August 18, 2013

  • Papua

     

     

     

    We finally got to the eastern end of Indonesia, courtesy of SMP YPJ, a Freeport junior high school for Indonesian students. We did a one-day workshop, which ended well and we followed up with small-group coaching the next day.

    On arrival, we were the only two travellers who had to go into an office and watch a Freeport safety video, while our passports were copied (even though we were still in Indonesia). We then were driven to the Rimba hotel, where we stayed with three other trainers (Aini, Vini and Windi), who were working with the primary teachers. It was interesting – it was crawling with police, and, on the third morning, a number of people got on what seemed to be an armoured bus, to head up the “hill” to the mine area. The police on it were literally armed to the teeth. This was because, on our first evening in Timika, a local had been shot and killed by a policeman, and a few of the locals were very, very unhappy about it.

    After a successful two days at the school, Plan A was to head up to the emerging tourist area of Raja Ampat, but the flight schedules would have had us cutting it too fine to connect with our flight back to Jakarta. So, we stayed with friends, Stuart and Simone, and offspring, and did a couple of day trips. Their place (and the school)  is in the Freeport enclave of Kuala Kencana, about a half-hour drive from Timika. We were surprised at how much it looked like an Australian, Canadian or American housing estate, and could see the attraction for people with young children.
     


    Our first trip entailed us checking out of our hotel and booking a driver, from a contact of Stuart’s. The man still had not arrived by lunchtime, the appointed time, and Helen had difficulty understanding him on the phone. Eventually, the vehicle turned up, and it looked perfect for a bit of spotlighting (night hunting) with half a dozen halogen lamps across the front of it. The driver clearly wasn’t the person with whom Helen had spoken on the phone. He was a very young-looking chap, who didn’t seem to know much about the local area. We had to stop in town for the driver to swap mobile phones, and his employer (whom, we assumed, was the person Helen had failed to understand on the phone) came out to get it. His haircut was clearly done with one horizontal sweep of a whipper snipper, and his naked torso had enough tattoos for him to get a game with Collingwood. I surmised that he was probably a retired army sergeant who was running a few “businesses”. Anyway, we then, we headed out to an area that a porter at the hotel had assured Helen was interesting, and it was.
     
    The climate and soil conspire to make agriculture very difficult, which probably accounts for why many of the local people continue to be hunter/gatherers. There were bananas and some coconuts, as well as some corn crops, and a few folk have attempted to grow rice, citrus trees ands a few other edible plants. Pigs and fish tend to be the main fare of carnivores. We ended up at a bend in the river, and got out to look at the boats. Helen struck up a conversation with a roadside purveyor of bananas, and, after the obligatory photo, bought a bunch (which we gave to the driver). Everyone around looked very poor, but most seemed well enough nourished.
      
    We had a very late lunch at a restaurant back in Timika. There were quite a few police there, dining, and a large scout group. Every male over the age of 16 was smoking, except for the three most senior policemen. We headed back to our hosts’ residence for a very convivial evening.

    The next day, we had organised with a chap from the school to take us on a day trip to go on a river cruise -  Plan B was an overnight river cruise, However, because of the shooting incident, safety had become an issue. So, we embarked on Plan C, and Nelson, our driver (whom, we suspect was taking advantage of his status as a Papuan and really should have been back at school) was a pretty good tour guide. He explained that Freeport had built all the roads, and had built the innumerable little besser brick shacks along them. Nelson’s theory was that most locals (men, that is) had decided that some fish from the river and some sago from the jungle was enough for the necessities of life, so taking advantage of offers of employment from Freeport were unnecessary. It seemed that the local communities suffered the same social issues as every other community in which men sit around all day, and have access to alcohol.
     
    Everyone was very friendly though. We stopped on the way to take a few photos, and found out that a good-for-eating pigeon cost the equivalent of ~AU$10, much more expensive than in Java. Nelson also informed us that the “cost” of running over a pig was calculated by multiplying the number of its nipples by $100! As we neared the “port” area (a place where boats pulled up along the river), Plan C looked like turning into Plan D, as Nelson seemed to be reluctant to seek out cruise options. However, a local pulled the metaphorical rug out from under him when his answer to Helen’s question about boats for hire up ahead was “Banyak” (Lots).
     
