Yes, my day (and night) job is a dispute resolution lawyer. And yes, I am passionate about that—not just to make a living.
I’m human. I’m multifaceted. I am more than one thing, to quote David Whyte’s ‘Istanbul’.
Photography is one of my long-time other passions. While I am not a professional, I am no dilettante. I hope this exhibition serves as evidence to support such claim.
I was paid, ‘on assignment’ arrangement, for my expenses in this documentary photography scholarship. 12 photographers were assigned to cover the stories of health volunteers in Depok, Bekasi, and Bandung.
These invisible health workers implement the public health policies and initiatives at grass root level: identifying Covid infections in their neighbourhood, assisting underprivileged patients with the paperworks for accessing public healthcare. They are working closely with public clinics and hospitals and local government apparatus.
Observing them and representing them in a visual story have been an exercise of the Good Life. To understand people outside my socio-economic bubble.
September memberi saya banyak hadiah, antara lain: lensa antik buatan tahun 1958 dan pertemuan dengan salah satu pengarang Indonesia favorit saya. Malam minggu itu, di toko buku independen kesayangan Post Santa, saya nongkrong di pasar (Santa) bersama para kutu buku. Saya menempelkan lensa antik di kamera digital sensor monokrom untuk mengetes sekaligus mendokumentasikan.
Saya berkenalan dengan Cak Mahfud dengan Aku dan Film India Melawan Dunia. Kemudian Dawuk–yang membuat saya ingin membuat novel grafisnya. Lalu Cerita, Bualan, Kebenaran; Belajar Mencintai Kambing.
Cak Mahfud itu, bisa dibilang pengarang ‘one trick pony’. Motif ceritanya selalu kemiskinan di pedesaan Jawa, buruh migran Malaysia, gembala kambing, Musholla, santri, Muhammadiyah dan NU, sepakbola dan film India. Apabila ada [Haruki] Murakami Bingo, seharusnya bisa kita buat Mahfud Bingo.
Sebagian yang hadir malam itu memiliki kedekatan emosional dengan kehidupan desa di Jawa. ‘Seperti mendengar dongeng eyang.’
Namun bagi saya yang berlatar belakang Jakarta, cerita Cak Mahfud juga tetap memukau. Gaya berceritanya Orwellian–jauh dari glorifikasi atau mengibakan kemiskinan–dicampur dengan realisme magis ala Salman Rushdie.
Orangnya mengaku sebagai penulis yang malas, tapi bukunya yang sudah terbit ada 10 (yang saya tahu, 2009-2022; tiga di antaranye menang penghargaan). Sebagaimana pengarang ulung, karakter-karakter rekaannya merupakan tribut yang terinspirasi tokoh nyata. Sebagai pengarang bertanggungjawab, ia melakukan riset keras untuk membangun realisme fiksinya (salah satunya tentang pengangkutan kayu jati di Jawa pada akhir abad ke-19 dan awal abad ke-20).
Ia juga membatasi diri hanya menceritakan subyek yang dekat dengan dirinya; ia takut meliyankan subyek yang mana ia tidak memiliki kedekatan psikologis.Saat menceritakan soal pengalaman buruh migran di Dawuk, ia sengaja meminjam mulut pembual di warung kopi. Agar pembaca waspada: ini bualan kemplung, jangan dipercaya mentah-mentah. Menghibur, tapi bisa jadi hiperbola.
Sebagai orang yang mencintai seninya, dia patah hati atas kegagalan buku pertamanya Ulid. Edisi pertama bukan saja tidak laku, tapi diterbitkan dengan desain sampul tema Ayat-ayat Cinta. Tapi toh ia tetap menulis; membuat blog tentang film India dan sepak bola, meski tak berharap ada pembaca.
Akhir sesi, kami antri meminta tanda tangan beliau. Meski sudah jam 9 malam, Cak Mahfud masih minum kopi hitam. Post merupakan ruang ber-AC, kalau tidak bisa jadi dirinya merokok sigaret kretek. Di depan mesin tik.
Lulusan Sastra Indonesia yang benar-benar jadi sastrawan. Beberapa orang memanggilnya Dawuk. ‘Padahal saya Warto,’ ujarnya. Saat batas identitas penulis dengan tokoh ciptaannya sudah kabur, di situlah bukti kedigdayaan seorang penulis fiksi.
