Letter from Indonesia: who will save us from zombies?

Jakarta, Jumat (Friday)

I have to confess to being rather worried of late. It started off as a mild concern that was caused by watching American television shows. This isn’t an unreasonable response, I know, given the weird ideas about humanity that these things manifest in general. But over the years I had more or less come to accept these odd presentations as, somehow, well, normal. At least, I learned to live with them.

Until, that is, I started to notice what seemed to be an ever-growing and unprecedented wave of shows featuring zombie attacks, zombie armies and just about everything zombie, who had somehow morphed from their drugged-out home in Haiti into rather badly made-up flesh-eaters who could only be rendered properly dead by a suitably gruesome and strangely satisfying shot to the head.

It’s worth mentioning that the Number One Nation had been undergoing assault from legions of vampires for quite a few decades but had seemed to learn to live with them, as I had with their TV shows in general. After all, vampires had been around for long enough in the Western world to be practically part of the furniture. Even in 1764, Voltaire reported, rather skeptically, on an outbreak of corpses rising up to suck the blood of the living to “grow fat and rosy”:

“It was in Poland, Hungary, Silesia, Moravia, Austria and Lorraine, that the dead made this good cheer. We never heard a word of vampires in London, nor even at Paris. I confess that in both these cities there were stock-jobbers, brokers, and men of business, who sucked the blood of the people in broad daylight; but they were not dead, though corrupted. These true suckers lived not in cemeteries, but in very agreeable palaces.”

He could’ve been talking about the politicians of Tanah Air, couldn’t he? But I digress. Back to zombies.

What grew on me and caused me to fret and worry was the thought that since The Devil Herself, aka Lady Gaga, had tried to gain a foothold on these emerald (and white plastic bag-strewn) shores then what was stopping the zombie armies of America, who seemed to be increasingly ubiquitous and evermore hungry for evermore human flesh, from launching an invasion, displacing pocong and kuntilanak from our screens and lives, and seizing control, formally, of the People’s House in Senayan and making our lives a living hell?

I worried a lot. I couldn’t sleep. I consulted a dukun, a witch doctor, for zombie-preventative charms but he didn’t know what I was talking about. Apparently he preferred to watch “American Idol” or “America’s Next Top Model.” I was left defenseless, quivering and alone. 

And then I realized I was safe.

There was someone who would protect me from zombies, and even American entertainment in general: Mr Rizieq Shihab, the head of the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI).

Mr Shihab and his colleagues, whom I now like to think of as The Glorious Ones, The Protectors of the Faithful (and even the not-so-faithful but rather a little confused and ambivalent about things and inept at using a remote to change channels) and Really Nice Guys Who Have Conquered The Devil, have everything in hand and I, for one, am happy, particularly because they have the National Police, the Pot-bellied Khaki Line, on their side, ready to give the first zombie that escapes from the parliament building in Senayan a skull-shattering shot to the head (great TV!).

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: among my colleagues

Jakarta, Rabu (Wednesday)

The other day I had the occasion to take myself to Ragunan zoo here in Jakarta. It was one of those rare moments when various circumstances rolled about on top of each other and created a bit of a mess and, lo and behold, everyone was looking in this direction or another and one could saunter past, hands in one’s pockets, whistling, and do whatever one felt like; and I felt like a stroll through a pleasant park, which is what Ragunan is.

Surprisingly, there were also some animals, other than rats and mosquitoes. Unlike the latter two, which are Jakarta’s favorite pets, the pets at Ragunan are locked up safely behind bars, presumably to protect them from their keepers. This strategy seems to have failed at Surabaya zoo, according to various reports, but thankfully for me, and the pets I was strolling amongst, we were far from Surabaya, that steamy and overheated town off to the right of the island. Rather, I was in the leafy green bosom of Ibu Kota (forget Monas aka the National Monument in the centre of town; it’s got nothing on Ragunan, which is the more serious patch of artfully arranged shrubbery), enjoying the vacant verdancy and musing upon life. Whilst so doing I happened to spot some of the pets, which prompted more musings.

