I’m not a big fan of the call to prayer. Every corner of every kampong has a mosque and yet drive on any major road in Java and you will undoubtedly pass boys and girls in their Muslim dress standing by big gallon drums waving fishing nets collecting money for the building of yet another new mosque. And no mosque is complete without the biggest locally available loudspeaker which is always turned on full volume and invariably pointed in the direction of where I happen to be ‘trying’ to sleep. Actually I’m so used to the noise that I can sleep quite comfortably, even during Ramadan when the prayers run non-stop accompanied by the beating of drums and firecrackers that are set off to ‘remind’ people that it’s time to wake up.

Television during the fasting month is a mixture of celebrity Dangdut concerts and T.V. serials with actors dressed in Jilbabs and Arab smocks delivering moral messages on how to be a good Muslim. Even commercials cash in on what kind of toothpaste and shampoo a good Muslim would choose and this year, a phone by Bakrie especially for Muslims which has an alarm that automatically rings at the five daily prayer times. It irritates me in the same way commercials at Christmas time used to irate me back in Oz. For my family though it’s pretty usual. They say price still determines their choice of toothpaste more than any other factor.

Idul Fitri comes at the end of the fasting month and everybody visits neighbors , friends and relatives to ask for forgiveness of last year’s short comings and snack-out to make up for calories lost during the fasting month. About 70% of the population make a pilgrimage back to their parent’s kampong. Roads across the nation are jam packed. Buses and ferries are over-loaded, trains and planes sold out and absolutely anyone bar no-one who has access to a motor bike is on it with two or three friends on the back. I dread going anyway at this time of year. It’s usually quite nice just to stay in Jakarta and enjoy the strangely deserted roads around the city. But this year Yayang insisted we take her parents and Jessy and brother Harry down to Cilegon to visit her sister. I convinced her to wait at least a day and it paid off. There were virtually no cars on the notoriously jammed toll road to Merak port and we made record time to Kipit and Hasuri’s humble farm house.

Kipit and Hasuri live on 300 square meters with their three children, in a dirt floor house next to a chicken coup which provides a substance living. They have a television, that we gave them and a motor bike and 40 chickens and that’s about it. I have never seen them miserable or complaining – not even the youngest. It never ceases to amaze me.

Cilegon was at the end of the dry season when we arrived. Each year it looks more and more barren. Farmers are not prepared for the effects of global warming. There has always been ample water for crops for generations until now. Most people in the kampongs these days have access to a television either at home or at one of the neighbors. They know of the word ‘Global Warming’ but have no idea of the ramifications or how to prepare for it’s impact on their livelihood in the years to come. I remember reading in a travel guide somewhere , Lonely Planet I think , 15 years or so ago, about one traveler’s account of Java. He predicted with the rate of deforestation and overpopulation as it stood then, Java would become a desert by the year 2010 in a manner much similar to how the Egyptians turned a once fertile land along the Nile into eternal desert. By my own personal accounts of increasingly long dry seasons , I fear he may be right – at least as far as Cilegon is concerned.

Having said all that, I still enjoy going to ‘The Gon’. It’s very peaceful at Hasuri’s piece of dirt. The days are bloody hot but at night there’s a cool breeze and the smell of wood coals from the kitchen. It’s far enough away from the city lights so you can see stars in the night sky. The family sit together on the back porch drinking tea and laughing at simple stories. For them there is a real sincerity in the festivities at Idul Fitri. Sharing, forgiving and just being with family. Prayers are simple, there is little mention of God or any ‘holier than thou’ that goes on. I am totally relaxed and blend in with little special attention aside from the odd comment or two from the young kids on what a long nose I have.

It’s a real tragedy what the September 11 bombings have done for the image of Islam. Terrorism , Fanaticism , brutality are too often associated with Islam by people from the West who have little experience with the religion other than what they see on news broadcasts about Iraq and Afghanistan.

Indonesia plays host to two-thirds of the worlds Muslims. I was watching a fascinating documentary about a shipwreck off the coast of the Maluku islands on Discovery the other night. The ship was six stories high and overloaded with porcelain bowls from China that were intended for transportation of Spices back to the Arab world. The ship sank over one thousand years ago. One thousand years ago Indonesians were trading spices with Arabs and Islam was introduced to Indonesia. The religion was less than 500 years old when it first arrived here. So Indonesia does in fact have pretty good claim as to what defines Islam. It is often misconstrued that Islam was forced upon these humble animistic peoples by Arab ‘missionaries’ but the majority of Indonesian Muslims have interpreted this religion from their hearts in their own Eastern style.

It’s not my cup of tea. I had a go at ‘masuk Islam’ (entering Muslim faith) It scored me a lot of points with my in-laws and for a while I was happy to attend afternoon Friday prayers and meet members of my community on an equal, spiritual level, but like my disappointment with Christianity in the West, I was frustrated by the dogma , the repetitive sermons and the mis-interpretations of what it means to be a ‘good person’. I don’t believe one has to pray to God in a church or in a mosque to be a better person and stand a better chance of peace in the ‘afterlife’ I believe it’s your own actions and how you treat others that determines what kind of person you are.

There is nothing sinister about the Indonesian Islam I have experienced firsthand.

There are a few small minority Fire-brand groups in Indonesia who get a lot of media coverage. Amarozi and the Bali bombers were actually from a poor village background and were trained by a Malaysian group that preys on the financial hardship of vulnerable Indonesian villagers in order to spreads it base for political strength across Asia. Most Indonesians are aware of what’s going on here but are reluctant to openly speak out against it. It’s simply not their nature. But with the increasingly biased way ‘Islam as a whole’ is being presented on global news, maybe it’s time the real majority of Muslims – the ones that live in harmony in Indonesia – stood up to give their story and be counted.

It rained on the night we were in Cilegon. Hasuri told me he’d get around to fixing the leak in the roof before the wet season set in.