Monday morning

The delegates at the annual Indonesian Barbi-doll convention waiting for their flight back to Hasbro headquarters.

Sunday evening

Blueberry Pancake House and Bar – the on-site restaurant at our Jakarta Pusat hotel features a warm ambience and beautiful furnishings on top of sumptuous dishes.

The furnishings really are beautiful; rich, warm, deep mahogany woods and deep ruby décor. The greeting waiter was friendly and pleasant (two different things?) and spoke English. Now that’s not a prerequisite for a waiter in Jakarta but it certainly is a bonus. Sports channel TV’s played Bolton vs. Liverpool but that could be excused as Man U had played the previous day. I guess, though, they could have showed replays of the real footy. As we approached the door a lurking weird-o tagged along behind and joined us at the bar. I snagged a menu and we escorted ourselves to a table of our choice. The weird-o tried to inject himself in-between myself and Martini, who was oblivious to his presence, but I cut him off with a lithe body-swerve and he slid, Gollum-like, out into the dark night.

The menu was interesting, starting with sweet pancakes, and then moving to savoury pancakes, then crescendo-ing to a carnivore’s delight with multi-choices of good, teeth-sharpening, protein-over-dosing steak and other succulent meaty things. I chose pepper steak and had a rare old time ascertaining what cut it was going o be.

“Steak,”

“Well, yes, it would be, but what cut? Fillet? T-bone? Sirloin?”

“Ah, you want sirloin? This said while crossing out the order for pepper steak.

“No, I want pepper steak but I want to know what kind of steak.”

This continued and was eventually brought to a conclusion by Martini intervening in Indonesian and telling me, “Tenderloin.” Now, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? I told you he spoke English.

Now to drinks; the menu listed Guinness but the Blueberry Pancake house and Bar must have had a reciprocal agreement with Ya-Udah because Guinness was “off” but the local brew, Bintar, was on and was “more”, so a large one of those, please.

As we were waiting for service, Martini said,

“Don’t look. Don’t look. At your one-o’clock there’s a strange …”

I cut her off, “Yes, I know, a weird-o looking through the window at us.” Then I told her the body-swerve story. We moved on to brighter topics. Shortly after I noticed someone weird at a table facing us on the far side of the room; our weird-o had returned. Laptop before him, EPL footy in direct vision, he was behaving himself as all self-respecting weird-o’s should but I didn’t see him eat. It did cross my mind that it was Haloween and, maybe, just maybe, he suffered from a case of pernicious anaemia and ate people, but I let it pass.

Martini had ordered ox-tail and it came in a sumptuous stew, cooked to perfection but with just, slightly, minuscule-ly, fractionally, less herbs, spices and seasoning than would place it firmly in the total, all-over perfection bracket. My steak came on a sizzling platter shaped like its donor cow, along with a large side plate of veggies and French fries. These were proper fries; crispy outside, slightly firm and floury inside, and of a size which begged to be dipped, uncut, into either the ox-tail stew or the pepper sauce. When I had finished it I observed that I could order exactly the same and eat it again. Not because the portion was too small but because it just was so, so tasty.

Definitely a place to return to (to which to return?) and maybe next time I’ll try the blueberry pancakes. Need to get rid of the weird-o though.

Sunday morning

Breakfast in the Bumi Johar is not an exciting time. The buffet choices are boring and lukewarm. The coffee tastes as if it’s been shipped in from the Ya-udah next door and, on this Sunday morning, 30 minutes before the scheduled finish, three dish choices were empty.

“Finish,” said the inscrutable waiter.

“Well, go and make some more,” I ventured, to which blank disdain joined inscrutability in a mesmerising cohabitation of Asian disregard for western dollars.

Martini ate three horse worth’s of whatever was left – soupy stuff, noodles, crispy things - and then we moved back to the Ya-udah to give it another chance. Sad, sad; expectations dashed on the rocks of eternal optimism. Will I never learn the lessons of life?

I ordered “Coffee and poached eggs on toast,” without looking at the menu, Martini also ordered poached on toast and an iced cappuccino which arrived with last night’s errant huge dollop of cream. It was to be the highlight of the Ya-udah experience. The espresso was dark, strong and slightly bitter, the coffee-milk combination excellently balanced and the creamy, slightly freezing ‘dollop’, suitably floating like a proud, silicon-implanted breast on the rib-cage of a precocious filly, guarding the refreshing drink just as it should. But not just as it needed, because the straw provided wasn’t long enough to reach the bottom of the glass so we (I insisted on sharing!) had to chose between leaving an inch or so of delicious cappuccino in the glass or risk spilling the remnants by tipping the glass and straw together. A small price to be paid for the best drink of the weekend.