    We had a choice of a dugout with an outboard and a fibreglass option. We went with the latter, mainly because the crew seemed more likely to be able to deal with a crisis. So, we negotiated an outrageous (for Indonesia) price and boarded the craft, without life jackets. We suspected that the crew of four had no indemnity insurance, but it seemed that, even if the boat capsized, it would still float.
     
    The 90-minute cruise was fun. The two men at the front were spotters for logs and other floating hazards. About a kilometre from the Freeport loading docks they let us down. There was a thump, and the boat shuddered to a stop – the outboard had been fouled by a hessian bag. We poled over to the mangroves for a bit of stability while the offending object was unwound from the propellor and we were on our way again. The Freeport docks were impressive. The copper ore is literally pumped 75km down from the mountain to be loaded on the ships.


     
    A bit further on was one of the many villages where the houses were all on stilts in the river bed. They looked a bit precarious to us, but there were quite a few people living in them. It seemed that the children had the choice of playing in the mud or the muddy water. The village was on a sort of island, so we circumnavigated it and headed back. There were quite a few boats out on the river, some of them with people fishing, but most transporting people. Our crew informed us that animal life was fairly much restricted to birds and crabs. We saw some seagulls. The road trip back to Kuala Kencana was very leisurely – every time Helen asked Nelson a question, he slowed to almost stopping to answer it.

    The next morning, Stuart and Simone took us to see a village with Komoro people who did wood carving – years before, Kal Mueller, a Timika/Freeport identity, had brought a group to Surabaya for some demonstrations, and we bought a small carving back then. It was a bit if a magical mystery tour, because several locals sent us in the wrong directions, but we eventually found it. We arrived in time for a truck to come and collect two huge carvings for a school. Apparently, they cost ~AU$3500 each. Most of the able-bodied men in the village were pressed into service to load the carvings on to the truck. The carving seemed too heavy even for the assembled multitude. However, after rolling, lifting and straining, they got one of them on to the truck without too much damage. We headed back to Kuala Kencana for our fourth lunch at the Papua Cafe – there is a sort of shopping centre with a supermarket, a variation on a small department store and a couple of cafes.
     
    The last morning was spent at the school for the mandatory Independence Day assembly. It went well, and the teachers all seemed very pleased to see us again, if the number of group photos was any guide. We then packed and pottered about until it was time to go to the airport. The plane was leaving 3 hours after its appointed time. About 20 minutes before boarding, I checked out my backpack and was horrified to find my passport missing. I could not work out how that could happen. We rang Stuart who assured us it wasn’t at his place. He suggested we try the hotel, but I was 99% sure I had cleaned out the safety deposit box meticulously. As well as the expense, a missing passport was a disaster, because we were to be on a plane to Hong Kong in 36 hours (as well as needing it for a visa renewal and an up-coming month in Dubai). After brainstorming our trip, I realised that they it had to be in my day pack, in my suitcase, on the plane. Seven hours later, I ripped the suitcase off the carousel and opened it, to find, luckily, that the passport was in my day pack.

    We enjoyed our visit and were able to work around the frequent torrential down pours. Our hosts were very accommodating and made sure we enjoyed our stay. Everyone we spoke to seemed to enjoy living there, and Freeport seems to look after their expatriate employees very well. The Papuans we met, at the school, hotel and around and about, were all very friendly and helpful. There is a strong possibility that we will do a return visit.

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June 6, 2013

  • Being grateful

     

    We had a brilliant day on Saturday that showed us what human beings are capable of when we are “on song”. TEDxUbud lived up to expectations and we were informed, entertained and inspired by some wonderful speakers and performers. There were talks about teaching young people to be happy or become media literate, talks about networking to save people from trafficking or to promote breast feeding throughout the country, or to come up with innovative ideas or to save coral reefs and inspiring examples of overcoming disabilities or providing books for students in remote areas.

    Then we had an excellent band, one of the speakers also had us in stitches with a stand-up routine, and there was an amazing yo-yo exhibition (which also had the message that nothing is impossible if you stick at it).

    The venue, Five Elements, is amazing in appearance and philosophy – I admire the approach to life of people who have a total commitment to the health and welfare of all living things, and lunch tasted quite good, from a carnivore perspective.

