Arrival in Indonesia can feel overwhelming.
The heat is thick and humid, jungle pressing close to villages, roads rough and unpredictable. Traffic appears to follow rules known only to locals. Vehicles overtake into oncoming traffic without hesitation, squeezing past one another with astonishing precision. No anger, no panic just an unspoken understanding that everyone will make it through.
It feels unfamiliar. Foreign. Slightly chaotic.
And then, slowly, something else becomes noticeable.
People greet me with easy smiles, often placing a hand to their chest with a small bow of the head. The gesture is subtle but meaningful. Respect seems woven into daily life, for elders, teachers, and religious leaders. Voices are generally soft, movements restrained. Even in busy places, there is a quiet consideration for others.
I notice small moments. A shopkeeper patiently helping an elderly customer. A young person lowering their gaze when speaking to an older relative. Kindness expressed without display.
Many people tell me younger Indonesians are changing slowly. Global culture arrives through films, television, music, and social media. Romantic language feels more familiar now, yet family expectations remain strong. In places like Java, even language itself carries levels of formality, reinforcing respect and social harmony.
Public emotional restraint is deeply ingrained. Behaviour that might cause embarrassment to oneself or to others, is generally avoided. Love, I’m told, is not usually shown through words or touch. It is shown through action.
Food is provided. Favours are done quietly. Loyalty is steady. Responsibility toward family is carried without complaint.
Locals are curious and kind. They ask where I’m from, whether I need help, or if I would like to buy something. These conversations feel warm, sometimes shy, always generous. Connection is offered, never imposed.
Gradually, a realisation forms.
Affection exists here, simply expressed differently.
I don’t see families hugging as I’m used to at home, nor couples openly displaying romance. Strong emotion, especially romantic emotion, is often kept private. Not because feelings are absent, but because self-control is valued. Many people grew up without being hugged or kissed by their parents, rarely seeing open affection between adults. Love was understood rather than spoken, something restrained until marriage.
It’s no surprise, then, that many young people say they learn about romance from movies, TV dramas, K-pop, and social media rather than from home.
Emotion here is not suppressed, it is redirected. Joy and humour are freely shared. Grief is communal. Anger is discouraged in public. Romantic longing is held inward.
And then there are the cats.
They are everywhere, roaming freely, fed by communities, tolerated and often gently adored. In a culture where restraint is valued, affection toward animals becomes a visible and acceptable outlet. It is quiet, compassionate, and uncomplicated.
For me, this becomes the lesson.
To travel well in Indonesia is to observe before acting, to listen before interpreting. What feels normal through a Western lens can sometimes be misunderstood here. Respect is not loud, but it is constant.
To some travellers, Indonesian behaviour may seem reserved or hard to read. But beneath that restraint lies deep loyalty, strong family bonds, and relationships built to last.
Affection here is shown through presence, duty, and consistency, not always seen, but deeply felt.
Written with respect for the forests and the lives they shelter
This year begins with attention. I enter it aware that writing is not a destination, but a practice one shaped by curiosity, patience, and a willingness to listen.
I do not begin with answers. I begin with questions, with observation, and with a commitment to stay present to what unfolds. These pieces will be shaped by revision, reflection, and the understanding that meaning often emerges slowly.
What follows is part of an ongoing journey. I offer this work in the spirit of exploration, trusting that clarity will come not from haste, but from care.
Kat
My stories focus on the people of the islands of Indonesia, how they live, how they survive in the jungle, and the work that shapes their daily lives. I am drawn to places where life is lived close to the land, and to the often unseen relationships between people, animals, and environment.
Animals are an integral part of these stories, particularly cats, the affection many communities have for their local cats, and the way domestic animals coexist alongside larger wild jungle cats and other wildlife. These relationships speak to a wider ethic of coexistence, one that asks for attention, respect, and compassion toward all living beings.
Through travel and presence, I seek to bear witness rather than explain, allowing stories to emerge from observation and lived experience. I am especially interested in out-of-the-way places and everyday lives that are rarely centred, believing that widening our circles of compassion begins with listening closely.
