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If you read my last On
the Road, it should be of no surprise to you that I am writing to you from here. I arrived three
 weeks
ago from Berlin after a grueling 30 hour journey, with 3 flights, 2 four-hour layovers, and a 90 minute ride by
van that was my hair-raising introduction to Indonesian traffic. When I finally got to Malang, I hauled my 55 kgs
of luggage (everything I own) into the Splendid Inn, where I was to spend my first two nights, prior to moving
into a house provided by English First, my employer here.
I was greeted by the Academic Coordinator, William, a dapper old codger who'd spent 27 years in the Australian
Foreign Service, being stationed here and there around the world before becoming a teacher and now leading a life
of what amounts to semi-retirement heading up an English school in this sleepy backwater Indonesian town. He immediately
took me to lunch at a super posh hotel next door. I wolfed down my first encounter with local cuisine (YUMMY!)
and settled into the encroaching reality that I was actually, finally here... and will be here for at least one
year, per the terms of my contract.
William is a pleasant chap, though he has the slightly irritating habit of being in love with his own voice. But
this is a guy who's had a lengthy career as a diplomat, breaking bread and rubbing elbows with the likes of Queen
Lizzie herself. Why shouldn't he have the gift of gab and be a bit impressed with himself? No doubt he would have
fit like a glove into the old colonial lifestyle here or anywhere else the Dutch or English or other European predators
set up camp and lived the "good life", with their servants, tea parties and polite ways. I found myself
liking him, as he is an amiable chap and clearly went out of his way to make me feel welcome, answer all my many
questions, and make sure I got plenty to eat after I'd been systematically starved by both KLM and Air Malaysia.
I also slugged down a couple of iced coffees to ensure I'd make it through the day (virtually no sleep for two
days) and get my internal clock in sync with the time zone I was now in.
Later I explored Malang, a city of about 750,000 that is considered one of Indonesia's most appealing places to
live. First of all, it's located at higher elevation, providing an average year-round temperature of about 25 degrees
celcius (high 70s F). For this reason, it was chosen by the Dutch as a "hill station" to avoid the heat
of the substantially larger, nearby Surabaya, and there're remnants of the older Dutch architecture. If you're
wondering where all this is, find Surabaya on the northern coast of East Java, and Malang is only 90km directly
south of it... half-way to the southern coast.
I headed first for the alun alun, or town square. Walking the streets, I immediately became aware of one major
difference from where I've previously lived since I'd hit the road in January 2000. In England, Sweden, Poland
and Germany, plus in most places I'd traveled, I'd been indistinguishable from the locals. I could walk down the
street, sit in a cafe, shop in a store, etc, and no-one could tell I wasn't from there... provided I didn't open
my mouth, of course. I'd instantly blended right in. Here I stuck out like a sore thumb, as the saying goes...
especially considering my size. I tower over the locals! Malang has but approximately 100 expats (most of whom
don't walk around) and seldom a tourist, and a foreigner definitely attracts some attention.
As I walked, I was greeted with radiant smiles and a few "Hello mister"s. When I sat down I was approached
by people who were either curious, or who wanted to practice their English. One guy tried to sell me his watch
at what I'm sure was a grossly over-inflated price. When I showed him mine, pointing out I didn't need another
one, he quickly asked me to give it to him. Since I've been here there've been a few locals who've seen me as the
source of a handout (no chance), but by-and-large, they are just genuinely friendly.
Walking the streets became a new experience. After living in Germany, where driving and walking are displays of
anal-retentiveness, crossing a street here was a bonafide adventure. First of all, for some unknown reason the
traffic flow is English style (remember - this was a Dutch colony!), so I had to get used to looking the other
direction for vehicles. Secondly, there are absolutely zillions of motorbikes zooming around, going every which
way. Throw in becaks (bicycle rickshaws), bicycles, pedestrians and all the cars, trucks, vans, etc into the mix
and it gets pretty intense. Evidently there are traffic laws in Indonesia, but one wouldn't know it. This is a
Nietzche-like free-for-all, with "might makes right" the order of the day, especially since there're
very, very few traffic lights and few sidewalks either! At first I found it to be a daunting task to just cross
the street.
