Kebaya - Indonesian Traditional Dress for Woman

History of Kebaya

There is much speculation as to where the kebaya could have originated from. There are some who say that the kebaya originated in the Middle East, while others argue that it may have come from nearby China. Derived from the Arabic word kaba meaning “clothing” and introduced to Indonesia via the Portuguese language, the term kebaya has come to refer to a garment whose origins appear to be a blouse. It was first worn in Indonesia at some time during the 15th and 16th centuries. This garment is similar to what is described as a “long, fitted, flared kebaya known as kebaya panjang6, worn in the 16th century by Portuguese women arriving on the south-western coast of Malaysia, situated across the Malacca Straits from Sumatra, in northwestern Indonesia.

Many sources also cite Chinese influences on clothing of the time, one source c

omparing the kebaya to an open-fronted long-sleeved tunic worn by women of the Ming Dynasty. The introduction of this kind of dress were accredited to two major occurrences of this time; the emerging influence of Islam and the arrival of the Europeans to the archipelago. Whether it was Arabia or China that brought us the wonderful kebaya, there is no denying how quick the use of this garment was made uniquely Indonesian and spread from one island and ethnic group to another which its own regional variations. This quick diffusion of the use of the kebaya was also linked to the spice trade that was happening during this time in history.

Origins of the Kebaya

After Dutch colonization, the kebaya took on a new role as the formal dress for the European women in the country. During this time, the kebaya was made mostly from mori fabric. Modifications made to this traditional costume later introduced the use of silk and embroidery to add design and color. The most dominant form of kebaya worn on the islands of Java and Bali today, can be visibly traced to the kebaya worn in Java and Sunda from the late 19th - early 20th century onwards.

Many of the easily recognizable features of today’s kebaya – a tight fitting blouse that enhances the torso of the woman; the fold-back collarless neck and front opening; long sleeves; and the type of semi-transparent fabric – are evident in the kebaya of the past centu

ry. Traditional kebaya required the torso of the women to be wrapped with a long piece of cloth called a stagen. Women of higher social status would have help in wrapping their torso with the stagen however women who were not so fortunate to have help could dress themselves by tying the end of the stagen to a post and literally wrapping themselves into it.

The semi-transparent kebaya blouse was then worn overtop of the stagen. This blouse was fastened with a brooch rather than buttons and buttonholes. It was customary to combine the kebaya with kain – a length of unstitched cloth worn on the lower part of the body, often (and incorrectly) referred to in the English language as sarong. This kain was wrapped around the body with the pleats being placed at the front of the body. Traditinally this kain was dipped in a cornstach solution and then carefully folded by hand into pleats and pressed to produced the crisp look that was desired.

Indigenous Dress in the Making of a Nation

Considering the enormous historical – political and social – shifts that have occurred in Indonesia during the last century, the form of the kebaya, has remained relatively unchanged. Its function and meaning however, in contrast to its form, has seen major changes in colonial and post-colonial Indonesia, operating to meet different groups’ political agendas, social needs and aspirations. The kebaya has come to symbolize the emancipation of women in Indonesia through a representation linking the kebaya to the 19th century “proto-feminist” figure of Raden A. Kartini.

During the 19th century, and prior to the Nationalist movement of the early 20th century, the kebaya had enjoyed a period of being worn by Indonesian, Eurasian, and European women alike, with slight style variations. During this time distinguishing class and status was important and produced variants of the basic costume. The kebaya of Javanese royalty were constructed of silk, velvet and brocade; Javanese women belonging to the commoner class wore figured cottons; the kebaya worn by Eurasian women was of white cotton trimmed with handmade European lace during the day, and of black silk in the evening; while the Dutch women preferred a shorter white kebaya. It was even possible for Dutch women planning to travel to the Dutch East Indies to purchase their kebaya in the Netherlands prior to leaving.

Bali’s Kebaya

In Bali, the kebaya has a much more recent history. The Dutch, whose occupation of Bali began as late as 1849 in the north of the island, and whose direct rule did not begin until 1882, are believed to have enforced the wearing of the kebaya. At the time Balinese women’s breasts were uncovered, except for formal and ceremonial occasions, during which a sabuk might be wound tightly around the upper torso, covering the breasts but leaving the shoulders and arms exposed. The women of Buleleng, the regency of northern Bali, therefore would have been some of the first to adopt the kebaya.

