Beatlesmania in the Tropics

For obvious reasons one failed to gather the introduction in any way at all. It seemed some kind of lame joke had been offered initially, scrambled and bumbled somehow. In fact no, the man had actually changed his name legally, formally by Deed Poll. A teacher of English at some kind of "Institute" where they ran one of the Oxford ESL programs. Through the course of a long career some innovative strategies had been adopted: English by way of pop songs for example. Much to be said for it. Being a man in his middle sixties now, that meant the new music from the source country: The Beatles and later Lennon singly.
         The first time he gave his name the little play seemed transparent and familiar. After all, it was you who had long been the John in these parts, the standard one they named the particular roti after—Roti John, available at all the prata shops here, in Malaysia and no doubt coastal India, especially the south-east. Hello John. John! Men approached and took one by the arm as if a classmate had been found from kindergarten. Johnno! Back in the great southern land one had not met a John since schooldays. Thirty or forty years ago the name had fallen out of favour down there in the cooler clime. Only older hookers might give a passerby that moniker. Indeed that was the reminder on the streets of Singapore for this re-christening. No room for complaint. John—as good a name as any. After a time whenever the call was heard one answered automatically.
         Eventually, once the man explained himself again, the simple fact of the matter needed to be taken on board.
         — Pleased to meet you Mr. John Lennon.
         Why not? What was so surprising about that after all? This chap would not be the only reincarnated John Lennon walking the streets of the world; not even the only one in the Malay world. Take it in stride. Deep breath. O.K then. No need for invention of colour and event tracing the life of these parts. A chap of little imagination could merely wander the streets here, stick a microphone under a nose, find a cheap typist and Bob's your uncle. Stories by the bucket load running the gamut, no trouble at all. Characters galore. Cards all over the place. Vaudeville become valid post-modernism.
         Crowned with a fine bouffant still this John, with the dye job producing a very close replica of the plastic Beatle wigs they used to sell at the Royal Melbourne Agricultural Show in the late '60's and early '70's. No doubt in earlier days the fellow had let it grow out more and fall onto his shoulders. A businessman now, the venturesomeness of full-blown youth had been curbed. Could he play the guitar? No doubt whatever he could sing you any of the hits on demand, B sides and all. One of them he gave in a couple of verses, more Tony Bennett than John in the rendition, if one wanted to be harsh. A proper devotee went whole hog. It was a wonder Islam was still retained in fact. It seemed to be the case.
         The man, John Lennon, had been settled  over thirty years in Tanjung Pinang, a two hour ferry ride from Singapore, as was well-known by this author for many a long month now. Numerous Malays in Geylang Serai have connections to that large island, often middle-aged and older men with second or even third wives. A trip out on the ferry has long been on the wish list. Yes indeed, real kampung still functioning on Tanjung Pinang by all reports, true Malay culture, untainted, as it was before this long tsunami still rolling over the globe. Photographs of the island, its people and festivities have been shown the author. Insha'allah one day soon.
         John Lennon had hesitantly approached the table where the foreigner sat. Going by the first time round the neck craned and provisional smiles backward cast. Twenty minutes later on the return the stop to give it a tentative try. Above all else the man wanted to know the foreigner's impression of Indonesia, of Jakarta, Indonesian people in the broad.
         Wrinkled brow waiting to hear the verdict.
         At first mention of Tanah Abang there was definite consternation. John knew Tanh Abang himself. Crowded, busy, he suggested apprehensively, conceding the worst preemptively.
         Once he had been reassured such pleasure setting the man aglow. Smiles and radiance. Another Westerner here who had arrived at a just and true estimation of his people; no discernible Islamophobia; rather on the contrary. This was wonderful to hear once more. Some year or two ago John had met an American just around the corner—Joo Chiat Road he seemed to indicate—who found in all his travels through Indonesia warm welcome, friendliness, good helpful inhabitants. Not a single terrorist or thief of any kind. Now here was further confirmation.
         John Lennon affirmed again: Indon people were good people—going on a little unnecessarily, but quite understandably to underline his case.
         Pre-Lennon the man had been born on Sumatra, Padang in fact. More pleasure now that not only were Sumatra and Padang known, but even the Minangkabau. This was gold on top of silver and diamonds. Minangkabau, unprompted coming from the foreigner opposite. To hear his own tribe, his noble, proud people named by a tall foreigner with pen and paper before him, crowned by a smart panama, that was something indeed; very heaven. Sent swooning. The former matriarchal society of the Minangkabau known too! How the man stared. Not now—understood. There had been change in south central Sumatra like everywhere else. But not all was erased, no. Smelling salts very nearly. Hot flushes. Roasted coffee was turned hot chilli.
         Zainuddin's matenal grandmother had been a Minangkabau, feisty, wild, irrepressible Amazon; a virago and one half in the family legend, Zainuddin's babushka. Young Era at the Flower-stall where John had pointed earlier for his serendipitous meeting with the gracious American—Era too was Minangkabau. A part-time girl-friend John unavoidably needed to be told. Out with it immediately. Yes indeed. Gift the man, your new friend, with further appreciation.
        —Marry her, quoth he.
         Without missing a beat, straight-out and confidently. Marry her. The Minangkabau were progressive women. Whenever they married on Java for example they always made great strides forward. Immediately John Lennon pledged he would stand as Mamak.
         — You know mamak? John wondered.
         The pretense of mastery would be exposed here no help for it. A pity. This had been a good, more than impressive run. No, the foreigner could not in all truth own to mamak; not this mamak. In Ipoh the English Forward-scout from the time of the Emergency had introduced the author to the former derogatory Mamak for an Indian prata place. Plainly something else on the island of Sumatra among the Minangkabau.
         Traditionally for marriage the Minangkabau maternal uncle—on either side, John seemed to indicate—acted as chief and first marriage broker. You wanted to marry you enlisted the aid of your maternal uncle, your mamak, no-one else. In this instance John was more than happy to provide the service. A number of times previously he had done the same for both Singaporeans and Tanjung Pinang peoples. 

