The Asia Afrika Conference of 1955

With my packs strapped to my shoulders i caught an ojek to Stasiun Gambir - Jakarta's main train station - and boarded the express train for Bandung.  When the train finally emerged from beyond the Jakarta city limits, i found myself moving through flat fields of rice.  But the north western plains were coming to an end and soon the land outside grew increasingly rugged.  A few hours from Jakarta I looked outside to see a landscape of high ridges and deep ravines.  Up ahead i saw the rail tracks stretching out over the ravines with all the apparent delicateness of a single strand of spiderweb.  All around the land glowed light green save for the brown of turbulent waters deep in the ravines.
 
We pulled into Bandung station at about 2pm and i found myself a room in a dilapidated Dutch  lodge complete with faded moulin rouge prints and colonial furniture.  It was called the Hotel Surabaya.  My mouldy room reeked of stale tobacco, but i'd seen rooms closer to the station that were a lot worse so i took it anyway.  I fell asleep for the rest of the afternoon and just before dark left to explore the city.  With no functioning street lamps, no footpaths and furious traffic Bandung is quite menacing at night.  My goal was to find a small restaurant on the other side of town that served cheap traditional Sundanese food.  After about an hour of wandering and copious amounts of direction asking, I'm proud to say i found it.  My hosts were kind but i left feeling ill and returned in a daze to the Surabaya where all night people loitered in its cavernous room and halls while i slept warily.

The Big Durian

Of Jakarta's many nicknames, the Big Durian is gaining consensus as the most appropriate for this sprawling, smogy, sweltering city.  The durian is a visually stunning fruit.  Larger than a coconut it is coloured yellow and covered in soft squishy spikes.  It has such a pungeant aroma that it has be detected on the side of the road from the back of a passing motorbike.  And its taste?  Now that is at the heart of the Jakartan metaphor.  For while some people find it tastes as disgustingly strong as it smells, others find durian flesh irresistable.

Working within the confines of the durian metaphor it must be said that were i to have arrived in Jakarta without anyone to guide me to its hidden fruits and, more importantly, its quiet sanctuaries, i would have become quickly overexposed and disillusioned by the smell and have left rather quickly.  However, I was lucky enough to experience a fair sampling of the tasty flesh.

In most cases, Jakarta's hidden delights are only accessible to those with wealth.  A stroll through an exclusive mall or a night out on the town shows that some Jakartans have plenty of it. 

Running late for our rendez vous, Ben and I caught ojeks from the main road.  It's a strange thing to saunter up to a gang of motorcyclist, and after a few seconds of bargaining, hop on the back of some strangers bike as he launches you into river of traffic without rules.  But during peak hour, a motorbike can get somewhere in half the time of a car or bus and i was about to find out why.  Within the first minute i felt the vibrations of horn and metal as my bike seemed to be almost cleaned up by a van.  I looked back at Ben on the bike behind whose wide eyes confirmed just how close i'd come.  Later my rider and another bike cut around a bus on a blind corner.  As the gap between the bus and some roadside pillars narrowed alarmingly, my bike shot through forcing the other bike to break.  But on a bike suddenly the road can open up and the traffic jams can be left behind.  But only until the next jam.  Twice Ben and I were caught in a dense cloud of monoxide from a belching bus that we later compared to going through the heavy mist of a powerful waterfall.  Ben said they were the worst fumes he had experienced in 18 months of Jakarta traffic.  My lungs agreed.

We started our night at a small ex-pat bar in Menteng before eating a nearby Padang restaurant.  After dinner we caught a taxi to an exclusive hotel bar off the main road called Two Face.  We were stopped at the door to be informed that it was the launch of Indonesia FHM magazine, but then let in without further ado despite our dress.  Inside the chic bar suited Europeans and Japanese men sleezed onto scantily clothed women while well dressed cliques of Jakartans stood and sat around looking cool much as they would in any trendy bar in the world.  Our next bar BB's was more down at heel.  Downstairs we reclined on cushions while the band sang covers and upstairs we stood in darkness as Indonesian rastas played reggae.  Late that evening we took yet another taxi to an arabic dangun club called De Leilas.  Security guards searched bags for weapons and cameras before we ducked under a doorway into a cavernous room the likes of which i've never seen.  Rows of couches sat surrounding and facing a central dancefloor on which rhythmic arabian men shimmied with anything that came close.  Up above on a bridged walkway, men huddled groups periodically fluttering rupiahs onto scantilly dressed women below.  The arabian dance music was fantastic while the band played but when we went out onto the dancefloor the mood grew more sombre and the subtlety of the required movements proved too much for us.  The Kampung was almost dark and silent upon our return but more the quiet murmur of the local lads and the everpresent glow of their cigarettes.

