Sightseeing Anyone?

Well, I never thought I would say this but I do believe my wanderlust has been satiated. Our breakfast conversation went something like this, "Well what should we do today, more sightseeing? Take in that highly recommended Hindu temple -- it's only 12 kilometers away. Partake in an evening of traditional Javanese dance with Gamelan music, see a shadow puppet show? We could visit the local mall (the fancy one) for some souvenirs -- they probably have a food court."

My smart alecky response was, "The only sight I want to see right now is O'Hare International Airport."

Surely, once I am home, I will remember the delights of traveling. I will have more appreciation for the different cultures I have experienced. Somehow I will be enriched by the struggles, the inconveniences and the unknown circumstances encountered.

However, right now I'm tired; tired of the tourist price -- even if it is a pittance to our norm, relatively speaking. I'm tired of the repetitive and familiar line of questions: “What country you from? First time here in...(Fill in the blank)? How long you stay? Tomorrow you have program?”

Later on, we venture out to do a little shopping. On our first day out in Jogja, central Java, the plot thickens. Since I have lost all love for the endless haggling on prices, we decide to visit a shop where all the shop items are marked--no bargaining. That day I was in one of my moods -- it's hot, humid and I'm worn down -- I’m finding it difficult to put on a happy face and doing my best to avoid all unsolicited conversation. Inevitably a local strikes up a conversation with Paul which I conveniently try to ignore. In retrospect, I'm not even sure he worked in the store where we were shopping. Once the local discovers that Paul is an "artist," the game is on. He chats up “Mr. Paul” for some time, gathering information as I browse the contents of the store without finding anything I really fancy. We mill about for awhile. I choose a wooden cane for Mom with some flowers carved into it and Paul finds a shirt. We pay for the items and the Javanese man reappears. He smiles, extends his hand. Hello… Mrs. Paul?

The conversation goes something like this. I have friend, an artist. Today last day of group show, tomorrow leaving for Sumatra, benefit for Mount Merapi victims. Come, have look. I take you there. Hmm... I think, aren't all the victims of the recent volcanic eruption dead?

As we exit the store, Paul is led away by yet another tout on a mission. Reluctantly, I follow along. We’re off, on our wild goose chase. Paul, constantly curious, always willing to play the game, is always perceived as a rich Japanese tourist. “Oh, you from America.” Even better or at least just as moneyed, I imagine they surmise. I think, Here we go again even though I have vowed to never be led down this road that I have walked so many times before. The tout leads the way down a hidden pedestrian alley. The route is just off a main street in a prime shopping area called Malioboro (sounds and looks like Marlboro). The way was interesting and off-the-beaten-path. Nevertheless, for some reason, I felt like a chump, expected the worse and prepared to be taken advantage of once again. But to be fair, this was my experience. Paul was delighted, always up for some entertainment, eager to meet the locals and interested in the art-making process.

When we reached the store the tout left us and we were greeted by two of the artists. Again, the familiar meet and greet questioning began. Once the introductions were complete, the process of batik was explained verbally and with a visual guide. Tea was served. My mood began to soften. We were invited to look through the stacks of framed work which admittedly were well done. Paul went first as I sat drinking my tea. The two men attentively gauged our interests and pulled out the batiks that our eyes hesitated upon, even if for a brief moment. Paul had his picks. I had mine. Both Paul and I liked the work of one artist whose work portrayed two women dancing in a very fluid and colorful way. A lot of reds and oranges were used as were unique and decorative details. It was very expressive. They were the dancers. The next piece was similar with the same two female figures, but with less color and these women carried baskets of fish on top of their heads. We were told this one had less hope and hence less color because of the hardships the women endured. I also chose a more traditional scene of a landscape where individuals worked in a rice paddy. We were told it was created by a female artist. We listened to the artist’s stories and interpretations behind the work. In the end, after some gentle price negotiating, we came away with two beautiful batiks and $200 less in our bank account.

Maybe our smooth-talking and very convincing salesperson was the artist. Maybe he told the truth about 75 percent of the proceeds benefiting people hurt by the Mount Merapi eruption. Maybe this was the last day to buy before the show left for Sumatra. Maybe he was married to a Canadian for six years and decided to part as friends because of the huge cultural disparities and maybe he had a son living in Vancouver, BC. And, maybe not. We will probably never know.