~Ever wondered where the fabled unicorn came from? Or maybe the phoenix? Did hobbits actually exist?~

There are probably more than a hundred TV channels here in UK and we do need to read a TV guide to determine what to watch or what to record every night. I hardly see Sky3 but for some reason I found the title “Myths, Monsters, and Hobbits” intriguing, so I set the box to tape the show.

I thought the documentary will bring me to some fantasy land in England, a secret town where hobbits used to live, where Middle-Earth existed hundreds of years a go, where elves with sharp ears and glimmering heads singing, and gollum hissed behind the greens.

Instead, Dr. Lawrence Blair, the adventurer, explorer and anthropologist, with wild white hair and cool eye patch, took me to a rather familiar place he claimed to be the source of all the myths existed in the world: INDONESIA.

Blair first came to Indonesia more than 30 years a go, and found that, “the environment astounded me, the people fascinated me, and I embarked on a three-decade journey of discovery throughout the islands.  I encountered the extraordinary of plants and animals as well as legends of barely-believable beasts. It dawned on me that many of mythological creatures which have haunted our fairy tales may well have derived from here.” He added that over the years he has seen a lot of strange things in Indonesia and heard even stranger stories, and experienced many phenomena which rattle our preconceptions of how life ought to behave.

So Blair is going on a quest for the real animals which may have inspired the legends of fire-breathing dragons, of fire-dwelling phoenixes, unicorns, goblins and hobbits, our smallest and most mysterious relatives.

What sort of truth might hide behind these legendary creatures?

Goblin

Blair believes that hantu is the mythical ancestor of goblins and elves, and the inspiration of  Yoda of Star Wars, and he sailed to a remote island of Siau, off Manado (North Sulawesi), where there is an American scientist exploring the species.

Apparently, the mysterious goblin, the elf of the forest, was inspired by none other than tarsier, a creature that is closely related to us, but is eaten on a regular basis by the locals. In Kalimantan (Borneo), the animal is referred to as hantu (ghost or ancestral spirit), and the head-hunting tribes consider it as a bad omen to spot one because of its ability to swivel its head round 180 degrees and look directly back at you over its shoulder, implicating that you might be losing your own head. Blair and the team managed to catch the new species of baby tarsier which looked terrified by the giant hands which held it. But even though it is so tiny, the little creature is a carnivore which eats only live flesh like large insects, snakes, lizards, birds, and bats.

Phoenix

Cendrawasih, or the red bird of paradise, is entwined in the phoenix myth. In the 19th century their feathers were such in demand for ladies’ hats in Europe the birds were almost extinguished. I remember my father once went home with the dead bird and put it on display, and for months I admired its smooth feathers and bright colours, before Indonesian government announced its extinction and threatened to fine whoever brought or possessed the bird from Irian Jaya, dead or alive. Several species have fire-like tail feathers and can look like flames streaking through the forest.

There is also maleo bird, the kinds that only live in Sulawesi, which is probably another source of the phoenix myth. As Sulawesi is full of volcanic fumaroles and hot springs, the geothermal energy is used by maleo birds to incubate their giant eggs. They nest between the areas, and the first  European explorers who came there saw the steam and assumed it was smoke; the smoke of the fire which phoenix birds emerged. The bird lays its eggs in deep pits, buried  three feet of steaming earth, and the hatching have to burrow to the surface in full working order, and fly off as if born from fire.

Unicorn

Tales of the unicorn reached the West via Persia from India and China. Their horn was powerful magic and aphrodisiac. Only the pure heart could tame a unicorn, and it would surrender to a virgin and lay its head into her lap. It has been noted that the 13th century traveller Marco Polo claimed to have seen a unicorn in Java or Sumatera. The source of the myth? None other than Sumateran rhinoceros or Javan Rhinoceros. And I thought unicorn was a horse, before I read about the myth more in wikipedia!

Dragons

Where else you would find the source of the myth if not in Komodo Island with its komodo dragon. Dr Blair has been visiting the island for years, and once was stalked and charged by two of those nasty creatures, treed for five hours until they got bored and cleared off.

The dragon myth probably came to Europe by the Chinese who had been trading in the island for millenia, but only in 1911 these enormous lizards came to the attention of the outside world. Blair, who could speak Indonesian very well, also said that, “In 1926 the young American cameramen called Willies O’Brian arrived in the island. He was so impressed by Komodo’s haunting, prehistoric vibes, and the village that barricaded itself against marauding dragons, that it inspired his set designs for a movie called… King Kong“.

