Getting the blues

It’s all routine these days, which really isn’t so bad. I’m still on the 1-9 shift, which pretty much eliminates doing anything else all day except the fitness regime. I really need to kick that up a notch but unless I wake up early, it’s not possible. It’s at about 2 ½ hours now, so it might be as good as it will get.

My long walks to work may wind up halting soon because the rainy season is on its way. We’re told possibly November, but the weather is changing right now.

That means something different in a tropical zones than it does in places that have more than two seasons – rainy and dry. Basically, here it means it’s getting more and more humid and the winds are kicking up.

This is illustrated on a daily basis, not with cool breezes but by trash blowing in the breeze.

At my new little office perch – which, BTW, is *primo* -- trash has the ability to mesmerize.

See, all the copy editors shifted down a few spaces to enable there to be more Web folks. (I guess – they’re a long way down at the other end of the table and by the time I get the news, it’s sometimes exaggerated. Think the “Telephone game.”) Three of us somehow got bumped to another long table, which happens to be by the window.

Somehow I got lucky enough to get a window seat, but the luck didn’t stop there. I’m on the *end,* which means that I can plop my crap down on the side of the table, which just happens to be where unused drawers go to die.

At some point, I’ve explained that our little work spaces – you can’t even call them desks – are short and the space is tiny. We don’t even have room to unfold a newspaper to read. And the drawers are low, so that anyone who’s over, say 5’6” has to re-train their knees to not bang into them.

Some people found that impossible, so they just tossed their drawers. What they did with their stuff, I don’t know, but the drawers themselves wound up beside my new little area. And honestly, that’s cool, because I stand them up and boom! I have an end table.

We’re on the top floor and, during the daylight hours, I have a nice view. I can see a lot of South Jakarta, including the World Trade Center down the street from my apartment. I can’t actually see my apartment building because there’s another building under construction (there’s always construction), but I know where it is.

During the evening hours, the window somehow turns into a mirror and I can spy on the other copy editors behind me. I usually don’t get that bored, though.

Anyway, during the daylight hours, I’ve noticed this past week that there is A LOT of flying trash. Plastic bags, sheets of paper and runaway kites alight and toss and turn in the wind. It’s really amazing how much trash there is, and how high it gets. I mean, we’re on the 11^th floor and sometimes the stuff gets higher than the building.

Litter is a huge problem here. Honestly, I think it’s as bad as Morocco. I mean, America has litter and it’s bad, but you rarely, if ever, actually see someone throwing trash into the street.

Here, it’s a rare day that you don’t see someone tossing a piece of paper, plastic, cigarette butt or otherwise into the street, sidewalk, sewer or what have you. It’s amazing that there’s no sense of giving a crap about the environment. It’s utter filth everywhere.

Like in America, people blame everything on the government. The government, people say, should tell people that it’s bad to do things, such as litter, splice electric cords or carry five people, helmetless, on motorcycles.

Like in America, the government is stupid, too. Such as, when a woman is gang-raped on a transport bus, having the governor of Jakarta send a warning that women must not wear shorts or miniskirts on public transport so as not to tempt men. (I wish I were making this up.)

Or when they say if we put in public parking (which they should do), it will clear the sidewalks of the motorcycles (yeah, right), which will then eliminate litter (yeah, right.)

It’s everywhere, and it’s disgusting. I just don’t think anyone needs to be told (especially from an inept government) that throwing litter left and right is bad. I think these folks should be strung up and then shot down.

There are a few honest attempts at beautifying the place, but they’re on such a small scale they get shut down quickly. Last week, someone tried to reclaim a tiny bit of sidewalk to make into a park and the stuff (including fake grass) disappeared. Sigh.

Someone’s trying to beautify my overpass, though, and so far it’s nice. It’s taking them forever, though.

My stretch of Jalen Doktor (the name of the road, I think), is currently under construction and has been for some time. Right now, in addition to the road improvements, they’re doing something with the water. There are several spots on my last leg home where I have to walk out in the street because there are workmen in huge holes.

These guys are RED. Like Alabama clay red. I have no idea what kind of earth Jakarta is built on, but the clay used in construction is red. And these guys standing in the holes are completely covered head to toe. Honestly, they could pass off as another race.

And my overpass is blue. Some other guys have been painting it for a couple of weeks now (sort of a cobalt and kind of a navy) and it’s looking good so far, although the cement is still nasty and there’s trash all over the sides.

My guess is that some bank bought the naming rights because all of a sudden, it’s got a lighted billboard for ANZ on it and now it’s got blue shiny handrails. And today, they were ripping off the tin roof and installing some fiberglass-like blue stuff.

Now at night, it’s kind of surreal. It’s all blue and gives off this blue vibe that’s kind of moody. With the new roof, I wonder if it’s going to be lighter (and if that one guy is going to be able to continue sleeping.) They weren’t quite done with the roof when I passed by after grocery shopping today, but even in the daylight it seemed lighter. I think the fiberglass is a bit translucent or something.

But night is a very bluesy feel. I almost feel like someone should be sitting in the little stairwell, playing a harmonica.