Said creatures were indeed safely ensconced in a protective cage to keep the horrid humans at a safe distance. They were sitting nicely, looking around without bothering anyone, occasionally scratching themselves; the monkeys were, I mean, not the humans. The humans were behaving badly, as usual, pointing rudely and shouting at the nice monkeys while throwing pieces of fruit and rubbish into their cage, some of it lodging on the “Do not feed the animals” sign. Business as usual.

What attracted me to these particular monkeys was their astonishing appearance: they reminded me of friends of mine and, as I pondered more, they reminded me of me. I can’t say they presented a flattering portrait: short, reddish hair done in a kind of lank pageboy-look, as if their stylist had been of a tender, impressionable age when watching far too many Elton John music videos; beady, moist eyes too close together that had an echo of George W. Bush in them; a long, floppy pink nose that seemed to be the result of a happy and fruitful relationship with red wine meeting an angry husband’s fist; more reddish fur on the shoulders creating an epaulette-effect, reminiscent of the Beatles’ “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” album cover; exposed, large, pinkish-white nipples begging for piercings but instead sadly unadorned; a protruding white paunch, testimony to too many beers and a but-distant relationship to exercise; and skinny, reddish, hairy legs that were somewhat knock-kneed.

The only incongruity was a long, hairless, white tail, rather like that which might adorn a fat albino rat, and which was the one feature I regretted not having in common. Such a device would no doubt prove itself very useful in the event that one had a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and wanted to open a door or pick up the car keys. Or hang gracefully from a branch or candelabra whilst reading The Jakarta Globe and sipping the coffee, since all the seats were taken at one’s favorite warung. Why we evolved our tails out of existence seems to me to be one of those issues that can be seen amongst Italian fashion designers fretting about the human body having too many protuberances to be pretty. In short, it was a mistake.

These splendid beasts were given their scientific name, Nasalis larvatus, by Wurmb in 1787.  It is a little unclear whether this was the Baron Wurmb who was the Governor of Batavia or the Frederick Baron van Wurmb, the noted zoologist of the East Indies, or even whether they were the same man. More research is needed.

Be that as it may, “Proboscis Monkey” was written on a fruit-spattered sign. Underneath was the Indonesian name: “Monyet Belanda” (Dutch Monkey). It was certainly apt. One presumes that, at the time, it wasn’t widely used by the Dutch. These days, bule is used freely and easily. I’m told it is Javanese for “white cow”. Meanwhile, some bule I know refer to the citizens as “little monkeys”.

There seem to be quite a lot of animals in the zoo.

Letter from Indonesia: no red light for our police

Jakarta, Jumat (Friday)

We all say we love the police service of Tanah Air but deep down we may have a little suspicion that perhaps we should be more circumspect in our unbounded admiration, don’t we? Go on, you can admit it to yourself, just this once. 

After all, it is the duty of the public to scrutinize their paid defenders and not just loll about in restful complacency in the certain belief that Tanah Air’s finest really are the finest.

So, in the interests of making a nod, at least, towards the role of the Fourth Estate, something that is usually far from the concerns of this blog, I set out to think of some reasons to not love everything about the police and lay them before you for consideration.

I tried very hard to come up with some. Even one. I walked up and down, my head bowed, my brow furrowed. I pondered deep into the night, sleepless. But I have to admit I failed. I couldn’t think of a single reason to not adore the men and women who devote their lives to serving the people as their slogan attests (and how rare is it that a slogan matches reality? But in this case it surely does).

So, instead of trying to shake your faith, I shall reinforce it by reminding you of what our police do par excellence (not that you need reminding).

Just recently I had an errand to run, which I executed upon my little motorbike. I left home at 11 a.m., thinking I’d be back by noon to avoid the heat but, as is so often the case, a street was blocked by construction works and I had to take a detour that meandered around hither and yon and concluded in a massive traffic jam in which even motorbikes were stuck, meaning I was still on the road at closer to 1 p.m., sweating, dirty and tired.

