Holiday Blues

After the head-spinning delight of embracing my one-month holiday (squeee!) has worn off, here comes the inevitable question: Now What?

I sometimes find it unfortunate that I was never one to stay dormant for very long. Sure, there is the Christmas Eve party invitation and the New Year’s holiday in Bali (please read with a squeal of delight), but that only amounts to 7 days out of 30, which leaves me with 23 schedule-less, plan-less days. Infinite possiblities, but still, one must start making plans. Some of my random ideas while I was busy doing nothing for 6 solid hours today:

1. Do a culinary tour of Central Java.

2. Exercise everyday and get that perfect butt already (facing tough competition from No.1 above).

3. Finish reading all unread books on my shelf.

4. Teach English pro bono for underprivileged kids at the local mosque.

5. Read materials for my upcoming new job.

6. Write a complete memoir of my days at the palace.

7. Become a couch potato every Monday, just because I can.

I have always been good at planning. Whether I will wake up the next morning and immediately act upon any sort of plan is an entirely different matter. Oh and by the way, if I owe anyone lunch or dinner or a casual get together, now is a good time to remind me :)

Last Day

Today I finish working at the palace, and as I ride home for the last time my mind starts to reel back, sporadically. Outstanding moments flash up collectively like yellow highlights on a white page. Mixtures of different feelings welled up, a cocktail of sorts with the ingredients shaken together in a steel tumbler, confusingly. How did I get here? Gratitude, flattery, awe, confusion, and disappointment. They contradict, and they don’t care.

But! Ah, but the aftertaste is unmistakably singular. I could pinpoint it with the precision of a connoiseur. Because after everything else and more than anything else, I feel overwhelmingly lucky. Lucky to be part of it, lucky to be out of it. Lucky to have stepped out with flying colours. Lucky to have choices.

Then again, I don’t believe in luck.

The whole climate change shebang

Having experienced the Bali Climate Change Conference first hand for almost two weeks, I am quite at loss as to exactly which aspect of it I should immortalize in words. I am innocently awed by the magnitude of stakeholders. All these 10,000 participants are busy doing something for climate change? That can’t be right, methinks. I sit in a corner and watch colourful people go by. I’ve never seen such variety since I was last did the UN building tour, and I couldn’t help but feel a tingle of excitement. My subsequent thoughts, apart from those related to my work of course, can be eloquently summarized in the following:

- Quick! Get the free merchandise.

- I hate Caucasian legs. It is not true that human beings were created equal.

- Ooh, I need to take pictures with the people dressed as polar bears!

- Omigod. That was Al Gore.

Apart from that, y’all can read in the newspapers. I’ll just leave you with a few handy tips on how to mitigate climate change. Yes, you can do it from your own backyard! I’m kidding. Don’t worry, I won’t pain you with the change-your-lightbulbs-and-walk-to-the-office routine you’ve heard too much of already. One of the leaflets did catch my eye though and I thought this would be useful and painless to share:

Eco-Driving: save fuel and save the climate!

Rule No. 1: Drive smoothly at a constant speed

Rule No. 2: Shift gears quickly to higher possible gear

Rule No. 3: Maintain high gear and low engine RPM (2500 RPM max)

Rule No. 4: Coast a lot

Rule No. 5: Decelerate smoothly

Rule No. 6: Avoid breaking abruptly

Rule No. 7: Aniticipate the traffic, look as far ahead as possible

Good luck implementing that in Jakarta.

Silence.

It is frightening how silence hurts more than words. Even if I closed my ears I still couldn’t shut out the lack of noise. I am scared beyond measure and nauseous.

The mystery of prestige.

The best thing about working here is the fact that people are impressed.

My business card and the business-email address have been the subject of dramatic reactions amongst friends, most eloquent of which was, “omigosh you should get this framed!” (Speaking of frames, my mother had insisted on framing my picture with the big boss and sending one to each of her siblings, much to my embarrassment. Don’t worry I promise you won’t see it on facebook). Others are impressed with my car-sticker that allows me to go through the 3-in-1 alone (government perks, heheh, don’t you civilians just hate that?)

So it was that when I met a friend and casually told her I was getting a new job next year, her eyes almost popped out and she gasped, “Why??” And of course, the dreaded subsequent question which quickly followed, “Where are you going next?”

I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable with the reactions. Apparently, future job (albeit in my view a very distinguished profession) does not generate the same kind of excitement and awe as current job, because you can find a million people doing future job.

So I explained a simplified version of my reasons to said friend, but while doing so felt slightly irritated that I had to explain myself at all. It was obviously a well thought-out decision, one that I’m excited about making, but it’s tiresome that I need to actually explain those reasons to everyone I know just because it’s less impressive.

As for myself, I’m pretty sure the one thing I’ll miss most about this job is blogging (and having the time to blog) about it.

Marriage: Mass Parrty in a Package

Every girl (I stress this in the hopes of impressing upon dear reader the arguable assumption that following thoughts are perfectly common), has thought about her future wedding. It should not be translated to mean that her wedding is imminent, or that she is impatient for it, or that she is hopelessly romantic. It is simply a girly naturalness. It’s just that some girls are more secretive about it than others, as I have been until the moment I press “post” on my blogger dashboard.

In my entire life in this country, I have been to only two weddings which I have actually enjoyed, one was at a coffee plantation resort in Central Java overlooking hills and valleys, and the other was last night at an upscale restaurant in Jakarta where the female guests’ dress code was white/champagne. The two weddings had only one thing in common: the invitees did not exceed 200 people. Other weddings? perhaps thousands of invitees, including the relative of the relative of the relative, and the siblings' friends and siblings’ friends’ boyfriends.

