a whiff of whimsy: living without the bare necessities

*Jakarta Globe, 9 December 2009

With fluffy pillows propped around me, I bounced on the soft white sheets of a bed in Mexico City’s new airport hotel, ecstatic to have electricity and a modern toilet at arm’s reach.

These may be simple necessities for some, but following a sojourn on a Mexican farm, they were luxuries for me. Less than 12 hours before, I had been deep in the hills, toiling away on one with none of the amenities listed above — unless one counts the compost toilet.

Finca Tres Mundos is a concept farm owned by Elham, an Iranian-American, and her Mexican husband, Luis, who decided to build a sustainable farm on the mounds of Mazatepec. They constructed a stone house on the top of a hill, an adobe mud hut at the bottom and sprinkled two donkeys, three sheep, two dogs, a cat and half a dozen chickens in between.

To reach the farm, it took over an hour to clear the massive metropolis of Mexico City — which has spread its growing tentacles of white-washed houses onto the mountainsides like an unstoppable disease — to Xalapa in the east.

From there, it was a 40-minute ride into the forest and the village of Mazatepec, where the bumpy main road can only handle one truck at a time, donkeys tied to the side of buildings bray incessantly and the local butcher sells her wares on the verandah of an abandoned building. Then, after 10 minutes of walking and lugging my 15-kilogram backpack over hills, slopes, muddy paths and a stony creek, I finally arrived.

A family of four Mexicans greeted me in front of the hut where volunteers sleep. Mariana, a 30-year-old painter and muralist, was farm-hopping around Mexico with her family, home-schooling her daughters, Paula, 12, and Valentina, 6. The children’s father was a bullfighter who Mariana eloped with at the tender age of 17 and divorced a few years ago. She was now with her sculptor lover, Cesar.

At first, I had been concerned about the sleeping arrangements, as the family was already occupying the place and there was naught inside the hut except for a large table piled with sleeping bags and thin mattresses. Elham, sensing my distress, pulled out another table from under the mattress-laden one and presented my “bed” to me with a smile. I spent my nights huddled next to a snoring Mariana, fancying myself to be in a war refugee camp — minus the bombs or killing rampages, of course.

My first sunset was spent roasting marshmallows by a bonfire and attempting to understand the Spanish jokes. Since there was no electricity, it was dark, save for the sky’s cloak of stars. Our dinner was simple: roasted potatoes, tomatoes and onions, and lemon juice as a dressing. As night fell, the temperature dropped, forcing us to head into the main house where we played card games by candlelight.

The following day, I worked with Cesar to take down the roof of a cob hut that was to be rebuilt into a chicken coop. Cesar barely spoke English and my Spanish was no better, so instructions were acted out like a game of charades.

After the laborious job of dismantling the roof and running away from angry wasps that were living in the wood beams, I was ready for more ladylike duties and turned to separating squash seeds, to be dried and roasted, with Elham.

At the farm, even the basics required effort. The compost toilet was an open-air two-tiered wooden shack with a cement seat to squat on. Bodily fluids amassed at the lower level, which smelled like a horse stable due to the wood chips masking the odor. What was most disconcerting was the quiet — how I missed the sound of flushing!

The problem with having one toilet for seven people occurred in the mornings when I, busting for the loo, would usually find someone already there before me. But at night, I discovered that counting stars could help pass the time.

Showering was another matter. On this farm, the act of bathing demanded planning and patience, as it involved using a bucket system and boiling water 20 minutes beforehand.

“The bucket system turns most people off,” said Elham, telling me of a previous volunteer who hadn’t bathed for over a week. These days, volunteers will find a sign in the adobe hut that reads: “In consideration of others, all visitors must bathe AT LEAST once every four days.”

Life here wasn’t much different from that of poor Indonesian villages, where poverty imposes these conditions upon its residents. Yet here were individuals putting themselves through the difficulties and hassle voluntarily.

Still, I was glad I tried it out. Even if only to discover that I, spoiled city child, was not cut out to be a traveling farmer. It took all of 48 hours before I sprinted back to Mexico City as fast as the bus could take me. After all, I had basic needs that had to be met. And a hot power shower in the winter was one of them!

a whiff of whimsy: falling for Mexico’s ‘city of love’

*Jakarta Globe, 2 December 2009

A country’s first impression is indelible. It leaves an imprint, like a lover’s first kiss. And more often than not, it is never quite what you expect.

When I think of Mexico, I breathe in the fire of the desert earth and the loneliness of immigrants who turn their villages into ghost towns by the borders as they strain toward the American dream. I dream of swirling sands and sad-eyed cows with bony hips, of people worshiping Maria statuettes by roadside altars and the idolatry of robed skeletons.

Then there is the Mexico of the movies. Filled with prayers and drug lords, it is one steeped in religion and violence. What I found in reality was nothing quite so dramatic.

But due to media influence, I was still apprehensive upon arriving in Mexico City and was pleasantly surprised to find an airport better looking than New York’s JFK. The vast modern space of shiny glass and metal was clean and orderly, and my immigration officer said “ bien venida ” (happy arrival) with a smile as we parted ways. At least the movies were right about one thing — the locals are friendly!

Ana, my couchsurfing host, picked me up at the airport in her little white Tsuru. We charged into the oncoming traffic of gold-and-ruby Volkswagen cabs, buses and trucks like an errant bull. “Here we have to fight,” said Ana, motioning to the vehicles zipping by with hardly a flicker of a signal as they overtook and switched lanes, just as they do in Jakarta. I felt at home already.

I pride myself as a culinary explorer. Some people scale mountain peaks for adventure, but I gravitate to whatever crowd is gathering around a street vendor and request the same. Unfortunately, my barely passable Spanish complicates matters as the names of Mexican cuisine are as familiar to me as sand is to an Eskimo. I discovered this dilemma is easily solved by simply pointing or saying “ uno, por favor ” (one, please). I was often left with a fiery breath that could put a dragon to shame. I soon noticed that Mexican dishes are basically different interpretations of the staples of maize and beans, the latter of which can cause enough flatulence to raise a king-size blanket off its sheets.

Ana lives in the Perralvillo area, where the surrounding streets have names like Beethoven, Wagner and Caruso. In the mornings, the narrow street near Beethoven market was jam-packed with cars of all shapes and sizes, and in various states of disrepair. Mahogany-skinned men were at work, repainting the vehicles. They had taken over the street.

In Ana’s neighborhood, food vendors lined the sidewalks, a stone’s throw away from each other. Around them the elderly congregated, children played and women chattered. There I was, bearing witness to the country’s culture of three C’s: cars, Catholics and communal gatherings.

Ana estimated that there were 20 million people living in the massive urban sprawl. With such a dense population, there is no room for personal space. Bumping, grazing, knocking and colliding into people on the streets is as normal as breathing. Doing so while standing still, I discovered, was also entirely possible. I only started fretting about the remnants of swine flu when I saw a herd of pigs transported on an open truck through the center of town.

I fretted for nothing. Like the airport, the city was spotless. The roads were devoid of trash despite the high number of bodies and the lack of dustbins. Furthermore, the presence of paupers was as rare as blondes in the city of darkly coiffed Latinos. I had stumbled over more beggars on sunny San Diego’s sidewalks. In their place were lovers abound, from youths to geriatrics, displaying their desire for each other in every public place imaginable. Mexico City seems to have overtaken Paris as the “City of Love.”

Performing the most minimal of my duties as a tourist, I visited La Casa Azul, otherwise known as the Frida Kahlo Museum. It is named for the vibrant blue of the home where the unibrowed painter and her lover Diego Rivera resided for 25 years. It was full of the usual paraphernalia of such famous artists, such as a letter of gratitude to Albert Einstein and a portrait of Diego by Italian artist Modigliani.

But what I found most interesting was a sketch by Frida called “Ruina” (Ruin). “For Diego,” she had written in the corner. The pencil sketch of a cracked face was Frida’s reproach of her husband’s womanizing.

