Perhaps it is fitting that as we travel through Java, visiting the ancient Hindu Prambanan and Buddhist Borobudur, I am reading The Snow Leopard, Peter Matthiessen's account of a trek though the remote Nepalese mountains, and his spiritual experiences there. While balmy Indonesia is not the frozen Himalayas, a healthy zen attitude is a valuable asset for any traveler.

In The Snow Leopard, Matthiessen meets the Lama of the Crystal Monastery, who, because of a terrible case of arthritis, is unlikely to ever leave the remote mountain valley of the monastery. When asked if he is happy there, given that it is unlikely he will ever leave, he exclaims "Of course I am happy here! It's wonderful! Especially when I have no choice!" Matthiessen is struggling with his own desire to sight the elusive snow leopard, even as the other, unexpected, beauties of the Himalayas unfold before him, but after this exchange he concludes: "Have you seen the snow leopard? No! Isn't that wonderful?"

My posts here notwithstanding, our travels through Asia are not all about food, and it often has to take a backseat to other concerns. Research, especially, is disappointingly limited - often to a few scavenged minutes on the internet and garbled conversations with locals. Truly local restaurants and food areas are usually far away from sightseeing destinations, and can be exhausting to navigate without a shared language. In Jakarta and Yogyakarta, I had to marshal my disappointment at not even having time to seek out the few local specialties that our guidebook mentions. But accepting the moment, and your experience of it, (and letting go of that frenzied metropolitan foodie search that infuses Singapore) makes for a much more fulfilling travel experience.

In gray and busy Jakarta, where we were for only a few waking hours, we were limited to a single meal of chicken and mutton sate with cubes of glutenous rice. It was fine and filling, but awkwardly eaten at a streetside open air table as fat raindrops began to fall. And there was airport food, which I'd rather not discuss, no matter how zen I am feeling.

Jakarta was a stopover on the way to Yogyakarta, which in turn was a base for visits to the mighty ruins of Prambanan and Borobudur, although also an interesting city in its own right. The older areas of Yogyakarta, or Jogja, as it is sometimes more phonetically spelled, are riddled with little alleys called gangs. At first, walking down them made me feel uncomfortable, as these alleys blur the lines between my own categories of public and private life, and peering down the little paths that are practically living rooms, particularly as an obvious tourist, felt distinctly rude. But since there are shops and internet cafes tucked in along them, I ventured on, and was soon the friendly air of the gangs put me at ease.

Stepping out of a bookshop at the sound of a high whistle, I encountered a boisterous and friendly group of locals, who, seeing my curiosity, introduce me to the source of the sound, a small bicycle-mounted cart equipped with an ingenious steam chamber. With a whistle on one side and a series of holes plugged with pegs on the other, the hot steam can be forced out the whistle to announce the cart, or released out the holes to cook the wares. Cooked rice is tamped into bamboo cylinders, then followed by a bit of palm sugar, and topped up with more rice. The bamboo tube is placed over one of the steam vents until the tube of rice is hot and congealed and the sugar melted, then the filling is pushed out onto a waiting leaf and sprinkled with shredded coconut. The resulting confection is simple, but warm, and sweet, but not so sweet to overwhelm the pale flavors of the rice. I enjoyed them so much I forgot to take a photo of the finished product, and spent the rest of our time in Jogja listening for the distinctive whistle, which I never heard again.

Likewise, the next day on the bus to Bali, even as I mourned the lost chance to try Jogja gudeg or nasi brongkos, we pulled into a dining hall and received vouchers for the buffet there. The curry was so ordinary looking, I left my camera in its bag, but as I began to eat, I saw that it was unlike any curry I'd experienced. The curry, rich and yellow with ginger and turmeric, concealed discs of tempeh, whole chicken wings, and chicken giblets from liver to gizzard. An inexpensive cafeteria meal to be sure, but the combination of flavors was unexpected and intensely satisfying. Liver and turmeric blended their earthy flavors with the bright umami tempeh and juicy chicken, while ginger and curry danced across them all. Paired with rice, mild pickles, cabbage soup almost certainly enriched with MSG, and hot, sweet ginger tea, the meal fortified us for the long road ahead. As the bus pulled out of the parking lot to start the second leg of the 20-hour journey, rain started to lash out of the flashing Indonesian sky, and I thought "No, I have not tasted the gudeg! Isn't it wonderful?"