A mystery Tour

A Weekend Trip


We have just returned from a Javanese wedding in Malang. It really was a mystery tour, we never knew from one minute to the next what we were doing next apart from spending a long time in the mini bus; 16 hours each way. In that time we could have flown to Paris and back.

Even accounting for our difficulty with the Indonesian language, planning and management are not one of Indonesia’s strong points, trying to work out who was in charge was even more difficult. There were two mini buses and a station wagon carrying 19 people with one or more of the vehicles being lost at anyone time. In our bus there were 5 women and 3 men. Some of the women knew the right way to go but the male driver and his co pilot seemed to have the view that women are stupid and seemed to do deliberately the opposite to what the women suggested . It was only when we were completely lost that the men stopped and asked another man the directions while the women chuckled in the back seat.

Time means nothing in Indonesia. WE were supposed to leave at 6.00pm but did not get away until 6.45 pm. There were numerous stops along the way. First just an hour from Yogya there was a strange noise coming from the engine. We stopped and the so did the others. The men all listened and shone torches on the engine for about 30 minutes until the driver called his base and we waited for an hour for a replacement vehicle.

We watched as hundreds of adolescent boys, wearing punk T shirts, earrings, spiked hair and ragged jeans walked passed, some carrying Indonesian flags.

I asked what were they protesting about. “They are not protesting they are going to a rock concert, a famous band from Jakarta are playing”

By 9.00pm the replacement mini bus arrived and we traveled about 1 km. We had to stop for Makan.

Eating on the pavement

A simple affair sitting cross legged on a mat on the pavement, eating rice, grilled fish and chicken With our hands (right hand of course). Annick and I had some difficulty both sitting and getting the food to our mouth.

We continued on through the night with thousands of trucks, cars and motor bikes almost bumper to bumper 500 km on the main highway to Surabaya skirting several volcanoes on the way. WE arrived at Malang at 5.00am slept for 3 hours in a hotel and we were on our way the wedding.

The Muslim wedding was between one of my work colleagues and his girlfriend who he had been living with for some time. We arrived at the house of the bride, there were hundreds of people sitting at tables under a marquee and the pre wedding speeches had begun. It appeared that the guests of the bride were seated and the groom stood solemnly with a long line of his guests behind him. It looked like a battle with two armies facing each other. The speakers from the bride’s side were welcoming the groom and his supporters while the speakers from the groom.s side were accepting the welcome and telling the brides supporters what a good bloke the groom was.

The groom was dressed in a silver grey suit with the Nehru type hat and silver grey slippers to match. The bride was no where to be seen! I thought maybe she has changed her mind. Well that was not the case. When the speeches were finished the groom escorted by several of his closest friends proceeded to a room in the house where they sat on the floor around a low table. All was quiet as they waited and then suddenly the bride appeared, she looked as all brides do, stunning. She had an exquisite batik long skirt with a tight fitting white lace blouse. A lace veil covered her face. There were tears in her eyes as she sat not next to her husband to be but next to the official celebrant.

After a what appeared to be an exchange of vows there was the signing of the contract

And there two teary people exchange rings and returned to the marquee where the supporters of both clans were seated and busy devouring food.

All kinds of exotic food was being dispensed by an army of servants. A variety of soups. meatballs vegetables, rice, chicken, chili and noodles was eagerly consumed followed by an exotic fruit salad.

As quickly as the food was eaten the guests left and that was that as the bride and groom quietly disappeared.

Plaster cast policeman on duty

After the wedding at 1.00pm the group said we were going to visit an island would we like to come or would we prefer to stay at the hotel. They said would we like to change our clothes. It never occurred to us that we were doing anything else but attend the wedding so we did not have any other appropriate clothes; Annick in her crisp white skirt and white top and me in my best cotton trousers and white shirt.

Back in the minibus Annick and I looked like those statues of the bride and groom you see on wedding cakes while the others looked like they were ready for a beach party.

Just on dusk we arrived at a rather grubby fishing village on the edge of a river. We were told that we would stay the night and then take a boat to the island the next day.

Before finding a place to stay we had to have makan. We walked up a muddy track for half a kilometer to a warung elevated a foot above the sloshy track on the edge of a village. In the twilight the food arrived, a couple of inky squid on a mound of rice with some chili. Looking at the food ,I knew instinctively that it was the wrong thing to do, but I ate the squid even though I could not see if the black stuff was burnt ketchup mannis or squid ink.
The group was concerned that Annick and I did not have appropriate clothing for the expedition so we dropped in to the village to see what was on offer. Annick refused point blank to buy anything as she refused the squid. I found a pair of shorts, navy blue

With white stripes and in looking for a T shirt I had a bit of an argument with Annick about the colour, she rejected out right the bright orange one. I said “what does it matter it is only for a day” but she protested strongly from her French style point of view.

