DEMIT'S SANCTUARY

King Among Fruits

2010-08-13T15:52:00.002+07:00

It appears that I have grossly underestimated people’s love for durian. Now, I understand that durian is the fruit kingdom’s equivalent of Elvis. Or some people would travel to Malaysia just to taste a certain species of durian. And it’s among the priciest fruit in the market. In Jakarta at least. It’s dirt cheap in Palembang or Medan. A perfectly ripe durian is said to be able to make you believe in God.

Yes, I get it. Durian is the yummiest delicacy ever produced by a tree. I kind of like it myself. Not like it enough to risk physical harm though. But some people would. And I had no idea about that until last Sunday.

I was shopping for milk and diapers (yes, those are the kind of things I shop for these days) at a supermarket when I noticed some people carrying durians to the check-out line. Now, that was strange because we passed the vegetables and fruit section a while ago and there was not even a whiff of the fruit. Usually, when the store is having a durian sale, the smell will greet you at the parking lot.

But there’s nothing there. We had finished shopping and were on our way out of the building when I told my wife that I was going to double check. A durian sale is always worth checking out. Actually, that’s about the only time we could afford one.
When I get to the fruits and vegs section things were as they were a while ago. No durian. I was about to leave when I noticed the attendant emerged from the back dock. He pulled a trolley on which three cartoons bearing the mark of the king of fruit. Imported durians of montong variety. The good ones. Then the inexplicable happened.

Out of nowhere people literally jumped on them. Seriously. They jumped in and muscled their way around the trolley trying to grab as many durian as possible. An elderly gentleman, who apparently thought fuck it-here goes nothing, barged in shoulder first to the crowd. Think of opening the scene of Black Hawk Down in which the starving refugees fought over sacks of donated flour. I kid you not. Same thing happened here in an air-conditioned hypermart in Jakarta.

Shouting and baring their teeth at one another, they thrust their hands into the box and try to claw out any durian that they can get their hands on. Even in a peaceful condition, you need to be careful when handling durians. It’s called durian for a reason, i.e. the skin is made of hundreds of sharp spikes the size of your thumb. These people were groping in with reckless abandon. It wasn’t long before yelps of pain started to be heard.

A man managed to drag a way a full cartoon and made for the checkout line. Others were quick in mad pursuit. They yanked the box with rugby-like tackle. Both knees on the floor, completely ignoring the man’s repeated claim that the durian was his. You had to be there to believe it.

It was over in less than a minute. Three cartoons of durian. All gone. I was stunned. The elderly man walked to the checkout carrying a quarter of the fruit with his scraped hands. It was split open during the scramble. I didn’t know how the cashier was going to weigh that.

Please accept my respectful bow, O, King Among Fruits.

Shoeless

2009-02-13T12:48:00.002+07:00

I have stopped wearing shoes to the office. It's not worth it. Rain has made it its business to visit Bekasi at the ungodly hours of the morning. As a result, to get to the station from where I park my motorcycle I need to waddle across of excellent mixture of rainwater and the sewer. Which is not nice.

Unfortunately, that's not all. The trek from Stasiun Pasarsenen to my office isn't any better. The primary route, crossing the Terminal Pasar Senen, is marked with numerous blackish poodles of water and goodness-know-what-else. The alternative route of getting off at Pasar Gaplok is far much worse. It's muddy and littered with rotten vegetables.

The grim reality that I have just described, apparently doesn't stop some people from wearing their fancy shoes. I'm not talking about Cibaduyut- or Mall Blok M-fancy. They're the shoes designed not to be anywhere near dust, let alone the muddy terrain of Pasar Gaplok.

This morning I witnessed an immaculately dressed gentleman of my age jumped down from Rangkaian Kereta Ekonomi Karawang-PasarSenen, otherwise known as the Odong-odong. His shiny leather shoes, more fit to roam the marble halls of Bursa Efek Jakarta, sank into sole deep mud. Although what an fashionably dressed gentleman was doing in a train of such class is another interesting point to ponder, I can't help but felt pity for the shoes.

Between

2008-12-17T12:07:00.002+07:00

the fridge and the cupboard, you will find something that you might like. I left it there this morning. Promise me you'll feed it.

Who woke up this morning thinking it's Wednesday?

2008-12-11T11:35:00.006+07:00

I did. Now I have to go to a two-day workshop in Bogor without fresh clothes and toiletries.

I blame the Idul Kurban holiday on Monday for this lapse.

I Dream of Roasted Eel

2008-11-06T10:31:00.001+07:00

What’s a good meal to you? Have you ever had a particularly delicious dish in an environment that is just right? A thick burger with melted cheese in a busy fast-food joint perhaps? Or a jazzy restaurant’s delicately intricate dish so pretty that you feel content just by staring at it? Or a perfectly fried mendoan at a shabby warung that you stumbled upon when you tried to locate where Kebasen is?

You may remember a lot of good meals that you’ve had. You see, the memory of a good meal tends to stay with you. It is etched at the back of your mind and springs forward when you see or hear the phrase ‘good food’, or when you’re hungry.

I love eating. I particularly adore gudeg and soto Sokaraja and have had countless portion of them. Yet, my recollection of a good meal has nothing to do with Yu Ginuk’s exceptional gudeg or Pak Amin’s thick broth and liberal topping of tripe chunks. It wasn’t even my meal. Instead, it involves two eel hunters and a graveyard.

I was about 10 then. My cousin and I were returning from a fishing expedition. We were walking across the graveyard near my uncle’s house when I saw them under a tall salam tree. Two tukang urek-urek taking a break after spending a good part of the morning fishing for eels in the vast rice fields to the east. They had built a small fire on a cemented floor between two gravestones, across which chunks of eel meat clamped between two bamboo sticks were being roasted.

They must have had a good day. The eels they selected for their lunch was quite large and they’re not exactly frugal with the cut. The meat looked reddish-brown and oily, the edges were charred from roasting. An empty sachet of kecap manis ABC suggested that they had added sweet soy sauce for taste. I could see the juice dripping down as the sweet scent of roasted eel rose to the air.

One of them produced a packet of cooked rice, while the other got up to get banana leaves which would serve as their plate. They knew my cousin and invited us over. My stupid, stupid cousin politely declined. I couldn’t remember why.

As we walked home, I couldn’t get the picture off my mind. It would have been a perfect lunch. Rice on banana leaves with slightly charred chunks of roasted eel. The meat would have been sweet, succulent and juicy. Not to mention that they are enjoyed outdoors, accompanied by light breeze bringing the scent of rice stalks. Really, I couldn’t get it off my mind. Even now.

Halfway Through

2008-09-15T06:38:00.002+07:00

So we’re twelve days into Ramadhan. Well, actually, it depends on your denomination as well. If you’re a disciple of Naqsabandiyah—I hope I wrote that correctly, then you’re fourteen days into the holy month.

The thing is, the Ramadhan has always been an enigmatic time for me. For someone whose attitude towards food is somewhere between gluttony and anarchy, the idea of refraining from food is not very appealing, to say the least. It affects with my mood, my productivity—or lack thereof, and my ability to hold a decent conversation without falling asleep.

Like the other day, for example. I was sent to this five-hour long meeting, from 1 to 6, at a nearby hotel conference room. Yes that’s right. That’s a five hour battle to ward off severe drowsiness and boredom. The warm ambiance, cool airconditioned room, fluffy desks, and the monotonous voice of a man droning on and on about the importance of getting the program name right when they are to be included in medium-term development plan. Things like that are bad enough on a regular day. On a Ramadhan day, it’s a downright torture. The grave misery I had to experience that day is second only to the time when, stuck at an angkot, I was forced to listen to Syaiful Jamil sing.

But then again, there is the break-fasting (or fast-breaking?). Either way, it’s a truly joyous time. It’s the time when the heavily quoted sentenece ‘you never knew what you’ve got till it’s gone’ actually means something. It’s time for the bottled-out rage to be unleashed at the unsuspecting dinner-table. Feast, feast my dears. Let you be hungry or thirsty no more! Don’t sip, gulp! Attack with vengeance!

Yet, fast-breaking wouldn’t be fun if you don’t fast. Even if you only cheated with a quick gulp of water at noon. Come fast-breaking time, you may still be hungry and thirsty, but you don’t have it anymore. The mucho gusto has flown off the patio.

So yeah, it’s kinda paradoxical, isn’t it? But it never is a bad thing. May you make it till sundown. Cheers..

The Big Three-O

2008-09-12T12:27:00.002+07:00

Oh wait, that was last year. I'm thirty-one now. Man, how time whizzes pass like a chipmunk on Redbull..

Aura Kasih

2008-07-29T09:00:00.001+07:00

It's not that she can't sing. Everybody can sing. Whether they can sing WELL, is quite a different matter. But with legs like that, she's so forgiven.

And, oh, the pole is there for a reason, dear..

The Loss

2008-07-22T14:36:00.001+07:00

Usually she greets me by jumping up and down, announcing to her mother that I’m home. I’m not gonna lie to you. It does make me feel like a rock-star when she does that. Last night, however, she just stood there tearfully crying. The way she cried, you’d think there has been a tragedy of biblical proportion. Tears were streaming down and the corners of her mouth curved downward. Steady rendition of mid-range weeping accentuated with occasional burst of high-pitched wailing.

When I asked her what happened, between her sobs she mentioned something about her ‘ngeng-ngeng’. That’s her best linguistic effort to describe her toy car. A plastic fire-truck big enough for her to ride around, Flintstone-style, and wreak havoc around the house. On fine afternoons, she would drag the contraption to the pavement in front of our house, since we don’t have any yard to speak of, to play with her wee friends. The toy car became something of a social tool because it enables her to mingle with other kids. Sometimes they traded rides too. She gets to try the fancy tricycle or whatever it is the other kids happen to bring along.

The missus explained that the ‘ngeng-ngeng’ went missing. She forgot to bring it in that afternoon. Somebody must have took it. So, yes, to her it’s a big, big loss. While not exactly a tragedy of biblical proportion, it wasn’t that far off.

At this point, I figured that the best course of action is to cheer her up. After meal, we told her that we were going to lapangan Mekarsari to check out the pasar malam, funfair. The change of emotion was stunning. She barely sat on the motorcycle when she started singing. Belting out ‘Hujan’ and ‘Balonku’ alternately at the top of her lungs. Moving her head sideways and raised her hands at the ‘dor!’. It’s like the whole ngeng-ngeng gone missing episode never happened.

At the funfair, I don’t think that she remembered owning a ngeng-ngeng in the first place. She asked me to buy her a pair of toy sunglasses and, of course, a big red balloon. Despite the fact that she already had seven sunglasses and the balloon wouldn’t last five minutes, in the light of what just happened, I couldn’t say no to both. I think most fathers in the world wouldn’t say no either. All in all, she was back to her old cheerful chatterbox self. And I feel rather good about my self for handling this quite well.

As we put her to bed, I commented to the missus that I wished all pain related to losing something we hold dear can be erased by pink sunglasses and big red balloons. As if on cue, my daughter began mumbling sadly about her missing toy car. “Nope.” the missus whispered,” the only cure is a NEW ngeng-ngeng”

If You Were My Age

2008-06-30T08:11:00.002+07:00

You would know:

who Lasmini is, or better yet, which mountain she hails from.

how to operate manual typewriter.

the name of Lupus' only sister.

the number of gold coins that Mario or Luigi needs to have an extra life.

the name of Pak Broto's inn.

who Hakeem Olajuwon is.

the name of TV program hosted by Nisrina Nur Ubay and Anton Hilman in turns

the preamble of 1945 Constitution by heart, and the whole line up of Kabinet Pembangunan V as well.

what Penataran P4 is all about because you've gone through it at least twice.

who Dian Pisesha is, courtesy of your father.

full well that there had been a time when the TV has only ONE channel. Yes, kids, you read that correctly. ONE CHANNEL.

and be able to name the members of the A-Team. Or the name of Lt. Hunter's partner.

Gombloh's two hit songs, at least.

who Ferry Fadli is. Or maybe Maria Oentoe.

why Pakdhe was sentenced for life.

what Slalom Test is all about.

what LKMD, NKKBS, and UDKP stands for. Well, if you had grown up in a small town, that is.

what Sapi Banpres is.

the song Madu dan Racun by heart.

what Aneka Ria Safari is.

the title of the song which launched Julius Sitanggang into stardom. Briefly.

the name of PSSI's goalkeepers in a time when we were still able to beat Thailand.

Stuck In Traffic At Maghrib

2008-06-30T07:54:00.003+07:00

becak pating slangkrah
montor, gedhe-cilik, pating slempit
hondha parkir seenggon-enggon
dalane kebek, bek
apa maning nek ana sepur liwat

angkutan padha ngetem ora eling enggon
supire gurisan karo udud
ora jere kelingan nek kiye dudu dalane mbaeh
klakson moni ora mandeg-mandeg
ora teyeng temen padha ngalah

dalane mung sepethil
ora bisa dikapak-kapakena maning
sing bisa diambakena mung manah

Cilok, Lolly Ice, and The Commentary

2008-06-17T10:59:00.006+07:00

My father used to take me out to watch football matches. Even when we were on a trip, he usually made it his business to pull over if there was a match in a road-side football pitch we happened to pass by. We simply lingered for a while, or longer—depending on the urgency of the trip, and the attractiveness of the match in question.

On more planned occasions, he would take us on his motorbike or hitching on a flatbed minivan to places like Srandil, Wangon, or Adipala to watch local competitions, especially when the team from his office, the Nusakambangan State Penitentiary, was playing. If I remember correctly, the team consisted of convicts as well as guards. They were kind of good, even without the psychological advantage of being affiliated with one of the most notorious prisons in the country.

You can always feel the excitement even before you get to the venue, courtesy of an army of cone-shaped loudspeakers. The far-from-stereo sound of Indonesian national songs can be heard from miles away. Most of the time, the ‘stadium’ took the form of local football pitch encircled by woven bamboo wall. It was a poor attempt at keeping the ticketless away. These resourceful people could easily craft a hole at strategic locations, or alternatively, climbed the nearest tree to get what I imagined as a much better view of the proceedings.

And it’s not just about the football. It’s all sort of things around it that makes these outings quite memorable.

There’s always the food. Old ladies with simple bamboo tray of boiled and roasted peanuts. With or without shells. Boiled soybeans. Hard-as-nail cassava rings and cassava crackers. And more often that not, there’s the lolly ice vendors. It’s basically shredded ice compacted into a circle and laced with syrup of various color and was held by a small bamboo stick. Voila, lolly ice. Yes, there was the question of whether the vendor wore gloves and the legality of the syrup’s coloring agent. But we were just kids, we couldn’t care less. In that sense, we were equally less hygiene-conscious in our appreciation of cilok. A chewy ball of steamed tapioka dumplings with fish flavor of highly questionable origin. Nevertheless, at Rp.25,- , cilok was very popular among kids at that time.

And of course, what would a local football be without the hardcore local fans and football enthusiasts? These guys had an unshakable belief that they know more about football than all players, coaches, and referees combined. They never hesitated to share their views regarding the players, officials—especially the referee, and the quality of the football they were watching. Loudly and, most of the times, not very politely. The milder of these guys usually commented on the the referee’s eyesight or, if the particular ref is card-happy, the quality of his sex-life.

An then there is the on-pitch commentary, our own local version of Max Sopacua or Andy Gray. His job description included sitting on the best seat of the ‘stadium’, usually a couple metres high, and presented a blow-by-blow account of the match. He delivered his account with an obvious sense of urgency, rhytmic emphasis, and loads of drama. “ANGkat bola ke depaaan, KUTak-kutik sebentaaar, TENDang ke gawaaang, SAYANG sekali Saudara-saudara…masih melenceng dua sentimeter di sisi kiri gawaaang...(lift the ball forward, twisting and turning, shoot on goal, WHAT A SHAME it missed the left post by 2 centimeters)”. He must have been sitting some 50 meters away from goal. But apparently all commentators are blessed with outstanding geometric abilities enabling them to determine precisely how much the ball missed the goal posts. And the crowd loved them for it.

Singing the national anthem along with some 80,000 fans in Indonesia's National Stadium is admittedly an experience beyond description. But really, basking in the afternoon sun with cilok in one hand and lolly ice in the other while watching two local teams slug it out in a pitch surrounded by bamboo walls is not that far off.

Pretty Dreadful

2008-06-11T11:43:00.001+07:00

I don’t particularly enjoy waching horror movies. I mean, one watches movies for various reasons. Be it for the heartwarming story, stimulating theme, intriguing plot, witty dialogues, enthralling visual display, or simply the fact that one has two hours to kill. I’m not entirely sure, however, that getting scared the crap out of one’s wit is one of them.

The missus, on the other hand, actually takes pleasure in being scared the crap out of her wit. She would sit back and thoroughly enjoy the offering while I cover my ears and squint my eyes in anticipation of boo-moments. Wuss, she would mutter coyly under her breath. Boo-moments merely causes her to flinch a little. In my case, it means a struggle to prevent instant seizure.

Some horror movies are actually enjoyable. The Exorcist and The Blair Witch Project are two examples. But these gems are few and far between. The missus’ fare usually constitutes of whatever 8 in 1 horror flick DVDs I manage to bring home from Stasiun Bekasi. Most of which are murderously annoying.

