Namasty

Most Indian restaurants can only survive in Jakarta by offering a Chinese twist to their food.

This is how my local home delivery outlet brands itself.

I particularly like the "& Sweet" afterthought at the end ... although if they have more late-landing ideas they will have to start using bullet points.

Normally when a restaurant brands itself across multiple countries, it means they do everything badly. Not in this case: the Indian options are good. Oddly enough, I use chopsticks for the onion salad and chicken tikka. They handle them better than other cutlery.

I'm going to start asking them to throw in some chopsticks with the order.

Swing Low

It is fairly common for Indonesians to swing from broad exaggeration to inexplicable understatement. It's hard to predict which method is going to be employed; or why.

Examples below.

During a job interview last Wednesday.

Me: "Why did you leave your last job?"

Him: "I felt I was not treated fairly."

Me: "In what way?"

Him: "Well ... in terms of workload and also in some cases I was bullied by the management to work harder or to deliver bad news to the client. I mean ... I told them ... I am Indonesian. I can't say these things."

Me: "So what did you do?"

Him: "I had a choice to continue or to quit. And to continue I means I would probably die."

I quickly wrote this down, knowing I would question my memory of it, before pressing on:

Me: [straight faced] "You would die? What do you mean you by that?"

Him: "Well because I was not sleeping and losing weight and people were saying 'Christian you don't look good" and 'Christian if you continue like this you will die' so I realise I cannot continue living so I quite. [sic]"

A job interview is not usually the place to contemplate your demise and I had to admire Christian for breaking ranks. Admire. Not hire.

On a conference call this morning:

A: "Hari won't be in today because his mother died."

B: "Oh. That explains the email I got this morning."

A: "What was that?"

B: "He said he couldn't meet the client today because he was sad."

In a phone conversation this morning with my CEO:

"You know Andi his kid is in hospital so he can't meet us today which guess that's a good thing because we are not ready for this meeting with him anyway."

I didn't feel too bad for Andi. There is no sick child. No hospital. He may not even own a child. "Hospitalised child" is just code for needing a couple of days off. He's probably got some visitors from out of town.

Más Fotos

I found these pictures loitering around my blackberry.

1. Hati Hati

Setiabudi Mall

Indonesia produces a shitload of cigarettes and a shitload of people to smoke them. The government helps pave the way for its citizens by removing all barriers to churning through all this tobacco.

Indonesian cigarettes carry small warnings on their packets but they are not scary. They are simple messages like "smoking sux", "not good" and the like.

Australia's smoking laws obviously forced many people to head upstairs to Indonesia.

This smokers' paradise called Jakarta ensures that most Indonesians and expats can smoke. Continuously.

Sometimes it feels like everyone decided to stop watching tv in the 50's, when everything was healthy.

Jakarta restaurants have also started offering non-smoking tables, sometimes with ashtrays. I have never seenanyone here request a non smoking table. I have never seen anyone annoyed by smoking. You cannot live in this country if you get annoyed by smoking. It would be like an anti-semite moving to Jerusalem. (Palestinian, anyone?)

I was intrigued to see this long warning under the LA Lights sign at my local supermarket.

It's un-Indonesian to discourage smoking. But it's very Indonesian to be long-winded in attempting to disagree with something. Sometimes at work I stand there staring for ages trying to figure out people's answers to my simple questions ... long stories that ramble on continuously about nothing ... going nowhere ... "So you mean no then?" I interrupt, which often triggers another pointless story.

Once I was in a meeting with my CEO and we were discussing a project issue. I asked him if we should go and meet the client later that week and he started his answer thus:

"Anthony you've been in Indonesia for some time now so you'll understand what this means ..."

He then started banging on about how they were considering outsourcing our printing a few years back but he eventually rejected the idea and now the printing stays in house. I had no idea what he was talking about and after 10 minutes I had to make a guess that the answer was "yes". I made a mental note to warn people not to mention the printers.

I translated this photo when I got home. This is what the sign says.

SMOKING CAN CAUSE CANCER, HEART ATTACKS, IMPOTENCE AND TROUBLED PREGNANCY AND FETUS.