Not wanting to cause a scene I went along with the insipid light blue one , which I knew was a mistake.

After the shopping and the food it was now completely dark, no I mean black. We sloshed our way back to the river’s edge to our holiday hotel. Not many foreign tourists come here, even the Michelin guide people haven’t been here and as far as star ratings this place would not even rate as a candle flicker let alone half a star if there is such a thing.

The walls were a soft pink colour with stains that looked like squid ink but the sheets were clean. AT 6.30 pm We had a mandi(bath) and then I tried on my new outfit. The shorts were ok apart from being a trifle long but the t shirt, which matched perfectly with the shorts, according to the only fashion expert in range, was a bit of a struggle to get into and when I finally had it on it was so tight I could hardly breath and so hot that I was sweating profusely.

After a tug of war getting the damn thing off we dropped in to bed. IT was a bout 3.00 am that I stirred, my stomach was writhing ,I could not remember at the twilight dinner whether the squid I ate was alive or dead, but now it was certainly alive and struggling to get out, but which end was it going to come out. I quickly jumped out of bed and rand to the toilet or I should say the footprints on the floor and tightly closed my mouth

Cutting off at least one exit for the inky squid. Oh, what a relief. Back to bed about an hour later an encore performance.

I drifted back to oblivion until 5.45 am there was a knock on the door. Are you ready we are going to the island.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as we had breakfast of rice and chicken, I gave the squid a wide berth and just settled for coffee.

The African Queen

We walked down to the waters edge as and climbed the gangplank on to a boat.

The boat a traditional Indonesian canoe like structure had a diesel engine mounted high on one of the cross beams with a long shaft that poked out of the stern.

It should start soon!

This was an amazing piece of machinery that Rudolf Diesel would have been proud of.

Rrunning perfectly

Diesel invented his now famous engine in 1898 for the small artisan and farmers so that these ordinary people could compete with the steam driven machinery of big business of the day. In fact Diesel’s first engine was designed to run on peanut oil. The socially conscious inventor’s vision was that with his engine the farmer could grow his own fuel and hence reduce his cost of crop production.

Engine tied on with rope

The Indonesian fishermen driven by tradition still build boats like they have always done but in stead of using wooden paddles for propulsion they now use a single cylinder diesel engine that is bolted to a long shaft. This shaft can be lowered in to the water

through the stern of the boat simply by using gravity, once the shaft is lowered a rubber strap is used to hold it down. When coming into shallow water the strap is released, the shaft floats up and a wooden peg is place underneath to hold it up. In addition the section of the shaft with the propeller out side the boat has a metal hook like structure tied to the upper side of the shaft to prevent the propeller from cutting into the hull of the boat if it is still rotating while being raised.

Propellor raised for shallow water

In order to achieve flexibility in raising lowering of the shaft, the entire engine and shaft assembly is roped on the cross beam of the boat.

The engine is started using a hand crank and the throttle cable consists of a length of fishing line that the skipper tensions with his big toe. Because there is a slit in the stern to lower the shaft means that some water from the sea sloshed into the boat. This problem is solved in two ways. Firstly the pipe sucking the cooling water for the engine is placed in the bilge and secondly if needed a hand bilge pump is operated by one of the crew to keep the level of the water at an acceptable level.

The big toe controls the throttle

The floating rudder can be raised and lowered by hand through a platform in the stern. When fully down the rudder is held loosely in place with a piece of rope. In many ways these fishing boats resemble the Australian surf boats and can maneuvered in to shallow water.

When all of the 19 people were on board the crew pushed off and cranked the amazing diesel into life and we vibrated forward passed the island into the open sea passing fishing boats returning to land after fishing in the night.

Returning to the quiet waters we came ashore on the white sandy beach of the island.

The sight of some of the Muslim women swimming and splashing about in the water fully clothed with the Hijab was something you don’t commonly see at Manly beach.

The water was warm and clear an a pleasant relief from hours of driving. After we had changed our clothes off we went back to Malang. Again we became lost in the back streets and then pulled into a Macdonald’s.

