Sprung Spring, The Kampung Bomb And Matters Of The Faith
Just off the phone with Mum. Temperature soared to 8C in Montreal today where folks in shorts and Ts wandered through puddles with goofy smiles on their faces.
“Wore my office jacket to work and sent the winter jacket to the dry cleaners,” she says.
Some people wait for the robins to return before declaring winter over. In our family the ritual dry-cleaning-prior-to-packing-away-of-the-winter-wear is the surest sign that spring has sprung.
Of course it’s an illusion. Spring doesn’t sprung until the Sunday nearest St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, the day of the annual parade along the length of St. Catherine’s Street, which always coincides with the last, vicious right hook from the allegedly departed winter.
I’ve never seen a St. Paddy’s Day parade that didn’t require full winter battle wear: it was one of the few days during the course of the winter that I actually wore a touque. The main shopping boulevard is one of the city’s finest wind tunnels. The gusts ricochet off the stone facades of Simpson’s, Hudson’s Bay and other classic Montreal grey-stone edifices (where one watches movies or plays arcade games these days) built on the back of 200 hundred years of the fur trade, plunging a relatively balmy minus five to a bone rattling –28C.
Later the Old Dublin would morph into a sweathouse as once-a-year Irishmen of every hue peeled out of half a dozen layers of wool and synthetics for a day of fully sanctioned drunkenness, bad jokes and endless recitations of Dirty ‘Ol Town.
Mum’s an optimist. I expect she’ll be digging out those woolies at least once more before it’s safe to stick a spike in the winter of 2003-04 and call it ‘done’.
Mum tells me we’ve just celebrated another anniversary of some significance. 36 years ago Feb. 28, Dad arrived in Toronto, a bold first step onto terra incognita for the Dillon clan. Mum, Clare and I followed about three weeks later, before boarding a train for the nine hour ride to Thompson, Manitoba and our first Canadian apartment.
And here I am, huddling behind the closed doors of my Jakarta home wearing a balaclava against the noxious fumes of the dengue foggers who’ve just bombed my backyard. Ten folks in this little kampung alone have come down with it during the current epidemic. Over 340 people have died, mostly here in West Java, and thousands are hospitalized. It’s so bad we treat every little cough and ache as though it were a sign to head for the hospital. Others in the kampung are having the insides of their homes sprayed but I’m not sure the cats will last long gnawing on insecticide-soaked toys. As it is, I’m worried about the fish, though they’ve proven themselves resilient to poison, brackish water and neglect in the past.
Different worlds, eh?
Speaking of which, a day has been chosen for The Grinch to shed this moral coil, emerging after the incantation of sacred words and the blessing of the religious, as a fully formed follower of Mohammed. And, what more appropriate time to do it than on the aforementioned Irish holiday. Two weeks tomorrow, freshly back from a week-long stay in Papua (first day of the national elections will be spent in Wamena!) I’m off to Istiqal Mosque, the largest mosque in Asia, for the day-long conversion process. J’s brother will witness and Juliana will attend as well.
Have to practice getting my mouth around a couple of Arabic formulas, the most important of which is the declaration of faith repeated five times a day in a hundred million mosques worldwide: “There is no God but God and Mohammed was his Prophet.”
Not sure how many uncircumcised-Moslem-Irish-Scot-Canadians there are out there but I vow here and now that if I add another hyphen to my socio-genetic profile, I’ll explore the possibility of federal funding to help me deal with my complicated, conflicted emotions. And then found a support group for others like me.
The whole thing should be quite interesting. I’ve read heaps (so as to avoid being a spectator in my own life) and will try my best not to trouble the revered Imam with too many spurious questions: no point in overturning the mango cart now when I’ve got the rest of a lifetime to poke and probe.
Have to pick Jihan’s brain afterwards over a celebratory St. Paddy’s Day pint o Guinness…
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Is Indonesia Encouraging Genocide in Papua?
The Number One question I’ve been asked since I got back from Papua – with the exception of ‘wadidyagetme?’ – goes something like this.
“Is the Indonesian government trying to wipe out the Papuans?”
It’s an important question, not nearly as ridiculous as it might sound to someone outside the community of Indonesia-watchers. I mean, what government in the modern era would sanction the killing of two million of their own citizens? Or maybe I’m the one being naïve, now.
The background to the question is Indonesia’s four decade-long occupation of Papua (formerly known as Irian Jaya), the western end of the island known as Papua-New Guinea. During that time, an estimated one million land-hungry settlers from across Indonesia have immigrated to Papua, boosting the overall population to roughly three million.
With them have come the loggers and miners and fishermen who are slowly nibbling away at the island’s massive resource base, often times at the expense of indigenous communities.
Seems like everything to do with the place is kinda foggy: too big, too diverse, too far flung (and often primitive) is the population to have a real clear view of what the specific impact of these incursions are. But, one doesn’t need a penis gourd to understand that local folks are about as happy with the arrangement now as you average displaced, quasi-alcoholic Plains Cree might have been 120 years ago with Whitey’s on-going westward expansion.
There’s plenty conclusive evidence of human rights violations on a grant scale in Papua, though I’m loath to use the HR word because it really conceals so much. Police in Jakarta whinge about their human rights being violated because they have to buy paper for their typewriters (with money they’ve extorted from motorists, drug dealers and anyone without the right ID papers).
Lets describe it as it is. The Indonesian army uses the Papuans for target practice. A Swiss friend of mine jailed in Jayapura for visa violations watched Brimob (a poorly trained, poorly equipped “elite” paramilitary police force that operates in Indonesia’s hotspots) goons beat several Papuan university students to death in front of him in the wake of a street clash there a couple of years ago. Sex crimes on a vast scale, extortion, random detention and beatings, extra-judicial killings: the behavior of Indonesia’s security forces has been as brutal as one might expect.
While the Indonesian Armed Forces (TNI) are used to operating with utter impunity even in the post-east Timor era, they’ve had their you-know-what’s caught in a door jam twice in the past three years.
The Nov. 2001 murder of independence leader Theys Eluay by members of Kopassus (several junior Special Forces officers received sentences of under three years for strangling the Don King look-alike in the front seat of his own car, after attending a mess dinner with senior TNI officers) and the ambush/executions of three teachers in Aug 2002 (two of whom were American) by persons unknown (read: security forces) returning from a picnic near the massive Freeport mine, forced the slumbering Yanks to appear to act.
The largest gold mine on the planet, Freeport has been paying millions annually in “protection” monies to the TNI (Indonesian Armed Forces). It’s generally felt the murders were designed to send a message to the mine’s Louisiana owners to keep the cash pipeline open.
The FBI conducted a couple of investigations into the latter incident and the fact the results have yet to been publicly released suggests either they didn’t get the kind of access they were promised, or have very strong suspicions that the army was involved but insufficient evidence to make a formal accusation. Put it another way: if they felt they could exonerate the Indonesians, they would. Partners in terror and all that, harrumph harrumph.
Papua has a wee insurgency of its own but the Free Papua Movement is fractured, poorly armed and largely ineffective, hidden away in the dense bush of the mountainous interior. Unlike the Free Aceh Movement at the other end of the archipelago, there’s no apparent coordination between different rebel units, at least some of which appear to be nothing more than gangs of kidnappers and ransom-takers, no shared vision and little in the way of experienced battlefield leadership.
None of which bothers the powers that be too much because it’s important for the army that can’t shoot straight to get out there and beat the bushes, get some jungle training for their boys so they’ll be sufficiently pumped up to effectively keep a close eye on the generals’ highly profitable illegal logging, mining and fishing operations (see ‘Migrants’, above).
But there’s something quite evil going on in Papua. While there, we heard real horror stories about what’s going on in the backcountry. Of people being buried alive by their family’s because they were believed infected by “evil spirits”, of youngsters withering away and dying despite proper drug treatments, of graveyards where the graves of infants wait half competed for mother and father arrive. There’s something sinister happening there, well away from the eyes of world.
On the streets of the main towns it is easy to see the effects of prolonged exposure to foreign influences: alcoholism, disease, despair. Churches. It’s like being back on the Rez in British Columbia except instead of North American aboriginals killing themselves, you’ve got black-skinned, kinky-haired Melanesians.
Perhaps the most obvious of the great many problems facing indigenous Papuans – and of course the migrant population as well – will be the spread of HIV/AIDS. It’s generally accepted – though who really knows for sure – that the virus arrived with Thai tuna fishing fleets in the deep harbor at Merauke in the early 90s, where it incubated among prostitutes who will cycle through various towns, ports and logging camps over the course of a year or two – thanks again to the TNI. Infection levels in certain parts of Papuan society are comparable to sub-Saharan Africa, and like the bad old days of long-distant truckers running from the jungles of Uganda into brothels of Kampala and onwards, the mode of transmission is almost exclusively by heterosexual sex. Elsewhere in Indonesia IV drug use and dirty needles are the primary routes. Though most figures should be taken with a high amount of skepticism (read: under-reporting is the order if one considered official Indonesian figures) sex workers in Merauke and Sorong report infection levels of 27 and 17 per cent respectively.
No one has the science to support it and the government has no interest in letting foreign researchers in to do the field work (the army chief of staff early this year said foreign and domestic non-governmental organizations were waging a covert war against Indonesia under the orders of undisclosed foreign governments) but all the anecdotal evidence suggests that the virus has made the leap from these fairly small sub-groups into the general population where it will spread like wildfire. The fingers hovering above the panic buttons belong the African mafia, those aidies and journalists now based in Indonesia who cut their teeth on Africa’s AIDS crisis.
While there’s no single ‘template’ to accurately describe “Papuan” sexual practices, it can be said that folks generally start having sex at the early onset of puberty, that they have numerous sexual partners, and that while men and women do bond for life, that does not mean they are sexually exclusive to their mates. Sorta like in Canada. Except that in those areas where this is the tradition, Papuans acknowledge it. While we go to marriage counselors. And use condoms, something they do not.
A lady I know who did the most recent and in-depth study of Papuan sexuality is deeply worried that the virus will tear through communities, rapidly killing a population that already loses many people to the kinds of opportunistic illnesses that ensure HIV sufferers may never actually be diagnosed as such. These diseases include TB, malaria, typhoid, dengue and other lesser tropicals that won’t kill a healthy, well fed adult male, but account for large numbers of untimely Papuan dead. In particular, upper respiratory tract infections that every clinician I met said was the number one killer.
Meanwhile, the government does nothing. Or almost nothing.
Which brings us back to the question of the day. Is Jakarta waging a genocidal campaign against ethnic Papuans?
People whispered this in my ear on many occasions. It is market currency in Wamena and Jayapura and Sorong and elsewhere. Something folks discuss behind closed doors.
Is there a DELIBERATE offensive?
Well, Indonesia has proven itself capable of some quite extraordinary atrocities: witness 800,000 “communists” murdered in a two year period 40 years ago; the invasion of East Timor in 1975 and the subsequent campaign that cost the lives of perhaps one in four of the former colony’s citizens. These are well documented but there have been plenty of other lesser known cleansings over the years.
I’m not sure that there’s some cabal linking Istana Merdeka, the presidential palace, TNI headquarters, and the lofty executive suites of petroleum towers on Jl. Sudirman that’s saying: “Let’s have AIDS thin out the population on the ground there in Papua and then in 15 years we put a loyal migrant population to work logging and mining our last resource base, without having to deal with uppity locals armed with M-16s, those traitorous NGOs and aid groups, or a press with fangs.”
It all seems too diabolical.
But then, if you went to Papua with the idea in your mind that there might in fact be such a conspiracy, and you traveled around a bit and talked to heaps of people in the health care field or social service providers and teachers, or church and mosque leaders, and you picked the brains of those Indonesians who are truly committed to helping the Papuans save themselves. If you did those things and you came in with your eyes looking in a certain direction, I’m pretty sure you’d find all the evidence you need to support the theory, without ever finding the document, the smoking gun.
Of that, I’m absolutely certain.
The Number One question I’ve been asked since I got back from Papua – with the exception of ‘wadidyagetme?’ – goes something like this.
“Is the Indonesian government trying to wipe out the Papuans?”
It’s an important question, not nearly as ridiculous as it might sound to someone outside the community of Indonesia-watchers. I mean, what government in the modern era would sanction the killing of two million of their own citizens? Or maybe I’m the one being naïve, now.
The background to the question is Indonesia’s four decade-long occupation of Papua (formerly known as Irian Jaya), the western end of the island known as Papua-New Guinea. During that time, an estimated one million land-hungry settlers from across Indonesia have immigrated to Papua, boosting the overall population to roughly three million.
With them have come the loggers and miners and fishermen who are slowly nibbling away at the island’s massive resource base, often times at the expense of indigenous communities.
Seems like everything to do with the place is kinda foggy: too big, too diverse, too far flung (and often primitive) is the population to have a real clear view of what the specific impact of these incursions are. But, one doesn’t need a penis gourd to understand that local folks are about as happy with the arrangement now as you average displaced, quasi-alcoholic Plains Cree might have been 120 years ago with Whitey’s on-going westward expansion.
There’s plenty conclusive evidence of human rights violations on a grant scale in Papua, though I’m loath to use the HR word because it really conceals so much. Police in Jakarta whinge about their human rights being violated because they have to buy paper for their typewriters (with money they’ve extorted from motorists, drug dealers and anyone without the right ID papers).
Lets describe it as it is. The Indonesian army uses the Papuans for target practice. A Swiss friend of mine jailed in Jayapura for visa violations watched Brimob (a poorly trained, poorly equipped “elite” paramilitary police force that operates in Indonesia’s hotspots) goons beat several Papuan university students to death in front of him in the wake of a street clash there a couple of years ago. Sex crimes on a vast scale, extortion, random detention and beatings, extra-judicial killings: the behavior of Indonesia’s security forces has been as brutal as one might expect.
While the Indonesian Armed Forces (TNI) are used to operating with utter impunity even in the post-east Timor era, they’ve had their you-know-what’s caught in a door jam twice in the past three years.
The Nov. 2001 murder of independence leader Theys Eluay by members of Kopassus (several junior Special Forces officers received sentences of under three years for strangling the Don King look-alike in the front seat of his own car, after attending a mess dinner with senior TNI officers) and the ambush/executions of three teachers in Aug 2002 (two of whom were American) by persons unknown (read: security forces) returning from a picnic near the massive Freeport mine, forced the slumbering Yanks to appear to act.
The largest gold mine on the planet, Freeport has been paying millions annually in “protection” monies to the TNI (Indonesian Armed Forces). It’s generally felt the murders were designed to send a message to the mine’s Louisiana owners to keep the cash pipeline open.
The FBI conducted a couple of investigations into the latter incident and the fact the results have yet to been publicly released suggests either they didn’t get the kind of access they were promised, or have very strong suspicions that the army was involved but insufficient evidence to make a formal accusation. Put it another way: if they felt they could exonerate the Indonesians, they would. Partners in terror and all that, harrumph harrumph.
Papua has a wee insurgency of its own but the Free Papua Movement is fractured, poorly armed and largely ineffective, hidden away in the dense bush of the mountainous interior. Unlike the Free Aceh Movement at the other end of the archipelago, there’s no apparent coordination between different rebel units, at least some of which appear to be nothing more than gangs of kidnappers and ransom-takers, no shared vision and little in the way of experienced battlefield leadership.
None of which bothers the powers that be too much because it’s important for the army that can’t shoot straight to get out there and beat the bushes, get some jungle training for their boys so they’ll be sufficiently pumped up to effectively keep a close eye on the generals’ highly profitable illegal logging, mining and fishing operations (see ‘Migrants’, above).
But there’s something quite evil going on in Papua. While there, we heard real horror stories about what’s going on in the backcountry. Of people being buried alive by their family’s because they were believed infected by “evil spirits”, of youngsters withering away and dying despite proper drug treatments, of graveyards where the graves of infants wait half competed for mother and father arrive. There’s something sinister happening there, well away from the eyes of world.
On the streets of the main towns it is easy to see the effects of prolonged exposure to foreign influences: alcoholism, disease, despair. Churches. It’s like being back on the Rez in British Columbia except instead of North American aboriginals killing themselves, you’ve got black-skinned, kinky-haired Melanesians.
Perhaps the most obvious of the great many problems facing indigenous Papuans – and of course the migrant population as well – will be the spread of HIV/AIDS. It’s generally accepted – though who really knows for sure – that the virus arrived with Thai tuna fishing fleets in the deep harbor at Merauke in the early 90s, where it incubated among prostitutes who will cycle through various towns, ports and logging camps over the course of a year or two – thanks again to the TNI. Infection levels in certain parts of Papuan society are comparable to sub-Saharan Africa, and like the bad old days of long-distant truckers running from the jungles of Uganda into brothels of Kampala and onwards, the mode of transmission is almost exclusively by heterosexual sex. Elsewhere in Indonesia IV drug use and dirty needles are the primary routes. Though most figures should be taken with a high amount of skepticism (read: under-reporting is the order if one considered official Indonesian figures) sex workers in Merauke and Sorong report infection levels of 27 and 17 per cent respectively.
No one has the science to support it and the government has no interest in letting foreign researchers in to do the field work (the army chief of staff early this year said foreign and domestic non-governmental organizations were waging a covert war against Indonesia under the orders of undisclosed foreign governments) but all the anecdotal evidence suggests that the virus has made the leap from these fairly small sub-groups into the general population where it will spread like wildfire. The fingers hovering above the panic buttons belong the African mafia, those aidies and journalists now based in Indonesia who cut their teeth on Africa’s AIDS crisis.
While there’s no single ‘template’ to accurately describe “Papuan” sexual practices, it can be said that folks generally start having sex at the early onset of puberty, that they have numerous sexual partners, and that while men and women do bond for life, that does not mean they are sexually exclusive to their mates. Sorta like in Canada. Except that in those areas where this is the tradition, Papuans acknowledge it. While we go to marriage counselors. And use condoms, something they do not.
A lady I know who did the most recent and in-depth study of Papuan sexuality is deeply worried that the virus will tear through communities, rapidly killing a population that already loses many people to the kinds of opportunistic illnesses that ensure HIV sufferers may never actually be diagnosed as such. These diseases include TB, malaria, typhoid, dengue and other lesser tropicals that won’t kill a healthy, well fed adult male, but account for large numbers of untimely Papuan dead. In particular, upper respiratory tract infections that every clinician I met said was the number one killer.
Meanwhile, the government does nothing. Or almost nothing.
Which brings us back to the question of the day. Is Jakarta waging a genocidal campaign against ethnic Papuans?
People whispered this in my ear on many occasions. It is market currency in Wamena and Jayapura and Sorong and elsewhere. Something folks discuss behind closed doors.
Is there a DELIBERATE offensive?
Well, Indonesia has proven itself capable of some quite extraordinary atrocities: witness 800,000 “communists” murdered in a two year period 40 years ago; the invasion of East Timor in 1975 and the subsequent campaign that cost the lives of perhaps one in four of the former colony’s citizens. These are well documented but there have been plenty of other lesser known cleansings over the years.
I’m not sure that there’s some cabal linking Istana Merdeka, the presidential palace, TNI headquarters, and the lofty executive suites of petroleum towers on Jl. Sudirman that’s saying: “Let’s have AIDS thin out the population on the ground there in Papua and then in 15 years we put a loyal migrant population to work logging and mining our last resource base, without having to deal with uppity locals armed with M-16s, those traitorous NGOs and aid groups, or a press with fangs.”
It all seems too diabolical.
