a new twist on a colonial pastime

A Neighbor Burning Trash

There’s nothing quite like waking up to the foul combination of diesel fumes fusing with the stench of burning garbage in the morning!  The hazardous particles of which ruthlessly waft through my unscreened window, stimulating my sleepy senses, and acting as a malodorous wakeup call for the day.

Today this amalgamation of odors intermittently couples with the roaring sound of the unmufflered exhaust pipe of a large truck trying to navigate the narrow, mucky road between my house and my neighbor’s.  Relentlessly getting stuck, the driver shouts out the window for guidance as his partners arduously lean into the massive vehicle with all their weight and bellow back “Terus! Terus! Terus!- Go straight, go straight, go straight!”  Their shouts dissonantly blend with an absurdly lengthy sequence of stall-start-stall-start as the engine momentarily resurrects itself then fails again in its struggle against the mud.  Good thing someone recently cut down the two large fruit trees that once framed a striking panorama of lush rice fields and the silhouette of Mt. Panangunan, otherwise this truck would have no chance of steering its way out.  But it manages, not unlike most machines imposed on nature, and successfully delivers its load of rock to the most recent construction site on my street...less than 30 feet from my front door.  Enough large stones to get through a solid day’s work, but not enough to warrant the cease of early morning truck deliveries for the next couple months.

I really can’t complain though.  It’s already 5:30 on a Sunday morning, the latest I’m able to sleep in these days.  My early mornings are not typically the result of noxious vapors and clamorous trucks, but I’ve certainly had more than one day start in this manner.  Usually it’s because I’m asleep no later than 9 pm the night before- the result of complete exhaustion from teaching in the unbearable heat coupled with the fact that not much happens after Maghrib (evening prayer at sunset), especially as an solo women.

Bamboo Lamp Posts & Building Into Paddies

But today is Sunday.  This, by my Indonesia tradition, is defined as Bike Riding Adventure Day, and doesn’t merit much negative thinking.  I throw on my conservative athletic clothes, toss my lukewarm water bottle in my front basket, and pedal off to Bu Sari’s house, greeting the numerous construction workers lining my street with a traditional Javanese, “Monggo!”  Every day there’s another house that’s been built, another dirt path that’s been paved over, or another leafy tree that’s mysteriously been chopped down in order to make room for additional infrastructure.  It breaks my heart to see every last bit of verdant land transforming into colorless cement in just my relatively brief time here.  But people have gotta live somewhere, and although it seems risky to build on top of the sodden rice paddied land, they’re running out of options in my neighborhood.  Their kids will be the ones who have to deal with rice shortages and unstable foundations in the years to come…

Newly Adorned Colonial Bike

The real purpose of this rant is to highlight, yet again, one of the many dichotomies that characterize life in East Java.  From archaic concepts of gender roles where marriage is concerned, to having a prominent headmistress at my school and female vice mayor of our city.  From complete apathy towards the abundant trash littering nearly every inch of land, to students creating art out of recycled materials and composting organic waste at school.  And on this day, from the unremittingly progressive, development-centered world of a modern Java, to an older generation who still delights in the employment of a simple, old-fashioned contraption left behind by the Dutch: a subculture of colonial bicycle preservationists.

Traditional Uniforms

In an attempt to venture out of the cement walls that encase our neighborhood, Bu S and I headed out of the city confines on another ambiguous excursion, this time stumbling upon the show floor of an antique bike show of sorts.  Our adventure sense first started tingling when we noticed an increase in biker activity on the usually solitary roads, all of whom were en route for the same place.  Naturally we rode in for a closer look and were immediately welcomed by the legendary sepeda ontel riders, a group of mostly older men devoted to the preservation and maintenance of their 1940s bicycles, a vestige of the former Dutch rule (Indonesia finally gained it’s independence from the Netherlands then Japan in 1945 following centuries of colonial rule).

Matching Shirts

Sepeda ontel (the traditional bikes) are a common sight in the more rural parts of Java; farmers, street vendors, and plastic gatherers, among others, all use the decades-old equipment for daily life simply because alternative transportation is too expensive or unavailable.  But today just happened to be the congregation of ontel clubs from all over Mojosari and the surrounding areas.  And the nearby stadium in my town just happened to mark the rendezvous point for said clubs.  Bu S and I joined forces with our local team - whose bike show we’d just crashed - and headed off with our new friends to see what this sepeda ontel shindig was all about.  As the first group to arrive, we examined each subsequent cluster of riders - identified by matching t-shirts or period-themed uniforms - as they rowdily rode into the stadium area and meticulously lined up their historical cycles.

Just One of Many Rows of Bikes

Seats, Lamps, Racks & Packs

Although a large portion of the morning was dedicated to perusing the old-fashioned transport and elaborate getup of one’s peers, the stationary lines of traditional bikes were just the precursor to a much more impressive event.  All at once people mounted their bikes, signaled their imminent departure with a swift ding! of a bell, and set off in a mass of eccentrically costumed sepeda ontel fanatics.  The mob animatedly made its way through the crowded main roads, then through the more serene back streets dividing village and paddy, and eventually ended in the same location where we had originally met our sepeda ontel friends.  The hour-long spectacle culminated in a giant dance party set to traditional Javanese music surrounded by scrupulously arranged heaps of traditional food and spare sepeda ontel parts for sell.

The Next Generation of Ontel Riders

Final Dance Party

Even though the older generation may have stronger ties to the past, there were plenty of kids involved in this year’s event.  From toddlers to teenagers, adolescents dressed up in traditional garb, perused replacement pieces for their grandfathers’ bikes, and enjoyed the ambiance just as much as their slightly more senior counterparts. This tradition is bound to continue for years to come, continuing to blend the antique with the modern.