Making Scents of Indonesia .... by Adam (2002)

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Ho hum… another month, another exotic Asian holiday packed with rebel soldiers, snake attacks and cannibals. Well, ok, it wasn’t quite that exotic. But I did find a place I liked as much as Thailand: I spent a few weeks traveling through Indonesia in August.

First stop was my head office in Jakarta where I spent time pulling the green bits out of my navel (everyone has those bits, right?). The staff at head office are a fun bunch, and I was lucky enough to arrive in the midst of a game of “Ignore All Canadian Office Visitors”. I am not sure who won because they were still playing when I left. But everyone seemed nice – nobody tried to scratch or punch me or anything. And I did manage to sneak bits of food from a buffet reserved for attendees of a photography training.

I spent the next two days reading magazines on my hotel room toilet as my system adjusted to the yummy Indonesian curries. Stomach problems literally sprang up on me as I was walking home from dinner. The bowels are an amazingly clever intelligence-gathering device. They can somehow measure your proximity to the toilet and just as your hand hits the doorknob, they send the message “You are going to have to poo... RIGHT NOW!” Unfortunately my usually reliable fecal control system broke down and an unwanted watery visitor made an appearance in the frantic elevator ride up to my room. But enough about that…

Jakarta is a mess – especially if you are a breather. This is a city in need of a good tongue brushing. Pollution hangs in the air, sheathing your body like a wet, paper condom. Distant buildings are completely obscured. During the dry season, it’s possible to snatch a clump of air, roll it up and throw it like a snowball. And, unlike the comparatively fresh Bangkok, danger lurks around certain corners. The air, the heat, the crime, the sewage, the litter – an outdoor jaunt in Jakarta is a bit like dancing in an outhouse: it’s dangerous, it’s stifling and flies are everywhere… but something just feels right.

The city shapes itself around the penis of its former independence leader Sukarno. Ok, it is not really his penis – he died years ago so presumably his real penis has shrivelled into dust. But Sukarno’s legendary sexual adeptness was memorialized (by himself) in a phallic tower in the centre of the city. Round that tower lies a sprawling, litter-strewn park where the friendly locals pic-nic and pick-pockets on weekends. 

Next stop was Yogyakarta, a sweet town full of artisans, batik stores and ancient temples. Here I spent time at the mandatory sites: witnessing spasms of lava dribble out of the world’s most active volcano, seeing grown men prance around in monkey suits in the Ramayana ballet, watching fat Chinese kids urinate on ancient Buddhist temples.

Even in the towns, trucks and rickshaws belch out black fumes that linger languidly in the equatorial humidity. The stink is eased somewhat by the ubiquitous clove cigarettes. Their sweet spiciness lends a fragrant touch to the air – even in stinky Jakarta.

Indonesia is the fourth most populous country in the world, and the largest Moslem one. It practises a more broad-minded version of Islam than, say, the Taliban. The more beautiful and tolerant bits of Islam are on display here, rather than the arm-hacking, skyscraper-busting version they like to show on CNN. There are pockets of extremism but by and large, Indonesia proves to the world that Muslims can practise their faith moderately, peacefully and secularly.

I was excited to learn about assorted Moslem rituals and traditions. An Indonesian friend I met had to return home to witness his little brother’s circumcision ceremony, something every Moslem boy endures in late childhood. The village gathered to witness the event and celebrate the boy’s aging. Seemed a bit strange to me - we often slice off penis skin in my culture too, but we don’t assemble spectators to applaud and enjoy post-surgery bowls of curry. You know, that reminds me of a time when several people were looking at my penis…wait…maybe that’s not a story for here.

You can learn a lot about a culture from watching TV commercials. But I saw one that my brain just couldn’t quite square. It was not in English so I could only follow the visuals. The ad began with customers arriving at their local pharmacy with something like miniature heads of iceberg lettuce growing on the sides of their necks. After applying the advertised drug, the growths shrank until they disappeared (as evidenced by the computer graphic detailing the dwindling nodes). The ad concluded with satisfied, lump-free consumers holding a tube of the cream beside their smiling faces.

