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".