Gangs of Indonesia

Benhil Burning

2012-01-09T17:52:00.001+07:00

"I had time to rescue two items from my burning house," recalls Adi. "The television and the motorbike."

On the morning of September 27, 2011, fire ravaged a riverside quarter of Bendungan Hilir, Jakarta. Seventy densely-packed dwellings burned, leaving over 1,000 people homeless.

"The fire was caused by an electric kettle," explains Ari, three months later, sitting on the hard floor of his house, surrounded by the building materials of the neighbourhood's collective reconstruction. He has no furniture.

"There was no water in the kettle and the person had fallen asleep. They weren't taking care. It only took 15 minutes for the kettle to become an inferno. We lost everything."

Adi used to courier for ANZ. "Now my only work is rebuilding my home. We've had to take a bank loan to cover the reconstruction and replace everything we lost: clothes, food, all our kitchen utensils."

Bouncing on his knee, Adi's son chimes, "Mandi! Mandi!", asking for a bath. Onlookers watch from the open door as we sip sweet tea. "The show must go on," Adi smiles, leaning back against the wall.

Adi's two-year old daughter crawls across the floor, her bottom bloated in diapers. She is playing with a half-eaten cracker and a plastic cigarette lighter.

"There'll be another fire," I nod towards the lighter.
"Don't play with the lighter," admonishes Adi. But his daughter doesn't relinquish her toy, and the onlookers beam with indulgence.

Outside we tour the reconstruction, stepping over buckets and spades. The alleys between the houses are narrow and dark, the ground slick with mud, sand, and aggregates. Old women in baggy dresses survey the progress from cool porch steps.

Adi's uncle is a mason and has come from Solo, central Java, to help. "These guys really like to smoke," comments Ari as we pass the barefooted labourers.

Stardom overcomes shyness among the local children.

"Well, if you're ever bored, come back and visit!" says Adi, an indication that this tour is now over.

Where the Wild Things Are

2011-12-08T15:28:00.001+07:00

Gangs of Indonesia writer Melanie Wood takes the front cover story of this month's The Jakarta Post Weekender magazine with Where the Wild Things Are: an article on the dragons of Rinca - and how they just might be related to humans...

"What do we do if one attacks?"

"Catch it by the neck with the crook of your stick."

Roadkill Kitten

2011-11-23T12:46:00.012+07:00

Tough to be a street kitten with a bone through infected skin, ants eating the wound, and two broken legs.

Scraped off the side of a narrow lane in Benhil, Jakarta, last week, the story of this roadkill kitten's fight against his gruesome injuries continues in the tab above.

Football Secrets

2011-11-17T19:00:00.003+07:00

Through the dusk, dressed in black and red, the boys come running. They shout coarsely. They have scarves tied across their foreheads. "Welcome to Indonesia! Where are you from? Making love, making love!"

They run right past, cackling. Nothing can slow them on their jubilant way to the football stadium: tonight Indonesia play Malaysia in the 26th South East Asian Games.

"Indonesia will win 3-0," predicts Yanto, a sticker seller. The red and white stickers are shaped like Indonesian flags and Yanto sells them in sets of four for Rp 1,000 ($0.10).

Toot toot, the horn sellers blare.

Amid the litter of cigarette butts and plastic cup lids, sellers sit on the tarmac displaying boxes of bottled tea and football memorabilia: hats, scarves, t-shirts, key fobs... Toot toot.

Almost everyone is wearing red, and groups pose together in islands of camaraderie for pre-game phone photographs. The horn blares merge together into great roars of anticipation and hope.

In the last of the daylight, spectators eat hot cups of instant noodles. Cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air.

"I think Indonesia will win 3-1," says supporter Danny.

Supporter Alan predicts a 2-0 victory for Indonesia.

"You going in?" he asks, red t-shirt taut over his ballooned belly.

"I don't have a ticket."

"Want me to get you in?"

"You know how to get into the stadium without a ticket?"

"I know the way."

"How? Or is it a secret?"

Alan laughs: "It's a public secret! Come on, it's good inside!"

Wild Racers

2011-10-13T11:00:00.003+07:00

Amid hoots and whoops the motor bounces down the stony track at full speed: intent on collision. Panting eagerly after it is the bare-footed boy who propels it.

At the moment of impact he banks suddenly left, rising with the gradient, bruising the wooden sticks of someone's boundary fence. He wheels back to the path in an arc of triumph, halting in the dust ahead; the headlamps of his face full beam and bright.

"Motor, tourist!" he toots.

Motor is the Indonesian word for car. Here, on the banks of lake Sano Nggoang, deep in West Manggarai, Flores (an island in Eastern Indonesia near Komodo), the motor is also a children's toy. Here, wild riders race the village pathways.

The coachwork is a length of green bamboo. A short, sturdy stick is knocked perpendicular through the main shaft to form handlebars. The far end of the bamboo is cleft in two and supports a wooden axel which spins through the heart of a wooden wheel.

Suburban kids have slicker wheels. The heads of two sticks are jammed into a plastic cup creating a V. The cup runs the hamster-wheel of the inside track of the tyre, lubricated with oil. This racer, spotted alongside the main road to Ruteng, Flores, was a solo runner.

And on the subject of horsepower....

In the arable countryside around Ruteng, jockeys rein up their stick steeds at the starting line, the raised bump of a sleeping policeman.

String reins, held in the left hand, keep the horse's head high. The right hand works the whip.

And at a cracking pace they're off.

The race track is the road around the village, the finishing point the same bump as the start. And when Henry (the near jockey above) came in an all-out first, he whipped off his t-shirt and made helicopter blades of it around his head.

Sportingly, no also-rans in this three horse race....

Endangered Attraction

2011-09-20T12:14:00.002+07:00

Inked across the man's face are two green snakes, jaws wide, fangs long. With his lips between them, the two tattoo snakes face off.

In the last light of day, Slamet is the cynosure at Fatahillah Square, Kota. He braids three live snakes around his head into a turban. One has its mouth sellotaped shut.

"Who wants to hold one?"
A woman steps forward. The slogan across her blue t-shirt reads, Without Significant Intelligence. Slamet coils two snakes like winter scarves around her neck and she grins for someone's mobile phone camera. She slips Slamet some money for the privilege.

Opening the largest of four plastic containers, the size of a trunk, Slamet grunts as he heaves out a 60kg reticulated python.

"You want this?"
"It'll eat me!" the woman squeals.

Now a third container is opened. The crowd gasps and unanimously retreats a pace. "Komodo," someone exhales. Inside, with an elegant, elongated snout, is a young crocodilian: a tomistoma.

Slamet forces open the tomistoma's jaws, revealing a pearly interior and handsaw teeth. The little tomistoma squeezes its eyes tight shut.

Tomistoma are on the IUCN endangered list, with an estimated population below 2,500 mature individuals. The species snapped up Indonesian news on 31 December 2008 when the bodies of a 43-year-old man and two monkeys were discovered in the belly of a 4m female tomistoma in central Kalimantan.

"Next week we'll have a king cobra!" Slamet's eyes flash. He smooths the beanie on his head. The beanie is the same shades of bronze, white and black as the python. "The king cobra is good: it rears its head and you can kiss it...".
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Fatahillah Square is also the place to be for face piercings and bike rides. For more on snakes: feast here, but take protection.

Peanuts for Dragons

2011-09-12T14:39:00.020+07:00

"How do we escape, if a dragon attacks?"

"Run zigzag!"

Rinca Island in September is ocherous and well-baked, the earth and sparse flora all beautiful burned-biscuit browns. There are skulls in the trees and dragons on the ground: Komodo dragons.

There are also baby dragons in the trees. "Once hatched, baby dragons hide in the trees so their parents can't eat them," says Park Ranger Agus, conspicuous in his saffron ranger shirt.

Komodos are monitor lizards, weighing in at between 150 to 300 pounds, with a length of up to three meters. There is a ruddy cast to their grey scales and their bowed legs give them a cowboy gait

"Dragons can run fast, but not far," adds Agus, leaning on the forked wooden staff all Park Rangers carry. An alternative to the zigzag flight is to climb a tree: presumably one which doesn't have a junior dragon salivating amid its upper boughs.

"Or you can just stand still. Motion makes a dragon want to pursue."

It's the tail-end of the July to September mating season. Female dragons usurp the ground nests dug by fellow islanders, the orange-footed fowl. They eat the bird eggs, then lay their own 15-30 grey eggs.

"And what if you're bitten?"

"Then you've got 12 hours to get the medicine before you have to amputate," says Agus, flatly. "People die from the bacteria in Komodo bites. But, there's no medicine on the island. The nearest antidote is in Denpasar, Bali, several hours away by plane and many more by boat."

It's a hot day and the round-nosed dragons are keeping to the shadows, bellies flat to the ground, chins flat to the ground. Four of them are dozing near the National Park's kitchen - a wooden lodge raised on stilts.

"They hang out here because they like the kitchen smells," says Agus.

"Do you feed them?"

"No. Only a little."

Suddenly one of the dragons is up and running, a swaying drunken run, beneath the kitchen where a trapdoor in the elevated floor has opened and food has been thrown out.
"They like fish bones," explains Agus. "Fish bones are like peanuts to dragons."

See here for a fuller version of this dragon's tale in The Jakarta Post's Weekender magazine, December 2011.

Lobster Juice and Ramadan

2011-08-22T09:13:00.004+07:00

"Cup of lobster juice, please!"

"What's lobster juice?"
"The green one is melon, the pink one is young coconut, and the yellow one is, -?" The vendor lifts the cup and squints. Suspended within a pale mucus are clusters of seeds. Lobster spawn?

"Hey! Mum! What's this?" he yells across a table of croquettes studded with green chilies.
"Blewah!" she hollers back. Melon.

"Why's it called lobster juice?"
"Oh, that's just the packaging," he says dismissively. "They are Rp 5,000 per cup." The vendor holds his hand out, fingers splayed. "One, two, three four, five."

It’s the final week of Ramadan at the Benhil outdoor food market in central Jakarta. Packed under a canopy along the roadside are vendors with open tureens and trays of food, both savoury and sweet. The air is coughingly fragrant with chili.

"Silahkan! Boleh!" the vendors call, encouraging customers to their wares. There’s a camaraderie here, vendors banter as they persuade. Several wave short-handled mops over the food, swishing at flies.

During the Ramadan month, Muslims abstain from eating and drinking in daylight. "Tonight, I’ll break my fast with a glass of sweet tea and some jengkol beans," says one man, eyeing stuffed squid and steamed cakes.

"Fasting gives your stomach a break," interrupts another. "It’s like looking after your motorbike. You service your bike: you give your stomach a rest." His wife tugs his sleeve, smiling an apology as she leads him away.

"Mister!" someone calls.

"She’s not mister," someone counters.

"The most popular food at my stall is asinan betawi," says Upi. "It’s salty, spicy, and delicious." She points to a tray of clear plastic bags knotted and bound with elastic bands. Inside are bubblegum-pink crackers (krupuk), beansprouts, chilies, and peanut sauce. "It'll keep for three days in the fridge."

"Hello!" sings a voice high above a wall of grilled gurame. The lady waves a hand, gesturing to the fish pressed between blackened mesh. "Tastes great with green chili!"

But not everyone is pleased with the outdoor market. "Oh no. No. This isn't right," spits Zulkifli, a taxi driver, caught in the slow traffic immediately alongside the market. "They must not display the food during the day."

He glares through the window, sucking at his teeth. "This open bazaar will make people break their fast early.They shouldn't open until evening."

I try a few questions to see if I can cheer Zulkifli up.
"What's more difficult? Abstaining from drinking, eating, or smoking?"
"They're all the same."
"How do you break your fast?"
"First I'll have a drink. Then eat something sweet to regain my strength. Then have a smoke."
"What's the best food to break a fast with?"
"Padang food. It's delicious."

This is surprising: Padang food, from west Sumatra, can be intensely spiced.
"Where are you from?"
"Padang, of course!" Zulkifli grins and toots his horn.

CNNGo serves up 40 Indonesian foods

2011-08-16T19:02:00.002+07:00

Hungry? Get ready for Indonesia!

CNN Go are serving up 40 of Indonesia's favourite dishes on their website this week, photographed by Gangs of Indonesia writer Melanie. Check out the story and photos here.

The satay above was cooked on Jl Veteran, central Jakarta. The sambel below is from Le Seminyak in Pacific Place. And the balado terong at the top was homemade and shot in the garden.

Selamat makan!

Ride Away

2011-08-08T12:48:00.005+07:00

"People do sometimes steal our bikes," admits bicycle renter Suwarno. "They just ride away and don't come back."