I was about 100 meter from the traffic lights at one of those enormous six-road intersections that take about three minutes per segment. I was cooking inside my jacket, gloves and helmet. Nothing much was happening each time the lights facing me turned green. We crept a few meters closer, at best.

When I stood up and peered between the buses and trucks, I could see that the intersection was jammed with the same. I began to contemplate suicide by breathing more deeply and asphyxiating on carbon monoxide rather than die slowly of heat exhaustion in the vehicular desert.

But just as I was about to take the first of the life-threatening deep breaths, our heroes arrived. Two policemen stepped out into the midst of the intersection and began to direct drivers this way and that. These angels came from I know not where — perhaps they descended directly from Heaven — but in a couple of cycles of the lights the intersection was clear and I had made it to the front, only to be faced once again by an accursed red light. But one of the police angels waved me through, along with all the other motorists behind me. Glory! Wonder! Joy! Praise be to the police!

Now, gentle readers, allow me to state unconditionally and with no fine words left unemployed that this must surely be the pinnacle of work carried out by our police. What better purpose do they serve? Catching crooks? Hardly. Protecting the pluralism of the Constitution and minority-group citizens from mobs of thugs? Never. Assisting road accident victims? Not on your life. Defending the rights of adults to choose their own entertainment by permitting and, indeed, proudly supporting a foreign singing star’s concert? Don’t make me laugh. Refusing bribery and rigorously pursuing those who don’t? Now you really are entering into the absurd.

But waving motorists through red lights, now, that’s something you can’t complain about.

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: mosquitoes and other PR stunts

Jakarta, Kamis (Thursday)

Some chaps gassed our kampung last Sunday.

The noise of a small electric motor at constant high revs pushed its way up and over the usual sounds of the inner-city village: The bass notes of adults, kids’ shrill voices, cries of the itinerant food and services sellers, the rumble of an occasional motorbike or car. A look out the window confirmed my suspicion: Clouds of white smoke were rising above the roofs of the houses lining the alley behind us. Yes, it was the bi-annual “gassing of the mosquitoes” — a ritual enacted by the local government to propitiate the annoying and dangerous Mosquito God or, more accurately, the Occasionally Voting Citizenry.

It seems a sensible idea, doesn’t it, to kill mozzies before they kill us, especially in a dengue fever “hotspot” with lots of excellent breeding grounds in the form of stagnant open drains, a fetid canal and prolific plant life, as well as plenty of ready victims, particularly little kids and the elderly?

Sadly, the whole event is a farce or, to call it by its modern name, a PR event staged for the purposes of convincing the public that the government is doing something in defense of their health.

Nevertheless, it’s quite a dramatic spectacle, at least in a sleepy kampung on a Sunday morning, with the somewhat devilish noise and the clouds of unpleasant-smelling smoke. I fled the house to the open space of the larger street that dissects the kampung while two chaps with machines that looked like weapons from a “Ghostbusters” movie criss-crossed the kampung’s alleys, flushing out residents or enveloping them in fog, as long as you paid the Rp 10,000 fee that was being asked for special attention to your part of the kampung (which meant that plenty of fetid drains were left untouched by the gas).

Looking down the alley to the small square that is home to a suitably small church (dear Islamic Defenders Front, the mayor of Bogor and other defenders of faiths, please don’t panic, there’s a mosque 50 m away) and a badminton court that doubles as a clothes line, there was nothing to see: Everything was obscured by a thick white fog, from which cheerfully emerged, waving her hands about and doing a little jig, one of the chubbier of the kampung’s small children. It was obviously quite good fun, being gassed by insecticide.

After about half an hour of dodging the supposed poisonous gas, I ventured back into the house. The first thing I saw was, you guessed it, a mosquito, flying lazily about. I assumed it was in its death throes and anticipated it spiraling to the floor in a final coup de grace signifying the triumph of mass public health measures over disease and ill health. And then it settled on my foot. I stared at it for a while, expecting it to totter sideways and go belly up. It didn’t. So I applied the usual technique – I slapped it – and produced a pool of my blood and its body parts. Perhaps this was a lucky rogue mozzie? No, another couple careened past, ready to take up breakfast where their colleague had left off. They seemed perfectly healthy. Assuming that the mozzies in my house were no tougher than the mozzies in the rest of the kampung, it appeared that the gassing was a waste of time.   But we felt that Something Had Been Done, which is all that matters to government.

