Dudek
Hyppia
Finnan
Carragher
Traore
Riise
Alonso
Kewell
Gerrard
Hamann
Garcia
Smicer
Baros
Cisse
Benitez
for a memorable night. may 25, 2005
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Out of Reach
You've made the decision.
Some things are behind you now.
Some things are out of bounds.
Even when it seems they are not.
Look at me in the eye.
They are beyond you now.
Don't even think of reaching out.
Lie to yourself if you have to.
Now, say it over, and over, and over, and over.
Say it as you inhale.
Say it as you exhale.
And say it in between.
Some things are behind you now.
Some things are out of bounds.
Even when it seems they are not.
Look at me in the eye.
They are beyond you now.
Don't even think of reaching out.
Lie to yourself if you have to.
Now, say it over, and over, and over, and over.
Say it as you inhale.
Say it as you exhale.
And say it in between.
Monday, December 25, 2006
End of Trimester Recap
Here's what I've learnt so far. There's a good boss, and there's a bad boss. And in the spirit of not looking at things in black and white, the difference between them is not very clear sometimes. Or perhaps, should not be made clear.
Happy employees are not neccessarily productive employees. It takes an extensive compensation plan, valid job design, clear career planning, competency-based training scheme, fair job evaluation mechanism, and rewarding retirement plan to make a happy employee a productive one. For good measure, throw in a company T-shirt or coffee mug. The relationship between happiness and satisfaction is yet to be established. However, motivation is highly important. Apparently, human motivation is a pyramid with 'physical need' written at the bottom and 'self-actualization' at the top.
Human resource policies should take into consideration issues like balancing work and life, which means that work should not interfere with personal life. Or was it the other way around? Either way, office romance is a big no-no. Furthermore, the company should not discriminate its employees on the basis of age, religion and belief system, sex--including sexual orientation, nationality, race, language, attractiveness, mental health, and body odor. Unless. Oh, I like this bit. Unless specifically needed to do the job.
Leaders are made, not born. Although, technically, they should be born first and then made. There are a vast range of activities aimed to create leaders. The majority of them require external consultant. Good leaders should be able to inspire his men, and women. In this sense, Hitler is a good leader. Deluded, but good nonetheless. I wonder if it's the moustache. Upon closer examination, the mile-long list of criteria for being a good leader is frighteningly close to the job description of a god.
All that, and the fact that internet connection and the printer start to conspire against you about two hours before the deadline of your assignment. Now if you'd excuse me, I'm going to enjoy my summer holiday..
Happy employees are not neccessarily productive employees. It takes an extensive compensation plan, valid job design, clear career planning, competency-based training scheme, fair job evaluation mechanism, and rewarding retirement plan to make a happy employee a productive one. For good measure, throw in a company T-shirt or coffee mug. The relationship between happiness and satisfaction is yet to be established. However, motivation is highly important. Apparently, human motivation is a pyramid with 'physical need' written at the bottom and 'self-actualization' at the top.
Human resource policies should take into consideration issues like balancing work and life, which means that work should not interfere with personal life. Or was it the other way around? Either way, office romance is a big no-no. Furthermore, the company should not discriminate its employees on the basis of age, religion and belief system, sex--including sexual orientation, nationality, race, language, attractiveness, mental health, and body odor. Unless. Oh, I like this bit. Unless specifically needed to do the job.
Leaders are made, not born. Although, technically, they should be born first and then made. There are a vast range of activities aimed to create leaders. The majority of them require external consultant. Good leaders should be able to inspire his men, and women. In this sense, Hitler is a good leader. Deluded, but good nonetheless. I wonder if it's the moustache. Upon closer examination, the mile-long list of criteria for being a good leader is frighteningly close to the job description of a god.
All that, and the fact that internet connection and the printer start to conspire against you about two hours before the deadline of your assignment. Now if you'd excuse me, I'm going to enjoy my summer holiday..
Friday, December 08, 2006
Recounting Today
It's pretty late now. SBS has had enough for the day. It leaves a still image of the globe on the screen and the alluring voice of some lady singing something melancholic in French. At the bottom, a running text proclaims that her CD is available in appointed stores or by phone order. A sip of red liquid, the produce of an unheard-of cellar, helps me to recount the tiny pieces that intertwine to form the 24-hour period more aptly known as a day.
Amor, amor, amor. The goddess of love teased and flirted. Promises of heavenly pleasures brought down to earth at my disposal. It's within reach, she winked. But there will be hell to pay.
Fighting off virtual demon with virtual bow and arrows in an equally virtual realm. Blood spilt, cities ransacked, glory gained, time killed. But to what end?
An angel is growing her fifth teeth. Cooing and laughing over the phone. But she cried when I called her name. O Angel, it's criminal that I spend more time being lonely than being with you. And your mother.
The northern wind dropped by and gave hints of impending disaster. Homecoming won't be as smooth as I would expect. Oh, the politics of interconnecting two family trees.
Oh well, it's one of those days.
Amor, amor, amor. The goddess of love teased and flirted. Promises of heavenly pleasures brought down to earth at my disposal. It's within reach, she winked. But there will be hell to pay.
Fighting off virtual demon with virtual bow and arrows in an equally virtual realm. Blood spilt, cities ransacked, glory gained, time killed. But to what end?
An angel is growing her fifth teeth. Cooing and laughing over the phone. But she cried when I called her name. O Angel, it's criminal that I spend more time being lonely than being with you. And your mother.
The northern wind dropped by and gave hints of impending disaster. Homecoming won't be as smooth as I would expect. Oh, the politics of interconnecting two family trees.
Oh well, it's one of those days.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The Tamarind of the Mountain--the Salt of the Sea
I am smitten by Limewire. For the past 5 hours, I've been tracking down the songs that had been the theme-songs of my, uhm, younger days. And in doing so I accidentally came upon a song called Asam di Gunung dan Garam di Laut, whose literal translation makes up the title of this posting.
The song is your everyday dangdut song. It's a more optimistic take on unrequited love. The message is that despite the distance, the tamarind and the salt will eventually meet in a sauce pan. If the day's menu happens to feature sour soup or thom yam, that is. However, the catchiest thing about the song is its intro. After a short burst of piano, the singer, a guy named Ona Sutra, immediately deliver the following limerick:
Tanam pinang rapat-rapat,
agar puyuh tak dapat lari.
Kupinang-pinang tak dapat-dapat,
Kurayu-rayu kubawa bernyanyi..
..which in English would sound somewhat like:
Plant the palm trees in a tight line,
so that the quail shan't flee.
Everytime I propose, you always decline,
so ceaselessly shall I entice you by singing merrily..
Simply brilliant! The translation could use some work, but I suppose it's close enough. Now, if I used that line to a girl, I would definitely be at the receiving end of a blank stare, at best. However, this guy somehow manages to deliver it in such a way that convinces you that he will eventually get the girl. Goddamn, how I envy the charisma and confidence of dangdut singers...
PS. To Suparman of Jalan Rajiman, Cilacap. This is for you, man..wherever you are..
The song is your everyday dangdut song. It's a more optimistic take on unrequited love. The message is that despite the distance, the tamarind and the salt will eventually meet in a sauce pan. If the day's menu happens to feature sour soup or thom yam, that is. However, the catchiest thing about the song is its intro. After a short burst of piano, the singer, a guy named Ona Sutra, immediately deliver the following limerick:
Tanam pinang rapat-rapat,
agar puyuh tak dapat lari.
Kupinang-pinang tak dapat-dapat,
Kurayu-rayu kubawa bernyanyi..
..which in English would sound somewhat like:
Plant the palm trees in a tight line,
so that the quail shan't flee.
Everytime I propose, you always decline,
so ceaselessly shall I entice you by singing merrily..
Simply brilliant! The translation could use some work, but I suppose it's close enough. Now, if I used that line to a girl, I would definitely be at the receiving end of a blank stare, at best. However, this guy somehow manages to deliver it in such a way that convinces you that he will eventually get the girl. Goddamn, how I envy the charisma and confidence of dangdut singers...
PS. To Suparman of Jalan Rajiman, Cilacap. This is for you, man..wherever you are..
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Cilacap This Morning
It’s four o’clock. The dawn is yet to break and the streets are silently asleep. The row of closed shops is bathed in orange light from street lamps. The serenity is only disturbed by occasional roaring of Aman and Utama buses, the town’s only bus companies, prowling Cilacap’s main streets in search for passengers before they depart for Yogyakarta or Semarang. However, the noise does not seem to bother the local lunatic who sleeps in front of Toko Kemenangan, a strip of sidewalk he apparently calls home.
At the other end of the street, the becak drivers congregating in front of Damri pool are rustled from their sleep by the arrival of the first Damri coach from Jakarta. Their colleagues in Terminal, the town’s only bus station in the northern part of the town, are similarly awakened by Sinar Jaya, also from Jakarta, and early Purwokerto buses, the likes of Putra Remaja and Keluarga.
It’s five o’clock. Cilacap is stirring. The firsts of Patal employees begin arriving for the morning shift. They pedal their old jengki bicycles all the way from Kroya, Adipala, or Maos, some 20 kilos away. Riding in long rows, they resemble the Tour de France—without the glamour, of course. Morning chill, rain, or meager pay never seems to stop them. That is until the mass layoff in early 2000s.
At this time, the serabi* vendor near Brug Menceng**, is besieged by her loyal customers. Under their watchful eyes, she skillfully tends to five clay stoves arranged neatly in semicircle to her right. Not a movement wasted. She lifts the cooked serabi from the pan, puts it on the wicker basket on her left, dabs the pan with coconut oil, pour the serabi mix, and put the lid on top. Then she moves to the next stove and with remarkable fluidity the process is repeated. Somehow she also manages to take orders, handle the monetary side of the business, wrap the right number of serabi for the right customer, make coffee, and engage in small talk.
Elsewhere, people start their morning walk to the beach, or ‘kisik’ as the locals call it. Cilacapians have a soft spot for watching sunrises. On Sundays they come in droves, young and old. Bursts of laughter break amidst the sound of footsteps and the pedaling of bicycles. Kids don’t walk, they run. Worried warnings can occasionally be heard as the brats stray to the middle of the street. By five thirty, the beach that stretches from THR, that’s Taman Hiburan Rakyat—People’s Amusement Park, to Areal 70 in the south is rife with festivities. Balloon and toy vendors compete to lure children and ambush their unsuspecting parents. Other children shriek in delights among the sound of the breaking waves. A young couple with a toddler wrapped in warm jacket simply content to lean to each other and watch the reddish eastern sky.
Back in town, Purbaya sounds its horn to mark its departure for Surabaya. The train has always been the favorites of students going to Yogyakarta. If you walk from the front car to the rear, you’re a bound to meet old friends, be they from elementary, junior high, or high school. It happens every time.
The green minivans that comprise the town’s public transport start to operate. People from other cities refer to them as ‘angkot’, a short form of ‘angkutan kota’—the city transport. However Cilacapians prefer to call them by its full name; angkutan kota. There are two main routes of angkutan kota. The Lomanis route caters for the western part of the town, while the Damalang serves the east. Both routes start from the Pasar Gedhe, the main market, to Terminal and vice versa.
It’s six o’clock. The town has fully come to life. The brisk pace of morning commutes can be felt in the air. Students stand in roadsides, waiting for angkutan kota. Often they watch helplessly as the green minivans, already filled to the brim with luckier students, pass them by. Other flocks in bicycles, chattering about homework or their latest crushes. The Pertamina school bus, reserved only for the offspring of the oil company’s employees, picks up students from the town’s Pertamina housing complexes; Tegal Katilayu, Gunung Simping, and Lomanis.
Civil servants, unmistakable in their khaki uniforms, and other workers ride their motorcycles alongside cars, becak, and angkutan kota. Some have children in red and white uniform clutching tightly at their waist. The town’s main street, Jalan Ahmad Yani, is the busiest. On one end it has three schools, Yos Sudarso High, Pius Elementary, and State Junior High 1, while on the other, right across the city square, lies the District Office, locally known as the Kabupaten. However, except for rainy days, traffic jam is extremely rare.
It’s seven o’clock in Cilacap. If you’re still on the streets, you’re late.