I hope to connect with free-spirited travellers and writers who are curious about local cultures and willing to look beyond familiar paths. Above all, I aim to share stories that offer insight into Sumatra and other parts of Indonesia, its people, their resilience, and the quiet wisdom found in simpler ways of living.
Kat.
This year has been one of quiet exploration. Through writing, revising, and returning to ideas that mattered to me, I found myself paying closer attention to language, to nature, and to the stories that ask to be told gently rather than loudly.
Some of these pieces began as questions rather than answers. Others emerged from curiosity, concern, or a simple need to bear witness. What connects them is a growing understanding that writing is not about perfection, but about presence, staying with an idea long enough for it to reveal its shape.
This work reflects where I have been in 2025, learning, refining, and allowing my voice to deepen with time. I share it in the hope that it invites the reader to pause, reflect, and perhaps listen a little more closely to the world we share.
Kat
Lowland forests, mountain slopes, and peat swamps form the last refuge of the Sumatran tiger.
The Sumatran tiger (Panthera tigris sumatrae) survives in only one place on Earth, the Indonesian island of Sumatra.
Here, among tropical rainforests, mountain slopes, freshwater swamps, and peatlands, the last of its kind moves through a shrinking world, powerful, elusive, and critically endangered.
Captive breeding programs play a vital role in preserving the future of the species.
Reproduction is one of the species’ greatest vulnerabilities. Although a tigress may give birth to between one and six cubs, one or two is the most common outcome. This slow reproductive rate means that populations decline rapidly when adult tigers are lost to poaching. While international conservation breeding programs help preserve genetic diversity, it is vital that Sumatran tigers are also able to breed freely in the wild, where natural behaviors and ecological balance are maintained.
Confirming births in the wild is challenging. Tigresses are intensely protective of their young and keep them hidden from danger for months. As a result, newborn cubs are usually detected only through remote camera traps. Since the release of a female tiger named Corina back into the wild, there have been no confirmed sightings of her with cubs. However, the absence of evidence does not mean absence of life. Cubs may remain concealed, unseen, protected by their mother and the forest itself.
Encouragingly, recent studies conducted in remote Sumatran jungles suggest that in certain protected areas, tiger populations may be slowly recovering. Enhanced monitoring, increased patrols, and the removal of snares have begun to reduce mortality rates. While progress is fragile, it represents a rare and valuable shift toward stability.
Protection, monitoring, and snare removal are helping some populations recover.
Forest Rangers
Captive births also play a critical role in conservation efforts. In Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, two Sumatran tiger cubs were born at the Taman Marga Satwa Budaya Kinantan Wildlife Park. The first cub was born on December 28, 2024, followed by a second on May 3, 2025. These births were later marked symbolically when Indonesian Minister of Forestry Raja Juli Antoni and Titiek Hediati Soeharto, Chair of Commission IV of the House of Representatives, named the cubs Lestari and Rizki, reflecting hopes for sustainability and good fortune.
The cubs are the offspring of Bujang Mandeh, a male tiger rescued after being caught in a poacher’s snare in Pesisir Selatan. The injuries were severe, requiring the amputation of his leg to save his life. Their mother, Mantagi, was herself born at the wildlife park as part of a long-term conservation breeding program. With the addition of these cubs, the park now houses eleven Sumatran tigers, making it one of the most significant conservation centers for the species on Sumatra. The facility operates in close partnership with the West Sumatra Natural Resources Conservation Agency under Indonesia’s Ministry of Forestry.
Despite these efforts, cultural beliefs continue to threaten the species’ survival. Across many Asian societies, the tiger has long been revered as an apex predator and a symbol of power, courage, vitality, and protection. Written records dating back to the Han Dynasty (184–220 C.E.) describe beliefs that consuming tiger parts could transfer these qualities to humans. Despite the complete absence of scientific evidence supporting such claims, demand for tiger body parts persists, driven by traditions that have endured for centuries.