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Salute — Tekka Market

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For the best part of two years there had been no word of Tekka Market. Nothing. Then a couple of months ago Zainuddin mentioned the place, rather incredulous an adventurer had not made the acquaintance so long exploring in Singapore. Zainuddin grew up in the area and the market has been operating on that site for many years, in another guise in Zainuddin’s youth by the look of the place this afternoon.
         To this day good Mr. Z. ventures out to Tekka from his far distant digs at Woodlands for particular Indian products, most notably his cure-all umbla fruit, available in its raw, natural form at Tekka. Umbla lowers blood sugar, cholesterol, provides one of the much needed vitamins in concentrations unavailable in any other food, aids digestion, softens the stool, improves complexion, puts hairs on your chest. Tamils swear by umbla. (As regular readers would recall, the author had made his own independent discovery of this marvel up in the north in Georgetown, Penang, in liquid form there as a cool, partly sweetened drink to counteract the fruit’s tartness. True oficionado’s like Mr. Z. of course take the small marbles of fruit whole and unpeeled. Not so large a challenge as the durian, though a task all the same for umbla, in the raw form certainly)
         Not much to report in the end regrettably. Fresh food downstairs, clothing up. Altogether a rather drab and dreary affair without much to recommend the place. There had been the thought of a t-shirt, a particular and specific kind: plain deep red, simple and unadorned, without puerile witticisms or graphics. Specifically in fact the Bonds size 18 that should have been bought back at Sam Bear in Russell Street, Melbourne prior to setting sail for these parts. Within that dim, dark interior of the Bear’s store the very item had been handled and apprised more than once. A good many times. No. Finally neine. Another tee? How many does a man need after all? How many were there in the wardrobe? A half dozen had been worn a couple of times. Textiles would be cheaper in Singapore, anywhere in Asia. A small suitcase. You had always wanted to travel light, the old Zen thing. No, said a disciplined non-consumer. Who could possibly have anticipated the problem of the Singaporean tee in the steamy, sweaty Tropics, I ask you? The pathology of place writ large on chests all across the island, wherever one turns one’s eye. Dear God almighty. There will come a day Insha’allah when the author will act upon his instinct for the social/art project envisaged for this community. The drawing board concepts are all ready to go; merely production, logistics, distribution waiting. The assault upon the Singapore tee, earnestly, with main force, no prisoners, no beg pardons. One little hint for the privileged readers of this blog only: the first item to be launched will show a pic of Fort Canning Park in luscious, edible green both horizontal and vertical, some deep blue sky photo-shopped if nothing else, perhaps a karung guni carting his or her sack of lumpy aluminum, and glinting middle-right the silver of the escalator plonked on the ridge of the hill for easier access for the nature lover. Patents and intellectual property rights pending. The Bonds meanwhile on-line with free shipping declined at $24. Resisted for the present.)
         When Rani too here yesterday at the library café produced Tekka, the time had clearly arrived. No further delay. A fine light purple caftan-like top had drawn a compliment. Where did she get it?... They had men's there too? RightO. Away without further ado.... Little more than fifteen minutes keeping to the shadows, running the reds where possible. Lassalle Arts Institute on the left. The road-works dividing roaring as usual, helmeted Indian and Bangla lads bearing up in the heat, little hand-towels here and there below collars. A good deal more Indian faces on the footpaths as one progressed. Tekka stood at the head of Serangoon Road: Little India. Always a pleasure to visit. One’s India adventure when the prospect of the real thing seemed far too daunting. Tamed India, but without the gated communities and the tourist herding—the Taj, Varanasi, the temples and old forts. Simple and wonderful. India transplanted. Perhaps more authentic than many a corner at the source. Spacing out the visits always produced large, often startling impressions. The backpacker Hippy crowd had discovered Little India here. Lonely Planet and the others no doubt. Something to leaven the suits, ties and sailing shoes in the business district traveler around Raffles, the Gardens and the rest.
