Jakarta Underground – Moammar Ekma

I am back in Jakarta. So yesterday afternoon while I was stuck in traffic, sitting my cousins car I noticed he had a copy of the book Jakarta Underground tucked in the back seat pouch. Traffic in Jakarta seems to have become even more insane so I picked up the book and actually managed to get past a few chapters. The books serves as a chronicle of the increasingly erotic Jakarta nightlife that the author, Moammar Emka, has attempted to bare for all readers in his own covert fashion. Each chapter unveils some new party fetish that the city of Jakarta has to offer, if you have the finances and the connections to open the suitable doors. The first chapter whisks you into the world of naked parties as Emka is whisked away to Pluit by his new acquaintances to experience, literally, an underground naked party that took place in a basement in some affluent neighborhood. The following chapters go on to uncover the worlds of full service massage parlors and strip shows at karaoke bars, even some dodgy sex in a car service.

While until now the premises of the book my sound interesting, I want to clarify that in my opinion, the book Jakarta Underground is full of shit. Jakarta Underground is probably the worst book depicting the sordid night life of any city on the planet that I might have glanced at in the last 30 years of my life. And this is a gross understatement. My first qualm with this book is the writing style. Now I do not fancy myself a fantastic writer but that is why I only maintain a blog. But this guy writes like I did when I was in 8th grade. When writing about sex or erotic situations it is not difficult utilizing words to initiate some activity below the belt of your male readers. While writing about the Pluit Naked Party Emka actually bored me! He explains how he got naked and walked into a room of over 100 undressed human beings in a total club scene and after a paragraph or 2 about naked gyrating pelvises, it is 5am and they are heading home. What the fuck? Attended a party like that is enough to write a whole paragraph about, if you were actually there!

Moammar Emka has in his own words tried to portray Jakarta as the Las Vegas of Asia, and in his attempts to do so it seems to me that he has compiled a bunch of stories he has heard about from friends and strangers and compiled them into a book. That to, poorly. All off his stories begin that he met up with friend A, who introduced him to friend B, who took them both out for some wild night on the town or a trip to some kinky day spa. Friend A and friend B always engage in illicit activities while Moammar conveniently refrains from dipping his feet in the pond but somehow manages to tip fairly and keep the women he comes across satisfied.

Oh MR. Moammar Ekma, you are such a gentleman. BULL FUCKING SHIT!!! I read through this guys crap in the first chapter. First of all who walks into a room of 100 naked people and refrains to mention anything about how they FEEL standing there wearing nothing. Then he spends over 5 hours there and does not mention weather he got a hard on or if he sat down to conceal it or if any women brushed against him. He writes as though were spying into the room and not actually participating in the party. At the end of that chapter he writes how he retires to his hotel room with thoughts of naked ladies swarming through his head. At least if he ended that chapter by saying he gave himself a good wank before falling asleep he could have added some authenticity to this fairytale. If Emka really did go this party then he just does not have the balls to write things AS THEY ARE and should therefore just publish his writing under a pseudonym. And if things really happened as he says they did then his still has no balls and possibly no penis either. You mean to tell me he was in a massage parlor with 2 girls whom he allowed to get naked, rub themselves against him, and then he lured them into proposing sex and then he says no thanks and walks out.

The fact that others have dared to compare Jakarta Underground to Sex in the City and Moammar Emka to Carrie Bradshaw sickens me. I want to swivel to the left in plush executive chair and puke. Puke, puke, vomit, vomit. If you cant admit that you have a dick and that you love you love to use it, some divine hand should reach down and rip it away from between your legs. All this book has managed to do is piss me off fist thing Tuesday morning.