The future of the Sumatran tiger depends on confronting these myths while strengthening conservation efforts. Each cub born, whether in the wild or in captivity, represents a meaningful step away from extinction. Yet survival remains precarious. Without continued protection of habitat, strict enforcement against poaching, and a cultural shift away from destructive beliefs, even the most hopeful signs may fade.
The survival of the Sumatran tiger ultimately reflects humanity’s relationship with the natural world. In the quiet forests of Sumatra, where shadows move and silence speaks, the fate of this great predator remains uncertain.
For now, hope still walks softly through the jungle. Whether it endures depends on what we choose to protect.
Written with respect for the forest and the lives it shelters.
A Sumatran tiger moves through the last forests it has ever known.
The jungle of Sumatra breathed before the sun rose.
Mist curled upward from peat swamps, winding around the buttressed roots of ancient trees. Water dripped patiently from leaf to leaf. And somewhere, deep within that green cathedral, a Sumatran tiger moved without sound.
This island was her last kingdom.
The jungles of Sumatra, ancient, breathing, and increasingly fragile.
From the dense lowland forests to the shadowed sub-mountain slopes and the high, mist-bound ridges, the land shaped her every step. She was born to solitude and secrecy.
A tigress gives little to the world, one cub, perhaps two, rarely more, and guards them with a ferocity older than memory itself. She hides them deep in tangled undergrowth, far from rival males, far from men, far from death. And yet death stalks her kind relentlessly. A single snare, a single gunshot, can erase generations. That is why their numbers fall so quickly. That is why every birth is counted like treasure.
Since Corina’s return to the wild, the forest has kept her secrets. No ranger has seen cubs at her flank. No human eye has witnessed her nursing young beneath the leaves. But hope remains. It always does in the jungle. Only the unblinking eye of a camera trap may one day reveal a flicker of stripes in the night, proof that life continues where silence reigns.
Proof that hope still moves in the dark.
Caught by a silent camera
Elsewhere, far from Corina’s hidden den, hope took a different form.
In Bukittinggi, beneath watchful human care, a tigress named Mantagi lay in shadow as the year turned. On December 28, 2024, she gave birth. A cub slid into the world, small, blind, and roaring with life. Months later, on May 3, 2025, another followed. Two cubs. Two fragile defiances against extinction.
Every cub born is a quiet rebellion against extinction.
They would later be named Lestari and Rizki, words heavy with promise, spoken aloud by Indonesia’s leaders as symbols of sustainability and blessing. Names chosen with care, as though language itself might strengthen fate.
Their father, Bujang Mandeh, bore scars that told a darker story. Once a hunter of the forest, he had been caught in a poacher’s snare. Steel teeth closed around his leg, and the injury was merciless. They had to amputate his leg to save his life. He survived, diminished, but alive, and through him the future breathed again.
With the birth of Lestari and Rizki, the Taman Marga Satwa Budaya Kinantan Wildlife Park became home to eleven Sumatran tigers, a stronghold against oblivion. Working alongside conservation authorities, the park stood as a reminder that humans could also be guardians, not only destroyers.
RANGER REMOVING SNARE
Beyond its fences, in the remote jungles where rain hammered leaves like drumbeats of war, signs of renewal began to emerge. Rangers cut snares from the earth. Camera traps captured fleeting images of striped ghosts moving through the dark. In a few fiercely protected places, the numbers whispered of recovery, slow, uncertain, but real.
Yet the greatest enemy of the tiger is not the jungle.
It is belief.
For thousands of years across Asia, the tiger has been revered as a creature of power, courage, and protection. Ancient records from the Han Dynasty speak of men who believed that by consuming the tiger, they could steal its strength. No science ever supported the myth, but myths are stubborn things. They outlive logic. They survive time. And they continue to feed a trade soaked in blood.
So the tiger lives caught between reverence and ruin, praised as a symbol, hunted as a commodity.
Still, the jungle endures.
Somewhere in the depths of Sumatra, Corina moves silently through fern and shadow. Somewhere else, two cubs grow stronger, their stripes darkening, their claws sharpening against the earth.
