Category: Wander

Musings of my travels

Tokyo, Autumn Reiwa 5

Foreigner disembarkation card [Arrival]

Family Name : SANUBARI Given Name : SUAR

PURPOSE OF VISIT :  [  ] TOURISM  [   ] BUSINESS   [  ] VISITING RELATIVES

I could tick all those boxes. It was my fourth time visiting Tokyo. I was using the same suitcase I bought for my first trip to the Eastern Capital, in 2011, when I was travelling with my big Indonesian family. My family’s idea of travel is a change of sceneries in a protective familiarity bubble afforded by an Indonesian speaking guide, halal foods; being transported from one sight to another, pictures to be posted to Facebook. 

It was, however, the beginning of my independent travels.

On my departing flight to Tokyo in 2023, I reread Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. I was so mesmerised by the book. My first tattoo is a Sputnik—the first artificial satellite that orbited the earth, the Soviet’s head start in the Space Race; Russian for ‘travelling companion’. Made in London, The Family Business tattoo parlour. I had forgotten what the plot was about. I just remember the feeling. I was prompted to reread it because it has been adapted as a play in London, playing at Arcola Theatre.

You cannot read the same book twice. You have changed. I feel that Sputnik Sweetheart is lighter now. I have developed stronger reading muscles. 

And it came to me then: Sputnik Sweetheart is about travel. About Europhilia.

Sumire is a promising twenty something writer. She writes everyday and lives a non-conformist life. She only wants to write and does not want to do the practical things people do to live in this modern life. 

She is passionate about writing. However, she couldn’t produce a novel. Miu, her older sweetheart, suggested and paid for her travel—accompanying Miu on business trips to Europe. Along the journey, Sumire learned the impractical but important things in life (like developing a taste for good food and fine wine) by doing the practical and necessary things (budgeting, preparing itineraries, haggling for transport). Things which cannot be learned from books. Allowing her to develop the strength, with time and experience, to dig deep and to open that lid of the unconscious.

Murakami makes an inference about this living-before-you-can-go-about-writing [novels] in Novelist as a Vocation (unless you are a genius like Dickens or Tolstoy, in his disclaimer). 

On my second trip to Tokyo the summer of 2013, I have already gained some mileage as an independent traveler. I know how to do research and how to plan, budget, and improvise (thank you, Lonely Planet). I fairly knew what I liked or, at least, what I didn’t like.

The firm I was working for had an outing to Japan. I extended my stay and met up with my wife and friends who travelled separately. We booked different return flights. I had to fly from Tokyo, they were flying back from Osaka.

I had one night as a solo traveler in Tokyo. I stayed in a hostel, K’s House Asakusa. I enjoyed (perhaps still enjoy) the convivial communality of hostels. You can meet with fellow travellers. Experience the unexpected connection that may not last but stays with us forever. If you are lucky.

That night I shared a dorm with an 18 year old American boy taking a gap year. Not rude or annoying. His suitcase stank when opened; full of dirty clothes. I was in my late 20s and thought about how disorganised ‘kids’ are. 

I got out of the room to avoid the stank. There was no one in the common area. So I went out that night.

I haven’t developed a taste for alcohol (or even coffee). I still needed ‘sights and attractions’ when travelling. Tokyo has plenty, but I was low on budget. I considered Robot Café, but even that was too expensive for me.

At least, I was already an avid reader. I bought After Dark and spent the night reading. I have been to the red light district of Kabukicho. The memories of male hosts loitering around, the pimps soliciting with broken English, the neon lights of the establishments, made my aloneness as a solo traveler a lonely experience.

A story of the exploitation of Chinese sex workers, psychopaths, and sociopaths among us. From my travel to Amsterdam and Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work, I know some sex workers are empowered. But there are actual victims of human trafficking or outright poverty.

Japanese sex establishments are not as straightforward as the rest of the world. Most of them are not open for business to gaijin. Many of the girls are not Japanese. But I read it’s changing now. With Japan’s current economy, sexless marriages, and a staunchly patriarchal society, more Japanese women are supplementing their income as sex workers.

My third time in Tokyo was in the winter of 2018. We stayed in a hostel dorm room because we couldn’t find other options (it was New Year’s Eve). We had awful roommates. White trash couple, loud and rude. They even fucked in the dorm (note to backpackers: the pod’s curtain does not provide sufficient privacy). Next to us was an awkward Asian who set his alarm but slept with earplugs. His alarm woke the entire room, except himself. I banged his pod.

In hindsight, the hostel is near a tourist hotspot. Budget accommodation too close to that kind of area is never a good bargain.

We met two Asian Canadian girls, of East and South Asian descent, at Keffir Lime, a Thai restaurant in Omotesando. Their main vocabularies are ‘Oh My God’ and ‘This is da bomb!’ to describe everything they ate. 

They invited us to come with them to a club around there. When I ask what kind of club. They said, ‘a nice one.’ 

I asked them to describe ‘nice’. They went silent for a while, eyes rolled to their left brain—thinking.

‘It is full of tourists, like us. And it has loud music.’

Unfortunately, we had different views on ‘nice’. 

This time, autumn 2023, I came for ‘work’. Meetings, networking (I almost puke using that word) with lawyers and clients exporting capital to Indonesia. 

Good thing those bengoshi are busy. Hosting me for two hours—non-billable—put a strain on their schedule. So our meetings were short and sweet, a series of quickies. Not those ‘Yamanote Line meetings’. 

Japanese corporate culture can sanction a meeting to discuss why the meetings are too long. 

I borrowed that from the comic Meshida. I came to his live stand up show, in English (or should I say, ‘Engrish’ as he pronounced it on stage). I got to know him courtesy of YouTube algorithms. Many of his jokes are aimed at Japanese and Asians. Of course, he punches Americans and white people too. As he said, ‘Japanese are not racist. We don’t differentiate people by skin colours. We just call them gaijin. We are just xenophobic.’ *Except for Korean and Chinese.*

For lunch meetings, I mentioned that Japanese food is my comfort food. I can eat them everyday. I don’t mind eating local food only whenever I’m travelling here (the same applies to France and Italy). A senior partner of the biggest Japanese international law firm took me to the Michelin star Sushi Umi for omakase. 

She is a member of the management board, speaks English with a hint of a British accent. In corporate Japan, only 6% of women made it to top leadership; female lawyers make up for 18% of the profession. That is the recent statistics on diversity. She has been practicing for decades. She must be so exceptional. No wonder many of the other partners seemed intimidated around her.

Her dad is a retired journalist, her mom’s business is kimono. She has a scholar and a merchant lineage. The perfect mix for a lawyer.

She lives with her parents. She said she’s more like a son than a daughter. She’s rarely at home. The firm has offices around the globe, so she’s a frequent flyer. But because of the pandemic, she could be a daughter. Spent time with her mom, cooking together.

I am glad that she is not the type of lawyer whose only interest is work. She is personally close with my boss. They travelled together to Timor Leste for a charity project. She thinks of my boss as her ‘little sister’.

She asked how is my stay in Tokyo so far. 

I went to Kitanomaru Park after a meeting. The ginko trees were blooming. Momiji leaves were starting to show brown and red hues. I did what a first world denizen does: sat under the autumn sun. The weather was perfect: not too cold (you don’t need to layer up), not too hot (you don’t sweat from walking). I listened to Arcade Fire’s ‘Photograph’. I attained Nirvana for 2 minutes 25 seconds.

Kitanomaru Park

I passed through Yasukuni Jinja. Unnerved that some Japanese still bowed towards the gate; the Hinomaru flag flown. The Germans would not salute any monument associated with their fascist history. My late grandmother told me that she was rolled in the carpet by her parents when the Imperial Army was doing a house search, looting for supplies and materials and ‘comfort women’.

I got to know Shiko Munakata at MOMAT. Like many 20th-century Japanese, he was inspired by Western modern art. He wanted to be the Japanese Van Gogh. But he did better: he became the Munakata. Thus the special exhibition: ‘The Making of Munakata Shiko’, celebrating his 120th birthday. I bought rubber stamps, imitations of his woodblock prints, at the museum shop. 

MOMAT, Shiko Munakata

I made spiritual pilgrimages, first to Aoyama Cemetery and then to the LV flagship boutique in Omotesando. I didn’t shop, I came for the ‘L>espace)(…’ installation by Cerith Wyn Evans. Exhibited at the ESpace, part of the ‘Hors-les-murs’ programme, on the fifth floor. We came at the perfect time: the sun was setting over the Tokyo skyline, basked it with an autumnal orange ray. We witnessed the atmospheric changes from the golden to the blue hour. It was a sublime visual and auditory sensory experience. A chandelier transmitting morse code, the flutes with discordant music, the neon lights, and the rotating bonsai. Their shadows fall onto the floor aesthetically.

LV Espace

We had cocktail drinks at Bar Trench, one of Asia’s Best Bars featured in Netflix’s Midnight Asia. Tasted wine and cheeseat Bar Bossa in Shibuya, pretending that we were in a Murakami’s story. Drank shots of single malt at Albatross in Golden Gai. Rubbed shoulders and elbows with Asian Californians who were equally annoyed by loud Japanese bantering with a Hawaiian and his Filipino girlfriend (no wonder Americans never said ‘I’m from America’, they always pinpoint the State; people from Austin, however, never said they are from Texas—another Meshida’s insight).

Tokyo overwhelms me. To wind down every night, I made use of the sento facilities of The Square Hotel Ginza (tattoos allowed). There is something liberating in communal bathing. It clears my mind of body image issues. When washing before soaking in the hot water, I look at my naked self in the mirror. One day, this all will decay. So enjoy while it lasts.

‘You enjoy Tokyo much more than me,’ she commended.

We did talk about the private practice industry. The firm is rebranding, changed the logo to be more modern and international, more visible. Hired a former marketing officer of a big Japanese fast fashion company. 

She said she’s old school. A Bubble Era girl. She likes wearing a kimono for official ceremonies, a hassle but it makes her move and speak more slowly—gracefully. She was taught by her mentor back then that law firms’ identity should be muted, colourless (‘Like Tsukuru Tazaki?,’ I said). Lawyers should be like kurogo, the black clad puppeteers in bunraku—moving things forward for the clients, behind the screen. We are business services, after all.

Of course, we should be visible when necessary. But the spotlight and focal point must be the clients.

Despite being a millennial, an elder one, I agree with her. I am skeptical of the bashful self-promotion normalised on LinkedIn. I am not denying that you need marketing. Private practice is a business. I just don’t think copying the marketing styles of tech companies—which are, mostly, B2C—is effective marketing.

Congratulating yourself or your firm (‘I am honoured…’) for a deal or a case that no one cares about seems like an arms race. Not to mention masturbatory.

I was impressed with the law firm’s office in Otemachi. The interior design is a modern version of a Japanese castle. It was so quiet I could hear the sound of my inner voice. The support staff, all of them women immaculately groomed like flight attendants, made way and bowed to me; saluting me with ‘Sensei’. I felt like a lord in feudal Japan. This kind of strict hierarchal etiquette between fee earners and support staff is something you won’t find even in US white shoes or UK silver circle law firms.

The younger me would have been swelling with pride to have a business trip to Tokyo. But I am old enough to know that Murakami’s adage: of learning the impractical but important things in life (photography, writing, tasting exquisite sushi and Japanese whisky, enjoying coffee, sitting in a park) by doing the practical and necessary (presentation on ‘Indonesia related Commercial Disputes’, networkings, videoconferences in preparation for hearings). 

It’s not about how ‘important’ you are to be paid for making this trip. I’m always willing to pay for my travels (I am, after all, a traveler). It is just I also happen to earn my living (and my intellectual capacity) as a lawyer. I got some of my expenses covered and I get to do the important things.

When my business trip period ended, we extended our stay. Visited my brother who lives in Kamakura. Then we returned to Tokyo and stayed at Suzumeya Tsukiji. A Showa era styled minimalist accommodation. It has that Fumio Sasaki’s Goodbye, Things vibe. 

Waseda University has a beautiful campus. Tourists come for a photo at its square, with is Okuma Auditorium. As much as the clock tower is an iconic building, it is an imitation of European university halls. 

We came to the International House of Literature, the Haruki Murakami Library.

If Fujiko F. Fujio, with his Doraemon, filled my childhood’s literary appetite. Murakami fed me in my adulthood. Like all books I read, they seemed to appear in my life at the stages in which I require their contextual wisdom. Murakami’s books consistently reappear whenever I need them. Perhaps because I live a boring life. I have to find or make meaning out of the mundane modern urban life.

The library has a listening room playing Murakami’s playlist, where you can take any book and read (or just listen). But I didn’t read. The Library feels more like a temple to me. It exhibits the original and international editions of Murakami’s works. In my ‘networking’ presentation, I used the book cover of Tsukuru Tazaki Tanpa Warna dan Tahun Ziarahnya to show Japanese culture’s penetration in Indonesia. 

We played a game of title guessing. We had to look for keywords and images (for editions in languages with no Phoenician alphabets, like Hebrew or the original Japanese) for clues. 

I took La regazza dello Sputnik from the shelf. 

