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.

A Public Love Letter

Dear Beatrice,

I know it has only been three weeks, but I’m not afraid anymore.  I love you.  People might judge us.  They might think that we “don’t go together,” or that you somehow “rob me of my masculinity.”  Something about my Y chromosome and your pink, effeminate charms evoke laughter, embarrassment, and more laughter.  When hordes of Indonesians guffaw as we gracefully lope by the Tlogowungu-Bapoh turn-off on those two elegant yet sturdy wheels of yours, I don’t hear them.  I don’t care about them.  I care about you.

What we have is pure, raw, unbridled chemistry.  When I look into that big, beaming headlight of yours, I know that somewhere in Southeast Asia someone with oil soaked hands, or an unfeeling machine, put you together, piece by piece, specially for me.  When I pop the key into your ignition and gently turn your right handlebar, when that puttering opens into the loud gurgle of your engine, the exhilaration is indescribable.  The heavens open and a beam of light falls upon your glistening, pink body.  An aria can be heard, faint but beautiful, in the distance.  I pat your side, and away we go, into the shimmering sunlight.  

I am looking forward to the day when we can ride together in a fourth of July parade.  I will put streamers on your handlebars.  We will blow kisses to the adoring public.  You will look beautiful.  You will shame those Barbie tricycles that try to outshine you, and you will make a mockery of the Hannah Montana backpacks that attempt to imitate your graceful shade of pink.

You are magical, Beatrice.  We are magical.  I want the world to know.

I love you,

J.T.

B and me.  2gether, 4ever.

Did You Hear About The Church That Burnt Down?

Holy Smoke!   

Ah, that line never gets old.  You know what does get old, though?  Trash fires that smell like barbecue.  I drive through these almost every day.  Most evenings, if I drive down the gravel road that leads to SMK Farming Pati and hit Jalan Tlogowungu-Bapoh (my Queen’s Highway), smoke fills the air.  People are burning trash.  As I drive, I inhale as often and as deeply as possible.  This sounds counter-intuitive, no?  Well, I want to do my part for the ozone layer by acting as an organic air purifier.  Also, let me repeat, the SMOKE smells like BARBECUE.  The smell isn’t spot on, though.  It’s like an oddly tangy BBQ sauce, as if someone added a lot of cayenne and a dash or two of honey.  Regardless, it makes me think of football season and pork.  If I lose 5 years on the end of my life because I am inhaling carcinogenic American nostalgia and saving the world one O₃ molecule at a time, so be it.

Inspiration strikes

New invention idea: cigarettes that smell like BBQ when smoked.  We (you, inevitably, see the profit to be made in such an idea, and thus have begged to be my business partner) can call them Little Smokees™ .  They will come in Honey, Hickory, and Super Smokey flavors.  They will be packaged with Little Smokies to enjoy whilst smoking.  Who hasn’t been enjoying a tobacco product when their joy is sidelined by an urge to eat a sausage?  No one, that’s who.

But, I digress.

More often than not, a different kind of smoke fills the air in Indonesia.  It is the smell of kretek, unfiltered clove cigarettes.  I have visited two kretek museums to date.  If there are more out there, it seems that I will hit those, too, at the rate I am going.  None of these visits were preconceived, but they were each enjoyable.  Also, in each location, you were not allowed to smoke in the museum.  Apparently cigarette docents are highly ironic people.

L-R, 1st Row: Me, Leif, Eric, Jack.  L-R, 2nd Row: Mrs. Sampoerna, Mr. Sampoerna

The first museum I visited was in Surabaya.  The House of Sampoerna was great, and I can thank Jack for this visit.  A crew of men (because MEN smoke CIGARETTES), Jack, Eric, Leif, and I descended upon The House of Sampoerna like the kretek enthusiasts we are.  However, when Leif asked our guide how much tar content was in each Dji Sam Soe cigarette, and he replied with an automatic and deadpan “31 grams,” even we were impressed.  In the museum, we enjoyed the different packaging throughout the years, the artwork dedicated to smoking, some great WARNING messages (cigarettes can cause sexual malfunction in men.  Who knew?), and a host of well conceived exhibits.  No doubt, there were two highlights.

