The people and the friendliness

People

Yudha and the twenty-to-one smile.

Who would have expected that the Canadians aren't the worlds friendliest people afterall?

Take, for instance, my arrival to Indonesia. Knowing nobody in Jakarta, I still had to spend no time alone.

There was George, whom I met in the airplane, he gave me a ride from the airport and helped me find a hotel.

There was mr. Riano, whom I met at KFC, who taught me about the culture and gave me a promise that should something go wrong, I could call him.

There was Yudha, Indonesias bravest, strongest and most handsome man, who managed to get me a train ticket long after they were sold out, and helped me all the way through my travel to Malang.

"Youre a great man, Yudha" I told him when we departed at the train station in Malang.

"I know." He replied, raising his left eyebrow just enough to let me know he's smiling deep inside. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the morning mist, lightly, carelessly, silently. The birds stopped singing for a moment. The wind grew colder. The moon shed a tear.

I like his style.



There might be an explanation to the friendliness. You see, on a general note, nobody ever visits Indonesia, save Bali and other colonies of Best Western Hotel. Indonesians still have energy and enthusiasm left to treat a stranger nicely.

The cool gang in the early morning.

"In this part, no people Europa from ever before... you are first one!" tells a fishermans son to me.

We are in a suburban called Kisik in the city of Pasuruan. I just arrived here without any plan whatsoever - I just wanted to see the ocean. I was greeted by a group of strangers who quickly became friends.

As we walk across the narrow streets of this densily populated seaside village, groups of people stop us regularily to take a photo with me. An older lady runs away as she refuses to join the photo - she is scared of a white bugger like me. Everybody is laughing.

"We are so very happy you visit mr!! We hope you visit again!"

 I can't believe the friendliness of the people. Nobody here knows me and I don't know anybody, yet, I'm treated like a long expected guest.



"Do you like to go see the laut?" The ocean, that is. Of course I want a boat trip, that's not even a question! Everything turned out better than could have been expected..

We had a great time going out for a ride together.

And what a beautiful ride it is.. later on I am offered a place to stay, dinner and everything else to make me feel comfortable, with humble apologies for everything not being perfect and clean. I'm even taken out to see the city, and they call their friends to join. Eventually I am escorted by a full gang of motorcyclists to the Alun-Alun, the central park, to enjoy the night away - Indonesian style.

"What kind of coffee do you like?" the beautiful girl at the stand asks me. I choose one randomly.

"STMJ? Are you sure?" She smiles and puts her hand on her mouth to hide the pretty laughter. What I chose is not actually coffee but a Susu Telur Madu Jahe - hot milk mixed with raw egg, honey and ginger. They thought I would spit it out like Donald duck - but actually it was great.

Imagine an asian tourist in Finland. Would this happen?

And there we are, in the crowd that to me looks like the afterparty of a successful icehockey world championships, but in fact is just a regular friday night, people having a coffee and socializing in a courteus manner. Everybody's smiling. Police makes some hooligan motorists do pushups to make up for their wrongs. People come to greet me, asking for a photo. I feel like a movie star.

"In the morning, we will escort you out of the city. But we hope Mr. will visit us again!"




 


And it friendliness doesn't end there, here is another story:

Due to my weak stomach I had to visit a specialist doctor at the hospital. He was a friendly elderly muslim man, with little vocabulary and a firm handgrip. Everything was fine - I was told to stop eating sambal, the local chilli sauce, and I would get better.

"Is free for you." He told me, rigidly but briefly shaking my hand. "You are doing a favor for my country, I do a favor for you."

He didn't take payment because I am a voluntary worker. How often would that happen in a hospital in Finland? Or anywhere else?

My main man, Brams. Just chillen at Bale Kambang beach.

Well, this all goes without even mentioning the friendliness I've encountered at my organization, Sanggar Sahabat Anak. First of all, I was offered a room of my own, although there are not enough for everybody. I was also given a motorbike. And a helmet. And food. And help. After the first ride my friend Brams asked me:

"How much did you pay for gas? Let me pay it back for you."




