Jakarta Mall

Saturday. For a moment it seemed the days had slid somehow. But no, it was a Saturday. For some reason the paper picked up at Kinokuniya mid-morning was the Friday edition. There was certainly no Jakarta Post available anywhere in Tanah Abang. There was no-one to read it there. This was the second Post picked up in the week here. Unusual for a confirmed addict. After an hour’s walk airconned Starbucks next door to the bookstore meant all principles had to be thrown out the window. Hello plastic green stirrer, white mug, Frankie on the sound system. And you paid top dollar for the privilege there of course. How not in such enviable luxury! Thankfully this was only the Grand Plaza. Massimo Dutti opposite; Seibu the other side. A supermarket one level down. Likely no Cartier, LV and the rest here. These would be found within Plaza Indonesia, the out and out top of the crop. Pat downs there as at Hotel Millenium, where lunch was taken with Omar a few days before. The lumpy shoulder bag had looked suspicious at the entryway.
         The young door-man here at Grand yawning. Long caramel fitted jacket and pants, some kind of batik-like shirt beneath overhanging for the native touch. Perched on his head a cross between the bell-hop's traditional tight cap and a songkok, also caramel. White gloves. Automatic doors are for the inferior places where the dark and sweaty shop. This is high-end marble stair territory, polished hourly. A white face looks like class no matter the track shoes and faded tee. Might be a faded old rock star from Miami for all this lad would know. Government here reduced the petrol subsidy a whopping 44% the other day. Price per litre now $0.70. By far the cheapest in south-east Asia, and globally outside the source countries one would guess. After even a brief survey of Tanah Abang one can easily understand the widespread resistance, demonstrations and general sense of threat. Last night a dozen large blue military wagons hurtling down Jalan KS Tubun with escort vehicles flashing and honking. Headed for the petrol station likely. Photos on-line this morning showed hundreds of bikers milling at bowsers the night before the price hike. As well as make-shift food trolleys, tyre repair stalls, drinks and tropical fruit vendors and all the others, common along Jalan KS Tubun in Tanah Abang are petrol trolleys selling from plastic containers, funnels employed for smaller measure glass bottles. One or two of the vendors wears old-style grey mechanic half-length coats. The urine colour seemed odd; perhaps the glass. A good trade. One might buy a half litre there to get a biker home. 
         Yawns earlier and now knee-bends from the Doorman when no-one is watching. Frankie is in love, champagne going with his dreaminess. An unexpected rush suddenly sees the lad open one wing of the double doors and leave it open until the stream passes. Three half squats, running his hands down his shins. Smiles and greetings part of his task of course.
         Girl being photographed against a pillar wrapped with advertising for some kind of watch—BERING (from the Strait; or useful in all weathers) — where a seemingly crumbling ice-berg shows above her head. The Poles now tourist destinations along with everything else for high-end shoppers.
         Yesterday late morning was odd coming upon hitchhikers at the foot of Plaza Indonesia, a dozen or more strung along the curving roadway. Women more than men; young more than old, one bearing a small child in her front sling. More than a couple in traditional attire, scarf and body cover. But all presumably ready to enter a vehicle with a strange, unknown male driver. On the approach of the cars each raised not a thumb, but finger, either one or two for single or pair. 
         Taking a turn around the neighbourhood with Omar before his return to Singapore he pointed out the Chinese behind desks and counters. According to Omar they run the place, Jakarta and Indonesia more broadly. Coming from Singapore the sudden absence of the Chinese was noticeable. Disappeared all of a sudden, the same as in Johor Bahru over the Causeway. Elements within the Malay lines and contours here and there, but hardly a true Han anywhere to be seen. The malls have restored the balance. Nothing but at the Starbucks chairs and lounges.
         Hopefully the Sumatran fires will ease presently to bring relief to the Little Red Dot and the friends there. Hazardous smog levels last couple of days; a suspicion too Sin'pore agribuisness might bear a substantial part of the responsibility for the slash-and-burn practices in the infamous palm oil industry.