java.
frankfurt, singapore, jakarta, yogjakarta
departure, seat at the emergency exit. singapore airport: clean and quiet. arrival in jakarta earlier than expected. early flight to yogjakarta possible. have to pay departure tax in rupees. the bank clerk at the desk is even too slow to sleep. welcome to asia. i'm running out of time. 'mr bretz, last call for boarding!'. i start running, the heat and humidity hits me like a punch. the airline guy is in panic. 'mr bretz, mr bretz!' i'm paying while we're running down the hall. security people are just laughing at me. the boarding card is handed over while i'm passing the employee 'mr bretz?'. surprise. does he see anybody else running around? when i arrive in the plane i'm pouring with sweat. by now even i have realised that i'm in asia again: i'm not supposed to run.
shock when i get off the plane in jogjakarta. severe pain in the back. pinched nerve? to sweaty in the cool plane? can hardly walk. if this is the start i don't want to know how it ends. is this a sick-puppy-trip again?
taxi ride to the centre with typical asian impressions: smog, noise, chaos. funny as always. batik shopping tour. nothing special, i end up with the high-price stuff. 'you have good eyes' -'no, i have expensive eyes'. after a little bargaining we agree on a price for a nice piece. she's got beautiful eyes so i don't give her too much of a hard time with the bargaining. am i getting too soft? yogja's main road is a disappointment. no exotic ambience. i guess these people don't want to satisfy me cliché of asia. too much of modern times for a tourist?
yogja
during the night there's singing and prayers from the mosques transmitted by loudspeakers. it's like a competition. fortunately not for the whole night. sleeping out until 8am. it's too noisy already, life starts at 6am.
march to the palace. 'transport?' - 'healthy legs?'. i need training anyway and i have to move my back. i'm picked up by a guide. the palace is run down. the area of the old bath is completely covered with buildings. it's planned to restore the place and transfer the people to some other area. my guide sopian is full of pity: 'the poor sultan, only daughters!'. i wonder what the problem is, the girls look pretty yummy here. 'he's only got one wife!' bad modern times? well unfortunately not modern enough when it comes to rituals like circumcision of the girls. who would have believed that this incredible atrocity has not only survived in africa but also in indonesia. yak!
bought shadow theatre puppet at the museum. walk through the market. very dangerous: above you have to watch not get the poles from the roofs in your eyes, down on the ground you try not to step on the little indonesian people. the kids shout 'farang', i respond 'javanese'.
dinner at an all-you-can-eat place. bad food. what's the lesson? none as usual. the band arrives. will this be like in thailand where you don't know whether they tune the instruments or perform already? it's so funny: the tourists stare at the musicians, they stare at us. are they expecting us to play? at least the life music is pretty good. but they're sitting shyly behind their instruments as if they feared we would beat them up. i feel sorry for them. each of them plays a maximum of 5 notes. dong ding dong. video would be great. while they play i write my diary which seems to cause some irritation. do i look like a critic?
meeting with sopian at the puppet theatre. he's shocked that i didn't bring my camera. going back takes too long so he organises a motor-bike. surprise, there are traffic rules: no driving against one-ways and sometimes stopping at red lights. the show is a bit lengthy but the fighting scenes of the ramayana story are interesting. the gamelan music has a good beat. at the end sopian apologizes for the bad performance of the player. i would not have known. the real show usually takes 5 hours but people appear only for the fighting scenes. no sleep during the night. but instead i learn about indonesian life. there's always somebody who plays guitar, even at 3 am. the chicken get up at 3 am, the prayers start at 4 am. which is a bit too early for my ears. but the modern tourist is always prepared and brings earplugs.
