The Perky Perth Adventure

Everybody I know was in one way or another mocking me when I told them I’m going to Perth. There’s only nothingness in Perth was the general agreement. Boy, wouldn’t it be great to prove them wrong, thought I. Upon reaching the crappy and ironically inhospitable Ngurah Rai Airport check in counter, I stumbled on a notice board that says something like “we would not tolerate any inappropriate behavior toward our crew”. So I asked the chatty check in staff what’s that supposed to mean (I swear I’ve never encountered such a notice before in my travels) which then propelled me to a truly fascinating anecdotes about my soon-to-be-fellow in-flight passengers. “Oh we’ve had awful cases of drunken tourists throwing up during check in or drinking the whole stuff they bought in Duty Free and went totally crazy on board until we had to kick them out of the plane.” I asked B, my travel buddy: “Remind me, why we are going to Perth again?”

So off I went (gulp), on a three and a half hours economic flight, feet fortunately able to be sprawled due to half full airplane. Luckily it was a peaceful flight with no inappropriate drunken tourists. We were welcomed by a hard-core Slim Shady taxi driver with long red beard who produced gruffly sound. Definitely not the kind of a person you’d like to meet on 4AM in the morning although he turned out to be quite nice since he helped me with my luggage. After 20 minutes of deep pervaded silence in a cab, I jumped jubilantly into my friend, Miss C’s warm hug and home. There’s nothing sweeter than meeting a really good friend in a strange, new and exciting setting. I’ve known this girl since we played Barbie together on my terrace a century ago.

She introduced me to the ridiculous public transport ticketing. Ridiculous because it takes an awful lot of heavy, jiggling coins to buy a ticket. Imagine if you’re just about to be late and the train coming and you have to put the coins one by one into the slot with your shaky hands. Perth on 6AM was awfully quiet and chilly. The only thing that opened was McDonald’s and there’s no way I’m having my first breakfast there. We spent the morning watching at people going to work in all manner and fashion. Miss C had to work and so it was me and my travel buddy, B, exploring the “city”. You can already feel the Easter holiday in the air. Everybody was restless and counting the hours they had to labor until freedom (or otherwise will be known herewith as The Super Long Ridiculous Weekend or TSLRW for short).

Being a museum buff, Western Australia Museum was my first destination. It located serenely between an art school, art museum and public library. I would lie to you if I said it was a splendid museum. It wasn’t. Aside from the glassy eyed taxidermy native animals, I found it lack the interactivity to really grab attention. Starving and slightly weak in the knee, we went to a certain famous Vietnamese restaurant my friend insisted we must eat in Northbridge St. This Pan Asian- Australian culinary trip didn’t end there. We would eat Japanese and Korean food in the days to follow and I must say they were quite good and well valued, apart from being some of the places still open during TSLRW.

First day was spent in our couchsurfer’s house, a cool dude with his beautiful dog, Ruby. By a string of bad luck, his feet were being run over by a car and then he broke his teeth on the day we arrived. Yet, he still took us kindly into his house. Our introduction was painful, at least for his part. He couldn’t talk for a few hours and so I did a Small Talk Monologue with him grumbling as answers. Poor guy. Later when he finally able to talk, he knocked on my door and said “welcome to Perth” while offering a box of TimTam. I have had a very remarkable time talking with him, his painkillers, a bottle of shiraz and his dog. We shared the same ‘leftist’ way of thinking and twisted humor. By twisted humor, I’m refering to the time we watched “Dogma”, the sickest Christianity trashing film ever made (Alanis Morisette as a loopy God!) and laughed our assess off.

There was a fantastic sunset picnic by Trigg beach with a bubbly wine. There was a very nice visit to a petit book shop in Oxford St. that might be the only shop in Perth which opens until 9.30PM. There was a serious comparative study to find the best fish and chips in Perth, or Fremantle to be accurate (definitely Kailis). There was time petting the kangaroos, a Jabba the Hut wombat and a very sleepy koala in Caversham. There was a rolling down the hill and lost in summer dream time at King’s Park. There was a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious time in Burswood, watching my first ever musical show performance live (Evita, Phantom of the Opera, Cats and the whole Andrew Lloyd Webber’s famous repertoire). There was a relaxing bush walking accompanied by two hopping wild kangaroos. There was brunch that easily could feed three persons with full course menu back home but oh-well-I-was-in-holiday-screw-it. There was wine and chocolate tasting. There was a wonderfully short BBQ picnic by the Swan River. There was even a touching dawn service on ANZAC Day (when I cruelly forced Miss C to wake up on 4AM to attend) and a military parade which later provided me with a photo op with cute sailors. So yes, basically I got the best of what Perth could offer.

