Wine around the world

“C’mon, you’re not ready for bed yet,” my new friend Kim coyly whispered in my ear.

We were introduced through a mutual colleague two days earlier at Sunday brunch. We were in Jakarta for a business conference, and Kim and I shared a desire to explore this mysterious city. Having witnessed the bloodied victims of the Australian embassy bombing being tended to in the hotel lobby during her last trip to Jakarta, our friend flat out refused to leave the hotel under any circumstances. So Kim and I had wandered through the junky chaos of Jalan

Jalan Surabaya Market

Surabaya, the so-called antique market filled sketchy merchandise and even sketchier salesmen. Not finding anything to our liking, we then participated in the Indonesia’s official sport: mall shopping. Kim showed great patience while I excitedly tracked down Women’secret, the Spanish chain of young, frivolous and colourful lingerie with soon-to-be classic expressions like “In the future, everyone will be team-famous.” In exchange, I helped Kim find the perfect silk blouse for his new girlfriend.

It was now Tuesday night, and as conference hosts we were obliged – happily – to show our attendees a good time.  We foolishly packed the whole group into one minivan taxi; I was somewhere under the crush of bodies. We arrived at our destination like a clown car, an impossibly large number of passengers unfurling themselves one after the other. By the time I pried myself out of the taxi a small crowd of goggle-eyed Indonesians had formed to watch the entertainment.  The bar was elegant, with high ceilings, long, crimson velvet curtains, and hundreds of posters proclaiming the immorality of drugs.  Even the fashionable wait staff were forced to endure large, circular pins declaring “Say NO to drugs!”  It was a very odd place. Moreover, the bar was empty. Turns out they had recently reopened after being shut down by the government when a famous Indonesian actress was caught in their bathroom using cocaine.  Not quite the atmosphere we sought.

Jakarta nightlife

The subsequent bar had a good vibe, good music and nice crowd. We danced up a storm and giggled over the creatively-named cocktails.

“What do you think a ‘Screaming Chinese Virgin’ is?” I asked Kim.

The next thing I knew a large, pink cocktail replete with skewered marachino cherry appeared on the table. Kim smiled. I tasted it – I had no idea what was in it, but it was good.  I offered some to Kim and soon the whole group was, ahem, having a bit of screaming Chinese virgin.

At midnight the group was spent. Everyone, that is, except for Kim.

“You’re not ready for bed,” he cajoled as we walked to the front door. “Let’s keep going. After all, when will you next be in Jakarta?”  He had a point.

“Ok,” I answered, and our adventure began immediately.

On the subject of hired transportation in Jakarta, the recommendation is consistent and unanimous: when in Jakarta you should only take Blue Bird or Silver Bird taxis. Period. End of. Non negotiable. Kim promptly walked to a beat up, rusty red no-name taxi and held the door open.

“Madame….” he proclaimed with a bow and sweep of his arm.

“Uh, do you think we should be taking *this* taxi?” I meekly asked.

Kim, a strapping Korean raised in Nairobi, was not going to be discouraged by the middling issue of personal safety on a post-midnight August Tuesday in Jakarta.  He dismissed my concern and enthusiastically asked the driver to take us to Tanamur Bar which he explained to me was the oldest disco in Jakarta – we just *had* to go.

“Tanamur….?” The driver looked at us blankly.

Tanamur

“Big disco? Dancing? Bar?” Kim explained, animatedly acting out each word.

“Tanamur.” Now it was a perplexed statement.

Kim mimed that they should ask one of the other taxi drivers together.  Glumly, I sat in the back. Even if I had a map I had no idea where we were or where we were going.

Kim and the driver returned wearing big smiles.

“We got it now,” he beamed.

Although the driver took us down well-lit residential roads, at every intersection cross streets trailed ominously into blackness. One sharp turn and we would have been swallowed up by Jakarta, never to be seen again. I was acutely aware of our vulnerability.

After twenty minutes we still hadn’t reached our destination, but neither had we been robbed, raped and left to die in some dirty Jakarta back alley. Kim, in his wonderful African way, was suggesting to the driver that we pull over and ask for directions. The driver understood and drove up to a brightly-lit shopping mall.  It was now close to 1 am.