yogja, bodobodur, prambanan
getting up 4 am. drive to borobodur. as usual suicidal driving habits. excellent temple. biggest buddhist building world-wide. 100 years needed to build it. stupa = turned ricebowl. covered with soil to hide it from the muslim invaders, re-discovered by europeans, restoration by un 150 mio $. some jump pictures, the guides are visibly irritated. we get a standard breakfast. i don't want to know what the basic version looks like. the coffee milk drops like honey so i go for tea. prambanan. reminds me of khajuraho. except here the sculptures are not that impressive anymore. 4 main temples are restored, other 120 secondary temples are still piles of stones. the guide tries hard to explain all the gods and the ramayana story. he realises that we're not able to keep it all apart. we just go 'yes, yes, mmmh'. so he gives us a modern version with indiana jones and superman to explain the characters. the steps of the stairways are pretty high for us, it must be really hard work for the locals. well nothing is easy on the way to nirvana. back to yogja. shopping time. designer cloths for almost nothing. not even fake. armani ties for 10$. meet sopian at the puppet theatre (school takes 2 -3 years, 3 times per week, well paid jobs). board is full of sketches, mathematical equations and sanskrit writing. sopian is superfriendly as always. not only that he waited from 4 pm to 6 pm (however the agreement was to show up only every full hour) now he's already gone again to get tea. it's not persian jasmine but good enough. he's also organized a meeting with somebody who sells antique puppets. (not that i have any clue but maybe i find something i like for a good price). after a while of following the lesson he suggests to go shopping for kris (ritual daggers). well why not. we meet a specialist who works for the sultan. first i get an elaborate introduction: history, styles, production...as usual i declare that i've already done all shopping but something above the standard for a good price could generate a deal. first he shows me the standard so i give the standard answer: 'not'. after a while he disappears in a room in the back...which means he's getting the goodies: silver and gold plated daggers, precisely carved. the son arrives to do the negotiation. it's all very relaxed and funny. i make clear that i expect them to get as much money from me as possible but i will do my best to get it for free. we're dealing with rather high $ amounts in the beginning but it's more like a competition for the best joke of the day. as usually they want me to organize a business in germany for them. 'yup. for 60% i'll do it.' they withdraw their offer with much laughing. finally i go for two daggers. it was good fun so i don't fight for the last 2 $ which usually is the best part of the negotiations when everybody tells a story full of tears why this money should be paid. this time i'm not even forced to pay the illegal service charge for the credit card that's new! let's assume it's a matter of respect. tea time again. 'you should be happy that i had to sit on the ground. that saved you at least 20% as i had to pay more attention to my hurting knees than to the negotiation strategy.' - 'it's very good fun to make deals with'. hope so, spending money should always be an entertainment. good bye with much bowing and joking. i invite sopian for dinner. we're going to a place for locals close to the palace. sopian introduces me to the owners and explains what we've done so far. i don't understand a word but it seems he had fun: everybody is laughing. the restaurant is the former gallery of a batik master. a 15.000 $ piece on the wall. they don't want to sell - not even for 150 $. nasi goreng and ginger tea is excellent. i watch them cooking and ask for the ingredients and their techniques of stirfrying. they are amused. so i ask for a cooking class after my return from djieng plateau. i suggest a deal: i'll teach them some italian stuff in return. we talk about god and the world through the night. a permanent mixture of english and indonesian. picture time. the daughter declares that i'm 'thumb up'. seems i'm part of the family now. is there a package tour that offer this? take a becak back to the hotel. halfway sopian catches up on us with a motor bike. 'the boss of the restaurant wanted me to make sure you arrive safely'. so here's my personal security. that's what i call vip service! seems i didn't brake to many unknown rules and behaved well tonight. these people are extremely friendly so i try not to fall too far behind.
djieng plateau, yogja
drive to the djieng plateau. after the city limits the jungle starts, buffaloes, rice fields, busy streets, terrible weather. i decide not to stay for a hike. the guide is a pain in the ...: lazy, not a clue about anything. 'how old are these temples' - 'maybe like borobodur'. thanks for enlightening me with your unexplainable profoundness of knowledge. the hills are used for tea and potatoes. sulphur lakes are not too impressive. return to yogja. drop in at the restaurant. cooking after the clients are gone. i offer to cancel my bromo trip so i can cook for them tomorrow. i guess the 50% cancellation fee is a good investment for something you can't buy. i go with leni to the supermarket to get some ingredients. which is complicated: some of the things aren't available. i fear this will end up like the most horrible tiramisu i made for friends in san jose. this unspeakable embarrassment still gives me nightmares. but there's no alternative. improvise, pray, try to keep your face and show good will. in the evening everybody is waiting for me with excitement. before the show starts we do some shadow theatre puppet shopping. i go for one that suits the modern one i already have. my desire to bargain sort of slows down. i have a feeling i have to feed these people. some dollars more won't make a difference for me anyway.
back to the restaurant. first ima cooks. i take notes. it's all very simple but fresh and good. by now the whole family is gathered in the restaurant. one of the daughters can't stop giggling because i want to know every detail: 'how many drops of the sweet soy sauce do you exactly use? don't laugh! that's how germans are: exact. plus i'm an exact german which makes it an exactly exact cooking'. now it's my turn. the ultimate climax: i stir an egg. bravo! i have them explain how they move the spoon when they stir: push and press. 'ach so!' everybody tastes my oeuvre. standing ovations. well in fact it's not bad. show is over. teacher is proud.some guy at the hotel asks if i want a woman. these guys would sell their sisters for a few bucks. i'm very close to tell him what i really think of him with my fist but it won't make any difference. 'sure but i never buy them. i have my bottle of water to drink upstairs which is excitement enough for a fragile man in my age'. asshole! is poverty reason enough not to have morals? or am i just applying my own morals. well i won't change them.