This was the last straw. But to my surprise we just used the car park and crossed the street to an ice cream shop. This shop was really a restaurant that has been here since 1930, standing proud between two Christian churches. It is owned by a Chinese family and the décor is art deco, with large black and white photographs on the wall.

While the girls came for the ice cream we came for the food and a beer.


The trip back was long and arduous. Heavy rain was falling and the rivers were swollen and fast moving. At one point we had to stop. A bridge over the river was sagging when it should have between rigid. A bus coming the other way emptied itself of passengers and crossed the bridge empty while the passengers trotted along behind.
Well after midnight we arrived in an empty Jogyakarta after travelling 1,000 km tired but with our head full of a million images of people and places.

They say yes with tears intheir eyes

A day in the life of a foreigner in Yogyakarta

A day in the life of a foreigner in Yogyakarta



My day begins at 5.30.am, well that is when I get out of bed but really the day begins at 4.30 with the penetrating call for prayers from the local Mosque.


That is when I stir and dream a convoluted story which is a mixture of the previous days events and the issues that are on my mind. One of my dreams or prayers was answered. I prayed for the noise to stop and it did. I became completely deaf in one ear. I caught an ear infection from a hotel swimming pool.


Living in a world where the local peoples’ lives are controlled by spirits I don’t want to push my luck too far.
Not long after I am awake and making coffee the Jugga comes into the house with ‘Salamat pagi’ ( good morning) and proceeds to open the curtains, the doors and all of the 18 windows of the house to allow the early morning breeze In to the house now that night has dissolved into day an the evil spirits are no longer a menace.


With the first sip of coffee I carry my cup upstairs to the office and begin preparing for my day at work.

The motor bike ride to work is always interesting, weaving in and out of the traffic with the morning cool air in your face watching people preparing for work. The main roads carry thousands of people and small stores line the road. You can buy petrol, dispensed in glass bottles, have your tyres pumped up or repaired on the spot, have bowl of soup, buy a T-shirt or a new pair of sandals and

have your clothes washed. There are food carts called kaki lima (the man with the five legs) sell in all kinds of hot food from beef roles to fried banana. Today I saw a blind boy with a white stick being escorted by he sister, a legless man crossing the road in a wheelchair and a variety of people begging, a deserted mother with an young baby, an old woman and an old man with a disability. Some are genuine but for others it is one of their many small jobs to get enough food for the day.

The office is on the edge of the city an when I leave the hustle an bustle of the early morning markets and cross the southern ring road


Another world appears.

parking attendant

Fresh green rice fields, conical straw hats, farmers riding antique Dutch bicycles carrying huge bundles of cut grass, women threshing rice stalks to release the grain on to a tarpaulin, water buffalo pulling a plough in a soggy field and children neatly dressed in a uniform of white shirts and red shorts (the colour of the Indonesian flag) strolling to school.

I arrive at the office, a two story building plonked between a rice field and a grove of banana trees and greet the old lady across the road in her food stall and park my motor bike. I am the first to arrive, the office is closed so I go around to the back verandah and sit at the large table and begin working on my computer. Gradually over the next few hours the staff arrive and we begin chatting.

Gathering food for goats

I work for an organization that provides information to village people that will improve their livelihood. This a networking organization


That is trying to many things on many different fronts;


from setting up radio stations, websites to publishing magazines and books. These alternative media channels tackle problems such as, improving farming incomes, finding markets for village handicraft products to transparency in local government and inclusion of women into the economy as active players.


The organization applied for a grant from the Australian government for help and they got me.


We have not quite worked out what my role is as I am getting to know what the organization does.


The staff comprises young graduates who are busy beavering away on computers and holding meetings with villagers, while I am trying to get a handle on the structure and function of the organization.


At a staff meeting this week I asked the group what was the vision of the organization ….apart from blank looks on peoples’ faces one person said “we spent a whole day last year trying to work that out” Still blank faces and somebody else said “we had so much fun but we forgot to write down the conclusions.”

I was asked to join a team working with farmers where they are introducing goats as an additional income stream. I began asking lots of questions about goats and the level of knowledge local farmers had about keeping goats and found that either the team did not know much or they could not explain what they knew in English. However as time passed I realized that both the farmers and the staff actually knew a lot.

How to make compost

I am trying to understand Javanese thinking. The quiet exterior of Javanese masks a complexity of thinking driven by obligation, care, understatement and experience of spirits which will take some time for me to unravel


So I too have began beavering away at my computer on Google finding out every thing I could about goats and now I am quite enthusiastic about goats.

