March Diary
Blok M diary, March 2004
Singapore Sling
No, this isn’t about the famous cocktail of that name - it’s the Reveller’s right arm, which is currently supported by a surgical sling provided by the most excellent sawbones at the Mount Elizabeth Hospital in Singapore. Yes, as he was motoring homewards after playing in the pool competition last week, the bike locked into a water-filled rut near the Blok M bus terminal and keeled over, breaking the Reveller’s arm pretty badly as he slammed into the tarmac.
It’s many a long year since the Reveller has seen the innards of a hospital, and he’s staggered by the advances. The hi-tech wizardry they now deploy makes the place resemble something out of Star Trek and the sci-fi style that this wonderful TV series spawned, and as he’s wheeled into the CT scanner room his immediate reaction is "Blimey, it’s the Stargate!". The operating theatre itself is curiously spartan, and one whole wall is covered in flat-screen digital read-outs and monitors. "Open hailing frequencies", murmurs the Reveller as this panel goes into psychedelic action when they plug him in. And the lighting array above the operating table is amazing - four spiral clusters of high power quartz halogen lamps with enough output to illuminate a football pitch.
As the surgical team looms into the Reveller’s field of vision and the general anaesthetic is slowly pumped into his arm, his last waking words are quite fittingly "Resistance is futile!". An hour and something later, as he comes round after what feels like a mere second’s oblivion and looks at the assorted tangle of tubes, drips, needles and electrodes going into and coming out of his poor old body, the Reveller’s first words are inevitably "We are Borg. You will be assimilated!". The senior theatre nurse clearly thinks that the Reveller has dropped his marbles when she hears this, so an oxygen mask is clamped on without delay.
Next day, when the head honcho announces that the op was a complete success, he asks the Reveller if he has any questions. "Yes, will it affect my pool playing?". "You’ll be able to play pool OK, but I don’t think the operation will have improved your game", quips the orthopaedic surgeon. Ah well, hope springs eternal…
Political fall out
There’s usually a simple, prosaic explanation for most mysteries - and so it is with the Case of the Missing Girls. As the Reveller remarked in the March Update, there’s been a noticeable (and deeply worrying) shortage of Sweet Young Things in the bars for the last few weeks, and most of those who do put in an appearance have left by about 11pm.
Deep Throat, the Reveller’s inside informant, tells him that it’s all because of the elections. As part of the security precautions for the campaign season, the police have ramped up their spot checks on KTPs [Indonesian personal ID cards], especially at night. Now this puts the squeeze on the girls in two ways. First, most of them don’t come from Jakarta, so they haven’t got local KTPs. Secondly, a lot of them are too young to have a KTP - they’re only issued to citizens aged 17 or over.
If the police pick up a girl without a Jakarta KTP she’s promptly wheeled off to the local nick to cool her heels while friends and family scrape together enough money to spring her. The going rate is about Rp. 500,000, which is serious money for the unfortunate lass.
So off they go, back to the home towns and kampongs, to weather the storm and wait for the end of the elections.
Wading into D’s Place one rainy night the Reveller sees piles of glossy magazines all over the place. Picking one up and thumbing through it he realises that it’s a commercial freebie, and with a sinking heart expects to see the sort of pretentious lifestyle bumph that litters shopping malls and supermarkets all over the world.
But no. Slipping on his glasses and seeking out a pool of light in the general murk, he reads with growing interest. It’s a pretty comprehensive guide to Jakarta for the expat community, and covers just about everything you can think of. Casting a professional eye over it, the Reveller is impressed with the production quality - good colour separation, nice print quality, clever layout, nifty design work. Yes, some heavy investment and a lot of skill and effort have gone into this production.
But as he reads on, the Reveller is shocked - nay, mortified - to discover a terrible omission. There’s absolutely no reference to that definitive, that quintessential guide to Blok M, his web site. His amour propre is slightly restored, his ruffled feathers partly smoothed, when one of the D’s denizens tells him who’s behind the venture, and that quite a lot of the guys have drawn his attention to the omission - which occurred for no more sinister reason than pressure of work and publication deadlines.
A couple of emails later, the Editor and the Reveller hold a historic meeting over a copious flow of ale in D’s Place. It’s agreed that there’s a lot of common ground, a great deal of potential synergy between their respective organs, as the common agenda is informing the community at large about what’s happening in the great metropolis through a mixture of information, entertainment and humour.
So keep a look out for next month’s issue, and in the meantime have a shufti at the Jakarta24 web site - click here for the link. This new magazine’s got real potential, provides a lot of meaty, up-to-date information, and has some nicely written articles. The Reveller gives it a big thumbs up, and wishes it every success.
Site news
The recently installed chat rooms are picking up momentum, and there’s some good discussion going on. They’re a great place to make comments and ask questions about the bars, the girls, the discos, the Blok in general - to add your own pennyworth to the mix.
In particular, the Reveller is asking the Blok regulars to say what they think about the places they haunt - the thing they like best, and the thing they like least, about each place - as part of a major update of information about the bars. click here to visit the chat rooms.
Back in harness
It’s the last Saturday night of the month, and the Reveller sputters into Jalan Pelatehan in a particularly decrepit bajay. It’s ten days since the bike accident, in which time he’s been suffering serious withdrawal symptoms - so now he’s looking forward to a good night’s revelling.
But what’s this? D’s Place is half empty. Downstairs, a handful of raucously tanked-up football fanatics are watching a game on the bar TV, whooping and groaning as the game ebbs and flows, but most of the weekend regulars aren’t there. As the pool table hasn’t got the usual long waiting list, the Reveller decides to see how the op has affected his game. Playing with uncharacteristic slowness and deliberation he wins five games in a row, which raises his spirits.
Tucking in to a long-overdue and most welcome plate of D’s shepherd’s pie, the Reveller asks where everyone is. The consensus is that a lot of the guys are at home, not venturing out because of the massive political rally that’s blocked most of the roads for most of the day. This, coupled with a clutch of vital league games on the TV, probably explains the absence of the sports crowd, but what about the rest? It’s suggested that quite a lot of the company chaps are on leave, as the hatches are battened down in anticipation of things getting out of hand and the demos turning ugly.
Whatever, the Reveller and one of his companions decide to see what’s happening in the upstairs bar. As feared, the place is pretty well moribund. Clusters of the older girls are chatting quietly, there’s none of the usual Saturday-night vivacity. The dance floor is empty, but the lights are still strobing and the music still pounding - which of course makes the atmosphere even worse.
Deciding to cut his losses, the Reveller pays the bill and wanders off down the road to see if there are any signs of life in the other dives. There aren’t many cars parked in the street, which has taken on the air of a ghost-town. Strolling past Oscars he sees a couple of guys coming out, but there isn’t the usual bustle of activity in and around the doorway. Strolling round the bus terminal, he hails a bajay and chugs homewards wrapped in dark thoughts, and an even darker cloud of evil fumes from the bajay’s exhaust.
Epilogue
As the weather lore has it, March traditionally comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. And it’s been just that down the Blok - the month that started out with a bang has ended with a whimper. The seemingly never-ending rainy season and the maelstrom of local politics have put paid to what might have been a vintage month. But then, the Blok is like that - it’s never predictable. Its swings and roundabouts, like the Jakarta traffic, follow their own weird logic and beat to the pulse of this crazy metropolis.