                      

    (You can just make out Helen and I at the back in the picture above)

    The thing about TED, generally, is that it is about ideas worth spreading, and Ubud lived up to the hype. The drive and energy of some of the speakers (and a good number of the audience) to make a positive difference to the lives of others was inspiring. We certainly feel privileged to be able to attend an event like TEDxUbud and share in the greatness of others.

              

    However, our few days in Bali were not all uplifting. Helen had a quick trip into Kuta and vowed never to return, significantly unimpressed by the boorish behaviour of so many of our fellow Australians in the streets.

    It was our visit to Ani, our former pembantu (maid) that really showed us how lucky we have been to have opportunities in life that most of the world’s population will never have. We listened, in disbelief, to her story that she, and other pembantu, were being paid less now than what we were paying 11 years ago, despite the cost of living being much higher. It was sad to realise that some people, to who, $100 is a minute fraction of their income, will not even pay $5 a day (for, usually, an 8-to-10-hour day) to their helpers.

    The plus side was that her two boys, Mozes and Maleakhi, are doing well in the face of their circumstances, the former excelling at sport and the latter academically. In their own way, they are just as inspiring as the TED people.

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April 18, 2013

  • First World Problems

    Like folk in many parts of the world nowadays, we are over the weather. In our case, in Jakarta, it’s rain. Normally, the rainy season has ended well and truly by now, but it is doing more than just persisting – the past two days have seen as much rain as we have had at any time in the past 6 months.

     

    For us, it is mainly an inconvenience, but for people in other parts of the Big Durian it is a disaster – friends in East Jakarta, who had never had any problems, had their house flooded, twice, before Christmas, and, yesterday, I spoke with a school principal who had been helping many of her staff deal with flooded apartments.

     

    My “image advisor” suggested suggested that a haircut was overdue, and, on Wednesday, I could only get a 6pm booking at my usual place. It had been raining all afternoon, and we could not get a taxi to come, so I decided to cancel. Then, the rain eased, so I headed up the corner and, luckily, encountered a bajaj. Most sane people were still under shelter somewhere, so we had a quick run into Kemang.

     

    Haircut completed, I hailed another bajaj for the return journey. As I got in, the heavens opened again. We had a fairly quick trip in the torrent. As we entered the western end of our street, we were going with the current, but, as we neared our lane, we were going uphill, against it. I got out into a foot of water, and then walked in ankle-deep water to our gate. Luckily for us, but not for our neighbour, the water rushes down into the property at the end of the lane.

     

    Then, yesterday, after a meeting in town, we were on our way back to another meeting in Kemang. The deluge began on route, before noon. We were 25 minutes late, an acceptable margin of error in Jakarta.

      

    Back home, much later, we got ready to go back in towards town to meet a colleague for dinner. We walked out into the street and turned east, to get a taxi in the main street. However, during the afternoon, the last 100m to the main road had been concreted, wall to wall. There was plastic on top, and the local “area commander” who was in front of his house indicated we could go that way. Our feet sunk into the plastic, and got wet, but it was bearable. The plastic ended, and, in the dark, we assumed we were moving on to dry concrete. Wrong! They just didn’t have enough plastic. We returned, defeated, and offered a few descriptive words about the intelligence and competence of those responsible to the bystanders.

     

    We were ready to give up, but, after changing shoes back at the mansion, we decided to go out into the next street, via an alleyway, and try to get to our destination. We found a bajaj, and induced him to take us to Blok M, much further afield than he would normally venture. He dropped us off beside a taxi, and we disturbed the driver’s smoko and he took us as far as he could to where we wanted to go (because of the one-way systems). We walked to the nearest building and asked a guard if he knew where the restaurant was – “Second floor”.

     

    After a lovely evening, we waited for a while for a taxi, but ended up having a stress-free trip home.

     

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January 17, 2013

  •  I feel like a billionaire when I get dragged along to malls – there is nothing I need or want there (although, if there were some decent hobby shops, the latter might change). I sometimes see something I like, and may even purchase it, but, usually, I think of all the things I already have, an do not use. Living in Indonesia also makes me realise how little, in the way of material goods, some people need to get by.

    The important things in life are not things, but people. It makes me sad when I read (every year) that Christmas is a time of stress and unhappiness for many people, because of the perceived demands of their families. How can that be? Why would anyone care if there was no Christmas pudding, as long as your family could actually turn up? How could anyone complain about a gift when almost everyone buys something that they can afford and feel that their loved one would like? Crazy stuff.

