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

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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

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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

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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

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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]”.

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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.

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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.

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