Friday, October 31, 2014
Publication: Small Wonders
A relatively new online literary journal focused on South-east Asia, Eastlit, has recently published a short piece taken from this blog.
"Small Wonders" was written during the second Ramadan in the Malay quarter of Singapore, 2012. (Posted on the blog late July 2012).
Here is the link:
http://www.eastlit.com/eastlit-november-2014/
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Solo Aid
On the second trip to Yogyakarta in October
2014 I traveled with Mr "Faris" to Surakarta, aka Solo, central Java,
to visit a family in some hardship. Faris had known this family for some years
and needed to assess their true position before attempting to raise funds
for them. Following the visit I wrote a kind of story about the venture,
published on my blog at the time.
In the almost two years since the position of the family has deteriorated further and now the mother of the small boy, daughter of the old ibu and wife of the invalid, whose name is Hartini, is casting around for a buyer of her kidney. In this way she hopes to raise funds to live on and relieve her debts without selling her small house.
After receiving this notice about the kidney I revised the story, light brush-up involved. Here it is.
In the almost two years since the position of the family has deteriorated further and now the mother of the small boy, daughter of the old ibu and wife of the invalid, whose name is Hartini, is casting around for a buyer of her kidney. In this way she hopes to raise funds to live on and relieve her debts without selling her small house.
After receiving this notice about the kidney I revised the story, light brush-up involved. Here it is.
Six hours altogether.
Rp300,000 taxi fare; Rp10,000 return on the train.
We had chosen the date badly: Muslim New Year and a long weekend meant a queue at the train station ticket-office—seats sold out. The standing option was declined; therefore the taxi, about thirty dollars. Twice before in the week prior Faris's toothache had resulted in last minute cancellations.
The mejut, traffic jam was not so bad. Bad enough however given the bleak roadside scenery of dilapidated shop-fronts devoid of any conceivable prospect or hope of redemption. Some new housing and commercial construction was taking the place of old without any hint of past failures comprehended. A number of years Faris had not taken the road-trip and swore off it ever again. LA Tropical, he quipped in a low voice.
Beyond Klaten two thirds of the way along glimpses of green rice-fields finally; later the train back would deliver a great deal more of the carefully cultivated fields where straw-hats toiled. An old local permaculturalist some days ago had made the claim in the newspaper that only farming provided a means of independent living for man.
Two hundred thousand Rupiah was given from both sides to the poor family we had come out to visit in Kampung Ngasinan. In the planning a couple of weeks prior Faris had agreed one hundred thousand would be satisfactory offering to the household. On departing the house however after the visit Faris thought differently: one hundred was neither one thing nor the other, the man unexpectedly suggested. Two hundred might amount to something for the family. Four hundred thousand in the circumstances would at least provide respite.
Some years ago Faris had taught in the neighbourhood, encountered this family and taken particular interest. Now there was a disabled husband who had fallen from a fruit tree nine months earlier; a young three year old boy and the old mother of the house fetched into her mid-seventies wobbly and effectively blind.
There had been two major interventions: some years ago Faris and his American son had financed sealing of the roof to keep out the rain. This had amounted to paying for plastic sheeting to be laid under the roof tiles. There were no ceilings in the house—with the passing of a few years the plastic had shredded in a number of places above our heads in the front room. In order to clear family debts that had increased since the misfortune of the accident Faris had sourced from his network a French Muslim benefactor, a Fireman from Marseille. Since debts had mounted again and growing pressure from neighboring creditors to sell the house. At present the family was splitting profits from the fruit harvest of their trees with pickers
Shortly after being seated cups of tea were brought from out back by the young mother. A half hour later the fuller hospitality arrived from in front delivered by a neighbour—heaped plates of noodles with some egg and vegetables. Meals scaled for Western appetites (servings at the local warungs were never this size).
The household itself would not be partaking. Still, no one made eyes at the food, not even the little three-year-old. The family was well-fed—a paunch showed the Invalid was not suffering on that score and the little boy took his father’s build. Second or third tier poverty perhaps.
On a day-bed opposite the small TV sat the Invalid; the wife shared the couch with Faris and the boy played on the floor with plastic toys, wheeled vehicles mainly. A misplaced old exercise bike stood against the wall immediately inside the front door. The Invalid had made some progress from weekly physiotherapy sessions, the wife reported.
