Cycle Sunday: Salatiga Stylish Sunmori

SUNMORI stands for SUNday MORning RIde.

Last night I got a text from my mechanic friend that there was going to be a public meet-up and ride for custom motorcycles, starting at 7:30 this morning.  I figured, why not?  I wake up at five every day anyway.  I spent more time figuring out which motorcycle I was going to ride than whether I was going.  (I should have spent some of that time shopping for a camera, since I took a bunch of pictures with my crap phone and they, predictably, came out crappy.  Apologies in advance.)

I left early, because the ride started at a resort on the outskirts of town, and I'd never been there before.  I ended up getting there really early;  there were probably somewhere between twelve and twenty riders already parked when I arrived.  This ended up being really cool, and if they hold this event again, I think I'll show up even earlier.  For one thing, I got to photograph a ton of sweet bikes, which the organizers sorted by category in the parking lot.

My motorcycle fell into the category of "Classic Sport," which seemed to be defined as a category of motorcycles which had originally been lightweight, Japanese standards before being extensively modified.

Like these ones!

And these ones!

They were certainly not all sportbikes. Common styles in the "Classic Sport" category included standard, cafe-racer, scrambler, Japstyle, and Bratstyle.

Pictured: Your typical cafe-racer.

From left to right: An atypically-ornate cafe-racer, a japstyle, and a scrambler.

A few of the "Classic Sport" bikes even had seating positions or styling cues reminiscent of cruisers and old-school choppers.

Like this one!

There was a second category, called "Antik," (Indonesian for "antique") that was largely indistinguishable from the "Classic Sport" category.  All but one of them were extensively-modified Japanese motorcycles with clutch levers.

Pictured:  Lightweight, Japanese standard motorcycles after extensive modifications.

Not only that, but most of them were around the same ages as the "Classic Sport" bikes, with frames between ten and thirty years old, and engines five to fifteen years old, which seems to be the standard formula for creating custom bikes in Indonesia.

Pictured:  Motorcycles with frames aged 10-30 years and engines aged 5-15.

Rather, the distinction between "Classic Sport" and "Antique" seems to be an aesthetic one.  Most motorcycles that got classified as "Antik" were artificially made to look older in some way.  A popular, and presumably inexpensive way to achieve this was by simply not painting the motorcycles.

Pictured:  Four motorcycles, one coat of paint.

Pictured:  Two and a half motorcycles, one coat of paint.

Only one of the motorcycles in the "Antik" section was a genuine antique,

Pictured:  A genuine antique.

But boy was it a beauty!

Another category that seemingly had a lot of overlap was the "CB" category.  Every motorcycle in this category was a Honda CB.  Many of the "Classic Sport" and "Antik" motorcycles were originally Honda CBs, and with CB frames or engines, were likely still listed as CBs on their registration paperwork.  However, the motorcycles in the "CB" category all still had both the original, unmodified CB frame as well as the original CB engine bearing no outward signs of modification.

Pictured:  Five Honda CBs

Most of them still had original CB tanks, wheels, and fenders as well.  Instead, these motorcycles distinguished themselves as custom bikes by having unique paint jobs, custom seats, and/or aftermarket accessories like lights or mirrors.

Pictured:  Unique paint jobs, custom seats, and aftermarket accessories.

Another popular category, one which hardly needs an introduction, was the "Vespa" category.  In some ways, the Vespa is well-suited to Indonesia, where most roads are narrow and most people are small, and where custom motorcycle culture thrives.  Despite that, the Vespa is not as quite as popular as one would expect given those considerations.

One reason for this is scarcity.  Both the motorcycles themselves and the aftermarket parts used to customize them are fewer in number and far less varied.  This drives up the price without improving the product.  As a result, the Vespa is not much cheaper than any of the three foregoing categories, but it lags behind all of them in performance.

Nevertheless, today's Vespa riders added welcome variety into the mix and brought some nice-looking bikes to the event.

In contrast to the European imports and styles popularized by Japanese and American motoryclists, the next category brought a uniquely Indonesian flavor along for the ride.  The "Classic Bebek" category consisted of bikes modified from various models of Indonesian-assembled "motor bebek."  Literally translated, this means "duck motorcycle."  While these motorcycles are designed and engineered by Japanese companies, the ones sold in Indonesia are built in Indonesian factories.

