MOUNT BROMO (and some Javan Hospitality)

       Mount Bromo (2392 m) is an active volcano and one of the most touristed sites in East Java. The reason is its dramatic setting. Rising up from the Tengger caldera, the mountain is flanked by three other volcanoes including Semeru, Java’s highest peak (3676 m). In addition, Bromo sits in a “sea” of volcanic sand several miles in diameter called Laotian Pasir (Sand Sea). The resulting landscape is other-wordly and the vistas are pretty awesome. The local people, known as Tenggers, ride horses around and sell visitors rides across the crater bed. There is also a Hindu temple at the base of Bromo. The Tenggers, who are Hindu, have a ritual of throwing flowers, chickens, vegetables and money into the volcano once a year as a sacrifice to the volcano.

I visited Bromo last weekend the way most people do. Rise up at 3 a.m. for a coffee and fried banana; the jeep ride to a neighboring peak to be there at sunrise in the hopes of catching an incredible view of everything described above (we saw only fog); a jeep ride into the Sand Sea; then, the pilgrimage up the sandy approach to the volcano before the final 253 steps which leave you at the lip of the crater.

The dawn photo that we missed. I bet this was taken in dry season.
Bromo is in the foreground. (From Wikipedia)

And then you are there --- staring into the steaming, sulfurous heart of the volcano. The edge is very narrow and the railing is broken in most places. With the stiff wind that is common early in the day, I’m amazed more tourists are not sacrificed to Bromo.

Not a great shot, but note stiff wind and no railing. Watch your step!

Staring into the crater 

The area around the Bromo-Tengerr-Sumuru National Park is lush and green. My guide for the weekend, Taufiq, took me and our driver on a quick hike to a local waterfall, which was lovely. 

       We parked his car at the home of his uncle, and on our return from our hike, his uncle invited us in for coffee. We removed our shoes and sat in the typically Javan front sitting room, where Uncle Tiq served coffee and bread. He was dressed in a green and white sarong, a green polo shirt, and a white songkok or peci, a woven cap worn by many Muslim men in Indonesia. Taufiq mentioned that I like durian fruit and had noticed some roadside stands selling local durian. Uncle Tiq said he had a friend who sells the best and immediately began punching his cell phone. A quick motorcycle ride with Taufiq and a few minutes later we were at the stand making the purchase (at a “friend’s price”). 

Durian seller prepares taste test,
to make sure we're happy.

We took the durian back to Uncle Tiq’s for a  snack. Taufiq mentioned that this home was very old and had been in the family for generations. I was invited to see the kitchen where Taufiq’s aunt was working. The room was only partially closed in from the elements. There was a pit with burning wood and a grill over it used for most cooking chores. Decidedly old school.

After a bit more conversation and translations, Taufiq said that his aunt was preparing some food and we were invited to stay for dinner. “Your choice of course, but my aunt is a good cook, better than the hotel. She is preparing three different kinds of rice, which is special for you.” I said I would be honored. In a few more minutes we were served a great meal consisting of said three kinds of rice --- local rice, Javanese rice, and rice with corn ---- fried fish, tempeh, tofu, and greens. It was delicious. For a special treat at the end of the meal, Uncle Tiq brought out an unmarked bottle of wild jungle honey. I had a spoonful and freaked over it; so good! Uncle Tiq smiled and insisted I help myself to some more.  

I thanked the couple and complimented Bu on her cooking. After a bit more conversation and a photo moment (see below) we took our leave. I enjoyed this experience so much. What strikes me in retrospect is how easy and comfortable it was, despite the language barrier. This is genuine, easy-going hospitality which is so much a part of Javan culture.

A really enjoyable visit with these warm people. Unfortunately for my photo,
Pak Tiq had changed out of his more traditional clothing.

FIRE IN MY BLOOD (Addicted to Sambal)

You know you’re truly hooked on something when you begin to miss it even before being deprived of it. Here I am, heading into my last few weeks in Indonesia, and already I’m jonesing for sambal, and using more of it than any sane westerner should.

Sambal is the condiment of choice in Indonesia. It is fiery hot and a tad piquant, and its main ingredients are ground up red chilis, shallots, a bit of shrimp paste and garlic. That’s the basic idea, but there are 300 varieties of sambal across the Indonesian archipelago, some of which use local fruits, spices, palm sugar and other ingredients to create variations on a theme. There is a version called  tempoyak that is made from fermented durian, but I have not encountered it yet. Traditionally, sambal is made with a stone mortar, and restaurants (even warungs) have their own jealously guarded recipes and devotees.

