We’re bumping along a steep gravel road–if you can call it a road–on our way to an ancient Javanese cemetery when the realization finally hits me: I’ve moved to another country. The girl next to me sleeps peacefully, her head bouncing off the window frame and tipping over onto my shoulder through the twists and turns as we ascend. She’s used to this kind of terrain and naps unfazed, peacefully unconscious while the rest of us scoot and squirm to readjust.
The air is cooler up here. We’re pulling out of the city below, and with it we’re leaving behind the dense humidity that you’d expect from a tropical island. A big island, and the most populous island in the world, but an island still. Java teems with life and urban amenities but at its heart still holds the memory of the rainforest that once was.
In the backseat of the van (a black van with the word ‘luxury’ affixed to the back–luxurious because it contains adult sized seats and air conditioning), I am squeezed up close to my husband. My knees knock against his, our hands lay casually in each other’s laps. Close proximity is something we’ve endured for months now. From honeymooning through India this summer to bunking at my Dad’s in the interim between deciding to move to Indonesia and the deed itself, it’s lucky that we get along so well. More than lucky, really. This kind of comfort and ease that I normally associate with alone time has now morphed into us-time and we-time and it happened so smoothly and seamlessly that I can’t remember the shift. He and I, as close of friends as you can be, and I’m sure thankful to have him by my side as I ride this wave of change.
We arrive at the cemetery and the girl beside me wakes and blinks a few times, oblivious to the chaos of the road. “Tidak mau bangun,” she says playfully, still half asleep. “I don’t want to wake up.” But she does and we slide out of the van into the cloudy, still air.
The cemetery is old and romantic. Great stone shapes emerge from the warm humidity. Moss and mold crawling across the rocks give the impression that this place has always been, and is certainly not manmade. We change into traditional Javanese clothing–a must before entering the tomb of Sultan Agung. I crowd into a tiny changing room with an older Swiss woman named Barbara where we strip to our undies before two small Javanese women wrap us in batik. Barbara and I giggle at each other, wide eyed with embarrassment but unable to communicate with words. Once firmly tucked and pinned, we are pushed out once more into the sunlight where we find our men looking just as silly as we feel. But it is an honor to dress this way and to enter this place with respect, the weight of tradition thick and atmospheric.
Through the gate, we climb a daunting set of steps. A woman beside me pants with exertion. Our hands are full of our skirts, lifted so we don’t trip as we climb. We arrive at the tomb but must wait, so we kneel outside the tiny doorway through which we can only see darkness. A man sitting crosslegged beside our party burns incense in a great bowl. The smoke is dense and my lungs tighten, but I force myself to relax, to ignore the aching of my knees and ankles and to breathe in the incense and take in this moment. Soon it is our turn to enter the tomb. One by one, we climb the three small steps and crouch to fit through the tiny door. Struggling to see in this tangible darkness, we make small squeaks of surprise as we step on feet and bump into walls, but finally we find our place in the tomb and stand as our eyes adjust. Sultan Agung rests before us in a low stone enclosure covered with flower petals. We add our own petals to the mix. An old man on the other side of the tomb invites us to kneel and kiss a sacred stone. As Barbara and her husband comply, I poke Jackson and whisper, “Do we have to?” The answer is no, so we wait solemnly until the ceremony has ended, and then climb back out of the tomb, where the thick incense and dense air feels startlingly cool and fresh compared to the staleness within.
Our stay at the cemetery is short. Many more tourists await entrance, and as we change back to our street clothes I do feel that I’ve experienced something real, maybe even powerful. But then we’re back in the van, and it is so easy to forget those kinds of feelings when you return to ordinary life.
Our next stop is a pine plantation, Hutan Pinus, at the top of the mountain. It’s even cooler up here. It feels almost like fall, and makes me nostalgic for home. Pine trees are not native to Java. They're an unnatural sight here, and as such have become a tourist attraction. Happy families picnic on rust colored pine needles beneath the high canopy. The cool air, the pines, and the structured rows of the plantation make me feel like I’m on another planet, a planet still being terraformed by someone that is not quite sure what real forest looks like. There is a path made of wooden planks that winds playfully through the rows. Tree houses and lookout points are built throughout, and the whole place seems childlike and surreal.
Jackson and I walk to the top of the hill, to an overlook point where we can see all of Jogja below us. The hillside sprawls down, full of greenery. To an untrained observer like myself, it looks like natural vegetation. Rainforest, even. But these are fields and plantations, land altered by man, new-growth forest at best. Once, this whole island was covered in forest, dense and full of life. Now it is full of a different kind of life, much less varied. “One day,” Jackson says, “I can imagine a scenario when these farm fields could grow back to forest. Maybe in a hundred years when farming becomes less important.”
Once more I feel like I’m witnessing something important, maybe even powerful. This island with all of its memories, human and nonhuman. The weight of the past lying dormant beneath us. It is one of many times when I feel the ache in my chest–the knowledge that I won’t be around to see whether the forest returns. And neither will you, and neither will he. It’s the kind of thing you hope for and plan for and work toward, but may never see. But this is why we’re here. This is why we moved across the globe. Not just for these forests, but for life and the memory of life. To hope and plan and work so that maybe one day it will return.
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