Other sources however, do not locate the kebaya being in use until the early 1920s by which time it was in full use in other areas of Indonesia. It is via the royalty and the palaces that the kebaya appears to have been disseminated out into the community. New dress codes adopted by members of the royalty returning to Bali from Java were passed down through the caste system. Yet despite the fact that clothing is often used to separate class, there seems to be no evidence of the time to indicate that there were any rules delineating styles of kebaya according to caste. Differences in kebaya cloth were more likely to be an outcome of differences in wealth.

Emerging as National Dress

By the 1920s however, and with the full emergence of the nationalist struggle in Indonesia, European women stopped wearing the kebaya because it was identified with typical Indonesian attire. For the European colonizers the Kebaya had become associated with Indonesian nationalism.

During the period of the Japanese occupation of Indonesia (1942-1945), educated Indonesian women prisoners-of-war chose to wear kain-kebaya rather than the western dress allocated to them as prison dress. A different set of political conditions produced a reversal of meaning. In this situation the women employed a cultural code (of traditional dress) to assert their political position, differentiating themselves from their European women that were also prisoners-of-war.

During the Proclamation of Independence by President Sukarno on August 17, 1945, the only woman in attendance, Ibu Trimutri was wearing kain kebaya. This image helped transform the kebaya from mere traditional dress, elevating it to the status of national dress for Indonesia women.

From the Palace to the Street - Popular and Traditional Images

While the kebaya is worn by a wide range of women from the former President Megawati to the jamu street vendor, the kebaya could never be claimed to operate as a social leveller. Women who sell jamu (traditional herbal medicine), from young to old, and right across the islands of Java and Bali are wearing kebaya. Today, in Indonesia the image of a woman wearing kebaya sells a variety of products from traditional herbs to Betadine to fried chicken. As an icon the women in her traditional clothing - kebaya - sells tradition and all the purity and goodness belonging to Indonesian cultural traditions. Perhaps she also evokes an element of nostalgia for urban consumers. Traditional as a way of life, is often less about the differences between rural and urban settings, than about socio-economic and class distinctions. For women 50 years and older, whose occupations and way of life come to distinguish them as traditional, traditional clothing of kain-kebaya is their choice of daily dress. These women, the majority of whom belong to the lower socio-economic group, often work in traditional settings such as markets, are employed as house servants or work in the agricultural sector.

Today’s Kebaya

If we try to define what a kebaya is, it may prove to be difficult as it is constantly changing to reflect the changing times and fashions that Indonesia is experiencing. Nonetheless, it is possible to make some generalizations about the kebaya. Most Kebaya are made from a lace brocade. Most kebaya fabric uses a floral motif either printed or woven into the textile and its length can fall somewhere from above the waist to below the knee. It usually, but not always, has long sleeves. It is usually fastened at the front, and if not, then gives a semblance of doing so. Some variations of the kebaya will use a batik sash, which is coordinated with the kain, draped over the shoulder as an added accessory.

Although women in the market can be seen wearing kebaya, we can also see exquisite variations of them in government gatherings and parties and high society social functions. The beauty of this national dress is undeniable. Some of the most influential women in Indonesia are married in kebaya that can be described as “works of art” with their hand embroidered detailing and beading. Designers such as Ami Amianto have helped to promote the kebaya not only as a important part of Indonesian clothing history but as a very beautiful item of clothing that Indonesian women are proud to wear.

So the next time you see a women wearing a kebaya you will understand that she is not just wearing a functional piece of clothing but she is also wearing a symbol of Indoneia’s cultural history which represents national symbolism and high fashion too!

This article was written by Gene Sugandy, with research from the following sources:

Reading the Kebaya by Victoria Cattoni

Kebaya - Wikipedia

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Guardians of the Sacred Forest

“The mountains may not be destroyed, the valleys may not be damaged, What is long may not be cut short, what is short may not be lengthened, We must remain faithful to the ways of our ancestors." – Traditional Baduy verse

Written by Irfan Kortschak


For tourists, journalists, and anthropologists alike, the very idea of a people who live deep in the forest, excluding all outsiders, has a powerful fascination. A ‘Keep Out’ sign exerts an allure as powerful as the locked cupboard at the end of Bluebeard’s corridor, and for no better reason than that outsiders are not welcome. In our hearts, perhaps, each of us secretly believes we are special, and will be welcome at spectacles and events closed to ordinary mortals.

