Ramadan

Preface: In writing this blog and being graced with peoples opinions about its content, it has recently come to my attention that I might be considered a little crass or crude in my writings (I think it’s a little harder to be offend in Australia as being coarse is a cultural norm), and that what is said here could cause offence. I want to make it clear that nothing posted here is ever written with malicious intent, nor is it a diss on the Indonesian culture which I love so much. It is simply observation be told as it is experienced and my views on the world, which I am entirely entitled to have. I worry that there will be some misinterpretation of what is being said here (perhaps it is just my expression, I did fail an Indonesian grammar test recently), as if I am saying that Australian, or western culture for that matter is somehow superior to that of Indonesia. This is not at all the case, and truth be known, if I was writing this about my experiences with Australian culture it would be positively scathing as I am much more often confronted with aspects of Australian culture which I don’t like, than that of Indonesian culture (which are rare). This all said, one thing I don’t support and will not adhere to is refraining from discussing issues because they “might” be considered “sensitive” in the name of being “politically correct”, because it is simply bullshit (particularly on the internet, the supposedly “free” form of media, but censorship is everywhere, can't believe they're about restrict Australian internet, what a joke), this practice (in my opinion) poisons society. Offence is not my game, but people need to be real, respectful debate in this big ass world is healthy, and more opinions (of all sorts) can only benefit understanding, even if we don’t always agree with them. Taboo topics breed problems. So, if you don’t like my opinion, leave a comment. Otherwise, Enjoy.

Ramadan came at an interesting time this year. Obviously not for 90% or so of the population of Indonesia who are Islamic as this is by no means new to them and practiced from a young age, but because I had recently arrived and was not yet used to the normal life (yet obviously vastly different to my “normal” life at home) here let alone the change which would occur in this holiest of months. In fact, no more than two weeks after my arrival it all began and the change was stark.
The streetscape changed, as if the clock, more so the whole concept of time had been altered; when to sleep, when to wake and when to meet your friends to “nongkrong” (hang out) had been moved in accordance with the whole new lifestyle which was adopted. This change is a result of “puasa” or fasting and it is one of the requisites of Islam along with praying 5 times a day, going on the Hajj to Mecca and zakat (helping the poor, this is in itself plays out interesting in Indonesia. People during puasa give money as a way of putting back into society, but sometimes it goes very wrong, particularly when a rich person who thinks it will bring them closer to god announces that on a certain day at a certain time and place they will be handing out a whole bunch of cash and people swarm from all around in an effort to get the money. In fact this year, several people died when they were trampled to death while trying to receive some of this free cash).
The puasa works as follows: People wake at 3am (3am you say, how on earth can people rise naturally at 3am? admittedly some do, but also every mosque all over town does a morning prayer, kind of like a religious wake up alarm, the sound of a lone man crooning through whatever speakers can be set up at the mosque, rest assured they will be loud, interestingly, during one of my shopping trips I did find an alarm clock that had replaced the buzzer or the radio for the morning prayer, even the alarm clock was in the shape of a mosque) to eat, drink and smoke as much as possible and then at a prescribed time which changes slightly every day, you must stop, food half chewed, water not swallowed, ciggie not finished, it doesn’t matter, your time is over. After that everyone goes to pray, and then depending on how your feeling you usually go back to sleep. Then the fast begins, and for that whole day, you won’t see a person around eating drinking or smoking (unless they drive the local busses, and for some reason they often still smoke), and the result is that the atmosphere of the normally vibrant city through the day takes on a much slower pace, people are conserving energy (as you would if you weren’t going to be able to have a glass of water or bite to eat all day). Also, all the activities you usually do in the day are limited. You can’t go out and eat, or sit chatting garbage, drinking ice tea and smoking kreteks. As for physical activity, forget it. It makes life a sombre experience for which many tend to sleep much of the day, to kill the time when life is without its usual activities and boredom ensues (the pious would disagree with me and they are free to do so), it is a time for getting close to god, enacting self-control and proving your commitment.
Even for those who don’t partake in the fast there are effects, many of the usual haunts are closed, drinking alcohol (already not favourable) is out of bounds (One of the largest Islamic organisations in Indonesia wrote on its website that “sweepings”, the act of hassling and sometimes beating people not “respecting” the aforementioned period, would occur in tourist areas), and furthermore, its very impolite to eat and drink in front of those who are unable to share the same privilege. This is a point I completely understand yet cannot still completely agree with considering that the fast is a personal choice (if you want to stop smoking, does everyone around you have to stop smoking in your presence?). Despite all this, warungs are still open but covered up with curtains, so all the sinners can still eat and not be seen. I always wondered whether maybe people eating and drinking during the fast went to different places so as to avoid being seen by people they might know (In the west I guess it could be compared with if you ran into your neighbour at a brothel and you both felt a filthy guilt, knowing that you were doing the wrong thing and wishing to have simply not seen each other).
The fast goes on all day and people appear tired, drained from the heat and lack of water, On the busses people sit quietly with their eyes closed.
Then, as the sun begins to set, the streets suddenly open up. Stalls selling food and drink appear from nowhere and yet are still empty in waiting, waiting for buka puasa, the breaking of the fast which will occur at sunset. And then you hear it, the mosque once again can be heard and suddenly the streets go fucking ballistic. Every citizen in Indonesia is suddenly freed. Every man and woman who hasn’t had a sip of water or a smoke all day are once again able, and they rush en masse to meet together to eat, talk and laugh as their bodies are re-strengthened. The roadsides become seas of people, sitting lesehan style eating bakso (meatball soup) or sup buah (fruit soup) or any other number of delicious things and the food never seems to have tasted as good as when your with all your friends and starving.
The traffic is the most obvious indication of “buka puasa”. It’s an amazing thing to watch, bikes zipping past side-by-side not a foot apart, horns blaring, eyes forward, non-patterned masses of traffic waiting for the lights to turn green. I say “amazing” but this is only the case provided your not sharing the road with all these tired and hungry people who are in a hurry to get home (the week I bought my motorbike coincided with this tradition and I had my schooling in Indonesian driving during this time, surely a good introduction, because if you can drive at the break of the fast, you will be able to drive at anytime, probably anywhere in the world).
Seeing all if this, its hard not to feel the beauty of it, the energy which could manifest itself in struggling to find a place to sit on a crowded pathway or accidently bumping someone on your bike and having them understand and smile; it contains a sense of community which is hard to find.
The other interesting thing is that because the day is so quiet, the night is then full of activity and because you’ll be waking up at 3am anyway, some people (most of the people in my kos) don’t really bother going to sleep. Music can be played at all hours of the night, because night has become the new day.
I was largely a spectator in this whole process, but I was intrigued by the idea of a fast, how hard would it be? (someone reading this is going to pat themselves on the back for doing the 40-hour Famine, and from the charitable perspective you most certainly should, but in relation to the fast, although 40 hours is longer than a day, you only do it once, imagine every day for a month, it’s a different kettle of fish). With this in mind, I valiantly began the fast. Admittedly, my fast only involved food and cigarettes because the idea of a Bule (white man) not drinking water under this often-vicious sun is ludicrous. I would wake with all my friends and 3am, feeling sick from having to stir from sleep in the middle of the night, walk up the road with everyone, get bungkus (a meal wrapped in brown paper, takeaway) and come back to the kos. Everyone would sit together on whatever they could find and quickly bolt down all their food, this process often leaving me feeling rather ill (as someone who prefers not to eat until they’ve been awake for at least an hour or so, not 5 minutes). I’d have a few ciggies and then would be invited to go pray to which I would politely decline before getting back into bed, often struggling to go back to sleep. Then at 6am I would have to fight myself awake again (largely due to some arrogance about how I’m a morning person, which I usually am but have struggled with since being here) to make it to my 7am lecture (which I was completely responsible for choosing). I’ll have to be honest here, it was pretty fucked. I was constantly tired, and although the reward was sweet at the end of the day, anyone who has ever seen me go without food for long periods of time will know I tend to get cranky (and with a pace and style of life which is different, extra patience is always necessary). In addition, not being able to have a cigarette is pretty hard work. Needless to say, I didn’t make the whole month, and “Lindsay’s Puasa” weak and incomplete as it already was only lasted a week. I ended up having to ask myself what I was doing, why was I punishing myself. Did I feel closer to the God? What God!

