Kerapan Sapi: 24 Jam in Madura

In the city of Pamekasan, on the island of Madura, there is a tradition called kerapan sapi.  Madura is located off the Northeast coast of Java, but connected by Indonesia’s longest bridge and a history of association that dates back for hundreds of years.  Karapan sapi is a series of races, each heat containing two teams that each consist of two bulls, one rider, and a colorful, plow-like contraption on which the rider stands.  These teams compete for the President’s Cup and the rights to sell their bull’s studding services at an astronomically increased price.  Despite having to travel about nine hours, one way, to make it to the event, I was compelled to attend.  I was going to check out these sloppy sapi-sapi, no bull.

So, the distance was traveled, the bus rides sustained, and Madura was straight 24 jam.  In Bahasa Indonesia, jam means hour.  Many of the gas stations and other various roadside establishments have "24 Jam" boldly printed in face-melting neon colors.  On the way in to Madura, one of the sapi-bound (Brett) pointed out the awesomeness of a 24 jam gas station.  I agreed.  24 jam is something to live by; I mean, that’s a lot of jam.  In fact, it’s the most jam/jamming possible.

Early on Saturday morning, Said, our driver for the weekend and an amateur drag racer, arrived to sweep us off to Madura, hitting the fastest speeds I am yet to travel on the ground in Indonesia (this is despite my best efforts on the occasionally empty road from Pati to Tlogowungu).  Said was cool behind the wheel, though.  When speeding into oncoming traffic or the wayward goat, he didn’t blink, sweat, or smile. He only once growled at motorbike drivers who had persistent death-wishes.  We were in good,chubby hands.

  

After acquiring everyone in our crew—five strapping, male, ETAs hailing from different corners of East and Central Java—we set out for Pamekasan.  Sapi-sapi, here we come.

The crew and Said

En route to Pameksan, we drove across the famous Suramadu bridge.  Suramadu connects Surabaya and Mudra, and is the longest bridge in Indonesia.  This is a great talking point, as Indonesians are pretty proud of their large bridge. I mean, it’s a nice bridge, I’ll give them that.  As a point of national pride, though, I would stick to Komodo dragons and orangutans.  In my opinion, fauna is something to get jingoistic about; engineering feats almost entirely provided by another country, not so much.

Once in Pamekasan, we checked into our hotel, enjoyed a quick cup of ginger coffee, and headed out.  As I have noted previously on this web-log, one American ambling about a city is enough to cause all heads to turn and most vehicles to honk.  Multiply this by five.  In Pamekasan, we were a spectacle.  We were a novelty act.  I think having a bearded lady among us would have made us seem more normal.

We managed to turn this attention to our advantage by asking the curious townspeople of Pamekasan to direct us to various locations of interest around the city: the market, the stadium where the sapi-sapi would race, where to drink Jamu Madura, and where to secure some beers.  The people of Pamekasan were able to help us with all of the above, despite the illegal nature of the beer.  There is more on this adventure in the previous post.

One of the more memorable events of the weekend was when our crew enjoyed a tall, frothy glass of Jamu Madura.  Jamu, an herbal drink meant to cure all and everything that ails you, is common across Java.  The Maduran variety is supposed to increase your virility.  Despite already being paragons of virility, we decided that we might as well throw some down the hatch, you know, since we were in the neighborhood.  One of the townspeople led us to a little stand where the menagerie of jars and powders on the counter signified that this was the place to get your virility fix.  Despite feeling pretty meaty, I opted for the non-raw-egg variety.  Salmonella is real, guys.

So, Jamu Madura is not the tastiest beverage in town.  Clearly, the Madurans know this, as it is served with a citrus tea chaser.  Think of a warm, frothy, slightly off glass of jagermeister and milk; that is Jamu Madura.  I took the plunge, tilted the beverage back, and roared.  Immediately, my muscles bulged and I grew a thick—non-Batman shaped—patch of chest hair.  I sneezed and impregnated the entire block: male and female.  Yes, the jamu worked.  Here is why it works so well:

It is made from, in part, crocodile penis.

I’m not joking.  As the other guys took their turn downing a little jamu and chasing it with the tea, I inquired into the ingredients.  Pointing to one particularly interesting jar, a phallic shaped object with a claw on the end, I was surprised to hear “zakar buaya.”  Yep, that means crocodile penis.  Yum.