Haruki Murakami Library

Now I am older. I am of Miu’s age, instead of Sumire. I have travelled to more than 25 countries. I have read hundreds of books. I can write more and better. I am less gregarious now. Despite being a man, I have realised that I need emotional connection more than sex itself. Before Midnight is right, there are only a few people you met whom you’d feel connected. Something you took for granted when you were young. 

I have come to grasp the impermanence of our connections with our loved ones. Just because something does not last, it does not deprive its meaning. We must come face to face with our loneliness and work on ourselves. We have to find our values and do what we must according to them. 

On the last effective day in Tokyo, we pretended to be samurai. We attended an introduction class to Japanese swordsmanship. After contemplating the austere aesthetics of feudal warriors, we had lunch at Tokyo Sky Tree. 

Japanese swordmanship

Consumers’ paradise that is Tokyo. The bags, the Wagyu and Kobe beef, the coffees, the whiskies, the fancy hat, the dinner jacket, the longsleeved gym shirts, the pens, and the leatherbound notebooks. And of course, the books. I was a minimalist who fell from grace here.

I have a feeling that I will be back for more.

April 30, 2024 Add Comment

Jogjakarta, Ramadan 2023

Karawitan and Javanese magic.

Pak Gembok

Pak ‘Gembok’ (Mr Padlock) leads Sanggar Widya Pramana, a Javanese traditional performance arts studio for underprivileged children. A self taught musician and a dancer; an ophiophilist (he has three pythons, he feeds them with live chickens). 

He got his nickname because he has ways with padlocks and locks. He has a collection of knives and blades, some have been wetted by human blood.

Pak Gembok has shed his old skin. He lives a quiet life now with his wife and children, as an artist. His eldest son just got admitted to Universitas Gadjah Mada. School of engineering.

He’s good friend with Pak Edi, a healer. Like the Balinese counterpart, Javanese healer’s therapy involves massages, slicing your chakras with sacred keris, knocking your head with agate imbued with magic, or inflicting pain on other parts of your body that you forgot the original pain. Like many healers, he is also a purveyor of psychedelic potions and herbal cigarettes; a broker of antique collections.

Pak Edi’s agate ring

I became his willing patient (or subject?). 

‘Your body shows you have a lot of repressed emotions,’ Pak Edi said.

‘Mood swings. You look composed on the outside but turmoils in the inside. Signs of PTSD.’

The mantras he performed, the parapsychology analysis, and the small talks about metaphysics made the healing experience ‘an intellectual decompression chamber’, a ‘high magic’—a LaVeyan Satanic Ritual. Being ‘read’ was scary for me, I felt vulnerable when someone could see through me. But it also made me relaxed and felt the human connection.

Pak Edi is not against modern medicine. His children are medical doctors. His wife, with her sharia views, wants him to abandon his ‘pagan’ practices though.

Pak Edi said that he and Pak Gembok were a band of warriors in their past lives, 3000 years ago. Fought side by side among or against the ranks of chariots and war elephants.

The sanggar provides training to children interested with karawitan, the Javanese traditional performance arts: dances, wayang kulit (shadow puppets), and gamelan. 

Some of the kids have no formal education at all, some survivors of abuses. The arts may be the only luxury they have, something beyond survival needs. An existential outlet.

We had iftar with the sanggar at Iwak Kalen, courtesy of Tito as their patron. We all sat cross legged on plastic woven mats. The favourite dish was the grilled catfish, freshly caught straight from the ponds of the restaurant. 

The menu

The smell of muddy fresh water and sweet soy sauce in hot and humid Jogja weather may be ‘anyep’, Pak Gembok said. But it is his favourite restaurant. His happy place.

We were graced with a welcome performance: a gamelan orchestra and a ronggeng dance. The dancer wore hijab, but the dance is sensual; the sounds of gamelan are mystical. 

The performance arrested my attention. I pressed the shutter release. I was in the flow state: the subjects and the environments were aligned. Usually, I don’t like photographing Java’s tropical hues in colour—the light is either diluted by high humidity or flat bright under blazing sun. But I am pleased with the Kodachrome Classic based film simulation recipe I set on the X100T.

After the iftar, we shared a bottle of Bushmills Blackbush at Pak Gembok’s home. Pak Edi told us Javanese parables on drinking:

Eka padma sari: one shot, like a beetle suckling nectar;

Dwi amartani: two shots, humbled oneself–prone to any persuasion;

Tri kawula busana: three shots, everyone wears the commoner dress–becomes equal;

Catur wanara rukem: four shots, like a monkey fighting for rukam (fruit, Flacourtia rukam);

Panca sura panggah: five shots, fearless and shameless;

Sad guna waweka: six shots, paranoia;

Sapta kukila warsa: seven shots, like a soaked bird–babbling;

Ashta kacara-cara: eight shots, uncontrolled speeches;

Nawa wagra lapa: nine shots, like an impotent tiger;

Dasa buta mati: ten shots, like a dead giant.

We stopped at third shots. We were officially friends by the first shot anyway. This year’s Ramadan’s blessings.

Sanggar Widya Pramana is one of the few sanggars with a complete set of wayang kulit. They hold regular performance every Kamis (Thursday) Wage. Honouring the arts’ heritage, the schedule follows the Javanese Calendar, the Anno Javanico—a mix between Gregorian, Islamic, and Saka calendar systems.

Contact: Jl. Cakra 4 Cokrowijayan, Banyuraden, Gamping RT 04 RW 18 Sleman, Yogyakarta

May 27, 2023

Paris: Summer 2022

First international travel AC (After Coronavirus)

I visited Paris for the first time in 2015. As a postgraduate student from London. Paris confirmed my expectations of Parisians: rude, but stylish and charming. It is easier to befriend the French than the Brits. Most French will tell you when they don’t like you. Is it not super? You don’t waste time. The way you make friends and date after 30.

Paris is easy to love. It is drop dead gorgeous and charming. Tourists who said otherwise, the ones who suffer from Paris Syndrome, expect that the City of Light has no shadows. They thought Paris is made only of luxury brands, of Vuitton and Hermès. Instead, they found dirty streets, homeless; rude wait staff; and unhelpful locals. 

But Paris is opulence. One of the epicentres of the Global North, a capital of commerce and culture. One of the symbolic metropolises of the Western civilisation, the modern civilisation. Parisians’ affluence was demonstrated by the Yellow Jackets. They highlighted the inequality of the city, and the country, by occupying the Champ de Elysees. They protested about the rising living costs; on how they can only eat out twice a week.

The city celebrates life’s joys and terrors with grace. It endured suffering with hedonism. The blood and death spilled on its streets are equalised by the salons and arts. Paris survived Viking raids, the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, Nazi occupation, Bataclan terrorist attack, and plagues—the Black Death; the Spanish Flu; and Coronavirus.

I bought the flight tickets to Paris in January 2022. The price was so cheap as the airlines were betting on travel restrictions. As the months went by, we were optimistic that our risk taking is going to yield us a win. Quarantine period was reduced, then removed. International borders were opening.

Then on 17 May 2022, my mum had a stroke.

Some of the extended family members tried to give a hint that I should postpone or even cancel the trip. I went anyway. I’d regret missing a travel opportunity more than being absent in case of Ibu’s death, especially after those lockdown years. 

Still that thought lingers in my mind. My extended family also made sure to remind me; asked if I could shorten my France trip. 

‘You’d regret it when she’s gone.’

‘She misses you,’ said an aunt speaking on behalf of my mum—believing she can read my mum’s mind. She barely recognised me. 

I carried with me that filial guilt, Asian upbringing weight heavy.

Thankfully, I have got rid of the expectation that I should always be joyful when I am travelling. You cannot outrace the speed of thoughts, no matter how far you travel. But you can go to places which remind you that life is bigger than your problems.

I deleted the Instagram app on my phone. I decided that June, when I travelled to France, is the no social media month. I used an analogue camera, the Leica M3, to document this trip (backed up with my iPhone 12 mini and my travelling companion’s Fuji X100T). They were intentional constraints I imposed to be present.

Parisian street

On this second trip, we pretended that we were Parisians. We rented Airbnb flats, instead of staying in a hostel or hotel. We dined in bistros, sat at cafes, took the Metro, walked and walked. Did a little shopping too–we’re still consumers. We didn’t ride on the electric scooters though.

I read Paris has the ambition to be a carless city. During the pandemic restrictions, the Parisians decided to close down the roads to make room for restaurant tables, outdoor seating. ‘Restaurants are Parisian institutions. Cars are not.’

The first restaurants were opened in Paris after the revolution. Chefs usually worked for aristocrats’ homes. Then when the aristocrats could no longer provide employment, the chefs decided to render their services to the bourgeois.

Thanks to those Parisian chefs’ entrepreneurial pivot, the world has establishments which are essential to the procreation of our species. Romantic and sexual relationships, political connections and business deals, are made in restaurants.

Paris may be an expensive city. But thanks to socialists’ democracy and capitalist welfare system–financed by colonial inheritance–you can still enjoy the city for free. 

We walked along the River Seine. Sat on its bank. Smoking, drinking, talking and people watching. Waved at those river cruises. If you’re feeling belligerent, give the middle finger instead. That’s also an expression of love, in a Parisian rude kind of way.

A group of androgynous models sat beside us. They were taking photos of each other. One of them looks like Benedict Cumberbatch. She (or he) speaks Russian. A group of Indonesian students talked in Indonesian. We didn’t impose an introduction. It is weird that we’re glad to meet fellow countrymen and women abroad, but would not be excited meeting them in our home country.

When we visited Shakespeare & Co, it was the celebration of 100 years of the publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses. We had to queue to get inside. Once the bouncer lets us in, there is no time limit on how long we can stay inside the bookshop. 

We went upstairs. I don’t know if some writers still want to spend a night there; risking flea infection for the sake of sharing the same bed with the great American writers of the post-World War I era. 

I didn’t meet Eggy the Cat. We were warned not to feed him, lest he get sick. Bought Camus’ The Rebel, and Sade’s Justine for a friend. I rewatched Before Sunset on the return flight, naturally.

100 years of Ulysses

My mum’s best friend and her Parisian husband have returned to live in Paris. Uncle Maurice retired from his corporate job, after being stationed in Singapore for decades. He missed Asian foods, therefore invited us to a lunch meet up in Chinatown.

Palais d’asie is listed as ‘Pan Asian restaurant’. But they only serve Chinese and Vietnamese. The audacity! How about us Indonesian? Yet we do not trust any ‘Asian’ restaurant that specialises in all Asian food. Eating Chinese and Japanese may require you to use chopsticks, but their foods are not to be mixed.

Located in a  typical baroque Parisian building, juxtaposed with neon signs of Chinese characters. A Space Invaders’ tile mural of ‘Noodle’ on its building’s wall testify the authenticity, I suppose. 

The proprietor served us. A middle aged man in short sleeved shirts, a bit oversized, and brown pleated pantalon. Pens in his shirt pocket. The 90s Hong Kong movies’ Chinese uncle looks. He took our orders in French.

We strolled around Chinatown. The concrete tenement blocks make the area feels like Hong Kong. Peddlers, unlicensed, were selling traditional snacks. Asian sex workers loitering around the neighbourhood. We entered a high rise building, the lower floors are a commercial zone. Shops selling bubble tea, mango sticky rice; bars serving Asian cocktails.

Tante Yanti told us about her student life in Paris. The Chinatown was a mustering point for Indonesian students, mingling with the other Asians. Her father was a sympathiser to the Indonesian Communist Party. After the 1965 Jakarta Method purge, she did not have much opportunity in Indonesia as a daughter of a sympathiser. She got a scholarship to study at Sorbonne.

Compared to my mum’s life, hers is a tumultuous one. Ibu had a sheltered life, at least from Ibu’s stories. She played it safe, or rather passive. Worked for the same company since she graduated. Stay married to Bapak.

She endured. ‘Because life could have been worse,’ she always said. 

Tante Yanti left her first husband to be with Oom Maurice. She took his son with her. Oom Maurice raised him as if he is his own son. They have a daughter.

She lives a bourgeois life. Tante Yanti is a stay at home wife. Making sure the nest is well kept, children fed and educated. While her husband worked a C-level executive job.

They are doing well. Family vacations to exotic or fancy destinations every year. Their son and daughter were sent to Canadian and UK universities. Careers in London and Stockholm.

When Oom Maurice retired, their children moved out to live and work in London, the old married couple renegotiated their roles. Tante Yanti demanded Oom Maurice to be more involved in domestic chores. In Paris, they don’t drive anymore, they walk and take the public transport.

Oom Maurice, being old school, prefers the Metro’s paper tickets to the electronic card. The one you pay per trip or buy in bulk of 10 tickets. I tend to lose those papers (and it’s greener to use reusable cards).

With Oom Maurice, I talked about big things. How Paris is prohibiting prostitution again by criminalising the demand side (soliciting sex services are allowed, but procuring them is a crime). Public private partnerships in the construction of Jakarta’s MRT, and how Jakarta tries to imitate Singaporean business model: to profit from renting the spaces in the stations to retailers. The Ukraine-Russia War; the upcoming recessions.

Tante Yanti likes to talk about small things. How to register for PeduliLindungi, Indonesia’s Covid-19 tracing app. How sad she is that her children have grown and left home; how glad that they are not struggling and living their own lives in other European cities.