yogja
meeting in the restaurant. sopian brought his wife and kid. everybody wants to know about italian food. the cutting of the tomatoes is observed with great attention. i feel like a tv cook. but the really hard part is still ahead: dealing with the foreign kitchen environment. the pans are too deep. it's impossible to calculate how much oil i use. the fire is too hot. the chilli are not slowly fried but basically burnt within a split second with a nice 'whoosh' sound. several tries (i try not to cry in public), almost impossible to do it right for somebody with my limited talent. the result is horrible beyond explanation. worse than my worst fears. i want to go home and do it in my kitchen. it lakes basil, it's not hot enough, it's too oily....we save the dish by adding some indonesian ingredients which makes it sort of eatable 'european-asian-fusion-cuisine'. back to the roots: i do my nasi goreng exam and pass with an a. the stirring is almost professional. ima beams with pride. not bad, applause. i give ima a 'tip' for her lessons and her kindness. 'what for?' - 'feed the kids or throw a party'. suddenly a discussion between her and sopian starts. i can guess: the old return-a-gift-story. i protest because that's not what i wanted but it's clear that i have to accept it. i get a nice traditional batik. pictures with everybody. and sopian gets a special tip for very special service and experience, too. as usual the only way to learn a bit about a country is to get to know the people. you certainly can't buy kindness but i guess in this case 'paying' for it is the best i can do as money is the only thing that really helps them. handshakes and smiles don't feed kids.
traditional ballet with the standard ramayana story: great music, costumes and dancing.
mt. bromo
drive to mt. bromo. ruth + laura on a 12 month trip, isme + tanzin who i saw at the puppet theatre before. trying to sleep. isme's head is bouncing like crazy in front of me while she's trying to sleep. it looks as if it is only a matter of time until she'll break her neck. unbearable to watch, it's so irritiating that i can't sleep. after she uses my pillow it's visibly better. but the driving is suicidal as always. the passing technique lacks every logic or natural human will to survive. i guess i'll never understand it. asian fatalism or stupidity?
out of yogja green and rural again. the views meet my expectations. what are all these people doing on the street? lunch. the girls complain about their trips. i ask if they didn't like it. 'yes, it's great'. i see. this is not male sharing of information but female social talking. maybe. the torture continues. the amount of critical situations increases. we're laughing but it's rather hysteria. 'slow down!'. no effect. one time we're closer than close to a frontal crash. laura and i are the only to see it coming, the others are asleep. laura is panicking, she's waving her arms like a crazy chicken, unable to yell. i just close my eyes and wait for the impact. it doesn't happen this time either. how we escaped? don't know. the last miles up the mountains are incredible. it's totally dark but the headlights are switched off. people are walking on the dark streets. we tell the driver to turn the lights on and to slow down. does he want to kill someone? it's good that we can't see how steep it is here while we're speeding. arrival at the hotel. miracle, nobody killed.
mt. bromo
getting up at 3 am. isme is wearing clothes as if she's planning to go to the beach. i give her my jacket. sunrise viewpoint is packed with people. ruth is shaking from the cold. good that i brought some gloves. it shouldn't get any colder, i'm running out of clothes. picture time: caldera of the tengger vulcano with mt bromo, the perfectly shaped mt. batok and the active mt. semeru in the background. drive down to the crater. the guys with the horses are already waiting for us. they're chasing behind the jeep. i walk.
return to the hotel. too bad, the girls are leaving for bali. i try to sleep but the prayers from the mosque are too loud. if it was farsi i'd like it. i have to get out not go nuts. i walk up to mt. bromo again, maybe there's a sunset. it's extremely humid but i try to walk fast to get into shape. the kids are laughing. i look like a martian to them with the hiking sticks. the people are irritated and stop to work. lots 'hello's and waving. once a while i chat with the people on the street. the villages are pretty clean. prosperity through tourism?. make it in 1 1/4 hours instead of 2 1/2 to the top. clouds appear, no sunset. return. same procedures with the locals. the kids try their best to talk english so i give them 1 minute lessons. my bones are hurting badly from the concrete pavement. prayers are still going on. must be friday. they really do have stamina. earplugs help a bit. excellent 5 course dinner.
