The Accidental Tourist (1988)

The first time I watched this Lawrence Kasdan film, I was of a more callow age than I am now. I felt the powerful impact of its cinematic lyricism, and could see the appeal of its story in broad strokes. Yet I was deeply wrong in my understanding of the movie's essence. I saw a conventional story of romance, as lived out by very quirky characters; their quirks being a humourous device to set the film apart from an infinite number of antecedents. Having watched 'The Accidental Tourist' again, a decade later, what I saw was a group of people who are in fact portrayed as being painfully normal. Life doesn't fall into their grasp with the same ease as it does so often for the average Hollywood cardboard cutout. Rather, they move through their existences with timid hope and awkwardness, reminiscent of so many personalities to be found among the real world multitudes. It is a story largely about affection, but it is also one heavily detailing loss. While the romance may be drawn as the most prominent plot arc – perhaps necessarily so – for the main character of Macon Leary (William Hurt), it is not just a more fulfilling relationship than his vacant marriage, but also an opportunity for him to overcome the loss of his murdered son, for whom he will inevitably feel more profound affection. The final scene of the movie is staged so that some might expect a romantic reunion akin to that of 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'. Instead Macon's final on-screen meeting with Muriel (Geena Davis) is given second billing to his greater acceptance of the loss of his son.

Like all films that I enjoy the most, I feel great empathy with Hurt's character. I don't think I could be accused of resembling him much, and I cannot begin to imagine the pain of losing a child to a violent death. However, the dysfunctional, awkard characters that are the Learys are not wholly foreign to me. And, like those of my own family, their dysfunctionality does not seem ripped from the pages of Reader's Digest, but carries its own idiosyncrasies and would require volumes to describe and reference.

There's nowt so queer as folk, as my Scottish father has been in the habit of saying for as long as I can remember.

Though the Learys do seem odd on the face of it. Macon's job, as the eponymous Tourist, is to write travel guides for people who don't enjoy travelling. I personally loathe the stress of packing and catching planes, but consider exotic food and surroundings to be among the greatest of luxuries. The Accident Tourist's readership is of a different breed; the business traveler who hates absolutely everything about leaving home, and will go to great lengths to find hotdogs in London that taste just like the ones served in Yankee Stadium, as promoted by an unconvincing London hotdog vendor. The greatest irony being that Macon literally is the Accidental Tourist, and therefore must endure what are personally some of the worst inconveniences he could imagine, so that others will not suffer as much. In addition to eating foreign food, readers are cautioned about loquacious strangers – the guide's advice is to bring a book so that unsolicited conversationalists will think you are busy, the modern equivalent would be a smartphone.

In his unnamed American city of residence, Macon spends an inordinate amount of time with his three siblings, who are still single and live together. The whole family shares endearing traits, such as routinely getting lost in the neighbourhood which they have lived in for all their lives, and an OCD-like fastidiousness when it comes to groceries. That Macon lives apart from his siblings suggests that while he is woven from much the same cloth, he is slightly more socially evolved.

At the beginning of the film, we are plunged immediately into the muted drabness of his life. Subtle mentions are made about the dead son throughout the film, including one invaluable scene where he tries to make laundry arrangements more ergonomic using a skateboard. As in 'Body Heat', Kasdan and Hurt work together with Kathleen Turner, who plays Macon's wife, Sarah. She is by no means a bad person, and if their lives had not been so catastrophically altered by a cruel twist of fate, it is easy to see them living a quietly satisfied life together. As it is, she understandably cannot come to terms with the void that has been created in their household and announces her need for a separation.