However if you asked me what was the defining moment of my Perth visit, it was the people I encountered. Aside from my angelic, generous and sweet Miss C also my cool couchsurfer, Mr. J, I met quite a few of remarkable “sandgropers” (Perth is almost mostly consisted of sand, hence the name). There were three extremely violent guys outside Burswood Casino that had to be taken down by three bodyguards each and in the process created quite a scene and free entertainment for me(and a whole new vocabulary of swear words). There was a very cheerful and by far the nicest shop assistant I’ve ever met in my life who beamed and smiled even when I only bought a 20 bucks discounted dress. And to even things out, there was also an extremely rude blonde who hissed at me when I tried my best to feed the hungry beast of train ticket machine with fat coins.

Go to Northbridge at Saturday nights if you still think Perth is dull. I met an extremely drunk woman (at least I hope she was drunk) who upon seeing a solidly calm street light, just threw herself and did an impromptu pole dancing that would make Carmen Electra proud. Perth is definitely not the most exciting city to visit (if it does, why they would fly to Bali anyway?) but it has its charm, quirk and certain perkiness. My theory is that Perth is just too quiet; its residents feel that they should be the one providing entertainment for themselves.

However one question remains. What’s with those dudes who walk barefoot around the city anyway?

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I Am She

via from me to you

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G'day Perth!

Sapi Malas will be in Perth this Easter. Undaunted by negative remarks like ‘but there’s nothing there’ or ‘It’s Australia’s black hole’ , I will prove them naysayers wrong. You can have fun in Perth, I’m sure. Watch this space for my report of “The City of Light” (wait, isn’t it for Paris?) and the 8th Most Livable City in The Economist’s 2010 list. Cheers mate!

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Now Everyone Can Fly (including You and Me)

Traveling is fast becoming affordable. Budget airlines, internet discounts for accommodation, WikiTravel. There’s no more reason not to travel independently. I’m not trying to discredit tour and travel company here but seriously, independent traveling has been the one and only way to travel for me although that’s not the case for the majority of Indonesian. It is still difficult to spot an Indonesian backpacker abroad who came not with a bus but the signs are there. More and more of my 20something peers are going out. Inspiring blogs like The Naked Traveler or Ransel Kecil helps with the case as well as the increasing amount of guide books made by Indonesian for Indonesian available on the market.

I’m not claiming myself a die hard traveler nor an experienced one at that. I get lost all the time, for one. That doesn’t stop me. Being actively involved in Bali’s CouchSurfing scene also plunge me further into the addictive world of traveling. Wanderlust is in the air. And now we have AirAsia, the official carrier of backpackers across Asia. Let me brag a bit in this paragraph about my victoriously cheap tickets that will bring me to travel this year. I’ll be in Perth this Easter for a mere 90 USD. I’ll be in Penang the month after that, eating my heart out for 70 USD then off I’ll go to Singapore on June, right on time for the SALE (I won’t tell you how much I got the tickets for this trip because I’m afraid you’ll get frustrated and chew your shopper’s feet off). And to close the year of living ludicrously, I will be off with my darling, recently traveling addicted Mother to Vietnam on July for a mere 100 USD for the two of us. Returns. I’m unashamedly a cheap shit for travel.

As a financially struggling 20something self-employed sourcing agent/interior designer/writer, traveling for me is still a luxury as also for most of the population in Indonesia. We have basic needs that are much more important to fulfill than being lost in Prague. We’ve been taught at school that human being needs three vital things to survive: sandang (clothes), pangan (food), papan (home). I’d like to redefine it now. There’s the fourth need, an abstract but the most important of all need: the need to learn. When you cease learning, you basically stop living and none of those three needs will do you any good.

I learned about life from my travel experiences. I even learned more about myself when I’m out there getting lost and trying to read a map in a country where English is not known, then any other time in my life. It is such a shame that gap year or backpacking is not known as a rite of passage in Indonesia. I could very well imagine how good it would have been for a generation of Mummy’s Little Boys and Daddy’s Little Girls that now might have been stuck in a convenient marriage and thoughtless breeding that will drive this country into its sure population explosion. I bet my cheap tickets that you who loves to travel as much as me, an Indonesian, in your twenties or thirties and in the state of unmarried, has been in this position of being asked by a concerned Auntie: “Why do you spend all your money traveling instead of settling down, find a nice husband (or wife)?”

