Yogyakarta - Sunday

Last night, excellent food at the hotel: salad (haven't had one in ages), gado gado, and avocado juice. One of the vegetables on the plate was lontong, a form of rice that is pressed and wrapped in banana leaves, as Usman, the head waiter, explained. Sat alone at a table for 8, in a room that held 3 tables of eight, the others empty, while a private function was held in the main dining area. Bit of a dismal solitary figure. But conversation with Usman more than made up for it. He ended up going out into the kitchen to show me what lontong looks like, before it is served.


Worked my way through the 60 channels on cable, nothing to my liking and so tired. What a pleasure to sleep beneath a blanket! Out like a light.

Second shower in twenty four hours. Bliss. Ready to head to the dining room just before 8. Usman is there to greet me. Don't understand how he could have been serving me last night, and also serving me this morning. Actually, I do understand: he's doing a very long shift, as is the woman in the Business Centre. Service, as always, impeccable. Gorge on fruit. There's a toaster! At Salatiga, Ibu somehow fries the bread to toast it. Here, I could approximate a version of Australian toast. Fresh juice. Some sweet small pancakes.

Headed to Kota Gede (almost pronounced as "G'day"), famous for its silver. Taxied there with a driver who, in bahasa, warned that prices there would be mahal sekali. True, I said, and my information from the Rough Guide to Indonesia confirmed that it was very expensive place to shop, but it said it's a good place to start the search for silver - necklaces, bracelets, rings, etc. First, though, we had to find a shoe store; the Converse were on the balconey, drying. Driver spotted a place, well-stocked with thongs. Lots of beautiful thongs (35-40.000 rupiah), none my size, other than a single Rip Curl. No price marked on it. Chose it. The salesperson then disappeared to the shoe store on the other side of the road to get its pair. Big feet, big money: 58.000 rupiah. Not a worry, as I now have something to wear that'll be functional in a downpour. Dud of a morning after that purchase.

At Tom's, negotiated with the driver how much it would cost if he waited. Price sorted, in I went. Silversmiths are at the front of the store, making all types of jewellery.

In the store itself, very big, I spent 30 minutes or so looking at some wonderful and also hideously ornate necklaces and rings. After much searching, the shopping was done: a necklace for Leonie, matching bracelets for Tallulah and Delaney, and a ring similar to the one I already wear, made while I was browsing (the ones on display didn't fit). All up, 2.4 juta (million). All settled. Produce the credit card. "Maaf, mesin kartu kredit dirusak." (The credit card machine is broken). Do you have cash? No. Can you use the ATM machine out the front? No. Why not? Because the amount of money I can withdraw each day is limited. Can you get Australian cash? No. Can you come back tomorrow, when the machine might be fixed? No, I'm going back to Salatiga tomorrow morning. Sebentar (Wait a moment). Thereafter, a series of phone calls were made to banks, I assume, to see what could be done. To no avail. They asked, repeatedly, was it all possible for me to get cash and I explained, repeatedly, no. Was it possible to go to the ATM and get enough to buy only the necklace? No. Walked out empty-handed. In situations like that, I'm uncertain as to what's really going on. Was it a ruse, was I being conned, was it really a broken machine? Sometimes transactions here are more complicated than they need be. The biggest silver shop in Yogya, promoted to tourists as the place to go, but you can't use a credit card there.

Taxied back to the city, dropped off at Gramedia, a bookstore, where, using my credit card, finally, I got music and style magazines, comics, and books (including, Tallulah, one from the Lemony Snickett series). Walked the 500 metres or so to the hotel.

Fruit for lunch. Followed by a discussion with staff about gamelan.

Small worldism. Got into a conversation with Liah, who works in the reception area, who said she has met some Australians. Kota yang mana? I asked. Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide? No, she said, a small city. Ah, kota Canberra. The girl's name is Nikki. And her father is . . . At which point I finished the sentence: "Her father is Greg and her mum is Annie. I work with Annie." I'm staying at the same hotel as the Fry/Bartlett crew, who were here earlier this month.

