The Birdwoman's Palate

by Laksmi Pamuntjak

  Our company walks through the drizzling rain to the building next door. Sure enough, in the courtyard out front is a signless cart selling various kinds of noodles, including kwetiau, with half a dozen seats, almost all of which are taken. Relieved and convinced that in a little while we will be dining on wok-fried flat rice noodles, I want to go back to the car to get my pen, which I’ve left behind. But Farish stops me.

  “It can wait,” he says. “The car won’t be parked here, remember? Our driver’s a man of strong faith. I bet he doesn’t even allow his car to be in the vicinity of pork lard.”

  Unconsciously, for one second, I stroke his hand. I still don’t believe he’s decided to stay with us on this expedition, which has nothing to do with sick poultry. And I still can’t believe that his reason is me.

  We sit at tables close to the cart. An old koh and his son, in his thirties, take turns preparing the food. My heart races in excitement, as if this is the first time I’ve ever seen anyone make noodles, rice, or kwetiau goreng as the Chinese do—swiftly, deftly, hyperkinetically, accompanied by a fire dance that begins with a roaring blaze before the flames begin lapping at the contents of the wok. I’m so mesmerized that I don’t even realize that we’re being totally ignored. Instead of being served, we’re not even being seen.

  “Your conclusion?” says Nadezhda.

  “They’re suspicious of outsiders,” says Bono.

  “Oh, come on. Let’s not be so sensitive.” Even as Farish says this, he sounds uncertain.

  Nadezhda suggests offering herself to the koh and his son.

  “Both of them?” asks Bono.

  “Yes, both of them,” says Nadezhda, sashaying toward the cart. “Father and son. My specialty, really.”

  Her charms don’t work; our order still doesn’t come. Bono is getting restless, as are Farish and I. But then I remember my fruit rujak, still sitting in its brown paper bundle. Like an elementary school student who’s just remembered the lunch her mother packed, I quickly give it a try: one spoonful, two. Fruit rujak with cuttlefish is a Singkawang specialty. So why am I not impressed?

  “Let me try,” says Nadezhda. She hasn’t taken two spoonfuls before she pushes it aside. “No good!” she says a second later.

  “No good in what way?” Bono asks, though we already know he’s not a rujak fan in general.

  “Atonal,” says my other friend, as lightly as if she were saying, “No kick,” or “Blech.” But this time my planet and Nadezhda’s are in alignment.

  It’s 5:45 p.m. There’s no other choice—we have to return to Pontianak. Farish has just called the driver, who’s laying low who knows where in order to escape the fires of hell. Suddenly the friendly but slightly vain cik from next door shows up and walks our way. Her head is still covered in pink rollers, but she’s abandoned her floral-print housedress in favor of a blouse and orange pants. Without waiting for an invitation, she sits at our table so that Bono and Farish, already on their feet, looking out for our car, are forced to sit back down. When she hears that our food still hasn’t come, she immediately heads over to the koh and his son and begins stamping her foot until the entire courtyard is quaking in fear.

  “We’re going to my place,” the woman says firmly. “They’ll deliver your food there.”

  Not one of us dares to protest. And so we troop back to the intriguing-looking house and spread ourselves out on the veranda. In less than five minutes two young men blushing bright red (“The koh’s grandkids!” our host whispers gleefully) are hurrying over with three plates of our kwetiau goreng and two bowls of bubur babi. When Bono gets out his wallet, they shake their heads and bow repeatedly. “On the house,” they insist. Then they dash back next door like a pair of chicken poachers.

  The mistress of the house grins. “Come on,” she says. “Hurry up and eat, before it gets cold.”

  The sight of my kwetiau goreng makes me so happy. I make note of its color—a glossy dark brown—and also its texture and the thickness of the gravy, which sets it apart from kwetiau goreng as it’s often done. Plus they haven’t been stingy with the fishballs I so love. These are densely packed, like keket fishcakes, but more springy and petite.

