Travelling through dreams

Just another nice little story. Enjoy.

Before I went into meditation retreat, I spent some time in Bandung city, and I was guest in the house of two wonderful people: Djoko and his wife Hartini. Indonesian, but with a heart for the Dutch language and history (they lived in Holland years ago).

While crossing their doorstep, I got struck by lightening. In some way or another, I entered an architectural masterpiece that I had seen before in … my dreams. Literally. I dreamt about this kind of house some years before. The colours are not exactly as how I remember it, but the structure of the house is more or less the same. Weird. Because I’m sitting and writing now in the middle of the house I’ve been dreaming of. And in a while I will go to bed and dream in the house I’ve been dreaming of. 

I read once in a book about dreams that if one dreams about a house, one dreams about oneself. So maybe these people –who grew from strangers to friends in a few days- carry within the same soul?  Maybe we share the same dreams? 

Everything connected

The house consists of a central kitchen, dining and living area. The main point of recognition was … the big tree (!) joyfully growing in the middle of the living area (with, of course, a large table in the middle). Around this central area: a number of bedrooms, studies, bathrooms, garage, atelier and prayer room. Everything connected. Djoko and Hartini (the house is her idea) created a wonderful atmosphere, light and space. A centred house. Breathing space. Djoko is a professional ‘breather’, so no wonder.

But what does it all have to do with me? I have no idea, yet. Except for one thing: one day my house will have a tree in the middle.

To be continued, this story about breathing, space, and moving space through breathing.

P.S. About the airplanes you see in the photos: this house is at the same time an atelier. Small airplanes are being built here every day. For professional use, usually for experiments and investigations (f.i. after a flood or earth quake).

10-day meditation retreat

For the next 10 days or so, I’ll be offline. No mobile phone, no internet, no communication whatsoever. Total silence. Ten hours of meditation a day, meaning painful knees, aching back and headaches (because of thoughts refusing to surrender). I'll send tons of love to you all! 

The poet Lord A. Tennyson (1809-1892) knew about meditation long before my time. He said that 'the meditative state is utterly beyond words', but yet Tennyson was not afraid to try to explain this state in a poem. Not an easy read, but I think it says it all.

‘For more than once when I sat alone,

Revolving in myself

That word which is the symbol of myself,

The mortal limit of Self was loosed,

And past into the Nameless, as a cloud

Melts into Heaven. I touched my limbs,

The limbs were strange, not mine

And yet no shadow of doubt,

But utter clearness, and through loss of Self

The Gain of such large life as matched with ours

Were Sun to spark, unshadowable in words,

Themselves but shadows of a shadow-world.’

Lord Alfred Tennyson

‘Wherever there is the body, there is space. Because space makes way for the body.' (Vyasa)

How about Englishydutch?

On 16-04-2011 I wrote:

English or Dutch? I can't decide. A while ago, I started blogging in English because ‘they’ asked me to: fellow travellers, friends and family all over the world. But I miss my mother tongue. Although English is close to my heart, Dutch is closer. And easier to write. But I want to practise my English writing skill too. And I like brain exercise. Get the point? I'm writing this text as a kind of remedy, silently hoping that I’ll stumble upon an answer while doing so.

Yesterday morning: a Dutch wonderfully shaped&coloured idea popped into my mind, but when I put my fingers down, I created a weird and incomprehensible mix of 'Dutchyenglish' sentences. Today the same thing happened, but the other way around: English shaped&coloured ideas resulted in 'Englishydutch' not digestable (and absolutely not worthy of publishing) soup of words. Terribly and painfully confusing!

And then there are the 'Bad Writing Days', or the days in which I feel absolutely lost in language. Impossible to produce a single Dutch word. Hesitation towards English out of embarrassment. Shyness, yes, especially right after I’ve been reading weblogs written by native speakers. I know that comparison is something one better skips (bad for the ego) but still ...

So a choice has to be made. If not, I might lose my skill in BOTH languages.

On 17-04-2011 I wrote: English?

Fact: my everyday spoken language whilst travelling in Indonesia is (basic) English.

Fact: my English speaking skill, let alone my writing skill, is currently deteriorating fast.

Logic: the best way to practise my English writing skill, is to continue to write in English.

Logic: because I dream, eat, walk, bathe, meditate, learn, communicate, … in English, the most logical thing to do is to write in it.

But no. I’m not ready to decide!

