In Indonesia, Many Islands and Many Faces

In the second grade, I spent many hours with a World Book Encyclopedia, an opaque projector and a vast stretch of butcher paper tacked to the classroom wall. My goal was to trace a map of Indonesia. It was for a report, which probably mentioned that Indonesia was the world's fourth most-populous country and the one with the most Muslims, and that it was covered in rice paddies and exports oil. But what I remember was the map itself: There were so many islands that even a professional tracer would have found the job taxing.

Even the 7-year-old me would have known that trying to see such a vast country in 18 days was folly. But that's all the time the current me had as I planned for a late June arrival. Trying to see everything certai nly wouldn't work — at 17,000 or so islands, 18 days would get you about a minute and a half on each (teleportation technology required).

So instead, I went for an agenda that was still ambitious (and tiring) but more achievable: four very different places on four disparate islands. I hoped to find experiences that might represent the mind-boggling diversity of the country. (For more articles about my trip, go to nytimes.com/frugaltraveler.)

Perhaps it's not surprising that each stop ended up involving religion and ritual, which are a rich part of life almost everywhere on the islands. And it's definitely not surprising that they were intimate experiences. If Indonesians have one thing in common, it's that foreigners are frequently welcomed into parts of their lives that most Americans I know would keep private.

Continue reading the main story Slide Show From Papua to Bali, Beauty and Intimacy

CreditAndy Haslam for The New York Times

The trip took place during Ramadan, when things slow down and many businesses close on heavily populated Java, as well as on Sumatra and many other islands. So I plunged into Ramadan activities during one stop, then turned to areas where Indonesia's substantial non-Muslim populations — that's about 33 million Christians, Hindus, Buddhists and others — are dominant.

All four legs came at very modest prices. The experiences described below were either free or close to it, and everything from guides to lodging to local flights (see the accompanying box) was cheap by almost any standards. The biggest cost of a trip to Indonesia is the trip itself — from New York, one-stop flights to Jakarta or Denpasar, Bali, often start about $1,20 0. Not a bad deal for access to such a rich and varied world.

SUMATRA

"Sahur!" A voice over the loudspeaker rang out from some nearby minaret. "Sahur!" The night before it had jolted me awake sometime after 3 a.m. But this time, after setting an alarm in my hotel room for 2:40, I was on the back of a motorbike zooming through Padang, the mostly Muslim capital of West Sumatra province.

Photo Padang's water comes from the mountains. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times

Sahur is the predawn meal Muslims eat during Ramadan. Calling it breakfast is inaccurate; it does not so much break a fast as provide sustenance for one, the daily dawn-to-dusk prohibition on eating, drinking and smoking that Muslims engage in, for the most part joyously, during the ninth month of the Muslim calendar.

The man driving was Heri, a young friend of a friend of a friend; in a cafe the night before, he had called his friend Ami to see if her family would be willing to have a stranger over at 3 a.m.

As Ami, who turned out to be a bright-eyed 23-year-old journalist and photographer, would tell me later: "When he said to me, someone from New York want to come here to your home, I was shocked. It was great!" She had even rushed to invite a friend who spoke better English.

Ami and her friend Nisa, both dressed in veils and Western clothes, greeted us and were cheery despite the early hour. Her dad, Rusli, who turned out to be an imam, was just stumbling out of his room, bleary-eyed. Her younger brother Rayhan was still dozing, sprawled out in a heap of pillows on the living room floor.

Except for a stop at the Pasar Pabukoan, a special Ramadan daytime market, the day before, it was my first direct experience with the fasting ritual, and I peppered them with questions. Fasting was one of the five pillars of Islam, I learned, a time of prayer and spiritual renewal. No , they do not get hungry while fasting, maybe a little thirsty. There is no school, though there are special religious programs for children. Soccer is played, but only at night. The timing of the fast depends on local sunrise and sunset, so its length varies greatly around the world.

Finally, I asked them all if they pray five times a day. Nisa and Ami did. Heri demurred. I looked to Ami, daughter of an imam after all, to see what she thought. "We pray to Allah that he will pray five times a day," she giggled.

We were called to the table by Ami's mom, Desmaniar, who was wearing a flowing, flowery dress and long veil. I noticed Rayhan still lying in a heap on the rug, and in my best impression yelled, "Sahur! Sahur!" It was my first Ramadan-related jo ke, but everyone seemed to think it was funny.