For example “when looking for a good Buck make sure the animal has good teeth and big balls” ..” ( it seems obvious when you think about it). In developing a herd you need one buck for 25 Does’. I now know how to tell when a doe is on heat. Of the 12 or more symptoms the one that got me was “Yelling for no apparent reason”


I actually know some women like that but it never occurred to me that they might be on heat.


Lunch seems to occur at any time between 12 and 2.oopm. Some kind of non verbal communication seems to sweep through the group and they rise a say coming for lunch.

Road collapse

We straddle motor bikes and zoom off down the road to a bamboo road stall and have whatever the specialty is. Some times it is fried white bait


Other times it is rice with spicy bits of cow fat followed by ice tea all for 50 cents.


I leave the office about mid afternoon and weave my way home through


The occasional afternoon rain storm for a cool beer on the verandah.

Big deal

Getting to know Yogyakarta

House hunting and field trip march 2010

Coming to a foreign city where people speak a different language takes a little time to become oriented. Being driven by taxi seems to be the worst way to get to know the city. Firstly the taxi driver does not speak English so you can’t have that usual chit chat with him about the weather, politics and the latest scandal. All you can do is to show the driver a piece of paper with the address of where you want to go and then sit back in air conditioned comfort while the driver takes you his way not necessarily the shortest way to you destination.

A motor bike is a way of escaping the confinement of the home stay and experiencing freedom and the cool air on your face. In Yogyakarta a city of 500,000 in the shadow of the volcano Merapi oozes into the surrounding countryside with a population of 3 million. The rice fields are shrinking as more houses are built.

 

We explored the city like children practicing running away from home. At first we rode along the closest main road for about five kilometers noting the main buildings and advertising signs and then returned home and after a few days we went further and further getting lost a few times until we had a reasonable grasp of the city.

 

The roads are like arteries clogged with all kinds of traffic. There are literally millions of motorbikes that can weave in and out of the traffic as well as travel up a one way street the wrong way.

 

Then there are becaks, three wheeled tricycles with a passenger seat at the front and a wiry Javanese pedaling at the back. Horse drawn carriages with sun awnings trot along in the traffic as well as cars, diesel mini buses, maxi buses and huge trucks all spitting out clouds of black smoke as they accelerate.

The traffic lights tell you the number seconds before they change colour. Waiting for 75 seconds in a cluster of 20 motor bikes all pushing out toxic smoke from their exhausts is a non breathtaking experience. Most motor bike riders have scarves over their mouths like a posse of outlaws in an attempt to avoid the fumes.

 

As the days are very hot you can get quite thirsty and we were for ever looking for a beer. We searched every supermarket we passed as we know that in Bali that’s where beer and soft drinks can be bought but alas no beer. Java is a Muslim island and alcohol along with pork is not easily found. Beer along with pork is usually partially hidden in the back corner of the supermarket.

We soon discovered that a convenience store franchise call ed Circle K stocked cold beer

and in our travels, seeing the Circle K sign we always stopped for a couple of cold cans to take home.

House hunting

Looking for a house to rent proved more difficult than I imagined. Word of mouth seems to be the way, driving the streets looking for a sign pasted on a window and looking in the news paper are other ways but you need to understand the code 3jt means three bedrooms.

I found a house by accident. I had to meet my boss at her house. I found the right street

But I entered the house across the road from her. I was met by an Indian who had been in Indonesia for 60 years. His opening words were “How can I help you sir, take a seat …can I get you something to drink” I told him that I had come to see my boss who was going to show me some houses to rent. He said the house next door was for rent. In a few moments we were inside the locked gate led by the Jugga (the man looking after the house). We walked down the drive past a gigantic two story white house and saw this cute single story house with ferns spilling over the front wall onto a well kept green lawn.

This looked really positive after the 30 other houses we had seen. The Indian gentleman informed us that were the servant’s quarters and it was the big house that was for rent.

I asked the price and he told us is A$ 900 for 12 months. I could not believe it.

That evening my boss rang me and said that there was a misunderstanding. The price was A$900 per month. I was so disappointed but on reflection it was still cheap at that price.

.After looking at other houses together with the heat and the need to find a place to live we negotiated the rent to A$161 per week.

The problem though, the house was far too big for us and living in it send a message that we are incredibly wealthy. With 7 bedrooms all air conditioned, two lounge rooms an office and an enormous upstairs tiled central space of more than 50square meters we will just have to cope.