Tante Yanti and Oom Maurice treated us ice cream at Berthillon in Ile de Saint-Louis. Told us about Louis IX, the sainted King of France. I asked what his miracle was. He didn’t know. He’s a well read free-thinking Jew, but sainthood canonisation is not one of his interests. (I researched later, Louis IX sainthood is attributed to cure tuberculosis and blindness by touch, and extinguishing raging fire in Paris) 

Took us around Marais. We went inside Cathedrale Sainte Croix, near the gay clubs. A White Pantecost Mass was ongoing. Marais was the Jewish quarter, gentrified into a hipster area full of designers’ shops. Oom Maurice told me that an Islamist terrorist attacked HyperCacher (super kosher) in 2015. One of the victims was a Muslim, Lassana Bathily, the heroic employee who saved several Jewish customers.

Our last stop with them was Place des Vosges. I did what I have always loved to do in cities with decent public parks: laid down on the grass. In sub-tropical temperate summer, the earth is warm and dry enough. Unlike on humid tropical soils, it is still hard and dry enough to be comfortable on it.

We dined, most of the time without reservations. Even at Huitrerie Régis which usually requires advance reservations. A Vietnamese family said they had to reserve 4 months earlier; we just came in and the wait staff said there was one table left beside the toilet.  

We sat outside whenever we could. Curbside dining, drinking, and smoking are quintessentially Parisian pleasures.

Unlike our previous visit, Parisians waiters and waitresses were polite and welcoming. I thought it was because of our charm, which matured as we age. A Parisian who sat beside us at one of the bistros shrugged, ‘We finally realised how much we need you, tourists, after the pandemic.’ 

Fair enough. Hemingway warned how simple it is to be liked in Paris: just be generous in tipping. 

My first visit in Paris was spent on the great sights: the Notre Dame, Louvre, Orsay, Canal St. Martin, and, of course, the Eiffel. This time, we visited just one museum: Musee Rodin.

‘The Thinker’ may be the Master Sculptor’s masterpiece. But it was ‘The Helmet Maker’s Wife’ that arrested me. A meditation on the fleetingness of youthful beauty; a sorrowful acceptance to ageing and impending death. A figure of a naked crone with sagging breasts; wrinkled skins of the decay of time.

‘The Wife’ triggered my memories when I washed Ibu at the hospital bed. Her skinny arms with paperlike fair skin. Her face, I noticed, has become a masculine one. Tante Yanti said she used to be the cute one among them. She endured an awful marriage. She is still. 

‘The Kiss’ also fascinates me. It is a strange mating gesture, kissing. Before my very first kiss, I imagined a kiss would be a grand mind blowing feeling to meet each other’s lips and tongues. But I found it simply a gateway to the intercourse. My partners like it when I kiss, so I do it. 

Maybe it is the emptiness inside me which made me unable to truly appreciate kissing. Or I’m simply not a good kisser.

Maybe kissing is an affectionate gesture, rather than sexual. It is difficult for me to be at ease when hugging and cuddling too. Not that I am against emotional connections. I yearn for it.

I read the plaque. The couple kissing are Paolo and Francesca, from Dante’s Divine Comedy. They were forbidden lovers. Francesca was the wife of Paolo’s brother. When Paolo’s brother found out about their affairs, they were stabbed. 

Rielke said that Paris is like a city in Biblical stories. A city that invokes the wrath of God. No wonder Paris is so appealing. An unapologetically immoral city. Luciferian, the City of Light is.

Paris is a walking city. Our iPhone tells us that we walked 15,000-20,000 steps on average. Like hunters-gatherers. It was the peak of the summer. Heatwaves of 31 centigrade. Enough to make us, tropical people, sweat. 

We met up with Rich and Em. They took a train from Geneva for a Parisian weekend. They brought their son James, Si Anak Bule (the white kid). 

It was surprising James is given such a white name. Em and Rich work at the UN and have lived in Asia for a long time. They met in Indonesia; Iowan Em even speaks Arabic (she was stationed in Egypt before Indonesia). I was expecting a more exotic name, but ‘James’ is Rich’s granddad’s name.

Paris is not wheelchair friendly, which means it is not buggy friendly. It was difficult to navigate Parisian streets with a baby and a buggy. We collaborated, the four of us. But Em as the mother carried the heaviest burden. She had to breastfed hungry little James. 

Even in Paris, when you’re with a baby, people are more receptive. The Resistance smuggled and transported contrabands under the cover of babies. Mothers hid the guns and classified intels past through Nazi sentries with their buggies. The same trick the Indonesian revolutionaries employed to pass through occupying Allied Dutch checkpoints. Well, as long as the kid does not throw tantrums. James did not, two madames on Metro kept James entertained.

We visited the Henri Cartier-Bresson Foundation. I baptised my M3 at the Grand Master’s temple. Bought a copy of Images a la sauvette, the French edition. 

France may not be known for its camera brands, but the first photograph was taken here. It has a long tradition of photography. I wanted to buy another Leica M, but I realised money spent on a camera would deduct my budget for experience. Also my time shopping would take my time photographing. When you are in a stimulating environment such as Paris, you’d lose your consumerist impulses. Such a paradox, Paris is one of the consumers’ paradise. 

One of the earned wisdom I gained from travelling is to become a minimalist. I converted to the Leica M-system because it is a minimalist system. Dissonantly, I became obsessed with the idea of collecting Leica Ms.

Good thing that Paris, France, and travel in general, allow me to focus on what really matters. I have all that I need: a Leica M3 with a Elmarit 28mm f2.8 lens. HCB used one camera and one lens for the rest of his life. (He shot only in black and white though, Ilford HP film stocks)

We went to Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. It feels like London’s Hampstead Heath, but the people are more stylish. No trainers and dirty sneakers. We met up with Momo and Thibault and Em and Rich. Momo brought me the handmade leather documents/macbook pouch I ordered from Corman Mariquiners in Noyers, Burgundy. We had a proper summer Parisian picnic. Red and sparkling wines; pickles, cheese, and ham in a wicker basket. Sat on a red and white chequered mat. We chose a spot under the shade of a cliff and right outside a cave mouth, where the air circulation kept us cool.

The summer light was perfect. I love how Kodak Colorplus 200 captures it.

Couples, friends, parents, and children were playing. The kids noisily gathered around the water fountain–drinking and refilling their water guns or plastic bottles. They didn’t respect the queue, until a madame yelled at them in French with the authority of a Mother Superior. 

This is Affluence: a beautiful public park where people can walk for the sake of walking. Just bring a bottle (or two) of wine and some charcuterie (or any food you like). Smoke some pot, play some music instruments; talk about nothing and everything with your friends and lovers. 

Again, Lonely Planet is right. ‘These Europeans. They know how to live.’

May 20, 2023

On Travelling Independently

Muhammad said, ‘Don’t tell me how well educated you are, but tell me how well travelled you are.’ Well in the 21st century, a common person can be both.

The last decade, augmented by web 2.0 and budget airlines, made travelling mainstream–even for a citizen of a low income country like me.

I have always dreamed of travelling around the world. But before I knew how to use guidebooks and had not entered private practice, travel was prohibitively costly and an insulated affair.

My family always travelled with guided tour services. The main idea for travelling is to sit inside a bus, take pictures in landmark locations, shopping at souvenir shops (where the guide and travel agent get commissions), and eat familiar foods not too far beyond your default taste buds (always halal). Repeat.

You are always in your bubble. Just a change of scenery.

It seemed that independent travellers are exclusively Westerners. Given the Rupiah exchange rate; the limited availability of travel information in Indonesian; and weak Indonesian passports, independent travels do not match with Indonesian demographic.

At the beginning of 2010s, some Indonesian independent travellers got some traction in fame by sharing their travel stories, by blogging. The successful ones are women; women independent travellers are undoubtly feminist. Many young girls become fans to these bloggers because they see empowering figures. A role model. A big sister.

Some wrote travel guides aimed specifically at the pain points of the Indonesian tourists. ‘Travel around Japan with Rp2million (less than US$200)’; halal eats; and the best place to shop for souvenirs. 

The authors/bloggers also set up open trips and open order services. They are the gig economy entrepreneurs. Their online businesses revolve around their personality and hospitality. The really successful ones got sponsorship from big travel companies so they can focus on travel writing.

I read some of their blogs and books. Learned their tips. But soon realised that the $200 budget trip tips to Japan, an expensive destination, have so many reservations and lack of depth. The itineraries are not too different with the tour packages offered by the travel agents. You only cut the costs of tour company and guide’s fees and by using public transport. The core idea is still to visit the classic landmarks and take pictures of yourself.

I am not against such a basic concept of travelling. All travellers must start somewhere. But it is not enjoyable to stretch your budget. It’s better to travel nearer and somewhere cheaper, than to travel far then unable to do anything meaningful. 

The $200 budget trip to Japan guide also has very limited information on alternative sights, activities, or eats. Of course, with the internet you can search for additional information. Google and Tripadvisor can help, but most of the information is wiki style. Everyone can contribute and, therefore, the quality and reliability of information must be further analysed. You also need to consolidate the information and structure it to make it useful.

Know how much you can afford and willing to spend on trips: Budget, Mid-Range, Top End. The budget range varies, depending on the country. The range is helpful, but for third-world destinations, prepare an extra buffer for unpredictable occurrences.

Loving yourself is a prerequisite for happiness. But being self-centred will only make you anxious. You must mature as a traveller. Be interested in local cultures and natural ecosystems. Let travel be an education, not just a collection of I-have-been-there checklists. You’d be a worldly person—an interesting person.

Enter Lonely Planet guidebooks. They are independently researched by professional travel writers in cooperation with local ‘assets’. Their guidebooks are structured systematically and, other than practical information, also provide nuanced articles on history and culture.

Buying a good guidebook is a necessary investment in travelling.  It will help you plan your travel and educate you. They are valuable reference sources.

There are many guidebooks: Eyewitness, Routard, etc. But I found LP writers have similar tastes and interests with me. You need to find a guidebook that suits you. 

Lonely Planet guidebooks are called the ‘Travel Bible’, but just like any book it is still imperative to read other sources. The saddest and most dangerous reader only read the Bible (or the Quran). Things may have changed since the publications; the writers could have been wrong; the perspective tends to be too Western; or simply someone else finds hidden gems unlisted by LP. 

For me, travel planning is exciting. Travel requires project management skills. The travel-planning/project management skills are transferable to worklife. No matter what your job is, to deliver a product or a service requires sound planning and execution.

The most valuable ROI from  travelling is the traveller’s mindset. You get to see money and stuff as lateral things in life. The most valuable commodities are time and space. Experience lasts longer than material things. You’d remember your trip in 2011, but you’d hardly notice that your Blackberry was a state of the art tech gadget at that time. 

You will also hone your negotiation skills. Dealing with scammers will teach you first hand that capital is not the only leverage. That a smile and learning simple phrases in the local language can go a long way. 

People are not their government. Most people will help travellers in need. That kindness and goodwill of the locals would always be the most memorable moments in your travels.

The advent of Instagram fueled travel bug infestations. Self-published travel writers/influencers become another career option. Many young people dream of leaving their day job and travel full time. 

‘Pursue your Passion’. ‘Do what you love.’ Became mantras.

I get it. Life can be more than becoming a cog in corporate machines; to spend drudging days in the cubicle; to be an indentured slave just to own a home and a car. 

Travelling is a great way to make use of life. But being a travel influencer means you are working in the travel industry. Even in our modern time, travel is still a luxury. The pandemic has taught us that the encumbered people–the essential workers who mostly cannot afford to travel for leisures–are the backbone of our civilisations.  

The hospitality sector is one of the most challenging. The comforts and ease of modern travels are made possible by armies of workers and service providers—most of them can’t travel for leisure. If everyone decided to be full time travellers, the industry–and the society–will collapse. Thankfully or (unfortunately?), such an apocalyptic scenario is highly improbable.

It is trendy to travel. Almost everyone would say that they want to travel. But then follows the ‘buts’: ‘expensive’; ‘dangerous’; ‘don’t have time’; or even ‘I’m afraid to fly,’

Yes, travel is expensive. But you can skip on buying new iPhones every year. 

Dangerous? My bag was snatched in Rome; touted and scammed in Naples; extorted by a Hare Krishna monk in London; overcharged by taxi services in Bangkok and Hanoi; broke my left foot ankle in Kazbegi. But most of the time I was safe and the locals have been most helpful and hospitable.

As in anything, I make time for travel. I am part of the working class. My first employer did not respect my annual leave rights. I found better employers.

I would cite the statistics that flying is safer than driving. If you live in Jakarta and can afford to travel, most likely you drive. Should I mention at least an aeroplane crash would have been a quick painless death? Compare drowning in a marine accident.

Aircrafts are one of the best engineering feats ever conceived by humankind. Pilots are elite professionals.

But I know it’s futile to use facts to convince you to sit for hours in a fossil fueled flying mass coffin. Get therapy.

In feudal societies, only peasants were attached to the ground to toil on the soils. The gods,  kings, heroes, and warriors; the artisans and craftsmen; the merchants, the sages and scholars travelled. Gautama, Jesus, and Odin were travellers. So were Odysseus, Musashi, and the Pandavas.

