The Becak Chronicles

By Argee Pâté

Philosophical Transactions: Recollections of a few Adventurers in many Considerable Parts of the World

• Language: English
• Publisher: Argee Pâté
• Release date: Aug 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536501933

Book preview

Prologue

This old fossil was born 20 November 1941; I grew up at the junction of the Piney Woods and the Great Plains. Early days were shaped by a global shortage of everything after WW Big; life was rough, sometimes harsh but always outdoors, always free. There was happiness and hard love. Visiting relatives in Quanah, Texas, 1946, my dad drove us 1.5 hours north to Oklahoma – top speed in the neighborhood of 45mph – then immediately turned around and returned just to say ‘we been there’. Too soon that life became a memory.

Houston, 1951, a country boy moves to the city, coping; fighting for acceptance to be left alone. Selling newspapers in front of Eastwood theater; bitter February cold, aching fingers rolling huge Sunday papers; the quietness of city streets at 3:30 ayem Sunday mornings.

Cooking hamburgers behind the counter in Madings Drug Store; Football and Audi Murphy; Bear Bryant and Daryl Royal ... beat Oklahoma. Avid reading while broken bones mend—Kit Carson, Davy Crocket, Daniel Boone, Thomas Jefferson, Valley Forge, Abraham Lincoln, The Alamo, Sam Houston & William Travis; oops, yeah, and all of Zane Grey.

Princes Drive-In, cruising, The Blackboard Jungle, the transformation of William Holden from playboy to adult and Alec Guinness sinking into madness in Bridge on the River Kwai; Blue Suede Shoes, On the Waterfront, Rebel Without a Cause, "Farmers Fight" in Austin and Waco and Lubbock and Ft. Worth ... a brief and fruitless search.

US Army, 1961, Russian-Cuba threat, Vietnam reality, sporadic conflict, exploding thunder just over the horizon sometimes intruding. Untouched villages soon to be touched, uncomprehending farmers, uncomprehending soldiers; free range in a strange culture, shocking attacks, the assassination—another assassination and a growing understanding that everything that was today, now was changed. Repatriation and Owenbey’s suicide, questions unanswered; solemn journey to Appalachia, bereft parents reaching out, stoic soldiers looking inward without answers.

Houston again, 1964, Shell Development, University and monastic emersion in academia. Zen. Five years of denial, transference and avoidance; growing anger, shock at Chicago and Kent State; who are these war mongers? My fellow Americans; NO! Wilderness treks and solitude; grappling. Slow emergence without answers; the healing power of Alaska and a compulsion to return to Asia where the culture is ancient and if not more accepting, then less hostile.

Jakarta oil patch 1979, end of a long journey and beginning of a new life. Retirement: Thirty-six years as a geophysicist ends in 2000; Jakarta Post, a new search; Becak Café 2001.  Becak Nooze and a dozen years of listening and writing; and now these stories emerge thanks to the support of many friends.

Herein a reader will find stories related and stories retold; some fiction, some fantasy, some brushes with reality and some brushes with anger, passion, and sometimes frustration.

Live well and love yourself ... after that everything else will unfold like a newborn colt.

BECAK CAFÉ EARLY DAYS_

I BEGAN Writing narratives and fiction shortly after opening Becak Café in 2001. Whenever a patron related an interesting story, I would take up pen and paper and scribble notes. The 12 years that Gita and I ran Becak were full and we benefited from wonderful friendships and support. The Pub was located in South Jakarta at the bottom of Buncit Raya just north of the Outer Ring Road. Across the street was an office full of coal miners (tunnel variety) with operations in Kalimantan. Stephen Nye, a young Englishman is boss and he was always accompanied by brother Dave, Nick Wilson the English bookkeeper; Rob a digger and Brent a Kiwi. Young men full of energy who love Rock ‘n Roll, beer and rum ... Brent after a few would ask Dewi behind the bar to play some Van Morrison music, then later, Rob would ask for some U2; I have to say that they were the most frequent and most fun guests, maybe because they were the youngest of our patrons.

Next was Conoco-Phillips drilling department lead by Jim Bob Ferguson and his off-siders Kyle Fontenot and Bruce Kennedy. Serious about their jobs ... and bowling, Becak Café was like a second office for them where their normal two tables were venue for daily activity review and forward planning followed by in depth analysis of baseball playoffs and preseason football picks, March Madness and Mo-Town music, e.g. Marvin Gaye.

