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 blundering hand. Inside the entry, the lesehan, the traditional raised teak floor where footwear was removed. It was surrounded by compendiums of various periodicals—Jurnal Sosioteknologi, India Perspektif, Mobil Motor Tahun , all pretty much up to date.
Opposite newspapers: Kompass, Bernas, Kedaulantan Rakyat (Sovereignty of the People). The last was the oldest in Indonesia, first published 1945, after the war and before the Dutch Belanderers were prevailed upon to decamp, according to Hendrikus at the desk. (Early evening returning from the Cyber up beyond Sudirman, the early printing works of K.R. was happened upon, the old industrial compound with wide internal courtyard strongly reminiscent of the era in many other locales.)
A generation or two ago one could not enter this library without… Henrikus signed neck-lace? neck-tie?
A krah.
Ah! A short lesson in etymology following.
Hendrikus had been told of Montenegrin ancestry; adjacent Bosnia and Herzegovina. (The BiH orientation was always useful in the Muslim lands.) As the name suggested, Hendrikus was a Catholic; with a Dutch great or great-great grandfather back in the works.
Hend was interested to hear something of Medjugorije. Were the reported miracles there 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 while drawing the old atap roof structure earlier. Matter not vastly different even in Europe.
The krah.
Hendrikus, my man, that particular sign of high culture, of the gentleman, in fact derived 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 recognised 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 had been required attire for a chap in search of learning. No entry to the Nasional Bibliotek on Malioboro without. Darkies need not apply.
Oddly too, in former times a topi, hat needed to be removed for access to the storehouse of knowledge in Yogyakarta. Even a fine panama, it would seem. One would have thought those terrorising 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 round 9 the first morning, the holdings were meagre. Golf course club houses in the gated communities would certainly have been better provisioned. The year before the Nat. Library in KL 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 the Padang area of the island of Sumatra—the famous Amazonian matrilineal Minangkaubau, of whom Z. spoke so proudly. Unexpectedly, here in the tourist strip of Malioboro many of the traders hailed from Sumatra.
After settling at Kristina Hotel off Malioboro, walks up and down included three viewings of batik painting. 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 proud Bugis from South Sulawesi, of which there were a great number in Singapore. An unasked cup of mint tea was provided there, Yan apologising for the lack of beer for the Australian.
Malioboro was tourist strip from beginning to end, the rough edges providing something more than the usual — the elderly beggars, street buskers & trannies among others.
As well as the batik artists, one ran the gauntlet of the trishaws & horse-drawn fiacres. One of the warnings on-line was to watch out for a bite from the latter beasts—not easy on such a crowded thoroughfare.
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