Yet theirs was a great love and artistic alliance that survived the distress of infidelities. Looking at the lovers on the streets of Mexico City, it isn’t hard to imagine them sharing the same fate, even as commoners.

My first impressions of Mexico may not have been filled with the madness and mayhem promised by the silver screen. Hollywood is allowed her hyperbole but I prefer Mexico just as she is.

12 hours in 118 time

*Jakarta Globe, 5 December 2008

We hear the sirens first and then see the flash of green as they zip past. The paramedics of Ambulance 118 are the heroes of the streets, working around the clock to save lives and lend a tender hand.

7:30 a.m.
Even in the early hours of the morning, the parking lot of Cipto Manungkusumo Hospital, or RSCM, in Central Jakarta is filling up fast.
Five ambulances are parked in front of the children’s wing. “Ambulans Darurat,” or Emergency Ambulance, has been stenciled boldly in red on the front of the forest-green vehicles.
A man with plump cheeks and a short, squared-off beard is inside one of them, checking an oxygen tank.
“We have to go to Manggarai [South Jakarta] to fill up our oxygen tanks,” Dany Widyanto says.
At 26, he’s been a paramedic for four years. An older man with a perpetual smile, dressed in the regulation blue Ambulans 118 uniform and scruffy sneakers, introduces himself as Habibi Dukhri.
“We always travel in teams of two. Dany and I take turns driving,” Habibi says.
Today the two have been paired up for their 12-hour shift, covering Central Jakarta.

8:00 a.m.
At the oxygen-filling station, Dany and Habibi run into Marlinawati Susana and Mutmainah. Known around RSCM as Marlina and Imut, the two women are also attending to their tanks before their shift begins.
“We have to check our equipment every morning because patients are more likely to die from lack of oxygen than delays in [getting to the hospital] caused by traffic jams,” Marlina says, referring to the maddening traffic conditions in the Indonesian capital.
Slender and long-limbed, she has pulled her hair back into a ponytail, accentuating her pale, heavily powdered skin.
Her partner, Imut, wears a jilbab, or headscarf, and no makeup. She lets Marlina do most of the talking.
They have both been with the ambulance unit for more than two years.
“Almost half of our crew are women. There is no difference between us [men and women],” Habibi says.
Marlina says, “People work here because they like a challenge.”
The four of them say their goodbyes and hop back into their ambulances.

8:20 a.m.
Habibi and Dany leave the oxygen station for the Hotel Indonesia traffic circle in Central Jakarta, where they are expected to “stand by” from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m.
They are not worried about being late; it is likely they will just be sitting there, waiting.
“In the beginning, I liked the idea of going all around the city,” Habibi says. “And after doing it for a while, I began to really enjoy it. In the hospital, there is a senior-junior system. Here, [as paramedics] we are all equals.”
In the five years that Habibi has been a paramedic, not a single patient has died in his ambulance. “Victims sometimes die when we arrive late on the scene, but never in the ambulance because we always stabilize them before moving them,” Habibi says.
Even in heavy traffic jams?
“The response time for road accidents is often longer due to traffic. Sometimes when we get there, the victim has already been taken away in a bajaj [auto-rickshaw] or taxi,” Habibi says. “We often lose victims that way.”
Ambulance 118 is a national government ambulance service. The service is free for people with welfare cards, as well as road accident victims. For house calls and hospital-to-hospital transfers, there is a flat-rate charge of Rp 200,000 ($17), regardless of mileage. The cost includes all necessary services and supplies.
“People don’t know much about us,” Habibi says. “Sometimes, when there is a road accident, say someone on a bike, they often refuse our help because they think they have to pay.”
Dany is broody and seemingly fed up. But he concedes, with a roguish gleam in his eyes, that he is in his element when on the graveyard shift: from 7:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m.
“The most exciting are the nightclub victims,” he says. “You never know what is going to happen! Someone might be drunk and try to pick a fight with us.
“That is a cause of distress for paramedics because our safety is important. If it is not safe for us, it is better we refrain from treating the victims until backup from police or another unit arrives. Don’t try to be a hero.”

8:40 a.m.
At the traffic circle in Central Jakarta, Habibi relaxes in the back of a police pick-up truck fitted with benches and a canvas roof. He has found a friend: a policeman directing the rush-hour traffic.
“We like to call ourselves street children,” Habibi says with a laugh.

9:58 a.m.
Habibi takes a call and the men get into the ambulance.
“We’re off to the north now. They are out of ambulances in Kelapa Gading because most are them are being used to take welfare card holders to the hospital,” he says. RSCM has only five operational ambulances.
“Before, when we had 15 ambulances, our response time was excellent. At times, three ambulances would converge in one place,” he says. “We aim for good response time.”
Dany sounds the siren and the ambulance sails through a red light. Drivers honk their horns in protest. They still do not know the nature of the emergency.
“We often get crank calls, so our operator will take a call, write down the information, and call the person back at their number,” Habibi explains.
The ambulance veers into the busway lane, which is lawful in an emergency. “Ambulances have priority on the road but people still don’t realize it,” Habibi says.
He rings the operator for the exact location, then reports to Habibi: “We’re standing down. There is another ambulance closer.” They turn back to Menteng, Central Jakarta.

10:45 a.m.
Habibi pulls into a small police post at Suropati Park, Menteng, to use the bathroom. Dany perches himself on a steel bench. His partner returns with milky coffee. “I smoke sometimes. In the field, we can survive all day on just coffee and cigarettes,” Dany says.
“They call us ambulans gaul [cool ambulance drivers] because we are all so young,” he laughs.

11:00 a.m.
Habibi’s phone rings. “Here we go,” he says. “Standby for a protest? MPR/DPR? Inside or outside the building?” he asks the operator, referring to the People’s Consultative Assembly and the House of Representatives buildings.
“Two units have been called to be on standby for this protest,” he tells Dany. They get in the ambulance and Habibi starts reading his newspaper.

11:20 a.m.
Dany parks in the street outside the legislative complex and walks over to meet Suyitno and Eka, from the Ambulance 118 unit in from Tanjung Duren, West Jakarta.
“The protest has not even started,” Suyitno reports.

11:30 a.m.
A man in uniform approaches the ambulance. A young woman wearing a pink T-shirt is slumped in his arms, her long hair covering her face.
A crowd forms. Within seconds the woman is being given oxygen through a nasal cannula.
“Wake up, Mega,” Dany says, once he has discovered the victim’s name.
Habibi pops around the door with an oxygen mask. “Dany, use this instead.”
Habibi and his colleagues chat with the victim’s father, seemingly unperturbed by the situation. Her husband appears with a plastic cup of tea.
The woman stirs, managing to raise her head just enough to sip the sweet tea.
“How is she?” Suyitno inquires. “Stable,” comes the reply from inside the ambulance.
The woman had followed her father to Jakarta from Ngawi, East Java Province, to support him in his protest to increase the tenure of village administrative leaders.
Although Habibi advises the patient to rest, the husband calls a taxi and they leave.

12:05 p.m.
A man approaches Eka and asks her to check his blood pressure, which she does. It is not long before a Civilian Protection Service officer enters the ambulance. “What is your complaint, sir?” He too is worried about low-blood pressure. Then comes an elderly gentleman with a black cap.
“I have a headache,” he says to Eka, as she dutifully pumps the blood pressure meter.
Habibi makes small talk with the men about the protest.
“If one comes in, the rest follow. They are often looking for headache meds,” explains Habibi, as Suyitno informs the growing crowd of the same thing.
“We don’t supply oral meds,” he tells the people lining up. “We only carry them for emergencies and evacuations.”
Three more men ask Habibi to check their blood pressure. “They will all line up because they think we are offering freebies,” Suyitno says.
“My chest hurts,” one man says.

12:50 p.m.
Eka wants to pray at her post in Tanjung Duren, West Jakarta. Everyone heads there for lunch.

