…my family, the folks at the office, Alessandro, Nita, Anita, Tiara, Rani, Biggie, Nanda, Ikmal, Imam, Alex, Dhitri, Astrid W., Dicky, Ameng, Wiwit, Ava, Andhika, Lila, Isyana, Ardian, Avie, Oscar and Silva.
You know why.
A few hours ago this time last week, I found myself riding on the back of an ojek heading from Gambir to Cengkareng.
I’m still trying to figure out how I ended up on it. I recall standing outside Gambir station with a backpack and suitcase in hand. I had just picked up my passport nearby, and was going to head straight to the airport to catch my 23:40 flight. The time was 19:00, so I had plenty of time to get there. I thought I’d take the airport bus and save money, plus I could get at least an hour of much needed sleep on the way.
But as I got to the station, I was informed by an ojek driver that the airport buses stopped operating after 6 pm, which was news to me. From previous experience in trying to get the same type of bus from Blok M, I thought they stopped at around 7 or 8. Then the ojek guy said he’d take me to the airport in 35 minutes and for Rp 60,000. I was hesitant at first, but promptly found myself loading the suitcase onto the motorcycle’s floor, putting on a helmet and hanging on for dear life.
As we were speeding through post-office rush hour downtown traffic, a thought entered my head. Something along the lines of, "What the hell was I thinking?" I mean, for one thing, I wasn’t in a panicky rush to get to the airport as soon as possible. I had money to take a cab. And most of all, I did not even bother to see for myself whether it was true that there were no more buses, or whether the guy was a legit ojek driver (though I wonder how does one determine an ojek rider’s credentials). For all I knew, he could’ve been planning to take me all the way to the arse end of Tangerang, rob me of my valuables and left me for dead. Needless to say, that would’ve put my travel plans into no small amount of disarray. I started running escape scenarios in my head and tried to peek over the back to check out the license plate.
In the meantime, I had to put up with the guy’s chattiness. I just went along with it, while being cautious that this could just be his way of making me let down my guard before he pulled the hustle. But as the trip went on, I felt that the guy was on the level. Not that I could really make out what he was saying, what with the collective noise of the engine, the wind and the surrounding traffic.
Ah, the surrounding traffic. Well, I could see the upside of taking an ojek: the traffic from Gambir to Cengkareng, via Tomang and Daan Mogot was just hideous. Even if I’d made it on the bus, it still would’ve taken around two hours to get to the airport, at least. Yes, I could’ve just slept my way through the journey, but still, spending a lot of time stuck in traffic wondering whether you’re ever going to get to where you’re supposed to be going isn’t really a nice thing. I stayed awake during the entire ojek trip, because the alternative wasn’t really hazard-free, especially at the high speed with which we were travelling but I couldn’t really tell, because the speedometer was non-functional in that typical ojek way. Besides, I got to see parts of West Jakarta which I’d never passed by before. Not that I saw much, considering it was mostly dark.
Eventually, we made it to the airport in one piece. I gingerly made it off the back of the bike because my butt hurt like hell. He offered to take my luggage all the way to the check-in counter, but I politely declined and paid him an extra 10,000, silently thankful that he hadn’t hijacked me to the middle of nowhere and slit my throat. After pocketing the cash, he took off, and I staggered my way to the departure terminal. At the very least, I now know what it’s like to take an ojek to the airport, but next time I think I’ll just stick to the bus.
Another month, another issue of Rolling Stone Indonesia finally wrapped. If you pick up the issue when it comes out later this month, you’ll find that I’ve written two feature articles. One is some of the best work I’ve ever done, while the other ranks among the worst. One of them is about The Beatles, the other is on Coldplay.
In case you can’t be bothered to guess which is which, I’ll just come out and say it: The Beatles article is shite, at least in my opinion. Maybe when you get to read it you’ll disagree and say that it’s actually pretty good, which will be nice, but I doubt it. I won’t go into details, but I’ll just say that it was the definition of phoning it in. The Coldplay article, on the other hand, was a pleasure to work on, and hopefully that’ll show when you read it. If you’ve scrolled down to the previous post, you’ll see why in the visual equivalent of two thousand words.