The poached eggs arrived with the whites still transparent so I sent them back. When they returned they were suitably opaque with the yolks soft and inviting, in fact, perfectly poached, very fresh eggs. First time around would have been a good business strategy. The toast was made from a good, probably some kind of sour-dough, bread but between the eggs and the bread was ... nothing. Butter was requested, as was another missing ingredient; the “rich Hollandaise sauce” so deliberately described on the menu. Again, Martini was amazed at my recollection; I’d studied this menu in depth and detail. This was what had brought me back twice to Ya-Udah, giving it chance after chance to redeem itself and make realty and expectations coincide. It was not to be. The requested Hollandaise arrived weak, thin, lumpy, pale and lukewarm. Hollandaise emulsion is notoriously difficult to make but that’s why we buy it in restaurants where “professional” chefs can demonstrate their art. This particular sauce was a fascinating one because Hollandaise separates if the water over which it is whisked is too cold, and the eggs scramble if the water is too hot. This had both separated and contained segments of scrambled egg. The portions of butter added were obviously too large as the sauce had not thickened at all, and the total amount of butter also too large because the mess had curdled; quite frankly, a cosmic catastrophe of a sauce. Maybe that’s why they tried not serving it in the first place!

OK, one last chance because I had an appetite to feed; Grandma’s Apple Pie. According to the menu, "a must to round off your meal." Not bad, not bad at all. Not historic. Not exceptional, not outstanding, but fairly good. Maybe my expectations had hit rock bottom and this was a step up? The presentation was nice – a large flat plate with a soft-pastry’d pie in the centre, surrounded by a generous helping of custard and one dollop of vanilla ice-cream off to the side. The pastry had a slightly resistive, spongy feel to it and made me reminisce about my real Grandma’s pastry which was always historic, exceptional and outstanding. And she never measured anything, simply taking handfuls of ingredients and performing alchemy to produce pastry which transcended belief. Ya-Udah’s pastry’s ability to make me think of Grandma Bond’s pasty was a huge plus. Well done. The ice-cream was cold. “So,” you ask? Well, so was the custard, and I’m convinced it wasn’t meant to be. Nothing wrong with cold, lumpy custard and ice-cream when it accompanies my favourite - cherry pie – but I think this was supposed to be hot. If it was meant to be cold, it wasn’t cold enough and was thinking about threatening to consider melting the ice-cream.

Now the real black mark! Big, huge. This from the Ya-Udah website:

Our Smoking Policy

For smokers, we salute you: SMOKE! For non-smokers, please: NON-SMOKE!
We all get along as Ya-Udah is a classic indoor-outdoor restaurant, with a brace of ceiling fans to keep the delightful Jakarta air well-stirred. Smokers can carry on happily, without disturbing the non-smokers, who are in fact advised that if they are really serious about protecting their lungs from the dangerous effects of tobacco smoke, replete with poisons and carcinogens, that they pursue this line of logic to its natural end and refrain from breathing the air of Indonesia’s busy capital as well. Jakarta air is, one could argue, considerably more trying to the lungs than a few puffs of the heavenly weed.

Well, there you have it; total disdain for the comfort of customers, total ignorance of well-prepared food. Do, or do not; there is no try. Yoda was clear on the philosophy and the action. Ya-Udah is masquerading as a wanna-be Jedi-knight. The Force is definitely not with this one. “Sorted”? I think not. “Done?” The customers are being.

Saturday evening

Things started to go downhill from the start. I’d decided I would have a feast, starting with the Jumbo Bockwurst and all washed down by the “Sorted” house wines.

“Red wine gone.”

“White?”

“Gone.”

“Guinness?”

“Yes. More or less?”

“The largest please,” I said, smiling at the beautiful, endearing and improving mangling of English.

Ya-Udah’s quirky and amusing website says, “Where else in Jakarta Can you enjoy a pleasant glass of house wine…” Well, not at Ya-Udah, that’s for sure!

I had to choose “a side,” so, in the best interest of the origins of the Jumbo Bockwurst I chose German fried potatoes. Martini chose spaghetti Bolognese which was offered with the promise of, “an obscenely large helping of original YUB secret Bolognese sugo miced beef in a tomatoe sauce. Finely spiced with many herbs and oregano, sprinkled with parmesan cheese.” The waitress vanished then returned,

“No German fries.” Dismay clouded my face,

“No wines, no German fries. Do you have anything?”