What I Do Now I Don't Rock the Disco

I've recently realised how easy it is to become set in your ways, and how nerve-wracking it can be when you are forced to step outside your usual "norms" and face new situations, particularly when you consider yourself someone open and willing to do anything. But somewhere, deep in the unconscious, we (some of us) create a mechanism unaware to us which pushes in certain directions, allows us to avoid the embarrassing and steer clear of sticky situations, allowing us to still feel gangsta (that's right folks). This is a mildly strange introduction but in the past month I have had this whole new experience of being outside my city and usual routine. It causes one to re-assess their behaviour. What is considered to be norms of behaviour, or at least the way you conduct yourself changes because the people your around don't know you (and if you act like a goose or let your "inner demons run amok", thanks Bill Hicks, people tend to find you a little hard to interpret). Furthermore, because your not in your routine, what your exposed to (which you usually might shy away from with reasonable excuses) is really different and there's a good chance that as with anything new you won't be good at it. It's kind of a shit feeling at times, you can feel a little hopeless, starting again from the bottom rung of the proverbial ladder.

It all sounds a little depressing, but I guess the good news is that it's exciting, and it undoubtedly freshens the mind and forces it to look in new directions. I'm being a little vague on what this whole post is about but it's not really easy to explain as it ends up being a fairly all-encompassing feeling, being in a new place around people and things that are indeed foreign. In truth, it isn't about much, but for anyway knows my usual ways: Studying studiously, partying on occasion and having the odd (or not) spliff here and there, what I've been doing in Yogya is worlds away.

Below I will reel off a list of things I've been doing but as I turn them over in my head I'm brought to the notion that its all really cheesy (something which I usually look down upon) but for some reason now I'm here and doing it, it's lovely to not have to take things so seriously, to not have any need to be "cool" or flinch at things which might be considered lame.

What I'm rattling on about is also closely linked with this idea of a "life without intoxication" which is so pertinent here (whether I like it or not). This concept relates to my post about Australian culture and how often things involve drinking. The other day I tried to explain to someone who had never been drunk what the point of the whole exercise was and once again I really struggled. Well I told him, you drink to relax, and you laugh, chat with your friends, sit around in a place that you like and if you drink enough, you might start losing your inhibitions and will eventually vomit. Oh, and it also affects basic motor functions such as speaking clearly and walking straight. He gave me a bizarre look and asked me why anyone did it. I told him it was fun. He replied that he could see that I obviously enjoyed it but he didn't see the point, because he could sit, chat and laugh with his friends in a place he liked without having to vomit or be unable to walk straight. Fuck this I thought to myself, he doesn't understand. But then it dawned on me that he understood perfectly (maybe more so than I), that in a completely literal sense unaffected by the normalising factor of drinking being a cultural past-time, its appeal is low. As often occurs here i was lost for words (both in the sense that my language wasn't up to the task, and well as for a decent answer) in my efforts to explain the finer nuances of getting pissed.