Surprisingly, the night took a few more interesting twists and turns.  After that . . . interesting . . . evening, we settled into our flea-ridden sheets to a good night’s slumber.  

We woke up at 5 AM, a pretty reasonable hour in Indonesia.  After rolling out of bed, taking a shower, and eating some breakfast at the hotel, we drove down to the racetrack.  The racetrack is not so much a track as it is a crumbling cement wall surrounding an arena of patchy, green and yellow grass.  In the center a bamboo fence closes off the actual race course, which is just a straight line where the bulls charge, full speed, about 100 meters.

Yeah, I use metric now.  He’s soooooo international!

 

With the first heat slotted for 8 AM, we had some time to kill.  Well, a segment of this time was spent taking to the field and marching with one of the teams.  Upon arriving, we were ushered onto the course to parade about while the bulls were serenaded with percussive, Maduran music, and the riders/owners puffed out their chests proudly, showing the crowd their teams.  After we did a couple spins around the course, we beat it back to the shade for some mie Madura and I partook in a refreshing, cold Sprite.  With an hour left before the races started in earnest, we decided to check up the inflatable VIP section, sponsored by Djarum, a cigarette company.  When we walked up to the room, we were immediately asked to come in.  Of course, we obliged.

The VIP tent was cold.  Yes, despite it being about 32 degrees Celsius (ohhh, you know it!) at 7 AM in the morning, the tent was COLD.   We decided to buy a pack of cigarettes to keep up appearances and hide out in the air conditioning for a bit.  Meanwhile, we were asked to play very simple games, and were given some Djarum shwag.  I raked in a lighter and a t-shirt . . . not too shabby.  As we were leaving, the band in the VIP tent was playing “High and Dry” by Radiohead.  Watch out Nashville Machine, Radiohead has a hold on the bull circuit in Indonesia.  

With a few minutes until race time, we crowded the fence.  Here it was, the moment we were waiting for.  The bulls were being lined up, the riders standing on their yolk/what-have-yous, and suddenly AWAS!!! There they went!  In a flash of red and yellow, the bulls were being brought to a halt at the other end of the course.  

 

"Do you want to walk with my bulls?"

AWAS!!

At the end of the course, the bulls were being stopped manually.  There were bull-catchers.  We knew where we had to go.

Watching the race from the catching end of the course is a lot more exhilarating.  It really makes you pay attention to the race, especially when the bulls start careening into the crowd.  A few times I thought the bulls were heading for our small crowd of Americans, just to make a point.  Well, if they were, they missed.  After a few heats of heart-pounding, bull-dodging, we made our way to a shaded, raised viewing platform where Jack, one of the fellow ETAs, knew someone who was going to let us partake in the better viewing. 

We step up on stage and someone tells us that the Bupati, the ruling official similar to a mayor is sitting up front.  Well, we eventually meet the guy and are asked to drink his waters/juices and eat his fruit/peanuts.  A few more heats, in the heat, and we are done.  The illustrious President Cup continued into the blistering afternoon, but we chose life.  Standing in the puddles that had become our shoes and socks, we all thought it best to dive into the car and make our way back to Surabaya.

Watching the world whiz by at a dizzying speed, I was led to reflect on how incredibly foreign karapan sapi was.  Sure, there was Western flare: the VIP tent, Radiohead, a handful of other foreign tourists sticking out amongst the crows, but in a large part, this is an unadulterated cultural event, For Madurans, By Madurans.  Thinking about how beautiful that was, I decided to suggest we go somewhere For Americans, By Americans.

Pizza Hut never tasted better.  If I remember correctly, the cooks spelled out “24 Jam” with pepperonis, but don’t take my word on that.  All that jamming makes a man forget a thing or two.

Officers of Indonesia: Armed and Unconcerned

Disclaimer: If you are an Indonesian police officer, and if you are offended by fact and the retelling of events, my name is actually Archibald Crimsonclover.  I reside in the UK, and you can’t touch me because I am filthy rich and have an accent that can thwart even the most ornery of knavish apple-johns, regardless of the sheen of their boots or the press of their shirt.

Wot, wot? On with the post.

At orientation, I heard stories about Indonesian police officers.  Friends of friends had heard from their uncle, who had a brother, whose girlfriend hung out with a guy, who once, when traveling in Bali, had police officers burst in on him and his surfing bros, throw bags of cocaine onto their bed, and arrest them.