I travelled to Sri Lanka in 2018. It was a difficult time for me. While I did not suffer any financial hardship, it was the first time after 11 years of seemingly unstoppable career in private practice I became unemployed.
It was a debilitating experience. In this consumer capitalist society, we take our identity from how we make a living. Our self worth is measured by how productive we are. The main metric is how much money we make.
I clung to my identity as a lawyer like a flotation device. When I had to let it go, I sank. The profession which demanded much of me and given much to me was lost.
I travelled with this hanging anxiety. A blurry sense of self.
It’s true that you can’t escape your thoughts no matter where you go. At Ella’s Rock, I stepped closer to the edge. I was thinking of jumping. The idea of ending the mental sufferings in beautiful vistas seemed romantic.
But my self-preservation instinct kicked in despite bouts of nihilism.
Sri Lanka, a Buddhist country, is also a prime centre for meditation retreats. I had been thinking of starting meditation, but at that moment I knew it was urgent to start. Just like a serendipity, I found a copy of Hermann Hesse’s Siddartha in the bookshelf of Highest Peak Bungalow guest house in Nuwara Eliya.
South Asia is photogenic. However, I was not ready to brave the intensity of the second most populated country in the world. A friend recommended Sri Lanka. Smaller in size and population density.
India Lite.
The two South Asian countries, being neighbours, have had a rather tense relationship since ancient times. In the Ramayana myth, Lanka is the kingdom of giants. King Ravana kidnapped Queen Sita of Ayodiya (India). His husband, King Rama, waged war to reclaim her.
In modern times, tension between the ‘native’ Sinhaleses and the Tamil minorities–brought by the English colonists to work on tea plantations–is still present. Unlike their Commonwealth peer Singapore, which adopted English as lingua franca, the modern Ceylon insisted on Sinhalese to assert cultural primacy of the majority population.
The Sri Lankan people are not camera shy. In convention with the stereotype of South Asians, they were happy to pose. I may be guilty of voyeuristic exoticism, but I am genuinely interested in my subjects. Their willingness to trust me in recording a piece of their soul is something I do not take for granted. Some of them lend a helping hand to me as a traveller. I try to be a mirror when I am photographing: a magic mirror, reflecting with my sentiency–connecting, sharing a brief moment of shared time space.
I am sure that my subjects have their woes. Most of them are not as well off as me, economically. But in our interactions, we were both happy. Just to smile at each other. Maybe we distract each other’s miseries with our foreignness.
I read the news that Sri Lanka is bankrupt–the government is bankrupt. The economic collapse led to institutional collapse. I wonder how my subjects are now. I hope they are persevering.
Arkademy Project is a photography collective focusing on critical and reflective photography with an interdisciplinary approach. Translation: documentary, street, travel–human interest photography. My kind of genres.
I browsed their website, the mentors’ portofolio. I knew instantly that I wanted to join their tribe. These are the photographs I am drawn to; the photographs I want to make: not just aesthetically pleasing but also meditations on human experience.
To be a photographer as an intellectual and an artist.
I only had one day to curate and submit my photo series. I got the information two days before the deadline (from an Instagram post, sponsored). I was not sure if I’d get the award. I have made entries to photography competitions before. Never successful (rightfully, when I saw the winners).
I am not a professional photographer, but I am no dilettante. I am always wary of using the word ‘passion’. They have been overused by us, millennials. But I am passionate about photography.
I may not turn this into a profession. I don’t need to make money from it. Maybe I’d progress faster if I choose to make a living from photography. But this financial detachment makes me unencumbered by the ‘market demand’. Of course, I risk being too self indulgent.
I am glad that I decided to stay alive back in Sri Lanka. ‘To live the question’, as Rilke said. The photography scholarship is a tangible answer.
I have not yet been able to love myself in the way people without a complex PTSD can. I still feel the need to attach an identifier, labels, to myself. I just realised that those labels are not fixed and I can use more than one. I chose identities which are relevant to the situation present.
I would do photography despite not getting any award. But getting the photography scholarship, an external affirmation and recognition, feels nice.
The impostor syndrome within me asks: ‘Did I get the scholarship because I am good or because the other applicants are bad?’ I did ask how many applicants applied out of the selected 12 photographers: only 50.