It was this fantasy that had led me, clambering up and down steep, slippery footpaths, past dry rice fields and through light secondary forest and bamboo glades, to a rickety looking bamboo bridge that creaked and swayed gently in the breeze. I sat, scowling and biting my nails, and wiping the sweat from my face with a hand filthy with mud.

I couldn’t cross this bridge, and not because it looked too rotten and fragile to bear my weight. At any rate, a fall would not have been the catastrophe in might have been elsewhere. The water in the stream was clean and pure, unsullied by the household waste that turns the banks of rivers elsewhere in Indonesia into fly-infested eyesores. But I scowled at the babbling brook, in no mood to be impressed by its song. For me, the river was just the boundary that separated the territory of the Inner Baduy from the outside world. On the other side, where I couldn’t go, lived a community whose members are required to maintain a stringent degree of ritual purity. And they didn’t want me anywhere near them.

It was nothing personal, nothing that I’d done. It was what I was, a foreigner, a city dweller, a luxury lover. For the Baduy, outsiders in general and foreigners in particular are a polluting influence, and are permitted to enter only rarely, by the grace of the custodians. Unsullied by the presence of outsiders, the sacred forest is protected by the ritually pure guardians of the sacred forest, at the centre of which lies the Arca Domas, an ancient megalithic site about which little is known.

Precisely because the Baduy turn their back on the world, refusing to explain or justify themselves, they exert a powerful attraction. Peering in through the cracks in the forest, outsiders strain to make sense of the incomprehensible by projecting their own fantasies and fears. For believers in magic, the Baduy are powerful wizards; for environmentalists, they are noble savages; for the religious, they are unrepentant pagans. Confused observers variously describe them as a lost tribe, aristocratic Hindu refugees, or the Amish of the East. Meanwhile, the Baduy continue to live their lives, entirely indifferent to whatever outsiders choose to believe.

While much remains a matter for conjecture, some facts are known for certain. Members of the innermost community live in one of three villages, Cikartawana, Cibeo, and Cikeusik, located on the forested foothills around Mt. Kendang, southeast of Rangkasbitung, in the province of Banten.

The beliefs of the Baduy require villagers to cultivate subsistence crops without hoe, plough, or irrigation, practicing slash and burn agriculture and rotating the use of land. The Inner Baduy may not alter the course of a stream or level land for any purpose. While the men fish, hunt and gather fruit and honey from the forest, they do so in the least intrusive and destructive fashion possible. Also, the Inner Baduy refrain from the use of manufactured goods of any sort. They produce all their own household and personal items, their own tools and agricultural equipment, using materials they gather or grow. They dress in plain cloth that the women spin and fashion into clothes. Men wear a white headdress and shirt and a black sarong with vertical white stripes, while women wear a black sarong and bodice. Only certain basic materials, such as raw iron used for fashioning knives and raw cotton used for weaving, are imported from the outside world. The inner Baduy do not ride horses or vehicles of any sort. When they travel abroad, they walk, always, no matter how far.

According to those who have made friends with them, the Baduy believe that they are the direct lineal descendents of the first people to occupy the earth. As the home of the first people, the land they are born from is a living mandala, a representation of the entire universe. In order to prevent devastation and calamity throughout the world, they strive to live here in harmony with the earth and in conformity with the laws prescribed by their ancestors. There are no schools, no medical facilities, and no government officials of any kind.

Surrounding the holy sanctum is a buffer zone where members of the outer Baduy community live. Comprising almost eight thousand individuals living in sixty-seven villages, members of the outer community speak the same archaic dialect of Sundanese as do the insiders, to whom they are related by ties of blood, marriage, and ritual. The taboos and rules that govern this group are considerably less rigorous than those regulating the inner group, although the use of vehicles, machinery, electricity and chemicals within their territory is still forbidden, as is the cultivation of commercial crops. Members of this group may travel in motorized vehicles when journeying outside the area, however, and have far more frequent interactions with the outside world. While some outer Baduy wear a few items of mass-produced clothing, such items are always plain black or dark blue.

