tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73389824147943689492024-03-20T01:35:01.140-07:00The Opinionated TravellerObservations and opinions from my travelsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-30272173510565313512013-04-11T11:32:00.000-07:002013-04-17T22:59:16.908-07:00No Rose Tinted Memory for Thatcher<br />
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In light of the entirely predictable, spineless, tow-the-line
reaction of many politicians and commentators to “Lady” Thatcher’s death, and of the media reaction to those celebrating her death, I
feel it is time to pause writing about travelling in Indonesia in favour of a
rant on this subject.</div>
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Barack Obama is of the opinion that the “world has lost one
of the great champions of freedom and liberty”</div>
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Nick Clegg thinks the fact that he “can shun the tenets of
Thatcherism and yet still respect Margaret Thatcher is part of what was so
remarkable about her”.</div>
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Short memory Barack? Still
respect her Nick? Isn’t there a line
somewhere that, once crossed, loses one the respect they may otherwise have
earned, regardless of one’s subsequent death?
Gary Glitter crossed that line and lost the respect that his music – not
that I liked it anyway – had earned him.
While not personally interested in seeing this as a time to party unlike some, it
must be said that supporting the Apartheid regime in South Africa and providing
political and military support to mass murdering dictators such as Chile’s
General Pinochet, Indonesia’s General Suharto and Cambodia’s Pol Pot to name
just a few constitutes stepping so far over said line that respect cannot be
afforded to this horrible woman in death any more than in life, nor can she be
remembered as “a champion of freedom and liberty”. A more honest quote from those representing
opposing political parties would be appreciated, such as this from my sister:</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpchsF2PapgILU2CAFDOfp3jNQ18_T9MvlemFmOy9295TeyWdiN2MW31BkgFplSJOLgJEhmNoMwD3E1ngUBthQHAbK2hA5VUypUZD1ysx8bN-dVasIJXsu3lFYrvmp532YE20-ABMMAKeQ/s1600/thatcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpchsF2PapgILU2CAFDOfp3jNQ18_T9MvlemFmOy9295TeyWdiN2MW31BkgFplSJOLgJEhmNoMwD3E1ngUBthQHAbK2hA5VUypUZD1ysx8bN-dVasIJXsu3lFYrvmp532YE20-ABMMAKeQ/s1600/thatcher.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wicked woman</td></tr>
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“Margaret Thatcher is dead. She was Prime Minister from age
4 to 15 for me, so I spent my years growing up to loathe this woman. I know
opinions are divided, mostly depending on where you grew up geographically and
economically. Those born in the south east with a silver spoon no doubt saw
boom and prosperity. But I grew up in the north east surrounded by poverty and
saw the fallout from her actions. Families and communities were torn apart and
many took decades to recover, if they did at all. For the good of the economy,
eh? She taught me that the economy is more important than people to
Conservatives. I've invested and expended so much mental energy in my adult
life in loathing this woman and now she is gone forever. I don't quite know how
I feel, but this is certainly momentous.”</div>
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Society has a bad habit of ignoring reality where a dead person
is concerned. Sure, families must grieve,
but that doesn’t mean the history of the deceased person should be rewritten in
a more positive light. Why should
someone be paid more respect in death than in life? Should we hide the fact that we loathe
everything they stood for and firmly believe they caused a staggering amount of
human suffering? Led by our mass media, our
society really can show appalling double standards. Remember Jade Goody, the reality TV star
loved and hated for essentially being stupid?
The UK media and many of our citizens turned on her after she made
racist remarks to a co contestant in an episode of Big Brother. I was more of the opinion that she was
ignorant than racist. While not excusing
racism, I hope most will agree that there is a big difference between a wealthy,
educated racist such as BNP leader Nick Griffin inciting hatred, and a fool
used to political incorrectness who puts her foot in it and whose main crime is
that of ignorance. What she said was
unnecessary and offensive and her career was all but over because of it. Not long after this, with her popularity at
an all time low, she was diagnosed with cancer.
All of a sudden she was brave Jade. Her popularity then skyrocketed as
her health deteriorated culminating in her death not long after, the nation
feeling guilty for ever having said a bad word about her. While not passing judgement on this, it does
serve to highlight the point that our perception of individuals, often encouraged
by our tabloids and televisions, changes if that person dies. While tolerable it may be with regards to
relatively harmless loudmouths like Jade Goody, this is lunacy when it comes to
political leaders, especially those who were responsible for overwhelming human
suffering as opposed to an ignorant racial slur. While
any civilized person will have sympathy for a deceased politician’s family,
surely one shouldn’t forget how they truly behaved in life and in the Houses of
Parliament.</div>
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So it is infuriating to see publications and politicians
across the world amplifying this woman’s qualities (maybe I shouldn’t use a
plural as the only quality I can think of is that she was strong willed), while
brushing under the carpet the not insignificant evils of destroying
communities, slashing funding of hospitals, redistributing wealth from the poor
to the rich, providing economic and political support to a who’s who of
twentieth century dictators and arming Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge, Cambodia’s terrifying
regime, responsible for the death of two million people – around a fifth of its
population – as it tried to regain power after being ousted in an operation led
by neighbouring Vietnam. That’s
right. Her government armed and provided
military training to a regime which rivaled that of Hitler’s Nazi Party when it
came to murdering innocent people. And
this was after the mass slaughter.
Maggie couldn’t claim to have armed them while being ignorant of their
intentions. No, they had already murdered
2 million people and she still did what she could to help them regain power. Imagine if after Hitler had been ousted from
power, the Nazis had retreated into the mountains and our government’s leader
had provided arms and expertise to assist them in trying to take back power of
Germany. Would such glowing tributes be
offered on their deathbed if they had been guilty of this, and would those
fiercely critical of such a person be derided for speaking up? Well that’s what Thatcher did for a similar
regime on the other side of the world, and yet she is going out in style, with
a multi million pound funeral paid for with money from the not so deep pockets
of many of those from communities which she destroyed.</div>
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I am originally from Bishop Auckland, a small town in the
north east of England situated near many coal mining communities whom Thatcher
went to war on. One tactic was to shut a
mine, on which the livelihoods of those living close to it depended, and then
kick them out of their homes. It had to
be done so the reasoning went because there weren’t any jobs. No longer could
they live in the close-knit countryside community they had grown up in, with
their shared history, extended families, local football teams and small
businesses supporting one another. Many would have to move to Newton Aycliffe,
a sparsely populated vast area comprising a large industrial estate and a town
of scattered streets, often with many hundreds of metres of featureless grass
and concrete between each cluster of houses where few people knew their
neighbours as well as one did in the small towns and villages immediately to
the north. It didn’t cross her mind to
provide a bus service for her citizens to travel the ten to fifteen miles from
the pit villages into Aycliffe so they could keep their homes. Or rather, it did, but she was bent on
destroying human solidarity as well as the mines. So people were forcibly evicted and scattered
throughout factories in the new industrial estate, if they were lucky to even
get another job.</div>
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I'm not interested in partying because of anyone’s death but
considering her impact on the lives of so many people I am not surprised that
many have chosen to do so. It is a travesty
that criticism of such celebration seems to deserve column inches in our
newspapers more than criticism of Thatcher’s past policies. What is the bigger evil? People partying because a politician has died
or a politician’s acts contributing to the death or misery of thousands, if not
millions of people across the world? I
would like to challenge those who think such high spirits are in bad taste to
ask themselves if they would condemn those who celebrated the death of Thatcher’s
old friends General Pinochet and Saddam Hussein, and if not, why exactly should
the goalposts be moved in this instance?
I have never celebrated the death of anyone and am not starting here,
but I don’t think anyone should show restraint in shouting from the rooftops about
what a callous failure of a human being this woman was, in order that history
doesn’t allow us to look back with rose tinted spectacles and subsequently make
the mistake of welcoming another one of her ilk into office again, if we haven’t
already done so in David Cameron.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-80646803961003950382013-04-07T20:27:00.000-07:002013-04-07T20:29:45.218-07:00Rubbish and Jellyfish<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-9Y5M7T5a2SIx2xmgvH1XhKOBe-Sq2irrbDMmfmNK9m3Mq31W4OlN6of7iZbrwRL_4sAaEJxJdZpYT9bqz8qc6UdBhxjNZbCyswoSaFqa8a4FoLLJbZD24CjL3ITmffAnYKlSRxmo5YP/s1600/CIMG0148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-9Y5M7T5a2SIx2xmgvH1XhKOBe-Sq2irrbDMmfmNK9m3Mq31W4OlN6of7iZbrwRL_4sAaEJxJdZpYT9bqz8qc6UdBhxjNZbCyswoSaFqa8a4FoLLJbZD24CjL3ITmffAnYKlSRxmo5YP/s320/CIMG0148.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samalona island</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On my recent holiday in South Sulawesi I decided to try snorkeling
for the first time. It may seem strange that
a 31 year old, well travelled man living in the world’s coral epicenter had
never been snorkeling before, but this is down to a phobia I have of being
underwater, which probably developed after almost drowning as a child. I can swim fine, but as soon as my face is
submerged I feel panic and always have for as long as I can remember. Being
fascinated by nature however I decided it was time to try snorkeling, and who
knows in future maybe even diving too. </div>
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I had been told by a friend about a beautiful, tiny island
off the coast of Makassar called Samalona that was far enough away from the
industrial port city to enjoy unpolluted waters. I had to charter a boat to get there, which
involved a bit of haggling. I can’t
blame the guy for trying, but powering a small motorboat while smoking
cigarettes for the 20 minute crossing and back, hanging around on a beach for the
3 hours in between just isn't worth 400k rupiah (about 25 pounds) considering the
cost of living here. You can easily live
off that amount for a week. So I got him
down to 250 and boarded his vessel. We embarked from a small and disgustingly
polluted beach in Makassar's harbour. I
had to wait on the still docked boat for fifteen minutes while he went to get
more gas for it. Looking around I could
see rubbish and decay everywhere, especially in the water when I looked over the
edge. It was as if someone drops their
weekly groceries in the water every day, such was the volume of plastic, metal
and card, complete with brands and logos.