Today’s komodo dragons, which have survived for God knows how long, are probably the mini version of  from a much larger species of Varanus which haunted the island not so along a go. The creatures are nasty carnivore which will be more than happy to hunt and eat deer, horse, pig, or goat, or even man, if they can get one. The villagers carry their animals and pets up the steps into their homes which are built on stilts on the night time, because when the dark comes, the dragons prowl the village. And only in Komodo islands do the villagers seal their graves with slabs of rock and concrete to prevent scavenging dragons from digging up the corpses and eating them.

A 12-ft lizard might not look big to us, but it would have caught the attention of 3-ft hobbits!

Hobbit

Blair went to Flores island to find the source of legend, based on the discovery of the remains of real hobbits, or Homo Floresiensis. From the fossil evidences, it is believed that hobbits shared their world with giant rats, (hunted and ate them, to be precise), and Blair managed to capture one, which with it’s 3-ft long is as big as the legendary hobbit - the comparison is equivalent to modern man facing off against a Sumatran leopard.

And the little elves really existed for at least 30,000 years  in the cave of Liang Bua (cold cave), preyed on by great lizards and phytons, and  probably by larger men, Sapiens. The evidence of 7 individual hobbits were discovered in the cave, and this particular discovery of the skull in 2003 ignited a bombshell of controversy, which “makes a major dent in our assumptions of who we can be.” Based on the brain size (less than a third the size of ours, smaller than a chimpanzee’s), teeth (completely human), tools (meticulously flaked and sharpened), cooking hearths (charred with controlled fire), and hunting habits (required collaborative social behaviour and language), despite its tiny brain size, the skull is definitely a human’s. Most anthropologist are arguing that he was a different parallel species of a man, Homo Floresiensis. Others insist that he was marvellously miniaturised Homo Sapiens.

So Blair went to the remote village in the Flores hill, which is not far from the Liang Bua cave, where he discovered the men are only about 4-ft (1.20 meter) tall, and the gene is only passed down to men only - women are of regular size. Science has yet to discover whether they are descendants of stretched Homo Floresiensis or shrunken Homo Sapiens.

I am surprised that Blair took me back to Indonesia, but then I was sad because it took an outsider, a foreign anthropologist, a tan Keith Richard lookalike with his posh English accent,  to make me understand my own home country better….

It’s official.

Bugils Jakarta (I can never know the right spell. Is it Bugil’s or Bugils? BuGils or BuGil’s?) will hold their very last party in December 13th. We have heard the rumour about Bugils closing down forever, but this time it is for real. It should be official, because the bar throws the countdown parties, starts from Monday, December 8th, and ends on Saturday, December 13th.

It’s a goodbye, big goodbye to its loyal customers who have survived together with the legendary bar during raids, floods, ghosts, deaths, smelly socks, drunken customers, crazy barmaids, and God knows what else. A friend told me that she is planning to fly to Jakarta to attend the party. Another will fly from Hong Kong. I am sure the original shareholders, who are as mysterious as the myth of a beer glass put every night to feed the ghost, will turn up too. I am sure Bart will try to push the sale of ‘Barack Bites’ stroopwafels, the same stroopwafels which have been around for at least a couple of years before reemerging with a new name. The book, Bule Gila: Tales of A Dutch Barman, certainly will be there too. I don’t know if the second book will ever come out, since Bart has been busy with his new celebrity status, being interviewed by CNN and such, and embracing the holy mission of conquer the world with his Aaltje Bakery’s stroopwafel.

Every year, every body tries to beat the record of staying, standing, and surviving at the party. I heard the record is from two PM until five AM, 15 hours, held by none other than Lens, the man behind Eastern Promise’s phenomenal success. That’s a lot of beer. Every year, and just for once a year and only in that particular party, the bar will suddenly be flooded by young, gorgeous, broke, tan, fit blokes, outnumbering sleazy, aging, pot-belly men. They look too young to drink (but who cares and is there such rule in Indonesia?), perhaps make a detour from their international schools, and definitely come for free beer. It is refreshing. Every year, everybody suddenly becomes friends with real friends, ex-friends, enemies, frenemies, ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, ex-fiances, ex-wives, ex-husbands, their new partners, their ex-partners; basically the entire romance history suddenly will flash before your very eyes and there’s nothing you can do except to nod and smile, keep a poker face and jot down a mental note that A is now seeing B, C just broke up with D, E is pregnant by F, and G is gay.

