One Last Walk

Last entry was supposed to be a goodbye. My last entry from Jakarta. But then I went for a walk the other day and this all happened.

After work, I needed to get some pulsa, prepaid money on my phone. With a short time left, I figured I'd need about 4 dollars worth of data and calls.  There's a man in the village across the road who makes his living recharging money on phones.  For $0.15 per transaction, he'll put whatever amount you want on your phone. You have to give him the money, of course. His shop is about 10 minutes away.  I took the long way home so all in all it was a 30 minute walk.

This is all that I saw in my very short stroll.

I opened the tall gate at the end of my driveway and found the security guard bent over clutching a good size rooster in his hands.  Blue and green in plumage with a bright red crown.  The rooster, not the guard.  The skinny patriarch of a family that lives in a narrow lean-to crack between two houses down the block was stringing twine around the birds legs.  The rooster waited surprisingly patiently.

“Ah...  Dinner?” I asked.

“Yep.”  said the guard with a smile.

Halfway down the block a trio of 20 or 30-somethings was briskly walking toward me, head in their phones.  I saw that they were chasing Pokemon, which has taken Indonesia by storm as well.  This is unusual in that Indonesians don’t tend to move briskly anywhere. It’s too hot to move fast, so they saunter or sit.  This is a population that culturally uses the elevator to go down one floor.  It was good to see these guys getting some activity.

Down an alley by the pulsa shop, walks a 6-foot transvestite in a bauble-laden turban and a full length red velvet dress.  She has a small,  battery-powered speaker slung around her neck.  In one hand is a mic, in the other a silk purse that’s open.  She’s strolling down the alley crooning for small change. She serenades a group sitting on the steps of the mosque.  Most of them donate.  Who says all Muslims are intolerant. It is show time!

And then there are these guys.  I see them at dawn. I see them at dusk. They march around hustling and singing a song while they do it. I often hear their echoes in the evening or on the way to work.  This time I caught a snippet on film. Click the link below

Street Musicians Near Senopati 

Walking back to my gate I asked the guard.  “Where’s the chicken?”

He drew two fingers across his throat.

“Did you eat him?” 

“Not yet!” Then he laughed.  “Okay, Mister!  Have a good evening.”

And that is a 30 minute snippet of Jakarta Life. There is no way you can catch it all!

The Trouble with the Gays

It’s been just six weeks since the bombing and shooting in Central Jakarta, so it is understandable that the country is in an uproar about… the gays.  All the other letters are causing a stir too. The Ls. The Bs. The Ts.  All of them are lumped into the gays.  

I left the country for a few weeks and when I came back I found that this was the hot topic in Jakarta.  The issue with the gays.  They’re foreign influencers, they say.  It’s part of a proxy war.  It’s all a plot. Like invasion of the body snatchers. Perfectly health heterosexuals have been kidnapped and replaced with exact, but maybe better dressed replicas. They’re among us trying to sway us to their ways.

In addition, to outside influences, people have laid blame on poor parenting and curiously, Instant Ramen Noodles which are a staple in the diet here.  

Imams have gone on record as saying gay activity is forbidden.  Gays are evil monsters who prey on children. Politicians while agreeing with the Imams, are quick to discourage any violence toward them. Though they may be monsters, but they’re our monsters.  Human monsters.

There is a variety of proposed remedies.  Religious scholars say that the weak just need to pray more.  In response some districts have increased the length. of the school day in order to allow time for more religious instructions. Vitamins are being sold to students to make it easier for them to stay awake for more praying.  The vitamins it turns out are often speed or meth. This in a country where selling drugs is punishable by death. It is just crazy!

Speaking of crazy, Indonesian psychiatrists have progressed up to the 50’s and have declared homosexuality as a mental illness that can be treated. Some offer rehabilitation themselves or referral to mosques. Experience God’s love is the first step to a cure. You can read more about this here

Keep in mind there is a long history of acceptance of the trans-gendered.  To the point that there was an Islamic school that taught only trans-gendered students. It was forced to close last month amid the furor.  

There was a list published a while back allegedly from some higher up person or other that gave

How to spot a gay

information on how to identify gay males in your midst.  Among the clear identifiers, Men who are clean, take lots of selfies and wear…… V neck t-shirts. ?!?  I wish I were making this stuff up.  

There has been recent banning or discouragement from allowing effeminate TV presenters in any role. It is still unclear about how this is defined. For the moment, male presenters are maybe a little more slovenly and wear crew necked shirts.  

