The large curious group of Sumatran villagers gasped as I leaned over a table beneath the thatched roof in order to pop out my sweaty, stinging contact lens. Hanuman, the helpful policeman who had amicably attached himself to me as an impromptu guide/interpreter, snickered as he explained. “They think you are taking out your eye.” He proceeded to explain the use of contact lenses in lieu of spectacles to the befuddled onlookers.
Wherever I ventured throughout this Indian subcontinent, I was moved by both the exuberance and curiosity of the slight, handsome, copper-toned Indonesians. The only persons they had ever seen wearing hats like my equatorial pith helmet were Dutch officials depicted in photographs and paintings from the pre-1948 colonial era. Furthermore, such a huge, red-bearded giant had never been seen meandering through their austere village huts. Thus my curiosity was reflected tenfold wherever I roamed.
Hanuman apparently had no regular “beat” or pressing duties and was delighted to sit behind this quaint stranger on my underpowered moped rental. The only thanks the diminutive copper would accept for his valuable assistance was a modest plate of “gado-gado”, an array of various local vegetables steamed beneath a mild white sauce. Feeling a bit protein starved in this largely vegetarian country, I ‘d implored Hanuman to guide me to a meaty repast. His solution was an unpretentious Chinese food shop where the odd dish of pork with the ubiquitous rice could be requested. Hanuman politely declined my offer to include him in my order, discreetly citing his Islamic dietary restrictions.
Never have I encountered a resident populace so eager to embrace a stranger in their midst. They seemed to celebrate my presence and at the same time were overwhelmed by my pale whiskered face, abundant bodily hair, and ambitious figure. “Why so fat?” was the question I was innocently asked time and again. In a land where most inhabitants lived hand to mouth, such excessive avoirdupois tissue was viewed as remarkable personal wealth, and my girth represented an embarrassment of riches. This was a refreshing departure from the jibing and veiled comments I was accustomed to in my homeland.
By the time I reached Borobodur, Java’s gigantic ancient Buddhist monument, I had come to expect lighthearted greetings using my constant Indonesian nickname, “King Kong”. I usually reciprocated by some animated monkeyshines and jungle screeching. As I sweated up the imposing shrine’s innumerable stone steps, busload after busload of giggling Asian pilgrims clamored to snap off a roll of film documenting their encounter with this bizarre westerner occupying the center of each frame.
In twenty-two other countries I’ve wandered, nowhere else have I experienced such amiable, undemanding and pleasant innocents. “Not as a stranger” could serve as my motto both far and wide in this land called the “Islands of Fire.” This 1988 evaluation seems ironic in view of current politics, in as much as Indonesia has the largest Islamic population on planet earth. As Buffet Parrotheads are wont to say: “Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes.”
