Rumblings of a marketing man on tour…

Ok. I take back all that I said about the lack of decent eating facilities at Jakarta airport. The food sucks, but boy did what came after it make up for that in droves…

For the past 30 mins, I had a delectable young man give me some reflexology. Quite how he learned to be so amazing at his young tender age (and he only turned 21 yesterday), I have absolutely no idea. Handsome, pretty buff, and good with his hands?

He’ll go far…

30 mins with him (I judged him initially for his wiry frame and lack of age, my mistake), and his absolutely brutal hands, cost me a paltry 65,000 Indonesian rupiah. Which is about four english pounds.

Jesus, I’d have paid way more than double, my feet feel like they haven’t in a long time. Happy. Even the sore little toe (which I think I might have broken), got his treatment, all be it a tad gentler. He did nearly make me yelp at one point, but still managed to rub me into submission…

Anyway, he got pretty much the same in a tip as the half hour cost me. And boy, looking at some of the feet around that dimly lit room that poor kid has to deal with, he deserved all that and more…

So, if you happen to be Jakarta way, and half 30-60 mins spare pre-flight (I wish I’d had time for another half hour of him), get thee down to ‘family reflexology’. Thru security, turn right, you can’t miss it.

Half hour, 4GBP. An hour, about 6GBP. Do it. Your wallet, spirit and feet will thank you.

Iain could float back to Singapore right now….

Am in Starbucks.

A slice of corporate could be anywhere if ever there was one. I look around; a german skin head lady on her mac, three chinese business man (tall but stumpy legs), a few backpackery aussie / brit girls. Like I said, could be anywhere….

Only reason I’m here? Nothing veggie to eat anywhere else in the airport once I’m through security. So an iced latte, spinachy quiche, and a sweet cheese danish (tasty as), helped fill a hole.

Now, for a fiver, I’m off for some reflexology.

Iain is back off to SG shortly. Some photos to follow…

So last night I have 3 waiters (and a waitress) vying for my attention. The Chief waiter won by a country mile; he was the only one brazen enough to give me the restaurant card. He told me they don’t deliver, but they would for me. Wherever I was in Jakarta. Oh, and his mobile number was on the back. Smooth.

After my three courses of flattery, I decide to hit some local hotspots. And what is a hotspot not? (A good spot).

The Grandmama's fave of the 80's. such a funny nice young man.....

I feel cheap after that one, sorry. I always hated Barrymore. (But, perfect segway into poor taste joke time. A week after the London bombings, 8 men are found dead in B’mores pool. They were suicide bummers).

So, I take in a couple of ok bars. Mainly pretentious watering holes full of expats and locals that think they’re special as they dress head to toe in loud, garish, expensive designer labels. The sort of stuff you’d probably point and laugh at in London for ‘crimes’ to the fashion world…

I’m not in my twenties anymore, and am certainly no fashionista. The approach doesn’t impress. Not sure it did in my 20′s come to think of it…

Anyway, a fairly early night followed by the karaoke madness circa 830am. I was not really ready to get up, body is exhausted. A week of work and cramming in a weekend of sightseeing certainly takes it’s toll. Especially given the frenetic pace of life here in Jakarta.

So, I fly back in a few hours. Decision made, I am taking it easy today. One more sight to see (which I’ll do en-route to the airport), but today I’m going to spend people watching in the mall. The Hyatt is attached to it, and bridging the gap between lobby and mall is a Hermes. Pick an uber expensive brand, and I bet they’re in there. Asians love their malls, truly fascinating…

And once I’m done looking at over priced vulgar tat I can’t afford, I might grab an hour using the pool and spa. In terms of 5* facilities, this place doesn’t disappoint…

Then, a quick 80min flight back to Singapore, and it’s my last week in the office. A weeks holiday after that (Cambodia+Vietnam), and it’s back to London and the usual daily grind.

Joy…

Iain is having a slightly lazier Sunday than planned. But enjoying it…

Did you have a fave?

Just to show that basically, east, west, black, white, asian, gay, str8, we’re all basically the same. And I shall be using the boys of band to make my point….

Boybands (fundamentally) attract two crowds. The gays, and the gals. There are three waiters, and one gal in this restaurant trying to get in my pants. Hilarious.

