My birthday weekend - "Hey Mister!" pt 2

(Originally written 27/4/2009)

Mimi from the office picks us up from the hotel at 9:30 on Saturday morning, with a busy schedule of shopping planned. Despite Jakarta’s many upmarket shopping malls, we’ve indicated that we’re poor civil servants (well, one of us is – the other is just poor) and looking round shops like Hugo Boss, Versace and the Sony Centre may be fascinating, but is never going to result in a purchase.

Accordingly, Mimi explains, today we’re off to Mangga Dua. Mangga Dua is where Mimi (and, it later seems, most of the population of Jakarta) shops, where she feels that prices will be more to our taste.

Half an hour later, after another seemingly perilous journey through the crowded streets, it transpires that Mangga Dua is actually two huge multi-storey buildings, connected by a second-storey bridge. One building, Mimi explains, is reserved for electronic goods. “All computers there, any software you need, cost nothing – a few pennies.” Aha, pirated stuff, eh? The signs are good…

So, what are we looking for in particular? Whatever we want, Mimi will know where to find it. Well, I understand that Rolex Oysters are one of the traditional purchases in these parts, and Zeina might be persuaded to buy a handbag – in much the same way that a drowning woman might be persuaded to accept a lifebelt. “Oh, you like watches, Mark? I know the place, follow me…” We follow, through the maze of shops. In fact, they’re more stands than shops, each one separated by a partition, and all of them piled high with a bewildering variety of dresses, jackets, T-shirts, sunglasses, belts and much more. Well, here we are at the watch shop, and goodness, there must be thousands of them. The salesman swiftly lays out a few prize offerings, all the latest types, he explains. Rolex? Rolex, yes, he has many, which one? Oh yes, Oyster, here, try on, see, looks good, eh? It does look good, I have to admit. OK, feller, how much?

For this one, forty dollars (it’s easier than typing 400,000 rupiahs, even if the currency conversion isn’t exact). Ah… I hadn’t planned on spending quite that much on a knock-off, no matter how cleverly it’s faked, so no thanks. “Bargain with him” insists Mimi – “Look, I show you.” A rapid conversation takes place in Indonesian, and she secures a reduction of five dollars. Mmm, thanks, but it’s still too expensive, I’ll leave it. OK, then we go to the handbag shop, yes? Yes, lets.

Now if I thought that the world of knock-off horology was large, it is as nothing compared to the galaxy of designer handbags that are evading copyright legislation at our next stop. Zeina says nothing, but her breathing quickens, her eyes narrow and she plunges in. There’s a blur of Prada, Dolce et Gabbana, Louis Vuitton, and I realise that I’ll probably be at a loose end for ten minutes at least. No matter, there’s ever such a lot to see, and masses of smiling people politely desperate to sell absolutely everything to me at prices I’ll find astonishing. Despite the foreign language barrier, salespeople sound exactly the same wherever you go.

I tell Mimi that I’ll be “sort of, over there”, indicate vaguely and go for a tiny wander. “Hello mister!” – thanks, but I’ve got enough T-shirts, no, I don’t need any jeans. “Hey, mister!” -  combat trousers? Are you mad, woman? “Mister?” - no, I have no need for curtains, oddly enough. “Mister, here!” - nope, don’t need any jewellery either… but here’s another overstocked watch stall, may as well have a look. “Want watch? What type? Rolex Oyster? Yes, thirty dollars.” Ah. An opening bid that’s ten dollars less than the first place… we may be able to do business, my friend. So, what’s your very best price, then? After a negotiating round that includes mention of many sons and daughters that will have to go without food, ailing grannies, “I like to do better deal, but my wife…”, poor housing conditions, the terrible state of the economy and more that is designed to evoke sympathy, the salesman takes pity on me and my impoverished family and lets the Oyster go for eighteen dollars. Result!

Zeina and Mimi join me, Zeina carrying a large plastic bag. I simply mention that it seems too large to contain one handbag, note a slight reddening of Zeina’s cheeks, and swiftly drop the subject. Mimi suggests that we go downstairs, where prices are cheaper. Cheaper? I can always do cheaper, lead on!

Down at street level, prices have, indeed, sunk through the floor. Handbags, good leather handbags copied from any designer you care to name, are five dollars each, and if you don’t want to haggle, just walk away, because the next handbag outlet is no more than three stalls down. I think, perhaps, we’ll draw a veil over the next few hours, during which I purchase two Gucci leather belts for eight dollars, a Hugo Boss wallet for five and wait outside quite a few handbag stalls. (Truth be told, I offer advice when asked and point out one or two – alright, twenty or thirty – bags that would suit Zeina. I have become a designer tart, and am somewhat embarrassed to accept the fact. Indeed, at one point I wail, “Can we go to a stall where I can be a man again, please?”)