    Any time to get together with those you love or a friendly with is a time to cherish, and gifts should be unnecessary – as the greeting card says, your presence is present enough. In my case, I am very fortunate to have family with whom I can have good conversations and we can also have full and frank discussions without hurting each other’s feelings (very much). In my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, family members could be (and were) “cut off” as a result of disagreements.
    Going back to Oz twice a year also makes me feel like the frog that is thrown into the boiling water – it seems easier to notice the changes than it is for the “frogs” who are in the water as it heats up. For example, the care for each other that characterises Australians seems to be gradually eroding. A simple example is walking on the left side of a footpath or escalator. It just doesn’t happen in central Sydney – maybe there are too many tourists? The telling example is the way asylum seekers are treated. We’ve never been noted for our institutional kindness to foreigners, but the concept of a “fair go” has disappeared where these poor souls are concerned.

    However, compared to most other places around the world, in Australia, the good still outweighs the other. It is clean, ordered, and most things work. The bad guys usually don’t get away with it, and there are enough people who still care about things to make a bit of a difference. In a crisis, such as floods and bush fires, there are always plenty of everyday heroes stepping up to help.

       

    One thing we still have not come to grips with in Australia is our place in the world. Living and travelling through Asia helps one realise that people are pretty much the same everywhere, and, most of the time, it is opportunity, or lack of it, that influences who we are and what we do. It is undeniable that I am very lucky, by virtue of country of birth and family – the latter not because of the things I was given (because we had little) but because of what I learned (and keep learning) from them. Christmas, especially, reminds me of this, but most days are Thanksgiving.

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November 18, 2012

  • Bandung

    Helen was presenting a workshop at BIS, so I got to see the sights of Bandung during the two and a half days we were there. Bandung is renowned for its factory outlets, so half of Jakarta’s population heads up the hill most weekends. As well, there are direct flights from KL and Singapore. These couple of days were even worse than usual, because of a public holiday on Thursday, and the Indonesian penchant for taking the next day off as well (as we used to do in Oz before the economic rationalists took over). Getting into the city was a nightmare – luckily, we weren’t driving – and it took nearly an hour to get from the end of the toll gate queue to the Novotel. Because Helen was going to be working, we headed straight out to Jl. Riau, to some of the factory outlets.

      

    I get overwhelmed in those sort of places – too much choice becomes none. I didn’t buy anything, but noted a few things to check with my “fashion consultant”. She was able to purchase a few Christmas presents and give me some ideas. Back at the hotel, we ordered a glass of wine and a beer from room service, to be told that, because it was a religious holiday, they were not serving alcohol. When Helen firmly and politely said that we would not be parading it around the hotel, the drinks eventually arrived. For dinner, we were hosted by some friends from the school, and had a nice meal at a Japanese restaurant. We discovered, half-way through our slumbers, that we must have been well and truly “MSG-ed”. Both of us were clogged up and woke more than once, coughing. We think we are getting less tolerant to it as we get older.

    Helen was away early the next morning and I discovered that 8am was not a good time to have breakfast – the buffet was packed. I eventually found a spot and read the paper on my iPad. Because I had eaten a larger-than-usual breakfast, I decided to walk to Jl. Riau. I asked for some directions a couple of times (once to some local punks) and found it. Shopping was easier, and I now knew what to look for, having been apprised of what were the “in” labels by Helen. I ambled back a different way, which, of course, is rarely a good idea in a new place. I eventually noticed a nice cafe and stopped for a snack, before continuing my trek back to the hotel.

    Eventually, I was fairly sure that I wasn’t too far away, so I asked a couple of blokes in a warung (on the footpath, under a tarpaulin) for direction. They assured me that it was “jauh” (far) and should catch a minivan. I trudged off in the indicated general direction and eventually came to the road to the Novotel. It was actually only about 1.5 km, which meets the definition of “jauh” – Like my parents’ generation (or, at least, the males thereof) anything more than 100m requires the use of a petroleum-fuelled vehicle. I must have done at least 8 km for the day.

