Photo by Marc-André Jung

Note: This post details a (possible) criminal offense that I was lucky to get away with. Only an idiot would try to to the same.

I lied, dodged the entry fee, and trespassed to get to Borobudur temple, just to avoid disappointment and admitting defeat. Now a cloud of karma trails me like a bad smell

But at the time, I was too high on adrenaline to care.

It was all because of a dumb assumption. Travel agencies in Yogyakarta offer trips to see the sunset at Borobudur. Long-exposure shots show the majestic Buddhist structure, a true living world wonder, illuminated by floodlights with blurry heads of people milling around.

So it’s easy to assume it’s open until late. But in Indonesia, one learns once and again never to assume.

I arrived at the the gates at 5:07 pm. Seven minutes after they had closed. Ticket sellers were packing up and leaving.

“Please, sir. My bus had a mechanical problem,” I lied to one of them. “I just want to go in, take a picture, and leave,” I lied some more. I had no camera.

Indonesians are an accommodating bunch. Flexible and polite, they are always willing to make an exception here, bend a rule there. It makes for a wonderfully adaptive society. It also fosters one of the most corrupt governments in the world.

And it just happened that I stood behind the gate from the most by-the-book Indonesian I met. He just shook his head as if declining a street vendor and walked away.

But ah, the compassion of women. A lady ticket seller in a Muslim headscarf saw the disappointment in my eyes – I had, after all, travelled 1.5 hours to get there – and offered the only help she could.

“Go ask the security guards at the exit,” she said. “I don’t have any decision power.”

Visitors were leaving in a steady stream, but I knew there were many more inside the massive park that houses the temple. Loudspeakers repeatedly asked them to please proceed to the exit.

“I can’t let you in,” the guard told me. “But you can try something else. Go to the Manohara Hotel. Tell them you just want to have a drink, then leave the path to the temple.”

Of course, there’s a hotel inside the park gates, I remembered.

“How again?” I wanted to make sure I heard him right.

“Just… lie,” he said.

I ran a good kilometre from the main gate to the hotel entrance. A security station controlled the entry of cars with a sawhorse. I had a 100,000 rupiyah note ($11) folded in my hand if a palm needed greasing.

“Hotel Manohara?” I asked.

“Yes, go straight ahead,” a guard said.

The temple park is nicely manicured with trim walkways and decorative trees. It almost looks like a golf course. A mountain range in the distance was pleasantly misted with low clouds.

I passed the hotel entrance and followed signs that read “To Temple.” After a five-minute jog I saw metal fence surrounded a hill shrouded by trees. Coming closer I could see the crowning stupa of Borobudur.

There was a gate with stairs leading to the temple base. It was shut with a padlock. On the gate someone had painted “No climb” so crudely, it looked like it was done with White-Out and a toothpick. There was a security booth on top of the hill overlooking that entrance but no one inside it.

Indonesia is an easy-going country with strict laws. On the customs declaration card visitors are cheerfully greeted with “Death penalty for drug traffickers.” What would be the penalty for a trespassing a UNESCO World Heritage Site, I wondered. Would it be worse than accepting I made a mistake on a lazy assumption?

Only 10 minutes until the site was fully closed off. Hell, I’m not coming back tomorrow, I thought. I may never come back again. Here I am, a mere 20 paces from one of the most impressive monuments to faith in the world. And only a meagre, unguarded fence between us. I’ll just take a peek and leave.

I jumped the gate and quietly climbed the stone steps. What would a ninja do? He would hide behind a bush and see if there were people around. There was no one. I emerged from the stairs and stood at the foot of the temple. What a sight! What a structure! Several levels of carvings and bell-shaped stupas. I must climb to the top!

When I turned a corner I saw a group of tourists dawdling for a last glance and smoothly slipped inside them. Not one guard around!

I climbed the temple steps halfway up and did a half-lap on one of the corridors, quickly taking in the hundreds of relief panels showing stories about the Buddha. I resumed the climb on the steps on the opposite side.

The last few tourists were coming down, escorted by a tour guide and guards with walkie-talkies. I slipped past them and made it to the top. A severe-looking man in blue uniform, the man who protects the top and most sacred level, frowned.

My only hope was to be a total hapless mook.

“Sorry. Very sorry. Bus late. Mechanical problem,” I gushed in broken Indonesian. “Very quick. Just look.”

“Please,” the guard said. “You must leave.”

“Sorry, yes. Look and go. I run run run.”

“Hurry up and take a picture.”

“My camera, my eyes,” I stuttered. “My memory, my heart.” The guard broke into a smile and touched the middle of his breast.

“Yes, good! Your heart!” Nice. That would win me a few more seconds.

If you could speed-read a breathtaking landscape, that’s what I did. I gulped down eyefuls of the misty palm-covered mountain in the distance, the huge bell-shaped stupas that line the top level of Borobudur, and the big sitting Buddha, shiny and worn by so many greasy hands.

It’s a place meant for slow, quiet contemplation. A proper visitor should stroll for hours at each level and meditate on his place in the world, his significance against something so ancient and so grand. It should flood his mind with awe at what miracles humans can perform on the power of faith.

And there I was, the idiot. The douche who can’t take defeat. The thoughtless tourist who just comes to take a bad picture, cross off another major world site from his list, then head back to the hotel bar. I had lied, trespassed, and didn’t contribute a single rupiyah (the entry fee is Rp.135,000). Karma would surely bite me back.

It didn’t take long. The last bus back to Yogyakarta had left, and I had to pay a motorcyclist to bring me back. I assumed this was just a warning shot.

But damn, I felt good.