* Serabi is some sort of pancake made from rice flour, coconut milk, and god knows what else.
** ‘brug’ is Banyumasan for bridge, probably derived from Dutch. While ‘menceng’ means askew. The bridge is so named because it doesn’t lie in a straight angle from the street.
At the other end of the street, the becak drivers congregating in front of Damri pool are rustled from their sleep by the arrival of the first Damri coach from Jakarta. Their colleagues in Terminal, the town’s only bus station in the northern part of the town, are similarly awakened by Sinar Jaya, also from Jakarta, and early Purwokerto buses, the likes of Putra Remaja and Keluarga.
It’s five o’clock. Cilacap is stirring. The firsts of Patal employees begin arriving for the morning shift. They pedal their old jengki bicycles all the way from Kroya, Adipala, or Maos, some 20 kilos away. Riding in long rows, they resemble the Tour de France—without the glamour, of course. Morning chill, rain, or meager pay never seems to stop them. That is until the mass layoff in early 2000s.
At this time, the serabi* vendor near Brug Menceng**, is besieged by her loyal customers. Under their watchful eyes, she skillfully tends to five clay stoves arranged neatly in semicircle to her right. Not a movement wasted. She lifts the cooked serabi from the pan, puts it on the wicker basket on her left, dabs the pan with coconut oil, pour the serabi mix, and put the lid on top. Then she moves to the next stove and with remarkable fluidity the process is repeated. Somehow she also manages to take orders, handle the monetary side of the business, wrap the right number of serabi for the right customer, make coffee, and engage in small talk.
Elsewhere, people start their morning walk to the beach, or ‘kisik’ as the locals call it. Cilacapians have a soft spot for watching sunrises. On Sundays they come in droves, young and old. Bursts of laughter break amidst the sound of footsteps and the pedaling of bicycles. Kids don’t walk, they run. Worried warnings can occasionally be heard as the brats stray to the middle of the street. By five thirty, the beach that stretches from THR, that’s Taman Hiburan Rakyat—People’s Amusement Park, to Areal 70 in the south is rife with festivities. Balloon and toy vendors compete to lure children and ambush their unsuspecting parents. Other children shriek in delights among the sound of the breaking waves. A young couple with a toddler wrapped in warm jacket simply content to lean to each other and watch the reddish eastern sky.
Back in town, Purbaya sounds its horn to mark its departure for Surabaya. The train has always been the favorites of students going to Yogyakarta. If you walk from the front car to the rear, you’re a bound to meet old friends, be they from elementary, junior high, or high school. It happens every time.
The green minivans that comprise the town’s public transport start to operate. People from other cities refer to them as ‘angkot’, a short form of ‘angkutan kota’—the city transport. However Cilacapians prefer to call them by its full name; angkutan kota. There are two main routes of angkutan kota. The Lomanis route caters for the western part of the town, while the Damalang serves the east. Both routes start from the Pasar Gedhe, the main market, to Terminal and vice versa.
It’s six o’clock. The town has fully come to life. The brisk pace of morning commutes can be felt in the air. Students stand in roadsides, waiting for angkutan kota. Often they watch helplessly as the green minivans, already filled to the brim with luckier students, pass them by. Other flocks in bicycles, chattering about homework or their latest crushes. The Pertamina school bus, reserved only for the offspring of the oil company’s employees, picks up students from the town’s Pertamina housing complexes; Tegal Katilayu, Gunung Simping, and Lomanis.
Civil servants, unmistakable in their khaki uniforms, and other workers ride their motorcycles alongside cars, becak, and angkutan kota. Some have children in red and white uniform clutching tightly at their waist. The town’s main street, Jalan Ahmad Yani, is the busiest. On one end it has three schools, Yos Sudarso High, Pius Elementary, and State Junior High 1, while on the other, right across the city square, lies the District Office, locally known as the Kabupaten. However, except for rainy days, traffic jam is extremely rare.
It’s seven o’clock in Cilacap. If you’re still on the streets, you’re late.
* Serabi is some sort of pancake made from rice flour, coconut milk, and god knows what else.
** ‘brug’ is Banyumasan for bridge, probably derived from Dutch. While ‘menceng’ means askew. The bridge is so named because it doesn’t lie in a straight angle from the street.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Warning
She said,'If you're gonna pull that act on me again, at least give me a warning'. By that she meant disappearing on her. No mails, no text, no calls. None whatsoever.
So he did. A two week notice.
To which she responded,'That's very nice of you, but you know what? F**k you!!'
So he did. A two week notice.
To which she responded,'That's very nice of you, but you know what? F**k you!!'
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Falling Away
...
staying awake to chase a dream
tasting the air you're breathing in
I hope I won't forget a thing
promise to hold you close and pray
watching the fantasies decay
nothing will ever stay the same
and all of the love we threw away
and all of the hopes we've cherished fade
making the same mistakes again
making the same mistakes again
and I feel my world crumbling,
and I feel my life crumbling down,
I can feel my soul crumbling away,
and falling away,
falling away with you
...
muse: falling away
Recently, I have found myself walking on the forbidden path. Again. The flame that flickered is now burning. It's funny that I don't want it to die out. Although it should. It should.
staying awake to chase a dream
tasting the air you're breathing in
I hope I won't forget a thing
promise to hold you close and pray
watching the fantasies decay
nothing will ever stay the same
and all of the love we threw away
and all of the hopes we've cherished fade
making the same mistakes again
making the same mistakes again
and I feel my world crumbling,
and I feel my life crumbling down,
I can feel my soul crumbling away,
and falling away,
falling away with you
...
muse: falling away
Recently, I have found myself walking on the forbidden path. Again. The flame that flickered is now burning. It's funny that I don't want it to die out. Although it should. It should.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Cats in the Craddle
I tried not to overdramatize this. Really, I did. I mean, the kid has been producing all sort of noises unintelligible to anyone but her mother. I've heard some of them. The cooing, near-hysteric laughter, and heart-wrenching cries of various pitches and loudness. So this was bound to happen. The kid would eventually talk some time soon. It should not be a surprise.
It was. It so was. When her mother in her usual offhand manner sent me a text message saying that the kid had uttered 'mama' and 'papa', I was momentarily reduced to a state of comatose. It's funny how elation and rage decided to mix. Bloody hell! How much more of this I have got to miss?
I was not there when she was born. I was not there when she learnt to roll on her tummy. Neither was I there when she finally managed to sit and crawl.
Oh, well. Hopefully I'm going to be there for her first step. First day of school. First of many teenage tantrums. I will be there to cross-examine her first boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter. I should be there for her wedding day, if she decided to marry, that is. At the rate of nowaday's cultural evolution, you never really know.
Man, it's really hard to type with your fingers crossed.
It was. It so was. When her mother in her usual offhand manner sent me a text message saying that the kid had uttered 'mama' and 'papa', I was momentarily reduced to a state of comatose. It's funny how elation and rage decided to mix. Bloody hell! How much more of this I have got to miss?
I was not there when she was born. I was not there when she learnt to roll on her tummy. Neither was I there when she finally managed to sit and crawl.
Oh, well. Hopefully I'm going to be there for her first step. First day of school. First of many teenage tantrums. I will be there to cross-examine her first boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter. I should be there for her wedding day, if she decided to marry, that is. At the rate of nowaday's cultural evolution, you never really know.
Man, it's really hard to type with your fingers crossed.
Friday, October 27, 2006
A Flickering Flame of Old
Does it still burn? Does it ignite? Is it now strong as it was might?
Crackle, crackle.
Light the firecracker.
Your eyes cut right into me as you sip your camomile tea. You put your cup down and ask me candidly.
Fluttery, fluttery.
Is that a butterfly in my tummy?
I did not mean to stare. Neither did I mean to make you scared. But do you know that despite the blushes your eyes do seem to glow?
Everywhere, nowhere.
Can you tell me if it's still there?
Crackle, crackle.
Light the firecracker.
Your eyes cut right into me as you sip your camomile tea. You put your cup down and ask me candidly.
Fluttery, fluttery.
Is that a butterfly in my tummy?
I did not mean to stare. Neither did I mean to make you scared. But do you know that despite the blushes your eyes do seem to glow?
Everywhere, nowhere.
Can you tell me if it's still there?
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Lebaran
Yes, the big day is finally here. Due to a bit of mix-up, I didn't get to do the annual Eid prayer. I had always thought that Eid would be this Tuesday, but apparently the moslems in Australia had other idea. Oh, well.
It is appaling, however, that missing out on the prayer didn't trouble me. Rather, it's the absence of the usual festivities that surrounds Lebaran--which is how they lovingly call Eid back home. There are no people incessantly calling the infamous "Allahuakbar walilla ilham" through a mosque loudspeaker, something that never fails to stir something inside me. No firecrackers are being lit. No people dressed in new clothing wishing one another Happy Eid and asking for forgiveness. And the most devastating of them all, there is no sign whatsoever of the three pillars of Lebaran: ketupat, opor ayam, and cookies. It's just, well, sad.
Evidently, my conception of Lebaran has not changed since I was five, which is, again, sad. Despite all the sermons I listened to all those years, I remain faithful to the traditional rather than the spiritual side of Eid. The reason being that the former is obviously much more fun. Yes, Ramadhan is a time to cleanse our soul. Yes, Eid is the day of victory when our faith is renewed and our sins are written off. Yes, during the following months we must maintain our conduct and harness our worldly cravings just like we did during the Ramadhan, thus being better persons. But seriously, how fun is Lebaran without ketupat, opor ayam, and cookies?
Anyway, Selamat Hari Raya Idul Fitri, Mohon Maaf Lahir dan Batin. Cheers!!
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Mudik
It is the most exciting time of the year. It’s the time of the year when your backpack is bursting at the seams. There are that jeans you buy for your brothers. The sarong for your father and that four-in-one juicer your mother has always wanted. The new dress for your girlfriend. Toys for your numerous little nieces and nephews. T-shirts of various size and color for your uncles and cousins and headscarfs for your aunties. Not to mention a tin of dried biscuits, two cans of margarine, three packs of sugar, two bottles of syrup, and a pack dried peanuts that made up your office’s gift parcel.
It’s the time of the year when you pay twice the usual price for half the comfort. It’s time to sit on a newspaper on the floor of the station platform wondering if the train will ever come. It’s the most logical time to travel light but you consciously choose not to. And you immediately feel that you’re gonna be just fine when you see the young family sitting next to you has a large luggage, three traveling bags, four cardboard boxes—one of which positively identified as containing a stereo set, several smaller plastic bags, and worst of all, two unusually energetic children.
It’s the time of the year when you have to fight to get a seat because seat numbering means squat to some people. It’s even time for people to get into the train car from the windows. It’s time to rejoice when you hear the whistle is blown and the train slowly depart. You hear the blaring siren of Pasar Senen crossing and feel good because you won’t have to hear it for some time. It’s time to wonder how nice it would be if you don’t have to come back.
It’s the time of the year when the fan in the ceiling refuses to operate but you shrug it out. It’s time to sit in the sweltering heat and listen to people complaining about the state of the country’s public transportation system. And small children insisting on having their say in the loudest manner possible. And as you know you will have to another nine hours of this, you wonder when you will be able to afford an executive class train. And to add insult to the injury, Argo Bromo, complete with dark windows, curtain, cushion, and airconditioner, overtakes your train because it has the right of way. It’s the time to swear that next year you will get an Argo-class ticket even if you have to slaughter the entire office.
It’s the time of the year when your train has to stop for two hours in Prupuk to wait for extra locomotive from Purwokerto. Overloaded and overweight, your train needs to be pulled by two locomotives to negotiate the looming hills of Bumiayu. By now you have grown immune to the heat and perspiration. You can’t even hear the woman sitting next to you describing every member of her family tree with great detail, something she has been doing for two hours. You just look up to your backpack, think of what’s in it, and you’re in a happy place.
