Between

the fridge and the cupboard, you will find something that you might like. I left it there this morning. Promise me you'll feed it.

Who woke up this morning thinking it's Wednesday?

I did. Now I have to go to a two-day workshop in Bogor without fresh clothes and toiletries.

I blame the Idul Kurban holiday on Monday for this lapse.

I Dream of Roasted Eel

What’s a good meal to you? Have you ever had a particularly delicious dish in an environment that is just right? A thick burger with melted cheese in a busy fast-food joint perhaps? Or a jazzy restaurant’s delicately intricate dish so pretty that you feel content just by staring at it? Or a perfectly fried mendoan at a shabby warung that you stumbled upon when you tried to locate where Kebasen is?

You may remember a lot of good meals that you’ve had. You see, the memory of a good meal tends to stay with you. It is etched at the back of your mind and springs forward when you see or hear the phrase ‘good food’, or when you’re hungry.

I love eating. I particularly adore gudeg and soto Sokaraja and have had countless portion of them. Yet, my recollection of a good meal has nothing to do with Yu Ginuk’s exceptional gudeg or Pak Amin’s thick broth and liberal topping of tripe chunks. It wasn’t even my meal. Instead, it involves two eel hunters and a graveyard.

I was about 10 then. My cousin and I were returning from a fishing expedition. We were walking across the graveyard near my uncle’s house when I saw them under a tall salam tree. Two tukang urek-urek taking a break after spending a good part of the morning fishing for eels in the vast rice fields to the east. They had built a small fire on a cemented floor between two gravestones, across which chunks of eel meat clamped between two bamboo sticks were being roasted.

They must have had a good day. The eels they selected for their lunch was quite large and they’re not exactly frugal with the cut. The meat looked reddish-brown and oily, the edges were charred from roasting. An empty sachet of kecap manis ABC suggested that they had added sweet soy sauce for taste. I could see the juice dripping down as the sweet scent of roasted eel rose to the air.

One of them produced a packet of cooked rice, while the other got up to get banana leaves which would serve as their plate. They knew my cousin and invited us over. My stupid, stupid cousin politely declined. I couldn’t remember why.

As we walked home, I couldn’t get the picture off my mind. It would have been a perfect lunch. Rice on banana leaves with slightly charred chunks of roasted eel. The meat would have been sweet, succulent and juicy. Not to mention that they are enjoyed outdoors, accompanied by light breeze bringing the scent of rice stalks. Really, I couldn’t get it off my mind. Even now.

Halfway Through

So we’re twelve days into Ramadhan. Well, actually, it depends on your denomination as well. If you’re a disciple of Naqsabandiyah—I hope I wrote that correctly, then you’re fourteen days into the holy month.

The thing is, the Ramadhan has always been an enigmatic time for me. For someone whose attitude towards food is somewhere between gluttony and anarchy, the idea of refraining from food is not very appealing, to say the least. It affects with my mood, my productivity—or lack thereof, and my ability to hold a decent conversation without falling asleep.

Like the other day, for example. I was sent to this five-hour long meeting, from 1 to 6, at a nearby hotel conference room. Yes that’s right. That’s a five hour battle to ward off severe drowsiness and boredom. The warm ambiance, cool airconditioned room, fluffy desks, and the monotonous voice of a man droning on and on about the importance of getting the program name right when they are to be included in medium-term development plan. Things like that are bad enough on a regular day. On a Ramadhan day, it’s a downright torture. The grave misery I had to experience that day is second only to the time when, stuck at an angkot, I was forced to listen to Syaiful Jamil sing.

But then again, there is the break-fasting (or fast-breaking?). Either way, it’s a truly joyous time. It’s the time when the heavily quoted sentenece ‘you never knew what you’ve got till it’s gone’ actually means something. It’s time for the bottled-out rage to be unleashed at the unsuspecting dinner-table. Feast, feast my dears. Let you be hungry or thirsty no more! Don’t sip, gulp! Attack with vengeance!

Yet, fast-breaking wouldn’t be fun if you don’t fast. Even if you only cheated with a quick gulp of water at noon. Come fast-breaking time, you may still be hungry and thirsty, but you don’t have it anymore. The mucho gusto has flown off the patio.

So yeah, it’s kinda paradoxical, isn’t it? But it never is a bad thing. May you make it till sundown. Cheers..

The Big Three-O

Oh wait, that was last year. I'm thirty-one now. Man, how time whizzes pass like a chipmunk on Redbull..

Aura Kasih

It's not that she can't sing. Everybody can sing. Whether they can sing WELL, is quite a different matter. But with legs like that, she's so forgiven.


And, oh, the pole is there for a reason, dear..

The Loss

Usually she greets me by jumping up and down, announcing to her mother that I’m home. I’m not gonna lie to you. It does make me feel like a rock-star when she does that. Last night, however, she just stood there tearfully crying. The way she cried, you’d think there has been a tragedy of biblical proportion. Tears were streaming down and the corners of her mouth curved downward. Steady rendition of mid-range weeping accentuated with occasional burst of high-pitched wailing.

When I asked her what happened, between her sobs she mentioned something about her ‘ngeng-ngeng’. That’s her best linguistic effort to describe her toy car. A plastic fire-truck big enough for her to ride around, Flintstone-style, and wreak havoc around the house. On fine afternoons, she would drag the contraption to the pavement in front of our house, since we don’t have any yard to speak of, to play with her wee friends. The toy car became something of a social tool because it enables her to mingle with other kids. Sometimes they traded rides too. She gets to try the fancy tricycle or whatever it is the other kids happen to bring along.

The missus explained that the ‘ngeng-ngeng’ went missing. She forgot to bring it in that afternoon. Somebody must have took it. So, yes, to her it’s a big, big loss. While not exactly a tragedy of biblical proportion, it wasn’t that far off.

At this point, I figured that the best course of action is to cheer her up. After meal, we told her that we were going to lapangan Mekarsari to check out the pasar malam, funfair. The change of emotion was stunning. She barely sat on the motorcycle when she started singing. Belting out ‘Hujan’ and ‘Balonku’ alternately at the top of her lungs. Moving her head sideways and raised her hands at the ‘dor!’. It’s like the whole ngeng-ngeng gone missing episode never happened.

