Praise You Like I Should

This article explains little about Fika's motivations, but does explain why last night's traffic was so bad.

I'm quite fond of Fika, I have to say. And I have such a clear image of last night:

... his colleagues form a dark blue uniformed cluster around the base of a unsecured ladder. You can see "SECURITY" embroidered boldly on their backs as they inspect the tree like a bunch of gormless twits

... a mob of chanting monkey disciples provides a fitting soundtrack.

... one of the guards gets inspired and climbs halfway up the ladder to toss bananas, like a vertical version of Horseshoes. A banana eventually gets stuck on a twig and the ladder wobbles as he descends, gingerly.

... the traffic groans to a standstill and morphs into a long, thin carpark.

It's Monkey Madness!!!

Jakarta is not a tourist city but there is always something interesting going on, with or without Fika. Take this other story for example, which is Also Good.

Red Light Stop

This is a photo I took 10 minutes ago. I am in a cab with my colleague, stopped at the lights.

A shake of the head usually enough for Indonesian beggars, who are far less pushy than their neighbours. Probably because they are far less hungry.

This kid was persistent, though. Possibly because it was raining.

One important rule is to never - never - give money to begging children. It doesn't feed the child. It only feeds the system that plucks Oliver Twist out of school and dumps him in front of traffic lights, or a mall entrance.

In Indonesia--as with most developing countries--you eventually learn to ignore beggars. This means that about 7 seconds after the lights turned green I would have forgotten all about this kid.

When I was in the car he didn't seem as sad as he looks here.

Beyond The Pale

I Don't Heart Finland

I have worked with 2 Finns this year, a sample size which allows me to make the following conclusions:

a) Finnish people are lazy

b) Finnish people are fucking lazy

c) I hate working with fucking lazy Finns

Theirs is a lethargy so potent that it has been drowning my workplace in a swill of unreturned emails, overdue actions and incomplete documents.

My colleague, Dedi, used to work for Nokia Indonesia and he confirmed my suspicions. Nokia is not just mobile phones - Finland's largest company owns a big chunk of the market in telecommunications infrastruture - including GSM networks and mobile towers and the like.

Dedi told me that Nokia ruined Finland's work culture. For over 15 years they provided millions of well paid, cushy jobs to plump white giants.

Ironically, the sun shone for a long time in Finland. Nokia's products sold themselve and the Nokia folk in HQ were given highly paid jobs with little accountability. So says Dedi.

Whenever Nokia Indonesia needed to bring Finnish people onto their project, deadlines were missed and tasks were only half done. Although I find it hard to believe this was purely because of the Finns ... it sounds very much business as usual in these parts.

As with most lazy people, I quite like Finnish people on a personal level. They are always willing to participate in fattening things like eating peanuts, drinking beer and lying around. Unfortunately, they also combine this with minimal sun exposure which means that most Finns come off looking a bit Downsy.

Small Talk

I need to change my small talk. To find an alternative to "How are you?"

This morning I had one of those diarrhoea style encounters. Although this time diarrhoea took a back seat. As it is wont to do.

Rasi is one of my colleagues. I shared a lift with her this morning.

Me: "Hi Rasi. How are you? I haven't seen you for a while."

Her: "I've got chicken pox this week. You see?" [smiles while pointing to various scabs on her face.]

Bloody Herald

Interesting choice of photo by the SMH today:

It looks like they caught these poor tourists on their way down. At least on film.

My Rusti Indonesian

Saturday 19 March 2011, midday

Celebrity Fitness, eX Mall

Last week I decided to get a personal trainer.

It's not easy to find a bossy trainer in Indonesia, especially given their friendly and obliging way with foreigners which works very well at Starbucks but less so as an exercise regime for fat cunts.

A colleague who goes to my gym recommended an experienced trainer, one who sits at the bossy end of the bell curve.

"Ask for Rusti ... you know, like Salman Rusti!"

Rusti speaks very little English. While he can count to 10, he tends to skip the 4 or the 8 (sometimes both) This was demonstrated during our first session as he walked me through my weights, so I started counting audibly in Indonesian to shift him back to his mother tongue.

Rusti is not used to working with foreigners. He rabbits on to me at 100 miles an hour in Indonesian, using serious eye contact and an intense look on his face. In the beginning I kept asking "please speak more slowly" in Indonesian but it had no impact. Rusti would simply respond with a curt nod of his head and continue at full speed.

I decided to just stare back at him, squinting intensely as I hunted for familiar English words like "bicep" or "cardio". I managed to picked out the word "fat" quite often, which is both disappointing and accurate.

During my first session I pretended that fat was the Indonesian word for handsome and would smile weakly at Rusti, like a tranquilized housewife.