The story of the Sumatran tiger is not yet finished. It is written in scars and survival, in ancient forests and fragile hope.
And for now, against all odds, the last tigers of Sumatra still breathe beneath the trees.
Editor’s note:
The story above speaks to the unseen life of Sumatra’s last tigers. A companion essay explores the realities behind this world, conservation, cub births, and the beliefs that continue to shape their fate.
Written with respect for the forest and the lives it shelters.
Nestled high in the heart of North Sumatra, there is a place so breathtaking it feels like a dream, called Lake Toba. Surrounded by a protective ring of emerald mountains, the lake stretches endlessly, shimmering like polished glass under the changing sky, the largest and most beautiful lake in Indonesia.
The air here is cool and crisp, even in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Time slows down, and there is a hush to the world as though the mountains are holding their breath, guarding something sacred. The lake lies still, but there is something about it, something haunting, something eternal.
To stand by its edge is to feel something stir inside you. A sense of wonder, longing you can’t quite name.
Because Lake Toba was not always just a lake, it was once the setting of a love so deep, so powerful, and a betrayal so tragic that it changed the course of nature itself.
Here is the story of how it all began.
A story of a man, a woman, and a secret that would ripple through generations, like waves across the water.
Each morning, just as the first light spilt over the mountains, the fisherman walked alone, quiet, with weathered hands and kind eyes that had grown used to solitude. As he cast his net into the still waters with little expectation, save for the simple hope of enough fish to carry him through another day.
But that morning was different.
The sky was soft with early morning light, and the lake shimmered like liquid gold. As the fisherman pulled in his net, suddenly he saw a golden fish, unlike anything he’d ever seen. The scales sparkled like sunlight on water, luminous and surreal, as though they had drifted in from another world.
He reached for it gently, almost reverently, just as his hands closed around it, something extraordinary happened.
“Please do not hurt me,” said the fish, with a voice soft, melodic, filled with sorrow and something ancient.
“I’m not truly a fish,” the voice continued, “but a woman cursed long ago.”
He stared in disbelief, heart pounding. Then, without a sound, the shimmering body in his hands began to change. Brightness swirled around her, warm and blinding, and in a heartbeat, she was there.
The fisherman froze.
A woman.
Radiant, ethereal, with eyes that held the depth of centuries of sadness that reached into his soul. Hair falling in waves like the water around them, and her presence was both fragile and powerful, like something out of a forgotten dream.
He had never seen anyone so beautiful. Though neither of them knew it yet, from that moment on, everything would change.
She smiled at him, her eyes soft with gratitude. “Because you showed me kindness,” she said gently, “I’m free now. I could stay with you, and we could make a happy life together. He listened, completely still, as her voice lowered into something almost fragile. “Promise you won’t tell anyone I was a fish.”
And they began their life together. It was simple, but it was real. A small house built by hand, a garden where they planted vegetables, and the sound of shared laughter echoing through the days. Joy in the little things, in morning coffee, hands dirtied by soil, quiet glances that said more than words ever could.
Then came their child, a beautiful boy, with bright eyes and a laugh that filled the room like sunshine. He was interested in many thangs, clever, wonderfully mischievous, chased butterflies, sometimes forgot his chores, but had a good heart, and his parents loved him very much.
Years passed in the blink of an eye. Then one day, everything changed.
The fisherman returned home late, weary to the bone. The sun had been merciless, the work harder than usual, and he had waited, hungry and aching, for the lunch his son had forgotten to bring. Frustration rose like a wave inside him, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out.
“Lazy boy! You are nothing but the child of a fish!”
The words hung in the air like shattered glass. Time stopped.
The wind fell still, the trees stood frozen, and the light dimmed, as though the world itself had heard. And she had heard too.
From the doorway, the woman he had loved beyond reason stood silent. Her eyes, once filled with warmth, were now wide with hurt. And behind them, a deep, ancient sadness had returned, like something that had only been sleeping all these years.
