The Fiddler on the Bus

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November 25th 2006

Published: December 1st 2006

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thisisjoy

Caged

Yogya's bird market

The air hung heavy with heat and humidity and the stagnant smell of clove ciggarettes. I was tempted to smoke too - anything just to kill time. The man up ahead was enacting a sort of repetitous rhythm: light, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale... His breath was the only means by which the air around us moved. Thin strands of smoke weaved and danced their way upwards until they slowed, merged and eventually hung as though suspended where the air became so heavy that all movement ceased. Time could be measured by the amount of smoke that filled the interior, as one ciggarette gave way to the next. The outside world grew hazier while inside it became harder to breathe.

Without warning, the engine was ignited and we were suddenly thrust onto the highway. A wall of smoke rushed past my face and was sucked out the open windows. Finally, we were on our way.

Gradually people began to fill the empty spaces. The bus would slow, passengers would run alongside until their speed matched ours, then they would perform the 'jump onto moving vehicle' stunt with a rather well practiced glide. The seats were nearly full now. From the

Yellow Line Up

back we could see the rows of prayer caps and head scarves neatly aligned. The heads swayed and bobbed to the rhythm of the road below. We were in muslim territory now. Along the rows, a face or two sat starting backwards, gawking at us white people until neck cramp set in and forced them to face forward again. Men smoked, children laughed and little old ladies held tightly to their chickens. It was time for the music.

Two young guys swung on to the bus just then, ukelele and drumkit in tow. They were somewhat dissheveled but appeared to be very carefree and confident. A little rough around the edges but perhaps thats what made them seem attractive to me. One winked in my direction, the other smiled. I'm sure I blushed. Balancing in the isle they assembled their instruments and began to play. One strummed his little ukelele and sang, they other beat his makeshift drum to a very catchy rhythm. All else fell silent save for the wind against the windows. They sang beautifully, they played beautifully, they themselves were beautiful. I was mesmorized. I gave Josh a little nudge.
"That guy winked at me y'know,"

As if they had any hope of escape!

These poor birds are in a cage within a cage

As the song continued, a third guy moved along the passengers asking for tips on their behalf. I was still caught in the melody. I couln't understand a word they said, but to me it seemed to be the chorus of each person we'd met along the way. The shopkeepers were singing it, hotel owners, rickshaw drivers, sarong sellers, corn cooks, jewelers, water boys, fish mongers... even the little old lady selling fruit knew all the words.

'Look at me, this is my life. I do this every single day. Its a fight for survival and a will to live. If you can spare a little change, look what I can give. I will sing to you, cook for you, drive you as far and as long as you need to go. I need you to need me, this is my life, look at me.'

The song was coming to an end. Josh placed a 1,000 rupiah note into the boy's hand. The musicians gathered up their things, hung from the side of the bus waiting for the right moment, jumped and they were gone.

I sunk down in my seat, curled up, and hummed their