Adventures in South East Asia

21 ~ Friendly Faces

Yogyakarta (Jogja), Java, Indonesia

I should have clued in when I had seen the Indonesian women in hijabs at the airport or have noticed based on the dominance of men on the street the previous night, but this morning it blared in my ear, 'Welcome to the Muslim state of Java'.

My first experience in a Muslim country had been Malaysia. Religion had been an aspect I hadn't thought to look into before travelling with Buddhism so prevalent in South East Asia I had visited. While Malaysia had been open enough to allow us free movement as female travellers, we had sensed an extra set of eyes on us typically. We rarely had dressed as we would in Thailand: with cut-off shorts or tank tops. No one had ever told us to act this way, but we had attracted enough distasteful looks or leers dressed modestly that we hadn't felt the least bit comfortable trying anything less, especially in Borneo.

Every morning, as well as four other times throughout the day, the call to prayer played on loud speakers throughout the Muslim cities I had visited. While I didn't know what they said in Arabic, I found the whole concept interesting: the culture and religion so unified it could be broadcast on the streets. I wouldn't have advocated for change where I was from, as I celebrated our diversity, but I also enjoyed seeing different lifestyles and how it influenced the landscape.

The first call to prayer occurred just before sunrise. It would have been a decent wakeup call -- around six a.m. -- which after ten months of teaching became my internal alarm time. My neighbours; however, felt that waking up two hours prior to this was a good idea. They also failed to take into account how their loud conversations would go through the paper-thin walls and cause me to shove the other pillow over my face until six a.m., when I just gave up and got ready for the day. Since my neighbours on both sides had started the day so early, I got a wait-free shower.

I walked down our sunlit street, now bustling with life from the rickshaw drivers hollering ride offers, to the street carts offering fruits to women in colourful hijabs. It was touristy to a point, but had its own local flavour more apparent with the morning hours. I couldn't count on my hands and feet how many times I got asked where I was going and why on earth would I ever want to walk there.

An internet search and the woman at the front desk had given me a few sights to take in within the city limits: Sultan's Palace and the Water Castle. I had a vague map, but figured I'd just keep walking until I figured out where to go. Considering I was stopped once every two minutes by drivers looking for a fare, it wasn't hard to keep asking for directions. My patience waned with each request, prompted by my independent streak. I wanted to explore my way. Why couldn't they understand a woman just needed to walk her own path?

I found a money exchange so I could pay for the rest of my stay and found out I had been scammed out of one third of my money at the airport yesterday. It was frustrating, but ultimately my fault for not exchanging earlier or checking the rates. I'd survive.

The heat only took forty minutes to beat me down and allow me to cave to the next driver who came my way. He offered to take me to a Batik shop, as well as the Water Castle and Sultan's Palace for a more than reasonable price.

I had learned in Thailand that the drivers often got a cut if they brought tourists into souvenir shops or specialty shops. The Thai man had been upfront about it at the time, telling me I didn't even have to buy anything, just look interested and he'd get gas coupons, which I had been happy to do since he had told me. I figured similar logic was at work here as my Indonesian driver talked up this artistic Batik shop that his friend owned.

The store was small and canvases lined nearly every wall from the bottom a few feet past eye level. Batik was a style of needle work on cloth that originated as a clothing style. At times, it almost looked like tye-dye, though I'd admit my understanding of the style was a bit limited. Artists were worried the style was being lost to the influence of Western clothing styles, so they started Batik paintings, which ironically got bought up by the Western or other tourists. We were the cause and enjoyed the effect as well.