Experiences on Sumatra

Riau Archipelago. The wooden boat takes me to Penyengat Island, where the capital of a small kingdom once lay. The domes of an old mosque rise between the palm trees, and fishing boats bob on the turquoise water. Small paved paths lead crisscross over the island, which appears to me like a natural garden, and I make my way to the Maqam of Naqsbandi Sheikh Habib. Seven graves of famous sheikhs are located on the island, but only a few residents still remember the various Tariqats.

In front of the mosque, a meal is laid out in the evening and I am invited to join. But people are afraid of the police and don't want to house a foreigner for the night. They pretend they have no space or that it would be too uncomfortable for me. Finally, someone takes pity on me, himself a stranger on the island. In his little house, which stands on stilts in the sea, a poster of Sheikh Abdul Kadir Jalaani hangs on the wall, decorated with prayers and Dhikr formulas.

Duri. With a swift motion, Akmal cuts the black rooster's throat, and it continues to flap its wings and spray blood for two more minutes until it finally expires in a final twitch. Akmal plucks its feathers and notices a disease in the rooster's knee joint and a worm in its eye. He asks me if I have problems with my eyes or knees, and when I say no, he is relieved and says it doesn't matter. He removes the innards and cleans them thoroughly. I watch dispassionately and think nothing bad of it. The rooster is cooked in a coconut sauce and served with rice at night. Akmal now recites prayers over the chicken while swinging it in a circle in front of him and holding it in the smoke of incense. He does the same with a plate of seven different pastries, a glass of water, and a bowl filled with flowers and needles. He fills a plate with rice and the innards, and urges me to eat everything, nothing must be left over. I make a stupid face, and those present, who pounce on the drumsticks and breast meat, start to giggle. I overcome myself, start eating, and stuff the bladder, intestines, and other appetite-stimulating organs into myself, but am then rewarded with the pastries and the glass of water.

Akmal nods contentedly and says that someone whose heart is dirty cannot eat these things and would vomit. He reaches his right hand into the bowl of flowers and presses them tightly together. Five needles are stuck in his hand when he opens it again. I am to choose one of the flowers, and I choose a red one with straight flower stalks. Again Akmal nods contentedly and says he now knows my secret. Among other things, I am brave. We go to a side room where we are undisturbed, and I have to recite certain prayer formulas, as well as the chain of sheikhs through whom the art of "Budi-Suci," "Pure Insight," was transmitted: Sheikh (1) Subandari, Sheikh Madi, Sheikh Quari, Sheikh Abdul Kadir Jalaani, Sheikh Sharif Hidayatullah. On the mosque's forecourt, I practice the ten combat techniques with which, after my initiation, I should be able to block attacking opponents or render them incapacitated. I am now supposed to have become a medium for the power of Allah, which I can use for combat as well as for healing. I am supposed to have become invulnerable!

Of the ten techniques of Budi-Suci, three serve as blocks: attacking opponents run against an invisible wall. With the other techniques, one hurls opponents through the room without touching them, or breaks their arms and legs. Two of the positions are deadly and only to be used when fighting non-Muslims. The energy is directed to the opponent's throat or tears apart their internal organs.

Theoretically! I can't quite believe it yet, because I'm actually supposed to be able to heal with my hands now, but it only has a very modest effect when I try it once on my own headache. But I haven't yet performed the subsequent Dhikr (2) that is supposed to bring me closer to God, closer to the source of power. The first and most important Dhikr after initiation comprises 40 nights, but afterwards there are countless others, and the degree of the Murid (3) is measured by how far he has progressed in his Dhikr.

Bukittinggi. The teacher's name is Damsir and he has large, strange, but warm eyes. He shows me photos of himself eating glass shards with an Australian in Singapore.

After initiation into Budi-Suci and corresponding prayer, one is also supposed to be able to reach into boiling oil without any problem. I see photos of Damsir's students training combat. One photo is particularly impressive. It shows a young boy with a beam about ten centimeters thick being broken over him without injuring him in the slightest. Impressed, I ask how I can find out to what extent I have already attained invulnerability, and learn that one can transfer the power to other creatures for two to three hours. I could, for example, transfer the power to a rooster and then have it fight another. The further I have progressed, the fewer injuries my rooster would sustain. I could even transfer the power to a plant. Or recite over a glass of water and administer it as medicine.

