FRIED ROUND CASUAL FOOD: PEMPEK, PEMPEK TJUKO

The best rice noodles for your fish balls are, per common agreement, the thinner kind; these provide a better textural contrast.
The fish balls, naturally, should be freshly made, not those horrid things vacuum-sealed and of uncertain provenance in the freezer of your local market.


EMPEK EMPEK (PEMPEK)

A pound of fresh fish, preferably mackerel; boned and minced. One egg yolk. Four to six tablespoons cold water, one teaspoon sugar, one teaspoon salt. One or two tablespoons of good oil.

Mix well.

Then add tapioca flour. Generally speaking, one to two times as much by volume as the mackerel paste. Do NOT overwork the dough! Form into small balls twixt grape and longan size, and drop into boiling water. When they float, take them out and let them drain dry.

To use, deep fry golden. Serve with cold rice noodles and fried shrimp. Add chopped cucumber and some cilantro. Kwak some fresh chilipaste ('sambal ulek') onto the plate, add a dash or two of ketjap manis ('sweet soy sauce') and dark vinegar (鎮江香醋 'jan gong heung chou'; aromatic ChinKiang vinegar), squeeze some lime juice over.

Pempek can also be made larger, and pan-fried after boiling, served with lots of ground chili sauce and a little thick coconut cream. Or vermicelli, chilies, and sliced hard boiled egg, in a tangy tamarind-curry gravy.
Even accompanied by thick wedges of cooked potato.
Along with the inevitable kwak of sambal.
Everything goes with sambal.

The addition of good black vinegar and something to sweeten it up a little (ketjap manis or plain sugar) is traditional, because it works.

Optional but never-the-less strongly suggested toppings: ground-up dry shrimp, crumbled peanuts, fried shallots.

Don't forget the squeeze of fresh lime juice.

If you can find them, use key limes.

They're like kalamansi.

Fragrant.



NOTE: the term 'tjuko' is a Sumatran name for a condimental sauce made with chili paste, vinegar, garlic, and sugar. Boil one cup of palm sugar in one cup water. Throw in some whole skinned garlic cloves, let's say half a dozen or more, and an equal number of large dried shrimp (the most beautiful kind). Add one cup of vinegar (any kind will work), and four to eight tablespoons of sambal ulek. Stir to combine, let it cool.
If it is too strong for your taste, feel free to dilute; it should not overpower the food too much.

Kuwah tjuko: Often the noodles are served in a dilution of this mixture, or a spicy broth of similar construction made with tamarind and tomato in lieu of vinegar.

Empek-empek, in all possible variations, is associated with Palembang, where aside from pempek-tjuko it is most frequently eaten in a coconut curry soup with egg noodles and dry shrimp powder.
Plus sour, sweet, and sambal.



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TEA IN A HOT CLIMATE

Whether it is wet or dry, the temperature is much the same. In the hills, there are innumerable thunder storms throughout the year, but not all of them yield rain. During the northwest monsoon from December onwards, the air is humid whatever the precipitation.
And sometimes that precipitation is tremendous.

Sumatra and West-Java can be miserable during that time.

Slate grey skies, twilight at mid-day because of the clouds and rain.
Sheets of lead outside and a steady drumming.
Flooding in low-lying areas.
And bugs.

When the sun does come out the humidity seems even more oppressive.

The animals aren't impressed by the weather, the people even less.

Often, however, there is just a constant thick flow of wind.


BOGOR, DEPOK, BETAWI

Palm trees will resemble black butterflies because all their leaves are bent backward in one direction. Edward Gorey would love it, as the spectrous visual is very gothic.

If you are caught in a downpour, the ferocity of the falling water stuns you, and flooding may be very sudden along rivers. At other times the wind makes everything tremble, and at the seashore breakers make mooring in shallow water risky.
No, it does not increase the chance of ferry disasters; many of those are conveniently distributed throughout the year. Nature assuredly does this for your convenience.

For similar reasons the water may rise up along the Tjiliwong, but that indeed is mostly a monsoon event. Some people live only a few feet away from the river, some barely above it, in houses built of bamboo, scrap wood, gedek, cardboard, pounded tin, and corrugated sheets.
It is not the most secure of residential locations. But if it weren't for the estuarine wax and wane, the smells would build and disease would be far more common. The flooding, I hear, just keeps getting worse.
Deforestation far upriver, near Puntjak.

BATAVIA

This city was the Graveyard of the East; strong men from Europe came here to perish, often taking a few years to do it, as malaria and various other natural checks on imperialism wreaked havoc on their health.
Now the inlanders migrate here and suffer the same.
Every year many dwelling are entirely rebuilt.
Just as impermanent as last year.


TEA

Because the local waters were so malevolent -- just think of typhus and cholera -- tea eventually became a necessary commodity for the health of residents, and has remained so among most segments of society.
Naturally, if you boil the water for your brew, it is sterile. At Chinese restaurants fresh hot tea is always served, and many people entirely unselfconsciously use the first blistering pour from the pot to wipe utensils and crockery, often before even considering what to eat.
American tourists seldom do likewise, wherever they are.
But if they did, they would have far fewer ailments.
It's a good reason to eat Chinese food.
As if you needed one.

Do NOT drink anything with ice.
It can do things to you.
And it will.

From Jakarta to Manila, drink tea. If you are lodging with a local family, there will be a collection of thermos flasks on the kitchen table that are filled regularly, with some loose leaves thrown in to colour the liquid, as well as disguise the repellent nature of the water.

Do not stay near turbid or stagnant creeks and channels.
Always drink tea. All day long, till late at night.

Move slow, to avoid perspiring.
There is no need to sweat.
You glow already.

Sloyong sloyong.

KALI

Ik loop slifslof langs de kali,
Ik hoor tjaplok-tjaplok;
Ik denk 'loh, ada buwaya!'
Maar neen, 't was een kodok.

["I stroll along the river, I hear kersplash-kersplash; I think 'darn, a crocodile', but no it was a frog."]

Older Indos may remember that this doggerel has a different ending, highlighting one of the functions of rivers in that part of the world.
One which emphasizes why you should be wary of the water.



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LOVE AND ENTERTAINMENT ON A RAINY DAY

This may be the last rain of the season. And, given that it isn't a summer rain - which we never have in San Francisco, indeed, we shall not skip through the fragrant grass in our pretty summer frocks while warm droplets bejewel our dewy visage - the best course of action early in the morning seemed to roll over and go back to sleep. Half an hour later I went into the kitchen to fix myself a hot cup tea with milk and sugar, then went back to bed.

An hour later I woke up refreshed, ready for the day. Which meant another cup of tea, and back to bed with a book chosen at semi-random from the shelves.
The 'Complete Yes Minister', detailing the events of a fictitious government minister heading the Department of Administrative Affairs in England, the Permanent Secretary, and the minister's Principal Private Secretary.

The television series was very witty. My father and his wife introduced it to me when I visited them in the last year of my father's life. They had taped the episodes for re-watching.
The book is, if anything, a darker more intense experience.
It is the perfect handbook for anyone trying to deal with modern life. Everything bureaucratese is made plain and cynically thrown into perspective. In a word, it is a vademecum for the office worker and the junior technocrat alike.
It is also very witty.


SEVERAL CUPS OF TEA LATER

Feeling somewhat esurient by mid-afternoon, I got dressed and headed out into the damp. On the bus over the hill towards snackipoos, I was seated behind two young women.
My ears perked up when one of them said "sex is a pain in the ass!"
Nope, no idea what lead into that remark. Hadn't been paying attention till then.
Lost in my own 'Sir Humphrey Appleby-like' thoughts.

First thing that came to mind was 'my dear, if it's a pain in the ass, you're doing it all wrong!'

"SEX IS A PAIN IN THE ASS"

Seriously. Sex should NOT be a pain in the ass. It should be a warm comfy smiling experience, perhaps messy, sweaty even, followed by a happy glow, a nap, and several cups of tea. It should be fun. Go out together for something to eat later. Maybe some nice Thai food, or an Indonesian ryst tafel.
Or have plenty tea and hot buttery scones while still en deshabille.
With or without sex preceding or following.
Just cuddling is okay.

If sex is a 'pain' in any part of your anatomy, there may be more going on than meets the eye, and far less to your relationship than you would wish.

Perhaps not enough tea?

