Baby better off is the search

From "The Iceman", by Bruce

Gotta find a way to communicate just how funny the little things are here, and why absorbing them appropriately contributes so significantly to a rewarding life. I’ve got two little stories; maybe they’ll do the trick. I’ll stick a couple of last pics from the beach in here to break up the words for those readers with the shorter attention spans. The pics come from Kun's camera (she's in the middle below), but some people have told me they depict their vision of paradise. Can’t imagine why…

Drive

The University has put a car and driver at my disposal since I got here. When a local staffer gets a bule to tend full-time, he must feel like those kids in The Night Before Christmas. On the other hand, when a bule gets a local staffer full-time, the question is always “How do I take care of this guy without losing my shirt?” And the game begins. There can be only one winner if everyone is to win.

Katy knows he can’t make anything above his $20 or $30 a month if he just drives me to and from work. I know he’s going to be grumpy and unreliable if that’s all we’re doing. So, from the beginning I’d get him to take me shopping on the way home, and compensate him for every hour of overtime. This often included picking up a pack of smokes for him at the cashier. No big deal. We’d drive around, he’d honk at the cute girls and buzz the weaving motorcycles, giving me the thumbs up as he did it. At the same time, I noticed I was getting hit for gas a couple of times every week, and he was using my water – extremey wastefully, I might add, to wash the car anytime he arrived early enough. No huge deal, but I discouraged him from the car wash thing.

This went on for a couple of weeks until one afternoon he tanked up on me at the end of the day… and tried to hit me for another tank first thing the next morning. What did he do, and how stupid did he think I was? Drive all over Java after he took me home? Unlikely. Odds will get you evens he took his free gas to his kampung (family village compound) and sold it to his cousins.

“Nga (pronounced ‘ng-ga!’) is the viscerally pleasing-sounding Indonesian slang word for “no”. Kinda like saying “not” when you mean “no, you twit.” That was my answer to Kati that morning. I followed it with, “I can always take a taxi to work. It’s a lot cheaper.” Which is true. Also, “Probably better to buy a motorcycle, really.” Which is also true.

The look of chagrin on Katy’s face was nearly comical. We got to the office and parted frostily (if frost is possible here) and I confirmed from my Indonesian rep at the University that the University would be happy to reimburse me for all gas bills. So I could relax. But I also couldn’t let Katy take me for it, regardless, or he’d win the game and everybody would lose: I’d drop him as a driver and he’d lose the care of a bule for the year.

When it was time to go home I learned that Katy had had to be reassigned, and they couldn’t get me a driver for the afternoon. Sadly, I’d already made plans with him to take my friends and me to the temple for the Ramayana ballet that evening. They’d call me in the AM if they’d worked something out. What this really means is that I had embarrassed Katy privately, and he could not show himself to me again. So much for the convenient ride to the ballet.

But later that evening I was messaged that he would pick me up in the morning. It seemed they’d worked something out with him. So I invited him immediately to come get my friends and I to the ballet that evening, and there he was. We didn’t talk much, but he did the job well. And I rewarded him fairly… and he was thrilled.

Since then I use him for airport runs, the beach run, and all that other stuff. Now he pops out of the car and negotiates me a filling and safe 50-cent breakfast at a market on the way to work. If I did it myself it would cost me three times that. He helps me haul the water jugs when they need replacing, and the shopping when there are two many bags. His young son was hit by a motorcycle ten days ago, and he’s missed a few days amid court appearances and insurance meetings… and I’ve made sure I’m using him enough to ease some of the worries that go with that.

So now he sees that he doesn’t have to try to rob me: if he takes care of me I’ll take care of him. He still won’t wear a seatbelt unless I tell him to, and will hit 100 km/hr on beach roads and bump motorcycles unless I get stern with him. That’s when he grins and laughs, and says “Yes, Mister,” and honks at the next babe on the back of a bike…

Cheeseburger in Paradise

The 2^nd story – Had a great night’s sleep last night, and rewarded myself for the coming weekend with an amazing workout this afternoon… Leaving the gym I had an immediate desire to reward myself for the workout with a light meal and beer, but didn’t want to pay the prices at the hotel.

