To Market, To Market

Suddenly, just like that, we’re on the downward slope of our time here.  A handful or two of months.  A bushel of weeks. The clock is ticking insistently.

With the dwindling weekends and not quite enough time or money to get away out of town, I decided to explore some of of Jakarta’s markets recently.  

One rainy day headed to Tanah Abang, the city’s “Arab district.”  One of the older areas of town.  This

walk started in the goat market. That’s right. In this city of 15 million, 24/7, if you need to buy a live goat, this is the place to come. You can get a sheep or a cow, too, and probably a water buffalo if you wait around long enough. They’ll butcher it for you on the spot or you can take it home and do it yourself.  How?, you ask.  Like this.

A few meters down is a chicken market.  Here chickens are processed and distributed to all the myriad of food sellers in the area.  There are thousands of pounds of chicken parts and pieces.  I think I got there late for the actual deed of killing, but there were plenty of carcasses. .

Further on from there is a place where fruits and vegetables are cut and cleaned for the same food vendors.  Carrots peeled.  Mangoes cleaned. Coconuts husked.  Hundreds of well armed people hacking away and vegetable matter.  And all the scraps go on a ever growing compost pile in the middle.  Let me say that between the rain, the goats and chickens and the rotting vegetation, I picked the wrong day to wear sandals.  

It was off to the textile market.  On the way the road was blocked by a wedding.  Apparently you can do that here. Just block off a whole street.  I was forced to detour down what appeared to be a hallway.  A dark and dingy hallway about 3 feet wide.  But once inside was actually a major thoroughfare with countless cramped rooms and apartments.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking through people’s living and bedrooms.  Rickety ladders led away higher to other nooks and crannies.  It was fascinating.

Strolled briefly through the zinc market with tiny metal tea sets, chickpeas and a huge variety of dried dates for sale.  Then it is across the street to main market at Tanah Abang.  This place is a marvel. Some nine floors covering more than a city block, chocked full of stall upon stall of clothing and textile vendors.  This is where, Indonesian retailers come to shop for products and supplies.  

If you want a full size range of hello kitty shirts. This is your place.  If you want a case of 8” red zippers, this is the place.  Need a few yards of camoflage fabric.  There is one stall with nothing but.  It is mind boggling how there can be such a demand for such specific items, but within minutes of opening, they are moving products.  They have special porters to help people load their purchases into their cars.  It is a buzz.

The following day we head out to another area known for two things, gemstones and birds.  

The new gemstone market replaced the old gemstone market which was apparently just rows of old shacks and houses.  The new building was 4 stories tall and sectioned off into individual stalls selling all manner of precious and semi-precious stones and jewelry.  I’m sure there were some really nice gems. I’m sure there were bits of glass. You’d need a geology degree or a great deal of trust to spend a lot of money here. Prices seemed pretty impressive.  One shop was nothing but silver chain.The price of a nice length necklace was a few dollars.  In one of the lower corners was a room full of stone cutters and polishers.  All just sitting waiting for a job to do.  Some were polishing, some were reading the papers. All were smoking.  Seems people buy rough stones out on the main floor and then bring them here for finishing and then people mount them however they want.

After wandering for a couple floors, it was on to the bird market

This was down the road a ways and situated behind a giant pharmacy market which in itself might be worth an explore.  4 stories full of Depends and antibiotics and mystery creams and ointments.

The Bird market is possibly the largest in the world.  The Indonesians love having pet birds.  Walk

through a village and up and you see bird cages everywhere.  Even in the poorest neighborhoods, houses will have a couple ornate wooden cages with wonderful songbirds contained within.

This Bird Market is where many of them come from.  Brought in from throughout the archipeligo, they’re fed, bred and displayed for a rabid buying public.  Walking up you can hear them and the closer you are, the louder the cacophony becomes.  Walking around the periphery, it’s fascinating.  A rainbow of color and sound.  Some stalls sell just food. Some are making and selling the bamboo and wood cages.  

Dive into the interior and the sound is deafening.  Yet, hundreds of mostly men, are wheeling and dealing in poultry.  Bird cages are stacked 10 feet high. One man is in the corridor training his pigeon to return to his mate, apparently so he can race them.

