A funny thing happened on the way for a beer.

So, it’s the first night of my holiday in Belitung and I fancied a beer. I also needed something to eat. The last time I was here on the island I had brought Mum and Dad as part of their trip to see me in 2011. We had found a restaurant called Pandan Luat and so I thought I’d head back and give it another visit.

A great Sate Ayam with plain rice was washed down with a deliciously cold bottle of Bintang, one of Indonesia’s main 3 beers. The others are ‘Anker’ and ‘Bali Hai’ but you can also find Carlsberg, San Miguel, Heineken, Corona and Guinness, (delightfully pronounced Gwinness along with biskwit, gwitar and ker-nock!) but since I had the bike I didn’t want to have too many, so after the meal I headed back to the hotel, parked up and went for a walk along the beachfront in Tajung Pandang. I had heard a band tuning up earlier so headed back there as I thought I might as well listen to some live music while enjoying the beer.

Arriving at ‘Caspreso’ the band were in full rock mode, belting out a cover of an Indonesian rock song. Indonesian music, I find, is better for not knowing the words. Take something like AC/DC’s ‘Let me put my love into you’. A thinly veiled allegory on getting into your girlfriend’s pants. Indonesians don’t do veiled allegory (as far as I know) so their songs are usually a lot more earnest and even the hardest rock songs or thrash metal are describing what we would normally expect to hear in a Taylor Swift song. The lead and rhythm gutars, bass and drums are still banging out a similar sounding tune though. Anyway, I ordered my beer and the band asked if I had any requests. Stating that I liked the last song using my growing Bahasa Indonesian, and that I also liked Indonesian music, I hoped this would give them the opportunity to keep with what they know rather than murder a western song for the sake of having a patron from that area of the world.

Well,  I’ve heard some unusual covers, none more so than Tori Amos’s version of Smells Like Teen Spirit, originally recorded by Nirvanna (as if you didn’t know!). This still didn’t prepare me for the keyboard player’s opening chords to Dancing Queen by Abba. What was once a cheesy pop record from the Swedish quartet, in the hands of this band it became Dancing Queen in the style of Slipknot. I just wish my phone had been fully charged to allow me to video it. If this had gone viral they’d be a mega success.

The beer finished, I headed back to the hotel and sat on the veranda enjoying another beer watching the motorbikes buzz by and was presently joined by a trio of Indonesians. Friends holidaying together, they found out that I spoke a couple of sentences (actually a lot more than a couple but nowhere close to being fluent, priimarily because of a shortage of vocabulary) these two sentences apparently suggested that indeed I was fluent and encouraged the three of them to speak in rapid, confusing bursts. Asking them to speak slowly had little effect whatsoever but I guess we managed to make ourselves understood all the same.

During this discourse a pretty girl approached us and asked if we wanted to go to the cafe next door to the hotel and listen to live music. Now I’d heard about this place from two sources. One was a write up on a website, the other was from a friend of mine. She had returned with stories of ‘fallen women’ sharing a beer with her and some interesting stories of what went on inside. I needed to see this for myself as from the outside it looked completely innocuous. On entering, I noticed that the place was virtually pitch black except for a few red lights (they’re always red for some reason, aren’t they?) and a loud band playing on a stage at the far end. The place was virtually empty except for the sofas in front of me where  four guys sat being entertained by four girls, taking it in turns to sing along with the house band on a radio mike (the girls, not the guys). On the level I was sitting, in front of the bar, were a couple of guys sat on stools and over to the far side of the bar, in even further gloom, was a table with what appeared to be 5 or 6 girls. I ordered a beer and agreed to buy one for Ria, the girl who’d invited me. What does an Indoesian order in a place like this? A wine? A vodka? Nope,  a bottle of Guinness topped up with Red Bull!

Now let me tell you,I was in no doubt from the moment she’d asked the group I was with to enter the cafe as to what her ‘job’ was. I have a perfectly gorgeous girlfriend back in Tangerang so had come in, pretty much, to put a picture to the story from Emma and on finishing my beer, using the words of journalists everywhere, I made my excuses, paid the Rp170,000 bill, and left. Yep, one large Bintang, a small guiness and a red bull was £12.

The thing that makes this story more coincidental is that I wandered around town the next day and walked into the small mall they have. There at the cashiers desk was Ria, working her day job I guess, but a face so full of acne I realised what the dim, red lights were actually for!

