Indonesia holds a very dear place in my heart. It was the first country outside the Philippines, my birthplace, that I set out for my solo backpacking trip. It felt like home, the Indonesians looked like Filipinos; their markets looked the same, the streets looked the same, and I looked the same. I blended in quite well and I was frequently mistaken for being Indonesian. Even the Bahasa language has similarities to my local dialect Illongo. It looked like home, but it felt like an adventure.
One of the things in particular that stood out to me in Indonesia was how kind and nice people were to me. There were many instances where random acts of kindness really helped me get through a hard day. I am inclined to attribute these good-natured acts because they thought I was a fellow Indonesian but I am hopeful it is also due to their great character.
For instance, taking the rail through Java, I frequently took economy. Here, you’d commonly see people from all backgrounds and at one time I was seated next to three elderly women. They talked as if they were all long-time friends who happened to randomly catch the same train. They shared stories of their home, where they were going and many other things I couldn’t understand in Bahasa. I sat there awkwardly without speaking a single word for hours, staring at the window going through the Indonesian country side. Naturally, they started being curious of me and started talking to me in their language asking me questions I could not understand. I simply said I was not Indonesian, I was Filipino. Surprised, they laughed and started offering me treats and snacks. Being unable to speak each other’s languages, communication was nearly impossible yet they were kind enough to offer me their snacks. They offered me local delicacies, some roasted and fried nuts, some type of sticky rice, and a banana chips type.
Even at the worst of times, Indonesian hospitality helped me through really long and challenging days. I had just finished my adventure to see and visit Mount Bromo and Madakaripura Waterfalls at sunrise. ( Read All About it Here ) I had foolishly bought and booked a train ticket to the next town the night before without thinking of the time constraints. I had exactly an hour and a half to get back to my hostel, catch a grab and get on board the train. Google maps says that I’ll be at my hostel in an hour and a half. I had no time to spare. I zipped through the roads on my trusty rental bike, racing through every corner and every little town. Dodging traffic and near-accidents, I made it with about 15 minutes to spare. I hurriedly packed my belongings and I waited for my Grab driver. I got on his bike and I told him to hurry. My cheap ass could not bear to miss and waste my train ticket. Unbeknownst to me, I had put my miscellaneous gear (including my absolute favourite yellow water bottle) all in a plastic bag, tied outside of my bag. During normal times, this would be no worries at all. As my luck would have it, this was no ordinary times. This was big hurry times.
Turns out, my Grab driver is sporting a new scooter. A nice new fancy scooter. A scooter with its exhaust pipe a little higher and pointing upwards a little more than normal. Pointing directly to my bag and the plastic bag thats tied around it. The plastic bag thats got my treasured favourite water bottle. As we raced through the city’s streets to get to the train station, the hot exhaust gas from the scooter eventually ate right through the plastic bag. All of its contents bursting and scattering through the streets.
My heart dropped as soon as I heard the metal clang my bottle made with the ground. I told my driver to stop. We traced back our steps. We looked through all the random junk on the road for my fluorescent mustard yellow water bottle. I looked through the ditches. I looked for anyone who may have found it. I walked through that street half a dozen times. Both sides of the roads. No sign of my precious bottle. I was so heartbroken. I regretted rushing and not making sure my stuff was packed right. I didn’t even care for the stupid wasted train ticket anymore. I just wanted my bottle back.
Needless to say, I walked through the street up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and all over. After over an hour of looking through the summer’s heat, I lost my hopes. I believed it was gone. I was dismayed and heartbroken. I was tired and dehydrated. I was feeling dazed and lost. I sat on the ground, without any direction on what to do. I just stared into the street trying to unpack it all. I must have looked real sad. Sad enough that a group of locals got my attention. They waves for me to enter the Warung. I perked up thinking they may have my important treasure. I was given a bag instead. A bag full of food. A full meal. I hadn’t realized then how hungry I was. How much I have just been running on fumes. How dehydrated I was. How absolutely tired and exhausted my body and spirit was.