    Helen took ages to return from a successful day, because of the traffic jams – Bandung is actually harder to get around in than Jakarta. (Yes, it is possible.)  I ordered drinks again, to be told there were none, but then a manager came on the line and took the order. Nothing happened for half an hour. Helen rang customer service. Nothing. I went downstairs and found a manager. He took me to a quiet place and explained that, because of local bureaucrats, the liquor licence had not yet come through, and they were worried about someone pretending to be a guest, getting alcohol and shutting them down. I suggested that the truth would be a good response from room service, and it was the lack of response, not the lack of drinks, that was the problem. The drinks arrived.

    We had Googled good places to go and ended up in Jl Braga, at the impossibly-cheap Braga Permai restaurant. It was one of a number of nice restaurants in the street, and we enjoyed nice meals and drinkable wine. We walked down the street a bit, and, suddenly, the whole nature of the street changed. Jakarta residents might understand that it was like going from Jl. Kemang Raya to Jl. Falatihan in the space of 10m – it got decidedly seedy. We had a margarita each at the North Sea bar before returning to our lodgings.

    The next morning, after another claustrophobic breakfast, I took Helen’s advice and walked up the street towards town. Helen had realised that the street, Jl. Cihampelas, was, in fact, the old “Jeans Street”. The factory outlets up the hill there catered for a different clientele to Jl. Riau – there were enough T-shirts and pairs of jeans for everyone on the planet, and then some. After about 2km, I ran out of outlets, and it started to rain. There were no taxis, so I jumped in a bemo (minivan). Most of the passengers got out at a stop halfway down the hill. The driver sat and waited for more customers. And waited. And waited. The other passengers got out, followed, eventually, by me. I caught another bemo, which dropped me near the hotel, then I caught a taxi back to Jl Riau to get some last-minute things. The taxi driver was the same one who had brought me back the day before.

      

     

    Helen was back a bit earlier, and we caught a taxi to Jl. Dago, to different factory outlets. This area seemed to be for the clients “in between” Jeans St and Jl Riau, but we still found a couple of nice things. We went back to Jl. Braga and had strawberry margaritas and a snack at Braga Permai. We then had dinner at a Japanese restaurant, which was not that good. We finished with a margharita at the North Sea and had a fairly early night.

    We packed and were away by 8am. The ride down the hill was extremely uneventful and relatively fast. Bandung was nice, and we hope to go back a bit, particularly to work. Next time, we will try the train, which goes over valleys and through tea plantations.

     

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November 4, 2012

  • Railing against it

     I’m one of those people who has always liked trains – my old Hornby set is in storage awaiting my retirement. I like travelling on non-suburban trains. I travelled from Cranbourne into Melbourne, to go to university, for several years on and off, and it was a good trip, because it was a country service. Now it has become a suburban commuter service (and, sadly, the scene of a fatal de-railment, yesterday).

    So, one of the attractions of delivering a workshop in Cirebon, on Java’s north coast, was the 3-hour train trip. Tickets in executive class cost ~AU$11, and could be booked online. Martinie helped with the booking, and paid for them at a nearby convenience store.

    I rocked up to Gambir station, near the National Monument (Monas) and was directed to window number 5. Unfortunately, no-one was behind it – it being Friday lunchtime, the ticket distributor was obviously a bloke, who had headed off for prayers. I was re-directed to window 11, and then climbed the stairs to the platform, ticket in hand.

    The only other time I had been to Gambir was more than 10 years ago, when Lyndsey and I were going by train to Yogyakarta. On that occasion, it was like trying to get out of the MCG on Grand final day. We had hung on to our stuff very tightly as we were jostled about. This time was much more civilised. The Cirebon “Expres” arrived late, and my seat took a bit of finding. There were no obvious signs, and I had to ask a few fellow passengers. Some of them were as clueless as I was. I had the relative luxury of two seats, because Helen was too unwell to make the trip. She had intended to check out the batik shops.

      

    Train windows give a unique perspective on the world. In places like Jakarta, where the desperately poor have been driven out from under the tollways, the space between the tracks and the fences provide accommodation. It is not quite Mae Klong market, in Thailand, but it is pretty bad. Some people lived in lean-tos, made of whatever they could find, others in shacks and, in some places, the train rumbled past withing 3m of the front porch of established houses!

    Once we cleared the city, the countryside was really nice, and would have been even better several months earlier, before most of the rice had been harvested. There were still plenty of padis that were yet to be cut, but most consisted of dry stubble that evidenced a few half-hearted attempts to burn them.