But then, if you went to Papua with the idea in your mind that there might in fact be such a conspiracy, and you traveled around a bit and talked to heaps of people in the health care field or social service providers and teachers, or church and mosque leaders, and you picked the brains of those Indonesians who are truly committed to helping the Papuans save themselves. If you did those things and you came in with your eyes looking in a certain direction, I’m pretty sure you’d find all the evidence you need to support the theory, without ever finding the document, the smoking gun.
Of that, I’m absolutely certain.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Killing Goats, Super Bowl And The Pursuit Of The Divine
I remember my first Day of Sacrifice.
Ahhh yes, cast the mind back to the spring of 1999: the bellow of the hemorrhaging bulls, the feedback screech of the goat with the severed jugular, the children squealing with delight while the mullah's yodeled from a thousand minarets.
Today is the Id-ul-adha (spellings vary, so get off my ass) so folks have been pouring into the streets to butcher the animals they’ve saved up for these past weeks.
The She-Grinch was outta the house @ 5:45 am with her rug and accessories, heading for a front row spot in the ballroom at the Hotel Indonesia. Later on a goat she owns a quarter share in will be chopped up and handed out to the poor.
It’s all supposed to commemorate, honor, Abraham’s dedication to his faith, his belief in the rationality of the Divine and the faith he displayed when asked to make the ultimate sacrifice to some unrevealed master plan. Imagine the scene, the old guy pinning his eldest son Ishmael (aka Isaac), swaddled in fine white clothing, to the butcher’s slab with one horned, calloused hand while with the other, prepares to plunge some grey and vorpal blade into the youth’s thin chest, bleeding him like the sheep and goats of the herd.
And in the inevitable pause before the crashing of cymbals and drums, a voice thunders from above: “Abe, dude, relax. I was just kidding!”
What kind of a compassionate deity tests a guy like that? And what about Job? And the others. What about the wives and children of the apostles?
“Sorry, Sweetie, I’ve gotta run. This Jesus fellow says I’m to put away my nets and become a fisher-of-men! Cool! Look, I’ll be back sometime I guess. Meanwhile you and the kids… uhhh… yeah well good luck with that, eh? Catch ya later.”
Fortunately no one listens to these sorts of mysterious messages from above ordering folks to kill people for no reason, right?
Well, except for that lady who killed her three kids there in Michigan a couple of years ago. And J.W. Gacy, too: I seem to remember him going on about “voices” at some point during the trial for killing all those men and burying them beneath his Chicago garden. Maybe there were a couple of others…
And there’s always Oral Roberts, the Grahams and the rest of those vile people. Seems God’s forever speaking to them or appearing in trailer-parks 45-feet high to lay down the word: “Go on, I know she’s only 14 but she likes it when you touch her there!” or “Bring me a Shitload of money or I’ll bring you home!” or “Persecute all who are not like you!”
There might be a few others besides. I wonder who James Brown was channeling the other night, when he took a swing at his wife?
Today we’ve got real, live human judges to mete out justice so guys like Abraham, they’d be sickin’ the child protection people on his ass so fast it’d make his head spin. Then some beefy rent-a-cop would probably let slip to the rest of the boys in general population about how old Abe was hurting kids and that would be pretty much all we’d ever hear of the ‘ol goat till either Jesus or the Justice system stepped in to get him out from under the weight pile.
All of which is germane as The Grinch prepares to switch teams. Yes indeed, making the move from one tribe of People of the Book to another, (so it’s more like a trade within the leading division rather than an outright exile to some non-Primetime operation: like moving from the NFL to the Euro League or something equally horrible).
- I’m going to follow this tangent for a moment. Am I the only one who is trying to reconcile the fact that Sunday afternoon stateside a bunch of overpaid apes are going to start one of the most agonizingly boring events in sport with a solemn Super Bowl prayer for help and forgiveness. And that at the end of the game, the inter-league ministry will see a large number of the same gorillas kneeling down, holding hands and praying together at center-field, offering up their respective performances as a gift to the Deity. And that in between these two moments (four hours apart) one of the key manifestations off all that is good and great in the world will be a 12-minute football game between two teams of lingerie-clad supermodels?
The Grinch is no prude but he is truly struggling to understand what forces are at work in a country so obsessed with and ultimately afraid of its own sexuality, that would lead it to create the Lingerie Bowl half-time show? As a friend verily remarked yesterday on hearing the news: “Soon, the American Empire must end.” –
But I digress…
Fact is, to paraphrase Garrett Morris: “Christian-ty has been berry berry goo to me.”
39 x Christmas!
First Communion coins!
Pancakes for supper in March/April!
Fish-sticks for supper March/April!
Learning how to make hooch from my Mohawk brothers at Jesuit school!
“Darling, try to understand, it’s against my religion for me to wear one!”
Despite the long list of positives, by May I’m enlisting with the goat killers. I’m quite looking forward to ignoring my second manifestation of man’s desperate search for order in the universe. Been reading up on Islam, studying the life of the prophet etc etc. So much I didn’t pick up by osmosis during my years in the Durian.
Seems like folks hijacked his vision as well. And I don’t mean the Talibs and the rest of those little modernist fascists. Wayyy back, almost immediately after his death, the squabbling (of the: “The shoe, follow The Shoe!” vs “This is his sacred gourd, it alone is the sacred relic” variety) splintered his followers into many different camps. So all you’re left with now are corrupted versions of his vision.
Sort of like Che. If there is an afterlife, I bet he and Mohammed are playing dominos and having a great chuckle at our expense.
I remember my first Day of Sacrifice.
Ahhh yes, cast the mind back to the spring of 1999: the bellow of the hemorrhaging bulls, the feedback screech of the goat with the severed jugular, the children squealing with delight while the mullah's yodeled from a thousand minarets.
Today is the Id-ul-adha (spellings vary, so get off my ass) so folks have been pouring into the streets to butcher the animals they’ve saved up for these past weeks.
The She-Grinch was outta the house @ 5:45 am with her rug and accessories, heading for a front row spot in the ballroom at the Hotel Indonesia. Later on a goat she owns a quarter share in will be chopped up and handed out to the poor.
It’s all supposed to commemorate, honor, Abraham’s dedication to his faith, his belief in the rationality of the Divine and the faith he displayed when asked to make the ultimate sacrifice to some unrevealed master plan. Imagine the scene, the old guy pinning his eldest son Ishmael (aka Isaac), swaddled in fine white clothing, to the butcher’s slab with one horned, calloused hand while with the other, prepares to plunge some grey and vorpal blade into the youth’s thin chest, bleeding him like the sheep and goats of the herd.
And in the inevitable pause before the crashing of cymbals and drums, a voice thunders from above: “Abe, dude, relax. I was just kidding!”
What kind of a compassionate deity tests a guy like that? And what about Job? And the others. What about the wives and children of the apostles?
“Sorry, Sweetie, I’ve gotta run. This Jesus fellow says I’m to put away my nets and become a fisher-of-men! Cool! Look, I’ll be back sometime I guess. Meanwhile you and the kids… uhhh… yeah well good luck with that, eh? Catch ya later.”
Fortunately no one listens to these sorts of mysterious messages from above ordering folks to kill people for no reason, right?
Well, except for that lady who killed her three kids there in Michigan a couple of years ago. And J.W. Gacy, too: I seem to remember him going on about “voices” at some point during the trial for killing all those men and burying them beneath his Chicago garden. Maybe there were a couple of others…
And there’s always Oral Roberts, the Grahams and the rest of those vile people. Seems God’s forever speaking to them or appearing in trailer-parks 45-feet high to lay down the word: “Go on, I know she’s only 14 but she likes it when you touch her there!” or “Bring me a Shitload of money or I’ll bring you home!” or “Persecute all who are not like you!”
There might be a few others besides. I wonder who James Brown was channeling the other night, when he took a swing at his wife?
Today we’ve got real, live human judges to mete out justice so guys like Abraham, they’d be sickin’ the child protection people on his ass so fast it’d make his head spin. Then some beefy rent-a-cop would probably let slip to the rest of the boys in general population about how old Abe was hurting kids and that would be pretty much all we’d ever hear of the ‘ol goat till either Jesus or the Justice system stepped in to get him out from under the weight pile.
All of which is germane as The Grinch prepares to switch teams. Yes indeed, making the move from one tribe of People of the Book to another, (so it’s more like a trade within the leading division rather than an outright exile to some non-Primetime operation: like moving from the NFL to the Euro League or something equally horrible).
- I’m going to follow this tangent for a moment. Am I the only one who is trying to reconcile the fact that Sunday afternoon stateside a bunch of overpaid apes are going to start one of the most agonizingly boring events in sport with a solemn Super Bowl prayer for help and forgiveness. And that at the end of the game, the inter-league ministry will see a large number of the same gorillas kneeling down, holding hands and praying together at center-field, offering up their respective performances as a gift to the Deity. And that in between these two moments (four hours apart) one of the key manifestations off all that is good and great in the world will be a 12-minute football game between two teams of lingerie-clad supermodels?
The Grinch is no prude but he is truly struggling to understand what forces are at work in a country so obsessed with and ultimately afraid of its own sexuality, that would lead it to create the Lingerie Bowl half-time show? As a friend verily remarked yesterday on hearing the news: “Soon, the American Empire must end.” –
But I digress…
Fact is, to paraphrase Garrett Morris: “Christian-ty has been berry berry goo to me.”
39 x Christmas!
First Communion coins!
Pancakes for supper in March/April!
Fish-sticks for supper March/April!
Learning how to make hooch from my Mohawk brothers at Jesuit school!
“Darling, try to understand, it’s against my religion for me to wear one!”
Despite the long list of positives, by May I’m enlisting with the goat killers. I’m quite looking forward to ignoring my second manifestation of man’s desperate search for order in the universe. Been reading up on Islam, studying the life of the prophet etc etc. So much I didn’t pick up by osmosis during my years in the Durian.
Seems like folks hijacked his vision as well. And I don’t mean the Talibs and the rest of those little modernist fascists. Wayyy back, almost immediately after his death, the squabbling (of the: “The shoe, follow The Shoe!” vs “This is his sacred gourd, it alone is the sacred relic” variety) splintered his followers into many different camps. So all you’re left with now are corrupted versions of his vision.
Sort of like Che. If there is an afterlife, I bet he and Mohammed are playing dominos and having a great chuckle at our expense.
Killing Goats, Super Bowl And The Pursuit Of The Divine
I remember my first Day of Sacrifice.
Ahhh yes, cast the mind back to the spring of 1999: the bellow of the hemorrhaging bulls, the feedback screech of the goat with the severed jugular, the children squealing with delight while the mullah's yodeled from a thousand minarets.
Today is the Id-ul-adha (spellings vary, so get off my ass) so folks have been pouring into the streets to butcher the animals they?ve saved up for these past weeks.
The She-Grinch was outta the house @ 5:45 am with her rug and accessories, heading for a front row spot in the ballroom at the Hotel Indonesia. Later on a goat she owns a quarter share in will be chopped up and handed out to the poor.
It?s all supposed to commemorate, honor, Abraham?s dedication to his faith, his belief in the rationality of the Divine and the faith he displayed when asked to make the ultimate sacrifice to some unrevealed master plan. Imagine the scene, the old guy pinning his eldest son Ishmael (aka Isaac), swaddled in fine white clothing, to the butcher?s slab with one horned, calloused hand while with the other, prepares to plunge some grey and vorpal blade into the youth?s thin chest, bleeding him like the sheep and goats of the herd.
And in the inevitable pause before the crashing of cymbals and drums, a voice thunders from above: ?Abe, dude, relax. I was just kidding!?
What kind of a compassionate deity tests a guy like that? And what about Job? And the others. What about the wives and children of the apostles?
?Sorry, Sweetie, I?ve gotta run. This Jesus fellow says I?m to put away my nets and become a fisher-of-men! Cool! Look, I?ll be back sometime I guess. Meanwhile you and the kids? uhhh? yeah well good luck with that, eh? Catch ya later.?
Fortunately no one listens to these sorts of mysterious messages from above ordering folks to kill people for no reason, right?
Well, except for that lady who killed her three kids there in Michigan a couple of years ago. And J.W. Gacy, too: I seem to remember him going on about ?voices? at some point during the trial for killing all those men and burying them beneath his Chicago garden. Maybe there were a couple of others?
And there?s always Oral Roberts, the Grahams and the rest of those vile people. Seems God?s forever speaking to them or appearing in trailer-parks 45-feet high to lay down the word: ?Go on, I know she?s only 14 but she likes it when you touch her there!? or ?Bring me a Shitload of money or I?ll bring you home!? or ?Persecute all who are not like you!?
There might be a few others besides. I wonder who James Brown was channeling the other night, when he took a swing at his wife?
Today we?ve got real, live human judges to mete out justice so guys like Abraham, they?d be sickin? the child protection people on his ass so fast it?d make his head spin. Then some beefy rent-a-cop would probably let slip to the rest of the boys in general population about how old Abe was hurting kids and that would be pretty much all we?d ever hear of the ?ol goat till either Jesus or the Justice system stepped in to get him out from under the weight pile.
All of which is germane as The Grinch prepares to switch teams. Yes indeed, making the move from one tribe of People of the Book to another, (so it?s more like a trade within the leading division rather than an outright exile to some non-Primetime operation: like moving from the NFL to the Euro League or something equally horrible).
- I?m going to follow this tangent for a moment. Am I the only one who is trying to reconcile the fact that Sunday afternoon stateside a bunch of overpaid apes are going to start one of the most agonizingly boring events in sport with a solemn Super Bowl prayer for help and forgiveness. And that at the end of the game, the inter-league ministry will see a large number of the same gorillas kneeling down, holding hands and praying together at center-field, offering up their respective performances as a gift to the Deity. And that in between these two moments (four hours apart) one of the key manifestations off all that is good and great in the world will be a 12-minute football game between two teams of lingerie-clad supermodels?
The Grinch is no prude but he is truly struggling to understand what forces are at work in a country so obsessed with and ultimately afraid of its own sexuality, that would lead it to create the Lingerie Bowl half-time show? As a friend verily remarked yesterday on hearing the news: ?Soon, the American Empire must end.? ?
But I digress?
Fact is, to paraphrase Garrett Morris: ?Christian-ty has been berry berry goo to me.?
39 x Christmas!
First Communion coins!
Pancakes for supper in March/April!
Fish-sticks for supper March/April!
Learning how to make hooch from my Mohawk brothers at Jesuit school!
?Darling, try to understand, it?s against my religion for me to wear one!?
Despite the long list of positives, by May I?m enlisting with the goat killers. I?m quite looking forward to ignoring my second manifestation of man?s desperate search for order in the universe. Been reading up on Islam, studying the life of the prophet etc etc. So much I didn?t pick up by osmosis during my years in the Durian.
Seems like folks hijacked his vision as well. And I don?t mean the Talibs and the rest of those little modernist fascists. Wayyy back, almost immediately after his death, the squabbling (of the: ?The shoe, follow The Shoe!? vs ?This is his sacred gourd, it alone is the sacred relic? variety) splintered his followers into many different camps. So all you?re left with now are corrupted versions of his vision.
Sort of like Che. If there is an afterlife, I bet he and Mohammed are playing dominos and having a great chuckle at our expense.
I remember my first Day of Sacrifice.
Ahhh yes, cast the mind back to the spring of 1999: the bellow of the hemorrhaging bulls, the feedback screech of the goat with the severed jugular, the children squealing with delight while the mullah's yodeled from a thousand minarets.
Today is the Id-ul-adha (spellings vary, so get off my ass) so folks have been pouring into the streets to butcher the animals they?ve saved up for these past weeks.
The She-Grinch was outta the house @ 5:45 am with her rug and accessories, heading for a front row spot in the ballroom at the Hotel Indonesia. Later on a goat she owns a quarter share in will be chopped up and handed out to the poor.
It?s all supposed to commemorate, honor, Abraham?s dedication to his faith, his belief in the rationality of the Divine and the faith he displayed when asked to make the ultimate sacrifice to some unrevealed master plan. Imagine the scene, the old guy pinning his eldest son Ishmael (aka Isaac), swaddled in fine white clothing, to the butcher?s slab with one horned, calloused hand while with the other, prepares to plunge some grey and vorpal blade into the youth?s thin chest, bleeding him like the sheep and goats of the herd.
And in the inevitable pause before the crashing of cymbals and drums, a voice thunders from above: ?Abe, dude, relax. I was just kidding!?
What kind of a compassionate deity tests a guy like that? And what about Job? And the others. What about the wives and children of the apostles?
?Sorry, Sweetie, I?ve gotta run. This Jesus fellow says I?m to put away my nets and become a fisher-of-men! Cool! Look, I?ll be back sometime I guess. Meanwhile you and the kids? uhhh? yeah well good luck with that, eh? Catch ya later.?
Fortunately no one listens to these sorts of mysterious messages from above ordering folks to kill people for no reason, right?
Well, except for that lady who killed her three kids there in Michigan a couple of years ago. And J.W. Gacy, too: I seem to remember him going on about ?voices? at some point during the trial for killing all those men and burying them beneath his Chicago garden. Maybe there were a couple of others?
And there?s always Oral Roberts, the Grahams and the rest of those vile people. Seems God?s forever speaking to them or appearing in trailer-parks 45-feet high to lay down the word: ?Go on, I know she?s only 14 but she likes it when you touch her there!? or ?Bring me a Shitload of money or I?ll bring you home!? or ?Persecute all who are not like you!?
There might be a few others besides. I wonder who James Brown was channeling the other night, when he took a swing at his wife?
Today we?ve got real, live human judges to mete out justice so guys like Abraham, they?d be sickin? the child protection people on his ass so fast it?d make his head spin. Then some beefy rent-a-cop would probably let slip to the rest of the boys in general population about how old Abe was hurting kids and that would be pretty much all we?d ever hear of the ?ol goat till either Jesus or the Justice system stepped in to get him out from under the weight pile.
All of which is germane as The Grinch prepares to switch teams. Yes indeed, making the move from one tribe of People of the Book to another, (so it?s more like a trade within the leading division rather than an outright exile to some non-Primetime operation: like moving from the NFL to the Euro League or something equally horrible).
- I?m going to follow this tangent for a moment. Am I the only one who is trying to reconcile the fact that Sunday afternoon stateside a bunch of overpaid apes are going to start one of the most agonizingly boring events in sport with a solemn Super Bowl prayer for help and forgiveness. And that at the end of the game, the inter-league ministry will see a large number of the same gorillas kneeling down, holding hands and praying together at center-field, offering up their respective performances as a gift to the Deity. And that in between these two moments (four hours apart) one of the key manifestations off all that is good and great in the world will be a 12-minute football game between two teams of lingerie-clad supermodels?
The Grinch is no prude but he is truly struggling to understand what forces are at work in a country so obsessed with and ultimately afraid of its own sexuality, that would lead it to create the Lingerie Bowl half-time show? As a friend verily remarked yesterday on hearing the news: ?Soon, the American Empire must end.? ?
But I digress?
Fact is, to paraphrase Garrett Morris: ?Christian-ty has been berry berry goo to me.?
39 x Christmas!
First Communion coins!
Pancakes for supper in March/April!
Fish-sticks for supper March/April!
Learning how to make hooch from my Mohawk brothers at Jesuit school!
?Darling, try to understand, it?s against my religion for me to wear one!?
Despite the long list of positives, by May I?m enlisting with the goat killers. I?m quite looking forward to ignoring my second manifestation of man?s desperate search for order in the universe. Been reading up on Islam, studying the life of the prophet etc etc. So much I didn?t pick up by osmosis during my years in the Durian.