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoCfxqSruMJmr6q5sDCJ3FF9Ia9waONxhxfJc1aVEt-2auwnOkbKQCGdXg7-f0RttCSrvAAlH1aCmY_RIEPpj7cs7AUuwVZnXmtURzYa5FIdXn4szwNOLlcS1g7s1mbmgZY4Vk3LuBSmc/s1600/CIMG0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoCfxqSruMJmr6q5sDCJ3FF9Ia9waONxhxfJc1aVEt-2auwnOkbKQCGdXg7-f0RttCSrvAAlH1aCmY_RIEPpj7cs7AUuwVZnXmtURzYa5FIdXn4szwNOLlcS1g7s1mbmgZY4Vk3LuBSmc/s320/CIMG0146.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">World's most beautiful beach? Makassar harbour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Eventually we set off, arriving a short time later. Being a popular tourist spot for those living
in Makassar, a city similar in size to Glasgow, and for travelers using the
city as a hub to see other parts of Sulawesi, I had the not unreasonable
expectations that this little island would have one or two pleasant beachside cafes or restaurants where one could enjoy freshly caught seafood in pleasant
surroundings. I couldn't have been more
disappointed. There were two places to eat, both in the centre of the island,
both in run down shacks with dirty plastic seating. You could take your food to the beach – the island
takes less than a minute to walk from one side to the other, but all that was
on offer was bog standard fried rice or instant noodles along with a variety of
snacks often found in corner shops. As
for the pleasant surroundings, it seems that a consensus has been reached among
the 5 or 6 families who live here that the randomly scattered presence of piles
of corrugated iron and discarded gas bottles among other debris doesn't constitute a problem when trying to attract more visitors. There are signs up asking readers in three
different languages to keep the island clean, yet it doesn't seem the residents
let alone the tourists understand them.
The people were very polite and friendly, and I really felt for a lovely
woman in her fifties who offered me my noodles for free – I insisted on paying –
when she scribbled down her e mail address and phone number explaining to me
that there are rooms upstairs and wondered if I knew more people who wanted to
visit her island. It’s harsh, but apart
from the snorkeling there is absolutely no reason to come here unless you
already live in Makassar. Considering
divers have a plethora of destination choices here in Indonesia, most of which
also offer a reasonable environment on land as well as a chance to see marine
life, how could I possibly suggest to a friend that they spend any time here?</div>
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After eating I hired the snorkel equipment. I really was pathetic. It is no doubt amusing
for onlookers used to snorkeling to see an evidently inexperienced, half naked,
lanky foreigner struggling to walk on the beach with his flippers on, having put
them on too far away from the shoreline, almost falling over with every step,
eventually turning around and completing the short journey walking backwards
and almost falling over again. Things
went from bad to worse as I had no idea which way round to put the breathing apparatus
in my mouth and after figuring it out and finally getting my head underwater
the goggles kept slipping off, allowing water into my nose, which immediately
brought out my phobia of drowning even though I was obviously in no real danger
and only had to pop my head back above the water and adjust the mask. Eventually I managed a degree of success,
keeping my face under for six or seven stints of about 30 seconds each before
the water came in again. I later learned
one possible reason for this was that I had a beard which makes it difficult
for the apparatus to remain watertight. After only around five minutes of this
hopeless flapping around, in which time I was briefly dazzled by an exotic
array of brightly coloured cretins, I felt a sharp pain on my arm. This coincided with the water getting in my
mask for about the fifth time, and with the disappointment of the island itself
I figured all I had to do now was passively hear ‘Someone Like You’ by Adele to
make this a thoroughly unsuccessful day.
I put it down to sunburn I had suffered the day before, hoped it would
go away, adjusted my mask and went back under.
Almost immediately I felt another pain, and then another, this time both
in my back, thought ‘Fuck this’ and headed back to the comfort of the part
beach part building materials dumping ground.
I had red spots on my back and arm where the pains were. A concerned lady inspected me and said
something in Indonesian, most of which I couldn't understand, but I did notice
the words “long hair” while she was extending the length between her hands
after gesticulating something circular.
With the clues I had to go on, I assumed that meant I had been stung by
a jellyfish. She then explained that it
was painful at the time but it would soon be ok and I shouldn't worry. So I got my things together, hopped back on
the boat, with a fat freeloading (not that I minded) breast feeding mother who
wanted a cheeky ride back to the mainland and left Samalona behind
forever. I wouldn't recommend it unless
you are already living in Makassar and are a clean shaven experienced snorkeler
who feels at home on a sun drenched building site.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-19303176273066026182013-04-02T09:20:00.002-07:002013-04-02T09:20:45.810-07:00The Hands of History<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqmmamVgEb8fmPZJ__dY5OwKJ1-FjDUqsQUueyJi7EEO08xplvlWcKd9nfGOvHvWicRBBghG8kj51Am9qkD9KpzLLnJcYgaQ2FDR8eee9dleMwwgTTj5kW5CgbA3jz2BAPzzGbV9gbpSF/s1600/CIMG0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqmmamVgEb8fmPZJ__dY5OwKJ1-FjDUqsQUueyJi7EEO08xplvlWcKd9nfGOvHvWicRBBghG8kj51Am9qkD9KpzLLnJcYgaQ2FDR8eee9dleMwwgTTj5kW5CgbA3jz2BAPzzGbV9gbpSF/s320/CIMG0124.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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To the north of the city of Makassar lies a region called
Maros which features spectacular, forest covered vertical rock formations
jutting out from the otherwise flat landscape.
It really will be difficult to appreciate any natural beauty the UK has
to offer once I get home after witnessing South Sulawesi’s breathtaking
landscapes, which also hide archaeological treasures. I have always been fascinated by caves and
have only recently had the opportunity to visit any. So it was a welcome surprise when after
arriving at Leang-leang national park to explore, a ranger led the way through
an area suited to the set of a fantasy movie and then, unexpectedly, up several
flights of metal stairs (the only blot on otherwise picturesque surroundings)
attached to the side of a rock face and into a cave about a hundred metres up
the side of a mountain. I don’t know why
I find such environments so intriguing, maybe it has something to do with the
excitement most of us felt as children upon finding a secret area outdoors that
can be used a ‘den’; or maybe because such areas are so untouched by humans
that it almost feels like you’re on another planet. We entered a small area which I assumed
represented the total volume of the cave, but then were shown a gap about the
size of an elongated, skinny man, so proceeded through it and found a much
larger area mostly in darkness but with occasional spots of sunlight filtering
down from the cracks in the rock scattered above. There was also what I can only describe as a
natural window in one wall of the cave looking out to the park below. Among my sillier thoughts at this time was
the idea that this would make an awesome place for the typical crowd found in a
Newcastle based hippy’s house party to get the decks fired up and the people
dancing. Shortly after this, our guide
climbed onto a ledge and pointed at the rock above him. Like a fool it took me about twenty seconds
to properly notice what he was pointing at, initially thinking he was simply
showing me an interesting texture of rock, which it was. Then when I did notice the hands, as you can
see in the picture, </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkEF2TeJIuSHLhyphenhyphenkEP9481YD6jIrRktErWs8KjfkSaaRyHTLvwKfleoigj2SJL_OW_E5C4QjMxqpmTDM8KFhlIxOkIHAnc31ouSwZnSj_2Mvl04M6LFQTPqAI6GktKE9CTP8NcJ1mtrG9/s1600/CIMG0107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkEF2TeJIuSHLhyphenhyphenkEP9481YD6jIrRktErWs8KjfkSaaRyHTLvwKfleoigj2SJL_OW_E5C4QjMxqpmTDM8KFhlIxOkIHAnc31ouSwZnSj_2Mvl04M6LFQTPqAI6GktKE9CTP8NcJ1mtrG9/s640/CIMG0107.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
I wondered how it had taken me so long to notice them. These hand prints are over 5000 years
old. I find that mind boggling. Whose are these hands, what is the story of
their lives and their people? What was
happening here, thousands of years before the Roman Empire and on the other
side of the world? In another cave not
far from this one, we were also shown shells embedded in the rock, implying
that this place, far above sea level, and inland, had once been
underwater. One can easily experience a
momentary appreciation of just how tiny our lives really are when faced with
relics so old, and when also considering that even such a large amount of time
represents many times less than one percent of the time life has been on earth. This trip was all made possible by a very
kind woman from Makassar called Chicha who had messaged me on couchsurfing, a website for travellers to meet each other after I had posted a request for guidance. I didn’t really know where places like this were, but she picked me up at 6am after I had travelled overnight for ten hours, took me to meet her family who cooked for me, before being my guide, and then dropping me off in the city later that evening. It seems there are good people who just want to help all over the world.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-84182168500525176822013-03-28T08:19:00.000-07:002013-03-28T08:20:11.505-07:00Tana Toraja - Beauty, Cruelty, Friendliness and Negligence<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0uViWYMdpMCk_TF8HiiBNs6IBatMiZQg4gbrBwjqhI4hEh4xQgM2HSzAow7pcoN2U7wtMMSV3gIfUPObPVLqR8zibBrx_AYV7TOxGLDP_kBQeByG1GoeI7kSd1654vVOnjFHaBGfoXBV/s1600/CIMG0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0uViWYMdpMCk_TF8HiiBNs6IBatMiZQg4gbrBwjqhI4hEh4xQgM2HSzAow7pcoN2U7wtMMSV3gIfUPObPVLqR8zibBrx_AYV7TOxGLDP_kBQeByG1GoeI7kSd1654vVOnjFHaBGfoXBV/s320/CIMG0023.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very trippy houses</td></tr>
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With no strict itinerary and a cheap promo ticket to South
Sulawesi purchased many weeks ago, I decided to head for Tana Toraja after
arriving at Makassar airport. It is most
well known for holding 3 day funeral ceremonies. Sounds grim I know, but after hearing a few
testimonies and reading a few bits and pieces, it seemed like it would be a