Padang is home to the Minangkabau people, whose food makes up much of what the world knows as Indonesian cuisine. Just as waiters do in Padang restaurants, Desmaniar had set out bowls of multiple dishes on the table.

Photo Chillies from a local market. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times

My favorite was dendeng, dried slices of beef with red chiles, but I also liked the kangkung, a tasty green sometimes called water spinach, and rendang, a Padang specialty, typically beef cooked for hours in coconut milk. This version was made not with beef but with cow's lung; it was spongy rather than tender, but with the same alluring flavors of spices and coconut milk reduction.

After the meal, Rusli left for the mosque. Ami, along with friends and siblings, prepared to pray, and they asked me to join. I had no idea whether non-Muslims were permitted to do this, but took the cue of my hosts and decided to consider it a meditation. I was given a sarong, and Ami's older brother showed me how to wash properly for prayer. I fo llowed as best as I could, and can at least report that sujud, the prostration step in Muslim prayer, is soothing.

I had enjoyed my first sahur, but wasn't sure how I would do getting up before 3 every day for a month. Before the imam left, I had thanked him, and he had laboriously put together a phrase in English for me. "Next time, we very happy — you come here again," he said. Next time, I hoped, would be for dinner.

Photo The mountains of southern Sulawesi in Tana Toraja. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times SULAWESI

The seventh water buffalo got away.

To aid dead relatives' journey to the afterlife, the Toraja people of Sulawesi slaughter water buffalo at the start of their elaborate, multiday funerals. Torajan funerals are a reason visitors come to amoeba-shaped Sulawesi, one of Indonesia's biggest islands.

At the funeral I attended in July with an ad hoc group of new friends and a guide, there were 17 buffalo to be sacrificed. The first six went as smoothly as can be expected when men try to kill 800-pound beasts with a single slash from a hand-forged knife. Each man held up the rope attached to the buffalo's nose ring, exposing its throat, and then, grasping the knife's bamboo root handle, wound up and took a whack. The crowd, a mix of locals and tourists, gasped, oohed and shot video with iPhones as the buffalo went down thrashing and blood soaked the grassy hillside.

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But the executioner of No. 7 either declined or forgot to tie up the animal, who, as blood spurted from its wound, bolted toward the pasture below, where it head-butted another buffalo. It then turned around and headed for the temporary buildings — sort of fancy tents — where some family members had retreated for tea and snacks and relief from the sun. There was a Pamplona-like mad scramble to get out of the way; I had backed away well before. No one was hurt — except the buffalo, of course, which was recaptured and died shortly thereafter.

From high above, on a platform topped with the astonishing soaring saddleback roofs that characterize Torajan architecture, the deceased looked out over the proceedings. An effigy of the deceased, th at is, as well as a portrait of her — a prim, kind-faced woman with short white hair. Her preserved body lay in an elegant coffin.

Preserved, that is, for over two decades: She died, in Western terms, in the early 1990s, we were told. Until a funeral, the person is not considered gone, but merely "sick." The body is preserved using techniques similar to mummification, and continues to "live" in the family home, and even pose in family pictures. In what is often the yearslong period before burial, the family must save money for the buffalo and prepare for the elaborate ceremonies.

The Torajan people, whose centuries-old funeral rites predate their conversion to Christianity, are famous for these traditions; the events, especially those close to the city of Rantepao, where tourists typically stay, are often full-on tourist attractions, with paid admission (the one I attended was 20,000 rupiah, about $1.50 at 13,100 rupiah to the dollar). A gift is also expected, generally a carton of cigarettes (about 180,000 rupiah) per group. (I was there with three other travelers splitting the cost of our guide.)

Photo A funeral celebration in Tana Toraja. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times

Despite all this, it is not a show for tourists. If anything, it is a display of social status for the community and for the hundreds of family members who come from across Indonesia — there's quite a Torajan diaspora. I met one family that, we were told, was part of that diaspora but displayed its local pride with matching "I Papua" T-shirts.

If the sacrifices sound brutal, at least the animals' bodies were fully used. Skins were used for ritual items like drums, gloves and shields; meat cut up into hunks and passed out; and horns kept to display on the tongkonan, the Toraja's stunning boat-shaped traditional homes. Even the hooves served a purpose, though not one I would have expected: They become toys. A string is attached to each like a leash, and delighted children drag them around.