At the funfair, I don’t think that she remembered owning a ngeng-ngeng in the first place. She asked me to buy her a pair of toy sunglasses and, of course, a big red balloon. Despite the fact that she already had seven sunglasses and the balloon wouldn’t last five minutes, in the light of what just happened, I couldn’t say no to both. I think most fathers in the world wouldn’t say no either. All in all, she was back to her old cheerful chatterbox self. And I feel rather good about my self for handling this quite well.

As we put her to bed, I commented to the missus that I wished all pain related to losing something we hold dear can be erased by pink sunglasses and big red balloons. As if on cue, my daughter began mumbling sadly about her missing toy car. “Nope.” the missus whispered,” the only cure is a NEW ngeng-ngeng”

If You Were My Age

You would know:

who Lasmini is, or better yet, which mountain she hails from.

how to operate manual typewriter.

the name of Lupus' only sister.

the number of gold coins that Mario or Luigi needs to have an extra life.

the name of Pak Broto's inn.

who Hakeem Olajuwon is.

the name of TV program hosted by Nisrina Nur Ubay and Anton Hilman in turns

the preamble of 1945 Constitution by heart, and the whole line up of Kabinet Pembangunan V as well.

what Penataran P4 is all about because you've gone through it at least twice.

who Dian Pisesha is, courtesy of your father.

full well that there had been a time when the TV has only ONE channel. Yes, kids, you read that correctly. ONE CHANNEL.

and be able to name the members of the A-Team. Or the name of Lt. Hunter's partner.

Gombloh's two hit songs, at least.

who Ferry Fadli is. Or maybe Maria Oentoe.

why Pakdhe was sentenced for life.

what Slalom Test is all about.

what LKMD, NKKBS, and UDKP stands for. Well, if you had grown up in a small town, that is.

what Sapi Banpres is.

the song Madu dan Racun by heart.

what Aneka Ria Safari is.

the title of the song which launched Julius Sitanggang into stardom. Briefly.

the name of PSSI's goalkeepers in a time when we were still able to beat Thailand.

Stuck In Traffic At Maghrib

becak pating slangkrah
montor, gedhe-cilik, pating slempit
hondha parkir seenggon-enggon
dalane kebek, bek
apa maning nek ana sepur liwat

angkutan padha ngetem ora eling enggon
supire gurisan karo udud
ora jere kelingan nek kiye dudu dalane mbaeh
klakson moni ora mandeg-mandeg
ora teyeng temen padha ngalah

dalane mung sepethil
ora bisa dikapak-kapakena maning
sing bisa diambakena mung manah

Cilok, Lolly Ice, and The Commentary

My father used to take me out to watch football matches. Even when we were on a trip, he usually made it his business to pull over if there was a match in a road-side football pitch we happened to pass by. We simply lingered for a while, or longer—depending on the urgency of the trip, and the attractiveness of the match in question.

On more planned occasions, he would take us on his motorbike or hitching on a flatbed minivan to places like Srandil, Wangon, or Adipala to watch local competitions, especially when the team from his office, the Nusakambangan State Penitentiary, was playing. If I remember correctly, the team consisted of convicts as well as guards. They were kind of good, even without the psychological advantage of being affiliated with one of the most notorious prisons in the country.

You can always feel the excitement even before you get to the venue, courtesy of an army of cone-shaped loudspeakers. The far-from-stereo sound of Indonesian national songs can be heard from miles away. Most of the time, the ‘stadium’ took the form of local football pitch encircled by woven bamboo wall. It was a poor attempt at keeping the ticketless away. These resourceful people could easily craft a hole at strategic locations, or alternatively, climbed the nearest tree to get what I imagined as a much better view of the proceedings.

And it’s not just about the football. It’s all sort of things around it that makes these outings quite memorable.

There’s always the food. Old ladies with simple bamboo tray of boiled and roasted peanuts. With or without shells. Boiled soybeans. Hard-as-nail cassava rings and cassava crackers. And more often that not, there’s the lolly ice vendors. It’s basically shredded ice compacted into a circle and laced with syrup of various color and was held by a small bamboo stick. Voila, lolly ice. Yes, there was the question of whether the vendor wore gloves and the legality of the syrup’s coloring agent. But we were just kids, we couldn’t care less. In that sense, we were equally less hygiene-conscious in our appreciation of cilok. A chewy ball of steamed tapioka dumplings with fish flavor of highly questionable origin. Nevertheless, at Rp.25,- , cilok was very popular among kids at that time.

And of course, what would a local football be without the hardcore local fans and football enthusiasts? These guys had an unshakable belief that they know more about football than all players, coaches, and referees combined. They never hesitated to share their views regarding the players, officials—especially the referee, and the quality of the football they were watching. Loudly and, most of the times, not very politely. The milder of these guys usually commented on the the referee’s eyesight or, if the particular ref is card-happy, the quality of his sex-life.

An then there is the on-pitch commentary, our own local version of Max Sopacua or Andy Gray. His job description included sitting on the best seat of the ‘stadium’, usually a couple metres high, and presented a blow-by-blow account of the match. He delivered his account with an obvious sense of urgency, rhytmic emphasis, and loads of drama. “ANGkat bola ke depaaan, KUTak-kutik sebentaaar, TENDang ke gawaaang, SAYANG sekali Saudara-saudara…masih melenceng dua sentimeter di sisi kiri gawaaang...(lift the ball forward, twisting and turning, shoot on goal, WHAT A SHAME it missed the left post by 2 centimeters)”. He must have been sitting some 50 meters away from goal. But apparently all commentators are blessed with outstanding geometric abilities enabling them to determine precisely how much the ball missed the goal posts. And the crowd loved them for it.


Singing the national anthem along with some 80,000 fans in Indonesia's National Stadium is admittedly an experience beyond description. But really, basking in the afternoon sun with cilok in one hand and lolly ice in the other while watching two local teams slug it out in a pitch surrounded by bamboo walls is not that far off.

Pretty Dreadful

I don’t particularly enjoy waching horror movies. I mean, one watches movies for various reasons. Be it for the heartwarming story, stimulating theme, intriguing plot, witty dialogues, enthralling visual display, or simply the fact that one has two hours to kill. I’m not entirely sure, however, that getting scared the crap out of one’s wit is one of them.

