Note to Shopper (That's you, Yam)

Dear Yam,
This should have been posted sooner, but as usual lah kan, my blog got ignored and I didn't read your reply. I hope you have not left for Jakarta.

If you have only one day to shop, you should spend it at ITC Kuningan/Mall Ambassador (it's two connecting buildings). If there's time, you can hop over to nearby Tanah Abang.

At Mall Ambassador, on the ground floor you can find a good selection of factory-outlet quality children's clothes (in my opinion, they offer better choices than Bandung) and there is a smattering of reject shops for adults, too. There are a couple of shops selling interesting shoes, and of course the ubiquitous fake handbags, on other floors. You should also check out the bookshop on the first floor, for some Indonesian literature and inspiring Islamic books.

You must visit Arnessio (they have three outlets) on the ground floor of ITC Kuningan for very affordable cotton shirts and tunics.

There are several shops selling ethnic stuff on the second floor. I like Pernak Pernik, which sells handmade ceramic bric-n-brac (which is what "pernak-pernik" means). On the fourth floor right across one of the escalators is a shop selling woven bags, at a reasonable price.

ITC Kuningan also has shops selling the usual batik and telekung, so you can save time and forgo your Tanah Abang trip. However, prices here are slightly more expensive, but not that much if you're good at pulling a bargain. There are also shops selling pretty kebayas. These are cheaper than at department stores, and of better quality than Tanah Abang. Buy the cotton ones. There's a shop on the ground floor at ITC Kuningan which stocks a good selection.

If you're kaya, though, you should drop by Pasaraya Grande for the full-on Indonesian craft experience. If you're staying near Kemang, check out also Chic Mart, a quaint two-storey shop crammed with unique jewellery (cheap!) and home furnishing (not so cheap). Chic Mart is on Jalan Kemang Raya, right in front of Al-Hidayah Mosque. Have lunch at Pawon Solo or Payon, if you're in the neighborhood.

If you're really, really kaya you should also visit Alun Alun Indonesia at Grand Indonesia. This is the Indonesian equivalent of Aseana. The songket, ikats and batiks on display are to die-for but if you look at the price pun boleh mati juga. Having said that, the kains on display are heirloom quality works of art, and if I had a few million rupiah to spare, I'd invest in some.

mokciknab muttered at 8:09 AM ~ ~

My Life is So Boring and I Have No Opinion

So I'm posting an itinerary.

Saturday 1 December 2007
18.30
Arrive at Jl Sutan Syahrir
Welcome Dinner

20.00
Jakarta City Drive-About
Nightcap at Bakoel Koffie

Sunday 2 December
06.00
Travel to Bandung

08.30
Pasar Minggu Lapangan Gaziboe
A Sunday country fair selling all sorts of stuff, from crudely-made Barbie furniture to glittery clothes and BB guns

11.00
Lunch at Kampung Daun

13.00
Check in at Bumi Asih

15.00
Saung Angklung Udjo, Padasuka

18.00
Dinner at Bakmi Rainbow
This is not even a proper eatery, just a couple of chairs and tables thrown together in front of a factory outlet, but the noodles are home-made and good for cold Bandung nights.