First, the rolling room.  All Dji Sam Soe cigarettes, made by Sampoerna, are hand-rolled.  We were able to catch some of this rolling in action.  It was like the workers were in fast forward.  I have never seen hands move so fast.  Also, the matching uniforms and unrelenting concentration gave the entire place a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory like quality.  I suspected the Oompa-Loompas were three-pack-a-day smokers.  The House of Sampoerna only strengthened this theory.  

The second highlight was FINALLY enjoying a cigarette. . .outside the museum.  We went to the associated restaurant and had some good ol’ fashioned fish and chips (wot, wot?), a beer, and a smoke.  It felt so right, how could it be wrong?

The second kretek museum I visited was in Kudus.  After visiting my friend Christian, Finda and I went to check out the Djarum cigarette museum.  Kudus is known for kretek, and despite the Kudus museum lacking when compared to the Surabaya edition, I support this potentially misplaced pride.  It puts a city reasonably close to me on the map . . . kind of.  Anyway, I learned that corn-husk kretek are no longer in production.  Bummer.  I also learned that in the ornately carved, traditional houses in Kudus, everyone used to enter through the kitchen.  Thank you, tour guide.  Next time you are in Kudus, and you are going to your friends dinner party, make sure you enter through the kitchen and praise the ornate woodwork.  You will be Mrs. or Mr. Popularity in no time, you local, you.

Smoke:  It’s not so bad, you know?   I don’t know why we vilify it in the U.S.  I mean, sure, smoking kills, but so cars, sharks, lightening, and chainsaw wielding psychopaths.  I haven’t seen the Surgeon General putting warnings on any of those dangers.  Do you know why?  The Surgeon General is a wimp.  He is too scared to get close to the aforementioned, much less stamp a warning on charging bulls, active volcanoes, and anvils hurtling from on high.  Instead, he bullies the poor, very enjoyable, cigarette.  Until all risks are labeled equally, until the Surgeon General gets up and warns me properly, I am going to believe what I want to believe:

Little Smokees™ cure illness, increase virility/fertility, and make you more beautiful.  If you need me or my green-haired, gruff-voiced, short-of-stature compatriot, we'll be taking our Little Smokees: Hickory ™ break.

No, he didn't bring the Oompa Loompas back up?

Yeah, he Oompa-Loompa-Doopity-DID.

You Over At Somebody Nesia's House, Eatin' Up Her Tsunami?

Last night there was a torrential downpour.  Sitting nice and warm in my house, I watched as the storm rolled in and raged for hours.  Luckily, damage was minimal, though there was a minor flood about 17 km away.  There were no deaths, but the roads were blocked.  The seriousness of this situation aside, I thought of a video a friend showed me when he first found out I was going to Indonesia.  Admittedly, floods are much different than tsunamis, but this video is still pretty funny.

After about minute four, it loses most of its relevance.  I mean, it's still good, it just isn't about Indonesia.
 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPIgs-90vuc


"When you gotta spin a globe to find a country, it ain't none of my damn business."

Legends of the Hidden (and Not So Hidden) Temples

Cue the theme music.

Writing a web-log is a lot like playing that old Nickelodeon game show, Legends of the Hidden Temple.  In it, kids have to complete a variety of tasks to gain entrance into the Hidden Temple.  Once granted entry, they race against the clock to find the Silver Monkey Key and unlock . . . something.  Then, they win a prize to NASA Space Camp or something else that kids who have mouth-gear and an abnormal love for Mayan history enjoy (I undoubtedly mumbled “Schpache Camp?  Schweet” while eating popcorn and reclining on a gratuitously padded chair at my grandparents house).  Such is my life in Indonesia, minus Schpace Camp. 

I am constantly trying to go on adventures, figuratively gaining entrance to my temple (i.e. finding inspiration to web-log).  Then, once I have gained entry, the clock starts ticking . . . and it doesn’t stop.  I have to dodge appointments, forego sleep, and avoid various obligations to reach my goal: current, comic, and poignant web-logging.  However, the obstacles are many.  Sometimes, big adults in Mayan themed Temple Guard costumes emerge from the goat pen, burst into my room, and hold my arms as I am trying to type.  I scream “you are supposed to be professionals!” as they administer nipple twists, limpers, and monkey bubbles.  Then, weeks go by and I haven’t updated this  forlorn and dusty attic of my daring-do and mundane day-to-day.  Other times, I look at my computer and think, “meh,  I would rather read.”  Either way, from watching Legends of the Hidden Temple at my grandparents’ house in the mid ‘90s, I have realized that to succeed in this game, one should always be on team Blue Barracudas.  Another hot tip: never go into the Cave of Sighs.  Right now, I am on the Green Monkeys and the echoes of my sighs are reverberating, but I do have a few temple adventures to relate.

