It is 5 o clock in the morning. The central Java plain lies silent in the tropical night, the palm trees motionless. Above, unfamiliar galaxies wheel, and the encircling volcanoes are visible only as the ragged rim of an alien planet. As I make my way forward, a massive form slowly looms. Gradually it resolves into a dark shape of unimaginable size, with a domed zenith pointing to the heavens like a great, firm breast. This is Candi Borobudur, last monument to a lost civilization, seat of untold mystery.
Cautiously, I pass through a stone gateway at the foot, and grope my way up flights of ancient steps. At each of six levels, galleries lead off into the darkness, their sides carved with timeworn representation of love and suffering. At the seventh level the terraces broaden out, the stone reliefs giving way to open stages from which strange bell-shape structures rise. I settle in to await the dawning of a new day.
At first light, the structures around me begin to assume shadowy form. There are a dozen of them, huge bells of latticed stone. These are stupas – burial chambers. As dawn builds, a human profile emerges inside the nearest stupa. When the first rays surmount the jagged summits, the serene face of the Buddha is illuminated within his enclosure. The statue’s right hand is held up, thumb and forefinger touching, in the pose of vitarka mudra, signifying compassionate preaching. . Clambering around the three upper terraces I count 72 such stupas. That facing due east lacks its bell, as if to allow the Enlightened One a clear view of the rising sun. Seventy-two statues: a single metaphor, pointing to heaven.
Java is Indonesia’s geographical, political and economic center, the most populated island in an archipelago of more than 13,000 islands. Those who live outside the squalor of the cities farm the rich obsidian soil in landscapes of breath-taking beauty. The spine of the volcanoes that runs the length of the island provides a smoking backdrop to emerald paddies and winding rivers. Within these lush valleys communities have lived in relative isolation from each other, preserving language, custom, and an animist tradition rooted in nature. For those primed for such a journey, the seat of the mystical will be discovered 26 miles northwest of royal Yogyakarta, the island’s cultural capital. It is here, at Java’s precise geographical center that the candi-shrine- of Borobudur stands.
From this high point, the plane is under a sea of mist washing the Menoreh Hills to the north. The eye is drawn to a temple-like building half way up. This strange UFO-like structure is Amanjiwo –“peaceful soul” in Sanskrit – and my destination. The two sites are inextricably linked in ways that are quite unexpected. For while Candi Borubudur is old, very old, Amanjiwo is new. The journey there begins at the foot of the monument where a great beast awaits. Sella is a Sumatran elephant. Riding on her shoulders, passing through villages at roof level, children abandon their games among mats of drying tobacco leaf to wave and shout. The lane climbs through foothills wreathed in mango and clove to afford a sudden view of a great rotunda outlined against the blurred watercolours of the Kedu plain below.
Dismounting cautiously, I ascend a flight of limestone stairs in a blizzard of jasmine petals, showered by giggling girls in sarongs and melati (sampaguita) tiaras. At the summit stands an immensely tall, spare, man with shoulder-length hair, clad in a scarlet tunic and purple trousers. With unhurried dignity he bows, palms resting together in welcome. This is Pak Francois, high priest and general manager of Amanjiwo. “Our wish is simply that you fall in love with Java,” he murmurs.
Born of a Swiss father and an English mother, Francois Richli was educated at Eaton and has lived and worked in St. Tropez and Haiti. He came to Java in 1996 to oversee construction of what is perhaps the most extraordinary hotel in south-east Asia: Amanjiwo, created by Adrian Zecha, begetter of Amanresorts, the most luxurious chain of boutique hotels in the world.
Over a cup of sweet ginger tea, Pak Francois recalls how Zecha’s architect, Ed Tuttle, spent 20 years musing on the design of Amanjiwo before bowing to the power of Candi Borubudur. Pak Francois unrolls a ground plan of the great sanctuary. With a sweep of the hand he covers half of it, and suddenly there is the blueprint of Amanjiwo.
To each guest is assigned a mentor, a Javanese guide and friend. Mine is Arno, a gentle, smiling man; he leads the way to my suite, a domed pavilion hidden within limestone walls topped with spider lilies and mauve and cream morning glories. Glass doors open on to a private pool, at the other end of which awaits a kubuk, a thatched gazebo sheltering a daybed. Within, a pillared bed is raised up on a platform, and covered in a fragrant tapestry of budding flowers. A corridor leads to a sunken bathtub in the open air.
That evening, guests nations united in curiosity gather about Pak Francois under the silvered dome of the Rotunda, for the entire world like pupils surrounding their guru in the temple.
Sir Stamford Raffles, founder of Singapore, became lieutenant governor of Java in 1814, Candi Borobudur had lain buried under centuries of volcanic ash, vegetation and forgetfulness. It took 200 of Raffles’ men a month and a half just to clear the site, exposing the largest Buddhist sanctuary in existence. Borobudur was revealed as a monument like no other, with no roof, no vault, and no chamber. Although the country had converted to Islam soon after completion of the monument, knowledge of its meaning survived in the collective memory and in the arcane traditions of local people. Yet it would be more than another century and a half before scholars could begin to penetrate its mysteries.
For aeons the mystic hill of Tidar had been revered as the geographic and spiritual center of Java. It was around this sacred site that the construction of Candi Borubudur began in about 760 AD and continued for 70 years.
No traces of ancient palaces or even cities have been found in central Java, so the source of wealth and organization required for its construction remains in doubt. The 1,460 panels, depicting the life of Prince Siddharta Gautama, his previous incarnations, and enlightenment as Buddha, display artistry and craftsmanship of the highest order. Yet within a few years of its completion, the civilization that fostered Borubudur had vanished, and the sanctuary fell into desuetude. Or did it? Although the Javanese overwhelmingly profess Islam, theirs is not monolithic, and many practice a form retaining elements common to the Buddhism of Borobudur’s day.
Following the traditional three-mile clockwise circumnavigation of the terraces, scholars describe each level as representing a different layer of meaning, starting in the everyday world and spiraling up to nirvana.
At the base, concealed behind a meter of stone, and visible only in one exposed corner, the reliefs display carnal scenes. The world depicted is dominated by passion and desire, in which only the just undergo reincarnation into higher forms of life. Entrance to the next level up, which tells the story of Buddha’s life, would have been open to all. Topmost tells of an ordinary youth’s search for wisdom, which may have been available only to more advanced seekers, while admission to the highest levels could have been restricted to the elite.
Despite careful restoration, Borobudur has remained largely obscure beyond Java. With the opening of Amanjiwo, that changes. The silvered dome, restful pavilions and sweeping vistas of this colonnaded retreat tender more than respite from the crowds below; they offer the meditative distance necessary to penetrate the metaphysical realm within which the great sanctuary resides.
Days pass as if in a reverie. A new dawn breaks, this time under a full moon. It is the feast of Waisak, holiest in the Budhist calendar. The rising sun catches the saffron robes of the great throng of pilgrims gathering before Mendut temple, where a giant Buddha sits in silent meditation, flanked by bodhisattvas. Slowly the procession begins to wend its way through the kampongs, pausing at Candi Pawon for incantations and blessings. All the while it gathers in number until, finally, Borobudur is reached. Here candles are lit, flowers strewn and prayers changed in celebration of the Buddha’s awakening. Silence falls and all eyes are raised to the high central stupa, the walls of its dome curving around emptiness. Sacred space. Nothingness. Nirvana. Slowly and silently the pilgrims drift away.
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