travel – Thoughts and Memories

Kamakura, Spring Reiwa 5

Brothers Istiawan.

Not sure we can use that. The Javanese have no surnames. Both of my first and last names are given names. Istiawan is my father’s last name. It too is a given name.

During my business trip to Tokyo, I visited my brother’s new home in Kamakura. He married a Japanese. It was a midweek bank holiday. We took the Tokaido Line to Ofuna, then the Shonan Monorail. He picked us up at the station with a red Mazda Demio.

It was the first time since last year I saw him. I waved and said hi. Out of my reflex, I walked past him and put our luggage in the boot.

I forgot to hug him.

Our family don’t hug. Or our parents hug, but always awkward. Like something you do because everyone does that with family or loved ones. Just something to tick on a checklist.

It was Dinda who hugged him. For her, hugging comes naturally. I had to set my mind to hug him. Like a beginner in a dance class, wary of stepping on their dance partner.

I knew my hug, our hug, was awkward. We are the sons of our father and mother, after all.

‘You bought a car?’ I was concerned about how he manages his expenses with mortgage and everything.

‘It is Mako’s mum’s. She can’t renew her driver’s license anymore. So she gave the car to us.’

His mother-in-law moved from Hiroshima to Kamakura. Sold her house and moved into an apartment a few blocks from their home. It makes life easier for all. Mako can come quickly if anything happens. Her mum can cook for herself and them. And they both still have their own space.

He educated me that Japan has a very low interest rate. The homeownership loan he took is only 0.4% for 35 years. Even Mako’s mum, in her 70s, can still take out a loan to buy the new apartment. He found a good contractor and got another loan to renovate the house.

Tias and Mako’s home is like a house in Ghibli films. No fence, no gate. Signs of a safe neighbourhood. A signpost of ‘Takimoto & Saputro’ with cats ornament is at the door. Saputro is my brother’s last name. Again, not a family name.

They bought an old house and renovated it. Like most Japanese homes, they are tiny but efficient. It is a two storey house. More than enough for a couple with two cats.

A tatami room is inside the living room. It is another Japanese ingenuity in making the most of the space: you can use the tatami room for sitting, yoga, or sleeping. They prepared futons and blankets, it became our room for the night.

We unpacked. Offloaded the cobek Tias asked us to bring. We handcarried that 10kgs of stone mortar and pestle. He wants to make sambal.

Momomi seemed to catch that we smelled of cats. She demanded us to pay our dues as humans: we stroked and scratched her. Mochako was rather suspicious. She was rescued from a breeder, thus her cautious approach to new humans.

Mako told us that the ofuro is ready. I got the honour to take the first dip (the hot water is used several times, and family members usually take turns in bathing—based on seniority). Tias reminded me to shower first before bathing.

Of course. Does he think I’m gross?

In Japan, the bathrooms are insulated to protect the walls from humidity and mould. It also makes them easier to clean. The home is squeaky clean, tidy, and organised. A Dyson vacuum cleaner and a vacuum bot are among the cleaning equipment. The cat litter is odourless.

Japan is an embodiment of a first world country. Nothing is cheap, but everything is of a high value. Thanks to a relatively equal society. Some said it is changing. Capitalism and consumerism, in the end, are rationalisation. The goal is the cheapest items with the highest profit margins. Made in Japan, as Made in Germany—the shokunin—would soon give in to less quality for more quantity. The wage-inflation gap is increasing. The aging population and capital exports make young people work more.

Our childhood home in Jakarta, the Nimun House, is in a state of disrepair. The bathrooms have no doors. Lime and grime on the water closet and basins. The floors would black your feet. Mosquitoes and mould. The air is humid, the lighting dim. Ventilations are not well designed. The furnitures are hand me downs, mismatched. Clutters are hoarded.

It has always been that way. A brick-a-brack of construction, added on top of each other with little or no forethought.

I am glad that Tias’ Kamakura home is a far cry from our childhood home.

We had dinner at a local sushi restaurant Osakanatei. The proprietors are an old couple. The husband cooks and the wife waits the tables. They don’t speak English, so my brother interpreted. Most, if not all, of the patrons are locals. The proprietress sat with guests. She showed a flyer of a play, set in the Italian Renaissance Era, at the community centre. She’d be in that play, as a dowager.

How cute. So first world. Where senior citizens can work and have meaningful leisure time.

The next morning we had a Japanese fishermen’s breakfast at Enoshima Koya. We were the first to queue. The place is so popular, we needed to arrive early (the Japanese like to queue even more than the English). As a rice boy, I say it was the best breakfast I ever had in my life.

I dared my brother to send our picture together to Bapak. He didn’t see the harm, so he did.

‘Is Suar coming to Japan for vacation or business?,’ father replied.

‘He’s on a business trip to Tokyo.’

‘Oh. Happy that you all can meet up. Say hi to Mako.’

End of conversation .

Tias expected that Bapak would show a certain level of curiosity on what your sons are up to. Maybe even being offended because I didn’t tell him that I was going to Japan. But listening is not a masculine trait, as our father exemplified.

We went back to Kamakura home. Mako ordered a reformer, she’s training for pilates instructor certification. The delivery guy just dropped the package at the front door.

‘I am not paid enough to break my back carrying that heavy load inside.’

Not all Japanese are omotenashi. Should I say that we’d pay more if he did? But tipping is offensive here.

Good thing I lift weights. Tias lent me his work gloves. After we put that 100kg mainframe, Tias wanted to install the entire parts. He said he saw in a YouTube video it takes only 8 minutes.

I told him that the video shows an installation by a trained handyman—with cut scenes. Mako said he tends to underestimate how much time is needed. In anyway, he would install the reformer later.

We changed into trail shoes, trekked the Hiromachi Greenery. I climbed a giant Enoki tree. I imagined Totoro was sleeping down there. We met another group of trekkers. We met a group of locals who lived in Jakarta. We exchanged pleasantries in English, a little Japanese and a little Indonesian.

We stopped by a coffee shop cum library, Book Cafe So Common. I love how respectful the Japanese are to peace and quiet. The patrons were stylish, engrossed in their reading or chatting with proper volume and tone. Someone was wearing a black Leica M (from the ISO dial, it is an M10 or 11). Not many English books are available. I took and browsed a photobook, Appearance.

We sat by the fireplace. On cold days or nights, they would fire it with wood. But it was a warm autumn day. Warm enough not to wear a jacket, cold enough not to be sweating. A perfect weather.

The coffee shop is in the most expensive neighbourhood in Kamakura. The homes are big. Land Rovers parked in the garages.

We took a bus to Kotoku-in Temple, to see the Daibutsu (the Great Buddha Statue). Saw a Latin American pray, light an amber on incense, then made a cross sign across his body. Buddha would receive his prayer, not sure with Jesus or Yahweh/Allah. The Abrahamic God demands exclusivity.

Had lunch at Antico Rondino, a prosciutteria. The restaurant is in a traditional Japanese house. Our favourite Asian food is Japanese, and Italian for Western. I felt so grateful to be able to eat Italian a few blocks away from a Japanese temple. Too bad, the toilet is also European: bidetless. The restaurant should have stuck with Toto washlet.

We walked to the beach. It is not that tropical paradise-esque white sand and turquoise waters you find on travel brochures. It has the charm of an English seaside town (but with better weather and food). The shops are modelled after Hawaiian or Balinese styles. People surf, kite, or just walk. A group of international karatekas were training and posing. It was the golden hour. I felt like in Keane’s music video, ‘Sovereign Light Cafe’.

There is also a park with a baseball field. Fathers and sons or daughters played catch. I caught an off field ball and threw it back to them.

A good place to raise children. I thought. Expensive, maybe, but a good place.

I was tempted to ask Tias and Mako on that subject. I imagine a cute mixed race nephew or niece. But as a child-free adult, I refrained from asking that.

We took the tram back. Packed our bags again, to return to Tokyo. Tias and Mako drove us to Ofuna station. We stopped by Awanouta for ramen dinner. Mako warned us that the dishes we ordered contained pork. Tias told her it was okay. She mistook us for our parents and extended family. We’re not halal people.

We our said goodbye at Ofuna Station. I told him again that he should not think about going back to Jakarta. No matter how our parents and family emotionally blackmail him to return.

Our mother wanted what most Indonesian mums wanted: a visit once a week (with grandchildren), a prayer time together, gatherings during Ramadan and Eid festivals.

But Tias’gaijin life is a better life. In a high income country, you are 1% rich if you are middle class. If anybody tells you money can’t buy happiness, they are spending it wrong.

Hiromachi Greenery scarecrows: *Candy Candy*

A week after my business trip to Tokyo, it was our mother’s birthday. I know I should send something.

I did.

Should I come to visit her? I have postponed visiting since 2019. Pandemic, I told everyone.

I didn’t in the end.

Tias asked for a videocall with Nimun House.

Yes, videocall should suffice.