***

On my walk to the river’s edge, I had been accompanied by Katamsi Nurrasa, my guide from Jakarta, and Sarmin, a member of the outer Baduy community. For the last several days, I had been staying at Sarmin’s hut in the village of Cijengkol. Like all Outer Baduy dwellings, his home consisted of a raised platform with a slatted floor and walls made of woven bamboo, divided into five sections: the veranda, the guestroom, the storeroom, the storage space above the fireplace, and the main area, which also functioned as a bedroom. The roof was made of sago palm leaves and thatch palm. The sparse furniture was made from bamboo, cut from the forests. All kitchen utensils were also hand-made, with the exception of a few basic cooking implements. There was no electricity, no running water, and no bathroom.

Katamsi went across the bridge to Cibeo, to ask the representative of the Pu’un, the spiritual head of the community, if I might visit. While Katamsi was also an outsider, he was Indonesian and had been visiting the Baduy for more than five years. Over time, he had made many friends in both the inner and the outer community. A retired marine engineer with decades of experience of traveling the world, he had a deep respect and affection for the Baduy. To a large extent, the community had accepted him.

Without a good guide to explain the taboos and mores of Baduy society, it is virtually impossible to visit this area. At best, the unprepared traveler can visit the tourist gateway at Ciboleger, where Jaro Daina, a member of the Outer Baduy appointed as the official mediator between the community and the outside world, holds office. From there, accompanied by one of the many aggressive local guides, you can walk to Gajebo, a frequently visited Outer Baduy village located far from the inner community. I shuddered slightly at the memory of the paths littered by the frequent school groups and the slightly furtive offers of coca-cola from villagers who may or may not have been genuine members of the Baduy community.

Seated by the side of the river, Sarmin, my Baduy host, began to talk. Like most members of the Baduy community, he was reserved and sparing with his speech. While not appearing to be disturbed by the presence of outsiders, neither are the Baduy particularly welcoming. On my trip in, when I had passed through outer villages, the inhabitants barely glanced up from weaving, fashioning knives, and other tasks unless I approached them directly, when they answered my questions shortly and without fuss. While Sarmin was hardly loquacious, this was the second time that I had stayed with him for several days. He was beginning to open up a little.

I told Sarmin that I’d heard that the Baduy were forbidden to use cash. When he replied, he spoke simply, and looked me straight in the eye. Unlike people in the cities, the Baduy are not shy about eye contact, even with people they barely know. “No,” he corrected me, “There are lots of rich Baduy. We sell knives, cloth, honey, fruit, and other things from the forest to outsiders. There isn’t much to spend our money on. We just save it.” He looked away, and added nothing further. It is not in the nature of the Baduy to volunteer information about themselves, and they are not embarrassed by silence.

I prodded a little. With little on which to spend their cash, Sarmin admitted that some villagers accumulate significant savings. He added that outsiders in the surrounding areas often borrowed money from members of the Baduy community to fund their consumeristic lifestyles, offering up plots of land as security. “A brother of mine lent a man near here fifty million rupiah to hold a wedding for his daughter. He couldn’t pay it back.” The Baduy celebrate weddings with the simplest ceremony imaginable, a shared meal and a few words. In the villages outside their community, poor farmers mark the same rite of passage by hiring a band, staging puppet performances, holding a feast. When the villager couldn’t repay the loan, he surrendered a block of land to the brother. Members of the Outer Baduy often grow some cash crops on these newly acquired lands outside their traditional territory, although most maintain their simple lifestyles.

There are exceptions, however. Sarmin talked of a former member of the Outer Baduy community, Haji Kasmin, who had a driving ambition to attain a formal education, something forbidden by customary law. “He was a rebel. He had to leave,” said Sarmin. Curious about the ‘rebel Baduy,’ I later asked people in the nearby villages, outside the community, for more information. They laughed: everybody knew Haji Kasmin. After leaving the community, he had converted to Islam and gone on to achieve considerable success in the business world, eventually being appointed as a member of the national parliament. In fact, there was little shame or disapprobation attached to his departure – Kasmin remained a frequent visitor to the Baduy territory, and played a valuable role as a defender of Baduy interests at the national level. While the most prominent of those who leave the community, Kasmin is hardly unique, and a significant number of others have also left to assimilate into the surrounding villages. “Life here doesn’t suit everyone,” Sarmin said, adding with some understatement: “It’s very simple.”