Field trip

In the middle of the Indonesian language course and house hunting I was asked to go on a field trip my employer.

All I was told was that we were visiting a farming village to make a deal.

The day began at 8.00am and after stopping for breakfast and buying several packets of women’s sanitary pads we arrived at the village several kilometers from Magalan in central Java. This village comprises 500 families. There is a Mosque and a primary school in the village.

Rice is grown in paddy fields which are ploughed using water buffalo.

Organic rice is grown and sells for Rp 8.000 per kilo

Estimate for 2010 is 20 tons .The rice is distributed to Semarang, Jogyakarta and Jakarta.

There is an electric ice de-husker and one computer connected to the internet that serves the whole village.

We were greeted by a couple of farmers and spent an hour or so touring the village. It was a magical tour back in time. Having tea in a dirt floor house after shooing the chickens of the table and swatting hundreds of ants that had taken a liking to my pink shirt we chatted about the weather and the fluctuating price of goats.

There is what appears to me to be a complex water system.

Freshwater streams for drinking and irrigation, ponds for washing, ponds for shitting that eventually feed fish in a lower pond.

There were chickens and ducks running around under the clothes lines and women holding babies while they worked, old men were cutting firewood and young children were washing dishes in a plastic bowl under a water tap.

There were thickets of bamboo fifty feet high and rambutan trees, mango trees and the odd paw- paw tree. Walking along a shady track we were met by a villager bringing six water buffalo back from the field to their cool shady enclosures.

 We went into a house past the kitchen which consisted of a couple black stones on the dirt floor supporting a kettle and a wok, to a cage of guinea pigs.

 Outside was a pond full of fish that were in a feeding frenzy Gobbling up the food pellets that were being thrown to them.

We ended up in the village chiefs house, a green carpet was laid out with food and glasses of tea. We sat around chatting and eating and then the meeting began. A the meeting was in Indonesian and Javanese language I could not quite get the gist of what was going on until the boss grabbed my pad and said you will play the role of an investor and when I give the signal you explain what an investor expects from them .

Startled by the situation I whispered Who is Investing / What is he investing in.

The reply was a short whispered reply. “We have an investor from Makassa who wants to invest in goats.”

Meanwhile one of the staff was outlining on white paper stuck on the wall the price of one goat A$70 and pay back in two years, with another chart showing the months of the year and the breeding cycle of goats.

Then my turn came with a statement from my boss. Mr. Ken is an investor from Australia who will tell you what an investor expects from you.

The farmers turned there attention to me. I introduced my self in Bahasa Indonesia and then said An investor expects a return on his investment. An investor looks at the risks.

What is the worse thing that can happen…pause… the goat might die. I mimed dying and they all laughed. Then I said if I was investing in a goat I would like you to send me a picture of the goat. They all said photo. Well that was a good idea. Then I talked about the cost of food for the goat. They all waved their heads indicating that was not a problem the food was free. Then I went on to say if they got more goats they would have to build a bigger enclosure so the goats would not be stressed and would grow fat.

Things seemed to be progressing well and I went outside to stretch my legs as four hours sitting on the floor was a bit much for me.

A Few minutes later a deal was done the village agreed to borrow $A 300 for two years to buy 4 more goats and would pay back A$600 in two years time.

A docket was written and signed and the cash was produced from an envelope, counted out and handed over.

Now I understood the purpose of the field trip.

YOGYAKARTA February 2010

.




YOGYAKARTA February 2010


Following a three day briefing in Jakarta we took the train to Yogyakarta, while a pick pocket took my wallet at Gambir station as we were boarding the train.


So deft was the pickpocket that I did not feel a thing until we were 30 km from Jakarta and I ordered a coffee. The only thing I felt was the wrath of Annick who had suggested I place my wallet in her hand bag.

I found the train ride in daylight interesting, the air conditioning was set at freezing 16 degrees,


That’s the price you pay for first class!


In typical Indonesian style the 10 staff in the catering car anticipate your every need. About five minutes into the 8 hour journey. A tray of coffees, teas and water passes through the carriage carried by a beautiful girl; then another tray of biscuits and sweets.
Orders are taken for lunch and you can get a cold beer at any time.


Not one for sitting in my seat for the duration, I followed the staff to the food carriage.


It was like traveling from Norway to the Sahara desert in 30 seconds; out of the icy cold carriage into the heat of the kitchen.

