[The drainage system in the slum parts of the city center]
A WARM WELCOME
I have reached the Eastern equator during the rainy season: a traditional disastrous period for the apparently modern, but in fact extremely poor metropolitan of Jakarta. Java is the most populated island in the world, and its capital city is unimaginable overcrowded, overbuild, and polluted, making it for both the land as its inhabitants hard to breath. Today’s technological advances and developed reason should offer a solution to cope with this modern dilemma, but it somehow does not seem to reach the Indonesian government. There is no way of escape or absorbance once the rain pours down the city. The drainage system horribly sucks. Or actually it does not, it is just horrible.
Annual floods have now reach the freeway to the airport up to a meter high. The airport can thus only be reached via a regular route, a traverse unsuitable for the mass of traffic that daily travel from and to the international airport. My plane landed at 3.30pm, but I did not reach my place until 8pm. The traffic jam of three and a half hours is not that remarkable in a city where each member of a rich households usually has an own cars because it refuses to take the public transportation that indeed is not very neat. But it surely is a bad matter, and caused me an acute despair upon arrivel. Unfortunately, I have not been very much optimistic since.
THE CELEBRATION OF MULTI-CULTURALISM
My trip started very blessed though. At Heathrow airport, I discovered a ‘multi-faith prayer room’, which turned out to be located in other terminals too and for a considerable period of time already. It was a small, not very much inspiring room, but equiped with the essentials of different holy books, seats, and sajadahs, the Islamic prayer carpets, allowing me to do my midday prayer, coincidently a Friday one. I cannot remember Schiphol offering a space that raises awareness and encouragement for some spiritual and personal time at a place of work and travel. In this realm of ultimate haste and stress, expressing the relationship between life, faith, and God seems unlikely, but is yet possible. Above all, I find the ‘multi-faith prayer room’ very positive because it acknowedges cultural and religious diversity and urges understanding for this. Ironic, how Amsterdam as well is one of the world’s most multi-cultural city, but has not celebrated this fact with initiatives of the alike.
[An affiche inside the multi-faith prayer room]
[With Torik before he headed home to Amsterdam]
EXPLORING CHILD RIGHTS
As I of course wish to see all of my family and dear friends after two and a half year, I also want to make the best out of this research. As some of you might know, I have been very nervous about this long-intended project. For a long while I have been fascinated with early child development and its link to the condition of this world in the era of Globalia. In fact, I started my study of Anthropology because of my great urge to figure more about it. During my last stay in Jakarta, I have been involved with several projects with children, play groups and pre-schools, conducting a sort of a ‘pre-study’ on my area of interest, convinced that I would return any time soon to continue it more specifically. And here I am. My research is basically on the perception of mainly lower-class urban families on the universal child’s right to play, but there is actually so much more behind it. It is not as easy to explain, nor to conduct, and I have been worried that I will not be able to express myself clearly in my mother tongue. Clearly, one of my informants (a man from the lower class I interviewed) noticed it immediately, when he expressed his doubts on my Indonesian origins: “But you speak really funny”.
CELEBRATING THE CHINESE NEW YEAR
The original concentration of Chinese-Indonesians lies in the old quarter of the city center of Jakarta, where the streets are fully embellished with red lampoons and other decorations. Gong Xi Fa Chai, or happy new year, it is the Chinese year 2559. Chinese-Indonesians dedicate prayers to various deities on big altars in the temple (Vihara) where giant red candles celebrate the year of the Rat. The candles and camp fires heat up the crowded semi-open area, but what is really suffocating is the immensity of smoke out of the bulks of insences the mass of believers are suppose to devote to their gods. There is one main deity, the Almighty, of which the emic term is Tikang. In daily use it is Tuhan Allah, wherein Tuhan means God, and Allah, well, also means God.
EXPLORING CHILD RIGHTS
As I of course wish to see all of my family and dear friends after two and a half year, I also want to make the best out of this research. As some of you might know, I have been very nervous about this long-intended project. For a long while I have been fascinated with early child development and its link to the condition of this world in the era of Globalia. In fact, I started my study of Anthropology because of my great urge to figure more about it. During my last stay in Jakarta, I have been involved with several projects with children, play groups and pre-schools, conducting a sort of a ‘pre-study’ on my area of interest, convinced that I would return any time soon to continue it more specifically. And here I am. My research is basically on the perception of mainly lower-class urban families on the universal child’s right to play, but there is actually so much more behind it. It is not as easy to explain, nor to conduct, and I have been worried that I will not be able to express myself clearly in my mother tongue. Clearly, one of my informants (a man from the lower class I interviewed) noticed it immediately, when he expressed his doubts on my Indonesian origins: “But you speak really funny”.
