So reads a local sign posted at one of the major intersection.

I woke up around 10am and found the nearest cafe for the "american breakfast", which i should know, is not very good, no matter where you go (except maybe Denny's?). My one scrambled egg and two slices of bread were not enough, so i ordered supplements and enjoyed reading a guidebook dedicated to Java from the bookshelf in the cafe.

I walked out of Gang II (nothing more than a narrow pedestrian alleyway) and found myself on a beautiful streetway. Shops and Cafes lined the narrow street, each with stylish european-style signs hanging overhead (not too high overhead, i might add. Duck!). i walked over to Malioboro Street, the main drag here in Yogya, and was very pleased. This place is just stunning. The sign is bang on; very lovely indeed.
A friend from back home used to live and study batik painting here, and he referred me to a local expert. With a self-drawn map, adapted from my LP, I marched off in search of the Cafe Lotus.

Past hundreds of parked motorcycles lining Malioboro, through sidewalk market stalls selling virtually anything you may want, and on past some palatial government buildings. Along the way vendors stopped me to talk, asking all the familiar questions, and commenting on my necklace. Several people tried to direct me to the local batik school's exhibition, and finally I did succumb. As in Thailand locals try to collect commissions upon delivering tourists, and this time I was sure to shake off the 'helpful' locals before entering. I was greeted by a very friendly, well spoken gentleman who began to exlain the process of batik painting. I was served a Jasmine tea, which I left untouched, and explored the gallery. Some very nice art indeed. The manager explained to me how the show was ending that day and that all the profits were going to be donated to Aceh relief. How good it would be it that were true... See, I followed some very weathered signs to the gallery, signs that had been there for a very long time. See, this was not the type of art show that was going to end sometime soon... And I am very positive that the proceeds are not going to benefit anyone in northern Sumatra, sadly. I had a rough time leaving, as the manager kept blocking the doorway with largish batiks (to show the light shining through the thin fabric), and he was very intent on selling at least a few of his $40USD batiks. I told him that I would have to think about it overnight and dismissed myself. Nice guy, but it's the same story as Thailand's tailors and gem shops. I continued heading south, ignoring the locals who tried to lure me to the "batik research centre".
Within downtown Yogyakarta is an old walled city called the Kraton. The tall whitewashed walls were thick and fortress-like. Graffiti decorated the lower reaches; a mix of english and indonesian. I entered the narrow streets, where 25 000 people are said to live, and wandered about for probably an hour, becoming lost in the maze of streets. I found myself in the southeast corner and tried to find an exit, though there seem to be only four exit points. Eventually, after drinking a warm coke in a restaurant run by a gang of young boys, and asking about ten people for directions, I found the street I was looking for. I asked a local which was would lead to the Cafe Lotus, but he said it had closed down a few years ago. I believed him; he had nothing to gain from me... Without the cafe to help me fid my contact I felt a bit lost. As it turned out, though, the guy i was looking for was rather well known. The guy helping me called a bicycle taxi driver over and soon (after negotiating a price) I was off to the private residence of my contact. He wasn't there, but was to be found at his new cafe, the Lotus Garden.
Over a delicious Avocado smoothy (truly Indonesian) we introduced ourselves. Our connection was loose; I knew a guy in my home town who was very good friends with him 10 years ago. Nevertheless the bonds between my Canadian friend and this Indonesian gentleman were very strong, and Untung was thrilled to relate to someone who knew someone he knew so long ago. A strange and awkward conversation followed, as you can imagine. My goal was straighforward: I wanted unbiased advice on buyig batiks. What is a quality batik, and how do I find it. I also wanted cheap batiks. Well, as it turned out he took me to the home of one of the greatest batik artists in Yogyakarta, and some may argue, Java. As Java is a global centre for batiks, you can imagine this man is fairly well known (in certain circles, of course). I enjoyed a look through his gallery, speaking at length with his daughter, who managed the place. Astuti was not well these days, and had stopped painting batiks several years ago, as the artform requires very elaborate and detailed brushstrokes. I looked through the remaining 16 batiks, not for sale, and marvelled at the private collections hung on the walls. Apparently collectors from around the world dearly wanted to get their hands on these last pieces...
The sun had long since set, and the quiet of night had taken over the peaceful city. I was tired, and the mosquito bites on my feet, both new and old, were bothering me. I bid farewell and Untung took me home, via motorcycle, through the slubering streets of Yogya.