Thursday, March 5, 1998

Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia. I awake early and happy to be settled in a relatively nice hotel. I have breakfast and head out for touristic endeavors. The tour book describes the Sultan's Palace as a good place to visit so I go there. On the way, I find a place for email adjacent to the main Post Office. Additional benefits include air conditioning. It's very inexpensive and a way to see how modern technology intersects with this country. Young people and tourists are the main customers; they check email and do a little web surfing. Tourists look for info on their next travel destination. I tried doing a bit of online travel research but find books still are my best bet. For now, web info isn't all that well organized.

Back in the noon heat I walk across an open field. It looks like a ceremonial courtyard area that has not been maintained. Cars, becaks, bicycles and motorcycles whirl around the encircling road. Carts on the roadside sell everything including lunch, drinks, souvenirs and haircuts. At the Sultan's Palace, my admission ticket includes an English-speaking guide. With the recent troubles in Indonesia, there are fewer tourists than usual in Yogya. The guides sit waiting, talking under a tree. My guide speaks passable tourist English. We go through the palace, seeing the ceremonial rooms and exhibits. At the end, I voice my interest in batik. He directs me to a showroom for a local arts school. I get set up in a becak. The driver takes me up the street and around the bend. A becak is a bicycle like contraption with a bench seat in the front for a passenger. I always feel strange sitting in one like some sort of Pooh Bah in the covered seat while the driver, often an older man in great shape peddles along.

I am deposited on a dusty side street to find the showroom. Inside there are hundreds of batiks mounted on wooded frames. They are hung to the ceiling, covering walls and propped in bins to flip through. Pricing is based on size and quality. I am handed a sheet of paper listing a _ z and aa _ zz, with a price associated with each letter, a letter attached to each batik. These batiks are done in a painterly style with several motifs done over and over by different artists There are about a dozen themes and styles; dancers, masks, fish, rice fields, family life, birds, flowers. The colors are primarily bold and exuberant. Most are cotton, but there are some made of silk. I look and start selecting ones I like. Gallery helpers place them in a special viewing area with back lighting so I can see what they look like with the colors showing through. I end up with eleven batik pieces. After a challenging round of bargaining, they charge my visa card, unmount my selections from their wooden frames, fold them and then wrap everything in a paper package. Purchase trauma gives me a slight twinge but I remind myself, that's part of why I'm here. I talk to a woman who acts like the manager about where I can take a batik class. One of the young people, Roy, is a student at the school. She says he can teach me.

 

Shop sign across the street from my hotel.

We go to his parents' house where he lives. The family lives in the kraton district of Yogya, which is an extended part of the Sultan's palace. Because of its association with the palace, it's a more privileged area. Their living space is one of many made from the former palace stables. In the center of their compound is a museum that houses the Sultans' old carriages and early cars. Roy's family home is a few basic rooms that open on to a covered area. This area serves as kitchen, washroom and general front porch. Neighbors inhabit the rooms next door. The single communal toilet and shower is in a walled cubicle nearby in the courtyard area. It's very basic. The older folks watch our coming. I imagine the entire enclave will know my business after I leave. Our arrangement is both touristic and educational. Roy's tour takes me to the restored palace bathhouse where the Sultan's harem used to be. Then we visit a few other batik shops or factories to begin my education about the range of batik. Our last stop is to the local supply shop where I get some fabric and cantings, which are styluses used for drawing with hot wax.

I go back to my hotel for a rest. On the way I stop in a shop to get some paper and crayons for sketching batik ideas. In my room, I unwrap my batik purchases and spread them out all over. Yes it's a lot, but they are strong, so lively. It is overwhelming, but I'm glad to have gotten all of them. For dinner, I discover an egg/omelet wrapped and baked into a tasty package. It's similar to the banana pancakes but instead of banana, after the small ball of dough is stretched thin and placed on the griddle, an egg is beat up, spices and scallions added to the mixture, then folded and fried on a large griddle. The results are wrapped to go in a paper package, delicious!

