needs double-checking
One time National Library of Indonesia—the Opendar Keezaal an Bibliotek during the Dutch, the Belander era, and continued in the early years of independence when Yogyakarta was briefly the capital of the new Republic. Marvellous old building untouched by the renovator's usual blundering hand. Inside the entry room the wide lesehan, the traditional raised teak floor which needs footwear removed for treading, surrounded by compendiums of periodicals—Jurnal Sosioteknologi, India Perspektif, Mobil Motor Tahun all pretty much up to date.
Opposite the newspapers: Kompass, Bernas, Kedaulantan Rakyat (Sovereignty of the People) the latter the oldest in Indonesia, first published in 1945 after the war and before the Dutch Belanderers were prevailed upon to decamp, according to Hendrikus, the young man behind the desk. (Early evening returning from the Cyber up beyond Sudirman, the early printing works of the K.R. was happened upon, the old industrial compound with wide internal courtyard strongly reminiscent of the era in many other locations.)
A generation or two ago one could not enter this library without a...Young Henrikus the library assistant shows a neck-lace? Neck-tie?
A krah.
A short lesson in etymology followed. Hendrikus had been told of Montenegrin ancestry; adjacent to Bosnia and Herzegovina. (The BiH orientation was always useful in the Muslim lands.) Henrikus, as the name would suggested, was a Catholic; a Dutch great or great-great grandfather back in the genealogical line. Hendrikus was interested to hear something of Medjugorije. Were the miracles reported there in that famous town true?
As usual, hearing about a kampung in Europe where a short generation past the villagers defecated in the woods like the bears brought surprise. Yes, my dear Hendrikus, Europe was not all Westminster, Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower. Just as in traditional Malay kampungs where the villagers shitted down under the raised house (as Hendrikus informed in drawing the old atap roof structure in order to convey the place of the lesehan). Matter not vastly different even in Europe.
The krah. Hendrikus my man, this particular sign of high culture, of the gentleman, in fact derives from this very same region of which you are hearing. The brother Catholic Croat boatmen of ten, fifteen generations past, around the time of Marco Polo (a Dalmatian, if truth be known, crossed in search of a quid, a ducat, to the Venetian Republic) were recognized by the collar of their shirts. Boatmen for hire, dependable, orderly, looking the part for the anxious merchant class. From this sporty fashion bequeathed to the wider world, the entire globe, as the cravat—natty Croat boatmen.
Krah in far distant Java; required attire for a chap to pursue learning and enlightenment. No entry to the Nasional Bibliotek on Malioboro without. Darkies need not apply.
Oddly, in former times a topi, hat needed to be removed for access to this storehouse of knowledge in Yogyakarta. Even a fine panama it would seem. One would have thought those terrorizing the Dutch back in the day could not have hidden any kind of kris or dagger under their hat, surely.
Upstairs at this chief library of Yogyakarta, stumbled upon in best serendipitous form soon after 9 this first morning, the holdings were meagre. Golf course club houses in the gated communities would certainly have been better provisioned. The year before the National Library in Kuala Lumpur had been discovered to be in a similarly lamentable condition.
Kamus Kechil was not a small, select edition of the French-Algerian master; rather a Small Dictionary (of Malaysian Bahasa).
Asal-usul Elite Minangkabau Modern was for Zainuddin, whose paternal grandmother hailed from that Padang area of the island of Sumatra—the famous Amazonian matrilineal Minangkaubau, of whom Z. spoke so fondly and proudly. Unexpectedly, here in the long tourist strip of Malioboro many of the traders hailed from that area of Sumatra.
After settling in Kristina Hotel off Malioboro, walks up and down the strip included three viewings of batik painting exhibitions. A middle-aged ex-user nabbed the author after observing him descend from the second gallery. Another Sumatran, from Palembang in the South, presented the traditional fishing of his forebears. The guide Yan in the second gallery was an abstract painter, a familiar proud Bugis from South Sulawesi, of which there were a great number in Singapore. An unasked cup of mint tea was provided here, Yan apologising for there being no beer for the Australian.
Malioboro was tourist strip from beginning to end, the rough edges providing something more than the usual. The elderly beggars, the street buskers and trannies among them. As well as the batik artists you ran the gauntlet of the trishaws and horse drawn fiacres. One of the warnings on-line was to watch out for a literal bite from the latter beasts—not easy on such a crowded thoroughfare.
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