The Daily Whine

Get Ai to do it.

In every office or social group setting, there always happens to be one person who has the innate talent all the rest of us sorely lack — the ability to get the BBQ going. This person is the BBQ Go-To Guy — without him (or her, though I’ve never come across a BBQ Go-To Gal) the Cookout is a Washout.

It’s true. There is seldom more than one person in any group that can light a BBQ fire with the same ease most of us reply our email. If my colleagues got me to start a fire, I’d find a way to burn the house down before the coals got hot. And I suspect all my colleagues and buddies would fare no better.

Which leads me to wonder at what point in human history did we become so terribly inept at creating and handling fire?  You’d think it’d be the easiest thing to do, but noooooooo, only a chosen few know how.

Ai has the talent. I have none. That’s why I’m sitting inside this air-conditioned office, surfing the net and sipping my chilled glass of Coke, while he is out there sweating buckets. The BBQ Gods do not favour me.

I’ve been watching a lot of Wu Xia (Kungfu) shows recently. In fact, I just spent most of my weekend getting through half of the 40-episode Tian Long Ba Bu (Demigods and Semidemons) (the 2003 mainland China version).

And I’ve concluded that nearly every Kungfu hero needs to work on his/her conflict resolution skills. This is the one department the martial arts world really needs help in.

Case in point: Pugilist One insults Pugilist Two’s kungfu. Pugilist Two not happy, fights to the death with Pugilist One, loses. Pugilist Two’s disciple (Pugilist 2.1) swears revenge over teacher’s dead body, trains for 20 years (and turns into good-looking macho guy in that time), then looks for Puglist One, but Pugilist One has died of old age, leaving behind Pugilist 1.1, a beautiful daughter. Pugilists 1.1 and 2.1 have a chance encounter, fall in love, and should be on the way to Happily Ever After except that Pugilist 2.1 discovers Pugilist 1.1 is the daughter of his teacher’s slayer. Needless to say, Pugilist 2.1 rants at Heaven for being so unfair, then proceeds to kill Pugilist 1.1 to avenge his teacher’s death, then takes his own life.

That’s pretty fucked-up conflict resolution, if you ask me. Firstly, Pugilists One and Two allow a petty argument to escalate into Life and Death struggle — that’s a no-no at Harvard Business School (never let emotions dominate the exchange). And even if Pugilist Two takes issue with the insults, it seems pretty stupid to be seeking to rectify that point of view by fighting to the death. (So what even if Pugilist Two wins? The one person who can testify to the superiority of his kungfu is lying at his feet with a broken neck and won’t be telling anyone — "You know, I said Pugilist Two’s Crazy Poodle Yelps Nonstop was crap, but I guess it was a little better than I thought." )

But trying to avenge the death of a teacher by taking the life of your girlfriend? I don’t know about the educational methods in Shaolin and Wudang, but back at Dunman High, I couldn’t wait to skewer my Math teacher.

Dutiful tourists that we were, we took the opportunity to visit Borobodur while we were in Yogya over the weekend.

The day before we arrived at Parangtritis, I had imagined getting to Borobudur by 6am to catch the sun rise over the temple — a scene the Lonely Planet takes pains to emphasize should not be missed. But on arriving at Queen of the South we quickly discovered that the drive there from Parangtritis would be almost 2 hours long, so we would have to leave by 4am. As much as we would have relished the photo opportunity, we relished our sleep even more. Especially since we were ostensibly on vacation.

We would leave at 8, arrive by 10, and leave by noon. That was the plan.

We left at 8.45, arrived at 11.30, and I had half a mind to leave almost immediately.

The problem was this: in my head, Borobodur was this amazing Buddhist temple complex atop a small hill in the middle of a beautiful valley. In this mental picture, the sky was a deep, saturated purple, the temple was shrouded in ancient shadows, the stupas watched sentiently over terraced padi fields, and a gentle wind carried through the valley a haunting melody of bamboo flutes. And oh, there were no tourists. And therefore no touts.

The moment we stepped out of the Kijiang, a swarm of touts gathered around us and started pushing all sorts of souveniers into our faces. "Umbrella for you, mister? Very hot day!" "Borobodur T-shirt, I give you good price." "Mau minum? Ada minum-minum dingin." "Mister you like? Three I give you best price."

The 100m walk from the car park to the Ticket Entrance was all push and shove. By the time we got our tickets (USD10 per adult; locals pay a lot less) I was shell shocked by:

1. how friggin hot and sunny it was
2. how little Borobodur resembled the picture in my mind
3. the persistence of Ricky and company in trying — fruitlessly, it must be said — to make us part with our hard-earned cash

The entire Borobodur experience seemed to be designed around giving visitors a sales pitch. At the ticketing booth, you’re asked if you want to pay for a guided tour. As you enter, you’re accosted by touts trying to sell you the definitive guide to Borobodur, trinkets and refreshments. While you make your way up the stairs to the temple, you’re asked by yet more guides if you want to take tours. And just before you step into the temple, for a fee some photographers will offer to take snapshots of you posing in front of the monument. There is no way you can get to the summit of Borobodur without feeling this isn’t a tourist trap.

