The first thing that struck me as I tried to exit Jakarta’s International Airport late yesterday afternoon after clearing immigration was that there were no taxis. Not a single one. Perplexed I searched high and low with my very unyielding luggage trolley, attempting to gracefully dodge this scary looking man yelling at me in a language I could not understand. With no taxis in sight, was I meant to catch one of those packed buses with all the locals hanging out of the bus door? Surely Jakarta couldn’t be umm… this backwards? The yelling did not cease despite what I thought was my well judged inclination to ignore him, but eventually with his persistently wild gesticulating arms, I was made to realise that I had used the wrong exit, the workers exit, and I was to retrace my steps back through to the other end of the airport, to a more civilised arrival hall with ATM machines, foreigners, and taxis waiting.

One type of Jakartan transportation, the Bajai (auto rickshaw)

The first crisis over, I was swiftly faced with crisis number two. On attempting to withdraw cash, using both cash cards and in all five ATM machines three times over, I realised neither of my cards worked. With only the sum total of £5 in my pocket it was not enough for cab. So it was to be the bus after all. My thumbs were a blur as I sent frantic messages to my bank manager during the long bus ride into town, but it would be some four agonising hours before my account was “unlocked”.

Which was why that night, after all was resolved, in a ‘Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Moment’, I did not eat dinner, feeling all too exhausted and all too jetlagged. I woke up absolutely ravenous, but as I didn’t want to leave the air-conditioned comfort of my hotel room to brave the 35 degree heat, I only finally emerged at about lunchtime. By my count, this meant I had not eaten for some 26 hours since the noodles at the airport. Surely this justified some comfort eating once more.

I headed for the buffet at the Japanese restaurant, Keyaki, at the 5 star Sari Pan Pacific Hotel. Jakarta’s searing heat was like a surge of electricity to my system so the restaurant being air-conditioned was one irresistible draw card, that and the fact that it is rated by Indonesia Tatler as one of the best restaurants in Indonesia in both 2007 and 2008. It is styled in the usual Japanese fashion; glossy dark wood tables, lantern light fittings. Also, the presence of the atypical sushi bar is perhaps also a giveaway.

Sashimi and sushi selection

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Two dodgy aeroplane meals (bland chicken curry, soggy rice, overcooked vegetables, etc) and four movies later I arrived at the International Airport at Kuala Lumpur on route to my destination, Jakarta. As I stepped off the plane, I marvelled at how one moment you could be in one country and half a day later on the other side of the world. Attached to such mobility was a certain freedom of movement that struck me as somewhat surreal.

I was starkly reminded of where I was when I visited the facilities at Kuala Lumpur’s Low Cost Carrier (KLLC) Terminal at Kuala Lumpur’s International Airport and the first cubicle I encountered was a squat toilet. Not exactly to my preference, I visited another and it amused me no end when I discovered a warning sign advising those that custom this toilet not to squat on top of the toilet seat itself.

No squatting on the loo...

Clearly cultural differences infiltrated even at this level of everyday life. I guess there was a risk that one could fall in which would presumably not have been too pleasant. It reminded me of the occasion when one of my Japanese girlfriends went on a tour of a Sumo Stable (sumo training house) where unsurprisingly the toilets were also proportionally sumo sized. “It was this big,” she said, drawing a full circle around her petite size six frame as far as her arms would stretch. “I was so scared of falling in, I held onto the walls for dear life”.

Anyway, with four more hours to kill before my budget airline flight to Jakarta, I decided to eat, partly to fight fatigue, partly to ward off boredom. In an airport in the UK, this might have been Garfunkel’s. Here at Kuala Lumpur’s Low Cost Carrier Terminal was Asian Kitchen, which served noodles and rice dishes. For the bargain basement price of about £1.50, I ordered soup noodles with fish balls and dried pork rind, which reconstituted back to a soft mushy form on contact with the liquid. Overall the soup was decent and a good time killer.

