Roar!
Selling flowers at the market
I have a monkey on my lap!
Monkey Forest, Ubud
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sanur
On day three, Matt and I woke up early to catch a flight to Bali. Our flight was at 7am. The professor's son, who manages the guest house, assured us we could leave at 5:30 -- no traffic, plenty of time at the airport. Matt asked that the driver arrive at 5:15 just to make sure. It didn't matter -- the driver was late, and we left at 5:30.
We arrived at the airport nearly an hour later, close to 6:30am. There were lines everywhere. We showed a Garuda Air representative our ticket to make sure we were in the right place, and she waived at the line. We waited. And waited. We showed our ticket to someone else walking by, and they pulled us out of that line and told us to stand in another (short) line. Finally we got up to the counter.
The woman looked at our printout tickets and clicked at the keys of her computer. "Ohhh," she said, "Denpasar, is closed." "But they told us to wait," Matt protested quietly, voice breaking slightly with mild panic. "Ok, one moment --" the woman runs off with our passports and tickets.
We wait for her return, expecting the worst. Breathless she returns, and sits back down. She looks at us and says, "Denpasar flight is full. Only business." Matt and I exchange a look, not believing our ears. "Business OK?"
A few moments later we are racing -- RACING -- through the airport to try and make our flight, which was already in final boarding, also halfway in disbelief that our $60 tickets to Bali are about to buy us white tablecloths and real silverware in business class on a 747 -- better run before they realize their mistake!!
Oh heaven. By the time we got to the plane I was thirsty and a man brought me orange juice in a real glass. He look so happy when I asked for a second one. We had eggs and ham and two -- two! croissants, the best coffee we'd had yet, refills, oh, and the seats... so comfy...
Oh yeah, and Bali is nice, too -- but that's for the next post. :) (In a rush, have to get to a cultural dance...)
We arrived at the airport nearly an hour later, close to 6:30am. There were lines everywhere. We showed a Garuda Air representative our ticket to make sure we were in the right place, and she waived at the line. We waited. And waited. We showed our ticket to someone else walking by, and they pulled us out of that line and told us to stand in another (short) line. Finally we got up to the counter.
The woman looked at our printout tickets and clicked at the keys of her computer. "Ohhh," she said, "Denpasar, is closed." "But they told us to wait," Matt protested quietly, voice breaking slightly with mild panic. "Ok, one moment --" the woman runs off with our passports and tickets.
We wait for her return, expecting the worst. Breathless she returns, and sits back down. She looks at us and says, "Denpasar flight is full. Only business." Matt and I exchange a look, not believing our ears. "Business OK?"
A few moments later we are racing -- RACING -- through the airport to try and make our flight, which was already in final boarding, also halfway in disbelief that our $60 tickets to Bali are about to buy us white tablecloths and real silverware in business class on a 747 -- better run before they realize their mistake!!
Oh heaven. By the time we got to the plane I was thirsty and a man brought me orange juice in a real glass. He look so happy when I asked for a second one. We had eggs and ham and two -- two! croissants, the best coffee we'd had yet, refills, oh, and the seats... so comfy...
Oh yeah, and Bali is nice, too -- but that's for the next post. :) (In a rush, have to get to a cultural dance...)
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Total Traffic
Day Two
Jakarta's facades are cracked and stained
Jakarta's facades are glistening glass...
As we speed north in our taxi toward the Cafe Batavia for brunch, lines to the rhythm of "Jellicle Cats" run through my head. We pass through jumbles of buildings squashed together like townhouses, 3-4 stories high, crumbling, rusted, and dirty with car exhaust. Bootleg CDs, car parts, lamps. We also pass huge mall complexes with grand names like "Plaza Senayan" -- these are gleaming behemoths that house Western designer stores like Prada, Tod's, Hugo Boss, and Coach, connected by glass walkways to luxury apartments and condos stretching dozens of stories high. Security guards check the undercarriage of each car that pulls up with oversized dentist mirrors. We pass the Chinese quarter, where many buildings stand scorched and empty from a fire many years ago, with grey facades and neon signs. We pass skyscrapers entirely devoted to a single bank, a single company, Mercedes. There is one major road that runs north-south through the center of Jakarta, and this is it.
We get out of the taxi and begin to walk to the Cafe Batavia, the second-oldest building in Jakarta. It faces the first oldest, which is the old Stadthuis Governor's Building, and is now a museum. Cafe Batavia is the ultimate 30s bar -- upstairs the walls are lined with photographs, the walls are teak paneled, heavy teak shutters keep out the sun and lazy ceiling fans swirl overhead (though there is also air conditioning). A teak bar is faced with cowhide. Muted brocade curtains hang down over corner clusters of cushioned wicker chairs. The food isn't that great (the guidebook described it as "form over function"), but the ambiance...