1:00 p.m.
Habibi heads to the upper level of the Tanjung Duren Fire Station with Dany. They meet up with Purwiyanto, the area coordinator for West Jakarta. “We don’t have a post of our own, so we are sharing with the fire department,” Purwiyanto says, as the two paramedics settle on the floor.
Habibi rings headquarters to report on his whereabouts. On TV, actor Gading Marten is trying to find lines on a show called “Missing Lyrics.” Looking on, the paramedics dig into their meals.

2:40 p.m.
“We are picking up a patient from Pelni hospital and bringing him home. We do not know the condition of the patient yet,” Habibi says as they leave the fire department.
Turning onto Jalan S. Parman, they are faced with a traffic jam. “This is Jakarta,” comments Habibi as Dany switches on the siren. Dany looks agitated. “I don’t like jams,” he says. Habibi falls asleep.

3:05 p.m.
“Don’t take a ticket,” Habibi tells Dany as they enter Pelni Hospital in Central Jakarta. Once stationed in front of the emergency doors, Habibi sets up the gurney. Dany rolls it in.
“Straight ahead,” instructs the hospital staff member. The patient’s family greets them. A relative helps Habibi and Dany with the best way to get back home. “Go past Pondok Kopi because it is not too far. The patient has sores on his back,” she says.
In a darkened room with three beds and green pleated curtains, the patient lies on his back: A frail elderly man, covered only with a blanket, he has had a stroke and been at the hospital a week. A nurse dresses him carefully.
Dany and Habibi have their latex gloves on. “Sir, we are going to lift you up slowly, OK?” Habibi says.
They wrap the patient in blankets and lift him onto the gurney. “Does it hurt?” Dany asks. The patient moans, almost inaudibly.

3:20 p.m.
Everyone piles into the ambulance. The patient’s daughter-in-law sits up front. Habibi is with the patient in back. The patient asks Habibi to pull off his Band-Aid saying it pains him. “It hurts from the injection, Pak. This is to prevent bleeding,” Habibi explains.
He starts making small talk. “How old are you, Pak?” he asks. “72.” He gently holds the old man’s hand and takes his blood pressure. “Slowly, Dany,” he says as the road gets bumpy. The patient’s feet peek out of the blue hospital blankets, crusted with sores and cracked skin.
“Sometimes we travel out of town, like to Solo in Central Java when patients want to spend their last days at home,” Habibi says. “Then we would have a mechanic with us, in case the vehicle breaks down.”
The patient asks Habibi to scratch an itch on his left arm. Up front, Dany is trying to find the exit. “There have been coma patients who go home to die. We have to be there when the families pull the plug,” Habibi says.

4:10 p.m.
The ambulance arrives at the patient’s home in Pulo Gebang, East Jakarta. Three dogs roam around the patio; paw prints pepper the floor. Dany and Habibi roll the gurney into the house. With the help of the patient’s relatives, they lift him onto the bed. “Pak, get better soon,” Habibi says before walking back to the car.
He fills out a form with the patient’s details for the relatives to sign.

4:20 p.m.
Habibi fills out the daily log book and helps Dany with directions back to Central Jakarta. “A GPS system was set up for Jakarta but due to a lack of funds, it was never turned on,” Dany says. “We know our way around Central Jakarta but sometimes we get calls to unfamiliar places and have to ask for directions.”

5:25 p.m.
Back at RSCM, the parking lot is full. Dany manages to find a spot and turns off the engine. Habibi goes to find snacks. “Before we had a post at this hospital, but no more. So we chill in the ambulance,” Dany says.
When Habibi returns with fried snacks, they talk about the rise of new ambulances in Jakarta hospitals.
“What irks me is that some people still think of us as mere drivers. It is to be expected, I guess, with all the fancy new ambulances nowadays being driven by drivers who are not trained paramedics like us,” Habibi says.
“Yet, people only trust us when it comes to big emergencies,” Dany adds. “Because if you compare us with fresh medical grads, they lose out to our experience in the field.”

6:00 pm
Habibi has gone for evening prayers. Two women approach the car.
“Pak, can you take a patient to an old folks’ home on Radio Dalam?” they ask Dany. He asks about the patient’s condition. He is still in the intensive care unit.
Dany calls headquarters to find out if the night-shift paramedics are available.
“Can you not take him yourself?” the woman asks.
“I am sorry, it’s procedure to have two paramedics in the ambulance,” Dany says. “And we recommend moving the patient late at night, when there is less traffic. Tonight, all the patients that have to be transported from RSCM are ‘bad’ ones,” Dany says.
“A ‘bad’ patient does not have all his ABCs [airways, breathing, circulation] in working order. Usually it’s the airway that’s most problematic. Our patient today was a ‘good’ one because he was stable.
“Sometimes hospitals are funny. They call us to take patients away when they are critical or ‘bad’ because they consider it bad luck if they die in the hospital.
It begins to rain. Habibi returns and Asep, the Central Jakarta area coordinator, jumps into the ambulance. “Not going home?” Dany asks him. Asep snorts, “Ha! I am sleeping in the ambulance tonight!”

7:20 p.m.
The rain stops. Habibi and Dany spill out of the ambulance into the wet parking lot and head home.

Dru, a curatorial

*Vivi Yip Art Room, 28 May 2009

Oversized doll heads of little girls dominate the canvas, surrounded by vertical and horizontal lines, and graphic shapes that seep and melt around them. Whimsical creatures who seem to stem from childhood fairytales, peer out of the crowded background, inhabiting the frame. The palette is subdued, with regular sweeps of muted brick reds and matte mustard greens. Part comical, with strains of anime, Badruzzaman’s creations deconstruct human interactions and personalities, always with the slightest dash of discomfort for the onlooker.

On canvas is where Badru plays with elements to adorn his paintings, such as foliage and snaking lines, creating a more tangible impression of space. Extensions of the artist’s graphic design background is apparent in the cubic shapes, hexagons and squares, and tiled spatial details of his pieces. The 27-year-old Yogyakarta-based artist, with his clean and defined lines, is inclined to provide the two-dimensional impression of a sleek graphic novel rather than a work of brushed acrylic upon canvas. But Badru, a native of Lampung, was never predisposed towards comic books or the like, his main influence being the street art that run rampant on the walls of Yogyakarta.
“Our attitude, our instinct,” he said, “was just to paint.”
The artist rarely displays his works, this being only his third exhibition. Though when he does, he prefers to express himself on a larger scale, saying “It seems such a waste to place my themes on a small canvas.”
His paintings veer more towards female characters, whose visages he bases on young women who enter his reality. While his male figures, possessing clown-like features, originate from the playful experimentation of his imagination. But these are not pictures of mirth. There is a sense of melancholy behind the children’s faces and, though resembling jesters in a royal court, Badru’s men hold something sinister behind their smiles.
“People have their own characters, I paint them accordingly,” Badru said.
Though the characters who appear to menace his central characters and invade the background change with each new canvas, one makes a routine debut – a bile-green rotund shaped critter with sharp, eager little dentures. Badru has no name for his creature, simply calling it is a symbol of egoism.
“I feel free to criticize people on canvas,” he said,” without them understanding that I have criticized them.”
His themes, Badru explains, all stem from personal experiences. Life’s daily fluctuations, minor joys, tediums, aches and interactions all play a part in Badru’s final pieces. He dips into his past and uses the memories to actualize his canvas. “I find more satisfaction with personal themes of love, friendship and day-to-day life,” Badru said.

Of a painting entitled “Girlfriend: Saving My Dog”, Badru had drawn on his experience with a former lover, depicting a beautiful woman-child with crimson pillow lips and sad bedroom eyes. In a larger  ontext, Badru does touch on universal themes, such as the desire to be accepted. “Hi…”, one of his earlier works, is a painting of a red-headed girl-child with an unadorned background and Badru’s personal favourite.
“She is a person who is lonely at heart, not accepted by the society around her,” Badru explained.
“I see myself as this newcomer, in a strange place, looking for someone to befriend,” he continued. He offers hope for his protagonist in the shape of a little bird that flies above her, playing with a strand of the little girl’s tresses between its beak. Although there remains some paintings that Badru considers too personal to be displayed for the public to scrutinize or enjoy.
“There are pieces which I’d prefer to keep for myself,” Badru said. “It is similar to how some people keep diaries, except mine is on canvas.”

