Saya menulis esai ini sebagai materi presentasi untuk Passion Playground Festival pada 28 November 2020. Saya ragu apakah mempublikasikan esai ini merupakan “masturbasi di depan umum.” Saya diberikan panggung untuk berbicara tentang diri sendiri. Saya tentu suka perhatian—bagaimanapun sisi narsistik saya cukup kuat. Namun, saya cukup mawas diri bahwa tidak ada orang yang lebih membosankan dibandingkan orang yang membanggakan diri sendiri. Kepercayaan diri yang berlebihan itu hanya dimiliki anak-anak, orang bodoh, atau sosiopat.
Sejujurnya, saat dihubungi Vooya untuk memberikan presentasi soal profesi arbitrator, impostor syndrome saya menyerang dengan kuat. Masih banyak rekan-rekan seumuran saya di industri jasa hukum yang lebih bersinar dan berdedikasi. Di sisi lain, pengalaman hidup saya (dan Sun Tzu) mengajarkan bahwa setiap kesempatan harus diambil karena akan berlipat. “Opportunities multiply as they are seized.” Jadilah saya, dengan modal pengalaman dan keahlian yang tentunya terbatas, berusaha menginspirasi (sial, saya akhirnya menggunakan kata klise ini) remaja-remaja Generasi Z (atau mungkin mereka sudah termasuk generasi selanjutnya?).
Menulis esai ini saya mesti menggali memori saya dan kembali ke saya yang dulu. Ternyata, hal ini secara langsung menjadi sebuah grateful exercise. Saya diingatkan bahwa saya sekarang mendapatkan sebagian besar hal yang saya inginkan waktu [lebih] muda. Kalaupun ada yang meleset atau berbeda, keinginan saya pun sudah banyak berubah. Saya pribadi melihat perubahan-perubahan keinginan saya tersebut sebagai evolusi menjadi pribadi yang lebih baik, menjadi lebih bijaksana, cerdas, dan dewasa.
Selain itu, kalimat-kalimat yang saya gunakan cukup idealis—terutama mengenai reformasi yudisial Indonesia. Sebagaimana semua yang hidup di Indonesia tahu, menjadi idealis di Indonesia bukan hal yang mudah. Di titik tertentu dalam hidup, ada yang namanya realitas sosial dan institusional. Sangat mudah untuk menjustifikasi tindakan atau partisipasi korup kita sebagai suatu pragmatisme, sebagai suatu keharusan dalam “bertahan hidup”; menafikan idealisme dan kebaikan sebagai suatu kemunafikan dan/atau kenaifan. Semoga dengan mempublikasikan esai ini saya mempunyai semacam landasan akuntabilitas dalam menjalankan profesi ini seidealis mungkin.
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Saya akan jujur. Alasan saya menjadi pengacara, advokat istilah resminya, adalah uang. Saya tumbuh dan besar di Jakarta, di keluarga yang bisa dibilang selalu kesulitan keuangan karena besar pasak daripada tiang. Bukan, orangtua saya tidak bisa dibilang di bawah garis kemiskinan. Kami bisa punya rumah dan mobil, tapi hasil utang sana-sini dan pemberian keluarga.
Dulu saya cuma tahu cara hidup gaya (kelas menengah ngehe) Jakarta. Bisa punya mobil untuk pergi ke mall; makan di restoran cepat saji atau waralaba yang hidangannya sedang-sedang saja namun harganya tidak murah juga. Yang penting di mall, terlindung dari sengat matahari dan polusi. Idealnya beberapa bulan sekali ganti handphone, setiap lima tahun ganti mobil.
Namun, keluarga saya tidak sanggup untuk itu. Ibu saya bilang, kalau mau begitu harus cari kerja yang gajinya besar.
Di keluarga besar saya, om atau tante yang gaji atau penghasilannya besar itu kerja di Bank atau di perusahaan minyak/tambang. Kuliahnya ekonomi atau teknik. Masalahnya saya lemah di mata pelajaran sains waktu sekolah. Mafia (matematika, fisika, kimia) menjadi momok menakutkan saat ujian dan terima rapor.
Setelah krisis ekonomi yang berujung juga pada reformasi 1998, banyak pengacara menjadi sorotan media. Saya pikir mereka kelihatan keren: percaya diri mengenakan kemeja, jas, dan dasi. Berkantor di suatu gedung di kawasan komersial Jakarta. Cuap-cuap soal saham, obligasi, pailit, BLBI, BPPN, HAM, gugat, banding, kasasi; mewakili pejabat ini dan konglomerat itu.
Pasnya lagi: fakultas hukum itu jurusan ilmu sosial. Keahlian hitung menghitung bukan persyaratan (walaupun tentunya membantu). Aha! Saya pikir saya cocok menjadikan profesi pengacara sebagai cita-cita!
Tapi tunggu dulu. Dalam keluarga besar saya belum ada yang jadi pengacara. Menurut persepsi mereka pengacara di Indonesia itu bukan orang-orang baik (mengingat carut marut dan korupnya sistem peradilan di Indonesia).
Selain itu, pengacara kan harus pintar berbicara. “Lo kan cadel, mana bisa pintar berbicara?” cibir beberapa teman.
Komentar penghambat lain, “lo juga bukan orang Batak. Mana ada pengacara sukses bukan orang Batak.”
Saya tidak peduli saat itu. Biarlah dianggap “bukan orang baik”, yang penting uang banyak (dengan standar kelas menengah Jakarta). Soal saya cadel, saya jadikan pengacara senior Bang Todung Mulya Lubis sebagai role model untuk meyakinkan diri bahwa kecadelan bukan hambatan.
Saya mantapkan memilih Fakultas Hukum Universitas Indonesia pada saat SPMB. Diterima.
Saat kuliah di FHUI, saya terkagum-kagum melihat teman-teman yang merupakan anak-anak dari pengacara dari firma hukum besar di Jakarta. Mereka ke kampus dengan mobil mewah, uang sakunya besar. Alumni-alumni yang bekerja di firma-firma hukum pun menjual profesi mereka, iming-iming utama: gaji besar. Semakin mantap lah cita-cita sebagai pengacara.
Sebagai mahasiswa hukum, saya baru tahu bahwa pada dasarnya ada dua jenis pengacara: penyelesaian sengketa (biasa disebut litigator) dan transaksi (biasa disebut sebagai corporate lawyer). Litigator itu yang beracara di pengadilan, kadang mengenakan toga kalau perkara pidana. Sedangkan, corporate lawyer itu yang mengurus transaksi komersial antar perusahaan.
Stereotipe bahwa litigator Indonesia itu orang Batak tidak dapat dipungkiri, nama-nama seperti Lubis, Hutapea, Pangaribuan, Sitompul mendominasi. Hal ini membuat saya sempat berpikir, mungkin lebih baik menjadi corporate lawyer mengingat faktor kesukuan tersebut. Apalagi pembawaan saya memang kurang gahar.
Lulus sebagai sarjana hukum, saya diterima kerja di suatu firma hukum yang relatif baru berdiri di bilangan SCBD. Kebetulan firma hukum tersebut menangani transaksi komersial maupun penyelesaian sengketa. Saat itu mereka sedang membutuhkan junior associate untuk penyelesaian sengketa.
Meskipun direkrut untuk tim penyelesaian sengketa, saya juga beberapa kali mendapat pekerjaan corporate lawyer. Saya langsung sadar kalau saya memang lebih cocok menjadi litigator. Saya kurang betah berada di dalam kantor terlalu lama. Saya juga suka melihat hal-hal yang “seru”: gedung pengadilan yang tersebar di seantero kepulauan Indonesia, kantor polisi, penjara, daerah pertambangan dan perkebunan.
Ternyata memang benar sistem peradilan Indonesia segitu korup dan carut-marutnya. Di satu sisi saya senang bisa melihat dan mengalami langsung “kenyataan yudisial Indonesia”, namun di sisi lain saya sering frustrasi harus berkali-kali berurusan dengannya. Pada satu titik, saya melihat korupsi dan ketidakadilan pada umumnya sebagai suatu hal yang wajar.
Pada 2010, saya ditempatkan di firma hukum Singapura yang terafiliasi selama 3 bulan. Singapura negara maju dan kaya, namun kesenjangan sosialnya rendah. Dengan infrastruktur yang baik, kehidupan sehari-hari lebih manusiawi: naik transportasi umum nyaman dan tidak dipandang rendah seperti di Jakarta. Pemerintahan Singapura memiliki skor indeks persepsi korupsi yang sangat baik, salah satu negara paling tidak korup di dunia, dan peradilannya independen sehingga terpercaya untuk penyelesaian sengketa komersial internasional. Bahkan bisa dibilang kemajuan Singapura menjadi satu-satunya negara maju di Asia Tenggara adalah karena reformasi peradilannya pada 1990-an.
Sepulang dari Singapura, saya sadar bahwa korupsi dan kesenjangan sosial di Jakarta (dan Indonesia pada umumnya) bukan hal yang normal. Masih umum, namun perlu diperbaiki. Sebagai litigator, tentu cara saya berkontribusi dalam perbaikan adalah di bidang sistem peradilan. Namun bukankah naif untuk menjadi litigator yang tidak turut serta dalam carut marutnya peradilan Indonesia?
Beberapa bulan setelah kembali, saya diterima bekerja di firma hukum yang didirikan Bang Todung Mulya Lubis. Selain menunjukkan bahwa cadel bukan hambatan, beliau merupakan contoh bahwa pengacara Indonesia bisa berpraktik secara efektif (dan sukses) meski abstain dalam praktik suap-menyuap. Bahkan, kalau jujur, jadi pengacara “hitam” juga tidak menjamin sukses (kaya). Terlihat kaya, mungkin—ada rekan sejawat kemana-mana menggunakan mobil mewah, ternyata sewaan.
Saya menyadari bahwa sehebat-hebatnya pengacara, advokat, penasihat hukum, counsel, lawyer pada akhirnya yang menjatuhkan putusan adalah hakim juga. Bagaimanapun, inti dari sistem peradilan adalah sang pemutus. Namun, saat saya memulai karir, saya yakin tidak bisa menjadi hakim yang baik dengan remunerasi yang ditawarkan. Saya juga tidak akan tahan dalam birokrasi yang kompleks kehidupan pegawai negeri.
Dalam mendalami praktik litigasi dan penyelesaian sengketa, terdapat mekanisme penyelesaian sengketa yang namanya arbitrase. Pada dasarnya arbitrase ini peradilan swasta, di mana para pihak dapat memilih “hakim” untuk memutus sengketa (disebut sebagai “arbitrator” atau “arbiter”). Mekanisme ini berdasarkan undang-undang dan didukung lembaga peradilan negara (Mahkamah Agung).
Untuk menjadi hakim di Indonesia, sesorang harus berkarir di Mahkamah Agung. Namun, setiap orang yang telah berpraktik dalam satu profesi selama jangka waktu tertentu dan memiliki keahlian di bidang tertentu dapat menjadi arbitrator. Orang tersebut dapat ditunjuk untuk mengadili asalkan tidak memiliki konflik kepentingan dan bersikap imparsial terhadap para pihak dan sengketa yang akan diputusnya.
Saya sendiri berulang kali menjadi counsel salah satu pihak dalam perkara-perkara arbitrase maupun litigasi yang terkait arbitrase, domestik dan internasional. Pernah mewakili pemerintah suatu negara Asia Tenggara dalam sengketa terkait pengadaan program satelit pertahanannya (perkara arbitrase biasanya bersifat tertutup untuk umum, sehingga rahasia).
Arbitrase itu cenderung lebih efektif dan dinamis. Proses persidangannya lebih fleksibel dan tidak sekaku perkara-perkara di hadapan pengadilan. Mengingat para pihak dapat menunjuk siapapun yang memiliki kualifikasi , arbitrator biasanya merupakan ahli di bidang yang menjadi pokok sengketa. Jadi tidak terbatas pada ahli di bidang hukum. Perkara konstruksi biasanya memiliki arbiter seorang engineer. Sengketa di bidang keuangan, arbiter dengan latar belakang valuation, finance and accounting. Sehingga, pemeriksaan perkaranya juga lebih canggih.
Salah satu hal paling menyenangkan dalam menangani berbagai perkara untuk klien-klien dengan latar belakang yang berbeda adalah meluasnya wawasan saya. Dalam menangani suatu perkara, saya harus memahami industri atau bidang-bidang keilmuan yang menjadi pokok sengketa. Saya pernah harus memahami materi terkait biokimia karena menangani kasus terkait bioremediasi tanah terkontaminasi minyak mentah.
Arbitrase juga mengurangi beban administrasi perkara Mahkamah Agung. Dengan adanya proses peradilan ditangani secara partikelir, meskipun hanya terbatas pada perkara-perkara komersial, pengadilan dapat menghemat sumber dayanya.
Itulah mengapa saya memutuskan untuk menjadi arbitrator. Saya memilih mengambil kuliah S2, jurusan Master of Laws di Queen Mary University of London (QMUL). Universitas tersebut memiliki School of International Arbitration, bisa dibilang sekolah arbitrase terbaik di dunia.
Saya juga memilih Inggris karena ingin memahami lebih baik sistem hukum common law. Selain itu, ada sisi anglofilia saya: masa remaja saya diwarnai dengan Britpop dan musik alternatif. Sebagian besar band favorit saya berasal dari Britania: Coldplay, Suede, Muse, Oasis, The Cure, Florence + The Machine. Beberapa penulis favorit saya juga dari Britania: George Orwell, Salman Rushdie, Richard Dawkins, dan Bernadine Evaristo. Beruntung saya bisa tembus seleksi beasiswa LPDP dan memperoleh uang saku tambahan dari kantor saya waktu itu. Sehingga saya bisa fokus belajar, merasakan hidup di London dengan layak, dan jalan-jalan sekitar Inggris dan Skotlandia sampai ke Eropa kontinental.
Lulus dari QMUL dengan gelar Master of Laws, saya juga memperoleh gelar Member of Chartered Institute of Arbitrators (karena ada pengakuan dan persamaan kualifikasi). Sebagaimana mahasiswa penerima beasiswa yang kembali ke tanah air, saya langsung dihadapkan dengan realitas bahwa ilmu tinggi yang kita pelajari belum siap untuk diterapkan. Arbitrase domestik Indonesia masih sekedar memindahkan cara persidangan di pengadilan, belum seluwes persidangan arbitrase internasional di SIAC (Singapura) atau HKIAC (Hong Kong). Bahkan sedihnya, perkara arbitrase terkait Indonesia yang memiliki elemen internasional cenderung tidak ditangani oleh lawyer Indonesia, namun oleh lawyer asing. Arbiternya pun asing, meski hukumnya berdasarkan hukum Indonesia.
Namun, memang harus diakui bahwa, sayangnya, masih banyak pengacara Indonesia yang tidak bisa berbahasa Inggris. Bagaimanapun juga, Bahasa Inggris merupakan bahasa internasional untuk bisnis. Pengacara Indonesia juga cendurung chauvinistik dan positivis: tidak terbuka terhadap konsep hukum asing atau tidak terdapat dalam peraturan perundang-undangan.
Selain itu, terdapat kekurangan regenerasi dalam lembaga-lembaga arbitrase Indonesia. BANI misalnya, sampai saat ini sangat jarang—bahkan tidak ada—arbiter dalam daftarnya yang berusia di bawah 40. Regenerasi juga bukan merupakan masalah di Indonesia saja. Sebagian besar arbiter-arbiter di dunia demografinya masih senior white males (berumur, laki-laki, dan kulit putih).
Oleh karena itu, saya bersyukur bahwa Badan Arbitrase Perdagangan Berjangka Komoditi (BAKTI) mengadakan seleksi secara terbuka dan inklusif. Setiap orang yang memiliki kualifikasi dapat mendaftar. Saya lulus seleksinya, namun masih harus menunggu 2 tahun untuk terdaftar karena persyaratan jangka waktu praktik 15 tahun.
Saya berharap adik-adik mau mempertimbangkan profesi ini. Indonesia perlu pemuda-pemudi berbakat untuk berkontribusi dalam reformasi yudisial. Menurut saya, salah satu keuntungan profesi pengacara/arbitrator ini adalah bisa mengejar uang sekaligus berkontribusi dalam pembangunan negara melalui jalur reformasi hukum.
Profesi ini juga bisa dibilang future proof. Meskipun teknologi blockchain sudah memungkinkan adanya smart contract, yang bisa melaksanakan perpindahan uang apabila salah satu pihak tidak melaksanakan kewajibannya, banyak kontrak yang pelaksanaannya tidak bisa hanya di dunia maya saja (misalnya pekara konstruksi). Selain itu, smart contract membutuhkan para pihaknya untuk melakukan deposit dana agar bisa dilaksanakan. Hal ini menimbulkan biaya tambahan yang tidak sedikit bagi pelaku usaha.
Profesi ini juga mungkin terlihat kurang fun karena sifatnya formal dan serius serta cenderung “tradisional” (lawyer merupakan salah satu profesi tertua di dunia); sulit membayangkan bahwa kita bisa passionate akan sesuatu yang seserius hukum. Saya sendiri ada momen-momen di mana kesal dan stres harus membaca atau menulis dokumen setebal ratusan (bahkan pernah ribuan) halaman. Ingin rasanya saya beralih ke pekerjaan yang tidak perlu berpikir keras dan seperti bermain. Namun, saya belajar bahwa passion itu bukan sekedar excitement. Asal kata “passion” sendiri berasal dari bahasa latin “pati” yang artinya “menderita.” Passion itu adalah sesuatu yang kita rela menderita dalam memperoleh atau menjalankannya. Kalau kita menjalankan sesuatu karena fun, itu namanya hobi.
Selain itu, passion kita bisa jadi lebih abstrak dari sekedar karir atau profesi kita. Saya pribadi passion-nya melanglang buana, bertemu orang-orang menarik, menemukan ide-ide atau konsep baru yang mengubah cara berpikir serta berbagi pengalaman mengenai eksistensi kita. Profesi yang saya jalankan saat ini merupakan sarana untuk menjalankan passion saya tersebut. Profesi ini memberikan saya keleluasaan finansial untuk mendanai perjalanan saya dan membeli buku-buku. Profesi ini juga memaksa saya untuk mengasah otak, menambah pengetahuan, dan membaca karakter manusia. Saya bertemu dengan berbagai macam manusia dengan kepribadian yang menarik: pejabat jujur dan korup, gangster yang berkarakter, bule naif dan tukang tipu, bilyuner dan buruh miskin.
Dan karenanya, saya rela menderita untuk profesi ini.
Schipol International Airport feels “state of the art”, like an airport in Asia or the Middle East. I read in Nudge that this is the first airport which urinals have “fly” on them, nudging men to aim better therefore reducing urine spillover. No wonder it is listed as one of the best airports in the world. The peculiar thing I saw at the arrival gate was a spandoek (banner) vending machine. You can buy a custom print banner on the machine to welcome your arriving friends.
We took the train to Amsterdam Centraal and then tram to our first hotel: Hotel Not Hotel, a designer hotel where all rooms are different, thematically and construction wise. “Crisis Free Zone”, “Secret Bookcases”, “Crow’s Nest”, “Volkswagen T1”, and more (no private bathroom, but the communal bathroom itself is also an artwork). We stayed in the Tram Room, just for one night; we were transiting. Amsterdam was our entry and exit point for our Eurotrip 2017—we took “local” European flights from there to Austria and returned from Malta as the last leg of our trip.
When we returned to the city, and spent 5 nights exploring, we stayed at Cocomama Hostel. The hostel building once housed a brothel. We were already too old for the dorm room, so we booked one of the double private ensuite, “Royal” themed room. Despite it’s a hostel, Cocomama’s toiletries are fancy—the shampoos; soaps; conditioners; and lotions are equal with, maybe even better than most five star chain hotels. Our room is on the upper floor and, since it is Europe, no lift (but the kind Scottish staff helped carry one of our luggages).
When we are feeling social (which is often), we went downstairs to the common area.The living room and the garden are warm and cosy. We met the owner of the hostel: Joop de kat. He greeted us, asking if we have food for him. However, he’s under strict order by the vet to diet; unhealthily fat. So we just paid our respect by petting and playing with him.
Joop, the proprietor of Cocomama
True to Amsterdam’s mercantilism soul, Cocomama accepts all kinds of payment from cash, credit card, to Bitcoin cryptocurrency. A kitchen is available if you want to cook. Cocomama delivers the best of the both world: the comforts of a hotel and the warm social cocoon of a hostel.
Just across the street of Cocomama is the School of Life Amsterdam. I am a fan of the institution. Alain de Botton is an influential writer/philosopher to my personal development. His writings helped me make better sense of my secular existence. We took one of the emotional intelligence development classes “Creating Better Habits” by the Happyiologist Susanna Halonen, in the School’s London HQ. The Amsterdam’s classes, at that time (2017), mostly are in Dutch.