So to think of a life without inebriation (which mine largely is these days as my Indonesian friends don't drink and there's no way I'd pick having a drink over chilling with them), there must be a whole cohort of new activities put in place to substitute for all the time one might spend at the pub drinking or at a night club, as well as all the time lost (I think of most Sundays for the last 3 years) recovering from being out all night hammering your body into the ground. In Indonesia, these new substitute activities are plentiful and you only need to look at the Indonesians to see the benefits. Its a strange thing but everyone in Indonesia has at least one thing they are really good at, some sport, hobby of some variety and its really impressive because i wonder how many of my hobbies have suffered (as well as my brain of course) when I can't move out of bed on a Monday after already spending all Sunday on the couch(I made it to the beach less than a handful of times in my first year of university as Sunday wasn't a usable day anymore).

So what do the Indonesians do instead of drinking? One of the first of the popular past-times that i was exposed to was the strange world of karaoke. I was actually invited several times before I finally gave in and went along. I think it was both a matter of my cheesy radar going berserk, but also a little but nonetheless deeply entrenched fear about the idea of singing my heart out in front of a group of people who although i was friends with, i certainly didn't feel comfortable singing to (I barely sing in the shower unless no one is home). So after resisting valiantly, I finally agreed to go along, strongly committed that i would not sing under any circumstances. Maybe, i was stuck on the idea that surely those who followed the karaoke trend could sing because otherwise it would be all too embarrassing, you would feel like you were torturing your friends with a constant repetition of notes painfully out of tune. But I was wrong (maybe this is no surprise to those more experienced), it's not at all centred around quality but about having a go and truly the worst thing you can do is to not sing, or to sing too quietly as if your nervous or finding the whole experience a little pathetic. So in a dark room surrounded by my new friends, at the early hour of two in the afternoon and completely sober, I lost my karaoke virginity singing Abba's "Dancing Queen" (i know, shocking, but if cheese is cool then it must be recognised that Abba is king). Everyone cheers each other while at the microphone, and strangely those notes that you don't hit (or do and sound oh so aweful) aren't heard. There is something strangely liberating about the whole experience, and after not a few minutes usually your belting it out with all you've got.

An interesting aspect of karaoke is that you get to read the lyrics to your favourite songs ("Oh really Lindsay, you goose, of course you do, hate to point out the obvious", but internet music theft has stolen the ability to read the lyrics as you can when you paid for it). I had never realised how many songs i thought I knew the lyrics to only to find that i couldn't get through the whole track without the prompt-screen, or that I busted out a word which turned out to be incorrect (as a somewhat avid Rolling Stones fan I was rather upset when I found out the actual lyrics to a well-known song which changed the meaning I had in my head). As well as the prompt screen there is without fail a music video to accompany it, usually not the original but this only makes it more interesting (particularly when it's a grainy 1980's bikini beach babe scene filmed in Bali involving a lady rubbing handfuls of sand on the chest of an unknown man is matched with a weepy song about the virtues of true and never ending love).

Besides singing like a fool, I have returned (somewhat shakily and with seemingly less ability to follow patterns since my days as a tights-wearing ballerina) to the dance floor and have been attending salsa dancing classes. Once again, this was an activity I had to be dragged along to but i was somewhat more easily convinced (cute girls dancing as opposed to ragged voices singing is not a hard choice) despite still feeling resolute that i would not be dancing. I must admit here that it seems strange even to me that i would be nervous about dancing. I love dancing and am usually willing to give away my precious sleep on a fairly regular basis to doodle around on the dance-floors in night-clubs all over Melbourne clocking up as many hours as the DJ will play as I see it as a type of therapy for the soul ( and as Scott said to me the other day, it is his only source of exercise "yeah man, i sweat", and usually this applies to myself as well). I guess maybe its a matter of inebriation in combination with the reality of a dancing style not dictated by steps but rather to by feels Gooood!!!

So I followed along to a place called the Miami Lounge (complete with the biggest list of mock-tails I've ever seen but not a drop of alchohol to be found) to "watch" the salsa dancing. The teacher arrived (he's a bit of a hybrid this fellow, adorned with a pony tail he is both manly and feminine, somewhat of a metro-sexual cowboy, i might of picked him as gay but he has a family, kids and a very understandable eye for the cute girls he teaches) and all the girls got up, ready to begin the class. But where where all the guys? Salsa is a dance for two, man and woman. The answer is that they were sitting like I was, pretending to be far above the whole affair in a state of fear imagining stumbling their way through basic steps with a gorgeous girl right in front of them to witness the mistakes. The teacher soon started berating the boys to get up and find a partner, and slowly but surely they started to walk onto the dance floor. I sat with my coffee and cigarette as this all occurred with no intention of moving, but soon the number of boys was dwindling until it was only I who was sitting out. Suddenly my fear of dancing badly was replaced by a feeling of stupidity as I sat alone, rejecting something without reason or others to back my fear. I quickly got up and found a partner. Anyway, turns out that the art of salsa (which i am far from acquiring) is really challenging but amazing to watch and when its done well its hot (lots of eye contact). So in a big group we all danced the steps in time, threw in a spin and step when told (or at least tried) and had alot of fun. Also, although I'm sure I'll people will think I've got a dirty mind (which might be true but is completely irrelevant here and not at all the point I'm trying to make), but in a culture where physical contact with the other sex is less common and frowned upon before marriage (something very different from the West), its really comforting to twirl a beautiful girl around and hold hands (you will laugh but spend some time without the prospect of as much as a kiss for months and you'll surely change your tune).

