Rambitan: Lombok's 'traditional village'

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?