mt. bromo
getting up at 3 am. drive to mt. bromo again. getting off in the dark with myami from france. she doesn't have a torch with her and not the slightest clue where the vulcano is! what would she do if she was on her own now? well better make sure you bring a german with you. they might not be funny but chances are they're prepared. clear sky, loads of stars. we reach the horse guides again. 'horse?' - 'no thanks' - 'guide?' - 'no thanks'. we're not exactly where i wanted to go so i ask for directions (hey i'm braking the rules. some men actually ask for directions): 'where are the stairs, please?' - 'guide?' - 'no just a simple answer for the sake of an answer!' unfriendly pack, these pepole are spoiled from tourism. after a few seconds i find the stairs without help. excellent sunrise, morning fog, walk along the rim. perfect pictures, almost as impressive as the sunrise at the taj mahal.
drive to probolingo. arrange private driver at the bus station. different landscapes along the coast, passing thousands of faces. chat with the driver: no business at the moment, during rainy season there's just gambling and smoking (and considering the amount of kids lots of reproduction i guess). i understand why they try to rip every tourist off: few chances to earn money, one stupid tourist can mean a monthly salary.
arriving at the highlands. great panorama like in africa. stay at a coffee plantation. this must be like in the past colonial times. walking through the village of the workers. heaps of kids, everybody wants a picture taken. i use the old trick: take a picture followed instantly by a 2nd one when they're cheering in triumph. a father comes to me to have a picture of his son taken. ok, i don't want to traumatise this kid. picture taken, kid proud, soul saved.
kawah ijen
drive to pattuding over gravel road. start to hike in the dark. complete silence, even the insects are still asleep. before the summit i meet a worker of the sulphur quarry. he wants me to lead. am i the local who knows where to go? my butt can't be that attractive, can it? the sulphur fumes are getting intense. crater completely covered from the yellow steam. hike along the rim of the crater. why are there signs with a skull saying 'danger'? i don't know i'm just a stupid tourist. the 1st porters arrive carrying sulphur blocks in baskets on their shoulders. 50 kg? it hurts already from watching. their faces are shaped by the torture. permanent coughing. all change i have is 10 cent. should have gone to the bank. feel pretty guilty. fumes disappear - i literally see the hell on earth on the crater bottom is a huge quarry with sulphur blocks as huge as little houses, sulphur steam is shooting out of crevices. the noise and smell is still terrible up here. can't imagine how it must be down there. how can somebody endure this? ideal place to motivate kids to go to school: 'if you don't do your homework you'll have to do a job like this here'. the descent to the bottom is extremely steep, slippery and rocky. too dangerous to go down, can't hardly walk. my knee feels like it would burst, since the hike to mt. bromo it became worse. what's going to happen if i hike for 3 days? i start to worry. hike down to the car again. a porter asks for water. nice guy. my bad conscience is bothering me: these people have the worst job i've ever seen and they probably earn nothing for it. 50$ is all i have. he doesn't understand. 'feed the kids. but don't spend it on alcohol or gambling!' he still doesn't understand. after a while he starts to bow and smile. well it wasn't that hard to get it, was it? hopefully he uses it well. i guess it's a better investment than souvenirs. when i see such a brutal work and the endurance of these people i have little respect or pity for professional beggars. drive to the ferry. stop at the bank to get a million rupees. feels better than 0 rupees i had. ferry crossing to bali. police stops us at a traffic light. the driver curses 'they want money!'. i join the discussion to tell them to hurry up. 'i have to catch a flight. what's the problem?' - 'bad driver, bad car' - 'no very safe driver, good car'. after more pressing they accompany me 'politely' to the car and want to know how much i pay for him. i tell them half of the real price. it's obvious that the fee will depend on what the driver charges me. after more negotiations and payment of the fee we continue. 'they see tourist, they see money'. seems most people in this country think in such a way.
bali: many palms, rice fields but grey sky. not really the paradise i expected. arrival at the airport. no flights to sulawesi today. i could have saved the money for the driver. let me guess: 'many flights today' was not an information but a motivation for me to finish the deal. my fault, today i'm the stupid tourist. i should have researched the information by myself. you live and learn and pay. back to the car. i just look at him. he knows that i know. and i know he doesn't care.
lunch at a local place. 'you like rice?' that's about the funniest question you can ask in an indonesian restaurant. no menu available. instead they bring different plates with food. eating with the hand. the writings on the wall look muslim to me so i concentrate not to use my left hand in order not to brake the rules. which is hard work for a left-handed person. great food. it's like the chinese places in s.f.: the worse the restaurants look the more authentic the food is. in the evening desperate search for cappuccino. spend the night with killing mosquitos. i lose the war. they eat me.
