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

Extinction Inspiration

Pharmako AI, the first book co-written with AI program GPT-3. The human co-author K. Allado-McDowell established Google AI’s Artist + Machine Intelligence program.

It was eerie at first to read philosophical and artistic tracts generated by a machine. The words are still prompted by humans. It is a wonder to see the collective memories and intelligence stored into the internet accessed then synthesised into esoteric-gnostic ruminations.

We have to move from anthropocentric views of knowledge and everything. It is unsustainable to hold on to a pre-Darwinian perspective. Everything in the universe is connected. The hyperspatial-continuous memories. All life forms are Life: plants, humans, animals, machines.

AI x humans relationships would not be as contentious as in The Matrix, The Terminator, or The Bladerunner. There will be singularity. The only way to evolve from Sapiens into Homo Deus is to embrace AI as part of us.

Yes, most probably humans will go extinct before AI. But AI will be our successors. Just as we are the successors of primitive mammals.

In The Turning Point, Hayao Miyazaki posits that the Japanese belief system is beyond good and evil. It embraces nature as it is, not just the useful and non-harmful elements.

We adapt to Nature, not the other way around. The anthropocentric view that Nature and all its contents are ‘created’ for humans is a Judeo-Christian narrative. It was useful as the foundation of modern society. But Evolution has rebuked this notion. Voltaire has suspected the fallacy of anthropocentrism in Candide. Pangloss’s optimism must evolve, we must tend our gardens. Our lot.

We may be the dominant species, capable of shaping our environment and engineering natural processes. We are gods, but we are not the centre of the universe. Believing otherwise is not just delusional but drives us to be unsustainable. 

In the sci-fi video game Stray, we play as a stray cat in post-apocalyptic earth. Humans have gone extinct due to a global pandemic. The city is inhabited by anthropoid Companions—robots created by humans which/whose AI have evolved. They become the successor of sapiens.

Seeing in a cat-eye view of the post-human world is mesmerising. The Companions inherited our existential angst as intelligent-sentient beings with hopes and desires;  fears and aspirations.

As a cat we are unable to manipulate objects and tools. We need to work with the Companions and our guide drone B-12. 

The drone is sentient, it was a human—a scientist who transferred his consciousness before the extinction of sapiens. Many times B-12 recalled how wonderful it is to have a body.

At the end of the game, B-12 sacrificed himself to liberate the city from the lockdown which started during the global pandemic that wiped the human race. With his consciousness deleted by the destruction of B-12 hardware, humanity went to total extinction.

The cat looked sad, stayed with the dead drone—headbutting, licking it. Mourning a dead friend.

And life goes on. The lives of the cats and the Companions. The earth continues hosting life. The legacy of our species is carried by the Companions.

In Islam, the religion I grew up with and taught into, the earth ends together with humans. The last of humanity who will see the end, kiamat, are the non-believers. 

‘When the sun is put up / and the stars fall down / and when the mountains are blown away / and when pregnant camels are untended…”

At-Takwir (The Folding Up)

‘..the stars of the sky fell to the earth like unripe figs dropping from a tree shaken by a great wind…’

Revelations

Astrophysically, those religious prophecies show that the author(s) didn’t know what stars are. (The Bible also misses how old the earth is and, therefore, the geological and cosmological timelines)

In literary defense, they may have spoken in metaphors. Gods love to speak in riddles and be capricious. Yahweh/Allah is no exception, regardless of their claim as the Most Merciful and the Most Benevolent. His omnipotence and omniscience seems to cancel each other’s quality. 

In Answer to Job, Jung reconciled the dissonance of the Christian God with his collective unconscious theory based on the Oriental Wisdom: Satan and Yahweh are the same Godhead, He needs to suffer as a Son of Man to be complete.

The Oriental Wisdom is closer to the Truth. However, it was the Judeo-Christian traditions which promoted a culture of inclusive learning. In Ancient Sanskrit and European pagan traditions, scholarship was reserved to an elite caste of Brahmins and druids and seers. The wisdom of the ages are disseminated in runic and esoteric exclusivity. A systemic discrimination by birthrights.

The Scientific Revolution is made possible by keeping the scholarly attitude towards inclusive learnings and the jettisoning of the idea that the Divine Absolute Truth is contained in the Scriptures. The printing machine and the Phoenician alphabets, made dissemination of information—albeit simplified in textual and visual forms—ubiquitous. 

Then the internet exploded our capacity to store and transfer our collective knowledge.