Bummer, dudes.

Also, a different track of relations and acquaintances would reveal someone who was forced to pay a bribe, or be arrested.  These stories could very well be true, but they do not reflect my interactions with Indonesian police.  The police officers I have come into contact with aren’t malicious, greedy, or hostile.  They just can’t be bothered to enforce law and order.  They have a lot of cigarettes to smoke, a lot of fried food to eat, and a lot of smiles to flash.  They leave the real law enforcement to shaman (is the plural “shamen?”) and ghosties, or they blatantly aid in illegal acts.

Let me explain.

Several weeks ago, my Ibu’s wallet was stolen.  It was taken from the house on a Friday and returned on a Saturday, sans cash.  Unfortunately, a lot of money was stolen.  My Ibu put the wallet in a plastic bag and went to the police station.  I accompanied her as I had some forms to submit for stamping or something.  There is always a form over here.  I’m not sure why, who checks them, or what they are all for, but I assume they have been sentenced to solitary confinement, slowly decomposing in a file cabinet somewhere, never to see the light of day.

We arrive at the police station, and a very creepy policeman who is chain smoking filtered clove cigarettes starts chatting with me.  He invites me to go fishing for catfish, and since I get the “I might just arrest you for the hell of it . . . or stab you” vibe from his sunken eyes and handsy greetings (yes, handsy), I steer clear and give noncommittal responses.  After dodging Officer Creepy, we all file into the office of the Chief of Police.  She is sitting down with the Chief Detective, and everyone starts speaking Indonesian and Javanese at speeds of up to 100 km/hr.  I am left trying to decipher the topic of conversation before it changes.  All I gleamed is that the detective offers my bu some advice, she doesn’t like it, he insists he has seen it work before and knows a shaman (thank you, electronic dictionary), and then, after a long period of very fast talking, it seems like the detective begrudgingly decides to come to the school to talk to the students, sans shaman.

My interpretation was surprisingly close, but lacked some important details.  The Chief Detective suggested that my bu call in the help of a powerful shaman who puts a curse on an object, any object, which all of the suspected students are made to touch.  The curse is such that, if the guilty students touches the object and does not confess, he or she will die in a few days.  The detective said he had seen it work before, and that he had even seen a guilty person die.

The detective made sure to highlight the point that the guilty party could have, however, been a tuyul.  A tuyul is a little ghoul that steals money for its master.  Apparently, if the money was stolen by a tuyul, the guilty party might not die.  Supernatural loophole!

My bu was not pleased.  She instead asked that all shaman and ghosties be forgotten, and that the head detective come to the house, speak with the students, and try to reason with them.  Despite the fact that the detective agreed to this course of action, he never showed.  Yep, he stood up an entire school.  I can't really blame the guy.  He probably had some more important business to attend to, like fishing for some catfish, hanging out with his shaman buddy, or feeding his tuyul.

The other notable police encounter I had was on the island of Madura, located off the north coast of East Java.  I traveled to Madura with four other ETAs to see karapan sapi, the annual culmination of bull races held for several months across Madura.  The night before karapan sapi, however, was when the Maduran police surprised me.  

After a long day of traveling and sightseeing, my friend Brett and I decided we were not to be dissuaded; we were going to find a beer . . . or two.  The rest of our merry company headed back to the hotel while we checked out a few nearby stores.  Well, there weren’t any cooling in the fridge at the local Indomart.  Thinking that this was strange, but that perhaps Indomarts took into account the demands of local stores, I asked the innocent cashier where we could buy some beer.  She giggled, clearly astounded I would ask her such a question, and waved her friend in from the stock room.  He comes out and, after I had him repeat the directions several times, seems to say that the only place to buy beer is Pak Budi’s.  I assume Pak Budi’s is a small, nondescript shop.  The cashier’s friend tells us to take a right at the red light, straight down the street, past another light, and stay on the left.  With these directions, Brett and I take off.