quite unique event in a place also renowned for a temperate climate and
stunning natural beauty. So off I went
on the super comfy night bus for ten hours. Eight quid for seats twice as large
as you get on the UK’s inappropriately titled National “Express”, with double
the legroom thrown in, and the ability to recline many parts of the seat. It was practically an adjustable bed. An additional bonus came when I stumbled
across a tin shack selling premium spirits at normal prices next to the bus
station. It takes special contacts to
get hold of any familiar spirits for less than fifty pounds a bottle in
Indonesia. In normal circumstances you can’t even buy them anywhere apart from
in nightclubs. So I got a bottle of Smirnoff for about fifteen pounds when I
was only looking for some peanuts.</div>
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I’m quite an experienced traveler now, so I immediately
smell a rat when a middle aged guy with a weathered face and a cold, distant
look in his eye offers to sort me out a package including hotel, food, driver,
guide etc. They’re always going to
charge more than it is worth and you don’t even get to see the hotel
beforehand. So I took the number of the man offering me just this kind of deal
as soon as I arrived at the airport, said “Yes mate, well aye” in Indonesian,
left the airport and turned off my phone. The best way always seems to be to
just rock up and see what’s around. I
found a guide as soon as I got off the bus in Toraja who took me to the funeral
ceremony at 9am after I had checked into a hotel. I was a bit disappointed if I am
honest. I had expected a variety of
ceremonial curiosities, and in fairness, had I stayed longer or even arrived
the day before who knows what I would have seen. Most of what I did see was a variety of
animal cruelty.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXz9d1MTmoOHGLYCbR3OAb_FfP_ll8savQhffxLQt_wI3UI56htl66PeEllmDe7dxRFGAVb8WgedjiF4XFSiOACrmOUu37LydKn3hKMqwwWu0UMtBRhCK8Rc2z5LrJpOz93q-hSPevqpQ/s1600/CIMG0015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXz9d1MTmoOHGLYCbR3OAb_FfP_ll8savQhffxLQt_wI3UI56htl66PeEllmDe7dxRFGAVb8WgedjiF4XFSiOACrmOUu37LydKn3hKMqwwWu0UMtBRhCK8Rc2z5LrJpOz93q-hSPevqpQ/s320/CIMG0015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
However, all in the
world is not so simple. It would be
unfair of me to impose Western values on a people firstly incredibly hospitable
and kind and then also largely disconnected from the moral and intellectual
advancements made in lands foreign from their own over the last hundred years
or so. In light of these mixed feelings,
I looked on feeling morbid curiosity combined with pity for the animals but
also a sense of respect for those prepared to rear animals ultimately to
sacrifice them, who are able to stomach the sight of such an action, unlike us
Brits who take shiny, packaged fillets from the shelves with not even a
nanosecond of thought for the life that the fillet was once a part of. So yeah, basically lots of animals were sacrificed. Lots of pigs to be precise – I saw at least
thirty pigs either dead, almost dead, being killed or waiting to be killed in
the hour or two I was there, with the unfortunate buffalo seen wandering around
in line to be slaughtered the next day. However
this is not in itself cruelty. Well… it
could be argued that taking a life of anything is as cruel as it gets
right? I naturally feel more empathy
towards animal’s feelings than I do toward the commonly held view that people
should eat meat because it is natural.
But that’s just me. I can’t help
feeling sad when I see any suffering, and just because it is a pig and not a
person being slaughtered doesn’t mean my stomach doesn’t turn at the thought of
its life, its one and only life, being brought to an end. The cruelty however was before the pigs’
death. They had their trotters tied
together and were unable to do anything other than wriggle on their side, often
while watching one of their kin only a meter away being eviscerated. When the inevitable periodic desperate yelps
occurred, eager locals would pick up the bound pig by the trotters and throw it
randomly to one side, sometimes giving it a kick for good measure, to generous
jovial applause from those nearby. This
is what I found really sad. I just
wanted them all to be killed quickly. Nevertheless,
if I was to judge these people as cruel based on standards set in the west when
only a generation or so ago such standards didn’t exist; us being little
different to those we now condemn, be that in our treatment of animals or women
or any person or thing that isn’t a straight, Christian, white male, then
frankly, I’d be a dick.<br />
<br />
Next stop on the
tour was a cockfight. I had no idea this
was part of the itinerary. Maybe it
wasn’t and my guide just stumbled across it and thought I’d be interested. I guess I was, again in a morbidly fascinated
kind of way. As an aside, I find it
quite odd that cultures worlds apart with no influence on one another both
practice the same horrible ‘sport’. It
isn’t open or widespread like here in Toraja – in fact I hope it doesn’t happen
at all anymore but it’s no secret that gambling over cockfighting has and
probably still goes on in the UK and probably many other countries. For those of you not in the know, this is how
it works. 2 men hold one chicken each with one hand around their bodies and
another firmly around their necks. They
then force the chicken’s heads into close proximity with one another until they
get angry and start pecking. Then the men
take turns presenting their chicken to the other – in effect all tied up; its
beak being held now too so the other chicken can peck away furiously, and then
vice versa until both chickens are in full on fight mode. Then they are released and continue the
script as written for them, while someone walks around taking bets on which one
will get pecked to death first. Although
I won’t judge (I think crowd psychology is not entirely blameless here with
both the pigs and the chickens - considering the carnival atmosphere and the
important social nature of the event it only takes a couple of people to do
something cruel and it can become accepted as normal behavior), or maybe
because I won’t judge, I find it quite fascinating to note how my and no doubt
many other’s standards in any issue can be so flexible depending on the context
of what is before us. If I had seen these
events in the UK, I would have been disgusted to put it mildly. Yet the harsh truth is that we in the UK are
just better at disguising our cruelty. There
is little doubt that chickens are the most abused animal on earth, most of them
living their lives in their own shit, developing arthritis in spaces barely big
enough to fit their bodies and being force fed unnatural and carefully planned
diets designed to aide maximum growth as rapidly as possible regardless of
their suffering, while we happily eat their breasts, our eyes and morals
shielded from the horrors that they suffer by the nice packaging. Yet many who happily snap up cheap
supermarket meat would have been horrified by what I saw today. I’m not
justifying it, because frankly I didn’t like what I saw, but then I also
thought that these people for the most part have their animals roaming free
range before these unfortunate episodes occur and that their culture is so far
removed from anything I have ever been a part of that I should play no part
other than that of curious observer. The
fact that these events take place at funerals underlines this stance. Imagine if you will, at a wake in the Red
Lion after the death of your uncle, a fascinated Inuit on a multi stop trip
round the UK popped in and tried to stop anyone from eating pork scratchings
because the pigs had suffered. It
wouldn’t be so different. He’d probably
get knocked out and would deserve it.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The same morning I learned of the existence of a caste
system here, not unlike that of the “untouchables” in India. The higher the caste of the unfortunate
person whose passing is being mourned, the more elaborate the celebration. The inequalities permeate life as well as
death though, with those on the bottom rung of the social ladder apparently
being denied the most basic of courtesy and respect by those higher up
according to my guide. He used the
following analogy, seeming not at all unimpressed by this harsh reality,
despite seeming a very nice chap otherwise.
Imagine if someone gave you a durian (the world’s smelliest fruit) and
said it was a tomato. You would know
straight away that it was a durian because of the smell. He basically said that even if someone from a
lower caste lied about their background or makes a lot of money, you would
still be able to tell them apart because they would stink. He actually referred to them as “the slave
caste,” a caste which if one is unfortunate enough to be born into, there is no
escape. From which caste my guide was I do not know. Those in the highest caste get priority in
their places of burial, the photo shown here is one of many rows of tombs in a
cliff face. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpRPcLOND2Wj3FX-5GANCq3rcqFSzXam8zwYFzOhzyaCuFVkk0qGz5-ZmJn7ymwfVyi1k_jjRzgUtksoX4MDCMXvcRPHq8_B6VH-MNo7iBJ7itzmKHWsz5azbNESnAHbZJkbiufK006XU/s1600/CIMG0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpRPcLOND2Wj3FX-5GANCq3rcqFSzXam8zwYFzOhzyaCuFVkk0qGz5-ZmJn7ymwfVyi1k_jjRzgUtksoX4MDCMXvcRPHq8_B6VH-MNo7iBJ7itzmKHWsz5azbNESnAHbZJkbiufK006XU/s320/CIMG0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I was told that to be buried
here it costs one hundred million rupiah, which at ten thousand US$ seems
expensive considering the cost of labour here is so cheap, but maybe it’s the
exclusivity of the location and the fact that it symbolizes which caste a
deceased person is from which makes it so expensive. Regardless of the background, I found these
burial sites to be so beautiful, intriguing and tragic all at once, especially
when I saw one tomb with a young man’s photo outside of it. I also came across many smaller burial sites
with two or three tombs embedded rocks surrounded by rice paddies. The bodies are transported to their tombs
from the preceding ceremonies in miniaturized versions of batak houses which
are only used once and remain in the vicinity of the deceased’s tomb. From a purely aesthetic perspective this is
such an interesting tradition, in which intricately designed receptacles, each
with its own story, dot the forested and agricultural land all around. One wonders, were the population to
dramatically increase if this would be practical to maintain, though at the
moment settlements are very sparsely spread throughout the region.<br />
<br />
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Animal cruelty and cultural issues aside, the scenery here
has made my jaw drop like never before.