It’s the time of the year when you screamed silently as the train crosses Serayu River. It’s time for you to wonder in disbelief that ten hours ago you were sitting miserably at Pasar Senen. But it’s all behind you now. It’s the time when the swaying paddies sing with you. The trees greet you. The ducks, the buffaloes, and the cows smile at you. Every passing telephone pole bid you warm welcome. Your heartbeat quickens at the familiar sight of markets, railway crossings,hamlets, and back roads. It’s the time for you, and millions like you to enjoy the final moments of long and weary journey. And as the train slows down to a stop, you are reminded of those who are still waiting for trains in Pasar Senen, stuck in miles-long traffic jam in Pantura, struggling to get buses in Pulogadung, and queuing to board ferries in Merak.
Yes, it is the time of the year when a nation is coming home.
Newcastle, H-2
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Arabian Coffee
My hat is off to you, food critiques. Bondan Winarno, Fransiska Anggraeni, and others. You are indeed brave people, putting your life on the line like that. It may seem easy, but, really, it takes quite a tastebud to experience the world's weirdest gastronomic riches and survive. It's not for everybody. I've learnt that the hard way.
I was invited to break my fast by some Middle Eastern friends. They are the friendliest of people. I don't speak Arabic, but I get the feeling that they are praying for your good health everytime they speak to you in their native tongue.
Anyway, upon arrival I was asked whether I would like tea or coffee. I chose the later because I had heard about how good it was, being very strong and all. My first impression was that of suspicion. It didn't look like your ordinary coffee. It was much too clear for comfort. As if to confirm my suspicion, it also didn't smell like coffee. Instead, it reminded me of the herb section of Pasar Beringharjo, Yogyakarta. But then I thought, this was, after all, Arabian coffee. They wouldn't call it as such if it looked and smelled like your average Tugu Luwak or Kapal Api. Bracing myself for nasty surprises, I took a sip.
It tasted nothing like coffee. Not a thing. It was more of a concoction of god-knows-what. I was harshly reminded of my traumatic childhood experience of my mother forcing me to drink brotowali, a hellishly bitter Javanese herb claimed to be good for your health. This coffee was even worse. Think of your most gruesome nightmare. Double that, and visualize it as a clear-brownish liquid. Add the picture of Bang Haji Rhoma Irama giving lecture on quantum physics for good measure. And it wouldn't be far off. I was left wondering how anyone could drink this and still maintained their sanity.
My startled expression was clearly the source of amusement for my Arabic friends. They met my murderous glance with broad grin. Supressing laughter, they politely asked me if I enjoyed what seemed to be the pride of their culinary tradition. I struggled to restore my composure and with equal civility asked what the (obscenity-deleted) did they put on their coffee. They listed some herbs, of which only saffron rang a bell.
Now, if there were only a way to get these grinning Arabs to taste jengkol or pete...
Monday, October 16, 2006
Waiting for Gudeg
The other day a friend called about a certain fundraising and enquired whether I was willing to purchase a box of gudeg for $8. My heart skipped a beat. I struggled to contain my excitement and asked whether she just said gudeg. She replied that she did and repeated her offer. Would I? It was like offering gasoline at a discounted price to an arsonist. To me gudeg is a culinary masterpiece par excellence. It is God's second finest creation--Kirsten Dunst being the first. And it had been four long months since I tasted anything that is even remotely similar to gudeg. Ending her phone call, my friend promised that the delicacy would be delivered the following day.
The next day I couldn’t focus on anything. The prospect of having gudeg for fast-breaking was too much to bear. I waited impatiently. The clock seemed to tick particularly slowly that day. I felt like I was 8 again, struggling to survive my first day of fasting. Half an hour before the fast breaking, I grew nervous. No sign of gudeg anywhere. I tried calling her but the line was always busy. Every sound of approaching car brought renewed hope that was mercilessly shattered to smithereens as it passed without stopping. It was such that I began to question the point of hoping.
I waited for a full hour after the fast breaking time before I resorted to instant noodle. I still had chicken in the fridge but was too dispirited to cook anything complicated. The pain was almost unbearable. As I watched the water bubbled amidst the shimmering noodle, I felt no bursting anger. I was too disheartened to be angry. Rather, it was disappointment. The cold, bleak disappointment of hope failing to materialize.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Coming to Australia
I remember waking up to the steady humming of airplane engine. Outside the dawn was breaking and the clouds were tinted with a collection of crimson hues. I couldn’t sleep well that night. Aside from the fact that I wasn’t allowed to spread newspaper and slept on the floor, I was still struggling to fit the idea of going to a foreign country into my head. It was so unreal. As unreal as receiving that phone call telling me that I’ve got the scholarship, spending 6 weeks in Bali to work on my English, or looking at my own picture on a passport. I have always wanted to go abroad since I was a kid. I have always envied the people who traveled to foreign countries. But I’ve never thought that someday I would really be able to. Then there was the voice of the pilot announcing that we were about to land in Sydney. Newsflash, village boy, this IS real.
I queued through custom and immigration and was immediately confronted by the harsh truth that my connecting flight to Newcastle was not due until 4 in the afternoon. Big, fat bummer. So I sat there in the arrival lounge of Sydney airport feeling like I was in some sort of dream. To start with, I have never seen that many Caucasians in one room. My teacher back in college was an American. I had British instructors for my course in Bali. I did see a fair number of them in Kuta. But not like this. Not this many. It’s like, they were everywhere. After all, this is their country.
And then there was the small but disconcerting fact that everything was in English. The signs, the announcements, the newspaper, the TV, and the conversation I overheard from a couple sitting next to me. All those years of studying English, watching Hollywood movies, listening to English songs, and even teaching English for a living, nothing prepared me for this. Nothing prepared me for such overwhelming onslaught to my senses. Books, songs, movies, and classes are controlled environments. You know you can always pause a movie, stick your head out of the window, and order ketoprak from a passing vendor. Now, Sydney airport arrival lounge is a real deal, a real-live interactive environment. Add Australian accent into the equation, and it can be a bit freaky. I actually had to work up the courage and mentally arrange my sentences before coming up to a Vodafone dealer to purchase a SIM card. When I did, I couldn’t understand half the things the man was saying. I had an unshakeable belief that I would wet my pants if they sent me to Egypt.
Nonetheless, all of the above is a sniff compared to the upside. In less than 24 hours, I have managed to cross a zillion things from the things-to-do-before-I-die list. Drink champagne, checked. It was during the flight and, for the record, it’s actually sparkling wine—but what’s the difference? Pee on an airplane, checked. Twice, it’s the wine. Standing on a foreign soil, checked. Exhaling vapor just like they do in movies, checked. It’s the first day of winter, anyway. Board a subway, check. It was a two minute trip from international to domestic terminal. Being frisked by a female wearing uniform, checked. I must have looked like an Al Qaeda operative. I didn’t mind at all.
I have also broadened my gastronomic horizon within that short period of time. I was introduced to hash brown. I haven’t got a clue as to what they did to the potato, and I’m not keen to find out, but it was magnificent. My first meal outside my motherland consisted of two hash browns and a chicken drumstick, courtesy of the omnipresent McDonald. Yes, it was a shame indeed. I have always pictured my first meal to be something Australian like croc-burger or kangaroo ribs. But hey, it wasn’t all that bad. Having McDonald in a western country is somewhat similar to eating empek-empek in Palembang.
For lunch I decided to be more adventurous and chose kebab. Thinly sliced, roasted, fatty sheep meat covered in gravy. I could almost hear my arteries screaming in agony as the calorie and the fat hit the system. But it was good. It was generous helping as well. For the first time in my life I couldn’t finish a meal. And it was the small sized portion. I was tempted to try the fried rice in a Chinese restaurant. But then I thought, if I had wanted to eat rice, I might as well stay in Jakarta.
After wandering aimlessly for ages, I finally checked in for my flight to Newcastle. An hour later, I was sitting in a twin propeller airplane, bumping its way through the clouds above Australia’s eastern coast. It had been one hell of a day. But the day still had a bit of nice surprise in store. Upon arrival, I was met by a man wearing a black suit and burgundy tie. He was holding a board and it had my name on it. No mistake in spelling. You know, everytime I went to an airport, and even that's a rare occasion, these guys always caught my attention. Neatly dressed, they stood and held their board so that people arriving from the flight could see them. I had always imagined that the people they were meant to meet were of high importance. At least those who didn't have to worry about paying back their wives' jewelleries from from a pawnshop. In the past the names, of course, were of somebody else's, like Mr. Bennet or Ms. Takahasi. So when I saw 'Mr. Widyasmoro' neatly written on a board, the feeling was undescribeable. I wish I had had a camera so I could take his picture and sent it to my folks back home. Later I learnt his name was Alan and he was a jovial guy. Oh, well. Being picked up by an immaculately dressed chauffeur? Checked.
I queued through custom and immigration and was immediately confronted by the harsh truth that my connecting flight to Newcastle was not due until 4 in the afternoon. Big, fat bummer. So I sat there in the arrival lounge of Sydney airport feeling like I was in some sort of dream. To start with, I have never seen that many Caucasians in one room. My teacher back in college was an American. I had British instructors for my course in Bali. I did see a fair number of them in Kuta. But not like this. Not this many. It’s like, they were everywhere. After all, this is their country.
And then there was the small but disconcerting fact that everything was in English. The signs, the announcements, the newspaper, the TV, and the conversation I overheard from a couple sitting next to me. All those years of studying English, watching Hollywood movies, listening to English songs, and even teaching English for a living, nothing prepared me for this. Nothing prepared me for such overwhelming onslaught to my senses. Books, songs, movies, and classes are controlled environments. You know you can always pause a movie, stick your head out of the window, and order ketoprak from a passing vendor. Now, Sydney airport arrival lounge is a real deal, a real-live interactive environment. Add Australian accent into the equation, and it can be a bit freaky. I actually had to work up the courage and mentally arrange my sentences before coming up to a Vodafone dealer to purchase a SIM card. When I did, I couldn’t understand half the things the man was saying. I had an unshakeable belief that I would wet my pants if they sent me to Egypt.
Nonetheless, all of the above is a sniff compared to the upside. In less than 24 hours, I have managed to cross a zillion things from the things-to-do-before-I-die list. Drink champagne, checked. It was during the flight and, for the record, it’s actually sparkling wine—but what’s the difference? Pee on an airplane, checked. Twice, it’s the wine. Standing on a foreign soil, checked. Exhaling vapor just like they do in movies, checked. It’s the first day of winter, anyway. Board a subway, check. It was a two minute trip from international to domestic terminal. Being frisked by a female wearing uniform, checked. I must have looked like an Al Qaeda operative. I didn’t mind at all.
I have also broadened my gastronomic horizon within that short period of time. I was introduced to hash brown. I haven’t got a clue as to what they did to the potato, and I’m not keen to find out, but it was magnificent. My first meal outside my motherland consisted of two hash browns and a chicken drumstick, courtesy of the omnipresent McDonald. Yes, it was a shame indeed. I have always pictured my first meal to be something Australian like croc-burger or kangaroo ribs. But hey, it wasn’t all that bad. Having McDonald in a western country is somewhat similar to eating empek-empek in Palembang.
For lunch I decided to be more adventurous and chose kebab. Thinly sliced, roasted, fatty sheep meat covered in gravy. I could almost hear my arteries screaming in agony as the calorie and the fat hit the system. But it was good. It was generous helping as well. For the first time in my life I couldn’t finish a meal. And it was the small sized portion. I was tempted to try the fried rice in a Chinese restaurant. But then I thought, if I had wanted to eat rice, I might as well stay in Jakarta.
After wandering aimlessly for ages, I finally checked in for my flight to Newcastle. An hour later, I was sitting in a twin propeller airplane, bumping its way through the clouds above Australia’s eastern coast. It had been one hell of a day. But the day still had a bit of nice surprise in store. Upon arrival, I was met by a man wearing a black suit and burgundy tie. He was holding a board and it had my name on it. No mistake in spelling. You know, everytime I went to an airport, and even that's a rare occasion, these guys always caught my attention. Neatly dressed, they stood and held their board so that people arriving from the flight could see them. I had always imagined that the people they were meant to meet were of high importance. At least those who didn't have to worry about paying back their wives' jewelleries from from a pawnshop. In the past the names, of course, were of somebody else's, like Mr. Bennet or Ms. Takahasi. So when I saw 'Mr. Widyasmoro' neatly written on a board, the feeling was undescribeable. I wish I had had a camera so I could take his picture and sent it to my folks back home. Later I learnt his name was Alan and he was a jovial guy. Oh, well. Being picked up by an immaculately dressed chauffeur? Checked.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
When She's Near
I could never really pin-point what it was. Since even the slightest twitch of her eyebrow felt like a thundering roar of a thousand cannons bursting within me. It was so hard to contain. And the way her eyes dance, always seemed to be trying to tell something even when her lovely mouth did not. My senses were simply overrun.
