Eating Wind in Jakarta as Jesus Vomits

[Jakarta, 12/15/23]

I arrived in Jakarta three days ago. Coming from the airport, I spotted highrises in the distance, then shopping malls with some familiar brands, such as Ikea, Foot Locker and H&M. One mall was called Central Park, just as in Saigon, there are buildings named Times Square and Union Square, etc. The illusion of being outside Southeast Asia was further reinforced by the absence of motorbikes.

Having been to Indonesia, albeit too briefly, I wasn’t too worried about being tricked into some version of Singapore, however. Sure enough, as soon as we exited the freeway, I was again slam dunked into this region’s unique vitality. Petty commercial activities animate nearly every street and alley. Jakarta still has so many of these invigorating warrens. You’re missing out on so much.

In three days, I must have walked 14 miles. Pausing often, I saw much more than someone on a bicycle, say, much less a car. We’re meant to measure this earth with the slowest moving body and insatiable eyes. In no city have I seen more food stands and the tiniest eateries. Warung, they’re called, with fried rice [nasi goreng] and noodles [mie goreng] the most common offerings. For breakfast, Indonesians prefer chicken rice gruel [bubur ayam]. Since eating it requires no chopsticks, many stands provide only stools. Holding a bowl while scooping your victual, you don’t need a table.

Like Vietnamese, Indonesians use the Latin alphabet, with each word pronounced exactly as it’s written, unlike quirky if not perverse English. Their irrationality is becoming even more pronounced. Righteously insane, they’re shredding their own tongue. As English loses its erection, its wilted virility endures in loan words, so in Indonesia, we have pistol, bom, helikopter, vaksin, genosida, dokter, transgender and rap, etc.

Having visited Malaysia and eaten so often at a Malaysian Chinese joint in Phnom Penh, I came here already equipped with a formidable, if not forbidding, Malay vocabulary of, ah, five or six words! A prodigious learner, I’ve since picked up at least a dozen more so, already, I have more Malay than Biden, English. There’s no reason, then, why I shouldn’t run for the presidency here. Granted, I’m not Muslim, but Jakarta recently had a Christian governor, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama.

Accused of blasphemy by political enemies, he wasn’t just booted from his post, but imprisoned. After release, he’s then stripped of his position as head of the state-owned oil and gas firm. It didn’t matter that Purnama had been appointed by the president himself. Not just Christian, he’s also Chinese. They really sicced this man. Though a native son, he’s now a nobody. Politics is the bloodiest sport. Economically on top, Tionghoa have also been mass murdered by berserk natives. In Malay, amuk means to go on a killing spree.

“My fellow Indonesians! If elected, I will make sure there’s always an ayam in each pot. As the Great Satan goes down in flames, we won’t just survive, but thrive, thanks to our Muslim values. In my hotel room last night, I searched but couldn’t find any pornografi, much to my dismay. I mean, relief! Even with 1,340 ethnic groups inhabiting 6,000 islands, we’re still one, thanks to our shared faith and Bahasa Indonesia, of which, I promise you, I will be proficient within a week. I just scored a 10 at Duolingo.”

An irony of Dutch colonialism was their promotion of Malay as the lingua franca. This helped to launch Indonesian nationalism. Dutch racial categories also hardened social divisions, however. As a buffer between masters and slaves, the Chinese in Indonesia were like the colored in South Africa.

I’m sitting in a Chinese restaurant, Uncle Zhou Bubur & Dimsum. With its solid tables and wifi, it’s good enough for writing. It would be great if they would just turn off the music. Nearby CoffeeLabs Kebon Sirih would have been perfect, but for reasons unknown, they’re closed this Saturday morning. You can be sure it’s not run by a Chinese.

Near noon, it’s getting a bit too hot to wander around. Yesterday, I had a fantastic time getting lost. Entering a long, winding alley, I assumed there must be exits along the way, but there weren’t, so I had to retrace my steps at least half a mile. This was serendipitous, for I had an excuse to hang out with eight or nine delightful children, while sipping a 39-cent glass of instant coffee. All over Jakarta, they sell this, often from bicycles. There’s a post collapse business idea for you! Aged between one and thirteen, most kids were playing hopscotch. When was the last time you saw that? Sadly, three were glued to their cellphones.

Seeing the video of me with the kids, jimmydee1130 comments, “You realize that what you just did would get you arrested in the US. It’s tragic and sad and all the rest, but unfortunately true. Older men (I’m 66) are not allowed the joy of watching young children laugh and play and argue and rumble with one another, as was the norm for the last 10,000 years or so […] We are now on a different planet.”

In the West, people have become expert at avoiding nearly every touch, smell and eye contact. Though catching up, Southeast Asia lags way behind, so even in a megalopolis like Jakarta, Bangkok or Saigon, etc., tactile life is always within reach.

Warung and basic cafes are everywhere here, but good luck finding a bar. In Cairo three years ago, it took me forever to locate inconspicuous Horreya, an elegant yet cheap tavern for boozy Abdulahs, and Nubias too. Although mostly ruined, Beirut still has many bars. Once, it’s the Paris of the Middle East. In nominally Muslim Albania, many men quaff raki for breakfast. “No, thanks!” I had to smilingly respond to their friendly offering in Gjirokaster. The Turkish Efes is much better than common American beers.

Drinking a 32-cent black coffee, I said to the owner of a tiny cafe at a wet market, “This is very nice. It’s good to just look at people.” He had enough English to understand me.

An old man came in to buy 12 cents of hot water, which he took away in a plastic bag. “To make tea?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s weird. Can’t he just boil water at home? Does he have electricity? Maybe he’s just lazy…”

“He’s just lazy!” the thin young man with barely a moustache laughed.

“Does he come in every day?”

“Every day.”

Having never gone to college, he learnt all his English in high school. With no tourists around, he can never practice. Just outside, sheep were feeding on garbage. I had seen the same in Egypt and Lebanon.

Weirdest, though, was some dark, burly guy who poured half his coffee onto a large saucer, so he could drink from it. Of course, everyone commits unmentionable acts, though mostly out of sight, mercifully.

In an Ingo Schulze short story, one woman complains to another that her boyfriend pisses in the shower. “They all do that,” her friend immediately replies with authority.

My friend Lyle in Sihanoukville just told me that to take a walk in Malay is “saya makan angin,” which literally translates as “I eat wind.” They must have thousands of other charming or bizarre expressions I will never know, for their universe is not mine. Still, it takes no effort to smile and laugh with them, as I did with those kids.

In Gaza, though, the butchering of innocents, including thousands of children, goes on. Serving Satanic Jews, many Christians have also lost their soul. At my blog, some “anonymous” just commented, “As a Christian it does not bother me seeing these two religions of Satan murdering one another. Merry Christmas.”

Jesus would vomit. This sick Christmas, I will be in the largest Muslim nation on earth. Even with my window closed, I can hear the first prayer call around 3:45AM. There are several churches near me. With each dawn, I can again wade into that stream of gentle, smiling beings. Far, far away, they’re going amok.

[Jakarta, 12/14/23]

[Jakarta, 12/15/23]

[Jakarta, 12/15/23]

[Jakarta, 12/15/23]