Near
half two on the third visit this time round at Pak Muh’s stall at Beringharjo, high time Anton in the yard
received something to slake that mighty thirst of his.
The usual hand at the throat signed.
OK Anton, granted... Lads, a drink for
the man.
As always, brilliant kampung folk in attendance at the tables with their bright, lively
eyes, furtive looks and ready greetings. Opposite a pair from Kaliurang way.
Merapi, the chap had initially answered. The steaming mountain gave secret
pride to the inhabitants on the slopes. Faint-hearted orang lived down on the
flat by the rivers, keeping birds in cages and finding excitement on the screens. There had been no word for a stretch now of any kind of eruption;
lately Sinabung on Sumatra and the other on Bali had stolen Merap’s glory.
If Anton—and not the more usual Antun—traced
some Belanda or other Euro admixture
in his family line, it was unapparent in that thick-set Java Man form. Well,
perhaps a more fixed scrutiny might suggest something. Parachute Ant into a
Macedonian gypsy camp there would have been hi-fives and back-slapping alround.
Not surprisingly, this afternoon Ant’s
sidekick eventually got in on the act himself, trailing on his pal’s coat-tails.
What about me then, hey?
Just testing the water; flying the kite.
Past visits following Anton this chap too had received the occasional beverage.
Good and well. Another then there, lads…Yes, him too, when the drinks waiter sought confirmation.
In the brief indecision, the
to-and-fro, there seemed to be some by-play between the lads at the choice of
drink here. Perhaps this fellow was going for top shelf, an iced lemon, maybe
with extra sugar.
To-and-fro through the wire fence.
Playing funny buggers, ah? Can’t make
your mind up? What about for you a draught of oplosan, maybe?
An explosion. Big tonnage too in that
cavernous space and reverberating out into the yard.
Far out! Hilarious! A chorus of a
dozen at least, both male and female, returning laughter.
The blaring had been carefully timed
and bruited loudly. Heard by every diner, passerby, all the lads in the cycle
yard, their customers and right the way round that central part of Pasar Beringharjo.
HAHAHAHAHA.
Even without the recent news there
would have been great gaiety. Two or three years back there had been a famous
song by that name playing endlessly the length and breadth of Malioboro. On YouTube innumerable renditions made it
hard to find the original. The original was a fantastically raunchy slow-beat
version masterfully arranged. A killer.
Oplosan,
oplosan…
The man had claimed the girl’s heart;
she couldn’t get him outta her head. A demon lover beyond compare, one unfortunately given to the demon drink. Something like that the lyric went,
though it was the arrangement that captured. Limp imitators fell flat.
At the time it had not emerged that the
moonshine was in fact called by that name. Oplosan.
A week ago a bad batch had done for
over a hundred drinkers out in the West around Jakarta and Bandung.
Ten points to the Bule for that witty grenade.
NB. 1 The camp kitchen @ Pak Muh, with the ablution stalls at the end of the passage and the motor-cycle yard adjacent. (The little mussolah where the girls and women perform their prayers is just around the corner.)
NB. 2. The eating area.
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