No one I know loves Soetta, aka Soekarno-Hatta International Airport, except me. I don’t love it simply because it’s unloved; I’m not that much of an altruist (altruism is an impossible position, anyway). I love it for a number of reasons, some of which are why I loathe the new Terminal 3 at Soetta. So please take note that my love applies only to Terminals 1 and 2, not that awful Terminal 3 that everyone else fawns upon like a sinetron starlet.

“Its so clean and neat and modern,” they say, though they may not say the same things about a sinetron starlet, I agree. And they say it like it’s a good thing to be clean, neat and modern!

Soetta 1 and 2 aren’t modern anymore, but they once were: their design was unique, referencing Indonesian traditional housing styles; Minangkabau and Javanese roof-lines come to mind without much effort. They’re airy without being cavernous, spacious without being echoingly empty. But there is actual emptiness! Astonishing that an airport that saw 43.7 million passengers go through its doors in 2010 can still provide a sense of emptiness and even coziness.

My favorite cozy spot in the international terminal is a tiny hole in the wall called, somewhat modestly, Snack Bar. It’s opposite a place called Duty Free, which is where one goes to spray oneself with perfume in preparation for having someone stinky next to you on the long haul to wherever.

Snack Bar has cold beer. Very cold beer. And smokers. And Our Arab Brethren and Our Japanese Friends and Our Aussie Surfer Dudes all mingling on the three seats. It’s like being in Kuta or Mombasa in the 1970s, but it doesn’t have ice cream: the nice young chap in the batik shirt laughs mildly at you if you ask for ice cream. If you want ice cream you have to go somewhere else. Where, I don’t know, but certainly somewhere else. Snack Bar has instant noodles on display and, I suppose from time to time, someone buys and eats them. It also has cockroaches roaming around: not the giant sort that take control of the bathroom and write Great Novels, but the long, slim, limousine-type with a mild, burnished, red-gold sheen. They cheer me up if I’m feeling a bit glum. Snack Bar is a Great and Good Thing. There is no Snack Bar in Terminal 3. In Terminal 3 you can probably only get yogurt sandwiches with lots of white teeth, to go.

There is no stainless steel in Soetta. There are empty shops. There are staff lounging about happy to flirt, giggle and slap each other. There are places with no air-conditioning. There are nice gardens to look at. There are signs saying “no smoking” and delayed passengers sitting under them, smoking. There are lots of places to get your feet massaged. There is a general air of relaxation and “couldn’t care less” about the demands of Efficiency and Progress.

What an enormous relief. Soetta makes me happy. Soetta makes air travel seem like hanging out in a warung. May the gods keep it so!

Salam

As I walked out in the streets of Jakarta … motivated by a desire to stretch my legs that had been spectacularly indolent for days, months, years, a small part of the brain thrust the legs and the rest of us off on a stroll around the kampung for Our Health. Capek deh. Well, be that as it may, the stroll went a bit further than the immediate environs. Come, walk with me …

Out the front gate and into the gang, also known as the lane. First issue: no rats. This is despite the open drains and the rats’ persistent presence for many months. However, I believe I can take credit for their current lack of presence thanks to my waging of war via poison and traps. Doing my bit for public health.

Twenty meters from my front gate I meet my neighbor, Mbak Feby, squatting down splashing about in the open drain with a plastic shovel.

“Fishing?” I inquire.

“There’s a dead rat,” she grimaces. “It stinks. I’m trying to wash it away.”

I stride on, not wanting to disturb her.

“Evening,” I say to one of the “girls,” a waria or ladyboy, who lives in a boarding house nearby, as she sashays past in her casuals on the way to the minimart.

“Evening, Mister,” she replies, batting her non-existent eyelashes and waggling her boyish hips.

On the corner of the main road, another neighbor, Ibu Culan, 85 years old, is just packing up her new kaki lima, a food cart from which she sells her famous mie ayam or chicken noodles. She still lives in the same house she was born in, along with a couple of relatives’ families. We wave, as she lights up another ciggie. If you need advice, I recommend you seek her out: she has seen everything.

Across the canal, famous for its mosquitoes, past a chap sitting on the rampart of the bridge, fishing. Extraordinary. Not only that anything might live in the black sludge but that he was so hungry he thought he’d try his luck. Perhaps he was one of the rubbish collectors who parked their carts beside the canal, sleeping in them or on pieces of cardboard.