I wonder, does this mean the terrorists are winning?

(Any views above, expressed or implied, are solely my own observations and not those of any other entity.)

On Topik

Walking to the fruit store late one afternoon, we found a much less trafficked, safer path. We passed several Kaki Limas parked on a street corner.

Kaki Lima means 5 legs, and is the name of of the food cart vendors that are ubiquitous in Indonesia.  With their two wheel, foot stand and a man’s two legs, from afar they look like they have 5 legs. They serve noodles, rice, tempeh and soup, just about any form of food. I’m told the food is good, but hygiene standards are often lacking.

One of the men on the corner called over to me like a hawker at the fair. This is kind of unusual as mostly when we walk by, we are regarded quietly, sometimes with a smile.

But this guy called out in loud English, in a gravelly voice shaped by far too many filter-less cigarettes. 

“Hey! Come get nice fresh coconut milk!” He was waving a young, green coconut and a machete and smiling.

We walked over. “I don’t know if we can. We’re American. We have the stomachs of wimps.”

“Oooh, America… Barack Obama”  

This is what everyone here says when you tell them you’re from America. “Barack Obama!  He love Nasi Goreng! He live Indonesia.  He love Indonesia!”  Bilateral relations between our two countries are going to suffer a setback when he leaves office. Trust me.

Anyway, he gravels on.  “Coconut milk, all clean, all natural, no water, no ice, all coconut!”  I’m telling you it was like being at the fair.

“How much?”

“For you? $0.90.”  I’m sure he was inflating the price, but I said okay.

He picked up his machete, whacks the fruit over a plastic container and poured out the water.  A cloud of flies scattered.  Gulp!  He scooped out some of the flesh into the container.  “This will help you when you’re tired or dehydrated”

Then he dumped the whole thing into a clear plastic bag.  This is an Indonesian thing.  Liquids like soups or drinks are all served in plastic baggies tied up with rubber bands. He handed it off to me “Enjoy!”

I asked, “What is your name?”

“My name? My name is Topik.  You know, when you want to have a conversation you need a Topik!”

Later, walking back from the store we passed by again. It was growing dusk.  

He called from across the street.  “Mister, you like my coconut?!”

I held up the bag.  “I’ll try it at home!”

“Yes, okay mister!  Try it after your walk. Then...you will seeee...the vitaliteee... of da Coconut!”

Lombok

Here is your travel tip of the week…

Go to Lombok.  Bypass Bali and head to the next island down the chain.

Why? Well, the island had been described to us as what Bali used to be like many years ago, and I’d definitely say it is more laid back.  

It is easy to find small villages of bamboo huts (and satellite dishes)  We stopped by one village that

had a weaving cooperative.  There was one woman weaver in her 50s who spoke no English and no Indonesian.  Rather she spoke a traditional Sasak language.  Indonesia has been an independent country for 70 years, so this woman’s been living remotely well enough and recently enough without any exposure to the national language.

Traffic is far less,so far.  The island is big, so it still takes a while to get places though.  The roads are small and wind through forests with troops of monkeys and at times are clotted with herds of water buffalo.

Wait, did he say water buffalo?!  Yes! Where do you see water buffalo?  Right there on the flipping road.  And, can I say that a baby water buffalo is pretty darn cute.  

They still use these animals to plow fields.  They are slowly being replaced by tractors, but because of the way water buffalo walk and how deep they step, the grass and the weeds grow back slower, so, though the tractors are easier and eat less, farmers have to spend more time weeding in the fields.  

Besides the beasts of burden, many people get around by cart and horse.  In true rural fashion, the cart and horse drivers sometimes gather on Sunday afternoons and drag race their horses and carts. In fact, on occasion they’ll hitch up their buffalo and race through the fields.

I am telling you. You gotta get here.

Now, if you’re not into scenes of pastoral weaving or machismo, they have standard island fare as well.  

Beaches are many and vast. Kuta Beach and Senggigi are nice and long and fairly clean. Kuta beach still has room at one end for motor scooter races by some of the locals.  It looks easy to find your own isolated beach with very few people.  

Surfing is good, as is diving and snorkeling.  We’re told it’s some of the best. Alas, a communication misfire kept us from trying, but we’re are headed back.

There is a nice waterfall hike that most people could do and the more adventurous can hike 2 to 3 days

to the top  Indonesia’s 2nd highest volcano.

