This story originally appeared as the sleeve notes to the Sabah Habas Mustapha "Jalan Kopo" album:

It's a four-hour drive from the wheezing, sweltering moloch that is the city of Jakarta to the relatively cooler climes of Bandung. The road wriggles its way sinuously up and down the volcanic hills past tea-plantations, rice-fields, villages and thick forests vibrating with sun-baked life. We were following this road to the capital of the province of Sunda to hear once more the beautiful, distinctive sounds of the region; the wistful emotings of the bamboo flute known as the Suling; the intricate melodies evoked from the kecapi; the exciting swooping rhythms of the Khendang, the rhythmic interplay of the squeaking, squawking, grunting vocal noises they call Senggak; the slippery, slidey scales eked out of the violin, to name but a few. We were in a bouyant mood, chattering like starlings, laughing like drains and sweating like pigs as we watched the engrossing cavalcade of Javanese life and landscape flash past the windows of the car.

At roughly half-way along the Bandung road the crumpled traveller is heartened to arrive at the multitude of eating-possibilities in the town of Cipenas. We chose to revitalize our sagging innards with the multiple fiery choices of a Sumatran-style "Masakan Padang" restaurant. We oozed out of the car, made our way politely past the gentleman trying to sell us paintings of tropical landscapes and took our seats. In the typical Padang style the waiter arrived looking like a Sumatran Christmas tree, arms bedecked with small plates of delicacies which he began to unload onto the table. "You just choose", he said, "pay what you eat". Happily we shared out the rice and Jack-Fruit curry, cautiously sampled the whole squid in chilli and studiously ignored the dishes containing animal parts we didn't know existed.

Suddenly we noticed the jellied giblets on the third plate along begin to quiver. Then we heard it, A low bass rumble at first, developing into a thudding roar. Fearing an earthquake we ran to the door and saw flashing past the shiny parade of chrome and leather that was the Bandung Harley Davidson Club. Straight down the middle of the road with pillion passengers fore and aft bearing the club insignia on their backs and waving their arms to ensure that all knew they had taken possesion of the highway.

Sitting on the floor next to me I noticed a sprightly looking old man with laughing eyes chuckling to himself. His skin was clear and healthy, he wore a black smock over a white shirt and his strong, muscular legs protruded from his traditional batik sarong. When he saw me his face broke into a hearty laugh. "You like that?" he said, "Ok for some but all this driving drives you crazy, this my transport." He patted the soles of his bare feet.

He was a Badui. I had heard a lot about them. They rarely leave the rugged and mountainous lands where they live and where such encumbrances of modern life as cars, telephone, televisions etc. are banned. When a Badui does venture into the outside he never uses public transport. He walks, barefoot. The Sundanese hold the Badui in great respect, even fear, as they are said to be masters of magic.

I asked him in which direction he was travelling. "To Bandung, to visit a friend, do a little business" he replied in the modest but confident tone of a man at peace with himself, "And you? You want to walk too?", he laughed, his radiant, gap-toothed smile gently mocking my superficial understanding of his world. I bade him good journey and returned to my squid.



Two hours of intoxicatingly dangerous driving later we arrived at Bandung City limits. It was early evening and already dark. The massed voices of many muezzin competed with the whining of a thousand motorbikes, the oil-lamps of the road-side kitchens illuminated wokfuls of sizzling savouries. We navigated our way through the one-way systems of the city centre, past Jalan Kalem Daum where bright lights and loud music poured out of every shop, past the shopping mall and the Matahari department store, past the main square and the enormous mosque and on to Jalan Kopo, the street where we would find the Jugala recording studios.We were expected and shown into an oasis of a garden behind the house of the studio owner, composer, choreographer Drs. Gugum Gumbira. He was seated on a carved wooden platform talking to a sprightly looking old man wearing a black smock, a white shirt and a traditional batik sarong who, as he turned and saw me, flashed a radiant, gap-toothed smile and began to laugh