Yet Another New Year's Day 2568

Here on the Far Side, all is abuzz with activity getting ready for Chinese New Year (Imlek).  My wife's family is Chinese-Indonesian, so the holiday coming up is always cause for festivities and traditions.

On Saturday evening, wife, mother-in-law and I went on a shopping excursion to Pacific Place, which is a highly over-rated and overpriced mall in downtown Jakarta.  I had one goal in mind, though: hit Kemcik Grocery Store.  This is about the only place in Jakarta to get many of the food items that I once took for granted.  For example, I bought, for only the second time in nine years, some Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing.  Yes, folks, that is a gourmet item here, and I paid $7/bottle for the privilege.  I think it's worth it for the rare treat.  I also had to indulge in Peter Pan Peanut Butter, fresh dill and sage (to hold my over till my next crop comes in), and a couple of wedges of fine Brie cheese (French not Australian).

Mostly the outing was part of the New Year tradition of new experiences.  My mother-in-law, being a little old lady from a small town in north-central Java, has never seen so many bizarre things, like a fine wine shop and Smucker's jelly (though they didn't have my grape).

We capped off the evening with another rare experience: the Hard Rock Cafe.  Neither my wife nor mother-in-law had ever been there, and it was my third trip in nine years.  We gorged on smoked ribs and chicken, and a massive plate of beef nachos, which mum loved because of the jalepeños.

It's all part of the preparation and tradition of Chinese New Year.  Later today (Sunday) I have to get a hair cut (next to my favorite shwarma joint) and trim my nails, and probably buy new underwear.  The tradition is everything must be renewed before the turning, so new clothes, cutting old hair and nails, house-cleaning, etc., is all part of the deal.

This year is symbolized by the Shadowy Red Hot Cock, or Yin Red Fire Rooster if you prefer more traditional notation.  It is said that this year will be one of "new beginnings" and "awakenings."  Just speculating here, but it seems that we are off to just such a start, even though the year officially begins on 28 January 2017, at roughly 0800 GMT, or slightly West of Jakarta.

The Chinese have one major weakness - they are highly superstitious.  If you are doing business with Chinese individuals or companies, you would do well to consult Chinese astrology for the date and time of meetings, and maybe even the birthday of the lead negotiator.  It could give you an edge knowing whether they will or won't sign contracts, or if they will be passive or aggressive at the table.  Chances are that the folks on the other side of the table have done the same and will act/react accordingly.

So anyway, there are a number of pork festivals occurring around the country to celebrate New Year.  Pork, or course, is a Chinese passion, even more so than dog.  In a predominantly Islamic country, you can imagine all the whining and complaining going on, even though this ritual has gone on for centuries - even before Islamic raiders overran the islands, bringing their religion with them.  I, for one, don't wait for a particular time of year.  I celebrate pork every single time I can find it.

Hell,the Pork Festival, which sounds vaguely suggestive, changed its name to the Imlek Culinary Festival because after centuries of the same annual ritual, the Muslims decided to get sensitive this year.  I guess they forgot that Islam is an invader too.

So, the malls are festooned with red archways, banners and lanterns.  It is especially fortuitous that this year is the Red Cock, since the color red symbolizes luck and prosperity, and is the traditional color of the New Year.

The 28th of January being the official beginning of the lunar year means that the relatives will bundle up the young 'uns and go to the houses of all the other relatives so the children can beg for Angpao.  After clasping their hands together and wishing everyone Gong Xi Fa' Cai (恭喜發財), the adults hand them small red packets stuffed with crispy fresh bills.  Note the bills have to be crispy and new.  You can't get rid of your old soggy bills this way.  This means my wife will have to run to the bank this week to obtain a stack or two of brand-new, hot-off-the-presses 2,000 and 5,000 notes, and then we will spend an evening stuffing envelopes.

One rule - the kids can't look in the envelopes until they get home so there won't be any complaining about amounts.  If I wanted to, I could exchange some of my old soggy notes for fresh crispy ones and no one would know who did it, but my wife would never let me get away with it.  Even though the packets are anonymous, she is just sure everyone would suspect me.  Can't imagine why.

Everyone also prays fervently for rain on New Year's Day, as that is an omen of good luck and fortune for the coming year.  So far, in the nine years I've been here, it never fails to rain, though I have yet to receive the empire I so richly deserve - still waiting on the fortune part, but can't argue with the luck.

Oh, I almost forgot all the lion and dragon dancers.  These are elaborately costumed dancers who go around in both the malls and neighborhoods (though the mall costumes are in better shape) and beg for handouts - traditionally an orange or two shoved in the mouth of the creature.  This dance is accompanied by lots of clashing cymbals and clanging chimes to ward off the evil and mischievous spirits.  The noise certainly makes me run away.

It's a fun and interesting time of year, and is one of the four New Year's Days celebrated in these parts - Roman, Muslim, Hindu and Chinese.  The Hindu version comes at the end of March this year, while the Muslim version is celebrated a month after Ramadhan.  Take the days off whenever you can get them, I always say.  In fact, we are going to Bali the weekend before Hindu New Year to soak up some of that culture, too.  It's not quite as fun as the others, though it has some interesting public displays which we will get to in due time.

Enough for now.  I am worn out shifting around the house avoiding the Cleaning Brigade.  All part of Life on the Far Side here, deep in the jungles of Borneo.  Here's hoping it rains on your parade!

Gong Xi Fa Cai!

Going Slow While Fasting

It's another day in paradise, here in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

Every single freakin' one of the 40 million vehicles registered in Jakarta was in front of me this morning.  I even made a 7a meeting appointment in hopes of beating the rush, to no avail.

Adding to the mayhem is the month of Ramadhan.  So not only are there 40 million vehicles in front of me, they are full of hungry, thirsty people who woke up at 3a to have breakfast before the fasting began.  And this is only the first week.  By the end of the month, people start getting suicidal on the roads.  Half the population of Jakarta are in a fasting, sleep-deprived coma through most of the day.

If you are not familiar with Islam and the fasting month, allow me to regale you.

For 29 days (one lunar month) out of each year, a Muslim (one who follows Islam) is required to go from sun up to sun down without food or drink.  This includes not swallowing your own saliva, which I assume includes someone else's, as well.

Restaurants cover the windows with drapery, the beer cooler is covered and locked at the store, and a great number of folks wake up before dawn to stuff themselves before the morning call to prayer at about 4:15a.

Those bars that still open during the month serve booze in tea cups, so as not to offend, though my question is if a devout Muslim is fasting, what the hell are they doing in a bar in the first place to get offended.  But I suppose that is one of those things that requires logic.

This continues throughout the month until near the end, when folks start getting a glazed, haunted look in their eyes.  Even the mention of common food-related molecules can start an uncontrollable slavering fit and folks can actually get angry at the rest of us who aren't fasting, just because we don't look haunted and desperate.

All of this suffering culminates in the Eid al-Fitr (Arabic) or Idul Fitri (Indonesian).  This literally means "Feast of the Break-fast."  This year, it will fall on July 6, I think.  Hard to tell.  There's an entire government ministry here who's primary concern is the exact moments that fasting begins and ends.  Like all government bureaucracies, they enjoy keeping people hanging on their every belch and twaddle,

Anyway, Idul Fitri starts the feasting of all feasting around here.  It's a lot like a combination of Thanksgiving and Christmas, with millions of folks bugging out and going home to enjoy massive feasts with friends and family for anywhere from two days to two weeks.  Depends on how much money they get in gifts.  More money = longer vacation.

The upside is that Jakarta becomes a ghost town for a week or so.  Virtually the entire population of 12 million vanishes overnight, leaving the city dark and quiet.  Suddenly, destinations that took well over an hour to get to only take 20 minutes.  The damnedable part is that nothing is open during that week, so just when you can actually get around, there's no around to get to.

The worst part about Ramadhan is about 6p every evening, when the mosques start belting out the evening call to pray, hordes (and I use that term advisedly) of people pour out of buildings, cars and any other containment device and head directly to the nearest source of food and water.  This means that just when folks are the most hungry, the most thirsty, most tired, and most motivated to get somewhere, the roads become a vast stagnant lake of shiny metal bugs.  The usual nasty traffic is further bunged up with the piles of people and conveyances parked in front of any place selling water and snacks.

So if you happen to run into someone this month who looks like they've just stared into the abyss and seen the end of the Universe, they are probably fasting.  Might want to give them a break and not eat in front of them, or at least be prepared to put a drip bucket under them.

