “They’re funny,” says Sarilah before, again, laughing.

Locals don’t immediately warm to the members of PLU-Satu Hati. Every now and again, they laugh at the men in drag lip syncing to old dangdut songs, though they aren’t averse to answering questions or clapping along. The emcee does try to explain what lesbian, gay, transgender, transsexual, and homophobia mean, but the blank expression on the people’s faces prompt him to fill the awkward silences with simple jokes.

With such responses, two things become clear: The people of Sundak have not been that exposed to the negative stereotypes and characteristics of LGBT portrayed by the media, and they do seem ready to accept the fact that LGBT exist. Thus if friendship is what PLU-Satu Hati offers to systematically reduce homophobia, then they have given it in the right place.

This article was published alongside this one.

A Taste of Old-Time Yogyakarta

Dalih Sembiring | Jakarta Globe | print: April 1, 2011

photos: Muhamad Ibrohim

What: Javanese royal dining | Where: Sekar Kedhaton Restaurant, Jl. Tegalgendu No. 28, Kotagede | Contact: +62 274 386 868

Yogyakarta’s Kotagede is filled with historical sites from the Islamic Mataram empire’s golden age. Near the Gajah Wong River, on the side of one of the old town’s entrances, a restaurant and boutique hotel called Sekar Kedhaton conspicuously stands.

Sekar Kedhaton means “sacred flower” in Javanese. Big billboards around Kotagede bearing its name, along with its grammatically problematic tagline “A Luxuries Touch of the Javanese Majestic,” help direct first-time visitors to the establishment.

The restaurant’s entrance, guarded by two large statues resembling palace soldiers standing under an arc of floral patterns, is distinctly reminiscent of Yogyakarta’s royal buildings. But the barren feeling of the building’s vast, paved front yard could easily disinterest passing tourists in search of a bite. I suppose it’s a dilemma faced by restaurants such as Sekar Kedhaton, which normally cater to large parties and thus need a big parking lot.

Though the exterior gave me a bit of a negative first impression, that quickly changed upon entering the dining area. I was immediately struck by the restaurant’s elegant ambience, a mood created through a combination of ornate antique furniture, decorations, and soft lighting.

The building the restaurant is housed in once served as a mansion retreat for Mataram royalty. The current owner clearly feels a responsibility to maintain the space’s majestic aura, especially when most of the restaurant’s customers are foreign tourists looking for a bit of historical intrigue.

According to Sigit Novianto, Sekar Kedhaton’s marketing officer, the property had belonged to the wealthiest businessman in Kotagede before it was purchased by its current owner, who also works in the silver trade.

After I got settled in and placed my order, I soaked up the rich ambience while enjoying a bowl of complimentary cassava chips. Later on, I got up to examine the artistic and historic details that could be found throughout the restaurant, which is big enough to host more than 200 people. The balcony lounge is recommended for those looking for a more soothing setting.

Soon after I had finished my look around, the food arrived. The chicken soup, sadly, reminded me that Sekar Kedhaton usually caters to large groups of tourists. There was nothing special about it. However, the chef more than made up for what was missing in that appetizer with my other dishes, which included sautéed beef, miroso grilled chicken, grilled snapper with matah dressing, and vegetable capcay.

I thought that I should try a little of everything, but the succulent beef was so well-prepared that I finished almost a third of the considerable portion. The matah (raw) dressing for the snapper made great use of the unique flavor and aroma of lime leaf slices, giving it just the right amount of zest. These two dishes lived up to the restaurant’s claim of “Javanese majestic” cuisine.

After washing the food down with a glass of gulas squash, a refreshing mix of soda water and tamarind stirred with a stalk of lemongrass, I stepped outside and stared at the building’s facade from different distances.

The sky had darkened and the entrance was dimly lit, creating a sense of lonesomeness. Reaching the entrance gate, I imagined an evening scene from a vague past, a time when the building looked directly over the river and most of the vehicles around were horse-drawn carts and bicycles. If only there were more trees and antiques in the front yard, the view before me might be closer to what I had in mind.

There is another Sekar Kedhaton restaurant near Borobudur Temple in Magelang, Central Java. Maybe I should try that to see if it is closer to the image I have in my mind.