Now, DVDs. Do we want any DVDs? Mimi will take us to the best stall, big selection, cheapest prices - and she’s off again. Gracious, yes, these prices are good – and they don’t just have the latest DVD releases, they have films that are just getting into the cinemas. Cases? You must be kidding, the DVDs come in plastic bags with colour-photocopied sleeves, so we’re definitely in yo-ho-ho territory here. I’m tempted by four seasons of Family Guy on nineteen discs, how much? A shade under five of my English pounds, oh, these are prices that I like, do you have a wooden leg and a parrot handy? No matter.

With copies of first-release films going for 25p on DVD stalls like this, Indonesia’s cinemas have to work a little harder. Airline-style reclining seats are virtually standard, many places offer the opportunity to order a meal while you watch, and one cinema in Jakarta has beds for those who prefer total relaxation with their viewing. But I digress.

Shall we have lunch? I find that this is the kind of question that it’s always worth answering “Yes” to, so Mimi leads us to a tiny restaurant in the middle of the stalls. There are seven flimsy tables, small plastic seats, and all the cooking is done within feet of the diners. Aha, they have Gado Gado, I’ll have a plate of that, please. (Some tourists buy guidebooks and research the best beaches before they go. I read up on the national cuisine and note dishes that I want to try.) Gado Gado is often enjoyed for breakfast, it’s chicken, noodles, string beans, carrot and wilted greens, topped with a highly spiced peanut sauce.

“OK, I think mild” says Mimi to the waitress.

“Mimi” I say – “Spicy is fine.”

A guarded Mimi tells the waitress that maybe a little spice for the Englishman… “Mimi – really, spicy is good.” Mimi shrugs her shoulders, fine, spicy it is for the crazy man who doesn’t know what he’s ordering. As for her, she’d like a fiery rice dish with extra chillies on the side.

The Gado Gado is delicious, and Zeina and Mimi are far too polite to comment on the steam that issues from my ears. How about some fruit salad for dessert? Oh, dear God, yes, anything to soothe the burned-out shell that was once my mouth… with or without peanuts? Well, why not, a few crunchy peanuts with fruit salad would be a new experience.

Aha… so “with peanuts” means “with a different, sweet, but still very spicy, peanut sauce”, does it? Actually, it’s very tasty, and goes well with the chunks of pineapple, mango, white turnip and cucumber that make up a fruit salad that would baffle the folks back home.

The early afternoon passes with more stalls, more shopping, more bargaining… I find a stall that sells Formula One pit jackets, but tragically, the largest McLaren Mercedes jacket is two inches too short in the sleeves. Oh, they have another? Right… it’s impossible to explain why a Ferrari team pit jacket is exactly the opposite of a substitute for a McLaren Mercedes jacket, but as I walk away from the stall, I smile at the thought of a large Chelsea supporter being offered the alternative of a Liverpool shirt.

Eager bargain-hunters have been arriving all day, and Mangga Dua is now packed with people, all negotiating discounts furiously, trying clothes for size and deciding whether this or that outfit would be suitable for our Tracy’s wedding. Outside, the temperature is in the mid-nineties, and it’s getting close to that inside as the air conditioning is overwhelmed by the mass of shopping humanity. Sweat runs down my face, and I can hardly hear myself speak, even though all of the action and the bargaining is happening some two feet below me. Mimi, Zeina and I agree – it’s time to move on.

Before leaving, we take a quick turn around the electronic side of this immense mall, and the range of glittering goods there, together with the thought of all the stalls that we didn’t have time to fully inspect on the other side convinces me that another visit will be required before we return to Britain.

So, where now, Mimi? Plaza Indonesia, there’s a great coffee shop there, and Mimi wants to get her hair done. Well, coffee sounds like a good idea, if a cab can be found that can transport Zeina and her 153 handbags.

Plaza Indonesia has dancing fountains, and we’re just in time for the four o’clock show… four o’clock? My Rolex has ten to four, oh, great, so it loses ten minutes every five hours, some bargain this has turned out to be. I try to adjust it, and blow me, I can’t even do that, the little knob can’t be pulled out from the casing. Cursing all South Asian watch purveyors, I turn my attention to the coffee menu and order a large Sumatran. Mimi orders her favourite, coffee blended with avocado and topped with chocolate. Yes, avocado. Here in Jakarta, they put cucumber in the fruit salad and avocado in desserts. Outside, I have no doubt, criminals are chasing the police and people are walking upside down, because this is certainly Crazy City.