I wish I could be there to say goodbye to the bar personally. The last time I attended the party was in 2007 and as far as I remember, and judging from the immortalised moment on the right, it was a blast.

But I know Bugil’s Jakarta would not be easily defeated. So wait for another year or two, and Bugil’s Jakarta part two, will re-emerge somewhere. Just like Bart’s stroopwafel!

Cazbar is celebrating its anniversary, and I am proud to announce to the world, that the bar, which name was formed during a weekend away at one of the shareholders’ house through some quiz (the one who came up with the name that would be used for the bar will get free beer and {updated Nov 21} the stool with his/her name),  is already 3 years old, and they will share the joy and happiness by throwing a fab party with free beer and entertainment for the whole night.

I like Caz not because I have to, but because the place is friendly for female patron who comes alone. The staffs are friendly and call you by your name, and the place provides free wi-fi too. I feel secure there and could hang around for hours with my macbook and glasses of wine or cappuccino without being interrupted or disturbed by sleazy old men like in most bars. I spent many times having work lunch at Caz since my L’Oreal office was only stones away, mostly with Tamara or Rocky. I occasionally took my staffs for afternoon coffee (disguised as ‘meetings’), and spent Saturday mornings with late breakfast and The Guardian papers. Friday lunches were sometimes with GG and he would be having fun guessing what I would have for the day. Most of the times he was right as I often went for lamb chop (still do), although apparently my choice of meal was criticised by an Indonesian blogger — who thought I trespass the international luncheon code of ethics because lamb chop should only be served as dinner — which is funny since the said blogger a) definitely isn’t a chef, has a zero knowledge of how to build up a menu for international guests or how to run a restaurant or pub; b) has never set foot at Cazbar, let alone tasted its food, yet found a liberty to criticise its menu. Rocky the chef would be delighted; c) as an Indonesian, should be familiar with full meal breakfast concept like fried rice, satay, or soto and even can have them at 2AM off of street stalls and yet thought that having red meat at lunch time is wrong and d) urged me to stick with vegetable instead, which is the most bizarre advice I have ever got in my life, especially since the said blogger isn’t my dietitian, personal trainer, doctor, spouse, even friend.

Cazbar was also a choice of venue to meet other bloggers offline. I met Therry there for the first time, and then met Therry, Elyani and Ecky there too. If I didn’t have to have Sunday brunch at 4 Seasons, I would have met Toni and Elyani at Cazbar too! One of Caz’s best thing (apart from lamb chop, obviously) is their Caswell coffee. It tastes much better than coffee from other franchise stalls, and although a cup of cappuccino can contain hundreds of calories, I keep ordering it after meal (now that is something that actually the said blogger should criticise, as Italians only have cappuccino in the morning and never have it after meal and have espresso instead).

This Saturday, I would be dancing at St. Andrew’s Ball, 12 thousand km away, but in my heart I am dancing for Cazbar.

Happy anniversary, Caz!

Bartele Santema is in his element. I can imagine him sitting down in a dressing room, powdered-face, maybe a little bit of lip gloss and mascara to enhance his features, a stack of stroopwafels on the table, a glass of beer in one hand, practicing his lines, trying to remember all of his six bars he has to name in front of the interviewer from Al-Jazeera, CNN and all other newspapers desperately trying to write something different about Barack Obama.

I dare to say that Bartele Santema is a friend. Well, he must be. He announced that Stuart and I were getting married in Bugil’s newsletter even before I told my boss about it (and in his usual manner, managed to take credit from it). He was not just invited to our small wedding party last August in Bali, Bugil’s Bali had its first job that Saturday. And he has constantly been seen in many of my pictures (like the one on the right, circa 2006, when everybody was skinnier, healthier, and much younger). The last picture probably was Sunday Brunch at 4 Seasons Hotel a few days before we left back to Aberdeen. It was the day after our friends’ wedding, and the first time I met Elyani and Toni for coffee.

About 3 PM, when we were finished our brunch, I moved to Elyani and Toni’s table for coffee. But my Sunday Brunch group wasn’t happy because Bart had escaped from ‘jumping into the pool’ thing the night before (during the wedding, most people jumped into the pool and sang along with the band on AC/DC and Rolling Stones’ songs, and Bart quietly sneaked out) and planned to throw Bart into 4 Seasons’ swimming pool. Poor Elyani and Toni, who just got to know me, were crowded by about 15 people who suddenly went to our table and demanded me to introduce each of them to my blogbuddies. Both Elyani and Toni quickly learned that it was just a plot to get out of the dining room, to get to near the pool, and throw Bart into it. We pretended to take a group picture by the pool. Toni was kind enough to do it for us (he must be thinking what a bunch of noisy childish people!). Bart certainly was suspicious about the whole thing and hid behind everybody. When the camera clicked, everybody turned to Bart and tried to grab him. Almost 15 men against 1 and we did not succeed. He walked away. Dry and safe.