I also went ice-skating, which is not so much new but strange in a place like Indonesia where its never even cold enough for me to wear a jacket. The rink was really small and after a few minutes going in circles, it occurred to me that ice-skating might actually be more dangerous than driving here. But on the other end of the spectrum, there is even an ice-skating crew here who are really talented (Mind you it still confuses me how one gets involved in a past-time such as skating here, I haven't even seen a pair of roller-blades).

Other than that, I've been playing alot of pool, and once again its very different from at home. Usually, anyone who plays really good pool (there are exceptions of course) usually spends way too much time at the pub getting pissed. Here, its very different. You book a table by the hour in a huge hall full of tables and there is a guy who comes and resets the balls when a game is finished. On my first time to one of the many halls in Yogya, I commented on how excited I was to have a beer and shoot some pool, boy was I disappointed. Along with rules of no food from outside the venue and no weapons, it is also listed that no alchohol is to be consumed on the premises, how strange I thought. I guess the benefit is that the quality of pool tends to stay high all night as well as patrons who are much more serious about the game, something which really shows because I see some amazing pool being played here (also, its really common for people to bring their own cues as well as special gloves for keeping the hands smooth playing, I usually tend to just get covered in blue powder). I've had to lift my game, although I've spent plenty of time playing pool, maybe my drunkenness has limited my future progress.

Last but not least, a huge amount of time is spent here eating and chilling out at restaurants (one of the reasons I don't want to come home, not that i don't love my parents cooking). A large percentage of people eat out alot because even when considering the relative difference of currency (which makes it really cheap for foreigners), its still quite affordable for the local population. As a result, everyone buys lunch at uni everyday and then goes to a restaurant in the evening. The food here is amazing so your never lost for choice and I pretty much end up at a different place every night eating great food. I'm yet to eat any shoddy food and most of the time its delicious, and I can eat and drink until I cant move for $2-3. Strangely, the only really expensive food (and it's seen as a special thing here because it's different, western and therefore really trendy when you've got money) is junk food like MacDonalds and KFC. The only different here is that whilst they do serve chips, they also serve rice because the Indonesians always claim that they cant feel properly full until they've had some rice). Junk food is on average twice as expensive as eating anywhere else, and as might be expected from the world conquering, quality poor junk food chains, the flavour is the same all over the world. Yet considering how shit it is, you go there late on a Saturday night, and people are on dates and hanging out at MacDonalds. For me, the only difference from Australia is that the staff in Indonesia aren't scum-bag bogans (apologies to those who may have previously worked there but the truth must be told) and you can smoke (apologies for the photo Mum, it had to be done, where else in the world can you do that). Oh, I just looked through my phone to call someone and found another difference, MacDonalds phone number, here they do 24-hour delivery, can you imagine the success that would have with the pot-smoking sector of Australian population.

So there it is. These days it's often a long time between drinks (joints or anything else) for me, but instead of improving my skills at saying inappropriate things, spilling all my secrets, getting sloppy and having in-depth yet useless conversations with strangers which I wont remember in the morning, I'm wasting my time in other and potentially more useful ways... how reassuring.

A Motorbike in a Mad Place

A motorbike in a mad place

When still in Australia, I pondered deeply and discussed extensively with many people the idea of buying a motorbike when in Indonesia and the reactions I received were very mixed. From my parents (whose concern I most certainly understand) and family, the worry was obvious and vocal, although it seemed to me that it was understood (maybe as a result of previous disregard) that "Lindsay, you idiot, this is such a stupid idea" would not help in changing my mind". It's hard to explain to those who haven't spent time riding motorbikes, but it really is like the ultimate freedom (with the ultimate consequences), I imagine it's a little like what flying would feel like.

From those who had travelled extensively, particularly in Asia, opinions were more varied. There were those who understood that the motorbike is undoubtedly the car of Asia and knew how essential and helpful they can be (particularly in getting to know a place when their public transport system is slow, limited in locations, and full of "pencopet" or pickpockets). On the other hand, there were few who could say that after viewing the traffic situation in crowded third world cities that it looked either safe or inviting. All of this weighed on my mind. But I must admit, its a strange feeling being told you're an absolute fool for even considering riding a motorbike when you see the whole population using them; whole families of four on a bike together, really young teenage boys driving too fast, and equally young but sheepish girl in a jilbab driving too slow, to a woman who could be your grandma, and yes, they're in the same traffic as you're fearing.

