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?

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!!

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

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...

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.

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.