The Making of "Rahwana's Cry" - Part 1
March/19/2005 by Colin Bass
A journey to Bandung, West Java: Jet-lag, rehearsals, amazing music.


In the 1600‘s it could take 7 or 8 months to make the journey from Europe to the Indonesian Archipelago. Now I leave home looking forward to a 26-hour journey from a wintry Berlin to my destination of Bandung, the regional capital of the West Javanese province of Sunda, nestled among the volcanic hills some 5 hours drive from Jakarta. My mission is to produce a new album for the very wonderful and unique ensemble Sambasunda.
I arrive at Jakarta airport at 7 in the evening. Although by my watch it’s actually 1 pm. I know it’s best to adjust one’s watch immediately and try to acclimatise but I stubbornly stay in my personal time-zone until it’s futile to further resist.
At the baggage claim I see a number of bags on the carousel bearing logos of UNESCO and other Aid agencies , obviously en route to the tsunami-devastated region of Aceh in West Sumatra. Java is a long way from there and surrounded by different seas and here life is going on as usual.
Through customs and into the brouhaha of the airport terminal to be met by the unmistakable and omnipresent smell of Indonesia: the sweet perfume of clove cigarettes. Happily I’m also met by Yadi and Asep, my old friends from Sabah Habas Mustapha’s exploits with the Jugala Allstars, and now senior members of the Sambasunda troupe. They’ve made the 5-hour drive from Bandung to pick me up and drive me back there. I’m honoured to be in the company of such gentlemen. We climb into the minibus and I am given a bottle of mineral water and a packet of chocolate-chip cookies. They obviously remembered my cookie habit from the last project.
Although it’s only 7.30 in the evening, it’s already dark. The sun sets at around 6.30 all year round in this part of the world. There are only two seasons : wet and dry. Now it’s rainy season and the air is damp but warm. We set off along the modern motorway leading into the city of Jakarta. We pass scores of poor „kampongs“, many of which could be described as shanty-towns, which then give way to the high-rise apartments, office-buildings and shopping malls of downtown Jakarta. The elevated freeway gives spectacular views of this teeming megalopolis of uncountable millions – some projections put it as over 17 million. Most pay no taxes, there’s no welfare system, many live in makeshift shelters, some of them under the arches of this motorway. Quite a few live in large houses and drive BMW’s – and then there are the millions inbetween.
We follow the freeway out into the suburbs and onto the two-lane to Bandung. At this point I’ve been travelling for some 22 hours and am inhabiting the twilight world of half-sleep where you occasionally surface to find your mind on free-associative forays. I’m sure we all know that moment when you catch yourself in the middle of a meaningless and absurd train of thought. How do these ideas get into my head? How did the pope get that job in the tobacconists? After all, Henry Sainsbury’s third wife was a knuckle-brained Peabody whose brother, an otherwise reliable horologist on the Left Bank was sorely tempted to take up knitting in order to escape the unwelcome attentions of his ravenous shipmates. Soon, on a postcard from Venus, came a stuttering voice as if from a chip-shop, signalling the end of the second world war. Much to his consternation it coincided with the onset of his origami class. Fearing the worst he threw the waxwork figure of his uncle overboard and the rest is history.
Out of such reveries I awake. We’re travelling through the hill country. We pass through small towns – a flurry of lights from roadside shops and food stalls. I know we are approaching Cipenas – the favourite watering-hole for many travellers on this road. A score of restaurants line the roadside. We pull into the carpark of our favourite – the Sari Indah.

It's midnight but the place is cheerfully busy with whole families enjoying a midnight snack. The television on the wall is showing a live broadcast of a concert in aid of the Tsunami victims in Aceh. Many top Indonesian Pop stars are taking part led by the king of "Dangdut" music, Rhoma Irama, formerly a wild young rebel in the 70's, now a born-again Moslem wearing a white suit and black electric guitar singing of Allah like a muezzin while his band churn out a funky Dangdut rhythm.

You really know you’ve arrived in Java when the waiter comes to your table balancing an array of small plates on his arms which he proceeds to unload in front of you. This is Masakan Padang, originating from Sumatra. It’s a sort of Indonesian Tapas : small portions of a variety of culinary delights, some recognisable, some challengingly mysterious. The waiter returns bearing larger plates with mounds of white rice. You take your choice from the items in front of you and mix them with the rice. Most eat with their fingers. As usual I stick to my tried and trusted favourites : prawns in chili sauce, chunks of fish in a milder green sauce, or fried in a chili coating, varieties of exotic vegetable dishes. All deliciously spicy enough to have your tongue lolling about like a beached whale within minutes and reaching for your glass of soothing warm tea. I still didn’t summon the courage to try the folded reams of tripe lounging in a yellow sauce, or the dried tongue – at least I think it was tongue – or the smoked grass snakes. Maybe next time.