       

    A young woman, followed by two young men, came through the carriages selling meals, on plates, and drinks. They returned towards the end of the journey to “settle up”. My fellow passengers were all very quiet, with most snatching a few “zeds”. The train itself was passable, but was not cleaned efficiently, and there was little evidence of maintenance. The toilets were reasonably clean, but squat toilets. The seats were comfortable enough and reclined if needed. The windows all need a good clean, or replacement. However, the three hours passed relatively quickly, and I spent most of the time surveying the scenery. The “Expres”, which had actually stopped three times, pulled into Cirebon station, which looked like it was a nice old Dutch construction, with an underpass added.

    I didn’t get to see much of Cirebon, because it was very much a lightening visit. However, it seems to be quiiite a large town, and boasts the mandatory KFC and McD’s, as well as a new mall or two. I was told that Starbucks is not far away from opening, putting Cirebon very high up in Helen’s indicators ofg development in Indonesia. My hosts took me to dinner up in the hills, and the restaurant had an amazing view back to the coast. Apparently, we were only half-way up, and those sort of restaurants would have been common. This one was on a number of levels, and served good, cheap Indonesian food, so that patrons can order a variety of dishes for a customised banquet, at a reasonable price.

    I returned to Jakarta the next evening, so there wasn’t any scenery to look at. We all walked across the tracks to the platform, waiting for a 100-ton diesel to rumble through. However, the train left on time, and arrived on time (and included three stops, in Jakarta). Amongst my fellow travellers were several groups of women who, presumably, had made a day trip from Jakarta to shop for batik. It was relatively painless to get a taxi, but we had to detour several times on the way home. The first was because a vehicle had exploded in flames near the Hotel Indonesia roundabout (and I hope the occupant(s) had escaped) and the second was because of the interminable roadworks in Jl. Antasari. I was home within an hour, which, for a Friday evening travelling through Kemang, was pretty good.

    We will certainly do the trip again, and, hopefully, spend enough time to have more of a look around.

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October 24, 2012

  • Perspective

    We are not able to truly comprehend the scale of our planet, let alone the universe. Having just arrived home from Dubai, that view is just reinforced. Dubai seems big enough, from just travelling around on the train. However, it’s once you get out a bit that you begin to realise just how much development is going on, and that more is planned for the future. There are apartments and other large buildings going up everywhere. Presumably, the apartments will house people who will provide services for those already there, then more apartments will house people who will provide services for the newcomers, then …. To me, it seems a bit like a potential house of cards, but the people in charge, hopefully, know what they are doing. I’ve been told that a majority of the world’s (construction) cranes are in Dubai. There are a lot, but, having lived in China, I know there are a lot in other places. There is also plenty of room (sand?) for expansion.

      

    Certainly, no expense is spared. Almost everything is built with quality in mind, which is a selling point for the tourists. The malls are full of designer shops, and prices are not cheap anywhere, even in the souks, when compared to Asia. Anyway, the point is, just in one small corner of the planet, the scale of development, wealth and commerce is hard to take in. We have no chance dealing with the whole planet.

    The very great majority of the population in Dubai are not from there – most of them seem to be from India. One of the Indian schools I visited had 3,700 students. I think I must have personally said “hello” to all of them – they were very polite. Colleagues went to a school with 10,000 students! This is incomprehensible for someone from a country with less than 25 million people. Then, of course, I return to Jakarta …

     

October 6, 2012

  • More Dubai

     

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    I decided to walk to the Dubai Mall today. It was very, very hot, although the tall buildings provided some shade. It is well over a kilometre from the hotel, but it is an awkward distance – a bit far for a lot of people to walk, and close enough that it really annoys taxi drivers when you tell them your destination. Public transport requires train then bus, which is okay, but on the return journey the bus takes such a convoluted trip that you may as well have walked back.

    Anyway, I got there and wandered in. Dubai, apart from the heat, is extremely pedestrian unfriendly. Even though mall shops border the street, you still have to walk another 100m, through the carpark, to find an entrance, then go up two flights of escalators. There are footpaths, but everything is so spread out that it deters a lot of people. In Sheik Zayed road, one of the main drags, where the hotel is, the only way across the street is via one of the train stations, spaced more than a kilometre apart. So, to go to the bar directly across the street requires a walk of over 500m. It compensates for the hotel breakfasts.