Tias and Mako dialled in from Kamakura. I from my home. We tried to have a conversation as a family.

Ibu was sleepy. Half-conscious. She slipped off from her chair, unable to remain on screen. She had a stroke last year, after a decade of losing her voice. She was on Xanax and Prozac, but always refused therapy. Relied on prayers. Now she is showing symptoms of dementia.

Bapak and our youngest brother Pasha—her only two dependants now—tried to animate her. Like a doll.

I told them about Kamakura home. How beautiful it is. The forest and the beach. Tias translated to Japanese from Indonesian for Mako.

Bapak replied, ‘Oh nice. Why didn’t you visit it during your business trip to Tokyo.’

‘He did. I sent you our picture,’ Tias said.

‘Oh. It’s nice that your home is near parks.’

‘It’s a forest, not just parks. We trekked. And a beach nearby,’ I said. ‘People do wind-surfing too.’

Bapak did wind-surfing when he was young. As a little kid, I saw him surf at Ancol.

I showed him pictures from n the Lightroom app. But I realised he was already gone before I finished showing them. Only Pasha was still there. Ibu went asleep before the screen.

Silence. I couldn’t find things to say.

I pride myself on being a conversationalist. But my parents always disagreed with that self evaluation. They said I’m not much of a social person. Too stubborn and materialistic.

I saw a hole in the ceiling behind Ibu. I asked Pasha, ‘Is that a hole in the ceiling?’

He didn’t reply. He talked about his gig. Giving his labour to a friend’s business: supervising the loading and unloading of events organisation.

I can’t remember what we talked about after that. I could have pressed on, don’t change the subject. But I didn’t. All I remember was Billie Eilish’s ‘What I Was Made For’ playing in my head.

And that hole in the ceiling.

Brothers Istiawan: we have the same strides

May 9, 2024

Jogjakarta, Ramadan 2023

Karawitan and Javanese magic.

Pak ‘Gembok’ (Mr Padlock) leads Sanggar Widya Pramana, a Javanese traditional performance arts studio for underprivileged children. A self taught musician and a dancer; an ophiophilist (he has three pythons, he feeds them with live chickens).

He got his nickname because he has ways with padlocks and locks. He has a collection of knives and blades, some have been wetted by human blood.

Pak Gembok has shed his old skin. He lives a quiet life now with his wife and children, as an artist. His eldest son just got admitted to Universitas Gadjah Mada. School of engineering.

He’s good friend with Pak Edi, a healer. Like the Balinese counterpart, Javanese healer’s therapy involves massages, slicing your chakras with sacred keris, knocking your head with agate imbued with magic, or inflicting pain on other parts of your body that you forgot the original pain. Like many healers, he is also a purveyor of psychedelic potions and herbal cigarettes; a broker of antique collections.

I became his willing patient (or subject?).

‘Your body shows you have a lot of repressed emotions,’ Pak Edi said.

‘Mood swings. You look composed on the outside but turmoils in the inside. Signs of PTSD.’

The mantras he performed, the parapsychology analysis, and the small talks about metaphysics made the healing experience ‘an intellectual decompression chamber’, a ‘high magic’—a LaVeyan Satanic Ritual. Being ‘read’ was scary for me, I felt vulnerable when someone could see through me. But it also made me relaxed and felt the human connection.

Pak Edi is not against modern medicine. His children are medical doctors. His wife, with her sharia views, wants him to abandon his ‘pagan’ practices though.

Pak Edi said that he and Pak Gembok were a band of warriors in their past lives, 3000 years ago. Fought side by side among or against the ranks of chariots and war elephants.

The sanggar provides training to children interested with karawitan, the Javanese traditional performance arts: dances, wayang kulit (shadow puppets), and gamelan.

Some of the kids have no formal education at all, some survivors of abuses. The arts may be the only luxury they have, something beyond survival needs. An existential outlet.

We had iftar with the sanggar at Iwak Kalen, courtesy of Tito as their patron. We all sat cross legged on plastic woven mats. The favourite dish was the grilled catfish, freshly caught straight from the ponds of the restaurant.

The smell of muddy fresh water and sweet soy sauce in hot and humid Jogja weather may be ‘anyep’, Pak Gembok said. But it is his favourite restaurant. His happy place.

We were graced with a welcome performance: a gamelan orchestra and a ronggeng dance. The dancer wore hijab, but the dance is sensual; the sounds of gamelan are mystical.

The performance arrested my attention. I pressed the shutter release. I was in the flow state: the subjects and the environments were aligned. Usually, I don’t like photographing Java’s tropical hues in colour—the light is either diluted by high humidity or flat bright under blazing sun. But I am pleased with the Kodachrome Classic based film simulation recipe I set on the X100T.

After the iftar, we shared a bottle of Bushmills Blackbush at Pak Gembok’s home. Pak Edi told us Javanese parables on drinking:

Eka padma sari: one shot, like a beetle suckling nectar;

Dwi amartani: two shots, humbled oneself–prone to any persuasion;

Tri kawula busana: three shots, everyone wears the commoner dress–becomes equal;

Catur wanara rukem: four shots, like a monkey fighting for rukam (fruit, Flacourtia rukam);

Panca sura panggah: five shots, fearless and shameless;

Sad guna waweka: six shots, paranoia;

Sapta kukila warsa: seven shots, like a soaked bird–babbling;

Ashta kacara-cara: eight shots, uncontrolled speeches;

Nawa wagra lapa: nine shots, like an impotent tiger;

Dasa buta mati: ten shots, like a dead giant.

We stopped at third shots. We were officially friends by the first shot anyway. This year’s Ramadan’s blessings.

Sanggar Widya Pramana is one of the few sanggars with a complete set of wayang kulit. They hold regular performance every Kamis (Thursday) Wage. Honouring the arts’ heritage, the schedule follows the Javanese Calendar, the Anno Javanico—a mix between Gregorian, Islamic, and Saka calendar systems.

Contact: Jl. Cakra 4 Cokrowijayan, Banyuraden, Gamping RT 04 RW 18 Sleman, Yogyakarta

May 27, 2023

Paris: Summer 2022

First international travel AC (After Coronavirus)

I visited Paris for the first time in 2015. As a postgraduate student from London. Paris confirmed my expectations of Parisians: rude, but stylish and charming. It is easier to befriend the French than the Brits. Most French will tell you when they don’t like you. Is it not super? You don’t waste time. The way you make friends and date after 30.

Paris is easy to love. It is drop dead gorgeous and charming. Tourists who said otherwise, the ones who suffer from Paris Syndrome, expect that the City of Light has no shadows. They thought Paris is made only of luxury brands, of Vuitton and Hermès. Instead, they found dirty streets, homeless; rude wait staff; and unhelpful locals.

But Paris is opulence. One of the epicentres of the Global North, a capital of commerce and culture. One of the symbolic metropolises of the Western civilisation, the modern civilisation. Parisians’ affluence was demonstrated by the Yellow Jackets. They highlighted the inequality of the city, and the country, by occupying the Champ de Elysees. They protested about the rising living costs; on how they can only eat out twice a week.

The city celebrates life’s joys and terrors with grace. It endured suffering with hedonism. The blood and death spilled on its streets are equalised by the salons and arts. Paris survived Viking raids, the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, Nazi occupation, Bataclan terrorist attack, and plagues—the Black Death; the Spanish Flu; and Coronavirus.

I bought the flight tickets to Paris in January 2022. The price was so cheap as the airlines were betting on travel restrictions. As the months went by, we were optimistic that our risk taking is going to yield us a win. Quarantine period was reduced, then removed. International borders were opening.

Then on 17 May 2022, my mum had a stroke.

Some of the extended family members tried to give a hint that I should postpone or even cancel the trip. I went anyway. I’d regret missing a travel opportunity more than being absent in case of Ibu’s death, especially after those lockdown years.

Still that thought lingers in my mind. My extended family also made sure to remind me; asked if I could shorten my France trip.

‘You’d regret it when she’s gone.’

‘She misses you,’ said an aunt speaking on behalf of my mum—believing she can read my mum’s mind. She barely recognised me.

I carried with me that filial guilt, Asian upbringing weight heavy.

Thankfully, I have got rid of the expectation that I should always be joyful when I am travelling. You cannot outrace the speed of thoughts, no matter how far you travel. But you can go to places which remind you that life is bigger than your problems.

I deleted the Instagram app on my phone. I decided that June, when I travelled to France, is the no social media month. I used an analogue camera, the Leica M3, to document this trip (backed up with my iPhone 12 mini and my travelling companion’s Fuji X100T). They were intentional constraints I imposed to be present.

On this second trip, we pretended that we were Parisians. We rented Airbnb flats, instead of staying in a hostel or hotel. We dined in bistros, sat at cafes, took the Metro, walked and walked. Did a little shopping too–we’re still consumers. We didn’t ride on the electric scooters though.

