Lunch with the Prince


“Prabuku…, Prabukusumo…”

I was determined to get the full name of the prince right.  We were do to meet him at the palace in Jogja for lunch and I was preparing, “Pak Prabukusumo, saya senang jumpa”  (I am pleased to meet you.)

The prince had been a former perkutut competitor and we wanted his outlook on the sport.  He’s also a busy man – head of a regional political party and heavily involved in Muhammadiyah, a moderate Muslim organization that would start its 100 year anniversary in Jogja the next day.


Kian groaned.   “Just call him Pak Prabu.   Otherwise, you are going to get it wrong.”

Before the trip Kian had called the palace who connected him to the prince’s house and staff there gave Kian the prince’s cell number.  They had chatted several times and he seemed quite affable.

“The prince is likely to be refined, right?”  Kian gave me a “duh” look.

“He is a prince.  He’ll be very refined.”

I wondered if he would have  a sense of humor if I got his name wrong.  Okay, mnemonics.  “Pra” is like “Prada”, “Bu” think of ghosts in the palace.  “Ku”  the soft coo of the doves and finish it off with Japanese wrestlers.  Right, truth telling ghosts who make doves sing as they watch two big guys pull at each others’ underwear. Got it.

Pradabukusumo”  Wait I don’t think there is a ‘d’.  “Prabu, right, Prabu.  There is a good prabubility I am going to screw it up.

Kian had been commenting that Indonesians always want to meet white people.  It seemed true.  At the Prambanan and Borobudur temples people would ask to take a picture with me.  Passing little kids in the street they often reach out to touch my arm.  Kian kept saying that my being white helps to open doors.  The general, for example,  had referred to us as “James and some Indonesian guy.” 

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We put on some nice batik shirts and got a taksi to the palace.  The complex is huge, taking many acres of the center of Jogjakarta and wrapping itself around old colonial fortress walls, giant magical Beringin trees with their masses of viney air roots and the palace village which in its meandering alleyways houses over 25,000 people.  We found the prince’s door and rang the bell.  A woman with shopping was walking toward us and unlatched the door to let us in.

We stepped inside and stood next to two black Mercedes parked next to a grand veranda enclosed in tall white-washed walls.  The prince stood at the back talking to a gardener and came to greet us.  We started to reach to take off our shoes and he waved at us.  “Really, no need,”  he said. “Welcome, please come in.”

“Terima kasih Prince,” I said.  I hadn’t gotten my phrase out, but I was prepared to use his full name at some point in our meeting.  We stepped up to the veranda with its expanses of white tile interrupted by little clusters of Victorian furniture.   I could see a strong resemblance between the prince and pictures of his father, the sultan who had sided with Sukarno during the fight for independence and earned Jogja “special territory” status.  Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX had died in 1988 on a trip to Boston.  George Bush senior had his body flown back on Air Force Two.

We sat and chatted for several minutes and then the prince said, “Come, let’s go to the palace restaurant.”

The prince’s driver held the door of the Mercedes open for me and I sat in the back with the prince.   “So, Pak Pra-Bu-Ku-Su-Mo,” my intent to make small talk so I could slip in his name.

“That’s right, Prabukusumo.  I am very involved in politics but my favorite is philanthropy.  I really enjoy this.”  We drove a short distance down some narrow alleys and arrived at an outdoor restaurant.

“Here are all the favorite dishes of my father and the sultans before him.”

A table of businessmen stood quickly when they saw the prince.  He put his hands together and bowed gently to them as we were lead to our table. 

“My favorite is the beef tongue.  Would you like to order it?”

“Ah, prince, I don’t know if I am ready for beef tongue.”

“It is incredible.”

We began discussing perkutut and plates began arriving at the table.  (The prince’s food came very quickly.) 

“James please you must try the beef tongue.  Take one piece from my plate.”

Hmmm…I thought.  Guess I shouldn’t turn it down.  I took the plate from him and cut off just a little piece.  The prince gave me a quizzical look as I handed the plate back to him and now I wonder if I had passed it back with my left hand – a big no-no.  That’s the toilet hand.