Borobudur: Not So Hidden

The view from the top of Borobudur, stupas and all.

 

The first Saturday at my placement site, I was planning to have a nice, quiet morning, to run in the afternoon, and then rustle up some food for dinner.  My host family had other ideas.  My host mother asked, “Jems (how my name is pronounced over here, somewhere between ‘James’ and ‘Jim.’), we are going to Yogyakarta.  You will come?”  I wanted to respond, “hell yes,” but I settled for “tentu saja, bu” which means, “of course, mom.”

I tend to say tentu saja a lot.  This is partly inspired by the fact that Indonesians, when speaking English, say “of course” all the time.  However, my reasoning is not exclusively influenced by environment.  It has ideological roots as well.  I read the David Sedaris essay “In The Waiting Room,” and it helped me realize that the adventure potential for the always agreeable is much greater than for the perpetually disagreeable.  Also, it’s nice to be nice.  So, my mantra has been tentu saja whenever I am offered any choice.  Do you want to try grasshopper chips?  Tentu saja. Do you want to go fishing next weekend? Tentu saja.  Do you believe I can call demons and speak with spirits? Tentu saja (and that guy looked crazy). Do you think my daughter is beautiful? Tentu saja (in reality . . .) .  Do you want to see me hit your host dad with an ancient, Javanese sword, to prove his strength?  Tentu saja (times two).  Do you want to come to church with my wife and me? Tentu saja.  Do you want to work in the garden? Tentu saja.  Do you want to dance on stage, awkwardly, in front of over 200 people and your town's ruling officials? Tentu saja. Do you want to [incomprehensible Bahasa Indonesia]?  . . . Tentu saja! 

At 4:30 AM (a normal time to wake up for all of my students and counterparts) we left for Yogyakarta.  Yogyakarta is a cultural hotbed, recognized as the beating heart of Javanese music and arts.  In total, we drove for about ten hours that Saturday.  This provided for a lot of family bonding time.  It helped me realize that my family is incredibly fun and cohesive.  Everyone would sing along to songs on the radio (including Avenged Sevenfold.  Yes, pious Muslims can really get behind Avenged Sevenfold.  Who knew?), laugh at jokes (some I understood, most I didn’t) and at my inability to stay awake (sleeping with your mouth open and drooling is cross-culturally hilarious.  Color me a comedian). 

While we were in Yogyakarta, though, we stayed in a hospital.  The impetus of the trip was to visit the mother of a family friend who was critically ill.   She was in her mid-seventies, and suffering from organ failure.  The family seemed at ease, though, as the sick woman had lived a long and happy life.  I smiled, offered my condolences, played with the four children who were visiting their grandmother, and struck up conversations with the adults as I was able.  When talking to the grandfather, I noticed he had on Ohio State slippers.  When he asked “anda dari mana?” I had only to point to his shoes to indicate where I was from.  The great state of Ohio has made its mark across the ocean, if only on one pair of slippers.

To be fair, though, I haven’t seen any Michigan paraphernalia anywhere . . . .

Leaving the hospital, I assumed we would tour Yogya and head home.  Again, my assumptions were incorrect.  My bu turned around to say, “Jems, we are going to Borobudur.  Is that ok?”  My response: “tentu saja, bu.”  

Borobudur is a Buddhist temple that dates from (presumably) AD 750 – AD 850.  It is a gorgeous cultural icon, set atop a verdant, green hill, surrounded by cloud cloaked mountains and volcanoes.  Borobudur is the largest Buddhist monument in the world, a large temple that, when viewed from above, resembles a giant tantric mandala.  It is adorned with numerous stupas, Buddhist statues, and elaborate carvings that depict Buddhist cosmology, ontology, and morality.  The base of the temple shows man at his lowliest form, seeking only hedonistic pleasure, searching for fulfillment in the illusive and sensory.  As the tiers progress, the birth and life of Siddartha Buddha and the Buddhist quest to enlightenment/nirvana is depicted, as is a spotty, pictorial history of Javanese life from early AD.  Finally, the temple ends in the grand stupa that crowns the top of the temple.