Monday 3 December
07.00
Tangkuban Perahu

11.00
Shopping - Rumah Mode

12.30
Lunch at Bumbu Desa

13.30
Return to hotel

15.00
Additional shopping – Jalan Riau

18.00
Dinner at Bandoengsche Melk Centrale


Tuesday 4 December
10.00
Selasar Sunaryo
Coffee

12.30
Check-out from hotel

13.30
Lunch at Bloemen

15.00
Back to Jakarta

Wednesday 5 December
09.00
National Museum

11.30
Textile Museum

13.00
Lunch at home

18.30
Dinner at Warung Kopi, Alun Alun Indonesia
Indonesian film at Blitz

Thursday 6 December
10.00
Furniture Jaunt - Ciputat

13.00
Lunch at Payon

14.00
Furniture Jaunt - Kemang Timur

16.30
Pool time

18.00
Dinner at Bakmi Gajah Mada

Friday 7 December
10.00
Shopping - ITC Cempaka Mas

13.00
Lunch at home

14.00
Shopping – Kedaung

18.30
Dinner at Lara Jonggrang

Saturday 8 December
05.00
Bursa Kue Pasar Senen

15.00
Bogor Botanical Gardens

18.00
Dinner at Café Dedaunan

Sunday 9 December
08.00
Pasar Pagi Lama, Kota

09.30
Taman Fatahillah
Museum Jakarta
Museum Wayang

13.00
Lunch at Rumah Makan Sederhana

14.30
Rest

16.00
Jaunt of Useless Things
Cikini Train Station
Jl. Surabaya Flea Market

Monday 10 December
07.00
Spa at Salon Geugis

15.00
Transfer to airport

mokciknab muttered at 8:36 AM ~ ~

I celeng you

This post is dedicated to my father, who enjoys finding out the origins of Terengganu words. The following are actually, verbatim, from a dictionary:

gocoh - to box, to thump, scuffle
gohong - hole, cave, den
celeng - money box
colek - to take a little of, to nudge a little

Sounds familiar enough if you're from Terengganu or Kelantan, yes? Amazingly this was taken from the Kamus Lengkap Indonesia-Inggeris.

This started out when I was talking to Dr Rohani, who is the wife of the MSD chief in Indonesia. She's from Seberang Takir and I remarked that I found many Indonesian words similar to Terengganuspeak. She agreed wholeheartedly, and pointed out how Indonesians call 'making noise' geger, which is an utterly East Coast expression. Iseng-iseng (just on a lark), I went through Adam's dictionary and found so many words that my grandmother would have used in her conversation.

Words like:

ganyah - to scrub
pongah - conceited
gerai - sitting platform (as opposed to the Malay 'gerai', which means stall)
karih- to stir
katik - small or dwarf
geluk - drinking-bowl
congkong - to squat
cobek - to tear away (usually associated with food)

And then, there's 'kedaung' and 'lepang', both of which are trees, the former I guess is really green and the latter, bitter. A 'celeng' is actually a small boar, which is probably why Terengganu people call the piggy bank after it.

Indonesians always use "ngga usah" for don't, similar to the Terengganu "dok soh". We also use "takmboh", when we refuse something. The dictionary says 'emboh' means to like, or to have a mind to, which makes sense, because "tak emboh" would mean exactly the opposite.

Saiffuddin thinks it is time I get off my butt and find out exactly the link between Indonesia and the East Coast. My ancestry, songket, gamelan and pempek (their version of kerepok lekor) have given us a rough outline, but I am dying to fill in the blanks. Anyone want to help? Nok ke takmboh?

mokciknab muttered at 3:42 PM ~ ~

Just for the fun of it, I think I will blog today

This rare opportunity to blog was brought to you by the fact that:
a) I am sick with flu and did not go to work today
b) I could therefore get hold of this PC before three screaming kids maim each other for it; and
c) the internet service provider actually provided internet, and not just 15 bits of connection

Ah well, too bad no one's going to read this.

Hmm. For a moment there I thought, since no one's going to read this I might as well record for posterity (and for scientific research) what my husband and I did in bed last night; but I cancelled that because:

a) my father regularly looks me up because he's such a dear; and
b) this post would consist of only a few sentences, which would read as thus:

We were both in bed, lying down, naked. Saiffuddin read Kompas and cut out
a tender announcement for power barges in Sumatera. I played 'Extreme Snake' on
my phone. When I 'sudah mati', we turned off the lights and went to sleep.
The end.

I have to pretend my life is more exciting than that. Tch.