But, get here fast!  It is not totally pristine.  Touts and tourist traps and karaoke dives are cropping up.  The dozing giant of development has one eye cracked open.  The Sheraton is there and it is pretty posh. It is just a matter of time, before others come.  

In one area of the island they’ve started illegally mining for gold, chewing up water resources and indiscriminately pouring mercury over the earth.  Everyone is aware of the damage this can cause, but in the words of our driver, “Safety is #10 in Indonesia.”  The government has come around and given out warnings, but there are no attempts to hide any of this activity.  

I don’t want to put anyone off.  My point is, before the rivers run dark and the weavers die off and the water buffalo babies move off to greener pastures, take the short ferry from Bali, or fly to Lombok direct and check it out.  Maybe we’ll see you there.

Here are some high points for you….

Coco Beach Warung.  Very nice relaxed place to enjoy the beach and the sunset.  Great food. Great prices.  Great staff. Could sit here all night.  Bring bug spray though.

http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g297733-d1199751-Reviews-Coco_Beach-Lombok_West_Nusa_Tenggara.html

The Studio Villa.  Up the hill from Sengiggi Beach.  A little hard to get to/from, but taxi’s are cheap and easy to get with staff’s help.  Nice views. Attentive Staff.  Fresh breakfast prepared in your villa every morning!  http://www.thestudiolombok.com/

Trisna Transport.  Fairly reasonably priced driver and tour service. English speaking guide.  Pretty knowledgeable about the surroundings. Very flexible and easy to work with.  Trisnatransport@gmail.com  or www.lombokpanoramatour.com

Scuba Froggy.  While we didn’t dive with them we had some dealings and they seemed fair and better yet, safety conscious which is good when there is no great medical care on the island. http://www.scubafroggy.com/

America: Head and Shoulders Above the Rest

Secret Asian Man returned to North America for a brief time recently for work and pleasure.

It was so refreshing to walk in cities with only limited amounts of trash in the streets.  Clearish streams and rivers instead of chalky-silver fluids running in blackened streambeds. Driving within the lanes at speed without fear of hitting stray cattle or pedestrians or motorbikes.

Now, Indonesia is not a poor country from a resource vantage point.  Plants sprouts instantly out of the soil even with the pollution.  Food grows year-round.  There are vast natural resources.  

But, their resources do not compare to the abundance found in America.

Mrs. S.A.M did not accompany me, and so, sent a list of things she wanted from the Land of the Free including Head and Shoulders shampoo.  I marked one day as a shopping day and headed to Target, the home of all things abundant even when one is not coming from a place of scarcity.  

In the shampoo aisle, I found myself wishing for an abundance of time for there was a 6x6 wall of all manner of Head and Shoulders. I was absolutely paralyzed.  

I reached for the “Classic” version, but paused as my eyes roamed my other choices.

I knew that that I didn’t want to smell like “Green Apple.”  I don’t think that anyone should.

I pondered what “Ocean Lift” smelled like.  Did I want that?  I was about to crack open a package for a sniff when I caught sight of the Head and Shoulders/Old Spice version.

Now, I liked the boisterous attitude of that muscled Old Spice Guy and I’d been trying to work on my abs.  Perhaps this shampoo was my key to a washboard gut.  But, perhaps that was too much to ask for.

There was also H and S, Dry Scalp edition.  This seemed unfair.  For what is dandruff, if not, at least partly, a dry scalp.  What did normal Head and Shoulders do if it didn’t help with this anyway.  

There was 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner and also a version that conditioned while it cleans.

What?

And then there was size.  Do I get a jumbo size that might last me a year or a smaller size that lasts a few months?  The miser in me kicked in.  What was the price per ounce?

I tell you it was simply baffling.  It was a 15 minute process.

Going home, though was like slipping into a pair of your favourite jeans.  How comforting to know one could have anything and more?  I mean really, green apple scented shampoo?

It was nice to have a front porch to sit on.  In Indonesia, I sit behind 10 foot walls.  Everyone does.  Only the guards know the neighbors. Or, at least they know the neighbor’s guards.  On my porch, I get to chat with neighbors and watch the world go by.  

One evening, an obviously psychotic gentleman marched up and down my street all night. His mutters punctuated by persecutory rants about Vietnam.  He shook and rattled all the recycling bins, but never took anything from them.  I wondered what was going on in his altered reality.