The Freemason was a guild of masons. As artisans they journeyed from town to town, village to village, and learned the different ways of worship and living. Travelling is not possible without the stayers, the locals. Travellers are gifted with knowledge and wisdom or, at least, capital. In most places, there is an asymmetry of power. Our choices when travelling will always have an impact on the local ecosystem. Be a responsible traveller.

Dr. Seuss is right. The more you read, the more you will travel. Wherever I go, I always acquire new books. There goes the virtuous cycle.

I find meaning in travelling. I am a travel photographer, a travel writer. My writings and photography are mostly inspired by travels. 

I travel as a lawyer on business trips. Visited rural areas of Indonesia. Lived in foreign countries because of my profession: secondment in an affiliated office in Singapore; studied for a master’s degree in London. 

Travel is a way to assert my sense of autonomy. To lend me the power that I am not just a disenfranchised professional slaving myself to the whims of employers for consumerist needs. Even when I resigned from a high paying job, with no guarantee of employment or income, I travelled. I just budgeted for less expensive destinations.

Whenever I travel, I am reminded that there are many ways to do things and to live a life. The norms you are initiated to are local conventions. Transcend them to gain more initiatives. Do not accept the default template, bespoke for the right fit.

One of my deepest fears is not being able to travel. That I don’t make enough money to allow me to travel. That I don’t have time to travel because of work. That I am not healthy and fit; that I’d be too old to travel.

You don’t have to be working in the travel industry to be a traveller. You just need to travel. The idea that someone must monetise their ‘passion’—to work in a sector that they find as fun—is so corporate American. Sometimes because you make good money from your job, you can pursue your passion with financial flexibility.

I lasted this long as a lawyer because I love to travel. This profession allows me to meet new people and travel to places where I have never been to (or even knew that such places exist).

Meaning in work can also be obtained from the people who you work with. A healthy working environment allows you to be you. And we are more than just one thing.

In fact, working in travel industry because you like to travel is like working in porn or prostitution because you like sex. Sometimes it is less fun to do something you love because it has become work.

Do not mistake ‘fun’ and ‘interest’ as ‘passion’. The word ‘passion’ comes from Latin which means ‘to suffer’. A passion is something you are willing to suffer for.

The drudgeries of office work, so you can earn money to finance your travels. The risk of travel accidents, crimes in the cities you visited, the potential racist treatment. The deliberate choice to be childless to have more disposable income and time to travel. A grave offence to Indonesian family values that upsets my parents—who think I am denying them the happiness they are due. My traditional extended family called me ‘selfish’; the kinder ones, ‘odd’.

I endured them. Gratefully. 

Because I know that to travel by choice is a privilege.

Burgundy, France. Summer 2022. Photograph by @adindaaditha

June 25, 2022

Canggu Lyfe

We spent the last two nights of our 2022 January Bali trip in Canggu. The least affected area by the pandemic lockdowns’ economic downturn. Other areas like Ubud, Kuta, and Legian withered away; Canggu became the home of many superclass migrants: Western and Russian digital nomads, Jakarta’s HENRYs and trust fund babies.

Many of the digital nomads are staying under a ‘talent’ visa: surfers, models, DJs, social media influencers, and life coaches. They are 10/10: six pack abs and round titties with peach butts. I was so insecure with my body to swim with Canggu hunks and babes.

They are the generic standards of beautiful people. I imagine LA must be like Canggu now, but these foreign migrants do not need to wait tables while waiting for their big break–like the prom kings and queens of hick countries in Hollywood. With their dollars, euros, and rubles generated from online business they are trickling down their wealth to the local economy.

All of these expats are mostly white. If Hitler came to Canggu AC (After Coronavirus), he’d prove his point about white supremacy (or he’d be baffled because most of these models and influencers are slavic untermenschen?). 

I feel like an NPC around them.

Our best friends moved to Canggu from Jakarta in 2020. ‘The parties here make me insecure with my body shape,’ said Angga. But Toby, being Norwegian therefore less affected by the inlander mentality, thinks that the Canggu hunks and babes are so generic therefore uncharismatic. They are like DJ Fingablast in The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. 

But still, they’d make you feel like the ugly duckling. Angga even chose F45 over CrossFit because the participants are less body conscious.

Angga and Toby become pawrents. They adopted Putih, a local stray, and were forced to adopt Raja (rescued by their mutual friend but cannot afford dog rearing). They even enrolled their dogs in a dog club, and have playdates with other dog owners. They really yielded the twenty-something lifestyle they managed to keep (despite pushing forties).

Now let’s talk about the HENRYs. Higher education in the world’s best universities; professionals or high ranking executives in tech companies or consulting firms–therefore can work remotely. Engineers, designers, or in-house counsels. Knowledge workers with fat salaries. 

Our best friends are the archetype of HENRYs. Devoted to having a youthful lifestyle with the financial security of bapak-bapak. Childless (dogs are cheaper than human babies) and non-subscribers of Indonesian family values. Multicultural, interracial. Their discussions range from quantum science to explain our existential angst, NFTs, how to build a working hedonist commune in Bali if Jakarta sinks, mental illness, socio-economic stereotypes, and occasionally RuPaul. 

Their entire team of designers moved to Bali–even though officially their offices stay in Jakarta. Canggu offers them Jakarta high lifestyle with lower costs, cleaner air and sans Jakarta traffic. 

We had dinner at their Canggu home. They lived in a two bedroom apartment unit in Jakarta. In Canggu, the same rent cost allows them to live in a three bedroom villa with a private swimming pool. 

Alcohol is cheaper in Bali; they drink more but they party much less and lead a more active lifestyle with less stress. They walk their dogs at many of Bali’s public beaches everyday. So they are in better shape than they were in Jakarta (it’s just that they compare themselves with Canggu hunks now).

Whenever we hangout at one of Canggu establishments, we can be models for university brochures. Most peer groups in Canggu, despite being an international hub, are monoracial: all bules (whites), all cindos (Chinese Indonesians), or all pribumis (‘native’ Indonesians–brown). If only our cindo and African friends are with us, we’d be a complete colour palette for diversity initiatives.

Canggu homes and hotels are advertised as abodes of paradise: minimalist architecture and interior design mixed with tropical vibe inspired by traditional Balinese or Rio style—that pastel colours synchronised with brown woods and rattans sit nicely with brutalist grey. Did I mention a private swimming pool?

Instagrammable indeed. But before you dive in and sign the tenancy agreement (or sale and purchase), take the time to visit and actually live in the property. Canggu properties often sacrifice construction quality for that Insta-worthy looks. The tap water is trickling; when it rains (and by rain, it can mean torrential tropical rain) the ceilings leak; the electricity can be unreliable and the electrical wiring is outright hazardous; un-neighbourly neighbours and small potholed access roads. If you are urbanites uninitiated with nature you might be annoyed by bugs and vermin. A giant lizard may swim in your pool–on a regular basis.

The hotel we were staying at, Shore Amora, has that definite Canggu vibe. The interior design has an open plan, but never forget to close your balcony or semi-outdoor bathroom doors. The mosquitos will invade your room (mosquito coils are available though). 

Shore Amora was opened in 2019. Six-months before the pandemic hits. Their service is slow (must be understaffed). Located in Pererenan Beach–15 minutes from Canggu centre–the hotel enjoys the quiet side of Canggu. The best way to navigate Canggu, and Bali as an island, is to drive mopeds. But if you can’t brave Balinese riding style and road hazards, taxi and ride-hailing services are widely available.

Before the pandemic, the conventional taxi services and the ride hailing app drivers had territorial turf war (not violent, the Balinese know that safety and security are assets in the tourism industry). The drivers can only pick up guests and passengers within their outfit’s territories. But after the lockdowns, they came together and removed the strict enforcement on such conventions.

The taxi drivers also came together and ended the price war started by the ride-hailing companies. Gocar and Grabcar and Blue Bird taxis can pick up passengers from the airport but with the same fees.

We took an antigen test at Omsa Clinic as a flying prerequisite. The clinic is staffed by two persons, they take turns in doing the administrative work and the tests. They are not provided with full set PPE, just masks and gloves. The clinic services are inefficient. We had to wait for more than an hour when there were only two people before us. We filled in paper forms which were then typed to the clinic’s computer (no wonder there were typo errors which can cause failure to link with the Indonesian Government’s Covid-19 tracing app Peduli Lindungi). But the clinic charges more than big test labs in Jakarta. I can imagine their profits with lower overhead costs (labour and rent in Bali are cheaper than Jakarta, plus they don’t spend on proper PPEs and IT infrastructure for the online forms).

Another example of Bali’s lack of infrastructures. Medical services in Bali are even below Jakarta standards. The new private hospital, branched from Jakarta, charges a premium—especially if you’re an expat. In any way, most of the locals cannot afford going there.

Bali is good for anything fun, but for anything serious it is still at ‘daerah’ (provincial) quality. Indonesia’s best doctors, engineers, and lawyers are still based in Jakarta. Specifically for the legal industry, there are few Balinese lawyers who can speak English. Compare that to the tourism industry, where Balinese guides and drivers can speak not just English, but other European languages and Japanese and Korean.

Balinese Hinduism has its appeal. A derivative of Indian Hinduism, it survived the Arabisation (Islamisation) of Java. It held onto its Sanskrit roots. As an oriental religion, Hinduism is much less anal retentive compared to Semitic religion. Its concept of good and evil is more nuanced, less black and white—it emphasises cosmic balance rather than retribution and rewards to right and wrongdoing.

Yet the rituals are more taxing. Yes, they seem grandiose and exotic–photogenic. But the rituals impose lots of social obligations, particularly to women. They ensure cohesion in Balinese communities but at the same time restricts the individuals. Ngaben (Balinese cremation ceremony) is expensive, family members may have to borrow money to pay for it. In [ritual] days, you have to bless your motor vehicles. If you are absent from your village’s ceremonies too many times, no one will help your funeral.

The rituals must take precedence over productivity, or even the public’s right to access roads. Bali has the most bank holidays in Indonesia to allow their people time for religious obligations. Roadblocks are common if a village is convening religious ceremonies (but then, Islamists in Jakarta do that too–but lack the grace and charm, also often illegal).

Still, the Indonesian government’s strategy to develop Bali as the country’s primary tourism destination was culturally and geographically on point. Indonesia, the Dutch East Indies, has always been Java-centric. Java is the most institutionalised region in Indonesia. Javanese ancient Sanskrit kingdoms were powerful. Khmer kings sent their brahmins to study in Javanese universities. The Mongol Empire’s invasion was repelled. The Europeans were successful in colonising Java only by cooptation with local rulers competing for power.

After the Islamisation of Java, the old Hindu aristocrats fled to Bali with their courtiers. Java was then ruled by the upstart Muslim rulers. No wonder Javanese nobilities have less class. If you visit Keraton Yogyakarta, you’d see that it does not compare with Ubud Palace, designed by the maestro Lempad.

Hinduism is less ‘puritanical’ than Islam. It is not anti-fun. Drinking, gambling, sex are considered vices only if done with excess. The caste system ensures subserviency in hospitality. Islamic culture is not suitable for the tourism industry. On the other hand, East Indonesia, with a predominantly Christian population, is underdeveloped. The culture lacks institution; Papua is still a hunter-gatherer society.

Bali is, geographically, at the centre of Indonesia. The traditional culture is ancient and sophisticated. Its exhibition of rituals and dances will draw any voyeuristic western travellers looking for oriental exoticism. In exchange, the Balinese adopt the worldliness (and consumerist attitude) brought by the travellers. Many Balinese, especially those in the tourism industry, are more fluent in English and Indonesian. They also do business with Australia, Europe, and Japan–not just with Jakarta.

Yet still, the locals’ living standards are low. Even the nasi campur joints offer local prices for the locals. This discriminatory pricing may seem advantageous to the locals, but it speaks volume on their buying power. We, as holiday makers, benefit the most from such economic asymmetry. I often feel uneasy with such inequality. It is easy to accuse many foreign (white) tourists of acting like colonisers (and some do), but what about us Jakartans?

Our stay in Canggu is about catching up with Angga and Toby. We had dinners at their Canggu home and BuReka Bistro. Lunches at Mauri and Mason. The Woke Salaryman has a point: once you have reached your first $100K everything in life becomes easier. We earn so much more in our late 30s but only spend slightly more than in our late twenties. We can take more career and investment risks. We know what we don’t want, therefore know better of our needs and wants. We can focus our spending on what matters for us.

We had breakfast at Baked and watched influencers at work. It is impressive how fast they can edit their videos on the go (#terbaked). We had coffee at Monsieur Spoon Pererenan. It was a sunny day, with a nice gentle tropical breeze. We walked the beach after that, people watching. Locals and expats taking their kids and dogs, eating pork satays or grilled corn with cold Bintang beers. To gaze at the vastness of the Indian Ocean made me less encumbered by my thoughts and emotions.

I can live here.

Pererenan Road

March 30, 2022

Portibi Farm, Sukabumi

Quietness is a luxury in Jakarta. 

You can retreat to your home, but the sounds of traffic, the unmaintained mopeds (or worse, modified), and local mosques’ adzan and prayers would always penetrate your abode. This Nyepi (Seclusion Day) long weekend, we decided to retreat further south, to Portibi Farm (Lodges Ekologika) in Sukabumi. 1,5-hour drive from Jakarta (two hours when we returned, the traffic).