So let’s contact Dylan the Computer Expert. Ask him to think about my problem. The result of his computer literacy is the Google Translator Tool you find top left of this page (Thank you, Dylan!). It’s easy to use but unfortunately not the best translator. And OF COURSE there’s a catch to it.

From now on, I can write as many Dutch texts as I want. English readers are just one buttonclick away from the English version. They’ll get the core, the essence of everything that I write.

But, and here’s the catch, this can’t be done the other way around: Dutch readers will not be able to translate the already published English texts. Reason: installing the translator tool means you have to choose a standard language for the weblog, which is in this case: Dutch. And Google does not translate INTO the standard language.

So .. ? Dutch? Google Translator just gave me the freedom to write in my mother tongue. My English efforts are not needed anymore. But I'll miss the practise ...  Don’t decide, Joey. Not yet. Let’s have a poll on Facebook first.

Today I decide:

not to decide. I choose not to choose. I write a goodbye, a farewell to choice. I’ll write English when I feel like it. I’ll write Dutch when I feel like it. And I’ll use the f*** Dutchyenglish or the Englishydutch as a welcome solution for all my Bad Writing Days. Or maybe I’ll write English from Monday to Friday (because it’s hard work), and I’ll write Dutch on fluent Saturdays and easy lazy Sundays. Or ... Or ...  And the combination of all this back and forth jumping, well, that’s just me. Chaos. Confused. EXTREMELY SLOW in choosing. Sometimes I like this slow chaotic me. And more and more. And most of the time. 

P.S. There's enough stuff to read, in English AND in Dutch. So, dear reader, pick and read whatever you want to read, in whatever language you like the most. I'll just keep on producing both. And have a go at this Translator Tool. Fun!

THE END

Een musholla is geen toilet!

Indonesië is voor reizigers met een kleine blaas (ik!), een super gemakkelijk land. Toiletten te over. In alle vormen en maten en kleuren, al laat de hygiëne vaak te wensen over. Maar dat is nu niet belangrijk. Of je nu hoogdringend 'moet' in een hypermodern shopping center, in een groezelige overzetboot, in de doolhof van een bouwvallige stadskern of bijna in je broek doet in het midden van een van de kaart gevallen dorp, de kleurrijke bordjes met daarop 'musholla - toilet'  blinken je overal geruststellend tegemoet. Een gemiddeld naïef blond reizigster (ik dus) denkt daar verder niet over na, en gaat er van uit dat het woord 'toilet' speciaal voor toeristen staat geschreven (ja, zélfs in dat van de kaart gevallen dorp), en dat 'musholla' niets anders is dan het Indonesische woord voor 'toilet'. Toch?

bordjes als deze vind je overal

Niet dus. Alleen nog maar dénken dat een musholla gelijk staat aan een toilet, is godslastering. Een musholla is een gebedsruimte voor moslims! In hemelsnaam, Joey, hoe kan je nu zo stom zijn?
En inderdaad, het is gewoon pure onachtzaamheid, want als ik een heel klein beetje beter had opgelet, had ik al vanaf dag één in Indonesië kunnen weten dat een musholla allesbehalve een toilet is.
De enige reden waarom deze woorden altijd samen opduiken, is de noodzaak voor de gelovigen om zich te wassen. Een musholla betreed je rein. Dus pas nadat je je handen, voeten en gezicht met water hebt bespat. En zoals ik minstens vijf keer per dag een toilet induik, duikt een moslim vijf keer per dag een musholla in. Vandaar de alomtegenwoordigheid van beide gebouwtjes. Eerst wassen, dan bidden. Een toilet van een vierkante meter met daarnaast een lege tapijtkamer van vier op vijf. Zo simpel kan het zijn. Domme oneerbiedige ik.

Washing&Waste

This is also Indonesia. Try to get your teeth white in this river! Makes you want to cry, no? Seems that the situation is terrible everywhere. Floods carry the plastics all over the place. People literally live on garbage belts. So far the beauty of Indonesia ...

poor river

washing clothes

plastic everywhere

brave woman brushing teeth

'No, thank you. I don't smoke.'

january '11, smoking me trying curls (disaster)

February 26, 12 a.m. A date, numbers, an indication of time. In my case: an indication of remembrance, a turning point and hopefully a point of no return.

Let me explain.

I used to be a heavy smoker. A pack a day, easily. But after the tiny little second that turns 11.59 into 12.00 (the moment in which I put down my final cigarette), I became a non-smoker. I haven’t touched a cigarette since. I said ‘Bye bye, my Burning Buddy!’  I said ‘Bye bye, bad breath!’ Funny thing is that I haven’t missed my buddy or the act of smoking at all.