The beef tongue was delicious.  It just tasted like incredibly tender beef.  Javanese ginger beer to wash it down, two kinds were brought, one chilled and one hot.  The hot one was a deep ruby red.

“Drink half of it and then squeeze in lime and it will turn the color of the other drink.  I ordered this for you.”

“Thank you Pak Prabu.”

He sat trying  to think of an ingredient in the drink.  He got up and a waitress returned with a stick of fresh cinnamon, still moist after picking. 



We lunched on kassava medallions, marinated tempeh, beef ball soup with coconut and chicken with mixed peppers and tomatoes.  The rice was a blend of white and a special red rice from the region served with sauteed papaya leaves and a nut cracker.


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On the ride back to his house I tried to talk politics.  “ I read that the NU and Muhammadiya are rejecting calls for Sharia law in parts of the country.”  The prince gently rebuffed me, changing the subject.

“Yes, yes.  The palace was built in the 1750’s and my brother the sultan still lives here of course.”  Must be the tidbits of information he gave to all his visitors.

We arrived back at the house and set up for an interview.  As I gave him the wireless mike I said, “Prince Pruba…”

“Prabu,” he corrected.

“Oh, did I say Pruba?  I meant Prabu.”

“No problem.”


We interviewed him for about an hour.  I said that a lot of Americans would be questioning the humanity of keeping birds in cages.  Without the sport, he countered, these birds would not exist.  “Should we release them into the wild?  They will be hunted or die in the jungle.  These birds are bred, they cannot survive on their own.  The sport creates many needed jobs too.”

The prince obviously loves the birds.  When he bathes them he sometimes holds the bird’s beak in his lips and kisses it.  He knows all the doves by the sound of the singing voice.

After the interview we got a tour of the house.  It is actually a series of houses separated by gardens full of tropical flowers, fruit trees and a full grown iguana.  In the last garden were the perkutut cages.  We went into a room loaded with trophies and evidently his wife’s overflow closet.

“So many trophies, what do I do with them?” the prince lamented.

“E-bay?” I said.

Kian shot me a glance. 

In the main house we looked on the wall of family portraits including Pak Prabu’s father, the sultan.  The prince explained that when his father died and Bush sent Air Force 2 with his body to Indonesia that Suharto, not wanting to be  upstaged by the Americans, sent a plane to Hawaii to intercept and take the body from there.  “This is something, right?”

The prince also wondered about Paul Wolfowitz.  Wolfowitz was ambassador to Indonesia for many years and is still revered here.  “He knew we were against the invasion of Iraq.  How could he support it?  I just don’t understand.”

After pictures and a warm handshake we said our goodbyes and the prince had our driver take us back to the hotel in the big black Mercedes. 

Assorted Pics

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Filed under 3-1 Lunch with the Prince

A Night at the Javanese Opera


The competition over, we had time to explore Solo.  Solo (Surakarta) had been its own kingdom like neighboring Jogjakarta. But the royal family didn’t back the Indonesian independence movement  in 1949 and their power ceased when Sukarno founded the new nation.  Jogjakarta, on the other hand, had been fiercely supportive and became a “special territory.”  The sultan is still the legal ruler, not a figurehead.  (In subsequent posts I will get to our lunch and visit with Prince Prabukusumo of Jogjakarta (the sultan’s brother) at the palace restaurant – amazing food and company.)

We strolled the wide avenues of Solo and wandered through a gate.  Two men were sipping tea and  Kian struck up a conversation. We learned we were speaking with the director of the Jawa (Java) Opera in Solo.  The other man was dressed in black and had long thick sideburns and a brooding regard.  He was Zambrot, the head actor of the troupe.  We were invited to film the famous Ramayana opera  Java had once been Hindu and the Ramayana story still figures heavily in the cultural heritage and philosophy of the island.  Sections of the epic opera are performed almost every night throughout the year as a service of the government.  Admission, about 39 cents.

