Holland’s Indos Celebrate Roots

Halfway around the world from Indonesia, you can enjoy a sumptuous plate of nasi uduk and sip es cendol while taking in the melancholic sounds of a keroncong band. Tese tastes, sights and sounds come to life once a year in the Dutch city of The Hague during the annual Tong Tong Fair.

For many members of the Netherlands’ Indo community — persons with mixed- Indonesian ancestry — the event, more popularly known as the Pasar Malam Besar (Grand Evening Fair), is a chance to celebrate their Indonesian heritage.

“Many Indos have a sort of unofficial agreement: ‘see you at the Pasar Malam,’ ” said Paul Isaak, whose Eurasian father was born in the Central Java town of Klaten. “It’s a very important event for them to maintain social contacts and reminisce about the past.”

The Pasar Malam Besar, held during the last two weeks ofMay, is housed in giant white tents filling 20,000 square meters of The Hague’s biggest plaza, Malieveld. The festival features cultural performances and lectures, a market filled with wares ranging from trinkets and batik to fresh durian, and, naturally, an overabundance of Indonesian food.

“In a nutshell, the Tong Tong Fair is a meeting between East and West, in the form of culture, food and trade,” said Florine Koning, a historian and spokesperson for the fair.

The first Pasar Malam was held in The Hague in 1959, initiated by a group of Indos who were sent back to the Netherlands following the end of Dutch rule in Indonesia.

Under colonial rule, legal status in Indonesia was based on ethnicity, with the Europeans on top of the heirarchy, the Chinese, Arabs and others of Asian or Middle Eastern descent in the middle, followed by the indigenous Indonesians. While many Indos were officially classified as Europeans, others were identified with the archipelago’s natives.

“Indos are a true mix of Asia and Europe. We sort of lived between the classes, and formed our own culture. We feel both Eastern and Western, but mostly we are our own people,” Koning explained.

When hundreds of thousands of Indos emigrated to the Netherlands after World War II, people there knew very little about them. “Some didn’t even know that we spoke fluent Dutch,” Koning said.

In the 1950s, Indo writer and intellectual Tjalie Robinson set up a group to organize events to celebrate Indo culture and make it wider known in the Netherlands.

“The group had no money, so the idea of a Pasar Malam was hatched to raise funds,” Koning said.

The first Pasar Malam, was held at the city zoo for three days and attracted some 3,000 visitors. “It was an instant success. People were thronging to get in,” Koning said.

Since then the Pasar Malam has blossomed into a two-week event with as many as 133,000 visitors. The festival is now one of the largest annual fairs in the Netherlands. The event has attracted prominent officials, including Queen Beatrix who opened the Pasar Malam for its 50th anniversary in 2008.

Over the years, the festival has grown much closer to its Indonesian roots. “In the earlier years, the fair was more Western, with stands one might see in boardwalks or fairgrounds, such as cotton candy and shooting hoops,” Koning said.

“Many people now forget that the relationship between the Dutch and Indonesian states only started normalizing in the late 1960s. Aside from that, overseas travel only became affordable in the 1970s.”

In 1973, the fair’s first Indonesian performer, Balinese dancer Djoni Ginsir, was invited to Pasar Malam. The event has since introduced more Indonesian culture and now showcases rock groups such as Slank, along with traditional dance troupes from across the archipelago.

The event also features theater as well as literary and historical discussions. This year the fair will host 400 performances, workshops and discussions in five theaters. Among the highlights are a photo essay exhibition, “First Generation Show: We Still Remember Everything,” a wayang (shadow puppet) performance from West Java and gamelan ensembles .

The stalls offer a variety of Indonesian textiles, crafts and snacks, including fresh mango juice and coconut cakes. And in the most-packed pavilion in the fair, the food court, there is sate, countless varieties of noodle and rice dishes, and tables filled with Padang delicacies.

In one room elderly Indos are singing along to “Bengawan Solo,” a keroncong classic by Gesang Martohartono about Java’s longest river. Watching them one can easily imagine an era long gone, but which is clearly still fresh in the memories of the graying audience.

Paul Isaak, 53, is among the youngest in the audience. “I know these tempo doeloe [old times] songs from my father,” he said.

Reflecting on what might happen to Indo culture once his father’s generation has passed on, he said: “Actually, apart from the songs and the food, my father told us very little about his Indonesian past.”

Isaak said he was still left with many questions of what his father’s generation experienced in Indonesia.

“Many Indos of that generation, including him, were traumatized. They were interned in camps during the Japanese occupation in Indonesia, then forced to leave their birth country and felt misunderstood in Holland,” Isaak said.

But even for the next generation, Isaak’s children, the emotional ties to their Indonesian heritage are still palpable. He said his daughter was 8 years old when he first brought her to Pasar Malam. He said that when she got there she told him, “I feel like I’m among family.”

According to Koning, worries that the Indo culture might fade away are unfounded because even third-generation Indos, many now in their 20s, are very aware of their heritage, though without the emotional traumas of their elders. “They are proud of being Indo,” he said.

Dylayna Awondatu, 20, said Pasar Malam had become an annual family ritual.

“I’ve been going here every year, since as far as I can recall. There were times when I was younger that I found it boring, but now I really like it,” she said.

Her eyes widened when asked whether she could see herself in the future taking her own children to the festival.

“I’ve never thought about that, but the answer is probably yes,” she said.
Tong Tong Fair For more information, go to www.tongtongfair.nl and www.tongtongfestival.nl

Annual Fashion, Food Festival Spotlights Multicultural Jakarta

Jakarta’s annual fashion and food festival highlighting culinary treats and the works of home designers is under way. The festival, jointly organized by the Jakarta Tourism Office and property developer Summarecon Group, is the seventh of its kind and is once again being held at Kelapa Gading Mall in North Jakarta.

Governor Fauzi Bowo kicked off the festival last Wednesday. It will go on until this Sunday.

“This festival has been gaining popularity in Indonesia and neighboring countries since its inception in 2004,” Fauzi said in his opening speech. “And by featuring local, national and international food and fashion, the event has significantly improved Jakarta’s image as a metropolitan city that boasts multicultural values.”

The city’s tourism office has listed the exhibition, officially called the Jakarta Fashion and Food Festival, in its calendar of events.

Arie Budhiman, head of the office, said the city was in dire need of more cultural events to draw tourists.

“This festival draws local and foreign tourists into the city. It’s also a positive effort to improve the creativity of local businesses and lifestyle communities in Jakarta.”

With this year’s theme of “Heritageous,” the festival aims to present the richness of Indonesian heritage in food and fashion. The main events of the JFFF are a fashion extravaganza, a food festival and the Gading Nite Carnival.

Some of the country’s most prominent and rising designers are showcasing their newest lines during the festival, which is sponsored by such organizations as the Association of Indonesian Fashion Designers and Entrepreneurs (APPMI), cosmetic producer Martha Tilaar Group and Rumah Pesona Kain, an affiliation of collectors of traditional Indonesian textiles.

The fashion extravaganza features presentations by Indonesian designers and labels displaying their ready-to-wear products and masterpiece collections in the ballroom of the newly opened Harris Hotel Kelapa Gading.

Adjacent to the main ballroom is the Fashion Village, which showcases 30 local fashion designers, as well as a special exhibition by Rumah Pesona Kain featuring traditional Indonesian textiles.

The Kampoeng Tempo Doeloe (Old Kampong) food festival is being held in the alfresco area of La Piazza (Mall Kelapa Gading 3), which is decorated to resemble an old-time Betawi village. The food festival features noodle creations from all over the archipelago, as well as traditional cakes and snacks.

Visitors can also enjoy traditional entertainment such as topeng monyet (monkey show), wayang potehi (Chinese puppets) and layar tancep (local movies shown outdoors on a big screen) in La Piazza. Wine tastings, wine and food pairing classes and cheese samplings are also scheduled in the La Piazza area.

The Gading Nite Carnival will be held on Saturday. The masquerade-themed carnival will feature parades of giant ondel-ondel (traditional Betawi puppets), decorated cars, marching bands and cosplay, as well as Summarecon staff dressed in masks and costumes.

APPMI chairman Taruna Kusmayadi welcomed the event, which he said “not only promotes Indonesian food and fashion products, but helps sustain local industries.”

Taruna, who is himself a prominent designer, said: “This is very important, especially as Indonesia has inked the deal and become a member of the China-Asean free trade area this year.”

