A little Cameron break

I haven't done a long-distance drive for quite some time. If I want to go to Kuala Lumpur, for instance, my go-to mode of transport nowadays is the ETS train service which KTMB introduced in 2014. So, the furthest I have probably driven in recent years is Taiping. A few days ago, friends invited us to stay at their apartment in Cameron Highlands and we jumped at the opportunity. But there was a nagging doubt at the back of my mind about whether a much older me could still manage a long drive. After all, getting up to Tanah Rata, one of the three main towns in Cameron Highlands, would take about four hours, and possibly longer if we ran into traffic jams in the highlands.

Well, I did manage it and arrived in Cameron Highlands to a wet, windy and rather cold afternoon. Temperatures had dropped to 16°C or even lower overnight during the previous week, which was something we hadn't experienced in any of our recent visits. It brought back memories of Cameron Highlands in the 1970s and 1980s, when there was much less development and therefore far fewer people around. Perhaps that was why it seemed so much colder then. But for this trip, it was fortunate that we had come prepared with thicker clothing. 

This was a very free-and-easy three days for us. We weren't interested in visiting the lavender farms or strawberry farms, or any of the usual tourist attractions in the highlands. Neither did we make the trip to Brinchang for food. In fact, the furthest we ventured was the Tanah Rata town centre, where we had all our meals. 

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the restaurants there served very good Indian food, or at least the two we tried did. Singh Capati Urban Restaurant served a remarkable range of Punjabi dishes and I really can't praise them enough. The masala thosai at Highland Spice Restaurant was better than any I've eaten in Penang. While walking along the main street, we came across Cameron AA Curry House, only to discover that it had closed since we last ate there about a year ago. It was a little sad to see a familiar place gone.

We had a black pepper steak at Rosette Cafe and were impressed with how well it was prepared. The meat was soft and tender, just the way I like it. One morning we had braised pork knuckle koay teow at Hui Wei Restaurant and, of course, no trip to Cameron Highlands would be complete without scones and cheesecake at The Lord's Cafe.

All too soon, our three days were up and it was time to head home. Before leaving, though, we took a quick drive around Tanah Rata. It wasn't really planned, but somehow that little drive ended with us having scones and a spot of English tea at the old Smokehouse Hotel. We hadn't been there for more than 30 years, so it was a pleasure walking around the grounds and exploring the hotel interior again. It brought back memories of another old hotel we had stayed in, the Red Lion Inn in Dittisham, and for a little while, we were quite happy just to be there and take in the surroundings before finally making our way home.

Prambanan's Hindu past

The last significant heritage site our group visited in Jogjakarta was the Prambanan Temple compounds. We arrived there in the afternoon of our second and final full day, just when the Central Javanese sun seemed determined to test our endurance. After the misty disappointment of Mount Merapi earlier that morning, we found ourselves at the opposite extreme. The heat radiating from the stone pathways was intense and the occasional shadows cast by the soaring temple towers became our brief moments of relief as we wandered through the grounds. 

By then, most of us were visibly tired. Although nearby Candi Sewu is regarded as one of the finest Buddhist temple complexes in Indonesia, time and energy were no longer on our side. We reluctantly gave it a miss and concentrated our attention on the main Prambanan temple complex which is also known as the Candi Rara Jonggrang. That was perhaps the one regret of the day.

After spending so much time among the serene Buddhist monuments of Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur, arriving at Prambanan felt like stepping into a different chapter of Java's past. If Borobudur is a vast stone mandala inviting contemplation, Prambanan reaches skywards with dramatic confidence. Its tall, slender towers seem almost weightless despite being carved from thousands of blocks of volcanic stone.

Built during the ninth century under the Hindu Sanjaya dynasty, Prambanan is the largest Hindu temple complex in Indonesia and one of the grandest in South-east Asia. The central compound of the Candi Roro Jonggrang is dedicated to the Trimurti of Shiva the Destroyer, Vishnu the Preserver and Brahma the Creator. The towering Shiva temple rises nearly 50 metres above the plain.

