Pool Night

Bordering on the absurd

My taxi hangs a left into Jalan Falatehan and two security guards amble up, grinning broadly as they recognize me. The door opens, there’s a desultory wave of the metal detector in my general direction, and with a grandiose gesture I’m ushered into the hallowed precinct. It strikes me as the cab crunches its way down the potholed street that it’s more of a border crossing point than a security bar.

And how strikingly apt is this metaphor. As we pass through it we leave the real world of Jakarta – the traffic, dirt, dust and hassle of the daily grind – and enter a make-believe kingdom, a never-never land where everyone is as young as they feel, as handsome as they dare imagine, and potentially the master of all they survey. In Blok M, you are what you spend.

As I follow a Sweet Young Thing dressed in white into D’s Place, I’m Alice going down the rabbit hole; as I order my first drink, I fully expect to see a label on the bottle that says “drink me”. Looking around I’m reminded of the Mad Tea Party. An old guy slumped half-comatose over his beer is a ringer for the Dormouse, one of the more eccentric denizens makes a passable March Hare – and I reckon I’ll do for the Hatter.

Yes, Blok M is a place where the conventions and shibboleths of Society are shelved for the night, where logic is replaced by a random and seemingly unconnected sequence of events. The only rule is that Python parody of Descartes – “I drink, therefore I am”.

Pooling resources

But enough frivolity: tonight I am a Man On A Mission. My quest is to take pictures of all the pool teams competing in the Falatehan Association of Businesses Pool League. With one hand on my beer and the other on my trusty camera I wind between the competitors and their camp-followers, clicking as I go. The bar’s pretty full and very lively, humming with good-natured banter and laughter.

D’s Place

Next stop is Everest, where there’s a screening of one of the World Cup matches. The onlookers have two sporting jewels to savour, but it must be admitted that the pool games don’t attract much attention. Everest has become one of the most comfortable bars on the Blok, a good place to chill out and chat when the music’s off. The only problem is that everything is so spread out that it’s difficult to get good piccies of the pool.

Everest

And on to Top Gun, where there’s quite a bustle around the pool table as it’s cunningly located on the main thoroughfare in the bar. Top Gun has settled nicely into its niche in the Falatehan ecosystem, and established its band of loyal regulars – most of whom must have some hearing disorder, as they seem immune to the thunderous music that a misguided management inflicts on its customers every night.

New Top Gun

Then across the road to Sportsmans, where there’s a surprisingly light crowd around the pool table. But what they lack in numbers they make up for in intensity. These are some serious players. I’m glad to see Sporties on the mend after its recent upheavals. It still hasn’t regained its enviable popularity, but regulars seem to be trickling back. What saddens me most is the absence of all the old bar staff, who were a legend on the Blok.

Sportsmans

Where next, but into My Bar. Staggering rather unsteadily up the stairs I find the tables busy, the bar humming, and a motley crowd of the regular denizens buzzing around. Fumbling with the camera in the semi-darkness I down yet another jar of beer as I prepare for the picture session ahead. As I stare hazily at the viewing screen I reflect that copious quantities of beer do not help holding the camera steady, and some of the exposures are a quarter of a second long as I don’t believe in flash.

My Bar

By now decidedly unstable, I clamber down the stairs and head across the road to G-String. The New Kid on the Blok is slowly making its mark, and now has the lowest-priced beer on the street. There’s a small but lively crowd in the downstairs bar, and the pool is going well. Given time I really hope that this place will prosper. It’s got good management, as pleasant a staff as you’ll find on the Blok, and a nice ambience.

G-String

A couple of beers later I make a superhuman effort to drag myself out into the night air and navigate the potholes to Oscar. Too late for the pool competition, I take snaps of the regulars playing on the two upstairs tables and enjoy a pleasant chat with a couple of their delightful barmaids. Another beer is drained, and the controls on the camera seem to shrink and subtly shift, leaving me groping with more optimism than accuracy for the film speed settings – and pressing my thumb squarely on the lens. But I needn’t have worried, as the memory is full so more photos are out anyway.

Oscar

The little green-eyed goddesses

The photo shoot now over, I unsteadily retrace my steps to My Bar where, with a wisdom born of hindsight, I switch to drinking Diet Cokes. Settling down in my regular corner of the disco bar I observe that there’s a very nice selection of Sweet Young Things gyrating aimlessly on the disco floor, or chatting in desultory groups around the edge. The evening promises well.

My regular readers will know that I have a thing about white mini-skirts, so I’m doubly startled to see that my long-time favourite is now wearing a lurid red mini. It soon becomes clear that she’s become a shark, and has no time for her old friends. But the next generation is moving up, and no less than three of them are wearing white minis. Plus ça change, I muse, as I make strategic eye contact with a couple of them.

Then up sidles one of the newer Sweet Young Things who I’ve been chatting up for a couple of evenings. But tonight she means business, and quickly wraps herself around me with a predatory intensity and territorial single-mindedness that bodes ill for the befuddled Reveller.

It’s a quirk of human nature not to covet something until it’s at risk of being taken by somebody else. And so it is with the girls on the dance floor, four of whom I have previously had rather delicious flings with. While I’m on my own they nod and smile greetings, but nothing more. But now there’s someone else in my favour, everything changes. Lips pout, eyebrows darken, sidelong glares are directed at the New Girl, and fists are clenched.

Now the first thing that every fledgling reveller learns is not to put all his eggs in the one proverbial basket, but to play the field fairly but extensively. So extricating myself from the tentacular clutches of the little minx who’s started all this rumpus, I leave the bar. But on the way out I give my special “you see how I’m fixed, but don’t give up hope” look to the white minis, and a grin and a wink to the little green-eyed goddesses.

Tackling the walk to the Ambhara Hotel to track down my regular bajay requires an enormous effort. Like some latter-day explorer of deserts and jungles I stagger past the bus station and across the road, then collapse into the welcoming tin can on wheels.