The missus, on the other hand, actually takes pleasure in being scared the crap out of her wit. She would sit back and thoroughly enjoy the offering while I cover my ears and squint my eyes in anticipation of boo-moments. Wuss, she would mutter coyly under her breath. Boo-moments merely causes her to flinch a little. In my case, it means a struggle to prevent instant seizure.

Some horror movies are actually enjoyable. The Exorcist and The Blair Witch Project are two examples. But these gems are few and far between. The missus’ fare usually constitutes of whatever 8 in 1 horror flick DVDs I manage to bring home from Stasiun Bekasi. Most of which are murderously annoying.

Take Penny Dreadful for example. The title per se should give an inkling what to expect. The girl Penny has a carphobia, which means she’s afraid of cars. There’s a correct technical terms, but I can’t seem to remember what the word is. I pointed out to the missus that she has motherinlawphobia, only to receive a steely stare in return.

Anyway, to overcome this phobia, she and her therapist engaged in a roadtrip. In a quiet mountain road they hit a creepy hooded man and then, as a show of remorse, took him along. Question: would you let a creepy hooded man into your car? I thought so. But then again, common sense seems to be a concept lost to horror flick characters. Most of them ended up dead, remember?

They then drove him deep into the woods off the main road. Night-time plus woods plus creepy hooded man equals to certain death. Simple math. But the two women were not dead yet.

After they dropped off their would-be killer (oops, was that a spoiler?) at an abandoned camp, the two would-be corpses set off for the main road. Before long, they realized that the creepy hooded man had spiked the front tire. The spare tire was also flat. Not a exactly an example of good motoring practice.

Penny went out of the car and just could not bring herself to get in again. The annoyance-meter starts to climb up. The therapist bluffed by leaving and Penny chased her and sprained her ankle in the process. Okay, so now Penny sat tearfully in the car.

The therapist decided to get help on foot and told Penny to stay in the car. Did Penny stay on the car? Of course, not. She wandered around as you would normally do if you sprained your ankle and were lost in the woods. Predictably, the creepy hooded man showed up and everything went black.

Our carphobic girl woke up to find herself stuck in a car with her dead therapist on the driving seat. She couldn’t open the door because the car was wedged between two trees. How on earth the creepy hooded man find those two perfectly-fitting trees was beyond me. Perhaps he was helped by the crew.

Having said that, I had to admit that it’s kinda cool to put someone who’s afraid of cars in a car and then throw in a corpse for a bonus. That’s like an extra scoop of icecream on your cone. Add the fact that the poor girl had to prise the corpse’s clenched teeth open with a screwdriver to get the cleverly-hidden car keys. That, my friend, is the cherry on top.

The director, or whoever is in charge, should have done better with this material than taking shots, and close ups, from various angles of Penny’s rather unconvincing terrified look and her squirmy escape attempts for a full 15 minutes. I wished the killer would show up and finish her off. She started getting on my nerve and the missus reminded me that we had depleted our supply of anti-depressants when we watched The Eye the other day.

Hope came in the form of a couple to whom the concept of motels is alien. Actually, I’d rather watch these two make out in their car for a full 15 minutes. Now, because the couple showed up when the film still has 45 minutes to play, anyone with half a brain should be able to predict their fate. Instead of simply smashing the windshield, the idiot decided to lift the front part while Penny hit the pedal to the metal in reverse. The creepy hooded man emerged from under the car and effortlessly drag the idiot guy under, alien-like.

Anyway the rest of the movie, involved more close-ups of Penny’s scared face, the whole car painted in blood, and near-escape by way of bare-handedly ripping a hole the backseat, which is funny because I have always thought backseats has steel-wire frame. And Penny kicking the creepy hooded man in the jewels. Imagine that, a girl with sprained ankle kick a man who snatched his victims like they’re a bag of popcorn. And the obligatory chase-camera shot that capture Penny running from the creepy hooded man. Well, more or less. I made two trips to the bathroom, brew a pot of tea and fried half a dozen pieces of battered banana.

Chasing Halo-halo

You can hear it when it entered the northern end of Jalan Tongkol. The sound was muffled by the tall walls of the noodle factory. Judging from the muffled loudness, you knew you still had a chance. So you drop everyting you were doing and ran. Iis and A Kai heard it to. And they ran with you.

Across the back of Pak Kirsan's house and banked left on the communal well. Giggling as you did because Lik Nano's wife was bathing in her sarong. You turned right at the corner of Mbah Wignyo's house and sprinted along the back of the Sidakaya III State Elementary School. Your footsteps and the rythmic chanting of students battling to memorize the multiplication table. But the sound was growing louder and nearer as you emerged right in the middle of Jalan Tengiri. Jalan Tongkol on one end and Jalan Teri on the other.

Panting, you looked right. And looked left. There was nothing there. Still the sound grew louder. "Nangendi Halo-halone (where is the Halo-halo)?", Iis asked. He looked at you accusingly. As if you had something to do with it not being there.

Then suddenly the sound went full blast. No longer muffled as it glided along Jalan Tongkol past the walls of the noodle factory. You grinned. Your friends grinned. An the chase was on.
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The Halo-halo. An old-van with a large movie-poster strapped on its back. And a large cone-shaped loudspeaker mounted on the roof. Anything that loud and colorful attracts attentions. Especially those belong to us kids.

There were two competing movie theathres in Cilacap those days, Sinar and Bhinekka. They're all dead now. But back then, to inform people of what was on, they opted to apply the hands on approach. They drove around the city and blew our eardrums off with the title, actors, bits of the plot, and why we should part with the little money we had to see the movie. They always began their loud persuasion with these lines: 'Halo-halo, saudara-saudara..saksikanlah film bla-bla-bla.. (Hello, hello.. brothers and sisters, come and see this movie titled..)' Hence the name.

The Sinar Halo-halo usually passed around 10 a.m and its Bhinneka counterpart an hour later. There must be some kind of arrangement between them. They never turned out together. It would be awesome if they did though. Regardless, each time one of these things turned up anywhere near our streets, we gave it a chase. Always. Adults simply craned their necks. But kids always ran after it. Trailing behind and around like remoras to sharks.