What absorbed me most were the relief carvings. Running along the galleries are exquisitely detailed panels illustrating the ancient Indian epic known as the Ramayana. Stone dancers, warriors, princes, celestial beings and mythical creatures emerge from the walls with remarkable vitality. Even after more than a thousand years, the carvings retain an elegance and movement that make them feel almost alive.

Elsewhere, one encounters finely carved kalpavriksha or wish-fulfilling trees, lions seated within niches and graceful apsaras. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Each panel seems to invite visitors to slow down, linger and notice the details.

Yet Prambanan's history has been far from tranquil. For reasons that remain uncertain, the temples were gradually abandoned after political power shifted from Central Java in the 10th century. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions took their toll and over time the complex fell into ruin, its stones scattered and reclaimed by vegetation. It was only rediscovered by Dutch travellers in the 17th century and systematic restoration began from 1918.

Even in recent times, the work of preservation has continued. The devastating Jogjakarta earthquake of 2006 damaged many structures within the complex, including Candi Sewu, forcing parts of the site to close temporarily while conservation experts assessed the damage and undertook repairs.

Through the decades, Indonesia has remained determined to preserve these monuments despite the enormous challenges involved. Restoring ancient stone structures in an earthquake-prone region is neither simple nor inexpensive. It requires patience, expertise and international cooperation. In recent years, India has pledged assistance in the conservation of Prambanan, recognising the shared cultural heritage that links the two countries across centuries of maritime exchange and civilisation.

Borobudur and Prambanan are reminders that Indonesia's history is diverse. Long before Islam became the faith of the majority, the archipelago was home to powerful Hindu and Buddhist kingdoms whose influence extended across South-east Asia. Modern Indonesia does not shy away from this inheritance. Instead, it embraces it as part of the nation's story. I sensed this in the care devoted to these sites, in the pride of the local guides and in the willingness to invest in their preservation. These monuments are not treated as awkward reminders of an earlier age. They are celebrated as symbols of cultural continuity and national identity.

That, I think, is something worth reflecting upon. There are countries, including our own Malaysia, where ancient Hindu and Buddhist heritage can sometimes be overlooked or regarded as belonging to someone else's past. Yet history does not cease to be ours simply because later generations embraced different faiths or identities. We do not have to feel embarrassed about the many facets of our heritage. We can acknowledge them honestly and face them squarely, recognising that they have all contributed to shaping who we are today. Indonesia, by contrast, seems comfortable acknowledging that history is not a single thread but a tapestry woven from many traditions.

As we trod wearily through the afternoon heat, I could not help but marvel at how remarkable these towers still stand at all. They have endured earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, political change and centuries of abandonment. And perhaps that is what makes places like Prambanan and Borobudur so compelling. Despite civilisations evolving, beliefs changing and societies moving in new directions, the past need not be erased to make room for the present. It can simply be remembered, respected and carried forward.

Disappointing Merapi

In the morning of our second full day in Jogjakarta, we visited Mount Merapi. Our expectations were simple: to see one of Indonesia’s most famous volcanoes in full view. Instead, what we got was a wall of off-white mist that swallowed everything beyond a few metres. The mountain was there somewhere, I was sure of it, but it remained invisible, as though it had decided not to perform that day. I must admit, something of a letdown.

In a way, that experience captures what many visitors discover about Merapi. It is a name that carries weight as one of the most active volcanoes in Indonesia, often spoken of with awe, but the actual encounter can feel rather over-hyped.

Part of this comes down to how the visit is usually arranged. We went with the so-called “lava tours” from Kaliurang, the standard way of experiencing the area. On paper, it sounded like an adventurous off-road journey through a raw volcanic landscape. In reality, it felt more like a convoy of jeeps following the same route, stopping at the same places, with visitors taking the same photographs from the same angles.

