Islam Wetu Telu

Traditional beliefs in Lombok, Indonesia

Originally published in Bali and Beyond Magazine, January 2008

http://www.baliandbeyond.co.id/bnb_jan_08/beyond.html

“Allaaaaaah uh akbar…” Five times a day the Muslim prayer call rings out through the stands of palm trees from whitewashed mosques with brightly shining stainless steel domes. Men in skull caps and loose tartan sarongs make their devotions among the rice terraces and in the distance the broken cone of Gunung Rinjani shows purple against a clear sky.

The island of Lombok, to the east of Bali, is a place of perfect beaches and stunning scenery where tourist development is still low key and the “real Indonesia” is easy to find. It is sometimes described as “like Bali twenty years ago”, but this tag does neither island justice, for Lombok deserves to stand as a destination in its own right, and importantly, it has a very different culture. Bali is a Hindu island, while on Lombok the native Sasak people are Muslim.

Local legends tell that Islam arrived on Lombok in the 16th Century, brought ashore by a wandering Javanese mystic who built the first mosque near the north coast at the village of Bayan. Over the years as the new religion spread across the island it mixed with the web of local beliefs. A combination of indigenous ancestor and spirit worship, elements of Hinduism that drifted across from Bali, and the very basic tenants of Islam produced a belief system unique to Lombok. It was called Islam Wetu Telu, and a century ago the majority of Sasaks described themselves as Wetu Telu Muslims.

Wetu Telu means “three elements” in the Sasak language. Just what those three elements are depends on who you talk to, but people on Lombok will tell you that the trinity might be birth, life and death; conception, the egg and its hatching, or perhaps ancestors, god and human life. Wetu Telu Muslims had ceremonies to honour local spirits, to give thanks for harvest and to ensure rain. From Islam they took little more than the belief in an almighty god, and a vague notion of Mohammad as the prophet of that god. Corrupted Arabic prayers were uttered along with fragments of old Sanskrit or Javanese mantras; Wetu Telu Muslims celebrated only the most important of the Islamic festivals, they showed no interest in the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, and abstained from food for only a few days during Ramadan. They brewed a fiery rice liquor known as brem, and many were happy to eat the meat of the wild pigs from the forest – both forbidden to orthodox Muslims.

But old traditions fade. After Lombok came under the control of the Dutch colonialists a more orthodox Islam began to take hold. It was still a tolerant and typically Indonesian form of the faith – far removed from the austere ways of the Middle East - but as the 20th Century progressed the subtle nuances and the twists of local flavour faded. In Lombok this new, orthodox religion was sometimes known as “Modern Islam”, but more often as Islam Waktu Lima – “Five Times Islam” - referring to the required number of daily prayers, and differentiating it from the “Three Elements” of Wetu Telu.

By the late 1960s there were very few Sasaks left who would describe themselves as Wetu Telu Muslims and the old beliefs seemed to have been consigned to the history books. But not entirely.

The greatest stronghold of Islam Wetu Telu was always the very place where Islam first took root in Lombok: the remote villages around Bayan on the north coast, beneath the towering outline of Rinjani.
Today tourists come to the area to take in the stunning views across tumbling rice terraces, or to start the arduous but rewarding trek up from the hamlet of Senaru, through the forest and on to the summit of Rinjani, Indonesia’s second highest volcano. They also come to see life in the deeply traditional Sasak villages that dot the area. But few realise that they are among people who have made a remarkable effort to preserve their Wetu Telu culture.