Take Penny Dreadful for example. The title per se should give an inkling what to expect. The girl Penny has a carphobia, which means she’s afraid of cars. There’s a correct technical terms, but I can’t seem to remember what the word is. I pointed out to the missus that she has motherinlawphobia, only to receive a steely stare in return.

Anyway, to overcome this phobia, she and her therapist engaged in a roadtrip. In a quiet mountain road they hit a creepy hooded man and then, as a show of remorse, took him along. Question: would you let a creepy hooded man into your car? I thought so. But then again, common sense seems to be a concept lost to horror flick characters. Most of them ended up dead, remember?

They then drove him deep into the woods off the main road. Night-time plus woods plus creepy hooded man equals to certain death. Simple math. But the two women were not dead yet.

After they dropped off their would-be killer (oops, was that a spoiler?) at an abandoned camp, the two would-be corpses set off for the main road. Before long, they realized that the creepy hooded man had spiked the front tire. The spare tire was also flat. Not a exactly an example of good motoring practice.

Penny went out of the car and just could not bring herself to get in again. The annoyance-meter starts to climb up. The therapist bluffed by leaving and Penny chased her and sprained her ankle in the process. Okay, so now Penny sat tearfully in the car.

The therapist decided to get help on foot and told Penny to stay in the car. Did Penny stay on the car? Of course, not. She wandered around as you would normally do if you sprained your ankle and were lost in the woods. Predictably, the creepy hooded man showed up and everything went black.

Our carphobic girl woke up to find herself stuck in a car with her dead therapist on the driving seat. She couldn’t open the door because the car was wedged between two trees. How on earth the creepy hooded man find those two perfectly-fitting trees was beyond me. Perhaps he was helped by the crew.

Having said that, I had to admit that it’s kinda cool to put someone who’s afraid of cars in a car and then throw in a corpse for a bonus. That’s like an extra scoop of icecream on your cone. Add the fact that the poor girl had to prise the corpse’s clenched teeth open with a screwdriver to get the cleverly-hidden car keys. That, my friend, is the cherry on top.

The director, or whoever is in charge, should have done better with this material than taking shots, and close ups, from various angles of Penny’s rather unconvincing terrified look and her squirmy escape attempts for a full 15 minutes. I wished the killer would show up and finish her off. She started getting on my nerve and the missus reminded me that we had depleted our supply of anti-depressants when we watched The Eye the other day.

Hope came in the form of a couple to whom the concept of motels is alien. Actually, I’d rather watch these two make out in their car for a full 15 minutes. Now, because the couple showed up when the film still has 45 minutes to play, anyone with half a brain should be able to predict their fate. Instead of simply smashing the windshield, the idiot decided to lift the front part while Penny hit the pedal to the metal in reverse. The creepy hooded man emerged from under the car and effortlessly drag the idiot guy under, alien-like.

Anyway the rest of the movie, involved more close-ups of Penny’s scared face, the whole car painted in blood, and near-escape by way of bare-handedly ripping a hole the backseat, which is funny because I have always thought backseats has steel-wire frame. And Penny kicking the creepy hooded man in the jewels. Imagine that, a girl with sprained ankle kick a man who snatched his victims like they’re a bag of popcorn. And the obligatory chase-camera shot that capture Penny running from the creepy hooded man. Well, more or less. I made two trips to the bathroom, brew a pot of tea and fried half a dozen pieces of battered banana.

Chasing Halo-halo

2008-05-19T14:21:00.004+07:00

You can hear it when it entered the northern end of Jalan Tongkol. The sound was muffled by the tall walls of the noodle factory. Judging from the muffled loudness, you knew you still had a chance. So you drop everyting you were doing and ran. Iis and A Kai heard it to. And they ran with you.

Across the back of Pak Kirsan's house and banked left on the communal well. Giggling as you did because Lik Nano's wife was bathing in her sarong. You turned right at the corner of Mbah Wignyo's house and sprinted along the back of the Sidakaya III State Elementary School. Your footsteps and the rythmic chanting of students battling to memorize the multiplication table. But the sound was growing louder and nearer as you emerged right in the middle of Jalan Tengiri. Jalan Tongkol on one end and Jalan Teri on the other.

Panting, you looked right. And looked left. There was nothing there. Still the sound grew louder. "Nangendi Halo-halone (where is the Halo-halo)?", Iis asked. He looked at you accusingly. As if you had something to do with it not being there.

Then suddenly the sound went full blast. No longer muffled as it glided along Jalan Tongkol past the walls of the noodle factory. You grinned. Your friends grinned. An the chase was on.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Halo-halo. An old-van with a large movie-poster strapped on its back. And a large cone-shaped loudspeaker mounted on the roof. Anything that loud and colorful attracts attentions. Especially those belong to us kids.

There were two competing movie theathres in Cilacap those days, Sinar and Bhinekka. They're all dead now. But back then, to inform people of what was on, they opted to apply the hands on approach. They drove around the city and blew our eardrums off with the title, actors, bits of the plot, and why we should part with the little money we had to see the movie. They always began their loud persuasion with these lines: 'Halo-halo, saudara-saudara..saksikanlah film bla-bla-bla.. (Hello, hello.. brothers and sisters, come and see this movie titled..)' Hence the name.

The Sinar Halo-halo usually passed around 10 a.m and its Bhinneka counterpart an hour later. There must be some kind of arrangement between them. They never turned out together. It would be awesome if they did though. Regardless, each time one of these things turned up anywhere near our streets, we gave it a chase. Always. Adults simply craned their necks. But kids always ran after it. Trailing behind and around like remoras to sharks.

Once we're close enough. We tapped and banged at the doors and windows asking for gambar, flyers. Yes, they gave out flyers. Colorful on glossy paper at first. Then black-and-white in plain paper when the economy went bad. Still, it's free. And free stuff always welcome. My neighbor actually collected these flyers. He glued it to his livingroom walls. Beats painting, he said. In restrospect, a framed flyer of Ari Hanggara would look cool in my room.

Anyway, the Halo-halo driver and his mate didn't really like wasting the flyers on us. We're not potential customers, obviously. So we had to run and tap and bang for quite a while before they threw out a couple of flyers. At this point, our united effort ended. Next came competition. We fought for the flyers.

However, we always ended sharing the flyers. Marveling at the man with the big guns, exploding cars, or women with minimalist clothing apparati. We didn't keep the flyers, though. Too risky.

So yes, a while later we were back doing whatever we were doing before the Halo-halo came. Did we end up with nothing? Not really. It's the chase. We're in it for the chase.

Defining Oneself

2008-03-12T11:29:00.001+07:00

Standing before hundreds of bumper stickers, I was amazed when I realized that one can define one's identity, and broadcast it to others, quite so easily. For a small price, of course. But without years of personal contemplation, wading waist-deep in modern philosophy, ingesting alcohol and nicotin, or suicidal attempts.

Here, at the stickerguy's place near the bridge on Jalan Agus Salim, one can, for example, simply opt to define oneself as a Liverpool fan. A lover of Padi's music. A patron of HuGo's or Hard Rock Cafe. An enthusiast of Honda motorcycles, Arai helmets, Japanese anime, Fender guitars, or even Durex condoms.

An arabic calligraphy depicting the shape of Semar may indicate one's religious stance and ethnical background simultaneously. A crude yellow 'Hari gini masih pindah gigi' over black background declared one's partiality towards automatic motorcycles. One's decalaration of sexual preferences or general attitude toward sex, or to a certain extent, romance--if the two could somehow be linked together, are also readily available in explicit or implicit version.

The most interesting category, however, was the region of origin. In the spirit of Mie Ayam Wonogiri, Bakso Arema, and Warkop Putra Sunda, we now have bumper stickers declaring Cah (from Javanese bocah>>guy) Pekalongan, Cah Kutoarjo, Cah Banjarnegara, Putra Kuningan, and the likes. This is new. I have never seen this before. I have of course seen Arek Suroboyo or Budak Bandung. That's big cities. Cool cities. But to go to district level like Ngawi was quite something else. I mean, how many of you know where Delanggu is?

This got me thinking, which is a rare occasion. In this vast modernity jungle known as Jakarta, one could easily lost oneself in the face of sooo many cool identities one could conveniently assume. Why choose sticking with their origin, their roots? To identify oneself with Jakarta, or anything associated with it, is perhaps a surefire ticket to coolness. Hell, most of the times I enjoy hearing myself say 'I work in Jakarta' in a conversation with strangers residing in my place of origin. So again, why would in Jakarta some people proudly announce that they are not from Jakarta? My guess is that it's one of those 'being cool by remaining uncool' thing. I don't know. Maybe.

But anyway, if you ever saw a motorcyclist wearing a blue helmet with red 'Cah Cilacap' written on it, there's a good chance that it would be me.

The Burglar On The Roof

2008-03-11T08:52:00.003+07:00

I think it was the New Year's Eve of 1995. Awan, Hindarto and I had just completed a long, long walk from Malioboro all the way to Bener, Tegalrejo. It was a splendid idea at the onset. First of all, it was, of course, the New Year' Eve. We actually had nothing to celebrate. In fact, all omens indicated that the new year would be grim in educational, financial, and romance fronts. But then again, it's the New Year's Eve. We just had to find festivity somewhere. The fact that we had no mode of transportation beside our own feet did not dampen our spirit. So we chipped in for a pack of Marlboro, a luxury compared to our usual fare of Djarum 76, and started off.

Five hours, a pack of Marlboro, and roughly ten kilometers later, tired and weary, we were back home. Koskosan (boarding house) Bu Dxxxx (population 12, when full). The sole proprietor, Bu Dxxxx, was a feisty elderly woman with sharp tongue and strong commanding aura. It had been known that she showed little compassion or mercy. Especially when the subject matter involves rent or female presence in her territory, which was not good for us either way.

You see, old-school Jogjakartan koskosans were run like big families. Parents would come at the beginning of their kid's stay and asked the proprietor to take care of their offspring. Pull their ears if you have to, they often said to the smiling and nodding proprietor. So, maintaining good behaviour was essential. Especially if your parents often visited. The proprietor might say something highly euphemisized like," Well, So and So is a good boy, really. But he seems to be out late quite often lately. Perhaps he is busy studying with his friends." Knowing that there was no chance in hell their boy was studying at night, let alone the suggestion that the poor sod was making the effort to visit friends for educational purposes, alarm bells would be ringing. Next thing you know, your allowance was cut in half, or worse.

Please excuse the detour. So anyway, the rest of the tenants were still out and none of us had enough sense to bring the key to the front door. The only other thinkable entry point was at the back, through the roof of the loo. So we went around the house, knocking on every window--except Bu Dxxxx's, to no avail. So the loo it was. Hindarto, with an unbelievable spirit of self-sacrifice, volunteered to climb in. The plan was, he would climb the 2-meter back wall, enter through a gaping hole at the roof of the loo, somehow came down, and open the front door for the rest of us, his two helpless best friends.

Without further ado, Hindarto took off his sandals and began climbing with surprising ease that rivaled any seasoned burglar. He was about to slid feet first into the hole when he was challenged by a commanding, "Sopo kuwi! (Who goes there!)". To say the he was startled out of his wits was a gross understatement. He lost his grip and slid further down. Now, half his body was visibly perching on the roof while his legs must have been hanging over the loo and whoever (although we have a pretty good idea who) was in there.Yet, Hindarto managed to compose himself (credit to him) and stammered back," Kula, Bu. Hindarto (It's me. Hindarto)"

I didn't catch the rest of what I imagined to be an extremely awkward exchange. By then, survival instinct shamelessly took over and Awan and I fled to nearby bushes, battling the overwhelming urge to laugh our heads off. Some friends we were. We did, eventually, drowned ourselves in an endless laughing fits once we were in a safe distance. The mental picture of Bu Dxxxx in a rather undignifying circumstance conversing with Hindarto's dangling legs was just too much. It was like a vintage scene from Warkop DKI movies--only better. It was for real and we were there to witness it.

We gave it fifteen minutes before we knocked on Hindarto's window, humbly begging to be let in. He was far from happy and didn't hold back on telling us exactly what he thought of the two us, which, for the purpose of venting out anger, were addressed in a series of rather unflattering names. Eventually, his golden heart shone through and he opened the front door for his two completely unworthy friends.

That night's episode became the koskosan's mythical legend. Immortalized in time. It was told over and over again in various occasion and courts. Over endless puffs of cigarettes and cups of coffees. To the newcomers as well as the seasoned old-timers. Late at night or while we're queuing for the bathroom. We all applaud the Brebesian boy's heroics. And that is why I wrote it here. So, you see, Hindarto, your tale is forever told.

My First Book Review Since 2001

2008-03-05T09:58:00.005+07:00

Tugas dari kantor untuk meresensi buku Richard Vietor>>How Countries Compete: Strategy, Structure, and Government in the Global Economy
_____________________________________________________________

Di dunia yang semakin global, setiap negara harus berkompetisi jika ingin berkembang. Persaingan terbuka untuk memperebutkan pasar, teknologi, keahlian dan investasi merupakan satu-satunya jalan jika suatu negara ingin berkembang dan meningkatkan taraf hidup rakyatnya. Kenyataan ini menempatkan pemerintah pada posisi yang sangat penting, bahkan pada negara-negara yang ekonominya berbasis pasar. Bertolakbelakang dengan pandangan umum, Richard Vietor menegaskan bahwa pemerintahan yang dominan tidak identik dengan pengaruh buruk terhadap perekonomian yang berbasis pasar.

Berdasarkan pengalamannya sebagai staf pengajar di Harvard Business School dan konsultan di berbagai negara, Vietor menyajikan ulasan pendekatan-pendekatan pemerintah terhadap perkembangan ekonomi sebelas negara yang jika digabungkan jumlah penduduknya mencapai lebih dari tigaperempat penduduk dunia: Jepang, Singapura, China, India, Meksiko, Afrika Selatan, Saudi Arabia, Rusia, Italia, dan Amerika Serikat.

Ada tiga hal utama yang dibahas dalam buku ini. Pertama, tinjauan upaya negara-negara tersebut dalam mencapai tingkat pertumbuhan sampai sekarang. Kedua, proyeksi ekonomi negara-negara tersebut di masa depan. Ketiga, peran pemerintah masing-masing negara yang mempengaruhi perjalanan perkembangan ekonomi tersebut.

Sebagai latar belakang, bab pertama buku ini menjelaskan pentingnya strategi dan struktur. Dalam hal ini, Vietor menggarisbawahi peranan pemerintah dalam hal pembangunan ekonomi. Pemerintah, menurut Vietor, setidaknya harus mampu menjamin keamanan, penegakkan hukum, hak kepemilikan, dan risiko luar biasa. Selain itu pemerintah juga dituntut untuk mampu mengelola ekonomi makro dan kebijakan industri sebagai dampak dari kebijakan moneter yang telah dipilih.

Selanjutnya, pembahasan tiap negara dibagi menjadi tiga berdasarkan alur perkembangan ekonominya. Pembahasan bagian pertama meliputi pesatnya perkembangan ekonomi negara-negara Asia. Dengan bahasa yang sederhana, Vietor mengulas pertumbuhan ekonomi Jepang yang mencapai 10.1% selama tujuhbelas tahun berturut-turut. Selain itu, Singapura, China, dan India, menurut Vietor, merupakan contoh keberhasilan strategi ekonomi berbasis ekspor dan liberalisasi. Keberhasilan Singapura dinilai sebagai buah dari strategi pertumbuhan ekspor berbasis penanaman dana luar negeri yang ditunjang oleh kematangan institusi-institusi bentukan pemerintah dalam menerapkan kebijakan-kebijakan yang telah ditetapkan. Sementara itu, pertumbuhan ekonomi

China

yang luarbiasa terjadi dibawah kebijakan pembangunan yang pragmatis dengan titik berat pada liberalisasi ekonomi dengan tetap mempertahankan kekuasaan politik di pusat. Pembahasan tentang

India

menyoroti peralihan dari swadeshi menuju ke arah liberalisasi. Langkah-langkah privatisasi yang dibarengi dengan reformasi perpajakan dan peraturan merupakan upaya

India

untuk bersaing secara global.

Bagian kedua membahas sulitnya perkembangan ekonomi ditengah perubahan struktur. Pada bagian ini, Vietor menyajikan kasus Meksiko yang perkembangan ekonominya tersendat antara lain karena adanya perubahan struktur politik. Senada dengan Meksiko, Afrika Selatan digambarkan sedang berkuat memperbaiki kinerja ekonominya setelah mengalami transisi dari rezim apartheid. Sementara itu, modernisasi di Arab Saudi menjadi pekerjaan rumah yang tidak ringan bagi pemerintahan Raja Abdullah. Diversifikasi ekonomi dan upaya menggerakkan warga Saudi untuk berinvestasi di negeri sendiri merupakan tantangan besar karena berbenturan dengan institusi-institusi dan budaya yang ada. Di Rusia, kegagalan big-bang liberalization di tatanan masyarakat multi-etnis yang telah lama menganut aliran komunis garis keras membuat kekuasaan justru berpindah ke sejumlah kecil pemilik modal. Pemerintah kehilangan wibawanya di mata masyarakat.

