May Update
Blok M news update, May 2003
Good News and Bad News
Well, in spite of Uncle George’s desert picnic and bombs going off in Jakarta there are definitely more guys in the bars these days - I’ve not seen a quiet night in D’s Place for two weeks now, and even the Sunday night graveyard slot has picked up of late. And when you talk to the punters you sense a nascent bullishness about prospects here, a confidence that’s been sadly lacking for the last couple of years.
What is also noticeable is that it’s D’s Place that’s attracting the trade. Whilst Top Gun and Oscars are still struggling to entice the revellers in, some nights now it’s harder to get into the upstairs bar in D’s Place than to get onto a London bus in the rush hour.
Now this might be good news for the owners, but it’s bad news when the drunken reveller has to obey the call of nature. The upstairs utilities in D’s Place are accessed via a cramped entrance that’s a bit like a racetrack chicane, so you’ve really got to push your way through when the bar is packed. Normally timid guys and girls become demoniacally possessed with the strength and aggression of rugby forwards as they fight their way towards relief. The plus side is that getting to and from the loo in the upstairs bar can be one heck of an erotic experience.
Reveller’s Fourth Law: modesty varies inversely with bladder pressure.
“A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke” (Rudyard Kipling)
My good friend Raymond has reintroduced me to the pleasures of cigar smoking. When asked why, after nigh on 25 years of abstinence, I’m back on the backy, my answer is simple - there’s so much smoke in the bars and I’m inhaling the stuff like it or not, so why not enjoy it? And let’s face it, a cigar does lend a guy a certain air of sophistication and savoir faire.
I must say that the local cigars are really quite good (they remind me of the Dutch jobs I used to smoke) - but the quality control remains distinctly Indonesian, so every pack is an adventure in the unexpected. Being the analytical obsessive that I am, I spent a number of very pleasant evenings categorizing my smokes and identified no fewer than eight distinct characteristics. A few nights later, as I was downing my second Pernod of the evening and cheerfully chain-smoking my way through a couple of packs, it dawned on my drink-fuddled brain that there are uncanny similarities between the local cigars and the bar girls.
Type 1:
draws and burns steadily, smooth and mellow from tip to tip.
Rather like those nice girls who don’t come on too fast, are marvellous company, and make for a very enjoyable evening.
Type 2:
burns slowly, and lasts for ages.
A bit like the girls you really have to work on to get anywhere, but eventually come across.
Type 3:
burns brightly, and doesn’t last any time at all.
Definitely the equivalent of the ‘QuickFit’ girls - a sweet, but all-too-brief, experience that leaves you unsatisfied.
Type 4:
starts nice and mellow, but gets sharp and bitter towards the end.
These remind me of the girls who are sweet and sexy in the bar, but on more intimate acquaintance turn out to be rather sour non-performers.
Type 5:
doesn’t draw well, no matter how hard you suck.
Just like that gorgeous girl you’ve been lusting after for ages, but never responds to your blandishments.
Type 6:
the wrapping leaf comes loose and unravels, burns out quickly.
Exactly like those apparently modest and demur girls who slowly shed their street clothes in the bar to reveal the skimpiest of slinky skirts and revealing tops, and then move into action at top speed.
Type 7:
keeps going out, and has to be re-lit.
Reminds me of the girls who drop into a catatonic state unless plied with a regular supply of expensive drinks.
Type 8:
has a hole in the wrapping leaf, non-starter.
Very similar to the attractive girls who are only there for a bit of harmless fun - they flirt with the guys and lead them on, but have no intention of doing anything Naughty.
One of the world’s great unexplained mysteries is the Indonesian bush telegraph. No matter that the Jakarta telephone system functions on the same principle as Russian roulette, that the postal system is a local version of the Bermuda Triangle, that hotel messages seem to disappear into a cosmic black hole - news can travel with incredible speed in this country.
When I was a neophyte in Blok M many years ago I used to marvel at the speed and efficiency of the girls’ communication system. It all centres, I discovered, on the ladies toilet. As they cluster round the entrance they chatter away in seemingly random fashion, and as they flit to and fro across the bar they stop and hug each other and swap a few words. I am vividly reminded of the activity in an ants nest, where the little beasties communicate by rubbing each others’ antennae.
Alas, this has all changed thanks to that scourge of modern life, the handphone. The intimacy and romance have all but gone out of personal communications now that every girl seems to have one. In the penumbral half-light of D’s upstairs bar it’s sometimes akin to a fireworks display as phones flash on and off, and those little LED doodahs twinkle and sparkle like miniature Christmas trees.
The handphone isn’t just a communications device for the girls, it’s replaced jewellery as a status symbol and fashion statement. A girl’s standing is reflected in the phone she’s toting, and those little slim jobs with colour screens are the ne plus ultra - they signal that business is booming and she’s made it Big Time. The girls usually carry them tucked in the back pockets of their skin-fit jeans or on a chain round their necks. If ever I’m reincarnated I want to come back as a Blok M handphone.
Perhaps because I’m usually less inebriated than most of my fellow-revellers a lot of the girls ask me to help them with their SMS messages. “What my boyfriend say?” is a frequent request, and some of the messages the girls receive are absolute sizzlers. Lord help us when those new handphones that can take and send pictures become affordable - the mind boggles as to the exotic uses they’ll be put to in Blok M.
But perhaps the most disastrous consequence of the handphone revolution is a phenomenon I call ‘Nokia interruptus’. Just as you and your consort are blissfully approaching the crucial moment, her handphone rings - quick as a flash she extricates herself and dashes to answer the call, in spite of your strangulated howl of anguish. You then wait forlornly while she natters to her best friend, or - to add insult to injury - to another of her conquests, who wants to arrange a liaison. And perhaps you philosophically reflect that the girls now seem to prefer Siemens to semen.
The Taxi Trap
Indonesia’s thousand islands have always been a happy hunting ground for pirates, and they’re still at it - only nowadays all those that aren’t swashbuckling on the high seas are driving taxis in south Jakarta.
After midnight Jalan Pelatehan is a bit like the flight deck of a rather decrepit aircraft-carrier. Cohorts of the oldest and most beat-up cabs to be found in Jakarta form straggly lines across the road from each of the bars, and next to them are fleets of bajays [little three-wheeled polluters] waiting forlornly for their human cargo. Lower down the street, for the girls, there are ranks of shining ojeks [motorbike taxis] straddling the pavement.
As our drunken reveller slumps stupefied into the back seat of his ancient taxi the driver tries desperately to start the engine. When it finally wheezes into life with a sound like an asthmatic bacon-slicer, he crashes into gear and lurches on his way - accompanied by bone-jarring bangs and jolts as the wheels hit the pot holes for which the street is famous. The cabby then ‘forgets’ to start the meter, mentally clocking up instead how much he estimates he can extort from his inebriate fare, and proceeds to take the longest possible route to his victim’s destination.
Reveller’s Fifth Law: the length of your journey home is directly proportional to your blood alcohol level.