         Truly little to report. The market itself a very minor affair. A few dozen—more than a few—twenty dozen perhaps—Indian stalls selling the traditional attire one has seen in the Bollywood epics. Bright deep colours—saffron, cumin, bold lavender, sausage reds; caftan cuts, billowing sleeves, split dresses, high collars. Ninety-five percent female wear.
         — Something for your girl-friend sir? 
         Somehow the eagle-eye had summed up an old bachelor in a trice.
         As on the walk-way on Serangoon Road on which Tekka was located, numerous tailors at their Singers rocking away, all bar one single case male, as on Serangoon. Late afternoon the stall-holders were flagging (not all pert and ready like the chap a moment before). Many failed to call out an enquiry, much less rise from their chairs to greet a prospective buyer. Near five P.M. even a panama walking tall held little allure. More than a couple of traders sat slumped in grotesque postures in their chairs. Were one not a twenty-six month (almost) veteran here these sights would certainly have alarmed. There was a brief glimpse of a tall, turbaned woman before a mirror assessing her image in the glass, a kind of boudoir aspect deep within a little secret chamber hung with all kinds of fabric on every side. A moment before naked arms may have been visible in that recess, a long swan neck. More than elsewhere, more than some other similar trading hubs devoted to the same line, the manikins and dummies here thronged the narrow passage causing one to start on a couple of occasions. A busy, bustling shopping crowd was a kind of bodily sensation passing along the aisles. One prepared for jostles that never arrived. There may in fact have not been a single other shopper on the entire first floor of Tekka; two or three at the entry perhaps. At a particular large, possibly double-fronted stall where a pair of figures, solemn and august in aspect somehow, had been stood, a first-time visitor was made to not only start momentarily, but actually unpurse lips in preparation for something that was forthcoming. Certainly the stride was broken at that place. This was a gesture of Rome or Alexandria one had stumbled upon, as if behind a magic glass. Something from a far distant past. Literally an arresting moment. The figures were separated by a few metres, yet they did not seem a natural pairing. A kind of double shock, one following close on the heels of the other. In all else these were standard blank manikins, wooden and with only the momentary glimmer of imbued life. What set them markedly apart, what brought one to almost a complete halt coming upon first one, then the other there adjacent, was the abruptly raised arm stretched full-length above, straight and high. It was left in both cases possibly. Almost certainly the first seen raised the left, the near arm one came to from that side of the aisle, erect and sharp. An instant before it seemed the motion had been made. Had the arm been extended horizontally a first-time visitor would almost certainly have taken it in hand. Hello there Madam. Howdeedo? Here it was pointing at the stars had this been night-time somewhere other than Singapore. Down the ages Emperors and Pharaohs had been announced on entry to great halls precisely in such fashion. All hail! All rise! Bow. A triumphal march across the raised dais to the resplendent throne. For most perfect effect no trumpet was employed to bolster that gesture - a soft tinkling bell one strained after perhaps. Fairly evenly divided it seemed Muslim and Hindu Tekka this afternoon, remarkable for the brief fanfare for a passing prince.

 

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All hail the new Prince!