It’s not unlike Sumatra, but without obvious palm oil plantation
encroachment on the nature. Having said
that, I’ve only covered a radius of around 30km, so I wouldn’t be surprised if
such a problem was just around the corner.
During my excursion yesterday, following the gore-fest I was taken to a
café made of wood situated on a corner of a winding mountain road which
benefits from unobstructed views stretching endlessly into the distance. The problem is that, as I’m sure those who
haven’t developed skills in the art of photography will relate to, ordinary
cameras just can’t capture the magic.
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI3RP-ZgVIdBlgHJkB2UTCICvdWCHYt2Wo6NM9bWCn4T7PeozI_dvmuQt4lDEblNgtX8P6wTwLlJZcKXDmLpe6A7Wt6tQcGVVfb-z1FQgG6x5GGjw7Uv9rgNA41lFRTS2FDlggF0zcrWn/s1600/CIMG0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI3RP-ZgVIdBlgHJkB2UTCICvdWCHYt2Wo6NM9bWCn4T7PeozI_dvmuQt4lDEblNgtX8P6wTwLlJZcKXDmLpe6A7Wt6tQcGVVfb-z1FQgG6x5GGjw7Uv9rgNA41lFRTS2FDlggF0zcrWn/s320/CIMG0031.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let down by my camera or my photography (lack of) skills</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The following day I rented a motorbike without a guide and enjoyed
driving around without a plan on some of the worst roads imaginable but
surrounded by lush forest and occasional picturesque villages. John Lennon spoke of “four thousand holes in
Blackburn, Lancashire”. He should have
seen the roads here. Potholes that could
kill motorcyclists are everywhere, although the fact they are everywhere make
them unlikely to kill, as drivers are always on their guard, reluctant to
accelerate beyond 20kph unless they can see a long stretch of road ahead. On one occasion, seeing one of the many
potholes in the middle of the road with a diameter like a bicycle wheel and
noticing plants growing out of it, I stopped to have a look at its depth, and
was amazed to see it was a hole leading to an underground stream about a metre
below. That’s when I headed back to the
hotel for a swim, but when I was sat in my shorts at the side of the pool I
noticed a subtle but large enough layer of dirt on the surface of the water,
with a few dead insects thrown in, to put me off. This country is so bad for that. Come on!
You have a pool in your hotel, you’re a business, clean the pool! Indonesia certainly is a fascinating and stunningly beautiful place, and the people for the most part absurdly polite, helpful and friendly, but it has so many simple problems it needs to fix, though then it wouldn't be Indonesia. One member the hotel staff remarked "Indonesians rule time, but Europeans are ruled by time." What a brilliant way to sum it up! However it masks the fact that what he is saying is that very little gets done in Indonesia, and in fairness, too much gets done in England. "You there! Yes you! No customers? Polish the whisky bottles again!" No chance of that happening around here. There's a happy medium out there somewhere, I hope I can find it one day, because the unprofessionalism and inefficiency I encounter almost every day here is no longer funny, yet I don't like being fined fifty quid for forgetting to bring my wheelie bin back into the house in the UK. Utopia next please.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-51954017032206038602013-03-06T23:10:00.001-08:002013-03-06T23:10:13.553-08:00You Know You’ve Been here too Long When…<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">An English friend of mine recently remarked “You know </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">you've</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> been in Indonesia too long when McDonald’s runs out of burgers, and you’re not
even surprised”. Psychologist and author Professor Richard Wiseman concluded
after a series of quirky experiments that Indonesia has the third slowest pace
of life in the world. It’s pretty
evident. I must stress, I have been
overwhelmed by the friendliness, kindness and flexibility (not in the yoga
sense, but in the sense of not having rules for the sake of rules) of the
people, which has been a breath of fresh air having grown tired of the UK’s
anal officialdom and bakery’s that won’t change a ten pound note for you unless
you buy something you don’t want. So, I
have mostly good things to say about the people, but those of you who know me
well know that I’m better at having a rant about stuff that riles me than
pleasantly identifying things, places and people that are functioning properly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdfrut_Zfp4X_pnkeDlNOnrdx1Hr-eVr172QqocO7QAgXEThKOlbNNtTv9NZYfB-vufACHR3tKx6QGkNbh1YfNLKlYq_kusZxFhxA7yxNrKghk1Iv_emWXn-SLuN5lBnLCJabgZP7OiOi/s1600/mcdonalds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdfrut_Zfp4X_pnkeDlNOnrdx1Hr-eVr172QqocO7QAgXEThKOlbNNtTv9NZYfB-vufACHR3tKx6QGkNbh1YfNLKlYq_kusZxFhxA7yxNrKghk1Iv_emWXn-SLuN5lBnLCJabgZP7OiOi/s1600/mcdonalds.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, got no burgers left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As someone who </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> eat beef, McDonald’s running out of
burgers </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">doesn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> really affect me, but many other aspects of this fascinating
country, if they don’t affect me, certainly make me briefly furious for about
three or four seconds before I swiftly and happily remind myself of the fact that
I am one man from probably the luckiest demographic and generation in
humanity’s history and that I have an excellent, fun, relaxing and well paid
job that affords me a very enviable lifestyle in a beautiful archipelago (well… a sprawling, polluted dirty mess of a city in an otherwise </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">beautiful archipelago</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">).</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Far and away the most infuriating thing I see on a daily
basis is parents on a motorcycle wearing helmets, with a child sandwiched
between them without one. When I incredulously
protest about this to anyone in earshot, I am often met with a giggle by an
Indonesian who explains that the law insists on adults wearing helmets, but
children don’t have to. Rather than
appeasing me, this serves to highlight an even more disturbing fact – that some
lawmakers in this country are evidently too stupid to realise that children’s
heads are actually made from the same materials as an adult’s, and are just as
vulnerable to serious injury or death should they rocket head first into a
billboard after a failed attempt by their careless father to squeeze between
two trucks at speed just to gain a few meters. Furthermore, it is at best worrying and at
worst pathetic that some people feel that if the law </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">doesn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> force them to
consider the safety of their children in dangerous situations, parental concern </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> seem to fill the void, leaving children’s heads dangerously exposed on
roads full of impatient and reckless drivers.
Always wanting to see the best in people, if I notice adults and their
children both without helmets, I may give the parents the benefit of the doubt
and assume them to be too poor (there are some seriously poor people round
here), but for those who have found the money to protect their own heads but
not their kids’? Please.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFgj4AN4Hksk_08iX8FUh7zBZECfuN5tENQ6zXQuObYzGWntEwxgCvCXvi1HZoYfyd3og4uNUY7Esi4JP6WqsAOY51xQilPHl-jN0byZ17npwpftvBITtw9pAFTLJ-1PEt4HJ9av4SNOEQ/s1600/family-on-motorbike-e1282064808342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFgj4AN4Hksk_08iX8FUh7zBZECfuN5tENQ6zXQuObYzGWntEwxgCvCXvi1HZoYfyd3og4uNUY7Esi4JP6WqsAOY51xQilPHl-jN0byZ17npwpftvBITtw9pAFTLJ-1PEt4HJ9av4SNOEQ/s1600/family-on-motorbike-e1282064808342.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stupid, negligent adults with vulnerable children</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Here are some other, less danger-related things that make me
sing “I (We) gotta get outta this place, If it’s the last thing I (we) ever do”</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Hearing the chorus from “My heart will go on” by
Celine Dion in my head over and over, occasionally accompanied by a vision of
the French-Canadian heavenly crow squawking from the tip of an asteroid, arms
outstretched as if drenching the whole universe in her endless glory. In the attempt by some quarters of this
society to become as Western as possible regardless of the actual merits of
doing so, Celine Dion is the staple soundtrack of all cinema foyers. To make matters worse, my apartment’s
management has included this ditty on the instrumental muzak
casio-keyboard-built-in-demo style play list of about ten songs which are
infuriatingly piped toward the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to have to
wait a few minutes for an elevator. I
don’t take kindly to this. Bemused
locals no doubt wonder why they occasionally see a really tall foreigner
grimacing with his palms pressed against his ears while ordering the lift to
hurry up. It seems this awful song
appeals to those social climbers who cringingly denounce anything from their
home country as being unworthy (be that music, movies or even interior design
styles) while embracing anything advertised to them as being cool in Europe or
America without question. Some of these
types think a warung (a super cheap food stall at the side of the road) is
beneath them. They deserve better. They deserve McDonald’s, Celine Dion and
freaky blue contact lenses that make them look more like aliens than Caucasians. I think they need to have a look at
themselves.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Seeing said folk hanging out in McDonald’s. It seems
to be a cool place to hang out if you’ve got a bit more money and want to be
seen in a happening place, as is KFC.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Thor is going to put the obesity hammer down on this society soon.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I wonder if such customers realise that while
some of them feel they are showing their social status by eating Western foods,
such ‘restaurants’ in the UK are (not discounting the sizable occasional
customer base of educated middle class folk enjoying a guilty pleasure) mostly
frequented by less educated poor people, the kind that many McDonald’s
customers here try to avoid by not visiting warungs.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Hearing “Someone like you” by Adele. I have an attitude problem when it comes to
music. I don’t actually consider it a
problem, but it seems many others do. I
feel that, despite the endless amount of musical styles and genres available to
our ears, music can broadly be lumped into two huge categories. The first is
music written purely for the purpose of expressing emotion, be it fun,
happiness, sadness, nostalgia, or anything else. Within this huge category there many songs
that do nothing for me, but I hold no principled objection to them as I feel
that as long as they fall into this first category they have merit. Who am I to judge someone’s artistic output
if they created a piece of work to honestly satisfy their creative needs? The second category is music written for the
sole purpose of making money. Songs in
this category cannot be performed by an individual or group not deemed
marketable by a big business, or they simply wouldn’t make as much money. I’m not saying it’s impossible to like these
songs; fair play to you if you do, but I don’t even consider them to be music. I know that, by definition of course they are,
but most are forgotten after a short period of time because they are basically the
product of one big mass marketing exercise and not of human emotion, meaning
they likely have no longevity and are exposed as being devoid of any soul once
whatever trend they were part of is consigned to history. I’m not going to pretend that I know exactly
where the line is to be drawn between these two categories, and that there isn’t
a degree of overlap, but as a general rule,
we can hear from the beautiful emotive nature of songs such as ‘Life on
Mars’ by David Bowie, and the passionate anger of ‘Killing in the Name’ by Rage
Against the Machine that their music videos do not require the presence of sexy
women writhing naked on the bonnet of a Mercedes to sell; likewise it is hard
to imagine a Justin Bieber song’s sales not suffering were it to be sung by
Thom Yorke of Radiohead instead. I’ve
gone off on a tangent here, but the point is I do feel Adele’s “Someone Like
You” does have merit. It sounds like a song from the heart. She is not in my
eye, a physically attractive woman. She
would not be able to crawl around in a thong singing a commercial dance song in
the way other successful singers do. The
problem I have is that it’s so overplayed.