Around the corner and along past a row of sleeping cabbies: doors open, feet up, soft snores. And some others gossiping and eating in a warung. There used to be a gas station, a pompa bensin, just opposite, but the Great and Good Government of Jakarta in their Infinite Wisdom decided to do away with something so useful because it was in a “greenway,” that is, a dark and forbidding grove of trees, dirt and rubbish surrounded by a nicely painted fence designed to keep people out (and the trees in, I presume), alongside the stinking canal. But the cabbies remember the good old days when they could fuel their vehicles and themselves in one stop. And say hi to the monkey family who lived there. I wonder what happened to my friends? Perhaps they moved to some nice pompa bensin elsewhere.

A bit further on and I’m stopped in my tracks by a private security guard, his hand up to the oncoming traffic (and one pedestrian), halting us all as a brand new, exceptionally shiny, bright yellow Maserati sports car edges out of a driveway and into the traffic.

Around another corner and another and the road is suddenly choked with vehicles and men standing about looking this way and that. I stroll up, the men look at me with quick, suspicious glances as I glance up at the signs advertising a particular political party, the grand house adorned with bunting and banners, guests alighting and entering. A truckload of police with automatic weapons lingers near the entrance gate.

Onward, ever onward, the streets become wider and the pavements more crowded with food stalls, passersby, hangers out and hangers on.

Two women in a warung stare at me intently, smiling expectantly. One stands up, waves and cries out, “Darling, good morning!” I suppose she had just woken and was ready for her working day.

A young chap nearby, alerted, says quietly as I walk past his bench, “Want boy massage, mister?”

Another turn and I am amidst the shining towers of capitalism, reflecting each other, sending us messages in code: brand names, slogans, cryptic images, ideas of what we might desire, goading us. A Metromini careens across the road and slows in a black cloud of diesel smoke as an immaculately dressed office worker steps out from the shadow of a bus shelter and, in one elegant move, steps into its ravenous maw. With a belch of more smoke it roars off. A faint trace of perfume lingers among the stench.

And then I turn into a gang and disappear into the kampung. A cat lies stretched out in the middle of the path, perfectly relaxed as a startled rat leaps out of a rubbish bag and dashes into a drain.

There seems to be more work to do.

Salam

One Friday night I was invited by a friend to meet at one of Jakarta’s super-fancy malls. To cover the few kilometers from my house to this particular palace of consumerism I allowed myself, even on the monkey motor, 1.5 hours. After all, there were ominous drops of rain spattering here and there (Jakarta + Friday night + rain = forget it). But unpredictably, I reached my destination in 20 minutes, resulting in a lot of time to kill and only the usual monkey peanuts to spend. After circumnavigating several of the immense floors, admiring the echoing noise, the empty shops and half-empty restaurants, I had worked up quite a thirst.

A refreshing beverage was what was needed and so, reverting to old habits, I looked about for a convivial habitat for said imbibing, that is to say, a bar. It just goes to show that old habits die hard, because for a few minutes I actually did look for a bar, one of those cozy nooks with comfy seating arrangements and a handsome array of colorful bottles behind a counter presided over by a pretty and charming woman or a thoughtful, good listener of a man. There would be a small but tasty array of snacks on offer and perhaps even some interesting company with whom to pass the time. Of course, no such place presented itself. I was in Jakarta. A certain amount of gloom began to accompany the thirst.

But just then I passed a bookshop with small tables lining its exterior (note well: a bookshop). Patrons were cheerfully chatting at the tables. A waiter was frozen in my vision at the precise moment of handing what looked to be a martini to one of the seated patrons. Just beyond her, on the wall, was a list of what looked like the amusingly imaginative titles brilliant barmen and women think up for cocktails. There was even the word “cocktails” at the top of the list, accompanied by “2 for Rp 125,000.” Naturally, my eyes kept scanning, for surely I had misread, out of desperation, “mocktail” as “cocktail.” But, no, that hideous word was nowhere to be seen.
My dear old brain, or what’s left of it, went into something of a spin. The thought process went like this: Bookshop — books — depressing — cocktail— bar — cheerful — Error! Error! But some other part of the noggin sprang into action (the survival section) and thrust my legs, and the rest of me, inside, where I met with a rude and unpleasant experience, which I shall now relate. Steady yourself.

First, to my right was the bookshop. I have grown averse to bookshops. Bookshops have been, I believe, my downfall, the way opium dens have been for others. Oh, the hours I have frittered away in their seductive confines when I could have been gainfully employed or getting a proper education. Instead, I was stiffening my upper lip as I browsed the History section, bristling with wit and je ne sais quoi in Literature, trembling with guilty delight among the Erotica. And what corners of the human experience I was led into as I rifled through the pages! I traveled through vicious wars, their motivations and pitiful results; I read of a man discovering what it takes for a monkey to become a man; of how to have tremendous orgasms and never grow old; of the way to become immensely rich and regret nothing; and how to feel miserable but still scamper about the world getting invited to parties and getting laid and then writing the story and making a lot of money, et cetera, et cetera.