Having arrived on a Friday afternoon, I moved Sunday morning into my house, one I share with two Brits named Dave...
both about thirty-years-old and both hard-core footballers. Aside from all that, they are quite unalike.
One Dave, who now calls himself "Dav", is a high-energy, always smiling extrovert who is forever on the
go. He's like that bunny on the EverReady battery ad who "keeps going and going and going, etc." He's
been here for eight months, knows the city quite well, speaks passable survival Indonesian and has traveled a fair
amount within Indonesia already. This is his first teaching job.
Then there's Dave, the introverted, introspective vegan with a mane of red hair that flows nearly to his waist.
In addition to teaching in Korea for a year, he lived and taught in Belgrade for three years, including the time
period when it was getting bombed by NATO. I asked him why he didn't leave during the bombing, and his response
was a simple, "I liked it there, and I thought it would be great to experience a part of history."
They're good blokes, both having figured out how to put up with me, and we all get on marvelously, whether it's
having deep philosophical discussions or taking the piss out of each other for one thing or another, which helps
keep things light around the homestead.
The house itself, which is a five minute walk from work, is in the ritzy part of town, though not THE ritziest.
It has a slightly colonial-style feel to it, though it's a bit run down which adds to its character. There are
high ceilings, shuttered windows, tile floors throughout and a comfy covered terrace out back, looking over a garden
loaded with tropical vegetation. We normally spend all our waking time on that terrace, eating our meals, reading,
talking, or just lounging in the old, battered rattan chairs. During the day a few birds and butterflys flitter
around the foilage. At night toads rustle in the grass and bats dive bomb for bugs, swooping back and forth. Inside,
our resident lizards scurry along the floor and up the walls while keeping down the bug population.
The area is fairly quiet (by Indonesian standards), though we can faintly hear the prayer calls from a nearby mosque
several times a day, or various sounds emanating from street vendors, or the periodic motorbike whizzing by. At
the crack of dawn the neighborhood roosters unleash a chorus of crowing, and a bit later a class of rowdy school
children go storming up the street. But in general, it's peaceful and pleasant there.
In my next OTR, I'll fill you in on a unique Indonesian bathroom phenomenon called a "mandi", which is
how bathing is done here. Plus I'll introduce you to our "pembantu", or live-in housekeeper. That's right
folks... fast eddie has a year off from sweeping, mopping, washing clothers, doing dishes, making his bed, etc.
It's a beautiful thing! I'll also fill you in on the school and other teachers, the food, aspects of the culture,
etc, but I want to get into the two weekend trips I've taken since getting here.
A week after arriving, Dav organized a trip for six of us teachers to Gunung Bromo, one of 129 active volcanos
in Indonesia. (gunung = mountain/mount) Since we wanted to watch the sunrise there, we left at 1:30 in the morning
in a van with a hired driver. After two-and-a-half hours of twisting, winding, climbing roads we arrived and stepped
out into a bracing cold. There was a line of shops, as well as independant entrepreneurs, selling wool hats and
lined coats to the ill-prepared.
We walked a short distance up the remaining hill to a lookout point, where we joined a multitude of shivering locals,
and a few other tourists... all of us impatiently waiting for the sun to creep over the horizon. As I waited, I
was reminded of a sunrise I'd seen nearly 15 years ago over Haleakala Crater on Maui, and when the orange and yellow
hues finally appeared it was nice enough, but quite frankly, a bit of an anti-climax to my anticipation. But then
another teacher named Lindsay and I moved to our right where we had a panoramic view over the actual crater itself.
We both gasped and muttered in unison, "It's so surreal!" And it was, as if we could see the brush strokes
of an Inpressionist painting, perhaps by Gauguin.
I will attempt the impossible... to describe it. First of all, there is Tengger crater, which stretches 10km across,
and has steep walls that plunge down into a vast sea of lava sand. From this crater floor emerges the smoking peak
of Bromo itself, which tops out at 2392 meters. Bromo is flanked by the peaks of Batok (2440m) and Kursi (2581m).
Within this whole vast crater lies a misty cloud that hovers above the floor, partially surrounding the three peaks
- mystical, enchanting yet haunting, with the soft rays of the new-day's sunlight dancing off the sides of the
smaller craters. Smoke spews out of Bromo, wafting upwards in spirals, or delicate puffs. And as if this wasn't
enough to take our breaths away, rising upwards in the distance beyond this supernatural vista is Gunung Semeru,
at 3676m the highest mountain in Java and the most active volcano in these highlands, its awesome self belching
out columns of smoke and steam!