Seems like folks hijacked his vision as well. And I don?t mean the Talibs and the rest of those little modernist fascists. Wayyy back, almost immediately after his death, the squabbling (of the: ?The shoe, follow The Shoe!? vs ?This is his sacred gourd, it alone is the sacred relic? variety) splintered his followers into many different camps. So all you?re left with now are corrupted versions of his vision.
Sort of like Che. If there is an afterlife, I bet he and Mohammed are playing dominos and having a great chuckle at our expense.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
But I'm Not A BAAAD Person...
The bike is sick and my antique door has mushrooms: I’ll be such a lousy father.
Okay, scratch the latter. Failure to register & plate, oil and maintain the Harley, and allowing that fine piece of teak to rot don’t necessarily mean I’ll forget my (future) kids at the carnival ground/bowling alley/A&W/mall.
But I ask you, what kind of motorcycle lover (guilty) who would allow his vintage ’47 HD to sit un-taken-care-of for over 2 years? The dirt has turned sticky, there’s tiny rust kisses (rust in the tropics? Who’d a thunk?) and even though I clamped the gas line I might as well throw the carbs away. The brakes need work – the rear drum is okay but the loathsome modern front disc has gotta go. And on and on.
And yet, there it sits in the garden, still wearing its original expired Bali plates. Nominally cleaner now as I was finally shamed into spending an hour with rags, soap and shammy. The sudden burst of energy can be ascribed to the imminent arrival of Bapak Yoyo, maestro of motorcycles, fixer of legal papers and source of both Indo Harley lore and experienced mechanics who’ll come off the clock to do custom jobs like my own affordably.
(two hours later…) and Yoyo has left for the four hour trip back to Bandung with the bikes rego papers in his pocket and a promise to be back on Tuesday next week with original front and pillion seats, an original drum brake for the front, various other stock doodads and a grease monkey with all the necessary tools. Perhaps two weeks till I’m street legal and we’re off to the races. Mind, going to have to re-learn the suicide shift but that’ll be a pleasure.
I'm also Rp. 800,000 lighter, having bought a couple of tix for HOGFEST 2004, Feb. 7. Hours of cold beer, roast pig, potato salad, live Country & Western music (once a year) and loads of shiny Hogs. Calls to friends thus far have been met with "Yeah, umm, that sounds great. Lemme just check with my wife if I'm available..." Three times today I heard the same thing. Maybe its my delivery?
… A further couple of hours later….
The door is tomorrow’s project. Regular readers will already know the Tale Of The Door. For the rest of you, the stripped down version is that I managed to haggle down a Madurese trader a couple of years back. Picked up what I think is a beautiful teak door and frame of either Balinese of E Javanese pedigree, lushly carved with a combination human, plant and animal imagery. Unlike others that I’ve seen it’s not gaudy and the flaking paint and muted colors give it a very sedate air.
So sedate in fact that some variety of mushrooms have taken up residence along the bottom, encouraged no doubt by daily watering of plants and washing of the flagstones which would cause the water to pool beneath the door – which is actually leaning up against a wall at the moment. I’ve not looked closely at it as today was taken up searching for a spot to get married, a trip to a “Western” grocery store and the arrival of J’s (too) massive bookcase (all of which warrant some explanation at a later date).
Tomorrow however, I’ll tip that puppy back and whittle back the rotten bits, and fry up those pale wee ‘shrooms alongside some juevos rancheros. Yummm.
The bike is sick and my antique door has mushrooms: I’ll be such a lousy father.
Okay, scratch the latter. Failure to register & plate, oil and maintain the Harley, and allowing that fine piece of teak to rot don’t necessarily mean I’ll forget my (future) kids at the carnival ground/bowling alley/A&W/mall.
But I ask you, what kind of motorcycle lover (guilty) who would allow his vintage ’47 HD to sit un-taken-care-of for over 2 years? The dirt has turned sticky, there’s tiny rust kisses (rust in the tropics? Who’d a thunk?) and even though I clamped the gas line I might as well throw the carbs away. The brakes need work – the rear drum is okay but the loathsome modern front disc has gotta go. And on and on.
And yet, there it sits in the garden, still wearing its original expired Bali plates. Nominally cleaner now as I was finally shamed into spending an hour with rags, soap and shammy. The sudden burst of energy can be ascribed to the imminent arrival of Bapak Yoyo, maestro of motorcycles, fixer of legal papers and source of both Indo Harley lore and experienced mechanics who’ll come off the clock to do custom jobs like my own affordably.
(two hours later…) and Yoyo has left for the four hour trip back to Bandung with the bikes rego papers in his pocket and a promise to be back on Tuesday next week with original front and pillion seats, an original drum brake for the front, various other stock doodads and a grease monkey with all the necessary tools. Perhaps two weeks till I’m street legal and we’re off to the races. Mind, going to have to re-learn the suicide shift but that’ll be a pleasure.
I'm also Rp. 800,000 lighter, having bought a couple of tix for HOGFEST 2004, Feb. 7. Hours of cold beer, roast pig, potato salad, live Country & Western music (once a year) and loads of shiny Hogs. Calls to friends thus far have been met with "Yeah, umm, that sounds great. Lemme just check with my wife if I'm available..." Three times today I heard the same thing. Maybe its my delivery?
… A further couple of hours later….
The door is tomorrow’s project. Regular readers will already know the Tale Of The Door. For the rest of you, the stripped down version is that I managed to haggle down a Madurese trader a couple of years back. Picked up what I think is a beautiful teak door and frame of either Balinese of E Javanese pedigree, lushly carved with a combination human, plant and animal imagery. Unlike others that I’ve seen it’s not gaudy and the flaking paint and muted colors give it a very sedate air.
So sedate in fact that some variety of mushrooms have taken up residence along the bottom, encouraged no doubt by daily watering of plants and washing of the flagstones which would cause the water to pool beneath the door – which is actually leaning up against a wall at the moment. I’ve not looked closely at it as today was taken up searching for a spot to get married, a trip to a “Western” grocery store and the arrival of J’s (too) massive bookcase (all of which warrant some explanation at a later date).
Tomorrow however, I’ll tip that puppy back and whittle back the rotten bits, and fry up those pale wee ‘shrooms alongside some juevos rancheros. Yummm.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
The Garbage Man of Wamena
pjdillon@attglobal.net
Sitting on the top floor balcony of the Manokwari Wind music bar and restaurant, drinking in the sweeping views of the Jayapura harbor-front on Saturday, it was easy to forget the ugly realities of the previous few days.
We’re only a 45 minute flight – and a airport commute of similar length – removed from Wamena, the only substantial settlement in the Baliem Valley highlands, but it might as well be a different century, a different planet.
Last Friday night was spent listening to the harrowing tales of street kids living rough in that district capitol, a place where all the ugliest aspects of “modernity” collide with the millennia-old pastoral existence of the tiny farming communities that dot the landscape.
Here the shiny Land Cruisers of the elite, top civil servants, timber barons, the trades who get fat off the inflated prices of all commodities here, thunder past craggy-faced men in feathered crowns and swallow-boned old women bent double beneath loads of yams and firewood. A group of young toughs in Philadelphia 76ers caps and surfing shorts loiter on a darkened street-corner seemingly oblivious to the man passing by, naked except for a penis sheath and face-paint, a black umbrella tucked beneath his arm.
This is the end of the world but the girls fear nothing but the Garbage Man.
The Garbage Man cruises Jl. Irian, a 250 meter-long strip of tiny grocery stores, pirated DVD shops and rooming houses that passes for ‘downtown’ here, as part of his regular route. Here the girls alternately loiter in the shadows or ply the trade, selling themselves off for the equivalent of six US dollars to the men who hide behind the mirrored windows of their automobiles and the official red licence plates that mark them for senior officials of a notoriously corrupt district government.
Yosephina, Afrida and their friends mark with their eyes the dilapidated, long-body pick-up stacked high with rotting food, cloth, and plastic bags. On the nights the Garbage Man is not alone, the girls sink further into the dark pockets between buildings, or saunter into the midst of idling boys. With the help of two or three friends armed with machetes, the Garbage Man stalks them through the streets and alleys.
Cornered, subdued, they’re loaded in with the rubbish and trucked out of town. Along the pot-holed airport road. Away from the hangers of the Missionary Air Service, away from the lights of Jl Irian, to the old graveyard where Christian city dwellers were once buried beneath small roofs of corrugated tin. Here the police officers are waiting, smoking.
Over the next several hours the youngsters, 14-, 15-, 16 years of age, are raped in turn by the Garbage Man, his friends and the laughing men in uniform. As dawn begins to lighten the mountains behind their backs, the girls make their way back to town on foot. Shivering in the crisp mountain air.
Of course my new friends aren’t offering up ‘eyewitness’ accounts of the Garbage Man. No, these are the tales told by their friends on the strip. Teenagers less lucky than they, kids who’d not been able to leap off the pick-up before it reached the graveyard… No, these are the stories of other girls. And yet, no one will look me in the face and somewhere behind my left shoulder, there’s the gargle of a choked-back tear.
And it’s interesting how they describe the sores on a friend’s face. A 17-year-old from a village ‘behind the mountains’ who is wasting away to some disease they cannot identify. They say the sores look like someone extinguished their cigarette on her face. And chest. And back.
Who thinks in those terms? Someone who has seen cigarettes butted out on human flesh? Someone who has had it done to them?
pjdillon@attglobal.net
Sitting on the top floor balcony of the Manokwari Wind music bar and restaurant, drinking in the sweeping views of the Jayapura harbor-front on Saturday, it was easy to forget the ugly realities of the previous few days.
We’re only a 45 minute flight – and a airport commute of similar length – removed from Wamena, the only substantial settlement in the Baliem Valley highlands, but it might as well be a different century, a different planet.
Last Friday night was spent listening to the harrowing tales of street kids living rough in that district capitol, a place where all the ugliest aspects of “modernity” collide with the millennia-old pastoral existence of the tiny farming communities that dot the landscape.
Here the shiny Land Cruisers of the elite, top civil servants, timber barons, the trades who get fat off the inflated prices of all commodities here, thunder past craggy-faced men in feathered crowns and swallow-boned old women bent double beneath loads of yams and firewood. A group of young toughs in Philadelphia 76ers caps and surfing shorts loiter on a darkened street-corner seemingly oblivious to the man passing by, naked except for a penis sheath and face-paint, a black umbrella tucked beneath his arm.
This is the end of the world but the girls fear nothing but the Garbage Man.
The Garbage Man cruises Jl. Irian, a 250 meter-long strip of tiny grocery stores, pirated DVD shops and rooming houses that passes for ‘downtown’ here, as part of his regular route. Here the girls alternately loiter in the shadows or ply the trade, selling themselves off for the equivalent of six US dollars to the men who hide behind the mirrored windows of their automobiles and the official red licence plates that mark them for senior officials of a notoriously corrupt district government.
Yosephina, Afrida and their friends mark with their eyes the dilapidated, long-body pick-up stacked high with rotting food, cloth, and plastic bags. On the nights the Garbage Man is not alone, the girls sink further into the dark pockets between buildings, or saunter into the midst of idling boys. With the help of two or three friends armed with machetes, the Garbage Man stalks them through the streets and alleys.
Cornered, subdued, they’re loaded in with the rubbish and trucked out of town. Along the pot-holed airport road. Away from the hangers of the Missionary Air Service, away from the lights of Jl Irian, to the old graveyard where Christian city dwellers were once buried beneath small roofs of corrugated tin. Here the police officers are waiting, smoking.
Over the next several hours the youngsters, 14-, 15-, 16 years of age, are raped in turn by the Garbage Man, his friends and the laughing men in uniform. As dawn begins to lighten the mountains behind their backs, the girls make their way back to town on foot. Shivering in the crisp mountain air.
Of course my new friends aren’t offering up ‘eyewitness’ accounts of the Garbage Man. No, these are the tales told by their friends on the strip. Teenagers less lucky than they, kids who’d not been able to leap off the pick-up before it reached the graveyard… No, these are the stories of other girls. And yet, no one will look me in the face and somewhere behind my left shoulder, there’s the gargle of a choked-back tear.
And it’s interesting how they describe the sores on a friend’s face. A 17-year-old from a village ‘behind the mountains’ who is wasting away to some disease they cannot identify. They say the sores look like someone extinguished their cigarette on her face. And chest. And back.
Who thinks in those terms? Someone who has seen cigarettes butted out on human flesh? Someone who has had it done to them?
Sunday, December 28, 2003
The New Me!
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The process of re-invention continues to gather momentum.
Not entirely satisfied with the way things have unfolded this past year – but with the whole brain malaria thing being somewhat of a mitigating factor – I’ve again put pen to paper, or rather index fingers to keyboard, long enough to retool my CV. It’s something I do every few months as a matter of course, or more frequently should the need arise, accenting certain characteristics while downplaying others in order to seduce employers. In other words, padding a bra for the boob-obsessed, or donning a sailor-suit for the nautically inclined: just show me the money.
It’s always a bit of an adventure, an opportunity to take stock, to review the personal ledger, to really center oneself in the cosmos by
looking squarely into the mirror and asking the age-old question: Just how much bullshit can I get away with?
In order to throw his hat into the ring for those fat ngo-esque contracts that are always floating about in the ether, in this latest incarnation the Grinch is reformatting himself as a “Contract Communications Consultant”.
Rolls off the tongue, no? I’m wondering how it would look should I decide to have cards made. And should I have the printing of my name raised and embossed or merely the new Triple C ?
It was one of the few memorable scenes in a dreary movie and forgettable book, American Psycho: the whole pathology of business cards and the game of one-upmanship the anal retentive billionaires play amongst themselves.
“It is very cool, Bateman,” Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing…” He pulls out this wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”
We all lean over to inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, “That’s really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me and I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romanian type…” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage a nod, as the busboy brings us four fresh Bellinis.
“Jesus,” says Price, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is super, how’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe Price actually likes Van Patten’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink and then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” says Price. “You ain’t seen nothing yet…” He pulls his out of an inside pocket and slowly, dramatically, turns it over for our inspection and says, “Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly, the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum compared to this card, and we all head Price’s words: “Raised lettering, pale, nimbus while…”
“Holy shit,” Van Patten exclaims. “I’ve never seen…”
“Nice, very nice, “ have to admit. “But wait, let’s see Montgomery’s”
Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t’ see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I’m unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
Yes, I too was unexpectedly depressed too, by the fact that I continued to read this awful crap till the end.
Anyway, just for the helluvvit, here’s a non-formatted copy of today’s new CV, fresh from the oven and soon to be posted on the databases of various head-hunter-type on-line organizations like Canadem, Ceci.ca and others.
See if YOU can spot the three blatant lies, six exaggerations and two misrepresentations! It’s fun for the whole family!
Da Grinch
Address: Somewhere in Jakarta
SKILLS Able to absorb, evaluate and condense large amounts of information into cogent, well-written and timely briefs.
Ability to work independently and effectively in both conflict and post-conflict environments.
Extensive frontline work experience in Central and Southeast Asia.
Advanced interviewing and editing skills honed over 15 years working as a journalist and editor.
Several years experience in managerial news positions in magazines and newspapers both in Indonesia and abroad.
Equipped and proficient with a broadcast-quality digital video camera (Sony PD-150), mics and peripherals, and a digital stills camera.
Comfortable working off both PC and Mac platforms.
WORK EXPERIENCE January 2003 – Present
Contract Communications Consultant
UNICEF, GTZ (German Technical Cooperation)
Duties: Development project monitoring and assessment, production of communications materials for both internal and external use, creation of a domestic mission statement, employee handbook, contracts etc.
April 1999 – Present
Jakarta-based freelance correspondent
Globe & Mail (Canada), USA Today, US News & World Report, The Scotsman, MSNBC, BSkyB (UK, Aus.), Cape Radio (S Africa) etc
Duties: Filing regular news and feature stories and analysis pieces for a wide range of daily newspapers and magazines, and voice files for radio.
February 2002 – August 2002
Bureau Chief
Deutsche Presse Agentur (dpa)
Kabul, Afghanistan
Duties: Re-established dpa’s Kabul bureau, providing news coverage of Afghanistan. Trained local stringers and administration staff. Negotiated a cooperative news venture with the Afghan national media service.
October 2001 – February 2002
Managing Editor
Djakarta! City Life Magazine
Jakarta, Indonesia
Duties: Day-to-day management of the editorial and production staff of a dynamic, bilingual city life magazine. Developing a reporting structure within the office, an appreciation for deadlines and the desire to excel among local staff.
November 1988 – April 1999
Journalist/News Editor
Canada
Duties: General assignment reporter and, later, section editor. As news editor of a Vancouver-area newspaper for two years (1997-98), I was responsible for the daily operations of the newsroom, coordinating the summer internship program, and organizing seminars for news staff.
EDUCATION Bachelor of Arts – BA (Journalism)
Bachelor of Arts – BA (History)
Concordia University – Montreal, Canada, 1990
RELATED INFO I am fluently bilingual (English/French) and have an excellent working knowledge of Indonesian.
In addition to my regular commitments I am in the process of shooting a video documentary about funeral rituals in eastern Indonesia.
In October I completed my second book editing contract, an Equinox Publishing (Jakarta) 250-page, coffee table book entitled Celebrating Indonesia: Fifty Years Of the Ford Foundation In Indonesia. I also copy edited the best-selling book Jakarta Inside-Out (2002).
INTERESTS Reading, travel, motorcycles, Indonesian batik and ikat, Blogging
REFERENCES References can be provided upon request
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The process of re-invention continues to gather momentum.
Not entirely satisfied with the way things have unfolded this past year – but with the whole brain malaria thing being somewhat of a mitigating factor – I’ve again put pen to paper, or rather index fingers to keyboard, long enough to retool my CV. It’s something I do every few months as a matter of course, or more frequently should the need arise, accenting certain characteristics while downplaying others in order to seduce employers. In other words, padding a bra for the boob-obsessed, or donning a sailor-suit for the nautically inclined: just show me the money.
It’s always a bit of an adventure, an opportunity to take stock, to review the personal ledger, to really center oneself in the cosmos by
looking squarely into the mirror and asking the age-old question: Just how much bullshit can I get away with?
In order to throw his hat into the ring for those fat ngo-esque contracts that are always floating about in the ether, in this latest incarnation the Grinch is reformatting himself as a “Contract Communications Consultant”.
Rolls off the tongue, no? I’m wondering how it would look should I decide to have cards made. And should I have the printing of my name raised and embossed or merely the new Triple C ?
It was one of the few memorable scenes in a dreary movie and forgettable book, American Psycho: the whole pathology of business cards and the game of one-upmanship the anal retentive billionaires play amongst themselves.
“It is very cool, Bateman,” Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing…” He pulls out this wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”
We all lean over to inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, “That’s really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me and I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romanian type…” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage a nod, as the busboy brings us four fresh Bellinis.
“Jesus,” says Price, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is super, how’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe Price actually likes Van Patten’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink and then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” says Price. “You ain’t seen nothing yet…” He pulls his out of an inside pocket and slowly, dramatically, turns it over for our inspection and says, “Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly, the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum compared to this card, and we all head Price’s words: “Raised lettering, pale, nimbus while…”
“Holy shit,” Van Patten exclaims. “I’ve never seen…”
“Nice, very nice, “ have to admit. “But wait, let’s see Montgomery’s”
Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t’ see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I’m unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
Yes, I too was unexpectedly depressed too, by the fact that I continued to read this awful crap till the end.
Anyway, just for the helluvvit, here’s a non-formatted copy of today’s new CV, fresh from the oven and soon to be posted on the databases of various head-hunter-type on-line organizations like Canadem, Ceci.ca and others.