It's pretty straightforward but I'm struggling to see how smoking could cause impotence and a fetus. But like I said - they don't like to exclude anyone - so what the hey.

2. Blind Dates

Plaza Indonesia

I just don't think the client would have approved this slogan in Australia.

3. Internal communication

17th Floor

I mentioned above about how Indonesians can be a little long-winded. This sign was on the door of a locked meeting room last week.

It took me a while but I finally worked out what they meant. They are moving some people to a new floor and this meeting room is storing surplus furniture for a few days. That's it.

As an aside, I like the Braille numbers on the door. They are very inclusive ... even though we have no blind people in the office ... and even though we use the room names (not numbers) when we make bookings.

But if we did have blind people, and if we start using numbers, and if these blind people could get themselves to the correct door on the right floor and fondle the sign in the right place ... it will tell them the room number.

If I was blind I'd probably try to memorise the room names when I stepped them out the first time. Or ask my dog to. Or maybe if I was stuck I would ask someone for help, just like the sighted people do. It would be easier than patting my way around the filing cabinets and up the corridor, hoping to come across some lumps.

4. Toilet

I mentioned earlier that Indonesians love using the word toilet. This was the first sing put up on the new floor.

All the toilets in the building are in the same place, but I guess someone wanted to make it clear.

When you get to the toilets there is no sign (yet) to say which is male or female. Not even in Braille.

5. Supervision

Setiabudi Residence

In Indonesia every transaction is closely supervised. Unless there is someone standing there watching a transaction take place, I would argue that it could not be done.

I bought some wine glasses 2 weeks ago and 9 people were behind the counter. There were 3 people specifically allocated to watching the credit card machine being used.

When I went to pay my electricity bill on Saturday, there was only one person serving me. She went over to another desk to process my credit card, the cleaner must have realised she was alone. He stopped what he was doing and went over to ensure everything went smoothly.

I thanked them both as I left. He seemed to take most of the credit.

6. No, Honey

Gedung Wisma 45

I hate it when they just give away honey toast like it's anybody's business. It's reassuring to see that some restaurants are fighting back.

Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 20: Sincerely

One of my colleagues recently started a new role and started signing off his emails with: "Thank you and sorry if I say something wrong," An interesting way to deal with his learning curve.

It's quite sweet really. A mixture of humble and gentle ... and ... well ... cute.

Whenever I notice him walking past my desk I mumble "So you fucking should be".

Quietly to myself of course. Like any self respecting coward.

Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 19: Dressed

Indonesians dress their salad head to toe, like their shopping malls and their women.

This is - hands down - the worst dressed country I have ever been to.

Apart from an odd restaurant near my apartment (which laminates its food), most mid-range restaurants in Jakarta (even nice ones) use photos of their food on the menu.

The photos are often quite good and the salads seem happy: crisp and colourful and fresh ... and ... well ... dry.

So I point at the photo as I order a salad. Howevr, when it arrives at my table there is a whole different product staring at me. It looks like the salad suddenly caught on fire in the kitchen and the chef panicked. This is not dressing. This is dousing.

I've investigated the salad dressing situation with a few well-travelled Indonesians and no one seems to notice. I think they are protective of their dressing.

"Don't you think that they put a lot of dressing on the salad here?" I ask.

They look at me blankly, which stupid me misinterprets as a request for clarification.

" ... you know ... like ... how in Indonesia ... they usually put more dressing on the salad than they do in other countries?"

By the time I get to "usually" I've either lost them or insulted them. It's hard to tell with Indonesians - especially Javanese - you've insulted them or pissed on their shoes.

In Indonesia you must always remember to order your salad with the dressing on the side.

I have learnt this lesson so at Pizza e Birra tonight I didn't forget to order it correctly.

This is what arrived.

That glister to the salad is not water and the concertina pattern on the top is clearly the work of dressing.

I called the waiter back and leant against the left edge of the passive-aggressive bell curve. "Dressing on the side?" I said to him gently while waving a finger around my salad.

He smiled nicely and pointed to a ramekin sitting north east of the plate. It was brimming with extra dresssing.

I couldn't deny that he was right. I'd ordered the salad. I'd asked for dressing on the side. Both had arrived as asked.

