As the water slowly drips off the sagging tarp, a bucket waits for it below. This might be necessary if we were indoors, but we aren‘t. It doesn’t surprise me though- there's no wasting things here in Indonesia, and this warung is no exception.
I step under the tarp, say hi to the vendor and check out the food displayed. This guy’s selling Sundanese food, and the dishes are laid out on a makeshift table. 3 kinds of fish, 4 chicken dishes, 5 different vegetables- with eggplant, potatoes and local veggies made in creative and tasty ways. The man grabs a plate of rice from the steamer, I tell him what I want, then sit down on one of the wooden benches surrounding the table, followed shortly by my food. I grab some of the fresh herbs laid out to accompany the food, spoon some sambal (sweet spicy ketchup) onto my plate and dig in. As I eat, the man brings me some sweet black tea, an Indonesian staple which comes with almost every meal, and it does well to wash down the savory food.
I look out towards busy Pajajaran street during a break from eating. A constant string of motorbikes whizzes by, the riders paying us no attention. We are in just one of dozens of small warungs that pop up at night along this street- a tree in a forest of food. I glance over again at the bucket catching the water off the tarp and let out a little laugh. Now I’m pretty sure the tea I’m drinking is made from that water, and he surely uses it to wash the dishes. Why not!? It’s clean and free.
I love how quick I can get and eat the food at these places. It’s no bullshit, no frills eating, my favorite. I can be out and on my way in 10 minutes if I want. Sometimes a friendly local might talk to me, trying out their English or to see how much Bahasa Indonesia I know, but most times Indonesians will leave the bule to his own devices. However, as with all the other times I stop at these roadside warungs to grab a bite to eat, I am the main attraction. People will steal a glance at me whenever possible, their curiosity getting the better of them. It feels like they’re analyzing me, waiting for me to give them a sign of how crazy I am, but of course it’s more innocent than that. The truth is I’m probably one of only a few bules that’s ever bothered to stop and eat there. For that I don’t know why, because the food is beautiful and cheap, and the experience makes me glad I came here to Indonesia.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A New Thread
It’s to where I’m starting to get used to things here… and maybe taking the difference of it for granted. Talking to Mom was a nice and solid reminder of home. It was familiar. So the moment I hung up, I was reminded how different things are here…
On my way out of the house, heading to work, I turn off the lights. I flip the switch up; that still seems weird to me. Hopping on my bike and starting down the road, I glance back at the Puncak mountains, shrouded by clouds today and setting the backdrop for green fields of rice and fruit. As I glide into town, the stares start. A bule on a bike!? Wha? I turn down the road that heads through the tightly woven kampung. Street bumps- or sleeping policeman- slow me down every 50 feet or so, they’re everywhere. An effective but annoying way to slow cars and mopeds down and protect the dozens of kids and hundreds of people walking on and across the winding road.
Along the road is a house, followed by a tiny Sunda restaurant, followed by a house, then a warung- a tiny shop selling the daily necessities. Then I get whiff of livestock somewhere and to my left I see a chicken coop and a goat stall tucked in between the houses. A quick searching peak down the alley in between houses reveals a labyrinth of sidewalks laced through the kampung. I see a simple but elegant mosque set back from the street, calling no attention to itself. And after I pass, there’s a break in the houses momentarily revealing Mt. Salak, the impressive, sleeping volcano looming over the rolling valley outside town.
“Hey mister bule!”(hey foreigner!) I look around- it’s a kid yelling from the local school as I pass. Everybody watches for my reply…by now I know, it’s best just to smile and keep going. Rolling on, another sleeping policeman and more stares as I approach an intersection. But it‘s a frickin goat looking at me! What the hell!? Him and a dozen others are tied to street signs along the crowded intersection and will be bought and sacrificed for Id Adha, the Muslim holiday coming up.
As I cross the intersection to a quieter road with no bumps, I start a nice glide down towards town. I spot a construction site off to the left, the men working busily. But none of their tools are recognizable. Their shovel is inverted compared to an American one, they use a basket type scoop instead of wheelbarrows, and a man pats down a fresh concrete mix with a board tied to a string, pulling up and releasing, pulling up and releasing. And even though the street is quieter, it isn’t long until there are tiny carts lining the road, selling buber ayam(chicken porridge) or bakso(meatball soup), fruit stands selling mangos, papayas and bananas, and other warungs selling drinks, cigarettes, coffee, medicine, snacks, whatever...
Before I hit the true chaos of the main road, I take the chance to think back to my talk with Mom. I realize then what a regular and ordinary thing that was. That’s what was nice about it. It seems though, the regular and ordinary is becoming less regular and ordinary now. I wish I could explain this place to people, and I guess I’ve just tried, but it will fall short of the feeling. That only comes from being here... in...
On my way out of the house, heading to work, I turn off the lights. I flip the switch up; that still seems weird to me. Hopping on my bike and starting down the road, I glance back at the Puncak mountains, shrouded by clouds today and setting the backdrop for green fields of rice and fruit. As I glide into town, the stares start. A bule on a bike!? Wha? I turn down the road that heads through the tightly woven kampung. Street bumps- or sleeping policeman- slow me down every 50 feet or so, they’re everywhere. An effective but annoying way to slow cars and mopeds down and protect the dozens of kids and hundreds of people walking on and across the winding road.
Along the road is a house, followed by a tiny Sunda restaurant, followed by a house, then a warung- a tiny shop selling the daily necessities. Then I get whiff of livestock somewhere and to my left I see a chicken coop and a goat stall tucked in between the houses. A quick searching peak down the alley in between houses reveals a labyrinth of sidewalks laced through the kampung. I see a simple but elegant mosque set back from the street, calling no attention to itself. And after I pass, there’s a break in the houses momentarily revealing Mt. Salak, the impressive, sleeping volcano looming over the rolling valley outside town.
“Hey mister bule!”(hey foreigner!) I look around- it’s a kid yelling from the local school as I pass. Everybody watches for my reply…by now I know, it’s best just to smile and keep going. Rolling on, another sleeping policeman and more stares as I approach an intersection. But it‘s a frickin goat looking at me! What the hell!? Him and a dozen others are tied to street signs along the crowded intersection and will be bought and sacrificed for Id Adha, the Muslim holiday coming up.
As I cross the intersection to a quieter road with no bumps, I start a nice glide down towards town. I spot a construction site off to the left, the men working busily. But none of their tools are recognizable. Their shovel is inverted compared to an American one, they use a basket type scoop instead of wheelbarrows, and a man pats down a fresh concrete mix with a board tied to a string, pulling up and releasing, pulling up and releasing. And even though the street is quieter, it isn’t long until there are tiny carts lining the road, selling buber ayam(chicken porridge) or bakso(meatball soup), fruit stands selling mangos, papayas and bananas, and other warungs selling drinks, cigarettes, coffee, medicine, snacks, whatever...
Before I hit the true chaos of the main road, I take the chance to think back to my talk with Mom. I realize then what a regular and ordinary thing that was. That’s what was nice about it. It seems though, the regular and ordinary is becoming less regular and ordinary now. I wish I could explain this place to people, and I guess I’ve just tried, but it will fall short of the feeling. That only comes from being here... in...
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