He knew, in that instant, what he had done and that he could never take it back.
Tears welled in her eyes, soft, shimmering, and full of sorrow. She stood still for a long moment, looking at the man she had once trusted with her secret, the man she had built a life with.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything they had shared. “You promised, and now the secret is broken.” The pain in her eyes was not anger, it was deeper than that. It was heartbreak.
She knelt, gathered her little boy in her arms, and held him close. There was a gentleness in her touch, even as her heart broke in two. “I need you to know who I truly am,” she said softly. “I was once something else, and the magic that kept me here is now gone.”
She kissed his forehead one last time, and then, like the last breath of a dream at dawn, she vanished.
The sky darkened almost instantly, turning a cold, ominous grey. Thunder cracked like a broken heart across the mountains, and rain poured down in torrents, as if the heavens themselves were grieving. Rivers rose violently, breaking their banks, and the ground trembled with the force of something far greater than man.
The fisherman ran outside, shouting her name into the wind, desperate to turn back time. But it was too late.
Water surged into the valley, swallowing fields, trees and houses. He watched helplessly as the world he knew disappeared beneath the rising flood. All was gone except for one hill, the place where their home had once stood.
That hill, now quiet and alone, remained above the water, and it became an island, still, serene, and breathtaking in the very heart of the vast lake that had formed Lake Toba.
And so, from one act of kindness, a secret, and a single broken promise, the world was given one of its most beautiful lakes.
But for those who visit, if you listen closely to the wind, you might still hear the whisper of love lost, and a promise that was once made under the mountain sky.
Written with respect for the forest and the lives it shelters.
From Paradise for King and Spitting Cobras to Oil Palm Plantations, this is nature’s exquisite balance.
I doubt if I will walk or cycle through Oil Palm plantations again, considering that there could be a King Cobra every couple of meters. Walking in the cool of the Oil Palms, my husband and I took a wrong turn, lost in the labyrinth of Oil Palm Plantations. Eventually late in the afternoon we found our way home. Later a friend told us that morning he had gone out onto his veranda to sit and enjoy his coffee. On his chair was coiled up King Cobra.
The King and Spitting Cobras are said to be the enigmatic guardians of the oil palm kingdom. The King Cobra helps balance the ecosystem by eating other venomous snakes.
Though the King Cobra is supposedly not an aggressive snake, they mainly enter the human settlements while chasing their prey. They are found in different colours from light green, black, brown and some combinations or mixture of all three. These snakes can see up to 300 feet away, so predators at a distance are at risk. Their sharp sight allows the King to thrive. A large King Cobra can look a full-grown human in the eyes, they are greatly feared by the locals, and can climb trees, swim, and move quickly across land.
King Cobra
Most King Cobras are out in the morning after the sun rises and the outside temperature is slightly warmer.
A King Cobra will travel approximately 0.33 meters per second on the ground. One day when my husband was cycling in the oil palms, he saw what he thought was a log across the foot path, rear up into a striking position as he rode past. How lucky he was, and from this day forward he has never cycled in the oil palms again.
Indonesia has the second-highest number of snakebite incidents worldwide, resulting in over eleven thousand deaths annually.
You can site a cobra a day if you look hard enough. Locals climb the oil palm to harvest the fruit to sell. Often, they will also get spat in the eyes by a Spitting Cobra coiled up in a tree.
Javan Spitting Cobra.
These snakes are a vulnerable species and have been placed on the IUCN red list for protection, due to a massive trade in its skin, meat, and body parts.
A single snake bite contains enough venom to kill 20 people and can paralyse and kill animals as large as elephants.
The local people have learned to navigate the palm plantations with caution, respecting the Cobras’ territory, knowing the vital role they play in the ecosystem. So, the King and Spitting cobras of the oil palm plantations grow.
The King Cobra builds a nest of twigs and leaves, reaching a height of two feet. Within this nest it creates two distinct chambers, with the female residing in the upper chamber and diligently safeguarding her eggs in the lower chamber. This is a remarkably unique nest design, proving that the King Cobra may be one of the most intelligent snake species. My husband and I came across many of these mounds of twigs and leaves, not realising they possibly could be a King Cobras nest, with the female residing within.
