Adventures By Design

In which the travelers do not drink the civet’s poo

Today our plan was to explore the city, especially the Kraton, the walled town surrounding the Sultan’s Palace. But first we had to take care of yet another critical laundry moment. Eschewing our hotel’s obscenely high priced a la carte service we found a laundry just up the road that charges by weight. Orange laundry bag in hand, we set off.

We seem to have become something of celebrities in this area, as all the bicycle taxi drivers seem to know us by name. As soon as we step out of our hotel’s front door, we are faced with a chorus of well-meaning men offering to drive us “for a special price” to anywhere we want to go.

We ambled down back alleys, generally heading in the direction of the Palace. The alleys were pleasant, and Indonesians seem to have a unique aesthetic that makes even a small one-room home seem inviting.

As we approached the entry to the Kraton we walked through a field with two huge trees. While we were commenting on how grassy garbage-strewn fields look the same around the world, we almost collided with a blindfolded man stumbling towards us. We watched with amusement as two men wandered randomly, arms outstretched, while their friends called out encouragement and warnings from the edge of the field. It appeared to be some sort of game, and despite the paucity of necessary equipment (namely a blindfold and a willing friend) it actually looked like fun. Still, we declined when offered the chance to join in.

We really had no idea where we were going, and so it was quite lucky when we stopped to admire a kite-flier that we were right in front of a Canadian anthropologist (Swift Current, Saskatchewan). We chatted for a few minutes, and she told us that we had missed the ideal time to visit the Palace; in the morning there is traditional dancing and music. Maybe we will return tomorrow.

After we walked away, a man approached us. He told us that he was a professional gamelen player (like an xylophone) for the Sultan. From 8 to 12 he worked for the Sultan, and now his work day was finished. He was to become our guide and interpreter and show us all kinds of things that we would have totally missed. What is it about us that attracts older men who want nothing but to show us around for free? (see Wednesday May 14, 2008 – Travelogue 41) Oddly, like our first “not-guide”, we didn’t learn this man’s name. We don’t know if we were being rude in not asking, but it never came up. Weird.

First, our not-guide suggested that we visit the one of the Sultan’s daughter’s living quarters. Normally, he informed us, her home is not open to the public, but in a couple weeks it is her 27th birthday and so her living quarters are being cleaned and prepared for her party. The princess’s home had gardens, entertaining halls, a huge dining room, places for performances, ten or so private guest rooms, and an adult’s and children’s swimming pool. In short, it was large and lavish enough to be a hotel. Awed by the property, we asked our not-guide if he had ever seen the princess, he answered “Of course! Many times.” and seemed to think the question was rather silly. The Sultan and his family were very humble, modest, and unpretentious, and he had performed for them on countless occasions. Oh, and by the way, this princess is single, for any of you ambitious regalphiles out there.

As we left the princess’s home, our guide took us to a batik cooperative set up by the Sultan. Each of the forty-five members of the cooperative were selected by the Sultan based on their skill and the quality of their work. This shop was filled with beautiful batiks of various styles and sizes. Although we have made a point of not buying souvenirs until now, we walked out of that shop richer in worldly goods, and lighter in the pocketbook.

Next stop, lunch. We had felt slightly uncomfortable with our not-guide spending so much time showing us around, and not asking anything in return. As noted by other travelers we’ve spoken to, traveling tends to make you suspicious of any true act of generosity. Just like with our jungle not-guide, we wondered if he was going to suddenly spring something on us. So, when our not-guide suggested a buffet-style restaurant, we offered to buy him lunch, thinking that if he was expecting payment, this would be it. But he graciously declined, citing the large breakfast he had had earlier. We believe that the combination of practicing English and kick-backs from the shops we visited were payment enough.

Our bellies were full and it was on to the Water Palace. This complex was built for the first sultan to hang out and cavort with his concubines (Sultan number ten is currently in power). There were three pools: one for the Sultan, one for the concubines, and one for kids(?). Although the water was now day-glo green, it still looked like a nice place to relax. Interestingly, this is a Unesco World Heritage Site, and has been under restoration for years. There seems to be some disagreement among the locals about the color of the restored cement: many locals, such as our not-guide, favor the original drab grey concrete, while Unesco opts for the suburban rosy cream. So far Unesco seems to be winning, but perhaps nature is siding with the locals: the major earthquake that hit this area two years ago has damaged much of the restored Palace, and seriously delayed the schedule.