These days many Sasaks are a little reluctant to talk about Islam Wetu Telu, and even around Bayan many will insist that they are “modern” Waktu Lima Muslims, though they will admit to being far from strict with their daily prayer routine. An old myth about Wetu Telu Muslims is that they fast only three days during Ramadan, and the people of Bayan will make it clear that this was never true: they fast for about nine days. A full month without food or drink during daylight hours would be impractical for busy rice farmers they say.
Islam Wetu Telu still exists here, they will explain if you ask with polite interest, but these days it has been re-designated as a system of traditional adat, or “custom” alongside the orthodox religion. The people of Bayan celebrate each of the major Islamic holy days twice, once in the modern mosque, and then again a few days later in the old mosque – said to be the oldest on the island. This ancient mosque is close to the road on a low hilltop in the centre of Bayan. Built of bamboo and rough wood with a roof of shaggy thatch, it is only used for Wetu Telu ceremonies. When praying there the locals wear traditional Lombok sarongs and headscarves, and mark their foreheads Hindu-style with a dot of chewed betel nut known as sembek.
Those who maintain Wetu Telu traditions still hold celebrations to give thanks for the yearly rice harvest, and they still venerate the ever-present bulk of Rinjani as the home of powerful spirits. Residents of villages on the slopes will tell tales of people turned to stone for behaving disrespectfully up in the cool air above the tree-line – something trekkers might want to keep in mind.
And deep in the forest above Bayan, far from the modern mosques there are mysterious shrines, preserved since centuries past. Hidden in the dense undergrowth, along slippery paths are simple platforms of mossy stones. Most important is the Gedeng Daya, a place of huge importance for the Wetu Telu people. The shrine is the abode of spirits and is watched over by the Perumbaq, a guardian who lives in a simple hut nearby. Mysterious ceremonies are held here on certain nights of the year when the Perumbaq calls down the spirits from the mountain, and offerings are made.
There is a similar shrine, the Gedeng Lauq, on a stretch of remote coastline to the north, and this too is guarded by a Perumbaq. The position of shrine guardian is passed down from father to son, and the Perumbaq and his family are bound by certain taboos. They live in special house outside the main villages, and must always dress in traditional Lombok sarongs. The Perumbaq Lauq has long, uncut hair.
Traces of old Wetu Telu ways remain scattered throughout the villages of Lombok, but it is in the Bayan area that these things have remained strongest. Orthodox religion and deeply un-orthodox tradition exist side by side here in a strange marriage of convenience, with the mournful Arabic of the prayer call ringing out from the minarets of new-built mosques, while deep in the forest the Perumbaq guards the spirit shrine. Islam Wetu Telu still survives, and the people of the Bayan area are proud of their ancient traditions. And in case you were wondering, yes, they do still brew that fiery rice liquor called brem – it’s quite nice, though it will give you a terrible hangover…

© Tim Hannigan 2008

Custom Made

An investigation of the syncretic Wetu Telu Muslims of Bayan, Lombok, Indonesia

Originally published in Jakarta Post Weekender Magazine

http://old.thejakartapost.com/weekender/6life.asp

The night was wet and the lamplight cut the shadows on the faces of the elders of Karang Bajo kampung. The glasses were filled again with brem, the local rice wine, and I strained to follow the mix of of Indonesian and earthy Bahasa Sasak as the old men talked. Then I heard three familiar words cutting through the conversation: Islam Wetu Telu. I drained my glass of the fiery lemon-flavoured alcohol and politely interrupted. What exactly, I wanted to know, was Islam Wetu Telu. Silence fell and the men looked at each other. Thunder grumbled in the distance.

Eventually one old man with betel-stained teeth spoke: “Adat,” he said.

***

The island of Lombok is a place of sprawling rice fields and slow-paced villages dominated by the Rinjani Volcano. The local Sasaks have been Muslims since the 16th century, but the faith that grew around the slopes of Rinjani took a unique color. Mixing the tenets of Islam with hints of Hinduism, animism and ancestor worship, it was called Islam Wetu Telu.

A century ago most Sasaks were followers of Wetu Telu, but slowly a more orthodox faith – known as Islam Waktu Lima on Lombok – took hold. Waktu Lima means “five times”, referring to the number of daily prayers; Wetu Telu means “three elements”.

In the 1960s the remaining Wetu Telu people came under huge pressure to join orthodox Islam. Their centuries-old syncretism was not, they were told, one of the accepted faiths of the Republic of Indonesia.

I had read that there might still be a few Wetu Telu Muslims, living in the villages on the slopes of Rinjani. But as I travelled north from the capital, Mataram, on a rented motorbike I began to have doubts. There were half-built mosques everywhere and boys in black skullcaps waved collection boxes at passing vehicles. In every village signs pointed to pesantrens, Islamic schools. Orthodoxy was on the rise here and the people were Waktu Lima Muslims, though they said that I might find Wetu Telu Muslims (who they claimed fasted for only three days during Ramadan) in the village of Bayan, further north.

I arrived in Bayan at dusk, and was soon knocking back my fourth glass of brem in Karang Bajo hamlet. Whether or not they were Wetu Telu, it was clear that the people here were not too orthodox. The old men described Wetu Telu as adat. 

Adat is a complex word encompassing tradition, custom and culture, but they were at pains to point out that it did not mean religion. Their religion (agama in Indonesian) was Islam; Wetu Telu was their adat. Outsiders who claimed that Bayan people did not follow Islam correctly were mistaken. Tales that Wetu Telu people fasted only three days in Ramadan were lies, though they admitted most fasted for only nine days (a full month was impractical for hardworking farmers).