  Bono and Farish seem more interested in the bubur babi—Farish because he’s trying to avoid “the forbidden meat” (the kwetiau goreng contains pork) and Bono because he’s always interested in trying new things. The rice porridge is brimming with vitamin K . . . kind of: kecambah (sprouts), kencur (a type of galangal), kangkung (water spinach), kunyit (turmeric), kacang panjang (snake beans), kacang tanah (peanuts), kerupuk (prawn crackers), and, most importantly of all, finely minced kesum (Vietnamese mint). It is the spiciness of the kesum leaves that puts the “pedas” in variants of bubur babi called bubur pedas. Pakis (fiddleheads), serai (lemongrass), and daun salam (bay leaves) play a role, too, though they don’t start with k. And as accents: crisp-fried anchovies and juice from a fresh lime, drizzled on top. Superb.

  Once we’ve polished off everything on our plates, we realize we haven’t said a word to our gracious host. We haven’t even asked her to join us. How can we take our leave without seeming rude now? Thanks so much for all your help, ma’am, but we really should be heading back to Pontianak . . .

  It turns out she has a lot of stories to tell. At first we listen halfheartedly, but we’re gradually sucked in and lose track of time. We listen as she tells of the history of Singkawang: how the majority of the city’s residents, about 70 percent, are Chinese, and how Chinese settlement here has been going on since the eighteenth century—a byproduct of a flourishing gold-mining industry that was responsible at one point for producing a seventh of the world’s gold. Of that 70 percent, the majority of the local Chinese are of Hakka, and the rest are Teochew.

  “My father is Hakka, but my mother is part Dayak and part Malay. My kids are gorgeous. They have fair skin from their Chinese side, but they also have big, round eyes.” She widens her own eyes, which are pretty big themselves.

  “Now two of my kids have settled in Singapore. Both of them are working, but one of them still has no interest in getting hitched! At least they’re not here anymore. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wouldn’t be happy if my daughters lived in Singkawang. But how are they supposed to find good husbands here? They’re too smart, too self-sufficient. Meanwhile, a lot of families here sell their girls to the foreigners who come from all over, businessmen from Taiwan, China, Malaysia, Singapore. All so they can be someone’s—anyone’s—wife! Can you imagine? I’d rather kill myself than sell my own daughter. Granted, a lot of businessmen are willing to pay more than the amount set by those son-of-a-bitch marriage brokers. Sometimes a broker will only ask for five million rupiah, and the businessman will pay up to thirty million. Actually, most of these contract marriages aren’t legal either. Or, they are, but only for a certain length of time—usually, up to five years. But it still doesn’t mean this city’s ideal for my daughters.”

  “When was the last time you saw them, cik?”

  “Oh, I’ll see them in a bit at Yuan Xiao Jie.”

  We hear the words, but we don’t understand.

  “You know. The fifteenth night of Chinese New Year.”

  More silence.

  “It’s the Cap Go Meh Festival,” says the woman with a smile, as if recalling some pleasant memory. “It means my husband and I will get to see our grandchildren again. They come to see us in Singkawang almost every year and watch the festivities at the same time. We usually go as a family to offer prayers at Tua Pek Kong temple along with the tatung. They pray for protection—to be impervious to harm.”

  “Tatung?”

  “You know, the spirit mediums who can’t be hurt by sharp weapons. They run themselves through with knives and swords during the procession, but it doesn’t leave any wounds.”

  “Does Cap Go Meh involve any food?”

  “But of course!”

  Then the woman tells us all about the Bacang Festival, also known as Duan
Wu Jie. To honor the memory of Qu Yuan, a poet who drowned himself in a river, people scatter uncooked grains of glutinous rice over the water to prevent the fish from eating Qu Yuan’s body, which, mysteriously, was never found. Then people gather to eat the rice dumplings the Bacang Festival is named for before jumping into the river together.

  Similar rituals, though not as specific, are observed throughout the lunar year. In addition to the rites performed in the temples as part of Sembahyang Rampas, known among other Chinese communities as the Hungry Ghost Festival, people prepare offerings for ancestors whose spirits are restless because their bodies were never found or because their descendants neglect them. On the same day, people also distribute rice to the poor and the needy.

  The woman continues. “If I’m not wrong, the Mooncake Festival next year will be sometime in late September. The next Onde-Onde Festival will be late December this year.”

