It reads, "Anyone who throws trash here is not a person [but a] MONKEY."
And indeed, there was no trash on that street ...
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Man or monkey?
I saw this sign a while ago in a little neighborhood right in the middle of town. I went back and took a picture of it today because I like it.
It reads, "Anyone who throws trash here is not a person [but a] MONKEY."
And indeed, there was no trash on that street ...
It reads, "Anyone who throws trash here is not a person [but a] MONKEY."
And indeed, there was no trash on that street ...
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Conehead
In case you've been losing sleep over the cat, let me assure you she came through her spay operation just fine. But she had to wear a cone for a week to keep her from messing with the surgical site, and you can imagine how much she liked that.
The cone made her walk like a cow, with her head down and swinging slightly from side to side. She also bumped into things a lot, so she had to put a lot of time and effort into pretending she bumped into them on purpose. It was all pretty tiring for her. Fortunately she could still do fun things like hide around corners and launch sneak attacks on us, knock the sofa cushions over, and chase flies.
We took the cone off Sunday night and I don't think she slept for about 36 hours; she was biting everything in sight to make up for lost time. We've had to triple our arsenal of squirt bottles just to keep some semblance of order in the house.
The cone made her walk like a cow, with her head down and swinging slightly from side to side. She also bumped into things a lot, so she had to put a lot of time and effort into pretending she bumped into them on purpose. It was all pretty tiring for her. Fortunately she could still do fun things like hide around corners and launch sneak attacks on us, knock the sofa cushions over, and chase flies.
We took the cone off Sunday night and I don't think she slept for about 36 hours; she was biting everything in sight to make up for lost time. We've had to triple our arsenal of squirt bottles just to keep some semblance of order in the house.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The big stink
After watching the sun rise over Bromo from the viewing point, you go over to the mountain itself and climb up a giant staircase to the crater rim. Unfortunately, we arrived during a Big Stink: sulfurous volcanic fumes were blowing right down the stairs, giving everyone coughing spasms, runny noses and red eyes.
Jason climbed with the aid of a handkerchiefThe walk up was pretty caustic. Things were actually a little better at the top, where there was less sulfur in the air and more plain old mist. The crater rim was amazing: a knife-edge walk with a sheer rocky drop on each side. But nobody wanted to hang around too long, so we abandoned our plan to hike around the rim and headed back down.
Jaclyn on the edge
My horse was named Pako, and he was adept at getting down the steep, sandy path.
I think Chad cut a fine figure on his steed.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Obamamania
More on Bromo soon, but first ...
Last year when I did some stories on Barack Obama, people didn't seem that familiar with his connection to Indonesia. I would tell cab drivers, "He lived here, you know! For four years! When he was a kid!" And all I would get was that bored glance in the rear-view mirror that says what is this bule yammering on about?
Nowadays, it's the taxi drivers themselves who tell me proudly, "Barack Obama grew up in Jakarta!" And if you go into any bookstore, you'll see a bunch of semi-pulpy paperbacks about him, with titles like Obama's Miracle: Inspiration from Jakarta. They remind me, weirdly, of the paperbacks about Soeharto that I became briefly obsessed with last year, which detailed the former dictator's mystical powers and lovingly described his collection of shamanistic objects.
Anyway, I couldn't resist buying a couple of the Obama books yesterday. Here are some first impressions.
Obama's middle name may cause him problems in the US, but as this title indicates, it doesn't hurt him a bit in Indonesia. The bottom right corner identifies him as the "American presidential candidate with a Muslim connection." The list next to that hypes "up-to-date information, Obama's Jakarta days, exclusive photos, political attacks about Obama's connection with Islam, and the complete text of the monumental Audacity of Hope speech." And the red sunburst reads: "Best-seller! Update: Uproar over the anti-Muslim/Obama e-mail from Hillary Clinton's camp."
That being said, on a quick perusal, the book doesn't seem to overplay the Muslim card: it doesn't claim that Obama was or is a Muslim, but it does hold out the hope that he would understand and respect Islam with more of an insider's perspective. It has a somewhat star-struck tone, but the author carves out a little distance for himself by mostly quoting other people saying worshipful things, rather than stating them himself.
The second book is scarier, starting with the title: Don't Kill Obama!