departure, seat at the emergency exit. singapore airport: clean and quiet. arrival in jakarta earlier than expected. early flight to yogjakarta possible. have to pay departure tax in rupees. the bank clerk at the desk is even too slow to sleep. welcome to asia. i'm running out of time. 'mr bretz, last call for boarding!'. i start running, the heat and humidity hits me like a punch. the airline guy is in panic. 'mr bretz, mr bretz!' i'm paying while we're running down the hall. security people are just laughing at me. the boarding card is handed over while i'm passing the employee 'mr bretz?'. surprise. does he see anybody else running around? when i arrive in the plane i'm pouring with sweat. by now even i have realised that i'm in asia again: i'm not supposed to run.
shock when i get off the plane in jogjakarta. severe pain in the back. pinched nerve? to sweaty in the cool plane? can hardly walk. if this is the start i don't want to know how it ends. is this a sick-puppy-trip again?
taxi ride to the centre with typical asian impressions: smog, noise, chaos. funny as always. batik shopping tour. nothing special, i end up with the high-price stuff. 'you have good eyes' -'no, i have expensive eyes'. after a little bargaining we agree on a price for a nice piece. she's got beautiful eyes so i don't give her too much of a hard time with the bargaining. am i getting too soft? yogja's main road is a disappointment. no exotic ambience. i guess these people don't want to satisfy me cliché of asia. too much of modern times for a tourist?
yogja
during the night there's singing and prayers from the mosques transmitted by loudspeakers. it's like a competition. fortunately not for the whole night. sleeping out until 8am. it's too noisy already, life starts at 6am.
march to the palace. 'transport?' - 'healthy legs?'. i need training anyway and i have to move my back. i'm picked up by a guide. the palace is run down. the area of the old bath is completely covered with buildings. it's planned to restore the place and transfer the people to some other area. my guide sopian is full of pity: 'the poor sultan, only daughters!'. i wonder what the problem is, the girls look pretty yummy here. 'he's only got one wife!' bad modern times? well unfortunately not modern enough when it comes to rituals like circumcision of the girls. who would have believed that this incredible atrocity has not only survived in africa but also in indonesia. yak!
bought shadow theatre puppet at the museum. walk through the market. very dangerous: above you have to watch not get the poles from the roofs in your eyes, down on the ground you try not to step on the little indonesian people. the kids shout 'farang', i respond 'javanese'.
dinner at an all-you-can-eat place. bad food. what's the lesson? none as usual. the band arrives. will this be like in thailand where you don't know whether they tune the instruments or perform already? it's so funny: the tourists stare at the musicians, they stare at us. are they expecting us to play? at least the life music is pretty good. but they're sitting shyly behind their instruments as if they feared we would beat them up. i feel sorry for them. each of them plays a maximum of 5 notes. dong ding dong. video would be great. while they play i write my diary which seems to cause some irritation. do i look like a critic?
meeting with sopian at the puppet theatre. he's shocked that i didn't bring my camera. going back takes too long so he organises a motor-bike. surprise, there are traffic rules: no driving against one-ways and sometimes stopping at red lights. the show is a bit lengthy but the fighting scenes of the ramayana story are interesting. the gamelan music has a good beat. at the end sopian apologizes for the bad performance of the player. i would not have known. the real show usually takes 5 hours but people appear only for the fighting scenes. no sleep during the night. but instead i learn about indonesian life. there's always somebody who plays guitar, even at 3 am. the chicken get up at 3 am, the prayers start at 4 am. which is a bit too early for my ears. but the modern tourist is always prepared and brings earplugs.