After walking around, going to the museum (a great deal at 20 cents), and returning to the Cafe for a much needed drink -- it was getting hot! -- we caught a taxi to go to one of these fancy malls. Air conditioning seemed to be just the thing, and there would be restaurants for lunch. The car turned south. And the journey that took us 45 minutes that morning took an hour to go half as far. Oh misery, sitting in that cab. Matt told me that officials in Jakarta believe by 2011 the city will experience "total traffic" -- complete paralysis. The only thing moving are the express buses, which have a dedicated lane. If only we'd taken that...
That evening though, a real gem of a restaurant find redeemed the day: Payon. Walking through the small gate, there is an open air traditional pavilion under which tables and chairs look out into a small courtyard. Additional detached buildings, some with gift shops, some with private seating, and one with, of all things, a children's play area, all face the courtyard's central fountain. The servers wear collarless white cotton tunics and black pants. Traditional Indonesian flute music plays. The sound of water almost drowns out the whine of scooters. And they serve BEER, which is not common (Indonesia is predominantly Muslim). Full, sleepy, and slightly tipsy, with our mouths tingling from the spicy fried chicken and grilled fish, we make it back to the professor's house to pack for that next morning's trip -- to Bali!
Jakarta's facades are cracked and stained
Jakarta's facades are glistening glass...
As we speed north in our taxi toward the Cafe Batavia for brunch, lines to the rhythm of "Jellicle Cats" run through my head. We pass through jumbles of buildings squashed together like townhouses, 3-4 stories high, crumbling, rusted, and dirty with car exhaust. Bootleg CDs, car parts, lamps. We also pass huge mall complexes with grand names like "Plaza Senayan" -- these are gleaming behemoths that house Western designer stores like Prada, Tod's, Hugo Boss, and Coach, connected by glass walkways to luxury apartments and condos stretching dozens of stories high. Security guards check the undercarriage of each car that pulls up with oversized dentist mirrors. We pass the Chinese quarter, where many buildings stand scorched and empty from a fire many years ago, with grey facades and neon signs. We pass skyscrapers entirely devoted to a single bank, a single company, Mercedes. There is one major road that runs north-south through the center of Jakarta, and this is it.
We get out of the taxi and begin to walk to the Cafe Batavia, the second-oldest building in Jakarta. It faces the first oldest, which is the old Stadthuis Governor's Building, and is now a museum. Cafe Batavia is the ultimate 30s bar -- upstairs the walls are lined with photographs, the walls are teak paneled, heavy teak shutters keep out the sun and lazy ceiling fans swirl overhead (though there is also air conditioning). A teak bar is faced with cowhide. Muted brocade curtains hang down over corner clusters of cushioned wicker chairs. The food isn't that great (the guidebook described it as "form over function"), but the ambiance...
After walking around, going to the museum (a great deal at 20 cents), and returning to the Cafe for a much needed drink -- it was getting hot! -- we caught a taxi to go to one of these fancy malls. Air conditioning seemed to be just the thing, and there would be restaurants for lunch. The car turned south. And the journey that took us 45 minutes that morning took an hour to go half as far. Oh misery, sitting in that cab. Matt told me that officials in Jakarta believe by 2011 the city will experience "total traffic" -- complete paralysis. The only thing moving are the express buses, which have a dedicated lane. If only we'd taken that...
That evening though, a real gem of a restaurant find redeemed the day: Payon. Walking through the small gate, there is an open air traditional pavilion under which tables and chairs look out into a small courtyard. Additional detached buildings, some with gift shops, some with private seating, and one with, of all things, a children's play area, all face the courtyard's central fountain. The servers wear collarless white cotton tunics and black pants. Traditional Indonesian flute music plays. The sound of water almost drowns out the whine of scooters. And they serve BEER, which is not common (Indonesia is predominantly Muslim). Full, sleepy, and slightly tipsy, with our mouths tingling from the spicy fried chicken and grilled fish, we make it back to the professor's house to pack for that next morning's trip -- to Bali!
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Tree that Eats Kites
I am in Jakarta, Indonesia.
I arrived at 1:00pm local time, which is 14 hours ahead of California. The airport is built to resemble a series of low, connected wooden pavilions, decorated with wooden panels covered in intricate carvings in dull colored sheens. I remembered that Matt said, when he arrived the first time, that between the terminal and the main building, in the hallway enclosed with wood and glass looking over the tropical palms of a courtyard, you could smell the distinct tang of clove cigarettes tinged with jet fuel. I made sure to breathe deep. He was right.
