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Semarak Menteng, a two-day festival organized by Sahabat Menteng and the Central Jakarta Municipality, featured a bazaar, Brazilian martial art form Capoeira, dancing, including breakdance, and a photo exhibition depicting the old and new Menteng.
For many senior citizens who lived in Menteng in their youth, the event was an opportunity for a reunion. At the reunion, former residents shared memories of Menteng as a friendly neighborhood.
“Menteng has changed,” resident Bandji Asaari, 64, told The Jakarta Post. “It used to be Menteng. Now it is Benteng [a fort].”
He said during his childhood, houses in Menteng were not surrounded by high walls and gates. Rather, the beautiful architecture of houses was visible.
“When children passed these beautiful houses, they were inspired to have the same,” he said.
Bandji said he mostly missed having warm, friendly neighbors, saying the current situation greatly differed from the past when residents knew each other.
The bazaar continues on Sunday and a parade of Betawi, India and Japanese culture, kung fu, a percussion band and decorative bicycles. 
Left: Emil Salim and Right: Rosihan Anwar
There will also be presentation of Menteng Senior Awards for residents who have made a contribution to the country, including Emil Salim and Rosihan Anwar. [rc]
Copyright © 2008 The Jakarta Post - PT Bina Media Tenggara.
Gift of water: A kendi sits by the front door of Djaja Laksana’s house in Surabaya. “It’s only water,” Djaja says, “but it may be useful for anyone who needs it.” (JP/ Djoko Pitono Hadiputro)
"Oh, yes. People still drink water from it," Imanadi said. "Becak drivers, school students around here. I myself often drink water from the kendi. Almost everyday someone who works for Pak Djaja Laksana refills the kendi."
Also confirming it was the action of a trader. As he passed the house he walked, without hesitation, to get the kendi and drank freely, stopping to speak of his appreciation for the gift.
The gift is from Djaja Laksana, the owner of No. 55, who said it began with the kerja bakti (community working bees) often held in the kampung not far from his house. For such occasions, he usually prepared snacks and drinking water.
This reminded him of the kendi tradition, so he asked a member of his domestic staff to buy the earthenware pot. Realizing its usefulness, Djaja made the kendi a permanent fixture outside his house.
"I have been putting the kendi there for more than 25 years," Djaja said. "It's for no other purpose except to give free drinking water to the public. It's only water, but it may be useful for anyone who needs it."
According to one of his neighbors, Djaja Laksana, a successful entrepreneur, is known for his philanthropic works and readily helps others. He is also known for his efforts in trying to deal with the mudflow problems in Porong, Sidoarjo, by pioneering the use of the Bernoulli Theory of the movement of fluids to stop the mudflow.
The earthenware pots also stand outside the official residence of the CEO of PT Semen Gresik Tbk, Dwi Soetjipto, in Gresik. In contrast to the kendi outside Djaja's house, the two kendi outside Soetjipto's house have a permanent "house" of their own made from iron.
"Pak Dwi Soetjipto himself asked his family to put the kendi in front of his house. There was no kendi before he moved to the house," said Bambang Subroto, a former public relations officer at PT Semen Gresik who lives in the same street.
Bambang said that some years ago, several of his neighbors also put kendi in front of their houses.
"Not anymore. Now it's only Pak Dwi Soetjipto who has them there," he said. "There are always workers who check the drinking water and refill the kendi."
Putting a kendi or two in front of the house is an old tradition in many cities across the country, as senior citizens may attest. Budi Darma, a professor in literature at Surabaya State University, said he still remembers when his parents put kendi in front of the house.
"I lived in Kudus in the 40s, around 1945," said the famous writer of his childhood. "Not only my parents but many people had kendi in front of their houses, especially in the dry season and where people usually travel on foot."
Budi noted that until the 1960s and 1970s, people in many cities maintained the tradition. "There is also a tradition in Myanmar," he added. "Some years ago I read a Myanmar short story that mentioned the practice."
Offering free drinking water outside the house or in public places was an ancient Hindu tradition in India, which can be traced back thousands of years, but has now almost disappeared. In Sanskrit, the free public water stands are called piyaos, and the small huts are called jal mandir (water temples).