One man walks up and puts a thumb sized sugar glider in our hands.  We see Loris. Adorable and big-eyed, but it’s teeth are tinged with poison that it gets from a patch on its elbow.

Once your eyes adjust it becomes quite clear that people are sleeping  in these stalls with their stock and then slowly you become aware of the feathers, and shit and then you feel something hit your head and your become attuned to how thick the air is with bird dust.  You have images of how maybe this is where an Avian flu epidemic may start…. And then it is time to go.  

Not sure I’d go back.  Except to get an owl.  I saw a bad-ass 5 inch tall owl that the shopkeeper had taught to dance.  I might brave the market again for that.

Jakarta Outside the Box

A few rapidly digested thoughts on Jakarta.

We heard about the disturbance in Jakarta about 30 minutes after the initial blast.

We check on each other.  We check on the kids who are, chronologically, an hour or so away.  The school is locked down.  We are locked down for an undetermined amount of time. The emails and notifications fly out into the world. It is so wonderful to feel loved, but if we aren’t quick all our phones will be chirping up a storm and we’ve got work to do.

It is now that we start to think about all those warnings we had to have a change of clothes and some toiletries at work and maybe some snacks for just such an emergency. We received word that the convenience store downstairs was closing early despite hundreds of hungry, captive workers promising a banner day. Note to self, cache some snacks.

It’s a surreal experience.  I know exactly where everything is taking place.  I pass by there twice a day. If not for the large bank building across the street, I might even be able to see what’s going on. But on TV, on CNN or the BBC or whomever, the booms and the puffs of smoke look so far away. Signals beamed up to space and down to London or Atlanta and then back to space and down to a local station and then to us.  The images from down the street have traveled a million miles to come a ten minutes walk away.

And that distance makes things more frightening.  I realized that I was much more frightened hearing the Paris attacks. Then, worried about loved ones, I hung on quick reaction news reports and tweets and my own imagination painted the worst of scenarios. Here in the initial hour or two there were tweets and numerous false reports of explosions throughout the city. It was remarkable to see how quickly rumors spread when we all have a node in our hand.

I ducked down the street for a meeting. The streets are quiet with far less traffic, but otherwise it is a regular day.  Partly cloudy and 88 degrees.  Just like every other day.  There are more police out. Bigger guns. But, the drink sellers and drivers are still out roaming the streets or sitting in the shade conversing quietly with each other.  If you didn’t see the TV, you’d think it was just a quiet afternoon.

Inside the box of a TV screen  it was Armageddon. Jakarta was rocked by terror, but was “rocked” the right word?  Yes, it looked tense and tragic at moments. Gruesome images and loops of any semblance of activity.  

But, just outside the box this was happening.  Leave it to the Indonesians to bring satay and mangoes to a gunfight. 

This guy is selling Satay 100 yds away. He's been selling for
40 years. 

This was captioned locally as "When you're
going to stop a terrorist, but damn, that mango
is dope!"

Perhaps,“rocked” wasn't the right word, but “startled” rather. Or, “unnerved”?

One day later, the debris was swept and the stains were all scrubbed.  The damaged Police outpost is boarded up with pictures of flowers and butterflies.  Talking heads coif their talking hair and check their talking teeth in the side mirrors of the myriad news vans parked at the site. Waiting for something to happen. 

Traffic slows now for them. The rest of us clot to get by and move on down the road.

How to Survive Jakarta

Happy New Year all!

It feels rather cheap to be doing this on this the first post of the new year.  I've been thinking about somethings, but I ran across the video below and I was really struck by it.  It captures the good and the bad in Jakarta in a good way and touches on some lessons that we could use in any city we're in.

Do click below!  Thanks, Soul Pancake, whoever you are.


How to Survive Jakarta

Shit My Staff Says, Vol. 3

I was riding to work one morning and after riding in silence for some time, my driver spoke during a pause in traffic.

“Excuse me, Pak. I’m sorry for the smell.”

I looked up from my phone. I didn’t smell anything.  “What do you mean?”  I braced myself.  As noted previously, given the ease with which people talk of bowel function here, I could be in for anything.