[A girl holding her doll in one of the slum areas]
CELEBRATING THE CHINESE NEW YEAR
[One of the Vihara's]
The original concentration of Chinese-Indonesians lies in the old quarter of the city center of Jakarta, where the streets are fully embellished with red lampoons and other decorations. Gong Xi Fa Chai, or happy new year, it is the Chinese year 2559. Chinese-Indonesians dedicate prayers to various deities on big altars in the temple (Vihara) where giant red candles celebrate the year of the Rat. The candles and camp fires heat up the crowded semi-open area, but what is really suffocating is the immensity of smoke out of the bulks of insences the mass of believers are suppose to devote to their gods. There is one main deity, the Almighty, of which the emic term is Tikang. In daily use it is Tuhan Allah, wherein Tuhan means God, and Allah, well, also means God.
[Among the huge candles in the Vihara]
[Praying Confusion Chinese-Indonesian, holding bulks of incenses]
Remarkable are the ‘outsiders’: some tourists, but mostly young amateur, yet very commited photographers. With very advanced photography equipment, this distinctive group of students seeks to capture beautiful shots of praying Chinese-Indonesians inside the gracious temple, and of the even greater proportion of the literal outsiders, namely the mass of poor people assembling behind the gate.
Remarkable are the ‘outsiders’: some tourists, but mostly young amateur, yet very commited photographers. With very advanced photography equipment, this distinctive group of students seeks to capture beautiful shots of praying Chinese-Indonesians inside the gracious temple, and of the even greater proportion of the literal outsiders, namely the mass of poor people assembling behind the gate.
[Young photographer on the right, waiting poor behind the gate]
Like in Islam, and probably most religious traditions, the Chinese also knows the way of celebrating a festive by sharing one’s wealth with the less fortunate. The poor thus waited for envelopes with money (angpao) to be handed out. But the prayers happen individually, and I witnessed no single angpao being hand over during my observation. Then again, how do you distribute a symbolic amount of money over the mass of people that have settled down outside on the semi paved/mud square in await for somewhat more than a fortune cookie? The ambiance on the square was tensed and harassing, and the young photographers sitting outside the temple, though claiming merely to relax, waited as well for this one messiah-like person to step out of the temple and throw bags of money over the poor. My father was optimistic and praised the fact that great improvements have occurred since the fall of president Soeharto a decennia ago. Now, Confucionism is a national recognized religion, so that Gong Xi Fa Chai has become a national holiday and can be publicly celebrated. I wish I could see something positive in everything I can only critique about.
Like in Islam, and probably most religious traditions, the Chinese also knows the way of celebrating a festive by sharing one’s wealth with the less fortunate. The poor thus waited for envelopes with money (angpao) to be handed out. But the prayers happen individually, and I witnessed no single angpao being hand over during my observation. Then again, how do you distribute a symbolic amount of money over the mass of people that have settled down outside on the semi paved/mud square in await for somewhat more than a fortune cookie? The ambiance on the square was tensed and harassing, and the young photographers sitting outside the temple, though claiming merely to relax, waited as well for this one messiah-like person to step out of the temple and throw bags of money over the poor. My father was optimistic and praised the fact that great improvements have occurred since the fall of president Soeharto a decennia ago. Now, Confucionism is a national recognized religion, so that Gong Xi Fa Chai has become a national holiday and can be publicly celebrated. I wish I could see something positive in everything I can only critique about.
[Waiting for some angpao]
[Being photographed, while playing and waiting in the mud]
LIVING THE BEARABLE, DEALING WITH THE UNBEARABLE
LIVING THE BEARABLE, DEALING WITH THE UNBEARABLE
[Just as home in Amsterdam: near breathtaking canals]
You pass through three security points of guards, but after that you are welcome to my new residence in Tower 17 of the Taman Rasuna Apartment Complex. I can take you to the fifth floor, to a platform above the parking lot, that connects the multiple towers of the complex. On this deck we can play basketball, or soccer. There is also a tennis court if you prefer. Or we can swim in the beautiful swimming pool and have a drink afterwards at the Dixie Lounge Restaurant. Meanwhile the kids can play at the two big play grounds. Enjoy the variety of cultures you will walk into: many Indian, Arab and White expats inhabit the complex. There is a laundry service, a beauty salon, a food delivery service, and many more little shops to serve the Taman Rasuna residents.