“Everything.”

“Well, let’s go a tad east, cross the Maginot line, enter Paris (unopposed, of course) and have French Fries.”

Both main dishes arrived. Martini’s hot chocolate completed her order which, I know, is a strange combination but best not to judge her on her food choices as she eats like a horse and weighs 45kg! I pointed out that the hot chocolate was missing the listed enormous dollop of cream on top which amazed her as I hadn’t consulted the menu that morning. She also couldn’t stop giggling when the Bockwurst was plonked down but I’m not going to speculate on her reasons. I’d asked for mustard and black pepper so, just for luck, I asked for them again. Once slathered in mustard the bockwurst resisted my knife, then reluctantly surrendered. The resistance was explained because it was cold and undercooked. The fries were the cousins of the Maccy-D ones used to describe the Bumi Johar. Martini was more diplomatic; “They’re not very crispy.” Her Bolognese lacked the obscenely large helping of original YUB secret Bolognese sugo miced beef in a tomatoe sauce. It was not finely spiced with many herbs and oregano (many herbs and oregano??), but was merely meat, sludgily spread throughout the spaghetti, sans tomato, garlic, onion and whatever secret herbs and spices real Bolognesans “abracadabra” into their masterpieces. It was desperately looking like the menu tried but the kitchen did not. Yoda would have been appalled. Expectations were becoming slowly smothered in a sea of less than mediocre realty.

Saturday morning

The following morning we were waiting to flag down a taxi when we glanced to the right. There, standing bright and orange, uncamouflaged, and displaying its signs and notices for all to see was a restaurant, right next door to the inglorious Bumi Johar. I promised to suss it out while Martini was at work. Which I did. Fantastic. A secret, hidden Jakarta gem. A potential culinary oasis in a chaotic, sidewalk-trapdoor sprouting desert of soggy, slimy, sticky, rusty fish and rice and Coke.

“Ya-udah” means “done” or “sorted’ in Indonesian slang and is one of the two words I know because it’s pronounced Yoda! The Ya-udah Bistro’s menu was almost the best I’d ever seen. That pinnacle is still occupied by the eccentric Friends Dining Lounge in Nanaimo, British Columbia. In fact Friends is such a delight that it warrants a post of its own. Ya-udah’s menu listed 121 choices including treats such as Bavarian Leberkase, The Great Red Snapper Fillet Steak, Chateaubriand, Pork and Cheese Krakauer, The Swiss Man’s Breakfast, and Barley Grischun “Original recipe” soup, all aurally tempting and most permeated with a distinct Germanic influence and flavour.

I always disapprove of “bottomless” as a description of women and approve of it in coffee, so I had four of the filter coffees at a cost of Rp 8,500 or around S$1.20. They were insipid, tasteless, lukewarm and weak, but they were accompanied by liquid sugar which is infinitely superior to granulated.

“What time do you close?” I asked the young waitress.

“Yes,” she replied, prompting me to wave to another waitress.

“What time do you close?”

Her blank look sends me pointing to my wristwatch, swirling my index finger round the dial twice, then dragging said finger across my throat in a, “my throat cut across, my tongue torn out by the root, and buried in the sand of the sea at low water mark, or a cable's length from the shore, where the tide regularly ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours,” gesture to denote, “What time do you close?” Her eyebrows lifted and her eyes sparkled with recognition,

“Ah, shut up!”

Well, I hadn’t said a thing with my second inquisitive attempt so I was momentarily miffed but I got the point and nodded.

“Twelve,” she concluded.

“Midnight?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Now, what is the password for the WiFi?”

She returned to the table with a small piece of paper with “Zealand30” written on it in ball-point. That was somewhat strange and coincidental but the total experience was on the good side of OK; brought down by the coffee but rescued by the potential and promise of the menu. Rose coloured glasses springs to mind here.

Friday

Bumi bummer! Check out this description:
The Bumi Johar Hotel - a deluxe boutique hotel - offers a rare and unexpected haven located in the heart of downtown Jakarta… ... Bumi Johar Hotel is a true luxury hotel located in the Central of Jakarta. Let us welcome you with a glass of Ice Toraja Coffee, Johar Juice upon arrival.

We booked the Bumi Johar hotel because it was cheap as chips and the one we really wanted wasn’t available. Once I checked in I realised why it was cheap as chips and they weren’t Hester Blumenthal baked in straw, deep double-fried and injected with tomato sauce, French Fries! They were more like end-of-shift Maccy-D’s left out on the table for an hour. And, no one offered me Iced Toraja Coffee or Johar Juice upon arrival.

