Travel Journals

Isadora--Street Queen of Yogyakarta
by Barrie Lie-Birchall

Key West
by Sandy Summers

Prague: Pivo, Prosm!
by Ellen Kamilakis

From Umbria to Le Marche
by Jackie Goyette

Observations of Those On the Road
by Matt Superfisky

That Smile
by Claire Rogers

Avoiding Travel Scams
by Julie Vick

A Hunger in Berlin
by Abha Iyengar

Flickering Yellow Flame
by Marlo Desjardins

An Italian Library
by Jackie Goyette

Zuppi Santi (Soggy Saints)
by Corrie Cook

Storefronts
by David J. McLaughlin

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Isadora—Street Queen of Yogyakarta
by Barrie Lie-Birchall

In the city of Yogyakarta located in Central Java, there is always something captivating happening — day or night. Street Theatre is one of them. My old Javanese friend, Sugeng, once asked me what I thought of it all. My answer was simple and hurried: "It reminds me of a play within a circus on the edge of perfect insanity." It might seem like an ambiguous description, but street theatre is like that. It's bold and brash, colourful and delightful, but most of all, entertaining. However the subject — Isadora — was not a part of any street theatre nor did she attend a University where most of the street theatre is created, but she definitely possessed the 'perfectly insane' part of my play within a circus. She performed her own style of street theatre magnificently!

As I always have done, I woke with the sun rising to greet the beginning of a new day. The clatter and chatter of the kaki lima (street traders) setting up their stalls, the increasing traffic, the buses stopping every two minutesÑtheir squealing brakes gnawing at every nerve—was noise enough to wake the dead. But it was her voice that aroused my curiosity—the shouting, the singing fading into mumbles and returning to shouts of anger as she seemingly argued with all those who passed by her. She even bellowed and argued with herself!. The outlook from the second floor of the hotel availed me a perfect view of the main street below, and as I gazed out, I was more than surprised to see a strange dishevelled woman in her 50's performing what could only be described as outrageous antics.I could do nothing but smile at her manner of dress — outrageous as it was. An arm-length cream frilly blouse complimented her knee-length Tartan skirt. The waistcoat she wore, multi-coloured similar to a rainbow splash, perfectly matched her red and green stockings. A collection of feathers protruded from the purple bandana on her head. On her feet were what seemed to be Reebok's first pair of sneakers, holed in the toes and dirty — very filthy. She carried over her shoulder a hessian sack. Surprisingly, she was an agile lady for her age.

As I watched in fascination, this woman twirled and danced in circles, creating in her mind a ballet movement. I remembered reading a story of Isadora Duncan, the American dancer known as the mother of modern dance. It seemed apt to my thinking that I call this woman Isadora. Every few movements of her dance, Isadora would stop, put her hands on her hips, and cackle to herself. The cackling eased into mumbling, and she looked on the ground for anything she found interesting. Whatever shined, a rip-top from a soft drink can or the silver paper from a packet of cigarettes, was a treasure. Discarded cigarette ends it seemed, were Isadora's favourites. But it was her scavenging in the bins for scraps of food that held her attention more than her treasures. Whatever food scrap she found, she smelled it first, then tasted it. Each time she did this, Isadora would glance around to see if anybody was approaching for fear of losing her meal. Isadora collected just about everything. Such items were hastily placed in the hessian bag. Isadora then spun the hessian bag around her head in a triumphant manner, and just as quickly, stood perfectly still.

"Pak Barrie, don't do that. She is very bad. She's mad."

But I found Isadora's insanity intriguing. I prompted Sarwono for more information, and after he told me, my desire for a conversation dissipated. Isadora was once a highly educated ladyÑa lecturer at the University of Indonesia. Apparently, she returned home to Yogyakarta finding her husband in a compromising position with another woman. Isadora took a machete to the pair of them, and although they weren't killed, Isadora served a period of incarceration sending her 'over-the-edge'. I thought it a sad story, but Sarwono disagreed. He, like so many others, called her crazy and an idiot, and veered away from her presence whenever she danced her way along Malioboro. I sat on the footpath and watched the multi-coloured lady dance into the distance.

Street theatre is fascinating. The themes vary, but in general they are of a political nature. You can always tell when street theatre is being performed — the traffic banks up! Of all the theatre I have seen performed on the streets of Yogyakarta, none has been so colourful, or expressed with more feeling, than Isadora's. Perhaps one day I will have the opportunity to speak to the street queen, but for now, I will enjoy her outrageous antics whenever she appears on Malioboro.