Within, armed with a small collection of brightly colored landing documents, I gave and got in turn: arrival visa coupon, arrival visa, departure card, passport stamp, stern warning about drug trafficking (this on a sign -- Welcome to Indonesia! Drug Trafficking is Punished by Death!), a yellow health card so they could find me if someone on the plane comes down with swine flu, or bird flu, or SARS, or god knows. Finally, a passport stamp. The luggage. A final x-ray screen. And then -- Matt!
Matt arranged for a driver, who was kind enough to turn on the air conditioning in the car, as I was still dressed for Berkeley. (i.e. wearing socks.) The toll road out of the airport is lined with unevenly manicured hedges and cassava trees. The traffic is medium heavy, with little regard for signals, but the cars and trucks communicate with gently tapped horns and weave securely between lanes. We passed clutches of shanty housing, lean-tos topped with corrugated metal, some had walls woven with bamboo (?). Those looked nicer. Each cluster was broken up by faded but brightly colored awnings denoting a food stand or market, displaying indistinguishable golden fried food in the window, colored juices made of mysterious fruits, newspapers, cigarettes. The outskirts of Jakarta.
The road rose to an overpass and Matt told me this would be my first "look" at Jakarta. We got to the summit and I saw it: in every direction through every window of our SUV, the haze of the city stretched to all points of the horizon. It was dotted with skyscrapers in every direction, one, two, a dozen, twenty, forty, a hundred? Some apartment buildings with concrete balconies, some in the far distance those glamorous glass and steel structures housing the Jakarta branches of global firms of commerce and law -- those that couldn't afford to be in Singapore, at least. It reminded me of climbing to the top of -- was it in Paris, or St. Petersburg? There was a bell, and at the top you could see a panorama of the city broken by the steeples of churches in all directions. Only this -- this was much bigger.
We arrived at the professor's house, who runs a bed and breakfast out of the top rooms now that his children have moved out. I showered and changed and we walked outside. A small warren of streets lined with high walls protecting the large houses within gave way to a main drag, lined with sidewalks rife with large holes revealing the drainage ditches below. Watch your step. Scooters danced between the cars, always gently speaking to each other with beeps, as we walked toward the McDonalds to get our fried chicken and fries topped with seasoning salt. My first meal in Indonesia! There we saw school children in uniforms practicing off flashcards, couples cooing over laptops taking advantage of the wi-fi, a large brood of bright blonde children belonging to the Dutch expat couple running amok in the large, clean, spacious dining room. The cashiers answered Matt in uninflected English, and wore smart black McDonalds polos that looked new. We imagined this was a good job.
After a nap we ventured out again, after dark, which falls at 6pm. 6am-6pm is the day; we are just south of the Equator. (Did I mention it is quite warm here?) In the warren of streets, barefoot children flew small square kites, constructed of a tiny bent cross of twigs and stretched with tissue. These rose quite high on the nonexistant tropical breeze -- above the walls, above the large houses, above the heavy telephone wires -- so high! They run and laugh as the men sit in front of their houses, smoking clove cigarettes and playing checkers. White cats with smudgy brown faces and half-size tails stalk the roads, looking for small handouts.
We walk to a pan-Asian restaurant that has a covered terrace (covered because of the rainy season) dotted with red chinese lanterns amidst white christmas lights. Fans are blowing from the rafters near the large TV sets that are playing Dave Brubeck at the Java Jazz Festival. We sit and receive menus for two different restaurants -- our choice. We order "lime squashes" which at Jayakarta is called a Jeruk nipis peras: lime juice, sugar syrup, and sparkling water. Over ice. Lovely. We settle on sushi because it's cool, and small, and I am not very hungry.
We walk back and I sleep all night, disturbed once only by the blaring call to prayer at 4am.
I wake up early and Matt wants to keep sleeping. Outside our room is the dining room, set with toast and jam, bananas, and instant coffee makings. I make my instant coffee and pull the wood and wicker rocking chair out on the balcony to watch the sun grow higher in the sky. The houses around are all awake with the chatter of women sweeping, men delivering things on motorbikes, and birds chirping -- one of the houses has a dozen bird cages alive with the cooing of doves and pigeons and the chirping of parakeets. I can see the neighbors' laundry hanging and hear the washing of pavements. The cats are roaming silently, and sit to meditate on the day. A particular type of tree with long leaves grows to about two stories high, there is one in front of me with a kite stuck in its branches. Matt pointed out the one down the road earlier -- about six brightly colored kites that had flown so high, so you could barely see it against the hazy clouds, had fallen prey to its branches.
I arrived at 1:00pm local time, which is 14 hours ahead of California. The airport is built to resemble a series of low, connected wooden pavilions, decorated with wooden panels covered in intricate carvings in dull colored sheens. I remembered that Matt said, when he arrived the first time, that between the terminal and the main building, in the hallway enclosed with wood and glass looking over the tropical palms of a courtyard, you could smell the distinct tang of clove cigarettes tinged with jet fuel. I made sure to breathe deep. He was right.