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: rest, freedom from cares and chrysanthemums?

Jakarta, Kamis (Thursday)

I’ve been ill of late. It was a neat variation of an old-fashioned kind of disease that I’d been immunized against in my tender youth. So, either it was a unique strain invented in the fecund environment of Tanah Air or I was in that small percentage statistically that turns out not to be made immune by the vaccination and it took years to be exposed and succumb. I cannot say which.

It turned out to be a relatively painless illness, but nevertheless of dramatic appearance and with a reputation for being infectious, which meant some lolling about at home rather than trudging off to the day job in a dutiful fashion. Instead, I watched daytime TV and read short, amusing sketches in books pulled at random from the shelves. Both practices allowed naps, which were necessary given the enervating nature of the illness.

Finally, however, I felt I had to go and visit a doctor. This was purely for administrative purposes because I’d done some research on the Internet and could not find any treatment for this particular virus (which was one of the reasons there was a vaccine. Or vice versa). But, enjoying what was on offer on the small screen and thinking that it might be best to let nature take its medically unsupported course, it seemed like a good idea to procure learned opinion, in writing, from a suitably qualified professional that what was needed was rest, and freedom from cares, and chrysanthemums, yellow and white. Or equivalent. And show said letter to the boss, if asked for.

Seeing that I had provided my own diagnosis that precluded any useful medical intervention, it hardly seemed wise to toss money at my usual highly priced international medical practitioner and so I took the advice of a friend and attended a doctor nearby. Said medico had an office-like clinic in an office tower, with no appointment necessary and, surprisingly, no waiting list. I gave my name and within seconds was ushered into a clinical room with the accepted kind of gurney, a screen, shiny cabinets with little bottles full of pills, and a desk, behind which stood the doctor, a round and cheerfully squinting lady in a white coat, casually unbuttoned in that brisk, “coat-tails flapping” style we know of from medical dramas on TV. Some of which I had but recently watched.

A brief discussion ensued about my symptoms and my opinion of them, which, after an even briefer examination, the doctor declared triumphantly to be her own. I felt warmly vindicated, even if all it had required was an ability to read English and connection to the Internet.

Would I need a letter for a few more days off, she kindly enquired?

Indeed, I would, since not only was I still feeling weak but I was surely also still infectious and, besides, there were a couple of movies on TV coming up in the next few days that I really should catch.

Ah, yes, no problem. A letter could be written but did I know that tomorrow was a public holiday and, being a Friday, presaged a long weekend, by end of which I would, most likely, be well and able to return to work?

Aduh. I did not. Indeed, I wished I had bothered to check the calendar and save myself the time and money. Probably I was missing an episode of something or other, too.

Not to worry. As compensation, perhaps, I could buy some pills. The doctor reached into one of the shiny cabinets behind her and proudly showed me two little packs of pills. In her right hand, she declared, were vitamins, which was fair enough unless she claimed they’d cure cancer or make my hair grow to my knees. In her left hand, however, she proudly stated she held anti-virals.

Really? “Anti-virals”?

Yes, really: Anti-virals.

Given that there was no known treatment for the illness we had both just agreed I had, I viewed her claim somewhat skeptically. Presumably, what she was offering was a placebo, a sugar pill, which is typically used as a control in tests of new drugs. One group is given the drug and another group is given placebo and the differences in results are noted to see what the effects of the drug might be. Be that as it may, I paid, took them home, and set out to see if I could track down the “anti-virals” on the Internet. There were no results.

She knew that I would get better without any intervention, so was what she did ethical? Wouldn’t it have been more ethical to simply tell me I would get well in a few days without any intervention necessary? Other than rest, freedom from cares and, of course, chrysanthemums, yellow and white?

