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!

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.