Seeing her everyday was a torture, albeit not entirely unpleasant. I tried not to gaze when she was sitting across the room. But leaving such beauty unnoticed felt like commiting a cardinal sin. I wanted to stare as long as I could, foolishly thinking that if I did it long enough, her impression will be forever imprinted on the walls of my memory. When we were accidently in close proximity--I know she never meant it, whatever were left of my logic walked out of the door. My heart went all fluttery and my head swam at the slightest whiff of her scent.
I don't know what it was. Honestly. But it's there.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Joran, Keranda, dan Bedahan
Waktu masih kecil, saya percaya betul kalau joran pancing yang paling bagus adalah yang dibuat dari bambu bekas keranda orang meninggal. Apalagi kalo yang bersangkutan meninggal pada hari Selasa Kliwon. Bisa dipastikan banyak anak-anak kecil yang berkumpul pada saat pemakaman; bukan untuk bertakziah tetapi mengincar kerandanya. Waktu itu keranda memang disposable, dibuat hanya untuk sekali pakai dan ditinggalkan begitu saja di pekuburan begitu kegunaannya selesai.
Kebetulan rumah sepupu saya di daerah Mertasinga terletak di depan kompleks pekuburan yang luas, sehingga sepupu-sepupu saya itu tidak pernah kekurangan stok bahan pembuat joran bertuah. Pembuatan joran itu pun menggunakan kaidah-kaidah tertentu. Misalnya, panjang bambu yang akan dijadikan joran harus diukur dengan kepalan tangan sambung menyambung sambil merapal mantra: tuk, beluk, panggang, pes. Diusahakan agar panjang bambu jatuh pada ‘panggang’ atau ‘pes’ sehingga nantinya mudah mendapat ikan. Konon.
Selain itu pakdhe saya juga pernah mengajarkan mantera berangkat memancing yang saya lupa bunyinya. Yang saya ingat, mantra itu diakhiri dengan menjejakkan kaki ke tanah sebanyak tiga kali. Beliau juga mengajarkan bahwa saat terbaik untu memancing adalah sehabis hujan atau saat mendung. Waktu saya agak gedhean sedikit, saya sempat membaca primbon yang dengan rinci menjabarkan saat, tempat, dan arah yang harus dituju agar mendapat hasil yang maksimal. Sekali lagi konon.
Kami biasanya menggunakan cacing tanah sebagai umpan karena hewan itulah yang paling mudah didapat. Cukup menggali tanah di kebun, terutama di dekat batang pisang yang sudah membusuk. Hewan-hewan malang itu kami kumpulkan di plastik bekas sabun B29. Terkadang kami juga menggunakan ulat pisang yang masih kecil, atau jika punya uang lebih kami membeli kroto, larva semut rangrang. Tapi umpan yang dipercaya paling ampuh adalah laron. Makanya setiap habis hujan, kami biasa menempatkan baskom berisi air di bawah lampu TL untuk memperangkap laron. Pokoknya kalau sudah memakai laron kami jadi sangat percaya diri bakal membawa pulang ikan seember penuh. Walau terkadang kenyataan berbicara lain.
Setelah umpan dan pancing siap, kami berjalan menyeberangi pekuburan. Ada kali, sungai kecil, yang mengalir sepanjang pinggiran pekuburan itu. Sungai tak bernama itu penuh dengan ikan lunjar dan bethik. Atau jika sebelumnya turun hujan deras, muncullah ikan kathing, sejenis ikan lundu tapi lebih kecil, yang bergerombol sepanjang aliran sungai. Yang paling sering kami dapat adalah ikan bethik. Ikan sebesar kotak korek api itu berwarna hitam kehijau-hijauan dan tahan hidup di darat untuk beberapa lama. Lunjar cenderung menyebalkan. Ikan kecil yang selalu berkelompok itu hanya mencemil-cemil umpan, tidak pernah benar-benar memakan. Perilaku yang sama juga ditunjukkan oleh ikan sepat. Memancing kathing adalah yang paling mudah. Ikan ini sangat rakus sehingga umpan sesedikit apapun pasti mereka sambar. Namun demikian, melepas ikan ini dari kail harus hati-hati. Terkena patil kathing, atau lele, adalah mimpi buruk setiap anak tukang mancing.
Kami menyusuri kali untuk sampai ke kedhung, lubuk tempat ikan-ikan berkumpul. Di bawah pohon lo yang rindang, kami berpencar untuk mencari tempat yang dianggap strategis. Ada beberapa aliran pemikiran yang berbeda dalam hal ini. Sebagian beranggapan bahwa frekuensi kecipak air di suatu tempat berbanding lurus dengan kandungan ikan tempat tersebut. Sebagian yang lain berkeras bahwa ikan paling suka bernaung dibawah tanaman air seperti keladi, eceng gondok, tapak dara, atau kangkung. Sementara itu, pendapat yang lain mengatakan bahwa ikan lebih banyak didapati ditempat-tempat yang dalam. Saya sendiri lebih menyenangi tempat yang teduh.
Saat memancing, saya lebih suka menggunakan kumbul alias pelampung, biasanya terbuat dari potongan sandal jepit, gabus, patahan ranting, atau benda-benda lain yang mengapung. Jadi saya bisa santai, melamun sambil memperhatikan pelampung. Jika pelampung bergerak-gerak, berarti umpan dimakan ikan. Sepupu-sepupu yang lain, terutama yang lebih tua, cenderung memancing tanpa pelampung, hanya menggunakan pemberat. Mereka mengandalkan jempol dan jari telunjuk untuk merasakan kedutan-kedutan ketika umpan mereka dimakan ikan. Cuma pake feeling. Dengan cara ini pula mereka bisa memancing ikan yang terdapat di dasar sungai seperti boso dan gabus.
Gabus adalah ikan yang paling bergengsi. Pertama karena jarang ditemui; kedua, karena biasanya berukuran besar. Saya pernah mendapatkan ikan gabus sebesar lengan. Perasaan kaget campur gembira yang saya rasakan waktu itu tak akan bisa dilupakan. Pokoknya seperti mendapatkan jackpot. Belum lagi pandangan kagum dan iri dari anak-anak lain.
Di ujung pekuburan sungai berbelok ke arah persawahan. Saya paling suka kalau kami memancing sampai ke sini. Desir angin di antara batang-batang padi adalah suara yang paling menenangkan. Semilirnya membuat terik matahari menjadi tidak terasa.
Di ujung persawahan, sungai itu menyempit dan arusnya sedikit lebih deras. Di sini hidup ikan-ikan yang lebih eksotis, terutama mereka yang gemar akan arus deras seperti tawes dan melem. Terus terang saya sudah tidak ingat lagi bentuk ikan melem. Di pasar-pasar mereka makin jarang dijumpai. Jangan-jangan sudah masuk golongan hewan langka.
Pada saat-saat tertentu, terutama sehabis hujan lebat, gundukan tanah yang memisahkan sungai itu dengan persawahan runtuh tergerus derasnya aliran air. Lokasi tempat melubernya air ke persawahan itu disebut sebagai bedahan—dari kata ‘bedah’, sobek. Berita tentang adanya bedahan biasanya menyebar lebih cepat dari aliran sungai dimaksud. Begitu hujan berhenti, bisa dipastikan tempat itu ramai dikunjungi anak-anak dengan joran pancingnya. Konon di situ banyak ikannya. Mungkin karena ikan-ikan sawah tertarik oleh aliran air dan berusaha masuk ke sungai. Entahlah. Yang jelas, begitu mendengar kata ‘bedahan’, saya secara naluriah langsung mencari joran pancing.
Naluri itu terbawa ketika saya sudah kuliah di Jogja. Pernah suatu saat ayah saya menelepon untuk mengabarkan bahwa sawah-sawah di Mertasinga digenangi air yang meluber dari sungai. Sebagai tambahan, kolam-kolam ikan yang ada di utara pekuburan juga terkena imbasnya. Hari itu juga saya pulang.
Kebetulan rumah sepupu saya di daerah Mertasinga terletak di depan kompleks pekuburan yang luas, sehingga sepupu-sepupu saya itu tidak pernah kekurangan stok bahan pembuat joran bertuah. Pembuatan joran itu pun menggunakan kaidah-kaidah tertentu. Misalnya, panjang bambu yang akan dijadikan joran harus diukur dengan kepalan tangan sambung menyambung sambil merapal mantra: tuk, beluk, panggang, pes. Diusahakan agar panjang bambu jatuh pada ‘panggang’ atau ‘pes’ sehingga nantinya mudah mendapat ikan. Konon.
Selain itu pakdhe saya juga pernah mengajarkan mantera berangkat memancing yang saya lupa bunyinya. Yang saya ingat, mantra itu diakhiri dengan menjejakkan kaki ke tanah sebanyak tiga kali. Beliau juga mengajarkan bahwa saat terbaik untu memancing adalah sehabis hujan atau saat mendung. Waktu saya agak gedhean sedikit, saya sempat membaca primbon yang dengan rinci menjabarkan saat, tempat, dan arah yang harus dituju agar mendapat hasil yang maksimal. Sekali lagi konon.
Kami biasanya menggunakan cacing tanah sebagai umpan karena hewan itulah yang paling mudah didapat. Cukup menggali tanah di kebun, terutama di dekat batang pisang yang sudah membusuk. Hewan-hewan malang itu kami kumpulkan di plastik bekas sabun B29. Terkadang kami juga menggunakan ulat pisang yang masih kecil, atau jika punya uang lebih kami membeli kroto, larva semut rangrang. Tapi umpan yang dipercaya paling ampuh adalah laron. Makanya setiap habis hujan, kami biasa menempatkan baskom berisi air di bawah lampu TL untuk memperangkap laron. Pokoknya kalau sudah memakai laron kami jadi sangat percaya diri bakal membawa pulang ikan seember penuh. Walau terkadang kenyataan berbicara lain.
Setelah umpan dan pancing siap, kami berjalan menyeberangi pekuburan. Ada kali, sungai kecil, yang mengalir sepanjang pinggiran pekuburan itu. Sungai tak bernama itu penuh dengan ikan lunjar dan bethik. Atau jika sebelumnya turun hujan deras, muncullah ikan kathing, sejenis ikan lundu tapi lebih kecil, yang bergerombol sepanjang aliran sungai. Yang paling sering kami dapat adalah ikan bethik. Ikan sebesar kotak korek api itu berwarna hitam kehijau-hijauan dan tahan hidup di darat untuk beberapa lama. Lunjar cenderung menyebalkan. Ikan kecil yang selalu berkelompok itu hanya mencemil-cemil umpan, tidak pernah benar-benar memakan. Perilaku yang sama juga ditunjukkan oleh ikan sepat. Memancing kathing adalah yang paling mudah. Ikan ini sangat rakus sehingga umpan sesedikit apapun pasti mereka sambar. Namun demikian, melepas ikan ini dari kail harus hati-hati. Terkena patil kathing, atau lele, adalah mimpi buruk setiap anak tukang mancing.
Kami menyusuri kali untuk sampai ke kedhung, lubuk tempat ikan-ikan berkumpul. Di bawah pohon lo yang rindang, kami berpencar untuk mencari tempat yang dianggap strategis. Ada beberapa aliran pemikiran yang berbeda dalam hal ini. Sebagian beranggapan bahwa frekuensi kecipak air di suatu tempat berbanding lurus dengan kandungan ikan tempat tersebut. Sebagian yang lain berkeras bahwa ikan paling suka bernaung dibawah tanaman air seperti keladi, eceng gondok, tapak dara, atau kangkung. Sementara itu, pendapat yang lain mengatakan bahwa ikan lebih banyak didapati ditempat-tempat yang dalam. Saya sendiri lebih menyenangi tempat yang teduh.