So, anyway. Here's a brief update on the past two months -- sort of. I went to work as usual, and edit, edit, edited all the copies for this media tracking outfit that has so kindly given me a part-time job. The I go home and help my kids with homework. If I have no patience I do the homework myself, so that I can quickly get some sleep.

Ramadan came, and we spent most of our time at Mesjid Agung Sunda Kelapa, where nightly, Adam, Saiffuddin and even the visiting Firhad would lose their sendal jepit (selipar). Tarawih was a pleasure this year, we had an imam from Arab Saudi who read the Quran with conviction and emotion; and most of the doa's were translated so we understood the gravity of the prayer. Towards the end of Ramadan, we had what I call "Tearjerker Terawihs", because the imam would be sobbing through his extended doa qunut during the last rakaat of witr, and because we were told beforehand the meaning of the qunut, the makmums would be crying, too.

The jemaat at Mesjid Sunda Kelapa in Menteng is a truly mixed lot, but all are also truly welcome. There would be the low-income populous who would travel from miles away to arrive before Asr, and enjoy the free iftar the mosque would provide for about 700 people every day. Then, there are the Menteng denizens, who come to mosque in their gorgeous telekungs and their Fendis and Hermes, and you can see one or two fiddling on their Blackberries during tazkirah. The Vice-President, who lives right next door, is a regular makmum, and a usual target for donations. After the earthquake in Padang, the mosque collected funds to rebuild the destroyed mosques in the affected areas. Some donated Rp40 million without batting an eyelid. The Wakil President gave more than Rp100 million of his own money.

The night before Lebaran we helped Wisma Malaysia cook for hundreds of students who beraya away from home, some for the first time. (Most could not go home because they had just arrived and had to wait for their visa to clear). I learnt to cook kuah kacang, for the first time. On Lebaran morning, we solat Idul-Fitri at the embassy. I brought kerepok lekor which my husband and I made ourselves, and I was scolded because there wasn't enough to go (several) round. In the evening, we went to Kebon Jeruk, to celebrate with my friends Lindy and Winky, and their family, who are like our de-facto relatives here. Ibu Savitri ("No, you must call me Mummy") cooked 92 kilos of rendang and an array of Minang and Batavian delicacies and desserts. At the end of the evening, she played the piano and called everyone to sing, which everyone thought was the cue to leave.

The most beautiful woman at the gathering was a septuagenarian, who was tall and elegant and had perfect skin. I was kinda flirting with her, which wasn't terribly religious of me.

Saiffuddin and I later hosted our own Raya gathering at our house, but only for small groups of people because our house can't accomodate crowds and we had only ten dinner plates and most of the drinking tumblers were broken. I had Chris, Hera and Riri from work bring along their spouses, and I cooked nasi kerabu, which they suprisingly enjoyed. I also cooked pasta with scampi because I didn't know if Riri's husband David, who is from New York, would eat the nasi kerabu, because the dish calls for petai and budu. Turns out he was the one who ate with the most gusto. Never underestimate a Jewish boy from Jersey, that's what I say.

Minal aidin wal faidzin. Better late than never.

mokciknab muttered at 2:11 PM ~ ~

Peed on by peddlers

Sometime last week, my husband was (well, he still is) having problems with his company's Indonesian partner. The state-owned firm had reneged on their promises countless times and had been shall we say, rather dishonest.

The problem with my husband is he mulls over these things and it spoils his day. I suspect he likes being mad and edgy. On our daily walk one morning, he was going on and on about how these people can't be trusted. I absolutely disagree but I can't be bothered to get into an argument with Saiffuddin at 6.30 am, so I pretended to listen while I fantasized about a five bedroom home with a big yard in Bandung (my instant zen, though fantasizing about Eric Bana works, too)

Unfortunately, my husband can't stand being mad all on his own, and would do everything he can so that I would have a rotten time along with him. So I had to leave my sumptuous fantasy house (which by then already had a huge pendopo and a guest pavilion nestled among huge acacia trees) and was drawn into the fray.

