Around Nagoya area, away from the bars, warungs set up for the evening.
“Hello Mister, you want eat?” This is the tenth time now. I’m back in Indonesia. I ask for the price at each warung for fried rice, and get a different price every time. I pretend I know the prices, but really I haven’t got a clue what they are saying or whether I’m getting a good deal or not.
A guy turns down the music at the warung, and asks me where I’m from. I soon lose the thread of the conversation and nod my head. He was being friendly and that was the least I could do, nod my head some more.
The fried rice with seafood wasn’t the normal anaemic dish served up in Bali or Java. It was served with real calamari and large prawns.
Families are roaming the streets, selling newspapers. The guitar players are just as industrious. No sooner you pay off one, another replaces him. “He’s Mick Jaguar,” I said to one family sitting down at a table. They loved that one and dug deep in their pockets.
The streets of Nagoya are wonderful, busy, and the life blood of the island. Nagoya is what you want it to be. It certainly got the sleaze but thankfully it has the honest folk of the warungs that give the island an injection of the ‘real’ Indonesia that doesn’t want to fuck you over for a quick buck.
A quick stop at an Alpha Mart. The power goes off. The staff go outside and turn on the generator.
I make my way back to the hotel. A guitar player stops and sings in front of me. He’s persistent and I look for change.
He’s really earned his 500 Rupiah, or about ten cents in Australian currency.
I felt good about myself for a change.