Martini was working until late so when she arrived room service had suspended itself, possibly with a bed sheet and from the rafters. We turned left out of the hotel and wandered around the quaint, narrow, busy, dangerous, interesting streets looking for a suitable restaurant. The five-way intersection brought back memories of Athens so it had a place in my heart straight away. Potholes abounded and one whole meter-square flagstone was missing from the sidewalk with no guardrail or warning sign whatsoever. The vertical drop was around two meters into what looked like a septic tank! The drop from a hangman’s noose is less than that. Hey, your safety is not our responsibility, you should keep your eyes open and watch where you’re going; Athens all over again.

Street-side “restaurants” in Jakarta consist of a couple of plastic tables and chairs with a plastic sheet suspended over them in case of rain. The “kitchen” is a single pan-sized hotplate powered by a gas bottle, both of which block the sidewalk from any perambulating pedestrians who have to step into the road and risk life and limb (always thought that should be prioritised as limb and life, but whatever), with motorcycles on the wrong side of the street and cars weaving around other cars. Martini either wasn’t hungry or she knew a thing or two about Jakarta street-side restaurants, so I ordered what I thought was deep-fried fish and rice. Deep-fried, whole fish is my staple choice in any restaurant when I’m in Thailand or any Thai restaurant world-wide. I love it, especially the crispy skin. This was Indonesia, so not quite the same geographical or culinary territory. What arrived was a kind of fishy stew with soggy, slimy skin but the taste and texture of the flesh was actually quite good. The rice was rice. They know how to do rice in Asia unless it’s sticky rice, which you have to pick up with your fingers and roll into a ball before you eat it. This was rice-rice, so everything rice-related was fine. Original size and shape Coke bottles appeared to be exactly that; original – with copious layers of rust under the tin cap. I sent two of them back but the third and fourth appeared from a different direction, delivered by a different waiter and they displayed the same vintage of rust so, what the heck, everyone needs iron in their diet.

Night and day. No idea why the shy guy was sitting in the hole in the middle of the day.

Thank you; Lion Air

I'm going back before the trip to South Africa so the diamond mine post is out of date order but in sequence of writing order.

I was in Jakarta for about seven hours the Tuesday before last (19th) and my flight back to Singapore was scheduled for 7.10 pm. "No prob," I thought, "I'll arrive at check-in at 6.15 latest and there'll be no problem."

I obviously need to travel more because I did arrive at 6.15 and was told the check-in for that flight was closed.

"You can get the first flight out in the morning," "they" said.

"No." said I, "I have to get to Singapore tonight because I have a flight to South Africa tomorrow morning and the earliest Lion Air flight doesn't connect. I have no check-in luggage. I have to go tonight."

"Well, there's nothing to be done; you'll have to book onto ValueAir which has a later flight than ours."

At which point, a 'higher-up', over-hearing the conversation decided that they could, indeed, do something about the 7.10 flight.

"Excellent. Thank you."

"No problem, have you paid your airport fee?"

"Ah, no! 150,000 rupiah, right?"

"Yes."

This was a problem as the currency exchange counter near the check-in desk didn't take credit cards so I had to find an "8-a.m." One of the Lion Air girls suddenly switched from "No, we're closed," to "I'll take you to find one."

Off we went. It was a long distance through the airport. I was wearing slip-on sandals with no heel or ankle strap so I couldn't run. Solution: take them off and run barefoot. Now, appearing barefoot in a Muslim country is possibly akin to flashing in a Christian country but, what-the-hell, money had to be bought. We found the "8-a.m." and I inserted my card, keyed in the required numbers and got the "8-a.m." equivalent of a dreaded Microsoft 404! Bugger! Bugger, bugger, bugger! Off we go to find another one. And another one.

Finally, at attempt number three, we found a friendly machine that worked and liked me, withdraw Rp150,000 (~S$22) and hoofed it back to the check-in desk. Paid the airport fee, got the necessary stamp on my boarding pass, and ran to security check (this time as the real Clive Rushton)accompanied by the friendly Lion Air hostess. No probs at security, got on the plane, flew to Singapore, slept well and went to Johannesburg the following morning. Smiles all round.

I wonder what you could buy with this 1/2 rupiah note in 1945 when it was printed?