Soon afterward, we are also introduced to Muriel as Macon's subsequent love interest, who could not be more opposite to Sarah. And as such, her effusiveness and lust for life are a far cry from Macon's detached relationship with the world. Soon however, there is perhaps a realization that while similarities are useful in a relationship, one that is complementary can possibly lead to an even more hopeful dynamic. There is also Muriel's son, a fragile boy – fatherless and allergic to everything, including pizza. While she is probably initially attracted to Macon because of his solemn handsomess and shy politeness, there must also be a part of her that sees his fatherly qualities from the outset. Unlike as it is with many love triangles of fiction, the question of whether Sarah or Muriel is the better human being is beside the point. Instead, we are encouraged to foster the belief that people change. In an ideal marriage, emotional growth is a shared requirement, but in the case of a lost child, the need for difference could not be more forgivable.

I started watching films that involved the participation of Lawrence Kasdan long before I was aware of him as a craftsman. He was of course a principal collaborator on the 'Indiana Jones' and 'Star Wars' franchises – films that are by and large so entertaining that they permit 'serious' filmgoers to forget that 'franchise' is a pejorative. But he has also created a body of work of extremely personal films, including the estimable 'Grand Canyon', which bears similarities to 'Tourist' with its themes of loss and human kindness. Even in westerns like 'Silverado' and the much maligned, admittedly lopsided 'Wyatt Earp', the characters feel like people who are thinking about their actions, not just mindless templates reused in last summer's big studio blockbusters.

'The Accidental Tourist' is my favourite of them all, which would likely not be the case were it not for William Hurt leading the cast, without ever diverting too much attention away from his costars. Unlike other great actors who are best known for their sheer presence when on film, Hurt seems able to play anybody. The laconic private eye in 'Body Heat', the chauvinistic professor in 'One True Thing', the gay prisoner in 'Kiss of the Spider Woman', or the downright scary mobster in 'A History of Violence'. In 'Tourist' it's as though he reached into his own soul and wrenched out a grieving father. The social hangups are also ably displayed, but they are secondary descriptors, as are his mishaps of passion. Grief is what defines the character of Macon, until he is gradually afforded what small amounts of reprieve can be expected.

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There is also a dog in the film called Edward. For most films a character like Edward would be the biggest reason to recommend them.

Enjoying Fun

Voluntary Smiles

Last night I had the good fortune to attend the wedding party of two friends. It was a modest, yet elegant affair, with choice Manadonese cuisine, and ad lib beer and wine. The groom was a little worried about the quality of the wine, but the fact that I drank it ad lib the entire evening could perhaps be taken as an indicator of potability. Albeit, perhaps not a decisive one. The groom had also taken it upon himself to construct his own mix of songs for the proceedings, and the slightly retro, but largely happy, popular music suited the intimacy of the proceedings well. The music was loud enough to be enjoyed, but not so loud that you couldn't easily enjoy conversation at a normal volume. The bride and groom mingled freely with the guests, who evidently were closely acquainted with at least one of the newly weds. In fact, looking around me, none of the guests were obviously bored or irritated. The couple already being amongst the happiest and most well matched one is likely to encounter, now have the added benefit of having been married under the most agreeable of circumstances, having provided their close friends and relations with a night to remember. 

Reviewing a wedding may seem odd, but to be fair, and to sum up the long-held observations of visitors to this country, most Indonesian weddings are the antithesis of fun.
 

I've been to a significant number of such ceremonies, although when I do get an invitation, while I have nothing but warm feelings for people I know, getting ready to embark on the next phase of their lives, I don't get out my calendar and reserve the date in question and don't often feel guilty if I ultimately don't attend. One aspect of most local weddings I've been to, is that the guest lists are so extensive, and the bride and groom in such a state of mental anguish, that it seems unlikely the presence of members of the outer limits of their spheres of influence register whatsoever. The reasoning behind inviting enough people to populate a Scottish village to a reception strikes me as being two-fold. Firstly to ensure pomp and grandeur, and secondly to pay for the damned thing. As it is a local tradition (I've been told a fairly recent one) for guests not to bring presents to a wedding, but rather an envelope containing a donation. In fact, it is common for personal gifts to be rejected in favour of monetary ones, in writing, on the invitations. 

