HOW NOT TO GET INTO X2

On Sunday morning I woke up covered in bruises. There was a big black shocker in the centre of my delicate back in the shape of a foot. Covering the rest of my lazy morning body was a galaxy of blue, mustard, and swamp green other little buggers dotted all over my loamy limbs. I looked to the left, I looked to the right, and I studied my weary being looking back at me in the filthy mirror of my inner-city hovel. Something was missing from that usually sultry structure. I studied myself more closely and realized that what appeared to be missing, was not gone but rather had shrunk. That shrunken piece was the part of me that held my head high, put a strut in my swagger, and my nose turned up to the clouds, and now, it was cowering in the most useless part of my body, appearing to have from the night before shrivelled to the size of a puny speck of a pea. We all know that I am a girl, so I’m not talking about the one eyed trouser snake that also changes size and shape. I’m talking about the other massive part of a human that navigates success and failure, conquest and loss. On close inspection I realized that the wonderful, staunch, always dependent ego that had been shoved up my round behind from the moment my gawky teenage features bloomed into a moving masterpiece, had not only been severely bruised from the night before but had also quickly deflated. As I reflected on my shrunken ego the puzzle of the night before had come into place. Ladies and gentlemen of the scathing jury of blog trolls and curious readers, I was indeed kicked off my high horse on Saturday night. It hurt, the pain cut deep, and the bruises were a rainbow of shame. And not only was it a painful landing flat on my ass in a metaphorical pile of shit, but the fall was accompanied by a looting of the huge booty of ego that I had been lugging around from club to club across Jakarta.

So how did this all happen? How did a young, vibrant, upstanding woman of society fall victim to such a heinous bravado battery and ego pillage?

For those novices to the Princess Jakarta guide to life, with even the slightest familiarity with Princess Jakarta and her psychotic outbursts, you will not be surprised to hear that the Princess likes to play Swarovski-encrusted, haute-couture hardball. She likes to keep things high-end, exclusive, excessive, and out of reach of those who don’t make the cut. Princess Jakarta says “Jump!”. As her minions, we are compelled to say nothing more than “how high?” and pull out the credit cards. On that fateful Saturday night, Yours Truly fell victim to the consequences of not complying with Princess Jakarta’s orders. She said jump, and I stepped up to the plate without the requisite Nike Air Max de jour. And without the essential equipment to make that glittering jump through the hoops of social decadence, I fell off my high horse and hit the ground hard.

Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of that brutal Saturday night beating I was so heinously subjected to. Our group, as diverse as a Benneton advertisement and as educated as the Oxford dictionary swaggered up to the doors of one of Princess Jakarta’s most popular nightclubs. The glittering, gaudy, and epically huge X2. “Ex Two” is how you pronounce it. “To the max” is how you handle it. And “black out” is how you remember it. Your’s Truly missed the memo on how to dress for it. And that was the chink in my ghetto-gold-dolla-swinging chain that night. I wore these jeans:

Obviously I’ve watched too much Jenny from the Block and thought that slashed jeans would pass for “sophisticated, laid-back cool” in a “boho-chic-rocker-I’m-so-awesome-I-don’t-need-to-dress-up-EVER” kind of way. I must not have watched enough Fashion TV in my life because I couldn’t have been more wrong or inappropriately dressed as I discovered.