Sartorial Elegance

A group of "us" old fogies are currently exchanging emails discussing how to get into the 2012 Olympics using pieces of burnt toast instead of tickets. Back in the 1970's, when the English Nationals were held at the best pool in the whole world, The Derby Baths in Blackpool (interesting; there's a facebook page but no Wiki entry), "they" started enforcing security entry and we had to show special passes to get into the building. The piece of toast won.

Terry Dennison, coach to Olympic champion, Adrian Moorhouse, found these photos in his hidden cupoards. Check out the elegant dude at the bottom right!

A Girl's Best Friend

I visited the most famous diamond mine in the world this morning; Cullinan, where the world's biggest diamond was found. 3,000+ carats!! The bigger of the diamonds cut from the rough gem are in the British Crown Jewels.

Anyway, here's a picture of a very laid-back guy making a ring for Martini and a picture of a diamond I didn't buy because it was priced at half a million US dollars!!!! You can wait to see Martini's ring because its only fair she sees it first.

I-So-Tired

All Singaporeans seem to suffer from permanent sleep-deprivation. Consequently, the most common phrase heard around the practice pool is, "Coach, cannot. I tired, I so tired."

The phrases, "I tired," and "I so tired," are banned from the pool environment but that, of course, doesn't stop the behavior. Swimmers arrive at the poolside sliding their feet and moving at a pace which would embarrass a comatose tortoise.

So, the I-So-Tired site is dedicated to the sleepy ones, the people who simply have to put their head down and travel dreamily to the 'land of nod.' Non-Singaporeans are allowed to be included; in fact we'll make any sleepy, non-Singaporeans honorary Singaporeans. Welcome one and all.

Historical coincidence

This picture heralded the resurrection of the blog; it was taken during a "historic" meal at a country club near Jakarta airport.

Many, may, many years ago - we're talking the 1980's here - when working in Britain, a terrific bunch of coaches used to band together every night after competitions for the purpose of culinary and nutritional research. When the bill was presented at the conclusion of the experiment, it always worked out at twenty-seven pounds fifty pence each. Always. Without fail. No matter what we'd eaten, no matter what we'd been drinking. It was uncanny.

The Jakarta meal bill was Rp394,735 which is S$57 which is twenty-seven pounds fifty pence. Uncanny. That was for three of us, eating like Kings, Emperors, Sultans and swimming coaches. I'll scan the bill and add it to the post when I'm near a scanner.

Jogjakarta

YoghurtCarton (see previous post) is nothing like Jakarta. This from Wikitravel:

Jakarta's nickname among expats is the Big Durian, and like its fruit namesake it's a shock at first sight (and smell): a sweltering, steaming, heaving mass of some 10 million people packed into a vast urban sprawl. The contrast between the obscene wealth of Indonesia's elite and the appalling poverty of the urban poor is incredible, with tinted-window BMWs turning left at the supermall with its Gucci shop, into muddy lanes full of begging street urchins and corrugated iron shacks. The city's traffic is in perpetual gridlock, and its polluted air is matched only by the smells of burning garbage and open sewers, and safety is a concern especially at night. There are few sights to speak of and most visitors transit through Jakarta as quickly as possible.

It's "twinned" with Manchester and Singapore!

Yogykarta or Jogdakarta,on the other hand, is delightful, quirky and the "ethnic" center of batik manufacture.

Oxymoronic airport security

Martini and I wanted to go to Jogjakarta to see her family, so onto the world-wide interweb to research train timetables. Web access was only from the hotel lobby, was intermittent and was a challenge as the site was in Indo and Martini had stayed up in the room. I keyed in what I thought was the correct spelling but eventually settled for calling the place YoghurtCarton! It turned out the only train I could find was the overnight one which would get us in at 4 a.m.; I wasn't keen as we'd been up until 6 a.m. the previous night anyway.

The following morning Martini tried and, guess what! No trains! A train crash was blocking the track.

What about flying? A telephone call to a travel agent resulted in a quote of 400,000 Rupiah (Rp) but accompanied by the caveat,

"That price is only available at the airport and I cannot guarantee there are any seats left."

We decided to take a chance and just go to the airport 'on spec'. I love 'third-world' chaos in airports - see the photo. After queueing, and being queue-jumped a couple of times, we were told there were no seats left; bummer! But, just as we were walking away from the little enquiry window a total stranger 'siddled' up (no other word for it; very subversive and B-film-ish) saying he could get us seats on the 2.30 flight for 1 million Rp each. It was now 2.15 so I said,

"We won't make it."

"Don't worry," was the reply, "we'll delay it."

