I am a writer even before I am a photographer. I prepared a note, a report, an essay on my subject for ‘Asih itu Hening’. It feels important, at least for me, to have a textual story of her. I know I am at risk of polluting my visual story, but here goes.
Suriani Nasution—Ibu Ani—fulfils the stereotype of ‘Ibu-Ibu’ Indonesia (Indonesian moms). At the first glance, Ibu Ani and family can be the poster girl of ‘Happy Indonesian Family’ of Orba (Orde Baru, the New Order–General Soeharto’s dictatorship regime)’s Keluarga Berencana (Planned Parenthood) programme: his husband Saipul is a civil servant, a staff at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; she is a housewife active in her neighbourhood initiatives. They have two children: a son and a daughter.
She wears a hijab, her daughters too. Symbolising observance to religious values. They are homeowners in Bojong Pondok Terong, Citayam.
No one can live an idealised version of an ideology. A domesticated suburban life swings from oppressive idleness to a cycle of unending chores.As a woman, you are expected to be a nest defender; juggling so many responsibilities with personal needs and wants.
Like everyone, she has to negotiate her priorities.
For her, volunteering activities as a cadre take precedent. Ani gleamed with pride when she told me how she championed the construction of Posyandu (integrated community services office) building, public toilets, and communal septic tanks–with and without government support.
When her son was three year old, the neighbours reported to her husband that their son was crying home alone. The reports made Saipul unable to focus at work. They lost their first born before. Nevertheless, Saipul knows and understands that volunteering is important for Ani.
So he let her be.
Ibu Ani’s son just graduated from a private institute, majoring in transportation and logistics. She said he didn’t bother to try the public universities entrance exam.
I asked why. In Indonesia, public universities are where you can get relatively good education at the cheapest costs (I know because I graduated from one; it has opened so many doors, including this photography scholarship).
Ibu Ani just said, ‘He’s the one who has to study. So I let him choose. It’s his life.’
Then I asked why he chose the major.
‘I think he just followed his friends.’
When asked about her daughter, Ibu Ani said that her daughter always stays in her room after school. She does not know what she’s doing, locked up in there. But she’s glad that her daughter does not go anywhere, as good girls shouldn’t be.
Ibu Ani is pretty laissez-faire to her children.
Saipul was elected as Ketua RW (neighbourhood chief) in 2000. Because of his day job, he was rarely involved in the neighbourhood affairs. He only visited Kelurahan (Borough) Office twice during his office. Ibu Ani as Ibu RW (the First Lady of the Neighbourhood) was the virtual Ketua RW. She handled all the affairs. Her husband’s title gave her the legitimacy she needed.
Having a husband who works a government job means Ibu Ani’s family has a steady income. From Saipul’s salary and remunerations, they managed to buy several properties in Citayam and rent them off.
Such a financial position gives Ani more power in her roles in the neighbourhoods.
Witnessing Ani’s daily lives, I learned that these volunteering Ibu-ibu are the nervous system of the neighbourhood. No public policy, governmental or non-governmental, can be implemented without them.
Cadres are direct action operators. They assisted locals in accessing public healthcare, conducted surveys and census for infrastructure development, and resolved local social conflicts.
They have to be agile, patient, and persuasive. Persuading denizens of densely populated areas such as Bojong Pondok Terong–who are mostly short on cash and lack higher education–requires those soft skills.
But they should not outshine the official neighbourhood organs. A Ketua RW complained that his cadres make him look bad because they are so smart, i.e smarter than him.
I asked if there was ever a female Ketua RW.
‘No. There’s no shortage of male candidates,’ Ibu Ani looked at me as if I asked something so obvious.
I attended a coordination meeting at the Kelurahan office with Ibu Ani. She let me piggy back on her Scoopy moped. She was baffled that I can’t drive motorcycles–so unmanly. The main agenda was to train the cadres in conducting surveys on the local families’ living conditions.
Despite the training being facilitated by Ibu Ani and a female official of Kelurahan, the meeting has to be opened and closed by Pak Lurah (President of the Borough). The presence and blessing of a man is needed to make everything legitimate.
In his opening speech, Pak Lurah said that he is hoping that Depok is transferred to DKI Jakarta administration from West Java. Especially because of the Citayam Fashion Week.
‘People who live in Depok are mostly Jakartans, who migrated due to gentrification. Many of them still work in Jakarta,’ said Pak Lurah.
Such a Jakarta centric attitude feels like a relic from the New Order regime’s centralism. But the Jakarta administration, as the capital, has better access to public funding.
These Ibu-Ibu were so enthusiastic in the coordination meeting, donning their green kebaya uniforms. Ibu Ani said the best part of volunteering is to hangout with her friends, her squad.
Ibu Ani came from Medan to Jakarta after finishing high school. She wanted to go to medical school, but failed the public universities entrance exam. So, in 1989, she took the ALS bus (interprovinces coach, notorious for aggressive driving). Arrived at Kalideres Bus Terminal. From there the bus driver took her to her uncle’s address in Kebayoran.
She stayed with and worked for her uncle, who was a contractor for the Directorate General of Tax. She would drive around Bekasi-Tangerang area to photograph billboards which have not paid the billboard tax.