We passed through kampung. Attached to an industrial complex, most of the villagers earn their living in factories and warehouses, not from farming. These are not the idyllic kampungs portrayed in Orde Baru propaganda. The roads are paved but potholed, most buildings are made of concrete and painted with poor man’s green. The atmosphere of vapid poverty is similar to suburban Jakarta.

Portibi is in the secluded areas of Sukabumi. Where large properties—villas owned by rich Jakartans—are located. These properties can afford to counter the urbanisation and the industrialised aspirations. They also provide employment and business opportunities for the locals.

Portibi is rustic. In the farm, you get to experience that kampung asri. On the grid electricity and wi-fi are only available in the main buildings: the kitchen, the dining hall, and the bar (and some of the cottages). Cell phone signals are patchy.

We stayed in Limas Gede. I feel immersed into Indosiar’s silat flick soap opera Angling Dharma, but with much better artistic direction and creative design. The cottage is powered by solar panel, only sufficient for powering the lights at night. The cottage has an open-air shower room and toilet, with the luxury of hot water powered with LNG (the small green tank, ‘for poor people’).

All cottages’ architecture style is open design. Naturally, bugs and mosquitoes and creepy crawlies insist on sharing your place. Don’t worry, the beds are comfy and clean and protected with mosquito nets. One night, however, a big spider got into the net. I managed to remove it unharmed with a broom. A family of chivettes seem to reside on our roof. Being nocturnal, they were busy at night. We could hear their rushed footsteps outside and on the roof.

These are not nuisances. They are simply a part of the idyllic farm life.

Come 5am. The local mosque blasted their supercharged speakers. The noise went nonstop until 10am. Then again in the evening.

I am conditioned with Jakarta’s mosques but to blast your speakers non-stop for hours is another level.

Portibi provides ear plugs, but I am paranoid whenever one of my senses is restricted. I don’t even like to wear my Airpods in public places.

After the prayers and preachers came the firecrackers.

I can’t help to judge that the kampung lyfe is boring for those who must actually live it. That these noises are byproducts of the villagers looking for excitement and entertainment. To paint a stereotype that orang-orang kampung are contented and wise is like believing Disney’s fairy tales. As if the lives of Grimm’s princesses were not as grim as the mediaeval times they lived in.

Portibi is not a resort. If you expect room service, you’d be disappointed. They do not provide any. The farm is designed so people would lounge at the common areas: the Pacifist Cannibal bar, the kitchen, and the dining hall. No shoes/sandals there. I should have brought house slippers, walking barefoot on flat concrete with my flat feet hurts.

The food served was excellent. All ingredients are sourced locally, either farm produced or bought at the local wet market. Ayu is a great cook. Her salads were always the star of the course. The bread and pizzas are homemade. The cuisines are Indonesian but with fresh western influence at a perfect balance—not too strong but never bland. Be careful of the sambal and chilli flakes. They look harmless, but they are spicy.

The only thing that tops the food served were the conversations, at the bar or at the dining hall. Jocean is such a great host. He stored his collection of LPs and CDs there. Played them on vintage audio sets.

Jocean played Bjork’s ‘Venus as a Boy’ and ‘Big Time Sensuality’ with gamelan orchestra arrangements. I never knew such a version (and they are not on Spotify). Jocean got a bootleg Bjork CD in Barcelona.

Despite being secluded in Sukabumi, the Pacifist Cannibal bar is well supplied. Beers (craft or otherwise), wines, vodkas, whiskies. Their signature gin and tonic is mixed with passion fruit from the farm. ‘All tips go to the staff, not to the bule bartender.’

I don’t smoke, but I tried Sukabumi’s local cigarette brands. One of them is Gudang Karya, a knockoff of Gudang Garam kretek (clove) cigarettes. Outside Jakarta, the tobacco market still has room for local, often knockoff, home industry brands. Some people actually collect these local cigarettes from their travels around Indonesia.

The Farm’s library is stacked with an interesting collection of books. Many are bequeathed by the guests; Jocean requested them to write their thoughts about the book in the last pages. Our friends, Maesy and Teddy, owners of the indie bookshop Post Santa wrote their co-authored book The Dusty Sneakers and left a signed copy. Among Paulo Coelho’s books, I found one that catches my interest: You are not a Gadget by Jaron Lanier.

Lanier is one of the creators of virtual reality. The book is a warning against the dehumanising design of the Web 2.0: the social media. The book was first published in 2010, the early years of social networking services. At that time, most people—including me—still bought the idea that Facebook is ‘connecting’ people, a force of good who can muster the power of the masses in inciting social changes which the established institutions could not or are too slow to mobilise people’s power.

The Web 2.0 put so much, too much, emphasis on the wisdom of the crowds. The hive mind, the collectivist ideas, rule them. Unleashing the inner trolls by their design and serving the advertising god. Silicon Valley pre-Web 2.0 was anti advertising. But when targeted advertising first came into being, they justified that it is not that kind of advertising. Thus, the ascent of the lords of the clouds and the digital serfs.

The author prophesied that the Web 2.0, if it stays at their design course (which it does), would be a threat to individuality. It will create technologists-oligarch and disenfranchise artists, musicians, intellectuals; culture and aesthetics will be dictated by philistine masses manipulated by advertisers. The creative and intellectual workers are expected to give away their ‘products’ i.e. information/cultural expressions—[self-published] books, music, and films—for free. Their remunerations will depend on popularity (views, likes, followers—metrics which algorithm depends solely on the platform’s changing business models). With scarcity removed, the economic value of the information nosedived.

Lo and behold, as I read Lanier’s words, I am witnessing—living—in a world where his prophecies came true. The extreme ephemerality, often badly made, TikTok reels; the attention deficit; the bullying culture perpetuated, masked as ‘pranks’ and ‘jokes’; trolling mobs armed with cancel culture ignoring due process; the increased status anxiety as consumers; the race to the bottom in ‘online business’; the death of privacy powered by acute narcissism and exhibitionism; fintech is basically traditional banking but with an app; clickbait journalism.

Fortunately, public awareness on the dark sides of social media improved. Streaming services invented the subscription business model. Some people are willing to pay for quality information and to become actual users—instead of being used by the platform. The K-pop industry adopts and successfully monetise the collectible ‘dongles’, merchandises of the beloved idol-artists. 

The blockchain technology has created an opportunity to reinstate scarcity to digital assets and cultural expressions without the need of centralised governance. However, just as the oil barons and traditional bankers can buy out the lords of the cloud—who disrupted their businesses—to their side, the wealthy have more leverage to be wealthier with cryptocurrencies and NFTs.

I should have read You are Not a Gadget ten years earlier. But the book chooses me. In 2022, the midst of a pandemic. At the stage when I have learned about the fallacy of Facebook ‘friends’ according to Dunbar’s Numbers (that our cognitive capabilities can only sustain a maximum of 150 close personal relationships) and how finite is our mental bandwidth to pay attention.

The Web 2.0 and the advancements of information technology have made the pandemic more bearable. Read Camus’ La Peste and you’d understand that a quarantine in the era of telegraph and telephone was much more isolating compared to our 21st century’s. However, our human behaviours, our selfishness, and our heroism during turbulent times have not changed much.

Lanier contends that the best of social media is brought by the people, not the engineering or design. An example is the oud online forum where he is a member. The forum brings together people who share obsessions with such musical instruments. The forum is a true internet community, where trolls are mitigated by the passionate admin. As an engineer, Laurier wanted to improve the rudimentary software design. But he realised that what makes the forum healthy is the people behind it, not the software design. It is another testament that people matter. Individuals matter.

The digital world is only a representation of the analogue world. In the digital world, everything is flat. The flatness simplifies, therefore, helps in our conceptual understanding of the universe. However, some nuance and context are lost. Smells still belong exclusively to the physical world. Our olfactory faculties require molecular interactions. Unlike lights-images and sounds, we have not been able to pixelate or digitise them, yet. Digital/cybernetic totalism and the singularity advocated by the lord of the clouds are still (mostly) the stuff of science fiction.

Social media’s rigid interface tends to be a template for cataloguing people. Status (‘Single’, ‘In a relationship’, ‘It’s complicated’). Political views (‘Liberal’, ‘conservative’, ‘libertarian’). Age, sex, profession. To a certain extent, it is useful in profiling. But, like a CV, it is often insufficient to establish one’s character—the qualification that matters the most in a human being. Of course, public display of troll-like behaviours online make it easier to identify red flags. At the very least, you can know for sure that the person is stupid enough and/or have no decorum for posting thoughtlessly. In the creative space, templates can be limiting—like MIDI format to music or 8-bit to paintings.

I may not be ready to read Lanier’s prophecies back in 2010. I have not experienced the breakneck speed and the unintended consequences of hyper-connectedness. Now, as a person who championed the modernising of the law firm I am working for; a reader who reads paper and e-books; a photographer who uses both film and digital camera; a writer who writes his essays with a fountain pen or a typewriter and digital word processors, I know how relevant Lanier’s manifesto even—no, especially—now, at the beginning of Web 3.0:

>      Don’t post anonymously unless you really might be in danger.

>      If you put effort in Wikipedia articles, put even more effort into using your personal voice and expression outside of the wiki to help attract the people who don’t yet realize that they are interested in the topics you contributed to.

>      Create a website that expresses something about who you are that won’t fit into the template available to you on a social networking site.

>  Post a video once in a while that took you one hundred times more time to create than it takes to view.

>  Write a blog post that took weeks of reflection before you heard the inner voice that needed to come out.

>      If you are twittering, innovate in order to find a way to describe your internal state instead of trivial external events, to avoid the creeping danger of believing that objectively described events define you, as they would define a machine.

J Lanier, You are not a Gadget

The two nights stay at Portibi Farm has been meditative and educational.

Portibi’s lack of connectivity is one of its charms. We trekked the Gunung Salak National Park and toured the farm. We put down our phones and played boardgame (I played ‘Junta: Viva el Presidente’ with people working for UNICEF and the World Bank. In that game, the players are members of a military junta ruling the Banana Republic; the objective is to steal as much as foreign aid monies as possible—how uncanny). Puppy and Bruno, the resident dogs, demanded our attention. We were present.

The space-time travelled was not just Jakarta-Sukabumi, but Jakarta-Silicon Valley across the last decade and cyberspace and to the future. Travelling and reading have once again created their virtuous cycle. The multiplied opportunities as they are seised.

Oh, and I managed to capture our moments in monochrome. With Summicron 35mm and 50mm lenses on Typ246’s CMOS sensor and M3’s Ilford Delta 100 film.

Lounging at Pacifist Cannibal

March 23, 2022

Naples

In Naples, I met Hugo Pratt.

The National Archeological Museum’s permanent star is Caravaggio the Neo-classic. Canova’s sculptures mesmerized me. But the underground exhibition space that exhibited Corto Maltese is where I found a kindred spirit. A 20th century transnational artist, a fellow travel aficionado. Perhaps Pratt’s works have been recognised as classic; instead of being exhibited at the modern art museum Madre Napoli.

Sol LeWitt’s “10,000 Lines” at Madre Museum

Naples is a walking city; its Metro only has 2 lines. When we arrived at Napoli Centrale from Rome, we decided to walk to our first accommodation Diletto apartment. The cobbled pavements made dragging wheeled luggage a hassle. Once we dropped our luggage, however, we were free to explore the charming bad boy. 

We stumbled into an anarchists’ commune Santa Fede Liberata. They squatted an abandoned monastery. The denizens formed a cooperative sans government support or corporate sponsor. An Antifa stronghold. Many members are intellectuals and artists. Murals and manifestos decorate the premise.

Elena Ferrante’s hometown is a juxtaposition of poverty and high taste. The lack of glamour makes it a haven for tourists interested in bohemian aesthetics. The narrow alleys towered by building with faded paint job and scraped stuccos. The sepia hued city bathed under the Mediterranean sun. The neighbors hanging their laundry in public. Altars and shrines at every corner. Local kids training to be footballers in the streets under the grace of Santa Diego, the unofficial patron saint of Napoli.

Neapolitan presepe is the crème de la crème of Nativity diorama; commissioned by the Papacy to be exhibited during Christmases in Vatican and Jerusalem. Even Tuscan Nativity dioramas, with their Northern riches, do not compare.

Naples is a city above ancient cities. Below 2019 Naples are Roman and paleo-Christian cities. During World War II, the underground cities relived as shelters from the Allied bombings. A port city, Naples was a strategic military target. Napoli Sotteranea runs a guided tour that takes you to the humid and claustrophobic underground. We were guided through secret trap door which leads to Roman amphitheater and cistern, hydroponic garden made planting possible by artificial UV light, and World War II themed installations.

Whilst waiting for the tour to start, an African souvenir seller approached me.

‘Salemaleykum!’, he saluted me.

My hardwired dogmatic reflex replied, ‘Aleykumsalam.’

I knew I lost to him that moment. He proceeded with the usual brothers-in-faith charade. Gave me a Chinese made trinket, a red miniature elephant, as a gift. He asked me if I have a gift in reciprocity. Gave him a 2 euros coin.

I kept the elephant. A reminder of another defeat in negotiation with the locals.