Saat memancing, saya lebih suka menggunakan kumbul alias pelampung, biasanya terbuat dari potongan sandal jepit, gabus, patahan ranting, atau benda-benda lain yang mengapung. Jadi saya bisa santai, melamun sambil memperhatikan pelampung. Jika pelampung bergerak-gerak, berarti umpan dimakan ikan. Sepupu-sepupu yang lain, terutama yang lebih tua, cenderung memancing tanpa pelampung, hanya menggunakan pemberat. Mereka mengandalkan jempol dan jari telunjuk untuk merasakan kedutan-kedutan ketika umpan mereka dimakan ikan. Cuma pake feeling. Dengan cara ini pula mereka bisa memancing ikan yang terdapat di dasar sungai seperti boso dan gabus.
Gabus adalah ikan yang paling bergengsi. Pertama karena jarang ditemui; kedua, karena biasanya berukuran besar. Saya pernah mendapatkan ikan gabus sebesar lengan. Perasaan kaget campur gembira yang saya rasakan waktu itu tak akan bisa dilupakan. Pokoknya seperti mendapatkan jackpot. Belum lagi pandangan kagum dan iri dari anak-anak lain.
Di ujung pekuburan sungai berbelok ke arah persawahan. Saya paling suka kalau kami memancing sampai ke sini. Desir angin di antara batang-batang padi adalah suara yang paling menenangkan. Semilirnya membuat terik matahari menjadi tidak terasa.
Di ujung persawahan, sungai itu menyempit dan arusnya sedikit lebih deras. Di sini hidup ikan-ikan yang lebih eksotis, terutama mereka yang gemar akan arus deras seperti tawes dan melem. Terus terang saya sudah tidak ingat lagi bentuk ikan melem. Di pasar-pasar mereka makin jarang dijumpai. Jangan-jangan sudah masuk golongan hewan langka.
Pada saat-saat tertentu, terutama sehabis hujan lebat, gundukan tanah yang memisahkan sungai itu dengan persawahan runtuh tergerus derasnya aliran air. Lokasi tempat melubernya air ke persawahan itu disebut sebagai bedahan—dari kata ‘bedah’, sobek. Berita tentang adanya bedahan biasanya menyebar lebih cepat dari aliran sungai dimaksud. Begitu hujan berhenti, bisa dipastikan tempat itu ramai dikunjungi anak-anak dengan joran pancingnya. Konon di situ banyak ikannya. Mungkin karena ikan-ikan sawah tertarik oleh aliran air dan berusaha masuk ke sungai. Entahlah. Yang jelas, begitu mendengar kata ‘bedahan’, saya secara naluriah langsung mencari joran pancing.
Naluri itu terbawa ketika saya sudah kuliah di Jogja. Pernah suatu saat ayah saya menelepon untuk mengabarkan bahwa sawah-sawah di Mertasinga digenangi air yang meluber dari sungai. Sebagai tambahan, kolam-kolam ikan yang ada di utara pekuburan juga terkena imbasnya. Hari itu juga saya pulang.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Late Winter Morning
The winter stretches out. Rain pours down like poetry that you recite incessantly. From my window I can see the wind and raindrops twirls into graceful pirouettes, spiralling and sweeping to the purring sound of rain beating down the roofs.
Good morning, my beautiful..
Good morning, my beautiful..
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Fruit Juice
The fruit juice had been sitting in the fridge for five days or so. I was afraid that it had gone bad so I asked my housemate to have a sniff. Being a medical student that she was, she frowned and said, “You smoke ten cigarettes a day and you’re worried about fruit juice?”
The Daredevil
Due to some unfinished business at the office, I missed the 17.05 train and had to be content with Patas Purwakarta of 17.26. The train was half an hour late, naturally, and upon its arrival I just knew that there’s no way I was going to get inside the train car. The closest entrance was barricaded with bodies packed so tight that it looked waterproof. Feeling rather adventurous, I scrambled with the rest of the passengers to the locomotive and secured myself a place on the deck, a narrow extended platform about a foot wide on both sides of the locomotive. Riding on the roof was out of the question. I’m a married man with a baby on the way, mind you.
I should have known better. The locomotive had to pull six train car, each weighing 20 tons at the very least, so it was understandable that the locomotive began to rock like Inul’s rear-end, especially when it switched track. Instinctively my grip on the railing above my head tightened and I began cursing my idiocy for climbing on this thing, thinking that it was a safe way to travel.
Soon my head became a playground for morbid thoughts. What if I fell? Surely, at 80 km/h some bones were due to be broken. What if I fell to the other track and got run over by other incoming train, that huge Argobromo-thing? People would collect my mangled carcass with a sack and sent it to Dr. Cipto hospital for autopsy. My pregnant wife would have to identify what was left of my body. Darn! I watched too much Patroli.
But then this guy popped out of nowhere. He wore a dark PT KAI uniform, a haggard face, unkempt hair, and grease mark. One hand gripping the railing and one foot barely stepping on the deck, he held out his free hand to me and said, Ticket!. This was totally unexpected. I could understand if a conductor squeezed through a packed train car to check for tickets, but out here in the running locomotive? You’ve got to be kidding me! I gave him my ticket. He expertly tore it with one hand and gave it back to me. The man next to me was apparently ticket-less and gave the guy 1000 rupiahs. Then he moved on, inching forward and stepping on whatever room the passengers left him as the locomotive was packed with at least twenty passengers on each side.
Apparently he started from the right cabin, worked his way to the front, god knows how he crossed to the left side because there was no deck at the front of the locomotive. All this was going on while the train travelled at a considerable speed and there were no safety net or rope. This guy made Fear Factors looked like kindergarten picnic.
When the guy was gone, the man next to me leaned closer and commented that that guy collected around thirty thousand rupiahs from illegal passengers, on locomotives alone. What do you mean ‘on the locomotive alone’?, I asked. The man nudged behind me. I looked back and was truly amazed. The demented daredevil was collecting ticket, and money, on the roof!
I should have known better. The locomotive had to pull six train car, each weighing 20 tons at the very least, so it was understandable that the locomotive began to rock like Inul’s rear-end, especially when it switched track. Instinctively my grip on the railing above my head tightened and I began cursing my idiocy for climbing on this thing, thinking that it was a safe way to travel.
Soon my head became a playground for morbid thoughts. What if I fell? Surely, at 80 km/h some bones were due to be broken. What if I fell to the other track and got run over by other incoming train, that huge Argobromo-thing? People would collect my mangled carcass with a sack and sent it to Dr. Cipto hospital for autopsy. My pregnant wife would have to identify what was left of my body. Darn! I watched too much Patroli.
But then this guy popped out of nowhere. He wore a dark PT KAI uniform, a haggard face, unkempt hair, and grease mark. One hand gripping the railing and one foot barely stepping on the deck, he held out his free hand to me and said, Ticket!. This was totally unexpected. I could understand if a conductor squeezed through a packed train car to check for tickets, but out here in the running locomotive? You’ve got to be kidding me! I gave him my ticket. He expertly tore it with one hand and gave it back to me. The man next to me was apparently ticket-less and gave the guy 1000 rupiahs. Then he moved on, inching forward and stepping on whatever room the passengers left him as the locomotive was packed with at least twenty passengers on each side.
Apparently he started from the right cabin, worked his way to the front, god knows how he crossed to the left side because there was no deck at the front of the locomotive. All this was going on while the train travelled at a considerable speed and there were no safety net or rope. This guy made Fear Factors looked like kindergarten picnic.
When the guy was gone, the man next to me leaned closer and commented that that guy collected around thirty thousand rupiahs from illegal passengers, on locomotives alone. What do you mean ‘on the locomotive alone’?, I asked. The man nudged behind me. I looked back and was truly amazed. The demented daredevil was collecting ticket, and money, on the roof!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
The Turtledoves in the Backyard
It was one of those warm and sunny afternoons. Thinking that Bass and Stogdill’s Handbook of Leadership would be less painful if accompanied by a cigarette, I picked up a lawn chair and stepped out to the backyard. It was working beautifully. The nicotine and warm sun did the inconceivable. The gobbledygook that was management began to reveal itself. I finally managed to get a glimpse of what the two academicians were desperately trying to say. Sadly, it was not for long.
The sound was familiar. Definitely out of place, but very familiar. It echoed in the long hollow lane of my memory. Soothing and calm, it was the prominent sound of humid dry season afternoons in the jati hills of Gunung Kidul where I spent two months of rural internship programs. And inevitably, my mind drifted slowly there, amidst the rustling of dead leaves and the smell of alang-alang.
With a long drag, the flashes of memory streamed in. The hustle and bustle Munggi market on market day. The long, arduous ride to Baron beach. The earth-floored house I stayed in. And the fact that the bed was so small that we slept in turns. The bruised hands from skinning endless streams of cassava during gaplek season. The smell of roasted grasshopper. Sitting on a pandan mat while watching jathilan rehearsals under petromaks light. The red rice warung near Semanu bridge—fabulous food, tear-jerking price. The festivity of harvest celebration. The various committee meeting with endless home-ground coffee, steamed cassava, and sand-roasted peanuts. Oh my, was it only eight years ago?
In any case, so long, Professor Bass! Goodbye, Dr. Stogdill!
Monday, July 10, 2006
Much Ado About Smoking
They installed a smoke detector in my room. It means I can no longer consume nicotine in the privacy and comfort of my own room. To tell you the truth, I’m not supposed to do that in the first place. Oh well, the back yard it is from now on.
Actually, I’m not new to outdoor smoking. When I still lived in the Bekasi house under the regime of Lady Widyasmoro, indoor smoking was abhorred. The perpetrator of such degenerate conduct would be treated with cold shoulder and deprived of carnal joy for a certain period of time. None the less, I used to tiptoe out of the bedroom when the lady was fast asleep, opened the front door to allow air circulation, and lit a cigarette. In most cases I managed to puff myself halfway down the cigarette stick before I heard the familiar are-you-smoking-in-the-living-room-Dear?. And out I went.
In retrospect, smoking outside one’s house in Bekasi is not that bad. It was mostly warm and humid. I could go out in my undershirt and sarong. Any evening breeze would be most welcome. Yes, there were the mosquitoes, but a decent insect repellent should do the trick. I even went as far as smoking while swinging my racket-like electric mosquito trap. The crackling sound of electrocuted mosquitoes was music to my ears.
Now, in this part of the world they call Newcastle, things are different. Going out to smoke in undershirt and sarong, especially after midnight, is considered as an act of lunacy. Not only on account of the fact that the temperature during the winter is hovering around zero, but also of the unforgiving breeze that will penetrate your sarong and threaten to freeze your most valuable asset. So, in addition to the outfit in question, I have to put on thermal undergarment, track pants, socks, gloves, hooded fleece jerseys, and balaclava. All in the name of nicotine addiction.
Actually, I’m not new to outdoor smoking. When I still lived in the Bekasi house under the regime of Lady Widyasmoro, indoor smoking was abhorred. The perpetrator of such degenerate conduct would be treated with cold shoulder and deprived of carnal joy for a certain period of time. None the less, I used to tiptoe out of the bedroom when the lady was fast asleep, opened the front door to allow air circulation, and lit a cigarette. In most cases I managed to puff myself halfway down the cigarette stick before I heard the familiar are-you-smoking-in-the-living-room-Dear?. And out I went.
In retrospect, smoking outside one’s house in Bekasi is not that bad. It was mostly warm and humid. I could go out in my undershirt and sarong. Any evening breeze would be most welcome. Yes, there were the mosquitoes, but a decent insect repellent should do the trick. I even went as far as smoking while swinging my racket-like electric mosquito trap. The crackling sound of electrocuted mosquitoes was music to my ears.
Now, in this part of the world they call Newcastle, things are different. Going out to smoke in undershirt and sarong, especially after midnight, is considered as an act of lunacy. Not only on account of the fact that the temperature during the winter is hovering around zero, but also of the unforgiving breeze that will penetrate your sarong and threaten to freeze your most valuable asset. So, in addition to the outfit in question, I have to put on thermal undergarment, track pants, socks, gloves, hooded fleece jerseys, and balaclava. All in the name of nicotine addiction.
