On the trail of myth, mysticism and one magnificent mountain, it is easy to fall in step with the natural rhythms of the land and its people
Photography Muhammad Fadli
I felt it as soon as I landed in Yogyakarta: an energy both grounding and gentle. It invites you in with the scent of cloves in the air, the rustle of banyan leaves and the warm nods of strangers who look you in the eye and smile, acknowledging your presence.
Located in Central Java, Yogyakarta – or Jogja, as it’s affectionately called – is Indonesia’s cultural capital. It’s a city shaped by ancient kingdoms and active volcanoes, by royal palaces and surf-washed shores. It’s also a gateway to the Unesco-inscribed sites of Borobudur Temple, one of the greatest Buddhist monuments in the world, and Prambanan, a cluster of ancient Hindu temples, the largest in Indonesia.
Home to 3.7 million people, it feels more like a giant village than a metropolis. To the north, Mount Merapi, one of Indonesia’s most active volcanoes, rumbles with fiery energy. To the south, the Indian Ocean’s waves break against the mystical shores of Parangtritis, long believed to be the domain of Nyi Roro Kidul, the legendary Queen of the Southern Sea from Javan mythology.
She is said to command the tides, protect the southern coast and demand respect from those who visit. Locals often avoid wearing green – her sacred colour – at the beach, out of fear they’ll be swept away by her waves. Between these two forces of nature and myth, Jogja thrives in perfect balance.
That first evening, just behind my hotel in Prawirotaman – a trendy neighbourhood of stylish boutiques and hip cafés – I stumbled upon a selametan, a centuries-old Javanese communal feast and prayer gathering that draws neighbours seeking blessings, safety and spiritual balance. It’s a ritual that marks important life events, from births and deaths to marriages and even a good harvest.
The group of families and neighbours sat cross-legged on woven mats, passing around plates of nasi kuning (turmeric rice) and opor ayam (chicken in coconut milk curry) under the soft buzz of streetlamps.
I stood at the edge, unsure if I should approach, until an older woman patted the mat beside her. No words were exchanged. As I watched children serve elders, I began to understand that this was a quiet ritual of harmony, a way to honour the invisible threads that connect people, the land and something greater.
After such a tender welcome, I made my way to Alun-Alun Kidul, and at night the square pulsed with that peculiar Jogja energy, part carnival, part sacred space.
Teenagers posed for selfies with neon light toys, vendors sold sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, tricycles rigged with booming speakers blasted music that sailed through the air.
I spied twin banyan trees at the square’s centre, where a small crowd had gathered to watch blindfolded walkers attempt the space between them.
On impulse, I joined the queue. The attendant tied a red cloth over my eyes, and suddenly the cheerful noise of the square faded.
With outstretched arms, I took my first shuffling steps forward, bare feet on warm pavement. Someone in the crowd giggled as I veered sideways. The darkness amplified every sensation: the humid night air, the distant scent of fried tempeh and tofu, the palpable anticipation of onlookers.
Then my fingertips brushed rough bark. A collective “Ooooh” rose from the crowd as I corrected the course. Three more steps and – smack! – my shoulder hit the second tree. Laughter erupted as I pulled off the blindfold to see I’d missed the path completely. The attendant winked and handed me a small amulet anyway. “The trying matters more than the succeeding,” he said.
It was profound how spirituality revealed itself here. No grand ceremonies or ornate temples, just an old woman whispering to a banyan tree before passing beneath its branches. Or laughter and prayer mingling effortlessly at a street-side selametan.
The next day I went to see a shaman at Parangtritis Beach. It’s one of Java’s most spiritually charged places. Located about 30km south of Yogyakarta, its charcoal-black sand meets the Indian Ocean, where locals believe the mythical Nyi Roro Kidul rules. More than legend, she’s a living part of local belief, commanding tides and tempests from her unseen palace.
I wanted to understand why spirituality is such a big part of daily life in Jogja. I’d heard of beachside rituals that people quietly undertake when they feel unsettled, seeking balance, blessings or a sense of clarity.
And so I went, not to chase the mystical, but to meet it where it lives. Mbah Purwo guided our ritual. He’s a kunchen, a royal shaman of the Keraton, the Sultan’s palace, where centuries of Javanese tradition, mysticism and royal lineage still pulse with authority.
Mbah Purwo was calm yet commanding, his demeanour carrying deep, unquestionable wisdom.
We began at Cepuri Parangkusumo, two massive black rocks believed to be Nyi Roro Kidul’s throne. I was instructed to kneel and place offerings of flowers, rice, bananas and incense between them, whispering prayers for protection and guidance. The rocks radiated an eerie but powerful energy, as if charged with centuries of devotion.
Only after paying respects to the throne could we approach the shoreline. The wind howled as Mbah Purwo lit the incense, its smoke curling into the salt-heavy air.
