After twenty odd hours of travel, I've managed to get away from the chaos and dirt in Jakarta. The bus journey was one I will remember for a long time. Highways exist only in and around big cities, so for the majority of the trip, we skirted the provincial roads, along the northern coast of Java, to Semarang, Surabaya, Malang etc. The scenery was beautiful, to say the least, and at times mesmorising. Imagine the orange sun-set over a black volcano towering over lush green rice paddies, shrouded in a haze of mist and mystery. As night moved in, the bus picked up speed. The road was winding and narrow, barely enough for two big buses (or trucks) in both directions. Somehow, the driver managed to speed along the Javan landscape, overtake literally hundreds of cars and trucks and buses he deemed too slow for his taste, occassioally drive on the lane of the traffic going the opposite direction, and bring us safely and early at our destination.
A short stop in Malang allowed me to meet some coordinators of NGOs and migrant worker organisations attending a conference there. My aim was to go to Blitar, a little town some 80km away. With the overcrowded economy bus the journey took more than 3 hours. Outside, supposedly the most untouched East Javan landscape flashed by. At one point a bus had its ffront plowed into a ditch. Not a reassuring sight when my bus was speeding on winding and windy roads that snake through the hills and cliff edges.
Blitar is a sleepy town in the south of East Java. The streets are immaculously clean, and there are even pavements big enough to walk up...a rarity here, considering most pavements are littered with motorcylces, warungs (roadside restaurants) and litter. Palm trees line the streets, becak drivers (tricycle) chase after you as you stroll and children play football and fly kites in the local alun-alun (park). Sukarno, the first president and father of Indonesia was born here...and here he is also laid to rest. I actually just retuurned from paying respects to his grave. It is a grand monument, with tiles and walls decked with marble. Outside, a mural pictures each of the turning moments in Sukarno's life, and in turn, also Indonesia's birth and recent history. After a solemn prayer, visitors spray petals around the ground. Surkano lies in front of a huge piece of marble with his name carved on it. Next to him lie his parents. But there was no room for his wif (v)e(s). After the impressions of awe and reverence at this great man, the exit is crowded with with beggars, young, old, crippled and blind. Their outrstretched and worn-out hands embraced the narrow alleyway. Indonesia's grandeur, pride and glory meets its ugliness, poverty and injustice.
But I did not come searching for Sukarno. He may have built Indonesia, but the many others, the ordinary people of this country make Indonesia. Suryati, the girl who was badly abused and unpaid during her 15months in Taiwan lives in the mountains nearby. The only way up was to hire a van, but at times the cratered road uphill seemed to be beating even the strongest fourwheel drive. The ground was arid and tree-less... a barren landscape.
When we finally located the cement hut she lives in, her family came to greet us warmly. When I first saw Suryati , the timid girl, who I later realised was just one year older than me, sat in a darkened corner of the room. As I shook her hands, I felt scars and burnt skin. And her cheek had a deep red scar...around the collar of her shirt there were bruise marks. Pictures of her body revealed that the abuse was much worse. Burn marks, bruises and scars cover her body, from her breasts to her back...
I sat down with her, and interviewed her. To my suprise she spoke excellent Mandarin, and almost the entire hour we spoke was in Mandarin. Her voice was clear and loud, and her words showed no fear, as she recounted her story. I watched her as she told of how things went from bad to worse, what kind of terrible physical violence, scoldings and threats she has had to endure. despite the solemn talk, she was cheerful, and never showed any sign of being beaten by the trauma she suffered. At the end, I praised her for her courage, her frankness and willingness to talk. Many migrants are abused, most come from sleepy villages like her own, partly because agents know that poolry educated country girls are ignorant of their rights. But few have the courage to speak out and to expose her story. As I left, the mother said: 'Semoga Allah bersama kita' (may Allay be with us) We may need just that if we are to bring the case to trial. The barren and arid landscape seemed to fill with life again.
At the end of the day, the van brought me back to the hotel. In the morning, my guide and I had already negotiated a price for the van-hire...R120,000 for the day, including lunch and gasoline. But the man suddenly changed his mind and asked for 150,000. He complained that the time to the mountains took longer than expected, and that he had to wait so long. But we had an ageement. I was furious, but then remembered the warnings of being cheated before I came here. And yesterday it happened. My guide suggested I should just pay, and there's no point arguing. I paid him in crumbled up and torn bills to show my displeasure ...this is exactly the kind of thing which gives this country such a bad name...
