I KNOWWW, I must be the most boring (and bored) person living in Jakarta, touted as the capital of nightlife in Southeast Asia with its trendy bars and pubs.
Invites to boogie and booze came a-knocking the very first week of setting foot here, all to which I politely turned down. It had nothing to do with my being an uptight Singaporean, a conservative Muslim or simply, a stuck-up antisocial.
You see, they're just not my thing. Karaoke, yes. Running, sure. Coffee, okay.
It's quite easy to say no to smoking. But rejecting booze is a different story.
"How do you live? You don't know what you're missing. Come on, surely a little sip is all right?" they cajoled. To avoid putting myself and others in an awkward situation, I hide in my apartment.
Party-poopers like myself know it's best to stay home and watch pirated DVDs and drown our loneliness in a bottle of Sosro tea (famous local tea brand). But the mob wouldn't let me.
A friend and I were watching the world go by when she suddenly pulled out a can of Bintang beer from her bag and triumphantly declared "I stole this from somewhere. Now, let's share!"
"I... don't drink. Sorry," I said. "Oh" was her brief, disappointed reply.
Another time, I had cooked up numerous excuses not to go to Facebar to "socialise." I learnt the most effective method was to ignore the messages and lie that the phone battery had died.
The invites stopped after a month. Colleagues joked that I must be an ally of the radical Islamic groups, no headscarf notwithstanding. Friends teased that I might have terrorist connections. Just for laughs. I'm not offended, worry not.
I did go clubbing, once, twice, thrice, for knowledge sake. Just so I wouldn't be a frog in a well, you know.
I couldn't last longer than an hour, all three times. Smoking is allowed in clubs here so, I started tearing as soon as the party started. After an hour, my eyes had become a full-blown Lake Toba. I had to evacuate myself before a tsunami happens, yes? Or worse, like on one occasion, got my cheek burnt by a lit cigarette.
I must say, unlike their Singaporean counterparts, Indonesian clubbers are no sloppy dressers. Men who go to more upscale clubs are dressed smartly in collared shirts, trousers and leather shoes. Women are immaculately painted and draped in frocks which look like they could have been picked from wedding catalogues.
I'd never been to the strip clubs and the wild and raunchy discos in Blok M area though I would like to go check them out one day. Local Indonesians warned me not to venture there unaccompanied even though they knew I would never be mistaken for an ayam (chicken, also euphemism for prostitute) since I wear my Lisa-Loeb spectacles to clubs (haha). I have a phobia of contact lenses but that's another story.
I think these clubs couldn't be vastly different from the Batam brothels and pubs I'd been to while on journalistic assignments. Different people, same theme.
The ladies of the night could become aggressive as they actively prowled for clients. I'd seen a girl pounce on a prospective client and stick her darting tongue straight into his mouth. Gasp.
While some take on the jobs voluntarily, others are forced into the trade.
My story a long time ago
I'd once shared my hotel bed with two female prostitutes I'd "booked" for a night to find out how they got into the business. They told me how they were cheated by middlemen in their villages in Java who offered them jobs as sales assistants but later sold them off to pimps. They were in debt bondage.
The next day, they wanted to return my money because we did nothing (eureka? hello, I'm straight). I declined but they insisted on buying me breakfast.
"Sister, we can't take your money. We may be prostitutes but we have dignity too. Please let us pay for breakfast," they said.
I couldn't take that away from them, could I? And so we tucked into a nice meal of nasi goreng with extra fried egg on the side.
It's easy to go home from clubs at night because the roads are so empty and taxis are aplenty. But don't be shocked when you see half-naked banci (transvestites) flashing at you as you whizz by.
Some of them are known to do a kamikaze stunt and run in front of your car and expertly flash themselves at you. And then you're forced to jam brake and expected to give them some money for the unwelcome service.
My poor, old heart can no longer take such shocks, though. So between booze, boogie and burn (the ciggie), I always choose busy, baby.
(Photos taken from the Internet)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment