Bukan saya tidak betah.

"Kesetiaan kepada negeri ini bukanlah karena patriotisme yang pongah.

Kita setia kepada Indonesia justru karena ia terus-menerus memanggil: ia belum selesai. Kita tak bisa melepaskan diri dari ikatan kita kepadanya; kita tak bisa melupakannya; kita terkadang bangga terkadang risau karenanya. Tapi tetap: Indonesia bukan hanya tempat tinggal.

Indonesia adalah sebuah amanat."

-Gunawan Mohamad, 15 Mei 2009-

A Bad Case of New Orleans

I don't know when I will recover from this holiday. I fear that every place I visit next will be under pressure to live up to my New Orleans trip. I cherish my crystallized moments all the time, but this would be a prized collection worthy of its own display shelf.

Preservation Hall Jazz Band

The name was quaint: "Preservation Hall". It had a dignified ring to it, like Carnegie Hall, but also a comical note which reminded me of preserved pickles. On Monday when we came to see the 8pm show, the line at 7.30pm extended an entire one block. So on Saturday we came at 6pm and patiently waited 2 hours out in the cold to get front seats. At 8.00 pm the iron gates opened with a clang, and we were ushered into a tiny, dilapidated room with yellowing walls, faded oil paintings of jazz musicians, and wooden ceiling fans. On one end of the room, a silent assembly of the piano, drum, bass, and three antique wooden chairs for the brass players stood waiting, lit by dim yellow light bulbs. The place was magical. It was exactly like it used to be when the first jazz musicians played here decades ago. It was perfectly preserved.

We all sat on long wooden benches or floor cushions. The band was smooth, laid-back, soulful, and amazing in every way, but the real kick was when the trumpeter sang. I've heard many singers with better voices, but this was something else. Without microphone, he stood up and sang to us like he was telling a story. He sang the blues the way Shakespeare plays used to be done in small medieval theaters. Then he sang "St James Infirmary" by Louis Armstrong, and I was spellbound.

"I went down to St. James Infirmary
I saw my baby there,
She's laid out on a cold white table,
So so cold, so white, so fair.

Let her go, God bless her,
Wherever she may be

She may search this wide world over
She'll never find a sweet trumpet player like me."

Beignets

The local New Orleanian dessert that is all the rave, which resembled soft doughnuts snowed under with powder sugar. So we had to go all touristy and try the one everybody says that everybody says is the best, at Cafe du Monde. The line was formidably long, but we were determined tourists just like everybody else. When we finally got in we stopped a waiter and asked for a table.

"Manyallidis?"
"Sorry?"
"Owmanyalliddis??"
"I'm sorry, say that again?"
"How many o' y'all it is??"
"Oh! Err... four... people?"
"Aight chu can git dat table o'er there baby and I'll be right wit cha."

Kermit

My friend couldn't believe that Kermit Ruffins was playing at Vaughan's on New Year's eve. I said, "who's Kermit Ruffins?"
Once upon a time my friend's father stumbled on a trumpet jazz rendition of "happy birthday", and loved it so much that he played it at every single birthday party in their house for 10 years. Kermit Ruffins was the guy who played that trumpet. Before we left for the venue, my friend called up the father and told him excitedly that we were about to see Kermit Ruffins live.

So we went to Vaughan's and found a large, crowded shack in the middle of a dark neighbourhood, lit with kitschy multi-color lightbulbs and cheap new year decorations. Kermit Ruffins was deliciously drunk, and his music kept the place together and alive. Everyone seemed to know each other, or at least knew the bartender, who was a small asian lady. A woman passed by and gave me a plastic cube that glowed blue when I put it in my drink.

An old man with a kind wrinkled face sat near us and smiled at us. And then he asked my friend, "What's wrong with your lady friend here? She's so cold. I smiled at her 3 times and she didn't even see me." He must have been 60 years old, and his face was weathered like a farmer who is out in the sun all day.

My friend said, "You know why? Because she's Asian. They have these small eyes and it's hard for them to see things."
"That's right," I said and nodded seriously.
The old man laughed so hard it made me happy to see him.
I gave him a hug and said, "I love you, man."
"I love you too," he said.