Next stop, Semarang. There I will meet the head of another NGO with much expereince in helping migrant workers adapt to life abroad and upon return. After that, it's a short break for me in Yogjakarta, where I hope also to visit the Borobodur Temples.
Salam dari Blitar,
A short stop in Malang allowed me to meet some coordinators of NGOs and migrant worker organisations attending a conference there. My aim was to go to Blitar, a little town some 80km away. With the overcrowded economy bus the journey took more than 3 hours. Outside, supposedly the most untouched East Javan landscape flashed by. At one point a bus had its ffront plowed into a ditch. Not a reassuring sight when my bus was speeding on winding and windy roads that snake through the hills and cliff edges.
Blitar is a sleepy town in the south of East Java. The streets are immaculously clean, and there are even pavements big enough to walk up...a rarity here, considering most pavements are littered with motorcylces, warungs (roadside restaurants) and litter. Palm trees line the streets, becak drivers (tricycle) chase after you as you stroll and children play football and fly kites in the local alun-alun (park). Sukarno, the first president and father of Indonesia was born here...and here he is also laid to rest. I actually just retuurned from paying respects to his grave. It is a grand monument, with tiles and walls decked with marble. Outside, a mural pictures each of the turning moments in Sukarno's life, and in turn, also Indonesia's birth and recent history. After a solemn prayer, visitors spray petals around the ground. Surkano lies in front of a huge piece of marble with his name carved on it. Next to him lie his parents. But there was no room for his wif (v)e(s). After the impressions of awe and reverence at this great man, the exit is crowded with with beggars, young, old, crippled and blind. Their outrstretched and worn-out hands embraced the narrow alleyway. Indonesia's grandeur, pride and glory meets its ugliness, poverty and injustice.
But I did not come searching for Sukarno. He may have built Indonesia, but the many others, the ordinary people of this country make Indonesia. Suryati, the girl who was badly abused and unpaid during her 15months in Taiwan lives in the mountains nearby. The only way up was to hire a van, but at times the cratered road uphill seemed to be beating even the strongest fourwheel drive. The ground was arid and tree-less... a barren landscape.
When we finally located the cement hut she lives in, her family came to greet us warmly. When I first saw Suryati , the timid girl, who I later realised was just one year older than me, sat in a darkened corner of the room. As I shook her hands, I felt scars and burnt skin. And her cheek had a deep red scar...around the collar of her shirt there were bruise marks. Pictures of her body revealed that the abuse was much worse. Burn marks, bruises and scars cover her body, from her breasts to her back...
I sat down with her, and interviewed her. To my suprise she spoke excellent Mandarin, and almost the entire hour we spoke was in Mandarin. Her voice was clear and loud, and her words showed no fear, as she recounted her story. I watched her as she told of how things went from bad to worse, what kind of terrible physical violence, scoldings and threats she has had to endure. despite the solemn talk, she was cheerful, and never showed any sign of being beaten by the trauma she suffered. At the end, I praised her for her courage, her frankness and willingness to talk. Many migrants are abused, most come from sleepy villages like her own, partly because agents know that poolry educated country girls are ignorant of their rights. But few have the courage to speak out and to expose her story. As I left, the mother said: 'Semoga Allah bersama kita' (may Allay be with us) We may need just that if we are to bring the case to trial. The barren and arid landscape seemed to fill with life again.
At the end of the day, the van brought me back to the hotel. In the morning, my guide and I had already negotiated a price for the van-hire...R120,000 for the day, including lunch and gasoline. But the man suddenly changed his mind and asked for 150,000. He complained that the time to the mountains took longer than expected, and that he had to wait so long. But we had an ageement. I was furious, but then remembered the warnings of being cheated before I came here. And yesterday it happened. My guide suggested I should just pay, and there's no point arguing. I paid him in crumbled up and torn bills to show my displeasure ...this is exactly the kind of thing which gives this country such a bad name...
Next stop, Semarang. There I will meet the head of another NGO with much expereince in helping migrant workers adapt to life abroad and upon return. After that, it's a short break for me in Yogjakarta, where I hope also to visit the Borobodur Temples.
Salam dari Blitar,
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