Sabtu, 31 Desember 2011

Back to earth

Looking back toward Banyuwangi on the ferry to Bali,
where we had to return to fly back to Java
Ironically, we had to return to Bali from East Java in order to get back to West Java. Our guide and new friend Azan stayed with us on the ferry as we crossed the strait. We arrived at Gilimanuk where he disembarked the ferry, and we left the deck and found our seats again on the bus. Now, the long road journey through the little known west, to Denpasar.

Leaving the pleasant isle, Bali of a thousand gates, where the gods live, and… back home to Tangerang, the ‘real world,’ at least for now. Back to earth… to my other favorite island in the universe, Java!

It seems wherever I look, I am amazed and instantly drawn to whatever and whoever I see in this land I call my other home, Yndonesia, far from the experience of many other visitors. I’ve looked at quite a few travelogs since returning to America, and even posted a link to one of the most extreme of them at the bottom of the side panel of this blog. Poor Liz! It seems as though, if something could go wrong, it did. There are many differences not only between her experience and mine, but between us as people. C. S. Lewis is quite right, ‘What you see and what you hear depends a great deal on where you are standing. It also depends on what sort of person you are’ (from The Magician’s Nephew, Chapter 10).

Our ride on the bus from the Gilimanuk ferry dock to the airport at Denpasar was another beautiful experience. The road skirted the island of Bali’s western shore, filling our view with indescribable sights of the living paradise. This is where, I guess, many if not most of Bali’s Muslims live. We saw far fewer family shrines among the houses, and mosques made their appearance regularly, as on Java, and were mostly the small ones that we see everywhere in the countryside of Yndonesia. The large mosque in the distance is at Medewi, on our route to Denpasar. Its style reminds me a little of the Taj Mahal in India, unlike the usual shape of mosques here, which have a uniquely southeast Asian look.

It was a long journey, but finally we arrived at the bus terminal in Denpasar. That didn’t mean we were home free, by any means. All it meant was, we had to find a taxi to carry us to the airport, something that could take as long as two hours if the traffic was as jammed as it was when we left Denpasar for Singaraja the day we arrived. Today, we were fortunate. We found a trusty taxi driver, and the traffic was so unjammed, that we arrived at our destination in much less than an hour.

Our cabby was a very hip guy, and culturally sensitive too. Of course he noticed right away that here he had a bulé and a native who might be an overseas Indonesian as his passengers. He heard Yudhie and I speaking English in an American accent, so he knew we weren’t, I wasn’t, an Aussie. He did speak a little English, and he turned around and asked us if we liked country music. I didn’t want to disappoint him (I don’t like very much of it, but I do like some) so I said, ‘Yes.’ He showed us an old CD of a well-known (but I forget who) male country vocalist before he popped it into his CD player. Twang, twang, oh my broken heart, you left me after all I did for you, boo hoo. You know, somewhat sentimental.

While the music played, I was noticing something hanging from his rear view mirror. Most people who do that usually hang something of religious significance, and this guy was no different. I squinted to see just who it was. Was it Krishna? I wondered. Finally, I got brave and asked him who was on the icon hanging from his mirror. It was Krishna, on one side, and Vishnu on the other. The Vishnu side was facing us, but at that distance and in the dark interior of the cab, I couldn’t quite make out the skin color—Vishnu is purple and Krishna is blue-skinned. When he saw that I knew who they were, he opened up quite a bit, even spiritually, and brotherhood was shared, recognition.
God is God.

We arrived at the airport, got our boarding passes, paid the departure tax, and got on the plane, all very quickly. The flight seemed to pass quickly too. This time, Yudhie and I were not able to sit together, and we just both rested. It was a relief to just be quiet and rest. The day had been long, and our senses quite overloaded.

