I arrived in Indonesia to deal with the legal wranglings that accompany his falling into such a state, the lawyers needing my personal attendance to decide what to do with his belongings (three more kreteks, a quater-litre of parma-violet flavoured vodka, a green fake-pith helmet and various unlabelled products from the local apotek) - the words 'Argh! Burn it! Who knows what I might catch?!?' apparently not clear enough over e-mail.
So, I found myself braving malaria, bone-crack fever and snails that crawl up one's nose and lay eggs, to arrive at Yogyakarta (pronounced and often spelled Jogjakarta, to my great confusion) airport approximately two weeks ago. Although a lot has happened, I shall have to be brief, as darkness is falling and the light of my computer screen attracts biting flies, larger biting flies and what appear to be a type of fly that bites - it is time to retreat into darkness and a mosquito net. I shall mention only the key events.
After arriving at the airport, Claire (my girlfriend) and myself made our way to a delightful hotel, that, in what seems to be mandatory in nice hotels across Asia, offered wonderful banana pancakes and coffee for breakfast. Very handy when one has to then step out into the chaos and heat that makes Indonesia so terrifying and exciting all at once. Yogyakarta seemed remarkably invertebrate-free, which I have heard is due to insecticide being pumped into the atmosphere in a bid to control the bone-crack fever. Whilst somewhat reassuring, I can't help but wonder if this policy is why there seemed to be so little wildlife - only the odd gecko sitting forlornly, wondering where its lunch was and why, when a solitary mosquito did buzz by, it tasted so strongly of chemicals.
Anyway, from here we visited the temples at Prambanan and Borobudur, both exquisite, both huge, both carved with great detail and care and, I assume, both written about in great detail elsewhere on this blog. I recommend that anybody with a large enough computer screen look them up on Google images, press their noses to their screen and pretend to be there.
After a few days in Yogyakarta, spent (apart from the temples) haggling for sunglasses - 'No! We agreed that was for TWO pairs of sunglasses, give me that money back!' -and haggling for sandals - 'No! We agreed that was for TWO sandals, give me that money back!' - we headed to my father's house in Malang. Here we saw (after a becak ride and more haggling - 'No! We agreed that was for TWO people!...) one of Malang's great cultural institutions, a macaque on a toy motorbike, with a chain around its neck held by a man beating a drum. Occasionally, the macaque would get bored, at which point the chain would be yanked and it would try to liven up again, by wearing (a very loose term - read 'biting, throwing and sometimes balancing on its head) a fabric mask. I hear David Cameron, in a bid to make Britain great again, is planning on making those on the dole dance in a similar way to attract the tourist dollars. Judging from the collection bucket this monkey's owner held, he will surely succeed.
By this point, Viv had joined us and we set about planning a trip to Mount Bromo, the perpetually smoking volcano, to dispose of my father once and for all, followed by a grand party to celebrate. The trip to Bromo started with watching the sun rise - which consisted of watching a gradually redenning spot of the horizon for two hours before turning around and seeing the sun somewhere completely different - followed by stunning views of the mountain and the other nearby volcanoes rising up out of endless clouds below us. After confirming that this volcano was indeed suphurous enough to match my father's legacy, we headed down from our vantage point in a jeep to get their.
To get to Bromo, one has to travel through an expanse of sandy plains, surrounded by hills on all sides (the crater of an enormous, long-dead volcano) to reach the point where you are close enough to walk. Or sit on a horse to do the walking if your are lazy (we, of course, are not). The end of this walk consists of a flight of two-hundred and fourty nine steps to the rim of the volcano, whereupon we threw my father into the steaming crater hundreds of feet below, to much applause and endless photos from the Indonesians there. Unfortunately, even the bubbling maw of Bromo was horrified by his presence and he was promptly spat out, back to us, in disgust. Viv noted that, on our way back down, there were ten more steps than on the way up, suggesting that the great mountain had shuddered at the thought of swallowing him, rising higher to prevent any future parties from disposing of him in the same way. After angering the gods of the volcano, we made a swift departure and headed towards a nearby temple as means of penance. Perhaps it was only this that prevented Bromo erupting that day more fiercely than Krakatoa could ever manage.
Back at my father's home at 'Jlmbmndlagi', as he was fond of pronouncing the road it sat on, we held a party a few days later, although the burden sat heavy on us that the eternally-sleeping one still needed disposing of. It was attended by many of his acquaintances, who wanted to ensure he was truly leaving (and of course those who were unfortunate enough to share the house with him), but to have to describe the party and each of those people who I have been thoroughly pleased to meet would take my writing far into the night - and it must be late already, as the clock on my father's computer reads '16.34', which I know he would somehow interpret to be close to, if not after, midnight. If he had ever bothered to work it out, anyway.
From Malang, we travelled to Tawau, where we are planning our expedition into the deepest, darkest jungle of Danum Valley, where we are hoping to release my father back into the wild, should he rise from his slumber. Here, in Tawau, we have been able to see the Indonesian food chain in something like its natural, organic glory and it goes something like this (although I am fully aware that 'food chains' are frowned upon as being far to simplistic in the lights of new trends such as 'food webs' and 'menus'.):
Cockroach<Larger cockroach<HUGE Cockroach<rat<ENORMOUS rat<Scrawny, blind kitten<Larger Cat<Four-foot-long Monitor Lizard<Local restaurant<Unaware vegetarian<Biting fly.
Bear in mind that this food chain may at any moment be changed in the light of new, or correct, science and that the place of cats in it is highly disputed due to their tendency to ignore the rats and share the seafood with them instead.
At risk of becoming part of this food chain myself, I must now leave this blogging for another day, when the sunlight, in its creeping illumination of my father, scares all that is slimy, crawly and spindly back to the crevices from which they are now emerging.
To all who have read this far, if it's toothy and scaly: don't stroke it.
Kit