It reminds me a lot of the old days when Catholics used to practice their religion.  Remember that?  It was hard to find beef on Fridays, or there were lots of specials on fish and chicken?  Back when Catholic kids gave up chocolate for 40 days, or smokers didn't smoke in front of each other (kind of like Baptists and drinking alcohol).  Yup, a lot like those old days of yore. Once upon a time, there was a whole industry built up over Lent.  Only us old geezers remember those days, I suppose.  Of course, Ramadhan is not quite like that.  The Muslims try to make everyone else fast too, so they don't have to suffer watching everyone else have fun.  The Catholics, on the other hand, had to watch the steak houses in full swing and smell that lovely aroma wafting on the spring breeze, or the non-Catholic kids eating chocolate any damn time they wanted.

Ain't religion grand?

Report From The Eye Of The Storm

Return with us now to the thrilling theme of "traveler versus tourist," a metaphor we here at the Far Side Global Headquarters - deep in the jungles of Borneo - have adopted for our worldview.

The reader may think of this column as a follow-on to our last screed called, "Who Is More The Fool?"  In today's edition, we will explore "traveler versus tourist" as it applies to "diversity."

As we have developed our metaphor, we have shown that a traveler enters new realms of culture and experience as an observer and reporter.  The traveler attempts to meld as much as possible into the surroundings and taste the sweet and bitter of the foreign world.  The traveler does not judge nor discriminate.  The traveler understands that the surrounding culture has developed over spans of time and he seeks to understand why.

The tourist, on the other hand, brings his culture with him.  He seeks to impose his own norms and standards on the surrounding land.  He is the evangelist, the one who thinks his way is better, or at least more comfortable, and so forces conformity in order to feel less threatened.

In terms of mainstream labels, we may think of travelers as conservatives (seeking to conserve), while tourists are liberals (seeking to liberate).  The conservative wishes to conserve what is found in any given place, while the liberal wishes to change everything to suit some "greater good."

A traveler is conscious of his tracks and tries to minimize his impact on the surroundings.  Instead, he absorbs the local flora and fauna, making deep mental records and spending great amounts of time pondering and examining the context in which he finds himself.

This is not to say the traveler accepts everything at face value or is naive.  If he finds himself in a land where ritual cannibalism and human sacrifice are the norm, he does not wait around to examine the roots of these beliefs, he simply steps quietly but quickly to the exit.

On the other hand, we have the tourist.  The tourist is deathly afraid of having any experience that is outside his zone of comfort.  He is convinced that local cuisine is filthy and infested, and so brings his comfortable McFoods with him.  He is convinced that local accommodations are rat-eaten and sub-standard, and so brings his Holiday-Innian experience with him.  He believes the locals are heathens that must be converted to whatever system of belief he holds dear.  He criticizes the local customs and beliefs as ridiculous and beneath his consideration.  To a tourist, everything is wrong but his own standards.

In the past three years, I have found myself in a very curious position, straddling the traveler-tourist paradigm.

I have been deeply involved in building a "western" style arts center in Jakarta, where the owner has wanted to bring "western" style shows to the city.  On the other hand, I have been dealing with "western" companies wanting to break into the Indonesian market with their wares.  On both sides of the equation, I have run head-long into the tourist mentality.  The locals want international shows, but are not willing to learn and accommodate international standards.  The foreign companies want to enter the local market without accommodating local styles of doing business.  The locals think that "international standard" is the way something looks, and the outsiders think that "international standard" means the way we do it back home.

It is the perfect storm with your humble traveler standing at precisely the geodetic center of the storm.

On the one hand, I want to help the locals bring these massive foreign shows, and want to teach them the styles and methods of doing it.  On the other hand, I know the mentality of the foreign shows, who expect a certain modus operandi on the receiving end.

It is a delicate situation in which your humble traveler finds himself.  I believe both sides are right.  I know how these mass-market shows operate - god knows I've helped create enough of them.  On the other hand, I know the the locals have developed their style of doing business over centuries of physical isolation from the rest of the world, being a chain of islands fairly remote from any mainland.

For your humble reporter, it is both gleefully fun and infinitely frustrating.  On the one hand, I want to help the locals fit into the international market they so desperately want to join, and on the other hand, I want to help the foreigners fit into the market they do desperately want to join.

The immovable object meets the irresistible force.  It is not an enviable position, since I have had my share of both sides railing against me.  Both sides expect me to be able to change the other, yet my personal mentality is that both sides are completely right.

Such is the life of a traveler.

It would be so easy to be a tourist.  I could force whichever side I chose onto the other.  What I have chosen, however, is to find some way to blend the two, in the hopes of making both better for the experience.

In point of fact, I am in the position of believing that the "western" way of doing shows is the right way - in its context.  And I believe that the Indonesian way of doing business is right - in its context.  When the two contexts meet, one can begin to appreciate the fun I have had for the past three years.

I must become a travelist or a tourer, but in either case I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.

Centuries ago, Marco Polo was the first Westerner to record his travels in Indonesia - specifically in the area of central Sumatera around the modern city of Medan - where he met the Batak people.  In his wake, Lutheran missionaries followed and were slaughtered and occasionally eaten by the Batak.  That is, until a fellow by the name of Ludwig Ingwer Nommensen showed up and converted a large number of Batak to Lutheranism.  To this day, the Batak have a unique church (HKBP) that separates them from all other Indonesians.  In simplistic terms, the church is western Lutheranism blended with the Batak language and sensibilities.  A new culture created from the blending of two otherwise clashing ones.

It is possible to make a hybrid culture without surrendering the more profound elements of the progenitors.  However, it is not an enviable position to be at the crux of the effort.  It is akin to hanging on to the blades of a blender, trying to maintain one's identity while at the same time trying to make the rest of the mix into a homogeneous mass.  All sides want what the other has without surrendering any part of what they bring, or accepting any part of what they want.

Your humble traveler stands at the center of the plains of Geddon, amidst the final conflagration, and tries to maintain enough individuality to report on the destruction of both sides.  Perhaps I will be slaughtered and eaten, perhaps I will find that happy medium and become a patron saint.  Either way, I will destroy something and build something else.

History is yet to be written.

But one thing I am assured of...I am a traveler.

Post Scriptum - when I first arrived in Indonesia, I had a Batak girlfriend.  One Christmas, I followed her family to the HKBP church.  When it came time for Communion, I went to the front with her.  The first priest looked at me, then asked her (in Batak language), "Does he understand (this)?"  I responded (in the Batak language), "Yes, I do."  He shot a glance at me and his jaw went slack.  Then he passed me down the line without being slaughtered.

That is what travelers do.

Imitating To Death

I've seen a very particular change in Indonesians and the only cause I can make fit every case is food.  In the past six years, I have seen Indonesians get fatter and children become more hyperactive and distracted.  There are a number of possible causes, which we'll look at, but the one that seems to fit every case is a change in diet based on advancing economic conditions.

The three causes to which I can attribute the changes in folks here are electronic gee-gaws, maids and nannies, and food quality.  Each has its own distinct contribution to the way people are changing here, but food cuts all of them.

First, the electronic gee-gaws are a curse on humanity.  To a great extent, kids have become so engrossed in them that they hardly notice what most of us refer to as 'the real world'.  A bit of people watching at the local mall finds nearly everyone walking around in a daze as they focus on cell phones, tablets and other 'lights and wires in a box'.  They literally trip over each other or narrowly avoid colliding because they can hardly look up from their electronic revelry.

Watching TeeVee and movies causes folks to become bored with real life.  The act of writing and editing programs is one of distilling time.  All the little side-trips and time used to go from place to place are magically taken out so that only the most interesting and active parts of life are portrayed.  Having grown up on a steady diet of TeeVee, movies and games, kids become bored incredibly fast because real life is much slower and unfiltered by editing.  They grow bored almost instantly when they can't cut to the next action scene, or fast-forward through the slow bits.

They have lost the ability to communicate in analogue form.   I have witnessed my own family sitting at the dinner table texting and BBMing each other, rather than simply talk across the table.  Reality is no longer what we are all immersed in, it is what comes from a lighted box.  I also notice students, forbidden to use electronic devices (at least in my classes), going through a form of withdrawl.  They are distracted and agitated by the inability to text and BBM their classmates and whoever else is in their electronic universes.