However, when life gives you an opportunity you must seize it. It does not matter if the opportunity is a dumb luck.
When I met the other awardees and saw their submissions, I realised how competitive the selection was. I felt more inadequate. Most of them are younger than I yet their photographs show immense depths, which require maturity.
I knew that I’d learn a lot not just from the mentors, but also from fellow participants.
La Bernerie-en-Retz, Brittany, France. Summer 2022.
I first heard of the happy news in May 2021, when Indonesia was the epicentre of the pandemic in Asia. I lost a dear friend to Covid-19. Many of us did. We lost our freedom. I know some of us had it harder: death, deteriorating health, financial hardship. If you did, and you are still here, I congratulate you for surviving.
The wedding invitation was something to look forward to after one year of social–physical–distancing. The 21st century global exile, mitigated by advanced medical science and information technology.
We met Meggan and Fabi in 2014. 2010s was a decade of immense growth. 2014-2015, the LLM year, was still the best year of my life so far. 2020 gave a surprise closure (not really, if we observe the cycles of history).
They were postgraduate students in London–Queen Mary and LSE–looking for affordable accommodation. They met on Facebook group, became flatmates in a council house in East London.
Meggan had a boyfriend, but they confided in each other. Bound by London’s student life and housing crisis.
The Greatest City in the World asks for overpriced rent. Living room was converted to bedrooms to maximise space; the walls are so thin you could hear the neighbours shouting; their almost feral chihuahua barking.
In return, London swallows you whole. Entertains and amuses you in a way inexhaustible within two lifetimes. You’d meet people from all around the world. Heard of countries you were ignorant about before. Shown forms of cultural expressions imaginable by our species; ideas, innovations, and traditions.
London is a place where ‘such stuff dreams are made on’.
Meg and Fab moved in together when they became steady–to a much better flat, with a Big Ben view. Celebrated Meggan’s twenty-fourth birthday there.
Then life after the insulated post-grad world happened. They love London, but found opportunities elsewhere. Fabi got a good job in Frankfurt. Meggan in Paris. Thus began their long distance relationship.
Fabi did not ask Meggan to move to Frankfurt because he did not want her to sacrifice her career. But they want to be together.
Everything falls into place, eventually. Meggan got a job in Frankfurt. Fabi proposed in London, after dinner at Dishoom–their favourite Indian restaurant, under the rain.
Like the Officiant of their wedding said, ‘Their story is straight out of romcom.’
I am glad that I can catch up on so much of their life just by attending their wedding.
It was also my first time attending secular wedding vows. Something illegitimate in Indonesia. I wish I could have that: the freedom to opt-out from religion in one of life’s greatest social events.
Marriage is not a life goal, but Meggan wanted to be married. With the right person.
The Europeans have moved forward from seeing marriage as a means of procreation and prostelysation. This is not a destruction of an institution, but an evolution–a progression. We are now richer than mediaeval kings. Our lives are more complex. Traditional social contracts need to be reconstructed to fit modern life.
We knew their wedding would be a special day in our lives, even without ever going through a pandemic. A beautiful intimate wedding in Bretagne under the summer sun. Gathered, reunited, in our elements as ultrasocial animals.
Meggan and Fabian organised the event themselves. The amount of thoughts and efforts dedicated to their wedding represent how much they are willing to work on their relationship.
‘Soulmates are made, not found.’
It has always been a privilege to feast. But when we have been fasting, the wine and butter taste even better.
We arrived in Bretagne, in Pornic, by train. Late because our Paris-Nantes train was delayed for more than two and half hours. ‘French trains, pfftt…’ they said. We missed the apero, but we were greeted by the Atlantic Ocean at Creperie de la Source.
And our friends, chosen family from the other sides of the globe.
By Toutatis, I was on the extreme end of joy. We were at the great here and now.
We stayed in Hotel Le Grand Large, a family owned and run accommodation. Anais the proprietor reminded us, repeatedly, not to be noisy. She seems to be traumatised by wedding guests. Glad that we could prove that we are not some twenty-something stag/hen party crowd.