There is the preserved house buried in ash, now a small museum of frozen domestic life. There is the so-called Alien Rock, a boulder hurled down by the 2010 eruption and said to resemble a face. I looked and looked, but there was nothing to stir my imagination. And there is the bunker that once served as shelter during eruptions but now a memorial to those who perished when lava overwhelmed it. Each stop has its own story, but taken together the experience can feel rather mechanical.

Yet Merapi is more than a tourist attraction. For the Javanese, it is a living presence with a guardian spirit, once embodied by Mbah Maridjan, the mountain’s spiritual custodian who died during the 2010 eruption. It also forms part of Jogjakarta’s sacred axis, balanced against the Indian Ocean to the south, known locally as the Southern Sea and personified in folklore by Nyai Roro Kidul. Annual offerings acknowledge Merapi’s dual nature as both destroyer and giver of life. 

Visibility is Merapi’s greatest unpredictability. Cloud cover gathers quickly and by mid-morning the summit is often swallowed by a featureless white veil. Unless one arrives at an unusually clear hour, the iconic smoking peak remains more imagined than seen. Standing there before that pale emptiness, I began to wonder if the mountain was not refusing to reveal itself at all, but simply telling us that nature does not operate according to our expectations.

Unlike the lush, cinematic volcanoes one sometimes imagines in Indonesia, Merapi’s surroundings are shaped by its own violence. The terrain is ash-grey, broken rock and sand. Material is repeatedly thrown out over time and never quite softened back into the landscape. There is a bleakness and starkness to it all, far from any postcard vision of tropical grandeur. I was told that in some areas, sand-mining continues along the slopes.

In the end, perhaps the mountain is not so much over-rated as it is misunderstood. I arrived hoping to see a famous volcano in all its splendour and left having seen little more than mist and ash-grey slopes. Yet the stories surrounding the mountain, its place in Javanese culture and the respect it continues to command among local people suggest that Merapi is best understood through belief and imagination rather than sight alone.

The Borobudur story

Before I move on, perhaps I should say something more about Borobudur. I happened to pick up a brochure at the entrance into the archaeological park and I must say that it turned out quite informative. I thought of reproducing it verbatim here but the language was rather stilted and, at times, simply wrong. So the next best solution was to have a go at rewriting it myself. It proved to be a surprisingly refreshing exercise and I learnt quite a few new things along the way. 

Most visitors arrive at Borobudur expecting to see a grand ancient monument. I certainly did. Yet the more I read about it, the more I realised that Borobudur is not merely a temple in the conventional sense. It is, in fact, a vast three-dimensional representation of Buddhist thought carved in stone.  

Seen from ground level, Borobudur appears as a massive stepped pyramid crowned by stupas. Viewed from above, however, its true design becomes apparent. The entire monument is laid out in the form of a giant mandala, a sacred diagram found in both Buddhist and Hindu traditions. At its simplest, a mandala consists of a square with four gateways surrounding a circular centre. It is meant to represent the universe and the spiritual journey from the outer world towards inner awakening.  

Borobudur expresses this journey through three ascending realms of Buddhist cosmology: Kamadhatu, Rupadhatu and Arupadhatu.

The lowest level, known as Kamadhatu, represents the world of desire. It symbolises the realm in which human beings remain bound by attachment, craving and worldly concerns. Much of this section lies hidden beneath an encasing base added during the temple's construction, although some of the concealed relief panels have since been uncovered and documented.  

Above this lies Rupadhatu, the world of form. Here, desire has been overcome, but attachment to the physical world remains. It is within these galleries that visitors encounter the remarkable narrative reliefs for which Borobudur is so famous.

At the summit is Arupadhatu, the formless realm associated with enlightenment and ultimate liberation. The square terraces below give way to three circular terraces lined with perforated stupas, creating a striking sense of openness and simplicity. The symbolism is clear enough even for a casual visitor: as one ascends, distractions fall away. 