Italia, Jepang, dan Amerika Serikat merupakan fokus bahasan pada bagian ketiga. Melalui Italia, Vietor menyoroti integrasi Eropa dan permasalahan yang dihadapinya seperti pertumbuhan, produktifitas, defisit, dan yang paling utama: daya saing ekonomi. Sementara itu, Jepang sedang mengalami kemandekan menyusul pertumbuhan ekonomi yang luar biasa pasca Perang Dunia ke Dua. Demikian halnya Amerika Serikat. Tingkat konsumsi berlebihan dan defisit anggaran merupakan salah satu masalah terbesar yang dihadapi oleh negeri Paman Sam ini. Benang merah yang bisa ditarik dari ketiga kasus di atas, menurut Vietor, adalah lambatnya perubahan institusional dan bergesernya demografi ke arah penduduk usia lanjut.

Di bagian akhir Vietor kembali menegaskan peran penting pemerintah. Tanpa menafikan pola perilaku individual dan pelaku bisnis, Vietor berargumen bahwa kebijakan-kebijakan yang diterapkan pemerintah jelas berpengaruh besar terhadap perkembangan ekonomi. Di Amerika Serikat, kebijakan pemerintah tentang keamanan nasional, kesehatan, dan perdagangan serta kurangnya perhatian dalam hal tabungan dan nilai tukar merupakan faktor-faktor utama penyebab defisitnya anggaran negara tersebut.

Vietor melengkapi pembahasannya dengan latar belakang sejarah, geografi dan sosial budaya. Hal ini sangat membantu untuk memahami, misalnya, pilihan strategi ekonomi negara-negara Asia yang lebih banyak bertumpu pada tabungan, investasi dan penanaman modal adalah karena secara kultural masyarakatnya menjunjung kebiasaan menabung dan bekerja keras. Namun ada beberapa hal, misalnya pembahasan tentang kaum Dalit—kasta terendah di India, yang tidak terlalu signifikan kaitannya dengan tema utama.

Upaya yang dilakukan Vietor untuk menarik garis lintas pertumbuhan suatu negara untuk memprediksi kondisi perekonomian dan iklim bisnis di masa depan cukup menarik. Sekilas terngiang kecaman yang dilontarkan Gede Prama dalam bukunya Inovasi Atau Mati yang menyatakan kesia-siaan upaya semacam ini. Tidak ada yang pernah menduga, menurut Prama, bahwa perekonomian Asia sedang berkembang pesat akan carut-marut pada tahun 1998. Vietor pun menyadari hal ini. Menurutnya, prediksi dapat berubah secara radikal karena perang, kelangkaan bahan pangan, pemberontakan politik, maupun bencana ekonomi. Namun jika faktor-faktor diatas tidak ada, maka seorang pengamat yang memahami alur perjalanan ekonomi suatu negara dapat membuat prediksi terukur jangka pendek tentang hal-hal seperti keseimbangan fiskal dan utang, nilai tukar dan suku bunga, dan tentang tabungan, investasi, dan pertumbuhan.

Pada pembahasan tentang prediksi perkembangan ekonomi negara-negara di atas, sekilas Vietor tampak kurang berani untuk membuat prediksi yang definitif. Ia lebih banyak bersandar pada skenario what if. Misalnya ketika berbicara tentang China, Vietor menyatakan bahwa jika China semakin menyesuaikan diri dengan ketentuan-ketentuan Word Trading Organization (WTO) dan melanjutkan upaya privatisasi sektor BUMN, maka perekenomian China akan terus berkembang pesat setidaknya untuk satu dekade ke depan. Sebaliknya, jika China tetap mengandalkan besarnya volume ekspor dan rendahnya nilai tukar mata uangnya, maka Amerika Serikat akan terpaksa mengenakan embargo perdagangan, sesuatu yang bisa menjadi bumerang bagi China.

Namun demikian, pada bagian akhir buku, Vietor menempatkan dirinya sebagai investor dan melakukan penilaian terhadap prospek ekonomi negara-negara tersebut secara tegas. India dan Singapura dinilai memiliki prospek yang cerah, sementara prospek China, Meksiko, dan Eropa harus ditanggapi dengan ekstra hati-hati.

Secara keseluruhan, buku ini merupakan kontribusi yang sangat baik dalam menambah wawasan tentang perekonomian dunia. Pembahasannya mencakup tema yang cukup luas tanpa harus kehilangan kedalaman dan fokus. Di sini dapat dilihat peran sentral pemerintah sebagai pendukung, bukan penghalang, pertumbuhan ekonomi di era pasar bebas. Menurut Vietor, “Governmental power is too often misconceived or misused. Yet still, economic growth requires good government.”

March Financial Outlook

2008-03-03T07:06:00.003+07:00

I looked at this month's numbers and I found Deficit staring smugly back at me.

Following various increases in meat, cooking oil, and egg prices, the Minister of Logistics and Sustenance requested, no, insisted that her budget be adjusted accordingly. Similarly, policy changes in the Ministry of Transportation--the upgrading of KRL Ekonomi to KRL Ekonomi AC while retaining the former's schedule, inevitably triple the transportation budget. Hopefully, the Ministry of Vehicle Maintenance will stick to its budget considering its only asset, the Astrea Legenda 2002, is not due for tune up until next month. The Ministry of Children Welfare also receives a significantly increased budget after a compelling argument about the condition of the Republic of Bekasi Permai BL-15's only state-sponsored child's wardrobe.

This month also marks the first installment to be paid as a part of 36-month long foreign loan treaty signed last month which worth in excess of 20 million IDR in total. This comes on top of the existing foreign debts programs, which, if combined, absorbs nearly half of the fledgling republic's total revenue. Thankfully, one of these loan treaties is expiring late this year so the much-needed breathing space is within sight.

Oh, well, something tells me this small republic will manage. Moreover, after a couple of rounds of intensive physical lobbying last night, an exhausted Governess of the state's Central Bank assured me that she still holds 'adequate' reserve. Hmm, perhaps I should do some more lobbying to determine how much is 'adequate'. Maybe tonight.

Memory Test

2008-02-18T11:54:00.004+07:00

Concentrate and read the following excerpt for a full 20 seconds:

Penyelesaian Kewajiban Pemerintah Sektor Hulu Migas (Pembayaran PBB Migas Kontraktor Kontrak Kerja Sama (KKKS), Reimbursement PPN/PPN BM Migas KKKS, Pajak Daerah Migas, Underlifting Migas KKKS dan Domestic Market Obligation (DMO) Fee Migas KKKS) dan Panas Bumi (Reimbursement PPN Panas Bumi dan Pembayaran PBB Pertambangan Panas Bumi) (SOP 206)

Done? Now, grab a pencil and a piece of paper. Without looking at the screen, try and write what you remember.

If you:
A. Can't remember or write a damn thing >> You might want to check for Alzheimer's. Or finish that Kejar Paket A thingy you once enrolled in.

B. Manage to write the first two or three words plus some bits and pieces in the middle >> Congratulations! You belong to the rest of normal human population.

C. Create a perfect copy of the text>>You're not human, are you?

D. Create a perfect copy of the text and actually understand the damn thing>> The rest of the world might consider that you're a superfreak bar none, but here at civil service we shall hail you as our king.

Pecel of Heaven

2008-02-12T16:07:00.000+07:00

The train came to a full stop at Stasiun Kroya. Oh, yes. I’m so fucking dead and gone to pecel heaven. As if on cue, some of the vendors clambered up to the wagon and began offering their wares. And how can I say no to this:

This, my friends, is pecel Stasiun Kroya. While not as reputable as its Gambringan counterparts, this concoction is your ticket to culinary bliss. In a banana leaf makeshift plate, chunks of lonthong and tofu are served with slivers of cooking papaya, kangkung, spinach, snakebeans, and klandingan seeds. And then generously topped with sweet-hot peanut dressing.

The vegetables are boiled into crisp-perfection while the peanuts are coarsely grated to give richer texture to the whole experience. While kangkung, spinach, and snakebeans offer familiar sweetness, the combination of klandingan seed and slivers of kecombrang (that's the pink stuff, in case you're wondering) would add exotic tanginess you won’t find anywhere else.

Also worthy of mention is the dressing. The peanut dressing puts forward a sweetness that lures you into a false sense of security, carefuly masking the fiery hotness that lurks behind. Not until after several mouthful later will you realize that you’re being ambushed by the honest-to-goodness Banyumasan I’ll-kick-your-fucking-arse-to-oblivion chilli. But by then, your senses have been happily paralysed anyway.

Oh, did I mention it’s only Rp. 4.000,- including the rempeyek udang?

Public Apology to Holiday

2008-02-12T15:31:00.000+07:00

I didn't know it's meant to be a secret.

PS. But now I do know the key of nursing a drink: good company.

Why I'm Happy Today

2008-02-12T15:18:00.000+07:00

As a proud holder of KTB KA JAbotabek Ekonomi Bulan Februari, I just found out that I'm entitled to ride the all-new KRL AC Ekonomi until the end of the month. Awesome!

The Sexist

2008-02-05T09:20:00.000+07:00

Several years ago, I went to the local Kelurahan office to apply for some documents that would certify that I was indeed still single and therefore eligible for marriage. Believe me, such documents DO exist. The process was surprisingly quick. The kelurahan guy handed me the papers and told me to have it signed by Bu Camat.

I was taken aback. Since when does the wife of a camat interferes in the administrative affairs of a kecamatan? Admittedly, some wives can have such overwhelming power over their husbands that they control the poor sods’ life to the minutest of details. I’ve heard stories of Bu Camats that are far more bossy than their Pak Camats. However, to my knowledge, they generally stay away from office business. Their role is usually limited to Dharma Wanita, in which they subsequently submit to the whims of the even more fearsome Bu Bupati. So, yes, I was utterly baffled by the fact that my marital status was going to be certified by the wife of the Camat, instead of Pak Camat himself.

It was only after I went to the Kecamatan that I realized that I had been neck-deep in sexism. The Camat of Cilacap Utara was a woman.

Don't Speak

2008-01-29T11:03:00.000+07:00

It was the days when I helplessly fancied that short-haired girl sitting right in front of me during Introduction to Sociology. The fact the she didn’t refuse when I ask her out to a poetry recital remains a mystery for a long, long time. I didn’t like poetry recitals. Still don’t. But she did and still does. And she knew I didn’t.

Then lunches. And dinners. Long walks along Selokan Mataram. Longer walks along Malioboro. And The English Patient. Borrowed books and exchanged notes. And visits to Asrama Santikara.

It was the days before the words were spoken. Before we knew what could happen.

Durmagati the Puppet

2008-01-28T15:30:00.000+07:00

"Para miarsa, pasugatan ringgit wacucal ndalu punika katindhakaken dening Ki Dalang Hadi Sugito saking Toyan, Wates, kanthi lampahan 'Antasena Takon Bapa'. Sugeng nDalu, sugeng midhangetaken"*

This used to be my cue for gluing my ears to the radio, which was not much of a radio to start with. It was an unsightly lidless contraption with all dusty components--cathodes, diodes, and whatnots--visible to naked eye. "Don't touch that part. Nyetrum**", warned my cousin as he gave me that thing, unwanted now that he just bought a new Sony stereo. Anyway, that reluctant-to-live-yet-unwilling-to-die radio turned out to be a faithful companion who saw to it that my highschool years were not devoid of some colorful background music. This include long nights of listening to shadow puppet shows.

Those days, not all radio aired around the clock. Most went off air a little after midnight. So for a part-time insomniac like me, an all-night long shadow puppet shows, especially those aired live, were nothing short of a blessing. They gave reassurance that I was not the only poor sod still awake at the hour.

I'm not going to pretend that I know much about wayang. For one, I don't really understand the language. Seriously, most of the narrations are delivered in some sort of ancient Javanese no longer spoken by your average Slamet, or Eko for that matter. Yet, it never fails to make me go 'whoa!'. In addition, they are supposed to contain a truckload of equally ancient wisdom. You know, stuffs like what life is all about, what to do when calamity just can't get enough of you, and how to behave in the face of homo ignoramus. Admittedly, these gems are delivered in a somewhat preachy manner, yet it's such a joy to listen to. Again, perhaps it's the language. So it's kinda like listening to a Shakespearean play. You don't understand the whole thing, but the bits that you do understand make you feel good.

Sadly, what kept me up all night is not the lessons about morality, wisdom, and the likes. Rather, it's the humor. The show is filled with characters that crack you up every now and then. My hero, therefore, is not the almighty flying Gatotkaca with wire muscles and iron bones. Nor Antareja whose extremely venomous tongue would retain the ability to kill even if it's only applied on his enemy's foot print. Although I have to admit that it's quite impressive. Nor Antasena whose non-conformist attitude is reflected in his inability to clasp his palms together as a token of respect to others, including the gods. Nope. My hero is actually an orc-like member of Kurawa family called Durmagati.
Why? Because in a realm that is made up of entirely two-dimensional characters, Durmagati stands out as an almost-human character, especially in the skilled hands of Mr. Sugito. Durmagati rants about how his wife and kids continuously demand more spending money due to skyrocketing prices. Or about Kartomarmo teaching his kids some inappropriate adult stuffs. He asks Sangkuni to hold his wallet for him before slugging it out with invading armies, usually the good guys, for fear of losing it.

But what floored me is when he showed his acute understanding the concept of his fate as a puppet. Once, before his usual slug-fest with the Pandawas, he confided to Sangkuni that he thoroughly understand that until hell freezes over he, or the Kurawas for that matter, would never win a fight against the Pandawas. There's nothing new with the story line, he said in a typical Javanese pasrah attitude, I always end up being a human punching-bags for the likes of Setyaki or Abimanyu. Yet, he still fought. "Mung kanggo keguyuban, kok, Man ( referring to Sangkuni)***..."

And I laughed myself to tears...

********##********

*"Dear listeners, tonight's shadow puppet show is performed by the Esteemed Puppet Master Hadi Sugito from Toyan, Wates, entitled 'Antasena's Quest for His Father'. Good Night and enjoy.." more or less..
**I don't what's the right equivalent in English, but if you touch something that comes with 'nyetrum' warning, there is a fairly good chance that you'll get electrocuted.
***Just for the sake of solidarity (with other Kurawas), Man...

The Fallen Flowers

2008-01-28T09:02:00.000+07:00

(originally Ismail Marzuki's Gugur Bunga)

How could my heart not be grieved
My hero has fallen
How could my heart not be sorrowed
I am now left all alone

Who shall now ease my pains
to remain faithful and gentle
Who shall now be the champion of my heart
the true defender of our nation

My hero has fallen
The oath has been fulfilled
Where one fell, thousands will rise
to the glory of our motherland

I must admit that the translation is nowhere near the original in its ability to evoke that eerie feeling associated with its every rendition. But, anyway, fare thee well General...

The Threesome Isn't Gonna Happen

2008-01-24T09:12:00.000+07:00

So, the endlessly twisting plot finally unravels. The lucky bastard lost his mind and dumped his superhot wavy-haired fiancee for the long-haired, tearful old girlfriend. It came as a bit of surprise, really. I have always thought that he would stick to his superhot fiancee, who would not look too unfamiliar in a dominatrix outfit. Although, I must admit that I harbored a faraway hope that they would ended up in a steamy threesome. The Missus, on the other hand, have always knew that the whole episode would end up this way. The guy is a dick, she said. Now that the girl's fairer that she used to be, he would come back running. She has a keen understanding of the male species psychology, my Missus.

'told you she would make a superhot dominatrix

Now, in case I haven't make myself clear, I was reffering to the months-long Ponds-Whitening-something-or-other ad campaign which began I think some time in October last year. The story goes somewhat like this. The lucky bastard left the long-haired girl (by then her hair is still short) for some unspecified reason. Years went by and suddenly the long-haired girl found out that the lucky bastard had became a celebrity of some sort and was planning to marry his fellow celebrity, the superhot wavy-haired girl. Naturally, the long-haired heroine was devastated and was reduced into brooding endlessly in the flower shop in which she works.

the long-haired girl in brooding mood

Anyway, the producers just had to make up a reason to make the superhot wavy-haired girl unfit for the lucky bastard. They came up with this: the bitchy, yet superhot, girl demanded an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a fist. The poor lucky bastard tried to compensate his microscopic-diamonded engagement ring with a bunch of flowers. Which is a downright bad move, really. Any man in his right mind would know that diamond and flowers do not have substitutive or complementary association. Anyway, of all the flowershops in that big city, guess which one he conveniently stumbled into? Yes, you're a genious.

So, yeah. Apparently he noticed that her hair is longer now and her complexion is waaay fairer. Thanks to Ponds-Whitening-something-or-other. Actually, it didn't say so in the ad. I made the deduction. See, I'm the genious now. Anyway, they apparently exchanged phone numbers and began texting each other, harmlessly at first but flirtatiously later. The texting was rightfully sabotaged by the superhot, wavy-haired, would-make-an-excellent-dominatrix fiancee. Lesson #1: when you're having something even remotely resembling an affair, NEVER leave your cellphone unattended, especially when your significant other is prowling around. The long haired girl regressed back into screw-you-i'm-leaving mood and dragged her luggage to the airport. Hmm, I wonder who is managing the flower shop while she's away.