Make a wish and touch Buddha's ring finger.

Borobudur was high on my list of places to see, and being able to experience it the first weekend at my placement site was overwhelming.  Also, sharing the experience with my host family added an additional aspect of bonding and fellowship.  Surrounded by ancient stonework, marveling at the artistry and dedication of the people who dreamed and built this structure, and hearing my family chat and laugh in a foreign language for hours helped me realize the beautiful and complete foreignness of my situation. 

Gedung Songo: Impossibly Hidden

The following weekend I ventured to Semarang, a large city in Central Java, to visit my friend Abbey (another ETA) and to check out the Gedung Songo temples.  Although Semarang is only a two hour bus ride away from Pati, my host mom, my counterpart, and about 10 female teachers all kicked up a huge fuss about my heading out into the world alone.  At one point, a crew of teachers was gathered in the teacher’s office, giggling, squealing, and pointing.  The focus?  My upcoming jaunt to the big city.  “Jems, you will be robbed!”  “Jems, you go alone?”  “Jems, but to where will you stay?”  All of these, and a handful more questions in Bahasa, were aimed my direction.  I fielded them all with a smile I carefully controlled so as not to appear patronizing.  At one point, though, I cracked, and said “Finda (my counterpart), I need to grow up.  Let me grow up!”  This garnered big laughs, as Finda is a year younger than me.  She countered with “what will you do if you get lost?”  I responded, “Finda, if I get lost, or if I get hungry, or even if I die, I will SMS, and you can make it better.”  Now, I thought this was a pretty good joke, but nobody else did.  It was met with stony looks.  These women really thought Semarang would kill me.  Despite their doubt as to my competency, I made it to Semarang, to Gedung Songo, and back, with but one flesh wound.  Not too shabby.

Upon arrival in Semarang, I met Abbey at a small bus stop.  From there, we took a bus up to a town called Bandungan that is in the mountains surrounding Semarang.  We hopped out at Bandungan, and hiked up to the temples.  Bandungan is a beautiful area, and it is cooler than Semarang and Pati.  This meant that I didn’t sweat through my shirt instantly.  It took several hours.  

Gendung Songo is a collection of Hindu temples, built in the foothills of Gungung Ungaran (Mt. Ungaran).  The temples are not the biggest or the most ornate, but they are set amid beautiful scenery, with some great views as well.  Mountains and volcanoes sprout in every direction, there is an open, hydrothermal sulfur vent, and the forest seems to hum as you walk through it, hemmed in on all sides.  While songo means “nine” in Javanese, Abbey and I managed to find only five temples (that would be limo in Bahasa Jawa).  Yes, there is a legend, and these temples are hidden.  I murmured “Green Monkeys until I die” as we walked.  However, there was no winning this game show. The reason: Gedung Songo has been reduced to Gedung Limo as the years have filed by, slowly wearing away temples six through nine.  Lonely Planet was not privy to this information, and it took a solid hour of hiking, questioning, spouting facts about Mayan history, avoiding those unrelenting Temple Guards, and gesturing frantically to determine.  Use this newfound knowledge wisely.

At one point, while searching for nonexistent temples six through nine, Abbey and I were attacked by a beast, a frothing, golden hued, flying, bulging, monster, hell-bent on carnage.  It came from the sky, unannounced, livid and aggressive.  First honing in on Abbey, the helicopter sized wasp stung lightly, probing scalp and hair to get a feel for inflicting human pain.  Then, it jumped the three foot gap to land on my skull, where it sunk its stinger as far into my brain as possible.  By my estimation, it managed to drill ten inches or so of stinger into my skull. Perhaps the wasp monster was attempting some sort of basic, bestial lobotomy.   I yelped, pawed, and continued to whine for approximately two hours.  I don’t remember which hurt more, not finding the Hidden Temples and trying my luck in assembling the Silver Monkey Key, or my throbbing head.  My only consolation was the fact that this adventure, once posted, will get me one step closer to updating my web-log and thus earning me a shot at figurative Schpace Camp.

Schpace Camp?  Schweet.