Sad thing is, the girl is the hotter of them all…

;(

Iain is now on uptown girl. Pretty much the time the fat one left? It’s a retrospective of rousing, formulaic, pop songs, some food, and a lot of flirting….

Am starting to understand what women in their 30′s are put through when they (shock horror), haven’t yet taken a mate. And all and sundry feel it’s a perfectly acceptable topic to question them on. Relentlessly. Repeatedly.

Until they get a ring slipped on that finger.

Yesterdays chauffeur from the airport, the concierge, the doorman, todays 3 taxi drivers, the waiter / manager in the cafe, everyone asking (with more than a hint of curiosity), as to whether I’m travelling ‘alone’.

Now, I’m aware many of them are asking out of some concern for my personal safety. Which is nice. They may also be unscrupulous sorts, asking the question to establish whether or not I’m a prospect rich enough to make it worth their while to rob me…

I’m clearly not. Not on my paltry NGO salary.

Either way, whenever asked, it grates a little for two reasons. Firstly, doing a trip like this without someone by my side (and we all know I’m referring to someone special), is akin to rubbing salt in a seeping wound. My fault, but not an easy or palatable topic.

And secondly, it’s none of your fucking business you nosey curtain twitcher. You’re paid to serve / drive, not talk back! (joking on that one, am not one of ‘those’ Brits).

I’ve been told gently (and overtly), my being alone makes me more vulnerable. Which I’m aware of, so far from wanting them to hush up, taking is good. You always learn a lot from cabbies, and jeez, those that can speak English here want to talk!

How to land and keep Mr. Perfect though, that one I’m not sure cabbies of any nationality can help on….

Time to mange, drink, and hit a chichi bar or two…

Iain is clearly in the wrong restaurant. Rousing karaoke screen key-change every 180 seconds with what feels like the entire back history of the Westlife. 8 songs in, suicide beckons as I’m flying without wings@the mo….

Key change!

So, I wander round the art gallery part of the museum twice, fastidiously ignoring the ceramics. I noted every single painting I fell in love with, will share some when I’m next with my delicious wee netbook.

The square outside has just a hint of edge. Pickpockets, hustlers, locals, homeless, tourists, hawkers, all there.
I can see why the concierge insisted I taxi everywhere. He didn’t even want me walking across the square alone, but fuck it. I can run pretty fast, and the black belt has come in handy before…

The square shows so much of Jakarta’s colonial past; most of which is rotting and falling down, with modern skyscrapers racing to replace them. Just so long as they’re bigger than that which came before them. Growth here is phenomenal, its no wonder companies are tripping over themselves to find investment opps…

So I’m meandering, snapping and clock an unsavoury sort (and his mate), approaching me for 3 and 9 o’clock looking to head me off in the middle.

Usually, I wander around aimlessly with my head in the clouds but today (and as I grow up), I seem to be remarkably self-aware. At times before my detractors chip in. Clocking it, I decide that the open cafe a few yards in front is my best bet to avoid what I sniff as trouble of some description.

As luck would have it, it’s Cafe Batavia, which was a recommendation from a friend of a friend from the SG office (thanks girls!).

So, Cafe Batavia.

I can imagine sat here long, long ago. A rich man, a battalion of staff to see to my every whim. I’d clearly have a wife or two, and maybe a favourite member of staff nobody spoke of (bit like Andrew. Allegedly). Oh, they were the days…

French jazzy type music in the background, a rather cheeky menu (deepthroat? And it’s not a whorehouse!), big fans, chandeliers, just the right site of decadent to not be overtly camp (although given the pics on the wall fashion icons, models, celebs, but mostly homo-erotic model on model stuff, the owner / manager has to be of Clan McBatty).

I am kicking back to a ‘madame blanche’ desert, my waiters recommendation. He loves the deepthroat (music, ears), but for him, the madame blanche just pips it. With a recommendation like that, how could I refuse!?

So, some Cafe Batavia observations as I sup my tanquary and tonic, and devour my calorific desert….

- there’s a Yankydoodle father and son here. Age wise, some 30 yrs apart. But twins. Same beards, same hair, same face. A timewarp / future mirror for them both…
- this place is decadent, colonial dark woods, light floors, dim lights and lush drinks
- slightly camp, with some borderline porno gay arty shots on wall
- I could write a book here in no time. The atmosphere is relaxed, yet charged, electric. So relaxing, yet with the feeling that anything random could happen when the next punter makes an entrance…

Anyway, time to get my next gin.

