I'd heard all the stories, nothing but slums they'd told me. Apparently all the rich people lived together in a little gated community by the marina, in the north of the city. If they were, they had hidden themselves expertly so beneath the rubble and debris that is depressingly common amongst poor Asian communities that seemingly exist between the lines of the thoroughfares and pavements. It was as if a city had accidentally exploded out of refugee camp, I remarked to myself. Upon which I fumbled for my phone to make a note of that quip, in anticipation of someone asking me how I found the city- I've got a genius line I thought. The currency, like Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos is absurd. I arrived with £60 and exchanged it for around 1 million rupiah. Divided into notes as small as 1,000 and coins of 500. All mine were crisp 50,000s though. They were a purplish blue in colour and reminded me of the 50 baht notes in Thailand, and I spent them thusly. Very long Tuk-Tuk rides across town seemed to never cost more than 50 and usually 20- I still haven't bothered to find out how much that actually is. The Tuk-Tuks are at least oddly pleasing. They're the same shape as other Tuk-Tuks but have a carriage for the passenger, with a small half-door that opens in the same way, and even a step up. Inside is slightly comfortable in an aged leather sort of way, but if one leans forwards you get all the external ambiance of honking horns, cranking machinery, and life being lived by the locals. So I took about 10. The first 2 accidentally as I knew for sure he'd taken me to the wrong place. I'd taken a bus from the airport to the main train station which, on the map, was right next to Merdeka square. I always get lost if I try and walk anywhere so upon arrival at said bus station I immediately made my desired destination, of Merdeka square, known to the nearest carriage Tuk-Tuk. When you don't speak native but want to get somewhere your best bet is to pick a spot that has a name that sounds like the local language. That way they'll hopefully catch the name. This didn't work with the first chap I picked on. He responded with a gargling, guttural sound that literally didn't have any form or structure to it, I repeated simply the word Merdeka as clearly as possible, he opened the door for me, a surprising courtesy which unnerved me slightly, and seemed to agree to 20 (we'll drop the ,000 for now) I was in no rush and had all day to loaf around, so off we went.
We sped off round a roundabout and hurtled across a major road before barreling down immediately tight streets, either side walls were piling up and looming with dangerous forbidding over the listless traffic below. We passed a women selling fruit that surrounded her entirely, bananas spilled onto the side alley beneath the feet of a man carrying a large water container labelled with a brand I didn't recognise. Behind the fruit seller a man in a grey short sleeved shirt takes a watermelon out of a wooden crate and puts it into a red plastic bag. We carried on and turned left below a sign the read 'Apotik' carrying on up the narrowing street, haphazard litter strewn about potholes and disinterested plant life growing up poorly placed pylons block our path and the carriage is tossed about like a cesna in old turbulence. We burst out onto a 12 lane highway, sparsely populated with old Hondas and Mazdas,as though someone had slapped down a giant road in an area nobody ever went to. Tired buildings greying with age and browning in the sun stare down at the empty pavements, devoid of the people they had no right to expect.
We parked up under a functional hotel, thick, uninspired columns sat heavily in the ground. This wasn't Merdeka Square, although I knew that as we had driven a long way and according to my map I was right on top of the square before I got in the Tuk-Tuk. I made my disappointment clear and he took me back the way we came, my only hope was that we could pass something interesting along the way.
We pulled to a stop outside a cathedral. School children lined up below the steps, impressive, stony grey spires reached up into the sunshine. I stood back and took a few photos, they all seemed to be from a nearby Christian school. I wondered round to the left of the building and entered in through the side door. Happy candles burned in the deep behind warm lighting, the impressive and high mahogany pulpit rose above a few people sitting in the calm and quiet pews. The scene was familiar although my family church, and the others I went to infrequently as a child, were obviously much smaller and a lot simpler. I was impressed with the upkeep and apparent freshness of the wood and cleanliness of the organ behind, its sparkling grey pipes standing out against the deep browns of the wooden back. Near the entrance a man was lighting candles placed around a statue of Jesus. It all reminded me of the many splendid cathedrals and churches in Salamanca in Northern Spain, although given the prominence this one had in the guidebook and the high volume of suspected tourists outside, I doubt there were many more like this one hiding in other places around Jakarta.
Next to the double doors leading out to the car park was a door leading to a winding staircase. I followed the wind upstairs, passed a rope hanging from a bell, and onto a first floor landing. The landing led on to a wooden door, rectangular like a ye olde tavern, inside the door two anglicised old Asian ladies were doddering about behind a desk. One was pottering around with photos of the previous, previous pope and the other stood in front of a guest book looking like a primary school mother waiting for a beetle drive or carbooot sale she knew would never come. They were nonchalant about my presence even though their own records showed I was the first person up here in quite a while. I was reminded of the Korean lady who wrote in a similarly sparse guest book at the governors old, colonial era house in Bueng Khan that she was probably the first person to go there in a long time and, like people from Singapore and other cultureless countries, didn't know what was so special about the gorgeous teak and indochinese styling or lovingly maintained topiary in the sprawling garden. I signed my address in the guest book, back in Jakarta, as St. Kenelms as I was momentarily swayed by the augustness of the surroundings. Suddenly I became aware of the impressive portraits, painted in oils, that adorned the high walls of the double roomed museum the double womemed guards were guarding, like the sandwiches at a church fete.
