I wrote a scathing article calling expats who don’t eat local food a bunch of nancies. Now I’m crippled by a parasite contracted from dirty food with fecal matter on it. Mostly uncooked food. You can laugh. I’ll be emptying my stomach contents against my will for the next two weeks.
Not to sound like a perve or anything but you should be aware that Indonesian culture dictates bathing in the afternoon. If you don’t, you’re fowl, alright? The exception is if you are a fast paced bawse-baller who’s too busy to exit the boardroom for a quick roll in the trough, or if you’re simply not in a place that has convenient showers (the office?). But if you’re like me and gone full on “pulang kampung” or actually living in or around a kampung, village, small city, etc. you’re expected to sleep, pray, and bathe every afternoon before sundown. I jumped on the bathing bandwagon to fit in with the family who all seem to have wet hair in the afternoon. I needed to get with the crew.
Cleanliness is literally next to godliness here, is pleasant to others, and with so much water bucketing down from the skies, the people of Indonesia put it to good use. It’s a religious, cultural, and habitual ritual and frankly feels good as a relief from the afternoon heat. If you don’t want to be a stinky bule, get used to it.
Most Indonesians do it with a trough and pale. That’s called having a “mandi”. Similar to standing under an exotic waterfall, except you’re in a small bathroom, with a trough, and you pour the water over yourself. Its very exotic.
The ritual is an addiction because nothing feels better than waking up from an afternoon nap (another fervent practise of Indonesians that I will explain to you in another rant), feeling groggy and foggy from the humidity, and washing it all away with ice cold well-water from a bullet proof bucket.
If your services have been delayed because the personnel are “mandi dulu”, or you’re wondering why on earth that lady is prancing around town with a cascade of wet hair in the afternoon public, it’s because of the national passion for a good old “mandi”. I urge you to jump on in! But whatever you do, don’t you dare get into the trough.
In Indonesia, everything is made from rice (or fish). It’s a rice-padi-drenched-archipelago (your face is a rice-padi-drenched-archipelago whispers the puberty in me) for heaven’s sake. So whether you’re hungry or not, somebody, anybody is going to offer you a snack that’s probably carb-loaded. These cute little green and brownish babies are exceptionally attractive for the product of mushing together rice, sugar, artificial colours and flavours and various banana, peanut and coconut components. The green ones are “dadar gulung” with “unti” in the middle. That be in layperson’s terms “a green coconut and rice crepe stuffed with grated coconut”. It’s not too sweet. But they’re going to get your cholesterol climbing. The green striped jelly square is “lapis”. Lapis is heavenly because it’s like eating a really moist piece of fudge, yet more jelly wobbly and softer to bite into. It’s not as sweet as fudge but hits the spot if you’re craving sugar, and it has a hint of coconut through it. It’s smooth on the tongue and doesn’t make you want to gag. I love it. The rest is too laborious to explain, and I didn’t like then as much anyway. The round golden thing in plastic is more like a dense pancake but more oily and tastes like coconut, so it was probably fried in palm oil. I would recommend not to go there. And the thing in a box (is unfortunately not a dick-in-a-box, as the Lonely Island once said) is fried noodles. If only they served fried noodles in such small portions in Australia! Your basic snack guide to Java shall be added to throughout my culinary journey of 2014. Get ready for loads of rice, chicken, MSG, oil and plastic bags as I eat my way to a heart attack in Princess Jakarta (and beyond).
A young girl, a zoo keeper, and a white tiger sedated and chained to a picnic table.
No, you animal activists, I have not purchased a goldfish to eat for my breakfast! This is how breakfast is commonly served in Indonesia and I was lucky enough to awake to my first taste of it this morning. Dubious to fill up on fried prawn crackers and a saucy mix that looked good enough to fuel a long winter hibernation, I manned up, put on my metaphorical sarong and sat on the floor to tackle the plastic bagged beast. I was going full on Malang today.
To stall the inevitable first bite I carefully untied the rubber band d that help my food tightly in the plastic bag. Then proceeded to spill half the contents in the table. Fail. You pour the contents into the bowl, add a bit of the prawn crackers and there you have a breakfast for champions. The only issue was – I had no idea what the contents was. Suddenly I felt as brave as a conqueror, as I built up the courage to take the first slurp.
I don’t know what the contents is. A liver? A root? A fruit? Psyching myself up for the consumption, convincing myself that it was cool to go rough on the street food, I plunged my spoon into the mess and swallowed a whole serve. I was astonished at how good, fresh and pleasant it tasted. What could be a liver had the texture of a soft liver but was probably a brown artichoke (if any of you more refined vegans have an idea what it might be please enlighten). The other floating bits were sticky rice that complemented and balanced the fattening yet delicious coconut milk infused with chilli, ginger, lime and a hint of garlic. A tad exotic for my breakfast palate, yet not vile.
I successfully finished the bowl in true village “waste not want not” style and saluted myself for completing the challenge. Full on Indonesian breakfast was completed. Low carb, high fibre and even higher fat content. It was to be a good weekend. I might sound like a complete idiot making a mountain out of eating a few local vegetables for breakfast today. But I am pretty sure that it was more daring than a lot of other expats in Indonesia get for their morning feed. As cool as my expat buddies are, I know a lot who would rather starve than eat a single scrap of food prepared locally on the streets. Of course some street food will put the untrained stomach into hospital, but not all of it is disgusting. To fit into a culture you have to eat the food of the people. In the case of Indonesia, hold that bowl of unidentifiable delicacies tight, get into a comfortable squat on the ground and share a meal with your new found friends. There’s no better way to feel part of a community than by knowing you’re all sharing the same produce and shitting the same muck. That is the true cultural immersion. And if my next musing turns out to be along the lines of “HOW TO DEAL WITH FOOD POISONING IN INDONESIA” then I’ll eat my own words too!
The long weekend allows time to journey to East Java, climb the family tree and discover who set the unique precedent that is me. With a bucket list of fresh air, mountain climbing, apples and marveling at white colonial architecture all day long (the buildings are literally all painted white). Malang is more than just the stop to Bromo. And I hope it doesn’t take only my banter to show you that.
princess Jakarta 