I never liked it in the first place, partly due to the association I
have of it with heartbreak, as it was all over the airwaves in the UK after I
suffered a particularly intense break up.
I then departed to Indonesia where, almost 18 months on, I still hear it
almost every day. In taxis, in the mall, in warungs, cafes, bars and nightclubs. It is particularly irritating on a Friday or
Saturday night out. Let’s have some fun!
Let’s have some James Brown! No, let’s
put on a tragic song about heartbreak.
And let’s make sure we put it on again an hour later, and again an hour
after that.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Unexpectedly crunching an unidentifiable gritty
substance while eating an otherwise normal meal. Or sometimes biting into a
small stone. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">This seems a uniquely
Indonesian problem. It happens in around eight out of ten meals.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Everything is just too relaxed here.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Bit of grit in your dinner?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Ah, stop whining, get it down you.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">It even happens when I cook!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I suspect this is because Indonesia’s relaxed
attitude to life extends to the rice paddies, meaning that when the rice is
packed, it isn’t done with a great degree of diligence, allowing grit and
stones to be hidden within. That’s my hypothesis. Further down the chain I cook
my dinner and find a stone in my teeth.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Hearing impatient drivers beeping at you to get a move
on before the lights have even turned to green. This even happens a hundred
metres or so from the lights.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">People
here seem to think that the guys at the front are blind and need to be made
aware that the light will soon change from red to green.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Even when they can see that the traffic at
the front of the queue has started moving, they will hold down their horns for
five seconds at a time. The horn on a car or motorbike has many potential
meanings in Surabaya, most of which can be simplified to “I’m a dick”. The only
other uses of the horn are when people are understandably reacting to someone
being a total dick by pressing their horn. You are driving at a good speed in
busy traffic.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">A dick is desperately trying
to squeeze in front of you, even though there is barely any space.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">“Beep beep!”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I reply with “Beep!” which means, “Sorry dick, I’m not letting you in.”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">You’re trying to pull out into a very busy
road at the first sign of a gap in traffic.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Seeing said gap, a motorcyclist puts his foot down, in such a hurry to
join the traffic jam a few hundred metres further ahead that he is unwilling to
slow down to let me onto the road.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">As I
edge out, he accelerates and holds his horn down.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">This means “I’m a maaaasssive dick and you
better realise it or I’ll take us both out in a display of kamikaze bravado”. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I saw a horrible crash a few weeks ago.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Some dicks in football colours decided to ignore
the red light and inch across the city’s busiest crossroads, because after all
they are really cool and it is only fair that everyone stop for them.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">An unfortunate young woman with misplaced
confidence in the green light before her eyes smashed straight into the side of
a massive dick and unfortunately came out the worse of the two.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The dick got up and was promptly apprehended
by an onlooking policeman, who hadn’t seen fit to bother intervening until there
was an accident.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I don’t know if the
woman survived.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Even with a serious
crash scene in front of them in the middle of the junction, dicks announce
their presence all around.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">“Beep! Get
out of my way, I’m a dick, I have to get past!”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">“Beep! Beep!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Don’t die on the
floor in front of me, I’m a dick!”</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">An imbecile trying to overtake you on the side that
you have been indicating on for the last five seconds, just as you make the
turn.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">I angrily swear in my almost lost
Bishop Auckland accent, calling them all sorts that they don’t understand.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Being told your order is unavailable, 45 minutes after
placing it, just as all your friends' meals arrive. And no, this is not when the restaurant is
busy, this is standard practise. “Would you like to choose something different
sir?” “I would like to have chosen something
different 45 minutes ago, but I guess that would have needed common sense and
basic interaction between kitchen and waiting staff”. Way too much to expect of course.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Being served cow skin amongst your vegetables or even
cow snout after explaining that you don’t eat meat. “But it isn’t meat!” A nose isn’t meat! Hey, I don’t eat meat, but that skin, and
that nose, gimme it!</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">You order a simple bowl of instant noodles at an
outdoor street cafe and the woman who serves it to you (I hesitate to use the
word waitress – she probably owns the place, she serves customers, takes naps
behind the window display of food and practically lives there), without having
been asked, cracks a raw egg into your bowl to garnish. Cheers.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">You order toasted chocolate spread bread. Despite no mention of such a conflicting
ingredient, grated cheese is served between the two slices of bread with the
chocolate spread.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">You pick up a menu in a fancy restaurant. The prices, the font and the overall layout
of the menu imply that the food will be good.
You read a description of what sounds like an interesting and probably
delicious pizza (if you like fish) – ‘stonebaked pizza topped with salmon and
tuna, garnished with rocket and olive oil and topped with a….’ until you get to
the end of the description… ‘Kraft single(!)’.
Wow, you guys really know what you’re doing. Stick to making Indonesian food. You’re good at that, and it’s nice.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">A taxi driver sees you coming, scrambles around in his glove box to find a CD, and
puts on what I imagine is ‘The Best (or worst) of Bryan Adams’, seemingly for
the foreigner’s benefit. Can’t fault the
man’s willingness to please, but he’d do me less harm if he drove off with my
luggage while I was using the ATM than forcing me to listen to such corny
heart-pop. “Take me as I am, Take my life, I would give it all, I would
sacrifice”. Bryan! You need to find a
new woman for two reasons. Firstly, if
she’s the kind of woman that needs you to sacrifice yourself to keep her
interested, well mate, that’s s&m gone too far in my book. Secondly, based on my own life experiences,
no woman out there can possibly be attracted to such a self pitying stance of
desperation. You should have written her
a funk tune man. But you can’t do that
now. You’ve done the damage with this
tune already. Move onto to the next
target, a clean slate. Good luck.</span></li>
<li style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Your internet or utilities are cut off without warning
because of a late payment. No, it
doesn’t cross their mind to simply call you or put a note through your door
(these services are all provided in house at my apartment complex) requesting
payment in which case I would pay immediately as I always have enough in the
bank to do so.</span></li>
</ul>
<!--[if !supportLists]--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I’ll probably add more to this list as ever more incredibly
illogical events catch my eye.
