Wednesday 16th May
Midweek margin
Thursday being a public holiday I decide to dip my toes in the water and see how the Blok is faring on a typical weekday.
My entry into Top Gun at about eight thirty is something of a shock - the place is empty apart from a bunch of Indonesian guys playing pool or propping up the bar. Yes, it looks as though I’m the token bule tonight. So I settle at the bar, glad of a quiet interlude after a crazy day at work, and order my predictable sop buntut. In the whole world there’s nothing so relaxing as a bottle of ice-cold beer in a homely hostelry, with your favourite meal being rustled up for you in the kitchen.
I put my name up on the pool list, but let the guys go on playing as I’m in the mood for quiet observation. Now if I’ve complained about the rules concocted by the Pool League guys, what the locals play defies comprehension. There seems to be no logic: the balls are potted in no apparent sequence, they’re occasionally re-spotted for no obvious foul, the black seems to go down any time in the game, and they pick up and replace the white ball seemingly at random.
As I drain my first bottle it dawns on me that this weird and wonderful game of biliard is a microcosm of life in our beloved adopted country, a perfect paradigm of the mindset that we rub up against every working day. Causality, hierarchy and logic may be there, but we don’t know the grammar and lack any point of reference for its comprehension. Yes, I reflect, Lewis Carroll would have loved this place - and probably written a sequel to Through the Looking Glass about it.
By the time my excellent meal has materialised and I’m ready to do it full justice, some of the regulars are drifting into the bar along with their pool camp-followers. As they start to play I recognize that this isn’t the weekend carousing crowd, but sharp and serious players. Now I’m on surprisingly good form tonight and pot a few blinders, but my opponent is a master of quiet understatement and modest genius who clears the rack with devastating efficiency as soon as I let him in with a single bad shot.
As I’m licking my wounds at the bar I watch the prettiest pool girl take to the table with a deceptively casual air that belies a well-honed and skilful mastery of this game. She’s in the middle of a cliffhanging break that has all the onlookers nodding in appreciation, when her hand phone bursts into tune. Without a pause in her play she flicks it out of her pocket with one hand, and nicks the white just so with a one-handed shot that pots her target neatly into a corner pocket. She then tucks the phone under her chin like some pint-sized violin, and continues the break whilst chatting animatedly to her caller.
When my turn comes round again I’m soundly trounced in spite of getting a few really good shots in, so I gracefully retire to the bar and let the maestros get on with their Olympian battles.
As I get back into my flow of ale a gaggle of my favourite Indramayu beauties trot in, and do a double-take at seeing the Reveller lounging at the bar on a weekday night. There are greetings all round and a catching up on the latest news and bar gossip - which includes a drunken punch-up a few nights ago, and a moan that some of the guys got so plastered the previous night that they were of neither use nor ornament to the Sweet Young Things who’d latched onto them in the vain hope of a late-night Naughty.
As the girls drift off to circulate, who should come into the bar but one of the Blok M forum regulars, Bas - in that mellow revelling mood that is the hallmark of all dedicated Blokkers. We have a pleasant chat, after which I leave him to his carnal pursuits and gravitate to the Twilight Zone.
There’s a good turnout of quality Sweet Young Things tonight, and some real characters lurking in the Twilight Zone. In the half-light by the end bar I espy two beauties who were favourites of my old mate Captain Birdseye, and by his account as wacky as they come - which, to his credit, they always did. They claim to be related, but look very different - one, a slightly raddled and rather shopworn Sweet Young Thing of indeterminate age; the other, a decidedly attractive and neatly voluptuous lass who also has a good brain and speaks passable English. The only problem is, she’s a bit of a fruitcake and notoriously mercurial in her affections.
After a nod of recognition I turn to chat to Bas, who has like me ended up in the Top Gun sump. Then, like some demon pantomime queen, Miss Fruitcake pops up at our table and tries to drag him across to her sister/cousin, who is doing her eyelash-fluttering best to appear coy and innocent. It’s the usual story; her sister is besotted with him and wants to go with him, but is too shy to introduce herself. Now Bas is experienced in the Ways of the World, and politely but non-commitally smiles and nods at the simpering beauty. Very sensibly, he then beats a retreat and wanders off to D’s Place for a spell.
Which is all very well, but it leaves me to deal with the lovely duo on my own. Miss Fruitcake treats my table like a battle station, haring off in the direction of every likely looking bloke who comes into sight, and returning when he’s escaped her clutches. Now if she wasn’t so pushy she’d do much better, but the guys recoil as soon she rushes up to them.
In one of her more stable interludes she and I survey the girls, and she provides great amusement with her slightly catty but very acute observations. “That girl, you be very careful - she goes with anybody - make sure you take condom with that one!” she says in a stage whisper, glancing at a tall, slim and very sexy Sweet Young Thing who is a well known Shark. I almost choke on my drink as she says this - talk about pots and kettles, I think to myself; it takes one to know one!
She then demurely drapes herself around me and confides that although she’s a Good Girl she’d rather like to go with me tonight. At this I unwrap myself, and being a gentleman buy her and her sibling a drink each before bidding them adieu and heading out of the bar.
It’s about midnight, so I decide to stroll across the road and see how My Bar is holding up these days. I had a long talk with Hitesh, the owner, the other day in which he told me about his plans for My Bar redux - and very good sense these make. They include fixing the air conditioning, redoing the lighting, sorting out the staff and bringing the DJ’s to heel, and making the whole place more early-evening friendly.
As I go into the murk who should I bump into (quite literally) but the Man himself, doing the rounds of the regulars and making sure that everything’s going smoothly. My first impression after a longish absence is that the staff are friendly and efficient like they used to be, and the music is loud enough to make the atmosphere - but nowhere near as deafening as it got during the Bad Times.
There’s a good crowd of customers and a smattering of girls, and who should I see but Bas next to the disco floor propping up a couple of Sweet Young Things who seem to have adopted him. I wander round the bar and greet friends and old acquaintances, and then bid farewell as I’m flagging a bit after a solid priming of the Demon Drink in Top Gun.
As I’m leaving the bar I turn and absorb the feel of the place. If I had to put a word to it, that word would be monochrome: there’s a lack of colour, both literally and figuratively. The lighting kills colour and creates an unsaturated, rather ghostly chiaroscuro effect, which inevitably affects the mood of the place. The sooner the lighting can be fixed the better, I murmur to myself as I bid farewell to the smiling staff standing by the door.
As my bajaj trundles along the deserted South Jakarta roads I reflect on My Bar, and wish the place well. When the planned renovations are complete it’ll be interesting to see how well it reinvents itself. Variety is the spice of life, and the lifeblood of Blok M. A revivified My Bar could be just what the street needs to cement the recovery that’s been led by Top Gun.