Friday, March 6, 1998

I return to the carriage house compound for my morning batik class with Roy. Last night, I sketched a design for my batik. I drew a self-portrait looking at the hotel mirror using crayons and then transferred with pencil to a piece of the fabric. I made two copies, I'll work on one and Roy will work on the other. He melts the wax using a shaky contraption and kerosene. We draw the outlines of our design with the canting, dipping the reservoir in the melted wax. Roy shows me different patterns and ways of drawing. The trick is to keep the wax hot so that when you draw the wax goes through the fabric. It is also good not make any blobs or boo boos. Practice, it will take a lot of practice to develop a skill at this. The morning goes by, we talk a bit but mostly work away on our batiks. Roy's Mother occasionally comes out to watch us. After a while, we leave to visit an uncle who makes leather puppets. He is supposed to be very good. His scrapbook is filled with clippings and thankful customer testimonials to prove his good works. I watch them being made from traditional patterns using punches to cut out intricate character shapes in the leather. The finished results are striking. I don't know the differences in quality, but I choose one and arrange to have it shipped to my home.

We also visited a "factory" where they make cap batik. Copper formed or wood carved stamps are used to create patterns. The stamps are first dipped in a pan of melted wax and then carefully pressed in position on the fabric. In most of the batik factories I visit, the men are doing the cap wax stamping and the women are doing the canting wax drawing. Women usually do the painted dye work and men work dying fabric where the entire cloth is immersed in dye. I like the local slang for cheep, quickly and poorly done batik, Roy calls it "Coca-Cola Batik". Another fun phrase from Toraja is "Japanese Buffalo" for the machines that have replaces water buffalo in the rice fields for plowing and soil preparation.

After my morning lesson, I wander around town, looking at shops, visiting the bank and in general watching the world go by. People seem very nice but I think they are worried about the economic uncertainties. Yogya is the home of a very good university. The students are becoming more vocal in their disapproval of existing politics. On the surface, things seem okay, but I can feel a bit of undercurrent. The reports on CNN are not encouraging.

Saturday, March 7, 1998

Today I have another batik lesson. This morning we did the first dying of our creations. Around here there are no messages about environmental or toxic hazards. Roy mixes up the dyes and other caustic chemicals in the same area as the kitchen. We use our fingers to rub the colors onto the cloth. This type of dye is painted on the fabric and then left in the sun to dry. We sit and watch as the color changes in the sun to the dye's true color. Another chemical bath sets the color. Roy more cautious with this chemical, his leg has a burn scar from his early, not as careful, work with it. I let him take care of this part of the process. We rinse our cloths in water and hang them in the sun to dry.

The pace off this work is slow, each step in its turn. Others from the compound observe our activities. Roy's parents keep a watchful eye on the proceedings. There is no hurry, no sense of urgency about the next thing to do. We wait and look and sit. I try and ask lots of questions. I want to know how to do this when I get home. The dye chemicals are confusing. Roy shows me what he knows.

After the lesson, I spend the afternoon wandering the tourist shopping area with large factory showrooms full of giggling young clerks in matching outfits. There are quantities of batiks, fabric, tablecloths, bedspreads, shirts, and other stuff all with expensive price tags. I go in the back "factories" open to the public. Each is more of the same, a back room, poorly lit, women doing tunis and painting dye, men doing cap work. There is a communal sense to each place. These are some of the lucky locals; they have a steady job. The larger show rooms are set up to handle busloads of invading tourists. I see only one or two busses pulling into the shops' parking lots. Other stores in the area include furniture, some jewelry and various clothing businesses. I have a nice lunch in a café geared to the western tourist trade. My table is set in a lovely garden. I savor the cool bottled water in the noon heat. My day winds down as I walk back through streets, window-shopping. I relax in the late afternoon with my book and find a light meal for dinner.