“Well, I have a sore on my leg…”  

Hmmm.  There definitely wasn’t the smell of a festering wound.  “Oh?”

Now, doctors are in strong competition with massage therapists here. They may be losing, too.  Massage therapists are the go-too folks for all sorts of ailments.  Sports injuries, aging, moderate traumatic injury.  All can be healed with a good massage.

“My massager tells me he can’t fix the sore on my leg.” Now, both the Mrs. and I work full time which means our driver is under utilized much of the time.  Several months ago, he asked if his “Massager” could come to our house to work on his leg as this massager was one of the best, but it was too far to visit our driver at his home.  So, we allow this to happen and apparently at undetermined intervals, this massager comes over and massages my driver on the floor of our garage.

He continued.  “My cholesterol too high. So, he make a...a...a paste with ginger and something.  It make my leg hot...and keep my, uh...uh…  hoses…clean.  So, then my blood flow better. But, there is a smell.”

“Well, I don’t smell anything, but do you need to see a doctor? Do you have diabetes?  I’m happy to pay for a doctor for you.”

“No, Pak.  I fine.  Just a sore, cholesterol and clogged hoses.”

The Donut Shop

A few evenings ago, I went to a wine tasting hosted by a group called Internations.org which is an expat group with chapters around the world.  People sponsor events and often you can find something like a dinner or movie or a travelling group so that one doesn’t have to go alone to things.  There is a pretty active group here in Jakarta.  Lots of local folks join as a way of networking.  If there is a group near you, check it out.

But the wine tasting….

It was all for beginners. No one there knew much of anything about wine and we worked our way through generous pours of 3 whites and 6 reds and very little food.

The group of us were sitting finishing our wine.  Myself, 4 Spaniards, 2 Chinese, a Japanese and 4 Indonesians.

I was speaking to an Indonesian woman. She asked.  “Do you know the Donut Shop?”

The music that had just started playing.  She spoke softly as many here do. The wine made me a trifle more deaf and the woman a little more slurred.  “What?” I replied.

She leaned in and asked again.  “Have you heard of the Donut shop?”  

We had been talking of restaurants earlier in the conversation, so I thought the conversation was continuing.  But, I didn’t know the place and said so.

“Donut shop and the Muslims?”

“Oh, Donald Trump!”

“Yes, of course, Donut Shop.  Can he stop all  Muslims from going to the U.S.?”

“Well, not yet.  He’s not President, yet.”

She continued. “I mean, I’m not worried.  I’m Protestant, but still I from Indonesia.  How will he know?”

Others joined in the conversation, firing question after question, mostly in an accusing fashion. “Do you support Donald Trump?  Do you actually know anyone else who believes as he does?  When is the election?”

“Next November.”

They all almost yelled in unison. “November? We’ve got another year of this?”  And then, “none of your choices of candidates are very good.”

I’ve mentioned this a bit before, but it’s at this point in conversations like this that you can see such apprehension on the faces.  America is the world leader. America the beautiful.  Truth, justice and the American way!  Land of the free. Home of Brave. Land of opportunity.

How does that reconcile with one man’s isolationist speech and media images of thousands of placards and postings supporting him? Civilians carrying arms in the streets. In foreign eyes, what does it mean for them when such paralytic divisiveness reaches the promised land?  What hope is there in the world?

I try and defend us.  I do.  “No, of course, we don’t all think that way!”  “Americans have lots of different opinions and we’re free to express them all, for better or for worse.” and “Guns are super fun to shoot!”

Over time, though I wonder about the chronic presentation to the world of such views and images. How will we be approached for help or to help?  Will anyone turn to America to go in on a business deal?

Regarding the recent Donald Trump statements, Spawn of S.A.M. #2 was asked earnestly by her Japanese friend at school the other day.

“Did you use to believe that before you got out of the country?”  This was from a young person.  Already our image may be changing. We may be turning away the world just when we need each other the most.

What Not to Wear

Mrs. Secret Asian Man said the other day “I hope you don’t mind.  I accepted an invitation to go hear Chinese classical music. ‘The Sound of Silk and Bamboo’”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought it sounded cool. We never go to these things and no one else wanted to go.”