Travelling made easy

Living and working here gets you access to something called a KITAS. It’s the ID card that proves our eligibilty to work and, once you have one, it takes the place of your passport in proving you are who you say you are.

It means that when you travel, you just have this flimsy piece of photogrpahic proof but the look that it inspires in the people you’re talking to, that you choose to live and work in their country is always priceless.

The land of smiles.

I have heard many countries referred to as ‘The Land of Smiles’ I’ve also been lucky enough to visit a few and see the evidence for myself and I guess you’ll now call me biased if I say that nowhere is this more true than Indonesia, as this is the place I choose to call home. Well, I defy you naysayers to visit and allow me to prove you wrong.

Sure, Jakarta’s probably not the best example of permanent smiles, it’s a capital city  with the pressures of housing 25 million people in a melting pot of semi poverty and grand indulgence but even here are more smiles than your average captial city.

Out in the provinces you are 99.9999% likely to be greeted with a smile. A certain amount of this is the fact that westerners are still an unusual sight and here on Belitung it’s seriously apparent. Amazed stares are usually followed by rubber necked gestures to confirm that what people thought they saw, they really did. And this is swiftly followed by a beaming smile, a shout to get you to look back again and, if possible, the words ‘hey mister’ (possibly being the only English vocabulary in their posession).

 this picture isn't from Belitong but perfectly illustrates smiles....are you smiling now?

But back to the smile. I once heard it referred to as the shortest distance between two people. A very apt way to put it.

Rules can't be broken, except when they can

Indonesia’s contradictions are never more apparent than in the interpretation of rules. As with any society, the rules here are meant to maintain order, preserve safety and generally make sure things run like a well oiled machine. That’s where the fantasy ends though and the key word is interpretation.

With rules, people are as apt here to read into the spirit of the them as much as the letter, but they are also pretty likely to break them.

I’m currently on Belitung, a small island off the coast of Sumatra having a weeks holiday and this time round I decided to rent a motorbike for the duration of my stay. I’ve mentioned before that driving licences are bought, not earned but that’s as much down to the rampant corruption as it is to any thought for law or rules. Helmets, and the wearing of said item, are more of a personal area of choice for rule interpretation.

 A guy breaking the rules

Today I rode my bike the 30 minutes it takes to get to Tanjung Tinggi and I went all the way, there and back, without a helmet. Now some people would say this is just personal stupidity on my part as the main reason for the helmet is safety. However, on an island of only a handful of people (compared to the 25 million in Jakarta anyway, it’s nearly impossible to have an accident. The second point was that since I would be riding so slowly so as to find great photo opportunities, that even if a rogue Indonesian rider/driver did something crazy the worst I could expect would be dust marks on my shorts.

 Anyway, I arrived back at the hotel as the weather had turned dull and was about to walk into town when the receptionist stopped me and asked why I was walking there. An unusual request anywhere else as it’s probably only a 10 minute stroll, but she still insisted I was crazy to walk and should take the scooter. To be on the safe side I thought I’d ask about the local law regarding helmets. Very gravely she assured me that the not wearing of helmets was punishable ,by some fate worse than death (at least this was what I read into her clearly panic stricken face) so I donned my helmet to obvious signs of satisfaction, rode into town and passed numerous people not wearing a helmet. Admittedly the police would take great delight in stopping an unwary rider and demanding some form of payment as fine for the offense, but I have yet to actually see a policeman here in 2 separate visits to the Island!

And don't get me started on 4 people on one moped.....

The Christmas you get, you deserve....part 2

Hi and sorry for the delay in part two. One of the obvious things you have to contend with when travelling to and from countries like the UK and Indonesia, is the difference in temperature. This has resulted in a cold that just won't seem to go away but, I've "manned up" and worked through it and here comes part 2...

You left me at the end of part one being picked up at Northallerton train station in the wintery wilds of North Yorkshire. Northallerton is a quaint market town, north of York but south of Darlington and it is on the main east coast rail line between Newcastle and Kings Cross in London. It is home to the Friarage hospital where Dad is having his chemotherapy, has a deli store called Lewis and Coopers with a range of English foodstuffs that are so delicious (and unavailable in Indonesia), I wish I could transport brick-by-brick and bottle-by-bottle to Tangerang with me. It also also has a "Betty's Tearoom", an

English institution. It's worth pointing out that the train station is a good 5 to 10 minutes walk from town and has no indoor waiting room,  but more about Northallerton later.