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What a damn cheek! After so long among them and with this enhanced deep tan to boot.
         — You have grandchild arhh!?....
         Slow on the up-take even though it be almost noon on the back clock. A bad night's sleep, no rhyme or reason. Perhaps wrestling on the cot with Era to no good purpose. Too tired after her twelve hour stint at the flower-stall, No meant no. Threats to call Immigration and have her hounded out of the country, de-barred from entry for a year or more failed to persuade.
         Call the police then, and Immigration too. Angeli and I will starve. You can laugh. Go ahead.
         Sorely tempted. Sorely.
         In Era's purse a list of tech items requested from various people in Batam. ipads, iphones of such-and-such model, Blackberries; not inferior Samsungs. Earlier in the year a $400 purchase of a second-hand ipad in Arab Street here earned a tidy hundred profit over in Batam. In Sumatra, Era's place of birth, you could do even better. Numerous willing buyers keen to join the party. Biznis little, little; sikit, sikit.
         What to do?...
         .... grandchild?...
         Slow on the up-take.
         — Charlie.... Big smiles. Deep-roasted coffee colour, black dyed hair and moustache matching. The last application had omitted the eye-brows. Usually the men are much more thorough. Side-burns are pesky areas. For some reason the colour there falls away rapidly. Glasses half-way down the blower checking his Toto or 4D tickets like a number of others this Thursday morning—must have been a jackpot last night. (Gaming of any kind haram in Islam of course, strictly speaking.) Lord only knows when the chap gets any shut-eye. A fixture here at Labu Labi morning, noon and night. On the job most likely. Night security he may have said.
         Charlie?... Ah, yes. Gotcha now my man. Hahahaha…. He had the name wrong was all.
         — No, no, no, no. George. Yes. And yours not mine let me tell you. Yours and Mr. Lee Kwan Yew's.
         Laughs. Something about his being a British subject. My very point dear man. Precisely. Possibly he meant the granddad Charlie. Possibly he was old enough to remember the earlier George and first-born Albert too. You tell them clearly "Australia" they know very well what that reduces to. No argument possible.
         Again rumours here the old man, the local royal, is on his last legs. A long lead-time.

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Coolies and Ai Weiwei

Era around the back here at one of the Joo Chiat stalls thin as can be, somewhat less jaundiced this morning, a “chocolate” rash on her neck from a fever transmitted from her young daughter it seems. After a week into her stint the complaint was sore, tight calves twelve hours on her feet at the Flower stand. Plastic fakes the product looked to be where we had pitched for a brief chat. Naturally the Chinese stall-holder wouldn’t like her gabbing during work hours, especially with a fellow who looked highly unlikely to reach into his pocket. Four weeks for the stall during busy Ramadan in prime Geylang Serai would have set the man back a pretty penny; much coloured plastic to move in that time. Hari Raya, Idul Fitri, Eid is the counterpart of Chinese New Year and Christmas/NY for Christians. On the dawn of the day the house should be clean, bright and colourful. Everyone dons their best attire, resplendent and new if you can afford it. Visits to kith, kin and neighbours on the morning. A feast of course prepared for the end of the fast; joy, charity and goodwill. Gift-giving seems not to be part of the occasion.
         The hours aside, this was clean and not arduous work—unlike the aircon maintenance of last year—earning Era a relatively generous $60 per day, cash and nett of course. A good deal better than the forty Nazir earns for lugging and carting around Geylang Serai market for the same period. Illegals both naturally, the latter a Kota Tinggi lad (Johor State, Malaysia), forty with six children, which comes as a surprise for a sharp dresser like that, fond of hats in particular. You should see him when he is at prayer, Nazir explains. A rather different picture in his serban—turban and other clothes. Era is Sumatran born, like many of the Indonesians seeking opportunity, using the nearby island of Batam for the hopping to Singapura, where cheap labour has been welcome for many a long year.
         Thirty day visas. The authorities are well aware of the usual arrangement; historically this city-state like many another was built on Coolies of course, the next generation becoming exploiters of another kind. To be on the safe side however both Era and Nazir will prudently hop over the border at JB for a night after 18-20 days. Remaining the entire thirty unbroken risks raising suspicions at the Immigration desk. You never know what kind of Stickler you might strike.
         On his most recent return from Malaysia—not even on a visa run—the White, affluent-looking author in a fine panama, daunting English, armed with an Australian passport and an imperious manner, found himself quizzed by the lass at Immigration. You are staying at a hotel in Singapore? You intend to remain 90 days?  Eighteen months previously you have stayed at a hotel you say? Excuse me a moment.... Quickly sorted by the experienced supervisor on the other end of the line. If you had been the wrong colour, carrying a passport from a less favoured nation, bumbled and fumbled, Good night Dick.
         Poor little Lia, Nia, Ida—depending on when you struck the honey—was prohibited from entering last year when suspicions were raised at her much stamped passport. Shopping? Really? Are you sure? Not difficult to tell the cheap dress, perfume, handbag, watch, jewelry, make-up. A phone that she should not have given up holding numerous messages from her house-cleaning clients. Two year entry ban and no more about it.

