January 12: Sumatra
This story has absolutely nothing to do with the island of Sumatra, but here’s a photo of Sumatra anyway.
I visited Sumatra in early 2007, after yet another devastating earthquake (Sumatra was badly damaged by the Asian Tsunami on Boxing Day 2004). The landscape is stunningly beautiful, with truly extreme mountains because it’s such a centre of geological upheaval. In the photo, the tourist market in Bukit Tinggi has been burnt by a fire (caused by the earthquake).
While I was there, I helped make food packages for people whose homes had been destroyed. For each family, we measured out two kilos of rice, a kilo each of oil and sugar, and two small cans of fish.
At the time, people in Sumatra were still rebuilding after the Boxing Day tsunami.
Hasty Reflections
This is the post where I talk about China and how it looks to my mind now I’m in Indonesia. It’s hasty because we’re going to go out to a fancypants restaurant soon (Indonesia is a bit like Aslan – “I call all times soon”). The fun events of today are at http://twittertales.wordpress.com
Right now I’m sitting in the study of an Aussie family I’m calling Mr and Mrs Baik. Behind me there is a frenzied mass of trees and vines and bushes and bamboo and flowers and mountains. The sun is setting, shining golden through the chinks in the clouds (it’s wet season).
China VS Indonesia:
Weather:Beijing is horrid. Indonesia is humid and hot and often very very rainy, but at least it’s consistent. And I like wearing T-shirts, and not constantly having to put on and take off Winter clothes (going in and out of subways, homes, and restaurants).
Internet:China is sooo much better. I know there’s the Great Firewall issue, but with a proxy server you’re fine. Indonesia’s internet is astonishingly slow – it can take several minutes for a page (each page) to load. And then sometimes it doesn’t work. Right now hotmail doesn’t seem to work – I can open my account and see my 22 messages, but can’t do anything else. So Mum (and Mum-in-law), please keep an eye on the blogs if you’re worried about our safety. We’re flying Lion air to Denpasar on Wednesday afternoon, and you have the rest of the itinery.
Food:China wins. By lots. But then, I hate chilli, and love fried food. (Fried food is very typical of Beijing – there’s PLENTY of other types of Chinese food.) There’s lots of fried food in Indonesia too, and sweet food – but Chinese food is better.
Pollution:Indonesia is MUCH nicer – even in Jakarta.
Streets/Walking around/transport: Beijing is a (predominantly) wealthy urban landscape, beautifully and efficiently done. Indonesia is very, very messy. Every journey takes hours (no matter what form of transport you take, and no matter what time of day it is). Poverty is obvious wherever you go. In general, people are smaller and thinner (and much darker).
Reactions to Westerners:In Beijing, foreigners are reasonably common – as they are here in Java. In Beijing, people rarely look at you much, and even more rarely dare to talk to you. When I spoke in Chinese, people exclaimed to their friends (never to me). In Indonesia, everyone wants to talk to me, and as soon as I open my mouth I have a best friend. Our taxi driver (from the local airport) invited us to come hang out with his family. That kind of friendliness is absolutely typical of Indonesia. Two Indonesian ladies along the way -and this is in airports (not friendly places) were clearly keeping an eye on us, and making sure we were okay. Beggars and roadside salespeople are more strident in Indonesia, but not by much. China was slightly less caring than Australia – Indonesia is infinitely more caring of strangers.
Language:Indonesian is one of the easiest languages in the world. Possibly the easiest. Mandarin Chinese (selected as a national language because it was the easiest of several possibilities) is one of the hardest. Both have very easy grammar, and when Chinese is written in pinyin it’s just as easy as Indonesian to spell (although some sounds are difficult for English speakers to distinguish).
Health:I’m already sick (and recovered – it was no big deal). Not sure how, because I’ve been careful. Beijing people don’t drink the water, but Indonesians usually do. Health-wise, Indonesia is more hazardous.
Wherever you are, a roadside stall is more hazardous than a restaurant (and you’re more likely to see a squat toilet than a western-style toilet – and you must never flush the paper).
Sheer wackiness: China has a government that controls the weather, and the number of children you have. It also has colossal monuments (which beat a castle-style mansion, I’m afraid). Indonesia, however, is insane from the ground up – literally. In China (for us at least), the landscape was elegant; starkly beautiful and mostly white. In Indonesia, it’s a hysterical series of greens. You don’t get greens like that out of the tropics. Disorganisation and corruption are rife and blatant. The roads are desperately disorganised (much more so than Beijing, which is merely quirky), and you never, EVER know what is going to happen next.
So Indonesia wins on friendliness and weather, and on sheer insanity. Beijing is much better for national monuments, for getting around, and for food.