Went exploring, and quickly found a café called Oregano Steak and Ice Cream. Sounded about right. Sweating already (mostly from the workout, even after the shower), I ordered a cold beer and a menu and sat down. Lots of steak and burger choices on the menu at absolutely thrilling prices. Nothing more expensive than 70 cents. I settled on the “Smoked Burger”, for 60 cents, described as “smoked beef with mozzarella cheese in a bun. How could you go wrong?

Well… by not bringing my camera, for one. When it arrived, the bun looked great… but I couldn’t see the meat, and the lettuce was a strangely fresh-looking combination of green and black… I lifted the top of the bun. Getting a closer look at the lettuce, I looked away whilst removing it from the bun. That’s when I saw what must have been the burger, but I’m sure it’s what was left of the inside of a pair of red leather loafers I threw away last summer when preparing to move to Jakarta, which I was able to confirm when I tried to eat it. If the police did DNA tests on it, we would have matched. Wafer thin, curling on the sides, half the diameter of the bun in width and nearly equal in length, it refused to be chewed. It had, however, clearly been smoked.

The waitress endearingly disagreed with my analysis, confirming that yes, a smoked burger was on it’s plate in front of me. And who was I to argue? She worked there, and I’d never been there before. Well, what do you want for 60 cents, a burger? In consolation, I had correctly deduced the Indo for French fries, and they were almost OK. Fine, in fact, with a 2^nd beer.

And that’s why living here is such a hoot – you just never know when the ridiculous will produce the sublime. Usually, if you let the ridiculous do it’s work, it WILL come up with something sublime… In other words, my favorite thing in life, next to my own imagination, is my sense of humor, which lives right next door. Keep that healthy, and being alive can’t get much better than it is right now.

Prelude: Prodigal Pembantu

Where pembantu means "helper" or "assistant". So the pembantu is the housekeeper, but the Pembantu Rektor is the Vice-rector ot the University.

Anyway -- he came back. The "fold clothes before ironing, can't really be bothered to change a light bulb or clean the tub" housekeeper I thought I'd fired ten days ago. The last time I saw him he showed up on yet another Saturday, and I politely dismissed him on the spot, having done all the mopping, laundry, and dishwashing Friday anyway. He stayed gone all week, and I did all the cleaning again (including the upstairs, ma) on Friday in preparation for my buddy Mick's overnight visit. Mick and I head to the airport around 12:00, I come back alone at about 5:00. And I notice one or two subtle changes. The two socks and 1 pair of underwear are no longer in the bucket by the washing machine. The blanket on my bed is folded, but the incense ash on the bedtable is still there, along with the belly-up roach by the closet.

The son-of-a-gun snuck in on a friggin' Saturday afternoon when he knew I wouldn't be home, and can now argue about having done some work (about two-lifted fingers' worth). Seems he refused to be fired, and will have no work to do (slightly less than he did before, I guess), as I'm doing it. Came home from the office early Monday so I could catch him in the house. Sat him down again, paid him for the extra sessions, relieved him of his keys... waved goodbye... then waited. All the cans and bottles of two months of living in my house had never made it to the trash or out. He'd hauled them all up and hid them under the water tank by the roof, until such time as he felt like pushing himself to take them to a store and collect on the change... He must have strapped 200 items to his bicycle as he left.

Looking Into the Sun

Finally got to the beach. There are three lovely beaches an hour or so to the south of Jogja -- got to the first of them yesterday. If I'd known that Blogger finally got a technology in place to insert pics into these text entries, I would have done that here. Instead -- they are laid out below like always. Next time, I guess.

