the nightclub/kitsch, greenish floor/tacky walls/long alley, smoky/up, then down into the dark, foggy/'mamas' linger around/the crest-shaped bar/their girls, waiting/preying/prowling/whilst/on the dancefloor/sea of house-brand mineral water bottles/shaken by techzak music/order of the night/from behind the deck/all nocturnals brush shoulders/mingle/stone-/zombie-like creatures/join choruses in drug-infused euphoria/
ur standing tall/on the stage/overlooking the den/below/bodies, sweating/twisting/ur smooth face/observing/in ur funky, fine shirt/me, with/subdued thoughts/we'll be just buddies/another web of platonic feelings/trying to lock ur stare/out, hands held/tread the stage down/pass the crest-shaped/out to the fake light/
a trip to the church/stadium
but/ur soft-sturdier/bigger torso/engulfs mine/gently/twist of the nite/i turn....
- sorry for my craziness, I hiss to ur chest - so natural/ as if expecting this moment
and the elevator door opens/we're instantly lovers/smitten
Shameless - this is a failed attempt or a fake imitation of Jeff Noon's Needle In The Groove (Anchor, 1999). There's no way I can copy his writing style ("Think Borges crossed with Philip Larkin on acid and you've got some idea of the power of its very English enchantment"/Arena), no matter how flirtatious I'v been with his mother tongue for years. But his story conjuring up the mystery of dance culture, allowing the complex rhythms of the music to infect his language, I agree to whoever wrote the back-cover comments, shows how Noon creates a new kind of writing, so-called 'liquid dub poetics' that just mesmerised me for days until I finished the damn book.
But my Noon's intake here is to help me enter the realm of a (particular) Chinatown I feel like describing this time - now that we are marching to the new Chinese Year, in just few days. I've been to some by now and before I knew, I started to pick up a magnifying glass whenever I visit one these days. The three in the UK (London, Manchester, Liverpool) are easy to figure out. They centre on a main street (Gerard St in London), and the small hub piling around it, a window display full of Chinese knick knacks, cliched intricacies. The whole food world - full-stacked Chinese supermarkets, restaurants (from Peking duck to dimsum), moon cake and other delicacies shops, 'take-aways' - along with shops selling DVDs, cheapest international phone cards in town, Chinese medicines and practice of Chinese doctors - you name it. This structure bears so much resemblance with the one in Melbourne (with the Museum of Chinese immigrants, and a restaurant dedicated to Mao Ze Dong in which I was once spoilt). The one in Paris is mixed with the Vietnamese noodle stalls. Whilst those 'Little China' in Southeast Asia seem to take it further. Here, the sense of localities is strong - albeit sometimes can't escape the typical 'Chinese' street contour (lineup of neons flashes, Chinese characters emblazoned in red) like the one in Bangkok. Its enchanting shophouses with its faded paints now became the arty thing. Rents rise high - so I heard.
But the one in Jakarta, the Kota/Glodok area that is, is another case. Unfailingly, I strongly think I have to start from Stadium, the 'church', the notorious club, to enter its realm of nightlife that I still haven't found in any Chinatown I have visited so far. (What about those in the US? curious).
This part One is only an overture, to a world I finally peeked into about five years ago. Kota is where this city began to pulse about four centuries ago - but its present blunt, physical presence blurs its old charms. Old, colonial buildings in the area are rotten - one by one dissapears. This part of the town is confined to be just a commercial hub where you can snatch pirated DVDs or electronic stuff with the best bargain (as long as you don't mind hassling), old Chinese temples, viharas, or the most original dimsum.
For many Jakartans, Kota nightlife represents more like a myth than a real part of the town they are a regular. Or, the closest, it's a cliched notion of outrageously high-speed bpm, incredibly tacky house music, super-bad remixes of West Life and the likes, e-madness, girls for 'ups and grabs' packed its 'one stop entertainment' temples like Stadium, ruled by the organised crime kings and lords, whose names we only dare hiss in initials. It is a decadent world - a black-red brocade, kitsch, female G-string probably wore by its young whores. The seediest gay bar is located here. A tangled, vicious circle of corrupted economy and crooked passion, just like a miniature of the state.
But a taste of Kota nightlife is a must, for those who would like to understand the world underneath, the history of Chinese immmigrant existence, the cultral shreds it is made of. To me, it takes millions rides to Jl. Hayam Wuruk, the main avenue, so many strolls to Jl Mangga Besar, and walks and nibbs in its vast arrays of Chinese foods in its maze of back alleys. Still, it's never enough. I hope to extend this discussion in my next Chapter. Just bear with me for a bit, hao ma?
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