A barrage of cultural influences have helped shape Indonesia, and nowhere more so than in Central Java, where untangling these dense threads reveals myriad hidden stories

Words & Photographs George Kipouros

O n reaching the top of the Stairway to Nirvana, I came face to face with a smiling Buddha statue. Breathless from the walk up, a feeling of euphoria overtook me as I drank in the paradisiacal views of Central Java, intoxicated by the heat and the effort. Then, just as swiftly, my reverie was broken by an unexpected sound: the adhan – Islamic call to prayer – was blasting from the loudspeakers of mosques camouflaged by the jungle below, the muezzin’s sonorous invitation rippling through the canopies.

From my viewpoint atop Borobudur – the so-called ‘largest Buddhist temple in the world’ – the interruption was a reminder that Indonesia is also home to the planet’s biggest Muslim population too. At that moment my guide, Naroni, also pointed to a gloriously ornate series of reliefs depicting scenes from Hindu mythology. My head was spinning not just from the climb and the noise, but the cultural overload. Yet, as I’d soon learn, the mixing of influences is a key part of life in a region that is Indonesia’s spiritual heart.

My journey through Central Java took me from polytheistic kingdoms to batik villages, but there was only one place to begin: Borobudur, one of the ancient world’s most spectacular architectural achievements, albeit one that is often misunderstood.

“You need to stop calling it a temple,” Naroni corrected me. “It is not, as it lacks a hall of prayer.” Instead, he informed me, it is classified as a monumental shrine to the Buddha – though I preferred his more figurative description: “A Buddhist bible in stone.”

The design of Borobudur is a physical representation of the stages for attaining nirvana, a state of transcendence, symbolised here by a terraced mountain. It is the perfect embodiment of the universe according to Buddhist cosmology, and as I looked down on the ninth-century edifice below, its cosmic proportions – all 2,500 sqm – seemed fittingly vast.

Most visitors tend to focus on Borobudur’s top terraces and the photogenic bell-shaped stupas where meditative Buddha statues are framed by breathtaking views of the surrounding Kedu valley. Yet I found these were eclipsed by the circular pilgrim trek to the summit. Meant to recreate an ascending path to nirvana, it snakes through long, relief-adorned corridors spanning the monument’s multiple tiers. Some 1,500 elaborately carved panels extend for more than a kilometre, forming the largest collection of Buddhist reliefs in the world and one of the greatest artistic creations in Asia.

“They are like jewels gracing the most exquisite necklace ever made,” chimed Naroni. As we walked, he interpreted the colourful accounts that were carved into the black volcanic stone – everything from the Buddha’s life story to tales of desire and betrayal. Many drew on Hindu narratives, comprising yet more evidence of the region’s synthesis of religions.

As we explored further, I noted that it was refreshingly quiet. Even though I was visiting in the off-season, I’d expected one of the world’s greatest monuments to be busier. Naroni explained that since the site fully reopened in 2023, a limit of 1,200 visitors per day had been enforced – compared to around 30,000 daily visitors pre-pandemic. Its appeal is nothing new, however. Borobudur has been rising in popularity ever since the British governor of Java, Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, first learned of its existence in 1814. For centuries it had lain in ruins, and multiple restorations were needed to bring it up to its current state; the most comprehensive of these was completed in 1983 by UNESCO, which later inscribed the monument on its World Heritage list. It remains one of Indonesia’s greatest sights, though I soon discovered that Central Java’s mix of religions and civilisations had left its mark in grandiose fashion across the region.

A question of geography

Leaving Borobudur’s Buddhist nirvana behind, I headed to one of the largest sites of Hindu worship outside India – just an hour’s drive away.

“If Borobudur is the wedding cake of religious monuments, then our next stop is the soft-serve ice cream!” joked Yoga, my local guide and historian, as we made our way to Prambanan.

On first glimpse it wasn’t dessert that my mind conjured, but rather a miniature version of Cambodia’s Angkor Wat.

“This is a good three centuries older than Angkor!” chipped in Yoga, explaining that Prambanan’s construction had begun almost as soon as the temple of Borobudur was completed. Combined, they are among the most glorious achievements of the Hindu–Buddhist kingdom of Mataram, which thrived here between the eighth and 11th centuries.

Of Prambanan’s original 240 temples, only 21 survive to date, with the towering Shiva temple at its heart reaching a colossal height of nearly 50m. Together with local archaeologists, UNESCO is working to restore more of its buildings, and we were able to see their meticulous work on site – an undertaking made all the more difficult by the intricacy of the architecture.

Yoga told me that a tradition of craftsmanship runs through Central Java that dates back centuries, enabled by a culture of religious pluralism. In prosperous ancient Mataram, Buddhism and Hinduism were worshipped concurrently, with little recorded friction between followers. “We’ve found evidence that the same generation of craftsmen and their families would have worked across Borobudur and Prambanan,” he explained.