The reliefs of Borobudur deserve special mention. Among the most important is the Lalitavistara, a series of carved panels recounting the life of the historical Buddha.

The story begins with the birth of Prince Siddhartha in Lumbini, in present-day Nepal. It follows his privileged upbringing, his marriage to Princess Gopā, better known in the Theravāda tradition as Yasodharā. and the profound encounters that changed the course of his life: old age, sickness, death and the sight of a wandering ascetic. These experiences prompted him to leave the palace in search of a deeper understanding of human suffering. 

The panels continue through his years of study and ascetic practice, culminating in his enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya and his transformation into Gautama Buddha.

As I walked through the galleries, I found myself wondering how pilgrims more than a thousand years ago would have experienced these stories. For many of them, these carvings were not simply decorative art. They were sacred teachings in stone. 

The Buddha statues themselves carry layers of meaning. There are 504 Buddha statues throughout the monument, with 432 of them placed in niches along the Rupadhatu galleries. Each displays a particular hand gesture, or mudra, symbolising different aspects of Buddhist teaching.

I confess that, at the time, I admired the statues more for their serenity than their symbolism. Only later did I learn that the mudras vary according to their position on the monument, corresponding to different Dhyani Buddhas and cardinal directions. 

Borobudur's story did not end with the decline of the Sailendra dynasty. Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the monument was gradually abandoned as political power shifted across Java. Why this happened remains uncertain, although volcanic activity may have played a part.

For centuries, Borobudur lay hidden beneath layers of volcanic ash, vegetation and jungle growth. Although local communities never entirely forgot its existence, it was Sir Stamford Raffles, then British Lieutenant-Governor of Java, who brought the site to wider attention in 1814. 

The first efforts to clear the monument began soon afterwards. Over the following decades, scholars documented its reliefs and attempted to understand its history.

One significant discovery came in 1885 when hidden reliefs at the base of the temple were uncovered. Some of these carvings contained instructions for the stone carvers in Sanskrit. The distinctive style of the script helped scholars date Borobudur to the middle of the ninth century, during the reign of the Sailendra dynasty. 

Large-scale restoration work followed in the early 20th century under the Dutch engineer, Theodor van Erp. Yet it soon became apparent that deeper structural problems remained. Water infiltration and erosion continued to threaten the monument.

The most ambitious restoration project began in 1968 under UNESCO's guidance. Over the next 15 years, specialists from around the world dismantled and rebuilt large sections of the temple, installing modern drainage systems and developing methods to protect the stone from biological decay. 

Their efforts ensured that Borobudur would survive for future generations and, in 1991, the monument was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

One final detail from the brochure caught my attention. Among Borobudur's relief panels are ten depictions of ancient seafaring vessels. In 1982, an English researcher named Philip Beale studied these carvings and became convinced that they represented ships used along the ancient maritime trade routes linking Indonesia with Africa.

His fascination eventually led to the construction of a replica vessel based on the reliefs. The reconstructed ship later sailed across the Indian Ocean, retracing what is now known as the Cinnamon Route. Quite remarkable that a monument so often associated with stillness and meditation also preserves evidence of long-distance trade, exploration and cultural exchange.

Perhaps that is one of Borobudur's enduring appeal. Information is revealed layer by layer. At first glance, it is a magnificent monument. Spend a little more time with it and it becomes a book of stone, a map of the Buddhist cosmos, a record of ancient maritime connections and a testament to humanity's determination to preserve its heritage. No wonder people keep returning to it, not just to admire its beauty but to discover something new each time.

Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur

After our four days in Jakarta, our group from Nandaka Vihara flew to Jogjakarta for the next leg of our journey. Travel day aside, we had two full days to explore this historic city in Central Java and for all of us, there was little doubt about our first priority. We had come to visit the great Buddhist monuments of the region.

