The Year of Voting Frequently

Late in the evening of 26 July the Indonesian General Elections Commission (KPU) confirmed what had been clear for the past week by announcing the names of the top two candidates in the country's first ever direct presidential election. The result was supposed to be announced by the close of business, but the Commission was forced to delay the determinative meeting after a small package exploded in the women's bathroom on the ground floor of the KPU building. The perpetrator had phoned ahead so the building was empty when the bomb went off, but its location and timing was sufficiently symbolic to ensure a flurry of speculation about the impact it the explosion would have on the future course of the election - the type of speculation the perpetrator presumably craved.

The KPU announced that a former general and security minister Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (invariably known as SBY) had topped the count after receiving 33.57 percent of valid votes cast. SBY's former boss and the incumbent president Megawati Soekarnoputri was the second placed candidate with 26.61 percent of the vote. The announcement marked the likely end of the second of three stages of general elections to determine the nation's president in what is the most complicated and drawn out electoral process in the world.

Indonesian's first went to the polls on 5 April to vote for representatives in national, provincial and district assemblies. Amongst the 24 political parties that contested seats in the national People's Respresentative Assembly (DPR) only five won sufficient legislative seats (3 percent) or garnered enough of the popular vote (5 percent) to nominate a presidential and vice-presidential candidate. Oddly enough these parties were not obliged to nominate candidates from amongst their own ranks. And so on 19 May the KPU announced the following five presidential candidates: the incumbent Megawati, her polygamous Vice-PresidentHamzah Haz, the long time democracy advocate Amien Rais, the retired general and karaoke king Wiranto and the charismatic SBY. Almost two months later on 5 July Indonesians returned to polling booths to select their preferred candidates and 21 days later the aforementioned results were announced. But in a nation of 210 million people, spread amongst a vast archipelago of 16,000 islands, with a long history of corruption and nepotism and a nascent tradition of real democracy, the result was going to prove controversial.

Hamzah, perhaps the subject of significant disapproval after marrying and retaining four different women, only managed to garner 3 percent of votes. Rais, a popular and respected muslim leader, won a suitably respectable 14.66 percent of the vote. Both candidates fell well short of the leaders and following the KPU's announcement both candidates accepted the official result. But the result was not accepted by all and in this case the people's choice did not sit well with some embedded elite - figures from a dark political past who still wielded significant power.

Golkar was the state apparatus through and by which former President Soeharto so effectively and utterly controlled the Indonesian political system from its inception to Soeharto's fall in 1998. While Golkar suffered an expected fall from grace in the first free and fair elections of 1999, in the May 2004 DPR election Golkar won more seats than any other party. This led many to at speculate that, at best, the Indonesian people had a deep dissatisfaction with the new crop of political elites or fear, at worst, a growing desire amongst the population to return to a more predictable form of autocratic rule - the devil they knew. To further add to this consternation, the resurgent Golkar nominated as its presidential candidate the former chief of the armed forces, Gen (ret) Wiranto. The sense of consternation was particularly strong amongst human rights observers in the region because of Wiranto's alleged role in the atrocities committed in East Timor following that former Indonesian province's affirmative referendum for independence. On a ticket with Solahuddin Wahid (the younger brother of the enigmatic former President Abduraman Wahid), Wiranto won 22.15 percent of the popular vote.

Under Indonesian electoral law a canditate must win an outright majority in the first round of elections to be determined as President. Should no candidate win an outright majority, the two candidates who received the greatest number of votes must proceed to a second round of head to head presidential voting (resulting in a third round of general elections) before the President is determined. Although Wiranto's campaign won a sizeable 26,286,788 votes (out of 118,656,868 valid votes cast), his tally proved to be insufficient to carry him into the second round of presidential elections on 20 September. Or so it seemed...

Three days after the KPU's announcement, Wiranto filed a complaint with the newly created Constitutional Court claiming that he had lost 5.4 million votes due to inaccuracies and inconsistencies in the vote counting following the 5 July election. Were such a discrepancy to be recognised and the official results adjusted accordingly, Wiranto's tally would rise to approximately 31.6 million - a mere 100,000 more votes than that received by Megawati Soekarnoputri. The numbers involved were tantalisingly convenient to say the least.