That same night, another man, possibly just as psychotic and clearly quite inebriated wandered, zombie-like,  into the orange glow of the light overhanging  the intersection.  He paused and gave a far off stare before turning around and stumbling back down the middle of the street into the darkness.  A friend and I followed him and watched him pass out in some bushes just before the police rolled up to assist him.

As noted here before,  here in Indonesia, the mentally ill are often locked up out back of a family’s home and kept out of sight and out of harm’s way.  In America, it seems, our mentally ill are cage-free, free-range and clearly unmedicated.  In a country of abundance, there has to be some happy medium somewhere.

Ah, but ain’t that America.

From the Tropical to the Mundane

From last post’s tropical to this post’s mundane.

S.A.M decided we needed a bank account.  Most people we’ve run into just use their U.S. accounts and withdraw cash with an ATM or cash checks.  But after putting down some roots it’s become more evident that an Indonesian bank account would be quite helpful.

One is the safety of our staff.  We’ve been paying them in cash and at the end of the month we send them home with small bricks of bills.  If we could transfer the money electronically, it would be a lot more secure.

There are also lots of extra discounts linked to a local bank account.  If you buy a meal at a restaurant you can save 10 or 15% just by using a card from a local bank.  The local Krispy Kreme has good deal going now. 6 donuts for the price of 4.  Just for telling them you’re a customer and showing them your card.

Also, for reasons that are unclear to me, the use of credit cards has not caught on to the same degree as back home.  Many places don’t take credit cards or if they do, they charge upwards of 5% for the privilege.  Plus, often they won’t take credit cards from foreign banks which makes it hard to buy things like airline tickets or hotel rooms.  You can, though, freely transfer money electronically from account to account with no fee and almost instantly. Wire transfers are much more common.

So, I looked around and asked around and got the inside scoop from a colleague who warned me that there would be some frustration.  There are a number of local banks, but I went on recommendations and the fact that I saw branches and ATMs everywhere.  My friend told me the branch that he went to which was also a branch where many expats go, so they have a lot of English speaking staff.

Off I went in pursuit of a rekening. That’s Indonesian for Bank Account.

Step 1.  I ducked out of work early to head to the suggested branch.  I was told getting and account could take a while so I allowed 2 hours.  I arrived at the bank at 3:09 pm to find the doors closed and the last customers filing out.  They close at 3 pm every day.  Huh.  Strange for a bank.  The bank is in a mall though and they’re open on Saturday.  The staff at the door assure me that the bank will open at 9 AM.

Step 2.  I return the next day at 9:45 to find a line of 60 other people who must have been told the bank opened at 9 AM, too.  It opens at 10.  Curiously, there is a neat and tidy queue winding down the mall until 9:55 when stragglers walk up and crowd at the door.  Just like in the streets.  When the doors open, the queue collapses and there is a mild crush toward the counter.

Step 3.  I make my way to the Customer Service Counter which, thankfully, has a smaller line.  I take a number I wait my turn.  Two men roll up with a small trolley and 2 one meter cubes of cash.  They’re guarded by what appears to be a 17 year old in a guard uniform holding an AK-47. They take the cubes o’ cash into the back room.  The armed teen waits outside.

My number is called.  I stepped up and made my request for a bank account.  I showed them my documents and all things seemed to be in order.  Something changes my agents mind, though, and she asks where I work.  I tell her and she says that that is kind of far away from this branch and that they usually only service customers in the immediate area.  I ask her if all the banks are linked with computers.  She assures me they are.  I ask if I can’t then just open an account here.  She tells me I cannot.  I say that I can walk to my work from here, maybe it is close enough?  She shakes her head and offers me the location of another branch closer to where I work that is not open on weekends. I tell her where I live which is actually further away from this bank.  She tells me that, alas, I live on the wrong side of some arbitrary boundary. She gives me the name of several branches, one of which is in another mall close to my house.  She thanks me for coming.

Step 4. Banks in malls are open when malls are open, and if malls are open on Sundays, then so are the banks.  I decide try again at the mall close to my house.  I find that there is no such bank branch there as she claimed, but only an ATM.  Grrrr.

Step 5. I go to another mall nearby.  Have I ever mentioned that there are more than 93 malls in this city. Not strip malls, either.  Full on, multi storied, multi-anchored malls with fountains and marbles and countless escalators. This will be my 3rd mall in 3 days.

Step 6. I walk into the customer service area and I ask to open an account.  The woman looks at my documents and says that yes they can help me.  She stands up and switches spots with a young man.  “We are exactly the same.  I will help you now.”  I think it is because his english is better.  