Saipul was a neighbour. When he asked her out, through her uncle, Ibu Ani’s first question was ‘Does he have a job?’
She did not want her life to be harder.
They dated for a year and got married in 1993. At first they rented a house in Kebon Jeruk. When Saipul’s brother told them the land plots in Citayam were affordable, they used their savings and bought one. Moved there in 1997.
She said it was an easier time, the Suharto Era. ‘Now everything is so expensive.’
When she first lived here, the surroundings were mostly banana plantations. Her neighbours had no septic tank so their blackwater was channelled to the open sewers. She persuaded the neighbours to crowdfund the construction of communal septic tanks and other infrastructures. There was no government support at that time.
Now, there is more government fundings. Ibu Ani’s main role in caregiving the sick locals is helping with the admission process to the hospitals. Many of her neighbours are scared and confused with the daunting administrative tasks.
Ibu Ani helps them with the paperwork, including with the bureaucracy of accessing the public healthcare benefits. She gave a tip: if the patient does not have BPJS or Kartu Indonesia Sehat (KIS), they can apply for social welfare funding from the municipal government.
She pays for her own transport. She often covers the photocopying costs and provides meals for the patient’s family. Sometimes those expenses outspend the incentives she received. However, she believes Allah would return her kindness.
Sometimes, the patient’s family gives her money although she never asks for anything.
Ibu Ani’s charitable acts and activism grant her access to many important people. She knows all the heads of Puskesmas (public clinic), past and present. She owns and runs a clothing shop business. Her activism brings businesses, as many volunteering and local events require ‘uniforms’.
She is influential. Once she intervened in domestic violence. A wife confided in her that her husband physically abused her. She threatened the husband with a formal criminal complaint (she knows the local police). She also advised the wife to listen to her husband when he talks. Their source of disputes: money.
It’s true that the poorer you are the more charitable you’d likely to be. I saw in Bojong Pondok Terong people give money to beggars and buskers–despite the fact that they are also strapped for cash.
They don’t think about how charity alleviates the pain of the working class; how it prevents class consciousness, therefore, the revolution. Or how charity would make people lazy and complacent, therefore preventing the creation of self-reliant and empowered individuals contributing to a society free of freeloaders.
These Marxist and Randian extremes are outliers. A functioning society is something in between. Altruism is not necessarily selfless. We have the interests not just to compete but also to collaborate.
From the moment I arrived at Citayam Station, I knew you’d need to rely on each other to live in an environment like this. The road can only fit one car. Space is a premium. Most, if almost all, people ride motorcycles.
I had to receive a call from a client (for my day job as a lawyer). I realised how noisy the neighbourhood is. The mopeds, the chatters, the blaring mosque speakers.
When money is scarce. You negotiate with other social currencies: time, space, and privacy. Your neighbours, your community, are your main safety net. If not careful, you’d give up your individuality.
For low income families who can’t afford private or even public healthcare, these volunteers are godsend. They are mothers.
As with mothers, they can be overbearing. They would intrude into your lives.
When a new couple moved in, the locals demanded that they show their marriage certificate. The couple didn’t have one, but insisted they have been married under Sharia law. The husband is a mualaf (a convert).
The locals can accept non-state sanctioned marriage. But the ‘under-the-hand’ marriage was conducted without the presence of the bride’s father. Therefore, under Sharia Law, the father has not given away his daughter. The legitimacy of their Islamic marriage was questioned.
The couple admitted that they eloped. Saipul, as Ketua RW then, and Ibu Ani managed to mediate. The father of the wife was invited to the renewal of their marriage ceremony. This time legitimised under the laws of the state too.
Ibu Ani and Saipul took pride that they have ‘cleansed’ the couple’s relationship. They have successfully prevented adultery (in Islamic terms) in their neighbourhood. Many Indonesian muslims believe that adultery will invoke the wrath of Allah on the entire community.
Overbearing, but with good intentions.
Ibu Ani’s plan for the next 5 years: she hopes to live in Saudi Arabia. Her husband is entering his final years of service before retirement. He will be posted abroad for his last 3 years. Ibu Ani wants to do the Hajj pilgrimages thrice–once each year.
She finds solace in prayers. She feels close to Allah whenever she prays. She has gone umroh twice. In Mecca, she felt much closer to God.
On worldly matters, she likes watching Western action films when she’s alone. However, Ibu Ani looks the happiest when she’s hanging out with her friends. After organising a monthly immunisation programme, we had lunch together. Those Ibu-ibu fed me with nasi padang for lunch.
It is hard to imagine them in their hijabs as sexual entities, but they are. Some of their jokes directed to me are borderline sexual harrasments.
‘Do you want to drink? Milk, but expired! Hahaha.’
They gossiped about neighbourhood sex scandal. A woman whose husband is paralysed by a stroke had an affair with a hansip (neighbourhood watch). They fucked in the room next where the husband was lying powerless.
‘How cruel the woman was! Her husband must have been so dishonoured for being that impotent.’
The local mob raided the home, beat up the hansip.
Extra-marital affairs are not uncommon in Jakarta. But if you are richer, you can at least do your business at a hotel.