It grew infinitely dispiriting: All these people rushing about doing things — fictional or otherwise — while all I was doing was standing in a bookshop reading fragments of their exploits. I was no Karl Marx. After years of this disreputable behavior, ruining my health and rendering me useless for productive employment, I finally rehabilitated myself, swearing never to enter such a den of iniquity again, to be surrounded not by dusty paper and jejune representations of life, but by enthusiastic flesh and blood, the actually living.

I turned my gaze to the left: There was a cozy bar. I stepped across the threshold. There were the cheerful bottles and the pretty barmaid, there were the comfy seating arrangements and the potentially interesting companions. And not one of the comfy seats was unoccupied, not a square centimeter of the entire place was free of flesh. It was packed shoulder to shoulder with shouting, shrieking, laughing, lugubrious humanity. Smoke filled the air, I distinctly heard the clink of glasses and shouts of mirth and pleasure. The place was jumping! And there was no room to jump with them! O cruel hand of fate, the billions of thought-moments that had brought me to this point of double jeopardy: Left or right there was no solace; I was excluded.

I turned and tottered from the dual arenas of disillusionment, crying, “O Ibu Kota! Your cruelty is literally literary!”

Salam

You wouldn’t believe how tough it is being a monkey these days: no forests, no bananas, nothing but oil palm (yuck), ungrateful humans (who saved Shinta, huh?) and non-stop MTV (monkeys have no problem with dangdut). So, let’s face it, we really, really, really need a rest. We’re tired from all this monkeying around.

Oh come on, no complaints, please. You humans are so tedious. We’re all now in the same boat, monkeys and humans, it’s globalization and equity and cross-gender stuff and hey let’s face it, we’re all in this mess together, right? Right? Good, glad we agree.

So, having got away with a whole lot of pests in the so-called Middle East — which properly should be called the Northern Hemisphere, South of Europe, Dry Areas, East of the Atlantic and West of the ’stans, That Are Not Blessed With Monkeys Much to Speak of, But There’s No Accounting for Our Arab Brethren’s Taste, Eh? — who were not very friendly to monkeys and recently having had a splendid chitchat with humans in Kalimantan — personally, one of my favorite spots on the planet, along with the Amazon — I felt like we in the Monkey Kingdom could do with an extra, post-Lebaran holiday. Well, wouldn’t you? I mean, we’ve been waking up with the azan and trudging off to work via the usual 1.5-2 hour commute and performing our allotted tasks. Surely, after… how long… six weeks, say… it’s time for another concerted rest?

So, one of the more enterprising monkeys decided — on behalf of All the Monkeys in the Kingdom (it was nothing to do with personal ambition or greed) and there was no way that the monkey in question would have used any money that the Evil Humans said he stole. You can trust me — I’m a monkey — to invest in a resort in Bali, Island of the Monkey God. OOOOOOOOOOOOMIGOD! How excited were we? This excited: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (We were a lot more excited than those 30 exclamation marks, if truth be known (not that we want it to be): gosh, Bali is just so cooooool and full of beautiful bule and OMIGOD if you want to make LOTS and LOTS of MONEY then you really have to INVEST IN BALI.)

And then somebody or other said: (http://www.thejakartaglobe.com/home/bali-hotel-scandal-backs-case-for-law-to-strip-convicts-of-assets-icw/470570) It wasn’t going to happen, that the investment had to be cancelled and the money paid back to someone or other. As if we care!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Twenty exclamation marks is the best we can do under the circumstances: some of us are a bit tired, stressed, family matters; others are overseas on Important Matters and unable to comment; yet others are claiming refugee status; a couple are on a boat to Australia; and one is busy with his motor-racing commitments. Such is life; get over it, will you!). 
So. And “so” again (I confess to feeling a little petulant). Are you humans all happy with stuffing up our nice monkey life even more? I mean, isn’t it enough to remove our forests and strip us of cultural authority, now you are taking away our resorts?

Actually, it’s all fine here in the White Monkey Palace. We’ve recently been introduced to the game of deck quoits. Have you tried it? I recommend it. It really tests your skill. But you’re not exhausted after it and can still enjoy a cocktail at the Captain’s Table. Really, it’s totally splendid here on Cruise Ship Tanah Air. As long as the Purser is understanding about one’s valuables.

Salam

Google Earth Engine might well be the fanciest bit of useful tomfoolery we’ve seen for a while but Ibu Kota renders it and all its relatives useless for getting correct directions.

Consider this article and then take the following example*.

Need to go from Pusat (Central) to Selatan (South). Refer to Google Maps on handheld device. Device can’t find satellite. I’m not surprised; I can’t find a satellite when I need one, either.