I read Paris has the ambition to be a carless city. During the pandemic restrictions, the Parisians decided to close down the roads to make room for restaurant tables, outdoor seating. ‘Restaurants are Parisian institutions. Cars are not.’

The first restaurants were opened in Paris after the revolution. Chefs usually worked for aristocrats’ homes. Then when the aristocrats could no longer provide employment, the chefs decided to render their services to the bourgeois.

Thanks to those Parisian chefs’ entrepreneurial pivot, the world has establishments which are essential to the procreation of our species. Romantic and sexual relationships, political connections and business deals, are made in restaurants.

Paris may be an expensive city. But thanks to socialists’ democracy and capitalist welfare system–financed by colonial inheritance–you can still enjoy the city for free.

We walked along the River Seine. Sat on its bank. Smoking, drinking, talking and people watching. Waved at those river cruises. If you’re feeling belligerent, give the middle finger instead. That’s also an expression of love, in a Parisian rude kind of way.

A group of androgynous models sat beside us. They were taking photos of each other. One of them looks like Benedict Cumberbatch. She (or he) speaks Russian. A group of Indonesian students talked in Indonesian. We didn’t impose an introduction. It is weird that we’re glad to meet fellow countrymen and women abroad, but would not be excited meeting them in our home country.

When we visited Shakespeare & Co, it was the celebration of 100 years of the publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses. We had to queue to get inside. Once the bouncer lets us in, there is no time limit on how long we can stay inside the bookshop.

We went upstairs. I don’t know if some writers still want to spend a night there; risking flea infection for the sake of sharing the same bed with the great American writers of the post-World War I era.

I didn’t meet Eggy the Cat. We were warned not to feed him, lest he get sick. Bought Camus’ The Rebel, and Sade’s Justine for a friend. I rewatched Before Sunset on the return flight, naturally.

My mum’s best friend and her Parisian husband have returned to live in Paris. Uncle Maurice retired from his corporate job, after being stationed in Singapore for decades. He missed Asian foods, therefore invited us to a lunch meet up in Chinatown.

Palais d’asie is listed as ‘Pan Asian restaurant’. But they only serve Chinese and Vietnamese. The audacity! How about us Indonesian? Yet we do not trust any ‘Asian’ restaurant that specialises in all Asian food. Eating Chinese and Japanese may require you to use chopsticks, but their foods are not to be mixed.

Located in a typical baroque Parisian building, juxtaposed with neon signs of Chinese characters. A Space Invaders’ tile mural of ‘Noodle’ on its building’s wall testify the authenticity, I suppose.

The proprietor served us. A middle aged man in short sleeved shirts, a bit oversized, and brown pleated pantalon. Pens in his shirt pocket. The 90s Hong Kong movies’ Chinese uncle looks. He took our orders in French.

We strolled around Chinatown. The concrete tenement blocks make the area feels like Hong Kong. Peddlers, unlicensed, were selling traditional snacks. Asian sex workers loitering around the neighbourhood. We entered a high rise building, the lower floors are a commercial zone. Shops selling bubble tea, mango sticky rice; bars serving Asian cocktails.

Tante Yanti told us about her student life in Paris. The Chinatown was a mustering point for Indonesian students, mingling with the other Asians. Her father was a sympathiser to the Indonesian Communist Party. After the 1965 Jakarta Method purge, she did not have much opportunity in Indonesia as a daughter of a sympathiser. She got a scholarship to study at Sorbonne.

Compared to my mum’s life, hers is a tumultuous one. Ibu had a sheltered life, at least from Ibu’s stories. She played it safe, or rather passive. Worked for the same company since she graduated. Stay married to Bapak.

She endured. ‘Because life could have been worse,’ she always said.

Tante Yanti left her first husband to be with Oom Maurice. She took his son with her. Oom Maurice raised him as if he is his own son. They have a daughter.

She lives a bourgeois life. Tante Yanti is a stay at home wife. Making sure the nest is well kept, children fed and educated. While her husband worked a C-level executive job.

They are doing well. Family vacations to exotic or fancy destinations every year. Their son and daughter were sent to Canadian and UK universities. Careers in London and Stockholm.

When Oom Maurice retired, their children moved out to live and work in London, the old married couple renegotiated their roles. Tante Yanti demanded Oom Maurice to be more involved in domestic chores. In Paris, they don’t drive anymore, they walk and take the public transport.

Oom Maurice, being old school, prefers the Metro’s paper tickets to the electronic card. The one you pay per trip or buy in bulk of 10 tickets. I tend to lose those papers (and it’s greener to use reusable cards).

With Oom Maurice, I talked about big things. How Paris is prohibiting prostitution again by criminalising the demand side (soliciting sex services are allowed, but procuring them is a crime). Public private partnerships in the construction of Jakarta’s MRT, and how Jakarta tries to imitate Singaporean business model: to profit from renting the spaces in the stations to retailers. The Ukraine-Russia War; the upcoming recessions.

Tante Yanti likes to talk about small things. How to register for PeduliLindungi, Indonesia’s Covid-19 tracing app. How sad she is that her children have grown and left home; how glad that they are not struggling and living their own lives in other European cities.

Tante Yanti and Oom Maurice treated us ice cream at Berthillon in Ile de Saint-Louis. Told us about Louis IX, the sainted King of France. I asked what his miracle was. He didn’t know. He’s a well read free-thinking Jew, but sainthood canonisation is not one of his interests. (I researched later, Louis IX sainthood is attributed to cure tuberculosis and blindness by touch, and extinguishing raging fire in Paris)

Took us around Marais. We went inside Cathedrale Sainte Croix, near the gay clubs. A White Pantecost Mass was ongoing. Marais was the Jewish quarter, gentrified into a hipster area full of designers’ shops. Oom Maurice told me that an Islamist terrorist attacked HyperCacher (super kosher) in 2015. One of the victims was a Muslim, Lassana Bathily, the heroic employee who saved several Jewish customers.

Our last stop with them was Place des Vosges. I did what I have always loved to do in cities with decent public parks: laid down on the grass. In sub-tropical temperate summer, the earth is warm and dry enough. Unlike on humid tropical soils, it is still hard and dry enough to be comfortable on it.

We dined, most of the time without reservations. Even at Huitrerie Régis which usually requires advance reservations. A Vietnamese family said they had to reserve 4 months earlier; we just came in and the wait staff said there was one table left beside the toilet.

We sat outside whenever we could. Curbside dining, drinking, and smoking are quintessentially Parisian pleasures.

Unlike our previous visit, Parisians waiters and waitresses were polite and welcoming. I thought it was because of our charm, which matured as we age. A Parisian who sat beside us at one of the bistros shrugged, ‘We finally realised how much we need you, tourists, after the pandemic.’

Fair enough. Hemingway warned how simple it is to be liked in Paris: just be generous in tipping.

My first visit in Paris was spent on the great sights: the Notre Dame, Louvre, Orsay, Canal St. Martin, and, of course, the Eiffel. This time, we visited just one museum: Musee Rodin.

‘The Thinker’ may be the Master Sculptor’s masterpiece. But it was ‘The Helmet Maker’s Wife’ that arrested me. A meditation on the fleetingness of youthful beauty; a sorrowful acceptance to ageing and impending death. A figure of a naked crone with sagging breasts; wrinkled skins of the decay of time.

‘The Wife’ triggered my memories when I washed Ibu at the hospital bed. Her skinny arms with paperlike fair skin. Her face, I noticed, has become a masculine one. Tante Yanti said she used to be the cute one among them. She endured an awful marriage. She is still.

‘The Kiss’ also fascinates me. It is a strange mating gesture, kissing. Before my very first kiss, I imagined a kiss would be a grand mind blowing feeling to meet each other’s lips and tongues. But I found it simply a gateway to the intercourse. My partners like it when I kiss, so I do it.

Maybe it is the emptiness inside me which made me unable to truly appreciate kissing. Or I’m simply not a good kisser.

Maybe kissing is an affectionate gesture, rather than sexual. It is difficult for me to be at ease when hugging and cuddling too. Not that I am against emotional connections. I yearn for it.

I read the plaque. The couple kissing are Paolo and Francesca, from Dante’s Divine Comedy. They were forbidden lovers. Francesca was the wife of Paolo’s brother. When Paolo’s brother found out about their affairs, they were stabbed.

Rielke said that Paris is like a city in Biblical stories. A city that invokes the wrath of God. No wonder Paris is so appealing. An unapologetically immoral city. Luciferian, the City of Light is.

Paris is a walking city. Our iPhone tells us that we walked 15,000-20,000 steps on average. Like hunters-gatherers. It was the peak of the summer. Heatwaves of 31 centigrade. Enough to make us, tropical people, sweat.

We met up with Rich and Em. They took a train from Geneva for a Parisian weekend. They brought their son James, Si Anak Bule (the white kid).