When we arrived in Jakarta, we hailed a taxi and decided to have him drive us not directly home to Taman Ayu, but instead, to the Karawaci supermall, where we would be sure of finding something to eat. I think it was that night that we had dinner in the café on the top floor of the Times Bookstore. What surprised me was that Italian pasta dishes were prominent on the menu, like this spaghetti bolognese. This is a student hangout of sorts that Yudhie knew well. After dinner, we went down to the taxi stop to wait for a cab.

Everywhere we went in Bali and Java the week before New Year's
we saw booths like this, selling flashy horns and other noise-makers
‘Oh my gosh! It’s New Year’s Eve!’ should have been flashing big bright warning signs in our brains, but we hadn’t even given it a thought. Of course, we knew it was the 31st of December, but it hadn’t occurred to either of us that there’d be a run on taxis tonight, the uncarred masses of the Jakarta metropolis requiring them to be transported to and from parties. We arrived at the usual stop—there’s only one—and even though it wasn’t very late yet, the queue there was about twenty persons long, not counting family members sitting on benches and on the pavement against the building while one of them stood in line.

‘Well, let’s see what happens,’ I said to Yudhie. And so we waited, and waited, and waited. I don’t know how long it was before the next taxi arrived and picked up one group. Then it was another long wait before another showed up, maybe twenty minutes, and picked up the next in line. The third cab didn’t show for at least forty-five minutes, and meanwhile the queue had actually doubled in length. We were somewhere in the middle. Behind us, a group of three or four Korean tourist twenty-somethings were becoming very antsy. People began leaving the queue and walking away, but the queue never seemed to shorten, and after two hours we were no closer to getting a cab than before. So we left.

The solution was easy. Just hop on an angkot and go home. Those were my thoughts, but I left the logistics to Yudhie. He knew what to do. It wasn’t long before an angkot going close to Taman Ayu pulled over to the curb and we got on. After a short ride on the highway through thick traffic, we got off, walked through a gangway, and ended up at an alley entrance I was now familiar with. Three or four ojeks were waiting there for customers. Though it really wasn’t far at all to our house, Yudhie wanted us to ride there. Our small luggage was fastened to the handlebars and we hopped on behind our drivers. We arrived home licked-split, got off the motorcycles, and paid the drivers 5000 rupiah each, and with a sigh of relief unlocked the front door, and almost collapsed onto the sofa.
We were home.

Union Station
Portland, Oregon
Now, for a rest. New Year’s Day we did nothing except local activities. The weather was warm and bright, but there were occasional thunderstorms that night. But as for us, we were safe and at peace.

Yndonesia by flying carpet

Before we knew it, we were rounding the corner into Azan’s neighborhood. I already recognized it and felt quite at home there, as if I were visiting my own cousins. It was dark. We got out of the car, and Azan led us through some gangways to another house not far from his. We pushed open the entrance gate a little, came in and removed our sandals, and followed him into the house. It was night by now, and the room we entered was blazing with light that was reflected from the many dazzling things in the room. There we met Adam, another of the ‘brothers Ali,’ the youngest of them, and as handsome as a young sultan, with his baby daughter in arms. Azan introduced us to his brother, and they showed us around the place, and where we would sleep, and then brought food and drinks.

This was the first time we were staying in a Muslim household. When we stayed overnight at the home of Yudhie’s dad in Nakao village, though his wife and relatives are Muslims, his dad as head of the household is a Christian, and so there is a mix of religions there. Here, in Banyuwangi, we were guests in a Muslim home, right across the lane from a beautiful mosque. We felt really welcome.

Adam, our host, besides being handsome, was as gracious and gentle as Yudhie’s family in Siliragung. It is the nobility of the Javanese. When I asked Azan if there was anywhere nearby where I could purchase some framed Islamic calligraphy like the ones in Adam’s house, he said, not nearby. He and Adam were surprised that an American could read Arabic and was interested in such things. Adam understood my inquiry, disappeared for a moment, returned with a laminated tableau of Islamic holy sites, and gave it to me. As we found out later, Adam does understand and can even speak English somewhat, but is too shy to try speaking to an American. Yes, in every way, he was a gentleman. I humbly thanked him.