On the other side of the front door out of the way the old mother sat on a bench smiling through the opening when she bent forward to survey the room. The old mother was paper-weight thin with inflamed gums, cloudy eyes and over-sized hands distended from field-work. Dickens came to mind: a loved smiling mother quietly abiding and never complaining, maintaining all her cheer.
Various neighbours came to the door and the window over the bed. The window held no glass or sashes; a concertina panel of wooden slats had warped and sat askew. It was through the largest gap there that neighbours came to converse and observe the visitors. Small children came to the open doorway; teens, young mothers with babes on hip, middle-aged scarved women took turns at the window, smiling and waving.
Nine or ten square metres the front room measured, certainly a larger space than many front rooms along the gangs of inner Jogja. A couple of low packing-case cupboards, pitted concrete floor that had once been polished. There were complaints about the flickering television; its entertainment was important for the invalid and the old mother, who was prone to falls wandering outdoors.
Plastic stools were brought into the room for the guests to rest their cups and plates. From under a corner of the day-bed mattress the wife at one point fished out a prospectus for an insurance scheme for the boy’s future education which Faris studied. It would come in handy in a renewed petition to the Marseille fireman. Apart from this man Faris had one other possible benefactor, a well-to-do Arab who might respond favourably to a plea.
Behind a narrow passage led to two smaller rooms with mattresses on the floor in the corners. At the rear a low cupboard held a rice-cooker, cutting board and cooking utensils; the other side a little tiled annex held a hip-bath.
A well was mentioned. In the event old rusty iron piping was found running into the concrete floor that accessed ground water; an electric pump rather than bucketing on a winch. The wife showed the spurt from the plastic hose attached to a spigot. Unlike in Jogja and Jakarta, the water was clean here, Faris reassured earlier when he noticed caution over the tea.
Outdoors a tall boy came at one point to hang a bird-cage on a high hook immediately beside the entry door, almost over the head of the old mother on her bench within the shadow of the porch. Inside the wooden cage the tiny bird immediately began twittering in a voice that pierced the heat of afternoon. All the tall wooden cages seen in Jogja held small, often tiny birds that were raised high for better voice projection it must have been; shade did not seem to be the factor.
The volume of the television was low, another of its faults; sporadic conversation continued. From its perch the bird sent high notes out into the passage between the opposite houses that made a row toward the river. The first voice after the bird had settled in place made a listener leap and follow the call in pursuit. Ahead the little bird darted happy to be chased. A gambol was the last thing a foreigner could have expected here.
Forty or fifty years ago caged birds had disappeared from Western cities; the prize of bird-song, its admiration, continued in these traditional communities on the equator. Smaller Malaysian towns were the same.
The tall young lad who delivered the cage was not part of the household; nor could this family have owned the bird. The front pillar on which the cage had been hung was part of the house however, still owned by the family. Could the entertainment of the bird have been provided for the added reception of the guests?
Outside the open door at this Kampung Ngasinan house a row of similar houses stretched down to the narrow water-channel behind—in flood no doubt justifiably termed a river. A woman emerged from one of the houses and took care to lock the door behind her with an old latch key. Shuttered against the heat, the houses gave the impression of an abandoned, derelict quarter. At the rear door of the visit house chickens could be heard; none were visible outdoors. A plastic or vinyl merchant had rolls of his product out front of a store a few doors along; the better class of houses no doubt had floor cover. Some house fronts here had been painted and carried minor decoration. In the event of a sale the visit house would fetch some reasonable price.
The water-way had raised precast concrete slabs aligned to contain flood-water when it arrived; during the dry there was no stir in the dirty, littered channel. An inspection created awkwardness with some men gathered in a work detail for a “People’s garden”, one of the chaps unexpectedly conveyed. Like many others still young in Indonesia, gleaming white teeth showed a number of gaps. Thus far the men had not made much impression on the baked clay; perhaps some leveling of ground had been managed. There were half dozen men from the houses with one or two hoes between them.
At home the men had children and old parents too. They were able-bodied at least. The man with the good English had noticed the momentary doubt; an involuntary cast of look.
A proffered handshake attempted to retrieve the situation. Smiles were exchanged.
