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*