Zeina elects to have her hair washed, and she and Mimi ask whether I want to wait for them at the salon. Not really, I’ve done enough girly things today, thanks, that would put the tin lid on it. No, it’s back to hotel for me, a bath and a leisurely dinner is my plan, because Mimi’s taking us to the opening of a new club tonight.

Promptly at eight o’clock, she arrives in a cab and we’re off again. Mimi seems to have a lot of pull in this town, because we’re shortly walking up a red carpet while pictures are taken and HDTV cameras are pointed at us. Mimi and Zeina are looking glamorous – the dress code specified on the invitation is “Blink Blink”, i.e. one step further up from bling bling – while I’m feeling distinctly out of place in T-shirt and jeans. I mean, they are my best T-shirt and jeans, but I could really have done with loading up on cut-price clobber earlier in the day.

Inside, The Glass Lounge is a riot of well-dressed men and attractive women, many of whom seem to know Mimi. In a few short minutes, I’m introduced to more stunners than can be found in the whole of the Portsmouth area. There’s only one problem, though – I find it impossible to tell the age of Indonesian women. At times, it’s like being surrounded by a group of elegant fourteen year olds, while the waitresses surely can’t be more than eleven. I daren’t engage any of these lovelies in even mildly fruity conversation lest my name is later mentioned in the same breath as Gary Glitter. As if to prove my age-related confusion, Mimi explains that one of the adolescents is here with her husband (a Mr J. King, I’m expecting to be told) in order to celebrate her seventeenth wedding anniversary.

We’re invited to sit in the VIP section, and for the next few hours we’re supplied with frequent glasses of red wine – expensive stuff in Jakarta, I’ve never seen a bottle for less than forty dollars, half-decent French stuff is sixty dollars upwards – and a variety of snacks. Every ten minutes or so, another waiter bends to offer a tray of dim sum, seafood puffs, slivers of duck on toast, mini kebabs and many other examples of the Asian fusion cuisine the club is hoping to offer paying guests in the future. Naturally, the badly-dressed portly cove, whose presence in the VIP area is a mystery to the great and the good of Jakarta, is in his own private heaven. Free and frequent red wine, the occasional snack, and some great dance music of the kind that normally causes my peers to complain “For God’s sake, you’re in your fifties! Turn it down, better yet, turn it off!”

We’re joined by the owners for a few minutes, who want to know what we think of their new venture. Well, I’d certainly hang out at a place like this – as if they need the approval of a style disaster like me. One of the partners has a T-shirt under his formal jacket, and I glimpse “…I (heart) RAMM…” I ask to see the rest of the slogan, and he reveals “I (heart) RAMMSTEIN”, so the next few minutes sees us bellowing a discussion of the merits of the German rock band. He’s amazed that I’ve even heard of them, let alone that I know about their major influence, the Slovenian band Laibach. If I’m into music I should certainly come back to the club, maybe I would like membership? It’s fabulously expensive, many thousands of pounds, so I point out that I’m only here for a few weeks, but I’ll certainly recommend it to any visiting members of the British Government I meet. Great, would I like a glass of red wine? He has a short conversation with a waiter, and from that moment on, my glass is never allowed to be empty. Which just goes to prove that a working knowledge of German and Balkan rockers can come in handy from time to time.

Next morning, whilst dressing and reflecting on the truth of the saying that good wine bequeaths no hangover, there’s a ring at my doorbell. Thinking it’s Zeina, I open the door a crack, only to find three of the Reception staff with a chocolate cake, singing “Happy Birthday”. That’s not all, they have a card and a gift wrapped present, can they come in? In my amazement, I only remember in the nick of time that I have no trousers on. Muttering an excuse, I quickly run back to the bedroom, don jeans and invite them into the flat. Each one in turn congratulates me on surviving another year, wishes me well, photos are taken, and I open my present. It’s a Ritz-Carlton Jakarta baseball cap, a splendid souvenir of my stay here, and what’s this? A card, signed by the staff? Oh, this is really too much – my natal day has started on a high, and I suspect the hand of Mimi in all this.

Several minutes later, I walk across Reception to meet a grinning Zeina, while acknowledging the many birthday wishes of the staff who weren’t treated to the sight of my underpants. So, what would I like to do today? Zeina is happy to go along with anything I decide.

You know what? I’d really like to go back to Mangga Dua, it’s still quite early so there won’t be masses of people there yet, we could spend some time at the stalls we didn’t see yesterday, take a look at the electronics side, perhaps… and I could have a few sharp words with a certain Indonesian watch salesman. Or, it’s more likely, a very short and expressive burst of sign language.