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: the silence of the mechanics

Jakarta, Senin (Monday)

I left the motor scooter at the workshop this morning to have the light switch replaced and the seat’s padding augmented, my backside being increasingly battered thanks to the paucity of foam in said seat. The switch was simply faulty.

The workshop is the typical open-fronted shop lined with motorcycle parts, accessories, calendars and, in this case, a fetching black-and-white framed photo of the first president, Sukarno, in his youth. He was a handsome chap but declined rather a lot as time with its dramatic events marched inexorably on.

The shop is staffed by two young men and one young woman, all of whom are marvelously mute, speaking only the minimum needed to convey messages. They exude a quiet (of course) but nevertheless sturdy confidence as they go diligently and methodically about their tasks. They make no concessions to customer service other than that required to put a vehicle back on the road, which they do very well and at low prices.

For example, when I went to collect the bike after office hours they were still working on it and, in a rapid discussion involving three sentences on their part, I was advised that they took the seat to the shop that repads seats, reupholstering not being within their skill set. They were advised by the specialist therein that the seat could not be repadded because the upholstery wasn’t of sufficient size to allow the insertion of thicker foam. Therefore if I wished to enjoy a more comfortable ride, I would have to replace the entire seat, which would be cheaper than repadding, anyway, even if said repadding could actually have been done without replacing the seat, which it couldn’t have. Understand?

I did. So please replace the entire seat.

Really?

Yes, really.

Which one chap then set about doing while the other finished installing the switch. During this process, which lasted about 20 minutes, from conversation to completion, three sets of would-be customers arrived.

The first — a father, mother and a small child in between — climbed off their bike and stood patiently watching the two young men, who were steadfastly working on the tasks they had promised to carry out for me, completely ignoring the family. The young woman came out from the back of the shop and dropped a hammer in a bucket near the men and the family, smiling pleasantly to herself, observed the family in a disinterested fashion, and walked back inside. After about three minutes of equally silent observation the family remounted and motored away without so much as muttering a curse.

Next to arrive were two young men on a custom-modified motorcycle — an old bike that had been hacked to bits and rearranged somewhat — carrying an entire wheel. They were pushier than the family. The rider, a skinny youth wearing a pair of oversized Chelsea football club nylon pajamas, had his long neck sticking out of the collar. He craned his beaky little face beneath the face of the chap looking down diligently at the switch and directed his attention, with a few murmured words, toward the wheel, clutched in wiry hands by his accomplice, who was dressed in black jeans and T-shirt and sported a head with shaved sides and a kind of collapsed mohawk. The mechanic dismissed the inquiries with a swift glance at the wheel, into the hub of which the accomplice was pointing a bony finger, and two quiet words, which I couldn’t catch despite standing about  only a meter and a half away. Abashed, the two lads climbed back on their machine with their wheel and took off in a cloud of blue smoke and chattering engine.

A few minutes later two middle-aged men wearing batik shirts rolled on their motorbike onto the front apron of the shop. The chap on the back strode directly past the two mechanics who, of course, ignored him as he disappeared into the back room. A silent minute later he came out holding a couple of things that looked like parts and off the pair went, no words spoken nor glances exchanged with the mechanics.

It was like watching a silent movie.

Upon completion, one of the chaps gestured vaguely toward the switch and the seat. Why waste breath stating the obvious? The young woman, with her half-amused look, handed me the bill silently, watched silently as I counted out the cash and nodded silently as I handed it over to her.

I climbed silently onto the bike, ignored by all three, and rode off. It was comfortable and worked perfectly.

I rode, of course, in silence.

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: rhino rides the rails!

Jakarta, Kamis (Thursday)

I had no idea what the English term was for the funny-looking thing on the roof of a train that touched the high-voltage cables and transferred the electricity to the train’s motor.

I had to ask a friend (you probably think I wanted to stimulate some intellectual curiosity in the poor soul, who lived in an overdeveloped country, the kind of place where one loses curiosity about pretty much everything except mortgage rates and decaf soy latte frapuccinos, but really I was just too lazy to look it up myself), who looked it up for me: “pantograph”.