So last night, in my champagne coloured dress and a glass of champagne in hand, I had genuine fun and met a lot of people I actually knew and could chat with. And then I thought, “I want my wedding to be like this.” But I doubted the possibility, because if I only invite 200 people, some 800 people I don’t know just might get offended.

On speechifying.

Yesterday was a good day because I spent the entire day (and night) working on a speech.
The only thing I hate about speech-writing is the deadline, but apart from that it’s a lot of fun.

When I received the first draft from the related department, I felt a slight tingle of excitement and anticipation. I rubbed my hands together, and gave them each a blow. Puff, puff. I settle my hands on the keyboard and hungrily open the draft.

Drama drama. Let’s sweep the audience off their feet. Let’s give them the shebang. Let’s show some vision and charisma and leadership. Let’s… let’s… um, hang on.

Upon quickly glancing over it I realized the first draft was, well, difficult. The frown upon my brow gradually deepened as I tried to make sense of it. And (my brow) reached new dimensions at the following paragraph, lovingly crafted for our President to say:

“The main objective is to reduce oil based fuel and subsidy in our economy. In addition with the introduction of the cleaner fuel for household, we improve our woman and our daughter, whom in our society for cooking and most affected by the burning of unclean fuel in the household.”

This quickly dampened my excitement. Apparently I was put into society to cook, and I need to be improved for that purpose. *frown frown*

Now you see why it was a long and exhilarating day.

5 reasons why I am a complete mess.

1. I had planned to study and finish some work over the weekend and managed to instead spend it on shopping, watching TV, and sleeping.
2. I did not attend my friend’s invitation to her brother’s wedding (because, seriously, one should never invite their own friends to their sibling’s weddings unless said friend is actually acquainted to said sibling) and only remembered to notify her effectively four hours after the wedding was over.
3. I received an invitation for a breakfast meeting next week and am at loss as to why I am invited, apart from having met inviter at an all-important conference in which I gave my best all-important front. I feel like a scam. Dear inviter, I am not as smart as you may think I am. Please don’t make me come to the meeting because then I will be discovered for the fraud that I am.
4. My career is at a crossroads to nowhere in particular because I have not taken any of the actions I have identified as imminently necessary for me to take but I cannot start taking those actions now because there are too many choices and I haven’t been able to make any decision regarding said choices for the past month because I am greedy and I want everything.
5. I feel fat and because of that I ate healthy steamed fish for dinner and because of that I felt I deserved a little reward and therefore ate one and a half donuts just now and I obviously still feel fat. (If you’re pissed that I think I’m fat because you think I’m not and you think I’m just being too self-obsessed, you can go eat donuts too. They might make you feel better.)
6. (Yes I know I promised 5 but it’s my blog.) I just wasted an hour on a meaningless post which painfully exposes how normal I am. Ugh.
7. Somebody please tell me where my blog title has mysteriously disappeared to over the weekend.

Speak to someone. Anyone.

Having spent holidays in blissfully traffic-less Jakarta, I’ve managed to spend more time at home, sleeping late, relaxing, (help) cooking, and umm... inevitably being trapped in mom’s daily non-negotiable tv-soap schedule. I know what you’re thinking, you evil bastards. You’re thinking, “Ha! Now you’re addicted too! I knew it!”. Well, excuse me, but NOT. But I know now who the farmer boy’s real parents are, and they’re rich, obviously, except the parents don’t know it’s him yet and he fell and suffered amnesia on his way to tell them. Boohoo.

If there were ample space I could write an essay on why sinetron is tasteless and may ultimately ruin this nation’s future for generations to come (obviously it would be a very over-dramatized and soap-like essay). But on this occasion I’d just like to point out one thing which bothers the hell out of me.

Monologues. Tons and tons and tons of monologues.

Monologues are Shakespearean. Created for the stage, where resources are few and thoughts must be gesticulated to the audience through the sole means of facial expressions, gestures, and thinking aloud. And the monologues were beautiful and wrenching. Which is why Hamlet could get away with 15 minutes worth of solo pondering aloud on whether “to be or not to be.”

But really, nobody does that in real life unless he’s a nutcase. As A.A. Milne (the author of Winnie The Pooh) once suggested, in real life Hamlet would most likely have been alone in deep thought, when suddenly interrupted by Ophelia:

[enter Ophelia]
Oph: “What are you thinking about, my Lord?
Ham: “I am wondering whether to be or not to be, whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer...”

You see my point. My point is that TV is not the place for archaic monologues as it makes the whole show look like a televised stage act. Two, it makes the actors lazy, as private thoughts and emotions no longer need to be conveyed through very subtle and nuanced facial expressions. Three, it makes the screen-writers seem lazy, as they apparently don’t even bother trying to make the dialogues look natural.

If you’re reading this and you’re a sinetron screenwriter, for the love of God, cut down on the monologues!

Lebaran

The day is sweltering hot. It is quite insane in its own right.
The family is as usual. Just more offspring than last year.
The food is default. Rich fatty stew with coconut milk.
The elders look old. Some age gracefully, some don’t.
Some seem trapped in a stale attitude which was perhaps attractive or passable at some point in their lives, but no longer. It is too ingrained for them to change. I wonder whether I will age gracefully.
I will probably not bother with the tiny children of nephews and nieces coming to visit. I will probably skip town and go traveling instead.
Or maybe I wouldn’t, because I would have already traveled far and wide, and I would want to just be useful to others, and family.
That would be aging gracefully, wouldn’t it.