Our responsibility is protecting the Earths biological riches. Like the mighty King and Spitting Cobras who are the guardians of the Oil Palm, creating natures exquisite balance. We must remind ourselves that we are entering their territory.
Written with respect for the forest and the lives it shelters.
Photo by huynhkhoa
Somewhere in the deep Indonesian jungle hangs a treasure, not buried in the earth, but suspended in the high green silence of the canopy.
From towering trees known locally as Sialang, the giant honeybee, Apis dorsata, builds vast crescent shaped hives that cling to the highest branches like burnished shields. At certain times of year, when the forest blooms and the honey thickens in the heat, men gather at the base of these trees and prepare to climb.
I lived in Indonesia long enough to taste this honey often. We would order three litres at a time. It arrived dark, almost black, dense and opaque, never overly sweet. It tasted of rain soaked bark and hidden wildflowers. It was raw and unfiltered, sometimes clouded with pollen and flecks of wax. Over time it crystallised naturally, turning from liquid amber to something creamy and grainy, still carrying the scent of the jungle.
The jungle from our verandah
Kingfisher seen from our verandah
In places like Tesso Nilo National Park and the flooded forests of Danau Sentarum National Park, harvesting follows ancient rhythms. The traditional method, known as Menumbai, takes place during the dry season when flowering is abundant and the hives are heavy with nectar.
But the sweetness comes at a cost.
At dusk, or under a moon thinned by cloud, a small fire is lit at the base of the tree. Smoke coils upward, softening the air and easing the fury of wings. Then the climber begins, barefoot, gripping bark worn smooth by generations before him, ascending into a darkness alive with sound. Hand woven rope ladders sway against the trunk. Long bamboo poles reach into the canopy.
The bees sting. The female workers defend their colony fiercely, sacrificing their lives if their barbed stingers embed in skin. Yet the men climb steadily. For many families, wild honey is not a luxury; it is a primary source of seasonal income. In some regions it accounts for more than half a household’s cash earnings.
Still, they do not take everything.
Part of the hive is always left intact so the colony can rebuild. The tree itself is protected under customary law. No one cuts down a Sialang. In some communities, disputes must be settled before entering the forest. Rituals are performed. The bees are spoken of as little forest princesses. Harvesting is not extraction, it is relationship.
Across Indonesia, from Sumatra to Kalimantan and east toward West Timor, wild honey depends entirely on healthy forest ecosystems. In the mountainous forests surrounding Mount Mutis Nature Reserve, annual harvests are still guided by inherited knowledge passed from elder to youth, rope by rope, knot by knot. In parts of Borneo, structures known as tiking or man made wooden trunks, encourage wild bees to nest without domesticating them, working with instinct rather than against it.
Even beyond bees, the forest guards its sweetness. In arid regions, honeypot ants sometimes called living pantries, store nectar within their swollen bodies to sustain their colonies through scarcity. Harvested carefully by Indigenous communities, they offer another reminder that in these landscapes, survival and sweetness are intertwined.
Replete honepot ants with nectar filled abdomens, living storage units for their colony.
This honey is not gathered in hives, but held in their bodies, a different kind of honey, born of adaptation and survival.
Wild honey is often called liquid gold, valued for its rich flavour and reputed medicinal qualities, antimicrobial, anti-inflammatory, and restorative. It is exported across Indonesia and beyond. Yet its truest worth may be quieter.
As long as the bees require tall trees and intact forest, the standing jungle holds more value than cleared land. A living tree dripping with honey is worth more than timber cut once and gone.
I never tasted the pale spring honeys of Indonesia, only the dark forest harvests. Thick, smoky, complex. To this day, it remains one of the finest honeys I have ever eaten.
And when I think of it now, I do not first taste sweetness.
I see a man climbing into the night, guided by ancestral memory, trusting the forest to give, and disciplined enough to leave part of it’s gift behind.