Obviously I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been turning in lousy work, so I thought I’d better get that out in the open beforehand. I really wish I could’ve done a much better on that one article, especially as I’m a big fan. How could you not like The Beatles? But on the other hand, maybe that was the problem: it’s The Beatles, what else could you possibly write about them, especially in a limited amount of space? What new angle could you come up with? I actually had an idea of writing about how I got into them and what they mean to me, but I don’t think anyone wants to spend money on my rambling. Might as well read it for free on a blog. Hey, now that’s an idea…
Whereas in Coldplay’s case, they’re pretty much still an ongoing concern, as opposed to The Beatles. Their story hasn’t been completely written yet, so there’s still space for someone like me to spin their own yarn. In Singapore I was fortunate to get close enough to gain some insight on the band and use that in my article. And then there’s the fact that I actually love their music. Add it all up, and naturally there’s more for me to do, unlike on the Beatles piece where I basically just rehashed their history.
I guess it all boils down to passion in the end. I had a great time on the Coldplay assignment, so how could that excitement not translate into my work? Meanwhile, as much as I love The Beatles, I just could not muster the will to do something different with them, within the parameters I was working in. Maybe when I get the chance to write a Beach Boys article, it’ll turn out much nicer - but first I have to come up with a way to make it nicer.
As an aside regarding the Coldplay trip and an unrelated recent encounter, I find it fascinating that I can have the balls to get Chris Martin to strangle me for a photo, and yet those balls promptly disappeared when I found myself in the vicinity of some girl I had a thing for and was with her boyfriend. I just couldn’t bring myself to walk up and say hi; I was wondering if she’d notice I was around and acknowledge my presence, which would mean I wouldn’t have any other option but to say hi. But that wasn’t the case, either way.
I think I can explain: I’ve never ever felt that Chris Martin could ever be a significant part of my future, nor do I expect to meet him in person ever again. The girl, however, is another story…at least until I feel otherwise. Considering my balls still go AWOL whenever she’s around means that otherwise hasn’t happened yet.
…I think my job’s pretty damn cool.
And it’s back to that little island state somewhere above and to the left of the map from Jakarta - assuming you know where to find Jakarta on the map - just a few months after the previous sojourn. Initially, this was going to be like that last trip, as in asking my brother Hanief who lives in Singapore with his family to score me a ticket before they sell out, and then starving myself so I can save up enough to pay for the travel arrangements. But if the office wants to send me there on assignment, to cover the very thing I was going to watch anyway…hey, that works, too.
In case you’re wondering what I’m going on about, tomorrow morning I’m flying to Singapore for the Coldplay gig. The gig’s on Monday night, but I figured why not use the weekend for extra relaxation and spend some time with the siblings (Halief will be coming down from Malaysia too). I enjoyed my last time in Singapore, and I have a good feeling that this time is going to be great, too.
It’s a shame Jakarta isn’t on Coldplay’s itinerary; it doesn’t seem to be on any decent, relevant act’s itinerary of late, as a matter of fact, all we keep on getting is bloody Toto again. And apparently Westlife, too. The Singapore Tourism Board will be making a killing due to the amount of upper-middle-class-and-higher Indonesians heading over there just to catch a decent gig by a decent international act. I’m quite sure I’ll see a boatload of familiar faces over there.
And just as decent bands start coming over again, some arsehole terrorist blows stuff up again. Obviously there are more important things to worry about in the wake of a terrorism incident than some trivial concerts, but wouldn’t it be great if Indonesia didn’t have that irritating travel warning stamped on its metaphorical forehead? But as it is, it’s like we’re the lepers of South East Asia.
Ah, well. No point in worrying about something that’s entirely out of my hands. I’d better think about what I’ll say when I meet Coldplay in order to avoid babbling like a total idiot.
Oh, bollocks.