Tableau of Islamic holy sites
After visiting, we turned in for the night. The spare room was as beautifully furnished and comfortable as the rest of the house, but the bed was a twin, so Adam and Azan pulled another mattress out of another room and laid it down on the floor of the spare room, so Yudhie and I wouldn’t have to squeeze onto the twin. Sometime before we retired for the night, Adam’s wife came home, and also did her best to see to our needs, bringing us towels for our baths, and other necessities. We had a peaceful sleep. No cocks crowing either in this neighborhood, just the mu’ezzin cry at about 4:30 in the morning. I came to love that sound. So peaceful, and at the very time when I normally wake up and talk to the Lord, even when I am at home in America.

Proïnón, the pre-dawn, the quiet time when God comes and talks to men, is the same, I think, in all faiths.

Full morning finally arrived.

Through the open window in our bedroom I could hear the sounds of people up and about. I got up, carefully stepped over Yudhie, and went to use the washroom. The family was not to be seen, but they were already up. I went outside and sat on a little bench at the end of the front porch, and prayed silently, thanking the Lord for the hospitality of this family.

Then I looked around, took a few photos of the mosque across the lane, and the planters on the porch. Before long, Azan came over, and Adam appeared with his daughter. We sat together on the front steps and talked in soft tones. Yudhie then emerged. We went back inside. Azan disappeared for a few minutes and reappeared with a plate of various prepackaged Indonesian sweets. We sampled a few with our morning coffee. Delicious!

We had some time to kill before Azan’s relatives, our driver and his wife, were coming to take us to the ferry. How carefully they provided for us! And we couldn’t even thank them in their own language (at least I couldn’t). We walked around the neighborhood a bit. Suddenly Azan turned in at a gate to a building that didn’t look exactly like a house, but more like a workshop. It was a tofu factory! He took us inside and we saw the men making tofu. There was a furnace roaring and I didn’t quite understand what I was looking at, and I wish I could’ve stayed longer, and photographed it, but it was dark inside, and I think I forgot the camera in my backpack at the house.

Before we left, Azan bought us a big bag of deep fried tofu. The lady yelled out, ‘Be careful! It’s probably too salty for you!’—in Javanese, Azan translated—but it turned out to be just as salty as we wanted. Sadly, we left it behind on the bus when we disembarked in Denpasar! I’m going back to get more when we visit Kota Banyuwangi next time.

Time to go! Our driver was waiting for us when we returned. Azan accompanied us, because he wanted to make sure we got on the ferry safely and, as he later arranged, got our fare at reduced rates. This is what happened… When we got to the ferry dock, we parked the car. Yudhie and I started to get out, and Azan said, ‘No! Just stay here! I will get the tickets for you!’ with a strange imperative tone in his voice, almost of panic. It didn’t make sense. He got out and briskly ran up to the ticket agent in his booth. In half a minute he was running back, opened the car door and said, ‘Do you have 200,000 rupiah?’ I said, sure, and handed him two red seratus ribu bills. He said, ‘Grab your things and run down to the ferry! It’s about ready to take off!’ Then he ran too, stopped at the wicked and got the tickets and caught up to us just as we were passing the conductors who took them from us. Then the three of us ran to the ferry.

He took Yudhie and me into a large bus parked on the deck and found us seats in the rear. We dropped off our luggage and then followed him back out and up to the passenger deck where we would sit during the passage. It was there that he explained the strange way of getting the tickets. ‘The fare to Denpasar is a hundred fifty per person, but I know the clerk and got the tickets for a hundred each. We had to run because the ferry was going to leave right away.’ That is a strange way to buy tickets, but I had already learned earlier, that prices of things here will vary, depending on who is buying. That’s why Moda’s wife bought our ferry tickets for the passage to Banyuwangi from Bali the day before. She is a local, we obviously are not. So, maybe the guide books are right after all.

Yndonesia by flying carpet is how we went.
Angels were with us every step of the way.