A little over five years ago, we celebrated our wedding anniversary with a sumptuous afternoon tea at Carcosa Seri Negara.



I didn't blog about it at the time (the blog being even spottier then than it is now). But in my diary I record: "There is something very pleasant about having tea on the verandah, in comfy cane furniture, with proper napkins and old-fashioned china, looking out onto broad green lawns. I thought it would be all about atmosphere, and the food would be just OK. But the food was great."

The complex drips history, of course. It was the official home of Sir Frank Swettenham, the first resident-general to the Federated Malay States; and it was the site where the Malay rulers signed the Federation of Malaya Agreement in 1957.

The afternoon teas are now no more, but after lying empty for a while, it was leased to the Asian Heritage Museum, who ran a Jalan Merdeka exhibition during September.

Unfortunately, we missed the bulk of this. But some documentation remains, and it's interesting to see a bit more of the building.















A Merdeka theme also formed the haunting background to the film by Yosep Anggi Noen that we went to see on Saturday afternoon at KLTC. The Indonesian title is Istirahatlah Kata-kata (which means "be still, my words"), but the official English title is Solo, Solitude.

As the blurb explains, the movie "depicts some of the last days in the life of Widji Thukul (b. 1963), one of Indonesia's legendary poets, best known for his political poetry and networks with some of the most radical political activists. During the latest major political turmoil in Indonesia in the late 1990s, scores of political activists were kidnapped by the state security apparatus, and later released. Others, including Thukul, disappeared and their fates remain unknown to this day."

It's a powerful piece of work. We meet Widji Thukul as he flees to Kalimantan, and then returns to Java. We see how the life of the fugitive is full of empty spaces ("how can I write when I'm on the run?"), of forward planning ("how can I escape from here if I need to?"), of anxious encounters with over-curious locals ("is he just interested, or is he part of the neighbourhood spy system?"), and of the visceral sadness that comes from being separated from wife and children.

For Widji Thukul, independence has gone terribly wrong. "Kemerdekaan adalah nasi," he writes in 1982, "dimakan jadi tai" ("independence is like rice, once it is eaten it turns to shit").

Power cuts are frequent in the world the film depicts. They are an obvious symbol of darkness and lack of transparency. They descend when you least expect them. They make the baby cry. They force you to use an inferior form of light whose open flames increase the risk of house fires.

What you need is a regular supply of electricity, not a disrupted and disruptive one. And merdeka without a regular supply of justice and transparency is similarly stymied.

Of course, this story of "activist interrupted" reminded us of Munir. May justice and transparency prevail in both cases.



On a lighter note, this weekend we investigated Pahit. This is an atmospheric old place, and it specializes in that once-despised-now-fearfully-hip beverage -- gin. As a gin fan, I was very happy. An ordinary G&T will never seem the same after the jackfruit-and-lime-infused version. And the Starlight cocktail, with the violet and the basil and the I-can't-remember-what-else, was both delicious and photogenic.

Afterwards you can pop back round the corner to VCR, where you can get excellent coffee and cakes (and, by the look of the menu, excellent brekkies too).