Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 4: Sincerely

Regards is the most commonly used email sign-off at work. It's occupied the top spot for many years now. And for some reason, the Regards people tend to not put a space between Regards, [comma inclusive] and their name. Why don't they just remove all the paragraphs squash up the whole fucking email into a few centimetres? Huh?

Cheers made a run for it a few years ago, but has recently retreated. I took on Cheers about 10 years ago and stuck with it. It was a bit uncomfortable at first, but I'm used to it now. Much like nicknames, you stop noticing it with overuse.

Snaps was a good idea, poorly executed.

Kind Regards and Best Regards are useful for when I'm crawling to someone I don't know. I usually use Best Regards,, unless I think the person may be religious or unkind.

Thanks is becoming more common as well but seems ironic at times, eg at the bottom of complaints.

Nasty people tend to choose the fluffiest versions. I used to work with a cranky bitch in Sydney who urged people to "Keep Smiling" but never did herself.

In a similar vein, Cold, hard people are also known to shove a Warmest before their Regards.

Sincerely is quite ok and Faithfully is fucked. I've always harboured a secret fantasy to start using Cordially.

The most radical sign-off I have ever encountered comes from a colleague here in Jakarta.

He uses "God Bless You". I kid you not.

God Bless You hangs there above his name: no comma, no fullstop ... just sits there in the air above him, pretending to be kind. Much like God.

It may seem insignificant, but imagine receiving God Bless You at the bottom of detailed, technical corporate emails. An example from today:

Please ensure you have submitted your draft proposal by COB Wednesday, or the pricing and approvals will not be completed in time.

God bless you

Vincent

It's odd. Much like God.

God bless you too, Vincent.

Meeting Room At Work

Even blind people can see that there's something wrong with this room.

It is actually one of the worst meeting rooms in the office. You only use it when the other rooms are taken and you have to make a call in private.

Sometimes visitors need to work in it when there are no available desks.

I imagine that this is what solitary confinement is like in a white collar prison ...

... or how a home office is designed in a one-bedroom apartment in Tokyo ...

... or what what Siberia feels like ... in general.

This cramped, cold phone booth can only fit either one person sitting or 2 standing. It's a cunt of a place to spend an afternoon.

No crass puns please Cheesel.

Edwin

The blog has been rocked by scandal!

It's been revealed that Edwina used to be a man. This explains the big hands.

But it doesn't explain the son.

So I asked.

Turns out she fathered her son before the op.

Oh, and her former name was Edwin. This last little lack of originality is so believable that it kinda substantiates rest of the story.

Although she seems more like a Darren to me, does our Edwina.

Hobbies

We are currently recruiting a few people. This is an excerpt from a CV I was sent today:

Interests

Relaxing, surfing the internet and listening to music.

I think he forgot to mention "eating pizza" but it's clearly implied in the subtext. I mean ... can't you already see him sitting at home?

This honesty was so inspiring that I immediately asked HR to schedule an interview. He has no chance at getting the job but I'm dying to see what he looks like. Srsly.

Last month I had to write my own bio and "hobbies" was once of the sections in the form. Every new employee to Indonesia has to do this - a monthly email is sent to all employees with their photos and descriptions. I tried to wriggle out of it, claiming illness (pigment deficiency syndrome) but HR insisted. Laughed, then insisted. I was really stumped by the "hobbies: section.

I tried and tried to think of something to say.

Then I realised. I have no hobbies. How did it get to this? How could I have no hobbies?

No one knows me here so I decided to make some up.

I picked rowing and swimming. That's right. I submitted my HR form with false claims of swimming and rowing. Srsly.

Actually I prefer relaxing, surfing the internet and spending time with friends but I couldn't put that ...

The real me is much closer to my interview candidate than the HR me. He's my mirror. And I will judge this mirror harshly. And I wlil not give him a job. No matter how good he is. Because who can trust a man with no hobbies? Srsly.

I hope he's fatter than me.

Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 3

A recorded message last Friday night.

“We’re sorry – due to heavy calling we cannot complete your call at this time.”

Firstly I thought the lines were congested. Then I tried again. Same message. Other people must be getting through on their calls. It must be only me.

