I received a warm welcome from Khadir, who picked me up from the airport in his voluminous and handsome blue and white 1960 Holden. Sitting in the car is like sitting on a really comfortable couch, but the fact that he has made it a low-rider combined with the fact that it is from 1960 combined with the fact that he was driving it over bumpy Indonesian “paved” roads made for an interesting journey, studded by commentary about which intersections he has broken down in, when, and who helped him push the car.
My first week has been primarily dominated by my strange and overpowering jet lag sleep schedule, which has been knocking me out from 6 PM-10:30 PM, at which point I awake starving cranky and disoriented, then fall asleep again at 1 or 2 AM, only to awake wide-eyed and raring to go at 4:30, longing for a nap by noon. My friends back home with new little babies may not be so impressed by this intermittent sleep… all I can say is that I feel your pain.
I have managed to get out and about a little bit though. One of the first things I did was accompany Khadir to a syawalan. Syawalan is a fairly informal ceremony held by different groups the week after Lebaran, the holiday that ends Ramadan. People gather together in a kind of reunion, to celebrate the forgiveness that the season affords and reconnect with one another in the peaceful and optimistic atmosphere of renewal a fresh start. The one I attended was for a group of senior fine artists in Yogyakarta, hosted by the painter Pak Eko Rachmi. Some poetry was read, including an amazing poem by the famous Rendra, snacks were eaten, and then the guys broke out the guitar singing some original tunes and some classic Bob Dylan including “It Ain’t Me Babe” and the one covered by the Byrds that I think is called “You Ain’t Going Nowhere.”
I also attended my first art show of my stay here. Yogya is known for having a vibrant fine arts community and since I have known Khadir I have attended countless art exhibits and openings. There are a number of venues that host these events: Taman Budaya, or Culture Park, Benatara Budaya or Culture Fort, Galeri Biasa, or Common Gallery, and others. I love these events because they often have free food and live music, and provide an opportunity to run into friends and most importantly people-watch. While I myself often feel like a hot sweaty mess, there is always an interesting combination of dreadlocked Indonesian artists, younger bespectacled hipsters that would put the Silverlake and Williamsburg crowds to shame, stylish women, rich art collectors, and a peppering of international visitors. Anyway, this week we went to a theme show at Bentara Budaya that was based around the shape of the guitar. Here are some of my favorite pieces.
Aside from that I have hit up some of my old favorite places to eat, and had my first motorbike lesson. I am determined to learn how to ride this time, even if I’ll never brave real traffic. Khadir was a good teacher, ordering me to stay calm, distracting me with maxims like, “The most important thing is to just relax and enjoy the ride,” and taking control of the steering when I panicked. At first I was braking every other second, and then slowly bit by bit I was able to enjoy the cool night all around me, riding alongside vast and quiet rice paddies under the full moon. Then Khadir tricked me into taking a busy road, Jalan Godean, on the way back, which at first was stressful but once I stopped flinching at every approaching vehicle it was no sweat and we made it home in one piece.
This morning I start a refresher language course at Puri Bahasa and hope to try a yoga class at Balance Yoga, if the jet lag doesn’t get the better of me. I have made contact with some of my collaborators and research subjects, so I hope to get things started on that front by next week. In the meantime I am still taking care of business—obtaining cell phones, buying my own helmet, figuring out where to stay, re-acclimating to a life lived largely without toilet paper, and etc. More importantly I am slowly sinking back in to the bewitching details of being in Indonesia, the sky smelling faintly of fire, women’s headcoverings draping over the backs of their upswept hair like Renaissance courtesans, the red tiled roofs, and the swallows dipping and swooping at dusk.
Tidak ada komentar:
Posting Komentar