I thought that was the end. And the lucky bastard would come to his senses and returned to be mercilessly, but pleasantly, whipped by her superhot fiancee. But no. The jackass went after the long-haired ex girlfriend. Actually, it wasn't clear how he managed to find her in such a large airport. This goes for all the romantic comedies I have ever watched. Believe me, finding a person in an airport/football stadium/trainstation/large square is NOT easy, unless the person in question is ten feet tall and is partial to shocking pink headgears. Anyway, apparently they reconciled and now the Missus is badgering me about that split-heart magnetic pendant.

Renewing the Licence

2008-01-15T08:25:00.000+07:00

Who says that dealing with the police is a pain in the arse? Yesterday, I went to a Polres, a police HQ of some sort, to renew my driver's licence and what I experienced was the exact opposite. No, not 'pleasure in the arse'. Not literally, at least. But I did get a quick and efficient service. Which is a good thing.

The thing was I lost my driver's licence a while back. I filed a report, but the report went missing as well. So I went to the Polres yesterday morning armed only with copies of my ID card. Which was a mistake. The place was packed to the roof. I went to the service counter and the police officer on duty flatly rejected my plea. No missing report, no renewal. I was asked to file a new one at the missing stuff counter. The missing stuff counter officer told me that he couldn't produce a report unless I have the number of my missing driver's licence. So I had to go back to the service counter to get the number and return to the missing stuff counter to file my report. I was beginning to wonder if I would live long enough to obtain my new licence.

It turned out that my brother knows a guy who knows a guy. So I called the first guy explaining that I am my brother's brother and in need of his assistance. The first guy was a police officer working in traffic management. He showed up, took my ID card, and disappeared in the mob. He returned ten minutes later with a missing licence report. He then took me directly to the photo room. It was quite uncomfortable, you know, walking past those people who had been waiting for hours to have their photo taken. I was a sitting duck for countless accusing stares. But I told myself to be strong. This would be over soon. And this is, after all, Indonesia.

The first guy introduced me to the second guy who kindly filled my application for me. The photo room was also cramped with people. However, after only five minutes of waiting, the second guy took over the photo booth and asked me to step in. And voila! My new driver's licence. In less than half an hour. I settled the 'administration affair' with a designated staff. And guess what, it's only 30 grand above the regulation price!!! That's what I call a premium service. Fast and cheap. No need for running from one counter to another, filling several five-mile long applications, and hours of non-airconditioned wait. All you need is a brother who knows a guy who knows a guy.

Wee Mischievous One

2007-12-12T09:29:00.000+07:00

In normal circumstances, laptop and 'sambel goreng udang' rarely exist in the same sentence. A couple of months ago, I was harshly reminded that having a toddler roaming freely unchecked in one's living room comes under the heading of 'possible abnormal circumstances may occur'.

I should have been suspicious when things were too quiet. I was doing something in the bedroom while my better half was doing whatever she was doing in the bathroom. I knew something was amiss when there was no sound at all came from the living room where usually my riotous chatterbox of a daughter generate enough noise to compete with a medium-sized traditional market. She must have been doing something that is extremely fascinating. For her. And, from experience, whatever fascinates her carries a rather disastrous consequence for me.

I called out to the missus and asked her to check on the offspring. She did and seconds later with a slight tone of amusement she called back,"You better have a look at this!'. I rushed to the livingroom and there she was. Squatting on the dining table, my daughter was smearing the keyboard pad of my laptop with sambel goreng udang, which was meant to be our lunch. She grabbed a handful of the sambel and put it on the keyboard pad. Then, she slowly and meticulously spread the concoction like one would spread butter on a sandwich bread. In doing so, she wore the expression of someone in an intense state of concentration. It was as if the fate of humanity depended on whether she managed to cover every inch of my laptop with the oily concoction of chili and prawns. And I just stood there dumbfounded.

She has always been fascinated by that poor device. My fault, really. I often displayed her pictures or play her clips on the screen, just to see her reaction. Apparently, she grew fond of the poor thing. Once, I left the laptop unattended and the next thing I know she happily punching the keyboards at random. There went the editing that I had done for the past hour. Plus now when I left-click what showed up was the prompts normally saved for right-click. And numbers showed up instead of letters although I pressed the latter. I can't help but admiring her affinity for destruction.

She was about to decorate the screen when I finally came to. I called her and hold out my hands. She looked up and smiled proudly as if to say, hi Daddy, look what I can do with a bowl of sambel goreng udang!

Yeah, do that when you're ten and you're grounded till kingdom come, Missy...

Rest in Peace, Herr Weber!*

2007-11-14T11:28:00.000+07:00

Ask anyone the first thing that comes to mind when they heard the word ‘government’. Chances are you will hear the word ‘bureaucracy’. And very rarely in a friendly tone, either. What is it with bureaucracy that send people shivering in disgust?

For one, the word signifies a maze of a process with lots of forms to fill and equally lots of people to seek approval from, not to mention the frequent, not-so-short waits that go with it. The depressingly long and time-consuming procedure is also known as red tape. The expression refers to old British custom of tying up official documents with red ribbons.

Earlier this year, a friend of mine caught a rather severe flu. Being a dedicated employee that he is, he didn’t want to miss a day’s work and therefore decided to visit the MoF clinic during lunchtime. With his head pounding and his nose running to the point that he started sneezing every ten seconds, he casually walked to the clinic expecting to get an immediate treatment. He was so wrong that even God himself could not make it right.

As he had never been there before, he was required to fill up a form consisting of the details of him and his family. Other than that, he had to fill up two slips, yellow and blue. However, to obtain those two slips he must first fill another form that necessitated the approval of his superior or somebody from the General Affairs Division. That meant he had to go back to his office to get the signature of his superior and get back to the clinic to get the colored slips, and return to his office again because the slips had to be manually-typed, not handwritten. On top of that, he had to go to a nearby Fujifilm outlet to have his photos processed because the slips required an attachment of two recent photos. He was starting to see a long, dark tunnel with a bright light at the end by the time he arrived back to the clinic to get some medical treatment. See what I mean?

It didn’t start out this way, mind you. A German gentleman named Weber developed this noble concept of setting things in order. Within bureaucracy, Herr Weber dictates that labor should be well-defined and specified to avoid confusion, roles should be hierarchically arranged with a single chain of command, rules should be impersonal to ensure fair treatments, and similarly relationships should also be made impersonal by the use of procedures and written records. All these are designed to ensure that works are organized efficiently and services dispensed effectively. However, as is the case with other noble concepts that looks good on paper but do not mix well with human implementation (remember Socialism?), along the way bureaucracy began to derail from its original course.

Hierarchy which was supposed to be a way of delegation of authority and procedure as a way of standardizing service are often seen as a convenient method to avoid making decision. If you try to question the clinic people why the slips has to be manually typed, the most likely response you will get is: Hey, I don’t make the rules! If you are mad enough to insist that the rules be changed, they will tell you that they don’t have the authority and refer you to their supervisor whom will in turn refer you to his supervisor, and so on and so forth. The next thing you know, you are filling the guest book of Istana Merdeka.

However, before you start sipping Baygon, please note that there is still hope. MoF is undergoing a bureaucracy reform. The reform includes a restructuring of the existing organizational structure, development of better—hopefully less maddening—procedures, improvement of business process, and enhancement of Human Resource quality. Hopefully, once the dust has settled MoF will emerge as a more efficient and better serving organization. And Herr Weber would stop stirring in his grave.

It's an article I submitted to the office mag, Warta Anggaran

The Bubur Ayam Rant

2007-10-30T07:23:00.000+07:00

Yes, madams. I'm fully aware that given the fact that bubur ayam does consist of at least seven different condiments, you as the purchasers of the said bubur ayam reserve the right to customize its content to your liking. I understand your distaste of fried soybeans and why you want to remove them altogether from your serving. I understand the underlying economic principle that drives you to ask the bubur vendor for additional bitternut chips and shredded chicken as a compensation for the removal of fried soybeans. I understand the health concern behind your demand that the aforementioned shredded chicken be free of skin. However, it's a bit ironic bearing in mind your request for liver and intestines satay, isn't it? I vaguely understand why you want the chopped celery be separated from the chopped shallot although they have been traditionally mixed by the vendor. I understand why you want the tapioca cracker be crushed, while the bitternut chips left whole. I totally agree that kecap manis should be used sparingly while that yellow sauce should be sprayed liberally. I understand why you want the sambal be placed before the soy sauce. I understand why you insist that the fried shallot flakes be sprinkled thoroughly rather than be stacked at the centre. I understand that you and all of your three colleagues have different taste and the content variation of your orders should be adjusted accordingly. And logically, I agree with you that bearing in mind the complexity of your orders, the vendor needs to be reminded over and over and over and over again.

What I don't understand is how you and your friends have the heart to do all this when it's nearly 7.30 in the morning and the line is a fucking mile long and you're not even in it!

You, Me, and The Story

2007-10-09T09:03:00.000+07:00

I caught a brief glimpse from the TV and you asked me to download it from the net if I happen to go to the Uni. So there we were. Just past midnight. Half a loaf of garlic bread and and choc-vanilla ice cream right out of the 2 litre tube. No words. But we both know the story.

Things To Do At Glendale

2007-10-03T08:47:00.001+07:00

Hi Glenn,

I heard that you're willing to take over my job at Woolworth Glendale so I compiled this 'to-do' list for you. Don't forget that the last 101 leaves the uni at about 11.1o pm, make sure you're on it. Taking a cab will cost you about 20 bucks. It's not worth it, man.

12.00 Upstairs

Go upstairs (Lunchroom and Offices)

- Change the bin liner of the garbage can under the sink in the lunchroom

- Use the used bin liner to collect garbage from the offices

- Go downstairs and dispose the garbage at the back dock

12.15 Floor (Meat, Seafood, Bakery, Entrance)

Get the broom from cleaner’s room

- Sweep the floor from meat section à seafood à bakery à entrance

- Sweep the express checkout

- Get scissor mop from the cleaner’s room and gather the garbage, put them at ‘the base’

12.30 Floor (Checkouts)

- Disengage the trolleys from checkout, put them into the far corner

- Put the mats up from every checkout (sometimes they did it for you)

- Sweep the checkouts, gather the garbage with scissor, and put them at the base

01.00 Floor (Produce)

Get a trolley from one of the aisles

- Gather the rubber mats, put them near the chicken section at the back

- Sweep the produce section, get all the fruits/veggies from under the racks.

- Gather the garbage with scissor mop, put them at the base

01.30 Floor (Aisle)

Sweep the aisles, gather the garbage with scissors, and put them at the base

02.30 Floor (Tidying up)

- Get red shopping basket from the entrance

- Sort the garbage à anything with a barcode goes to the basket

- Get a bin liner from the fast checkout, put the rest of the garbage in there.

- Dispose the garbage at the back dock, return the broom and the scissor back to the cleaner’s room

- Get two 150 litre bin liner from the cleaner’s room and replace the ones in the fast checkout

- Grab dustpan + small broom from the express checkout and go upstairs and have a break. You deserve it.

03.00 Upstairs (Lunchroom)

- Check the wall-mounted tissue roll and hand soap. Change them if you have to.

- Use a roll of wet tissue to clean the table, the pantry, and the sink.

- Empty the garbage bin and re-attach with fresh bin liner

- Dispose the garbage near the entrance of male change room.

- Grab a bin liner and go to female’s toilet

03.15 Upstairs (Female Changing Room and Toilet)

- Check the wall-mounted tissue roll and hand soap. Change them if you have to.

- Scrub the toilet bowl with the available tool. Use chemicals to remove stains. Yuck!

- Using a roll of paper napkin, clean the toilet bowls

- Wipe the mirror and the sink.

- Change the toilet tissue rolls

- Empty the garbage and fasten the fresh bin liner

- Dispose the garbage near the entrance of male change room. Grab another bin liner from under the sink of the lunchroom as you go along.

03.30 Upstairs (Male Changing Room and Toilet)

- Check the wall-mounted tissue roll and hand soap. Change them if you have to.

- Scrub the toilet bowl with the available tool. Use chemicals to remove stains. Yuck!

- Using a roll of tissue, clean the toilet bowls

- Wipe the mirror and the sink.

- Scrub the urinoir.

- Change the toilet tissue rolls

- Empty the garbage and fasten the fresh bin liner

03.45 Upstairs (Sweeping)

- Get the broom from male changing room and proceed sweeping as follows: Hallway -> office 1 -> Lunchroom ->Female Toilet -> Offices 2, 3, and 4 -> back to male changing room

- Gather the garbage with the dustpan and put it in whichever liner still open

- Sweep the stairs.

- Dispose all the garbage at the back dock

04.00 Upstairs (Mopping)

Once you dispose the garbage, go the cleaner’s room and get a bucket of water and a mop. The chemical to use is either VIEWQUICK or TEMPO HD. If none is available, just use water. Bring it upstairs. Proceed mopping upstairs with similar sequence as the sweeping, including the stairs. Once you’re done, come down and bring the dustpan with you. By now, Sonny should have finished mopping the floor. Return the dustpan to the checkout.

04.30 Floor (Buffing)

Get the buffing machine from the back dock. Attach the pad protector and you’re ready to go. Start with the section where the water from the mopping has dried out. NEVER run your buffing machine though a puddle of water. Usually the sequence is Back -> meat section -> seafood -> bakery -> entrance-> produce -> aisles -> front -> checkout -> middle. Once you’re done, dismantle the pad protector and return the machine to the back dock.

05.30 Floor (finishing mop)

Refill your bucket with clean water. Get a scrapper. Go to the checkout. Fasten a plastic bag to your shirt.

- The sequence is entrance -> checkouts -> aisle -> back -> meat section -> seafood -> bakery -> produce

- Don’t forget to mop the black lines along the refrigerated sections (aisle 17, back, meat. etc.)

- Remove any visible marks left from the mopping, careful to clean the edges.

- Pick up any tidbits of garbage, remove stickers with scrapper

06.55 Tidying up

Mop the cleaner’s room and tidy up a bit. Once the gate is open, go to the front and mop the front just under the gate.

07.05 Hurry up and catch the 7.16 101 bus.

Get some rest, man.

HAVE FUN!

Lebaran di Cilacap, Yin...

2007-09-24T07:43:00.000+07:00

Yin, lebaran nanti kita main ke Cilacap. Pagi-pagi ke Teluk Penyu. Pakai jaket kuningmu itu. Naik motor ke ujung Areal 70. Liat matahari terbit. Tapi jangan lama-lama, bisa masuk angin ibumu.

Beli serabi di deket brug Menceng buat Atung dan Uti. Mampir sarapan lontong opor di depan SMA Yos. Pernah ke Pasar Saliwangi, Yin? Pasti belum. Nanti kita ke sana juga. Liat-liat ikan yang nggak pernah ada di gerobak sayur manapun di Bekasi.

Agak siangan, kita bujuk Atung untuk nganter kita ke Nusakambangan. Nggak usah lama-lama. Sesorean aja. Uti pasti nggak setuju, takut kamu item. Tapi biarlah, kita ajak juga kalo perlu. Nanti kita naik feri dari Wijayapura. Cuma sebentar kok, kaya waktu kita nyeberang dari Foreshore ke Stockton dulu. Nggak usah ke Permisan, kejauhan. Main-main aja di Limusbuntu. Cari buah kersen. Kalo haus beli es kelapa muda. Nggak usah khawatir kalau lapar, ibumu pasti sudah menyiapkan ransel makanan cukup buat seminggu.

Sore kita pulang pake perahu tongkang. Kalau kamu masih belum cape, kita jalan ke alun-alun. Bawa tikar, kita duduk di rumput. Lihat kendaraan yang seliweran sambil makan kacang rebus. Mau balon? Boleh. Tapi jangan di lepas ya? Bapakmu ini nggak punya sayap.

Sabar, Yin. Tiga minggu lagi.

Just Outside Auchmutty

2007-09-03T18:01:00.000+07:00

It's pretty quiet now. Save for the steady humming of what I suspect to be a large air conditioner stowed somewhere. The occasional rustling of the leaves would tell you that the possums are coming down to feed on a nearby garbage bin. Charming animals, these nocturnal marsupials. Occasionally, my fellow allnighters would come out here for a cigarette, hoping that it will jack up their system. Hoping that, for example in my case, it will help figure out why a company pursuing a related diversification strategy would opt for multi-divisional structure or whether works council is better than traditional unions.

Come daytime, people would come and go. Banters exchanged, opinions offered. Some New Age guys sell veggy lunches between 11 and 2 on the far end. In summer, squadrons of white cockatoos would insist on having their say up there in the trees. Noises. Lots of them.

But it's quiet now. And they are all behind me. It's time to go home.

Ode de Cappuccino

2007-07-06T14:32:00.000+07:00

An old friend called out of nowhere, insisting that it was imperative for us to grab a cup of coffee and catch up. I had no problem whatsoever with that, given my other alternative of spending a particularly sunny Saturday was rummaging the landlady's dusty storeroom for old novels that I had not read. I had been doing that for the last couple of months, ever since I found out that the storeroom was not locked. Accidentally came across 'Merantau ke Deli', that Soe Hok Gie book, and heaps of old computer magazines. Anyway, after some negotiation, it was agreed that for geographical fairness, we would meet at a cafe somewhere around Sudirman. Now that could pose a bit of a hiccup. I'd never been to cafe before. Not once.