Unfortunately for me,  I did not enjoy the visit. Having been to Ankor Wat before Lara Croft did, I expected to be impressed by the scale of human achievement again. Instead, I was far too distracted by the touts to see Borobodur for the marvel it was.

As May puts it so succinctly, the problem with touts is that they don’t understand you don’t want what they’re selling. Ricky tried to peddle a hand-sized Borobodur Temple miniature to her for 200,000 Rp. She said no. Ricky then tried to sell her TWO temple miniatures for 200,000 Rp. Again, she said no. Ricky then offered to cut the price down to 150,000 Rp, then 130,000 Rp, then 100,000 Rp ("Best price, best price, give me make a bit profit ok? Best price. Ok, how much you want?").

When May firmly said she didn’t want the miniatures, Ricky pushed FOUR miniatures into her hand and asked for 80,000 Rp. May tried to explain good-humoredly, "The problem isn’t the price, it’s that I don’t want it. Even if you give me everything for free, I still don’t want it." Naturally, Ricky asked her how much she wanted for the four miniatures.

Such touting is getting out of control, but thankfully, May has finally figured out an effective way to combat this annoyance. The trick is to sell the touts back something absolutely useless to them, for an obscene amount of money. Give them a taste of their medicine.

"Mister you buy this Borobodur T-shirt, best price I give you."

"No thanks, but how about this rubber band I have here. You look like a good man, I’ll let you have it for 500 bucks."

Every time the tout tries to sell you something, you ignore his pitch totally, and force yours through instead. He wants to sell you an umbrella, you sell him back a plastic bag. He tries to sell you a temple miniature for 100,000 Rp, you try to sell him back a strand of armpit hair for USD50.

May figures that unless you give touts a taste of their own bad medicine, they aren’t going to know just how annoying touting is. For once, I’m inclined to agree with her.

That has to be the most annoying feature about Friendster’s blog. Sending an automated email to everyone on my Friendster list telling them I’ve just updated the blog.

Which is nice since they’ll stop by, take a look and go, "Ah that boy Minn, still alive and kicking since his last post just two minutes ago."

But also wholly annoying for everyone since they’ll be receiving an email in their Inbox every two minutes telling them to check out my latest post.

I know when Icemann updates his Friendster blog I don’t get an email from him, so there must be a way to turn this damn announcement off, but I’ve just spent 30 minutes trying to find it and I can’t. I need help.

Of course, May will probably tell me the easiest way to fix this is to stop blogging. She thinks blogging is exhibitionist, like masturbating in public (excuse me, how do YOU know?), and she has a problem with that. She thinks I blog because I’ve got a supersized ego that presumes people want to know what’s going on in my life.

Guilty as charged, your honour.

Actually, in my own defence, I’d like to add that if I could turn the fucking automated email announcements off, I’d be pleased to peaches. I’m interested in ranting in public. Not quite as much in reminding people when I do.

Why do it, I imagine May asking.

Why does a dog lick his balls, I’ll retort.

She reckons if I’ve got an opinion, the diary’s the place for it to be in. That’s the civil servant in her speaking. Suppress our opinions, why won’t you? What next? Take away my Coke? Communist!

Which is what May said when I first showed her the website (www.queen-of-the-south.com).

"We’re going to Laryngitis?"

"No, we’re going to Yogya."

"But it says there that Queen of the South is in Laryngitis."

"Yah, but the map shows that Laryngitis is just south of Yogya."

This is true. If you look at the maps we looked at (basically, all the free maps we could find online), Parangtritis looks like it’s just down the road from the Keraton (the historic heart of the old kingdom city) in Yogya. In fact, I remember on one of the maps, Parangtritis is a tiny dot right next to Yogya, and that one showed Yogya mighty close to the coast.

Of course, as with everything else here, I should’ve known better. The Indonesian art of shortening distances on the map is as masterful as their art of ignoring schedules. Parangtritis looks like just a short walk down Yogya’s main thoroughfare. You want the beach, yes Mister? Just make a left turn here and follow the road.

And don’t stop for another 26 kilometers. The fucking beach is almost an hour away from the city. By Kijang (Indonesia’s best-selling autmobile, a locally-manufactured 4WD SUV).