As it happens, I’m at home, so stoke up the desktop (plastic tub-top) device. Can connect to Internet but keeps dropping out. Must be a lot of teenagers or office workers gossiping or it’s raining somewhere in the city or a bat’s nesting on a pole. Who knows. Whatever the reason, someone’s taking up bandwidth.

Finally, after an hour or so, get on, stay on, and press “print”. Printer fails to respond. Check all possible options on computer, turn printer on and off, check that it’s attached to computer, reload it with paper, sacrifice a goat. No response. Copy the map using a pencil (pens fail to work; must be the humidity) on back of “panti pijat/massage service” brochure found in letter box.

Get on motorbike. Head through known and then unknown parts of town. At first “turn right” in unknown part, policeman with large belly and hungry eyes refuses my intention to turn, so onward I must go. And onward. And onward.

Can one not do a U-turn anywhere along this road? Finally, after 15 or 20 minutes, lots of sweat, lots of creeping in and out of traffic, lots of close shaves and lots of suppressed curses (such is the Javanese way), I am able to do a U-turn.

Back to the intersection I go, ready to turn cheerfully and easily left. But a large jungle appears, painted on bits of board apparently surrounding a jalan layang (flyover) construction zone. Can’t turn left. There is no road. Copper’s large belly previously obscured this fact. What is to be done? Ask a friend!

Look for pangkalan ojek, a motorcycle taxi camp. There is none, presumably eradicated from this prime, comfy street corner. See an ibu in a warung rokok (cigarette stall). Stop. Shout through helmet and traffic noise. Blank look. Young gent customer jumps up and listens to my pleas. Points me left, then right, left again, all will be well. Goodo. On I proceed, left, then right. But wait, which right? The tiny alley? The mid-sized lane? The road? All are plausible in Ibu Kota. What to do? Ask a friend!

Bapak lounging on motorcycle says I should go left, not right, then cut through the cemetery and go along the side of the canal. OK! The going gets extremely tight as the alleys get down to one motorcycle-width passage and oncoming traffic has to be let past by squeezing bike and self astride it into doorway, smiling and waving casually at inhabitants, a small boy watching TV and his grandmother asleep on a mat. Eventually arrive in cemetery, which is vast and riddled with pathways. Which one to take? Ask a friend!

Refer to grave-cleaning group, who look up without surprise, listen politely to my queries and point me along that path over there, then right at the second path then left, then out through the gate, right along the canal. I do so and it all unfolds as it should, ejecting me onto desired roadway some 100 meters from the intersection where I was unable to turn right or left. Proceed en route in orderly fashion to second scheduled turn.

It’s a one-way street into which I am legally forbidden to enter. Undeterred, I pinggir, or stick to the side of the road against the traffic, slowly and calmly staring down the tidal wave of oncoming motorcycles, cars, buses, trucks, the occasional elephant and a sadly misguided Sumatran rhino, as I adhere faithfully to Google’s plan.

The next turn, down allegedly another “normal” street, turns out to be a resting place, also known as informal terminals for Metromini, Kopaja, Mikrolet, Pantas AC and sundry other flotsam and jetsam that pass for public transport.

A kind of Sargasso Sea from which no vehicle ever escapes. It’s totally packed except for a tiny rivulet of motorcycles winding their way through the densely pressed herd. I faithfully follow and emerge into a vast market of blue plastic tarpaulins and stalls. My fellow motorcyclists disperse left, right and center. Several park and go shopping. Where to from here? Refer to hand-drawn map. No mention of said market. What to do? Ask a friend!

Enquire of passing chap the required direction. He doesn’t know. He refers to friend. Friend unsure, too. Friend refers to further friend, who rushes up, gesturing this way and that. I follow magic hands and lo-and-behold! I am en route once more. Last leg is straightforward, except final destination is elusive. No street numbers, at least, none that concur with what I was given by my host. What to do? Ask a friend!

Enquiry of satpam (security guard) at neighborhood security post results in said house, known by name of occupant only, not number, being pointed out to me. I arrive. On time.

Beat that, Google! Go find some friends!

Salam

*This is a compilation of experiences and readers should not attempt to replicate the supposed route except in the company of a professional or a total idiot. Do not attempt these directions at home. You might end up being photographed by Google in a compromising position.

I was swinging idly from one of my favorite top branches the other day, high above the White Monkey Palace — my head in the clouds almost — when the stench of something very, very bad wafted up my superbly hairy nostrils. It smelled so rotten I thought something long dead was stuck on a branch.

This was somewhat of a shock for my delicate sensibilities because I am always sprinkled with scented water and served only the freshest of bananas and other splendid comestibles at the Palace. No horrid smells have ever come near me. And last time I looked around the kingdom from the topmost branch of the holy monkey tree, during Lebaran, all was in better-than-good shape.

