Deafening Clamour of TV Commercials Against Humble Whispers of Our Own Bodies
Daydreaming in Blue on a Yogyakarta Maguwo—Surabaya Gubeng Morning Train: Part Three
The music is by:
Gunter Kalian Choir from Germany.
Lucky Love, a French multifaceted artist with a background in visual arts, dance, theatre, and music.
Cyph4, a rising artist in the Hip Hop and Trap music genres from San Francisco, California with Xoel López, a Spanish alternative rock musician, formerly known as Deluxe, from A Coruña, Galicia.
I wonder why all announcements on this train are calibrated to crush the eardrum of hapless commuters while ensuring that even the most distant farmers working the trackside hear them loud and clear.
And what’s the deal with all these “Obat Pria” billboards sprouting along the railway like mushrooms after a monsoon?
Just yesterday, on the ten-mile stretch between my hostel in the city centre and the fabled Kingdom of Mantilia, I spotted no fewer than fifteen such establishments. One even compelled me to snap a photo of its boldly advertised wares: “Hammer of Thor,” “Viagra USA,” “Obat Pria Cialis,” “Obat Pria China Viagra,” “Dildo Manual dan Getar,” “Titan Gel Rusia,” “Obat Pria Maxman,” and “Obat Pria Spray.”
Since then, I can’t help but wonder what alchemy is stirring beneath the bedroom blankets of this region. Is this merely commerce, or have I stumbled upon a peculiar and thriving niche culture of nocturnal ambitions?
I can’t claim I know much about the impact of excessive rice consumption,* or prolonged inhalation of kretek smoke** on sexual dysfunction and collective hearing loss. Those aren’t exactly topics you casually bring up with strangers, and even if I dared, my Indonesian vocabulary for body parts is embarrassingly sparse. I only know of “gigi,” meaning teeth, and that dentists here go by the delightfully quirky name “Dokter Gigi”—an irresistibly playful title for a profession synonymous with discomfort.
Indonesian shops and even many street stalls are increasingly drifting from their roots, offering quick-fix deep-fried snacks instead of traditional, slow-cooked dishes. Similarly, the art of brewing traditional coffee is giving way to instant packets filled with dubious powders. Widespread embrace of immediate gratification and an “après-moi-le-deluge” attitude seems to be taking root all over Indonesia’s 250 million-strong population.
Why is it that convenience shops here offer so little that my body recognises as real nourishment? Were it not for their fruit and smoothies, I might easily reclassify them as warehouses for controlled chemicals and hazardous goods. I’ve faced challenges finding decent food in the UK or the Netherlands, but why here? Vegetables are relegated to bazaars, where buyers under fifty are rare. What’s next for you, Indonesians? Even louder train announcements? Obat Pria shops outnumbering convenience stores? The trajectory feels alarming—where is this heading?
I once strolled down the high street of Achalsiche, a Georgian city, and was struck by how half the shops were chemists. What a glaring imbalance in this otherwise wonderful and hospitable nation. Georgia embraces a lively, yet taxing lifestyle: abundant feasting paired with some of the world’s finest spirits and wines, often consumed over long hours with few restraints. A joyful but, in the long run, perhaps unsustainable configuration.
Could it be that the second and the third worlds struggle to resist the enticing comforts of the first? Somewhere along the delicate balance between honouring noble traditions and succumbing to flashy external influences, something essential is slipping away. I worry for you, my dear Georgians, and for you, my dear Indonesians. In truth, I worry for all of us Earthlings, who seem to hear the deafening clamour of TV commercials far more clearly than the quiet, urgent whispers of our own bodies pleading for balance and authenticity.
A gentleman, sporting two silver signet rings on his left hand, a gold charger for his Samsung wrapped around his fingers on is right hand, and a snug yellow polka-dot mask beneath his “DiRaya Residential” baseball cap climbed aboard our coach at Kertosono station. He took the seat directly in front of me, as if intuitively aware that health was on today’s agenda and volunteering himself as a live case study of its decline.
Surrounded by the horrific symphony of Mr. Dos Signetos’ collapsing lungs, I can’t help but regret ever bringing up the subject of health. I wish I had a face mask and earphones like most commuters. Most of all, I deeply regret not being a “dokter” or at least a paramedic, for I’d be genuinely shocked if this man makes it to his destination in one piece.
Overcome by helplessness and the looming threat of my own health decline, I stand up in search of the toilet, hoping there’s a buffet car nearby. My body feels like it’s been overtaken by a swelling lump, the product of my anxious self-defense system blocking my breath.
Oh, Garuda Pancasila, mighty guardian of this land, your Kamar Kecil, which literally translates to “small room,” has now significantly thickened the already thick lump in my chest! I need something hot and acrid to push it all down, so despite the chemical baggage carried by the name "Cappuccino" in this country, I’ll take a plastic cup of it and no other. I will fight fire with fire.
The Kareta Makan offers only two dining tables nestled in a cramped compartment with four loutspeakers on the ceiling. The rest of the space in the carriage is taken over by an army of onboard personnel: four soldiers in lopsided berets, three slumbering conductors in navy blue, two sky-blue wanitas, and three waiters in blue Hawaiian floral shirts. Just as I take my first sip of Cappuccino, a deafening bilingual announcement erupts. It gives me justified fears that the intensity of the vibrations will boil the content of my plastic cup! Is that what the frantic roaring is all about—an ingenious use of the microwave effect or what?
I find myself surrounded by three cheerful girls energetically devouring some powdered concoction drowned in boiling water—Pop Mie, a ubiquitous quick lunch across Indonesia that I’ve never dared to try. I would like to linger in their good company for the rest of the journey, but my resolve falters under the relentless assaults from the speakers. By the third ear-splitting barrage, I’m forced to abandon this cozy gathering and retreat to the dubious comfort of Mr. Snotsplutter’s hacking presence.
On my way back, I tally an impressive twenty-three crew members! My earlier count was significantly underestimated, and there is still a chance a few are tucked away in various kamar kecil, or snoozing beneath the seats. I'm not even trying to guess how many staff it takes to navigate our Sri Tangung 194. I think we are dealing here with the staffing ratio of a well-funded Scandinavian preschool: one guardian for every eight charges.
Luckily, Mr Snotsplutter—aka Dos Signetos—has relocated, sparing me from his chaotic blast radius. Everyone else, sensibly masked, appears protected and gula gula melekatkan anyway. Michał once told me that face masks are typically worn in Asia by the sick as a courtesy to protect others—a noble gesture of selflessness. However, how come the entire coach has unanimously declared itself as an isolation ward on steel wheels? Could things be even worse than I’d imagined?
* Historically, rice consumption per capita in Indonesia reached an all time high of 212 kg in 2016 (cf: Global Data).
** In 2018, Indonesia's smoking population was around 73.6 million, which is about 40% of the adult population. The consumption of kreteks, or clove cigarettes, remains extremely high, with projections suggesting that the number of smokers could increase to 95 million by 2025 (cf: Global Data).
Next week, there will be: “Readier Than Ever”—one of the last posts in this series of publications. And remember my dear subscriber that whatever’s been published before, can be found in the archives. Also, if you can’t find my post on Monday next week, well… it will mean that I have gone to do the next thing that is making me tick at that moment I time….