On the face of things, it wouldn't seem unusual to assume that any real festivity is denied thanks to the complete absence of alcohol when getting married in the archipelago. I once put this gaping error to a good humoured Manadonese gentleman, at least fifteen years my senior, gearing up for his second holy union. His unabashed reply was to say, 'yes, but we have macaroni schotel!'. It hardly struck me as a suitable substitute.  

But, to paraphrase that popular old adage - you probably don't need drugs to have a good time. My experiences of conventional local wedding receptions have been as follows:

1. Arrive and seek out the bride and bridegroom, they will inevitably be affixed to two thrones at the centre of the room, with smiles affixed to their faces. A queue of well wishers has usually already formed, which must be joined. 

2. After a cursory, congratulatory, handshake is undertaken with the newly married couple and their respective parents, the next course of action is to help yourself to food. To complete these first two steps in reverse order should trigger deeply felt, personal, shame.

3. After procuring (and I don't use that word for show) food and eating it, there might be some dessert available, but depending on how promptly you have arrived, you may have to move fast to partake of this.

4. Then you might engage in some very light banter with any other guests you know. Finding such people can be tricky. 

5. I think after you've taken care of the handshaking part, you're really free to go. Not entirely courteous, but again, it's not entirely likely that anyone will notice.

6. You could choose to stay for photographs with the bride and groom. These can be quite nice mementos, especially given how easy photo sharing is nowadays, although they are invariably photos which are the opposite of candid.

7. I've noticed cake cutting some of the time, but being no stranger to deeply felt shame, I rarely stay long enough for that part.

I'd like to comment on music, but I fear that might get a bit too insulting. Suffice to say, it's rarely music that could possibly comply with the tastes of the bride and groom, nor anybody I know well. 

One of my personal, favourite, truisms to impart during discussions about the moribundity of Indonesian weddings, is that the funerals I've been to have been a lot more fun. Not because they've been routinely blessed with the refreshments of an Irish wake, but rather because people are generally more relaxed, loquacious and showing signs of actually enjoying one another's company. One mighty source of mirth at a funeral I attended was the casket getting dropped as it was being moved out of the living room. No corpse slid out, but I did get the feeling that such an eventuality wouldn't have detracted from the lightness in the air. I suppose the laughter is a mechanism to deal with grief, but why can't it be applied more to what is meant to be one of the happiest days in the lives of two young people? 

Coincidentally, I was speaking to a female friend yesterday. While we've known each other for a very long time, geographical constraints and the busyness of our lives had disallowed us from keeping fully abreast of the other's developments. Recently we've talked a lot, and the odd life anecdote brought forth to the table provides moment for pause. Knowing her now, married to a man who appears to have been a fine catch, with three children, I had taken it for granted that her own marriage had gone forward without  easily avoidable hindrance, according to local custom. Yet it turned out that in a spate of the kind of small-mindedness which I am growing increasingly accustomed to, her fiancee had not been accepted by most of her family. As she put it to me, she was sure that this was the man for her, and they went ahead and got married regardless. Consequently, only seven guests were present to witness their nuptials. Her husband has  since proved himself to be an able breadwinner, and otherwise reliable family man. Given the irrefutably of his distinguishing qualities, with the passage of time, my friend's extended family welcomed him to the fold. However, there appears to be a high probability that the nine people celebrating that life-defining occasion, with reportedly austere surroundings, will have a memory to share with one another not to be found on an assembly line of perfunctory handshakes.  

Inner Freedoms

"I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken." - Oliver Cromwell (writing to the Scottish church)



After governments in North Africa ignited a white hot rage in their citizens, the fury appears to be spreading to similarly mismanaged states, with Bahrain and Iran making headlines as I ate my cereal with banana at 5.00 this morning. Ever since Tunisia rocked the world, 1998 and Indonesia's own era of reformasi has been prominent in my thoughts as well as how, despite many success stories, the nation has progressed very little on a number of fronts. 