Our itinerary for the first full day followed a sequence that pilgrims have observed for centuries. Early in the morning, we made our way to the monastery at Mendut Temple. After lunch, we stopped at the smaller Pawon Temple before ending the afternoon at the magnificent Borobudur. 

At the time, I thought of them simply as three separate places of interest located within convenient driving distance of one another. Only later did I realise that they were never meant to be experienced in isolation.

Although commonly associated with Jogjakarta, all three monuments are actually located in neighbouring Magelang Regency. Built during the eighth and ninth centuries under th
e Sailendra dynasty, they form a single sacred complex aligned along an almost perfectly straight east-west axis.

Mendut stands at the eastern end, Pawon in the middle and Borobudur at the western end. Archaeologists believe that the temples were once linked by a ceremonial avenue, suggesting that pilgrims in ancient times would have walked the entire route as one continuous spiritual journey rather than visiting each site separately.

In fact, this remains very much a living tradition today. Every year during Waisak, thousands of monks and devotees gather at Mendut before proceeding on foot through Pawon and finally arriving at Borobudur. A solemn procession that preserves a ritual pathway that has endured for well over a thousand years.

Our first stop that morning was the quiet Buddhist monastery beside Mendut Temple. Shaded by mature trees and set back from the main road, the monastery grounds had a peaceful, unhurried atmosphere. Prayer halls, monks' quarters and landscaped gardens were spread across the compound.

One feature that caught my attention was a gilded ceremonial chariot. From what I gathered, it is associated with the annual Waisak celebrations, when sacred objects including the blessed water and Dharma flame are carried in procession from Mendut to Borobudur. Standing there and appreciating the chariot from all angles, I imagined the thousands of monks and devotees who make that solemn four-kilometre pilgrimage each year.

Compared with Borobudur, Mendut Temple itself is modest in size, but stepping inside its dim interior was a surprisingly moving experience. There, seated within the sanctuary, are three magnificent stone figures: the Buddha Vairocana in the centre, flanked by the bodhisattvas Avalokiteshvara on the left and Vajrapani on the right. Unlike the stupas of Borobudur, these statues remain intact and protected behind wooden hoardings. One could easily imagine ancient pilgrims beginning their spiritual journey here, setting aside worldly concerns before moving onwards.

After lunch, we continued to Pawon Temple. Personally, I found Pawon the least interesting of the three sites. That is perhaps inevitable when it is sandwiched between Mendut's serene interior and the overwhelming grandeur of Borobudur. Pawon is small and compact, and our visit there was brief.

Yet its modest scale belies its importance. Pawon was the midpoint of the sacred journey. It was a place of transition and purification before pilgrims approached Borobudur. The temple's relief carvings include the Kalpataru, the mythical Tree of Life, on three sides of the temple. 

After a brief stop for luwak coffee at a nearby shop, mainly to escape the midday sun, we proceeded to Borobudur. No amount of photographs or videos can quite prepare one for the experience of seeing it in person for the first time. Rising far in the distance with trees lining both sides of the wide boulevard, Borobudur possesses a majesty that is difficult to describe.

It is often called a temple, but it is really something much more ambitious: a three-dimensional mandala in stone. Pilgrims traditionally ascend it in a clockwise direction, moving through successive levels that symbolise the journey from the world of desire to the realm of enlightenment. 

Yet Borobudur is not only a monument of stone and history. Local villagers still speak of Gunadharma, the legendary sage said to have designed the monument, whose reclining form is believed to be etched into the contours of the nearby Menoreh Hills. Others say Borobudur was built to balance the volatile spirit of Mount Merapi. These stories tell of Borobudur's place in archaeology textbooks and UNESCO descriptions, and also in the imagination where myth and devotion overlap.

Constructed during the eighth and ninth centuries by the Sailendra dynasty, Borobudur remains the world's largest Buddhist monument. Spread across six square terraces and three circular platforms are 2,672 relief panels, 72 perforated stupas and a total of 504 Buddha statues. Of these, 432 are placed in niches along the square terraces while another 72 sit within the bell-shaped stupas of the upper levels.