Before I left, I chatted with a friend from my Indonesian class who had just returned from doing a similar 6 months of study in Indonesia. He is much calmer, more cautious and sensible than I am and his thoughts were as follows: Everyone will be freaking out about driving when they arrive and will commit firmly to staying off the roads as they look far too insane, one person will then get a motorbike and start getting to see everything and by the end of semester most (including my friend) will follow and be driving around and embracing the Indonesian way of life. In my case, having already ridden bikes here in Indonesia, in India and recently in Laos as well as surviving an accident or three, I figured I would cut the bullshit, not wait half a semester and just get right into looking for a bike.

In the world of Indonesian "motors", the word for bike used everywhere because it is pretty much assumed you wont own a car (I haven't met anyone yet who does), there are two styles of bike. There is the "bebek" which translates to duck but which in the West would be called a scooter and they are without question the norm. They come in all varieties from old Vespas to super fast Hondas and everything in between. They can be fully automatic, semiautomatic (needing the feet to click the gears up and down) and obviously the manual bebek (these are rare) with a clutch. The other type of bike in Indonesia, the bike we would usually know in the Australia, big and gnarly and always with a clutch is called a "motor laki-laki" which translates to a bike for a man (the sexism runs deep here, in my class on gender the other day, I was told by a fellow student in what i think was an attempt to justify the gender inequality which exists in Islam that it was the same in Christianity, just look at the story of Adam, he was Alone in the garden of Eden and needed a "pendamping" or helper, maybe to clean up, wash the dishes, and that's why God created Eve). Anyway, true to the phrase, you will never see a woman riding a motor laki-laki but they are really cool and I must admit that once I saw a few I was pretty set on the idea of getting one.

The strange thing is, despite the fact there is no doubt (at least in my mind) that the "man bikes" are much cooler, it seems a thing in Asia to like the newest technology and many guys will tell you that in fact riding a "motor bebek/cewek (woman)" is actually more trendy, but hey, they've never seen Easy Rider.

I started asking my friends about buying one of these "Man" bikes and so after trying to tell me I would be cooler on a bebek and realising I wasn't sold on the idea, they agreed to take me out shopping for a bike. I went looking with my friend Heru who had recently finished his degree in motor-mechanics because he seemed to know what he was on about. The only problem for me was that rocking up to a shop full of rev-head Indonesians when you've got long blonde hair and look like a spring chicken is that the seedy, tattooed characters selling the bikes get big dollar signs flashing in their eyes the moment you arrive cant be expected to be given a price which is even half reasonable. After this occurred a few times we decided that Heru would look into the bike for me and that we should just go to the biggest Mall in Yogyakarta, head into their underground parking facility and wander around until I saw a bike I liked and then Heru would track one down. The bike I found was the Yamaha RX (racing experiment) King, considered to be the bike of the "rampok" or robber in Indonesia, and fuck me they are cool.

Heru got on the case and within a few days he had set up a meeting to check out an RX King from 2002 with a dude who was heading back to Sumatra to live, Heru told me the engine was good but there seemed to be a small issue with the steering. When I showed up I saw the guy I might be buying the bike off and was immediately a little worried, he was a very sketchy looking long haired fellow with a bad look in his eyes. But the bike, my god, it was incredible, electric blue and it had obviously been modified, so at least the exterior looked good. I hopped on in a small back-street with alot of people watching, forgot everything I had learned in my motorbike licence test not three weeks before and stalled about three times (not even making it to a main road). Once I got things sorted it was great until I started going a little faster and then I realised what Heru was talking about with the steering, the bike turned to the right with no help of its own. With the combination of my repeated stalls in the back lane (which is a real issue here because the roads are far too crowded and dangerous to be stalling constantly) and the dodgy seller who would be gone in a week if anything went wrong, I decided I needed time to think.

I spent the next few days shattered over my performance on the bike with the clutch and having to come to terms with the fact I might be riding a Bebek for my time here. But the truth was, I was the one who had stalled it and maybe I wasn't ready to be on the Indonesian roads on a bike like that.

A few days later I was at the local watering hole (Cafe Bintang) after viewing a great exhibition with another friend who works as a painter and he suggested that he could find me an RX King, at least just to look at if I was interested. I said yes and the next morning we went to a small shop (Called Motor "Putra" which is another word for man, as might be expected, not a woman in sight) and found a good selection of second-hand bikes. From the start my eye was set on a really cool black one. I walked around it and tried to look like I knew what I was talking about and then it came to that awkward point where the guy asked me if I'd like to try it, and what idiot wouldn't want to try the merchandise he was looking to buy. I quickly walked out to the street to see that not only was this not the quiet alley I had been stalling in the other day, it was a really crowded main road with bikes, cars and buses going in all directions.

I still don't really know what changed in my approach but I put on a helmet, made sure the rev's were high enough so I wouldn't stall and bolted out in to the traffic. It was a great feeling flying along and at one point the traffic cleared on a straight and I was able to open it up and see what the bike could do (which is plenty more than I need, it goes nuts in third gear). I returned to the shop, paid a deposit and went home to collect my helmet and the rest of the money. Later that night I returned to pay in full but was still a million rupiah short (about $100AU), they kept the books for the bike but nonetheless let me ride it home and told me I could return in the morning. When I got home, things started to go a little pear-shaped and my kos friends were quick to point out some of the problems I hadn't noticed. Firstly, the break lights and indicators only worked intermittently, there was no horn, the key wouldn't open the petrol tank and after sitting the bike for half an hour at my kos we realised that there was a fuel leak which quickly filled the area with the unpleasant smell of petrol.