Katamsi returned from his walk to the inner villages, puffing slightly with exertion. Katamsi is softly spoken and polite to a fault, but he shook his head and spoke without mincing his words. “No, I’m sorry. You won’t be able to cross the bridge.” I was crestfallen, but there was no point in arguing or pleading. It was the law.

Apparently, it was a particularly sensitive time. It appeared that the annual Kawalu festival and the ceremonies that accompany it had just ended, several days earlier. As is customary at this time, members of the inner community were busy preparing to walk to Serang to offer forest produce as tribute to the Governor of Banten. Katamsi explained that Kawalu was a village cleansing ceremony held at harvest time. During this time, Katamsi said, the inner area is completely closed to outsiders. “The Pu’un set up a band to go around the Baduy villages, house by house. They check that people don’t have things they shouldn’t have. Stuff like plates and crockery with patterns on them, or battery operated torches,” Sarmin chimed in. “If they find stuff like that, they take it away. They give the family a warning or some kind of punishment. Depends on what they find.”

In the inner Baduy community, infringements of the law often mean expulsion to the outer community. Sarmin told a story of one inner Baduy member who had seen a bus pass by in the area outside his territory. On an impulse, he had succumbed to temptation, and taken a ride. “He just wanted to see what it was like. Then he went straight to the Pu’un and told him. The Pu’un said he and his family would have to move to the outer community.” He was not shamed or shunned, and he retained friendly relationships with his old community – but they felt he had forfeited the right to live with them. His conduct had placed him outside the inner circle.

The three Pu’un, one each from Cikartawana, Cibeo, and Cikeusik, are the spiritual leaders of the entire Baduy community. Their word on matters of taboo and ritual is law. While the position of Pu’un is usually hereditary, they are leaders in matters of ritual only. While they have many special responsibilities, they have few extra priveliges, and no extra luxuries. After ensuring the purity of the community during the Kawalu ritual, the Pu’un conduct the annual pilgrimage to the Arca Domas, the primordial megalithic site deep in the sacred forest. As the three Pu’un and their assistants are the only people ever permitted to set foot in this forest, and only at this time of the year, practically nothing is known about the site and the rituals conducted there. When I pushed Sarmin for details, he just looked away, not even bothering to shrug.

On Katamsi’s visit to the inner zone, he met an old friend, Naniek, a member of the Inner Baduy and the son of a former Pu’un. Naniek joined us on the walk back to Sarmin’s village. On the way, he asked me where I lived. I told him my address in Jakarta, certain it would mean nothing to him. To my astonishment, he said: “Oh, yes. Near the Hilton Hotel, isn’t it?” I stared at him, this man of the forest in his home-spun rags, holding a bamboo staff. I couldn’t believe that he could possibly know anything about Jakarta’s premier five-star hotel, but he nodded in a positively blasé fashion. “I often go to Jakarta,” he said, then grinned widely for no apparent reason, displaying teeth that had obviously not benefited from modern dentistry. When I asked why he made these trips, he just shrugged. Katamsi chuckled. “He just visits for the fun of it.” Still not quite believing, I asked how he got there. “I walk,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing to do. Pushed, he said that he made the 120-kilometer journey on foot in two days or three days, following the railway track and sleeping in public places or the houses of acquaintances. Katamsi backed him up. “One day I came to work. My office is on the 25th level of the Menara Batavia building. Naniek was sitting on the floor of the lobby. The receptionist was having a fit. Naniek wouldn’t use the lift, so he walked up the stairs. He didn’t want anything in particular, he’d just come to say hello.” Katamsi and Naniek laughed at the memory of the flustered receptionist, and at Katamsi’s valiant insistence that he would walk down the stairs to accompany Naniek back to the street.

As we wound our way through the hilly terrain, Naniek and Katamsi found further sources of amusement, laughing at stories of outsiders who come to the inner community in search of spiritual advice or magical solutions to their problems. Again, Naniek shocked me with his blasé manner. “President Soekarno used to come here quite often. He walked in,” he said casually. He seemed to find it perfectly natural that the head of state should find the time for these ventures into the forest. There is a historical precedent – Javanese nobles would often boast of their special relationship with the men of the forest, which they felt was a source of magical power and potency.