Anwar A Salim, chairman of JFFF’s organizing committee, said: “The festival is getting more vibrant and exciting in its seventh year. We hope it will be a major contribution to the improvement of the Indonesian fashion and culinary industries.”

For more details of the events and schedule, visit www.jfff.info

Light of the Gods on Bali’s Peaks

The chain of steps, cutting a narrow band through the damp green forest, rose above me. Sweat dripped from the tip of my nose; rustling and chattering in the undergrowth hinted at unseen monkeys and a cool, cloying mist rose from the rice terraces below. It was not long after dawn, and I was picking my way up the pilgrimage route to the highest station of the complex of temples known as Pura Lempuyang that stud the green flanks of the fractured volcano standing sentinel on Bali’s eastern

promontory. Somewhere ahead of me, on the very pinnacle of the peak, was Pura Lempuyang Luhur, 1,060 meters above sea level and the eastern directional anchor of the Balinese compass. Some 1,700 steps lead to the temple, but I had long since lost count of how many I had still to climb.

My first view of the mountain had come in the lavender light of the previous evening. Traveling north by motorbike from Amlapura, the administrative capital of Karangasem, Bali’s most easterly district, Gunung Lempuyang and Gunung Seraya, two cleaved halves of the same upwelling of basalt, rose like bruised knuckles above a rumpled rug of rice fields.

Bali’s overdeveloped south might leave many newcomers wondering just whether the luscious tropical island of myth really exists, but in this wilder eastern region I found no lack of green vistas and volcanic views. The area is dominated by the mighty cone of Gunung Agung, the 3,142-meter linchpin of Bali. But this evening Agung was lost in the clouds, and I was more interested in its smaller neighbor, Lempuyang-Seraya, the double peak that once overshadowed Bali’s most powerful Hindu kingdom. Karangasem today is one of Bali’s poorest regions, with drought-plagued agriculture and little tourism income. But in the 19th century this terraced, volcanic territory was the seat of a mighty dynasty.

My first stop north of Amlapura was a pleasure garden laid out by the last king of Karangasem in 1947. Tirtagangga — the name means “Water of the Ganges” — was a place of clear pools and stepping-stones. A mildewed pantomime of statues — gurning demons, bug-eyed warriors, belching boars and writhing royal nagas — spilled rivulets from artfully hidden spouts.

After spending the night in a guesthouse a stone’s throw from the gardens, I woke at first light, and 30 minutes later was standing at the foot of that interminable flight of steps, bending their way out of sight toward the summit of Lempuyang.

The scattering of temples that make up the Lempuyang complex include one of Bali’s Kayangan Jagat, the nine directional temples that give the island its own unique set of cardinal points.

The rest of Bali seemed to fall away behind me as I climbed, and when I finally reached the little temple compound at the summit, it was drifting alone in the clouds. There were damp ceremonial umbrellas and altars wrapped in checked cloth. Shaggy palm trees rustled in the breeze. The temple was not totally deserted, though; a local man, Pak Arya, had spent the night meditating at the temple.

He told me that the name of this place — Lempuyang — was a contraction of two old Balinese words, “ lempu ” and “ hyang, ” and meant “the Light of the Gods.” As a mob of olive-colored monkeys emerged from the bushes and began a swaggering circuit of the temple, Pak Arya spun me a tall but tempting tale. When American astronauts on the first mission to the moon looked back on the earth behind them they saw an unexplained light shining from one spot — Lempuyang.

“The Light of the Gods!” said Pak Arya with a grin, warding off a monkey.

Light of the Gods aside, there was one brief glimpse of the light of day as I descended, passing white-clad pilgrims struggling up the steps: for mere seconds the clouds cleared and Lempuyang’s giant neighbor, Mount Agung, loomed to the west in a deluge of bright sunlight.

At the foot of the steps I climbed back into the saddle and took a back road, skirting the northern flanks of the mountain. Agung appeared again as I threaded my way through the fishing villages and dive resorts around Amed. The sea was dotted with bone-white fishing boats under triangular blue sails. In Bunutan village, I watched a crowd of men betting on cockfights in a shaded pavilion. The air was thick with the smell of clove smoke and feathers and wads of money passed hands after each bloody bout.

The road led on, bucking over promontories and dipping into shallow bays. To my right the twin peaks of Seraya and Lempuyang loomed in the clouds, while offshore the dark hills of Lombok rose.

At the height of their powers in the 18th century, the Karangasem kings crossed the strait and annexed Lombok, placing its Muslim subjects under Hindu rule. So it remained until the end of the 19th century when the Dutch appeared on the scene and wrested Lombok away, and then, not long after, conquered Karangasem itself.

Admiring the view as I rode, I took a wrong turn and ended up in a little hamlet of yellow dogs and fighting cocks. A man called Gede called me over, and before setting me back on the right road he plied me with roasted corn and sweet coffee.

The blue waters of the Lombok Strait lay below us. Gede is a farmer, though in this hard, eastern landscape there is not enough water to grow rice. All that grows here, he said, is the corn on which I was chewing. The people here have little cash and life is hard, so when foreign investors come sniffing out bargain plots for future villa developments, as they had recently begun to do, they take interest. But they are also wary, Gede said, and are doubtful about the merits of the kind of intense development seen in other parts of Bali. There are no luxury villas here — yet.

Bidding goodbye to Gede, I continued on my journey. To the right a mountain emerged from the clouds again — it was Seraya that I was looking up at, 100 meters taller than its temple-topped twin. The mountain stayed in view all the way to Ujung, the final point on my circuit of Bali’s easternmost peaks. This was another water palace, built in 1919 by I Gusti Bagus Jelantik, the second-to-last king of Karangasem.

The sun was slanting away to the west now, with soft light shimmering on the water of the pool and on the white marble of the central pavilion, a private chamber where the royals had once retreated from the eyes of the world. There were no fluttering princesses, only locals from nearby Amlapura, out for an afternoon jog around the pool.

I climbed a flight of steps to a skeletal folly of relief-covered marble. The water palace lay below me, white walls, Dutch shutters and Balinese friezes in a mass of green trees. And beyond, propping up a slab of milky cloud, stood the two-peaked massif that had been the fulcrum of my journey, Lempuyang-Seraya.

http://www.thejakartaglobe.com/culture/light-of-the-gods-on-balis-peaks/366857

Ruins of Majapahit Obscured By Apathy

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then I would say the roads of Trowulan — home to the Majapahit ruins, one of Asia’s most important civilizations and archaeological ruins — is littered with one well-intentioned mishap after another.

Majapahit was a major Hindu-Buddhist kingdom that reigned from the 13th century for roughly 300 years and counted most of modern-day Indonesia and
several Southeast Asian territories as part of its dominion. Its importance was chronicled by the Chinese, Portuguese and Italians.

Trowulan in Mojokerto, East Java, was the capital, and excavation has revealed a city with a drainage system, residential area, temples, markets, cemeteries and even dams. So why is it not more popular? Guidebooks barely mention it, giving the monkey forest of Bali’s Ubud more column space. Tour agents offer more trips to Bromo than to Trowulan, putting it on the itinerary as if it were an afterthought. When I visited, less than 10 tourists were exploring the sprawling complex.

The lack of visitors belies the site’s historical importance. The ruins are well-preserved and the entrance fee is basically nonexistent. What’s not to love? Plenty, apparently.

Information about the site is limited. This goes for even the most basic tips, such as how to get there. The nearest major city is Surabaya, but there is no direct transport to the site. One has to catch a bus to Solo and asked to be dropped off in Trowulan, where there are no signs to point you in the right direction.

People who have visited the site agree that in order to make sense of the ruins, which are scattered in the sprawling area, the first thing to do is visit the museum. But when asked about its location, some locals replied, “The new museum or the old one?”

The new Majapahit Information Center is a pleasant facility with a well-manicured lawn located near a big pool that was once used as by the kingdom’s denizens as a recreational area that doubled as a reservoir. The museum doesn’t charge an entrance fee — at least no one asked for one when I entered. But the layout of the information center was puzzling.

The receptionist, although friendly and knowledgeable enough when asked about the displays, didn’t seem very interested in engaging guests.

One would think that the exhibition should start with the history of Majapahit and its timeline to give guests a quick, overall understanding of the subject. There was no such thing. In fact, the first exhibit has nothing to do with the kingdom at all, showcasing prehistoric artifacts from before the Majapahit era, found in the surrounding area. Sitting pretty with fossils of an extinct elephant and Stone Age utensils were strings of modern-looking beads, not unlike those found in souvenir stalls, in the craft display. To be fair, the museum did explain that these were actually modern beads, but why not create a reproduction that looked like it belonged to the era instead?