Once this was clear they were happy to discuss Wetu Telu. The name did mean three elements: conception, the egg and its hatching; or perhaps birth, life and death; or maybe mother, father and god… It was not just the brem that was making me dizzy.

Wetu Telu people believed that ancestor spirits lived high on Gunung Rinjani, a place guarded by jealous ghosts. There were ceremonies to give thanks for harvests and rains; certain villagers held hereditary positions that qualified them to liaise with the spirits, and hidden in the forest were sacred altars. This all sounded like “religion” to me, but when I pressed them they insisted: “No, just adat.”

Nursing a hangover next morning, I visited the ancient Bayan mosque, said to be the oldest in Lombok. It was a simple wooden building on a low hilltop. The doorway was bolted, but peering through the cracks I could see a dirt floor and effigies of birds and fish hanging from the roof. All that marked it as a mosque was the mihrab, indicating the direction of Mecca, but even this was obscured by a carving of a Chinese-style dragon.

In a corner of the mosque compound a group of men were clearing the weeds. Their leader, Raden Anggirta, a cheerful man with a thin moustache, said that they were preparing the area for the coming feast of Maulid, the Prophet’s birthday, one of the few dates when the old mosque is used. He explained that in Bayan people celebrated the key Islamic festivals twice. First would come the “agama” observance at the modern mosque, then several days later the old mosque would be unlocked and villagers would crowd the hilltop to celebrate the “adat” version. Once again, Raden Anggirta made it clear that agama and adat were separate things.

All of the men were wearing sarongs and head-cloths known as sapuk. Their foreheads were anointed with a dot of chewed betel nut, reminiscent of Hinduism. This was essential when working near the mosque they said, for protection from the spirits.

That afternoon I made a strange discovery. In the hamlet of Otak Lendang, west of Bayan, stood a new Thai-style Buddhist prayer hall, funded, the villagers said, by donations from Thailand. The locals here were Buddhists. They showed me inside the building where a gold Buddha sat on a pink platform and gave me tea while I sheltered from another downpour. They said that the people of the area had always been Buddhists, and that Buddhism had once been the main religion of Lombok. I knew that this was untrue, though Lombok had long come under Hindu-Balinese rule.

But there was an explanation. Until the 1960s a few tiny pockets of completely un-Islamised Sasaks survived, followers of a faith even older than Wetu Telu. These people were known as the Boda – a term probably connected to "Buda", as used in Java for pre-Islamic culture – though with little connection to Buddhism here. At the same time as the Wetu Telu were pressured to become orthodox Muslims, the Boda were presented with their choice of officially sanctioned religions. Islam and Hinduism were both familiar to the villagers, and held no appeal; Christianity was utterly unknown, but the fourth option, “Agama Buddha”, sounded very much like their own “Agama Boda”. Some of the new Buddhists later decided that they had joined something even more foreign, and many drifted into Islam. But I seemed to have stumbled upon a what must have once been a Boda community. What was bizarre was that they appeared to be in the process of coming to believe that they had always been Buddhists.

Later that afternoon I visited one of the orthodox religious schools that dot the Bayan area. The Pondok Pesantren Nurul Bayan is a spread of pale green buildings among the trees on the outskirts of Anyar village. Haji Abdul Karim, a native of Tanjung in West Lombok, established the school fifteen years ago after completing his studies in Iraq. The pesantren now has around 150 students. As we sat outside Abdul Karim’s bungalow, boys in sarongs and girls in white headscarves practiced their English on me. Unusually for Indonesia they spoke Arabic just as well. Abdul Karim told me he believed it was important for students not only to recite and interpret the Koran, but also to have a real grasp of spoken Arabic. He said that in Lombok Islam was often “incomplete”; people sometimes had only the loosest knowledge of their own faith. He regularly visited village mosques throughout the area teaching people about correct Muslim practice. When I mentioned the double feast days in Bayan he smiled patiently.

“Is it a problem, from an orthodox point of view?” I asked.

The same smile. “Not really. They are Muslims, and religion and adat are separate things.”

The next day under a gloomy sky I set out with Pak Jaya, a sprightly sixty-four-year-old from Karang Bajo, and Bakar, a young man with long frizzy hair. We were going to the Gedeng Daya, one of the holy places of the Wetu Telu. As we walked along a slippery path through the dense jungle that cloaks the lower slopes of Gunung Rinjani I caught fragments of the conversation in Bahasa Sasak between Pak Jaya and Bakar. They were talking about ghosts. The forest, they said, was full of them.

