Islamic Initiation

On the 22nd of January this year I emerged from Soekarno-Hatta airport to breathe fresh air for the first time since leaving snowy London in my winter clothing and laden with baggage.
    Sweat soaking into every layer of clothing, and when I finally set towards Jakarta itself I experienced a frivolity like those that always dominate initial impressions of a foreign land: leaning out of my slow-moving taksi window to reach the two cigarettes held out by the driver of another.
    The rush of travel in me, I breathed in the air conditioning and felt my muscles slowly cramp, caught between the sweat and faux-leather.
    Nothing particularly real registered until the next morning — after showers, drinks, rapid introductions and caffeine injections — when I lay asleep under the white (faux-) linen of my kost.
    I burst out of my sheets, heart pounding, sweating, the adrenaline and tension of terror in my blood and hearing ... the most awful din!
    Awake, I recognized the sound of the local muezzin summoning the faithful, and began to laugh at my reaction.
    I’m a long way from home.
    One voice was soon joined by another, and then another, as prayers rotated into sermons and voices competing. For 45 minutes.
    Islam was not new to me. I grew up in London and am fiercely proud of my city, not least for the reasons I could rattle off if provoked enough, but for its internationalism.
    Foreign tongues spring at you constantly, and are never overwhelming.
    I had, and have, Islamic friends, enemies and acquaintances met across Europe, and no small number in the British capital. Never sure what to make of occasional glares along Edgware road, I was nevertheless comfortable with muslims from South Asia, Central Asia, the Middle East and North Africa.
    But never an Indonesian.
    Arriving here, it was strange to think that the vast majority of people were muslim, but with the local flair.
    The kampung where I lived had several mosques, outside of which the best food was invariably sold. Inevitably, and quickly, my explorations led me there, and pursuant to writing this piece, inside.
    Strangely, the experience of being inside reminded me of going to Bah Mitzvah ceremonies in synagogues: an unfamiliar religion, women separate from men, headwear and prayers in a Middle Eastern language I did not understand.
    I naturally wondered how I would be received by the people there.
    From a certain standpoint, I had already invaded their kampung and their food stalls (as mentioned, they were the best) and had now set foot in their mosque, as a non-muslim and with no express intention of joining — although, yes, with a purposely-grown beard, of which I was naively proud.
    I won’t go into how the local mosque design differed from those I was familiar with. There are far more authoritative writings on the architectural style and dress across muslim culture, and this is not one.
    Their curiosity piqued by the clearly foreign and unfamiliar face, locals with knowledge of English would approach me afterwards, some to take photos, and one, always one, to asked me to sit down for a meal.
    And so it went. I would sit and eat with them as they gathered my opinions on everything they could. What did I think of this? Of that? Do I like football?
    “What team are you for?” one asks.
    “Chelsea, I’m from Chelsea.”
    Oohs of recognition.
    “He,” the young man said, pointing across the table, “he Manchester. I,” thumps his chest, “I Arsenal.”
    “I’ll ignore you then,” I replied, to laughter all round.
    As they got used to my presence, I realized that I was really at an Indonesian Muslim version of a Sunday parish picnic, or Church fete, absent the women.
    We chatted, compared thoughts on SBY (Indonesian President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono), exchanged recommendations, and discussed football, at length and in great detail.
   Religion, somehow, never quite stuck. Perhaps this was deliberate, perhaps not. It is, in the context of this article, irrelevant.
    I no longer live in my kost in the kampung of Setia Budi, and there is only one mosque in earshot of my bedroom.
    The voice drifting through my window is not competing or overcompensating. It is experienced, with a smooth quality allowing the words to speak to me, however little I understand.
    Each morning the call to prayer may catch me awake, restless, or register as I briefly flicker my eyelids.
    It is my plaintive reminder that the new day is stirring.

How to Surf

Socialism, for example, is something relevant to previous generations. What we care about is social justice, we just think that ties it into, and must be, some already-specified strand of thinking, because we've been told that it does. We have the internet now, we don't need it. It is perfectly possible to be a pure capitalist and want social justice.
People seem to think labeling themselves as a bastion of socialism, welfare, free trade or anything else, is a sign of strength. Many people look to them and believe it is.
It is not. It is weak.
Freedom of expression does not just mean the ability to say what you think without persecution, but what you do not think. To lie, provoke, "troll," guard your emotions and see what happens.

