GET AMONGST IT

ANGST-FODDER FOR THE HOPELESS ROMANTIC: READ AND VOMIT

If you would like a more personal impression of the writer of the shit on this page, or an impression of what it is like to begin a long distance relationship, read ahead.  The cold, lonely, and vulnerable side to Princess Jakarta has surfaced this week and it’s been a battle and a half!

My amazing, beastly, gladiatorial and extraordinary boyfriend has gone to Australia.  Like the truly gallant knight he is, he has galloped into times of woe to hold his fort strong and honour his roots. Being left here alone in big, bad scary Princess Jakarta – a place where millions of hungry souls compete for a crust, peddle, pillage and rape the soil for the slightest taste of prosperity, hot-blooded (indeed, literally, these Western playboys are overly warm in the foreign climate) expatriate blokes patrol the night hungry and thirsty for wine, women and song, and friends with two faces hover around like a bad odour you just can’t seem to shake off – has been rather unsavoury.

Flying solo in the city where you fell in love is like being trapped in an isolation tank with nothing but bed of nails to sleep on. The absence of my partner in crime, my backbone, my handsome-as-fuck rock has been a painful and gut-wrenching experience (he hasn’t even been gone a day but whoever let time details obstruct a good story?).  My heart has been stolen and trafficked to Australia.  My soul has been ripped out and scattered across the Timor Sea.  I can’t eat, I can’t sleep (except for when I’m knocked off my chops on too much Bacardi/Johnny Black/Chivas, courtesy of above mentioned partner in crime), and most significantly, I can’t root.

Oh how fragile, how fickle, and how primal a woman’s mind, body and spirit can be.  The minute we parted company on that dreadful morning before he boarded the flight to the Land Down Under, my body was already beckoning for his embrace.  My insides were aching for his outsides, and the thought of all this had my outsides wetter than my insides.  And given that this was just the morning walk to the bus-station and onwards to the work-station, worse was yet to come.

The immediate withdrawal effects from the parting of lovers in turbulent times were horrendous.  I became a bi-polar corporate cow, switching from “commercial robot” to “comatose co-dependent” within minutes.  During moments of absolute stealth, when I managed to put on my imaginary power-suit (with killer shoulder-pads and cock-splitting stilettos), bloody oath did I pump out some good deliverables for my boss.  But during those fleeting moments alone whilst fetching a glass of water in between assignments, or sitting vulnerably on the dunny staring at the “dilarang jongkok di atas etc.” on the door, I would revert to a shell of a woman, spiralling down into an abyss of love, loss, and absolute yearning for the one that went away.

All day (and still to this moment) my heart was hurting and my emotions skyrocketing.  Pining for a loved one set in fast and intensified exponentially.  Reality became torture.  What would have been a normal, productive, dynamic and prosperous day in Princess Jakarta had become solitary confinement in the depths of Hell.

Before “two-became-one”, living in Princess Jakarta was putting along smoothly for me.  Weeks were spent working.  Weekends were spent partying.  Days were spent tanning and nights were spent sleeping.  Working nine ‘till five, socialising five ‘till nine, and, again “sleeping” nine ‘till five, we (“we” being myself and my narcissistic alter ego) had a pleasant and level-headed routine up and running.  Now it appears that the routine has turned into ruckus, as my significant other has exited the Jakarta Freak Show for an interval down south. If you see an Aussie looking zombie walking the streets of Princess Jakarta, that’s me! Over the next week I’ll be searching for my heart and soul that have been ripped out and scattered across the southern waters into the lovely sunburnt country next door.

Those of you who take pleasure in being swept away by a knight in shining armour into an urban fairy-tale with highs higher than high, and lows that are non-existent may relate to the tale of torment unfolding before you.  It’s collateral damage from diving into a milkshake of rainbows and butterflies and embracing the moments of long distance love and missing a person in all its melodramatic glory.  You know the milkshake is bad for your heart, childish, and of little sustenance to face the reality of life, but it tastes good – just like the feeling of missing someone you love.

THIS IS CHEAPER THAN A BANANA

It’s no wonder we have a diabetes epidemic storming through blessed Princess Jakarta. Our carb-levels are running head to head with Mr. Flavour Enhancer 621 and what the Indonesians morosely call “mononatrium glutamate”. I’m broke no joke and about to choke on these bucket-bad-boys for the rest of the week! At around IDR 3000 a pop (one does pay extra for the elite polystyrene cup), it is honestly the cheapest thing available to eat in JKT. But then again, the after effects of a hearty meal of cup-noodles on an empty stomach leave me thinking that I wouldn’t have been better off had I scoffed down a few sheets of my own toilet paper and cup of tea for lunch!