Suwarno rents out old-style Dutch bicycles with colourful sun hats and strident bells for Rp20,000 per hour ($2.00) to tourists in Fatahillah Square in Jakarta's old town district, Kota. "Usually I get between 10 and 35 customers a day, but now that it is Ramadan, the square is quiet."

Fatahillah was once the scene of public torture and execution, administered by the old city courthouse. Today, weekends at the square bustle with buskers and bicycles, slapstick theatre, fairground games of skill and chance, and photographers capturing fashion and romance.

Suwarno's 20 multi-coloured bicycles are available 24 hours a day.

"Do people rent bikes late at night?"

"Yes, even as late as two in the morning."

"Do the bike lights work?"

"No."

"Are there ever any accidents?"

"Yes, often. But not serious ones in which people are badly injured."

There are 18 bike rental agents working within the perimeter of the square. "We pay the Jakarta government Rp15,000 per bike per month to operate here."

A second bicycle agent sidles over.

"Foreign tourists are scared to ride these bikes," he comments.

"Is that because the brakes don't work?"

The agent shrugs. "Foreigners always try and haggle the price lower," he counters. "We only make Rp50,000 a day ($5.00); how can we survive on that?"

Suwarno and his competitors have to be vigilant all day. "There are thieves here at night. We lose about a bike a month. I refuse to lend people bikes, if I am suspicious of their motives. Sometimes people do cycle off and not return."

The bicycle agents also lead cycling tours around Kota and on to the old Watchtower, the maritime museum, the fish market, and Sunda Kelapa port.

The bike agent shakes his head, "There is so much information I'd like to tell foreign tourists about these places, but I don't speak any English."

Volcano Etiquette

2011-07-14T20:26:00.002+07:00

“A ghost led the American off the path,” says Ningot. “He was lost on Semeru volcano for days before we found him.” Ningot is a mountain guide, search-and-rescue worker, and cauliflower farmer based in the village of Ranu Pani, East Java.

We’re descending the 3,676m Gunung Semeru, through woodland and savannah, and later through fields of spring onions. It’s quiet: there’s little apparent wildlife. Dripping-tongue dogs weave between the legs of the hikers, tails high.

“They’re hunting dogs,” says Ningot. “Hunters are not allowed to use weapons here, but they can use dogs and traps.” The men are after wild boar and deer. One of the hunters has a small tree with white flowers poking through the top of his rucksack, perhaps Javanese edelweiss. “There are still panthers here, far to the east,” adds Ningot.

“What happened to the American?”

“He was travelling in a group, but grew tired at the summit and lagged behind. Eventually he was alone. He heard a voice and followed it. But it was a ghost, calling him off the path.”

There are several memorial stones at the Arcopodo campsite and summit of Semeru, noting the names and ages of hikers who have died or never returned.

“Another person got lost because they were sombong (arrogant).”

“How can we avoid being sombong?”

“Don’t talk about the height of the volcano and boast that you can climb it, or say that it is easy to climb. Don’t use dirty words.”

Ningot has climbed Semeru over 125 times. “The sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth months are best for climbing. By November there will be rain and the volcano will be closed until May.”

Guides and porters for Semeru can be arranged from the Family Homestay in Ranu Pani.

Get Pierced

2011-07-04T10:03:00.000+07:00

Jawir has a gun to the girl’s open mouth. Her name is Ika. She’s seventeen.

We’re at a table of cheap rings in Fatahillah Square, north Jakarta. A piece of A4 reads: Engrave your name on a ring for Rp 5,000 ($0.60). Another reads, Terima tindik: get pierced.

Jawir, the piercer, squats on the grey flagstones with his bare fingers in Ika’s mouth. She’s wearing a red t-shirt with the slogan: couple of lover, and holds a cigarette. Jawir wipes a yellow piercing gun with a square of cotton wool, then punches a piercing stud through Ika's lower lip.

School’s out for the summer, and three seventeen-year-olds are spending the day in Fatahillah Square getting face piercings.

“Yes, our parents will be angry,” Dede admits. She has just had her nose pierced.

“Are you afraid to go home?”

“I am,” says Bella. She has tiger-eye contact lenses.

“Our parents will be angry today, but less so tomorrow,” reasons Dede. The girls laugh.

Ika’s piercing is not finished. She draws on her cigarette. Jawir fiddles at her lip and pulls the piercing stud out. Ika spits on the ground.

Jawir takes a curved barbell and threads it through the hole in her lip with his fingers. Ika winces. “She wants to cry,” a lady shouts out from the crowd of spectators.

With his fingers inside her mouth, Jawir locates the end of the stud and screws on a ball. Ika squeezes her eyes tight shut.

Jawir has been a piercer for one year.

“It took me three weeks to learn,” he says. “I’ve given hundreds of piercings.”

"Any unusual piercings? Nipples? Anywhere more private?”

The girls gasp and giggle at the question.

Jawir shakes his head. “Just the tummy button. Most people want tongue and lip piercings."

Jawir charges Rp 15,000 ($1.60) per piercing. “But Rp 20,000 if it’s a tongue piercing,” he adds.

Jawir has only a single stud in his ear.

“Why don’t you have more?”

“My parents don’t like it.”

King Banana, Trash Queen

2011-06-26T21:30:00.001+07:00

Sakir walks 10 kilometres everyday selling bananas in central Jakarta. "I've been selling bananas for 39 years. Bananas are what I know."

The bananas are sold from a wooden cart. "I made the cart myself. But it's heavy and often breaks."

Sakir sells over five different varieties of bananas. "The bananas from Sukabumi in West Java are the sweetest. They're called pisang raja (king banana) and are the best-selling variety. The bananas from Ambon are the most delicious. And these long green ones can't be eaten straight, they must be cooked first."

Sakir buys his banana stock from the Palmerah market each morning, and sells an average of 25 bunches a day for Rp 7,000 ($0.80).

Svelte in long narrow batik, a grey-haired woman lingers by the banana cart listening to Sakir. She carries a red plastic stool and wears red lipstick. Tied to one leg of the stool is a bulging black plastic bag of bottles. She beams. Costume jewellery at her ears and wrists flashes in the sunlight.

"I'm Ratu," she announces. Queen.

"Do you know what I am?" she asks in English. "I'm a collector. I collect plastic rubbish from the street," she points to her bag of empty plastic water bottles.
"Would you like a banana?"
She laughs but shakes her head, choosing to refuse.

Rubber Time

2011-06-10T11:41:00.001+07:00

"Poke it. Poke it with your forefinger. That's how you test its quality."

In a rubber field in Tabalong, south Kalimantan, farmer Bahruddin scores a diagonally descending cut into one side of a tree trunk with his black-blade machete. White rubber oozes from the gash, trickling along the wound and dripping into a small plastic bowl hanging from a nail in the tree trunk.

"I make one cut into each tree daily," says Bahruddin, running a finger down the guiro-like scores of yesterdays. He scores down one side of the tree only. Once the track of cuts on the active side of the tree has reached the base, the tapper will begin working the lee side, allowing the cut side to heal.

"The rubber is good from a waist-high cut, but can become dirty when taken from a cut close to the base of the tree." It takes between five and seven years for a rubber tree to be ready for harvesting.

Snug within a forest clearing is the rubber processing platform of the Kelompok Kebun Karet Unggul: the Best Rubber Garden Group. The farmers tip their bowls of rubber into tin trays with a mix of water and acid. The trays are placed in the sun to set; they look like trays of white school glue.

"It takes thirty minutes for the rubber to set," says rubber farmer Rajuli.
"Fifteen," counters rubber farmer Junaidi, above. Today they are working together in the processing platform.

The processing station is a simple roofed wooden stage with a single work bench bearing two pressing machines and a suspended weighing device.

The processing equipment is used jointly by members of the Best Rubber Group, and collectively the farmers process 200 kilos of rubber a day. Each farmer uses rubber produced from his own trees. "I've processed thirty kilos today," says Rajuli, who has 1,000 trees over two hectares.

Once set, Junaidi tips the jelly-like rubber from its tray onto a flat section of the wooden floorboards. He pats and spreads and flattens the rubber, like a chef with soft dough: teasing the rubber into a rectangular pancake.

Junaidi feeds the wet rubber sheets through the two hand-operated pressing machines, squeezing out the excess water. "This second machine scores the rubber with lines, giving it texture." The pressed rubber is weighed and then hung in a wooden smokehouse for three days.

"We turn the rubber sheets twice during the smoking process. If the rubber is yellow, it is under-smoked; when it's ready, it's a deep brown." The smoked rubber sheets sell for around Rp 32,000 ($3.50) per kilo in the market; one sheet weighs a kilo.

"You really should visit the Tanjung rubber market here," encourages Zainal, a driver for Adaro Energy. "When the rubber quality is high, the market is crowded. You'll see people poking the rubber with their fingers, testing the quality and haggling for the best price. The harder the rubber, the lower the water content."
"Let's go!"
"But it's not open today...".

Massage at the Monas

2011-05-19T22:57:00.004+07:00

Atun uncaps a bottle marked Placenta and squirts white on the back of the American lying face down in the park.

We're all spectacles today. An Indonesian, also face down, is having blood sucked from his body through suction cups placed along his bare back and legs. Pedestrians in the park eat candyfloss and pause to watch the procedure before ambling on. It's a public holiday and the mood is light in the grounds around the national monument (Monas) in north central Jakarta.

Atun has a purple plastic clapper. "It's called alat pijat," she says, a massage tool. The American lying on a mat in the shade of the trees is stoic in her hands. A crowd have gathered around to watch; they are mostly local cappuccino sellers. They pedal through the park with hampers full of coffee sachets and tall thermos flasks of hot water.

"I learned how to massage from my parents, before they died," says Atun, who lives near Gambir, the central Jakarta train station. "And I have very strong hands. So strong, that rich people and Muslims don't like my massages. The Chinese do though. Lots of fat Chinese come here in the mornings to run around."

She drives an elbow into the buttocks of the American. The cappuccino boys laugh, their arms over each other's shoulders. "You're my first westerner," she says. "Tourists don't usually stop for me."

Atun sets her mat out in the Monas grounds every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. She's tough in a red bandana and gold hoops in her ears.

"I had a daughter," she says. "My husband hit her." Here she mimes karate chops to the back of her neck, then closes her eyes and presses her palms together as if in prayer. When she opens them again, she is looking at the sky. "My daughter went to the place above."

Atun's massages last an hour and cost Rp 30,000 ($3.00).

Buy buy dyed birds

2011-04-27T13:12:00.004+07:00

The birds in the cardboard cages at the Malabar Sunday market have been painted like Easter eggs: all bubblegum and aquamarine.

This particular Sunday market is held in the woodland of the Malabar tea estate, south of Bandung, Java. Goods are laid on blankets on the woodland soil or hung from string wound round tree trunks. Old men hand-spin candy floss for children with chipped-teeth smiles. There is something of Midsummer Night's Dream here in the dappled light of the woodland set.

Hanging from a wooden bar are tiny birdcages made from used tea boxes, mesh, and staples. Pecking at and grasping onto the mesh are some of the smallest birds in Indonesia.

"They are burung pipit," calls out the bird seller, reclining on a grassy bank."I caught them with a net."
"Why have you painted them?"
"To make them more interesting for children. Pink is the most popular colour."
His opening price is Rp 5,000 ($0.50) per bird.

Around the tea plantation are signs reading Dilarang Berburu - don't hunt.
"What can we not hunt?"
"Birds," replied Suhara, manager of the Malabar Mess.
"What about the birds being sold just here in the market?"
"Catching and selling birds is not the same as hunting and killing them. People buy the birds and then release them."

Frazzle the Heartstrings

2011-04-08T17:10:00.004+07:00

"Sure, you can rent the puppy if you want. Just make sure it's healthy when you bring it back."

This post is sheer indulgence: marking the first anniversary of Gangs of Indonesia! Sixty-seven posts later, we're back to where it pretty much all started - at the puppy market in Menteng, Jakarta.

Haryanto, above, originally from Surabaya in East Java, has been selling puppies in Jakarta for the last seven years. "You can order any breed you like, we have them all," he says, referring to the dog farms in Bogor and Bandung. "But you can rent puppies too."

"Why would anyone want to rent a puppy instead of buying it?"
"Some people are on short contracts here. And others rent dogs when they go shooting. I recently rented a puppy to an Indian man."
"How long did he rent it for?"
"Two weeks."
"Has he brought it back?"
"Yes, and I've sold it on."
"How much does it cost to rent a puppy?"
"Half the selling price."
"How do you know customers will bring the puppies back?"
"They promise me. And we sign a letter."
"If people rent puppies and bring them back when they are older, do you have trouble selling the dogs on?"
"No, some customers want young puppies for their children to play with, and others want older dogs to guard their houses."

Haryanto shows long teeth and blue gums in his smile: "I have an 8-month old German Shepherd called Bruno. Do you want to come back to my house to see him?"