In her book Water War: Privatization, Pollution and Profit, Indian philosopher and scientist Vandana Shiva exposes the erosion of communal water rights in her own country and explains why the tradition of giving free water has gone.
According to Shiva, there was a clash between two cultures: a culture that sees water as sacred and treats its provision as a duty for the preservation of life and another that sees water as a commodity, and its ownership and trade as a fundamental corporate right.
She argues that the culture of commodification is at war with a diverse culture of sharing, of receiving and giving water as a free gift. Similarly, the non-sustainable, non-renewable and polluting plastic culture is at war with civilization based on soil and mud and the cultures of renewal and rejuvenation.
Dr Ayu Sutarto, a culture expert from Jember State University, said the fact that the piyaos tradition has existed for hundreds of years in the Islamic era is interesting.
"You may say that is only water. But imagine the impact of the tradition for people who travel on foot," Ayu Sutarto said.
Ayu also notes that the disappearance of the piyaos can be explained by the development of the public transportation system and plastic packaging: Much fewer people travel on foot and there are no longer any difficulties in carrying drinking water.
"But anyway, we must realize that people now tend to be selfish, and care less about other people," he said.
Setya Yuwana Sudikan, a sociology professor from Surabaya State University, sees another tendency in the piyaos tradition, namely that vandalism has made people afraid to drink water from kendi kept in public areas.
"The tradition is a very good one, but some people may put something dangerous in the kendi," he said.
Even in Bali, which has a majority Hindu population, the piyaos tradition has gone.
"I have never seen it in Bali. And the thing is, I know that piyaos is a Hindu tradition," said Djaja Laksana, who was born in Singaraja, Bali.
Nyoman Sudapet, a marketing manager for Bali Post in Surabaya, also noted the lack of piyaos in Bali.
The writer, who has traveled to many cities in the East and Central Java, has come across only a few piyaos, even though many people said they remember seeing them when they were children, noting that kendi were still put outside houses from 1960 to 1980.
But in a village not far from Mojokerto, a piyaos was seen in front of the house of Haji Machrus, who said he had put the piyaos there for years as a tradition kept by his parents.
"I did not know that is a Hindu tradition," Machrus said. "I just kept it because my mother told me to do it, offering the drinking water to people who may need it."
In Surabaya, piyaos are in front of the gate of the Bungurasih Bus Terminal, but they do not hold any water. A becak driver there said that he used to drink water from the kendi, but not now.
For Sri Haryanti, who works at the Health Ministry, piyaos is part of her adult life; she keeps a kendi outside her house in Surabaya. She said that when she went to Mecca for the haj in 1997, she noticed that many people were offering free drinking water to passersby.
"I remember when I was a child my mother always put kendi outside our house, giving drinking water to people," she said. "So I continue the good tradition." [rc]
Copyright © 2008 The Jakarta Post
IT'S A WRAP: Yayang, a gift basket venfor in Cikini, Central Jakarta, wraps a typical bundle in his kiosk. He sells this basket of snacks for Rp 265,000 (US$28). (File photo JP/Triwik Kurniasari)
The warm glow of the afternoon sun falls softly on the untrimmed patches of grass that cover the yard. Only the repeated sounds of a wooden mallet and metal chisel break the tranquility of the afternoon.
The sounds stop as Mangku Jenggo inspects the padas stone. His imagination, channeled by the mallet and the chisel, has transformed the stone into the rugged figure of a mythical beast. It will take hours more hard work for the transformation to be complete.
But Jenggo decides to call it a day and chooses to take a cup of warm coffee instead.
“I will finish it tomorrow, or probably the day after that,” he says.
He gives the unfinished statue one more look before entering the house to fetch his coffee.
Natural artist: “I am more interested in creating sculpture than in producing shrines,” says sculptor Mangku Jenggo, who is completely self-taught. Jakarta Post /I Wayan Sunarta
The statue stands still among dozens of others lying in different parts of the yard. Unlike the statues sold in the island’s art shops and souvenir markets, Jenggo’s creations bear the mark of a different time, of a much older aesthetic style.
