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For instance, I was told a few weeks ago that the Indonesians have 1,000 ways of saying "yes" and 999 of them mean "no". The best example of this is when a Indonesian says "maybe". "Maybe" means there is absolutely no chance that the subject of the "maybe" will occur. "Maybe" means "no". The reason they say "maybe" and not "no" is tied up in that delicate, impenetrable concept of face, which, if you are not Asian, requires a masters in anthropology and a PhD in patience to even begin to appreciate, let alone understand. Rather than admit that something cannot be done or that they don\'t know something, Indonesians say "maybe", because to say "no" would mean a loss of face to them.
So anything from asking "will England regain the Ashes in our lifetime?" to "is it all right if my friend Bob here sleeps with your little sister tonight?" will evoke the same response: "Maybe". And it is of little comfort for you the poor Buleh (white person) that the Indonesian has saved face, when you are the one who ends up suffering the often dire consequences of taking this "maybe" at "face" value (I don\'t do puns, so none was intended...(!))
And you learn the hard way. I learnt when I took a last minute invitation from a friend last Friday night to go to Ujung Kolong, a world heritage area on the south-western tip of Java. Among a huge variety of wildlife, it is the last remaining habitat of the Javan rhinoceros which once roamed an area from India to East Java. Since then, it has succumbed to a strictly enforced Asian environmental policy requiring the complete destruction of anything which occurs naturally, coupled with the endless and ruthless pursuit by inadequate-feeling men for sexual potency. For centuries, along with the tiger\'s penis, the poor old rhino\'s horn has provided a perverse comfort for men who steadfastly refuse to admit that no matter how many exotic powders they rub into it, it will not get any bigger.
Our size unchanged we headed out west from Jakarta to a town called Serang, a sort of poor man\'s Newcastle but without the nightlife. It is so interesting Lonely Planet devotes five lines to it. I was going to give it a little more space, but on reflection I have to admit that Lonely Planet was right. It was our driver Bazuki’s turn to choose the music, and so I had to put up with Phil Collins and Genesis the whole way. Not that I have anything against Phil Collins or Genesis. I just can’t stand their music, especially that "No son of mine" song. Try hearing that over and over again.
Anyway, turning south we made it late at night to Labuan. Just on the horizon from Labuan are the islands which once formed Krakatoa until it blew it\'s stack in 1880s in one of the biggest explosions ever recorded on earth. Anak Krakatau (son of Krakatoa), which has formed in place of Krakatoa, still rumbles and hisses angrily from a few kilometres off the coast. It is the source of much superstition among the locals who have conjured a belief that the Devil resides there, mostly in order to sell more wood-carved totems to European backpackers and the rookie WWF investigators who stop by on their way to save the rhino.
We stayed the night at a half-built sailing resort which, like most resorts in Indonesia, fell foul of the civil unrest and currency crisis a few years ago. The result is a mosquito filled pit in the place of a proper pool, a fold-out mattress in the place of a proper bed and Fosters in the bar in the place of proper beer.
Running the resort in the place of a proper manager was Jasper, a Dutchman who apparently forgot to withdraw along with the rest of them in 1945. Either that or they left him to the locals, which is probably a more likely explanation. Jasper advised us gravely that a trip to Ujung Kolong was not advisable in the wet season. The sea-route which would take 2 hours would be wrought with heavy seas. It would also cost us 2 million rupiah. Going by land would be difficult, along a "bad road", and the 200-odd kilometres would take over 5 hours. In short, he said we would be mad to try it and did we want to please spend the rest of the weekend at his resort. Please. At a discount. Please. "I have bills to pay...."
Undeterred, we sat around drinking cask wine with a contented group of middle-agers which was dominated by Ffyonna Fortesque-Smythe or something or other. She was one of those posh English women whose accent was so plum and la-di-da that she had lost the ability to pronounce the letters "r" and "l". I\'m sure you know the type. She heard we were going to Ujung Kolong.
"You\'d better be carefuw. I hope you\'ve had your tabwets. It weawwy is a dweadful mawahwia awia."
"A what?", we sniggered.
"A mawahwia awia. It weawwy is quite dweadful."
"Sorry?" we chortled.
"A mawahwia awea! It\'s a bwoody tewwible mawahwia awea!" she cried as we collapsed into howls of laughter.
My mother always told me I should listen to people who know better than me. In the first place, I should have listened to my mother. If I had, I would have listened to Jasper and perhaps even Ffyonna. But I didn\'t, so I didn\'t. So we got up early the next morning and began our trek into the dreaded malaria area, unprotected.
We decided to take the overland route. This was a mistake, because even though it sort of looked like one, our Toyota Kijang was not a four-wheel drive. And as it turned out, we really, really needed one.