Swam in the Atlantic. Sunkissed by the Galian sun. Had oysters and beers at Les Tontons bar, where the waitress is your typical French belle–the grace of imperfect beauty: freckles, gap teeth, wide forehead–with a shojo manga character tattoo on her left thigh. Ice creams from La Fraiseraie; fish of the day from Le Sud, the only restaurant open on Sunday evening (I was expecting a compromise on food quality, but this is France: service may be limited, yet food is an obsession). We walked at night from the wedding party and gazed at the starry sky.
La Bernerie-en-Retz is not the stereotypical beach town I am used to, i.e. loud; full of drunken tourists looking to get laid or creating social media content. It’s family friendly. It may not be drop dead gorgeous like the tropical beaches in South East Asia, but it feels homey.
By using an analogue camera, the M-trois, I took the risk of failed photographs. But it helped me to let go and to be intentional. I couldn’t review the images on the back LCD screen; I only have 36 shots or less (the first exposures always suffer from light leaks).
Now I am rewarded. As Fede told me: ‘Il sole bacia i belli.’
P.S. If only Cassio brought a partner and a black person was in attendance, the wedding would have been a model for a diversity event.
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.
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.
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
Saya jatuh cinta pada Intan Paramaditha. Suaranya. Tulisannya.
Perkenalan pertama adalah Sihir Perempuan. Kumpulan cerita-cerita pendek tentang perempuan-perempuan penyihir. Dari Sindelaras—Cinderella—ke dukun santet.
Sihir adalah kuasa. Wanita-wanita yang tidak sungkan untuk menggunakan sihirnya adalah berkuasa, tidak bisa dikendalikan oleh satu orang pria.
Bukan perempuan baik-baik.
Pertemuan kedua adalah Gentayangan. Novelnya yang sudah diterjemahkan ke Bahasa Inggris dan diterbitkan oleh penerbit besar di London (The Wandering, Harvill Secker/Vintage 2020). Di kencan kedua inilah saya benar-benar jatuh hati. Untuk pertama kalinya saya menemukan Sastra Indonesia–Sastra Jakarta–dari generasi 90-an yang bermutu.
Kami, orang-orang Jakarta, yang tumbuh besar dengan masa kecil Orde Baru namun menjadi dewasa dan menikmati kebebasan relatif pasca reformasi, sering terjepit dua masa. Banyak yang nostalgia dengan masa remaja, di mana penggecetan—bullying—dianggap sebagai perekat solidaritas. Impian zaman itu sederhana: bisa punya rumah, punya mobil, punya anak, bisa jalan-jalan ke mal pada akhir pekan. Mimpi kelas menengah.
Keluar negeri, apalagi ke negara-negara maju (Barat) hanya untuk kalangan elit. Mungkin itu kenapa lagu God Bless ‘Rumah Kita’ tercipta: untuk mensupresi keinginan rakyat, terutama kelas menengah, melancong. Atau sesederhana menghibur suatu impian tak sampai.
Apabila kita terkontaminasi pemikiran-pemikiran (demokrasi) Barat, niscaya kelas menengah Indonesia akan meminta akuntabilitas penguasa secara lebih kritis. Penguasa itu seharusnya memberikan pelayanan publik sebagai kontraprestasi pembayaran pajak, bukan adipati yang menerima upeti. Paspor itu bentuk timbal jasa, fasilitas dari pemerintah, karena sebagai warga negara kita punya ‘saham’ di negara. Bukan sekedar bukti kewarganegaraan atau tolok ukur nasionalisme (sehingga cuma boleh punya satu).
Lalu datanglah era reformasi. Luar negeri menjadi lebih aksesibel dengan kehadiran maskapai penerbangan bujet dan ketersediaan informasi melalui internet. Namun tetap saja, dengan paspor Indonesia dan nilai tukar rupiah, tetap sulit bagi WNI menembus batas-batas internasional.
Sementara semakin banyak orang-orang Indonesia, Jakarta, yang mencari makna dalam agama (Islam) yang menyesakkan. Setidaknya bagi orang-orang sekuler seperti kami. Saya merindukan hedonisme Mas Boy, namun tanpa kemunafikan ala Orde Baru. Saya mau ke Amerika. Eropa. Tidak perlu naik Ferrari, tidak perlu wisata belanja. Hanya perlu melihat dunia.
Intan menyuarakan aspirasi-aspirasi tersebut dalam fiksinya. Dari Malin Kundang ke Rumpelstiltskin, Holocaust, ke Gestapu, Hecate dan Raja Tikus, ia menjahit cerita-ceritanya tentang bergentayangan.
