For the Love of Boyo

The huge, pulsating, cockroach festering city sprawls between volcanoes and waters occupied by the Queen of the Sea, who is only placated by the soothing nature of green. Tourists are rare, either foolhardy or wise enough to ignore the mass produced guides which herd along those not interested in misadventure, just wanting to follow each other’s footsteps and recount the same stories but making sure that theirs is so much better than the last one they heard. Tales from the same city, the same bar, the same guesthouse, the same hidden gem. But this city is not one for the fainthearted, it will engulf you and beguile you should you be so inclined. See past the slums, open sewers and ostentatious Chinese new builds and stare deep into its heart but don’t falter as it is profound.

The brightly coloured sarongs are as ubiquitous as a suit in London. When you smile at a baby or try to play peek-a-boo with a child they will cry. You are an unknown, an unusual. Adults constantly stop and stare, their countenance frowned. It is good for the soul to know how it feels to be an outsider, a real outsider. You can’t blend in here, every movement is scrutinised, followed even. However, look deep into the eyes and crack a smile at your spectators and you will receive the warmest one in return that you’ve ever encountered.

The dust is thick, the pollution black and the torridity seeps into every pore, every gland and organ, then interminably seeps out again. Slow, heavy steps accompany this sudoriferous beat. Thankfully, decrepit, elderly gentlemen wait on street corners, muscles sinewed and glistening, putting to shame physical laziness, these are not the greased biceps of peacocks but the force of necessity. They repose, stretched on their three-wheeled, battered becaks. As soon as a customer is spotted the men are on their feet, some with broadened smile, some with faint hope, some with evident disdain, all call you over, knowing this is no place to walk. In the beginning with an almost stereotypical western psyche I pushed past with nose in the air, “I am the great adventurer I can walk”, and walk I did. There are no pavements as such, walking is considered a strange past time here, and usually only happens in air-conditioned malls. A five-minute walk is considered far and ten-minute walk is far too far. I had to walk in the roadside alongside five lanes of traffic, push bikes, becaks, mopeds, motorbikes, cars, bemos, buses and lorries. It didn’t take me long to turn my head and a wise one was slowly, gently, driving his becak just behind me. I got in one for the first time and the love affair with Surabaya began.

becak - pedicab

bemo – minibus used as public transport