See if YOU can spot the three blatant lies, six exaggerations and two misrepresentations! It’s fun for the whole family!
Da Grinch
Address: Somewhere in Jakarta
SKILLS Able to absorb, evaluate and condense large amounts of information into cogent, well-written and timely briefs.
Ability to work independently and effectively in both conflict and post-conflict environments.
Extensive frontline work experience in Central and Southeast Asia.
Advanced interviewing and editing skills honed over 15 years working as a journalist and editor.
Several years experience in managerial news positions in magazines and newspapers both in Indonesia and abroad.
Equipped and proficient with a broadcast-quality digital video camera (Sony PD-150), mics and peripherals, and a digital stills camera.
Comfortable working off both PC and Mac platforms.
WORK EXPERIENCE January 2003 – Present
Contract Communications Consultant
UNICEF, GTZ (German Technical Cooperation)
Duties: Development project monitoring and assessment, production of communications materials for both internal and external use, creation of a domestic mission statement, employee handbook, contracts etc.
April 1999 – Present
Jakarta-based freelance correspondent
Globe & Mail (Canada), USA Today, US News & World Report, The Scotsman, MSNBC, BSkyB (UK, Aus.), Cape Radio (S Africa) etc
Duties: Filing regular news and feature stories and analysis pieces for a wide range of daily newspapers and magazines, and voice files for radio.
February 2002 – August 2002
Bureau Chief
Deutsche Presse Agentur (dpa)
Kabul, Afghanistan
Duties: Re-established dpa’s Kabul bureau, providing news coverage of Afghanistan. Trained local stringers and administration staff. Negotiated a cooperative news venture with the Afghan national media service.
October 2001 – February 2002
Managing Editor
Djakarta! City Life Magazine
Jakarta, Indonesia
Duties: Day-to-day management of the editorial and production staff of a dynamic, bilingual city life magazine. Developing a reporting structure within the office, an appreciation for deadlines and the desire to excel among local staff.
November 1988 – April 1999
Journalist/News Editor
Canada
Duties: General assignment reporter and, later, section editor. As news editor of a Vancouver-area newspaper for two years (1997-98), I was responsible for the daily operations of the newsroom, coordinating the summer internship program, and organizing seminars for news staff.
EDUCATION Bachelor of Arts – BA (Journalism)
Bachelor of Arts – BA (History)
Concordia University – Montreal, Canada, 1990
RELATED INFO I am fluently bilingual (English/French) and have an excellent working knowledge of Indonesian.
In addition to my regular commitments I am in the process of shooting a video documentary about funeral rituals in eastern Indonesia.
In October I completed my second book editing contract, an Equinox Publishing (Jakarta) 250-page, coffee table book entitled Celebrating Indonesia: Fifty Years Of the Ford Foundation In Indonesia. I also copy edited the best-selling book Jakarta Inside-Out (2002).
INTERESTS Reading, travel, motorcycles, Indonesian batik and ikat, Blogging
REFERENCES References can be provided upon request
Friday, December 26, 2003
The Whole Story
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The clock is ticking down to midnight again.
We’re running 45 minutes or so to Christmas here in Indonesia and though he should be hunkered down in his best “zuker-rasserfrazz”-ing grinchy best, bolting oiled runners on his mental toboggan and looking for new and exciting ways to mis-represent himself, holiday 2003 finds him lethargic and squishy… against the odds the cantankerous green fellah has found love – in and of itself not a remarkable thing – and done something about it (other than legally actionable offences… no truth to those rumors, by the way) and PROPOSED to she-who-would-become-Grinchette. More remarkable yet, SHE SAID YES!
I’ve promised The Rabble all the gory details of the engagement, and given that my lean, green Queen is reclining now ahead of morning rituals of wrapping paper and sticky tape, there’s no time like the present.
I guess I’d known for a while that J is about as good at it gets: smart, curious, funny, sexy, resilient. And sweet on me, a big, blousy foreigner 12 years her senior. Go figure.
There were hints along the way, beginning I suppose on the very first evening we spent together, Valentines Day 2000 (queue insipid Oprah show soundtrack 'Awwwww's). One smooch and I told her: “We’re in trouble.” Kinda never left after that night.
In the summer of 2002, after I returned from Afghanistan, we took a few weeks in Canada. Parts of that trip are part of the Grinch's public diary, the stories we re-tell to friends and family: Yeti, The Goolies, Wyle E. and the wife-y. One of them is illuminating.
We were several hours east of Fredericton, New Brunswick, hammering along the T-Can on my trusty old CB900 beneath segregated skies: southern sunshine blues and whites hard up against the blackened bruises of a great northeasterly thunderstorm.
Over coffee at a last gasp diner I asked if she wanted to put on rain gear. With the following caveat: If we suit up, it will not rain. If we ride as is, it’ll pour.
We drove off in our regular gear and left the how’s and where’s of eastern Canadian meteorology to our betters. 20 minutes later the first rains hit, we pulled over soaked to change by the roadside and returned, soaked, to our journey. Within a quarter hour we were virtually alone on the highway, all the car traffic having pulled over, hazards flashing, chased off by the pounding rains. Tractor trailers passed us unimpressed as we doddled along at 60, then 80 and finally, as I gained confidence 100 km/h.
So it went, till we broke through the clouds outside historic old Fredericton, which beaded and twinkled like a beat-up finned Caddy fresh from the auto-wash. When we finally pulled up outside the tourism office there in search of a room, we were waterlogged and giddy: there are not many people I know who would have handled that situation the way J did, laughing and cracking jokes about a car-load of gap-toothed Newfies who passed us by with a thumbs-up cheer, and I guess, maybe, that’s when I was ready to acknowledge what had been nibbling away at the edges of my mind for some time: this gal was a keeper.
Fast forward 15 months and we’re on holiday in Australia. I’d thought to pop the question without much fanfare at some point during our trip but after a couple of weeks toodling about on the Sunshine Coast, the Blue Mountains, Sydney etc. there’d not been a good moment and I’d not had a chance to slip away and find a nice ring. I settled on doing it the last night in Sydney but it became clear that that Saturday night would be taken up with friends, a couple of rugby matches and various and sundry beers so I sided with the moment and put the engagement on hold. The irony of that decision is that the previous night in Montreal, my brother had proposed to his girlfriend, successfully by the way, so if you did the time-zone mathematics, we might both have had announcements within just a few hours of one-another!
Cussed him out on the phone when I found out and confided that I was prepping for the same thing.
Three weeks ago, under shadow of “It’s the holiday season, lets do a big dinner with friends” I started making calls and trying, without actually telling anyone what was going on, to coax folks into coming along to La Na Thai restaurant for dinner.
Brought my roomie Juliana into my confidence – needed a woman’s counsel - spoke to LNT’s owner who’s a friend, worked out a menu, got a discount on drinks and got the ball rolling: bevies at Cinnabar, which is sort of the unofficial press club, and then a short stroll over to the restaurant.
Excellent meal for 22, a bit of vino, good chatter and plenty of knots in this kid’s stomach. I’d worked on some sort of something that I wanted to say to my gal but all for naught. After diner I dragged her away from an animated conversation, into a quiet, secluded and candle-lit end of the restaurant.
Yammered and hummed and held her hand and said stuff about how long we’d been together (3yr, 9 mths), and how much I care and yadda-yadda-yadda and then everything telescoped and the big-ass box the wee ring I’d bought was burning a hole in my pocket so rather than just yammering on I dropped to one knee, popped the lid and the question.
Poor thing, she was shivering and, yes, it did take a couple of tries – three actually – to get a coherent answer outta her (“Are you sure you want to do this?” were the only words she spoke) before finally, “Yes.”
I put the too bit platinum and diamond affair on her finger, we had a snog and then walked back in to join our friends, who with the exception of the chain-smoking Juliana were blissfully unaware of what was going on. Again I stammered through an announcement of sorts – I guess it worked because all the girls cried – about how most of us are a long way from home and how we sorta become family in the absence of the same, etc etc, and we were done. I’d splurged on some decent champagne and the folks at LNT had very casually brought in the glasses whilst we were out, so we had a toast and, the deed was done.
It’s been ten days now. Never felt better or more sure of anything in my life. We’re in early days yet, only the most general plans but looking forward to finalizing the deal in late summer here in Indonesia and then again for good measure in Canada in the fall.
For all those folks who sent massages, SMSs, e-mails and good vibes, thanks and look forward to seeing you at one or the other of the nuptials.
It’s been a heck of a year. Ho-Ho-Ho.
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The clock is ticking down to midnight again.
We’re running 45 minutes or so to Christmas here in Indonesia and though he should be hunkered down in his best “zuker-rasserfrazz”-ing grinchy best, bolting oiled runners on his mental toboggan and looking for new and exciting ways to mis-represent himself, holiday 2003 finds him lethargic and squishy… against the odds the cantankerous green fellah has found love – in and of itself not a remarkable thing – and done something about it (other than legally actionable offences… no truth to those rumors, by the way) and PROPOSED to she-who-would-become-Grinchette. More remarkable yet, SHE SAID YES!
I’ve promised The Rabble all the gory details of the engagement, and given that my lean, green Queen is reclining now ahead of morning rituals of wrapping paper and sticky tape, there’s no time like the present.
I guess I’d known for a while that J is about as good at it gets: smart, curious, funny, sexy, resilient. And sweet on me, a big, blousy foreigner 12 years her senior. Go figure.
There were hints along the way, beginning I suppose on the very first evening we spent together, Valentines Day 2000 (queue insipid Oprah show soundtrack 'Awwwww's). One smooch and I told her: “We’re in trouble.” Kinda never left after that night.
In the summer of 2002, after I returned from Afghanistan, we took a few weeks in Canada. Parts of that trip are part of the Grinch's public diary, the stories we re-tell to friends and family: Yeti, The Goolies, Wyle E. and the wife-y. One of them is illuminating.
We were several hours east of Fredericton, New Brunswick, hammering along the T-Can on my trusty old CB900 beneath segregated skies: southern sunshine blues and whites hard up against the blackened bruises of a great northeasterly thunderstorm.
Over coffee at a last gasp diner I asked if she wanted to put on rain gear. With the following caveat: If we suit up, it will not rain. If we ride as is, it’ll pour.
We drove off in our regular gear and left the how’s and where’s of eastern Canadian meteorology to our betters. 20 minutes later the first rains hit, we pulled over soaked to change by the roadside and returned, soaked, to our journey. Within a quarter hour we were virtually alone on the highway, all the car traffic having pulled over, hazards flashing, chased off by the pounding rains. Tractor trailers passed us unimpressed as we doddled along at 60, then 80 and finally, as I gained confidence 100 km/h.
So it went, till we broke through the clouds outside historic old Fredericton, which beaded and twinkled like a beat-up finned Caddy fresh from the auto-wash. When we finally pulled up outside the tourism office there in search of a room, we were waterlogged and giddy: there are not many people I know who would have handled that situation the way J did, laughing and cracking jokes about a car-load of gap-toothed Newfies who passed us by with a thumbs-up cheer, and I guess, maybe, that’s when I was ready to acknowledge what had been nibbling away at the edges of my mind for some time: this gal was a keeper.
Fast forward 15 months and we’re on holiday in Australia. I’d thought to pop the question without much fanfare at some point during our trip but after a couple of weeks toodling about on the Sunshine Coast, the Blue Mountains, Sydney etc. there’d not been a good moment and I’d not had a chance to slip away and find a nice ring. I settled on doing it the last night in Sydney but it became clear that that Saturday night would be taken up with friends, a couple of rugby matches and various and sundry beers so I sided with the moment and put the engagement on hold. The irony of that decision is that the previous night in Montreal, my brother had proposed to his girlfriend, successfully by the way, so if you did the time-zone mathematics, we might both have had announcements within just a few hours of one-another!
Cussed him out on the phone when I found out and confided that I was prepping for the same thing.
Three weeks ago, under shadow of “It’s the holiday season, lets do a big dinner with friends” I started making calls and trying, without actually telling anyone what was going on, to coax folks into coming along to La Na Thai restaurant for dinner.
Brought my roomie Juliana into my confidence – needed a woman’s counsel - spoke to LNT’s owner who’s a friend, worked out a menu, got a discount on drinks and got the ball rolling: bevies at Cinnabar, which is sort of the unofficial press club, and then a short stroll over to the restaurant.
Excellent meal for 22, a bit of vino, good chatter and plenty of knots in this kid’s stomach. I’d worked on some sort of something that I wanted to say to my gal but all for naught. After diner I dragged her away from an animated conversation, into a quiet, secluded and candle-lit end of the restaurant.
Yammered and hummed and held her hand and said stuff about how long we’d been together (3yr, 9 mths), and how much I care and yadda-yadda-yadda and then everything telescoped and the big-ass box the wee ring I’d bought was burning a hole in my pocket so rather than just yammering on I dropped to one knee, popped the lid and the question.
Poor thing, she was shivering and, yes, it did take a couple of tries – three actually – to get a coherent answer outta her (“Are you sure you want to do this?” were the only words she spoke) before finally, “Yes.”
I put the too bit platinum and diamond affair on her finger, we had a snog and then walked back in to join our friends, who with the exception of the chain-smoking Juliana were blissfully unaware of what was going on. Again I stammered through an announcement of sorts – I guess it worked because all the girls cried – about how most of us are a long way from home and how we sorta become family in the absence of the same, etc etc, and we were done. I’d splurged on some decent champagne and the folks at LNT had very casually brought in the glasses whilst we were out, so we had a toast and, the deed was done.
It’s been ten days now. Never felt better or more sure of anything in my life. We’re in early days yet, only the most general plans but looking forward to finalizing the deal in late summer here in Indonesia and then again for good measure in Canada in the fall.
For all those folks who sent massages, SMSs, e-mails and good vibes, thanks and look forward to seeing you at one or the other of the nuptials.
It’s been a heck of a year. Ho-Ho-Ho.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Limp Bizkit Can Kiss My Chocolate Starfish*
An Open Letter to the Band.
I’m 38, so I guess I’m a bit older than the average Limp Bizkit fan.
I belong to a generation of east coast Canadian pool and half-pipe riders who idolized Alva, rolled on soft Kryptonics, extra-wide Trackers, on Wee Willie Winkle boards that were half the size of what the kids are using today. Maybe it’s those roots LB taps into, I dunno, but I like the band. Been listening to the music for a few years now. Not much into the politics of your business, all the behind the scenes BS, the tantrums, the fashion, the personality cults. Just the music.
My work as a foreign correspondent has taken me to some weird, wonderful and occasionally dangerous places. LB – and a host of others who make up my life’s soundtrack – cranked on the headphones, off my laptop (I rip from royality-paid, legal CDs) or blasting out of taxis has brought me through it all safe, if a bit mad. My Kabul driver loved Chocolate Starfish..., the tape I brought him back in the Spring on 2002 so we could chase the rocket attacks and drive-bys Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’. He was happy to reach into my bag and swap between Janice for Beck, LB and Tom Waits. Anything after four years of the Taliban.
I’m writing today because I’m pissed.
I live in Jakarta, Indonesia. The country where Bali is located. That’s the resort island the gutless bitches hit last year with a car bomb that killed more than 200 people, most of them under 25s from Indonesia, Australia and Europe. Surfers. Skaters. Backpackers. Rugby players. Mums, dads and kids.
I got to know quite a few of the survivors. And the families of the dead. Knowing the mix of people at the Sari Club that night, I bet there were more than a few Bizkit fans there that night, or at least people who got sweaty listening, moving to it.
Unlike New York after 9/11 very, very few prominent Westerners (the same people who soak it up on the beaches, surf, get pissed for cheap, etc etc) have stepped up to help the people of Bali who were clobbered when their totally tourism-dependant economy tanked. It is one of the reasons why news a major act like LB would play Bali was such a huge boost. People who had never heard of the band were stepping up to say what wonderful people they must be to support the Balinese and by extension, all Indonesians.
This is a country of 220 million. While Bali is majority Hindu, 85 per cent of Indonesians are Moslem. Very laid back. Very friendly folks. Lots of young people here, struggling to forge an identity for themselves. Poor, disenfranchised, cynical about politics and business, struggling with sex and school and drugs and the street. Ignorant about the past, worried about the future and poorly served by their leaders. Just the kind of people we should be reaching out to in these crazy times.
And how appropriate that the plan called for the concert to be held in the very same amphitheatre where in October thousands gathered to mourn and celebrate the lives of the people killed in the Sari nightclub bombing a year earlier. It’s an amazing place, challenging acoustics, awesome views. A sell out was a certainty. For sure I would have been there with a bunch of other old men, teaching the scrawny chain-smoking Indo wannabe headbangers what a mosh pit is all about.
And then, literally days before the event, LB cancels. The reason we hear is because you’re concerned about security, but if the band had bothered to do even a bit of research they would have learned they were in more immediate danger on a Saturday night in Philly or Seattle than they’d ever be in Bali.
I should have known it was all show. Hard men, eh? Nothin’ but a bunch of gutless punk millionaire who folded when they could have stood up and done the right thing.
Way to go.
PD
Jakarta, Indonesia
pjdillon@attglobal.net
*This Blog was originally posted to the main bulletin board at www.limpbizkit.com. That's the place to go if you wanna add your voice.
An Open Letter to the Band.
I’m 38, so I guess I’m a bit older than the average Limp Bizkit fan.
I belong to a generation of east coast Canadian pool and half-pipe riders who idolized Alva, rolled on soft Kryptonics, extra-wide Trackers, on Wee Willie Winkle boards that were half the size of what the kids are using today. Maybe it’s those roots LB taps into, I dunno, but I like the band. Been listening to the music for a few years now. Not much into the politics of your business, all the behind the scenes BS, the tantrums, the fashion, the personality cults. Just the music.
My work as a foreign correspondent has taken me to some weird, wonderful and occasionally dangerous places. LB – and a host of others who make up my life’s soundtrack – cranked on the headphones, off my laptop (I rip from royality-paid, legal CDs) or blasting out of taxis has brought me through it all safe, if a bit mad. My Kabul driver loved Chocolate Starfish..., the tape I brought him back in the Spring on 2002 so we could chase the rocket attacks and drive-bys Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’. He was happy to reach into my bag and swap between Janice for Beck, LB and Tom Waits. Anything after four years of the Taliban.
I’m writing today because I’m pissed.
I live in Jakarta, Indonesia. The country where Bali is located. That’s the resort island the gutless bitches hit last year with a car bomb that killed more than 200 people, most of them under 25s from Indonesia, Australia and Europe. Surfers. Skaters. Backpackers. Rugby players. Mums, dads and kids.
I got to know quite a few of the survivors. And the families of the dead. Knowing the mix of people at the Sari Club that night, I bet there were more than a few Bizkit fans there that night, or at least people who got sweaty listening, moving to it.
Unlike New York after 9/11 very, very few prominent Westerners (the same people who soak it up on the beaches, surf, get pissed for cheap, etc etc) have stepped up to help the people of Bali who were clobbered when their totally tourism-dependant economy tanked. It is one of the reasons why news a major act like LB would play Bali was such a huge boost. People who had never heard of the band were stepping up to say what wonderful people they must be to support the Balinese and by extension, all Indonesians.
This is a country of 220 million. While Bali is majority Hindu, 85 per cent of Indonesians are Moslem. Very laid back. Very friendly folks. Lots of young people here, struggling to forge an identity for themselves. Poor, disenfranchised, cynical about politics and business, struggling with sex and school and drugs and the street. Ignorant about the past, worried about the future and poorly served by their leaders. Just the kind of people we should be reaching out to in these crazy times.