Sunday, March 8, 1998

My day starts early in the morning for a tour of Borobudur, a huge Buddhist monument built around 750 to 850 AD. It was hidden under volcanic ash for centuries before being cleared in 1815. We are one of the first tourist groups to arrive in the still, cool of dawn. Everything is quiet as the sun comes up. The experience is grand and beautiful. Borobudur is an impressive place. The stone structure is huge. Each terrace rises higher. Elaborate stories are carved into the stone as you travel on a pilgrim's walk to the top. There endless views into the morning-misted mountains. I sit on the top level of the monument, looking out at the scenery and the stupas that surround me. It is a very different world. More people began arriving, many of them are groups of school kids. This place is so different than the modern world around it. I have a hard time seeing the connection between the natives who built this and the city of Yogya that I am visiting. Is there the same contrast between modern Athens and the Greek temples, Cairo and the pyramids, or Mexico City and the Myan temples? What relationship do modern cultures have to the past that is seen in temple ruins? How different or similar are they? What will the future ruins of our times be? In a thousand years will people understand who we were by looking at the ruins of the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty? I leave my pondering and wander through the temple grounds on my way back to the tour van.

 

Stupas on the top of Borobudur.

As the morning heat increases, we visit a few more local temples. Our tour began with an another tourist but he leaves to join an additional tour. The guide, driver and I stop for lunch at one of the stands that cater to local visitors. Then, the tour is complete and I am back at my hotel around 1pm. I'm glad we started so early in the morning.

I wait out the afternoon rainstorm before walking to the market. Most of my shopping is done, maybe. There is so much stuff. The street of my hotel is lined with stalls set up every morning and open until late in the evening. Every sort of tourist souvenir is available, from Coca-Cola batik to t-shirts, carvings, leather goods, music cassettes, cigarettes, puppets, wallets, magazines, and jewelry. Behind the street sellers are more established shops, some with better quality merchandise. Down the road toward the post office is a large cement multi story building that houses the local market. There you can find everything from food to car parts, underwear to ornaments. The large space is divided into stalls and alleys. There is an order that is not clear to me. The stalls have varying degrees of permanence.

 

Buddha statue in a temple near Borobudur.

Some include glass display cases; others are wooden boxes that store the goods at night. Displays of merchandise are brought out every morning, a daily ritual of commerce. Today, I look but don't buy. Discretion is sometimes a virtue.

I am tired. The heat, humidity, and city jumble can be exhausting. In addition, I continue to feel sensitive to the challenges of bargaining and being viewed as a rich American tourist. I feel like I need to keep an awareness going, not to be too trusting, to prevent being pick pocketed. When you're tired from heat and walking, it's a challenge to have to keep the tourist radar active all the time. In the end, it becomes a habit of sorts. I see few Western tourists, some German or Dutch. There are mostly locals milling around, walking, talking, and resting. My tiredness brings on worry, about finding a box to ship my purchases home, about being alone, about where to go next, about keeping up my guard and trying to understand the local dynamics. My sense of the growing unrest also has me on edge. I've made up a husband back home or back in the hotel in answer to the curious questions I get from taxi drivers or store keepers. It is unusual for a woman to be traveling on her own in most cultures. So far, I haven't made up any kids. But usually, my fictitious "husband" had to stay home and work so I went on vacation without him.

Monday, March 9, 1998

More batik making with Roy in the morning. We continue drawing on our fabric, layering over the dyed areas with patterns in wax. Our approaches are different. Roy's batik work is very stylized. I'm trying a variety of techniques. He works a lot with mask motifs, like his Father but with his own modern viewpoint. Roy says that he has sold a few pieces but he is still a student. There are many others to compete against. The market for stylized batik art is limited and the materials are expensive. He also likes making puppets. The students in art school need to learn different crafts, but they focus on one or two.

 

Working on my batik.

In the afternoon, I visit another street catering to tourists. After a nice lunch in a little café, I stroll in and out of the shops with their tourist displays and tour notices. There are few visitors. I wonder how much the financial unrest is modifying travel decisions. If I weren't already here the news on CNN would influence my choice of travel destinations. I'm cautious but I have had no problem at all. Everyone has been friendly and helpful.

I try to find the Batik Research Center mentioned in my guidebook but the becak driver doesn't understand or it doesn't exist. I look at more batik in the shops, amazed at the variety and number of pieces. The works range from fabric paintings to traditional motifs used as ceremonial sarongs. I find a bookstore with English books and look at local books on art. I get one on Batik written in Indonesian and English and a travel book on Italy.