It was the sacrifices themselves that stayed with me; I continue to compare the water buffaloes' death to what I imagine happening in factory farms every day and ponder whether this ritualized death is better or worse. In other parts of Indonesia, the buffalo are draft animals, but here they are venerated and carefully cared for. "A Torajan farmer washes his buffalo at least twice a day," our guide said. "He probably takes a shower himself once a week."

PAPUA

The mountain village of Wesagalep is a two-and-a-half-hour, thigh-burning uphill hike from the rushing Baliem River. That included occasional stops that my fitter friend, Cristian, used to take in the breathtaking views; I was more focused on actu al breath-taking.

Photo A son of a Dani chief. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times

After a laborious trip, we were hoping for a warm welcome when we reached the terraced group of thatched homes, called honai by the indigenous Dani people. The villages of the Baliem Valley in Papua, the province that occupies most of the Indonesian half of New Guinea, are accustomed to Western travelers coming through for the night, bearing gifts of cigarettes, tea and sugar, and paying around 100,000 rupiah to sleep on the wooden floor of the village office.

We are hardly the most controversial intrusion in the 75 years or so since their first contact with the wider world — try Christianity, colonialism and the Indonesian military for starters. Somewhat disappointingly, visitors are more likely to see T-shirts than tradition al skirts for women and very revealing penis gourds for men in many villages. Only a few older men dress traditionally — which means they are not dressed at all except for a gourd partly covering their genitals.

When we arrived, about two dozen women gathered in front of a honai motioned us to the men sitting outside another. They told Cristian, who speaks Indonesian, to wait. A man had died in the village the day before, and this was a solemn meeting to plan the appropriate ceremony for the next day.

How would you act if two strangers approached you as you planned a relative's funeral and asked to stay the night? Not like the Dani, certainly. They had us sit down with them and listen in, not that we could understand the local language. Then we were invit ed to stoop down below the low-hanging roof and clamber into the men's honai.

It was dark and smoky inside, daylight streaming through the door, revealing a cloudy haze. In the center, there was a hearth, whose fires had blackened the startlingly low ceiling — surprisingly, it was actually a two-story dwelling, with sleeping quarters upstairs. Unsure what to do, we joined other men, sitting cross-legged on the soft grass floor. One, dark-skinned and wrinkled with a graying beard, incanted a few words, and on cue, the others joined in a monotone hum.

It was soon clear he was crying — ritualistically, it seemed to me — as were several others. We sat, spellbound, curious. Why in the world had we been invited in? What did this all mean?

Soon after, we were led to the village leader's honai, where Cristian questioned him and translated. The leader had three wives, all from other villages; intra-village marriage is prohibited. Pigs are the only animals they raise, but their meat is reserved for ceremonies. (The next day, we witnessed the pigs killed with handmade bows and arrows.) We were given a dinner of sweet potatoes, a Dani staple, as twisted and warped as ginger root, skin crispy from having been cooked under heated rocks, but inside soft, moist, succulent.

Photo The Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary in Bali. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times BALI

The morning that the Balinese Hindu festival of Galungan began, I rode my bike through the thickly settled but largely untouristed streets of Kemenuh village. From the Kudesa Guest House — run by a charismatic retired woodcarver turned village priest, with rooms starting at $9 on booking.com — it was a less than 10-minute ride to the home of my generous new friend, a rather strapping 38-year-old bus driver named Widi, who lived just over the border in the next village, Blahbatuh. I had met him two nights earlier when I stopped my bike to see why there were two dead pigs on the sidewalk outside his house. (Widi and his relatives had killed them to distribute to family members planning to make lawar — minced meat, vegetables and spices — and other dishes for the festival.)

Bali is known for being spiritual, and I tend to hate when things are called "spiritual." But break out the thesaurus, because even I could not deny that I felt something holy, sacred, ethereal all around me that morning. Chimes played and the air was tinged with incense. I was pelted by occasional raindrops as I rode by ornately decorated orange-brick temples, their entrances flanked by plucky sandstone dvarapala (gate guardians) wrapped in sarongs. Outside each house was a penjor — a graceful, ornamented bamboo pole that arches up above roof level, its end weighted down with offerings. It looked like a giant's fishing rod reeling in a heavy catch.