The second problem is one that affects any group of economically advantaged folks.  The Western 1%ers have the same problem, there's just more of them here.  By long tradition, middle-class Indonesians on up hire entire armies of domestic servants.  There are nannies for the children, maids for Mom and drivers/valets for Dad.  No one has to do anything for themselves, they simply speak the command and *POOF* it is done.

The main problem are the nannies.  Parents wander through life oblivious to their children because young women are charged with chasing the kids around like 3D shadows.  Parents don't demand strict behavior and discipline from their children because it is the maid's duty to take care of all the mundane chores.  Instead of sitting at the table to eat, the nanny chases the kid around with a bowl of rice, taking every opporutnity to shovel in a spoonful when the child pauses long enough.  If the child gets dirty, the nanny whips out a fresh outfit from the ubiquitous backpack and *PRESTO*, all clean.  No need for self-discipline, since the parents only interact with the children for a few minutes of the day.  The rest of the time the 3D shadow is there.

Later, when the children enter school and are expected  to sit quietly and behave, they have no concept of how to do this.  They have spent their entire lives having every little inconvenience catered to and have come to see most folks other than their parents as servants who chase them around cleaning up their messes.

As a result of gee-gaws and nannies, young Indonesians have serious attention deficit and impulse control issues.  They have been raised like nascent stars with orbiting devices and servants to distract and entertain them.  When it come to paying close attention for 40 minutes at a time, or sitting in one spot and engaging in dialogue, they are nearly incapable of it.  Life moves too slow and they don't know how to respond without clicking something.

The worst influence on Indonesia's younger folks has to be food.  Above a certain income level, the diets have become almost exclusively processed foods.  Where once most Indonesians ate freshly picked or slaughtered foods, now they exist on canned diets and fast food junk.  They've gone from healthy living food to things that have been boiled, soiled and stamped.

Processed foods have the life cooked out of them.  All bacteria must be killed before canning, and long cooking times remove vast quantities of flavor and nutrition.  To compensate, artificial flavors, preservatives and other noxious chemicals are added: artificial flavors, color dyes, MSG, huge quantities of refined salt and sugar.

Consequently, Indonesian waistlines are rapidly expanding, heart disease and diabetes are on the rise, and children are becoming chemical waste dumps.  Overloaded by sugar and toxic chemicals, children's brains are forced into overload.  Added chemicals in the food break down into various toxins that affect brain function and autonomous body systems.  Fats, sodium and chlorine swamp the blood stream.  As a consequence, overall health declines and mental functions get short-circuited.  A child's body, overloaded with refined sugars, becomes a furnace cranking out energy to the point of nervous overload.

As Indonesians become wealthier and the middle class grows, they are adopting the absolute worst of Western culture, things they once watched with envy on TeeVee and in the movies are now within their reach.  McDonald's meals, once too expensive for the average Indonesian, became status symbols that now everyone consumes to show their newly obtained status. 

It's an unfortunate result of the infusion of Western media and entertainment that much of the world sees our unhealthiest habits as symbols of attainment.  One of the most successful exports of Western civilization is deadly food.  Complicite with media, the food industry has expanded (along with waistlines) into so-called 'emerging' nations.

Indonesia would do well to rethink its values.  Using gee-gaws as educational and developmental tools rather than mindless distractions would be a good start.  Reversing the trend of consigning their children to servants and taking a more active role in interacting and disciplining their children would help a lot, especially if they want their children to get the fullest benefit from their education.

Most importantly, Indonesians must rethink their diets.  One of the many benefits of living on the equator is fresh fruits and vegetables year-round.  Visiting the local pasar for fresh meats would bring immediate benefit, as well.  Finally, getting away from processed fast foods would have life-long benefits for health and mental well-being.

Indonesians must resist the temptation of using media as a guide to status.  Adopting the absolute worst habits of Western civilization as symbols of wealth is a dangerous habit in the long term.  Instead, apply the greater economic ability, increased educational options and increasing global attention to improve the best of native Indonesian life and export that to the world.

If Western lifestyles were so good, then there would not be the health crises, the economic decline and general cultural decay of the West seen today.  Yes, it is tempting because the media make it look like so much fun and so terribly interesting, but that is a function of Madison Ave. sales jobs, not reality.  All the gee-gaws you can imagine won't change the fact that we must exist in the here and now.

Once upon a time, cars were a status symbol for Indonesians.  With the advancing economy, now millions of people own at least one and Indonesia's cities are clogged to the point of grid-lock with cars.  What benefit is status if you can't get from one part of town to another to do business, which in turn pays for the better economy?  If this is happening to the cities, imagine what is happening to your body with the influx of chemicals and fats from a changing diet.

Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but it only works until you follow the other guy off the cliff.

Tanah Airku

Since it's the weekend and my first wife's birthday, I thought I'd take a little break from the usual rantings and ravings to offer a few insights into Indonesian life that one doesn't often find in guide books.  If you are planning to visit, these might come in useful, and if not, then maybe it will just be interesting to learn a few of the small cultural differences.

In many ways, Indonesia is a lot like the United States.  From the outside, it appears to be a single country stretching vast distances from the Indian Ocean to the open Pacific.  In fact, it is a hodge-podge of around 300 different cultures and languages.  Each island has its own style and people, and in the case of the larger islands, there are multiple cultures living in a kind of uneasy harmony.

On Java alone, there are the Javanese, Sundanese and Betawi.  Within those groups, there are multiple subdivisions, some with wildly different dialects.  Javanese has two primary dialects, halus and kasar (smooth and rough).  The smooth dialect is spoken primarily in the south, while the rough more or less corresponds to the north of the island.  Certain regions have their own sub-dialect, such as Tegalese, which is a mish-mash of Jawa kasar, Sundanese and Hokkien Chinese.  For the most part, they are unintelligible to each other.

Most South Pacific languages follow the same broad grammatical structure, including Tagalu, Austral-Indo and even Hawai'ian, but the vocabulary is widely different, with little cross-over.

Manners are rather interesting.  Around Java, it is always impolite to gesture to someone or something with the index finger.  One always gestures with an open hand, fingers together, and only with the right hand.  It's not uncommon to support the gesturing hand by placing the left hand under the right forearm.

The same technique is used when shaking hands.  The right hands are lightly clasped while supporting the forearm with the left hand, and bowing slightly.  After shaking hands, which can last as much as 15 minutes, then one touches the right hand to the heart.

If the two shaking hands are of opposite sex, then both hands are held together at the heels with the fingers slightly splayed and fanned out.  The two light touch fingertips and then both hands touch the heart.

This is all rather difficult for a Texas boy to get used to, since we are taught from birth that hand shaking is a stylized form of arm wrestling, with a death grip and some arm-wrenching pumps, and never more than 5 seconds worth.

To get someone's attention at a distance, you almost never yell or whistle.  You clap your hands.  Once you have their attention, then you gesture to them to come over by holding out your hand, palm down, fingers together, and curling the fingers repeatedly into the palm.

Food is absolutely the center of Indonesian life.  Everything revolves around meals, which are typically four to five per day.  It's even a common greeting to ask someone, "Sudah makan belum?"  Have you already eaten or not yet?  When one travels to other parts of the country, the folks back home expect oleh-oleh, which is normally a food gift unique to the other region.  Naturally, special occasions center around large meals, and at the heart of every meal is a mountain of sticky rice.

There are few if any manners specific to eating.  Typically, an Indonesian rests the left forearm on the table across the chest and uses the right arm to get as much food as he can before it runs out.  Utensils can be a fork and table spoon, or chop sticks.  However, the traditional way to eat is with the fingers.  One makes a ball of rice on the tips of the index and middle fingers, then uses it to pick up a bite of meat or vegetables and shoves the whole thing in the mouth.

One interesting type of cuisine is Padang.  The restaurants are ubiquitous and usually recognizable by the unique peaked rooves over the entrance.  The are no menus.  You either select a la carte from the steam table, or just sit down and a sample of everything in the restaurant will be brought to you on little plates that are stacked up precariously in the center of the table.  Eat what you like, and the rest gets dumped back in the pot for the next guy.

It's a challenge to get a handle on what meats are available where.  Central Sumatera and northern Sulawesi are predominantly Christian, so pork is readily available, though the butchering, display and preparation are done in separate areas.  On the other hand, Bali is predominantly Hindu, so beef is rather difficult to obtain and expensive to boot.  In some areas, dog is considered a delicacy, while in others, it is forbidden.  Other types of meats include squirrel, bat, monkey, and other little critters, as well.