I don’t want to grow old and unattractive.
It scared me today. I don’t want to be like everybody else.
“But eventually you will”, said bf, “Inevitably you will lose beauty and lose sex appeal, but something else will appear to replace that.”
And of course he is right.
I want to be permanently attractive, no matter what age does to my physique.

White Envelopes

Several things confused me when I first started work here, one of which was that nobody asked for my bank account. Naturally this worried me a bit. I wasn’t given a written work contract, and nobody asked for my bank account. Crikey. I approached the end of my first month with some trepidation.

Apparently I didn’t need to worry. My salary comes in cash. In an envelope. Received from the accountant, who retrieves it from a big iron safe-deposit from behind his desk in his dodgy office on the second floor. Every month.

Apparently that’s not the only thing I’m receiving. On my way out from a meeting at another department, the receptionist in front of the meeting room beckoned for me to approach the desk, indicated a spot where I was to put my signature, and then proceeded to shove me a white envelope. On a different occasion, after completing a power point presentation where my sole task (and please note extremely important task) was to press the next-slide button on the laptop, I was again shoved a paper to sign and a white envelope.

You may call it a pleasant surprise, or “rejeki nomplok”. But it is all still rather confusing. The very first thing of course was to clarify whether this was legal, and after asking around made myself content with the fact that it is “normal”. Besides, obviously it wasn’t under the desk, as in it was literally handed over the desk. I am sure that out there somewhere, lies a decree which renews a previous decree which re-confirms a previous decree (as is the nature of Indonesian law) that says this is legal. *fingers-crossed*

But the next question is, why should I be given “extras” for the conduct of my professional work, which my (meager) salary supposedly already covers? It’s quite silly and unnecessary. An even more irritating question in my head though, is why the #$%* doesn’t anyone up there know and take into consideration the amazing invention called the bank account? Say hello to computerized, fast, efficient, and uh… transparent?

Carrying around white envelopes, no matter how legal and deserved, make me feel like the mafia.

Present that bf got me from NY! Andy Warhol poster! Love it!

Tribal Sous Chef

The “cooking class” event my brother hosts has become a regular thing of late, where we invite over a handful of friends to cook around a central theme and then settle down to enjoy the results. We’ve done barbecue and we’ve done Japanese, and so this time we decided to do “traditional”, seeing as it’s Ramadhan and all that.

“I can’t cook Indonesian” I said resolutely. The thought of countless spices give me cold feet. Memories of the best maid we ever had, years ago, came back to me, with her much-missed out-of-this-world fried chicken and the secret recipe: her chicken was marinated in 11 kinds of spices, each spice an odd number. E.g. to have 4 pieces of bay leaf and 6 stalks of lemongrass, would be sacrilege and ultimately disastrous. How would I be able to work my way through spices I don’t even know the looks of, let alone meticulously count them? And besides, Jamie Oliver never cooked Indonesian, so why should I bother? (Yes I am far too obsessed with ‘western’ über-trendy lifestyle cooking).

But the others seemed determined. They came up with wondrous delicacies as follows.

Rice-cakes in smooth beef coconut-curry soup.

















Tender grilled chicken satay marinated in light peanut sauce.

So I finally agreed to do a joint brother-sister project on a seemingly easy recipe: Tofu-Omelette in peanut sauce and shrimp paste (affectionately known as Tahu-Telor). It’s tofu wrapped in omelette. And then you pour peanuty whatsits over it. Sounded like child’s-play. As it turned out, I was utterly deceived.

Exhibit A:

The pre-sauced tofu + omelette which dear brother completed with minimum fuss.

Exhibit B:

Say hi to prehistoric stone-age kitchen utensil, also known as The Grind. It’s not your normal mortar and pestle, which may be due to the fact that it weighs 10 times more and is carved out of solid rock. I felt rather tribal as I crushed the peanuts together with the garlic and chilies and shrimp paste and soy sauce. The peanut sauce turned out very tasty, and with all my biceps working it damn well better be.

I only hope the gods have mercy on my soul for not counting the peanuts.

Interview Preparation 101

If you are going to an interview there are a number of things you must prepare, such as a chic suit, matching shoes and handbag, minimalist but sophisticated accessories, a map for directions because you do not want to get lost on the way, and umm.. oh! an idea of what you are going to say.

It is highly advisable to prepare beforehand for the predictable questions, one of which could be: “What are your strengths and weaknesses?” Ah, the classic question. Excerpts from brainstorming of anonymous whose name begins with a “T” and ends with a “Z” and rhymes with “bees”, as follows:

My weaknesses:

• I don’t think I have a weakness. I suppose that is a weakness in itself.
• I procrastinate. I tend to work better and more effectively when under pressure. So I still don’t think that is necessarily a weakness.
• I like to delay my work to write in my blog. And boy if you read my blog, you wouldn’t think that was a weakness either.
• After my humble confessions above, you would be utterly surprised to know that I am a narcissist. But people are more accepting of such syndromes these days, so I don’t worry about it.