         Unrelated: newspaper item yesterday revealing an up-coming Ai Weiwei show at one of the high-end galleries here. Owner-director firm in his belief his man one of the global top-notch of his calling; etc. First show, first visit to the island for the little tubby panda. Looking forward to visiting. Excited. The authorities in China wouldn't allow him to stage such provocative work back home. Yawn. You wouldn’t want to read the crud in the Arts supplements worked up by the journos in the particular vernacular here. A querulous note however of concern duly included by the woman in her little fluff piece in this case, only fair to acknowledge: someone has reported to the artist that Singapore might prove a bit “monotonous”. Golly-gee! That produced a gulp around the island no doubt. Little chance of freebies at the Casino after this kind of rocking the boat. Peking duck at the Grand Mandarin he can forget. Photo-spread at the Night Safari likewise. If the artist had held hopes of a new species of orchid named in his honour, as is reserved for true friends of Singapore—like the Duchess of Windsor, Henry K. and even poor Julia of recent fame—put a cross through that too. Provocative radical artist worried about dowdy ol' Sing' not being racy enough for him. If you happen to read this blog Mr. Weiwei you’ll know where to head on these shores.

Children of Jakarta

You get thoroughly soaked very easily in a hundred metre dash in the tropics. Near the head of the lane giving onto Thambrin City the first drops gave insufficient notice. (After twenty-five months in the region the skies remain largely indecipherable.) A quick dash along with a number of others then for the tower, taking care with the pot-holes, darting motor-cycles and bajajs particularly. Finally, mincing steps over the treacherous tiled stairs, most dangerous of all.
         The panama keeps the scone more or less dry. Nevertheless, one resembles the riff-raff of the lower rat-infested ground now. Poor bedraggled humanity. A corner somewhere away from the aircon to dry off. Teh kosong panas—tea without milk or sugar, hot—just the shot waiting it out. Two hundred metres further Grand Indonesia housed all the boutiques, sumptuous furniture stores, jewelers and parfumeries, as well as Kinokuniya Bookshop at Lower Ground, which usually had the Jakarta Post by eleven.
         Outside the window of the Eatery the little operation underway around the stairs took a few minutes to comprehend. Young ragged street boys coming and going, to and fro, circling and hovering. Completely drenched the lads, despite the umbrellas most of them carted. Some of the umbrellas were furled; a good number giant-size, quite in excess of requirements. 
         To and fro. Dashing quickly here and there where they had spotted something. A good number barefoot like the day they were born. In that kind of rain shoes of any sort were redundant, some dangerous. High-gloss tiles over all the terraces around the perimeter of the buildings.
         Larking and hijinks. Delightful kids. Bright, alert, ready for anything. Coming up through the lane one received a royal reception from the scamps. Drawing a response from the tall Bule, the White gives them a spurt. Shocked when their quarry unexpectedly stops to answer; all the more hearing some words of their own language. That was unexpected. Begging was not often part of it.
         Twenty-seven days now in Tanah Abang, inner Jakarta, without a single, solitary Bule to be seen on Jalan Tubun, or anywhere else in-between it and the Malls. There is a particular quarter on the other side of the Malls where the Bule congregate at the Pizza Huts, pubs and department chains. Anna the Film Location Producer escorted the author through Sarinah a couple of days prior, assuming her new friend would naturally want to acquaint himself, perhaps take lunch at KFC or Starbucks.
         Two days of rain meant a confinement to the room. The thought of a taxi in that splash was frightening. Sun, humidity and teeming rain to contend with in the Tropics. The floods two or three months earlier must have been really something. Incredibly, the day after the heaviest recent downpour the river beside the hotel had cleared most of the piles of garbage, even the worst of it thickly littering the banks either side. Almost a bone fide river again. The Ciliwung, chief water-way of this city of ten million.
         This particular downpour now occurred a day or two before the deluge proper. Dramatic pelting rain; thunder-claps like Hollywood's very best. The only thing possible is to dumbly sit and stare. Even the locals can be caught doing the same. Out under the torrent bare-headed seemed demented. Yet every so often one sees people pacing through such downpours, literally without batting an eye-lid.
