Shakeleg on Love: Finding Roots, Eating Leaves

Both my parents are Javanese, an ethnic group native to the Indonesian island of Java. My Singapore identity card also states I'm Javanese. Yet, I know nothing about the language, culture and customs.



Naturally, tracing my roots was an item on the to-do list. Let's just say the mission was accomplished after I found my long-lost relatives in a sleepy village located at the foot of the active Gunung Slamet volcano in Central Java.


Gunung Slamet



It was one truly hot May day in 2009, seven months after I arrived in Indonesia.

Armed only with the name of a village given by my elderly Javanese uncle living in Malaysia, I launched my search – first on Google Earth and then on foot. With rides on public buses, trishaws and motorbikes thrown in between.

I had knocked on several doors, asking if anyone knew of my uncle but they all shook their heads. Eventually, I was directed to the house of the village chief, who was no scary old man with a moustache and a machete but a fit-looking lad in his late 30s.

He took out a stack of cards with names and addresses of his Singaporean relatives. I could identify nobody.

I was about to abort Mission Impossible when the chief's uncle entered the house. I repeated the name of my uncle and his hometown in Malaysia and suddenly, he said "I know that place. I was there in the 1970's to look for my family."


Map of the village


Village chief's office

My face lit up. Immediately, I rang my uncle on my mobile and got them to speak to each other.

For 15 minutes, the two old men yakked in Boso Jowo (Javanese language). There were Ahhs, Oohs, friendly chatter and breathless guffaws.

He hung up the phone and declared, "You're my grandniece. Your uncle is my nephew but we've lost touch for nearly 40 years. Where are your bags? You're staying with us for as long as you're here."

I was ecstatic. Now, I have a reason to stroll confidently into the famed Borobudur and Prambanan temples through the entry gate for locals, thump my chest proudly and say, "I'm a child of Java. A true-blue Wong Jowo (Orang Jawa or Javanese people). Don't charge me tourist rates."


Shakeleg at Prambanan temple

The next few days were very much like a freshman orientation camp. I was shown poster-sized albums filled with yellowed black-and-white photographs of people who were supposed to be my great-great-grandparents, grandaunties, granduncles and cousins.






My cool-looking relatives (haha!)

I was also introduced to my extended family living in the village.

They were curious about me, my life, and my family back in Singapore.

First question: "Are you married?" No, I replied. "Why not?" – No idea. "How old are you?" – Old enough.

"24?" No. "25?" No. "26?" No. "27? No, you don't look that old. And you're still single. Must be 26 or younger, yes?"

I laughed, a little nervously. They laughed heartily.

"Would you like me to introduce a nice Javanese boy to you?" my grandaunt asked.

I knew that was coming. I smiled and told her not to trouble herself, and swiftly changed the topic to something more interesting. About that cannibal guy who lives in the neighboring village. I met the cannibal the next day (you can google for the article, I won't post it here).

I also rode through acres and acres of rice fields on a motorbike and visited the school where my auntie taught and a small rice mill which another relative owned.




My auntie's pupils during their physical education and Mathematics lessons

Mealtimes were perfect for bonding and cultural exchange. Over assam soup, fried fermented beans and some boiled herbs and leaves, I learned to count one to 10 in Javanese.


Typical Central Javanese lunch. I don't like to eat vegetables but I had to force myself to eat them so as not to appear disrespectful



"Siji, loro, telu, papat, lima, enem, pitu, wolu, songo, sepuloh!" I said.

The family clapped and cheered. "Anak pinter (smart child)!" my grandaunt exclaimed happily.

In the day, I battled stray wild bees, which had swooped in through a hole in the roof, and played fencing with a toad in the bathroom. Come night time, I would be on the lookout for stray field mice sneaking in through the windows.

"Tikussssss (Mouse)!!!" I screamed in fright in the wee hours when I woke up to find a mouse as large as a cat sharing my bed. My auntie barged into my room and shooed it away. She then laughed.

"I thought you're a brave girl! Funny that you're so scared of a harmless field mouse but not scared about hopping on a motorbike with strangers and going to remote unfamiliar places to look for your family," she said.





Since that trip, I've arranged for my Malaysian uncle to fly over to visit the Indonesian family for a week. He returned to my apartment with a box of crackers, fruits and a stack of Javanese karaoke music CDs. He played them on my VCD player and encouraged me to sing, which I obliged because I loved seeing his gaping toothless mouth whenever he laughed.

I've also met up with my relatives living in Jakarta. One was my cousin's family made up of midwives and their children who were medicine undergraduates. I remember one visit during which they dragged me into the labor room in their clinic to watch a breech birth. I just froze in a corner of the room, trembling with fear as they helped the screaming mother deliver her baby. Legs first, head last.

"Traumatized? Haha, nothing to worry. One day, you'll get married and give birth too," my cousin said, tapping my back.


I don't want to grow up, I'm a Javanese kid

This family hunt somehow sealed the love I have for Indonesia.

Suddenly it made sense to live and work in this country and spend some time to understand how it works. Simply because, my roots are here.

Nevermind that I can't speak a word of Boso Jowo (beyond counting to 10), tie a batik sarong, or prepare a gudeg dish of young jackfruit cooked with coconut milk.