South East Asia on a Hamstring – January 23

By: Marie Javins

Yogyakarta – January 23, 2000

A cacophony of chicken-clucking woke me early at the Delta Homestay. We were scheduled to have tours of various Yogyakarta sites all day, so it was just as well, but I wouldn’t have minded a little rest after the Red Light district field trip of the previous evening.

We had a spare becak for our excursions, as Joanne and I didn’t quite fit into one together due to what Andy referred to as “the hip problem.” It worked out well because shortly into our day, we lost a member of our party to traveler’s diarrhea, and we were able to send the spare becak back to the hotel.

Stop one was the bird market. It wasn’t a sanitized tourist attraction – it was the real thing in all it’s Humane Society-offending glory. Pets and animals not normally considered pets were in cages all over the market. There were puppies, kittens, snakes, baby squirrels, lizards, and one semi-Komodo dragon in addition to the various pigeons, lovebirds, parakeets and mealy worms. There was also a surplus of giant red-ants, to be eaten by pet birds. We stopped next to a pile of red-ants and I quickly found myself slapping my thighs and hopping up and down. The rest of the morning I kept finding them on my legs, arms, and in my hair.

I spotted a cute puppy in a cage and asked the seller if he was a pet. “No,” said the seller. “Food.”

I refused to believe it and the man laughed and said resignedly, “yes, pet.”

Transactions and negotiations were going on all around us. Animals were passed across counters, passed back, and then negotiated on. I couldn’t see the difference between the sold and rejected animals. All the baby squirrels looked good to me. But the shopkeepers knew exactly what mades the perfect baby squirrel, apparently. They inspected closely before making decisions.

We moved on, visiting a juice bar right next to the pigeon section. It seemed that every man, young and old, had a pair of pigeons in their hands or in small bags. Other men sold small clay whistles. The whistles were fastened to the back of the pigeon’s tail, so that the pigeon-keeper could determine both the speed and location of his pigeon. Pigeons mate for life and the pigeon in flight always returns to his mate, kept aside as bait by the pigeon-keeper.

We moved up to the ruins of the old water palace. Some boys were up there, waving a girl pigeon around in the air to attract her boyfriend to return home.

The next stop was the Yogyakarta provinces Sultan’s home. Indonesia consists of 26 provinces (very recently 27 provinces until the secession of East Timor) and the majority of provinces are run by governors. But a few Sultan’s were allowed to remain in power for various reasons. The Sultan of Yogya remained in power because he was an important fighter in the war for independence from the Dutch.

The current Sultan, son of the war-hero Sultan, had classical dancing practiced in his courtyard every Sunday and Wednesday. We watched enthralled as various men and women performed perfect, exotic dances to live Indonesian music. Some of the dancers performed solo and some performed in pairs. Some of them used props such as daggers and scarves. It kept all of us alert and attentive.

At 5pm, our group took the local bus downtown. The local bus was quite an adventure. The buses are the ultimate in privatization. They are not munipical buses – the city issues licenses to individuals or companies. The individuals rent the bus for the day and it is up to them to follow a set route and drum up business. The conductor was delighted to see us and smiled warmly. He was having the time of his life conducting that bus.

Malioboro Road is the center of downtown. We all split up and Andy took me to a bookstore to score a copy of “The Beach,” which I was feeling compelled to read due to my upcoming trip to Thailand. We all met up at the McDonald’s in the Malioboro Mall and went up to the food court for a sorely-needed gourmet-coffee. I’d gotten used to the super-strong Bali coffee but still gagged when I got too close to the black grinds that sat at the bottom of every cup.

Joanne went off to find a replacement for her daypack, while Pratima, Jitu, Andy and I decided to take a taxi to Pizza Hut for a change of pace from the gado-gado and nasi goreng we were eating on a regular basis.

Andy, being the leader, went to hail a taxi. The first taxi slowed. The driver scanned him and took off. Pratima, Jitu and I giggled a bit.

A second taxi slowed down. The driver looked Andy up and down and then sped away.

“It’s because of your appearance,” I said. “Let me try.”

Andy, like the rest of us, had put all of his clothes in for laundering and he was wearing an old sarong and a winter sweater. It was sweltering out and Bali is the place where men wear sarongs, not Java. He stepped aside to let me try.

I strode up to the curb and a taxi stopped immediately. We all giggled and I pretended it was the New Yorker in me, not the fact that Andy was wearing a skirt.

At Pizza Hut, we egged Andy into asking the help where the “lady-boys” a/k/a transvetites hung out in Yogya. Red-faced, he inquired in Indonesian. Two waiters consulted and then confidently told him exactly where the “lady-boys” would be. Unfortunately, everyone was too tired to see the lady-boys.

We returned to Delta to discover that our laundry was all mixed up. I had Joanne’s panties, Pratima had my leggings, I had Pratima’s bra. Embarrassment all around, not to mention a spare pair of men’s underwear that belonged to a total stranger.