Walking past the Water Palace, we descended some stairs and walked along a corridor leading to the Underground Mosque. Our not-guide told us how legend describes how the Sultan should marry the Queen of the Sea, so to celebrate and expedite this union it is possible to follow this underground corridor 26 kms to the sea! Unfortunately, this branch of the corridor is blocked so we couldn’t go (it would be a long walk too). Instead we turned a corner and entered the Underground Mosque. This mosque was beautiful, with a circular arched ceiling, and stairs suspended over a central pool in the middle (remember, Muslims wash their bodies before prayer). Although its restoration is incomplete, and was also damaged by the earthquake, the architecture inspired a sense of calm, contemplation, and mystery.

We retraced our steps briefly, and climbed some stairs up some more ruins where we had a panoramic view of the city. Here children flew homemade kites, while young men took photos with DSLRs and couples daydreamed in private corners of the ruins below. We never fully understood what these ruins were, other than there are from the original animistic culture that flourished here before the Sultanate. One giant, half-buried stone head attested to how magnificent this place must have been.

Our next stop was very close: walking down the stairs on the other side of the ruins, we immediately found ourselves in the Bird Market. Here thousands of birds were being bought and sold, for singing, racing, fighting, eating, fishing (as bait!), and thousands of other uses. Not only were there birds, but there was a veritable Ark on sale, including gerbils, mice, squirrels, rabbits, dogs, bats, snakes, and lizards. As we wandered through it felt like a zoo, although we got better photos and the cages were smaller. Periodically, we saw bird food vendors who had a large screened box filled with crickets, and short bamboo tubes with white grubs. They also had large woven trays holding what looked like stir-fried rice until you looked closer and realized that the rice mixture was teeming with large red ants. The vendor provided food for the ant colony in exchange for feeding some of the ants to birds.

We left the Bird Market, amazed and a little saddened, and our not-guide led us to where he had originally found us. Our tour was coming to a close, however he had one more suggestion: visit the leather puppet-maker’s house. The puppets are used to dramatize three major stories: the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the original animist traditions of Java. All together, a collection would contain several hundred unique puppets. This family of puppet-makers makes puppets for the sultan, and like most professions in the Kraton, was passed down father to son for generations. This particular family was well-known for the quality of the puppets they made, and the Sultan has several entire collections of puppets made by them.

A young man with very good English explained how the puppets were made of buffalo leather onto which the pattern was traced and cut. Holding a puppet up to the light, the silhouette looked like an Easter egg. It would take the puppet-maker a week to cut one puppet, and the level of detail indicated these puppets were of the same quality made for the Sultan. After cutting, the puppets would then be painted using only natural colors. Using natural colors ensured that the leather would not dry out and crack; he told us that leather puppets are indestructible. Indeed, the current Sultan (number ten) owns puppets from the first sultan’s collection! When we looked shocked, the puppet-maker then further demonstrated their durability by taking one of his beautiful works of art, and carelessly rolling it into a ball. It popped back out and regained its normal shape again. We were hooked, and carefully selected two figures. Unfortunately, our earlier visit to the batik co-op had drained our finances, so the puppet-maker suggested that our not-guide walk us to the bank where we could just give him money and continue on our way.

While the puppet-maker was wrapping the puppets for transportation, his brother told us that their father had recently died, and asked us if we had ever seen a Javanese funeral ceremony. The brother showed us to the late father’s room, where the family had presented the traditional offerings of food to help send him on his way. It felt a little strange to be standing in a dead man’s room, but we felt honored as well. The Indonesians we’ve met have been an exceptionally open and welcoming people.

We walked home, feeling physically tired, but spiritually happy. After a quick stop at our hotel, and bathing in its heavenly air-conditioning, we set off for dinner. We found a restaurant that sells the famous civet coffee. This is the rarest and most expensive coffee in the world, made from the beans that have passed through the digestive tract of a species of marsupial called a paradoxisus, commonly (erroneously?) called a civet. It was about ten dollars a cup, so we declined, but now we’re curious. Imagine the bragging rights accorded to those who’ve drunk civet poo coffee!