Yes, I suppose it's pretty sad. I had been living in Jakarta for nearly two years and during that period of time I had never set foot into a cafe. Not that I didn't want to. The guys at the office had been mentioning about going to this cafe or that. They even conjured up some sort of verb for it; ngafe, which I deduced to mean 'going to a cafe'. To my mind, it was equal to going to a fancy place where people dress up fashionably and had intelligent conversations, both of which would make me feel helplessly out of place, like the last time another friend asked me to meet him at the lobby of Borobudur hotel, which was just across my office but felt like a world away. I guess I just wasn't up for it. Anyway, I had agreed to this little rendezvous and it was too late to fake terminal illness. There was nothing left to do but act the part and hope nothing disastrous happened.

After a frantic effort to make myself a bit presentable, which I assured you was not easy, and a surprisingly smooth bajaj ride, I arrived somewhere near the vicinity an hour before the designated time. I needed the extra time to do a little reconnaissance survey to give myself a little edge. Now, by then I have come to terms with the fact that I was, and still am, a hillbilly beyond salvation. But I was not particularly keen about everyone finding out. So yeah, I needed the time to find out as much as possible about the procedures of going to a cafe. One fundamental question, for example, is whether you sit down and wait for the waitperson to come to you or order straight from the counter like in the warung at the end of Pejambon street where I usually had dinner. It would be awkward if I missed this important information. I could end up sitting there sweating under my shirt for an hour waiting for the waitperson that never came. Then everybody would know that I had never been there before, or worse, they would find out that I had never been to a cafe. That prospect made me shudder.

It took another half hour before I found the rendezvous point. I couldn't make out much from where I was standing but it seemed like a nice place. I could see the the entrance, which also served as the exit. At least three waitpersons manned the counter and some patrons were doing whatever it was they were doing in there. The procedure was still a bit of a mystery. However, I couldn't get any closer because it would look very suspicious. Then I struck an ingenious plan. It was childishly simple. I would wait for my friend to show up, ambush her near the entrance, and just follow her lead. Simple. It amazed me as to why I did not think of that earlier. However, as fate would have it, no sooner than I congratulated myself for crafting such a magnificent plan, my phone rang. It was her and she's very sorry to inform me that she would be around half an hour late. Something about her hair needing some sort of treatment. She then suggested that I went ahead and wait for her in there. Fuck. So much for my brilliant plan. I couldn't wait under fierce Jakartan sun for that long. Now that seemingly air-conditioned cafe looked very inviting. So I decided to go for it.

This was it. The poor sod from Kebonmanis, Cilacap is going to enter a cafe. By then my stomach was doing a backflip every few seconds and my heart was jumping up and down at quite an alarming rate, but I steeled myself and approached the counter. The waitperson was very nice and she asked me what I would order. Actually, years later I learned that they are called baristas, not waitperson, or coffee-maker. Anyway, I looked up to the menu and realized that I might as well be trying to read Cyrillic in Braille. Aside from the cappuccino and green tea, none of the inscriptions in the menu rang any bell. The numbers was even more frightening. The least expensive item on the menu was the equivalent of three helpings of nasi padang. This excursion was going to cause a significant dent in my already meager budget. But that's another issue. Right now, I was torn between playing it safe and went for cappuccino or being adventurous and blindly went for some other beverages, assuming that's what they were. This was my chance of trying something new because I was in no hurry to go back to this place in the near future. After what seemed to be an eternity, I heard myself croaked the word 'cappuccino'. Damn, I chickened out at the last moment. But then I consoled my self with the thought that this heftily priced cappuccino would surely taste better than the ones in the sachet. Plus, I would probably didn't know how to pronounce the other coffees correctly anyway.

The barista immediately grabbed a weird-looking apparatus, packed it with dark-brownish powder which I suspected to be coffee and strapped it into a nearby weird-looking machine. Then with her other hand she grabbed a large stainless-steel cup and placed it under a small pipe which immediately produced weird sound, like when you blow your straw into a bottle full of liquid. The cup was then shaken in circular motion and banged to the table. She then proceed to pour whatever was into the stainless-steel cup into a waiting smaller ceramic cup and top it with chocolate powder. I was thoroughly amazed by this strange coffeemaking ritual. Then, voila. My first cup of non-sachet, handmade cappuccino. She asked me if I wanted to have any cakes with that but I politely declined. I must keep the damage to my financial health at the minimum.

A while later, I settled down on a chair with the cup of cappuccino sitting prettily on the table in front of me. It looked good. It smelled good. So this was what going to a cafe like. I was tempted by the soft colored sofas at the corner but decided against it. It would be weird to sit there alone. The place was cozy and snug. It was funny because at that precise moment I could have been roasting alive in my own room reading whatever I dug up from the landlady's storeroom and feeling utterly miserable. Yet here I was. In a cool cafe with soft background music. Admittedly I would feel more at home at my own oven-like room, but this was not bad. Not bad at all. I was feeling pleased with myself just to be there. Suddenly a rather embarrassing feeling crept in. I felt the urge of wanting to be seen. You know, like when you're going out with a really gorgeous chick and you wanted to make your friends jealous but they were not around. You wanted them to think, man, that Eko guy is something. I wished the guys at the office would walked right then and there. I know it's pretty sad.

Anyway, there's the coffee in all its glory. It was almost to pretty to drink, but hey, I paid dearly for that. So I took a sip. It was much better than what I had expected. It's far better than my usual dose of Kapal Api. The taste of coffee was so thick you could almost chew it. It was not as sweet as I would have imagined, but I thought that was what a real cappuccino supposed to taste like. Besides, seriously, it's smooth and creamy as hell. It dawned on me that the white liquid on the stainless-steel cup was probably milk. I was right about this being better than the sacheted cappuccino--by several miles. I cursed myself for not bringing a book. A good novel would complete my first cafe experience. Just like in the movies.

Then my friend showed up and walked straight to my table, something which puzzled me. I was under the impression that one should order something from the counter to gain access to this particular establishment. She apologized for her lateness. She had had a creambath, which explained the coconuty smell. Then she walked up to the counter and chatted with the baristas. Apparently they knew each other. She returned with a cup of her own. After one sip, she asked me how I liked my coffee. Trying to sound casual, I told her that it was fine, except that it was a bit too bitter for my liking. "Oh," she said," you can get the sugar from that table over there", nudging to the far corner. Right.

Number 5 Union Street

2007-06-19T14:22:00.000+07:00

"Did you enjoy the presentation?"
"Immenselly. It was thought-provoking. I'll be thinking about it for days"
"I have to say the presenters communicated effectively with the audience"
"And they managed to get the audience to participate too"
"Yes. They thoroughly engaged the audience and get the message accross, remarkably, with only few words"
"Very effective use of visual aids"
"They are the visual aids"
"Same time next week? We got to bring Eko along"
"He'll love it"

Barisan Hitam

2007-05-31T22:22:00.000+07:00

oleh:
Romansa Kimiawiku

Sewaktu kecil ayahku mengajak aku ke kota untuk menonton marching band.
Beliau berkata," Nak, saat kau besar nanti
sanggupkah dirimu menjadi juru selamat bagi
kaum yang putus asa, tertindas dan yang terkucilkan?"

"Sanggupkah kau mengalahkan iblis dalam dirimu,
dan mereka yang meragukanmu, serta rencana busuk mereka.
Karena nanti akan kuwariskan padamu roh yang
akan menuntunmu pada musim panas
untuk bergabung dengan Barisan Hitam"

She Bites

2007-03-15T11:43:00.000+07:00

Being awaken in the morning by a set of five mini-teeth firmly sunk in your nose is by far not a very pleasant experience, or normal, for that matter. People invented alarm-clocks for that very purpose. Yet, I find myself making quite generous exceptions these days. The little carnivore I am currently living with is growing her teeth and, consequently, has a bit of affinity with biting things, my nose included. On the good side, however, it does get me from a state of deep sleep into high battle-readiness in seconds; a feat comparable to Masai warriors of Africa.

The other parts of my anatomy are not exactly safe either. I was peacefully enjoying my dinner the other day when I felt a sharp pain on my left leg. Fighting off the impulse to violently shake my legs, I decided to look under the table. Sure enough, there she was, testing the consistency of my right calf-muscle with her fangs.

These random and unprovoked attacks are getting more frequent lately. I tried reasoning with her but I received some blank stares and intelligible mumblings for all my troubles. My effort to rigorously discipline her was met with eardrum-shattering cry and matching stamina. My comrade in arms, her mother, only shrugged and said something about it being a phase that she was going through.

My mind even refuses to contemplate what the next phase would be.

My Valentines

2007-01-31T20:05:00.000+07:00

As my junior high school friend ever so subtly put it, February is the official 'Bulan Bercinta'--the month of loving. And it all culminates on February the 14th. The Valentine's day.

Yes, break that old piggy bank. Start shopping for that special someone, be it already acquired or at the courting stage. Get a box of chocolate, a dozen of roses. Get something fluffy and pink. Or heart-shaped. Be somebody. Better yet, be somebody's somebody special. Yes, stop flying under the radar. Make the control tower jolt. Go for it. You only live once.

And this year, all I want is to see them emerge from Sydney Airport's arrival gate. That is worth all the chocolates in the northern part of New South Wales.

Embrace

2007-01-25T16:57:00.000+07:00

I wasn't a big ice cream fan. They're not thirst-quenching. Ice, of all variants, is supposed to quench thirst. For me it was more like a sweet cold meal. And most of them come in small quantities. A couple of years ago, a friend bought me an alarmingly small cup of strawberry ice cream at some fancy parlour. The reddish thing with bits of strawberries in it was tagged at thirty grands. Ridiculous. Of course, I didn't tell him that.

This afternoon, however, I developed an unusual craving for ice cream. So when the ice cream truck passed by I flagged it down and ask the man for 'a liter of something good'. In exchange for six dollars, he gave me a container of something called Embrace, which according to the label translated into 'choc coffee almond swirl'. The surface was so pretty with off-white ice cream and dark brown chocolate coating in a pattern that closely resembled a submarine propeller. Plus a liberal amount of chopped almond scattered here and there. I stared for a full minute before resolving to stab my spoon at it.

What followed was a phenomenon many culinary expert recognized as a flavour explosion. Not a kaboom-there-goes-your-limbs explosion. Rather, it was subtle and elegant. Like the burst of ink deployed by a scared squid. I swore I could feel the chocolate and coffee swirled hand in hand like a pair of champion ballroom dancers in my tongue, stepping on my every taste bud to make sure that I knew they were good. It's chocolatylicious, coffeelicious, almondylicious. Delifuckinglicious.

The first spoonful sent me into an ice cream frenzy. Initially, I planned to be civilized and ate out of small bowl. But when I felt that scooping the ice cream into the bowl took what seemed like aeons I just dug in straight from the container. I didn't know where I was. The whole world turned mute. All I felt was this sensation of sheer grandeur in my mouth. Teasing, flirting, and bewitching like 19th century French courtesan. When I came to, I was halfway down the container. There went my resolution to a healthier life. I knew there was little I could do but surrender in its embrace. And dug in some more.

O, Wounded Hearts, Trivialize Thy Pains..

2007-01-21T21:38:00.000+07:00

Yeah..as if it's easy

What Cigarettes do to Your Lungs

2007-01-19T19:23:00.000+07:00

It's all pretty hazy now. But I distinctly remember that there was a time when playing football was actually fun. Nonetheless, as I lay there, flat on my back, my chest felt like a furnace and and my head was throbbing agonizingly, I wished that I had liked chess instead.

I used to play a lot when I was a kid. Every afternoon, I would go down to the football pitch near my house and played until sundown. That's nearly two hours of football. Scurrying here and there. Everyday.

I remember feeling like Maradona everytime I scored a goal. Or like Hans Van Breukelen when I went into full-stretch dive to deny one. I could still recall what it was like to be hacked down while running or the clashing of shin-bones when I tackled. What I don't remember is that feeling of having my life sucked out of me every time I finished playing.

I don't get it. Where is that kid now? Has he really became this decrepit of a bloke who is lying on the grass gasping for air?

Reflection in the Dark

2007-01-19T18:52:00.000+07:00

Remember when you went home on a night bus or train? It was pitch dark out there. You couldn't see a thing. Even so, you still tried to look. And mused. And mused. And mused. But then you realized that all you did was marveling at your own reflection on the window. And suddenly you felt guilty of being narcissistic.

t.A.T.u

2007-01-08T19:14:00.000+07:00

Hmm..let's see..two teenage girls, Russian accent, wet school uniform. What's not to like?

Saat Pulang

2007-01-06T20:49:00.000+07:00

Jadi teringat saat pulang. Menjenguk keluarga di Cilacap, bermalam bujang di Jogja, atau menjumpai kekasih di Semarang. Bersusah payah antri tiket di Pasar Senen jam tiga siang, tapi akhirnya mencari sela di balik bangku paling belakang. Gelar koran, rebahkan badan.

Hebat juga kalau dipikir-pikir. Betapa selembar tipis koran bisa membuat lantai kereta jadi sedikit beradab. Dan terkesan higinis. Lha, mau bagaimana lagi. Sampai sekarang belum bisa menguasai seni tidur sambil duduk.

Kompartemen tidur milik pribadi. Kepala tidak harus berjajar dengan kaki. Wajah tidak harus terlangkahi. Badan yang terguncang-guncang, lelap dalam buaian. Irama kereta jadi lagu pengantar tidur. Kaki terjulur di lorong, jadi sandungan bagi siapapun yang lewat. Tidak ada yang protes. Semua mafhum.

Lepas Cikampek. Lutut ditepuk oleh kondektur. Karcis! Diucapkan dengan lafal yang khas. Diiringi bunyi cekrak-cekrik pembolong kertas. Beberapa kali mencoba tidak beli karcis. Menyuap kondektur dua kali. Tapi hati tidak tenteram, tidur tidak tenang. Tidak sepadan. Kondektur lewat sambil dikawal polisi. Senjata laras panjang yang disandang di punggung. Konon tanpa peluru.

Bangun karena lantunan terhenti. Rupanya Cirebon. Saat makan malam. Belasan penjaja menawarkan nasi bungkus di kantong-kantong plastik berwarna-warni. Merah telur, hijau ayam, biru rendang ati sapi. Lengkap dengan seplastik air putih hangat untuk diminum atau mencuci tangan. Biasanya layak, tetapi terkadang basi. Tergantung hoki. Sajian malam ditutup dengan kopi di cangkir plastik. Nescafe, Tugu Luwak, atau Kapal Api

Cirebon adalah awal dari rangkaian pedagang asongan. Semua naik berganti-ganti. Pedagang Cirebon turun di Brebes. Pedagang Brebes turun di Tegal. Demikian seterusnya. Mainan, nasi bungkus, air mineral, minuman ringan, jagung rebus, mangga, berbagai jenis kacang dan keripik, dodol garut, wingko babat, kerupuk, rokok, dan terasi. Berpura-pura tidur untuk menghindari rayuan maut tahu sumedang dan cabai rawit hijau.

Empat jam lagi pagi akan menjelang. Dan kaki akan menapak Kroya, Tugu, atau Tawang. Pulang.

Tribute

2006-12-28T19:23:00.000+07:00

Dudek
Hyppia
Finnan
Carragher
Traore
Riise
Alonso
Kewell
Gerrard
Hamann
Garcia
Smicer
Baros
Cisse
Benitez
for a memorable night. may 25, 2005

Out of Reach

2006-12-26T22:25:00.000+07:00

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.

End of Trimester Recap

2006-12-25T17:51:00.000+07:00

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..

Recounting Today

2006-12-08T22:51:00.000+07:00

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.

The Tamarind of the Mountain--the Salt of the Sea

2006-11-29T23:08:00.000+07:00

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..

Cilacap This Morning

2006-11-28T22:47:00.000+07:00

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.

Warning

2006-11-27T16:52:00.000+07:00

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!!'

Falling Away

2006-11-11T12:10:00.000+07:00

...
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.

Cats in the Craddle

2006-11-02T13:13:00.000+07:00

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.

A Flickering Flame of Old

2006-10-27T22:15:00.000+07:00

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

2006-10-24T21:41:00.000+07:00

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

2006-10-21T21:56:00.000+07:00

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

2006-10-18T01:11:00.000+07:00

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

2006-10-16T18:12:00.000+07:00

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

2006-10-13T20:11:00.000+07:00

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.

When She's Near

2006-09-09T11:06:00.000+07:00

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.

Joran, Keranda, dan Bedahan

2006-09-03T18:43:00.000+07:00

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.

Late Winter Morning

2006-08-07T12:45:00.000+07:00

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..

Fruit Juice

2006-08-05T14:21:00.000+07:00

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

2006-08-05T14:16:00.000+07:00

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!

The Turtledoves in the Backyard

2006-07-26T13:38:00.000+07:00

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

2006-07-10T12:03:00.000+07:00

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.

You

2006-05-08T18:37:00.000+07:00

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?

Stepping Into The Void

2006-04-29T21:50:00.000+07:00

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.