Jasper had warned us about the road, but I had applied the concept "bad" to Australian standards. This dirt road was a WWI no-mans-land of deep pot holes and gaping crevasses. I asked Bazuki, if he thought we would make it through.
“Maybe?he said.
“All right,? I replied cheerily, “Let’s give it a go?Bazuki sort of stood there for a while with an odd look on his face, but it seemed to me as if he was only checking out the route. I sat in the car looking for something to replace Genesis (I’d had enough by now), wondering what was taking him so long. Eventually we got going, and after a few hours of bone-jarring and bashing our heads into the roof we made it into Taman Jaya, a village so remote that you can\'t get cable television, let alone mobile phone coverage. We met the local guy in charge who was so happy to see his first Buleh since the crisis that he attempted to triple charge us for everything we laid eyes on, especially wood carvings of the fabled rhino.
We were shown around a medieval-like village with dogs, goats and chickens joining naked children and prune-faced old Ibus following us in a noisy procession. Most of the houses were bamboo framed with thatched palm leaves done in intricate square patterns for walls. They had open fires inside where people cooked food in pots, so it appeared at least that the Iron Age had arrived. The village head pointed to a mountain. "Up there live the Badui people. They shun the outside world. In Indonesia, there are many types of primitive people."
After looking around at his village, I felt inclined to agree.
He showed us how they harvest coconut from the hundreds of trees which line the shore. He was particularly concerned by the fact that a company bought the coconuts from the local people at a cheap price, and then sold it to a factory at a greater price. Then, he told us in conspiratorial tones, the factory would process it and on-sell it to a wholesaler for even more. The wholesaler in turn would sell it to a distributor who would sell the coconut to a retailer, each one marking the price up. The retailer would then sell the coconut to the end consumer at prices a great deal higher than the village people had originally sold the coconut to the company. This, he told us, was scandalous.
Having come across similar supply-chain patterns before, I gently explained that this sort of thing really formed some of the fundamental tenets of capitalism, and capitalism being so popular these days, such activity was not therefore all that uncommon. I tried to liken it to his earlier attempts to sell me the hand-carved rhino for 30,000 rupiah when it had cost him about 100th of that, but he remained unconvinced.
That afternoon we hired a boat to take us to an island, Pilau Handeleneum. After spending an hour being gassed by the carbon monoxide seeping into the cabins (or how else do you explain everyone falling asleep in minutes during a 3 metre swell?) we took a hollowed-out log canoe over to the mainland and up a jungle river. We were promised an array of wildlife including monkeys, crocodiles, deer, and were given the usual "if you are lucky" line about the park\'s star attraction. We emerged a few hours later having seen a butterfly and a few mosquitoes. At one stage I thought I saw a lizard but it turned out to be a log. In fact, quite a few things turned out to be logs. Except for the rhino, which turned out to be a boulder.
We spent the evening being beaten at chess by a local schoolteacher and warding off mosquitoes, both of whom seemed to have a defined attack strategy beyond our capabilities. We were awoken at 6:00 the next morning for a "special" trek to see the hot mountain springs. The village head would charge us a “special?price of 30,000 rupiah, he said. After a 90 minute hike through rice paddies and knee deep mud, we came to the springs, which turned out to be a damp trickle seeping out of the side of a hill. The village head stood by smiling proudly as we wondered if anyone would notice if we strung him up on a vine and left him there. As it was starting to rain, we also wondered if perhaps we should be going home.
The rain had had a somewhat detrimental effect on the road, which had deteriorated to the point where it made the Somme look like centre court at Roland Garros. We got bogged a few times and were bailed out by amused locals for the price of a packet of Gudang Gurams and a few cheap laughs at our expense.
Eventually we met our match in the form of a gaping, water-filled rut which could have housed an elephant. I left the vehicle to give Bazuki a better chance of making it across without my weight to deal with (at least that was the reason I told him. It was actually because I feared for my life). As I was walking away I heard Bazuki rev the engine. I heard him approach the trench at speed in a vain attempt to clear it. This was followed by a crunch, the sound of body-work bending, axles straining and the mournful hiss of water hitting the engine which then cut out with an air of complete capitulation. These were precisely the sort of sounds I had thought I would have every possibility of hearing, but had really hoped I wouldn\'t.
It turned out that in addition to an elephant, the rut could also house a Toyota Kijang. I looked around to see the car perched precariously over a ridge in the middle of the trench, wedged into its sides at very difficult looking angle. Its front wheels were deep in the thick mud, its back wheels were spinning in the air and a wide-eyed Bazuki was sprawled across the dashboard.
"Will we get through this all right Bazuki?" I asked.
"Maybe", he replied.
This time I knew what he meant.
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