It was surprising James is given such a white name. Em and Rich work at the UN and have lived in Asia for a long time. They met in Indonesia; Iowan Em even speaks Arabic (she was stationed in Egypt before Indonesia). I was expecting a more exotic name, but ‘James’ is Rich’s granddad’s name.

Paris is not wheelchair friendly, which means it is not buggy friendly. It was difficult to navigate Parisian streets with a baby and a buggy. We collaborated, the four of us. But Em as the mother carried the heaviest burden. She had to breastfed hungry little James.

Even in Paris, when you’re with a baby, people are more receptive. The Resistance smuggled and transported contrabands under the cover of babies. Mothers hid the guns and classified intels past through Nazi sentries with their buggies. The same trick the Indonesian revolutionaries employed to pass through occupying Allied Dutch checkpoints. Well, as long as the kid does not throw tantrums. James did not, two madames on Metro kept James entertained.

We visited the Henri Cartier-Bresson Foundation. I baptised my M3 at the Grand Master’s temple. Bought a copy of Images a la sauvette, the French edition.

France may not be known for its camera brands, but the first photograph was taken here. It has a long tradition of photography. I wanted to buy another Leica M, but I realised money spent on a camera would deduct my budget for experience. Also my time shopping would take my time photographing. When you are in a stimulating environment such as Paris, you’d lose your consumerist impulses. Such a paradox, Paris is one of the consumers’ paradise.

One of the earned wisdom I gained from travelling is to become a minimalist. I converted to the Leica M-system because it is a minimalist system. Dissonantly, I became obsessed with the idea of collecting Leica Ms.

Good thing that Paris, France, and travel in general, allow me to focus on what really matters. I have all that I need: a Leica M3 with a Elmarit 28mm f2.8 lens. HCB used one camera and one lens for the rest of his life. (He shot only in black and white though, Ilford HP film stocks)

We went to Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. It feels like London’s Hampstead Heath, but the people are more stylish. No trainers and dirty sneakers. We met up with Momo and Thibault and Em and Rich. Momo brought me the handmade leather documents/macbook pouch I ordered from Corman Mariquiners in Noyers, Burgundy. We had a proper summer Parisian picnic. Red and sparkling wines; pickles, cheese, and ham in a wicker basket. Sat on a red and white chequered mat. We chose a spot under the shade of a cliff and right outside a cave mouth, where the air circulation kept us cool.

The summer light was perfect. I love how Kodak Colorplus 200 captures it.

Couples, friends, parents, and children were playing. The kids noisily gathered around the water fountain–drinking and refilling their water guns or plastic bottles. They didn’t respect the queue, until a madame yelled at them in French with the authority of a Mother Superior.

This is Affluence: a beautiful public park where people can walk for the sake of walking. Just bring a bottle (or two) of wine and some charcuterie (or any food you like). Smoke some pot, play some music instruments; talk about nothing and everything with your friends and lovers.

Again, Lonely Planet is right. ‘These Europeans. They know how to live.’

May 20, 2023

On The Move

Sri Lanka: pre-pandemic and bankruptcy.

I travelled to Sri Lanka in 2018. It was a difficult time for me. While I did not suffer any financial hardship, it was the first time after 11 years of seemingly unstoppable career in private practice I became unemployed.

It was a debilitating experience. In this consumer capitalist society, we take our identity from how we make a living. Our self worth is measured by how productive we are. The main metric is how much money we make.

I clung to my identity as a lawyer like a flotation device. When I had to let it go, I sank. The profession which demanded much of me and given much to me was lost.

I travelled with this hanging anxiety. A blurry sense of self.

It’s true that you can’t escape your thoughts no matter where you go. At Ella’s Rock, I stepped closer to the edge. I was thinking of jumping. The idea of ending the mental sufferings in beautiful vistas seemed romantic.

But my self-preservation instinct kicked in despite bouts of nihilism.

Sri Lanka, a Buddhist country, is also a prime centre for meditation retreats. I had been thinking of starting meditation, but at that moment I knew it was urgent to start. Just like a serendipity, I found a copy of Hermann Hesse’s Siddartha in the bookshelf of Highest Peak Bungalow guest house in Nuwara Eliya.

South Asia is photogenic. However, I was not ready to brave the intensity of the second most populated country in the world. A friend recommended Sri Lanka. Smaller in size and population density.

India Lite.

The two South Asian countries, being neighbours, have had a rather tense relationship since ancient times. In the Ramayana myth, Lanka is the kingdom of giants. King Ravana kidnapped Queen Sita of Ayodiya (India). His husband, King Rama, waged war to reclaim her.

In modern times, tension between the ‘native’ Sinhaleses and the Tamil minorities–brought by the English colonists to work on tea plantations–is still present. Unlike their Commonwealth peer Singapore, which adopted English as lingua franca, the modern Ceylon insisted on Sinhalese to assert cultural primacy of the majority population.

The Sri Lankan people are not camera shy. In convention with the stereotype of South Asians, they were happy to pose. I may be guilty of voyeuristic exoticism, but I am genuinely interested in my subjects. Their willingness to trust me in recording a piece of their soul is something I do not take for granted. Some of them lend a helping hand to me as a traveller. I try to be a mirror when I am photographing: a magic mirror, reflecting with my sentiency–connecting, sharing a brief moment of shared time space.

I am sure that my subjects have their woes. Most of them are not as well off as me, economically. But in our interactions, we were both happy. Just to smile at each other. Maybe we distract each other’s miseries with our foreignness.

I read the news that Sri Lanka is bankrupt–the government is bankrupt. The economic collapse led to institutional collapse. I wonder how my subjects are now. I hope they are persevering.

***

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

Arkademy Project is a photography collective focusing on critical and reflective photography with an interdisciplinary approach. Translation: documentary, street, travel–human interest photography. My kind of genres.

I browsed their website, the mentors’ portofolio. I knew instantly that I wanted to join their tribe. These are the photographs I am drawn to; the photographs I want to make: not just aesthetically pleasing but also meditations on human experience.

To be a photographer as an intellectual and an artist.

I only had one day to curate and submit my photo series. I got the information two days before the deadline (from an Instagram post, sponsored). I was not sure if I’d get the award. I have made entries to photography competitions before. Never successful (rightfully, when I saw the winners).

I am not a professional photographer, but I am no dilettante. I am always wary of using the word ‘passion’. They have been overused by us, millennials. But I am passionate about photography.

I may not turn this into a profession. I don’t need to make money from it. Maybe I’d progress faster if I choose to make a living from photography. But this financial detachment makes me unencumbered by the ‘market demand’. Of course, I risk being too self indulgent.

I am glad that I decided to stay alive back in Sri Lanka. ‘To live the question’, as Rilke said. The photography scholarship is a tangible answer.

I have not yet been able to love myself in the way people without a complex PTSD can. I still feel the need to attach an identifier, labels, to myself. I just realised that those labels are not fixed and I can use more than one. I chose identities which are relevant to the situation present.

I would do photography despite not getting any award. But getting the photography scholarship, an external affirmation and recognition, feels nice.

The impostor syndrome within me asks: ‘Did I get the scholarship because I am good or because the other applicants are bad?’ I did ask how many applicants applied out of the selected 12 photographers: only 50.

However, when life gives you an opportunity you must seize it. It does not matter if the opportunity is a dumb luck.

When I met the other awardees and saw their submissions, I realised how competitive the selection was. I felt more inadequate. Most of them are younger than I yet their photographs show immense depths, which require maturity.

I knew that I’d learn a lot not just from the mentors, but also from fellow participants.

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

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

August 18, 2022

Meggan x Fabian: Argentique

La Bernerie-en-Retz, Brittany, France. Summer 2022.

I first heard of the happy news in May 2021, when Indonesia was the epicentre of the pandemic in Asia. I lost a dear friend to Covid-19. Many of us did. We lost our freedom. I know some of us had it harder: death, deteriorating health, financial hardship. If you did, and you are still here, I congratulate you for surviving.

The wedding invitation was something to look forward to after one year of social–physical–distancing. The 21st century global exile, mitigated by advanced medical science and information technology.

We met Meggan and Fabi in 2014. 2010s was a decade of immense growth. 2014-2015, the LLM year, was still the best year of my life so far. 2020 gave a surprise closure (not really, if we observe the cycles of history).

They were postgraduate students in London–Queen Mary and LSE–looking for affordable accommodation. They met on Facebook group, became flatmates in a council house in East London.

Meggan had a boyfriend, but they confided in each other. Bound by London’s student life and housing crisis.

The Greatest City in the World asks for overpriced rent. Living room was converted to bedrooms to maximise space; the walls are so thin you could hear the neighbours shouting; their almost feral chihuahua barking.

In return, London swallows you whole. Entertains and amuses you in a way inexhaustible within two lifetimes. You’d meet people from all around the world. Heard of countries you were ignorant about before. Shown forms of cultural expressions imaginable by our species; ideas, innovations, and traditions.

London is a place where ‘such stuff dreams are made on’.

