The Fukuda and the Faith
Just when I was starting to totally lose faith in the fair city of Madiun, last night my friends rallied, and completely reinvigorated my positive attitude towards this place, its people, and the second half of my year-long stay in Indonesia. It was 8PM, and I was making my way from a wedding ceremony at the local banquet hall to the self-proclaimed “AcousticGavanza” night at Klub Bali, my fitness center/swimming pool/nexus of social life in Madiun. The “Gavanza” turned out to be a group of high school boys wailing shitty covers of Indonesian pop songs, accompanied by poorly played guitars and even more poorly syncopated techno keyboard lines. Welcome to Madiun on a Saturday night.
I sat around and chatted with some acquaintances, nodding at the Klub Bali regulars as they sauntered into the outdoor patio area next to the pool, some arm-in-arm with would-be lovers and spouses, others looking awkwardly for a group to sit with. Lea, a local six-foot-tall model whom I did some work with in order to promote the upcoming Klub Bali New Year’s Bash, was there, but her conversation was limited to talk about watches and tennis. Her friend Enga, a militant looking twenty year-old girl with cropped hair and big horned rimmed glasses, was also there. When Enga started talking about hunting wild pigs, I sensed it was time to change venues.
Saying goodbyes to the assorted people on the patio, I made my way out of the Klub, shot the shit with the parking attendants in my very limited Boso Jowo (Javanese) for a few minutes, and then roared off for home on my motorcycle. It was just shy of 9PM. Before heading back, I took a spin around the alun-alun, town square. By day a tranquil spot to sit and watch the ebb and flow of the city’s traffic, on a Saturday night, the alun-alun bursts to life with food, t-shirt, and toy vendors, picnicking families, clusters of adolescents, and ad-hoc musical and theatrical performances. I remained on my bike, maneuvering through the bumper to bumper traffic and the clouds of smog that the thousands of motorbikes present produced. After coughing up a lung and just barely avoiding half a dozen dismemberments, I broke away from the axis of Madiun social life and headed for the tranquility of the rice paddies and my house.
When I arrived home, an SMS (text message) from my buddy Niko was waiting for me. “Bro. Where are you now? Let’s hang out 2gether. My friend come to my house. What about if i go to your house later? Lets having wishkey?” Whisky and Niko?! What an excellent proposal. Niko is originally from Madiun, but goes to school and lives in Jogyakarta at present. I replied to his text, “Aku pulang kini. Ikut ke rumahku ya? I’m home already. Come on over.”
Twenty minutes later, an already hammered Niko and his three friends showed up. A photographer, part-time student, and full-time goofball, Niko has an unkempt head of rarely washed black hair that hangs down to his mid-back. His teeth and gums are more intimidating than Steven Tyler’s, and his propensity for drink and merriment make him the center of attention no matter whether he’s leading his rock band on the slopes of a disruptive Mount Merapi, or in the pool halls of a slumbering Madiun. “HAI, BRO! What’s up?” He proclaimed loudly while unsheathing his mane of hair from beneath a yellow and gold football helmet, a la Jack Nicholson in “Easy Rider.”
“Not much, bro. Apa rencanamu? What’s your plan?”
“Oh, you know, get drunks, maybe whisky. Can watch the TV?”
We spent the next hour and half mesmerized by “The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers”, horsing around during commercial breaks, consuming the vile three-dollar vodka that Niko and his buddies like to mix with Sprite and onion flavored rice crackers. At one point, when his buddies had left to restock on liquor, mixers, and snacks, Niko leaned over to me and said, “Bro, have you ever had your heart brokens? What does I do”
He had recently split-up with his girlfriend of three years, after she found amorous SMSs from him to a fifteen year-old high school student in a neighboring city. “Well, bro, it just takes time. That and some flowers.”
“YAAAAA,” he lamented remorsefully.
Niko’s buddies returned, and proceeded to finish three bottles of Redbull, another thunderbird of cheap vodka, and enough onion rice crackers to feed a small village. When the movie was nearing its end, Niko stood-up and announced, “OKAY, I go drive my daddy’s Fukuda, wait here for me, ya?”