Once we're close enough. We tapped and banged at the doors and windows asking for gambar, flyers. Yes, they gave out flyers. Colorful on glossy paper at first. Then black-and-white in plain paper when the economy went bad. Still, it's free. And free stuff always welcome. My neighbor actually collected these flyers. He glued it to his livingroom walls. Beats painting, he said. In restrospect, a framed flyer of Ari Hanggara would look cool in my room.

Anyway, the Halo-halo driver and his mate didn't really like wasting the flyers on us. We're not potential customers, obviously. So we had to run and tap and bang for quite a while before they threw out a couple of flyers. At this point, our united effort ended. Next came competition. We fought for the flyers.

However, we always ended sharing the flyers. Marveling at the man with the big guns, exploding cars, or women with minimalist clothing apparati. We didn't keep the flyers, though. Too risky.

So yes, a while later we were back doing whatever we were doing before the Halo-halo came. Did we end up with nothing? Not really. It's the chase. We're in it for the chase.

Defining Oneself

Standing before hundreds of bumper stickers, I was amazed when I realized that one can define one's identity, and broadcast it to others, quite so easily. For a small price, of course. But without years of personal contemplation, wading waist-deep in modern philosophy, ingesting alcohol and nicotin, or suicidal attempts.

Here, at the stickerguy's place near the bridge on Jalan Agus Salim, one can, for example, simply opt to define oneself as a Liverpool fan. A lover of Padi's music. A patron of HuGo's or Hard Rock Cafe. An enthusiast of Honda motorcycles, Arai helmets, Japanese anime, Fender guitars, or even Durex condoms.

An arabic calligraphy depicting the shape of Semar may indicate one's religious stance and ethnical background simultaneously. A crude yellow 'Hari gini masih pindah gigi' over black background declared one's partiality towards automatic motorcycles. One's decalaration of sexual preferences or general attitude toward sex, or to a certain extent, romance--if the two could somehow be linked together, are also readily available in explicit or implicit version.

The most interesting category, however, was the region of origin. In the spirit of Mie Ayam Wonogiri, Bakso Arema, and Warkop Putra Sunda, we now have bumper stickers declaring Cah (from Javanese bocah>>guy) Pekalongan, Cah Kutoarjo, Cah Banjarnegara, Putra Kuningan, and the likes. This is new. I have never seen this before. I have of course seen Arek Suroboyo or Budak Bandung. That's big cities. Cool cities. But to go to district level like Ngawi was quite something else. I mean, how many of you know where Delanggu is?

This got me thinking, which is a rare occasion. In this vast modernity jungle known as Jakarta, one could easily lost oneself in the face of sooo many cool identities one could conveniently assume. Why choose sticking with their origin, their roots? To identify oneself with Jakarta, or anything associated with it, is perhaps a surefire ticket to coolness. Hell, most of the times I enjoy hearing myself say 'I work in Jakarta' in a conversation with strangers residing in my place of origin. So again, why would in Jakarta some people proudly announce that they are not from Jakarta? My guess is that it's one of those 'being cool by remaining uncool' thing. I don't know. Maybe.

But anyway, if you ever saw a motorcyclist wearing a blue helmet with red 'Cah Cilacap' written on it, there's a good chance that it would be me.

The Burglar On The Roof

I think it was the New Year's Eve of 1995. Awan, Hindarto and I had just completed a long, long walk from Malioboro all the way to Bener, Tegalrejo. It was a splendid idea at the onset. First of all, it was, of course, the New Year' Eve. We actually had nothing to celebrate. In fact, all omens indicated that the new year would be grim in educational, financial, and romance fronts. But then again, it's the New Year's Eve. We just had to find festivity somewhere. The fact that we had no mode of transportation beside our own feet did not dampen our spirit. So we chipped in for a pack of Marlboro, a luxury compared to our usual fare of Djarum 76, and started off.

Five hours, a pack of Marlboro, and roughly ten kilometers later, tired and weary, we were back home. Koskosan (boarding house) Bu Dxxxx (population 12, when full). The sole proprietor, Bu Dxxxx, was a feisty elderly woman with sharp tongue and strong commanding aura. It had been known that she showed little compassion or mercy. Especially when the subject matter involves rent or female presence in her territory, which was not good for us either way.

You see, old-school Jogjakartan koskosans were run like big families. Parents would come at the beginning of their kid's stay and asked the proprietor to take care of their offspring. Pull their ears if you have to, they often said to the smiling and nodding proprietor. So, maintaining good behaviour was essential. Especially if your parents often visited. The proprietor might say something highly euphemisized like," Well, So and So is a good boy, really. But he seems to be out late quite often lately. Perhaps he is busy studying with his friends." Knowing that there was no chance in hell their boy was studying at night, let alone the suggestion that the poor sod was making the effort to visit friends for educational purposes, alarm bells would be ringing. Next thing you know, your allowance was cut in half, or worse.

Please excuse the detour. So anyway, the rest of the tenants were still out and none of us had enough sense to bring the key to the front door. The only other thinkable entry point was at the back, through the roof of the loo. So we went around the house, knocking on every window--except Bu Dxxxx's, to no avail. So the loo it was. Hindarto, with an unbelievable spirit of self-sacrifice, volunteered to climb in. The plan was, he would climb the 2-meter back wall, enter through a gaping hole at the roof of the loo, somehow came down, and open the front door for the rest of us, his two helpless best friends.

Without further ado, Hindarto took off his sandals and began climbing with surprising ease that rivaled any seasoned burglar. He was about to slid feet first into the hole when he was challenged by a commanding, "Sopo kuwi! (Who goes there!)". To say the he was startled out of his wits was a gross understatement. He lost his grip and slid further down. Now, half his body was visibly perching on the roof while his legs must have been hanging over the loo and whoever (although we have a pretty good idea who) was in there.Yet, Hindarto managed to compose himself (credit to him) and stammered back," Kula, Bu. Hindarto (It's me. Hindarto)"

I didn't catch the rest of what I imagined to be an extremely awkward exchange. By then, survival instinct shamelessly took over and Awan and I fled to nearby bushes, battling the overwhelming urge to laugh our heads off. Some friends we were. We did, eventually, drowned ourselves in an endless laughing fits once we were in a safe distance. The mental picture of Bu Dxxxx in a rather undignifying circumstance conversing with Hindarto's dangling legs was just too much. It was like a vintage scene from Warkop DKI movies--only better. It was for real and we were there to witness it.

