Let donuts be your guiding light

When we mentioned that fate may lead us to Indonesia, our friend Nathan had told us to keep in mind the almighty importance of Dunkin Donuts in that country. We were mystified but heeded the advice - after a rough, mosquito-infused night in Jakarta we arose to explore the city. (*Note: We ended up in Jakarta, then Bali, by arriving to Malaysia and purchasing the next cheap flight available...Yay for Asian discount airlines!) We stumbled upon a Dunkin Donuts and decided we must enter. we sat down with our ice coffees next to the security guards (which apparently all Indonesian DDs must have, so coveted are the round treats) and his friend who was strumming an old guitar. Nether spoke English but they greeted us with smiles. The musician suddenly said to us, "You know wassup far noon blondays?" We said "huh?" He repeated himself several times and I realized he was asking whether we were familiar with the 90s standard "What's Up by Four Non Blondes"..."and I say hey-hey-hey-hey-hey...what's going on?" And so we sang the song passionately, trying to remember the verses as amused locals passed by. Two veil-clad teenage Muslim girls giggled hysterically from behind the adjacent cell phone shop where they were working. We belted out the song three times for a crowd of admirers before heading on.

We didn't know where we were going but didn't have to think hard - we were flagged down by a man sitting on the fateful Dunkin Donuts steps. He called us over, introduced himself as Boody, and told us stories of his childhood as an orphaned shoe shine boy-turned-dreadlocked rasta man. He was now a clean cut tour guide who complained about the corruption in the government, which is allowing the city to become horribly dilapidated and driving away potential tourists. In fact, Boody hadn't had a customer in 2 weeks and was sleeping on the DD steps. Brian and I glanced at each other and knew we had found a friend.

Boody took us to the Jakarta underworld, where he wove tales of the tensions between the Chinese immigrants and the natives, which exploded in 1998 with riots and the arson of many Chinese businesses. He took us to Chinatown on the rough-riding public transport, showing the still-ashy buildings and life in the alleyways. A group of men sat beheading one frog after another, the first step of preparing local frog delicacies. Frog blood mixed with gutter water, washing over the men's feet as they puffed clove cigarettes hands-free. Boody directed us through the alleyways until we were greeted with overwhelming wafts of incense smoke so thick we could barely see.

We waved through the smoke to see a huge temple, the largest Chinese Buddhist temple in Indonesia. Hundreds of Chinese people held bundles of incense a foot thick, acting as torches and offerings to the divine. We entered the temple, a red and gold masterpiece with hundreds of the thick incense bundles adorning every corner and Buddha statue. The Chinese offered these up in devotion, mouthing silent prayers. We choked and sputtered and took pictures. When the smoke had nearly knocked us over we exited and found a similar scenario in the temple courtyard, only slightly less smoky.

Boody led us throughout other parts of Jakarta until night began to fall. We spoke of religion, politics, and all the other sensitive subjects guidebooks warn not to bring up with locals. Like the 100 million or so other Indonesians who get by on less than $2 a day, Boody will keep struggling but we gifted him what he would need to get by for the next few weeks. With only one day in Jakarta, we were so lucky to have found him. He gifted to us an insider's peek at his hectic, polluted, inexplicably charming city.