Be Prepared For Anything

I feel like every entry in Indonesia could be titled "And Now For Something Completely Different". Today it was the Indonesian mariachi bands that kept hopping on board the bus from Solo to Yogyakarta.

Every time the bus pulled over to take on more passengers, one or two ukelele-clad men hopped on board too, screeching as they belted out tunes to the unfortunate, captive audience. At the end it was time to pass the hat. We couldn't escape. Not donating to this ear-numbing howling was not an option. The hat, or paper bag in this case, was rattled and thrust further and further under our noses until we added to the pot. A 100 RP coin got a mean look when I motioned that it was for both of us.

When the second singer boarded the bus, John and I feigned sleep. Of course no one could actually sleep to these high-pitched moans and rattled cords, but it seemed to have the 'musician' fooled; we were bypassed when the time came to pull on the passengers purse strings. I opened my eyes a sliver to see when he left and gave John the all clear. That was until the next one climbed on board.

The third singer wasn't quite as obnoxious. He sang a love song on his five string guitar (the sixth string was dangling in front of him) and didn't seem quite as abrupt in asking for money. Still, my eyes remained half closed just in case he made a second pass through the bus.

The captive audience technique was cleverly employed again when we pulled into a gas station, not to refuel but to give the sellers a chance to make the rounds. One man after another came on board, walking the aisle and dropping candies or pens into our laps. Two minutes later, steps were retraced and the 'goodies' were retrieved. The ultimate in this direct marketing maneuver was a man tossing complimentary Garuda Air towelettes at us and wanting 200 RP each.

Luckily the ride to Yogya was short. I could stand two hours of Indonesian bus etiquette, but no more. The ride from the bus station (they always seem to be ill-situated miles from the city center) wasn't too bad either. We'd gotten a recommendation from the homestay in Solo to rent a room at the Bladok Hotel on Sosrowijayan Street and that is where we headed.

The hotel was great. The room we rented, the best in the house, was spacious with a double bed made up with red batik sheets. Best of all there was a western-style toilet and a shower. Towels, soap and breakfast were all included for the total price of US$17. Sometimes we do splurge.

But looks can be deceiving. What we couldn't see when we checked in was the noise level. It began at six in the evening with the Islamic wailing from the mosque. It began again at four in the morning and was followed by Christian mass at six. At 6:30 we learned that the Yogya airport flight path was directly overhead and by 7:00 the entire city, two stories below us, was wide awake. Street vendors clanged on glasses; motorcycles raced down the roads; roosters crowed. We were warned that Java was noisy, but up until now, we hadn't thought it was too bad. Time to make use of those ear-plugs.

But despite all the noise, Yogya is a town worth visiting. There is plenty to do and plenty of locals to offer their services to help you see it all.

Becaks are everywhere. Those are the three wheeled rickshaw bicycle carts. We couldn't walk down the street without at least three of them a minute calling "Becak, Becak?" to us. It didn't matter if we were walking the opposite direction. It didn't matter that we shook our heads no. "Becak, ya ok?" They were ready to tow us anywhere. Eye contact is a definite no-no, but unfortunately it can't always be avoided. My reply of "Jalan-Jalan (walking-walking)," always got a smile and the becak drivers usually left us alone.

Around mid-morning on our first full day in the city we tired of jalan-jalan. We took a becak to the walled city of Kraton; a city-within-a-city, home of the Sultan. We were lucky to go when we did. As it turned out Sunday is the day when traditional dances are performed in the Temple. The dancer's costumes were exquisite. They came out in groups to move slowly, methodically to the gamalian music being played behind them.

Our becak driver was waiting for us when we came out of the Kraton. "Becak, Becak?" he called as he rushed up to us. "Sure, why not." We climbed inside and assumed the hip-snuggling becak pose. (The becaks are made for Indonesian-sized bodies, so John and I overlapped.)

To complete the picture there was also bird food. Your choice, baskets of large red ants and ant eggs, squirming brown larva or white maggots. Dig in.

Just outside the bird market was a fish market. Not the kind you eat, the kind you put in fish tanks. Tanks were everywhere. Women squatted down and tossed fish from one large bucket to the next pulling out just the fish the customers wanted.

On the other side of the bird market is the Water Palace; built in 1765 for the then ruling Sultan. He wanted to create an island palace and so flooded acres of land around the structure. The palace, although now crumbling, is impressive. Tunnels, once under water, lead between the courtyards. There is an underground mosque and three swimming pools (somewhat renovated) where kids now play, diving for coins the tourists throw to them.

The Water Palace today is surrounded by batik galleries and shops. Everyone living in the once flooded area seems to be an artist. Most of the batik work we saw was the same designs and patterns. One gallery, however had some unique one of a kind work and I bought a wall hanging for my Mother.

To walk through the batik area though requires a certain frame of mind. Everyone is a salesman; once you're in a shop, leaving may be a bit difficult. Hard sell is apparently learned along with mother's milk! One young man attached himself to us while in the bird market and offered to act as a guide through the palace. He was very interesting and we learned quite a bit from him, but he too was an artist and at the end of the tour, we discovered his ulterior motive. We were ushered into his living room where an array of so-so batiks were on display. "Please, look at my family's work."

My first attempt at an escape was saying that I was hungry. It was true, we hadn't eaten in hours. But it failed. He accompanied us to lunch. Finally I resorted to lying and claimed that we had to be at the Telecom office by 2:30 to make an important call. Even at that he hung around us for awhile longer.

There was only one more thing I was interested in looking at in the area, wooden shadow puppets, but we gave up the search when a political rally for the Muslim party came racing down the streets on motorcycles. The noise was deafening. A local man watching the rally said hello to John and before I knew it the two of them were engaged in a conversation, in broken English, on American politics.

One final becak ride and we were back at the hotel. Time to relax before heading back into the crowded streets once again, this time in search of dinner.