Oh! To Broaden the Mind (Straits Times)

Misplaced in the crowded Al Wadi seating beneath the single skin canvas, heat pounding. Silent scream at the newspaper was not helping any. Oh! for the intelligent critique of the Jak Post left behind in Jogja. Foul and horrid fare here as usual & forever. The appalling fixing and manipulation in neighbouring Malaysia in this election season was infuriating. No surprise the soft pedal of course—people in glass houses; &etc. A Prof. from Penang was given a couple hundred words for the sketched summary of the gerrymander in the dribbling language of the academy. (Redeliniation, malapportionment, arbitrary...) More and more still PR malarkey on the jockeys in the running to receive the torch from the tired incumbent PM scion. (4G leaders: Forging a team by collaboration... Don’t worry anybody.) Running how many months now? The local neighbourhood madrasah here—Wak Tanjong Al-Islamiah—to get $7.5m to extend their lease could perhaps be counted good news. (The same incidentally was made famous by the author in his piece published by the Canadian Antigonish Review, titled “Ibrahim and Ismail.”) The Hot Bods column in the Sports pages puke as usual. Attempted gleaming of the Robo-adviser leaning with both stubby hands on his adviser’s table exuding geniality, sorry, doesn’t cut it, Charlie O’Flaherty, don’t care how much of the ol’ blarney you can deliver. (Invest.) Above, beyond and top-most of all else was the feature on the enviously well-traveled Singaporean trio wielding the world’s most powerful passport & documenting with their pics their journeyings: — beaches, mountains, ex-disaster & war zones, caves and desserts. A “cabby-bodyguard” was hired by one venturesome chap in order to get to the hottest hot-spots. 116, 151 and 183 countries covered, respectively, and now presumably on the list for the Musk option further afield.

                                                                                                      The Sunday Times, 29 April 2018

The Parade 18_Sept26

The people down by the rail-line at the crossing come along pretty much like their counterparts of what? 150 - 60 years ago in the ever-expanding North American States to watch the great iron beast power by. Tonight a little boy up on the wheeled fencing was shaking the top rail and leaping up and down on the bottom as the night wagons to Jakarta were pulling in to Tugu. As Ni suggested in her example late last year on the JKT - Bandung for the first time in her life, a great many people have never had the opportunity to travel on the great dragon that traverses the entire island. 

For the greater part of the day there was no intelligible answer for the vacancy on the streets. Almost none of the stallholders on Malioboro had come out, leaving the usually bustling thoroughfare quite ghostly. Even Mas Willy had failed to show for his shift at Red Palm, Mas Tyo of the morning initially unable to explain why.

Eventually, the mystery was solved: here we were arrived upon the Sultan’s birthday, the local Yogyakarta royal. On the same day there was a new Prince in the house of Windsor, though not everyone in Jogja knew that.

At Semesta in the evening for supper, the amputee in the yard showed at close quarters as in fact a young lad, perhaps still in the first half of his twenties. Looking from the table in the dark and under the shadows of the trees, the chap’s gait in particular had suggested an older, more robust man.

With some light catching the face, one wondered whether it could possibly have been another just happening to have lost that same portion of his left limb. 

There must have been an added streetlamp now that somehow robbed this young man of all his former presence. It took quite a time to see again those swinging hips and confident tilt of the head, awaiting the rupiah from the cashed-up patrons parking.

And while on the subject of gait, gesture & manner, let it be known, those fine fattie girls at Ayam Pedas could never cross the floor in Sing. In the manner they do here. Neither in Melbourne, nor many other locales. 

Call ‘em fattie, if you will; more than a little rotund, certainly. But equally certainly, they do get by pretty well here, easy to tell. Admired, appreciated and often asked—like that confident young lass of the same proportions in the padang place on Sabang, in Jakarta, where the older fellow hung at the register chatting her up properly, until he could pass his details. 