The first few paintings, running in reverse chronological order, were of stoically dark hued and delicate looking gentleman, gentle satisfaction dancing in the creases around their eyes. Walking down the line of paintings, of each of the vicars (sic) of the cathedral since it had been built, they started to change into the faces of stern Dutchman, fire blazing in their eyes and colonial sneers beneath their noses. I felt a comfort, however, in seeing their faces beam down at me with the kind of fatherly disapproval I could handle, knowing the odds of them being slave holders or heretic burners to be high but coming to peace with the fact I simply didn't care about to evils of Christianity's past. Anyway, they were Catholics and I was, nominally, an Anglican. There were robes belonging to the Cathedral's architect, and a beautiful, ornate something that the Pope had touched when he visited. There were other artefacts clearly placed with intent, the emptiness of the room impressed me. It reminded of an opium museum I went to in Chiang Rai, lovingly maintained like a gravestone of a beloved family member. I left feeling spiritually enriched, like always.
Over the road stood the Istali mosque, the biggest in Southeast Asia according to the 3D guide I'd seen in the airport. The last time I'd been to Indonesia, in North Sumatra, I visited a large mosque and, again, came away feeling spiritually calm and enriched. This one felt different though. There were gentlemen at the entrance, off to the side and not particularly grand, watching over people's shoes and, presumably, ensuring that the strict code of conduct was adhered to. I entered, slipped off my shoes and started towards the steps leading up to the prayer hall. One of the semi-uniformed men joined me and said he'd guide me through, this seemed odd but turned out to be quite helpful, and he was casual enough, asking me where I was from and which football team I supported. We strolled into the magnificent prayer hall, the giant dome looming high above 12 columns. My guide led me towards one of the columns, shimmering stainless steel but still indented with vertical running, shallow canals like the columns of all those museums built from old roman buildings. This column had a sort of multimedia education station at its base, TVs and a few computer screens sat above a circle of Qur'ans. He picked on up with one hand and let it flop open onto his palm, he gave a little description, jabbing a jovial finger at the pages, closed the book and let it rest on the table. Apparently we were on a schedule. We walked out into the centre of the prayer hall and stared up at the magnificent dome, and the curious moonlit ocean blue ball, hanging from the dome low to the ground, only a few metres above my head. We walked out of the hall and along a magnificent marble arcade that looked out onto the courtyard backed by a tall minaret that towered above the surrounding low-rises. We kept walking, a rough red carpet crumpled under our feet and led us up to a large wooden drum, skinned with cowhide, there was a hefty stick hanging next to it. We took turns having a good beat of the drum, he seemed proud of it. We walked passed the madrasahs, there were people snoozing outside on the rug, and looped round to a separate courtyard. I saw four children over the other side on a parallel arcade, three girls and a boy. Two of the girls and the boy were sat down, the girls in white hijabs and the boy in a polo shirt. The third girl was standing up, she was clad head to toe in a blue niqab, she was doing star jumps whilst her friends took photos. They saw me taking a photo of them and the blue girl turned around and pretended to act shy as her friends giggled. My guide laughed, apparently the pan Asian traits of playfulness and mischief are evident in here also.
He led me back out to the side entrance where a bunch of old ladies were sitting on the steps, preparing to leave or enter, they all grouped together, about ten of them, and asked me to take their photo. I did so and asked the guide if I could go back inside and lie down in the prayer hall for a few minutes, he didn't seem to know what to do but his face quickly decided it would be ok. I turned around and walked directly back to the prayer hall, found a spot just beneath the blue ball, and laid back and stared up at it. I lay there for a short while, then got up and slowly moved around the pleasingly spacious floor area. I let my thoughts from the previous bit come together, why did there need to be a guide to show me around? He was friendly enough but what was it about this mosque that meant a non-Muslim couldn't walk freely about? There didn't seem to be any other tourists around, the group of youths from earlier were back, running gently back and forth around a few elders lying on the floor, one man lay on his back, his leg up, right ankle resting on his left knee. I'd studied all the major world religions in R.E as a student, although that was only surface deep and I imagine that the decade or so of western media fostering skepticism and distaste towards the Arabic world and Muslims in general had a far greater impact on my view than anything else. But I did feel slightly annoyed that the southeast Asia I knew, tolerance and acceptance and an allowance of free wheeling adventurism, seemed entirely absent here. Granted Malaysia has similar laws as Indonesia, but the people there were as friendly and communal as the subcontinent. Was Islam truly so pervasive that its largest global outpost and most significant Southeast Asian centre was as intolerant as the gulf states and middle east countries, despite the regional attitude being largely the opposite? I got up and walked back to the steps, guide was strolling slowly towards me, presumably to make sure I was still there but then, after asking me if everything was alright, he made sure to ask me for a tip, I handed him two 20s and suddenly everything made sense. Jakarta, and he mosque, not so different after all.