Leftovers...

Glancing through my photos from the past couple of weeks and finding a few that didn't make it into previous posts, but are perhaps worth brief comment.

I stayed at the Hotel Mulia Senayan, one of the nicest hotels I've ever visited.

A small portion of the enormous lobby. The hotel has nearly a thousand rooms, six high-end restaurants, a couple of lounges, shopping, spa services, and on and on - they don't make 'em like this anymore, at least not in North America. In addition to the impressive physical plant, the hotel boasted impeccable service - I was frequently greeted by name, and always with a smile.



My very comfortable room.



A night time view of the rooftop spa, located next to an Olympic-sized pool, and overlooking the city. On this same level there's a poolside bar/restaurant, a spa, and a health club.



The view from my room, day and night, looking south toward the cluster of office towers, high-rise malls, and hotels of the Senayan district. At rush hour (pretty much any time other than between 10 PM and 6 AM) it can take a half hour to get from my hotel to those buildings.





One of my co-workers was nice enough to take me to Sunda Kelapa, a 17th century harbor from which traditional two-masted pinisi schooners still transport cargo from Java to the islands of Sulawesi and Kalimantan. I'm not a boat guy, but it was really cool to see these working vessels. The manual labor required to load them: not so fun. Notice the gangplanks, which are literally notched planks. There are a few small cranes and forklifts on the dock, but all the actual loading is done manually, by the ethnic Bugis and Makassarese sailors who crew the ships. We didn't stay long, but I really enjoyed seeing this fascinating, anachronistic place.

No mo' Omo

Omo has evidently been reassigned, so tomorrow I get a different driver for my last few days here. I'm sure he'll be just fine, but come on...

Kind of bummed.

What's the opposite of "The Big Durian"?

When I signed on for this Jakarta gig… wait, I didn’t actually “sign on”. It was more the case that no one else especially wanted to come here, and everyone else has skills that could be put to value in another location. Lacking both skills and a compelling reason to be somewhere else, I ended up with the short straw. And it’s been just fine, but when I agreed to come here, I knew that I would have little opportunity for sightseeing. As a result, I can hardly claim to be an expert on Jakarta. Beyond the few crowded streets I’ve become familiar with during my commute, a couple of restaurants and bars, I don’t know much about this city, which is known as "The Big Durian" - a fruit famous for its luscious flavor and its outhouse stench.

But last Saturday and Sunday I had no commitments, so it was my one chance to see something beyond the streets of Jakarta. Although it’s not rare for Jakartans to take the short flight to Yogyakarta or Bali for a weekend, I wasn’t feeling quite that ambitious. Somewhere in my research I ran across a reference to Pulau Macan, an eco-resort (whatever that means) located just a couple of hours by boat from Jakarta. Short of a full-on adventure to Komodo or Papua New Guinea, Pulau Macan looked like a perfect rustic getaway from the noise, pollution, and crowds of the city. I contacted the resort, made my reservation, and bright and early on Saturday morning, I queued up with a smallish crowd of perhaps 25 other folks and boarded a comfortable speed boat, bound for a tropical island.



We were seated in comfortable airline-style chairs below deck. A few brave souls ventured onto the outer deck, but the combination of sun and enormous spray as we cut through a 3-4 foot chop brought most people back inside. I struck up a conversation with the guy next to me, a 30ish American living in Jakarta. As it turned out, Matt was both typical of many of the guests (young, professional, smart) and unusual (he works for an Indonesian business, while the majority work for various philanthropic agencies, government offices, and NGOs). Based on a single weekend of sampling, Pulau Macan is definitely geared for young urban professional visitors, as opposed to the funkier backpacker demographic who might also be attracted to this sort of “Gilligan’s Island meets Al Gore” kind of hangout.

