above and below the surface in Jogja

Written between Java and Kalimantan (on Friday 3 & Saturday 4 June 2016) about Wednesday 1st, Thursday 2nd & Friday 3rd June. Photos now added thanks to speedy wifi connection at Satika Hotel in Banyuwangi – Horah! More (some already written) to follow.

As we sit in the domestic departure lounge at Yogyakarta’s angkasapura I’m turning over whereabouts in Jogja from the last three days, is the best place to start from.

Maybe I will start by saying I take it back about the sweat. We have sweated unashamedly and uncontrollably out of every single body dripping pore. The sun came out after our first day. We’re told that really it’s a comparatively pleasant 31 degrees here and to expect like 36 in Kalimantan. We may melt.

Here in Java, everything smokes. The people. The bikes. Little piles of rice husks on the side of a village road. Incense. And it’s all presided over a smoking volcano (whatever else?). Even here in the airport lounge there is a Smoking Cafe. Wednesday night I meet long haired Anes (happy-faced and a friend of my sisters’ friends) at Asmara art and coffee shop on Jalan Tirtodipuran (Jl. = St). The guitarist performed the entire first set of rock numbers complete with lazy cigarette + inches of ash, dangling from his top lip Rolling Stones style. And we soon realised that taking to any kind of road in main town Java involves lung-gulping smog-fogged air.

“You can see why some of them wear the face masks here.”

“Totally”.

The congestion is intense and there are literally hundreds of motorbikes (“sepeda motor”) on any given 100 metre long stretch of main roads during the rush hours. We’ve seen kids on bikes, babies on bikes, dogs on bikes (not by themselves silly: rarely is there just one thing on a scooter!), two pigeons at the bottom of a three tier bird-cage on a bike, a kid with mum and washing basket on a bike, a metre wide aluminium washing up bowl strapped turtle like behind a gazillion other bits and a person on a bike, a dad-kid-mum-baby on a bike, the entire shelves of a veg shop (+ fruit, + veg) on a bike, a dozen dead chickens on a bike, a dozen alive chickens on a bike, perfectly balanced piles of casava leaves, harvested rice stalks and entire house moves on a bike. Their sense of balance is something else. It would have been neglectful of us to not plan our own journey on a bike really. So more of that in a moment.

Wednesday first though. It was a bit of an un-success. But perhaps that’s not fair. In fact, we just ended up where the day took us. We got up late. Not the way forward we have since realised. The sweat started to pour out of us the second after we stepped out into Java’s real midday heat – which comes at you from above, below and every side. We wondered around the corner and up Jl Prawirotaman and booked a bike tour to the villages at Via Via. Then guava juice for me (pink it turns out, and not the sweet white sort you get in Sinai) and a Green-power juice for Emma (purple and celery’ish). Java tastes we now know, are either supremely sweet, dimple inspiring bitter or deliciously nutty (possibly the best satay you ever had). This morning we got the sour. It’s actually taken until today for us to discover our (non-alcoholic) perfect drink with iced young coconut – es degan – but you have to ask for the sugar syrup on the side if you want to avoid your teeth dropping out. The local Bitang beer suits us just fine too, of course – and usually between Rp 22-32,000 (£2-3).

The money thing is so hard to compute. Basically Rp100,000 (red note) is £5. The notes come in Rp50,000 (blue), Rp20,000 (green) and Rp10,000 (purple) so it’s always a colourful transaction getting out a clutch of notes to pay for anything. Earlier we got Rp2 million out at the cash machine (twice!) to cover our Kalimantan Orangutan River trip. Which we need to pay in cash. Everyone wants cash. So we’re walking around with our wallets and pockets stuffed with notes like some sort of pseudo-gangsters. Crazy inflation. And the Rp500 (5p?) coins are light like the plastic money you get in children’s toy sets. Still, nice to be a millionaire for a bit.

We set out to the Kraton but learnt from a Beca (“betcha”) rider who was initially trying to get our custom that it closed at 1pm. True fact. Still we managed to find the shortcut entrance recommended to us by the girl on reception at our home-stay and were walked along an into a by another new friend who proudly showed us into a batik showroom. It’s quite an intricate process involving a little quill, wax dots of beeswax, dye and boil washing and once you know what you’re looking for, you can spot it a mile off. We declined buying and wondered towards a gated entrance where another man took over the tour…it’s almost like it’s prearranged but it just..happens. Maybe there are some secret ‘foreigner in the Kraton beacons’ we don’t know about. Anyway, our new self-appointed guide turns out to be part of the Gamelan orchestra in the Kings Palace. 3000 of them work and about 23,000 live (I think he said) within the walls surrounding the Kraton within a 3 mile (?) radius. He showed us the palace of the Kings daughter; now a restaurant, since she moved to be with her husband. He told us how everyone was worried about an heir as the King has only daughters and no sons. He said that they hope to be like England and have a female Queen instead so that the line can continue. They would prefer to keep the genetic line rather than the patriarchal one. I approve. He ushers us in to see the Princess’s bedroom. Shoes off as we pad up onto the raised proscenium to see the heavy brocade curtains and cushions. He demonstrates how to how to sit like a Princesses and we oblige taking photos.

