Muslim Persona (Jakarta)

Somehow in the rush Omar had packed the hotel prayer mat in his luggage. In the taxi searching for something it turned up. Of course it needed to be returned. 

         — They will think you are a Muslim carrying it, the thought occurred to Omar.
         On leaving the patisserie at Thambrin City for the bus Omar thought to collect a plastic bag for the mat. What he was given was a bag for croissants and bread. The mat would need to be carried under-arm through the hard streets and lanes of Tanah Abang, no alternative. 
         With the original Ecuadorean straw panama an unusual sight stepping out narrow lanes and passageways where the harsh, testing conditions of life were laid bare. In three and one half days in Tanah Abang there had not been another Westerner sighted, much less one bearing a prayer mat and such head-cover. Between three and four the traffic had not really started. Nevertheless, for captivating entertainment the scramble of motor-bikes, mikrolets, cars and pedestrians at that hour could hardly be surpassed.

         There was a danger of not paying sufficient attention to the broken pavement, that was the only thing. The day before there had been a slight accident with our hired driver, Mr. Budi; this afternoon a light touch involving a 4-wheel drive and a young lad on a motor-cycle. Wisely, in this last case the daughter in the back seat of the car had carried the brief argument with the bike and a couple of other riders who had taken the young man's part. Luckily there was no harm done, no mark left on either conveyance.

         A car driver in Jakarta would not want to be involved in an accident in that particular part of town of all places. Land of Brothers—Tanah Abang.

         One of the older bikers in the immediate vicinity of the last incident had taken the young lad's part and for a brief instant it seemed some kind of altercation was imminent. The words fired either side, in the midst of which the old biker had lunged toward the passenger window where the Madam sat behind darkened glass. In the movement the helmeted old biker had lifted his front wheels like a Cowboy on a startled rearing steed—Roy Rogers more than John Wayne. The woman within sat head bowed. A momentary reflex; all well that ended well.
         The ride out to the airport bus in the taxi took twenty minutes; the same time needed to find a taxi in the first place. Cost: 30,000 rupiah—about four dollars. The Cabbie had been on the road since early morning and was still some way short of covering the day's costs, he said. After seeing Omar off and setting back toward the hotel again taxis were difficult to find. Two Westerners had exited cars and instructed the drivers to wait for them. Around Thamrin Tower, Hotel Indonesia and the Bunderan roundabout there were no shortage of Westerners. A driver having a smoke to the side laughed at the request that had been made.
         — Tanah Abang?... Well buddy, try shaking a leg.... Almost certainly something like that his gist. 
         As the chap tugged on his cigarette and blew, the distinctively Arabic form of Tanah Abang Blok A clothing emporium showed itself across a short distance. It was perfectly uncanny, as if a cloud had parted at precisely that moment. The structure opposite was none other than Tanah Abang Blok A. Care had been taken that morning to get the precise name. Omar had pointed out the sign. The six or seven storey tower, ornate and a little impressive, went by no other name. 
         In the cab out we had traveled twenty minutes at a pinch, part way racing along three lane highway. Omar had paid R30,000. Yet here within distance of a good flat punt stood the very building that we had explored for the third time just that morning.

         One of the lads in school good with his hands could have folded a paper aeroplane that might have covered the distance. No wonder the Cabbie's derision.

         Hotel Kalisma was five minutes further. Just keep the beacon more or less in sight; two tall communication towers painted red and white provided secondary reference. 

         While not exactly the 5 P.M. show, the traffic artistry was still first class. Brilliant manouvering, deftness, beautiful order and finesse in what looked at first sight hellish lunacy. Once the green and cream Blok A with its Arabesques was reached the police tent soon appeared; then the coffee shop where Omar had bought his Arabica that morning.

         Downhill to the fruit-stalls. The turn at Jati Bundar needed care.

         From that point greetings left and right from the people from the morning and others added. Hardly a beggar the whole stretch. 
         Cowboy, Boss, Mister, Sir. A marvelous fanfare.

         Children, mothers, men young and old; pretty girls, not shy some of them.

         Unintentionally turning up the colourful visual, a single large pisang had been bought at one of the stalls. There had been no time for lunch. A hurried croissant at the patisserie with the coffee did for lunch that day.

         Therefore from the top: panama covering the white scone; prayer mat under arm; in the other hand a long barreled yellow banana—the quick-draw Cowboy's gun out from its holster. 

         Along the narrow lane of tiny front rooms where figures sprawled half visible, people out on low benches and door-steps, wandering and staring children.
        — You going to take a bite outta that or is it something for your wife? one chap almost certainly.
         A memorable afternoon event for the denizens of Tanah Abang, Brothers and Sisters all. A privileged role to play for the audience, albeit false at its core. 
         As anticipated, a good many in the crowd had looked closely at the mat, rolled and folded, tassels flopping each step. No carpet that from the emporium.
         — Assalamu'alaikum!... Assalamu'alaikum!... every fifty metres. Assalamu’alaikum!
         Many diffidently sounding from the side once they had been passed. 
         More than enough to make a fellow blush.
         The greeting to a fellow Muslim, Peace be upon you, was more than well-known from two years among the Malays at Geylang Serai.

         There was a standard response: Laykum'salam. Back at Joo Chiat in Singapore the Chinese green-grocer mimicked the exchange a great many times, in the rejoinder mostly swallowing the final “m”. Once or twice the reflexive play with that rascal almost tumbled from the tongue in Jakarta.
         The Land of Brothers was a fascinating and daunting quarter. We passed through one of the slums off Jalan Tikus, Rat Alley, on the other side of the hotel on the second evening. The safety of the remove to the more heavily policed high-end sector around the swish hotels could not be entertained. (Online all the notices and reviews for hotels with "great location" meant a mall adjacent and down the road Dunkin Donuts.) Omar made the point earlier in the afternoon that all the numerous greetings on the streets these three days would mean good numbers of allies should a problem arise.