Clearly anonymous was having trouble on what was seemingly a very simple question. But really, there should be no trouble at all. The trick to answering “what are your weaknesses” questions is to seem as though you are answering it, but in actual fact you are still not answering it. The point of an interview is to sell yourself, even when you are talking about your “weaknesses”. Refer to excerpts of our anonymous’ revised answer:

My weaknesses:

• I procrastinate. I tend to work better and more effectively when under pressure. *sigh* (Actual message: I can work under time-pressures)
• I am not very spontaneous. I have trouble working in a disorganized way or environment. I would be lost if I didn’t understand the big picture and plan out the small steps and details first. This is such a disadvantage because not all organizations are organized. *sigh* (Actual message: I am extremely organized and detailed. I have high expectations that this office will be as professionally organized as it promotes itself to be. If not I may as well not be here. )
• I don’t know how to use the typewriter. (Actual message: Quite obvious)

So that concludes our lesson for today boys and girls. Now go ace that interview!

My favorite fasting topic: Food.

The best thing to do during fasting month is to cook. As you work with the food your sight and senses are invoked, and yet you are forbidden to taste it. It is like teasing foreplay. You can only imagine, through the smell and the sound of simmers and sizzles, what it will taste like in the end. And this doubles the pleasure of finally eating when the time comes (except, of course, if it turns out looking like an incinerated version of what was originally planned).

But this post’s raison d’etre is not to wax lyrical on the sophisticated joys of cooking. That would be rather over the top coming from me. The only reason I cooked on Sunday was because I was accompanying my brother (who actually wanted to cook) at the grocery store in the morning and I suddenly felt the urge to shop. And I suddenly felt the urge to buy expensive shrimp. And so on.

Anyways, pictures!





















Teez's Penne with Pan-Fried Shrimp in Tomato Puree topped with Cilantro and Black Olives





















Brother's Soft & Chewy Oatmeal Cookies

A rose by any other name...

I’ve never really been given a formal job description and title, which caused a bit of confusion at the beginning. I had imagined (based on the sketchy description they explained during my interview) something in the lines of analyst, or researcher.

As it turns out, I am practically supposed to be able to do everything and anything, short of making coffee for the boss. I’ve been asked to brief him on how his newest gadget works, and charge its batteries while I’m at it. I’ve been asked to touch up photos, and run errands to get it printed, framed and delivered. I’ve been asked to look for gifts and birthday cards and books. I’ve been asked to answer to invitations and letters and a whole lot of other secretarial stuff. Practically, this adds up to one thing: I am an assistant.

And the whole of last week, my work consisted primarily of filing uh… files. Because we all know that I signed up for this job to be a filing assistant.

However, on top of that I have also been asked to be policy expert, speechwriter, event organizer, analyst, and researcher. I have no idea what that makes me. Finally, for the sake of having something to put in my CV, I decided to settle with "executive assistant" as my self-proclaimed position in this current employment.

Because it would be rather odd to come across “Work Experience/ Position: Government/ Multi-Tasker” on a resume.

Insecure.

In the course of life (and I speak with all the aged wisdom of a 23-year old) things become unpredictable more often. But this is not to be a final conclusion or a simplified assumption. I’m only saying that when you are young(er) you do not plan things (you dream things) and things happen to you and you do not stop to think of its meaning for you are enjoying yourself to the full. When you are old(er) you plan things and things may happen or may not, and when they do not you lose a slice of a sense of control and predictability over your life.

A major (major!) glitch in my plans happened this morning. I have been telling myself that if this happens I would be perfectly alright and under control and I would simply “pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again” as Diana Krall or whoever it was who created that song puts it. So it happened, and with it came the realization that I have never been good at dealing with failures. The taste is like a bludgeon made of iron which floors you and knocks the breath out of your lungs. And suddenly you feel, for a fraction of a while, like you don’t really know where you’re going and what you are capable of doing. And then the fraction of a while lasts a little longer.

And because life is a joke, my calendar of proverbs, a flimsy thing which I got from a friend who got it from a friend’s wedding, today says: “A great person is a person who successfully rises after a fall”.

Cheers to me being a great person. Maybe in another fraction of a while.

our underdiscussed television malady

An article I’ve been unconsciously waiting for has finally presented itself in my favorite newspaper. It starts like this:

“Imagine a production-line where the manufacturer knows little of the consumers, but still claims to understand their tastes. Well imagine not, this is real. Welcome to Indonesia’s sinetron (TV soap-opera) industry… a dream-factory that’s way out of touch with its audience…”

For many years I have been troubled by the following thought: if Indonesian TV shows are so overwhelmingly disgustingly bad, what can we say of the taste of its viewers? Because as far as the robust theory of supply and demand goes, if you find producers making abundant supply, you may assume they are doing it because of the heavy demand.

This article somewhat calms me down. We are apparently not so much the nation full of Machiavellian mother-in-laws and over-dramatized bitchy teenagers. On the contrary, research hints the whole nation might be thinking the same thing: TV soaps are stupid. The TV producers are too lazy to crawl out of their nook and explore the higher intellect of their consumers. Apparently it’s the ratings they care about, and apparently ratings are not a benchmark to measure a consumer’s liking for the show. There could be a variety of reasons why ratings are high, one of which could be that the audience has no other choice.

A case in point would be my mother, who spends one and a half hours every single day watching soap whilst chastising its plot, its script, its actors, its producers, but also anyone who dares take away the remote control to change the channel. Even the maid (who is an elementary school drop-out) has declared soaps to be 'beyond common sense" and remains a faithful soap-fan.

I find it utterly intriguing that a huge TV production industry whose very existence depends on the audience’s taste, does not care about the audience’s taste. And still survives!

Last night I, yet again, fell asleep at 8pm, and would have done the (rare act of) waking up at 8am the next morning (because it’s Saturday), if it weren’t for the fact that it’s fasting month, and we must have breakfast at 4am.

