Shakeleg on Shop: All Dressed Up

I wrote an 800-word article about shopping last month. The boss said "You're a natural fashion writer! There's nothing much to edit" and happily pushed the "publish to cyberspace" button.

Truth be told, Shakeleg and fashion don't go together until only recently. Since moving to Indonesia, I've built a wardrobe comprising of... drumroll... factory overruns! Banana Republic, Zara, Gap, Calvin Klein, Esprit, Marks and Spencer. You name it, I've got it.


My small closet

Fine, I'm exaggerating but my point is, many global clothing companies manufacture their goods in developing countries, including Indonesia, and the so-called defective discards are sold cheaply in factory outlets here. I was told that some of these stores stock original items in perfect condition but sell them at before-tax prices.


Rumah Mode is one of the more popular factory outlets in Bandung

Bandung district, which is about three hours' drive from Jakarta, is a shopping haven. I've bought a pair of Gap slippers and some Adidas "dri-fit" running tank tops for a few dollars. In Jakarta, there's a store at Mangga Dua Square which stocks good-quality trekking pants and sweaters. Nearer to my apartment, there's Premium at Ambassador Mall and Heritage at Citywalk.

Thank god my untrained (cheapskate?) eyes can't spot defects and so to me they're as good as gold. What do you expect from somebody who used to pronounce Hermes "Her-Miss" and Guy Laroche, "Ghai -Lah-Rock"? (It's "Air Maze" and "Ghee Larosh" by the way, you dowdy twits!)

Eh, my imaginary cat Luka wants to say something. Hang on, I'm putting its paws on the keyboard.



*starts paw pressing* "My owner is as pretty as my fur and as cute as my nose. She can make a trashbag look like Prata". *ends paw pressing*

How random. But clever bootlicking boy, Luka! You even know similes. Now that saves me the trouble of blowing my own trumpet. But next time please type Prada and not Prata. *throws Friskies on the floor*

Besides these bargains, I've got some dresses tailor-made.

Fabric in a variety of colours, textures and designs can be bought cheaply at huge textile markets in Jakarta, namely Pasar Mayestik and Cipadu, where local fashion designers are known to find their signature threads.



Dressmaking services start from SGD 25. The seamstresses here make good copies and provide quality stitchwork: generous lining, hidden seams, the works. Some even make housecalls, where they visit clients' homes to take their measurements, do fittings and then deliver the goods, which are ready within a week.

The fun part of the whole process is choosing the dress designs online.

Check out this Cotton Cady Alexa dress on J.Crew's website.
J.Crew's price: USD225 (SGD 294).
Shakeleg's Indonesian copy: SGD39 (gold shantung fabric for SGD 4 and SGD35 for sewing).
Savings: SGD255.


J.Crew's


My copy

The problem is that this can be an addictive habit that's hard to break. So far, I've made a shantung camisole, a cheongsam, a tube dress (with bra inserts LOL!) and two kebayas.







Indonesia is the land of the kebayas. Women, rich and poor, get married in them. The wedding solemnisation outfit is usually a white kebaya top matched with a long batik skirt (see picture below).



I was clueless until I made this fashion faux pas, a definite "Her-Miss". Go ahead, laugh all you want. No Luka, I don't mean YOU. *confiscates Friskies*



Anyway, I realise that I can now call myself a true-blue Singaporean. I have a dress, a cheongsam, a kebaya and a saree! I made this saree while holidaying in India a few months ago. So now I can marry a Chinese, Malay, Indian or Eurasian. A single girl must always keep her options open!



I was flipping through the March issue of the Jakarta Timeout magazine the other day and I saw this.



Wohoho, jeans! Not any old jeans, mind you. But a Dior Homme-like leg-hugging skinny jeans. The problem is, my legs are neither huggable nor skinny. They're somewhat "Homme-like" though (read: manly or affectionately called "soccer legs" by my brother). Will Mr Sri Tanjung be able to bring out the Femme in the cursed pair of Hommes? Or will it be another "Her-Miss"? Stay tuned.

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Shakeleg on Love: Own Less, Give More

Mahatma Gandhi had five possessions: spectacles, sandals, pocket watch, bowl, plate. And he moved millions of Indians to rise against British rule.



Shakeleg has more. And she moved nobody, but herself - to tears for being wasteful and excessive.

Last month, I donated five big bags of clothes, bags, paintings, rugs and cushion covers to the office cleaner and ironing lady.

Last year, I donated a sofa and a bed to an orphanage.

It felt good. Not only to be ridding of unnecessary worldly possessions but knowing they were going to needy folks.



