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Of the 13,677 islands that constitute the archipelago of Indonesia, the island of Java is the largest and the most densely populated. In Central Java there is an area known as Daerah Istemewa Yogyakarta or the Special District of Yogyakarta. It is an area which has self-governing rights and responds directly to Jakarta and the Indonesian Government. It’s capital is Yogyakarta, the renowned cultural centre of Indonesia, located in the southern region of Central Java. A mecca for lovers of Javanese drama, the arts and dance, it is an area steeped in Javanese culture. This is evident in Yogyakarta's many tourists destinations. The Kraton or Sultan’s Palace is home to the Sultan of Yogyakarta – Sri Sultan Hamengku Buwono X – and his family, Borobudur, one of the largest Bhuddist monuments in the southern Hemisphere, and the Prambanan Hindu temple complex located on the outskirts of Yogyakarta.

The main street of Yogyakarta is two miles in length, a one-way street running from north to south. This is where the main activity in Yogyakarta occurs. Kaki Lima, or street vendors, line the length selling all manner of handicraft--from clothes to bags to statues. Accommodation is abundant, catering to backpackers and those who prefer a little five star luxury. My hotel of choice had always been the Mutiara Hotel located in the centre of town on the main street of Malioboro. From the hotel I venture far, and on my many sojourns, I have met many. Just two of the people who have captured my attention are Suyadi and Komeng:

Walking along the cobble-stoned street, I searched for loose stones to kick. Hearing sounds of laughter, my gaze left the cobblestones. In front of me, an old man was approaching – the more I looked at him; the more he laughed. There have always been a lot of beggars in the street – I preferred to call them ‘unfortunate people.' He shuffled as he walked, as if he were injured.

His haggard and painless face was rippled with folds of skin and the years had obviously not been kind to him, yet he evoked an age of existence immersed in history. The history I speak of is that which has witnessed Indonesia being occupied by three foreign nations during its course. It was a history as seen by his eyes – strange but haunting, forgotten eyes. This man of fragile years continued to smile, the folds of skin upon his face moving like waves towards a shoreline.

When the distance between us narrowed, the old man thrust out an open hand toward me. It wasn’t because of his fascinating facial features, and it certainly wasn’t out of pity that I searched in my pocket for some coins. Awkwardly I fumbled past my handkerchief in my search while looking at the old man even more intently. The veins in his arms had expanded from years of toil, and they now stood like mountains rising above a plain of skin. His clothing was soiled, ragged and unkempt. Yet, this old man continued to fascinate me. After minutes of searching, I finally found some coins. The old man watched me as I began to give him the money. His eyes opened wide when the coins tinkled onto the palm of his open hand, one on top of the other. A smile spread across his face. I knew it wasn’t really enough, but the more he had given to him, the greater the chance of obtaining a decent meal. The old man’s fingers closed onto the coins to secure them as his own.

"I have no more coin" I told him. He stared deep into my eyes and I began to feel uneasy. Perhaps he needed to talk, I thought. I quickly looked around for the cleanest dirty patch of ground to sit on. Without saying a word, the old man sat down beside me, crossing his legs and continuing to smile. The old man patiently gazed in front of him as if he were waiting for me to speak. Five minutes past. I began to speak Indonesian to him but there was no response. Suddenly the old man replied speaking fluent English and astounding me completely.

The old man turned to face me and then began to relate stories from his childhood--growing up in Jakarta and how his family held high status in society at that time. As our conversation progressed, I became the student. I listened in fascination as the stories unfolded, painting pictures in my mind. My fascination grew deeper as the old man related accounts of the Dutch occupation of Java and then the occupation by Japanese Imperial Forces during the Second World War. The man had been an officer in the Indonesian Army throughout this period and later, when the British Forces administered the islands at the end of the war. Although older in years, he still maintained a rank in the army until Independence in 1945.

At times the old man seemed disturbed by what he had related. There were other times when the old man smiled warmly, speaking softly and kindly of his family. However, overall he was worried about the present state of Indonesia and its future. As I sympathised with him, he touched my shoulder gently as if to reassure me, but about what I did not know. Our conversation drifted pleasantly along, and I continued to be a good listener. Every now and then, I noticed the odd tourist pass by where we sat. The weird stares and comments made under their breath amused me immensely. I couldn’t have cared--I was happily enjoying the afternoon in good company. My stomach began sending me vicious messages after having missed lunch earlier. I invited the old man to join me for an evening meal. He was elated and the broad beaming smile appeared again graciously. As luck had it, a kaki lima (food cart) was approaching and I suggested that we eat Sate. The old man agreed with a nod of his head.