I smiled and thanked him, too stunned to ask what the fucking burrito was doing there on the top. I knew it wasn't backstroke.

This concoction was too oily to eat, even without dipping into the extra litre of dressing up there in the ramekin. The chef must have seen my order and thought "this guy must really like dressing - let's give him some extra on here as well"

This close-up isn't very good but you can still see the oil pooling around the edges of the tomato.

I think I have to blame the Chinese for this. Not for their culinary skills, but for their whispers. There are a lot of Chinese living in Jakartra and "dressing" is very close to "drenching" when whispering recipes around a circle. There's no other explanation.

Unas Fotos Por La Semana

A few photos from last week, in no particular theme or order.

1. Naming Weekness

29/01/2011, Grand Indonesia Mall

I dunno. It just seems like an odd name for a store, is all. It's not telling us anything about the clothes, except that they can be worn on any day. Or purchased on any day. Who can tell?

This ain't no accident of English, neither. There's no way to fuck this up in Google Translate, or a dictionary. I suspect that the owners just don't like workshops.

2. Wherever You Are

23/01/2011, Social House at Harvey Nichols

An "internal outing" seems like an odd turn of phrase.

They are probably heading out to the botanical gardens for some Monday larks. As in Vietnam, Indonesians like playing odd games with their work chums on days off.

There are quite a few gay waiters at Social House. I imagine them at the Gardens being singled out. Their colleagues are standing around them in a in a circle, pointing and laughing as they are forced to fess up.

3. Ambiguity

26/01/2011, Blowfish Kitchen And Bar

What ever happened to the man in the top hat? I liked him.

This one seems wrong.

It got creepier when the waiter followed me in and stood there watching, waiting until I finished washing my hands.

I also felt awkward as he handed me some paper towels ... and as he started tearing out more from the dispenser ... I politely declined a second helping.

4. "Taking Care" Of The Children

27/01/2011, Eastern Promise Pub & Restaurant

This was my understanding of children's cancer:

1. Most people think it's a very bad thing to happen - less so to other people's families.
2. Many people - mostly hippies wearing purple scarves - have set up charities to help these children with cancer.
3. The charities tend to raise their money by slapping the photo of a bald child onto a large metal mug.
4. The hippies hang around various parks and thoroughfares, smiling as they rattle their mug at strangers.
5. The charities spend this money on medical research and Disneyland.

So get this.

1. Rival charities appear to have popped up.
2. Unlike their nemeses, these charities try to give the children cancer.
3. The charities are probably not run by hippies. It's more likely that these are followers of Wanda Holloway and her lot.
4. The charities have become so popular that they even have a support group ...
5. And a poster ...
6. And some crap snacks. (Probably carcinogenic.)

5. Nothing to do with El Al

25/01/2011, Ranch Market, Plaza Indonesia

It's very reassuring to discover that this ice - made from water - is considered Halal.

I wasn't entirely convinced about Halal so I checked it out on wikipedia. I needn't have worried beause it's true. Even Muslims are allowed both water and ice. Lucky devils.

6. Essence of Chicken Ginseng Slurry

28/01/2011, Meeting Room At The Office

Last week was a very, very long and stressful work week for us. It was filled with client negotiation meetings which went well beyond midnight, followed by homework for us which was due the next 8am. More on that fuckedness later.

On Friday morning my colleague presented me with this green and yellow box.

"Anthony drink this. You need it."

-- "What is it Andri?"

"It's for energy. We are all very tired. You need for energy."

This is a very popular energy drink in Indonesia. You buy it at the chemist and everyone swears by it.

I opened the box and pulled out the short, wide, glass bottle in it. It was filled with some odd brown liquid and

reminded me of an obese eye dropper

. If dirty was a colour, this would be it.

-- "Let me see ... it says 'Essence of Chicken' ... with Ginseng ... what the hell is in this stuff?"

"It's so good for you ... and nice too ... oh Anthony you always asking ... so just drink it lah"

As with most things offered to me in liquid or powder form, if someone mentions energy or happiness I ingest first and think later.

So I did.

I gulped it down obediently, trying to avoid contact with my tongue. Like a whore angling for a tip.

This tasted far, far worse than it looked. What could I do? So I did what any Indonesian would do: I made eye contact and smiled.