His creations are naïve and primitive in style. The form is basic and rugged, a far cry from the refined, heavily ornamented statues created by Balinese sculptors in the island’s tourism regions of Gianyar and Badung.
Jenggo clearly draws his inspiration from human and animal figures. Yet, through his creative process, the figures are distorted and transformed into creatures with mythical quality.
To a large extent, the statues bear close resemblance to the archaic totems and idols of the animist period before the arrival of the mainstream religions.
A resident of Umanyar hamlet, in Karangasem’s Ababi village, Jenggo doesn’t know the precise date and year of his birth. He knows only that he was still a child when the mighty Mt. Agung erupted in 1963.
“At that time I was around five or six years old,” he says. “My family took me in a truck to find shelter in a neighboring village.”
The eruption brought havoc to his village. Yet, years after the disaster, rocks and lava spouted by
the mountain during the explosion provide the village with a rich natural resource.
The villagers mined the rocks and used them to produce Hindu shrines. The industry soon became the village’s economic backbone; Umanyar’s shrines were sent to various places across the island and even shipped abroad.
As his fellow villagers enthusiastically set about building the new industry, Jenggo took a different course. He used the rocks as the material for his sculptures.
“I am more interested in creating sculpture than in producing shrines,” he says.
A self-taught artist, Jenggo had been carving wooden masks and statues long before he experimented with padas stone. His first introduction to the new material was when a friend asked him to carve a huge slab of stone into a decorative human figure.
“I sat for hours in front of that stone trying to figure out how to turn it into an art object,” he recalls.
He managed to complete the task and has been addicted to the new material ever since.
“I dig and collect padas stone from my tegalan [dried cultivated land] and carve objects based on my imagination,” he adds.
His works now adorn the yard in front of his house, his tegalan and along the narrow road that leads to his house.
Jenggo got an opportunity to meet someone who could understand his art when Bali’s noted painter Made Budhiana stumbled upon his works. An eccentric artist who loves to explore the island’s isolated regions, Budhiana has often found himself lost in narrow dirt roads that go nowhere.
And on one particular day, one narrow dirt road led Budhiana to the rows of unique statues displayed in front of Jenggo’s house.
The two chatted for hours and an intimate friendship was born. Budhiana adored Jenggo’s works; the village artist found in Budhiana the teacher he had always longed for.
“Jenggo’s works have that genuine and honest quality of an artist, who probably knows nothing about concepts or all that intellectual mumbo-jumbo, but knows everything that you need to know to create great artworks,” Budhiana says.
Although Jenggo’s naïve and primitive style proved appealing for Budhiana, the mainstream art markets have little demand for his works. Not that Jenggo carves his statues for money.
“I create them because I like bringing my imagination to life on those stones,” he says.
And so, to make a living, Jenggo says, he still tends to his farm of snake fruits, coconuts and bananas. [rc]
Copyright © 2008 The Jakarta Post - PT Bina Media Tenggara.
CHIROPRACTIC is the treatment by hand of various conditions of the human body by removing a “subluxation” (misalignment of vertebrae) which has caused an interference in the nervous system flow. A chiropractic adjustment aligns the joints of the spine and body. By removing pressure that interferes with proper nerve flow, the adjustment allows the body to heal itself and function at peak levels. Chiropractic adjustments are safe, natural, and have been proven effective.
From: Natural-Chiropractic.com
Chiropractic is another treatment. It is known as an "alternative therapy" that treats the spine and extremities for ailments of the body's neuro-musculo-skeletal system. Chiropractic actually treats the joints of the spine or extremities, through which nerves pass. These nerves can be "pinched" by problems in the joint. These problems can be simple misalignments of the bones or vertebrae of the joints, or may be complicated by the sprains and strains.
For example, in a car accident, the ligaments (which connect the vertebrae) are stretched as the neck suffers "whiplash". When these ligaments are stretched and sprained, the joints become "inflamed" and the nerve passageway becomes "pinched" and the symptoms begin (albeit sometimes at a later time). Chiropractic is safe and proven effective for neuro-musculo-skeletal ailments of the spine and extremities.
