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Rain
Crazed on Malioboro
by
Barrie Lie-Birchall
january
quarter, 2005
Indonesia is a beautiful country with beautiful people. It possesses a culture that dazzles and stimulates the senses. Whichever season you visit—the dry or the wet— every corner of the archipelago has amusing happenings. I witnessed one such event in a city in Central Java called Yogyakarta— the cultural centre of Indonesia. It was the rainy season, and in my opinion, the most beautiful of the two seasons.
Rain itself has such a strange affect on the senses. It seems to conjure up beauty in various forms:warm droplets from the jugs of the Gods— romantic and crazy rain. Romantic rain, with its warmth and happiness, always makes one in the mood for love. Crazy rain tends to make people impatient, angry, or often hopeless through frustration. People end up doing crazy things like running across the road through buckets of rain rather than being patient and waiting for the rain to ease or even stop. People become angry because their clothes become wet and uncomfortable, hanging off the body like sheets of lead. The sense of hopelessness comes from the fact that people can't do what they want at the exact time they want to.
In Yogyakarta, as I gazed out the window with its raindrops dribbling down the pane, I tried to decide what type of rain this was. The clouds, varying shades of grey intermingled with the blackness of doom, hung heavy in the sky like a carpet of cotton wool; changing shapes and colors. The wind, whisking the clouds along their way like soldiers marching into battle; came from somewhere but seemed to go nowhere. I began to wonder if clouds had their own names or even status in the sky— a civilisation of clouds overlooking us mere mortals. The clouds and rain were moving in unison and seemed to be getting faster by the second. Hard and warm rain pelted the window. Trees were bending and shaking. Their leaves surrendered hopelessly.
I had a perfect view of the street below from my room on the second floor of the hotel, although the vision to my left was partially obscured by an old Banyan tree. Strong, aged and sturdy as the tree was, it too submitted to the merciless, gusting winds. Its leaves were torn away, never to return. The flurry of activity in the main street below was increasing. After a few minutes of deliberation, I decided that this rain was definitely crazy rain. It was absolute mayhem. Although the downpour had slowed the usual hectic pace of the traffic, madness still prevailed. Often I am amazed at people's sudden bursts of urgent necessity to get to their destination just because its raining. As I watched the happenings below the window, all kinds of people, young and old alike, were darting to and fro in a variety of directions, hastily attempting to elude the rain. Some were successful and secured some form of shelter. Others, though, just gave into the heavens above them. The cars also seemed to be akin to their human counterparts as the drivers changed lanes at a whim and then suddenly returned to their original lane. To watch this scene was to witness insanity in its prime. Amidst all this lunacy, some of the people who had given in to the heavens were now attempting to cross Malioboro Road.
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The clouds, varying shades of grey intermingled with the blackness of doom, hung heavy in the sky like a carpet of cotton wool; changing shapes and colors. |
The rows of shops with their overhangs became instant refuges for those people trying to keep dry. Indeed this was a crazy rain. I watched it change to a downpour and then to a medium fall in the space of fifteen minutes. Then it reverted to its former torrential deluge. A sea of eyes peered out from underneath the overhangs of the shops. I could almost read their thoughts. Many were cursing the rain for the unwelcomed intrusion into their daily activity. Those street traders who line the length of Malioboro Road, who chose to ignore the pending downpour earlier, were hurriedly covering their goods with layer upon layer of old weatherworn plastic.
My attention was drawn to a Becak driver who was intently watching the flow of traffic, his Becak pointed towards the hotel side of the road. As the driver inched his Becak onto the edge of the road, his eyes never left the flow of traffic. Oddly, he looked both ways when the traffic was only coming from one direction. Slowly he pushed his Becak onto the first lane of the road. Drivers were honking their car horns, swerving around him and almost colliding with other cars in the other lane who also honked their car horns in anger at being intruded upon. The Becak driver waved his arms frantically in an attempt to slow the flow of traffic so that he could cross the road. This arm waving was indeed a show of bravado because, at the same time, he pushed his Becak out into the middle of the road in direct line with the oncoming traffic. The driver safely secured his posterior on the seat behind the Becak while hid passenger was forced to gaze upon tonnes of mobile metal looming down; an awesome sight through a wet, dirty sheet of plastic.
The young entrepreneurs of the wet season were the only ones who seemed to be profitting from the rain. Young boys in groups, each with an umbrella, offered their services to those who wanted to go somewhere without getting wet . Of course there was an appropriate fee for such service, and this depended on the distance covered. These young boys, averaging ten years of age, were entirely drenched from standing in the rain and scanning the crowds for prospective clients. In Indonesia, poor people make money as best they can. They have suffered greatly from the hardships of the Asian Economic Crisis and the political turmoil. But it still rains.
Footnote: Coming to terms with the realisation that everything in Indonesia seems to virtually change on a daily basis— politically or socially— can in effect be difficult to absorb in its entirety. With this factor in mind, it is almost imperative to travel with an open mind and heart. There are those travellers who ignore the unwritten code of ethics when travelling. This within itself can have a reverse affect upon the manner in which the people of Indonesia view those who disrespect their customs and beliefs.
Other articles by Barrie Lie-Birchall:
• Parangtritis—A Beach Not Too Far
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