Jakarta: Sprawling City; Sprawling Narrative

Once settled into Jakarta, I found out that most travelers come to here to go somewhere else. The Lonely Planet had informed me as much, but I thought for sure I'd find a few things to keep me intrigued. I inquired at a tourist agency -- surely someone will try to take my money by telling me what I can do. Nope. Not only did the honest woman standing in front of a pricey package-tour billboard tell that me there is nothing to do in Jakarta except leave, she also informed me that traveling to the major tourism spots is "probably something you can do yourself". I wanted to say thanks for the vote of confidence but point out the weakness in her business strategy.

I had a list of things I wanted to do in Jakarta. Trade in some books to lighten my pack, work out a rough travel itinerary for the next month or so, and go shopping (yup, shopping). The first night I exchanged three books for two and paid about 6USD to finalize the deal. If I haven't said so before, used bookstores in Southeast Asia are a racket, maybe with the exception of Cambodia and Vietnam. There they sell cheap photocopies of classics and other books worth reading. Scold me for enabling copyright infringement, but reading a decent book beats an agonizing read of the endless supply of pop-fiction trash authored by the likes of Stephanie Meyer, Dan Brown, Lee Child, Stieg Larsson, et al. (Yes, I am a book snob).

Then I shuffled on over to an internet cafe to figure out my next destination in this part of the world, so long as my plan ensures a few months of Spanish language immersion in South America before I'm broke. Here's what I've figured out in that regard: Flights from Oceania (Australia and New Zealand) to South American are about twice as expensive as those leaving from Asia (2800USD versus 1400USD), so the quite visible hand of economics seems to be pushing me toward an Asian city departure. That is, unless I find a job that will offset the living costs and transportation to South America. Hence, I sent forth my minions of doom to determine the type of jobs available, pay, and expected costs of living. When they return, I hope to finalize my decision.

I also renewed my travel insurance for another 6 months after August 2011-- insurance I was sure had already expired this past February. Good thing too. On my walk back from the internet cafe I passed a mosque, in front of which was a pre-teen girl on a bike wearing a t-shirt with a big grinning Osama Bin Laden face on the back. I didn't make a point of trying to figure out what the front said, but I doubt it read "Thank you USA!".  Anyway, I guess that means February 2012 is when I'll be returning home to the states.

I decided it had been a while since I had a beer or conversed with a Western person. Using my keen sense of direction, I soon found a street that, after a much longer time, eventually led to a bar. An empty bar except a younger Indonesian women eating dinner and dressed sort of like a prostitute; a guy in a shadowy corner selling cigarettes; and behind the bar, an older woman with her face painted not that much different than a clown. Perfect. I got a beer anyway.

The younger woman welcomed me in. She told me that the woman behind the bar was the owner and her mother (age 70, I learned). The guy was her brother. The young woman introduced herself as Mercy, M.E.R.C.Y (she spelled it out since I didn't catch it the first time). I quipped, "Is that because you hurt a lot coming out?" No, she told me, it's the word for "thank you" in French. I pointed out that I think the French spell it with an "i". She ignored the unintentional offense, but it wasn't a great start to a conversation.

She asked me how I ended up at this particular bar. I said it was the first one I saw. She asked where I was staying and concluded that I must have passed a handful of bars on the walk. (Sure enough, on my walk back, I saw the other side of the street lined with cafes and bars). Next, we talked about places I had gone in the USA, or wanted to go to in Europe or South America. She had lived in all those places (Boston, SanFran, Quito, Amsterdamn, London). I asked her what she did for work. "Just working". I couldn't tell if she was telling the truth or trying to sound interesting. For the record, I don't know if she was or ever had been a prostitute, but assuming she was, I found it weird being surrounded by her family as if they'd be okay with me saying something like, "Okay, what's your rate?". At that, I had finished my one beer and rose to leave. She seemed disappointed, and I understood why, that bar was a living coffin.

The next morning in my hostel, Hostel 35, I realized that my room number was 35. As I putzed around drinking a tea, I noticed that the room list on the front desk didn't include my room. Creepy set of coincidences, eh? That's all there is to this paragraph.

BBQs and fireworks; and the oldest, they have soirees and costume parties).

Flying the Indonesian flag on the base of the monument. 

As I got closer, caravans of large armoured vehicles passed by, SWAT teams stood in the ready, and camouflaged military personnel lined the gates with large automatic weapons. Seeing such a sight, one cannot help but think that some shit is about to go down. I kept headed toward the monument but using the less densely occupied path ways, mostly so I could get away from all the curious but amicable stares that followed me. I got through the last throng of people to stand somewhere near the center of the park and take in the scene. 

Definitely hundreds of thousands of people, maybe as many as a million people, and I got there just in time to hear the conclusion of an especially passionate and threatening speech. Obviously, I didn't understand a word, but I do know that someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed -- that man was aaaangry. Then a horde of a few thousand pre-assembled and costumed protesters started a fist pumping march toward the empty space I had put myself in -- although I'm sure it was mostly symbolic. Some police circled nearby to guide their path through the park and I got to the side lines.

Pumped up rally-ers headed my way. 

Appreciative of my new found look at life, I decided I could appreciate the contents of the National Museum. There are two separate wings to the museum, a south and a north. The south wing is the older of the two with a 1950's decor, while the north wing uses a very modern decor. Otherwise, the exhibits topics and material are exactly, exactly, the same. Going to both is a waste of time, unless you like that feeling of standing and walking around a museum for too long. While there, a teacher politely asked me if I would speak to her middle-school students, which I briefly did, and I also checked out an art exhibit featuring metal roses.

Exhausted but still motivated, I took a bus ride to the north of the city in order to get closer to the major shopping mall, and pass through the Dutch quarters on the way. Well, the Dutch quarters are overrated and in my assessment, and a "mere fiftieth" would be a more appropriate designation. For as long as I could hold my breath, I walked along the fetid, opaque, trash filled stream that divides the city. I often ask myself in Asian cities, why not put a cover on top of the gutters and canals if they're going to be used as your waste disposal system?

I made my way to the mall to buy an assortment of patterned fabrics and doo-dads.

Psych. I bought a laptop. I've been think it'd be advantageous to have one if I head south to OZ or NZ, since wi-fi is usually free, while internet cafes are relatively expensive. Secondly, if I enroll in a Spanish language immersion class, I'd probably need a computer. Thirdly, my online gaming is suffering dramatically. And fourthly, when I write stories, I prefer to type. My only concern is becoming one of those reclusive travelers, which Ethan so aptly described in his Exeter Newsletter article. So no need to waste my energy rehashing similar opinions.