One of the great archeological finds of the modern era and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the apex of Borobudur features three round terrace platforms with 73 perforated stupas (bell-shaped chambers) encasing 72 Buddhas depicting graceful hand gestures. The stepped pyramid supports a series of interior corridors with 1,460 narrative bas-relief carvings and niches of holding Buddha statues. Borobudur was believed to have been built around 800 AD. For more than 800 years, it was covered by vegetation; it was “discovered” in 1814 and used for 160 years before a volcanic eruption caused the temple to be once again abandoned. It’s a place of great mysticism, beauty and serenity.

My guide Darto and I climb up the steep stairs and wait for the heavens to dawn, the mountain kissing the clouds. Pink fingers spread through the charcoal sky as together, in silence, we circle a stupa clockwise seven times in an attempt to obtain enlightenment. By this time, the sky has lightened and we have been joined by a few school children, including some young Muslim girls in headscarves. Here, Buddhism and Islam easily exist in harmony.

The elephant ride through the local village and back to Amanjiwo turns out to be a highlight of my visit. The scenery is unspoiled and from this vantage point I can see trees heavy with rambutan, durian, banana and papaya. The deeply tanned, rail-thin farmers, in their tattered flip flops have a ragged nobility—and some have cell phones. We lumber past fields of chilies, tobacco, avocados, tomatoes and chicken farms, across a river where women are in the river washing clothes, while kids are bathing, playing, splashing. The locals shout “hello,” “good morning” and “how are you?” from tidy homes. On the roofs, rice is drying in bamboo baskets; so are shoes.

Amanjiwo’s architecture echoes that of majestic Borobodur. The intimate resort, which commands a soul-stirring view from its perch on a hill overlooking tobacco and rice fields, has just 36 elegantsuites and the kind of hushed refinement that invites a delicious, replenishing stillness. That afternoon, I take a cooking class with Chef Bambang, who explains that Indonesian cuisine combines salty, sweet, bitter and pungent flavors. Working in the kitchen, there’s a lot of good-natured joshing with the staff. We make three dishes: chicken satay, grilled fish wrapped in banana leaves and nasi goreng -- the national fried rice dish. Even though we are using exactly the same ingredients in the exact same order and the same equipment, the chef’s is far better than mine, which is a little scorched. “That’s 15 years of experience,” Bambang says with a laugh.

As a reward for my exertions, I have a mandi lulur, two hours of pampering that Javanese princesses enjoy on the eve of their wedding night (there’s also a male version). After sipping jamu, a health-boosting tea of tamarind, palm sugar and turmeric, I am gently exfoliated, followed by a bath filled with floating, fragrant white and red rose petals. Tari gives me a restorative massage with tender strokes that, combined with the gamelan music (an Indonesian musical ensemble), induces an almost trance-like state.

Afterwards, padding along the cool curved corridor to my room, sconces throw shadows as night falls. Stars shimmer in the velvet sky. I lounge under the canopy on my terrace. An evening symphony begins: the call to prayer reverberates in the hills, the guttural croaking of frogs, the sudden staccato cry of the keko bird, the soft plop of raindrops on the pool. As a farewell gesture, my room is draped with intoxicating garlands of tuberose, the platform bed scattered with bright pink rose petals. My sleep that night is perfumed. In my dreams, I am again scaling Borobudur. Such is the power and pull of Java — asleep or awake.