Yesterday a Jogja-area native who manages all of us Fellows came to town for a couple of meetings with me and my universities. Afternoon was free, so we took my driver and some friends and headed to the beach... The forty-minute drive to the south coast and Parangritis Beach yielded lots of views like this one... Does everything outside of the cities look like Bali? Vice versa? IS this whole area of the world this beautiful? I need to find out.

Not time to sun-gaze just yet -- it's about 4:00 PM, and it's still too bright and strong....

So we looked this way... yes, it's a huge and relatively pristine black-sand beach. That said, out of view up where the tide doesn't reach the beach is pretty much covered by the usual garbage, but it's not everywhere, at least. This is a gorgeous spot.

A fair number of modestly-dressed folk played along the water's edge. I had my picture taken five times with cute high school girls (no boys -- go figure) AT THE REQUEST OF THEIR FULLY-COVERED MOTHERS... and every one of the girls grabbed my butt while they were posing with me...

Transport heads down to the quietest regions of the coastline. A couple of bathers break the rules... the water may not look like it, but the rocks in the background collect 15-20 corpses every year...

This is the view enjoyed...

...by these anglers. Some of them are just trying to catch dinner for the family. Some are trying to catch money for the family... some succeeded, many didn't, all at least wee having a rippingly good time.

As day darkens, different generations of transport make their return to the cluster of bodies and business nearer the beach entrance. Perhaps, like yesterday and tomorrow, they know it will be very very dark here before too much longer.

A few moments later, another family soak it up from the same spot.

Jumping ahead to Part III of this show... it's safe to say that 14 months into my stay in Indonesia, I've yet to see a repeat performance of "Sunset at 6:00". Even though I don't often get the chance to be in places like these at 6:00, you don't have to tell me they are all different.

A taste-test interlude: On the left, regular iced coffe in a can, priced at 500 Rp. per ounce. On the right, regular iced coffee in a bottle, priced at 2,500 Rp. per ounce. Starbucks has taken over Jakarta, and no wonder, but there is no Starbucks in Jogja, and the bottles are few and far between. I poured them both into glasses, having grown somewhat addicted to the Nescafes in Jogja with all the extra sweating I do in this hotter, less-conditioned air. Can I tell the difference, absolutely. Is the one on the right five times better than the one on the left... Not. There's not much aof a bule market in Jogja -- not sure what Starbuck's is hoping to accomplish here. I would conclude that Starbucks needs a bottling plant here in Indo.

Parangritis Beach II

Kids may play, teens may cavort on Easter break (or cover themselves up completely, and still find a way to communicate with each other, as the case is here), horses trot and dogs run, vendors sell, anglers angle... but who is a beach for at sunset, really?

The wonders of zoom -- looks darker and angrier in this pic than in the next, but the sun is actually higher here -- we're just closer to it... look at those clouds --- I could almost touch them.

Reflecting alone, or jelan-jelan with a friend, this is the right time of the day. I don't know whether to gaze at the reflecting sand, the wide surf, the fiery horizon, or the flock of clouds on the blue blue sky...

The last moments: for most of the two hours spent looking into the sun, its descent was imperceptible, but the final length of the fall looked like just that: fireball falling.

And when it was fully gone, it was more vibrant than when it had been present. I just made this one my desktop background.

I'm only posting the shots that don't sport sweat stains. This is me and Microsoft... Just so you know I'm not twiddling my thumbs all day...

Real work (instead of the meetings and planning that have been most of my time thus far). The first in the first of two bi-weekly ELT methods courses I'm running for all University lecturers, secondary and primary school English teachers throughout the region here. As Jogja is the education heart of Indonesia, that's quite a lot of institutions I get to reach. Exciting.

Here they are: the first 50 or so University lecturers from Jogja attending my introductory seminar. They come from 6 Universities, putting Islamic , Christian, and State faculty together for a rare shared experience. Numbers are expected to grow over the next six months.

