DJogJAkarta

a man in standing next to tom, beaming up at him in undisguised admiration.  "uh, i’m not sure in meters, but i’m 73 inches tall," tom is saying to the man as i backtrack a few batik-stalls to check in on the scene.  they strike up a little conversation: he is from yogya, we’ve just arrived from malaysia, this is our first stroll down malioboro road, he thinks tom is so splendidly tall and handsome.  "do you like art?" he asks.  yes, of course.*  "have you seen the art exhibition honoring the sultan’s birthday?"  no, not yet.  "o, you should see it before it moves to solo tomorrow! and" (here his voice deepens with conspiratorial pride) "my wife is part of the exhibition."  sounds lovely.  what time does it close?  "5:30.  here, it’s just down that street, take a right and then follow the signs…" he waves his hand about a half-block down, trots alongside use for a bit, then melts away.  i peer down the street: no signs.  "hallo?" another man emerges from behind a bakso stall.  "yes please?  where are you going? exhibition please?  follow me …" he motions to the left, an even smaller alleyway.  hm.   maybe later.  i turn away, wary.  “but today is the last day!” he protests.  what time does it close?  "4:30" is the confident reply (it is 4:15 now).  double hm.  a peanut gallery of women stares at us from behind their storefront counters, impassive as sergio leone’s saloon onlookers just before the big shootout.  yet another man materializes from behind a concrete slab. "yes hallo please?  art exhibition?"  um, not anymore.  i can see what’s going on now. "but it is last day.  close at 5:00."  we skedaddle, having survived the infamous batik-touts of yogyakarta, who lure cultured travelers to their overpriced batik-lairs with sweet promises of last-chance art shows. 

the next gauntlet is the sultan’s palace, set in the middle of a massive public square dotted with trinket-stalls and (sadly, less frequently) warungs selling snacks.  the entrance is suspiciously easy to locate – the guidebook warns that the non-legit entrance charges less to see a tiny portion of the palace, and the real thing charges more to see the whole thing – and yes, the entrance price is an unrealistic 5000 rupiah.  "why don’t you want to see the palace?" the ticket seller asks plaintively.  "because this is the fake palace," i call back.  safely inside, the palace grounds are spacious and chilled-out: low, open-walled, intricately carved buildings hold musical instruments, beautiful old crystal lamps and tableware, and the random personal effects of various sultans past.  my favorite is a cool, echoing tiled gallery filled with stylized portraits of the royal family.  apparently yogya’s sultans are vulcans, or maybe elves.  

yogya is an awesome jumping-off point for the nearby temples.  we motorbiked to borobudur and to candi prambanan, both stunning destinations and incredibly fun (albeit hairy) bike rides.  but yogya is also a super-charming place to explore in its own right … in the mornings, the little alleyways (“gang”) around our guesthouse are alive with bustling energy.  men sweep the gang with bristly homemade brooms, and ladies squat on the cobblestones, selling fresh breakfast in brown paper cones – to date, my favorite meal in indonesia came from this gang: for thirty cents, a smokey-flavored white mass of gooey/fluffy cassava, topped with savory young jackfruit curry, chopped long beans and crispy bits of fried tempe; the whole mass eaten messily and with gusto by hand. nearby, at tami sari (the old sultan’s water garden and bathing pools), tourists snap photos of the pools while older kids play soccer in the courtyard between the carved walls.  in the evenings, kids scurry up and down the gang, flying colorful paper-and-bamboo kites, while their parents lounge around the central square, playing badminton and snacking on fried tofu, fried banana, and soft triangles of spiced omelette.  and every home boasts at least one little bird in an elaborate little cage, trilling pretty notes and dreaming of freedom. 

*who says no to that question?  "no, i hate the stuff.  i’m a cross between an uncultured hun and a philistine and i like to sack and burn villages."