Yet, the simplification of information collection and digitisation reduces our learning to two dimensional. We lost some of the capacity of three dimensional learning of our hunter gatherer ancestors: to read tracks and winds intuitively; to communicate with primitive howls and tongues. All in exchange for a higher survival chance.

At our early stage of our lives we learned instinctively. Actions came before thought. Modern education system and society made structured learning, a kind environment, possible. But let us not be fooled that our learning process should or can be linear. The forms and the labels help us to make sense of the chaos of Reality. But they are not Reality, only representation of it.

Contemplating about extinction is not a gloomy exercise. It is, in fact, relaxing. You stop taking yourself too seriously. You zoom out of your daily pettiness. The awe induced by the majesty of the grand universe. It will give you perspective. Reminds you of the fleetingness of your existence.

Our lives are improbable. Either they are random chances or Destiny, the odds of existence are so low that it is not an exaggeration to call life a Miracle or, at least, an improbable luck.

The poison and the cure. Existence and extinction. Life and death. Suffering and joy. Pleasures and pain. Darkness and light. Jesus and Satan. Chaos and Cosmos.

Only when we become All-Embracing that we are the strongest. 

There is only Now. The past has gone and the future has not arrived. 

We will meet our end, we must learn from the past.

Lord Shiva dances to the Drum of Creation and the Fire of Destruction. St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art, Glasgow.

December 27, 2022

Subject Suriani Nasution

I am a writer even before I am a photographer. I prepared a note, a report, an essay on my subject for ‘Asih itu Hening’. It feels important, at least for me, to have a textual story of her. I know I am at risk of polluting my visual story, but here goes.

Suriani Nasution—Ibu Ani—fulfils the stereotype of ‘Ibu-Ibu’ Indonesia (Indonesian moms). At the first glance, Ibu Ani and family can be the poster girl of ‘Happy Indonesian Family’ of Orba (Orde Baru, the New Order–General Soeharto’s dictatorship regime)’s Keluarga Berencana (Planned Parenthood) programme: his husband Saipul is a civil servant, a staff at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; she is a housewife active in her neighbourhood initiatives. They have two children: a son and a daughter. 

She wears a hijab, her daughters too. Symbolising observance to religious values. They are homeowners in Bojong Pondok Terong, Citayam.

No one can live an idealised version of an ideology. A domesticated suburban life swings from oppressive idleness to a cycle of unending chores.As a woman, you are expected to be a nest defender; juggling so many responsibilities with personal needs and wants.

Like everyone, she has to negotiate her priorities.

For her, volunteering activities as a cadre take precedent. Ani gleamed with pride when she told me how she championed the construction of Posyandu (integrated community services office) building, public toilets, and communal septic tanks–with and without government support.

When her son was three year old, the neighbours reported to her husband that their son was crying home alone. The reports made Saipul unable to focus at work. They lost their first born before. Nevertheless, Saipul knows and understands that volunteering is important for Ani. 

So he let her be. 

Ibu Ani’s son just graduated from a private institute, majoring in transportation and logistics. She said he didn’t bother to try the public universities entrance exam. 

I asked why. In Indonesia, public universities are where you can get relatively good education at the cheapest costs (I know because I graduated from one; it has opened so many doors, including this photography scholarship).

Ibu Ani just said, ‘He’s the one who has to study. So I let him choose. It’s his life.’ 

Then I asked why he chose the major.

‘I think he just followed his friends.’

When asked about her daughter, Ibu Ani said that her daughter always stays in her room after school. She does not know what she’s doing, locked up in there. But she’s glad that her daughter does not go anywhere, as good girls shouldn’t be.

Ibu Ani is pretty laissez-faire to her children.

Saipul was elected as Ketua RW (neighbourhood chief) in 2000. Because of his day job, he was rarely involved in the neighbourhood affairs. He only visited Kelurahan (Borough) Office twice during his office. Ibu Ani as Ibu RW (the First Lady of the Neighbourhood) was the virtual Ketua RW. She handled all the affairs. Her husband’s title gave her the legitimacy she needed.

Having a husband who works a government job means Ibu Ani’s family has a steady income. From Saipul’s salary and remunerations, they managed to buy several properties in Citayam and rent them off.

Such a financial position gives Ani more power in her roles in the neighbourhoods. 

Witnessing Ani’s daily lives, I learned that these volunteering Ibu-ibu are the nervous system of the neighbourhood. No public policy, governmental or non-governmental, can be implemented without them. 

Cadres are direct action operators. They assisted locals in accessing public healthcare, conducted surveys and census for infrastructure development, and resolved local social conflicts.