Admittedly, the realm was largely empty, as most of the population had scampered off to parts far from the Palace. But could there be, somewhere nearby, something rotten in the nation? Surely not. What a laughable idea. Silly of me to even think it.

I calmed down a little by reassuring myself that the stench must have blown across the Java Sea from the Kingdom of the Really Wicked Monkeys, our pesky neighbors.

I swung down to a lower branch, noting that the stench seemed just as strong, so I swung lower again, and it was still lingering. Somewhat overwhelmed, I stopped at the lowest branch and slumped against the trunk of the holy monkey tree — trying not to breathe too much — and closed my eyes.

Perhaps I dozed, for when I opened them again, another monkey was on the branch. He had motley fur and a generally dishevelled air. Keeping oneself looking one’s best isn’t too easy down on the lower branches, given what falls from above. He had a pencil behind one large ear and a tattered notepad in one grubby paw. He must have been a journalist monkey.

The stench was still hanging about and seemed even stronger. I wondered if it was emanating from the citizen-journalist and took a careful sniff in his direction.

He looked at me quizzically, saying, “It’s not coming from me, sir, if that’s what you think.”

Well, at least someone else could smell it; I wasn’t going crazy.

“It’s coming from the other kingdom, right?” I said.

He cackled. And slapped his hairy tummy.

“No, sir, it’s coming from you and it makes all the rest of us stink, too. You really should’ve cleaned up properly instead of just peering out nobly at the realm from the topmost branch.”

Me? The cause of the big stink? Me? Because I didn’t clean up properly? How embarrassed I felt! I fell to the ground beneath the motley monkey, rolled around in the dirt to rub off the stink and cried, “Oh, dear, motley monkey and all the citizens of the realm, please forgive me!”

Then I burst into tears and started pulling out my fur. By then, quite a crowd had gathered. Most were scratching their heads and other body parts and looked rather perplexed.

I carried on in this manner for some time until, rather tired of it all, I concluded the citizenry had probably forgiven me by now. I stood up, shook off the dust and took the executive lift back up to my favorite branch, stretched out and fell asleep. It had all been rather exhausting.

Cleaning up could wait for another day.

Salam

Your correspondent is currently reporting from the new branch office of the world’s laziest and least up-to-date global media corporation, Biro Berita Monyet Putih (BBMP, White Monkey News Bureau), in Ha Noi, capital of the Socialist Republic of Viet Nam (Independence! Freedom! Happiness!). The Board of BBMP decided that they couldn’t afford China but still wanted a taste of that good old communist capitalism so they went, as usual, for a discount option. And here I am.

Or to be more accurate, here I am in a room in Hotel Bac Kan, in the sleepy mountain town of Bac Kan, capital of the province of Bac Kan, some four hours drive northwest of Hanoi.

Hotel Bac Kan, Bac Kan City, Bac Kan Province

The hotel, I was advised by my colleagues (both local and foreign), was somewhat less than its alleged four stars. Stories abounded of police bursting into a foreigner’s room at 3am to make sure there were no locals ensconced within (it was 15 years ago); of moving twin beds together to discover piles of trash beneath the beds and having no luck getting staff to come and clean up; of the world’s most uncomfortable beds. Sadly, I found the hotel’s amenities comfortable enough and so can’t report any juicy complaints. Here are some pix of the room and its offerings.

Room, Bac Kan Hotel

Hotel room amenities, Bac Kan

Tea set, hotel room, Bac Kan

Drinks set, hotel room, Bac Kan

Bath, bathroom, hotel room, Bac Kan

Complimentary toiletries, hotel room, Bac Kan

It was all just dandy enough. There was even an AC set to 27 degrees, which I could sense was probably wise given how grey it was outside, as autumn started to slide towards winter. Not that I was in the room for long, anyway, because there was a work dinner. It involved walking across the road to a restaurant, entering and walking to the back into one of several rooms set aside for dining groups. Bowls and chopsticks were handed out by the waitress, along with a couple of bottles of souchu, which I think was an arak or rice vodka, and then the dishes started to arrive. I can’t quite remember how many dishes actually arrived or what they consisted of because the custom was for someone to charge little shot glasses with the souchu, then we stood, clinked glasses with all and sundry, downed in one gulp, then shook hands with everyone within reach. I vaguely remember that the food was tasty, but I can’t remember what it was.

Aftermath, dinner, Bac Kan

Somehow or other we made our way back across the road to the hotel (the road was empty of traffic so it posed no threat) and slept.

The next morning we headed off to another place for breakfast. It was an open-air shed, in essence, with tiny little plastic stools and tables of comparative height, which are standard issue throughout the region, as far as I can tell. The lining of the shed was that material used to make cheap bags, creating an effect as if inside a large art installation. Or a large bag.