After listening to all my kos friends tell me how much of a fool i was, how i had bought a "motor buset" or bullshit bike (all in good fun of course), I was pretty furious because most of the problems I was now dealing with hadn't been visible when in the shop (for example, the clean white tiles of the shop didn't have the same grimy oil that the floor of my kos now did) so i resolved to crack the shits in the morning. In fact, it actually kept me awake that night, thinking about my bike and how its always a bad idea to rush into investments of any kind in countries like Indonesia.

In the morning, I had a quick discussion with the friends from my kos who assured me that if the fucker who sold me the bike wouldn't play ball and fix the list of problems I had written up, that we would all go down to his shop together to ruff him up, or alternatively burn his shop down (they seemed fairly serious and I love a bit of people's justice, so that made me feel good).

Anyway, back to the shop I rode, praying that my bike (which had leaked all night) wouldn't run out of petrol as the tank couldn't be opened. In addition, this constituted my third time riding a motorbike with a clutch and it showed. The whole way there I dropped the clutch out too fast, causing the bike to jump like mad, stalled at every intersection I stopped at, and generally made a hazard of myself. I arrived in one piece at the shop ready to try and let loose in my best angry Indonesian but as is often the case in Indonesia, people want to avoid conflict and after giving them my list they told me to go and eat something and come back in an hour (can you imagine mechanics in Australia getting anything done in an hour, impossible).

I've now had a week driving and I'm quickly learning the ways of the roads. It's interesting, it is undoubtedly dangerous, but alot of what I see to be the dangerous aspect is in the Indonesian driving style: weaving through traffic without looking , etc. But the interesting thing is that here the roads run on the rule that you are totally responsible for what's in front of you, so provided you don't do anything sudden, usually people just weave their way past you. Also, considering I usually have to call the RACV when my battery goes flat because I'm so useless, I've had to learn a little about the world of auto-motives. What the choke does for example (I wont explain here, but I know that if in the morning I can't start my bike, that I shouldn't crack the shits, just pull out the choke). Today, I even changed the oil on my bike, impressive no?

I got up the other morning (trying to hide a serious hangover) at 6am after trying to return to the peace of sleep, I'd been awake for an hour, woken by the morning prayer at 5am. I walked out of my room and was handed a piece of paper containing a list of questions by Slemat, the son of the kos owner. I rubbed my red eyes, pushed back the need to vomit and asked him what was going on. He told me that one of the local kids from the village who had seen me playing hacky sack on the village soccer field (I think I'm introducing Indonesia to hacky sack) had a project for school and i would make the perfect interviewee. I looked at the questions, many generic, but several asking about the culture of Australia, the culture i was into, and the differences between Indonesian and Australian culture.

I sat there for some time trying to work out what the fuck Australian culture was, and was left a little lost for answers. It's a weird feeling when your a native of a country, have spent your whole life there, and yet cant explain to someone what the culture is. In Indonesia it's really easy; there's wayang kulit (leather puppet shows which go all night), there's gamelan, there's local traditions a plenty and there's food which goes with every region (can you imagine if from Melbourne to Sydney the language, food and ethnicity changed completely) in the country plus much more.

I spoke to Kiki about it and explained that Australia is a country of immigrants so it varies but he totally didn't seem satisfied, he said that surely there was some specifically Australian culture. I thought a bit more and it occurred to me that going to have a drink was certainly a cultural pastime in Australia, whether you were at the pub or anywhere else. I told him this and he didn't look impressed and said that using such a statement as an answer for the young student would paint a bad image of Australia. I thought about it and i wasn't really all that impressed either. What a fucking conundrum, a country without culture.

I'm sure I'll cop slack for this from the patriotic of my friends, but have a really good think about it, what else do Australians really get into. Oh, of course, i forgot, we love sport (i say "we" but i am right here removing myself from "we", I despise Australian sporting culture, the macho bullshit it entails, and the intellect it robs from a population who are more interested in fools like Shane Warne and Ben Cousins than reading books to enlighten themselves). However, I was meant to be answering for Australian culture in general, so i did list sport as a cultural pastime (yet even that is debatable). But even then, sporting culture in Australia is so closely linked with drinking. It is by no means exclusive to Australians, but I am constantly reminded of the irony of really unhealthy drunk people watching elite sports stars who they adore yet make little effort to mimic. Then i remembered the great tradition of the Aussie BBQ, having a few snags, meeting your friends, and thats right, having a drink. The only cultural pastime i could really think of which didn't involve drinking was going to the beach, and i smiled to myself because i can put myself strongly and confidently (in the eyes of the Indonesians) into that category.

I'm not by any means saying i don't love to have a drink, or that i wholly despise the Australian drinking culture, but i must admit that i was stumped when trying to think of what Australians are into as a "people".

This point became very pertinent last night when the option of a wayang kulit (shadow puppetry) show was on offer and I, along with alot of the other Australians in the group opted to go for a drink instead. I know i sound like I'm playing both sides here, and i am, but it was interesting because it felt like the social thing to do (also, drinking in Ramadan period, which started this morning at 3am is really poor form, worse than usual when its already looked down upon firmly, so we wont be drinking for a month and needed to give it a nudge). Going for a drink in Yogya is a bit of a task anyway. Jalan Malioboro, the street of tourism and consequently vice is quite far from my kos.