 

Ami.

To understand the value of money here, I just recently learned that you can rent a house for 8 people for two years for 15 million rupias - that is 1200 euros. It means about 6 euros per person per month. It is not even cheap prize for them, and yet my friend offers to pay for my gas?

And what about my friend Ami? I bet she has her own life too but she has spent way more time than I could ever hope to make sure I get the most out of my experience here.

Just caring for ma chicken.

A while ago, I visited her house. It is not very big, and is currently being renovated. There are chicken in the yard. Her little brother is chasing them. Neighbours are interested to see the blond haired visitor.

"We have a rule here. We always help everybody who need help." She tells me with sudden seriousness on her face. "Many strangers have spent a night here, and many more will."


Compared to most of the countries I know, it is truly amazing to see how much people here are willing to share with strangers from the little they have. If it's nothing else you got, you share your time and help.









Of course there are exeptions, such as the immigration: it seems they only want to make things difficult for you. Also often a tourist is charged more than a local for the same things. In those moments I just turn my back. I don't like racism.

Well, let's admit that in Finland we expect the goverment to take care of many of our worries. That is why we are more independent and alone with our problems. I feel nothing but gratitude about that though - what a lucky bastard I am to have been born there. Coming to a country like this you can see how the society can be completely different, but still human happines finds a way. Through communities and groups, through helping one another, through the healing power of laughter.

I woudn't change my origins for anything, and it's important to appreciate your roots wherever you come from. This is one of those "god bless insert-country-here - moments" for me, I guess, but let me have it - I had to travel far away from home to see whats good in my own home country.

Summa summarum, I can condensate this post for the lazy readers into a sentence with four words:

Saya suka orang-orang Jawa.


Translate it, and come see for yourself if you don't believe it.

Durian, I hate you.

Actual image of my reaction to durian.

Durian

Everybody knows the Super Mario Bros, but what does it have to do with Indonesia? Let me tell you.

I was driving up to Pare with my friend one day, not paying much attention to the roadside kiosks, warungs as they call them, until I saw something alarming hanging from strings on several of these little shops. It looked like Bowser, the ultimateboss from Mario.

It was a durian.

Some durian pretending to be innocent and unconcious.

The so called "King of Fruit" is actually more like the evil spiky turle-like emperor of fruit. The durian looks like an poisonous dream-devouring spawn of Bowser and smells like a monsters armpit.

It really makes me wonder, who was the first person to put that stuff in their mouth?

"No, the durian is good! Come on, you have to taste it!" Ummm yeah, let me put that in my calendar on year 10 012.

Illustration of Bowser.

Well ok. It is too strange a fruit to pass by, I must taste it. They say that the taste is creamy and "surpasses in flavour all the other fruit in the world." But I'm sure it's just as beastly inside as it is on the outside.

Now, as always, I have a story to tell, this time about the vile intentions of durian. Yesterday I had some lunch at a roadside restaurant (curiously also called a warung). As I was entering the establishment, I was stopped by a sock-twisting smell.

A dead durian on the ground had gained my attention.

This man has not heard of Durian.

I stepped closer. I stood there for a moment making sure it is not moving anymore. Then, just as I crouched down to better inspect the insides of the still intimidating corpse something wicked happened.

My necklace, which I got from my mother, which presents a Maori symbol for nothing less than the continuity of life itself, without no apparent reason suddenly obliterated to pieces on the ground. Embarrassed, succumbed, I kneeled to pick up the pieces of what was now stained in mud and shame.

I could sense the durians last breath and an despising smile on its.. well, face.

I shall have my revenge. This week I shall eat one of these condensations-of-despair-and-hate. Let's see who's laughing then.

It might just be I enjoy the taste afterall.

One Fine Day, Two Lost Brothers

How can you look so serious when you own an actual monkey?

