Ah, the excitement of first days. Nothing beats that mixed feeling of anxiety, curiosity and fear of being bullied. Well I guess the proper thing would be to make a little introduction. The name's Kartika Jahja -- Tika if you prefer to go on first-name basis -- and I will be littering your lovely Sundays from now on.

Yes, I am your average Indonesian girl. Born and raised in Jakarta with all the stereotypical upbringing that has been the subject of many politically incorrect jokes.

I am not going to try to impress you with swank talk. The big words are on the other pages of the newspaper, thank you. But if you are an expat, you will at least get some city dirt from someone who has literally been hit by the city bus twice and looted a little during the 1998 riots.

If you are a Jakartan like myself, then let us all join hands in bitching at the things we grew up to detest but can't really change.

So what's poppin' in Jakarta after the holiday joy has faded back into rush hour traffic?

If nothing interests me, I could always go to Pasar Mayestik again to eavesdrop on the latest news edited by the seamstresses and knockoff shoe vendors.

Last time, I found out about how automotive spare parts have gotten so unaffordable that most bajaj drivers had to go DIY in fixing their beat-up rides. Made me think twice before getting in those orange fun wheels.

But apparently there was an interesting event around the east end of the city. A studio gig titled "Noisibition". Please try not to cringe at the word. We confused urban youths love combining two words to form new meaningless ones; Tripcoustic, Artcoholic, Noisibition. The latter obviously deriving from Noise and Exhibition.

For those of you untouched by the sexy fringe culture, studio gigs are small music events held in rehearsal studios. Some claim that the humble choice of venue is for the sake of intimacy and total creative control as opposed to the bright and glittery club gigs.

Yet some admit it's just the cheaper way to go. This particular one, however, was held in a studio that resembled a crack den from a B movie, with blue lighting that added a sinetron-esque tinge to it.

Sound samples of people chattering and traffic noise were composed along a blaring television in the middle of the set with a young man constantly channel surfing throughout the performance. OK, I see where this is going. As the next performers -- some funny-haired somber-faced college kids -- finished setting up, I was already on my way home.

There was a time when noise art was compelling to me. But living in Jakarta with all the noise pollution enveloping me, my brain has stopped processing noise as an element of art. The decibel level in this city is increasing at an alarmingly rapid pace. There are of course the palpable factors like the sudden peak of motor vehicle ownership in the city. But I'll leave that to the more serious, statistic-loving writers.

I am more interested in knowing who had the bright idea of putting DJs in mall atriums while in that same mall a live band plays in a caf* with no soundproofing, and the cafe next to it cranks out some "Best of the 90s" compilation?

Add to that the teenagers and the hair-gelled yuppies shouting at each other while their coffee gets cold and the band does another cover of "I will survive".

Who had the brilliant innovation of talking parking machines? You know, the ones at the gate of every building that says, "Please take a ticket." It's definitely not out of concern for blind drivers.

And who put out the unwritten rule that every pirated DVD stall in every ITC in Jakarta must play sappy ballads at maximum volume?

Meanwhile, the city's commuters have also shown support for the mass deafening movement. Aside from the tone-deaf buskers, bus and angkot drivers have initiated putting heavy sound systems in their vehicles to pump house music versions of their favorite dangdut tunes.

I simply conclude that all the audio atrocity is merely a survival tool. How else would they grab our attention? We're jaded people. The threshold of astonishment for us urbanites keeps getting higher and higher. We need them to shout right into our ears to get us to notice their presence.

When I discussed this with a friend, she mentioned how not so long ago, the wind-blown sounds of the Adzan prayer call from a distant mosque felt soothing. Now, the Adzan is conditioned to compete with the rest of the city's screams, so much so that it has lost some of its majesty.

"I went to a small town in Sulawesi a month ago and heard the Adzan while riding a motorcycle," she told me. "It was a sacred moment, as if the Adzan stood on its own while the other sounds stepped back to make way for it."

Well here in the metropolis, we don't step back to give way for anything. Not even for ambulances, let alone sound.

-- Kartika Jahja

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