The first conscious effort we have to make in Amsterdam is not to talk offensively in Indonesian as freely as when we usually do in other countries (our favourite activity when travelling is people watching—and commenting on them is inevitable). Many people speaks Indonesian in Amsterdam. The airport security officers questioned me in Indonesian. A senior white Dutchman talked with me in Indonesian. A mixed race girl greeted me in Indonesian. There, we were not protected with by the anonymity of our foreign tongue.
Amsterdam was love at first sight. It’s like London, but curated and with only the best parts: multicultural, liberal, beautiful parks and canals (and people), and great museums and art galleries. A bit messy but charming.
We rent student museum passes from the hostel, assumed the identity of the pass holders. We visited the Rijksmuseum, saw the real life Rembrant’s Nightwatch. If the Old Master lived in an era after photography has been invented, would he still chose painting as his medium? There was a collection of Raden Saleh’s paintings. Here he was the European dandy, not the Javanese gentry. Like Yukio Mishima, he built a persona of a westernised oriental true to his heritage. An exotic creature whom westerners can relate to; the archetype of Aouda in Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days. I remember I was also enchanted by Bosch and his descriptive paintings of hell.
We skipped posing before the “I ♥ Amsterdam” at sign Museumplein though.
I learned more about Rembrandt by visiting his house—Museum het Rembrandthuis. Bought Rembrandt’s Bible Stories which, as the title suggests, bible stories accompanied by Rembrant’s illustrations. The stories are somehow secularised, I think, focusing more on human relationships than divinity.
I met up with an airsoft mate, as well as his Indonesian friends living in Amsterdam. The meeting place was Leidseplein, the Oxford Circus of Amsterdam. If it’s up to me, I would not choose that. I guess most people assume that Indonesian would always prefer shopping centres. However, there was a Banksy graffiti there. Plus my friend bought me beers and lunch.
We had a social education at the Red Light District. Took a tour organised by the Prostitution Institution Center. Our guide wore a low cut dress, she has a tattoo on her left boob. I didn’t ask if she is also (or was) a sex worker, but she has a Master’s degree in history.
Prostitution is not just decriminalised but legal in Netherlands. The window brothels and the sex shows are legitimate businesses. They pay taxes— there are accountants, finance and tax advisers opening their offices in the Red Light District catering the sex industry. Therefore, the sex workers have rights and the industry receive government’s support.
Legalising prostitution is a way to mitigate exploitation of the sex workers. I saw the ladies inside the windows look healthy (unlike sex workers in places where prostitution is criminalised, e.g. Bangkok or Jakarta, where they look skinny and underage). It is not a perfect system—illegal prostitution still exists, partially because you have to comply with complex rules and pay taxes to be legitimate.
The sex workers come from every races and their operating areas seem to be clustered. It is not by regulation, people tend to flock with people who look the same with them—homophily. The police are actively patrolling the area. It’s not that there are many crimes, the police presence is a way to send a public message that the prostitution is also under the protection of the law. The sex establishments also employ bouncers. So it was pretty safe environment for the sex workers and the guests who are coming to have some fun.
Pimping, however, is a crime. No one should have the right to take the sex worker’s income. Sex workers can and have the right to refuse clients.
I read in Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work that when sex workers work in a club, they work under profit sharing arrangement with the proprietor. While working the windows provide the best independence: the sex worker simply rent the space on hourly basis from the landlord. They just offset their income with the rent; any profit or loss is theirs. Therefore, they can decide where and when to work.
We also went to Casa Rosso, a live sex show theatre, which Lonely Planet describes as “couple friendly”. They have varieties of shows: burlesque, smoking vulva, pole dance, male stripper, lesbian, even actual intercourse on stage (no male on male though). No-photography and no-videography are strictly enforced. The performers would stop the show and yell at any offender. The bouncers would warn you (not nicely).
We came in when it was smoking vulva show (the performer smoked a cigar with her vagina). Then it was the live intercourse. A group of tourists came in just at that. Some of them were shocked and froze, even when they were ushered to their seats. In certain shows, the performer asked for a member of the audience to volunteer to be a part of the show.
It would have been more fun if we came as a group and one of us volunteered. However, I found live sex shows are not like porn films. I was not aroused. It felt silly instead or downright disturbing (is it normal to feel this way?). Also I found it impressive that the male performers can maintain their erection despite all the distractions on stage (he does the show in hourly cycle from 7pm to 1am—without coming).
Our conclusion from the Red Light District: sex work is definitely a work. And a hard work. Imagine servicing 5 to 25 clients in 8 hour shift or performing non-stop sex show for 6 hours! That debunks the myth that prostitution money is easy money.
Anyway, if you want to employ the sex services, the Prostitution Information Center is a reliable place to get referrals.
I don’t like buying oleh-oleh (travel gifts), but Condomerie is the perfect place to acquire Amsterdam souvenirs. You can buy utilitarian condoms in any shape, size, and colour and/or decorative condoms (but strictly not for use). I giggled like a teenage boy peeking at porn magazine upon entering. Bought two decorative condoms for my friend. Useless trinkets, but fun (and I got complimentary coloured condoms).
For World War II enthusiasts, the Anne Frank House is the obvious must see. I’d recommend to read her diary prior visiting. The house is small, we spent much longer time queuing than seeing the museum (if you want to avoid the queue, you’d need to pre-book tickets on the website at least a month before) . The attic’s Secret Annexe, in which the Franks were hiding, gave us better of sense of Anne’s sufferings to be restricted in a confined space. From her diary, we can see how Anne matured rapidly during her exile. She was a happy popular flirty teenage girl before the occupation which took her freedom (and later, her life).
Verzetsmuseum (the Museum of Resistance) is the lesser known museum about World War II, but a definite top sight on the era. It houses well curated artefacts related to Netherlands during the war. The main exhibitions focus on the Nazi occupation, under which Amsterdamers must choose between adapting, resisting, or collaborating. The Junior wing is the most fun—the interactive installations playfully narrates the experience of Dutch children from different family backgrounds: resistance fighters; Jews (Anne Frank’s neighbour); and fascists NSB.
The Dutch East Indies wing was particularly interesting for me. I was taught the partisan nationalist historical narratives of the Indonesian revolution at school. The museum’s narrative is more nuanced, although antagonistic to the Imperial Japanese occupation (maybe rightfully, Indonesian senior citizens who lived through the colonial times testified that the Japanese were very brutal).
There was a temporary exhibition of “The Gulag: Terror and Arbitrary Rule in the Soviet Union”. It was the first time I realised that Stalin was worse than Hitler (at least in terms of kill counts).
The Sex Museum is a quirky museum with silly exhibits: puffing condoms, erotic decorative artefacts, dioramas of sex scenes—flashers; backstreet handjob; the inside of red light district’s window; oriental brothel; and sex icons such as Marilyn Monroe and Mata Hari. The museum’s restroom is also a part of the exhibitions: vulva shaped urinal and water closet. The wash basin mirror projects a sensual animation about Alfons Mucha on the loop. The final exhibit is a historical narrative reel about sexuality of the [western] society: how the moral pendulum swings from time to time. Europeans were sexually liberal during the pagan times, became uptight due to Christianity, and then liberated again after the Enlightenment.
Alfons Mucha diorama at the Sex Museum
Of course, no Amsterdam experience is complete without a visit to their infamous coffee shops. It has been ages since I smoked weed. The first coffee shop we tried was Bulldog. Bad choice, it’s a tourist trap/ I can feel it the moment we came in, but against our instinct and under peer pressure we bought their joints anyway. We smoked two pre-rolled joints and didn’t get high at all. On our second try, we went to Dampkring. The retro psychedelic interior convinced me that the coffee shop is a real hippie den. Bought the herbs, the grinders, and the rolling papers. However, I just remembered that I never roll joint myself (in Indonesia the dealer would give such value added service, gratis). My partner never rolled a joint too. I was about to ask the guy at the next table, but his eyes seem to say “Fuck, a tourist who disturbs my high time.” So I learned from YouTube. I acquired a new skill in Amsterdam.
Amsterdam’s coffee shops are prohibited to serve alcoholic drinks, in case you didn’t know. Maybe to prevent double effects of alcohol and tetrahydrocannabinol. But, unsurprisingly, they serve coffees. Not sure if it’s good to mix the sedating effect of marijuana with caffeine, but rules are rules.
We smoked the joints by the canal. There was no immediate effect. We thought we’ve been duped again. So much for the winner of Cannabis Grand Prix. We decided we were hungry, so we went to Hostaria, an Italian restaurant. It was fully booked, but the maitre’d made a room for us. After the wonderful dinner, suddenly we couldn’t stop giggling. The wallpaper patterns seemed so funny. Our mood skyrocketed.
Our cannabis induced happiness seemed to be contagious. Other than using basic Italians, such as “Buonasera! Mi scusi? Grazie mille! Prego”, we did’t remember doing anything special. However, the maitre’d seemed to be happy seeing us. He gave us tap water (in Amsterdam, not all restaurants serves free water), extra red wine, and complimentary tiramisu. Even the chef went out from the kitchen and gave us a hug when we left. Maybe we did something silly without realising it.
Multicultural Amsterdam allowed to have the best foods at the best climate. We had Thai food at Bird, several times—they are as good as in Bangkok (not quite at the same level with Krua Apsorn, but very good). The wonton soup at New Kingand the Indian curries at Koh-i-Noorare also excellent. Imagine hot rich Asian spices in a cool European climate. The best of both worlds. We skipped the Indonesian restaurants. While I heard the quality is top notch, all of them are expensive restaurants.
We also had Peruvian at Casa Perú. The last time we had Peruvian was at the Camden Market, 2015. The highlight, as always, was the ceviche.
Our first initiation of truly local cuisine was at Albertcuypmarket, we had some kind of meatball at Cafe de Groene Vlinder for a lunch break when traversing the Europe’s busiest open air market; vendors and shops selling cheese, smartphone accessories, kitchen utensils, locks, fridge magnets, colouring mat, and flags (we bought an Amsterdam flag for souvenir: the red-black stripe-and triple Xs are appealing hues—like the Soviet and Nazi flags, but of the opposite ideology). We had pannekoek at Pannekoekenhuis Upstairs. Dutch pancakes just the way my grandma made it (she lived through the Dutch and Japanese colonial times), only better. The queue was worth the wait.
English cuisine may be on the lowest tier of European food culture, but they do breakfast alright. Therefore, we had one at the Breakfast Club. We had classic burgers at the Butcher in Albertcuypmarket. Another western food highlight is De Plantage, a greenhouse turned into restaurant by the zoo. We sat on one of the tables outside.
We enjoyed the true bliss of European summer in Amsterdam. The gentle breeze and warm sun on a virtually trafficless cosmopolitan city. People walk, cycle, or take the tram. The locals moved their dining table outside their homes and dined on the streets. We strolled the Vondelpark under its full summer glory. Little humidity allowed us to sit comfortably on the grass. Napped, talked, read, and watched people go about leisurely.
Dropped by Int ’t Aepjen, the “monkey bar” in the Medieval Centre. It’s not a calisthenics gym, but a bar housed in a 16th century wooden house. It was frequented by sailors from the Orients with monkeys on their shoulders. Captain Barbarossa style. Drunk beers under candlelights. Gezellig.
Int’j Aepjen
I am not much of a shopper, but the shops at De 9 Straatjeswill test any self-proclaimed minimalists not to consume. Photogenic designer stores, vintage clothing shopes, and eateries—the equivalent of London’s Seven Dials, only better since the 9 streets have canals. I saw a discounted off-season Barbour winter jacket, good thing not in my size so I didn’t buy it. We went book hunting at the American Book Center and Universiteit van Amsterdam. We acquired brand new Barthes’ Camera Lucida and Mythologies as well as Sontag’s On Photography, the reading list for street photography course by Erik Prasetya. Bought secondhand Nassim Nicholas Thaleb’s Black Swan. All those books gave me conceptual shifts, so the overall costs of acquiring them (including travel to Amsterdam) yielded handsome existential profits.
Amsterdam is the most liberal city in Europe. That’s high liberalism. Represented first and foremost by sexual freedom, because— as Oscar Wilde said—“Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.” After all, the independent Netherlands was born out of an uprising against the anal retentive Spanish Catholicism (literally, with their Inquisition).
But of course, Amsterdam is not just “Disneyland for college students.” (Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo—funny film when I watched in 2005, but a bit sexist, homophobic, and racist for 2017 moral standards). The Dutch mercantilism, detached from the aristocracy and the clergy, created an independent judiciary. This allowed them to compete with Spain, the then Christendom superpower. This is where the first multinational corporation was established, the VOC. Amsterdam became so rich that they became the patrons of the art and culture, from Rembrandt to Vermeer to Van Gogh (whose museum we missed, unfortunately). The intellectual enlightenment allowed them to see further and higher of sapiens’ existential conditions; they were aware of and horrified by the exploitations and sufferings of the indigenous people in the colonised lands ergo the Dutch Ethical Policy and the subsequent progressive policies.
No wonder Amsterdam is Oliver Sacks’ favourite city. The canal city was where he popped his cherry (England, even London, was relatively conservative and homophobic when he was young). But also, the city is not just about vulgar distractions and sexuality. Here you can have intellectual stimulations by immersing yourself in high cultures and satisfy your basic instincts, tumbling into abandon. You can have both Apollonian and Dionysian enchantments within less than 30 minutes walk or cycle.
On the last day in Amsterdam, also our last day of our Eurotrip 2017, we had breakfast at Little Collins. It was Saturday and, seeing the ease of Amsterdamers—how they walked and cycled around, sitting and talking and drinking good coffee with friends—made me happy but also envious. The modern citizens of the Old World (therefore old moneyed societies) know how to live. However, the queue was long for the check in of our return flight to Indonesia. The aircraft was full of Europeans with flip-flops, shorts, panama hats, and surfboards in pursuit of tropical beach for summer holiday.
To see and choose the part of the world we inhabit, despite for a brief instant. A reminder of how privileged I am—we are—to be travellers.
I have travelled to more than 25 countries. An aspiring Indonesian Instagram influencer once commented, with a hint of condescendence, that I should travel more to domestic destinations. She repeated the nationalistic internet meme of “Indonesia has it all, so why travel abroad?”—drawing comparisons between local and abroad travel destinations: Gobi Desert and Bromo National Park, Grand Canyon and Semarang’s Brown Canyon, Maasai Mara and Baluran National Park. They even dare to compare Arc de Triomphe and Semarang’s Simpang Lima Gumul Monument; and the Taj Mahal with Pekanbaru’s An Nur Grand Mosque (either they are extremely biased or have an extremely low standards of taste in architecture).
The meme is inherently perpetuating provinciality, the opposite desired effect of travelling. As if travelling is just about beautiful landscapes and “I-have-been-there” picture takings, the “Instagrammable contents”. I personally think the most essential purpose of travel is to be reminded that our moral matrix and values are shaped by our environment, the zeitgeist and the platzgeist of the society we live in are often peculiar in other places despite globalisation (and therefore we should not obsess too much on our version of “Truth”). Is it not amusing to learn that tipping is unnecessary in Amsterdam and even insulting in Japan? Of how asking the religious belief of the person you’ve just met is intrusive or irrelevant in most parts of the world? The existence of urinoirs in women’s public toilets in Bangkok? That you don’t need to confirm the pickup point of ride hailing services, unlike in Jakarta and other parts of Indonesia?
It’s true that Indonesia’s cultural landscapes and biodiversity are, well, diverse. Wallace wrote The Malay Archipelago based on his observations as a naturalist during his travels to this archipelagic state. While the country’s political system is Java-centric and the default Indonesian man is a Javanese and Muslim, when you have a territory comprised of more than 17,000 islands (6,000 of which are populated) differences in local customs, religions, races, and economic development stages are as natural as the rich biodiversity; enough to make me feel amusingly ‘“foreign”.
Domestic travels are also relatively cheaper than international travel. Unfortunately, most Indonesian travel destinations are only interesting for photography (or basking in luxury). The local travel industry is focused on Instagram tourists; therefore the overemphasis on majestic natural landscapes or buildings with exaggerated shapes and colours. The socio-cultural and historical narratives are often underdeveloped.
An experience designer who worked for the Indonesia’s largest online travel agent company told me, in a joint research with the Ministry of Tourism to West Sumatra, that he could not find any information on the social and cultural significance of rumah gadang (traditional communal longhouse of Padang matriarchal families). Tourists were only guided to take pictures wearing traditional outfits, with a banner-holding mascot (As Elizabeth Pisani noted in Indonesia Etc, Indonesians have strange obsessions to banners containing insipid information or jargons).
A visit to the National Museum failed to enlighten me on the rich Sanskrit influence in ancient Java. The statues from Hindu-Buddhist pantheons are not well curated or explained (the information tags only describe the material, volume and weights specifications—hardly interesting even for geologists).
Accordingly, the local landmarks in Indonesian travel scenes are usually underwhelming (with a few exceptions such as the Borobudur and Prambanan—if you can stand the local tourists aggressively asking white people for a selfie with them; people of colour are safely ignored). No wonder natural landscapes, particularly beaches, are still the main appeal when travelling in Indonesia.
Bali is the only region which has developed an advanced tourism industry beyond Instagram content hunting. The Balinese were descendants of the ancient Javanese Hindu aristocrats and intellectuals fleeing from Islamisation. Combined with the government’s support as the first region to be developed for the tourism industry and international exposure arising from its popularity as a travel destination, the mild-mannered Balinese developed a general good taste and deep understanding on hospitality services. However, you will need to explore beyond the basic parties in Kuta-Legian-Canggu and sterile luxury of Nusa Dua to experience the real charm of the Island of the Gods.
The mainstream sights and to-dos are simply the classics. The art museums in Ubud have great collections and are well curated; the Kecak dance with Ramayana theatrics in Uluwatu Grand Temple performed during sunset is a sensory feast to watch and accompanied with contextual information on the Sanskrit’s most popular myth available in Indonesian, English, German, French, Japanese, Chinese and Russian (warning: the plot is extremely misogynistic, but it was conceived BC).
I’d recommend anyone to travel to the northern part of the island where the roads are less travelled. Munduk has better waterfalls compared to Tegenungan waterfall. The Jatiluwih rice fields are more impressive than Tegalalang’s.
Jatiluwih rice fields (taken with iPhone SE)
Since Indonesia’s main appeal is its landscape rather than culture, the best of Indonesian travel destinations are the less developed areas. Therefore, travellers need more time and preparation (and money) to reach and explore them. (I note that when I talk about “culture”, many Indonesians mistake that the term only represent traditional or ancient heritages ergo Indonesia is rich in them. They seem to exclude that modern (Western) culture, such as museums, art galleries, public libraries, pedestrian walkways and parks, cinemas, contemporary theatres, pop music, cafes, hipster coffee shops and bars, beach clubs and bikinis—which Indonesia generally lack as a poor country)
Regardless of local versus international travel, the said aspiring Instagram influencer assumed that I don’t travel much within the Archipelago. Maybe because most of the pictures in my Instagram account are from my international travels. I admit I have not been to Raja Ampat, Flores or Komodo Island, but I have been to Bromo National Park(I have a verse of Goenawan Mohamad’s Bromo inspired poem tattooed on my forearm), Bandung, Bali, Yogyakarta and Borobudur-Prambanan Temples, Semarang and Karimun Jawa.
However, my most interesting local travel experiences are from my business trips. I am a dispute resolution lawyer in a jurisdiction laden with judicial corruption; a country which economy relies on natural resources and cheap labour. I don’t just travel to interesting places, I meet interesting characters: corrupt and honest officials; fearsome and charming gangsters; simple people and entrepreneurial mavericks; gullible expats and bule con artists.
I have travelled to Indonesia’s main islands: Java, Sumatra, Sulawesi (Celebes) and the Moluccas. I have visited the big cities: Surabaya, Medan and Makassar. I have been to industrial zones, small towns, rural villages, plantations, oil fields and mining camps—places you would not visit unless you have business to be done.
In the Indonesian commercial cities, the only truly local entertainments are the local foods. And the sex tourism.
When I was on a business trip with my then-boss, an Indonesian senior litigator, to Medan, I had American breakfast at a chain hotel, brunch at Soto Sinar Pagi, coffee at Kede Kopi Apek, lunch at Bawal Bintang, afternoon meal at Jimbaran, dinner of fish head curry at Pohon Pisang restaurant, had durians as evening snacks at Ucok Durian, and post-dinner meal of fishcake meehon. Before midnight my boss invited me eat again at a famous Medanese noodle soup. I told him I was tired (from eating too much). My boss went with the client. He was 64 at that time, already had bypass surgeries twice. I guess he wanted to make the most of his visit to his hometown free from his wife’s supervision on his diet.
Soto Sinar Pagi, Medan (taken with Blackberry Curve Gemini)
My culinary experiences in Surabaya are less gluttonous. Had seafood at Layar and Daun Lada, soto ambengan at Cak Har and Pak Sadi.