My comrades and I rocked up to the velvet ropes of entrance, laughing, joking, loving life and gagging for the pulsating experience of glorious X2 that awaited us. We stepped onto the red carpet. We sauntered past the security guards, half the group smoothly walked past the guest list. I was singled out and stopped (a first!). I was mortified. I was denied entry because I was wearing torn denim. The skinny little door woman  smugly pointed to the left. A new sign had been erected at the entrance showing that torn denim was not allowed to enter the complex. The dress code of X2 had been updated and I shockingly did not comply with it. The door (whom I am politically correctly referring to as) woman (and not typically as “bitch” despite very much wanting to so refer to her as) sneered as the words came out. I’m sure she was being very diplomatic in enforcing the policy of X2 and the legitimate dress code, but all I was hearing was “NO ENTRY”, “REJECTED”, “DENIED” and “SOCIAL FAUX PAS!!!”. My anger rose and the ego crept out of my fiery loins. My ego was clutching and pulling for dear life at whatever strings she could grab, but no efforts were working and nothing was getting me in. The white horse that carried me up the red carpet was beginning to buck. I was losing my grip of the reigns, and the final denial of entry was the kick to my back and I felt myself falling hard off my high horse. Once I hit the ground, I could feel pieces of my precious ego being stripped away by the savage sassy patrons who walked past me in their appropriate dress code-friendly attire. What followed was a walk of shame to Red Square, the place where the less you wear, the more likely you are to get in. I got in.

The lesson learnt was not only that looks are everything in Princess Jakarta, but also that just because you’re a snotty nosed expat doesn’t mean you can get in anywhere your heart desires. The “horse” was in reality a pair of 10 inch high shiny black Guess stilettos. The “kick” was actually the irritating smile of a pretty little door (here we go again) “lady” through which the words of “ENTRY DENIED” were spat out into my face through broken-yet-just-as-aggravating-as-proper-entry-rejecting-like-sounding-English. The dress codes of clubs in Princess Jakarta are not (only) made to keep out those whom Princess Jakarta regards as “commoners”. They’re made to keep the clubs in line with the ideal standard of Princess Jakarta – high-end, exclusive, excessive, and out of reach of those who don’t make the cut. And if you want to be a part of that glittering scene, you have no choice but to deal with it. Here are some common standards that you would be hard pressed to find in Australia and in certain circumstances would probably be considered discrimination, but are common entry requirements and dress codes in Jakarta:
High heels only
No shorts on men
No torn denim
No singlets (wife beaters) on men
Not indigenous looking (denial of entry based on racial appearance, which is sad but true)

It’s the high heels thing that has upset a lot of tree-hugging feminist mates of mine.  Well, not really actually.  Even the misogynistic tree-chopping fashionista mates of mine disagree with the onerous dress-codes of this city.

Now ladies and gentlemen it is evident that to compensate for the loss of my treasured ego, since that horrible night I’ve been over loading on the superlatives. But it hasn’t helped much because nobody understands my superfluous use of proper English. However that’s not really the point of this post. The point I want to make should rather help those of you reading to navigate your way around the social discrimination of Princess Jakarta and hopefully as a result nobody else will fall victim to the ego battery and swagger-theft that I experienced. If you want to go out and get white girl wasted with the nocturnal heavyweights of Princess Jakarta the rules are simple: heels high, skirts short, and more make up than a drag queen. With that ammunition and a killer rack, you’re guaranteed to get through the door and if you’re lucky you might even snap up a big fat sugar daddy to pay for the cocktails and the morning after cab fare! And that’s a night out according to Princess Jakarta.

(yes, I know this is Choi Min-sik. Let us all agree that he makes a great sugar daddy kind of looking chap)

MORE JAVANESE DELICACIES

In Indonesia, everything is made from rice (or fish). It’s a rice-padi-drenched-archipelago (your face is a rice-padi-drenched-archipelago whispers the puberty in me) for heaven’s sake. So whether you’re hungry or not, somebody, anybody is going to offer you a snack that’s probably carb-loaded. These cute little green and brownish babies are exceptionally attractive for the product of mushing together rice, sugar, artificial colours and flavours and various banana, peanut and coconut components. The green ones are “dadar gulung” with “unti” in the middle. That be in layperson’s terms “a green coconut and rice crepe stuffed with grated coconut”. It’s not too sweet. But they’re going to get your cholesterol climbing. The green striped jelly square is “lapis”. Lapis is heavenly because it’s like eating a really moist piece of fudge, yet more jelly wobbly and softer to bite into. It’s not as sweet as fudge but hits the spot if you’re craving sugar, and it has a hint of coconut through it. It’s smooth on the tongue and doesn’t make you want to gag. I love it. The rest is too laborious to explain, and I didn’t like then as much anyway. The round golden thing in plastic is more like a dense pancake but more oily and tastes like coconut, so it was probably fried in palm oil. I would recommend not to go there. And the thing in a box (is unfortunately not a dick-in-a-box, as the Lonely Island once said) is fried noodles. If only they served fried noodles in such small portions in Australia! Your basic snack guide to Java shall be added to throughout my culinary journey of 2014. Get ready for loads of rice, chicken, MSG, oil and plastic bags as I eat my way to a heart attack in Princess Jakarta (and beyond).