Badru’s pieces can take up to 2 weeks to complete. Concepts, colours and timing are all swayed by the artist’s moods.
“Emotion plays a factor,” Badru said. “If I am feeling emotional, I tend to use warmer colours.”
With each piece, Badru begins with a rough sketch on paper before spilling his images on to canvas.
“I feel the power [on the canvas] to be more creative. I can add and embellish,” said Badru, who never limits himself to adhere to the original sketches he draws.
Badru has simple ambitions – to introduce his art to the public as he utilizes the canvas to release his past experiences and emotions. What he strives is to maintain a style that is unique to him.
“It is hard to accept comparisons to other artists because I try so hard to create my own style,” said the artist.
Badru, who has no formal training in fine arts, continues to develop his art, finding new techniques, adding and playing with dimensions to add to his eccentric tableaux. When he first started painting, his works were plainer, focusing only on the main characters. His backgrounds were rarely garnished with the detailed landscape and cacophony of critters as they are now.
“I feel I want to try something new, to change the composition, the layouts,” Badru said of his newer pieces. He surrenders to the process of creation, unburdened by style trends or themes that are popular in the art market.
“What is important is to be as creative as possible,” Badru stated. “As for the art being good or bad, that is up to the public to judge for themselves.”

a home for the unwanted

*Jakarta Globe, 11 December 2008

In the far corner of a house in Cimanggis, 40 kilometers from Central Jakarta, a boy walks by, pushing an empty wheelchair.
His gait is rather strange, his legs twisted at odd angles. He walks carefully, relying more on the wheelchair than pushing it. The quietness is sporadically shattered by screams. Short and high in pitch, like a frustrated toddler grappling for words that refuse to form.
In its sprawling compound on the main road of Jalan Raya Bogor, Wisma Tuna Ganda houses 30 children and adults with various forms of cerebral palsy and autism.
Most have lived here since they were toddlers. Fifty percent are over the age of 30; the oldest is 40.
Kristanti, the deputy head of Wisma Tuna Ganda, explains: “We treat residents for a maximum of 20 years, but some stay longer because their families are hesitant to take them back or have abandoned them completely. Where else can they go? So they become our responsibility.”
In a bright room with open windows, residents sit on safety chairs playing with colorful sets of shapes.
Most stare emptily into space, saliva dribbling from their lips.
Rusdi, the only one with coherent speech, answers in a slurred voice when asked his age and the name of his father.
Blind, the 36-year-old holds a forefinger to his left ear whenever he speaks, as if straining to hear.
The institution does not provide residents with a formal education.
“It is enough to teach them how to interact, understand who they are, and daily survival skills like putting on clothes and feeding themselves,” Kristanti says.
A caretaker is teaching Icha, the youngest resident, how to play with blocks. She does not look like she was born with a defect. But she is autistic and has yet to walk or speak at 3 years of age.
“She responds to her own name,” says Kristanti with a smile, “which means at least she understands who she is.”
Polo shirts, T-shirts, shorts and pants hang in the garden in neat rows under the morning sun. A man sits at the end of the hall, his legs crossed, eyes closed, swishing his head from left to right. There is a big grin on his face. On approach, gray hairs can be seen on his head.
“Fikri is one of the older ones. He is mobile but blind,” says Kristanti as she rubs Fikri’s head. At times his hands flutter up, as if playing  an imaginary piano. “They live in their own world,” Kristanti adds.
Neat white tiles dominate the physiotherapy room where chaos reigns. The floor is littered with bodies, prone and writhing. Three caretakers in dusky pink uniforms heave a child up and strap her to a standing frame. To the left, two children hang on frames like forgotten puppets; their legs and arms bound to splints of padded steel to keep them from stiffening and bending. The children wear heavy orthopedic shoes so they will not develop flat feet or curling toes. They are strapped to boards with cloth straps, hands hanging limply above their heads. For an hour they rest that way to straighten their muscles and practice standing.

“At first, they were angry and would struggle against it,” says Rita Komala who has been a physiotherapist and caretaker for 11 years. “But now they have gotten used to it and some can fall asleep.”
The room is clean and the physiotherapy equipment new —a  noticeable difference from the past when there was an absence of generous donors. Prior to funding, treatment was not maximal due to the high cost of equipment for therapy.
“Shoes for preventing flat feet cost Rp 2 million,” comments Rita.
It is hard to tell the boys from the girls, or the men from the women. Everyone has short hair, cut off for convenience, and wears a T-shirt and pants. Their names are written in permanent marker on their clothing. Rizka, on the middle standing frame, flashes a big grin. She has sharp features, like a bird.
A commotion occurs in the middle of the floor. Ribs jutting out of his thin skin, a tall teenage boy is being undressed by caretakers. He has relieved himself in his pants and they are removing his adult pampers. They turn him over to powder him; his pelvic bones are visible.
One caretaker squeals upon seeing his erection. The 17-year-old’s pimply face remains expressionless. The caretakers laugh off the incident, quickly dressing him and strapping him to a chair. A napkin is placed under his chin like a bib.
“He leaks at both ends,” jokes a caretaker. “Like a tap,” says another.
A caretaker takes hold of another child and sits her down on a padded wooden seat. “They have to learn to sit,” says  Kristanti, “so their spines can be trained.”
“Susan,” she says pointing to a child with painfully thin and distorted limbs who is lying on her back, “cannot be trained to stand because her legs have become too spastic. If we force it, her legs will break.”

Lying stiff on the corner of a thin foam mattress, Vivi, in lollypop-pink stripes, blinks her large eyes and grunts. She wears splints, except on her right arm which was injured in a wheelchair accident.
“When Vivi was born, she was a healthy baby who had the chance to run and speak,” says Rita. She succumbed to cerebral palsy at 18 months.

Once everyone is strapped into standing positions, seated or stretched straight on the mat, the room falls quiet. Sounds from a soap opera blare from a television set. No one pays attention to it. The caretakers sit around the room and joke with one another.
Renni, who has regularly visited the home since 1993, comes bearing snacks. Renni went to physiotherapy school with Rita and is a freelancer now. She comes to volunteer for a few hours every week and says she feels something is missing when she does not.
“How are you, Ika?” she says as she high-fives Rizka, whose hands are tied above her head.
The 17-year-old beams beautifully, her mouth filed with sharp, black stumps that were once teeth. To her left, a plump girl grunts, laughs and shakes her head.
The caretakers crowd around Renni and eat her offerings.
“Rizka was so pretty when she was younger,” recounts Rennie. “But once she started menstruating, and through lack of care, her teeth have gone bad.”
Popping a peanut into her mouth, a caretaker speaks of Nano, who was left in a dumpster in Ancol, North Jakarta, when he was 5.
“He will always yell for food if he sees any,” she laughs. Nano is now 22.
“Many parents just leave them,” says Kristanti. “Some move houses without telling us their new address. Most never ask about their children. Sometimes when we feel a child needs their parents, we even pay for the parents to come here.”
An hour later more children are carried into the physiotherapy room. These are the ones who have finished their lessons next door. The caretakers busy themselves by massaging baby oil onto the atrophied limbs of the newcomers and joke with the children. Rizka and her two friends are released from their standing frames and left to roam the floor, their leg splints still attached. Little yelps and mini-screams are heard around the room. It is hard to tell whether the children are expressing pain, boredom or pleasure.
Rita and Rennie dote on Icha, their backs to Vivi in the corner. Vivi’s forehead turns lobster-red when she wails.
“Leave her, she is only seeking attention,” says Renni.

“Icha is cute so everyone hugs her and plays with her,” says a caretaker. “No one hugs Vivi.”