 Arriving in Leyburn is always something of an experience. It has a nostalgia for me, but not like with most family homes. This hasn't actually been a house I've lived in for any length of time. I was born in Bedford, a town 50 miles or so north of London. Left the two houses we lived in there when I was 7 years old and moved to Catterick Village (coincidentally about 15 miles from where my parents live now). Leaving there when I was 15 to move to Bishopthorpe a village outside York, I eventually left home when I was 19 to strike out on my own. In the following years my parents continued to live in Bishopthorpe before moving to Redmire, a village near Leyburn to run a pub and then, after retiring, settled at 51 Dale Grove, Leyburn.

The nostalgia for me comes from my mothers housekeeping. The house, as far back as I can remember, has always been impeccably decorated, especially at Christmas with all of the extras. I guess my mum always had a talent for interior design. And bugger anyone else doing the decorating, it was always a family thing (I remember as a young teenager getting the job of painting the eaves of the house in Bishopthorpe cause dad wasn't overkeen on heights). So, driving into Dale Grove, facing the house at the far end of the street, I was curious to see what the Christmas decorations would look like and that was the picture at the end of part one. Silver tree, lights, tinsel, baubles.......and meerkat.

Back in my childhood, it was quite common at Christmas to open the fridge door and find a stuffed robin (the bird, not Batman's sidekick) perched on the cheese, or bound to the toilet flush handle, or sat on a picture ledge....it moved you see (ah, the magic of Christmas). Over the years the concept moved on to the singing Billy Bass fish and other animal oddities. This year has seen dad completely taken over by an advert/tv commercial called "Compare The Market Dot Com" whose USP is a Russian meerkat .......oh look, this is too confusing, just visit compare the meerkat on youtube and you'll see what I mean . At least that explained the meerkat....

My brother Glen had arrived a few days before and tonight, being Christmas Eve, we would head for The Sandpiper Restaurant, a gastro-pub/fine dining restaurant in Leyburn owned and run by family friends the Harrison family. So with just enough time to have a catch-up chat, drink a cup of tea and get a bath, we were on our way out for our 7pm reservation. But not before I had added a jacket, scarf and  thick coat to my evenings clothing ensemble.

A starter of black pudding and belly pork was followed by venison and, forgoing desert, a coffee. The red wine washed down the excellent local beers and we sat and reminisced over just how long it had been since the four of us had been together at Christmas. A great night. Later, back at home, Glen and mum went to bed leaving Dad and I to sit up and chat about life the universe and everything really. To do this we thought it would be a good idea to have a polite "short" while doing so. Dad's choice was an aged port, mine Makers Mark bourbon.........The following morning Dad's scarred nose from where he'd fallen over and stories of my drunken sleepwalking and nonsensical mutterings were proof that we'd probably overdone it. Still, great memories.

Christmas Day has always been a great morning and this year the plan was for a late brunch with champagne and eating the main Christmas dinner at about 5pm. John and Jan Harrison and their three daughters, Chloe, Megan and Rosie had been invited to join us but as the restaurant was open it meant we'd be eating later. So we busied ourselves with opening presents.

 

I should really have taken photos of the Christmas dinner table as it was so wonderfully set up in the conservatory but let me just tell you that the goose was delicious, the belly pork was a great addition and the array of vegetables, sauces, wine and beer were excellent and, as with all good family Christmases, it was finished by playing games and singing songs to everyone's delight and at times embarrassment

part 3 soon, I promise....

The Christmas you get, you deserve... part 1

“Driving home for Christmas......”, “they said there’ll be snow at Christrmas, they sai.......”, “God rest ye merry gentlem......” “It’s Chrisssssstmaaaaaas!!”....Christmas songs, something we find all over the world. In Indonesia, they’re played because some marketing guy must have decided that if they’re played in other countries, they should be played in Indonesia too. It still seems a trifle odd to hear them blast out in the middle of a supermarket when you’re surrounded by people who generally have no idea what the lyrics mean...in any aspect.

I’m writing this in Newcastle Airport at 11.22 am on the 30th December 2011. I’ve just spent the best part of a week with my Mum, Dad and Brother at my parents house in the Yorkshire Dales, having arrived on Christmas Eve.  Here in the airport’s departure lounge, i’m struck by the absence of atmosphere. Twenty minutes previously, I was sat in the check-in area saying an emotional goodbye to Beryl and Geoff. Dad and i were talking as Mum was trying to re-pack my hand luggage for the umpteenth time wile we sat and enjoyed a Starbucks coffee, pepped up with hazlenut syrup. The atmosphere was one of family unity, sadness at a farewell that will not be replaced with a welcoming handshake and hug for another four months and private thoughts to what that means for each of us. A good atmosphere nonetheless.

