Malioboro Street, Yogyakarta. A place of history. A place of culture. It is where both of these things combine to form the essence of what is Jogja. This is where all people, both local and tourist come to experience this amazing city.
I am just one of them.
The clip clopping of a horse carries through the night air, accompanied by the sweet jingling of bells as the familiar cart passes. A breeze wafts by, carrying with it the sweet smell of freshly cooked sate. The rainstorm that passed over a short time ago still lingers in the air, and the taste of the rain tingles the back of my throat as I breathe. Closing my eyes, I lift my head and breathe deeply, savoring the taste.
Suddenly, the bells of the nearby railway crossing cut harshly through my reality, and I am shunted aside by the Saturday night crowd as they rush by. Seeking refuge to one side, I glance around to get my bearings. I find myself staring at the iconic Malioboro Street sign. It stands like a beacon, as if raised specifically for this time. This moment. Erected just for me. Right when I needed it.
The crowd is still pressing. I have chosen one of the worst places to stand, on the busiest night of the week. For Malioboro Street is an icon in Jogja, and Saturday night is the busiest night of the week for an icon such as it. For it is at night when Malioboro comes alive. It is the night time when Malioboro truly shines.
I make my way along the street, and as I move the crowd eases. The police block off the street early on a Saturday Night, and they have already done so tonight. At first, I didn’t understand why they did it. Until I witnessed the popularity of the street at night time. Without the extra burden of cars, scooters and trucks, Malioboro is free to break from her mold as just another shopping district. Now, she becomes a living and breathing entity. One that carries her fame with aplomb, and has the right to do so.
There are many reasons that Malioboro Street is famous, and it takes more than just one visit to understand and appreciate exactly why that is. From iconic shops that are an institution in Jogja, to the basic t shirt stalls. From the roadside street food, to the well-known and popular restaurants. Malioboro is the center of everything in Jogja, and has been since time began. Or so it seems.
Another horse and cart rattles by, its bells jingling in the night air. I glance toward the road and as I do, the familiar call comes from the roadside.
“Andong, Mister?”
The hopeful cart driver motions toward me, gesturing for me to board his cart.
“No, thank you,” I wave back as I continue on my way.
Not to be deterred, other cart drivers make the same enquiry. In the background the horses stand silently, having just been fed and watered. Their blinkers make them oblivious to what is happening, unaware of the “Bule” or “foreigner” passing by. Or perhaps they are just conditioned to the crowd, and care for nothing more than doing their job, and earning their next rest.
Malioboro Street is just over a couple of Kilometers long, yet it always takes me a couple of hours to traverse her length. She always surprises, and never leaves me with a bitter aftertaste. For every time I visit, I spend more time than I had planned. That’s just how things happen in Jogja.
Hamzah Batik looms in front of me, its bright red signs singing with the siren call that ensnares me every night. I must go inside. I must browse. There is no escape. For the shop itself is synonymous with Malioboro, and Malioboro in turn is synonymous with Jogja. To visit Jogja, therefore, is to visit Hamzah, and one simply cannot turn their back on that fact.
The store owners nearby grin as I pass. They know me by now. The only Bule to pass by every night, and probably the only Bule they have seen in months. For in these troubled times, there are not too many of us around.
Friendly smiles greet me at the door, and recognition passes between us as staff members brush by. Just inside the door I turn, and pay silent homage to the great mural of the Sultan himself. Around me, customers go about their business, browsing the wonderful hand made batik, trying to decide between this piece and that piece. Maybe both.
In the corner a lady sits cross legged, perched silently on a platform, meticulously working on a batik design. She paints it by hand, using nothing but skill passed down from a distant generation. Nearby, other women stand and watch in wonder at the skilled surety of her hand, as the design is born beneath her stroke.
Smiling to myself, I take a stroll through the shop, stopping by at my favorite displays before exiting, knowing that I will be back again tomorrow. There is no escaping that fact.
Outside once again I make my way past the last of the street side stalls. They have stretched the length of Malioboro, yet not once has anyone implored me to make a purchase. Jogja is like that, and it is a reason that I keep returning. Because unlike other, more touristy places in Indonesia, Jogja allows you to be at peace. It allows you to shop and browse and soak up her culture in your own time. At your own pace.
That strong smell of sate greets me again. This time, though, it is different. The smell is ten times stronger, and suddenly I realize that it is not the smell of one sate, but an army of sates, bearing down on me with the rage of a thousand suns. The crowd opens before me and they appear. Sate sellers, stretched from curb to shop front ahead of me. There are dozens of them, crouched down and cooking the sweet meat, causing need for the passer by to pick their way around and though them.
This I do, while my stomach growls in protest that I am ignoring such a fabulous feast. I have already eaten, I try to explain, to which it grumbles even more.
I crumble.
Sate in hand I continue to move, for my final destination is just up ahead. Past the Presidential Palace, at the next traffic lights.
Nol Kilometer.
This is the center of Jogja. The location name says it all. Nol Kilometer. Zero Kilometer. The start.
Here, people are gathered. Hundreds of them. They sit, they talk, and they laugh. They take photos and they watch the traffic. They watch the Andongs, and the Tuk Tuk like Becak’s as they rattle by. They watch each other, and laugh some more.
And that’s it.
For Nol Kilometer is nothing special beyond the fact that it IS the center of Jogja, and this is where people meet. This is where they come to…just be. To meet at Nol Kilometer is the birthright of every native of Jogja, and they are proud of it.
Yet, it is not just for the locals. I glance to the right and left, casting my eye up and down the street. I know what I will see, and my eyes pick them out almost immediately. Buses. Dozens of them, parked in every nook and cranny for as far as I can see. For it is true that people come from all over Java, just to spend a few hours in Malioboro.
Taking a seat, I glance around casually. My sate is nearly done, and already I am entertaining the thought of heading back for more. The young couple nearby are getting MORE photos. But then, that’s what you do at Nol Kilometer. It can only be expected.
The traffic lights change and some of the crowd move off. Across the road Nol Kilometer Coffee Shop is once again full. Just beyond, the Museum is ready to put on another puppet show. Becak’s pull away from the curb as customers are ferried a couple of blocks away to Alkid, that famous park with the two enormous, yet mysterious trees. I picture the people sitting on the grass, laughing and eating, while multi colored cars bedecked in fluorescent lights circle around them.
Yet another Jogja party.
But that, I am afraid, is a story for another day.
I’m going to have another sate…
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