    On the subject of hotel breakfasts, there is variety at the Rose Rayhaan, but it rarely changes. Pancakes alternated with waffles and hash browns with wedges, but the only other changes are the shifting of the food warmers in the line. I’m usually on a grilled cheese sandwich by day three, but I am trying to use my imagination. Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon was good, the other day.

    Anyway, the mall just didn’t do it for me – I’m pretty much okay for material goods, and I wasn’t hungry, so that ruled out just about every shop. I had a look, but, without a decent bookshop, hobby shop or music shop, there was nothing to attract me. I didn’t really feel like walking back, but I did. (See above.)

    The social life has been a bit gruelling. Thursday evening, the end of the working week, 10 of us went to a seafood buffet, followed by the Phillipino karaoke bar with the overtly gay compere. I didn’t inflict myself on the audience, although a few of my colleagues did, and a couple can sing a bit. We got back after 2am. Then, last night, three of us went to the Octoberfest. We found a taxi driver who knew where it was and set off. I didn’t think you could drive that far and still be in Dubai. It was at the cricket stadium. It was weird – maybe they were conserving electricity, but there were few lights on outside the stadium. We paid the exorbitant admission fee and entered. There were hundreds of expats there. It was okay, but that was about it. The band played German classics such as “Let’s twist again” (although they did play “99 red balloons”). We had half-cooked bratwurst sausages and an expensive stein of beer each and decided to bail. We ended up having the mandatory beer at the Irish bar near the hotel before bed.

    I thought I might have an early night tonight, but got a phone call to go over the road to watch rugby. We encountered 2 colleagues who claimed to have been there most of the day and to have drunk 22 pints between them. We watched the end of the All Blacks Vs South Africa and just chatted.

September 30, 2012

  • Dubai, Take 2

     

    It’s always easier the second time. When the taxi driver didn’t seem to know where my hotel was, I was able to ascertain that he was, at least, heading in the right direction, so I could guide him in. It was also great to see a few familiar faces, particularly a few blokes I’d been out with last time. And, finally, in at “the office”, it was great to know people and procedures, and not have to ask seemingly-stupid questions.

    Work has been flat out. Visiting a school is pretty full on. Just when you think you might draw breath, something else needs to be looked at. This round, we seem to be all visiting Indian schools. At a rough count, the schools covered last week must have accounted for about 10,000 Indian students, and we have three weeks to go! You certainly cannot fault the desire of the students to learn – last week’s students were amazing – so polite and wanting to know things.

    I think I understand why so many celebrities go off the rails. Living in a hotel room for an extended period of time is nowhere near as glamorous as some might think. However, when you pretty much just work and sleep there, I suppose it is okay.Getting to the gym is difficult, probably more because of motivation than time.

    The Rose Rayhaan has cooking facilities, and it is actually easier to throw something in the microwave or the frying pan than head out. Just about every skyscraper has a 24-hour Indian supermarket in the bottom of it, somewhere. Om Friday I went to “the Co-op”, cross the road (via the train station – the only way across) and on. I got there just in time for the closing for prayers. It was open when I returned, yesterday, and will be where I’ll buy most food. It has a way better range than the small places – you can only eat so many chicken tikka wraps.

    This weekend was fairly busy. A few of us went to a sports bar on Thursday night (the end of the working week here) and took it fairly quietly. Friday night was spent at the “Irish Village” watching Scottish brother “The Proclaimers”. I only know their first album, but they were very good. There was a big enough crowd to pack out the place, and make it difficult to get to the bar for one’s round of beers. We then stopped at another Irish night spot closer to the hotel for one last one. It was packed, and smokey.

    So, it’s one down and three to go. Tiring, but interesting so far.

September 14, 2012

  • Winning and losing

    I wonder if anyone has a life where most things go to plan? In recent times, we have bought a house in Australia and established a company in Indonesia. Both of these activities seemed to have been made unnecessarily difficult by the actions of others. They are done, but the hair is a bit greyer and the blood pressure is a bit higher as a consequence. At the moment, the icing on the cake is attempting to get our work visas.