While the Arab world takes centre stage, Indonesia has been making headlines for quite a different reason. The lynchings of members of the Muslim Ahmadyiah sect, justified by the sect's deviations from mainstream Islam, have been deemed too graphic for Indonesian television. Given the very low standards of local broadcasters with regard to censorship of violence, I am confident I will never have cause to seek out the footage. Shortly after these unspeakable hate crimes, riots erupted in Temanggung, Central Java, as a man was considered to have got off too lightly on charges of blasphemy; despite having been given the maximum sentence allowable by law. Nothing short of death was deemed sufficient by angry mobs burning down churches. 

In the wake of the overthrowing of despots far, far away from where I now sit, too little rememberance seems to have been paid to events which took place in Indonesia thirteen years ago. When the will of the people also persevered in the face of violence, from security personnel and shady agitators alike, to dethrone one of the most corrupt dictators the world has known - the Republic's second president, Suharto. Never punished for his crimes against humanity, he died under the most comfortable state healthcare available, having retained  many of his privileges as an ex-head of state.

By contrast, under the draconian, hardliner instigated, anti-pornography bill, a local musician has been sentenced to three and a half years in prison  for filming himself in the act of sexual intercourse for personal usage. It goes without saying that his real crime was to allow the footage to be stolen and consequently disseminated via the internet.

In Indonesia, there is still a strong tendency to afford elders respect, no matter how undeserving they are of it, and Suharto, who ruled for 31 years, may well have come off as the consummate patriarch to many. The severely obvious hypocrisy of arbitrary judicial decisions goes unchecked by an unfortunately significant number of citizens who are easily smart enough to know better. Judgement is clouded by fear of religion (read: fear of hell) and elders, and it is in this way that despite its being able to enjoy many of the benefits of democracy, there is a marked absence of a certain kind of freedom in this country.

One casual dicussion on eternal souls which I had with one of my Muslim ex-girlfriends went approximately as follows:

Her:The existence of an afterlife is important to me.

Me: Not so much for me, I'm more into enjoying the life that is staring us right in the face as we speak. 

Her: I would feel better if you could try and embrace the concept of an afterlife too.

Me: Let's look at it in a different light, many of your best friends are Christian, right?

Her: Yes.

Me: Doesn't that mean that you're compelled to believe they will all go to hell?

Her: (very pained facial expression) I don't want to talk about this anymore.

Me: Come on, surely you can see what I'm getting at?

Her: Yes, but I don't want to think about it. 

And we changed the subject, partly because she was vehemently against going further, and partly because I could see that she was genuinely upset. But for me it was a pivotal point in my understanding of how a vibrant, finely-tuned, young mind can become stuck by self-serving ideologies inflicted on the young by previous generations. How can we really have freedom of expression (including freedom of religion), when we don't even have freedom of thought?

Deftones: Live in Jakarta, 8 February 2011

Stephen Carpenter: guitar

Abe Cunningham: drums

Frank Delgado: keyboards/samples

Chino Moreno: vocals/guitar

Sergio Vega: bass

I was glad I had been too busy of late to spend much time anticipating the Deftones show, as I was glad that the band did not take the stage until a full three and a half hours after I had arrived at Tennis Indoor Senayan. Because when they did finally appear, the soaring energy as Chino Moreno ran on to the stage to launch into Birthmark, from their debut Adrenaline, could be felt around the room to a thunderously positive reaction from the audience. Three and a half hours of waiting eagerly was just about right to fully appreciate the quality of the two opening numbers. Without pause, the band went straight in Engine No. 9, also from Adrenaline, with the vast majority of the crowd shouting out the words as Moreno pointed the mic toward them. Admittedly the venue wasn't quite packed to the rafters, but the turnout was not shabby at all ,and plenty of noise got made. However, choosing not to enter the moshpit turned out to be a wise move on my part, as there were many reports of phones being stolen, including that which belonged to a friend of mine. 