Taste of the day: We ate soto (Javanese chicken soup) but it wasn’t great (I’ve eaten really excellent soto, and this wasn’t it). However we also ate dodol, a lolly served in individually-wrapped rectangles that is made from sticky rice (plus much sugar, cocoa, etc). I think they’re kind of like giant, subtley-flavoured jelly beans. They’re squishy inside but slightly tough on the outside (like jelly beans). I love them (although only the chocolate flavour. Picnic brand is the best).
January 11: Toilet Travails
At some point soon I’ll be writing something comparing Beijing and Indonesia (which I know a lot better) on my other blog, at https://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com
Why is it that Indonesian adventures are always somehow toilet-related?
My partner and I are in Indonesia now, on the same island as the illustrious Jimmy Bind (no sightings yet, though, sadly). We’ve spent two days getting to our current location (and we’re getting picked up at 5am tomorrow to go and see Mount Bromo, an active volcano) so today was a rest day.
Rest days are usually boring. *I* certainly didn’t do anything exciting. My husband, however, dutifully picked up the slack.
We’re staying in a rather nice area of a quite nice city. All the houses around here have a series of annoying security things – fences are locked down on various roads at night (you can still get to any house by wandering around, so it’s really just annoying), and each house has a huge gate out the front, which residents need to reach through to unlock (sometimes blind and one-handed). My husband, who likes security, approves of this arrangement. I don’t – if it was up to me (which it isn’t), I’d leave at least one door of our house unlocked at all times.
However.
Our house is empty because the people who live there are away. We’re staying in the guest area out the back, which has a bedroom and bathroom (both lockable) coming off a tiled verandah.
Oh yeah, and a castle. Honestly.
Immediately over the back fence is a castle, complete with crenellations (bigger than on the Great Wall), turrets, and everything a megalomaniac could want. The owner is from Saudi Arabia, and he had the castle built specially (coz it’s pretty. Obviously).
Technically we’re not alone in the house – a dog walker comes every day (which means we need to unlock everything), and so does a “pembantu” (literally a “helper”) who cooks and cleans and generally becomes a paid member of the family. Our pembantu is called Mrs Ani. She’s one of the best.
Indonesia is tropical, and it’s wet season. Breathing is a little bit like drinking, and a little bit like being dunked upside down in warm soup. It’s smelly (one reason Indonesians shower twice a day), but it’s great. The doors to our bedroom and bathroom are made of wood, and they’ve expanded in the heat. That’s less great.
So my husband went to the bathroom, and since there were two Indonesians in the house (who could choose to use and/or clean the bathroom at any time, and who don’t speak English), he closed the door.
Big. Mistake.
Mrs Ani heard his calls for help, and was the first on the scene (somewhat bemused at this wacky Australian habit of actually closing bathroom doors). I heard her yelling and came to help.
The three of us pushed and pulled at the door, and yanked and kicked it and placed our backs against it. It did nothing. My partner told me later he was all right – his only concern was how we’d get food in to him over the next few days.
Mrs Ani and I began gathering an assortment of tools. We used two screwdrivers, a hammer (whacked against a thong so we didn’t break our absent hosts’ house), a plywood shovel-thing, large quantities of detergent, an electric fan, and a crowbar.
Mrs Ani became increasingly concerned and phoned our host (who, incidentally, we’ve never met – he’s a friend of some friends, Mr and Mrs Baik, which is how we ended up in his house), our actual friends, and the dog walker. No-one answered.
Because it’s so hot and the bathroom has no windows, Mrs Ani was afraid my husband would pass out.
Later Mrs Baik told us that Mrs Ani’s message had got through to the house owner. Too bad he’s on holiday in Australia. Nonetheless, he phoned Mr Baik long distance to let him know their mutual guests were locked in the toilet. My husband has already incited an international incident. That’s not bad after two days.
After about an hour, Mrs Ani gave the door yet another hefty shove, and it suddenly opened. My husband and Mrs Ani and I stood in shock for a moment, staring at one another.
Then there was much laughing and hugging, and much drinking of cold water and having a nice sit down. Mrs Ani left us alone and went to spread the tale (with abundant joy and, presumably, embellishments). Mr Baik arrived soon afterwards, and we went to their house. About 15 people are currently staying there, and all of them knew part of the tale and wanted to hear the rest.
Welcome to Indonesia.
We also discovered an oh-so-exclusive coffee that has an unusual claim to fame. Civets (big cats) apparently have exquisite taste when it comes to eating coffee beans – they only eat the most fresh; the most succulent. So after ten-twelve hours, when those amazingly good beans exit the civet, they are picked up by this coffee company and made into very very expensive cappucinos.