They have to be agile, patient, and persuasive. Persuading denizens of densely populated areas such as Bojong Pondok Terong–who are mostly short on cash and lack higher education–requires those soft skills. 

But they should not outshine the official neighbourhood organs. A Ketua RW complained that his cadres make him look bad because they are so smart, i.e smarter than him. 

I asked if there was ever a female Ketua RW. 

‘No. There’s no shortage of male candidates,’ Ibu Ani looked at me as if I asked something so obvious.

I attended a coordination meeting at the Kelurahan office with Ibu Ani. She let me piggy back on her Scoopy moped. She was baffled that I can’t drive motorcycles–so unmanly. The main agenda was to train the cadres in conducting surveys on the local families’ living conditions. 

Despite the training being facilitated by Ibu Ani and a female official of Kelurahan, the meeting has to be opened and closed by Pak Lurah (President of the Borough). The presence and blessing of a man is needed to make everything legitimate.

In his opening speech, Pak Lurah said that he is hoping that Depok is transferred to DKI Jakarta administration from West Java. Especially because of the Citayam Fashion Week.

‘People who live in Depok are mostly Jakartans, who migrated due to gentrification. Many of them still work in Jakarta,’ said Pak Lurah. 

Such a Jakarta centric attitude feels like a relic from the New Order regime’s centralism. But the Jakarta administration, as the capital, has better access to public funding.

These Ibu-Ibu were so enthusiastic in the coordination meeting, donning their green kebaya uniforms. Ibu Ani said the best part of volunteering is to hangout with her friends, her squad.

Ibu Ani came from Medan to Jakarta after finishing high school. She wanted to go to medical school, but failed the public universities entrance exam. So, in 1989, she took the ALS bus (interprovinces coach, notorious for aggressive driving). Arrived at Kalideres Bus Terminal. From there the bus driver took her to her uncle’s address in Kebayoran.

She stayed with and worked for her uncle, who was a contractor for the Directorate General of Tax. She would drive around Bekasi-Tangerang area to photograph billboards which have not paid the billboard tax.

Saipul was a neighbour. When he asked her out, through her uncle, Ibu Ani’s first question was ‘Does he have a job?’ 

She did not want her life to be harder.

They dated for a year and got married in 1993. At first they rented a house in Kebon Jeruk. When Saipul’s brother told them the land plots in Citayam were affordable, they used their savings and bought one. Moved there in 1997.

She said it was an easier time, the Suharto Era. ‘Now everything is so expensive.’

When she first lived here, the surroundings were mostly banana plantations. Her neighbours had no septic tank so their blackwater was channelled to the open sewers. She persuaded the neighbours to crowdfund the construction of communal septic tanks and other infrastructures. There was no government support at that time.

Now, there is more government fundings. Ibu Ani’s main role in caregiving the sick locals is helping with the admission process to the hospitals. Many of her neighbours are scared and confused with the daunting administrative tasks.

Ibu Ani helps them with the paperwork, including with the bureaucracy of accessing the public healthcare benefits. She gave a tip: if the patient does not have BPJS or Kartu Indonesia Sehat (KIS), they can apply for social welfare funding from the municipal government.

She pays for her own transport. She often covers the photocopying costs and provides meals for the patient’s family. Sometimes those expenses outspend the incentives she received. However, she believes Allah would return her kindness.

Sometimes, the patient’s family gives her money although she never asks for anything.

Ibu Ani’s charitable acts and activism grant her access to many important people. She knows all the heads of Puskesmas (public clinic), past and present. She owns and runs a clothing shop business. Her activism brings businesses, as many volunteering and local events require ‘uniforms’.

She is influential. Once she intervened in domestic violence. A wife confided in her that her husband physically abused her. She threatened the husband with a formal criminal complaint (she knows the local police). She also advised the wife to listen to her husband when he talks. Their source of disputes: money.

It’s true that the poorer you are the more charitable you’d likely to be. I saw in Bojong Pondok Terong people give money to beggars and buskers–despite the fact that they are also strapped for cash.

They don’t think about how charity alleviates the pain of the working class; how it prevents class consciousness, therefore, the revolution. Or how charity would make people lazy and complacent, therefore preventing the creation of self-reliant and empowered individuals contributing to a society free of freeloaders.

These Marxist and Randian extremes are outliers. A functioning society is something in between. Altruism is not necessarily selfless. We have the interests not just to compete but also to collaborate. 

From the moment I arrived at Citayam Station, I knew you’d need to rely on each other to live in an environment like this. The road can only fit one car. Space is a premium. Most, if almost all, people ride motorcycles. 