A room was dedicated to Majapahit-era terracotta and another to its metalwork. The printed explanations were helpful, but the hodgepodge of designs made the text look like it had been written by several people working entirely independently. Some were printed in black and white, some in color, all with different typefaces. The big ones were obviously sloppily pasted together from several papers.

Some of the descriptions had nothing to do with the Majapahit civilization. There was a lengthy explanation of the history of Indonesia and the national law protecting historical artifacts. The latter was somewhat ironic, considering that the construction of this museum was widely protested by the archaeological community because it was erected over some of the ruins, destroying them forever.

The terrace at the rear of the museum was also filled with artifacts, but the same troubles resurfaced. There was no clear order to the displays and the text describing them was sketchy. A sign with information about Majapahit weaponry had a picture of a Papuan man wielding a spear. The signs sometimes referred to Majapahit, sometimes to the culture and crafts of modern-day Trowulan.

At the reception desk, I purchased a guidebook (more like a brochure) with a site map for the price of Rp 13,000 ($1.50). There was, however, no price tag on the book, so I just had to take the museum attendant’s word for it. I gave the map to my driver to follow. A good map is essential because the ruins are scattered throughout the massive complex, far away from each other and blended in with the current population. It looked so simple and straightforward on paper, but the map failed to show the real layout of the area.

The ruins themselves are amazing. Surprisingly, the majority of the ancient buildings are intact, with some of the temples still fully standing. The antique red bricks have managed to withstand the combined forces of time and nature.

But even here there was evidence of mismanagement. The backdrop is already beautifully green and fertile with rice paddies and lush mountains all around, but the ruins have unfortunately been dressed up with well-manicured grounds complete with topiaries. At the grounds of Candi Tikus (Rat Temple), some plants were arranged to spell out its name. But the pretty lawns were the least of my problems at the sites. In one of them, some unauthorized young men asked for a parking fee even though my car was sitting off-site.

All in all, touring Trowulan left a sour taste in my mouth. The quality of the ruins was superb, the scenery gorgeous, the history fascinating, but everything was tainted by careless mismanagement. In fact, the Majapahit archaeological site in Trowulan signifies what is wrong with the Indonesian tourism industry today: something that has great potential, squandered at a great price.

http://www.thejakartaglobe.com/culture/ruins-of-majapahit-obscured-by-apathy/353584

Unveiling rare beauty

If you think you can only find Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel or the Pendusa God in fairytales and myths, then you’re wrong.

In Indonesia, you can also find them on the traditional batik cloths. Hard to imagine? Maybe.



The batik cloths most of us see today are the ones made recently, when the batik fever began to catch on. But if we went back dozens of years, we would find that classic batik embraced Western influences, like the Brothers Grimm’s folktales and other myths. Not only that, other foreign influences like that of the Japanese culture can also be found, unveiling the rare beauty of Indonesian batik.

These rare and exquisite batik pieces can be found in batik aficionado Tumbu Astiani Ramelan’s collection, which is now being showcased at the Textile Museum in Jakarta, in conjunction with the launch of the collector’s book — The 20th Century Batik Masterpieces.

When examining the 90 batik cloths in the exhibition, we’ll not only be dazzled visually, but also get a better idea of how batik has changed over its long history and how the art form has been influenced by political situations in the country it hails from.

The kompeni — with the afore mentioned Western flavors — for example, brings us back to the early 1900s when Indonesia was under Dutch colonial rule.

“During this period, we could find batik cloths with motifs like guitars and hot air balloons, as well as fairytales and myths, like The Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, and [Celtic god] Pendusa,”
explains 70-year-old Tumbu, displaying her collection of motifs made in 1910.

“Some of them were made by Indonesian batik makers based on orders, while the rest were designed by Dutch people themselves, who later became batik designers.”

As the Dutch colonial era came to an end, and Indonesia was ruled by the Japanese for a short period, Tumbu continues, the Jawa Hokokai batik then took the center stage between 1942 and 1945. This batik style brings Japanese flair, taking elements of the kimono and incorporating them into batik designs.



“The Jawa Hokokai batik cloths uses motifs like sakura flowers, as well as broad swath at the foot lining called susimoyo,” says Tumbu, head of Indonesia’s Batik Foundation for Cultural Development. “They have sophisticated designs and they’re very brightly colored,” she adds.

During the same period, Tumbu explains further, the Jawa Hokokai batik was also infused with the pagi-sore (morning and evening) design — a style where the cloth is diagonally divided into two parts, with each of them incorporating different patterns and motifs.

“It was such a very difficult period at that time — people could not afford to buy fabrics, and there weren’t many fabrics available [in Indonesia] either,” Tumbu said.

“Their solution was to have one cloth of batik divided into two designs, so people could use one part [of the cloth] in the morning, and the other in the evening. They would appear to be wearing different pieces in one day, when actually they would be wearing the same cloth.”

After the Japanese left Indonesia, Jawa Hokokai batik took on a new twist — letting go of the susimoyo, adopting more simple motifs and patterns. This new breed of batik was called the Jawa Baru (the new Javanese) batik.

As time went by, batik took on a more serious role within Indonesian society — as a medium of nationalism. It was in 1960, as Tumbu points out, when the persatuan (unity) batik came on to the scene, combining Indonesian elements from across the archipelago on one piece of cloth.

“The persatuan was [former president] Sukarno’s idea, his goal was to spread the spirit the ‘Unitary Republic of Indonesia’ among Indonesians through batik,” says Tumbu, a batik devotee for 40 years.

“This kind of batik brings all motifs that have anything to do with the [national motto] Bhinneka Tunggal Ika [Unity through Diversity]”.

For example, “Just like you can see here, this one has the motifs of traditional houses like rumah gadang [West Sumatra], rumah Bali and other housing styles from across the archipelago,” Tumbu says, showing one of the pieces in her persatuan collection. “Other designs, for instance, also include the motifs of monuments in cities across Indonesia,” she adds.

The richness of batik designs as a reflection of Indonesia’s past political situations, however, is not the only thing to admire from Tumbu’s collections. Religious influence, in this case Islam, on batik became more and more prevalent when exploring the different parts of the exhibition. Looking at one old batik cloth Tumbu calls a kain panjang Rembang (long cloth from Rembang, Central Java) for example, some of us might be surprised to see a cloth with the Arabic symbol of Allah.

“I found this old batik cloth at a flea market in Yogyakarta about 20 years ago, and was astonished with the Allah symbols on it,” Tumbu recalls. “I kept on thinking, why was this cloth made? As you know, a symbol of Allah is considered very sacred, so I couldn’t imagine someone wearing this cloth as the position of the symbol would be on his or her backside”.

Besides the kain panjang Rembang, we can also find other batik cloths embellished with Arabic calligraphy, like those from Sumatra’s Jambi, Palembang and Bengkulu.

“Although these batik cloths are called as Bengkulu batik, for example, most of them were actually made in Java,” Tumbu says. “This kind of batik, with a strong Arabic influence, originates from places like Cirebon, Indramayu and Pekalongan,” she adds.

Tumbu’s collection also features a kain Tok Wie, or the batik cloth for the Buddhist altar.

“Because it’s for the Chinese rituals, it also embraces Chinese motifs like dragons,” she says.

With batik designs having evolved over time, and acting as a repositry for Indonesia’s rich history, documenting batik is one way preserve these precious textiles, Tumbu notes. And documenting rich and unique motifs as well as patterns of her batik collections in a book, is what she did after years of witnessing foreign collectors take more and more of Indonesia’s old batiks cloths out of the country.

“That’s why I decided to document some of my collection in this book,” she says.

Besides aiming to preserve batik, she goes on, “I also hope today’s batik makers and designers can get some inspiration from the old batik motifs and revive them [through their creations]”.

Wayang Orang Sriwedari: A dying art form

A performance titled “Permadi-Bratajaya Lair”, part of the Mahabharata epic, was advertised at the entrance of Gedung Wayang Orang (GWO), the Javanese dance-drama theater in Sriwedari Amusement Park, Solo.

But while visitors flocked to the park that evening, the GWO building remained deserted.


Backstage, a number of people were putting on makeup, preparing their wayang costumes and mingling in the intimate atmosphere. Props for the show, headdresses, wigs and different accessories
were still scattered around the dressing room.

