Two faces of Bali

I learned during my brief visit to this Indonesian island that it is a two-faced sort of place. One is the Bali of the beach resorts of Kuta and Sanur on the southern end of the island. This is, perhaps, the stereotypical Bali, swarming with Australian, European, Chinese, and Japanese tourists even in the midst of the "down-season." These strips are lined with t-shirt shops, buffet restaurants, and the usual suspect international chains. The resorts, at least on the Kuta side, do give out on a fabulous beach with sweeping ocean views and mounds of washed-up coral. The sunsets are nothing short of spectacular. And it is cheap. Yet it is not this face of Bali that would bring me back. 

Sunset at Kuta Beach

The other face is a bit of Asia unlike anything I've seen before. Bali, a land of about 4 million people, is an Indonesian island just east of Java that is about the size of Delaware. Although the Balinese share many cultural traits with their island neighbors in Java and Lombok, their history has been distinct. When Islam began to spread in what is now Indonesia in the thirteenth century, it came to a land that had long been influenced by Hindu and Buddhist religion and culture from India. Some of the greatest monuments in Indonesia today are remnants of this Buddhist and Hindu period. Much of Javanese culture today reflects these influences, despite the strong influence of Islam. The spread of Islam in Java led many Hindu and Buddhist priests to flee westward, settling in Bali, which became a bastion of Buddhist-Hindu culture. Today, nearly 90% of the residents of Balinese adhere to Balinese Hinduism. I was told that it is actually more correct to call the religion Hindu-Buddhism, as it incorporates elements of both. In this way, it reminds me of Nepal.

The Elephant Cave Temple near Ubud

Moving north from Kuta and Sanur past the capital city of Denpasar, you enter into another Bali, one deeply influenced by this Hindu-Buddhist religious identity. Balinese homes are multi-generational and are separated from the world by a large gate. Larger homes contain their own temple, with stupas covered in a type of black grass rising above the walled compounds everywhere you go. At nearly every turn, a temple looms upward… some modest, others quite grand. All of this unfolds on the increasingly hilly landscape reaching upward toward the northern mountains. 

The royal palace in Ubud

Like much of Indonesia, space is not wasted in Bali. Every space possible is devoted to the farming of rice. In many places, this is grown on steep terraces that have been sculpted into the sides of steep hills with careful irrigation designed to nurture the three crops grown each year. It is easy to see in Bali how the efficient domestication of rice allowed Asian populations to grow so large. 

The Ceking Rice Terraces

Today, this traditional landscape is slowly being eroded. Although the government has limited tourism development in terms of hotels and resorts to the southern part of the island and other cities, many foreigners are buying up pieces of property in the country. Rice paddies are slowly turning into retirement homes for Europeans, Australians, and Americans. There is considerable fear among the Balinese about what this pervasive economic change and ongoing globalization means for their strong culture. 

The Holy Water Spring Temple

Both faces of Bali are worth a look. But the quiet, beautiful culture of old-world Bali is the one that would bring me back, hoping that it still can be found. 

driving in Indonesia

When it comes to cars and traffic, there are several maxims I have picked up as I have traveled:

1.  The world divides very subjectively into countries I will drive in without a second thought, countries I would consider driving in, and countries where I would not drive a car if someone put a gun to my head. 

2.  I trust the person who is driving the car. I can only think of one situation in all of my travels where this rule failed me. 

3.  Even though the traffic patterns may appear to be without rules or order, driving in such chaotic contexts actually requires a much higher sensitivity to the "rules of the game." While fewer rules are written, it seems to me that there are actually many more "rules" to negotiating the social norms of traffic. 

The sheer density of population on the island of Java, together with strained infrastructure, makes for an especially interesting transportation experience. You notice this first of all before you even leave a parking lot. The shortage of space means that parking lots are almost always overseen by an attendant of some sort who guides and directs drivers into tight parking spaces. Passengers exit before parking, so that cars can be nestled even closer to one another. If the parking lot is filled, cars are sometimes parked in the middle area, with their drivers instructed to leave the car in neutral so that it can be rolled one way or another if someone needs to get out. These same parking attendants will then guide you out of your spot and to the exit of the lot. They do not stop there. They will then step into traffic, hold out their hand to stop oncoming traffic and let you pull into the stream. The attendant, while holding traffic with his right hand, will artfully extend his left behind him, perfectly positioned to accept a small amount of money from the driver. 