Now I ask myself: why couldn’t I stop before? Why was it so difficult to say ‘No, thank you’ whenever somebody offered me a cigarette? Why did I keep on inhaling tar and nicotine and chemicals, knowing that I didn’t enjoy it anymore? What was all the struggle, the fear about? Because, yeah, as so many smokers, I was scared of the whole non-smoking idea. Now I realise it was just the mind playing a bad trick on me. The word ‘stop’ or 'the act of stopping’ is nothing to be scared of. But before I could see that, I had to put the f(***)inal cigarette down.

Why the 26^th? The reason was a practical one: it was the departure date of my direct flight to Sri Lanka. Final destination: the Nilambe meditation centre, where I would spend the first 3 and ½ weeks of my journey. Smoking is strictly forbidden in Nilambe, so I decided to throw away my newly bought pack of cigarettes... but I shoved it into in the drawer of my bedroom cabinet instead. No dustbin, no, because I want to have something to look at, to be reminded of, when I return home. It’ll be my relic, the poor leftovers of ‘the old me’.

Why the hell so scared of quitting? Because the cigarette was my friend, my consoler. It was always there. If I felt lonely, I smoked. If I was stressed, I smoked. And while writing, I was a complete chain smoker. My brain has been sending me messages for years: ‘Feel your lungs, they hurt’, or ‘Don’t you notice your morning cough’, or ‘You have a constant ache up your nose’, or ‘You’re out of energy’, or ‘Your breath stinks’. Smokers will recognise this kind of thinking: it’s an ideal way to built up a huge feeling of guilt and shame towards yourself (‘I’m ruining my body’), towards friends (‘I feel like a dragon blowing awful fumes into their faces’), or towards family, co-workers and so on. I was absolutely conscious of my cigarette smell, my wrinkles (getting deeper every day), my blackened lungs and my grey complexion after hours of smoking and chatting in my favourite pub.

Do I feel a difference now that I am a non-smoker?  No, not really. I’m sorry, but you won’t read fantastic outcomes of my non-smoking existence. The answer is no, whatever all the StopSmokingGurus might tell you. And this 'no, there's no big difference', is a difficult part to accept. So, dear smokers: try to accept this 'no'. Just deal with it. And read it again: no!

The first three weeks: yes, of course I felt a huge difference. Physically I felt fresher, discovering my nice breath an’ all, even had the impression that my lungs grew bigger and that I could smell the world around me again (the latter not always an attractive idea, because some people carry a horrible stench around, smoker or not). Mentally I felt relieved, stronger and free: all the negative thoughts about ‘wanting to stop’ disappeared with the last cigarette.

But now, after almost two months, there’s no difference to be felt anymore. Nothing left to notice, simply because my body and brain got used to not smoking. And I feel perfectly fine. Even when I’m in the same room with a chain smoker (and Indonesia has quite a few of those!). Which reminds me: Indonesia is actually the WORST place to try and stop your smoking habit. It’s the EASIEST country to get hooked, because cigarettes are extremely cheap here, and you’re allowed to smoke everywhere: on trains, buses and in restaurants. Especially men tend to chain-smoke as soon as they sit down for coffee or tea.

But to return to the absence of feeling: NOT feeling a difference anymore, is actually the most scary and frustrating part of the stopping process. Now I feel like I’ve never been a smoker. Not that I want to start again. The point is that after the first ‘hurrays’, the loud ‘good-for-you’-exclamations and my inner ‘I’m-so-proud-of-myself-smiles’, there’s little left to boost about. Not smoking just becomes a new way of living. And thank god for that.

p.s. I really hope that by the time I return to Belgium, all my closest friends and family members will have returned to their original state of being, namely the 'non-smoking' one. Because if not, I will have a difficult time refusing all the cigarette offers! 

The comforting heat of a vulcano

active vulcano crater behind me

You see me laughing in this picture, but to be honest: visiting this vulcano crater on the Dieng Plateau (central Java) turned out to be a difficult walk. Me, poor little woman with bare feet in sandals, got confronted with heavy rains, mud and cold. OF COURSE I forgot to bring a raincoat, a warm jacket and rubber boots. Was this to be expected? Yes, if you are an inhabitant of Dieng. No, if you are an ignorant foreigner coming from the city down in the valley.
As a reward for my ignorance, all the gods in heaven and on earth decided to test my physical and psychological strength.  I found ten thousand stormy devils on my way up.
And oh, I almost forgot to tell you: I realised the danger of my little adventure when I paid for my entrance ticket: 'This is your insurance card miss, because we never know when this vulcano decides to spit'.

