A street in Gajeboh

Among the Baduy

I was on mission in Jakarta again, and, as I often did, I had planned my schedule so I could slip away for a week of adventure.

On an earlier trip I had made a fantastic journey to Anak Krakatau, the young volcano that rose from the caldera of the legendary Krakatau, whose cataclysmic eruption in 1883 had global consequences. With a travel companion I had spent the night on that remote volcanic island, where heat radiated both from above and from below and sweat poured in rivers. It took about four hours by speedboat from Labuhan, on the north-west coast of Java, the island where Indonesia’s capital lies.

That time I had hired a young local who lived off the trickle of tourism. I asked him whether there were other things worth exploring in the area. I told him I was less interested in the Javan rhino he suggested and more drawn to meeting tribal people. He said he could take me into the area where the Baduy lived.

Baduy? The name sounded like something from a fairy tale — perhaps invented by Tolkien or borrowed from a Norwegian folktale. I had no idea such people existed. But before meeting him again I did some reading and learned that the Baduy were indeed real — and fascinating.

Setting Out

After work I left with my regular travel companion, and by evening we reached the coastal town of Labuhan. We checked into the Sun Down Hotel, a humble place worth no more than a single star. It was clean, the local food was edible, but there were none of the conveniences that mass tourists demand. It was simply a roof, a bed, a meal, and safety.

Over a couple of local beers we spoke with our guide about what awaited us. I was always curious about rituals, healers, shamans, or caves that might hold some sacred importance. He told us, with pride, about the Baduy.

We would be heading into a mountainous, forested area, to a village where he had once lived. He did not know the name of the village, and I have never been able to find one since. Perhaps it has none. For convenience I will call it Gajeboh, after the bamboo suspension bridge that crosses there. He told us he originally came from another settlement that no outsider may visit — not even Indonesians, unless under rare permission.

The Baduy are divided into two groups: the Inner (Dalam) and the Outer (Luar). They belong to the Sundanese ethnic group of Banten and are often regarded as “uncontacted” — a community almost entirely isolated from the outside world. The Outer Baduy form a protective ring around the Inner Baduy. Those in the Inner villages live under strict rules: no access to the outside world, no ownership of modern things. Visitors who are, on rare occasions, allowed inside must leave behind glasses, watches, phones, binoculars, cameras, anything modern. The Baduy dislike being photographed.

Gajeboh was an Outer Baduy village, where a few outside items are tolerated and visitors may enter — though they are not encouraged, and photography is frowned upon. The nearest road ends at Ciboleger, a small town three or four hours’ drive from Labuhan. From there it is a steep walk of two to three hours through jungle, up and down mountains, before reaching Gajeboh.

All Baduy live in Banten Province, at the foot of the Kendeng mountains in the Luwidamar District. Around 10,000 Baduy live in thirty villages. Three of those are Inner Baduy, each with about forty households — in total, fewer than 500 people. Each village is led by a Pu’un, a chief or sage, who in the Inner villages is almost an absolute ruler, making decisions about every aspect of life.

The Inner Baduy wear white headcloths, the Outer wear dark blue. Their sacred task is to protect nature and their cultural heritage. To preserve balance they must live simple, modest lives without change. Their purpose in life is to pray for the world’s population.

They have their own religion, Sunda Wiwitan, linked historically to Hinduism though with different gods. Their supreme god is Batara Tunggal, the supreme being Adam. The holiest place is Sasaka Domas, where the spirits of the dead meet the ancestors and the highest god. Their highest doctrine is to live life “straight” and protect their surroundings.

They are not concerned with Indonesian national law and follow their own laws instead. These include:

It is forbidden to wear footwear.
One may not wear jewelry.
One may not wear black clothing.
It is forbidden to defecate, urinate, or spit.
One may not use electrical devices.
Nothing may be removed from the forest.
Only dry rice may be cultivated, never wet rice.
It is forbidden to fell trees.
No official person may enter the forest.
Women may not menstruate in the forest.
One may only go into the forest on Mondays and Fridays.
One may only enter the forest with permission from the Pu’un.

Technology is nothing to them. “We have everything we need and have had it for generations,” they say. They have no newspapers, no world news, no interest in who is president of the United States or whether there is a war in Iraq or tsunamis in the Indian Ocean. For the Baduy, the world ends at the border of their 5,000 hectares of tropical forest in West Java.