The band were by no means stingy, pounding out twenty-three songs, with few breaks and limited on-stage banter. Although they did make sure to say 'thank you' frequently during the show, and Moreno also took sips from a can of Bintang at several junctures, his professed enjoyment of it only making the concert-goers that much more in love with him. His energy as a performer was a lot of fun to witness as he raced around the stage for the fast tracks, and danced in slightly effeminate fashion for some of the more beat-laden numbers. Guitarist Stephen Carpenter, in contrast, barely moved from his corner of the stage throughout the show, his face hidden by a massive head of hear. However, his sonic assaults were much more palpable live than on record to my ears, especially when he strapped on a detuned, 7-string ESP; its heaviness tearing through the auditorium.

The band's musical tightness must be praised; the only noticeable slip-ups being when at one point Chino lost his way slightly on the Gibson SG he played for a significant number of songs, although he quickly apologized with a smile. When Passenger was played, I did get a sense that Chino struggled with the high notes as he sang both parts of the song originally released as a duet with Tool/A Perfect Circle singer Maynard James Keenan on White Pony. He definitely looked a little fatigued when done.

After a brief break, the band retook the stage with crowd-pleasers Root and 7 Words and it is not an understatement to stay that the crowd went absolutely wild, with fists all around pumping the air to the chant of 'suck, suck, suck, suck...'. To top it all off, during 7 Words, Moreno dived into the crowd, still singing  Toward the very end of the song, and show, he was lifted up, every audience member in his immediate proximity hands outstretched, conjuring a messianic image. It was at this point in the concert that I felt the deepest regret at not being able to fulfill the request of a young lady whom I teach, to take pictures of the show for her perusal. I was having far too much fun to think about much else. 

note: Original line-up bassist Chi Cheng has been in a near state of coma since 2008. I hope he pulls through. I was thinking about him especially, given his love for playing Iron Maiden covers with the band, a week before Maiden are also set to rock Jakarta.

Marriage - European Style

Recently, when both of us had been reading the Ingrid Bergman biography Notorious by Donald Spoto, I thought my father and I would benefit from sitting down to a few of the legendary Swedish leading lady's films during this end of year holiday. I've seen most of her more well-known Hollywood ventures; all her collaborations with Hitchcock (including the great character study from which the Spoto book takes its title) and of course countless viewings of that immortal tale of sacrificed love, Casablanca. So for this Christmas's mini-Bergman season, I set myself the task of collecting some of the films which she made outside Hollywood. So far we've watched one of her very early Swedish films, which Spoto and my father heaped praised upon; Juninatten, but which left me feeling cold and perplexed in that while it was ostensibly a proto-feminist morality tale, it lacked any discernible moral centre. I can't see it having the potential to gain favour with even the least militant of modern feminists. Last night we turned to a thoughtful and interesting film which I found myself far more able to enjoy, by the man whom Bergman married in the midst of scandal - Roberto Rossellini. 

Viaggio in Italia starred Bergman and that British actor with the most reliable of steady, baritone, voices; George Sanders. The two play a couple who are visiting Naples and Capri to sell a property which has been left to Sanders's character by an uncle. Early on in the film, they realize how little they know one another, despite eight years of marriage. This type of abrupt revelation is one of the weaknesses of the film, in that most of the dialogue is loaded with heavy-handed directness. Perhaps it is due to Rossellini working outside his native tongue? As, conversely, naturalism is a lauded quality of the neo-realism movement. I wanted to write something about how such naturalism may be found in other films of the movement by Rossellini and the likes of Vittorio DeSica, but stopped when it occurred to me that I had watched all of these other movies with their original Italian dubs. 

Yet, dialogue aside, there is a stark modernity displayed in the camerawork, as guided by Rossellini. It relies on a minimal number of cuts, and some short, steady, tracking shots to ease the story along. There is almost no soundtrack either, with all the noticeable music occurring naturally in the background.