I have to mention that this man is gorgeous in a completely feminine way.  Definitely a man, but with sparkle.  Glittery rings and tasteful accents on his shirt. It is stunning.

He confirms that they can help me and he pulls out the needed forms and starts filling them out. He asks me some questions.  There is light banter with the other woman who seems to be advising him. Everything seems to be going smoothly.  

He gets up to have the bank manager sign off on the account and he returns with a dejected look.  “I’m sorry, Mr. S.A.M, but my manager says we can’t open an account because you don’t have an Indonesian Tax ID number.”

I ask, “Why do I need one of those? I don’t pay Indonesian Taxes.  I don’t get paid in Indonesian money. My friend just opened an account with this bank and he didn’t need a number.”  

He and the other woman nod their heads and agree with me. Off he goes to confer with the manager.  

He returns.  “I’m sorry, Mr. S.A.M, but we can’t open an account because you don’t have the proper ID.  Maybe you can get a proper ID from your boss.”  The woman next to him quickly disagrees with this and sends him back to the manager to explain the manager’s errors in thinking.

He returns looking more confused.  “I’m very sorry, Mr. S.A.M, but the reason we can’t open your account is because you don’t have a Indonesian Tax number. If you get that number, then we can open an account for you.”

“But, I’m confused.  Why didn’t my friend need a number when he opened his account?  Where would I even get such a number?” And, given the state of bureaucracy, how long would that even take?

Pretty man looked at me sympathetically and said, “....Or, you could come to the branch that I work at during the week and we can open an account for you no problem.”  He gave me the address of his place.  

I told him I was confused. “So, if I want an account from here today, I need a special number, but if I come to your branch tomorrow, I don’t”  He empathized and looked equally confused. “Yeah.  Different branches have different rules, I guess.”  

His partner assured me of the same and we parted ways.

Step 7. I return to the bank branch that he and his coworker staff during the week.  It is close to the nightly cake market.  From 2-7 am people sell small cakes and cookies for consumption the following day. It is also wedged in the heart of one the main red light districts of the city.  I’m beginning to understand why the banker man is so beautiful.  He may have a side job with a short commute. Today he is dressed more bankerly, but there is definite lip and eye liner.  His nails are long, freshly buffed and polished.  He and his fingers are impossibly long and thin.  I’m going to call him Skeezix.

It’s first thing in the morning, and while I wait, women stroll in and deposit the night’s take into the banks of ATMs on the wall.  Must have been a busy night.

Skeezix and his partner Any are happy to see me. Just like before, Any starts helping me and then they switch seats. As promised, they go about opening an account with only a few complications.  They scold me for not signing my name exactly as it appears on my passport. I’m made to sign everything again.  

The manager here has fewer rules and in fact, I don’t know that they were even consulted.

Skeezix pulls out a sheet of numbers and asks me if I want to pick out my own account number.  He answers my blank stare with “Maybe you have  lucky number?”   I take a look and try to find a number that’s sure to attract more money into my account. I wish I were more numerologically literate. Perhaps my luck would change.

I give them my money and they give me a receipt and just like that, I’ve got an account in under a week's time.   All I need to do is return in 1 week and pick up my ATM card and activate it.  

Past and Future Struggles.

Spending the weekend in Dili, just exploring.  Decided to learn more about the resistance and the Timorese struggle for independence.  Having been ripped off in little niggly bits by cab driver after cab driver, I decided against better judgement and against the post-humous wishes of my mother and probably those of my wife I rented a scooter for the weekend.  

There is one place in the country that arranges such transactions.  It is a the end of rutted dirt road that looks nearly impossible to cross except for a motor cross bike, but I found my way there and picked out an under-powered scooter.  Nothing that would kill me too fast.  We arranged all the paperwork and exchanged the money and I was about to ride off when the attendant said, “How about you let us replace the brake pads before you go?”  

Dude, I was 10 seconds from hitting the road with one brake?  You think you might have mentioned this sooner? “Yeah, how about let’s!. I’ll wait”

Brakes done, I’m ready to hit the open road.  First stop, the Timor Resistance museum where I learn some interesting facts.  

Here’s the brief version on Timorese independence.  Portugal had been the colonial ruler for 500 years until 1974 when there was a Coup in Lisbon and the Portuguese found themselves kind of preoccupied with things in the homeland.  So, they decided to offer independence to the Timorese.  There was some movement at the time toward this anyway.

