Queensland surfers Gary Gibbon and Andy Jones travelled to WA in October 1975. They travelled overland in Gary’s 1962 VW beetle with a couple of surfboards each and a two-man tent in which to camp at nights.
The trip took them a month and they arrived in Dunsborough, where they were given temporary lodgings at Mark and Julie Favell’s house in the Green Acres Caravan Park, where they were the caretakers. The next day they went surfing at Yallingup followed by a little fishing expedition to Canal Rocks. They never left and still live in the South West.
This is Gary’s Witchdoctor story with holiday snaps.
The Witchdoctor
The guidebook posed the simple question, “Why not visit the witchdoctor?” and not much else.
Backpacking across Indonesia, very much back in the day, I found myself, along with my Scottish companion Phil, at Parangtritis, a coastal hamlet south of Yogyakarta in central Java. Certainly, back then, whilst not being on the surfing radar, it had a minor reputation as a sometime tourist destination for the Indonesian elites. Phil, (very much a non-surfer) and I found ourselves enjoying comfortable, inexpensive accommodation and unusually for the time, a range of swimming pools in which to coolly laze away the days.
Image: Gary – Monkey business in the village at Parangtritis!
Image: In the village.
Image: Some of the pools
Image: Phil standing with a Euro in one of the pools
I proceeded to have a few “get wet” surfing sessions, on the inshore, volcanically dark, beach break reforms typical of the area. I didn’t even contemplate trying to paddle out the back, to where consistently large, side shore affected swells, were initially breaking hundreds of metres out to sea. This made our hosts just a little bit nervous, as they were serious when explaining to us, that the ocean around these parts was the domain of Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, Queen of the Southern Ocean who was not known for welcoming newcomers. To this end both Phil and I and the odd other Euro backpacker around at the time, were advised to not to wear green clothing. For some reason, perhaps to do with oceanic colours, the Queen had an aversion to green. This wasn’t a major compliance problem for me, as my backpack fashion content, was rather limited. But collectively we gathered that the locals were extremely respectful (and wanted us to be so too) of the local mythologies.
Image: Looking south towards the ocean from the back of the village
Image: Looking back over the ocean to Parangtritus from the headland
After a few days pleasant R&R, they were therefore understandably encouraging of my suggestion, that Phil, a couple of others and myself visit the local witch doctor for a friendly blessing and official welcome (of sorts) to the village. From what we could gather, he was a very sociable chap and lived in a seaside cave with his family, at the base of the huge headland to the east, jutting out into the ocean. The directions were pretty non-specific; head to the headland, work your way seawards along the top and at the right location there should be someone around, who’ll send us down towards the cave.
Image: From the village towards the Eastern headland. The witchdoctor lived out towards the tip.
Accordingly, we all found ourselves in the right place, being directed by a smiling face to head down a narrow goat track, to get to the base of the headland, which in my estimation was at least 150 metres below. I somewhat nervously led our small party down the track only to find that not far below the cliff top, the path ended, to be replaced by a ladder attached to the side of this extremely steep cliff face. Bear in mind that this was back in the 70’s and safety standards for clueless travellers such as myself, were non-existent! There were no locking carabiners on which to hook up, no safety nets below. Just death grip the bloody ladder! And there’s me, never a great one for loving sheer heights anyway, leading the pack!
Image: Phil about to transfer to a bamboo pole.
What could I do? I was shit-scared myself, but also felt sheepishly guilty for dragging the others along on what was turning into a death-defying quest for extremely novice mountaineers. I muttered encouraging noises to the others and untruthful inanities, such as “I think the path is coming up again soon”, all the time hoping that they weren’t being put off by my near uncontrollably loud, hyper-ventilations. Then the ladder gave way to a couple of long fixed bamboo poles, followed by a single, friggin’ knotted rope which finally snaked to the boulders, above the sea-line below. How we ever got down there, without mishap, I’ll never know but perhaps the witch doctor, who was serenely waiting for us at his cave, with a big grin on his face, had some magical hand in it.
Image: The witchdoctor waits for us at the mouth of his cave.
He was indeed very welcoming, and we all shared a tea-drinking ceremony and exchanged fun, convivial conversation in a mixture of rudimentary Bahasa, simple English and sign language. We offered some rupiah donations, some food treats (which we were assured he’d appreciate) and importantly received his blessings for a pleasant and safe stay. As we headed off, my heart started skipping the odd beat, as this time I was wondering how I was going to get back to the top and do it, without freaking everyone else out.
Image: Some of our party with witchdoctor family members. He is seated on the right.
Well, obviously writing this memoir, you can gather I managed it. I found for me personally, going UP was a piece of piss compared to heading down. I was even able to pause a couple of times on the cliff face, hand, casually resting on the rung of a ladder, or knot on a rope and help the less agile or confident of our party, to move past a challenging section.
Image: From deep inside the witchdoctor’s cave, looking out.
Finally, all safely reaching the top of the cliff once again, I was only semi-convincing, when asking the others were they glad now, they had followed me in marching (blindly) off the precipice? Whilst doing this, I was simultaneously offering silent thanks to the witch doctor, Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, Hughie, or just about any other marine god out there listening, for a deliverance from harm’s way.
I’ve never been back to Parangtritus. I don’t know how large a place it is these days, what sort of facilities it boasts, or whether the local witch doctor continues to live in a sea cave at the bottom of the nearby headland. However, I’ll always be grateful for the opportunity it provided to face down demons. If not those of local mythological origins, then certainly those of my own personal making.