What is most modern about the film is the story itself - the isolation felt by an attractive, upper middle-class European couple. No matter hard they try, they simply cannot communicate with one another in  a meaningful fashion. Looking at a story that was made in 1954 at the end of 2010 - with rather liberal eyes - I'm not entirely sure that it has become easier to make assumptions about the real affliction that had beset the on-screen marriage. Bergman's character seems to be pained by unfulfilled promise in her personal pursuit of knowledge; she has vivid memories of a male poet friend she once knew, and her evocations of him cause her husband to have small eruptions of petty jealousy, which is perhaps Bergman's intention, though she is clearly displeased with the result when it comes. Sanders's character, on the other hand, is handicapped by repressed male emotions, especially in the scenes where he wanders about Capri without Bergman. It's obvious that despite his pathetic attempts at philandering, he would be much happier if only he could sit down with his wife and tell her how he feels. Not even necessarily toward her, but maybe just about his apparent inability to feel happy when he is occupied by anything other than his important job back in London.

This is where Sanders's character rings a little truer than Bergman's. Right until the last few forced lines of dialogue (which I'm guessing were foisted on Rossellini by a financier), there is no point during the film where he is able to let go of his notions of propriety, and Bergman never manages to become privy to his feelings of inadequacy in the same way that we, the viewers, are. Not just by the lines he is unable to utter, but by the strangulated expressions of frustration he displays in almost every scene.

 

Saying goodbye to the old neighbourhood

Over the weekend I more or less got settled into a new apartment, in a new part of town. Moving has the well-deserved reputation of being a burdensome process, but we got there in the end, despite some lingering loose ends. While at this stage she may choose to shirk the issue, I moved due to a then mutual need to be closer to the woman mentioned here and here, and let me now take this moment to apologize publically for any lingering biterness I express to her; heart and head almost never being in perfect syncopation with one another.

The old neighbourhood, Kemayoran, definitely has its drawbacks when compared to the new one. The bajaj races, in what would otherwise be the dead of night, being chiefly among them! There is also the absurd number of two-stroke engined motorbikes which gather in the vicinity on a Saturday night for no good reason, and the infernal attitude toward pedestrian facilities which both local developers and planning committees conspire to perpetuate.

All that having being said, Kemayoran was the first place I lived when I first came to Jakarta in 2000, and because it was convenient, when I came back to live here again after two years elsewhere, I lived in Kemayoran again. That's a total of about nine years which will not be forgotten easily.

During my first stay, I shared a flat with a neverending list of colourful characters. Many of whom remain close friends to this day. I had several ill-fated relationships with women while living in Kemayoran too, including the woman I married. The relationships may not have been destined for longevity, including my marriage, but it just isn't possible to erase such episodes from one's life. The bad and the good. You expect to grow wiser with the benefit of age and experience, but like so many others since the dawn of time, I'm in possession of that rogue gene which dictates we treat every such situation with a wild array of irrational emotions. The last situation is definitely taking a deeper toll than previous ones, and a flat in Kemayoran was the venue for a seemingly endless number of trysts with her. And for her, an element of secrecy was indeed an issue. 

The last couple of years living in Kemayoran happily involved the presence of an Indian restaurant. It isn't the most glamorous place, but whatever is wanting in frills is compensated for by the charm that only a neighbourhood restaurant can have. And, while this is often a strangely low priority of flashy, trendy eateries, the food at The Avenue was some of the best tasting Indian food I've ever had. It was also home to many a memorable occasion in the company of friends, some living in the city, and others just passing through to say hello. The curry was fine, the beer was cold and they would stay open late in deference to those who weren't done reveling. What more could one ask for?

I also spent a great deal of time at the restaurant in the company of that last special person. While she liked the food, she also wanted to keep our meals local because she said it meant we could spend more quality time together that way. That could be interpreted as meaning impending doom was always in the air, or possibly that no matter how much time we had together, it would never seem like enough.