I received so many grateful messages from the "beneficiaries" I blushed. To me, they were junk. But to them, they were lovely gifts.

The office cleaner wore one of my shirts to work the other day. As I entered the door, she twirled herself in front of me and gushed "Beautiful, yes? It's the top you gave me. Thank you."

I was so embarrassed I didn't know what to say.

Fellow Singaporeans here tell the same story of giving - and loving.

Sure, there are many wealthy Indonesians but a lot more are poor. In fact, about 14 percent of Indonesia's 240 million people live below the national poverty line. Contributions, be they material items or skills, are always welcome.

I know of one Singaporean woman who regularly contributes items like stationery to a school. One Singaporean man is actively involved in a youth organisation which works with street children and orphans. I admire their commitment. I joined the organisation as a volunteer but couldn't last beyond two sessions.

You see, I believe I have a good heart but... my body needs a wallop. My biggest problem is that I'm a lazy arse. I suppose at this point in my life, I'm only good at donating my clutter to save the environment and world. Haha. But it's a start.


Exercising regularly does not stop me from being a lazy arse

Living in Indonesia has made me more aware of the material comforts I'm blessed with. And learn to be grateful for the bounty because many people are living with less. I am also more mindful of my spending. I'm not a spendthrift to begin with, but there's always room to be less wasteful.

I've since been hooked on the idea of "minimalist living". Living in an under-500-square-foot apartment, I qualify to join the Small House Movement, an architectural and social movement that advocates living in small homes, or so says Wikipedia.

When previously I turned crimson when I told my Singapore friends about my teeny-tiny apartment, now I announce it with pride. Good things come in small packages, I'd say.

Below, I reveal my teeny-tiny apartment! I know you're going to say "SO TIDY!" Yes, I am very anal about keeping my home clean. I hate mess. But my office desk is a different story. Haha.


This article you're reading is on the screen. Hee.


My bedroom






If you visit me, this is where you will be sleeping

Living simply also means cutting down on junk and living only with the essentials. Gandhi and all the Indonesian have-nots are my role model.

But it's no easy task.

When Singaporean friends visit or when Singaporeans here hang out, we do the ordinary things Singaporeans do but which may appear extravagant to the general population.

A fortnight ago, a Singaporean friend was craving for chicken wings so we had dinner at Hard Rock Cafe. Our meals cost 400,000 rupiah (about 70 Singapore dollars). That's half of a cleaner's monthly salary.

Last Sunday, another Singaporean friend and I broke fast (it's the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan now) at Marriott hotel's buffet. She said the advertisement stated "150,000+++ rupiah per person", but the total bill was around 650,000 rupiah. At around 50 Singapore dollars per person, that's slightly less than the price one would pay to have international buffet at Singapore Hyatt's Straits Kitchen.

She was apologetic but later said "Phew, luckily I went with you and not with an Indonesian friend. I would feel really bad as it'd cost too much for her."

It's not like I dine at Hard Rock or Marriott every day in Singapore, but an "honest mistake" like that was forgivable and wouldn't burn too big a hole in my pocket. Dining fancy once in a while was not a problem to my Singaporean friends and I. But it's easy to forget that not everyone could afford such luxuries. Much less in Indonesia.


local chips

At my former Singapore office, there was endless supply of fancy cakes and chocolates given free by five-star hotels and goodies from colleagues who travelled to exotic countries. Here, the only staple around was cheap KapalApi-brand coffee powder, tea and sugar. Occasionally, there would be some local chips and kueh-kueh (local cakes) which would be polished off in an hour or two.

I remember buying a modest packet of rice comprising of three standard dishes (beef rendang, chilli prawn and egg) and getting such comments as "Wow Shakeleg, you eat a lot". When I brought Starbucks coffee back, "Wow, that's fancy" greeted me.


Is this a lot? It's standard Singapore serving, right?

So much so that I decided to eat less and finish my cuppa at the lobby, out of their sight to avoid invoking feelings of envy and planting misguided ideas that I was rich. By Singapore standards, I would be considered middle-class, but rich? Hell no I'm not!

A losing battle, I suppose. Just the other day, somebody quipped I was a "rich orphan". You see, we were joking about getting "money packets" much like the Chinese hongbao for the upcoming Hari Raya, which falls on September 10.

So an Indonesian friend said "I usually give to orphans". So I raised my hand, waved frantically and said "Me! Me! I'm an orphan. My father died when I was 6!"

Her reply? "You're a wealthy orphan. You don't qualify."