Letter From Laredo

Just spent the big parts of many of the last five evenings inhaling the first season of “Deadwood”, including a couple of the commentaries and one riveting interview by David “Hickock” Carradine of creator David Milch about the writing process.

How Java is like “Deadwood” is like life.

1. The folks who came to Deadwood were apparently a bunch of misfits from all over come for the gold, love the lawlessness, and release the tensions of the day on a nightly basis.
2. The smartest of the misfits learn they don’t need to dig for gold during the day… they can get it off the golddiggers at night.
3. Despite the official lawlessness, the smart ones (in Deadwood known as little vipers) know they need a sense of order in which to operate on the golddiggers…so they pay the big viper for permission to create their own brand of order.
4. 95% (the poor ones) are women with no other option but to take gold off the diggers, mostly at night.
5. The other 5% are encouraged by their community to seek treatment for their “boredom” and “hysteria” and to render themselves unseen by so doing.
6. A lot of alcoholism and disease because the water is bad, and alcohol actually kills some of the disease in the water. Also because there ain’t much else to do when you’re done diggin’, ‘specially if you don’t know how to read.
7. There are a few dudes and dames in Deadwood with a conscience and a backbone, and they earn the respect of most of the golddiggers, women, and vipers, who see them as compasses there to keep them from running completely off course.
8. Sooner or later almost everyone, in some cases sadly, comes to accept their place in the body politic. Paraphrasing Preacher Smith, who is quoting some old Book, the head cannot truly tell the foot it is not needed.
a. Or paraphrasing George Burns at 100 when asked by Larry King for the secret of his happy longevity: you learn to fall in love with what you have to do to survive.

BATS! Interlude. Good grief. A bat just flew in my front door, right past me, and did not go straight out the patio door. A bullet would have therefore been preferable.

Don’t bats have to be invited in? I hate this. They always take so long to figure out how to get out, and until then they zoom zoom all over the place. I know they don’t hit people, because they have a fairly persuasive survival instinct, but it’s just… unnerving.

I should tell David Milch there must have been bats in Deadwood.

Now it’s disappeared. Maybe it was smart, but I think it just discovered the upstairs, where I never go. I’ll make an appointment to wander up there next week. Thank goodness my bedroom door is closed. Except to roaches. Which there shouldn’t be any of anymore.

END of Interlude

In other words, except for #4, not much has changed, nor will it probably ever. Just depends how close to the bone one wants one’s life to be lived, and to what extent one can persuade the roads and rivers to run at that proximity to it.

Portrait of the Artist...as a Young Man?

So I was watching the David Milch interview, and I kept thinking, “Wow, that could so easily be me!” I mean, he looks about my age, has been writing for decades, which means he probably started when I did
--Come to think of it, he did start about when I did, because the nephew of Steven Bochco, the creator of Hill Street Blues and NYPDBlue, among others, was in high school in Williamstown at the time I was discovering what playwrighting was all about… and Hill Street was in the ascendancy, and that was Milch’s big break --

And he loves his work for the same reasons I did – where the process takes the writer in creating interior and exterior worlds for characters to operate between, the ceaseless commitment and humility (yes, I do have a little when the right muse is visiting) in “finishing the hat (Sondheim/Sunday)”…

But then again, I think what he’s talking about is how he commits his acts of love, and if you believe the actors that talk about him, that’s what they describe. So how is that any different from what I’m always trying to create in my work (and, with occasional errors, in my life)?

Towards the end Milch said that his roads have always been interesting, because he knows how to look, how to walk them, and he never thinks about where they’re going. Had I stuck to it, that could so easily have been me – I mean, he got to where he is, and he thinks like me, talks like me, and creates like me…

And yet I wouldn’t want it… Not for a moment to diminish the quality of his work, which has moved me for decades, my roads have also always been interesting, for the same reasons, but my roads are all over the world, in real moments of living history, and every once in awhile I get to get my hands dirty building some order where it is desperately needed, which is why I’m so thrilled to be in Deadwood right now…

Why the old lady swallowed the spider

A morning like any other. Awoke at 6:30, turned on the computer, kettle and hot water tank, called Jakarta as a back-up alarm for a friend not used to getting up to go to school (but who’s always up and exercising), made tea, logged on and checked email, news, and scores before my first shower of the day.

