Young Kennedy in Jakarta

Banville at Kinokuniya Jakarta was always going to be a tough. The situation had been anticipated. Strictness in luggage was the reason for not picking up the volume in Singapore. Sophisticated Euro Lit. while traveling Asia was another consideration. It seemed inappropriate. The Rilke packed from home did not read readily here, the same as a couple of other volumes. Plato's Trial of Socrates fitted; the locally prompted of course—the Hadith, the Analects. Despite all the NYRB holds up well, even the recent Alfred Brendel on the piano. Difficult to comprehend. The recent J.B. release promised the usual signature hi-jinks: good sex, intrigue, no doubt again inevitably worked in the concerns of an older consciousness (premonitions of stroke, heart failure, locked in syndrome and the like). 
         After consulting her screen for holdings the girl at the Kinokuniya desk informed the only volume by Banville was Dubliners. (An intro for a new edition published a few years ago.) Not to be. No wifi in the room. After every page of the NYRB piece one needed to dress, circle out past the prayer-room round to the lobby in order to reload and get the next page. Return, strip, close the bathroom door again (it opens with the slightest draft when the main door is opened). For all the precautions last night a dreaded mozzie entered, which meant the aircon, fan switched on, to persuade the devil to decamp. Dengue fever is the worry here, especially without health insurance.
         A more direct route this morning to the Mall. Day by day it all becomes more familiar. Yesterday's Jakarta Post again the best on offer. Otherwise the ABC. The Age can be completely abandoned after the outrageous call for Labour to ditch Gillard. For the good of democracy; enable the arguments to be heard.... Disgusting. No more.
         Here Starbucks has claimed an innocent victim. Heart and soul cried Nay! Not again. Not two days running. Nevertheless, modulated tones: In a glass please. No muffin, thanks all the same. 
         Five dollars Australian near enough for the coffee and bikkie—41,000 Rupiah—when the people are hungry on the streets, asleep leaning against the mirrors of motor-cycles, Grannies on the broken dirty pavement too beat even to raise their hands in plea.
         C&W; contemporary funk subsequently. Frankie's love and champagne came an hour later, fixed rotation. Central table offering a view of the Security desk. Larger bags inspected. On the approach the women, practiced shoppers familiar with the Grand, knew the routine. Over-sized $US1,000 hand-bags given over to the uniformed lads to check for semtex.
         Nearly a dozen lads around the desk and more pacing beyond; indoors more again. None in evidence the day before. Couple of Mercs half hour ago assumed to be the reason. Down on the turn yesterday near-by a real convoy of black tinted chariots hurtling up the narrow roadway. One of the middle vehicles was garlanded somehow on the bonnet or grill. There may have been flowers behind. All-black fleet different shapes and sizes—vans, 4WD’s, luxury vehicles—one or two sirens wailing. The briefest glimpse suggested the figure of newly widowed Siti Soekarno Putri.
         — Politicos? to a tubby fellow behind looking on from his stall like the rest.
         — Aahh!... Politicos, rising inflection showing surprise at the foreigner’s ability to cotton on so rapidly.
         It could have been a mogul, possibly. They kept private security details in Indonesia. All the grotesque mansions around the diplomatic quarter in Pondok Indah a few days ago had Security pill-boxes at the entryways.
         No clocks in the Malls. Twelve said the gal in the corner seat after much embarrassment, not having the number and having to enlist the aid of her girlfriend. A great many bags presented to the security lads at entry. Frankie’s double came on with love and champagne. Easy to slide slowly from the soft couch at Stars onto the floor. Some of the hairdos on the bag-ladies were eye-popping, took one back to Frankie's forties and fifties. Perms in the heat. Explosive.
         The Post revealed yesterday was the 486th anniversary of the “big kampong”—Jakarta no less. The museum in old Batavia had been visited with Omar, chauffeured by Mr. Budi. Nothing in particular. Old carved river-stones that went back many hundreds of years the most interesting items.
         The paper was produced in association with the International Herald Tribune. Intelligent articles by well-credentialed writers was unexpected. Within a Mall like that.
         Late morning uneventful. There had been a thought to complain about something just for the heck of it. Tell the lads the green plastic stirrer had disappeared in the coffee. Only just noticed. Feeling queasy. Where was the Comments Box?
         In the first instant the group quick-stepping from the right by the escalator out front of SEIBU seemed perfectly non-descript. A dozen perhaps. A large group, certainly the largest of the morning. Compact; not shoulder to shoulder but clearly a body. As far as well-heeled shoppers went mediocre. All male medium stature. No gorillas or muscle; no arms of any kind. Rapido march like that in the Tropics was rare. Weekend attire; nothing fancy; there might not have been a single gold ticker among the party.
         Door-man raising his white gloves. On the marble outside under the portico business-like handshakes left and right. Likely it was not good security practice to provide a stationary target. Car doors flung. Not the limousines from the day before.
         — Jokowi?
         The affirmative was eventually fished up.
         The rising star had come to notice the year before. The contraction had only been learned in the last day or two.
         Early fifties Governor of Jakarta. Typing up the notes from the morning in Mr. Abraham’s Net joint on Jalan Slipi later one of the screens was showing TV comedy, the show-man with the repetoire lead the audience to unending laughter and merriment, almost certainly not canned. Through the course Jokowi was mentioned forty dozen times. JokowiJokowiJokowiJokowi X 120.
         It was impossible to tell which of the men in the scrum was the up-coming star Presidential candidate.
         Joko Widowo properly. Memorable for a Serb. Joko was our contraction for George; innumerable George/Djokos in Montenegro.
         Royalty up close looks ordinary humanity no matter the get-up. And there was no get-up here on the Sunday morning. A man of the people, as it was said, seemed about right.
         It needed to be confirmed with the young Doorman just in case. Yes indeed. Yes. The same. He’s gone now, the lad waving his gloved hand smiling.
         The local young Kennedy. Age and new mood in the nation, the sense of expectation comparable. A few days ago seeing a large group of youth in orange tees arriving in a convoy of lorries at the textile market Omar gave the info it was Jokowi, one of his initiatives to clean up the town, put the unemployed youth to work.
         A change from big business perhaps possible. (Hudoyono had just been knighted by Kissinger with some kind of Humanitarian award.) The common good man might have more of a chance in such a polis. Good luck to the young colt.