Monday, May 08, 2006
You
You. You effortlessly rattled my belief. Purged my sins. Deprived me of joy. Kept me off cold. Incinerate me. Ward off my nightmares. Called out my name. Fixed me breakfast. Read me stories. Smothered me. Ripped my heart out. Toyed with my curiosity. Writhed under me. Whispered in my ears. Threw me off balance. Challenged my sanity. Bit me. Caught me off guard. Redefined my happiness. Sever my vein. Kept me waiting. Exceeded my expectation. Teased me. Squeezed me. Hung me dry. Savoured me compeletely. Slept in my lap. Daydreamed with me. Kept me balanced. Render me senseless. Kept me yearning. Always longing.
How do you take your coffee, my sweet?
How do you take your coffee, my sweet?
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Stepping Into The Void
It’s like for one moment you have this ground underneath your feet and the next moment it’s just not there. Wave after wave of unidentified feelings overwhelm and sweep you by, sending you rolling down the emotional turbulence.
It’s like when you miscalculate your jump to a swimming pool. The chattering noise of the rest of the world is suddenly replaced by the gurgling of breaking water. Amidst the swirling bubbles you can see the blue tiles of the bottom. For a moment there you are lost. You don’t know whether you should stay submerged and gulp water or break to the surface and inhale air.
This perplexity is an uncharted territory to you. And you start having doubt of what happened. What were cherished moments become hazy blurs of speeding cars in the freeway. You question what was said, what you heard, what you felt, what you remembered, what sent you to cloud nine, and what brought you crashing down.
You can’t put a finger to what it was. What made you stay wide awake long after farewells had been exchanged. What got you up early in the mornings after. What made you smile all the way to the office—and, in most cases, throughout the day. What made you jump at the sound of alert tone. Somehow they are all receding into the background.
Then you look at the bruises and cuts. Whatever it was, it had happened. It had happened to you.
Friday, April 14, 2006
The Picture and the Nail*
It's not easy. It's never easy. Taking the picture off your wall. The picture you are used to. The first thing you see when you walk in. The last thing you see when you close the door.
And you will remember how confused you were the first time you had it in your hands. Where should you put it? Above the fireplace, so that even when the fire was out you could still seek warmth by looking at it? Or by the window? Or in the hallway? And then naturally you just took a hammer and a nail. And a few cheerful poundings later later it's there. For you to see, look, gaze, admire, adore, and take comfort in.
Little did you realize that when the time comes to take it off the wall, you will also have to pull the nail out. You just can't use it to hang another picture. And the nail would leave a bigger hole. And your wall will never be the same again.
It's not easy. It's never easy. But it's not impossible.
* a credit to marianne for the inspiration
And you will remember how confused you were the first time you had it in your hands. Where should you put it? Above the fireplace, so that even when the fire was out you could still seek warmth by looking at it? Or by the window? Or in the hallway? And then naturally you just took a hammer and a nail. And a few cheerful poundings later later it's there. For you to see, look, gaze, admire, adore, and take comfort in.
Little did you realize that when the time comes to take it off the wall, you will also have to pull the nail out. You just can't use it to hang another picture. And the nail would leave a bigger hole. And your wall will never be the same again.
It's not easy. It's never easy. But it's not impossible.
* a credit to marianne for the inspiration
Friday, March 24, 2006
The Text
delete message: yes/no
a moment of hesitation.
if I press yes, will it be gone for ever?
what a foolish thought
the one word she sent to my mobile phone,
it travelled much farther than that
to stay
a moment of hesitation.
if I press yes, will it be gone for ever?
what a foolish thought
the one word she sent to my mobile phone,
it travelled much farther than that
to stay
Pasar Saliwangi
Park your bike just outside the market. You will meet a man who single-handedly runs the small parking lot with high efficiency. Later when you want to leave, just give him your keys. He will ask you which direction you want to go to and proceed to get your bike out and arrange it accordingly.
Next to the parking lot is the banana place. All kinds of bananas, you name it. They sell it by the stem. Last time I went there, I bought a stem of arm-long, unripened byar banana for Rp. 7000,-. They make excellent banana chips.
Across from the banana place is where the retailers of Tasikmalayan garment industry operate. They loudly remind your of your love for your loved ones and insist that to prove your love, you must buy bras, child clothing, jeans, blouses, overalls, shorts, see-through lingerie, or whatever it is they are selling.
Grocery shops with sachets of household products dangling like colorful curtains dominate the northern side of the market while greengrocers colonize the street in front of them. On the pavement, the greengrocers spread out specimens of local vegetables, most of which are nonentities in English vocabulary. Everything from kangkung to ganyong. From godhong so to gadung. They sometimes even have pondoh, the softer part of coconut stalk. Freshly uprooted ground peanuts, cassavas, and sweet potatoes are among the regulars.
Locate the northern entrance. It should be easy as it lies next to the only VCD vendor in the market. That’s where the loud langgam Banyumasan comes from. Right on the entrance you will find a woman selling pelas yuyu; finely ground freshwater crab mixed with lightly spiced grated coconut and steamed in small banana leaves wrappings. A heavenly delicacy that can be brought down to earth in exchange for Rp. 1,000,++ a dozen. Yes, a dozen.
Next to her is the buntil seller. Another traditional masterpiece consisting of a mixture of spiced grated coconut and dried teri, wrapped in boiled cassava, papaya, or talas leaves. Talas leaf-buntil is getting rare this days. The soft texture of talas leaf beats cassava and the slightly bitter papaya leaf by a mile.These ball-like delicacies are then served with spicy coconut milk sauce that is eye-catchingly yellow-reddish in color. Rp. 500,++ each. Rp. 1,000,++ for three pieces. Tax free.
Walk further and you will enter the realm of traditional cakes and sweets sold in tampahs, flat circular tray made from plaited bamboo. Most are cassava based and then topped by white, freshly shred coconuts; cethil, cenil, inthil, growol, and gathot. Cethil is colorful and chewy bite-sized sweet made from tapioca flour, I think. Cenil is made from the same base and share the same chracteristic but the color is almost always black. The coloring comes from the ash of paddy stalk. Don’t frown, it’s good. Inthil is brownish and grainy. Growol and gathot have become a rarity. Both are made from roughly chopped gaplek, that is sun-dried cassava for those of you who are not familiar, and have distinctive sweetish taste. Sometimes you can find oyek here. I don’t know what it is made from, but elder citizens remember it lovingly as substitute of rice in times of famine. Other sweets and cakes with national reputation like cucur, apem, lopis, klepon, and gandos are also available. For Rp. 500,++ they will quickly fix you any of those sweets. Wrapped in banana leaves, as always.
As for you pecel-lovers, you’ve just died and gone to pecel heaven. Banyumasan pecel, especially the one sold in Stasiun Kroya or in small market places such as this, prides itself for having the most variety of vegetables in Javanese culinary landscape. Forget those pathetic Jogjanese pecels, including SGPC Bu Wiryo, that only use spinach, carrot stick, cabbage, and bean sprout. A full-fledged Banyumasan pecel usually consits of kangkung, spinach, cassava leaf, godhong so, longbean, half-ripe papaya sticks, papaya leaf (optional), curing, klandingan seed, kecipir, kembang turi, melinjo stem, bean sprout, and the signature item, kecombrang. Aside from providing color in a mainly green setting, the red petals of kecombrang brings about a distinctive tangy aroma that differentiate this pecel from those of other regions. The concoction is then liberally topped by hot-sweet, but mainly hot, peanut dressing. I’m suffering from hunger pangs just writing this.
Still in the same aisle, you can find tempe (fermented soybean cake) and its variants; mendoan, ranjem, and dages. Unlike their Jakartan brethren, the local tempe is not sold in slabs. It is wrapped individually in banana leaves in triangle or rectangular shape. In some areas like Gandrungmangu or Kawunganten, you can even find tempe wrapped in jati leaf. This, I suspect, not only adds a natural edge to it, but also greatly enhances the taste, as opposed to plastic wrapping.
Mendoan is a larger but much thinner kind of tempe. It’s about the size of a notebook. Due to its ubiquitous nature, mendoan has retained iconic status in Banyumasan cuisine, which is rather strange because in contrast to tempe, mendoan is not versatile. The only way I know of preparing mendoan is by dipping it in batter and then frying it half done. Avid practitioners of mendoan-eating insist that instead of being crispy, a proper fried mendoan should be flexible enough to be rolled like newspaper before being consumed.
While tempe and mendoan are made from peeled soybean, ranjem and dages are made from leftover of food processing industy. Ranjem, known as gembus in many other areas, is made from ampas tahu, leftover from tofu-making. The pressed-liquidless soybean is fermented with god-knows-what fungus into light greyish cakes. Dages, on the other hand, is made from different leftover.
Despite the fact that I’m a big dages fan since childhood, I haven’t been able to shed light into dages-making until recently. An aged dages-seller near my place confided that dages is in fact made from bungkil kelapa. When they made coconut oil in the old days, the grated coconut is fermented and then pressed to produce the base oil. The leftover of the pressing process is what we called bungkil. That explains the grittiness and coarse texture when you sink your teeth into a slab of dages. So, dages is the close cousin of the forbidden tempe bongkrek, another variant of tempe made from the same material but different fermenting agent. Both dages and ranjem, especially dages, are considered unfit for serving houseguests due to their cheapness. A slab of ranjem, roughly the size of four packs of cigarettes goes for Rp. 300,++, while dages goes for even less. Their severe lack of nutrition also earns them the status of ‘food that makes you stupid’. Mothers used to say to their children: Don’t eat too much dages, you will be stupid. As for me, it’s stupid if you don’t eat enough of dages. Stir-fried dages with cheyenne chili-pepper, peeled pete, and shrimp is simply to die for. Not to mention the thinly-sliced, batter-coated dages deep-fried in low fire. It’s like nothing you ever tasted before. Better than the much more pricey keripik paru. The texture, the taste. Oh, my.
Turn left at the end of the aisle and brace your self for the best aquatic lives Cilacapian waters has to offer.There is a boat landing nearby so most of the marine lives presented are still fresh. Live, prancing shrimps. Saltwater crabs with their claws secured by bamboo-peel. The entire parade of oysters and other mollusks. Squids of various sizes. Oddly enough the largest of squids, the sotong, is priced at only Rp. 6,000,++ a kilo, while the smaller egg-squid can reach up to Rp.12,000,++. The predominant fish being sold is blanak, layur, tengiri, tongkol, dawah, and kerapu depending on the season, all ranging from Rp. 9,000,++ to Rp. 15,000,++ a kilo, also depending on the season. There are also the yellow fin and other shallow water fish of which I know nothing about. You can get lembutan at Rp. 5,000,++ a kilo. Lembutan is an assortment of small fish not larger than your index finger. The best way to serve this particular fish is to have it deep fried in low fire to perfect crispiness. Lunjar is only available during rainy season. It’s of similar size with lembutan but live in rivers and ricefields.
Next to row you will find the processed fish section. Diverse range of salted fish. From the tiny teri, to large whole jambal. My favorite in this section is the gapitan. Basically gapitan is fish, any fish, clamped by a bamboo stick and then briefly grilled in charcoal fire. The grilling is so brief that although the exterior is dry, gapitan meat is still juicy inside. The charcoal also adds the smoky scent the gapitan is known for. The most commonly found gapitan is made of cuts from larges fish like cucut or stingray that would be unappealing should they be sold whole. Sometimes there also gapitan made from medium sized whole fish, usually tongkol. The sight of neatly stacked gapitan always pleases the eye. And the taste pampers the soul.
My god, I’m hungry.
Next to the parking lot is the banana place. All kinds of bananas, you name it. They sell it by the stem. Last time I went there, I bought a stem of arm-long, unripened byar banana for Rp. 7000,-. They make excellent banana chips.
Across from the banana place is where the retailers of Tasikmalayan garment industry operate. They loudly remind your of your love for your loved ones and insist that to prove your love, you must buy bras, child clothing, jeans, blouses, overalls, shorts, see-through lingerie, or whatever it is they are selling.
Grocery shops with sachets of household products dangling like colorful curtains dominate the northern side of the market while greengrocers colonize the street in front of them. On the pavement, the greengrocers spread out specimens of local vegetables, most of which are nonentities in English vocabulary. Everything from kangkung to ganyong. From godhong so to gadung. They sometimes even have pondoh, the softer part of coconut stalk. Freshly uprooted ground peanuts, cassavas, and sweet potatoes are among the regulars.
