Unsinkable Things
The Declamation Laboratory...
Late in the evening, E appeared for a rehearsal at the arts center, only to find the entire complex (& most of the street) in the dark.
Flooding had cancelled the rehearsal. Jose Rizal Manua, its unsinkable director, had invited E to come watch them work the well-known playwright, Putu Wijaya’s “visual theatre performance” WOW. Instead E hung out with JRM & some artsy folk at the complex. They sat outside, the tile patio piled with weathered books for sale, all of it illuminated by a few flame torches. JRM’s little shop here is called Bengkel Deklamasi, the "Declamation Laboratory," which seems to function as a salon more than anything else.
...Taxis, Cappuccino, Waria...
After declaiming in the torchlight with the artistes for a few hours, E walked out to find a taxi, but there were none. Not even a bajaj. The entire main street was dark, even the coffee houses closed. So he crossed over to a central commercial boulevard, where at least two elements of Jakarta's nightlife could not be sunk by flooding: waria--the lady-boys (“Hello, Mister! Where are you going? Hey, Mister, what do you like?”) & the massive 24-hour Starbucks that has taken over the building once housing the tourist information center. For really, what’s a stranded traveller need more: information or a quadruple ristretto venti latte with a shot of durian syrup?
He found a taxi there. Taxi drivers have remained laconic on the subject of floods, even this one, & the savvy ones know which routes use the high roads. Flooding happens every year, they pish (bravado, I say). Every year there’s an outcry to do something about it, every year it doesn’t happen.
...Headlines...
Headlines are always extreme. But in every accountable way this flood is much worse than usual: more water, more & new areas submerged, more sickness, more displacements. Huge numbers are displaced every year as a matter of course, the numbers including everything from voluntary moves to a hotel, just to be safe, to having one's home destroyed. Usually the annual floods linger for a few days & then everyone moves back in & squeegees the water from their floor. This year the disaster is that it’s still going—the problems rising less with the familiar presence of water than with the molding, breeding, road-blocking, unsanitary duration of it. Nobody can say when it will stop.
...Illusions & cash...
But we are fine right now. The people we know here are fine. We went down to the apartment's pool for the first time yesterday & discovered it is absolutely exquisite. With front page photos crazily in mind, we went swimming.
Late in the evening, E appeared for a rehearsal at the arts center, only to find the entire complex (& most of the street) in the dark.
Flooding had cancelled the rehearsal. Jose Rizal Manua, its unsinkable director, had invited E to come watch them work the well-known playwright, Putu Wijaya’s “visual theatre performance” WOW. Instead E hung out with JRM & some artsy folk at the complex. They sat outside, the tile patio piled with weathered books for sale, all of it illuminated by a few flame torches. JRM’s little shop here is called Bengkel Deklamasi, the "Declamation Laboratory," which seems to function as a salon more than anything else.
...Taxis, Cappuccino, Waria...
After declaiming in the torchlight with the artistes for a few hours, E walked out to find a taxi, but there were none. Not even a bajaj. The entire main street was dark, even the coffee houses closed. So he crossed over to a central commercial boulevard, where at least two elements of Jakarta's nightlife could not be sunk by flooding: waria--the lady-boys (“Hello, Mister! Where are you going? Hey, Mister, what do you like?”) & the massive 24-hour Starbucks that has taken over the building once housing the tourist information center. For really, what’s a stranded traveller need more: information or a quadruple ristretto venti latte with a shot of durian syrup?
He found a taxi there. Taxi drivers have remained laconic on the subject of floods, even this one, & the savvy ones know which routes use the high roads. Flooding happens every year, they pish (bravado, I say). Every year there’s an outcry to do something about it, every year it doesn’t happen.
...Headlines...
Headlines are always extreme. But in every accountable way this flood is much worse than usual: more water, more & new areas submerged, more sickness, more displacements. Huge numbers are displaced every year as a matter of course, the numbers including everything from voluntary moves to a hotel, just to be safe, to having one's home destroyed. Usually the annual floods linger for a few days & then everyone moves back in & squeegees the water from their floor. This year the disaster is that it’s still going—the problems rising less with the familiar presence of water than with the molding, breeding, road-blocking, unsanitary duration of it. Nobody can say when it will stop.
...Illusions & cash...
But we are fine right now. The people we know here are fine. We went down to the apartment's pool for the first time yesterday & discovered it is absolutely exquisite. With front page photos crazily in mind, we went swimming.
posted by Anne E. Campisi at 4:36 PM
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