Santa Fede Liberata, the anarchists commune

I needed a haircut. I would not want Instagram picture of me in Italy to look bad. Neapolitan men are well groomed. I asked the receptionist of Hotel Piazza Bellini, our second accommodation, for a recommendation: Dixie Barber. The main barber Cheero looks like Mario of Nintendo. I would have asked for a close shave too if I have proper beard and moustache.

Coffee here is simple: espresso or cappuccino. No takeaway, if you don’t have time to enjoy a cup of coffee then don’t. This is not Starbucks or Costa. Don’t waste the indulgence out of a good cup, especially when accompanied with a sfogliatella.

We always eat well, obviously. Italy is one of two countries where we can eat the local cuisines for the entire trip. We only had burger once at Salumeria Upnea with its guerilla beers. They are worth skipping Neapolitan cuisine (but just once).

Napoli is our London dad’s hometown. He works at the Italian Foreign Ministry, now stationed in New Delhi. Coincidentally he was in town, on leave to visit his mama. We were invited to the best restaurant: Nonna’s home in ERCOLANO.

‘Nonna apologized that she couldn’t serve handmade pasta,’ Om Nello translated.

Whilst preparing the food, assisted by his sons, she watched us observe her living space. A VHS video player, a tubular telly, an audio cassette player. Her house is speck clean; all her items are vintage. A photograph of a soldier caught my interest. Nonna’s father (or grandfather) was a cavalier, fought in World War I for the Italian Kingdom.

There is something romantic about the Great War. The soldier’s uniforms looked more befitting in a gala than a battlefield. Camouflage was not invented or adopted yet. It was an unapologetic white men world. The First World War brought an end to the 19th century. Trench warfare is the worst. Try digging a hole in your garden, fill it up with water and live inside there for three days. The ‘world’ was Europe in those days. Most of Asia and Africa were colonized or primitive kingdoms. But here we are now, in the 21st century, Europe enjoying the peace and prosperity. The Blue Continent has ceased to be the bloodiest battleground.

The appetizer were tomato salad and fresh clams. The tomatoes from Mount Vesuvius were so sweet from the volcanic nutrients. The clams were something you can’t get in London, or from Jakarta’s mercury laden Sea of Java. The pasta was spaghetti vongole, the secondi was fried seafood.

I have learned about Italian way of dining: don’t fill up at pasta (tempting as it may). Make room for the next courses, the second.

We didn’t go to Pompeii, but Om Nello took us to Herculaneum, another ancient Roman city wiped by Vesuvian eruption. Smaller but less crowd. The weather was lovely, the transition between spring and summer. Sunny blue sky with gentle breeze.

Found Seneca’s On the Shortness of Life in the souvenir shop. The Stoics are the occidental Zen. Both seek to find calm in chaos. Their method is slightly different; Zen koans demonstrate the limit of our reasonable mind to articulate our understanding of the unconscious. The Stoics insist on logical deductions. Another gift from the time we live in now, the globalized world; we can learn both ways.

The stroll around the necropolis was a contemplation on the psychology of extinction. How men and women of Herculaneum came face to face with their mortality as a part of the mass and as an individual. A soldier stood steadfast manning his post. The crowd screamed in panic. a sister comforted her little brother. A son searched his mother.

Om Nello waited for us at the exit. He got us chilled water, with gas. We took the train back to Napoli Centrale. The cars were full of tourist returning from Pompeii. It was golden hour; the landscape outside and the cabin were gently lit by the dusking sun. We didn’t get seats. The white ladies were reddish, blotched by their excursions under the sun. Some passengers reviewed pictures taken and video recorded. Some napped, some chatted. Some, like us, just sat or stood in the silence.

We took a taxi from the hotel to the ferry port. Neapolitan traffic is a passionate as its people. The Italians speak with their hands rather than with their mouth. When our driver got out from the car—to yell at the driver who kept honking when he stopped for pedestrians—we knew he was spewing obscenities despite we know very little Italian. Some languages are so beautiful that even their curses are gracious.

The ferry took us to CAPRI. It was weekend, a lot of tourists – local and international. The cabin was full. Passengers were competing for seats. Ladies in tacky fast fashion took the priority seats. When a family with a disabled member wanted to claim the seats, the ladies refused to budge. Hand gesture got lively; a crew joined in the entreaties. ‘Signora, mi scusi!’

We left the cabin and sat on the deck. It was cold and windy, but we didn’t have to compete for seats or caught in the crossfire of arguments between the locals. The views are nicer. Capri is the opposite the Napoli: touristy luxurious. The town is a labyrinth of shoppes. A sum of Mediterranean vacation with piazzas, cafes, and seascapes.

We stayed two nights at Hotel Villa Eva Anacapri. The funicular is the most romantic way to move around Marina Grande-Capri-Anacapri, but the buses are more practical.

We always had lunch at E Divino. We became familiar with the entire crew: the proprietors, the chefs, and the waiter.

E Divino’s meals are divine, true to its name. This hidden restaurant changes its menu everyday according to their garden and whatever source fresh from the market. Whenever the weather was permitting, we sat at the garden table.

We met Amadeo, an artisan jeweler, the prodigal son of Capri who set up his business in New York and London. Every time he comes home, he always dines here.

Too bad we missed the Blue Grotto due to poor weather. It was rainy during our visit. We had plenty of time drinking limoncello, a local specialty sweet liquor served almost frozen.

We wandered and visited churches, Roman ruins and gardens. Took the chair lift to the top of Monte Solaro; the rainy days made the peak of the island blanketed by fog and chill breeze. Strolled Giardini di Augusto, watching people—fellow tourists—taking selfies, solo and group pictures. Climbed to Emperor Tiberius’ imperial quarter at Villa Jarvis. It was up on a cliff with killer views. The climb was demanding and rewarding despite the cloudy weather. We talked and quarreled a little on our way up.

The imperial quarter is a chapel with a gigantic statue of Mother Mary. Overlooking the ocean, I imagined the Emperor’s life. I read that he lived there in his last 10 years of his life. How did he govern with the telecommunication technologies available at that age? I remember my visit to the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. The Ottoman sultans spent their lives inside the palace—held court, heard petitions, met with advisors and emissaries, entertained themselves in the harem, planned wars, eavesdropped and spied on conspiring courtiers.  Ruling an empire was a sequestered existence. Emperors lived like hermits with luxury.

It is true that Italy forces you to slow down. To appreciate the moment for what it is.

The art of doing nothing. But when your ‘nothing’ is sustained with wine, food, and coffee—added passionate sex and conversations, it is not too hard to meditate.

Neapolitan street

December 11, 2021

Kandy

Kandy was the capital of the last Sinhalese kingdom. It felt like Yogyakarta: an impoverished aristocrat who has to sell her cultural assets to make ends meet.

Tuk tuk drivers swarmed us tourists freshly offloaded to the station’s platforms. I thought we’d be more incognito because we share common skin tone with Sri Lankans, but our rucksacks gave us away. Taxi service providers at tourists’ point of arrival or main sights are less honest. However, we needed their services. So we bargained with one who has been stalking us and agreed on a price (overcharged, but still in affordable Rupees) for transfer to our hostel Clock Inn.

Along the drive, the driver solicited city tour. We said we’ll think about it and he gave his number. We checked in, unpacked and rested a while in our room. When we went down to walk around the town, the driver was waiting at the lobby. He asked if we have made up our mind for the tour. We told him we want to explore the town on foot first and left the hostel.

He was still there when we returned. Asked us again. This happened for several days. He intercepted us whenever we were passing at the lobby. His persistence was a reminder of the low season.

Kandy’s economy is supported by tourism. We got scammed more in Kandy than Colombo. One time we hailed a tuk tuk, agreed on Rs 200 fare but the driver stopped halfway when the road started going uphill. He ‘negotiated’ for additional Rs 200 (that old negotiation trick always work).  

Being scammed is a part of travel experience and, unless you are negligent or unlucky, most of the time they are harmless (except for your ego). But the money lost to the scammers often deprived me of small changes for tipping the helpful local service providers. 

The main sight in Kandy is Sri Dalada Maligawa, the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple. Lord Buddha’s tooth—said to be taken from Gotama’s funeral pyre—is stored in its inner sanctum. Whoever hold possession of the relic has the divine right to rule to the island. 

The Portuguese claimed to have destroyed the heathen artefact in the 16th century. A claim contested by the Sinhalese: it was only the replica which was destroyed by the Catholic colonisers. Like a piece of True Cross or stock market valuation, it does not matter whether the sacred object is true as long as it is believed as true. 

Every dusk a grandiose ritual is held at the temple. Traditional drums and blowpipes and conch shell musical instruments accompanied the monks in the procession worshipping the tooth. A stunning spectacle for photography and videography. 

Puja of the Sacred Tooth Relic

However, it masked something hollow.

The temple has collections of paintings with self-righteous and holier than thou narratives equal to Biblical stories. Stories about how an evil king was vanquished for his faithlessness. Posters on Buddhism as the only religion consistent with modern science (astrophysics) because of its views and teachings on how the universe started with Nothingness. 

I could not articulate such impression until I read Hermann Hesse’s Singapore Dreams. The sophistication of Buddhism philosophy was reduced to primitive idol worship. The proselytising Buddhism feels like another Abrahamic religion. An exclusive faith with a petty jealous god.

The Buddha Tooth reminded me that no spiritual discipline are immune from mutating to organised religions (as I have been warned by Osamu Tezuka’s Buddha). I wanted to shake off the bad aftertaste, so I went to the Buddhist Publication Society. The English books collections are limited. I got a pamphlet “Information about Meditation Centers in Sri Lanka Year 2013”. 

I  have always been interested on Oriental Meditation.  Sri Lanka is a prime destination for meditation retreats. However, the pamphlet warned that meditation centres, the ashrams, offer basic meals (twice a day vegan diet) and bare lodgings (some even with no electricity).

A friend tried a silent meditation retreat in Thailand. Meditators were instructed not to speak or even write for two weeks. He felt refreshed after that. I wonder whether it’d be good for me? I am aware of the power of silence; the banality and the detriments of talking too much (as Mario Puzo, and Francis Ford Coppola, taught me in The Godfather). However, isolation and excommunication are also effective interrogation techniques to mentally break a subject. With my extraversion, the silent meditation may have adverse effects.

I have never meditated at that time. I’d better start somewhere less hardcore than plunging myself in those meditation retreats. I bought The Attention Revolution, a step by step meditation manual. It articulates well the how to, but I realised I will need to practice the manual as meditation is not just a conceptual exercise. There is a physical exercise involved, and I will need to be guided during such session.

My references on Oriental meditation is so Eurocentric, translations of Westerners studying under the tutelage of Asian masters. I have never read Dalai Lama or Thich Nhat Hanh. Not that the East-West label matters at all in this endeavour. However, as an Asian living in Asia, I had to travel all the way to the West to discover the Eastern Wisdom. But it has been a privilege to be initiated to the Western Rationalist approach. It infused me with a dose of skepticism which help me avoid that cultish herd mentality.

Kandy is the home of Sri Lanka’s modern artist Helga de Silva, the one memorialised by Sterophonics with their song ‘Madame Helga’. Her mansion, Helga’s Folly, is an art gallery and a hotel (the band stayed there, thus the song). The theme: surrealism. Helga imagines what if Salvador Dali, Brothers Grimm, and Lewis Caroll were flatmates. The rooms are mishmash of taxidermied animals, skulls, Mad Hatter’s tea party, murals, melted wax and candles, mirrors and shards of glass, pygmies,  painted walls and windows. 

Helga’s Folly living room by @adindaaditha

The mansion was empty when we visited. We only met two members of the staff, the receptionist and the resident curator. We were the only guests. With the mansion’s secluded location on a hilltop posh residential area, we felt like Chihiro in Spirited Away. We had two pints of Lion Lager; do what 21st century tourists do: photographing and posing for the Gram.

I read framed newspaper clippings on Helga’s privileged lineage: she was a Dior model; her brother, Sir George Desmond de Silva, QC., a barrister of Middle Temple, was the UN Chief War Crimes Prosecutor in Sierra Leone; her father and grandfather were prominent Sri Lankan politicians. 

The first Sri Lankan I met in person was Harsha Fernando. He is a professional negotiator. He negotiated on behalf of Sri Lankan government with the Tamil Tiger (whom he described as the most reasonable negotiation counterpart despite their reputation as violent killers). Harsha also represented Sri Lankan tea plantation owners in negotiations with their workers (in which he advised them not to act like ancient raj, develop a relationship strategy with the most important people in their business, people with whom they share mutual interests the most: the workers). I took his interest-based negotiation workshop in 2015 (one of the best courses I took in my life, a hands on workshop for Fisher and Uri’s Getting to Yes). 

‘Fernando’ or ‘de Silva’ are not Sankrit-Sinhalese or English names. Ceylon was a Portuguese colony before the British took over. The Sri Lankans with Portuguese surnames are of mixed descent, members of the country’s elites.

We heard that Kandy Esala Perahera Festival is a magnificent ten days procession with dancers and elephants marching in extravagant colourful ornaments. However, they are held around July or August. The only way to see a tease of the said festival is at the Kandy Lake Club. It was a quick course of Kandyan performing arts sans the elephants—which saved us from the ethical dilemma considering the cruel domestication methods and what they have to endure for the parade.

