Indonesia Impressions

Here's the view from my apartment. The contrast between Indonesia and Nigeria is stark. The familiar scent of Asia hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane. Africa's smells are sharp - the dust which catches in the back of your throat, and the acrid odour of sweaty, crammed humanity. Asia's are softer - I've always thought the entire sub-continent smells like petals floating on day-old dishwater.

Another contrast struck me yesterday and made me laugh out loud. I was in a supermarket and had forgotten to weigh my bananas before going to pay. The checkout chick waved a little blue flag and, within heartbeats, a young chap on rollerblades, with a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt came skidding over. She gabbled something in bahasa and he went whizzing off down the aisles. It was only moments before the girl's own walkie talkie crackled back the relevant code. Can you imagine such a thing in Nigeria?! Rollerblades! Not only the fact that such a level of service would be the stuff of science fiction, but can you picture an enormous Nigerian barreling down the narrow aisles?! "Get out of de waaaaaaayy!". Plus, they would likely have sold the rollerblades, pocketed the cash for the bananas, not rung it through the till, and shrugged their way through the next fruit stock-take.

And again, today, I had an amusing conversation with my driver. He was quizzing me about life in London and asking if we had as many motorbikes on the roads (here, the bikes congregate at traffic lights in great swarms and clog the gaps between cars like vehicular Polyfilla). He mused that we probably didn't have the cheap Korean import bikes which dominate the streets of Jakarta. We probably all ride good quality bikes like...(here he pauses to think of a likely brand)...Harley Davidsons! I was tickled by the idea of fleets of Londoners commuting to work in Canary Wharf astride gleaming, snarling, wide-handled lowriders.

Jakarta has its own version of London Congestion Charge. At certain times of the day, it is illegal to drive into the central downtown area with fewer than 3 people in your car (unless you're in a bus or licenced taxi). The rule is enforced by a cordon of police officers who patrol the boundary giving out on-the-spot fines of R200,000. As a result, a little industry has sprung up. Go a couple of hundred yards outside the boundary and you'll see people standing by the roadside holding their hand up with a single finger extended - the code which identifies their profession. For R10,000, these 'jockeys' (as they are locally known) will sit in your car until you cross the police cordon, then they dismount and walk back outside for the next lonely driver. Very creative!