It is a good fortune my father temporarily lives in Jakarta for his work now, and his old friend offered him this apparetment, so I have not many worries concerning my living conditions. I enjoy my new room, spacious and airconditioned, with my own walk-in closet, and my own bathroom with a bathtub. Life can be good. But what about that of the maid who was suppose to live also in our appartment of hardly 80 squared meter. From the kitchen there is a door that leads to a space that precisely fits a one-person matras, which can be folded during the day so you can reach the boiler. Immediately next to the matrass there is the ‘traditional’ squatting toilet (assuming the maid is too rural to use the ‘modern’ sitting toilet), surrounded by three walls but no door.
You pass through three security points of guards, but after that you are welcome to my new residence in Tower 17 of the Taman Rasuna Apartment Complex. I can take you to the fifth floor, to a platform above the parking lot, that connects the multiple towers of the complex. On this deck we can play basketball, or soccer. There is also a tennis court if you prefer. Or we can swim in the beautiful swimming pool and have a drink afterwards at the Dixie Lounge Restaurant. Meanwhile the kids can play at the two big play grounds. Enjoy the variety of cultures you will walk into: many Indian, Arab and White expats inhabit the complex. There is a laundry service, a beauty salon, a food delivery service, and many more little shops to serve the Taman Rasuna residents.
[The swimming pool on the deck]
[My cousins at the play ground on the deck]
It is a good fortune my father temporarily lives in Jakarta for his work now, and his old friend offered him this apparetment, so I have not many worries concerning my living conditions. I enjoy my new room, spacious and airconditioned, with my own walk-in closet, and my own bathroom with a bathtub. Life can be good. But what about that of the maid who was suppose to live also in our appartment of hardly 80 squared meter. From the kitchen there is a door that leads to a space that precisely fits a one-person matras, which can be folded during the day so you can reach the boiler. Immediately next to the matrass there is the ‘traditional’ squatting toilet (assuming the maid is too rural to use the ‘modern’ sitting toilet), surrounded by three walls but no door.
[Tower 17, my new residence]
I find it hard to believe how people dare to violate the human dignity by designing such inhumane interiors. My father luckily already closed the toilet off so we can use the space as a storage room. Frightening it is to be reminded of the many households in the appartments who, despite of the relatively small space still need a maid to take care of the daily house chores, and probably do make use of that tiny space as a bedroom. Scary too is the question of what happened to the poor people who used to inhabit the land before it was cleared to build this complex.
The right part of my big bedroom window offers me, unfortunately, a sight of the parking lot because we only live on the third floor. But this also means that I have the trees still near me. From my desk table I enjoy the left part of the window that depicts a big green field, and some urban outlines of skyscrapers, constructions, and a mosque. In the middle of the green there is a blue tent, and sometimes I see groups of children playing on the field. I wonder how long the tent will survive before that field as well will be transformed into a chunk of concrete. The super deluxe apartments (way more fancier than my relatively old one) that mushroom all over the city drive off the poor into smaller and even more devastated areas, and literally emphasizes the social hierarchy of Jakarta. I have experienced no city in the world that is so cruel to its lower-class citizens. The city, and the whole country in general, is build and designed to serve the upper class, the fittest of the battle. But in this urban jungle the poor make up the majority, therefore they survive too, somehow. One nation, two worlds. It frustrates me, it saddens me, and it makes me hate the country of which I once used to be so proud of.
I find it hard to believe how people dare to violate the human dignity by designing such inhumane interiors. My father luckily already closed the toilet off so we can use the space as a storage room. Frightening it is to be reminded of the many households in the appartments who, despite of the relatively small space still need a maid to take care of the daily house chores, and probably do make use of that tiny space as a bedroom. Scary too is the question of what happened to the poor people who used to inhabit the land before it was cleared to build this complex.
[The view from my room]
The right part of my big bedroom window offers me, unfortunately, a sight of the parking lot because we only live on the third floor. But this also means that I have the trees still near me. From my desk table I enjoy the left part of the window that depicts a big green field, and some urban outlines of skyscrapers, constructions, and a mosque. In the middle of the green there is a blue tent, and sometimes I see groups of children playing on the field. I wonder how long the tent will survive before that field as well will be transformed into a chunk of concrete. The super deluxe apartments (way more fancier than my relatively old one) that mushroom all over the city drive off the poor into smaller and even more devastated areas, and literally emphasizes the social hierarchy of Jakarta. I have experienced no city in the world that is so cruel to its lower-class citizens. The city, and the whole country in general, is build and designed to serve the upper class, the fittest of the battle. But in this urban jungle the poor make up the majority, therefore they survive too, somehow. One nation, two worlds. It frustrates me, it saddens me, and it makes me hate the country of which I once used to be so proud of.
[Constructions next to my apartment]