The Islamic tee bearing the Arabic alphabet from the museum in Kuala Lumpur could not counter the effect of fine sandals and handsome white panama.
Faris had mentioned the old Java script that was now little in evidence these few years since his last visit. We noticed it in only a couple of places. Rather than a heart-land of fundamentalism following the lead of the infamous old cleric Abu Basheer, Solo in fact cast back to its pre-Islamic roots and there was long-standing tension here with Islam. The Solo Sultan was renowned for his meditation up in the tall tower of his palace that we skirted in the taxi. During his regular astral travel the Sultan visited far distant countries and reported back to his court on return. Embarrassing, suggested the young man at reception at Gloria Amanda apologetically that evening.
The Invalid appeared genuine. A stroke seemed exaggerated description for a man so young. The chap was two years younger than his wife. An injudicious marriage made matters harder still now—the husband's family was too poor to offer any kind of aid.
Ordinarily a benefactor like Faris might have expected to have been asked for his blessing prior to a marriage. Everything was harder now.
On entry the Invalid had taken Faris's hand in his two and brought it to his forehead. A scramble to rise to his feet had been shaken off by Faris. Twice the Invalid demonstrated his incapacity: the right arm had little feeling below the elbow; almost none in the hand. A couple of times through the visit the Invalid took the numb hand by the other for massage. The arm could be raised to the horizontal but no further, and the gait included an angled dragging of the right leg, toes of the foot bent inward. The man seemed lucid. Possibly given more time he could further improve. Faris could report back faithfully; the Fireman or the Arab might be prevailed upon.
Of five or six interventions of this kind over the years across Java and Malaysia Faris had two families continuing dependent and struggling. Another Jakartan scenario was similar to this in Solo. In Faris's judgment the little boy here seemed promising. Being able to amuse himself for a couple of hours augured well for future schooling, could it be provided. The insurance scheme might be a good investment here.
During the six month teaching stint nearby that had introduced Faris to the neighbourhood he had been housed with Western volunteer teachers who sought to tempt the Convert with beer and other alcohol. An Arizonan Muslim was received as a challenge by these colleagues.
Nightly Faris had taken his supper at Kampung Ngasinan and sat with the people. One of the scarved older women who came across tried unsuccessfully to prompt Faris's memory. Unfortunately there had been little progress made in this neighbourhood and in the case of the particular family back-sliding.
In over four weeks there had been no rain. When it did arrive in December the roof of the visit house would leak; the daylight had gleamed through the small perforations overhead. The plastic itself was not expensive; not that thin cheap kind. The labour over the tiles would mean four or five days’ work for a couple of men. In the meantime some of the holes might be patched.
We had chosen the date badly: Muslim New Year and a long weekend meant a queue at the train station ticket-office—seats sold out. The standing option was declined; therefore the taxi, about thirty dollars. Twice before in the week prior Faris's toothache had resulted in last minute cancellations.
The mejut, traffic jam was not so bad. Bad enough however given the bleak roadside scenery of dilapidated shop-fronts devoid of any conceivable prospect or hope of redemption. Some new housing and commercial construction was taking the place of old without any hint of past failures comprehended. A number of years Faris had not taken the road-trip and swore off it ever again. LA Tropical, he quipped in a low voice.
Beyond Klaten two thirds of the way along glimpses of green rice-fields finally; later the train back would deliver a great deal more of the carefully cultivated fields where straw-hats toiled. An old local permaculturalist some days ago had made the claim in the newspaper that only farming provided a means of independent living for man.
Two hundred thousand Rupiah was given from both sides to the poor family we had come out to visit in Kampung Ngasinan. In the planning a couple of weeks prior Faris had agreed one hundred thousand would be satisfactory offering to the household. On departing the house however after the visit Faris thought differently: one hundred was neither one thing nor the other, the man unexpectedly suggested. Two hundred might amount to something for the family. Four hundred thousand in the circumstances would at least provide respite.
Some years ago Faris had taught in the neighbourhood, encountered this family and taken particular interest. Now there was a disabled husband who had fallen from a fruit tree nine months earlier; a young three year old boy and the old mother of the house fetched into her mid-seventies wobbly and effectively blind.