Either learn to communicate better, or consider an alternative mode of physical pleasure.
Try gourmandise, or touch football.
Both of those work for certain people, of either gender.
Or simply collect expensive designer handbags, and watch the ball game on teevee.
Both of those also work for certain people, of either gender.

Sex is roughly five percent technique, and ninety plus percent inspiration. Without the latter, you are spinning your wheels.
Well, something. But there has to be a motivated personal involvement.

When I got off the bus I was still deep in thought. Ended up not having snackipoos, but a full meal instead.
Plus several cups of milk tea.

In a short while I shall be going to the Occidental to smoke my pipe and daydream.
There are no cups of tea there. And consequently I will not think of sex.


RYST TAFEL

Literally 'rice table', and considered the quintessential Indonesian meal.  Which it isn't.
The term names a long late lunch or early dinner in the Dutch East Indies among the planter class, when many people would get together to socialize and eat. A multitude of dishes, with appropriate condiments, and rice. Yes, it was based on the local food - primarily the village feasts - but as the attendees came from different regional backgrounds, and the host no matter his or her origin held to the concept that there should be enough for everybody, and a variety sufficient to satisfy everyone, these meals became gigantic affairs with dishes from all over the archipelago, with sides and condiments that also reflected that diversity.

In the final years of the colonial period many hotels and fancy restaurants turned the ryst tafel into ponderous spectacular affairs. It was, after all, an opportunity for colonials out in the hinterlands to spend some time in town, put on the dog, and get away from the dreariness of their isolation.

In the Netherlands the ryst tafel has become a sampling of many dishes shared among a group of diners at an Indonesian restaurant. For people who do not know much about the cuisine it is the perfect way to discover new tastes, and the restaurant staff will happily recommend set menus and explain what the foods are.

But always, rice. Plain white rice. It is the basis of a meal.

A wet coconut curry (gulai), a dry curry (kerrie), a thick-sauced meat dish (opor, korma, kalio, or rendang), plus various vegetable dishes with sauces based on coconut milk, or peanut-sauce, or tamarind.
Something from the ocean, blanched vegetables with chilies and shrimp-paste, a green cooked soft in a rich sauce (sayur lodeh), mixed dishes stirfried with chili paste and other things (sambal goreng), plus small condimental sides such as atjar (spicy pickles), asinan (wet dressed chopped salad), petjil (spicy salad with shrimp-paste and crumbled peanuts), patjeri (a sweet spicy dish that resembles a cooked pickle of sorts, often with coconut milk in the sauce), kroepoek (kropek; shrimp chips and similar items), seroendeng (serunding; mild-spiced toasted shredded coconut or other things with often peanuts added).
And, of course, that most typical of Dutch desserts, pisang goreng (fried banana).

For a party of four or five people, three or four dishes plus rice and soup is plenty. Your tastebuds won't get overwhelmed, and with two or three sambals (chili preparations) along with something crisp-spicy-crunchy, it's still a feast.
Avoid the pisang goreng afterwards.
Follow dinner with a shot of espresso or cardamom coffee, and a cigar.

Perfect rainy day food.
In case you were wondering.


If it's still around, Restaurant Poentjak Pas on the Nassau Kade near the Second Helmer Street in Amsterdam is an excellent place for a ryst tafel. There's also a place around the corner on the Overtoom (Restaurant Kartika), which does good Indonesian food. And not too far away, on the Spui, is a business that does the antique ambiance very well - Kantjil en de Tijger.
But the best Indo food is in Den Haag.
Kota Radja.




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ON THE WATER'S EDGE

The piers were never used anymore, and could not be sold or ‘redeveloped’ either. After independence laws had been passed that limited non-native ('peranakan') ownership and property transfers, and everything that was still legal required voluntary contributions to someone’s retirement fund. In order to maintain the claim of possession, there were caretakers living among the warehouses. Once these had been the poor relatives of the various owners, nowadays most of the occupants were lesser-status male college graduates from the extended family waiting for the chance to emigrate.


The water was too shallow for large ships, too deep for a stilt-village, and the old sailing schooners that used to ply the inter-island trade no longer visited – there was no local swallows nest anymore, and nobody gathered trepang. The natives in the hills had been chased further inland, and consequently not enough resin was harvested to make it worthwhile.

The new jetty, which jutted far out into the sea, berthed freighters shipping rubber or plastic goods and rice from the factories in town, as well as the occasional tanker from further down the coast. You could see the vessels moored out in the straights awaiting their turn. It was a constantly changing view.

A bit further down, where the shore gradually sloped into the breakers, the Sama had built a settlement of clutter, sheds, pontoons, and moored boats. The tide took care of the refuse, but it still stank. People said it was because of what the Japanese had done there over forty years ago.


RESIDENCE AT PUNDO LANANG

It was better on these piers than elsewhere in the city, especially after nightfall, when breezes carried moisture in from the sea. On some days a sudden torrential downpour in mid-afternoon would have dumped much water on the wharf, and the coolness stayed longer, sometimes till sunset.
At night time, in between the warehouses, braziers would be lit, coffee and simple meals prepared. The caretakers lived fairly Spartan lives, they hardly spent the family stipend, and seldom even opened the tins of meat from overseas. Fresh fish bought from the Sama might be grilled – it was good with chilies and bottled condiments. So were the local vegetables, mostly eggplant and amaranthus (daun bayem). Other than occasional forays to the toko they rarely ventured out of the precinct.
The quietness had grown on them, and some who had spent years there had become reclusive.
It was silent. It was… very peaceful.

When there was a breeze, and often this was only after dark, it felt velvety among the sheds and warehouses, and you could hear the rustling of the leaves of a great many potted plants, or the trees at the intersection of the beach road and the cargo path. Seldom strong enough to ruffle hair, but nevertheless a happy-making circumstance. Much nicer were the downpours that happened two or three times a week, suddenly drenching everything with sheets of water for ten or twenty minutes. Once the rain stopped, it took only a few minutes for all the water to evaporate, especially on the beach road and at the new all-concrete jetty, and the blast of heat from the hard surfaces would resume with greater ferocity. But at Pundo Lanang, the moisture did not depart as fast, stray coolness could be felt between the buildings and under the eaves.

Mosquito nets were absolutely essential, because of pockets of unseen standing water, and the lack of air-conditioning. The smoke from cooking fires kept some of the bugs away, as did the trays of smoldering leaves from a local plant that was spicy-sharp and vanilla-like but not sweet (daun apa?), with which the curtains around the bed would be censed ten or twenty minutes before sleep. Sandal wood incense (tjandana) had the same effect.
Cigarettes worked best of all, it was said. But that could have simply been an excuse.
Oil lamps also gave that result. Or maybe they just stank profusely.

Sometimes a dab of minyak kayu putih on the skin was recommended; good for sore muscles, strong smelling – if it didn’t repel the mosquitoes, it would soothe their bites.
I think some people simply used it as an air-freshener, however.
Or even a personal fragrance.

If you weren’t used to the heat in this part of the world you might wake up two or three times a night, drenched in sweat and freezing. A few minutes later you would be dry, and again far too warm.
Go outside and dump a scoop of water over yourself, not so much to cool off (the water was always warm), as to cleanse the skin. Otherwise you will feel gritty and unsocial at daybreak.
At times the splish splish of someone else doing the same could be heard, from very far off. That, plus the almost imperceptible creaking as things all around cooled down, murmured voices from somewhere on the piers, and the sounds of stealthy living things, were what kept the place from being entirely still.
It felt comfortable.


Warm rain. Hungry, not hungry. Greedily happy.
Smoothness. Coffee and fried rice with fish.
Flag down a pedicab to head into town.
Ice with syrup and condensed milk.

Doze in the daytime. Read and smoke cigarettes half the night.

There will be another boat in two weeks.


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IT SMELLS FISHY

I’m a wee bit stuffed, I can’t eat as much as I used to. Because I don’t eat so much anymore.
The soup was very good, so was the sooty grilled meat with hot sauce.
I added some pickle-chili juice to the soup for tanginess – mmm!
My dinner was delightful, but I left a slurry in the bowl.
I’m a more modest eater now.

I also probably spend more time scoping out my fellow diners than in the past. The whatever it was of Asian appearance who spoke no Cantonese or Mandarin at the table on the other side of the aisle, the young fellow at the other table who ordered in English, the elderly Cantonese couple at the table to my right sharing a plate of chow mein, and the sharp-tongued Northerner and her two men at the round table.
Plus the family at the table ahead of me, with the mommy, daddy, auntie, fat-faced boy-child, and perky little girl with pretty decorative things in her hair.  The auntie seemed very casual about everything, the little girl was intensely enjoying the food in front of her.
A pinch of fresh lettuce or basil, a bit of grilled meat and bean-thread noodle, squeeze of lemon, dab of sauce – yummy!
Then repeat. Again yummy!