The day of the performance we went to the Sukho temple (one of the late Hindu temples in Java and almost completely tourist-free) with Duto Birdvit and our new driver Pak Joko.  Duto edits several online magazines about birds and generously offered to take us around for a couple of days.  At the temple a crew was shooting scenes from the Ramayana and we hung out with them for the afternoon.


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We arrived at the opera stage door at 6:30.  After plugging the small camera into the sound board, we went backstage.  Zambrot was there with a new haircut.  He said that attendance had dropped off when Suharto was thrown from power but was up again.  The roles changed every night and the actors didn’t know who they would be playing until forty-five minutes before the show.  Soon the director came into the dressing room and read out the assignments.  The actors made a beeline for the costume room and then back to get dressed.   It turned out that several of the performers at the temple were also in the play that night.  They were from a local arts high school and training for the Ramayana.  The boys paid slow and special care to wrapping and rewrapping their sarongs and dusting their bodies with powder.  One said, “Hello mister, I am very nervous to talk to you.”  I smiled and wished him “sukses.”

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(Backstage, Zambrot (also him at the top of the post), actors preparing, the gamelan orchestra pit

As is the case on many floors in Indonesia shoes are banned from the stage and wings.  Even the tech guys work barefoot.  The gamelan orchestra had begun to play (Javanese gamelan has singers, Balinese usually does not) and the warriors took position next to the king on stage.  One of the tech guys hoisted the rope for the main curtain and the show had begun.  DSC02837

You don’t need to understand the language to get the basic twist of the story. Sita is abducted by Ravana, the evil king, and there is lots of flashing lights, slapstick and even a section (I found out later) that is a comic comment on current events.  The movements are very deliberate and purposefully recall the two-dimensional movements of Javanese shadow puppets which were used to tell the story before the use of live actors.


The house was about 1/10th full (no white people, sauf moi) and some of the people seem to routinely come to nap or for the air conditioning.  Kids running around = no problem.  Talking (loudly) = no problem.  And don’t expect applause – there isn’t any.  Members of the gamelan orchestra were taking little chit chat breaks in between their parts and others were texting.  All of this would normally make me a pissed-off audience member, but this is just the way it seems to work here.  And the actors didn’t seem to mind. 

Just for us (and a really nominal fee) the troupe had adjusted the performance to include scenes with Jatayu, the bird that dies trying to rescue Sita.  Not really sure how we will fit it into the final film but it seemed great footage to have.  The actor offered to stay after the show and I got on stage (barefoot) to shoot some scenes with him. 


Zambrot came out to ask how he was (he was really, really good) and to tell us he was the head of a Christian church in his village.  Would we like to visit?  We were leaving Solo the next day so couldn’t.  But we think that this company might one day make another great focus for a documentary. 

More soon – stay tuned…

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The Birds Do Battle


“Pass the truck – go!”

Buncis (pron: Boon Cheese – means ‘string bean’) jammed the stick into third and gunned it.  We swerved around the truck into the oncoming lane charging  instantly toward giant headlights. “Back!” Buncis slammed on the brakes and jerked us back in.  A double lorry flew passed and Buncis, without missing a beat, pulled out again.  We accelerated past the truck as multiple motorbikes whizzed at us and an old woman with a woven basket on her back stepped off the curb.  A tour bus was rapidly bearing down on us as Buncis ducked us back to our lane, now tailgating another truck.  The next curve revealed an infinite line of head-to-tail traffic Buncis would advance through for the next ten hours. Henry reclined on a big snuggler in the front seat calling out driving orders as I prepared for my death.

Sleep, I thought.  Just try to sleep. 

We were headed to Surakarta (Solo) for one of the national perkutut championships. This harrowing drive seemed a foreboding preface to what I had assumed would be a relaxing day of people strolling through the grounds taking in the sweet melodies of our singing feathered friends.  But we would learn that the  Perkutut Konkurs, the reason men all over Indonesia invest hundreds of millions of rupiahs, was indeed a rowdy fest. 