Underneath Her Wimple

Maria returned to work on Tuesday but I didn't see her.

On Wednesday I ran into her outside the lifts on Level 18. Before I could open my mouth, she slugged me with a couple of verbal warnings:

"So Mr Anthony you didn't tell me if you wanted to cancel your flight to Malaysia tomorrow."

--"Yes I did. I told you that alr―"

"So please confirm by 5pm today please because the travel people need to know and then confirm the tickets."

-- "Yes Maria I already told you to―"

"Thanks Mr Anthony because it's important right?"

-- "Well it's important but it doesn't make any s―"

"So OK then Mr Anthony you understand now? 5pm right?"

-- "Yes Maria."

To an untrained observer this conversation sounds like simple filler. However, Maria operates on multiple levels and this is her poly filler. I would summarise her technique as follows:

1. Re-establish relationship with the Target via a prior, shared event. Any event will do.
2. Confuse the Target by construing this event into a new and complicated issue.
3. Create mild alarm by insinuating that Target's plans may now fall apart due to various oversights related to this issue.
4. Create guilt by implying that the Target is completely responsible for causing all of these problems.
5. Build trust by forgiving the Target
6. Build dependency by appearing to be the only person who is acting solely in the Target's best interests.
7. Create shared goals with the Target, by suggesting actions which require cooperation between bot hof you to resolve this problem.
8. Create dependency - you are the Target's only link to the outside world and to the resolution of this "problem".
9. Create time pressures so that Target has a sense of urgency to act on this issue, above all others.
10. Use continued talking and asking questions to distract the Target, so that he doesn't have time to think.
11. Waste enough time on this new issue, such that previous issues (eg "diarrhoea") become redundant.
12. By following the above, the Target is kept in a constant state of intimidation.

Being familiar Maria's techniques, I stayed calm. Most of this didn't work on me ... except for the part at the end where I didn't feel it was relevant to ask after her health. So come to think of it, all of this worked on me.

I changed the subject. She had straightened her hair and it suited her.

"Hey Maria you've changed your hair!"

-- "Yes well I was too sick of being ..." [She stopped and waved her hands around her head, like it was a crystal ball.]

"Being what? What do you mean?"

-- "I don't know. Messy. Like a lion." [As she said 'lion', she waved her hands briefly around her ears]

"Oh. So you bought a straightener then?"

-- "No. No straightener. I got it all done properly. It was a nightmare. I was 6 hours in the salon."

"Wow! 6 hours. That's crazy. Did you get a break?"

-- "No. 6 hours in that chair." [She rolled her eyes as she shook her head, reliving the pain and frustration.]

"Well it was worth it. It suits you."

She smiled insincerely, turned on her heel and marched to her desk.

I was left feeling weakened and confused. How would someone suffering diarrhoea sit in a hairdresser's chair for 6 hours, getting her hair straightened? And why am I too frightened to say anything?

A Word In Her Behalf

This morning I received the following sms from Maria:

Please be informed, today i'm not coming to the office because of diarrhea.

Diarrhea is difficult to spell and I expect that Maria's sms involved an American dictionary ... because when it comes to a day off ... and you've gotta hand it to her ... Maria leaves no stone unturned.

Indonesians are pretty specific when they call in sick. Sometimes diarrhoea is even dropped into casual conversation, such as elevator small talk.

"Hi Novi - how are you today?"

Novi: "OK. A little bit of diarrhoea."

It stumps me every time. Not only is this awkward, but it reminds me I most think in images. I eventually say"oh ... that's bad luck" and stare at my feet.

When Maria has not finished a task and I'm looking for her, she also uses the toilet. Sometimes literally but mostly as an excuse. She must know it stumps me. Sometimes she replies to my 4th sms with a simple "in toilet". Other times, she answers her phone with a whispered "i am in toilet". If I hear the echo of ceramic tiles I'm convinced that she's telling the truth. If I detect the background noise of Sudirman street then she's having a smoke downstairs.