A parking attendant in Semarang, Central Java

Such "traffic stopping" is perhaps one of the most interesting aspects of Indonesian driving. Everyone seems to do it -- stepping into multiple lanes of traffic moving at 30-40 miles an hour, extending a hand, and then crossing 3-4 lanes of traffic. It seems to work. Cars and trucks seem to acknowledge this and stop. Motorbikes, on the other hand, see this only as a warning to swerve around the pedestrians at full speed. This is the kind of behavior that, if tried in the US, would result in the said pedestrian being "squashed like a toady," to borrow a phrase from my seven-year-old. 

Getting the most from your motorbike. It seems like a lot of Jakarta driving is underneath freeways

Still other attendants work in the median between the opposing flows, manning little gates where people can make u-turns. These attendants are clearly one step up from their peers, using small stop signs or even small mirrors to catch the attention of drivers before stepping into the flow of traffic. Motorbikes make a nearly continual tight curve around such posts, with cars moving slightly more slowly and carefully. Again, a perfectly choreographed passage of money takes place, with neither concern for the continuous traffic nor the mechanics of a very sharp turn disrupting the artful passage of rupiah bills. 

Jakarta Traffic - from indosight.org - the cars on the right, motorbikes on the left is the norm

I would be very slow to even think about driving in Indonesia. I'm not nearly a good enough driver. Driving here takes some real talent. 

Indonesia

Indonesia remains for me one of the most incomprehensible countries. It is the world's fourth most populous nation, trailing only China, India, and the United States, with 250 million people scattered over 18,000 islands and 3,400 miles/5,400 kilometers. To put that in perspective, the Indonesian archipelago stretches 400 miles further than the distance from Boston to Los Angeles, or more than a thousand miles further than the distance from London to Moscow. More than half of this population, 140 million, lives on the island of Java, which is roughly the size of the state of Pennsylvania. It is home to more than 300 ethnic groups and at least as many languages. 

The island of Java at night -  in the bottom middle

In addition to being home to the world's single largest population of Muslims, Indonesia also has significant Christian communities (more than 10% of the population). Both mosques and churches can be seen rising on the skylines of Indonesian cities. Yet the religious character of Indonesia is even more complex than this, as Indonesian/Javanese culture is woven together from a fabric that includes significant Hindu and Buddhist influence from before the coming of Islam and Christianity to the region. This is visible in the great Buddhist temple complex at Borobudur in Central Java, unearthed from the rainforest by the Dutch and English in the nineteenth century, and the South Asia/Hindu-influenced motifs that appear in both Indonesian art and stories. This is a nation of nuance. 

A Balinese temple in Ubud

It is also a land of considerable tension. The strengthening of Islamic identity in Indonesia in recent decades has led to many more women covering their heads than would have been true in the mid-20th century. By head covering, I do not mean the full facial covering found in some parts of the Arab world, but rather a type of scarf unique to Southeast Asian islam that frames the face, often in brilliant pinks and purple colors. 

The Indonesian flag with pancasila symbol - "out of man, one"

Modern Indonesia, which became independent from the Netherlands after World War II, is built on the philosophy of pancasila, or "five principles:  belief in god (with inherent acknowledgement of religious plurality in the country), belief in just and civilized humanity, belief in the unity of Indonesia, and adherence to democracy and social justice. This idea has played a powerful guiding role in bringing considerable unity to a great and diverse nation. Although pancasila is attacked by a number of Islamic political parties and fundamentalist groups beyond politics, the pancasila center seems to continue to hold. 

View over Bandung, West Java, with mountains in the background

These are hopeful times in Indonesia. The recent election by large margins of Joko Widodo, known as Jokowi, has given hope that some of the entrenched corruption and powerful interests that have dominated Indonesia in the past can be overcome. Jokowi did not arise from the Jakarta elite, but rather from a poor family in Central Java, before beginning a political career that made him governor of the capital city before assuming the presidency. He faces considerable opposition in parliament and outside of government to his reforms, but the Indonesians I interact with seem to be hopeful about the potential of this new administration. 