The idea that Obama will be assassinated does seem pretty widespread here. I don't know how much this book spawned that fear, or how much it's simply reacting to it.
The book's first chapter is unintentionally funny. It starts pretty solidly by quoting Nobel Prize-winning author Doris Lessing, but within a few pages it's reduced to citing internet posts from people like "666divine" and "Getdownbilly" to flesh out its arguments about American violence.
Still, it's pretty sobering that people here just expect Obama to be killed. When I first saw this book, I felt hot and cold all over. I felt embarrassed and sad. And I felt a flash of recognition, because of course after JFK, MLK and Malcolm X, the Reagan shooting, the Oklahoma City bombing, etc., I think every American understands the threat. It's something you don't even realize you're thinking until someone else says it: Obama's gonna get shot. Then it stays with you, because it makes a grim kind of sense.
Last year when I did some stories on Barack Obama, people didn't seem that familiar with his connection to Indonesia. I would tell cab drivers, "He lived here, you know! For four years! When he was a kid!" And all I would get was that bored glance in the rear-view mirror that says what is this bule yammering on about?
Nowadays, it's the taxi drivers themselves who tell me proudly, "Barack Obama grew up in Jakarta!" And if you go into any bookstore, you'll see a bunch of semi-pulpy paperbacks about him, with titles like Obama's Miracle: Inspiration from Jakarta. They remind me, weirdly, of the paperbacks about Soeharto that I became briefly obsessed with last year, which detailed the former dictator's mystical powers and lovingly described his collection of shamanistic objects.
Anyway, I couldn't resist buying a couple of the Obama books yesterday. Here are some first impressions.
Obama's middle name may cause him problems in the US, but as this title indicates, it doesn't hurt him a bit in Indonesia. The bottom right corner identifies him as the "American presidential candidate with a Muslim connection." The list next to that hypes "up-to-date information, Obama's Jakarta days, exclusive photos, political attacks about Obama's connection with Islam, and the complete text of the monumental Audacity of Hope speech." And the red sunburst reads: "Best-seller! Update: Uproar over the anti-Muslim/Obama e-mail from Hillary Clinton's camp."
That being said, on a quick perusal, the book doesn't seem to overplay the Muslim card: it doesn't claim that Obama was or is a Muslim, but it does hold out the hope that he would understand and respect Islam with more of an insider's perspective. It has a somewhat star-struck tone, but the author carves out a little distance for himself by mostly quoting other people saying worshipful things, rather than stating them himself.
The second book is scarier, starting with the title: Don't Kill Obama!
The idea that Obama will be assassinated does seem pretty widespread here. I don't know how much this book spawned that fear, or how much it's simply reacting to it.
The book's first chapter is unintentionally funny. It starts pretty solidly by quoting Nobel Prize-winning author Doris Lessing, but within a few pages it's reduced to citing internet posts from people like "666divine" and "Getdownbilly" to flesh out its arguments about American violence.
Still, it's pretty sobering that people here just expect Obama to be killed. When I first saw this book, I felt hot and cold all over. I felt embarrassed and sad. And I felt a flash of recognition, because of course after JFK, MLK and Malcolm X, the Reagan shooting, the Oklahoma City bombing, etc., I think every American understands the threat. It's something you don't even realize you're thinking until someone else says it: Obama's gonna get shot. Then it stays with you, because it makes a grim kind of sense.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Rockers versus the volcano
Mt. Bromo is one of those deals where you head out at 3 a.m. so you can be there for the sunrise. Luckily our room was so cold -- Bromo gets down to 10 Celsius/50 Fahrenheit -- we were glad to get up and move around so we could warm up a little.
The hotel people put us in a jeep and drove us up to a summit with a great view of Bromo and surroundings.
There were some other people there, too. Like maybe 200 people. You could hear murmurings in Indonesian, Javanese, Dutch, Japanese, French and who knows what other languages.
The sunrise was pretty good. And once the sun came up, the view only got better, because Bromo itself is a surreal landscape of volcanoes that look hand-sculpted. One of them was erupting in the background every 20 minutes or so, just to add to the effect.
All around the viewing point there were people renting out winter jackets and selling batteries, t-shirts and drinks. Several boys were selling flowers you could use as an offering to the volcano gods. This one said "Indonesian rockers!" when I took his picture.