Pulau Macan is part of a scattering of low coral atolls known collectively as Kepulauan Seribu, or Thousand Islands. Actually there are a few hundred of them, which combined total an area of only a few square miles – most of the islands are tiny. Approaching the dock at Pulau Macan, it’s clear that anyone with a reasonably good arm could wing a rock from one end of the island to the other. Still, it’s a scenic little place, surrounded by shallow sky blue waters and neat as a pin.



The island is intensely utilized. Swept gravel paths lead through palms and other foliage to a scattering of huts, most of which overlook the water, and which range from the substantial “Red Brick Cabin” to wispy bamboo-shaded lean-tos to a handful of backpacker tents. The real focal point, however, is the common area, which includes a spacious, open air Club House complete with bar, seating and eating areas, and a pool table. Next to the Club House, the Main Hut includes a high thatched roof and a view over the water. Chaises, hammocks, and other comfy seating invite conversation, reading, and naps, while a long, long table extends onto a dock where around 25 guests can be seated for meals. Along the pathways, you’ll find a raised bed garden where they are trying (with limited success) to grow some produce and papayas. There’s a tower where captured rainwater is stored for use in the two common bath houses.



Small artistic touches abound. Although the island has an array of solar panels that provide a small amount of electricity, most nighttime lighting is from tea candles, which are carefully placed inside clamshell sconces next to the paths. The bath houses are whimsical and decorative, with shells and carvings providing a lift to what could otherwise be a grim public loo. Guest rooms are breezy and simple, but comfortable and peaceful.



If you visit Pulau Macan, your tariff will include lodging and four meals: a lunch after your arrival, dinner, and breakfast and lunch the following day. Meals are served buffet style, and the food is wholesome, plentiful, and quite tasty. Imagine home cooking, with a cross between traditional Indonesian cuisine and modern healthy cooking. No one failed to clean their plate.

The whole point of Pulau Macan is to establish a sustainable, low-impact resort, and to my mind they’ve succeeded. This isn’t a place to come for jello shots, karaoke, and parasailing. You can certainly order up a mojito or a beer, and there’s a bunch of snorkeling gear available for use. Lots of guests walked through waist-deep water (that arc of light blue water in the photo at the top of this post) to a tiny adjacent island that features nothing more than a white sand beach and a rustic gazebo. We took a puttering wooden boat out a mile or so to another coral reef and snorkeled there for an hour or so. It wasn't the greatest snorkeling I've ever experienced, but there were fish to see and some interesting coral formations and the barely-cool water was delightful.



The typical weekend visit to Pulau Macan departs Saturday morning and returns on Sunday afternoon. What with reading, eating, chatting with other guests, and napping, the time went quickly and very pleasantly. In no time at all, we were re-boarding the boat and zipping back to Jakarta.

Oh, one more thing: the island was remarkably free of bugs and other critters, although this friendly little guy did show up on the roof of my tent.

Omo

For the duration of my visit to Jakarta, I have the services of a hired car and driver. The driver’s name is Omo. His English is roughly equivalent to my Bahasa, which means we’re limited to the most rudimentary of exchanges: “Hello”, “How are you?”, and “Thank you” are about the extent of our conversations in each other’s language. Still, we’re spending a few hours per day together in traffic, so I like to imagine that ours is a companionable silence.

Omo is a remarkably skillful and aggressive driver – in this traffic-clogged city, he has to be. I’ve cringed as we squeeze through inches-wide gaps in traffic, always accelerating to find the next empty bit of pavement. The sheer volume of traffic here is mind-boggling: at rush hour, it seems that virtually every bit of road surface in Jakarta is occupied by smoke-belching buses, taxis, private cars, motorcycles, and three-wheeled bajaj vehicles.

Coming from the relatively placid and structured environment of the US, the free-wheeling approach to driving here is disconcerting: it looks like complete pandemonium, but after a couple of weeks of exposure, it’s clear to me that there’s an intricate dance performed on the streets here. To be successful requires equal measures of bravado and humility – you are expected to dart for the open space, but you must yield when someone faster, braver, or larger gets there first. Drivers in Jakarta aren't talking on their phones, drinking coffee, or applying makeup - they're driving. It's serious, all-consuming activity that requires way more concentration and skill behind the wheel than most Americans ever demonstrate.