THE HEAVENLY OFFICE BOY

As an expatriate in Princess Jakarta, given the recent cull on foreigners in the Indonesian employment market I am extremely grateful to have a job here.  I stepped up to the challenge and dived into the rat-race.  Work was stimulating and colleagues were interesting.  I embraced the new, multicultural environment and all the unique cultural quirks that working in a foreign office had to offer.  But something caught me off guard and I am struggling to deal with the heirarchical reality of it.  I thought I had balls of steel until I was confronted with the moral dilemma of how to cope with our “Office Boy”.

The Office Boy is an over-qualified cleaner and an under-valued assistant in our workplace.  He is there to serve us desk-turds who are too busy to get our own cups of coffee, food, or fix our own staple malfunctions.  Everything from the dark ages of commerce, “Mad Men”, corporate sharks and office politics with a dash of servitude rolled into one, he is a combination of butler, secretary, cleaner, and cook, with the prerequisite of having a dick and the ability to stay quiet, take orders, and maintain an under-bearing smile that screams gratitude.

Correct – I have a dude at work who brings me anything I want, whenever I want, anytime I want. But despite the luxury of having a desk-servant at my beck and call to supposedly ease the stress and burden of powering the commercial steam-ship towards company prosperity, I am struggling with the concept and the ability to accept the service guilt-free and without feeling like a colonial king. We don’t have them in Australia.  Hell, we can’t even call a person a “boy” these days without being sued for discrimination, verbal assault or getting an old-fashioned knuckle sandwich.

How, then, can the term be so fondly used and liberally applied in our modern Jakarta corporate society?  The reality is that the Office Boy is a perfectly normal concept, highly sought after and fondly embraced in the Jakarta workforce.  Apparently, in Indonesia, we work so hard that we need someone in the office to do the all the dirty work.  We simply do not have the time to get off our arses and grab a glass of water.  We do not have the time to go to the canteen and get a bite to eat for basic sustenance.  We work so hard that we are incapable of plugging something into the wall underneath our own work desks.  And we are all so bogged down with obligations and responsibility that we do not even have the time to wash our own plates when we finish using them in the staff kitchen.  The solution to such a burdensome work schedule?  Hire an Office Boy and pay peanuts for it.

He kicks the shit with a smile and will bring you anything you request to your desk, speedy, sincerely and politely.  He may only speak when spoken to, and even when he speaks in response to being spoken to, he is as meek as a mouse.  And what is even more heart-wrenching is that he is kind, friendly, loyal, and not allowed to refuse any request that employees ask of him.  It’s too beautiful for words and too degrading to stand.

Having  an underling at my beck and call for a whole eight to (sometimes) twelve (or more) hours a day is a crippling problem for me because I expected that by the time that I had graduated from university and entered full-time employment, our workplaces would have been politically correct and non-offensive.  But you can’t get more politically incorrect than having a colleague and calling him the “Office Boy”.  “Office Females” do not exist, and the Office Boy isn’t really a boy because in the very least I am sure that Indonesia has partially accepted the basic international labour regulations that outlaw child labour.  And, since we’re nit-picking here, he technically isn’t working in an office – he’s the backbone of our entire company operations in Indonesia.

I can handle corporate superiors slicing my morale, burying my ego in a grave and breaking my balls all day long.  But FOR FUCK’S SAKE, I’m struggling with having an Office Boy. I can’t say that I haven’t asked the him to bring a few favours to my desk here and there.  But nonetheless, I feel guilty for using a personal lunch-mule. Having an Office Boy seems to be evolving into one of the greatest challenges that Princess Jakarta has thrown at me yet.

 

WHAT TO FEED YOUR HOOKER AFTER A HARD NIGHT ON THE PISS

You’re saying to the cabbie: Stop sini, Pak.  Berapa, Pak? Terima Kasih Pak.

You’re thinking to yourself: Thank fuck we made it back to base. Where the hell are my keys? Is that the mosque calling? Shit. Was I out THAT late?

Now here is the part where you choose your own adventure:

You have arrived at home/some random hook up’s joint: Whether you have a lady on your arm, a bloke dragging you up to his crib, retiring bored and lonely failing the game, mates crashing on your couch, or (in the most likely case) home late craving something big bad and hot to shove in your mouth because you couldn’t find it at Dragonfly/Immigrant/Stadium/Blok M/other seedy club (mind you, all clubs in Jakarta are seedy) – you have the DRUNKIE MUNCHIES!