We sat in silence, meditating as he chanted in low, rhythmic Javanese, his voice merging with the surging waves.
One by one, we waded into the shallows, releasing our offerings – petals and banana-leaf boats – into the tide. Then the ocean, unpredictable and fierce, suddenly stilled just long enough to draw our gifts into its depths.
“She accepts,” Mbah Purwo murmured. As tradition dictated, we cupped the cold seawater in our hands and washed our faces in purification, sealing the ritual.
I expected to feel relief, but instead, a quiet awe settled over me. The waves resumed their fury, as if nothing had happened. Yet something had shifted. This is how people in Jogja have always lived – where deep respect guides even the smallest actions.
If Parangtritis humbled me with its unseen forces, Merapi would shake me with its power. Towering at nearly 2,930m, Mount Merapi is Indonesia’s most active volcano, its jagged peak often veiled in mist and smoke. The landscape shifts dramatically as you approach: lush rice fields give way to blackened lava rocks, skeletal trees and ghostly remnants of past eruptions.
Villagers speak in hushed tones of ancestral guardians and mythical creatures like the sacred macan putih, a white tiger said to roam the slopes. These animals are revered as spiritual custodians. To harm them would violate taboos older than the Keraton itself, a disrespect to the mountain’s invisible caretakers.
This reverence manifests in the annual Labuhan Merapi ritual, where the Sultanate’s offerings – a traditional rice dish (nasi tumpeng), heirlooms, flowers and handwritten prayers – are carried into the crater.
It’s a delicate pact between humans and spirits, maintained through gifts that acknowledge Merapi’s dual role as destroyer and life-giver. Beyond its spiritual significance, Merapi offers more visceral thrills.
I experienced this firsthand on the Merapi Lava Tour, where local guides turn volcanic history and Javanese folklore into a heart-pounding off-road adventure.
Our modified jeep bounced over hardened lava flows, each jolt a reminder of the mountain’s raw power.
The point of the tour isn’t just the thrill; it’s to trace the scars of Merapi’s past eruptions, to witness how life returns after devastation and to honour the guardians who’ve protected the mountain for generations.
The jeep lurched forward, tires spitting volcanic gravel as we charged into Merapi’s shadow. “Hold tight!” yelled our driver Pak Yudi, grinning as we hit a dip that sent us bouncing against the roll bars.
Swerving past massive lava boulders, he pointed to steaming vents where the earth still breathes. “See how alive she is?” he shouted over the engine’s roar.
Then, cutting the engine near an unmarked turnoff, his voice grew reverent: “Before we go deeper, you should understand who protected this mountain.”
Twenty-four dusty minutes later, I stood at Museum Petilasan Mbah Maridjan, its wooden walls weathered by mountain winds. Just steps from where the legendary jurukunci (the gatekeeper) once kept vigil, a larger-than-life photo of Mbah Maridjan in his signature all-black attire greeted visitors.
Inside, the caretaker served thick Javanese coffee in the very spot where Mbah Maridjan would receive villagers. The humble collection spoke volumes: a cracked shortwave radio he used to monitor quakes, mud-caked boots, binoculars that had seen countless sunrises over the crater.
During Merapi’s devastating 2010 eruption, Mbah Maridjan chose to stay behind. He ignored evacuation orders, believing it was his duty to remain and carry out sacred responsibilities.
Some say he died protecting the village. Others believe he was simply fulfilling his role. Either way, his presence still lingers. The caretaker glanced at the photo of Mbah Maridjan and said, “He wasn’t just watching the mountain, he was listening to it.”
My final hours in Jogja unfolded with quiet symmetry. At a jamu stall near Malioboro, the elderly vendor handed me a glass of beras kencur.
The ginger rice tonic burned pleasantly down my throat, its earthy sweetness a farewell gift. She pressed a tiny bottle into my palm – “Untuk di jalan” (for the journey) – her fingers yellowed from decades of grinding turmeric roots at dawn.
My last stop was a small art gallery near the Tugu monument in Malioboro, where a young artist unfurled a batik scroll. The design mesmerised me: indigo waves colliding with charcoal smoke, their dance framed by Javanese symbols.
“Ini Rwa Bhineda,” he explained – Bali’s philosophy of opposites, reimagined by Javanese hands. As I rolled the fabric into my carry-on, I realised it was a map of the balance Jogja had imprinted on me – where fire and water, loss and renewal, exist not as opposites but as partners in an endless dance.
Luxury retreats in Jogja
Amanjiwo. This luxury resort (pictured), less than an hour’s drive from the city centre, features a stunning view of Borobudur.
Garrya Bianti Yogyakarta. A contemporary take on traditional Javanese architecture, set in the lush countryside.
The Phoenix Hotel Yogyakarta. This centrally located, historic property is about 1km from the Tugu Train Station and the Malioboro mall.