That’s the kind of man Bart is. His instinct to pick up on suspicious thing. And his radar to smell where the money blows. Bart is the sort of man who is sitting next to you at the bar and shooting hundreds of ideas non-stop, you need a whole notepad just to keep up. But he also shoots them half-heartedly, his eyes keep checking on the bar staffs and patrons, and his hands are busy lifting the beer glass and typing at the same time, you don’t know whether he’s taking the piss or being serious. By eleven we’d hear him playing guitar and sing “Josephine”. By two in the morning it’s usually B52 time for everybody, and we’d forget most of his brilliant ideas.

He started the hunt of Obama’s former residence in Menteng Jakarta when Obama was racing against Hillary Clinton. Most of you might have known that Obama spent his childhood in Jakarta when his mother married to an Indonesian. And most of you probably know that Indonesians are so delighted that a presidential nominee in the 2008 United States presidential election has a teeny tiny sentimental connection with Indonesia. People think Bart was just having fun, that it’s just another silly idea. Nobody took it seriously when he wrote about “Sweet Home Obama” back in February. But he has been persistently following every possible trace (just like he managed to visit a village in East Java and proved its link to Scotland). Moreover, he has been persistently pestering the owner of Obama’s former residence. And now, with the prospect of having Obama to make a significant mark in American political history, everybody wants a piece of Bart, just like the headline of Bugil’s Newsletter: Bar Owner Makes Headline Worldwide; CNN, The Wallstreet Journal, some Dutch newspapers and Indonesian Newspapers, all mentioned his name. Not bad for a Frisian barman, eh?

His idea is to rent the smaller pavilion of the small colonial-style house Barack Obama lived in as a child to open the “Sweet Home Obama Bar” -  a cafe that would feature an “Obama-blend coffee,” a mix of beans from Kenya and Java. Bart also would serve stroopwafels, the home-made caramel waffles that are also sold in Starbucks Indonesia (yes, those are Bart’s), Cazbar, Eastern Promise, and the other bars.

Bart just announced that he has just purchased an original Obama sofa. I don’t know what he means by “Obama sofa”, but I suspect it’s the sofa that Obama family owned once back in the seventies (I wouldn’t want to image the condition of it, hopefully the current owner takes good care of it, otherwise imagine all the dust, the smell and the living creatures inside it). I would imagine he will make the sofa as the centerpiece of the bar, probably with the sign “Obama sat here”.

I admire his persistence. His crazy idea. And his way of finding to turn his crazy idea into a real business. I mean, if this is the guy who baked his first batch of stroopwafels in our apartment’s microwave (and had us as testers - thank God we’re still alive to tell this story) and now could sell them to Starbucks all over Indonesia, even if Obama doesn’t win, the Sweet Home Obama could be a potential money maker. Just like Kopi Annan….

The new fireplace was just installed and I’ve been playing with the fire since. The flame is bright orange inside the stainless steel frame, makes the room warm and cozy. It’s wild outside, the trees are dancing and the leaves are struggling to glue themselves to the branches. It is only 13 degrees but everybody is grumpy and feeling cold and longing for the sun. The clock will change this weekend and the darkness will fall sooner and longer.

Winter is coming.

But I’m still brave enough to wear my open-toes sandals. Anja looked at my feet today and asked if I wasn’t feeling cold. She’s Dutch and sensible. I am stupid and would sacrifice my toes in the name of fashion.

It’s my last day meeting my girlfriends because I have to catch an early flight tomorrow for a weekend with the other ladies, parties, gossiping, shopping, talking about boobs, and stuff. Tree would have liked it (he starts the new trend, now everybody blogs about boobs now).

I can’t remember if the pornography laws bans us from talking, writing or even thinking about boobs. I just had a glass of white wine and am not caring about anything but my new fireplace and frozen toes. Rob has a nice picture of Davina in bikini whilst talking about pornography laws and got lots of comments consequently. I wonder if I would get the same buzz if I put the picture of half naked George Clooney up.