I learned that most regional specialties are available in Jakarta, sometimes with better quality. Makassar’s coto (savoury and spicy beef soup with dark thick broth) I tasted was not even better than I had in Jakarta (disclaimer: I may have dined in a tourist trap restaurant). My friend who travelled to Bukittinggi and Padang said the only competitive difference of the original Minang restaurants there, compared to Jakarta, is the price. Maybe the great chefs and cooks expanded their business and trade to the capital. The urbanisation and convergence of Indonesian cuisines in Jakarta make business trips to other big cities less exciting.
For sex tourism, Jakarta can even offer internationally sourced commodities; from Chinese mainland, Central Asia, to Eastern Europe.
I have never employed the services of a sex worker as the time of this writing. I could not afford them when I was younger (some of my peers got into credit card debts for this “stress relieving exercise from the pressures of private practice” or “networking”). I was also more morally conservative back then. Now I am more senior—therefore, can afford classier service providers—and less judgmental (especially after visiting Amsterdam’s Red Light District and reading Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work), but I have learned that I need emotional connections and intimacy for my sexual encounters. A tall order for transactional sex. Plus my wife would kill me if she finds out.
Naturally, I am not a preferred business travel companion by coworkers who like to sample local girls. I never acted holier-than-thou or nosy. Many of my peers like to brag about their sexual adventures to me and I enjoy listening to them—whether they are true, exaggerated, or total bollocks are not important (I know some of you would think, that’s what they all said: “it’s my friend’s story.”). But I guess my consistent refusals to join them made me an outsider, not to be trusted with too much detail. After all, in a competitive professional environment, your sex scandal can be used against you. Or, less insidiously, your stories will be the material for the office water fountain banters.
“I brought two girls, one for me and one for HJ. His religiosity could not contain his lust. It was his first time. But then he cried, for he had committed the carnal sin of fornication (that’s forty years of unanswered prayers). He prayed and prayed all night. He even wanted to tell his mother of this!”
—-A senior associate’s story from their business trip to Lampung
“APB got lucky with the prettiest girl in the karaoke club. She likes him, so he fucked her for free. It turned out the girl is the pimp’s girlfriend, a local gangster. So we had to run away when the pimp found out and was mad with jealousy.”
—-An associate’s story from a business trip to Kalimantan, all of the team members on that trip were regular sex venturers
“It was RS’s first fuck. The girl said that porn freak fucked her twice, with only less than a minute interval after his first ejaculation! He’s not human, he’s a Robocop!”
—-A founding partner’s testimonial after bringing a porn addict virgin associate to Jakarta’s famous brothel
“A client’s credit card was charged Rp5million (USD400) for ‘car maintenance service’ by an obscure garage in Sumatra. The transaction date was during his business trip there. He complained to the credit card company. The customer service asked whether he had ‘a good time’ during his business trip? He fell silent and hung up.
Apparently, some brothels accept credit cards but register the establishment as ‘restaurant’ or ‘garage’ to protect their customers’ privacy, in case their wives inspect the bill.”
—-A senior associate advice before complaining about obscure credit card charges
Travels to rural areas and remote locations are the most impressionable to me. That’s when I got to see places where humans settled or visited mostly because of economic opportunity (or the lack of).
My first overnight business trip was to a mining town in South Sulawesi. I had to transit in Makassar Sultan Hasanuddin Airport; flew with a local airline with dubious safety record on an old propeller engine aircraft to reach the town (the alternative was a 7 hour drive). Each passenger’s weight allowance includes our body weight, not just our luggage. We had to step on to the weighing machine and our weight was announced, loudly (can feel like a subtle body shaming). The flight attendant was heavily made up with fake eyelashes and thick eyebrows (it wasn’t even 2015 yet), she was wearing an outsized uniform made of cheap fabrics and tasteless design.
The client was a waste management company. They were under criminal investigation for allegedly transporting hazardous waste without proper licences. The police investigator added me on Facebook (many Indonesians happily follow Zuckerberg’s nudge to be connected with everyone they met, including people they should not share their personal lives).
The complainant was a group of local businessmen who made their fortune by refurbishing waste batteries from the mining company; their business was compromised when the waste management company was contracted to handle the mining company’s waste batteries properly to comply with environmental regulations. A classic dilemma between the locals’ short-term economic interests versus environmental sustainability at the social costs of ousting the locals in favour of a multinational corporation with better compliance to environmental standards.
The town has no traffic light. By 8pm the streets are asleep. I asked my client how they spend their downtime. “Play video games. Sing in the karaoke machine. Take a trip to the lake nearby,” said them (the lake was unimpressive). I stayed in a two star business hotel. There was a worm in the shower room. In the morning, only hot boiling water was available so we couldn’t shower.
In Ambon, almost every restaurant has a live music performance. Many Indonesian songsters and songstresses are Moluccans; they take singing as seriously as their fresh seafood. So you got delicious fresh seafood (East Indonesia is one of the major suppliers of tuna for the Japanese fish market) accompanied with serenades. Most Indonesian song lyrics are too romantic for my taste, but the singers in Ambon have great voices so I enjoyed the songs. However, power outages were still common in 2008. The performance was interrupted by blackouts.
The case I was handling was a violent crime case. The client was a multinational tobacco company, their sales team in Ambon brawled with the sales team of a competing local tobacco company. It started just because my client’s sales team posted their flyers on top of the competitor’s flyers. The competitor’s sales team took this as [personal] disrespect. The parties quarrelled. The quarrel broke into violent fights with edged weapons.
The police arrested the brawlers and confiscated the company’s cars used for transporting them as evidence. I was sent to advocate the release of the company’s cars, the non-expendable corporate assets.
Eastern Indonesians are known to be hot blooded, especially the Moluccans. In Jakarta, the Moluccans “default” professions are boxers, bouncers, debt collectors, and gangsters. The case seems to perpetuate such a stereotype. The city of Ambon was still rebuilding from the religious violent conflicts between the majority Christians and the minority Muslims. Many buildings were still torn down from arsons and lootings. I saw a cross painted on many buildings to mark that they are owned by Christians.
After the 2010 FIFA World Cup final, there was a clash between the ultras of Spain and Netherlands teams… In Ambon—the ultras were Amboneses. Many Amboneses feel strong affiliations with the Netherlands because of their colonial history: they were conscripted to Korps Marechaussee (pronounced by the locals as Marsose), the indigenous regiment of the Dutch colonial army notorious for their bravery/ruthlessness in crushing the local and national rebellions/freedom fightings. When I read the news, I understood the religious conflicts there or the brawl between tobacco companies’ competing sales team were never about ideology nor employee loyalty. It was about in-group solidarity, the carnal “us-and-them” mentality.
Natsepa beach, Ambon (taken with Blackberry Curve Gemini)
Unlike their Javanese fellow countrymen, straightforwardness is appreciated by the Moluccans. Being mostly Christians, they have a strong drinking culture. Combined with their love for singing and emotionally expressive social languages, they unapologetically love to party (most Indonesians are Muslims; any kind of fun is prohibited in Islam, therefore, parties or social gatherings are masked as or always include pengajian (prayer gatherings) to be socially acceptable). Ambon is the capital of the province, but it is a small town where the sense of community and solidarity are still preserved. Unfortunately, Eastern Indonesia is the least developed region in the country. The archetype hot-blooded rowdy Moluccans amplified by low education and poverty, as well as weak Indonesian judiciary and government, made violent conflicts easily instigated.
Despite Ambon’s bloody history, it still has a better atmosphere than Ternate, the de facto capital of neighbouring islands of Halmahera. It’s also a seaside city, but no pristine turquoise beach (and the foods are not as good).
Jakarta-Ternate is five hours direct flight—midnight departure and early morning arrival. One day there was an urgent situation: several managers in the client’s site were summoned for interrogation by the police, so I had to fly to Ternate after a day in the office. I came home for a few hours only to pack.
The taxi to airport stank. I was tired and the erratic behaviours of Indonesian police made me anxious (the Indonesian criminal procedure law was enacted in 1981–at the height of the totalitarian New Order regime—so the police have broad and relatively unchecked powers). I became irritated, started feeling sorry for myself.
What a difficult way to make a living. And to add my annoyance, this taxi driver failed to maintain his personal and car hygiene! … I started a conversation with the driver to push the negative emotions aside. I found out he has been on the road for more than 48 hours, trying to fulfil the target meter. He slept in the car; turned off the engine while sleeping to conserve petrol but closed the windows to prevent theft. I was his last job order before returning to the pool; where he would then rest at the drivers’ dorm.
I felt bad for feeling sorry for myself. My job earned me an income level which supports my happiness, and it has always been the exceptions when I had to travel under such short notice. The stinking taxi driver did not even have the time to clean himself and the car.
Ternate was a transit point for my real place of business: a gold mine in the main island. I had to continue my journey with a 30 minutes speedboat ride then 3 hours drive.
The speedboat’s safety standards are dubious. The life vests are inflated only with styrofoams, they would only float for minutes. A geologist who travelled with me told me he had a maritime accident when he first moved to the mining site. His boat sank. He held onto a flotsam for 8 hours until he was rescued. His skin was burnt by prolonged exposure to the sun and seawater. His coworkers didn’t make it. One was missing and the other was washed ashore a bloating corpse.
“The longest eight hours in my life,” said the geologist.
I was impressed he didn’t resign immediately. I decided to stand on the observation deck and enjoyed the sunset despite the bumpy ride. It’s the “Wild Wild East” Indonesian safety standards anyway, I might as well enjoy the Sea of Moluccas’ magnificent view. If the boat sank, being trapped inside the cabin would have been worse than being thrown overboard.
The Sea of Moluccas (taken with iPhone SE)
The drive was uneventful, except for the inspection at the military checkpoint. An FN Minimi squad automatic weapon was pointed at our car during inspection. I was lucky to be accompanied by a manager whom I can relate with. We talked about his dog, his children, our religious beliefs, his retired pilot neighbour who planned to euthanise himself when flying a Glider to undetected airspace (“To vanish into the sky,” the old one said). The long road was filled with amusing stories.
In my second and third trips to the gold mine, I got a slot for the company’s chartered flights. Flying from Ternate to the site was quicker, safer (statistically), and felt more adventurous.
The Twin Otter propeller plane is not airconditioned and passengers have to wear earplugs to protect themselves from the piercing engine sound. There is something raw in flying at low altitude over an immense jungle with a small plane. The helicopter ride was even better; we were hovering at lower altitude. I chose to sit near the door. I could see the mine, the camp, and rainforests in better detail. I realised how scary it would be to be thrown out of a flying helicopter, like a scene in Scarface and Narcos. At the same time, I imagine how exhilarating to be a door gunner—raining belt-fed hot leads down below. I felt like Leonardo Di Caprio in Blood Diamond.
Remote airstrip in Halmahera (taken with iPhone SE)
My excitement gave me away as visitors. The mining company’s employees returning from their fortnight leave are always in a glum mood. I found out why as soon as I arrived at the campsite. The camp has all the facilities of a small town: the dining hall serves decent food; there is a gym and a basketball/futsal court; a church and a mosque.
But that’s all.
They are in the middle of primeval rainforests. Started working at 7am, finished at 4pm. Returned to their quarters alone (or shared a barrack-like dorm for entry level workers); their families not with them. Repeat.
In a way, the camp is a prison.
I was given a room in the guest house. It has cable TV services, but the wi-fi is weak and slow. There are no mobile data receptions (Welcome to the Jungle, literally). It gave me the excuse not to do any work. Perhaps it was serendipity; I was burning out at the firm I was working for. The firm was about to be acquired by a global mega firm and downsizing was imminent. Almost everyone in my team had become territorial and distrustful; collaboration initiatives have fallen apart. None of us were happy working there (I think), but none of us wanted to lose our job either.
With nothing much to do, I finished 13 Journeys Through Space and Time I bought at the airport. The book was a consolation. I triggered my sense of awe by learning how our understanding of the universe has progressed so much. The names of the lecturers, from the Victorian to Elizabethan eras, suggest there is a linear positive attitude towards multiculturalism which correlates with the scientific discoveries. Our collective and individual existence can be larger than our pettiness. (13 Journeys and NatGeo’s Cosmos—as well as the Carl Sagan’s book—made me regret that I didn’t know about the Royal Institution’s Christmas Lecture when I was living in Bloomsbury.)
During the safety briefing, I was informed that malaria is still a threat onsite. I was not briefed about this pre-departure, therefore didn’t get a vaccine injection. So I stayed indoors after dark. Not that there is anything to do in the camp after dark. I heard there was a bar, but it has been closed because there were fights between the patrons. Miners are hard men, combined with loneliness and drunkenness, it’s not surprising social frictions get physical.
The Eastern Indonesians are Polynesians. Their staple food is sago, papeda. I tried one in Ternate. It’s a white sticky mould. One of the most exotic foods I have ever tasted (pretty bland though). I tried coconut crabs (Birgus latro). Serving and consuming them is actually prohibited because they are endangered. However, the proprietor of the restaurant boasted that the local police officers and government officials are regular customers. The crabs are big, bigger than the mud crab I had at the Ministry of Crab, Colombo. But they tasted so far off from the Ministry of Crab’s. Hell, they didn’t taste better than regular crabs I have had in Jakarta’s seafood stalls. So much for being a criminal and an ignoramus in environmental sustainability.
While Indonesia is not a white nation, the people worship whiteness. Eastern Indonesians, being of darker skins and more primitive, are seen to be inferior compared to the Western Indonesians. The officers in the regional police precinct in Ternate are all Javaneses and Sumatrans. The grunts are the locals. Granted, the non-indigenous officers are “smarter” but only because they have better access to education and everything. Java had the most sophisticated ancient institutions in the Dutch East Indies. Javanese ancient kingdoms have a major role in South East Asia with their military, trade, and cultural partnerships with the neighbouring Sanskrit kingdoms. The institutionalised Java made it an ideal forward operating base for the European colonisers. Later, the founding fathers of the modern Republic were mostly Javanese intellectuals who were the beneficiaries of the Dutch Ethical Policy.
Tobelo is another major city in Halmahera. However, it’s even smaller than Ternate. No remarkable food at all. I stayed for a night and attended a court hearing in the morning. The courthouse is small, only four judges are stationed there. There is no special lounge for the judges. I sat with one of them at the cafeteria while waiting for the counter-party to arrive.
The claimants were local farmers. They were suing my client in a land dispute. Their claims were completely baseless. The actual initiators were local lawyers trying to harass a multinational company to get some settlement. The farmers were promised a share in any profit gained from the frivolous legal actions. (When you are so rich and your neighbour is so poor, what can you expect?)
The farmers live in a village three hours drive from the courthouse. However, public transport in Eastern Indonesia has no fixed timetable. They will only depart when the bus is full (otherwise the fares would not cover the petrol costs). Therefore, punctuality is never expected.
The judge who sat with me is a junior judge (no wonder he is stationed in rural areas, previously he was stationed in Papua). The same age as me at that time, early thirties. It’s interesting that we are in the same industry but with different career paths and ladders. I have become a senior associate in private practice, but of course my position as counsel is under his authority.
Sumatra’s cities and rural areas—while better developed than Eastern Indonesia—are more “socio-economically anxious”. Perhaps because they are closer to the capital Jakarta, and to the first world Singapore. They are more exposed to the consumerist urban lifestyle, yet the socio-economic development gap between the islands is larger than the narrow Straits of Sunda and Malacca.
Mahfud Ikhwan in Cerita, Bualan, dan Kebenaran posits that Indonesian writers’ narratives on rural areas are often binary. A village is either portrayed as pristine (and villagers gullible): any corruption is caused by the evil greed of city people’s economic interests; or primitive and backward: the orthodoxy of the villagers being the main cause of their impoverished lives. From Ikhwan’s first hand experience and observations, villages and rural areas are not static. Like city people, villagers are socio-economically anxious. They want a share of the prosperity from economic development. The cities are their cultural references for modernity which they try to imitate. I think Sumatrans fit Ikhwan’s thesis. Consumerist desires are memetic.
Empty roads with deforested landscapes for pulp and paper, palm oil and cassava plantations, and oil fields. Sumatra is where many of the Indonesia’s Crazy Rich Asians make their fortune.
The business trips to Lampung were spent mostly on the road. We stayed at a hotel chain in the capital Bandar Lampung, then had day trips to the courthouses and police stations in nearby regencies. My senior coworker always insisted to stop by at Begadang Padang restaurant. I don’t know whether the salted egg fried chicken, the house special, is that good or there is no other option in the city.
I was sent to Bengkulu to investigate and negotiate labour disputes in the client’s palm oil plantations. The plantations are located in a remote village, 3 hours drive from the city. I was with the client’s in-house HR. We dropped by the village chief’s house. A stone house decorated with marbles and granites, with a garage and a sedan car. However, when we asked to use the toilet, the chief told us that he has no toilet. When nature calls, they just do it in their backyard or the rice fields. (A social researcher friend told me that open air defecations are not just a matter of the economy. Many rural people are culturally “claustrophobic” when it comes to the business of their bowels.)
I just wanted to pee, so it was not a real problem. However, when I glanced at my client and saw her expression, I realised how privileged it is to be a man. I’d just unzip and hose off. She did it anyway. I didn’t ask how she did it.
The business trip was a success. The issues were settled. We returned to Bengkulu City, did a little sightseeing: visited the British Colonial Army’s Marlborough Fort—Bencoolen was a British colony (fun fact: the soldiers’ conditions were miserable because they still had to wear their thick red coat uniforms designed for European climate); and ate durians. When our return flight was available (Bengkulu is the poorest province in Sumatra, so flight schedules are not always available), we headed to the airport and our business was concluded.
A palm oil plantation farmer in Bengkulu (taken with iPhone SE)
Tanjung Pinang business trips require transit in Batam, unless when I didn’t fly with Garuda Indonesia (bad decision, risked my life with Batavia Air’s poor safety standards and endured their awful services for a severely delayed direct flight which made me missed the hearing—no wonder the airline was bankrupt in 2013).
The speedboat services market for Tanjung Pinang-Batam crossing are very competitive: the speedboat companies’ staff were shouting at me and their competitors to sell tickets.
“Ride with us!”
“Don’t listen to him, their boats are ugly! Ours are better!”
“We serve instant noodles onboard!”
One time, I could not get a reservation in the usual chain hotel in Batam. My secretary booked me in a local “executive” hotel. When I checked in, I just realised it’s actually a brothel. I had dinner at the local seafood restaurant Golden Prawn 933, ordered the regional specialty sea snails, kerang gonggong (Strombus turturella). I dined with the driver. He giggled when I ate so much; he said the snails are aphrodisiacs.
The oil fields of Riau are where I gained the mature confidence as a lawyer. It was a criminal case related to crude oil contaminated soil bioremediation projects. The prosecution was collecting soil samples for evidence. We, the defence, were there to ensure the evidence was not tampered. The days were scorching hot—51 centigrade. It seems the heat came from the sun and the hydrocarbons below ground. My camera stopped working due to the heat, our skin darkened significantly within one day. At night, we had to endure bug bites.
Despite the adversarial nature of our conversations, the prosecution and the defence teams were both equally muddy and tired so there were cordial moments; we shared drinks, took refuge under the same shades; and even exchanged banters and jokes. The senior prosecutor said, “I have been a prosecutor for 20 years, never have I thought digging soils would be my job.” I bet not many of my peers in private practice can brag about similar experiences.
Oil fields of Riau
Most of the time, we can’t experience the direct adverse impact of a factory. However, my visit to the client’s tire manufacturing facility in North Sumatra was an exception. The smell of processed rubber choked my throat. It made my saliva feel bitter, inducing the urge to spit. Good thing our lodging, the company’s guesthouse, is located near the rubber plantations instead of the factory. I used packets of condiments in the dining hall to give more taste to the food served. Only to realise they were an employee’s stocks. I feel bad for robbing one of his few available indulgences in this remote part of the world.
Business trips to industrial zones of Bodetabek (the acronym for Bogor, Depok, Tangerang and Bekasi), the outskirts of Jakarta, are the worst. The locations are too close to justify the billable hours and travel expenses for lodgings so we have to do day trips. However, the traffic to and fro is hell. Therefore, I had to wake up early in the morning and try to finish the work before the rush hour. Otherwise the hours spent on the road can be longer than the hours working.
Those industrial zones have the worst of both capitalistic worlds. You are not in a vibrant city centre but you do not have the peace and quiet of a remote site. The clients are from the manufacturing industry. Typically, the people working there are devoid of the urban flair of business/professional services or the outdoor grit of the extractive industries. However, the manufacturing industry is another strategic industry for the Indonesian economy. Their labour unions are also the most formidable.
One consistent reminder from travelling is that there are many ways to live a life. I have great respect for people working in rural areas; without them many of the comforts of modern life would not be accessible to the general public. Of course, there are issues of environmental damages, exploitative working conditions, corruptions, and questionable benefits to the locals. However, people working there are just trying to make a living—small or large.