Then into the gardens to a tree with these green bean things which he bites into and encourages us to follow:

“Vitamin C!”

We chomp on down, expecting them to be sweet like sugarcane. Not quite: those little shiney stalky little suckers mght just be the most sour things our toungues have ever tasted. Emma’s dimples dance about, double time.

Friend number three continues with our impromptu tour, through the pools and gardens of the Kraton’s backyard and his home. We pass children “hellooo! helloooo!”, swept-clean back yards and neat rows of sun-dried washing.

The odd bicycle negotiates it’s way past us and we emerge at the Wayang puppet ‘factory’. The ‘factory’ – is in fact, more of a workshop. A young man tells us how he just got hotter because we arrived (!) and proceeds to tells us all about the process of stamping patterns through these seductive silhouettes made of buffalo hide, with their jointed elbows and wrists.

We are both surprised by the sexual symbolism inherent within the patterns and realise that there was much more going on in the hands of ballet dancers the night before than we ever could of imagined. I won’t tell you exactly what he said. Let’s just say that afterwards when we casually dissect what he’s told us, we were equally surprised at how forward he was with describing… what was what.. and not a trace of the shyness which we had assumed might have been culturally inherited.

After doing the obligatory posing with the Wayang – after all as our previous self-appointed Kraton guide had told us – “they unique to Joyja. Batik is all over Java” – things started to get a little pear shaped. I think generally they do, if you start your day too late here as we did.

First we ended up being harangued into a Beca ride to the bus stop, which we realised one third of a bus ride (and a 25 minute wait later) was the wrong bus stop… we made it half way down Jl. Jend. Sudriman, realised there was another 2 buses yet to go with bus stop AND aitport changes, so began to swiftly reconsider our options, especially after waiting for another half an hour, to then be told that Prambanan closes at 5. It was already approaching 3.45. So…

Off we go in search of Malioboro (good Warung’s according to Lonely Planet) but they are all closed. They eat here at maybe 6-7pm and even the students eat in the Warungs because its so much cheaper than making your own food. From what we can tell, it’s a real community thing. By now we are hot, tired, sweaty, hungry, dusty; too far from home(stay) to take a becak (bicycle rickshaw) or even a bajaj (motorbike one) and too green behind the ears to know where to find two ojeks (motorike taxis). Normal taxi it is then. Back to Via Via, and back where we started (!) to change the sepeda tour to Friday morning and eat. We decide to re-open the negotiations with Suska for the motorbike tour to Borobudur and Prambanan agreeing Rp300,000 each as we decide 1/ we don’t want the bus debacle again and 2/ it will just be more fun (despite a 4am start). The Queen of sleep then nods off and I go to meet Anes at the music place down the road (but leave her a little note and a spare key – because she’s clearly zonked and will have no recollection of our conversation). I return a few Bitang’s heavier at 10pm as promised and she’s awake bright eyed and bushy tailed, with no recollection of our conversation but having read the note. Sometimes I feel quite clever. This is one of those times….and sleep (after acknowledging I’m just ever so slightly drunk).

It’s a rude wake up call for the two of us the next morning but we manage it and stumble down to the open reception to be greeted with two little brown paper breakfast packages from the sleepy-eyed boy on reception. A boiled egg, two 3 inch long, almost orange-ripe bananas, two slices of bread and a bottle of water – not quite the heavenly pancakes we got on our first day but satisfying none the less when we open them after sunrise at Punthuk Setumbu Hills.

To get here our two bikes zipped through the thick night. We catch and lose sight of each other. The call to prayer ribbons in, around and out of our oversized crash helmets in second long snatches. Rush hour is already starting at 4.30am and the gas cylinder trucks, market goers, vegetable sellers and party animals (who unlike everyone else are just going home) are already crowding the crossroad junctions which count down digitally from red to go- green (it seems from about 600?!). There are under-wheel bumps and the odd close-call but the air almost crackles with static and humidity and is punctuated with incense between breaths of throat scraping fume. Just as our neck muscles start to complain that they can’t take anymore, we’re torch-marshaled onto a up-hill-road, over a forge and up to Setumbu Hill where we hand over Rp30,000 each and force our tired limbs up the hill, picking up a pre-breakfast-package “banana chip” (battered) to help us along our way.