So wake up I did at 4am, grudgingly, and reached out to turn my bedside lamp on. It didn’t. I ignored it, commenced on doing the very difficult procedure of swinging my legs on to the floor and sitting up without experiencing a sudden and very uncomfortable blood-rush to the head, failed, waited for said blood-rush to fade, and finally stood up to turn on my bedroom light. It didn’t. Drowsily I went out and peered into the kitchen, and there were my parents, eating by candlelight. It would have been a romantic scene if it weren’t for the fact that a) it was 4-fucking-a.m. and b) the electricity had blacked out.

The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was my brother on the other line reporting that he was having tuna sandwich for breakfast except that he couldn’t find the friggin' tuna coz it was so friggin' dark and he didn’t know where he kept the torch.

I think in the end he managed, as did we, and the taste of our food was apparently not affected by the lack of its visibility. After “breakfast” I snuggled back in bed to retrieve my disturbed sleep, and this time the darkness was comforting and most welcome.

As soon as I closed my eyes, the lights went back on.

Fair Dinkum

So I’m back from Sydney for the you-know-what multilateral event, in which I very surprisingly enjoyed myself, considering the workload and minimum amount of sleep I managed. When government delegates go on a trip, a multitude of parties, departments, sections, rankings, and roles come along for the ride. The mastery lies in weaving your way through this tangle of bureaucracy in order to get your work done, while at the same time escaping from this tangle of bureaucracy to make sure you have some quality personal time once work is completed.

As a manifestation of effective resource management, I left the “weaving through” part to my colleague who is significantly more skillful at it, and found myself more talented at the “escaping” part.

So together we managed snippets of free time to enjoy the city. A few pictures are in order. Oh but let it be known first that I only plan to post food pictures. I like food. Besides, other pictures would be show-off pictures with important people, so I’m sparing you the *What...Everrr*.

That would be “Oven Baked Victoria Scallops in Shell with Parmesan and White Sauce”, practically the biggest most succulent scallops I’ve ever had.

















That would be the “Special Seafood Platter for Two”, filled with lobsters, giant prawns, octopus, scallops, fish and chips, squid, and oysters. The “for Two” part of its name sounded distant and comical as we (both) made our way through our little platter. The real gems were the oysters, eaten raw with a squeeze of lemon, incredibly fresh and tender. I know some people who think raw oysters are disgusting and frankly I pity them.

That would be the view we enjoyed over dinner. Food for sight, you see. (In case you were wondering about said picture’s relevance.)

And yes, people. That would be paid with your tax money.

Saturdays with.

Michael Franks once made a music album entirely dedicated to the late Antonio Carlos Jobim. A beautiful album titled “abandoned garden”, which tells the story of a lovely garden filled with fragrant blossoms and tender shrubs delicately mourning the absence of their gardener.

This is no story of death, but in a way I wish I had the talent to express how much I miss my piano teacher, who has been sick now for many months. I would usually drive to his home on Saturday mornings with a bebop tune playing, because I used to believe that if I got the tune in my head it would make up for my lack of practice. I would sheepishly say to him that I haven’t practiced, and he would laugh me off, shove me some cookies, and after a little chat we would play.

And as we play, him on the right piano, me on the left one, my worries would drop off me one by one, little specks of dust suddenly unsure of their place on my mind. He would rock his head and I would sway my shoulders, we would talk like that, converse, without saying a word. In between songs he would tell me stories of how jazz is like life, like everything you will ever encounter in life. The science, the emotions, and most importantly, the journey one must take to find their own original melodies.

I remember coming to see him one day, after his wife died of cancer. We sat down on our respective piano seats in that little room with bright coloured walls and a clutter of memorabilia on the shelves and sunlight streaming in through the window, muted by a strange sadness in the air. But he wanted to play solo. He played “The Nearness of You”. He played with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, and as I watched him my eyes welled up because that day the usually pretty song was of sorrow. I never really forgot the way he played that day.

I think, although I’m not sure, that his health slowly deteriorated since then. And I’ve been so busy I must have skipped his classes dozens of times. And now he’s in no condition to teach. In my mind I had a lifetime of Saturday jam sessions with him. In my mind, I still do.

I hope he gets well soon, and tends to his garden again.

Of purple fingers and swaying furniture.

Wednesday was a family day
We all set out in holiday bliss
For it was governor elections day
We surely did not want to miss

I dressed in jeans that were near decay
(cared not that mom was pissed)
to keep away neighbour’s moms who may
consider me for their match-making list

So we voted then we went away
But first dipped our fingers in purple mist
So odd it was, and the colour stayed
I’m glad it was my finger and not my fist

Later on, as night replaced the day
And fingers had undergone a thorough rinse
An earthquake occurred, I saw furniture sway
T’was shocking, I haven’t felt the same way since!

Oh what an ordeal was yesterday
But in retrospect I can hardly flinch
I slept a lot and all was gay
Except for the little earthquake glitch.

Grass (conceptually) gets greener. Amen.

Let it be known that I am typing this while pretending to listen to the secretary recite a detailed chronological narrative of how she found her third cat and what her husband thinks of the cat. I assure you this is no easy feat, but she is convinced that I am listening, because I pretend-giggle at precisely the correct moments.

This month I celebrate my 1^st anniversary. Of starting what might be defined as “joining the labour market”. Of being fully employed, in other words. Of being paid a monthly salary, in even more words. A year that feels like ten, in summary.