Pictured:  Motorcyclists who have all their ducks in a row.

The motor bebek has two distinguishing features.  First, neither the front side nor the underside of the motor is connected to the frame in any way; only a single, thick tube connects the front of the motorcycle to the midsection, and it runs above the motor.  Second, the transmission on a motor bebek is semi-automatic.  The rider selects gears manually, but the clutch engages automatically while stopping or shifting gears.  Stock versions of the motor bebek hide the characteristic frame and motor from view with large plastic fairings.  Some custom enthusiasts decorate these with eye-catching colors or designs.

Others prefer to discard them entirely, in favor of either a raw, simplified look or aftermarket accessories made of metal and chrome.

Both the bikes themselves and a wide variety of aftermarket parts to complement them are ubiquitous in Indonesia.  Many of them are reasonably-priced, even by Indonesian standards.  A patient person could pick one up, use it for day-to-day transportation, and gradually turn it into a unique custom creation by slowly adding aftermarket parts as things break or wear out. The "Custom Bebek" category allows the average Indonesian to enter the world of custom motorcycles.

At the opposite end of the spectrum from the small, affordable motor bebek, we have the "VIP" category.

Case in point:  none of the "Classic Bebek" riders are going to arrest anyone.

The "VIP" category was open to any imported, large-displacement motorcycle, but aside from the outlier Suzuki pictured above, it was largely occupied by Harley-Davidsons.

In case you've never seen a movie or TV show with motorcycles in it, these are Harleys.

The majority of the VIP motorcycles did not actually look like custom motorcycles to me.  The Harley-Davidsons pictured above seem to be full-dressers in factory trim, although being Harley-Davidsons, it's always possible that they were customized with aftermarket lights, bags, or other accessories.  Two of the Harleys were quite obviously not stock motorcycles:  one had a custom paint job, and one had undergone some more serious modifications.

Pictured: Custom paint. Also pictured: My personal favorite of the day.  Not pictured: Actual military hardware.

This Harley has a few modifications in common with the "chopper" style, though not all.

Finally, the "VIP" category was home to a European import as well, this Ducati:

One of these things is not like the other ones.

There were a few smaller niche categories as well.  One, the "Minibikes," was smaller in the most literal way.

Or maybe they're just very far away.

Some of the minibikes were just regular bicycles that had been equipped with engines from old motor bebeks.  Others were entire small motorcycles custom-built around an engine.

Another of the niche categories was for modern sportbikes, most of which did not appear to be customized in any way.

Although the one in the immediate foreground is sporting some sweet hand-welded crash bars.

There were two additional categories which I did not photograph.  One, the "All Bikes" category, featured common Indonesian motorcycles with a handful of aftermarket parts or unique paint jobs.  I didn't bother to photograph these before the ride started, because I see bikes like them all the time, and then regretted it, because anyone outside of Indonesia doesn't see bikes like them all the time.  The other consisted of all the motorcycles ridden by women, which were placed in a separate "Girl Riders" category.  Any one of these bikes would have looked fine alongside a group of bikes of its style, but as a group, they were a bit underwhelming.

In addition to all of the above motorcycle photography, arriving early gave me an opportunity to socialize with other riders, which I enjoyed.  One of them enjoys going to basketball games at my school.  Another shared a laugh with me about the fact that he is an Indonesian man who rides American motorcycles, while I am an American man who rides Indonesian motorcycles.  For most of this time, traffic was sparse, and the event staff were also able to socialize, take pictures of bikes, and take pictures of anyone who wanted them, in front of a big sign.  The morning air was still reasonably cool.  It was just a nice time to be out.

Around the time the ride was scheduled to start, traffic increased a bit.  More and more riders arrived.  A car and a truck, parked at the wrong end of the lot, found it slow going to get back out.  The truck was slowed further by a chicken walking in front of it, which refused to get out of the way.  It took a full, concentrated effort to maneuver through the crowd and get the bikes parked in the right areas.

Then, at 7:45, riders just started pouring into the parking lot.  Mixed groups riding various styles of bike came in together, and when one was directed to the back of the lot, everyone followed, forcing the organizers to run after them and ride them back to their spots, against the flow of traffic.  Everyone stopped to stare when a uniformed club of Harley riders came roaring in at considerable speed, only to be followed by an out-of-town contingent riding every sort of bike imaginable.  This was another highlight for me.  It's fun to inspect a parked motorcycle, but even the really pretty ones look that much better in motion.