When Diwasa Diranagara, the director of the Hindu epic or wayang orang, ordered the troupe members to get ready for the show, all performers quickly slipped into their costumes.

Shortly after 8 p.m., three dancing giants entered the stage and the show began. Sadly, only 20 of the playhouse’s 500 seats were occupied, despite management putting on different shows every evening.
“We have a year-round program with different shows every night,” said Diwasa.
Tickets to the performances only cost Rp 3,000 for a 3-hour traditional dance drama. Ten minutes before the show though, only 13 tickets had been sold.
“Usually, we sell around 20 to 25 tickets. It’s perhaps because of the rain tonight. Over 100 people come to our shows on Saturday nights,” said Puji.

The Sriwedari Theater is located 2-kilometers West of the Court of Kasunanan Surakarta, on Jl. Slamet Riyadi. Statues of wayang figures, Gatotkaca and Srikandi, stand in front of the building, from which hangs a banner with the slogan, “Love Our Culture”.

Sadly, the playhouse is not well maintained: The roof is partly damaged, the decoration is quite dull. On a more positive note, the sound system is strong and clear and enables the audience to follow the dialogue with ease.

The 85 members of Sriwedari’s wayang orang troupe are passionate about preserving the cultural heritage of Surakarta court. For these artists, the show that originated in the period of Pakubuwono X, reigning from 1893 to 1939, must be kept alive.

The Javanese theater has indeed survived for more than a century. Formerly, the performing arts of Surakarta court under Pakubuwono X, were intended for the entertainment of the royal family.

From 1921, however, wayang orang has been part of the Sriwedari amusement park, offering the public a chance to enjoy this drama-cum-choreography.

Wayang Orang Sriwedari had its heyday from the 1960s to the mid 1980s, with up to 2,000 visitors per month. Since then, however, the theater has struggled. Apart from its falling popularity, its previous status as a Javanese cultural icon is no longer apparent.
According to Tugimin (56), one of Solo’s cultural observers, visitor numbers to the GWO have dwindled as a result of the multitude of other more entertaining arts on offer in town.

“Young people are also fond of modern leisure activities such as hanging out in cafes or revelling. The wayang orang has, as a result, become less popular.”

Tugimin also admitted the quality of the performances had waned.

“In the past, troupe members were very disciplined and I think the stories adopted were quite original. Each show lasted for 4 hours, while today they only last for two,” he said.

With most of it seats vacant, the wayang orang players look a little bored. At least as much is true for Agus Prasetyo, who has been with the troupe for seven years.

“If there are only 10 people watching us, it’s fine, but these conditions affect the mood of the performers. I am disappointed when no one comes, it feels as though no one appreciates this traditional art,” he said.
As for salaries, 90 percent of the Sriwedari performers are civil servants, so their welfare is still a concern.
GWO circles have attempted to attract more visitors in various ways, including through more publicity.
“In addition to announcements, we also publicize our programs through print and electronic media, but ticket sales have not yet significantly increased,” said Diwasa.

The Solo city administration has also played a role in communicating the GWO agenda to the public, by publishing Sriwedari events in the city’s travel journals and tourist brochures.
GWO executives also invite primary, secondary and high school students in an attempt to introduce this centuries-old art to the younger generation.

Head of the Solo Tourism, Art and Culture Office, Purnomo Subagyo, said that besides campaigning for wayang orang through the media, his office had also distributed tickets to employees of the city administration.
“We give them tickets to increase the number of visitors and familiarize the employees’ families with this art. But whether they go to the theater is their own decision, we can not force them,” he added.

Yet Diwasa once indicated that government attention was now decreasing along with declining public interest in this show. “It’s actually hard to say who left us first, the public or the government.”

According to him, the government should promote the show more actively. It’s his hope that aside from material support, the government will also demonstrate its interest by watching the performances themselves.
It’s not simple to revive GWO programs amid the mushrooming cinemas, cafes and other youth hangouts, but it by no means implies this traditional art has to be forgotten.

Dance groups tango with popularity, preservation

The chiming of the gamelan sets 18 hands in motion, as nine women gingerly rotate their wrists and stretch up from the floor, their bodies unfolding like early spring flowers.

The dancers’ movements are graceful but precise, their faces masks of concentration. They are practicing the Bedoyo, a special dance performed only for the Sultan of Yogyakarta and one that is deeply rooted in Javanese folklore.


The scene would almost seem timeless were it not for the performers t-shirts, one of which announces, “I’m very proud”.

Classical dance demands an understanding of the steps and also the philosophy behind them. But many say the challenge they face now is working to preserve their art while making it appeal to wider audiences.
Interest in classical tradition has dimmed with time and as Western culture has gained popularity, particularly among youth who prefer the quick beats of pop and hip hop.

“Young people think classical dance is boring and old-fashioned,” says Dedi Panggung Suprabowo, a classical performer who doubles as a teacher of traditional Javanese music gamelan to students of Al Azhar elementary school in Yogyakarta.

To counter that perception, some performers have taken pains to mix the old and new, setting wayang (traditional shadow puppet performance) to dangdut music, for instance.

“Young people see this as interesting,” says Dedi, who agrees that the hybrid helps revive interest in the flagging art form. But he is concerned that the experiment could somehow dilute the foundations that give these traditions their uniqueness and significance.

Even if this cultural experimentation succeeds in drawing larger audiences, 25-year-old Dedi says people his age don’t have the patience or energy for the intensive training required to know and understand complex classical dance numbers and gamelan music that accompanies it.
At Pujokusuman, where Dedi gives his gamelan lessons, an afternoon session often last for four hours. Special performances also require extensive preparation. Recently, the dancers trained for three months to perform the Bedoyo dance for Sultan Hamengku Buwono X’s birthday.

The sultan’s second-oldest daughter, GKR Condrokirono, who was part of the Bedoyo dance group, called the training “exhausting”.

That’s not an overstatement. Dancers must hold their positions for long stretches without twitching or fidgeting. When the music begins their faces have to look somber, as they absorb the sound of the gamelan. After nearly an hour of practice, however, smiles on their faces slowly disappear and their trembling hands indicate a physical stress.

Classical dances can last from one to four hours, though many have been shortened for modern audiences. It’s the pressure of performing such a revered dance that never lets off, Condrokirono says, noting that members of her family never let a mistake go unnoticed.
Bedoyo finds its roots in historic manuscripts and is largely confined to an exclusive group of dancers because of its ties to the palace, or Kraton. Sarastiati, who trains with a studio that regularly performs there, said she studied contemporary dance for years before catching the eye of palace instructor R. Ay. Sri Kadarjati.
It was only then that she learned the trade secrets of the Bedoyo. “You have to have the right techniques, and you have to be passionate because the music and the movement is so slow. In Bedoyo all of the dancers move in unison, so you have to become one,” says Sarastiati.
Dancing the Bedoyo is still a matter of pride, but the dance once reserved for the eyes of Sultan and his guests of honor is now performed for tourists during dinner shows or cultural exhibitions.
That does not concern Sarastiati, who says she enjoys sharing the beauty of her culture with tourists. But GKR Pembayun, Sultan’s first daughter, says that the foundation of classical dance needs to be re-established by the palace.

Anthropologists have long cautioned that younger generations must learn traditional crafts from their elders or the arts will die along with them. For now, support for the arts remains strong in Yogyakarta, where dancers have long held distinguished positions in society because of their roles as the sultan’s servants.

Pembayun says it is difficult to preserve classical dances because the supporting community is now very small. A preservationist group consisting of concerned artists fears that complacency could precipitate the extinction of the art forms. While others, such as Dedi, say the West has a stranglehold over modern culture.
“Indonesia already imports many things from overseas, so we have to have other things that show who we are,” he says. “We have to keep what makes us Indonesian, and we can only keep our culture if we work hard to preserve it. If we don’t, there will be a big price to pay.”
For Dedi, efforts to maintain traditional culture are a form of resistance, and he tries to introduce his students to these practices from a young age. Like many classical performers, he comes from a family of artists. His mother danced and his siblings all studied one traditional discipline. As a group, they can sing, play gamelan and perform shadow puppetry.
Sarastiati says she became interested in dance as a young girl because she loved the beauty of the costumes and the make-up. Although she does not come from a family of performers, she will enter one when she marries Kadarjati’s son, also a classical dancer.