In the back of the SUV, next to our volumes of luggage,  were two perkutut in their competition cages.   Henry asked we not put noisy items in the back, to avoid disturbing the birds’ sleep.  Sleep?   I had a seat, floor and handle above the door to steady myself.   The doves had thin branch perches in the middle of their cages .  Hard to imagine they’d be getting any shut eye.

Rest stop on the road – 3am

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We pulled into the bird field at dawn.  As is the case everywhere in Indonesia, there were already people around.  We eventually found the hotel and Kian and I settled in for a little rest before the competition. 

The Konkurs

At 8am the general cut the ceremonial rice cake and the competitors rushed to the field.  A screaming lottery had been held to determine who would get what position in the field.  The edges are not coveted because of the noise of the crowd. 

“Wait!”  The general commanded.  “If you don’t all quiet down and pay attention to the ceremony, I will order this competition closed.”

The field went quiet with all eyes to the front.  The central Java delegates paraded to the reviewing stand.  I’ve noticed that Indonesia seems big on ceremony and certificates.  Next came the judges who were sworn in as the general warned the crowd not to attempt to bribe (Indonesia is known for its corruption.) 


“There is a white guy here filming,” the general raised a hand to me.  “Don’t worry, maybe we will all be on National Geographic.  Welcome, Jim.”

I did a little wave.  Shortly after, the competition began. 

Okay, you are wondering, how does a perkutut competition work?  Well, everyone anxiously hoists their birds in the air.  Halim, the owner of Napoleon, asked me not to get too close because of the “lasers in my camera.” The judges gather in groups below, clipboards ready.  As the anticipations builds, the start is announced over the loudspeaker.  And then…nothing happens. 

Really, it is perfectly quiet (except for kids in the neighboring cemetery who were playing some pop favorites.)  And then one bird makes a toot.  And then another.  The crowd is gathered on the sidelines staring intently.  Judges start moving and indicating to the flag boys where to mark.  And then, as though a goal had been scored at the World Cup, the crowd goes wild.  

“What happened?” I asked Kian?

“Must have been a good bird song.”

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(Spectators, judges flagging a pole, Kian doing sound, Halim whistles to Napoleon)

As the day progresses, the crowd calls out numbers to the judges who shoot back annoyed glances.   Bowo was disappointed that the general’s bird was quiet.  “We just took his eggs away,” he lamented.  Beauty, Gunawan’s champ, was also not singing.  But Pak Gun seemed jovial as ever.  Although a bit of a mystery to us, the crowd was keeping score and got more and more boisterous toward the end of each round. 

We went to talk to the leader, Haji Imam (a Haji is someone who did the Haj and went to Mecca), whose bird Henry had been eyeing.  I asked him if he would like to say anything to U.S. viewers.  “Even the United States cannot bring peace to the Middle East because of Israel,” he said. 


Henry took Haji Imam by the shoulder and offered him $5,000 for his dove.  The man laughed.  (He eventually sold it to a man from East Java for $6,000. To keep it in his region, he said.)

The event went on for four forty-five-minute rounds.  At the end crowds smother the judges as they do the final tabulation.  Pak Gun distracts everyone with the door prizes – LP gas stoves, wall clocks and a television.  “Number 78 – calling once, twice, last call number 78.  Okay pick another number.”  Number 78 came running to the stand.  “I’m here!"  “Sorry Pak, too late.” 

The general came forward and began presenting trophies.  Of our characters, only Halim was in the lineup.    And then, as though nothing had happened, everyone vanishes.  I suppose this is a combination of needing to get to afternoon prayer and facing long Sunday drives home.  Henry and Buncis shook our hands and said goodbye and we found ourselves alone in Solo.

Assorted Pics

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Filed under 2-4 The Birds do Battle

Xena Warrior Princess and Lunch

I need to catch up on posts – so I will make this one mostly pictures.  Bowo turned out to be a great guy and accommodated us by keeping on his prayer clothes (he said he felt comfortable with the birds in his mosque gear) and placing a little camera in a cage to hoist up a pole.

