Pool spectacular

The meeting of the Blogerati

Wandering into Ratu Plaza on a quest for some bits and bobs for my computer, who should I bump into but Gary, the creator and the voice of JakChat. Yes, even those of us who dwell in the rarified stratosphere of blogland have to come down to earth occasionally in order to carry out those niggling but necessary little domestic chores, such as buying fodder and household stuff. We exchange a few pleasantries and wander off on our different paths.

A few minutes later, as I’m salivating over some very sexy USB memory sticks and lusting after a pert little USB external mini-hard disk, I become aware of a large figure looming into my peripheral vision. A gruff salutation reveals that it’s no less a personage than Soppy, late of pissedupasia.com (RIP).

Now Soppy has recently joined the ranks of the Hitched, which somewhat constrains his beloved alcoholic safaris around the bars and night spots of Jakarta, and he’s being carefully chaperoned around the Ratu Plaza computer shop maze by the new Mrs Soppy. Computer types speak at least two languages – their mother tongue, and technobabble – and as we swap facts, opinions and specifications, Mrs Soppy gets that glazed look in her eyes that all wives do when faced with Men Things.

We part and go our own separate ways, me to get some ink cartridges refilled and Soppy to the depths of Carrefour. After that chore is done, I too go down to the supermarket – and inevitably, we bump into each other wheeling our respective trolleys around the food section. The domesticity of the scene is quite heart-rending; the two giants of the Jakarta bar and fleshpot scene reduced to domestic servitude.

Clearly these meetings are an Omen, a shadow of things to come. For as I’m shoving my groaning and overladen trolley towards the checkout, I get an SMS from FAB, the Falatehan Association of Businesses, exhorting me to attend the opening of the grand finale of the FAB Pool Tournament at 1 pm. Now it’s already almost midday, so there’s no way I can make the afternoon festivities – Saturday morning at the end of the month when everyone’s just got their pay check is a time of heavy traffic and macets all round.

The wheels of fortune

As it’s Saturday night and the whole of South Jakarta seems to have taken to the road in a rush that would make any lemming proud, I’m not very picky about which colour of taxi I get to go to the Blok – anything on four wheels that’s not belching out clouds of white or black smoke will do. And just my luck, I get a wise guy whose first little trick is to try to take me the long way round to Blok M, and whose second ploy is the ‘no small money for change’ routine.

Now over the years I’ve found the perfect answer for these opportunists. I stop the cab at the top of Jalan Falatehan and tell the guy to wait while I get some small change. Then I take a leisurely stroll down the street to buy a packet of Mentos at the little stall outside My Bar, have a brief chat with one of the barmaids, and wander back up the street. By this time the guy is furious and gives me a really nasty glare as he slams the taxi door and screeches off into the distance. The security guard gives me a broad smile, and off I stroll down the street.

The mother of all street parties

And what a sight it is! The whole width of the street from Top Gun to My Bar has been covered by an enormous marquee, and a red carpet laid to hide the potholes and ruts for which Jalan Falatehan is justly famous. No expense has been spared to put on a really lavish event, and to my surprise it’s still in full swing in spite of kicking off at 1 pm.

Not expecting this, I’d left my trusty Canon Power Shot back at the ranch and was armed only with a Nokia camera phone. However, what’s lacking in technical quality from the eighty-odd pictures I took is more than made up for by the spontaneity of my snapping; and of course, a camera phone can be operated in one hand – leaving the other one free to clutch a jar of beer.

Inside the marquee there’s another gasp-maker – four full-size pool tables have been set up, and a raked seating gallery for the spectators. Drinks are flowing free for the invited guests from several hospitality bars that have been installed, and there’s a tremendous party atmosphere.

Le tout Blok M is there, the crème de la crème of Blok denizens in all their finery – guys I haven’t seen for what seems like donkey’s years, and old acquaintances I rarely meet because we’ve got different regular watering holes on the Blok. And girls, too – lots of the older girls, a smattering of Sweet Young Things who’ve attained Most Favoured Girl status with the owners – and of course, the inimitable and charming staff from the seven FAB bars.

One of my old friends, well oiled and clearly a very happy camper, comments that it’s the best thing the Blok’s done in years. And how right he is! The occasion has achieved a style that’s been lacking for so long, a boozy camaraderie and that quality that we children of the 60′s used to call ‘swinging’.

So a very big ‘thank you’ to all the owners and bar staff who put heart and soul into creating such a wonderful and spectacular event, and made a lot of people very happy. It was the fitting climax to a well-organized and exciting pool tournament, and something for everyone to enjoy.

My contribution to this unique event is a photo album of 49 pictures taken in and around the marquee – click here to see the show. The piccies capture something of the feel of the party, and the ebb and flow of life in the street around the marquee.

Top Gun tops the evening

As the party breaks up and the tournament winds down, I leave the bright lights of the marquee for the dingy depths of Top Gun – where there’s a goodly crowd of revellers who’ve already drifted in from the junket outside. Top Gun has made its mark with the punters as the early evening place to go, and is also keeping an increasing number of revellers until nearly midnight – when everyone gravitates to My Bar for the late night action.

My Bar hits the spot

After a very pleasant bottle and a chat with two absolutely charming Sweet Young Things I tear myself away and cross the road to My Bar, where the night-time carousers are slowly wandering in. After a copious intake of ale earlier in the evening I’m now well in my cups and viewing the whole world through deeply rose-tinted spectacles. One of the older girls who used to be a regular at dear old Lintas Melawai in its heyday sits down next to me and we have a pleasant chat over a bottle of ale, nodding knowingly at the tricks the new generation of Sweet Young Things are getting up to all around us.

Most of the guys are, like me, well primed – and easy targets for the predations of the little minxes as they flit round the bar in twos and threes, latching on to anyone who returns eye contact with them. It’s the proverbial shooting fish in a barrel, I muse, and wish them well in their quest. And of course, yes, it’s the end of the month – the Rent Man Cometh! Which gives their hunting instincts a very keen edge indeed.

Home is the hunter

After a most pleasant sojourn in My Bar that not even the horrible pounding music can spoil, I call it a day and haul myself out at about 1 am. The street is still alive with people coming and going, just as nature intended that Blok M should be. I whistfully walk past G-String and Oscar; the flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak, and the thought of yet more ale makes me feel slightly queazy.

So off to find my regular bajay driver, and back to hearth and home – after as memorable a night as I can remember.