It’s not the sort of word that disappoints me, don’t get me wrong, but I expected something less like a Maths class and more electrical, even effervescent, but I suppose disappointment is the travelling companion of enlightenment.

“Pantograph” did bring to mind “panopticon”, the circular, all-seeing theoretical institutional building, often conceived as the model prison, that was proposed by Jeremy Bentham and used by Michel Foucault as a “metaphor for modern ‘disciplinary’ societies and their pervasive inclination to observe and normalise” (I was finally inspired to look up Wikipedia).

“Pantomime” was the next carriage in this particular train of thought, which I welcomed, because “panopticon” alone can be a little too earnest. I love a rollicking pantomime with funny-looking characters over-dressing and cross-dressing and prancing their way through outlandish plots to farcical ends, bringing out plenty of theatrically appropriate cheers, guffaws, hisses and boos from the audience.

But, for good or ill, it’s the Indonesian term that really wins my heart: kedang badak, which literally means “rhinoceros extension”. Isn’t that tremendous?

Now, in my imagination I see a handsome West Javanese rhino riding the rails on the roof of the train along with all the other poor souls who can’t fit inside the limited number of services provided by PT KAI Commuter Jabodetabek during peak hours: together, the rhino and the indebted poor up on the roof dodge and swerve around the dangling concrete balls (which remind me of the symbol for pawnbrokers: “three spheres suspended from a bar… attributed to the Medici family of Florence, Italy, [referring] to the Italian province of Lombardy, where pawn shop banking originated under the name of Lombard banking.” (Wikipedia again)), which were installed to eradicate the symptom not the cause, while every now and then the rhino rips the balls to bits with his mighty horn to the cheers of the other roof riders and the boos of the officials of PT KAI CJ and other members of the disciplinary State over-dressed and cross-dressing in their farcical plots that pass for governance.

According to their website, the vision of PT KAI CJ is to “be the best provider of railway services which meet the expectations of stakeholders”. It seems they are failing to meet the expectations of those “stakeholders” who can’t squeeze into the carriages no matter how skinny they are and how much they hold their breath.

I recommend that PT KAI-J hire a consultant, similar to our imaginary rhino, who not only transmits power but has the balls to do something with it for the benefit of the “stakeholders”, formerly known as “citizens”, of the (delusory) (disciplinary) State.

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: motoring, mysticism and a modern wonder

Jakarta, Rabu (Wednesday)

Motorscootering around fair Ibu Kota requires a set of highly refined skills. It also has an air of mysticism about it insomuch as I have noticed that each journey has its lessons, as if the gods of traffic had decided on a curriculum that must be continually revisited.

For example, today’s lesson was non-motorised vehicles. Barely out on the main road and I encountered the first lot of said vehicles in the form of a line of three food carts or kaki lima making their orderly way along the side of the road between the cars and the kerb. No passing was possible until we reached, at walking pace of course, the wide open spaces of the intersection with traffic lights. And so, a lesson in patience.

Taking off from the lights, I accelerated around a corner and was about to whizz past on the right of the mini-bus in front to the stretch of rare empty road beyond when I noticed the bus driver’s arm flopping out the window and waving downwards, the universal sign to slow down, now! I hit the brakes just in time to weave around a cart filled with gas bottles that was being pushed straight across the road as if the chap was blind. Lesson in not speeding and assuming the road ahead is clear.

About 300 meters ahead the same lesson was reinforced but in a different way. This time, the teacher was a becak or tricycle rickshaw driver who was seemingly parked but who suddenly turned and pushed his vehicle straight across the oncoming traffic (me) in order to, presumably, turn around and head back into kampung. I curled around him and his machine and on to the next challenge a kilometre or so up the road amidst lanes of banked-up traffic: a bicycle, crossways between two cars as the old gent on it nudged his way out into the other lane of traffic in the time-honoured tradition of traffic creep. I nearly removed his front wheel as I went past.