Within, armed with a small collection of brightly colored landing documents, I gave and got in turn: arrival visa coupon, arrival visa, departure card, passport stamp, stern warning about drug trafficking (this on a sign -- Welcome to Indonesia! Drug Trafficking is Punished by Death!), a yellow health card so they could find me if someone on the plane comes down with swine flu, or bird flu, or SARS, or god knows. Finally, a passport stamp. The luggage. A final x-ray screen. And then -- Matt!
Matt arranged for a driver, who was kind enough to turn on the air conditioning in the car, as I was still dressed for Berkeley. (i.e. wearing socks.) The toll road out of the airport is lined with unevenly manicured hedges and cassava trees. The traffic is medium heavy, with little regard for signals, but the cars and trucks communicate with gently tapped horns and weave securely between lanes. We passed clutches of shanty housing, lean-tos topped with corrugated metal, some had walls woven with bamboo (?). Those looked nicer. Each cluster was broken up by faded but brightly colored awnings denoting a food stand or market, displaying indistinguishable golden fried food in the window, colored juices made of mysterious fruits, newspapers, cigarettes. The outskirts of Jakarta.
The road rose to an overpass and Matt told me this would be my first "look" at Jakarta. We got to the summit and I saw it: in every direction through every window of our SUV, the haze of the city stretched to all points of the horizon. It was dotted with skyscrapers in every direction, one, two, a dozen, twenty, forty, a hundred? Some apartment buildings with concrete balconies, some in the far distance those glamorous glass and steel structures housing the Jakarta branches of global firms of commerce and law -- those that couldn't afford to be in Singapore, at least. It reminded me of climbing to the top of -- was it in Paris, or St. Petersburg? There was a bell, and at the top you could see a panorama of the city broken by the steeples of churches in all directions. Only this -- this was much bigger.
We arrived at the professor's house, who runs a bed and breakfast out of the top rooms now that his children have moved out. I showered and changed and we walked outside. A small warren of streets lined with high walls protecting the large houses within gave way to a main drag, lined with sidewalks rife with large holes revealing the drainage ditches below. Watch your step. Scooters danced between the cars, always gently speaking to each other with beeps, as we walked toward the McDonalds to get our fried chicken and fries topped with seasoning salt. My first meal in Indonesia! There we saw school children in uniforms practicing off flashcards, couples cooing over laptops taking advantage of the wi-fi, a large brood of bright blonde children belonging to the Dutch expat couple running amok in the large, clean, spacious dining room. The cashiers answered Matt in uninflected English, and wore smart black McDonalds polos that looked new. We imagined this was a good job.
After a nap we ventured out again, after dark, which falls at 6pm. 6am-6pm is the day; we are just south of the Equator. (Did I mention it is quite warm here?) In the warren of streets, barefoot children flew small square kites, constructed of a tiny bent cross of twigs and stretched with tissue. These rose quite high on the nonexistant tropical breeze -- above the walls, above the large houses, above the heavy telephone wires -- so high! They run and laugh as the men sit in front of their houses, smoking clove cigarettes and playing checkers. White cats with smudgy brown faces and half-size tails stalk the roads, looking for small handouts.
We walk to a pan-Asian restaurant that has a covered terrace (covered because of the rainy season) dotted with red chinese lanterns amidst white christmas lights. Fans are blowing from the rafters near the large TV sets that are playing Dave Brubeck at the Java Jazz Festival. We sit and receive menus for two different restaurants -- our choice. We order "lime squashes" which at Jayakarta is called a Jeruk nipis peras: lime juice, sugar syrup, and sparkling water. Over ice. Lovely. We settle on sushi because it's cool, and small, and I am not very hungry.
We walk back and I sleep all night, disturbed once only by the blaring call to prayer at 4am.
I wake up early and Matt wants to keep sleeping. Outside our room is the dining room, set with toast and jam, bananas, and instant coffee makings. I make my instant coffee and pull the wood and wicker rocking chair out on the balcony to watch the sun grow higher in the sky. The houses around are all awake with the chatter of women sweeping, men delivering things on motorbikes, and birds chirping -- one of the houses has a dozen bird cages alive with the cooing of doves and pigeons and the chirping of parakeets. I can see the neighbors' laundry hanging and hear the washing of pavements. The cats are roaming silently, and sit to meditate on the day. A particular type of tree with long leaves grows to about two stories high, there is one in front of me with a kite stuck in its branches. Matt pointed out the one down the road earlier -- about six brightly colored kites that had flown so high, so you could barely see it against the hazy clouds, had fallen prey to its branches.
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