Tentang menjadi kosmopolitan.
Ini kali pertama saya membaca penulis Indonesia yang sanggup menunjukkan kemampuan mengolah motif dan mitos lokal dan Barat dengan begitu cantik. Bergaya kontemporer tanpa menjadi kekinian yang akan cepat usang.
Bahasa Indonesia Intan cerdas dan tidak pretensius. Realisme magis yang digunakan untuk melancarkan cerita-ceritanya tidak dipaksakan. Nilai-nilai feminisme yang ia advokasikan juga inklusif—ia tidak mendemonisasi cis heterosexual male. Bahkan Intan memahami mereka dengan sangat baik, sebagaimana tergambar melalui karakter-karakternya.
Yudi si Marxis Eksploitatif. Bob si Orientalis. Kenny si Obsesif. Serta pria-pria tidak bermutu, Jakarta basic bro—mas bro Jakarta, yang tidak perlu repot diberi nama.
Gentayangan ditulis dengan format ‘Pilih Sendiri Petualanganmu’. Salah satu representasi era 90-an. Sangat sayang apabila kita tidak mencoba semua pilihan. Cerita-cerita Intan selalu membuat penasaran.
Pilihan pertama saya selalu yang mengikuti rasa penasaran saya. Setiap tawaran Kekasih Iblis selalu saya terima. Meski berakhir tragis seringkali, namun lebih menarik (kecuali menjadi istri ustad selebritis–itu benar-benar definisi ‘neraka’).
Saya kerap kembali ke halaman persimpangan. Ini indahnya fiksi, tidak seperti kehidupan nyata, saya bisa memutar balik waktu-tempat dan mencoba pilihan berbeda. Tidak perlu dihantui ‘gimana kalau…’
Membaca Intan ini seperti membaca Salman Rushdie. Ya, ini pujian tertinggi saya. Layaknya saya memuji Mahfud Ikhwan seperti membaca George Orwell.
Sebagaimana disampaikan Bob, akhirnya ada penulis Indonesia perempuan yang menembus batas. Selamat bergentayangan Intan!
My brother, who lives in Tokyo, is marrying a Japanese. They have to overcome a cultural barrier. Both of them are ‘international’–both have lived and were educated outside their home countries. While international exposure and education are no guarantee of cosmopolitanism, those cross cultural experiences always help.
The barriers, so far, come from our Indonesian side. As stereotypical pribumi (‘native’) Indonesians, religion–Islam–is an important identity for our parents and extended family. Our parents insist that their daughters-in-law must be Muslims.
For most Japanese, being East Asians–the true Orientals, Muslims’ attachment to their religion is rather bizarre. Unlike Semitic religions, Oriental belief systems do not require exclusivity. The universe creates the gods to whom people pray for their worldly affairs. You pray for good fortune to Inari. The warriors worship Bishamon. You seek compassion by invoking Kanon (Guan Yin).
The Japanese, however, are careful about offending people. They avoid asking too many questions or—godforbid—expressing their disagreement with Islamic values. They demonstrate considerate and accommodating attitudes: Tokyo has halal ramen joints; there is no ban on hijab or burkini. An Indonesian I knew took his PhD in International Relations because Japan feels more ideologically neutral in the post 911–beyond the dichotomy of the West and the Muslim World.
The accommodating Japanese make Japan a comfortable travel destination even for halal travellers. Such politeness does not translate that they accept Islam as an appealing faith. The Far East finds Judeo-Christian (and Islamic) concept of god rather strange—even shallow. An omnipotent being who is ridden with petty jealousy?
A Japanese colleague asked me in a honne beer session, ‘What is the incentive of being a Muslim, especially for women? It seems so hard. You can’t drink; you’d have virtually no chance of redemption for adulteries; you have to cover up; and when you’re dead and go to paradise, you’d still have to share your husband with 40 virgins!’
None. Other than the promise of Jannah (paradise)–where you finally can have perpetual feasts and orgies in the land of milk and honey. For men only. I don’t know how the women will have their fun.
But when you have been born and raised and taught it as one true faith, it is not easy to liberate yourself from a dogma.