My business travels highlight the need for inclusive capitalism. The tug between economic development and equal distribution of wealth and environmental sustainability cannot be resolved by collectivisation of production tools and capitals. The 20th century has proven that the communist utopia is systematically bound to fail. However, traditional maximising shareholders value capitalism, which emphasise on shareholders’ primacy, have failed the other stakeholders: the people and the planet. MSV capitalism has even failed corporations themselves; MSV brought diseases which shorten the lifespan of businesses: valuation over real value, overpaid executives, and bureaucratic middle managers. Money is always green, but people are colourful. The green must not be overly concentrated in one of the colours.
The World Economic Forum advocates “stakeholder capitalism” to achieve such elusive inclusivity. However, critics said that it is unrealistic for a corporation to prioritise on everything: shareholders, executives, employees, customers, the environment (hence dubbed as the “garbage can capitalism”). Some suggest the return to Peter Drucker’s “customer capitalism”, where corporations focus on delivering value to customers.
Yayoi Kusama and her polkadot pumpkins may be the most popular reason to visit Naoshima, a sleepy fishing island in Seto Inland Sea; face-lifted— soul-lifted—as modern art haven by Benesse Art Site. However, the true master of the island is Tadao Ando. A self taught architect with brutalist signature style: with concrete, metal, and wood as materials. Ando designed three grand art museums on the shoreline of the island: the Benesse House, the Lee Ulfan, and the Chichu Museums. There is also a little museum bearing his name, the Ando Museum—an old traditional Japanese house which inner-space is converted to Ando’s modern style.
Benesse Art House shoreline
Navigation
Naoshima’s main sights are scattered in three areas: Honmura, Miyanoura, and Benesse House Area. The island is compact enough for a day trip. However, we spent a night to better explore the island.
Accommodation and transportation options in the island are limited (or I should say, “curated”).
You can either walk, cycle, or take the cute polkadot public bus (100 yen flat fare) to get around. Cycling will give you the best flexibility: fast enough to catch up with your schedule yet slow enough to feel the surroundings. You can stop anywhere; not being dependant on bus stops’ timetable (although, like everywhere in Japan, the buses are punctual to the minute). Some of the bicycles for rent are electric powered if you want to pedal less. Since my partner can’t ride a bicycle, we walked and took the bus.
For accommodation, we took the word of our bible Lonely Planet. The Top Choice recommendations are Benesse House (it’s also a luxury hotel) and Tsutsujiso Lodge (a campsite). We chose Tsutsujiso for being budget friendly and the novelty of staying in a caravan (for larger group, yurts are available). The bathroom of the caravan is converted into a luggage store. There is a dedicated building for shower and toilet facility. You have to pay extra for hot shower, but we took bath in I Heart Yousento (public bath) anyway. We took Tsutsujiso’s breakfast and dinner packages for practicality. The meals are of high standards. We had sukiyaki for dinner. In the morning, I opted Japanese breakfast of rice, natto, and miso soup (rice boy forever!). My partner had continental breakfast.
Coffee, concrete, and sunlight. Buses, bicycles, and sento.
We entered the island through Honmura Port in the afternoon (took a speedboat from Uno Port near Okayama city of Honshu, the Japanese main island). Deposited our luggages at the town office (if you have not acquired the printed version of Naoshima Area Map, you can get one here) then explored the Honmura area. Our itinerary: the Art House Project, modern art installations in traditional Japanese houses.
But first, we needed to have lunch. We went to Cafe Salon Nakaoku, a relatively hidden cafe in the outskirts of Honmura, for the omurice (rice omelette) and coffee. It has that Showa atmosphere, complete with old box-shaped Japanese made Alexander Graham Bell cup receiver model telephone unit. We were seated on the bar, made the time to read after meal. And plan.
The first Art House Project we visited was Minamidera which houses James Turrel’s “Backside of the Moon”. We took a queue ticket for our time slot. When it our group’s turn to enter, we were ushered inside the house. It was dark inside. Light and noise discipline was enforced, we were instructed to wait in silence. Slowly, we could see a big white screen in front of us. My mind initial association was we were in a cinema and there were rows of seats in front of us. We were then instructed to walk and explore, I found out that the room was actually empty and the white screen is a window to a Zen sand garden with no ornament.
We were told that the light in the room never changed, but our eyes adapted to the low light—thus we could see the “white screen”. I understood the biology and the physics, but what fascinated me most was the psychology. My association of darkened room, where I was seated with strangers, is of a cinema (I love films). It was a positive association and I am glad for it. Maybe someone with traumatic experience would associate the room with something darker.
The other houses we visited were Kadoya/Tatsuo Miyajima’s “Sea of Time”, “Naoshima’s Counter Window”, and “Changing Landscape”; Gokaisho by Yoshihiro Suda; and Haisha/Shinro Otake’s “Dreaming Tongue”.
One thing I note of these modern artworks in Naoshima is that they are art for art’s sake. Indulging the senses, allowing the consumer (me) to contemplate their existence. They are objects of bourgeois humanism. The artworks are not art that was “created dangerously”—art for political purposes, as Camus asked artists to do—like Yoko Ono’s “Refugees Boat” and Ai Wei Wei’s “Odyssey” in Catastrophe and the Power of Art Exhibition at Mori Art Museum Tokyo.
Modern art, for me, is fun since they are free of interpretations. I can be shallow and superficial in perceiving and enjoying them, such as taking pictures with them (but never selfie—I still have a certain degree of self respect). I can create my own personal narrative and express my associations when reflecting on the artworks.
Inserting myself to Kazuo Katase’s “Drink a Cup of Tea”.
However, it is still important to understand the artists’ and other people’s interpretation. Ideas are memetic and it can only expand if copied, exchanged. Naoshima’s artworks main narrative, I read, is about coexistence between humans and nature as well as critics against the vapidity of consumerist society. I think it’s paradoxical to see bourgeois artworks, delivered by a corporation, protesting the diseases of capitalism. Of course, “paradox” only exist if I see things as binary, black and white. In Netflix’s Une Fille Facile (An Easy Girl), a billionaire who also invests in art claims he is an anarchist. Anarchist don’t care about money; it is easier to not care about money if you’re rich.
Lonely Planet rated Project Art House as Top Choice. While they are great, I think Chichu Art Museum deserves more of such rating. I did not know who Tadao Ando is or even the term “brutalist” when I first came to Naoshima. My first impression of Chichu reminded me of the Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum in Berlin. It looks like James Bond’s supervillain’s secret headquarter; felt like entering Cloud Atlas’ Sonmi scenes or The Matrix. The architecture is designed to adopt natural lights, therefore different weather will give visitors different experience. Ours was cloudy and rainy. The atmosphere was somber but I was ecstatic. The coldness and the barrenness—the brutal simplicity—seem to stir my consciousness; that feeling when you feel “at home”.
The subsequent exploration of the island was hazy. I consumed—no, I was consumed by—art. It is difficult to compartmentalise my experience in a linear timeline, but I remember the clarity of a life fully lived for that brief moment. Claude Monet’s Water Lilies paintings and the brutalist impression of a Spanish neighbourhood “Time/Timeless/No Time” are in Chichu. But in which museum I saw the “Banzai Corner” installation—Ultramen and Ultrawomen rising hands to the sky, the traditional Japanese salutation to the Emperor, lined up as a constellation of red-silver (the colours of Ultraman) dots creating a perfect circle? “The World Flag Ant Farm”? “100 Live and Die”? Where did we stopped for a coffee and lunch and bought a miniature “Shipyard Works: Cut Bow and Stern with Hole” from the gachapon vending machine?
Some of the installations, such as Turrel’s “Open Field”, require visitors to take off their shoes before entering. All require respectful silence as when one enters an Oriental shrine, a temple, or a mosque.
Photography is not allowed inside the museums and most indoor areas. Flying drones in the island is also prohibited. This is to promote enjoyment of the art. Social media has made many of us experience life with Instagram eye. The artworks in Naoshima are mostly three dimensional, one need to be there in person to savour them. (There are, of course, commercial reasons to prohibit photography: intellectual property protection and exclusivity. Fewer images present on the internet gives the island the aura of a Secret Garden; nudging people’s curiosity to come spending their yens in the island.)
My legs were sore from walking and bus hopping. The tiredness helped induce a transcendent state of mind. After dinner at Tsutsujiso, we had time to catch a bus to Miyanoura and took a bath at I Heart You sento. A few days before I experienced traditional onsen bath at Iwaso Ryokan in Miyajima, where wood is the main element in subdued colours exterior and interior design. I Heart Yu is the contemporary opposite: neon coloured plastic dominates. The exterior looks like a brothel. The men’s changing room is decorated with Middle Eastern illuminations of Turkish bath and clippings of retro 60s-70s advertisements. A life size elephant statue stands on the wall dividing the men’s and women’s baths.
I was the only gaijin that night. I read that many foreign tourists are reluctant to experience Japanese communal bath. The idea to be bare naked with other men is so alien to many cultures, especially Asian. I grew up in a home and a culture with strict views on sexual taboos. I also have a body image issue; I always worry if I look good enough. I am self-conscious being topless, even at the beach or by the pool; I take off or put on my underwear under the cover of towel in gym changing room. I am still shy being naked in front of my intimate partner (unless I am with erection). However, I Heart Yu was not my first nudist bathing: I went to a sento bath with my brother in Kyoto (awkward—we had not seen each other naked as adults) and shared onsen with my coworkers in a hotel under Mount Fuji for an office outing (super awkward—there was my boss). So I was more relaxed. I soaked in the hot water, feeling the release of tense muscles, and enjoyed the atmosphere. I observed other patrons of the bath (not staring): a guy has bushy hairs on his legs and pubic areas, but smooth like a dolphin on his upper body; an old man’s wrinkled flat ass seems to foretell how I will look in my senior years (if I live long enough).
My Norwegian friend told me that communal shower was common in his school year. It taught that bodies come in different shapes and sizes, not just the advertising driven standards of beauty. Only few people can have that Hollywood chiseled six pack abs. Also, nudity is not always about sex. I guess onsen and sento are a good way to to rewire my mind on body image issues.
I was the only one with tattoos. Many sento and onsen still refuse entry to people with tattoos. The body art is associated with the yakuza. However, I Heart Yu welcomes tattoos. Rather than imposing corporeal restrictions, the place only refuse entry to “members of an organised crime”.
Watching the steams and the water droplets condensing on the ceiling , knowing well I was protected from the cold of a winter night, ended the day with the satisfaction of an exploration. I Heart You is also designed by Otake. It is run by locals with a day job; they make sure the bath is always clean and the water temperature constant. I was grateful to them all for such a fine intimately indulging establishment.
We waited for the last bus to Tsutsujiso at Shioya Diner, a vintage rock ’n roll themed eathouse. We had a great night sleep in our caravan from the calmness brought by a hot bath and hot sake.
I Heart Yu sento
The sun was shining bright on our second day in Naoshima. Making the island and the modern artworks, both exterior of buildings and outdoor installations ripe for photography. The walk around the Benesse House was pleasant and made me glad I was alive. I know it is a privilege to contemplate on my existence. Sentiency is a burden, but it is also a gift. I think art helps me to appreciate the fact that I am a thinking animal.
We left the island by ferry from Miyanomura Port, where Yayoi Kusama’s Red Pumpkin greet and bid farewell to the visitors of the island. I wanted to take a photograph of it, but decided against it because there were too many tourists taking pictures of the installation. People began to flock the island for the Christmas Eve, we got our timing right to come before. So I just waited at the waiting area.
I heard Christmas carols, but sung in Japanese. It was the local choir, some of them are senior local citizens. Christianity remains a cult in this archipelago despite its popularity elsewhere. During the Toyotomi and Tokugawa period, the Kiristan were persecuted. I remember a short story set in feudal Japan by Ryunosuke Akutagawa “Dr. Ogata Ryosai: Memorandum”:
A Christian mother begged a Buddhist doctor to treat her sick and dying daughter. The doctor refused to treat her because she vilified non-Christians, including the doctor, as heretics and devil worshippers. Medicine is a merciful art, but the doctor was afraid of the punishment of his gods and Buddhas. Therefore, unless the mother renounces her Christian faith, he could not examine her daughter. The mother gave in; she renounced Jesus and stepped on her kurusu (cross necklace). However, the daughter died even after receiving medical treatment. She was furious and frustrated because she believes that she will not be able to go to heaven to meet her daughter when she dies.
How burdensome can faith be.
The Japanese rendition of Silent Night and other Christmas songs are a testament to the beauty of modern democratic society: the freedom of belief (and unbelief). Too bad the roar of oncoming boat’s engine obscured the choir.
We boarded the ferry. I stayed on the observation deck, watched the Naoshima’s landscape until it was out of sight. The winter wind chill sent me back to the passengers’ cabin.
Post trip notes
Now I know why I am fascinated by East Asia, specifically Japan. Hermann Hesse in Singapore Dreams posit that Asia represents paradise lost: the primeval forests; the primitive civilisations; and the superstitions represent something childlike and innocent (as opposed to European enlightenment’s rationalism, materialism, and industrialism).
The discontent arising from excess consumerism, the existential crisis caused by the newfound prosperity—the spiritual deprivation from the unveiling dogma by scientific knowledge; the status anxiety brought by the so-called meritocratic capitalist society—make modern persons fall to the golden age syndrome. Idealising simpler way of lives, ergo the exoticism of the Orient and the European obsession to the classics.
Japan is industrialised and modern. They have understood the need to preserve their ancient heritage, but they do not overly romanticised it. The East Asians are not apologetic to progress. They refused to satisfy the Western stereotypes of “traditional” cis “primitive” Asian people. Adopting capitalism and consumerism with glee. Therefore, suffering similar maladies: inequality, alienation, isolation, and the general meaninglessness of existence.
Many Asians, therefore, also seek refuge in Oriental Spiritualism. However, the line between spiritual and supernatural are thin and obscure. People who are anti-Old Age religions and suspicious to New Ageism (like me) tend to be skeptical to metaphysical claims. Yet I cannot deny that there is an existential—no, a survival—urgency to give meaning; to make life worth living and to make sense of our experience. Modern art gives that spiritual fulfilment without the need to make or submit to any metaphysical claims; enjoyable even without exerting my reasoning faculty (cf. philosophy).
Something changed inside me after my visit to Naoshima. It was a secular pilgrimage to a non-religious holy site. The prophets and saints and gods of atheism are philosophers, artists, and scientists. Ando is the pontifex maximus of the Naoshima “sacred” island. To borrow from Koil’s Mendekati Surga lyrics, he is “the architect who baptises consciousness”.
A crowd was gathering in the front yard of a house, despite the pandemic. There were a cow and a goat. A man was digging a hole. Big knives, ropes, and a plank were being laid out. They were going to perform the sacrificial ritual of Abraham: the qurban.
I remember seeing my first qurban. We had the slaughter in our front yard. I was six or seven. The goat’s desperate bleating. The hissing air and gurgling blood of opened thorax. After that I could not watch the qurban ritual.
God tested Abraham’s faith by ordering him to sacrifice his only son Ishmael. When he dutifully performed God’s instructions, God exchanged Ishmael with a sheep. God favoured them both for their obedience.
…
The sacrificial animal will guide the donor in his journey in the Mashar desert. The faithfuls will join the caravan of Muhammad on their way to paradise. The wicked and the unbelievers will be lost and scattered under the heat of scorching suns.
Sacrificial rituals are common cultural motifs. The Vikings slit open the bowels of a slave at weddings.The Aztecs took the hearts of their enemies to have their blood fuel the Sun. The God of Abraham sent his son to be crucified to redeem mankind.
“The qurban was progressive. It ended human sacrifices,” a liberal Muslim scholar argued. “The meat is distributed among the poor. The essence of qurban is the charity aspect. Therefore, modern Muslims can skip slaughtering cattles at their home or local mosque or town square—a public health risk and substandard live animal treatment.”
I am no longer religious, but I still eat meat. I am aware of the sentience of the cattle and the concentration camp-like factory farms. But the dry-age steaks; the bacon; the mutton curries; the lamb shanks; and the tonkatsu donburi, made me look away.
If I have the stomach to eat them, I should have the stomach to watch them die.
So I stayed; witnessed the qurban.
The ropes were tied to the cow’s legs. Four men tended the ropes. The cow mooed and struggled. The butcher prayed with a knife in his hand. The goat bleated, knowing it would share the same fate as the cow.
The crowd was chanting the takbir. The spectacle became a ritual. The dullness of everyday life was suspended by death. The satiation of Sapiens’ carnal bloodlust.
2019 Holiday Season was coming. We wanted to experience winter, ergo to travel to Northern hemisphere country. Outside ASEAN. With our abysmally weak Indonesian passports, we needed to apply visa. The basic requirement for a visa is to provide proof of sufficient funding to pay for our travel expenses. Typically, we must demonstrate that we have cash in the sum of the entire travelling costs deposited in our bank account for three months. We didn’t have liquid cash reserve because I resigned from my job in 2019.
Our friends, who have travelled to Georgia, told us that Georgian visas do not require applicants to provide evidence of financial means in the submission (the immigration officer may ask when entering, but rarely happens). Visa applications can be made online. The visa processing time by Georgian Ministry of Foreign Affairs is 5 business days. My visa was issued within 4 business days after payment, well within the timeline. However, I was worried because my partner’s visa was issued within 20 minutes. Perhaps because she is a woman, therefore considered less likely to be a violent criminal or terrorist.
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The exoticism of Communism and everything Soviet
Georgia was a part of the Soviet Union. This was where the Bolsheviks experimented to create a communist utopia: a world with no inequality. Perhaps, ultimately, a world with no need for money. A grand beautiful idea. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the ideology failed. The Soviet Union collapsed. The Yugoslav Republic dissolved. The People’s Republic of China turned to state/centralised capitalism. Vietnam is open for global business. In Georgia, I learned the disillusions and paradox of communism and the people who lived under a totalitarian 20th century empire.
I read in Svetlana Alexievich’s Secondhand Time: The Last of The Soviets that in the Soviet Union you were not allowed to own posh houses and luxury cars, yet you were allowed to own a lot of books. Everyone received the same salary. Jobs were assigned and housing provided by the government. Poverty was not a condition to be ashamed of (everyone was equally poor).
In a society that does not worship wealth, intellect was a staple social currency. Therefore, reading books was equivalent to selling or making money in capitalist societies. Paradoxically, the Soviet Regime was a totalitarian thought police. Critical thinking were privilege reserved for the party’s elites and scientists. Censorship was the norm. The common Soviet intellectuals and dissenters had to resort to samizdat (reproduced publications, often by hand, circulated from reader to reader) to read illegal or censored materials which were considered anti-revolutionary, such as The Gulag Archipelago.
However, censorship in a way is a cultural propaganda curation. The cultural committee vetted cultural production and dissemination. The committee may be politically biased but at least their members have certain degree of qualifications and taste—unlike the common market which curation/manipulation is driven by advertising. While many great ideas and artworks became inaccessible due to Soviet censorship, many cultural rubbish—the byproducts of capitalism (e.g. petit bourgeois lifestyle magazines, soap operas, the so-called reality shows)—were prevented to be served to the public.
I grew up in Indonesia under the New Order Regime, a right wing military dictatorship of General Suharto. A regime supported by the CIA in the coup against Soekarno’s Old Order Regime—which was friendly to the Soviet and anti-West. Suharto rose to power by purging communism in Indonesia. Through my childhood and adolescent, I was indoctrinated with anti-communist propaganda.
“Those communists are godless and evil! They are enemies of god and religion! They torture people. Under their rule, you have to share your wives with other men!” Such is the surface level narratives which teachers and adults told children, including to justify the systematic massacre of thousands of communists; their sympathisers; and everyone suspected to be affiliated with them in 1965. (The success of the CIA backed counter revolutionary measure—the 1965 Purge—employed by the New Order government cannot be understated. The measure was then dubbed as the Jakarta Method, repeated among others in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil.) Until now, being apologetic of the 1965 Purge or showing any sympathy for the victims would be branded as unpatriotic.
Books and films with communist or socialist messages were banned; imports and circulations of Russian and Chinese literatures, regardless of the content, were restricted. Left leaning writers were made political prisoners or liquidated. Every 30 September, the national television broadcasted Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI, the propaganda docudrama filmon the failed coup by the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, the PKI). The film depicts the kidnapping, torture, and killing of seven generals by the PKI apparatus. (From a filmmaking perspective, the film is well made. I think the film successfully incepted Indonesians’ psyche on how evil and cruel the communists were.)
Bourgeoise narratives were promoted through art or entertainment media, emphasising on individuality and personal liberty. We were sold the imitation of American dream: the Indonesian dream. Best represented by Catatan si Boy. Boy is the archetype of Jakarta hunk (portrayed by 90s heartthrob Onky Alexander). The ideal male drives a Ferrari or other luxury sports car. . He frequents the nightclubs with his bloke friends and sexy girlfriends, but doesn’t drink alcohol; never forgets his shalah; and refrains from pre-marital sex. He’s fierce at street brawls yet smart at school. His political dynasty/business tycoon family own mansions with swimming pools in Jakarta and Los Angeles. Americanised yet true to his Indonesian pribumi Muslim heritage. Miami Vice luxury sans its vices.
