Japanese Beef Smiles

 Most people probably thought I was high as I strolled through the brisk neon-lit streets of Kobe with a goofish grin and too much pep-in-my-step. I was smiling more that usual, laughing out loud at inward thoughts, and recklessly making tip of the cap gestures at any passer by that mistakenly made eye contact. Mothers hurried their children along out of my way, old men leered from their stoops, and the pious were offended by my glee. They were right to be skeptical of my substance-induced joy, but those who knew the source of this ethereal bliss shot me a knowing smile and slow head nod.

Just off the main road, down a dimly lit alley stands a small man in a big coat. He occupies the space outside of a deep red dark door.  No words are needed. Everyone knows what you’re after and gestures suffice for this kind of joint. The door lurches open as I pull its oversized brass handles. It is darker inside and a heavy smoke lingers in the air. We speak in hushed voices for no apparent reason. It’s the type of place that feels empty but is brimming with people.  Up a steep set of old stairs, over the worn carpets hundreds of others have passed looking for the same fix. ‘Tea?” the short boxy man asks, I nod again. The menu is brought out, this place reminds me of restaurant. I guess because it is.

Now the people of Kobe are not known for illegal substances, and this is no tale of criminal escapades. They are however, a bunch of beef slingers. The worst kind.         

-Hold your horses and ease that grin Chancho. I know the innuendos are boundless-

For years in the dark alleys of Kobe, men and women alike have met in dim corners to get whiff of that sizzle. The finest cuts of meet man could beget from beef. The endless and meticulous Japanese obsession with achieved perfection in all acts comes through with every shoulder dropping, sigh inducing, subtle moan of joy whose source is top grade Kobe beef.

When in Kobe, you are a fool if you choose to settle for anything less than premium. Sure, you can get an amazing experience of top notch Kobe beef at a more reasonable price. Places like Steakland exist for such a reason. But really? You want to eat at a place called 'Steakland'? In Japan? You might as well have an outline of Texas with a 5 gallon hat on and chachkies everywhere.  Great things are to be done right, and this is one of those, ‘once in a longtime’ sort of meals.  I went big.

I don’t remember which cut I got, details become overshadowed by exquisite taste, but it was emphatically amazing. The chef brought out the slab of meat like fine wine to make sure I approved before we got started.  Naturally I gave the slab of raw meat a thorough look over checking it under the light like a person who has no idea what to look for.  Similar to the look I give when testing wine before it is poured. I nod to show I think I know what I’m doing. Next, my wine was delivered without being offered a sample taste as if it were some hunk of raw beef.  

Watching this perfectly marbled piece of meat get sliced up and cooked was a joy in itself. The taste? Another world. One piece of Kobe beef, a dash of salt, dab of wasabi, and a slice of freshly fried fresh garlic. A single bite had the ability to completely alter the chemical balances in my brain (See aforementioned descriptions). It left me questioning my entire existence and what ‘real life’ even is. I had no idea food could be so rich as to leave me with such stunning joy.

The meal continued sublimely. I chewed in uninterrupted happiness fully engaged with that which lay before me. The final bite was triumphant. Not leaving one ounce of longing or any bittersweet feelings found at the conclusion of great things. Just rotund satisfaction and full contentment. 

A bowl of mints was delivered to me and I was off. Past the boxy man, down the stairs, through the smoky room, out the archaic door, down the ally to the street bustling with life. The cold winter air was energizing, I had just had the best meal of my life. I was over the moon, the world sang with colours and sounds. Joy burst for from all directions, I pranced down the neon light streets, arms stretched heavenward. Oh how sweet it was, the hills were alive with the sound beef.

Friends, I ate well. 

Sulawesi, Where Indonesian Men in Canadian Tuxedos Butcher Buffalo.

This would normally be that moment where I talk about living down to low expectations of poor blog updates, but there is far too much to write about to get bogged down with messy excuses, of which I am in ample supply of.  

Conventional wisdom would suggest if you’ve seen one buffalo get brutally slaughtered by an upward hack to the throat you’ve seen them all. I can say with all certainty that is probably not true. Watching twenty (mostly innocent but who really knows) buffalo meet their gurglely and violent end was an interesting way to spend a summers day basking in direct sunlight, ankle deep in blood and culture.

The mountainous highlands of Central Sulawesi are rich with natural beauty and gasoline jugs filled palm wine. The region of Toraja is accessible to the hearty adventurer with a strong stomach by casual 12 hour bus-ride. The eighty-cent packet of motion sickness tablets are worth the grimy ‘uang-kecil’ to even the most frugal scrooge of a traveler.  There is no such thing as sweet scents and subtle sounds on Indonesian buses, well any public bus for that mater….

'Kampung Home-stay'

Trekking through rice terraces and little villages is a wondrous way to enjoy two days. Dramatic landscapes, friendly faces, and not dead buffalo are found round every corner. Even the smashed sandwich and soggy French-fries tasted delightfully rustic, if not out of place on the trail. I suppose our guide was appealing to our western taste buds. The opportunity to crash in a traditional Torajan house was worth the admittedly awful sleep it provided.