"Any Indonesian businessman will cheat you given the opportunity", he announced.
"No, you can't work like that", I retorted, "you have to have faith. Not everyone is dishonest. This bad chi will get you nowhere".

It just so happened that a bread seller passed by us, pushing his gerobak. My husband dug into his pockets.

"Let's have an experiment", he said, " Let's give this roti man some money and ask him to send the bread to our house. We'll see if he runs away with the dough or if he'd deliver."

Now, this is not a very wise thing to do, because (sigh) most small-time peddlers and bajaj men and fishmongers in Jakarta will cheat you given the opportunity. We have had to pay ridiculous amounts for short bajaj rides because their owners never seem to have any change. I have bought two kilos of ikan kembung only to discover at home that half of the fish were actually selayang. Nevertheless, I agreed, because I was sure the man wouldn't cheat us for just six thousand rupiah (about RM2.50) and he goes around our neighborhood every day, so he knows that he's bound to meet us one time or another. Besides it might shut my husband up for a while.

So we hailed the bread man and told him to send the bread to our address. The bread guy appeared a little confused with our instructions, and did look as though he thought we were stupid to entrust him with money. We left him, and continued with our walk.

"He'd deliver", I said. "We'll see", answered Saiffuddin.

Halfway through our walk, I had to pee and we took a detour back to the house. Maybe The God of Petty Quarrels loves Saiffuddin on that day, because just as we left the house to resume our jaunt, the bread man came to our street. He was behind us, and we saw that he went past our house and did not deliver the bread. I wanted to turn back but Saiffuddin didn't let me. Seemingly, the roti man didn't know that we knew he was there, and pushed his gerobak very slowly, afraid to overtake. He didn't even sound that roti-horn, which identifies self-respecting roti-men every where. (Well, in Asia at least).

"Damn", I swore. (I didn't really say damn, but I censor my blog, you see). "He wasn't going to deliver the bread".
I wasn't sure if I was mad at the roti man or at my husband for being so smugly right. As the bread guy was going to turn a corner, in a bid to make a quick escape, we suddenly called out to him.

"Sono! (Over there!) The house is over there", my husband pointed out. The man looked surprised, like a boy caught stealing.

We left him on the corner and continued on our walk, with Saiffuddin proclaiming how he is never wrong about people every step of the way. I sulked and pouted and asked him if he's happy now that he's managed to ruin my day. When we got home, I really expected to see the bread on our table, but there was no such luck. I mused about how patently stupid the bread man could be -- he ran away with six thousand rupiah and now has to sneak around his tour of Menteng because he'd certainly want to avoid us now. Over breakfast, Saiffuddin gave me another long lecture about the virtues of being a difficult and negative bastard.

When it was time to send the kids to school, I went to open the gates, and there, hanging from the spikes, was the bread, wrapped in a plastic bag. I had no idea what went on inside the bread-man's mind that produced that stab of conscience, and I really didn't care. What mattered was, on that day, I could throw the bread into Saiffuddin's lap and declared that I won the argument.

mokciknab muttered at 3:48 PM ~ ~

Jakarta Rocks

For about two seconds, a few minutes after midnight.

Except for Ibu Ika, the gardener's wife, everyone in the household slept through it. Apparently it was violent enough to displace some of the water in our pool, and had sent many Jakartans into a state of panic; but maybe those were just Adang* supporters.

I should be very, very glad that the quake caused only a small ripple in the city, but when I first heard the news I was really hoping I could have an excuse to skip work.

*Jakarta's gubernatorial election actually received bigger coverage than the earthquake. Fauzi Bowo won the election, defeating former Deputy Police Chief Adang Daradjaatun.

mokciknab muttered at 3:23 PM ~ ~

Dawn

forehead to chin
cheeks to chest
grey light seeps into sight
breath, words, heartbeat
regret that ticking clock is an enemy
but the hum of living wins

mokciknab muttered at 3:54 PM ~ ~

Baidura Ahmad! Tell Me if You're Coming Over

Google "Baidura Ahmad", and you will be able to read a few samples of my friend's fine writing skills, on subjects ranging from trendy grannies and Balinese massage to Islamic banking and reform of international financial architecture.