The Indonesian government has chosen to protect them, preserving the land where they live. If someone from the Inner Baduy wishes to leave, they may, but only after a conversation with the Pu’un, explaining why. They may return later, again only with the Pu’un’s consent.

Arrival in Ciboleger

Early the next morning we set out, driving through rice fields, mosques, and small villages until we reached Ciboleger, the end of the road. The square was surrounded by tired concrete buildings, their whitewash long gone, grey concrete and black mold showing through. In the middle stood a statue of a Baduy family: the father raising his hand to the sky, the mother behind, two children waving in welcome. It was a friendly contradiction to the Baduy’s wish for isolation, but a good symbol of their devotion to family.

Rain had poured down all the way. We had no rain gear, and wet sleeping bags worried me more than getting soaked myself. Our guide knew the kiosk owners and bought us ponchos, as well as food, drinks, and gifts of cigarettes for our hosts.

We set off on foot. The trails were steep and slick, the air hot and wet. My poor condition slowed me; my glasses dripped with rain until I had to look over them, wiping them occasionally. After more than two hours of climbing and slipping, we finally reached the village.

The Village of Bamboo

It was more refined than I had imagined. The houses were bamboo, but finely crafted. The walls were woven in intricate patterns of different shades, and the roofs were thick thatch. The whole village was carefully planned: paths paved with flat stones, drainage channels running along them, water carried away into small waterfalls and into the river. The village climbed a slope, each house set on terraces.

At the edge stood small huts I thought might be shrines. They were granaries for storing rice. Our guide said rice could be kept there for a hundred years. I doubted it, but he assured me it was true.

That evening the rain stopped. Smoke drifted gently from the roofs as fires inside the houses burned, the smoke preserving the thatch against rot and insects. Silence lay over the village, broken only by a rooster, a dog, or the rushing of water. People slipped out of sight when they saw us.

We were shown to a terrace outside one of the houses where we would sleep. I asked, foolishly, about theft. Our guide dismissed the thought and I felt ashamed for even considering it in such a place.

As the sun went down, a young man arrived dressed in the style of the Inner Baduy: dark blue trousers and jacket, a white headband, no shoes. He had been given permission to see the outside world before returning. He could not speak to us, but he listened, nodded, and smiled in the right places.

Inside the house there was only one room. Everything was bamboo — walls, beams, floors of slats stitched together. The soot-blackened underside of the roof showed from years of open fire. Jars in a corner stored food. Mats leaned against the wall, ready to be spread for sleeping. The kitchen was a clay hearth, open at the front, with two holes in the top for pots. The man of the house jointed a chicken, feeding the fire with sticks. There was no running water, but they kept a bucket nearby. Fires, they admitted, sometimes happened, and were catastrophic.

Dinner was rice — not just any rice, but their own dry-field rice — with chicken and vegetables, spiced with chili and garlic. It was delicious. For the toilet, I was directed to the river. I clambered down with my headlamp to find a place by the water. It worked, though I could not help thinking of downstream villages using the same water for bathing and drinking.

We ate by kerosene lamp. Later, with permission, I interviewed our hosts and the Inner Baduy visitor, while my companion asked questions and I recorded everything with video, camera, and dictaphone. Many details from that night are in this story; others will appear in books to come.

We slept on the terrace. It was not comfortable, but to lie on bamboo in the jungle, listening to the night, was unforgettable. Later the clouds cleared and a full moon lit the village roofs, smoke drifting into the sky. Magical.

Morning in Gajeboh

The roosters woke us before dawn. After coffee we walked through the village again. It was silent, almost empty. People avoided us.

To our surprise we found a kind of general store. A man was cutting a child’s hair on a terrace; more children waited their turn. Outer Baduy children, it seems, may be barbered. Behind him hung bags of candy and crates of Coca-Cola bottles — the outside world creeping in.

By the river we found the bamboo bridge of Gajeboh. Ingeniously built, with arched spans and rods holding up the deck, it swayed but held even our heavy northern weight.

By afternoon it was time to leave. We thanked our hosts, left a small gift, and made our way back to Ciboleger where the car waited.

Reflections

I cannot recommend that others follow our path. The Baduy deserve to be left in peace in their forest. Perhaps one day they will come out to meet visitors in Ciboleger — that would be more acceptable.

Until then they remain a people apart, who live by their own laws, pray for the world, and guard the forest as they have for generations.

If you want to read more about the Baduy, there is a thorough account here:
Baduy people