         The rain that brought out the young scamps was not the worst of its kind; in the end little more than a quarter hour. As the rain continued the lads outside the window grew in number. Sometimes they came in pairs; sometimes threesomes, marching across the tiles. A party from the right meeting one from the left. Most of them utterly soaked through to the skin. Messi, Standard & Chartered,  MU tops clinging, all bright colours; shorts and barefoot. Many could not have stood taller than 1.2 metres; later older, taller boys joined. School holidays in Indonesia, or Jakarta at least. Whether these kids had formal education was a question.
         The first few times they came by with their customers one mistook a family connection. There was so much traffic to and fro the hints quickly mounted. Often when the boys came with their putative elders they walked outside the shield of the umbrella. One or two of the escorted women carrying shopping, the umbrella hoisted high overhead and leaving the rain pouring over the escort. Clearly this was something other than a loving family scenario.  
         Some of lads were significantly shorter than their umbrellas. First on the scene immediately the opportunity presented were children no more than six or seven years of age. Subsequent downpours in the days ahead again brought out the little tackers before any others. The shields borne were not of the cheapest, flimsiest kind either; none of the wires broken. All without exception clean and presentable and in sunny colours. More than one of the umbrellas was no less than a serious fashion item. The handsomest showed the street an edible orange tone, fringed with manicured green. A faux-wooden handle terminated in the shape of a golf club, an old-style wood of which there may be no more on the contemporary fairway. Gary Player generation this; preceding even Nicklaus.
        The bearer here had possibly never seen golf even on the television. Many of the houses in the slums here in the shadow of the Malls are bereft of TV. However, courses there certainly are to be found in Jakarta, not too distant in fact. On the exploration of the high-end residential quarter with Budi the driver there was a gated community where a course was included. Hawkers, peddlers, pot-holes and dirt; hunger, ragged clothing—behind manned gates and hedges Florida all ablossom. Had this boy lugging been aware he might have had a game with his pals in the alleys with a plastic or cardboard ball—holes in the roads available.
         Ten thousand to one the kid had no idea why the piece terminated in that stupid lump you couldn't get a grip on. Gila—crazy.
         The matter should not have taken so long to guess. In this case the author had been slow. Enterprising lads. At the first sign of the downpour up the boys had run from their slum carting their best show umbrellas for the business with the Mall people caught without. People needing cover for return with their shopping to their cars and apartments; office-workers to their towers; women in fine gossamer orange-blossom dresses, curled hair, heels that forbade running.
         One or two of the brolleys stood in the hands of these urchins like spears or javelins. The golfing example for instance. Somewhere not too far distant from the Malls a fellow had once upon a time putted over a tricky green toward a hole on a course while an attendant held this particular umbrella over his crouched, concentrated figure.... Curled around the cup and out! — Damn! Wouldn’t you know.... — Bad luck sir. That was in.
         One bright-eyed drowned rat returned to the concourse carrying notes in his little mitts. A generous customer. Across the way Lotteria's bright luscious colours advertising burgers and fries. RightO. In we go then.
         Three million children live in Jakarta, either at school or working. Recently Jokowi—Joko Wiwodo—the new Governor of the capital—likely the next President of the Republic - recently announced a plan to make the city child-friendly, as he had apparently previously managed in Solo, central Java, during a term as Governor there. Green spaces, policing abuse and exploitation, &etc.
         Dusk out front of the hospital on Jalan Tubun the scamps stage impressive kite-flying competitions. Carrying their pieces under their arm they march across to the grassy plot and slowly unwinding let fly. When their birds catch a drift they can be hoisted sixty, seventy metres in the sky, riding the currents, soaring on high. (One recalls LKY in Singapore reminiscing about his own kite-flying days as a little boy—if the man could be believed.) Older lads in mid-late teens come up from the slums on their bikes bringing caged pigeons to release two-handed in a thrusting gesture before them out front of Thambrin City, possibly because of the slight rise.