One rather disconcerting aspect of eating Indonesian style is the use of things I would consider inedible.  One example is when I went to a roadside canteen and, in the interest of trying everything, I ordered sate usus ayam.  At the time, I had no idea what it was, other than it was satay, which I love, and chicken (ayam), which is wholly inoffensive.  It was the usus part that was intriguing.  So I ordered it.  I got chicken guts artfully arranged on a stick, dipped in curry sauce and grilled.  I choked it down, but never again.

Shrimp and crab are often deep fried in shell and the whole thing is eaten, from whiskers to tail.  Fish, such as pecel lele, a type of catfish, is deep fried complete with guts and fins.  Hardcore lele lovers eat every scrap.

One fun thing about Indonesia is you can get just about anything imaginable to eat at your door.  Nearly every restaurant delivers within their area, but in the neighborhoods, vendors go around with every type of cart, wagon and device cooking up the food to order while you sit on your porch.  This system is truly ingenious.  Some have motorcycles or bicycles that literally unfold into full kitchens, while others have fully stocked push-carts.  Either way, it's as much fun to order and watch, as it is to eat some very good food almost completely hassle-free.  You can even use their dishes and just leave them by the door to be collected later.

All in all, Indonesia is a wholly unique place.  You can go by train, plane or boat, and in just a few hours be in another world, literally and figuratively.  You can hike up the side of a volcano, dive on some of the most incredible reefs in the world, romp through tropical jungle with monkeys and real, live dragons.  Hear chirping lizards and see an astounding assortment of butterflies.

Most of all, you can meet a warm and gentle people who live in a world apart from most of us.  They live in eternal summer, where food literally drips off trees.  One learns about 15 kinds of bananas and mutant coconuts that are highly prized.  But mostly one learns that there really is life on the far side, and that even after four years deeply immersed in it, it never ceases to surprise and amaze.

With 20,000 islands and 300 cultures all for one visa, it's not a bad travel deal, offering something for everyone.  Just never claim that batik is Malaysian.  It's one of the few things that will get an Indonesian's hackles up.

Oh, and the title of this article: tanah air simply means "land water", but together like this, it is the equivalent of homeland, motherland, or other similar euphemism.  Until you learn that, though, it does lead to some humor, and the first line of the Indonesian national anthem is, "Indonesia tanah airku."  Directly translated, it says, "Indonesia land of my water."  A rather incongruous image.

The Pied Piper

Soros targeting Indonesia?

 I attended the American Chamber of Commerce here in Jakarta last night.  It was notable for the sheer number of bankers and lawyers running around and it highlighted the vast quantities of money sloshing into Asia right now.

As the west goes into serious decline economically, funds and individuals are desperately redeploying their money anywhere that looks like it can return even a minor profit.

The Indonesian economy is ripe for the picking.  Since the fall of Soeharto, it's been limping along trying to find its bearings.  It is growing exponentially lately.  Just in the four years I've been here, I watched it go from room temperature to full boil.  People hardly know what to do with all the new-found wealth and attention literally flooding the country.

Most of the new money is focused on commodities and manufacturing.  Indonesia has a vast unskilled/low-skilled workforce that commands embarrassingly little money.  A great number of folks here live on $5 to $10 a day.  So many want to join in the fun, but they have minimal education and few marketable skills.  In other words, they are easy prey for ruthless industrialists who find them disposable resources.

Its rather sickening to see how western corporations behave outside their home territories.  They are like voracious predators who swoop in, pick the carcass to the bone and vanish again, leaving the locals spinning in a daze trying to figure out what just happened.

Indonesia is not an isolated case.  This has been the modus operandi of carnivorous capitalism for centuries.  Indonesia has been a target of colonialism for at least a millennium, with the Chinese, Europeans and finally the Americans all having a turn.  Granted the Americans had a real scam going, whereby the convinced everyone that they were there to save the patient as they pulled the plug.

Granted, Indonesians aren't without blame.  In culture here has little concept of 'tomorrow' and 'saving.'  Everyone is out to get all theirs upfront, to hell with the future.  As a consequence, little or nothing gets done without some outside imposed structure.

Here in Jakarta, there are mini monuments to this attitude all over parts of the city.  Back in 2000, they started on a monorail project for the city.  It got as far as building a few pylons before it went broke from folks taking their profit up front.  A year later, the project was revived with new investment.  A few more pylons were built, then the same thing happened.  Now there are dozens of these concrete and steel pylons rusting away.

It's a study in contrasts living here.  Indonesians are some of the most prejudiced people I've ever met.  This group hates that group, and they aren't the least bit afraid to tell you.  The Batak look down on the Javanese who look down on the Ambonese, and everyone looks down on the Papuans.  It's amazing that anything gets done, really.

But the thing that is rather ominous is that as Indonesia's prosperity grows, so does its reliance on the outside world.  It wasn't long ago that the country was a new exporter of oil and rice, but now they import both.  In both cases, its a cultural problem.  When folks have enough for today, they don't worry about tomorrow.  As a consequence, there was no investment in finding more oil, since there was so much of it back in the 80s.  The same with rice.  It was pouring out of every cabinet, so why worry about future growth and needs?

In many ways, Indonesia is a microcosm of the West.  Though the scale and details vary, the overall effect is much the same.

America began shipping its manufacturing overseas back in the 70s.  Back then it was the Japanese, but later the Chinese.  Folks saw the profits swell and everyone grew fat off the windfall.  No one gave a thought for tomorrow, because times were so good back then.  Remember the 80s?  The Reagan era, when business was unleashed and everything turned to a garage sale mentality, as folks sold off anything of value.

Hollywood got in on the act with movies like "The Secret of My Success," and "Wall Street."  It was all corporate raiders and M&A and knights of various colors.  Everyone discovered that they could get all theirs upfront and retire at 40, living the high life in their McMansions.

But money never lasts forever.  Carelessness and taxes and lack of thrift eventually eat out the largest nest egg.  Sure they retired at 40 in the their massive houses and made the cover of Forbes as they captained their yachts.  They had been conned by the allure of instant wealth, but hadn't learned the secret of maintaining it.

Along came inflation and rising energy prices.  They wanted to re-enter the workforce, but found it quite a bit tougher at 55 and 60.  Younger folks had come along and weren't just going to give up their jobs to let the aging wunderkinds back in.  The nest egg shrank and there was no investment in tomorrow.

A long time ago, there were all these ideas about making a fortune and using it to help the Earth.  The 60s kids had all these ideas about greening this and welfare that.  No one thought about what that would do 50 years down the line.  They could achieve things that no one else in history had been able to achieve, and they were going to do it in their own lifetimes.

After they had that little pile of money in front of them, though, things changed.  Gosh, who would notice if we just lived it up for a while?  I'll just take mine off the top here and then I can help the world from my position of comfort and privilege.  We'll just put in these laws and regulations about eco-this and touchy-feely that, and everything will be hunky-dory!

And it was, for a couple of decades.  The thing is, when the dance ends the piper always comes over to collect his fee.  You were having such a great time at the party, you forgot to set aside a few bucks for this eventuality.  Now you're in a particularly embarrassing moment.  It's at this point a lot of folks start throwing blame around.  Then comes the begging and pleading.  Then the sob tales.  All the while, the piper is standing there unmoved and unmoving.

So here we are, folks.  Money is sloshing around the planet trying to find quick profits rather than going into future dividends.  All the desperate early retirees who thought they were going to do what no man has ever achieved, are now scrambling to build up just one more nest egg.

What they are finding is that there are no nests, much less eggs to put in them.  It's all been hacked up and sold off to fund yesterday's party, and the piper not looking the least bit amused.

The way I figure it, everyone gets one pie in life.  The conventional wisdom was that you divvy it up and have a little taste here and there, then when the time came, you could have a nice big slice with a little whipped cream, too.  Along came the ME generation.  They figured that they could eat the whole damn thing up front, and then get another pie later on.  Well, there ain't no more pie, and last I checked, the whipped cream supply is running pretty darned low, too.  The solution was to eat the kids' pies, because they were young and could find another pie later, right?

Well, all the pie for the next 10 generations has been eaten...by us.  We had our desert, now we have to figure out how to put some back for the next round, but that's not happening.  Instead, folks are still looking for more pie.  We're all now and this is the time we should be enjoying our pie, why can't we have more?  After all, it's our right to have pie!  We deserve pie!  Our parents had pie at this age!