Saturday was my second session with Rusti and his first at full pay. I chose to start at midday to ensure that I didn't drink too much the night before.

Nevertheless, I arrived unshaven and hungover at 12:05 and the look of disappointment on Rusti's face was palpable.

For the next 15 minutes I squinted diligently as Rusti delivered the bad news: I drink too much, there is no core body strength, too fat, not enough flexibility, I eat my dinner too late at night and my attitude is very bad and on that note it is not just my attitude that is bad but maybe my whole spirit. Rusti certainly seemed to have identified a few things for us to work on.

"I think we are going to get along". I thought to myself while cringeing.

The session was very painful to the body, but at least it killed the hangover.

Rusti decided to finish up with some kind of abdominal exercise. He asked me to balance on a large fit ball, kind of hugging it face down and keeping my body straight. Due to the language barrier I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I couldn't understand the instructions and it left me awkwardly wobbling as I tried to balance while guessing what he wanted me to do.

I tried various things like using my arms and contracting my stomach, much like a press-up or an upside down ab crunch. Rusti kept saying the word "tahan" with increasing frustration. I had no idea what this meant but worked out that he meant "lower, lower" - the movement which would cause the most pain. So I tried move my hips down to extend my back. This made him say the word more frequently, in an exacerbated tone "tahan Anton! tahan!" so I moved back into position until the tahans slowed.

Learning new exercises is hard enough in English with a new trainer because often they make no sense at first, and often feel wrong.

For my next attempt, I tried a crouching movement. I bent inwards at the hips while pushing down on the ball with my elbows. This elicited even more "tahan Anton! tahan!" and I hoped it meant "good boy", knowing it couldn't.

Eventually my muscles couldn't keep me there any longer and I just slid off the ball, inelegantly landing on my left shoulder.

Rusti made me go through this exercise 3 more times. On each occasion the word "tahan" defined his frustrated mantra while I tried all manner of contortions to reduce its frequency.

Finally, Rusti concluded that my core strength was appalling and it would need to be our focus for the next 2 weeks. At the end of the session I signed a form I didn't understand and we parted ways, each of us a little disappointed in me.

When I got back to my blackberry I immediately looked up the word "tahan" in the dictionary. It means "hold". Then I realised. All the time I was guessing up, then down, then bent, then straight, then twist, then whatever ... Rusty was simply telling me to stay the fuck still.

Monday's Child Is Fair Of Face

Monday 21 March 2011, 8am

Starbucks, Wisma Mulia

The badges on his apron said that my coffee was being prepared by Charlee, the Barista in Training.

Charlee's sniffling and nose wiping indicated a mild cold.

He seemed to be working at slow motion, fondle all conceivable parts of a cup or lid that may one day come into contact with a customer's mouth. I figured it was part of his training and imagined that the frequent nose wipes are a kind of snot top-up, metered out to ensure that no customer missed out.

As is customary in Indonesia, the entire process was carefully supervised by a gormless colleague with nothing else to do. She seemed friendly and bored and I named her Gladys.

I gave Charlee some feedback as he handed me the coffee. I tried to speak discretely but the language barrier required me to perform a reenactment:

"It's not good to touch the nose like this [wipe, snort] and the cups like this [fondle fondle] then to the customers mouth [gulp gulp]".

Nevertheless, Charlee seemed quite receptive. So did Gladys, who maintained eye contact with me throughout the proceedings ... smiling warmly while picking her nose.

Entrevue

I must have done about 30 job interviews since arriving in Jakarta and it's been an interesting experience.

People here approach interviews very differently.

They arrive on time.

This is the strangest thing of all. Jakartans are never on time, no matter the occasion. I cringe as my colleagues wander into important client presentations 45 minutes late, casually smiling as they pull up a chair. Jakartansa are even late for their most important events like weddings, dinner or prayers.

If you ask them why, they just say it was "macet" (traffic jam) and all is forgiven.

So why is it only job interviews that make the macet dissolve?

They wear their worst clothes

I can't believe how badly people dress for the interview. Men are nearly always a short-sleeved shirt and a ratty pair of pants. I have never seen a suit or tie of any description. I have seen plenty of jeans and on one occasion, thongs.

This isn't wrong - it's just confusing. For those that are successful, the clothing they end up wearing on the job is much better than what they took to the interview.

Why would they dress in their daggiest threads when they are about to make an important first impression?

They never take notes

I have only ever had one person pull out a pen and a notepad. I was impressed until I realised he was only going to use it as an arm rest.

They blab.

Long, long, long answers to easy questions. The response to "How long did that project last?" can go for 10 minutes.