yogja, bodobodur, prambanan
getting up 4 am. drive to borobodur. as usual suicidal driving habits. excellent temple. biggest buddhist building world-wide. 100 years needed to build it. stupa = turned ricebowl. covered with soil to hide it from the muslim invaders, re-discovered by europeans, restoration by un 150 mio $. some jump pictures, the guides are visibly irritated. we get a standard breakfast. i don't want to know what the basic version looks like. the coffee milk drops like honey so i go for tea. prambanan. reminds me of khajuraho. except here the sculptures are not that impressive anymore. 4 main temples are restored, other 120 secondary temples are still piles of stones. the guide tries hard to explain all the gods and the ramayana story. he realises that we're not able to keep it all apart. we just go 'yes, yes, mmmh'. so he gives us a modern version with indiana jones and superman to explain the characters. the steps of the stairways are pretty high for us, it must be really hard work for the locals. well nothing is easy on the way to nirvana. back to yogja. shopping time. designer cloths for almost nothing. not even fake. armani ties for 10$. meet sopian at the puppet theatre (school takes 2 -3 years, 3 times per week, well paid jobs). board is full of sketches, mathematical equations and sanskrit writing. sopian is superfriendly as always. not only that he waited from 4 pm to 6 pm (however the agreement was to show up only every full hour) now he's already gone again to get tea. it's not persian jasmine but good enough. he's also organized a meeting with somebody who sells antique puppets. (not that i have any clue but maybe i find something i like for a good price). after a while of following the lesson he suggests to go shopping for kris (ritual daggers). well why not. we meet a specialist who works for the sultan. first i get an elaborate introduction: history, styles, production...as usual i declare that i've already done all shopping but something above the standard for a good price could generate a deal. first he shows me the standard so i give the standard answer: 'not'. after a while he disappears in a room in the back...which means he's getting the goodies: silver and gold plated daggers, precisely carved. the son arrives to do the negotiation. it's all very relaxed and funny. i make clear that i expect them to get as much money from me as possible but i will do my best to get it for free. we're dealing with rather high $ amounts in the beginning but it's more like a competition for the best joke of the day. as usually they want me to organize a business in germany for them. 'yup. for 60% i'll do it.' they withdraw their offer with much laughing. finally i go for two daggers. it was good fun so i don't fight for the last 2 $ which usually is the best part of the negotiations when everybody tells a story full of tears why this money should be paid. this time i'm not even forced to pay the illegal service charge for the credit card that's new! let's assume it's a matter of respect. tea time again. 'you should be happy that i had to sit on the ground. that saved you at least 20% as i had to pay more attention to my hurting knees than to the negotiation strategy.' - 'it's very good fun to make deals with'. hope so, spending money should always be an entertainment. good bye with much bowing and joking. i invite sopian for dinner. we're going to a place for locals close to the palace. sopian introduces me to the owners and explains what we've done so far. i don't understand a word but it seems he had fun: everybody is laughing. the restaurant is the former gallery of a batik master. a 15.000 $ piece on the wall. they don't want to sell - not even for 150 $. nasi goreng and ginger tea is excellent. i watch them cooking and ask for the ingredients and their techniques of stirfrying. they are amused. so i ask for a cooking class after my return from djieng plateau. i suggest a deal: i'll teach them some italian stuff in return. we talk about god and the world through the night. a permanent mixture of english and indonesian. picture time. the daughter declares that i'm 'thumb up'. seems i'm part of the family now. is there a package tour that offer this? take a becak back to the hotel. halfway sopian catches up on us with a motor bike. 'the boss of the restaurant wanted me to make sure you arrive safely'. so here's my personal security. that's what i call vip service! seems i didn't brake to many unknown rules and behaved well tonight. these people are extremely friendly so i try not to fall too far behind.
djieng plateau, yogja
drive to the djieng plateau. after the city limits the jungle starts, buffaloes, rice fields, busy streets, terrible weather. i decide not to stay for a hike. the guide is a pain in the ...: lazy, not a clue about anything. 'how old are these temples' - 'maybe like borobodur'. thanks for enlightening me with your unexplainable profoundness of knowledge. the hills are used for tea and potatoes. sulphur lakes are not too impressive. return to yogja. drop in at the restaurant. cooking after the clients are gone. i offer to cancel my bromo trip so i can cook for them tomorrow. i guess the 50% cancellation fee is a good investment for something you can't buy. i go with leni to the supermarket to get some ingredients. which is complicated: some of the things aren't available. i fear this will end up like the most horrible tiramisu i made for friends in san jose. this unspeakable embarrassment still gives me nightmares. but there's no alternative. improvise, pray, try to keep your face and show good will. in the evening everybody is waiting for me with excitement. before the show starts we do some shadow theatre puppet shopping. i go for one that suits the modern one i already have. my desire to bargain sort of slows down. i have a feeling i have to feed these people. some dollars more won't make a difference for me anyway.
back to the restaurant. first ima cooks. i take notes. it's all very simple but fresh and good. by now the whole family is gathered in the restaurant. one of the daughters can't stop giggling because i want to know every detail: 'how many drops of the sweet soy sauce do you exactly use? don't laugh! that's how germans are: exact. plus i'm an exact german which makes it an exactly exact cooking'. now it's my turn. the ultimate climax: i stir an egg. bravo! i have them explain how they move the spoon when they stir: push and press. 'ach so!' everybody tastes my oeuvre. standing ovations. well in fact it's not bad. show is over. teacher is proud.some guy at the hotel asks if i want a woman. these guys would sell their sisters for a few bucks. i'm very close to tell him what i really think of him with my fist but it won't make any difference. 'sure but i never buy them. i have my bottle of water to drink upstairs which is excitement enough for a fragile man in my age'. asshole! is poverty reason enough not to have morals? or am i just applying my own morals. well i won't change them.