However, by the time I reached the crater, I got overwhelmed by a feeling of intense joy. Here I was, a single soul (except from some Chinese tourists taking the above picture), dangerously close to a smoky crater. Scary? No, danger is never scary once you get close to it. The heat of the steam warmed my wet body and icy feet, and I just stood there for a while, contemplating the grey and lonesome beauty of it all.

ghost jumping out of crater

warning sign

Chinese tourists climbing up

Am I a woman or a man?

three village women

Whether you believe it or not, but these three village women asked me the following question: 'Are you a man or a woman?' To be honest: they asked this question in Javanese dialect to my guide and friend Ana, while we were cramped up in some kind of mini-bus (city-transport). Ana translated their question and really, I couldn't believe my ears! I've had many crazy questions in my life before, usually about my age (I look younger than I am), the colour of my hair or the size of my (non-existing) breasts, but NEVER, no never before, somebody's asked me whether I am a man or woman!

No. Stop. Correction. I remember a woman asking me this once before in my life: I must have been 5 or 6, hair cut short, dressed in ugly boyish clothes. So her question was a forgiveable and logical result of my appearance. But now!? Now that I'm wearing my hair long again -for the first time in years!
Luckily, Ana comforted me: 'These village women probably have never seen a white skinned woman like you before. And you're not wearing a veil, as so many muslim women do. Only men are supposed to walk around 'naked'. So I suppose it's because of the lacking veil that they doubt your sex.'

Whatever the reason, I decided not to ask these women. I had to safeguard my ego, no?

Ana and me

The picture of Ana and me is a wonderful combination of religions:
catholic white woman with buddhist bracelet and muslim black veiled woman in front of a Dutch protestant church.
Reason for the church in the background: it was the only place in this part of the city where we could find a clean toilet!

Teaching 40 Javanese kids

I was asked to visit (and teach) in a Junior High in Wonosobo, Java. For most of the students, it would be the first time to have 'a native English speaker' in the classroom. When I tried to explain to the team of teachers that my mothertongue is Dutch, and that I am far from a native speaker, they just shook their heads in disbelief: 'To us, you are a native speaker. First of all, you are blond, you have white skin, blue eyes and a pointy nose. On top of that, your English sounds a lot better than all of us teachers together. And not to forget your country of origin: it's somewhere in Europe, so that's enough for us to regard you as a native speaker.' 
How on earth am I to reply to this? If having a pointy nose means that I am a native speaker, well, then that's just fine! So I went into that classroom (40 to 50 students = regular size) and tried to answer as many questions as I could.

Sunrise and chicken shit

Some photos to show you the beauty of a morning sunrise. Today I got up at 4.30 a.m. to drive to the 'Dieng Plateau' in Java, from where you can have a magnificent sunrise... if there aren't any clouds, of course.
But hey, who's complaining? Clouds have their beauty as well, no?

cloudy sunrise

misty mountain

And while I was waiting patiently for the sun to rise, the local villagers were getting ready for a long and hard working day.
Javanese families usually get up around 4.30 for morning prayers. After that, they prepare their children for school (starts at 7 a.m.). But the farmers, and especially their wives, get up earlier, to go and sell their goods in the morning market (3 a.m. - 7 a.m.). So this means that cities literally never sleep, and roads are never empty. Dozens of horse carriots, bicycles, motorbikes, cars and tractors run you over any time of the night:-)

Ever had the honour to carry loads and loads of fertilizer (read: stinky chicken shit) or 100kg of potatoes up the mountains? Look at the shoulders of the man in the picture and be amazed.



chicken shit in these bags

  

strong shoulders



a city that never sleeps

two colorful morning beauties

Evening and early morning coffee in Yogyakarta

An evening in Yogyakarta. We drove up the hills, from where you have a splendid view over the city.

Yogya in the background

Morning coffee

What a wonderful way to wake up in the morning! This little creature drank my strong coffee and didn't leave one sip for me!

