May Update
Blok M update, May 2005
Status report
May is turning out to be a bit of a paradox. To a casual observer the Blok’s coining it in nicely, with all the bars apparently doing good business - even the Club’s been packed on occasion! But rather ominously one of the owners reports that takings have been worryingly thin some evenings, and that the level of bustle and activity in a bar isn’t necessarily a good indicator of how much mazuma is going into the tills. There may be a full house, but in some bars the guy-to-girl ratio is often skewed towards the fairer sex - and it’s the guys who oil the wheels, not the girls.
Another phenomenon is the growing number of cost-conscious customers. A commonly overheard comment from a guy to a Sweet Young Thing is her being told to get real when she asks for a wallet-emptying cocktail, and even a gin tonic or whiskey cola may be frowned upon.
But another, more insidious, lunacy is in danger of hitting the bars’ take - the remuneration that the girls demand for the ephemeral pleasure of their company. The owner of My Bar tells the Reveller one evening that he’s heard reports of some girls seriously expecting to be paid a million rupes, while an increasing number demand at least 500k. Now you don’t need a brain the size of a planet to work out that one of the big attractions of Blok M is that it’s cheap and cheerful, and once the price differential between Palatehan and other venues is significantly eroded there’ll be less incentive to come to the Blok. To mix metaphors, they’re biting the hand that feeds the golden goose.
One of the nice (but sometimes infuriating) things about living in Jakarta is jam karet - which for the benefit of newcomers translates as ‘rubber time’. No, this isn’t the moment when you slip on a condom, it’s Indonesia’s antidote to the western disease of Being Punctual. This, gentle reader, is the Reveller’s sole excuse for delay in carrying out his long-promised pub crawl and posting the eagerly-awaited report of his findings. But all things come to those who wait, and here it is.
A Blok M pub crawl is not for the faint hearted. Not only does it demand reserves of stamina and unflinching dedication, but a cast-iron constitution as well. Read on to find out what happens to the Reveller and his dedicated companions as they set out to brave the best - and the worst - of what the Blok has to offer on a typical Friday night.
Rolling into the Stamford Arms smack on seven o’clock to link up with a couple of friends, the Reveller is delighted to find the place busy and bustling and doing a roaring trade. There’s a good mix of Blok regulars, hotel guests and Jakarta expats, all chatting and quaffing contentedly as the evening draws in.
Now hotel pubs usually have little or no character. They spring into existence ready made and ready to go, like something out of Bible Belt creationist theory or a ready tree from your local gardening centre. The Stamford Arms started out that way, but over time it’s matured into a real pub. The place has got quite a patina now, and the plain wooden floorboards are a welcome break from the tatty, tacky carpeting that a lot of the other bars have put in. Yes, it’s the scuffs and rubs, the dents and scratches, the tarnished metal fittings, that make a bar homely and lived in.
Looking round, the Reveller observes that the the bar size and shape are fortuitously spot-on - not too big to be barn-like, not too small to be cramped, just the right amount of space around the bar, plenty of seating both stools and stalls, and an eatery separate from the drinking zone.
Beer flows, smiles broaden, bonhomie is in the air. As talk turns to the route map for the crawl ahead, one of the trio sheepishly admits that he’s not been in the Club for years - and has only recently learnt about the Dark Side. The Reveller makes a wickedly innocent suggestion that they might nip across the road and have a look for themselves, which proposal wins unanimous approval - so up they get and off they go, lambs to the slaughter.
Like many other apparently simple tasks that turn into convoluted nightmares, crossing the road from the Ambhara to the Blok can be like one of those death-alley scenes from an Indiana Jones movie.
First you have to struggle through the tightly-packed line of bajays that barricade the curb, then wait for a gap in the traffic. Crossing the road you’re an instant target for madcap Metro Mini buses spewing out of the terminus like bullets from a Gatling gun, and crazed taxi drivers making high speed death-wish turns as they jump the lights. Crossing the main road at the lights holds its own particular perils. Heading smartly for the central reservation you appreciate how Moses felt when the Red Sea parted, as there’s a roaring, pulsing wall of cars, bikes, buses and trucks all waiting to sweep forward in blind fury as soon as the lights change.