"What do you feed the puppies?"
"Rice."
"Do they also eat sambel?" This makes the sellers laugh. (Sambel is chilli sauce, the Indonesian favourite after rice).
"No, we don't give them sambel, but we do feed them chicken feet with the rice."

Pumpkin Rides

2011-04-05T21:27:00.006+07:00

"Bajajs have always been orange," Ibu Ani says, slack-breasted in a yellow singlet. "The government wants them orange."

We're in a small yard ringed by slapshack houses, near the Karet Bivak cemetery in Karet Tengsin, central Jakarta. In the centre of the yard are 12 parked bajajs. One has been stripped and is being re-sprayed pumpkin orange.

Bajajs are a bit like hollow pumpkins on three wheels.

"What would happen if you painted the bajaj purple?"
"There would be a problem with the police."

The yard has been used as a bajaj maintenance workshop for five years. "It costs over Rp 1 million ($100.00) to repaint a bajaj," Ibu Ani says.
"Two million," someone else calls out.
"The owner pays, not the driver," Ibu Ani clarifies.

The owner of these particular bajajs owns 30 vehicles in total. The drivers pay the owner Rp 42,000 ($4.20) a day and keep for themselves anything extra they make from driving passengers short distances around the city.

On one side of the yard is a bare wall with a crude aperture through which a young woman sells sachets of Rinso washing detergent, cigarettes, envelopes and peanuts. "That's the bajaj owner," says Ibu Ani, pointing to the woman in the recess. "She's called Erlena." Erlena doesn't smile.

The man re-spraying the bajaj is Ari. He fills a spray can with paint, attaches it to a hose and a generator and blasts the paint on the bodywork. Later the driver will tell Ari what motifs and designs he would like on the chassis.

"Ari's an engineer and an artist," someone pipes up from the gathering crowd. "He can do silhouettes."

"Do bajajs have names?"
"Some have special words painted across them: like Princess or Destiny."

"But the government wants to get rid of the orange bajajs," continues Ibu Ani. "They want to replace them with the blue BBG ones." The crowd looks askance. Bahan bakar gas (BBG) is compressed natural gas; BBG bajajs are quieter, more environmentally-friendly, and much more expensive.

"Drivers have to pay the owners Rp 130,000 ($13.00) a day for the blue bajajs."

"Hey!", a pot-bellied man waddles into the yard. He has the nose of a gnome.
"What's that?" he asks me bluntly, pointing to the bajaj.

"A bajaj."

"Where's it from?"

"India."

"Hmff. She knows!" he remarks to the others. The test is over. He gestures to a plastic stool and invites me to sit.

The Ferrymen

2011-04-04T14:10:00.004+07:00

Gripping a few tough wires, taut across the river, the ferryman pulls passengers on a wooden boat from one side of the river to the other.

Passengers pay Rp 500 (US 5 cents) to cross the 24-foot Kali Krukut river in Benhil, central Jakarta. The crossing takes just a few seconds.

"This ferry has been operating since 1968 and it's never capsized," says Pak Kuat, above. He estimates that he pulls the ferry across the river 400 times a day, with a maximum load of seven passengers per crossing. "Noon is busiest, when people come home to rest," he adds.

Thirty-year old Kartono works a second ferry on the same river. He estimates he crosses the river 1,000 times a day, and during the few minutes we talk, he pulls the boat across the river six times.

"I start work at 6am and finish at 10pm. I sleep on the boat too," Kartono says. At the rear of the wooden boat is a single mattress covered with a sarong. "There are three of us who work this ferry," he continues. "What I like about being a ferryman is that I'm close to my friends."

Benhil is infamous for its floods."But we can still operate in the floods," says Kuat. "We just raise the level of the wire across the river."

A twist of three wires spans the river. On either side is a wooden post staked with a vertical row of nails. The height of the wire across the water is determined by which nail-notch the wires are supported by.

The boats last for around five years, and cost Rp 15 million ($1,500.00) to replace. "But it's the wooden steps leading down to the water on both river banks which need the most maintenance work," says Kartono.

Half a dozen children scamper on board.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere!" they reply.

"My name is! My name is!" they chant, elbowing each other and giggling. Children can cross the river for free.

Grandmother's Kitchen

2011-02-26T18:15:00.004+07:00

With a voice so sharp and strong it rings clearly down the street, 85-year-old Ibu Juheria sings out "kue kue," calling residents forth to buy homemade snacks from her basket.

"Grandmother makes them herself," Juheria says, referring to herself in the third person. "I have bakwan, gemblong, ketan, and lemper."

She wears a lilac and white headscarf, a purple floral blouse and a deep green and black traditional skirt. She squats on the roadside to chat.

"Which is the most delicious?"
"They're all delicious. I send them to the USA, Taiwan, and Malaysia."
"Which is the most popular?"
"All of them!" she retorts, her eyes lost in the smiling folds of her face.

Bakwan is a savoury mix of shredded vegetables fried in batter. Lemper, wrapped in a green banana leaf, is an oblong of glutinous rice with a chicken centre. Ketan, pictured below, is a patty of sticky rice dusted with desiccated coconut, chili, and sugar. Gemblong is a deep-fried mouthful of rice and coconut.

Juheria has been making and selling snacks since 1972. "I've got regular customers. Even an American who bought my basket to take home as a souvenir."

She makes over 70 of each delicacy a day and sells them all by sunset. "I sell over 300 pieces a day." The individual snacks cost Rp 1,500 each ($0.15).

Carrying her goods in a three-tiered metal basket, Juheria starts walking through the Benhil streets in central Jakarta at 9am, going home at 5pm. She walks bent double like a right angle ruler. On her feet are simple flip-flops.

She is accompanied by her middle-aged daughter, Jenna. Today they were caught in heavy rainfall. "We just sat in a shelter and waited for it to stop," Juheria says, giggling. "I'm strong, Alhamdulillah."

A man in a red uniform pushes a Wall's ice cream bicycle cart past; the ice cream melody on a never-ending loop. Crouched on the road, we silently watch the rival food seller.

"I'll be here again tomorrow," Juheria says, gathering her baskets and standing up. Her toenails are as thick as horns. She shuffles off down the wet road, her voice clanging like a bell. "Kue kue."

Cockfights

2011-02-16T11:25:00.003+07:00

Sharp blades are tied to the heels of fighting cocks.

The blades are kept in special cases; the owners riffle through the pages of blades before the fight, choosing the appropriate weapon.

The tang is then tightly bound to the bird's claw by string. Then, equally-weighted birds are pitted against each other.

To remove the blade from the defeated cock, the bird is tossed to a man with a cleaver who slices the leg off.

Lucky Birds

2011-02-06T13:48:00.003+07:00

"These tiny birds release unluckiness and make prayers come true."

Outside the Dewi Wihara Dharma Bhakti temple in Glodok, north Jakarta is a man selling tiny birds. "By freeing the birds, people release their unluckiness and make their prayers come true," he says.

A lady and her young daughter stop to buy several dozen birds. The vendor reaches into the packed bird cage and withdraws birds by the handful. He stuffs them into a plastic lunchbox. The mother and daughter take the lunchbox of birds into the temple courtyard and, amid the incense smoke, pull back the lid and release the birds into the sky.

The seller offers one bird for Rp 2,000 (US $0.20).
"It's good if you buy 108 birds," he adds.
"What's special about the number 108?"
He shrugs.
"Would 107 be ok?"
"No. But if you buy all of them, I'll give you a discount."

The Gong Factory

2011-01-23T14:44:00.003+07:00

"Gloves? We don't wear them. It's too dangerous."

In the gloom, four men stripped to the waist stand around a glowing pink curl of hot alloy. Sparks sear the blackness and the temperature rises.

They strike it in turns, and each clash of mallet on metal rings a different note: du, de, dii, da.

In this one-room workshop in Bogor, West Java, tin and copper are hand mixed, beaten and filed into traditional bronze gongs. The ratio of tin to copper is critical: four kilos of tin to nine kilos of copper. "Too much tin and the surface of the gong will tear," explains gong-smith Ujang. "Too much copper and the gong will crack."

With a pair of long tongs, a fifth man takes the beaten alloy and places it in the smoldering heart of the open fire beside them. Electric bellows hiss air into the embers and sparks soar upwards in a Catherine Wheel of light.

Man 5 removes the glowing orange bronze, now curled like a shell, and the four strikers resume their melodic wielding, working the diameter of the gong slowly wider. Their bodies are thin and muscular; torsos licked with sweat.

"Hot, isn’t it?" comments Ujang, wearing a felt hat. "It’s too dangerous to wear gloves: the mallets could slip from our hands."

He sucks on a cigarette, then takes the 8-kilo mallet and strikes at the gong for 15 seconds. He then resumes the cigarette: "We can't work fast because we get dry throats and pains in our livers." The air whirls with dust and metal particles. "I don't have a cough though, Alhamdulillah," he adds.

Ujang says he earns Rp 35,000 ($3.50) a day, but nothing if he takes a sick day. He surreptiously slides a dish containing a blue Rp 50,000 note into view. "We have many foreign visitors. They're very welcome."

The gong factory is open from 08:00-16:00 everyday except Fridays, and is located near the river crossing on Jl Pulo Empang. There is a small shop next door, but it carries little stock.

Worm Boy

2011-01-08T13:06:00.002+07:00

"Are the worms for fishing?"
"They're for eating," replies Gede, a waiter in a restaurant overlooking the long white beach at Jungut Batu, Nusa Lembongan.

"People eat the worms?!"
"No, fish do."

Bare-footed and bent double, children pluck worms (cacing laut) from the wet sand at the shoreline. They carry two small buckets in one hand: one for the collected worms, and one with water which they sprinkle onto the sand after the waves recede.

The second the water droplets hit the sand, the underground worms breach the surface. The eyes and hands of the children are predator-quick, locating and whipping out the slim worms faster than I could see.

The worms can be sold as fishing bait for Rp 1,000 ($0.10) per kilo.

Ceningan Alchemy

2010-12-30T10:58:00.002+07:00

Over at the Sea Breeze Warung on Nusa Ceningan, a tiny island southeast of Bali, is a drink thought to be so extreme most locals won't drink it. Its translated name is shoe flower juice.

Ketuk plucks two red hibiscus blooms from a tree in the steep hillside garden behind her cafe and drops them into a tall glass. When the metal kettle on the stove whistles steam, she pours boiling water over the petals, half filling the glass. The water turns deep purple, then black.

"Kembang sepatu grows in every house in Bali, but most locals don't know about this drink," Ketut says, stirring a heaped spoon of white sugar into the black liquid. "It's too extreme. Only foreigners order it."

Then she laughs: "But it's safe! It really is! I'll eat or drink anything I make!"

Ketut slices a tiny local lemon in two and squeezes both halves into the glass. The chameleon liquid changes hue again - to a cheery maraschino red. She tops the glass with ice, and the shoe flower drink is served.

It's gently sweet and lightly flavoured, and is listed as Bunga Nusa on the menu.

Nusa Ceningan, in the Badung Strait, can be reached via a yellow suspension bridge from Nusa Lembongan. Best explored by bicycle.

Hell Bank Notes

2010-12-26T13:01:00.002+07:00

Lukman sells bank notes and merchandise for the dead.

The shop, Ting Ting, is named after Lukman's sister. It’s up in Chinatown, Glodok, north Jakarta. He sells incense, candles, oil, and paper replicas of earthly goods: paper tuxedos, paper mobile phones, paper handbags, paper watches and jewelry, even paper super bikes.

His shop is narrow and dark, stocked high on either side with red, gold and silver coloured items. Red is for luck, gold is for the gods, and silver is for the dead.

"These goods are for our ancestors to use in the afterlife, to make them more comfortable."

The paper replicas are burned at Chinese temples for the spirits to use. There are Versace paper slippers and denominations of Hell Bank Note Corporation notes of up to a quadrillion dollars (that’s fifteen zeros).

"Why are the bank denominations so high?"
"Well, we don’t know how much a bowl of noodles costs in the afterlife," replies Lukman.

Snake Goggles

2010-12-04T09:53:00.003+07:00

"A snake spat poison in my eye. Twice. Now I wear goggles."

This is Harry Wibowo talking, one hand resting on his round belly. He runs the Depot Cobra Rejeki snake restaurant in Malang, East Java. The two snake-spitting incidents happened ten years ago when he first got into the business

"My eyes were puffed for 24 hours and I couldn't see," he recalls. "But even now, a decade later, my eyesight is not clear."

Harry's been selling snakes since 2000. He keeps them in chicken-wire cages raised from the concrete floor on hexagonal paving stones.

He says he buys them for Rp 30,000 ($3) each and keeps 20 in stock. He sells up to 50 snakes a month. "My wife Fifi cooks them in our restaurant. They're good with Javanese spices and chili paste."