Meg and Fab moved in together when they became steady–to a much better flat, with a Big Ben view. Celebrated Meggan’s twenty-fourth birthday there.

Then life after the insulated post-grad world happened. They love London, but found opportunities elsewhere. Fabi got a good job in Frankfurt. Meggan in Paris. Thus began their long distance relationship.

Fabi did not ask Meggan to move to Frankfurt because he did not want her to sacrifice her career. But they want to be together.

Everything falls into place, eventually. Meggan got a job in Frankfurt. Fabi proposed in London, after dinner at Dishoom–their favourite Indian restaurant, under the rain.

Like the Officiant of their wedding said, ‘Their story is straight out of romcom.’

I am glad that I can catch up on so much of their life just by attending their wedding.

It was also my first time attending secular wedding vows. Something illegitimate in Indonesia. I wish I could have that: the freedom to opt-out from religion in one of life’s greatest social events.

Marriage is not a life goal, but Meggan wanted to be married. With the right person.

The Europeans have moved forward from seeing marriage as a means of procreation and prostelysation. This is not a destruction of an institution, but an evolution–a progression. We are now richer than mediaeval kings. Our lives are more complex. Traditional social contracts need to be reconstructed to fit modern life.

We knew their wedding would be a special day in our lives, even without ever going through a pandemic. A beautiful intimate wedding in Bretagne under the summer sun. Gathered, reunited, in our elements as ultrasocial animals.

Meggan and Fabian organised the event themselves. The amount of thoughts and efforts dedicated to their wedding represent how much they are willing to work on their relationship.

‘Soulmates are made, not found.’

It has always been a privilege to feast. But when we have been fasting, the wine and butter taste even better.

We arrived in Bretagne, in Pornic, by train. Late because our Paris-Nantes train was delayed for more than two and half hours. ‘French trains, pfftt…’ they said. We missed the apero, but we were greeted by the Atlantic Ocean at Creperie de la Source.

And our friends, chosen family from the other sides of the globe.

By Toutatis, I was on the extreme end of joy. We were at the great here and now.

We stayed in Hotel Le Grand Large, a family owned and run accommodation. Anais the proprietor reminded us, repeatedly, not to be noisy. She seems to be traumatised by wedding guests. Glad that we could prove that we are not some twenty-something stag/hen party crowd.

Swam in the Atlantic. Sunkissed by the Galian sun. Had oysters and beers at Les Tontons bar, where the waitress is your typical French belle–the grace of imperfect beauty: freckles, gap teeth, wide forehead–with a shojo manga character tattoo on her left thigh. Ice creams from La Fraiseraie; fish of the day from Le Sud, the only restaurant open on Sunday evening (I was expecting a compromise on food quality, but this is France: service may be limited, yet food is an obsession). We walked at night from the wedding party and gazed at the starry sky.

La Bernerie-en-Retz is not the stereotypical beach town I am used to, i.e. loud; full of drunken tourists looking to get laid or creating social media content. It’s family friendly. It may not be drop dead gorgeous like the tropical beaches in South East Asia, but it feels homey.

By using an analogue camera, the M-trois, I took the risk of failed photographs. But it helped me to let go and to be intentional. I couldn’t review the images on the back LCD screen; I only have 36 shots or less (the first exposures always suffer from light leaks).

Now I am rewarded. As Fede told me: ‘Il sole bacia i belli.’

P.S. If only Cassio brought a partner and a black person was in attendance, the wedding would have been a model for a diversity event.

July 2, 2022

On Travelling Independently

Muhammad said, ‘Don’t tell me how well educated you are, but tell me how well travelled you are.’ Well in the 21st century, a common person can be both.

The last decade, augmented by web 2.0 and budget airlines, made travelling mainstream–even for a citizen of a low income country like me.

I have always dreamed of travelling around the world. But before I knew how to use guidebooks and had not entered private practice, travel was prohibitively costly and an insulated affair.

My family always travelled with guided tour services. The main idea for travelling is to sit inside a bus, take pictures in landmark locations, shopping at souvenir shops (where the guide and travel agent get commissions), and eat familiar foods not too far beyond your default taste buds (always halal). Repeat.

You are always in your bubble. Just a change of scenery.

It seemed that independent travellers are exclusively Westerners. Given the Rupiah exchange rate; the limited availability of travel information in Indonesian; and weak Indonesian passports, independent travels do not match with Indonesian demographic.

At the beginning of 2010s, some Indonesian independent travellers got some traction in fame by sharing their travel stories, by blogging. The successful ones are women; women independent travellers are undoubtly feminist. Many young girls become fans to these bloggers because they see empowering figures. A role model. A big sister.

Some wrote travel guides aimed specifically at the pain points of the Indonesian tourists. ‘Travel around Japan with Rp2million (less than US$200)’; halal eats; and the best place to shop for souvenirs.

The authors/bloggers also set up open trips and open order services. They are the gig economy entrepreneurs. Their online businesses revolve around their personality and hospitality. The really successful ones got sponsorship from big travel companies so they can focus on travel writing.

I read some of their blogs and books. Learned their tips. But soon realised that the $200 budget trip tips to Japan, an expensive destination, have so many reservations and lack of depth. The itineraries are not too different with the tour packages offered by the travel agents. You only cut the costs of tour company and guide’s fees and by using public transport. The core idea is still to visit the classic landmarks and take pictures of yourself.

I am not against such a basic concept of travelling. All travellers must start somewhere. But it is not enjoyable to stretch your budget. It’s better to travel nearer and somewhere cheaper, than to travel far then unable to do anything meaningful.

The $200 budget trip to Japan guide also has very limited information on alternative sights, activities, or eats. Of course, with the internet you can search for additional information. Google and Tripadvisor can help, but most of the information is wiki style. Everyone can contribute and, therefore, the quality and reliability of information must be further analysed. You also need to consolidate the information and structure it to make it useful.

Know how much you can afford and willing to spend on trips: Budget, Mid-Range, Top End. The budget range varies, depending on the country. The range is helpful, but for third-world destinations, prepare an extra buffer for unpredictable occurrences.

Loving yourself is a prerequisite for happiness. But being self-centred will only make you anxious. You must mature as a traveller. Be interested in local cultures and natural ecosystems. Let travel be an education, not just a collection of I-have-been-there checklists. You’d be a worldly person—an interesting person.

Enter Lonely Planet guidebooks. They are independently researched by professional travel writers in cooperation with local ‘assets’. Their guidebooks are structured systematically and, other than practical information, also provide nuanced articles on history and culture.

Buying a good guidebook is a necessary investment in travelling. It will help you plan your travel and educate you. They are valuable reference sources.

There are many guidebooks: Eyewitness, Routard, etc. But I found LP writers have similar tastes and interests with me. You need to find a guidebook that suits you.

Lonely Planet guidebooks are called the ‘Travel Bible’, but just like any book it is still imperative to read other sources. The saddest and most dangerous reader only read the Bible (or the Quran). Things may have changed since the publications; the writers could have been wrong; the perspective tends to be too Western; or simply someone else finds hidden gems unlisted by LP.

For me, travel planning is exciting. Travel requires project management skills. The travel-planning/project management skills are transferable to worklife. No matter what your job is, to deliver a product or a service requires sound planning and execution.

The most valuable ROI from travelling is the traveller’s mindset. You get to see money and stuff as lateral things in life. The most valuable commodities are time and space. Experience lasts longer than material things. You’d remember your trip in 2011, but you’d hardly notice that your Blackberry was a state of the art tech gadget at that time.

You will also hone your negotiation skills. Dealing with scammers will teach you first hand that capital is not the only leverage. That a smile and learning simple phrases in the local language can go a long way.

People are not their government. Most people will help travellers in need. That kindness and goodwill of the locals would always be the most memorable moments in your travels.

The advent of Instagram fueled travel bug infestations. Self-published travel writers/influencers become another career option. Many young people dream of leaving their day job and travel full time.

‘Pursue your Passion’. ‘Do what you love.’ Became mantras.

I get it. Life can be more than becoming a cog in corporate machines; to spend drudging days in the cubicle; to be an indentured slave just to own a home and a car.

Travelling is a great way to make use of life. But being a travel influencer means you are working in the travel industry. Even in our modern time, travel is still a luxury. The pandemic has taught us that the encumbered people–the essential workers who mostly cannot afford to travel for leisures–are the backbone of our civilisations.

The hospitality sector is one of the most challenging. The comforts and ease of modern travels are made possible by armies of workers and service providers—most of them can’t travel for leisure. If everyone decided to be full time travellers, the industry–and the society–will collapse. Thankfully or (unfortunately?), such an apocalyptic scenario is highly improbable.

It is trendy to travel. Almost everyone would say that they want to travel. But then follows the ‘buts’: ‘expensive’; ‘dangerous’; ‘don’t have time’; or even ‘I’m afraid to fly,’

Yes, travel is expensive. But you can skip on buying new iPhones every year.

