Nacho Maldonado, an Argentinian-Mexican multi-instrumentalist, composer and producer.
Mister Modo and Ugly Mac Beer, a French DJ/producer duo known for their unique sound that blends elements of hip-hop with a lo-fi aesthetic.
Putumayo World Music, a platform that highlights traditional and contemporary music blends, with C-Rouge, a featured artist on Putumayo’s Lounge World who merges Armenian and Lebanese musical traditions with downtempo electronic beats.
Naseer Shamma, an Iraqi musician and oud player.
Gustavo Santaolalla, a celebrated Argentine composer, musician, and producer.
I never imagined a day would come when I’d long for the thick, warm and unsettingly comforting blanket of diesel fumes—a fixture that seems to cling to every inch of Indonesia’s roadways. Since setting foot on these lands,I’ve watched the nation’s daily cloud of exhaust with a mix of fascination and dread. Yet here in Prambanan I am craving it, surprised by life’s talent for presenting us with unexpected scenarios that our myopic, tunnel-visioned perspectives could never foresee.
The first hint that the impossible might indeed become possible crept in when R. Rama Wijaya, the Prince of Ayodhya, and his younger brother, Lakshmana, brought mercilessly down the noble bird Jatayu—a bird with a heart as golden as it was naive.
The scene of Jatayu's untimely end was performed with such visceral intensity that it sent a chill through the open-air theatre. As a result, a majority of young fans of traditional Javanese ballet had to be escorted out, their faces streaked with tears, as their distressed wails echoed in the night air.
Not long after this memorable moment in the otherwise rather monotonous spectacle—with the stage being taken over by a white ape called Hanuman—I found myself wishing I were out there with the crying children rather than here with the albino monkey. This urge had little to do with the rigor mortis of the ill-fated bird or Hanuman’s antics, and everything to do with the surprisingly sharp bite of the Javanese evening chill, which was slowly seeping into my bones.
Unexpectedly, I wanted out of the magical, vibrant and sonically mesmerising Kingdom of Mantila—straight onto the diesel-tinged highway connecting Prambanan Temple with my hostel in Yogyakarta. Anything to escape the relentless chill creeping through my stratum corneum, stratum lucidum, stratum granulosum, stratum spinosum, and, oh heavens, even into my stratum basale—the deepest reaches of my epidermis.I suddenly wanted the“Viaje de las Almas”*** on the stage to morph into“Diarios de Motocicleta”****beneath myhelmet, right here and right now. “Get me out of Prambanan, body and soul,” I mumbled desperately, rising to leave. “Spare me this déjà vu of Tangier from a decade ago.”
Relentless Clatter of Maxillas Superiorly Against Mandibles Inferiorly
(A story from Magic N’s notebook)
Africa. Early February 2008. The sun blazed mercilessly from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., but as soon as it dipped, the chill crept in, leaving us with a relentless clatter of our maxillas superiorly against our mandibles inferiorly.
In a place where “radiator”, “air heater” or “oil heater” seemed foreign concepts, virtually every public utility building yawned open to the elements: cafés, tea rooms, and harira-and-tagine joints alike, offered scant refuge from the chill that sneaked in after dark. There was no escape in sight—except, perhaps, one: the hammam.
Allah! How blissful! Heat, glorious heat, and scalding warmth!
A kind and hospitable married couple, who ran the thermal paradise, allowed us to enter outside the standard hours. This special arrangement meant we had the entire space to ourselves, an experience we could never have had during the regular hours, when I would have been relegated to the women's schedule and J.***** to the men's.
We were led to a large tiled room with something akin to a manger filled with scalding water and plastic buckets stationed by the tap. A combination of broken French, gestures and uncertain smiles told us to mix the searing hot water with the freezing cold to achieve the perfect temperature.We took it from there, with a shared look that said: “Allah! How blissful! Heat, glorious heat, and scalding warmth!”
Every cell in our bodies pleaded for prolonged reheat. We spent almost an hour soaking in the hot vapour, pouring, scrubbing, and greedily trying to squirrel away as many joules as it was humanely possible. By the time we felt thoroughly cleansed and comfortably snug, the 9-degree chill outside seemed like a distant memory. Wrapped in towels, we went out and gestured that we were ready for the massage.
The Massaging of J.