“Right, bro, whatever you say.”
Half of what Niko says is unintelligible, or at least not meant for public digestion. I knew Niko would be back soon, and that was all that mattered.
Ten minutes later, I heard an atrocious roaring noise coming from out on the street. “What the f^*k?” The other guys followed me and we went outside to take a look. There on the street, wearing a worn leather jacket with the golden helmet and his long hair spilling out every which way, sat Niko on a remarkable contraption. As explained to me – and later confirmed when I met the man – Niko’s dad is a polio survivor who delivers rice from farmers to wholesalers around Madiun. The machine that Niko was sitting on was a motorbike with a mini-pick-up bed on top of a double axle in place of the rear wheel. The name “Fukuda” came from the name that was stenciled onto the tailgate in bright orange letters. “OKAY, BRO. Ayo, let’s go.”
After I turned off the TV and locked up the house, the other four of us hopped into the three foot by five foot pick-up bed, scrunched together like mismatched rice crackers. While passing around the thunderbird and a shot glass found somewhere, we hollered at the top of our lungs and listened to the ridiculous dingdonging of the Fukuda’s fire engine-like horn. Niko meanwhile would turn around while driving and begin to holler incoherently at us until someone screamed that he was driving straight towards a tree, at which point he would quickly turn back around and release a long, drawn out “YAAAAAA!”
Our first stop was back at the alun-alun. Where three hours earlier thousands, if not tens of thousands of people, lay sprawled around the open grass area, by this point (midnight) the town square was almost entirely empty. A few couples sat around the perimeter holding one another, and a handful of food and trinkets vendors sat chatting silently amongst themselves. The five of us sat on a cement wall and continued to take swigs of the vodka, shelling peanuts and hollering at passing motorbikes. “AYO, let’s go!” proclaimed Niko in Javanese. “Let’s take Nick to the underground market!” Well now didn’t that sound exciting!
The underground market was quite literally underground. In the middle of Madiun proper, about two hundred meters from the alun-alun, there is a large complex called the “Pasar Besar”, the Grand Market. We drove into the normal entrance, and then down a steep ramp, which resulted in a chorus of cries of pain as the four of us in the back had our coccyx bones compounded as the Fukuda bottomed out. Niko pulled into a small, dimly lit alcove where four shirtless men sat around plates of rice and fried noodles, drinking tea and Extra Joss, an Indonesian take on the powdered energy beverage, while another half naked man lay sleeping on a pile of rags and bamboo slats. The four guys I was with ordered plates of eggs, rice, chilis, and chicken, and iced teas for everyone. I picked-up a copy of the Jawa Post sitting on one of the bamboo benches, and read in Bahasa Indonesia about the latest soccer news from the English F.A. Premier League while trying to ignore the squawking chickens and snoring man only an arms’ breadth away.
Once the fellows had sated themselves, my buddy Shendi took me for a walk through the market. It was almost 1:30AM now, and villagers were bringing their goods and wares to sell at the Sunday Morning Market some five hours from now. Ancient Ibus lay sprawled amongst green and purple eggplants, inexplicably long sprouts, and grotesque jackfruits. Bare-chested and tawny old men transferred mountains of bamboo wrapped fish from still-running trucks to the dirt and fly encrusted cement floor. Other Ibus in crusty and faded batik sarongs huddled in small groups chatting, while some daring individuals balanced precariously on the seats of their bikes, sleeping in the most remarkable and incomprehensible positions. We passed veritable geological formations of red and yellow chilies, the unprocessed source of all my gustatory pleasure, and all my gastrointestinal pain. To no one in particular, I stated, “I wonder what makes these people maintain this lifestyle? Why not move to the city?”
“Being farmer is very difficult life,” remarked Shendi, “Must wake up early, do work at house, do work in field. But they have much maksud. How means in English?” And after I shrugged my shoulders, he continued, “Purpose.”