It's also common for people to drop the toilet into a meeting. At least once a fortnight I'll be in a meeting room and ask where someone is. "He's in toilet - back soon." There is no hint of irony from the speaker and no hint of anything on anyone else's faces. But it sounds wrong to me. If I was at a restaurant or a bar I wouldn't think twice. But the office environment makes it sound coarse to my ears, which then makes me feel like a prude; or an American. If there's a difference.

In Hanoi I used to hear "I got my period I am going home." which wasn't so much a request as a statement. Maybe that's why it's called a period. Menstruation is probably the diarrhoea of Vietnam and saying so probably makes me a misogynist. And maybe also a bad person.

But here in Jakarta, diarrhoea is as common as a traffic jam and quite unpleasant when it comes on during one. That's alot of diarrhoea. And a lot of work incapacitation. So why no euphemisms?

The Thais say "I have a spoilt stomach" while smiling insincerely. In England its an "upset stomach" and in Australia it's "dodgy guts". Even Eskimos (known for their laziness) have 80 different words to describe snow. So why must the Indonesians head straight to the anus and be done with it?

Back to Maria. I do believe she experienced diarrhoea at some point over the weekend. I don't believe she is still unable to come to work today.

I know she's not bedridden; or even dunnyridden. She's at home in a faded yellow dressing gown. Her feet are up on the coffee table and there is an ashtray balanced on her lap. She's watching an Indonesian soap opera while taking lengthy, relaxed drags on one of those thin cigarettes which are strangely fashionable with Indonesian men.

I should be relieved that she only wants the 1 day off. In Indonesia when people need more than 1 day off, events take a far more dramatic - and often deadly - turn for the worst.

2 or more days are usually associated with mothers suffering heart attacks, a sudden bout of typhoid or toddlers being checked in to hospital at 3am with grave, incurable, mystery illnesses.

At first I took these stories at face value. I believed them. What kind of fair minded misogynist would I be if I didn't? It took a string of miracle recoveries - none of them involving catholics - for me to realise it was mostly lies.

I now know that heart attacks are indigestion, typhoid is a runny nose and anything to do with children is complete bullshit.

These types of ailments are really just a holiday slush fund. The bearer is able to draw on it whenever he wishes.

"Visiting his mother in hospital" they whisper, solemnly, when you ask if anyone knows why he hasn't completed his document.

"Oh," I say and pretend to be concerned, while really thinking is "If it's not finished by Friday, he'd better be able to produce a fucking corpse."

Or perhaps it's something like this:

"Hey Agoes I heard you had typhoid last week?"

-- [smiles] "It was nearly."

"Oh really? That's lucky. You seem ok now. What was it?"

-- [avoids eye contact and smiles weakly] "Not sure. But maybe not typhoid."

And scene.

New Year's Resolutions: 2

6. Eat more plastic.

Apparently it can't be digested properly, which makes it the digestive tract's bottom feeder. So to speak.

Starting with 2-minute noodles.

New Year's Resolutions

For many years, 2011 has been the postcode of Potts Point.

This year I'm going to make the bitch work for me.

Changes I'm considering are listed below.

1. Own more adapters and chargers

Now that I have so many wireless devices, I need to invest in more chargers and adapters. A full set for the work bag, a subset for the gym bag, a full set for my office desk, a full set for home and a subset for luggage. It seems silly but it's actually not. If I never have to move them around from place to place, I'll never be without. And for the $100 (or so) that this resolution will cost me, I believe that it will solve 40% of my problems.

2. Be more superficial

In 2011 I intend to become more superficial. This should solve about 15% of my problems.

3. Become good at something

Last year it became clear that I don't have any hobbies. And hobbies are important. So this year I'm going to become good at something. I don't know what it will be. This will likely solve 20% of my problems.

4. Sink into a permanent Fiscal Crisis

Extend my spending and credit exposure, to the point where euphemism will be required. By end 2011 my situation will be best described as "a situation". This will probably not solve any of my problems.

5. Make work work for me

Given that my workload is unlikely to ease, expenses fraud is probably my only option. This will likely solve 7% of my problems.

Yule Timing

In: The office
On: 24 December
At: 1 pm

Discussion between me and a colleague, who is Muslim.

Me: "Aren't we supposed to be allowed to leave early today?

-- "No. Only the Christians

"And you're Muslim, right?

-- "Yes.