Yogyakarta - taking part in family life

How nice to be welcomed with a fresh bath and a cup of tea … My hosts, Ary, Annie, little Tiara, grandma or ‘oma’ Indah en grandpa or ‘opa’ Yoko, believe in karma: what they give to the people and the world, will eventually turn back to them. So they choose to be friendly, patient, open minded, warm hearted, welcoming and loving. They choose to be happy and to share this happiness, through good and bad times. And yes, as every family, they went through difficult times as well.

little Tiara -age 3

Their house has a good vibe: peaceful, airy, open to the world all day long and to all kinds of passers by. This is what they teach me: to welcome strangers with open arms, to sit on the doorstep together without talking and watch. Just watch what passes by.

One day I’ll return all the good things that people like them are giving me now. It might not be directly back to them, but new strangers will benefit.

'Angklung'-musical instrument-bamboo

oma Indah

Back to the bath: I left my flip flops on the doorstep, circled up some stairs and there he was, grandpa Yoko, getting up from his mat (he was watching television) and welcoming me with the typical folded hands before the chest. He went straight into the bathroom and opened the tap to get my bath running. I was stupefied. No stranger ever did that for me before!  Grandma Indah brought me tea, Ary a towel or ‘handuk’. And happy sweaty me splashed fresh water and lovely smells around. Fifteen minutes later I stepped out of the bathroom with a big smile and a sincere ‘tirimakasi’ or thank you.

Maybe I should mention that this family is muslim, like so many families here in Java. Which has its consequences: the ‘Musholla’ or prayer room is next to my bedroom. So I wake up in the middle of the night (mosque wake up call), I listen to the hustling and bustling in the house (time to pray!) and fall asleep again. 

Ary smoking 'Dji Sam Soe', sigaret with clove

me, NOT smoking

At breakfast and lunch I sit together with grandma Indah. She teaches me all the secrets of the Indonesian cooking, through gestures and smells and flavours. She only speaks a few words of English, so we communicate over an outdated (1940ies) English-Indonesian dictionary. Our conversations often end up in loud fits of laughter. I will always remember her as 'my special Indonesian mother'.

The weird thing is that this family is grateful that I am a guest in their house. They drive me to potteries, to silver factories, to temples ... and they just love to do this. They see me as the perfect reason to organise a family get-together. Little Tiara (age 3) says ‘tante Joey’ (aunt Joey). And I listen how they use familiar Dutch words, such as ‘oma, opa, tante, oom, soentjes’. 

Ary at entrance of temple

Me and school kids

Train Surabaya - Yogyakarta (Java)

Five hours by train. This is a special experience, because Java is the only Indonesian island that actually HAS a train. It also meant travelling without airco because I was in ‘bisnis kelas’ (business class) and not in executive class (unfortunately sold out). For the record: this train doesn't have economy class... 

I had to deal with a cockroach (or an animal of that kind) running around my bare feet, and I had to accept the chaotic, constant back&forth traffic of food sellers and tea merchants and water suppliers and cushion suppliers shouting at the top of their voices. Result: a spinning head.

Business class = no airconditioning

Happy card players, Java

In the streets of Surabaya, you'll often find card players with pins all over their faces. A lost game, is a pin in your face. Aw!

7 lost games in one ear ...

playing cards from morning till evening

8 lost games  - poor skin

Java, Surabaya city: hot, crowded, welcoming

Deavin in his home studio

For two nights I stayed at the house of Deavin, a young music teacher, hypnotherapist, writer and lover of life. A highly intelligent and talented guy (IQ 164 or ‘Very Superior Intelligence’). Always busy, hard working, hardly sleeps. But most important: he has a big heart, and is happy to share his lust for life. Surprisingly enough: he doesn’t read notes, but numbers … this seems to be an alternative way of composing music. With the numbers of my birth date, he created a jazzy song. Time of creation: two minutes… and I was amazed.

Surabaya: having lunch in the street

This is what travelling is teaching me: the world is full of people with giant hearts, and with a lot of love to give and blessings to share. One cannot solve problems by being angry or agressive or stubborn. The only way to change things, is by putting love and effort into it. And most of all: patience. Loving patience. Anger doesn’t change anything, love does.

Java: kamar mandi or how to use an Indonesian bathroom

A 'Bemo' or Indonesian public transport!

On the road: Lombok

From Bali to Java. Finally I stepped away from the tourist route. From the moment I put my lazy ass into the bus to Surabaya (Java), I entered (sur)real Indonesian life. I paid for a ‘comfortable’ bus ride, but it turned out to be just another extremely shabby vehicle. Airconditioned, yes, but far too cold. And you would never want to use the ‘onboard’ toilet. A television at front, but ow-ow-how, NOT for movies. Read this and be horrified: the screen was used for karaoke songs! No need to tell you that the bus driver played it LOUD?!