On your first visit to a chiropractor, you will be asked to fill out a short patient questionnaire. This will help the chiropractor determine if you can be a chiropractic patient. An extensive neuro-musculo-skeletal exam will follow. Depending on your situation, X-rays may be requested. If so, the chiropractor will review your films with you and determine if chiropractic can help you. If your case is beyond chiropractic care, you will be referred to the proper specialist. If chiropractic care can help you, a treatment plan will be prescribed for you.
In North America, Australia, New Zealand and parts of Europe, chiropractic is quite common. In almost any town, just ask anyone, "Where is the chiropractic office?" and they will be able to tell you. Here in Indonesia, chiropractic is very new and we few chiropractors are teaching "one patient at a time" about chiropractic. [rc]
The writer is doctor of chiropractic at Natural Chiropractic (www.natural-chiropractic.com).
Copyright © 2008 The Jakarta Post - PT Bina Media Tenggara
Last drinks: Handojo Seowardojo shows a bottle of his company’s drink, an old favorite whose days of production are numbered. JP/Simon Sudarman
"Only a few older people remained fanatical about sarsaparilla because they recalled the history and the glories of the past. These old people remained as our consumers, but they became fewer and fewer and they lived in remote areas. When this group passes away we think that the consumers of sarsaparilla will also be gone."
The shape and size of the bottle and its special top that uses wires to allow the bottle to be sealed were all special features of the sarsaparilla, but also contributed to its demise. The bottles and bottle tops are no longer produced because people used to return the bottles to the company when they had finished the drink.
"Because these bottles were difficult to obtain and no longer in the market, and are even now being sought by collectors, this caused us problems. We were forced to fix this the best way we could and sealed the bottles using damaged wires. So we now make sarsaparilla according to the total number of bottles that we have. That's only around 300 to 400 bottles. So," Handojo adds with a smile, "if we get an order for more than the total number of bottles available, we're forced to reject the order."
When it comes to taste, sarsaparilla isn't too different to more mainstream bottled drinks. It also comes in cheaper: A standard bottle costs Rp 2,200 (20 US cents), and a small bottle sells for Rp 1,600.
"That's the price at our place. It's a pity because this sarsaparilla is made in such limited quantities and with the packaging in bottles that are said to be antique," Handojo says.
"The restaurants that are our customers sell sarsaparilla for between Rp 8,000 and Rp 10,000 a bottle. At the roadside stalls sarsaparilla isn't always available, because when we get tired there are no drinks left, so we don't make any more," he adds with a laugh.
As business slumped, the company bowed under pressure to move its premises to Blunyahrejo Tegalrejo, where Handojo now lives with one all-round staff member who has been with the business since 1984.
It's not hard to agree with Handojo that the glory days of sarsaparilla have passed. Since drinks such as Fanta flooded into the country in 1970, sarsaparilla companies in many regions began to collapse and disappear.
"Our branch in East Java has been long closed because it could no longer cover the production costs and because the total number of customers continued to decrease," Handojo says.
"In Yogyakarta itself there are still three companies, but the thing is, they too are waiting to die."
The business ends with him, he knows. His only child is a daughter who graduated from Atma Jaya University Yogyakarta in 1995; she didn't want to continue his business and went straight to Jakarta to look for a job.
"She graduated in economics so she had probably read that this business is impossible to defend," says Handojo. "It's not that I'm obstinate, because before my father died he felt bitter about having to keep on with sarsaparilla. He also said that we should keep it going as long as we can, but when it really becomes too difficult, then close."
The thought of closing makes Handojo sad, but he feels powerless against the current trends. For him, it's not enough to keep the sarsaparilla tradition going through good intentions, or to try to relive the drink's glory days, but he admits doesn't know what to do, or how to do it.
Sarsaparilla was also produced by major companies, but that was never enough to boost the company's name. Finally, the company has given up: Handojo will not stand in the way of any individuals, institutions or companies that want to use the company name Minerva, despite that old patent.