“You wanna know why no one wanted to go?  Because it sounds like a nap. Have you heard Chinese classical music? It is sonorous”

So, three days later we head out from work a over to the event. She pulled out the official invitation from her purse.  The event was being put on by the Chinese Embassy and the home of a former president of Indonesia.  The dress code was “Lounge Suit”

“What’s lounge suit mean?  Is that more casual or more business casual?”  

“I don’t know”, said Mrs. S.A.M.

We rolled up to a very posh home and passed a woman in a long embroidered silk dress that looked very un-loungy.  

I’d left my jacket at the office.  I was, though, coincidentally wearing a tie I picked up in Hong Kong’s Stanley Market.  It was a more expensive one, too.  I distinctly remember picking it up off the 3 for 10 dollar rack instead of the 4 for 10 dollar rack. I hoped it made me look un-loungy.

We walked in and signed the guest book.  The lady there remarked, “Oh, you’re from the U.S. Embassy?  Will the ambassador be joining us?”

“Oh, no.  He couldn’t make it.  He sent us instead.”  That last bit was mostly in jest. I’m quite certain he had no idea who was coming.

We were early.  We mingled. We met a nice chap from a european embassy.  We met the father of a parliament minister. We met the head of the chamber of commerce. I was becoming only vaguely aware that this was a high falootin affair. All wore jackets or formal batik shirts.

The Chinese Cultural Affairs Officer walked up with a man in dark suit. It was the Chinese Ambassador to Indonesia.  

“Mr. Ambassador, this is Mr. And Mrs. Secret Asian Man from the U.S. Embassy.”

The ambassador looked at my Stanley Market tie with a hint of recognition, then held out his hand and looked me dead in eye and said, “There is some Chinese blood in you.”  

I could feel my throat closing.  He said it in the same tone the Darth Vader says, “Hmmm. The force is strong in this one.” 

And that was it.  My cover was blown. He said nothing else.  Merely moved to his seat and the program began with a warm and gloriously introduction of distinguished guests including from The United States Embassy.  

And it was at this point that I realized how many photographers there were, for they all pointed at us and would continue to do so for the remainder of the evening dousing any chance for a classically induced slumber.  If you google, “#HeDidn’tWearTheCheapestTie” I’m sure you’ll find us.

Clearly you can take the boy of the country, but not the country out of the boy.  I’m sure there were numerous other breaches of protocol and I’m looking for a crash course on finishing school and what not to wear or to wear.

Fish Kill

I was exchanging money the other day at the Embassy.  I waited in line behind one person who was chatting to the cashier.  When it was my turn the cashier started chatting to me as well.

“Doc, that guy who was just here he got so sick from eating the fish.  You know the fish?  He ate them!”

A side note here... the number of people here who talk openly of their diarrhea is astounding.  I can number on 1 or 2 handfuls a day, the number of acquaintances and total strangers who reveal their bowel issues.  Co-workers over lunch.  Money changers.  Cab drivers.  Waitstaff.  WAITSTAFF!?

And it’s not just the Indonesians. We all do it.  

“How was your night, Vickie?”

“Well, I was up a lot.  I was a little loose.  Actually, I was a lotta loose.”

“Eh….a… I watched “House of Cards”.

But anyway, a week and a half ago there was a fish kill. Millions of fish washed up onto the shores of North Jakarta. This happens around the world from time to time.  I’m not sure that they found the exact reason for this fish kill, but there was an announcement by the government in the media that the fish was not harmful to eat.  

“My husband and my son were both sick. All the guys on the 12th floor are sick.  I think all because they ate the fish.  Why does the government say things like that?”

I told her they seldom can tell what causes things like this to happen. Often it’s because of fertilizer run off causing plankton or algae to bloom and suck all the oxygen out of the water.  Sometimes it is some other toxic waste. Sometimes it’s sewage washing out to sea.

“However the fish died”, I said, “it’s never a good idea to eat something that washed up dead on the shore.”

“Aw, doc. How we gonna know?”

“Yeah.  I’ve sworn off fish for a few weeks.  Maybe you should to.”