Her older brother just shoveled the food in, then went outside to play. Her auntie was already using a toothpick, swilling her mouth out with tea, and chatting with the women who work there, when the little girl was only half way through the tactile food in front of her.
Food is so much more enjoyable when you can play with it.


SOMEWHERE ELSE

The entire place smelled of drying fish, which told the arriving visitor what the main enterprise in that town was. From the ferry you could see tall palms scattered among the buildings and clustering further in, but other than these deliberate plantings the coast and hills behind looked somewhat bare, with sparse vegetation. It was the hot season, perfect for drying the catch. The warehouses near the dock shimmered in the heat, and one wondered how sensible it had been to use corrugated iron sheets for roofing in this climate. A few pedicabs stood in the shade of a covered loading dock waiting for the better-heeled passengers to disembark, their drivers casually slumped among the vehicles, relaxing.

Mr. Ho was waiting in his van with the air-conditioning going full-blast. From the outside all you could see was the grey haze of his cigar, until you got closer and discerned the grinning visage in the driver seat. As soon as we got going he rolled the windows down to let the smoke out. When I had met him months ago he smelled of burning tobacco too.
As he explained it, the choices were cheroot or dried fish as personal funk, and after a lifetime in Banda Djamroed, he had his preferences.
Still, the vehicle should not smell too much of smoke – his wife and daughters occasionally used it too.
Especially when the Japanese sedan was broken.

After nightfall four of us headed out to eat on Djalan Alamoedin – Mr. Ho, the older daughter, the maiden auntie who lived with them and did the books in the office, and myself.
Was I by any chance interested in the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Gang Apbal? Well, no, the street food looked much more interesting. But before I had a chance to voice that opinion, the maiden auntie mentioned softly that the chicken with chilipaste and peanuts at Restoran Taai Foek was soooo delicious! She sounded so wistful and dreamy that I promptly said that yes indeed the Chinese restaurant would be just fine.
The owner greeted Mr. Ho like an old friend – I found out later they regularly played mahjong together – and sat us in the back, away from the door and the windows, behind a screen which gave us privacy.
The chicken with chilipaste and peanuts was indeed delicious. It was, remarkably, sweet. Oyster-sauce kangkong, a fish I cannot identify steamed with three kinds of ginger-like root plus dried black mushrooms, stirfried stringbeans and pork shred, plus, too much at that point, a steamed pudding with dates, gingko nuts, and glutinous rice.
They tried to get me to have a beer to drink with my meal – all white people depend on beer, they knew this for a fact – but I simply had the tea. Plus some of the maiden auntie’s bottle of ginger ale.
When we left the restaurant the smell of drying fish from the seafront mingled with the sooty reek of barbecue from the street vendors, grilling pork and fresh fish over burning frond and coconut husk. A dense wall of odeur, intense, intoxicating, slightly nauseating.

I lit up a cigarette, and when Mr. Ho told us to wait while he went and got the car with one of the restaurant boys, both the maiden auntie and the daughter promptly cadged two of my non-filters. I’ve never seen ladies suck down nicotine so fast.
Both of them were chomping their chewing gum madly by the time mr. Ho drove up.

It’s good for digestion, lah!
And freshens breath after eating!
They firmly encouraged me to try it also.


A few days later I did get a chance to try out the street food. I was on my own that day, despite mr. Ho’s concern that a white face would attract attention from the locals, and the possessor of said face might not know how to deal with stares and questions.
But I assured him that I could handle myself, and I would not drift off the main streets into dodgy areas. His walled home and warehouses were in any case near enough to Djalan Alamoedin and Djalan Soekaboemi , and though it was unbearably hot, I was by that time fairly used to strolling sloyong sloyong, with arms drooping and relaxed, and not moving any more muscles or body parts than I had to. It would be okay. No car. I’ll be sure to have lots of tea before I go, and no, I shan’t buy any freshly made ‘cold’ beverages while in the poesoh (city centre).

Sloyong-sloyong. Not quite as relaxed and lazy-looking as selembe-lembe, but very close. It’s like ghost-walking, drifting along the road at a perceptible pace, but with the least amount of motion possible. White shirt, thin slacks, and lightweight shoes.
Unless there is too little shade you won’t really need a hat, though it helps.
But a cigarette drooping out of one’s mouth is essential. It’s the attitude.

I ate grilled squid at a rickety table underneath a tree. Soot-streaked white flesh, ripped basil leaves and lemon juice, crumbled fried peanuts, and a drizzle of thick sweet dark sauce. Fresh chilies optional.

While I bit into the succulent morsels, I observed a young lady at another table, close to the traffic. She’d raise a skein of noodles to her face and inhale it slowly, then stop chewing when a vehicle passed, turning her head to watch it as it went by. It took a long time for her to eat her noodles, she seemed much more interested in the cars. Occasionally she added a dollop of chilipaste to the noodles, once or twice a drizzle of sweet dark sauce. By the time she had nearly finished eating, her bowl had a thick slurry at the bottom, and the noodles going into her mouth looked rusty instead of white.
I have no idea what the flavour had originally been. It may have been seafood chunks in a pale broth, with tamarind, turmeric, and ground peanuts. But that was long ago.
Before all the cars, and absent-minded additions of chilipaste.

I had a glass of cool squigglies with green syrup and condensed milk while watching her down the last of her noodles. She still looked at the cars as they passed, her head swiveling away from her bowl each time.


The last night that I was there we went to the restaurant at the corner of Gang Apbal again. I had spoken to the owner and arranged a meal in advance, choosing among the dishes he recommended, and making sure that the chicken with chilipaste and peanuts was among them, as well as some of the nice fatty pork with pickled garlic that the daughter had mentioned. And plenty of vegetable dishes, because mr. Ho’s wife had remarked that leafy greens were good for the skin, and soothed the humours.
I’d heard the skin thing before, but I had no idea what she meant by the humours. Probably the surfeit of chilies in the local diet got on her nerves.
The restaurant owner knew who was coming, and made sure to have the table ready, as well as a soup that he know they all liked – expensive ingredients, clarified broth.
Plus another lovely soup half-way through, just before the juicy grilled squab with crunchy things.
I must commend him on his stellar recommendations. I gained much face that evening.

Three hours later we drifted out into the darkness. The barbecue sellers were folding up for the night, and a line of pedicabs stood empty along the far side of the street, their operators snacking on the last of the grilled meats and the baked banana wrapped in leaves.
Mr. Ho and his son went to get the vehicles, with the help of restaurant boys holding lamps. After thanking me for the meal, the two elderly Tangson brothers from the factory near the wharf (Tangson Primus, Tangson Secundus), and their sister (Tangson Nining) went up to Djalan Kebauwen where their driver had waited.

As soon as it was safe to do so, both of Mr. Ho’s daughters, and the maiden aunt, and even Mrs. Ho herself, lit up the cigarettes that I had given them.   From the sea came the odour of dried fish, now all the more noticeable because there was so little smell from the street food vendors. 
I got into the van with Mr. Ho and the maiden aunt, both daughters and Mrs. Ho rode in the sedan with the son.
Mr. Ho had a cigar in his mouth, and auntie chided him about the smell.
Then both agreed it was anyhow better than the reek of drying fish.


On the boat the next day I swear I could still smell the drying fish several hours after we had left the harbour.
But that may have been a faint perfume from the local people who were also on board.
Mr. Ho had given me some cigars; they would prevent sea-sickness.
I lit one, and the fishy remnant faded.


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WAYANG PURWA - WHAT THE CHARIOTEER KNEW

Late at night, north coast of Java. The air is still warm, but much cooler than it was during the day. The velvet darkness of night fades towards the far end of the courtyard, where the light of a lamp behind a taut white sheet glows friendly, attracting the eyes.
There are shadows.

The people in the courtyard are dressed neatly, some rather formally. A few are wearing dark green and brown patterned batik, but most of the women are somewhat more brightly clothed. The darker and plainer hues are old-fashioned, traditionally upper-class.
The children among the crowd are casually garbed, and seem perhaps more alive (or lively) because of it. A voice from beyond the screen gives a high pitched chant to a background of metallic instruments and subdued interlocking rhythms.

