To Flea or Not to Flee

Secretly I let go a small sigh when we got there. A sigh from a disgruntled heart of mine. Out of all the places in the world, why would he take me to this sort of place. Not only that it was late already, five-ish in the afternoon. But it was also hot, humid, and boy, it was packed with people. The buyers, the sellers, and the wardrobes from all over the universe, not to count the sneaky pick-pockets. Finally, after a decade long of successful attempts in avoiding this place, once more I was there at the flea market.















Even though he still buys gifts in places like normal people would (i.e the fully air-conditioned malls), I managed to travel to some unlikely places with my beau in the city to find one of a kind vintage chintz that he likes to collect. Down to Glodok and Pasar Mayestik. Having a so-so Sate Padang lunch squatting on storefront steps with a dozen other hungry ibu-ibu. Followed by inhalations of the uncomfortable putrid ambiance while enjoying your Sop Ceker Ayam (chicken feet soup which actually tasted pretty good) at the Sarinah pedestrian way across from the infamous Oh-Lala café. I tried as much as possible to always be there with him.

True that this guy humbled me. He showed me that there’s life outside of the comfort zone. Interesting people we’d meet along the way. These were the real people of the real world, he once said. Yeah okay, whatever lah. But even this chameleon/ I-can-be-who-ever-you- want-me-to-be Princess has her own limitations. Now, what are we doing in Pasar Senen? You wanted me to try on some used clothes of undetermined provenance? Yeah right!

I do like vintage stuffs mind you. Especially when the thing was really cute. Like that old poster I got in a flea market on the left side of the Seine, the used t-shirt I got from my office colleague (it was too big for him after he lost some weight), or that gorgeous blue-and-white striped shirt I stole from Jose’s trunk while he was in J-Town.

Busy traditional markets for me would only look good for photo essays, especially the black-and-white prints silver-tinted editions. Those photos that you’d see in magazines and art galleries. But in real, it was pretty scary. So we parked somewhere safe, left the phones and wallets behind. I only took the remaining hundred thou (Rupiah) that I got with me whilst entering the premises.

He was so proud in seeing me, the I-don’t-do-walking-unless- I’m-on-the-treadmills person, amongst thousands of used and cheap clothing items hanged or piled up everywhere. We went in and out of makeshift kiosks (which would later sell cakes, biscuits and traditional delicacies once the sun had set), bargaining hard for items that he was looking for. Thank God he knew the way around. I felt safe having him beside me.

But as you all knew, despite of all the piping-heat, the puzzling-traffic, and the not so friendly atmosphere, my homo-instinct insidiously returned to my suddenly feeling-well being. There were cute guys who’d sit spread eagle on their pile of clothing-stuffs wearing nothing but skimpy jeans and wet singlets. Another dude with a hot bronze bod just dozed off on a bench with his dark patch of armpit bush oozing-off his masculinity. Plastic tents shadowed the intense afternoon rays. However, the limited streaks of lights bouncing on people’s heads and the merchandises were truly worthy of a good photograph or a good painting. Chiaraschuro. See, I finally found the beauty of being there exposed to the environment.

“Honey, come on, hurry pick your stuffs will you! I’m already in my second get-3-for-ten-thousand choices!” I yelled at him while grabbing six used t-shirts, which supposedly came from South Korea. In my mind I was already styling meself: These are for the gym (I’d look like a hot Korean army in these), these would be for sleeping (material were so soft and worn-out), these I would use to go out (now you ladies may get the same look from Zara, Guess, L’Energie and Top Men vintage, while I was having the real-McCoy here).

Damn, I loved it so much I’d left him there and wandered off. Got another lumber-jack style shirt for Rp. 30,000 and a cute show-me-your-arm short sleeved shirt for just Rp. 15,000. And the final deal was: I got a set of 3-for-Rp.15,000,- ties, and I picked an original Giorgio Armani tie (fresh from a laundry that the owner never pick up). And so, here we go, let’s tabulate: I spent Rp. 80,000,- (or 20,000 under budget) and got almost a dozen items in that short period of time! Ahh, who-eva said that a compulsive shopper would stop buying when he’s out of his environment?

After the boiling in hard detergents and the repeated wash-ups, I was more than pleased in hearing things that people said like: “Gosh I love your shirt, where did you get it?”; “That is a cute t-shirt, where did you get it from?”. My reply was as simple as: the flea market at Pasar Senen. (Ohh, the horrified faces!).













Maybe once, a long long time ago, parents of my grandmamma would park their imaginative 1920-s Maybach Zeppelin in front of the management office. They’d treat them like some hot-shot because Pasar Senen was the it place to shop on Mondays (hence the name Monday Market in English). Things had changed within the last century. True, Pasar Senen had lost its original beauty. I didn’t even know how they covered up the small river that was supposed to be welcoming the guests. But hey, regardless of everything, I bet it wasn’t as much fun (and cheap) as the Pasar Senen we’d see today.