Locate the northern entrance. It should be easy as it lies next to the only VCD vendor in the market. That’s where the loud langgam Banyumasan comes from. Right on the entrance you will find a woman selling pelas yuyu; finely ground freshwater crab mixed with lightly spiced grated coconut and steamed in small banana leaves wrappings. A heavenly delicacy that can be brought down to earth in exchange for Rp. 1,000,++ a dozen. Yes, a dozen.
Next to her is the buntil seller. Another traditional masterpiece consisting of a mixture of spiced grated coconut and dried teri, wrapped in boiled cassava, papaya, or talas leaves. Talas leaf-buntil is getting rare this days. The soft texture of talas leaf beats cassava and the slightly bitter papaya leaf by a mile.These ball-like delicacies are then served with spicy coconut milk sauce that is eye-catchingly yellow-reddish in color. Rp. 500,++ each. Rp. 1,000,++ for three pieces. Tax free.
Walk further and you will enter the realm of traditional cakes and sweets sold in tampahs, flat circular tray made from plaited bamboo. Most are cassava based and then topped by white, freshly shred coconuts; cethil, cenil, inthil, growol, and gathot. Cethil is colorful and chewy bite-sized sweet made from tapioca flour, I think. Cenil is made from the same base and share the same chracteristic but the color is almost always black. The coloring comes from the ash of paddy stalk. Don’t frown, it’s good. Inthil is brownish and grainy. Growol and gathot have become a rarity. Both are made from roughly chopped gaplek, that is sun-dried cassava for those of you who are not familiar, and have distinctive sweetish taste. Sometimes you can find oyek here. I don’t know what it is made from, but elder citizens remember it lovingly as substitute of rice in times of famine. Other sweets and cakes with national reputation like cucur, apem, lopis, klepon, and gandos are also available. For Rp. 500,++ they will quickly fix you any of those sweets. Wrapped in banana leaves, as always.
As for you pecel-lovers, you’ve just died and gone to pecel heaven. Banyumasan pecel, especially the one sold in Stasiun Kroya or in small market places such as this, prides itself for having the most variety of vegetables in Javanese culinary landscape. Forget those pathetic Jogjanese pecels, including SGPC Bu Wiryo, that only use spinach, carrot stick, cabbage, and bean sprout. A full-fledged Banyumasan pecel usually consits of kangkung, spinach, cassava leaf, godhong so, longbean, half-ripe papaya sticks, papaya leaf (optional), curing, klandingan seed, kecipir, kembang turi, melinjo stem, bean sprout, and the signature item, kecombrang. Aside from providing color in a mainly green setting, the red petals of kecombrang brings about a distinctive tangy aroma that differentiate this pecel from those of other regions. The concoction is then liberally topped by hot-sweet, but mainly hot, peanut dressing. I’m suffering from hunger pangs just writing this.
Still in the same aisle, you can find tempe (fermented soybean cake) and its variants; mendoan, ranjem, and dages. Unlike their Jakartan brethren, the local tempe is not sold in slabs. It is wrapped individually in banana leaves in triangle or rectangular shape. In some areas like Gandrungmangu or Kawunganten, you can even find tempe wrapped in jati leaf. This, I suspect, not only adds a natural edge to it, but also greatly enhances the taste, as opposed to plastic wrapping.
Mendoan is a larger but much thinner kind of tempe. It’s about the size of a notebook. Due to its ubiquitous nature, mendoan has retained iconic status in Banyumasan cuisine, which is rather strange because in contrast to tempe, mendoan is not versatile. The only way I know of preparing mendoan is by dipping it in batter and then frying it half done. Avid practitioners of mendoan-eating insist that instead of being crispy, a proper fried mendoan should be flexible enough to be rolled like newspaper before being consumed.
While tempe and mendoan are made from peeled soybean, ranjem and dages are made from leftover of food processing industy. Ranjem, known as gembus in many other areas, is made from ampas tahu, leftover from tofu-making. The pressed-liquidless soybean is fermented with god-knows-what fungus into light greyish cakes. Dages, on the other hand, is made from different leftover.
Despite the fact that I’m a big dages fan since childhood, I haven’t been able to shed light into dages-making until recently. An aged dages-seller near my place confided that dages is in fact made from bungkil kelapa. When they made coconut oil in the old days, the grated coconut is fermented and then pressed to produce the base oil. The leftover of the pressing process is what we called bungkil. That explains the grittiness and coarse texture when you sink your teeth into a slab of dages. So, dages is the close cousin of the forbidden tempe bongkrek, another variant of tempe made from the same material but different fermenting agent. Both dages and ranjem, especially dages, are considered unfit for serving houseguests due to their cheapness. A slab of ranjem, roughly the size of four packs of cigarettes goes for Rp. 300,++, while dages goes for even less. Their severe lack of nutrition also earns them the status of ‘food that makes you stupid’. Mothers used to say to their children: Don’t eat too much dages, you will be stupid. As for me, it’s stupid if you don’t eat enough of dages. Stir-fried dages with cheyenne chili-pepper, peeled pete, and shrimp is simply to die for. Not to mention the thinly-sliced, batter-coated dages deep-fried in low fire. It’s like nothing you ever tasted before. Better than the much more pricey keripik paru. The texture, the taste. Oh, my.
Turn left at the end of the aisle and brace your self for the best aquatic lives Cilacapian waters has to offer.There is a boat landing nearby so most of the marine lives presented are still fresh. Live, prancing shrimps. Saltwater crabs with their claws secured by bamboo-peel. The entire parade of oysters and other mollusks. Squids of various sizes. Oddly enough the largest of squids, the sotong, is priced at only Rp. 6,000,++ a kilo, while the smaller egg-squid can reach up to Rp.12,000,++. The predominant fish being sold is blanak, layur, tengiri, tongkol, dawah, and kerapu depending on the season, all ranging from Rp. 9,000,++ to Rp. 15,000,++ a kilo, also depending on the season. There are also the yellow fin and other shallow water fish of which I know nothing about. You can get lembutan at Rp. 5,000,++ a kilo. Lembutan is an assortment of small fish not larger than your index finger. The best way to serve this particular fish is to have it deep fried in low fire to perfect crispiness. Lunjar is only available during rainy season. It’s of similar size with lembutan but live in rivers and ricefields.
Next to row you will find the processed fish section. Diverse range of salted fish. From the tiny teri, to large whole jambal. My favorite in this section is the gapitan. Basically gapitan is fish, any fish, clamped by a bamboo stick and then briefly grilled in charcoal fire. The grilling is so brief that although the exterior is dry, gapitan meat is still juicy inside. The charcoal also adds the smoky scent the gapitan is known for. The most commonly found gapitan is made of cuts from larges fish like cucut or stingray that would be unappealing should they be sold whole. Sometimes there also gapitan made from medium sized whole fish, usually tongkol. The sight of neatly stacked gapitan always pleases the eye. And the taste pampers the soul.
My god, I’m hungry.
Ariane Hanifa Widyasmoro
Saya tidak bisa lagi berkata-kata. Memandangi si kecil yang terbaring di boks-nya dalam balutan bedhong melenyapkan seluruh kemampuan saya untuk berartikulasi. Dalam diam saya menikmati kecamuk nuansa yang hanya datang sekali.
Selamat datang di dunia, nak. Dunia yang penuh warna indah dan gelak tawa. Dunia yang kelam dan sakit. Kelak kau akan menjelajah kedua sisinya. Aku dan ibumu akan mengajarkan apa yang kami tahu. Tapi keputusan tetap ada di tanganmu. Dan jika kelak kita saling menyakiti, ingatkan kami akan saat ini.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Tong Setan
Ada pasar malam di lapangan dekat rumah sakit tempat istri saya biasa memeriksakan kandungan. Jadi semalam setelah diceramahi panjang lebar, tinggi dan dalam, tentang pentingnya minum susu bagi ibu hamil, kami iseng-iseng mampir.
Baru beberapa menit, istri saya sudah menyeret saya ke arah penjual arum manis, itu lho, yang bahasa Inggrisnya 'cotton candy'. Terus terang, saya tidak terlalu suka makanan yang mayoritas berwarna pink itu karena diantara semua makanan yang pernah diciptakan manusia, penampilan arum manis adalah yang paling menipu. Lha bagaimana tidak, wujudnya yang sebesar bantal itu akan kempes tak lama setelah plastiknya dibuka dan berubah menjadi sesuatu yang manis, lengket, dan sama sekali tidak mengenyangkan. Belum lagi higinitas dan legalitas zat pewarna yang dipakai. Tapi hal-hal tersebut tampaknya bukan menjadi halangan bagi istri saya, dan sebelum saya memahami sepenuhnya apa yang terjadi, ia sudah memegang sebuah arum manis ukuran besar sambil memandang saya dengan senyum penuh kemenangan.
Pasar malam itu sendiri tidak terlalu besar. Di dekat jalan masuk banyak permainan yang aneh-aneh. Satu stand menawarkan sirup, rokok, dan sabun mandi bagi siapapun yang berhasil membuat botol teh botol berdiri dengan bantuan gelang plastik yang diikatkan ke sejenis joran pancing. Stand yang lain menawarkan alat-alat rumahtangga bagi yang berhasil memasukkan bola pingpong ke deretan gelas. Belum lagi catur tiga langkah yang pasti akan membuat Gary Kasparov geleng-geleng kepala karena dalam satu papan bisa terdapat lima menteri, enam bidak, dan empat benteng. Bayar seribu jalan tiga langkah. Hitam mati, bawa pulang dua bungkus rokok. Remis menang bandar. Buka kunci duapuluhlima ribu rupiah.
Di ujung lapangan ada stand rumah hantu dari tripleks bergambarkan berjenis-jenis hantu yang beberapa diantaranya pernah menjadi atraksi utama di mimpi buruk saya semasa kecil. Sampai kapanpun saya tidak akan masuk ke tempat terkutuk itu. Aneh juga kalo dipikir bahwa orang bersedia membayar untuk ditakut-takuti oleh hantu yang bahkan bukan hantu betulan. Lebih baik nongkrong di kuburan, gratis.
Di samping rumah hantu ada stand komidi putar yang dipenuhi oleh anak-anak yang merengek-rengek pada orang tuanya minta dibelikan tiket masuk. Di sebelahnya ada stand kincir air yang memutar lagu dangdut kencang-kencang, bersaing dengan stand-stand lain. Terakhir kali saya naik kincir air adalah waktu kuliah dulu di Sekaten, alun-alun utara Jogja. Istri saya, waktu itu masih pacar, ketakutan setengah mati karena merasa stand itu bisa roboh sewaktu-waktu dan alih-alih bersimpati, saya tidak bisa menahan tawa. Dan selama dua hari setelahnya ia tak mau menanggapi bujukan saya.
Bau rumput lapangan bercampur dengan wangi berondong jagung dan asap generator. Tukang mainan parasut melemparkan dagangannya ke udara. Dengan payung terkembang, tentara kayu mendarat perlahan di antara gelembung-gelembung sabun yang ditiup penjualnya. Nah, di antara semua itu, hal yang paling menarik perhatian saya adalah stand yang ada di paling ujung.
Bayangkan sebuah ember kayu yang tingginya sekitar enam meter. Nah, stand yang saya maksud kira-kira bentuknya seperti itu. Dari dalam terdengar bunyi raungan motor yang jauh dari merdu. Si announcer mengiklankan stand itu sebagai 'Tong Setan', walaupun saya tidak yakin letak setannya ada di sebelah mana, dan mengatakan sesuatu tentang 'menentang maut'. Entah mengapa saya jadi tertarik, dan dengan diiring pandangan protes dari istri saya, saya bejalan ke arah loket.
Begitulah, setelah membeli tiket, kami naik ke panggung melingkar di bibir ember raksasa itu. Untuk sampai ke atas kami harus naik tangga spiral yang terus terang kondisinya agak memprihatinkan. Namun untunglah tangga besi itu masih sanggup menahan berat badan saya yang naik 15 kilo sejak saya pindah ke Jakarta.