    Stage one was yesterday, a long day in Singapore. I’d already tee-ed up the next stage, of sending my passport to Immigration, with the people “organising” it – “Yes, Mr. Andrew, if you give your passport to us by 9am Friday, you can get it the next Thursday evening”. Excellent, until I got a text, this morning, saying it would be 3pm next Friday. This is a small problem, because I should be checking in for a flight to Dubai for a month at that time. There is, hopefully, a solution, but I don’t like doing “dodgy” with matters like this.

    As well as that, the last week, or so, has been fairly eventful. I tagged along while Helen conducted at workshop at Bali International School, and we stayed on for another day for her to enjoy Sanur beach.

    I popped in to the school to catch up with the support staff, and it was great to see quite a few of them, even if most have aged a bit over the past decade. I wandered pretty much all over Sanur during the three days of the workshop. A lot has changed, but a lot hasn’t. My feet became sore, so I tried a foot massage at a small salon just off the beach. The young woman told me she was from Kintamani, up on the volcano, one of many young woman from that part of the island engaged in some sort of massage activity. She also revealed that she received a monthly wage of Rp500,000, which puts her below the United Nations poverty line of US$2/day.

    As well as an increase in beggars from past trips, an examination of some wares on sale in the tourist shops indicated that there must also be quite a few people making things who receive very little for their labour. So, while Bali is perceived as one of the more affluent areas of Indonesia, the affluence of some seems dependent on the relative poverty of others.

    A single male strolling receives offers of “a woman” every hundred metres. One taxi driver stopped and asked me if I wanted to go to Ubud. When I replied in the negative, he offered a woman – I was a bit surprised at the match of alternatives. An older bemo driver, sitting with his mates asked if I wanted “jiggly jig”, and they all laughed when I told him he wasn’t my type. However, even though this seems to be an indication that times might be getting tougher, most suggestions are made in fun.

    Despite a regulation from the governor of Bali limiting development, it goes on unchecked. Since the ’70′s, people have been predicting the demise of Bali, but it has hung in there. However, with the advent of better industrial construction methods, the ability of developers to destroy the island has increased dramatically. The trend is fast becoming one of tourists staying in big hotels, and spending their money in larger, air-conditioned shops. Few of these are owned by Balinese, and the small family-run businesses look like they could be in serious trouble.

    On Wednesday, the afore-mentioned conversation, about passports at Immigration, took place at an office in central Jakarta. Because the traffic is even more abysmal than usual at the time I needed to be on the road, I decided to try the Busway. In theory, the Busway has dedicated lanes and simply zooms along its route unimpeded. Martinie accompanied me, to provide a bit of local knowledge. I thought it might be a good idea to walk through to the next main street where there is a Busway route. Martinie was less-than-enthused, so we caught a public minibus (bemo), which cost us ~AU$0.60 for two.

    We paid our AU$0.80 each for a ticket and waited. Boarding the bus was like something out of an old British comedy. The bus was packed. We entered via the back door. As we did so, a man behind us picked a wallet up from the ground and handed it to Martinie. In the bus, as we were negotiating the throng, the young man who boarded before us claimed it. As Martinie handed it to him, the bus lurched away. Martinie cannoned into me. I had my bag in my left hand, and threw out my right hand to balance myself, without whacking any of the people sitting in the rear seat in the head. My arm contacted the door jam, and, just as I started to regain my balance, the driver closed the door on my arm. I was trying to get balanced and free up my other hand to try and force the door open when cries from other passengers alerted the driver, and my now-sore arm was released. It was nice to be able to bring a smile to the faces of so many fellow passengers.

    The Busways are a great idea – fast, direct routes that intersect at well-placed interchanges. The practice is not much like that. Even thought the system is not all that old, it is already dirty and run down. For example, the doors at the bus shelters are supposed to stay closed until the bus stops, like those in subway train systems, but most are broken, and remain constantly open, which means that folk at the front of the queue are in a very dangerous situation. Then, despite clear signage, and even employees who operate booms gate along the Busway lanes, the buses are too often stranded because of the motorbikes, cars and other buses which block them. The air-conditioning units also cannot cope with a full load of passengers.

    The return trip was better, because we went via a newer route. The Busway lived up to its reputation, until we got to the terminus, where we spent nearly 10 minutes sitting in a hot bus waiting for the terminus to clear. We have a long way to go.