The new place we're at means a new, and different, chapter in the lives of myself and my son. We have a lot more space to play in, both inside and out. In fact, the amenities of the new complex and surrounding area are so vastly superior to that which we previously enjoyed that on the face of it, there really is no comparison. Mind you, the traffic is worse than I'm accustomed to, but my odd working hours help alleviate this concern to a certain degree.

I can't complain too much. I am as materialistic as the next person when it comes to obvious, and needed, improvements in quality of life. But despite there being a vast variety of restaurants available, none of them serves a curry with cold beer. And among the many beautiful people whom I now share space with, so numerous as to be unavoidable, and generally dressed to kill, not one has quite the face I continue to look for.

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

In the service of sating an unhealthy appetite for beer last night, a friend and I began exchanging war stories of the personal kind. In actual fact, I remembered full well that a romantic involvement which had been going very well for him, had been denied in much the same way as had happened to me recently. And so, for one evening, I had a one-person support group. It's true that people get involved, they break up, and eventually they get over any lingering heartache. No bombs get dropped, and no children starve to death. Although in both our cases, we'd settled into what were the most rewarding relationships of our adult lives, and in both our cases there were quite sinister ideals working against us. 

According to the details as I know them, my friend was barred from seeing the object of his affections for one reason only; it was because he was a Westerner. I, on the other hand, was considered a hindrance to the health, wealth and happiness of a young Javanese woman because I have baggage. That is to say, her parents deemed it unthinkable that their daughter might become seriously entangled with a divorcee (in actual fact a  very long-term separatee, but it amounted to the same thing).  In my case at least, there is deep-seated hypocrisy at work. I hasten to provide all the dirt on the subject. Suffice to say, whatever my perceived failures may be as a husband, among the players involved, my shaky marital background is by no means unique.

But never mind all that, what is really depressing about stories such as these in this country is that women in their mid-twenties  can have their lives completely dictated by their parents. This is by no means the case for all women, but as it was put to me by the person whom I feel is the chief victim of a bad situation all around, women are not considered adults in Java until they are married. How can this be? She looks like an adult, she has completed a post-graduate degree, she earns her own money. How does the entrance of a male into her life, full-time, somehow validate that she is no longer a child? And of course, why is it that a man who hasn't passed any of these milestones can still be seen as having reached adulthood?

She tried hard, very hard, to be a master of her own destiny. I encouraged her, thinking time was still on our side. But in the end, her parents told her that the only way the union would be allowed would involve her being cast out permanently from the family fold. A solution which seemed agreeable enough, given the face of the family that has always been presented to me, but she was not willing to make such a gamble. And who could blame her? As casting aside everything you've known since birth over an affair would have been a gamble of the highest stakes.

These are the dictates of culture. Our story is nothing like as bad as that of the apparently commonplace  honour killing which emerged from Iraq in 2008, and given the utterly reprehensible nature of that crime, this is not a small mercy to be thankful for. But it continues to beggar belief that in an emergent democracy - which has had a female head of state - women are regarded as some kind of subservient species. Early on in our relationship, I got the inkling that I was up against an immovable object when it became known to me that the opposing team had called upon a dukun (Javanese witch-doctor), to ascertain what kind of threat I really was to their daughter, and no doubt to cast some kind of counter-spell on me. For in Indonesia, the course of true love never runs smoothly, and is often further impeded by the medieval notion that a young person in love really has been subject to spell-casting by a malignant party wishing to ensnare her. Rest assured, the closest I've ever come to the dark arts is when listening to my heavy metal albums too loudly.

Such antiquated views would seem quainter if they weren't such a disturbing reality. A popular defence for them is you just don't understand our culture. What is there to understand  in inexplicable actions? What is the point of cultural niceties whose only apparent purpose is to perpetuate a cycle of unfulfilled promise? Change is unavoidable and when people defend their mindlessness by invoking the 'C' word, they rarely take into account how different Indonesia was just short of fifteen years ago when it was the whole country being governed by strong-arm dictatorship, and not just the immediate whims of young women in love.