  “How cool is that,” I say, thinking of all the people in Jakarta who fly en masse to Singapore every year to shop their hearts out—under the pretext of celebrating Chinese New Year.

  “Singaporeans come here to watch the festival, too,” the woman says, as if reading my mind. “Especially those with family in Singkawang. This is where a lot of them come from—the ones of Hakka descent, anyway. Back in the day, when their ancestors lost the Kongsi Wars with the Dutch, they fled from Singkawang and went to other islands and cities to start new lives. If not in Sumatra, then Kuala Lumpur or Singapore.”

  “Wasn’t Singkawang originally part of the regency of Sambas?” asks Farish.

  “It was the capital! But around thirteen years ago, Sambas was split into two regencies, Sambas and Bengkayang. At the time, Singkawang was made part of Bengkayang. Now Singkawang has become a proper city—it’s classed as a level two region, separate from Bengkayang.”

  “But the population’s still not that big,” says Farish. “A little less than five hundred thousand, isn’t it?”

  “Far less. Two hundred thousandish, most likely. That’s why people get excited about the Cap Go Meh festival. The city feels more lively.”

  “How are relations between ethnic and religious groups?” asks Farish, suddenly switching modes from NGO activist to TV talk-show host.

  He keeps grimacing when no one else is looking. Maybe he has a stomachache. Or maybe he’s stressed out by watching our car enter and exit the alley multiple times before disappearing yet again, to somewhere uncontaminated by “forbidden” things.

  “It’s been pretty peaceful so far,” says the woman, plucking a piece of rose-apple from my unfinished rujak and popping it in her mouth. “But the Islamic Defenders Front has a branch here. And you know what they’re like. They always fret when they see anything Chinese that sticks out too much. Like, oh, I don’t know, those dragon statues, for example. Such upstanding citizens they are otherwise! Sometimes they stage protests or make trouble. Now Hasan Karman, who used to be our mayor—he was a decent guy. Strong. Firm. He was the first ethnic Chinese mayor to be elected in Indonesia. He’s not in office anymore. The pair who won the last regional election was Awang Ishak and his running mate, Abdul Muthalib. There were even accusations from Hasan Karman’s side about the election results. He said they’d been fixed. But he was overturned when he took it to the federal level.”

  Farish asks, “Wasn’t there the sense that ethnic Chinese voters were being discriminated against around the same time Hasan Karman announced his candidacy?”

  I’m pretty impressed that he knows so much about it.

  “Yes, in 2007. The thing was, many of us—our people, I mean—didn’t get our voting ballots. Whether it was intentional or not, who knows? So we protested. People took to the street. The Regional General Elections Committee finally gave in, and we were allowed to vote.”

  It’s 6:45 p.m. That’s it. It’s time. Slowly, I get to my feet.

  “I’m sorry, cik, but we should go,” I say carefully. “Thanks so much for your company and your incredible stories.”

  The woman looks at the others, as if wanting to see what they think.

  I try again. “We hate to go . . . but we do have to go back to Pontianak. We only have tonight and part of tomorrow to sample the cuisine there. We return to Jakarta tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Before you leave for Pontianak,” she says, as if not really listening, “you have to stop by this rice porridge place.” She hands Bono a business card with the name of a restaurant on it. “It’s on Jalan Diponegoro. There’s a big sign. You’ll see it from the car. Don’t bother with the Pasar Hong Kong district here. Bubur Gunting, Kembang Tahu, Sotong Pangkong—you can find all that in Pontianak. But this porridge place has no equal. It’s the most delicious porridge in the world. Or, as we say here, nyaman inyan!”

  The restaurant is spotless: shiny white-tiled floors and walls, a light-green-painted door, and round white tables with red plastic stools. The owners are a couple and their two daughters. The four of them look like they come from another world. Their fair-skinned faces beam as if smiling is just what they do, and they look back at us—shyly, surreptitiously—in all of our own otherness as well. If the husband, who doesn’t say much, is obviously in charge of the kitchen, then the wife is the restaurant PR manager. Her Indonesian is more fluent, and she’s more communicative.