The Xena Warrior Princess Bird Farm is the most lavish we have seen – even boasting its own competition field and reception rooms.  Bowo was incredibly gentle with the birds and clearly has a lot of love for them. 




Fill ‘er up


Reception room with portrait of the general


Talking to Anwar – a Perkutut competition judge



Me with Bowo in front of trophies and crazy horse painting



This was some Medan-style Padang food that Kian adores. Medan is where Kian grew up on the island of Sumatra



Beef rendang, fried fish with chili, jackfruit with string bean curry, green chili sambal


Boiled cassava leaves, jack fruit and string bean curry


Cow skin crackers

We arrived at Henry’s at 6pm and began a harrowing 10 hour drive to Solo for our first Perkutut competition.  More on that next post.


Filed under 2-3 Xena and Lunch

The General

(Dear Readers, If you are enjoying this blog, please send the link to other like minds.  Terima kasih,   Jim)

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At 4:17 am someone got the keys to the local mosque and hit the loudspeaker hard.  I stumbled in my sleep thinking it early for the call to prayer.  As I patted around the mattress for my earplugs (essential in Indonesia) a loud banging came at the door.  “Jim!”  It was Kian. “Get up we have to film the sunrise.”  I unlocked the door and Kian stood in full sound recording regalia – microphone, wind screen, digital recorder and XLR cables. 

“Come on, get dressed.” 

“Huh? Isn’t it too early?” I knew the sunrise didn’t come until 6.  Near the equator, Kian had said – sun up at 6, sun down at 6, all year long. 

“It is call to prayer – do you want to miss the sunrise over the mountain?  Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

I peeled myself from the hot, sticky bed in my little student cell and fumbled for clothes and camera.  In the narrow corridors of the dorm some flip-flop clad youths were still hanging out from the night before.   I groaned, trying to keep my eyelids up.  Careful on the stairs, Jim.  This steep would never pass code in the U.S.

We went to the roof.  Complete darkness.  I persuaded Kian we could sleep for another hour-and-a-half and we each returned to our rooms.  At ten-to- six, with the next round of blaring prayer,  it was raining and we went down to the canteen for sarapan (breakfast).  We each downed a little plate of rice, prawn cracker and tempeh and Henry soon joined us. 

Henry spoke little English so Kian did the usual translating work.  “Bowo will pick you up at eight,” he said.  Bowo, the master Perkutut trainer for General Zainuri, pulled in on time in a well-worn Range Rover.  He shook our hands without a smile and began to speak to Henry about the competition in Surakarta in two days.  He invited us into the car and we were off to meet one of the former heads of the Indonesian army – now the president of the national Perkutut federation and founder of the Xena Warrior Princess Bird Farm.  Gunawan said it would be an insult for us to not meet with him.

After twenty minutes we drove into a perfectly-landscaped gated fantasy suburb.  Absent were the usual pedicabs, beggars, street vendors and homeless kids. Present were tall stone walls, preened shrubbery and even curbs.  Cloistered behind a wall of volcanic rock  was the general’s house.  An electric gate opened and we pulled in.  Bowo indicated we should remove our shoes and we were lead across a cool marble floor and up the stairs. 

Standing in a central courtyard garden was the general.  He came down the square slate steps and greeted us.  A houseboy brought us our shoes and we were invited to sit on an outdoor sofa.  The general settled into his seat, lit a cigarette and leaned back.  “James,” he said.  “I am pleased to meet you.”

Terima kasih pak,” I said. “You speak English?”

“Just a little.  I was sent to Oklahoma by my army in the 1980’s to study special operations.”

“Oh,” I said, a bit startled. “How did you like Oklahoma?”  (I mean, what does one say to a general of the former Suharto regime?)

Bowo brought out five fancy cages with Perkutut and distributed them around the garden for the general to enjoy.  Kian began explaining our documentary project and the general listened carefully.  Kian handed him a business card and the general asked a question.  Something seemed wrong.  Kian was looking nervous and talking faster.  The general sat quietly and observed him.  I heard the words, “art” and “hobby” and from the general, “National Geographic”.   Kian took a letter from Branda Miller, one of my professors and guru at RPI and placed it on the table in front of the general.  He put on his reading glasses and held the letter up.

