Down on the Javanese

As a matter of principle, I've no truck with the people of Java, just as I seldom rue the differences between those of the great Kingdom of England and the savages of Chad. But I must confess my sole experience with a Javanese native was desultory, at best.

The encounter, or series thereof, occurred at Hempston Bridge, a public school - which means "private school" to Americans - the envy of the realm. The boys and I thought a semester of instruction in the "art" of Javanese gamelon would be top shelf and thus enrolled in Prof. Kwai Barleyan's tutorial. From the start it was an exercise in rare personal restraint.

Though for the sake of convenience I'll stipulate he somehow earned his title, Professor Barleyan was a primitive sort. Upon meeting him, I could barely get past the notion that this petite, painfully thin man - his trousers touched his legs as often as Twiggy did - could teach me anything beyond the science of hauling a ricksaw, never mind the intracies of exotic music. And his diction left much to be desired; I longed for the return of Morse code as a popular means of communication, such was the off-putting nature of his omnipresent "aws," "ings," and "bongs." Conversations with housecats yielded clearer ends.

Granted, A.J.P. Taylor couldn't make head or tails of the gamelon any better than Barleyan, given the instruments's barbarity. Not horsehair on string, nor breath through reed, could in any way approximate the clanging, braying desperation of it all. Webscombe Summerthroat, an altogether decent chap and indulger of south of the Equator tribes, and who was later felled by AIDS, couldn't muster a single phrase of praise for this ridiculous set of contraptions. He was game for the challenge, too!

In any event, Prof. Barleyan proved to be a mean-spirited fellow, apparently unsatisfied with the witty analogies we lads used to describe the horrors of his chosen endeavor. "Tortured cat" - an insult to his people. "Suicide throng" - an imperfect slap to the face, wrong in fact and implied deed. "Give me rum, sodomy, and a greater portion of the lash instead of braving the throes of this 'instrument'" - you can imagine Barleyan's response to that.

His lowest moment came at the faculty's Boxing Day fete, an affair where the peers were known to "let it all hang out" - their phrase, by the way, which should give you an indication of how louche it could become. Prof. Barleyan had eight too many porters that morning, then complained bitterly of events in East Timor, a locale unaffixed to Java as far as I know and therefore bewildering as to why he would care for it in the first place.

I couldn't quote him, unless my memories of "ging-gong-aw-bong-ting-Timor" mean anything to you beyond the sheer gibberish it means to me, but there was anger in his tone. Webscombe delivered a rough translation to the lads, who then had to restrain me from caning Barleyan for his impudence and triviality in the presence of so many distinguished Englishman. The Javanese gypsy would have had better luck complaining of oppressive blueness in the summer sky against an intellect, and Catherine Wheel, as trenchant and unforgiving as mine.

This antagonism remains with me, so it will only be an aspect of manifest destiny if and when I lash Barleyan's descendants into delivering me to The Carlyle in hasty fashion. When that happens, Barleyan should consider his mission fulfilled.

- Twimbley Duddleston IV