Ibu Ani asked if my wife would question what I am doing. I told her that my wife knows I’m on assignment. I assume her underlying question is whether my wife is jealous or suspicious. In Citayam (like elsewhere), some people mistake love with entanglement. Jealousy is seen as a manifestation of love.
Well fed, she and other cadres used the PA machine–linked with YouTube–for impromptu karaoke. Dangdut songs: love songs with lyrics on heartbreaks, guilt-ridden by the sins of pre- or extra-marital sex; and grassroot financial struggles.
Ibu Ani is not much of a singer. Her singing was off key. Like mine. But karaoke is about having fun with her girls. They apologised for being loud and for disturbing their neighbours’ siesta. Then carried on singing.
If working moms get their dose of social life at their office–and rich Mentari moms at their kids’s [private] international school, these Citayam moms volunteer.
I have an outstanding promise to Erik Prasetya: to write an essay on his (then) newly published photo book Women on Street. I have written a rough draft and note sketches on my journal. However, I never follow it through.
I am fan of Erik’s works (I took his Street Photography Course). I just don’t have the same interests to Jakarta as him.
This is a sprawling kampung. It hasthe worst traffic jam in the world. It’s orthodox and homogenic. It’s superficial and a starkly inequal society. It worships anything Western (Hollywood, Louis Vuitton bags, Panerai watches, Supreme anything, and recently Taco Bell) but glorifies the so-called Eastern (Islamic) values; so sexual but laden with religious guilts. A society claiming to value individualism, yet imposes so much emphasis on social gatherings and, therefore, camps.
The aspiring metropolis is bearable to me only because of my close personal relationships and relative career success. In normal times (the pre-pandemic world), I could escape this city. To spend that money made here for travels. But the pandemic forces me to stay. Even worse, it even barred me from meeting my friends. Those video calls help, but not a substitute for in person meetings where we can just be silent in each other’s company.
However, as a knowledge worker, I can now work from home with little frictions. Being spared of Jakarta’s traffic reduces a lot of stress.
I live in Jagakarsa. A very middle class neighbourhood. An ugly one, almost suburban. Potholed roads, cat shitted, suicidal mopeds. The local mosques engage in daily shouting matches with each other when reciting prayers—at dusk, evening, and dawn. One particular muezzin is so bad, I wonder if he’s the son of the mosque’s imam to be allowed near the microphone. Kiosks and food stalls with bland or unaesthetic designs with alay copywriting. There is Gudskul, a cultural oasis by Ruang Rupa, but other than that you have to buy your own shalimar.
We tried walking around the neighbourhood to be less sedentary during the semi-lockdown, PSBB. I tried to see the aesthetics in the banality as Erik does, but failed. With no foreseeable travel plan, I didn’t touch my cameras for almost a year.
I miss taking pictures. However, for me, photography is about the subjects and the environments. I have been living in Jakarta for more than 30 years, yet I cannot ‘see’ my home. But even Brandon Stanton of Humans of New York failed photographing Jakarta. Erik himself said that Jakarta is difficult to photograph, the weather is either sunlight overexposure or grey overcast—always with humidity, diffusing the ambient lights.
There is such thing as ugly beautiful, but most Jakarta is ugly ugly. Just look at the bathroom tiles used for the exterior of local mosques. Sterile luxury may not be charming, yet it is always better than vapid poverty. In Humans of New York, Jakartans’ life stories are always about the struggle of the sandwich generation. Despite an aspiring metropolis, Jakartans’ life aspirations seem to revolve only around family and religion. The uniformity make them banal subjects.
I do not say this out of spite or unkindness (self-depreciating reversed nationalism, maybe). Indonesia is a third world country which was under authoritarian regime for most of its existence. We are not used to diversity of thoughts and ideas or original self-expression (whatever it is, given our memetic psyche); we stand out to blend in. Thus our love for uniforms and matching clothes within our peer group—e.g. sarimbit. The clannish communal social structure is a safety net since the state has not been able to provide welfare security.
The absence of stimulating subjects and environments muted my interests in photography for a while. Until Instagram ads forwarded me Greg Williams’ Candid Photography Skills online course. With the downtime and restriction on practice from the isolation, I thought maybe it is time to catch up on theories. So I bought the course and was inspired with Greg’s concept of candid photography (which corrected my misunderstanding, ‘candid’ is not just discreet observer’s view but can also be participatory). I never really read the photo books I owned, to look at the pictures slowly. I reread Women on Street and also Mysterious Happiness by Mathias Heng and Anna Bärlund.
Then it came to me that Greg, Erik, and Mathias/Anna worked with different subjects from socio-economic backgrounds: the members of the high society (Hollywood celebrities), the middle class (of Jakarta), and the marginalised people (denizens of Manila’s slums). All of them work in human-interests genre.
When it comes to socio-economic division, the middle-class is the most vulnerable to banality— the least interesting class. The sufferings of poverty can be painted as revolutionary, reactionary, or at the very least, romantic. One can find life’s meaning in endurance, after all. The high society glamours are the aspirations, the Dream (American or elsewhere). Give a humane perspective on success; bring the elites down to earth and they become relatable.