Everywhere I turn, most people don’t agree with the law. So I was surprised to receive an email asking for participation to support it. It even asked me and the other readers to sign the petition. And told us that all along we are too stupid to understand the reason behind it, and gave a lengthy explanation about what it means. I cannot resist the temptation to send a reply and change the title from ’support’ to ‘reject’ and gave a link to The Jakarta Post. I sat back and waited for the kettle to whistle for another cup of coffee. Soon enough a new email came, saying that - more or less - “everything that we fight for will be judged by God Almighty; should there be any perplexity we shall surrender the matter back to God through prayer, and the truth is inside our heart”.

Booby hell.

I don’t see the connection between God and the pornography laws. Except those who are smart enough to produce such bills are those who are playing God and most likely the ones who, morally, need to be examined. See the problem is, those who sit in the parliament are such dirty bastards they think everybody is like them, making amateur sex video or asking for female companies on every transaction (I have heard so many stories about this and it becomes a common practice everywhere up to the sickening degree). There are many more urgent and serious matters to be taken care of. But talking about bikinis and fondling boobies of course are much more interesting and sexy rather than thinking how to adjust the oil price.

I might have to burn all my bikinis. Can’t wear them in London. Can’t wear them in Bali next January. Maybe we’d just stop in Singapore as you can turn up with hot pants or ball gown and no one cares. I don’t know if Oji still sells knock-off porn DVDs at Menteng, he’s disappeared when they refurbished the area a while a go.

In the mean time, my frozen toes needs some attention. I need them intact because I’d proudly display them with my jeweled sandals this weekend, even though the weather forecast states it would be 3-8 degrees, and raining, in London.

I’d be back next Tuesday. Hopefully my toes are still with me.

Every year in Indonesia, we see something unique during the Islamic holy month, Ramadan, for about 30 days. It is the month of fasting, in which participating Muslims do not eat or drink anything from dawn until sunset, and must avoid obscene and irreligious sights, sounds, and evil thoughts.

In order to complete this task, since Indonesia is the world’s most populous Muslim majority nation - although it is not an Islamic state - it is easy to ban anything that is considered disturbing the act of fasting, rather than having the people facing and testing themselves against those obstacles. Therefore places like bars, clubs and massage places, must be closed from one day before until one day after Ramadan (Kompas.com, 25 August 2008). That’s more than 30 days. Imagine how much money they lose and how they pay their employees?

They won’t be able to close for a whole month. How would workers make a living? Ninety percent of workers in such establishments are Muslim. They, too, need money so they can celebrate Idul Fitri and perform their religious duties during Ramadhan. This is a very sensitive issue because it involves the interests of different parties,” said Soeryo.

Those who run restaurant business, change their business hour accordingly, open before sunset until pre-dawn and close during the day. Some are open with their curtains closed or half-open. Some only take orders for takeaways. Alcohol is served in tea cups. Those who still insist to open during the day usually get a hard time from Islamic community as well as the government.

This is something I personally can’t understand, and maybe it is because I grew up in a small town (well, 1.2-million-people city is considered small in Indonesia), where Islam is the dominant faith in the region, but I went to a Catholic school, where I learned about tolerance and sympathy. When Ramadan came and I was fasting, my schoolmates respected it and tried not to eat or drink in front of me. But who wanted to be left alone during a break? So rather than sitting alone in the classroom looking vaguely at the black board, I usually went along to the canteen, and when they were drinking, eating, and smoking, I just spent time to chat with them. At first they felt awkward doing so in front of me, but I felt the world should not stop revolving just because I did something different that day. From a simple motive of not wanting to be left out by friends, I grew up understanding that fasting is not about telling people to not to do things in front of us, but how we handle all temptations before us.

But outside the school, it was different. People were afraid to eat and drink in the street in case others will yell at them and accuse them for being intolerance. I remember I was wondering why did we ask them to tolerate us? Why not the other way around? I felt that we forced others to understand our situation, and we didn’t give others a chance to have a different way of living. In short: if I can’t eat, nor can you. If I can’t have fun, you shouldn’t either.

There are people who are not fasting and they have every right to eat or drink or do whatever they like, and as we can ask them to show some tolerance for those who are fasting, we certainly could understand that they still need to eat and drink whenever they want, that they don’t have to suppress whatever urge they feel. Why should we stop them having a happy ending or drinking alcohol if they are not even practicing Islam? It is unfair to expect them to suffer just because we are.

The act of fasting is to let Muslims to practice self-discipline, sacrifice, and sympathy to those who are less fortunate. We should refrain ourselves from all the world’s temptations - not removing them from our sight. If we just practice it as it is, and let all the disturbance and obstacles right in front of us; if we can preserve the purity of our thoughts and actions, regardless what’s in front of us; it must feel great when we sip our tea when maghrib comes.

