By the way: Confessions of an ignorant journalist

Ian Jompa   |  Sun, 11/01/2009 12:27 PM  |  Headlines

My senior once told me, to become an excellent journalist one must be able to find “the best stories, the best food and the best girls.” Such was an odd lesson from a guy who is arguably one of the best writers here in the city.

On finding the best stories, an international business journal once published my work with minor editing and failed to give any attribution apart from “a local media reported”. If that’s not copyright infringement, I don’t know what is, but I decided to take it as validation of my ability to produce good stories and to get cocky about it.

Finding the best food, on the other hand, is an entirely different ball game. I know exactly where to find food that I think deserves to be called ambrosia, but I bet there are some people who would differ. As they say, one man’s meat is another man’s poison. So, I rest my case.

Now, the best girls. I was second guessing what my senior had in mind, but I’m pretty sure he was referring to a particular type of feline. As so happens, a colleague of mine was going to investigate Jakarta’s underworld, which of course include the sex trade. Voila! And so I tagged along in the adventure, with the hope of completing my portfolio.

We went to this place in Central Jakarta, located just a few hundred meters to the north-west of the state palace where Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono exerts his “can do” spirit on a daily basis and exercises his mandate as the newly elected president, his second chance to do good.

This place is a six-story building that the owner wants to call a hotel. I guess there is some truth in that because it does have rooms to rent and beds to sleep on, except it offers things you normally can’t find in most hotels.

We were given funky bracelets when we registered at the reception. They were made of rubber — stretchable just like a phone cord — and with a tag number attached. And so I became guest No. 98.

The sheer anonymity of it was thrilling, except for the fact that I had to pay Rp 90,000 just to get in while knowing nothing on what to expect.

As if aware that we were newbies, the receptionist told us to follow the bellboy to the escalator. Obligingly we did.

As we move up inside the escalator, we heard house music getting louder. When the doors opened, we saw a scene that would be normal for a big club in the city — dark, damp, stroboscopic, neon lights, and repetitive beats.

The interior of the club, to me, must have been designed by person who flunked it in a Versace fashion academy or was a modern-day Caligula — rather unsettling. There was no dance floor at the center of club, but instead a very long bar with both ends connecting, shaping a square. The surface of the bar was glowing white and strong enough to walk on and even dance on.

Yes, there were girls, six of them, dancing amateurishly while wearing thongs and flashy bras.

We must have arrived at the right time because shortly after we ordered our first drink we witnessed the girls unveiling the next level of excitement.

But allow me to skip the details and fast track to the conclusion we took from the reporting field.

The ‘hotel’ is a typical flesh market offering local and ‘imported’ talent for predominantly male buyers.

All these routines happen every night, right under the nose of the apex of power that, in the name of religious dogmas, refuse to acknowledge prostitution in the legal system or to protect those shackled by the web of human trafficking.

A paradox of a similar kind is identical to the happenings on Faletehan Street in Blok M, located only a stone-throw away from the National Police headquarters, a place where hundreds of souls are slaving for ransom through prostitution every night, hosted by six amazingly unsanitary pubs.

Driving home from the president’s neighborhood later that night, I found myself full of mixed emotions. And then it struck me that Jakarta has always been a city where contrasting cultures and opposites coexist harmoniously (read hypocritically).

An Australian friend recently told me, living in Jakarta makes one’s heart a bit leathery because of the nonsense, poverty, pollution etc that would poison you if you took it all in.

I couldn’t agree more, as a journalist I deal with these things on a daily basis with more intensity than just a bystander. An excellent journalist may have to nail the three things my senior said, but mastering ignorance is crucial to survive the day and then move on the next day often to an entirely alien but equally ugly reality.

Come to think again, to become an ignoramus is the recipe to survive in Jakarta. I know I am one. If you feel that you are not, walk outside of your house and see if you can find a neighbor who lives on less than a dollar a day.

Walk slightly further if you live in a posh neighborhood.

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