I had never seen anything like it... or few things of such extraordinary beauty.
After some time, we drove down the side of the outer crater towards the floor, pausing for some time for another
magnificent view across this panorama. As I sat there, I thought, "I could spend a whole day here just looking
at this," and I certainly could have. Once we reached the bottom, we drove across the soft sand (amateurs
need not try without 4WD... you will get stuck!) to where there was a Hindu temple and a place to park and either
walk to the rim of Bromo, or go by horseback. Most of the teachers opted for a ride, but Dav and I walked, and
after we'd all eventually reached and climbed some steep stairs, we stood gazing into the bowels of Bromo itself.
We sat or walked or fended off the guys selling dried flowers to throw into the crater as an offering. Looking
around you could see where flowing lava had created wrinkled, vertical ridges on the tapered, outer slopes of the
cone. In some places were vegetation, but most everything was stark and lifeless, with rocks laying here and there..
And dust... a lot of dust. In fact, on the walk to and from the cone I was glad I always have my bandana with me,
as I used it to cover my mouth, looking like an old-West bank robber! Within the crater itself, steam and smoke
rolled upwards, along with the unmistakable smell of sulphur. It was quite otherworldy, hard to take all in at
once.
I could understand why the superstitious, animistic or Hindu people of this region have, for untold generations,
made offerings to these volcanos. Bromo looked angry... really pissed off! It glowers in its forbidding power,
threatening to engulf all the surrounding world. Who wouldn't want to appease it? And it is a giver of life, as
past emissions have generously enriched the soils and every nearby Tenggerese village has a market with onions,
cabbages, maize, carrots, leeks, potatoes, and cauliflowers galore. But its wrath has certainly taken its toll.
The history of Indonesia is filled with horror stories of catastrophic eruptions... in fact this morning I read
in the Jakarta Post that at least five villages in North Sulawesi were covered by lava and ash just this past Wednesday.
"It last erupted in 1949. There were no immediate reports of casualties."
On the return to Malang at mid-day, we had the benefit of now viewing the countryside along the way, which was
an added treat. The road passed steep ravines, sometimes with terraced fields filled with various crops such as
bananas, apples, coffee and assorted vegetables. I saw bushes chocked full of berries growing wild, clumps of soaring
coconut palms, compact villages with tin roofs and a yardful of chickens. My cost of the shared transportation
was about $6.50, and admission to Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National Park was about $.25.
The next weekend Dave, Dav (D&D), and I headed to Madura, another of the 13,677 islands that comprise Indonesia.
Once again utilizing the services of a driver... this time a former student and now friend of Dav's named Sis...
who he had flunked! We first sped north to Surabaya and onto the ferry for a 15 minute crossing to the island,
where we then opted to circle Madura (160km by 35km) along the coastline. Our first stop was on the north coast
at Air Mata cemetary, where our trusty guidebook promised some nifty tombs. Dave likes tombs, and we thought, "Why
not?" Well, it turned out to be a bit of a disappointment... nothing special really, and we got a bit annoyed
at the aggressive begging and less than subtle efforts at ripping us off.
Onwards we drove. Madura is a totally flat and brutally rugged place, a bit unhospitable, and less than spectacular.
It's hard to see how the rice and tobacco there survive the stony soil. Small, but costly to build mosques appear
every few miles, and in front of each the road is narrowed so that cars must slow down, only to be solicited for
donations, sometimes by children shaking a plastic pail and displaying a pathetic pleading look on their faces.
Dave mumbled, "Why don't they ask for money for a hospitals or schools? It looks like they could use a few
of those?" But this is hard-core Muslim territory and the priorities are clear here! Small barren cemetaries
were everywhere, with their distinctive Islamic headstones on each grave.
As we approached the eastern part of the island, it became almost lush, the beaches more attractive with some huge
sand dunes and groves of coconuts. We circled around coves with tiny fishing villages, and the narrow estuaries
were dotted with "prahu", fishing boats adorned with colorful sails and ornate designs on the bows and
sterns. On the roads were occasional horse-drawn carts, along with the constant parade of racing motorbikes. Goats
and chickens grazed in the front yards of some houses. Sometimes we saw salt-water marshes used for farming...
you guessed it... salt. We stopped for lunch at a roadside cafe and the four of us ate rice, vegies and tempeh
with warm soft drinks for less than $1.50... in total!