Everyone loves glitter and grit. The upper and the lower classes are high stimuli.
The middle-class, with little or no cultural references and capital, are simply consumers—which experience is mediocre.
Seno Gumira Adjidarma, in his collection of essays Affair, described the middle-class experience of Jakarta. The superficiality, in which he coined the term ‘kibul-kibul’, of Jakartans who can look the part as cosmopolitans but subconsciously village people, e.g. smart professional suit and tie, but would change to sandals in the office. In Women on Street, a lady changing her stilettos to walk the streets of Jakarta after work—lest she’d trip from the potholes or easily elbowed and shoved away in Darwinian commutes.
The dreams of the mediocre, the basic, middle-class are simple: new mobile phones every year, new car every five years, weekend recreations at the malls, eating out at (not cheap but not so good) chain restaurants, and to pursue one or more trending hobbies (current pandemic trends: cycling, gardening, and Siamese fighting fishes).
How Erik see the aesthetics in such banality is impressive and puzzling.
Perhaps the answer can be found in his essays in Estetika Banal & Spiritualisme Kritis and his biography Cerita Cinta Enrico. Erik was not born in Jakarta. He came from Sumatra. He’s a perantau. For him, as other domestic migrants, Jakarta the capital is (or was) a metropolis. Yet, unlike most utusan daerah, he is privileged to have a mother with a good taste (despite she was a Jehovah Witness) and an intellect with vigorous activism (during his student years in ITB, he participated in many protests against the New Order).
Claiming to be a member of the middle-class, Erik could not nor wished to leverage the stimuli of his subjects with voyeurism or exoticism perspectives.
Maybe Erik loves Jakarta because the city gave him the chance to acquire cultural capital he could not have outside Java? He has travelled extensively, he has seen world great cities, but he became of an artist in Jakarta.
As a born and bred Jakartan, who climbed the socio-economic ladders both culturally and economically, I found Jakarta is easier to live now compared when I was younger. Erik’s anthropological visual records in Women on Street remind me that there have been improvements in infrastructures. Sudirman, the main boulevards, is more walkable now. The MRT, despite its limited reach, made the main business districts much more accessible. The advent of ride hailing apps make owning a car less of a necessity. E-wallets nudged Jakartans to be a more cashless society. While e-commerce platforms allows me to avoid shopping malls.
Perhaps one misrepresentation of Jakarta in Woman on Street is there are only few women in hijab. In Jakarta, the richer the area, the fewer the hijabi women (despite the Muslims are still the majority population). Inversely, in places where people from various socio-economic backgrounds rub shoulders—the bus stop and train stations and pedestrian walkways—and less affluent or suburban areas, the women cover themselves.
Maybe that’s why he titled a chapter ‘Looking for the faces of women who may disappear in the future.’ More and more women are covering themselves as a symbol of their faith. Glamorous and hedonistic lifestyle as portrayed by those artis ibukota is inaccessible to most people. Those who can afford them yet sensitive enough realised that the consumerist-exhibitionist pursuit of happiness is futile and spiritually barren. With little or no access to initiate oneself to philosophy and art, Jakartans mostly rely on organised religion as a panacea to their existential questions.
The hijabs have practical purpose of preventing sexual harassment, some say. Jakarta is a patriarchal city, women in public places are always subjected to the male gaze and catcalls. Jakarta women often wear jackets, shawls, or anything to cover their shoulders despite the heat and humidity; as well as earbuds to dampen those catcalls when walking. I, however, am skeptical the effectiveness of hijab as countermeasure to sexual harassment; a hijabi coworker said she is often catcalled by ‘Assalamualaikum, Bu Haji!’
In anyway, a photographer sees what he want to see and present what he want to present. Women of Street is intended to be a street photography project, not journalism. Erik wants a Jakarta that is more inclusive and female friendly. A less orthodox and, yes, more cosmopolitan, cultured, and liveable city.
Erik is among the few of Indonesian photographers who can write to explain his ‘art’. In fact, I don’t know any other Indonesian who does that. He posited that Indonesian photography scene is short on precedents. The Indonesian maestros rarely left literatures on their take to the art of photography. The younger generations have to start from scratch; no wonder most Indonesians stuck at craftsmen level. The artisan photographers are usually trained and educated overseas. Erik’s books, including Women on Street, are his dedication as an educator.
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.
MBC Community faced significant setbacks on September 2018. The Kwitang gym had to close down because the sub-lease was terminated abruptly. Moving Body Culture and Master Boot Camp announced the dissolution of their partnership after sustaining significant losses as business. It was a shocking development for a community that has been running since 2011.
Good thing that our community consists of resourceful individuals. Responding to the setbacks, the members organised a working committee with one purpose: to sustain the community. As a fitness community, we agreed that we can only sustain the community by ensuring the continuation of our group training sessions. We named the project: Project MBC Perjuangan.[1]
We discussed about how. We talked about anarchism approach where members self-organise the training sessions and hire the trainer(s), no-frills gym concept with smart locks and self-service to minimise staffing and therefore costs, etc. Ideas were thrown, argued and debunked.
