Inside out

Shagged out

My very good friend The Shagger flies in from one of his regular sorties to the remoter nooks of the Third World and – stalwart trooper that he is – promptly calls Blok M Mission Control. A beery voice issues from my hand phone and plaintively asks where I am. He’s in Top Gun, but I’m nowhere in site; in fact I’m at home recuperating from The Week From Hell by watching one of those trashy shoot-’em-up and blow-’em-up films so beloved of Indonesian television audiences.

I issue The Shagger with his marching orders – to reconnoitre the bars on Jalan Pelatehan and report back on the front line action. The following day I receive a dispatch which, alas, shows a lamentable dereliction of duty:

Now The Shagger’s comments are doubly valuable because he’s been around the Blok far longer than most of the regulars, and as he’s now an infrequent visitor he sees change more starkly than we who drift along with the weekly ebb and flow of the place. His observations are in tune with the growing chorus of negative comments in the Blok M Forums, and which continue to fall on the profoundly deaf ears of the Blok M bar owners.

The night shift

One of the pleasant things about the late start to action down the Blok is that Top Gun has a relaxed, homely atmosphere until about half past nine. I can sit, drink and reflect on life, the universe and everything as I slough off the week’s madness with the help of a steady supply of bottled ale. Now if I had to pinpoint the historical source of western civilization I’d probably choose the first known brewing of beer, way back in ancient Egypt. Interestingly, those long-departed geniuses are also credited with the discovery of the active ingredient in aspirin – which leads me to wonder if there’s a causal nexus between these two landmarks of human development. Perhaps the ancient Egyptians simply needed a treatment for the common or garden hangover, and stumbled across it in the bark of a local tree. Whatever, I raise my bottle and salute those unsung heroes.

It’s getting on for nine forty-five and the place is just starting to warm up. A batch of Betawi OEM’s straggle into Top Gun in twos and threes, and I observe once again the generic banality of these girls. They invariably tend to be rather solid, fleshy types, frumpishly dressed and heavily made up – charmless and uninspiring. They clomp past my table with bored expressionless faces, troops advancing to the front with practiced sangfroid.

One rather overblown specimen sidles up to me at the bar, pouts a livid lipstick kiss, flutters impossibly long and heavily mascaraed eyelashes, puts on a smile that Peter Lorre would have been proud of, and in a throaty stage-whisper intones “Hello!”. I politely reply “And hello to you too!”, which she takes (quite correctly) as a signal that I’m not interested in partaking of her extensive charms.

Ten o’clock comes and goes, but where are the Indramayu Sweet Young Things? They’re usually here before this time. Perhaps the school bus was late, I rather naughtily muse. Anyway, at about ten fifteen they start to trot in, the older girls making up the vanguard and establishing beachheads at strategic points around the bar. The OEM girls sourly drift out as the Indramayu contingent trips in – they’re instantly upstaged by the smashers from the kampongs.

After a few games of pool and a couple of rounds of tequila in the company of one of my Indramayu favourites I call it a day and decide to head for home before the band gets too loud. Yes, it’s sad to say but all too often the best strategy in Blok M these days is “get out while you’re ahead”. Pausing on the pavement outside Top Gun I look up the street. D’s Place is a no-go area, Everest just isn’t a late-night spot, Sportsmans is on my blacklist and My Bar is a write-off. Walking down the street I pass G-String with its loud music and One Tree with its lace curtains. Oscar? No, it’s just got too few customers for conviviality these days, so it’s back to hearth and home for an early night.

More is less

As my bajay swivels into the traffic mainstream by the Ambhara Hotel I reflect that more is less – the more bars that open up in Blok M, the less enjoyment there seems to be in the place. It’s the fun, the liveliness that’s missing; I haven’t had a really good laugh in any of the bars for a long time. Loud music drowns out the conversation, frowzy dancing girls spoil the ambience, and many of the girls lack the vivacity they used to have. Flirting and chatting-up have all but disappeared – if you don’t express an immediate interest in taking a girl she’s off like a shot.

The bar owners must be feeling the pinch here, because when you’re chatting and flirting you’re as often as not plying the Sweet Young Thing with a steady supply of pricey drinks. For myself, I no longer buy tipples for the girls because all too often they down the drink and slope off – whereas in the past they’d sit with you and have a chat and a laugh. As my bajay chugs towards Cipete I find myself wondering if there’s one of those shoot-’em-up, blow-’em-up films on TV…