They started speaking Bahasa and laughed when I told them I was not Indonesian. They didn’t ask me anything else. All they saw was a fellow human being having the worst day ever. With kind and supporting eyes, they gave me the energy to plan my next moves. This gave me the strength to move forward. Most important of all, they reminded me how incredibly uplifting a random act of kindness can be.
That wasn’t the only time I encountered Indonesian hospitality. I found myself in the middle of my travels in this country in the capital of central Java: Semarang. I had decided to stay in Old Town Semarang as it is renowned for its historical beauty and antique Dutch-era architecture. It is also a hub for tourists to take pictures of the beautiful buildings so I figured it would be a great spot to stay half a week in. I did not head to Semarang for anything in particular; I had found myself fleeing from Yogyakarta and its expensive tourist priced temples and attractions. With nowhere to go, I decided on going for a middle point from my final destination of Jakarta which is how I found myself in this city.
With no plans, I would spend my days and nights just wandering through its streets. I got to see, explore and quickly leave its China Town. I even got to enjoy a delicious meal during iftar at some random carnival event I accidentally stumbled on to. One of the main things every day I set out to find was a place to eat. I didn’t want any of the fancy restaurants in Old Town or any of its fast foods chains. The Indomarets (popular Indonesian convenience store chain and a personal favourite of mine) were good in a pickle but I truly just wanted to find a local Warung to sit down and have a nice, cheap, homemade meal in. I found nothing while exploring the main streets of Old Town so I had to go a little farther; I did not go far but I found myself in quieter streets.
Quieter streets where people actually lived. Where the light was not so blinding. Where the only noise you hear are my flip flops flopping. I knew I was in the right area, I just had to find the right place.
Then I found it. It was on the front yard of someone’s home where a bunch of plastic tables and chairs moved in. A make-shift kitchen and a huge black wok was the center piece. People buzzed around eating or making meals and the smell of Nasi Goreng filled the air. I knew I had found my dinner for the night.
I entered the Warung slowly and timidly made my order in broken-Bahasa. I knew enough of the basics, some of the numbers, the prices and the cuisine names in the native language to make an order. Hearing this, the worker started speaking to me in a slew of phrases and paragraphs. Asking me questions like: did I want it spicy or super duper spicy? What do I want on it? Did I want the sauce? and much much more. I told her I was not Indonesian, paid for my food and took a seat in their front yard.
The food was delicious, it was classic Nasi Goreng with sweet iced tea. Perfect for a cool summer’s night. It was so good that I actually wanted a second serving for later in the evening. So I got up, walked up to the front, got a confused face and was motioned to wait at my table. I was quite nervous, I wasn’t sure what was going on. Did they understand what I wanted? Am I going to get my second serving? Did I pay the right amount? All I wanted was a second serving of their delicious food and instead I was breaking a sweat on an uncomfortable creaking plastic chair.
Then a man came with a big smile and kind eyes. He motioned I come to his table; A little further in the Warung and behind the food counter. In broken english he started speaking to me and making small conversation. Who I was, where I was from, where I am going. Telling me he serves in the army. Telling me that he lives here. That this compound is a home for soldiers and their families. That this Warung is actually a place for soldiers to get a meal. He started introducing me to the others. There was an elderly woman who took my orders earlier. A mute girl. Some quiet timid guy who’s really into anime. Another soldier. His wife. or was it his aunt? Maybe his sister. I’m not sure. She tried selling me snacks. They also had food for me to eat and even made me a fresh serving of this curious pink dessert on the table. It was a unique dish that is definitely an acquired taste. Next thing I know, I was surrounded by friendly faces, happy conversations, big smiles and for the first time in awhile I felt at home.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the spot I found myself in. Here I was, sitting down, having a meal and a conversation with basically the whole compound! I just wish we could both fully understand each other. They sent me off with another serving of what I ordered earlier and some. I left this place with a big smile, full stomach, and a happy heart.
Travellers Pursuits 