He showed us his ID which Martini accepted as reasonable enough to trust so we gave him our ID and she accompanied him while I went to the ATM (or "8 a.m." as Martini understands my accent) to buy Rp2,000,000 (OK, I'll save you the trouble; its S$290). I won't tell you his name, even though I suspect he worked for Lion Air with that being their way of getting higher prices for last-minute tickets.

When he returned at 2.25 p.m. he had the two boarding passes; one for Tri Martini and one for Dani Herman, which was to be me. The real Mr. Herman must have been bumped because we paid more than he did.

My suitcase, labled Clive Rushton, was checked in as Tri Martini, then "Mr. Dani Herman" and his partner, Mrs. Tri Martini, went to security. Security scanned the boarding passes so they had a record that Mr. Herman had passed through their electronic gate. And an interesting electronic gate it was; every single passenger set off the beeper so everyone was subsequently frisked with the wand thing. It was now 2.40 p.m.

Martini is easily distracted by shiny things and bright ideas and she stopped to tell me a story about something or other until I reminded her that the flight was waiting for us.

"Oh, yes!" she gasped and off we went again to gate B2 where we were told there was a two and a half hour delay. "Don't worry, we'll delay it," now began to make sense.

Well, the thought of sitting on the floor at a departure gate for 150 minutes was no fun so we decided to go back out and look for restaurants, cafes or bars. There was an open gate next to security so we went out through that without anything being scanned - Mr. Herman and Mrs. Tri M were officially still inside the departure gate area.

No beer in the restaurant but there was beer in the little KwikiMart, so we took that into the restaurant which, apparently, is an OK thing to do.

When it was time to return we were re-scanned at security but no-one picked up the fact that we'd entered twice without "exiting". So, to recap; using my real ID, I bought a boarding pass under the name of a passenger who had already purchsed the ticket. Had Mr. Herman checked on any luggage I wonder? I then checked my luggage using Martini's boarding pass. Then I exited through security without any checking, then re-entered without being picked up. I could have met Ossama Bin-Liner or one of his "Stan" friends in the restaurant and he could have got on the plane using Mr. Herman's boarding pass. A full laden 737 out of Jakarta is just as lethal as a 737 out of Boston. "Airport security" is an oxymoron.

A little postscript; Martini and I were seated separately and she got talking to the girl next to her; she had paid Rp200,000 for her ticket!!!!! I never speak to my neighbours on planes.

There are 156 people called Dani Herman with Facebook accounts, one of which has this as his/her (its an androgynous name) profile picture.

HAIR

I want long, straight, curly, fuzzy, snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka dotted, twisted, beaded, braided
Powered, flowered and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled and spahettied,

Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow, my hair

HAIR, The Musical

Shaken not Stirred

Elliot asked me a question the other day which deserved a proper reply. The picture was at a sumptuous meal we had while waiting for my flight back to Singapore last Sunday. The two “girls” are Martini – serving the soup – and her best friend Tiara, who asked me to invite Elliot to Indonesia!. When I told him he said,

"Apart from the girls, why are you in Jakarta?"

Fair question.

Martini and I are an item! Sit down for this next bit. Are you sitting comfortably? She’s 30. In Asia women don’t have the ageist attitude prevalent in the “west,” or northern hemisphere, so the age difference is not an issue at all. She is divorced and has a seven year-old son (Xena) and a five year-old daughter (Tia), who live with Martini’s parents in Solo, near Jogyakarta, in the middle of Java, while Martini works in Jakarta at the north of Java.

So, apart from the girl (singular), there was no reason at all to be in Indonesia.

I met the whole family while I was there – father, mother, brother, sisters, brother-in-law, sister-in-law, son, daughter; so it was a major visit. The plan is for Martini to move out to Singapore sometime in the future and get work here but, your me being me, there’s a complication; Martini's religion is Islam which explicitly bans Muslim women from marrying non-Muslim men. (It’s OK for Muslim men to marry non-Muslim women, but go figure the logic of that). So, unless I change my name to Ossama Bin-liner or somesuch, Martini will have difficulty getting a work visa here as she will have to come in on a visitor’s visa and leave/re-enter every 30 days. The 30 days is not a problem as she will go back to the kids more often than that anyway (S$78 return flights!!!) but the visa status is a problem we have to solve.

She’s exuberant, vivacious, clever, kind, maternal, considerate, funny, rides a motor-bike, used to be a golf caddy, loves hiking and she likes me!!! She ticks all the boxes!

Phoenix rising from the flames

Yes, believe it; the blog is resurrected!

"And, about time," I hear you say.