Vivi’s cries eventually brings a caretaker over to remove her splints. Once freed, her left arm bends inward and hardens. Her legs jerk shut. With emaciated limbs she resembles a sparrow with broken wings.
“They cannot move so their muscles athropy, their limbs getting smaller and smaller,” Renni explains.
Rizka, seeing the snacks near the mat, pulls her body along with her arms to take a crisp. She chews quietly. Crumbs fall.
Icha, the smallest, strapped to one of the standing boards, hangs like a cartoon character with her upright ponytail shooting out of the top of her head. Slightly cross-eyed she has a look of constant awe. She smiles and laughs at a caretaker who sits and dangles a camera phone in front of her.

Dani, an apple-cheeked girl with gorgeous dark eyes that disappear when she smiles, bangs her body against the standing frame next to Icha’s. Beside her, Putri, mouth agape, is silent and peers passively from behind her upright arms at the scene around her, slowly moving her head from left to right.
Rizka has another go at the snacks. She takes a few nuts then throws them on the floor.
“Leave it, she will eat them from there,” says a caretaker as Rizka picks a nut off the tile.
Buck-toothed and sporting blue socks featuring a superhero, Nanda is out of her shackles and is being trained to sit on a padded seat. She curls her head down and purrs in delight when someone rubs the back of her neck. After sitting for a while, she belches and throws up. A caretaker rushes over to clean her and rub minyak kayu putih, or cajuput oil, on her stomach.
“We’re going to lie you down on the floor, OK?” she says to Nanda.
Meanwhile, Dimas runs around the room creating havoc, pushing an empty standing frame and swinging the support straps. Physically he is in fine form but Dimas is autistic and cannot speak. He starts yelling and pulls people toward a hanging strap, wanting to play.
Lunchtime rolls around. All the children are taken off the standing frames and are left lying on the floor in various distorted positions as the caretakers prepare the food. Dani, effervescent, keeps laughing as a caretaker removes her splints. Vivi is spoon-fed on her back, her head propped up. The mashed up meal dribbles down her chin. Yellow and soft, her lunch also lands on her nose.
Putri sits upright beside her, solemnly flattening her rice before slowly bringing it to her mouth. A tiny dark-skinned girl by her feet stretches an arm toward her, eyeing her plate.
Dimas swoops in and steals her prawn cracker. Her reaction to catch him was too slow. She resumes her meal without a fuss.
On the opposite side of the room, Icha sneezes and looks surprised. Dani breaks out in laughter. Vivi, clean after her meal, suddenly throws open her sticks of arms, her huge eyes bulging toward the ceiling. She looks like a crucified child.
In the main house, the air is calmer and the atmosphere somber. Here lie the children too ill to move, in beds that have bars to prevent them from falling out. Above each bed is a wooden board listing each child’s name, birth date, origin, date of entry and ailments.
Tiffany, 6, is the frailest and the worst case. “Blind, spastic, mute, paralyzed,”  Kristanti reads.
In the dark, the whites of her wide eyes glow like sunken torchlights as a caretaker brings a spoonful of tomato soup to her mouth.
Yunas, 18, has been living at Wisma Tuna Ganda for 13 years. Although mute, he has full comprehension skills and responds with sign language and gestures. He often acts as a guide for visitors.
Upstairs, in the girls’ and women’s quarters, is Teresia. The T-shirt she is wearing says Dyna but Yunas knows it is her.
Aged and lined, with bony bent limbs curved like a meditating yogi, Teresia is the oldest resident. She arrived five years after the place opened in 1975. In the bed nearby, a girl squeals, happy to be playing with a handful of black pebbles.
There has only been one recorded case of adoption since the institution’s inception.
“It was in 1975 and a Dutch person adopted a boy. Of course, the child was active and could be independent,” Kristanti says. “No one would take a child who couldn’t move. It is too much hassle.”
Rare is the occasion when a child is taken back by their families. The fortunate few who are able to be productive are placed in other institutions to learn trade skills which are not provided here. But most residents die in the institution, often forgotten or abandoned by their families.
“An institution like this is not a place to break ties. A child has a right to be loved and cared for, here or at home,” Kristanti says. “But most people abandon their responsibility once they give their child over to us. Parents don’t realize they cannot forget their children.”

(Photos: Titania Veda)

Roy Petley, struggling artist to gallery owner

* Dewi magazine, June 2005

The debut opening of Roy Petley’s gallery in London caused an uproar in the West End, with people seen queuing down the street to get in. In fact, that wintry October night saw so many people in the gallery that the fire department responded four times to heat alarms going off in the building.

This dream of an art gallery began many years ago by a boy abandoned to a children’s home. Trapped in a dark and dreary world, even the beatings by his guardians could not curb Roy’s irrepressible spirit. “My escape was painting and drawing, the reality was horrible. I quite liked the fistfights but I didn’t like the beatings,” he confides. Becoming the first ever to receive a scholarship at the children’s home at the tender age of sixteen, Roy left for Brighton University but after his first semester he decided to go to Florence in the arms of a beautiful woman. His thirst for the foundations of art, well-drawn, well-coloured and well-painted works naturally drew him to the Italian masters of old; Leonardo da Vinci, and Michelangelo. Several years later, after living through his work in Italy, he returned to his homeland, England. There, he exhibited on the Green Park railings, a then melting pot of would be artists.

A chance meeting with the Duchess of Kent was the beginning of a lifelong friendship with the British royal family. The late Queen Mother and the Prince of Wales are collectors of his works, the late Queen Mother being particularly fond of his Norfolk landscapes. A whirlwind romance with an adoring public commenced, with sell-out shows following him wherever he went, from London to Barbados, Dublin to Dallas.

To satisfy his love of beautiful sports cars, three Alfa Romeos, engine red Ferraris and an E-type Jaguar once decorated his backyard. He even appeared on Good Morning Texas, flanked between William Shatner who “was on before me trying to promote a video game for Star Wars”, and a piano-playing-pot-bellied-pig who refused to perform. “It wouldn’t play the piano because it was camera shy”, Roy deduced.

Roy’s rags to riches story caught the eye of both the BBC and Sky Television, resulting in documentaries on his life and his art, and forced a change on his outlook on life. “I used to have people lining up to buy my work – but once the BBC did their documentary on me, they ended up banging on my front door trying to buy a paintings, it became a nightmare!” he exclaimed. Once dubbed the Best Dressed Man in London, this sort of major publicity was not in line with Roy’s solitary nature. In the early nineties, he chose tranquillity over fame and moved to a lonely farmhouse in the south-west of France. “I left England to become an unknown, to have a peaceful life”, he said. He quickly applied his energy to rebuilding his new-found home, which was soon to be featured in House & Garden, Homes & Gardens and Interior magazine.

the last of the sun by Roy Petley (courtesy of Petley Fine Art)

An impressionistic painter, he finds inspiration in his surroundings. In the summers, he is often found by local fishermen knee-deep in water, drawing models draped in flowing white dresses and adorned with wide-brimmed hats that Roy is known for collecting, or painting his neighbour’s children licking ice lollipops in his rose garden.

Self-taught, Roy experiments with all mediums, disclosing how he changes “mediums when I want to change my mind-set”. At his leisure, he moves effortlessly from pastel to oil, watercolour to sanguine. He speaks of each medium with equal passion, stressing on the ability to draw well being essential when working with any medium, particularly watercolour – “There is no changing it…there is only one chance”. He continues on saying, “watercolours are my reference for my oil paintings, an oil painting becomes a fuller version of the watercolour on a canvas.” He describes how Degas used to work with charcoal before drawing in the pastel, but prefers himself to draw with colour immediately. He is also is quick to illustrate that “pastel is a dusty medium and after a short period of working with it, I am always happy to return to my natural medium – oil.”

The subjects of Roy’s works are as varied as his mediums, drawing upon inspiration from anything and everything – portraits, still life, cityscapes and landscapes have all felt the touch of his brush in his paintings. “I usually have an idea of what I want to do before I begin, I see the world through my paintbrush and palette – all that remains to do is to recreate the image that I see in my mind.”