In a situation reminicent of the butterfly ballot paper debacle in Florida, multitudes of Indonesian voters had double punched their ballot papers. The presidential ballot paper consisted of printed photographs of each set of presidential and vice-presidential candidates and was of no inconsequential length. For this reason it was presented to voters neatly and conveniently folded. However, an exceedingly high number of voters failed to completely unfold their ballot papers before punching a hole in the head of their preferred candidate. The results can be imagined. When initially inspected, the double punched ballot papers were immediately deemed invalid and many were thrown away. But when the KPU became aware of the extent of the problem they issued an urgent circular deeming double perforated ballots valid if the puncture passed through only one set of candidates heads - a state from which the voter's intent could be determined with sufficient accuracy and a situation that mercifully avoids an examination of dimpled or hanging chads.

Wiranto's legal team also accuse the KPU of turning a blind eye to a series of electoral violations, including vote-buying. And it is fair to say that neither of Wiranto's claims are without foundation if rumours are to be believed.

Mega's running mate, Hasyim Muzaadi - the non-active chair of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) the country's largest muslim organisation, was accused of having his campaign workers bribe influential muslim clerics in Central and East Java. Hasyim acknowledged he had given "donations" saying this was common practice when calling on a cleric, but insisted he had never attempted to buy their votes. For their part, the clerics denied ever receiving "donations".

Indonesian presidential election law states that candidates may be disqualified if they accept funds from sources whoese identity is unclear. Given this requirement, the corruption watchdogs TII and ICW saw fit to highlight that 15 of the individual and corporate contributers to SBY's campaign were all fictitious. Despite this obstacles, these non-existant entities managed to contribute 3.5 billion rupiah to the campaign. When the watchdogs looked at Mega's campaign records they detected 30 sources of finance that they considered dubious. One listed donor (a genuine PDI-P supporter) of 75 million rupiah was found living in a shabby dilapidated shack in Sulawesi. But a KPU commissioned audit into campaign sources put an end to the matter when it ruled that no further investigations into the matter were necessary. Putting pragmatism over principle a KPU member stated "we have learned that the candidates' campaign teams agreed to surrender funds from dubious sources to the state coffers, so no further legal measures should be taken. And so the show rolled on.

In many ways Wiranto's challenge was doomed to failure before it even reached the Constitutional Court. The number of votes involved was rightly seen as too conveniently coincidental. People could not understand how he could prove that the missing votes were intended for him alone. Wasn't it more likely that all candidates were effected roughtly equally by the KPU blunder? Could Wiranto show that his campaign manouvers were beyond reproach? But the most telling sign of his impending failure was the news that senior Golkar figures and other imbedded elites were already making overtures to Megawati. The rug was being pulled from under him.

In any event, Wiranto's legal challenge got off to a bad start and never looked back. The KPU's legal teams adopted early offensive tactics demanding of Wiranto's lawyers the proof that the KPU's poor performance in tabulating votes had denied Wiranto a place in the September 20 runoff. Wiranto's legal team's response was to stall. On the first day of hearings they asked the Court for more time to gather evidence and witnesses. On the second day, when KPU lawyers challenged them to produce evidence of vote violations during the count, they said that they had left such evidence at their offices and would produce it the next day. At this point the Court saw fit to point out that it would only review the claimif solid evidence was going to be produced. The writing was on the wall.

On Monday the following week (11/8), the Court dismissed Wiranto's claim. The ruling was expected, but significant. It was the first time in Indonesian history that a presidential election dispute had been settled by the courts rather than through a series of backroom deals or a show of force. Before the ruling even Wiranto, a consumate imbedded elite, gave it the legitimacy it needed when he said the ruling "will be a victory for all of us who have guarded democracy by moving conflict from the streets to the court." Wiranto's loss was therefore utterly without irony.

Waiting in the Valley

I wrote these words on the morning of my fourth full day (Wednesday 11 August) in the village of Sembalun Lawang:

I arrived here late in the afternoon on Saturday. In the front seat of a pickup truck from Masbagit, Pak Diralam and i crossed the high ranges and made the slow winding descent into the valley below. But we did not come alone. In addition to a tray load of people and baggage, a virus lurking in my system decided to accompany me here and has been with me ever since.