         Beautifully hidden allure, a flowering ardour ready to blossom from beneath those layers of thin, glossy fabric. Catwalk girls swing their legs strongly one in front of the other in the fashion shows; these short, more rounded lasses twist and swivel as they go, reminiscent of some kind of mechanical or industrial spindle, coiling thread, perhaps. 

         The longer glide down the street in another body type was something else again, captivating in an altogether other way in Java. This Botero bustle and swish was a thing of its own, precious kind.

 

 

 

 

 

Taking Flight (18_26)

 

How many times the bus ride and still the window tattooing its images on the retina.

200kms of sheltered walkway by 2018 so we can walk in comfort, by Kambungan.

The burnt orange notice was first seen on Jalan Besar on the return from down in Oz, adjacent a new condo tower dotted with greenery & trailing vines.

From the condo to the MRT and then the office tower, one could escape the Tropics almost entirely in well-planned Singapura. 

I plan to do more charity when I retire, especially for these guys.

Late-30s/early-40s gal, left her bicycle aside in order to lift a cat up to her face in place of the baby she missed out on for some strange reason in the sheltered bower on the Equator. (DBS Bank near Bedok would help her manage the transition.)

Two kilometres further, the picture of Grandeur Park Residences titillated sleepy-eyed commuters.

In-between at all points along the roadway, dark men in hard-hats & fluro under the baking sun. 

Hard Rock tees were less numerous at 9AM. (One anticipated the absence of brands on the streets of Jogja, both hi & low form.)

Days past Malcolm Turnbull had nagged in the brain after the award bestowed on the Republic for its accomplished urban design.

A spot of urban terrorism now:

Once low dose nerve gas had done for the security detail, the miscreant Malcolm would be taken by the ear and dragged along a few kilometres of sheltered walkway; up in the elevators and along the passages to the pigeon holes, where he could sit beneath a fan sipping his teh and cast over the iconic sky-line.

Dunk the Duffer’s noggin in the little tub outside Paragon, with its silver and pink baubles curling overhead.

Rub his sniffling nose over the street art on Orchard Road.

Run the blighter through the school playgrounds and across the sun-blasted fields of the richer ones.

Look real good, Mal old pal. And when you’re done report back!

The award for good works in the colonies to Prince Phillip by Mal’s predecessor was way bad, but this was not so very far behind.

 

How To Tell Hendrikus?

Hendrikus told a little tale of what he termed “selfishness” this afternoon at the old Malioboro library involving his Belgian friend. This woman was a serious Indonesia enthusiast, speaking both proficient Bahasa and also one of the Timor Leste languages, in addition to her two or three European languages and Esperanto. A talented and devoted linguist who had a PhD from Brussels within the field presumably. The woman, similar age to Hendrik in his mid-thirties, loved Indonesia and visited annually, staying ten days at a stretch. As a visitor to the library on Malioboro Hendrik at the counter had made the acquaintance. (Hendrik had been working the last few years digitising Greater Yogyakarta’s newspaper archive, which took him to the new library a few kilometres out of the centre where he met fewer foreigners now.) Over four or five years a good friendship had developed with the Belgian and Hendrik confessed he had fallen in love with her. The woman was soft and sensitive, according to Hend, similar to Indonesian women. For an odd and surprising illustration of this latter Hendrik told of riding on his bike with the woman, always of course an ordeal in a helmet under the tropical sun. When the pair arrived at a particular destination Hendrik had seemingly been charmed by the tears that came to her. This had reminded Hend of his Javanese beauties riding daily in this heat from earliest days? It was rather odd and unexpected to hear. The conclusion of softness and sensitivity granted however. Almost certainly Hendrikus had not acted on his feelings, nor divulged them to the woman concerned; perhaps the Belgian guessed well enough. Hend was married to a pretty local gal, in the main a contented husband. Which didn’t of course mean feeling could not radiate elsewhere in the usual way. With numerous visits to Indonesia, many likely predating the initial meeting with Hendrikus, the Belgian linguist had formed a number of friendships, among which there was a local Indonesian mother-figure. Such relationships were not unfamiliar in other countries and among other cultural groups: far from home, an enthusiast adopts one particular maternal figure whom they have claimed as mother-in-a-foreign-land. Migrants in displaced communities commonly resorted to the practice. (Bab back in Melbourne had been majka to many Serbs, Croats, Macedonians and others.) In Indonesia the practice extended to regular foreign visitors. Hendrik’s example of “selfishness” occurred at this local mother’s house. When Hendrik dropped off the woman, the Belgian, at her Indonesian mother’s house after one of their outings the perfunctory goodbye he received rather stung him. The Belgian had apparently dismounted, offered farewell with the wave of a hand, opened the door to the house and entered without further ado…. One needed to imagine Hendrik looking on from the seat of his motor-cycle at a wave of the hand from behind, as he demonstrated this afternoon; the door of the substitute mother’s opened, closed and banged a little perhaps. Nothing of real moment. Discourteous and casual, however, for one accustomed to better graces. When the Belgian linguist had this “selfishness” pointed out to her she had laughed, whether from embarrassment or some other reason was unclear. As a Catholic Hendrik was concerned with the resurgence of radical Islam and terrorism. There was some Belanda, Dutch ancestry in the family a few generations back, including an evangelical grandfather who had conducted lay missions in Lampung, South Sumatra, where family remnants remained. Sometimes Hendrik thought a re-location to a Western country might be a good thing. It was difficult to maintain faith in meaningful change for the better in Indonesia; the country had gone backwards in recent years, according to Hendrik, the economy stagnating and inflation particularly a serious problem. (By contrast, for all the financial graft in Malaysian politics the country continued to surge forward.) Airfares were expensive to Holland, and immigration more difficult since this turnaround after the refugees and the rest.