Whether it be landscape or still life, light and shadow are the basis of his works. There is a certain light and youthfulness, a grace and joyfulness that emanates from his paintings. He depicts an untouchable innocence that is reminiscent of childhood and days gone by. Although it may seem an old-fashioned and romantic world, this is Roy’s world as it exists today. Each painting draws you in, engages you with its subtle colours and soft lines.

sunlight in the dark canal by Roy Petley (courtesy of Petley Fine Art)

It is said that once you have had a show in Cork Street, you have made it in the art world. Having exhibited in galleries on the street for over a decade, Roy had reached a point in his life where he wanted to give something back. In his youth, Roy himself had approached gallery after gallery, carrying his portfolio, and had been turned away. In later years, the same galleries would beg him to exhibit with them – he wanted to provide artists with the opportunities he never had, with “a gallery they can trust, where artists feel comfortable”, where the open doors and laid back atmosphere would encourage artists – especially the younger ones. In the autumn of 2003, he did just that. “I started up the gallery because I was really fed up with how artists are treated”, he explained.

Petley Fine Art sets itself apart from other galleries because as Roy proudly states, “this is the first time an artist has owned a major gallery promoting work other than his own”. True to his word, Roy has raised the bar for the whole area by filling his gallery with only the finest paintings and sculptures from an international pantheon of artists. “We have famous artists, infamous artists, and also young artists just starting out in their careers – regardless of where they are in their careers, it is their talent that attracts us to them.”

It is this refreshing concoction of artists that gives the gallery its lively character and explains why artists enjoy exhibiting there. Neil Forster, an artist of Petley Fine Art and an established portrait painter whose sitters include The Prince of Wales, speaks highly of the gallery. “I thought this gallery opening in “the” art street of London and offering art with no over-intellectualizing or posing, is so refreshing that it must in time be one of the most visited galleries in London.”

Roy is also quick to point out that a lot of effort has been made to ensure nothing distracts from the paintings. His long-standing motto being, “the art is foremost, the gallery secondary and all emphasis is on the artists”.

Filled with boundless energy and enthusiasm, Roy floods his gallery with the same vitality he fills his paintings. Now with three galleries spread across Europe, Petley Fine Art seems to be going from strength to strength. As for Roy, does he miss the good old days when he was a struggling painter? “Well,” he laughs, saying, “I have artists ringing up at 4 AM telling me their problems with their wives who are jealous of their models. One artist calls up and says can I come see you now? I think, what’s going on here?”

Petley Fine Art
9 Cork St
London
W1S 3LL
+44 207 494 2021
http://www.petleys.co.uk/

(photo: Titania Veda)

raising the dead

*Jakarta Globe, 6 February 2009

A man climbs quietly from a grave and closes a white burial cloth that shrouds a skeleton. The bones are the color of burned earth and in pieces. A maggot scuttles to hide behind the empty eye socket of the skull. After more than 30 years of interment, all that is left of a once middle-aged adult now fits into a small bundle.

A weathered, wooden plaque with jagged edges bears the name the skeleton once answered to.

At Menteng Pulo Public Cemetery in South Jakarta, the air is fresh with the scent of blossoming trees and rich earth. A lone mottled mutt threads cautiously among the graves, its skin matted and reddish from the rain and earth. She sits on top of a grave, observing as 50 gravediggers calmly go about their work. They are not burying the dead but raising them, literally, from their graves.

Along a large strip of land near the Cideng River, 10,600 square meters to be exact, emptied graves with ragged edges line the cemetery. The workers have been commissioned by the city administration to unearth about 3,500 plots to make way for a highway linking Jalan Soepomo and Jalan Rasuna Said.

“Traditionally, you cannot disturb the dead,” sayd Entong, the head gravedigger. “But this is a city that is developing, and they need to expand the road.”

Inside an open grave, Entong breaks up the damp soil with a rusty hoe. His black jeans and feet are encrusted with red earth. He hands the last of the unearthed bones to his assistant to wrap in cloth and take to another burial plot that has been allocated for the exhumed bodies.

“This one was buried in 1962, so there are very few bones left,” Entong says, pointing to the decomposed bundle of bones about the size of an infant.

Entong climbs out of the grave and begins to break the gray headstone with his hoe. Pieces of stone fly around him. He has to remove the name plaque embedded in the stone so it can be placed with the remains for identification. His skin is burnished from the 32 years he has worked outdoors as a gravedigger.

“People call me first when they want to bury someone,” Entong says.

On this overcast morning, no weeping or hushed prayers for the displaced dead are heard, only the thud of hoes hitting the soil. Entong says it has been two months since the excavation of the graves commenced and it is scheduled to end next week.

“At the beginning there were more relatives,” Entong says. “Now it is rare for families to come even though we have informed them we will be digging up the graves. Maybe they have moved. Maybe they can’t bear the process.”

The majority of the graves are Muslim but Entong estimates 800 Buddhist graves will also be uncovered this week.

The remains are being moved to new burial plots further down the road. Unclaimed remains are moved to a cemetery at Kampung Kandang in Cilandak or to Srengseng Sawah Cemetery in South Jakarta, Entong says.

The ground is soft as paste from the ongoing Jakarta showers and he flings it around him as he hoes. An errant and persistent fly flits around his bare feet.

“We take the remains out, wrap them up and then knock down the gravestone,” explains Suroh, a caretaker at Menteng Pulo since the ’70s. Wearing a red shirt, a large mole jutting from his chin, he watches Entong work in the distance.

“I do not cry at anyone’s funeral,” Suroh says. “I am used to them.

“We are here to fix their homes, their final resting place.”

It is noon when Entong rests inside a makeshift wooden hut in the middle of the cemetery. The soiled clothes of the caretakers hang to dry nearby on headstones and from overhanging trees.
A caretaker chugs on a motorcycle down the narrow dirt road that runs through the cemetery, ferrying four white bundles to an ambulance for relocation.

“It is funny. Kaplok, kaplok, kaplok is the sound of the bodies flapping,” says Suroh as he watches.
“We are all the same. In the end we will die,” he adds as he deeply inhales from a clove cigarette.
Under the cool shade of the hut, the men sit in their mud-caked clothes, sipping hot, milky coffee and talk lightheartedly about death. Entong recounts a time when he had to break the legs of a corpse.

“If I didn’t, they wouldn’t fit into the cloth,” he says.

The kain kapan, or burial cloths, are rough pieces of white cloth two meters in length. “These ones cost Rp 12,000 [about $1],” Entong says, pointing to a pile of fabric in a cupboard. “Cheap ones.”

The hush is disturbed by the arrival of Iwan Suwandi and his family. Together with his wife, Suwarti, his sister, sister-in-law and grandson, he has come to rebury his son Rachmad.

“I was shocked to get the notice from the cemetery,” Suwandi says, of being notified of the disinterment. “I found out at Lebaran,” he adds.

A gentle-looking man with glasses and specks of grey through his hair, Suwandi had been ill for the past three months and unable to come to Menteng Pulo earlier.

Wearing a tan fishing hat and checkered shirt, Ali greets Suwandi, whom he knows. The caretaker has been tending Rachmad’s grave since he was buried here four years ago. An old hand, Ali has worked at cemeteries since 1948 and takes care of 100 plots in Menteng Pulo.

Rachmad, Suwandi’s third son, died of liver problems at the age of 24. “I wanted to move him to Bogor but we have no family there,” says Suwandi, who instead asked for his son’s body to be moved nearby within the Menteng Pulo cemetery.

Entong is called upon to dig up the body.

“It is his job to dig. We each have a duty,” explains Suroh, whose own position is caring for the graves, like Ali.

Entong alternates using his hands and the hoe to scoop out the earth. The burial cloth is laid on the ground beside the grave and he begins to place the unearthed chunks of bone on it. Two assistants crouch nearby to lay them out on the burial cloth. Standing above his son’s grave, Suwandi’s face is placid as he calmly inquires about the whereabouts of his son’s skull.

The wooden headstone reads, Rachmad H. bin Iwan Suwandi, etched black upon painted white wood. Slivers of the skeleton’s rib cage are taken out one by one. Entong continues to dig and finds a hipbone. Finally, he finds the skull. Suwandi places his hand over his mouth and lets out a small gasp. The family begins to pray. A sniff escapes Suwandi as he continues to look at Entong in the grave.