Doors in Portugal

In June, I had the opportunity to make a brief visit to Lisbon, the capital of Portugal. Most of my time there was spent in a sleepy village on the outskirts of the capital, amidst the rolling hills covered with olive trees. 

This was my first visit to Portugal, although I feel as though I have encountered the broad influence of Portugal many times in my travels. This is especially the case in former Portuguese colonies that retain the Portuguese language, including Brazil and Mozambique, as well as Angola (which I have not visited). Yet I have also felt Portuguese influence in places as diverse as Indonesia, Nigeria, India, Benin, Malaysia, South Africa, China, and Sri Lanka, where various family and city names, as well as the presence of the Catholic Church, reveals a distant influence of Europe's first great colonial power. 

Portugal today is a relatively small nation of 10.5 million on the western edge of Europe, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and Spain. For centuries now, it has been rather distant from the centers of European power further north. Yet at one time, Portugal was among the most powerful nations on earth, launching the age of exploration in the fifteenth century with exploration of the West African coast and later Brazil, southern Africa, the Arabian Peninsula, India, and Southeast Asia. 

Although Portugal's greatest colony, Brazil, became independent in the early nineteenth century, Portuguese colonial power remained in Angola, Mozambique, several smaller African nations, the city-state of Goa in India, and the city-state of Macau in China into the late twentieth century. The independence of East Timor in 2002 brought an end to the Portuguese colonial empire that began in the fifteenth century. Today, Portugal is rather dwarfed in the Portuguese-speaking world by its giant protégé, Brazil, with a population of 200 million. 

Most of my time in Portugual was spent in a rather sleepy village on the edge of Lisbon, surrounded by rolling hills and olive trees. The following are a few photos of that small village of São Antão de Tojal. 

A view of São Antão de Tojal

An old fountain beneath a viaduct

The same viaduct on the city's main street

The village church

A Return to Africa - Abidjan

The following was written in June of this year during a visit to Abidjan in Côte d'Ivoire, when the story of ebola in West Africa was still a very minor story at the bottom of the international news. If you have not read David Brooks' recent op-ed in the New York Times on that subject, I strongly recommend it. 

*****

My first experience of sub-Saharan Africa north of the Limpopo River was a small and incredibly stuffy pre-immigration "holding room" in the airport in Lomé, the capital of Togo in West Africa. This experience of an hour or so introduced me to many of the less pleasant aspects of travels in Africa. After the long and disorderly queues, the repeated checks of vaccination records, the stuffy environment, the mosquitoes, and the assumption that everyone speaks French well, I stood before the immigration officer who slowly and with a slightly detached air checked and rechecked my passport. After she affixed the requisite stamps, she handed me my passport. Upon making eye contact as she handed me my passport, her eyes brightened, and she said, seemingly with all sincerity, "thank you for visiting our country." I puzzled over that at the time, and to a degree continue to puzzle. I was hardly the only foreigner or the only American on that AirFrance planeload arriving from Paris. She was hardly wowed by my incredibly poor French. I hardly looked nice after a 24-hour journey across the Atlantic, Mediterranean, and Sahara. It seems, after many more visits across this vast and diverse continent (some including distinctly less pleasant immigration or emigration experiences!), I would still say that that experience sums up many of my experiences in Africa. 

Africa, like much of the world, is portrayed in the United States as a land of poverty, conflict, violence, and disorder. All of that is true, in part. It is also true of most other places in the world. From the recent coverage of the (undeniably awful) violence of Boko Haram in Nigeria, one would think that Nigeria barely functions as a country, when in reality most of its citizens continue to lead their economic, social, and spiritual lives productively on a daily basis. The Africa that appears in so many western newscasts is real, but is a small part of the daily life of Africa. The same could be said of many of the promotional materials of many western NGOs active in Africa. A common underlying theme seems to be that Africa is a continent without hope, a continent somehow almost outside of history, in need of interventions to save it from itself. These "interventions" have at times taken the almost society-wide form of colonialism, while more recently I have seen them more in the form of "aid" projects, including many Christian aid projects, that seek to somehow meet "Africa's needs" one drip at a time.