The Picture and the Nail*

2006-04-14T10:06:00.000+07:00

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

The Text

2006-03-24T13:28:00.004+07:00

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

Pasar Saliwangi

2006-03-24T13:28:00.002+07:00

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.

Ariane Hanifa Widyasmoro

2006-03-24T13:28:00.000+07:00

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.

Tong Setan

2006-02-03T12:30:00.000+07:00

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.

The Finer Things in Life

2006-02-02T09:27:00.000+07:00

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.

The Kick In The Head

2005-12-23T09:33:00.000+07:00

The other night she was lying on her bed when I nudged closer and pressed my ear to her bulging tummy. Sure enough I felt a murmur of faint heartbeat beating along with hers. And then I felt a thud. Right there. Right where I placed my ear. Did you feel it? she asked.

I did. It made my heart expanded twice the original size. I was happy. I was insanely happy. Like going to a funfair for the first time. Like being given a prize worth the entire span of your life.

And there were also excitement and fear. I was flooded with those two, but couldn't tell which was dominant. Excited for having the chance to step into a realm unbeknownst to my self. Fear, when I realized all this is actually for real. It IS happening.

I've watched her tummy grows bigger. I've made the trip with her to the gynecologist every four weeks. I've made sure she takes her vitamins and drinks her milk. I've printed almost every article about pregnancy that I can find over the net and bring them home for her. But never for once did I stop to realize how real this whole affair is. Nor have I fully digested the fact that in a matter of months something big will happen. Something that will definitely change the course of our lives.

Maybe I'm too used to taking life for granted. Letting things get past me without bothering to appreciate their true value. But that kick delivered by my unborn kid reminded me that some things do deserve a more serious consideration. See you outside, kiddo!

ps. holiday, you and your questions!! thanks

Maju Kena Mundur Kena

2005-10-24T11:01:00.000+07:00

I bought and watched Dono, Kasino and Indro's Maju Kena Mundur Kena the other day. I don't know what came over me, I have only my impulsive nature to blame. That and my excessive sentimentality. You see, this movie, which was made sometime in mid 80s, is one of the early movies my parents took me out to see. Yeah, what were they thinking?

Anyway, Maju Kena Mundur Kena offers you exactly what you expect from Warkop DKI movies; a monumental amount of slapstick jokes and legs-and-boobs aplenty. In the first 5 minutes alone, the trio, collectively or individually, manages to bump their heads into various hard objects around 15 times, miraculously without being hospitalized for concussion.

There are also the obligatory allusions to sex and everything that goes with it. Eva Arnaz shows off her curves at every possible occasion. But by god, she has every right to do so. She was drop-dead gorgeous. It's as if she were a beacon radiating signal that persuades all men to abandon all reasons and devote their entire life gawking at her. I simply drooled at the sight of her in a slightly too revealing nightie. The missus gave me a sound smack at the head to bring me back to earth. Eva prances her way through the movie in skimpy pants and tight blouses. And I'm not complaining.

As is the case of their other movies, there is no plot to speak of. Dono, Kasino, and Indro work in the same garage and live in the same boarding house, along with Lidya Kandouw. Enter Eva Arnaz. And that's just about it. The movie is merely a collection of short sketches that almost stand individually.

None the less, these guys were good at it. I cringed at every slip or collision, yet I also found myself smiling. Years of working together had made these guys experts in creating slapstick situation. What I laughed at is not the bumps, but the sheer improbability of it happening in real life. Although their later works are crap, their earlier were nothing less than classics. I especially like the one where they worked in a hotel and the one where they built a soft-drink vending robot (the funniest of them all).

All in all, it was a decent form of entertainment, especially when you manage to switch off your brain as you push 'Play'. Smoking pot while watching is highly recommended. I'd rather watch this than Indonesian sinetrons any day.

Reminiscing Saur Sepuh

2005-10-20T12:12:00.000+07:00

How many of your remember Saur Sepuh? Yep. It was a phenomenal radio series in mid 80s I think. In Cilacap the show was aired at 2.30 pm daily and it would took a team of horses to drag me away from the radio.

Basically the story revolved around the adventures of Brama Kumbara, a king who was powerful and wise, a rare combination these days, from a small but respected kingdom of Madangkara. The king had this inclination to journey across his kingdom disguised as commoners, sometimes for months, which was rather strange, now that I think about it, bearing in mind that he had a kingdom to run.

Anyway, he was also a kick-ass warrior with great fighting skill and vast array of magical powers. His most notable power, if I remember correctly, was Ajian Serat Jiwa Tingkat 10, literally meaning the 10th level of Fiber of the Soul strike. The strike, if applied correctly, would reduce anyone foolish enough to be his enemy into a pile of ashes. Pretty handy if you run a crematorium business, eh? His other magical power was Bayu Bajra by which he could summon hurricanes to wreak havoc at the vicinity of his choice. Other skills included the standard requirements of the era’s warriors; fast running, long distance strike, and weight reduction to a point where you could stand on the smallest branch of any tree or effortlessly or leap a few stories high.

While Brama liked to fight bare-handed, his kid-sister Mantili preferred to do her ‘hostile negotiation’ by swords. In the old days she was known as Pedang Setan, the Ghoul Sword, because her sword, when unsheathed, would emit rolling fog of hellishly foul smelling substance. Apparently this was what distracted her enemies. While the poor slobs were busy covering their noses, Mantili conveniently slashed their necks. One time she was challenged by another swordmaster named Pedang Perak, the Silver Sword. The duel took several episodes to finish with Mantili coming on top and claimed ownership of the deceased’s sword. Apparently the silver sword reflected all sorts of light which in turn blinded the wielder’s foes. So from then on, enemy of the good not only had to contend with foul smell but also blinding lights.

Mantili, despite being a protagonist, was described as short-fused and quick to unseath both swords. Especially when she encountered Lasmini, the Swordmistress of Mount Lawu. I can’t quite recall what Lasmini’s special ability is, martially speaking, but she was extremely beautiful and she knew how to use her beauty to get what she wanted. So I guess it is safe to say that her most dangerous weapon was her sexuality, the deadliest weapon in every female’s arsenal. The voluptuous swordmistress either slept with her enemies or enchanted them with her beauty before hacking their heads off. Much to Mantili’s irritation, Lasmini had a major crush on Brama ever since our hero saved her from a pack of sex-crazed bad guys.

I don’t remember much about the antagonists because there were so many of them but there was this guy who mastered Ajian Serat Jiwa before Brama did and beat the shit out of the Madangkara king. Brama would have been dead had it not for the intervention of a giant eagle, much like Gwaihir in Lord of the Rings trilogy, who carried his dying body away. Miraculously, the king survived and years later, after mastering Ajian Serat Jiwa, got himself a rematch and exacted his revenge.

Anyway, for 30 minutes Sunday to Saturday,as was the case of millions devoted to this series, I was invited to roam in this land of fantasy. Although I could only heard the shouts and screams, I could vividly pictured how the mighty warriors taunted each other and slug it out. How the trees were uprooted and men scattered in the howling hurricane when Brama unleashed Bayu Bajra. The clanging of metals would indicate swordfight and my mind instantly drew a picture of Mantili leaping in swirling fog and silvery lights. How sparks flew from the clashing sword.

Man, they don’t make this kind of thing anymore.

The Road Not Taken

2005-10-10T11:17:00.000+07:00

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like should I choose to remain a bachelor. Unburdened by marital responsibilities, I would certainly be able to devote my life in pursuit of mundane pleasures, which to my unimaginative and shallow mind would definitely include long hours of PC or console gaming, movie watching, and getting peacefully drunk.

It’s rather disheartening to find out that my interests in life are limited to the meaningless and egocentrical activities I have mentioned above. I have always imagined that a normal human being should always want to help others and better himself in one way or another in the process. You know, like taking master degree, joining a yoga class, volunteering for humanitarian missions, teaching homeless kids, feeding birds, or extracting wisdom from religious teachings. That the sole purpose of life to seek the meaning of life itself. It’s either getting the answer or going insane trying. Well, apparently not MY life.

My immediate attempt at salvation would be dipping really deep into my saving and getting my self a state-of-the-art gamer PC and PS2 console, a respectable 5.1 subwoofer system, and a small fridge.

I would go to Glodok every Friday afternoon to buy enough pirated DVDs to last for the weekend and sporadic occasions on weekdays. In between movies, I could always play Winning Eleven at the console or Diablo, Pharaoh, and Championship Manager at the PC. Or when I get tired of them all, I would simply get my self intoxicated and listen to the likes of Sting or U2. “And you give yourself away…and you give yourself away…I can't live, with or without you.”

I would live for the day. I would have no care for tomorrow. I would enjoy the moment.

Although my social life would be restricted to the people I meet at the office, all in all I think I would have a full life. Female companionship could be virtually obtained over the internet, courtesy of Yahoo Messenger and Friendster. And should ‘that’ need arise, I could always frequent those shady establishments at Mangga Besar my friends always rave about. However, due to the fact that it would cause a considerable dent to my meager budget, the visit should be restricted to once a month.

Actually here is where my seemingly perfect plan shows its major flaw. Despite all the above, I knew that my life would be deprived of human closeness. Devoid of unartificial warm feeling of mutual relationship. I would be alien to shared laughter and genuine intimacy. I know this because I’ve been there. I’ve been in Saturday mornings when I looked disdainfully at my stack of DVDs I purchased the previous day and wished I had bought a train ticket to Semarang instead. I remember calling my then fiancee and for 10 minutes I basked in the glimmer of past memories and future meetings. Yes, it’s rather sickeningly melancholic, but it’s true.

That is why I took the road I have travelled by. And I’m telling this without a sigh.

Note: I suppose you know that a certain Mr. Frost once wrote a wonderful poem whose title is featured in this post. You do? Good.

The Twin Red Line

2005-08-31T08:01:00.000+07:00

A long, long time ago, a cybermate (yes, that’s you, Holiday), wrote something about the stages you have got to go through before you can actually love a living, breathing human being of the opposite sex.

She wrote that first you have to start with inanimate things, like a stone for example. The underlying reason being no matter how badly you screw up, you can’t hurt a stone. You may lose it or break it, but you just can’t hurt it. Easy.

Upon being able of loving lifeless object, you should move on to living but not moving objects, like trees. I’ve cultivated a patch of cassavas, back when I was still in Jogja. Not easy. I learnt that my affection for the cassava patch were short-lived as soon as I realized that I had to constantly weed them and water them, and gave them that evil-smelling goat waste.

The next stage concerns with loving a living, moving but unthinking object. Pets, for example. Now, here is where the real problem begins. My efforts to have a pet always ended up in the horrible demise of the poor animal. My cat banged his head to the tire of a moving car. My bird became a stray cat’s lunch. And my fish always went belly-up in the aquarium. Don’t know why.

What worries me is that my cybermate made it very clear that unless you succeed in loving and caring for the objects mentioned above, you are simply not ready for loving a living human being. Now it seems that in just a matter of months, I have made a giant leap from loving stones straight to loving a member of human race. First, I pledged loyalty and life-long dedication to a woman that have been the object of my affection for as long as I can remember. And then, one morning this woman emerged from the bathroom showing me a small stick. There were two red lines on it, instead of one.

Dear God, or whatever divine being reigning up there, I hope you know what you’re doing…

Perhaps Some Other Aeons

2005-08-29T15:34:00.000+07:00

Right. It is the title of a song performed by the Cocteau Twins, which at first I mistook for that old French diver only to realize that his name was Costeau. And that he was dead, too. The reason why I’m writing this somewhat amateurish review is that a fellow blogger, whose blog I read religiously 5 days a week, made references to it several times in her posts, so I decided to see what the fuss is all about. Now I’m obliged to remind you that I have neither musical background nor adequate knowledge about the band. So what makes me think I qualified to write a review? God knows...

Knowing her, I thought Cocteau Twins was some sort of angry girl band like the Bikini Kills. You know, an all-girl band who urges female species around the world to vent their anger by kicking us men squarely in the nuts. Well, maybe they do. I could not catch the lyrics much except the repeated ‘perhaps-some-other-aeons’. I wonder what that means. I wonder if it’s an answer to a question. You know, questions like::

Would you like a cup of coffee? Perhaps some other aeons.
Would you like a razor to go with that wrist? Perhaps some other aeons.
Would you like to watch another Ben Stiller movie? Perhaps some other aeons. Moreover, somebody should shoot that guy.

Lyrics aside, I think the closest words to describe their music is ‘out-of-worldly’. The echoing melodies and the incessant, rhythmic beating of the drums give you the feeling that you are floating up there in the sea of stars. I cannot help but catch some strong mystical nuances, like when you hear the chanting of Indian shaman or Buddhist monks. I think the best way to enjoy this song is by lying on your back in a dark, secluded place.
Like when you listen to that Irish chick, Enya, you can imagine the serene lakes, tranquil woods and calm sea. This song is equally engaging but in a darker, grimmer kind a way.

In conclusion, this song is no Didi Kempot (more feminists should listen to this guy’s whining about being dumped by women all over the country) but I think I might like it. Thank you, Marianne.

PS: If you find this review to be chronically one-sided or inacurate, you may complain all you want. Just don’t kick me in the nuts.

The Kota-Rangkasbitung Train

2005-08-25T09:14:00.000+07:00

I have just seen the bottom of Indonesian train barrel. It was manifested in the form of economy-class Jakarta Kota-Rangkasbitung diesel train.

The cars had definitely seen better days and now it looked like something the cat dragged in. If you have a train set at home, soak it in a gutter for a night, roll it over in dust, and bang it several times to the wall and you might come close to understanding what I’m talking about. Or being clubbed to death by your little nephew for ruining his train set, for that matter.

The inside of the train car gave you the feeling that the interior design consultant was a group of angry and rebellious teenagers armed with baseball bats and spray paints. There used to be seats in there, but only the rusty wire frames were left, giving you a junkyard look. Whatever was left of the cushions were piled up here and there in the hope that they would pass for seats. I could not tell the original color of the floor since it was comprehensively covered by dirt, candy wrappings, plastic bags, peels of any fruit known to man, banana leaves and other things I could only guess. The walls were decorated with contemporary writings in the form of love pledges by several different people in at least four languages, revolutionary slogans, advertising statements (one promoting a Bantenese penis enlargement method), narcissistic statements, and on that could only be categorized as cry of desperation (a hilarious ‘Eyang, cucumu terluka..’—‘Grandpa, your grandson is hurt..’, trying to imagine what prompted the author to write this particular literary gem was mentally disturbing). And the smell. Man! It was as if the entire population of West Jakarta had peed in it. That and some other foul smells that my sensory organ just refused to contemplate.

Yet, it was always packed with passengers. And hawkers. Anything you need, man, you can find it here. Peanuts, fruits of all season, spare automobile tires, vast array of clothing, and some weird looking self-massage device that I mistook for, uhm, a dildo. Not that I’m interested in dildos. I’m completely secured with my sexuality. And come on, why would I need dildos anyway? Anyways, now that we’ve established the fact that I don’t need dildos, these hawkers tirelessly marketed their goodies even though the aisle was jam-packed by passengers. I noticed an orange vendor that offered 15 oranges for five thousand rupiahs in Stasiun Kota, the number went up to 20 in Stasiun Tanah Abang, 25 by the time the train reached Kebayoran Lama, and finally 30 at Stasiun Pondok Ranji, where I got off. Goddamn! I couldn’t imagine how much oranges you could get for five thousand rupiahs when you buy them at Rangkasbitung.

Getting off the train required Herculean effort. There were a lot of pushing and shoving, and groping, yes somebody actually chop a feel at my rear end. It was more of criminal rather than sexual, I guess. Whoever did it must have been trying to feel my back pocket for wallet. And he’s not very good at it. Not that I am in the habit of having my arse gropped…

Kilkelly

2005-08-08T09:23:00.000+07:00

I dedicate this song to those who live far away from home.

Kilkelly
(Peter Jones)

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 60, my dear and loving son John
Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good
As to write these words down.
Your brothers have all gone to find work in England,
The house is so empty and sad
The crop of potatoes is sorely infected,
A third to a half of them bad.
And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell
Are going to be married in June.
Your mother says not to work on the railroad
And be sure to come on home soon.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 70, dear and loving son John
Hello to your Mrs and to your 4 children,
May they grow healthy and strong.
Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble,
I guess that he never will learn.
Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of
And now we have nothing to burn.
And Brigid is happy, you named a child for her
And now she's got six of her own.
You say you found work, but you don't say
What kind or when you will be coming home.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 80, dear Michael and John, my sons
I'm sorry to give you the very sad news
That your dear old mother has gone.
We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly,
Your brothers and Brigid were there.
You don't have to worry, she died very quickly,
Remember her in your prayers.
And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning,
With money he's sure to buy land
For the crop has been poor and the people
Are selling at any price that they can.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 90, my dear and loving son John
I guess that I must be close on to eighty,
It's thirty years since you're gone.
Because of all of the money you send me,
I'm still living out on my own.
Michael has built himself a fine house
And Brigid's daughters have grown.
Thank you for sending your family picture,
They're lovely young women and men.
You say that you might even come for a visit,
What joy to see you again.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John
I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on.
He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end.
Ah, you should have seen him play with
The grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend.
And we buried him alongside of mother,
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard.
He was a strong and a feisty old man,
Considering his life was so hard.
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you,
He called for you in the end.
Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit,
We'd all love to see you again.