For the forests that still stand, and the hands that climb with care.
Sengigi Beach Lombok
The moment we stepped out of Bali airport, we were surrounded by the liveliness of the crowds and the sweet aroma of frangipani and jasmine filling the air. I was looking forward to my next flight to Lombok, a quieter, more tranquil destination than Bali.
Lombok Airport felt quiet, calm, and peaceful. Even the roads weren’t busy, allowing my husband and I a leisurely drive to our lovely villa on the beach of Senggigi.
Senggigi Beach is known for its stunning sunsets, white sandy beaches, and crystal-clear waters that offer excellent opportunities for snorkelling, diving, and good surfing. The beach also has a vibrant nightlife scene, with bars and restaurants offering delicious local food and live music performances. Senggigi Beach is a gateway to various tourist attractions, such as the Gili Islands and Mount Rinjani.
Mount Rinjani
Ariel view of the Gili Islands
My husband and I hired a motorbike and explored the coastline of Lombok. It’s a quiet, calm rural island, with cows and goats grazing in small clearings near the roadside, scrawny chickens scratching in the rubbish, dogs scavenging for food or sleeping, and cats lolling about.
Lombok cows
The following day we took a trip with a local family to a traditional Sukarara Village where the women create traditional hand-woven textiles, known as “ikat”. Generations have produced these woven textiles using natural plant and vegetable dyes and traditional techniques. Sukarara Villages are encompassed by serene rice paddies and lush cotton fields, in addition to their rich textile legacy.
The Sasak people are the indigenous people of Lombok, known for their unique culture, language, and customs, predominantly Muslim, but their culture is heavily influenced by animism and Hinduism.
The rich cultural heritage reflects their traditional architecture, music, dance, and cuisine. The Sasak people also have a unique style of music and dance, with performances featuring traditional instruments and colourful costumes.
Their houses are built from bamboo and thatch, with an open structure that allows for natural ventilation. The floors are made from clay, then periodically polished with wet cow dung, and left to dry. The reason for this is to ward off mosquitoes.
Traditional Sukarara Village
Sasak women weaving
Sasak women
Sasak Tribal Women
Sasak Men
Rice paddies and cotton plant
One of the most iconic aspects of Sasak culture is their cuisine, which features spicy flavours and aromatic herbs. Some popular dishes include ayam taliwang (grilled chicken with spicy sauce and plecing kangkung (water spinach with spicy tomato sauce). We experienced this for lunch with our Indonesian friends.
Sasak culture has a long and rich history dating back a thousand years, believed to have migrated to Lombok from Java and other nearby islands around the 13th century. Over time, they developed their unique culture, language, and customs, influenced by the Hindu and Buddhist kingdoms that once existed in the region. The Sasak people also had contact with the Chinese, Arabs, and Europeans, further enriching their culture. Despite these influences, they preserved their unique identity and traditions over the centuries. Today, the Sasak culture is part of the cultural heritage of Lombok and is celebrated and preserved through festivals, music, dance, and other cultural events.
Another story told by our guide at the Sasak village was that the Sasak people intermarry with their cousins. The women remain in the Sasak village, never leaving. Their job is to do the weaving. Sometimes a Sasak man will meet a woman outside the village, he will kidnap her and bring her into the village. They will stand under “The Tree of Love” in the centre of the village to make their marriage official. These women from outside the village, once they enter, will adopt the traditions of the Sasak tribe, and never leave the village. This tradition is only adopted by the Sasak people who choose to still live in ancient traditional villages. A tradition that dates back at least four hundred years.
A young man from Lombok explained to me about seaworms, which are a delicacy of the Sasak people. Rich in protein, vitamins, and minerals, believed to have medicinal properties that can help boost the immune system and improve overall health. They are typically eaten raw or lightly cooked and served as a snack or appetizer.
The Sasak Tribe places great importance on the Bau Nyala ceremony, a time-honoured event that carries immense sacred significance. This ritual is deeply rooted in the folklore of the southern Central Lombok region.