Cream River: A Poem

Breath over me

Sway a lampshade in the half-light

Floating along the floor

Flossy

Kiss again

Soothe the opening of a door

Softly

Flop away.

In Ordnung: A Poem

Check the level.

Make the call.

Confirm.

Recheck the level.

Re-confirm.

Construct a reasonable call

To reconfirm.

Fluctuate.

Re-call.

Re-confirm.

Re-check.

Re-confirm

Re-check

Re-check

Re-confirm.

Sly confirm.

And Go.

A Go.

Go.

The Alca

Among the ancient and endless obfuscation of Balkan history, there is a tradition which this summer I might get to see.

The Alca is a tournament between horseriders in full armor, picking a ring off with their lance from a rope suspending it in the air (rather like gauchos in Argentina). The difference here being the weight of centuries-old armor. The exact dates I need to work on...

What I do know is that a few thousand croats (along with some Venetian commanders) went up against a force of some tens of thousands of Ottomans (numbers vary from side to side but the ballpark is the same). It was a hopeless situation for the outnumbered Balkan force until some of the Venetian commanders secretly poisoned the river upstream from the Ottoman camp the night before the battle.

The next day, having informed the rest of their army, the Balkans charged at the depleted Turks to a stunning victory.

At the tournament there is one horse without a rider. It represents the Ottomans.

One-Day in London

Sorry this is up so late - I fell asleep rather unexpectedly ysterday evening. Anyway...

Arrive Heathrow 9 a.m.

Clear customs and go through to the Heathrow Express. Buy a ticket. Get on one. 10.15 a.m.

10.30 a.m. Arrive at Paddington station. Get on the Tube.

Circle Line to Notting Hill Gate (2 stops)

Walk 2 minutes to my house and drop off your bags.

Go back to Notting Hill Gate and get some breakfast - perhaps a Crussh Smoothie?

Cross the road and wander down Portobello, 11.45 a.m.

Waste some money on shawls etc.

Wander back up Portobello, 12.45 p.m.

Buy Coffee on Notting Hill Gate, 1 p.m.

Get back on the Tube. Circle Line Eastbound to South Kensington (3 stops).

Get out at 1.20 p.m.

Go to Victoria & Albert Museum.

Go to Natural History Museum.

Go to Brompton Oratory.

Skip the Science Museum (another time, when you're not rushed).

Back on the Tube at South Kensington, hopefully 3.20 p.m. if you made quick work of it. Picadilly Line to Knightsbridge (1 stop).

Get out, go inside Harrods, wander around and buy something delightful.

Get back on the Picadilly Line, 4 p.m.

Skip Hyde Park Corner, Green Park, Picadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Covent Garden, and Holborn (all offices at that stop anyway), going straight onto Russell Square & The British Musem (7 stops).

Stay there until it closes. Get on Picadilly Line and change at Leicester Square (3 stops) for the Northern Line, going South to Embankment (2 stops), change back to the Circle Line and go to Westminster (1 stop).

Get out, take a picture, get back in.

Carry on, on, the Circle Line back to Notting Hill Gate (7 stops). 8.00 - 8.30 p.m.

Wander into the quaint backstreets and 'Hillgate Village' and try to visit as many pubs as possible. When they all close, go to the Old Swan at the corner of Notting Hill Gate and Kensington Church Street. When that closes, go home.

Wake up early, go for a jog, see Kensington Palace, jog back.

If you really want to do London, you need 1 month + commitment + stamina + plenty money + me to guide you.

This was designed for Ari Melinger-Cohen, who jhas a one day layover in London today.

Find tube maps at http://www.tfl.gov.uk/

This Is My Tiger

He is nameless. I have Georgia O'Brien's talents to thank for this, something childish that I've always wanted. What should I call him? I can't think of a good enough name that would not be a rip off.

Please help.

Blaise