Selamat datang ke Jakarta
University of Canterbury journalism graduate Alex Walls travelled to Jakarta, Indonesia, in January 2011 to participate in the ACICIS Journalism Professional Practicum. Alex now works for the National Business Review. Asia:NZ has been providing media grants for journalists to participate in the programme since 2009 through its membership of ACICIS, the Australian Consortium for In-Country Indonesian Studies.
There is lightening striking just beyond the plane’s wing, and it lights up the smog that hangs over Jakarta until the horizon glows green and the aircraft shudders with the rolling thunder outside. As introductions to a country go, you can’t get much more dramatic.
The humidity of Jakarta hits you as soon as you walk through the airport doors, as does the stench of the city, and the calls of the taxi drivers who assure you they are definitely the company you are looking for as they try to take your backpack. I cling tightly to my overstuffed bag and marvel at the energy of a city whose sky is on fire and whose residents work harder than anyone I’ve ever seen, even when it’s only to run a scam.
The hour long taxi journey costs roughly NZ$18 and is one of the scariest rides of my life, but somehow, I'm never mortally afraid. Driving in Jakarta is like a dodgem ride at the circus: sure, it's out of control and insane, with beeping left, right and centre, only millimetres between cars and overloaded motorbikes that weave to and fro, carrying huge loads of eggs or entire families. But you get the feeling the drivers here know what they're doing, and out the window nonchalant girls sit side-saddle on their boyfriends' motorbikes, listening to iPods and texting on any one of three cell phones. Multi-tasking, technological, fearless - welcome to Jakarta.
I take to wandering the city the next day, deciding that the sprawl of shops, stalls and people invite an adventure or two. Jakarta has other plans, however, and as I pick my way across the uneven, sometimes non-existent pathways, I fall alongside one of the locals.
“Happy New Year!” he says, and grins a large toothless smile. He introduces himself as Pud - which I only remember because Christmas, and its puddings, has just been - and offers to show me the sights.
This city lies like a mammoth in the sun, heaving in the heat of the day. It is full of people who call out to the bule (white foreigner) with repeated cries of “Hello miss!” The ojek (motorcycle for hire) drivers wave in your face, children dance around you and everyone laughs. The people are what make Jakarta and they fill its streets like ants in the midday sun, rushing to and fro, or napping on dirty boards.
Pud trudges along beside me, his skinny frame covered in a dirty t-shirt and his old sandals slapping the pavement. We pass the National Monument, a 45 metre tower symbolising Indonesia’s independence from the Dutch and I see a horse whose ribs stick out through his coat, being driven by a business-like child. Pud doesn’t blink at this, but instead asks me wistfully about New Zealand and tells me sadly he will never earn enough to visit, being only a tour guide.
I find a kos, or boarding house in the city, and it costs me a grand total of $300 for six weeks. The kos provides my water, power, and internet. It is tiled inside and out, which makes the call to prayers from the mosque next door echo perfectly when the mournful, haunting voice drifts across the street.
Every day as I walk to and from university, I see a beggar on the steel busway bridge. She is holding a baby who looks very ill, and one day I buy baby formula and a bottle. The next morning, I hand her the milky solution, but she doesn’t look up, just murmurs “Makasi” (thank you) and the baby lies still.
It’s the chaos, and the life, and the fact that this democracy is just over ten years old. The press here are free to say what they like, but the consequences can be dire. The journalists I talk to have a quiet courage I find amazing. They talk about molotov cocktails being thrown at their headquarters, and death threats, as mere obstacles to truth.
On one of my bad days, I storm over the bridge lined with stalls which consist of goods laid out on a blanket. I am tired of the heat, and the smell, and the beggars I can't help. I pass my beggar woman and dredge up enough energy to smile at her. “Malam.” (Good night) I say, and she smiles back. “Malam.”
She is laughing with a man who sits beside her, playing with the baby, who is sitting up and chuckling. Next to the woman’s knee, I see the baby bottle I gave her a few weeks ago, full of juice. I grin when they wave at me as I walk by, my steps less heavy, and suddenly, Jakarta smiles back at me again.
Images (top to bottom)
1. Alex Walls in Jakarta
2. Typical street in Jakarta
3. Pasar Baru market