By certain unorthodox standards, I believe I’m doing quite well. I haven’t gained weight. I haven’t developed an obsession for branded (or fake) monogram leather bags. I have traveled to Russia. I have learned to keep a straight face. I can now alternate between an American accent and a Javanese accent, depending on my audience. I haven’t (yet) faked a doctor’s appointment.

But to be sure it is an uglier world. A world of the ebb and tide of stacking papers, the rhythmic snapping of staples, the steady tapping of keyboards, and the chaotic cacophony of the secretary’s phone (and cat stories). My little corner in this world is a cluttered desk that is forever filled with unfinished business. My excitement over new business outfits and free stationery have long saturated. And then of course, there are the Unmentionables.

So the turmoil of the past year, at times a frenzied storm of deadlines, at times a dwindling breath of boredom, comes down to this: I want a new job.

Happy anniversary.

Lessons in Typing

The secretary informed me that I needed to fill the travel form using the typewriter.

I stared at her in horror. The typewriter?

The typewriter, is the dinosaur of computers. In some countries, it is fossilized and placed in museums. It has buttons instead of a keyboard. And when you mis-type, you cannot delete.

That is practically all I knew about typewriters. I approached the “thing” doubtfully and fiddled around with it for a minute or two. It made shocking loud jabbing noises as I pressed the buttons. At this point the office boy passed by and noticed my bewilderment.

“You need help?” he said.

“Umm… yes. Where does the paper go?”

He ended up giving me a full course on typewriting.
And then he completely re-did my work (either by kindness or exasperation) because it was too blotched up.

*picture taken from www.lomography.com

sick-leave

My third day of sick-leave from office. Upon notifying my boss via sms he replied, “Sure, have fun today at the amusement park.” His satirical humour is quite off-beat.

I should be feeling sorry for myself, as I am confined to bed rest for the entire day without even being able to sleep due to a very annoying cough and without being able to breathe due to a nose malfunction (i.e. noses are supposed to channel air. Mine channels mucus.) This morning mom dragged me out of bed and out into the front garden, waving her arms about and yelling, “Breathe! Breathe the fresh morning air! It’ll make you feel better!”

I just looked at her and tottered back indoors to get my tissue roll.

So I should be feeling sorry for myself. But instead I feel guilty for abandoning the office for three whole days. “This is just wrong”, says somewhat-devil on my right shoulder. “It is just completely wrong that you feel it’s wrong”, says certified-devil on my left shoulder.

I call up my colleague.

“How do I sound?” I croaked.
“You sound great!”
I cough a few times.
“Oh no…. you sound not so great.”
“Thank you.” I said, “Do you think I should come in work today?”
“Well… umm, it’s up to you really, how do you feel?
“I feel I might annoy people with my constant coughing.”
“Well then you shouldn’t come. Yesterday Vice-Boss already annoyed everyone by leaving at 1pm because he said he had cholesterol-disease.”

*Pop!* went the somewhat-devil on my right to oblivion. That just did it. This had to be the best excuse Vice-Boss had come up with to date. Cholesterol disease! It’s brilliant. Everybody knows that if you go home early and rest your cholesterol would be immediately cured.

If my imbecile Vice-Boss can get away with cholesterol, I sure as hell am entitled to bed rest with a nasty flu.

Reviewing ass-ets.

The subject of butts have cropped up more than once in my conversations with bf. This is entirely my fault as I am rather self-conscious in the rear end of things.

“Did you see her butt?” I would say.

“Huh?”

“Her butt looked totally awesome. Did you notice?”

“No. Do you want me to notice other girl’s butts?” he said. And I couldn’t decipher whether or not there was a hopeful tone to his question.

“Yes but only in order to tell me when you find one that looks like mine so I know what mine actually looks like.”

“Your butt is totally hot, honey” he said in a we've-gone-through-this-before tone.

“Are you being subjective?”

“Yes.”

“You see. You have to be objective about these things. I need to know.”

“Well then I’m the wrong person to ask. If a girl with a gorgeous butt asks her boyfriend her boyfriend would say ‘your butt is totally hot, honey’. If a girl with an ugly butt asks her boyfriend he would say ‘your butt is totally hot, honey’. The man will have been blinded. If you want the truth, you need to ask a gay friend.”

I pondered this new development.

“My gay friend already said my butt was so-so...” I said bleakly.

That was a very sad moment.

Dessert.

Over the weekend we had a BBQ party where everybody had to contribute something homemade, so I announced (with a bit of grandeur), that I was contributing a Mango-Green Tea Sorbet for dessert.

Said brother : Awesome! Where will you buy it?
Said friend : I hope you don’t mean Mango-Green Tea flavored es grosok.
Said boyfriend : Be honest now. Is somebody helping you make it?

You can see I received a lot of encouragement. That is entirely fair, you say. I can multitask and I can probably figure out why the Middle East conflicts keep escalating. But I simply don’t cook. ‘Domestic Goddess’ would be something to describe what I’m not.

Needless to say I was determined. I had googled the recipe and chosen the one with high ratings. I had fantasized about the … garnish. I had tasked mother to get the ingredients. The maid was on duty to peel the mangoes. I was ready for anything.

So I followed the simple recipe carefully and I must say I think it was almost a success. The taste (as the audience affirmed) was awesome. The only thing is it became more of a Mango-Green Tea smoothie rather than sorbet, but then again, that’s not my fault. The fridge wasn’t high-tech enough, you see. Neither was the blender. It’s hard to be creative with all these constraints. *sigh*

Yang penting penampilan !