How could you describe to that Nosy Auntie the beautiful, liberating, vibrant jitter, lurching in your stomach when you first arrived in a strange destination, not yet unknown by you? How could you tell her the joy of meeting perfect stranger and when you’re lucky, made a lifetime connection and memory with them? How could you explain it to her that occasionally there will be times when you found a part of yourself that you didn’t even know exist, that so appealing and true and real? I guess you just can’t. You could try but she will gives you that look that says it all: this kid is hopeless. Hopefully, she’ll leave it at that.

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Alcohol’s a Bitch.

You think when you’ve reached your twenties, you’d be more sophisticated, worldly and knowing. Well, you just can’t be more wrong. Twenties are just an extension of your teenage years except that you own more money. Insecurities, social acceptance, peer pressure all of them are still there, those old mean bastards. It might be even more dangerous since in your twenties you have a lot more points to prove and much more ambition. Yes, I can get a raise and promotion next month. Yes, I can totally buy that (put any one word designer’s name here) handbag even if it cost me four months salary. Yes, God is my witness, I’ll be married by 27.

Back to the alcohol thingy, I spent this beautiful Saturday being drunk. I missed a late brunch by the river and a good wonderful company, because I’m too hammered to even wake up from my bed. I don’t think I’ve ever been this drunk before although there were few close calls. I’m not a party animal or those hipsters who thinks being tipsy and slurred are the way to go. There is nothing mildly cute or graceful in being drunk. Last night, I was simply having a good time and got a bit carried away. I had two fantastic, fun loving girls with me and a really sweet guy as the designated driver since we all knew deep down, the three fantastic, fun loving girls (yes, I counted myself in) would be three raving intoxicated girls as the night grew old. Fast forward to around 3 a.m, one was having a serious make out session with a toilet bowl (yes, missy I know you’d be reading this) and another two was taking over the dance floor. Then we went home. It was a beautiful misty morning as we passed few determined joggers, market shopping housewives and high school students on the way.

I was quite sober when I reached home but by the time I woke up after an urgent phone call (BRUNCH! WAKE UP!), a deep unsettling nausea hits me and the next thing I know, I was on the toilet floor, throwing up everything I swallowed the night before. I never knew our body don’t digest vodka that well. To make things worse, the nausea didn’t come in one big tsunami so I can just get it done. Oh no, they came in ripples. Six sickening and horrifying ripples which was the very reason why your parents told you not to get drunk. It is now 20.52 laptop time, when I’m writing this in a much better state and finally able to hold food in my belly.

I learned my lesson today. It cost me a splendid Saturday. As God as my witness, I’ll never be drunk again. Ever.

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Sous Le Ciel de Paris

It is very rare for me to find a character in a film that I could relate to. It perhaps has to do with the films that I watch anyway. I don’t think anybody could find it easy to relate with Princess Leia or Sookie Stackhouse or Hermione Granger fighting off Death Eaters with Petrificus Totalus. I’ve seen a lot of fantasy, comic based blockbusters lately and not much of real drama. Therefore I decided to watch An Education the other day. I’ve been meaning to see it since last year but I kept putting it off, saving the best for last sort of thing.

I’m so charmed by the film I’m now blogging about it. For you who haven’t seen it (shame on you!), the film is about Jenny, a charming and intelligent teenager on the late 60s London, who was bored to death by her school and strict parents. In an eventful rainy encounter, she met a charming older guy played by Peter Sarsgaard, who then managed to seduced her and her whole family with his wit, glamour and worldliness. Who the hell in the world doesn’t want to to picked up on the street by a Peter Sarsgaard anyway? I don’t blame her at all.

I’d like to think Jenny is every women. Aren’t we all at one point in our life must have dreamed about being seduced by a charming older guy who takes you to expensive restaurants, concert even Paris and woo you with flowers and gifts? The fact that this film is based on true story and a memoir by Lynn Barber made this even more incredible and heart breaking all at once. I’m blushing like a school girl when Peter seduced Jenny and grimaced upon recognizing myself on Jenny’s remarks about ‘going to Paris, wear blacks, smoke cigarette in un cafe’. She’s a Francophile much like moi.

There’s one scene where Jenny lying on the floor, singing and humming to Juliette Greco’s Sous Le Ciel de Paris playing on the portable gramophone. I was She. I was, not many years ago, that girl who always dream to get away and be magically transported. I am still that girl who can’t wait to grow up, live the world and be a glamorous vixen who smokes and putting on red lipstick. Reading Fitzgerald and too much Jazz ruined me for life, I’m afraid.

I don’t know if this entry should be tagged under ‘film’ or ‘personal rubbish’. Maybe I should just put it under ‘bric-a-brac’ to suit the French mood.

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