Postscript 24/8/08: This thread has caused a stir a little bit. Even though I didn’t name names, those who circulate in the same crowd as me could easily guess who I was talking about. In order to maintain a peace in the real world, I decide to take this post down.

You can read it to a certain point but the important bits are deleted. Hope everybody understands.

Cheers

Finally Woken

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“I‘m in love,” he said. “This girl is… something. She’s special.”
I nodded. Waited for more explanation.
“We had sex for 14 hours.”

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A lot of things happened since my last thread. Most of them are too taboo or too kinky to be revealed in this such public place so if you are still interested you might send me an email asking what had happened, and I might answer your questions. Perhaps you might find some answers in my Facebook account, though I can’t guarantee 100%…

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I‘ve got to say that it has been a busy week for me. I had a promising lunch meeting to discuss the future of Indonesian Expatriates Forum last Friday at Cazbar. Tamara and Greg turned up after 5 and we had few drinks before decided to try our luck at Loewy.
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Note: I realize that some of my readers, especially my aunt-in-law Alison and her colleague(s), as well as several other friends who read my blog every time I post something new, would be surprised to read the title and wonder what this is all about. But please continue, you would find out the reason behind it. Or not.

Inspired by Rima and Therry’s posts about how some people just click and become so close after only several months, as well as being insanely jealous because they don’t include me in their (lesbian) combo, and seeing that their posts drove more traffic to their blogs respectively (hence, more jealousy), I decide that rather than begging (waiting for) them to love me, in the spirit of virtual competition, I have to brag that I actually have that sort of relationship they’re having now.
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Bigger is better. More glamorous is better. More people to attend is better. Longer train, heavier make-up, and higher hair, are better. The more expensive is better. The more famous people, from caterer, hairstylist, until the list of guests, are definitely better. Anything that screams ‘I’m rich, I’m fabulous‘, is typical Indonesian wedding. Even though the bride might look like Krisdayanti rather than herself on her wedding day.
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This particular woman drove me mad almost two years ago. Her twisted mind and even more twisted words were really upsetting, and I had to remind myself that she is married to someone I care about, to calm myself down.

That argument is never settled. I kept insisting that she was involved in a matter that was totally unrelated to her and she didn’t show a respect to me and my family. I told her to mind her own business and stop messing with people’s life, especially those whom she doesn’t know. She doesn’t even have my mobile number for God’s sake, she hadn’t seen me for years before this issue came up, so how could she think she could preach me about things she didn’t even understand? But when her replies came, they became more bizarre every time. She is not a type of person who has structured braincells and since I was too busy even to get some descent sleep, after replying 3 or 5 crazy text messages I decided to quit arguing. It was useless. I didn’t have time and energy, and I didn’t want to jump into her labyrinth of mind, where I couldn’t decipher where the reality ended and where the fantasy began.

But as far as I concern, my case with her was with her and to her only. What I didn’t expect was that the other two couldn’t see it as clearly as I did.

We were close back then, especially the first months when I was just back from Sydney and started working in Jakarta. The first one taught me how to ride a city bus and ojek, and I brought her a bottle of her favorite perfume when I landed. I sometimes took them for a meal (always settled the bills, something they never returned and thought it was normal and my ‘duty’). The second one begged me to help her when she was about to finish her study and needed a place for internship. I asked my boss and because it was me asking, he said yes, and she became an intern for several months. She got her first job through my colleague, and for a while I was proud of her.

But we have grown apart, which I think is normal. I am older then them, we lived miles apart, we circulated in totally different crowds and totally different social circles, so we hardly bumped into another. Everybody has their own life, so when we lost touch, I didn’t particularly pay attention to it. I have tried, but it was difficult since it was always a one-sided attempt. Since my last job sent me all over Asia, I didn’t have much spare time; and because they didn’t try to keep in touch either, they’re easy to be slipped out of my mind. Last contact was made when I was already in Scotland, when the first buzzed me through Yahoo! messenger and told me she was expecting a baby. I congratulated her, felt really happy for her because she told me beforehand that she really wanted to have one. Then a strange thing happened a while later. She wrote about her pregnancy experience in our communal blog, and I commented there, where I also told her that I just experienced a miscarriage, so I hoped she took a good care of herself and the baby. She never replied my comment, and although I wondered why (and kinda hoped she showed some attention), I decided that it wasn’t a big deal. Her posting strangely was her first and last.