I ate pork.

Yes, that’s this week’s update. Lame as it might seem to you, it was an event for me.

As Indonesia is a Muslim-majority (88 percent) country, pork, considered hram (forbidden) by those who practice Islam, is hard to come by and expensive here.

But on Saturday, did I dine on the Other White Meat. It was everything I thought it might be.

Really, the pork itself – however wonderfully fantastical it was – and believe me, it WAS – was secondary to the rest of the event, which was to meet two fabulous RPCV couples here in Jakarta.

Both husbands – as well as another RPCV I’ve yet to meet – work at USAid, and therefore, they live in US-issued housing.

Man. The housing. As the couple from Morocco had an adorable 4-year-old, they lived in the family housing. This was quite far from my neighborhood, which puts them even farther from the embassy, which is where the USAid office is. I can’t imagine how long the commute is, but he’s able to take a US-provided shuttle that’s available to staff. (Not just him – for all who live in this complex.)

The complex is in a gated community, which isn’t surprising because practically everything here is behind some kind of a gate, but their community is within another gated community, and they mean business. Only Americans live behind the green gate.

When I turned the corner looking for No. 68 on this particular road, a sign pointed me to what appeared to be a dead end, fenced off with a green gate. But as I approached, the doors opened and another set of guards checked to make sure I was everything I said I was, which was looking for No. 68.

The house, which is really more of a condo as it’s attached, has a garage and everything. Servants’ quarters, a nice patio, washer and dryer and things I forgot existed. My entire apartment, all 30 square meters, could have fit into their dining room area.

Sparsely furnished, but that was because the couple's (also from Morocco) personal effects hadn’t arrived yet. The furniture there – and we’re talking all of it; what lacked was personal touches – as well as the glasses, towels and everything else – also had been furnished by the State Department.

The complex pool, set in a garden-like area, was absolutely fabulous, too. Now, I like my pool A LOT, but this one had sunlight and was bigger. My pool is built under the two buildings, so it only gets a tiny slice of sunlight briefly during the day. Some other kids were playing on a life-sized inflatable dolphin. That was very cool.

They also had mosquitoes, though, so with all that lush greenery, they do have to put up a downside that I don’t have.

Both couples recently arrived to Jakarta and were settling into work. It was fun to hear about USAid, as that’s a place I would like to work, though not necessarily in Indonesia.

I got to discuss Morocco and the differences in Ramadan with the Morocco couple and heard some cool South Africa stories from the second couple. Very nice people.

And the food. I believe I mentioned the food. Mmmm….some kind of veggies, a chicken tagine and PORK.

I’d also brought some bakery rolls, but one of my choices didn’t work out very well. I took home the leftovers (I brought WAY too many) and noticed that this “chicken roll” I’d gotten two of only had a half broken off. (The halves were full meals in some countries. They were huge. I don’t know what I was thinking getting too many.)

Well, the next day I took those in for dinner and can you just say “disgusting”? Like the Scooby Snacks, it had some kind of sweet taste to it. I don’t associate “chicken” and “sweet” very favorably. I am completely embarrassed I took those things to a party. Blech.

But the pork. I hadn’t even seen it in so long, I’d forgotten about the Other White Meat. I checked it out on the grill but assumed it was beef. What a fabulous surprise.

I held back at first, opting for a Taste of Morocco with the tagine, and scarfed down the veggies. But I made sure to save room, downing three hefty slices. It was so fantastic.

And would you believe I had room for dessert? We had leftover birthday cake AND *chocolate chip* cookies.

Both brown sugar and chocolate chips are hard to come by. I think the cookie baker said she’d gotten one at the US Embassy commissary and I know she said the chips were $6. Or maybe it was the baking soda she’d gotten at the commissary. Basically, beyond the obstacle of not having my own oven, I’m not able to make chocolate chip cookies on my own.

So I thoroughly enjoyed the half-dozen or so I had – and I only stopped from grazing when I moved the container out of my reach, next to the pork.

So that was just a glorious day off for me. My first social event not centering around work and getting out to another part of the city.

And there was pork.

Well, rats

It’s my day off, and I’m doing laundry. This is not what I planned.

“Get laundry done” was on the list, which consisted of three to-do items. But I fully intended to take my four-kilogram bag of dirty and stinky stuff down to the 5-11 and drop it off for them to do instead of sink-washing a selected few items.

One of the other two tasks went off without a hitch, though, so I guess I should take time out to be thankful for that. Batting .333 will get me into the Hall of Fame. And the 4 p.m. event is still upcoming and looking like it’ll still happen. (That’s a late lunch at Mr. Curry.)

But laundry. Sigh. My normal routine here is to sink-wash stuff but once a month do as wholesale a change as I can and take stuff to the actual cleaners, which, in my building, somehow originates in the mini-mart. From my little perch on the fitness room bike, I watch the guy load and unload the day’s clothes.

That part of the routine I figured out – I have to take my stuff *before* heading to the fitness room, or laundry takes and extra day.