WELCOME TO MALANG

The long weekend allows time to journey to East Java, climb the family tree and discover who set the unique precedent that is me. With a bucket list of fresh air, mountain climbing, apples and marveling at white colonial architecture all day long (the buildings are literally all painted white). Malang is more than just the stop to Bromo. And I hope it doesn’t take only my banter to show you that.

NON-INDONESIANS ON OJEKS

MY SICK OBSESSION WITH A DUDE(S) CALLED “OJEK”

I have a confession to make and I want to share it with the whole world. It’s been my dirty little secret for a while but the fact that it affects everyone around me, particularly those dear to me, compels me to expose it. It’s a revelation so epic that I can’t spit it out despite the massive urge to do so. I’m struggling to open up so I’ll start with the scariest part of it: my secret is an addiction. It’s an addiction to an activity in which I have been partaking on a daily basis.

I’m cringing because the act itself is deviant, selfish, unhealthy and degrading. But I do it and I can’t stop doing it. What’s even sicker is that I’ve made doing it a part of my daily routine. I do it in the mornings, I do it in the evenings, and on most days I do it at lunch time as well. When I’m not doing it, I’m surrounded by it. And when I’m surrounded by it, I can’t resist getting amongst it.When I can do it, everything feels complete. When I can’t do it, I’m crippled.

Before addressing what it is, let’s look at how I became addicted to it. I was lured into the habit a few months ago when my girlfriend blurted out over lunch one day that she had tried “it”. She engaged in the act that very morning. “Was it uncomfortable?” I asked her. “Did it hurt?”
“No,” she replied with a chuckle and a cheeky grin, “not at all. In fact, at the pace he was going and the way he jerked in twists and turns…I kind of liked it.” I was shocked. I thought it was a thing that conservative white chicks just didn’t do. She continued “He got me there really fast. I’m going to do it every morning from now on.” How she described her first encounter, the excitement and spontaneity of it all lured me in. I couldn’t resist asking her “where did you find him?”
Her answer changed my life forever “I just picked him up off the street, and suddenly he was right between my legs.”

That night I walked out of my office onto the street and solicited the first guy I saw. He had a shiny black motor-scooter and promised to take me anywhere I desired: dirty, fast and dangerous. He didn’t have a name, I just called him “Ojek”. He got me there fast, and I’ve been addicted to catching “ojeks” ever since.

An ojek is a motorcycle taxi. But despite the name, they’re far from the formalities of a taxi. Ojeks are basically dudes on motorbikes and boys on scooters who hang around the streets all day long, armed with a spare helmet and a guarantee to get you to your destination fast for a small fee. It’s a motor scooter with a driver (whose ages range from 16 to 60 years old), and the two of them sit on street corners 24/7 waiting for passengers. A few thousand Rupiah are exchanged for a five-minute ride on the back of a motorbike that would take almost an hour in a car. They’re a cheap, fast, and dependable mode of transport for fighting against the Jakarta traffic beast. And they’re highly addictive due to their convenience and friendly drivers.

Passengers are in abundance as the general population of Jakarta who either don’t have a car or don’t have the time to sit in the traffic driving one. And like Bonny and Clyde, the two parties work together hand-in-hand against the constant Jakarta gridlock. While Jakarta traffic gives you high blood pressure and a crippling migraine, an ojek gives you freedom.