And how appropriate that the plan called for the concert to be held in the very same amphitheatre where in October thousands gathered to mourn and celebrate the lives of the people killed in the Sari nightclub bombing a year earlier. It’s an amazing place, challenging acoustics, awesome views. A sell out was a certainty. For sure I would have been there with a bunch of other old men, teaching the scrawny chain-smoking Indo wannabe headbangers what a mosh pit is all about.
And then, literally days before the event, LB cancels. The reason we hear is because you’re concerned about security, but if the band had bothered to do even a bit of research they would have learned they were in more immediate danger on a Saturday night in Philly or Seattle than they’d ever be in Bali.
I should have known it was all show. Hard men, eh? Nothin’ but a bunch of gutless punk millionaire who folded when they could have stood up and done the right thing.
Way to go.
PD
Jakarta, Indonesia
pjdillon@attglobal.net
*This Blog was originally posted to the main bulletin board at www.limpbizkit.com. That's the place to go if you wanna add your voice.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Multiple Excuses & Macintosh Abuses
Ok, here we go again…
I seem to have cracked the code and have made the necessary changes but I’ll have to open a couple of more documents to be absolutely certain… Note To Self: Make sure formatting changes have stuck to the…
Oh shit, sorry, didn’t know you were there. Just tapping away here on my new… Okay, you’ve seen it now haven’t you. Okay, well just don’t judge me until I’ve had a chance to explain.
See, I’ve been busy these past months, there’s a perfectly normal explanation why I would write back in August that I was gonna do something interesting with the Blog over the next few weeks, doing the ‘ol Momento bit with my Canadian gambol, and even going ahead and starting the write the damn thing and then, Whoooosh, I vanish for, what is it now, close to three months?
The reason is because, see, I don’t give a rat’s ass.
I’ve been busy.
The sun was in my eyes.
The geckos ate my homework.
I shot a man in Starbucks just to watch him die.
I joined the French Foreign Legion.
I got sick.
I died (… bit farfetched perhaps but I got better in the end).
I’d rather watch ‘Croc marathons on NatGeo channel.
I was playing Civilization.
I was on a spiritual retreat in Andaluccia.
Indonesia banned the Internet.
Jakarta Governor Sutiyoso decided to put a statue of me inside the deer enclosure at Monas and I’ve been locked inside a bronze mold since August.
I got embarrassed about not having posted anything and couldn’t figure a tactful way of backing back into it so I just let it go and then it got worse because I was tormented about the fact that I was such a weak-assed bitch and so became so mentally constipated that I couldn’t pull the damn trigger and let rip on a decent Blog and just get on with it. And so with each passing day and each passing week it became harder and harder to take the first step and why oh why is this such a familiar feeling?
I got married to a nice girl, had three lovely kids and settled down on western Vancouver island to fish and grow dope.
Did a three year stay for fishing without a licence. With dynamite. Damn coppers.
I’ve been working on my car/bike/boat/axle-grind/tan.
I’ve been teaching.
I’ve been learning.
I wrote a song.
I wrote a play.
I wrote a book.
I wrote a letter to my aunt and uncle in Scotland (true).
I was ripping CDs onto my PC’s hard drive to be transferred to my MP3 player.
Are you lookin’ at me? Well, I don’t see anyone else…
I was playing with the cats.
I was breaking boards with my bare hands.
I was washing my hair. One at a time.
I stepped into a rift in the space-time continuum and so, “Hello, I must be going”.
So in a fit of Grinch-inspired genius I decided to create the environment within which I can start Blogging once again, which is to say that, “Yes, I finally went out and dropped $3000S on that 15” turbo-charged G4 Powerbook last week in Singapore and I’m reveling in its un/familiar lines.”
You see, I’m one of the original Apple-seeds, the binary equivalent of the Kiss Army: I got my first Mac shortly after the release of Destroyer, with its seminal God Of Thunder and Detroit Rock City. It got me through college and much later, university. The first reunion tour post-Peter Chris coincided with my purchase of the PB150, once state of the art.
Later, when money got particularly tight I sold out. I wrapped myself in flash, in a thing called the built-in CD-ROM, and oodles of disk space. Yes, I went PC.
It was a phase. I did what I had to do to put food on the table and money in my pocket. See, there were things you could do with PCs, they were compliant, eager to please. Less demanding. Cheaper. And it was good too. It hurt the first few times but you get used to it and start to enjoy yourself.
I’m not proud of my behavior but equally, I’m not embarrassed. I was a young man with issues. It wasn’t the only relationship to suffer: During those complicated, exhilarating years I experimented with Mazdas and Volvos, a Subaru or two and a saucy chromed up Yamaha.
But, in the end of course, you can’t escape who you are, what you are. You can grow up, move away, alter your name, explore a different OS, find a whole new life but in the end, you can’t deny what tug back to the familiar.
So, I’ve struck a deal with myself, one you’ll all have to get used to. I’ve gone back to Mac as my basic computer platform, but I’m going to continue to use a PC every now and then. It just feels right this way. More honest. Each has its advantages and I just think that if people were a little bit more open to different experiences, that the world would be a much better place.
All I’m asking is that you’ll accept me for who I am and that you’ll continue to check the blog and not be enslaved by what some magazines and closed-minded techno-geeks out there might think.
Ok, here we go again…
I seem to have cracked the code and have made the necessary changes but I’ll have to open a couple of more documents to be absolutely certain… Note To Self: Make sure formatting changes have stuck to the…
Oh shit, sorry, didn’t know you were there. Just tapping away here on my new… Okay, you’ve seen it now haven’t you. Okay, well just don’t judge me until I’ve had a chance to explain.
See, I’ve been busy these past months, there’s a perfectly normal explanation why I would write back in August that I was gonna do something interesting with the Blog over the next few weeks, doing the ‘ol Momento bit with my Canadian gambol, and even going ahead and starting the write the damn thing and then, Whoooosh, I vanish for, what is it now, close to three months?
The reason is because, see, I don’t give a rat’s ass.
I’ve been busy.
The sun was in my eyes.
The geckos ate my homework.
I shot a man in Starbucks just to watch him die.
I joined the French Foreign Legion.
I got sick.
I died (… bit farfetched perhaps but I got better in the end).
I’d rather watch ‘Croc marathons on NatGeo channel.
I was playing Civilization.
I was on a spiritual retreat in Andaluccia.
Indonesia banned the Internet.
Jakarta Governor Sutiyoso decided to put a statue of me inside the deer enclosure at Monas and I’ve been locked inside a bronze mold since August.
I got embarrassed about not having posted anything and couldn’t figure a tactful way of backing back into it so I just let it go and then it got worse because I was tormented about the fact that I was such a weak-assed bitch and so became so mentally constipated that I couldn’t pull the damn trigger and let rip on a decent Blog and just get on with it. And so with each passing day and each passing week it became harder and harder to take the first step and why oh why is this such a familiar feeling?
I got married to a nice girl, had three lovely kids and settled down on western Vancouver island to fish and grow dope.
Did a three year stay for fishing without a licence. With dynamite. Damn coppers.
I’ve been working on my car/bike/boat/axle-grind/tan.
I’ve been teaching.
I’ve been learning.
I wrote a song.
I wrote a play.
I wrote a book.
I wrote a letter to my aunt and uncle in Scotland (true).
I was ripping CDs onto my PC’s hard drive to be transferred to my MP3 player.
Are you lookin’ at me? Well, I don’t see anyone else…
I was playing with the cats.
I was breaking boards with my bare hands.
I was washing my hair. One at a time.
I stepped into a rift in the space-time continuum and so, “Hello, I must be going”.
So in a fit of Grinch-inspired genius I decided to create the environment within which I can start Blogging once again, which is to say that, “Yes, I finally went out and dropped $3000S on that 15” turbo-charged G4 Powerbook last week in Singapore and I’m reveling in its un/familiar lines.”
You see, I’m one of the original Apple-seeds, the binary equivalent of the Kiss Army: I got my first Mac shortly after the release of Destroyer, with its seminal God Of Thunder and Detroit Rock City. It got me through college and much later, university. The first reunion tour post-Peter Chris coincided with my purchase of the PB150, once state of the art.
Later, when money got particularly tight I sold out. I wrapped myself in flash, in a thing called the built-in CD-ROM, and oodles of disk space. Yes, I went PC.
It was a phase. I did what I had to do to put food on the table and money in my pocket. See, there were things you could do with PCs, they were compliant, eager to please. Less demanding. Cheaper. And it was good too. It hurt the first few times but you get used to it and start to enjoy yourself.
I’m not proud of my behavior but equally, I’m not embarrassed. I was a young man with issues. It wasn’t the only relationship to suffer: During those complicated, exhilarating years I experimented with Mazdas and Volvos, a Subaru or two and a saucy chromed up Yamaha.
But, in the end of course, you can’t escape who you are, what you are. You can grow up, move away, alter your name, explore a different OS, find a whole new life but in the end, you can’t deny what tug back to the familiar.
So, I’ve struck a deal with myself, one you’ll all have to get used to. I’ve gone back to Mac as my basic computer platform, but I’m going to continue to use a PC every now and then. It just feels right this way. More honest. Each has its advantages and I just think that if people were a little bit more open to different experiences, that the world would be a much better place.
All I’m asking is that you’ll accept me for who I am and that you’ll continue to check the blog and not be enslaved by what some magazines and closed-minded techno-geeks out there might think.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
In the interest of testing the extent to which the parasites have affected my powers of reductive reasoning (if indeed such a thing exists), I have decided to dedicate the next batch of Blogs to Jules Verne. And Rambo. And John Glenn. And the dude who wrote Momento, and all the others out there who tried, with differing degrees of success, to turn back time.
So, in the terrible mirror image of exercises that might actually have occurred once upon a time in Brother Michael’s second floor, Grade Six classroom at Daniel O’Connell Elementary school on a fall morning in 1975, I give you:
Vacation Summer My On Did I What: Chapter Final The
Aug. 13.
The brain drugs weren’t quite as effective this time ‘round and my pineal gland was obviously not up to the task, so I’m kinda staggered and forgetful and dozy and strung-out all at the same time. No two hours of tennis under the hot sun followed by Welfare Wednesday pitchers of Molson at the Biltmore for this kid, or whatever the local version of the same might be.
And the phone’s ringing and buzzing off the friggin’ hook with ‘Welcome back’s and ‘How come every time you leave the city something big happens’.
And, there’s a series of increasingly hysterical SMSs from various (unidentified) clients that despite my tri-band-enabled, digi-picture-taking, Lynyrd Skynyrd-playing super-phone, failed to penetrate the blanket of smog and humidity hanging over the Lebanese net café on Boul. St. Laurent ten days ago.
Here’s one: Desk is wondering when you’ll have final body count. Any confirmation on the type of explosives? Pls check you email and call asap!!!
How can it be that some messages pinball their way ‘round the world: New York-to-satellite-to-Southeast Asia-to-satellite-to-Canadian exchange-to-satellite-to my phone, whilst others taking exactly the same route never make it? Maybe it’s Electronic Darwinism, sorta like the salmon or something: “Some’ll make it up over the Skookumchuck’s first set of class three rapids and others, well, they just won’t”. Cue: The Arrival Of The Bears.
All said, always nice to get home. The airport is the same zoo as always and there’s no obvious sign that the government is any more vigilant than it was before I left. The bag check is cursory (none of YVR’s explosives-detecting magic wands here), the customs guy doesn’t even look at the form, there’s a mob at the arrival gates waving placards and pieces of 8 ½” x 11” office paper with kanji script written in black marker. The cigarette girls have disappeared, the one’s that greet your successful negotiating the immigration wolves with a free pack of kretek smokes, but that’s just as well as I gave it up five hours ago in Hong Kong. There are none of the soldiers or police that I expected along the Sukharno-Hatta concourse but there’s definitely a lot fewer of the ghost-cab drivers lounging around. Maybe the last blast outside the Korean fast food joint scared ‘em off (not likely) but whatever the reasons for once I don’t have to run the gauntlet to escape the stifling heat for the cool, polite confines of a Silver Bird.
Ask the unfamiliar driver how the things are in the city since I left. All he says is: “I lost five friends in the bomb. Young men with families. The oldest in his 50s.”
The next 40 minutes passed in silence.
The Rembang house is looking tidy if a bit overrun with flowers and bushes. Once the orchids start to go though, it’ll be very fine. J too is looks good enough to eat, standing glowing amid the few remaining thin, hard blossoms, and Ning comes out to welcome me back. Never steps foot out of the kitchen, mind you. I guess Nan is in school, and Juliana, at work.
Like I said, no rockin’ night tonight. Gotta sleep, eat a bit later, sleep some more and by Thursday I should be all right.
It is sometimes hard to believe that the world I spent the past couple of weeks in is really only 24 hours away at any time of the day or night. Seems a lifetime and five minutes.
So, in the terrible mirror image of exercises that might actually have occurred once upon a time in Brother Michael’s second floor, Grade Six classroom at Daniel O’Connell Elementary school on a fall morning in 1975, I give you:
Vacation Summer My On Did I What: Chapter Final The
Aug. 13.
The brain drugs weren’t quite as effective this time ‘round and my pineal gland was obviously not up to the task, so I’m kinda staggered and forgetful and dozy and strung-out all at the same time. No two hours of tennis under the hot sun followed by Welfare Wednesday pitchers of Molson at the Biltmore for this kid, or whatever the local version of the same might be.
And the phone’s ringing and buzzing off the friggin’ hook with ‘Welcome back’s and ‘How come every time you leave the city something big happens’.
And, there’s a series of increasingly hysterical SMSs from various (unidentified) clients that despite my tri-band-enabled, digi-picture-taking, Lynyrd Skynyrd-playing super-phone, failed to penetrate the blanket of smog and humidity hanging over the Lebanese net café on Boul. St. Laurent ten days ago.
Here’s one: Desk is wondering when you’ll have final body count. Any confirmation on the type of explosives? Pls check you email and call asap!!!
How can it be that some messages pinball their way ‘round the world: New York-to-satellite-to-Southeast Asia-to-satellite-to-Canadian exchange-to-satellite-to my phone, whilst others taking exactly the same route never make it? Maybe it’s Electronic Darwinism, sorta like the salmon or something: “Some’ll make it up over the Skookumchuck’s first set of class three rapids and others, well, they just won’t”. Cue: The Arrival Of The Bears.
All said, always nice to get home. The airport is the same zoo as always and there’s no obvious sign that the government is any more vigilant than it was before I left. The bag check is cursory (none of YVR’s explosives-detecting magic wands here), the customs guy doesn’t even look at the form, there’s a mob at the arrival gates waving placards and pieces of 8 ½” x 11” office paper with kanji script written in black marker. The cigarette girls have disappeared, the one’s that greet your successful negotiating the immigration wolves with a free pack of kretek smokes, but that’s just as well as I gave it up five hours ago in Hong Kong. There are none of the soldiers or police that I expected along the Sukharno-Hatta concourse but there’s definitely a lot fewer of the ghost-cab drivers lounging around. Maybe the last blast outside the Korean fast food joint scared ‘em off (not likely) but whatever the reasons for once I don’t have to run the gauntlet to escape the stifling heat for the cool, polite confines of a Silver Bird.
Ask the unfamiliar driver how the things are in the city since I left. All he says is: “I lost five friends in the bomb. Young men with families. The oldest in his 50s.”
The next 40 minutes passed in silence.
The Rembang house is looking tidy if a bit overrun with flowers and bushes. Once the orchids start to go though, it’ll be very fine. J too is looks good enough to eat, standing glowing amid the few remaining thin, hard blossoms, and Ning comes out to welcome me back. Never steps foot out of the kitchen, mind you. I guess Nan is in school, and Juliana, at work.
Like I said, no rockin’ night tonight. Gotta sleep, eat a bit later, sleep some more and by Thursday I should be all right.
It is sometimes hard to believe that the world I spent the past couple of weeks in is really only 24 hours away at any time of the day or night. Seems a lifetime and five minutes.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Twenty-five Thousand Kms and Five Minutes From Home
Ahh, the joys of international travel.
Left Jakarta Friday morning @ 7 am. Arrived in Vancouver 800 years later, Friday afternoon at 2:30pm. Go figure. As I flew over the international dateline I waiting for the feeling I was younger by a day but in vain. Lotta hogwash as far as I can figure.
Had a nightmare trip with Cathay last year; cold crappy food, surly service, wooden benches for seats, late leaving, late arriving etc etc. In other words, identical to business class in most if not all North American carriers.
Things went fairly smoothly between Jakarta-Hong Kong (except for the Sing stop no one bothered to mention to me). The new HK airport is vile and sterile which may work for Chinese people but leaves me flat. You’d think they could put a bit of greenery in there the beat the icy, morgue-like spaces that extend as far as you can see as you make the 20 minute journey from gate 80 to gate 4. And the signage was abysmal. No mention anywhere of a shuttle train between the two principal terminal! I thought it was me until I saw plenty other folks with that “look” gazing at banks of flight info and airport layouts in Kanji trying to figure out what was going on. Like a scene from that old Eastwood movie where he climbs into the cockpit of a prototype fighter jet he plans to steal only to discover all the instructions are written in Cyrillic.
And, dammit, after having humped my way over to the right terminal I discover the only pharmacy in the whole place is, you guessed it, back about 100 meters from where I landed. In the end, after 90 minutes on the ground, I made my gate a quarter of an hour before scheduled departure. Or so I thought.
This time ‘round we were only 45 minutes late pulling outta the HK terminal, riding seats designed by Mr. Chips and, horror-of-horrors, discovered my “Personal Entertainment System”, the three and a half inch screen recessed into the top of the seat in front of me, didn’t work. No movies or Donkey Kong for 14 hours!
Made the necessary scene with the flight supervisor (“bla bla bla foreign correspondent…bla bla bla.. fly across Asia regularly… bla bla bla) but unfortunately, every seat in the plane was full including those in business and first class so I was stuck with it. And a box of chocolates. And a promise that customer service would be in touch. Right.
So I slept the whole way. Or at least most of it. Popped a melatonin pill (all the rage among long-haul Asia-Pacific fliers the past few years: pineal gland produces the substance that has some vaguely defined impact on the body’s clock and supplementing it tricks your brain into thinking everything is a-ok) and wham, goodbye Hong Kong, hello coast mountains. Okay, fair to say I woke up every 20 minutes for eight hours but at least I slept. From sometime after the forgettable chicken pasta until the smell of runny plastic omelets and bitter coffee work me up 2:20 minutes before arriving in Van. Cool eh?
Didn’t have a chance to read most of the in-flight fare I picked up in Jak and Sing: August’s “Bike” magazine, the best rag of its type in the world, the new UK version of “Stuff”, the electronics mag that plays to my vain inner geek who needs things like the Archos AV340 ($700US) a multi-media jukebox with a high rez 3.8-inch-wide screen mounted on a body only slightly larger, housing a 40 gig disk that’ll carry 50 full-length movies, runs MPEG-4 video files to 25-frames-per-second, all bundled with something called the digital video recording module that allows you to record straight from TV (replacing the VCR). There’s a 3.3 megapixel digi-cam attachment that also shoots 320x240 pixel video (like my four-year-old Sony DSCR-50 still cam) and an MP3 player (though no info about how much storage space but presumably you’re saving onto the hard drive alongside the flix). Not bad, squeezing all that into a package that’ll almost fit in the palm of your hand.