Imperceptibly the tempo speeds up, then with a sudden clangor the two people whom everyone has been waiting for make their appearance.
Those being a grossly fat short fellow with a pug nose and a humongous rump, and his gangly flabby son with a long proboscis.



KYAI LURO SEMAR, KYAI PETRUK


The dhalang introduces them.

“Here is Semar, the lowly servant, also known as Kyai Luro - the venerable elder. And indeed he is venerable, for he is the master of deep knowledge, and represents all things to all people, yet he is also entirely the opposite of those things. Does he seem old? Then he is young and full of life! Fat and misshapen? No, he is elegant, the most loveable of men! Coarse and rather dull? Far from it, he is the oldest of divine beings, older even than the heroes, the very first creation that sprung from the dream of the deity! Consigned to earth to serve his distant kin in disguise, he comes with his son Petruk, possessor of the impressively twitching nose."

To many Javanese, Semar and Petruk are much more important than any of the actual heroes of the play, for they speak the common language, and comment with sharpness and humour about events, throwing everything into focus. The obese dwarf Semar is in fact the preserver of their Island, whose presence predates Hinduism, far predates Islam. And though he and his family serve royal masters, who are the knights and gallants of the tales, Semar and his sons are the true owners of the narrative - without them there would be little excitement, scant humour, no clarity.
They are ugly and unrefined, but their misshapen forms hide their true natures.

Semar, Petruk, sad-hearted Nalagareng of the twisted leg, and, in Tjirebon, the third of Semar's sons, Sekar Pandan - whose neck is obscenely long because he got caught in a tree during his precipitous descent from Suryalaya - are the companions of royalty, true to themselves, forthright, and wise without pretense.


THE CATTLE PEN OF KURU

Wayang kulit (shadow theatre) for the most part retells the chapters of the Mahabharata, that being the conflict between the five Pandawa brothers (Yudistira, Bima, Ardjuna, Nakula, Sahadewa) representing the side of good, and their cousins the hundred Kurawa, who are NOT on the side of good. There is still a measure of virtue and righteousness on the other side, and there are flaws among the Pandawa and their host - nothing is black and white, and the tale is more complex than the mere premise. The only thing simple about it is that through trickery the Pandawa were cheated out of their inheritance, and spent several years wandering in exile.

Although Ardjuna and Yudistira are the ideal men in the stories, comparable to the knights of European tales, there are two other characters who are often much more admirable, because they are less than perfect - Bima the giant, second of the Pandawa brothers, and his half-demonic son Gatot-Katja, begotten of Hidimbi the ogress.


BIMA, GATOTKATJA

This being late at night, Gatotkatja is now at his most powerful. Unlike his father, he is somewhat less encumbered by rigid righteousness, but he is much more humble and likely to sympathize with others.
At the culmination of the epic, in combat on the field of Kuru, he is the fighter most feared by the Kurawa, and it is his death which Duryodana their king most fervently desires. Gatotkatja's distant kinsman Karna slays him at Duryodana's command by wielding the divine weapon which can only be used once - and thus loses the war for his own side, as there is now nothing that the Kurawa have to counter Prince Ardjuna.

Bima



Gatotkatja



Note: Both Bima and his son have an elongated claw-like middle finger, symbolic of momentous deeds.

The great war took place centuries ago, and all who were there have died, and been reborn, and died again. The warriors who perished on the battlefield, the survivors and their companions, the five Pandawa who after their victory finally travelled to the north seeking answers, King Yudistira and the faithful dog he would not enter Indralaya without. They are all gone.
Yet at times the heroes of that age live once more and their spirits come among their descendants. The shadow-play invites them back, and shows the audience how one is supposed to face life and conduct oneself; the story-teller wielding the puppets channels their vibrant intelligences and guides the forces unleashed by the performance.
This is séance, and totemic enactment. By reawakening the ancient champions, the present is changed and controlled.
Gallant Gatotkatja never really died - all you have to do is think of him, and there he is.


Later the audience will drift off, leaving only a few people still in the courtyard, drowsing while the dhalang chants the confrontation that is the focus of this particular tale. The side of good will win, significantly while most people are asleep and unaware. Only the players of the bronze instruments will hear the details and the significance of events.

At last, in the hour before dawn, the knights and their entourage triumphantly march back to Indraprasta. The music quickens: the master of the tale, voicing Semar, sings exultantly, and the slumbering few before the screen awaken and stretch.
The performance lasted all night; it ends when the dhalang chants the closing invocations, putting the spirits to rest and returning the sacred enclosure created by the play back to the world of men.

The incense that burned all night flares briefly at the final tip of the coil, then even that spark fades to white.

Wayang is entertainment, philosophy, exorcism, and a reforming of the world.
Plus wit, eloquence, and the representation of ideals.



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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly
:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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THE REPREHENSIBLE DR. MAHATHIR MOHAMAD

Recent readers of this blog may have noticed that I have strong opinions about Malaysia, the form of apartheid practiced in Malaysia (called 'the Bumiputra Policies' on this blog, aka NEP), and the man who more than anything else enabled that grossly unfair system, Dr. Mahathir Mohamad.
I waxed much wroth about him in recent posts.


See these posts:
1. http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/01/malaysia-racism-bigotry-and-boycott.html
2. http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/01/anti-us-and-anti-israel-round-up.html
3. http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/01/malaysian-racism.html
Note that by the third post, an ongoing scrimmage seemed to have developed.
I disagree with several of the commenters. Which does not mean that I wish them to cease and desist. There is no conversation when the participants agree. Dispute is necessary - not only to further understanding (your own, not that of the person with whom you disagree), but also to sharpen the mind.


This post is neither an apology, nor an expression of sympathy for Dr. Mahathir Mohamad's points of view. By no means!
I shall continue to find his ideas odious (except, of course, for the ones with which I happen to agree - please see comment above about 'conversation').


It is, however, an acknowledgement that the man writes very well.

As can be seen from his former blog:
http://test.chedet.com/che_det/archives.html
And his current blog:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/


On his blog, Dr. Mahathir discusses a wide variety of subjects. Not all of which are political.

Without giving credence or weight to his loathsome views on the western world and Israel, to which I would not wish to draw further attention either, let me just mention that I did not know that Malaysia made Mozzarella cheese till I read it here:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/2009/01/mozzarella-cheese-ii.html
And further regarding Mozzarella cheese, see this:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/2008/12/mozzarella-cheese.html
Mozzarella Cheese? Malaysia? Oyvavoy!

Flabbergasting.

But no more surprising than sambal badjak and sambal oelek being manufactured by Huy Fong Foods in Los Angeles (also manufacturers of Sriracha Hotsauce, affectionately called 'Cock Sauce' by its fans), a popular brand of kroepoek oedang for the Dutch Market coming from Chekiang, or ketjap manis made in Den Haag.
Not to mention Mooncakes from Eastern Bakery on Grant Avenue being sent to kinfolk in Guangzhou......


Dr. Mahathir also discusses the Bumiputra Policies and the race situation in Malaysia here:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/2008/11/racism-and-2008-elections.html
Here:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/2008/09/racialism.html
Also here:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/2008/08/affirmative-action.html
And most particularly here:
http://chedet.co.cc/chedetblog/2008/06/multiracial-malaysia.html


Please understand, I am absolutely not endorsing his views. But if you wish to understand the Malaysian Bumiputra policies, the posts referenced above are a very good place to start reading.
[You should probably also look up the terms NEP, Bumiputra, Orang Asli, Peranakan and Pribumi (as well as the Indonesian 'Peraturan Pemerintah 10/1959') - these are all explained in Wikipedia and elsewhere.]



Go on, browse over to his blog - it is well worth visiting. Did I mention that he writes well?
Many posts are in English, some are in Bahasa Melayu.
And if you are looking for texts in Malay to sharpen your ability with the language, you could hardly do any better.

IN PRAISE OF TAKING HEADS

Apparently, my readers have problems associating vicious tribal murder with something good to eat. The link between the bloodshed and the dinner may be too strong, too vibrant for them. Judging by the dearth of commentary under a recent post

[Please see here: HEAD-HUNTING CHICKEN. It is about a mild chicken dish which you would very much like to eat.]

Other than Grant Patel with his unique viewpoints, the only person who left a comment was Steg (dos iz nit der šteg) , who wrote:
"Sorry, man... associations with head-hunting aren't good for whetting my appetite."