Dangerous? My bag was snatched in Rome; touted and scammed in Naples; extorted by a Hare Krishna monk in London; overcharged by taxi services in Bangkok and Hanoi; broke my left foot ankle in Kazbegi. But most of the time I was safe and the locals have been most helpful and hospitable.

As in anything, I make time for travel. I am part of the working class. My first employer did not respect my annual leave rights. I found better employers.

I would cite the statistics that flying is safer than driving. If you live in Jakarta and can afford to travel, most likely you drive. Should I mention at least an aeroplane crash would have been a quick painless death? Compare drowning in a marine accident.

Aircrafts are one of the best engineering feats ever conceived by humankind. Pilots are elite professionals.

But I know it’s futile to use facts to convince you to sit for hours in a fossil fueled flying mass coffin. Get therapy.

In feudal societies, only peasants were attached to the ground to toil on the soils. The gods, kings, heroes, and warriors; the artisans and craftsmen; the merchants, the sages and scholars travelled. Gautama, Jesus, and Odin were travellers. So were Odysseus, Musashi, and the Pandavas.

The Freemason was a guild of masons. As artisans they journeyed from town to town, village to village, and learned the different ways of worship and living. Travelling is not possible without the stayers, the locals. Travellers are gifted with knowledge and wisdom or, at least, capital. In most places, there is an asymmetry of power. Our choices when travelling will always have an impact on the local ecosystem. Be a responsible traveller.

Dr. Seuss is right. The more you read, the more you will travel. Wherever I go, I always acquire new books. There goes the virtuous cycle.

I find meaning in travelling. I am a travel photographer, a travel writer. My writings and photography are mostly inspired by travels.

I travel as a lawyer on business trips. Visited rural areas of Indonesia. Lived in foreign countries because of my profession: secondment in an affiliated office in Singapore; studied for a master’s degree in London.

Travel is a way to assert my sense of autonomy. To lend me the power that I am not just a disenfranchised professional slaving myself to the whims of employers for consumerist needs. Even when I resigned from a high paying job, with no guarantee of employment or income, I travelled. I just budgeted for less expensive destinations.

Whenever I travel, I am reminded that there are many ways to do things and to live a life. The norms you are initiated to are local conventions. Transcend them to gain more initiatives. Do not accept the default template, bespoke for the right fit.

One of my deepest fears is not being able to travel. That I don’t make enough money to allow me to travel. That I don’t have time to travel because of work. That I am not healthy and fit; that I’d be too old to travel.

You don’t have to be working in the travel industry to be a traveller. You just need to travel. The idea that someone must monetise their ‘passion’—to work in a sector that they find as fun—is so corporate American. Sometimes because you make good money from your job, you can pursue your passion with financial flexibility.

I lasted this long as a lawyer because I love to travel. This profession allows me to meet new people and travel to places where I have never been to (or even knew that such places exist).

Meaning in work can also be obtained from the people who you work with. A healthy working environment allows you to be you. And we are more than just one thing.

In fact, working in travel industry because you like to travel is like working in porn or prostitution because you like sex. Sometimes it is less fun to do something you love because it has become work.

Do not mistake ‘fun’ and ‘interest’ as ‘passion’. The word ‘passion’ comes from Latin which means ‘to suffer’. A passion is something you are willing to suffer for.

The drudgeries of office work, so you can earn money to finance your travels. The risk of travel accidents, crimes in the cities you visited, the potential racist treatment. The deliberate choice to be childless to have more disposable income and time to travel. A grave offence to Indonesian family values that upsets my parents—who think I am denying them the happiness they are due. My traditional extended family called me ‘selfish’; the kinder ones, ‘odd’.

I endured them. Gratefully.

Because I know that to travel by choice is a privilege.

Burgundy, France. Summer 2022. Photograph by @adindaaditha

June 25, 2022

Canggu Lyfe

We spent the last two nights of our 2022 January Bali trip in Canggu. The least affected area by the pandemic lockdowns’ economic downturn. Other areas like Ubud, Kuta, and Legian withered away; Canggu became the home of many superclass migrants: Western and Russian digital nomads, Jakarta’s HENRYs and trust fund babies.

Many of the digital nomads are staying under a ‘talent’ visa: surfers, models, DJs, social media influencers, and life coaches. They are 10/10: six pack abs and round titties with peach butts. I was so insecure with my body to swim with Canggu hunks and babes.

They are the generic standards of beautiful people. I imagine LA must be like Canggu now, but these foreign migrants do not need to wait tables while waiting for their big break–like the prom kings and queens of hick countries in Hollywood. With their dollars, euros, and rubles generated from online business they are trickling down their wealth to the local economy.

All of these expats are mostly white. If Hitler came to Canggu AC (After Coronavirus), he’d prove his point about white supremacy (or he’d be baffled because most of these models and influencers are slavic untermenschen?).

I feel like an NPC around them.

Our best friends moved to Canggu from Jakarta in 2020. ‘The parties here make me insecure with my body shape,’ said Angga. But Toby, being Norwegian therefore less affected by the inlander mentality, thinks that the Canggu hunks and babes are so generic therefore uncharismatic. They are like DJ Fingablast in The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

But still, they’d make you feel like the ugly duckling. Angga even chose F45 over CrossFit because the participants are less body conscious.

Angga and Toby become pawrents. They adopted Putih, a local stray, and were forced to adopt Raja (rescued by their mutual friend but cannot afford dog rearing). They even enrolled their dogs in a dog club, and have playdates with other dog owners. They really yielded the twenty-something lifestyle they managed to keep (despite pushing forties).

Now let’s talk about the HENRYs. Higher education in the world’s best universities; professionals or high ranking executives in tech companies or consulting firms–therefore can work remotely. Engineers, designers, or in-house counsels. Knowledge workers with fat salaries.

Our best friends are the archetype of HENRYs. Devoted to having a youthful lifestyle with the financial security of bapak-bapak. Childless (dogs are cheaper than human babies) and non-subscribers of Indonesian family values. Multicultural, interracial. Their discussions range from quantum science to explain our existential angst, NFTs, how to build a working hedonist commune in Bali if Jakarta sinks, mental illness, socio-economic stereotypes, and occasionally RuPaul.

Their entire team of designers moved to Bali–even though officially their offices stay in Jakarta. Canggu offers them Jakarta high lifestyle with lower costs, cleaner air and sans Jakarta traffic.

We had dinner at their Canggu home. They lived in a two bedroom apartment unit in Jakarta. In Canggu, the same rent cost allows them to live in a three bedroom villa with a private swimming pool.

Alcohol is cheaper in Bali; they drink more but they party much less and lead a more active lifestyle with less stress. They walk their dogs at many of Bali’s public beaches everyday. So they are in better shape than they were in Jakarta (it’s just that they compare themselves with Canggu hunks now).

Whenever we hangout at one of Canggu establishments, we can be models for university brochures. Most peer groups in Canggu, despite being an international hub, are monoracial: all bules (whites), all cindos (Chinese Indonesians), or all pribumis (‘native’ Indonesians–brown). If only our cindo and African friends are with us, we’d be a complete colour palette for diversity initiatives.

Canggu homes and hotels are advertised as abodes of paradise: minimalist architecture and interior design mixed with tropical vibe inspired by traditional Balinese or Rio style—that pastel colours synchronised with brown woods and rattans sit nicely with brutalist grey. Did I mention a private swimming pool?

Instagrammable indeed. But before you dive in and sign the tenancy agreement (or sale and purchase), take the time to visit and actually live in the property. Canggu properties often sacrifice construction quality for that Insta-worthy looks. The tap water is trickling; when it rains (and by rain, it can mean torrential tropical rain) the ceilings leak; the electricity can be unreliable and the electrical wiring is outright hazardous; un-neighbourly neighbours and small potholed access roads. If you are urbanites uninitiated with nature you might be annoyed by bugs and vermin. A giant lizard may swim in your pool–on a regular basis.

The hotel we were staying at, Shore Amora, has that definite Canggu vibe. The interior design has an open plan, but never forget to close your balcony or semi-outdoor bathroom doors. The mosquitos will invade your room (mosquito coils are available though).

Shore Amora was opened in 2019. Six-months before the pandemic hits. Their service is slow (must be understaffed). Located in Pererenan Beach–15 minutes from Canggu centre–the hotel enjoys the quiet side of Canggu. The best way to navigate Canggu, and Bali as an island, is to drive mopeds. But if you can’t brave Balinese riding style and road hazards, taxi and ride-hailing services are widely available.

Before the pandemic, the conventional taxi services and the ride hailing app drivers had territorial turf war (not violent, the Balinese know that safety and security are assets in the tourism industry). The drivers can only pick up guests and passengers within their outfit’s territories. But after the lockdowns, they came together and removed the strict enforcement on such conventions.

The taxi drivers also came together and ended the price war started by the ride-hailing companies. Gocar and Grabcar and Blue Bird taxis can pick up passengers from the airport but with the same fees.