Ate Time magazine in under 45 minutes, enjoying particularly the front-end essay about the declining fortunes of Hong Kong plane spotters since the closure of the old Kai Tak airport, the one with the runway that extended 300 meters into HK harbour. Only hole in an otherwise nicely written story? Not a single Chinese voice; foreigners only and, one suspects, Brits all.
And, I’ll have to wait till some other time to read Men’s Journal, which is as close as you can get to a mainstream gay magazine that pretends it’s not really a mainstream gay magazine by including three pages of pix of former Chili Pepper guitarist Dave Navarro’s workout regime and an article a few pages on about how thongs for men are the next big thing.
Anyway, it was a pretty painful trip and now I’m sitting in Rick and Stacy’s kitchen at 645 am having snoozed another eight hours away. They’re both looking great and young Ruby, now 15 months is scuttling about without a care in the world, highly interactive child after getting over 10 minutes of shyness. Looks lovely in the new, dark-blue batik dress Jay and I chose for her during my pre-departure oleh-oleh run in Pasar Raya, Blok M last week. Ruby has huge blue eyes and blond hair so the color really works. One down and three to go!
The house itself is really nice, up above Robson Park where we used to play tennis and soccer with views out to the North Shore mountains and east towards Abby. Nice big yard and room for flower gardens (there’s a big, fat robin sitting on the fence right now) and few if any junkies – except for the former crack-head United Church minister across the street who allows hypes to use his space to get off: sounds kind of unhealthy for anyone who is ‘recovering’ to create that kind of environment methinks.
They had a helluva time getting the place and have been rewarded with a lovely space.
Taxi dropped me off here at about 3 yesterday afternoon, two hours later I was on the court being taught a lesson in humility (I’ve not played much – once actually - since getting sick last year: my only lame excuse) followed by brews at the Biltmore Hotel with Rick n Dave. It was so beautiful yesterday, probably about 27C, a few clouds and a slight breeze: Vancouver at it’s ultimate best. Indy weekend here so the downtown is gonna be mad.
The Biltyw was my old stomping ground when I lived with Dee on E 10th back in 1993-94 (Holy shit, 10 years?) about five minutes and five short blocks from Rick’s place. The scene of the misguided marriage proposal to my old live-in love has fallen victim to the same city council cigarette Nazis as the rest of the bars and restaurants in the Lower Mainland, forcing them to build a glass enclosure for smokers where the entire bar sat whist we were there. Similar to the smoking rooms your find in most airports if slightly less vile.
Rick says the new Punjabi management have scared off all the Natives (The old biker owners couldn’t have cared less and probably actually encouraged the alcoholics as long as they had money in their pockets) so the place really doesn’t take off at night the way it used to, though I suspect the fact that its four days before the end of the month welfare cheque day might have put a dent in attendance too.
Today I’m off to take care of the storage locker, take a trip down memory lane before ousting a bunch of stuff. Dave’s daughter has left us her Ranger so hopefully we’ll be able to take care of it all in one go. Later, plan to hook up with Karen and maybe Darren for drinks. Gotta call Andrew and Mary, and see if Kev and Nicky are about as I’ve not heard back from them since I mailed and called last week. Sure hope they’re around.
Ahh, the joys of international travel.
Left Jakarta Friday morning @ 7 am. Arrived in Vancouver 800 years later, Friday afternoon at 2:30pm. Go figure. As I flew over the international dateline I waiting for the feeling I was younger by a day but in vain. Lotta hogwash as far as I can figure.
Had a nightmare trip with Cathay last year; cold crappy food, surly service, wooden benches for seats, late leaving, late arriving etc etc. In other words, identical to business class in most if not all North American carriers.
Things went fairly smoothly between Jakarta-Hong Kong (except for the Sing stop no one bothered to mention to me). The new HK airport is vile and sterile which may work for Chinese people but leaves me flat. You’d think they could put a bit of greenery in there the beat the icy, morgue-like spaces that extend as far as you can see as you make the 20 minute journey from gate 80 to gate 4. And the signage was abysmal. No mention anywhere of a shuttle train between the two principal terminal! I thought it was me until I saw plenty other folks with that “look” gazing at banks of flight info and airport layouts in Kanji trying to figure out what was going on. Like a scene from that old Eastwood movie where he climbs into the cockpit of a prototype fighter jet he plans to steal only to discover all the instructions are written in Cyrillic.
And, dammit, after having humped my way over to the right terminal I discover the only pharmacy in the whole place is, you guessed it, back about 100 meters from where I landed. In the end, after 90 minutes on the ground, I made my gate a quarter of an hour before scheduled departure. Or so I thought.
This time ‘round we were only 45 minutes late pulling outta the HK terminal, riding seats designed by Mr. Chips and, horror-of-horrors, discovered my “Personal Entertainment System”, the three and a half inch screen recessed into the top of the seat in front of me, didn’t work. No movies or Donkey Kong for 14 hours!
Made the necessary scene with the flight supervisor (“bla bla bla foreign correspondent…bla bla bla.. fly across Asia regularly… bla bla bla) but unfortunately, every seat in the plane was full including those in business and first class so I was stuck with it. And a box of chocolates. And a promise that customer service would be in touch. Right.
So I slept the whole way. Or at least most of it. Popped a melatonin pill (all the rage among long-haul Asia-Pacific fliers the past few years: pineal gland produces the substance that has some vaguely defined impact on the body’s clock and supplementing it tricks your brain into thinking everything is a-ok) and wham, goodbye Hong Kong, hello coast mountains. Okay, fair to say I woke up every 20 minutes for eight hours but at least I slept. From sometime after the forgettable chicken pasta until the smell of runny plastic omelets and bitter coffee work me up 2:20 minutes before arriving in Van. Cool eh?
Didn’t have a chance to read most of the in-flight fare I picked up in Jak and Sing: August’s “Bike” magazine, the best rag of its type in the world, the new UK version of “Stuff”, the electronics mag that plays to my vain inner geek who needs things like the Archos AV340 ($700US) a multi-media jukebox with a high rez 3.8-inch-wide screen mounted on a body only slightly larger, housing a 40 gig disk that’ll carry 50 full-length movies, runs MPEG-4 video files to 25-frames-per-second, all bundled with something called the digital video recording module that allows you to record straight from TV (replacing the VCR). There’s a 3.3 megapixel digi-cam attachment that also shoots 320x240 pixel video (like my four-year-old Sony DSCR-50 still cam) and an MP3 player (though no info about how much storage space but presumably you’re saving onto the hard drive alongside the flix). Not bad, squeezing all that into a package that’ll almost fit in the palm of your hand.
Ate Time magazine in under 45 minutes, enjoying particularly the front-end essay about the declining fortunes of Hong Kong plane spotters since the closure of the old Kai Tak airport, the one with the runway that extended 300 meters into HK harbour. Only hole in an otherwise nicely written story? Not a single Chinese voice; foreigners only and, one suspects, Brits all.
And, I’ll have to wait till some other time to read Men’s Journal, which is as close as you can get to a mainstream gay magazine that pretends it’s not really a mainstream gay magazine by including three pages of pix of former Chili Pepper guitarist Dave Navarro’s workout regime and an article a few pages on about how thongs for men are the next big thing.
Anyway, it was a pretty painful trip and now I’m sitting in Rick and Stacy’s kitchen at 645 am having snoozed another eight hours away. They’re both looking great and young Ruby, now 15 months is scuttling about without a care in the world, highly interactive child after getting over 10 minutes of shyness. Looks lovely in the new, dark-blue batik dress Jay and I chose for her during my pre-departure oleh-oleh run in Pasar Raya, Blok M last week. Ruby has huge blue eyes and blond hair so the color really works. One down and three to go!
The house itself is really nice, up above Robson Park where we used to play tennis and soccer with views out to the North Shore mountains and east towards Abby. Nice big yard and room for flower gardens (there’s a big, fat robin sitting on the fence right now) and few if any junkies – except for the former crack-head United Church minister across the street who allows hypes to use his space to get off: sounds kind of unhealthy for anyone who is ‘recovering’ to create that kind of environment methinks.
They had a helluva time getting the place and have been rewarded with a lovely space.
Taxi dropped me off here at about 3 yesterday afternoon, two hours later I was on the court being taught a lesson in humility (I’ve not played much – once actually - since getting sick last year: my only lame excuse) followed by brews at the Biltmore Hotel with Rick n Dave. It was so beautiful yesterday, probably about 27C, a few clouds and a slight breeze: Vancouver at it’s ultimate best. Indy weekend here so the downtown is gonna be mad.
The Biltyw was my old stomping ground when I lived with Dee on E 10th back in 1993-94 (Holy shit, 10 years?) about five minutes and five short blocks from Rick’s place. The scene of the misguided marriage proposal to my old live-in love has fallen victim to the same city council cigarette Nazis as the rest of the bars and restaurants in the Lower Mainland, forcing them to build a glass enclosure for smokers where the entire bar sat whist we were there. Similar to the smoking rooms your find in most airports if slightly less vile.
Rick says the new Punjabi management have scared off all the Natives (The old biker owners couldn’t have cared less and probably actually encouraged the alcoholics as long as they had money in their pockets) so the place really doesn’t take off at night the way it used to, though I suspect the fact that its four days before the end of the month welfare cheque day might have put a dent in attendance too.
Today I’m off to take care of the storage locker, take a trip down memory lane before ousting a bunch of stuff. Dave’s daughter has left us her Ranger so hopefully we’ll be able to take care of it all in one go. Later, plan to hook up with Karen and maybe Darren for drinks. Gotta call Andrew and Mary, and see if Kev and Nicky are about as I’ve not heard back from them since I mailed and called last week. Sure hope they’re around.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Wizards, ‘wobots and painting pederasts
pjdillon@attglobal.net
Here come the excuses…
See, it’s not on account of having nothing to say, because I’ve always got something to say. Just ask anyone.
And it’s not on account of having been out of Internet range because I’ve been humping my laptop around the country for the past few weeks. And there have been functioning land-lines. And both Attglobal and TelcomNet were accessible. And I had a phone chord. And my cell is dialed up for Net access.
No, this time the excuse for not blogging once in (Idunno, maybeitmittabeentwoweeks?) a while is weight. The awesome, fat, burdensome weight of words. And the bindings they come in.
Witness One for the Defence: J.K. Rowlings’ latest tome wherein, over the course of 766 pages, she shamelessly tortures a 15-year-old kid for the audience’s amusement. And mine. My lovely and talented roomie picked up the latest Potter offering the day it was released here in Jakarta proving she’s adept at right brain thinking (or taking advantage of what she describes as an “Act of God” or a “Cosmic Intersection”) by avoiding bookstores which were sold out three weeks before P-Day and hitting an office supply company of all places.
She finished it in two days. Took me about five. Liked the book. Some decent Corona Milk Bar-esque ultra-violence (especially at the end) though none of those annoying Hogwarts brats who should die, do. And, there’s a couple of decent paragraphs devoted to the mindless rage that courses through the veins of every mid-teen male at some point or other. Organic, adolescent ‘roid-rage. You really get a hate on for the dude’s evil aunt and uncle in the early going but inevitably it takes a turn for the schmaltz to earn its PG rating. And, there’s no sex.
Witness No. Two. See if this rings a bell: “I was driving my Lexus through a rustling wind. This is a car assembled in a work area that’s completely free of human presence. Not a spot of mortal sweat except, okay, for the guys who drive the product out of the plant – allow a little moisture where they grip the wheel. The system flows forever onward, automated to priestly nuance, every gliding movement back-referenced for prime performance. Hollow bodies coming in endless sequence. There’s nobody on the line with caffeine nerves or a history of clinical depression. Just the eerie weave of chromium alloys carried in interlocking arcs, block iron and asphalt sheeting, soaring ornaments or coachwork fitted and merged. Robots tightening bolts, programming drudges that do not dream of family dead.”
That’s right! Me! Yes, I wrote it! Pretty good eh?
Actually, no, I didn’t. But if I’d ever written about a robotic assembly line I’m sure I’d craft something equally, umm, what’s the word I’m looking for… uhhh..
… but anyway it would read just like this line from Don DeLillos’ 1997 epic Underworld which runs to better than 830 pages in hardcover. And I’m only four chapters in or about 20 per cent in and sinking fast. Beautifully crafted, slightly surreal look at one man’s life, a back-handed tribute to America and the lifelong pursuit of a fabled baseball. Loving it. Not much action, bar fights, car chases or slutty women but despite these obvious flaws DeLillo is unputdownable. I’ve heard this all before about the guy whose earlier offering included a novel about God falling out of heaven, drowning in the Atlantic Ocean and subsequently being towed into New York Harbour by tug boat.
Would have sliced through Underworld in maybe 10 nights – I usually hit the pulp in the hour before bed (and then range on till the wee hours, curled up in the pool of blanched white light of a fluorescent bedside lamp) but have been unable recently becaaaaauuuuseee… I’ve been distracted by the third piece of evidence rescued from atop the stack of magazines I devour like popcorn every week: Time, Newsweek, Tempo, Stuff, The Economist, and any other shiny bits of paper that catch my eye.
I give you (metaphorically) Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red. It’s staggering, dense and incredibly engaging. A murder mystery set early in the Istanbul of the first decades of the 16th century in the closeted world of the ‘miniaturist’, the men who illustrate the great books commissioned by the Sultan and powerful pashas, at a time when the fractures between the traditionalists and would-be modernists (those influenced by infidel Venetian perspective realism, threaten to destabilize the Sultan’s rule itself. Amazing stuff even if you’ve gotta reread the odd page or two to capture the essence of Pamuk’s words, packed into more than 500 wee-fonted pages of the soft-cover edition.
Writing in The Observer, Avkat Altinel concludes: “In this world of forgeries, where some might be in danger of losing their faith in literature, Pamuk is the real thing, and this book might well be one of the few recent works of fiction that will be remembered at the end of this century.”
A couple of tastefully written kill scenes that are unfortunately light on the Elmore James and heavy on the internal landscapes of the victim. No car chases, for obvious reasons but several long and colorful mentions of war-horses and horse racing; and a bit of sex, though mostly of the breathless closeted widow’s first experience with her new lover’s ‘rampant pole’ –variety and numerous passages wherein older men reminisce fondly over their relationship with an endless parade of young boys (I mean, these Turks are in no position to be imposing order on Afghanistan from what I’m reading).
So there you have it. That’s why I haven’t blogged ya since June: wizards, ‘wobots and painting pederasts. Oh, yeah, and Finding Nemo. Go and see it. A most excellent experience, dude.
pjdillon@attglobal.net
Here come the excuses…
See, it’s not on account of having nothing to say, because I’ve always got something to say. Just ask anyone.
And it’s not on account of having been out of Internet range because I’ve been humping my laptop around the country for the past few weeks. And there have been functioning land-lines. And both Attglobal and TelcomNet were accessible. And I had a phone chord. And my cell is dialed up for Net access.
No, this time the excuse for not blogging once in (Idunno, maybeitmittabeentwoweeks?) a while is weight. The awesome, fat, burdensome weight of words. And the bindings they come in.
Witness One for the Defence: J.K. Rowlings’ latest tome wherein, over the course of 766 pages, she shamelessly tortures a 15-year-old kid for the audience’s amusement. And mine. My lovely and talented roomie picked up the latest Potter offering the day it was released here in Jakarta proving she’s adept at right brain thinking (or taking advantage of what she describes as an “Act of God” or a “Cosmic Intersection”) by avoiding bookstores which were sold out three weeks before P-Day and hitting an office supply company of all places.
She finished it in two days. Took me about five. Liked the book. Some decent Corona Milk Bar-esque ultra-violence (especially at the end) though none of those annoying Hogwarts brats who should die, do. And, there’s a couple of decent paragraphs devoted to the mindless rage that courses through the veins of every mid-teen male at some point or other. Organic, adolescent ‘roid-rage. You really get a hate on for the dude’s evil aunt and uncle in the early going but inevitably it takes a turn for the schmaltz to earn its PG rating. And, there’s no sex.
Witness No. Two. See if this rings a bell: “I was driving my Lexus through a rustling wind. This is a car assembled in a work area that’s completely free of human presence. Not a spot of mortal sweat except, okay, for the guys who drive the product out of the plant – allow a little moisture where they grip the wheel. The system flows forever onward, automated to priestly nuance, every gliding movement back-referenced for prime performance. Hollow bodies coming in endless sequence. There’s nobody on the line with caffeine nerves or a history of clinical depression. Just the eerie weave of chromium alloys carried in interlocking arcs, block iron and asphalt sheeting, soaring ornaments or coachwork fitted and merged. Robots tightening bolts, programming drudges that do not dream of family dead.”
That’s right! Me! Yes, I wrote it! Pretty good eh?
Actually, no, I didn’t. But if I’d ever written about a robotic assembly line I’m sure I’d craft something equally, umm, what’s the word I’m looking for… uhhh..
… but anyway it would read just like this line from Don DeLillos’ 1997 epic Underworld which runs to better than 830 pages in hardcover. And I’m only four chapters in or about 20 per cent in and sinking fast. Beautifully crafted, slightly surreal look at one man’s life, a back-handed tribute to America and the lifelong pursuit of a fabled baseball. Loving it. Not much action, bar fights, car chases or slutty women but despite these obvious flaws DeLillo is unputdownable. I’ve heard this all before about the guy whose earlier offering included a novel about God falling out of heaven, drowning in the Atlantic Ocean and subsequently being towed into New York Harbour by tug boat.
Would have sliced through Underworld in maybe 10 nights – I usually hit the pulp in the hour before bed (and then range on till the wee hours, curled up in the pool of blanched white light of a fluorescent bedside lamp) but have been unable recently becaaaaauuuuseee… I’ve been distracted by the third piece of evidence rescued from atop the stack of magazines I devour like popcorn every week: Time, Newsweek, Tempo, Stuff, The Economist, and any other shiny bits of paper that catch my eye.
I give you (metaphorically) Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red. It’s staggering, dense and incredibly engaging. A murder mystery set early in the Istanbul of the first decades of the 16th century in the closeted world of the ‘miniaturist’, the men who illustrate the great books commissioned by the Sultan and powerful pashas, at a time when the fractures between the traditionalists and would-be modernists (those influenced by infidel Venetian perspective realism, threaten to destabilize the Sultan’s rule itself. Amazing stuff even if you’ve gotta reread the odd page or two to capture the essence of Pamuk’s words, packed into more than 500 wee-fonted pages of the soft-cover edition.
Writing in The Observer, Avkat Altinel concludes: “In this world of forgeries, where some might be in danger of losing their faith in literature, Pamuk is the real thing, and this book might well be one of the few recent works of fiction that will be remembered at the end of this century.”
A couple of tastefully written kill scenes that are unfortunately light on the Elmore James and heavy on the internal landscapes of the victim. No car chases, for obvious reasons but several long and colorful mentions of war-horses and horse racing; and a bit of sex, though mostly of the breathless closeted widow’s first experience with her new lover’s ‘rampant pole’ –variety and numerous passages wherein older men reminisce fondly over their relationship with an endless parade of young boys (I mean, these Turks are in no position to be imposing order on Afghanistan from what I’m reading).
So there you have it. That’s why I haven’t blogged ya since June: wizards, ‘wobots and painting pederasts. Oh, yeah, and Finding Nemo. Go and see it. A most excellent experience, dude.
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Miracle Of Birth No. 17,346,301,856... And Counting
pjdillon@attglobal.net
We’re all pretty excited about welcoming the newest member to the extended clan, my first nephew, eight pound, 10 ounce Cole, who stepped out last Friday afternoon, June 19.