Gulping with relief as you make the other side, you’re now faced with an apparently unbroken line of warungs busily selling snacks and drinks to the bus terminus crowd. Like Harry Potter looking for platform nine-and-three-quarters, you have to charge straight ahead and slide between two stalls - after which you espy a small slithery pathway that leads to the road outside the Club.
Pushing through the double doors we enter the half-world of the Club. With its timeless shabbiness and unchanging banality it echoes an era long past. No booming loudspeakers here, no glaring TVs strung up round the bar, no fancy lighting, no misspelled banners proclaiming special events - just good old-fashioned sleaze. And it’s doing good trade, there’s as healthy a crowd as the Reveller’s seen in there for a long time - guys expansively relaxed as they chat to friends and leisurely savour their drinks. Everything happens in slow motion in the Club - except, as his unsuspecting friends are about to discover, on the Dark Side of the bar.
Ah, the ladies. A dozen or so greet the Reveller by name, waving, winking and groping as he runs the gauntlet in his walk to the far end of the bar. Looping round and heading back along the other side, we look for stools. There’s only one, but within seconds shadowy figures whisk in two more as if from nowhere. As we sit down and order drinks the barmaid smiles knowingly. What she sees, but we don’t, is the half-dozen or so harpies lurking behind us, sharpening their claws and preparing to move in for the kill.
The Reveller knows what’s about to happen so he slips to one side to make way for the pouncing harpies and firmly crosses his legs. His two companions take the full brunt of the attack, and within seconds they’ve been frisked from head to foot with practised expertise. Suddenly there’s the familiar sound of a zip being opened as three of them leech onto one of the guys and do their familiar ‘detain and restrain’ act. His face gapes in horror as he clings on to his drink: "Look what they’re doing!" he hoarsely whispers to the Reveller, who’s trying his best not to break out laughing.
Within a minute or so all resistance has gone - he’s a helpless victim of the predatory attack and his trousers are halfway down to his knees. One of the girls seems to have disappeared, but she’s merely ducked below the level of the bar. With perfect timing his handphone rings, it’s an important business call from New York. What a sight! Like a True Brit he keeps his voice calm and normal, but his face is an agonized rictus as the invisible girl does Unspeakable Things down below.
When he’s finally released and everything has been tucked in and fastened up, we call for another round of drinks and laugh about this hilarious episode. "Sleaze!" his friend gasps, as one who has just had a beatific vision, "this is real sleaze!" Yes, for him extreme sleaze is the Holy Grail of Blok M, and many a time he’s wallowed in the dark nooks and crannies of Lintas Melawai as midnight recedes and the girls turn feral.
As we’re leaving the Reveller stops for a few words with old friends he hasn’t seen in ages, and then we make our way out of the Club and back into the real world. The next move is a tactical detour via the top end of Palatehan so that the Reveller can pop into an ATM and recharge his wallet in anticipation of the drain ahead. Turning into the bank entrance, he’s stunned to find that they’ve taken out the ATM. Staring in disbelief for a few unfocused seconds, it slowly dawns on him that he’s wandered into the wrong building and that his bank entrance is round the corner.
It’s then a toss-up between Top Gun and D’s Place for the next port of call, and Top Gun wins on the grounds that it’s too early for D’s Disco. So like some ghastly parody of the Three Musketeers we make our unsteady way past the non-stop booming from La Fonta and down the road to Top Gun.
In the Good Old Days many of the regulars used to fall into Top Gun, for the simple reason that the pavement outside was so cracked, broken and uneven. But now the whole area has been cemented over, making the experience safe but uninteresting. In we go, and there’s a small but energetic crowd in the bar. There are lots of familiar faces, so we spend a nostalgic five minutes or so in greetings.
To give you some idea of quite how sleazy the Club is, Top Gun seems like a swish upmarket bar by comparison. "The Club’s spoilt us for everything else" reflects his friend with the overworked zip, "it can even make Top Gun look bloody marvelous". Yes, the sterile bar top, the tacky replica ornaments, the saucy seaside postcards, the stained and frayed cheapo carpeting, the leaky ancient AC units, the antiquated pool table, have all been endowed with a spurious patina of quality in comparison with the fittings in the Club.