We took an antigen test at Omsa Clinic as a flying prerequisite. The clinic is staffed by two persons, they take turns in doing the administrative work and the tests. They are not provided with full set PPE, just masks and gloves. The clinic services are inefficient. We had to wait for more than an hour when there were only two people before us. We filled in paper forms which were then typed to the clinic’s computer (no wonder there were typo errors which can cause failure to link with the Indonesian Government’s Covid-19 tracing app Peduli Lindungi). But the clinic charges more than big test labs in Jakarta. I can imagine their profits with lower overhead costs (labour and rent in Bali are cheaper than Jakarta, plus they don’t spend on proper PPEs and IT infrastructure for the online forms).

Another example of Bali’s lack of infrastructures. Medical services in Bali are even below Jakarta standards. The new private hospital, branched from Jakarta, charges a premium—especially if you’re an expat. In any way, most of the locals cannot afford going there.

Bali is good for anything fun, but for anything serious it is still at ‘daerah’ (provincial) quality. Indonesia’s best doctors, engineers, and lawyers are still based in Jakarta. Specifically for the legal industry, there are few Balinese lawyers who can speak English. Compare that to the tourism industry, where Balinese guides and drivers can speak not just English, but other European languages and Japanese and Korean.

Balinese Hinduism has its appeal. A derivative of Indian Hinduism, it survived the Arabisation (Islamisation) of Java. It held onto its Sanskrit roots. As an oriental religion, Hinduism is much less anal retentive compared to Semitic religion. Its concept of good and evil is more nuanced, less black and white—it emphasises cosmic balance rather than retribution and rewards to right and wrongdoing.

Yet the rituals are more taxing. Yes, they seem grandiose and exotic–photogenic. But the rituals impose lots of social obligations, particularly to women. They ensure cohesion in Balinese communities but at the same time restricts the individuals. Ngaben (Balinese cremation ceremony) is expensive, family members may have to borrow money to pay for it. In [ritual] days, you have to bless your motor vehicles. If you are absent from your village’s ceremonies too many times, no one will help your funeral.

The rituals must take precedence over productivity, or even the public’s right to access roads. Bali has the most bank holidays in Indonesia to allow their people time for religious obligations. Roadblocks are common if a village is convening religious ceremonies (but then, Islamists in Jakarta do that too–but lack the grace and charm, also often illegal).

Still, the Indonesian government’s strategy to develop Bali as the country’s primary tourism destination was culturally and geographically on point. Indonesia, the Dutch East Indies, has always been Java-centric. Java is the most institutionalised region in Indonesia. Javanese ancient Sanskrit kingdoms were powerful. Khmer kings sent their brahmins to study in Javanese universities. The Mongol Empire’s invasion was repelled. The Europeans were successful in colonising Java only by cooptation with local rulers competing for power.

After the Islamisation of Java, the old Hindu aristocrats fled to Bali with their courtiers. Java was then ruled by the upstart Muslim rulers. No wonder Javanese nobilities have less class. If you visit Keraton Yogyakarta, you’d see that it does not compare with Ubud Palace, designed by the maestro Lempad.

Hinduism is less ‘puritanical’ than Islam. It is not anti-fun. Drinking, gambling, sex are considered vices only if done with excess. The caste system ensures subserviency in hospitality. Islamic culture is not suitable for the tourism industry. On the other hand, East Indonesia, with a predominantly Christian population, is underdeveloped. The culture lacks institution; Papua is still a hunter-gatherer society.

Bali is, geographically, at the centre of Indonesia. The traditional culture is ancient and sophisticated. Its exhibition of rituals and dances will draw any voyeuristic western travellers looking for oriental exoticism. In exchange, the Balinese adopt the worldliness (and consumerist attitude) brought by the travellers. Many Balinese, especially those in the tourism industry, are more fluent in English and Indonesian. They also do business with Australia, Europe, and Japan–not just with Jakarta.

Yet still, the locals’ living standards are low. Even the nasi campur joints offer local prices for the locals. This discriminatory pricing may seem advantageous to the locals, but it speaks volume on their buying power. We, as holiday makers, benefit the most from such economic asymmetry. I often feel uneasy with such inequality. It is easy to accuse many foreign (white) tourists of acting like colonisers (and some do), but what about us Jakartans?

Our stay in Canggu is about catching up with Angga and Toby. We had dinners at their Canggu home and BuReka Bistro. Lunches at Mauri and Mason. The Woke Salaryman has a point: once you have reached your first $100K everything in life becomes easier. We earn so much more in our late 30s but only spend slightly more than in our late twenties. We can take more career and investment risks. We know what we don’t want, therefore know better of our needs and wants. We can focus our spending on what matters for us.

We had breakfast at Baked and watched influencers at work. It is impressive how fast they can edit their videos on the go (#terbaked). We had coffee at Monsieur Spoon Pererenan. It was a sunny day, with a nice gentle tropical breeze. We walked the beach after that, people watching. Locals and expats taking their kids and dogs, eating pork satays or grilled corn with cold Bintang beers. To gaze at the vastness of the Indian Ocean made me less encumbered by my thoughts and emotions.

I can live here.

March 30, 2022

Portibi Farm, Sukabumi

Quietness is a luxury in Jakarta.

You can retreat to your home, but the sounds of traffic, the unmaintained mopeds (or worse, modified), and local mosques’ adzan and prayers would always penetrate your abode. This Nyepi (Seclusion Day) long weekend, we decided to retreat further south, to Portibi Farm (Lodges Ekologika) in Sukabumi. 1,5-hour drive from Jakarta (two hours when we returned, the traffic).

We passed through kampung. Attached to an industrial complex, most of the villagers earn their living in factories and warehouses, not from farming. These are not the idyllic kampungs portrayed in Orde Baru propaganda. The roads are paved but potholed, most buildings are made of concrete and painted with poor man’s green. The atmosphere of vapid poverty is similar to suburban Jakarta.

Portibi is in the secluded areas of Sukabumi. Where large properties—villas owned by rich Jakartans—are located. These properties can afford to counter the urbanisation and the industrialised aspirations. They also provide employment and business opportunities for the locals.

Portibi is rustic. In the farm, you get to experience that kampung asri. On the grid electricity and wi-fi are only available in the main buildings: the kitchen, the dining hall, and the bar (and some of the cottages). Cell phone signals are patchy.

We stayed in Limas Gede. I feel immersed into Indosiar’s silat flick soap opera Angling Dharma, but with much better artistic direction and creative design. The cottage is powered by solar panel, only sufficient for powering the lights at night. The cottage has an open-air shower room and toilet, with the luxury of hot water powered with LNG (the small green tank, ‘for poor people’).

All cottages’ architecture style is open design. Naturally, bugs and mosquitoes and creepy crawlies insist on sharing your place. Don’t worry, the beds are comfy and clean and protected with mosquito nets. One night, however, a big spider got into the net. I managed to remove it unharmed with a broom. A family of chivettes seem to reside on our roof. Being nocturnal, they were busy at night. We could hear their rushed footsteps outside and on the roof.

These are not nuisances. They are simply a part of the idyllic farm life.

Come 5am. The local mosque blasted their supercharged speakers. The noise went nonstop until 10am. Then again in the evening.

I am conditioned with Jakarta’s mosques but to blast your speakers non-stop for hours is another level.

Portibi provides ear plugs, but I am paranoid whenever one of my senses is restricted. I don’t even like to wear my Airpods in public places.

After the prayers and preachers came the firecrackers.

I can’t help to judge that the kampung lyfe is boring for those who must actually live it. That these noises are byproducts of the villagers looking for excitement and entertainment. To paint a stereotype that orang-orang kampung are contented and wise is like believing Disney’s fairy tales. As if the lives of Grimm’s princesses were not as grim as the mediaeval times they lived in.

Portibi is not a resort. If you expect room service, you’d be disappointed. They do not provide any. The farm is designed so people would lounge at the common areas: the Pacifist Cannibal bar, the kitchen, and the dining hall. No shoes/sandals there. I should have brought house slippers, walking barefoot on flat concrete with my flat feet hurts.

The food served was excellent. All ingredients are sourced locally, either farm produced or bought at the local wet market. Ayu is a great cook. Her salads were always the star of the course. The bread and pizzas are homemade. The cuisines are Indonesian but with fresh western influence at a perfect balance—not too strong but never bland. Be careful of the sambal and chilli flakes. They look harmless, but they are spicy.

The only thing that tops the food served were the conversations, at the bar or at the dining hall. Jocean is such a great host. He stored his collection of LPs and CDs there. Played them on vintage audio sets.

Jocean played Bjork’s ‘Venus as a Boy’ and ‘Big Time Sensuality’ with gamelan orchestra arrangements. I never knew such a version (and they are not on Spotify). Jocean got a bootleg Bjork CD in Barcelona.

