To add to the excitement, about an hour or so into the 6 hour mini-bus ride, the guy behind me got car sick—which contrary to Western logic only made the driver go faster. That adventure of sound and smell became an hourly event that served as additional percussion to the already laughable Asian choral arrangement of “Achy Breaky Heart” and other least-favorite country hits that the driver had put on tape as the repeating soundtrack for the journey.
As we got closer to our destination I got a text message from my friend saying “once you cross the big bridge start counting the bridges. When you get to 56 you’ll be in my city.” At first I thought he was joking…or at least exaggerating. After we had crossed 23 bridges in 20 minutes, however, I was convinced. Sure enough, in just under an hour we had crossed 56 bridges—a vivid reminder that I’m living in an archipelago.
During the few days I spent there I got to meet the whole family—the parents, two older brothers, an older sister, my friend, and two younger brothers—not to mention several live-in friends. As you can imagine they were fairly spread out in age, but I enjoyed getting to spend time with them all and being reminded of the joys of family. I also realized how helpful big families can be.
My friend’s parents own a restaurant—actually several of them. The large family helps cut down on operating expenses as well as accomplish the various tasks. The food was all very good, but my favorite part was having the opportunity to learn how to make bakso (their version of a meatball which they typically serve as part of a noodle soup). To truly understand my excitement, however, I have to give you a little background.
The meatball here is the infamous “mystery meat” of the country. There are all sorts of urban legends (some of which have proven true—at least in some cases) that explain everything from the strange grey color to it’s ability to last a long time in the hot sun without decomposing. Some say it’s rat meat. Others say it’s mixed with wax. I’ve even heard that it contains formaldehyde. On the flip side, it’s very tasty and usually pretty cheap which makes it an attractive meal/snack—though I make sure to stay away from the guys who peddle it around in a glass box on the back of their motorcycle for most of the day.
So anyway…I was pretty excited to see how it’s actually made and what the real ingredients are. It all begins early in the morning when every meatball seller in the city brings in their buckets of tough stew beef. Out behind my friends restaurant is a mammoth motor (most likely from the 20’s to 40’s era by the look of it) that powers a small meat grinder.
The beef is ground into another bucket, and then the real fun begins. Through a system of belts etc. the same machine spins a large doughnut-shaped bowl—much like the ones used to make cotton candy. Into this bowl go the mystery meat ingredients: the freshly ground beef, ice (which supposedly makes the process smoother than just using water), rice flour (which explains the odd grey color of the final product), and a host of spices including garlic, shallots, and the equivalent of bullion—no rats, no wax, no formaldehyde…and least not from their restaurant.
When all of this is mixed to the viscosity of bread dough, the vendors original bucket of meat (now rinsed out) is refilled with meatball dough and he’s off to make a days wages. For what’s sold in my friend’s actual restaurant, however, the process continues. The meatball dough is grasped by the right hand and extruded through the hole between the thumb and pointer finger until it’s about the size of a quarter. Then it’s pinched off and dropped into hot water for a few seconds to seal it and give it permanent shape. These partially cooked meatballs are then stored in the refrigerator until someone orders at which point they are boiled in the noodle soup until done. Thus ends the “mystery” behind the infamous mystery meat.
Among many other fun experiences on the trip, the cultural highlight was probably the afternoon at the bridge. Apparently the thing to do in the afternoon for young people in this town is to get all cleaned up and drive out to one particular bridge. I have to admit that at first it seemed like a huge waste of time, but I came to see things differently as I saw how excited they were to take me and how well it fit their worldview’s idea of fun. So we all paired up and rode motorcycles out to the bridge where a huge group had already gathered. Apparently the purpose of these afternoon excursions is 3 fold: 1) to hang out and chat with your friends, 2) to be seen by any potential sweethearts, 3) to take an extraordinary amount of photos in hopes that one or two will be “cool” enough to use as your facebook profile—no joke! We accomplished all three objectives that afternoon, and I have to admit that I actually thoroughly enjoyed myself as I met more of their friends and saw how much this all meant to them. It also reminded me of a few of my favorite places back home that few others would have much interest in.
As we left, I experienced another bit of local culture. This city is effectively at “the end of the earth” (as you may have guessed by the 56 bridges). That means that there are hardly any cars and everyone uses motorcycles. Since there aren’t many cars, there are also very few gas stations (I think I might have seen one the whole time I was there). What does exist are a lot of roadside stalls selling gas out of glass bottles. Since these are everywhere it’s apparently not considered very important to fill up with gas or even buy gas at all if you still have some in the tank. The evidence? More than once during the week one of our motorcycles would totally run out of gas in the middle of the road. The bike was simply kicked into neutral and the two bikes on either side simply dropped back a little and put their inside foot on the gass-less bike’s foot pegs to push it until we got to the next gas stall. What was so amazing to me was that this had apparently happened so many times that it all took place in one effortless motion without me even realizing it—no sputtering of an engine, no “hey guys, I’m almost out,” nothing. They simply knew and did what anyone else in this community oriented society would have done.
Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, so after a few more days of similar adventures I had to board the mini-bus back home. Fortunately this driver was a little less jittery, but that didn’t keep the guy to the left of me from getting carsick multiple times. Once again the driver seemed to make no connection between his driving and the uneasiness of the guy’s stomach. You would think he’d at least stop so the guy could get some fresh air and offload his dinner outside the car—but it appears that people here don’t have the same rules of politeness regarding bodily fluids that we do in the West.
Oh well, it makes for a more interesting story, right?
