Tukang Bakso Song

Abang tukang bakso

Mari-mari sini, aku mau beli

Abang tukang bakso

Captlah kemari, sudah tak tahan lagi.

Satu mangkak saja

Lima ribu perak

Yang banyak baksonya

Tidak pakai sambal

Tidak pakai saos

Juga tidak pakai kol.

Bakso bulat seperti bola pingpong

Kalau lewat membikin perut kosong

Jadi anak janganlah suka bohong

Kalau bohong digigit sapi ompong.

Bakso seller passing

Come in I want to buy

Please hurry and come

I'm really hungry.

Just one bowl

5,000 rupiah

with lots of bakso

with no sambal.

With no sauce

With no cabbage

Shaped like pingpong balls

When passing in front

Makes my tummy hungry, no lie

If I lie the cow with broken teeth will bite me.

Feel that burn

"Apa kabar?" = how are you?

This morning I politely asked my yoga teacher "apa bakar".... Translation? "What are you barbequing?" How we laughed.

Good to have you back

It's great to see the smaller Indonesian bank notes are back in circulation. Before Idul Fitri the 5,000 (about 85 cents) and 10,000 rupiah bills completely disappeared. It's traditional to give children money to celebrate the occasion, so everyone began to hoard their stash months ago. There were even people on the side of the road who - for a small commission - would change your larger bills into tiddlers. Now, thankfully, all those kids are out spending spending spending, and we can have our money back.   

Idul Fitri on Lombok

It's the morning of Idul Fitri (the most holiest of days on the Muslim calendar), and we're cruising the island of Lombok on our little 110cc motor bebek. As we wind our way around the coast road, we're passed by truck after truck with twenty - sometimes more - people standing in the back. They wave and smile as they lurch and grind around the corners and up the steepest inclines in a belch of stinking diesel fumes. Everyone's in a good mood - after all, they're on their way home to their villages and their families. 

The women we pass walking through the shadows of the palms look like brightly coloured bourgainvillea, a riot of pinks, oranges, and yellows. New clothes go hand in hand with Idul Futri, and you can still see the creases in many of the men's crisp white tunics. 

As we head futher into the mountains the air begins to cool. It's immediately lusher, and the sound of the cicadas in the trees is almost deafening in places. Up, up, up: through the jungle and up over Pusuk Pass. The monkeys sit and sun themselves on the warm tarmac; each yawn reveals startlingly large fang-like teeth. I try not to be intimidated.