Photo Penjors are popular outside homes during the Hindu festival of Galungan. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times

Widi and his family greeted me warmly at his family's compound, which included several buildings of living quarters and a temple; in the middle was a flowering frangipani tree. He gave me a pressed white linen shirt, a white cloth hat and a brown patterned sarong, necessary attire for the three open-air public temples we would be visiting that day as part of Galungan, the uniquely Balinese festival of uniquely Balinese Hinduism that takes place every 210 days, when ancestral spirits return to earth. Everything about me looked Balinese, except for me. We gathered three children, and with a basket of flowers for prayer, headed out.

Each village in Bali has at least three temples, one for each of the Hindu trimurti, or trinity: Brahma the creator, Vish nu the maintainer and Shiva the destroyer.

Shiva was first. "Shiva is destroyer, but not bad," Widi explained. "It's something positive — like recycle!" (I later found references to Shiva as the "transformer.") The temple was enchanting, with elegant orange brick and elaborate sandstone carvings. Inside the gate, women and girls knelt and men sat cross-legged on the ground, in prayer.

Outside, we joined a large crowd waiting its turn. The women, dressed in colorful robes, held large metal baskets on their heads, full of offerings: flowers, rice, cakes, oranges, apples and bananas. The men, dressed, well, like me, held smaller baskets, with flowers and rice for prayer. We went in and sat down, cross-legged. Though I didn 't spot any other outsiders, no one seemed surprised or displeased to see me; in fact, Widi encouraged me to take pictures.

As Ami had in Padang, Widi assumed I would pray with his family. The prayer ritual is compellingly soothing. Soon after he lit incense and "washed" his hands and face with the smoke I tried to follow his movements as he brought his palms together before raising his hands to his forehead. He took a yellow flower, and did the same thing, then a red flower, and then both together. (He admitted to not having the full array of flowers.)

A woman came by and sprinkled us with holy water, then poured it into our hands three times for us to drink, and once more to wash our face. We then took rice, pressing it into our foreheads, then our ch ests, and then into our mouths.

Why so much water?, I asked. "That is the symbol of life," Widi said. "If you grow something, you must put water first. Then you get trees and good life."

We repeated the process at two more temples, and each time Widi added a final step: checking his phone. Of all the intriguing cultural elements of the day, I found his brand choice to be the most curious: the Balinese still used BlackBerrys?

Bali is famed for keeping its traditions alive despite being the most touristed island in the country. (In fact, so touristed that many people don't even realize it's a part of Indonesia.) "In Bali, we keep the o ld culture," he said. "The other islands, before, they had special culture, religion, but it changed."

Of course, by then, I had seen plenty of evidence to the contrary.

Photo Terraces of rice paddies shape the landscape. Credit Andy Haslam for The New York Times IF YOU GO

Getting to Indonesia is one thing; getting around it is another. You can travel within the bigger islands by bus (or train), but a trip like mine required flights, and lots of them.

The good news is that there are regular flights to and from just about everywhere. The other good news is that they can be very, very cheap, often less than $50 a leg. The bad news is that most of the airlines do not meet world safety standards and have been banned from flying in the European Union. The other bad news is that it is impossible to book most flights online without an Indonesian credit card or bank account.

The Safest Bet

The easiest and safest solution is to stick to Garuda Indonesia (garuda-indonesia.com), the country's flagship airline, which is a SkyTeam partner and serves about 60 domestic destinations. Flights can be booked online, and service is excellent. (Garuda is also the only Indonesian carrier with flights to Europe and the United States.) Still, prices are often higher than other carriers like Batik, Citilink, Sriwijaya and the much-maligned Lion Air (which just about everyone told me to avoid, for dependability and safety issues).

Try a Travel Agent

But Garuda (and AirAsia Indonesia, which also can be booked online; airasia.com) will not get you everywhere, and the other airlines are often much cheaper. You can book them after arrival in Indonesia through (ubiquitous) local travel agents or the airline offices themselves. Be sure you compare the agency's quoted price with fares you find online; I tried to book a bargain Citilink flight through my Jakarta hotel's agent and was quoted a price much higher than I saw on the Citilink site. (I booked directly with Garuda instead.)

If All Else Fails

Sometimes even the agencies can't help. When I tried to reserve a round-trip flight on Trigana Air between Jayapura, the Papuan capital, and Wamena in the Baliem Valley, a different Jakarta- based agency simply could not make the reservation. My only choice was to have them book on Wings — a discount subsidiary of, alas, Lion Air. Still, the flight left on time and, obviously, I survived to tell the tale.

Source: In Indonesia, Many Islands and Many Faces