I suddenly realised that I had never asked the old man his name. After purchasing enough Sate and boiled rice for three men, I sat down with my new friend. Not a word was spoken as we both enjoyed the Sate, the old man eating as if it were his last meal upon this Earth. The people traffic was increasing Those who had just finished their daily work, others just rambling along gazing aimlessly at the myriad of shops, and the usual array of tourists. After finishing his meal, the old man smiled warmly at me in a gesture of appreciation. Again no words were spoken for several minutes, but I didn’t mind. I was enjoying his company.

The silence was broken when the old man quietly spoke “What is your name young man ?" I thought to myself how strange it was--we had both enjoyed each other’s company, and yet we did not know each other’s names.

“Barrie," I replied as I put forward my hand in a gesture of friendship. The old man seemed surprised as he took my hand in his; his grasp firm and sure. He smiled inquisitively and asked

“From England my friend…..from England." With a hopeful tone in my voice I asked “Will I see you again my friend?"

Still smiling warmly, the old man looked at me as if I were his prodigal son. There was what seemed a small light glowing in the darkness of his eyes. His grasp on my hand increased a little and then faded as his hand dropped to the side of his body; the other hand he placed upon my shoulder.

It was with those kind soft words that the old man shuffled off into the distance. My day had been fruitful in many ways. I had learned so much of the past, its occurrences and its impact upon Indonesian society in general. But, most of all, I had found a new friend.

It is a feeling that exists within itself causing improper balance of thought’

Yasir, originally a farmer, was like so many others. He had come into the city in search of work. He found it by peddling a becak – a bicycle trishaw. I valued Yasir as a friend--not only for his knowledge of Javanese culture, but also for his great source of information on current events. As I emerged from my hotel, I saw Yasir and several other becak drivers sitting and chatting amongst themselves. We talked for several minutes, but it was another becak driver that aroused my curiosity.

“ Oh him. That is Komeng. He is new in town, and a sad situation it is Barrie."

As I listened to the tale of this obviously saddened man, I began to feel genuinely sorry for him. Komeng was from Kasongan – a village not too far from Yogyakarta and renowned for its pottery and clay figurines. His wife had threatened him. She told Komeng that he must increase the income of the family or she would leave. Komeng was a devoted family man and worshipped his wife. She was manipulative in many ways because of such devotion by her husband.

“She will never leave him." Yasir continued. “She would have nowhere to go except the street." But still, Komeng was forced to travel into the city and work in an already overcrowded profession. I walked over and sat down on the footpath near Komeng’s becak.

The wheels creaked an unusual sound as Komeng moved to position himself comfortably in the becak. He lazily gazed up and down the street. The more I observed Komeng, the more obvious it became that much had happened to him recently--all of which affected his very existence. Hunger seemed to weigh down on him, as well as an uncertainty about his future. The tears of self-pity had long since evaporated being replaced by manifested anger--a pent-up rage of a desperate man surviving as best he could.

I watched as Komeng took a small wrinkled photograph from his shirt pocket. He mumbled loudly, “But how, with what and what of tomorrow?" as he gazed at the photograph. Admiration shone on his face, and he uttered in a dull tone: “ I’m sorry…I’m sorry." To my mind’s eyes, it had been some time since he had held his wife warmly, or even heard the rich sounds of his children’s laughter.

All Komeng knew was that at one time he was happy in his village; and all around him was harmonious. I watched him shake his head and then look to the sky above. With his arms half stretched out from his body, the palms of his hands facing the heavens, he mumbled sadly to the air “Why?" Then his head fell slowly into his hands as if he were searching for a future in his thoughts. Deep in his heart he knew there was no real future; but only despair. Komeng muttered to himself “Is it my fault ?….What did I do ?" It was true that at one time he had seen his country flourish and all within lived as his God had meant it to be; harmoniously and in happiness. However, change had quickly vanquished the reality that once was his life. Now many people in Indonesia wear a different mask: that of hopelessness, despair, and poverty.

Once again Komeng positioned his body for comfort and his bones creaked; the wheels of the becak creaked as well, and in unison the sound echoed within the depths of my thoughts. So many seek change, so many need compassion and understanding; but most want to know that they belong. The rye smile once again returned to Komeng’s face as he placed his hand upon his shirt pocket - the safe haven for his treasured photograph – and beneath that; his heart. A few moments passed before he sighed heavily; and then he looked up and the down the street, about to begin again.

Other articles by Barrie Lie-Birchall:

• Parangtritis—A Beach Not Too Far

• Rain Crazed on Malioboro

• Isadora—Street Queen of Yogyakarta

• "No Thanks, I'm A Veggie!"