Dumai. As I step out of the bank, he suddenly stands before me as if sprung from the ground and shakes my hand with the secret sign of the initiated. I can't explain how he found me. Haryono is also a teacher of Budi-Suci, as well as Pencak-Silat, the traditional Indonesian martial art. I explain to him, once we reach his house on his aged moped, that I am primarily interested in the medical aspect of Budi-Suci. But I already have a teacher in Duri, would that be a problem?

"Keep your teacher and take me as a friend who can give you some advice," he suggests and holds his hand a short distance above my arm. After three seconds I feel it, his hand acts like a magnet. Then he explains how I myself can build up such a magnetic field between my hands, a preliminary exercise for healing with hands. And indeed, it works immediately. But the effect is still weak, my Dhikr, which must be performed simultaneously in the heart, too unfocused. Haryono balls his right hand into a fist, firmly grips his wrist with his left, and then opens his fist and subsequently his wrist. When I imitate him, I feel the accumulated blood rush into my fingertips.

"You can heal when you can generate this feeling from within yourself," he says and lists a few more things one can achieve with Budi-Suci at an advanced stage: sensing a person's arrival three days in advance; recognizing a person's aggressive intentions or disposition; finding lost objects; or even traveling in thought (on the astral plane?) to any place in the world. He explains the meaning of the Arabic letters at the beginning of many surahs: mystical keys! With Khaf, Ha, Ya, Ain, Shod, the house in the heart is unlocked, where the self has its seat.

Payakumbuh. My wife wants protection against black magic. In Duri, where we met and officially married, she often felt hatred towards me and couldn't look at me anymore, had a dizzy head and strong irrational doubts about whether the wedding was a good thing. Many people there were jealous and, in her view, wanted to prevent her from getting married.

Black magic is widespread in Indonesia. But I have trouble distinguishing what is just another legend and what is real. The boundary between fiction and reality is fluid in this country. In the Sago volcano near Payakumbuh, a dragon is said to dwell that throws rocks around, and in a large ancient tree at the public swimming pool, the most beautiful female Jinn with meter-long hair. I don't believe in the dragon, but I would like to believe in the beautiful Jinn with the long hair, and that they have bewitched my wife... who knows? Because who could hate such a lovely guy like me, especially if they want to marry him? So, why not go to this Addy, whom my brother-in-law recommended to me, who draws a kind of compass with Allah's names on a piece of cloth and sticks it into a lemon. Then he sticks nails into the fruit and ties it in a specific pattern with thread. He then prays over it and repeats the whole procedure with another lemon. He explains to my wife how to bury the lemons next to her house and in which direction to align them. And indeed, whether it's due to my irresistible charm or Addy's lemons, all doubts and nasty feelings are gone!

Sei Kamuyang Timur. The monkey bites me! With arms raised high, longer than his legs, he jumps at me and bites my middle finger. Even though I had given him a fruit beforehand, which he immediately grabbed greedily! It bleeds a little, but luckily he didn't bite with his long fangs, but only with his incisors, which he otherwise uses to crack shells. Only later do I realize what this means: I ate the chicken intestines for nothing. So much for invulnerability!

Payakumbuh. The police officer wants to know where the escaped convict is. He has brought two raw eggs, one of which Addy now takes in his hand and begins to pray over him. Then he cracks it open and lets it flow onto a plate. "He has set off for Batu Sangkar and is still nearby," says Addy after examining the yolk with a spoon. The police officer makes a satisfied face and says goodbye, while I still gaze spellbound at the egg yolk and wonder what there is to see there. To me it just looks yellow. But Addy can apparently also read from eggs whether a woman is already pregnant, or where the thieves are heading with the stolen moped. He is also said to be an exorcist, and treats almost all illnesses by reciting over leaves, fruits, or other things. He doesn't take money for it and leaves it to the people themselves whether and how they reward him for his work. He says his knowledge is from Allah, which he may not sell. And Allah is the one who heals, he himself is only the intermediary.