Ojeks have a unique and deviant charm to the Western visitor to Jakarta because they are something that we haven’t yet incorporated into our own expensive, unreliable, and barely utilized public transport systems back home. Pedantic nanny-statists would deem them vermin of the roads. They scurry all over the bitumen, weaving between cars like slimy lizards in a cess pool of traffic, pollution, and bad tempered drivers. We don’t have them in Australia and we never will because they’re the vehicles of an informal economy and the liabilities are too high.

Ojeks are cheap, fast and extremely dangerous for the newly landed expat in Jakarta. And they’re controversial because riding on the back of a hungry street peddler bargained down to the last cent for the sake of making it to “Happy Hour” on time is indulgent, exploitive, and perpetuates a social divide that is shocking enough already. But these loud two-wheeled gasoline guzzlers are more than just noisy rats of traffic – they’re a valuable component of what keeps this city functioning. Ojeks are a necessity to the working class and a vital component of the informal economy that generates jobs, income and transports the population to places of work to do a job that’s bringing Indonesia out of the depths of poverty into the world market.

The ojek is one of the best ways to move around the city and we would be stranded without them. And despite the dirty image and rebel façade, they are an integral part of the Jakarta rat-race. Ojek’s are my backbone in this city riddled with bad infrastructure, savage traffic and heavy deadlines.

So the secret is out. What would my parents say to their little girl “ridin’ dirty”? Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I couldn’t resist the luxury of being swept away by a man with two wheels. It’s an addiction that I can’t beat so I’m going to pass the gospel onto you. My most valuable pearl of wisdom? Well, the next time you think you’re being sexually harassed by a bum on the street, look out for a sign that says “OJEK”, spread those legs, straddle up and enjoy a ride that’s fast, dirty, dangerous and supporting the underbelly of Jakarta.

COUNTING DOWN

SHE’S BACK!

Hello filthy indulgence. Greetings, you delectable little vice.

It has been a while, comforting temptress.

Where did you go, and why did you take so long to return? I longed for you, I missed you, but I could not find you. One night we were on fire, the next day you were gone. Were you lost in the abyss of crowds, crawlers and clawers? Did you get sucked into the Jakarta underworld? Was it a violent struggle to stay above ground only to be overcome by the force of the guns, gangs and ganja? Or did you simply take an innocent step forward and end up knee-deep in a sewage canal as the epitome of what we all fear the most?

I do not know where you were but you return bruised, beaten and burnt. You are talking to me but you are struggling to speak. The words come out but they are a battle to conjure. The force that clamped your tongue must have been as strong as a hungry beast. Crimson, black and blue are all I see but I know you have more to tell. What did she do to you when you were so far away?

I know Princess Jakarta; relentless, crippling, brutal. She has dug her fiercely manicured claws into your flesh and now she is written all over your body. Her mark is a masterpiece. She has carved an intricate maze of enticing emotions into your soft skin. Her imprint is calculated, complex, and meticulously etched into your flesh.

Now you’re a wreck but you’re oozing tales to tell. I look at you and your scars are deliciously raw and tempting. I want to pick at your wounds and unravel your stitches. Your sores gape open, raw and inviting like the pages of an alluring novel. You’re bleeding stories.

I want to read your tales, I want to feel them. I want them scattered before my eyes in pieces as fragile as your tears. I will let you gush your fears, cry your pain, and spit out your confessions.  And I know you won’t scare your anybody because you already you fear yourself enough.

In short – Princess Jakarta has had her porcelain hand tightly wrapped around the innocent and fragile flesh of this superfluous dribbler, holding a graceful palm over the mouth of creativity and keeping itchy fingers firmly locked between two cuffs of steel. But like most locks in Jakarta, this vice was easy to pick, and now the claws are out.  This babbling mess is back – ready to blog, beg, banter and blow.

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.