The Purple Culture Guide to Indonesia

Chapter 1: First Impressions

The first thing that hits you in Indonesia is the heat. It's not the dry heat of the desert or the sneaky warmth of a European summer. It's wet, heavy, and it wraps around you like a blanket pulled straight from the dryer. If you arrive at Jakarta's airport, the glass doors slide open and the humidity slaps you in the face with a warm, slightly sweet smell of tropical air, diesel, and clove cigarettes. You feel it in your lungs, not just on your skin.

Then there's the noise. You might have read about it, but the actual experience is a different beast. The traffic is a living thing, a constant stream of scooters that weave and hum like water finding its way downhill. The motor sound of a two-stroke engine becomes the background pulse of every city. There are horns, but they're not angry expressions of frustration so much as a language of their own — a quick tap meaning "I'm here," a longer blast meaning "I'm passing you on the left right now," a rhythm that almost makes sense after a couple of days. Someone once described it to me as a city where every driver is playing a continuous game of chess with moving pieces, and the horns are how they announce their moves.

The smell is next. It's a strange symphony of fried shallots, clove cigarettes (locals call them kretek, and the sweet, smoky scent of them is everywhere), incense