In the modern era, the attempt of some powerful individuals to fit the Baduy into their own world view has backfired hilariously. Naniek spoke of one particular case: “When Soeharto came, he flew into the region by helicopter, but it couldn’t land in the forest. He wanted the Pu’un to meet him, but they wouldn’t come out. The Pu’un don’t go out of the forest.” Remembering the almost fawning respect nearly every Indonesian showed the former strong man, it struck me as amazing to meet people who declined an invitation to meet him. “The Baduy aren’t rebellious. We showed respect. The Pu’un sent a member of the outer Baduy to meet the president. But the Pu’un didn’t go,” Naniek said. Then he grinned broadly again.

Smiling, Katamsi added his story of a distraught teenage girl who had asked him to take her to Cibeo only several weeks previously to seek the solution to some adolescent love crisis. “She was looking for a potion or charm. She wanted something to make her boyfriend take her back,” he said. Many of the visitors, it seems, seek charms, potions, or other instant cures for their problems. If anything, the Baduy seem slightly embarrassed by this insistence that they possess powerful magic and sorcery. Instead, they insist that they merely live simply and modestly, in the forest, the way their ancestors did.

We arrived at Sarmin’s village before dusk. Naniek continued on his way, unperturbed by the impending darkness. As night fell, the shrill screech of cicadas, the wind rustling in the bamboo leaves, and the dogs’ howling prevailed. I thought about Naniek’s stories and the irony of the frustrated, the ambitious and the broken-hearted turning up here and begging for help. It may have been misguided, but I understood why outsiders – kings and presidents, artists and back-packers – have been drawn to this refuge for centuries. There is magic here, but I wondered if outsiders could walk in, wrap it up and take it away in their pockets.

At the bridge, earlier in the day, I had been disappointed that I hadn’t been allowed to visit the Baduy’s inner sanctuary. By the end of the day, I’d realized that I shouldn’t have even tried. After all, their villages and the forest they guard remain sacred only because they are undisturbed. Living according to their stern and austere code, the Baduy guard the secret glades well. A consecrated community rather than an isolated tribe, they are not ignorant of modern civilization. Rather, they deliberately reject it. That is their gift to us. We have much to learn.

About the author

Until the beginning of 2006, Irfan Kortschak was employed as the Editor-in-Chief of Garuda Indonesia’s Magazine and other publications for more than two years, a position which has involved the writing of feature articles; the collection, compilation, and editing of feature articles by Indonesian and expatriate contributors; liaisons with the Editorial Board and other officials of Garuda Indonesia Airlines; interviews with central and regional government figures, tourism industry operators, and others; and the training and supervision of a team of journalists, photographers and designers. In this capacity, he traveled throughout Indonesia and abroad, to destinations in South-East Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Europe and Australia to write and take photographs for feature articles.
This article remain the copyright of the Author (Irfan Kortschak). Under no circumstances should the photos or text be used without the express written permission of the Author (Irfan Kortschak). He can be reached at irfan@wayang.net

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Echanting beauty of Baliem Valley

Once you read or give it a deeper study to Danis way of life, dont be surprised that you may find your eye lifting or forehead wrinkling. Why? Because the Dani is uniquely amazing.

The Dani men and women sleep separately in different honai (Danis traditional house). The men sleep grouped in one honai, while the women and children slumber in another honai. As descended from their ancestor, sex is taboo for the women after giving birth, for 2 or 5 years. As the result the Dani generated healthier kids since the women focus on babysitting the kids during the most important phase of growth.

This situation makes the men vulnerable to polygamy, its a true fact of life that the Dani men are allowed to have more than 1 wife or as many as he can afford. A man should give 4-5 pigs to the girls parent he wants to marry. For Dani men, his social status are initiated by the number of wives and pigs he has.

Another remarkable custom of Dani is that women will amputate their finger when their relatives die, hence don't be surprised when you see women with missing finger.