We gave it fifteen minutes before we knocked on Hindarto's window, humbly begging to be let in. He was far from happy and didn't hold back on telling us exactly what he thought of the two us, which, for the purpose of venting out anger, were addressed in a series of rather unflattering names. Eventually, his golden heart shone through and he opened the front door for his two completely unworthy friends.

That night's episode became the koskosan's mythical legend. Immortalized in time. It was told over and over again in various occasion and courts. Over endless puffs of cigarettes and cups of coffees. To the newcomers as well as the seasoned old-timers. Late at night or while we're queuing for the bathroom. We all applaud the Brebesian boy's heroics. And that is why I wrote it here. So, you see, Hindarto, your tale is forever told.

My First Book Review Since 2001

Tugas dari kantor untuk meresensi buku Richard Vietor>>How Countries Compete: Strategy, Structure, and Government in the Global Economy
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Di dunia yang semakin global, setiap negara harus berkompetisi jika ingin berkembang. Persaingan terbuka untuk memperebutkan pasar, teknologi, keahlian dan investasi merupakan satu-satunya jalan jika suatu negara ingin berkembang dan meningkatkan taraf hidup rakyatnya. Kenyataan ini menempatkan pemerintah pada posisi yang sangat penting, bahkan pada negara-negara yang ekonominya berbasis pasar. Bertolakbelakang dengan pandangan umum, Richard Vietor menegaskan bahwa pemerintahan yang dominan tidak identik dengan pengaruh buruk terhadap perekonomian yang berbasis pasar.

Berdasarkan pengalamannya sebagai staf pengajar di Harvard Business School dan konsultan di berbagai negara, Vietor menyajikan ulasan pendekatan-pendekatan pemerintah terhadap perkembangan ekonomi sebelas negara yang jika digabungkan jumlah penduduknya mencapai lebih dari tigaperempat penduduk dunia: Jepang, Singapura, China, India, Meksiko, Afrika Selatan, Saudi Arabia, Rusia, Italia, dan Amerika Serikat.

Ada tiga hal utama yang dibahas dalam buku ini. Pertama, tinjauan upaya negara-negara tersebut dalam mencapai tingkat pertumbuhan sampai sekarang. Kedua, proyeksi ekonomi negara-negara tersebut di masa depan. Ketiga, peran pemerintah masing-masing negara yang mempengaruhi perjalanan perkembangan ekonomi tersebut.

Sebagai latar belakang, bab pertama buku ini menjelaskan pentingnya strategi dan struktur. Dalam hal ini, Vietor menggarisbawahi peranan pemerintah dalam hal pembangunan ekonomi. Pemerintah, menurut Vietor, setidaknya harus mampu menjamin keamanan, penegakkan hukum, hak kepemilikan, dan risiko luar biasa. Selain itu pemerintah juga dituntut untuk mampu mengelola ekonomi makro dan kebijakan industri sebagai dampak dari kebijakan moneter yang telah dipilih.

Selanjutnya, pembahasan tiap negara dibagi menjadi tiga berdasarkan alur perkembangan ekonominya. Pembahasan bagian pertama meliputi pesatnya perkembangan ekonomi negara-negara Asia. Dengan bahasa yang sederhana, Vietor mengulas pertumbuhan ekonomi Jepang yang mencapai 10.1% selama tujuhbelas tahun berturut-turut. Selain itu, Singapura, China, dan India, menurut Vietor, merupakan contoh keberhasilan strategi ekonomi berbasis ekspor dan liberalisasi. Keberhasilan Singapura dinilai sebagai buah dari strategi pertumbuhan ekspor berbasis penanaman dana luar negeri yang ditunjang oleh kematangan institusi-institusi bentukan pemerintah dalam menerapkan kebijakan-kebijakan yang telah ditetapkan. Sementara itu, pertumbuhan ekonomi China yang luarbiasa terjadi dibawah kebijakan pembangunan yang pragmatis dengan titik berat pada liberalisasi ekonomi dengan tetap mempertahankan kekuasaan politik di pusat. Pembahasan tentang India menyoroti peralihan dari swadeshi menuju ke arah liberalisasi. Langkah-langkah privatisasi yang dibarengi dengan reformasi perpajakan dan peraturan merupakan upaya India untuk bersaing secara global.

Bagian kedua membahas sulitnya perkembangan ekonomi ditengah perubahan struktur. Pada bagian ini, Vietor menyajikan kasus Meksiko yang perkembangan ekonominya tersendat antara lain karena adanya perubahan struktur politik. Senada dengan Meksiko, Afrika Selatan digambarkan sedang berkuat memperbaiki kinerja ekonominya setelah mengalami transisi dari rezim apartheid. Sementara itu, modernisasi di Arab Saudi menjadi pekerjaan rumah yang tidak ringan bagi pemerintahan Raja Abdullah. Diversifikasi ekonomi dan upaya menggerakkan warga Saudi untuk berinvestasi di negeri sendiri merupakan tantangan besar karena berbenturan dengan institusi-institusi dan budaya yang ada. Di Rusia, kegagalan big-bang liberalization di tatanan masyarakat multi-etnis yang telah lama menganut aliran komunis garis keras membuat kekuasaan justru berpindah ke sejumlah kecil pemilik modal. Pemerintah kehilangan wibawanya di mata masyarakat.

Italia, Jepang, dan Amerika Serikat merupakan fokus bahasan pada bagian ketiga. Melalui Italia, Vietor menyoroti integrasi Eropa dan permasalahan yang dihadapinya seperti pertumbuhan, produktifitas, defisit, dan yang paling utama: daya saing ekonomi. Sementara itu, Jepang sedang mengalami kemandekan menyusul pertumbuhan ekonomi yang luar biasa pasca Perang Dunia ke Dua. Demikian halnya Amerika Serikat. Tingkat konsumsi berlebihan dan defisit anggaran merupakan salah satu masalah terbesar yang dihadapi oleh negeri Paman Sam ini. Benang merah yang bisa ditarik dari ketiga kasus di atas, menurut Vietor, adalah lambatnya perubahan institusional dan bergesernya demografi ke arah penduduk usia lanjut.