This "intervention" approach, in my opinion, fails to give enough credit to African people, who, despite challenging circumstances, are a phenomenally creative lot.  I see this especially in the African evangelical churches, or at least in the swath of this vast and diverse movement that I engage with. For many years, these relatively young churches adopted a thinking very similar to many churches in the West that stressed personal salvation and the life of the church within the walls of the church with relatively little focus on what faith meant outside the walls of the church in daily life. Although I'm far from an expert in African culture, the history of African churches, or African theology, I have always felt that this rather limited understanding of Christianity seemed out of tune with the realities of Africa. Africa, it seems to me, is a very holistic place that seems to have an almost natural aversion to the dichotomy of the spiritual and the social that has bedeviled many Protestant movements in the west and elsewhere. Over the past ten years, I have seen this commitment to holistic mission grow. A recent meeting in Abidjan included numerous expressions of a sense that society was looking to the church for answers to persistent questions and that the church was looking to be more active in addressing these questions. This takes a number of forms, from the formation of Christian universities across the continent, to a commitment to theological education that is more responsive. 

Africa's great strength is her people. Just as I was blessed by the Togolese lady's smile on my first visit, I continue to be blessed by Africans day by day. 

Bishkek - A City of Stories

Bishkek, the capital city of Kyrgyzstan, is a rather dusty, low-hanging city. I've heard it called Almaty's little sister. Certainly, it has resemblance. Both sit beneath imposing and breathtaking mountain vistas (if anything, Bishkek may edge out her bigger sister in this competition). But Bishkek has not seen the proliferation of highways and skyscrapers that have resulted from the economic development in Kazakhstan. Bishkek retains the feel of the provincial Soviet city it once was. 

Monument to Manas, a hero of an ancient Kyrgyz poem

To the Fighters of the Revolution - Central Bishkek

Yet central Bishkek must be one of the finest collections of Soviet-era architecture, with examples ranging from the 1920s to the 1980s. I have always been fascinated by and admired Soviet architecture and urban planning. Since Bishkek is a relatively young city, founded only at the end of the nineteenth century, early Soviet planners had a bit more free reign to design than did those in some older cities. The entire downtown area is a succession of squares sprawling along wide avenues. Nearly all of these squares center on a grand monument:  monuments to semi-mythical ancient Kyrgyz heroes, a monument to the "voluntary" uniting of the Kyrgyz lands to Russia in the nineteenth century, monuments to the victors of the October Revolution and of World War II, and monuments to various writers, thinkers, and musicians (Russian and Kyrgyz). One of the more interesting monuments is dedicated to a Kyrgyz ballet dancer who was named a Peoples' Artist of the USSR. Unlike most former Soviet cities, Lenin still stands in a central square, as does a statue of Marx and Engels in full nineteenth-century garb engaged in intense discussion. 


The Soviets used city planning to tell a story. This was almost always a story of progress and moving into the bright future. Lenin always stands with his hand extended, showing the way into the future. Other leaders are depicted walking out onto a point, as if treading into uncertain but promising waters. War monuments invariably show men, women, children, and often animals struggling toward a summit where a final figure raises their hand in triumph. Such stories dominate the center of nearly every post-Soviet city. More recent monuments honor national heroes (such as the various monuments to Manas in Bishkek, Tamerlane in Tashkent, or Bohdan Khmelnitsky in Kyiv. Monuments to various Tsars have reappeared in St. Petersburg in the past 25 years. Most cities have some more recent monument to those who led uprisings leading to the independence of various republics, or to the suffering they felt during the Soviet period, such as the monument to the Holodomor (Ukrainian famine) in Kyiv. While the Soviet-era stories were almost always kept harmonious, the post-Soviet landscape has often become a bit dissonant, with various historical narratives jostling up against one another in a tune that doesn't quite match. Yet I value the fact that the leaders of city like Bishkek tolerate that dissonance, as history in reality is nothing if not dissonant. 

