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.)
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.
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.
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.
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