But the staff are wonderful. Like mother hens rounding up their errant chicks, they shepherd the shaky threesome to a table and translate their inchoate babble into an order for drinks. Settling down for a pleasant few minutes before tackling their next stop, it’s time to relax and enjoy the Top Gun experience.
As he’s passing a trained eye over the girls the Reveller hears a guy in the distance shout out "look, here’s Niki!" . Turning his head the Reveller sees someone who looks vaguely familiar. It suddenly dawns on him that she’s the same girl he met on his first visit to Top Gun eight memorable years ago, but slimmer, sexier, better groomed and more radiant than ever.
Realising that Nature has been given a skillful guiding hand in the Sweet Thing’s workover, the Reveller sets to working out how this miracle has been achieved. It’s widely known that many of the girls damn’ nigh kill themselves taking slimming medication that’s probably banned in the west, and pay a small fortune for a facial that’s akin to a major replastering job. The rest is cosmetics and an astute eye for style when it comes to clothing. It occurs to him that Niki is only one of many girls of her generation who’ve reinvented themselves, so he immediately sets out to immortalize this type - the retread. Click the link to read all about them!
Finishing our drinks and settling the bill we decide to call into Everest, which thankfully is directly opposite Top Gun so there’s no risk of one of us going astray and getting lost.
The Reveller and his by now disgracefully unstable companions are ushered into Everest by a charming young lady who leads them to the bar like some modern-day Pied Piper. The drink ordering has by this time degenerated into a Three Stooges comedy act, but the waitress saves the day and quickly works out what we’d like to drink.
The girl at the bar giggles as she watches the show, then flashes a charming smile as she turns to dispense our order. We all agree that the Everest staff are a great lot, as friendly a bunch of lads and lasses as you’ll find anywhere in Blok M.
The first impression he gets as they settle down at the bar is that the lighting is better - there seems to be less of it, and this makes the place less cavernous and a bit more homely. The big screen that covers the entire far wall is displaying some sporting event or other, there’s a good spread of regular customers lounging round the bar, and the ambience is altogether very pleasant.
Pleased that Everest has a well-established bunch of regulars and is holding its own, the Reveller’s only regret is that there are precious few Sweet Young Things in the bar. If there were more, he might just make it one of his regular night spots.
Finishing our drinks we allow ourselves to be ushered out into the street by the same charmer who welcomed us, and turn left to head for D’s Place.
The scene is set before we even reach D’s Place - there’s a ding-dong cat fight going on in the street outside the bar, two Not So Sweet Young Things knocking the stuffing out of each other. The ojek drivers, stallholders and parking guys are hooting with laughter - some egging them on, others trying to break up the fight. "The natives are restless tonight, Carruthers!" drawls the Reveller, in his best Victorian English Explorer voice.
Entering D’s we head straight upstairs. To the Reveller’s profound delight the sound level is reasonable - plenty loud enough to create a party atmosphere, but not too loud to prevent conversation. The place looks crowded, but a quick head-count shows only a dozen or so guys. There are girls aplenty, but not many smashers. "Definitely the ‘B’ team tonight", thinks the Reveller.
Looking round, we comment that the space is very small indeed and agree that it’s a shame they’ve replaced the old dance floor with the VIP bar. In fact D’s upstairs bar can’t really be called a disco, as the only dancing is being done by three or four girls on the mirrored mini-podium facing the bar and there’s no room for a proper dance floor.
Having had far more beer than is good for him (and a Martini Rosso in Everest), the Reveller switches to his beloved Pernod. The waitress takes his order, but she’s a new girl who’s unfamiliar with the serving of the aniseed nectar. After carefully explaining to her that you add ice and water to the Pernod, the girl nods and departs towards the bar.