Soon after my arrival in the Kampung the local lads started asking me if i played soccer.  Very soon this became our only topic of conversation and a great many times and dates for training and matches were relayed to me.  It wasn't until one sweltering Sunday afternoon, after gorging on copious amounts of spicy fish and eggplant, that the lads rushed up to our door and told us to get ready and quickly.  As we rode through the nearby streets, not knowing whether it was just a training session or a match, we prayed for efficient digestion.

When we arrived it was clear that we would be playing a match as there were at least four teams worth of lads loitering at either end of the field.  The field was composed of undulating clay littered with debris and the odd clump of grass.  At either end was a regulation size goal frame with a decaying net that would at best slow a ball down.  The field was surrounded by banana trees and a smoldering rubbish heap whose fumes served only to heighten the aerobic intensity of the task before me.  But seriously, it was a fun game.  We lost badly and i twisted my ankle painfully in one of the many holes, but for an unartistic soul like me there's nothing like sport to communicate without the need for language.

In the late afternoon of one of my final days in Jakarta i journeyed to Merdeka Square and climbed to the top of the phallic Monas.  From its heights i looked down and saw the Mesjid Istiqlal (the biggest mosque in East Asia) superimposed against the gothic spires of the catholic cathedral.  I saw towering skyscrapers in the south-west.  And all around i saw the endless lowrise tenements of the Kampung stretching to the hazy horizons.  As i gazed out at this smog shrouded city with my eagle eye i still had little concept of its layout, much less its meaning.  As the frenchman next to me remarked "c'est une ville unseizisable".

Accidental Express to Bogor

After several days of sweltering inactivity i decided to take the commuter train to Bogor and stroll through its world famous gardens and, if lucky, the decadent halls of Istana Bogor (the presidential palace) - home to Sukarno's extensive collection of erotic paintings.  With this seemingly simple goal i piled into a Bemo and hopped out at the nearby train station.  I bought my economy class ticket and weaved my way through the throngs of commuters, merchants and the occassional chained monkey along the platform.  Because I'd left home early i was privy to the spectacle of the north bound commuter chugging into the station.  Workers and students were packed upright so tightly that five or six people were hanging out of every door.  And up above them the more dextrous were perched nonchalently trading safety for the comparative comfort of the train's roof.  I was glad to be heading south.

A train pulled up and opened its doors, but nobody entered.  I asked a woman if the train was going to Bogor and she said "tidak, langsung" (no, express).  "But" i persisted " is it going to Bogor".  "Yes" she nodded as though to confirm i was technically correct and welcome to board if i wanted that satisfaction.  The train pulled out as i boarded and hurtled south with surprising speed, neither stopping nor slowing at stations.  Where i had been expecting heat, crowds and filth, i found only clean unoccupied seats and airconditioning.  When the conductor asked for my ticket i asked him where the train was going and he said "Bojo" and that i would have to get out at the next stop.  My spirits dropped.  With nothing else to do but to cross check my perception of the information the conductor intended to convey I asked the same question of a smartly dressed woman opposite me.  She enthusiastically said that the train was heading for Bogor and so was she.  So when the conductor reappeared i again brought up the ambiguous nature of the train's destination.  Naturally the conductor held firm to his view, but by now everyone in the carriage who wanted to go to Bogor was very interested in what he had to say.  When the train made its first stop, they all got out and the smartly dressed woman beckoned me to follow. 

Soon enough another train arrived and we boarded, but another boarding meant another conductor and more trouble.  As the conductor approached, my adopted protector looked at my ticket in dismay for here i was riding in the calm, airconditioned express with only an economy class ticket.  "Pretend you only speak English" she said.  The conductor expressed similar dismay upon citing my tickets but readily agreed to my offer to pay more (still nothing close to the full price).  However, before i could successfully locate the correct notes, my protector thrust the money into the conductors hands and he moved away.  All my attempts to repay her were cheerfully rebuffed.  Because of my mistake I arrived in Bogor more quickly and more refreshed than i would have had i boarded the correct train.