Our groups local drinking hole is creatively called Cafe Bintang (Bintang meaning star but also being the national Indonesian brew) and sadly our group have now got a bit of a reputation there; know the staff, some of the regulars, and all the young Indos who chill out the front drinking local coffee liqueur mixed with beer. I hate the place (because i feel like a filthy tourist in there) but i do feel at home, and unlike many things in Indonesia, having a few beers is not foreign. In the short time we've been here one of the girls has managed to miss her curfew (not hard in an islamic kos which enforces front gates locked by 9.30) and had to sleep beside the stage with the staff who do the same. I got kissed on the mouth by a filthy drunken Dutch-Arabic man of 50 years old who was not gay but just way way way too friendly, and many a drunken bowl of nasi goreng has been consumed in a vain attempt to stave of aweful hangovers in the face of 7am lectures. Sounds like a bad place doesn't it? Its redeeming feature however is the cover bands that play most nights. Yeah, i never thought i'd say that I'd go to a place for the cover band but they are amazing. They play all the rolling stones tunes from the mid-sixties which never get a spin due to the overwhelming success and notoriety of later tracks like "brown sugar" (see video of "time is on my side" recorded the other night). Last night we were privy to some amazing Doors renditions as well as a little Dylan.

In what turned out to be a drunken mistake i left Cafe Bintang to go to an Indonesian reggae gig with my friend Bara (one of the drunk local teens who chills out the front of Cafe Bintang). We took his ancient vespa slowly through the backstreets to the gig. I presume that his backstreet genius was intended to avoid police but it also involved numerous unmarked speed humps (hilariously named "polisi tidur", translated as sleeping policemen) which continuously surprised us and left me a little rattled after nearly bouncing off the back seat a few times.

The reggae party was pretty weird, and as with so many gigs in Indonesia and the continuing legality of cigarette advertising, the cover charge was about the price of a pack of cigarettes, and as one might guess, each patron received a pack of cigarettes upon entry from the company sponsoring the event, healthy huh? In terms of the gig itself, I guess i should have thought about the concept of reggae in a country where you can get many years in jail for a very small quantity of grass. Some may say I'm missing the point of reggae, but if reggae is all about a state of mind, and all the people who create and created the most famous reggae music are and were really stoned, its easy to see how the Indonesians might miss the point (they don't forget the cheesy rasta clothes though, if i see another marijuana leaf on something i'll die). Just a footnote here on the confusion of foreign cultural meaning which often occurs here, I have now seen numerous photos, tattoos and posters of Hitler and the Swastika. I quizzed one of my very normal and quiet friends about why he had such a symbol on his wall and he really didn't seem sure, just that it was famous and that Hitler was a prominent figure in western history. I tried to explain to him the level of bad taste such a display involved but he didn't understand. We've even seen an Indonesian skinhead, which would be hilarious if it weren't so misguided (consider the irony though, can you imagine if this kid ever met a real skinhead and they made him aware that he was exactly what they despised, and that if Hitler had had his way, he would have knocked off the Asians as well). Enough deviation, back to the reggae gig. As i said, the party did indeed miss the point, i heard plenty of Ska mixed in, and the only real reggae was very generic Bob Marley tracks, predictable but boring. Because really, how many floppy Rasta (red, green, yellow) can one party endure.

Either way, I'm off the booze for a little while as I'm fasting for Ramadan. No food, water (although I'm not adhering to that, i wont survive, the bule is condemned to constant sweatiness) or cigarettes between sunrise and sunset, should be interesting...

From Yogya With Love

Lindsay

Kos - A place of various rooms which are rented to students at a dirt cheap rate, usually owned by a family who also live in the complex...

This post is appropriately entitled Kos Hunting for the Lazy Bule because, put simply, when finding a place to live in a country that runs on word of mouth and informal chats about "potential" rooms, alot of pointless walking under the hot indonesian usually occurs and some dedication is needed. Kos hunting is not a formal notion and therefore there is no such thing as a "kos directory", that would be positively laughable here, which usually results in simply knocking on doors, asking them if the place is indeed a kos and more importantly, if there are any rooms. This can be a very long process.

At the start of semester, as Indonesians from across the archipeligo arrive for the new semester, there is obviously some jostling to find places to live and as i learned, if you turn up a little late it can become increasingly difficult to find a place at all. I spent the better part of two days wandering the streets, sweating madly as the white man does, to constantly here the same word, "penuh", or full. It is a draining experience, and in the two days i was looking, after speaking to countless people at the entrance to their homes, i was offered only two rooms.

The first was literally a squat (anyone who knows of my stingy tendencies and love for grot will imagine for themselves how filthy this place was if i wouldnt stay there) but the second looked pretty good. I wandered in and to my delight the room was not half bad, i almost couldnt believe my luck. But the golden rule of kos hunting (for the Bule kafir, white man who isnt going to heaven because he is unreligious) is to hang around long enough to make sure there isnt a mosque too close, because prayer is a 5 time daily ritual here and it isnt a private matter. The call to prayer is blasted on tinny loudspeakers to make sure everyone knows its time to pray. Sure enough, suddenly the sound of arabic broke the silence with deafening brilliance, i walked out the front of the kos to see what was happening only to find that the local mosque was across the road, not 15 metres away from where i would have to rest my head. Now it might seem culturally insensitive to reject a place on this basis, but i assure you that even the most tolerant will struggle with being woken at 5am every morning for the first prayer of the day, particluraly when you drink all night, dont pray and are therefore not going to heaven for your waking efforts. It was time to keep looking.

