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Street Bahasa

Street Bahasa

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This evening, I am both with Seongeun and my orange vocabulary book—my kamus or “dictionary”— in that order.  Seongeun kind of hates my vocabulary book because I refer to it almost non-stop as if I am an introvert with the latest smart-phone.  I try not to be rude, try to ignore it really, but OCD and lobotomies are hard things to shake.  The book is bright orange.  Underneath the plastic covers are conversations to be conceived yet spoken; a portal of interactions with communities I long to join.

I have enlisted competing sometimes illogical systems.   Words listed as they come.  Words categorized by theme.  Words in the order of my Indonesian lessons.   Words vis-à-vis poorly drawn pictures:  A box indicating positions on, under, behind, in front and on-top of it; a stick figure of parts including slim thighs and thick tongue; a compass guiding a falling boat and docking plane along streaming lined grids on the page.  Organization of course depends on state of mind.  In the leadership section sits "biarawan" or “monk”.  In the history section "masuk awal" or “makes sense”!  My handwriting is atrocious.  People who look at my scrawl say very little while shaking their heads.  My handwriting is atrocious.  It is common for me to mispronounce "hamil" as "hamal" or "bernar" as "berner" only because I can’t read what I have written. I  loathe memorizing what is wrong.  Very inefficient.

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We choose the third to fourth food stall we find, which is no easy feat.   Yogyekarta has conceived few sidewalks and it is dark.  We are hungry, a little lost and have forsaken a 30 dollar hotel meal for the search and solace of cheap street eats.  The food stand sign says Tiga Saudara, KAKI & SATE KAMBING or Three Brothers, FEET AND SAUTEE’D GOAT.  Of course, Seongeon and I are unaware.  We have been in the country only two weeks and we have yet to learn the words FEET or SAUTEE’D GOAT.  At least they are not in my book.

I look down at the cutting board with a hint of trepidation at what appears to be sticks of horse hooves.  “Salamat Malam, Mas” I say, “Istimewah disini apa?” “Good evening, young man.  What is your special?”

The problem with a beginning Bahasa student repeating useful phrases from a Learn Indonesian on tape course is that nothing about that lesson prepares you for the response.  The words from the boy in the meat-stained plastic apron behind the abused butcher’s board is rapid-fire, incomprehensible and unforgiving.  I think now that he must have said something like (paraphrasing and translating), “Pak, like the sign says, we have BBQ’d goat feet or if you want goat soup.  Both are good- the speciality of Jakarta in Yogyekarta.  Order here then have a seat.”

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“Ada Sayur?” I ask, “how about some vegetables?”  I pretend that I have understood the conversation.  I am pleased with my use of sayur, which I just learned that morning.  My tongue rolls the r, which in Bahasa sounds exactly like the Spanish r, which as a California boy I know, only more prolonged.  I not unintentionally flutter the Spanish r further.

“Tidak, Pak.  Kami hanya punya gambing saja,” says the boy now with three other workers looking in at the foreigner, who will not listen. “No vegetables, sir.  We only serve goat in this place.”

Recognizing “tidak”, I say, “Ok, then we’ll take the chicken soup and some fried rice, please.”  “Baik, kami aka mengambil sop ayam dan nasi goring.  Terima kasih.”  I feel like the conversation is going really well.  I chuckle how Indonesians love their chicken soup and fried rice which can pretty much be gotten anywhere.  Damn if learning this new language will bring this man down!

“Sir, we don’t serve chicken.  Only goat.  And we have steamed rice nothing fried.  For that you can get next door,” says the boy pointing to the adjacent stand.

“Biak,” I say looking to where he is asking Seongeun and I to sit, “Dan beberapa teh es and air botel juga.”  “Great, and we’ll some ice tea and some water too.”

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Sitting down we are confused when after ten minutes, we have not been served.   I have not yet been to an Indonesian, Chinese, Taiwanese, Vietnamese or Thai restaurant/food stall that doesn’t serve you as fast as possible so as to get you out.  The profit by volume technique.  Only the Japanese veer from this business style.  Is this why sashimi doesn’t come cheap? 

We lick our lips like children as we stare at the strangers happily eating their meals.  We feel like hungry immigrants, FOBS, Angel Island refugees, wealthy mendicants.   It is 10 pm but the weather has only gotten hotter.  The plastic walls steam but I only notice the steam of our neighbors’ foods.  I am mesmorized and follow the condensation in a trance-like ride to a supernatural world where meals are universal and come without stipulations.  The land of the monkey king with bulging cheeks.

Seongeun breaks me from my catabolic trance.  “Hey, they're bringing our food!” and indeed someone is.  Our hosts have taken pity on the slow and down-trodden.  They have selected our meal for us:  BBQ goat pierced along metal prongs.  Soup with various goat parts chopped therein but with carrot and celery remnants floating too.  A side plate of steamed rice with garnish of onion and radish salad.  Seconds later a man out from across the street comes running with sweetened ice-tea and bottled water seemingly as wet on the outside.

Seongeun and I normally send back that which we have not ordered, but it is late and we don’t feel like a fight.  The food set before us is very tasty, save the spinal cord of some animal or another and what appears to be a chunk of horse hoof in very thick primordial soup.  I would not be surprised if during this particular moment something calmly stepped out.

Coming Home II

Coming Home II

Hati-Hati

Hati-Hati