The hotel people put us in a jeep and drove us up to a summit with a great view of Bromo and surroundings.
There were some other people there, too. Like maybe 200 people. You could hear murmurings in Indonesian, Javanese, Dutch, Japanese, French and who knows what other languages.
The sunrise was pretty good. And once the sun came up, the view only got better, because Bromo itself is a surreal landscape of volcanoes that look hand-sculpted. One of them was erupting in the background every 20 minutes or so, just to add to the effect.
All around the viewing point there were people renting out winter jackets and selling batteries, t-shirts and drinks. Several boys were selling flowers you could use as an offering to the volcano gods. This one said "Indonesian rockers!" when I took his picture.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The dangdut bus to Probolinggo
We got into Surabaya bright and early on Saturday and took a taxi to the bus station, where we hopped on a nice air-conditioned bus toward Mt. Bromo. During the ride, we were treated to numerous dangdut videos starring a woman who seemed to be constantly disappointed by a series of men. You could see why -- the men all wore weird, shiny, pimp-y clothes and acted like jerks. One of them had long, luxurious hair, and every time the camera panned to him he was running his hand through it in a way that suggested he was the hottest thing on the planet. No sensible woman would have a cup of coffee with that guy, never mind a love affair.
About an hour outside Surabaya, traffic came to a grinding halt in Sidoarjo, the site of the mud disaster. It's been two years since boiling-hot sludge started spewing from the ground there, and the thousands of people who've lost their homes and jobs are still waiting for most of the compensation they've been promised. The mud lake seemed to have gotten bigger since the last time I visited; bulldozers were out working on what looked like new containment walls along the highway.
After this sad interlude, traffic picked up again. Just outside Probolinggo we caught a public minivan to Cemoro Lawang, a little town perched on the outer crater that surrounds Mt. Bromo.
The minivan guys insisted on putting all of our luggage on top. The van was hot and pretty well packed with people. There were no music videos, but we were entertained by children singing songs in the seat behind us.
As we made our way up the steep, winding road, I tried to drink in the mountain views and ignore the terrible thought of my backpack, with my laptop in it, sliding off the top of the van and smashing onto the pavement. It was a long day of travel, but eventually we and the luggage all arrived in one piece.
About an hour outside Surabaya, traffic came to a grinding halt in Sidoarjo, the site of the mud disaster. It's been two years since boiling-hot sludge started spewing from the ground there, and the thousands of people who've lost their homes and jobs are still waiting for most of the compensation they've been promised. The mud lake seemed to have gotten bigger since the last time I visited; bulldozers were out working on what looked like new containment walls along the highway.
After this sad interlude, traffic picked up again. Just outside Probolinggo we caught a public minivan to Cemoro Lawang, a little town perched on the outer crater that surrounds Mt. Bromo.
The minivan guys insisted on putting all of our luggage on top. The van was hot and pretty well packed with people. There were no music videos, but we were entertained by children singing songs in the seat behind us.
As we made our way up the steep, winding road, I tried to drink in the mountain views and ignore the terrible thought of my backpack, with my laptop in it, sliding off the top of the van and smashing onto the pavement. It was a long day of travel, but eventually we and the luggage all arrived in one piece.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Jakarta-Papua-Surabaya in a day
Jason and Jaclyn at BromoThe plan was to fly to East Java and make our way to Bromo and Ijen, two spectacular mountainous landscapes. Then we'd hop on the ferry to Bali, work our way along the northern shore for a while, and drop through the central mountains, where I would head back to Jakarta while the other three went on to Thailand.
First, though, we went to Papua -- or Papua came to us. Our third-floor neighbor Dave organized a house-wide party for that Friday night, complete with a traditional Papuan dance troupe. We hosted the dancing because our apartment has the least furniture.
The pictures are fuzzy, but you get the idea. It was pretty cool having 8 or 10 Papuan dancers in our living room in full body paint and headdresses. They got everybody else dancing, too.
Unfortunately, we had to catch a painfully early flight in the morning, so we snuck out of our own place at 11 or so and crashed at Howie and Haviva's -- they kindly offered us the guest bedroom. Dave cleaned up later and let the cat out of the back room, where she was probably wondering what all the stomping was about.If you want to get a sense of what Papuan dance is like, check out this YouTube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QEeNi6a-Fw
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