"Everybody is waving at me as I ride the bike.

Some stop to take a photo. A white guy comes along, he seems interested, like he has never seen a monkey before. Yes, I am a monkey in a park."

Indeed there is a monkey in the central park, riding a little bicycle, gathering happy glances and waves. His (or hers, but lets say it was a he) owner is a terribly worn out looking chap, far from what you would imagine a monkeytamer looks like.

"Go play with it! Maybe it's a girl and wants to give you a kiss!"

The mosque next to Malang's alun-alun.

Every city in Indonesia has a central park, alun-alun. It is a square with trees, benches, green grass, birds, beggers and entertainers. It is an important gathering place and often marks the city centre. Every weekend it is packed full of people enjoying coffee and a free evening. Nobody tolerates drinking alcohol.

A calm stare is cast - the monkey is looking at me, until the chain around his throat pulls him to do another lap with the bike. I feel certainly intrigued by this little fellow and decide to go sit near him. On a way save him from all the other people for a while.

He decides to do the same. He jumps close to me and the owner lets him sit there. A tiny brown hairy hand takes hold of my pinky toe. Miniscular deep brown eyes turn at me. "Is this ok?" I can almost hear him say.

Mmhh yes. Lovely to meet you too. Now scram.

I have never seen a monkey before. (save some zoos and the encaged one I saw from the train four weeks ago) So, I was paying attention to what he is up to. He jumped on my lap and ever so gently started inspecting my white leg hair, touching them lightly, until he noticed a scar in my calf with some dead skin around it.

"This stuff doesn't belong here, dude." he thought.

Lightly and gently he picked out the dead skin and threw it away. It's hard to believe I'm dealing with an animal! The calm expressions.. the consideration of movement.. I could just sense the wisdom, intelligence and self-....

..and then he jumped on my shoulder and started eating my hair.

Get you haircut today in Indonesia!

So I take it back, a monkey is a monkey. But it has incredibly human-like charasteristics. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he actually recognized that I am different than other people he sees daily, and that he still remembers that. I am going to miss that monkey! He was the forst one I ever saw.

My friends didn't take it as emotionally as I did.

"So you found your lost brother!" My friend Anggra said when she was going through photos from my camera. I was having a haircut at her boyfriends hair salon. "You look so alike!" Even the non-english-speaking people laughed at the joke. I realized I'm somewhat of an idiot around here, but at least a happy idiot.

This guys becak is a moving vegetable kiosk.

Back to the story line.

Only a few hours after the monkey-incident, everybody is waving again, this time at me, as I ride the bike. Some stop to take a photo. What's happening now?

In Indonesia a common mean of public transportation is a Becak, a three wheeled tricycle, with a seat for two people in front and a driver in the back. The price is up for you to negotiate, but it is usually no more than 10 000 rupias (0,8€), so it doesn't really matter where you want to go.

Here's a quick "pros and cons":

- Riding a becak is enjoyable and you will feel like a colonizer, making the guy happy to take you anywhere for just a nickle.

- It is slow, and usually only old people use it, so you can sense locals going "puhhhlease.... damn tourists!" when you ride through the crowded streets. And who wants to feel like a colonizer anyway? Thats so 1800's.

While youre not driving, you can turn into a cat and have a nap.

So I wanted to ride but not feel like a dork, and had a great idea. I paid the guy 10 000 to let me take him from pasar Besar to the central park. It was the best decision evdr made. Riding the becak yourself is not only supercool, its good for your thighs.

"Hey! Whos paying who!?" People were shouting.

Ami was enjoying the ride too and my customer, the driver pak Waloyo, almost choked laughing when he saw his colleagues drop their jaws and nearly their dentures as we rode like heroes through the centrum.

Bros and cons.

"Matur suwun!" Pak Waloyo said. "Sami sami pak!" I replied. We did the "bros before hoes" handshake and I realised this was already the second missing bro found in one day.

Who would have thought they both live in Malang?