Hopefully they won’t and I can spend my remaining time here in a state
of calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-36420567989738210532013-03-04T20:05:00.000-08:002013-03-04T20:06:46.761-08:00Would You Like Wifi with Your Emergency Fluid Infusion Sir?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having left the UK not long after the Conservative Party and
the Liberal Democrats formed a ruling coalition; I have watched the government’s
plans for the NHS unfold from afar with disapproval. Not that I fully understand them of course,
but I have learned over the years that if politicians are using what I call ‘Tony
Blair hands’ while masking the fact that they are saying very little of
substance by using carefully structured sentences with an unnatural attention
paid to linguistics, body language and tone of voice (it is all one big
popularity contest after all), then the issue is probably being clouded, often
for the purpose of big business being able to get a cut of some pie or
other. Whether it is being termed ‘restructuring’,
a ‘public-private partnership’ or ‘a choice based NHS’, it seems clear that in
a nutshell, in part or in full, the NHS is being sold off and equality of
access to healthcare regardless of income will likely soon become a thing of
the past. I had the misfortune to
experience a very serious food poisoning incident here in Indonesia just a few
days ago. With the above in mind, here
is a little insight into what seems a fully privatized health service, apparently
free from government intervention, something David Cameron seems keen on in
light of his ‘Big Society’ mantra.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I started feeling rather unwell at 8pm on Thursday night,
while waiting in Surabaya airport for a flight to Jakarta. Yet to visit, I had
booked an extra day off work so that I could spend a long weekend in Indonesia’s
capital. Feeling mild discomfort in my
stomach has been a fairly common occurrence over the years. It usually clears up after an hour or two,
but I had an uneasy feeling this was something that had to be dealt with. I
proceeded to the waiting room half an hour before my flight was due to depart,
where I started to feel nauseous and began salivating a little. This usually only happens to me when I’ve had
way too much to drink the night before; as soon as I start salivating I know it’s
bathroom time. I went to men’s room,
stood over the toilet waiting for the inevitable but nothing happened despite
escalating feelings of bloating and nausea. Considering I was about to join the
queue to board my flight I thought it best to force the issue so I put my
fingers near the back of my mouth and swiftly began to bark soup. After being sick intermittently for five
minutes I felt much better and figured I’d be fine from then on. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I felt ok as I showed my boarding pass and
continued along the corridor to the stairs down to the runway. Then, while I was queuing at the bottom of
the makeshift staircase leading up to the aircraft door the nausea returned. I
boarded the flight and got to my seat as fast as possible and tried to will the
sickness away (never works). Realising
it was crunch time again I had to scramble past my bemused fellow passengers
who were still putting their bags in the overhead locker and made it to a sink
just in time, remaining there throughout the safety announcements as the plane
taxied along the runaway, making it back to my seat just in time for takeoff
after repeated knocks on the toilet door from the cabin crew insisting I
returned to my seat to belt up. Then it really kicked in when the flight took
off. As soon as the seatbelt light went off I was back to the bathroom, where I
would spend the entire journey of around an hour sat on the toilet with my face
in the sink, at first solids and then soon endless amounts of water gushing out
of both ends. I have never lost even a fraction of that amount of water out of
my body in such a short space of time. It was terrifying and was the first time while
on an aircraft, being a nervous flier, that I worried more about the consequences
of something other than a crash. A fever soon followed as I managed to return
to my seat for landing, and was then immediately back to the toilet while
everyone left the aircraft. The last one
off the plane, I resolved to go straight to a hospital but was pleasantly surprised
to find a health clinic in the airport.
My initial feeling of calm soon turned to frustration and rage as I realized
what lazy, incompetent staff I was faced with.
I have a reasonable amount of Indonesian language skills, and made it
very clear that I was very cold (I was actually worried about hypothermia or
pneumonia such were the chills I was feeling but that I didn’t know how to
communicate) and probably had serious food poisoning. It didn’t occur to them to get me a blanket
of any kind, or even to improvise, even after I repeated what I had already
said and was clearly shaking. Nor did they show any urgency whatsoever. The first doctor, a man around my age simply
nodded his head and left the room. A few
minutes later an old woman appeared.
Again I asked for a blanket and she just kept asking me what my name
was. I also said I needed antibiotics,
but that I would die if I took penicillin.
So she asked me what antibiotics I wanted to buy, and offered me
Amoxycillin. I asked for clarification
that it wasn’t penicillin and she seemed irritated at my questioning, not appreciating
how high the stakes were for me if she got this one wrong. She offered it to me again, but my gut told
me not to trust this negligent idiot with a bad attitude so I turned it down,
even though, I am not exaggerating, I felt it not entirely unlikely that I
would fail to make it through the night.
I could only stand or walk for a minute at a time without feeling dizzy
and needing to sit down, I was weak. I
could barely carry my modest suitcase. I
was dehydrated and felt like I was getting worse not better. I later found out
that Amoxycillin does indeed contain penicillin and therefore likely would have
finished me off had I taken it. That
this useless excuse of a doctor is employed at a clinic in the arrivals lounge
of the airport of the world’s second largest city is typical of the kind of things
Indonesia really needs to address. I
bought a couple of bottles of water and jumped in a taxi to the nearest
hospital, projectile vomiting out of its window at regular intervals and
somehow managing not to shit myself before arrival. Finally in an actual hospital with good
doctors, nurses and equipment, I was put on a drip for rehydration and stayed
there until late Friday night before going to my hotel. Not until after a whole
load more confusion though. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Barely anyone in the hospital spoke any English, and my
limited Indonesian turned out not to be enough as I was to discover that I not
only lack hospital related vocabulary but that they also speak in a mad Jakartan
dialect with a crazy accent. Shockingly,
before what was clearly urgently needed treatment started, I was presented with
a folder of potential bed types to choose from, ranging from 'standard' - a bed
in a shared ward, up to 'executive' - private room with en suite shower,
flatscreen tv, wifi etc. I was thinking
"This isn't a hotel, I don't give a fuck, just help me!" Most of this was in a language I didn't
understand, both in terms of the folder itself and the babble spouted by the
woman holding it, all while I was laid on a stretcher vomiting intermittently
and struggling to retain consciousness.
After many attempts communicating with my broken Indonesian, I
eventually understood that whatever room you chose, you still got the same
level of medical attention and number of nurses etc. This was all I really
wanted to know, so I made the cheapest choice. The more expensive choices were
simply for more comfort and entertainment.
I then had to provide my card for them to take a deposit of 2,500,000
rupiah, which equates to about 160 pounds, to guarantee I could pay for whatever
treatment I needed. Only when the
receptionist returned with assurances that my deposit had been taken did the
ball start rolling. I was then asked a
range of puzzling questions about what treatment I wanted. Again, I must stress, for every question I
was asked I understood barely 20% of what was being said, all while vomiting
and occasionally losing consciousness.
Then the doctor tried in her broken English, asking me if I would like a
white blood cell count, a red blood cell count, a check of my cholesterol among
many other procedures. These are trick
questions. They are designed to take
advantage of someone needing urgent help.
For each procedure there is an extra charge, and to the patient, it is
not always clear which treatments you actually need, and which you are being
encouraged to agree to purely to increase the value of your final bill upon
leaving the hospital, and likely the doctor’s commission. This game has been played with me once
before, when one day I developed an unknown and debilitating pain in my right
heel. I went to a different hospital, in
Surabaya, where I live and work.
Fortunately on that day the doctor assigned to me had good English, and
I was neither in immediate danger nor finding it difficult to speak without vomiting. In this instance, after agreeing to a
cholesterol check and a couple of other ‘products’, I then realized what was
happening and was able to receive clarification, only after repeated
questioning, about what treatment I actually <i>needed</i>. Sure it is
desirable, to tick every box on a list in front of us and subsequently (in an
ideal situation) receive a clean bill of health, but at what financial
cost? I intend to do this occasionally
as I get older for peace of mind, but certainly not every time I get sick, in a
healthcare system where checking for each individual detail has its own
separate charge. So, as I lay on a
stretcher at the end of my physical and mental tethers, having been taken to
boiling point both by my fever and the cold, money focused attitude to my
treatment shown by the hospital staff, I eventually managed to communicate that
I wanted only the treatment that I <i>needed</i>
to recover from the ailment I had, and that I wanted to know how much the total
bill would be including the bed for the night and any medication (you would
think the word “total” would in itself dictate that specifying individual
charges were not necessary, but apparently not). I was assured 600,000 rupiah would be the
figure (approximately forty pounds).