The local cyber office keeps me feeling connected. I check email. One is from the friend due to meet me in Greece in April. She won't be able to make it. I'm sad we won't be able to get together, but not surprised. Her work world is very intense. I send an email asking Mom to join me in Italy for two weeks. We'll have to figure out where to go and where to meet. I am so glad to be able to communicate via email and the telephone. I don't call often because it feels like there is some sort of meter running, but it's great to touch base and to feel connected to family.

My mind continues to stress about where to go next, how to get there, where to stay. I'm enjoying looking and learning about batik. An idea begins to gel about creating some sort of batik trail for myself. There are several towns described in my tour book that are noted for batik. The book about Indonesian textiles describes their place in the history of batik. It's something that interests me so why not. The next stop will be Solo, a town about 40 km from Yogya. I have more to do in my batik class with Roy, but we should be finished I the next few days.

I take refuge from the heat, humidity and my foreignness in a McDonalds that is down the street from my hotel. I don't eat the hamburgers but the occasional ice cream is a welcome treat. Modern living is symbolized by the mall. Throughout my travels, most mid-sized cities have an enclosed air conditioned mall complete with McDonalds and other versions of fast food including Kentucky Fried Chicken, Texas Fried Chicken, Pizza Hut, noodle houses and even an occasional Dunkin' Donuts. While some lament them, there is comfort in the familiar. The malls are usually very busy with young people cruising, looking, and talking like anywhere else in the world.

The merchandising of image is international. Logos and brand names impart a sense of value that is paid for, often at a large premium. Mothers buy canned milk because it's supposed to be better for their babies, even though generations have been raised without it. Even in this city in Indonesia, familiar American and international brands shout their presence and demand attention; drink Coca-Cola, smoke Winstons, wear Levis. The West has perfected the art of brand identity. We are marketing wizards. The need for ever-increasing profits requires expansion into new markets. Are local markets able to compete against such a well oiled machine?

Tuesday, March 10, 1998

More batik, today we dye our pieces a dark purple-black with is a different type of dye. Instead of painting the dye on, the fabric is soaked in dye solution, then set in another solution, and then rinsed. The next step in our process is to remove the wax. Roy's father brings out a large metal container, like a steal drum, fills it with water and builds a fire under it to boil the water. This, like everything else we have done, is set up in the porch area in front of their home, right next to the kitchen area. We wait for the water to boil, watching as Roy's father add more wood to the fire. Eventually the water is ready and Roy puts our pieces in. The boiling water melts the wax and reveals white lines where no dye had been. Colored designs are seen where we drew with hot wax over the previously dyed sections. It's fun to see the results. Mine is very different from Roy's. Roy said it's okay for a first try, but I could tell he is humoring me, thinking mine is much too messy and that his is a much better piece of work. I like the looseness in mine and think his is too controlled. To each his own. It's always interesting to me to see how the same basic design can be interpreted in so many different ways.

To some batik artists, the pieces would be complete at this stage, but Roy is not teaching me how to do Coca-Cola batik. Our next step is to paint a resist wax around all the white edges and then dye those edges. Many of the better batiks go through several iterations of wax drawing, dying, wax, dye, boil the wax off then wax drawing until the artist achieves the desired result. Similar techniques are used for the more traditional sarong pieces. Often a single work can take an artist six months or longer to complete. The batik paintings are a mix of traditional methods combined with modern. Batiks are sold to both tourists and locals. Indonesians use different sarongs for every daywear and special occasions. Certain patterns have ceremonial or symbolic meanings and in the past could only be worn by royalty.

While our pieces hang to dry, Roy takes me back to the batik supply shop. I purchase all sorts of supplies to continue my batik practice at home. By the end of my adventure, I'll be able to teach a class with examples of fabric, pictures of people making batiks and tools to try it. I get everything from more cantings for drawing in bees' wax, dyes and fabric. The dyes are relatively expensive, they are German, but I think they will be much more expensive at home. I've written down the proper proportions to use from watching Roy. The shop carefully packs my purchases in a box. It's a heavy package. In the afternoon I make my way to the post office to ship my batik supplies and fabric purchases. I hope everything makes it home.

