Contributor
(JP/Tim Hannigan) The gunpowder smell of fresh rain in the night air hit me as I climbed down from the train in Semarang. By the time I reached the station gates and had clambered into a waiting becak (pedicab), a thunderous -- and highly unseasonable downpour had begun. I peered from beneath the becak's dripping hood as it rolled along the empty streets. This was an old city, and I caught glimpses of heavy Dutch rooflines, crumbling columns and arched windows. Shadowy figures sheltered beneath shuttered balconies, and other becaks rolled swiftly through the wet night, their drivers straining urgently at the peddles. I stopped at the only place open on this dark street: a caf* in a high-ceilinged old building with slow-circling fans. The walls were decorated with photographs of Semarang in years past, and the caf* was known simply as "No. 29" (opposite Ble...