The Kaliurang sky that afternoon looked like a canvas painted with thin streaks of cloud. The uphill road we were on wound through the trees.
We had been driving for about an hour and a half from downtown Yogyakarta, bringing us to a building whose name had been circulating in many conversations: the Anaia & Alisha Museum. The Renoah Museum, a space that houses not only objects, but also stories about the Indonesian archipelago.
There, Mbak Yuli was waiting. She had arrived earlier, even though she had left at almost the same time from Ngasem Market, because we had to stop for a quick bite to buy Abon Bread Rolls on Jalan Bu Ruswo. From afar, I had seen the magnificent five- or six-story building with the large words “MUSEUM” written on it, as if to announce to the surrounding community that this was indeed a museum.
After parking the car, we entered the museum lobby. The atmosphere in the lobby seemed modern and very futuristic. Towering concrete pillars create a space with high ceilings, reminiscent of tropical-style buildings from the Dutch East Indies era.
“Sugeng Rawuh, Anaia & Alisha, Rempah Museum, Spices & Resto, Kaliurang, Yogyakarta,” reads a sign in one corner of the lobby. Seating is available at classic carved white tables, contrasting with the black-and-white geometric floor. The space has a semi-outdoor feel, with natural light pouring in and greenery in the distance.
I approached the reception and looked up at the large pillar decorated with food and drink menus. Main dishes include Kaliurang spiced shrimp, spiced duck, coconut spiced chicken, and many more. The drinks also have a spicy flavor, including wedang uwuh, wedang secang, wedang jahe, spiced tea, and Semar Mesem.
I peeked out for a moment and saw a terrace covered in light green synthetic carpet with a grassy hue. Uniquely, some visitors here also bring mats to relax on.
A Sense of Being at One with Time
Shortly afterward, we were greeted by Mr. Arman and Mrs. Nita, the owners and founders of this museum. They invited us to sit down.
“Mr. Erwin and Mrs. Lily will be coming this afternoon,” Mr. Arman began the conversation. While we planned to stay here tonight to view the lunar eclipse, Ms. Yuli would be returning to Imogiri in the evening.
Mr. Arman then took us on a brief tour of the rather grand museum building. We exited the lobby and took in the entire building. The upper floors resembled the Homann Hotel in Bandung. The front facade was adorned with tiered balconies covered in hanging plants. I later learned that there were gourds growing on these balconies.
In the center, a cylindrical glass tower stood tall, reflecting the light of the gray Kaliurang sky. Directly below, a large mural stretched out, depicting animal faces staring back at us: a rhinoceros, an orangutan clutching a log, a serene elephant, and a tiger poised to leap from the wall. They were silent, yet they seemed to be speaking—about the forest, about time, about the necessity of life to continue.
Walking back toward the building, I saw an information board titled “The Animals We Protect,” featuring six endangered Indonesian animals: the tapir, the orangutan, the one-horned rhinoceros, the Komodo dragon, the Javan tiger, and the Sumatran elephant.
Below it was an important message: “So that they remain in their habitat,” emphasizing that this museum isn’t just about spices, but also has a mission of nature conservation.
Pak Arman invited us into Pala Pala Resto, a multi-purpose room at the Anaia & Alisha Museum, which can be used for fine dining or birthday and wedding events. A small stage with a red backdrop bearing the words PALAPALA Resto was visible, decorated with floral ornaments on the upper wall, and white rattan chairs on a red carpet.
The room was quite spacious, with glossy gray checkered floors and large glass walls overlooking the green trees outside, creating a fresh and elegant atmosphere.
Taking the elevator, we went straight to the fourth floor, the rooftop of this magnificent building.
“This is the iconic attraction of this museum,” Mr. Arman added.
From Songgo Langit, the eye is immediately drawn to the expanse of green hills that resemble a giant natural wall. The dense, towering trees blend with the expansive sky, sometimes clear blue, sometimes cloudy gray, creating an ever-changing yet calming atmosphere. The cool mountain air gently wafts, carrying the scent of wet leaves and refreshing every breath. Sitting back and gazing at this panorama makes one feel as if they are in direct dialogue with nature.
In the corner, a large sign reading “Songgo Langit” stands tall, greeting guests with a simple yet warm feel. The name itself is poetic enough—supporting the sky—enabling the imagination to soar to the feeling of being high up near the horizon. Here, visitors line up to take photos or make videos to share on social media.
