A Place in Klaten: Central Java, Indonesia

I received a letter the other day from an old friend of mine in Java. It brought back memories of my time spent with him and his wife several years ago. When I first mentioned to my Javanese friend Sutoyo that I was seeking a quiet place where I could write for a few months, his reply was emphatic.

"There's a house in my village opposite where I live. It's cheap, clean, and very quiet"

Little did I know the smile upon my face apparently signaled an agreement. I had been to Sutoyo's village before and I vaguely remembered a lovely little house opposite where he lived. But that was years ago. Lush green jungle surrounded the area, banana trees grew prolifically and in the distance, the volcano Mount Merapi was visible. The village was located in Klaten, Central Java, and roughly thirty kilometres from the border of the Special District of Yogyakarta.

The following morning Sutoyo picked me up at the hotel. With my laptop secured safely in my backpack I climbed on the back of his ageing and smoke belching motorbike. It would have been delightful if it had have been a Harley Davidson. Instead it was a Yamaha carefully and lovingly rebuilt by Sutoyo. Somehow I think he was remiss with a few parts. Klaten is only ten kilometres from the Prambanan temple complex and as we passed tourists in their droves were busying themselves in anticipation of seeing one of the largest Hindu complexes in the Southern Hemisphere.

Sutoyo's wife, Nunung, greeted me in typical Javanese fashion - copious amounts of food and cold tea, heavily sugared. Her excitement regarding me moving into the village was overwhelming. As we sat and talked, two hens followed by an amorous rooster entered through the constantly open door. Looking through the doorway I caught a glimpse of the house opposite. No longer was it the adorable place I once remembered. It seemed as if the hens and the rooster were the residents!. I was speechless when Nunung commented on the repairs needed.

"Just needs a man's touch Barrie".

A bulldozer would have been more appropriate. Its appearance was akin to the houses you see in war-torn countries - holes on the outer walls where the bullets smashed the plaster, windows smashed in, and doors hanging off. "It has character. Yes, you could say it needs something", I replied hoping they would find another house for me to rent. I excused myself and walked over to the house. Looking around it seemed that the jungle possessed the house and the hens were renting it.

By the side of the house stood my source of water - a well, the tattered rope to which a bucket was connected half hung from the horizontal beam suspended precariously over the hole-in-the-ground. Behind the house lay dense jungle and at one point I half expected Tarzan to come out and welcome me to the neighborhood. That greeting I received from an obese wild pig!. At least I will have bananas to eat, I told myself walking around the front of the house.

Nunung had already busied herself with a broom sweeping the cobwebs from my sight and creating a dust storm when she swept the floors. Sutoyo carried a double mattress over from his house. The more I looked around the outside, and the inside of the house, its character had begun to grow on me. No screens on the windows meant my companions for the night would be black mosquitoes - those, and the occasional bat that decided it too had a claim on the premises.

At least I had electricity to power the laptop, but alas, no light-bulbs. They were probably shot out when thy attacked the house, I mumbled to myself. "Candles are romantic Barrie" Nunung said noticing my concern for lighting. I only agreed and watched the pig enter my adorable abode. There was no mention of rent and so I assumed whatever I gave them would be suitable - I had no small change in my pocket!.

It was agreed [without consultation] that I took my meals with Nunung and Sutoyo. It was quiet, but too quiet. I have often found on my travels that if you find a place that is serene then Murphy's Law somewhere along the way steps into gear. I said hello to the five centimetre cockroach climbing the wall near the doorway as I went outside. Sitting on the porch I glanced around the small pocket of the village. Numerous fruit trees were in fruit - rambutan, star fruit, and there was even a Melon patch; oddly enough a communal one. Various fowl walked around and into the houses.

The air was cool and copious amounts of shade given by the jungle and the towering banana trees gave relief from the heat of the day. Elderly women, dressed in batik sarungs and T-Shirts smiled in my direction, and children played a Javanese version of Hopscotch in the dirt beside the crumbling stone pathway. I felt at home, as if I belonged. Sutoyo shouted over gesturing that I join him. I didn't lock or even close the front door. I couldn't anyway, and besides, there was no reason to do so. The whole atmosphere and warmth of the village reminded me of a hippie commune!.

Sutoyo was strapping two fishing poles to the side of his Yamaha. "We're going fishing for dinner Barrie. Get on". I didn't argue. It would be nice to relax. I left the menagerie in the house to take care of it - at least for now. No sooner had I tied a bandana around my mouth to ward off the dust and motorbike fumes, Sutoyo had sped off in the direction of Mount Merapi. Jungle tracks are notorious for surprises. A large black snake decided to cross our path and was unavoidably flattened. However, I kept looking down at my feet on the pedals to make sure the reptile hadn't wrapped itself around my leg. "We'll pick that up on the way back. It makes nice Sate" Sutoyo commented as he carved a path through some undergrowth. Fish or Sate, I am not fussy. Just as long as we eat, I thought to myself.

Before too long we arrived at a clearing. Ahead of us was a pristine stretch of water, a stream with depth to sustain fish life. It was peaceful, quiet - very quiet with only the sounds of birds twittering in the jungle. I looked up, and in the distance, plumes of ashen smoke were pouring from the caldera of Mount Merapi. For the better part of a day Sutoyo and I fished, swam in the stream, and talked. This was to become a daily event. I did not achieve my aim of writing as planned. The events in the house with the menagerie in the months that followed is another story, but non could match the daily ritual of fishing below 'Fire Mountain'.