Directly across the street from Jogja’s most popular expat bar is a Circle K that sells cheaper beer. The tourists drink inside the bar while the locals sit on the ground in front of Circle K, still hearing Friday’s house reggae band but saving their money for tomorrow. I was in that crowd and adjusting my knees on the concrete when I noticed a little boy sitting alone behind me, silent but clearly interested, playing with a lighter. It was 1am so people started asking him where his mother was, but he said he didn’t know and kept playing with the fire. He went inside and bought a small bag of Cheetos, then returned to his spot, eating half before folding the rest up carefully for later.
Over an hour he warmed up and revealed in shy Indonesian that he’s ten years old, doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, can’t read and doesn’t go to school, lives far away but walks a lot, and loves fried rice with chicken. I said okay, let’s go find some, so he and I went hunting for some street food. It wasn’t far, you can’t go ten feet in Jogja without finding nasi goreng or bakso. We ordered a heaping plate of fried rice and some lemon tea from the bapak, and sat together on a wooden bench while he ate.
The bapak asked the boy about his family in Javanese and translated for me; the boy answered that his parents don’t have food in the house, only cigarettes, and he didn’t want to go home because he didn’t want to see his mother. He wouldn’t talk more, only grinned shyly and ate, and tried to run away once he’d finished. We caught him and wrapped up the leftovers for him to eat tomorrow. I told him I was going home soon (2am!) and offered to take him to Circle K for some snacks for later; he smiled and picked out some cookies and orange juice, then left when I left. As he ran away, hands full and still so shy, I shouted after him for his name: Mas Bagus, Mr. Good!
mcljava 