Note: 130 years after his great grandfather left the small village of Kilkelly in County Mayo, Peter Jones found a bundle of letters sent to him by his father in Ireland. The letters tell of family news, births, death, sales of land and bad harvests. They remind the son, that he is loved, missed and remembered by his family in Ireland. The final letter informs him that his father, whom he has not seen for 30 years, has died, the last link with home is broken. Peter Jones used these letters to make this song.
The "trouble" in verse two is probably the Fenian rising of 1867.

Sugeng Kenthongan

2005-07-15T15:10:00.000+07:00

My first encounter with Sugeng Kenthongan dated back when I was still in elementary school and we were still living at Jalan Tengiri house near Teluk Penyu. Like a clock work, day after day he would march the streets of Cilacap, including the one in front of our house, singing while playing his bamboo kenthongan. Hence the name.

In the ancient pre-cellphone, pre-telephone, pre-loudspeaker, and pre-e-mail days, kenthongan was largely used as a mean of communication. It is made from hollowed log and hung in front of every neighborhood watchpost. When I was a kid, every house had the hand-held bamboo version. Beat the shit out that thing with a stick and neighbors, alarmed by its rapid thumping, would gather in no time asking, what happened? what happened?.

It was one of those hand-held version that Sugeng beat rhythmically to accompany whatever it was that he was singing, if you could call it that. Children jeered at him and scurried behind him daring each other to walk the closest to him. The boldest went as far as tugging at his shirt. Adults, having grown accustomed to his patrolling the streets, took no heed. But Sugeng marched along unperturbed. Rain or shine. Day and night. Day in day out.

If there was a parade in town, you could bet your last dime that Sugeng would be there. Clad in his rag shirt and shorts he strode along the colorful uniforms of drumband squads, maneuvering deftly among the flagbearers until he was at the front. Up there with the pretty majorettes with their skimpy skirts, white stocking, knee high boots, make-up that were much too heavy for their age, and silver sticks that they effortlessly threw to the air in circular motions. His kenthongan thumping and tin can singing vainly competed with the drumming of drums and blaring trumpets. Yet he walked with some sort of quiet pride, like it was HIS parade and others merely marched behind him.

His origin had become one of the greatest questions of my childhood. I was never concerned about where babies were from. But where was Sugeng from? Whatever happened to him? Where did he live? Did he have parents? Did he ever stop to eat or pee or poop? He always turned up with different clothes every day so I guess he must have had a home. But where? Rumor had it that he went bananas because he was rejected by the army but nobody knew what really happened.

Many, many years later I was running on an errand downtown with Secondborn when I saw him crouching on the sidewalk, his back against the wall of a abandoned building. So he did stop to rest. The questions must have been bugging Secondborn as well because he nudged at me and we walked up to him. Secondborn offered him a cigarette which he accepted gratefully. After the second puff we started asking the questions in native Banyumasan. He never gave satisfactory answer. He told us that he lived ‘just over there’. He never went to any schooling and was very unclear about the whereabouts of his parents.

On our way home Secondborn pointed out that Sugeng was indeed the luckiest bastard in Cilacap. Look at him, he said, he did nothing but sing and march all day, a thing that he apparently loved. He’s well fed and never had to worry about flunking a class, getting a job or getting trampled upon by girls. Classes, jobs and maybe even girls simply did not exist in his world. He lived in a world where he created his own reality. And because people didn’t understand his reality and thus dubbed him a looney, he could do whatever he wanted. No hush, no fuss. People would just shrug and walk away. Very convenient.

The reason I’m writing this is that a couple of weeks ago during my trip home, I saw him again. His thin figure among the traffics. The rhythmic beating of his kenthongan and the rough, high-pitched singing, which was a Banyumasan nursery song now that I listened closely. The casual but proud march. The unconcerned way that he walked. The luckiest bastard in Cilacap.

Liburan di Meja Kerja

2005-06-20T14:32:00.000+07:00

Belok kiri di pertigaan Bantulan dan melajulah saya di jalan Godean. Terasa semilir angin yang membawa wangi merang dari tempat pembakaran batu bata yang bertebaran di kiri-kanan jalan. Motor saya terus melaju, sesekali mendahului omprengan tua yang tertatih-tatih kelebihan muatan atau petani yang bersepeda sambil membawa cangkul di boncengannya.

Mata saya berpesta dengan sawah-sawah, saluran irigasi dan pohon akasia yang berderet sepanjang jalan. Warung-warung dari bambu yang menjual mie ayam dan jajanan ala kadarnya. Saking ndesonya, saya merasa mie ayam dengan tomato ketchup produksi perusahaan antah berantah yang disajikan di warung-warung tengah sawah itu lebih nikmat dari spaghetti bolognaise Pizza Hut.

Dan sampailah saya di perempatan pasar Godean. Jalan ke kiri membawa saya ke Argomulyo, ke kanan ke Mlati, dan jika lurus terus ke Kulonprogo, yang menjadi tujuan saya. Lampu merah memaksa saya berhenti di antara bis tiga per empat jurusan Jogja-Dekso dan seorang bapak tua yang mengendarai sepeda lengkap dengan keranjang di kiri-kanannya. Sore itu pelataran pasar penuh dengan penjual keripik belut dan keripik bayam, kudapan nasional Republik Godean. Ada yang ditempatkan di dalam etalase kaca sederhana, tetapi sebagian besar ditumpuk menggunung di tampah bambu. Seorang ibu berkacamata hitam turun dari Kijang barunya mulai bernegosiasi dengan sang bakul. Saya tidak tahu apakah negosiasi itu berujung kepada kesepakatan jual-beli karena lampu keburu hijau dan bunyi klakson motor dari belakang mengingatkan saya untuk meneruskan perjalanan.

Bulak demi bulak saya lewati. Bagi yang belum tahu, bulak adalah istilah orang Jawa untuk selajur jalan panjang yang di kiri-kanannya hanya terdapat persawahan atau tegalan, zonder pemukiman. Adalah merupakan suatu kemalangan kecil bagi setiap pengendara yang pecah ban, kehabisan bensin atau mogok di tengah bulak di malam hari karena biasanya mereka harus menuntun motor cukup jauh untuk mendapatkan pertolongan. Kemalangan besar adalah jika dalam keadaan sedemikian mereka masih harus bertemu seorang wanita bergaun putih dan berambut panjang yang kakinya tidak menjejak tanah.

Jalan aspal mulus mulai menurun dan saya pun tahu kalau sebentar lagi saya akan menyeberangi Kali Progo. Jembatannya lebar dan agak panjang dengan tonggak-tonggak sepinggang yang dicat kuning. Karena ini adalah musim kemarau, sungai Progo hanya terisi separuhnya. Separuh yang lain menunjukkan permukaan yang penuh batu kali yang kemudian diangkut oleh truk-truk tanggung untuk dijual ke Jogja atau Muntilan. Laju motor yang dibantu oleh gravitasi bumi membuat saya dalam waktu sekejap berpindah dari wilayah Kabupaten Sleman ke Kabupaten Kulonprogo. Welcome to West Progue.

Setelah melewati terminal Kenteng yang sepi karena pada saat pembangunannya tidak memperhitungkan bahwa penumpang bisa lebih suka menunggu di perempatan daripada harus berjalan kaki seratusan meter ke terminal, tibalah saya di perempatan Kenteng. Ke kiri ke Wates sedangkan ke kanan Muntilan. Lurus, yang menjadi tujuan saya, adalah ke perbukitan Menoreh.

Seusai menyeberang perempatan, saya menjumpai pasar Kenteng yang sudah sepi pengunjung. Mungkin hari itu bukan hari pasaran atau memang karena sudah menjelang sore saya tak tahu persis. Yang ada hanya pedagang atau entah siapa yang tiduran atau sekadar bersandar melepas lelah di los-los pasar yang kosong. Pedagang cendol di pintu masuk pasar duduk mencangkung di kursi bambu dan merokok bersama, lagi-lagi, tukang mie ayam. Terkadang saya berpikiran bahwa jika ada kontes pemilihan makanan nasional, maka saya dengan sepenuh hati akan mengusulkan mie ayam karena di republik ini kemanapun kita melayangkan pandangan di situ ada tukang mie ayam.

Perhatikan semangkuk mie ayam. Mari kita pisahkan elemen-elemen yang membuatnya menjadi mie ayam. Pertama adalah mie yang terbuat dari gandum. Kedua adalah ayam cincang. Dan ketiga, bumbu yang terdiri dari campuran rempah-rempah dan minyak. Ketiga hal tersebut adalah elemen dasar mie ayam yang seragam di mana-mana, mulai dari mie ayam pasar Kenteng sampai mie Gajah Mada. Elemen lain seperti kaldu, sawi hijau, sambal botol, kecap, acar, dan kerupuk hanyalah bersifat pilihan. Satu-satunya kelainan, jika bisa dikatakan demikian, adalah sebuah warung di daerah Wonosari, Gunung Kidul, yang menyajikan paha ayam utuh sebagai pengganti ayam cincang. Itupun terpampang jelas di spanduk yang mewartakan menu warung itu; ‘Mie Paha’, bukan ‘Mie Ayam’.

Keseragaman inilah yang semakin menguatkan keyakinan saya bahwa mie ayam adalah makanan yang lebih nasional jika dibandingkan dengan, soto. Soto memang ada di mana-mana, tetapi variannya terlalu banyak. Soto Lamongan yang berkuah santan misalnya jauh berbeda dengan soto Jogja yang bening dan nyaris tanpa rasa. Belum lagi soto Padang yang dagingya digoreng kering, soto Banjar yang dilengkapi perkedel, soto Madura yang menyertakan sebutir telur rebus utuh, dan soto Banyumas (wilayah yang mencakup Sokaraja, Purwokerto, Purbalingga, dan tanah air saya, Cilacap) yang, menurut saya, menghidangkan surga di setiap mangkuknya. Mohon maaf jika saya menyimpang terlalu jauh dari tema utama tulisan saya ini.

Kenteng dengan segala kesepiannya lewatlah sudah dan di depan mata saya perbukitan Menoreh berjajar dengan anggunnya. Daerah perbukitan yang menjadi setting serial silat legendaris Api di Bukit Menoreh yang menurut bapak saya, sebagai salah satu pecandu berat serial tersebut, ceritanya tidak selesai karena sang pengarangnya, SH Mintaredja, keburu meninggal tanpa meninggalkan kerangka cerita selanjutnya.

Setelah melewati tanjakan-tanjakan pendek dan menengah dan mengambil ancang-ancang yang cukup jauh, motor bebek saya meluncur untuk menaklukan tanjakan yang paling menantang. Tanjakan itu sebenarnya tidak curam; hanya panjang dan tanpa bonus jalan datar. Belum sepertiga tanjakan, tenaga motor saya yang memang ala kadarnya itu sudah terkuras habis. Bendera putih dikibarkan dan saya pasrah menempuh sisa tanjakan dengan persneling 1, sedikit lebih cepat dari orang jalan kaki. Pada saat seperti ini saya selalu teringat pepatah orang Jawa “alon-alon waton kelakon, gremat-gremet asale slamet”. Toh puncak bukit itu tak akan kemana.

Hampir sunyi. Hanya lamat-lamat suara loudspeaker surau yang menyetel kaset pengajian entah dimana. Jogja terasa jauh. Sejauh mata saya memandang hanya pepohonan yang terlihat, baik yang masih berdaun ataupun yang sudah meranggas. Saya sempat menghitung paling tidak ada empat pohon durian nun jauh di bawah sana. Pohon itu paling gampang dikenali karena daunnya berwarna hijau keperakan. Petak-petak sawah seperti papan catur yang tidak beraturan, antara kuning padi dan merah tanah sisa panen. Bau rumput kering dan bau-bauan kemarau lainnya menguap dari tanah di sekitar saya, di puncak bukit yang saya tidak tahu namanya. Sanctuary saya.

Samar-samar saya mendengar suara orang memanggil nama saya. Bagaimana mungkin? Lambat laun makin jelas. Ko! Eko! Konsep bahan rapat lu ditunggu Kabag lu tuh! Saya membuka mata dan melihat jam. Hm. Waktu makan siang sudah usai 5 menit yang lalu. Kembali ke dunia nyata. Kembali ke Jakarta.

More on Her and Football

2005-06-06T11:37:00.000+07:00

“That’s simply unfair, isn’t it?”
We were snuggling in front of the TV watching an Indonesian League football match, something, I imagine, most newlyweds do on weekends when they have nothing to do, no place to go, or simply exhausted after a marathon of ‘playing bump-bump’. Not that they all watch Indonesian League matches. There were also gossip shows who questions the morals of our celebrities which leads to us questioning ours because we enjoy the gossips so much, reality shows where renegade lovers get caught knee deep in debauchery, and oh, yes, the sinetrons that are watchable only when you are stone-drunk.

“What is unfair, hon?”
Yes, I have taken to ‘honey’ her. Much to her amusement and my brothers’ prolonged hysterical laughter when they accidentally found out. Anyway, without taking her eyes off the match, ‘honey’ continued, “Well, the goalkeeper clearly went for the ball but the referee think of it as a foul.”

I had talked her into watching this match and, knowing the question-everything person that she is, had seen this coming, so I said,” Yes. But the problem is he didn’t get the ball, instead he floored the enemy striker, which is why the referee blew the whistle. Anyway, he’s lucky he’s still at the pitch. The goalkeeper was the last man, he should have been sent off.”

“That’s harsh.”
“Harsh?”
“He didn’t mean to tackle the striker.”
“Of course he didn’t mean to. Yet he did. Hence the foul.”

She turned around to face me with a combative look on her face.
“It is not in his intention to tackle that striker. He simply went for the ball. One should not be punished for what one never intended to do.”
“Look, honey, it’s not about the intention, it’s about what happened. For instance, when a railway crossing attendant fails to lower the bar in time thus the train hit an unsuspecting car, there’s a fat chance he will be punished. Of course he never intends anyone to get hurt, yet it happens, and consequently he will have to pay for it.”
“Stay with the picture, we’re talking about football.”
“I was giving you an analogy. Didn’t you get the point?”
“I don’t see any.”
“Well, the point is if you made a mistake, regardless of your intention, you get screwed.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“How is it not fair?”
“It’s just not”

Still with a proud face, she turned back to the match.
“What happened now?”, she asked.
“That player strayed into an off-side position.”
“What’s an off-side position?”
Oh, here we go again…

The Metaphors of Meggy Z

2005-06-01T14:17:00.000+07:00

After a few hours, I came to realize that the driver of Cilacap-Semarang bus I was in was a hardcore fan of Meggy Z, one of the prominent Indonesian male dangdut singers. Although I tried hard to sink my mind into the novel Return of the King that I brought along, I had to admit that Middle-Earth and dangdut were not made for each other. Before long I found myself closing the book and looking at the passing landscape instead, nodding my head in compliance to the beat. My mind were elsewhere but subliminally the lyrics of Mr. Z’s songs slowly seeped in.

It was then when I realized how the man employed mind-bending, unheard of metaphors in his songs. It’s something that singled him out from other dangdut singers although the main theme of the songs were identical, i.e. failure at love and life department, something that curiously appealed to most people. Here’s one of them:

Kalau hanya untuk mengejar laki-laki lain
Buat apa sih benang biru kau sulam menjadi kelambu?

If you only mean to go for other men,
Why did you weave blue thread into mosqouito net?

Get a load of that! He is the only man I know who managed, in a really unconventional manner, to somehow link unrequited love to mosqouito net. I racked my brain for some time trying to make a logical connection between those two , seemingly unrelated, things. Now, if you think that’s weird, wait till you hear this:

Sementara kasih sayang yang kuberikan
Engkau anggap tuk membayar hutang cinta yang ku pinjam
Kalau belum lunas mengapa tak menagih lagi?

Meanwhile the love I gave to you
Is considered as payment for my love-debt to you
If it has not been paid in full, why didn’t you ask for more?

The guy is phenomenal, isn’t he? What kind of man could come up with the concept that love could be considered as debt? How could a guy owe love? Man! It was just beyond the capacity of my simple mind. Hats off to you, Mr. Z!

Of Her and Football

2005-05-25T08:53:00.000+07:00

At some point during our pre-bedtime pillow talk the missus asked me whether football matches were more interesting in comparison to herself. It was obvious that I had to answer that she was by a mile more interesting than any football match in the history of mankind, however I also felt compelled to defend my most beloved sport so I tried to buy some time by inquiring why she entertained such ghastly notion in her head.

After taking a deep breath and exhaled it loudly in exasperation, which was a clear sign of incoming feud, she proceed with a narration of a certain event that happened earlier in the evening. She described how I went home looking tired so after shower and dinner I went straight to bed. Since it was only shortly after 8, she demanded to have a decent conversation which, from her point of view, I failed to supply, being so drowsy. Yet, she continued, I managed to wake up and concentrate fully on a football match sometime at 9. That, she concluded, was why she entertained such a ghastly notion in her head.