TTFN…

Iain is supping gin, and munching thru madame blanche. And she’s one tasty colonial bird…

Always remember a tram stop in spliff-land, called Museumplein.

Well, there’s a square here. Colonial buildings, little Dutch in feeling, and we all know (and if you don’t trust me), museums in Asia are usually shit. That’s why ‘free museums’ rarely works as a hook, as the ones back home are a poor benchmark.

Museum of textiles and art. I think, ah go on then. Since becoming a tate member, I’m in the tate modern bar like a whore on pay day.

Well, a few rooms of broken pots and I think, biiiig mistake. I hit the art, and it’s amazing.

Local artists. War, pain, anger, and motherhood seem to be key themes. Room, after room in the old presidents palace (I think) of stunning art.

It only took an hour to get here, for a ten min journey in ‘normal’ traffic. But something tells me I’m going to be lost in here for a spell.

50p entry well spent I feel…

Iain is pandering to his arty farty loves today…

Swallow me. Whole.

But no clotted cream, scones, or tea to go with. Definitely not cricket!

Traffic beyond mental. And as for the mall to which my luxury hotel is attached (we’re beyond luxury mall wise), words fail me.

And we wonder why the have nots are so easily swayed by those naughty clerics, who make promises of splendour in the life beyond.

Like the good Captain K. Wark of the great ship ‘newsnight’ said, ‘more on that later’.

Iain is in another jam. But fortunately not a pickle!

…by some out of tune, cat-wailing, warbling toss bag singing badly. Very badly.

I’m not sure if there’s a karaoke thing going on, or a stage somewhere near for something or other, but you can imagine the unspeakables racing through my mind.

Still, am up.

Bed and pillows are like a bouncy castle of velvety softness, I don’t want to move. Still, I have the hustle and bustle to attempt to navigate so I can do a little seeing of sightage in my limited time here.

Pull the curtains back, and whilst the view isn’t as stunning as Batman building and big mosque from my apartment in Singapore, it’s still impressive. Just in a slightly different way.

You know when you’re in the countryside, and can see rolling hill upon rolling hill after rolling hill? Well, Jakarta is a bit like that.

Only I’m replacing rolling hills, with towerblocks, mid-rises, and a very occasional tree. All closely packed together, massive concrete beasts literally as far as the eye can see. Which Is quite far from the 13th floor where I am still festering in bed whilst lazily gazing out the window.

Lucky 13 eh…

Iain is off to enjoy some sights. And chocolate martinis that have come highly recommended from a distinguished drinker back in Blighty…

Do you know who the voiceover was? Took the edge off a bit for me...

Ok, Cadbury’s creamy, velvety caramel it ain’t. But here’s the initial thinkage….

- welcomed by a thick layer of velvety smog. Tasty.
- at one point, red tail lights stretched as far as the eye could see. T’was like a veritable trail of brake lightage marking out a path through dusk.
- pimped out cars with dark windows
Are popular. MTV’s pimp my ride crew would be proud.
- the outdoor billboard market is dominated by approx 8 million car ads!
- I passed a ‘Hotel and karaoke spa’. The mind truly boggles.
- when my taxi driver mentioned ‘short cut’, a little bit of me did have tourist alarm bells ringing (he was actually a diamond geezer who loved Scotia), thinking I’d end up on page 32 of some low end UK newspaper as another statistic.
- taxi companies (in any country) are rip off merchants.
- given the mental nature of the traffic, jams, ignoring of lights, junctions, green men, etc, the level of calm from everyone was amazing. No road rage, just a gentle calm. Wouldn’t last five minutes in my car here!

The hotel though, is a bit spesh.

The luxury of a massive King sized bed, walk in wardrobe etc is all rather lovely. If a little unnecessary. ‘m off for a swim, dinner, early(ish) night, then ready to see me some of this massive place tomorrow. Tourist info not up to Penang standards, but hey.

Still can’t believe ten million people live here. Pretty much all of Scotland and London packed into one densely populated city.

That’s what I call city life…

Iain is off to play…