Upon checking out the next day I was given a bill for more than three
times that amount. I hadn’t been told
when providing a stool sample deemed necessary for determining which course of
antibiotics I was to be prescribed, that a laboratory analysis would cost
800,000 rupiah, and that every tablet and bowl of liquid rice or slice of bread
I had been given had also been added to my bill, at a cost that would not look
out of place on a London restaurant menu.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6hYaIx196z8NMJphYmXyjFA9iLd_pVvXKcd7-KypzhuL9nve0pScDAReHbpXF737wc5CVWQBf62b5R-UGGwAXGfddLOiwGfPpgtyh5EIYuaIkJnK1NUiZYPNTWyoC1FzSuiPPwJx4IZU/s1600/nohealthcare.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6hYaIx196z8NMJphYmXyjFA9iLd_pVvXKcd7-KypzhuL9nve0pScDAReHbpXF737wc5CVWQBf62b5R-UGGwAXGfddLOiwGfPpgtyh5EIYuaIkJnK1NUiZYPNTWyoC1FzSuiPPwJx4IZU/s1600/nohealthcare.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unable to access healthcare. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Considering that by the time I provided the aforementioned sample, it
was well into the next day and I had recovered dramatically, had I known about
the outrageous charge involved I would have declined the service. Relative to the cost of living in Indonesia,
for which I will use the cost of a convenient ready to eat meal as a guide, 800
000 rupiah is astronomical, and that was for the stool sample analysis alone. A take away pizza in the UK usually costs
around six pounds. In Indonesia, chicken
fried rice is about eighty pence. 800 000 rupiah equates to approximately fifty-five
pounds. Imagine if you had to pay over
four hundred pounds in Newcastle or Manchester for someone to analyse your
excrement in a process which only took a couple of hours, and that that
represented only about forty percent of your total hospital bill after a bout
of food poisoning. To put it further in
perspective, the average shop assistant in a mall, or waiter or other unskilled
worker usually earns around 1 million rupiah per month, while those off the radar
of officialdom – street vendors and rickshaw drivers for example, earn even
less. I have no way of knowing how serious
my condition was on Thursday night. It
certainly seemed it. Maybe if I were a
poor Indonesian shopkeeper I would have simply passed out outside the airport and
woke up the next day covered in shit and vomit and eventually recovered. Maybe
my number would have been up. Either way
I certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford hospital treatment.</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What you have read above is an insight into how largely
unrestricted private healthcare functions. Sure, if you have the money, you’ll
likely get very good treatment that you need, possibly along with a whole lot
of treatment you don’t need in a building where parts of which at times
resemble the lobby of a five star hotel (for what purpose?). On the other hand, have very little money and
you’ll receive the worst treatment; have no money at all and you’re someone
else’s problem. As David Cameron spouts
about giving people the chance to choose the treatment option that suits them
best, I would like to ask him whether or not when he goes to an expensive
restaurant he informs the chef exactly how to season his steak. Does he choose how much brake fluid the
mechanic should add to his vehicle when it is serviced? Does he ask us, the people who elected him,
how to run a government? I am a musician
and an English teacher; you may be a journalist, a waiter, a butcher, a baker
or a candlestick maker. No parent
chooses what method I should use to teach their child. None of us are in any
position to choose the best medical treatment available to us. Did I have a
clue what antibiotic I needed, other than that it had to be free from
penicillin? Did I want the choice of
beds and entertainment when in such an urgent condition? We need a doctor to
tell us and swiftly treat us with the best remedy, just as we expect a Prime
Minister to run a government or a chef to make us a beautiful meal. You may
choose the best shirt or hairstyle with a party in mind. The best, in these instances represents opinion
and can be chosen. Medical treatment is
very different. Published medical trials
have determined what the best treatment is for every condition as a matter of <i>fact.</i>
Where there are two or more procedures whose test results have shown
similar levels of success, it is not us, the patients, who should choose
between them; a choice obsolete anyway as we would probably only be able to
afford one of them. This responsibility lies
of course with the doctor, who will take into consideration any allergies we
have, our medical history, our metabolism and any experience the doctor has
gained using such medication throughout their career. In a fully taxpayer funded public health
service, where staff are given bonuses not according to how much medication
they sell but instead for doing their job to the best of their ability, the public can have faith that regardless of
their income, if they can be returned to full health, they will be. Failure of such a service should not result
in selling it off to the highest bidder, but should instead result in
replacement of failing staff in key positions, better incentives in the right
places to drive better performance and the provision of a larger budget as a
matter of public spending priority (it wouldn’t amount to a lot of money) where
necessary to overcome what should be simple challenges like bed shortages or
waiting lists before allowing for the funding of the construction of what is
essentially a mall on the ground floor, as is the case at the publicly funded
New Victoria Wing of the Royal Victoria Infirmary hospital in Newcastle Upon
Tyne. Nearby Bishop Auckland recently lost
its accident and emergency department altogether, leaving those in life or
death situations having to travel ten miles for urgent treatment. Its children’s ward was also closed in 2009. Those mall funds would surely have been put
to better use there. There is absolutely
no reason why a public health service cannot perform better and fairer than a
private one if it is under the stewardship of a strong government department who
spends money in the right places and who generously rewards its staff for
performing well, while being ruthless with those who don’t.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-71211433614755063832012-06-06T12:40:00.000-07:002012-06-06T12:40:55.961-07:00Language Divides Rich from Poor<br />
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Surabaya, Indonesia’s second largest city, whose urban agglomeration consists of anywhere between 3 and 9 million people depending on where you draw the borders, is a place where decadent wealth and abject poverty sit side by side. Unlike many cities in Europe, where the poorest of the poor are tucked away into sprawling estates out of sight, often separated from the wealth of outlying suburbs by busy highways while tourists see the shiny exterior of a wealthy city center, this is a place where poverty is on display, and wealth is often hidden. Although at the far western boundaries of the city there lies a millionaire’s club (or in Surabaya’s case, multi trillionaire’s club – one million rupiah is the equivalent of just sixty-seven pounds), strewn with several acre properties and golf courses, throughout most of it those with wealth live out of sight, their houses almost invisible to visitors behind an intimidating variety of dangerous fences and high walls, inviting any would-be burglar to impale themselves on metal spikes should they try their luck. On one side of these walls and fences are gardens and properties that would be fit for a tycoon’s tropical holiday retreat. On the other side, centimeters away are dozens of homeless people living, working and sleeping in the midst of unbearable heat and exhaust fumes, in touching distance of wealth they can only dream of. I am often struck by this contrast when I walk to work on crumbling footpaths, dodging holes big enough for my entire body to fall into as a gate opens, a car emerges and a dream home is revealed for a few seconds before being hidden away once more.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqc77jDq47BSztAgzOJm74Ha7Cbh_sHS56v_uF_xygY9FPORhKX0iVHoqTyj1eUrU7-Iciyah6BnMhnse19SqzDUpak1mFxqqxPF7EABi4iKxLSbgZu1gc36z3Id7XLaCErmRe4l_UBPA/s1600/images+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqc77jDq47BSztAgzOJm74Ha7Cbh_sHS56v_uF_xygY9FPORhKX0iVHoqTyj1eUrU7-Iciyah6BnMhnse19SqzDUpak1mFxqqxPF7EABi4iKxLSbgZu1gc36z3Id7XLaCErmRe4l_UBPA/s400/images+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a>When I first arrived here, it seemed unlikely that many people had any money because I could see poor people everywhere yet those with money weren’t so easily visible. After attempting to buy food and drink on several occasions at a warung (makeshift shelters that line most streets and typically sell three or four different kinds of food), I realized I was going to have to accelerate my rate of learning Indonesian, especially as a vegetarian. There are only so many times one can walk into the midst of a handful of people who already find you, the foreigner in a city off the tourist track, fascinating and amusing, and attempt to draw a chicken, a cow and a pig while offering as many negative hand signals as possible, only to be served goat and be laughed at when you pay the bill with a sigh and leave the untouched meal on the bench. Things were made more complicated when I swapped the dusty impoverished streets for the bright lights of the mall (There is no city center as such, but there are lots of malls), needing a new belt before my first day at work. All around me I could see advertisements competing for my attention and to my surprise, most were written in English. I felt a weight off my shoulders, anticipating an easier task ahead. Had I not been an unusually thin man this may have been the case. Most Indonesians can explain prices in English, but because belts were not available in my size, and the language capabilities of the staff were not as the advertisements all around me had led me to believe, a very surreal experience followed. It seemed that the only words of English that the giggling sextet of uniformed young ladies could muster were, ‘Hello Mister’, ‘handsome’ and ‘nervous’. I can’t deny I was flattered and incredibly amused as they took turns attempting to shorten and refasten the belt without losing all composure in a fit of laughter and blushes. Fifteen minutes later I finally had a belt that fit, and as I left the shop and said ‘Terima Kasih’, one of the staff replied ‘We won’t forget you Mister’, as if I had just rescued her grandmother from a burning building. </div>
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<a href="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQW-SMOc33lQlad6TjYRq5eRIyedlOVdfGKWNcIfYZr1GhtUCP-" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQW-SMOc33lQlad6TjYRq5eRIyedlOVdfGKWNcIfYZr1GhtUCP-" /></a>When my thoughts eventually left that surreal situation behind later that night, a puzzling question bothered me. Why is it that there are so many advertisements displayed in shops, malls, restaurants and on billboards all around the city, if most of the population can’t understand them? What marketer would want to alienate their target audience by preaching in a language customers can’t read?</div>
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Having spent 7 months since then teaching English, seeing more of the city, learning to speak Indonesian, meeting and making friends with locals and other foreigners like me and noticing those beautiful houses hidden away behind the poverty, I have come to realize that there are - albeit far outnumbered by those in poverty - people with a lot of wealth: people who can speak English. Education is a privilege in Indonesia. If you are lucky enough to have one, the chances are that you and your family have some money to spend on gadgets, jewelry and sportswear. You will also be able to speak English. If you can’t, then it stands to reason that you don’t have any disposable income, because your family couldn’t afford you an education.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgOY7dLvqkL6tpbhzWwwbcrZENiapUVoSHeQHBv7PfWSAe4OATbhZDbjpMEW_THaG5SzfJa00yu1bK-uqxKgeXLI566rzLCNtrPkzRWfJ2KiRrqp7m-HV-DY8F1j1AxqwUiePwIzLIpZa/s1600/becak+sleeping+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgOY7dLvqkL6tpbhzWwwbcrZENiapUVoSHeQHBv7PfWSAe4OATbhZDbjpMEW_THaG5SzfJa00yu1bK-uqxKgeXLI566rzLCNtrPkzRWfJ2KiRrqp7m-HV-DY8F1j1AxqwUiePwIzLIpZa/s320/becak+sleeping+man.jpg" width="320" /></a> Poor people who sell fried rice on street corners for less than what someone in the UK would spend on a chocolate bar have barely enough to survive and often have many mouths to feed. What little income they do have is spent using the services of other poor people – those who put new heels on old shoes, stitch handmade clothes or do laundry. Those people in turn buy fried rice on street corners. Slightly higher up the social ladder are those who work in shops selling branded goods which are advertised in English. They are typically paid around one million rupiah a month, about sixty seven pounds, in a country where branded goods retail at around the same price as they do in the UK. Almost all of both groups have a well below average grasp of English and little if any money to spend.</div>