There had been two major interventions: some years ago Faris and his American son had financed sealing of the roof to keep out the rain. This had amounted to paying for plastic sheeting to be laid under the roof tiles. There were no ceilings in the house—with the passing of a few years the plastic had shredded in a number of places above our heads in the front room. In order to clear family debts that had increased since the misfortune of the accident Faris had sourced from his network a French Muslim benefactor, a Fireman from Marseille. Since debts had mounted again and growing pressure from neighboring creditors to sell the house. At present the family was splitting profits from the fruit harvest of their trees with pickers
Shortly after being seated cups of tea were brought from out back by the young mother. A half hour later the fuller hospitality arrived from in front delivered by a neighbour—heaped plates of noodles with some egg and vegetables. Meals scaled for Western appetites (servings at the local warungs were never this size).
The household itself would not be partaking. Still, no one made eyes at the food, not even the little three-year-old. The family was well-fed—a paunch showed the Invalid was not suffering on that score and the little boy took his father’s build. Second or third tier poverty perhaps.
On a day-bed opposite the small TV sat the Invalid; the wife shared the couch with Faris and the boy played on the floor with plastic toys, wheeled vehicles mainly. A misplaced old exercise bike stood against the wall immediately inside the front door. The Invalid had made some progress from weekly physiotherapy sessions, the wife reported.
On the other side of the front door out of the way the old mother sat on a bench smiling through the opening when she bent forward to survey the room. The old mother was paper-weight thin with inflamed gums, cloudy eyes and over-sized hands distended from field-work. Dickens came to mind: a loved smiling mother quietly abiding and never complaining, maintaining all her cheer.
Various neighbours came to the door and the window over the bed. The window held no glass or sashes; a concertina panel of wooden slats had warped and sat askew. It was through the largest gap there that neighbours came to converse and observe the visitors. Small children came to the open doorway; teens, young mothers with babes on hip, middle-aged scarved women took turns at the window, smiling and waving.
Nine or ten square metres the front room measured, certainly a larger space than many front rooms along the gangs of inner Jogja. A couple of low packing-case cupboards, pitted concrete floor that had once been polished. There were complaints about the flickering television; its entertainment was important for the invalid and the old mother, who was prone to falls wandering outdoors.
Plastic stools were brought into the room for the guests to rest their cups and plates. From under a corner of the day-bed mattress the wife at one point fished out a prospectus for an insurance scheme for the boy’s future education which Faris studied. It would come in handy in a renewed petition to the Marseille fireman. Apart from this man Faris had one other possible benefactor, a well-to-do Arab who might respond favourably to a plea.
Behind a narrow passage led to two smaller rooms with mattresses on the floor in the corners. At the rear a low cupboard held a rice-cooker, cutting board and cooking utensils; the other side a little tiled annex held a hip-bath.
A well was mentioned. In the event old rusty iron piping was found running into the concrete floor that accessed ground water; an electric pump rather than bucketing on a winch. The wife showed the spurt from the plastic hose attached to a spigot. Unlike in Jogja and Jakarta, the water was clean here, Faris reassured earlier when he noticed caution over the tea.
Outdoors a tall boy came at one point to hang a bird-cage on a high hook immediately beside the entry door, almost over the head of the old mother on her bench within the shadow of the porch. Inside the wooden cage the tiny bird immediately began twittering in a voice that pierced the heat of afternoon. All the tall wooden cages seen in Jogja held small, often tiny birds that were raised high for better voice projection it must have been; shade did not seem to be the factor.
The volume of the television was low, another of its faults; sporadic conversation continued. From its perch the bird sent high notes out into the passage between the opposite houses that made a row toward the river. The first voice after the bird had settled in place made a listener leap and follow the call in pursuit. Ahead the little bird darted happy to be chased. A gambol was the last thing a foreigner could have expected here.
Forty or fifty years ago caged birds had disappeared from Western cities; the prize of bird-song, its admiration, continued in these traditional communities on the equator. Smaller Malaysian towns were the same.
The tall young lad who delivered the cage was not part of the household; nor could this family have owned the bird. The front pillar on which the cage had been hung was part of the house however, still owned by the family. Could the entertainment of the bird have been provided for the added reception of the guests?