As a break my afternoon wanderings I go to the movie "Titanic". It is shown in English with Indonesian subtitles. The theater is crowded with young people. The movie seems to be a hit everywhere and the air conditioning is a treat. We wait patiently in the theater lobby, there is a counter selling some candy and sodas in cans but there is no popcorn. I get a small package of cookies to nibble on. Couples and groups of friends mill around while waiting for their turn to see the movie.

Wednesday, March 11, 1998

Earlier, I asked the hotel bellboy what would make a good present for the parents of my batik teacher. He thought my idea of coffee and tea was good. His face lit up in a great smile as if it were a really great idea. So that's what I did. I found a good place to pick up coffee, tea, sugar and cookies as a gift for Roy's Mother on the way to batik class. Both parents and neighbors have been kindly watching this strange tourist that comes for batik lessons.

When I arrive at the compound it turns out we won't be having a class today. Someone has died. Preparations are being made for the funeral. The families that live in the compound are in mourning for the elder that has died. After I give my gift to his Mother, Roy hurries me out of there. We will have a few field trips. I wait for him in a batik store, looking at more of the vivid batik paintings that cover every inch of wall space. We go to several other shops, looking at factories. Roy is encouraging me to buy, I suspect he gets a commission on each of my purchases. I've reached my quota, but I am interested in visiting the studio of one of the artist's whose work I am drawn to, Arthur.

A friend of Roy's has a car and we drive to Arthur's house. He is a successful artist and has a rather nice home. He is roused from the back somewhere and shows us a range of his work. He brings stacks of fabric pieces to the front room where we are sitting, unfolding each one on the floor. He is working more in oil painting, but still does a range of batik, some on cotton, others on silk. The colors are vibrant and the energy of his style appeals to me. He graduated from the Fine Art Institute in 1983 and his main themes are fish, masks and abstract imagery. I like the energy, fluidity, color and movement in his work. He tries to explain the meaning behind some of his work. In the end, I buy one of the silk pieces. It is a large piece with two fish that Arthur describes as being about unity, peace and the common direction of two people, a couple working together. In the spirit of more field trips, we stop at a large batik showroom. I have been to this type of place before and it has no appeal to me. Their things are overpriced. Our last stop is the royal batik factory. It is the factory that is commissioned to make ceremonial batiks for the royal family, military organizations and other special groups. The designs are traditional patterns and the workmanship is very good. There is great pride in the products and they are priced accordingly. The colors are muted natural browns and tans because they use natural dyes. They are nice pieces. I get one as an example, but I am drawn to bright color batiks from the north of Java.

Negotiations for all my purchases are fierce. I am uncomfortable with Roy and his driver friend as a witness to my transactions. They seem to be more open about who has what, I have a tendency to prefer privacy in my bargaining sessions. Even with that, I've learned a lot from Roy, both in doing our batik projects and from the various batik factories, artists and showrooms we visited.

My own batik project will need to be completed later. I have all the tools to work on it when I get home. Roy gives me the batik he had worked on of the same motif and we settle up our finances. My journey continues. I go to Solo tomorrow. Roy offers to be my guide, and his friend will provide transportation. For some reason I don't want to get too entangled, maybe it's my suspicious nature, but I feel a sense of safety in my autonomy. Going with Roy and his friends to Solo makes me feel beholden and responsible. I have been evasive with them about where I am staying. I feel the disparity in our financial situations and am sensitive to the opportunists who constantly accost me to sell travel services. It goes beyond my own tourist radar, I have read warnings in the tour books, and since I am on my own and don't really know any of these people, I choose to err on the side of caution. I wonder if I am being foolish, if I am letting experiences pass, and yes, I'm sure I am. But also, I need to travel in my own comfort zone and provide my own emotional and physical protection, it is part of the journey.

I arrange at my hotel for a car and driver to take me to Solo tomorrow morning. I can afford this luxury. With the increasing unrest, I'm more cautious about taking a bus. I have been a bit rustic and cheep in my travel methods. I can afford a bit more luxury, so why not. With the current exchange rate, things including hotels and cars with drivers are very reasonable. I wander around the shops a bit more. Back at the hotel, I pull out my recent batik purchases and admire them. They are wonderful works of art. Dinner is another egg pancake. I pack and get ready for my early departure tomorrow morning.