The motorbikes just kill me (and often, I expect, themselves). Most riders are young, and often ride two or even three per scooter. Virtually every rider wears a helmet, but that seems scant protection against tons of metal as they squeeze through momentary gaps in the cars. Sometimes when traffic is really jammed, motorbike riders bypass the crowd by riding in the oncoming lane – it’s not uncommon to see a solid stream of riders roaring head-on against traffic.

Omo weaves through all of it, shifting, braking, frequently honking – not in anger, simply as a signal that he’s coming through. He drives as if he alone has a universal right of way, and he is merely reminding others of that fact. It works astoundingly well. For Omo, there are no stop signs, and the only red lights that count are the ones with policemen directing traffic beneath them. It’s rare that he elicits any emotion – driving is what he does, and traffic is where he does it. Mostly he concentrates, rapidly evaluating the shifting stream of vehicles that surround us, and constantly changing, re-calculating, reacting and dancing through the crowded streets. It’s impressive – he is very good at what he does.

When he drops me off, our mutual lack of language is most pronounced. We simply say “OK”. Until tomorrow.

The Morning Commute

We are in a traffic jam, duh. Suddenly, while we aren't even moving, there's a slight jolt and a scraping sound. Someone just bumped into us! It's amazing it doesn't happen more frequently. Anyway, Omo gets out, checks the situation (clogging traffic even more), then climbs back in, smiling. Summoning the extent of my Bahasa, I ask him "Bagus?" (Good?) To which Omo waits a beat, stretches his English as well, and replies "Woman."

My Dinner With Salim

When Melissa casually mentioned to a friend that I was going to Jakarta for business, her offhand comment drew a surprisingly excited response. Turns out that her friend's specialty luggage business sources its product from a manufacturer in Jakarta, and my visit was the perfect opportunity to act as a goodwill ambassador for the growing business.

Hey, I'm spending three weeks alone in this city - I'm willing to talk to pretty much anyone, simply to break the tedium of my own company. So I was happy to arrange a meeting. We agreed via email to meet on Tuesday evening, and although the evening traffic was even worse than usual due to a late afternoon rainstorm, Mr. Salim called my Indonesian cell phone promptly at 8 PM - the appointed time - to announce his arrival at my hotel.

I wandered around the large lobby until he spotted me and approached: a smiling, middle-aged man with his arm extended for a friendly handshake. Salim introduced himself and immediately (and enthusiastically) invited me to dinner in the hotel's Italian restaurant, where - he claimed - he knew the chef and had several favorite dishes.

Sure enough, once we were seated, the chef his own bad self came out, greeted Salim warmly, and made several menu recommendations. While we waited for our meals, we got acquainted. Salim manages an operation of 1500 employees who make bags for a variety of customers around the world. Mercurial, ebullient, and opinionated, he was an entertaining dinner companion and made what might have been an awkward meal quite entertaining.

Although I attempted several times to steer the conversation toward the particulars of his business relationship with our friend, Salim was clearly in charge and interested more in socializing than specifics. Our conversation covered an astonishing range, from the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in Indonesia to the merits of the German university system to ice wine...

Salim's physical appetite was as enthusiastic as his conversation. Without faltering, he devoured an appetizer, an enormous ribeye steak, and a hellishly rich dessert, all the while talking, gesticulating, laughing, and making occasional pop-eyed pauses for dramatic effect. It was an impressive performance.

Mid-dessert, I capitulated. The meal was delicious, but way too much for me. Salim immediately sensed the shift and quickly finished his meal. With the same ease with which we began our conversation, Salim ended it, thanking me effusively for the pleasure of my company, and with promises to visit the US.