To enhance the quality of your experience in Baliem Valley, a guide is essential since there are no clear maps or signage initiated for visitor. The guide will help to lead the track, communicate with the local people and in advance. The guide will also inform you about local dos and don'ts.

Getting There

Flying might be the only way to access the Baliem Valley through Wamena. Here are some alternatives on carrier from Jayapura to Wamena: (For further info, ask the officers at Sentani Airport Information Center). Trigana Air Services provide daily flights into and out of Wamena. Spot the Trigana Air Service Offices at Sentani Airport terminal and Wamena Airport terminal.

MAF

AMA

Yajasi

Manunggal Air

Hercules carrier provide by Indonesian army (TNI)

To access Baliem Valley, you can rent car or public bus from Wamena.

Getting Around

Would you mind if we say ON FOOT? Through trekking, you can witness traditional ceremonies, traditional markets and the people of Dani. There is no restaurant inside the Baliem- Valley, a guide could bargain the Dani people to provide simple meals. Its stoutly advised, that the visitor bring their own meals and snack during the trekking. Meals and snacks can be found in grocery store at Wamena.

To Do

The captivating Baliem Fiesta/Festival is held on August around 10 - 17 August every year. The festival performs traditional dances, pig races, ancestral fighting and races. Today, Baliem Fiesta is one of the main reasons why tourists visit Papua. Its a magical Fiesta says most of the tourist.

Try visiting the large and busy local market at Sinatma, or spotting mummies at Kurulu Village.

To Stay

For those who are adventurer and cultural observer in heart, stay and mingle with the Baliem Valley people is possible, just make sure your guide booked it before your visit. Go show? Affordable. If the first alternative is way too extreme, you can stay at hotels at Wamena:

• Wamena Hotel at Jl. Homhom 61
• Srikandi Hotel at Jl. Irian 16
• Pondok Wisata Putri Dani at Jl. Irian 40
• Nayak Hotel at Jl. Gatot Subroto 63
• Hotel Syah Rial Makmur at Jl. Gatot Subroto 45
• Hotel Anggrek at Jalan Ambon 1
• Baliem Pilamo Hotel at Jalan Trikora
• Baliem Valley Resort (3 star resort), www.baliem-valley-resort.de

To Buy

Souvenirs can be easily found on the valley as you can buy the crafts directly from the Dani people.

• Stone blade is a major favorite among visitors
• Sekan: rattan bracelate
• Noken: made from trees bark
• Head and arm necklace
• Jogal: grass skirt
• And other head decorations

Tips

Guide is needed to explore the valley

Dont forget to bring the copy of your Surat Keterangan Jalan

Best time to visit is between March and August

If you travel during the rainy season, be prepared with cold weather equipment

Ask your guide about Dos and Donts in the Baliem Valley

Foreigner must obtain a travel permit letter or known as Surat Keterangan Jalan to get the access into the interior part of Papua. You can obtain the Surat Keterangan Jalan at main town police station such as Jayapura, Merauka, Timika, Biak, Nabire, Monokwari and other main city. The permit of lasts will depend on your request, from 1 week until 1 month or even longer. Please prepare copies of your passport, recent photograph and list of places you wish to visit. Its easy to get the Surat Keterangan Jalan, because the officers are friendly and helpful.

You can ask your travel agent to arrange the Surat Keterangan Jalan. And Let's Explore Indonesia.

Source: Visit Indonesia

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Ubud's Culinary Queen

Text by Janet DeNeefe

I thought it would be an ideal time to take you on a jalan-jalan down Ubud's 'culinary' memory lane and honour one of the grand dames of our village cafes. Ubud has been the home to a wok full of Balinese mums who have been satisfying the hearts and appetites of international visitors for many years. These 'domestic goddesses' have helped shape the eating style of Ubud and set it on its dining feet. Their recipe for success has been simple: home-cooked food served with lashings of gracious Balinese hospitality. I often feel shy to be a non-Balinese expounding knowledge on Balinese food amongst these spice divas. I bow to the humble and lasting contribution they have made to our beloved town. And writing this article took me into a time-honoured space that also made me somewhat nostalgic. That's what memories do, I guess.