He’s up and about and pretty much running the Ottawa household. His amazing mum is in great shape, dad is anchored to the radiator in the front room with the same length of string we used to prevent him floating off following the birth of Isabelle back in Dec. 2001. The grandparents are ecstatic and are threatening to move into the basement, and Netminders everywhere are warned to set their photo attachment filters to maximum in order to weed out the inevitable flurry of multiple meg files to be produced in coming weeks as the above mentioned shoot every waking moment of young Cole’s life.
Myself and the gal are even now conspiring to fly over sometime between now and mid-August. Crazy post-SASs deals to be found if you dig deep, including a tasty Cathay fare from Sing to Toronto for about $520 US. If it happens, and it remains a big IF, we’ll get the bike tuned up and go for a ten day tear about northern Ontario, maybe do some camping or something, as well as seeing family and friends on the east coast.
We’d like to hit the west coast as well, perhaps pick up Drew’s wee Yammy 650 for a quick run up the coast, look at a couple of properties I’ve been following on the Net (hey, a guy can dream, right?).
‘Course there’s been a whole lot of irregular behavior out there as well so I think some of our time will be spent tummy rubbing at least two other swellin’ bellies that we’re aware of at this time. A word of warning to breeder women heading for Vancouver: think Bottle Water. Stay away from the taps. I repeat, Stay away from the taps.
I’m off to Bandung for a couple of dry, cool mountain days, traipsing about Tanjungsari sub-district observing matters village-based early childhood development programs and generally making a pain of myself to any and all forced to decipher my garbled Bahasa Indonesia.
Back to Jak Sunday hopefully with time and energy to blog-on.
pjdillon@attglobal.net
We’re all pretty excited about welcoming the newest member to the extended clan, my first nephew, eight pound, 10 ounce Cole, who stepped out last Friday afternoon, June 19.
He’s up and about and pretty much running the Ottawa household. His amazing mum is in great shape, dad is anchored to the radiator in the front room with the same length of string we used to prevent him floating off following the birth of Isabelle back in Dec. 2001. The grandparents are ecstatic and are threatening to move into the basement, and Netminders everywhere are warned to set their photo attachment filters to maximum in order to weed out the inevitable flurry of multiple meg files to be produced in coming weeks as the above mentioned shoot every waking moment of young Cole’s life.
Myself and the gal are even now conspiring to fly over sometime between now and mid-August. Crazy post-SASs deals to be found if you dig deep, including a tasty Cathay fare from Sing to Toronto for about $520 US. If it happens, and it remains a big IF, we’ll get the bike tuned up and go for a ten day tear about northern Ontario, maybe do some camping or something, as well as seeing family and friends on the east coast.
We’d like to hit the west coast as well, perhaps pick up Drew’s wee Yammy 650 for a quick run up the coast, look at a couple of properties I’ve been following on the Net (hey, a guy can dream, right?).
‘Course there’s been a whole lot of irregular behavior out there as well so I think some of our time will be spent tummy rubbing at least two other swellin’ bellies that we’re aware of at this time. A word of warning to breeder women heading for Vancouver: think Bottle Water. Stay away from the taps. I repeat, Stay away from the taps.
I’m off to Bandung for a couple of dry, cool mountain days, traipsing about Tanjungsari sub-district observing matters village-based early childhood development programs and generally making a pain of myself to any and all forced to decipher my garbled Bahasa Indonesia.
Back to Jak Sunday hopefully with time and energy to blog-on.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
More Lessons From The Mostar Mash
ACTUALLY WRITTEN 02:00, 06-06-03
pjdillon@attglobal.net
These late night files have got to end!
Funny how three pints of Bintang and a glass of Chardonay will turn yer average, mild mannered typist into some sort of wordsmith in waiting… this is the way it use to be, light buzz, free association time… lets see where we end up tonight.
The voyage of discovery continues today with new music files, and continuing tale of the Grinch and his music box.
As the casual reader will be aware, I’m losing a small part of myself with the departure from the archipela-nation of my best man Sasa, he of the Yogyakarta, joint tattoo session of two weeks ago. I’m not gonna gloom and doom about that ‘cause there’s always tomorrow or tomorrow for that. Mentioned here only in the context of how sometimes the learning only comes when it gets to be late in the day and transit is bad and maybe you’re gonna have to leave early and you don’t really know for sure when you throw “See ya later” over your shoulder just how long “later” might turn out to be…
And so here’s the word. I’m sitting propped up in bed (alone, on account of my sweety being off in East Java doing the family thing for a couple of days) accompanied by the whirling of the AC and Dexter Gordon’s smooth-as-bubur ayam sax on the deck, and it is all very fine.
What do you learn from someone’s music collection? Better yet, what do you learn about your own constricted airs when thrown a stash of new music, of names you know but have never really listened to?
I wouldn’t be lingering amidst these silky airs this evening had Sasa not dropped off about 15 kgs of CDs to be blended and mulched and scored into my hard-drive and turned into a usable, ‘groovable playlist for Friday’s big “goin’ ‘way” party (more on that later: ed). See, ‘cause even though we’ve covered a lot of ground over a couple dozen long evenings, I had no idea of my man Sasa's musical tastes extended to so many variably variable terrains.
I’m looking at platters worth of Ella James and Shostakovich, Aretha and Vivaldi, oblique African jazz rhythms and Eric Clapton. Al DiMeola and Fiddler On The Roof. Leonard Bernstein and Leonard Cohen. And many sleeves-worth of Croatian pickings, running from urban Mostar electro-trance to military drinking songs, and other esoteric eccentricities.
I’ve been entertaining him with White Zombie, Zappa and BB King, for four years, unaware of the bass-line that’s been running through my buddy’s personal soundtrack all this time. And so, I’m learning again. Right now it's Dexter Gordon (a name I knew but never consciously heard), and the many others I’ve been sampling, tasting, and saving to my laptop these past few days.
So this is what Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond were up to at Carnegie Hall back in the fall of ’63? Sweetness!
……… and so the battle goes on. News and views: New York Times this morning announced both editor and ME are leaving after the whole scandal with the Jayson Wazzisname, the golden boy, the poster-child for in-house affirmative action (he’s black) who cooked half of the stories he wrote since October of last year. Another journo living real in a post-modern world. Gimme substance abuse and gimme Beltway snipers baby, and I’m good to go.
Always curious about the moral judgments passed at these moments. This young fellow deserved to get caned, no doubt. Bitch slapped? Oh yeah.
Funny thing though. Most of the people my age I know who’ve been operating at the international levels of the business say that while I was banging away in obscurity in Western Canada for so many years, they’ve been witnessing the gradual decay in the quality of international journalism, accuracy sacrificed for access, some sort of objective truth lost to higher in-house political ambitions (something I’ve seen personally, reporters torque-ing up stories from Indonesia because it is safe to do so and it moves your byline from inside Page 14 ). These friends with the majors are almost uniformly appalled by the extent to which their colleagues lie, cheat and bullshit their way through assignments.
Spoke with one friend who’s a “Face” with one of the networks recently who identified three on-air journalists most competent news consumers are familiar with that he said were notorious for filing stories that were not only not accurate, but were complete figments of their imagination. When pressed, he came up with specific examples. And, we’re not talking about the bald-faced lies Geraldo filed from Tora Bora, but more recent stories from Southeast and Central Asia that had no basis in fact.
More on this I’m sure in later editions. For now though the blood is starting to chill, Dexter’s mellowing me out and I’m gonna crash.
ACTUALLY WRITTEN 02:00, 06-06-03
pjdillon@attglobal.net
These late night files have got to end!
Funny how three pints of Bintang and a glass of Chardonay will turn yer average, mild mannered typist into some sort of wordsmith in waiting… this is the way it use to be, light buzz, free association time… lets see where we end up tonight.
The voyage of discovery continues today with new music files, and continuing tale of the Grinch and his music box.
As the casual reader will be aware, I’m losing a small part of myself with the departure from the archipela-nation of my best man Sasa, he of the Yogyakarta, joint tattoo session of two weeks ago. I’m not gonna gloom and doom about that ‘cause there’s always tomorrow or tomorrow for that. Mentioned here only in the context of how sometimes the learning only comes when it gets to be late in the day and transit is bad and maybe you’re gonna have to leave early and you don’t really know for sure when you throw “See ya later” over your shoulder just how long “later” might turn out to be…
And so here’s the word. I’m sitting propped up in bed (alone, on account of my sweety being off in East Java doing the family thing for a couple of days) accompanied by the whirling of the AC and Dexter Gordon’s smooth-as-bubur ayam sax on the deck, and it is all very fine.
What do you learn from someone’s music collection? Better yet, what do you learn about your own constricted airs when thrown a stash of new music, of names you know but have never really listened to?
I wouldn’t be lingering amidst these silky airs this evening had Sasa not dropped off about 15 kgs of CDs to be blended and mulched and scored into my hard-drive and turned into a usable, ‘groovable playlist for Friday’s big “goin’ ‘way” party (more on that later: ed). See, ‘cause even though we’ve covered a lot of ground over a couple dozen long evenings, I had no idea of my man Sasa's musical tastes extended to so many variably variable terrains.
I’m looking at platters worth of Ella James and Shostakovich, Aretha and Vivaldi, oblique African jazz rhythms and Eric Clapton. Al DiMeola and Fiddler On The Roof. Leonard Bernstein and Leonard Cohen. And many sleeves-worth of Croatian pickings, running from urban Mostar electro-trance to military drinking songs, and other esoteric eccentricities.
I’ve been entertaining him with White Zombie, Zappa and BB King, for four years, unaware of the bass-line that’s been running through my buddy’s personal soundtrack all this time. And so, I’m learning again. Right now it's Dexter Gordon (a name I knew but never consciously heard), and the many others I’ve been sampling, tasting, and saving to my laptop these past few days.
So this is what Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond were up to at Carnegie Hall back in the fall of ’63? Sweetness!
……… and so the battle goes on. News and views: New York Times this morning announced both editor and ME are leaving after the whole scandal with the Jayson Wazzisname, the golden boy, the poster-child for in-house affirmative action (he’s black) who cooked half of the stories he wrote since October of last year. Another journo living real in a post-modern world. Gimme substance abuse and gimme Beltway snipers baby, and I’m good to go.
Always curious about the moral judgments passed at these moments. This young fellow deserved to get caned, no doubt. Bitch slapped? Oh yeah.
Funny thing though. Most of the people my age I know who’ve been operating at the international levels of the business say that while I was banging away in obscurity in Western Canada for so many years, they’ve been witnessing the gradual decay in the quality of international journalism, accuracy sacrificed for access, some sort of objective truth lost to higher in-house political ambitions (something I’ve seen personally, reporters torque-ing up stories from Indonesia because it is safe to do so and it moves your byline from inside Page 14 ). These friends with the majors are almost uniformly appalled by the extent to which their colleagues lie, cheat and bullshit their way through assignments.
Spoke with one friend who’s a “Face” with one of the networks recently who identified three on-air journalists most competent news consumers are familiar with that he said were notorious for filing stories that were not only not accurate, but were complete figments of their imagination. When pressed, he came up with specific examples. And, we’re not talking about the bald-faced lies Geraldo filed from Tora Bora, but more recent stories from Southeast and Central Asia that had no basis in fact.
More on this I’m sure in later editions. For now though the blood is starting to chill, Dexter’s mellowing me out and I’m gonna crash.
Monday, June 02, 2003
Loathsome Palace Lizards Declare War
pjdillon@attglobal.net
I’m seized by these moments recently of absolute disgust and loathing. Mostly it’s directed at the conscienceless crooks, at the vile, populist whores in high office, and the zealots in the armed forces whose commanders (careerists with at least some sense of military history and the ‘code’ etc) for the most part seem to have learned absolutely nothing from the sacrifices of their forefathers on 10,000 battlefields across multiple millennia.
(I’m talking about Indonesia right now but feel free…)
I’m self-aware enough to fight the pull towards becoming one of those obnoxious and painful ex-pats who’ll bitch and moan 24/7 from the comfort of their plush bar stools or catered golf charity events, but this new, unnecessary war in Aceh is sooo pissing me off.
50,000 soldiers and half again as many police backed by attack aircraft, artillery, tanks and armored vehicles. A khaki-clad zealot in charge of operations, reporting to one of the more reprehensible characters the Indo military (TNI) has spat out in recent years, the point-man for the demolition of East Timor.
All talk is about “crushing” the Free Aceh Movement (GAM), something a nine-year-long military free fire zone (till 2000) failed to do. They did manage to kill something in the order of 7,000 civilians and rape 10,000 women (according to the toothless, widely ignored national human rights commission) during that period. That’s roughly two murders and three rapes a day, every day for almost a decade, in a province of about four million people.
The laugh-till-you-cry part of this is that the head of the Armed Forces reared up on both hind legs last week to say that it is unlikely they’ll be able to get rid of the GAM. And so you’re in there now for what reason…..?
This week he takes it one step further, telling Time magazine that, well, look, pretty much it’s okay to kill civilians and kids because, well, they might have guns. Perhaps we can get our brains around shooting a 12-year-old kid carrying an AK-47. But is it necessary to execute unarmed children (or adults for that matter) who have the temerity to run from a TNI patrol when they’ve been brought up on a steady diet of excesses by those same soldiers?
The West’s golden boy in the palace, security minister Yudhoyono has shown his true colors, his military pedigree; the spineless minister responsible for human rights fights a real guard action, attacking foreign journos who question his ability to deal with the inevitable raft of brutality charges that’ll emerge from Aceh; while right at the top of the shitpile, the feckless bitch who would be Queen (the same one who publicly swore two years ago that she’d never raise a hand to her ‘Acehnese children’; the one who had students arrested and charged for daring to walk on a poster of her face: “I thought I looked quite pretty in that picture” she comments later) refuses to meet foreign envoys appealing for calm and patience as the clock ticks towards the May 19 deadline for peace talks. Basically, she’s not been seen since the fighting began. Last month she emerged from her gilded burrow long enough to see the shadow of a problem (the trials of the Bali bombers) and scurried back again.
The other variety of reptile here is, as always, fairly predictable. The Yanks went to the wall trying to get a last minute deal to prevent this from happening and got nothing. Now that the killing has started of course they’ll line up behind the government while mouthing words like human rights. Post-Iraq Washington needs whatever reluctant support the Indonesians will give, and I’ve a strong feeling that the wily Javanese exacted a high cost for that support before April’s Monster Truck show north of Kuwait.
The British ambassador threw his weight behind the ‘national unity’ line Jakarta has been using to justify this latest abomination, and Alexander Downer, the Aussie foreign minister, when asked what he thinks about human rights abuses committed in Aceh says that he wishes GAM would stop doing them.
I want to meet that smarmy bastard one day. He’s too self-satisfied for his own good and there’s a few people I know lining up to know knock that look through the back of his mouth.
When you think about it, who’s got more to lose geopolitically, The States and it’s allies or Indonesia? It looks, at least on the surface, that the folks at Istana Merdeka have got Bush Younger and his posse over the preverbial barrel. Indeed they have for some time. It’ll be interesting to see how those administrations deal with Indonesia when it returns to a military dictatorship in a few years. Hell, the Army never really stopped running the friggin’ country.
How’s that for a gloomy prognosis.
I’m going to find something else to write about later this week. Like how I've become a Body Nazi, or stumbling across an elementary school radio tucked away in the lush base of the very Fuji-esque Slamet Mtn. Or how cool my new tattoo is. Or something. Tonight, I just needed to vent.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Fat Boy and The Battle of Anaconda
pjdillon@attglobal.net
A few weeks back I was blogging on at the gross of numbers and passwords that inhabit our everyday lives. Phone numbers, government numbers, website password alphanumeric combinations, addresses, ages and the like.
Today I’ve another series of numbers, gross on to add to the list.
After much emmming and ahhhing I’ve finally started on a regular routine with a personal trainer, I’ll call him The Pope, lead Inquisitor at The Club of Pain.
I know the whole personal trainer things is so, like, 1988 but I’ve always lolly-gaggled a couple blocks behind the cutting edge, admiring the view, making leaf dams above the sewer grates and taking he piss out of $1,000 Armani’s, automatic transmission and anything remotely Hollywood. So, the 15-year lag is nothing exceptional: I’m still waiting to catch Philip Glass in concert…. ooops.
Of all the numbers I’m now faced with there’s a single that rises above the rest, it’s a number that reflects, for the first time accurately, what exactly has been going on in my life for the past six months. For you slower kids (leave those soggy leaves alone and pull up a stump) who might not have been keeping track, back in November I came down with a wicked double dose of malaria, falciparum and vivax together, that kinda threw me for a loop. I’ve not written about the experience yet (see para above if you’re still confused as to why) but my friends will tell you I’ve bored them to tears with the whole experience, one shared by 10 per cent of humankind annually, though perhaps only a select few hundred thousand get a double whammy.
Since my close encounter with the other side, for I have it on the doctor’s authority that I was one chat away from a free trip to the great concrete half-pipe in the sky, I’ve discovered a renewed taste for life (ahem) and have vigorously applied myself to enjoying it. Which is to say that I’ve done little else but eat since the MDs cleared me to go home back in mid-November and the results are there for all to see.
And so there are two new numbers: the first is 104 kgs (230 lbs for any American Neanderthals out there), my body weight as of 1 pm Monday. And I was no Slim Jim before.
My second new, and terrifying number is 28.8. Actually, it’s 28.8 per cent. Body fat. As in, almost a third of my body is fat. I am in fact a walking, talking, blogging deep-fried, chocolate-coated banana. I should go on tour.
I am John Earl Hughes (check Guinness Book Of World Records… or Ripley’s). In six short months I’ve gained four pant sizes and frankly, even getting into the parachutes I’m wearing now is getting to be a chore. I have actually developed gravity: small objects like Bic lighters, cocktail peanuts and crack vials actually rise up to circle my moon as a pass, tiny pathetic satellites about a malevolent planetary body that might devour them given half the chance.
On a more personal note, I’ve noticed that as the size of one’s gut grows so the relative size and menace of one’s unit appears to shrink. Though I’m not one to obsess about this kind of things (editor: too many hours between the ages of 13 and 24 doing that, methinks!), I have noted a recent medical story that as men age, they can expect to see up to a 30 percent loss in, ummm, real estate, south of the border. Now, I’m no mathematician (or real estate agent) but the combination of tectonic shifts creating vast new tracts of land and shrinking ‘points of interest’ is troubling to my inner dirty-old-man.
I’m not sure how exactly it happened. I eat rice, fish and veggies, admittedly with some real tasty deep-fried items like tempe and perkadel jagung, almost exclusively. I drink beer, enough to account for a bit of a gut, but not the Anaconda wrapped about my waist at the moment. I even get exercise, and was hitting the gym fairly regularly, working my way up to half a dozen three-minute rounds with the heavy bag and pushing railcars worth of weight around several times a week, particularly through February and March, before tailing off.
Maybe it’s because I eat everything on my plate. Maybe because I use as that plate a serving dish fit for a suckling pig… kidding… and Mom taught us to finish our meals on account of the poor starving kids in Africa (editor: sure doughboy, blame yer mother).
More likely it’s the combination of eating really big portions, a lack of commitment to cardio workouts over those forgiving Universal weight contraptions, quitting smoking after two decades on the pipe stirred into a body that’s 38 and running a bit slower than the earlier 16-year-old model that used to wolf down an entire of loaf of bread and half a kg of cheese at a sitting.
Whatever the reason (and if one more person suggests beer I’m gonna blow), it’s about to end. The Pope and I have gone to war with The Anaconda. It’s only Day Three but I’m pretty confident that an aggressive plan of attack, good intel about the snake’s plans and a commitment to keeping rice, deep-frieds and the like off the daily menu is going to make a different over the next few months.