         How to tell Hendrikus? And how to tell a Westerner too what the heck Hendrikus was on about with his summary judgment? (Might the Belgian linguist have seen enough in her trips to Indonesia to comprehend?)

Old Virgins and Other Hardship

Down along Mangkubumi hoping the cloud might pass. As in the Malay quarter of Singapura, naked fruit carried in hand on an overcast day, particularly flaming bright mandarins, produced the usual magic. Fire-breathers and jugglers could never win such rapt attention. The fourth orb needed to be kept hidden in the shoulder bag — there could be no excuse rebuffing one of the petitioners on the street in possession of such a hoard, ancient old ibu in particular who sought only with their eyes. Lightest drops thus far, visible in a puddle from the early morning pour. 
         On the street in every quarter the young teen mums and dads that bore out the newspaper story of the last few days: in Indonesia the rate of teen marriage continued to hover around 25%. Today an article focused on a valley out behind Merapi where the folk explained the long-standing practice. On the one hand it was better to formalize a union and avoid illicit relations; on the other the custom had always been of mid-teen marriage for girls and later for boys. It was difficult rebuffing a marriage proposal too without giving offence and creating serious trouble into the future. In these agrarian communities old virgins of nineteen had always been a source of family shame. (In old Montenegro none were more pitiable than the stare cure, old maids.)
         The fifteen and sixteen year old mothers on the street in this community might make a better fist of it where grandparents and often great-grand could be called upon for expertise and aid. The urban village too raised the child here.
         At the early opener Jamal Edan Angkringan near Pak Antun, which didn’t open until the evening, the teh jahe, ginger tea for some reason lacked flavour. It was real ginger and generous slices in the glass; perhaps gone stale and soft. A good perch even so, tables provided and the passing parade touching distance.
         No doubt longer term travelers, or people who settle properly in second and third world countries, become habituated to the hardship and struggle evident all round them, hardly distinguishing one kind from another. It could not be otherwise; cosseted newcomers only were shocked by the sights. One recalled lovely young middle-class Lizzie, a teaching colleague many years ago in Melbourne, reporting her trip to India with her boyfriend. The pair had landed in Bombay, as the city was still known then, and the bus ride from the airport proved more than enough for Lizzie. In her hotel room she unable to stop crying and could not emerge for a number of days.
          The work-crew laying the new pavement down the bottom end of Malioboro near Hamza Batik were greeted here and there along the path. Toughened young lads in short pants, ragged tees and flip-flops benefitting from good cloud cover and as important, good camaraderie. Safety shoes, hard hats and gloves — kosong. There were none. In this setting in their native land, however, there was none of the heavy woefulness attached to the foreign crews in Singapore under the supervision of the local Chinese foremen and engineers.
         Good humour evident. Buoyant spirits. The old becak drivers and passersby chatted with their fellows. Without the foreign taskmaster an entirely different cast to the scene.
         Not much hi-tech here. A bulldozer had been on hand the day before. On this particular day it might have been called elsewhere and the cartage of the screenings for the concrete mix needed to be done by hand.
         This was not the first time such a tool had been seen in Indonesia. Seeing it again that afternoon the shock was the same. This traveler was still raw for such scenes.
         By the driveway beyond Hamza a lad was bent double at his toil. This young chap was not working a trowel or boxing in the path. This man was shoveling screenings — bent double because the shovel was only a shovel loosely understood.
         A shovel minus a handle here. Instead of a handle there had been a couple of holes drilled either side of the steel head and a wire looped through to make a handle of sorts; something like the handle of a housewife’s shopping basket. (Gloves would have been useful here.) 