Di atas sudah menunggu beberapa orang. Karena semua melongok ke dasar tong, saya juga tertarik untuk melakukan hal yang sama. Nun di bawah sana ada sebuah motor butut yang sedang di tune-in oleh seorang pemuda yang saya asumsikan sebagai penunggangnya, penghibur kami malam itu. Motornya benar-benar butut dan pretelan, tinggal mesin, kerangka dan roda. Pokoknya kalau di jalan raya pasti sudah menjadi makanan empuk polantas.
Kayu-kayu yang membentuk tong raksasa itu terlihat sudah lapuk dan berhiaskan noda oli di sana-sini. Tidak ada alat pengaman sama sekali, bahkan sekedar helm pelindung kepala. Namun semua itu tampaknya tidak mengganggu si pengendara. Ia berputar-putar di dasar tong melakukan pemanasan. Dan pertunjukan pun dimulai. Sang pengendara motor yang gagah berani itu berputar-putar di dinding tong menentang gravitasi bumi. Memanfaatkan gaya sentrifugal, atau sentripetal, saya lupa yang mana. Setelah beberapa saat dia memandang kami sambil bersedekap. Anehnya gasnya tidak mengendur. Sesekali ia naik sampai ke bibir tong dan dengan kemahiran yang luar biasa kembali menukik ke dasar tong. Sedikit salah perhitungan pasti ia sudah terbang ke luar tong dan menciptakan pertunjukan yang selama ini hanya saya tonton dari Word's Amazing Video. Istri saya hanya melongok sedikit ke dalam tong, dan dengan bijak segera menjauh. Ia lebih tertarik untuk tenggelam ke dunia arum manisnya.
Salah seorang dari penonton, mungkin teman si pengendara, melambaikan selembar uang ribuan, memancing kami untuk melakukan hal yang sama. Uang itu segera disambar dengan kecekatan yang luarbiasa. Tak cukup dengan tangan, si teman kemudian menggigit lembaran uang itu dan menyodorkan wajahnya ke bibir tong. Dengan teknik yang sempurna uang itu berpindah ke tangan. Beberapa orang penonton melakukan hal yang sama. Tak ingin ketinggalan, dengan jantung berdegup, saya merogoh kantong dan melambaikan selembar ribuan.
Detak jantung saya tambah kencang ketika si pengendara melihat uang yang saya lambaikan dan mulai mengincar dari dasar tong. Semuanya terjadi begitu cepat. Dalam sekejap uang itu hilang dari tangan saya seiring dengan raungan motor dan bau asap knalpot. Motor butut tanpa spion dan lampu apapun itu berkelebat hanya beberapa senti dari wajah saya. Seandainya si pengendara hilang konsentrasi, saya pasti akan membutuhkan beberapa jahitan, atau mungkin gips penyangga leher. Benar-benar bentuk hiburan yang aneh. Sama seperti orang-orang konyol di Spanyol yang dengan sukarela menyediakan diri untuk dikejar banteng. Di dalam hati saya menyimpulkan bahwa jika suatu saat memang harus nyawer, saya lebih suka melakukannya kepada penyanyi organ tunggal atau penari tayub.
Setelah hampir seperempat jam, si pengendara melambaikan tangan menandakan bahwa pertunjukan telah usai. Dengan lembaran-lembaran uang seribuan yang bertebaran di dasar tong, tampaknya ia cukup senang. Dan saya pun lega karena semua orang selamat dari cedera. Saya menengok ke belakang dan mendapati istri saya sedang tersenyum. "Puas?", tanyanya singkat. Saya tidak tahu harus menjawab apa.
Baru beberapa menit, istri saya sudah menyeret saya ke arah penjual arum manis, itu lho, yang bahasa Inggrisnya 'cotton candy'. Terus terang, saya tidak terlalu suka makanan yang mayoritas berwarna pink itu karena diantara semua makanan yang pernah diciptakan manusia, penampilan arum manis adalah yang paling menipu. Lha bagaimana tidak, wujudnya yang sebesar bantal itu akan kempes tak lama setelah plastiknya dibuka dan berubah menjadi sesuatu yang manis, lengket, dan sama sekali tidak mengenyangkan. Belum lagi higinitas dan legalitas zat pewarna yang dipakai. Tapi hal-hal tersebut tampaknya bukan menjadi halangan bagi istri saya, dan sebelum saya memahami sepenuhnya apa yang terjadi, ia sudah memegang sebuah arum manis ukuran besar sambil memandang saya dengan senyum penuh kemenangan.
Pasar malam itu sendiri tidak terlalu besar. Di dekat jalan masuk banyak permainan yang aneh-aneh. Satu stand menawarkan sirup, rokok, dan sabun mandi bagi siapapun yang berhasil membuat botol teh botol berdiri dengan bantuan gelang plastik yang diikatkan ke sejenis joran pancing. Stand yang lain menawarkan alat-alat rumahtangga bagi yang berhasil memasukkan bola pingpong ke deretan gelas. Belum lagi catur tiga langkah yang pasti akan membuat Gary Kasparov geleng-geleng kepala karena dalam satu papan bisa terdapat lima menteri, enam bidak, dan empat benteng. Bayar seribu jalan tiga langkah. Hitam mati, bawa pulang dua bungkus rokok. Remis menang bandar. Buka kunci duapuluhlima ribu rupiah.
Di ujung lapangan ada stand rumah hantu dari tripleks bergambarkan berjenis-jenis hantu yang beberapa diantaranya pernah menjadi atraksi utama di mimpi buruk saya semasa kecil. Sampai kapanpun saya tidak akan masuk ke tempat terkutuk itu. Aneh juga kalo dipikir bahwa orang bersedia membayar untuk ditakut-takuti oleh hantu yang bahkan bukan hantu betulan. Lebih baik nongkrong di kuburan, gratis.
Di samping rumah hantu ada stand komidi putar yang dipenuhi oleh anak-anak yang merengek-rengek pada orang tuanya minta dibelikan tiket masuk. Di sebelahnya ada stand kincir air yang memutar lagu dangdut kencang-kencang, bersaing dengan stand-stand lain. Terakhir kali saya naik kincir air adalah waktu kuliah dulu di Sekaten, alun-alun utara Jogja. Istri saya, waktu itu masih pacar, ketakutan setengah mati karena merasa stand itu bisa roboh sewaktu-waktu dan alih-alih bersimpati, saya tidak bisa menahan tawa. Dan selama dua hari setelahnya ia tak mau menanggapi bujukan saya.
Bau rumput lapangan bercampur dengan wangi berondong jagung dan asap generator. Tukang mainan parasut melemparkan dagangannya ke udara. Dengan payung terkembang, tentara kayu mendarat perlahan di antara gelembung-gelembung sabun yang ditiup penjualnya. Nah, di antara semua itu, hal yang paling menarik perhatian saya adalah stand yang ada di paling ujung.
Bayangkan sebuah ember kayu yang tingginya sekitar enam meter. Nah, stand yang saya maksud kira-kira bentuknya seperti itu. Dari dalam terdengar bunyi raungan motor yang jauh dari merdu. Si announcer mengiklankan stand itu sebagai 'Tong Setan', walaupun saya tidak yakin letak setannya ada di sebelah mana, dan mengatakan sesuatu tentang 'menentang maut'. Entah mengapa saya jadi tertarik, dan dengan diiring pandangan protes dari istri saya, saya bejalan ke arah loket.
Begitulah, setelah membeli tiket, kami naik ke panggung melingkar di bibir ember raksasa itu. Untuk sampai ke atas kami harus naik tangga spiral yang terus terang kondisinya agak memprihatinkan. Namun untunglah tangga besi itu masih sanggup menahan berat badan saya yang naik 15 kilo sejak saya pindah ke Jakarta.
Di atas sudah menunggu beberapa orang. Karena semua melongok ke dasar tong, saya juga tertarik untuk melakukan hal yang sama. Nun di bawah sana ada sebuah motor butut yang sedang di tune-in oleh seorang pemuda yang saya asumsikan sebagai penunggangnya, penghibur kami malam itu. Motornya benar-benar butut dan pretelan, tinggal mesin, kerangka dan roda. Pokoknya kalau di jalan raya pasti sudah menjadi makanan empuk polantas.
Kayu-kayu yang membentuk tong raksasa itu terlihat sudah lapuk dan berhiaskan noda oli di sana-sini. Tidak ada alat pengaman sama sekali, bahkan sekedar helm pelindung kepala. Namun semua itu tampaknya tidak mengganggu si pengendara. Ia berputar-putar di dasar tong melakukan pemanasan. Dan pertunjukan pun dimulai. Sang pengendara motor yang gagah berani itu berputar-putar di dinding tong menentang gravitasi bumi. Memanfaatkan gaya sentrifugal, atau sentripetal, saya lupa yang mana. Setelah beberapa saat dia memandang kami sambil bersedekap. Anehnya gasnya tidak mengendur. Sesekali ia naik sampai ke bibir tong dan dengan kemahiran yang luar biasa kembali menukik ke dasar tong. Sedikit salah perhitungan pasti ia sudah terbang ke luar tong dan menciptakan pertunjukan yang selama ini hanya saya tonton dari Word's Amazing Video. Istri saya hanya melongok sedikit ke dalam tong, dan dengan bijak segera menjauh. Ia lebih tertarik untuk tenggelam ke dunia arum manisnya.
Salah seorang dari penonton, mungkin teman si pengendara, melambaikan selembar uang ribuan, memancing kami untuk melakukan hal yang sama. Uang itu segera disambar dengan kecekatan yang luarbiasa. Tak cukup dengan tangan, si teman kemudian menggigit lembaran uang itu dan menyodorkan wajahnya ke bibir tong. Dengan teknik yang sempurna uang itu berpindah ke tangan. Beberapa orang penonton melakukan hal yang sama. Tak ingin ketinggalan, dengan jantung berdegup, saya merogoh kantong dan melambaikan selembar ribuan.
Detak jantung saya tambah kencang ketika si pengendara melihat uang yang saya lambaikan dan mulai mengincar dari dasar tong. Semuanya terjadi begitu cepat. Dalam sekejap uang itu hilang dari tangan saya seiring dengan raungan motor dan bau asap knalpot. Motor butut tanpa spion dan lampu apapun itu berkelebat hanya beberapa senti dari wajah saya. Seandainya si pengendara hilang konsentrasi, saya pasti akan membutuhkan beberapa jahitan, atau mungkin gips penyangga leher. Benar-benar bentuk hiburan yang aneh. Sama seperti orang-orang konyol di Spanyol yang dengan sukarela menyediakan diri untuk dikejar banteng. Di dalam hati saya menyimpulkan bahwa jika suatu saat memang harus nyawer, saya lebih suka melakukannya kepada penyanyi organ tunggal atau penari tayub.
Setelah hampir seperempat jam, si pengendara melambaikan tangan menandakan bahwa pertunjukan telah usai. Dengan lembaran-lembaran uang seribuan yang bertebaran di dasar tong, tampaknya ia cukup senang. Dan saya pun lega karena semua orang selamat dari cedera. Saya menengok ke belakang dan mendapati istri saya sedang tersenyum. "Puas?", tanyanya singkat. Saya tidak tahu harus menjawab apa.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
The Finer Things in Life
As I have long suspected, beauty is not only dependent on the eye of the beholder, but also on whether it is readily available. Take the people who live in Pangandaran or Pelabuhan Ratu, for example. You don't see them sitting all day admiring the beach. It's just everyday stuff for them.
By following the same logical reasoning, I found out that I can understand celebrity divorces better. Beauty, although it certainly helps, is not everything.
That is also why despite the fact that my wife is not a glamorous supermodel, or pornstar for that matter, there are times--such as when it's raining outside and she holds her cup of hot tea with both hands, sipping her tea while looking at me--when I can't help but tell my self, goddamn! she is beautiful.
By following the same logical reasoning, I found out that I can understand celebrity divorces better. Beauty, although it certainly helps, is not everything.
That is also why despite the fact that my wife is not a glamorous supermodel, or pornstar for that matter, there are times--such as when it's raining outside and she holds her cup of hot tea with both hands, sipping her tea while looking at me--when I can't help but tell my self, goddamn! she is beautiful.
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