Following the two-day trek, which felt a bit too brief, I traveled via scooter to a small village to witness the famous (or infamous for those who donate to PETA) funeral ceremonies.  For the keen reader I suggest looking into Toraja culture and funerals, they are unique and captivating. According to a man there, a grandma died about year ago after which she has been considered ‘sick’ until all here family members could assemble together for her funeral. Funerals seem to be pointed towards establishing a families or individuals status in the community. Bigger funerals and more buffalo that one could afford grants higher esteem in the village. From a very outside perspective and through my little Indonesian I deduced very little mourning or celebration of life. Everyone just seemed pretty stoked about the buffalo slaughter that was about to take place.

Hanging out like nothing bad is about to happen...

Like any awesome event, the big show takes hours to get underway and always starts later than posted. Think of the antsy restlessness you get at a concert waiting for the main act; first the opener shows up, a bit late but close enough not to care much. They are pretty solid and it is an acceptable use of your time before what you actually came to see. It takes not-literally forever for the band to show up, to the point were you are actually a bit crossed at the guys for starting so late.

Sans blowtorch but still dashing

    

As such, It starts of with the little piggies. The poor guys get slaughtered with a jab through the heart, after which the hair is burned off by a mustached gentleman smoking unfiltered cigarettes wielding a flame thrower attached to a propane tank manufactured the same era Billy-Ray Cyrus was thought to have good style. The mustached man is coincidentally sporting such style. They are beheaded and quite literally quartered then not so neatly heaved into a pile on the ground.  All good fun. You walk around and look at the unsuspecting buffalo chilling out like nothing bad is about to happen, drink some tea have some cake and politely decline the constant cigarette offers. Wait a bit. Have some more tea, eat some cake, take a picture of the poor buffalo chilling out like nothing bad is about to happen, ask the guy in broken Indonesian what time this show gets on the road then wave off a cigarette with a smile.

Over your fourth cup of tea you’ve already rationalized that everything in Indonesia starts late and seeing as it is over an hour past the stated start time surely its about to start soon. You grab a cake a smile past the fellas who’ve been offering you cigarettes and jostle into a good spot to take in the carnage, bumping elbows with everyone else for a good view. The buffalo have been paraded through; clearly we are about to see blood. At two hours past the allotted start time, jittering from the caffeine impatiently pretending to smoke a cigarette (not inhaling because you don’t want to cough in front of these hard-ass little old timer Indonesian men) the first buffalo gets tied to the stake.

As I watch the near beheading followed by the violent thrashing and gasps for air as it bleeds out to death at my feet I feel ashamed for ever wanting to see this.

I have to look away.

The crowd cheers as second buffalo tries to run and bucks after it's throat is cut open. The first buffalo has gone into convulsions and they are tying up the third. It continues. As the buffalo get too weak to stand they untie them and tie up another, leaving the the previous buffalo wherever they fell. Soon there ten dead or dying buffalo surrounded by hundreds of people in a space the size of a basketball court. Halfway through I am desensitized to the brutality. In due time the twentieth buffalo gets the knife and stumbles through the carcasses.

Kinda a lot of blood

At the end, despite struggling to stomach it all, I am glad to have seen this. Yes, a bit brutal and inhumane to Western standards. It is a very different bit of culture, surely controversial within some circles. Soon the buffalo are skinned and butchered. Twenty buffalo have many liters of blood pumping through them and the ground is stained red. The files descend and the uninviting smell of blood permeates the humid air. I linger around chewing the fat with some friendly faces as kids happily dance around cutting off the tails for souvenirs.

   Two lengthy bus rides and a ferry, I'm in the picturesque Togian Islands. Skies out thighs out as they say, so I'm sporting my shorty Abe-Linen shorts (soon to be trademarked). We spent five days book reading, swimming, hammock-lounging, diving, with a well-deserved Bintang or two in the company of fellow travellers talking shop.  The further off the beaten path you get the richer the stories get and more genuine the people seem. Perhaps we are all pursuing the same truth, or chasing the same idea.

I must give my fellow travel companions Ms K and Lynsey mad props for getting to know me perhaps a bit too well. Between sharing hotel rooms with hardly soundproof toilets while I’m regretting my cavalier choice of Indonesian restaurants, the lengthy and untimely misadventure to find crab in Manado after a day and a half of uncomfortable travel, and taking turns to sleep on the floor I must say I could not ask for a better duo of travel companions. Sulawesi was not the most convenient or leisurely holiday, bit squirrely and less streamlined, but a trip I’m not soon to forget. 



I have no idea how to change the text background,  sorry....

Too Fat For Asia & Adventures in West Sumatra

I always enjoy the little reminders that show me how Asia is designed for people at least 5 inches shorter than myself and 50lbs lighter. Fortunately there was no repeat offense of crushing a plastic stool underneath my thunderous loins for this latest excursion. I was only subjected to the former reminder that suddenly struck me as I crawled into the third row of our derelict minivan transport.