NB. In the chief item on page one today headlined:  Stunted, overweight generation: “Indonesia is facing the double burden of malnutrition that refers to the coexistence of both malnutrition and overnutrition affecting its children’s health…. A third of children under five stunted…. 36% of children under the age of five in Indonesia suffer from stunted growth…. This means that stunting rates are lower in Vietnam (23%) and the Philippines (32%)…. Indonesia is equal to much poorer countries, such as Myanmar (35%), Cambodia (40%) and Laos (44%)."
                                                                                                                Jakarta Post Thursday July 11, 2013

Burger and Fries (Jakarta) - published by NWW Feb 2022

Fat Budi the turd put one over in the fare out to Irwan’s kampung in South Jakarta. Three hundred thousand initially quoted; half-hearted challenge led to fifty reduction.

Two hour ride. Traffic. Benzene alone would cost him Rp100k, fat Budi the fuck lied. (The return cab totalled Rp75k.)

A few days before during an exploration of old Batavia near the port the prick had the damage from an accident he was responsible for voluntarily paid. (Two hundred thousand Rupiah split with another passenger—$AU25. Chinese Madame in a Toyota with Indo driver.)

An hour saw us arrived at Jagakarsa, outer south of the city. Trafficless toll-way. Narrow pot-holed streets. Hundreds upon hundreds of darting motor-cycles, riders angling up on the wrong side of the road.

Low-rise ramshackle buildings, screened stalls at that early hour. The one sight was the 7am Bogor train with the newscast image of passengers up on the roof under the cabling.

The Jagakarsa kampung was a kampung in name now only, an administrative relic. Irwan’s father had bought the house a number of years before from the proceeds of a modest motor spares business. Four or five room dwelling on 300sqm. With earnings from a few years on the international cruise ships and in partnership with an auditor brother, Irwan had bought two small neighbouring shops on the main drag, where a small cell-phone business was established. The auditor lived in Bandung; two other siblings with children in the house with Irwan and their parents. All smooth sailing until Irwan was widowed during his wife’s delivery.

Small traders along the road; the mosque where Irwan and family worshipped new and well-presented; a vegetable market. A short distance away a plantation of trees was difficult to identify initially. One looked for coconuts, despite the fact these were not the common type. Finally, the memory of the pisang at Mersing in Malaysia a year previous. (Bananas were out of season.)

Close by the market a roof on an impressive double storey house bore some kind of mounting high on the ridge. Clearly not a garuda—the mythic eagle-like totem in Java. Closer inspection showed an enlarged black and white crowing cock, a beauty.

We drank heavily sweetened teh in the sitting room that lacked a television (the box sat in the adjoining room). Delicious home-baked chocolate cake was served. Irwan had been implored, No feast please, no special reception. A short visit—a first in a Muslim home—merely to consolidate the friendship and visit a Javanese kampung. (One had vainly hoped for rice paddies, even in present-day Jakarta..)

Half through the visit a chap turned up on a motor-cycle needing to talk to Irwan. Some matter requiring attention. Irwan excused himself for five minutes. Enough time for the brief exploration—banana plantation, crowing cock, &etc. Unexpectedly at a news-stand a current edition of the Jak Post, not easy to find even in Tanah Abang.

Strolling in the shade casually, on the opposite side of the road there was Irwan’s mother, was it? Yes, footing back toward the house.

Helloes across the traffic. Hello. Hello. A couple of small white paper bags waved aloft.

Yes, yes. A little turn around the neighbourhood, back soon. Circling in the air with a finger.

The woman had no English and the Bahasa Malay learnt in Singapore was dicey in Java.

At home Irwan was waiting. Conversation resumed.

How to explain a writer’s life? Man traveling solo without family of any kind. No sign of the wealth like the cruise ship passengers that were Irwan’s index.

Feverish work Irwin; little dollaro you can believe what I say, my man.

Halting communication that was interrupted by the mother’s entry with another plate, carrying two small paper bags.

Please. Please.

Ah. But…

Hamburger and fries, Irwan announced.

Hamburger? And fries?…

Oh. Well. Thank you.

The mother had been picked in a trice, the very first moment. The way she angled her head, hunched her shoulders somehow and sought you out with reaching eyes. That outward flow like a river in flood was known. There was a definite type in any kampung the world over.