It's pronounced Jogjakarta, and in the rainy season, you can expect it to be permanently blanketed by low clouds. These clouds seemed like they were poorly sealed with some leaky cloth, so that there was perpetual rain. The only question was weather it was flickering droplets or a torrential downpour. And like many small South East Asian cities, the mixture of rain and humidity seems to entrap the city's history and tradition, as if each drop of moisture captures a unit of time in its molecules.

The main reason I came to Jogja was to see Borobudur, but even without the draw of the temple, the city can sufficiently stand on its own feet as a destination. Most of the travellers visit it for its tranquility, and most also seem to shy away from the luridness of Bali. To add to the atmosphere, there was a constant, cloying mix of cigarettes, incense, and coffee. And along the main streets and the crooked alleyways that sold fair trade artefacts and hand-made leather goods, there always was a wail of prayer blasting from the top of a mosque. In many ways it reminds me of Chiang Mai in Thailand, as a quaint city surrounded by temples and paddies and without the suffocating presence of tourists. The prices weren't inflated resultantly, and one can easily get an 80c haircut with a full switchblade experience (which I did).

I didn't muck about as soon as I got there, and after the first night in Jogja, I woke up at 3am to tackle the 1.5 hour trip to Borobudur. I was fortunate enough to bump into a German also headed for the temple, Thomas, as we were prepping our scooters. In typical German style, he had the route all planned out on his phone with turn-by-turn directions directed from his earphones. After asking if I could tag along since he was much better prepared, he told me to come along and off we went.

Now it may be relevant to note that one of the last times I was atop a scooter, I ended up needing stitches on my knee. So I hope it's only reasonable for you to accept, dear Reader, that I was a bit hesitant about going Tokyo Drift on my Honda. Nevertheless, Thomas had little regard for "a reasonable pace", and zoomed off like a bee rocketing towards a flower. I had little choice but to try and keep up, and weave past all these trucks which were carrying logs on their trays, which shifted backward inch by inch every time the trucks braked. I can tell you for sure that my butthole was clenched tighter than whatever rope was holding those logs in place.

In the dark of night, we sped along until the city gave way to hills and paddies, and I started to wonder where the hell old mate was driving as the conditions of the roads likewise worsened. We started to slow down, but only because there were so many potholes in the road one would have thought this place had been subjected to an artillery barrage. Of course, other bikes would just overtake us and brazenly go through those potholes as their drivers jumped a few feet into the air. Suffice to say, you can spell this region as Ut Eat Aia instead of South East Asia because the place had no need for OH&S. 

After the temples, I said goodbye to Thomas who was headed back home, and lunched for a cheap and hearty Indonesian meal (everything is fried, and there are no vegetables in their diet I swear) for $2. The fried chicken there was still better than KFC though, and it's clear that the fried chicken (ayam goreng) was as staple in Indo as was rice or noodles. In fact, the next place I visited was a chicken church, built in the jungle by some religious nutter with omni-religious foundations. It apparently serves to cater to any faith, but it gave off more of a satanic vibe.

Healthiest meal I could scrap together.

The walls were stained from the rain and the roof was sagging in a way that concrete shouldn't. I later looked outside and found out the structure was only buttressed by a couple of bamboo sticks. There was also chilling piano music playing in the dark catacombs beneath it, and creepy gothic portraits that just had the facial features a bit off. It reminded me of some abandoned Detroit warehouse, or a decrepit funhouse along some Atlantic shoreline. At the top of the chicken's head though, there were nice views that showed off a country that seemed to be covered in constant vapour, be it smoke or fog.

Around late afternoon everyday in the rainy season, like clockwork the heavens let loose. Whatever shoddy fabric that holds the clouds together bursts apart, releasing all the pent up humidity it had stored during the day in the form of relentless rain. I walked along the Ratu Boko temple complex in this way, soaked to the bone, and enjoying it. And just as suddenly, the rains would end, as capriciously as they had begun. Just like that. I am Brahma, creator of what was destroyed.

Dinner while it poured outside

At night, we stumbled on this surreal experience where all these pedal-powered cars were decked out in LED strips of Hello Kitty or Doraemon, just cycling round and round the main square. We couldn't help but join in on the fun. There was also this apparent tradition of being blindfolded in seeing if you walk straight between two trees after starting from a distance. Hilarity ensues.