So, poor little "rich" girl will have to try harder. Maybe it's hard to give up Starbucks coffee now but surely there's something else I could live without. Like utensils.

My mother, who visited me several times, told me to buy more cooking pots. I resisted. I've survived on one pot, one pan and one wok for two years and I've whipped up many a delicious meal in them.

See, I can definitely live with less. But beyond giving (my junk away), I hope to do more loving. Live to give. And live to love. Like Gandhi.



At the end of the day, when I die, I hope to be remembered for what I am and not what I have.

Which sounds better from the mouth of a mourner?

"Oh Shakeleg! The girl who lived in that huge mansion, had a fleet of luxury cars and had so many Birkins she used some to hold the toilet paper in the loo!" (Hello, a girl can dream!)

OR,

"Oh Shakeleg! The teeny-tiny girl who lived in a teeny-tiny house with her teeny-tiny imaginary cat named Luka. Everything about her was teeny-tiny (like her boobs? Haha!) but oh my, she had one big mighty laugh. And heart."

The latter is like music to the ears, yes?

(Oh, lest you forget, my corpse might rise from the coffin to remind you that besides a big laugh, I ALSO had big teeth and eyes)

Shakeleg on Play: Rub-a-pub-pub, boring woman in the club

I don't drink, smoke or club.

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)

Shakeleg on Play: Walking Barbie

It's very easy to tell the rich from the poor in Indonesia.



The richest are chauffeured around in flashy cars, wear beautiful clothes, and hang out at swanky Grand Indonesia and Plaza Senayan. They have bodyguards and maids in uniforms pushing baby prams behind them as they teeter about in their Christian Louboutins.

The poorest beg, walk barefoot, and live hand to mouth.









Me? I'm one of the ordinary folks who ride ojeks (motorcycle taxis) and shop at Mangga Dua and Blok M.

Wait a minute. Actually, I don't fit into any category.

Being a foreigner means I'm not trapped by social conventions so, I present myself in whichever way I fancy and nobody gives a damn. I could be at a messy wholesale market haggling over batik pajamas today and have cappucino and pancakes at Harvey Nichols tomorrow.

What Indonesians embrace as life here is play to me because I have zero identity. And I try to have fun when dealing with the unfamiliar.

I play around with Indonesian names. Last week I told the Starbucks cashier my name was Cahaya Bintang (Light of the Star) when he took down my latte order. The previous week, I was Bunga Dewi (Flower Goddess).

I thought they were outrageous but nobody batted an eyelid. I think I'll name myself after the airline Merpati Nusantara (Dove Archipelago) next week.



I play around with Indonesian public transport. So many to choose from – the ojek, the bajaj (three-wheel taxi), the mikrolet (minibus), the kopaja (non-aircon bus), and the Transjakarta (aircon bus).





There's always live entertainment on the bus by way of hawkers selling anything from roasted peanuts to nail clippers and buskers strumming miniature guitars and crooning pop songs for a hundred rupiah (two cents) or two.






Typical Guitar Man (video taken by my friend, The Brown Dot)

Bored one day, I decided to join a busker in his massacred rendition of John Denver's "Leaving on a Jetplane." Kudos for the effort, though. Most streetbuskers sing only Indonesian songs.

"Am living owner jade plains, don't know when I will beg again," he sang with a thick Javanese twang.

"Oh babeeeeee, I had to goooooooo," I continued, howling like a werewolf.

He jumped, probably shocked that someone was actually listening to him – and responding in a way only a crazy foreigner would.

I smiled and said "Mas, lagu Peterpan, dong," encouraging him to sing a song by a local poprock band. He obliged and I slipped a 1,000 rupiah in his grubby plastic bag.

I play around with various Indonesian personas. I am the talented housemaid who can manouevre two trolleys along supermarket aisles, cook, clean and charm security guards into helping to clear nasty cockroaches and grasshoppers in the apartment.



But I'm less successful in being a Walking Barbie. These creatures come in all ages, shapes and sizes and are seen everywhere in the glitzy malls and clubs.

This is a typical Walking Barbie's beauty routine: several hours at the salon for a keramas (hair cream bath and head massage) and then styling the locks in tight curls or cascading lush waves. While the hair is being worked on, the feet are massaged and the fingernails, shaped and painted.


Indonesian girls spend hours at the salon to get these cascading waves!

Like in Singapore, there are plenty of beauty services here but at the fraction of the price. Full-on makeup with fake curly lashes? Brow shaping? Your wish is my command, says the beauty genie.

But the difference? It seems that girls here prettify themselves too much, too often. A little terrifying for this plain jane whose standard Singapore attire is a tee matched with a pair of capris and Crocs sandals.