In the end, we realised the bottom line issue is simple: we needed to find a venue that is: (i) strategically located; (ii) has adequate facilities; and (iii) with affordable rent. Issue that is so obvious to identify yet difficult to solve. Any business is property business. The Kwitang gym failed mainly because it’s a bad property.
We surveyed many locations. Most are either too expensive, not easily accessible, no clean toilet and shower facilities. Until we stumbled upon Pati Unus Courtyard/Walking Drums complex. The complex is located in strategic location with clean toilet and shower as well as locker facilities since it is a sport complex for basketball and futsal.
It is expensive to rent the basketball or futsal court. However, we do not really need to train on any court. Any place with decent size and something to attach the suspension trainers would do. Therefore, we asked whether we can rent only a corner where they store futsal goal posts. The landlady is happy to monetize an otherwise non-productive space. Coincidentally, she is also a friend of one of our members. By the virtue of mutual interests and good relationship, we got a good deal on the price.
While the idea of anarchy training sessions are appealing, we decided that it is best that training sessions are administered by a professional. Therefore, we gave Coach Edi of Master Boot Camp the full control over the entire business. Each of our community members will then contribute in various ways. From managing the social media accounts, promoting the training sessions to new members, or simply by showing up and train.
On the first day of October 2018, MBC Community had their first training session at Pati Unus Courtyard/Walking Drums. I think it is admirable that we can found an ideal venue within less than a month. I believe this shows the strength of a wonderful community that shares resources for a common purpose: an inclusive, welcoming and educating fitness enterprise.
MBC Community have been instrumental in achieving my fitness independence as well as developing exercise habit. I hope more people can benefit from this community based fitness trainings. No gymtimidation in our sessions. The coaches and fellow participants are friendly and helpful. Whether you are new to fitness, recuperating from an injury, or a professional athlete, the coaches will ensure that the intensity of the training programme can be adjusted to fit your individual fitness level.
At the time of this writing, Master Boot Camp offers both monthly subscriptions and walk-ins to ensure that the business is sustainable but not incentivised by no-show community members (unlike chain gyms). I still found their offering is of high value to my fitness budget. The training sessions are scheduled pre and post office hours, between 0600-0900 and 1830-2030. The likeliest time you’d go to the gym.[2] Virtually, it’s like going to a gym and share the costs of hiring a personal trainer. Check the Instagram account and/or contact Coach Edi by phone/text message at +628128077278 for details.
If MBC Community has a gender, it is definitely female. Unintentionally, most of our members are women. And we are proud that they are of diverse backgrounds. We have a fresh graduate in their 20s to a mother/business owner in her 50s who can finish Spartan Races. Some find Jakarta’s weather too hot so they prefer to wear minimalist sportswear during training. Some prefer to cover up for religious or personal style reasons.
Of course, men are welcomed. We do not have any gender (or any other) preference for our community membership.[3] Nevertheless, for reasons unknown, the acquisition and retention rate of our male members have never been as impressive as our female members. I have always been a minority by gender.
MBC Community is also LGBT friendly. We have members who are openly lesbian, gay and (possibly) bisexual. Although we have not yet have the privilege of having any transgender member.
On Saturday, 6 October 2018 at 0600, we held a special signature boot camp session. It has the regular sweat, swears, and banters. However, instead of having the session at the usual Kemenpora basketball court, we had it at the Pati Unus Courtyard/Walking Drums to introduce the new place to our new and old members who have not had the chance to train there.
It was a fine morning. I got the usual endorphin kick from that Saturday morning ritual I have been doing since 2011. I am glad that MBC Community has overcome another setback. I am optimistic that the MBC Community will be stronger in coming years to help more Jakartans to be fitter, and provide a healthy sense of belonging for its members. Pun intended.
Actual footage during training session.
[1]‘Perjuangan’ is the Indonesian word for ‘struggle’. The name is a satire to one of the biggest political parties in Indonesia which split during the New Order Regime. For the record, our community is apolitical and our members have their own political preferences.
[2] Training sessions during office hour can be scheduled upon request.
I took Salihara Street Photography course in 2017. I got the information from Instagram’s sponsored ad. It was a rare moment when Instagram ad algorithms actually pushes something that add value to my life.
The course was coached by Erik Prasetya. I did not know him before, despite he is one of Asia’s most influential photographers. I just learned the fact only after I did my research on the course.
I browsed his portfolios first before reading about his background. I loved his works immediately, even before I learned that he’s a big name in street photography. I am always wary of awards and titles. While they are indicative on the quality works, awards and titles have the tendency to turn anything into a competitive sport. As in any competition, you can win because you are that good or simply your competitors are that bad.
I am not saying that awards and titles as well as competitions have no merit at all. They are useful for filtering information overload, to narrow down choices. But we need to keep in mind they are ‘tools’ of institutions. Their reliability is dependent on the legitimacy of the institutions which provide them. And in a less developed country (i.e. Indonesia), there is a high chance that institutions are not matured enough to be consistent in quality standards.
I have seen photographers who advertised his or her credentials when making a photography course. Winner of photo competitions, a high end camera brand ambassador, a magazine’s photographer of the year, etc. However, when I look at their portfolios, they are technically stunning but, I think, bland.
