Borobudur

 

It had been a very long time since I had first wanted to visit Borobudur. Perhaps half my life. Long before I had heard of that Asian fascination which is Angkor Wat, the idea of Borobudur was there, holding me, spellbound in its oriental mysticism. Until recently I had no clear idea where Borobudur was, only that it was somewhere in Indonesia, sister country to Malaysia.

For long I prevaricated, should I stay or should I go, The Clash’s lyrics bouncing around in my head. Years I had spent thinking, considering, wondering. And yet, from somewhere, I had found time and energy to visit Stonehenge, Wiltshire, in England, the Taj Mahal, Agra, in India, and Angkor Wat, Krong Siem Reap, Cambodia, but it was only, finally, this year that travel plans were formulated to actually go to see Borobudur. Eventually I was set to see that great stone mandala (a geometric figure representing the universe in Hindu and Buddhist symbolism) just outside of Yogyakarta, in that island grouping known as Indonesia, and it was only two and half hours away by plane.

Through a friend, a guide had been recommended. He was someone whom she had hired to take a school party around Yogyakarta area, only recently. On arrival in Yogyakarta we bought the local SIM card for my hand phone, then I had contacted him, explaining that we wanted to see both Borobudur (Buddhist) and Prambanan (Hindu) candi (temple) complexes on the same day. A dual (package) ticket was available, slightly cheaper (US$ 32) than paying for a ticket for each venue.

We, like most people, had limited days available to encompass all that we wished to do on such a short trip. Through mixed emotions and attention to our task, my perception was that those days minutes and hours in Indonesia were tumbling so quickly down hill, and were racing the nearer we got to the end of our five day. Though, true enough, there had been some moments of calm reflection, such as when we were in Kartika Affandi’s garden soothed by its ambiance, or at her diner table being amazed at the fare Kartika’s daughter had prepared, or there again watching puddles of rain reflect lights on cobblestones the very evening of our arrival in Yogyakarta. Despite those very rich moments, the days had seemed compact.

That warm Thursday morning in March held a hint of rain. The drive through the waking city and out into the Javanese countryside, was pleasant enough. My chest was filled with a bubble of expectation. My partner  had been there before, so she was not as keyed up as I was. I had the thought, reverberating through my mind - at last, Borobudur, astounding.

City streets soon gave way to fields of ripening rice padi. The veneer of modernity, of twenty-first century living was stripped away with each kilometre we travelled, each line banana of trees that we encountered.  

Once parked, there was an obligatory trek, about twenty minutes, through a meandering tree-lined avenue filled with, mostly local, tourists. There were amateur adventurers hiking along and some quite imposing elephants, their ivories clipped so they didn’t spear visitors. Before we began, there was the quite necessary photo opportunity by a sign proclaiming BOROBUDUR (in capital letters), reminiscent of the Mount Lee HOLLYWOOD sign, Los Angeles, California, but much, much smaller. Of course we had to await our turn amongst the seriously amateur photographers with their weighty, and expensive, lenses and people more like ourselves, with cameras in our smart phones.

 
Having smiled the requisite photograph smiles, with equally requisite arm draped around necessary spouse, we eventually abandoned that lengthy signage and began the winding pathway, which was to lead us through a well kept park, and to the temple. As we walked there were tantalising glimpses of the temple peeking out through, or over, the leafy trees. Mahouts in blue rode in rattan howdahs upon brown small eared elephants, heading heaven knows where, or why. Maybe it was just to give the tourists some ancient ambience, though I would have thought that Borobudur temple itself might do that. The sun was making its equatorial presence felt as blue skies delivered small wisps of white cloud, just enough to seem romantic, if you're not bothered about sweating that is.

And then we were there. We were finally confronting that candi mandala structure of Borobudur, believed to have been designed by the architect, poet and general thinker, Gunadharma, and built between the 8th and 9th centuries. We are informed that from above, the structure forms a three dimensional mandala, somewhat resembling a pyramid. Each layer has relief carvings of the Buddha’s life, stories of Buddhism, Buddha’s teachings (Dharma) and scriptures (sutras), not to mention countless sculptures of the Buddha too, some in better repair than others.

Some of the stair pathways are steep and narrow, wide enough for just a single climber. Some congestion does occur, especially when teens forget their manners and rush dangerously past. It is an effort, which to some extent is worth the anticipation and the effort to climb the various layers until the uppermost layer is reached. But, I have to say, there is little of the sheer overwhelming spiritual feeling that accompanies places like Angkor Wat, the splendid majesty of the Taj Mahal, or the connections felt from the ancient Ley lines at Stonehenge. Borobudur is interesting, but it did seem much smaller that I had anticipated. Perhaps it was me, and all those years of my expectations, but it all seemed, somehow, a little less.

Another explanation, regarding the distinct lack of spiritual feeling, may have hailed from Borobudur’s initial reconstruction, between 1907 AD and 1911 AD, entrusted to one Theodoor van Erp after centuries of the site’s decay, then the re-re-construction between 1975 AD and 1984 AD, when UNESCO stepped in to preserve the structure. Two thirds have been added onto the devastated site originally found by the British Lieutenant Governor, Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, in 1814. Maybe, just maybe all the reconstructions have taken the mystique from the temple site, leaving the physicality of stones, carvings etc, but has denude that structure of any real spiritual connection.

Leaving the structure of temple Borobudur, I had to run the gauntlet of insistent and persistent small holders trying to sell their wares. While I wish them well, after some hours of climbing in the hot sun, being tired, worn out in some cases, the very last thing you need is rampant consumerism. I stopped at only one stall, on the fringe of the selling madness, and that was to buy coconut water to replenish both thirst and energy.

Having located our driver, we drove on………