The lost boys of Jogjakarta gave us many things, a safe place to sleep, wine to drink, canvas to paint, stories and open minds. In a short time, we were welcomed into a brotherhood and into their hearts. They shared the colored tapestries of their lives accenting difficulties by allowing only mere shrugs at hardships and trials. Isanto, in particular helped me understand life beyond the stories by welcoming me into his home. I saw how family is everything (even if it's created), hardship is relative and poverty in this place, immediate.
Jogja's inner city kampung's are modern Indonesian slums. Old housing stiched together with tiny alleys brightly colored with mold and running like seams through an area the size of a small neighbourhood. Entering the kampung you'll see a waterfall of corrugated iron cascading over gutters and peaked windows.Ancient grandmothers bending over boiling pots in outdoor kitchens built against the bricks of their homes. Rain leaking off roof gutters falls into pots and pans laid below and everywhere latchkey kids, food sellers and buskers wander through the alleyways and open doors laughing and smiling as they go. It's a place that is immediately both colorless and full of life.
Initally, Santo was hesitant to mention his home life. His upbringing was a difficult one in a country that chains mentally diseased relatives to benches and were children are more likely to make up a nasty rhyme than assist handicapped people. Though things are changing, Santo's childhood was full of ostracism, poverty and neglect, by his community and his peers for having not one, but two blind parents. Santo's parents contracted a disease in their early teens that led to blindness. They live together in a tiny house in the middle of an inner city kampung in Jogjakarta. Santo got his first tattoo at 12, now with bad gums, rotten teeth and liver problems from alcohol, he has spent most of his childhood living, drinking and sleeping on Malioboro Street.
I have seen shacks and hovels around the world, but I was still surprised at the house. It was a hallway. A two leveled, clothing filled hallway for three. Santo flung himself down on a dirty mattress piled in the corner and switched off the radio. He called to his mother and a tiny white haired woman hobbled out of the shadows of the house and came to hold my hand.
"Mum, this is Tabitha"..he said in rapid Indonesia.
"Nama saya Tabitha" I said in stilted bahasa.
"Cha-bal-ah", she said cocking her head..
oh well, close enough.
At 60 she has a cheeky smile.The sunken folds of skin where her eyes had once been, blended into the deep grooves and lines of her face. She grabbed my hands, her strong fingers pressing deep into my hands. Smacking her gums she worked her way up my arm only pausing to squeeze the delicate flesh of my inner arm and mention that I was chubby.
Both Santo's parents massage as a way to bring income for food and basic health costs. While I was living with them, I would chat with Santo's mum each week about food and buy the required ingredients at the market. With no fridge and no gas stove, cooking is an immediate task. She has been cooking on a charcoal stove since she was 10, it's massively labour intensive and a meal takes up to 2 hours. But to buy a gas cooker and learn a new cooking method is potentially very dangerous. To watch her measure out the gasoline for the coal, to light the stove, to fan the flames and to prepare, monitor and taste the food was impressive..and man, can that lady cook!
I stayed with the family, ate slept and learned a lot of bahasa, I have Santo to thank for being my personal tour guide around the city, and helping me understand more about the work of GIRLI and Milas, excellent charities that help kids through resturant and organic farming projects!
Santo is an artist and a traditional kite maker. He has a concentration that is magnetic, a silent way of working and moving without sound. Always sweeping, cleaning or making tea. And always sharing, no matter how little he has. All the boys seem to share this spirit.They smoke a packet of cigarettes on the table until it is finished, they share meals when they can, they drink up when they can, and rely on each other for support..And it's this that I take away with me from Jogjakarta. The street boys, their families, their brotherhood and their movement..a family.