         Shoveling like that with the truncated implement two metres at a time from pile to pile. 
         Lads laughed, stretched out their arms, tilted back their heads. What was to do?
         In through the entrance at Hamza was another world where one was ushered by costumed elderly, even ancient folk who stood either side bowing their heads and hands clasped prayerfully. Fridays and weekends a little gamelan ensemble played opposite the register. The workers on the street could not afford Beringharjo batik, much less Hamza.

         In the cafe on the top floor the trannie in her elaborate persiflage was always tricky to encounter. Fantastic adornment of which she was proud. It was a wonderful stage set for her there over the wooden boards with all the statuary and screens off-setting. The woman created a captivating presence and often received requests for photographs. Not all Instagrammers in Indonesia could boast such a figure in their suite of pictures. 
         In the foreign language one had bumbled Mas a number of times with the thanks for service. Pal or buddy. Then on the afternoon of the work-crew downstairs an impromptu correction only made matters worse.
         Ibu was mother strictly. In fact nothing but mother. Less than appropriate.
         Would Mbak be best for this lady? the common for young, unmarried girls beyond their teens.
         Six years on still plenty of learning remaining.

Moonshine (update April24)

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.

Nowhere To Hide - published in a longer sequence by NWW

A food court behind Beringharjo without a single drinks stall serving either teh tawar or teh jahre — black or ginger tea. (Ginger with susu, milk did not appeal when it was likely condensed.) A short sit without then. Busy lunchtime, a place had been staked with the folder and a couple of mandarins while the teh was investigated. Returning from the scouting, a young lass—fifteen she turned out, in Sec. 3—was found at the table. On the approach she had watched the tall Bule’s stride with apprehension and growing horror, it was later clear. (The handsome panama only added consternation.) Daughter of a cruise ship worker it would shortly emerge, talkative chap keen to practice his English again after a long holiday from that employment. (Cringing from the lass as Dad hoed in indefatigably.) Coming to a stop at the table where the girl was marooned with Dad nowhere in sight, the place clearly marked for himself by this tall stranger she now saw, what was a young lass to do with herself? The usual smile and some little blushing perhaps? Following a brief nod lowering eyes to her lap? What was it to be? Scarved young schoolgirl hailing from a town a couple of hours out and boarding in Jogja at a better class institution, it seemed from Dad’s subsequent explanation. What, would she jump from her chair, grabbing the two drinks that had been placed on the table-top and flee for her life? Really? Not immediately. First, before she could gather herself for the effort, steel her mind and rise to her feet, this young girl would crumple, take to the table-top to hide herself head down on a crooked arm for shame. A trapped animal hopelessly cornered might lose strength for either fight or flight in such circumstance. Oh dear. Surrender complete and utter; hiding her dreadful mortification. Down for the count perhaps five full seconds; perhaps two or three more too. Leaping up quickly after that with mind enough to collect the two tall plastic cups and outta there. (A substitute drink had in fact been accepted at the stall in place of the two preferences—ginger or black—until the girl manning the counter was able only to offer plastic.) Two minutes later here was Dad circled round behind. My daughter. Sorry.... Modesty and delicacy like you wouldn’t believe; deference like you wouldn’t credit. (The panama was not a young man either; perhaps young eyes thought august and impressive—certainly intimidating.) Somehow Dad was able