The Finer Things in Life

As I have long suspected, beauty is not only dependent on the eye of the beholder, but also on whether it is readily available. Take the people who live in Pangandaran or Pelabuhan Ratu, for example. You don't see them sitting all day admiring the beach. It's just everyday stuff for them.

By following the same logical reasoning, I found out that I can understand celebrity divorces better. Beauty, although it certainly helps, is not everything.

That is also why despite the fact that my wife is not a glamorous supermodel, or pornstar for that matter, there are times--such as when it's raining outside and she holds her cup of hot tea with both hands, sipping her tea while looking at me--when I can't help but tell my self, goddamn! she is beautiful.

The Kick In The Head

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.