“His legs aren’t here yet,” Suwandi says.

Entong clears the mud from his hoe and continues digging.

The air is hushed and the smell of rain is heavy on the breeze. “We forgot to bring an umbrella,” Suwandi says to his wife, who nods agreement. Their 7-year old grandson, dressed in blue, has his hand on his knees and keeps his gaze intently on the open grave. The women look distressed.

When Ali comes over to help wrap the bones, Suwandi asks if the bundle is heavy. Ali says it isn’t. Three men wrap the bundle tightly and hand the bones to Suwandi. With steady steps on the slippery, rain-soaked earth, Suwandi carries his son to a prepared burial site, mouthing a silent prayer.

A little way up the road from where Rachmad was originally buried, a gaping hole six feet deep awaits. The small congregation stops, and Suwandi hands the bundle to a gravedigger as he jumps in the grave. The body is gently returned to him and the gravediggers tell him to open the bundle. “All of it,” says one as the other balls up chunks of soil with his hands. “It is to prop up the body so it does not overturn,” he explains.

Suwandi carefully tucks his son into his resting place and two men start to fill in the grave. An imam in a black velvet skullcap, propping himself up with a multicolored umbrella, asks for the name of the deceased and begins a low chant. Only the boy’s name, Rachmad, rings out as the imam crouches by the grave. All else is quiet save for the sound of hoes hitting the ground.

The mother opens a prayer book, her face partially hidden under her black jilbab as she prays along with the imam. Her grandson stands behind her, holding her arm.

Suwandi straightens his son’s old headstone and turns his palms up to the sky. The imam moves toward him and they pray side by side. The earth atop Rachmad’s new grave is choppy and uneven but Ali explains it will be tidied later. He takes out a clove cigarette, lights it and stands before this new grave he will also care for.

A warm wind blows. From a nearby mosque, the resonant call to prayers rings out, echoed softly by surrounding mosques.

(photos: JG/Yudhi Sukma Wijaya)

a day with legendary actress Christine Hakim

*Jakarta Globe, 13 December 2008

It is noon when Christine Hakim makes an entrance on the staircase of a hotel on Bali Island. The weather is balmy and the air has a faint smell of salt. Hakim wears a batik shirt with a cloud pattern and a jade-green lizard-skin tote bag slung over her shoulder. Her signature streak of green hair is barely noticeable when pulled tightly back.
Hakim runs into Trade Minister Mari Elka Pangestu, who has just addressed a conference, at the reception desk.
The press immediately swarm around them. “Mbak Christine!” the photographers and journalists call out.
Hakim answers questions with good humor and the poise that comes from being in the public eye for more than three decades.
“There is still no one in the film industry who can rival her,” whispers a journalist.

Since Hakim launched her acting career in Teguh Karya’s “Cinta Pertama” (First Love) in 1973, barely an unkind word has been written about her in the media.
It is not hard to see why. “As I age, my maternal side develops. I treat them like they are my children, even the older journalists,” Hakim says. “I jest with them, pretending to be difficult. They in turn try to coax me, as a child would coax their mother for a treat, to give them an interview,” she adds with a wink.
After the press conference, Hakim heads for the airport. The appearance of her very famous face — the vermilion lips, the warm eyes under darkened lashes, the beauty spot — causes many people to do a double take.
Besides being a screen icon, Hakim was the first Indonesian to be invited to sit on the jury of the prestigious Cannes International Film Festival and she also graced the cover of TIME magazine as one of their Asian heroes of 2004 for her contributions to film and society. Yet it is with a deep sigh that she sums up her life in the limelight in one word: “heavy.”
“It was my never my intention to end up this way. I just wanted to be a good person,” she says, referring to her humanitarian work.
“These are the consequences of the decisions I have made throughout my life. So I have to be consistent with my choices,” Hakim says. “In a way it is a moral burden — if I choose to let go of my commitments — because at times they involve the livelihoods of others.”
Hakim’s compassion for others and her nationalism are evident in the roles she has chosen to play in films such as “Daun Di Atas Bantal” (Leaf on a Pillow), about the lives of street children; “Serambi” (Verandah), about the aftermath of the tsunami in Aceh; and “Cut Nyak Dhien,” about an Acehnese freedom fighter.
Hakim is also an advocate for public education and children’s welfare. “If I can help someone who is in need — and release them from their troubles — that is what makes me smile,” she says. “When I am in trouble and help comes my way, it is an incredible feeling. Because I have felt that, I want others to feel the same.”
In 2008, Hakim was appointed by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, or Unesco, to be a Goodwill Ambassador for Teacher Education in Southeast Asia.
Her own foundation, The Christine Hakim Foundation, provides nutrition for malnourished children in West Java Province. “We [as public figures] do not always have to contribute to the community, but perhaps I want to give meaning to my own life. I feel if I do things only for myself then my life is less meaningful. But if my life can give meaning to others, then it has more purpose.”
A friend decides to fly back to Jakarta with Hakim and takes the last available seat — in economy. Without a second thought, Hakim gives up her business-class seat to her friend.
“I much prefer sitting in the back of the plane,” she says, waiting patiently for the crowded line to move forward. “Besides, it is the safest place in case of a crash.”
At lunchtime, Hakim takes out a brown paper package of rice from her favorite street stall in Bali. She politely refuses a stewardess’s offer of utensils.
Her down-to-earth attitude — sitting in economy, eating rice with her hands — appears to puzzle the other passengers, who watch her constantly. “Acting is a profession, just like any other. Life does not only encompass acting,” Hakim says. “The gist of life is not there [in film] but comes back to my existence as a human being. There is no difference between one person and another. We all have pluses and minuses. I do not feel I am better than anyone else.”
Arriving at Jakarta’s Soekarno-Hatta airport, Hakim sails through immigration, past a sea of officials’ smiles. “The kindness of others makes my life easier, but it has also become a burden for me. People are nice to me because they appreciate, respect and believe in me. In that sense, I have to tread carefully so as to not disappoint anyone.”
The arrival hall is almost empty — aside from a film crew on break. Their camera and sound rigs are strewn around the area. Hakim recognizes a few of the crew members and stops to chat. They discuss a movie that is currently in production in Jakarta. The verdict is not good. Hakim shakes her head sadly.
“That film has been rife with problems from the start,” she says.
Once in her car, Hakim sinks back into her seat, clearly travel-weary. “On three occasions I wanted to stop making films” she discloses, pausing for thought. “But my soul is in film. As humans, we all have a calling. We all have our own duties to fulfill — of that I am convinced. Whenever I face a major predicament, in other aspects of my life positive things, such as recognition for my work, appear. So how can I stop?”
These awards symbolize people’s hopes and appreciation — their support. And so I continue,” Hakim says.
Back at her office in South Jakarta, Hakim rolls out a mat and begins to pray. The soft recitation of bismillah — in the name of Allah — resonates throughout the room. After praying , she changes into a boldly patterned top and a ruby-red Spanish-style tiered skirt.
Hakim says she does not find it hard to be a woman working in a patriarchal culture.
“I do not want to be a man. My femininity has become my strength. It sets me apart from men. It is an asset,” she says.
“In life, you have to be able to be tender and hard. I can be hard, believe it or not,” she says.
Darkness hangs over the capital as Hakim makes her way to a gallery opening, where she is guest of honor.
“In the end, it is my life,” she says. “But when people already respect and believe in me, they only want to see me as that person [they see onscreen]. They need to understand that I am also human and can also make mistakes. “
She reaches her destination and glides out of the car with a grand smile for the wall of photographers who greet her. Then Christine Hakim disappears into the throng.

(photo: AFP/Mychele Danau)

a whiff of whimsy: travel sometimes requires trust

*Jakarta Globe, 25 November 2009

Strangers. The word tends to have an ominous cloud hanging over it. But in the beginning, everyone is a stranger, an unknown quantity — even the people who become our friends.