Condrokirono and Pembayun say it was simply a fact that they would study classical dance, but because they are the only two among their five siblings who have learned the movements, they have more to maintain support for their heritage.

“It’s the real tradition, it is part of our history and our culture,” says Condrokirono.
Among youths who have no such cultural connection, the need for preservation is less obvious. Dedi says young people will have no awareness of the art if it is not a part of their early education or upbringing.
And making the art a regular part of their lives can be difficult since such an investment require a serious amount of time and money.
Some classical dancers now rely on scholarships to fund their training, but many come from privileged or well-connected families that embrace traditional culture as their birthright.
As studios go, many around Yogyakarta offer classes that support the classics. Others have programs that include a range of styles — from ballroom dance to salsa.

Martinus Miroto, a well-known choreographer and the founder of several dance studios, has made efforts to make the classics more appealing by creating modern dance based on traditional Javanese epics.
In many ways, his effort defines the true philosophy behind Javanese culture, which as a mix of animism, local beliefs, Hinduism, Buddhism and Islam, honors adaptation.

That makes it rather difficult to explain just how to preserve certain traditions, but Jeanie Park, the executive director of performing arts’ center Yayasan Bagong Kussudiardja, says at its heart dance is about expression, and that is what people should value.

“If [artists] come from a classical dance background it will come out, and if they’re able to create new forms or movements based from that, I have no qualms because I know its coming from that personal artist.”
But effort also requires interest, says Dedi, who will continue exploring new ways to work with and teach others about classical forms, hoping that if he can instill the passion in children when they’re young, their love for these traditions will be too strong to shake.

Potato Head’s Visual Palate A Feast for The Eyes

Potato Head only opened its doors in January last year, but it has already become something of a stalwart among Jakarta’s young socialites, executive types and expats.

While the bar/restaurant serves excellent dishes and boasts an extensive cocktail list, it offers something that is a little harder to find in Jakarta — a tasteful yet playful ambience.



And this all makes sense when you meet the two men behind the concept: Ronald Akili and Jason Gunawan, both art collectors and owners of Ark Gallery in Kebayoran Baru.

Potato Head’s prime location at Pacific Place across from the Indonesia Stock Exchange (IDX) building ensures a full house of suits most nights of the week. We visited on a Friday afternoon and found the place already teeming with office workers. Neckties were loosened, hair let down, blazers slung on chairs and cocktails devoured.

Adorned with genuine vintage furniture, lamps and knick-knacks from Australia, France and Indonesia, the decor is impressive, yet unpretentious. There are three main dining areas on the ground floor, the mezzanine and outdoors.

Dining outside, you can mingle with the crowd and enjoy the luxury of seeing and being seen. In this area, you can choose between the low-backed plush sofa seating that invites you to kick back and relax, or sit on one of the iconic Tolix chairs at the long wooden bench.

The steel-framed chairs with slightly rounded backs were shipped from France. “These chairs are commonly used in cafes and bistros in Paris,” said Emmelyn, Potato Head’s event organizer.

The outdoor area is lined with about 500 pots of fresh herbs, such as rosemary, thyme, mint and basil, neatly arranged on shelves in rows.

“Our kitchen staff often takes ingredients from this garden,” Emmelyn said.

Inside the restaurant, the walls and ceilings are covered with well-worn kepryak (Javanese for louvers, or window panes with slated apertures) in various colors and dimensions that cleverly mask the overhead lights, ducts and pipes.

“In total, we use more than 300 louvers salvaged from old houses in Jakarta, Yogyakarta and Semarang for the restaurant,” Emmelyn said.

Tables for four with Thonet bentwood chairs from the 1930s are neatly arranged in the dining room. Each is embellished with classic rubber lamps that portray children’s storybook characters.

“We bought them from an antique store in Melbourne,” Emmelyn said.

At the heart of the restaurant is the 12-meter-long bar. Made entirely of white marble, the surface of the bar softly gleams under the light bulbs that are shaded with airplane noses salvaged from an old hangar in Melbourne, where co-owner Jason spent years studying.

Across from the bar is a mural painted by Yogyakarta-based artist Eko Nugroho, who often portrays robots as the subject of his off-kilter creations.

“Eko’s a rising Indonesian artist,” Emmelyn said. “His paintings are always a bit bizarre and paradoxical.”

On Potato Head’s sky-blue walls, Eko has painted flying spaceships with clam-like hands, squid-like creatures with sharp long tendrils reaching out toward diners below and a machine with a face and four legs. These images may seem unsettling for a restaurant, but somehow it works. You could look at the mural for hours and dissect each and every creature.

At the far end of the room is the green wall, which is actually a floor-to-ceiling garden that features suji and maranta plants.

From the ground floor, you can walk down a narrow alley or take the stairs to go to the mezzanine. I’d recommend the alley, as it will take you on quite a scenic journey across the restaurant.

The alley, about 1.5 meters wide, is made of discolored wooden planks taken from old homes. It ascends from the entrance, passing more of Eko’s spaceships and strange creatures on the wall and a magnificent floor-to-ceiling view of the IDX on your right, before reaching the top.

At the top, you have to walk across a narrow bridge flanked with vintage steel railings to reach the mezzanine.

The dining area up above is more secluded and private, with dimmed lighting and well-spaced rows of small tables for four. Larger groups can be seated at a long table on a narrow strip across from the bridge, where you can have more privacy, and, if you please, a very voyeuristic view of the beautiful people.

“We have quite a different crowd on Sundays,” Emmelyn said.

On Sundays, families with young children usually visit. They come for Potato Head’s Vitamin Sunday, which features fresh and healthy food and drinks served a la minute . The tables are also dressed with old-fashioned red-and-white-checkered tablecloths on Sundays.

“It’s just like a picnic,” Emmelyn said.

Of Lagoons, Permits And Lost Sandals

The call to evening prayer reverberated among the hills of Sendang Biru, on the southern coast of Malang district, East Java. On one of the area’s mangrove bays, boats of various sizes surrounded a wooden stilt house that stood above the water’s surface. Young fishermen were either repainting the hulls or fixing the engines while chattering in a language completely unfamiliar to me.

“Many of us are Bugis from Sinjai, South Sulawesi,” said Raju, one of the older fishermen. “I have been in Sendang Biru for seven [fishing] seasons.”


As soon as he finished speaking I realized that here, time is determined not by the ticking of a clock, but by the rhythm of their profession. A pattern seared into their mahogany skin and chiseled into their lean muscles.

The boats on the cove, called Pantai Barat, or Western Beach, included ones from Madura and Manado, their distinctive shapes and colors giving them away. So finding a range of local languages here was not so surprising. What was quite peculiar was Simson, an 11-year-old boy who had the facial features of a Papuan, yet spoke in a thick Javanese accent. His father, a soft-spoken man by the name of Yusak Morin, owns the stilt house. He married an East Javanese woman years after leaving his hometown in Biak, Papua.

Two friends and I stayed at their home for three days. The family is used to having guests.

“Most are from adventure groups, but sometimes we get families too. There was a family from the Philippines who stayed here for weeks. I was once told that I had become very famous,” Pak Morin said with a laugh.

As much as they are open to guests, Morin and his family have limited space. When there are too many people, some are invited to sleep in the family room, where six dogs roam about freely during the day. I was glad to find out that there was fresh water available, yet was somewhat alarmed upon discovering that all outlets in the bathroom led directly down to the sea.

For all the things the Morins share with their guests in the house they built themselves, they never charge a specific amount of money.

“At the end of their stay, guests usually just pay for the electricity and water they have used,” said Nakula, one my two traveling companions.

As the sky darkened, the orchestra of nocturnal insects and the howls of dogs accompanied the sound of the waves. A light rain added to the sense of melancholy in the air. As the clock moved past midnight, I quietly welcomed another year. It was the main reason I had come here in the first place: to celebrate my birthday in a different way with a small group of friends. Soon we would go to Sempu Island and spend time on its pristine lagoon.

Sempu Island is not a tourist destination. Located a couple of kilometers across from Sendang Biru, the 877-hectare isle was turned into a conservation area by the Dutch East Indies government in 1928. It is, however, open to adventure groups and researchers.

“Representatives from the Netherlands still visit the island at least once a year to see how it’s faring,” Ardiyanto, who works for Balai Konservasi Sumber Daya Alam (Natural Resources Conservation Agency), said at his office in Sendang Biru that handles visitors to Sempu. “Sempu Island was declared a conservation area because it was seen as unique. It has two lakes, one having salt water [the aforementioned lagoon] and the other fresh [a pond called Telogo Lele]. It is also home to protected birds, snakes and jaguars.”