Sembalun Lawang lies in a high fertile valley surrounded by rugged green mountains. To the west, and dominating the landscape, stands the mighty cone of Gunung Rinjani (3726m). In the still clear blue of early morning, before the mists begin their inevitable descent, i can see its ashen grey summit. I long to stand up there and gaze down at the volcanic lake on the other side. From its summit i would see the islands of Bali and Sumbawa across the straights to the west and east. But i think i would gain the most satisfaction from gazing down into this valley that i will have finally gained the strength to leave behind. For when i take the measure of myself - cramped stomach, aching head and tired limbs - i know i must remain here waiting. Although whether i am waiting to ascend or retreat is unclear. With every passing day it seems the latter will be the only feasible course.

The valley, were i in a state to appreciate it, is agriculturally rich and stunningly beautiful. Every day from dawn until morning classes and again in the late afternoon, hundreds of school children march up and down the road to the rhythm of piercing whistles. Indepence Day is looming. Although the people here must see some foreigners - this being the gateway to the Rinjani trek - i am the object of incessant amazement and amusement. A walk down the road will bring a thousand eyes to me and the relentless calls "hallo" "good moning" "what is you name". Any response by me the roadside erupts into fits of hysterical laughter. My lingering presence does not dampen their enthusiasm for this game though my own has long since expired.

The real torture i face comes from within. My days are a constant balancing of hope and dismay linked by disassociated boredom. Earlier in the week i senses my illness lift and strength return. My spirits soared until in the afternoon the debilatating fatigue, like the mists, rolled back into me. Now i am more cautious in my estimations and evaluations of the illness. But not a day goes by without my soul leaping at subtle signs of imminent health. "Just one more good long sleep" i tell myself. Then in the early morning darkness as i return from strange dreams to stranger reality i feel my weakness anew and despair.

Pak Diralam and his wife have been incredibly hospitable to me. They understand my need to rest and encourage me to eat three square meals a day. This i do without encouragement for their cooking is delicious, but i often wonder if i should be eating so much while my stomach is in pain. But i keep swallowing it my the handfull avoiding the spice if i can. The barriers of language and culture are generally surmounted, but in my darker moments i try to avoid communication for it can be very taxing. After visiting the local doctor yesterday morning without success, Pak Diralam decided it was time cure my illness with Lombok mysticism. I sat facing him, his head on my head, as he silently read the Sasak chants and clove scented smoke whirled around us from his untended cigarette. He later did the same to my water and we are to repeat the ritual twice a day until i am better. I think he is only a little less sceptical than me about the merits of this treatment, but both of us feel its worth a shot.

As time goes by an inner panick mounts, spurring life thoughts. I relive moments of signifance and obscurity. I recognise anew the importance of those closest to me and long to see them. In the starkness of the present i assume a greater understanding of the past. I see a pattern of decisions made with my heart, not my head, and the unimagined consequences i've often faced as a result. I recognise my love of risk and fear of the banal, but can no longer relate to it. The parallels of my predicament are all to clear, but i'm reluctant to draw conclusions yet.

In the late afternoon i walk a mile up the road, through a chorus of repetitious jokes disguised as greetings, to the only phone with a satalite. Three times i dial a series of different numbers and on the third i recognise the strange tone that indicates the line in ringing. The line is answered and i hear Nat's voice, faint but unmistakable. She can not hear me well and there is an awkawd time delay. She is sick too. I shout bite sized morsels of information into the receiver and she says "oh no!" over and over. I want us to move past her pity and concern, but the call's cost rises scarily higher every few seconds and i tell her i must go and i'll be in touch. It feels almost cruel to have called. Though when i get back to my room i feel a greater sense of calm and realise that i am happy. Just hearing her voice has been enough.

Friday 13 August:

Typing the date I realise it's Black Friday and hope for my traditional good luck.