I got to know Baidura when we were both business reporters (okay, maybe she deserves to be called "journalist"), covering AGMs, signing ceremonies and economic meets. She was working for a very respectable (then) business broadsheet (then) and I was the token editor at the economic desk of a TV station. It just so happened that we'd always be sent on the same assignments abroad, and I grew to like Baidura's unforgiving humour and sense of adventure. (By unforgiving humour I mean we laugh and bitch about other people a lot). While most fellow journalists and camera crew would opt to go shopping when visiting a foreign country, Baidura and I would visit art museums and quirky restaurants and flea-markets. Oh, we love flea-markets and dusty op-shops! At the right price, we have no qualms lugging bulky purchases all around town. On one cold day in Auckland we hauled luggage and Salvation Army finds from bus to ferry to airport.

There is one thing I never spoke about to Baidura and since this happened a long time ago, I suppose the matter has lost some of its offensiveness (and mortal shame) and I can finally tender my apologies. Baidura and I were in New York in late August, 2001, and we were put up at the New York Palace Hotel, which was across St. Patrick's Church and a few skips away from Rockefeller Center. We shared a well-appointed bedroom and I think the first night we were there we went out to eat at a Jewish vegetarian restaurant and I had a heavenly dish of fresh pasta with broccoli and cream. Back in the room, my tummy reminded me why the meal was a bad idea. We just got off a very, very long flight and I hadn't done the No.2 in two days (I'm not sure what No.2 is, but what I mean is the besar one). I was pregnant at the time (it didn't work out, eventually) and pregnant women, especially pregnant women who've just eaten broccoli, can get extremely windy. Baidura settled into her bed, pulled up the plush cover and we chatted while we watched TV; or at least according to my feeble mind, this is how it went.

I can't remember what it was that we spoke about, but uncharitably, my colon decided to emit at that point one of those nasty, silent farts that I can only unimaginatively describe as stinky-poo.

I was aghast, but Baidura completely ignored it. There was no way she could not have noticed, because it was the kind of flatulence you needed an iron lung for, but she didn't give anything away. She may have crinkled her nose a little, but she didn't go like : "Elida, did you fart?" or the more appropriate, "Ya Rabbi, busuknya kentut! Bau macam telur tembelang campur air paya!", which would have been perfect for the occasion. No, Baidura was extremely polite and suffered in silence.

I should really have said sorry, but I was too embarrassed to bring up the subject, and besides the damage was done. So I ran into the sumptuous marble bathroom to finish venting off my bum in there. When I re-emerged, pretending not to be gasping for air, I settled back into bed and we continued chatting, as if nothing had happened.

By that incident, I measured Baidura as a good friend. I have no idea if she blabbed about Elida farting to other people later ( I would have!) but I, err never got a whiff of it.

We had a good time in New York, even though there wasn't enough time to see everything we would have liked to see. In between listening to stockbrokers explain the virtues of dollar denominated bonds, we went to the Guggenheim, took pictures of the Naked Cowboy, went to Sunday flea markets at the Village, and caught a Broadway show. Despite the legendary New York brusqueness, we met only nice people and on the flight home, I even made friends with a spiritual house-painter from Queens who asked me a lot about Islam. Two weeks later that sunny picture we had of New York was completely destroyed. Baidura must have been glad that it was only my butt that detonated throughout our stay.