“Everything okay?” I asked. 

“He asked if we have a license to film,” Kian said under his breathe.

“Oh.”  We didn’t.

The general got up and went inside.  A few minutes later the houseboy brought us cups of sugary tea.  “Okay, I think it’s okay,” Kian said.

We interviewed the general for about an hour during which staff and family passed gently and barefoot through the garden.  The general’s wife descended the garden steps deliberately and gracefully in a long batik house dress.  We stood and greeted her as she glided past.

“General,” I asked.  “Your bird farm is named after an American television show. Why?”

He looked me sternly in the eye and a smile came across his face.  The smile broke into a hearty laugh.  As was our routine he turned to Kian to answer the question in Indonesian.  “I am very fond of this show.  And I find Xena very beautiful.”  He paused for a moment. “Do you think I could be sued?”


After the interview the general brought out his photo albums from Oklahoma and his trip to Washington DC and brought us some local bananas (they are better, folks.)



It was Friday and the noontime call to prayer had begun.  We knew Bowo needed to pray and Kian urged me to say our thank you’s.  The general lead us out past huge portraits of his family and a real stuffed Sumatran tiger.  We were out the door and on our way to the Xena Warrior Princess Bird Farm – which I will cover in the next post.

Assorted Pics

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Filed under 2-2 The General

The Birdman of Bandung


DSC02059No sooner had Jaya dropped us off at Henry Manila’s Bird Farm and Student Dormitory then the extremely generous Henry had us in the car on the way to a volcanic hot spring.  On a bumpy lane more dry stream bed than street we began our climb over Upside-down Boat Mountain.  As we passed roadside huts offering pumpkins, papaya and Kelinci, (bunny sate) Henry talked Perkutut.

He bred and competed for 11 years and then came the avian flu outbreak.  Perkutut were not affected but fears about any birds made the market collapse just after Henry made a huge investment.  Two years ago he got back in, going to every contest to rebuild his standing.  His new strategy seeks out offspring of champions which can be gotten cheaper than the champions themselves.  He nurtures the voice with sweet saga leaves commonly used in human cough medicine.  Normally the monogamous dove shares egg sitting time and males anger if eggs are removed. Henry treats the testy boys with a light dose of de-worming medicine which induces fatigue.

As he educated Kian and me Henry drove with gusto – passing trucks on blind curves and tailgating.  We progressed steadily across the boat’s keel and made a left at the rudder passing manicured tea plantations and strawberry farms.   The road carved through deep ravines terraced with mist-soaked cabbage fields and a million roadside shops offering fresh fruits, live rabbits, air for your tires, fish, ayam, pineapple and durian. 


Tea Plantation


Henry told us that he came to the hot springs about once a week when friends visited  and offered to take us for massages later.  “Beautiful ladies,”  he said.  “I like beautiful ladies.” He then let out a long bird-like cackle.  After an energizing soak in the spring (think big resort, not pools formed in Jurassic-period rock) and fresh, iced  strawberry juice Henry treated us to some local food in Lembang. We had fresh eels caught in the local rice fields and I tried my first lime-soaked, tamarind-marinated cow stomach.  It was actually very good.

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Henry lives in a bizarre meandering complex that he constructed in stages over a few years.  Little student monk-like cells open to narrow  inner courtyards littered with tea kettles, flip-flops and laundry racks.  A small canteen is on the first floor and everywhere you can hear cooing doves.  The residents are mostly Chinese students at a Christian college who sit at their desks, doors open because of the heat.  Kian and I were each given a room complete with squatting toilet which sounded like it emptied into the stream outside.  Henry’s house sits in the middle of a maze of corridors and stairs.  One turn reveals an old woman in a jil-bob (head scarf) ironing laundry, another two teenage boys scraping poop out of cages.