I may have suggested to Steg (dos iz nit der šteg) and a few others that the dish would be perfect for Sukkos - It being an outdoorsy and primitive-dwelling associated holiday. Reminiscent, on one level, of living in the wilderness, rather like the tribal peoples in parts of Borneo still do. And a longhouse is like a sukkah, albeit a sukkah on pillars that raise the living quarters above the ground away from shrotzim and predators, and with a long common veranda, plus fire-pits, family quarters, and holes to ventilate and let out the smoke.

[Longhouse: Puranibo. Long common veranda: Daramba. Fire-pits; Kuipang. Family quarters: Balayak. Ventilation holes: Tingkapen.]


Besides, headhunting is a fine old tradition, and fine old traditions are always associated with food. Headhunting in more ways than one.

Taking heads has naught to do with cannibalism. The hunting down of other humans in this case is not to use their meat, but purely to utilize the powerful energy that is concentrated in their kapala. Think of it as harvesting batteries from a rival tribe downriver, a tribe with the utter chutzpah to compete with us for limited resources.
Whichever head gets taken will not be involved in planting fields, or gathering wild protein from the forest, or spying on us as we eat, wash by the river, or procreate. That head will not harm us nor use what we could use, but instead will inspire our crops to grow, our men to be virile, and our women to be fecund.

That head is far less use to us still attached to a living body from that other tribe, than nicely polished in its own specially made basket up in the rafters of our longhouse, watching us drinking rice wine and dancing during our festivals.

Steg, please reconsider. The association with headhunting is propitious, and will add to your pleasure. Yes?



NGABAENG PA BUNGA GALURA
[Evocation of the crimson flowers.]


Ulite gadis neang tandak dang kapala, ki bunga galura na parang; kranda na litenen sehi umbang-tasek, kasanakan na puranibo purno tan marido. Wirang wirang na kibong tagpulang mawangi na djuwang, ura-mura tan nila tuwa. Tagatso iha maalik-mera, neang dene enti sama wahana.
Ri tarang na parampui puwan puwan marakanadja, kalinda, kalintik; djenti-wata hu!
Gurumos ti taa pa lalaki wiyang banta pratama - palimanema lahang kaga, mata dingin laho. Bunoan impa dapet uba, kaingitan djadi taengso materem. Tuwang-tugeng maputi re rewanon, dagat magkareng sa lalang tan daon; neang luwa matadjato lelem sametek, karong wara djawonen wiyang mawo bala. Dahulo mata-li buwana entero, maale kabog sahadja. Uho.
[Translation: See the girls that dance with the heads, the crimson blossoms of battle; the noise of the watchers is like breakers, the enjoyment of the longhouse is complete and zesty. The warriors of the group have returned smelling of the conflict, youthful-ruddy (ura-mura, also refers to the red of warrior turbans) as well as aged-blue (nila-tuwa, the wise elders who wear dark turbans). Success, verily, is appealing, whatever else is not likewise. In the glow of the torches women are high-breasted (marakanadja: prominent, of noses or breast; high, of trees, hats, banners, signs; projecting, of roofs, overhangs, bosoms), sleek (marakalinda: gently swelling, of breasts or low dunes; fading into the landscape or tree-line, of scrub and undergrowth; unremarkable of prominence, of roofs or gables), and perky (marakalintik: up-perked, of cute button-noses and nipples; sticking out slightly like knobs on furniture or trimmed branches; projecting somewhat like nuts and bolts); how utterly charming, oh!
The joyous noise does not reach the males who have fought for the first time - their hands are still clenched, their eyes remain cold, killing must create change, the memories become sharply graduated. Bones (tuwang: bones; tugeng: large pelvic and leg-bones) are whitening in the wild lands, blood dries on grass and leaves; the distance becomes dark entirely, now there are outsiders who wish for revenge. While before the entire world was within sight, now all is fog only. Oh!]

Headhunting is customarily limited to the period between the two lumeri festivals, when the rice-wine is ready, and agriculture is at a standstill - November, December, and January. This is the first part of the wet season, when tempers have not gone dull from the incessant rain, and men are still vibrantly alive. It is a joyous and cheerful season.


It is said that the Moshiach, when he comes, will come during sukkos.
But until he does, think of headhunting.

HOT AND STICKY GOODNESS

That year Ramadan was from the end of May through the third week of June. Halfway through the month the weather changed. The mid-afternoon rainstorms decreased, the winds brought more heat. But there were only a few days with no rain at all, and just as few that were entirely too hot. Still, it is a humid climate, and considerably warmer than California. Even the locals went limp from heat and hunger.


One did not necessarily want to eat during the day, but that it was not possible was a burden. Right around teatime one would get up, sponge off, and regretfully realize that there was no cardamom coffee, no ginger tea, no horrid sweet softdrink with electric green or red fake colour, and entirely no food at all to be had. One would grumble in concert with one's stomach.
At sundown one walked toward the mosque, hoping that the vendors would have set up shop before magrib prayers ended, drifts of fragrance from their fires tempting the faithful in the courtyard. Tungkoludi was not a particularly exciting place, and food was one of it's sparse charms.

During Ramadan, that charm was only evident at night.


Sop Manok Mi = Chicken and noodle soup with fried tuber-chunks, mildly curry flavoured, with oily red chili sambal and huge wedges of cucumber. Lime wedge on the side.

Krawan = Goat meat and liver marinated in lime juice with garlic, ginger, and turmeric, flame-broiled, served with sweet-soy sauce and lime wedges.

Kurok Magureng = Frog marinated in vinegar and lime juice, deep-fried and served with a sambal of chilies, soy sauce, and sugar.


These and other quick dishes (sate kambing, krupok urang, tjao kangkong, luomi, pitjil batawi) were all quite delicious.
One would've hoped to have had a chance to enjoy them before dying of starvation.
Not in Tungkoludi.

The one thing that was both perfect for the time of day and the place was katupat. The hot packets fresh off the coals and smelling of scorched banana leaf, that one pulled apart with burnt fingertips, revealing a gooey sweet mass inside, were the very best way to start the night.
A quick snack, scarfed down greedily, which raised the blood-sugar level back to normal and kept one from killing the innocent natives.
Step back, bitch, these are mine!


KATUPAT

3 cups glutinous rice.
1 - 1½ cups golden cane sugar.
Either two bananas, peeled and chunked.
OR
Strips of meat from two young coconuts.

Banana leaves for wrapping


Soak rice in water for two hours. Drain, and grind to a smooth doughy consistency. Mix the sugar and the banana or coconut into the rice dough.
Wipe banana leaves clean, and pass over the fire. Cut into squares about the size of a plate.
Spread the rice mixture thinly over half of each piece of banana leaf, then roll into a sausage shape. Grill over coals till the inside is hot and goopy and the outside somewhat singed.
Serve warm.

Makes about two dozen pieces.
Have them with cardamom coffee.

Ramadan ends today.
Eid mubarak, y'all.

RAJA PETRA KAMARUDDIN

What, you do not know that name? RPK is the editor of a popular newsblog in Malaysia. He was arrested today under the Internal Security Act for posting an article which the Malaysian government claims insulted Islam.


The Malaysian government claims equitability and a lack of bias, yet have consistently favoured Islam and discriminated against non-Muslims.

This is the same government whose then prime minister, Datuk Seri Mahathir Muhammad, spouted anti-Semitic and anti-Western drivel of the most reprehensible kind. This is the same government which discriminates against all non-Muslims. This is the same government which supports some of the worst elements in the Islamic world while blandly pretending neutrality.

This is the same government which panders to Minangkabau, Javan, and Melayu carpetbaggers by claiming that they are the true natives, because they are Muslim.

This is the same government which maintains the proud Muslim traditions of several royal families descended from Bugis and Arab pirates, rapists, and robbers - what, you didn't know that Malay royalty is traditionally half a generation removed from the most successful brigand in the local bog? You didn't know that piracy ennobled?

You didn't know that Malay royal families happily claim descent from the kin of the prophet Muhammad?

I'm not surprised you did not know that last bit - the only ones who believe that claim are the Malays themselves.

The Malaysian government seems determined to keep its citizenry ignorant and unenlightened. If they have to use Islamic sensibilities as a tool to that end, they will. It’s a means of staying in power.



