White guy goes to Africa

Jakarta Biennale. Opening (Day 0). Three point five hours on two different motor bike taxis. Wrong address (deficient logistics) lovely drive. Driver found love. New word : Dalkas (burning passion/pain), Greek? Turkish? Related to Iskelmä? (Turkish toilet in Turkey = Roman toilet).

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Biennale, big sweaty white guy in white shirt, buttons ready to pop out, hair gel like a plane could fly one meter above and not move a single hair.

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Waiting at the mango stand. Already used to Jakarta “rubber time”. Counting my change. Too many zeros. One mango. Cut masterfully. One mango, ten thousand rupiahs. 10 000. Bills for 2 000, 1 000, 100 000, 50 000, 20 000, 5 000, coins for 1 000, 500. Not rushing but not taking my time either. Working.

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Oozing international god of provocation, impatient, gotta get mango, gotta have it. Now. Dripping dripping sweat. Not a smile. Maybe if I was a tall (but not taller than him) skinny art history student dark long hair little black dress red lipstick something to gain white fetish black fetish. Curator. Assistant. Pushes me. “I’ll pay for it.” Not a nice gesture. Not a gesture. Contempt, power. Poor queer kid can’t get themselves a 96 cents mango. Sad? No. He’s seen the real deal. Bitch better get my mango.

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Enjoy privilege.

It’s provocation. I get it. Great images. Neon. Big camera. Big ego. Knows it all. Working with the locals. “Integrating”. Obtruding? Roaming above everything. Rain season. Big white boiling cloud, pouring sweat.

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