I may have gained a few kilos ... but now you're blocking my calls?

It's offensive.

Confirmation

Tomorrow morning I'm going to KL for a couple of days.

This is the confirmation email my new travel agent sent.

Why why why has she matched this font colour with this background?

And what what what was she thinking?

And how how how did this ever seem like a good idea?

So many questions. So few answers.

This is supposed to confirm my itinerary and help me feel organised. Ironically, I now have no fucking idea what I'm supposed to do tomorrow, or whe

Then I saw who she cc:d. That made up for everything.

Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 2

I was in a meeting today and someone said:

"Well it's just another day, another 50 cents".

50 cents? Even the cliches have to be downgraded because of the GFC.

Indonesian Non Sequitur Number 1

This morning I was in a meeting with our country manager - a born and bred Indonesian - and he came out with:

"... well Anthony we either do something now or it's So Long Farewell Auf Wiedersehen Goodbye"

All I could think of was ugly curtains.

Smoking Gun

This child made me think about how my own childhood was spent.

And his breasts made me think about where my adulthood is heading.

As God is my witness (he has nothing better to do) I'm going to track down this Indonesian toddler to compare notes. I may even try to scab a cigarette off him although he seems kinda greedy. In that mean way.

Thinking about it now, it was very progressive of Cheesel to allow us all to smoke as children ... we may never have maintained the habit without her tacit support. What a visionary. No furtive scampering behind trees for us ... no "smokers' coming out" barbeques at 21 years of age ... just fond memories of family bonding in the backyard.

Geoff must have realised that a basket of laundry doesn't require 1 mother, 3 children and 15 minutes to hang onto the line.

My time out there taught me many things. For example, how to work out what the neighbours were watching on the tellie through the narrowest of openings between fence pailings (fuck all, by the way). And how to blow perfect smoke rimgs. The 4 of us created quite a misty, horror-film-like ambience ... a human fog machine pumping its exhaust onto the backdrop of a cool evening ... plumes of white smoke gently weaving their way through pegs and undies.

Whenever I hear the sound of a washing machine winding down from its final spin cycle still I feel a Pavlovian urge to stand next to a Hills Hoist and light up.

Traffic

How I could spend 63 minutes travelling from the office to my meeting, and 4½ minutes on the return journey?

I'm the only one who seems to think there's anything unusual about this.

Less Is Morning

After 2 weeks in Jakarta I haven't learnt very much Indonesian. Just enough to cover basic greetings and cab rides.

I'm in that awkward phase where the few words I have memorised feel the same. I can only rote their meaning, not feel it.

Like most countries, the words for "morning" (pagi) and "more" (lagi) are used very frequently (or in my case, interchangeably).

This morning as I went downstairs there was some guy pulling out weeds. He looked up as I walked past and greeted me with a "Good morning, sir!". I responded immediately by saying "more!". I don't know how it came out wrongly - he had just used the correct word a few seconds before. Maybe the "sir" bit at the end threw me.

By the time I'd walked past the security guards and entered the cab, my morning greetings were back on track and I was throwing "pagi" around with abandon. Gay abandon.

However, not long afterwards I was in the cab approaching work. My cabbie indicated to turn -- too early -- so I pointed ahead and confidently said "Continue Morning! Continue Morning!". The second "Morning" was less clear: I realised I was in trouble as it was leaving my mouth so I muffled the end.

He seemed confused but did as I had asked; or rather, as I had intended.

We arrived at work and I gave him a pretty decent tip. Potato penance.

I remember a similar thing happening when I was learning French. My skills were coming along pretty well but for some reason I kept confusing the word for "heating" with the word for "unemployment" (chauffage vs chomage ... they look different but sound similar).

One summer while I was in Paris there was a protest on the street. I asked someone whether this was about some recent social problems due to France's rise in heating.

On another occasion, this time in Winter, I was working at the youth hostel. I remember asking a group of French backpackers whether they would like me to turn up the unemployment.

Srsly.

Back to this morning.

At about 10:30am I popped downstairs to get a takeaway coffee. As I was being handed my change I looked the girl in the eye, smiled warmly, nodded appreciatively and said "sorry". How could I possibly fuck up thank you? How? Her smile moved very slightly around the corners of her mouth - from friendly to confused pity.