Growing up in petit bourgeoispribumi Muslim of Javanese feudalistic family heritage, supplemented with American blockbuster films; propaganda news; quizzes; Indonesian soap operas (the sinetron, abbreviation of sinema elektronik); Mexican telenovelas; and MTV music videos, made socialism an alien idea to me. Hollywood’s 80s and 90s action flicks I consumed antagonised the communists and the Soviets—the Russians and the Eastern Europeans in general. I was not familiar with the Greek Church, as the Indonesian government only recognises the Latin and the German Churches’ versions of Christianity as the state’s official religions.
Georgia, therefore, is exotic for me as a Western educated atheist Muslim Indonesian: The second Christendom; the Western frontier of the Silk Road; an ex-Soviet East European country leaning to the EU and NATO. This is where the foreign and unfamiliar myths converge: Orthodox Christianity, the East-West divide, communism, and the modern humanist economic and military international organisations.
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Arrival
We arrived in Shota Rustaveli Tbilisi International Airport in the morning. The officer in the passport control booth took her time when checking my travel documents. She discussed something with her colleagues.
I was a little worried. I have this assumption that East Europeans have tendency to be racist, especially toward brown people/Muslims. I am not saying there is no racism in the West, but they discuss it openly and fiercely there. An issue discussed is half addressed. The West, at least, has a certain level of political correctness to mitigate outright racist treatments.
Historically and geographically, Georgia is surrounded by Muslim countries and there have been violent conflicts with its neighbouring countries. Some with religion as the underlying or justifying element. Furthermore, Georgia is not a favourite destination to immigrate (not a first world and not an English or French speaking country), therefore—I assume—not exposed much to multiculturalism and diversity.
The immigration officer stamped my passport, and gave me a bottle of red wine with the following welcome note (emphasis added):
“Gamarjoba Dear Guest,
You’ve only stepped on our land—the birthplace of wine and you already know our most important word—‘Hello’.
Georgia is a foodie heaven so size bigger pants [sic] might come in handy. Here you’ll meet people who wear their heart on their sleeve. Hospitality is our second name, so receive this gift as a sneak peek of what’s to come.
Wish you a pleasant stay and see you around!
Regards,
Georgia”
Georgia is a wine producing country. In fact, it claims as the origin of wine. They still maintain the traditional qveri wine making for more than 8,000 years. Georgian culture insists on hospitality. There is a Georgian proverb: “A guest is a gift from God.”
The immigration wine was our first taste of Georgian wine and hospitality, which made us feel more than welcomed. Perhaps the immigration officers were discussing whether it would be offensive to give a visitor from the largest Muslim country (therefore, likely to be a Muslim) an alcoholic drinks?
We bought a 4G nano SIM card for our smartphones at the airport. We chose the MAGTI because, according to Lonely Planet, it has the widest coverage around Georgia. The booth staff helped us with the paperworks, which are in Georgian, so we could just sign them (if the documents were admission of guilt or acknowledgement of debt, I would never know). She also helped us with the phone settings. Each of us bought 5 GB data plan. It was enough to last for two weeks of heavy use of Instagram, Google Maps, and Bolt (a ride hailing app). Wifi is widely available.
We booked an airport transfer from our Airbnb Superhost Besik. Usually, we prefer to take public transport to save money and for social diving. However, we anticipated we would be tired after the long flight from Jakarta with a layover in Doha.
We got more than we bargained. The cost was much cheaper from airport transfer in Jakarta. Besik himself picked us up, with his Camry. The best part of the deal is to know him personally.
Georgia is a small country but offers so much for travellers with its Caucasian landscapes and Eurasian culture. We planned to spend 6 nights in Tbilisi, including day trips to Gori and Davit Gareja; 2 nights in Kazbegi; 3 nights in Sighnagi; 3 nights in Borjomi with a day trip to Vardzia. However, we had to change our itineraries since I had an accident in Kazbegi. I broke my left ankle. Certain destinations such as Davit Gareja and Vardzia were not accessible for travellers with disability.
Tbilisi is the base for traveling within Georgia unless you self drive. Most roads and rails connecting the country pass through Tbilisi. Before we arrived, we thought we would brave the mashrutkas (minivans). But then their schedules are not too reliable and renting a car with a driver for intercity transport is not expensive. There are many drivers offering such service.
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Tbilisi
Concrete communism era grey building blocks. Brutalist monuments. Sepia old churches, old houses, and fortresses. Bombed with colourful graffiti and artisan shops. Not swarmed (yet) with the excess of consumerism; fast food chains and fast fashion retailers kept at minimum (we only saw one Starbucks outlet, one McDonald’s, and one H&M). Tbilisi has that Soviet gritty cultured charm.
We ended up spending 9 nights instead in Tbilisi due to my fractured ankle. The capital is not the friendliest city for disabled travellers by European standards, but still the friendliest in Georgia. Even that was not too long to stay in and explore the City of Joy and tasted the best of Georgian experience. Maybe I am a city boy after all.
Tbilisi’s metro system is not that efficient. If you are staying near the central area, the main sights are reachable by walking. But do take the metro if you’re like me: a traveller who takes public transport to get the feel of a city. The stations have the bohemian charms: the rusty entry-exit gates, creaky old escalators which take you slowly to the deep bunker-like underground platforms, the brutalist bust of a national hero, the absence of advertisements, and they are surprisingly clean compared to London’s and Paris’—despite the shabby looks.
Marjanishvili Metro Station
Airbnb designer’s flats in Tbilisi are marvellous (and cheap). We stayed in four different flats within or near the city centre, but never in the Old Town. All flats are testament to Tbilisians general good taste.
Our first accommodation is a two storied flat (Besik’s) near the Saarbriucken Square. The flat is in a shabby housing compound at Tkviavi dead end alley. The only modern minimalist flat among the neighbouring old houses. The first floor has a living room and kitchen. The bedroom and the bathroom are on the second floor. The toilet is equipped with a bidet. A great selling point for Asians. The balcony would be a nice place to sit in warmer months.
The real steal was our last minute Airbnb booking when we changed our itineraries : two bedroom flat, with a drawing room and a reading room with a fireplace, at Dimitri Uznade Street. Its balcony has a view of the ferris wheel of Mtatsminda Mountain. The centre of the drawing room is only furnished with a carpet—the chairs and sofas, and a lovely desk where you can work—are at the corner; creating a spacious yet intimate feel. It was nice to sit and recline on the carpet with a bottle of wine (or two—or more—you’re in Georgia). If you’re feeling social, you can invite people for a small party in that drawing room. The bathroom has a vintage metal tub to complete the brutalist design.
Tbilisi’s main attractions are theatres, museums, exhibition galleries, bookshops, parks, churches and castles, artisan shops, hip restaurants and bars. Tbilisi is a hipsters’ (and cultured snobs’) paradise.
On our first day, we walked past the Dry Bridge Market. Stalls selling antiques and trinkets, including Soviet memorabilia. We were visiting on a weekday; I read weekends are more exciting there. In any case, it was the appetiser for our trip.
My favourite Tbilisi experience was Zurab Tsereteli Museum of Modern Art. There was a special exhibition on Halla bint Khalid’s works: Tasleemah paintings and A Wife is… A Husband is… (AWI-AHI) installations. Tasleemah focuses on Halla’s experience in her Hajj—she painted what she observed during her pilgrimage. While AWI-AHI is a satirical collection of modified household objects representing marriage relationships.
Halla is a female Saudi artist. She has illustrated many Saudi children’s books and her works often depict the lives of Saudis. The encounter with Halla at the MOMA debunked my initial prejudice (that there is no effort to discuss issues of xenophobia, particularly racism against Muslims).
Halla also represents the progressive social evolution in Saudi. Many Saudis subscribe to Wahabbism/Salafism, the strictest school of thought in Sunni Islam. Under this doctrine, Muslims are prohibited to create images with the likeness of God’s creation. Halla’s paintings are not iconoclast and she is a woman. It was only recently that women are allowed to drive. Imagine the glass ceilings she needed to break to pursue her career as an illustrator-painter-sculptor.
Halla is privileged to have parents who are supportive to her talents. During the Hajj, she did not follow the traditional Hajj rituals; she made sketches. However, her mother understood that was the way she prays. Her family’s wealth allows them to invest in her art education. Some of her chauffeurs and servants became the muses for paintings on Saudi life.
The permanent exhibition’s collection focuses on Zurab Tsereteli. The Soviet Tbilisi-born artist seems take most of his inspirations from Bohemian Europe. The time when Europeans experimented with sexual liberations. One of this most captivating sculptor is the Apple of Love, exhibited at the MOMA’s garden. The metal dome depicts the sexuality of many cultures—from European nymphs and fairies engaging in Dionysian orgy with satyrs to Indian Kama Sutra positions. Tsereteli’s favourite artists, of which he made full body sculptures, are Marc Chagall; Henri Matisse; Amedeo Modigliani; Pablo Picasso; Henri Rousseau; Vincent van Gogh; and the Georgian maestro Niko Pirosmani. Charlie Chaplin is also the muse for his paintings.
It is fascinating that artists can produce art whether they live in a closed or an open society. The permanent and special exhibitions at the MOMA are another testament of the transcendental nature of art.
Alain de Botton in Religion for Atheists posits that museums are temples for the atheists (they serve the same purpose: people come to congregate and marvel at something higher than their daily existence and the rich donates their money to). Therefore, I prayed at MOMA. Through Zurab and Halla and other modern artists enshrined in that museum.
Niko Pirosmani’s works are exhibited at The National Gallery. When we dropped by, there were a group of toddlers celebrating a birthday. They made drawings imitating Pirosmani’s paintings, which are childlike. Tbilisians cultural taste are developed at early stages of life. The graphic novel adaption of Shota Rustaveli’s The Knight in the Panther’s Skin is sold here. Unfortunately, no English version was available.
I also visited The Georgian National Museum. I was most interested in the Soviet Occupation Hall. I had expected that the narratives would be very partisan (anti-Soviet and subtly anti-Russia); portraying members of the Georgian aristocracy and the clergy, the usual targets of communist revolutions, as martyrs. I would not mind partisanship as long as they make good stories. But, unfortunately, the exhibitions were not too helpful in explaining the context for me, who was uninitiated with Soviet history. For example, there was a wooden train car full of bullet holes; it was barraged with a Maxim machine gun. While it was cool to see and touch the exhibits (the car and machine gun), the information provided was only “Georgian patriots massacred by the Checkists.” (I did not know that “Checkist’ is the term for Lenin era Soviet secret police).
The anti-Russian sentiments are understandable. The Soviet Union, despite its ideal to be an institution for all humanity, was ruled mostly by the Russians (except Joseph Stalin, who was a Georgian).
While the Union emphasised on equality for all humankind, racism existed. As in its western counterpart, whiteness was also seen as superiority. Until now, churka (the derogatory term for anyone from the Caucasus region who are not or less white than the typical blonde Russians) is still used as racial slur in Russian.
The Georgians and other ex-Soviet Caucasian nations also have their share of racism. After the fall of the Soviet empire, racial tensions exploded into crimes against humanity. The Georgians with the Abazkhazian; the Azeris and the Armenians; the Chechens and the Russians, massacring each other in ‘us-and-them’ frenzies.
During the Soviet times, Georgia was made to supply wine for the entire empire and became their vacation destination (Soviet citizens were not allowed to travel outside Soviet territory without special permit) hence dubbed as the ‘Soviet Riviera’. Until now many ignorant Russian tourists treat Georgia merely as a holiday destination, a playground. Often acting rude and inconsiderate, as some Western tourists in Thailand or Bali.
When Georgia declared independence from the Union, the Russian punished them by cutting off electricity supply which resulted in the post-Soviet blackout era. A period of scarcity and lawlessness in Georgia when it was not unusual for a schoolboy to carry a firearm (e.g. Besik our Airbnb superhost). Later, the Russians supported the Ossetians separatist movement. In 2003, the Russians bombed Georgia and occupied South Ossetia (until now).
The National Museum also has a collection of artefacts from ancient kingdoms of Georgia; Georgian flora and fauna; and the protohumans. Worth visiting for people interested in anthropology and archeology.
After more than 3 hours in the museum, we took a break and had coffee at Prospero’s Books, the first English bookshop in Tbilisi. I bought Charles Bukowski’s Essentials. I am not much of a poetry guy. However, the raw Beatnik appeal of Bukowski had me at the first poem. I have been his fan ever since.
The warmth of the heater and the coffee, the quiet of the reading room and the afternoon stillness, made drowsy. So I took a nap. After recharging by pondering on all things abstract, and observing Tbilisian intellectuals, we went to the cable car station.
We wanted to go to the Narikala Fortress.
View from the Narikala Fortress
However, the cable car was closed for a film shoot. At first I was upset, but in travel as in life you have to be adaptable (and it was not some serious event). So we walked uphill to the Fortress. We walked past and around the Old Town, making mini detours following our curiosity.
Went inside the Sioni Cathedral and saw Orthodox prayer in session; with chants and liturgical music. It was the first time I saw an Orthodox religious rite.
I bought an image of Saint George the Dragonslayer at Basilica Anchiskati. The church lady asked if I am a Catholic. Maybe she thought I was a Pinoy. (We have met tourists with South East Asian looks at the airport and in downtown Tbilisi. I tried to guess which country they are from, until they speak Tagalog. I don’t think Georgia is popular yet with South East Asians—definitely not among Indonesians—but it seems there are enough Filipinos coming for Georgians to notice. A beggar greeted me, “Mabuhai! Viva la Duterte!”)
We missed the English performance of a marionette play in Rezo Gabriadze Theatre. So we just held a vigil before the Clock Tower to see the mechanical angel strike the bell of the hour. In the age of portable atomic timekeepers connected to the internet, when almost everyone has access to know the precise time of the day, seeing an old dilapidated local timekeeping device was a romantic experience.
When we reached the Fortress, the sun was setting. We saw Tbilisi at the golden hour and the lighting up of the City of Joy from the walls. I trespassed to the highest tower, where a giant cross is erected. The view was not much different, but I felt like a badass for taking the risk of falling over when climbing the tower and getting caught (those stupid thrills induced by toxic masculinity).
The film shoot was finished after our visit to Narikala and we could take the cable car back to the city. The ride gave us a bird-eye view of the Old Town.
We visited Fabrika to close our night. The building complex was a Soviet sewing factory, now converted into a hipster mecca: burgers, Asian food, bars, coffee shops, bookshops, and other shops with the ‘artisan’ word. A designer hostel; graffiti bombed walls; old cars; and derelict yet functioning furnitures completed the atmosphere.
We did chacha shots at Moulin Electrique Fabrika, a bar with edgy interior design. It was the weekend, the bar was full of young Tbilisians. None of them is out of style. We were the only three foreigners (the other one is an American black guy, I presumed from his accent). The server gave extra shots.
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Food
“Life as Georgians is hard. You have to eat and drink a lot.”
—Besik, Airbnb Superhost.
Georgian food is distinctively European but with the spicy flair of Asian taste. Georgian hospitality and wine culture means they take eating and drinking seriously. Supra (feasts) and parties are held regularly.
We took the Culinary Backstreet Tour to understand better Georgian food culture. We met with our guide Kristo at the meeting point. There were only four participants: the two of us and the Israeli-American couple from Atlanta Rebecca and Roni.
The Tour took us to restaurants and stalls serving specialty Georgian food. We started with khachapuri (goat cheese bread) at Sakhacapure N1. Then Kristo took us to the Deserter’s Market. The market got its name because it was where the Georgian soldiers who deserted from the Russian Imperial Army in 1920 sold their military kits. We were explained about Georgian herbs, spices, cheeses, breads, honey and tried some of the produce sold at stalls.
Kristo at Deserter’s Market
We had breakfast before the tour. Bad planning. It was not even lunchtime and I felt very full from the food tastings. I always feel guilty for wasting food so I forced myself to keep eating. Roni shared the same sentiments. I vomited out of overeating, then I ate again. It was an excess, a gastronomic orgy. I was forced to make an exception to my rule of not wasting food as I didn’t want to get sick.
We stopped at two or three more restaurants, I lost track of the names. One of them serves very good khinkali (wonton shaped dumplings). All I remember I was feeling perpetually full and guilty of gluttony. I prefer moderation in consuming food. To stop when I am satiated. To finish the meals served. To be attentive and focused on limited types of food.
Had a wine tasting at Vino Underground. Then we ended the tour with a wonderful dinner at Ezo. The restaurant is really good, we were already full but we could still enjoy the deliciousness of the food. We returned the next day to Ezo and ordered food intentionally when we were hungry. It was more satisfying.
When food is shared, stories are exchanged. We were lucky to have Kristo, Rony and Rebecca on the tour.
Kristo was (or still is) an activist. She participated in the protests and events leading to the 2003 Rose Revolution. Her parents were in the anti-Soviet demonstration of 9 April 1989, the historic demonstration which was violently dispersed by the Soviet Army and radicalised Georgian opposition to Soviet power. The 9 April Tragedy became the catalyst of the Georgian Independence by a referendum in 1991. Kristo complained that young Georgians are apathetic today, “Happy sticking their faces to their [smartphone] screens.”
Rony is a software engineer and Rebecca works in US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). When Georgians asked them where they came from, they said “Georgia, America.”Some are puzzled, and some greeted “Viva Donald Trump!”
The couple have travelled in many interesting parts of the world. It is hopeful to see a married couple with children (and a dog) who can still be adventurous. It demonstrates marriage can be not boring, even when you have children.
Rony is at least trilingual. He speaks English, Hebrew, and Arabic. His grandmother is Moroccan.
When we were served pork dishes at Ezo, I remarked that this is definitely not kosher or halal. Rony told us his adventures travelling in Papua New Guinea right after his national services in the IDF. In Port Moresby, he received an invitation from a government official to attend a cultural event as an effort to promote diplomatic relationship between PNG and Israel. The cultural event was a traditional (tribal) dinner party, where the Papuans roasted a boar in a pit. Perhaps that PNG government official was unaware that Israel has strong Jewish traditions (or their intelligence services have profiled Roni so well that they know he’d be open to such cultural exchange).
Indonesia, the largest Muslim country in the world and a founding member of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation, has no diplomatic relationship with Israel (despite the countries’ strategic military partnership). Anti-semitism does not qualify as hate crime, even culturally acceptable, in Indonesia. There we were, Israeli and Indonesians shared a non-halal/non-kosher food. We had good laughs and enjoyed the food and wine served.
We also tried dinner with a local family. Our hosts were Mari and Levan, a Tbilisian couple. You can choose to join the food preparation, but since we were not much of cooks we just opted for dinner only. Their apartment is located outside Tbilisi, a typical Soviet housing block where you need to insert coins to use the lift. They told us that during the fall of the Soviet Union, many people took advantage of the privatisation of land and properties. However, their parents were too honest to claim more than their actual lawful rights for their housing needs.
Mari and Levan are in their mid-and late twenties. They were not in school yet during the post-Soviet blackout. They said they were glad that they now have choices, unlike their parents during the Soviet times. Back then the government decides everything for you. I contended that, in the so-called free market, choices may be an illusion. You do have freedom of choices, but only to the extent of your capital and buying power.
The food kept coming and the wine flowing. Mari and Levan explained Georgians take hosting as serious social matter. Empty tables and bad wine which causes hangovers would bring shame to the host. Therefore, we did not need to finish everything served (not that it was possible for us). We packed some of the food and had them for breakfast.
Other recommended restaurants we recommend are:
Tiflis Cafe at Zaarbriuken Square: a 24 hour restaurant/sports bar. At first, I was sceptical of any cheap place which serves food and drinks around the clock. But Tiflis deliver decent Georgian food—especially with their price tags.
Cheveni: we went twice to this restaurant. The star dishes for us are the chicken soup and pumpkin balls. Their home produced chacha is also excellent.
Cheveni
Shavi Lomi(Black Lion): the best Georgian food we had. The spicy sausage was one of the best meals we ever had.
Moulin Electrique Old Town: the first ME before Fabrika with bohemian interior design. Other than drinks, we had lunch of delicious Thai curries.
Entree: a good place to start your day with a French style or continental breakfast.
9 Mta: a good selection of craft beers with decent West European food. They also serve Georgian food.
Piano: in case you miss the comforts of Italian food. The wine served is Georgian though.
Pipes Burgers Fabrika: the staple food for hipsters or any tourist wants to be sure what they are ordering in Georgia. Yes, they use the word ‘artisan’.
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Kazbegi
The ride from Tbilisi to Kazbegi was adorned with Georgian country landscape: arid, rocky, dry forests slowly turned into snow covered terrains as we approached the Caucasus. DJ Besik drove us, played his playlist, negotiating the road against cross-border lorries (many of them Turkish, which explains the roadside halal restaurants). Speed limit is not enforced in Georgia.