The seating area is laid out in a relaxed style. Brightly colored bean bags are available, along with small tables where guests can set down a hot coffee or a plate of fried snacks. More than just a place to stop, Songgo Langit seems designed to be a shared space: for chatting, laughing, or simply relaxing, gazing at the expanse of greenery in the distance.
After stopping by the museum, escorted by Mbak Ocha, we were treated to a pre-ordered lunch. We sat in a corner of the terrace on carved chairs with a beautiful motif of two horses.
At the table, the dishes began to appear: spiced shrimp, oxtail soup, bekakak chicken with spices that penetrated the meat, and various refreshing drinks, including a cup with a name that quite tempts the imagination: Semar Mesem.
“It has a unique name,” I said with a smile.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Nita, “Semar means wise, mesem means smile. So if you drink this, your heart should feel calm.”
We laughed, and then I took a sip. The taste was like a journey: fresh, layered, a warmth that crept from my throat to my chest. I imagined the sailors who once sailed thousands of miles just to bring these spices home. How powerful their allure was, sparking wars, alliances, and world-shaping history.
It was a Sunday. There were crowds of visitors. There were young families with children running around, teenagers diligently searching for the best photo angles for TikTok and Instagram. And indeed, every corner here is like a visual stage: animal murals, classic balconies similar to those of the Homann Hotel, chairs carved with horse reliefs, and of course the panoramic view of Mount Merapi as the backdrop.
Stairway to Heaven
As dusk approached, we returned to the fourth floor. The view was wide open: the valley stretched like a green carpet, the majestic back of Mount Merapi blanketed in thin clouds, and the sky slowly changing colors from blue to orange, then to a serene purple.
We sat on the lounge chairs, letting time flow like the flow of water. The afternoon breeze blew, carrying the scent of wet leaves. The lamps began to come on one by one, accompanied by a thin mist that descended, gently caressing the mountain ridge.
At the table, a simple dinner was served. Mrs. Lily arrived with traditional Javanese home-cooked dishes from Omah Garengpoeng, plus the signature Kaliurang satay ordered by Mrs. Nita. We ate, occasionally sharing stories and reminiscing about the past, discussing the present, and occasionally predicting the future. For a moment, I glanced up at the darkening sky.
Waiting for the Red
After eating, some of us decided to return to our rooms to rest for a while, while Yanto and I remained with Mr. Arman and Mr. Mangun, our neighbors who live across the street from the museum. Our conversation flowed from the history of spices to the story of the eclipse, from life philosophy to the increasingly heated political and economic situation.
At eight o’clock, the moon hung in the sky, perfectly round, but sometimes still shy behind the clouds. At nine o’clock, the clouds thinned. At ten o’clock, the sky cleared, and the moon rose higher. The moon was like a lantern lit in the middle of the night, surrounded by stars that twinkled brightly, especially when the garden lights at Songgo Langit were turned off.
We waited, in silence occasionally broken by sighs of awe. The cold wind blew harder, and I occasionally took shelter near the joglo house or the gazebo on the rooftop, providing ample protection from the wind.
Blood on the Moon’s Face
At eleven-thirty-eight, the earth’s shadow began to creep slowly over the moon. Slowly but surely, its light eroded, forming a widening dark arc.
As midnight approached, the moon, which had previously reflected silver light, now turned red. Like embers burning from within. A Blood Moon. The name sounds fierce, but when I gazed at it, I felt a silence. This was the total lunar eclipse we had been waiting for. There was something sacred about it—like a silent prayer uttered by the universe.
We were silent. The night wind crept between our jackets and our skin, but we remained unmoved. We watched the moon slowly sink into its own redness. The hours ticked by. The Kaliurang night grew colder. The sleepiness we had been holding back earlier returned.
While the moon was still shrouded in red darkness, we slowly descended from Songgo Langit, filled with gratitude for having witnessed this extraordinary natural phenomenon from an equally special vantage point: Songgo Langit on the roof of the Spice Museum.
Spice and Sky
Before bed, I thought about two things that had dominated the day: spices and the sky. Two different worlds, yet connected by a single thread: patience. Spices teach us that aroma and flavor can only be born with time. The sky reminds us that beauty only comes to those who are willing to wait.
And tonight, at Songgo Langit, I learned about both. The Blood Moon has passed, but its impression will never fade. On a rooftop that supports the sky, amidst the cool Kaliurang air, we became small witnesses to a great poem written by the universe. A poem that can only be read by eyes willing to gaze, and a heart willing to contemplate.
