Last weekend I stayed an extra day in Jakarta to see the sights. This proved to be quite challenging because aren’t any. There are lots of malls. Lots of wide roads, too, but I suspect they were only built to connect up the malls.
On Saturday morning I stopped by the Concierge desk to ask where I could do some sightseeing and shopping. He took out a map and started pointing out malls: Plaza Indonesia, Grand Indonesia, Mall of Indonesia, Blok M (M stands for Mall), Plaza Senayan.
I hate malls. And they hate me. I especially hate eating meals in malls, something I’ve been doing a lot of recently. Malls are stark, predictable and organized. I become disoriented and disinterested as I wander around them. When I’m finally coughed up and back out to the street, it feels like I’ve wasted a lump of time that I will never get back. This is the same feeling I get with Facebook; and small talk.
I asked my Indonesian colleague (F) about all these malls. How did they come about? When? Why so many? Why so popular? He didn’t know. He just explained that mall culture now predominates in Jakarta and is spreading rapidly throughout other parts of Indonesia as well. Many people in Jakarta now spend most of their free time in malls. F said that about 15 years ago, his home town was like Hanoi where most shopping is done via small street vendors and markets. Today it is almost completely dominated by malls and apartment towers. Even the poor people shop at malls. (“You know - the chicken is now very cheap in the Carrefour supermarket … Very cheap.”)
F explained this without any hint of lament or disappointment. When I suggested that it was a pity that they are destroying small businesseses and the social elements that go along with them ... F raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, said “Yeah, probably” while he tilted his head back and chuckled. This is a pretty common Indonesian response to problems and I like it.
“At least we’re not robots like in Singapore” he later added. Small mercies.
I thought about these shiny white malls, dotted throughout Jakarta and beyond … like a soulless diaspora greedily feeding on people’s disposable income and time. It’s not right.
The Jakarta malls do have a shitload of stuff in them, though. Every possible brand and product seems to be available. Huge spaces in the building are carved out by big chunks of Louis Vuitton and Cartier and Hermes and Coach. Wall-length billboards promote the additional 40 or 50 stores which will soon be opening in the new wing (a fresh Apple here, a new Bally there). There is far more here than you would find in Sydney. It’s as if 5th Avenue has been stacked vertically onto 6 floors.
Actually, the only thing missing is customers. There is no evidence of anyone actually buying all this high end shit. I asked another colleague (A) about this. He said that 2% of Jakartans are at the extreme end of wealthy so it’s probably them doing all the buying. (This may be so, but in numerous visits I have not seen them tipping their wealth into these stores.)
So back to the Concierge. I asked him to explain the differences between all these malls he was pointing to.
“Plaza Indonesia is only 5 minutes by taxi, Plaza Senayan is 10 minutes, and this one here is 30 minutes depending on traffic, maybe more."
-- “Umm. Are there other differences between these malls? Not just travel time.”
“Time?”
-- “No. No. Other differences.”
“Other differences?”
-- “Yes. Yes. Are there any other differences between the malls? Like … for example … can I buy certain things at one mall that I can’t buy at another?”
“No. They are all very good. You can get everything at all of them.”
At this point he smiled. This was a smile of both pride (for the omnipotent malls, I think) and service delivery (he felt that my customer transaction had now been satisfactorily answered).
“OK. But I don’t really want to go to a mall. I don’t want to shop for expensive clothes or things. Is there anywhere else I could go with many little of shops or other things that I could look at?”
[Smile departs.]
“The Plaza Indonesia is very close to here. Only 5 minutes by taxi.”
[Smile returns.]
I wanted to walk away but I was trapped. Without him I had nothing. I also hate markets. But I hate them less than malls. So second worst would be a victory here.
-- “Is there anything like a street market somewhere in Jakarta? More like a traditional market?”
[Smile departs.]
He furrowed his brow and asked his colleague something longwinded in Bahasa while pulling a hair out of his moustache. He examined the hair as his conversation drew to a close, before carelessly flicking it onto the counter in front of me. He returned back to my map and circled the Ratu Mall. This mall, he assured me, sold the types of things you would typically find in a market.
[Smile returns.]
“Is there an old part of Jakarta? An old town that is historic and like the original streets? Before malls?”
-- “Yes sir. But I do not think you would like it.”
“Why not?”
-- “I am sure you will not like it.”
I insisted that I could. He insisted that I couldn’t. I insisted again, this time trying to confound him by speaking quickly.
Eventually he knocked over his king and circled square E7 on my map. I thought I heard him mumble “You won’t like it” under his breath but I’m not sure. It may have been “Bule Gila”, which means stupid potato (literally “Crazy Albino”).
The thing that I’ve learnt about travel is that you need to trust your instincts and not be dissuaded by local people trying to guide you along safe, well formed tourist routes. And so, with this in mind, off I set.
I was off to the old part of town for a look see and a mini adventure. Finally, something a little more innovative. I’m not like those other potatoes who stay in 5 star hotels. I take risks with my itinerary and just see where I end up. Mine is the road not taken.
Or so I thought.
Within 2 hours I was sitting in a Hard Rock Café—in a mall—eating nachos.
This was not a fall from grace. It was a freefall.
Turns out there was no old town. Just a few slums. The taxi driver took me to slums.
There was nowhere to get out of the cab and have a wander. It wasn’t dangerous, just a bit exploitative to jump out of a cab and take photos of poverty. (“Oh - look at the dear, innocent suffering child ... she’s got such beautiful eyes.” Not to mention the weeping sore on her leg.)
Exploitative and patronizing.
So I decided to go for lunch. He took me to a mall. I desisted. He insisted. I The mall information centre person looked at my baseball cap and sent me to the Hard Rock. They didn’t tell me it was the Hard Rock. They just gave me a little map and told me there was a good restaurant there that is very popular. He insisted.
Up until I arrived there it was all their fault. But the walking in … the sitting down … the ordering nachos like a little fat potato … that was all me. Il ne faut jamais dire: "Fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau."
It was just after midday but the room was dark and sparse and scattered with tired looking customers. It felt like midnight. A live band was playing very loudly. Each band member seemed to periodically abandon their instrument and take a turn at singing at least one dreadful version of a classic. As I sat there I felt like I was in the school assembly hall, casting for a high school play.
Here is a sample to show I'm not exaggerating.
Sting would turn in his grave if he heard this. First he'd kill himself, then have a funeral, then wait a bit, then turn.
I spent most of this time with my mouth agape (or at least ajar) at the horror of my lot. This also helped me stuff corn chips into it more quickly. Which I did. Like a pro.