I spent many hours in the enormous botanical gardens in the heart of Bogor.  Like many things in Indonesia, the gardens unfolded rather randomly and asymetrically.  Although beautiful in parts (i particularly liked the orchids), I remember that day principally for the numerous conversations that enveloped me every time i sat on a bench or merely stalled my stride to consider which path to take.  It was my first real opportunity to start speaking Indonesian with people i could have a hope of understanding (Jakartans are notoriously difficult to understand as they speak very quickly and use a lot of slang).  No one was put off by my limited vocabulary or stumbling syntax and we discussed topics ranging from how many children we had to the war in Iraq.  On the latter topic i was showered with praise from an initially agressive duo when i agreed that George Bush and John Howard were stupid bad men.  Unfortunately the Istana Bogor was closed to the public until the conclusion of the presidential election - a process of unparallelled complexity and longevity.

My return to Jakarta was on the aptly named economy train - tickets for the hour long journey cost Rp2500 (around 40 cents).  The fatiguing qualities of one's initial exposure to the filth and fanfare that is an economy train should not be underestimated.  The carriage floor was thick with dirt and debris and all the while an endless procession of merchants, buskers, beggars and scammers make a trail through the squalor.  Barefoot boys in tattered clothes crawled along the carriage on their bellies while sweeping ineffectively at the garbage with a stick.  When these youngsters drew level with a passenger they would shoot to their knees and dramatically hold out an open palm.  Men straining under the weight of produce swayed up and down the carriage looking to unload their wares on a saturated market.  Five piece bands of dubious quality would set up in the middle of the carriage, jam, then pack away all in the time it took for the train to go between stations.  Blind beggars clutching a cane in one hand and a plastic cup in the other stumbled precariously close to the always open doors.  If they were to misplace a thong they could tumble out the doors and into the settlements 20 metres below.  But amongst all these characters i found people of boundless curiosity and keen intelligence.  I missed my stop while instructing a linguistically talented water merchant in french grammar.  He apologised profusely, heaved a metal bucket to his shoulders and went back to work. 

Ojek to paradise

It's very peaceful inside the house, in the Kampung, away from the road and freeways. I spend my first morning soaking up the sounds and glimpses of sights, my senses overwhelmed by the prospect of the sprawling city beyond. But I would feel stupid sheltering inside all day and in the late morning I head out the door, along the gang to find Adet at the corner with the road.

Last night Jo arranged for him to take me to Menteng for a massage with her fabled masseuse. Adet saw me before i saw him - i must look conspicious! He springs to his feet and approaches. We hop onto his bike and edge out into the traffic along the congested potholed lane. Adet weaves in and out between the cars and bajajs. We use either side of the road but his movements are calculated and cautious. Soon i start to feel familiar with the traffic and can anticipate our moves. A month of weaving my push bike through Yogyakarta traffic has helped me understand the unwritten rules of Indonesian traffic.

Soon we are on the major roads and freeways, but we never go above sixty. Alongside us cruise young guys riding pillion and chatting incessantly, young veiled woman with office shoes, cool dudes on slick Japanese bikes with pretty girls clutching them tightly and old men with baseball caps on beat up bikes. As the freeway opens up people zoom by us. A family of four - man, woman, child and baby - zip by at eighty. When the traffic congests the motorbikes swarm through the empty spaces like an incoming ocean tide along a rockshelf. The narrow strip between the left lane of traffic and the kerb become a thoroughfare for the bikes and when it congests they take to the footpaths weaving through the warungs and pedestrians. They ride up, over and down the pedestrian bridges that span the freeway - it seems there a few places off limits to the ubiquitous motorbike.

Like other riders, Adet doesn't like standing still for long and often we are moving across rather than along the road. And all the while as we move through the city people are out everywhere. Young women selling fruit at roadside stalls, goups of men drinking tea at warungs, young longhaired dudes with guitars ducking through the traffic to solicit coins, old men with old bicycles loaded to bursting points with sacks of who knows what, groups sitting under tarpulan shelters on the freeway median strip making music. Through my tinted lenses i see them and dig them all.

to be continued...

