The intimidator

Well, I’m almost done with my fourth Ramadan, which has been absolutely nothing like the first three. I’ve yet to be asked if I’m fasting and no one had blinked an eye when I apply Chapstick during the daytime.

The post-Ramadan holiday is next week. In Morocco, we called it “3id Sghr,” which means “Little Holiday.” Here, it goes by the formal name “Idul Fitri,” or “Lebaran,” which I know as a misspelling of a Chrysler. It’s the dormant Detroiter in me, sorry.

Another new term I’ve learned is the “mudik.” Basically, this is the mass exodus to the suburbs, countryside or wherever the heck the millions of Jakartans originate from.

Essentially, starting yesterday or so, an estimated eight million residents of the city began to pack up and leave.

Don’t let the door hit you in the butt, that’s for sure. I am SO glad to have the city at a “normal” level of congestion. It’s still busy, but comparatively speaking, it’s a ghost town. I guess that seems like a contradiction, but this place is so vastly overpopulated, ditching that many people essentially puts the remaining population at about what capacity *should* be.

I’m not even sure when the holiday is, actually, or how long it lasts. We’re talking a lunar thing, so it’s dependant on the moon. I’m hearing Aug. 30-31. No one is really for sure about it.

But the paper is taking a four-day break and I head back to work the 31st. That will likely be a holiday, but since the next day isn’t, we’ll have newspapers to subscribers and in the hotel rooms by then.

I’ve no real idea what Idul Fitri is all about. We’ve run stories and columns about “forgiveness,” which is new to me. This is, after all, one of what I termed “Cookie Holidays” in Morocco. My host mom would come over and pound on my door until I staggered to open it, and then drug me to neighbors/friends/relatives and I drank tea and ate cookies until my blood sugar was in the same stratosphere of the space station.

Right now, though, it’s all about having four days off. Today, my second day, I’ve spent holed up in the apartment, but yesterday, I went out and about. Unfortunately, that was the peak traffic day ahead of the holiday.

I went to lunch with one of our interns who heads back to New Zealand in a few days. Plans were to meet at someplace I’d never heard of at 1. I sort of figured about a half hour to get there and assumed I’d have to take a cab since I couldn’t find the place on a map.

Since I’m still sticking with the fitness routine, that was going to cut it a little close. I’m at a little over two hours now, so I basically have to get in there around 9:45 in order to finish and get showered by 12:30, which I estimated was the absolute latest I could leave.

Having only a vague idea of which direction I was headed, I walked out, assuming I’d just jump into the first empty Bluebird cab that passed by. (We have lots of different cab kinds, but the general consensus is Bluebird is best and so far I think they’re right.)

But as I walked in the general direction of the place – which I thought was, to be kind of vague, somewhere past the mall that has the Wal-mart like store – I realized I, on foot, was moving MUCH faster than the mass of cars and motorcycles headed, presumably, out of town for the holiday.

Posted just 'cause I can.

As in, at some points, moving AT All. I am not kidding. On foot, I was going at least twice as far as the sea of motorcycles and double that past the cars. Mostly they weren’t moving, period. Had I taken a cab, I might still be sitting in that trainwreck.

Eventually, I got to the mall place and asked for directions to the other place, which turned out to be maybe a 10-minute walk farther. That was completely do-able, but at that point I was running late. Fortunately, for reasons I think should be tackled by some PhD student’s thesis, the traffic miraculously cleared after the mall and I did jump in a cab – for what turned into a three-minute ride.

Had a great lunch, though I’m not entirely sure what it was, and about five minutes after getting home it attacked me. But it was good.

And I had a fabulous dessert. This little mall place was basically just a bunch of cafes and restaurants and they had a *cakery*. Oh, Dana would love that. I know I did.

I splurged on three pastries. One was Little Debbie-like -- a Swiss cake roll about the length of a Cuban cigar but four times as fat. What Karen tried to make for catering but it didn’t work out and we had truffles instead. Basically, spongy chocolate-y heaven.

As I was paying, my colleague, bless her naive little heart, asked me if I had an airtight container to put the little sweet things in so they'd last a few days. Yeah, right. I’ll take that under advisement.

Those poor suckers didn’t have a chance at lasting for days. Little Debbie was lucky to make it an hour past my return home, and was only spared that amount of time because of the lunch sought vengeance. The Tall Cool Cupcake was gone by nightfall.

Mmm.... but ancient history. And note, the Jakarta Globe carries "Calvin and Hobbes"!