As a journalist, chatting to random people comes with the job. It’s a prerequisite, in fact.

The other day, I struck up a conversation with two middle-aged men watching a salsa class in San Francisco. They were from Guatemala. After conversing about dancing and being immigrants, the portlier of the pair said, “You’re very open. Most women here don’t normally speak to strange men.” What a pity, I thought, because those women missed out on meeting these two who, with twinkles in their eyes, taught me a little about their country.

I like strangers. They are a novelty with their different points of view and stories.

But like the Guatemalan said, trust in this day and age is hard to come by. After all, if colleagues can backstab you, friends betray you and spouses more likely than not cheat on you, then who’s to say the strangers you befriend aren’t liable to harm you?

Traveling in unfamiliar territory, everyone I meet is a stranger — a possible threat or friend. So as a solo traveler, I try to be more cautious. But on any journey, nothing quite goes as intended. In my experience, strangers have enhanced my travels and, more often than not, come to my rescue.

As a foolish youth driving solo across England and Ireland, I managed to get my car wedged in a ditch. There, surrounded by dense fog, past midnight, in the countryside somewhere between Dublin and Galway, I sat in the dark waiting for help. Eventually, I flagged down two men on their way home from the pub. Unfortunately, due to the substantial amount of Guinness in their system, their car ended up in the same ditch as mine. It was only after the pub closed and the rest of the inebriated villagers came our way that we were saved.

This time my story began when a 5,000-pound steel cable snapped off the San Francisco Bay Bridge, causing it to close for a few days. Due to the bridge closure, Amtrak canceled its buses, which I needed to connect to a southbound train, leaving me stranded in the city. Amtrak did leave a note on the bus stop sign. Catch the train in San Jose, it read. Nothing else.

I went to the local subway station to find a train bound for San Jose. A kind attendant informed me that the southbound Amtrak would leave the next morning. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?” he said. At the train station, naturally. Unfortunately, the stations close at night, was his reply.

Lack of lodgings was the least of my worries. My mission was to catch my train to San Diego. The route I had to take was simple: a Bay Area Rapid Transit train from San Francisco to Millbrae followed by a Caltrain to San Jose where I was to wait for an Amtrak bus to Santa Barbara, and finally a train to San Diego.

Zipping down to Millbrae, I was slightly apprehensive. Was San Jose the right place to catch up with my wayward Amtrak transportation? Midnight was closing in fast. I turned to the elderly couple behind me and asked if they knew where I could catch the Amtrak train to San Diego. Their names were Bill and Rosanne, and they were on their way home from watching the musical “Wicked” in San Francisco. There were no trains till tomorrow. Again came the question: “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?” “No,” I replied.

Before alighting in Millbrae, Bill turned and said, “You can sleep on our couch tonight.” And with those words, the kind pair saved me from spending the night outside of the San Jose station.

So I hopped into their car and we drove to their home in Belmont. It was a quaint old house with a porch, the random passing deer or raccoon in their yard, a kitchen with flowery wallpaper and a brown-and-white Papillon dog called Mickey.

When Bill discovered my budding love for riding long-distance trains, he took me to his basement. On a wall a sticker read: “My wife says if I buy one more train she’ll leave me. Gee, I’ll miss her.” Bill is a railway aficionado.

He had spent the last 41 years turning the basement into a miniature country of undulating mountain peaks, canyons, clouds and cities connected by railways tracks and trains of all shapes and colors. We talked of trains till well past the witching hour.

It wasn’t until I was snugly settled on their couch that a thought crossed my mind — what if they were a couple of elderly serial killers? Laughable misgivings that dawned too late and completely unwarranted for the kind couple shepherded me onto a train headed for San Jose the next morning.

A friend of mine once asked what it feels like to befriend strangers. I had answered: happy. Looking back, I’ve changed my mind. My answer now? Grateful.

a whiff of whimsy: I left my couch in San Francisco

*Jakarta Globe, 18 November 2009

I never met Emmanuel Lemor. But he did let me sleep in the living room of his San Francisco flat where, for a week, I shared a blow-up mattress with a French couple.

By the time I arrived in San Francisco, Emmanuel was in North Carolina dealing with a family matter. “I shall leave the key under the mat,” he had written in an e-mail.

In all my years as a couchsurfer (www.couchsurfing.org), many generous individuals have allowed me into their homes, providing me with a place to sleep during my stay in their countries. But I’ve never met a host who left his home completely open to total strangers. Emmanuel’s trust in his fellow travelers was definitely unique.

Such were the eclectic breed of individuals I encountered during my short sojourn in the Bay Area, famous for its fogs, tremors and the rock ’n’ roll culture of The Haight.

Most people who reside in cities, where danger lurks in the urban shadows and alleyways, are either untrustworthy or suspicious. The residents of Fog City appear to believe in the good in others, exuding benevolence and altruism. Residue from the hippie era, perhaps? San Francisco is the only major city where I’ve come across commuters thanking their bus drivers when they alight. The residents have a small-town friendliness about them, a jarringly refreshing trait to find within a metropolis.

On my first day, I decided to hit Golden Gate Park. As it was a Sunday, it was full of lively events held in every open space. Closest to the famous Haight-Ashbury intersection was Sharon Meadows, where Pet Pride Day 2009 was being held. The grassy arena was filled with dogs in every costume imaginable. Siberian Huskies, Akitas, black Labradors and greyhounds were groomed to the hilt. They sported everything from sequined red devil horns, green butterfly wings and black witches’ hats. After being licked by a tan mutt with hazel eyes called Chocolate, I sat next to a girl from Cooper’s Dream Animal Rescue. She was foster mum to a shy pug-Chihuahua mix named Lou. Cooper’s Dream had saved him from certain death a few weeks prior. He was scheduled for euthanasia when they pulled him out of a local animal shelter. No one had wanted to adopt him as he was no longer a pup, the girl told me. Sadly, I’ve heard similar statements made by orphanages about their older charges.

Only a few miles further was West Fest, a free concert celebrating the 40th anniversary of Woodstock. The festival was a music-satiated spread of peace-loving, tie-dyed T-shirt-wearing, marijuana-puffing individuals who had transformed Speedway Meadow into a small city of flower-power hippies. At both ends of the meadow were massive stages with musicians crooning out songs from 1967’s infamous Summer of Love. On a hillside overlooking the hubbub, Asians and Hispanics manned food stalls, selling a smorgasbord of snacks and ethnic dishes.

In the midst of the rambling crowd moving from one concert to another, past tents selling recyclable goodies and flowing hemp dresses, sampling organic chocolates and signing “Free Marijuana” petitions, sat an Indian woman. She was nude. Her hair flowed like gushing mud behind her and matched the color of her leathery skin. The white man she was facing was fully clothed, decked out in Hawaiian prints.

The next day, I went on a last-minute date. While exchanging my euros for dollars and dollars for Mexican pesos in the financial district, I started chatting with the man behind the counter. Kartlos is from Georgia — the country not the state. Intrigued by all things journalistic, he invited me for coffee in the Mission district.

Like most of the people I’ve met in America, Kartlos is an immigrant. Now in his late 20s, he arrived in New York when he was 19, with $400 to his name and no English. Yet when he spoke of his favorite tuna cheese melts and showed me his apartment on his iPhone, his voice bore hardly a trace of a foreign accent.

The fact that Kartlos spoke highly of Georgia, the extensive culinary fare and his desire to return there, intrigued me. Back home, I met numerous overseas graduates who dismissed Indonesia as a third-world country and longed to remain in the progressive West. Kartlos, on the other hand, resisted his assimilation into the American culture and expressed concern over Georgia’s brain drain.

“I don’t want this country to be my ‘home.’ I want my own country to be my home,” he said. Ironically, he was waiting to obtain his US citizenship before he returns home.

Later that night, two French girls breezed in through the door — new couchsurfers hailing from the Lorraine region. They filled the small flat with their colorful language and raucous laughter. As the living room was occupied, we had to break into Emmanuel’s locked bedroom.