Only 20 people are allowed on the island at a time. Visitors must bring a permit that can be obtained from the East Java BKSDA office in the province’s capital, Surabaya, around 150 kilometers north.

Upon hearing that all visitors entering the island must be accompanied by a Sempu post staff member, I could not help but suspect that this rule has been violated many times. “Some do not even bother to get a permit. They just hire a boat across, taking routes where they will not be seen,” said Nakula, who is also a photographer.

Morning came. Using a small motorboat, Pak Morin and Simson took us across from the western bay to one of Sempu Island’s entry points on its northern shore. We came at an unfortunate time. The rain from the previous night had turned the main path, about 1.5 kilometers long from the entry point to our destination on the southwestern side of the island, into a series of mud holes amid sharp rocks and unruly webs of roots. We left our sandals somewhere along the path, planning to get them on our way out — not even rubber boots could escape one of those knee-high mud traps, we thought. True enough, we found over 10 pairs of shoes or sandals abandoned along the way.

Striding barefooted down the slippery trail, we discovered that taking the less trodden ground on the sides of the path was our best bet to avoid a sprained ankle. Sounds of insects, birds and monkeys set a sinister mood all around us. No jaguars or snakes were in sight. We did, however, come across debris such as water bottles and plastic bags, as well as spray-painted doodles on tree trunks — a disappointment as all visitors should have learned what a conservation area meant before they entered the island’s tropical jungle.

One and a half hour later, bruised and exhausted, with legs covered in mud and clothes drenched in sweat, we arrived at the breathtaking Segara Anakan, Javanese for “Little Sea.” Barricaded from the sea by a great circle of rocky yet verdant hills, the lagoon receives its water from a visible opening on the western barrier.

Running gleefully on the white sand and swimming in the crystal-clear water, we were soon joined by a group of six young men from a high school adventure group. Before we knew it, thick clouds began to hover overhead. A light drizzle began to fall, but it did not stop the young men from playing football. The three of us sat near them, soaking in the soothing ambience of this little slice of paradise.

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” I said to my friends, trying not to think that we would have to take the same path from hell to get home.

Indonesia's Paradise Of Pearls

Over the years, West Nusa Tenggara has slowly built a reputation as a beach-lover’s paradise. Located to the east of better-known Bali, it is comprised of the main islands of Lombok and Sumbawa and occupies an area of 20,000 kilometers and an estimated population of four million people. The Gili islands, comprised of Trawangan, Air and Meno, are especially popular among backpackers for white, sandy beaches, crystal-clear waters and spectacular coral reefs.

But there’s another reason why the Ministry of Culture and Tourism would like more visitors to come to the islands — the province’s burgeoning pearl industry.

“West Nusa Tenggara produces the world’s best pearls,” said Jero Wacik, minister of culture and tourism, during the second annual Lombok Sumbawa Pearl Festival at the Santosa Resort and Villas at Senggigi Beach. The event, held 30 minutes away from the provincial capital of Mataram last Thursday to Saturday, was part of efforts by the ministry and the provincial government to strengthen the position of West Nusa Tenggara as a must-see destination.

“We should include Lombok and Sumbawa’s pearls in building up its reputation as tourist destination,” Jero said. West Nusa Tenggara is the biggest pearl-producing region in Indonesia, with output that surpasses Bali, Sulawesi, Papua and Maluku.

According to Zainul Madji, governor of West Nusa Tenggara, the pearl industry in Lombok and Sumbawa started in 1985. He said that there are now 36 pearl producers listed in the province occupying 6,000 hectares of land. Producing around 800 kilograms of pearls each year, the industry employs an estimated 1,360 workers.

“The pearl has become a very important element in our province,” he said.

Zainul said that pearls from the province come in three different colors — bronze, metal and emerald — which are unique to the area. He added that because of their beauty, the gems are known as the “Queen of Pearls.”

Among pearl traders, Indonesia’s pearls are famously known as South Sea pearls. And the country should not take this industry lightly.

“Pearls from Indonesia dominate around 53 percent of the world market,” said Fadel Muhammad, the maritime affairs and fisheries minister.

But despite this dominance, Fadel said that Indonesia is still unable to maximize profits because the pearl industry is heavily controlled by companies from Japan, Europe and the United States. “We can’t set the price level,” he said.

This situation is aggravated by the fact that 90 percent of pearl farming in the country is financed by foreign businesses, mostly from Japan and Australia.

Local producers are currently facing two main hurdles to becoming independent from foreign investment: funding and technology. “The banks should give more loans to our local pearl producers,” Fadel said. “Many of our producers also don’t have the most advanced machinery to produce the best quality of pearls.”

To help improve the industry, Fadel said the government should be more organized. He suggested establishing a “pearl bank” to control the quality and price of pearls coming from the country.

According to Fadel, the abundance of freshwater pearls is one reason why the price of Indonesia’s sea pearls has dropped significantly since 2006. “We have to do something about it,” he said.

Enggar Dwi Wicaksono, a pearl producer, agrees with Fadel. He said that there should be more quality control in the local pearl industry because shoddy products had affected prices. For instance, instead of being known for the more expensive and sought-after seawater pearls, the province has somehow become known for freshwater pearls.

According to Enggar, these pearls are sourced from freshwater oysters. A sea oyster can only produce one pearl while a freshwater oyster can produce about 100 to 1,000 pearls during each harvest.

There is a difference in quality between the two. “The glow that a freshwater pearl has can only last up to five years, while the beauty of a sea pearl can last forever,” he said.

Enggar said that the process of farming sea pearls takes up to three years. When the oysters are one and a half years old, farmers will inject the pearl nucleus into each oyster. The nucleus is the pearl seed that impregnates the oyster and produces the prized gem.

He said that without a quality nucleus it is impossible to create a quality pearl. The pearl nuclei are imported from the United States and Japan.

Ida, another pearl producer, said that pearls basically have five types of shapes: perfectly round, semi-round, water drop, oval and baroque (scrambled shape).

“The round shape is the most expensive one,” she said.

Ida said that a good quality sea pearl can sell for as much as Rp 2 million ($220) per gram, while a moderate-quality sea pearl usually costs from Rp 75,000 to Rp 100,000 per gram.

“The expensive pearls shine so much brighter than the cheap ones,” she said.

While Enggar said that his company sold freshwater and sea pearls, he decided not to bring the freshwater variety to the pearl festival.

“Our company has a commitment to promote the sea pearls, as that’s what West Nusa Tenggara should be known for,” he said. “More people should know about the beauty of pearls from Lombok and Sumbawa.”

Oky Marzuki Nyamat, 25, originally from Jakarta, moved to Mataram a year ago. “You don’t find quality pearls except in this area,” he said. “The government should be able to make pearls [from the province] an added attraction aside from the beautiful scenery.”

Jero, the tourism minister, is confident of West Nusa Tenggara’s tourism potential. “This event should provide the perfect momentum to attract more tourists to visit the province,” he said of the pearl festival.

According to the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, more than 600,000 local and international tourists visited West Nusa Tenggara in 2009. For 2012, the ministry hopes to welcome one million tourists to the province.

Jero is certain the pearl industry will bring in more tourists.

“In the future, people will come to enjoy the beaches and buy the pearls,” he said.

http://www.thejakartaglobe.com/lifeandtimes/indonesias-paradise-of-pearls/374232

World-Class Dancer Back on Local Stage

The room was abuzz with anticipation from the ladies lunching at the arts fundraiser. Eko was coming, they knew, he was just about to appear, and this was the kind of crowd that could really appreciate him. When the host announced the performance, an expectant, reverent hush descended over the room.

Eko Supriyanto does not command such rapt attention from sheer appearance. At 5 feet 4 inches, he does not impose physically. But when he stalked into the room — strikingly different in a sheer, one-shouldered black costume

— he was a giant: silently striking a pose, then holding his audience spellbound as he sinuously drew dance and rhythmic patterns out of the music floating in the air, the look on his face intense, unwavering.

“The dance is called ‘Bird,’ ” Eko said simply after the performance, explaining the inspiration for the choreography.

For the 50 or so well-dressed women who had been happily chatting at Grand Indonesia Mall’s Palalada restaurant (the event was a lunch fundraiser for the Institute Kesenian Jakarta, or Jakarta Institute of the Arts), the world-renowned choreographer and dancer’s visit was a knockout way to drum up support.