The plain donut with sprinkles lasted through the night, but on borrowed time. By now, all the evidence is completely gone. LONG gone.

Hopefully, by now, so are Jakarta’s motorcycles. I haven’t ventured outside the apartment building today, but I really hope they’re gone. I wish they’d never come back, but that’s not happening.

I despise the motorcycle population here. Hate. Loathe. Abhor.

I don’t mean the ones who obey the traffic rules (I say that like there are any – I can’t actually verify it) but let’s face it, out of the 10 million or so that are here, there’s maybe four who do. Bless them.

Those for whom I have no love lost are the other 99.84625 percent of them. They know who they are: the ones who cut across parking lots, sidewalks, weave in and out of traffic and basically endanger not only themselves and their three passengers, four bags of rice and two suitcases, but also car drivers and God forbid, the brave (and cheap) soul who’s trying to walk from place to place.

Repeat: Hate. We’re talking the spew venom kind of hate here, the kind normally reserved for an FSU-UF game. And by that I mean Bobby and Spurrier, not Jimbo and Urban.

And, like any Seminole, I do not stand down for the morons.

On my way back from lunch, I was swimming upstream from the throng, not that that makes a difference to me. On the way there, with traffic, I do the same thing: dare the bastards. The only difference is, when I am against the flow of traffic, they see me.

And this does make a difference, I think. I have them scared. They are flat-out intimidated.

No kidding here. I'm Mad Max. On a mission. I’m Denzel Washington in “The Book of Eli.” I do not waver. Morons motorcyclists on the sidewalk – GTFO. It’s my sidewalk, and I’m not moving in any direction but forward.

Sometimes, I have to step into the roads. That’s the fault of the cycles, too – the parked ones on what passes for a sidewalk force me to step into the road, so if I have walk on their territory, it becomes mine. And I’m not yielding. I mean, if I’m in the road and it’s possible for me to step up on a curb, I will do so. But if I can’t, well, for the 1/83862nd fraction of their ride, they can freaking drive around me.

And you know what? They do. I am not sure what kind of vibe I give off, but it must be a mean one. I am Moses parting the Red Sea. They come at me, I will just stand there and dare them to move. And, so far at least, they have. One hundred percent of the time.

Occasionally, they don’t move far enough. No worries. I’ve elbowed a few drivers and knocked a few rearviews out of whack. I don’t give a crap. You’re on my sidewalk, Bub. I don’t give up a single yard.

Both directions yesterday, I walked through the driveway of a Shell station, motorcycles flying by me. I waved at the gas station attendants. I think they’re amused. I think the shop owners laugh when I walk by, knowing those annoying idiots behind the wheel are going to have to veer their course for the Bule Who Acts Like a Mule. (If you pronounce that right, it doesn’t rhyme, -- it’s more “boo-lay,” but this is visual, OK?). I’m stubborn.

Working out must be paying off. I can’t tell much of a difference, but I make a point to walk with authority – it keeps the riffraff away. I mean, I stare the morons down. They do not mess with me.

I even scared the bejesus out of one. He was headed straight for me and paying absolutely no attention to what he was doing – talking to someone else – and I yelled, softball voice-like, “HEY!” Dude’s head snapped like he was on a gallows. And he GTFO post-haste.

Tomorrow, I will have to take a walk and enjoy the peace. I feel like I’ve won.

In a totally random segue, I’ve had a great day off today and done absolutely little but wash clothes. The TV has been on and I’m trying to FTP some files – which takes FOREVER with my snail’s pace connection and Nero-era laptop – but it’s been a fantastic non-productive day.

Continuing the random segue, “Date Night” came on earlier, and although I didn’t see it – during fitness routine time so I didn't bother to get into it – I caught a little dialogue and heard the word “penis.”

I cannot fathom why on Indonesian TV, you can say “penis” not “vagina.” I only know the latter to be fact because there’s a line from “Mad Men” that I saw on surfthechannel that, when it came on Indo TV, it got blanked out. (No hard language replaced with “get the flock out of here” here – they just silence the offensive words.)

So many things about this country confuse me! I certainly am not going to let that bother me, though.

Anyway, that’s it for today. But I hope everyone in Irene’s path stays as dry and safe as possible.

Alan and Emily, congratulations! Hopefully everyone will get there OK and everything will go fantastic. I’m getting a new cousin! I’ll be thinking of y’all Thursday.