Di bagian akhir Vietor kembali menegaskan peran penting pemerintah. Tanpa menafikan pola perilaku individual dan pelaku bisnis, Vietor berargumen bahwa kebijakan-kebijakan yang diterapkan pemerintah jelas berpengaruh besar terhadap perkembangan ekonomi. Di Amerika Serikat, kebijakan pemerintah tentang keamanan nasional, kesehatan, dan perdagangan serta kurangnya perhatian dalam hal tabungan dan nilai tukar merupakan faktor-faktor utama penyebab defisitnya anggaran negara tersebut.

Vietor melengkapi pembahasannya dengan latar belakang sejarah, geografi dan sosial budaya. Hal ini sangat membantu untuk memahami, misalnya, pilihan strategi ekonomi negara-negara Asia yang lebih banyak bertumpu pada tabungan, investasi dan penanaman modal adalah karena secara kultural masyarakatnya menjunjung kebiasaan menabung dan bekerja keras. Namun ada beberapa hal, misalnya pembahasan tentang kaum Dalit—kasta terendah di India, yang tidak terlalu signifikan kaitannya dengan tema utama.

Upaya yang dilakukan Vietor untuk menarik garis lintas pertumbuhan suatu negara untuk memprediksi kondisi perekonomian dan iklim bisnis di masa depan cukup menarik. Sekilas terngiang kecaman yang dilontarkan Gede Prama dalam bukunya Inovasi Atau Mati yang menyatakan kesia-siaan upaya semacam ini. Tidak ada yang pernah menduga, menurut Prama, bahwa perekonomian Asia sedang berkembang pesat akan carut-marut pada tahun 1998. Vietor pun menyadari hal ini. Menurutnya, prediksi dapat berubah secara radikal karena perang, kelangkaan bahan pangan, pemberontakan politik, maupun bencana ekonomi. Namun jika faktor-faktor diatas tidak ada, maka seorang pengamat yang memahami alur perjalanan ekonomi suatu negara dapat membuat prediksi terukur jangka pendek tentang hal-hal seperti keseimbangan fiskal dan utang, nilai tukar dan suku bunga, dan tentang tabungan, investasi, dan pertumbuhan.

Pada pembahasan tentang prediksi perkembangan ekonomi negara-negara di atas, sekilas Vietor tampak kurang berani untuk membuat prediksi yang definitif. Ia lebih banyak bersandar pada skenario what if. Misalnya ketika berbicara tentang China, Vietor menyatakan bahwa jika China semakin menyesuaikan diri dengan ketentuan-ketentuan Word Trading Organization (WTO) dan melanjutkan upaya privatisasi sektor BUMN, maka perekenomian China akan terus berkembang pesat setidaknya untuk satu dekade ke depan. Sebaliknya, jika China tetap mengandalkan besarnya volume ekspor dan rendahnya nilai tukar mata uangnya, maka Amerika Serikat akan terpaksa mengenakan embargo perdagangan, sesuatu yang bisa menjadi bumerang bagi China.

Namun demikian, pada bagian akhir buku, Vietor menempatkan dirinya sebagai investor dan melakukan penilaian terhadap prospek ekonomi negara-negara tersebut secara tegas. India dan Singapura dinilai memiliki prospek yang cerah, sementara prospek China, Meksiko, dan Eropa harus ditanggapi dengan ekstra hati-hati.

Secara keseluruhan, buku ini merupakan kontribusi yang sangat baik dalam menambah wawasan tentang perekonomian dunia. Pembahasannya mencakup tema yang cukup luas tanpa harus kehilangan kedalaman dan fokus. Di sini dapat dilihat peran sentral pemerintah sebagai pendukung, bukan penghalang, pertumbuhan ekonomi di era pasar bebas. Menurut Vietor, “Governmental power is too often misconceived or misused. Yet still, economic growth requires good government.”

March Financial Outlook

I looked at this month's numbers and I found Deficit staring smugly back at me.

Following various increases in meat, cooking oil, and egg prices, the Minister of Logistics and Sustenance requested, no, insisted that her budget be adjusted accordingly. Similarly, policy changes in the Ministry of Transportation--the upgrading of KRL Ekonomi to KRL Ekonomi AC while retaining the former's schedule, inevitably triple the transportation budget. Hopefully, the Ministry of Vehicle Maintenance will stick to its budget considering its only asset, the Astrea Legenda 2002, is not due for tune up until next month. The Ministry of Children Welfare also receives a significantly increased budget after a compelling argument about the condition of the Republic of Bekasi Permai BL-15's only state-sponsored child's wardrobe.

This month also marks the first installment to be paid as a part of 36-month long foreign loan treaty signed last month which worth in excess of 20 million IDR in total. This comes on top of the existing foreign debts programs, which, if combined, absorbs nearly half of the fledgling republic's total revenue. Thankfully, one of these loan treaties is expiring late this year so the much-needed breathing space is within sight.

Oh, well, something tells me this small republic will manage. Moreover, after a couple of rounds of intensive physical lobbying last night, an exhausted Governess of the state's Central Bank assured me that she still holds 'adequate' reserve. Hmm, perhaps I should do some more lobbying to determine how much is 'adequate'. Maybe tonight.

Memory Test

Concentrate and read the following excerpt for a full 20 seconds:

Penyelesaian Kewajiban Pemerintah Sektor Hulu Migas (Pembayaran PBB Migas Kontraktor Kontrak Kerja Sama (KKKS), Reimbursement PPN/PPN BM Migas KKKS, Pajak Daerah Migas, Underlifting Migas KKKS dan Domestic Market Obligation (DMO) Fee Migas KKKS) dan Panas Bumi (Reimbursement PPN Panas Bumi dan Pembayaran PBB Pertambangan Panas Bumi) (SOP 206)

Done? Now, grab a pencil and a piece of paper. Without looking at the screen, try and write what you remember.

If you:
A. Can't remember or write a damn thing >> You might want to check for Alzheimer's. Or finish that Kejar Paket A thingy you once enrolled in.

B. Manage to write the first two or three words plus some bits and pieces in the middle >> Congratulations! You belong to the rest of normal human population.