…I haven’t really had much to write about as of late, I’m just writing so this month won’t be without a post. This past month’s been mostly work, listening to a lot of music, going to a lot of gigs, taking a lot of pictures and trying to hone my previously non-existent photography skills, reading a lot of comic books, hanging out, lamenting my lack of love life…in other words, the usual, the same old, same old.
Oh, and the World Cup, hoping England will finally win. Not that they’ve been setting the tournament alight with their football; in fact, they’ve been rather crap. But at least they’ve been winning, and they’re still in it, at least until tomorrow. Can’t say the same for the Netherlands or Spain, for example. If they crash out against Portugal tomorrow, well there’s not much I can do apart from curse their luck, and look ahead to the next major tournament.
I think I’ve actually calmed down in my fervent support for my favourite football teams. I take heckling - which has always been something I’ve gone through since England supporters seem to be the minority in this country - with a pinch of salt and shrug of the shoulders. Not much point in defending your opinion against someone who’s just trying to piss you off, regardless of the blatant inferiority of what they’re defending. A few years ago I’d be most pleased at the elimination of the teams other people supported, and be really depressed when mine got the chop. Now…well, to be honest I still hope the other teams will get knocked out, as soon as possible, so England will win the tournament. But I won’t rub it in, at least not in those other supporters’ faces. I’ll just have a private chuckle. If England lose tomorrow, it won’t mean much apart from no longer staying up to watch their matches. And life will be back to the same old, same old.
So let’s say you get a number of text messages from several of your friends, each one basically ridiculing you for various reasons. Likely in jest, but malicious intent is also there to a certain degree. What do you do?
In my case, I’m still wondering what to do. For some reason, those recent barbs have got under my skin more than usual, whereas I’d normally shrug them off or fire back with equal venom. But that hasn’t happened. I seem to have lost my sense of humour and tolerance.
Perhaps it was just a matter of circumstances, where my peace and quiet was suddenly disturbed by said annoyances. Unprovoked, to boot. You end up wondering what you’ve done to deserve such insults, and after giving it some thought, you conclude that those people are just being idiotic and petty.
So what to do with the idiotic and petty? Ignore them like the useless peons they are until they learn how to behave in a civil manner, i.e. don’t slag me off if I don’t slag you off. Am I being a wuss? I don’t care - I’m ignoring you.
Bangkok was…interesting.
This was just over a week ago, I’ve only got around to writing about it because, well, I had more important things to do than tell you how it went. And it went alright, actually. Not sure I’ll be going there anytime soon on my own accord, because to be honest, the language barrier is too much of a chore if one wants to just enjoy themselves. But I wasn’t there for pleasure, I was there for work. And the great part about travelling for work is when the accomodations are all handled, especially if you get to stay at a swanky place like the Millennium Hilton. Sometimes I’m just too spoilt.
This was also the official hotel for the MTV Asia Awards 2006 which I was there to attend, so you could wander around the lobby and bump into someone you’d seen from some music video. Of course, my lack of knowledge and interest in Asian pop meant that I hadn’t a clue who most of these people were, but there were a couple of familiar faces. Like, uh, the dude who plays guitar in Hoobastank, or that guy from Korn.
But the point of going somewhere new is soaking in as much culture as possible, or so they tell me. So that’s what me and a small entourage of Indonesians also there for the event did. Off we went to Suan Lum night market on Friday evening for the obligatory browse and a bite, and when we were in need of more shopping options, we decided to head for Patpong. And we decided to go by tuk-tuk, like a larger, souped-up and cleaner version of a bajaj. We approached the nearest one in haggle mode, but as it turned out, we had to haggle more than we expected.
Just as we tell the guy that we want to go to Patpong market, he whips out a pink, laminated menu with curious items such as "Pussy Show," "Pussy Smoke Cigarette," "Pussy Open Bottle," "Pussy Ping-Pong Ball Show"…well, you get the idea. This wasn’t exactly the type of Thai culture we were looking for, so we insisted on just taking us to the market. He, in turn, practically demanded that he take us to check out the vagina fest, saying something along the lines of "Market long time! Pussy short time!" or something like that. We got out of his clutches and found a tuk-tuk driver who didn’t act like a twat sideshow salesman.