THE ARREST OF BLOGGER RAJA PETRA KAMARUDDIN


BBC article:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7612666.stm
Quote: "General Abdul Aziz Zainal called for "stern action" to be taken against anyone stoking racial tension in the country."
Quote: "Interior Minister Syed Hamid Albar said he had been arrested because his writings posed a threat to national security."


Racial tension is of course the great Malay bugaboo. In 1969, the ethnic Malays, incited by "native" racialists (Islamic politicos, mostly), rioted in Kuala Lumpur ('Muddy Estuary') against the Chinese, the actions having been preplanned (as is evident from the near simultaneous speed with which the violence spread throughout the city), and the ensuing organised violence including murder, rape, robbery, and torture.

The official figures speak of less than two hundred dead. Non-governmental figures reliably state that the real numbers were over two thousand fatalities. Army units sent to quell the rioting deliberately added to the chaos - by bringing in armed Malay thugs, and by arson.
This has been denied by all Malay parties and politicians since then.

The scale of the violence eventually shocked the instigators, but more importantly convinced the Malaysian mainstream politicians that unless something was done the economic basis of the country would collapse. That economic basis being the industrial sector created by Chinese enterprise and drive. Even to the "native" Malay, it was evident that the agrarian village economy could not sustain any development, nor provide the surplus that the ruling classes had come to depend upon.

Hence the use of 'racial tension' as the catch-all reason for curbing freedom of the press while yet encouraging Malay-ethnic chauvinism.


So, what actual text got Raja Petra Kamaruddin in trouble?


A REPORTER’S ACCOUNT OF AN INTERVIEW WITH TUNKU ABDUL RAHMAN ON THE 13 MAY INCIDENT

Posted by Raja Petra Kamaruddin (2008-9-11)


"The following statement is a factual account of the above-mentioned event given to me by the late Tunku Abdul Rahman (first Prime Minister of Malaysia) during an interview at his residence in Penang in 1972. I requested to discuss the above incident and was surprised when the appointment was given within three days.
His Secretary, a Chinese gentleman, allotted me one hour and advised me not to go into too much detail as this would tire the Tunku unnecessarily. In fact, the interview lasted three and a half hours. Because of the very surprising details provided to me, I think it would be best to report in a first-hand manner based on my notes written immediately after the interview.

It was clear to me as well as the police that in the highly charged political atmosphere after the police were forced to kill a Chinese political party worker on May 4th, 1969, something was bound to happen to threaten law and order because of the resentment towards the Government by the KL Chinese on the eve of the general election. This was confirmed at this man’s funeral on the 9th May when the government faced the most hostile crowd it had ever seen.

Therefore, when the opposition parties applied for a police permit for a procession to celebrate their success in the results of the general election, I was adamant against it because the police were convinced that this would lead to trouble. I informed Tun Razak about this and he seemed to agree.

Now, without my knowledge and actually "behind my back", there were certain political leaders in high positions who were working to force me to step down as a PM. I don’t want to go into details but if they had come to me and said so I would gladly have retired gracefully.

Unfortunately, they were apparently scheming and trying to decide on the best way to force me to resign. The occasion came when the question of the police permit was to be approved.

Tun Razak and Harun Idris, the MB of the state of Selangor, now felt that permission should be given, knowing fully well that there was a likelihood of trouble. I suppose they felt that when this happened they could then demand my resignation.

To this day I find it very hard to believe that Razak, whom I had known for so many years, would agree to work against me in this way. Actually he was in my house, as I was preparing to return to Kedah, and I overhead him speaking to Harun over the phone saying that he would be willing to approve the permit when I left. I really could not believe what I was hearing and preferred to think it was about some other permit. In any case, as the Deputy Prime Minister, in my absence from KL, he would be the Acting PM and would override my objection.

Accordingly, when I was in my home in Kedah, I heard over the radio that the permit had been approved.

It seems as though the expected trouble was anticipated and planned for by Harun and his UMNO Youth. After the humiliating insults hurled by the non-Malays, especially the Chinese, and after the seeming loss of Malay political power to them, they were clearly ready for some retaliatory action.

After meeting in large numbers at Harun’s official residence in Jalan Raja Muda near Kampong Bahru, and hearing inflammatory speeches by Harun and other leaders, they prepared themselves by tying ribbon strips on their foreheads and set out to kill Chinese. The first hapless victims were two of them in a van opposite Harun’s house who were innocently watching the large gathering. Little did they know that they would be killed on the spot. "

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_13_Incident



Further from Wikipedia:
Less than 24 hours after posting the above entries in the "Malaysia-today's blog", Raja Petra Kamaruddin was arrested by the Badawi's Government under the draconian Internal Security Act.(2008-9-12)

A few hours later, a reporter for the Chinese-language Sin Chew Daily, "Miss Tan Hoon Cheng" was also arrested under the Internal Security Act after reporting on an outburst from a ruling party member who called the ethnic Chinese community "squatters".
Her report triggered a major row in the coalition which is made up of race-based parties. The leading party, which represents majority Muslim Malays, was forced to punish the member responsible.

Just before midnight, a third person, "Miss Teresa Kok", a highly regarded member of Parliament from the Chinese-based DAP which is a member of the opposition alliance, had also been arrested under the Internal Security Act. Miss Kok is an outspoken lawmaker and critics denouncing the race based politics in Malaysia.


[Source: same Wikipedia entry as the article by Raja Petra Kamaruddin]


-----------------------------------

I'll admit it - I am a partisan of the overseas Chinese in South East Asia. While I admire the cultural achievements of the Indonesians (not those of the Malays or Philippinos, because they have achieved so little), and consider the civilization of central Java both splendid and inspiring (again, not that of the Malays or Philippinos - what exactly have they achieved?), I know that if it weren't for the enterprise, drive, and vitality of the Chinese (and the Atjehnese, Batak, Buginese, Dayak, Minangkabau, and a few others), there would be little more than overpopulated swamp and jungle-villages from Patani in an arc all the way to the tip of Luzon.

The twentieth century would not have penetrated. The tax-base that allows corrupt politicians and military men to live in luxury would not exist. The modern conveniences that lighten the burden of the orang tanah or the labourer in the kuta would never have been imported. The tourists would not come, the traders would never leave the coast, and the educated classes would emigrate en-masse.

Let's face it - the only South East Asian countries that still have vibrant native cultures are Thailand and Viet Nam. The rest? Meh. The ruling classes do not encourage intelligence or creativity.

I really wish that the Malaysian government would realize that by their cowardice they effectively condemn their culture to death. They could instead re-inspire it.

Dengan hormat,


---B.O.T.H.

THE FRAGRANT FIELD

The following is a poem in Dutch that mentions Javanese historical events.
I shall not bother translating it, because poems in translation become mere doggerel at best, gibberish at worst.
However, I do provide notes underneath that may clarify.


HET GEURIGE VELD

Amangkoerat heeft meer dan dertig jaren
In 't oude rijk Mataram geregeerd,
En meer dan onder Soeltan Ageng waren
In list en lust zijn machtigen volleerd.

Meer nog dan in zijn vaders wreede tijden
Lag zwart gebrek in 't leeggeroofde veld.
Dood en verwoesting, vuur en zwaard verspreidden
Zijn trotschen naam in daden van geweld.

Totdat hij, zat van zinnen, in het slijten
Van ledige uren zijn voldoening vond:
Amangkoerat, de Keizer, dreef zijn geiten
Over de pleinen van den Kraton rond.

Toen, in zijn ouderdom, kwamen de dagen
Van tegenspoed, de dagen van gevaar:
Zijn huis verdeeld, zijn oversten verslagen,
Van angst en afschuw zijn gedachten zwaar.

't Verraad sloop rond. De Madoereesche benden
Drongen tot in zijn open hofstad door.
Amangkoerat, de Keizer der ellende,
Werd als het wild, de jagers op zijn spoor.

Hij vluchtte, - maar 't vermoeide leven kwijnde
In 't lijf, waarvoor hij zwervend toevlucht zocht.
Toen vroeg de vorst alleen, dat na zijn einde
Een geurig veld zijn lijk ontvangen mocht.

Hij stierf. En door zijne enkele getrouwen
Werd aan den uitgesproken wens voldaan.
Nu brengen op zijn graf bedroefde vrouwen
Haar wierook en haar wilde bloemen aan.

Kinderen spelen er, bejaarde wijzen
Zoeken den boom, die van den heuvel helt
En schaduw schenkt, - en vrome pelgrims reizen
Eerbiedig naar het zoet geurende veld.