"Am I considered a Christian in this office?

-- "Yes

"Why can't I go home?"

-- "Because you are too busy today." [giggles]

"Why is the office so empty now?"

-- "Every one goes home."

"But aren't most people Muslims?"

-- "Yes. About 80%."

"So have the Muslims gone home?"

-- "Most of them. Yes."

"So why do they get to go home now?"

-- I think they just convert to Christian for the afternoon." [giggles]

"And what about me? Isn't this my holiday?"

-- Maybe you pick the wrong afternoon to convert to Muslim."[giggles]

I hate it when that happens.

Except For Every Meal

Maria fell ill in the days leading up to her weekend birthday. It was unfortunate timing.

Friday evening must have been kind to her because during the weekend she had recovered. I know this from the multiple changes she made to her Blackbery profile (a common habit in Indonesia). Her progress was mainly charted via cupcakes, party references and shopping.

Unfortunately, Maria must have suffered a relapse on Sunday night because she was sick again on Monday. I began to worry that it was something serious.

You can imagine my relief when she returned on Tuesday. I know this from her reply to an email I sent 6 days earlier. The usual excuses about expenses and payment signalled that she had returned to fine form. I paused halfway through her email to think up some teasing questions and call her bluff about the "illness"

Then it happened.

I felt a tap on my shoulder with a pen and spun around. To this.

I mean ... what could I say?

You gotta hand it to Maria - she knows how to see a plan through to the end.

Unless it's my expenses.

The Slip

Last weekend I met someone who runs an importing business and has a lot of contact with Indonesian Customs and shipping.

I asked him about corruption, which fascinates me.

For the past year (or so) the Indonesian government has been clamping down on corruption and bribery within Customs. The new policy requires importers to issue a letter to their assigned Customs Officer (the one in charge of your shipment).

When your goods arrive in Indonesia you present a bunch of documents to the Officer, including this letter. The letter states that the Officer has not requested or received any form of bribe from you.

Apparently they put the bribe in the same envelope. When the Officer opens the envelope he finds shipping documents, an anti-corruption letter and his cash bribe.

Srsly.

I guess there's point using 2 envelopes. It would be a waste of good money.

Life And Milk

I run a regular team meeting on Monday afternoons.

Today I received the following "decline" from my colleague in India:

"One of my colleagues in Delhi expired yesterday due to heart attack. I am rushing to his cremation now. Please excuse me for today's 2pm meeting."

I wonder how - in his search for the appropriate English - did he settle on "Expired"? It's a little Orwellian.

Euphemisms are tough in a foreign language. Even still, Expired is a weird resting place .

And speaking of resting places ... what's with the rapid cremation? It's as if the guy collapsed onto a fire and they had no choice but to stoke it and ask people to hurry.

Solve A Problem

I was looking for a little clip to accompany my Maria post and found this

It is excrutiating in so many ways. The real test is if you can watch all the way to the end, continuously. (I failed on both fronts.)

Santa Baby

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon and without warning, Xmas music started playing loudly on the speakers. It was quite a surprise because I didn't even know we had speakers.

"Let it Snow" came out loudly on the speakers (the Dean Martin version) followed by an announcement.

I looked out the window. As usual, it was humid, hot and choked up outside and a northerly traffic jam was blowing across Jalan Sudirman. Throw in a bit of snow and the city would be fucked.

Secret Santa was hereby announced. Muslim empire is not protected from a bit of Secret Santa. Or excitement about snow, for that matter.

This was followed by Asian Santa. I think he was one of the guys from Receivables (why is it always the secretaries and the guys from Finance who drive this stuff?).

He didn't "ho ho ho" so much as say "I'm Santa! It's Santa" in a semi booming voice. As he got closer I realised how terrible his costume was, in both manufacture and carriage. The beard wasn't even covering his mouth. I he must have found it annoying, preferring it loosely hanging under his chin.

A couple of randoms from the secretarial pool were wheeling the mail trolley through the office, doling out German looking candy.

If there's anything that Indonesians love more than being Muslim, it's something that involves dressing up - prefereably with a holiday thrown in.

How Do You Keep A Wave Upon The Sand?