It could be nerves. It could be their confidence in English. It's easier to blab on and delay the next difficult questions from the white guy in a tie.

They sing

Ask them anything about their current job, or life, and you'll get everything back.

This birdy starts singing the moment it sits down.

Ask them anything about their company, revenues, strategy and they'll give it up. Luckily most of the personal stuff is already written on the CV so you don't need to pry.

Sometimes when I get bored I use the session to see how much gossip I can extract.

They tell the truth about their salary

This is a refreshing (if poor) way to negotiate salary. Even people who want a huge increase will tell you the truth.

"Well I've been earning 14 million for some time now, so I think I would like to earn 25 million for this job."

If I wanted to go from 14 to 25, I would tell them I was currently on 22 and expecting a pay increase soon.

As the interviewer, I often respond with something like "Do you realise that this is an 80% increase?" to which I get a broad smile and an embarrassed shake of the head (no eye contact) as they say "Oh yes ... OK but negotiable lah ..."

This happened in an interview I did this morning:

Each time I asked a question he would take a deep breath and hold it.

When I was finished he would smile broadly, let out a loud audible sigh ("aaaaaahhhhhhhhh"), lean back in his chair and chuckle as he rolled his eyes. It was endearing in an avuncular kind of way ... like he was about to recount his old schoolboy pranks.

When he finally rocked forward in his chair he would land with both palms on the table and look me straight in the eye.

This was followed by a very long, detailed explanation which did not answer the question in any respect.

Towards the end of the interview I asked him why he was looking for a job. He smiled and told me that he had recently accepted a job with another company so was no longer on the market.

I asked him why he came to the interview. After a suck, hold, aaaaaaah, lean, chuckle, roll, rock and hand-landing he explained how he had been called in for an interview my our recruitment person, Lina. That she had made the appointment with me.

Me: "So are you still looking for a new job?"

[suck, hold, aaaaaaah, lean, chuckle, roll, rock, hand-landing] "Not yet."

China Plates

Reuters: China has donated 30M yuan in humanitarian aid to Japan.

Let me get this right.

The world's second largest economy has donated $4.5M USD to help its neighbour.

The first joke to come out of this earthquake.

The Importance Of Planning In Indonesia

What I looked at for 2 hours today, as I waited for the workshop to resume after lunch.

Intermezzo

in·ter·mez·zo

[in-ter-met-soh, -med-zoh]

–noun, plural -mez·zos, -mez·zi

1.

a short dramatic, musical, or other entertainment of light character, introduced between the acts of a drama or opera.

2.

a short musical composition between main divisions of anextended musical work.

3.

a short, independent musical composition.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The first time I heard the word "intermezzo" dropped into casual conversation, it was during a catch-up with my CEO.

"If you would allow me a brief intermezzo ..."

I thought it was an lovely way to introduce an anecdote, even one that turned out to be boring.

Our CEO is very well educated and his English is excellent. I had images of him at the opera in Singapore ... it has to be Singapore because Jakarta has no opera. He turns to his wife at interval and says "Wasn't that intermezzo between Act 2 and Act 3 just delightful!"

Since then--once or twice--I've thought I heard someone say this word and assumed I misunderstood.

Not so this morning. During a meeting someone clearly asked me:

"Anthony do you mind if I intermezzo?"

There was no mistake this time. He had both used it and upgraded it to a verb.

Consistent with the CEO, he rouned it out with a long-winded, irrelevant observation which distracted the room.

Then I realised. This wasn't English. This wasn't even Italian. This was Bahasa. The Indonesians have taken this word and made it their own.

-----------------------------------------------------------

in·ter·mez·zo

[in-ter-met-soh, -med-zoh]

–noun, plural -mez·zos, -mez·zi

1.

a short, dramatic interruption to a boring meeting. Designed to distract the facilitator away from discussing anything important.

2.

a long winded, endless anecdote that comes out of nowhere. Often alludes to

photocopiers and printers.

3.

a form of Tourette's Syndrome, using allegories.

At this point I would like to intermezzo.

I just did a google search on 'Jakarta Opera' and found a review "The Magic Flute" from a local production, last November:

"Although using minimal stage props, the lighting and costumes made for a stunning visual experience."

Make no mistake - this quote was placed directly underneath the photo. I don't know which bit they were looking at.

I think that this opera business (and indeed this whole intermezzo business) is best left to Singapore.

Two Years

A couple of days ago I inadvertently missed my "2 years since I left Australia" anniversary.

I've passed a point where it would feel natural to be living there: Sydney seems distant.

Thinking about it now, I try to find a word to describe how I feel. I think I'll call it cinnamon.

I feel cinnamon.

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.