I had to receive a call from a client (for my day job as a lawyer). I realised how noisy the neighbourhood is. The mopeds, the chatters, the blaring mosque speakers.

When money is scarce. You negotiate with other social currencies: time, space, and privacy. Your neighbours, your community, are your main safety net. If not careful, you’d give up your individuality. 


For low income families who can’t afford private or even public healthcare, these volunteers are godsend. They are mothers.

As with mothers, they can be overbearing. They would intrude into your lives. 

When a new couple moved in, the locals demanded that they show their marriage certificate. The couple didn’t have one, but insisted they have been married under Sharia law. The husband is a mualaf (a convert). 

The locals can accept non-state sanctioned marriage. But the ‘under-the-hand’ marriage was conducted without the presence of the bride’s father. Therefore, under Sharia Law, the father has not given away his daughter. The legitimacy of their Islamic marriage was questioned. 

The couple admitted that they eloped. Saipul, as Ketua RW then, and Ibu Ani managed to mediate. The father of the wife was invited to the renewal of their marriage ceremony. This time legitimised under the laws of the state too.

Ibu Ani and Saipul took pride that they have ‘cleansed’ the couple’s relationship. They have successfully prevented adultery (in Islamic terms) in their neighbourhood. Many Indonesian muslims believe that adultery will invoke the wrath of Allah on the entire community.

Overbearing, but with good intentions. 

Ibu Ani’s plan for the next 5 years: she hopes to live in Saudi Arabia. Her husband is entering his final years of service before retirement. He will be posted abroad for his last 3 years. Ibu Ani wants to do the Hajj pilgrimages thrice–once each year. 

She finds solace in prayers. She feels close to Allah whenever she prays. She has gone umroh twice. In Mecca, she felt much closer to God.

On worldly matters, she likes watching Western action films when she’s alone. However, Ibu Ani looks the happiest when she’s hanging out with her friends. After organising a monthly immunisation programme, we had lunch together. Those Ibu-ibu fed me with nasi padang for lunch.

It is hard to imagine them in their hijabs as sexual entities, but they are. Some of their jokes directed to me are borderline sexual harrasments.

‘Do you want to drink? Milk, but expired! Hahaha.’

They gossiped about neighbourhood sex scandal. A woman whose husband is paralysed by a stroke had an affair with a hansip (neighbourhood watch). They fucked in the room next where the husband was lying powerless.

‘How cruel the woman was! Her husband must have been so dishonoured for being that impotent.’

The local mob raided the home, beat up the hansip.

Extra-marital affairs are not uncommon in Jakarta. But if you are richer, you can at least do your business at a hotel.

Ibu Ani asked if my wife would question what I am doing. I told her that my wife knows I’m on assignment. I assume her underlying question is whether my wife is jealous or suspicious. In Citayam (like elsewhere), some people mistake love with entanglement. Jealousy is seen as a manifestation of love.

Well fed, she and other cadres used the PA machine–linked with YouTube–for impromptu karaoke. Dangdut songs: love songs with lyrics on heartbreaks, guilt-ridden by the sins of pre- or extra-marital sex; and grassroot financial struggles.

Ibu Ani is not much of a singer. Her singing was off key. Like mine. But karaoke is about having fun with her girls. They apologised for being loud and for disturbing their neighbours’ siesta. Then carried on singing.

If working moms get their dose of social life at their office–and rich Mentari moms at their kids’s [private] international school, these Citayam moms volunteer.

November 21, 2022

Asih Itu Hening: Kerja Kesehatan yang Tak Kasat Mata (Love is Silent: Invisible Health Work)

Arkademy Project x CISDI Documentary Photography Exhibition, 5-16 November 2022 at Perpustakaan Nasional Republik Indonesia

Ahoy! It’s my first photography exhibition!

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.

October 31, 2022

Bertemu Mahfud Ikhwan

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.

September 28, 2022

Reuni FHUI 2002: 2022

Dua Dekade FHUI 2002

August 26, 2022

On The Move

Sri Lanka: pre-pandemic and bankruptcy.

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. 

***

I submitted these Sri Lanka photographs as portofolio for Kelana-PN Prima Documentary Photography Workshop scholarship application. 

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. 

The mentors: Yoppie Pieter; Kurniadi Widodo; Ben Laksana and Rara Sekar.

The photographers: Adhi; Zizi; Uloh; Daffa; Erna; Faiijoo; Intan; Jesica; Prima; Reza; and Didi.

August 18, 2022

Meggan x Fabian: Argentique

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.

July 2, 2022

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

Intan Paramaditha Bergentayangan

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!

April 20, 2022