The Indonesians, though were kind of worried.  They were fine with the Portuguese being there, but without them they saw the area as kind of backwards, poorly resourced and unable to manage itself.  They thought that an independent state would fail or become prey for some bigger unfriendly country like China or some other communist country.  They decided to take matters into their own hands.  

In 1974, they invade in a full scale assault with paratroopers and landing craft, the whole works. The Timorese had a few guns, but also, bows and arrows.  They shot many of the paratroopers out of the sky and this made the indonesians very angry and they proceeded to shoot many Timorese who retreated to the hills.  By the end of the first year the 600,000 population of east Timor was reduced by 23%.

There was ongoing struggle and strife.  Protests, massacres, torture, and suppression, the whole playbook.  This went on for 28 years until there was enough pressure that Indonesia finally relented and let Timor have its sovereignty.  By the time all was wrapped up it is estimated that 400,000 were killed or displaced

I took a tour of a local international school and was rather dismayed to hear that the rate of illiteracy amongst local children is between 60 and 85%.  That is ⅔ to ⅘ or more of the population CANNOT read. I was also troubled to find that 25% of kids drop out of school after the 1st grade. Not the 10th grade, not the 8th, not the 6th, but the 1st grade!  

This particular school gives 10% of its slots to local kids on a scholarship, but only after age 10. The problem is that before age 10, these kids are not really getting much quality instruction and so enter school with such a deficit in their education that they just can’t catch up.  This is such a shame because these kids could be the future leaders of this country, but they struggle to verbalize a complex thought.

One of the issues is that Portuguese is the official language, but very few of the schools teach it. They teach in Tetum which is what many people speak.  All the laws and contracts are in Portuguese, but the common people can’t read it.  Plus, the deplorable literacy rate compounds things, so that the general population can’t possibly comprehend abstract thought well and so how are they able to appropriately choose their government or make decisions for themselves?   

The invasion by Indonesia was on the premise that these people couldn’t govern themselves, but the invasion destroyed 90% of schools, it set back reading and language and presumably most of the 400K who were killed were the ones who were many of the thinkers in East Timor.  My question would be, haven’t you just created the vulnerable, under-resourced population you were worried about in the first place?

The 28 year struggle ended in 2002 and Timor Leste born.  In 2006 Indonesia gave Timor Leste this 120 foot, bronze statue of Jesus Christ seeming to melt over the globe in a hot wax works, meets the Cat in the Hat. The Indonesians, maybe wanted to say, hey, no harm, no foul, right?  Here’s a Jesus!  Jesus Shaves!  Oh, we know you don’t have any money and we aren’t going to give you any money to keep up this work of art, so 8 years later it will look kind of run down.  Enjoy your freedom!

Jilboob

Read a news article the other day about “Jilboob.”   This was not in the New York Times.

Jilbab, in Indonesia, is the wearing by women of head scarves and not the full flowing garment that middle eastern women wear. I’m told that the number of women wearing scarves has grown remarkably in recent years.

Reading about this, I have to wonder if this is what Cyndi Lauper was singing about with her big hit years ago.  “Jil bab, he bab a we bab….”

Anyway, here’s why they do it….

"Tell the believing men that they shall subdue their eyes (and not stare at the women), and to maintain their chastity. This is purer for them. God is fully Cognizant of everything they do. And tell the believing women to subdue their eyes, and maintain their chastity. They shall not reveal any parts of their bodies, except that which is necessary. They shall cover their chests, and shall not relax this code in the presence of other than their husbands, their fathers, the fathers of their husbands, their sons, the sons of their husbands, their brothers, the sons of their brothers, the sons of their fathers. They shall not strike their feet when they walk in order to shake and reveal certain details of their bodies. All of you shall repent to God, O you believers, that you may succeed." (Quran 24:30-31)

They don’t want to inflame the males.

Well, back to that article on “Jilboob”.  It drew back the veil on the phenomena of Indonesian women wearing a head covering to signify their chastity and modesty, but also wearing tight fitting garments that show off their curves in an effort to be in touch with their femininity.  It must be a real thing, ‘cause I saw it on the internet.

Walking around the malls and shopping area, you can see the discrepancies.  From the neck up, they’ve given themselves over to God. From the shoulders down, it’s OMG!.  And, the heels?!? How can they “not strike their feet when the walk in order to shake and reveal certain details of their bodies” with 5 inch heels?

This is just another of the contradictions that adds to the richness of this place, and indeed any place.