Preparing Sambal (from Wikipedia)

I have always been a hot sauce guy. At home we bring out two or three different commercial hot sauces at lunch and dinner. If we’re not eating cereal or frozen yogurt, it probably has hot sauce on it. When I got to Indonesia, one of my guide books counseled the use of just a little bit of the sambal usually found in a small crock pot or very small round side dish at almost every restaurant, “just to brighten things up a bit.” But Lord help me, it’s a slippery slope. The stuff is addictive, and you find that you need more and more to get that spicy, fiery high. Then you begin to notice that you’re planning meals and choosing restaurants based on the sambal offerings. You will even forgive less-than-excellent food if the sambal compensates. During meals you see friends dipping into their sambal, getting completely red in the face and breaking into a sweat while their eyes are closed in rapture, and you wonder “Did Rowan take it too far this time…” One of my room mates gets take out from a certain place because they have her sambal of choice. It was an ugly scene at the house last week when the restaurant sent her order over without the red stuff. She was an unhappy camper, for days.

So now I’m a bit worried. How will I get along without it? Is there an Asian specialty foods store in Boston that can hook a brother up? And will Tabasco cut it now that the fire is in my blood? Stay tuned.

FEAR IN REVERSE

       I had a real "Aha!" moment this week. Stay with me for a minute on this one.
       I have a new student for a one-on-one class. Let's call him Joko. He's about 40, with a slight paunch, thinning hair and a wispy goatee. He wears round specs on his round face. He looks like a nice guy, and smiles easily. He is Javan at least several generations back, and in my experience, Javans are cultured, circumspect, and very polite.
       Pak Joko works as a project manager for his construction company. They are about to send him to the U.S. for some project work and more language training. He will leave his wife and kids to live in a major American city for three months or so. Does some of that sound familiar?
       The other night, in the middle of a grammar point, Joko looked up and said, "Mr. John, can I ask a question?" 
        "Of course." I waited for a follow-up question on the present progressive tense.
        " I will be living in a big American city on my own. And you know, I am Muslim. I worry a little...will people be nice to me?"
       Pak Joko's question hung in the air for a minute while I remembered my own concerns about coming to live in the largest Muslim country on earth. There had been some anti-Western demonstrations in Jakarta, and my friends and family counseled me to be careful. My memory brought back a taste of the trepidation.
       And suddenly, there it was. A picture of my own fears coming over here as a Westerner, sitting in front of me, "in reverse." It felt like a Higher Power orchestrated this lesson to show me that fear of prejudice is universal, depending only on who you are and where you find yourself.  
       Then my mind went to a video clip I saw recently in The Huffington Post. It showed Terry Jones, the Quran-burning preacher, standing on a soap box in Times Square preaching hate, and soon being drowned out by a crowd that spontaneously sings the Beatles' All You Need Is Love. See the clip here:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/18/terry-jones-all-you-need-love_n_2323094.html
       What would Joko think if he came upon a scene like this? How will he deal with the in-your-face, say-what-you-feel reality of big-city America?
       Wait. This man is looking at me expectantly, and I see vulnerability in his eyes.  How shall I answer his question? How would you answer it?
       "Pak Joko, I felt the same way when I came here. Don't worry. You are a good man, you are friendly, and you speak English very well. Anyone you meet will see your good heart. Besides, there are many different kinds of people in America's big cities, from all over the world. Many Muslims, too. I think Americans will like you very much."
       He nodded, and we went back to the lesson. Did he feel comforted?
       
       Here is an amazing statistic, something that I marvel at daily: since my arrival in Indonesia almost two months ago, I have yet to encounter ONE moment of intentional rudeness from a local person. Indonesians drive crazy, and they don't queue up like Westerners, but they are incredibly warm and unfailingly helpful. They are curious without being aggressive. And I feel very safe and secure. One teacher friend of mine, a Brit who has lived here for nine years, cites the Indonesian people as the reason why he stays. "Yeah, Surabaya is dirty and polluted for sure, but the people...have you noticed how nice they are?" I nodded, and told him I had to admit he was right about that.
         Back to my student. 
         I feel protective of him, even as I know I can't help him once he arrives Stateside. I have faith, though. I do believe people will see Joko's good heart and intentions. 
        So to my American friends: Please. If you see a slightly chubby man with round specs and brown skin, do me a favor and give him a smile. You could be what he remembers about America.