Conversation with pervert colleague

When the President is receiving a visit from an official of another country I am occasionally assigned to “stand by” for an indefinite amount of time outside the meeting room in case the boss needs anything immediate. Accompanying me on this exhilarating mission are other people on “stand by” mode: bodyguards and photographers.

I had initially brought with me something to read but abandoned it on the merit that an acquaintance attempted a conversation and it is considered rude to prefer work over fake conversation. So after the usual default greetings, the conversation took a sudden turn as follows:

"You’re really sexy. Why are you so sexy?"
Having managed a couple of forced chuckles, I replied …. “Gue gitu loh” (there is no English expression for that)
"Have you married?" (using the indo word for marriage which could also mean sex)
"No."
"Oh, I meant, have you married?" (using the proper and unambiguous word for marriage)
"No."
"Well you don’t need to wait for marriage to have sex these days right. So many girls do it. I mean, I would know."
I desperately cast glances at the time.
"So have you had sex?"
Trying to sound completely calm, I said, “That’s none of your business”
And he snorts with laughter.

Such are the fruits of my being conversational and jovial. I manage to inch away while he was busy bluetoothing Tamara Blezynski’s sex-video to a couple of other guys on stand-by.

I should be reporting him to HRD. No wait, we don’t have HRD.
Shit.

Wait just a minute.

It is a Sunday night and I am thinking back to what might be the highlight of my past week. Because, I need a justification for procrastinating my self-inflicted study schedule. Thinking positive things is productive (so say personality development gurus), and is at any rate better than watching porn (which was my second choice for procrastination). Shocked, you say? Well who says girls can’t watch a good dose of porn every once in a while, eh?

Anyways, didn’t do that.

I sifted through various moments and then finally hit upon one which I never really thought much of until just this very minute. It was the moment I discovered I’m getting paid for my article that got published on The Jakarta Post, which officially makes it a milestone in my life for being my Very First Professionally Paid Publication! That’s like a dream come true, that is.

Funny it took me a week to figure that out.

And I succumb to quizes...

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convincing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

...aaand I regretted taking this one :(

You Are a Natural Flirt

Believe it or not, you're a really effective flirt. And you're so good, you hardly notice that you're flirting. Your attitude and confidence make you a natural flirt. And the fact that you don't know it is just that more attractive!

What Kind of Flirt Are You?

Come one everyone, take a break from your miserable lives and just take the friggin' quiz.

Ujung Kulon

Went on an adventure trip to Ujung Kulon over the weekend, which is an island off the western tip of Java. This involves a 6 hour car-ride to a fishing village on the edge of West Java which serves as our port, a 10 minute dodgy canoe ride to our wooden motor boat, which we then ride for 3 hours to Ujung Kulon. It was blazing hot and then raining hard in between, so we arrived wet. Once there we walked through miles of dense forestry to watch the sunset drop while the waves bubbled froth upon the rocky beach. And then we trudged back through the forest in the spooky darkness, our torches twinkling and the night crickets accompanying our tired breathing.

The next day we left early on our wooden boat to the other side of the island, dropped anchor and canoed to shore. Shore was not a sandy white beach but was instead a rocky cliff which we had to climb, leading us immediately into dense forest to follow a tiny foot track which went up and down, through giant palm-like shrubs, over huge dead logs, through sandy beaches, back into forests, through shallow downstream rivers, out again into beaches strewn with shells and dead corals, back into forests, out again into beaches strewn with large pebbles and into blaring heat from the sun. Our destination was a wide open beach overshadowed by a giant cliff overlooking the sea dotted by huge boulders of rock: simply breathtaking view. We bought tons of fresh lobsters from a lone fisherman on the beach and cooked them on a woodfire. We cracked them open with stones and ate them steaming hot with sea salt. We thought this was the climax of the day.

On our (very long) way back to the boat we discovered the tide had risen and was now crashing furiously on the rocks, also threatening to do the same to the canoe. So we had to swim back to the boat guided by a single rope we held on to tightly. On the boat, while we were sleeping out of exhaustion, one of our friends fell overboard and had to be rescued (and amazingly managed to keep his sunglasses intact, which he didn’t hesitate to brag about). Back on our own corner of the island, we swam in the clear sparkling sea and made sandcastles on the white sandy beach till dusk. And that, was the climax of the day.

Plenty more adventures on our way back to Jakarta, but will stop here and leave you with pictures of the things I saw during the most adventurous holiday I’ve had in a long time.

hundreds of tiny fish are trapped on dry sand as the tide pulls away too fast
















resting by the entrance to the sacred Sanghiang Sirah Cave by the beach.





















sailing in the sunrise on Sunda Strait.

















insomniac reindeer on the beach accompanies us on our last night.





















sunset on the rocks at Copong Beach.

Flirt.

I remember a time ages and ages ago… when a friend told me I was a “pathological flirt”. This basically means that, by nature I am flirty without even realizing or intending to be. At the time I was extremely surprised.

Another impression that I’ve been told people have of me is that, I look bitchy and unfriendly. I blame this on genetics: I possess a square jaw that makes me look like Pocahontas. People probably get the impression I shoot arrows and fight for minority rights as a favorite pastime.

Both these impressions have gotten me into trouble one way or another, and have been quite a significant source of confusion for me. Some people get intimidated, other people think I’m coming on to them. If I make effort to become friendlier, I risk being perceived as flirty. If I make effort to guard my distance, I risk being perceived as cold and unfriendly.

How on earth do I reconcile the two?