I’m afraid I chose not to have one. Apparently it has a lovely aftertaste, though – sweet and pleasant.
Liquid Water Falls From Sky
My partner and I are now safely ensconced in our home for the next few days. No adventures (unless you count the magical increase in every single booked expense so far. . . ah, Indonesia. How I’ve missed you).
Our net is fairly limited, but this is Indonesia, and anything can happen at any time.
It’s SO nice to be warm, and speaking a language I know well. The rain seems unnatural after Beijing. . . and shouldn’t everywhere be white, not a frenzied multitude of green?
January 10: Indonesian Phrases
More data for the up-and-coming supervillians (especially you, Ben):
It’s over, fool! = Sudah Selesai, si bodoh!
Excuse me, may I please steal your government secrets? = Permisi, boleh saya curi rahasia pemerintahmu?
Don’t look at me. I’m a perfectly innocent pineapple. = Jangan melihatiku. Aku nenas suci.
Take that, naughty person! = Menerima itu, si nakal!
Your place or mine? = Rumahmu atau rumahku?
Lair Shopping
If my husband and I ever become billionaires, we’re going to build an underground lair. Every so often we embellish the lair, leaving taste and plausibility for another lifetime.
Today we encountered the stellar work of the Empress Cixi – specifically, The Summer Palace. It was RATHER large, and stamped with the kind of genius that marks true insanity. I took careful note. Because maybe someday I’ll have a lake, and a hill, and a national budget, and an infinite number of servants.
If I’m like the empress, I’ll honour the cash-strapped navy by building something a little bit like this:
It might not look too hydrodynamic, but that’s okay, since it’s made of marble. (For some bizarre reason, the navy didn’t appreciate it).
If I get sick of people gaping at me when I shop, I’ll follow the empress’ lead once again and build me my OWN, much BETTER, shopping zone (preferably with a river. Rivers are fun, right?)
No-one likes a boring ceiling.
Ooh! And I like rocks, so I’ll get several tonnes of those and arrange them all pretty-like, here and there.
With, ya know, staircases and caves and subterranean bits and stuff:
Lakes are fun. I can have twelve or so barges (wooden ones this time), and go skating on it in Winter. Of course, if I’m gonna have a lake I should build an island. And bridges are pretty, too. I’ll get one of those. (And, since I live in Canberra, several snow machines and a SERIOUS refrigerator unit).
This is the seventeen-arch bridge, which has 500 unique hand-carved lions on it. Why not?
The Summer Palace in Winter is starkly beautiful and utterly elegant.
Crazy people make the best lairs, and that’s all there is to it.
My feet hurt.
Today’s taste of the day is an easy choice. We finally had Beijing Duck.
The duck was traditionally cooked in a wood oven, and the chef sliced it up in front of us. It was crispy and moist and wonderful, and I ate it hand-wrapped in super-thin rice pancakes with sauce ( a little like a sweet barbeque sauce) and shallots. It was exquisite, and probably the best thing I’ve eaten here (that is a tough call). It cost us around $15 each, including other dishes (all good), and dessert. The restaurant was called So-and-so’s Bistro (I can’t remember the name right) and the wallpaper alone could have kept me entertained for days:
At the end of the meal they gave us a fruit platter and individually-wrapped sticks of gum. They also gave each girl a long-stemmed red rose.
The moral of this blog is: Go to China. See stuff. Eat.
We’re travelling a bit over the weekend (to Indonesia, where it’s ever so warm), so don’t freak out if you don’t read anything new until Monday (or later).
Despite the excellence of the day, it wasn’t done with us yet. . .
Mature Content
So things got a little weird tonight after church. Bil was meant to have a gig at an African bar, but his French gypsy jazz band friend called and asked if he was free. He called the Africans, and that gig was cancelled (not that they’d mentioned it to him). So gypsy jazz it was. My husband had particularly wanted to hear them play, so he was delighted.
We left church early and caught a taxi to the approximate location (the gypsy jazz band works through an agent, which means they never know exactly where they’re playing until they get there – agents keep the mystery alive so they can be sure they’ll still get their cut). We were met out the front by – oh, let’s be stereotypical and call him Jacques, and the other band member Pierre. Pierre plays guitar, Jacques plays guitar and sings, and Bil plays bass. It’s a moderately well-known group here.
Jacques was clean-shaven and very French looking. He had a slightly hesitant look about him, and a lovely accent. We were in the Russian district, so there was heaps of Russian writing on the buildngs, and people kept walking past (through the snow) in fur hats. I wished I knew more Russian than, “Vodka, da!”