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Then you have those living centimeters away yet worlds apart from all of the above. Those who have private drivers on call twenty four hours a day, frequently fly to popular holiday destinations around Asia and beyond, live in mansions and consume all the most fashionable brands. In a country where a generation of young people are eager to be seen embracing Western brands, movies, diets and values, inevitably the English language becomes cool. If those who have money to spend understand it, why market your brand to anyone else?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7338982414794368949.post-22986092838484853762012-06-06T12:13:00.000-07:002012-06-06T12:13:34.788-07:00Violence, Hooligans, Police and Death. That's football<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What should have been a routine afternoon watching a live football match ended tragically for one young man today. Purwo Edi Utomo, a high school student, died following the Indonesian Premier League match between Persebaya (from the country’s second city, Surabaya) and Persija (from the capital, Jakarta). As I write this I am unaware of the exact cause of his death, but having attended the match in Surabaya’s Gelora stadium I can report that I witnessed the indiscriminate firing of rockets from armour-clad riot police into a crowded corner of the stadium shortly after full time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For those of you not in the loop, allow me to offer some background information. Indonesian football suffers from routine crowd disturbances ranging from the throwing of plastic bottles onto the pitch, to the gang murder of fans wearing the wrong colours who defy warnings to commit the sin of attending away games. Persija player Precious Emuejeraye warned this week, ‘“You don’t wear an away team’s jersey to the stadium unless you want to die.” Last Sunday, May 27th, 2012, three young fans lost their lives after the 2-2 draw between Persija Jakarta and Persib Bandung. More information is available about the fate of a man named Lazuardi than the two other victims, Rangga Cipta Nugraha, 22 and Dani Maulana, just 17. Lazuardi was in the Tiger’s Den (as Persija Jakarta’s Gelora Bung Karno stadium is known) watching the game when some surrounding fans noticed his lack of excitement following a goal by the home team. It is worth noting that in fixtures featuring rival teams, there isn’t an ‘away’</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">end for travelling fans to occupy, so any die hard opposition fan has no choice but to go undercover. Not the wisest decision, but one surely not deserving of capital punishment in twenty first century one would hope? The victim was beaten unconscious and casually dragged out of the stadium to suffer his fate by the neck of his shirt against a backdrop of cheering Persija fans. Although not in anyway excusing this horrific attack, the field of crowd psychology is nothing new. The actions of large groups of people in any number of situations often differ from what those same people would decide to do as individuals. Actions like this can therefore be explained to some extent, though certainly not justified. What is more difficult to explain however is that over the following few days, one of the perpetrators - either acting alone, or at best in a small social gathering with his Blackberry in hand but certainly not in an eighty thousand strong crowd, posted some sickening updates on his facebook page about the incident. The first was a matter of fact description of what had happened, just as if he was describing his day so far, and the second said that he prays to God that the victim’s corpse be eaten by dogs. This seemingly remorseless killer, who from his online profile appears barely an adult, removed these posts the next day, but they had been noticed. Many people who had seen them took a screenshot of his page before the killer deleted them and re posted them as comments on other areas of his profile. I am relieved to report that seven people have today been arrested. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This incident, far from being isolated and purely as a consequence of crowd psychology, highlights a deep rooted problem in Indonesia’s football fan culture. Rivalry reminiscent of warring tribes is deeply embedded between fans of rival clubs. Online debates and discourse from various sets of fans in the aftermath of violent occurrences show this. Among the concerned and often vocal few who condemn such actions are others who justify them, some wholeheartedly and others with the pathetic defense along the lines of, ‘He should have known better and not gone to the match’. Although such careless, narrow minded utterances are often submitted by fans and internet trolls from Britain and elsewhere in the comments pages of articles covering various less serious incidents, never would we expect fan pages to focus debate on the media victimising them, which has been the case this past week, rather than on the tragic deaths of three fans. You can watch a clip of what happened below, but be warned that you will see the victim’s body dragged away by the gang.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, where was I? I was at the game between Surabaya and Jakarta (Persebaya and Persija - seemingly most of Indonesia’s teams begin with ‘Persi’ or ‘Perse’ which can get confusing so I am just going to refer to the name of the cities from this point on). I would like to add something positive to this post and say that before a mood of intimidation gradually enveloped the stadium as full time approached, it was a very enjoyable experience, made better that I was expecting to see a dreadful display of inept sporting efforts. You might rightly ask why I bought the ticket in light of this, the simple answer is that it costs the equivalent of between one and three pounds for a ticket and I went also expecting a fantastic, if at times unnerving atmosphere thanks to the reputation of the ‘Bonek’ - literally ‘Reckless People’ - the name of the Surabaya supporters as a whole. The Bonek create an atmosphere you would expect in an Argentinian league match - flares, drums and cheerleaders in full body paint are some of the things that spice up the occasion. The atmosphere lived up to my expectations, and to my surprise, thanks in part to an awful performance from Jakarta who somehow scored three goals, one of them a real peach, Surabaya played some brilliant football. However, as the game reached the midway point in the second half and with Jakarta having taken a sudden two goal lead, completely against the run of play, things started to get more than a little tense. At first a few, and then a few more and eventually a hail of bottles were thrown onto the pitch with every decision granted to the opposition, regardless of its validity. It is easy to assume that there are a hardcore element of young angry hooligans behind this but the situation was made clearer for me when I noticed to my left in the 1st class stand (still only three quid a ticket - or free for me because I met an Indonesian guy once three months ago in a bar who I messaged to see if he was going to the game; he wasn’t but he knew the Surabaya physio who was very happy to hand me two free tickets as him and the players entered the stadium in front of the crowds before the match, such is the bizarre but endearing will that many Surabayans have to be friendly with a ‘bule’ - ‘foreigner’ in English) a father of two young girls joining in with the bottle throwing fun. What an example to set for a man who must have been about forty. It seems that most or all of the bottles were plastic, though I suspect it wouldn’t make much difference if they were glass. Surabaya eventually came back to level the game at two goals each before a counter attack and excellent 20 yard finish gave Jakarta the lead 3 minutes into injury time. This really riled the crowd and now there was no let up from the hail of bottles - many fans, disappointed at what looked like an impending defeat leaving despite some of the bottles failing to even reach the pitch and landing on the spectators. By the sixth and final minute of injury time about a third of the fans in my end of the stadium had left when Surabaya equalised again just before the final whistle. However, this didn’t placate the Bonek and the Jakarta players had to be escorted off the pitch by police in full riot gear. Such an odd sight for what in most other countries would have been a routine league match against a team based around 400 miles away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once the players had disappeared down the tunnel the police approached the corner of the stadium where most of the trouble had been flaring - the section next to us. All kinds of items were being thrown at the police by now. I noticed one officer react as though he had been hit by something more serious than a plastic bottle. I can’t be sure whether or not it was, but I can be sure that his response and the subsequent response of his colleagues was shocking to say the least. He cocked what looked like a rifle into the air and fired a shot into the crowd. Although I was still shocked, I was a little relieved that it turned out it wasn’t a standard rifle. I can’t say for certain what it was that was being fired into the crowd - perhaps tear gas, but I can describe the discharge as being indiscriminate in the fact that each shot produced 5 mini fireballs that spread out evenly from the centre as they lobbed into an array of men, women and children. The officer’s colleagues followed suit. My morbid fascination ensured that I stayed put, safe - for the time being at least - in the neighbouring stand a hundred metres or so from the targets for a couple of minutes as the police fired round after round of this ammunition. The crowd moved like a stormy sea - heading in one direction briefly to avoid one piece of ammo before swerving en mass to avoid another. I eventually sensed this might only be the beginning, did the sensible thing and left the stadium. This whole episode played out in a stadium reminiscent of bygone days, where disasters like Heysel and Hillsborough happened, supporters penned in behind barbed wire fences and with nowhere to run when the police opened fire. I have yet to find out whether or not the victim died as a result of what I witnessed or if because of subsequent disturbances outside the stadium, but it seems likely that when a crowd has to suddenly dodge multiple fireballs in a corner of a stadium, built with concrete steps at a 30 degree angle for standing only and with fences around it, a tragedy is inevitable. I also believe that such actions by those with the task of protecting people (officer numbers were up after the previous weeks events in Jakarta) surely amount to manslaughter at the very least, and maybe even murder if recklessly using firearms to administer collective punishment is deemed enough justification.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a tragic end to an otherwise fulfilling day. Seeing the footballing culture of this country mirroring the problems that faced English football in the eighties was fascinating, and such is the wonderful warmth and friendliness of most Indonesian people that I never felt in any danger, even if plastic bottles were flying about, until the end of the game when everything suddenly seemed rather ominous. The harsh reality is though that hooliganism is not just tolerated here; it is the culture. The entire fan base seems to identify with it. Middle aged family men throw objects onto the pitch. Add into the mix an at best unprofessional and at worst violent police force and you have a vicious circle that, without a serious effort from the game’s authorities, fans and government is not likely to end. The whole scene was summed up for me when I noticed a banner as I left the stadium. It had a big ‘bonek’ logo in the middle and read “Persebaya Hooligans - You’ll Never Fight Alone”. Banners that could be said to incite violence appear at football grounds all over the world, but what made this almost comical were it not for the sporadic suffering that underpins it, was that this banner, like many others, was on the other side of the fence - pitchside. It wasn’t in the supporters’ enclosure. It was nicely framed behind many a commercial sponsor such as Nike. What would they make of their brand being associated with such statements? It could have been moved at any time by a club official, a police officer or a representative of the Indonesian Premier League. Oddly enough there are two leagues in Indonesia - one is a rebel league and isn’t recognised by FIFA despite its popurity. That is the Indonesian Super League and features in the earlier tragedy in Jakarta. Yet this is the league that is legitimate. Rest in Peace you poor souls. Sort your lives out hooligans. And learn how to administer justice without unnecessary violence you fools in uniform.</span></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03642887328341207240noreply@blogger.com0