Makassar

I spent a happy couple of days in South Sulawesi's capital, Makassar, on my recent Indonesian trip. It's come a long way since my last visit, 30 years ago, when I mostly remember muddy streets and becaks (cycle-rickshaws) as the main mode of transport.



For a visitor like me it's largely about the waterfront sights and food stalls. There are also a big theme park and an underground shopping centre.

There's also a 'floating mosque', and another, even more spectacular disneyesque mosque seems to be under construction.








One of the things it's difficult not to do is to get picked up by one of the tourist becak drivers, and taken for a ride, farewise, as well as to the schooner harbour and the fish market. The sights and photo opportunities make it well worth while though.








The Makassans are of course famed for their seafaring prowess, and were trading with the people of northern Australia hundreds of years ago.








Last time I was there, Makassar was officially Ujung Pandang. That never quite worked, and it was changed back to Makassar in 1999 by then President B.J. Habibie, who was born nearby. The two names are now used interchangeably, and Lonely Planet assures me there are no political connotations in which one you use.

Sacrifice

Well well, what's going on here then?

It's the day before the Idul Adha (as the Indonesians call the Muslim Day of Sacrifice) festival, and I'm walking the streets of Yogyakarta, and here are these rather reluctant looking cattle being coaxed off the back of a truck.

It's right outside a mosque, there are crowds of festive people in the grounds, and the imam's in full flow on the speaker system.

At this point I need to issue a

VIOLENT CONTENT WARNING!

If you don't want to see images of animals being ritually slaughtered, don't scroll down any further.
























I was curious to see it all though. I eat meat after all. Animals have to be killed for that. If you can't watch it, maybe you shouldn't eat it. And if they're still alive and conscious while being bled to death, halal style, is that really much more cruel than whatever goes on in an industrial scale Australian abattoir?


What struck me most of all was what a friendly, festive atmosphere there was. It was quite a community event. There were specialist slaughterers (who stroked and comforted the animals even as they worked on them). There were butchers, smallgoods specialists, labellers and documenters. There were refreshments distributors, photographers, and mosque officials. And there were lots of welcoming people, anxious to explain it all to me and make me feel at home.













I was told about the origins of the festival - it's to celebrate Abraham being tested by God when he asked him to sacrifice his only son. It was explained to me why it had to be 23 beasts that were to be sacrificed (the number of prayers made over the 5 day period, I think it was). I was posed for photos with people, and I posed some of them for photos. At morning tea time I was even given one of the prepacked morning refreshment kits provided for the volunteer workers.

Sincere thanks to them all for sharing this experience with me. A good time was had by all (except the cattle, admittedly).

Searching for Sembungan

One of the things to do while visiting the Dieng Plateau in Central Java is to wander up the road from Dieng Village, to the highest village in Java: Sembungan (2300m). From there you continue a little further, and climb the mini volcano, Gunung Sikunir (another 100m or so to the top).

I was wanting a bit of volcano-climbing practice before attempting the real one - Merapi -and if there's a Java's highest village to knock off along the way, then that's fine with me.

Lonely Planet said it was a kilometre and a half from Dieng village to the Coloured Lake, and a further kilometre and a half to Sembungan. It said nothing about any other villages in between. Well that latter distance turned out to be all wrong. It was three or four kilometres at least, and there were two other villages along the way which The Book made no mention of. So I kept coming into yet another 'Java's highest village', photographing it, and continuing
upwards. One of these was this one, with the usual quota of very friendly residents and a stack of irrigation pipes spanning the roadway to service their potato fields.

Another was the one I strolled through while the noon call-to-prayer was playing from its one mosque and two prayer halls. A magnificently atmospheric experience.

Eventually I came upon the real Sambungan (pictured at top, with little Sikunir behind it). It was full of magnificently friendly folk, some very keen to ham it up for my camera!






Most domestic tourists who climb Sikunir, do it to the usual pre-dawn timetable, for the sunrise view. It's not much of an ascent, but a big deal seems to be made of it, with a sign at the base telling you all about the things you need to do and take with you! I must admit, I'd even forgotten my drinking water this time. But what with the cool climate and the rather undemanding little climb, I somehow made it back unscathed!

Potatoes maketh the mosque

After a few days in Solo, I headed up into the hills for a cool climate respite. To Central Java's Dieng Plateau, to be precise. It's a few hours by bus north west of Yogyakarta, and it's about 2000m above sea level.












Because of the cooler climate, the Dieng Plateau is ideal for growing several crops that don't come easily in most of Indonesia. Potatoes especially. They also grow cabbages, onions, and a South American fruit - carica - that I'd not heard of before, but which all the domestic tourists buy up as souvenirs.











It seems the Dieng Plateau has done extremely well from its cool climate crops. A measure of a region's prosperity is the state of its mosques, and Dieng village's new one is something to behold. That's a rather beautiful little mosque!

The crops are heavily irrigated and often grown on beautiful terraced hillsides. The workers are all extraordinarily friendly and welcoming of my photography. When I got temporarily lost in a cabbage patch, I was soon rescued by a group of friendly cabbage patch ladies, who sent me off in the right direction again.