Outside the open door at this Kampung Ngasinan house a row of similar houses stretched down to the narrow water-channel behind—in flood no doubt justifiably termed a river. A woman emerged from one of the houses and took care to lock the door behind her with an old latch key. Shuttered against the heat, the houses gave the impression of an abandoned, derelict quarter. At the rear door of the visit house chickens could be heard; none were visible outdoors. A plastic or vinyl merchant had rolls of his product out front of a store a few doors along; the better class of houses no doubt had floor cover. Some house fronts here had been painted and carried minor decoration. In the event of a sale the visit house would fetch some reasonable price.
The water-way had raised precast concrete slabs aligned to contain flood-water when it arrived; during the dry there was no stir in the dirty, littered channel. An inspection created awkwardness with some men gathered in a work detail for a “People’s garden”, one of the chaps unexpectedly conveyed. Like many others still young in Indonesia, gleaming white teeth showed a number of gaps. Thus far the men had not made much impression on the baked clay; perhaps some leveling of ground had been managed. There were half dozen men from the houses with one or two hoes between them.
At home the men had children and old parents too. They were able-bodied at least. The man with the good English had noticed the momentary doubt; an involuntary cast of look.
A proffered handshake attempted to retrieve the situation. Smiles were exchanged.
The Islamic tee bearing the Arabic alphabet from the museum in Kuala Lumpur could not counter the effect of fine sandals and handsome white panama.
Faris had mentioned the old Java script that was now little in evidence these few years since his last visit. We noticed it in only a couple of places. Rather than a heart-land of fundamentalism following the lead of the infamous old cleric Abu Basheer, Solo in fact cast back to its pre-Islamic roots and there was long-standing tension here with Islam. The Solo Sultan was renowned for his meditation up in the tall tower of his palace that we skirted in the taxi. During his regular astral travel the Sultan visited far distant countries and reported back to his court on return. Embarrassing, suggested the young man at reception at Gloria Amanda apologetically that evening.
The Invalid appeared genuine. A stroke seemed exaggerated description for a man so young. The chap was two years younger than his wife. An injudicious marriage made matters harder still now—the husband's family was too poor to offer any kind of aid.
Ordinarily a benefactor like Faris might have expected to have been asked for his blessing prior to a marriage. Everything was harder now.
On entry the Invalid had taken Faris's hand in his two and brought it to his forehead. A scramble to rise to his feet had been shaken off by Faris. Twice the Invalid demonstrated his incapacity: the right arm had little feeling below the elbow; almost none in the hand. A couple of times through the visit the Invalid took the numb hand by the other for massage. The arm could be raised to the horizontal but no further, and the gait included an angled dragging of the right leg, toes of the foot bent inward. The man seemed lucid. Possibly given more time he could further improve. Faris could report back faithfully; the Fireman or the Arab might be prevailed upon.
Of five or six interventions of this kind over the years across Java and Malaysia Faris had two families continuing dependent and struggling. Another Jakartan scenario was similar to this in Solo. In Faris's judgment the little boy here seemed promising. Being able to amuse himself for a couple of hours augured well for future schooling, could it be provided. The insurance scheme might be a good investment here.
During the six month teaching stint nearby that had introduced Faris to the neighbourhood he had been housed with Western volunteer teachers who sought to tempt the Convert with beer and other alcohol. An Arizonan Muslim was received as a challenge by these colleagues.
Nightly Faris had taken his supper at Kampung Ngasinan and sat with the people. One of the scarved older women who came across tried unsuccessfully to prompt Faris's memory. Unfortunately there had been little progress made in this neighbourhood and in the case of the particular family back-sliding.
In over four weeks there had been no rain. When it did arrive in December the roof of the visit house would leak; the daylight had gleamed through the small perforations overhead. The plastic itself was not expensive; not that thin cheap kind. The labour over the tiles would mean four or five days’ work for a couple of men. In the meantime some of the holes might be patched.
NB. If anyone reading this
blog might be able to spare something for Hartini here is her email address.
Alternatively,
for anyone in Singapore, Malaysia or Indonesia, I am planning a return to Jogja
in August and will be meeting Hartini. My email: pavlelazarev@hotmail.com
(Hartini did not write to me but to Mr. "Faris".)