Inevitably, we don’t find the place easily.  I mean, this is Indonesia.  Seeing some police officers, I ask permisi, kami bisa membeli bir di mana?.  They laugh.  Brett counters in English, “guys, we just want beer.”  They continue laughing, but with a sort of knowing look respond in Indonesian to say, “well, go to Pak Budi’s.  He is down that street and to the left.”  About 20 minutes and several stilted conversations later, we are sitting in Pak Budi’s front room.  Yes, Pak Budi operates out of his house.  The front room is decorated with some ornate birdcages and significantly less ornate bird inhabitants.  Pak Budi himself is a lumbering man in a sweaty, black tank top, with an unruly crop of dark hair.  He shakes our hands as we walk in and he doesn’t have a thumb on his right hand.  Stone-faced, he asks what we’ll have to drink.  “Just a Bintang,” I reply, opting for the local beer and settling down to enjoy it in this blisteringly hot front room.  Two other Indonesian guys sit on the wooden furniture with us, absorbed in the English soccer game on in the background.

Pak Budi brings out two glasses and a warm, nay, hot, bottle of beer.   Delicious.  Brett and I split it, and then it dawns on us: we are in a speakeasy.  I had imagined my first speakeasy experience with more suspenders, whisky, and jazz, but a sweat-soaked collared shirt, hot beer, and a muted English soccer match was the reality.  After asking, we find out that, indeed, beer is illegal in Pamekasan, which operates under strict Muslim law.  Suddenly, the sheepish looks and laughter en route to Pak Budi’s made sense.

Well, there we were, scoring beer.  I ask for three for the road, and Pak Budy pours them into empty water bottles.  We pay his excessive prices (those beers were brought in from Surabaya, about two and a half hours away), throw the plastic bottles into Brett’s backpack, and get ready to head out.  Before we do this, however, one of Pak Budi’s friends, wearing a white peci, asks us if we want some girls.  I courteously say no, and translate for Brett.  However, Brett’s been in the journalism business for awhile, and his interests were piqued.  He suggests that we can follow the story a bit.  Since our beer needs some more time to warm up, I figure that a little adventure to expose the seedy underbelly of this conservative Muslim town can’t hurt.  I ask if we can meet the girls.  The man says he will bring them to our room.  Since we have no actual interest in the hookers, this is a bad option.  I say no, that won’t work . . . we want to see them first.  He tells us to meet him in the town square.  Done deal.

Brett and I head out to the town square when, on the way, we are asked over by a young police officer.  Despite being a little worried that this guy has previously pointed us in direction of Pak Budi, and that he has his ‘cuffs at the ready, we oblige his summons.  He is very friendly, shares his cigarettes, asks if we have change for a Rp. 20,000 note,  and if we have time to get some coffee (despite the fact that he looked very much on duty).  Then, he offers something a bit more risqué.  He asks mau sekz?  Unbelievingly, I say, apa?!  “Do you want sekz?” he repeats, this time in English.  To punctuate this point, he gives the Indonesian hand signal for the deed: a closed fist with the thumb in between the first and middle fingers.  Brett and I look at each other, amazed, and I stammer terima kasi, tetapi kami capek malam ini.  And I wasn’t lying.  We were thankful (I guess?), but too tired (and maybe, just maybe, morally opposed to purchasing “sekz”) to take him up on his offer.

I wish I could say that, when Pak Budi’s friend showed up, Brett and I rescued the damsels in distress, and amidst clacking sabers and smoothed mustachios, released them from their unfair bondage.  However, Pak Budi’s friend never came to the town square.  I won’t lie, I was relieved.  The prospect of meeting those poor women—or, worse, young girls—and dealing with whatever attacks of conscious would ensue from putting a human face to a previously abstract story wasn't going to make falling asleep easier.  I suppose ignorance really can be blissful.  However, I now know a thing or two about illegal activity in the conservatively Muslim city of Pamekasan.  When in doubt as to where you can get beer or the women so closely associated with that sinful beverage, ask a police officer.

Not all of my interactions with the police have been in this unhelpful, amusing vein.  Sometimes they require me to get forms stamped, and we joke around and take pictures together.  Sometimes they show up at the school, demand to see my immigration papers, and we joke around and take pictures.  Sometimes they ask me to take a picture with them, we joke around, and I ask them for directions.  I suppose it is the vast majority of the time that my interactions with officers of the Indonesian law have been, well, less than official.

None of the officers I have met are evil people.  That being said, they aren't particularly concerned with law and order.  Officers of Indonesia: armed and unconcerned.  If being unconcerned is a crime, somebody should probably plant bags of drugs in their holsters and haul ‘em to jail.  Or, call up their local shaman and order a curse.  Either way, let's not worry, take it slow, and make sure to eat and smoke along the way. Justice will be served eventually and on a bed of steaming, white rice.