I returned to Mataram last night with Asmuni from the RTC. He took me to a doctor who ran a bloodtest and determined i had no infection in my stomach (assumes he means bacterial - language always a barrier). He prescribed a range of stomach medication - mostly antacid tablets i think! I'll try these for the next few days and if no improvement will seek a second opinion.

My symptoms are not severe just prolonged. No need to worry out there. Love to all.

The Friendly Sultenate

I've been studying in Yogyakarta for the past two weeks. Last time i came to Indonesia i stayed for almost six weeks. It's a relaxed and friendly city that can prove very hard to leave.

I arrived on the train from Bandung with a nasty bout of gastro. I had too little strength to bargain for a becak and walked to the Kampung like Sosrwo to find somewhere nice to stay for a week. I eventually found that place and then collapsed for the next three days. But then i got better and remembered all the reasons why i stayed last time.

I've spent my days and nights studying, reading books and newspapers, writing, eating delicious cheap meals, wandering the street and markets and always, always chatting with the many strangers whose passion for conversation knows no bounds. My Indonesian has improved considerably here thanks to all the people i've talked to, but particularly my teachers. I'm confident of being able to do most things i need to do now.

Tomorrow i leave for Lombok and on Sunday start the four day trek to the summit of the giant Gunung Rinjani. But now i must rest.

The Abode of the Gods

Catching local buses through the Central Javan countryside is an activity for which i have long had high regard. From the moment you step onto the step of the first bus you are hurtled with polite intensity towards your destination, no matter how off the track that my be. I say hurtled for two reasons. The more obvious is that buses rule the roads here. They are bigger and for some strange reason generally faster than other vehicles on the undulating rural roads. And buses, with their drivers steeped in a tradition of aggressive driving, take full advantage of their dominance which, it has to be said, makes for a more exciting and efficient journey. The second reason is something i had long suspected, but was only confirmed for me recently. In Central Java, with its high, dense population and freemarket transport industry, buses are incredibly frequent and regular and are always on the prowl for paying customers. Thus whenever you arrive at one bus station, maybe a little apprehensive of where you will find your next bus and how long you will have to wait, your bus has found you and hurtled off to your next destination before you have really had sufficient time to process your apprehension. Finally, because catching a bus in the Central Javan countryside is not on the average tourist itinery, the conductors don't even think to overcharge you. Thus you have the added benefit of travelling very far for very cheap - it doesn't get any better.

And so it was that i arrived in Dieng Village after a rapid succession of five buses from Yogyakarta. Until about half way through the third bus trip we moved steadily through an almost endless series of town, punctuated occassionally by waterlogged ricefields. Then as we began the steep climb up Kledung Pass to the town of Wonosobo, the landscape change dramatically. Kledung pass is the only road winding up between two towering volcanos - Sundoro (3151m) and Sumbling (3371m). As the engine strained ever upwards I enjoyed the view of fluffy cumulus gathered behinds their majestic summits. After we reached the pass and began our descent into the West i turned to gaze at them again but all i saw was swirling mist.

Wonosobo lies at 900m and already the temperature was almost agreeable. On the main road i flagged down a bemo and entered to for the entertainment of an amazed assesmbly. "Does this bus head to Dieng?" i asked. "Kami orang Dieng" (We are Dieng people) said a starry eyed man with pride and although he didn't answer my question i was reassured. The bemo stopped soon afterwards and we boarded a ramshackle bus for the final 21 kilometres up to the plateau and Dieng Village itself. The road twisted up ever higher and higher amongst the terraced hillsides. All along the sides of the roads whole extended families of farmers tapped out tried mats of tobacco and hoed the earth for potatoes filling giant baskets as they went. The air outside grew almost chilly and i relished the feeling as it cooled the sweat on my legs. The bus quickly became crowded as we stopped to pick up anyone heading up the mountain on the only road. Most people were returning to their homes after morning excursions to valley markets and were laden with produce. I asked a young couple without a load why they had gone to town and they told me they'd been visiting a sick friend in hospital. Everyone, it seemed, was moving up with road with clear purpose and intent - except me not even aware of my own reasons for being there. As the bus climbed ever upwards we began to get spectacular views of the valleys far below. Amongst the green terraced fields i could see the faded brown of the roofs of scattered hamlets and the gold and silver glints of mosque bells reflecting the sun. The terraces rose up to meet us and then climbed further still to unfathomable heights just shy of volcanic summits. Then the road dipped and after a few turns the land opened up again to reveal a plateau and the small village of Dieng.