Occasionally someone wants to buy a live snake. "If a local magic man determines that a patient needs to make a snake sacrifice in order to be well again, I'll tape shut the snake's mouth and sell it to the customer. Then they'll kill it as part of their treatment."

In the cage the snakes are sitting upwards as though listening to us. Their pearly undersides catch the last of the light falling through the skylight above.

Today the snakes are shedding their skin. "It's a painful and difficult time for them," Harry says. "As they are in a cage, they cannot rub themselves against the ground or rocks to help the shedding process."

Putting his goggles on, Harry picks up a wooden stick and lifts one of the snakes from the cage. He tugs and tears the shedding skin from the snake like someone picking at sunburn. The snake hisses and spits.

"What do you feed the snakes?"
"Nothing. Customers don't want to bite into their cobra snake and find a partially-digested mouse inside."

In Jakarta, try the cobra palace.

Black Magic

2010-12-03T17:00:00.005+07:00

Black magic is not free. You have to pay.

Here's Yusuf. He tends a kiosk of treasures on the groundfloor of the Jatinegara gem market in East Jakarta (opposite the Jatinegara train station).

His kiosk sells two-foot long Korans bound in bark, sets of fanged dolls in coffin-shaped boxes, thumb-sized animal-hide books of miniature scripts and symbols from East Javan pesantrans, inch-high bottles of red and blue and gold inks, pots of golden nails, bone-handled swords, prayer beads, and shiny boxes decorated with black skeletons.

"What's this?" Chiller-script font above the skeletons reads Gondo Mayit Sumple.

Gondo means smell and mayit means corpse.

"It's Rp 40,000 ($4).

"But what is it?"
"It's aroma." Yusuf jiggles the cardboard lid off. Inside is something the texture and colour of rich compost but with a sweet and sickly and pungent fragrance. "It's for corpses. When they decompose they start to smell. You can use this."

The fanged-dolls in the coffin boxes are called jenglot. Some have their eyes blindfolded behind narrow strips of red fabric. They have long fingernails and toenails, and hair as long as their bodies.

Yusuf adds that these are not real jenglot, but replicas. Real jenglot can be used for personal protection or to harm others, but need to be activated first by a shaman. Then they require a sacrifice. Perhaps a thimble of blood.

Yusuf's shop sells two sizes of golden nails. Arabic lettering has been scored along their shafts.

"Knock them into the ground near the door to your house," says Yusuf. "They'll stop bad people from entering."

Later, in the office, I set these items on the desk as a macabre show-and-tell. "Eugh, these are village things, not city things," scoffs urban-slick graphic designer Ferry. "I don't know anything about them."

"They're mostly used for bad purposes," he adds. "If you want something good, you simply pray."

Kite Fights

2010-11-30T12:33:00.005+07:00

"Tuban's got nothing but fish," said Surabaya driver Iwan Jauhari. "Nothing at all for tourists."

This didn’t stop 3,000 visitors spending Saturday November 27 in the Terminal Wisata for the second annual Tuban kite festival.

Tuban, East Java, overlooks the Java Sea and is a three hour drive west from Surabaya.

"The eagle kites are best," an eagle kite maker exclaims, his handmade kites propped against a wall on display.

The heat is fierce and there is little shade. A woman shelters beneath a red Manchester United umbrella; another holds a child's wooden easel over her head. Everywhere is the carousel melody of the bicycle-pedaled ice cream carts.

"Kites are a part of Indonesian culture," says kite guru Endang Puspoyo, founder of the Indonesian Kite Museum in Jakarta. The museum brought over 100 kites to the Tuban festival, including a rainbow cuttlefish over 30 metres long.

But what about kite fighting?

"Kite fighting is called layangan adu," explains Endang. "The classic diamond-shaped two-frame kite is used and the string is coated with a mix of egg yolk and broken light bulb glass. The string must be good quality, sometimes we import it from Holland."

"There are two types of fighting," Endang continues, sitting cross-legged beneath a marquee beside the seawall. She is wearing a richly patterned turban, awesome sunglasses, and cerise lipstick. Kite diva. "Adu tarik and adu ulur: the difference is the height at which the competitors cross strings to fight."

The objective is to sever the opponent's string. "But if you want to know more about kite fighting, you should ask a man."

Museum Layang Layang Indonesia
(+62) (0) 21 765 80 75
Jl. H. Kamang No. 38, Pondok Labu, Jakarta 12450, Indonesia

Whiteface

2010-11-21T15:45:00.004+07:00

I peed in my water bowl.

This little albino monkey currently resides in a small cage outside the bird market behind Pasar Pramuka, east Jakarta. He lives with another albino monkey and a banana peel. They reach their paws, palm up, through the cage bars like beggars.

"Is he for sale?"
"Rp30 million," ($3,000) the dealer replies. Behind him a blue and gold macaw tosses his head.

The dealer has a thing for white. He has three albino monkeys, two albino squirrels, and an albino raven concealed beneath a drape.

Little Scientists

2010-11-17T17:39:00.140+07:00

On the pavement is a single white cow head. Grey plastic twine, knotted into a bow, holds the jaw shut. The neighbourhood girls are delighted.

One, in candy pink, kneels by the head and lifts the lip. "His teeth are very yellow," she reports. Another girl pulls up the eyelid. There is no squeamishness in these little scientists.

Tanah Abang, in central Jakarta, is lively with oil drum beats and the merriment of the Idul Adha holiday.

"Come! The butcher is here!" a woman in her best blouse urges, waving towards an alleyway narrow and shadowed. It leads to a courtyard splattered with blood, the open drainage channel thick with green digestive sludge. "Want a drink?" Someone offers a disposable plastic cup of water with a thin straw.

The butchers are slick and shirtless. Cigarettes smoulder between their lips while they eviscerate the goats hanging by their ankles from bamboo poles. Neighbours gather together to watch. This is the holiday spectacle.

"Do I look handsome?" brags a young butcher, standing stripped to the waist in the courtyard with a goat draped over one shoulder. He has a spider tattooed on one shoulder above a flag and the initials P.N.

The scene at the mosque is bloody and buoyant. "Welcome," says a man in an immaculate white tunic. "Do you celebrate Idul Adha in your country as well?" he asks as we step through the butchers' camaraderie to the open mosque door. "You do have Muslims, don't you? Then you must have Idul Adha."

The animals are divided into one-kilo portions and are distributed through the mosques to the local poor.

Little Goat's Last Laugh

2010-11-16T10:29:00.012+07:00

Tomorrow the streets will be bloody.

Bulls and goats are tethered to fences and posts along the city roadsides. "We'll begin with prayers and then at 8 o'clock tomorrow the sacrifices will begin," local man Sigit tells me as we admire the seventeen goats in a makeshift pen in one of the Benhil neighbourhoods in the heart of Jakarta. "Doesn't this farmyard smell bother you?" he asks.

"I just bought one. That one," says a bystander pointing. "We've named him Pilok."

The animals which have been bought are identified by simple name cards around their necks. "Some are still for sale...," Sigit adds. A goat costs between Rp 1 million ($100) and Rp 2 million. Bulls start at around Rp 7 million.

"These goats are a year or two old, but for really tasty satay you should have a 3-month-old goat," Sigit advises.

Tomorrow, November 17, these animals will be slaughtered and quartered for distribution to Jakarta's poor. This is the Idul Adha holiday celebrating Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son for God.

Goin' Fishin'

2010-11-08T21:44:00.004+07:00

In the flooded road a little girl plays while the mini buses and motorbikes splash by.

This is the road to the Muara Angke fish market in the very north of Jakarta, and it is sour with urine. Awful matter clogs the open drainage ditch to the right. Beyond, solid garbage is building new land into the sea. Styrofoam icebergs crest the stagnant black filth.

It's nine in the morning on Saturday and the market is quiet. "It's lively in the evenings," says a cockle seller. "The market starts at seven and runs through til dawn." He removes a lit cigarette from his mouth and wedges it between the lips of a cockle on a platter.

"You're writing?" another man asks."Do you write for Playboy?"
Other traders approach to watch.
"She's writing."
"What is she writing?"
"Look at that. It's good."
"I want to learn to write fast."

"Do you live in a village in England?" the Playboy fan asks. His companions jeer. "There are no villages in England," they chide.
"Actually, I do. But it is very small. My village has only fifteen houses in it."
They look at me hesitatingly, unsure if I am teasing.
"Do you have ducks in England?"

Into the market rolls the ice truck. Great slabs of ice are manually lifted from the truck and layered onto the cracked pavement above a drainage ditch. The iceman has a rag to pad his shoulder. The frozen blocks will be smashed in ice breaking machines and sold to traders and fishermen.

In the shade of an empty fish stall, three men idle. Their bicycle-taxis are parked outside. They have a long passenger seat fixed to the frame behind the cyclist's seat. Tied to the handlebars are empty drink cans with stones inside which rattle when shaken. "My bell," explains the owner.

Gapi owns a pink fishing boat. It takes 25 men out to sea each night, returning eight hours later. "We have the capacity to hold between four and six tonnes of fish, but last night we brought in just one," he reports. "You could come with us one night. Bring a handycam. Last year three Spanish journalists joined us. It was good."

So that's it, I'm goin' fishin'.

Ship Happens!

2010-10-26T22:02:00.002+07:00

"First we have to light a fire in the hull," says the lady with the Indonesian warships.

She has scores of battleships in the dockyard of her shop - a sheet of plastic and a washing-up bowl on the ground at Setu Babekan, the Betawi cultural village in south Jakarta.

The hand-painted ships are made from recycled tin cans. Each carries the red and white Indonesian flag as its national ensign and is stamped across the stern with the legend: Indah Asmara (Beautiful Sweetheart).

The boatlady lifts a showboat to her mouth and sucks quickly on one of two inlet pipes on the underside of the boat. Then, using what looks like a plectrum curled into a tiny metal ice cream cone, she scoops water from the washing-up bowl and channels it into the front hold of the boat through the pipes.

She places the ship in the ocean of its bowl and ensnares a wisp of cotton wool on a zigzag of metal. She dabs vegetable oil onto the wool, strikes a match, sets the cotton wool alight, and slides the blaze into the hull of the boat.

Nothing happens.

And then war happens. The boat pop-pop-pops and shuttles forward. A thin trail of black smoke escapes through the central flue. The artillery officer onboard is unblinking at the helm.

Twin guns mounted on the bow rat-a-tat and jiggle as the water heats inside the front chamber.

"You can only buy these here," the lady adds smoothly. But I'm already counting the notes from my wallet.

The tiny warships are made by a man called Yono. The smaller size (10cm length, pictured here) sell for Rp 10,000 ($1.00); the larger boats are Rp 15,000.

Sadly my boat later sank during its maiden voyage.

Bay City Day

2010-10-23T21:50:00.004+07:00

“Do you want to rent a duck?”

It’s Saturday morning on Marina Beach, Ancol Bay City, north Jakarta. The sun remains behind the white clouds and the day-trippers are still at home. Yellow foam laps the shore. Sodden cigarette butts and broken prongs of white plastic forks stud the dull sand. An hour with the floating duck costs Rp 10,000 ($1.00).

“Emergencies happen,” says Mono, the inflatable duck renter. “People, usually children who can’t swim, shout out tolong! tolong! – and I rush into the water to the rescue.”

Ancol Bay City is a 140-acre recreation area containing a theme park, cycling routes, seaside esplanades and restaurants, live music stages, a water park, outbound courses, jet ski and wind-surfing rental, boats to the diving spots of the Thousand Islands, and an art market.

“I make Harry Potters out of grass,” says artist M. K. Makroni. The multi-coloured Harry Potters dangle from a miniature clothes horse, swaying on the sea breeze. They sell for Rp 25,000 ($2.50).

“I start with grass, weave it into rope, and then knot the rope into sculptures,” he explains. Behind Makroni is a garage-sized gallery of rope cows and buffaloes, men and elephants, and dragons suspended from roof beams. It takes three months to build a life-size cow from one acre of grass. Makroni's work sells for around Rp 50 million ($5,000) a piece.

In a steep-roofed café in the art market, the waitress cleaves the bottom off a coconut rendering it steady to stand. She whacks off the top and sets the coconut bowl on the table. Her muddy fingerprints have soiled the lip of the white straw.

A groundswoman in a blue uniform shuffles through the café, quietly takes up the machete, and uses it to sharpen the pointed end of her trash-picking-up stick. She winks at me.

The Bugis Proposal

2010-10-13T12:37:00.002+07:00

“Cool hat.”
The man on the boat is masked in maroon with a cigarette smoking through a porthole punctured into the fabric.

His name is Redi. He's a fisherman working the Karimata Strait between Kalimantan and Belitung, Indonesia.