  But it’s their children who really make an impression. Both of them are still in elementary school, one in her final year, the other in third grade. When the youngest isn’t bringing us tea or water, she sits at a table in the corner and diligently does homework. I notice Bono can’t stop taking photos of the child. He does so secretly, without her knowing. He really does have a soft side, this sweet, funny tornado.

  There are certain things that transcend barriers and language. It’s as if we don’t need to tell the amiable koh we’re in a hurry. Swiftly and expertly, he prepares two bowls of Bubur Babi, pork porridge, for the three of us to share. Farish declines; this is where he draws the line.

  Everything seems to shimmer. And then he cracks an egg over the porridge while it’s hot. The egg white billows like a cloud; the yolk spreads like a ray of light. The result? One of the universe’s tastiest dishes. Though out of solidarity with Farish, I only try a bite.

  Religion makes us poor judges of art.

  It’s exactly eleven o’clock at night when we reach Pontianak. Not wanting to waste time, we ask our driver to stop on Jalan Gajah Mada, near our hotel. I pay him the fare. One should see the look on his face. How is such a relief even possible? Farish says he didn’t dare eat anything the whole time we were in Singkawang.

  We start walking down the street. Contrary to our expectations, there aren’t that many street vendors left or places to hang out by the side of the road. Jalan Gajah Mada at night in Pontianak isn’t like Jakarta’s Jalan Gajah Mada, which is eternally bathed in light.

  After walking for twenty minutes, we finally stop at a tent warung selling panfried Ko Kue and Chai Kue. Ko kue is a kind of steamed rice cake made from rice flour or taro flour, mixed with chives, then stir-fried with chili peppers in a large, shallow wok. Unlike its panfried dumpling cousin, kuo tie, which is usually served dry, ko kue is served with the oil and a reduction of the sauce it was fried in so that it’s a bit moist, without affecting the crispiness of the dumplings. Chai kue is a filled dumpling with a definite shape, like a sunny-side-up egg or a round serabi pancake. It’s starchier, yet packs more flavor because it has a charred, smoky taste to it.

  Because it’s late, the warung appears to be getting ready to close. Several low benches and stools are already being put away. But Koh Awe, the old koh who owns the warung, just sits there in the corner of the tent without making a sound. He has a sour expression on his face. The cheerful face of a gubernatorial candidate with a Pepsodent-white smile peeks out from the campaign poster behind him.

  His assistant, a boy, begins to fidget when he sees how intensely we survey the premises and facilities, from the enormous woks to the molds for th
e batter, from the metal pans filled with cooking oil and fried garlic chips to the assorted sambals and ingredients for red-bean shaved ice on a low wooden table an inch from the exhaust pipe of a parked motorcycle near the road.

  “How many?” the boy asks, with an impatient expression. “All we have left are chai kue.”

  “What’s inside them?”

  “All sorts of things. But right now the only fillings are chives, taro, shelled mung bean, and jicama. Which ones do you want?”

  We order a dozen pieces of each. Farish orders a shaved ice, and so do I.

  Once we realize the chive and taro ones taste the best, we order more: twenty pieces total. And once those are gone, we ask for eight more.

  The boy raises a hand. “Sorry, sold out! We’re closed!”

  With heavy hearts—even heavier now that we know that a single chai kue from paradise costs a mere two thousand rupiah—we move on and keep heading down the ruler-straight road, going farther and farther from the hotel. The distance we cover doesn’t feel long, and we’re not tired.

  Ten minutes later we see a vendor selling sotong pangkong—“beaten squid.” In the covered area behind him, a group of men are playing dominoes. Out of curiosity, and also some strange doggedness that comes with the length of our journey, we order a portion to go.

  For five minutes we stare at the skinny man as he squats on the floor, barbecuing a sheet of dried squid over a charcoal grill, then beating it to make it tender.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty thousand rupiah, my friends!”

  The squid immediately leaves a bad taste in our mouths—it’s expensive, there’s no culinary skill involved, and it’s tough, to boot!

  Bono can’t stop fuming. “A bicycle tire would taste better than this!”

  He only ceases when we arrive at a long-established restaurant famous for its “100 percent halal” beef kwetiau.