The sun creeps into the sky from behind the cloud and at first we struggle to see anything other than a red orange rash behind Merapi volcano until Bowo points out that the dark hair thin line cutting through the misty-middle of the valley’s jungle of trees, is Borodubur. Obvious when you know what you’re looking for. Quite a magical way to start the day, even whilst improvising a tripod with my backpack which leaves the horizon slightly on the wonk. Nothing photoshop won’t fix later. Bowo tells us that there is (free) coffee (woohoo!) when we get to Borobudur so we should plan for breakfast there: he’s a funny little chap, chatty and entertaining and accompanies us on all the tour stuff whilst Sam sleeps, eats and chats when he feels like it. I’m quite happy sticking with Sam who drives with the wisdom of years and doesn’t have quite the same lust for “just-like-a-roller-coaster!”-motorbike-moments as (let’s be honest) slightly crazy (even if we liked him that way) Bowo.

We navigate our way into Borobudur which Bowo tells us is surprisingly quiet for the time of year. It does seem to be just us and lots of school children. The world heritage branded information booklet tells us that the Buddhist temple is arranged in the shape of a traditional Buddhist mandala: a square with four entry points and a circular middle representing the three zones of consciousness from outside-in.
Emma and I had no idea what curiosities we were until now (especially her with red curly hair). As we wend our way clock-wise, past the stupa sentry guards to try and increase our energy in the afterlife (like I didn’t have enough in this first one) we are stopped maybe sixty times by school kids, desperate to pose for selfies with us. If an image recognition seach was conducted on our faces this week, we reckon there could be a fair few of us and different teenagers with selfie-sticks, tagged ‘Borobudur’, across Facebook. Bowo laughs:

“Big news of the day: Emma Watson and Dow (pronounced ‘Dawn’ but just not spelt how we know it) visit Java. You’ll be in all the school newsletters next week!”

Round and round we go, stopping every other half turn for another selfie. Eventually we make it to the top and manage to snap two or three photos of our own (volcano and smoke lined back drop, still stupas and peaceful Buddha faces). As we start to get selfie-smiling-face-ache Bowo is impressed by our patience, saying that a lot of his guests aren’t so accommodating. Eventually we do start to pretend not to hear “Miss! Miss!” and escape the swarms. Well, almost – a group accosts us as we make it down the knee high steps and back into the open.

Off to a Buddhist monastary now, in order to show us the leaf which the stone stupas are made to honour.

It’s a quiet, still place and with statues and wide-open lotus flowers glowing yellow from the very centres of their purple or pink petals.

I get haraungued into buying a sarong by a lady offering “morning prices” before our motorbike escourts whip us away to Prambanan. It’s a slower pace, now we’re not chasing the sunrise and we pull up at a garage and sample a young coconut roti – bright slima-green but soft and delicious.
We reach Prambanan just before 11, but it feels like it’s way past lunch time. Another coffee stop. We say how hot it’s starting to get. Bowo tells us that it’s actually a really pleasant temperature today. It’s unusual for this time of year. We’re lucky charms. First a decent sunrise over Borobudur and now a breeze. Then he proceeds to tell us how hot it will be in Kalimantan. And how big the mosquitoes are. And how many poisonous snakes there are. And (laughing cheekily) how we need to watch out for the “litang” (leeches) which we need moist tobacco to deal with when – not if – they attach themselves to us. Eugh. Emma’s face gets more and more perturbed as she simultaneously concurs that it will be worth it. Even if we may get eaten alive. It’s all about the orangutan.

It’s quiet too at Prambanan as we start to make our way round. Many of those who work in the industry have said that the tourism usually picks up by this time of year but it’s quiet for them at the moment. Great for us though and we get off lightly this time with maybe a dozen “selfie, selfie!” requests. This temple is older and more… Indiana Jones. It would have been been a wondrous thing to have discovered such an other worldly monument in the Javanese jungle. There are both Muslim and Hindu (definitely more overtly fertility orientated) carvings along every large stone facia and we giant-step up into the dark innards of maybe six temple towers to dutifully admire each stoney deity. The smooth one-horn-missing cow is my favourite. Must find out the name of that god but currently can’t lay my hands on the information leaflet. We’re now on the plane on the way to Pangkalanun (Em asleep next to me – there’s a pattern here, have you noticed? I’m quite jealous of her sleeping talents).