yogja
meeting in the restaurant. sopian brought his wife and kid. everybody wants to know about italian food. the cutting of the tomatoes is observed with great attention. i feel like a tv cook. but the really hard part is still ahead: dealing with the foreign kitchen environment. the pans are too deep. it's impossible to calculate how much oil i use. the fire is too hot. the chilli are not slowly fried but basically burnt within a split second with a nice 'whoosh' sound. several tries (i try not to cry in public), almost impossible to do it right for somebody with my limited talent. the result is horrible beyond explanation. worse than my worst fears. i want to go home and do it in my kitchen. it lakes basil, it's not hot enough, it's too oily....we save the dish by adding some indonesian ingredients which makes it sort of eatable 'european-asian-fusion-cuisine'. back to the roots: i do my nasi goreng exam and pass with an a. the stirring is almost professional. ima beams with pride. not bad, applause. i give ima a 'tip' for her lessons and her kindness. 'what for?' - 'feed the kids or throw a party'. suddenly a discussion between her and sopian starts. i can guess: the old return-a-gift-story. i protest because that's not what i wanted but it's clear that i have to accept it. i get a nice traditional batik. pictures with everybody. and sopian gets a special tip for very special service and experience, too. as usual the only way to learn a bit about a country is to get to know the people. you certainly can't buy kindness but i guess in this case 'paying' for it is the best i can do as money is the only thing that really helps them. handshakes and smiles don't feed kids.
traditional ballet with the standard ramayana story: great music, costumes and dancing.
mt. bromo
drive to mt. bromo. ruth + laura on a 12 month trip, isme + tanzin who i saw at the puppet theatre before. trying to sleep. isme's head is bouncing like crazy in front of me while she's trying to sleep. it looks as if it is only a matter of time until she'll break her neck. unbearable to watch, it's so irritiating that i can't sleep. after she uses my pillow it's visibly better. but the driving is suicidal as always. the passing technique lacks every logic or natural human will to survive. i guess i'll never understand it. asian fatalism or stupidity?
out of yogja green and rural again. the views meet my expectations. what are all these people doing on the street? lunch. the girls complain about their trips. i ask if they didn't like it. 'yes, it's great'. i see. this is not male sharing of information but female social talking. maybe. the torture continues. the amount of critical situations increases. we're laughing but it's rather hysteria. 'slow down!'. no effect. one time we're closer than close to a frontal crash. laura and i are the only to see it coming, the others are asleep. laura is panicking, she's waving her arms like a crazy chicken, unable to yell. i just close my eyes and wait for the impact. it doesn't happen this time either. how we escaped? don't know. the last miles up the mountains are incredible. it's totally dark but the headlights are switched off. people are walking on the dark streets. we tell the driver to turn the lights on and to slow down. does he want to kill someone? it's good that we can't see how steep it is here while we're speeding. arrival at the hotel. miracle, nobody killed.
mt. bromo
getting up at 3 am. isme is wearing clothes as if she's planning to go to the beach. i give her my jacket. sunrise viewpoint is packed with people. ruth is shaking from the cold. good that i brought some gloves. it shouldn't get any colder, i'm running out of clothes. picture time: caldera of the tengger vulcano with mt bromo, the perfectly shaped mt. batok and the active mt. semeru in the background. drive down to the crater. the guys with the horses are already waiting for us. they're chasing behind the jeep. i walk.
return to the hotel. too bad, the girls are leaving for bali. i try to sleep but the prayers from the mosque are too loud. if it was farsi i'd like it. i have to get out not go nuts. i walk up to mt. bromo again, maybe there's a sunset. it's extremely humid but i try to walk fast to get into shape. the kids are laughing. i look like a martian to them with the hiking sticks. the people are irritated and stop to work. lots 'hello's and waving. once a while i chat with the people on the street. the villages are pretty clean. prosperity through tourism?. make it in 1 1/4 hours instead of 2 1/2 to the top. clouds appear, no sunset. return. same procedures with the locals. the kids try their best to talk english so i give them 1 minute lessons. my bones are hurting badly from the concrete pavement. prayers are still going on. must be friday. they really do have stamina. earplugs help a bit. excellent 5 course dinner.