Oh ... what will become of me?

Inconvenient Truths

Today my dear colleague left the company.

You may remember him from various late night frustrations and misinterpretations, of which this is an example.

His final email was thus:

"Dear All,

"Today is my last day. It has been a good 2.5 years with all the great people around. It has been wonderful and memorable journey.

"I want to take this opportunity to each of every one for giving me a lots of guidance, direction, support & Appreciation.

"Deeply appreciate all the help I have received. Apologize for all the inconvenience caused by me for the past 2.5 years."

Never a truer word. It's also sweet. So how should I respond to this?

How about "Agreed and accepted."?

All is forgiven.

No Jane Fonda

Watering Cans and Watering Can'ts

Last Sunday marked 11 days since I had moved into the new apartment and 10 since the air conditioning broke down.

The big windows in the living room have joined forces with the morning sun to create a hothouse.

I leave in the morning with a wet shirt and the evenings are spent sitting at my computer, working and sweating into the couch. It's like Victoria Falls.

Luckily, the apartment came with some furniture and various other things (cheap cutlery, a vase of plastic pink roses, 6 nice large drinking glasses and an ugly tea set that only a granny could love). It also came with a lot of low maintenance plants.

I don't know how to water plants, or how frequently, so initially thought I'd wait for signs of yellow or brown to tell me it was time. Some people would call this neglect, but I prefer to call it Autumn.

However, even after 10 days of complete neglect the plants were holding up quite well. I assured myself that 'Plants must love hothouses', as I occasionally reminded myself to water them.

Last Sunday and I finally decided that it was time to act. I loaded up a large glass of water and headed for the tiny little plant on the ledge in my bathroom.

As I stooped down to water it something didn't seem quite right.

Then I realised.

It was plastic.

Just to be sure, I squinted it into a more recognisable form. Yep. Definitely plastic.

The dunny ensures that you don't get too close. Quite convincing from a distance.

I admonished myself slightly before realising what a terrific fake it was (at least from a distance) and gave it a little pat and a "well done nipper". (I really did.)

So I moved on to the plant in my bedroom. Didn't have to look to hard to realise that it, too, was a fake. The stem was good but the flowers were a bit ratty. I mustn't have ever really looked at it properly.

The other bathroom turned out to be housing another small, effective fake. So did the spare bedroom.

I finally turned to the living room to discover that the large palm in the corner was ALSO plastic. And I mean head-to-fucking-toe plastic, from arsehole to breakfast. I couldn't quite believe it and bit into on one of the leaves to be sure. It was a terrific fake, mind, but a fake nonetheless.

I'm ashamed to say that this one is pretty obvious but I still tried to water it.

I should have seen it coming. The vase full of plastic pink roses was a giveaway.

The cheery resilience of these plants under extreme heat conditions with no water was also a sure sign that something wasn't right. They were faking it - and doing a good job but I was eventually going to realise that they're not eating anything. This must be what it feels like to live with an alien. Or an anorexis.

So ... in summary ... for the past 11 days I have been foiled by foilage and surrounded by a hothouse of plastic plants.

On the plus side ... they look adequate from a distance and the palm looks great. They can easily survive in all climates (just like cockroaches). They will neither scatter dirt nor attract insects with Dengue Fever. They require no water or maintenance.

I'm keeping them.

Up close you'd never know. Srsly. The realistic fronds keep your eyes away from the shiny plastic stalk.

And as soon as I find a maid, I'm going to make her dust them.

So there.

[snaps]

Things That Rhyme With Black

So part of my Indo-ctrinisation is to get a Blackberry, which I achieved last weekend.

Always thought it was "black" as in "berry", which is completely untrue. It's "black" as in the "market" where you buy them. Mine was brand new and in the box. It has a T-Mobile logo on the bottom - an artefact from the life it once led in Canada. It hecho in Mexico, raised in Canada, incarcerated by T-Mobile, smuggled across borders and into Indonesia where it bribed a customs official to look the other way. I was then sent to the Ambasador Mall where it was unlocked from T-Mobile and reboxed for sale.