I sat on a box and smoked my pipe along with the staff who were smoking, peeling cucumbers, frying eggs and laughing all the way.


A 9hour shift of the train is not hard for the workers, while they may not get paid very much the work is not hard and they have fun with their mates.


The scenery from the train window of endless rice fields is a patchwork of green cloth with sections hemmed with beans cross stitched on sticks and banana palms standing like windmills on the horizon.



Arriving in Yogyakarta in the late afternoon we were picked up by staff at the language school and delivered to the various homestays in the vicinity of the language school.



Our working day begins, with the sound of, you guessed it, a rooster letting everyone know who is boss. The crowing cock competes with the local Mullah calling the faithful to prayers.


We do nt begin our language training until 1.00 pm so we have time investigate the town. In reality we are looking for shops and supermarkets that sell beer.



Beer seems to be in short supply, not sold everywhere. It is usually hidden in the back corner of some supermarkets along with the pork. Forget about whisky it is non existent but you can find Smirnoff and lemon for S3.50 a small bottle. Wine is out of the question at A$50 to A$120 a bottle whether it comes from Bordeaux, Berri, Chile or South Africa.




The language training is intensive and by the end of the week we are exhausted, it must be something to do with being old!


Living in a home stay is a bit of a challenge, a single room living out of a suit case following the rules, prayers before our evening meal and so on. The owners are typical international middle class people the same age as us, retired and watching their pennies as the watch TV .



On Friday night we went to Via Via restaurant for the jazz. Via Via is the Mecca for the young expatriate, do gooders and back packers best described as "A congregation of lost souls." These well meaning naïve youngsters all seem to be smokers. The fashion for the women is "butch "style and the men, t shirts, shorts and sneakers with bum fluff beards.


We have been looking for a house to rent but no luck as yet. We saw one yesterday in a complex "European style". Well you could say that but it was more like a bad dream from Disneyland. We looked at an apartment in a multi story block which did not impress me. This rundown, shabby place with pealing paint was more like "suicide hotel for the down and out"


.

A Slow day in Bali

I was woken at 5.00am. “Come quickly Max is on the telephone (Skype).

I sat down at the desk; he was so chirpy at 8.00am EST while I could hardly focus.

Annick put a cup of coffee in front of me, as I listened to stories about Max’s family, nodding in agreement when I should have spoken ,gee that’s interesting, or ah ah.

All I could add the conversation was I have lost a bit of weight; no wine for nearly a month. Just think about it I haven’t drunk 2 dozen bottles and what’s more I don’t miss it.

“Why not “said max “it excites the brain cells” I replied "because it is Expensive, about A$40 to A$60 bottle."

“What about whisky, legend has it the British army used to drink whisky to repel mosquitoes” That may be so but at $100 a bottle it is cheaper to be bitten by a mosquito.

Booze used to be much cheaper in Indonesia up to about 12 months ago when the Government auditors discovered that the excise collected by Customs never actually reached the government coffers.

The Department of Finance acted quickly and slapped a “Super Tax” on all imported liquor, until they could track down the missing millions of Excise.

This could take years as no one will be willing to blow the whistle, and implicate the hand that feeds them.
By the end of the phone call I was wide awake and being Sunday all the Saturday drunks

were sleeping off the effects of drinking. Gee, what a wowser, with that statement I could get free membership to the Temperance Union.

Now the sun was up and the clouds were threatening rain. Not having any particular plans

I went downstairs to the gym and exercised a few muscles, bike riding watching BBC news on TV, the vibrating machine that was designed for women, in that is attempts to shake the fat off their stomachs, and explode the cellulite in their legs.
For me it almost shakes my eyeballs out of their sockets. Watching TV is like experiencing an earthquake. Well at least is blurred the image of Sharon Burroughs who was rabbi ting on about collective bargaining. In my wobbly state I imagined a scene in a department store of a gaggle of women collectively bargaining with a poor defenseless, down trodden shop assistant
Stepping off the wobble board I picked up the dumbbells for a 100 monotonous lifts in front of the mirror when I noticed that my upper lip was lifting each time I lifted the dumbbells, that must me a signal from my body to stop and so I did.
After a bit more play with other toys of torture the sweat was dripping off me and that was another signal to stop, have a shower and jump in the pool.

Relaxing on the edge of the pool looking at the other guests woofing down fatty breakfasts,
 I felt quite smug as most were nursing hangovers.