“I’m not too sure about this place,” Jacques began. “I do not believe it is a nightclub. I believe it is a whorehouse.”
The three band members were all willing to go home if any one of them wasn’t willing to play, but they decided to battle through, which delighted me no end. There were a few subtle clues about the club as we made our way in: six burly security guards at the entrance; almost no-one buying any drinks (and the drinks were insanely overpriced); lots of fake furnishings including warped mirrors and semi-exposed plumbing; a huge display of mindless flashing neon; and of course, the whores. That was a pretty strong clue.
I saw lots of long bottle-blonde hair, and lots of tiny skirts and tiny shirts. They all seemed to get on fine, which is nice in any workplace, don’t you think?
I was too scared to use the bathrooms, especially after the boys told me that when they went, they were followed in by a bouncer. After doing what was necessary, they were underwhelmed when their follower pressed the button for soap, then waited pointedly for a tip.
Apart from anything else, I’m pretty sure I was the only woman in the bar who wasn’t working. It’s possible the female bathrooms were just for staff.
I was pretty nervous. I happened to be wearing red and pink (everything else needs a wash), and most of it velvet, with see-through windows on the sides (to the shirt below). Probably not the best outfit for fading into the background. What was the safest thing for me to do? Should I “do as the Romans do” and drape myself over my husband as if he was a high-rolling customer? Would ANYONE believe that?
(You’ll notice this photo is somewhat blurry. I can only assume it’s because my husband was laughing too hard at my hooker face to take the shot. We were too scared to take photos inside the club itself.)
Clearly, that plan was out. So I should be all demure then, and clearly NOT a whore. But what if someone came in with a mad fetish for blue caterpillar women, or for intensely scarf-staticked hair? What if they took a shine to me, and wouldn’t take no for an answer? What then?!?!
Fortunately no-one approached either of us – although I don’t think I let go of my partner the whole time. A girl’s gotta mark her territory these days.
Back when we were all outside discussing whether or not to simply leave, I specified that a whorehouse was okay but a strip joint was not (if badness is out of sight, there’s no long-term scarring). Jacques remembered that condition vividly between the second and third set, when the lighting suddenly got a LOT better and a girl emerged from backstage wearing stilettos and a shiny gold bikini. She proceeded to dance with lots of hip movements and much tossing of her long, bottle-blonde hair. Bil and my husband studied the table, and I kept them informed as to what was happening. I confess I was a LITTLE disappointed when she strode away, still wearing all the clothes she’d started with. (Such as they were.)
No one else ventured onto the dance floor at any point in the night.
My favourite part of all, though, was the little wall running alongside most of the inner booths. Each table had a lamp screwed to the wall — all fake brass and flourescence, covered in sheer red cloth and dangling with plastic beads. But the wall itself. . . oh, the wall! You know those old fashioned plush armchairs – overstuffed and studded, and sewn into diamond shapes? It was like that, but made of deep red velvet (fake, of course).
Best. Padded Wall. Ever.
The band took rather short breaks, and we were out of there by midnight. As Jacques picked up their money, the proprieter said, “Couldn’t you have played some rock?” I suppose he was as surprised by the night’s events as we were.
I think every holiday in Beijing needs a French gypsy jazz band playing in a Russion brothel. Don’t you?
January 9: Who the Fu are you?
Mr Fu is a master of disguise, who once lived in the Scottish highlands for three months disguised as a sheep (never mind why). He has a deep mistrust of. . . well, everyone – and has at least twenty different lairs in different countries. All of them are underground, and all of them have giant world maps that rise out of the floor in response to the phrase, “Yes, pumpkin.”
Despite all his talents, he’s considered the black sheep of the family. Which, technically, is quite true.
Here’s a rare photo of Mr Fu (cunning, isn’t he?):
January 8: Story so far
PS photo cable is still AWOL. Photos for yesterday may or may not appear in their own post at some point.
Sun3
The name’s Bind. Jimmy Bind. On mission to China. I can tell the flight attendant wants me diced on a tiny tray. Time for some airline food.
*
He comes at me with a poison toothpick. I click my pen and squirt gas in his eye. He reels and hits the Wong twins. Two Wongs make it right.
*
The Wongs knock the flight attendant out cold. I unclick my pen and accidentally poison myself. When I wake up, we’re in Beijing. Smooth.
Mon4
Tracked the faux attendant to a meeting in Chinatown. Too bad Beijing IS Chinatown. Got distracted buying shoes. Stumbled across baddie.
*
Baddie is Mr Fu. The girl with him is Yen. I chase him and he throws a shoe at me. It explodes. He runs. I bind my wounds with duct tape.