"I would like to thank you because there are people who want to preserve this traditional drink. The era of Minerva making sarsaparilla is limited by my age. But up to now," he shrugs, and laughs with a note of concern, "there hasn't yet been anyone who wants to conserve this traditional drink." [rc]
Copyright © 2008 The Jakarta Post
I was already worried about Ani long before her taxi pulled up outside my hotel in Jakarta.
Her regular letters and phone calls had dwindled to an annual Christmas card and though I had struggled with the Indonesian in the brief messages she had written, I had understood enough to know that she was not doing well.
Now here she was, emerging into the bustle of central Jakarta - 58, her face much more lined than I had expected and walking with a pronounced limp.
Despite working hard, Ani's financial future remains uncertain
With her was her husband Kado, who seemed incredibly frail.
The only one in the family still full of beans was their son Yahya who was a small child when I first knew them nearly 20 years ago.
Happier times
Ani was my pembantu, or domestic help.
I had "inherited" her from my predecessor who explained that in the chaos of Jakarta where you queue for hours to collect your phone, water and electricity bills, then queue again to pay them, and where a journey to the shops can turn into a morning sitting in standstill traffic, I would find her assistance invaluable.
Her husband would act as security guard - another Jakarta necessity apparently - and the family would live in two rooms at the back of my small house.
They were a cheerful and welcome addition to a life where everything was new, strange and complicated.
Ani, who spoke fragmented English, announced early on that while I was in Indonesia, she would act as my mother.
So she would ask about my friends regularly, enjoying bits of gossip immensely, or she would appear at the door of my little office with a bowl of freshly fried emping, the bitter little crisps made from melinjo nuts as a mid-morning snack.
She would even rush outside to shush the neighbours when I was filing a despatch.
Now it all came back to me as an older, much slower and less vivacious Ani clasped my hand and we made our way to a cafe in the shopping mall next to the hotel.
She had come all the way from her village, a day's bus journey away, to see me and suddenly the story she had hinted at in her occasional cards came flooding out.
Aspirations
Ani and Kado had been part of Indonesia's aspiring middle class when I first knew them.
With no property, her savings gone, unable to work in a country with no social safety net or state-provided health care, Ani is back where she startedThey worked hard and saved carefully. They were proud of the bank account they had for that purpose and were building a house of their own in South Jakarta. I went there once. It was an impressive construction with spacious rooms and proper indoor plumbing, quite unlike the small village homes they had grown up in, back in West Java. But four years ago, Ani told me, she had developed rheumatism in her left knee and it got so painful she just could not work any more. Then her elderly mother was taken ill, Ani had to return to the village to look after her and when the mother had to go to hospital for over a month, Ani had to find the money to pay. Then Kado had a stroke which meant yet more medical bills. The house in Jakarta, the symbol of all she had achieved, had to be sold. So now, with no property, her savings gone, unable to work and with no state-provided safety net to fall back on, Ani is back where she started. And this in a place that despite serious setbacks after the Asian financial crisis of 1997, and despite today's global slowdown, appears on the surface to be doing remarkably well. On the margins At least that is how it looks in Jakarta, a city I barely recognise anymore.
The economic divide between Indonesia's rich and poor is growing
Massive glass skyscrapers extend well out to the suburbs where I remember ramshackle alleys with wooden houses clinging to the sides of filthy canals.
You still get glimpses of those communities, but only occasionally, tucked in between the high-rises and the endless new shopping malls.
None of this means anything to Ani. There is a very wealthy class here and it is growing, but so is the gap between rich and poor.
While the top 2% are swanning around the brand name stores, more than half the country's workforce earn hardly enough to feed themselves.
And even for those like Ani and her husband who start to make it up the economic ladder, it is a precarious climb. The slightest set-back and you can fall a very long way.
What about the fact that the years of dictatorship here are long gone? What about last month's elections?
Ani looked at me as if I were mad when I mentioned the new democracy.
"Indonesia's no good anymore," she said emphatically.
Not perhaps for people like Ani, whose dreams of a comfortable retirement in a home she had built for her family have vanished for good.
© BBC MMIX