Yes, but they saved theirs until they had time to enjoy it.  We gobbled ours down before dinner, and there's nothing left now.  We've eaten the kids' pies and the neighbors pies and when the folks down the lane weren't looking, we ate their too.  So now it's all gone and we've got a massive sugar rush and we are scrambling to find a new supply.

We had so many rationalizations.  We had so many high ideals and lofty goals.  We were going to change the world, and when you think about it, we did.  Just not quite the way we were planning.

Anger.  Denial.  Depression.  Bargaining.  Acceptance.

Dr. Kuebler-Ross.  Remember that great scene from "All That Jazz?"  So where are you on that scale?  From what I see, we're still a long way from acceptance.  Seems we're quickly entering the depression phase.  We may be slipping into the bargaining part, but very slowly.  Once we get to acceptance, we might be able to find some solutions.  The question is, will we live long enough to get to that point, or will we get stuck here?

If everyone suddenly sold off all the ridiculous trappings of false wealth and started living on $5 to $10 a day, like a lot of Indonesians do, there might be some hope.  But I don't see that happening any time soon.  Everyone wants their pie and to eat it too.  From everything I've ever learned, it doesn't work like that.

Blood Of The Cobra

Back in the early 90s, my friend Holly, a geophysicist with one of the Big Oils, was transferred to Indonesia for a year.  When she returned, she regaled me with stories of exotic locations and strange experiences, all of which piqued my interest in this island nation.

One of the most intriguing stories she told was of going out one night with her local hosts to drink cobra blood.  The story took hold of my imagination and for 25 years I vowed that if I made it here, that would be one of my prime goals.

Since coming here, I've eaten dog, bat, unidentifiable sea-critters, and various other exotic delicacies.  In other travels, I've downed freshly decapitated monkey brains, BBQ rat and an assortment of insects, but the thought of cobra blood would not relinquish its hold on me.

Long before leaving Texas, I told Steve and Karina that when we got to Indonesia, I had to drink cobra blood.  It was high on my list of Things To Do Before I Die.  After arriving, I would make occasional remarks about having to enjoy this experience.

Finally, after a year or so of living here, Steve, Karina and I were sitting around the apartment on a Friday night, when the topic came up.  Karina knew of a stall over by Ancol that was well-regarded, and so we piled into the car and headed out.

To set the scene, this was not some fancy restaurant serving mysterious Asian curiosities.  It was a semi-permanent shack built around a largish push-cart full of snakes and a counter for serving.  It was on the side of a fairly busy street about a block from the ocean and a tarp was all that separated us from the elements.

At the time, Karina was the only one of our group fluent in Indonesian.  Her father, Steve, has married an Indonesian woman years ago, and she had grown up in both countries.  Steve, despite having been married to an Indonesian for 25 years, having two daughters that spoke the language fluently, and having lived here off and on, knew approximately five words.  My own skills were still in the formative stages, and though I could get around, asking complex questions about complex topics was a bit out of my range.

Karina talked with the proprietor and got the scoop for us.  We could select our cobra from the gnarled pile in the cart and after drinking the blood, could enjoy sate kobra for an additional fee.  Altogether, it would run us about $10 a head.

Karina was the first to go.  She selected a snake, though by what criteria, we don't know, since the beasts were black and the lighting here at 10pm was slightly more than a full-moon's worth.  The man reached in and pulled out the snake, placed a large wooden clamp on its head, and then laid it out on a wooden block.  He motioned for her to pick up a large cleaver and do the honors.

After a little hemming and hawing, and taking careful aim so as not to liberate one of the owner's hands, Karina lopped off the snake's head.

The man quickly grabbed the open neck and tail, and moved over the counter, where a glass of red liquid had been prepared.  He held the carcass tail up and milked the blood into the glass.  He then took a sharp knife and split the snake up the belly, carefully removed the spleen, and squeezed it into the glass, as well.

As to what was in the glass is anybody's guess.  It contained some amount of alcohol.  That much is certain.  It was ladled out of a large jar sitting on the counter, that had various herbs and flower blossoms floating in it. This was one of those occasions when it's best not to ask, as that can ruin an otherwise interesting experience.

I've found, in my travels, that when someone offers you something strange and exotic as a local specialty, 1) you must accept at the risk of thoroughly insulting your host, and 2) don't ask what's in it until you have finished.  Often the delicacy is very tasty and worth seconds or thirds, but it you know which part of what animal you are eating (or insect, for that matter), you won't enjoy the experience.  In the case of decapitated monkey brains, it's hard not to notice the animal staring accusingly at you while you eat, and on those occasions, you just have to brass it out.

So anyway, after all of us had a glass in front of us, we raised them in nervous celebration, as the man skinned the snakes in the background.  Without exception, we all took nervously small sips of the concoction, but were soon relieved to find that the flavor was not bad at all.  It didn't have the taste of mammal blood, and the alcohol content tended to overpower any other flavors, though anise seed was fairly obvious.

As we drank, three plates of sate kobra appeared in front of us.  The meat had been cut into bit-sized morsels, grilled, then smothered in a rather spicy peanut sauce.  Again, moving with trepidation, we each sampled the meat, sure that the flavor was going to be a bit out of the unusual.  Having eaten my share of rattlesnake and alligator, I was sure that it would be rather tough and chewy, but I was pleasantly surprised.

In fact, the texture and flavor was not unlike smoked oysters.  It was rather tender and had a distinct flavor that wasn't like any other snake I had eaten.  None of the three of us had any objection to either the meat or the drink, and we gobbled the whole thing down with a good rinsing of blood at the finish.

Darah kobra, or cobra blood, is not really considered a libation.  It is called jamu, which refers to a category of traditional medicine that involve a wide variety of mixtures, usually liquid.  Cobra blood is said to warm the body's core, improve immunity and, most importantly, contribute to male virility and potency.  I can't really speak to the latter, as I spent the next three days in the mountains with Steve, but we'll take it as axiomatic for now.

If you should find yourself banging around southeast Asia, looking for a unique and memorable experience, I would recommend cobra blood and satay.  A word of caution: though I could find nothing definitive on the internet, even in Wikipedia, concerning cobra blood, there are anecdotal tales of folks having reactions to it.  Whether it's the blood or some other ingredient, i don't know, only that some folks don't tolerate it and get rather ill, though I gather it's like a case of Monctezuma's Revenge.

I can almost hear Clint Eastwood sneering out, "Are ya feeling lucky, punk?"

Repo Men

"A repo man spends his life getting into tense situations." - Bud (Harry Dean Stanton), Repo Man

The following story is alleged.  No one has been tried or found guilty yet...yet.  Charges are pending and Jakarta police say they are taking the investigation "seriously."

I feel much more relieved now.  Especially since the perps, if they are found guilty, could get as much as FIVE YEARS in jail!  Whew!  And I thought this was a serious crime.  Glad to know different.  Read on...

The next time a debt collector rings you up at work (assuming you still have one of the three left in North America), just remember what's coming, and you'll feel better.  I promise.

So, anyway, this guy walks into CitiBank in Jakarta.  Seems his credit card bill, which he thought should be around $4,000, was up around $10,000.  He had a problem with that.  After all, if $6,000 magically appeared on my CC statement, I'd be moderately upset, as well.

This guy meets with a bank representative.  Word of mouth has it that it was a buxom young thing who's had multiple surgical 'enhancements.'  She proceeded to listen to this guy's story.  She was so moved by the tale of woe that she called over three debt collectors, who are contracted by the bank (CitiBank, and American institution, by the way) for the purposes of encouraging debt repayment.

Before I go on, you should know that debt collecting in Indonesia is somewhat more...physical than in other parts of the world.  No pussyfooting around here.  These guys go straight to the problem and right the wrongs.  No sense in being nice, just in case there might be a mistake in the debt process, you see.

I'm aware of this one hypothetical situation where a business associate of someone I may or may not know, absconded with about $500,000, which was a down-payment on a deal of some sort or another.  Well, the Indonesian legal system being what it is alleged to be, this acquaintance decided to circumvent the police and courts, which could take years to process a complaint like this (with no guarantees, of course).  Instead, this person gives a photo and all known details about the associate to a friend, who may or may not be a high ranking military type.