Over the years, Becak Cafe received wonderful support from SODS (Squash Old Drunkards Society) and the Jakarta Squash League ... Especially from the captain, JAWS and his family, Sonya and Amanda and departed friend Alex who celebrated his 70th at Becak and who had Becak cater his 65th (RIP).

However, for the last seven years of its existence, probably the most rowdy, argumentative, smelly pack to darken the threshold were the various groups of Hash House Harriers, introduced by the big proselytizer, Andrew Slatter (aka W.anker). In 2007, Andrew brought in Jakarta HHH for after Circle On-On-On. I engaged him in conversation and immediately he suggested I should come join them on the next Monday run.

OK, I’ll give it some thought, more polite than saying no way, José.

I always suspected Andrew liked Becak because it was closer than other venues in Kemang; and it was on his way home – several weeks later he came back and once again brought the pack with him. So I started running with Jakarta HHH. Later that year he was elected Hash Master and he installed me as his Hash Cash – Andrew knows how to set the hook. I served as HC for three years and On-Sec for five, then became HM, started taking my family to the monthly Kiddies HHH and joined Batavia HHHH.

Thanks Andrew and thank you Hash Community.

A few kilometres up the road from Becak Café is the best Squash Club in Kemang; K-25 offers tennis and squash. The tennis team is known as the Rogues and the squash team is called SODS. K-25 is a wonderful venue for sport, good conversation and cheap beer.

When Kim Matthews was convener of Jakarta Squash League, c.1996, and SODS captain, the annual awards dinner was normally held at Carl Gillcrest’s Eastern Promise Restaurant. After Becak Café opened in 2001 and Carl moved home to Aberdeen, a new convener, Nick Andrew, also a SOD, on several occasions held the annual dinner at Becak Café.

While it is not possible to name all the characters who frequented Becak Café, I would be remiss if I did not mention two old Rogues Greg Redden and his offsider, Ken Day (RIP). Greg was happy to fit Becak Café into a busy schedule during the Yuletide Season; the favourite Father Christmas in all of Kemang. Seeing the attention he received in his red suit, it is easy to see why he enjoyed being used in such a fashion.

While speaking of origins of the Café, the establishment was previously known as Betty’s Place. Betty’s closed in a down-slump; and after a cleanup, cleanout and some remodeling it morphed into Becak Café. But stories abound that Captain Jack was responsible for opening the original pub on these premises.

Included in this collection are stories recounted and stories remembered; some fiction, an essay or three, some hash scribbles of questionable literary value, a fine survivor’s tale from the terrible earthquake in Kathmandu, and a few episodes of alcohol stimulated venting. I would like to thank all who contributed and I would like to thank my good friend Chris Osbourne for prodding me along with the project and appreciation to all who purchase this collection and read these stories.

The Legend of Captain Jack

By Argee Pâté, Jan 2002

JACK’S Story began on the island of Java in 1906.  Like Romulus, Jack was raised by animals.  But, whereas Romulus was raised by a wolf, Jack was raised by sheep, specifically, an intelligent, beautiful ewe named Bahbra.

Jack was happy growing up with the flock, there was warmth, affection and virtually no strife, which explains his extreme fondness for the animals throughout his adult life.

However, Jack’s happy infancy ended when his mother announced that he would be sent to preparatory school in Australia. Jack protested vehemently, and as it turned out, he was to have very good reasons.

Impressed by a glossy brochure, Bahbra had enrolled Jack in the Prep School of Ruminant Equanimity, where, unfortunately for Jack, it turned out that the majority of pupils were goats.  The goats spoke differently, were not particular about what they ate, thought they were smarter than sheep and made Jack the butt of their jokes.  Jack grew to have a strong prejudice against goats. Seven years later, Jack returned home with an understanding of swimming pool maintenance and a fear of being rear-ended. 

During his absence, Bahbra had become even more matronly and the firm discipline she had always insisted upon had become, over time, completely inflexible.  She made it clear that Jack would not be allowed to lay about the pasture all day chewing cud with his old buddies.  He would embark on the road to higher education, wealth and independence.

So, when the next school year began, Jack found himself enrolled in a school of animal husbandry in Queensland, Australia.  Jack was an unspectacular student and after graduation thirteen years later, set out to see the world, arriving at the tropical island paradise, Bali, in the month of Janbry of the sheep calendar, which has thirteen months of twenty-eight days.