There were other several small things which annoyed me, even before the argument arose (like when one of them left a comment on my Friendster blog and preached about how to be better - which was odd considering (without bragging) that I am much more than her in every aspect, and her comment was so annoying I decided to delete it), but I have managed to ignored them so far. Now I start wondering whether they decide not to like me anymore because I had an outdated argument with their family member, or because the whole family issue between her and the rest of everybody. It annoys me more because whatever issue I had with her, was between us. The other two were not involved. I never expected smart ladies like them let themselves dragged into this stupid issue. I never expected brilliant women like them cannot separate themselves apart and logically tell her that this is not their business. My patience is thinning fast.

The last issue really pissed me off, because I did it with a good intention, that no matter what they’re still my family, that I show my respect to them. I tried to show that my issue with her doesn’t bother my relationship with the rest of them. Alas, I found out that one of them made a fuss over nothing, that she didn’t look at beyond my good intention, that she didn’t realize how busy I am (she didn’t even care to say hi, let alone offers a help. Come to think about it, I don’t think she knows whether I’m in Scotland or Indonesia, that’s how attentive she is), that she only looked at herself. So I decided that this is the time to end it.

I wish I could be wiser and more patience. But life is complicated and I have other more important things and people to think about.

The book is closed. Enough.

I have quit my job and left Indonesia a year ago, but still receive job offers from time to time, although no one dares to relocate me back to Jakarta as en expat (*wink). But when I was visiting my ex boss in his fancy office after having dinner with my ex-colleagues, seeing the whole department was still complete and on full force even after 9PM (and received a request if I could help them out since I’d be here for 2 months), I blurted that I would not want to go back to this working habit. And I mean it. I have been there and done that. And I have no intention of doing it all over again, because I have the chance to choose a better life.

Just like most people with so-called important jobs in Jakarta, my days started before six and finished around midnight. I was lucky I lived (still do, actually) in the city so I didn’t have to leave home before 5AM like others, but I still spent 45 minutes to 1 hour to reach my office. Normal days would be getting in the office at 8.30 and finished around 9PM, then it was either having late dinner with colleagues and friends, or attending social gatherings somewhere, or simply going to gym for a couple of hours. I used to work at weekends as well, and if the project was about to complete, I and everybody else would be awake 24 hours and stayed at the project until 3AM. When I was handling the projects outside Jakarta, my days would start even earlier and finish much later. When I moved to a different industry, long working hours remained (I once stopped over in Singapore after 13 hours flight and went straight to the conference room, jet-lagged and all), except that I could at least enjoyed some weekends off.

And just like any other Jakartans, I thought it was normal. It is normal. Some offices have overtime habits so much if we went home earlier we would be teased and end up feeling guilty.

But let’s see.

Many of us turned up late, then after signing in we sneaked out for quick breakfast and were only ready to work after 9 AM. Half of our days were spent for traveling between meeting places and we left at 11.30 for lunch and were back after 2PM. Some of us were online all day with instant messaging and quietly chatting with others rather than trying to finish our jobs quickly. Meetings (if I didn’t run it) usually started late, and the first hour was spent to wait for others to turn up. There were more than one occasion where our workers were just sitting around doing nothing because the material hadn’t arrived on site yet, or the toolkits were lost somewhere and must be delivered again. No wonder it was difficult to finish one simple task, and even if we tried to commit to ourselves, the job was usually linked to someone else who would set it aside and went for breakfast/lunch/meeting and didn’t do it until the last minute.

However, there are people who have no choice but working late, even though they don’t spend their time messing about with unimportant stuff, and try to do five to ten jobs at the same time. My friends are a perfect example. Dinar spends 20 hours a day in the office everyday. I used to be busier than Prila and Debora, but now these two ladies go home later and later each day. And remember my ex-boss and the entire department who were still working when I turned up at the office at 9PM? These people might not remember the last time they went home on time. But again, half of their overtime are due to other factors. With acute traffic jams and our own (and other) inefficiency, we don’t have much choice except spending time longer in the office to be able to finish our tasks.

Working long hours were not only normal in Indonesia, but also in any other Asian countries, although for totally different reasons, like fierce competition. I used to be harassed by my regional client in Singapore who seemed to never sleep at all. When I replied his email at 9PM, he would reply back at 1AM and expect me to be ready with an answer by first thing in the morning - by reminding me regarding his previous email at 7AM. I went for a conference in Shanghai and after we finished at 10PM people still gathered outside the conference room and continued the discussions (I was ready to drag myself to bed but how could I if everyone else was not?).