Having unsuccessfully tried to convince the girl at the check-in desk that I was worthy of an upgrade to business class on my Malaysian airlines flight, I prayed; “Dear God, please: (1) let me have an entire row to myself; (2) if not, then at least let me sit next to some charming piece of eye candy that will flirt outrageously with me for the duration of the trip; (3) failing that, definitely no horizontally challenged person, so challenged they cannot fit in their seat without the armrest being up; and finally (4) no screaming babies located in the nearby vicinity.”

So it was with some relief that I found myself in an aisle seat with an empty space next to me. Crisis over, I turned my attention to the in-flight magazines. Devouring the list of movies on offer, I wondered whether the food would be any good.

The last time I flew it had been to New York City over a month ago on a paid-for business class trip – I’d been ever so excited about the prospect of Upper Class on Virgin Atlantic; the limo service, the lounge at Heathrow and especially the four-course meal on the flight! I hadn’t expected gourmet, but when the reality arrived I found the food to be disappointing, something closely resembling bad microwave dinners but served on plates with proper cutlery. Even the food in the lounge had not been up to par. Although the lounge was an icon of futuristic chic, modern, luxurious and fun, the cod I ordered from the menu tasted like it had been cooked from frozen. Dear Sir Richard Branson, for £3,500, even if it was someone else’s money, I had expected better.

Having lived in total oblivion for the past couple of weeks, what with my trip to France and Germany and only a few days spare to pack for this trip to Indonesia and then Australia, I had barely been aware of the goings on of the Beijing Olympics. I must surely have been one of the very few people on this earth who did not watch the opening ceremony. The fact that a Jamaican won gold in the 100m sprint had actually registered in my consciousness was some minor miracle. So it was with some interest, whilst sitting at Costa Coffee at London Heathrow’s Terminal 3, that I read the headlines – something about Bolt storming to a double. How clever of The Times Newspaper to come up with such an euphemism to describe this person’s athletic prowess, I thought. However, as I read on, I came to realise that it was actually his name. Usain Bolt. Oh. What planet had I been on? Clearly not on earth.

Well lots to time to ponder this question as I was due to fly to Indonesia with a long stopover in Kuala Lumpur. So many, many hours of contemplative time I thought miserably. This surely justified some comfort eating, as I placated myself with lemon cake from Costa Coffee. I am particularly fond of lemon drizzle cake, like the varieties you get at Waitrose and Tescos, as I like the zingy lemon taste. The Costa Coffee version was pleasantly moist, the icing not too sugary or too sweet and just nicely zingy. As I finished off my café latte, I stared into the cup. What an awful lot of frothy milk gets left behind. Does this form part of calculation of the £10bn of food thrown away in Britain each year?

On route back to London, we decide to detour through Brussels, Belgium, to catch up with some friends who have now made this city their home. What would a road trip be without spontaneity? At the suggestion of the friends, we headed to Restaurant Brasseries Georges. If you are looking for some oysters in Brussels then perhaps this is perhaps the restaurant to try. On the day we visited there were some 20 different varieties on the menu, including local, French, Dutch and English (Colchester) offerings and which ranged in price up to about €30 for nine. There was also a selection of different types of seafood if you have an aversion to oysters: fish, clams, langoustines, whelks, sea urchins, prawns, lobster and of course mussels!

If this appears to be a tremendous amount of choice, then you may wish to settle for one of the seafood platters to give you a little taste of everything. Some eight different types of platters were available, for one or two persons, and all starting from about €20. For the meat eaters, options were also plentiful. And for every palate, a promise of the “best french fries in the world” cooked in goose fat.

Belgian croquettes with Ostend shrimp

Tempting as the fries were, we decided to start with croquettes and the calamari and octopus salad. Famously, croquettes are Friday night drinking food in Holland with various different types of fillings. Much like how we might purchase the odd kebab from Maroush in London, the Dutch buy their croquettes from a Dutch fast food chain called Febo. Typically theirs contain mash potato, but our Belgian croquettes today were instead filled with a hearty, deliciously thick creamy sauce filled with Ostend shrimp that ran a dreamy line along the inside of my mouth. The salad was well proportioned, but erred more on the side of just calamari rather then any octopus or salad, but so tender that I would’ve had no qualms feeding it to grandpa even without his dentures.

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