mt. bromo
getting up at 3 am. drive to mt. bromo again. getting off in the dark with myami from france. she doesn't have a torch with her and not the slightest clue where the vulcano is! what would she do if she was on her own now? well better make sure you bring a german with you. they might not be funny but chances are they're prepared. clear sky, loads of stars. we reach the horse guides again. 'horse?' - 'no thanks' - 'guide?' - 'no thanks'. we're not exactly where i wanted to go so i ask for directions (hey i'm braking the rules. some men actually ask for directions): 'where are the stairs, please?' - 'guide?' - 'no just a simple answer for the sake of an answer!' unfriendly pack, these pepole are spoiled from tourism. after a few seconds i find the stairs without help. excellent sunrise, morning fog, walk along the rim. perfect pictures, almost as impressive as the sunrise at the taj mahal.
drive to probolingo. arrange private driver at the bus station. different landscapes along the coast, passing thousands of faces. chat with the driver: no business at the moment, during rainy season there's just gambling and smoking (and considering the amount of kids lots of reproduction i guess). i understand why they try to rip every tourist off: few chances to earn money, one stupid tourist can mean a monthly salary.
arriving at the highlands. great panorama like in africa. stay at a coffee plantation. this must be like in the past colonial times. walking through the village of the workers. heaps of kids, everybody wants a picture taken. i use the old trick: take a picture followed instantly by a 2nd one when they're cheering in triumph. a father comes to me to have a picture of his son taken. ok, i don't want to traumatise this kid. picture taken, kid proud, soul saved.
kawah ijen
drive to pattuding over gravel road. start to hike in the dark. complete silence, even the insects are still asleep. before the summit i meet a worker of the sulphur quarry. he wants me to lead. am i the local who knows where to go? my butt can't be that attractive, can it? the sulphur fumes are getting intense. crater completely covered from the yellow steam. hike along the rim of the crater. why are there signs with a skull saying 'danger'? i don't know i'm just a stupid tourist. the 1st porters arrive carrying sulphur blocks in baskets on their shoulders. 50 kg? it hurts already from watching. their faces are shaped by the torture. permanent coughing. all change i have is 10 cent. should have gone to the bank. feel pretty guilty. fumes disappear - i literally see the hell on earth on the crater bottom is a huge quarry with sulphur blocks as huge as little houses, sulphur steam is shooting out of crevices. the noise and smell is still terrible up here. can't imagine how it must be down there. how can somebody endure this? ideal place to motivate kids to go to school: 'if you don't do your homework you'll have to do a job like this here'. the descent to the bottom is extremely steep, slippery and rocky. too dangerous to go down, can't hardly walk. my knee feels like it would burst, since the hike to mt. bromo it became worse. what's going to happen if i hike for 3 days? i start to worry. hike down to the car again. a porter asks for water. nice guy. my bad conscience is bothering me: these people have the worst job i've ever seen and they probably earn nothing for it. 50$ is all i have. he doesn't understand. 'feed the kids. but don't spend it on alcohol or gambling!' he still doesn't understand. after a while he starts to bow and smile. well it wasn't that hard to get it, was it? hopefully he uses it well. i guess it's a better investment than souvenirs. when i see such a brutal work and the endurance of these people i have little respect or pity for professional beggars. drive to the ferry. stop at the bank to get a million rupees. feels better than 0 rupees i had. ferry crossing to bali. police stops us at a traffic light. the driver curses 'they want money!'. i join the discussion to tell them to hurry up. 'i have to catch a flight. what's the problem?' - 'bad driver, bad car' - 'no very safe driver, good car'. after more pressing they accompany me 'politely' to the car and want to know how much i pay for him. i tell them half of the real price. it's obvious that the fee will depend on what the driver charges me. after more negotiations and payment of the fee we continue. 'they see tourist, they see money'. seems most people in this country think in such a way.
bali: many palms, rice fields but grey sky. not really the paradise i expected. arrival at the airport. no flights to sulawesi today. i could have saved the money for the driver. let me guess: 'many flights today' was not an information but a motivation for me to finish the deal. my fault, today i'm the stupid tourist. i should have researched the information by myself. you live and learn and pay. back to the car. i just look at him. he knows that i know. and i know he doesn't care.
lunch at a local place. 'you like rice?' that's about the funniest question you can ask in an indonesian restaurant. no menu available. instead they bring different plates with food. eating with the hand. the writings on the wall look muslim to me so i concentrate not to use my left hand in order not to brake the rules. which is hard work for a left-handed person. great food. it's like the chinese places in s.f.: the worse the restaurants look the more authentic the food is. in the evening desperate search for cappuccino. spend the night with killing mosquitos. i lose the war. they eat me.