But Erik’s pictures are different. He can capture the beauty of middle-class and Jakarta, two banal subjects which loosely represent the worst of capitalism and consumerism. His works are not just pleasing to the eyes and indulging senses, but captures and touches our ‘soul’.
I have limited references on Indonesian photographers. Therefore, it was a rare chance to learn photography in Jakarta from a photographer with such depth. So I decided to make the investment in enrolling.
I do not have the ambition to become professional photographer. However, I want evolve as a photographer. I want to grow beyond taking ‘instagrammable’ pictures, beyond banal platitudes of getting ‘likes’ and surface level photographic beauty.
The course consisted of classes of instructions and discussions, photo hunting sessions, and creating photo essays.
Instructions and Discussions
In the classes, Erik explained the theoretical formula for street photography (facial expression, juxtaposition and metaphor). Apparently street photography is more than just ‘on the street photography’. To have all the three elements in one frame requires skill and luck.
He also spoke and discussed about his perspective and sensitive observations. The thinking process behind his art—coined as ‘Banal Aesthetics’—is captivating.
Street photography, unlike photojournalism, does not rely on capturing highly charged subjects such as war, famine, or political unrest. Therefore, the ethical issues mostly revolve around the privacy of the subjects. Street photography often requires discreetness to acquire the candidness of the moment. Nevertheless, when the shutter has clicked, the subjects are likely to notice the photographer. It is important to make the subjects feel comfortable, for ethical and artistic (even legal) reasons. Erik has a good tip for photographer: be stylish and good looking so people are more welcoming.[1]
Well, we can learn to be stylish. But not everybody is good looking. Maybe good looking can be substituted by being charming?
The case studies on ethics in photography that we discussed, among others, was Kevin Carter’s Pulitzer winning photograph of a starving Sudanese child waited by a vulture. The photograph helped in drawing more international attention to the crisis in Sudan. Nevertheless, when a photographer photograph something, he or she made a decision not to intervene. Therefore, arguably, photographing is a passive form of endorsement. Carter committed suicide in 1994, the film ‘Bang Bang Club’ portrayed that he felt guilty and became depressed for not helping the child.
Erik did not photograph the 212 Protest, because he is not willing to passively endorse a regression in liberal values.
Photo hunting sessions
In street photography, we need to go beyond ‘exoticism’. I am mostly a travel photographer. Therefore, it is difficult for me to move away from acquisitive mindset towards novel and unfamiliar subjects/objects—which are a plenty when I am travelling.
On the other hand, street photography is, well, photography. I think the foundation of photography is to capture subjects that stimulate the interests of the photographer. Even if the subjects are neither novel nor unfamiliar, as long as they arouse the curiosity to observe deeper, I believe the photographer can produce a captivating image.
We are naturally defined by our interests. That is why photography projects a strong sense of individuality. For me, photography even produces a feeling of connection with the photographer. When I look at a photograph, I feel as if I am relating with and interpreting the photographer’s perspective of the world. Just like reading a writer’s words.
The photo hunting ground was Jakarta. We went to Kota Tua (Jakarta’s old town district) and Jakarta Mod event in Senayan. Just because I live in a city for most of my life, does not mean I can’t find anything novel, unfamiliar and interesting.
Kota Tua
The last time I visited Kota Tua was in 2010. It has always been a popular photo hunting spot in Jakarta because it has the highest concentration of the Dutch colonial buildings. At that time, however, most (if not all) of the Dutch colonial buildings were in such a sorry state. They were all crumbling. The city government does not seem to have any preservation programme of the historic site (or the programme was simply not implemented effectively). If you want to go inside of any of the buildings, you have to pay unofficial entry and photography fee to the local thugs. In my memory, the associated smell of Kota Tua circa 2010 is of urine.
2017 Kota Tua is revamped. I can see the city government led by Governor Ahok has done better job in implementing the preservation programme. The colonial buildings are refurbished and became fancy new restaurants, cafes and exhibition galleries. The main square is more family friendly—which means more middle class Jakartans are coming in.
I am all in for preservation of historical sites. However, at least in this case, the preservation also means gentrification. I am wary of the hipsters, but I am much more wary of the blandness of the middle class. 2017 Kota Tua is like London’s Leicester Square. Kota Tua square is now filled with costumed mimes, floating trick artists and caricature illustrators. Onthel (vintage bicycles) rent businesses have been there for as long as I can remember, but now they are multiplying and the bikes are brightly painted with pastel colours. This is to create high contrast with the grey old buildings. The ultimate purpose: selfies or selective colour photography trick—which everyone seems to be doing there.
Kota Tua square is also a reminder of how homogenic Jakarta is. Although Indonesia is ethnically diverse and Jakarta is the melting pot for Indonesians, it is difficult to spot the physical difference between ethnic groups—except for the East Indonesians and the Chinese Indonesians. Trying to differentiate the Javanese and the Bataks physically is like comparing the English and the Scandinavians.
The homogeneity of Jakarta extends to style. As a conservative society with limited references, Jakartans have low tolerance to non-mainstream individual style expressions. Therefore, there is little variety in terms of fashion. It is typically easy to spot which socio-economic group a Jakartan belong from the way they dress and where they hang out.