At the summit stands the great central stupa. Unlike the smaller perforated stupas, this largest stupa is empty. For many scholars, that emptiness is entirely deliberate, symbolising śūnyatā, the Buddhist concept of ultimate emptiness or the formless nature of enlightenment itself.

Yet there is a mystery associated with this central stupa. During restoration work in the early 20th century, archaeologists discovered a seated Buddha statue buried nearby. Today known as the "Unfinished Buddha", it is now displayed nearby within the Borobudur grounds.

The statue earned its name because parts of it appear incomplete. Sections of the head, hands and robes were left only partially carved. Some researchers suggested that it was rejected because of imperfections in the workmanship. Rather than destroy a flawed image, the builders may simply have concealed it within the central stupa. Others believe the incompleteness was intentional and carried symbolic meaning, while some scholars question whether the statue ever belonged inside the stupa at all. To this day, no one knows for certain.

While descending from the terraces, my mind went back to the smaller temples we had visited earlier in the day. Suddenly, the sequence made sense. Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur are not three separate destinations competing for attention. They are three chapters of the same story. Mendut represents preparation. Pawon symbolises purification. Borobudur marks the culmination of the journey towards awakening. Perhaps that is why the ancient builders placed them along a single line. The physical journey mirrors an inner one.

Whether one walks the path as a pilgrim, a student of history or simply a curious traveller, I felt impressed by the vision of the Sailendra rulers who created this landscape so long ago. Maybe that's the real wonder of the Borobudur trail. Not that these temples have survived the centuries, but that they still invite us to reflect on ourselves.

A Jakarta experience

For four days in Jakarta, our little group from the Nandaka Vihara Meditation Society found ourselves spending much of our time at Gedung BWE in the Mozia precinct of BSD City, a planned township in Tangerang within the wider Greater Jakarta region.

BSD City is one of those modern satellite townships that seem to stretch endlessly into the horizon, with neatly laid-out roads, residential clusters, shopping centres and office buildings. Gedung BWE itself is a multipurpose venue that has become an important gathering place for Buddhist activities in the Jakarta area. The initials BWE stand for Bodhicitta Wahana Edukasi, an organisation involved in Buddhist education and community work.

Over the years, the venue has hosted meditation retreats, Dhamma talks, relic veneration ceremonies and large-scale Waisak celebrations. Its spacious hall is well suited for bringing together monks, lay devotees and volunteers from different traditions and organisatio
ns. This year's four-day Waisak celebration from 29th May to 01 June was jointly organised by Yayasan Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi.

Although the district surrounding the Gedung BWE offered no shortage of cafés, shopping centres and other modern conveniences, we never really had the opportunity to venture there during our stay. Our time revolved almost entirely around the programme itself. shuttling from our hotel in North Jakarta to the Gedung BWE, and subsequently returning at the end of each day's programme. Still, we did get to see a little of Jakarta when we were not required at the venue, thanks to Epi, our volunteer guide.

At some point, I surrendered myself entirely to the ladies in our group who wanted to go shopping. So we found ourselves stopping at several neighbourhood markets to pick up things like packed groundnuts and buah emping, which we Penangites would recognise as buah binjai. My wife and I had arrived with two half-empty suitcases. By the time we left Jakarta, both were filled to the brim. Fortunately, everything was bulky rather than heavy, and we managed to stay within the airline's weight limits. 

Our journeys took us through various parts of North and West Jakarta, offering fleeting glimpses of everyday life in this vast metropolis. One evening, we were taken to the Chandra building for dinner. The place was buzzing with activity. Finding seats was an adventure and we ended up sharing tables with complete strangers. We wandered off to order different dishes before returning with their selections to be shared among the group, all while a karaoke competition unfolded on the stage nearby. It was lively, informal and wonderfully communal, the sort of atmosphere that seems to bring people together with little fuss.

