1 Outstadt: Double Dutch

Semarang, Central Java

Semarang is the largely overlooked capital of Central Java in Indonesia. It is not on the tourist trail. That is a shame. It has a lot going for it. One of its treasures is its old town: the Kawasan Kota Lama in Bahasa Indonesia. The Dutch referred to it as Outstadt. As an example of a Dutch colonial heritage area it is arguably Indonesia’s finest.

In the 18^th century, it served as the commercial centre exporting mainly sugar. As was their wont, the Dutch built a fort: the Vijhoek fort. Its wall surrounded the whole town. A moat surrounded the town and you had to cross into the fort over the Berok Bridge. The wall is long since gone.

Drive from present day Semarang into the Old Town and the first thing you will notice is that the road surface changes from concrete and macadam to pave stones. It was the second city in Dutch Indies to have a steam-tram system and remnants of the rails can still be seen.

Cobbled streets. Narrow lanes. What else? Fascinating architecture with a strong link to the city’s Dutch colonial past. When we lived there, people referred to it as Little Nederland: a spot where the past survived. Almost fifty historical buildings remained in the Old Town. Some of them were still in use in the 1980s but most were already dilapidated and abandoned. The rest were well on the way.

I enjoyed walking through Semarang’s old town. Old and decaying as it was, stories hid in every corner. Some buildings were more or less maintained. The eighteenth-century Protestant church almost glowed in its pristine white. Blenduk Church was built in 1753. “Blenduk” in the Javanese language means “dome”. The church earned its name from its big red dome. Today the church belongs to GPIB Immanuel. Its once magnificent pipe organ wilts in the tropical heat: useless.

What a shame for me. At least the Immanuel Church organ in Jakarta still worked. I have given numerous recitals there. As with so many abandoned instruments across the archipelago, this organ almost seemed to disintegrate as I watched it. Come to think of it, you could say that about the whole of the old town.

The former opera house was a delight: go inside and marvel at the unusual wooden ship deck ceiling.

Walk past old offices and mansions: you could wander for hours. On every corner, old men who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption shouted at you from the becaks as they vied for your trade.

The market was paved and, by Indonesian standards, almost always tidy. Elegantly clad in batik, women prepared stinky beans from long. Others waved away flies from the fresh chickens and fish.

Along the riverside from the old town was Gang Lombok, a quiet corner in Semarang’s Chinatown. A beautiful Buddhist temple still marks the area. Floating on the river was a replica of the ship used by Admiral Zheng He, one of the first Chinese explorers who came to Indonesia.

Put this into perspective. If you add to the fascinating area I have just described the typically Indonesian (indeed South East Asian) piles of garbage floating on the black sludge they call canals and piled against decaying walls and you can’t help but ask, why?

In Singapore, the Government quickly realised the value of history and renovated and refurbished historical areas. The result has been to create delightful areas that allow the visitor to walk through and wonder at the beauty and elegance of a past age. In Indonesia, and especially in Semarang’s Old Town, no one gives a damn.

What else makes me recall Semarang? Cockfighting. This has never been a favourite sport of mine. Popular in Indonesia, for some reason, the Old Town was, in the 1980s, cockfighting headquarters for the city.

I recall the first time I saw it as I was wandering through the Old Town. I stopped to watch a man soaping his cock on the sidewalk. (I know; you will be shocked, but that is exactly what he was doing!) Wounds bled all along bird’s think neck.

‘Has it been fighting?’ I asked him.

‘Not yet. It’s still in training’, he replied.

‘So where are the injuries from?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘Training’. End of story.


He kept massaging his cock.

‘You like to watch?’

I grimaced. He nodded to a derelict building across the street. I heard some shouting from behind within.

‘Adu jago!, smiled my friend. Cockfighting.

I wandered over. A small pen. About fifty men standing round. No women.

Two fighting cocks stalk each other in the pen. Their feathers glisten as if covered with oil. Dark. Damp. Hot. Sickly sweet clove cigarette smoke.

I watch. The birds wrap their necks around each other. They circle round and round like thin sumo wrestlers seeking a weakness. One suddenly jumps. Wings beat furiously. Blood flies. Beaks slash. Talons rip.

The spectators watch quietly. The noise earlier was the gambling being set up. This is the serious side of the business. No shouting or yelling. It is almost as if there is concern. Maybe it is concern for the wagers. Could it be that they are concerned for their cocks?

One bird slashes. The other falls and writhes. The owners jump into the ring and grab their birds. They rush them to the side of yard. They wash them in buckets. They stroke them tenderly. They kiss them. Impressed at the care and concern I asked how much a bird like that cost.

‘Millions’, came a curt reply. Rupiah, of course but even so that could make for hundreds of dollars.

One of the owners checks for broken feathers. He plucks them out. The bird screams.

‘What is he doing?’ I ask.

‘He repairs the feathers and reattaches them to the bird’.

I look at my informant with a frown. I suppose if you can get a hair transplant, feather implants are not impossible.

I watch more as the owner of the losing bird slides banana pieces down his prize bird’s throat, gently. He has a thin feather which he uses to clean out the bird’s back and mouth.

If Indonesian authorities could show the same care and maintenance to the old town that cock owners show to their birds, Indonesia would be even more fascinating than it is now. Why could they not repair Semarang’s old feathers? The Old Town quietly crumbles to dust. Vines gnarl their way through walls and roves, roofs collapse, buildings are vacated and beggars and derelicts move in—along with cock fighters.

I enjoyed Semarang. It was laid back. Few tourists came. I was fortunate to spend most of my time in the colonial era Candi Baru Hotel on the dress circle overlooking the old town. I regret that I did not have more time to enjoy the city as I used it mainly as a base to travel to other parts of Indonesia in my work.

I have lived in many places. Few towns were as friendly as Semarang. Some would probably describe its people as nosey and inquisitive. I did not see it that way. I was invited into people’s homes than in most other towns. I am not talking about friends: I am talking about casual acquaintances met during a visit to the market or coming out of the bank or watching a cockfight.

‘Mau main di rumah?’

‘Mau!’ and I would hop on to the back of a scooter or pile into a usually dilapidated car or catch a bemo and toddle off to a small but always cosy home. What did one do there? Chatted. Drank tea. Made friends. What more does one need?

As I said, Semarang was different. It is not up there with Indonesia’s tourist meccas and perhaps that is its salvation. It is here that you will find the kindest people I have found in any city. Anywhere. And that is surely something.