“Where did you get it?"
“I made it.”
“Where did the design come from?"
“I got the idea from a friend.”

On the north shore of Belitung is the Bugis fishing village of Tanjung Binga. The houses are wooden and sun-paled and perch on stilts. A wooden marina totters on spindly legs into the South China Sea. Fishermen are swiftly unloading their nets onto plastic sheets along the wooden platform, leaving the fish to dry under the sun for two days.

“What happens if it rains?”
“We bring the fish in quickly!”
“Can I borrow your nose?” asks a fisherman, squinting in the sun.

The Bugis people originate from Sulawesi and have a history of sea-faring, trade and exploring.

Women wrapped in sarongs chat in the tree shade.

“Are you married?" one asks; her name is Susana. A toddler straddles her hip.
“Not yet.”
“Stay here and marry a Bugis!” she exclaims, searching theatrically left and right. “Him!” she points, stabbing the air towards a Bugis man idling in the shadows. “He’s single! Ha ha! Stay here and marry him. It’ll only take you one month to learn the Bugis language.”

The man stands up and shyly approaches.

How to Catch Catfish

2010-09-22T13:28:00.004+07:00

"What's his secret?"
"He grills geckos to use as bait."

We're talking of Darijo, resident of a hamlet within Projotamansari, south of Yogyakarta, who is often the champion of the village daily fishing competition.

"We've got no videos or computers out here, so we do other activities for leisure," says Karo, sponsor of the local one-metre deep fish pond. "We've got 400 kilos of catfish in here - that's about 350 fish - and we keep them hungry so the biting is good."

Karo's competition pond follows a catch and release system. Prizes of Rp 100,000 ($10.00) are awarded to the competitors catching the most fish within a timeframe, and for the largest catch of the day.

"But you're not allowed to sprinkle food in the water near you when you fish to encourage more fish into your area. That's cheating."

Karo keeps a daily record of the visitors to the pond. The book shows they receive between 7 and 15 competitors a day, who each pay Rp 10,000 ($1.00). Rp 4,000 covers rent and administration, and the balance goes into the pot. "This isn't gambling," Karo asserts. "It's just to lift the spirits."

"They may have paid several times before earning any winnings, so the net takeaway can be as small as Rp 20,000 - but it's enough to keep the heart happy."

The secret to being a successful fisherman is fourfold. "Firstly, luck," lists Karo. "Secondly, food. A good fisherman is creative. He can use small fish, manufactured pellets, worms, grubs, lizards, geckos, snake meat, or eggs. Caterpillars are expensive though, and you shouldn't use cat meat. Cats are lucky to have around.

"Thirdly, skill. But skill without good food is not effective. Finally, money! Ha ha!" Karo shows a mouth of blue gums.

People can also rent the pond to fish for fun; for Rp 30,000 an hour. "Usually men and boys fish here, not women," adds Karo.

I sit on one of the concrete stools around the olive-gold water trailing the float of my fishing pole slowly left and right. The men have all had bites in under 50 seconds. A grubby grey kitten peers into the still water. There's not much action. He heads for the bucket of pink worms, peers in over the rim, and topples the lot over.

"Most fishermen bring their own poles. There are different sizes for different fish," continues Karo, displaying two of his slim wooden fishing poles. "These are made of a special type of bamboo from Wonosobo in the Dieng Plateau, central Java."

Suddenly there's a heaviness to the line. The kitten's ears are up. I'm standing now, pulling in the line with my left hand, gripping the pole with the right. It's heavy, this struggle of wills and strength between the fish, the line, and I. "It's gotta be 100 kilos," I exaggerate. And then he launches up from the water: a grey alien with barbels and whiskers: my first catfish.

No MO Limo

2010-09-17T17:50:00.001+07:00

Scavengers do not enter our village.

The signs aren’t welcoming for scavengers picking a life in the countryside south of Yogyakarta, central Java.

“Why are the villages anti-scavenger?” I asked a fisherman, as we squished small pink worms onto barbed hooks at a village fish pond.

“Because they take everything," he replied. "Even items which have not been deliberately left outside our houses for collection or recycling.”

Aturan Kampung: MO limo larangan keras di RT 2.
You are now entering a village in which MO limo is absolutely forbidden.

"What's MO Limo?"
"Five bad things beginning with the letter M."

Mabuk: being drunk.
Main perempuan: chasing women
Madat: taking drugs
Mencuri/ maling: stealing
Main judi: gambling

In addition to refraining from MO Limo and excluding scavengers, many signs ask overnight visitors to report to the Village Chief, and request that day visitors leave the village by 9pm or 9:30pm local time.

In Jakarta village rules can include health and hygiene tips.

Kid for Grabs

2010-09-10T16:36:00.001+07:00

"Where you going?"
"Kampung Bali."
"But Kampung Bali is full of thieves," warned a lady working for the Jakarta parks department.

Kampung Bali is a poor neighbourhood near Plaza Indonesia in the centre of Jakarta.

"Want this kid?" asked a man rocking a crying toddler in his arms. "Where you from? England? Want to take this kid with you back to England?"

Beverage at Cobra Palace

2010-09-06T20:09:00.002+07:00

At dusk the slithering begins.

With a name as long as its namesake, the Istana Raja Kobra Restaurant King Cobra House on Jl: Mangga Besar Raya #93c, north Jakarta, serves snake blood in white China teacups.

The restaurant is sparse and cheapened by ceiling strip lighting. Beside the entrance is a corner kitchen where pans of snake meat simmer. At the far end of the narrow restaurant is a door leading to the pantry, much of which wriggles.

"A cup of snake's blood, please."

"Which would you prefer? We have black spitting cobras, striped racers, kali mangsa, bamboo vipers, pit vipers, or pythons."

"The yellow and black stripy one, please."

With a pair of tongs, Ono hoicks a lively kali mangsa from a cage of dozens. He lays its head across a wooden chopping board and cleaves it off. The jaws flex on the board while Ono holds the open neck above a black cup and drains the body of blood.

He later peels the skin from the snake like a stocking from a leg.

In the restaurant a shot of gall wine arak is added to the blood before being served. It tastes like Christmas: spicy, warm, thick.

"Remember, don't drink tea or coffee for the next four hours," says waitress Dina.
"Why not?"
"The blood will lose its effect."

Purported effects include curing diabetes, backaches, 'dirty blood', and wet and dry eczema, as well as dull eyes and breathlessness.

"Yes, a snake did escape once," Dina admitted. "But it slithered out the back and not through the restaurant so the customers didn't see."

Istana Raja Kobra (+62 21 621 6087) has been in business since 1965 and is open from 10am to 11pm.

Out on the street, lined with informal street vendors selling cobras in cages, a man pauses to say that he drinks snake blood once a week. "Any more than that would be overkill," he counsels.

Don't forget your snake goggles.

Frangipani Collectors

2010-08-27T19:27:00.002+07:00

"We don't pluck them," asserts Pak Wiyoto. "We just collect the ones which have fallen."

Under the late afternoon sun in Kemang, south Jakarta, Wiyoto and his wife Khodija have set woven platters of wilting frangipani flowers to brown and crispen.

"We call them bunga kemboja," says Khodija. "We collect the naturally fallen flowerheads, sun dry them for four days, and then sell them to a factory in Surabaya, east Java, which uses their fragrance to produce anti-mosquito lotions and scented oils."

The dried golden flowerheads sell for Rp 8,000 ($0.85) per kilogramme. "They used to fetch Rp 20,000 per kilogramme back when we were the only ones selling them. Now there are many collectors and the price has dropped."

"Naturally fallen frangipani blooms smell sweeter than those plucked too soon," explains Khodija. "And the yellow ones smell better than the pink. We've been collecting them for ten years now."

"Five," corrects Wiyoto. "Now is the season for collecting the flowerheads, but the recent rains are making our work unpredictable."

Three schoolchildren in caramel and chocolate-coloured uniforms stroll down the lane. One carefully carries a small lizard in his palm. "I found it in a tree," he grins. The little lizard lies perfectly still.

Then suddenly leaps from the palm and scampers across the road and into the shadows beneath a scruffy wooden cart. "Oh!" exclaim Wiyoto, Khodija, and the children together. The kids scamper after the lizard, snatching it up again.

"Hey," Wiyoto says earnestly, as we prepare to leave. "Indonesians like talking to foreigners. Don't be scared. We like to gossip and share. Indonesia is safe. Indonesians are friendly!"

Coconut Thieves

2010-08-25T17:38:00.002+07:00

"It's a warning to thieves," said Gusti, a Balinese teak and vanilla farmer, scooping spiced picnic rice into his mouth with his hand. He is referring to silang: a six-pointed star hammered into the trunk of a coconut tree.

"What does it warn them?"
"Not to steal fruit and leaves from the tree."

I look around. Nothing but young woodland. "What if someone ignores the sign and steals from the tree anyway?"

Gusti shakes his head. "He cannot. The signs says he cannot."
"What if he's a really bad man and determined to take the fruit. What happens?"
"Then he gets processed. Through the police."

Back in January this year a young couple in East Java were sentenced up to seven years jail time for stealing a bunch of bananas worth less than one US dollar.

Safe Cigarettes

2010-08-18T10:09:00.005+07:00

Pasted over walls and occasional streetlamps in Malang, East Java, are posters advertising Safe cigarettes.

The slogan Memang Mantap means totally awesome or super cool.

The manufacturers of Safe cigarettes, a company called Utama Mama (which translates as Main Mother), produce two Safe brands: Safe Filters and Safe Mild.

The cigarettes are kretek: a type of cigarette made from tobacco and clove. Kretek cigarettes spit and crackle when smoked, have sweet-tasting paper, and a heady clove perfume.

Both brands carry the legal warning regarding the risks of cancer, heart disease, impotency and harm during pregnancy. Safe Filters contain 33.8 milligrams of tar and 1.8 milligrams of nikotin: Safe Mild contain half the tar and 0.96 milligrams of nicotine.

Bought from a makeshift wooden shop in a village in the countryside of Malang, this pack of 16 Safe Mild cigarettes cost around Rp6,000 ($0.60). A 12-pack of Safe Filters runs Rp4,550 ($0.45).

There's more: kids in Jakarta get a taste for dry ice pipes.

Fine Line of Work

2010-08-08T18:46:00.002+07:00

"I'm not a criminal," said 23-year old Tyas softly, pulling an iceberg-blue t-shirt over his head, stripping bare to the waist. We're standing in a narrow passageway between two houses. Water from a tap drips slowly on the concrete.

Tyas is an apprentice tattoo artist in Benhil, Jakarta. He has had 17 tattoos in the last three years and aims to ink his entire body - except his head.

"People think if we are brave enough to carve large permanent tattoos on our bodies, we must be brave in other aspects of our lives too," said Tyas.

The Raja Tattoo and Piercing studio opened in Benhil in February. Raja means king.

There is no tattoo artwork showcased on the walls of the one-room studio. On the side tables are empty bottles of Chivas Regal and dirty ashtrays. "We had a small problem in our previous premises," admitted tattoo artist Ady, Tyas' mentor. "The landlord didn't like our line of work."

"People in Benhil are more open-minded," interjected Ady's middle-aged aunt, seated on a black settee in the studio.

Prices for tattoos are listed between Rp 300,000 and Rp 800,000 ($30.00 - $80.00) each. Ady receives around two customers a month. "But we're busiest at the weekends," piped up the aunt. "People don't know we're here yet. We had customers everyday in our previous place."

Cellotaped to the front desk is a list of six tattoo-aftercare tips: Keep your tattoo clean; Keep it moisturised; Avoid the sun; Avoid soap and water; Refrain from scratching or picking the tattoo; Don't lick it.

Ady (above) has been drawing since he was five years old. He also specialises in graffiti and accepts commissions; the price for commissioned graffiti depends on size and design intricacy, and includes purchase of materials and transport.

Among Ady's seven tattoos is a blackwork on his waist of his aunt's face. His aunt likened the feeling of getting a tattoo to plucking eyebrows, though admitted she had never had a tattoo herself.

"Girls like tattoos," said Tyas. "They think we look like drummers in a band."

"I'd like to give my girlfriend a tattoo some day," continued Tyas. "But I won't have her name inked onto my body. After all, we may not be together forever...".

The Boy who was Pocong

2010-07-27T10:43:00.002+07:00

Two men wrapped a little boy in a white shroud and looped a red cord around his neck. A crowd of onlookers drew quietly in. The shroud was tied with a knot at the head of the boy - the mark of the pocong.

The red cord was looped again and again around the boy, encasing him in a net. He was still alive.

Pocong is a kind of ghost.