“What was he gesturing about?”

“I’m not sure, but I think he was trying to explain that he’d accidentally sat on his new watch.”

A taxi is summoned by the staff retained for this purpose – yes, they have a couple of people whose sole job it is to organise taxis, it’s a labour intensive hotel, with every possible job covered. I bet they have some fascinating demarcation disputes.

“Door-opener woman touched the taxi, I look after taxis!”

“I opened the door of the taxi, you want to think a bit harder about my job title, taxi-boy?”

We haven’t been on the road for more than a minute when the phone rings. It’s Mimi, wanting to know if we’re alright, that we have somewhere interesting to go, but what she particularly wants to check is that the hotel organised the birthday cake properly. Ha, so it was her! I tell her that the cake was a wonderful surprise and that we’re now in a taxi going back to Mangga Dua. “OK, let me talk to the driver.” After a short conversation in Indonesian, our driver passes the phone to Zeina, who concludes the conversation. Putting the phone back in her bag, she says “Mimi says the driver is a bit stupid, and that he doesn’t speak any English.” Fair enough, we’re hiring him for his ability to get us to the shops, not his sparkling wit, I think, as I look out of the window.

There’s always something to see in Jakarta, as long as you can drag your eyes away from the heart-stopping traffic manoeuvres on the road ahead. There are gleaming office blocks and huge shopping malls, canals, bridges, fat dragonflies and butterflies – I notice a pretty mosque on Zeina’s side of the taxi and point it out. Nice, isn’t it? It’s not only nice, she reckons, it’s very familiar – it’s across the road from our hotel! The taxi driver has driven in a circle for half an hour, either deliberately or because he’s as stupid as Mimi suggested. We ring her, and a loud conversation takes place, luckily obscured by our lack of even basic Indonesian. “Hmm…” says Mimi, as the phone is passed back, “He reckons that many roads are closed for a bicycle race. If you’re still in the taxi in half an hour, call me again.”

We’re still in the taxi half an hour later. Our driver has given up all pretence of knowing where he is and is asking directions, we’ve texted his identification number to Mimi and she’s going to complain. Suddenly, I recognise where we are. Mangga Dua is about a mile down the road, then off to the left, and I think I know the way. Sign language is the only option, the driver follows my pointing finger, yes, we’re turning here, no not right here you fool, that’s a canal, but here, here! We arrive at the shopping mall five minutes later and pay the fare, it’s not worth arguing about, it’s only eight dollars after all.

Well, if I can find a shopping mall in a strange city, I ought to be able to find the watch stall, and after three false starts – two on entirely the wrong floor – I do. The salesman recognises me from the previous day, hello, did I want to buy another watch? Noticing Zeina with me, the penny drops – so I want a ladies watch, do I? I explain that I can’t set the Rolex, the knob won’t pull out. No, well, it wouldn’t, it’s locked, here, give it to him, he’ll show me. Just like a real Rolex, the knob has to be turned back to release the lock, then pulled out, see? Now the time can be adjusted, explains the salesman to the least-qualified Rolex owner he’s ever met. I don’t mention the apparent losing of time, because the watch is still exactly ten minutes out. It hasn’t lost any time, it was just wrong. So that’s alright, then. Nice bloke, that salesman.

Hello, we’ve lost Zeina to the display of timepieces. She’s selecting one for herself and asking the price. Ninety dollars? Oh, they must be joking, look, my friend got his for eighteen. She will pay twenty dollars, no more. She sticks to her guns, too, as the price falls to eighty, then seventy, then fifty; every offer is met with a firm “No. Twenty.” They reach a sticking point at forty dollars, so Zeina expresses regret and walks away. We’ve actually got beyond the next stall when there’s a cry behind us and we’re called back. You’ll sell for twenty, then? No… but final final offer is twenty five. “No. I said twenty.” She steps away… “OK, twenty.”

It’s a negotiating ploy that Zeina employs from that point onwards. She names a sum, usually half the advertised price, and keeps on saying it until the stallholder puts the goods away, or gives in.

Moving on, we come across a chap with intriguing items for sale. He stands, holding the contents of an egg in his hands, then throws yolk and white at a board at his feet. The egg splashes, spreads out… and then slowly pulls itself back together, reforming into an egg-shaped ball. It’s memory gel, but it’s so realistic. Noting our interest, he produces a tomato, grins, flings and splat! One ripe tomato, spread out on the board. Then wobble, wobble – tomato again! Two dollars for the pair, oh yes, mate, these I have to have.