This supposed high-ranking type turns bloodhound, and tracks the fellow down.  Unable to politely recover the goods (we assume), the dogs are slipped and proceed to pummel the fellow until the money is recovered. We are given to assume that the fellow found the Lord and will never do such a thing again.  The End.

Good thing its only a fairy tale, right?

So, anyway, this buxom young thing sees that the guy is not going to fork over the dough without some investigation into the charges.  Oh My!  That'll take time and effort.  Can't have that.  After all, while we wait, the interest is racking up and he might complain about that, too!

She calls the debt collectors over, whose names are the South Pacific version of Guido, Bugsy and Knuckles.  They take the guy up to the 5th floor for a review of his credit history.  In the process of reviewing said history, there is a lot of table-banging and raised voices.

Later, around lunch time, one of the staff walks into the room to check on things.  The debt collectors have taken a break, presumably.  She sees the guy lying on the floor, huddled in a ball, with foam coming out of his mouth.  This is usually indicative of a punctured lung, which can happen when investigating debts in Indonesia. Easpecially at American banking institutions.  Very emotional, these things are.

The staff member immediately notifies Guido, who displays grave concern by laughing.  He goes into the room, takes the guy's cell phone and calls (we presume) a random contact.  Guido tells the contact to come fetch the guy and take him to the hospital.

Well, not wanting to waste time, the contact calls for an ambulance, which given Jakarta traffic, probably takes an hour to go one mile to get there.  Upon retrieving the guy, we can imagine that it takes two hours to get back to the hospital, since it's later in the day and traffic is even worse now.

The guy dies en route, so the story goes.

Later on, the police are called, who come to the scene of the investigation and start poking around.  Well, as you can imagine, the emotional stress of having one's credit history being examined left blood stains on the walls, drapes and floor.  Apparently, the office staff was not very thorough when cleaning up after the investigation.

Thus, a police investigation ensues.  Photos on the front page of the paper have detectives displaying window covers allegedly stained with blood from the guy (victim seems so harsh in this instance).  We are assured by Jakarta police that a complete investigation will uncover the facts, and if Guido and the boys were acting on orders from superiors, heads will roll.

However, this being Indonesia and the institution being a Very Large Bank, we can assume that sufficient amounts of re-direction will be applied in all the right places.  We can assume that all the blood was from a ritual sacrifice and had nothing to do with beating the poor guy.  We can also assume that the debt (remember this was about a credit card balance?) will devolve onto family members, who in due course will be approached by debt collectors to review the facts of the case.  We can only think that all the charges are valid and that someone didn't run off with the number and start buying stuff on-line.

One must stand in awe of stories like this.  After all, it makes perfect sense that if you want ot collect a debt, you simply pummel the guy to death so that he can't possibly repay it, right?

We can all relax, though, knowing this is only an alleged event, and that a full investigation is still pending.  After all, WE have all read the micro-print on our credit card agreements, right?  WE know that all disputes will be handled by the Guido, Bugsy and Knuckles department, don't we?  WE can all rest assured that CitiBank doesn't operate this way in the NORMAL course of business.

Thank God the banksters reformed the bankruptcy laws in good, ol' US of A.  WE all read the fine print in the law, didn't we?  WE know that they would never behave like that in a civilized country like Merica!  So WE don't need to have any concern about carrying cards with the word "CITI" on it.

And WE know why the word "banksters" was coined.

Why is it that these bedtime stories are always so gruesome? Like cradles rocking and falling out of trees, baby and all.  Or red riding hoods being a marked target for wolves?  Sure, they're supposed to be cautionary, but do they have to be so graphic?

I, for one, am relieved that these things never happen in real life.

Next time, we'll talk about the recent alleged events in Medan, where a gang of youths packing serious firepower (in a country where guns are banned) gathered around the car of a family as they arrived home from work, and proceeded to riddle the car with bullets, killing mom and dad instantly.  Their crime?  Being of Chinese decent.

Ah, more bedtime tales for the aware child.  And people wonder why Texans love packing heat.

Oly: You want some help with that beer, kid? 
Otto: You're all repo men. 
Oly: What if we are? 
[Otto pours his entire beer on the floor] 
Bud: [standing up] You know, kid, uh, usually when someone pulls shit like that, my first reaction is, I wanna punch his fuckin' lights out. But you know something? 
Bud and Oly: YOU'RE ALL RIGHT.

- Repo Man (1984)

Bali High

OK, I was wrong.  Yes, I admit it.

For three years now, I have assiduously avoided going to Bali for one reason, it's full of tourists.  If you've read some of my back issues, you will know that I am not particularly fond of tourists.  I prefer the company of travelers.  Tourists are the ones who take pictures of famous landmarks while standing in front of them blocking the view.  They generally remain completely unfazed by their surroundings or the people who inhabit the area to which they've come.

I also had to work, which didn't allow me much time to explore.

I spent five days in Denpasar, which is the largest city on Bali.  Though it is the 12th largest city in Indonesia, it has the second largest airport by passenger count.  The city is located roughly center on the eastern coast of the island, which itself is located at the eastern tip of Java.

Coming from Jakarta, there is an immediate sense of relief stepping out of the airport in Denpasar.  The place is very clean and the traffic is relatively non-existent.  One is struck by open spaces, uncluttered sidewalks and broad streets, all in direct contrast to the Big Durian (the Indo version of the Big Apple).

I arrived on the day after Nyepi, which is a rather distinctive holiday celebrated by the Balinese Hindus.  It is also called Seclusion Day, and on that day, no one may leave their house, use electricity or any kind of machinery, and so forth.  The result was the air was amazingly fresh on Sunday, as not a single car was started on the island the previous 24 hours.  It was also notable for all the ogoh-ogoh scattered throughout the city.  The largest one had cost upwards of $10,000 to create.  That one is featured in a parade held the day before Nyepi.

My client put us up at the Sanur Beach hotel.  The rooms were unremarkable, but the grounds were rather stunning.  A large pool was set amongst lush tropical trees and two cabana bars separated it from the private beach, which was meticulously groomed with deck chairs scattered here and there.  The beach is at the head of a cove protected by a reef, so there are no waves, but there is a rather dramatic tide.

My mornings were spent drinking coffee on the private balcony, watching the sunrise and listening to the songs of several varieties of jungle birds.  It was, in a word, idyllic.

My third night in town, I had occasion to meet a reader of both this blog and of George Ure's UrbanSurvival, which is how he found me.  We had a lovely dinner with his girlfriend and my wife in tow, talking grumpy-old-man talk.  It is one of the joys of writing this column that I can correspond with so many interesting folks around the world, and even meet a few when possible.  Thanks Harry!

The following night, my wife and I and two of her employees went down to Legian, which is the famous nightspot near Kuta beach.  If you squint just right and imagine Dixieland jazz, it is quite reminiscent of New Orlean's French Quarter.  Shops, bars and restaurants line the streets with hawkers trying to lure unsuspecting tourists to their economic doom.  Like the Quarter, the area is cut with a handful of main streets, which are joined to a rabbit warren of alleyways where pretty much anything can be found, be it food, fun, drugs, or jablay (prostitutes).

We decided to try a place called Bubba Gump's Shrimp Co., which is one of those rubber-stamped, cloyingly precious places, where the waiters are all entirely too perky (in three languages, by the way).  We took one look at the menu and had sticker shock.  A dinner for four would have set us back an entire month's shopping at our local market.  As it was, we only ordered one Bintang beer, three fruit smoothies and a plate of French fries.  That set us back 25, which would have fed 15 Indonesians at a warteg with left-overs for midnight snacks.  We made our escape and sought out more traveler-suited environments.

We did find a place that offered a decent mozzarella and fresh basil pizza for $3, and 2-for-1 Bintang, which suited us locals much better.

There was the obligatory visit to the rather tasteful and somber monument that was erected on the site of the Bali bombing in 2002.  The location of the second attack in 2005 has since been rebuilt and is still in operation with little clue as to what happened there.

As far as the area goes, it was fun, even though I was suffering from an overwhelming toothache.  I'm sure I would have enjoyed it much more without the Marathon Man scene come to life.  Kuta beach is known for its surf, and throngs of Australians, Japanese and Koreans come there for winter holidays.  I also met a number of Canadians, French, Dutch, and a smattering of Chinese and Russians.

In the course of my work there, I had the opportunity to talk at length about Balinese culture.  It really is a fascinating place.  It is dominated by Hindus, and as such pork is available everywhere, which is the most obvious difference.  The Balinese people have a distinct look that might be characterized as slightly western with Asian eyes and dark brown skin.  The women are strikingly beautiful.  There are three distinct classes, which are noted by certain names that each Balinese carries.