We returned to the food stall, where one of the guys had passed out in the back of the pick-up. Niko was poking him and laughing. The four men at the food stall sat impassively watching their teas. Their friend still snored and the chickens still squawked. We piled back into the Fukuda – “FUCK YOU DA!” Niko had proclaimed earlier in the evening – and rumbled and dingdonged back to our respective homes.
I sat around and chatted with some acquaintances, nodding at the Klub Bali regulars as they sauntered into the outdoor patio area next to the pool, some arm-in-arm with would-be lovers and spouses, others looking awkwardly for a group to sit with. Lea, a local six-foot-tall model whom I did some work with in order to promote the upcoming Klub Bali New Year’s Bash, was there, but her conversation was limited to talk about watches and tennis. Her friend Enga, a militant looking twenty year-old girl with cropped hair and big horned rimmed glasses, was also there. When Enga started talking about hunting wild pigs, I sensed it was time to change venues.
Saying goodbyes to the assorted people on the patio, I made my way out of the Klub, shot the shit with the parking attendants in my very limited Boso Jowo (Javanese) for a few minutes, and then roared off for home on my motorcycle. It was just shy of 9PM. Before heading back, I took a spin around the alun-alun, town square. By day a tranquil spot to sit and watch the ebb and flow of the city’s traffic, on a Saturday night, the alun-alun bursts to life with food, t-shirt, and toy vendors, picnicking families, clusters of adolescents, and ad-hoc musical and theatrical performances. I remained on my bike, maneuvering through the bumper to bumper traffic and the clouds of smog that the thousands of motorbikes present produced. After coughing up a lung and just barely avoiding half a dozen dismemberments, I broke away from the axis of Madiun social life and headed for the tranquility of the rice paddies and my house.
When I arrived home, an SMS (text message) from my buddy Niko was waiting for me. “Bro. Where are you now? Let’s hang out 2gether. My friend come to my house. What about if i go to your house later? Lets having wishkey?” Whisky and Niko?! What an excellent proposal. Niko is originally from Madiun, but goes to school and lives in Jogyakarta at present. I replied to his text, “Aku pulang kini. Ikut ke rumahku ya? I’m home already. Come on over.”
Twenty minutes later, an already hammered Niko and his three friends showed up. A photographer, part-time student, and full-time goofball, Niko has an unkempt head of rarely washed black hair that hangs down to his mid-back. His teeth and gums are more intimidating than Steven Tyler’s, and his propensity for drink and merriment make him the center of attention no matter whether he’s leading his rock band on the slopes of a disruptive Mount Merapi, or in the pool halls of a slumbering Madiun. “HAI, BRO! What’s up?” He proclaimed loudly while unsheathing his mane of hair from beneath a yellow and gold football helmet, a la Jack Nicholson in “Easy Rider.”
“Not much, bro. Apa rencanamu? What’s your plan?”
“Oh, you know, get drunks, maybe whisky. Can watch the TV?”
We spent the next hour and half mesmerized by “The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers”, horsing around during commercial breaks, consuming the vile three-dollar vodka that Niko and his buddies like to mix with Sprite and onion flavored rice crackers. At one point, when his buddies had left to restock on liquor, mixers, and snacks, Niko leaned over to me and said, “Bro, have you ever had your heart brokens? What does I do”
He had recently split-up with his girlfriend of three years, after she found amorous SMSs from him to a fifteen year-old high school student in a neighboring city. “Well, bro, it just takes time. That and some flowers.”
“YAAAAA,” he lamented remorsefully.
Niko’s buddies returned, and proceeded to finish three bottles of Redbull, another thunderbird of cheap vodka, and enough onion rice crackers to feed a small village. When the movie was nearing its end, Niko stood-up and announced, “OKAY, I go drive my daddy’s Fukuda, wait here for me, ya?”
“Right, bro, whatever you say.”
Half of what Niko says is unintelligible, or at least not meant for public digestion. I knew Niko would be back soon, and that was all that mattered.