But this morning I showered again at 10:00. At 8:30 I started mopping my floors. I’d already swept them. And washed the dishes. And done a load of laundry. Until a week ago, it might have been over a year since I’d done dishes or laundry. Or cooked. That stuff’s easy. But the floors… nearly an exercise in futility. Every cm of the ground floor. If I don’t stand in front of the fan after every couple of square Ms, I have to mop the sweat up… it’d be embarrassing in front of witnesses.

And I’m mopping for two reasons – In my work slacks, it’s 8:00 and AGAIN the university transport department fails on the promise to get my driver here on time, and doesn’t call me, just leaves me hanging. And I’m ticked and sitting around twiddling digits. So clean, then.

And – I fired my housekeeper. Why did I fire my housekeeper who costs me all of $30 bucks a month? Took me two weeks to do it, and it still doesn’t sit entirely well with me, but… Because it’s more than the going rate for a full-time housekeeper, and my guy only comes three days a week and still, I kid you not though I wish I did kid, he:
1. NEVER cleaned the bathtub, even when I moved in (I discovered this morning when I did it) or any other surface above the bottom of his feet;
2. did not feel the need to turn lights on when washing dishes, resulting in tea leaves left in a “washed” strainer, oil in a “washed” pan (with cold water to boot, let me remind you);
3. Failed, yes, failed to change a lightbulb with success, nor test it;
4. Left incense ash on a TV table for the duration of his employment (I was testing him)
5. Might have mopped floors, but not around the drains or under tables (hello ‘roach wee)
6. Agreed to Friday but always came early on Saturday AM instead (rage)
7. Folded clothes BEFORE he ironed them (picture that one), and never understood hangers.
OK – I know a lot of it is cultural differences, and it kills me to deprive him, his wife, and his child of my $30 bucks, but what can I do? He was recommended by a (I think) friend, swore he could do the things I wanted him to –I never even developed the confidence to send him shopping or let him cook for me– and clearly couldn’t, and HADN’T before in some cases.

So all that said – I got rid of a lot of tension cleaning house this AM with the music cranked, but it’s not something I want to do very often here – one has only so much water in one’s body, and I came close to swallowing the horse, and not the spider to catch the fly. This man definitely needs a maid on Java.

The driver never came (are the same issues at play here as with the reasons for my housekeeper’s dismissal? If I build all these programs the University wants me to build, how far will they be able to run with the ball once I’m gone, if they can’t even organize themselves to get me to the office?), so I prepared Friday’s seminar at home on my clean couch at my clean table in my clean dry shorts with clean bare feet on clean white tiles….

Wee wee

It’s always something here, and yet we still love it. You may recall I hadn’t even moved out of the hotel before Montezuma sought his first revenge on me last year. He got me a couple more times before I learned how to protect myself, but nearly everyday there’s been something afflicting me that I haven’t experienced before. Just before I moved to Jogja I finally saw a doctor for the first time to deal with my first case of athlete’s foot (barefoot poolside lifestyle requires different standard of personal hygiene, the doc advised me, politely), a two-week back muscle injury, three months of the Jakarta hack, and a new fever flu thing that broke the camel’s back…

Antibiotics. I'll say it again: antibiotics. After twenty-five years of avoiding them, I now adore antibiotics. I haven’t breathed this clearly for this long since I can’t remember when.