Written by Jan Prins (1876 - 1948) in Surabaya in 1908. From 'Indische Gedichten' - published 1932.

-------------------------------------------

NOTES

Amangkoerat - name of an emperor of Mataram (Amangkurat I, who was driven from Plered to Tegal by the Madurese invaders in 1672).

Mataram - A Javanese empire that endured from the fifteen hundreds to the seventeen hundreds - the name is still used for the successor princedoms, though when the empire was still united the term was less common.

In the latter half of the sixteenth century Kyai Gedhe Pamanahan, also called Kyai Gedhe Mataram (who was descended from Ki Ageng Sela) became the ruler of the Mataram region. His son, Suta Wijaya (styled Panembahan Senapati Ing Alag, often shortened to Senapati, which means 'army-lord') succeeded him around 1584. It is because of Senapati's campaigns against Padjang and Demak that Mataram rose to become the major power in Java.

[Kyai = Honourable Lord. Gedhe = Great, awesome. Wijaya = Victorious. Panembahan = One to whom the 'semba' (a worshipful and abnegatory gesture) is made.
For the terms I do not explicate you are on your own.]

The heirs of the royal house of Mataram still have thrones: Hamengku Buwono (He Who Holds The World In his Embrace), Paku Alam (The Axis of the World), Paku Buwono (The Axis of the World), and Mangku Nagara (The Guarantor of the State).
The first two mentioned are located in Yogyakarta, the latter two in Surakarta. All derive from the same original house - the separation into different thrones was during the colonial period and suited the purposes of the Dutch far more than that of the princes.

Sultan Ageng - Sultan Ageng Hanyokro Kusumo (Raden Mas Rangsang, reigned 1613 - 1645), one of the most important Sultans of Mataram, who suppressed several revolts against the supremacy of the empire founded by his ancestor Senapati, but failed in his attempt to take Batavia from the Dutch. His grave is a pilgrimage site, as are those of many of his successors.

Zijn vader's vrede tijden - "His father's cruel era", in reference to the years of Sultan Ageng's father, Panembahan Seda Ing Krapyak (reigned 1601 - 1613), the son of Senapati. It was a time of conflict, during which princes abraded each other's tax-bases with abandon. Largely due to the resultant decline in population, the Dutch were able to cement their control of the west of Java and the port cities, and Chinese immigrants were brought in by both the Dutch and Javan rulers to repopulate formerly prosperous areas.

Geiten - goats.

Kraton - Term for a palace, also rendered as Kedaton and Kedatuan, in which we see the root 'dato' (Javanese and several other languages: Ratu), which ranges in meaning from 'chieftain' to 'royal' (in Javanese, it nowadays means 'queen').
A kraton is a residence of a prince, usually located at a nexus of mystical power. In Javanese and Balinese the correct terms is 'pura' (Sanskrit: gated city), often rendered as 'puro dalem' (the inside city).

Madoereesche benden - Madurese gangs, in reference to an invasion of Java from Madura during the seventeenth century. The Madurese are natives of an island (Madura) north of Java which was often part of the Javanese sphere of influence, and which has a culture related to that of Java (as do Bali and some areas in Borneo and southern Sumatra). The suppression of Madura by Senapati in 1622 laid the basis for subsequent irredentist tendencies, which were manifested by the revolt of Raden Truna Jaya of Madura and culminated in the capture of the Mataram court city in 1677.

In modern Indonesia, the Madurese have a reputation for chicanery, cruelty, and coarseness (in some part due to their looting of Mataram over three centuries ago). They are at times ethically crippled. A number of years ago Madurese transmigrants were the targets of indignant Dayaks in Indonesian Borneo who wished to speak to them severely about their several years of misbehaviour on that island, and undo them of their heads.

Geurig veld - Fragrant field. In the poem, mention is made of Emperor Amangkurat's expressed desire that his mortal remains be buried in a fragrant field. The location has since become a place of pilgrimage. In the poem the emperor's request to be buried in a fragrant field comes after the flight from the palace city, when he is a hunted man, and his body has become a tormentation.

Bedroefde vrouwen - grieving women.

Haar wierook en haar wilde bloemen - Literally: 'her incense and her wild flowers'. But note that in Dutch 'haar' (her) is both singular and plural, so it means 'their incense and their wild flowers' (as tribute offerings at his grave).

Vrome pelgrims - faithful pilgrims. Note that 'vroom' is the same as Yiddish and Yeshivish 'frum'.

Eerbiedig - with respect.

Het zoet geurend veld - the sweet-smelling field.

LOOKING FOR A COMPLETE TEXT OF THE HIKAYAT PRANG SABII

One of the key texts of the long Atjehnese struggle for self-determination (starting from the Dutch invasion in 1873 more or less till the Tsunami) was the Hikayat Prang Sabii - The Narrative of the Sacred War.

This long poem (two thousand lines) was written by Teungku Djik Panté Kulu while traveling from Jeddah to Penang after completing the pilgrimage during the Dutch-Atjeh war.
It celebrated the resistance to the Dutch, and the urge to continue the struggle, not because victory was inevitable (it wasn't), but because it was the right thing to do.

Verses of this poem were recited before battle. When fighting the Dutch. When fighting the Japanese. When fighting the Indonesians.

Some people know it by heart. It is probably one of the very few things in their own language that they know so well, because literate Atjehnese have always written in Arabic or Malay more than their own language.

Anyhow. Can't find it on the net. Would appreciate pointers. Remember, two thousand lines. Thanks in advance.

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Note: As an indication of Atjehnese stubbornness, let me cite a description of one of Atjeh's greatest heroes, Tjut Nya Dhien ('Tjoet Nja' Dhien'):

"None of those men who were leaders in the long holy war of Atjeh against us hated us as fiercely or fought us as resolutely as she did, and few sacrificed so much, of both their power and property. Never, in her resistance, did she deviate by even one step, never did she doubt, never could she be bought. Transported, she died in exile. "Resigned", they say - but that cannot be believed! And why should we even desire any resignation from her? As a salve on the wounds of our conscience? For the greater glory of our triumph?
No! Let us honour her as indeed our bitterest enemy, who was finally broken by our might."


Tjut Nya Dhien (1848 - 1908) was the daughter of one commander (Nanta Setia) and the wife of another (Teuku Ibrahim Lam'nga) in the fight against the Dutch. Both fell in the battle of Sela Glé Tarun in 1873.

After their deaths, she assumed command of their troops and continued the struggle against the Dutch until 1901, spending most of that time in the jungles and hills.

Her second husband, Teuku Umar, died in battle in 1899. Together they fought the Dutch for nearly two dozen years.

When the Dutch captured her, Tjut Nya Dhien was old, worn-out, arthritic, and nearly blind. And still she fought - she was taken in battle. They exiled her to Sumedang in Java, where she died six years later. She spent those last years teaching the Quran to local people.
It wasn't until the republican period that her grave was found - the marker gave the nickname that she had been given by the locals, who never knew her real name. But there had been only one Atjehnese female political prisoner ever in that town......


Her daughter, Tjut Gambang (wife of Teungku Dhi Buket, who was the son of Teuku Tjik Dhi Tiro, Acheh's most famous guerilla leader) continued the war in the jungles of Atjeh, dying in combat in 1910.


You can probably understand why this material fascinates me. There is much here to admire.

PEPPER LEAVES

A discourse on cocaine on someone else's blog reminded me of pepper leaves.

Of which there are three.


DAON SIRI (Piper Betel; standard Indonesian: daun sirih; Tagolog: buyo, ikmo) is a beautiful heart-shaped leaf in which you wrap your sliced betelnut (Areca catechu; Indonesian: pinang; Tagalog: bunga, bu'ga), catechu (Acacia catechu extractum; katta, gambir), tobacco, sweet shredded coconut and dried plums, along with a small smear of slaked lime (calcium hydroxide; kakura - burnt snail shells; kapog - commercial lime paste; both are called ginapog in the western part of Mindanao, 'apog in Luzon). You then pop it into your mouth and chew. It will cheer you up, then keep you on a slightly zotsed plateau for a few hours, before slowly releasing you into torpor. It is refreshing, mildly narcotic, and counters fatigue.

In South-East Asia it was for centuries the social drug of choice, before being replaced by coffee, tea, cigarettes, and bad beer. Visitors would be welcomed with a chew before the reason for their visit was discussed, and important agreements would be sealed by a chew. Marriage proposals were made with a present of a stuffed leaf for chewing, and desperate women would compound love potions in the quid they offered their paramours. Kings were assassinated with poisoned chews, and daemons were expelled by spraying the possessed victim with chaw.