In a remote clearing, high above Bayan, stood the house of the Perumbaq Daya, guardian of the Gedeng Daya, the forest shrine. The Perumbaq was away, but two other men emerged from the trees and pointed out the Berugak Agung, the spirit house. It was a simple wooden building that could only be entered on certain festivals when the spirits of the ancestors were called down. The similarity to the old Bayan mosque struck me.

From the spirit house we made our way along ever slipperier paths, picking over streams, struggling through sharp undergrowth. The rain started again, pouring through the dense foliage. In another clearing stood the Pedangan, a simple platform, and a little further on was the Gedeng Daya, also a low platform surrounded by a boundary of stones. Bakar warned me not to step inside the boundary. The place was the abode of spirits and they must not be disturbed. During the ceremonies offerings are prepared at the home of the Perumbaq, then villagers make the journey through the forest first to the Pedangan, and finally to the Gedeng Daya. The place seemed to buzz with a strange energy, and one thing was certain: it had no obvious connection to orthodox Islam.

It seemed to me that the people of Bayan had made a remarkable adjustment. By paying lip service to orthodox religion, reassigning Wetu Telu as “just adat”, and distinguishing it clearly from “agama”, their ancient culture had survived modern pressure to conform. Perhaps they had made a more pragmatic choice than the new Buddhists of Otak Lendang.

Pak Jaya was squatting at the edge of the clearing. This was a very important place for Wetu Telu he said.

Here in the dark forest, far from the mosques and pesantrens I tentatively asked, “And is Wetu Telu different from normal Islam?”

He smiled, “A little different.”

I suspected that things would always be a little different around here. And I remembered something Pak Jaya’s son, Juliadi had said the day before when I was struggling to understand the difference between agama and adat. They were separate he had said, but after all, “What is religion without culture?”

© Tim Hannigan 2007

Pure elation on reaching Rinjani's summit at dawn

Trekking on Gunung Rinjani, Lombok, Indonesia

Originally Published in The Jakarta Post, 18/03/07

It was 5.30 a.m., and bitterly cold. A broad saffron stain was spilling into the milky-gray sky over Sumbawa, and the green of the Sembalum valley was forming from the gloom.

The wind of the night had dropped to nothing, and despite the chill the sweat was dripping from the tip of my nose. Glancing back, I could see the flashlights of the other trekkers flickering along the ridge.

To my left a fearsome void opened in a sheer drop to the crater lake, and to the right the plummeting sweep of the volcano's north wall ran down towards a pale sea. Ahead of me, rough and imposing, was the summit of Gunung Rinjani. But I still had a hellish climb to get there.

***

Rinjani volcano towers over the beautiful island of Lombok in West Nusa Tenggara province. Rising from the sparkling rice terraces to a dizzying height of 3,726 meters, it is the second-highest volcanic peak in Indonesia.

Only Gunung Kerinci in Sumatra is higher, at 3805 metres. Unlike the smooth cones of Bali and Java, Rinjani is more a massif than a single peak: the huge crater is some six kilometres across, and shelters a deep lake.

The whole of the Rinjani area was gazetted as a national park in 1997, and the mountain is one of the most prized trekking destinations in Southeast Asia.

Preparing for the assualt

We had arrived at Lombok's well-served Mataram Airport two days earlier, and spent the first night in Senggigi on the west coast. Tourist development on Lombok is low-key, though the island has many of the attractions of its illustrious western neighbor, Bali: stunning rural landscapes, beautiful golden sand beaches, a fascinating traditional culture, and of course, Rinjani.

Senggigi is the only major resort on Lombok with a full range of hotels and services. Kuta on the south coast – far removed from its famous Balinese namesake – is the other resort, although it is still unspoilt, with the atmosphere of a fishing village.

All travel agents and most hotels and guesthouses in Senggigi can organize Rinjani treks at short notice. Prices are negotiable depending on the size of the group, and after a couple of hours comparing and negotiating from operator to operator we were all set.

The next morning after a dawn ride from Senggigi up into the cool of the hills we had set out from the highland village of Sembalum Lawang, cupped in an ancient crater and famous for its garlic and onions.

Our party was a motley crew of Surabaya-based English teachers and others, and we were soon strung out along the path from the village. A warm wind was blowing through the yellow grass, the smudged outline of the summit rising in the distance.

We had hired porters to carry our bags and camping equipment. They were spectacularly tough Sasak men from the villages around the volcano, with a lifetime of work on the high slopes behind them.

They carried their loads delicately balanced on stout bamboo poles over their shoulders, and made their way up slippery scree slopes in rubber sandals.