The sights of 2017 Kota Tua were new and unfamiliar for me. Nevertheless, it did not stimulate my curiosity. Thus, I cannot use the exoticism perspective.
2010 Kota Tua, I think, was charming in a raw derelict way. Anak kampung (children from nearby poor neighbourhoods) were playing football, indie band members were doing photoshoots for their album and couples their prewedding photography, punks and gangsters congregated with their comrades. It was my early day of learning photography—I still used a point and shoot. My references on photography was much more limited compared to now, but I can be sure that I would have been more interested in 2010 Kota Tua even now.
This confirms that I still hold on so much to the exoticism perspective. I still rely on my voyeuristic impulse in photography. I am interested in ‘lower class’ 2010 Kota Tua, because I am not a member of such class.
2017 Kota Tua
Senayan
The Jakarta Mod event was more interesting. Maybe because the subjects are segmented.
The interesting thing about Jakarta mods are not their obsession with Vespa mopeds, but their zeal in adopting the fashion style—which are geared for London weather. I saw many Jakarta mods proudly wore their vintage overcoat and jacket in 35 centigrade/80% humidity weather. I was sweating in plain t-shirt and shorts, so I imagine how wet they were inside.
It was a hot and humid day.
On obtaining juxtaposition, Jakarta is a random city. Based on my experience living here for more than 30 years, juxtapositions are almost everywhere. In fact, some juxtapositions are so common here they are perceived as the norm. I had to live abroad to be able to see Jakarta’s peculiarities.
Nevertheless, encountering juxtaposition and capturing it with a camera in a split second is the photographic skill that separates the professionals from the amateurs, the trained talent and the rookie. Great photographers are borderline clairvoyant in anticipating moments. Their years of experience seem to allow them to intuitively position themselves at the right place and at the right time. They have mastered the art of waiting and thinking.
I did encounter many juxtaposed moments both in Kota Tua and Senayan, but I failed to capture them.
Needless to say, I fell behind during the photo hunting session. I want to blame Jakarta for this failure. After all, Brandon Stanton of Humans of New York also failed in photographing Jakarta.[2] But some of the photographers in my class succeeded.
Erik consoled me that photography requires the elements of luck and patience. We only had half day. It took him at least 5 years to photograph Jakarta and published them on his newest book Women on Street.
The experience made me insecure. Nevertheless, I was venturing beyond my comfort zone. I took the required path to evolve.
Additionally, I reconfirmed that I do not love Jakarta. Erik can photograph Jakarta well because he is in love with the Big Durian. He migrated from Sumatra. Despite Jakarta is a third world city, it is still the capital. Compared to Sumatra, Jakarta (and Java) is much more developed. Maybe as a born and bred Jakartan, I am unable to appreciate that fact.
Of course, I do not mean to be condescending to Erik or other Indonesian urbanisation migrants (commonly referred to as ‘utusan daerah’—region’s delegate[3]). There is more to Jakarta that attracts Erik than the bright lights and the Indonesian dream.[4] Jakarta is a peculiar city, an acquired taste. The city can be artistically stimulating if you can cope with its randomness. Also, Erik is not just an artist, he is a political activist. He participated in many protests against Soeharto’s dictatorial New Order regime. What better place to do political activism than the capital.
In fact, it may be me who is shallow for not being able to better appreciate Jakarta despite I can live relatively comfortably here.
Photography and Literature
Erik and the other 2017 class participants are also interesting individuals. We discussed topics beyond photography. From politics, literature, films, social and anthropological issues to personal life stories. Every class was enriching. I gained many references from them. I read books recommended by Erik (and a book about him), i.e.:
Mythologies by Roland Barthes;
Camera Lucida by Roland Barthes;
On Photography by Susan Sontag;
Estetika Banal & Spiritualisme Kritis by Erik Prasetya and Ayu Utami; and
Cerita Cinta Enrico by Ayu Utami
From the discussions and the books, I finally understood what makes certain photographers, such as Erik, able to create a depth, to give ‘soul,’ in their pictures: their taste. Technical skills of photography will make beautiful pictures. Depth or ‘soul’ is achieved with the sophistication of the photographers’ mind. As Erik pointed out, a photographer is a craftsman if he or she can create beautiful pictures. However, it takes an artist to create art.
I notice that one thing that indicates sophistication of the photographer’s mind is the ability to articulate their ‘art’ in words. The photographers I look up to are also writers. They have published good (even great) books or at least run quality blog.
I learned that ‘a picture worth a thousand words’ adage does not exempt a photographer in articulating their thoughts. It is true that words are more limited in describing a matter since they are only representation of it. However, words give form to enable better understanding on a matter. The more complex our linguistic skills, the better we are in articulating our thoughts. Subsequently, we become better in expressing and sharing them. And art is about expression and sharing.
The ability to articulate thoughts is also essential for the development of photography. Photography, as any work of the mind, is an intuitive process. Nevertheless, if such intuitive process can be translated—albeit only to certain extent—into a reasoning explanation, the next generation can benefit from precedents and a more methodical approach in learning photography.