Back in the apartment I received an email from one of my best friends; you know the normal chatty things. He is a sailor and like me he is fan of Joseph Conrad, the Polish lad who ran away to sea and
did not learn English until he was 16. Included in
the email was the following slab of words written
 by Joseph Conrad when he was at sea.


“Yes, your ship wants to be humoured with knowledge. You must treat with an understanding consideration the mysteries of her feminine nature, and then she will stand by you faithfully in the unceasing struggle with forces wherein defeat is no shame. It is a serious relation, that in which a man stands to his ship. She has her rights as though she could breathe and speak; and, indeed, there are ships that, for the right man, will do anything but speak, as the saying goes.


A ship is not a slave. You must make her easy in a seaway, you must never forget that you owe her the fullest share of your thought, of your skill, of your self-love. If you remember that obligation, naturally and without effort, as if it were an instinctive feeling of your inner life, she will sail, stay, run for you as long as she is able, or, like a sea-bird going to rest upon the angry waves, she will lay out the heaviest gale that ever made you doubt living long enough to see another sunrise.”

Damn it! I had just sold my dream ship; we’ve been together for twenty years, our relationship ended like most relationships. She was high maintenance and lusting after a youthful new adventure while I was aging with very little money and no plans.
I surrendered her to a younger man who had both mney and plans.

I thought I was realistic, after living with old people in a retirement village, I was becoming like them and thought I was too old to brave the elements, and not strong enough to winch in the sheets and raise the anchor.
What bullshit, three weeks at the gym, an absence of alcohol and the visual pleasure
of watching beautiful Balinese women I am a new man, my lust has returned, lust for another boat that is; and so the search began.

I spent the day searching yachts for sale on the web and reading sailing stories. By the end of the day I was pumping with enthusiasm and was already planning an ocean voyage. In my head I had bought the yacht and now I was planning the route and preparing the yacht.

That’s what happens when you have a quiet day.

Sex in Bali

The sun was shinning brightly, quite hot on the road as our motor bike made 40km/hr along the licorice strap road to Pandang Bai, the major port on the east coast. There were all kinds of activity to be observed from the bamboo, cutters, log sawyer’s and stone cutters. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a white marble statue 3meter high a copy of the famous “Statue of David” there was no fig leaf of modesty instead there was a double set of genitalia leaning sleepily by the loins. I really did not take much notice until we stopped at the traffic lights 50 meters down the road. I was staring at a huge billboard advertising


Clove Cigarettes, at the bottom of the sign was the government warning of the dangers of smoking. This was a good moment to practice my Bahasa Indonesia. I was looking for the translation of the words we normally find on Cigarette packets at home such as lung cancer, gum ulcers and the like. There was nothing like that just a statement that the advertising guru’s in Indonesia knew would hit home. ”If you smoke you will become impotent”


In this country children are much loved and are seen every where with there mothers at work, being carried on motor bike by their fathers along  with the caged chickens, or coconuts
tied to the back seat. The children are an investment in the future, either as additional workers in the family business or as superannuation for the parents.


Like wise in Padang Bai, sitting in the shade of yet another statue, this time it was a horse, white marble, life size, a stallion no doubt judging by the large erect penis which some one had touched up by painting the flange bright red.


Art reflects life.

There is no hidden meaning or obtuse eroticism such as Robert Herrik’s “a piece of erring lace” to describe a maid the poet fancied. Indonesian art is honest in it portrayal of everyday life.
Having a beer a hotel my eye was taken by the carving of animals on the top of a wall. There were two pigs fornicating, with a look of happiness and contentment not just of one pig’s face but on both.

Bali has attracted artists from all over the world and you can see why when you visit Ubud, almost in the centre of Bali. Ubud is not really a city but a collection of thatched hotels, homestay’s and cottages surrounding the local market. It appears that the major occupation here is art of one form or another.


More recently a new form of art in and around Ubud attracts Europeans, middle aged women in particular. That is art that encompasses the body. The art of yoga, massage and liver cleansing diets.

The Lonely Planet best describes Ubud in a passage entitled


THAT DAMN BOOK.


“You see them everywhere these days in Ubud: women of a certain age strolling the streets with that look. A mixture of self satisfaction, entitlement and too much yoga, with maybe just a hint of desperation that the haven’t yet found their Felipe. You know a rich Brazilian who can bed you silly for an entire month. Yes it is the readers of


Eat, Pray, Love, the best selling Elizabeth Gilbert book that chronicles the authors search for self fulfillment ( and further fulfillment of a book contract) across Italy ,India and of course Ubud.”