Thursday, March 12, 1998

Up early and a last breakfast in the hotel. Everyone in the hotel and the restaurant staff knows my name. I suspect that the bellboy told them about my local involvement and gift giving. They have been courteous, but now I feel genuine warmth in their "hello Mrs. Vera". I get into the car for my drive to Solo. It's not that far away, about an hour and a half. I'm nervous with the new place. Locating a place to stay and all the details of change are still stress inducing. My sleeping habits are all mixed up. I conk out at night then wake up after five hours of hard sleep, thinking, worrying. So, I get up, read, write a bit. I think I'll keep going on this batik trail. The batik work from the north coast of Java is supposed to be much more colorful. First, I'll see what is up in Solo.

The drive is uneventful and I find a very nice hotel. I walk around Solo and find the antique market and tourist information center. There is not a whole lot of information but it's a good adventure to find the place. The large batik stores in town are ridiculously expensive. I go back to the hotel getting there right before a huge downpour, complete with thunder and lightning.

During the afternoon, I watch local children taking their dance lessons in the open lobby area of the hotel. The hotel is built around what used to be a small sultan's palace. The lobby area is open, as if for ceremonial purposes. The children are all ages. There are different classes for various skill levels. They are sweet. As in any culture, mothers stand by and watch proudly as their children perform so gracefully to the gamelin music. By six, the storm finishes. I've had a nice rest. It is time for more wandering and a quick dinner. I inquire about batik classes offered in Solo, no luck.

 

Becaks are bicycles with seats for passengers.

Friday, March 13, 1998

It is a day of wandering through the heat and humidity in search of the local market and batik area. There is nothing special; mostly local, cheaper fabrics used for everyday wear. I walk and look and take photos and get lost. In the end I am hot and bothered because I waited too long to find a place for lunch. It's a bad habit because I get very cranky if I get too hungry, then everything feels overwhelming. Later I find a place for email. That was fun, it's nice to feel connected, a balance between the foreign and touching base with the familiar.

Traveling alone in such a different environment makes me feel isolated. There are small vignettes of interaction. The funny conversation I have with the woman in the flower market, we don't understand each other's language but somehow our exchange leaves us both giggling over something. I buy some orchids for my room. They are beautiful. As I walk, children especially make smiling calls, "hello, Mrs". I return the smile and the warm greeting and keep walking. It's a good way to see things. Becak drivers offer their services but I've learned a singsong "jalan jalan". It literally translates as "street street" but it means I'm walking. They think I'm strange, walking in the heat, but the exchange is friendly, I go on my way, observing.

Saturday, March 14, 1998

I wander and visit the local Sultan's palace. It has a lovely garden and quiet, restful rooms. The guide included in the price of admission proudly shows me the buildings and grounds. I'd enjoy living here if I could. Members of the royal family occasionally live at the palace, making periodic visits for ceremonial events. I think they spend most of the time at their homes around Jakarta and elsewhere.

There is a sleepy feeling in all the heat. Commerce is conducted in a leisurely fashion. In the afternoon heat, most activity is suspended for a nap. In that spirit, I spend a relaxed afternoon by the pool with a soda, cookies and tacky book. I retreat to my hotel room as the rain and thunder crash, the frogs croak and I unwind in lazy relaxation. What a concept to explore being lazy. I call home. It's nice to connect to family, I catch them all at one place, a remote tie into the birthday party being held. I miss them.

This hotel is temporary home to a group of British Midland Air pilots. They are here on contract to fly the faithful to annual pilgrimages to Mecca. After a week or of ferrying everyone to Mecca they wait in Solo until it is time to bring them back. Evidently it is a lucrative business. Locals save up for years to make their once in a lifetime pilgrimage. I see the pilots around the hotel and occasionally in town. They tend to keep to themselves but one or two have explained their current mission to me over breakfast.