But I did try. Let's just say since I arrived here, I've become vainer. I exercise regularly, eat moderately and shop happily.





Now I own lace dresses, tailored pants and bow hairbands! I get body massages (six Singapore dollars an hour) and foot reflexology sessions weekly. I even have a personal masseuse who makes house calls.

The potions seem to be working. On a visit back to Singapore once, several former colleagues commented that my face was glowing and "You're resembling those Indonesian stars more and more" – kind compliments which I don't take seriously. Because ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you, these so-called stars' asses look prettier than my face.



Looking beautiful is too much hard work. I only tried the Walking Barbie stunt once and I didn't like it, so I stopped playing.

I continue to look for more "toys" in Indonesia. I don't care if they're played by the rich or the poor.

As long as my senses come alive and I feel alive, my life is richer than ever!

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Rojak Group Timeout: Goal!

Il Mondiale, Piala Dunia, la Copa Mundial, ฟุตบอลโลก, Weltmeisterschaft, 世界杯...

Say it in any language, the most recognized global sport has got many of us eat.shop.play.love writers missing sleep and nearly forgetting to feed the baby. As Germany, The Netherlands, Spain and Uruguay roll into the World Cup semifinals, we chip in to share images from our neck of the woods.

Duck's Nuts in Sydney says:

My photos were taken at the FIFA FanFest live site at Darling Harbour in Sydney. There were more than 20,000 people who were watching the game in the freezing cold (about 5 degrees celsius) at the site, including me. I had gone to the game with some German friends. They are always great to watch football with as they know their team very well.


Sydney, Australia: Germans fans at the Darling Harbour FIFA FanFest live site chanting "Deutschland, Deutschland" before the start of the Germany versus Australia game on June 14 at 4.30 a.m. Sydney time.


Sydney, Australia: Socceroo (Australian) fans wear their green and gold in support of their national football team.


Sydney, Australia: A Socceroo fan wears his national flag as a cape and dons the national jersey as he watches the main screen at the official FIFA FanFest site in Sydney's Darling Harbour. There are only six official FanFest sites around the world outside of South Africa. The other five are in Berlin, Mexico City, Paris, Rio de Janeiro and Rome.



Sydney, Australia: The FIFA FanFest site showed how multicultural Australia is. A large group of Serbian fans got together to watch the Serbia versus Ghana game. Unfortunately for them, the Black Stars won 1-0. Sitting in the foreground are the Socceroo fans, who were waiting for the next game, Germany versus Australia, which the former won by four goals (4-0).

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Una Ragazza in New York says:

Even as World Cup fever strikes every man and woman, young and old, some things never change in the most fashionable city i the world.


New York: A mini kit for the wannabe midfielder


New York: Gotta look good even if I may be hitting the mud any second from now



New York: Enjoying my biftec a la cazuela at my favorite latino cafe watching the South Korean team play Uruguay on a South Korean television (viva la Samsung!)


New York: Try solving this mystery -- Puerto Rico didn't qualify for the 2010 World Cup but these entrepreneurial guys are making a fortune selling the country's flag outside of Penn Station in Manhattan. Why is that so?

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Shakeleg in Jakarta says:

To celebrate the World Cup, Indonesian teens in Central Java are donning sarongs and letting the trapped wind under their seams do the kicking.



Central Java, Indonesia: If that's not hot enough for these players of Sepakbola Sarong (Sarong Soccer), losers will have to dance to the beat of dangdut music so, everyone aims to lose!





Indonesia: Dangdut dance by one of the country's famed dangdut singer, Inul Daratista


Central Java, Indonesia: World Cup is also a way to spread political messages. Students wear masks bearing the faces of the country's corruptors while playing soccer as a protest against corruption.

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Horse with No Name in Arizona (and Washington, D.C., and New York) says:


New York: The Eat Drink Bar in Times Square, where I was visiting on vacation.


New York: Major marketing going on here in Times Square. There's a massive Nike poster. Massive.


Washington D.C.: At the International Spy Museum cafe, a guy holds his head as the U.S. team concedes the goal to Ghana that would seal its fate in the round of 16. Everyone in the cafe was riveted to the screen, even the security guards. They were all devastated by the time the final seconds rolled around.

Post script: After the 4-0 German/Argentina thrashing. I overheard snippets of conversation from tourists and locals alike, dissecting the match as they were shopping. At one of the junctions, a huge ruckus started up, cars sounding horns in celebration of the win. It was pretty festive-sounding, one would have thought the U.S. was still in the running for the cup.

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