After a week near Yogya, I moved on to Bali. Like the rest of Indonesia, Bali is full of artists and artisans. Everyone can dance or carve or paint or play an instrument. Even residential entrances are flamboyantly adorned with red  brick, sculpted leaf-like fringe and gargoyles. And Balinese bathrooms – WOW. They are like indoor/outdoor fun parks. For a while I was eating raw chicken, just so I would have the excuse to sit on my outdoor toilet and watch the birds dance on my showerhead.

Indonesia was also notable for the return of body odour into my life. No, not my own (I smell like freshly baked loaves of honey-wheat bread), but that of the locals. Having lived in Thailand for more than 3 years, I’ve sniffed my share of Thais and can say that they smell like candied daffodils. Partly it is cultural – reflective of the Thai practice of spending much of the day showering and applying powders and creams.

But Indonesians are not similarly vigilant. If you were to drip a mild yellow curry over the naked body of a mid-shift, Slavic roofer, you might get an odour resembling the Indonesian taxi driver. There were times where I had to resort to my tested method of chewing mint-flavoured gum and then rubbing my saliva-soaked finger under my nostrils. (Try it – it works. If done cleverly, the mint saliva transfer - mouth to finger to nostril - can look like a contemplative gesture, as if you were in deep reflection over your smelly companion’s chatter).

But I think there must be some genetic component to B.O. as well. For example, I have been in countries where even freshly showered young women smell like Dick Cheney after a three-whore night in a D.C. hotel room. And food intake must play a role. In fact, body odour is not entirely unpleasant if it is just a representation of one’s last meal.  It can actually be quite appetizing – a bit like a gentle waft from your neighbour’s barbecue. But I am making too big a thing of the body odour. Indonesia is only really bad in comparison to the eternally fragrant Thais.

I also find Thais to be much more physically attractive than their Indonesian counterparts (also leading to less body odour, given that good-looking people smell better than ugly ones.) Not everyone agrees with me - occasionally this happens. But one cannot deny that Indonesia has its share of creepy, pock-marked guys with moustaches and fang-toothed women bearing excess rump fat. However I must admit that the youthfully beautiful Thai race do not age well. After forty, the women begin to resemble bad transvestites, and the men turn into Manuel Noriega.

The main language in Indonesia (Bahasa Indonesian) grew on me. At first, I thought I noted a trace of evil in the accent. Unlike the Thai accent, which is about as cute as a dancing kitten, Indonesian accented English brings vampires to mind. But some words are pleasant. Their word for “thank you” – terima kasih – sounds like something you might order instead of the butterscotch flan. It certainly wins one on the Thais, whose ”kawp koon krap” sounds like you are requesting a serving of raccoon shit.

Indonesia birthed a few international news developments during my stay. First, Colin Powell arrived to heap praise on the Indonesian army’s ability to trample human rights in the name of terror-hunting. Then he announced the resumption of US military aid (it was cut a few years ago after too many rifle butts were found to be bonking the heads of Timorese villagers and too many soldiers were forcibly bonking village women, among other abuses).

Colin met with Indonesian President Megawati, whose name makes her sound like she possesses powerful voltage. In reality, she is the dimmest bulb this side of Crawford, Texas. She has the guile of a potato and a contour to match. And irritatingly for the Bush administration, she is one of those “leaders of an emerging democracy” so she cant employ some of the best terrorist-hole-smoking techniques favoured by the Bushies. Life was easier when you could just deal with an honest, brutal dictatorship.

The other major news story was the conviction of the son of the former murderous tyrant Suharto for killing a judge. Li’l Tommy Suharto was sentenced to 15 years in prison. The verdict sounds like a blow against judicial corruption. But rather than sharing floor with 60 other unshowered prisoners (in between beatings), he will no doubt serve his time in a VIP version of an Indonesian jail cell. But Tommy should still learn his lesson, as he will be forced to endure a very meagre selection of dinner wines. Plus, visiting prostitutes will be forced to undergo vigorous body searches before conjugal appointments.

Anyway, as a fledgling democracy, Indonesia is quite exciting. So far, it’s the only place outside Thailand where I feel like I HAVE TO return some day. The art, the history, the friendly locals, the volcanoes and beaches. It is a pretty special place. Sure, I may have skipped over the history of genocidal killings, religious strife, corruption and ethnic intolerance. But, hey, if Western foreign policy can overlook it all, why cant I?