An
exploration of Surabaya, Indonesia, after dark
Originally
published in Jakarta Post Weekender Magazine, December 2007
5.30pm; Saturday. From the high
rooftop of Tunjungan Plaza the sprawl of red-tiled houses curves away in all
directions. A late flight to Jakarta is roaring westward through the paling
sky, and the lights of the big advertising hoardings are flickering on. The sun
– a crimson thumbprint in the murky air of the East Java capital – touches the
horizon.
“Allaaaaaaah uh Akbar…” From the
city below the call to Maghrib prayer
rings out into the dusk. Night has fallen over Surabaya.
***
Every town shows a different face
at night, and Surabaya, a vast collection of villages by day, seems like a real
city after dark. Tonight I plan to stay awake until dawn, criss-crossing the
city by motorbike, exploring its nocturnal side.
***
7pm; the traffic is at its
thickest now, roaring through the web of one-way streets that wrap around
Surabaya’s modern downtown. The crushing heat of the day has passed and people
are outside, relaxing; cafes and ice cream parlors are packed. Taman Bungkul,
one of Surabaya’s few public spaces, is crowded with families. Teenagers in
baggy jeans practice their skateboard tricks on the ramps and railings, and
kids play with the cheap plastic toys sold by wandering vendors. And I am
hungry.
Food is a passion in Surabaya,
and the best place to eat is on the streets. Since sunset the roadsides have
been lined with makeshift cafes. Each has a specialty, from the ubiquitous nasi goreng, to obscure regional dishes.
Some are mediocre, some are excellent, and some are famous. Roti Bakar Citras
is in the latter category. On a roaring side-street off Jalan Kertajaya, wonky
tables are set up along a narrow strip of pavement. I order a sweet coffee –
the first of many tonight – and one of Citras’ famed toasted sandwiches.
***
9.30pm; north of the city centre,
past the Heroes’ Monument, towering into steamy darkness, along dark streets to
Chinatown… The thoroughfare of Kembang Jepun is closed to traffic, and plastic
chairs and tables are set out under the red Chinese lanterns. This is Kya Kya,
the al fresco dining strip held every night. At the end of the street a gaggle
of women – of a certain age – are slyly knocking back Bintang beer and dancing
enthusiastically to karaoke dangdut.
From Kya Kya I drive east, way
out into the suburbs along streets where lamps burn in simple night stalls, and
burly security guards lounge at the gates of middle class compounds. Jembatan
Merr, the bridge over the Kali Jagir River, is packed. Pavements are lined with
worn mats and low tables, crowded with young couples. Coffee again for me, and
some steamed peanuts in a twist of old newspaper from a vendor. It is after 11
o’clock and I notice that the traffic has thinned, only a few motorbikes
streaking through the night. I finish my coffee, drop a few coins in the cup of
the buskers playing battered guitars, and head back for the centre.
***
Tengah malam – midnight. The
downtown streets have an edgier feel. Shops and restaurants are closed, though
here and there lights blaze in an all-night warung or internet café. Huge mobs
of youths in skin-tight jeans and black sweatshirts crowd the pavements,
vigorously revving the engines of their motorbikes. Every Saturday these
motorbike gangs gather in Surabaya, racing along dark streets and cruising the
city in convoy. I fall in among one of the gangs for a while, and they call out
cheerily to me despite their sinister appearance: “Hello mister! Good evening!”
I make a sharp turn into a side
street to avoid a police checkpoint and head north again. The streets of the
Old City are eerily empty. I catch the smell of garlic and onion skins, and see
one ghostly becak creaking through
the night. This part of the city, with its narrow alleys and derelict
shop-houses, is a creepy place at night and I am glad when I see bright lights
on a street between Chinatown and the Arab Quarter. Men in rubber boots are
lugging barrels of fish from trucks and tough Madura women are haggling over
prices. The fish market has been open since late afternoon and the ground is
slimy underfoot. The air is pungent with fish and kretek cigarette smoke.
***
Tiredness creeps up. The dark
band of the Kalimas River cuts through the night as I speed along empty
streets. The next two hours blur into a jumble of brief images: a pair of
youths in hooded sweatshirts furtively marking a wall with graffiti; a group of
men seated around a television in a narrow, blue-walled room; streetwalkers of
questionable gender stepping suddenly from the shadows; the shark-and-crocodile
statue that commemorates Surabaya’s founding myth starkly white in the
darkness; an enormous transvestite in a limp red dress striding along the
cracked pavement, and the shadowy outlines of becak, loaded with mysterious bundles, rolling through the gloom.
I am tired, and hungry, and
surprisingly cold. I find a simple all-night café on Jalan Mayjend Sungkono.
Indonesian pop music is playing on the stereo, and a boy with weary eyes serves
me a bowl of Madurese soto and a cup
of sweet, grainy coffee. A shining SUV pulls up on the street outside. Three
obviously drunk men stumble out and order food. I have a good idea where they
have come from: most of Surabaya may be sleeping, but there’s a place where
there’s still something going on.
***
3am – Jalan Dolly. Somewhere
among the graveyards and working-class kampungs on the high ground above the
Banyu Urip Canal the narrow streets of Dolly and Jalan Jarak are packed. Taxis
and motorbikes clog the road and the throb of high-volume dangdut music shakes
the air. This is Surabaya’s most notorious corner, claimed – wrongly,
apparently - to be Southeast Asia’s biggest red light district. Wonky neon
signs glow along the shop-fronts and bright strip lights shine in big-windowed
“guesthouses” where bored women with blond-streaked hair and short skirts
lounge on sofas, waiting. I’m too tired to face the rough gloom of the dangdut
bars, so I opt for a soft drink at a roadside stall. No one bothers me and the
place seems lively, almost festive. But I remember the reports I read almost
weekly in the Jawa Pos of trafficked women, some of them horrifyingly young, in
the brothels here.
***
As I leave Dolly I sense a change
in the rhythm of the night. The darkness is as heavy as ever, but there is a
little more traffic on the roads: the people who have been awake all night are
beginning to meet the early risers of the coming day.
Beside the river the Keputran
vegetable market is a blaze of light. All night trucks have been rolling in
from the East Java hinterland and porters squelch through the mud under
enormous loads of carrots, onions and beans. The workers and stallholders seem
to get through the night on a brew of ready humor, and I am met with cheerful
greetings and bursts of riotous laughter. Then I hear something above the
voices: the loudspeaker of a mosque across the river has been switched on and a
taped prayer is playing into the darkness. The end of the night is within
reach.
***
From the market I drive south
through silent suburbs until I reach Mesjid al-Akbar, the Great Mosque, better
known as Mesjid Agung. The summit of the Ottoman-style minaret is floodlit,
burning like a candle flame against the blackness. As I arrive men in clean
white shirts and loose tartan sarongs are hurrying up the steps and into the
cavernous interior. I can hear the low hum of traffic on the toll road beyond
the mosque, and birds are singing in the darkness. Through the arched doorway I
see the men forming neat lines, facing towards Mecca, their backs to a faint
white stain on the eastern edge of the night. A woman in a loose head-covering
pads swiftly across the marble floor and suddenly the loudspeakers crackle into
action. “Allaaaaaaah uh Akbar…” The men bow and kneel in unison; the night is
over.
***
As I ride away from the mosque
people are out jogging in the first light. Buses and trucks are rolling on the
big streets now and a pearly color is leaching into the sky. The new day is
beginning and Surabaya is showing a different face. But I am going to bed…
© Tim Hannigan 2008
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