Rambitan: Lombok's 'traditional village'
By Dini S. Djalal
SENGGIGI, Lombok (JP): The village can be seen from miles away. Perched upon a hill, the grouping of thatched huts provided a stark contrast against the bright blue sky. We were approaching Rambitan, a "traditional Sasak village" in South Lombok.
We had been warned about this "tourist attraction". You have to pay to enter the village, a "donation" (Rp 5,000 in our case) to be put into a box near the village's gate. Yet, after an hour of driving through scrub and dry fields, we wanted to see some culture. We were on vacation, so we were allowed to act like tourists.
Upon parking the road-weary jeep, an uncomfortable feeling began to set in. A crowd of kids and teenagers watched our every move as we stood by the many souvenir stalls at the foot of the village. Selling an assortment of cloth, purportedly all "locally-handmade," these stalls were tended by young women well- versed in the art of the sale.
"Come look, come look," they hissed, unfolding layer after layer of bright-colored ikat. Interspersed amongst scarves embroidered with the word "Lombok" were fringed cap-batik sarongs with sun-and-moon designs -- the kind you bargain down to Rp 5,000 for in Bali.
Having spent much of our pocket money on petrol and car rental, we elbowed our way through the salespeople and into the heart of the "traditional village". Every five meters awaited more souvenir stalls, and more hisses of "Come look." By this time a group of teenagers were on our trail, giving a "short history" of the village and Lombok as a whole.
"The old people in this village don't even speak Indonesian, that's how traditional they are," my makeshift guide declared. I gave him my best go-away-I'm-not-giving-out-any-money look and he shot off to have a cigarette with his mates.
My companion, however, was far more gracious. Her guide Dewa, a youth in a tie-dyed T-shirt, directed us to the village's "best sites," which were always decorated with even more souvenir stalls. Aside from a mosque in the center, the winding narrow pathways led us through rows and rows of thatch-roofed houses made of cow-dung. Theoretically, it is no different than strolling through the suburbs of California, except the dung made it a tad more smelly.
The village's 150 families live as they have done for hundreds of years, said Dewa. There is a local elementary school nearby, but the closest high school is an hour's drive away in Praya. Presumably, it is even more distant in terms of affordability.
Prior to the tourist boom at Senggigi Beach less than 10 years ago, Lombok was an undeveloped backwater and one of Indonesia's poorest regions. The island population is mostly Sasak, an Islamic people. Historically, Sasak villages were built on hilltops as protection against neighboring enemies. In the afternoons, minute old men and women clamber up the earthen stairs to make their way home, which look like they're stacked on top of one another. Whole families may be found pounding rice and preparing meals in the pathways: their universe is small and immediate. Rice-cultivation feeds the community, as it does in most parts of Indonesia. Sweet potato also contributes to the village's meager economy.
The insides of the houses are cool and sparse, with windows being a luxury. They are often square structures with a lower- level front room leading up to the higher sleeping quarters, which are partitioned by an elaborately-carved door. I was rudely poking into one of the house's interiors when an old woman approached me with two Chinese coins.
"Rp 1,000, Rp 1,000," she demanded as she shoved the coins into my hands. I walked away from her apologetically, and her manner grew brusque.
"Cheapskate," she muttered, and returned to her souvenir stall.
When at last we departed, my companion gave Dewa a Rp 5,000 tip. I puttered around the remaining souvenir stalls, which up the total number to 14 stalls in a village the size of Pondok Indah Mall. After being courted by an especially eager saleswomen, I bought a batik scarf for Rp 7,000, half the original asking price and good value for "silk" (it's actually rayon). For Rp 15,000, my companion bought a gold-colored "traditional handwoven" ikat in geometrical design, an impulse buy dictated by the sweet charm of a recent graduate of a Balinese tourism-training school.
While villagers huddled in front of a television in a massive bamboo patio, a few kids were tugging at my skirt.
"Rp 100, Rp 100," they chimed. My already cold-heart dropped a few degrees, and I walked to the car. As we drove away, the "parking attendant" demanded Rp 1,000, bringing the cost of our unplanned excursion to Rp 11,000: small change for Jakartan weekenders but presumably plenty for isolated farmers. But aside from the television and the sarongs imported from Bali, where are all the products of development which may compensate for the blatant commercialization of the village? It is unfortunate that the village must superficially maintain its "traditional" environment to earn income, but where is all the money going?