Batang Tabit. The wedding celebration takes place ten days after the official marriage. Here in West Sumatra live the Minangkabau, who, despite Islam, have a matrilineal social system. Adat is the traditional code of conduct, which can vary from village to village, and often regulates life down to the smallest detail. Sometimes there is already gossip if you open a banana the wrong way and eat it according to adat. Adat prescribes a certain wedding ceremony for us, where we have to put on magnificent costumes and sit on a throne for hours, while the guests are invited in groups, given food, and then offer us their blessings. My wife has a nearly four-kilogram heavy tin ornament on her head, so I often have to support her neck with my hand. However, we have to interrupt the session three times because my wife feels sick from the ornament and vomits. Pale as chalk, she lies on the bed while the relatives become nervous and try to persuade her to get up. I'm starting to lose my patience and want to end the show, which causes panic among my in-laws. No, that's absolutely not possible! The people expect it, and would be angry if we didn't celebrate according to adat! My wife also struggles back up and puts on a brave face. So I submit and keep my mouth shut. At least at the end of the celebration there is a mountain of packages, because everyone has dutifully brought a gift according to adat. I'm only slightly disappointed when I discover that it's almost exclusively household items. So many glasses, I won't break that many in my whole life! But I realize, I already have a nice gift to bring if I ever get invited myself!

Payakumbuh. At night we sit hunched over the Qur'an, and Addy explains a mystical meaning of the Basmallah (4) and the Alif (5). Sun, a Chinese man and student of Addy, lies somewhat apart and sleeps. Addy notices him and nods towards him. We look over and see Sun's hands forming into claws and beginning to tremble. He also starts to groan softly, and I look at Addy questioningly. He smiles and whispers that Sun is practicing Tiger Silat.

Sun slowly rises, apparently without becoming conscious, and now moves his hands as if playing with an invisible energy. It reminds me a little of Tai-Chi. But the movements are so perfect and powerful that one could believe it's not Sun himself performing them. Addy points his open right hand at him, and Sun gradually becomes calmer. Finally, he rubs his eyes with his hand, as if waking from a deep dream.

"You can take on the power of a tiger or that of a cobra," says Addy, "but you must know where you come from! You must know who you really are! You must die before you die! That is the path to knowledge of God!"

He asks what symbols there are for the self in other religions.

"Light," I answer.

"Light?" He shakes his head. "What else?"

"Emptiness!"

"Emptiness? No, wrong path!"

I think of Attar's Conference of the Birds: "A bird perhaps?"

He flutters his arms: "A bird then! No, wrong! You must know how Allah created you in the very beginning!"

"When God breathed the soul into Adam?"

"No, not the soul, even before that!"

"So, what is the symbol for the self?" I want to know.

"There is none!"

Batang Tabit. My mother-in-law is very upset, because my father-in-law, who wouldn't hurt a fly, has been too lazy to pray for some time. She had already admonished him three times, but now enough is enough. And I am amazed to learn that Adat and the matrilineal system also have their positive sides. Because the house and the rice fields belong to the woman, the man is only a guest. And if he misbehaves, he can go find another hut! Even if the Islamic principle "No compulsion in religion" wasn't fully observed, from today on Papa prays regularly again!

Sumatra. The oil is boiling over the embers. Si-In dips his flat hand into the pan, rubs himself with the oil, reaches in again and smears my arm.

"Go ahead, try it yourself. Don't be afraid," he encourages me.

And indeed, the oil is hot, but nowhere near hot enough to burn the skin. Addy had recited over it beforehand and asked Allah to take the heat from the oil. It's special coconut oil and smells pleasant. Soon we look like greasy gladiators! After the outer purification, an inner one follows: there is a snack of crushed, undefined components, a gray sweet-tasting mush that is eaten with white cotton fibers and a special prayer, seven small balls.

Night reigns over Sumatra. The light of the full moon glitters on the palm tops, and I get to see another demonstration of Silat. I get to see how man becomes a tiger, a vessel of divine will and divine power. Hidaya (6), guidance of God! Every single muscle obeys God, man is only his own spectator. He consciously experiences each of his movements, yet has become a non-actor, a walking dead! He is fully aware of this world, although immersed in the remembrance of God!

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