BYE, BYE BIRDIE ( Hello, Badminton )

       Today I played my first game of badminton since I was about 10.  And I'm already looking forward to next time.

       Some of the office staff at my school have a regular Sunday morning game over at a local indoor facility. I've been fishing for an invite, and it finally came this week. My room mate, who has played with them at "the stadium" before, gave me fair warning about the setting: "You can't breathe. It's a corrugated tin building with no AC or even ventilation. It's just lights and body heat, and that sun beating on the roof. The place is like a sauna. I came out cooked!"

       Well, maybe a tad of an exaggeration. The conditions are not perfect, but they're okay. I must admit, though, that I only lasted for about an hour and a half. My friends said they often play for three hours!

       The thing is, this is such a great game for many reasons. It has all the essential fun and aerobic benefit of tennis, but the relative lightness and slower movement of the shuttlecock (or birdie) make it much easier to play. Arms and legs take less of a beating. Strength is even less of an issue than in tennis. There is more play time and less chasing, since the birdie does not bounce and roll. Like tennis, there is a"net game," with similar strategy. Service and backhand are still important. Essentially, this is an athletic sport that even a non-jock can play.

     Indonesia loves badminton. The national team has taken home gold in the Olympics since the sport was introduced as part of the games in 1992. There are international opens sponsored by Djarum and other private companies periodically; one is happening now in Surabaya. 

    I have two friends who live in Bangkok, and they have taken up badminton with great enthusiasm. They play weekly and have begun taking lessons with a Thai champion. 

     For my own part, I wonder why this sport isn't more popular in the U.S. Or maybe it is, but not in the northeast. Too bad. It makes a wonderful backyard or park game, and can be set up for relatively small money. League play at school yards would make a terrific summer pastime. Children can learn fairly young and with hardly any fear of injury. I hope it catches on.

    In the meantime, I'll be back at "the stadium" next week. I'm hoping to last for two hours. 

Warm-up before doubles

MEALS ON WHEELS (KAKI LIMA)

     If I haven't made it clear from previous posts, Indonesians like their food, and eat often. Some fried noodles for a snack, gado gado (do you recall? par-boiled veggies and fried tofu with tasty peanut sauce) for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up, and meatballs in soup almost any time.  Of course, convenience is always a consideration when foraging for that next food fix. That's where the kaki lima (literally "five legs") come in.

Kaki lima are food vendors selling from their bicycle carts. The name derives one of two ways, depending on who you believe. One orgin is said to be the 5-foot wide footpaths one finds in Indonesia. Since I have not seen any footpaths, I tend to discredit this option. The other orgin is that the hawker uses "five legs" --- three from the cart and two of his own. 

Local kaki lima sells Chinese won tons in soup.
He keeps a very clean cart.

In my neighborhood there are many kaki lima and they work tirelessly all day, often past midnight, and in all weather conditions. When there is a construction site in the area, or a busy mosque, they will arrive before lunch, park themselves in the nearest shade and set up for business. Some carry fuel to fire their wok or soup. They often carry ice to refrigerate or for drinks. While they pedal around the neighborhood, each has a distinctive and traditional sound they use to announce their presence. The bakso (meatball) vendor bangs a pot with his spoon. The chicken and noodles guy hits a wood block and produces a "thunk-thunk" sound. The bread guy actually has a recorded jingle he plays. The satay man sings a musical cry, "Saaa-tay." I have also seen kaki lima selling fruit and ice, roasted corn on the cob, fried rice with chicken and vegetables,  and assorted fritters (Indonesian corn fritters, flecked with red chili, are to die for!).

What about eating at a kaki lima? I must admit, I haven't yet. I hear the gado-gado guy by the school is terrific, but he runs out quickly and I haven't timed it right. And the roasted corn has eluded me. The meatballs are...sketchy, and they've been in the sun for hours. Ugh. Noodles, porridge and soup might be good, but so far I've shied away.

The locals certainly don't, though. About 6 pm, there are several of these hawkers doing a brisk business in front of our school, serving at outdoor tables, washing dishes, cooking and transacting. The teachers run out and chow down in between classes, usually for just a dollar or so. 

Come to think of it, what am I waiting for?

Lunch time in front of the mosque.
His cart is called "Meatball Love."