The first name is either I or Ni, denoting male or female respectively.  Then, in descending order of birth within a family, one is Wayan, Made, Nyoman/Komang, or Ketut (at 5 the cycle starts again).  There are other systems, which denote the various classes, though the above are very common.  Other names can include family names, contractions of parental names, etc., with the dead receiving a new name after they die. Some Balinese names can be very long and complex, with a lot of abbreviations in the written form.  Ngerah is a royal name and folks who sport that one claim legitimacy to the throne, which still holds sway over the culture.

The Balinese language is similar to Javanese in some respects.  The grammar follows that of many South Pacific languages, with a number of words being identical to Javanese (such as matur nuwun and matur suksima, which are 'thank you' in Java and Bali respectively).  When speaking, the Balinese have a distinct dialect, even with Indonesian, that is particularly evident with the letter 'u,' though there are a number of other more subtle differences, as well.

The Balinese celebrate a variety of elaborate festivals throughout the year, as well as amazingly expensive weddings and funerals, which are also intricate in form.  Because of the expense, Balinese are often said to be rich in land and poor in cash.  I have been invited to attend some of these events in the coming months out in the villages away from the tourists, so I am making plans to attend those that time and money allow.

If you should find yourself in Bali, there are a number of ways to enjoy the sights without paying the tourist prices.  Taxis are outrageously expensive, by Indonesian standards, with a trip from the airport to the hotel where we stayed running upwards of $10.  However, a private taxi for the same trip is only $6.  If you trust one of the locals, they can negotiate the deal for you, which is done before the ride (no meters).  The private taxis can also be hired by the day with gas and driver for about $50.  There aren't a lot of alternatives, although the ubiquitous ojek (motorcyle taxi) is always available (offer 50% of the quoted price).  I prefer ojek because they are very fast and cheap, but it is a full-contact sport.

In summary, I have changed my mind about Bali.  It is quite a fascinating and beautiful place, even the small part that I saw.  I intend to return and go out into the hinterlands to experience the local culture and escape the tourist haunts.  After speaking at length to Balinese, learning a bit about their culture and history, and experiencing just a small taste of the life there, I am excited to learn more.  It is easy to see why Bali has become the subject of legend and song.  The people are genuine, warm and welcoming, and I could not detect any false smiles.  The Balinese people are truly unique in their hospitality and forbearance.  I can not wait to return and imbibe more of their fine culture and surroundings.

To the good people I met there, matur suksima!  Kita akan mencari sampai ketemu lagi!

The Javanese Wedding

It's been a hectic week.

We spent the past four days in Medan, which is a lovely city, the third largest in Indonesia, on the northeast coast of Sumatera.  It was an incredibly nice break from Jakarta.  The traffic is almost non-existant, compared to our daily life here, and the town is extreme clean, which is a pleasant shift from the usual.

There are massive trees all around Medan.  And when we say massive, we mean six feet across and occasionally more.

And SIDEWALKS!

Now don't get us wrong.  Jakarta has sidewalks.  If you look closely between all the street-vendor stalls, you can occasionally find something with pavement that one would identify as a sidewalk.  When you can find a sidewalk in Jakarta that isn't covered with vendors, it is usually a military-style obstacle course, which for a sighted human being presents a major challenge, but for us hard-of-seeing folks, they are impassable.  It is often easier to take your chances and walk in the street than to try and navigate the walking paths.

As for Medan's traffic, we had to laugh.  Our local guide complained about a slow patch that we encountered after leaving the airport.  "Macet," he said.  We nearly fell out of the car laughing.  It was NOTHING like the wall-to-wall gridlock that is daily life in Jakarta.

Medan has a unique from of public transportation called becak.  They are essentially a motorcycle with a large, covered sidecar.  Though we are quite tall by Indonesian standards, we were comfortable inside.  As per usual, we negotiated the price before getting in.  Standard operating procedure for foreigners is to quote a price that is about 200% to 300% the local rate.  The average tourist will think the higher rate is still cheap by, say, New York standards, but we refuse to be taken for a ride.

We were in Medan on contract to assess the English skills of all the employees in a major corporation.  There are a total of 5,000, and we have a couple of teams fanning out across the country to try to finish the task within the coming month.  The idea will be to customize a computer-based training program that is tailored to each individual, so that their English skills meet a certain proficiency calculated according to their job function. Most international corporations require a certain level of English proficiency from employees in order to deal with international customers.  English is the default business language throughout the world.

We are lucky our mother made us learn English from the cradle, since almost no one speaks Texan outside that great nation.

Once we arrived back in Jakarta this morning, we jumped in the car and were whisked away to the wedding party of a friend's sister.  When we say whisked, we mean that in the Jakarta sense of sitting in complete grid-lock for an hour and a half to go 10 kilometers.  We entertained several fantasies of moving to Medan during the trip.

When we arrived, we noticed that a large tent had been erected in front of the house.  The outside was unremarkable, but the inside had been nicely finished out with red and yellow fabric and full lighting harness.  A small stage had been placed at the front of the tent, with an area for a small band on the side.

Standard procedure for a Javanese wedding is that the couple wear traditional outfits and sit on a small couch on the stage.  Arriving guests sign in and usually receive a small fan to help with the heat.  One then proceeds to the stage to greet the couple, and more often than not, the parents who sit on the respective sides of the couple.  One congratulates the couple with the traditional hand-shake, which is done by holding the heels of the hands together with the fingers opened out, and then sandwiching the other person's fingers in a gesture that is somewhat like a ritualized receiving of a gift.  When greeting the groom, one then toches one's chest, and if greeting the bride, one folds the hands as if in prayer and bows slightly.

The costumes are quite brilliant.  The man's is normally a gold color with some design or pattern intricately woven into it.  The pants are loose like pajamas and the top is a tunic which drops to about mid-thigh.  He wears a wide sash that is tied in the back with a small hat that is completely plain, except for a small tail in the back.  Normally, this costume is worn with a ceremonial knife held in the knot of the sash.

The bride wears an elaborate headpiece  that covers the entire head and has yellow flowers or bangles that hang down on both sides.  The dress is a full-length gown with intricate weavings and applices.  The color normally reflects those of the family's batik, or tartan, much like the Irish and Scottish.  In this case, the family was from Yogyakarta, so the motif pattern included small, circular elements, and the family's colors were red and white, so there were a number of variations on this theme.

We were wearing a beautiful batik that was given to us by some of our students at Pertamina.  It had a combination motif from Madura and Yogyakarta with red and gold colors.  The two patterns are separated by a blue diagonal stripe with a wave form running from the left shoulder to the lower right hem.  The diagonal pattern indicates a knight of the realm, or defender of the king, and the wave form indicates loyalty or constancy, like the waves in the ocean.

After greeting the couple, one proceeds to eat.  There are food tables lining the tent with a great number of selections, most of which range from spicy to drop-dead.  Typically, one can find some kind of ice, like a snow-cone.  The most common flavor is coconut with a fruit, like mango.  Bakso soup is another common offering, which is meatballs of chicken or beef in a hearty stock with green onions and other vegetables.  No Javanese wedding would be complete without sate, in this case chicken, which is skewers of bite-sized meat grilling and dipped in a sauce.  There was a wide selection of delicious foods, which we sampled liberally, all with the ubiquitous steamed rice.

After eating, it was time for dancing.  The small band, comprised of a guitarist and a keyboardist, was playing dangdut, which is essentially the Indonesian version of country music.  It has elements of Arabic and Mediterranean influences, but with a unique island flair.  Dangdut is especially popular in the kampung, or villages, but city folks often look down on it.  It is infinitely danceable, of course.  One can hardly sit still when the music starts.

Dancing usually involves the men standing around doing a sort of rhythmic shuffle, with the arms held about chest high and the fingers balled up with the thumbs sticking up.  There are some more complex line-dancing steps, as well.

Typically, the young single women will get up to dance or sing, and the men are expected to give them money while they perform.  In some cases, the money is held between the fingers while they dance or sing, with the idea being that the most desireable and/or beautiful will have the most bills.

Being bule (white boy), we were assumed to have a bottomless pocket, however we had exhausted both our supply of small bills and our body after an hour or so.  Also, being bule meant that while we danced, there was a small army of photographers and video folks all recording the event, since there aren't many of us who attend these down-home events.