to reassure her they could return to the table, the Bule had expressly invited. Chewing the ear thereafter for all he was worth the man, despite the evident preoccupation with paper and pen; sweet young kid squirming at the bumbling. Four or five times Dad had been round the world. Round world trips were much preferable to circling the Caribbean and suchlike. Once Michael Crichton had been aboard, best-selling No. 1 Jurassic Park. The waiter was given advance notice of the Hollywood film about to go into production at the time. Michael Douglas more than once a guest. Another notable was the King of Jordan. (With his pretty young wife, chap was reminded.) Table Mountain in Cape Town. Anchorage, Alaska. The Bering Strait. Surprisingly there were no visits to China, only HK. (Ten years ago that market was still nascent. How times change.) A real estate venture was now doing well in Semarang. Talk the legs off the chair Dad, go on. The dutiful girl sitting angled away from the eyes of the stranger the whole time, rocking herself now and then. Glimpses of glossy cheekbone once or twice; never the corner of an eye. Dear me, when a loose strand of mee dangled and swung from her mouth, by golly! it did take some reeling in. The ceremony of parting with dad gave the girl time to slip on her mouth mask unnoticed. With that added screen she could bear up beneath the gaze for her own farewell, brown eyes staring out like the fox again and colouring under cover. From the father one would never have guessed such a creature. During formative years he had been absent and it was a pity the mother remained at home.

NB. https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-four-short-pieces/

Holding On

An optical illusion likely, but this new cycle attendant out front at Semesta appears to swing his amputated arm more than the other. The thought was looseness from the lack of weight at the end—the mangling here had occurred in the hand and wrist. Something to be grateful for the fact it was the left, a small mercy. Could he still manage a bike in motion on the roads? That loss would also be a severe limitation for a man here—wheeling the cafe patrons’ bikes for parking as much as he could manage. In stride in soldierly gait the man seemed to have little control, the short arm flopping about like a fish on the end of a line. Nerve ends and tendons shot and possibly he was still becoming accustomed to his condition.

The Guard-House

 Scenes In and Around a Guard-House

The rich luv, just luv to death the secure. Gotta keep em safe; and lottsa not so well-off around the place don’t forget. Stalking ‘em it sometimes feels like when they’re walking to the car door, to the resto and the office. Sends a chill.... Well, that’s overdoin it in these parts, but you know what I mean. Can’t get enough secure. They’ve got state-of-the-art fighter jets, missiles and the like here, if any of the neighbours wanna get narky. But the worry is the dark gardens round the towers, out beside the pool late night and the carparks. What about deliveries? Who really knows what’s lurking in those trucks and vans that come in by the gate? It wouldn’t take much to hurl a rudimentary petrol bomb up against their windows, grab one of the children coming home from school outta the hands of the maids. CCTV, floodlights, gates and barriers need backup from the human element; another layer if nothing else. Therefore Yana @ $70 per 12 hour shift. (Boss gotta pay another $10 levy because he’s a foreigner, never stops reminding him.) What did he say, three through the day and two nights? Beaut gig that particular one, according to Yana, because it allowed plenty of kip on the guardhouse floor under the fan. Enviable slot. The people upstairs don’t know that of course, they think the uniformed Sec. boys are watching out for them every tick of the clock, patrolling the grounds, checking rubbish bins for suspicious parcels. No joke, the really conscientious supers want to know who threw what into the garbage cans