As I made my way back to Amanjiwo, the outstanding Aman resort overlooking Borobudur, I met with resident anthropologist Patrick Vanhoebrouck. I was eager to understand how such a diverse kingdom, which spanned different religions and cultures, had grown to thrive here in Central Java.

“The Indonesian archipelago has been at the crossroads of trade – the exchange of commodities, people and ideologies – for more than two millennia,” he told me. This island in particular was at the centre of pivotal trade routes between China and India, but it wasn’t just a matter of location; even Java’s topography played a role in attracting a rare blend of cultures, drawing settlers thanks to the super-fertile volcanic soils and favourable climate.

“Don’t forget the element of the supernatural too,” Patrick continued. “These are lands with deep spiritual meaning and symbolism, and this also influenced people’s decisions on where to live.” Even to this day, Java remains the world’s most populous island, home to over 150 million residents.

Patrick quickly summarised a rough timeline of Javanese history, sketching a line through the ancient Mataram Kingdom up to the period between the 16th and 20th centuries, which ushered in the growth of Islamic traditions, the Mataram Sultanate and Dutch colonisation.

Having been told earlier that most Buddhist and Hindu temples – Borobudur and Prambanan included – were abandoned not long after the first millennium ended, I was curious about what happened in the period between the decline of the ancient kingdoms and the dawn of the Islamic era.

“Well, it’s a matter of geography again – and also (according to locals) the divine,” smiled Patrick. Apparently, a series of major volcanic eruptions had in all likelihood worsened conditions on the island. This would have made it easier for a major new religion – in this case Islam – to flourish.

The Mountain of Fire

By a strange twist of fate, that same night I was awoken by an earthquake tremor. Although, to be fair, this is not an uncommon occurrence on Java; the island lies within the Ring of Fire, a horseshoe-shaped belt that spans the Pacific for 40,000km, comprising one of the most geologically active regions on Earth. It seemed an ill omen, though, as the next day I was due to hike the steep flanks of the most infamous volcano in the region: Mount Merapi, or Fire Mountain. This remains one of the most active and dangerous volcanoes in the world; its last eruption, in 2010, killed more than 300 people and displaced hundreds of thousands of others. I hoped for a more peaceful encounter.

Merapi was fuming as we approached, and I was relieved to hear that the previous night’s tremor was unrelated to this activity. As we walked, I glimpsed captivating views of the valleys around us and their flourishing farmland. Fragrant clove plantations perfumed the air, miraculously clearing a path through the always vigilant Javanese mosquito army.

“With destruction comes creation,” chipped in Yoga as we walked, explaining that the volcanic soil’s great productivity meant year-round crops for the local communities. “As such, Merapi is omnipresent in local Buddhist and Hindu worship, both feared and revered at the same time.”

Into the Islamic era

Leaving the Mataram Kingdom behind, we made our way to the historic city of Surakarta, known locally as Solo. This is one of the two Islamic-era capitals of Central Java, yet traditional visitor itineraries often bypass it in favour of its larger sibling, Yogyakarta.
Our first stop was the 18th-century Great Mosque of Surakarta, which provided Yoga an opportunity to unravel the story of the advent of Islam in the region. This had been helped by the loss of the ancient Mataram Kingdom, avoiding the kind of conflict that can often occur with major social changes.

“Islamic missionaries in Java used a soft, cultural approach to introduce the religion,” he explained. “The process was one of acculturation, building on the pre-existing religions and local heritage. The spread of Islam was aided by the traditions of openness and tolerance that had defined the Javanese since ancient times.”

Making our way to the nearby royal palace, the Keraton Surakarta Hadiningrat, I was faced with a low-key edifice enlightened by an odd medley of architectural styles in white and blue. Built in 1745, most of it is off-limits to visitors, as it remains the official residence of the current – if powerless – hereditary ruler of the Sultanate, the Susuhunan of Solo.

As we explored, Yoga narrated stories of the rebirth of a royal dynasty in Central Java, beginning with the rise of the Mataram Sultanate – not to be confused with the ancient Mataram Kingdom – in Kota Gede (Yogyakarta) in the late 16th century. This was divided by a schism in 1755 that created the Surakarta and Yogyakarta Sultanates.

“The Dutch colonialists played a key role in creating this artificial separation, true to their timeless divide and conquer strategy,” Yoga sighed. In essence, both Sultanates remained vassal states of the Dutch East India Company (VOC). And true enough, just a few metres from Solo’s keraton (palace) lay the abandoned Dutch Fort Vastenburg, now in a sad state of disrepair. “Back then, any real decision was taken here,” said Yoga, pointing to the dishevelled fort, “rather than in the keraton.”

A much-treasured non-spice export of the VOC was batik, the most famous of Indonesia’s textile traditions. Batik-making originated during the reign of the Mataram Sultanate and grew under its successors in Solo and Yogyakarta. The technique of wax-resist dyeing is still practised here, where it is known as ‘court batik’; Solo even has an entire district dedicated to its production – Kampung Batik Kauman.