*
I follow Fu and corner him in an alley. He throws some kung fu, and I throw some bricks. “Who’s your boss?” I scream.
“It’s her!” he weeps.
Tue5
I’ve a yen for Yen. She’s small, dark, and deadly, like an expresso. I track her by smell and find her sleeping. “Where’s the jewel?” I ask.
*
She yawns, briefly distracting me. Her leg wraps around my neck (also distracting). Suddenly she yields to my good looks and leans closer.
*
I wake up strapped to the side of the Great Wall; tied firmly with two rolls of my own duct tape. Curses!
Wed6
After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, I notice writing on the wall: “Forgive me, mother. The ruby is at. . .”
I fall.
*
I fall among Shaolin monks, who immediately attack! Luckily I have my blow-up gum and I spit it at them just in time. Kaboom! No more monks.
*
Due to budget cuts, my car is a matchbox car. Luckily it has vertical grip and a camera. I discover the ruby is at Solo – in Indonesia.
Th7
I go shoe-shopping, hoping to dispatch Yen and/or get hiking boots before I leave. An old saleswoman is suspiciously attractive.
*
I neck-chop the woman and she says blearily, “Yen? Is that you?”
“Yes,” I say (femininely).
She says, “Your stupid brother stole the ruby.”
*
Is my wall-writer Yen’s naughty brother? Is Fu as powerless as he seems? Is the boss Yen or her Mum? And are these boots the best or what?!
Fri8
Another flight. Fu appears dressed as a fat woman and slips me a note. “Meet me in Solo,” it says – “come solo!” I nod.
*
“Yen’s my sister,” Fu explains over unripe-coconut milk. He tells me to search in the temple.
I put sleeping-gas in his drink just in case.
January 7: Chair Skating
It’s skating. On a chair.
Specifically, chair skating is skating on a pair of chairs made of cheap iron (and plywood for the seats), welded onto an iron frame at the bottom. The whole thing is like a sled with two chairs welded onto it (one behind the other).
Since the Great Wall, our camera is NOT HAPPY. It’s functional inside (where it’s warm), but lasts about three seconds outside, and only then if it’s been in your armpit for at least half an hour. It’s a good camera, too. Fortunately we have at least one chair-skating photo, which (when we have the cable again later today) I’ll add here:
The chair skating was great. Other than the sled-chair, you get two iron thingies that resemble ski poles (sharp on the end). You use these to push yourself around. The whole place was outside, on one section of a frozen lake (which is used for paddle-boating in the summer). I’ve never seen natural ice thick enough to stand on. It was beautiful. We could clearly see through the ice, and it was about 15cm deep. Many fault lines spidered across the surface of the ice in fine lines, and shone pure white all the way down through the ice to the water. Inside the ice there were patches of snow and curious formations of bubbles, like forests of white fungus under my feet.
A lot of young children (as wide in their down coats as they are high) were there with a parent or grandparent. Three 16-year old girls gathered their courage and actually had a conversation with me (I really don’t think Beijing people care about seeing foreigners much – unless they’re selling something and you foolishly made eye contact).
Readers familiar with aerodynamics will realise at once that sled-chairs don’t turn particularly well. They don’t turn at all, unless you’re actually moving – and the only way to turn is to slide. Which is great 🙂
We also went and visited the CCTV Headquarters (aka the “underpants building” because it’s roughly the shape of a person’s legs if they were sitting in a chair with their legs far apart). It is a ridiculous building, and I don’t blame people for not wanting to go inside – it really doesn’t look like there’s any good reason for it to stay up. And it’s huge.
Interestingly, there’s a burnt-out shell of a high-rise hotel next to it (Chinese New Year fireworks happened rather too close last year). It’s so badly burnt that one wall is completely peeled away, showing hundreds of individual rooms. The rest of it is black.
Other than building a giant keep-out fence around it, no-one has done anything about the burnt hotel. Rumour has it that it’s built on the same concrete foundation as the underpants building, and helps to balance it. So if the burnt-out shell is removed, the underpants fall down.
That’s pretty much not good.
Today’s taste of the day is some kind of lolly. It’s made of gelatinous rice (similar in taste and texture to the inside of a jelly bean) coated in sesame seeds. I like it.
So tired now that when I walk I veer left.
Each morning when I wake up, I hear the scrape, scrape, scrape of the snow shovellers. There is still heaps of snow and ice and slush everywhere, and trucks are constantly passing with piles of snow in the back. Even though the scraping is unusual, I will always associate the sound of a shovel on concrete with Beijing.
Tomorrow is our last day here, and we’ll spend Saturday travelling to Indonesia (at roughly the same time as our hero). You can read more of our adventures at https://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com