The back healed up after a couple of weeks… But during those two weeks, my right eye became barely tolerant of its contact lens… 6 weeks and some high-powered eye-drops and things are just now getting better…

But in the meantime… Tuesday morning I was checking email when I looked at my hands… there was crescent-shaped light burn mark in the webbing between my left thumb and index finger (outside, not palm side). I racked my brain trying to figure out how I could have burnt my hand the day before (and not remember…). I’d cooked, but was pretty sure nothing had spattered there… and besides, wouldn’t I have remembered? So if I couldn’t remember, had I burned myself in bed? Not possible. Bizarre.

By evening, two little blisters had risen on the burn, and I used some cortisone cream to relieve the irritation and inflammation. Wednesday morning, checking mail… and an identical mark, but this one already blistering, covered a similar amount of space below the outside two knuckles of the same hand… Only one time during which it could have happened, and I’d slept in pretty much the same spot and position as I had the previous night. I made a beeline for the bedroom and changed the sheets and hauled the bedcover to the washing machine for the housekeeper to do a number on… The next morning, with new sheets and a fresh blanket, there were no new marks.

Let’s keep in mind that I pay good money to bug-bomb the house every two weeks, and the bombing (or the cats wandering through every now and then) even seems to have persuaded my rodent-friend to stop visiting… The only roaches I have seen in a month have been belly-up, but my friend Julia told me today, laughing of course, that she’s pretty sure the now peeling baby red scars on the back of my left hand are due to, in her words, “’roach wee wee”. Sleep well folks, and do come visit. Meanwhile my hand is healing, which means it’s time for the next affliction in my truly wonderful life…

An Octopus's Garden

This isn't the "I learned to dive" post, but it's coming soon, I think. I promised myself this time last year that I would not be caught on Java during the ultra quiet very loud eternal Idul Fitri holiday; Ramadan is long enough for us abstainers. There are only 1 and a half choices for a non-islamic experience here in Indo, so back it was to Bali and Ubud, this time for just three nights and four days, but what paradise it was. For anyone coming to visit me, I will recommend returning to the place below, whole-heartedly, for a great base of operations. Beaches are very close, and beauty and luxury jungle-style can't get much better than the Tjampuan Hotel and Spa. Dragging myself away from it for a few hours every day, I found another terrifci art gallery, nightly dance and leather-puppet shows, and endless amounts of fine fine food at more than ridiculously under-reasonable prices. Read on.

After a hellacious journey to Ubud (what should have been 3 hours turned into nine because I booked flights too late), the peace was quite literally instant as before unpacking I plopped on the spacious patio and gazed right into the jungle treetops, soaking in the familiar frogs, crickets, and lord knows what else...

Dozens of bulidings like these cascade through the jungle, down the hill, and across the valley... one couldn't ask for a more idyllic repose...

This freshwater pool is one of two pools set among the bungalows on the hillside descending to the river below. If Ubud weren't itself so beautiful, culture-filled, and fun, one would never have to leave this paradise on the side of the main road...

White Wedding

Ten days ago I made my first return to Jakarta, for the wedding of two friends of mine. Virtually all the bules in attendance met through these two gents, the brothers Patton, Darryl on the left, and Paul on the right. They've owned and managed countless Jakarta pubs and bars over the last twenty years, and are local legends in their own right. Paul currently manages my living room in Kemang, also known as D's Kemang... pictures early on in the blog.

Many friends from my first year in Indo are here. This is Sandry, who brought me many beers and iced teas while chortling over the slow development of my pool game at D's Kemang... The peacock in the back is Lou, who spends so much time at the pub that they gave him a job so he could keep earning in the evenings. Further back is Paul, whose wife provides the dresses and gowns for the weekly "fashion show" at the pub. Paul's the MC at the wedding, and did a fine musical job.

From where we're sitting, the ceremony begins. Azzza and Ricky tie the knot in Jakarta.

These are two fine people -- all of us in these pics met via the people in my pub in Kemang -- but make no mistake about it, both of them had to promise here publicly some serious stuff. Physical and verbal abuse, fidelity, and a whole lot more entered into what constitutes and terminates this union. Phew!