Monument to a Kyrgyz ballet dancer who found pan-Soviet fame

There is a part of me that loves the grand use of space to tell a story. While the Mall in Washington has elements of this city-as-story, the US has generally not used urban planning to tell stories as much as European city planners (and especially Soviet ones) have. Although much of the ideology and historiography behind these grand Soviet monuments is now thoroughly discredited, these stones still stand as a reminder of a path humanity has walked. In many ways, it seems that people here and in many other places are in some way hungry for grand narratives and purposes. In our increasingly disconnected lives, perhaps we do look for something that gives meaning, that joins us together. Such a hunger is probably a very good thing, a natural and necessary corrective in a time that has probably become a bit too individualistic. Yet as both Soviet and post-Soviet monuments remind us, this hunger for narrative and purpose can be very dangerous.

Almaty, Kazakhstan

It has been thirteen years since I last visited Central Asia. This region, and the world as a whole, have changed markedly during that time. 

Almaty is the largest city in Kazakhstan (2.5 million people) and the commercial and cultural capital of the country. Some things have certainly changed since my last visit in 2001. Although the city's infrastructure has developed greatly, including new highways, interchanges, bus lines, and a new underground metro, the volume of traffic is greater than ever. New skyscrapers, many with eastern flourishes, dot the horizon. Some things remain the same. Almaty remains a deeply green and lush city with beautiful parks and fountains. The Tienshan mountains add a stunning visual backdrop to the city. 

Orthodox church in Panfilov Park in central Almaty. Built circa 1904.

During my last visit, Kazakhstan was just emerging from the chaotic 1990s, coming to terms with an independence it did not seek. Unlike many other former Soviet nations, Kazakhstan did not seek independence from the USSR until the USSR had ceased to exist and no option but independence remained. Unlike most of the other newly independent states, Kazakhstan at independence had approximately equal numbers of ethnic Kazakhs and ethnic Russians, with Ukrainian, Russian-German, and other minorities leaving the Kazakhs as the minority in their own country. Sizable Slavic, Russian-German, and other emigration in the 1990s has left the Kazakhs as a majority, although Slavs still constitute nearly 30% of the population. Although the Kazakh language is prominent and official, Russian remains the dominant language in Almaty. 

Orthodox Church with Tian Shan Mountains in the background

Kazakhstan is an interesting window into the issues of identity that remain so very important in this region of the world. The expansion of Russian power to the south and east from the sixteenth century drew in hundreds of ethnic groups, large and small. In many areas, especially in Central Asia, ethnic identities developed quite late and often remained overlapping and interwoven with other religious and social identities. The movement of people during the Soviet era, intermarriage across ethnic groups, and the development of a "Soviet" identity for some made the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 extraordinarily complicated. The unraveling of the Soviet Union, which itself built on the 300-year-old legacy of the Russian Empire, left many people in very awkward places. I've met more than a few people in this region who really aren't quite sure who they are in terms of ethnicity. 

Soviet war monument in Almaty

In the past year, these issues of identity have taken on new weight and meaning, with immense human cost and geopolitical significance. Although the neat maps of Ukraine that show "Russian-speaking" and "Ukrainian-speaking" regions are helpful, they mask much deeper historical issues and torn identities. I see similar things here in Kazakhstan, where several Slavic people I've spoken to do not even know where their family came from. They are citizens of this Kazakh land and soil, feel no particular affinity for the Russia or Ukraine of their ancestors, and find themselves a minority in their land. Reactions to this reality vary. One man insists that he and his family have cast their lot with Kazakhstan, have learned the Kazakh language, and feel great affection for the ethnic Kazakh brethren. Another states that while he was born here and his family is here, he has little sense of belonging in what seems an increasingly "foreign" land (although he is quick to note that Russia seems just as foreign). 

"New" Almaty

It is always helpful to be reminded that lines on maps are very human constructs (and for that matter, fairly recent human constructs). As with most things human, they are not neat and tidy, but rather messy and broken. 

The beauty of the TianShan Mountains near Almaty