We spend an hour or so in the mall, during which I purchase some gifts for friends and a Ralph Lauren backpack, while Zeina stocks up on Gucci and Prada sunglasses. Then we walk over the bridge to the electronics centre. It’s less crowded, but there are few bargains to be had – software apart, prices are broadly similar to those at home. I buy a new pair of headphones with built-in mic for recording on the laptop, but that’s it. It’s only as we’re walking towards the exit that we see another display of watches, but this time they’re priced – and the prices are low.

Some of them are very nice, and I’m trying to decide between a Dolce and Gabbana and a Mont Blanc when it occurs to me that it’s a waste of time. They’re three dollars each, for goodness’ sake. Soddit, I’ll have a Ferrari one as well, I’ll tell the credulous that it came with the car. The shop is run by an Australian, and he offers to adjust the straps while we wait. It’s a fiddly job, and he summons a tiny Indonesian woman to do it. Unfortunately, in the process, the adjuster knob falls off and can’t be replaced. “No worries, here’s another, and you can have this one for spares. No extra charge.” And that should tell you all you need to know about the true value of these watches.

We emerge from Mangga Dua into the impossible heat of the afternoon. I’ve been here a week, and it still takes me by surprise. That may be due to the clouds that seem to cover Jakarta most days. I look out of the window, see a cloudy day and think that it’ll probably be cool, walk from an air-conditioned environment and bam! Wilting heat and humidity, and it’s always hotter than I remember. Quick, summon a chilly air-conditioned cab!

Back at the Ritz-Carlton, Zeina reveals her birthday present. Tonight, we are eating at the buffet that is one of the hotel’s proudest offerings, and she’s picking up the bill. We’ve already seen it on an earlier recon trip, and it’s not only an outstanding bargain at $18 each, but also an extensive and inviting spread.

A few hours later, after a nap and a shower, I join Zeina in the sixth-floor restaurant. We’re seated at the best table in the place, overlooking the city below on two sides. Would we like some iced tea… or perhaps we’d care to glance at the wine list? Yeah, well it’s a swift glance, terminated when I spot a Cote du Rhone that I buy for two Euros in France retailing here for over one hundred dollars. It’s the iced tea for us, monsieur le sommelier, nip off and get us two glasses while we select our first course.

Seafood, we decide. Now let’s not go mad, we don’t want to ruin our appetite for the rest, do we? I return to the table with a slice of smoked salmon, two huge prawns, some lightly-seared tuna, a little crabmeat with cucumber sauce, a couple of fishy dim sum, a tiny square of teriyaki beef and a small mound of beetroot hummus. (I may have overshot the seafood display slightly.) I maintain that it was a restrained selection; I ignored the fresh oysters, the salmon mousse, the prawn spring rolls and several other offerings.

There’s a sushi chef who’s ever so keen to demonstrate his art, and we’re keen to taste it. Just five pieces, though, because our potential choices for the main course include a couple of curries, a number of pasta dishes, roast beef, a rack of lamb, more dim sum with noodles or several kinds of rice, and Peking duck with hoi-sin sauce. There is also asparagus, roasted vegetables, potatoes and a well-stocked salad bar.

As we’re finishing the meat course, the restaurant manager delivers two glasses of champagne. “In honour of your special day”, he says. Teetotal Muslim Zeina says nothing, bless her, happy for me to drink both glasses. Gosh, can this day get any better?

Apparently it can get more embarrassing, as, in the distance, a chorus of “Happy Birthday” is starting. All the waiting staff walk from one end of the room to our table at the other, wheeling a trolley on which is another birthday cake. We’re served with a slice, then the manager offers to have the rest delivered to my room.

That was a nice piece of chocolate cake, shall we have pud now? They’re all tiny, two or three spoonfuls each, enabling us to choose a few from a dizzying selection – in my case, a wine jelly with mango sauce, an exotic fruit salad, and a raspberry and chocolate mousse. We’d have liked to visit the flambé chef, who was waiting to cook crepes Suzette with six choices of ice cream to accompany them, but that was a step too far. That’s it, forget the cheese course, we can’t eat another thing.

We have coffee in the bar next door to the restaurant, a brandy for me and a non-alcoholic fruity cocktail for Zeina. When we call for the bill, it’s for the brandy only – everything else is on the house. “And have a happy birthday, Mr Babba.”

As, indeed, I have had. It’s only as I drift into sleep that I remember Sandra at La Potiniere in Cannes. I promised to go back, didn’t I? Gosh, I hope she didn’t wait up too long… oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to pop over again in a few month’s time and apologise. Any excuse will do.