While not everyone may find the idea of eating seaworms appealing, they are a significant part of Lombok’s culinary heritage and continue to be enjoyed by locals and adventurous visitors alike.
So the story of Mandalika was told to me by this young man from Lombok.
Statue of Princess Mandalika
“Putri Mandalika was a beautiful princess who transformed into a nyale worm and appeared once a year on the enchanting shores of Lombok,” he said.
It’s fascinating how the nyale worm, a legendary creature that is highly valued and venerated by the people of Lombok, is believed to represent the transformation of a gorgeous princess who was once fought for by several princes from different kingdoms within the regions.
“Putri Mandalika is the daughter of King Tonjang Beru and Dewi Seranting. This king was famous for his wisdom, people loved him very much because they lived a prosperous life. Princess Mandalika lived in a royal palace and was respected until adulthood,” he continued.
“Princess Mandalika grew into a beautiful, charming woman. Her beauty spread throughout Lombok, and Princes from various Kingdoms such as Johor Kingdom, Lipur Kingdom, Pane Kingdom, Kuripan Kingdom, Daha Kingdom, and Beru Kingdom, wanted to marry her,” he said.
“Knowing this made the Princess desperate because if she chose one prince, there would be wars and battles in the land of Sasak. Some Kingdoms even put up a senggeger, black magic used to attract women. This practice of using senggeger to attract women, including Princesses, often had unintended consequences. Instead of winning the Princess’s heart, it made her even more distraught.
After much thought, the Princess invited all princes and their people to meet at Kuta Beach Lombok on the 20th day of the 10th month, according to the calculation of the month of Sasak before dawn. The invitation was welcomed by all Princes and their subjects, and on that date, they flocked to the location of the invitation.
After a while, Princess Mandalika finally appeared, carried by the soldiers who guarded her. Then she stopped and stood on a rock on the shore. After saying her intention to receive all the princes and the people, the Princess finally jumped into the sea. All the people who were looking for her did not find her. Eventually, a clew of colourful worms appeared, revered by the locals as a manifestation of Princess Mandalika,” he said.
Mandalika proclaimed that she would offer herself to all the princes. “I can’t choose one among the princes. Destiny wills me to be something you can enjoy together, uniting you all in love and affection, in the month and date when I appear in another form of myself on the surface of this sea,” she said. These were Princess Mandalika’s last words before jumping into the sea. So, this tradition lives on.
The following day my husband and I took a ride into the hills. Crossing a small bridge, we came across a woman sitting on the side of the road under a tree, crushing rocks and hitting one against another, a difficult task for a woman. Her skin was rough, her hands calloused, a testament to years of hard labour working outside in the sun. Her face etched with deep lines and wrinkles. She appears strong and resilient despite the toll her work has taken on her body. Below the road was a dry riverbed filled with rocks. Some women collect these rocks and pile them on the side of the road, while another would sit and crush them into smaller stones. Despite how monotonous and tiresome it may feel, this woman continued to crush rocks every day without fail. These crushed rocks are sold and used for building houses or gravel for roads. The women use the money to purchase clothing, nourishing meals, and provide education for their children. It made us feel sad seeing this woman working so hard. Giving her a gift and seeing the big smile on her face made our day more meaningful.
On our last day, we took the ferry across to Bali, a trip of three hours. The boat was buzzing with the contagious energy of adventurous young travellers from far-reaching corners of the world, free and uncommitted to responsibilities. They had no fear of travelling alone in an unpredictable world.
Arriving in Bali, we headed to our accommodation in Sanur. Walking along the seashore, we saw many Westerners who have made Bali their home. Dining at restaurants, walking their dogs, or jogging along the beach. They had chosen this island paradise lifestyle of health, meditation, and tranquillity without the stresses of the large cities of the Western world.
The following morning, with a touch of nostalgia, we departed from Bali, leaving behind the intoxicating scent of frangipani and jasmine, and the tranquillity of Lombok.
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JungleLife by Kat 