Jack lay around the beach at Kuda Beach for several days eating mushrooms and working on his tan.  It was there, in a moment of deep introspection, that it came to Jack that he should become a legend, not knowing what else to do with his life anyway.  So Jack wandered around Legion Beach searching for the way to legendhood, certain that he would have known if the path began in Kuda Beach.

Outside the local mushroom shop Jack encountered a becak driver selling eye-patches.  Jack thought the eye-patch would make him look dashing.  Toronto, the becak driver, thought it was stupid for a man to buy an eye-patch who had two good eyes.

Fitting the patch to his left eye, Jack decided at that moment to begin calling himself, Captain Jack.  And reached out his hand to Toronto and announced, My name is Captain Jack and I shall call you Tonto

Toronto introduced himself in the local dialect and they immediately hit it off.  Toronto saw an opportunity for long-time employment and suggested a tour of Java by becak, and Jack, recognizing the need for adventure in the creation of a legend, agreed.

One day outside the village of Banyuwangi, Jack met an Aussie named Paterson sitting beneath a banyan tree playing a banjo, a frangipani blossom stuck behind his ear.  Jack looked at the man knowingly and said, Hey, Banjo, why don’t you compose a song about me, ‘Captain Jack’?

Paterson looked him over very slowly, spat, and said, Why boy, I’ve known smarter sheep than you.

Oh yeah, name one, Jack retorted hotly.

Well—Bahbra for one, said Patterson, levelly.

Yeah, but she’s special, Jack replied weakly as Toronto began to pedal away.

And so Captain Jack and Toronto made their way across Java creating a legend along the way.  Everywhere they went, people talked about the sheepish way Jack followed behind the becak on steep inclines whilst displaying open terror seated in the carriage at the summit, moments before the pedi-cab raced pell-mell down the opposite grade, barely under control.

After thirteen months and thirteen days the weary duo arrived in Djakarta, where Toronto announced that he would go no further and would hang up his Michelin-treaded sandals forever. Captain Jack looked around and said without conviction, that this was as good a spot as any to stop, and suggested they open a pub (now Becak Café) and play dominoes for the remainder of their days. 

Some say that he eventually returned to the sheep in his later years and fell in love with a beautiful ewe with magic powers.  She proclaimed that his legend would never die and that he would forever be manifest as the black sheep in every flock.

Becak Nooze: A Search for Credence

A man who thinks at 50 the way he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life... Mohamed Ali.

Consistency is an attribute of the dead ... Aldus Huxley.

When a distinguished scientist tells you that something is possible, he is very probably right. When he tells you that something is impossible, he is probably wrong... A.C. Clarke.

Obama ... addressing those who deny climate change science: We don’t have time for a meeting of the flat-earth society.

About Becak Nooze: More than catchy phrases; with an idea towards leaving a new mark in the sand, this old Mexican has been working on a Becak Creed, a secrete handshake, an initiation ceremony... development of a cult following...yeah, and it begins with a bottle of mescal.

(Note: Becak (pronounced bay-check) is Indonesian for pedicab. The Becak Café and Becak Nooze were named because of expat becak races in Jakarta’s Blok M in the early 80s in which this old Mexican was unbeaten; possibly the result of muscle development fleeing the Rurales.)

Becak Nooze is unique in the ‘Blogosphere’ because our membership is unique – our readership has the highest percentage (editor’s opinion) of educated illiterates of any other reading service. And that is because all Nooze readers are, or have been, Jakarta expats...say no more.

OK, that may sound a bit self-serving, but so what? We have known, even before some researcher on a government grant wrote about it, that this is a class society (globally) and if you are not born to it, the only way to breach that wall is through education.

There are many benefits that come with education, besides the possibility of interesting employment, like the joy of being able to think, the pleasure of engaging in modulated conversation with gentlemen using proper grammar with good facility; participation in activities unheard of in Quanah, Texas, like for instance regular visits to Genung Kesinian to listen to an English string quartet, or watch a dance troop from the Philippines, or a production ensemble perform songs of Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals.

Recently, the Turks have been rioting in Istanbul for this very same right; it may have started as an attempt to save a park, but... And the kids in Rio, they are not rioting about football, they are rioting about the inequities of the class system. The Wall Street Movement in the US...same thing. Black lives matter.

So, ultimately, we are all in the same race, we want to ensure that our children are equipped to compete. We may be leading the regatta at the moment, and in this position the Nooze is going to steer as close as possible into the wind; this is an exhausting, stressful course and the navigator occasionally will steer to port for relief, but ever watchful to see who is tacking to starboard; and even though some may go out on a broad reach, for sure no one will run before the wind.