Legend has it that pocong rises from the dead 40 days after being buried if the death shroud is still too tightly wrapped around it. After burial, the corpse and the shroud should naturally degrade, allowing the soul to escape. If, however, the bonds remain fast, Pocong will leap from the grave to urge the living to loosen the ties and set the soul free. As the shroud encases the legs as well, pocong moves by jumping.

Once the boy was bound tight, he was laid within a crude black tent. The crowd formed a loose circle around the tent.

Suddenly one of the captors breathed a long train of fire.

He snatched up a long whip and cracked it against the tent - which collapsed to reveal ... nothing. The boy had disappeared. The white shroud lay crumpled on the ground and the red cord limp. The crowd gasped.

Catch the show in Suropati park, Menteng, Jakarta.

Absolut Petrol

2010-07-19T11:57:00.003+07:00

"In some countries they drink alcohol," said Nyoman, driving along a sun-dappled lane through the rice fields of southeast Bali. "Here we drink gasoline." "You Balinese are very strong," I admired. Nyoman chuckled genuinely.

Absolut Gasoline.

In Bali petrol is sold in Absolut Vodka bottles along the roadsides. A one-litre bottle sells for Rp5,000 ($0.50).

"Around 20 customers stop here each day to fill up," said gasoline-gal Wayan, who operates a motorbike workshop the size of a one-car garage along the north road from Legian.

"Motorbike riders usually buy two litres per stop, and I often sell all of my daily supply," Wayan said, waving her hand towards her stock: gleaming golden delicious along three neat rows of a homemade wooden display rack. She buys her daily stock from a local petrol station and brings it home in a jerry can.

"Cinta vodka," a man sings from the oily shadows of the motorbike workshop. Cinta (pronounced chinta) means love.

The discarded bottles are collected from restaurants and bars, but the preference is almost exclusively for Absolut. "Absolut holds exactly one litre," explained Nyoman. "Other bottles hold a little more or a little less. Absolut Vodka: pas." Pas means something is a really good, or exact, fit.

Back in Jakarta, petrol is sold in Coca-Cola bottles.

I wonder which are the bottles of choice for other cities in Indonesia. If you spot any unusual bottles, let me know.

Time for Bread

2010-07-16T09:56:00.003+07:00

It's 5:30pm and time for the bread man to power his dough-laden motorbike down the narrow lane to the village of Warung Bambu in Karawang Timur, west Java.

In the cool of near dusk, the villagers congregate along the roadside and cheer as Pak Sarkim arrives. He toots a horn strapped to his handlebars.

"I've been selling bread for 28 years," Sarkim said. "I'm not afraid of my competition." He sells ten different types of bread-based good including doughnuts, sweet buns, and turnovers. "I like the peanut-flavoured ones best," Sarkim laughed, admitting he eats at least one a day.

Sarkim transports his baked goods in a wooden cabinet attached to the back of his motorbike. He made the cabinet himself. "I've only had the bike for a year. I used to deliver bread by becak." A becak is a three-wheeled bicycle with a bucket seat in front for passengers and the peddler immediately behind. "It's much faster now that I have a motorbike."

Sarkim starts each morning with 250 pieces baked by nephew Dodi. "If I sell out by the afternoon, I don't have to work in the evenings," he said, although sales are usually best between 5:00 and 6:00pm.

At the end of May the little lane leading to the village of Warung Bambu was made concrete - part of a village improvement programme by a department within the Ministry of Public Works.

"Oh, it's much easier to travel through the villages now we have real roads," said Sarkim. "My bike doesn't swerve on the rocks and needs less maintenance, and the path no longer floods." Local resident Caca Hidayat agrees: "The road used to be rock and dirt. When it rained we had to lift up our trousers and be careful where we trod."

Suddenly there was a small commotion. Ten-year old Dedi had found a lizard.

The surrounding area is considered to be one of the rice belts of west Java and the roads bear heavy wear from the transport of unhusked rice.

Behind the Scenes: Art Director sweeps the new 2.2m-width road with a witch's broom prior to the photo shoot. Photograph below by Melbourne.

The Murder Market

2010-07-11T21:10:00.005+07:00

If you are a frog, you'd better not read on.

Glodok is the Chinese neighbourhood in north Jakarta. It's a quarter fragrant with incense, wet with puddles, and bedecked with pretty red lanterns. Along the narrow cracked lanes traders display fresh wares: bright guava slashed to show their hot magenta innards, cages of chirping birds, knots of frogs.

"Each morning I buy 1,000 frogs from local villages to sell here," said frog trader Supardi. Frog in Indonesian is kodok.

"Run, little guys," I encouraged, picking up a bundle of ten frogs all tied together with plastic twine. They blinked back, quiet and passive.

"I've got bigger frogs," said Supardi, gesturing to a cloth bag on the roadside.

"And I've got even bigger frogs," said a neighbouring trader sitting at the blue crate beside Supardi's red one.

Suddenly the frog hopped right out of my photograph. I snatched for it and replaced it beside the chopping board. Then marveled that I'd just picked up a cool clammy frog without hesitation.

A female customer approached. She bought two knots of frogs: twenty in all, for Rp 50,000 ($5.00). Supardi lifted each one to the chopping board and beheaded them.

He then peeled the skin from the bodies as smoothly as a stocking from a starlet.

Further along the narrow alley were buckets of eels, a large turtle trying to flipper its way up and out of a deep yellow tub, crabs in plastic handcuffs, and a man with a trunk full of small coquelicot and grey snails.

"I want Spain to win the World Cup," declared the man with the snails. He pulled a soft bent cigarette from his shirt pocket and held it like a conductor's baton. "I have 1,000 snails in here," he continued, pointing with his cigarette a the trunk on the roadside.

"How much do they cost?"

"Rp 50,000 ($5.00) for five kilogrammes - which is around a hundred snails."

"Where do you buy them from?"

"The sea."

"What do they eat?"

"Mud."

Under the shade of an awning, a man leaned against a two-chamber glass container raised from the street on a short row of plastic stools. The container was sealed with a plank of wood, upon which were three neatly folded tea towels. A sticker blazed "Kobra Belang" across the side of the container: striped cobra.

"No, I'm not afraid," said Andy, reaching his bare hands into the cobra tank and retrieving a snake. He set it on the wooden lid. It flicked its tongue. "Hmph, he doesn't want to play," scoffed Andy, tossing the cobra back into the den and taking a second one.

The second snake reared back beautifully, flexing its hood wide. "These cobras are Rp 85,000 each," said Andy. "I've got 450 of them and sell about 30 a day. They come from central Java. No, I don't catch them myself, I don't have the time."

"What happens if they bite you?"

"I die. Look." Andy held the cobra over the pavement and squeezed the back of its head. A bubble formed at the snake's grim mouth. It grew slowly heavier and longer, a long transparent line of venomous drool.

"Snakes are good to eat and drink. Their blood is very healthy, especially for men," he winked.

Village Health and Eggs

2010-07-07T11:17:00.003+07:00

The gangs of Jakarta's poorer neighborhoods can be narrow and labyrinthine. Some are just a shoulder's width wide. Others cut right through people's kitchens. Or rather, some houses use the village path for a kitchen.

"Permisi!" you call out as you pass along these pathways.
"Silakan!" comes the reply, and people peer through open doorways.

There are fractured kites hanging from black electricity cables above the street. There are grubby cats eating garbage. There are coloured flip-flops kicked off on doorsteps. And there are hand-written Seven Healthy Habits posters on the walls.

The handwriting varies from hamlet to hamlet, but the seven rules are the same.

The Seven Healthy Habits of the Village:
1. Wash your hands with soap before eating.
2. Wash your hands with soap after having a poo.
3. When having a poo, use a toilet.
4. Eat healthy snacks, not those containing preservatives or chemicals.

5. Eat a variety of things, including a minimum of one type of vegetable a day plus two other dishes.
6. Breastfeed your children until they are two years old.
7. Take your toddler to the village health post once a month.

The government village health posts are called posyandu. Children are brought to be weighed and measured once a month and nutritious food may be distributed to mothers.

In the village of Kembang Kuning in west Java, I met the two girls below collecting their free monthly egg from the posyandu. Raisya Bella (4 years old) is on the left and her best friend Alfahra Maudina (3) is on the right. They held those eggs so very carefully.

"My dad makes oxygen masks," whispered Alfahra.
"Mine makes electrical equipment," said Raisya.

Gangs of Indonesia

2010-07-05T21:00:00.001+07:00

Behind the busy traffic arteries are the gangs of Indonesia. These are the lanes to walk through to explore Jakarta.

Above, a lane in Benhil, central Jakarta.

Lab Mushrooms

2010-07-03T13:34:00.010+07:00

Here's an oyster mushroom growing from a block of baked sawdust.

"It sprouted two days ago," said Cilacap-based mushroom farmer Sairin. "We'll harvest it tomorrow."

Sairin has a small brick shed full of rows of creamy fungi blossoming from packs of medium. He harvests between two and eight kilogrammes a day and sells the mushrooms (jamur tiram) for Rp14,000 ($1.50) per kg to local villagers.

After seeding, the mushrooms take 40 days to visibly sprout. The one above sprouted just one day previously. Compare those two photographs: there's only one day between them.

"I buy the mushroom seeds from the local university laboratory," added Sairin...

A Marzuki Morning

2010-07-02T14:54:00.001+07:00

There was no one around so I trespassed into the art students' workshop one weekend at Taman Ismail Marzuki, Cikini, central Jakarta.

TIM, Jakarta's cultural institute, was named after Indonesian composer and national hero Ismail Marzuki.

Over at a small amphitheatre within the TIM grounds, LKB Saraswati, a Balinese arts group, hold weekly open-air Balinese dance classes for Indonesians and foreigners.

Perfection is in the details.

Giving accompaniment to the dance class were a group of student musicians learning traditional gamelan instruments.

With all the wall art and seemingly overlooked sculptures and pots of paint throughout the grounds, TIM's a pretty good place for a Sunday morning stroll.

Slice of Alun Alun

2010-07-01T18:38:00.004+07:00

"It's not legal for us to sell here," a bubble seller at the Cilacap alun alun (town square) admitted. "But the police haven't been through for two months." He has a rack of coloured bubble liquid in plastic cups and a shocking pink multi-blower sending fragile spheres high above the dusk-time picnickers.

The alun alun is rather spectacular at night with glow-in-the-dark toys flashing through the darkness. Families come to promenade and eat together, and the air is spiced with sizzling snacks in woks from the numerous roadside gerobak (pushcarts) parked along the perimetre.

"Pop Ice sachets are hot at the moment," said Purwanto, owner of one of the refreshments gerobak painted gooseberry green. "My relatives are carpenters and they built this gerobak for me. It used to be blue, but I think green is easier on the eye," he reminisced.

"I work at the alun alun from 4pm-11pm and always park in the same spot. There's an informal agreement between us gerobak sellers and we respect each other's turf. A new gerobak can join the square, but he must find his own space, and cannot sell competing items with his immediate neighbours."

Purwanto and his wife Nita, above, also sell homemade iced tea, sweets, sachets of coffee, mobile phone vouchers and cigarettes. "I make Rp100,000 ($10.00) on a quiet night, nothing when it rains, and up to Rp400,000 on the nights when, alhamdulillah, local cigarette manufacturers Djarum and Gudang Garam hold promotional events. Then the whole town comes out."

Clipping a trot around the town square is Panzer, once a formidable goat.

"There're only two goat-drawn carriages in town and I've got one of them," boasted Waluyo. "He's three years and eight months old, likes carrots, and I tamed him myself."

Bird Talk

2010-06-29T12:12:00.005+07:00

"I can identify each of my twelve pigeons by the whistle they make when flying," said Pasmono, from Karangtalun, near Cilacap in central Java.

"I release the pigeons 3km from the village and they fly right back."

"Do they fly straight home or do they do some sightseeing along the way?"

Pasmono chuckles, "They jalan jalan first."

"Who gets home first: you or the birds?"

"They do!"

Each of the pigeons is fitted with a coloured whistle which makes a unique sound as air during the bird's flight passes through it.

"I buy them as babies and train them, increasing the distance between home and release by a metre each step until the birds can no longer see home. It takes about four attempts at 300m for the birds to successfully find home."

"Why does this one pigeon have a small red bracelet around its foot," I asked, pointing to a handsome russet.
"Ah, that's my best bird," Pasmono smiled.

Ninja Chef

2010-06-23T21:36:00.004+07:00

"I just watched Ninja Assassin so now I am practising ninja moves while frying street rice," said Rumianto, chef at the Jamrud warung in Cilacap, central Java. He lunges unexpectedly right, driving his black plastic spatula hard into the night, then tosses a whole wok of sizzling rice into the air.

"Sadly, customers are a little thin at the moment due to the World Cup. Many people are choosing to stay in and not eat out." Rumianto has seen a drop from seventy to fifty customers a night since the championship matches began.

