June Diary
Blok M diary, June 2005
Well, it’s been a nothing-special-business-as-usual kind of month down the Blok, which is no bad thing. The girls have been well-behaved, the guys have enjoyed a bit of relaxed and laid-back revelling, and the bar owners have, I suspect, breathed a collective sigh of relief that the Blok has been busy for enough nights in the week to keep the wolf from the door.
The only complaint that the Reveller’s been hearing is that the bars are going a bit over the top with events and promotions. My Bar’s original initiative for its wet nights and sexy dancing competitions was, quite rightly, very successful - but June sees creeping inflation, until every Friday night is a wet tee-shirt night, and every Saturday is a ’shake-it-all-about’ competition night.
So what’s the grouch? Well, for a lot of the guys - the Reveller included - the weekend nights are their social nights, a great opportunity to meet old mates, chat up the girls, get pissed, and whatever else tickles their collective fancy later on. These nights used to have their own special momentum, they didn’t need artificial stimulants to create atmosphere of get the guys and girls pouring in. The monotonous regularity of these events is just getting too much, and they lose the key element of spontaneity. The Blok clearly hasn’t learnt the lessons of D’s ill-fated Lucky Draw and Sexy Dancing Competitions.
So now the Reveller, and quite a few of his comrades, see the onset of the post-midnight organised cavortings as a signal to clear out - and either go home or go to bed.
The youngsters among you have probably never played a vinyl record in your life - you’ve been spoon-fed on digital perfection and never experienced the pop, crackle and hiss of diamond tracking vinyl. We older guys have happy memories of bestirring ourselves to clout the record player when the needle gets stuck and is playing the same groove over and over again.
It occurs to the Reveller, as there comes a lull in the Saturday night festivities in My Bar, that many a time the bars are like a needle stuck in its groove. The girls are like a mildly erotictableau vivant, the guys are listlessly supping drinks, half-heartedly taking drags of their cigarettes, and the bar staff are like uniformed automata, plying their way from bar to customer with alcoholic reinforcements. There’s a mechanical repetitiveness about the scene.
Then, out of the blue (or the black, in the dimly lit bar) - a sudden crash and a whoop, as a dropped bottle or a glass shatters on the floor. Or it might be a spitting spat breaking out between two girls, or a guy who bravely reckons that he can outdo everyone else on the dance floor and proceeds to make an absolute, oblivious prat of himself. These jolts break the ice, and the whole bar suddenly becomes animated. The girls get frisky and dart from guy to guy, the guys laugh and cheer, even the bar staff pick up the mood and put a bit of bounce in their step and broaden their smiles.
So when the night seems stuck in a groove, the Reveller always looks round to see if he can help to keep nature in balance. Now he wouldn’t accidentally knock over a bottle or a glass, would he? And perish the thought that he might naughtily wind up a Sweet Young Thing to make her flare up!
The Reveller’s campaign to breathe life back into LM isn’t having much success. One night as he and Captain Birdseye are dutifully quaffing their beers and chatting up the Sweet Slightly Older Things, there’s a guffaw from the Cap’n and he turns away from the girl he’s been sizing up. "She tells me the going rate for a quickie is minimum 350k", he raucously explodes, "and the best bit is she’s expected to hand over 15% of the loot to the management!".
The Reveller, who is giving serious but uncoordinated thought to sweeping one of the beauties away for a naughty, boggles and asks for a replay of that statement. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he drinks up, pays up, and gets up. The girls ask why we’re going so soon, clearly upset that they’re not going to get any cocoa that night - or any other night, sadly reflects the Reveller.
Yes, dear old LM seems to be reverting to type with a vengeance - shooting itself in both feet, and stifling any hope of recovery.
One of the recurring June bar conversation topics is the recent official announcement that all expats who want to work in Indonesia must take - and pass - a Bahasa Indonesia language test. As some of the newer guys look a bit panicky and anxiously ask if this is for real, the Reveller and a couple of his cronies tell them not to get their knickers in a twist, as it’s just politically-inspired hot air. "They’ve tried this on three times since I’ve been here", chimes in the Reveller, "and each time it’s been quietly forgotten before any real damage (or embarrassment to the loonies who dreamt it up) has been done.
Of course, the problem with most of the Blok M regulars is that they already have a pretty fluent command of the lingo, but the range of vocabulary and expressions relates mostly to their nocturnal activities in Blok M. Now if the Powers That Be introduced a test based on real-life language needs for the guys, the mind boggles as to what it might contain!
So gentlemen, if you have any bright ideas for the BI language test appropriate to our noble calling, why not send them to the Reveller - who will be delighted to pass them on to his contacts at the Ministry of Education.
Epilogue
June has been a pleasant month, a perfect time for low-key revelling. A mellow month, and enjoyable on its own terms. As he trundles home in his regular bajay one night towards the end of the month, the Reveller reflects that all’s well with the Blok, and looks forward to whatever surprises July might have in store. For the one immutable law in Jakarta is that nothing ever stays the same, and change comes from the most unexpected quarters in this kaleidoscopic city.