We visited the Garrison Cemetery, a burial ground for British soldiers as well as the empire’s accompanying colonisers located next to the St. Paul’s Church, a neo-gothic red bricks colonial era house of worship. We met with the caretaker Mr Carmichael. He was wearing a rubber flip flops when we met him, but speaks with Queen’s English. He guided Prince Charles in his visit to Sri Lanka. An official thank you letter from the Prince of Wales is framed in the cemetery’s office.

Lonely Planet said the caretaker is a wonderful storyteller. He’d tell the life stories of the denizens of the cemetery. However, he assigned his nephew to guide us. The barefooted apprentice caretaker, albeit speaks in second-tongue English like us, did well in telling stories. I took their photograph, I promised to send it by email to them. The caretaker is not familiar with internet. While his nephew only understands Facebook. 

Many underprivileged people in South and Southeast Asia skipped the early internet age of emails and blogs—that time when you needed a personal computer to go online instead of affordable handheld devices. No wonder Zuckerberg wanted to provide free internet for rural India, it was Facebook’s philanthropic and commercial opportunity to dominate the internet in a land of billion users. 

On the way to the church and cemetery, we walked through Deva Veedya where the local lawyers have their offices in Victorian buildings  The street of gods is the street of lawyers and these Kandyan colleagues maintain the antiquity: no computers on their desk, just typewriters. I can’t imagine drafting my court submissions or contracts without digital word processor; no room for typo errors and reformatting.  No wonder among the rows of law offices, typists still offer their services.

Street of gods, street of lawyers

Our favourite restaurant in Kandy is the Empire Cafe near the Temple. They serve both Sri Lankan and western foods—of which I always chose the former being a rice boy. We became friendly with a charming enthusiastic waiter.

A few months after our trip to Sri Lanka, he texted me. He lost his job at the Empire Cafe because, he said, he organised a tour for a group of Spaniards but they didn’t pay. He was struggling without a job. He was reconstructing his family home to a guesthouse to make a living. He needed money and asked if I, as his ‘friend’, can help sponsor him.

It was awkward to receive such request, but I remind myself that it’s easy to dismiss money matters as vulgar when you’re not poor. I wanted to help, but I don’t like being cheated too—I have not reached Siddharta’s non-attachment. So I asked further details. I didn’t know if he was avoidant in providing the detailed answers or unable to do so due language barrier. I was not convinced to help him.

We arranged direct transfer from Kandy to Bandaranaike International Airport in Katunayake (despite coded as CMB, Sri Lanka’s main international airport is not in Colombo). It was 8 hours drive. The van has no air-conditioner. We shared the ride with Norwegian and Belgian surfer girls. They just finished their surfing camp. 

The driver is a Sri Lankan muslim (he told me and asked if I am; it is not intrusive to ask a stranger about his faith in Sri Lanka). He wanted to find work in Singapore and asked me how to do so. I told him just check the official ICA website. Singapore is a first world, official information is reliable. 

Why he asked about Singaporean immigration to an Indonesian? 

He made several stops, which may or may not be scheduled. Got lost and insisted to drop us first to the airport despite the itinerary was to transport the girls to their hostel then to the airport. We checked our Google map, the hostel is on the way to the airport.

My wife told me we should stick to our original itinerary. I was the only male passenger in the van.  It’d be safer for the girls. 

The driver complied when we all asked to go to the hostel first. The girls got to their hostel and we still had plenty of wait time when we arrived at the airport. 

Were we being paranoid? Maybe the stops and the detours were innocent?

We hired a lady driver from Galle to Ella. Sami told us that Sri Lankan men are not aggressive like in India. She feels safe driving long distance. Indeed, Sri Lankans are approachable and helpful. A young man in Colombo escorted us to the bus stop when we asked which bus to take.  If you’re a photographer, they’d be happy to pose for you and not too concerned with western concept of privacy.

Was I being Islamophobic?

July 5, 2021

Sahara: Sands and Wind

The camel is not a comfortable steed. We were riding at walking pace. Our Berber guides Mohamed and Ibrahim led the convoy of camelback tourists.

We travelled the featureless terrain, criss crossing the sand dunes. It may be easier for me to just walk. But I’ve learned that in a harsh environment, your survival chance could diminish by being a smart ass. Heed the locals.

Our tour package from Inside Morocco was quite exclusive. We were touring Morocco in a private limousine van. There were only two of us when we booked, but the tour company asked if we don’t mind if another tourist joined in. The costs will be divided too.

We’re both extroverts. One of our joys of travelling is meeting new people. But we’re also old enough to know that inviting strangers to join our party can ruin the whole experience. We decided to take the gamble. Anyone interested in exploring a desert, willing to bear discomforts for a once in a lifetime experience, should not be a horrible person.

That and the fact we were in our last leg of our London based travel. I’ve completed my master studies and the last of the scholarships monies have been spent. Anything to save my depleting Poundsterlings account.

We picked the third wheel at a cafe near Djemaa-el-Fna square. Philipp is a Swiss biologist. Late twenties with a PhD. He just finished a conference in Marrakech. He is a sputnik.

Our camp was only a 30 minutes ride from civilisation, a hotel with a swimming pool at the edge of the Sahara desert. My friend who took a cheap tour package said that his camp was a 4 hours camel ride. My crotch thanked the ‘exclusive’ tour package.

We had to walk a few meters from the camel hitching ground to the camp. I was wearing Altama desert boots, yet my feet sank to the soft sands as I walked. The camels’ feet have evolved to walk the desert. Their wide hooves distributed their weight.

I watched the Berbers. They didn’t sink. They know which ground is solid enough to bear their weight (that’s why it is inefficient to walk in a straight line). A city boy like me can’t see the difference in the sand textures.

Camel ride

Our camp hosted a group of Spaniards, Brazilians, an Australian senior couple, and us—an Indonesian couple with a Swiss tag-along. We were told to climb to one of the tall sand dunes to watch the sunset while our hosts prepared dinner.

I was a clumsy hiker. Relied only on my strength to climb the ever sinking sands. Philipp being the smarter one learned the Berber way of walking. His Swiss national service training also helped. We were heaving and puffing at the top of the dune.

The Australian granddad arrived not so long after us. Philipp said we’re not so tough, even a 70 year old man could catch us up.

Ning Cai and Pamela Ho, in The Adventures of 2 Girls, met a fellow traveller who goes to Erg Chebbi as an annual pilgrimage. The sunset there restored her balance. The desert is her place, a place where she can feel the connection to the universe.

My Sahara sunset was cloudy. I was expecting to hear the sound of the desert, the sound of silence. But four ATVs kept roaring.

I know it must have been thrilling to ride ATVs in the Sahara under the dusk light. Imagining that you’re a Stormtrooper riding a speeder. But I wanted a solemn moment like Ning had. And since my desire leaves less carbon footprints, I have the moral high ground to judge those philistine tourists.

We sat on a dune. The grains of sands are so soft and fine, it seeped into the sensor of my entry level DSLR. The Berbers kept asking if we’re Japanese, and insisted we are because we look Japanese. I wonder if the Saharans think that all Asians are Japanese or Chinese. Maybe we’re not brown enough to be identified as South Asians.

Mohamed and Ibrahim could not pronounce Dinda’s name properly. They are polyglots, speak Arabic, French, Spanish, English, and a little Japanese; but Sankrit tongue is too foreign. So they gave her an Arabic name: Fatima. Fatima is her grandma’s name.

They could not pronounce my name either. I google translated my name to Arabic. ‘Tawhaj.’ Next time, in Arabic speaking countries, I’d introduce myself as ‘Abu Tawhaj’.

We could see towns, villages, on the west horizon. When the sun set into night, the artificial ground lights further reduced my expectations of a romantic Scherezade sunset.

Our hosts called for dinner. The Brazillian tourists could not hide that Berber foods served were too exotic for their taste. Philipp asked if I like rice. A silly question to ask an Asian. The food was not the best Moroccan cuisine, especially after we had been lodged at Chez Pierre the night before. But we were dining in the middle of a desert.

The feast did not stop with food. Drums and tambourines and dances to desert tunes. The Aussie grandad, Dinda and Philipp played the tende drums. I was given a pair of qaraqib which are too big for my Asian hands. A cheerful party without any alcohol served.

I imagined ourselves to be the privileged academics-aristocrats in The English Patient. Morocco is one of the few countries that does not require a visa for Indonesian. I always envy travellers with stronger passports. But that night, we tasted a world without maps for a night. Our nationalities were made irrelevant. 

Tendes and Qaraqibs

Our beds were spring beds. Another luxury given the environment; I was prepared to sleep on a mattress. I woke up past midnight to pee. The camp has an outhouse with dysfunctioning plumbing.

I met Philipp there. He said ‘look and listen.’ It was not a full moon, but the camp was lit by the lights from the night sky. The stars were unobstructed by air and light pollution. Cloudless and windless, I heard the sound of silence.

Our sunrise was glorious. The eastern horizon is an expanse of desert. No ATV tours in the morning. I could hear the sounds of wind and sand. I read that the desert tribes named the winds. Ghibli is a wind. Hayao Miyazaki may have read Herodotus and Oondatje.

Sunrise

We packed our bags and rode out from the desert. We tipped our Berber guides. They asked us to tell our countrymen to visit Morocco. 

On the road, a goatherd kid approached us, carrying a baby goat asking if we wanted a photo for a dirham. I was hesitant because I worry my dirham would disincentive the boy from pursuing education. 

Philipp gave the money. I followed suit. Maybe his family can’t afford to send him to school anyway. I justified our charitable short termism act.

This is one of the places where the economy relies on tourism. Unlike their Arab neighbours, Morocco is not oil rich. It’s a chaotic beauty. Touts offering guide services, locals misleading your way in the medina, two women fighting over a boy (too bad the local men intervened before it became a proper cat fight), and donkeys in the city. Many mopeds are modified to have pedals; the riders would cycle them when the petrol ran out.

The desert is harsh, but it insulates. A different, detached world. I had a glimpse of Almásy’s world. It was a decompression chamber prior to our return to third world Indonesia after living in first world Europe.

May 13, 2021

Amsterdam

Schipol International Airport feels “state of the art”, like an airport in Asia or the Middle East.  I read in Nudge that this is the first airport which urinals have “fly” on them, nudging men to aim better therefore reducing urine spillover.  No wonder it is listed as one of the best airports in the world. The peculiar thing I saw at the arrival gate was a spandoek (banner) vending machine. You can buy a custom print banner on the machine to welcome your arriving friends. 

We took the train to Amsterdam Centraal and then tram to our first hotel: Hotel Not Hotel, a designer hotel where all rooms are different, thematically and construction wise. “Crisis Free Zone”,  “Secret Bookcases”, “Crow’s Nest”, “Volkswagen T1”, and more (no private bathroom, but the communal bathroom itself is also an artwork). We stayed in the Tram Room, just for one night; we were transiting. Amsterdam was our entry and exit point for our Eurotrip 2017—we took “local” European flights from there to Austria and returned from Malta as the last leg of our trip. 

When we returned to the city, and spent 5 nights  exploring, we stayed at Cocomama Hostel. The hostel building once housed a brothel. We were already too old for the dorm room, so we booked one of the double private ensuite,  “Royal” themed room. Despite it’s a hostel, Cocomama’s toiletries are fancy—the shampoos; soaps; conditioners; and lotions are equal with, maybe even better than most five star chain hotels. Our room is on the upper floor and, since it is Europe, no lift (but the kind Scottish staff helped carry one of our luggages).

When we are feeling social (which is often), we went downstairs to the common area.The living room and the garden are warm and cosy. We met the owner of the hostel: Joop de kat. He greeted us, asking if we have food for him. However, he’s under strict order by the vet to diet; unhealthily fat. So we just paid our respect by petting and playing with him.

Joop, the proprietor of Cocomama

True to Amsterdam’s mercantilism soul, Cocomama accepts all kinds of payment from cash, credit card, to Bitcoin cryptocurrency. A kitchen is available if you want to cook. Cocomama delivers the best of the both world: the comforts of a hotel and the warm social cocoon of a hostel.

Just across the street of Cocomama is the School of Life Amsterdam. I am a fan of the institution. Alain de Botton is an influential writer/philosopher to my personal development. His writings helped me make better sense of my secular existence. We took one of the emotional intelligence development classes “Creating Better Habits” by the Happyiologist Susanna Halonen,  in the School’s London HQ. The Amsterdam’s classes, at that time (2017), mostly are in Dutch.

The first conscious effort we have to make in Amsterdam is not to talk offensively in Indonesian as freely as when we usually do in other countries (our favourite activity when travelling is people watching—and commenting on them is inevitable). Many people speaks Indonesian in Amsterdam. The airport security officers questioned me in Indonesian. A senior white Dutchman talked with me in Indonesian. A mixed race girl greeted me in Indonesian. There, we were not protected with by the anonymity of our foreign tongue. 

Amsterdam was love at first sight. It’s like London, but curated and with only the best parts: multicultural, liberal, beautiful parks and canals (and people), and great museums and art galleries. A bit messy but charming. 

