First time on Java was like first time over the 800m Causeway from Singapore. After so long on the Little Red Dot the over-powering question: where had all the Chins gone?... In Johor Bahru back in 2011 the effect was startling, unnerving, quite discombobulating, as they say now. Hints, suggestion, glimmers were not lacking both in JB and then later Jakarta and Jogja; on the contrary, these hints and suggestions of form, bone structure, aspect were plentiful on each and every side. But no two ways about it, not really the true Han. Definitely not. A short little hop-step-and-jump — in the case of JB literally — the Chinese rare as hen's teeth, as they also say.
That was why a couple of nights go at Ayam Pedas on
Sosrowijayan corner one could not help stopping and staring, in all probability
tongue out gaping like a thirsty dog surveying the tables. Not one, not two,
not a minor scattering; in fact on the contrary, almost a dozen Chins spread
over three of the long wooden tables. There was no mistake. Hungry Chinese
trying to catch the attention of the poor waiters sweating under their shirts.
Eleven bona fide Chinese; no need enquire and check family trees. Hokkein
speakers one could immediately guess from the rhythm.
— Oh! You know that too? the daughter with the mother at the table enquired hard on the heels of hearing some little extended bahasa and indeed fluent rap with the waiters. (Minor show-off.)
.... Well, after four years in Singapore....
(For those expectant of a salacious tale hold your horses right now. A straight good girl who had likely taken over her parents' store in the capital, from where they had driven over. Not ready to risk all for quick, emergency love, as the Nobel winner Garcia Marquez termed it. Polite chat. Settled for the well-grooved.)
Nine other older women at the two front tables, struggling with the poor service. They were famished, used to chop-chop. Might even have been from the Little Red Dot were it not for the level of bahasa. Tucking in mightily when the nasi reed buckets and the plates eventually arrived. Solicitous too for all at table. You want some of this? Here, try this. You got enough there?...
When the rowdy young buskers arrived the heart shrank a little in expectation of a stony-hearted response from this unusual majority that night. The young singer with the monstrous studs in his ears waited at their table an eternity. Looking on from the rear it appeared as if there might be some stand-over challenge going on between them, a kind of turf war. You wanna sit there feeding your faces while we the indigenous?... In fact that might have been all wrong. Lady in the centre of the table ahead had been fidgeting in her lap a loooong while. It looked as if the alms might have been delegated to her. And then, surprise, surprise, what she fished out was neither the standard grey Two, not the light brown Five, twasn't even the mauve 10,000 Rupiah. What flashed across the table top from yellow to brown hand was the clearly coloured green Twenty in the tone of the forest and jungle of recent memory in these parts.
— Oh! You know that too? the daughter with the mother at the table enquired hard on the heels of hearing some little extended bahasa and indeed fluent rap with the waiters. (Minor show-off.)
.... Well, after four years in Singapore....
(For those expectant of a salacious tale hold your horses right now. A straight good girl who had likely taken over her parents' store in the capital, from where they had driven over. Not ready to risk all for quick, emergency love, as the Nobel winner Garcia Marquez termed it. Polite chat. Settled for the well-grooved.)
Nine other older women at the two front tables, struggling with the poor service. They were famished, used to chop-chop. Might even have been from the Little Red Dot were it not for the level of bahasa. Tucking in mightily when the nasi reed buckets and the plates eventually arrived. Solicitous too for all at table. You want some of this? Here, try this. You got enough there?...
When the rowdy young buskers arrived the heart shrank a little in expectation of a stony-hearted response from this unusual majority that night. The young singer with the monstrous studs in his ears waited at their table an eternity. Looking on from the rear it appeared as if there might be some stand-over challenge going on between them, a kind of turf war. You wanna sit there feeding your faces while we the indigenous?... In fact that might have been all wrong. Lady in the centre of the table ahead had been fidgeting in her lap a loooong while. It looked as if the alms might have been delegated to her. And then, surprise, surprise, what she fished out was neither the standard grey Two, not the light brown Five, twasn't even the mauve 10,000 Rupiah. What flashed across the table top from yellow to brown hand was the clearly coloured green Twenty in the tone of the forest and jungle of recent memory in these parts.
Almost
$SG2. The lad eye-balled in a not dissimilar fashion to some of the other
observers at the tables. TWENTY THOUSAND Rupiah. G-G-G-Golly!