I bought a Blackberry Onyx from 3 lovely men, each of whom blew cigarette smoke in my face as they smilingly quoted a descendingly good price. I did the rounds of the fine merchants of Ambasador but eventually returned to my smokers. This says 2 things about me - my love of good service and an enduring addiction to cigarettes. Blow smoke in my face and I'll buy anything.

The purchase ended with them frogmarching me to an ATM to get more money. This is not usually a good sign. Also not a good look when I run into one of 2 potatoes I've met here, mid march. "Oh this guy is taking me and my wallet to an atm in this illegal mall - great to see you!"

I've only heard of 2 atm escorts in the last year ... B's $280 cab trip from Hanoi airport and R's tragic strong arm out of an underfunded, under-the-bar-itself blowjob at a patpong bar. 40-love, R to serve.

My experience proved to be pleasant and fair, though.

So I found where to download a dictionary from this horrible toy. I decided to read the user reviews. This one gave it 5 stars:

"Its very helpful!! U cn hve ur dictionary anytime u nid it."

I kid you not. srsly.

I wonder what Berry stands for?

Sweet Vali High

I went to the chemist near work and asked for something to help me sleep. She offered Melatonin, then Valerian.

"I don't trust herbal medicine," I tell her.

"What about this then?" she asks me.

"Sure," I says.

It would have been impolite to say no.

White Teeth

I'm writing this post from the breakfast area at the Grant Hyatt Jakarta, where I am receiving the most appalling treatment.

Appalling, I tell ya.

It started this morning, before I even got to the restaurant. Exactly 15 metres before, in fact.

I got out of the the lift. As I turned right and around the corner I could see 4 uniformed people in the distance. They were all standing at the counter doing nothing (this is Asia, remember).

Each looked up, and smiled, and shouted at me in non unison "Hello Mr Anthony! Good morning Mr Anthony!". I smiled sheepishly, nodded and looked down as if I'd dropped a hankie.

As I got closer there were repeated, louder greetings from this gaggle. Or at least they seemed more conspicuous. "How are you Mr Anthony?" and "Are you here for breakfast Mr Anthony?", the latter providing a bit of a Der Fred moment.

I walked past them, nodding and bowing, and entered the dining area. 2 people broke from this greeting pack and trailed behind me as I headed to a table. It was more stalking than trailing. I would call it "friendly" stalking, but what stalking isn't?

Once I had picked my preferred table, my stalkers stopped and smiled and pointed at it as if they had selected it. But they didn't do anything. Nevertheless they used waving hand gestures, like this table was an overpriced item on Sale of the Century.

I dumped my laptop onto the table and headed out to forage for food. I was still being followed as the Maitre d' walked past us with a cheery "Good Morning Mr Anthony! How are you this morning pak?! Are you here for breakfast?". I looked him in the eye, smiled back and nodded a friendly "Der Fred" in return.

I headed past the various counters on my way to the egg station. Most counters have people behind them dressed in chef whites. They are there to ensure the potatoes don't have to pour their own juice, or cut their own cheese or whatever. Voices beckoned at me as I glided passed them.

It was one dumpy panini cooks after another skinny juice attendant after yet another bored looking toaster monitor. Each smiled and shouted out to me "Hello Mr Anthony" and "Good morning Mr Anthony!". (This may seem repetitive to you, so just imagine experiencing this horror in person.)

It felt like a mashup of 3 hideous memories:

a) That part in Amadeus where Salieri is being wheeled through the asylum.

b) That part in Silence of the Lambs where Clarice Starling is walking to her first meeting with Hannibal Lector. None of the kitchen staff at the Hyatt flicked cum on my face on the way out (as far as I could tell) I'll bet that at least one person would have called me a cunt, even if it was in Indonesian and under their breath.

c) That evil "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland, where you sail by sinister miniature dolls in traditional dresses, singing at you. It's a cheery and dark and small and synchronised small world. And you just know it's Stephen King's small world; not yours.

This mash-up was eerie and I wished them all dead; or at least blind and mute.

In the 30 seconds it took me to get from the front counter to the eggs I had been individually greeted - using my title and first name - at least 12 times. I'm not exaggerating.