The lesson yesterday was to do with pedestrians, who appeared from nowhere, from all directions, in all shapes, sizes and amounts from individuals to a gang of school kids. They leapt out at me from sidewalks, from behind cars and trucks and apparently from the ground itself; they suddenly stopped when they should have been continuing to walk or walked suddenly when they should have stayed stopped; and they split into stragglers from a conveniently rounded-up mob, providing plenty of opportunity for slalom motoring.

What I find interesting about the types of behavior described above, which would be considered foolhardy and life-threatening anywhere else in the world, is how they reveal the somewhat astonishing, at least for me, social contract engaged in on the roads. For a pedestrian to be able to step boldly out into the kind of creatively flowing traffic we all experience every day and do so with the confidence that the drivers will go around them (and other drivers will go around the drivers going around the pedestrian in a synchronised dance) shows a high level of trust in one’s fellow citizens. A trust that is rewarded and reinforced (pedestrians live to cross the road another day). However, another way of looking at it is that the pedestrian or the not-looking cart pusher is so arrogant they think all should stop for them. But this, too, is an attitude that could only survive if such pedestrians were able to trust that the fellows they apparently despised would let them live. Which they do. Every day. How remarkable.

Such trust requires the complicity of the motorists, who need to be well prepared and patient, indeed, even gracious, as well as having excellent driving skills, including the ability to make nuanced judgments instantly. It also requires a highly developed feel for the rhythm of the roads, a rhythm created and maintained by mutually understood protocols rather than strictly enforced laws. These protocols, rhythms and skills allow an enormous number of individuals to travel together on increasingly restricted spaces and do so without murder or mayhem.

It is this that makes the traffic of Jakarta or, rather, its motorists, one of the great wonders of the modern world.

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: Around the Golden Triangle with sayang belakang

Jakarta, Jumat (Friday)

Last Sunday I tootled around the Golden Triangle on the motor scooter with sayang belakang. That is, with the “beloved behind.” I should rephrase that: With the beloved behind, and all the rest of her, on the back. She has a morbid fear of motorcycles owing to an early unpleasant experience of being pitched off in an accident and doing damage to her behind — that is, lower than her lower back. Over the years, I have worked quietly to entice her back onto the horse, so to speak. She now claims to enjoy the ride, for which I may well be eternally grateful.

To be even more accurate, we didn’t so much tootle around the Triangle as squeeze in and out of its juicier nooks and crannies, the ones that are tucked away in the not-so golden bits. The Golden Triangle, for those readers who are not fully cognizant of lame, copycat, real estate terminology, refers in this instance to the “financial district” of Jakarta, that is, an area roughly encompassing Thamrin in the north to Senayan in the south and bulging out to Kuningan in between and off to the east.

In most cities, it would be characterized by a dearth of life on weekends, the sort of district that has death rays that sweep the streets to ensure no animals or vegetables intrude amid the calm and reassuring mineral life that slowly accretes wealth. However, in Ibu Kota, life goes on, in, around and behind all the shining palaces of capitalism. It does so exuberantly, albeit a little less exuberantly than during the week, but exuberantly and idiosyncratically nonetheless.

For example, did you know that in a narrow street in Kebon Kacang, tucked in behind Tanah Abang and Plaza Indonesia, you can buy seemingly any sort of nail or screw from a lady operating a tiny streetside stall? And that nearby, Pasar Gandaria, not to be confused with the new mall a few kilometers to the south, still does some business on Sundays? And that there are a lot of wisma or hostels near Tanah Abang textile market and more being built as you read this, which are presumably used by visiting traders to the market?

Or that Guntur, also known as Halimun, has a very quiet suburban area that seems like it could have been airlifted in one piece from a sleepy but well-off kampung? And that Setiabudi has not only a fully functional weekend and evenings street market, but also a restaurant with a low-key street frontage that opens out through an old Dutch-era house into an outdoor dining area under shady trees complete with small swimming pool converted into a sailing and display area for model boats and other artworks?

Be that as it may, after about three hours of this, the sayang belakang had had enough and declared that next stop was visiting friends at Taman Rasuna or, to be more precise, visiting the swimming pool by the side of which there would be friends and food and drinks. And, in the way of sayang belakang the world over, she was right.

