The Gonzo Chronicles
Lifestyles of the rich and heinous in Jakarta
Jakarta is frequently referred to as the Big Durian, which is at once aptly descriptive, and lazily derivative, both of which are worthy adjectives for this frenetic termite mound.
Jakarta is not a city. It is a fever dream inside an asylum, wrapped in traffic, dipped in sweat, and choked by the copious exhaust fumes of a million motorcycles.
It is a place where the rules of civilization hang by a hair, chewed on by a rabid alley cat with a deformed tail. And somehow, miraculously, it all more or less functions—though exactly how remains a mystery that no sane human should ever try to ponder.
From the moment you land at the airport, the chaos welcomes you like a sotted uncle at a family reunion. The customs officials appear to operate on a mysterious internal code that has nothing to do with your paperwork, and everything to do with how much of a bribe they think they can squeeze out of you. If you make it through unscathed, congratulations. You are now ready to enter the real madcap circus that is Indonesia’s once and future capital.
Jakarta’s traffic is what would happen if Fellini directed a documentary about urban planning, with production design by Dali. Motorbikes slither through the cracks like sand poured into a box of rocks, then roar down the street like a shotgun start in a redneck motocross when the light turns vaguely green. Buses stop wherever they please (including the middle of an intersection), while buskers entertain passengers for spare change.
Pedestrian crossings are more of a hypothetical than a reality. Crossing the streets requires holding out your hand to the oncoming hordes, which oblige by careening wildly around you. Do NOT under any circumstances lose your nerve and stop moving. I call this effect “using the Force”.
Lane markings? Merely decorative. Red lights? Optional. The average two-lane road has as many as six lanes of traffic: two for cars, one for buses, two-ish for motorcycles, and an outside lane for push carts (kakilima) going the wrong way. Sidewalks, where they exist, become a seventh lane during rush hours. The Force does not work during these times, but alternatively you can cross the street by walking across the tops of motionless cars.
God help you if it rains, because that’s when Jakarta unveils its secret weapon: Noahide flooding. One minute you’re walking on solid ground, the next you’re up to your pocket liner in reeking coffee-colored water, with your bag, shoes and electronics piled on your head. If you’re lucky, you’ll spot a floating bakso vendor, still selling meatball soup while standing waist-deep in floodwater. Capitalism knows no bounds. Watch as he rinses your bowl and spoon in the same water in which a lost motorcycle just floated by, trailing a rainbow patch of motor oil.
Jakarta’s street food scene is legendary, a riotous mix of sizzling satay, bubbling rendang, and gorengan—deep-fried everything oozing week-old oil that tastes vaguely of fish. Every meal is a game of gastric Russian roulette. One wrong move and you’ll spend the next 24 hours contemplating your life choices on a squat toilet in a bathroom that offers only a ladle and a cistern for tidying up.
That being said, some of the best meals of your life will come from a warung on the side of the road, where a barefoot old man, bent and grizzled, grills chicken over burning coconut husks on a stove built from a rusted car bumper. The food is divine, the sambal (hot sauce) can strip paint at 10 paces, and the price is a buck or two. The experience lasts a lifetime.
The true Jakartan experience is sitting in an actual sidewalk cafe—a blue tarp over wooden tables and plastic stools—being serenaded by questionable vocals over homemade instruments, and/or hawkers selling pirated DVDs.
Shopping in Jakarta requires the bargaining skills of an Arab buying a camel. Whether it’s fake Gucci in Mangga Dua or a hand-carved statue of a Komodo dragon in Pasar Seni, the first price you hear is a joke—one told at your expense. The golden rule is to counter with 30% off the asking price, then engage in a theatrical performance of shock, offense, laughter, and exaggerated sighs until you reach an agreement that makes both parties feel cheated.
Note there are no posted prices on anything. The opening salvo is a complex algorithm based on how gullible the vendor thinks you are.
Meanwhile, your taxi driver will attempt to charge you “harga bule” (foreigner tax) unless you summon the righteous fury of someone who has read the Jakarta expat forums. Shouting "pake argo!" (use the meter) in a firm tone is the only way to establish dominance. If all else fails, mention the name of a local mafia boss—every Jakartan knows at least two: one in the private sector and one public.
Always choose a tall landmark when you get in, so you can see how many times the driver circles it before setting off in the general direction you want to go. Tips are generally the difference between the fare and the next higher round number divisible by 5. Be sure to carry lots of small notes, since the drivers never have change, despite having wads of cash stuffed in every discrete space in the front of the cab.
If you ever need to renew your visa or open a bank account, prepare to enter the seventh circle of bureaucratic Hades. Douglas Adams surely had these creatures in mind when he created the Vogons. You will need copies of documents that no one has ever heard of, signatures from a man in an obscure office across town who is perpetually “on break,” and the patience of a Buddhist monk on a Valium vacation.
The entire process is designed to skewer your soul, but remember: the true Jakartan way is to find an “agent”. Agents are usually relatives of the bureaucrats. They lurk in dark corners looking for the “tourist stare”. Everything is possible if you slip the right person the right amount of rupiah. Moral objections are a luxury for folks with days to kill, and who enjoy taking numbers that never get called.
Jakarta at night is an entirely different beast. The city’s elite sip cocktails in rooftop bars overlooking the skyline, while further down the road, backpackers and dodgy characters engage in debauchery at bars with names like “Golden Light Spa”. Somewhere in between, middle-class Jakartans gather in selfie-ready cafes, sipping overpriced lattes while discussing their latest online business schemes.
On any given night, you might find yourself at a hidden speakeasy where the entrance is disguised as a janitor’s closet, or at a karaoke palace where a local billionaire drunkenly insists that you sing “My Way” by Frank Sinatra, while paying scantily clad women to stand by and ensure your glass is never empty.
Jakarta doesn’t just encourage absurdity—it demands it as a survival skill.
Living in Jakarta is not for those with a tenuous grasp on sanity. It is a relentless, sweaty, glorious mess of an ant pile, where the absurd is a lifestyle, the impossible is plausible, and every plan is supercilious. It is a city of contrasts: modern skyscrapers towering over shacks and hovels, high fashion boutiques next to pop-ups selling knock-offs, and luxury malls that require you to navigate a moonscape of potholes that have no apparent bottom, just to reach the entrance.
And yet, despite its chaos, despite its infuriating inefficiencies and moments of sheer madness, there is something intoxicating about the Big Durian. It is alive in a way that few cities are. It pulsates with incongruity, thrives on asymmetry, and rewards those who embrace the insanity with unparalleled experiences.
There are two types of visitors who come to Jakarta: one who flees in terror within hours of alighting, and one who clings on for years, knowing that in the next 10 minutes he will see something never before imagined by the most disturbed minds.
If you ever find yourself in Jakarta, double up on the Xanax, light a clove cigarette (even if you don’t smoke), and switch off your logic circuits. Prepare to be unprepared for anything, where everything is far no matter how close it is.
Don’t be surprised if you spot Rod Serling off in a corner narrating your adventure.
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For our cultural appropriation exercise, I highly recommend Slumdog Millionaire (2008). It’s the most entertaining depiction of Asian insanity I’ve yet found. If you’ve never seen it, you’re in for a treat. If you have seen it, it is worth a re-watch after 17 years. A poor Mumbai teenager somehow wins the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
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Thank you for the colourful, lyrical description of madness, but I'd rather watch The Twilight Zone:)