So many business relationships are full of empty gestures, false bonhomie, and insincere promises. Ironically, although this wasn't my meeting at all, I find myself sincerely hoping that Salim fulfills his promise to visit - I'd enjoy another whirlwind hour or two in his presence.

A solo trip to Jakarta

Getting from Portland to Jakarta is no easy feat. Granted, it was only three flights, but they took a total of over 20 flying hours and close to 30 elapsed hours from door to door. On the other hand, my personal effort was limited to sitting and occasionally waving a boarding pass at someone, so I shouldn't complain too much.

Today is likely to be my only day off for a couple of weeks, and I wanted to see at least a little bit of Jakarta. Since I'm here by myself and my Bahasa Indonesian language skills are non-existent, I wasn't prepared to try anything too adventurous, so I simply took a taxi from my hotel to Kota, the historic center of Jakarta - or Batavia, as it was originally known. Several historic structures are scattered around Fatahillah Square, which dates from the early 18th century when the Dutch East India Company took over a small fishing village and built it into a cornerstone of their empire.



Unfortunately, nearly three centuries of tropical weather, earthquakes, and urbanization have taken a toll on the historic buildings, and most of them are in pretty sad shape. Still, the square is a popular gathering place, and the early morning crowd was enjoying mild temperatures and nice cool breezes. The square was filled with local tour groups, families, and the occasional gringo tourist like me. As is the case pretty much anywhere outside of northern Europe, I don't exactly blend in, so I collected my usual ration of gawks and double takes.



Around the perimeter of the square, a lot of entrepreneurial guys rent out bicycles and they all adhere to a stylish, color-coordinated lineup of their products. I enjoyed taking a few pics of them.







I wandered around the square and a few adjacent streets and eventually stopped for a cup of coffee at Cafe Batavia, located on the square and semi-renowned for its bar, which some magazine named as one of the best in the world. In my opinion, that nomination stemmed more from romantic colonial fantasies than from any current allure. The place is a little down at the heels, but does indeed have a cool old fashioned vibe. But world-class? Please. Unsurprisingly on a Sunday morning, the bar was mostly empty, but I nursed a cup of astoundingly strong coffee and listened to an ambiguously-gendered torch singer belt out strongly accented songs from my parents' generation to a crowd that totalled three people: me and two women in Muslim headscarves. It was quirky and slightly awkward and a total hoot - I love weird stuff like that.



Finally, when it was time to head back to the hotel, I stepped out onto a busy boulevard and tried to flag down a taxi - not as easy as it sounds in a city where many of the taxis are unregulated and potentially unsafe. While I was ineffectually trying to find just the right sort of cab, a gaggle of tween-aged schoolgirls passed by on the crowded sidewalk. Their teacher - a tiny woman who might have been nearly five feet tall - approached me and explained that they were an English class and that the girls would like to speak with me. She very politely asked if that was okay - as if I could say no to such a request.

The girls were initially shy - and who wouldn't be, speaking a foreign language to a bizarre-looking grownup man? But the bravest one finally asked "What is your name?" The next asked "Where are you from?", and the third asked "How old are you?" (Ill-concealed shock at the answer). Then the questions came tumbling out, and I was laughing and trying to answer all of them. A crowd of 20 or 30 non-English-speaking onlookers enjoyed the show as well.

Then it was time to take photos, so I posed for several shots with the giggling crowd of tiny girls, grinning widely for what will have to be among the weirdest photos those girls will ever own. Finally, each of them shook my hand and recited "Pleased to meet you" and they were off into the crowded streets of Kota.

Not a minute later, a suitable taxi cruised past. I flagged him down and rode back to the hotel. A successful mini-adventure.

Indonesia's national motto is "Unity In Diversity" and right now I'm listening to the competing sounds of a muezzin's call to prayer ringing out from a nearby mosque and the ratatat of a marching band practicing on a nearby athletic field. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to get more of a glimpse into this fascinating place.