Restaurant as art, Bac Kan

The chef was adept and, to add value, beautiful.

Chef, breakfast restaurant, Bac Kan

The breakfast was rice noodle soup with chicken and green vegetables. Being somewhat of an Indonesian by now I looked around for some sambal or chilli sauce and was successful in finding something spicy on the table to jazz it up a bit. I also tossed in quite a bit of the mixed leafy greens that accompanied the dish: mint, coriander, something spinachy… delicious.

Then we made our way to the venue for our work event: the post office. Up on the fifth floor we encountered a meeting room set up for the purpose of our visit. It featured a stage with a bust of Uncle Ho aka Ho Chi Minh.

Uncle Ho, Bac Kan

And it featured splendid views of the town and surrounding countryside, a large amount of which was more or less vertical.

Bac Kan view 1

Bac Kan view 2

Bac Kan view 3

Bac Kan view 4

Bac Kan view 5

Later on, we were let out for lunch, as it were. This involved a short drive to another restaurant, upstairs, with lots of round tables around which we sat in our various random groupings. Once again, souchu adorned the tables as the dishes came out, one after the other. But this time the dishes had an extra interest that even the souchu couldn’t haze.

Bac Kan lunch

Clockwise from 12 o’clock above: grubs (not much taste but they look good and its rather a thrill to chew them), whole river fish (tasty, somewhat spicy),  jellyfish and vegetables (fishy), steamed broccoli, cauliflower and carrot (deliciously nice to the palate, as usual), soup of pork and vegetables (salty),  duck bits and pieces (beak, head, feet, elbows, knees, anything but the usual stuff) and horse meat (softer than beef).

This was all quite tasty and edifying. I took a certain pleasure in watching the more delicate female flowers of the working party tucking heartily in to grubs, horse and the rejected bits of duck; it had a certain je ne sais quoi.

Later, a wander around the restaurant after lunch led to the discovery of a set of jars containing the whole remains of various creatures, including befeathered black birds, lizards and bees, leading me to think that we had only been served the more common material on the menu.

Bees, please, Bac Kan

Luscious lizards, Bac Kan

Black bird, Bac Kan

e

Buddha, birds and other bits in bottles, Bac Kan

After some more work business, we headed off back to Hanoi. The journey featured ‘multifunctional landscapes’ and ‘landscape beauty’.

Road from Bac Kan to Hanoi 1

Road from Bac Kan to Hanoi 2

Road from Bac Kan to Hanoi 3

Road from Bac Kan to Hanoi: maize varieties promotion and refreshments

Road from Bac Kan to Hanoi: roadside shopping

Hanoi

Red with red

Let us wind back a little to your correspondent’s arrival.

Hanoi airport is newish and Immigration of the sort one rather likes: I had remembered to bring the special letter from the Vietnam branch to show to the officials but neglected to supply another standard form and a passport photo; but rather than ship me out again on the next available plane I merely paid an extra USD 2 and had my photo snapped by a nice chap with his little digital camera. Jolly good. And so, with a mere glance at my new visa I was waved through the Immigration barrier and had almost no attention paid to me at all by Customs. What a good start.

The drive into Hanoi was like drives from airports into cities pretty much everywhere, I suppose: multi-lane highway lined with billboards, cutting through farm land, wasteland, new industrial developments, new commercial developments, you know the drill. Distinct from all the other cities mentioned above, however, was that everyone was driving on the wrong side of the road, one of the legacies of too much French colonization, one supposes. Still, thanks to no sleep—the legacy of a 6am flight—this seemed perfectly normal and, later, I would test and prove that assumption.

I was staying with a colleague in the oddly named Westlake, which is the diplomatic district of Hanoi and, even more oddly, there actually is a lake. I presume it is west of something but I haven’t yet enquired exactly of what. The lake is, not at all oddly, a greenish body of alleged water but sunsets over it are very pretty, as I discovered from the aptly named Sunset Bar of the Intercontinental Hotel on my first night in town, though the birthday party for a five year-old child, complete with clown on ramped-up amplifier and chaps in animal suits did not quite give the ambience that my host had led me to expect. I suppose I shall have to make another attempt.

Sunset Bar view, Hanoi

However, I was introduced to Bia Ha Noi, a nicely tasty beer served chilled and one to which I have become something of a familiar. Making the regular acquaintance of Bia Ha Noi is rendered considerably easier than becoming an aficionado of Bir Bintang in Jakarta thanks to the ubiquitous bia hoi or beer cafes that seem to be on every street corner.

Bia Ha Noi

The beer is cold, sometimes even served with ice in the glass, and freely and cheerfully supplied at affordable price. The cafes serve food as well, which I found rather tasty.