By the time the action died down a bit, the parking lot was crazy full of bikes and people.

Yet, despite something of a break in the action, the event staff were every bit as active, only now they were walking back and forth, talking to one another.  I intuited that this meant we were going to head out soon, and I was right.  People started filing back toward their own bikes and donning their helmets.  Before long, one of the organizers raised both of his hands above his head and put his palms together.  At that point, something magical happened.

The sound of hundreds of motorcycles starting at once cannot be equaled by any other work of man, and though nature may produce sounds as awesome, it offers nothing identical.  Electric starter motors add something creaky and grinding, which can contaminate the sound, but in Indonesia, custom motorcycles rarely have electric starters.  Plus, there is something more emphatic, more satisfying, about kicking a motor to life.  The energy created by a hundred people doing it at once is indescribable.  For a moment, I understood extroverts, and how they could be invigorated by crowds.  If crowds would just spend hours kick-starting motorcycles, I too could be an extrovert!

I could tell I was not the only one excited by the experience of the sound.  Riders around me moved anxiously in their seats and revved their motors aggressively, in beats and staccato rhythms, trying to maintain the level of energy.  We were ready to go.  It was only a few moments before the ride was on in earnest.  The Harleys and other VIPs were the first out, followed by the girls, the minibikes, and the bebeks.  

After that, it was a line of Vespas.  When they rolled out, I noticed something interesting.  A few of the Vespa riders were wearing GoPro cameras.  These riders, and only Vespa riders, had simply bolted a small GoPro stand onto the tops of their helmets.  I was surprised.  The simple, effective DIY solution was Indonesian to the core, and not a shock.  And GoPros are a part of motorcycle culture, so that didn't throw me either.  I thought it was really weird that only the Vespa riders had them, though.

Following the Vespas and their GoPros were the "Antik" riders.  After them it was the CBs.  Then the rest of the "Classic Sport" riders and I had our turn.  The ride itself ended up being a totally casual ride.  We started out on the outskirts of town and took a somewhat-circuitous route to a destination near the center of town.  A few of the streets were high-traffic streets, but most were streets that only have light traffic on Sunday mornings.

The pace of the ride was easy.  It was especially easy on my bike, which is custom inside and out.  The motor makes a lot more torque than stock, so I can just pick a gear and ride without having to shift up and down.  As long as I was in third, fourth or fifth I was good to go.

I hardly had my hand on the clutch for the whole ride.  There were scooters with camera-wielding passengers along the route, constantly taking video and photos.  It was a bit like the Tour de France, only on this tour, the bikes can pass the scooters with ease.  Between posing for the cameras and using hand signals to help out the torque-deprived riders behind me, my left hand had other things to do.

It was not long until we reached the finish.  We parked around the city's soccer stadium, and gathered in an old, disused stadium.  Coffee, tea, and filtered water were served.  There were also a few MCs speaking into a mic, and a small number of musicians playing.

Foreground: MCs.  Background: Musicians.

I could not understand the MCs (or really even distinguish the individual syllables) and I could barely hear the music, so I spent more time socializing and photographing bikes.  I also posed for a very small number of pictures, about five over the course of the whole event.  This was actually a huge highlight for me.  I was the only white person there.  Normally at an event like that, there would be at least five people an hour wanting to take a picture with me.  It was cool to be surrounded by people with the same interest as me, who would rather be staring at the motorcycles.

I felt kind of bad for the models that were there.  They were posing with some of the motorcycles.

Pictured:  A Muslim motorcycle-model

I don't know why they would have models posing with the motorcycles.  I also don't know why the model pictured above did more posing than the other one I saw.  The second girl mostly just sat there.  Both of them had a large group of people around them taking pictures, and both faced away from the group and ignored the photographers more or less entirely, which also struck me as odd.  Perhaps models interact with the camera differently in different cultures.

Pictured:  A model and four of the photographers she's almost interacting with.
Not pictured:  The four other photographers out of the frame to the left that she's not interacting with at all.