Taman Rasuna, as some of you may know, is on the edge of the bulge of the Triangle and currently consists of 19 residential towers with more on the way, totaling around 4,000 residents from all over the place: It’s like a mini-United Nations and Taman Mini combined, with representatives of the nations of the Earth mingling with citizens from across the archipelago. And they mingle mostly in or by the pool. It’s a novel place to cuci mata (wash your eyes), that is, do some people-watching while enjoying the sun setting between the towers and the call to prayer issuing in a splendid cacophony from the surrounding 16 or more mosques, all of which have invested in top quality public address systems cranked up beyond “10.” Exquisite.

It’s a unique Jakarta experience that is rarely, if ever, mentioned in the guide books. To be fair, the guide books usually only mention Monas, Kota Tua, and Jalan Jaksa before directing the delicate creatures to Yogyakarta or Bali as soon as possible.

Oddly enough, even the Jakarta Administration’s own tourism department has little faith in its charge’s ability to retain the interest of visitors. If I recall correctly, their sad claim was that Jakarta was hard to sell because of the traffic jams and floods. Seems to me that it should be a selling point given the neighborhood competition, such as Singapore or Kuala Lumpur, both of which are intent on turning themselves into theme parks of what they thought they once might have been and what someone else hoped they would become.

“Truly Asia?”

Hardly. I prefer sayang belakang and a curious Sunday.

Salam

Letter from Indonesia: an end to religious intolerance at last

The subject of religious tolerance is a vexed one, but I’ve found out what the problems are and how to solve them. I never thought it could be so easy. Once this is published I’m pretty sure it’ll be a matter of days before peace and harmony descends on Tanah Air’s trouble spots and I’m called in to sort out the Middle East mess.

This is how it came about.

“I don’t like Buddhism,” said a Muslim friend. “The temples are so dusty because of all the ash from the candles.”

“If the places were tidied up a bit, would you consider liking it?” I enquired.

“Maybe.”

This exchange, deeply focused on the core beliefs of one of the world’s largest religions, got me thinking. If we extrapolated, or “scaled up” as scientists like to say, from these findings it was clear that tidy temples would go a long way towards winning the hearts and minds of the Muslim citizens of Tanah Air.

I decided to push this beyond a “Tidy Temples” campaign and see if I could sort out the enmity between Catholics and other Christians so I extended the survey to a friend of the former persuasion.

“I don’t mind Protestantism. It’s still sort of Christianity,” she said, “but I grew up a Catholic and I want to get married in a Catholic church.”

This was a little more complex than just whizzing through the vihara with a vacuum cleaner; this was about genealogy. I could now see clearly the roots of the centuries-old animosity between the two sides of the same coin. This required some further research.

“What do you like about Catholic churches, in particular?”

“The candles: they’re so pretty.”

“So if Protestant churches had candles would you consider marrying in one?”

“Maybe.”

One could begin to see a theme emerging in the research findings, but more work was needed. Accordingly, I asked another friend, a Hindu, what he thought of Islam.

“I don’t like waking up early,” he said. “I prefer praying at night. Everyone dresses up and looks fabulous!”

In keeping with the more diverse nature of Hinduism’s beliefs, here was the most complex analysis yet.

It took a lot of thought before I finally pushed through to the winning question: “Would you consider Islam if there were more prayer sessions at night with fashion designers giving advice?”

“Maybe.”

“How about with some tastefully arranged candles?”

“Sounds lovely. As long as there wasn’t too much smoke and ash.”

“I said ‘tastefully,’ ” I gently reminded him.

It seems that we can now argue with confidence that candles (tastefully arranged) are the key to improving religious tolerance throughout the archipelago. Of course, there will have to be some nuanced work done on the shapes, sizes, numbers, luminosity, colors, and various tasteful arrangements of the candles, not to mention some nifty broom and vacuum cleaner work, but I think we can feel pretty safe in our overall conclusion.

Candle concession holders are probably feeling pretty safe now, too.

Salam