We had a grand pit stop for toilet break at Ananuri Castle. You can take a picture with Georgian traditional fur coat and an eagle here, but we were unsure if the animal is treated ethically for such business. In any case, it was a too touristy thing to do. So we passed and just explored the castle with a lake view.
Ananuri Castle
We were staying at Rooms Hotel Kazbegi, one of the best hotels in Europe. With its Soviet turbanza (communal vacation) style design, the hotel gave the false impression of spartan facilities. Yet, it has a 24 hour bar, viewing deck, an outdoor jacuzzi, a spa, an indoor hot water swimming pool, and a casino. Steppenwolf-esque masked luxuries, in which the bourgeois apologetically romanticised proletarian way of lives.
Our check in was seamless. We arrived at 1230, and the check in time was 1500. However, our room was ready upon our arrival. 301 is one of the nicest rooms with a mountain view, they claimed. We got a complimentary bottle of dry red wine since we booked direct.
We had lunch at the restaurant/bar/library. We ordered Georgian chicken soup, pork chop and pumpkin salad for lunch. Then coffee and Soviet cake, medok, as dessert. None of the library books are in English, they are all in Russian and Georgian (maybe most of the guests who stay are Russians). Good thing we brought our own books. I continued reading Narcissus and Goldmund;intermittently I played my smartphone—curating my Instagram posts and reviewing my past posts.
The best thing to do in Kazbegi is to gaze at the mountain. Either you are just sitting in your room or the viewing deck, swimming in the pool; having your coffee in the morning or drinking chacha and wine at night (time of the drinks may be adjusted according to your personal taste); dining in the restaurant. Watching the colours of the sky and the earth change according to the time of the day is the journey and the destination when visiting Kazbegi.
“I woke up like this,” Rooms Hotel Kazbegi
I woke up before dawn and saw the mountain in the blue hour. Waited and meditated on the sunrise with its golden glory. I listened to Coldplay’s Sunrise and Suede’s Life is Golden to accompany the awe I was experiencing. I incepted and moulded the visual and auditory sensations to my consciousness; those two songs became the cues for the memories of the mountain. A torrent of grateful reflections came to my mind.
We went to the only landmark in the area, the Gergeti Trinity Church up in the mountain. You can walk from the hotel for about an hour or ask for a 4WD transport (like we did). There was a funicular from Gergeti Village built during the Soviet era, but the locals destroyed it to protect the church from over-tourism.
The view from the church is grand at any time of the day, so we timed our visit just before lunch when it was less crowded (the day-trippers usually come in the morning and leave before lunch).
On the way to and from the church, the road was covered in ice and snow. There is a stopover place for pedestrians with a lovely wooden bench. The thick snow fascinated me—another exoticism for tropical human. I asked the driver to pullover and crossed the slippery icy road to take pictures. Took some pictures (and a self portrait using the remote shutter button).
I was over excited for the snow and joyfully jumping around when crossing back to the car. Needless to say, I was overconfident of my coordination and underestimated the slippery icy road. I fell down. I knew how to break my fall and I did. However, the ice made me unable to lift my left leg when I was doing so. My left ankle was twisted.
I did not break my camera I was holding, but I knew I hurt my ankle. I was hoping it was only a sprain, however it was a fracture. I could not walk unassisted for the rest of the trip and the injury forced us to change our itineraries.
Of course, it made our travel much more difficult. My hands were tired from using the crutches despite I am physically fit with good upper body strength. Taking a shower or going to the toilet was such a hassle. Many times I wished to go home or just stay in our room. But I got the chance to be empathetic to disabled travellers and appreciate Dinda as my travel companion who carried most of our weights as well as the hospitable Georgians who lent us assistance, especially Besik (he transported us to a good hospital in Tbilisi; used his connection to cut the red tape in getting a prompt medical treatment by a good orthopaedic, who happens to be his friend; got us an emergency accommodation in Tbilisi; drove us and even pushed me around on wheelchair to see Jvari, Mtskhesa and Gori).
It was also the first time we had to use our travel insurance. We bought it from Worldnomads. I have to say I am pretty satisfied with their services. Despite the glitch on their website when making a claim; slow response from customer service due to the holiday season; and onerous paperworks, in the end they reimbursed all expenses related to the incident—including the transport costs as well as the purchase of a pair of crutches and a wheelchair.
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Kakheti: the wine region
The perks of being a Soviet.
Communal living, guaranteed income, and limited entertainment meant people had time to get together (instead of working, hustling, to make money all or most of the time). Friends visited each other, went campings, attended poetry readings, cinemas, and play (Cf. Dining alone and watching unreal realty shows on widescreen television or handheld devices—of course, you’d be better off watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians rather than being accused of subversive or dissent activities, interrogated and tortured, then sent to gulag and/or executed/unperson-ed).
I had the impression that many people living in the Kakheti Region enjoyed those perks. We based ourselves in Sighnaghi for exploring Kakheti. The Town of Love (some call it City of Love but I think the size does not merit Sighnaghi to be called a city) is a beautiful quaint town overlooking Alazani Valleys and the Caucasus Mountains with 18th and 19th centuries architectures buildings.
Sighnaghi
There are plenty of good and cheap guesthouses in Sighnaghi (Lonely Planet recommends travellers to stay at guest houses for local experience, rather than overpriced and impersonal hotels). We stayed at Zandarazhvili Guesthouse, ran and owned by the Zandarazhvilis. We booked via email, the response time was slow (similar speed for all guesthouses—blame it on language barrier and the relaxed atmosphere of the region) but we got reservation confirmation eventually. No advance payment needed.
We were given an ensuite room on the ground floor because of my broken ankle. The room is basic, a little bland compared to designer flats in Tbilisi, but clean. The room rates can include breakfast and dinner, which gave us the local experience Lonely Planet is talking about.
We were served delicious homemade Georgian food (so fresh that the vegetables came from their garden and the matriarch even butchered one of her piglets for us). Free flow house wine and chacha are available 24/7. We always dine in the common area, where the Zandarazhvilis get together. They showed us family pictures from Soviet times; one of them is a big family picnic as idyllic as in French films.
Since the Zandarazhvilis’ home cooked meals are great, we only ate out at Pheasant’s Tears. The food, wine and chacha there are excellent. On our first dinner there, I was sad due to my disabled condition, even the wonderful wine could not curb such a feeling. A cute blonde drunk American girl who was wine tasting came to me, told me she liked my hair and gave me a high five. Those simple words and gestures lifted my mood. I was intoxicated with the wine and her kindness. I wish we had exchanged names. Whoever you are, I thank you.
On our first morning, Guram the patriarch took us to the Bodbe Monastery with his trusty old Toyota 4WD. The monastery is the resting place of Saint Nino, Georgia’s most important saint (her miracle was converting Georgians to Christianity). The complex has more colourful gardens compared to other Orthodox monasteries we visited. The caretakers of the monastery are nuns, not monks.
We had fun observing tourists taking pictures and selfies. There was a group of South Asian middle aged men who travelled together. Their poses are very intimate; two men embracing each other. Hands on each other’s hips. Affectionate, almost sexual, body language and expressions between men in South Asia is common. Learned that in Sri Lanka.
You can walk to the monastery from the town centre. It would have been nice to walk there, but it would take all day with one leg and crutches.
When the bus tours began to crowd, we left the monastery and returned to Sighnaghi. Guram stopped by a hill overlooking the town. A zip line is installed there, one can fly from there to the town centre. Must have been a breathtaking view and thrilling experience. Maybe I would have tried if I was not handicapped, if I can muster the courage.
We were dropped by Guram at the town centre. We wanted to go sightseeing around the town, but Sighnaghi’s elevated terrain and cobbled streets are not friendly for people with disabilities. It was impossible to use a wheelchair and to walk with crutches were too strenuous for me. Therefore, I sat on a park bench near Sighnaghi National Museum and my travelling companion roamed by herself.
The weather was lovely that day. The warmth of the winter sun was comforting: not too hot and not too cold. The golden ray casted shadows from the trees and buildings. Locals were selling Georgian souvenirs, snacks, and trinkets in the park. Taxi drivers were waiting for business to come. A group of Israeli tourists passing by, some bought souvenirs. Two local kids played and stared curiously at me, an alien with crutches. A man drank from the fountain.
I have not heard of David Whyte at that time, but it was one of the moments where one could enjoy A Seeming Stillness; objects move slowly as if they are standing still which gives a calming effect. I almost forgot that my ankle was broken. Being in the open allowed me to enjoy the trip. When I was indoors, I felt trapped and worried about many things related to the injured leg (Can the wheelchair be reimbursed? How much I have spent on the medical costs? How do I report on the first day of working? How do I exercise?).
We visited the museum later. It has the second largest collection of Pirosmani’s paintings after Tbilisi’s National Gallery. There are also works of other great artists. While wandering the museum, we saw a door leading to the balcony with a valley view. It was locked. A museum staff was walking towards the door and saw us. He opened the door; the balcony is his place for smoke breaks. We had that lost in translation chat while enjoying the view, relying on sign and body languages with intermittent English words. He’s been working for the museum for decades. His son is a pianist. He asked where we are from. He collects money notes from around the world, so we gave him a 5,000 Rupiah note. It was his first Rupiah. Hope he would not be disappointed when he knew it’s just less than 50 cents.
We booked a wine tour from the guesthouse. Our driver was Georgi, one of the Zandarashvilis. A slim quiet twenty something guy. I tried to chat with him, to break the ice. He only replied or answered as asked. I don’t know if it’s the language barrier or he’s just not a chatty driver.
Georgi seemed content with his lot in this wine region. He was married at 18; has children; does the errands ordered by the Zandarshvilis; drives the tourists on wine tours. He played his playlist in the van. Georgian and Russian songs. His favourite singer is Vlad Nezhniyy. I think he’s Russian (and from his album artworks, a nationalist). He has that heavy hoarse vocal, like Louis Armstrong. I searched him on Spotify, Vlad does a lot of cover versions on Sinatra’s songs.
Our first stop on the wine tour was Kvelatsminda Monastery. The path to the monastery is a pebbled walkway, restricted to cars. We had to walk from the parking lot. A struggle since it is not wheelchair accessible; again I had to rely on my crutches.
The struggle was compensated by the view. It was winter, but the weather was autumnal. Dried tree branches, fallen brown and red leaves, under the golden sun shining over the clear blue sky. Always my favourite weather to walk .
When we saw the monastery, the resident dog gave a warm welcome. The resident monk saw my casted leg. He asked if we had a car in broken English. We told him our driver is waiting at the parking lot. The monk went away to the direction of the parking lot and returned with Georgi and our van. We were exempted from no car rule due to my disability.
I thanked the monk and tried to converse with him (in English). But he was either shy or speak very little English or preferred silence and only replied with a vague nod (Georgians are hospitable but not too expressive with their facial cues; living the image of stone cold Soviets).
Kvelatsminda is my favourite monastery in Georgia. The monastery and the surrounding landscape is one of the most beautiful environments I have ever been in. The Orthodox iconographies in secluded woods made the atmosphere primeval.
I took the time to sit on the bench outside, and made sketches of the monastery. Watched the monk sitting at the front of the church with his prayer beads. Looking past his beard and traditional black Orthodox robe, he is quite young. Perhaps still a novice. I wonder why he decided to join the Greek Church. Is it faith and piety? Or did he know that he can be posted in this idyllic monastery (which is better than to be trapped in a sterile cubicle working for a more overtly commercial corporation or a bureaucractic government agency)?
Kvelatsminda Monastery
Then we had our first one tasting in Georgia at Nikolasvhili Winery. We had red and white (golden/amber) wines; chacha and cherry spirits. The proprietors are wonderful hosts. We were shown the wine cellar where they make wines with the qveri method: the fresh grapes are grounded by stomping; the juice (with the pulps) is stored inside the qveri claypot, literally an underground fermentation silo with constant temperature.
It was still AM but we drank, accompanied with generous consumption of cheese and olives. The wine cellar cat sat on my lap. The lady of the winery only spoke Georgian and Russian because she was (or still is) a Soviet. Georgi helped translate. The wines made our communication fluid.
We were intoxicated at the best level when we left the winery. That happy tipsy state, not too drunk nor too sober. I stepped back in my mind and observed this feeling of joy.
‘Just like sadness or other negative emotions, it will not last,’ I thought.
I am not sad by ephemerality anymore. I am even more grateful and savoured the positive feelings while it lasts.
The second stop was the Wine Museum. Our guide Alexandre is a power lifter. He taught us that in Georgian supras, you may be challenged to drink from a horn cup. When drinking from a horn, you’d need to bottoms up because you cannot put it down like a glass. He showed us the ‘small’ one litre horn (for women) and the big intimidating horn. It reminded me of Thor, when he was challenged to drink from a magic horn. He could not finish it, because the mead he drank was actually the sea. Alexandre told us he can only drink one litre of wine from a horn.
It was unfortunate Alexandre could not join us in the practicum session because he was, technically, working. No horn. We can’t even drink 1 litre of water in one go. When he saw Dinda drinking, he told her she’s a good drinker. With practice, she would be able to finish a horn.
We had lunch at Bravo in Telavi, the biggest city in Kakheti. While it has better infrastructures, we think it is best to stay at Sighnaghi for the experience. Unless, of course, you need to do some business.
Georgi had an errand and picked us up an hour later at the restaurant. He was buying a plant for his wife. The convergence of professional and domestic affairs, in which we steal time during our ‘office hours’, are universal.
Our last stop was the Shumi Wine Factory. I was too tired to follow the entire tour around the factory with crutches. So I waited in the garden while Dinda completed the tour. I didn’t miss the wine tasting at the end of the tour (it’s a wine tour!).
We sat with a stylish young couple. They look Georgians, white with raven hairs, but they speak Russian all the time. Most young Georgians I met are reluctant to speak Russian. When they were shown traditional puri baking in a stone oven—in which the baker had to lean his body and dive inside to stick the dough inside—they said ‘It is like how we made it!’. We discovered they are Azeris. I heard that oil rich Azerbaijan is full of moneyed people, but with vulgar taste. This couple broke just that stereotype.
There was supposedly one more stop for the wine tour. However, it was dark already when we left Shomi and we were tired. So we called it a day and had a bountiful dinner at the Zandarashvilis.
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Day trip from Tbilisi: Jvari, Mtskheta and Gori
We arranged a day trip from Tbilisi. Our main destination is Gori, but we stopped by at the Jvari Church and visited Mtskheta.
The Jvari Church is up on the hill, with views of Mtskheta; and Aragvi and Mtkvari rivers intersecting. It was the only cloudy day we had in Georgia, but I can imagine the landscape under the lovely winter sun.
I had to struggle again to reach the church from the parking lot with my crutches, climbing the stone stairs. A South Asian boy tourist, also with casted leg and crutches, shared the same struggle. I smiled at him to encourage both of us.
The church was built in the 7th century to house a large wooden cross, erected by King Mirian after his conversion to Christianity by Saint Nino in the 4th century. I saw Besik praying at the altar of one of the saints. I asked to whom he was praying to. He pronounced the name in Georgian and I could not catch the name (my unfamiliarity with Georgian language and Christian deities did not help). He took his smartphone and Google translated his word to English: Saint Nicholas. I asked why he prayed to Saint Nicholas.
“It is the day,” he answered.
I thought he had a particular matter, of which under Nick’s patronage. Six decades of Soviet rule failed to replace traditional religious spirituality with communist materialism. ROSCOSMOS still maintains its pre-launch ritual dating back to Soviet time: a ceremonial blessing by Orthodox priests (while NASA’s ritual tradition is to play bridge, a game of mathematical probability).
Mtskheta was the ancient capital of Georgia before Tbilisi. It retains its status as the spiritual capital with its Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. Legend has it that the cathedral was built on the burial site Sidonia, who died in a passion of faith when given Jesus’s crucifixion robe.
The streets leading to the cathedral are full of shops, selling souvenirs and snacks. Beggars gathered around the cathedral, anticipating charity from pilgrims and tourists. Besik tried to cart me by wheelchair, but as in Sighnaghi, the cobblestones are not friendly to people with disability. Resourceful as always, Besik negotiated his way to park near the cathedral (which is reserved for the local and shopkeepers). When we concluded our visit, I didn’t have to walk as far as we came.
On our way to Gori, we passed the refugee housing complex for Gori residents who evacuated the town. Gori was bombed and occupied by Russia for ten days in the 2008 South Ossetian War. Such view was a prelude to our main destination for the day trip: the Stalin Museum.
Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin was a poor Gori boy who rose to the rank of Premier of the Soviet Union. He was the underdog in Lenin’s succession; none of the Bolshevik elites would have thought that a thug could have outmanoeuvred Trotsky the charismatic intellectual as Lenin’s successor (or he came to power exactly because of such assumption—the party elites thought he was more controllable compared to the Napoleonic figure). He defeated Nazi Germany (with the help of the Allied Forces—although Hollywood prefers to portray the Red Army as the sidekick). Under his leadership, Soviet Union was transformed from an agricultural country to the space age pioneer and a nuclear superpower (with the help of Soviet scientific prowess, foreign intelligence which successfully stole American researches, and the expendable workforce of political prisoners and criminals in the gulags).
Unfortunately, all the Museum exhibits are only narrated in Georgian and Russian. However, I can still tell that the curation is very partisan; glorifying Stalin as the Man. I looked at young Stalin’s photograph. He was a handsome boy with his raven hair, beards and moustache (I used his hairstyle as reference and showed it to Winda the hairstylist)
“Ideas are far more powerful than guns. We don’t let our people have guns. Why should we let them have ideas?” Stalin’s ultimate maxim.
Stalin is the archetype of a Machiavellist leader. The Prince is pale compared to the Premier. Stalinism was the creme de la creme of dictatorship. He was the most powerful man on earth. Perhaps no one runs a totalitarian regime better than Stalin did (or maybe Xi has surpassed him now with the help of data mining technologies?). He ruthlessly purged his rivals in cunning and brutal ways. He did not just kill. He erased people from history. Before there was Photoshop, his regime altered historical records—photographs and printed materials.
My visit to Stalin Museum was not a homage to him, but to George Orwell. In Animal Farm he prophesied how communism and the Soviet Union would implode—that the party elites and members would become the new ruling class. His opus 1984 warned the dangers of Stalinism (and other forms of totalitarian government) when many the British intellectuals were Russophiles, idolising and idealising Stalin, in post-World War II. The Orwellian terms “Thoughtcrime”; “Newspeak”; “Doublethink”; and “One Minute Hate” represent the tools for systematic policing of thoughts: surveillance and censorship; simplification of language; cognitive dissonance; and us-and-them fear-mongering.
Orwell, to me, is the role model of the Man: a man of words and a man of action. He wrote with such beauty, brevity and clarity, fusing literature with politics (see Why I Write). He lived through poverty and fought with the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. Documented his experience and insights with haunting unsentimental proses devoid of proletarian romanticism or fairy tale heroism—as well as socially and historically accurate (Down and Out in Paris and London and Homage to Catalonia).
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Departure
I wanted to cut the Georgian trip short when I broke my ankle. To just give in to the pain and hassle of exploring with handicapped mobility. I am glad that I didn’t. Instead we did what is required in life: we adapted.
No plan left unchanged. We revised our itineraries, which always happened in our previous travels. We had to forfeit Vardzia, Davit Gareja, Borjomi, and the steam baths of Tbilisi. However, the journey was meaningful because we were capable of letting go. I am grateful that I can fall back on my travelling companion. She carried me all the way—pushed the wheelchair, carried our baggages, waited patiently.
Besik our Superhost friend is a real character. In his previous life, he’s been a traditional dancer for Georgian cultural missions and MMA fighter. Lived his childhood in the post Soviet blackout era, he had to carry a gun for self defence when he was 8 year old (his favourite was Browning High Power, another demonstration of his good taste).
A semi-professional DJ and an amateur snowboarder, Besik left his corporate career in 2016 years ago to start his own hospitality business. His flats are a designer’s love in central Tbilisi (all of his Airbnb properties are designed by him, a self taught interior designer). He is well connected in Tbilisi. His recommendations are top notch.
Besik told me that the Georgian government incentivises the development of tourism business outside Tbilisi. As the former Soviet Riviera, tourism industry supports much of the Georgian economy. Therefore, he and his business partners are applying for government backed loan in establishing a ski resort in Kazbegi. He is a hospitality and real estate entrepreneur.
We can see Besik works hard to run his business. He drives his guests, deals with the contractors renovating his, does the accounts, etc. However, he claims life in Tbilisi is easy.
“It’s a metropolis but people know each other,” he said.
Perhaps the small population of Tbilisi allows urban Georgians to retains the sense of communities which is usually lost in dense crowded cities.