C. Create a perfect copy of the text>>You're not human, are you?

D. Create a perfect copy of the text and actually understand the damn thing>> The rest of the world might consider that you're a superfreak bar none, but here at civil service we shall hail you as our king.

Pecel of Heaven

The train came to a full stop at Stasiun Kroya. Oh, yes. I’m so fucking dead and gone to pecel heaven. As if on cue, some of the vendors clambered up to the wagon and began offering their wares. And how can I say no to this:

This, my friends, is pecel Stasiun Kroya. While not as reputable as its Gambringan counterparts, this concoction is your ticket to culinary bliss. In a banana leaf makeshift plate, chunks of lonthong and tofu are served with slivers of cooking papaya, kangkung, spinach, snakebeans, and klandingan seeds. And then generously topped with sweet-hot peanut dressing.

The vegetables are boiled into crisp-perfection while the peanuts are coarsely grated to give richer texture to the whole experience. While kangkung, spinach, and snakebeans offer familiar sweetness, the combination of klandingan seed and slivers of kecombrang (that's the pink stuff, in case you're wondering) would add exotic tanginess you won’t find anywhere else.

Also worthy of mention is the dressing. The peanut dressing puts forward a sweetness that lures you into a false sense of security, carefuly masking the fiery hotness that lurks behind. Not until after several mouthful later will you realize that you’re being ambushed by the honest-to-goodness Banyumasan I’ll-kick-your-fucking-arse-to-oblivion chilli. But by then, your senses have been happily paralysed anyway.

Oh, did I mention it’s only Rp. 4.000,- including the rempeyek udang?

Public Apology to Holiday

I didn't know it's meant to be a secret.






PS. But now I do know the key of nursing a drink: good company.

Why I'm Happy Today

As a proud holder of KTB KA JAbotabek Ekonomi Bulan Februari, I just found out that I'm entitled to ride the all-new KRL AC Ekonomi until the end of the month. Awesome!

The Sexist

Several years ago, I went to the local Kelurahan office to apply for some documents that would certify that I was indeed still single and therefore eligible for marriage. Believe me, such documents DO exist. The process was surprisingly quick. The kelurahan guy handed me the papers and told me to have it signed by Bu Camat.

I was taken aback. Since when does the wife of a camat interferes in the administrative affairs of a kecamatan? Admittedly, some wives can have such overwhelming power over their husbands that they control the poor sods’ life to the minutest of details. I’ve heard stories of Bu Camats that are far more bossy than their Pak Camats. However, to my knowledge, they generally stay away from office business. Their role is usually limited to Dharma Wanita, in which they subsequently submit to the whims of the even more fearsome Bu Bupati. So, yes, I was utterly baffled by the fact that my marital status was going to be certified by the wife of the Camat, instead of Pak Camat himself.

It was only after I went to the Kecamatan that I realized that I had been neck-deep in sexism. The Camat of Cilacap Utara was a woman.

Don't Speak

It was the days when I helplessly fancied that short-haired girl sitting right in front of me during Introduction to Sociology. The fact the she didn’t refuse when I ask her out to a poetry recital remains a mystery for a long, long time. I didn’t like poetry recitals. Still don’t. But she did and still does. And she knew I didn’t.

Then lunches. And dinners. Long walks along Selokan Mataram. Longer walks along Malioboro. And The English Patient. Borrowed books and exchanged notes. And visits to Asrama Santikara.

It was the days before the words were spoken. Before we knew what could happen.

Durmagati the Puppet

"Para miarsa, pasugatan ringgit wacucal ndalu punika katindhakaken dening Ki Dalang Hadi Sugito saking Toyan, Wates, kanthi lampahan 'Antasena Takon Bapa'. Sugeng nDalu, sugeng midhangetaken"*

This used to be my cue for gluing my ears to the radio, which was not much of a radio to start with. It was an unsightly lidless contraption with all dusty components--cathodes, diodes, and whatnots--visible to naked eye. "Don't touch that part. Nyetrum**", warned my cousin as he gave me that thing, unwanted now that he just bought a new Sony stereo. Anyway, that reluctant-to-live-yet-unwilling-to-die radio turned out to be a faithful companion who saw to it that my highschool years were not devoid of some colorful background music. This include long nights of listening to shadow puppet shows.

Those days, not all radio aired around the clock. Most went off air a little after midnight. So for a part-time insomniac like me, an all-night long shadow puppet shows, especially those aired live, were nothing short of a blessing. They gave reassurance that I was not the only poor sod still awake at the hour.

I'm not going to pretend that I know much about wayang. For one, I don't really understand the language. Seriously, most of the narrations are delivered in some sort of ancient Javanese no longer spoken by your average Slamet, or Eko for that matter. Yet, it never fails to make me go 'whoa!'. In addition, they are supposed to contain a truckload of equally ancient wisdom. You know, stuffs like what life is all about, what to do when calamity just can't get enough of you, and how to behave in the face of homo ignoramus. Admittedly, these gems are delivered in a somewhat preachy manner, yet it's such a joy to listen to. Again, perhaps it's the language. So it's kinda like listening to a Shakespearean play. You don't understand the whole thing, but the bits that you do understand make you feel good.

Sadly, what kept me up all night is not the lessons about morality, wisdom, and the likes. Rather, it's the humor. The show is filled with characters that crack you up every now and then. My hero, therefore, is not the almighty flying Gatotkaca with wire muscles and iron bones. Nor Antareja whose extremely venomous tongue would retain the ability to kill even if it's only applied on his enemy's foot print. Although I have to admit that it's quite impressive. Nor Antasena whose non-conformist attitude is reflected in his inability to clasp his palms together as a token of respect to others, including the gods. Nope. My hero is actually an orc-like member of Kurawa family called Durmagati.
Why? Because in a realm that is made up of entirely two-dimensional characters, Durmagati stands out as an almost-human character, especially in the skilled hands of Mr. Sugito. Durmagati rants about how his wife and kids continuously demand more spending money due to skyrocketing prices. Or about Kartomarmo teaching his kids some inappropriate adult stuffs. He asks Sangkuni to hold his wallet for him before slugging it out with invading armies, usually the good guys, for fear of losing it.