Whatever. Charming part is the fact that since this bus ride, I haven’t seen a single white skinned soul (and this is already 3 days ago). And I must admit: it’s easy to get used to.

To you, reader, a little trip from Bali to Java sounds easy in the ear, and indeed I fully agree: on Google maps these islands seem so tiny and ‘easy to do’, but in reality it took me about 20 hours of lonely travelling. Lonely, because no one on the fu**** bus had any notion of the language we call ‘English’ (so far for the international status of this language, it is NOT TRUE that EVERYBODY knows English!). I only got confused looks and faces turning into question marks.

Because of heavy rains and bad road conditions we had a 5 hours delay… so I arrived at the doorstep of my first host family in the early morning hours. No worries, Indonesians are used to these kind of situations, so I was immediately given a bed, on which I crashed till late afternoon. When I woke up, I could hardly remember where I was. And when my host Santi introduced me to her house, her sisters and her mother, the feeling of walking around in some strange Asian movie only got stronger. Everything is soooooooooooo different. 

Santi in front of her house, Java

Mama in her 'homefactory'

Santi cutting vegetables

middle: 1000year eggs

Sue preparing my morning coffee

My latest and newest discovery: ‘mandi’ or the Indonesian way of showering. You need a bucket and a scoop or 'gayung'. Showering, or rather pooring water over your body manually, is called ‘mandi’. That’s it. So having a shower in Indonesia = scooping (splashing) water over your body and the floor. Fun!

Not new as a discovery, but very Indonesian: squatting on toilets. And the non-existance of toilet paper (I refuse to get used to this! I find and buy my own:-)

Indonesian 'kamar mandi' or bathroom

Sue demonstrating 'mandi', or 'how to take a shower'

Other details: the sound of the domestic gecko, the two dwarfy dogs (of which one is really old and without teeth, just imagine this!) and five (or more?) cats. Even the architecture of the house is something I never saw before: a long covered ‘street’ with many doors that give way to tiny rooms at either side of the ‘street’.

But lovely people! And thanks to Santi I got ‘connected’ to Indonesia, despite the daily heavy rains, the grey sky and the crowded city life. For a few days, she took me on her motorbike. We visited old (Dutch) churches, catholic (Dutch) schools, wonderful Chinese temples (pure poetry for the eye and the nose… magic spell and smells), hyper modern shopping malls, the French embassy and cultural centre, the Dutch culture&language centre, we paused for street food, we gathered for tea with friends at night...

Kitchen and work space

Me and Santi on the motorbike

Street food: Gado gado! Yummie!

Heavy rains

And of course, I was constantly spotting Dutch (or should I say Indonesian?) words. Amazing how many Indonesian words have their origin in the Dutch language. For those who speak Dutch: can you read the following words?

Indonesian: kamar, kamar mandi, polisi, gordyn, achterut, parkir gratis, apotek, apoteker, knalpot, spoor, brompit, pit, anfal, wastafel, waslap, handuk, spanduk, rok, onderrok, rok span, coklat, termos, kulkas, lekker, nakas, helm, sempak, telepon, stempel, ekspedisi, kosmetik, kantor, notaris, pos, parfum, advokat, kopling, hanrem, open, twedehan, rokok, stir, telat, openkap, karcis, oom, tante, oma, tegel, plafon, strom, stopkontak, sakelaar, kelas, viaduk, wortel, asbak.

Nederlands/Dutch: 

kamer, ‘badkamer’, politie, gordijn, achteruit, gratis parkeren, apotheek, apotheker, knalpot, trein, bromfiets, fiets, aanval, wastafel, washandje, handdoek, spandoek, rok, onderrok, spannend rokje, chocolade, thermos, koelkast, lekker, nachtkast, helm, ondergoed (!), telefoon, stempel, expeditie, cosmetica, kantoor, notaris, post, parfum, advocaat, koppeling, handrem, oven (!), tweedehands, sigaret, stuur (van bromfiets of auto), te laat, open dak/kap (van auto), kaartje (ticket), nonkel, tante, moemoe, tegel, plafond, stroom, stopcontact, schakelaar, klas, viaduct, wortel, asbak.

Indonesian

my ghost

Chinese altar

Chinese temple - Surabaya has a large 'Chinatown'

Me in sigaret museum: House of Sampoerna

Farmer showing tobacco plants

Painting of a smoker

Dutch church