For Eko, it was a chance to engage with and show off his irreprssible love for dance. In the restaurant’s VIP lounge that also served as his dressing room, he explianed how, like most artists, he has always been faced with the dilemma of how to make a living from his passion. For him, the biggest pleasure he derives from his art is the chance that it gives him to connect with a lot of people, a pleasure he has been able to indulge as a dancer and choreographer across Asia, Europe and United States.

In that circular way the arts have of reminding you of your roots, it was the same Institute Kesenian Jakarta that gave him a big break in the early day. He performed abroad for the first time in the early 1990s when a group of teachers from the institute chipped in to help shoulder the costs for him to attend the American Dance Festival. “We do not regret the decision now that he has become a maestro,” smiled Nungki Kusumastuti, one of the teachers who supported Eko at the time.

Eko got his big international break in 2001 as one of six dancers chosen among 6,000 aspirants for pop icon Madonna’s “Drowned” world tour.

In the nine months he was on tour with the Queen of Pop, Eko said, he was able to soak up knowledge and experience about performing on stage, lights and music arrangement. Eko describes Madonna as a smart and beautiful artist who knows what she wants. She is a hard worker who would practice Mondays to Saturdays, from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., he said. “This is what I don’t see from Indonesian artists, the willingness to practise,” he says sadly.

He added that a performance should integrate both singers and dancers on stage because everything has to be well-executed and precise. “For example, without her dancers, a singer like Madonna is nothing. She said so herself.”

Since then, Eko has done collaborations with master teachers like Judy Mitoma, David Rouseve Peter Sellar and Sardono Kusumo. He has also appeared as lead actor, dancer and choreographer in “Opera Jawa,” an Indonesian-Austrian film produced by Peter Sellar and directed by Garin Nugroho.

How has Eko handled his success so far? “For me, it’s not about the big success, it’s about what comes after,” Eko said. He explained that continuity is an important aspect of living his life as an artist. The challenge is for him to continue as a choreographer.

At the moment, Eko is hard at work on his first projects to be showcased in Indonesia. He is currently the choreographer for two upcoming musicals in Jakarta.

The first project, “Onrop,” directed by Joko Anwar, is in its casting stage. “It’s great, we have a mission to create an original musical show, which means we don’t adapt the story from anything, and it reflects the reality in this country,” Eko said.

At the same time, he is also busy working on “Opera Diana,” another musical show, directed by Garin Nugroho, which is scheduled to premiere on July 28 at the Jakarta Convention Center. The show pays homage to Koes Plus, a legendary music group from the ’70s. Eko, who is into traditional and modern dance, is capable of executing a variety of dances, from Java, Sunda, Minang, Bali and Yogyakarta in Indonesia, to salsa, samba, Latin, Irish and African dances.

“Indonesia’s traditional dances are very good to photograph,” Eko said. “Through Bali dances, for example, we can see the expression of Balinese artists. The eyes are an important part of their dancing culture, as are flowers because [the dances] are also performed during rituals.”

He added that Javanese dances are usually tender and neither aggressive nor expressive, but more about hidden norms that lie in royal Javanese culture. In contrast, American modern dance on the other hand emphasizes individualism and tries to break the rules of classical dance from Europe like ballet.

Born in Semarang, Central Java, in November 1970, Eko grew up in a family of art lovers. He got his start in dance at the age of six because his grandfather was a wayang orang (human puppet) dancer for a show in Semarang. “All the men in the family had to practise dance every Saturday morning,” Eko said.

He learned the classic Javanese and folk dances from his father. On Sundays, they would also practice silat , the local martial arts form. However, it was not until he enrolled at the Surakarta Institute of Arts that he started to enjoy dancing. “When I learned about choreography, I suddenly felt that my creativity was being challenged,” said Eko, who is currently a faculty member at the school.

For his final university exam, Eko created a dance that reflected his appreciation and interpretation for Ronggeng, a nearly extinct traditional dance in West Java. After, the opportunity to learn more about dance choreography started to come his way.

In 1998, Eko received a full scholarship to study world arts, choreography and performance at the University of California in Los Angeles. Right now, Eko is pursuing his post graduate degree in performance studies at the Gajah Mada University in Yogyakarta.

Eko is determined to concentrate on creating new choreography, a process that he says that can take up to a year. “I usually do research before I choreograph. I read books, meet people and learn about the tradition,” Eko said.

To learn about dancing techniques is easy, but to get the feel for the dance is what occupies Eko’s energy and attention. “It is hard to fully understand a culture,” Eko said. “I find it hard to even get the feel for performing dances from East Java and Madura, let alone American dances.”

A quirky museum, a welcoming home

An impressive and imposing entranceway seems to stand guard as you approach the Antonio Blanco Museum located on a hill known as Campuan, in Ubud, Bali. Passing under this archway, the entrance road rises up steeply and there is a real sense of approaching something special but also a little reclusive.


It is said the King of Ubud gave the artist Antonio Blanco this land to build his home and which today stands as something of a monument to this renowned artist.


This land in Ubud is also said to sit at the confluence of two sacred rivers and so in a variety of ways is seen as an auspicious and special place.


It soon becomes clear that this is a place of restfulness and beauty: Gardens are beautifully kept, lawns are clipped and manicured, and statues are adorned with umbrellas and flowers.

The grounds of the museum immediately reflect this space is respected and worshipped. Signs over the entrance door into the grounds state that “Through these portals pass the most beautiful people in Bali”.

Antonio Blanco was an artist of Spanish parentage born in Manila, The Philippines, in 1911. It is evident from the museum that the artist enjoyed a varied and truly international life. After his high school education in Manila, he went on to study art in New York and developed skills and a liking for figurative and portrait art.
While this sentiment was to prevail throughout his artistic life, his arrival in Bali in 1952 proved central to the rest of his life. He married a Balinese woman famed for her Balinese dancing, Ni Ronji. Her portraits kept in the museum add a very personal touch to the museum, almost making the visitor feel like being at home.
Perhaps first and foremost it is the home of Antonio Blanco. His spirit seems to linger throughout the mansion at the center of the place.

The mansion is large and ornate; perhaps a little too ornate and even gaudy for many a modern person’s tastes, but it is important as it acts as a gallery space for so many of Blanco’s paintings.

These are displayed in often highly decorated frames, some of which were also designed by the artist.
But it is in the artist’s studio to the side of the mansion that visitors get a real sense of the artist’s work.
Antonio Blanco passed away in 1999 but his spirit seems to linger on in his small but intimate studio, where numerous frames and paintings either line the walls or rest, stacked up against the walls. One feels like someone needs to finish the pieces or take up the brushes and use the paints left in the center of the room.
Today, visitors to the museum are invited to sit as the artist would have and have their photograph taken posing with artist’s palette and brush in hand. Although this sounds almost terribly touristy, it is done in a fun way and the attendants are warm and welcoming.

 This is, perhaps, one of the nicest aspects of this museum; although the mansion house is grandiose and imposing — practically demanding attention — there is still something of an intimacy and warmth about the place as a whole.

Antonio Blanco’s son Mario also became an artist, very much in his father’s tradition, and so his studio resides right next to that of his renowned father’s.

Antonio Blanco was one of many foreign artists to come to Bali and feel at home. His memory is, though, kept alive more powerfully than most with this museum that combines studios and a large mansion house.
The artist may have passed away more than a decade ago now and, to some extent, the times that he represents have passed; perhaps they were more stylish and genteel times. But this museum seems to look back on them with a fondness and warmth that is both simultaneously interesting to the mind and calming to the spirit.

2nd Opinion: Urban reflections in 3-D

Amid the urban brouhaha of the metropolitan city of Jakarta, the exhibition of eight artists at Bentara Budaya art space comes like a soothing refreshment on a hot day.

Who are we, life size mixed media by Ade Artie Tjakra. Courtesy of the artists
While critical of many aspects of urban Jakarta, the works show how creative thinking can relieve a person’s stress.


There is, for instance, the work by Indah Arsyad (born in 1965), conceived amid the stressful traffic jams in the capital city. Stressed out, Indah managed to transform her negative thoughts into imaginations of the most fantastic kind. Featuring 21 white resin automobile wheels driven by white goose feathers, the installation, which is aptly titled Racing Minds, is like a beautiful flight of birds on wheels taking off to unknown lands of fantasy.