"I do love football though," he added. "And Jackie Chan and Honda motorbikes. I like Honda bikes because the hotter the engine gets, the faster the bike goes. Just like cooking: the hotter the wok, the faster the cooking."

The Jamrud warung is an informal tent erected at nightfall on the pavement outside a timber and nail shop. A customer orders mie goreng (fried noodles) and Rumianto picks up a heavy knife and starts chopping onions at speed. He sees I am impressed. "Oh, I can do this with my eyes closed," he brags, taking a carrot and slicing it into a thousand slivers a second.

"My dream is to get 1,000 street vendors together to cook 1,000 portions of mie. We can have a competition. Though my ambition is not to win, but to promote fried noodle vendors and street food. We could get into Muri: the Indonesian Museum of the Biggest Records! I just need a sponsor...".

Bamboo creatures

2010-06-19T22:07:00.004+07:00

"What's inside these funny green and brown tubes? It looks like they are stuffed with autumn leaves."

"Ulat bambu," said a man sitting on a plastic stool inside the dark doorway of a small pet food kiosk on Jl. Barito, south Jakarta. There are scores and scores of these four-inch shorn bamboo sections stacked upon each other.

"What's ulat?"
He grins; takes a tube, teases out the leaf stopper and taps wriggling white maggots into his palm.

"There are twelve bamboo maggots inside each tube. They're bird food."
"For what kind of bird?"
"Any that want it."

A dozen bamboo maggots will set you back Rp 2,000 ($0.20).

Barito is also where you can lose your heart to a slow loris: Barito. And for monkey-lovers, keep clear of Pramuka.

Shoe Leather Cost

2010-06-19T10:58:00.002+07:00

"I walk so far each day I go through nine pairs of flipflops a year," said Suriadi, peddler of sweets and cellophaned snacks in Kembang Kuning, West Java.

Suriadi set his mobile shop down on the side of the road. "Weighs twenty kilos," he said. His wares comprised two wooden cupboards of miscellaneous merchandise looped at either end of a wooden pole carried across the shoulder. "I start at the market at 7am each morning and walk through and around the village until 3pm. I've been walking this village for ten years."

"It's much better now that the village has a proper road and not that narrow path anymore," Suriadi continued. "It used to be slippery and muddy in the rainy season. It was hard to know where to tread, hard to keep my feet and trousers clean."

Most of Suriadi's customers are children, with miniature cars and puzzles being the most popular items.

Junior Birdman and the Gremlin

2010-06-16T08:17:00.000+07:00

Tucked amongst the musty secondhand books in an open air book market in Taman Mini was a 1960s edition of Air Force Terms.

Fun glossary items include:
Oranges sweet: good weather (suitable for a flying mission).
Oranges sour: poor weather.

Also: junior birdman for an inexperienced pilot, kiwi for a non-flying officer, and go-juice for jet fuel. Happy hour is also listed.

And when things go wrong, blame a gremlin. Gremlin: "imaginary elf responsible for aircraft troubles."

Sugar Palm Sap

2010-06-15T08:27:00.007+07:00

Here's Jeffri. He makes a living by selling glasses of sugar palm sap at the Senayan sports ground in Jakarta.

What you can't see from this photograph is that that his cigarette-smoking swagger is masking the strain from suspending a wooden plank with four heavy panniers of liquid across a single shoulder.

The sap is collected directly from the arenga palm tree (pohon aren) in the four long bamboo tubes Jeffri carries with him each day.

"I carry all this over five kilometres a day," said Usri, an older palm-sap drink seller, indicating the wooden plank with its four bamboo vessels, four upended drinking glasses, and a small black plastic washing-up bucket hanging from a nail. "This is my salary."

Usri filters the raw liquid through a bright orange mesh which stoppers the bamboo cylinder.

The sweet sap requires no processing and can be drunk straight from the tree. It can also be fermented into local moonshine. It smells and tastes a bit like warm glue.

Blue Vine Eyes

2010-06-12T23:35:00.004+07:00

"We drip the blue dye straight into the baby's eyes," says Ibu Titin, referring to a dye made from the indigo petals of the clitoria ternatea flower.

She points to her sleeping two-month old grandson, suspended in a net sarong. "I hope he'll get blue eyes like you," she adds.

Titin and her husband Pak Waki live along a river in central Jakarta. Their business is a small clapboard eaterie on the riverside path.

"Just pluck the petals from the vine and drop them in hot water for five minutes," explained Titin.

"Like making a cup of tea?"

"Exactly. Then hold the sodden petals over the baby's eyes and let the blue water drip into them. It makes their eyes bright and clean, and is best used when the baby is between one week and one month old."

The local name is Bunga Telang. In English it's the Blue vine pea or Butterfly pea. The flowers are edible (can be fried), and are also used for food colouring.

"Here, grow your own," said Pak Waki, holding out a small plastic bag with six round black seeds at the bottom. "Many people don't understand the properties of bunga telang: you can't find these flowers in the market, only in people's gardens."

Nice Lookin' Bird

2010-06-06T19:00:00.005+07:00

"Hey kid, nice looking bird. Can I buy it?"

"What for?"

"See, I just got this new kaki lima to sell special fried chicken from, but I haven't any stock."

Kaki lima in Indonesian means five feet: three on the pushcart and two on the seller. There's quite a variety of kaki lima designs selling different items: some specialise in fried noodles or chicken porridge or meat ball soup, others in fresh vegetables or fried tofu nuggets. Each type of produce is announced by a unique sound the seller makes as he pushes his cart through the streets.

Here's a batik I made showing a rujak seller and his kaki lima. Rujak is unripe fruit served wincingly tart with a dollop of sweet peanut sauce. The lit cigarette is de rigueur and gives that streetside flavour.

"What's with the mie ayam spesial Melanie?"

Mie ayam spesial means special chicken noodles, and it's pronounced mee-I-am.....

Life's tough when you are smaller than a beer cap.

2010-06-04T21:45:00.013+07:00

Sad evening: found tiny dead gecko on the floor.

Get a quick happy-gecko fix at: happy-house-geckos

Bite of the Graveyard

2010-06-01T20:06:00.003+07:00

It's not ghosts in the graveyard, it's goats.

Eating up the pretty flowers and grasses. But, where else does an impoverished inner-city farmer without land permits set his goats to graze? Let the livestock feed on the deadstock.

The other danger to the rest of the dead is the burning of city garbage, right on the tombstones. Scavengers empty their wooden pushcarts of city trash in the graveyards for other pickers to comb through looking for waste with value.

"Especially plastics," said one man, squatting beside a headstone watching the smoke drift into the blue sky. "We sell it on to factories."

The goats comb through the garbage as well. Junk food.

Son of Bow

2010-05-29T15:58:00.007+07:00

New city slogan!Happy Jakarta (Miss Happy from the Jakarta team) was competing in the annual Indonesian National Archery competition this morning in Gelora Bung Karno sports stadium, central Jakarta.

Did Robin Hood use one of these?

"Who won last year?" I asked a man in a yellow shirt.

"East Java," he replied.

"Which is the best team?"

"East Java."

"Which team are you from?"

"East Java."

Indonesian is fun. Let's learn some: bow is panah and arrow is anak panah - literally: baby bow.

Coffee by Bike

2010-05-29T15:07:00.004+07:00

"We call it coffee going round," said Agus, tugging a pair of yellow scissors from the handlebars of his bicycle."Kopi keliling."
The handlebars of Agus's bicycle are colourfully bedecked with drink sachets. The bicycle basket at the front spills over with fruit flavoured fizz sachets for kids. And dangling from the inside of the handlebars are the caffeine and mens health sackets: "For adults," Agus explains.

At the rear, lashed over the mud guard, are two flasks of boiled water and a quiver of disposable plastic cups.

So it doesn't matter that there are no cafes in Menteng Park, Jakarta, because there are plenty of informal vendors smoking together in the shade just waiting to peddle you some factory bean.

"The most expensive is Good Day Cappuccino," Agus says, snipping open the sachet and tapping the contents into a cup. He doesn't ask whether I want the most expensive coffee. "Our prices are a little higher because...," -he hesitates- "...because this is Menteng Park."

But it certainly wasn't a Bad Day Cappuccino.

Smoking Popeye

2010-05-23T17:00:00.017+07:00

"The kindergarten kids like to smoke them after school," says Yusuf.Yusuf is a street vendor in central Jakarta selling homemade dry ice pipes for Rp 1,000 ($0.10). He also sells ice creams from a portable cooler.

With the plastic bit in his mouth and a chunk of dry ice (solid carbon dioxide) in the chamber, he blows gently down the stem and smoke puffs from the bowl.

"I'm Popeye!" he says.

The dry ice pipes are called Popeye Laut, (laut means sea in Indonesian).

Squatting on the pavement outside the National Museum, Yusuf cuts a short stem of straw and inserts it into a rolled cylinder of plastic. That's it: it's a simple two-part pipe. He drops a cube of dry ice from his ice cream cooler into the chamber and hands the popeye laut to me.

Really, smoking has never been so cool.

A loris is not a cat

2010-05-22T16:20:00.016+07:00

"They prefer Dancow-brand powdered milk," said Pak Sukis on Jl Barito, south Jakarta, holding a palm-sized slow loris from Sumatra out for me. "It's a kuskus," he says. "They like bananas and milk. I'll give you a discount." His opening price is Rp 900,000 ($90.00) for an adult, and Rp 700,000 ($70.00) for a juvenile. The kuskus sits in the palm of my hand, holding my fingers in her tiny hands. She has teeny fingernails and is featherweight. She climbs up my arm and sits on my shoulder, holding onto the fabric of my t-shirt with all four paws. There's a long dark stripe down the spine of her soft ecru coat.
I ask if customers need to take the kuskus to the vet first for injections before taking them home. Pak Sukis looks at me and frowns, "It's not a cat," he says.

Love Bites/ or the Bruise Method

2010-05-16T15:35:00.019+07:00

Here's Pak Juhariati from Madura, East Java. He can cure flagging lust, eczema, and haemorrhoids in one stroke. "It's called Metode Bekam," he says. The bruise method. For Rp30,000 ($3.00) Juhariati places glass vacuum cups at strategic points on a customer's body.

"It's a tradional therapy using traditional oil," Juhariati explains. With a syringe gun he sucks the air from the cup, pulling the patient's skin outwards like a half billiard ball. In seconds the flesh reddens.

The cupping treatment doesn't last long. Once all the requisite cups are on, he pops them off; revealing pepperoni slices over the patient's body. He then massages a fiery oil (which smells of Deep Heat) into the skin and pulls a few reflexology moves.

Juhariati operates from a black messenger bag of tricks spread on a red sheet of canvas on a grass verge beside the inner ring road of the Senayan sports stadium in central Jakarta. A single sheet of paper lists the ailments Metode Bekam can treat ("God-willing," it adds): sick kidneys, sore tendons, migraines, impotence, diabetes, asthema, and tummy aches.

"I get about three customers a week. Sometimes two," continues Juhariati.

Ordinarily Juhariati works at Taman Mini in south Jakarta, but on Sunday mornings he sneaks into the Gelora Bung Karno sports grounds. "We don't have permits to work here," he admits, gesturing to two other men kneeling beside their cupping equipment.

Over in the park around the national monument (Monas), the cupping practitioners draw blood through the patient's skin into the cups.

Strawberry Coffee

2010-05-15T17:23:00.010+07:00

Benhil is a bit magical. Every excursion through Benhil brings new discoveries. Like the time I discovered there was a botanical garden in Benhil. And today when I discovered fresh strawberry coffee (es kopi stroberi).

Another must try is the hot chocolate orange coffee (kopi djeroek tjoklat), which is served with slices of orange bobbing in a glass cup.

The newly discovered neighbourhood coffee house is Koffiedoeloe, which opened eight months ago. It's got free wifi, a garden, and a tarot card reader at the weekends. What more could you want?

-Tofu coffee?

Don't be cheeky.

-But do they have it?

Well, as a matter of fact, tofu coffee is also on the menu.

The coffeehouse is also home to a local batik, arts and craft-making club and their small shop......and has a cupboard full of games, include mankala boards (below). Just the thing if it starts raining...

Koffiedoeloe has a collection of old Indonesian cigarette boxes. One of them is called Warung Kopi, which means coffee cafe.

How did I hear about Koffiedoeloe? Someone thoughtfully tucked a flyer in the front gate of my house. The flyer generously included six coupons offering free iced coffees and plates of fried rice. The waitress, however, was somewhat surprised by the existence of the proferred flyer, and waved it away like a mosquito. The expiry date was 30 December 2009.

Koffiedoeloe is on Jl Pejompongan Raya No. 1, Benhil, central Jakarta; 021 979 58 735.

*

2011 update: Koffiedoeloe has now closed down.