My brother and his wife have been legally married under Japanese laws. They could simply register their marriage under Indonesian laws. That way, they can actually circumvent religious ritual requirements under the Indonesian laws; to have a secular ‘interfaith’ marriage prohibited under the Indonesian laws.
The problem is, despite his agnostic-atheist inclination, my brother wants to please our parents by having an Islamic marriage–which require his wife to convert to Islam.
Of course, this is problematic to her wife. Islamic values, compared to modern values, are even worse compared to traditional patriarchal pre-Heisei Japanese values in their treatment of women. She’s worried that she has to wear a hijab or—worse—a burqa.
My brother convinced her that the akad nikah will be just ceremonial. Indonesian white-lies. But one thing I learned about the developed world: ‘Why should we lie when we don’t have to?’
Indonesians, being a thirld world country citizens, are not used to transparency. Official public information is not easily accessible or reliable. So many unsaid rules. We are used to lying and cheating to get by.
I am not justifying duplicity or corruption, but we adapt to our environment.
Now my brother must negotiate between two worlds. I respect his decision. As many migrants, you want to maintain your connection with your homeland. He’s paying the price: annoying relatives overly excited that he has successfully prostelysing Islam–dakwah–by guiding a foreign woman to the Straight Path.
The Salafi school of Islam allows men to have four wives as a mean of dakwah. The more Muslim men marries, the more chance he will reproduce Muslim children to populate this Allah’s world. The end game is international imperialism–the Caliphate. Islamism is like Nazism but with emphasis on faith not race.
The concept of massive population equals power is outdated. The age of the mass has passed. The 21st century is the age of information. Technological hardwares and softwares make the quality of the human capital more relevant than quantity. And there is a problem of overpopulation.
But democracy is a numbers game.
Not all Muslims are Islamists. Most are moderate. Under Islam, they find a community and, sometimes, purpose. Every Friday, they congregate. Zakah (charity) and shaum (fasting) are ways to achieve social justice and train your empathy for the poor. In the West, where they are minorities, they found pastoral support and a sense of identity among fellow Muslims.
Very few modern Muslims want to live with 7th century standards. Even the young Talibs want to take selfies and ride bumper cars. Those who truly want a mediaeval living standard are either denied of the affluences of the modern age–marginalised–or populists in power who are comfortable with the status quo. Or simply a fanatic.
My parents are just scared that we’d be separated in the afterlife. The Muslims, no matter how grave their sins, will be forgiven. While the infidels will burn in jahannam for eternity. Islam is the only faith they know. In times of hardship, they find solace that a big man is watching over them personally.
On the ceremonial day, broadcasted via Zoom from the Indonesian Embassy in Tokyo, we could see how dazed my sister-in-law was in her kimono listening to the foreign prayers. She had to recite the syahadat, declaring that she only believes in one god, Allah, and Muhammad as His prophet–in Arabic and Japanese.
I don’t think she meant it when she said it. She said that Japanese are not religious. When she had to fill in an application form to get a document from the Indonesian government for their marriage’s administrative requirement, she initially put in ‘Buddhist’ in the religion section (she had to revise it to ‘Islam’ later, otherwise the document cannot be issued).
But in a good humoured fashion, she seemed to find it exotic to have an Islamic ceremony. I would also find it exotic if I can participate in a Shinto wedding or even a wedding in a church.
I can’t help remembering Saint Michael’s statue among thousands of Buddha statues in Daisho-in Temple in Miyajima.
‘In the Japanese Shingon school of Buddhism, the Mandala expresses the true essence of things. The spirit of Buddha is present not only in statues, but also in trees, stones and all natural elements: mountains, rivers, plants, and trees. That is we accept all forms of objects.
At the temple, there are not only statues of Buddhist gods but also superheroes and Christian Saints.
Most of the gods in Japanese Buddhism derive from Hindu gods, many have taken different forms and names. Saint Michael, the patron of Mont St-Michel in France (a Miyajima sister city), may have come to Japan under a different name and form.’
Miyajima: Nature, People and Spirituality
The concept of a personal god is absurd. It is highly improbable that god exists. But if he—it—does, it would be a universal god, Spinoza’s god—the Universe itself with its cosmic structures.
Whatever it is, I wish my brother and his wife find comfort in love and affection. That is an Islamic prayer to newly-weds.
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.
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.