Inebriated and hungry, your tastebuds have become an untapped erogenous zone.  No other realm burns hotter with desire for a big fat dump of lard.  The thought of a burger and fries gets you more wet than your beer drenched shirt.  Imagining a soft serve melting on your tongue gives you a bigger hard-on than the bird you brought home from CJ’s, and the idea of a crispy fried chicken drumstick does more for your imagination than the pins on the other one.   Before things get hot, heavy, balls-deep, kinky and stinky, you want food. And you want it instantly. I know you. You’re an expat, you will accept nothing less than chemically-infused tasty, junky, multinational corporate fodder in your belly.

Princess Jakarta is kind when it comes to satisfying your alcohol-induced food cravings.  In fact, she’s your personal fast-food-slave. How the fuck does one acquire hot fast-food to one’s door at 4 am in the morning?  The answer: In Jakarta, fast-food is delivered personally to you by scooter, anytime, anyplace, anywhere.  And I mean the big multinational corporate chains of mass consumption that back home in Australia and elsewhere normally make you step up to the counter or drive through in your car to get a bag of food.

In Jakarta, all you have to do is dial, order and wait. Then a friendly little man with a McDonalds on two wheels comes to your door and brings you to greasy and cheesy ecstasy.

Back home on Oz, rarely do big brands offer this luxurious, indulgent, obesity-feeding service. In Jakarta, we have become kings of convenience.

The refined palate of a boozed-up expat is well catered for in a city whose population thrives on classic fast food and eagerly devours new junk food concepts.  Popular choices for scooter-delivery are McDonalds, Domino’s Pizza, PHD (indeed, you do receive a Doctor of Philosophy with every order over IDR 50,000), Burger King and a whole lot more to sufficiently stuff your arteries. Get ready to waste away those hard earned salaries on regular junk-food binges and remedial gym subscriptions.

The combination of a cashed-up expat and an accommodating city with more fast food delivery options than you could imagine is a match made in heaven.  The population has developed a rampant addiction to chemical additives, sugar, and un-environmentally-friendly packaged food. People are busy, workers are glued to their desks, children are demanding, traffic is crippling.  And the icing on this mass cake of “want and need”, is the pool of party animals who stagger out of the dens of sex, sin, and Sambuca in the wee morning hours craving a bite of good old western fast-food.  Bringing it to your door, Princess Jakarta is your very own personal lard-wagon faster than a speeding bullet.

We don’t have this luxurious, indulgent service in Australia.  But we do have it in Jakarta. And as healthy, self-respectful and ethical as we all think we are – we LOVE taking advantage of these restaurants on wheels.  I was astonished when I discovered this service and now have the gut to show for it. Fast-food scooter delivery puts the glutton back into sloth. Thanks to Lord Thunder-thighs, one can now go out, get wasted, get lost, come home at some ungodly hour, and have a decent serves of fries and a Big Mac in between missionary and wheelbarrow, with a hot fudge ice cream sundae for dessert.

And CHEERS to the drunk goof who gets stuck with placing the order!

BIG NIGHT IN DRAGONFLY

Friday night in Jakarta. An explosion of testosterone, pheromones, pulsating base and hearts on fire. Girls dressed up high, tight, and trim. Men buttoned up, cuffed up, and  pranced in shoes shined. Sex was on legs, balancing on sky-high stilettos and silicone tits. Bottles were stacked, ice was tumbling and the crowd was gagging off Chivas, Absolut, Johnny, sugar and spice and more things nice. No one gave a fuck but everyone opened their hearts. Jakarta’s young, struggling expat community and a scattered few locals gathered under one roof, let loose, talked shop, and chased tail. An English larrikin celebrated his birthday. The Germans guzzled beer and charmed the lassies to no end. A handsome Frenchman demolished the “chic” French stereotype, and a bunch of Bollywood stallions surveyed the joint with brooding stares. A smorgasbord of pheromones, booze and smoke filled the air. Whoever was spinning the decks was some duo we didn’t know, nor care for. What we did give a fuck for was what drink to next, where to get it, and who to drink it with. Dolled-up Indonesian girls were prizes well sought after, whilst white boys in shirts were hunted like rabbits. The crowd got louder, the base went deeper, the liquor flowed faster. Strangers became friends, friends became lovers, and egos became fighters. The result: Saturday morning. An Australian girl wakes up in ecstasy and with company. An English boy takes a young girl’s virginity. Two Germans meet for brunch while an Indonesian girl wakes up in a stranger’s bed with a good night’s earnings.