In Indonesia when it's your birthday you have to bring a cake to work. It's the same in the Philippines.

One of the other secretaries came up to me this afternoon and whispered to me "It's Maria's birthday tomorrow [Saturday]. Don't tell her I told you."

Maria sits on a different floor to me, an arrangement which suits each of us. So I decided I would send her a quick note to tease her ... ask if she could come in to work tomorrow.

After a couple of hours I hadn't heard back from her. She usually takes the bait by then. So I told her informant what I'd done.

"Oh. Yes. She's sick today. Yes. Very bad flu."

So sick just a few days before her weekend birthday? Not just a bout of flu; a bout of bad luck.

Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 17: Christbucks

Christmas has certainly hit Starbucks Indonesia in a big way.

They are selling a special Christmas Mix coffee. There are special Christmas concoctions and some other strange offer of a calendar once you achieve 24 stamps (stocks are limited). There is also a Christmas CD mix, on continuous loop since mid November.

I am writing this from a comfortable chair, nestled against a speaker at a less than comfortable volume. Today is a Muslim holiday. I think it's Lunar New Year or something similar that sounds like a hoot.

Currently playing in the cafe? A jazzed up version of RTRNR. Boom cha boom cha style.

Its antecedent? The little drummer boy, drawn out as a slow dirge.

I am sharing this Christmas CD with 2 women in the outdoor seating area. They would be my neighbours, but for the window. Both of them are wearing stylish glasses and a hijab (one yellow, one green). As is the custom here, each has ordered a tall, fluffy, stylised drink. If coffee was gay, this is what it would wear. // a drag version of food/coffee

One of the drinks seems to be a chocolate avocado creamy type thing (nicer in the mouth than on the eye). The other looks like one of the Christmas specials, with raspberry sauce drizzled over the whipped cream. It's supposed to look festive, but hers looks more like a grizzly murder in the alps.

They are both banging away furiously on their Blackberries and not paying attention to each other - another Indonesian social norm. Maybe they're even chatting with each other. Green is chain smoking, effortlessly incorporating quick drags into her Blackberry frenzy and occasionally flicking her glasses back up her nose. Call me a sentimentalist, but there's something about seeing Muslim women chain smoking that makes me feel confident about the future of our planet.

This is a strange country.

Au Revoir DK

I bought my Blackberry at the end of May. In mid June I asked Maria to connect it to my work email.

This process requires Maria to navigate some red tape.. I'm not saying it's difficult ... but it requires a few extra steps.

And Maria hates steps.

So here we are at the end of November and it is still still not done. A few weeks ago, I put some heat on Maria to close it out. By "heat", I mean emails littered with "pleases" and "thank yous" because it's Maria we're talking about.

As a result of this heat, The Blackberry has usurped The Expenses as Maria's number 1 subject of choice to interrupt me with ... the interruptions she barks out through lift doors and in passing, to stop me asking what she's doing away from her desk.

"Hi Maria how are you?"

-- "Good Mr Anthony. How are you?"

"I'm well. Actually this morning I sent you a note--"

-- "Your Blackberry!! Mr Anthony!! Your Blackberry!!"

And so on and so forth. We all know how it goes by now.

Over the months I have become so tired with the Blackberry topic that I can only chase her up on it intermittently. I've now run out of Valium so can only follow up on these matters after a good night's sleep. And after all, expenses had been dominating our relationship until recently.

This morning was one such occasion. I dug up an old email from Maria from a few weeks ago and tried to follow the instructions she had sent me.

I clicked on the link she sent me. Again.

It still didn't work so I promptly called Maria. I explained to her that my link didn't work. Again.

She chirpily replied that she would be done to see it. I tried to stop her - to tell her that it was the same blank screen she saw last time - but she had already hung up. Maria likes to see things in person: it's a trip away from her desk.

17 minutes later she arrived at my desk stinking of 2 cigarettes, smoked in quick succession. She hovered over me as I clicked on the link. My eyes watered and a blank screen appeared.

"That doesn't work Mr Anthony." Her diagnosis was instant and confident.

-- "You don't say." I mumbled to myself inaudibly ... the whispered retort of the weak.