I am never - EVAH - going to complain at the Hyatt again. Unless it is to request that no one may greet me, or look me in the eye, while on set. Which is kinda Tom Cruise. Pre-couch Cruise.

By the way, Indonesians have very good teeth. I have been flashed by enough of them to be an authority on the matter. White and strong. This is in stark contrast to the rows of lima beans which fill the mouths of most Vietnamese people.

The Avalanchidence

A little photo montage of the other night.

You can see my balcony here, overlooking the scene.

I think my assumptions about a potential avalanche were reasonable.

Imagine this at 3am, with the old lady and various others from downstairs wandering around the street, calmly supervising the security guard driving it.

I think my fears about the security guard commandeering this earth digger mover thingi in the middle of the night were also quite reasonable.

The fact that this same security guard does his shift in a beautifully tailored grey suit is small comfort. It seems to make him less qualified for the earth moving job, not more.

That Other Stuart Diver

For the past week there has been a lot of construction next door - including yesterday's noisy extravaganza of digging and earth moving. Dirt mountains are popping up everywhere. There is more equipment than people; quite unusual for a building site in Vietnam.

I woke up at 3am to the sound of an avalanche. I didn't know I could identify the sound of sliding dirt at thirty yardsbut there you go. Dirt was sliding in large quantities, right next to the house, and I knew it.

I started to wonder whether my apartment building would be joining it and - I'm ashamed to admit - wondered whether I could get in a quick nap before escaping. Srsly.

I was very, very tired. And really, really didn't want to get up. But it kept going and going and going. I started to imagine being winched out of the rubble by emergency workers ... wizened men operating on no sleep, rubbing their stubbled chin and looking worried ... coffee being drunk in the background ... spotlights and ropes ... fluoro yellow jackets. Then I realised where I was.

It wasn't fear that made me get up ... it was the realisation that Vietnam has no emergency services and I would have to do all the saving for myself. There was a parallel realisation that no matter how many people in this country seem happy to wear their pyjamas during the daytime, I was not one of them.

I eventually got up - all pre-Thredbo like - and popped my head out of the bedroom window. I could see an earth digger thingo shifting piles of dirt off the street. It seemed to be doing a poor job - pushing dirt along and missing key piles. It was more like rubbing than lifting.

Then I saw him.

The older security guard from downstairs - the one who has to wake up to open the door when I come home late - seemed to be in control of the digger. He was perched behind the wheel in a dangerously proactive show of confidence. It was so odd. The family from downstairs was also wandering up and down the street and around the digger, aimlessly supervising the event. They were quite unconcerned, like hey were watching TV.

Even the old lady was out there on the wander. She wasn't in pyjamas so I figured she had been rostered on. She seemed to think she was in charge though. Old person charge ... much like an old man at a car lot. I almost expected her to kick the tyre of the digger. She noticed me staring out of the window and smiled politely, like we had run into each other at the shops.

Her grandson (20 yo security guard) was also there, wandering around the front of the machine smoking cigaretts, artfully avoiding the arm of the digger as it swung towards him. The little kids weren't there but I spotted a teen - possibly a bored neighbour or a spruiker from one of the brothels up the road.

Then the Canadian guy who lives above me started shouting:

"What the fuck are you doing? This is fucking stupid! You're fucking stupid! How can you be so fucking stupid?!" and so on and so forth.

When he first started yelling everyone stopped for a moment and stared at him.

They were more curious than alarmed, like distracted kittens. The silence lasted about 10 seconds. The minute the Canadian stopped to draw breath, they started it all up again.

I couldn't work out what was happening so I went back to bed. The Canadian guy was still screaming and the digger was going but I was tired. I already had an insurance policy - the little kids were asleep in the house and I figured that if there was any real danger, they wouldn't have been left there. And I actually love my pyjamas ... more than I care to admit.

Translation of the Year

From a photo exhibition a couple of months ago. How efficient this Vietnamese language must be.

'Ech' means frog. But this is no ordinary frog. Check out the grey translation below the red quote.

There is something else they don't want us to know.

Forget frogs.

I smell a rat.