The other thing about kos hunting is that is that places are clearly divided most of the time, boys in kos putra, girls in kos putri. Although mixed kos do occur(kos bebas, or free kos), you are paying more for the privilege and it by no way means you are in some 1960's communal living space of free sex and wild times. Most of the time, these kos are still burdened by strict rules: The other sex is not allowed in you room with the door shut, and fooling around regardless is considered extremely poor taste as is living with someone to whom you are not married. This put a rather large dent in my plans and considering the difficulty i was having with finding any kos at all, a free kos, or one with the freedom i desire (as a seedy, sex-crazed western mug) is very pricey if not borderline impossible.

So i kept looking with my local friends Kiki and Vando, wandering around and drinking lots of ice tea (less that 20 cents a glass) but pretty much getting nowhere. I was feeling a little defeated. We gave up in the early afternoon and Kiki invited me back to his kos to chill out and meet the crew he lives with. I arrived through a serious of very narrow alleyways which wound this way and that before spitting out on to a small dirt soccer field. Just behind that, squashed in amongst trees and unplanned buildings was his kos, very very simple, and inhabited only by Indonesians. We sat around, smoked kreteks and they quizzed me on the deviant ways of the west and whether i liked indonesia, and how i felt about how dirty it is. It was a nice little spot, more basic than many of the other kos the bule's stay in but the atmosphere was good.

The next day i looked again through the streets but had no luck, something which was increasingly becoming a problem as the week of free accomodation at a hotel provided for orientation was over and it was time for me to move out. Kiki then suggested that i move into his room for the meantime, an offer which i gladly took up because he's really good value, with a keen interest in politics, socialism and the anti-globalisation movement, they're mad political over here. i moved my things into his room which is about the size of one of those segments of my room at home (everyone was right, you literally could fit an indonesian family in my room) and with the two of us in there it was pretty close.

It was only later that afternoon that the son of the kos owner told me that there was a room that a family member was living in but they were more than willing to boot them out (for the extra income i would provide). Without a second thought i took up the offer but it wasn't as simple as moving my bags. The kos owners wanted to do some improvements to the room for me, such as a window and a door, and it would be a few days (or maybe a week as it turned out) before i could move in, so i was bunking with Kiki. Before all this could be set in stone i had to go and meet the village head. i was a little nervous but i was assured he was a nice enough guy. I turned up to his house, he invited me in and we sat down to have a little pow-wow. He turned out to be one of those rocking older Indonesian men who are always smiling, always keen for a chat, or to sit and smoke some chop-chop style raw tobacco. I was in.

I didnt buy a mattress on the first night i moved in which turned out to be a big mistake. Kiki gave me his (for which i felt aweful) but it didnt make much of a different, it was like sleeping on a thin blanket on concrete floor. I asked him about how he slept and he told me that it was normal, that he had grown up boarding in islamic schools (pesantren) where they slept on the carpet and that it didnt bother him. I felt like such a weak bastard. I spent the night tossing and turning on the hard floor and woke up in the morning feeling 5 years older. The next day i bought the best mattress i could find.

The improving of my room was a group effort on behalf of everyone in the kos. I woke up at 5 in the morning, as i did before i bought earplugs, and one of my kos mates was standing in my room-to-be with a hammer and chisel smashing out the one foot thick concrete wall in the shape of a window, i couldnt believe it. i started to feel a little ashamed sitting around watching everyone else work, so much to their surprise i offered some assistance. To the sounds of laughs from the local children, smiles from the daughters of the man who owns the kos and some encouragement from my kos mates (who seem to think i must be weak and very incapable), i started mixing cement on the ground, adding water to the mix every now and then before shoveling it into buckets which were then applied. Also, i spent some time wheelbarrowing loads of bricks from the nearby soccer field in order to build a new wall for the room next door which they decided to build since they had enough cement and bricks. It was interesting, having done minimal hard labour in my life i did feel some sense of achievement at having put my hand to the room i would be living in. Also, It felt a necessary move to make which i rightly presumed would increase my standing in the kos. Having proved i could work and wasnt just a lazy bule, my friendships got better and smiles increased.

This increased standing in the kos became apparent the next day when i was invited by all the men in kos to attend friday prayer at the mosque. For most westerners and myself included, Islam is at times a scary religion and one which is greatly stigmatized yet i realised once i arrived that i really had no idea what the whole thing was about. I quizzed them thoroughly to make sure that doing such a thing wouldn't see me strung up naked being whipped and was told (in a tone which suggested that maybe they were a little offended) that they were moderate, and that of course i could come to mosque if i followed the rules. I had a shower, cleaned my feet, put on a sarong, collared shirt, little skull cap, was given a prayer mat and i was ready. Admittedly, i think it was a fairly far out thing to see the long haired blondie attending mosque but everyone smiled, shook my hand, and when it was time to pray, i simply followed the guy in front of me, moved my hands when it was neccesary, and touched my head to the ground when the others did. For all those reading this with a worry on their face, do not despair, my hedonistic principles are still very much intact (i went and got suitably pissed last night) and even if i wanted to, there is no way i could give up alchohol, drugs and sex. That kind of wholesomeness simply isnt in me.

So, to conclude, I moved into my room today, now considered the most luxurious of the rooms in the kos (see photos) and i am settled. All that is left now is to pay the rent, about 31 dollars a month, less than what i spend on coffee in a week in Melbourne.

From Yogya with Love,

Lindsay