We eventually arrived in Sumenep, near the southeast coast where we settled into the Hotel Wijaya, each of us getting
our own very basic room (no bath) for about $2 each. We wandered the town, first looking for the "kraton",
which is the walled city palace of former times. When we found it, it had just closed. No big deal... there was
something else that we'd come to Madura for, anyways. We found the very nice alun alun, where we had freshly-made
fruit drinks from a stand doing quite the brisk business, and spotted a couple of guys sporting teeshirts with
a photo of Osama bin Laden. "Just dumb kids trying to be cool," I thought. But then we had also seen
a house earlier with a photo of bin Laden pasted on the front. Whenever I got asked where I was from (a constant
question here), my response was immediate and unmistakable... "New Zealand!" Nobody hates the Kiwis!
The next morning we were off... on a mission to find "kerapi sapi"... bull racing! That is what Madura
is famous for, and  that
was why we were here, to watch this age-old traditon that borders on madness It is not so easy to find out where
and when these events are, but they are common on Madura from August to October... somewhere... every weekend.
After querying a few locals and driving around a little, we finally found one in Camplong, a small town on the
southern coast. Directly on the shoreline was a large flat field. In the middle was the "race track",
which consisted of two parallel fences about 35m apart and nearly 200m long. Surrounding this was what was essentially
a festival - booths selling freshly cooked food and iced drinks, men crouched on the ground doing some serious
gambling, people milling about, and tarps here and there with the prized bulls, some of them richly decorated and
all of them being carefully pampered.
I know that tourists frequently come to Madura to witness the bull racing, so it's hard to believe that the Madurese
could have never seen Westerners before, but it sure as hell seemed that way when we showed up and started walking
around. Now I know what it must be like for Tiger Woods, Tom Cruise or Mick Jagger to go out in public, as the
attention we received was unbelievable, and after a while a bit annoying. Literally hordes of locals swarmed around
us, gawking at us like we were from Mars or something. Granted, when Dav stuck half a coconut shell on top of his
head ("I might as well give them a good reason to stare at me.") he looked even more bizarre to them,
but we absolutely couldn't escape the attention, especially when we were invited by a older lady to sit down in
the shade to get out of the blistering hot sun. About fifty people circled around us, with their non-stop gaze
burrowing into us... all them transfixed.
Anyway, back to the races. Legend has it that long ago plough teams decided to liven up their drudgery by racing
each other across the fields. Over time this has evolved into a serious competition, with the breeding of bulls
becoming big business here, and these races becoming the biggest thing going! The way it works is that a pair of
bulls are yoked together on a sled, which has a young man (looking as young as 11 or 12) precariously lashed on
to it. He's the jockey. Two of these teams of bulls are matched against each other for each race at one end of
the field, and then released with roaring tumult to go charging down the track at breakneck speed, the sled and
rider violently bumping along as the jockey vigorously prods the bull's asses, fans cheering uncontrollably. This
is exciting enough as it is, but what makes it all substantially more entertaining is that there's a crowd of onlookers
bunched together at the finish line! Are you getting the picture?
With this mass of muscled fury plummeting towards them, quick decisons have to be made, and a mad scramble results
as the bulls rush through the crowd. Somehow nobody is trampled and killed... at least while we were there. And
we had a pretty good vantage point, since after some time we figured out that that was where the real fun was,
and plus, that was where we could shake off our unwelcome entourage! After all, if you're too busy rubber-necking
at the "bules" (foreigners), you just might have your ass pulverized by 600kgs of snorting fury! So several
times we lined up with the rest of the crazy people, D&D with their cameras cocked and ready, and took some
comfort in the fact that we were taller and bigger than the rest of them, which might pay off when the pushing
and shoving started. No worries, we were alert... we were quick... and we were smart and chickenshit enough to
not wait too long to make our move. Exhilarating! And once again, fast eddie is fast enough to live and tell his
tale! :-)
Until our next little chat,
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Peace and love