Maria feigned shock at this outcome, said she would get right onto it and wandered away to the lift. Even though the lift is less than 15 metres from me, I noticed her stop for a chat a couple of times and wondered how many facebook friends she has.

2 hours later I contacted her for a progress report. Her response was self-explanatory:

"On Nov 10, Ipshita of India said they were going to investigate your case but nothing happened after that."

It seems that Ipshita has fucked up my Blackberry. It's not every day that you get to say that: Ipshita must have heard that Dirty Keith had returned to Singapore, spotted an opening and jumped into it.

I am now faced with 2 options - do I ask Maria to continue with her investigations, or contact this young Ipshita upstart myself?

The question seems to answer itself.

They Call Me 'Stacey'. They Call Me 'Her'. They Call Me 'Jane'.

You may remember Dirty Keith from Singapore Non Sequitur Number 4?

Well Dirty Keith is back.

For the past month I've been working with DK on a client proposal and yesterday he had to do a demo.

Apart from being the target of my childish smut, Keith is also is an expert in databases. Something like that.

There he was yesterday showing people all sorts of things, various bits of data moving around Indonesia. Something like that.

Part of the presentation included showing a typical customer scenario. In this part of the world, Joe Bloggs doesn't work as a sample customer name. Keith used Ronald Chan. I assume he is the Joe Bloggs of Singapore, where Ronald Chans are as common as skinny arms and rudeness.

Keith is a diminutive Chinese Singaporean who uses his bad haircut to camouflage a sharp brain. He parts his hair on the side, pulls his light grey pleated trousers up a little too high and swings his skinny arms out from an ugly golf shirt. The shirt itself is from a 2008 database conference in Bangkok: sponsor logos are sewn onto each sleeve.

Keith's age hints at Generation Y but his styling screams 1940's Chinese nerd convention. He doesn't wear glasses but if you had to draw him from memory you could be forgiven for including them. His presentation style is friendly and animated - compensation for the dreary content:

"It is proven to scale almost linearly. Therefore Job estimation of end time can be extrapolated based on previous run time and volume."

Srsly. You can't make this stuff up.

"The challenge with semi on-line storage is decision how the data can be aggregated for longer retention periods."

Keith flicked around more grey screens. He was big smiles and flailing arms - but it wasn't enough to compensate for this boring shit.

"I will now demonstrate the job monitoring features: please refer to the process' CPU consumption" here.

After a while my mind started wandering. That while was 53 seconds.

I noticed that Keith's trousers were the same colour as the OK buttons on his demo screens. I pondered whether it was intentional.

"Data lineage is demonstrated in how the changing formula will show analysis of the impacted report"

My eyelids were heavy and his golf shirt was blurring into the projector screen.

"De-duplication is challenging. Common names can appear many times in the database but you don't know if it's the same Ronald Chan."

I was starting to fall asleep.

Then it happened.

"I don't know if and of you remember my name?"

My eyelids sprung into life. I became alert but contained. Anticipating a kill like a cat spotting a cockroach in the corner.

"I'm Kum Yeung Kok."

And scene.

I'd never heard Kum Yeung pronounce his full name before. People usually call him "Koom" or "Koom Yoong" to avoid going all Benny Hill on his ass.

Kum Yeung, on the other hand, has no such hang-ups. His pronunciation was perfect. Every. Word. Of. His. Name. Was. Enunciated. Precisely as it is sniggered.

"There are not many Cum Young Cocks in the world", he declared again quite loudly. Indeed.

This got me wondering how I could transition my pronunciation of Koom Yoong closer to his own, more accurate yet Benny Hill version? The disobedient side of my brain was grappling with being able to use a socially acceptable norm, and was intimidated.

"Because Cum Young is quite rare," he continued. Deary me.

This was all so inappropriate. So Dirty Keith.

I wondered whether Keith was having the last laugh, with his skilled poker face.

Surely someone else must find this amusing? The eyes of my own poker face swept the room, looking for signs of recognition or wry. I maintained the stiff composure of a toddler who has stolen a shoe.

But there was only one person sniggering and it was me. I imagined him doing this in Australia and chuckled along with my imaginary friends.

"So you can find my name here very well. See? I'm not like Ronald."

No you're certainly not. You dirty bastard.