But not today. Back in the car and on the final stretch to Bandung. Out there in the darkness are the miles of tea plantations, rice terrasses hanging on the hillsides, ebullient swathes of tropical forest, countless small villages. But I see none of this. Once again my body yearns for its distant bed and my mind switches on to automatic pilot darting in and out of conciousness. I’m reading an imaginary book. The words are forming on the page as I read. A quite nonsensical but complex story that my waking brain would never have formulated. So who wrote this? (At time of writing this I am reminded of a passage in Ian McKewan’s excellent book „Saturday“. The main protagonist’s mother suffers from Alzheimer’s disease and her conversation consists of the same kind of disconnected ramblings spliced together from once meaningful memories that are the stock-in-trade of the dreaming subconcious – at least that’s how it is with me I’m afraid).

Suddenly, I become aware of the approach of our final destination.

We turn off Jalan Kopo into the complex of buildings belonging to Mr Gugum Gumbira. We park outside the dance studio and walk down the narrow alleyway which opens into a small oasis of a courtyard surrounded by the family houses and the famous Jugala Recording Studios. This is to be home for the next three weeks. I’m shown to my quarters and bade goodnight. It’s 2 a.m. I wonder if I am able to finally sleep or if my body will insist that it’s only 8 in the evening.
So I lie down and drift in and out of a promise of sleep. Indeed, I am just getting used to the idea when I hear the creeping onset of morning prayers.. At first just a murmur in the distance, it quickly builds as every mosque in every corner of the city switches on its loudspeaker system and calls to Allah and the faithful at maximum volume. Like an orchestra tuning up, the random tones of massed muezzin fill the air with dissonant vibrations. It’s very impressive. It’s 4 a.m. This happens every day at this time. I’d better get used to it, I think. Well, it’s not too bad. Quite beautiful really. Just then the mosque next door kicks in. The loudspeaker must be just the other side of the wall. It’s impossible to sleep. Oh well, better get used to that too.
Fortunately Allah is merciful and the service is a short one this morning. I fall asleep in gratitude and awake reasonably fresh a few hours later looking forward to breakfast. Good that I am adjusting to local time fairly quickly.
Outside in the courtyard the sun is shining. I go down downstairs to find a hearty Indonesian breakfast of fried rice, bananas and tea awaiting. Perfect.
I'm joined at table by my production partner, Katerina Pavlakis of Kapa Productions Booking and Management, who had flown out from London a day earlier. It's Katerina who is responsible for putting this whole project together, liasing with the record company and coordinating the band, and I'm very happy that she's on hand to keep an eye on the logistics and lend her ears and ideas to the proceedings.

Schedule for today: the gathering of the Samabasunda troupe and first day of rehearsals.
We wander into the courtyard and are greeted by the first wave of Sambasunda arrivals. They have already set up all their instruments in the dance studio. The large room is full with all manner of drums, percussion and gamelan instruments : pot-gongs; metal and bamboo xylophones. There are rows of tuned bamboo rattles in large frames - the Angklung - large hanging gongs and a couple of guitar amplifiers to ensure the Sundanese zither-like instrument, the Kacapi, will be heard above the thunderous roar of the orchestra.

We find a space to sit on the floor and go through a list of potential tracks to record with Sambasunda founder and main composer, Ismet Ruchimat. When all the members have arrived the rehearsal begins. First piece is called „Bubuka“ which means – the opener or the entrance. Designed for maximum impact to start a concert. It begins with a short drum solo on the khendang – two-headed barrel drums – before the whole orchestra suddenly leaps in with a crash accompanied
by whoops and yells. If I wasn’t fully awake before I definitely I am now. The groove sits on top of the steady rumble of the big gongs. The gamelan instruments chime out a rhythmic melody and the whole place is vibrating.
Over the next few hours we go through the entire repertoire. A real mixed bag of moods and rhythms, all designed to feature different groups of instruments. Some are led by the bamboo instruments, some by the metallophones. Some are gentler pieces featuring kacapi and then there are the vocal numbers. These are played instrumentally for me as Rita, the singer, is busy with her school work. I scribble first impressions in my notebook. There is much to do but I know it's going to be good.

end of part 1...

Click here for Part 2

Click here for other Stories

Click here to go Home