Hanoi bia hoi menu

Along with the beer and the food, one must discuss the women. Certainly, the ladies of Hanoi set upon their motorcycles as if they are undertaking a fashion shoot.

Mobile style, Hanoi

Mobile style 2, Hanoi

And then there’s the architecture…

Hanoi architecture 1

Hanoi architecture 2

Hanoi architecture 3

Hanoi architecture 4

That shall do for an introduction to Thủ đô Hà Nội (‘Hanoi the Capital’). More later, if I’m not too busy drinking the cheap French wine etc.

Salam

I know you’re all big, fluffy ears about what me and the rest of the monkeys in the Monkey Kingdom did during the holidays. Or even, if we had holidays. After all, monkeys are always being, well, monkeys, aren’t they? Do they ever rest from being monkeys? Do they even have a religion that gives them nice, long holidays?

Let me set the record straight here and now: Monkeys do have holidays. And we do have religion. We have any religion that will have us and most do. After all, we are only one rung under humans, who are one rung under god (or the gods). We can’t be fussy with that line-up sitting on top of us. And we take as many holidays as we can get. Which is why we like Tanah Air so much.

Come Idul Fitri, I sent out the various magic clouds that had been fully booked months ago. They dutifully scooted off across Tanah Air and brought back all the far-flung monkeys to the Istana Monyet Putih, the White Monkey Palace, in Central Jakarta. It was a motley crew packed into the somewhat modest palace; modest thanks to the lower revenues caused by most of the citizens of the kingdom being reduced to living off “official” bananas in various sacred precincts these days. Business isn’t what it was thanks to deforestation and, trust me, we aren’t seeing any of that Norwegian money.

But it was family business as usual at the palace. You know the picture: The place was chockablock with the family and various members of other families, all lounging about checking their handheld devices trying to alleviate the boredom of being with family, anyone’s family, for days on end; TVs in every room were blaring nothing but sinetron, morning pop music shows, anime, lots of celebrity gossip shows, the swimsuit catwalk parades on a fashion station (depending on who was in charge of the remote last); kids and adults pushing each other off the computers so they could check e-mail, gossip on instant messenger or announce how bored they were to all their pals on the (anti-) social networking sites… the list goes on.

Frankly, I couldn’t stand the racket so took myself up to the topmost branch of the holy monkey tree and looked out across the kingdom. Everywhere else was quiet. There was no traffic, just an occasional car whizzing past at great speed. The comforting layer of smog had disappeared and had been replaced with a blank, hot expanse of blue. All the food stalls and carts were closed or gone. The guys who usually lounged about in the streets were lounging about in other streets far, far away. It was almost like a normal city.

For a moment, I considered ordering the monkey army to build palisades around the city and refuse entry to all who wished to return, like the Jakarta government is planning to do with their identity card, job and accommodation plan. I, for one, have full confidence in the government’s ability to pull this one off. I fully expect by the end of next week, Jakarta will revert to its Idul Fitri state of mind, thanks to the efforts of our elected representatives and their dedicated public servants. And then every day will be a monkey holiday! I just hope I can get rid of the family.

Salam

Your hard-working, ghost-investigating monkey has been served notice by various earnest readers of this blog that his jokes about the government of Jakarta are much more fun than his pocong or ghost stories.

Like any good monkey, I’m not about to take such criticism as if I spend all day swinging idly by my tail in a juicy mango tree. Rather, I am going to throw rotten fruit at these peevish critics. I shall do it in this fashion: let’s put two and two together and imagine what it would be like if the Jakarta administration was run by pocong, those terrifying shrouded-corpse ghosts of hip-shaking fame.

First, the government could sell film rights and top up its coffers nicely. The money could be spent on previously unthinkably expensive feats of engineering and administration like filling in holes in the roads, making the sidewalks actually walkable and providing a comfortable and efficient public transport network.

Another spin-off from the film deal would be that the citizens would actually be interested in what the government was up to, especially if the pocong pemerintah, the government ghosts, were chasing scantily clad, buxom starlets hither and yon around the place. This excited interest on the part of the citizenry could be put to good use.

For example, a 24-hour sinetron pocong pemerintah could be used not only to entertain but also educate the citizens about government projects. Mothers could tune in of an afternoon and see a pocong pemerintah chasing a starlet into a public library. The librarian could jump up and shout out to the dynamic duo that the library was open from, say, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. every day except Sundays and public holidays and that if they wanted to borrow a book all they had to do was show their identity cards but, please, no running inside! This information could fruitfully be deployed by the enthralled mothers to further their children’s education.