On another occasion, as we drove through the city, our vehicle passed a roundabout adorned with temporary Waisak decorations. There stood two large Buddha statues alongside an Aśoka pillar. It was a striking sight, and I could not help thinking that such a public display would be almost impossible to imagine back home in Malaysia. For a brief moment, amid the traffic and bustle of Jakarta, the city seemed to pause and acknowledge the significance of the occasion. 

We also drove through Jakarta's historic district, the Kota Tua Jakarta, the old colonial quarter once known as Batavia. Compared with Jakarta's gleaming shopping malls, Kota Tua feels basic, slower, grittier and more textured. The malls represent modern Jakarta: air-conditioned, polished and driven by consumption. Kota Tua, by contrast, preserves traces of the city's past, with its Dutch-era buildings, museums and cafés. It may not possess the commercial energy of Jakarta's mega malls, but it offers something increasingly rare in large cities, which is a sense of place and historical continuity.

Food, naturally, was another highlight. One memorable meal was at Pagi Sore, where we enjoyed a delicious spread of Indonesian dishes. Quite unexpectedly, I spotted an Old Free friend seated at another table. He looked familiar, though I was not entirely certain it was him. Rather than interrupt his meal, I discreetly took a photograph and sent it to him. A short while later, we were catching up in the restaurant.

Another memorable occasion was a farewell lunch hosted by our Indonesian Buddhist friends at the Angke Heritage Restaurant before we left for Jogjakarta. Angke is well known for its Hakka cuisine, but what impressed us immediately was the setting. We had arrived early and, for a while, had the whole place to ourselves.

The restaurant exuded a wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. Traditional Chinese architectural elements were woven throughout the grounds with moon gates, courtyards, pavilions set over water and landscaped gardens. It was a delight for photographers and diners alike.

Two nights earlier, we had been treated to dinner at Da Fa Chinese Seafood Restaurant. The dishes were not all that different from any Chinese seafood meals we enjoy in Penang, which perhaps explains why we tucked into them with such enthusiasm.

There was also a lunch dāna during the Waisak programme itself at a restaurant known as Lembur Kuring, where we sampled Sundanese and Javanese dishes with their distinctive inland flavours.

We visited Aloha Pasir Putih PIK 2, a modern waterfront lifestyle destination designed around a tropical beach theme. The place is often described as "the Hawaii of Jakarta", complete with palm trees, surfboard displays and large Polynesian-inspired statues. Its centrepiece is an artificial white-sand beach overlooking the coast.

The concept is clearly aimed at city dwellers looking for a short escape from Jakarta's relentless pace. Families strolled along the promenade, children played in the sand and groups of friends gathered at the many cafés and restaurants lining the waterfront. It was all very photogenic and unapologetically designed for the social media age.

The day before we departed for Jogjakarta, Bhante Dhammasubho joined us on a sightseeing tour that included a stop at Jakarta Cathedral. Officially known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, it is one of Indonesia's most important Catholic churches. Completed in 1901 in a neo-Gothic style, the cathedral stands directly opposite the Istiqlal Mosque, Southeast Asia's largest mosque. The juxtaposition of these two great houses of worship has become a symbol of Indonesia's commitment to religious harmony. In recent years, the two sites have even been physically linked by a pedestrian tunnel known as the "Tunnel of Friendship".

What struck me about those few days in Jakarta was the contrast between the modern city and the spiritual gathering we had come to attend. We spent time within the peaceful confines of Gedung BWE, surrounded by chanting, meditation and Dhamma talks. Yet just beyond its walls stretched one of the world's largest urban regions, with its endless roads, shopping centres and constant movement. Perhaps that was what made the experience so interesting. Amidst the speed and scale of Greater Jakarta, thousands of people had gathered quietly and purposefully to celebrate the Buddha's teachings. And for four days, we were fortunate enough to be part of it.