Spot resemblance?

I serve a public funktion.

One of the first autodidact lessons learnt at my office is to smile at people. Of course this is a general social-skill rule, but here it is promoted to a higher, more significant level. It is a professional code of conduct, a survival kit. Indeed my colleague, esteemed and popular around here, goes so far as to shake hands with everybody he meets. This confused me for a bit. I was wondering why he was shaking hands with people he met almost every day. But people dig it. So it was cool.

I taught myself a fairly acceptable default smile. I stayed off the handshakes.

The second lesson: being fashionable is not recommended. Nothing sexy, catchy, or expensive. There is far too great a risk of uniformed civil servants eyeing your outfit with envy. My other colleague thinks of it differently. He says “this shit-hole doesn’t deserve my Zara shoes”. But I think at least I deserve my nice heels. (That’s the difference I guess between men and women. But let’s not go there). So I keep my heels and keep an ugly pair of flats under my desk, just in case.

And so I live my days. Now wavering completely off topic, suddenly today I get a text message from a colleague in my previous office, the consulting firm. It goes like this:

“... Paaahty peeps listen up… do u ever get tired of the same old songs? Do you get a sick feeling when u hear a luv generation for the gazillionth time? Well here’s the deal: we’re changing things up this weekend. The event is ‘FUNKTION’ @PUBLIC this Saturday the 26^th. DANCEFLO productions be bringin u 100% funk music, with yo funkay ass DJs Mikey and David J. Dresscode is –‘my fine-ass self’. Bring the gud vibes, and share in one of J-town’s few attempts to bring sumthing fresh to the table. Support the music, get ur drink on, and most importantly… get funkd up. C u on the danceflo …”

Oh how I miss my previous office.

Syukur Tafakur.

never mind
it's only in my mind
i'll procrastinate awhile
and hopefully survive

i hate my self-absorption
it's way out of proportion:
overlapping waves of green
envy has an ugly sheen

but never mind
it's only in my mind
i'll unclench my fist, unwind
i will be grateful and kind

Of women and hype.

I’ve never told this story before.

I’m not a feminist.
I friend of mine said, “Really? Why?”
“I don’t need to be,” I said. He laughed and said that was such a feminist answer.

The truth is, as far as I can remember, my greatest annoyances have always been female. The male gender disappoint in that they break your heart or naively say you look fatter. I can deal with that.
Females, on the other hand, can be truly damaging. They can be really nice. Then, behind your back, they can decide to dislike you for a particular obscure reason. Then they can point the fact out to female companions with a bit of exaggeration, garner public opinion to support her view, and suddenly create an army of people who will scrutinize this once unperceived element and decide to dislike you as a whole. It’s just like politics. The consequence of this is that the victim, whether or not it was fair that she was a victim, will feel outnumbered and marginalized. The victim, whether or not she truly has a serious defect of character, will wonder whether she has a serious defect of character. I’ve met tons of these women throughout my life. It’s unfair and it seems as if they have nothing better to do. It’s amazing that their lack of confidence can be manipulated so as to make the rival feel unconfident also.

This is an accumulated disappointment that I’ve never expressed before. This involves my seniors in high school who told me to “change my face” because they didn’t like it. This involves years and years of trying to fit in with the groupie vivacious girls because they were so popular. This involves a lifetime of putting up with a culture where it’s best to hide your skills to avoid envy and to ‘blend’. This involves a woman 10 years older than me who I used to look up to, hysterically chastising me because I treated her like an equal.

As a result, the percentage of men I trusted was always bigger than the women. I always felt more confident that they’d be pretty cool with the things I do or say, and felt more comfortable about giving them logical advice if they asked for it. If they disliked me I always got to know why. Men are pretty reasonable.

* picture taken from www.lomography.com

Surreal

Ethnic Javanese gamelan orchestra music is forcing itself through the walls of my office, from the vacant department next door. We are confused (and find it hard to talk above the noise). Why on earth would anyone play gamelan next door?

And just as we were adapting to the relatively enjoyable music, we were shocked to hear a rooster, crowing as if it was the last dawn on earth (at 11 o’clock noon), from the same room next door. We say, “wtf ?”

The mystery is unbearable. We ask the office boy. He replies as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“They’re clearing up the room next door for the new office.”

This did not make sense. Then he elaborated.

“They have to clean up the spirits residing in the ancient stuff stored in there.”
(editors note: the palace has several old artifacts dating from the era of bygone presidents, which have fallen into disuse, and is stored wherever there is space to store. "Evicting" spirits from ancient objects requires special ceremonies so as not to "anger them".)

I laughed. And then I saw he was serious. And then I saw the others nod their heads in comprehension. Said the secretary, “Well why do they have to do it during office days?”

Incredulously, the office boy had an answer to this. Because it’s Friday the 13^th.

Oh. I should have known.

* (photo of gamelan set is taken from www.berkeley.edu)

Hungry

This is what I would always want for lunch. I've discovered I am quite in love with sandwiches, conceptually and gastronomically. It is light and healthy, it is packed with all the things I love, it's ingredients are flexible and interchangeable. This one I found in a little street in DC, whimsically named "Pita Pan". Huge wheat pita-bread ridiculously packed with lettuce, avocado, tomatos, alfalfa sprouts, cucumber, mushrooms, cheese, and various other green leaves I can't recall the names of. I was in low-fat heaven.

It is now lunch time, and I sadly reminisce. It is a choice between cooking instant noodles in the pantry or getting "prison food" in the staff cafetaria. *sigh*