At 5 am the calls to prayer stir us from slumber. A soundtrack of three overlapping voices emanate from the loudspeakers of various mosques near our hotel, the atonal wails blending with the screeches of local roosters. This is when it hits me that I really am in a Muslim country.

Well, it also hits me when we go to the food court at a nearby mall and see a woman in full, black Muslim dress and veil sitting on a bench next to a life-size ceramic Ronald McDonald, his globalizing arm outstretched around her shoulder.

Jakarta isn't exactly a cultural mecca, and we didn't spend a ton of time exploring the city outside of swish hotel bars (which are still cheaper than Manhattan). rubikzube and I did spend one adventurous day in the city, however, along with Gustav's college friend from U of M, Rich -- ex-archaeologist and furniture designer extraordinaire. At Let's Go's suggestion, we decided to go down to Sunda Kelapa, the city's old harbor. We had no idea what we were doing or what we were in for--once we got to the harbor we gravitated toward the hut labelled "Tourist Information" and were immediately picked up by a guide named Dedi (prompting many juvenile exclamations of "Who's your Dedi!? for the rest of the vacation). The gigantic ships loomed over our heads as Dedi explained the history of the lumber shipping business, very much in full swing to this day.

[Big ole boats]


We each conquered raw fear and walked the plank from the port to one of the ships, exploring its guts and greeting its laborers (who all seemed quite bemused and even enthused by the camera-toting tourists). We stopped short only at the dank, pitch black engine room which set off our sketch-o-rama meters rather too vehemently. Call it white girl skittishness, but I wasn't in the mood to risk being shipped off to Thailand and sold to a brothel.

Though we presumed this to be the end of the tour, our guide pressed us on past the Maritime Museum (even Indonesian museums are closed on Mondays), through the fish market, and around a neighborhood where naked children, cats with stunted tails, and chickens ran around freely while the locals sold and traded goods, chopped coconuts, cleaned fish, and stared at us.

[This is what it looked like]


Finally he led us to Fatahillah Square, heart of old Batavia, where the Dutch held public executions and cannons are still lined up in front of the old governmental headquarters. (Dedi: "It's like what you Americans call the White Building.")

After outlining a fair amount of Indonesian colonial history, our dear guide left us, having taken us for only about twenty bucks, and we were left to the cuisine and sweet, sweet air conditioning of the Cafe Batavia. This place was amazing--it felt kind of like Rick's American Cafe, but more brightly lit -- distinctively war-era, anyhow. All the menus were on the backs of framed photographs of celebrities and historical figures that hung on the wall. When we walked in, a film was shooting in the foyer -- someone playing piano in a smoke machine smoke-filled room. I felt like I had truly stepped back in time, although it may have just been the delirium brought on by the sun poisoning.