Oldest and toughest of these was Pak Mohammad, a wiry, cheery man who smoked kretek cigarettes continuously. Our guide was a cheerful young man called Dipan. He was from the village of Senaru where we would finish the trek, and he had grown up in the shadow of Gunung Rinjani.

Worth all the effort

The first day's walking was easy to begin with, the route bending over the rolling grasslands with the coastal plain hazy to the north. By late afternoon, however, we were struggling up a steep and winding path through sparse pine trees toward the ridge.

The air cooled as we left the sultry tropics far behind. The great Rinjani peak towered over us and the hills beyond Sembalum were dark.

We reached the ridge just before sunset. We watched as the light faded behind the black line of the far ridge, across the shining Segara Anak crater lake, then we made our way to the first campsite.

It was a cold and windy spot, at the foot of the steep rise towards the summit, but the views down to the lake on one side, and back towards the coast on the other were spectacular.

A couple of other trekking groups were camped out already, all planning to make the final climb to the summit in the early hours of the morning. We ate a hurried dinner of mie goreng (fried noodles), rustled up by the porters, then clambered into our tents.

***

It was bitterly cold when we stumbled into the darkness at 2.30 am. The plan was to reach the summit for a spectacular sunrise, and those of us foolhardy enough to try set out up the steep, slippery path after a cup of lukewarm, sweet tea.

I quickly pushed my way to the head of the group and was soon walking peacefully alone along the high ridge. Empty blackness opened to my right, and to my left the lights of the distant coastal villages glittered in the dark. Up above dozens of shooting stars streaked out of a clear sky.

The final climb to the summit was desperately hard. The path became loose gravel, rising at a steep angle, and the effects of the high altitude soon became apparent as I gasped for breath.

But it was all worth it when I reached the top in time to watch the sun creeping up above the flat-topped outline of Gunung Tambora on Sumbawa.

All of Lombok from the fish-hook of the port at Labuan Lombok, to the low stains of the Gili Islands was visible, and in the west the cone of Bali's Gunung Agung loomed from the low cloud.

It was shockingly cold, but the elation of reaching the summit kept me warm as the other trekkers started to arrive.

As we rested in the brightening sunlight Dipan told me that local villagers believe that the mountain holds the key to eternal life. But to seek the secret is dangerous, and people have been turned to stone for trying.

Back at the campsite we ate a breakfast of banana pancakes, then started the descent to the lakeside.

Rewarding descent

Segara Anak Lake (“Child of the Sea” in Sasak language) is sacred to the people of Lombok. For the ethnically Balinese Hindus the waters are the Home of the Gods, and for the Sasaks too, some of who still cling to pre-Islamic beliefs, the waters are home to powerful spirits.

There are crude alters at the water's edge, scattered with Balinese sesajen offerings, and during the annual Pakelem festival pilgrims make their way up from the villages to cast gold offerings into the lake.

Rinjani is still active, and rising from the lake is Gunung Baru (“New Mountain”), a volcano within a volcano that emerged from the waters in 1942, and erupted as recently as 1997.

While the porters prepared lunch we took advantage of this geothermal activity by washing away our aches and pains in the steaming hot springs that bubble from the rocks below the crater rim.

The afternoon saw us trekking uphill once more, following a beetling path along the northwest crater wall. The jagged dagger of the summit was fringed with cloud now, and the wind was singing in the trees.

But we were all elated when we reached the top of the ridge in the golden light of evening. From here it was downhill all the way to the beaches.

The second campsite was a warmer spot than the first, sheltered by the ridge and not far from the start of the dense forest that cloaks the lower slopes. We made our way into this forest the following morning, a welcome change from the barren landscape higher up.

***

The shaded humidity was a return to the tropics, and the canopy and undergrowth bustled with life. Grey macaque monkeys eyed us suspiciously from the branches, and rustling in the distance suggested the wild deer and forest pigs that live in Rinjani National Park.

Once we caught a glimpse of a pair of elusive ebony leaf monkeys, fleeing through the treetops.

We reached the trailhead village of Senaru at midday, weary and footsore. The Park office is located at Senaru, and there are a several simple guesthouses and restaurants. The area is also scattered with villages of rattan and bamboo where Sasak traditions are maintained.

But for us, tired and dirty, it was time to relax.

After fond farewells to Dipan and the porters we were on the road again, heading for the white-sand beaches and crystal-clear waters of the Gili Islands where we could ease away the aches and blisters, and look back at the dark outline of Gunung Rinjani, looming to the east, with some satisfaction.

© Tim Hannigan 2008