Loco for Lokum: on assignment inTurkey The lowdown on winning the 2011 World Nomads/Rough Guides Scholarship...

Jamu in Java

Under the veil of tarpaulin, the market plays out like a slideshow for the senses; fresh bursts of neon pink dragon fruit and fiery red chillies, the reek of sweating meat, the slippery film of eels glistening in the slats of sunlight. A gaggle of women gossip in rapid Javanese as a vendor blasts out bubblegum pop from a distorted radio. Schoolgirls wear their white jilbab like halos, floating between rattan baskets of galangal and tamarind pods.

I find her stall tucked between strings of barbecued chicken feet and a steaming wok of caramelizing peanuts. She squats on a low stool, enveloped in the colourful canopy of her skirts. I notice her hands first, wrinkled fingers like miniature accordion bellows, moving with the stiffness of age yet the deftness of expertise. They dip and dive into the clay pots laid out in front of her. A squeeze of this, a dollop of that, a sprinkle of something else. Fastidious measures gleaned from 1,300 years of tradition.

Her name is Ibu Siswu but she goes by many names. A Jamu maker, a practitioner of traditional Indonesian medicine, a herbal doctor, a medicine woman. She can pluck a miracle from the sky, I’ve been told.

I linger as she tends to her customers: a drooling infant with gooey eyes; a swaddled baby running a fever; an elderly gentlemen with an ailment that turns his cheeks crimson as he whispers in her ear.

Her hands move with the grace of an inspired artist, the clutter of potted herbs and extracts cocooning her in colour. Piles of rose apple, lemongrass, kepal fruit and grated turmeric litter the workspace. Vials of peppermint oil line up behind a bowl of chopped limes oozing with sugary pulp. Swinging baskets tender ready-made tonics - blended oils for eczema, teas to boost fertility, a dubious looking pessary for preserving one’s virginity.

At the front of the queue, I mime eating and clutch my aching gut. She nods knowingly and sets to work. A smidgen of this, a generous squirt of that. Each ingredient crushed beneath bare hands, smashed with a pestle and rolled flat until the juice bleeds out into the bowl.

A coconut shell brimming with runny, canary-yellow liquid is pressed into my hands, the medicine swirling ominously beneath me. It’s a bitter and chalky tonic with an acerbic aftertaste that demands a sweetened chaser to soothe the tongue. My hand drops to my stomach as if a miracle might occur instantaneously in my bowels.
“Kesabaran,” she whispers. Patience.

Outside, I brave the death-dance of midday traffic and marvel at the panorama of tiered rice paddies and lush green tea plantations. I scour the roadside warung and munch on glutinous corn fritters and sweet-soy rice balls. I savour the haunting melody of the muezzin as the call to prayer seeps out into the streets. And later, wobbling precariously in the back of a tuk tuk, I have to admit, I feel pretty good.