Prompted by the Buddha's birthday perhaps, or day of Enlightenment some called it. Vesak it was termed in Singapore; Indonesia Waisak. Numerous variations across the region—Thailand, Myanmar, the People’s Republic, South Korea. If generosity could be prompted across racial lines, Waisak was the day for Buddhists on the territory of the largest Buddhist temple — or structure if not temple — this side of Nirvana.
Beautiful to behold. Heart-warming. There was a collective sigh not heard so much at Ayam Pedas on Sosro corner as sensed in the momentary thinness of oxygen. No exaggeration to say a little dizzying.
On the day following the celebrations would be marked by a procession from the marvelous little Mendut temple over the 4-5kms to Borobudur, where lanterns of some kind were to be lit and hoisted to the pinnacle. A couple of young German backpackers left the losmen early to venture over for the event. Late afternoon of that next day numbers again of Chinese at J. Co Cafe in the mall on Malioboro, big boxes of donuts delivered to the small round tables and marching out the door.
The Jakarta Post had mentioned it was a public holiday. One had taken that with a grain of salt. “Public Holiday”, duly acknowledged. All things fair and even in a multifarious archipelagic nation state and all that. But really?...
Prompted by the Buddha's birthday perhaps, or day of Enlightenment some called it. Vesak it was termed in Singapore; Indonesia Waisak. Numerous variations across the region—Thailand, Myanmar, the People’s Republic, South Korea. If generosity could be prompted across racial lines, Waisak was the day for Buddhists on the territory of the largest Buddhist temple — or structure if not temple — this side of Nirvana.
Beautiful to behold. Heart-warming. There was a collective sigh not heard so much at Ayam Pedas on Sosro corner as sensed in the momentary thinness of oxygen. No exaggeration to say a little dizzying.
On the day following the celebrations would be marked by a procession from the marvelous little Mendut temple over the 4-5kms to Borobudur, where lanterns of some kind were to be lit and hoisted to the pinnacle. A couple of young German backpackers left the losmen early to venture over for the event. Late afternoon of that next day numbers again of Chinese at J. Co Cafe in the mall on Malioboro, big boxes of donuts delivered to the small round tables and marching out the door.
The Jakarta Post had mentioned it was a public holiday. One had taken that with a grain of salt. “Public Holiday”, duly acknowledged. All things fair and even in a multifarious archipelagic nation state and all that. But really?...
It
was a shock to find the Malioboro library closed. In fact the sign on the door
showed Buka, Open. Behind the desk indoors the nice young chap in
the batik uniform rising to his feet advised, No. Closed….
Closed?
The sign? (Not voiced: thought bubble.) ….
One
could not sit at one of the tables on the lesehan either, No,
as the library was closed. The lights were indeed turned off; very dark.
The
new Perpustakaan Kota Jogja around behind Gramedia on
Sudirman perhaps?
No,
that would be closed too. All public offices in Indonesia would be closed
today. You see — indicating the calendar on the wall carrying the red letter
June 2 — in Indonesia it was a public holiday.... Waisak, yes. Very
sorry.
Wikipedia confirmed the suspicion: about 0.8 percent Buddhists in Indonesia. Around two million people, punching above their weight no doubt. A number, but not in the big mix, not in the local scheme of things. Strange. More than strange. A throw-back to something in the distant past. How many Chinese had got out after the last communal violence at the end of Suharto's reign? Doubtful that it had decimated the population. Quite odd. Quite. Or was it?... How different was Cup Day back home? One recalled all the foreigners of years past—our own pre-eminently—marveling at the fact of a National Public Holiday for a horse race. A nation closing down for a dozen and a half mares running in a paddock. The Queen's Birthday. Had the conservatives reinstated that festivity in the last few years?
Waisak in Jogja.
Wikipedia confirmed the suspicion: about 0.8 percent Buddhists in Indonesia. Around two million people, punching above their weight no doubt. A number, but not in the big mix, not in the local scheme of things. Strange. More than strange. A throw-back to something in the distant past. How many Chinese had got out after the last communal violence at the end of Suharto's reign? Doubtful that it had decimated the population. Quite odd. Quite. Or was it?... How different was Cup Day back home? One recalled all the foreigners of years past—our own pre-eminently—marveling at the fact of a National Public Holiday for a horse race. A nation closing down for a dozen and a half mares running in a paddock. The Queen's Birthday. Had the conservatives reinstated that festivity in the last few years?
Waisak in Jogja.
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