Despite being secluded in Sukabumi, the Pacifist Cannibal bar is well supplied. Beers (craft or otherwise), wines, vodkas, whiskies. Their signature gin and tonic is mixed with passion fruit from the farm. ‘All tips go to the staff, not to the bule bartender.’

I don’t smoke, but I tried Sukabumi’s local cigarette brands. One of them is Gudang Karya, a knockoff of Gudang Garam kretek (clove) cigarettes. Outside Jakarta, the tobacco market still has room for local, often knockoff, home industry brands. Some people actually collect these local cigarettes from their travels around Indonesia.

The Farm’s library is stacked with an interesting collection of books. Many are bequeathed by the guests; Jocean requested them to write their thoughts about the book in the last pages. Our friends, Maesy and Teddy, owners of the indie bookshop Post Santa wrote their co-authored book The Dusty Sneakers and left a signed copy. Among Paulo Coelho’s books, I found one that catches my interest: You are not a Gadget by Jaron Lanier.

Lanier is one of the creators of virtual reality. The book is a warning against the dehumanising design of the Web 2.0: the social media. The book was first published in 2010, the early years of social networking services. At that time, most people—including me—still bought the idea that Facebook is ‘connecting’ people, a force of good who can muster the power of the masses in inciting social changes which the established institutions could not or are too slow to mobilise people’s power.

The Web 2.0 put so much, too much, emphasis on the wisdom of the crowds. The hive mind, the collectivist ideas, rule them. Unleashing the inner trolls by their design and serving the advertising god. Silicon Valley pre-Web 2.0 was anti advertising. But when targeted advertising first came into being, they justified that it is not that kind of advertising. Thus, the ascent of the lords of the clouds and the digital serfs.

The author prophesied that the Web 2.0, if it stays at their design course (which it does), would be a threat to individuality. It will create technologists-oligarch and disenfranchise artists, musicians, intellectuals; culture and aesthetics will be dictated by philistine masses manipulated by advertisers. The creative and intellectual workers are expected to give away their ‘products’ i.e. information/cultural expressions—[self-published] books, music, and films—for free. Their remunerations will depend on popularity (views, likes, followers—metrics which algorithm depends solely on the platform’s changing business models). With scarcity removed, the economic value of the information nosedived.

Lo and behold, as I read Lanier’s words, I am witnessing—living—in a world where his prophecies came true. The extreme ephemerality, often badly made, TikTok reels; the attention deficit; the bullying culture perpetuated, masked as ‘pranks’ and ‘jokes’; trolling mobs armed with cancel culture ignoring due process; the increased status anxiety as consumers; the race to the bottom in ‘online business’; the death of privacy powered by acute narcissism and exhibitionism; fintech is basically traditional banking but with an app; clickbait journalism.

Fortunately, public awareness on the dark sides of social media improved. Streaming services invented the subscription business model. Some people are willing to pay for quality information and to become actual users—instead of being used by the platform. The K-pop industry adopts and successfully monetise the collectible ‘dongles’, merchandises of the beloved idol-artists.

The blockchain technology has created an opportunity to reinstate scarcity to digital assets and cultural expressions without the need of centralised governance. However, just as the oil barons and traditional bankers can buy out the lords of the cloud—who disrupted their businesses—to their side, the wealthy have more leverage to be wealthier with cryptocurrencies and NFTs.

I should have read You are Not a Gadget ten years earlier. But the book chooses me. In 2022, the midst of a pandemic. At the stage when I have learned about the fallacy of Facebook ‘friends’ according to Dunbar’s Numbers (that our cognitive capabilities can only sustain a maximum of 150 close personal relationships) and how finite is our mental bandwidth to pay attention.

The Web 2.0 and the advancements of information technology have made the pandemic more bearable. Read Camus’ La Peste and you’d understand that a quarantine in the era of telegraph and telephone was much more isolating compared to our 21st century’s. However, our human behaviours, our selfishness, and our heroism during turbulent times have not changed much.

Lanier contends that the best of social media is brought by the people, not the engineering or design. An example is the oud online forum where he is a member. The forum brings together people who share obsessions with such musical instruments. The forum is a true internet community, where trolls are mitigated by the passionate admin. As an engineer, Laurier wanted to improve the rudimentary software design. But he realised that what makes the forum healthy is the people behind it, not the software design. It is another testament that people matter. Individuals matter.

The digital world is only a representation of the analogue world. In the digital world, everything is flat. The flatness simplifies, therefore, helps in our conceptual understanding of the universe. However, some nuance and context are lost. Smells still belong exclusively to the physical world. Our olfactory faculties require molecular interactions. Unlike lights-images and sounds, we have not been able to pixelate or digitise them, yet. Digital/cybernetic totalism and the singularity advocated by the lord of the clouds are still (mostly) the stuff of science fiction.

Social media’s rigid interface tends to be a template for cataloguing people. Status (‘Single’, ‘In a relationship’, ‘It’s complicated’). Political views (‘Liberal’, ‘conservative’, ‘libertarian’). Age, sex, profession. To a certain extent, it is useful in profiling. But, like a CV, it is often insufficient to establish one’s character—the qualification that matters the most in a human being. Of course, public display of troll-like behaviours online make it easier to identify red flags. At the very least, you can know for sure that the person is stupid enough and/or have no decorum for posting thoughtlessly. In the creative space, templates can be limiting—like MIDI format to music or 8-bit to paintings.

I may not be ready to read Lanier’s prophecies back in 2010. I have not experienced the breakneck speed and the unintended consequences of hyper-connectedness. Now, as a person who championed the modernising of the law firm I am working for; a reader who reads paper and e-books; a photographer who uses both film and digital camera; a writer who writes his essays with a fountain pen or a typewriter and digital word processors, I know how relevant Lanier’s manifesto even—no, especially—now, at the beginning of Web 3.0:

> Don’t post anonymously unless you really might be in danger.
> If you put effort in Wikipedia articles, put even more effort into using your personal voice and expression outside of the wiki to help attract the people who don’t yet realize that they are interested in the topics you contributed to.
> Create a website that expresses something about who you are that won’t fit into the template available to you on a social networking site.
> Post a video once in a while that took you one hundred times more time to create than it takes to view.
> Write a blog post that took weeks of reflection before you heard the inner voice that needed to come out.
> If you are twittering, innovate in order to find a way to describe your internal state instead of trivial external events, to avoid the creeping danger of believing that objectively described events define you, as they would define a machine.
J Lanier, You are not a Gadget

The two nights stay at Portibi Farm has been meditative and educational.

Portibi’s lack of connectivity is one of its charms. We trekked the Gunung Salak National Park and toured the farm. We put down our phones and played boardgame (I played ‘Junta: Viva el Presidente’ with people working for UNICEF and the World Bank. In that game, the players are members of a military junta ruling the Banana Republic; the objective is to steal as much as foreign aid monies as possible—how uncanny). Puppy and Bruno, the resident dogs, demanded our attention. We were present.

The space-time travelled was not just Jakarta-Sukabumi, but Jakarta-Silicon Valley across the last decade and cyberspace and to the future. Travelling and reading have once again created their virtuous cycle. The multiplied opportunities as they are seised.

Oh, and I managed to capture our moments in monochrome. With Summicron 35mm and 50mm lenses on Typ246’s CMOS sensor and M3’s Ilford Delta 100 film.

March 23, 2022

Madonna de Rose Festival, Naples, Summer 2019

Naples, 31 May 2019

We were walking back to the hotel. There was this commotion in front of a government building (I assume so since it was guarded by heavily armed soldiers).

It seemed to be a typical Italian local festival. People carrying a shrine on a platform, bearing the image of a saint. Complete with a band. The main actors—the shrine bearers, the musicians and the dancers—wore wreaths of roses.

Yet, instead of the solemnity of a Catholic procession, it has the merriness of a Dionysean festival. The band (or should I say, mariachi?) played familiar tunes. Green Hornet, I think. People were dancing, clapping and singing in ecstatic abandon fueled by wine (and maybe other substances).

The revered Saint is a woman with many hands sitting on rose petals. Her image is modern and sensual. A syncretism of Guan Yin and Mary (or Kali and Magdalene). She does not shy away from nakedness, projecting sexuality. A profane woman by Catholic standards.

There were two young ladies who were the main dancers. One is red haired, she was wearing a normal modern day outfit—sleeveless black shirt and jeans—but with a metal armband that gave a touch of ancient divinity. The other is black haired but with blue eyes. She was wearing white dress typical of European pagan goddesses. Like in the paintings and sculptures of Greco-Roman Mythology.

When they danced, they were gorgeous. Their beauty is not of ‘lifestyle magazine commercial grade’. Not size zero and/or round American titties, but with imperfections that made them real. Their realness sent an aura of nymphs. To me, they seemed to be European ancient myth personified.

Madonna de Rose. A festival by fine art students. For me, a street performance represents Apollo’s desire to Daphne.

March 16, 2022

City of Joy: Tbilisi, Winter 2019