I wandered the dozens of shops and warehouses found in the pedestrianised Batik area, then joined a workshop showcasing the art. The cloth on which the prints are made is typically cotton or silk, and among the wealth of designs used – either hand-drawn or stamped – I discovered many were inspired by Hindu, Buddhist and Islamic heritage.

The hand-drawn style is particularly difficult to master, I was told, and quickly resigned myself to attempting to use a stamp instead as I endeavoured to make my own cloth.

“I think the batik of Yogyakarta is more beautiful – but, then again, I am biased,” smiled Yoga. Biased or not, it was a tempting prospect as we set off for my last stop on the island: the central region’s cultural and historical capital.

The Sultanate Capital

We began our visit to the city known colloquially as ‘Jogja’ by strolling its buzzy historic centre. Dominated by imposing 19th- and 20th-century Dutch colonial and Javanese architecture, we pit-stopped at the excellent Sonobudoyo Heritage Museum for an overview of Yogyakarta’s history, then decided to take in more of the street life.

Dotted everywhere were myriad cafés and restaurants, all overflowing with students. This sprawling city hosts some of the country’s most prestigious schools and universities, and it has the youthful buzz of a uni town. Yoga, a Jogja local, was eager for me to visit its most famous batik store – and not just so that I could admire the local designs. He pointed to a unique venue on its top floor that hosts a weekly cabaret show, complete with drag queens.

“This is unheard of in any other major Indonesian city,” boasted Yoga as he explained that Yogyakarta is home to a more progressive and tolerant society than that found in other cities here. “Our local government structure may also have something to do with this,” he beamed proudly.

Indeed, Jogja is the only Indonesian territory – or Special Administrative Region – still effectively ruled by a hereditary monarch: the Sultan, whose title – unlike his counterpart in Solo – is far more than ceremonial.

As we walked to the city’s royal palace district, we stopped at the Kauman Great Mosque, first built in 1773. Its tripled-tiered roof, lack of minarets, and the presence of a veranda with a small pond made it look unlike any other mosque I’d seen before. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in Kathmandu’s Durbar Square or a Balinese Hindu village.

Our next stop felt more Persian in style, as we visited the pools and pavilions of Taman Sari (meaning ‘Beautiful Garden’ in Sanskrit). The site of a former royal garden, this extensive complex consists of 57 buildings, including some with strong Dutch and Portuguese influences, and it was once used as a place of rest and recreation for Jogja’s nobility. What stood out was the atmospheric central bathing complex, which was traditionally the area where the Sultan’s concubines would relax.

The best was saved for last as Yoga led me to the citadel-style royal palace, known as the Keraton Ngayogyakarta Hadiningrat. Passing through a series of ceremonial gates, we were greeted by a giant yaksa face, a preeminent spirit present in Buddhist and Hindu mythology. In Hindu tradition, a yaksa is always placed at the entrance of a building to protect it from evil spirits.

By this point, I needed little reminding by Yoga that while this was the palace of an Islamic Sultanate, the influence of Buddhism and Hinduism was everywhere. “You now understand that in Java we like mixing things up. We call this ‘gado gado’ because, like the salad, it’s a blend of everything,” he smiled.

As we roamed the palace, I realised that nowhere was the amalgam of religions and cultures in Java more visible than in its regal architecture. We explored a series of ornate pavilions, audience halls and residential quarters replete with a mix of Hindu, Buddhist, Islamic, Portuguese and Dutch influences.

While exploring the grounds, we were lucky enough to catch a wayang kulit (shadow puppet) show, which is performed here weekly. This Javanese tradition has its roots in Hinduism, and Yoga explained that when the first Muslim missionaries arrived in Java, they used this form of storytelling to narrate Islamic tales and make them more relatable to locals.

Shadow theatre is still thriving across Indonesia today, with a wide range of stories drawing from its rich cultural landscape. We were treated to a glorious display of the Ramayana epic – “Like a Hindu Romeo and Juliet but with a much happier ending,” joked Yoga.

I finished my exploration of the region’s regal past with a unique experience in the Royal Archives of the palace. Here I met royal historian MJ Sastra for a lecture on the art of the sengkalan (a Javanese chronogram), learning about this ancient practice of using words and phrases to represent numbers.

“Sengkalan is useful for marking major events in history and contains hope in every instance,” MJ told me. He explained that the first recorded sengkalan in Indonesia was created in the Mataram Kingdom in 732 AD, although it is a tradition rooted in Hinduism. It has been embraced by every religion and ruler of Java since, offering continuous documentation of the region.

“It also helps inform our choices for the future, teaching us lessons from the lives of our ancestors,” he proclaimed.

MJ surprised me by preparing a personalised chronogram based on the date of my birthday and my answers to a series of questions.

While he requested that I keep its full content to myself, I marvelled at the result. It represented everything unique about a region in which religions, cultures and history all bleed together. Here I learnt that the past is never gone, but like this fertile island’s volcanic underbelly it is always bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting to breathe new life and experiences into an old world.