I won’t blog you to death with my progress, this is not some friggin’ masculine version of Bridget Jones Diary, or an out-take from Details or Men’s Health (30 Days To Rock Hard Abs!!!) going on here, but I will on-pass the high points along the way.
Wish The Grinch luck.
pjdillon@attglobal.net
A few weeks back I was blogging on at the gross of numbers and passwords that inhabit our everyday lives. Phone numbers, government numbers, website password alphanumeric combinations, addresses, ages and the like.
Today I’ve another series of numbers, gross on to add to the list.
After much emmming and ahhhing I’ve finally started on a regular routine with a personal trainer, I’ll call him The Pope, lead Inquisitor at The Club of Pain.
I know the whole personal trainer things is so, like, 1988 but I’ve always lolly-gaggled a couple blocks behind the cutting edge, admiring the view, making leaf dams above the sewer grates and taking he piss out of $1,000 Armani’s, automatic transmission and anything remotely Hollywood. So, the 15-year lag is nothing exceptional: I’m still waiting to catch Philip Glass in concert…. ooops.
Of all the numbers I’m now faced with there’s a single that rises above the rest, it’s a number that reflects, for the first time accurately, what exactly has been going on in my life for the past six months. For you slower kids (leave those soggy leaves alone and pull up a stump) who might not have been keeping track, back in November I came down with a wicked double dose of malaria, falciparum and vivax together, that kinda threw me for a loop. I’ve not written about the experience yet (see para above if you’re still confused as to why) but my friends will tell you I’ve bored them to tears with the whole experience, one shared by 10 per cent of humankind annually, though perhaps only a select few hundred thousand get a double whammy.
Since my close encounter with the other side, for I have it on the doctor’s authority that I was one chat away from a free trip to the great concrete half-pipe in the sky, I’ve discovered a renewed taste for life (ahem) and have vigorously applied myself to enjoying it. Which is to say that I’ve done little else but eat since the MDs cleared me to go home back in mid-November and the results are there for all to see.
And so there are two new numbers: the first is 104 kgs (230 lbs for any American Neanderthals out there), my body weight as of 1 pm Monday. And I was no Slim Jim before.
My second new, and terrifying number is 28.8. Actually, it’s 28.8 per cent. Body fat. As in, almost a third of my body is fat. I am in fact a walking, talking, blogging deep-fried, chocolate-coated banana. I should go on tour.
I am John Earl Hughes (check Guinness Book Of World Records… or Ripley’s). In six short months I’ve gained four pant sizes and frankly, even getting into the parachutes I’m wearing now is getting to be a chore. I have actually developed gravity: small objects like Bic lighters, cocktail peanuts and crack vials actually rise up to circle my moon as a pass, tiny pathetic satellites about a malevolent planetary body that might devour them given half the chance.
On a more personal note, I’ve noticed that as the size of one’s gut grows so the relative size and menace of one’s unit appears to shrink. Though I’m not one to obsess about this kind of things (editor: too many hours between the ages of 13 and 24 doing that, methinks!), I have noted a recent medical story that as men age, they can expect to see up to a 30 percent loss in, ummm, real estate, south of the border. Now, I’m no mathematician (or real estate agent) but the combination of tectonic shifts creating vast new tracts of land and shrinking ‘points of interest’ is troubling to my inner dirty-old-man.
I’m not sure how exactly it happened. I eat rice, fish and veggies, admittedly with some real tasty deep-fried items like tempe and perkadel jagung, almost exclusively. I drink beer, enough to account for a bit of a gut, but not the Anaconda wrapped about my waist at the moment. I even get exercise, and was hitting the gym fairly regularly, working my way up to half a dozen three-minute rounds with the heavy bag and pushing railcars worth of weight around several times a week, particularly through February and March, before tailing off.
Maybe it’s because I eat everything on my plate. Maybe because I use as that plate a serving dish fit for a suckling pig… kidding… and Mom taught us to finish our meals on account of the poor starving kids in Africa (editor: sure doughboy, blame yer mother).
More likely it’s the combination of eating really big portions, a lack of commitment to cardio workouts over those forgiving Universal weight contraptions, quitting smoking after two decades on the pipe stirred into a body that’s 38 and running a bit slower than the earlier 16-year-old model that used to wolf down an entire of loaf of bread and half a kg of cheese at a sitting.
Whatever the reason (and if one more person suggests beer I’m gonna blow), it’s about to end. The Pope and I have gone to war with The Anaconda. It’s only Day Three but I’m pretty confident that an aggressive plan of attack, good intel about the snake’s plans and a commitment to keeping rice, deep-frieds and the like off the daily menu is going to make a different over the next few months.
I won’t blog you to death with my progress, this is not some friggin’ masculine version of Bridget Jones Diary, or an out-take from Details or Men’s Health (30 Days To Rock Hard Abs!!!) going on here, but I will on-pass the high points along the way.
Wish The Grinch luck.
Saturday, May 17, 2003
Blogged Up On The Island Of The Gods
pjdillon@attglobal.net
Something went badly wrong last week while I was in Bali writing about the opening day of the Amrozi trial, the first of 33 conspirators believed responsible for the Sari Club bomb back on Oct. 12 of last year.
I actually blogged a couple of the stories I wrote, the first for The Globe & Mail and the second, for USA Today. For some reason, neither ended up sticking. Weird because my word-flow is usually sticky enough to adhere to even the most smooth and inhospitable of surfaces. So, in the interests of the public record, and to prove that I actually do work occasionally, here we go again.
NOTE: These are the versions scalped from their papers’ respective web sites. Each has been updated with a brief wire service update, a function of the papers both going to the printers before I’ve woken on this side of the Pacific.
The Globe story, which ran the day after the trial (13-05) is otherwise exactly the same as what I filed, while roughly 200 words have been shorn from the USA Today copy (12-05), mostly street interviews with local residents and tourists, as I’d been requested to do.
They begin below.
Bombing trial begins in Bali
By PAUL DILLON
Special to The Globe and Mail
Tuesday, May 13, 2003 - Page A15
DENPASAR, INDONESIA -- Two walls of Sisa DeJesus's office, which rests at the edge of a picture-postcard Balinese rice paddy, are covered with the painful memories of the children she works with, the youngest victims of the world's worst terrorist strike since Sept. 11, 2001.
In style, many of the paintings are indistinguishable from the crude products of kindergarten-aged children everywhere -- except that these are the horrific imaginings of youngsters whose parents were killed when Islamic militants detonated a massive car bomb outside a packed nightclub on the resort of Kuta's seedy Legian strip last Oct. 12.
"This little girl Dinda's mother was driving past the Sari Club to pick up her husband at the hotel where he worked when the bomb went off," says Ms. DeJesus, a transplanted New York native, pointing toward a painting that features a wild, airy web of brown spatter tightening to a densely packed riot of red and black at its base. "She told us it's a picture of Mommy's motorbike. She's three years old."
Yesterday marked the opening of the first trial in the Kuta bombing, at a special courtroom in nearby Denpasar, less than two kilometres from the office where Ms. DeJesus works. The court was packed with spectators and guarded by snipers and bomb-sniffing dogs as a police convoy brought the first suspect, Amrozi, who like many Indonesians goes by one name, to answer administrative questions from a five-judge panel.
The short proceedings completed, the trial was adjourned until next Monday. But it was a far more significant event for the hundreds of spectators, most of whom watched on two large television screens set up outside the courthouse.
"Let's just kill him. He killed our friends after all," said Wayan Sumerta, a 35-year-old Balinese driver.
Elsewhere, streets were deserted as Balinese watched live on television, a people transfixed by the memories of last October's carnage, in which 202 people died, more than 350 were injured and the island's reputation as a peaceful tourist idyll was forever changed.
Today, there is little evidence that anything untoward happened at the intersection of Jalan Legian and Poppies Lane II, where the bombs went off. Buildings damaged by the blast are being rebuilt or renovated, and a solid green fence separates pedestrian traffic from the empty lot that once held the Sari Club.
There's talk of a memorial of some sort, but the the Kuta strip has slipped back into its seedy persona, a mix of bars and restaurants, high-end surf shops, low-rent T-shirt hawkers ("Osama don't Surf" is a big seller), beggars, hookers and drug dealers.
A middle-aged Balinese man in mirrored shades leaning against a van across the street from the Sari lot is fairly representative of the area's full-time street population. "Hey boss, you wanna buy some hashish, some good hashish?" he says by way of an opening line. "You want transport? You wanna buy a T-shirt? Marijuana?"
Yet the bombing's effects continue to reverberate in Bali, which has long been dependent on tourism. The hotel industry has been ravaged, with some hotels recording single-digit occupancy. Hundreds of thousands of people have lost their livelihoods.
"This bomb before and now SARS has destroyed the economy of Bali," said a Balinese bartender who gives his name as Willi. "For so many years, we were able to look forward to a regular paycheque -- so we had plenty of kids, bought motorbikes and cars and DVD machines. Now no one has any money and we try to sell our stuff to buy food."
It would have been worse but for the loyalty shown by a small core group of repeat visitors, such as Terry McNish and his family, Australians who have been visiting Bali on vacation for years.
"Look, if something is going to happen, mate, it's going to happen. But you can't live your life looking over your shoulder all the time," he said.
END
Bali bombing trial starts Monday
By Paul Dillon, special for USA TODAY
DENPASAR, Indonesia — Ayu Prihana-Dewi was six hours into a busy Saturday night shift as a cashier at the bustling Sari Club when a massive explosion blew out the front of the sprawling nightspot, tossing her across the room.
Terrorists had struck the softest of targets, a Bali nightclub packed with hundreds of vacationers. More than 200 people died, and 350 were injured in the attack Oct. 12. Among the dead: more than 80 Australians, 38 Indonesians and seven Americans.
Today, the first of 33 suspects in the Sari Club bombing will be tried. On the eve of the trial, the last of Prihana-Dewi's physical scars — third-degree burns on her left forearm — have finally healed. Mentally, too, the 22-year-old claims to be making a full recovery, though the prospect of attending the trials makes her shiver.
"For the first few months, if I'd met these terrorist people, I would have killed them," says Prihana-Dewi, who now works with an aid group assisting the families of Balinese victims of the blast. "I've come to understand that the law is there for a reason, so I'm happy to see the trials start."
Indonesian prosecutors will read out a 33-page indictment today against Amrozi bin Nushasim, a small town mechanic from East Java suspected of buying the vehicle and materials used to build the bomb and transporting them to Bali. The trial is expected to last almost five months. It is the long-awaited first phase of criminal proceedings against the 33 men, including two of Amrozi's brothers, suspected of belonging to Jemaah Islamiyah, a group dedicated to creating a pan-Islamic state comprising the Philippines, the Malaysian peninsula and Indonesia.
Several suspects have reportedly confessed to their role in the bombing and said they carried out the operation to avenge the deaths of Muslims elsewhere in the world.
The attack on the Sari Club forced a reluctant Indonesia, the world's most-populous Muslim nation, into the fight against Islamic extremism. Despite a history of religious tolerance and suspicion of fundamentalist preachers, the sprawling and politically unstable archipelago comprising more than 18,000 islands is seen as the ideal base of operations for regional terror groups — some linked to Osama bin Laden's al-Qaeda network.
The Indonesian security agency, with assistance from law enforcement agencies in Australia and the USA, rapidly identified and arrested dozens of alleged members of Jemaah Islamiyah. They included most but not all of the principal suspects in the Bali bombing.
Western analysts say Jemaah Islamiyah's ability to operate has been degraded, but it is still in operation. "I think they retain some capacity to network. But it's become very difficult to plan a major strike of the kind we saw in Bali, which involved many meetings in many different places, because now, almost inevitably, one of these meetings is going to be infiltrated," says Sidney Jones of International Crisis Group.
Jemaah Islamiyah's retreat has done little to help Bali. It is dependent on tourism, and the plummeting numbers of visitors has cost hundreds of thousands of jobs. Indonesia also is struggling with separatist movements. In Aceh, the northernmost province in Sumatra, the government says it will crush a 27-year rebellion despite a 5-month-old Swiss-brokered cease-fire.
Indonesia's military has been pouring troops into the area. It vows to renew fighting if the rebels refuse to meet government demands to put down their weapons and accept autonomy by today.
END
pjdillon@attglobal.net
Something went badly wrong last week while I was in Bali writing about the opening day of the Amrozi trial, the first of 33 conspirators believed responsible for the Sari Club bomb back on Oct. 12 of last year.
I actually blogged a couple of the stories I wrote, the first for The Globe & Mail and the second, for USA Today. For some reason, neither ended up sticking. Weird because my word-flow is usually sticky enough to adhere to even the most smooth and inhospitable of surfaces. So, in the interests of the public record, and to prove that I actually do work occasionally, here we go again.
NOTE: These are the versions scalped from their papers’ respective web sites. Each has been updated with a brief wire service update, a function of the papers both going to the printers before I’ve woken on this side of the Pacific.
The Globe story, which ran the day after the trial (13-05) is otherwise exactly the same as what I filed, while roughly 200 words have been shorn from the USA Today copy (12-05), mostly street interviews with local residents and tourists, as I’d been requested to do.
They begin below.
Bombing trial begins in Bali
By PAUL DILLON
Special to The Globe and Mail
Tuesday, May 13, 2003 - Page A15
DENPASAR, INDONESIA -- Two walls of Sisa DeJesus's office, which rests at the edge of a picture-postcard Balinese rice paddy, are covered with the painful memories of the children she works with, the youngest victims of the world's worst terrorist strike since Sept. 11, 2001.
In style, many of the paintings are indistinguishable from the crude products of kindergarten-aged children everywhere -- except that these are the horrific imaginings of youngsters whose parents were killed when Islamic militants detonated a massive car bomb outside a packed nightclub on the resort of Kuta's seedy Legian strip last Oct. 12.
"This little girl Dinda's mother was driving past the Sari Club to pick up her husband at the hotel where he worked when the bomb went off," says Ms. DeJesus, a transplanted New York native, pointing toward a painting that features a wild, airy web of brown spatter tightening to a densely packed riot of red and black at its base. "She told us it's a picture of Mommy's motorbike. She's three years old."
Yesterday marked the opening of the first trial in the Kuta bombing, at a special courtroom in nearby Denpasar, less than two kilometres from the office where Ms. DeJesus works. The court was packed with spectators and guarded by snipers and bomb-sniffing dogs as a police convoy brought the first suspect, Amrozi, who like many Indonesians goes by one name, to answer administrative questions from a five-judge panel.
The short proceedings completed, the trial was adjourned until next Monday. But it was a far more significant event for the hundreds of spectators, most of whom watched on two large television screens set up outside the courthouse.
"Let's just kill him. He killed our friends after all," said Wayan Sumerta, a 35-year-old Balinese driver.
Elsewhere, streets were deserted as Balinese watched live on television, a people transfixed by the memories of last October's carnage, in which 202 people died, more than 350 were injured and the island's reputation as a peaceful tourist idyll was forever changed.
Today, there is little evidence that anything untoward happened at the intersection of Jalan Legian and Poppies Lane II, where the bombs went off. Buildings damaged by the blast are being rebuilt or renovated, and a solid green fence separates pedestrian traffic from the empty lot that once held the Sari Club.
There's talk of a memorial of some sort, but the the Kuta strip has slipped back into its seedy persona, a mix of bars and restaurants, high-end surf shops, low-rent T-shirt hawkers ("Osama don't Surf" is a big seller), beggars, hookers and drug dealers.
A middle-aged Balinese man in mirrored shades leaning against a van across the street from the Sari lot is fairly representative of the area's full-time street population. "Hey boss, you wanna buy some hashish, some good hashish?" he says by way of an opening line. "You want transport? You wanna buy a T-shirt? Marijuana?"
Yet the bombing's effects continue to reverberate in Bali, which has long been dependent on tourism. The hotel industry has been ravaged, with some hotels recording single-digit occupancy. Hundreds of thousands of people have lost their livelihoods.
"This bomb before and now SARS has destroyed the economy of Bali," said a Balinese bartender who gives his name as Willi. "For so many years, we were able to look forward to a regular paycheque -- so we had plenty of kids, bought motorbikes and cars and DVD machines. Now no one has any money and we try to sell our stuff to buy food."
It would have been worse but for the loyalty shown by a small core group of repeat visitors, such as Terry McNish and his family, Australians who have been visiting Bali on vacation for years.
"Look, if something is going to happen, mate, it's going to happen. But you can't live your life looking over your shoulder all the time," he said.
END
Bali bombing trial starts Monday
By Paul Dillon, special for USA TODAY
DENPASAR, Indonesia — Ayu Prihana-Dewi was six hours into a busy Saturday night shift as a cashier at the bustling Sari Club when a massive explosion blew out the front of the sprawling nightspot, tossing her across the room.
Terrorists had struck the softest of targets, a Bali nightclub packed with hundreds of vacationers. More than 200 people died, and 350 were injured in the attack Oct. 12. Among the dead: more than 80 Australians, 38 Indonesians and seven Americans.
Today, the first of 33 suspects in the Sari Club bombing will be tried. On the eve of the trial, the last of Prihana-Dewi's physical scars — third-degree burns on her left forearm — have finally healed. Mentally, too, the 22-year-old claims to be making a full recovery, though the prospect of attending the trials makes her shiver.
"For the first few months, if I'd met these terrorist people, I would have killed them," says Prihana-Dewi, who now works with an aid group assisting the families of Balinese victims of the blast. "I've come to understand that the law is there for a reason, so I'm happy to see the trials start."
Indonesian prosecutors will read out a 33-page indictment today against Amrozi bin Nushasim, a small town mechanic from East Java suspected of buying the vehicle and materials used to build the bomb and transporting them to Bali. The trial is expected to last almost five months. It is the long-awaited first phase of criminal proceedings against the 33 men, including two of Amrozi's brothers, suspected of belonging to Jemaah Islamiyah, a group dedicated to creating a pan-Islamic state comprising the Philippines, the Malaysian peninsula and Indonesia.
Several suspects have reportedly confessed to their role in the bombing and said they carried out the operation to avenge the deaths of Muslims elsewhere in the world.
The attack on the Sari Club forced a reluctant Indonesia, the world's most-populous Muslim nation, into the fight against Islamic extremism. Despite a history of religious tolerance and suspicion of fundamentalist preachers, the sprawling and politically unstable archipelago comprising more than 18,000 islands is seen as the ideal base of operations for regional terror groups — some linked to Osama bin Laden's al-Qaeda network.
The Indonesian security agency, with assistance from law enforcement agencies in Australia and the USA, rapidly identified and arrested dozens of alleged members of Jemaah Islamiyah. They included most but not all of the principal suspects in the Bali bombing.
Western analysts say Jemaah Islamiyah's ability to operate has been degraded, but it is still in operation. "I think they retain some capacity to network. But it's become very difficult to plan a major strike of the kind we saw in Bali, which involved many meetings in many different places, because now, almost inevitably, one of these meetings is going to be infiltrated," says Sidney Jones of International Crisis Group.
Jemaah Islamiyah's retreat has done little to help Bali. It is dependent on tourism, and the plummeting numbers of visitors has cost hundreds of thousands of jobs. Indonesia also is struggling with separatist movements. In Aceh, the northernmost province in Sumatra, the government says it will crush a 27-year rebellion despite a 5-month-old Swiss-brokered cease-fire.
Indonesia's military has been pouring troops into the area. It vows to renew fighting if the rebels refuse to meet government demands to put down their weapons and accept autonomy by today.
END
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