Tag: Mahfud Ikhwan

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. 

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

But that’s another discussion.