Sunday, March 15, 1998

Today is the halfway point of my travels. I wonder how the next half will go, where will I go? I hope the trip to Italy works out and Mom joins me. It feels like I'm floating, not certain of the purpose of this adventure, only the desire to go. Here I am, alone in a very different place, somewhat off the beaten path. I've proven to myself that I can travel on my own and do quite well. I am enjoying myself, seeing lots, and trying to let things happen. There is self-confidence in knowing how to get along on my own, to prove "I can land anywhere on the planet and somehow figure things out". There is strength in that knowledge and pride in my ability to "just do it". Other voices in my head wonder if this whole thing is just a little bit silly, like Don Quiote charging at windmills. How would staying home be any different, or better, or worse? So I will keep going, letting the experiences unravel and present themselves. I've given myself the five months, I may as well see how it all turns out.

Even though this trip seems to be formless, there are foundation points that frame everything. I have the five month timeframe I've given myself, the airplane tickets with dates from Singapore to Frankfurt and then later on to New York and San Francisco, home. There are a few specific places and people to see, like Traci in Thailand, and Earthwatch in Banda and my Dad in Ukraine. I am glad for the easy access to telephones and faxes and happily surprised with the number of internet connections I've been able to find. ATM machines keep me well financed. Even though credit cards are not welcomed in remote areas, the machines and banks manage to dispense cash. I've not used any of my travelers' checks. I'm glad to be here. I miss friends and family and some of the familiar. I don't miss the office or work grinds or cold weather. I feel very fortunate to be able to have this adventure.

People have and will ask how can I do it, this traveling around the world. Where do I get the time or the money? How can I just go away for that long? It's not that difficult, the mortgages and jobs and things can be taken care of. I met a family that is on the road for a year with two school age children. What is better classroom than the world? People work abroad for one or more years, traveling during their time off. For me, it is a matter of giving myself the time, extracting myself mentally from the pull of high tech career chaos, saving money, taking care of details like mortgages and taxes and then going. In a way, I surprised myself by actually going. Amazed that the daydream has become a reality. What about this daydream made it the one to be realized? All I know is it feels like I'm doing the right thing. I'm enjoying it, learning lots and just letting the experiences happen. So, onward I go to the next two and a half months.

 

The regal bride awaits the arrival of her groom.

I emerge from my hotel room in the morning to witness a lovely Javanese wedding in the lobby of the hotel. It is ceremonial and symbolic, very different from our own. Members of the wedding party are decked out in traditional finery of beautiful sarongs, elegant hair and theatrical makeup. The bride arrives early. Her procession marches to the dais area. She seats herself on a fancy chair with her family surrounding her Then about 20 minutes later the groom's procession comes strolling in with his family. Everyone is dressed in sarongs, including the men. None of the shoes seem to fit so they all struggle with walking. Tightly wrapped sarongs and heat don't make it any easier. Next the two Fathers talk to each other on microphones in the center of the room. "Is he a good boy? Yes yes he's a great guy... Is she a good girl? Of course! Of course! Can we have her? Oh all right, I guess you can have her..." The entire ceremony is recorded, lights, cameras, videos and a smattering of western tourists like me check out the action. Then the bride comes down to meet the groom and they stand next to each other. A red cloth is draped around their shoulders. They all, bride, groom and families, proceed to the ceremonial dais where they sit down and then get up and are blessed by both sets of parents. The next step is saying hello to all the guests while still under hot lights - it's 11 am and over 90 degrees and rather humid. 700 people are due for the reception. A lavish spread is partially laid out by the hotel with much more to come. I watch as the guests arrive, looking at the fancy outfits made from beautiful pieces of silk and batik. Most of the clothing is modern styles but made using the beautiful local fabrics. Families and friends arrive. After a brief hello to the wedding party, they make their way to the buffet tables. I guess people are the same at any affair, even if the dress and ceremonial details may differ. Fancy food can be a wonderful thing.

I depart and go to Novotel for my own form of fancy lunch. Its okay but slightly pseudo elegant. Only one other person is here. There are very few other guests and I wonder how the upscale new hotels are making ends meet. Afterwards, I take a becak ride to the internet place to try to do some research for Italy.