Cameras, microphones, lawyers, and Imams, contracts and prayers -- making very sure it all gets said correctly.

The vows said, time for smiles. Check out the attire.

These are my good friends Martin and Yani with the bride and groom, Ricky and Azza. Martin and Yani will probably be next in the white Batik.

I guess this pretty much says it all...

These are everywhere. Becaks. The unmotorized equivalent of the orange beasts in the Jakarta pictures. I quit feeling sorry for the drivers and began using them for short hauls, like from my development down to my gym. At the right time of day it's a nice ride. Meanwhile, I continue to put off buying my first motorcycle, but I know it's coming.

OK -- I forgot to put these up back to front, so this is supposed to be the third pic in the sequence at Rui's. This masseuse hasn't got a voice, but he has a wife, two kids, and the strongest hands and arms I've felt in Indonesia. I don't know why Julia's smiling, because he had me screaming while he was working on me. Slept like a baby, though. You can find him any night of the week on the streets in this neighborhood.

Not to say I haven't been doing that, but it's been pretty limited. I spent many cool evenings in the resto-bar in the last picture, called Rui's on a quiet little street where three or four such places remained open and to which the bules came. That's Julia there in the foreground, who works there but who at this moment is studying for her aerobics instrucctor's certificate while I nurse a beer. Looking the other way, this is the charming view across the street.

Thank goodness the quiet month of Ramadan is over. I got to Jogja the day it started, and this is a seriously faithful city... which means virtually no nightlife/entertainment venues are open for the entire month. I'm looking forward this month to getting out and finding a few cafes and clubs to meet some people finally.

Without a pool at my home anymore, I quickly felt its absence... but not to worry. My gym membership is a bargain at a hotel just down the road from my development, and comes with use of the large outdoor pool, situated in typical luxurious grounds. On other days, I go with friends to this one, which is smaller but freshwater, and that's a bar built onto it, at the Jogja Villa Inn. Just off to the left is a beautiful outdoor covered restaurant.

A couple of weeks ago I took in Jogja's premier cultural event, The Ramayana Ballet, against the backdrop of the magnificent Prambanan Temple (pics earlier in this blog) at night. The story is epic and just a wee bit dated (forgive the sarcasm and the holes in the brief descriptions that follow), but it truly is a spectacular way to spend a couple of hours. Very unwestern dance styles making it all the more interesting, and a loose plot description in the program certainly helped. The night, thousands of years of history, and dozens of dancers and costumes and colors made for quite a gala. Here's the stage before it begins, with gamelan orchestras to the left and right of a wide staircase, ascending into Ganesha's temple behind... breathtaking.

Early on the prince gets the girl, admid lots and lots of pageantry... and then the adventure begins when they enter the forest and the boys go hunting deer, leaving the girls on her lonesone. It will take a monkey king's help to make amends for this mistake...

The heroine, protected by a magic circle, resists one attempt from the evil God to be lured out of it (that's his foot), but later he tricks her out in the guise of an old beggar in need of charity... the curmudgeon.

The monkey king finds the bad guy and the heroine, but is tragically defeated and thrown in the brig...

The monkey king manages his escape by burning the big bad guy's kingdom to the ground.

Yes, there's a whole lot of fire all over the place, and I have to wonder for just a moment what measures are in place to keep us all from being consumed in it. This is where the intermission is, to let the fire burn down and the smoke clear.

Tons and tons of women are supposed to keep the kidnapped heroine amused in her captivity, but eventually the hero and the monkey king catch up with them.

From the final battle, which the better guy wins.

Rescued by her adoring, heroic, obsessive and jealous suitor, the heroine proves her chastity by surviving a trial-by-fire...

The grand finale, prince and bride reunited, he certain she's been chaste throughout her ordeal, while she has to take it on faith that he's been the same...