Erik’s opined that Indonesian street photography scene is not living up to its potential. He believes that it is not because of the economy. Sri Lanka street photography scene is lively and it is also a less developed country. Erik believes the main factor in such lethargy is the lack of precedents. Many senior photographers do not produce sufficient books on photography. Precedents allow aspiring and new generation photographers to shorten their learning curves and they do not need to develop the established practices from ground zero over and over again.
As someone with ‘standing on the shoulders of giants’ image tattooed on my forearms, I agree with Erik.
Erik is a lecturer in Institut Kesenian Jakarta. He is invested in developing the street photography genre in Indonesia. He mentors his students well. Patient, approachable and encouraging, even towards difficult and entitled individuals. I am writing this entry as a testimony on how this course has added value to my life and I would recommend next courses for anyone interested in the art of observation.
I don’t think I have succeeded in becoming a street photographer at the end of the course. Nevertheless, it is my deficiencies that I need to fix by investing more time on my photography skills. The effort I undertake in the course itself is rewarding. I believe I have learned much and improved as a photographer in general.
Erik holds regular meetups for Street Photography Course alumni (2016 and 2017 classes) and created a Whatsapp group. On a critical note, I decided not to participate because there are more noises than productive discussions in the Whatsapp group. I hope this alumni group can be better curated and moderated.
‘How to take better wefies’ is a part of the curriculum. Not. Photograph by Danny Ardiono.
[1] Erik is in his 60s but you can tell that he is fit from his built (he is a wall climber). He always wear fedora hat and scarf as his signature style. He said it helps to make him look less threatening so subjects are more welcoming to him.
[2] Erik Prasetya held a group discussion at Komunitas Salihara on why Stanton failed in photographing Jakarta. Unfortunately, I did not attend.
[3] Indonesians often refers Jakarta as the capital (ibukota), while the rest of Indonesia is the regions (daerah).
[4] I think the contemporary Indonesian dream can be summed up by these external material symbols: big house, domestic helpers and baby sitter, fancy cars with chauffeurs, Western or Japanese restaurants, fast fashion, shopping malls, the newest smartphones and travel pictures abroad on Instagram.
May I call you Nassim? After all, we have shared a journey that transcended space and time.
I am one of your red rabbits. I took notes as instructed, along with few others, the evening we met.
I believe by knowing your email address and writing this letter, I have established my credentials (as a red rabbit). But I will go further than that. I will recite your personal information:
Based on Gregorian calendar, you were born on [redacted] (I did not catch the Islamic calendar date, sorry). I forgot whether your eyes are green or blue. But I do remember that you are hairy. Your blood type is [redacted].
You wrote the script, the medium of our meeting, on [redacted] in Shiraz. You were unable to travel abroad because you refused to serve in the national service therefore denied of the rights to hold Iranian passport.
Now, allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Suar Sanubari. I was born on [redacted]. I have brown skin, very little hair on my body—almost like a dolphin. My eyes and hairs are black. My blood type is also [redacted].
I am an Indonesian. I too am neither upset or proud with my nationality.
We met in Jakarta, at Teater Salihara, on Sunday, 26 August 2018 at 16:15 (GMT +7). Your medium, the actress, was Ms Sita Nursanti. You were speaking in Indonesian when we met. There were around 140 people (or rabbits, if you prefer) at that time. You were given front row seat, lesehan (sit on the floor, pillow seat provided).
I never heard about you or White Rabbit Red Rabbit until Saturday, 25 August 2018. A friend posted the script’s performance on that day on her Instastory. It was her second time meeting you. The first time she met you was in Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
I checked Salihara’s website and googled about the script. The only information I got is that White Rabbit Red Rabbit is an experimental theatrics where the solo actor perform your script impromptu. The props are limited to a vial of substance, two glasses and a ladder. That caught my interests.
I also read that big names such as Whoopi Goldberg and Stephen Fry have become your medium. That’s when I know your low fidelity self-expressions have made you big.
It was or is—the tenses are confusing with time transcended, especially for Indonesian native speaker (Indonesian grammar structures are very simple: no tenses)—ingenious of you to devise a medium of thought as a mean to escape your constraints. Indonesia is the 50th country you have travelled to.
Since I plan to make this an open letter, I don’t want to deny your future audience’s the profound experience in meeting you for the first time (don’t worry, I will also redact our personal information for the public version).
I will only say this about your play:
Thank you for creating it, to meet us, rabbits, and stimulate our mind with your thoughts. Your art, your means of escapism, convinced me again that the longest way to die, i.e. to live a little longer is still the best way to die—the one you call the 18th way of suicide,.
Your 2010 self decided to create White Rabbit Red Rabbit to channel your frustration in life situation. To express your thoughts on politics, societal norms and nature of our existence. To break your mind from the constraints that was imposed on your physical body. You could have chosen not to bother, not to deal with the hardships of life. But you did not, you decided to endure and create.
I hope you find the freedom that your 2010 self was yearning in Berlin. I hope we all have the courage to choose the 18th way of suicide time and time again. We can spend the time we endured well, if we keep reminding ourselves that life is not constant. That life changes, for the better and the worse.
Every time I am in the worse part of life, I remind myself the transiency of the circumstances and look back to the better days that have been, such as watching—no, being with you at your play.