Last week, Baidura called to say she'll be making a business trip to Jakarta and she'd come earlier to stay over at my place. I am notorious for losing phone numbers and emails so I don't know how to contact her (and I can't remember which central bank-related institution she works for now, hence the googling effort) . Thankfully she reads the drivel I write in this blog, so if she's reading this right now, I'd like to say : I'm sorry I farted in 2001 and please email me at mokciknab@gmail.com if your travel plans are confirmed! There's lots of musty, old shops crammed with furniture and stuff that we can rummage through together.

mokciknab muttered at 1:46 PM ~ ~

Welcome to My Gubuk

A few years ago, I travelled with a fellow newscaster, she's tres chic and is very, very particular about her appearance. I don't say this with disdain, because I accept people as they are and I happen to like her very much even though I don't understand her extreme (extreme to me, that is) pre-occupation with perception. Anyway, it just so happens that during the trip we bought more items than could fit into our lugagge. I solved the problem by buying a cheap and huge utility bag from the market to place the excess baggage. Because I was thoughtful, I bought the same bag for her. She cringed. And refused the bag. Because presumably it looked cheap and so obviously bought at the market, and she didn't want to be seen fishing it from the luggage carousel. No matter. We're still friends.

One of my sisters would understand this pre-occupation, because if we'd ever go shopping at One Utama and we'd happen to buy stuff from Reject Shop, I'd have to be the one carrying the bags. Or else we'd quickly buy something from a more expensive place, say Salabianca next door, so that we could stuff the offensive Reject Shop purchases into the more fashionably acceptable paper carriers. In this way, we would have totally cancelled out any savings we could hope to achieve by shopping at Reject Shop in the first place. Now that my sister has children, she probably has less concerns of this sort, and truth be told it's been ages since I last shopped with her, anyway.

Why are we so ashamed to be seen as poor? We judge others and we judge ourselves according to the money made, despite other intangible achievements or qualities. This point was underscored recently, when I visited Cikgu Ana, this lovely lady who teaches my daughters the Qur'an and all other things that a mother is supposed to teach.

My children have always been blessed with wonderful people to nurture them, to fill the huge gaps left behind by their mom. One of them is Ana, who is about 27 years old, a kindergarten teacher and a graduate student in Islamic studies. She comes to our house three times a week, is fiercely dedicated to educating Aiysha and Aliya and is a thousand times more patient than I am. She is indulgent towards my daughters and teaches the obstinate Aliya to recite the Iqra' while the girl lies on her lap. She is exemplary in so many ways, diligent, wise and kind.

Ana lives alone with her mother in Mampang-Prapatan. A few weeks ago, her mother fell sick and could not move. At that time, the kids were having their exams and Ana felt she was duty-bound to come and tutor my children. She was tearful and worried. We told her to go home. Then we heard that the mother's condition took a turn for the worse, but the old lady refused hospitalization. Ti decided to visit Ana at her home, and I felt that I should do the same. When Ana heard that I was coming, she was aghast, ashamed that I would see the squalor she lived in. In the end she relented and I finally saw her house.

It wasn't a house. It was a small room where the door was the only opening, and her mother slept on an old mattress on the floor. They had a small fridge and an old wooden cabinet where they kept books and mementoes, and those plastic drawers to keep clothes. It was indeed squalor. Ana kept apologizing about her circumstances, while her sick mother profusely thanked us for coming. I wanted to cry because I felt she didn't deserve to live in such dire straits. She kept saying, oh, this must be the first time you were in a house so poor, and I kept saying no, no it's not true, I come from a poor family too. She said I lied, and it was a lie, because no matter how poor my relatives were, and there were many poor people in Terengganu, no one was this destitute.

But while I am deeply saddened by Ana's living conditions, it does not in any way lower my estimation of her. Finally I told her that in my mind she is much, much nobler than me, much nobler than most people I know, because she is a teacher and she used her knoweldge to teach my children and the children of others, while I can't even recite the Qur'an with proper tajweed. She went quiet for a while, and then she thanked me for my words, and didn't say anything more about her house.

mokciknab muttered at 4:57 PM ~ ~