At the end of the day captains and crews will enjoy a few ales together, and even though personalities may abrade, because all are racing the same course under the same conditions, the sense of competition and fair-play ensures a place for all members in the brotherhood, in good weather or bad, good performance or poor.

By the bye...Statistics are like studies: who made them and who paid for them matters a lot. Want to prove that video games cause violence? Get a group of scientists that are already savvy to this and don't mind the lack of ethics. Have them draw from a very small pool of test subjects that are known to display violent behavior—mental hospitals, prisons, schools for children with behavior disorders. Do some ‘guaranteed’ generic tests and presto, instant headline. "Recent test shows 77% become more violent after playing Mortal Kombat."

Confirmation Bias, is tendency for people to search out statistics that support their preconceived notions and ignore statistics that don't. The forgery mentioned above is one reason most scientific studies are done double-blind (meaning it's all anonymous, neither the researchers nor the participants know who's in the experimental group nor who's in the control group) and allow for a chance at being falsified by Real Life (see also The Scientific Method).

Then you can get the kind of statistical abuse in which you are careful to define the question to arrive at the answer you want. What is the most popular book in the world?

Depends if you mean most copies in existence (Quotations from Chairman Mao), most copies ever sold (The Bible) or fastest selling ever (Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows).

Bar Talk, Lies & Other Fiction

By Argee Pâté (12/July/2005)

JAKARTA Is a big, old, dirty city with something like 22 million people (at the time of this writing) if you include the satellite communities of Bekasi, Bintaro, Bumi Serpong Damai, Depok, Lippo Karawaci and Tangerang.  To put it in perspective, that’s more than two times the entire population of Portugal.

There are many types of bars in Jakarta – there are dark, sleazy bars with a pool table and young friendly girls looking for a good time, there are glitzy bars with loud disco music and young friendly girls looking for a good time, and there are up market leather and mirrored bars with live bands and young friendly girls ...  There are even bars with fish bowls where the young friendly girls go and sit after they have become old seasoned pros. 

But there aren’t many local pubs.  You know, pubs where people go to talk and have a few quiet ales.  Where people go who value their hearing and don’t want to be hassled by young females looking for a free drink.  Where you can drink all evening and not have to empty your wallet when you leave.  That’s the Becak Cafe, my pub.  In England, it would be the neighborhood local, offering darts, pool, cold beer, assorted spirits and pub grub.

Running a pub is mostly boring business.  People have only so many stories to share and it turns out most everyone repeat themselves when they’ve had a few too many –speech begins to slur, balance becomes an issue, then impossible and believe it or not, most get brighter.  Perceived intelligence is exponentially proportional to the quantity of alcohol imbibed; drunks can discourse on politics, religion, and war, solve the problems in the Middle East and Africa and their economic policies would remedy all trade imbalances and third world poverty. Unfortunately, I’ve heard most of their stories, unbiased opinions and clever solutions dozens of times before.

But then, there are those who are truly bright.  I mean bright when they walk in, not just after two hours of boozing bright.  They are the ones that make being a publican worthwhile.  They can entertain you with stories, make you laugh, even make you smarter.  These characters, known in the expatriate community all over the city, are welcomed in every bar.  You’ll recognize them when they enter – every second bloke at the bar will offer a greeting and fond hello.

Anyway, if you have some time, I’ll introduce you to some who frequent my pub and invite you to share their stories...

Around the world, Tuesdays and Thursdays are poor bar days and in my bar you can include Sundays as well.  Because of that, I don’t always work on those days, except Tuesdays after squash.  I always stop in on the way home, usually around 9:00 PM.

One Tuesday last year, I entered through a haze of smoke, loud talking and Alan Jackson singing It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.  It was one of those crazy nights when people were sitting at home bored and decided to go out for a cold one and some conversation.  A few telephone calls later and the place was a barkeep’s delight. Yani, my number one cashier, brought me a beer and I started to circulate  ... and listen in.

Don, I’m not kidding, the doctor pulled a two-kilo cyst from my gut last month and now the fucker tells me that my bloody hormones are out of balance, Megan said between enthusiastic drags on her Benson & Hedges menthol.

Well Meg, seems like you been picking your nose and spitting a lot recently. he said with a laugh.

Hey, you fucking moron, it ain’t those hormones that are imbalanced, she retorted trying to frown.

Have you farted in public yet? Don asked, enjoying himself.

Donald! ... OK, I admit it, but only a little one that no one heard.

"Well, chin whiskers