Queensland surfers Gary Gibbon and Andy Jones travelled to WA in October 1975. They travelled overland in Gary’s 1962 VW beetle with a couple of surfboards each and a two-man tent in which to camp at nights.
The trip took them a month and they arrived in Dunsborough, where they were given temporary lodgings at Mark and Julie Favell’s house in the Green Acres Caravan Park, where they were the caretakers. The next day they went surfing at Yallingup followed by a little fishing expedition to Canal Rocks. They never left and still live in the South West.
Click on this link to view 1975 Qld to WA road trip – Story and Photos by Gary Gibbon published 12 June 2019.
This is Gary’s Witchdoctor story with holiday snaps.
The Witchdoctor
The guidebook posed the simple question, “Why not visit the witchdoctor?” and not much else.
Backpacking across Indonesia, very much back in the day, I found myself, along with my Scottish companion Phil, at Parangtritis, a coastal hamlet south of Yogyakarta in central Java. Certainly, back then, whilst not being on the surfing radar, it had a minor reputation as a sometime tourist destination for the Indonesian elites. Phil, (very much a non-surfer) and I found ourselves enjoying comfortable, inexpensive accommodation and unusually for the time, a range of swimming pools in which to coolly laze away the days.
Image: Gary – Monkey business in the village at Parangtritis!
Image: In the village.
Image: Some of the pools
Image: Phil standing with a Euro in one of the pools
I proceeded to have a few “get wet” surfing sessions, on the inshore, volcanically dark, beach break reforms typical of the area. I didn’t even contemplate trying to paddle out the back, to where consistently large, side shore affected swells, were initially breaking hundreds of metres out to sea. This made our hosts just a little bit nervous, as they were serious when explaining to us, that the ocean around these parts was the domain of Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, Queen of the Southern Ocean who was not known for welcoming newcomers. To this end both Phil and I and the odd other Euro backpacker around at the time, were advised to not to wear green clothing. For some reason, perhaps to do with oceanic colours, the Queen had an aversion to green. This wasn’t a major compliance problem for me, as my backpack fashion content, was rather limited. But collectively we gathered that the locals were extremely respectful (and wanted us to be so too) of the local mythologies.
Image: Looking south towards the ocean from the back of the village
Image: Looking back over the ocean to Parangtritus from the headland
After a few days pleasant R&R, they were therefore understandably encouraging of my suggestion, that Phil, a couple of others and myself visit the local witch doctor for a friendly blessing and official welcome (of sorts) to the village. From what we could gather, he was a very sociable chap and lived in a seaside cave with his family, at the base of the huge headland to the east, jutting out into the ocean. The directions were pretty non-specific; head to the headland, work your way seawards along the top and at the right location there should be someone around, who’ll send us down towards the cave.
Image: From the village towards the Eastern headland. The witchdoctor lived out towards the tip.
Accordingly, we all found ourselves in the right place, being directed by a smiling face to head down a narrow goat track, to get to the base of the headland, which in my estimation was at least 150 metres below. I somewhat nervously led our small party down the track only to find that not far below the cliff top, the path ended, to be replaced by a ladder attached to the side of this extremely steep cliff face. Bear in mind that this was back in the 70’s and safety standards for clueless travellers such as myself, were non-existent! There were no locking carabiners on which to hook up, no safety nets below. Just death grip the bloody ladder! And there’s me, never a great one for loving sheer heights anyway, leading the pack!
Image: Phil about to transfer to a bamboo pole.
What could I do? I was shit-scared myself, but also felt sheepishly guilty for dragging the others along on what was turning into a death-defying quest for extremely novice mountaineers. I muttered encouraging noises to the others and untruthful inanities, such as “I think the path is coming up again soon”, all the time hoping that they weren’t being put off by my near uncontrollably loud, hyper-ventilations. Then the ladder gave way to a couple of long fixed bamboo poles, followed by a single, friggin’ knotted rope which finally snaked to the boulders, above the sea-line below. How we ever got down there, without mishap, I’ll never know but perhaps the witch doctor, who was serenely waiting for us at his cave, with a big grin on his face, had some magical hand in it.
Image: The witchdoctor waits for us at the mouth of his cave.
He was indeed very welcoming, and we all shared a tea-drinking ceremony and exchanged fun, convivial conversation in a mixture of rudimentary Bahasa, simple English and sign language. We offered some rupiah donations, some food treats (which we were assured he’d appreciate) and importantly received his blessings for a pleasant and safe stay. As we headed off, my heart started skipping the odd beat, as this time I was wondering how I was going to get back to the top and do it, without freaking everyone else out.
Image: Some of our party with witchdoctor family members. He is seated on the right.
Well, obviously writing this memoir, you can gather I managed it. I found for me personally, going UP was a piece of piss compared to heading down. I was even able to pause a couple of times on the cliff face, hand, casually resting on the rung of a ladder, or knot on a rope and help the less agile or confident of our party, to move past a challenging section.
Image: From deep inside the witchdoctor’s cave, looking out.
Finally, all safely reaching the top of the cliff once again, I was only semi-convincing, when asking the others were they glad now, they had followed me in marching (blindly) off the precipice? Whilst doing this, I was simultaneously offering silent thanks to the witch doctor, Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, Hughie, or just about any other marine god out there listening, for a deliverance from harm’s way.
I’ve never been back to Parangtritus. I don’t know how large a place it is these days, what sort of facilities it boasts, or whether the local witch doctor continues to live in a sea cave at the bottom of the nearby headland. However, I’ll always be grateful for the opportunity it provided to face down demons. If not those of local mythological origins, then certainly those of my own personal making.
Gary
Thanks for sharing your story and pics Gary
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