It should be noted that the leaf causes one's spit to become bright red and copious. Do not be alarmed at the crimson spatters on the pavement, that's just someone having a good time.

In the past, beautiful sets of jars and leaf-holders on a tray for betel chewing were prized heirlooms, often made of gold or silver clobbered ceramic.

Wiki article in English: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betel
Wiki article in Indonesian: http://id.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sirih



DAON KADOK (Piper sarmentosum; standard Indonesian: daun kaduk) is a close relative of siri, with which it is often confused. It is used both as a minor medicine for colds, aches, joint pains, and minor stomach ailments during the rainy season, but also in its own right as a food. A very nice soup can be made by first gilding some of the usual ngeprik ingredients (garlic, ginger, chilies, etc.), adding water or stock plus plenty of kadok leaves, and then finishing the soup with a squeeze of lime juice and some broken-up egg and tofu scramble. If you add a little finely chopped daon djarok (standard Indonesian: daun jeruk - kaffir lime leaf) it is especially nice.

The leaf can also be eaten raw, coloured with a touch of hot sauce, or shredded into emerald rice with some toasted dried fish. Very good. It also goes well with beef.



DAON TJABE (standard Indonesian: daun cabai) are chili (Capsicum) leaves, which are used as vegetable in Indonesia, the Philippines, and Suriname. They are very good with chicken that has been braised with a little ginger, garlic, and shallot, rice-washing water added to cover, as well as a squeeze of lime or a bit of tamarind for sourness. Simmer till nearly tender, then add the ripped chili leaves to the dish in a quantity sufficient to give it a mixed meat and vegetable character. Serve when the leaves have wilted. Put a bottle of fish sauce on the table for diners to add as suits them.

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Notes:

Lime juice is as good a substitute as any for kalamunting (Indonesian: jeruk sambal; Tagalog: calamansi), which is a dwarf lime about the size of a cherry tomato, used all over South-East Asia for squeezing over food. It is not as fragrant as kalamunting, but it is widely available, which is a great virtue.

Grated lime zest can also be added to food instead of daon djarok (kaffir lime leaf). It does not affect the mouth-feel as daon djarok does, which is a pity, but it does add a necessary perfumed dimension.

Fish sauce, known as petis or patis, and also widely available in Thai and Vietnamese stores by different names (and usually clearly labeled, so you will not be confused), is used as both a table condiment and as an ingredient. The best types are not strongly fishy, and have a golden-amber hue. But if you keep kosher, substitute soy sauce.

Chili peppers (Capsicum spp.; tjabe, tjawe) come in many shapes and heat-levels.
I am particularly fond of capsicum pubescens, which is remarkable for its short capsaicin molecules. Because of this peculiarity, some people barely taste its heat, others take one nibble from a lovely chile manzana which an aficionado in the accounting department may have offered them, and run screaming for the bathroom at the far end of the building, lips purple and face a brilliant red, for instance.

But there are others which are also delightful - Jalapeños are peppy, piquines (chiltepin) are spicy-hot with a metallic taste, serranos have a resinous quality, de arbols are fiery, Thai peppers are blistering but seedy, Scotch Bonnet has an affinity for cinnamon and black pepper and with its cousin the Habanero (fruity and fragrant) presents the highest heat level.

Mulatto Isleño and other types of poblanos are not hot, and marvelous roasted or stuffed with cheese, Anaheims are particularly good stuffed or rendered into a green sauce, and the chiles from New Mexico present everything from juicy fleshed mildness to blister-blaster heat.


One can make a beautiful chile verde by stewing goat in a generous mixture of chopped cooking chilies with a little onion and some stock (plus some garlic and a pinch of ground cumin) for an hour or two - the chilies will make a nice verdant and very flavourful sauce, the onion will have helped tenderize the meat as well as contributed its own flavour. It can be served over rice, but it is best savoured in a bowl by itself.

For chile verde I like to use Anaheims, Mulatto Isleños and Poblanos, plus a few bells for bulk, and several Jalapeños and serranos, all blistered over a flame, skinned (leave some of the black on for a nice smokiness), seeded, and chopped fine. More chiles than meat (big chunks of meat), of course, and absolutely no tomatillos or tomatoes. Stock and a jigger of sherry. Two hours plus. When it is done it looks like a jade sea. Sheer heaven.

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STUBBORN PISSANTS IN THE HILLS

[Further thoughts regarding Chanukka]


The Jews in those days did not necessarily believe that a revolt against the Graeco-Syrians could succeed, rather, they believed that a revolt was justified. And herein lies the difference. They did not do what they thought could work, they did what they knew was right. A preposterous idea, but one which fundamentally informs how we look at history today.


We admire the perverse determination of the Irish, the many failed peasant rebellions of the Chinese, and the ornery refusal to bend of the native Americans.


And if we're Dutch, we admire the revolt of Patimura in 1817, the puputan (defiant mass court suicide) by the dalem of Badung in Bali in 1906, and the generation-long struggle of the Achinese against our superior arms, culminating in the pacification of the territory in 1907.

We called Aceh (Atjeh, Achin) pacified only after capturing the person who epitomized the resistance to our forces. Not rebelliousness, because in truth we never had a right to be there. It was thirty years of bitter, stubborn resistance.


THE ACEH WAR - 1873 to 1907

In 1873 we (the Dutch) invaded Aceh on pretext, and in order to keep the Americans and the British from sticking their noses in what we Dutch held was our sphere of influence. While the first Aceh campaign was an unmitigated disaster for our side, the second campaign proved less than salubrious for the Achinese. The troops of Aceh retreated to the jungle, along with relatives and supporters, and fought a guerilla war against the occupiers.


Among the Achinese in the jungle was Chut Nya Dhien (Tjoet Njak Dhien, 1848 - 1908), daughter of Nanta Setia and wife of Teuku Ibrahim Lamnga, both commanders in the Sultan's forces, and leaders against the Dutch. Both men died in the battle of Sela Glee Tarun in 1873.

Chut Nya Dhien took over the command of her father's and her husbands forces, and continued the fight against the Dutch. Two years later, she married commander Teuku Umar, and both surrendered to the Dutch. Within a short time they revolted again, having used their temporary peace to resupply and reorganize. Teuku Umar was finally killed in battle over two decades later, in 1899. Chut Nya Dhien continued her war against the Dutch, finally being surrounded by the army, who had been informed of her whereabouts, in 1901.

Her followers fought to the last man. Chut Nya Dhien was wrestled to the ground - old, blind, arthritic, and sick from thirty years in the jungle, but she still hacked at her captors with her sword. Her daughter, Chut Gambang (wife of Teungku Dhi Buket, who was the son of Teuku Chik Dhi Tiro, Acheh's most famous guerilla leader) escaped to the jungle, and died in combat nine years later in 1910.


The Dutch banished Chut Nya Dhien to Java, where, seven years later, she passed away.

From a biographical sketch:
"None of those men who were leaders in the long holy war of Atjeh against us hated us as fiercely or fought us as resolutely as she did, and few sacrificed so much, of both their power and property. Never, in her resistance, did she deviate by even one step, never did she doubt, never could she be bought. Transported, she died in exile. "Resigned", they say - but that cannot be believed! And why should we even desire any resignation from her? As a salve on the wounds of our conscience? For the greater glory of our triumph?
No. Let us honour her as indeed our bitterest enemy, who was finally broken our might."

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Post-script - from the BBC:
Aceh rebels disband armed units

Separatist rebels in the Indonesian province of Aceh say their armed wing has been officially disbanded, in line with a landmark peace agreement.
A Free Aceh Movement (Gam) spokesman said it was committed to implementing the deal reached with the government.
Under its terms, the former rebels were to hand over their weapons in return for Aceh receiving more autonomy from the central government.
The agreement is designed to end 26 years of bitter conflict.
The last government troops are due to pull out of Aceh on Thursday.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/4561922.stm

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The war which lasted until this peace accord was the third round of fighting since independence at the end of WWII.

The Achinese, who amount to less than five percent of the population of Indonesia, fought the Dutch again in the thirties and forties, they fought the Japanese, they fought the Indonesians - first against the Sukarno government, then against the Suharto government, then again against Suharto and his successors.

It took a tsunami to get them down.

Stubborn bunch.