Looking beyond the city

OCT 31 ― Indonesia is very much a Pramoedya Ananta Toer novel come to life.

Jakarta may be the rich capital, the more sophisticated sister, but to experience true Indonesian life, one has to live outside of Jakarta, and in the provinces. It is through living among her people that you learn that Indonesia is like a beautiful woman who knows the power of her beauty and is cruel about it, with her admirers and enemies.

“I disagree,” an old friend who works as a healthcare consultant said.

I have been lucky for almost every week, a friend or two flying into Java for work. My consultant friend and I were having dinner at ViaVia Café, situated in the Bangsar of Jogjakarta, Jalan Prawirotaman. Let’s put it this way: Jalan Prawirotaman is the poorer version of Bangsar or Bali. It is popular among students and tourists.

“I liken Indonesia to a worn, old woman. She used to be beautiful, but all the hardship she faced has worn out her children, her gardens, her wealth,” he continued.

It was a rough week in Java. I was already in the throes of a beast of a flu: never had I ever encountered such vileness. But I was elated as my trip to Pekalongan was a success. My friend was strung out by the work he had to face.

The organisation had made very little inroads into Java, despite its escalating social problems. It had taken his bosses and him three years to crack the Javanese. It was only now that their local staff would deign to socialise with them outside of consultations.

I was reminded of my cleaner’s words prior to my departure. “Ha. We Surabayans and Madurese are a bit different. What you see is what you get. We are rough. If this is what we offer, this is what you get. Take it or leave it.”

“What about the Javanese?” I had asked.

“Those from Solo and Jogja. Mereka berhalus ya, mam. Tertib. They’re very cultured. But they are like pythons. Beautiful to look at, but once they have you in their grip, they will cheat you left and right. Their tongues are as smooth as the python’s.”

“Indah khabar dari rupa?”

“Ya, mam.”

That night, we shared a beca and toured around the city. I have always felt that Jogja’s real self appeared at night. It’s a quiet town, but somehow, somewhere, in a corner, life happens, and a bleak life it is.

We passed by a young man leaning against a lamppost; tired or drunk? No one knew. Little warongs with canvas sheets for walls reveal three generations of a family living there. They eat, pray and made love there, in full view of their family members.

I would like to think that perhaps “copulate” is a better word. To survive in this country, whether you are a national or an expatriate, is to not romanticise Indonesia. You’d be crazy to do so.

So copulate it is.

Jogjakarta is a city of travellers. Hundreds of years ago, it was the epicentre of Hinduism and the Javanese religion. When Islam arrived, agama kejaweng faced some resistance ― the Javanese were and still are proud of their culture. Marrying the old and a new religion, syncretism is now part of the ordinary Javanese’s life.

So far.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.