And what about this: a bapak, unable to sleep at around 3 a.m., might make his way to the kampung security post for some company, just in time to watch a scene on the TV provided by the local administration of a pocong pemerintah hopping out from behind a tree and scaring the drivers of mini-buses that had double-parked, blocking the entire road for kilometres behind.

The mini-bus drivers would be so scared they would immediately drive off, releasing the banked-up traffic. A starlet, scantily clad in her car that had been jammed behind the mini-bus horde, could exclaim as the pocong pemerintah turned its shroud-wrapped attention in her direction, “OMG, the pocong pemerintah are after me and will even enforce the laws about double-parking in order to catch me! Yeeeeekkkkksss!”

Now, if that bapak watching all this on the telly was a mini-bus driver he would get the message pretty clearly that there was a law against double parking of mini-buses.

Another benefit of having a government run by pocong would be that it would provide a 24-hour service. Pocong don’t need to sleep. Nor do pocong need to knock off at 2 p.m. on Fridays and not come back to the office. Neither do they need tips to get them to write a letter or stamp a form. They don’t take exceptionally long holidays at Lebaran. They don’t need pensions. They don’t need second or third jobs. They don’t need much at all, just some starlets to chase.

The only problem could be keeping up the supply of starlets. How this obstacle to better government would be overcome, I have as yet no clear vision, but I welcome considered opinion, even plans, from readers.

Salam

“Can you feel it?” said my housemate as I flopped onto the sofa after an arduous trip home from the office. She leaned towards me, expectantly, her face glimmering with excitement.

“Ah, no,” I replied. “Feel what?”

“Upstairs,” she pointed. “Someone has sent a spirit that is intent on doing harm. I couldn’t use the shower up there, I was so scared.”

At last count we had two resident ghosts in her room, as earlier reported in this blog, but this was an interloper. Intent to do harm? Was it sent by a certain person with whom there had been some difficulties of late?

“I don’t know who sent it. There was no return address. It’s just lurking around upstairs and wants to harm someone. If it doesn’t succeed—after about seven days—then it will return to the sender and harm them.”

“Well, I have no intention of being harmed by it,” I replied. “I have enough to do, what with warring with the mosquitoes in this house, to spend any energy on repelling malevolent spirit beings.”

Nevertheless, when I went upstairs for a shower little tingles went up and down my spine as I thought about her warnings. It occurred to me that believing in such things could lead to seeing a causal relationship with other events, say, slipping over in the shower and hurting oneself or, indeed, becoming so jittery that one encouraged the slip.

Accordingly, I imagined a white tiger prowling around me, roaring protectively. It helps for a white monkey to have a white tiger-spirit on hand for such occasions. I heartily recommend you enlist one of your own.

Refreshed, I came out of my room (the tiger was rubbing itself against my legs as I walked) and found my housemate on the landing, fingering the various pieces of batik and other cloth hanging on the stair railing.

“Which of these is the oldest?” she asked. “The being was hanging around here. I think it has something to do with one of these cloths.”

“These ones are 60-to-100 years old,” I pointed. “This one here is not so old, it’s from 1972. See, it’s dated. Handmade by a consort to the last sultan of Jogja. Signed herself “Ria”.”

My housemate fingered the latter cloth and drew it up off the railing.

“Let’s take this, fold it up and put it on the end of your bed,” she said. “I think the being likes this one.”

Later that night I slept soundly (neither the tiger nor Ria snored) and awoke at the usual hour to the comforting noises of coffee being made downstairs.

“How was your sleep?” I asked. “Did the evil spirit bother you?”

“O I slept just fine. No problems with the being. It’s gone. Can’t you feel the difference?”

I couldn’t feel the difference when it arrived and I couldn’t feel the difference when it left. White monkeys are somewhat obtuse compared to humans.

“Isn’t it just amazing how a scary being can enter an old cloth and then leave?”

I had to admit that it was. The tiger padded into the kitchen, yawning. He’d slept late. He looked like he could do with a coffee. Ria was still in bed.

“I would hate to live in Bali,” my housemate suddenly announced.

Why? Too many tourists?

“Too many spirits! And too many old things that attract spirits. At least here in Jakarta we have lots of modern things that spirits aren’t interested in,” she said, glancing towards the fridge.

I could see her point of view. It must be a relief to have some clear ethereal space around oneself. Like Jakarta during Lebaran.

The tiger looked at me. I could see that he felt he was no longer needed. Could he please get on with whatever white tiger-spirits do when they’re not protecting white monkeys? Of course, sir. Thank you for your assistance. And he vanished.

Ria, however, was still asleep upstairs, wrapped in her beautiful cloth, dreaming of clouds of slippery, layered times and spaces.

Just one more of the legacies of living in Ibu Kota in Tanah Air, in any age.