We rent student museum passes from the hostel, assumed the identity of the pass holders. We visited the Rijksmuseum, saw the real life Rembrant’s Nightwatch. If the Old Master lived in an era after photography has been invented, would he still chose painting as his medium? There was a collection of Raden Saleh’s paintings. Here he was the European dandy, not the Javanese gentry. Like Yukio Mishima, he built a persona of a westernised oriental true to his heritage. An exotic creature whom westerners can relate to; the archetype of Aouda in Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days. I remember I was also enchanted by Bosch and his descriptive paintings of hell.

We skipped posing before the “I ♥ Amsterdam” at sign Museumplein though.

I learned more about Rembrandt by visiting his house—Museum het Rembrandthuis. Bought Rembrandt’s Bible Stories which, as the title suggests, bible stories accompanied by Rembrant’s illustrations. The stories are somehow secularised, I think, focusing more on human relationships than divinity.

I met up with an airsoft mate, as well as his Indonesian friends living in Amsterdam. The meeting place was Leidseplein, the Oxford Circus of Amsterdam. If it’s up to me, I would not choose that. I guess most people assume that Indonesian would always prefer shopping centres. However, there was a Banksy graffiti there. Plus my friend bought me beers and lunch.

We had a social education at the Red Light District. Took a tour organised by the Prostitution Institution Center. Our guide wore a low cut dress, she has a tattoo on her left boob. I didn’t ask if she is also (or was) a sex worker, but she has a Master’s degree in history. 

Prostitution is not just decriminalised but legal in Netherlands. The window brothels and the sex shows are legitimate businesses. They pay taxes— there are accountants, finance and tax advisers opening their offices in the Red Light District catering the sex industry. Therefore, the sex workers have rights and the industry receive government’s support. 

Legalising prostitution is a way to mitigate exploitation of the sex workers. I saw the ladies inside the windows look healthy (unlike sex workers in places where prostitution is criminalised, e.g. Bangkok or Jakarta, where they look skinny and underage). It is not a perfect system—illegal prostitution still exists, partially because you have to comply with complex rules and pay taxes to be legitimate. 

The sex workers come from every races and their operating areas seem to be clustered. It is not by regulation, people tend to flock with people who look the same with them—homophily. The police are actively patrolling the area. It’s not that there are many crimes, the police presence is a way to send a public message that the prostitution is also under the protection of the law. The sex establishments also employ bouncers. So it was pretty safe environment for the sex workers and the guests who are coming to have some fun.

Pimping, however, is a crime. No one should have the right to take the sex worker’s income. Sex workers can and have the right to refuse clients. 

I read in Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work that when sex workers work in a club, they work under profit sharing arrangement with the proprietor.  While working the windows provide the best independence: the sex worker simply rent the space on hourly basis from the landlord. They just offset their income with the rent; any profit or loss is theirs. Therefore, they can decide where and when to work. 

We also went to Casa Rosso, a live sex show theatre, which Lonely Planet describes as “couple friendly”. They have varieties of shows: burlesque, smoking vulva, pole dance, male stripper, lesbian, even actual intercourse on stage (no male on male though). No-photography and no-videography are strictly enforced. The performers would stop the show and yell at any offender. The bouncers would warn you (not nicely). 

We came in when it was smoking vulva show (the performer smoked a cigar with her vagina). Then it was the live intercourse. A group of tourists came in just at that. Some of them were shocked and froze, even when they were ushered to their seats. In certain shows, the performer asked for a member of the audience to volunteer to be a part of the show. 

It would have been more fun if we came as a group and one of us volunteered. However, I found live sex shows are not like porn films. I was not aroused. It felt silly instead or downright disturbing (is it normal to feel this way?). Also I found it impressive that the male performers can maintain their erection despite all the distractions on stage (he does the show in hourly cycle from 7pm to 1am—without coming).

Our conclusion from the Red Light District: sex work is definitely a work. And a hard work. Imagine servicing 5 to 25 clients in 8 hour shift or performing non-stop sex show for 6 hours! That debunks the myth that prostitution money is easy money. 

Anyway, if you want to employ the sex services, the Prostitution Information Center is a reliable place to get referrals.

I don’t like buying oleh-oleh (travel gifts), but Condomerie is the perfect place to acquire Amsterdam souvenirs. You can buy utilitarian condoms in any shape, size, and colour and/or decorative condoms (but strictly not for use). I giggled like a teenage boy peeking at porn magazine upon entering. Bought two decorative condoms for my friend. Useless trinkets, but fun (and I got complimentary coloured condoms).

For World War II enthusiasts, the Anne Frank House is the obvious must see. I’d recommend  to read her diary prior visiting. The house is small, we spent much longer time queuing than seeing the museum (if you want to avoid the queue, you’d need to pre-book tickets on the website at least a month before) . The attic’s Secret Annexe, in which the Franks were hiding, gave us better of sense of Anne’s sufferings to be restricted in a confined space.  From her diary, we can see how Anne matured rapidly during her exile. She was a happy popular flirty teenage girl before the occupation which took her freedom (and later, her life).

Verzetsmuseum (the Museum of Resistance) is the lesser known museum about World War II, but a definite top sight on the era. It houses well curated artefacts related to Netherlands during the war. The main exhibitions focus on the Nazi occupation, under which Amsterdamers must choose between adapting, resisting, or collaborating. The Junior wing is the most fun—the interactive installations playfully narrates the experience of Dutch children from different family backgrounds: resistance fighters; Jews (Anne Frank’s neighbour); and fascists NSB. 

The Dutch East Indies wing was particularly interesting for me. I was taught the partisan nationalist historical narratives of the Indonesian revolution at school. The museum’s narrative is more nuanced, although antagonistic to the Imperial Japanese occupation (maybe rightfully, Indonesian senior citizens who lived through the colonial times testified that the Japanese were very brutal). 

There was a temporary exhibition of “The Gulag: Terror and Arbitrary Rule in the Soviet Union”. It was the first time I realised that Stalin was worse than Hitler (at least in terms of kill counts).

The Sex Museum is a quirky museum with silly exhibits: puffing condoms, erotic decorative artefacts, dioramas of sex scenes—flashers; backstreet handjob; the inside of red light district’s window; oriental brothel; and sex icons such as Marilyn Monroe and Mata Hari. The museum’s restroom is also a part of the exhibitions: vulva shaped urinal and water closet. The wash basin mirror projects a sensual animation about Alfons Mucha on the loop. The final exhibit is a historical narrative reel about sexuality of the [western] society: how the moral pendulum swings from  time to time. Europeans were sexually liberal during the pagan times, became uptight due to Christianity, and then liberated again after the Enlightenment. 

Alfons Mucha diorama at the Sex Museum

Of course, no Amsterdam experience is complete without a visit to their infamous coffee shops. It has been ages since I smoked weed. The first coffee shop we tried was Bulldog. Bad choice, it’s a tourist trap/ I can feel it the moment we came in, but against our instinct and under peer pressure we bought their joints anyway. We smoked two pre-rolled joints and didn’t get high at all. On our second try, we went to Dampkring. The retro psychedelic interior convinced me that the coffee shop is a real hippie den. Bought the herbs, the grinders, and the rolling papers. However, I just remembered that I never roll joint myself (in Indonesia the dealer would give such value added service, gratis). My partner never rolled a joint too. I was about to ask the guy at the next table, but his eyes seem to say “Fuck, a tourist who disturbs my high time.” So I learned from YouTube. I acquired a new skill in Amsterdam.

Amsterdam’s coffee shops are prohibited to serve alcoholic drinks, in case you didn’t know. Maybe to prevent double effects of alcohol and tetrahydrocannabinol. But, unsurprisingly, they serve coffees. Not sure if it’s good to mix the sedating effect of marijuana with caffeine, but rules are rules.

We smoked the joints by the canal. There was no immediate effect. We thought we’ve been duped again. So much for the winner of Cannabis Grand Prix. We decided we were hungry, so we went to Hostaria, an Italian restaurant. It was fully booked, but the maitre’d made a room for us. After the wonderful dinner, suddenly we couldn’t stop giggling. The wallpaper patterns seemed so funny. Our mood skyrocketed.

Our cannabis induced happiness seemed to be contagious. Other than using basic Italians, such as “Buonasera! Mi scusi? Grazie mille! Prego”, we did’t remember doing anything special. However, the maitre’d seemed to be happy seeing us. He gave us tap water (in Amsterdam, not all restaurants serves free water), extra red wine, and complimentary tiramisu. Even the chef went out from the kitchen and gave us a hug when we left. Maybe we did something silly without realising it.

Multicultural Amsterdam allowed to have the best foods at the best climate. We had Thai food at Bird, several times—they are as good as in Bangkok (not quite at the same level with Krua Apsorn, but very good). The wonton soup at New Kingand the Indian curries at Koh-i-Noorare also excellent. Imagine hot rich Asian spices in a cool European climate. The best of both worlds. We skipped the Indonesian restaurants. While I heard the quality is top notch, all of them are expensive restaurants. 

We also had Peruvian at Casa Perú. The last time we had Peruvian was at the Camden Market, 2015. The highlight, as always, was the ceviche.

Our first initiation of truly local cuisine was at Albertcuypmarket, we had some kind of meatball at Cafe de Groene Vlinder for a lunch break when traversing the Europe’s busiest open air market; vendors and shops selling cheese, smartphone accessories, kitchen utensils, locks, fridge magnets, colouring mat, and flags (we bought an Amsterdam flag for souvenir: the red-black stripe-and triple Xs are appealing hues—like the Soviet and Nazi flags, but of the opposite ideology). We had pannekoek at  Pannekoekenhuis Upstairs. Dutch pancakes just the way my grandma made it (she lived through the Dutch and Japanese colonial times), only better. The queue was worth the wait. 

English cuisine may be on the lowest tier of European food culture, but they do breakfast alright. Therefore, we had one at the Breakfast Club. We had classic burgers at the Butcher in Albertcuypmarket. Another western food highlight is De Plantage, a greenhouse turned into restaurant by the zoo. We sat on one of the tables outside.

We enjoyed the true bliss of European summer in Amsterdam. The gentle breeze and warm sun on a virtually trafficless cosmopolitan city. People walk, cycle, or take the tram. The locals moved their dining table outside their homes and dined on the streets. We strolled the Vondelpark under its full summer glory. Little humidity allowed us to sit comfortably on the grass. Napped, talked, read, and watched people go about leisurely.

Dropped by Int ’t Aepjen, the “monkey bar” in the Medieval Centre. It’s not a calisthenics gym, but a bar housed in a 16th century wooden house. It was frequented by sailors from the Orients with monkeys on their shoulders. Captain Barbarossa style. Drunk beers under candlelights. Gezellig.

Int’j Aepjen

I am not much of a shopper, but the shops at De 9 Straatjeswill test any self-proclaimed minimalists not to consume. Photogenic designer stores, vintage clothing shopes, and eateries—the equivalent of London’s Seven Dials, only better since the 9 streets have canals. I saw a discounted off-season Barbour winter jacket, good thing not in my size so I didn’t buy it. We went book hunting at the American Book Center and Universiteit van Amsterdam. We acquired brand new Barthes’ Camera Lucida and Mythologies as well as Sontag’s On Photography, the reading list for street photography course by Erik Prasetya. Bought secondhand Nassim Nicholas Thaleb’s Black Swan. All those books gave me conceptual shifts, so the overall costs of acquiring them (including travel to Amsterdam) yielded handsome existential profits. 

Amsterdam is the most liberal city in Europe. That’s high liberalism. Represented first and foremost by sexual freedom, because— as Oscar Wilde said—“Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.” After all, the independent Netherlands was born out of an uprising against the anal retentive Spanish Catholicism (literally, with their Inquisition). 

But of course, Amsterdam is not just “Disneyland for college students.” (Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo—funny film when I watched in 2005, but a bit sexist, homophobic, and racist for 2017 moral standards). The Dutch mercantilism, detached from the aristocracy and the clergy, created an independent judiciary. This allowed them to compete with Spain, the then Christendom superpower. This is where the first multinational corporation was established, the VOC. Amsterdam became so rich that they became the patrons of the art and culture, from Rembrandt to Vermeer to Van Gogh (whose museum we missed, unfortunately). The intellectual enlightenment allowed them to see further and higher of sapiens’ existential conditions; they were aware of and horrified by the exploitations and sufferings of the indigenous people in the colonised lands ergo the Dutch Ethical Policy and the subsequent progressive policies. 

No wonder Amsterdam is Oliver Sacks’ favourite city. The canal city was where he popped his cherry (England, even London, was relatively conservative and homophobic when he was young). But also, the city is not just about vulgar distractions and sexuality.  Here you can have intellectual stimulations by immersing yourself in high cultures and satisfy your basic instincts, tumbling into abandon. You can have both Apollonian and Dionysian enchantments within less than 30 minutes walk or cycle.

On the last day in Amsterdam, also our last day of our Eurotrip 2017, we had breakfast at Little Collins. It was Saturday and, seeing the ease of Amsterdamers—how they walked and cycled around, sitting and talking and drinking good coffee with friends—made me happy but also envious. The modern citizens of the Old World (therefore old moneyed societies) know how to live. However, the queue was long for the check in of our return flight to Indonesia. The aircraft was full of Europeans with flip-flops, shorts, panama hats, and surfboards in pursuit of tropical beach for summer holiday.

To see and choose the part of the world we inhabit, despite for a brief instant. A reminder of how privileged I am—we are—to be travellers.

Canal and bicycle

November 22, 2020