back streets of yogya

It’s true that I brought no money. Or rather, I had brought money, earmarked for a ballet performance, now resting safely in the pockets of a batik artist named Susie. So I had none to spend as I wandered further into the batik neighborhood near the Keraton of Yogya.

A man in a becek convulsed his right hand, flagging me down. I consented to cross the street and say hello out of politeness; after all, I was pulling out a map and deciding how to make my way to the home of Hajir, the batik instructor.

“I’ll take you, 3,000 rupiahs,” the taxi-driver said. I figured it couldn’t hurt; I really had no idea where I was going. But then he carted me a mere 50 yards down to the end of the lane and stopped. There was Hajir’s home. He beamed at me, in victory, and then chuckled boldly. I slapped half of his inflated asking price into his outstretched hand and shook my head in dismay. After a month living here, I am unaccustomed to being duped. That, and most Indonesians I encounter are quick to provide accurate advice and assistance in exchange for a smile and a chance to practice their English.

I looked at Hajir’s offerings, passed, and then slipped out into the muggy afternoon. I wandered through small, windy streets prisoner to none of the principles of orderly city planning. A good percentage of the homes produced some sort of craft: batik, wooden masks, bullhide puppets. Children flew kites or rode bikes through the quiet lanes.

Two old women hunched on their front stoop. All empty gaps in her smile and with the eeriest bright blue eyes, one offered graciously for me to come inside. But then she brought out her batiks, quite rudimentary and unattractive, and when I said, “tidak, terimah kasih” – thanks, but no thanks – she snatched the batik piece from my hands, threw it down on my lap, and puckered her lips, turning away while muttering. I’m not so easily guilted. “Suit yourself,” I said, and walked outside to her ill-tempered sputtering.

Two pre-teen girls followed me on bikes. I raced them on foot, my plastic bag with the balls whipping behind me, until they escorted me away from their neighborhood.