But then in Scotland, I realize that the pace is totally different. Normal time means we go home around 5PM. Overtime means staying at the office until 7PM. No traffic jam means people can reach their offices between 10 minutes to 30 minutes. Some choose to ride bikes or even walk. It was strange at the beginning to see Stuart at home in the afternoon, because normally we saw each other after 10PM in Jakarta (it took him three hours to reach home from his office!).

And nobody is expected to work overtime if it is not absolutely necessary.

Back in Jakarta since last week and noticing my friends’ long working hours, I cringe, remembering that I used to be like that. I am aware that being in the position where they are right now, climbing the career ladder, trying to finish the project on time, be the best and exceed the target, there is not much choice except doing it. I just wish they realize that this is not healthy in the long run. I hope they remember that there’s life outside their jobs.

It’s just job, after all. Not a matter of life and death. The company wouldn’t collapse if we go home on time. And the task will still be there, everyday, waiting for us to finish. We finish one today, a new one will come the next day. We are just employees, after all, and the office is still running with or without us. And despite what we think, our bosses know that we are not irreplaceable.

** Happy birthday, Dinar. This posting is for you. We have danced for you on your birthday. Now it’s time for you to enjoy your special day. Go home! **

I think the combination of being in a holiday mood, having too many things to do/people to meet/parties to attend, and having crap internet connection at home, makes me abandoning my blog. It has been over a week and I haven’t been bothered to update it.

So I arranged to meet up with Therry at Cazbar yesterday. I thought I would be motivated to write something once I sat down on its wooden chair, had the lamb chop with a non-stop wine supply on the side. But Cazbar’s internet connection was down right after we finished my lunch today, and only bounced back before six, right before the cheese night started, and right before Nonie came to pick me up. So I couldn’t even check my emails, let alone updating my blog there, and must do everything when I got back home. Darn.

Anyway, It is good to be back. Summer has been cold in Aberdeen, and Jakarta is at least 20 degrees warmer, and I enjoy every minute of the heat. I have been pampering myself in the past week, and have been to lunches, dinners and parties I had to force myself to have some quiet nights in to recharge and have some decent sleep in my own bed rather than crashing at Ecky and Sam’s before dawn…

But it’s funny that after only a week I start missing Scotland. I miss the cold (yes, I do!), I miss its quietness and peaceful surrounding, I miss the city’s predictability, I miss its certainty, and I miss its routines.

I went to see my ex-colleagues at Pacific Place because it’s the closest to my ex-office, and the place apparently is very during lunch time, receiving citizens of SCBD. I was going up on escalator to the first floor, walked away from the crowd and found the much less busy one, surrounded by unopened shops, reached the second floor, before I realized what I just did. I avoided the crowd.

I went to Senayan City with my mum and heard the commotion on the main lobby. There was some promotion event in front of the elevator, with only one or two lost toddlers watching the sad guy saying something nobody cared or could hear. Something ticked me off and I felt really mad. I sent text to my friend who knows the owner of the mall, asking why Senayan City becomes a traditional market, with a master ceremony screaming on top of his lung and an ugly echo from bad sound system and speakers. He phoned immediately, asking what was wrong. And then I realized what drove me mad. It was the noise that I couldn’t stand it.

I was in Plaza Senayan last Friday, killing time before going to meet the girls for Nonie’s birthday, and I only managed to keep my composure up to the 9th sales person who offered me an HSCB credit card. The poor 10th guy was shrinking in shock because I barked at him even before he opened his mouth. I felt sorry right afterwards, because I know he worked by commission and tried to gain a new customer. But I couldn’t help it, I wanted to look around without having people in black chasing after me. The perfume lady who touched my shoulder and called me “sayang” (darling) also received my icy look and harsh comments. I wasn’t proud of what I did, but I hate being touched by a stranger, especially the one who shoved a stinky tester under my nose even though I kept saying no.

I arrived at Tabac right at 7 PM and nobody was there. I realized I was back in Indonesia where being late is socially acceptable, so I ordered some lychee martini. It tasted good and I made a mental note to tell this to Tamara, the martini fan. But when Nonie and Ecky arrived we decided to open up a bottle of wine, and we chose something simple, Jacob’s Creek Carbenet Sauvignon. I shrieked in horror when the guy said it’s Rp 500,000. Astagadragon, the same wine only costs Rp 120,000 in Scotland!

Have I become Scottish?

Oh God. Oh God…