Making Tumbuk in Tuban

2010-05-13T11:33:00.016+07:00

“When the President visited us, he liked the tumbuk so much he ordered 150 more to take back to Jakarta. I ground rice into flour all night long in order to deliver.” Ibu Sulikayatun, Village Head of Sawir, central Java makes tumbuk: a local sweet snack made of rice flour, coconut milk, and palm sugar served in a steamed lontar leaf. “The trick to good tumbuk is the leaf,” Sulikayatun advised, stirring a bubbling cauldron of palm sugared milk.

On the floor of the open air kitchen, Sulikayatun’s mother, Ibu Suwarti, sat spinning long green lontar leaves into tight cone spirals.

Knife in hand, she sliced off the tops and tails of the leaves, folded the end of a leaf into a pocket and coiled the leaf length around and up itself. A second leaf was wound into the spiral cone extending the length.

To secure the cone, the top end of the leaf is stabbed through itself, pinning the spiral, locking it from unravelling.

“Coconut leaves won’t stand once they’ve been steamed,” Sulikayatun explained. “But lontar leaves retain their shape and strength, and give flavour to the tumbuk.” Tumbuk can also be flavoured with ginger or jackfruit.

Taking the tray of lontar leaf cones from her mother, Sulikayatun placed them over a kerosene flame until steam rose through the leaves. She filled each hot cone with the milky mix, and left them to steam for half an hour.

When set, tumbuk has the consistency of jelly. The leaf can be unpinned and unwrapped, revealing the hot golden tumbuk column. It’s warm, sweet, gently flavoured and tastes like set custard.

"Tumbuk takes a long time to make, and a short time to eat," Sulikayatun said, biting into a second one.

They sell for Rp. 1,000 a piece (10 US cents).

Au revoir sexy cinema

2010-05-09T15:55:00.005+07:00

The Benhil Raya sexy cinema has closed down.

Grimy banners displaying illustrations of men and women in Mills & Boon embraces used to hang above Jakarta's city-centre Benhil fruit and vegetable market. The cinema had one screen and the cheeky banners changed about weekly. One week I went up the shadowy concrete staircase to the cinema's grubby foyer. The ticket kiosk was shuttered behind a grill. At the time the film being advertised was Love Letter, which had the tagline: "One Day Suddenly Discovered How Bone Sweet... Can Be!"

"It's a good one," a man said. He was sitting on a bare step, leaning against the closed grill of the theatre entrance. "Two shows a day, more at the weekends when we're busiest."

"Foreigners don't come here, though. Especially not women." I wondered if he was challenging me. "Lots of men though, men of all ages."

Raped by an Angel was one of the more blunt titles fluttering above the bananas and courgettes of the market. If the film titles were in the Indonesian language, would they be so publicly accepted?

Eating in Little Aceh

2010-05-08T21:39:00.015+07:00

Even though the Acehnese freedom fighters have laid down their separatist weapons against Indonesia, it still feels a bit badass to go to an Acehnese restaurant for dinner.Tonight, dinner for two of: super mie (noodles) with squid, roti cane (something like a savoury pancake with goat curry), martabak (a hot chili crepe), two glasses of mango juice and a teh tarik (pulled tea) cost Rp 84,000 ($8.00). Acehnese food comes with a lot of chopped shallots!

Pulled tea tastes like warm caramel. It's actually black tea with condensed milk and cinnamon, served with a cinnamon stick and, in this restaurant, a plastic straw. The 'pulled' part refers to the tea being extravagantly poured back and forth between two vessels to give froth and flavour.

Meutia Masakan Aceh is located on Jl Benhil, no. 16 opposite the market.

Cikini Art Walk

2010-05-02T15:37:00.011+07:00

"Hey Lady, your tail light is cracked."
Taman Ismail Marzuki is the arts centre and planetarium in Cikini, central Jakarta. There's a lot of wall art and outdoor sculptures and the grounds make a good place to walk your cartoon dog.

There are good coffee shops along Jl: Cikini Raya too. Try the chilli coffee in CaVa at no.38.

Abseiling Caterpillar

2010-05-02T09:43:00.003+07:00

"The tree will simply have to be cut down," announced Inah, our Javanese housemaid, after seeing a tree in the garden crawling with tangerine caterpillars, some of which were slowly rapelling down invisible threads.

Daily Grind of Magic Women

2010-04-30T09:35:00.002+07:00

“Most jamu sellers are women.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because women have magical powers.” Jamu are natural Indonesian remedies taken to invigorate body and spirit. Best made in the morning from fresh ingredients, jamu can contain natural bark, roots, plant pulp, juice, and leaves.

Ibu Sis (above) runs a jamu stall in a merry and fragrant market in Yogjakarta. Her stall is crowded; her cleavage deep. She splishes different hues of liquid jamu into plastic saucers for an ever-replenishing queue.

“Women need jamu to boost their stamina before their husbands come home at night,” Ibu Sis said. The mothers in the queue giggled.

“Here’s a jamu for tightening your vagina,” Ibu Sis continued, pointing to a tureen of slimy orange Mosoyi bark and spooning some out for me. The jamu was bitter and earthy. Undoubtedly magical.

Ibu Sis rents her market stall for Rp 500 (US 5 cents) a day. She serves 100 customers a day, and charges Rp 2,000 (US 20 cents) for each cup of jamu.

Her hands were stained a deep turmeric-yellow from the daily grind of pestle and mortar. “I don’t mind,” she laughed, plunging her serving ladle into a soup of swamp-green. “I make money from these yellow hands.”

However, the Indonesian jamu tradition faces an indiscriminate new enemy: youth. “My daughter spurns the art of jamu making; she sees little prestige in it,” lamented a second jamu seller, Ibu Sroeheni, who has been preparing and making jamu ever since her mother first passed the recipes down to her half a century ago. Sroeheni has no willing successor to bequeath the family heritage to.

Monkey Musician

2010-04-26T09:55:00.004+07:00

There's something a bit primal and erotic about the dark and insistent chimes and drums of the monkey performer music.The dapperly-dressed monkey does a few acts: he whizzes back and forth on a wooden ricksaw decorated with stickers of Minnie Mouse; he struts upright offering the wares of a street vendor; he performs a couple of wheelies on a wooden motorbike.

He bears his long teeth and pink gums in a parady of a smile and is always tethered to his handler by a length of chain.

Vinagaroon!

2010-04-25T20:17:00.003+07:00

Dear What's That Bug.Com,
What the hell's this? It's in the house! It's on my knee! Look at those monster jaws! Is it safe to turn out the lights?
"That's a whipscorpion. They're also called vinagaroons because they release a vinegar-smelling weak acetic acid when threatened. They're nocturnal hunters and eat cockroaches. Those monster jaws you mentioned are actually modified legs known as pedipalps and your photographs document their two positions."

"And yes, it's quite safe to turn out the light...".

Salt Whispers

2010-04-21T12:15:00.000+07:00

Someone is tapping gently on the fence. “Please,” a thin voice whispers. Peeking through the cracks in the wooden fence are two cinnamon-faced scruffs. In their outstretched hands are dazzling sequined pots made of woven leaves holding little plastic bags of salt. “Please buy salt for school.”Their voices are pathetic: whiney, wretched and woebegone.

“Rp.10,000,” whimpers one girl.
“Rp.20,000,” whimpers the other.
“No money for school,” they bleat.
“Where is your school?”
"That way.”
One points north, the other west.
“How far is it?”
They shrug. On this strip of beach, in front of Café Garam in Amed, Bali, there are nine salt farms, each worked by a different family. Each farm has four small square salt fields with a two-metre high bamboo funnel (tinjung) in the centre.The sea salt business is not big business; the salt workers are among the poorest in Bali, but Amed salt is by far the most delicious, crisp and crunchy salt I have ever tasted. The salt farmers (petani garam) wade into the sea with zinc baskets hanging from poles carried across their shoulders. They wade out again with 25kg of seawater in each container.

The seawater is poured onto the four square salt fields to increase the salt concentration of the soil. After three days, now bone dry, this salted soil is raked up and packed into the tinjung.

To ensure the salted soil is packed hard, thereby producing a more effective filter, the salt farmers climb into the funnel and do a hopping dance, stamping the soil down tight beneath their bare feet. The seawater from the containers will filter through this salted soil layer and be collected in a small reservoir beneath the tinjung.

Along the beach, carved like dugout canoes, are rows of palungan: tree trunk troughs. The salt farmers pour the concentrated salt water into the palungan, where the water will evaporate in the Amed sun. The salt crystals are later scraped out and collected in woven baskets. Any foreign bodies are picked out by hand. The salt is ready for sale.

Not a lot of salt is sold. The local warungs (cafes) are reluctant to use products which are not available from supermarkets. “The salt pieces are too big to use for cooking,” commented Ibu Nyoman from Café Ketut in Amed. “Sodium is better.”

Barong Sex, please

2010-04-21T09:30:00.003+07:00

Here's a glass of 'Barong Sex' in a modern jamu kiosk in Yogjakarta. It contains a duck egg, wine, galangal, and rice water. It's served with a free hard-boiled sweet (candy). Swigging this down is believed to increase the sexual stamina of men. Few male jamu customers use the traditional markets, which remain the haunt of women. Instead, men prefer to furtively frequent the more modern ‘high street’ kiosks for their doses of macho man jamu.

These kiosks, often also run by men, are chock-full of pre-packaged factory-made jamu promising weight gain, weight loss, reduced acne, fuller breasts, tighter vaginas, and help to quit smoking.

Money's only skin deep

2010-04-20T10:02:00.001+07:00

Kerokan is a traditional Indonesian therapy in which a coin is scraped across the back. It is believed to take wind from the body and, as they're attracted to the money, to draw out evil spirits as well...

Beggar in a Mask

2010-04-19T17:01:00.003+07:00

Slowly beating a drum, a horror approached: wild tufted eyerows, one engorged eye, Valentine lips in a twisted smile. The children on the street shrieked and giggled, daring each other closer.

Someone quickly dropped a few coins in the tin dangling from the drum and the creature slunk away into a side street.

Gecko in the Blender

2010-04-17T12:37:00.053+07:00

When the kitchen is quiet and still, the house geckos come out to scavenge.

Some dine on strands of leftover pasta.

Others fall into the blender and have to wait quietly until rescued.

Sadly not all house geckos live long and happy lives: sad-gecko-tale

Colour Fast Puppies

2010-04-10T07:50:00.004+07:00

Acun has a lit cigarette jutting straight from the centre of his lips and tattoos up his arms. He looks like a sea dog. He sells puppies with Band-Aids in their ears. “We tape their ears together in a point so they grow upright and straight. It’s preferable,” he says, ash falling from his mouth. Preferable puppies open at a Rp 400,000 ($40) pre-haggling price.Above the street’s dark drainage ditch, Acun’s colleague bathes the puppies. The bathing station consists of three black plastic buckets and a packet of Ekonomis laundry detergent. “It’s cheaper than shampoo,” he explains, dunking a black and tan into the first sudsy bucket. The puppy gasps, but doesn’t struggle. He vigorously rubs detergent into its fur. Good lather. Safe hand washing. Colour fast.

“I sell about three dogs a day. More on Sunday when people are buying gifts,"said Acun.

The puppy sellers work along Jl. Cimahi, off Jl. Latuharhary, Menteng/Kuningan between 8-5pm every day. Drive-thru sale possible. Take bus 66 or 620 up Jl. Rasuna Said, turning left just before Izzi Pizza.

Butterfly Kids

2010-04-07T11:52:00.003+07:00

"Do you have a cat?" barefooted Dina asks as she saunters across the street to join me on the front step. She peers myopically at the notes and sketches I am making. I tell the nine-year old girl that I don't have a cat.

"Do you have a dog?" I shake my head again.
"I like angora cats," she says. "Can I give you my autograph?"
Her brother Caska scoots over on a Wimcycle bicycle to investigate what we are doing.
A fruit seller with a lit cigarette in his mouth stops before us.
“Oranges?” he invites.
“I don’t have any money,” Dina dismisses him.

“You had Christmas?” Dina asks, picking at the sole of her left foot. The children watch as I draw a cartoon of a snowman. “Islam doesn’t have snow,” Dina says. She touches my hair, then turns to Caska and says: “People with white hair are Christians.”

“Some Christians have black hair,” he counters, adding grandly: “I’m learning about religion in Class 2.”

A skinny boy approaches with a prize pinched between his fingers. “Butterfly!” the children chant, pleased with the sound of the new English word. They stroke its quivering white body and furry face. The butterfly’s legs scramble against air. One wing is ragged and a fragment hangs untidily down. Rizki, the skinny boy, tears the fragment neatly off. The butterfly is passed around, then released. It flies into the ivy behind us to die quietly out of reach.