A few minutes later the drinks arrive and the Reveller takes a long, refreshing draught of Pernod. But something is not quite right. His mouth feels as though it’s been rammed full of industrial-strength aniseed balls and there’s a smouldering sensation in his throat. Plonking down the glass and wiping his watering eyes, the Reveller realises that he’s just swigged half a tumblerful of undiluted Pernod.
Time passes pleasantly, greetings are exchanged with girls we know, and we mellow into the D’s mood. Yes, whatever you might say about D’s Place it’s got a distinct style and atmosphere, a definite character all of its own that’s immune to the many additions, alterations and gimmicks that have been thrust upon it.
Draining the last drops of his Pernod the Reveller follows his mates out of the bar and down the stairs. Yes, it’s time to gravitate to My Bar and get seats before the stampede.
Friday night is invariably a late starter - it’s the sump of choice into which carousers sink when they’ve had their early-evening frolics and now crave the nocturnal temptations of the My Bar disco.
This part of the Reveller’s narrative is somewhat patchy because one consequence of the Pernod overdose is to make his brain feel as though it’s been put through a mincer. The place slowly fills up with its usual complement of Friday-night revellers, and the girls enter in giggling gangs. The music is ramped up, the beat quickens, and the fun begins. The Reveller and his inebriate companions are quickly written off as likely targets by the girls, so we sit in the eye of the storm and watch with amusement as the guys and girls go through their courtship rituals.
Word goes round that there’s a wet tee shirt competition at one o’clock, but the Reveller’s staying power has been seriously weakened and he’s not sure if he can hang in until then. Suddenly one of the group announces that he’s got an SMS from our mutual friend, who we suddenly realise has disappeared. "Where the heck is he?" asks the Reveller. "Well, he says he’s gone back to the Club…" relates our companion. "For second helpings, no doubt!" thinks the Reveller, questioning both the sanity and the safety of his friend.
Like a party that rapidly breaks up once the first guest departs, another friend bids farewell and the gang is disintegrating. One o’clock comes, but no tee shirts. One fifteen comes and goes, but still no tee shirts. So cutting his losses, up gets the Reveller and heads for the door.
Out in the street he decides to head for home, and walks down the street with the exaggerated care of someone who knows that his vertical stability is not quite optimal. Wondering if he ought to pop into the Club and see how his friend is faring, discretion becomes the better part of valour so he leaves the silly sod to his just deserts. But as he reaches the lower end of the street the Reveller is overcome by a raging thirst, and he decides to pop into Oscar for a quick last drink of the night.
The nice thing about Oscar is that everything’s familiar and comfortable. There’s a very passable band playing, a few people dancing, and a motley collection of guys who prefer socialising in Oscar to the maelstrom of My Bar. A sprinkling of the older girls are chatting at the tables, nodding to the guys and giggling occasionally. Yes, Oscar is a real oasis at the end of the street.
Greeting the bar staff, he sinks onto a stool in his favourite corner and looks around. He gets a niggling feeling that something’s missing, but is so spaced out that he can’t think what it is. Returning his gaze to the bar, the dreadful truth suddenly hits him like a hammer. The fish have gone!
The Reveller has mixed feelings about the Oscar fish. On the one hand, they were great company and easy on the eye - but a bar is no place for impressionable young fish. He can only hope that they’ve gone to a good home, but sadly reflects that they’ve most likely been sold off to the restaurant on the corner and dished up to the Sweet Young Things for their evening snacks.
After an exciting Diet Coke the Reveller heaves himself off his bar stool and heads for the door. Out in the street he soaks in the night time air and sounds, then sets off to see if his trusty bajaj driver is still on duty at this late hour.
Epilogue
The journey home is the Bajaj Ride From Hell. The beer, the Martini and of course the Pernod have switched off all but the body’s emergency life-support systems, and the Reveller feels bad. Really bad. Every bump, swerve and lurch is a torture, a reminder that all pleasures must be paid for sooner or later.
But on the plus side of the balance sheet, it’s been a truly memorable evening - an absolutely vintage experience that will live in the memory for a long time. There’s just nowhere else quite like Blok M. There may be better pubs, there are certainly better discos, there are perhaps even better girls, in Jakarta - but the Blok has one thing in spades, which is sheer personality.