Context
Americans fight disease with pills formulated in laboratories. Americans suspicious of western medicine fight disease with pills made from extracts of herbs used in eastern medicine. Chinese herb doctors just boil the hell out of said herbs (i.e. dried seahorse, goji berries, seaweed, willow bark, snakeskin, cicada shells, and so on) and make a tea out of it. Indonesian herbalists do the same thing, add copious amounts of palm sugar, and sell it to everyone on the cheap.
These are collectively known as “minum roempah” (mee-noom room-pah) or “jamu” (jah-moo); spiced drinks. Common ingredients include tumeric, cardamom, jicama, lemon, lime, pea flower, aromatic ginger, galangal, red ginger, something-that-looks-like-twigs, something-that-looks-like-a-yam, and things essentially indescribable.
Indonesians everywhere drink jamu to lower blood pressure, improve kidney function, avoid hair loss, strengthen the immune system, lengthen men’s endurance in bed, and more. Men’s jamu will usually add in a raw egg to increase virility.
Ibu Jamu
Ibu Jamu is essentially an herbal mixologist in her mid-40’s through her late 60’s, likely lower-income and under-educated. Traditional ones wander on foot with an open wicker basket strapped to her back. Ones less inclined to walking use a bike with front and rear holding racks and a kickstand. The basket or rack might hold up to a dozen 1.5L-glass bottles filled with liquids in various shades of green or yellow-brown. Each liquid is made from one spice boiled till kingdom come. The important takeaway is that you approach Ibu Jamu, tell her what condition you want to treat or prevent, and she will mix a bunch of liquids into a plastic disposable cup for you. That’s if you know what you’re doing.
“Hai! I’d like one jamu.” (no local orders like that)
“What type do you want?”
“Sorry?” (no one says that, either…) “There are types?”
“…Where are you from?”
“America.”
“Ahhhh!” (that explains everything…)
Ibu Jamu pointed to a nearby stool and motioned me to sit. She handed me a flimsy plastic cup and poured the first shot out the bottle. She motioned me to drink it.
Tumeric; easy enough.
She motioned again and poured a second shot. Ginger.
She poured a third. Tastes like burrrninggggg!
The fourth was a thick, green sludge. It was more bitter than my dentist’s tropical-punch-flavored lidocaine. Its effect was the same as I could no longer taste numbers #5-X.
Ibu Jamu told me the last one was “anggur”, the word for grapes and wine. It tasted like liquefied raisins.
I had just drunk a deconstructed jamu shot by shot. To deconstruct it was to take away any possibility of a mediocre (but pleasant) experience. Bottled purgatory became bottled hell before ascending into the lowest bar of heaven. On the other hand, I was now educated on the things I could request in my future jamu. If only I had paid attention while I downed mystery shots.
“How was it?” asked Ibu Jamu with an amused look.
I grinned weakly, nodded contemplatively. “It was…. good.” Politeness overpowers truth.
“You certainly feel healthier, right?!”
Well… I still have all my organs. “Iya…Makasih, ya.”
I bowed my head in thanks, paid her the equivalent of $0.33, and sauntered off. If the general adage, “The bitterer, the betterer” is true, whatever I just drank was insanely healthy for me. My organs functioned spectacularly, muscles would grow muscles, and my hair had permanently rooted. Then again, for $0.33 I’d be satisfied with a temporary halt to dandruff production.
“Take a shot, post the chaos later.”
Astute readers will note that at some point I had zero idea what I was drinking. There was little to no time to consider it. Ibu Jamu was undoubtedly disinclined to wait while I looked up every ingredient on google translate. She could also potentially take it as a slight on her presumed integrity. I simply submitted myself to the flight. Bottom’s up.
Was this dangerous? I’ve been poisoned by “street food” before [see: Food Mysteries: Poisoning (2 of 4): ] Then again, certified companies have been known to cheat and put in all sorts of poisons in their product. Glycerol in the cough syrup, melamine in the baby formula mix, vitamin E in the liquid nicotine. As far as I know, Ibu Jamu only used ingredients that grew out of the ground. Which ground? Was it organic? Eh, the water was boiled.
Does jamu work? I’m fairly certain feeling better after one dose is pure placebo. Any bottle of herbal supplements will dependably tell you that you need to take the pills at the recommended dosage for at least a month before you see effects (each bottle has the perfect amount for one month, of course). My guess is that such is also the case with Ibu Jamu. I could spend $10 USD for the month to prevent all sorts of much costlier hospital visits down the road. Or spend $10 USD as down payment to costlier hospital visits if my local Ibu Jamu is less than honest. I don’t have the faith or the taste buds to commit to that. Yet.
I’ll certainly not stop trying every one that I find anytime soon. Most jamu is delicious given enough sugar/honey. The nastiest one I’ve had was called “The Challenger” by a minum roempah cafe catering to Westerners. It was the bitterest, most astringent double-shot of sludge I’ve ever had the displeasure of drinking. Sugar and lemon did not help, much in the same way Febreze only cohabitates with odor rather than erases it. The tastiest one was “Lancar haid” (lahn-cahr hah-eed), sweet, light, and refreshing. The first promoted kidney health and the second smooth menstrual flow. I’ll drink to both. Bersulang!
Coda
A street vendor operated a booth on the side of the road. His setup was solid. Metal countertop, a mortar/pestle for smashing spices into oblivion, and a gas stove for brewing them in hot water. Best of all, he had a comfortable leather two-seater and a low-slung coffee table for customers!
My friend and I read through the menu. He chose the detox, to “wash away his sins” (I suspect he referred to the cigarettes he smoked on the sly an hour earlier). His drink was brewed from tumeric, cinnamon, ginger, and a bit of honey. It was herbal and mildly bitter, but palatable.
I chose the one for diabetes. Its prime ingredient was sambiloto (sahm-bee-loh-toh), the same bitter herb in the aforementioned Challenger. The seller added cinnamon, cloves, honey, and yellow onion. It was not sweet at all, which makes sense if the drink was intended for diabetics. The flavor was sequentially bitter and a bit spicy, and then a prolonged onion flavor. The result was a mixture whose components were all known but together might cause madness in the drinker (much like, say, dipping your graham crackers in ranch dressing).
The vendor was surprised when I asked for more honey after two swigs.
“I already added honey! If you have diabetes, more honey is not good for you!”
“I don’t have diabetes, Pak. I’m drinking it just in case my blood sugar is a bit high.”
“Oh, okay.” He added another tablespoon of honey. “Actually, of all the drinks on the menu, this one definitely tastes the worse!” He smiled and laughed.
I imagine he was proud that his concoction was barely palatable, a good sign of its medicinal properties. I took another swig. The honey did not help at all. If anything, the increase in sweetness was immediately offset by an increasing contrast with the onion flavor that followed. The honey had somehow made it less palatable.
I drank half of it and tapped out. My stein of anti-diabetes jamu mocked me for my weakness. We left with profuse apologies and much bowing. I falsely assured him that I felt stronger for drinking it. Then we went to an ice cream store to wipe away the bitter, onion-y taste of defeat.