At over 2000 metres above sea level, the Dieng plateau is thought to have been a flourishing temple city of Hindu priests in the 8th and 9th centuries. Centuries later Islam became firmly entrenched as the religion of the Javanese sultans and the plateau today has more mosques than temples. The name 'Dieng' comes from Di Hyong meaning 'Abode of the Gods'. The temples that remain are thought to be the oldest in Java and are scattered around the volcanicaly active plateau amongst mineral lakes and steaming sulphur vents.

After checking into my Losmen (the aptly named 'Bu Jono') I set out to visit the mineral lakes to the south of the village. Along the way i make a short detour to Tuk Bima Lukur - confirmed by a few wandering boys as a fountain of eternal youth. Down at the ancient spring (long since concreted) a young woman washes bare breasted, her mouth foaming with toothpaste. She mouths a few words but i cannot hear her over the rythmic hum of a high powered electric pump. It's an eclectic mix of the crass and the serene, something i'm becoming increasinly used to. I reach the lakes which are serenely blue and surrounded by yet higher hills. On the narrow isthmus between the lakes is a holy meditation cave. But when i look inside it looks more like a damp space between fallen rocks behind a metal grill and throngs of Indonesian tourists (it is Saturday). So i head off along a small dirt track hoping to circumnavigate the two lakes. After passing fisherman at the further end of the first lake i find no trace of a path continuing around the waters. Reluctant to backtrack i take a trail leading up into the terraced fields above. Up above the lakes i find farmers tended fields in a vast cropgrowing area while hardy folk saunter through the network of trails with heavy loads. The landscape is pure agrarian beauty and i don't mind if i eventually have to retreat all the way back along the trail to the cave. But eventually the trail snakes back out to the second lake and i'm able to skirt back around to the circuit head and back to my losmen.

As the sun sets the air becomes decidedly chilly. So tied to the sticky heat is my perception of this country, that i no longer recognise the village as Indonesia. On the street the townpeople wrap garments around their heads and huddle under blankets compounding my confusion. It is as though i've been unintentionally transported at an Andean village in Bolivia or Peru. After a dinner of fried rice i order a banana pancake and it comes out Quran thick and still mushy on the inside. I eat past the point of enjoyment and have to shuffle around the deserted streets beneath a glowing full moon to settle my beseiged tummy before sleep.

At 4am the next morning, still full of sticky dough and mashed banana, i was striding down the road in search of a mountain whose summit promised dramatic views of the sunrising in the East. As i swept along in the darkness the mosques of the plateau began to erupt with phonetically enhanced chanting. I passed a small village and was directed up a steep road by an old man fetching his morning water from the stream. But at its pitiful summit i found only a descent to fields below from which the sounds of tools scraping the earth could be heard in the darkness. So i ran back down the hill and back along the road until almost two hours after setting off i came across another village that i initially mistook for the first.

Passing through the village streets that early morning i felt i had stepped back into a different age. The town .... I was later to learn is not only the highest in Java, but, thanks to the potatoes they grow, quite wealthy and sends a sizable number of pilgrims to Mecca each Haj. The townpeople directed me to a trail skirting a lake and passing into hills beyond. Despite my suspicions every person i asked told me that if i continued on the trail for about an hour i would reach Dieng again - I had since given up on the mountain and the sun was already casting faint light on the hills.

So i took the trail through a pass and from there saw the trail plunging ever downwards into the valley below. On closer inspection i recognised a road as the one from Wonosobo and decided to walk down to it and catch a bus back to town. Just as i set off down the into the valley i heard my name called from high above. I looked up to see my Losmen owner shepharding a group of people down from the mountain that i had been too cheap to be guided up. It was a salutory lesson. The sun had clearly rised by now, but I climbed to the top of the mountain anyway. The views were spectacular and i vowed to be at the top of my next mountain for sunrise.