In the same vein, and out of the same feeling of stress, Awan P. Simatupang creates a finely executed motorcycle in mixed media. Metaphorically referring to our lack of progress despite great technological advances, the work is titled 0 Km. Appearing sweet, starkly contrasting with his usual dark pessimism, the switch may well have been driven by a sense of apathy.

The urban culture so prevalent in Jakarta is impacting on many aspects of human life. Amid the hustle and bustle, the vibrancy and the accelerated pace of life today, there seems to be little time to be still and think of God.
Racing Minds, resin and goose feather, by Indah Arsyad. Courtesy of the artists
Bibiana Lee finds when everything goes well, we have no time to pray. Prayer comes when problems arise, the more problems, the more often one turns to prayer, she says. This is well visualized in her wall installation titled Suddenly I need You. Consisting of seven glass plates on which the words of prayer in the Betawi language are sandblasted, the use of shadow increases the intensity of the words which in the first few plates are fairly spread out but become crowded and clashing as they are layered on the last few plates. Words of prayer, in Indonesian, Betawi and Old English, are sandblasted too on the snacks that fill each jar before three confession booths.

Often called a melting pot, Jakarta is known for housing people of the most diverse origins. Ade Artie Tjakra, who finds herself in the midst of it, wonders about her identity. Born Chinese, living in Jakarta and being an Indonesian citizen, she feels there is something of each culture in her, as denoted in the work titled Who are we, featuring clothes representative of each identity.

On the negative side, there is so much make-believe, fake appearances and bestial behavior. These are the main themes epitomized by Taufan’s sculptures, such as his copper-plated Berbababi featuring mannequins with pig’s heads, or his fiberglass Tukar Nasib featuring a man with a dog’s head sitting on the sofa with a dog with a man’s head, or even in the Man with a Shadow showing a man standing on his upside-down image, both in fiberglass.

And what about the overpopulation, people crammed into one little space, the traffic jams, the pollution — one of the top three most polluted in the world — the noise that, according to Geoffrey Tjakra,  often hampers an artist focusing on his creative urges. Geoffrey mixes all this in small ceramic images in one bowl, which, he says, can be seen as unity in spite of differences. And while his other small ceramic images are set like a necklace in a wall installation, it is called Neo Artifacts and denotes a critique of the urban culture of consumerism.

AB Sutikno sees urban man as a victim of the industrialized West. No wonder one of his works features a goat’s head. Yet, Keng Sien, the most senior of the participating artists, and a seasoned ceramist, wants to keep up optimism. Whatever the situation, take it easy, just relax and enjoy, he said. He says his ceramic sculptures titled No Doubt, Semedi Indah and Menabuh Semangat are meant to say don’t worry, enjoy the richness of today.

In Pursuit of the Dragons of Alor

In the fishing village of Lanleki on the island of Alor, I met an old man who had seen a dragon. His name was Achmad. Sitting in the narrow front room of his small house, he told me his story. Forty years ago, long before he made the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, he was walking along a narrow path that leads to the village when the dragon emerged from the sea and chased him through the trees. It had horns like a buffalo and seven flickering tongues.

The most easterly landfall in the island chain that stretches east of Java, Alor is a place of pale beaches and dark, myth-filled hills. Like many other regions of Indonesia, the island has undergone remarkable changes in the last century. In 1938, American anthropologist Cora Du Bois visited Alor and records she kept describe an island where people knew little of money and spoke no Indonesian. Though there was a long established halo of Islam around the coast, Protestant missionaries had little success spreading their religion in the hills and most people worshiped only the spirits of the countryside. Dutch colonialists claimed to have pacified the island at the turn of the 20th century, but clan warfare and headhunting were still practiced.

Seventy years later, roads have snaked into the hills, whitewashed churches have sprouted in remote villages and most of the population has become nominally Christian. The island’s capital, Kalabahi, has filled with buzzing motorbikes. There are daily flights from Kupang and even a nascent tourist industry.

But, as I was to discover, Alor, part of East Nusa Tenggara province, is still a place where old beliefs and traditions hold strong, and where there is little distinction between history and myth. This is an island that could still be marked on the map with the words: Here be dragons...

Alor is smaller than Bali and has a population of just 168,000. But it is perhaps the most linguistically diverse place in Indonesia; as many as 17 languages and numerous dialects are spoken here. There is a similar diversity of culture, with the creation myths of one village often meaning nothing to the people of the next. But there are certain threads that run throughout the island. Dragons, for one, are a part of the folklore one hears from village to village. Only here they are spoken of not as mythological creatures, but as real entities.

If I wanted to learn more about dragons, Achmad said, I should go to the village of Alor Kecil. A Muslim village with concrete houses and tin-roofed mosques shaded by huge banyan trees, Alor Kecil lies at the western tip of the rugged peninsula that bulges to the north of Kalabahi Bay. As I picked my way through the village I spotted dragon figures everywhere. There were dragons carved into door frames, dragons woven into pieces of local ikat cloth and dragon statues outside the community hall.

Sitting outside the lineage house of the Suku Bao Raja, Alor Kecil’s royal clan, I met a young man named Jason. I asked him about dragons. The naga, or dragon, he said, was the protector of the village. It had come originally from the ground in the hills to the north, but today it lived in the sea. I repeated Achmad’s story and Jason was not surprised.

“People do see the dragon, but not often. It’s usually outsiders who see it, not locals,” he said.

He told me that all of the people of Alor Kecil and the surrounding settlements were descended from a man who rose from the earth in a place called Bampalola in the hills above the coast. Following his directions I traveled up a steep track that wound between the ridges.

Bampalola is a modern village with a school and a mosque. One kilometer downhill through the maize fields, on a high promontory at the end of a razor-sharp ridge, stood the old village, Lakatuli. No one lived in Lakatuil now, but the place was still used for traditional ceremonies. Tall thatched roofs rose above bamboo-floored platforms. Elaborate carvings on beams and banisters were picked out in white and ochre, and dragons were chiseled into the woodwork.

Looking at them I was reminded of a grainy black-and-white photo in Du Bois’s 1944 book, “The People of Alor.” It was a picture of an ulenai, a carving representing the village guardian spirit. Though the ulenai lacked the stylistic touches clearly borrowed from Chinese art that I had seen on carvings in Alor Kecil and Bampalola, it was very obviously a dragon.

Du Bois had written of ancestor myths and guardian spirits. “This whole concept will undoubtedly become the center of revivalistic cults when Alorese culture crumbles, as it inevitably will under the impact of foreign colonization,” Du Bois wrote. But much of the island’s ancient traditions appeared intact and it seemed the people’s belief in the dragon as a powerful protector had never faded from village life here.

From Bampalola I returned to the coast and the hamlet of Alu Kai, just east of Alor Kecil. In the front room of a clan house with a carved dragon in the corner, two of the village elders, Pak Amir and Pak Mo, told me more about dragons, referring to their stories as “history” rather than legend. They made no distinction between the dragon tales and the stories of the arrival of Islam from Ambon and Makassar.

The dragon first appeared from the earth in Bampalola many centuries ago, before the birth of mankind, they said. The first man rose in the same place later and his descendants traveled downhill to the shore where the founder of Alu Kai hamlet, Jai Manu, married a princess of the mysterious Sea People named Eko Sari. While they talked, children gathered in the doorway, just as they had done in Lanleki. Pak Amir smiled.

“It’s important for old men to talk; if the old men just keep silent then how will the children know their own history?” he said.

There was one more place to visit in my pursuit of Alor’s dragons. I’d heard that at the tip of the headland beyond Alor Kecil was a shrine dedicated to the dragon. I picked my way through stony fields and thorny scrub. Insects buzzed in the undergrowth and I could hear the sea, hissing onto the rocks nearby. I met a tall, barefoot man named Haider who led me to the shrine.

It was a small structure, a low tin roof sheltering two shelves painted with long, black dragons, and on the top level a heavier, cruder dragon carving. Old coconut husks were scattered on the ground. A bunch of dried goats’ ears hung on a rusty nail. It felt like a place of dark magic. People often come here to make offerings to the dragon, Haider said. Chickens and goats are routinely tossed into the sea as offerings, not just by local villagers, but also police chiefs and politicians from Kalabahi seeking the protection of the mysterious beast, he said. The dried carcass of a chicken hung from a branch. It was a strange, faintly unsettling place. As the afternoon sun slanted away over the hills of Pantar, I peered down into the water, half-expecting to see a horned, seven-tongued serpent rise from the depths.