If the morning's effort to dispose of credit was a bit of a dud, the afternoon was a blinder of an experience. Taxied to Jalan Marlioboro, famous for its batik shops. Traffic blocked for part of the trip. Found the place that I'd been to earlier in the week: Mirota Batik. Waria were singing and dancing out the front, attracting a crowd, making entry into the shop difficult. Conscious of the signs warning customers that pickpockets are pretty common, I keep touching my pockets. Inside, a swarm, local and international. If you think the aisles at the Dickson Woolies are narrow, think again. Between masses of displays, barely enough run for one Indonesian to be in an aisle of shirts, let alone a bulky Aussie. Batik enthusiasts are spoilt for choice. How many shirts can one hold at one time? Dave will be happy. Outside, backpack heavy with my consumption, I walked the street. Again, it was a crush of people, a narrow lane through which we passed, shops and stalls on either side, plastic above shading us from the sun. Looked in a few other shops, being a bit picky. Batik Sekar Arum was my next place of custom. Got four more, telling myself that two of them were for the girls. Only so much batik can be taken in in one afternoon. Out into the street, hailed a taxi, and had a garralous driver. Conversation completely in bahasa, but we laughed our way to the hotel as I recounted my day. Had to find an ATM on the way there. Tried Bank Mandiri - card not accepted. Found BNI up the road.

Bonus: stopped at an ATM to get some cash and got 50.000 notes! Usually, at the ATM at UKSW, I get 100.000 notes, what's known in these parts as "big money." For most transactions, people prefer uang kecil (small money). Great being a rupiah millionaire, not so great feeling defensive about flooding the economy with 100.000 notes. When taking the angkota, I the biggest sum I tend to use is 5.000 rupiah. Once, I only had a 10.000 rupiah note and when I gave it to the driver, he handed it back to me and said uang kecil. I ferreted around and found a solitary 1.000 rupiah, half the usual cost, and, embarrassed, handed it him. On campus, whenever I use a 50.000 note at the cafe, I always make sure it's after 1pm and that, before I order any food, I explain rather apologetically that I only have uang besar. Even at Hotel Santika, when I used a 100.000 note to pay for the 50.000 rupiah of internet use, I was asked if I had anything smaller. I didn't, so they had to go to the main office to get my change. So whenever I get 100.000 notes from an ATM, I have to strategise how I can break them down into smaller units. Sending parcels to Australia is one way. Paying the weekly rent to Ibu Wewien is another. I 've taken to hoarding 1.000 notes, as they're the most important currency of all here.

Inside, a three-piece band was playing: Gamelan Siteran. One played siter (like a zither), another played kendang (a drum), and a woman sang. Love it. Asked, with the help of one of the friendly staff, if the band knew "Suwe Ora Jamu," a song I'd heard earlier that week at Universitas Negeri Yogyakarta. They did, and they began to play it for an audience of two. We applauded.

The staff member explained some more about the music, and chose another song for me to hear, "Yen Ing Tawang." I sat, listened, mesmerised. Someone brought me a drink. An audience of one, in the foyer. Between songs I asked questions. At the end songs, the singer told me the titles of what she'd sung. Fabulous. Close to an hour sitting in front as they played, unperturbed by the hotel patrons walking past, the front door opening, the sound of a tray being dropped. As time passed, the singer cleared her throat more heartily at the start of each song, quickly downing water, joking suara habis (My voice is finished!). Mid song, she would cough, strain, sometimes laugh with the difficulty of singing. The songs had fake endings, reaching a point of silence, allowing the gong to reverberate, before she would swoop again. Hard to describe the sound, but it vocally it put me in mind of The Cocteau Twins, Les Mystere Des Voix Bulgare. A real treat to hear it. Now that I have the song titles, CD shopping is next on my list. The woman had only been singing for two years.

After that, tea and blogtime. Great being in Yogya as I got to do the street things, relax at the hotel, and have time to keep the blog going. Still got to catch up on the conference. That'll be done tomorrow. 9.30pm here. Leave at 9am. Took a disastrous phone call to arrange. Talking bahasa on the phone is much harder than face-to-face. Had to resort to English. Once in Salatiga, marking assignments, teaching a class about "Culture Shock," and sort through the batik.