At the airport, ethnic Chinese and expatriate families are leaving in droves, just like the television said. My fellow travelers are journalists, special representatives with bodyguards and the odd Indonesian. I am the only tourist, not quivering, but ready for the worst.
As we approach the furnace that is the arrival hall under a heavy cloud of clove-scented smoke, taxi drivers push and grab in my direction; I, being the single prey of these vultures in a dry season, the dumbfounded dollar, the misguided one, the lone bule (generic name given to the former Dutch colonizers). "Bule," "bule," they tug at each other. And then louder "Hey man, you want some ecstasy!". "Jalan Jaksa, I take you, OK!"
In a throbbing cab, with house music pouring out of the windows and mosquitoes pouring in, I descend down a facade of towers and beaming white lights, an avenue of hypocrisy and bloated loans. As we turn on a double-decker bridge, there are shacks, gutted garbage and open sewers below. Not far from the National Monument, a familiar white obelisk, we enter Jaksa, a strip of homely bungalows and open-aired cafes, normally teeming with crusty backpackers, I am told.
Not a soul in sight. For the equivalent of a dollar, I get a room with banana leaves in the window, clean sheets on a teak bed, Asian-style squat toilets and coconut pancakes for breakfast. Not bad. The currency's downfall has most definitely produced a traveler's downfall, I ponder, as I hand over a 10,000 Rupiah bill to the clerk.
The maitre d' of this modest establishment is busily tending to the exotic garden out front. "Magic mushrooms," he explains. "If you want, I sell."
"I'd rather go for a bevvy," I say, pointing to my throat. He suggests Mangga Besar, literally the Big Mango. "Cobra's blood, there. It will make your legs go."
Never one to disagree with my hosts, the thought is appealing and I figure, if I don't try it tonight, the novelty of this idea might later seem insane. He suggests I take a bajaj since it is a fairly close destination. The bajaj is in fact a giant, orange cockroach with three wheels that sputters with a scooter's motor. There are ten or so of these waiting at the curb. One driver gives me a toothless yet genuine smile so I hop into his.
With good decibel velocity, we roar into the jaws of the asphalt jungle, level with exhaust- belching buses, barefoot bikers and pickup trucks full of chanting demonstrators. Everyone seems to be pointing at me, yelling "Bule!". I am the new revolutionary cause. "This my jungle!" I thump on my chest. My enthusiasm is dimmed as we pass charcoaled streets, a grim residue of the May 1998 riots. Lines and lines of scavengers are crouching down, comb-finning the rummage for jewelry dust.
Mangga Besar, in the north of the city, is unscathed: a dark avenue with discos, pool halls, betting parlors, massage dens and karaokes. My treat is the first stall on the left- the Cobra warung- an open-aired carriage with a dozen live cobras lazily awaiting their fate in two knee high cages.
As I approach the bench, I attract quite a large gathering of shoeshine boys, taxi money girls, and anonymous rice sellers, who are to follow the procession that is about to unfold as the moment's entertainment. "Sorry. No King Cobra tonight," the cagetender greets me. The cobras look fierce enough and I pick one that is about three meters long. The bartender arrives. He is a much bigger man and looks Chinese.
Out from the cage, the chosen snake expands its neck into a hood. As a final show of bravado, the doomed reptile also bares its fangs. I notice the bartender has a deformed thumb and a five-inch scar on his forearm. "Sometimes, they bite," he explains slowly.
"Would I like to pet the snake?" I say I am thirsty, very thirsty. The crowd smiles and laughs as one. A few rats come by to pay a visit. With one chop of bamboo pliers, the bartender guillotines the snake, leaving its head wiggling on the table top. With help from one of his many assistants, he then squeezes the snake's blood into a half-filled glass of white arak. Two other helpers come in to peel the snake's skin. Wielding scissors, the bartender carefully extracts the gall bladder and spinal cord.
"You want to eat snake sate?", an old man sitting on the bench asks. "Skin capsule?", "Snake soup?". A transvestite creeps closer to me, remarking how macho I am to be going through this. A cheeky girl, decked out in a tight dress and platform shoes gives me a wink and a smile. Her skin is in the finest ivory, her face, like a painting on a mask, beckons, her sensuous wisp...
"Drink!" I yell, getting back to the matter at hand. The assembly in the street roars with approval. They are joined by a few cops and bouncers, adding an illusion of authority to the moment. The spinal cord is cut into little pieces and mixed into a cocktail that now resembles red, spaghetti soup. The dice roll. Honey is added for sweet taste. The bile from the cut-open bladder is poured.
"The drink is ready," the bartender says. By now, his words are a distant echo, like the sound of a frenetic gamelan on the night of a full moon. I forget the succession of events. The beat of house music pulsates in my blood as the liquid hits my veins. Night becomes day as time is but a blur of shaky legs, green fields of golf, sultry sweat, a svelte silhouette of sin and soft skin and island mystique...
I like the taste of blood in my mouth, I say, it reminds me of Jakarta. It's the nostalgia that makes me sick to my stomach.