Overall, I really enjoyed the experience, and I would like to go on another group ride.

Festival in the Foothills of Mount Merapi

At the moment, I live in the general vicinity of several active volcanoes.  The most active of them is Mount Merapi.  Perhaps because I don't believe in fate, or perhaps because I do believe in fate and think that tempting it is just hilarious, I decided it would be fun to accompany my friends Pak Yoko, Pak Puguh, and Pak Habib to Mount Merapi on Monday evening after school...

...and I was totally right.

On the drive up, Pak Yoko told me that he had lived in a village at the base of the mountain until 2010, when he evacuated ahead of a serious eruption and met his wife.  After a winding drive through narrow village roads, we arrived in this village.

Pak Yoko took us on a short hike to the river and the waterfall that supplies his village with food.

The foreground of the scene and its beautiful backdrop provides a silent commentary on the rock and sand mining industries.  I suppose I could provide an unsilent commentary, but I suspect that Pak Yoko could articulate that one better than I can.  It's his home.

There was also a small waterfall.  I thought that even with the manmade works surrounding it, the waterfall scene was entirely attractive.

We stayed in this area a while, exchanging stories.  Pak Puguh, the sports teacher at the school, was seeing how far he could throw rocks to the other side of the river, and I decided I couldn't resist trying.  We kept besting each other, though I won out in the end, in a triumph of sheer unsophisticated bulk over skill and practice.  Suffice it to say that I will not be adapting this particular tale into a children's story to use in my teaching.

They will learn about letting the Wookiee win soon enough.

Eventually, we made our way back to the village, in time to see some of the men performing a traditional dance.

Pictured:  Good dancers, passable fake mustaches

From what I could tell, this dance was less about the aesthetics of the movements and more about using the costumes to play rhythms.  It's possible I'm wrong about this.

With the dance concluded and the stage clear, you can see the traditional musicians as well.

After this dance, there was a long scheduled break before different dancers would perform different dancers in a hall area.  In the meantime, we visited some food vendors, where I tried a traditional junk food (a sort of meatball) and ate some Indonesian peanuts, with which I am already familiar, but which I have yet to describe on this blog.  Indonesians do not eat their peanuts as dry as Americans do.  Indonesian peanuts are not as salty, but they have more flavor.

From the street vendors, we made our way to a couple different houses of village elders.  I learned that these visits are an important part of the festival.  I also learned that the festivals have been happening since the village was founded in 1937, that they feel it is their duty to perform the traditional rites even though the villagers follow Islam, and I learned a couple of words in the Javanese language, which is different from the Indonesian language.  I also tried some Indonesian desserts made from sticky rice.  My first night in Magelang, I tried a soup with sticky rice, which I did not enjoy, but I liked the desserts.

After this, we went to the hall to watch some students perform traditional dances.  First up were four girls.

The hand movements in this dance suggested an Indian influence to me, although I could be wrong about that.

In this photo of the traditional dance, you can see a man wearing an Arsenal jacket in the foreground.  I thought it was an interesting microcosm of what I have seen in Indonesia so far:  a mixing of the old and the new, of Eastern and Western influences.

After the girls danced, four boy students performed a dance based on an Indonesian story of a monkey god who wants to become a human.  I seem to recall having read a story similar to this in a book called American Born Chinese, although in that story, I think it was a monkey king who wanted to be a god.

During this dance, people came up to the area in front of the stage to play some traditional percussion instruments.  You might or might not barely be able to make those people out in the above photo.

In addition to the percussion orchestra, this dance also featured spoken and chanted elements.  There definitely seemed to be more storytelling in this dance than in the previous two, although, as always, I could be wrong about that.

I wouldn't have minded staying to see more dances---the festival lasts until around midnight---but we all had to get up early Tuesday to come to school and teach, so we left after the boys finished their dance.  After that, it was the same drive back, but in the dark now.  It made Pak Habib and Pak Puguh a little nervous.  I guess growing up in Montana desensitized me to steep, narrow, winding roads.  Pak Yoko didn't seem nervous to drive them, which makes sense given that he grew up there.



Next time:  The Little Things

Driving Slow on Sunday Morning

I had a very busy day yesterday.

I started by waking up at 5:30 AM to watch the Bobcats play football at 6.  In hindsight, this may have been a waste of my time and limited bandwidth, as those of you who watched the game are aware.