But what floored me is when he showed his acute understanding the concept of his fate as a puppet. Once, before his usual slug-fest with the Pandawas, he confided to Sangkuni that he thoroughly understand that until hell freezes over he, or the Kurawas for that matter, would never win a fight against the Pandawas. There's nothing new with the story line, he said in a typical Javanese pasrah attitude, I always end up being a human punching-bags for the likes of Setyaki or Abimanyu. Yet, he still fought. "Mung kanggo keguyuban, kok, Man ( referring to Sangkuni)***..."

And I laughed myself to tears...

********##********

*"Dear listeners, tonight's shadow puppet show is performed by the Esteemed Puppet Master Hadi Sugito from Toyan, Wates, entitled 'Antasena's Quest for His Father'. Good Night and enjoy.." more or less..
**I don't what's the right equivalent in English, but if you touch something that comes with 'nyetrum' warning, there is a fairly good chance that you'll get electrocuted.
***Just for the sake of solidarity (with other Kurawas), Man...

The Fallen Flowers

(originally Ismail Marzuki's Gugur Bunga)

How could my heart not be grieved
My hero has fallen
How could my heart not be sorrowed
I am now left all alone

Who shall now ease my pains
to remain faithful and gentle
Who shall now be the champion of my heart
the true defender of our nation

My hero has fallen
The oath has been fulfilled
Where one fell, thousands will rise
to the glory of our motherland

I must admit that the translation is nowhere near the original in its ability to evoke that eerie feeling associated with its every rendition. But, anyway, fare thee well General...

The Threesome Isn't Gonna Happen

So, the endlessly twisting plot finally unravels. The lucky bastard lost his mind and dumped his superhot wavy-haired fiancee for the long-haired, tearful old girlfriend. It came as a bit of surprise, really. I have always thought that he would stick to his superhot fiancee, who would not look too unfamiliar in a dominatrix outfit. Although, I must admit that I harbored a faraway hope that they would ended up in a steamy threesome. The Missus, on the other hand, have always knew that the whole episode would end up this way. The guy is a dick, she said. Now that the girl's fairer that she used to be, he would come back running. She has a keen understanding of the male species psychology, my Missus.

'told you she would make a superhot dominatrix

Now, in case I haven't make myself clear, I was reffering to the months-long Ponds-Whitening-something-or-other ad campaign which began I think some time in October last year. The story goes somewhat like this. The lucky bastard left the long-haired girl (by then her hair is still short) for some unspecified reason. Years went by and suddenly the long-haired girl found out that the lucky bastard had became a celebrity of some sort and was planning to marry his fellow celebrity, the superhot wavy-haired girl. Naturally, the long-haired heroine was devastated and was reduced into brooding endlessly in the flower shop in which she works.

the long-haired girl in brooding mood

Anyway, the producers just had to make up a reason to make the superhot wavy-haired girl unfit for the lucky bastard. They came up with this: the bitchy, yet superhot, girl demanded an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a fist. The poor lucky bastard tried to compensate his microscopic-diamonded engagement ring with a bunch of flowers. Which is a downright bad move, really. Any man in his right mind would know that diamond and flowers do not have substitutive or complementary association. Anyway, of all the flowershops in that big city, guess which one he conveniently stumbled into? Yes, you're a genious.

So, yeah. Apparently he noticed that her hair is longer now and her complexion is waaay fairer. Thanks to Ponds-Whitening-something-or-other. Actually, it didn't say so in the ad. I made the deduction. See, I'm the genious now. Anyway, they apparently exchanged phone numbers and began texting each other, harmlessly at first but flirtatiously later. The texting was rightfully sabotaged by the superhot, wavy-haired, would-make-an-excellent-dominatrix fiancee. Lesson #1: when you're having something even remotely resembling an affair, NEVER leave your cellphone unattended, especially when your significant other is prowling around. The long haired girl regressed back into screw-you-i'm-leaving mood and dragged her luggage to the airport. Hmm, I wonder who is managing the flower shop while she's away.

I thought that was the end. And the lucky bastard would come to his senses and returned to be mercilessly, but pleasantly, whipped by her superhot fiancee. But no. The jackass went after the long-haired ex girlfriend. Actually, it wasn't clear how he managed to find her in such a large airport. This goes for all the romantic comedies I have ever watched. Believe me, finding a person in an airport/football stadium/trainstation/large square is NOT easy, unless the person in question is ten feet tall and is partial to shocking pink headgears. Anyway, apparently they reconciled and now the Missus is badgering me about that split-heart magnetic pendant.

Renewing the Licence

Who says that dealing with the police is a pain in the arse? Yesterday, I went to a Polres, a police HQ of some sort, to renew my driver's licence and what I experienced was the exact opposite. No, not 'pleasure in the arse'. Not literally, at least. But I did get a quick and efficient service. Which is a good thing.

The thing was I lost my driver's licence a while back. I filed a report, but the report went missing as well. So I went to the Polres yesterday morning armed only with copies of my ID card. Which was a mistake. The place was packed to the roof. I went to the service counter and the police officer on duty flatly rejected my plea. No missing report, no renewal. I was asked to file a new one at the missing stuff counter. The missing stuff counter officer told me that he couldn't produce a report unless I have the number of my missing driver's licence. So I had to go back to the service counter to get the number and return to the missing stuff counter to file my report. I was beginning to wonder if I would live long enough to obtain my new licence.

It turned out that my brother knows a guy who knows a guy. So I called the first guy explaining that I am my brother's brother and in need of his assistance. The first guy was a police officer working in traffic management. He showed up, took my ID card, and disappeared in the mob. He returned ten minutes later with a missing licence report. He then took me directly to the photo room. It was quite uncomfortable, you know, walking past those people who had been waiting for hours to have their photo taken. I was a sitting duck for countless accusing stares. But I told myself to be strong. This would be over soon. And this is, after all, Indonesia.

The first guy introduced me to the second guy who kindly filled my application for me. The photo room was also cramped with people. However, after only five minutes of waiting, the second guy took over the photo booth and asked me to step in. And voila! My new driver's licence. In less than half an hour. I settled the 'administration affair' with a designated staff. And guess what, it's only 30 grand above the regulation price!!! That's what I call a premium service. Fast and cheap. No need for running from one counter to another, filling several five-mile long applications, and hours of non-airconditioned wait. All you need is a brother who knows a guy who knows a guy.