On Wednesday, June 29, 2016 3:30 PM, Hartini Sulastri <hartiniazril@gmail.com> wrote:
Om,apa GINJALKU aja di jual agar bisa bayar hutang,aku bingung Om,tolong Om klau ada yg butuh GINJAL ,aku diberi tahu
Wassalamualaikum
(Hartini did not write to me but to Mr. "Faris".)
On Wednesday, June 29, 2016 3:30 PM, Hartini Sulastri <hartiniazril@gmail.com> wrote:
Om,apa GINJALKU aja di jual agar bisa bayar hutang,aku bingung Om,tolong Om klau ada yg butuh GINJAL ,aku diberi tahu
Wassalamualaikum
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Prambanan (Heritage)
A third World Heritage site in the region could be ignored no longer. (Borobudur and Georgetown, Penang were the other two. Singapore was still trying to join the club through its botanical gardens, and a one or two other possibilities.)
The introduction of the bell here in Java was suggested by the repetition of the motif up and down all the towers.
Across the green jungle for miles round and high up into the heavens the peal of the various tones—the kampungfolk must never have heard the like.
The stir of the moment in time might have been better imagined without the buffeting road-trip on the No. 1A Transjogja, and the commercial strip that had replaced the earlier rice-fields.
Hundreds of bells rising up in the stone, before one final large crown capped each of the structures.
Later the museum attached showed what a state of collapse had been found at the re-discovery of the complex in the early 1800’s.
School-kids from across the archipelago were out in numbers, the requests for photographs with the bule almost as many as the bells.
Mister. Mister white guy. Photograph please? Smiling, beaming young boys and girls, fathers and mothers. One extended family from Sumatra seized their chance early and was later found beneath one of the stunted trees seeking the shade.
In a short conversation of a few shared words the group was keen to impress the touristic claim of their own region. Toba. Beautiful. The famous lake was another must-see in the region.
The plea ventured here recalled mother's own for her birthplace; and all the years she had not been believed.
As at Borobudur, the depth of the treads on these Hindu stairs were not scaled to European feet. The lurching required for the risers must have stretched Javanese and Indians both.
Within the dark of the crypts a minute or two was needed to adjust the eyes. The lines of chiseled stone rising up included recent mortar in a number of places. Many decades the reconstruction here had been continuing.
Candle flames, basilisks and birds with human heads and wings half-stretched for flight were everywhere repeated. The latter struck especially, suggesting as they did the difficulty of capture as much as flight.
Surrounding the candle flames the shimmer of air was included by the old artists and recalled the emblem of the Sikhs.
Without all the high-end Western curatorial trappings, the simplicity of the organisation seemed fitting.
A wandering chook was sighted pecking in a corner of the grounds. It may have been Prambanan that advertised wild deer moving through the precinct, and then dance performance under torchlight for value-added tourist packages.
En route in the bus, the same as from the airport, another EXIST NET was passed on the roadway near the Sentul Market.
The past still figured in the everyday culture for the emerging generation in Indonesia. Despite the lure of modernity.
Yogyakarta, Indonesia
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Splatter Flicks in the Tropics
The flaked-out sleeping visible on all the streets through the tropics still startles a relative newcomer even after almost three and one half years. Lunchtimes in Singapore the foreign workers under trees and over the concrete of the Void Decks of the housing towers strike for an instant like massacre scenes from a real-life movie. Tonight going out for supper the woman who provided the buzz-cut an hour earlier was found slumped in the chair before the mirror with head on hands across the narrow shelf. 25,000 rupiah was the charge — $2.50 the woman's boss converted when she saw some hesitation at the price. Over a coffee later with Paijo the becak driver the standard price of a cut was revealed to be 6 - 7,000. In bule kampung, Whitey Village on Sosrowijayan, understandably a different scale operated. Marching up the street the Western tourists at the Massage place, the Pedicure, the sightseeing offices and the bars drinking beer need to be passed. Many of the young bule here would be inclined for some other type of experience were it not for the industry steered by the Tourist Guides. Buying a round of straight kopi tonight for Paijo and his friend, a fellow becak driver, and teas for three young early teen boys, the bill came in below the cut. The people on the other side of the rail-way line were more friendly, Paijo suggested. Sometimes the backpacker kids can be seen along that stretch too beyond Malioboro.
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