Enter Ibu Canderi. Canderi's warung was established by Ibu Canderi in the late sixties on Monkey Forest Road when Ubud was still painted in subtle shades of shock after the devastating communist coup only a few years before. Ibu Canderi had her own tale of tragedy to tell, with the loss of her husband during that time. She was still carrying the youngest of five children, a mere baby of a few months, on her hip when she unexpectedly became a widow. I remember hearing her story in the eighties, while sitting near the faded black and white photo of her late husband that hangs in the restaurant to this day. Hard to believe a blood-bath of this nature could happen in Bali.

But I digress. Ibu Canderi opened the doors of her family abode to cater for the new breed of tourist visiting the land Jawarhalal Nehru fondly called "the morning of the earth"; you know, that hippy-type who was looking for the 'real' Bali in flowery kaftans and bare feet sharing lots of love. Canderi had trained as an elementary school teacher but work had dried up after the coup. "We had to eat" she said. So she took the plunge and opened a homestay and restaurant. The only other places to stay, at that time, were Hotel Tjampuhan and lodgings in the palaces.

Canderi's was a simple eatery but in those days all eating places were simple. It was set in the family compound, in the living and breathing quarters of their traditional home, and the surrounding four rooms were available for rent. The restaurant lay in the courtyard and spilled onto the terraces of each room or wherever there was space. The staff was a mix of local Ubud folk and her own offspring; all sporting that laid-back quality that was actually even more laid-back then. The wonderful ambience reflected the warmth of this tiny mother whose gentle demeanour was as soft and loving as a hug for the homesick tourist. We all loved going there and we all loved Ibu Canderi. The food was a quirky mix of Balinese fare and tourist food that had been introduced by international guests who had stayed there: jaffles, guacamole, tacos, chapattis and garlic toast vied for attention with black rice-pudding, tofu fritters and Balinese soups. But despite the flavour, it was all cooked with love.

By the mid-eighties, Canderi's was already an Ubud institution. Ketut and I spent many nights sitting at the bar on rustic bamboo stools, chatting and laughing with Ibu Canderi while watching the action in the kitchen (albeit somewhat slow) and the comings and goings of the guests. There was always someone strumming a guitar under the stars and usually a group of Indonesians and other nationalities playing chess, cards or whatever, in the dimly-lit corners. In fact, nighttimes at Canderi's witnessed the most spirited, charismatic locals that Ubud will perhaps ever see at a time when this artist's refuge was slowly re-awakening. The wild and hilarious (late) Armawa spent every other night there, waxing lyrical with Silvio Santoso, creator of the Ubud Pathfinder map, (where are you, Silvio?). Pranoto, our favourite artist, took turns on the guitar while Nyoman Suradnya, Frank Wilson (before the white robes), Sarita Newson, John Schumann of Redgum fame and assorted local eccentrics gathered in this Alice's Restaurant-type haven, drinking arak, rice wine or mic jus (mixed juice) and chatting about life with whoever chose to listen. Redgum's best seller, "I've been to Bali too", honoured Canderi as part of the Ubud – I don't want to go home – experience.

Well I wandered off to Ubud, just a little up the track. One week there, didn't want to come back. Listening to Gamelan, playing guitar. Canderi's, tacos, Hotel Menara, two-month visa, I've been to Bali too. I was told that even Covarrubias stayed at Canderi's (well, whoever he was, he was Mexican), as well as countless writers, musicians and artists. Gosh, don't we all miss those days.

Ibu Canderi made everyone feel at home in a caring, open-hearted way and isn't that the single, most important attribute of a great host? In fact, it wasn't the food that made Canderi's special; it was simply Canderi. She heralded the new breed of "Ibu" in Ubud, a new type of businesswoman who made friends with people from all places, all walks of life.

I asked her about the tourist in those days. "Were they different back then?" "Oh yes", she said wistfully, "their hearts were much closer to us."

Nowadays, at the age of 75, Canderi still runs her restaurant. And after all, why should she let it go? When I paid a visit the other day, she was still perched behind the desk, surveying the guests with her tender expression. Her restaurant is very much an old-Ubud experience with photos on the wall showing various guests who have visited and that feeling of eating in someone's house still lingers.

Janet DeNeefe is the owner of Casa Luna and Indus restaurants, author of Fragrant Rice, and creator of the Ubud Readers & Writers Festival. She also runs the Casa Luna Cooking School.

surce: garuda magazine

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