THE STORY OF THE T.O.I.L.

Superman imbibed too much bottled green kryptonite and his nose bled from a steady assault of global EJ and Asian GROW jargon.

Overnight, he sounded like Rod Stewart and pangs of chill announced a possible meltdown for the Man of Steel.

Superman is down and must have Time Off, In Lieu of.

So he went riding his Superbike for a high of fresh kryptonite air blowing across green fields of rice, over half-paved roads on a sunny Wednesday and through puddles of rainwater on a balmy Thursday.

He went to church too on a downcast Friday, scoring 20 kph across 47 kms, to pray for a blessing of Holy Kryptonite and finally check Nampicuan in his biking diary.   

Then bloody Saturday, which turned out so because of an errand from Supergirl that was an hour too early, but later proved worth the bike-less day as long delayed brown kryptonite trophies were finally handed. 

And finally an indecisive Sunday, a reluctant ball game with the Justice League, escape on a borrowed blue kryptonite bike, and another church for more Holy Kryptonite.

He was able to get some head shoots too, 9 of 10 in fact, and was finally healed by an incense of burning kryptonite from blazing guns...

POST SCRIPT TO YOGYA

"This would be a fine biking trail," I said as the 4-wheel drive jeep bounced through our Mt. Merapi adventure ride, my millions severely diminished after 6 days, surgical masks tied and untied during pit stops at a hamlet destroyed by volcanic eruption and a quarried lava river.

"Those are are offerings for the dead," I told Rashmi who asked why cigarettes are left inside the bunker where two eruption watchers died, because of the heat and the oxygen tanks that did not work according to Mr. Bin, because they forgot to close the steel doors according to one of the drivers.    

"We called this dulang where we used to eat in white tin plates with our hands," I said as the table filled with deep fried small catfish we called bangkok in Almaguer and an assortment of smaller freshwater fish that we usually catch with a batbateng along the banks of a swollen river also in Almaguer, an unusually big broiled gurami, plates of comfortingly familiar vegetable salad, grilled ayam, fried tempe which is still alien to me, and the holy sambal whom I finally met face-to-face.   

"There must be lots of water," I said as we transferred cars for the Water Palace, to which I was dead wrong, since the place was actually a swimming pool built in the middle of a swamp for the Sultan's wives and children, overlooked by an enclosed balcony where the Sultan would watch his bathing wives and invite one or two that pleases him to his private pool where they will continue bathing naked, according again to Mr. Bin who also guided us to the old mosque and its echo walls now explored by curious tourists, then back through a tunnel, through a trio of street musicians, through the parking lot, to the bus, and to the hotel.     

Yogya is not as cosmopolitan as Jakarta but it had Prambanan, Ratu Boko, and Borobudur, and that pleased me a lot.

PHOTOGRAPHY 101: DEALING WITH THE MOB

People are a given, naturally attracted to famous landmarks, especially those steeped in history and mystique. 

I can't ask them to move away so I can have a nice view and photo.

That for me is faking the moment and counter to my cardinal rule in photography of shooting it as it is.

A photographer must do and live with the moment.

So people, those hordes of tourists, become part of the composition.