Full to overflowing with delicious food, exhausted of both energy and money, and sweating profusely from the heat and spice, we finally made our escape and collapsed into the car.  The culture shock of coming from Medan to Jakarta and straight into a wedding was almost more than we could bear.

Medan has a large Batak and Chinese population, whose cultures contrast sharply with Javanese.  It's almost like two different countries.  In the space of two hours, we radically shifted gears from the sleepy, tree-lined tranqulity of Medan to the overwhelming sea of competing humanity in Jakarta.

Exhausted and on the verge of convulsions, we collapsed into our bed, grateful to be home at last, though wishing for the quiet green spaces in Sumatera.  Tomorrow, we head to Denpasar, which is the largest city in Bali, about a two-hour flight east, in the opposite direction of Medan.  Here again, we will encounter yet another culture shock, as we go from Christian to Muslim to Hindu, and from Batak/Chinese to Javanese to Balinese.

With any luck, we may even get to the beach for the first time in three years.  Also, having learned a good many bad words in Bataknese, we are looking forward to doing the same in Balinese.  We already know that the Indonesian word, kenyang, which means 'satisfied,' and is often said at the end of a meal, has the meaning of a certain part of the male anatomy in the Balinese dialect.  Looks like we'll have to be careful after dinner...

Stay tuned.

Thank God It's Jum'at!

Sehelai catatan bagi Indonesian readers:

Maafkan kami selama-lamanya memakai bahasa Inggris. Kami tahu bahwa banyak orang Indonesia membaca situs web ini dan kami sangat berterima kasih bagi anda datang di sini. Di masa mendatang, kami akan mencoba menulis beberapa artikel di bahasa Indonesia bagi anda, termasuk tinjauan 'Laskar Pelangi.' Kami sedang mencoba memperoleh uang dengan tulisan kami oleh sebab itu kami berharap anda mengerti. Kami mencintai Indonesia dan cinta yang tinggal di sini. Jangan tersinggung jika kami memakai bahasa Inggris begitu banyak. Terima kasih untuk visitng dan kami berharap anda akan menulis kepada kami dengan komentar anda.

So, with that said, let's start the friggin' weekend, shall we?

Here on the Far Side, we worry a lot about the state of the world during the week, but danged if we ain't gonna cut loose a little on the weekend.  After all, a boy's gotta play once in a while.

Our mother is a real dog fan.  We can't stand the animals, but there you go.  We're cat people around here.  We think dog is delicious and spicy and we'd eat it again if someone would bring a plate over to the house.

Anyway, Mom says that if you don't take dogs out once in a while, they get stupid.  We think that pretty much sums them up, in any case, but she's the expert.

Anyway, we just love living here and Indonesia is a really cool place to live (metaphorically, since it's alway summer here), and we love our wife sooooo much!  But, damn if we don't need to get out once in a while and mingle with our fellow countrymen, even if they're Canadian.  It's hard to find Texans, or even Americans, around here.  We're up to our blessed assurance in Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and Frogs (go figure...guess they don't like France as much as we do).  We've even found a few Germans and Cubans (!) lying around.  Guess we'll have to settle for Kanuks when the going gets tough.

Living overseas is a richly rewarding experience.  You meet a truly diverse group of folks, every day is a learning experience, and you get to eat things that PETA would be all up in your stuff about back home.  Sure, there are the occasional SNAFUs and jam-ups.  Nothing is perfect.  We even miss winter sometimes.  Well, really we miss those fall northers that clean everything out and let you throw open the doors and windows and get some fresh air in.

When we think about home, we think about manicured lawns and no one hanging out in da hood.  Everything is sanitary and the only thing missing is the paper band around life saying, "Sanitized for your protection."  If you don't get out and see how the other half lives, you tend to forget that there are other ways of looking at problems and alternative solutions to things.

By the way, the next time you're out grilling up a couple of slabs of beef on a Saturday night, try this: use coconut shell for the fuel.  It makes a really tasty flavor that is hard to characterize, and it is a nice break from hickory and mesquite.  A good Indonesian sate has bite-sized pieces of meat on a bamboo skewer, which are grilled on a hibachi with a guy fanning the coconut flames with a kipas, which is a woven fan made of palm leaves.  After grilling, dunk them into sweet soy sauce mixed with crushed red onions, chili peppers and garlic (goat and beef), or a spicy peanut sauce (chicken).

Damn if it ain't some good eatin'.  One secret to good sate is to put one piece of fat among the delectable morsels of flesh.

One thing we have introduced to Indonesians is a decent Texas taco.  Oh, sure, they have kebab, which is more or less like a burrito with Mediterranean spices, but the locals really love our down-home tacos with a good Texas sambal sauce.  The only thing missing is a decent corn tortilla, but we're working on that one.  Next we are introducing beer-battered onion rings.  Should be a major hit.

One thing we can rightfully complain about is, enough with the rice.  We are up to our eye-balls in rice.  The rice is killing us.  NO MORE RICE!

Don't get us wrong.  We grew up in Houston, which back in the day, was a major rice producer.  Now the paddy out Katy way are covered with middle class McMansions that flood everytime you flush the toilet.  Serves 'em right for building a house in a field that was designed to flood.

But having rice every damn meal, and not just a helping, but a HUGE damn bowl full, is just too much.  Our body isn't designed for that kind of starch assault.  Being of Irish decent, we like a good spud or two, but can't we use ANY OTHER GRAINS?

Traditionally, Indonesian food, and really most southeast Asian food, is supposed to be eaten with the hands.  Other than sticks, they really didn't have utensils until the European colonization period.  So, instead, you use the sticky rice to make a scoop on your index and middle fingers.  Then you gather up some of the goodies and suck the whole thing into your salivating mouth.  Try it the next time you go out to a Thai or Vietnamese restaurant.  I'm sure the staff will enjoy showing you.

It's actually kind of amusing to watch upper-middle class folks sit on the floor with a dozen bowls of food in the center and each with a bowl of sticky rice.  They didn't have tables here until the Portaguese showed up, which is why the Indonesian word for table is meja, same as the Portugese.  And does anyone really know how to spell portigeuse?

One highly offensive food we have found here is called jengkol.  It looks like a lima bean on steroids.  It's the size of a cat's kidney and not only smells offensive when it's being cooked, but like asperagus, it 'seasons' one's urine and breath for a day or two afterwards.  We try to avoid it whenever possible.

How we got on to this food thing is a good question.  Our guess is that we're hungry, though it's 3am local time.  But we are enjoying a fine Panther Stout, which is put out by the Bali Hai brewery.  They make one of three dominant lagers in the country, the others being Bintang and Anker.  To our tastes, the Bali Hai lager is the best, with Anker a close second.  Most folks buy the Bintang because it's cheap and because the locals like to mix it with anggur orang tua, or 'parental grapes.'

Therein lies a story.  Anggur orang tua is a wine made from red flame grapes and aged about 10 minutes.  It's seasoned with clove and other spices, which gives it a mediciny taste.  It is usually served over ice mixed one-to-one with beer.  The concoction is not unpleasant, but it leaves a nice headache in its wake.

Other local 'medicines' include arak, which is a liquor made from oranges, and the high-end versions are pretty close to Gran Marinier. 

One of the more unusual brews is called cap tikus, or mouse piss.  It is distilled from coconut milk and the real, traditional version has a fetal deer in it, not unlike the mescal worm.  The liquor and the creature are steeped together for two weeks, leaving the cap tikus a pink color (normally clear to cloudy white).  Supposedly, it imbues the liquor with the 'essense' of the deer.  Variations include other critters, with bat being the most common.

One other concoction of note is darah kobra, or cobra blood.  It begins with a mystery brew containing fruit and flowers, with a reddish tint.  You then behead the cobra and immediately drain the blood into a hi-ball glass with the mystery fluid (that looks something like transmission fluid).  The snake is then gutted and the spleen squeezed into the mix.  A quick stir, and viola!

It's quite good, actually, and goes really well with the sate kobra you are about to eat.  The snake you just drank is diced and skewered, grilled and dunked in spicy peanet sauce.  We highly recommend it!

So, enough of all that.  It's Friday for some of our readers, and already Saturday morning here.  Time to get things together for the weekend.  It's payday and the fridge is full of delicious food and beer.  No time like the present to dive in!

Happy weekend, and may all your meals include rice!