I don’t know if such ease is the norm for Tbilisians or Georgians in general, considering Besik owns several properties. However, we can feel that Tbilisi as the country’s commerce centre is not a busy city. Tbilisi makes room and time for art and culture. Maybe, the Soviet heritage helped shape the good taste of Tbilisians by mitigating consumerist impulses of the now capitalist society. That and a long history of Georgian culture.
Kristo our guide from Culinary Streets said that Georgians are lazy. Maybe, but I know Europeans no longer see workaholic culture as a virtue. Busy is not always productive. There is no point of working yourself to death when you work to make a living. Trading your social engagements, alienating yourself from human connections, just to accumulate more wealth is not a working approach to a good life. However, I know that people who can say that usually, if not always, have sufficient financial groundings. Freedom, after all, has a price tag.
Besik is the manifestation of Georgian hospitality, Soviet grit, Millennial YOLO, and human kindness. We secretly gave him the nickname “Besik-not-basic.” Honouring him as the antithesis of basic bro.
Besik drove us to the airport. On our way, he told us his dream travel destination is Bali. I told him, without any nationalistic bias, that Bali is an excellent choice. Bali would be exotic for him (and it’s still cheaper than Tbilisi). Bali can be a party island or a cultural/spiritual pilgrimage, or both. I’d be happy to give him recommendations and tips. We’d even offer to meet up there if our travel schedule permits (that’s how much we like Besik).
He said he plans to go only with his wife and friends in 2020. I said just drop me an email, a Whatsapp message, or Instagram DM when you do. None of us had any idea that 2019 was the last year of global travel as we know it.
Bapak sent me a picture from 1983 of the Nimun house under construction. The house in which I grew up in.
A Daihatsu 600cc van is on the foreground.
Nimun House, 1983
My earliest memory of life is riding shotgun in that car. It had no air conditioner, it had a latch below the dashboard to let the wind into the cabin for cooling. I remember that, as a baby or a toddler, I gazed at the wind latch and was mesmerised by the optical illusion of the road passing by like a reel of images—as if we were stationary and the world is moving by.
I was too young to have an idea whether the Daihatsu was a nice car or not. No sense of shame in riding on a beat up motor vehicle. All I cared about was the paradox of perceptions; the subject-object dissonance.
I was ignorant of the concept of consciousness. I have not even been introduced to Allah, soul, sin, paradise, and hellfire (or perhaps understood any of those). But I innocently was aware that there is this blurry line between the sense of self and the world.
***
I started meditating in September 2019. I am not sure when I started to remember and be aware again of the subject-object dissonance; the perceptions I had in my earliest memory.
I have been aware of the benefits of Oriental meditations for a long time. However, I didn’t know where to start. I am suspicious of gurus or spiritual teachers. They reek of cults–the non-mainstream organised religions. I am also skeptical with guided meditation apps. Using the smartphone, the main source of distractions of our time, to be more mindful seem to be a counterintuitive approach.
I tried to read The Attention Revolution. The book gives step-by-step instructions on how to meditate. However, it’s like reading a book on riding a bicycle. Not very helpful for me.
I postponed learning to meditate, until I worked for a sociopath and an extremely dysfunctional firm. I have worked for and with bullies and less than pleasant corrupted people, but it was a whole new level of experience (I am a litigator in a jurisdiction with a high corruption index, for your information). The tools I had—the consolations of philosophy and art, the Occidental meditation of journaling—were insufficient to cope with the challenges of that phase.
I got professional help. My therapist recommended the Waking Up app as an additional tool in helping me progress.
I have read Sam Harris’ book with the same title before. I have always been interested in spirituality, but I am prejudiced against religions. Waking Up suits my temperament (its extended title is A Guide to Spirituality Without Religions). Most of the books I read about secular spirituality (or other buzzwords for exploring and improving human psyche) typically emphasise on European enlightenment tradition of meditation; of analysing and examining one’s own thoughts. However, in Waking Up, Harris narrates his spiritual pursuits under the Eastern tradition of meditation and posits that such a path can be a secular one (despite Hinduism and Buddhism roots).
I admit Harris’ credentials as neuroscientist and persona as one of the so-called ‘The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ and ‘New Atheists’ provided me with a certain assurance that this is not just a New Age-y self-help book. This helped me in opening up to the idea of a secular approach in Oriental meditations which sound juxtaposed at the beginning.
I have also been initiated to minimalism, courtesy of The Minimalists. From them I learned the importance of being more intentional in life. Decluttering our smartphone is one way to be so. Not all apps are equal; only download value adding apps. Audit how often we use the apps, delete the ones we are not using (we can always download again later if we need them). If an app adds value to our life, keep it. After all, they are tools to help us live better.
When I downloaded the app, I had a good first impression. The user interface is friendly with tasteful aesthetic design. We can start with free introduction sessions. When I have finished all of the free sessions, I decided to pay the subscriptions to force my commitments in meditating (like most people, I’d appreciate something more if I pay for it).
The sessions are not ambitious. The default guided meditation time is 10 minutes. You can extend it to 20 minutes, but I stick to the default time. I thought if I can spend hours on Instagram, I should be able to spend 10 minutes daily on another app.
Harris delivered the promise of meditating: I feel I have less things to do now. I am still insecure and anxious and restless, but at least I know how to stay still for 10 minutes. Having the control over my physiology despite the tumults of my mind is empowering.
Harris also reminded me to be more open minded; among those charlatans and false prophets, there are real gurus who are well intended and competent in helping you progress to the next plane of existence (see On Gurus). Therefore, after this quarantine, I am planning to go to a meditation retreat. To meditate under instructions of a guru.
As any good resource, Waking Up expanded my references to other resources. The app also offers a lot of valuable theoretical contents. I enjoyed Harris podcasts on various topics related to consciousness. His recorded conversations with experts on the said subject matter–neuroscientists, poets, philosophers, Zen masters and, yes, gurus– are intellectually stimulating.
Recently, the app just added Contemplative Action in which David Whyte read his poems. I have always loved words and languages, but found difficulties in appreciating poetry. Whyte’s reading and narrative actually guided me how to do so.
The meditation practices have been particularly helpful during this quarantine time. As in exercising and investing, the only regret I have is not to start doing it earlier in life.
I am grateful to discover this resource. Whether you are a spiritualist like Descartes, a materialist like Oliver Sacks, or somewhere in between like most subscribers of mainstream religions, we can agree that consciousness exists. Therefore, I recommend anyone who wants to start their meditation training using this app.
You can get a free month of the app by clicking this link. If you are unable to afford the subscription price, you can send an email to Waking Up requesting a free subscription.
This is not a sponsored article. I do not receive any benefits from endorsing this app (other than helping people be kinder to themselves and each other).
Hiroshima. The first city on which a
nuclear weapon was used.
I took the Nozomi shinkansen from Tokyo and arrived at Hiroshima train station in the
afternoon. We walked to our hostel, K’s House. Crossed
the Enko River. The sunset from the Enko Bridge was beautiful despite the sakura
trees were dry and leafless. It was winter yet snowless.
I tried to imagine when the atomic bomb was dropped. Many of the towns people jumped into the river. Their bodies burning, flesh melting. Hoping the water would reprieve them from the pain. In the aftermath, the river was full of floating rotting bodies.
A contrasting image in my mind’s eye
compared to present day Hiroshima. The city has been rebuilt from rubble and
ashes; like Berlin. I can smell the newness. Gray concrete buildings with
blaring neon signs, typical of Japan and East Asia.
Our first stop in Hiroshima was the Bake
Cheese Tart and Bic Camera, the gigantic electronics store chain.
Japan, despite their traditional arts styled in austere aestheticism–a legacy
of warrior class, samurai, rule–is a
gastronomical paradise and shopping mecca. The main traits of consumerist
capitalist society.
Hiroshima Station
I do not like shopping when travelling.
However, Japan is an exception to such a rule. Jan Chipcase, a global
innovation designer, in Hidden in Plain Sight,
said Japan is the centre for design thinking and innovation. Japanese precision
and attention to details have allowed them to create products which are
aesthetically beautiful and practical. Their culture of hospitality and helpful
nature makes great customer service experience.
Unlike Tokyo the overwhelming metropolis,
Hiroshima is a compact city. Big enough to have a wide range of options for
amusements and entertainments. Yet small enough not to be walkable.
Eat: Okonomiyaki
Wherever I travel, the main activities–aside from walking–are eating and drinking. Hiroshima is well-known for their okonomiyaki, an omelette like dish. Hiroshima style okonomiyaki has soba (buckwheat noodles) in them.
In our first night we dined at Hassei,
a family run okonomiyaki restaurant.
The walls of the restaurant was full of the local baseball team’s memorabilia—the
Hiroshima Carp, photographs and graffiti by the customers. The chef cooked our
meals on a large flatbed stove in front of bar (we did not seat at the bar
because it was hot to be that close to the kitchen). Suffice to say the food was
splendid.
Hassei Okonomiyaki
The other night we went to Okonomimura, a 5 storey building full of okonomiyaki stalls near the red light district. It seems touristy, but we saw the locals were eating there (and it’s Japan, the quality of food, products and services are consistent–a byproduct of an equal society). We randomly picked up a stall simply because the proprietor seems like a sweet old lady. We ordered the house special (I forgot what it was, but oba-chan’s okonomiyaki coupled with cold biru made a delightful dinner).
They were watching the television whilst
the customers were eating. I have this bad habit of easily distracted by
screens, so I could not help not to turn my attention. I do not watch
television at home, but I like to flick through local channels whenever I
travel. I think we can observe local peculiarities by watching them.
And I was in Japan. The land of peculiar
television shows.
The screen was showing Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. Dubbed to Japanese. Seeing
Maccaulay Culkin (and Donald Trump) speaking Japanese was a Lost in Translation moment. Even though
I was not in a five star hotel room and not as cool as Bill Murray, it felt
surreal and peculiar. A wonderful experience worth travelling for.
Drink
I read Hiroshima is home to many cool independent
bars. We only went to two bars, and both seems to confirm such claim.
The first bar we visited was Organza. They have Grimm’s fairy tale style decoration, complete with chandelier and a deer head hunting trophy. There was a book club that night. A group of young people exchanging books and then, I think–they were speaking in Japanese, they read a part quickly and tell their impression. It was cute. The vibe is similar to Hepzibah in Seoul.
I ordered single malt whiskies. Unfortunately, they did not have Japanese whiskies. So I had to ‘settle’ with Macallan (just kidding, for me whiskies have to be either Scotch or Japanese. Irish are still welcomed. A good Scotch is good to drink anywhere, all around the globe).
The proprietor Suzuki like to dress in noir
film style. Naturally, a charming subject for portrait photography. I asked his
permission to take his photograph (Japanese are very conscious about having
their picture taken, unlike South or South East Asians).
Suzuki, Organza Bar
The second bar we visited was Koba.
It is a heavy metal themed bar with industrial style interior design. 80s glam
rock bands’ songs were the only playlist. The projector was screening music
videos of Guns ‘N Roses from MTV. Posters of 1974 Queen concert, Judas Priests,
Kiss and other musicians with lion mane hairdo. They hung notes from the
customers at the bar, giving close knit feelings among metal heads. I drew a leak (Balinese evil witch) and hung it
as a memento there too.
Koba has a wide selection of Japanese
whiskies. They are as good as (some even better than) Scotch. We decided to
sample them. I only remembered we had Yamazaki and Yoichi. The other three
glasses were a bit blurry in our memories.
We note that there were many gaijins that night. There were Mexican
couple, an Australian solo traveler, and a British Royal Marine Commando medic.
Then a group of Japanese salarymen came in. Unlike stereotypically shy
Japanese, they spoke to all customers. Like a good host, they brought together
the gaijins. They invited us to
conversations.
There were three of them. Unfortunately, I
only remember two of their names: Toji and Yuki. They work for a national
broadcasting company. Unlike us the gaijins who knew the bar from the
travel bible Lonely Planet, they were just passing by and followed their
curiosity.
We talked about Japanese pop-culture; from manga (Japanese cartoons), tokusatsu (Japanese transforming masked
superheroes) to J-Rock. I told them my childhood were enriched by Doraemon,
Gavan, Sharivan, Ultraman, Kamen Rider and I listened to Laruku in my teenage
years (although Britpop/alternative bands still dominate my playlists then and
now).
On my carnal adult side, I told them JAV
(Japan Adult Video) is my preferred porn (but not the ones which fetish are too
extreme for a plain vanilla like me). I named them my favourite actresses:
Maria Ozawa and Ameri Ichinose.
To avoid sounding like a dork/porn
addict/basic bro, I also discussed about Japanese literature. I did some
name-dropping of Japanese literati I have read: Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami,
Natsume Soseki, Kenzaburo Oe, Yukio Mishima, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Eiji
Yoshikawa.
Toji is a fan of Murakami (Haruki) and has
read all of his books. A kindred spirit. I told and showed him my Sputnik
tattoo. I told him that it is inspired by Sputnik
Sweetheart. Toji was puzzled, he could not figure out which Haruki’s novel
is that.
I realised that Toji read Haruki in
Japanese and I in English. I tried to say the title in (broken) Japanese “Sputnik Koibito”. He still did not
catch it. I Googled the book and showed the Wikipedia page. He said “Ah! Supūtoniku
no Koibito! Sputnik Lover!”
We laughed for that Lost in Translation moment and drank to that. Pronunciation in
languages is a peculiar thing.
As for the ‘other’ Murakami (Ryu), Toji recommended his first novel Almost Transparent Blue. Yuki seems to prefer Ryu over Haruki. The recurring complaints against Haruki is that he is a one trick pony. There is even a Haruki Murakami bingo which demonstrates that his characters and elements of plots are recycled from one novel to another; such as mysterious woman, cats, old jazz record, urban ennui, parallel worlds, weird sex, etc. Haruki likes to ruminate a lot. Ryu’s fans claim that Ryu’s works are cooler, fast paced and intense.
For Ryu’s fans, Haruki is the ‘mainstream’
Murakami. They seem to take pride that Ryu is less mainstream.
Hipsters.
After my trip to Japan, I decided to give Ryu a try. I read Almost Transparent Blue and Coin Locker Babies. Blue is plotless, a story about a group of junkies in Okinawa. Naturally the story revolves around sex and drugs; heroin, orgies with American soldiers, abusive relationships, suicidal tendencies. Like Trainspotting, but with some surreal elements albeit not as much as in Haruki’s story. While Babies is about twin babies left inside coin lockers by their biological mother, adopted by a couple from a small fishing town. I finished Blue, but I did not finish Babies.
Ryu’s writing pace is too fast for me. The
surreal elements are dominated by descriptive actions with little room for
narration. I think I will stick with Haruki.
At a certain point, our conversations I moved to cultural wars on matters of excretion. I praised the innovative comforts of Japanese toilets. Those ‘washettes’ settled the hygiene dilemma between East and West. Asians think it’s gross if one does not wash one’s anus with water after shitting. Westerners believe a contact between your hand and your anus after shitting—which is often required if you wash with water in traditional/primitive manner—is disgusting; therefore the toilet papers. I personally prefer the Asian approach; even NHS suggest you to wash with water. You can (and should) always wash your hands after going to the toilet. However, the bidet or the bum gun gives you the best of both world; and Japanese washettes are the gold standard of bidet. Washettes are a complete comfort system, they come hot/cold waterspray, seat warmer, and even music player to cover the sounds of your sharts.
Toji said he is balding because he is a hibakusha (literally translated to
‘person affected by the atomic bomb’, the Japanese prefer the term ‘survivors’
instead of ‘victims’. This preference demonstrates the stoic attitude of the
Japanese). I laughed at his joke, but the Westerner gainjins were a bit uneasy. Even the RMC medic asserted that he is English, not
American.
All of us had a great time at Koba. The
Mexican girl did a handstand (apparently she is a yogi), Toji danced with his
black umbrella, singing Singing in the
Rain. He said goodbye and ‘merikurismasu’
(Merry Christmas) before leaving.
When it was our bedtime and we asked for
the bill, the proprietor said Toji has settled everyone’s bills. I hope one day
I can repay his kindness. It was the ‘unexpected connection that may not last,
but stays with us forever’.
Toji singing, Koba Bar
The A-Bomb
I think it is inevitable (and important) to
learn about the history of the atomic bomb and subsequent developments in
nuclear proliferation when one visited Hiroshima. The A-Bomb Dome and
the well curated Hiroshima Peace
Memorial Museum are two must see sights in Hiroshima. The Peace
Memorial Park and the surrounding area, which was the epicentre of the
explosion, is a nice place to walk around.
The Atomic Bomb Dome
The atomic bomb is a grand scientific
achievement. An advance on human civilisation, paid with significant costs. I
read that the Americans chose to target Hiroshima for political and
experimental reasons. There would be no authority to surrender if Tokyo was
targeted, and the relatively flat topography of the city allowed them to
measure the optimum effect of the explosion. Additionally, the US Government
wanted to demonstrate the ‘deliverables’ of the Manhattan Project which costs
significant sum of taxpayers’ money for the research and development of the
atomic bomb.
The justifications for the atomic bombing
on Hiroshima are, to put it diplomatically, controversial at best. The Japanese
Empire would have lost the war—with or without the bomb. However, they might
have surrendered to the Soviet without the bomb. The Empire was an aggressor
and has declared total war, under which everyone is a combatant.
Nevertheless, not all Japanese were pro-fascist militarist government. Blanket labels may be necessary (or at least effective) at times of war but, as cliché as I am writing, they always failed to give us the nuanced view of a society or a group. I read John Hersey’s Hiroshima before I visited Hiroshima. While it is a good reference for understanding the plight and heroism of the hibakushas, I would recommend reading the 10 volume series manga (or graphic novel, if you want to sound more artsy) Barefoot Gen by Keiji Nakazawa to understand better the anthropological nuance of imperialist Japan.
Gen tells a story of an elementary school student named Gen’s struggle in surviving the fascist Japanese regime and the aftermath of the atomic bombing. The characters illustrated in manga style; wide eyed with hyperbolic facial expressions (unlike real life stereotypical Japanese). However, the historical and cultural context are very realist and impartial.
Gen’s father was an anti-war and
anti-fascist writer. Due to his family’s political affiliation, they became an
outcast in World War II Japanese society. After the bombing, Gen has to adopt
‘every man for himself’ approach–he begged, stole, and borrowed to survive in
a disorderly Japan.
It is a personal historical account of the time by Nakazawa (Gen is his alter ego). He tells how the dissenters against the fascist militarist government were persecuted and suppressed during the war. The birth of yakuza (Japanese organised crime organisations; the word refers to the losing hand of an ancient card game, implying the members that they have been dealt with bad cards in life) which control the black markets, often the only places where people can get supply of goods in lawless and disorderly Japan could (at that time, the Japanese police force was disorganised and were not allowed to carry firearms). How the American occupation enforced censorship, despite claiming to be champion of democracy and freedom. In Nakazawa’s account, no side is spared from being exposed of their ‘sins’.
The graphic novel also pictures high degree
of domestic violence (it was an acceptable norm in Japan for a parent to beat
their kids as part of educating them) and nudity (although not in a sexual
manner), but they serve the cultural context accuracy.
One of the most interesting points of discussion related to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima was raised by Art Spiegelman, author of Maus, in the foreword of volume 2: ‘Would the Americans use the atomic bomb on Nazi Germany, a white nation?’ Michael Ondaandtje’s The English Patient posit that ‘they would never dropped such a bomb on a white nation.’
The fascist militarist Imperial Japan also advocated racism (reversed, if you are white) with their Pan-Asian ideology. However, the Japanese are, perhaps, the first Asian nation which can disprove that modernisation and industrialisation are reserved for white nations as well as dispelling the myth of ‘European’ racial superiority. The Pan-Asian ideology gave rise to the idea of self-determination for many Asians, many of which were under European colonial rules; thus seeded the birth of modern/emerging states such as Indonesia.
Despite advocated Pan-Asian ideology and their propaganda as the ‘Older/Big Brother for all Asians’, Japanese occupation in Asia was brutal. In Indonesia, the Japanese soldiers were known to be ruthless compared to the Dutch colonisers. My grandmother told me she was once hidden, spun inside a carpet, by her parents when the Japanese soldiers came to their home. The Japanese Imperial Army were notorious for kidnapping local women from the occupied lands and forcing them to become jugun ianfu (literally translated ‘comfort women’, an euphemism for sex slave). My grandmother was a pretty girl, she would have been taken.
After Hiroshima 1945, sapiens entered the nuclear age. While nuclear technology can be used for peaceful purposes such as energy (albeit environmentally controversial), great nations entered into nuclear arms race ever since then. Oppenheimer, the lead scientist for the Manhattan Project, understood the terrible consequences of his scientific achievement. He cited Bhagavat Ghita after the successful experiment of the atomic bomb:
‘Now
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’
Visiting Hiroshima is a pilgrimage for me; a chance to reflect on our existence as a species. Is it not fascinating and terrifying to see apex predators which can divide atoms? The probability for a nuclear war to happen is small given the ‘balance of nuclear powers’ (perhaps increased quite significantly with President Trump as a factor), yet a nuclear war only need to happen once to expedite our extinction.