So this morning, I woke up loaded the rest of my load into my re-useable bag (purchased for Rp. 12,000, it’s been a great investment so far. I got brown because I thought Zippy might like it when I’m done with it), grabbed my Rp 650,000 to go pay my utility bill and head down the elevator.

Remember the revelation that the 5-11 isn’t open until 11 p.m.? And how I speculated it probably wasn’t open at 5 a.m.? Well, it’s not open at 8:30, either. I got down the elevator, saw no one in there but tried the door anyway and then retreated with the load of clothes (and duvet comforter) back up to Tower A, 08-09.

Strike one, though I did head back out and paid the electricity bill with no hassles other than, once again, walking into the wrong building first and then having to wait forever to pay the thing. But it was successful, so no complaints there. (And I’m bright enough to have brought a book to read as I stand in line.)

I also got the little utility receipt stamped “paid” by my apartment management company, which seems like a useless step but whatever. They’re happy.

By that time – well past 5 a.m., I might add again – the 5-11 was open and I tried again to drop off my laundry.

“Finish,” they told me.

Huh?

After bringing in someone to help translate, I learned that, although the little motorcycle guy is omnipresent in his comings and goings, they are not, for some reason, accepting clothes to clean. The reason I got was “it’s a holiday.”

Well, it’s not a holiday. That was last week. But, from the little bit that I understood from the four-way conversation, they are still short people and basically aren’t doing much right now.

Strike two.

Really, I’m not sure how not even trying is going to help them. It would seem at some point that they’ll need to catch up. But at that point, I was getting irritated but knew the people in front of me weren’t the problem, so no point in being nasty. They’re just the middle folks. And honestly, I figured I’d be able to find another place to do it.

And, after taking a shower and grabbing a bite of plain macaroni (my monthly visit to the expat grocery store yielded no refill in alfredo sauce, and I’m kind of upset about that), I grabbed my four-kilo bag (but left the duvet cover) and set out in the neighborhood.

All over, there are “Laundry and dry cleaning” signs. I mean, ALL over. I figured this would be a cakewalk. Maybe the bule would be a little overcharged, but I’m starting to care less and less about this as I lugged my clothes in the hot sun.

Oh, and let’s just mention what I’m wearing right now. I have one of the three long-sleeved shirts I brought, a kind of a cropped Timberland thing that’s really light weight, and a pair of Old Navy drawstring pants that I think might be PJs. I’m not sure; I bought both at Goodwill. On my feet are my FSU Crocs. I am not kidding about the wholesale laundry part – it’s time for EVERYTHING to be machine washed.

So I struck out. This in itself amuses the group of about 2-3 motorcycle drivers who sit, in a shady spot, right outside my apartment building. The walking thing just totally baffles them and as a result they just think I’m some kind of weirdo.

The fact I say hi to everyone is also an anomaly, I gather. From the moment I walk out my door to the point where I get to the office – or wherever – I feel like I’m in a parade. I smile, wave and say hi. It endears me, what can I say?

Laundry. Sigh again. I went to one place and they told me to come back in four days. Huh? So I turned and went the other direction – which, I am sure, blew the minds of the food stall-dining folk I’d just passed – and walked the other day, toward the lone monkey.

I passed him (a guess on the gender) and headed to the first laundry place I found. Again, “finish.” Crap. Two doors down, there’s no one home.

Around a corner, the person in a “dry cleaning” place points me to another place down the road. That door is locked.

Some men on the street wave me further down the road. I enter a kost (kind of a lower-budget hotel where you live, think “My Name is Earl” without Catalina) and find a washing machine, but no one around – at least no one awake. There was a possibly dead but probably sleeping guy, but I opted not to poke him.

Tried about two other places after that and came up empty and by that point I’d circled the entire block-sort-of-thing (it’s best, while wandering, to keep your eye on your building so you know, at least somewhat, how to get back) and was back to the first place I’d tried.

Strike three. No Hall of Fame this year.

The motorcycle drivers got a huge kick out seeing me return not 20 minutes later with the exact same bag. It’s fun to keep them guessing, but that’s about the only plus I get out of it.

Now there are two pairs of pants and two shirts soaking and hopefully all but the jeans will survive another two weeks without offending anyone I sit close to at work.

And we’ve got a glut of people now, so it’s possible that could happen. I had to give a little lesson in how to do a few fixtures yesterday and wondered if I should apologize because I *think* my shirt was a little ripe. There appears to be no Febreze here.

What we do have right now is a surplus of rats. It must be rat season, because I see a lot of them, and most are medium-sized. It must be teen rat season. The last few days, I’ve seen two (and I’m hoping they’re the same two) graze in the plants outside the window of the fitness room. leave to his dorm room

I’m also noticing a lot more flattened rats in the streets. I figure these must have been the dumb ones, and man, there are a lot lately. I thought about bringing a camera and taking a picture of the squashed corpses because they’re kind of … um …. I guess they’re just flat-out morbid, but they’re ALL over. In one spot, had I brought a camera, I had an easy shot with three pancake critters.

I decided against it, not necessarily because it’s so morbid but because I already draw enough attention myself merely by walking.