Allah Akbar in Jakarta

ALLAH AKBAR..........
are the first words i recall as the early morning call rumbles through the dark, into my dreams then wakes me abruptly. The call of the muezzin is instantly familiar yet pleasingly exotic. It is well before dawn but i can sense the presence of many people nearby as the muezzin's prayer cresendos out of loudspeakers with increasing volume. It may be that as i wake i become more and more sensitive to this sound. But i suspect he is building to something. I lay exhausted, a light film of sweat across my chest, at the mercy of his commanding voice.
Time passes, i drift in and out of consciousness, but still i hear the furious prayer. Eventually i wake enough to dig deep into my pack and find earplugs. For the next few hours i am eiher listening to the muffled noises of the alley below or dreaming dreams that are a fusion of wakefulness and fantasy. As the dreams fade i'm left only with the faint sounds of shuffling footsteps, tinny bells and dulled voices. Then i remove the earplugs and the noise is instantly amplified. I realise the world is very much alive out there and my new reality is impossible to ignore.

The day before I awoke to an entirely different reality. It was still dark outside but also dead silent. The dense fog had lifted just enough to reveal grass plastered white with frost. My head ached from busy days and sleepless nights. I moved thorugh our apartment one final time, scanning each room, each wall, each corner fo anything i may have overlooked while packing last night. Final decisions, ones unable to be made in the months preceding, are made in an instant - a final gut feeling has to prove determinative. What to bring? What to leave? I heaved my pack onto my shoulders for the first of many times and closed my door behind me for the last time.
As we drove through the mist to the airport, the talk on the radio ws of killing, and killer, kangaroos. Government scientists said that the vast numbers of kangaroos that had gathered near the town's damns in their pursuit of water in a parched land needed to be culled to safeguard the quality of the town's water supply. Animal liberationists questioned the right to kill healthy sentient beings when their impact threatened our way of life. The scienists argued that the drought would kill the kangaroos if we didn't and who wouldn't prefer to a bullet to a slow death of thirst? Protestors vowed to stay with and protect the animals out on the frosted grasslands.
The kangaroos cause has been hampered in recent weeks. Recently a woman walking her dog across grasslands had been set upon by a big male grey kangaroo. Initially the grey reacted to the snarls of her dog, but as she drew her dog away, turning her back from the animal, she heard an aggressive snort moments before feeling a searing pain across her back. The big grey had slashed her with his claws and now towered above her as she lay on the grass. Luckily she was able to scramble through the doorway of a nearby shed, blocking the door with a bale. But all the while she cowered inside, she could hear the big grey snorting, shuffling and stalking her outside. It only left when two men, alerted by mobile phone, scared it away with loud noises.
Soon other stories emerged. Of kangaroos attacking small children and drowning dogs in damns. It was as if the once shy ancient inhabitants of our land were showing signs of fighting back.  On the plane i dream of a big grey standing sentinel like in the early morning mist on a frosted plain.

Sitting in the upstairs study the next morning i see red tiled roofs extending far into the smog in ever direction. I see the silvr dome of the mosque only three roofs to the north west. The loudspeakers surround the base of the dome - 5am prayers are not optional. Somewhere in the Quran there must be a passage obligating muslims to use the furthest advancements in sound technology in the pursuit of voluminous prayer. The sounds of the gang below are a little more discreet, but incessant. Voices bubble up from below like the chirps of a menagerie, perplexing not only as to meaning but also location. From where i sit i can see but a small corner of the gang. The rest is a maze hidden beneath the rooftops. I saw the briefest portion of it as Jo led me to her house last night and it charmed me instantly. Ojek boys guard the corner with the road, further along white robed worshipers murmer in an alcove, weathered Ibus sit serenely and all along groups of young men staring then smiling as we pass. My walk to the road the next morning makes no less impression. I encounter the children chasing after balls, that always roll into the drain, and slapping my bottom as i walk by. I'm forced to duck below a string grasped by several small children. As i stand upright again i gaze upwards and see their kite soaring impossibly high above the rooftops. This is the Kampung and village life continues here, sandwiched between the modern freeways, much as it did before Jakarta's modernisation. The muezzin, i learn, is Jo and Ben's landlord, there is a village chief whom i must soon meet and everybody knows everybody. Jo and Ben pretend they're married to avoid difficulties and when Jo and I are alone she leaves the door open to avoid the appearance of improprietry. When they first moved to Jakarta they lived in a security apartment in wealthy Menteng. Comfortable, secure but eventually they felt too removed from the Jakarta they wanted to know. They like life in the Kampung. And so do i.