But that’s all for the whining. If you put up with the distance and bear with some congestion (possibly) along the way (Jalan Parangtritis is a highway, with two lanes facilitating all forms of traffic — including jeeps, bicycles, mini-buses, motor-scooters and horse carriages — to and fro), you’ll be rewarded with a view of the sea every bit as good as the Lonely Planet promises.

Parangtritis is an amazing stretch of black-sanded beach on the south coast of Java, unbroken for nearly 30 km (according to the hotel brochure), that culminates in a dramatic outcropping of limestone cliffs hanging over surging waves. And it is on these cliffs that the Queen of the South hotel is perched.

Getting to the hotel (there’s only one way in — a bumpy road from the village up and down and left and right and up and down) is a test of how well you hold on to your lunch, but as soon as the vehicle stops and you step out, you’re greeted with an incredible view of a corn and sugar-cane field flanked by more hills. In fact, Queen of the South is right smack in the middle of a verdant valley, and if you arrive the hour before sunset (as we did), the sun slants at an angle against the craggy top of the hills, creating an aura of fire above some of the most densely-saturated green hues outside Bernie’s pile of stool.

The hotel itself is run like a retiree home run by the producers of Survivor. Very laid-back atmosphere, with spartan room facilities (no teapot!), set against amazing geography. The employee who greeted us at the Front Desk was a well-tanned local with an incredibly easy-going gait. His every movement seemed to serve the principles of Zen philosophy perfectly – his body tethered on the brink of inertia, bending with the breeze this way and that. When he spoke, his voice was tofu-like; I feared his words would disintegrate if met with mine. His smile was wide yet effortless, while his eyes quietly surveyed out of narrow slits. In this lethargic fashion (lazy? calming?) this man welcomed us to Queen of the South hotel, and passed us our keys. As I walked away, I asked for his name and he gave me his business card. Pak Sudarto. Marketing Manager.

We were shown our room – half of a bungalow sitting imperiously on the cliff overlooking the beach – which was nice. Nice, of course, is the word you always reach for when others fail you. (How was the movie I recommended? Nice. How was the meeting with the bosses? Nice. How was dinner with the in-laws? Nice. How was sex? You get the drift). It wasn’t a shabby place by any measure, but I realise that I’m now precisely the guy I swore I would never become back when I was a starving student. (You know that guy: checks into the Banyan Trees and Shangri Las of the world when travelling, ‘acquires’ a taste for wine, reads self-help books and Businessweek on vacation. Yah, that’s me now. And how do I know this? I didn’t check into Losmen Budiman some 3km back up the road after a gruelling public bus ride with seventy-two bus changes, that’s how).

Our little half of the bungalow had a large king-sized bed that creaked every time you shifted your weight around (don’t ask), a wooden closet that looked perfect for hiding skeletons, and a bathroom in which the soap bars were wrapped in foil AND rust stains. The room had a definite lived-in feel, but the air was musky, like it had been some time since it was last occupied. If I was still the starving student of yore, I would have just been grateful to be anywhere with a girl. Here I was, though, feeling a wee bit ticked off that I was spending 500,000 Rp (about USD60-70) a night in a cabin smelling worse than most taxicabs in Jakarta.

And that was when it hit me. The majestic roar of the Indian Ocean just beyond our doorstep, surf upon crashing surf, washing the clear blue tide into frothy white linen. Our little patio of green carpet grass foreshortened the high-angled view of the ocean, and brought it to our feet, framed perfectly by a pair of palms that rustled as lethargically as our good friend Sudarto. As beautiful as this picture was, the sound was even more hypnotic, a rhythmic pattern of water bubbling into air, like gamelan gongs, lulling us into a lazy stillness. The scene was breathtaking because it was gorgeous, but it was gorgeous because it was incongruous. The compositionally-perfect view left us awestruck. The sounds, however, peeled away at our consciousness. We were in the bosom of nature at her most beautiful, and all we understood was how inert she made us feel.

I live in Marloboro Country.

That’s what the gigantic billboard says. The one that’s sitting above a wall that guards the driveway into my apartment in Jakarta. The one that you just can’t miss if you’re travelling along Jalan Prapanca Raya, the major artery that runs by my place (in fact, the only way to get there). The one that is 80,000 times larger than the signage on the wall that reads "Kondominum Kintanmani".

Which is great, because I really like the idea that I’m living where frontierland values are dominant, where real men sleep with buffalo (must be the leather) and ride into the sunset with Tonto and a cigarette in hand.

(And it’s even better that when I take a taxi home and the driver has absolutely no clue where the Kintamani, I just have to say "Marlboro Country" and they all know the place right away.)

I’m convinced the giant billboard wasn’t an accident though. After all, if Marloboro Country was more than just a figment of some CD’s imagination up on Madison Ave, it’d be here in Jakarta, where the streets are literally smoking, the land is lawless, and the cowboys run the show.