The owner, compact and squarely built, radiated an unexpected vigour. I watched, surprised, as this unassuming man expertly threw the much taller J. onto the tiles, dousing his flushed skin with buckets of scalding water. Armed with a wire brush, he set to work with the focus of a carpenter planing wood, rather than a masseur exfoliating dead skin.
J. began croaking nervously, his usual reaction to intense stress, and I could barely contain myself, rolling with laughter. Meanwhile, the tormentor continued his work, planing J.’s skin with ruthless efficiency and reintroducing the scalding water ritual. Then, with a practiced ease of a seasoned wrestler, he pressed his knee into J.’s back, applying nelsons, double nelsons, and a variety of other submission holds.
“Bien?” the executioner asked, his voice calm but expectant. “Pas bien! Pas bien!” J. cried out, his words echoing off the cold tiled ceiling. The butcher, with a look of impressed disbelief, seemed to marvel at how such a tough customer had managed to endure so much and wanted more. He clamped the belt even harder, savouring the struggle. In the midst of the chaos, among the flares of pain, it finally dawned on J. that the way to release was in reversing his desperate cry. With great effort, he managed to choke out: “Bien! Bien!”
I imagine the old streets of Tangier had tales for days, whispering of a certain white gentleman whose thirst for torment could never be sated.
The Massaging of Moi
“Now, Madame, your turn?” the owner asked, but before I could utter a word of protest, his wife beckoned him from the doorway to step outside. A look of bitter disappointment crossed the butcher’s rugged face. With a resigned shrug and a chorus of deep, throaty consonants, he turned and obediently followed her out.
Soon, the wife glided gracefully back into the tiled abattoir, ushering J. to wait outside. She deftly mixed up two streams of water, testing the blend and kindly double-checking if the temperature was just right—not too hot or too cold. She washed my hair gently, murmuring admiration for its blond colour, and gave me a massage with delicate precision. I left the hammam feeling wonderfully relaxed. By the next day, however, I noticed sore muscles across my stomach—a remnant of laughing far too long and too hard.
Leaving Rama Wijaya and his opponents to their own battle proved to be the perfect call.
With the warmth of my Honda’s engine humming between my knees, my windproof helmet streaming music, and the cosy wrap of warm exhaust fumes all around made me feel as snug as a bug in a rug. Oh, you blessed balm of warmth!
Back in hostel, I consulted the origins of Java’s curious temperature shifts. “I understand the clear skies, the unrelenting sunshine, and the steady, comforting surfers’ breeze,” I said to the staff, “but where does this pleasant—if sometimes chilly—bite in the air come from?” One receptionist mumbled something about Australian winter, another mentioned sea currents from the Antarctic coast. In the end, though, it was clear they didn’t quite share my Western habit of dissecting every detail of the environment with relentless analysis.
I soon remembered that down here in Indonesia, whenever I’d been asking “Why?” the typical response had always been: “Wonderful!” or “Yes, it’s great!” It’s liberating in its simplicity, and it often leaves me wondering if it’s better to come off as cheerfully moronic or embarrassingly morosophic******. Naturally, my very use of the word “morosophic” qualifies me for the latter. But why sweat it? Sometimes, it’s best to embrace the mystery—let it be what it is!
* The full quote from Friedrich Nietzsche’s On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense, Theophania Publishing 2012, goes like this: “There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction.“
*** “Viaje de las Almas” is a captivating and iconic composition in Indian music, masterfully performed by the renowned oud virtuoso Naseer Shamma.
**** The soundtrack for Diarios de Motocicleta (The Motorcycle Diaries), a film based on Che Guevara's early travels by motorcycle, was composed by Gustavo Santaolalla. I used its highlight: "De Ushuaia a La Quiaca" as a backdrop for “Writing Home from the Road: Out and About by Motorcycle,” in “Other Eyes for Johnny Rocco.”
***** My wife Magic has never called me by my first name. To her, I’ve always been—and will forever be—Jamesu.
****** Morosoph is a philosophical or learned fool (Wikionary).
Two more photos from the evening at and away from Prambanan:
Next week, there will be: “Premeditated Ignorance Adrift in the Sea of Digital Distraction.” And remember my dear subscriber that whatever’s been published before, can be found in the archives. Also, if you can’t find my post on Monday next week, well… it will mean that I have gone to do the next thing that is making me tick at that moment I time….