Monday, March 16, 1998

I arrange to take a "factory tour" today. Basically, it's a fellow with a car who speaks passing English. Our plan is to go to different factories in the area. I'm interested in seeing how things are done here. Our first stop is a gamelan factory. Metal, it looks like brass, is shaped into beautiful round instruments that make the variety of sounds from haunting to playful. The men take great pride in their craft. They sell instruments throughout Indonesia and the world. They are filling orders made a year or six months ago but are worried because no new orders have been coming in. They are in a difficult position because they import raw materials based on dollar prices and the majority of their business is to Indonesians. With the financial crisis, no one is ordering expensive, non-essential things like a set of gamelan instruments. Next we go in search of the tofu factory. We find the town and the street and eventually the right building but there is no one there, the factory is closed. There is another factory nearby and we go to that one and find the same, it is closed. My guide asks at the local shop and finds out that there are no orders for tofu, so the factories are closed.

 

An artist at the gamelan factory works on the beautiful brass instruments.

We continue to a large batik factory, Keris Batik, employing over 3000 people. This operation has similar stages to the others I have seen, only there are many more people. There seem to be more processes in place to manage production. Business is holding up because much of it is done as contract manufacturing for western firms. A large, open, cement building has approximately 200 women in circle clusters around pots of melted beeswax. Each is working on a tulis batik design determined by the design department. The men are in another area; dipping the copper stamps, or caps into a pan of hot wax and then transferring the design via the hot wax to fabric laid out on the table in front of them. Along the wall are shelves filled with caps in multitudes of designs. Dye painting is in another room, done buy fast, efficient women holding brushes and plastic cups filled with dye. Dye submersion is done in another part of the factory by men, usually in wading boots to protect them from the chemicals. Some of the men chose not to wear gloves. They work in teams moving the yards of fabric in and out of the dye vats and then into the water to rinse. The last stage of the fabric process is boiling the wax from the fabric and hanging it to dry in the rafters of one of the factory buildings. Because this is such a large production factory, they also have a department that manufactures garments for their customers, especially shirts, shorts, skirts and dresses. A quick stop at the factory store completes our visit.

Our next stop is a rattan factory. It is in a building that is like a family compound. The buildings are new with an open freshness about them. There are all sorts of chairs, tables, lamps, couches, swings, etc. in various stages of completion. We are shown the catalog books and photos of past work. Some of it is very nice. There are a number of international furniture companies they do work for. In spite of that, business is off by as much as sixty percent. I don't need any furniture and I don't know much about shipping and the other details. The one thing I do know is that any furniture purchased here needs to be dried out properly before it gets to my cooler, less humid environment. The last portion of our tour is spent driving past a great number of "antique" furniture factories. There are lots of them in and around the little towns we visit. Some of it is done using native, Javanese designs; others are reproductions of European furniture. Most of it is done for export to Europe and North America. I agree with my guide that if you are interested in furniture, you really have to know what you are buying and who you are buying from. The wood can be poor quality and not aged properly, the workmanship bad and the business practices questionable.

My guide drives me back through beautiful countryside on roads that skirt their way through rich fields. People are busy working, in the fields, in factories, or on new houses. Two men travel on a motorcycle with a large piece of glass and a becak driver pedals past with a couch as a customer. Transport comes in many forms. Entire families, Father, Mother and two small children in Mom's lap ride on one motorcycle. Horse carts lumber with loads of rice. Everyone is going places, moving things, very busy.

I am glad I took this excursion. It's interesting to experience the countryside and various "factory" businesses. It's also sad to witness the difficulties they are having because of the country's problems. Back in Solo, I do a bit more wandering and buy some Chinese sticky buns from a traveling street vendor. There are a number of them that wander the streets with various culinary treats. I don't know what all of food is but I do enjoy the sticky buns for dinner.

It is time to pack again. I retreat to the comfort of my hotel room and gather my things and mind for moving on. I like this small city. It has a nice balance of commerce at a comfortable pace. There is also a university nearby. We drove past the beautiful campus on my factory tour. The batik trail calls and I've arranged a driver the next stage of my journey.