I did make out familiar words, but painfully rarely. Yet after hundreds of hours of classes, I couldn’t understand what she was saying.Įverything she said sounded to me like it had half a syllable. It was to chat with people like her that I had moved to Indonesia and enrolled in intensive language study. She was curious about me, full of questions, and the feeling was mutual.
Mixing everything in a peanut sauce, she handed the salad, called lotek, to customers who puttered up on motorbikes and waited on blue plastic stools. The woman stood in her roadside stall in a quiet neighbourhood in the Indonesian city of Yogyakarta, chopping tomatoes, beans and spinach, plus one red chilli.
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