On 6
October 2019, I volunteered as a tutor at Yayasan
Pemimpin Anak Bangsa (YPAB), a not for profit organisation focusing on
continuing formal education for underprivileged students. I taught a
non-curricular class: diversity and multicultural inclusion.
I admit I
volunteered, mostly, because of selfish altruism. I needed to be inspired. I was
in a low point of life. I was working in a toxic environment (I was part of the
senior management, so I am partially to blame too). I wanted to feel better
about myself. And the easiest way to feel good is to do something for other. I
am hacking my social animal instinct.[1]
Additionally,
Kiki, one of the
founders of YPAB, who is also a co-worker and a good friend, is a very
persuasive individual.[2]
He has successfully persuaded some of the firm’s staff to volunteer as tutors: Vera, our then finance senior
staff, taught high school level accounting and Renata, our client relations
staff, taught Mandarin.
I want to
contribute, but I have never been interested much in Indonesian structured
education curriculum. School was a place to socialise, the academic learnings
were extra for me. I am more inclined to abstract thinking. When Kiki came out
with diversity and multicultural topic—something that I truly care as someone
who identified himself as ‘transnational’, ‘multicultural’, and ‘traveller’—I
had all the reason to say yes.[3]
At first,
I was reluctant to include ‘controversial issues’ such as atheism and
homosexuality. I thought the students are grass root Indonesians, they may not
ready to discuss them in constructive manners. Then I remember someone wrote
that liberal intellectuals who think most people are easily offended and cannot
understand liberal ideas are actually elitist snobs. The cultural war will not
be won by discussing Camus whilst sipping wine and whisky among privileged and
educated social circles. So I went for it.
The
classroom was crowded. There was only one fan in the room to help mitigate the
room temperature, and they kindly directed it to me. The class was briefly
interrupted with power outage. However, all the students listened attentively.
Engaged. None of them was looking at their smartphone when I was presenting.
Many of the women were wearing hijab. There was even one lady in burqa who consistently made eye contact
and I saw no contempt when I declared I am an atheist muslim.
In
summary, I taught them about affinity bias; on how we have the tendency to like
or more comfortable with people who look like us. I also explained the concept
cultural identity as something abstract and relative but most importantly
malleable. One’s emphasis on the value of identity may not be the same with
others; for some religious affiliation is important, others their profession
matter more. I also taught them about our prejudices. As humans our reptilian
brain have them intuitively, affected by our upbringing. Yet as humans we can
check our assumptions with our reasoning. I closed the session with pro-social
questions. There are several questions which acceptability differs in certain
cultures. For example, “What is your religion?” and “How much is your
salary”—one is acceptable in Indonesia and the other in Singapore.
They gave me a wonderful little surprise for me: birthday cupcakes. They sang happy birthday to me, celebrating my belated birthday. I am not really into cupcakes, but the gesture made me into cupcakes.
Surprise (late) birthday party!
I did not
plan to stay long after class. But then I talked with Kiki, co-founder Doraand the volunteers Dira[1]
and Vera, in the administrator’s room. There was also Pak Junardi, he was a
director in one of the largest telco company in Indonesia. He visited YPAB to
consider volunteering as a tutor.
I did not
realise yet that the administrator’s room that day became my class room and I
had 5 powerful tutors.
Pak Jun said
he is a kampung boy, grew up in a
small village near Blitar (he said it is not even in a map). He migrated to
Jakarta after getting a degree as a mechanic from a vocational school. He
worked at the casino as a dealer (it was the Ali Sadikin era, that’s how senior
he is). When the casino was shutdown, he became a peddler selling cigarettes.
Then he found employment as a biology teacher.
He had
two advantages that made him a good teacher: he can and read English books; and
a kampung boy knows plants. He told
us that when he did not have the money to buy books, he’d hang around a
bookshop for hours and read and made notes (public libraries were not common in
Jakarta, even until now they tend to have limited collections). His hobby is
bonsai.
We all
wanted to know how he joined and climbed to the top of corporate world.
However, he was saving that for his official class in YPAB. As further teaser,
he told us that he is a certified 7 Habits coach and he has been coached by
Stephen Covey himself. During his time in corporate world, he instructed his
managers to write their personal statements. He still have his pasted on his
home office desk.
After Pak
Jun left, Kiki and Dora told me their war stories in building the organisation.
I am
impressed with YPAB Tanah Abang facilities. It is located in a building owned
by PLN, the Indonesian state power company, by the Ciliwung River. It is a
humble building, right at the heart of a slum, a hotspot for their ‘target
market’. Yet they have everything a proper school has. Some of the rooms even
have air conditioner. If their tangible assets are these impressive, they must
have great intangible assets.
Riverside view of the YPAB: kids swimming in River Ciliwung (definitely polluted).
Both Kiki
and Dora are highly (internationally) educated and well travelled. They have
powerful professional careers. Despite their privilege, this is not to say that
they are immune to setbacks. Dora had an employment dispute and was let go when
the firm she was working for was acquired. It was during that tumultuous period
she built YPAB. Kiki left a promising career at now the biggest law firm in
Jakarta, partly because he was struggling with mental issues, then he built the
foundation.
When they
started, they struggled to acquire and retain ‘customers’ (i.e. students).
Apparently, many not-for-profit organisations focusing on continuing formal
educations are less than credible. They issue the degree to the students
without actually administering the education. The administrators’ unjustly
profit from the grants, the faux students got a formal degree without having to
put the time and efforts for educating themselves.
Consequently,
funders need to be convinced that YPAB is legit. While they need to find
customers who are actually willing to invest in education. Kiki told me how he
struggled with the latter. Many marginalised people are unable to see the
benefits of investing in education. Given the financial stress they are under,
they have more pressing needs to get a job. Their time spent on studying is
time lost on working. Additionally, the pragmatic use of a formal degree is to
get a job. Thus, in short term, the less than credible organisations which can
offer the degree without requiring them to study and attend class have more
interesting proposition.
When YPAB
Tanah Abang was opened, one student enrolled. Reluctantly. He was late for 1
hour, making the tutors wait. When it was raining, he said he could not go to
school despite his home is walking distance. Kiki picked him up with umbrella.
They
‘market’ the program by approaching people in public. When Kiki was working as
a lawyer in an international law firm, they went to drivers’ cafeteria in CBD
office buildings to handout flyers during lunchtime. They spoke to peddlers on
Car Free Days, pitching their free education programmes.
YPAB
secured a significant grant in 2014. They told me how they spent sleepless
nights preparing for the proposal and pitching to the funder, each contributing
their professional skills. They were competing with larger organisations with
good reputations too.
Kiki said
things are progressing fast when Rizal Arryadi joined as
headmaster. He is a brilliant educator. Now, people are on the waiting list to
enrol. If a student slack off, they would be expelled and replaced. Students
are coming from as far away as Bekasi and Bogor (YPAB even subsidised their
train fare). Some of the students are admitted to public universities.
YPAB
stories are classic entrepreneurship lessons. The underdog stories that
everyone loves.
The
vision, the purpose, the focus, the teamwork, the experiments, the sacrifice,
the dedications to customer service, and the fun and joy. They are all textbook
grit implemented. I can see why they have powerful career. Their skills and
resilience are transferrable to any other aspect of life.
I imagine how painful it is for Kiki to listen to surface level
jargons such as ‘#Clientsetisfaction#’ (the misspelling and double hashtags are
exact quotation). Kiki has built and developed a credible, real organisation,
delivering valuable education services with significant constraints. Not just a
papier-mâché relying on empty
branding and often deceptions.
That
Sunday, I was in a company of amusing characters. Their non-conformist and bold
attitudes allowed them to live such a impactful, therefore meaningful, life. It
was a Sunday well-spent. I was and still am, inspired. They reminded me that
there are talented good people creating good places.
However,
I feel ‘small’ at the same time. I realised I have been too self-absorbed
lately. I think only on how to make things work at the firm (a hopeless cause,
now I learned) and how to maintain my expensive lifestyle. I worried about
money most of the time. Feeling guilty for not being productive and failing to
achieve my ‘targets’.
I have forgotten that none of us can walk through life with impunity from sadness, sorrows, and worries. I was suffering in a false sense of isolation. By giving myself to someone and something beyond myself, I woke again.
[1] I also meditate
daily and undergone psychotherapy.
[2] I recruited Kiki in
October 2018 as an associate lawyer for the firm I was managing. Just a month
after I was hired as the deputy managing partner, I needed to restructure the
team of lawyers. Budget was tight but the only way to improve was to recruit
talented people. Kiki was referred by a former co-worker and a friend. I never
thought a person with such high qualifications would accept the offer we made.
He could have found a much more competitive offer in terms of salary and
remuneration.
[3] I once attended a CPD class on
Multicultural Inclusion by Simmon Holiday when I was working for Herbert Smith
Freehills. So I copied and modified the materials to fit profiles of YPAB
students (I hope it is not a copyright infringement since it is for ‘non-commercial
use’).
I have close friends who are
mixed-race-homosexual-couple, Indonesian-Norwegian. I have known the Indonesian
guy since high school. He met his Norwegian partner when they were in
Copenhagen Business School. They are legally married under Norwegian laws. I do
not think it is wise to disclose their real names since they are living and
working in Indonesia, therefore I will refer them as Pleasures the Indonesian and
Bear the Norwegian.
While I do take pride in being friends
with them just because the fact they are homosexual couple (to brag how ‘liberal’
I am), they are amusing individuals and I think our friendship is politically
neutral. I would still be friends with them for their personalities even if
they are a monocultural heteronormative couple.
Hanging out with them is an acquired
taste. They don’t just break the stereotypes of a couple (homosexual
couple is an anomaly in heteronormative cultures—obviously), they also break
the stereotypes of gay couple.
They are far from apologetic and have
zero, if not minus, political correctness—especially Pleasures. They have the
audacity to tell the plain cold hard truth with no sarcasm. These make them
good friends and counsels. They will tell me things I need to realise, and not what
I want to hear.
When I was getting fat, they would say
I was getting fat. They do not say it in a mean way, but in a
‘get-your-shit-together’ way. When we were dining together with a friend who
was having financial difficulties, Pleasures suggested that she should be
exempted to pay because ‘she is poor now.’[1]
However, they never said anything with malicious intent. Their brutal words are
mostly plain articulations of their capabilities of empathy, or expression of
jokes.
They are both masculine. Well, not to
the extent as masculine as Gareth Thomas, the Captain of Welsh Rugby Team or
Professor Oliver Sacks, neurologist, rider and weightlifter, but I train boxing
with Pleasures and Bear is into video games.[2]
Their physical features are more manly than me: bigger size, heavier built with
facial and body hairs.
They don’t know anything about make-up,
hairdressing, manicures-pedicures, They are not into selfies and update their
Instagram only sporadically (when they do, it is rarely about themselves). They
do not listen to Taylor Swift.[3]
They don’t follow Kendall Jenner or the
Kardashians (in fact, we never discuss any subject that is E! Channel
material). They do not gossip and never employ sarcasm in communicating. In
short, they are not superficial.[4]
I took a comparative analysis on the
dynamics of Pleasures and Bear’s relationship with my own heterosexual
partnership. They communicate the way men communicate with each other e.g.
short sentences, nodding. While in my case, my wife does most of the talking even
though we are both extroverted and talkative (except during exercise or when
I’m drunk—and I am talkative).[5]
This seem to be evidence in support of the
notion that ‘guys do things together, girls talk to each other’. Pleasures has
many girl friends (note that the space makes all the difference). It seems he
prefer to ‘talk about things’ with his girl friends who are, mostly, single
ladies.
When Pleasures was making travel plan for
their trip to Mongolia, he wanted to make sure their itineraries are full with
activities.[6] He
said they are not like me and my wife who can talk to each other all the time
when there is nothing to do.
Or perhaps, it’s more because Bear is
an introverted individual? I don’t think so. I am an extrovert and I don’t
really talk about my feelings in full extent with my male friends. I can open
up better to women.
All these facts seem to support the
notion that homosexual couple is atypical of heterosexual couple. Nevertheless,
they have to deal with the same issues of romantic/sexual relationship. They
may communicate differently but they still need to communicate.
As multicultural couple, they also
break the cultural stereotype. Indonesian men are stereotypically unreliable in
domestic matters such as cooking, cleaning, ironing, and laundering. They are
not expected to do ‘women’s work’ and many middle-class households have
domestic helpers. Pleasures is better in homemaking. He is an excellent cook
(so good that one of the greatest past times in Jakarta for me is the lunch or
dinner parties hosted by them) and always keep their home organised.
Once, Pleasures went on a business trip
for a week and Bear sustained himself only with awful foods he ordered from a restaurant
nearby. He was too lazy to cook, not adventurous enough scour streets of Jakarta
for decent food, and/or has not developed sufficient language proficiency to
order delivery. It seems paradoxical considering Bear’s Scandinavian cultural
background.
Reconstructing
heteronormative mindset and masculinity
Being friends with them required me to undergone
a structural change in mindset. Fortunately, all that travelling and reading
have taught me that the world is much more complex than the mindset, the
concept, or the thought system we have acquired or familiar with. I have
learned that our cognitive capability is unable to grasp base reality, simply
because it is unnecessary for our survival.[7]
Mindset or ‘concept’ is useful for us to process information by filtering and
fitting them into a system.[8]
By acknowledging and being aware of a
known concept’s limitations, we can adapt, change, and adopt new ones. Concept
is analogous to categorisation system. We arbitrarily label something for ease
of reference. However, a label is representation of the real thing, but not the
real thing.[9] We
need to expand our references and be open to different mindsets as well as
applying them in context if we want to understand the universe a little bit
better.
There is this misunderstanding on homosexual
couple, at least in Jakarta, that one of them must be the ‘wife’. The ‘wife’
dude is the maternal one, the effeminate one, the one who express his
excitement in high pitch and obsessed with glitters and pastel colours
(literally, the gay individual).
I remember an episode of Modern Family
when Cam was upset because he was grouped as ‘the mums’ by ‘the dads’ at Lily’s
school. The moral of the story: there is no ‘husband/wife’ division in gay
couple. They are both ‘husbands’ i.e. men, persons with penis. Trying to fit LGBTQ couple in a
heteronormative mindset does not work if we want to understand them.
The term ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ are
progressively becoming more gender neutral. In the traditional (misogynistic)
values, the husband is earning the money and the wife does everything else.
Nowadays, it’s supposed to be about genitalia. Misogynistic values are not just
holding back women in reaching their full potential but also hurting men with
toxic masculinity expectations e.g. what if the wife is a better and more
interested in business and the husband in homemaking? It may seem a reversal of
roles, but works in modern society—especially in urban society—do not put men’s
physical strength as a competitive advantage.
The stereotyping of homosexuals are not
just rooted in heteronormative mindset, but also in the concept of
‘masculinity’ which both sexual orientations are subjected to and adhere,
consciously or unconsciously. Under conventional masculinity, men are expected
to refrain from expressing their emotions and avoid ‘self-indulgent activities’
(e.g. manicure-pedicure, facial, etc). Homosexual men are not exempted from
such expectations. Yet no matter how they satisfy conventional masculinity,
they can never be considered as real men because of their sexual preference.
Consequently, many homosexual men think they have to choose between the two
camps: machismo or gay. Of course, the camps are, again, concepts and labels.
They can be a non-binary choice.[10]
Pleasures and Bear also taught me to
transcend the concept of monogamy. Pleasures and Bear are the only couple that
I am close with that practice open-relationship. They can have sex with other
guy, as long as it is casual and disclose it to each other.
Despite Indonesia is the largest Muslim
country in the world, polygamy is still a controversial concept for most
Indonesians. Monogamous relationship under the romantic concept is still the
default psyche and the mainstream approach for couples. Political correctness
in Indonesia demand public figures and celebrities not to be openly polygamous,
even for dais (Islamic preachers). Under
the default traditional moralistic views, open-relationships are deranged. The
fact that Pleasures and Bear are homosexual couple seems to reinforce the idea
that homosexuals are basically immoral people.[11]
Moralistic point of views aside, I know
that long-term monogamous relationships relying on infatuations and expecting
‘happily-ever after’ is not realistic. Nevertheless, I do not think I and my
partner can function under open-relationship arrangement. As Alain de Botton
aptly put, it is difficult to be a libertine and have a stable emotional
relationship.[12]
Maybe my need for emotional stability is higher than them.
Pleasures and Bear understand the risks
of open-relationship (at least, I think they do). They dive in to the libertine
arrangement and reaping the explosive excitements of sexual freedom—even in
conservative Jakarta. Bear, being a white guy, exerts competitive advantage in
the Jakarta’s dating game.[13]
Pleasures may be ‘local’, but being highly educated intellectual with strong
financial capacities, he also enjoys the privilege of desirable date. Many
times they even join forces and have threesomes or orgies.
Until one day, Pleasures met a talented
fashion photographer. I will call him Argonaut. He is Chinese Indonesian.
Pleasures is infatuated with him, and their feelings are mutual. He overstepped
the boundaries. His relationship with Argonaut is more than casual.
Consequently, Pleasures and Bear went into a spiral. They decided to separate
and Pleasures move out from their cohabitation flat.
After series of emotional breakdowns,
therapy sessions, Pleasures decided to leave Argonaut. Strangely, Pleasures and
Bear met with Argonaut. They all drank together and talked. One thing led to
another, infused by alcohol, they ended up having a three way. Bear also found
emotional connection with Argonaut.
Now they are having a love triangle but
with no one excluded for another. A polyamorous relationship. Can I call them a
‘triple’? I remember once I told them that if they would be the ultimate
diversity couple if they adopt an East Asian or African child. Seeing them
together, it seems that the concept of ‘modern [nuclear] family’, where
interracial same sex couple adopting ethic minority child, is not progressive
enough in diversity initiative programme.
I jokingly told Pleasures that he is a
true Muslim man. A successful polygamist who is able to bring together his ‘wives’.
It may seem that Pleasures hit the jackpot. Nevertheless, I imagine his mental
bandwith must be exhausted. He once complained that there are two snoring guys
sharing his bed. He also admits that he is not optimistic on the sustainability
as a triple.
I am grateful for my friendship with
Pleasures and Bear. Their life stories are amusing. Most importantly, I can
observe specimens of contemporary love up close and personal. This is a rare
opportunity for someone who was born and lived in Jakarta for most of his life.
Orthodoxy is the majority view here (not even conservatism). Therefore, my
default moral matrix is not liberal. I had to educate myself to be culturally
liberal. We learn the most from the people closest to us. Pleasures and Bear
provide both the emotional connection and the intellectual stimulation, the
heart and mind approach, to understand identities and relationships of
homosexual men.
Perugia Pride 2019
[1] Being the more diplomatic one, I
corrected him: ‘she’s broke.’
[2] I know it’s not the 90s anymore when
contact sports and video games are associated as the past time for men, but
still they are still male dominated pursuits.
[3] I do. As
Detective Jacob Peralta aptly said, ‘she makes me feel things!’ See Brooklyn
Nine-nine, ‘Unsolvable’ (S1:E21).
[4] In Indonesia, gay people are often
assumed to be ‘superficial’. Pleasures thinks the stereotype is not entirely
wrong. Most of the homosexuals he met in Jakarta are superficial. Nevertheless,
he added, many heterosexual men and women in Jakarta are also superficial. I
think superficiality also subscribes to gender division, i.e. the ‘basic bros’
and the ‘basic bitches’. Gay superficiality is represented by men who act as
‘basic bitches’. The combination makes a juxtaposed double cringe and,
therefore, superimpose the superficiality.
[5] I scored
90% for Extraversion in Myers-Briggs personality test. My wife 98%.
[6] My
Indonesian friend is the dominant one in the relationship, he seems makes most
of the decisions. This is also contrary to the stereotype that Asians are more
submissive compared to Western people.
[8] Concept is
analogous to software in computer, while our body and corporeal senses are the
hardware. We do not see with our eyes, but with our mind. See Invisibilia podcast Emotions.
[9] NN Thaleb, The
Black Swan: the impact of the highly improbable (Penguin, 2018)
[10] M Humphries, “Gay machismo” in A Metclaf and M Humphries (eds), the
Sexuality of Men (Pluto Press, 1985) 70-85.
[11] Of course, many
homosexual couples are strictly monogamous. Additionally, there are
heterosexual couples who are under open relationship. I just imagine it must
have been easier for the woman since she wield all, if not most of, the powers
of sexual tension. After all, men will be happy just to ‘get some’.
[12] A Botton, Course
of Love (Hamish Hamilton, 2016)
The Ultimate Diversity Couple [13] Most Jakartans, and Indonesians, still struggle to be free from the Dutch colonial era eugenics psyche. Pleasures, half-jokingly, referred this competitive advantage in dating as ‘white supremacy’.