 So why was the departure lounge different? Well for one thing it was pretty quiet. I’d expected a flurry of people travelling for new year armed, like me, with reminders of the recent Christmas present-giving. Instead, sat enjoying a pint of lager while I write this, I could count the number of people on my body’s digits. 

The second reason was the lack of background/ambient music/muzak. Everywhere you go in the UK these days, it seems you have your own personal soundtrack. For the last 4 months it’s been a mix of Roy Wood, Slade, Mudd, Mel Smith and Kim Wilde and the man, without whom Christmas would have no doubt died off years ago, Cliff Richard. These songs continue to be played post-Christmas as a reminder that in a few short months  we’ll be doing it all again. Or maybe it’s that the marketing team in the shops haven’t remembered to change the disc. What I do know is that this airport was too quiet. (this would be a great intro to a thriller novel)

The barmaid had told me that it had been extremely busy earlier so maybe I’d missed the rush. Another small wierdness was the departure screen. Always full of necessary info, this particular monitor advised that the length of my waiting time for boarding was forty-one “shopping minutes”....maybe time works differently in Newcastle. It was proving  an unusual end to a holiday.

Why had I travelled back to England for a week? Well my reasons for visiting were three-fold. Firstly, Dad has cancer and the thought of a full family christmas for the four of us was too much to miss. Secondly it’s been 3 years since I left the UK to take up my new career in education. Finally, whilst never homesick, the pull of fresh unsweetened milk, sausages available anytime any place, anywhere and a tolerance of people who "take a drink", was just too damn overwhelming!

Christmas Eve saw me arrive in Manchester to a bright, sunny morning. This vision of beauty changed on leaving the airport to get to the train station. The shock of the cold wind that seemed immediately to grip every bone of my body was incredible. It should be mentioned that I have been in some challenging situations in the past. At 10 years old I remember being sat in my then girlfriends house enjoying a youthful kiss and cuddle just as her parent's car pulled unexpectedly early onto the drive. The Ethan Hunt-style response, brought about by the shock of their early return, was to dive out the back door of the house, leap the garden fence into the adjacent sports fild and then casually walk back round to her front door to ask if she was in.

On another memorable occasion, I was trapped in a broken down van with fellow members of the 1st Catterick Village Scout Troop, freezing my nuts off as we waited for the repairman to arrive. That was cold. But, the shock and cold that I felt on leaving Manchester Airport was on a different level entirely. It had been eigteen months since I’d been in the UK and that was in the Summer. This was a different kettle of mince pies altogether. 

Before leaving Indonesia I’d searched in vain for a thick winter coat. Indonesians do feel cold but the noticeable lack of mink or seals to skin and make winter coats with should have led me to realise that most shop assistants would just laugh at me. So it was that I'd packed my trusty fleece, bought for a few quid in Thailand 3 years ago, to go over the top of the two t-shirts I was wearing. (I'd figured more layers would be insulating). Now I'm not saying that i nostalgically remember winters in England as being like Summer, but i seriously wasn't expecting this. To top it off, the queue for train tickets was taking ages to move. I wrapped my hands around the still-warm sausage roll bought on my way out of the airport and waited my turn.

Indonesia, as I may have mentioned, has a lack of trains. What I can guarantee is that if the rail networks keep charging what they are for tickets, I'm not sure the UK will have any left either. I know that buying tickets in advance gets you a reduction in price but really, FORTY FIVE QUID?? ONE-WAY???. Manchester Airport to Northallerton is not a long journey. For that price I can fly to Bali from Jakarta, and back again!

Regardless of price, the train journey was a memorable one due to the places we passed through. Halifax, Huddersfield, Dewsbury, Leeds and York are places I have spent plenty of time over the years and the lack of outward change (with the exception of the Ferris Wheel in York) was surprising.

I'd used up the last of my Indonesian credit on my phone in calling mum and dad from Manchester, the guy who answered had politely informed me i had the wrong number, so arriving in Northallerton I tried from the (60p per call) payphone. This time I got the number right and Dad told me that my brother Glen was on his way and would be there shortly. Another chance to feel the cold northerly wind chill me to the bone again. Glen duly arrived and whisked us the 25 minutes or so back to Leyburn.