From Enlightenment to a Giant Chicken

In my last post, I promised to come back to Borobudur—this time through the lens of the quiet power struggle between Hinduism and Buddhism in 8th- and 9th-century Central Java.

At the time, both religions were thriving, competing not with armies, but with ideas, influence… and architecture.

Borobudur wasn’t built just to be a temple. It’s a stone storybook, a cosmic map, and, in some ways, an ancient flex. The more you learn about it, the more it feels like a cross between a pilgrimage manual and a civilization saying, “Look what we can do.”

It still holds the title of the largest Buddhist temple in the world. And yet—within about a century of its construction (along with nearby Prambanan Temple)—it was abandoned.

No great battle. No dramatic collapse. Just… gone.

Historians piece together theories: eruptions from Mount Merapi (just about 30 km away), shifting trade routes that pulled power elsewhere, and the gradual spread of Islam across Java. Most likely, it wasn’t one thing—but a slow fade caused by all of them.

And then the jungle took over.

For centuries, locals knew it only as a haunted hill.

Until 1814, when Sir Stamford Raffles—then governing Java under the British—heard rumours of something massive hidden in the forest. He sent a team to investigate.

What they found was a vine-covered hill… hiding one of the largest Buddhist monuments on Earth.

Early accounts describe the discovery as eerie—stone Buddhas emerging from roots and moss, staring out through the jungle, as if nature had tried to erase it… and failed.

Today, Borobudur feels completely different. It sits like a beacon in the surrounding countryside.

Or at least, mostly it does.

You don’t so much approach Borobudur as ascend toward it. Perched on a hill, it can supposedly be seen for miles. And yet, as we cycled along a nearby paddy road, we couldn’t catch even a glimpse of it.

Mysterious.

At the temple grounds, we were asked to remove our shoes and swap them for woven rattan slippers—equal parts preservation effort and local livelihood initiative. You’re also required to visit with a guide. In a twist that feels very Java, most of the guides today are Muslim, despite Borobudur being the world’s largest Buddhist temple.

I’ve forgotten our guide’s name, but not what she taught us—about the temple, the surrounding landscape, and one particularly important detail that had me high-5ing both the guide and Gary:

There are no monkeys at Borobudur!

A miracle in a land where monkeys seem to run the show (a little like the Mafia).

Apparently, this is intentional. The caretakers ensure that none of the fruit trees on the grounds actually bear fruit—removing any incentive for monkeys to move in. How exactly they manage that remained a bit vague… and I chose not to ask too many questions. I was simply enjoying a monkey-free temple experience.

At the base, our guide explained that Borobudur is designed as a Buddhist physical journey toward enlightenment.  And, as you spiral upward, from level to level, you’re not just climbing—you’re participating in a kind of moving meditation.

·       Level 1: Kamadhatu – the world of desire

·       Level 2: Rupadhatu – the world of form

·       Level 3: Arupadhatu – the formless, spiritual realm

As we walked our own journey, the story in the details began to reveal themselves.  More than 2,600 intricate relief panels. Over 500 Buddha statues.

The carvings read like a graphic novel—depicting scenes from the Buddha’s life alongside glimpses of everyday Javanese life: boats, markets, rituals… and what looks suspiciously like a bit of ancient gossip.

Borobudur wasn’t built “just” as a temple. It was the most ambitious spiritual “billboard” ever built. And even now, it’s hard not to be impressed.

We immediately noticed that many of the Buddha statues are missing heads.  No one knows exactly why but some of the popular theories include:

·       Colonial-era looting (souvenir hunting was… a thing 😬

·       Earlier religious shifts

·       Natural damage over time

Whatever the reason, these headless Buddhas add a slightly haunting layer—like the temple has stories it’s still not telling.

To ascend each level of Borobudur Temple, there are four stairways aligned to the cardinal directions—east, west, north, and south. It’s not just practical—it’s part of the experience. Traditionally, you start on the east side, stepping into the light of the rising sun, then follow a slow, clockwise path around each level, passing north, west, and south as you go. Our guide encouraged us to do just that—to walk quietly and reflectively—and I have to admit, it did deepen my appreciation. You can enter from anywhere, but there’s something about following the rhythm that makes it all feel more intentional.

At the top, we were immediately drawn to the 72 bell-shaped stupas circling a massive central one. Each holds a seated Buddha—some now missing their heads—and there’s a local legend that reaching inside brings good luck (these days, preservation rules make that more of a look-don’t-touch situation). From up there, the view stretches across the entire valley, and Borobudur has a way of sticking with you—I found myself constantly spotting it from our hotel and from wherever else we went.

It’s not just impressive because it’s big or old. It’s compelling because it feels so deliberately designed—a place meant to be experienced slowly, step by step, story by story. I was leaning right into that mood—quietly wandering past the stupas, feeling reflective, maybe even a little proud of myself for embracing the moment—when something on a distant hill caught my eye.

It looked like… a giant chicken.

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Naturally, I couldn’t let it go. A giant chicken had no business sitting on a hill beside one of the most important Buddhist monuments in the world, and I needed answers. So the next day, as we set out on our cycling tour, I made a request—non-negotiable, slightly obsessive, and entirely on-brand. We were going to that hill.

Our guide smiled—the kind of smile that suggested this was about to become much more of a cycling tour than he’d planned—and adjusted the route. “But you’ll have to ride up a big hill to get to it,” he said.

“No problem,” I replied. “We like hills.”

And that’s how we ended up  Gereja Ayam—better known as the “Chicken Church.” Except, it turns out, it’s not actually a chicken. It’s a dove. Or at least, that was the intention. Built in the 1990s by a local man who claimed he was guided by a vision, the structure was meant to be a place of prayer open to all faiths. Which is very noble. Slightly less noble is the fact that, from almost every angle, it looks exactly like a giant chicken. Inside, the space is surprisingly peaceful—quiet rooms for meditation, soft light filtering in, and a rooftop viewpoint that looks straight back toward Borobudur. It’s quirky, a little surreal, and completely unexpected—which, in a way, makes it the perfect companion to the ancient, orderly grandeur of Borobudur just down the road.

Standing on top of the “chicken,” looking back toward Borobudur Temple, it struck me how close these two places are—and how completely different they feel. One is ancient, precise, and deeply intentional. The other is recent, slightly bizarre, and open to interpretation.

And somehow, both work.

Borobudur draws you inward. The chicken makes you laugh.

One is a carefully designed spiritual journey, meant to be experienced slowly, step by step.

The other is a spontaneous detour that ends with you standing inside a giant bird, slightly out of breath and wondering how this became your day (and will your cycling guide survive the rest of the ride?).

One leaves you feeling reflective.

The other leaves you slightly confused—but in a good way.

And honestly?

Both were absolutely worth the climb.