My defense began by pointing out the football and herself were two things so irrelevant to be put on the comparison scale that the mere effort to compare them would cause fallacy in logical thinking. The comparison itself was so prone to bias and subjectivism that to provide unbiased and objective answer would be virtually as impossible as asking a vampire to be a vegetarian. Plus I had not done enough research to support the finding of something remotely resembling a definitive answer. Regardless of all the impossibilities, it was also rather unfair to compare one’s wife, a soulmate, a companion for life, to a sport so harsh yet curiously joyful to watch. As I paused before launching more of this barrage of bullcrap, I heard the sound of regular breathing. My wife, my soulmate and companion for life, had fallen asleep.

This morning when I woke up, I heard her humming as she prepared my breakfast. She had had her revenge. Things were back to normal.

I Lost My Bachelor Degree; She Got Her Master

2005-05-13T10:29:00.000+07:00

Now that I'm married, I have to get used to the idea of living with a girl. Actually it's kinda nice that she transformed my formerly barbarian cave into something resembling a decent human dwelling. And I find it a lot easier to find my clothes because the few I own are neatly stored in the wardrobe, ironed and perfumed. And one thing that I consider nothing less than a miraculous feat: she managed to remove that horrid smell from the bathroom. Plus there's always home-cooked breakfast and a nice cup of coffee before I set out to work.

However, there are several ground rules that I have to comply. Everytime I try to challenge these rules she always threaten with something involving a headache, and my rebellion is promptly subdued. Here are some of them:

Kitchen is her absolute territory. I must never contest her authority in this area, eventhough I consider myself as a decent cook. Criticism is not encouraged. Everything she cooks, or worse,experiments with, I must risk my life consuming.

Movies with kids, babies and cats are encouraged. Those with guns, military personnels, bloodbaths, or dark environment are frowned upon. Porns are out of the question.

Smoking is forbidden in the livingroom, hallway, kitchen, bathroom and especially bedroom. The only safe place to smoke is actually out of the house. And instead of a full stick, I can only smoke half a cigarette. It's for your own sake, she said.

Any beverage containing alcohol is not allowed.

Although we are the only persons in the house, she refuse to open the bathroom door when she's taking a bath. Apparently voyeurism is not her cup of tea.

Oh well, there is always a price to pay.

My Average Days

2005-04-25T15:36:00.000+07:00

My work involves writing blahs like these:

In relation with state finance management reform as warranted by Presidential Decree 36/2004, the organizational structure of Ministry of Finance underwent some changes at echelon I tier as stipulated in the Decree of Ministry of Finance Number 302/KMK.01/2004 on Organization and Work Structure of Ministry of Finance. Those changes were conducted in a reorganization within the Ministry of Finance that reflects the separation of several key functions of the Ministry, namely fiscal policy, budget planning, and budget execution. As an echelon I unit of the Ministry, Directorate General of Budget and Fiscal Balance harbors the function of budget planning.

Reform in the area of state finance management conducted to enhance efficiency and effectiveness is manifested in the stipulation of Law 17/2003 on State Finance, Law 1/2004 on State Treasury, and Law 15/2004 on State Finance Responsibility and Assessment. Reform in that particular area includes the increase of management in the stages of budgeting, execution, assesment and reporting of state finance.

To improve budgeting process several policies, one of which is the Performance Based Budgeting, has been and will be applied. Performance based budgeting requires performance control criteria, evaluation, and unified budget system to ensure the absence of duplications in the formulation of ministry/agency workplan and budget. The aforementioned formulation also covers the need for both performance based budgeting and performance accountability measuring.

In line with efforts to thoroughly implement performance based budgeting the formerly used budget classification needs to be changed so as to be in accordance with internationally accepted classification. The changes in the classification of government transactions are made to simplify the implementation of performance based budget, provide a more objective and proportional portrayal of government activities, maintain consistency with the standards of public accounting, and simplify the presentation and increase the credibility of government finance statistic. It is hoped that the implementation of performance based budgeting will negate budget duplication, stacking, and deviation.

Pretty handy for chronic insomnia, eh? :) :) :)

Sir Eko

2005-04-25T09:28:00.000+07:00

It was part of my job to teach young kids. Those hollering pagans. I was barely out of the teacher's room when they swarmed towards me yelling, Mister Eko! Mister Eko!

With their parents and my fellow teachers lurking in the premise, I was deeply embarrassed for not having taught them the proper way of addressing people, so I gave them a crash course on the spot. Look kids, use 'mister' with my last name, okay? That's Mister Widyasmoro. Or if you just want to call me, you can use 'Sir'. Got it? Now go to your class I'll be there shortly.

When they spotted me the next day, they rushed towards me like vultures at dinnertime. But this time they yelled, Sir Eko! Sir Eko!

Rainbow Over Bekasi

2005-04-13T08:29:00.000+07:00

The day was edging itself to dusk as I made my way along what was left of pedestrian walk after a long day's work and cramped economy class commuter trainride. The rain that must have fallen a while ago left a light drizzle and the street on my right was filled to its square inch with almost every moving vehicles known to man. The growling of 8-wheeled truck engines competed with blaring horns of cars, motorcycles, and the shouting of frustrated becak drivers. On top of all that, the railway crossing behind me sounded its alarming siren. Incoming train.

It was then when I saw it. A perfect blend of colors stretched in gigantic arc that loomed high over the roofs and buldings. Breathtakingly beautiful.

Amidst all the hustle bustle it offered a short moment of serenity. Grace. Grandeur. And a shitload of beauty. I don't know what to make of it but as it slowly faded in the crimson sky, I gladly accepted its kindly offer and found myself smiling.

The Driving Lesson

2005-04-12T11:49:00.000+07:00

Except in PC games I never drove a car in my entire life. Hence, my brothers considered it as a brotherly responsibility to teach me to drive. Perhaps I should tell you that I’m a firstborn. Secondborn drove our 1984 Peugeot 505 from Jogja to Cilacap in 3 hours flat. Regular busride takes 5 hours. Thirdborn made it in 2,5 hours due to the absence of parents on board.

So after a crash-course on how to shift the gears and they were convinced that i could tell the difference between the clutch, accelerator and brake pedals, they took me out for a spin.

Oh, man..after ten minutes I swore to my self that i would earn enough money to hire a chauffeur. First of all, you got to keep the right balance when you step on the accelerator and release the clutch. Release the clutch too slow and the engine will roar although the car wouldn't budge an inch. Too fast and and the car will 'jump' and the engine died. And then there’s the array switches and buttons for turning the head lights, long and short, emergency lights, left-and-right turn signals, windshield spray and wiper, horns and some strange looking handle that turned out to be the hand brake.

After a while, I got the hang of it and the car started to move. Off we went. We rolled into the streets of Cilacap. My brothers’ instructions became the voices in my head. Shift to first gear. Step on the accelerator. Ease the clutch. Easy, easy. Now the second gear. Easy. That’s it. Keep it steady. That’s a lamp post. You don’t want to hit it. Hitting a lamp post is bad. And that’s a ditch. A ditch is bad. You don’t want to end up in a ditch. You want to stay on the road. Easy, now. Turn left. Switch on the sign. Left. Left. I said left, didn’t I? Why did you give the turn right signal? We don’t want to get killed. Getting killed is bad….

I was sincerely grateful that the city officials has had enough consideration to build wide and smooth streets for inexperienced drivers like me..and it's quiet too. Not much traffic. That's what my brothers thought. My point of view was unfortunately rather different. I saw every oncoming cars or any other vehicles, parked or moving, as possible threats of gruesome and messy car-crash, although the margin was wide enough to land a jumbo jet in. My brothers assured me that unless the other drivers were suicidal, they wanted to avoid car-crash as much i did.

A while later, I was cruising the streets along Cilacap's coastline..Feel the breeze on my hair..the sweet scent of saltwater and the glorious sun..until one of my brothers pointed out that our grandma could drive faster than I did. Feeling deeply offended, I stepped on the accelerator in earnest...the marvellous French muscle roared..everything blurs past me..it was almost surreal...now that's better, my wicked brother said, a bit more and you'll break 50 km an hour...

Things She Asked

2005-04-12T09:01:00.000+07:00

You know, women have this knack of asking flat out weird question at the most inapropriate times. Okay, I don't want to go around generalizing things so I'll rephrase my previous sentence.

You know, my girlfriend has this knack of asking flat out weird question at the most inapropriate times. There. Now stop the gender-harrassment complains...

Last Friday, I was halfway through my regular breakfast diet i.e.,bubur ayam, which was pretty good by the way, when my lovely girlfriend sent me a short message: do you believe in everlasting love?

I was composing the answer in my mind (saying as delicately as possible: no, I don't believe it) when the second message came in: if i died, would you go and find someone to replace me? (my dear, i'm afraid i will do just that)

Gone was the delicious bubur ayam and in its place I had this inexplicable dillema to deal with.

It was like going back to elementary school days when instead of multiple choices, you had this 1000-word essay to write.

I was thorn between answering with the truth that would inevitable devastate her or telling her what she wanted to hear. Or there's a third option: I could go Chikidu's Academy of Saying the Right Things and come up with a fabulous, sweet-sounding, diplomatic answer.

Why? Why? Why? Why do these things need to be questioned? Why bother with the what ifs and the absurdly abstract concept of love? Why can we let things happen just the way it is?

Let's look at the first question. Although the question is forwarded in the most general manner, I have this strong suspicion that what she's asking was "Are you in love with me everlastingly?". Everlasting represents an unforeseenable stretch of time starting from the current and lasts through the future. Will I love her tommorow? I don't know! I don't even know if I'll still be breathing tommorow. How about a year from now? Well, I don't know. Lots of things can happen between now and then. The best I can come up with is; I will do what I can to love you now, tommorow, next year and the following period of time. As if you need an effort to love someone else...

The second questions deals with a what-if situation. There are people who remain single after their spouse died. But I guess that's because they couldn't find anyone with whom they can share their feelings with. In the event that such person is found, it is in a very high likelihood that they will remarry.
So, if I find that i'm capable of loving someone else after she died, there's a fat chance that I will remarry.

Is it possible to explain all of this via short messages? Nope
How about over the phone? Doubtful.
I packed my bags and caught a train to Semarang.

The New Crib

2005-03-07T16:53:00.000+07:00

Well, I've finally done it. I've decided to move on. Shrug off my bachelorhood and all its privilieges and welcome myself to the realm of family-hood. I shall think as a bachelor no more, instead i shall think like a man with family. No longer will I rent a room like what I have been doing since i graduated from junior high. Nowadays I rent a 'rumah-petak' which is one step closer to a 'rumah'.

You see 'rumah petak' is just like rumah except that it is inhumanely small. The livingroom is 1,6 x 2,8 meters, only one bedroom which is 2 x 2,5 meters, a very small kitchen and equally mini bathroom. That's it. It's definetely not built for those with claustrophobia.

And it will be in that very place that I will learn what starting a family is all about.

That Thing That Grows on My Scalp

2005-03-02T10:48:00.000+07:00

Every strand of my hair seems to have a mind of their own. And worse yet, it also appears that the concept of uniformity is also alien to them. Therefore lest i exercise some disciplinary measures, with the help of a barber or a trainee hairstylist, they tend to grow in whichever individual direction they so choose.

Their resistance to order became apparent during my last years of junior highschool. A few years later it turned into a full scale anarchy. Thus began my arduous battle with this particular part of my anatomy. My campaign began by visiting a Maduranese barber down the street. My years of observation tells me that this Maduranese fellows apply the most direct approach in the realm of hair-cutting. They nod at you and gesture toward the chair, wrap some cloth around you and without bothering to ask what particular hairstyle you fancy, they began to work on your head. In less than ten minutes everything is all over. Your hair is shorter and the barber a few thousands rupiahs richer. However it just so happen that there was an army barrack in the immediate vicinity and those army guys had been regular patron of the establishment. Thus, due to the barber's lack of communication skill I sported an army recruit look for several years.

I should probably warn you that Maduranese hair-cutting is not for the faint-hearted...nor the hygienic. There is a phase in this hair-cutting process in which the barber will trim the edges of your scalp. In doing so, instead of using Gillette safety razor that, above all, ensure our safety, they opt to use old fashioned butterfly knife, a razor-sharp, blood-chilling butterfly knife. First they wet the edges with a brush which is previously soaked in soapy water then in swift but devilishly firm movements they perform their skill with the knife. You can feel the cold steel grit against your neck skin and your mind tactlessly remind you that one wrong move can sever the arteries around your neck.

It is in this particular phase that I picture my self as a captured spy at the mercy of his interogator. My hand clenched and my mouth shut. The evil contra-espionage officer is torturing me with his knife trying to obtain precious information, which i would gladly give if i know what it is. This dreadful process takes about three minutes and i'm always glad everytime it's over.

However, after several years I found the tension was getting to my nerve so I decided to visit a 'salon'. Compared to the Maduranese barber, this is Shangri-la. The place was nicely clean and the attendants were absolutely charming and helpful. They used scissors most of the time and much to my relief, Gillette safety razor. In addition to all that I have to admit that being treated by the opposite member of my sex is actually nice. Sadly, things begin to change when my girlfriend found out that I had been frequenting a salon. She expressed her dislike that I chose to be a regular in a salon that, rumor had it, provided 'extra' services. Actually that explained why most of its clients were males of working age.

After a heated argument, which she won, of course, she decided to take this matter into her own hand and the following month she took me to another salon. I was about to protest when I immediately found out why she took me there. The salon was run by a man who tried really hard to look like a woman. He was doing a good job actually. If he wore make up i would not be able tell. Well, the problem was, I was never really comfortable being around these people. Call me shallow and homophobic but despite the decent haircut, i never went back.

Just when I thought that I'm losing the battle, I spotted a training salon offering haircuts for an extremely reasonable price. A training salon is where the apprentices and trainees practise their newly acquired skills to the poor souls who are willing to risk a week of bad-hair days. In the end, I thought what the heck! If something went wrong I could always go for the Buddhist monk look. So I went in.

The trainee looked nervous as I sat down. In the first ten minutes she had more trouble with the wire of her clipper than my hair. After a while she calmed down and were able, or so it seemed, to concentrate at the important matter. You see, when I took off my glasses, the world becomes blurry so i had no idea what she was doing. however, I found my self hissing prayers everytime her clippers buzzed way too close to my ears. Half an hour later she didn't seem to make any progress and i caught her staring at my head for a few moments as if trying to figure out what to do. Furthermore, much to my dismay, she excused hersef. I put on my glasses and was immediately shocked with what i saw.

Back when I was a kid I used to go to the ricefields near my house. After a night of rainstorm I usually found that the paddies were in a hell of disarray. The neat linings was all gone and the paddies scattered in various different direction. That was what I saw happened to my hair. Oh well..the monk look it is. This is the price of being too thrifty. I should've gone to the actual salon, rather than the training version of it.

However, it turned that the poor trainee went to summon the aid of her supervisor because she obviously thought that my hair was beyond redemption. So help came and with professional calmness the supervisor began his rescue efforts. Like many other rescue attempts, this one also attracted spectators. Before long other trainees began to flock in and watch thir supervisor performed a miracle. They made comments, ask questions, and made some suggestions and the supervisor responded in a patient, teacherly way. I guess that is how it feels to be a frog in a dissecting table.

Sadly, that was my last experiment to salvage my hair. From then on, everytime I sit on the barber/hairstylist/trainee-hairstylist's chair, I always say " Satu senti. Rata"

Hope and Expectation

2005-02-27T14:23:00.000+07:00

There's nothing wrong with hope and expectation, really. They are inherently stored in our default system. The problem is that the process of hoping and expecting is both excruciating and tiring. So if you can't stand hoping and expecting, don't. Save your energy for things you can have, already have and those you take for granted.

However, there's a catch to it. Once you've given up hope and stop expecting you will lead a dull and uninteresting life. Your life will be uneventful because you also stop taking risks. There will be no surprises. The good news is you have less chance of getting hurt.

So if you think you will be able to grit your teeth and endure the pain everytime your expectation fails to materialize, go for it. Nurture your hope and build up your expectation. But if you think the pain is not worth all the while, stop hoping and expecting and welcome to a dull but depression-free life.

Maybe

2005-02-23T19:14:00.000+07:00

Maybe I should pierce every possible part of my anatomy,
and then dye my hair with every possible color known to man,
and then tattoo whatever part still left exposed from the piercings,
and grow my hair long,
and get drunk,
and then get stoned,
and clobber people,
and get clobbered,
and hang my self from the ceiling,
or better yet crucify my self,
and have somebody burn my cross,
or maybe i should learn to love sincerely, without agenda,
and learn how to behave properly when someone loves me in return,
and devote my self to religion,
and detach my self from all worldly affairs,
and then maybe..just maybe, i will know what i really want.

Kindergarten Teachers

2005-02-14T11:22:00.000+07:00

When a friend asked me which female with what occupation that i want to marry the most, i would answer 'a kindergarten teacher'. Well, i have to admit that it's not as kinky as nurses, secreatries, or, even better, flight attendants, but I have my own reasons.

Aside from the common assumptions that kindergarten teachers are good with kids, unbelievably patient(you have to be when your job involves 20 or more hollering little imps), and caring, the best reason for marrying a kindergarten teacher is that you get the opportunity to sit down next to one of her students and whisper to him,"Man, you won't BELIEVE what your teacher did to me last night!".