To be honest, for all I’ve heard about how debauched Bangkok is, that’s about as sleazy as it got. The way they make it sound, you’d think that there’s something lewd on every corner. I guess I just wasn’t looking in the right places, or just wasn’t looking properly.
The next day we went out in the afternoon, an ideal time to get a better idea of what the city’s like. After recently going to Kuala Lumpur and Singapore, I can say that even Bangkok’s more advanced and organised than Jakarta. They’ve got their MRTs working, their buses don’t look like rusty hunks of crap. If you’re looking for something that’s as bad or worse than Jakarta, then I’d say it’s the driving. When I left for the airport, my taxi driver kept his cab in second gear, so for the duration of the 45-minute drive from the hotel, the vehicle lurched along the way, causing some serious queasiness. And they barely speak any English, so communication’s a bugger. I had to carry around the hotel’s card - with the name and address in English and Thai - everywhere, so as to be sure they wouldn’t mess up. Well, guess what? They messed up.
Later that evening was the MTV Asia Awards at this big shopping centre called Siam Paragon. I can’t remember much, apart from a lot of screaming, loud sound systems and seizure-inducing lighting. I didn’t make it to the after-party either, though I heard some very interesting tales of drunken shenanigans involving Indonesia’s own Aming Sugandhi and a member of Korn’s crew. They must’ve thought he was a local drag queen whom the organisers had hired for entertainment, and I can’t say I blame them.
Last year Liverpool made it to the Champions League final, perhaps unexpectedly considering their rather shoddy domestic league form. But after getting that far, you’d expect them to go all the way, even if they were up against the mighty AC Milan. Of course, going 3-0 down at half-time rather put a damper on things. And then, in what will go down as one of the greatest football comebacks of all-time, they pulled back the score to 3-3 in six minutes, and managed to hang on to penalties, which they won. The cafe where I watched the game with lots of fellow Liverpool fans, after feeling like a mausoleum at half-time, became deafeningly at the end. I had never hugged so many sweaty strangers in my life, and I never thought I’d ever have reason to.
Last night, it happened again.
This time, Liverpool were in the FA Cup final. Not as big as the Champions, by any means, but it’s still the oldest club competition in the world. And any way you look at it, it’s nice to have another piece of silverware in the trophy cabinet. Unlike last year, they were the firm favourites against West Ham, who’d just been promoted to the top flight and had a season exceeding all expectations. Given that Liverpool had stuffed them twice in the league, I’m sure everyone was expecting they’d win comfortably.
But no, they had to go two goals down within 28 minutes, through a Jamie Carragher own goal and a Dean Ashton tap-in after Jose Reina had fumbled the ball. Liverpool had a Peter Crouch goal wrongly disallowed for offside, but managed to pull one back through Djibril Cisse shortly after in the 31st minute, and then equalise via the super-fantastic Steven Gerrard on the 54th. You’d think by that point they’d be able to gain momentum and carry on for the win.
But no, West Ham scored through an absolute fluke, as a cross from the wing by Paul Konchesky suddenly ended up in the net on the 63rd. As the game wore on, it seemed like we were in for one of the biggest FA Cup final upsets in recent memory, especially as Liverpool’s players were starting to cramp up and no clear chance was in sight. It felt like it was all over as the 90 minutes were up and the fourth official informed everyone watching that there’d be four minutes of stoppage time.
And then, inevitably, the cramped Steven Gerrard volleys the ball home from 35 yards. Again with the hugging of sweaty strangers at the cafe I was in. The score remained the same for the duration of extra time, and then on to penalties, which no one really wanted but seemed like that’s the way the universe had it planned. Liverpool won that, with Reina doing what Jerzy Dudek did last year at Istanbul and saved most of the opposing team’s penalties.
Cue more hugging of sweaty strangers, followed by an overwhelming feeling of fatigue. Winning a cup final once this way is more than enough for one lifetime, but they just had to do it again. Not good for my health, that’s for sure. I really wouldn’t mind if they went for a boring 1-0 win once in a while. But then, that’s not much fun, is it?