The monkeys in Monkey forest road command a park are well catered for by the bus loads of tourists with bananas nuts and cocacola ,day in and day out they must have been watched by the hard of hearing Elizabeth Gilbert. It is from observing monkeys that the title of her book emerged ,’Eat, fuck and play’.

It was in a restaurant along Monkey forest road that by chance we were seated near three American women from Pennsylvania. One of the women produced “that Dam book” from a bag and flashed around it around the restaurant. Three exotic, green drinks arrived at their table, with ice blocks and straws accompanied with three bottles of expensive European soda water. It was part of a detox program. Lawn clippings that had been hand fed through a food processor and then let breathe for an hour or so in the refrigerator before being aerated with soda.


These girls who had more rumples than Rumple Stiltskin were living the dream,
Victims of advertising. Two large pizzas and a few cigarettes later they left the table
 cleansed.

Obtaining a motorbike licence in Indonesia

Some time ago in Bali, early one morning while riding a motor bike to fetch some bread


I was stopped by the police for no apparent reason. The policeman asked to see my driving licence. I confidently showed him my International driving licence and he equally confidently pointed to a stamp in the licence that said “No Motorbike”.


I had never bothered to read the fine print of the licence before.


He said you have a choice, either you come with me to the police station and pay a fine of A$2,000 or we can settle the matter here for $400. I negotiated the illicit fee down to A$200 fuming at this blatant corruption while continuing on for the bread.






Knowing that my current stay in Indonesia would be more than a year I thought it would be more economical to get a licence rather than pay police on demand.






I arrived at the Dempasar Police headquarters, an impressive Dutch colonial building set back from the road at 9.00am. There were not many people about. I asked the security guard where to go. He gestured to the back of the building. When I passed through the arch to the rear of the building there was a sea of motorbikes and hundreds of people sitting around waiting.


I climbed the stairs, went to the desk, the lady behind the desk seeing me ,the solitary European, called “Yoman come here you speak English” Yoman, the uniformed policeman, with, pistol and handcuffs on a white belt ushered me into a room with 15 desks and 15 computers and asked me to take a seat.


This was a revelation, new electronic efficiency. There was a banner on the rear wall


“NEW AUDIO VISUAL INTEGRATION SYSTEM IMPLEMENTATION Jan 2010.”


The cables connecting the system were neatly arranged on the floor in Plastic conduit about 3cm square. In the isle ways were the cabling crossed from desk to desk there was a wooden block about 6cm square as an additional protection for the cable.


As people were came into the room to undertake their test 80% tripped over the cable


Knocking over its wooden protection, producing laughter by those already seated.


This accidental comedy continued all of the 40 minutes I was there as people came and went. It was classic slapstick; you know what could happen as some one enters the room.


But will it happen? The tension rises as the person approaches the cable, and then is released whether they trip or not.






The wait for my form to be processed was compensated by the never ending guessing game. “To trip or not to trip that is the question”






The smiling policeman kept giving me forms to fill out and when I could not understand the language he did it for me and then asked for what I thought was the licence fee A$20 and completion of the process. When he folded the money and put it in his shirt pocket and told me to get my passport photocopied and go to the next office around the corner


I realized that the A$20 was just for him.


The next two hours involved collecting 13 bits of paper and 13 stamps from 5 different locations in the police complex. Each time I asked a uniformed person for help was a mistake. When I heard a policeman speak English, it was with a limited vocabulary of ten words that his colleagues have taught him.


“I can help you if you will help me”


These 10 words were the signal of what was to come. My repeated response was


“Tidak mengerti” (I do not understand) which I repeated so often that the policeman with his limited English gave up in frustration and helped me for free.


Nearly at the end of the process I paid the official licence fee at place called “BANK”


Was given an official receipt which I took to two more booths to have my thumb print and photograph taken and I was issued with a licence card.


In the three hour process I made friends with other motor bike riders and car drivers and experienced the entrepreneurial spirit of the public service and its contribution to the Indonesian economy. The licensing procedure spawned a mini economy of food stalls, photocopy shops and motorbike and automobile supply stores in the immediate vicinity of the police headquarters.

Now for the test, no not a driving test but the confrontation with the policeman in the street. I have since learned and effective response to a policeman’s request for money. When confronted take your mobile phone and say.


“Please wait a moment while I call the Australian embassy”