As Kim, the driver and three others noisily debated the best route to our destination, I quietly took in our surroundings.  Looking over Kim’s shoulder, I wasn’t sure I believed what I was seeing.

“Uh, Kim? Kim?” But he was too engaged in conversation.

It was the middle of the night and somewhere in a mall in the midst of Jakarta a full-on boxing match was taking place.  I’m talking ring, ropes, boxers in shiny shorts, a zebra-shirted referee, bell and hundreds of spectators.  I was mesmerized. And I was starting to quite like this town.

Again we set off and finally, finally reached the holy grail of discos. Cost of the cab ride? About $3. We were relieved we didn’t have to stand in line. We stepped up to the outdoor ticket booth where I delightedly learned that Tuesday was Ladies’ Night – free entry for me!  Kim paid his entrance (about $10) without complaint and asked how the scene was. The two staff members looked at each other quickly, smirked and said they had heard it was good inside. Kim could barely contain his excitement. He was already dancing.

We walked up the long, winding ramp, designed for massive swells of revelers. The bouncer eyed us surprisingly, but let us in. We entered a cavernous, dark, quintessential booming nightclub. We were the only patrons.

Recovered from our initial shock and disappointment, Kim cheerfully chatted up the bartenders while I went for a walk.  The place was colossal. As I climbed stairs, exploring hazy, green-hued spaces on different levels, I felt like I was in a bizarre fun house. Expecting zombified barflies to lurch at me from darkened corners, I shrieked when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“I think we’ve done this place,” Kim announced.

Good, I thought. Time to go home.

“Let’s go to Blok M!” he suggested eagerly, clapping his hands.

Blok M, he explained, was a bar-lined street popular with ex-pats and probably the only happening place after 2 am in Jakarta. I was not unimpressed by the volume of research he had conducted on Jakarta nightlife. Kim was a walking Let’s Go. Literally.

After we thanked the ticket sellers for the wonderful evening we took yet another unmarked taxi. The driver kindly afforded me the opportunity to practice my newly-acquired Indonesia Bahasa.

“Hati-hati!!” I yelped while being flung sideways as he screeched around corners. “For the love of god, slow down!”

Even at that speed, however, I was starting to recognize Jakarta landmarks.  My locals’ badge was pending.

Blok M was still lively. The neon of “My Bar” beckoned brightly.

“Home of the world-famous ‘Big Ben’ cocktail,” I noted.

We entered the bar, and 80 young Indonesian prostitute eyes simultaneously locked on us.  I looked back with equal curiosity. There were also three white

Dance floor at My Bar

men: one in his sixties amorously engaged with one of the young ladies; a shaggy fellow casually chatting up a couple of birds; and a youngish, uncomfortable-looking guy with short brown hair and glasses whose eyes furtively scanned the room while his fingers twisted his cuff links nervously. The place had a damp, alcoholic aura with occasional zephyrs of sweaty perfume.  The music played loudly and a few of the women danced together.

Kim took the initiative and ordered us two Big Bens.  I viewed the tall, faintly blue glass with suspicion.

I choked on my first sip. “What the hell is this?”

The bartender explained that it was a blend of every white spirit in the bar with a tiny splash of blue Curacao for colour. I offered him my drink which he happily slurped up.

Kim and I made quite the pair: a tall Korean guy from Kenya and white Jewish girl from Canada flailing around the dance floor in a bar catering to sleazy ex-pats during the wee hours of a weekday in the main city of an Islamic Asian country. I could feel inquisitive gazes trying to figure us out.

“Do you think they’re wondering if were looking for a threesome?” I asked Kim while busting a move to Kylie Minogue.

Without missing a beat, my now happily-drunk new friend – and work colleague – answered, “Have you ever had a threesome?”

My eyebrows shot up. Realizing the very personal nature of his question, Kim turned crimson. To put him out of his misery I suggested a game of pool.  He crushed me. By 4 am we mutually agreed it was time to go home.

The next morning I saw a map of the city and realized just how much ground we had covered. Starting in the middle of the city we had gone way to the northern suburbs, then south practically to the port, then to the east and back to centre. We had ridden in no-name taxis, imbibed Big Bens and Screaming Chinese Virgins, seen a late-night boxing match at a mall, had a disco all to ourselves, danced with the prostitutes and lived to tell the tale.