Ten minutes later, I heard an atrocious roaring noise coming from out on the street. “What the f^*k?” The other guys followed me and we went outside to take a look. There on the street, wearing a worn leather jacket with the golden helmet and his long hair spilling out every which way, sat Niko on a remarkable contraption. As explained to me – and later confirmed when I met the man – Niko’s dad is a polio survivor who delivers rice from farmers to wholesalers around Madiun. The machine that Niko was sitting on was a motorbike with a mini-pick-up bed on top of a double axle in place of the rear wheel. The name “Fukuda” came from the name that was stenciled onto the tailgate in bright orange letters. “OKAY, BRO. Ayo, let’s go.”
After I turned off the TV and locked up the house, the other four of us hopped into the three foot by five foot pick-up bed, scrunched together like mismatched rice crackers. While passing around the thunderbird and a shot glass found somewhere, we hollered at the top of our lungs and listened to the ridiculous dingdonging of the Fukuda’s fire engine-like horn. Niko meanwhile would turn around while driving and begin to holler incoherently at us until someone screamed that he was driving straight towards a tree, at which point he would quickly turn back around and release a long, drawn out “YAAAAAA!”
Our first stop was back at the alun-alun. Where three hours earlier thousands, if not tens of thousands of people, lay sprawled around the open grass area, by this point (midnight) the town square was almost entirely empty. A few couples sat around the perimeter holding one another, and a handful of food and trinkets vendors sat chatting silently amongst themselves. The five of us sat on a cement wall and continued to take swigs of the vodka, shelling peanuts and hollering at passing motorbikes. “AYO, let’s go!” proclaimed Niko in Javanese. “Let’s take Nick to the underground market!” Well now didn’t that sound exciting!
The underground market was quite literally underground. In the middle of Madiun proper, about two hundred meters from the alun-alun, there is a large complex called the “Pasar Besar”, the Grand Market. We drove into the normal entrance, and then down a steep ramp, which resulted in a chorus of cries of pain as the four of us in the back had our coccyx bones compounded as the Fukuda bottomed out. Niko pulled into a small, dimly lit alcove where four shirtless men sat around plates of rice and fried noodles, drinking tea and Extra Joss, an Indonesian take on the powdered energy beverage, while another half naked man lay sleeping on a pile of rags and bamboo slats. The four guys I was with ordered plates of eggs, rice, chilis, and chicken, and iced teas for everyone. I picked-up a copy of the Jawa Post sitting on one of the bamboo benches, and read in Bahasa Indonesia about the latest soccer news from the English F.A. Premier League while trying to ignore the squawking chickens and snoring man only an arms’ breadth away.
Once the fellows had sated themselves, my buddy Shendi took me for a walk through the market. It was almost 1:30AM now, and villagers were bringing their goods and wares to sell at the Sunday Morning Market some five hours from now. Ancient Ibus lay sprawled amongst green and purple eggplants, inexplicably long sprouts, and grotesque jackfruits. Bare-chested and tawny old men transferred mountains of bamboo wrapped fish from still-running trucks to the dirt and fly encrusted cement floor. Other Ibus in crusty and faded batik sarongs huddled in small groups chatting, while some daring individuals balanced precariously on the seats of their bikes, sleeping in the most remarkable and incomprehensible positions. We passed veritable geological formations of red and yellow chilies, the unprocessed source of all my gustatory pleasure, and all my gastrointestinal pain. To no one in particular, I stated, “I wonder what makes these people maintain this lifestyle? Why not move to the city?”
“Being farmer is very difficult life,” remarked Shendi, “Must wake up early, do work at house, do work in field. But they have much maksud. How means in English?” And after I shrugged my shoulders, he continued, “Purpose.”
We returned to the food stall, where one of the guys had passed out in the back of the pick-up. Niko was poking him and laughing. The four men at the food stall sat impassively watching their teas. Their friend still snored and the chickens still squawked. We piled back into the Fukuda – “FUCK YOU DA!” Niko had proclaimed earlier in the evening – and rumbled and dingdonged back to our respective homes.
posted by Nick Taranto | 1:25 AM
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