During the game, my friend Pak Habib came over.  We watched the rest of the game together, and I taught him a little bit about football.  The end of the game was disappointing, but fortunately, the real reason Pak Habib was here was to go swimming.  I figured we would just swim in the hotel pool, but I was wrong.

Instead, Pak Habib took me to a big public pool at the military academy, which meant riding on the back of Pak Habib's motorcycle---these are the preferred mode of transportation here..  Fortunately, Pak Habib is a more cautious driver than many of the other motorcyclists in Indonesia.

The pool is located in what is in either a valley or a manmade depression.  There are over 100 steps down to the side of the pool.  He told me that the water in that pool is much better.  I was also much deeper, and there was more room to swim.  Pak Habib is a very good swimmer, because he is also a snorkeler and a SCUBA diver.  I am not a very good swimmer, because I'm an American who always had a strong preference for land-based sports.  Still, it was fun.  Pak Habib said that I'm a good swimmer for someone who is not very good at swimming.  I do not use my legs enough, though.  Probably because they have given me lots of reasons not to trust them in the past.  There was also an artificial fish pond at the pool, with some very large (and very outgoing) fish in it.  Visitors are allowed to feed the fish.

Unlike the public pools I am used to, you do not have to worry about people stealing your things when you're at this pool.  Apparently its location next to the military academy keeps folks in line.  Or maybe Indonesian people just don't steal as much as Americans do.

After swimming, we ate a very early lunch of traditional Indonesian noodles and traditional Indonesian salad with peanut sauce.  This was the first time in my life that I have ever eaten a salad that was spicy.  I enjoyed it, though.  This is far from the first time I have eaten noodles, but I enjoyed those, too.  We also made a quick stop in the area for Pak Habib to buy chips.  These chips were actually made from casava, grown and then fried by local organic farmers, and they are excellent.  They're much more flavorful than the American potato chips I'm used to.

After a quick stop to discard some wet swimming gear, Pak Habib took me on another, even longer excursion hiking to a temple.

As I had previously alluded to, people in Indonesia often go to villages and farmland to go hiking, rather than the backcountry favored by Montanans.  As I understand it, rice farming is extremely labor-intensive, but it's hard to deny that it's a very beautiful way to grow food.

It's very quiet out here, a feature that Pak Habib told me he especially enjoys.  Mostly, I heard flowing water, birds, and the two of us talking.  There was the occasional sound of motorcycles, but there is no place I've been in Indonesia that doesn't have that sound.  At this point, I find it less intrusive, and more of a gentle reminder that I am indeed still in Indonesia.

It was not long before we reached a stone gate

and a stone stairway up to the temple grounds.

The temple itself is actually fairly small, one of thousands that dot the countryside in Indonesia.

It is an ancient Hindu temple.  Pak Habib does not know when it was built.  He told me that he suspects that the government knows but will not tell.  I don't truly have enough experience with the Indonesian government to comment, so I will refrain from comment.  What I do know from experience is that you can go inside the temple.

There's a small room inside for praying, which I did silently.

After I came back out, a rainstorm hit, so we stood under some small awnings nearby, within easy sight of the temple.

Then we hiked back down.

On the way back, we encountered some motorcrossers.  That noise did not strike me as a gentle reminder of my location.  It did look kinda fun, though.  I guess Motorcross in Indonesia is a fair analogy to four-wheelers or snowmobiles in Yellowstone, in that way.

Pak Habib wanted to go home and take a nap, but there was still one more event planned for the day.  That evening, he invited me to go to his friend's art gallery, where an exhibit was opening.  It was photography, in varying degrees of abstraction.  Some of the pieces were visually fascinating, and at times I was pretty sure I could see concepts at work, but I did not really figure out what they were.  I do not understand art.

I did ask the artists a couple questions about the processes of making the pieces.  I understand photography a little more than I understand art, and I figured that asking about how it was made was the best way of showing interest available to me.  This opening also involved a dinner of "Soto," which is traditional Indonesian soup.  This Soto was spicier than the Soto I had on my first night in Indonesia.

Next time:  a traditional Javanese festival.



Some of my readers might recognize the title of this post as a song lyric.  Some of my readers probably have taste, though.