Because Perkutut are from hot coastal regions they have a hard time in Bandung’s temperate clime.  Henry compensates with glassed-in, sun-facing enclosures on the roof to increase the heat.  Puter birds, or babysitters, (Gunawan had called them babysisters) take over the hatching from the Perkutut  and their gentle purr is everywhere. 

On the second day a high school biology teacher named Dede came to buy a bird.  Indonesia seems to have perfected the art of hanging out and the negotiation lasted for hours during which Master Kwan arrived to demonstrate bird binding for us.  By inserting adjustable strings through the outer layers of skin the Perkutut can be tuned.  Pak Kwan sat patiently sewing up the bird harness.  The perkutut seemed perfectly relaxed.  Then he, Henry and Dede practiced cooing to encourage the Perkutut to sing.  None did.  What I thought was failure on their part turned out to be a magnanimous act for the film.  The adult birds just don’t sing in the afternoon.


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As Kwan was leaving Henry said, “He has four wives.”  Kwan smiled and nodded.  Apparently you can have multiple wives in Indonesia, but four is the limit.  Ha Lim, another breeder and owner of the ass-kicking perkutut Napoleon (complete in a regal purple and gold imperial cage) arrived  and told us his strategy for winning the upcoming competition in Solo.   Henry would hire a driver named Boon Cheese the next day to take us and birds there.  But first we would meet the national head of the Perkutut association General Zieruni and visit his Xena Warrior Princess Bird Farm. 

Assorted Pics

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(The fruit above is a Jirpaya, a cross between orange and papaya.  The thick rind is the part you eat.  The woman hugging me is my masseuse.  It was all innocent.)


Filed under 2-1 The Birdman of Bandung

The Emerald City

Bandung, the capital of Central Java, occupies a pre-historic volcanic crater.   Mountains flank this medium-sized city, the most notable being “Upside-down boat mountain” (guess why.)  Wednesday we headed to Bandung to meet Henry Manila, a national league Perkutut breeder and competitor.  Little did we know Henry would whisk us away to the mountains when we arrived, but more on that later. 

Jaya drove us  four hours from Jakarta to Bandung escorted by a rag-tag fugitive fleet of smoke-belching trucks.  One truck driven by a dark man with a handlebar mustache and batik cap sported hand-painted scimitars on the front bumper.   The highways are dangerous, not from swashbuckling truck pirates but drivers fatigued by morning prayer (the first prayer must be before sunrise or it doesn’t count. And the World Cup is on – at night – you get the idea.)  We passed three overturned trucks within on hour.  Jaya smiled, pointed at each one and said, “Sleepy.”

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As we climbed deeper into the mountains Jaya would pull over insisting I take some scenery shots.   The Dutch built the railroad bridges (or let’s say had them built) complete with an occasional train sidestep for pedestrians.  For that matter the Dutch built the 13,000-island Indonesia, conquering kingdoms and uniting them under the flag of occupation. 


Bandung was one such kingdom and was founded in the 9th century.  This is the home of the Sundanese people and it turned out Jaya is one of them.  After passing numerous signs for outlet shops we arrived in Bandung, “the Paris of Java”  and treated ourselves to a traditional Sundanese lunch:  seafood cakes grilled in banana leaves, tomato sambal, coconut encrusted fish, Sundanese gado-gado with prawn crackers and small free-range chicken. (Ayam jalan jalan or chicken walk walk.)






When you order fish the waiter grabs a net and catches it in the decorative fountain next to the parking lot.  The gado-gado is eaten by hand witha bent green bean (I did sneak my fork a few times.)

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After lunch I got my first barbershop haircut in 18 years. 



Dear Readers:

We have hit a busy schedule and internet has been harder to reach.  Great things happened yesterday and today.  We had massages and learned how to sew a Perkutut up for tuning from Master Kwan.  Tomorrow we will go to visit the general who runs the Xena Warrior Princess Bird Farm.  And then on to Solo for the big competition. 

More soon.


Filed under 1-9 The Emerald City