We rest our weary legs on marble’y stone benches under the most brilliant shadey tree and share some airwaves chewing gum as we chat through more potential hazards of Kalimantan (bats start him off) and get Bowo’s take on foreigners. Those from the UK are easily pleased (yes). The French ask lots of questions and are interested in everything. Russian’s are supremely adaptable and are fine in the sun. German’s are nice. Italians want to do everything quickly then go. It’s a nice place to just sit and chat but now it’s time to retrieve Sam and find Gado Gado. He says we have to have it here because it gets hotter the further east you get in Java, so the search begins…

Scouring about the sixth street on our search, we track some down. A warung with peeling bright green paint, a stub-tailed cat and bright red and purple sauce in red topped squeezies on top of plastic covered tables. A friendly faced lady with gaps where several front teeth should be, cooks us up a incredible mish-mash of satay, salad leaves, potato, egg, cauliflower and who knows what else but it really is incredible. We will be having Gado Gado again but it may never taste quite the same as this first mouth-watering encounter.

Of course, we are incapable of going on any trip without a bit of shopping so we pull into a Batik workshop and are shown the process once again, nodding (politely British), like this is the first time we’ve been shown. A grey whispy bearded man whose entire being exudes ‘artist’, is working on a peacock-adorned batik and he’s adding dabs of red dye with a carefully pointed paintbrush. The small piece I buy has been designed by him and when he sees what I’ve picked, nods in approval, adding “Simple” (smile). Its a green tree with hues of brown, just brightened with clutches of red flowers. (The next day I see it again on our cycle ride and learn that it’s a Cambodia. A typical Javanese tree. Not convinced that’s how you write it, but it sounds like “Cambodjiya”). Finally we make it home and wander out for food and beer later in the evening after Emma’s had her 5-7pm snooze. She bans me from blogging (sensible) as we have another (not quite so) early start tomorrow for the bicycle village tour, so we’re asleep by 11.

Friday morning we’re up at 7 as the call to prayer reaches our ears. Horah for feather light banana pancakes, even if we are munched equally enthusiastically by mini-mosquitoes as we breakfast. We meet Noman and her floppy navy sun hat at Via Via and head out, crossing the crazy Joyja highway as I discover my sepeda has just the one working gear. Should be good exercise at least I think as I pedal two turns to Emma’s every one.

 

NOTE (just because I have to share this right now and this blog is taking it’s time to write): We are now on a steady narrow boat down the Kumai river (Sungai) from the town of the same name in Kalimantan (Borneo) and will soon be our way down Sungai Sekunir in search of orangatang. As Emma and I were treated to the local’s colourful and almost abscenely fresh veg market earlier with our (official) guide Husni (‘ooousni’), bought traditional rice paddy hats and sipped on sweet sugar cane juice we had a moment of mutual self-congratulation and just total appreciation that we are fortunate enough and so totally and utterly lucky that we are able to experience something like this. Will fill you in, in due course, but this is going to be AMAZING.

 

But now, back to Jogja’s under-surface.

We make a break for it on our sepedas across a giant four lane crossroad managing to dodge everything in sight (which is a LOT of stuff on wheels) and dive down a small leafy road. And it’s like we’ve broken through the surface into a new and secret underwater world. Within three seconds the ear-filling noises of engines and (friendly I’m here-watch-out) beeps give way to bird and cricket song and the gentle brush of breeze-blowing rice. A wide paddy greets us as we cycle down one of two parallel path-roads, more bikes than car-friendly. Children stare and giggle and wave, delighted to receive any acknowledgement.

We pause at a rough wooden podium and say “Munggo” to two ladies who’ve been bent over in the rice field, probably since sunrise. Earlier Noman got us to have a go. We slipped and squelched our bare feet into the slimy brown mud next to two ladies who must have been upwards of 65. We bent with them and poked 3-5 young rice stalks into the waterlogged mud with our fingers, matching our planting to the marks on the stick which they then pick up and move back 15cm to do another row. This goes on and on and on. And when they’ve done their field, they then help their neighbour with theirs. A hard life. But simple. Advantages over ours, no doubt. Eons away from our desktop computer office filled world. This is honest work. And outside. And things grow. Sustainability and community distilled perhaps.

Our muted cycle through Java’s under-surface continues as we glide past a clutch of waving builders, a real life version of my batik’s Cambodia tree spiked with red-flower-stars, a pile of burnt orange bricks (made from the very soil they grow the rice in it turns out, when we have a go later), families hanging from front porches and bursting with smiles just because they’ve seen us, a small pile of aromatically smoking rice husk, rashes of small orange red blue purple painted house fronts and proud little yards.

A timid “scuze me” escapes from the smile of a girl who cycles past in her pristine hijab and uniform as I try to balance whilst taking photos one handed. A long line of white long necked birds pester a farmer in a line behind as he squares around a field with a lawnmower sized plough.

Everyone is ahead of me as I ease off the double pedaling and absorb: the full open sky, underlined by poker straight rice fields; farmers in triangular bamboo hats adding human exclamation marks to an extraordinary everyday scene. The calls to prayer rise across the fields which reflecting everything back up and into the sky.

Here I am….

I blink away my watery eyes and will my memory to wrap the whole thing up for safe keeping.