Laughing is the only reaction one can have when, after asking several times to repeat, you are told the journey will be three hours and your bum is already numb after a wee five minuets and you’re already choking on your knees. My thoughts become a guessing game of which hour in the journey I will reach my breaking point and walk home. This seems like a great opportunity to describe how we came to this point.

Naz, the two guys from the photocopy room, and myself were waiting under a tarp covering a bakso stand in an absolute downpour, the kind of downpour only find in countries that have seasons wholly devoted to the word ‘wet’.  We are here after a brief bus trip from the train station in Bogor to the, and I use this next word extremely loosely, bus terminal.  The bus terminal is this guy selling bakso (a cart that sells hot soup and meatballs, who worked under candlelight mind you) on the side of a busy street and another dude hanging around shouting the names of cities that one could venture to for an easy buck-fitty.

Public transportation in Indonesia is always a lively adventure and our train ride does not fail to disappoint. A casual two hour trip takes you from Jakarta to Bogor. The train has seats that run parallel with the tracks, leaving plenty of open space for soft fleshy bodies to mash into each other. By the second stop the train is so full I am touching four people with my waist alone. Phish concerts in the pit have more personal space than this train, Europeans give you more personal space in conversation than this train. If there was music playing I would swear I was at the hawk/X2/timepiece or whatever club people go to ‘twerk’.

Despite the bumping and grinding (of the old train on the tracks) I don’t feel terribly violated, in some ways I feel cultural and pretty stoked were doing this the Indonesian way.  So after standing for two hours with strangers pressed upon me, we reached Bogor and ultimately find ourselves sardined into this…. Bus.

Thanks to a frightening yet ultimately hilarious whatsapp message the journey passed by quickly and without extreme scares. Worthy to note, by western standards the entire trip would have been cause for worry but for Indonesian standards it was, well, standard.  The bus had three benches in the back and one up front with the driver. If you can fit three people in each row, you surely can fit four. So myself and 15 other souls embark, knowing that any accident would mean a slow agonizing death.

The last leg of the trip was an exhilarating ojek (motorcycle taxi) ride through the mountains. The kind of ride where you can’t help smiling and chuckling to yourself at how awesome life is. Me and my mates just cruisin’ in the lush Indonesian countryside after dusk. There were a few arms extended upwards shouting ‘woo’ as well as a few ‘hati-hati pa! pelan-pelan tidak ada helm, gue suka hatiku’.

The journey was well worth the destination. Mountain camping with stunning views and chance to hike in the jungle. I took a dump in a river. I ate the same rice from a cookie tin for two days. The first time you do something in Indonesia that you have done one way your whole life is always a great experience and nice reminder that everything is relative. Camping was just one of these instances.   I learned how to start a fire using an old sandal and that you can also hike in sandals (a different pair).  Camping wasn’t sort of the ‘get back to nature’ vibe it so often has in the states, I’m not entirely sure what it is here. Still figuring that out, but I do know it was beautiful.

The best part of the trip was being cold, the kind where jacket and hat are required. I miss that.  

The return journey was just as exciting as when we headed out but slightly better after Naz and I discovered the most amazing martabak vendor on the street.  Fresh banana martabak can soothe even the most cranky oversized traveler. 

That’s a good line to end on.

God bless.

-Cheecky Sumatra Adventure Update!

Not surprisingly, I am atrocious at actually posting the bits I write. I do write, I just never find the time to put them online.  So Instead of having two posts, I’ve combined the previous story from a couple weeks ago with this brief one.  Last week my good friend Greg joined me for a week of riding motorcylces through West Sumatra. It was fantastic.

• ·      Fed a live chicken to a live crocodile in an abandoned amusement park in Harau
• ·      Ate peanuts with police officers on the side of the road during a downpour.
• ·      Stepped into a elephant enclosure because a 3ft. section of the wall fell down in a zoo in Bukitttinggi
• ·      Patiently sat through an explanation of the ‘new world order’ by a Hungarian on a trash filled beach in Padang.
• ·      The sordid condition of the 5 dollar hotel room we stayed in is hard too hard to put into words.
• ·      Ate nasi padang in Padang, and was disappointed.
• ·      Sang the Indonesia Raya with group of kids, teenagers, and parents alike at a bakso stand on lake Singkarak
• ·      Logged approximately 350 miles and 25 hours under my arse on a rented moped
• ·      Tried to shoot a squirrel climbing a cocoa tree with a pellet gun at lake Minanjau because the man with the gun suggestively placed it in my hands and pointed.
• ·      Played with baby sea turtles at a soon to be turtle farm in Pariaman
• ·      Regretfully did not purchase a green chicken for 50 cents.
• ·      Crossed the equator on foot.
• ·      Ate several meals with my hands while not wearing shoes.
• ·      Got lost.
• ·      Saw the richness and fullness of God’s beauty in one of the most spectacular countries on earth with one of my best mates.

It was a great trip, my next goal is to throw some pictures up. Here's to hoping.