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Seite 2: Leeds in West-Java

Wel­come to Jakarta”, the Per­sija ultras text me after my arrival. Their club is one of the country’s big­gest, but its glory days are well behind it. They have not won the league since 2001. But for now, all that mat­ters are brag­ging rights in their clash with Persib. This fix­ture might not be as colourful as the Moroccan derby bet­ween Raja and Wydad Casa­blanca or as loud as an Istanbul derby. But it is as brutal as per­haps no other game in the world. It’s a duel super-charged on chaos. Total excess. The ulti­mate extreme. A fight bet­ween the capital and its neigh­bou­ring pro­vince West Java.

20171103 11 FREUNDE PERSIJA 0024 RZ Kopie
Muhammad Fadli

Our journey to Sura­karta begins on Thursday 2 November. The mee­ting point is a super­market in Tam­bora, West Jakarta, a stone’s throw from the city’s slums. Just the one-hour trip from cen­tral Jakarta is a hel­lish ride through an urban laby­rinth, a dream desti­na­tion for some but for others a rams­hackle behe­moth cob­bled tog­e­ther from spare parts: cor­ru­gated tin huts, iron, rust, sky­scra­pers, shop­ping malls, buil­ding sites, mos­ques, lights, noise, mopeds, cars, the heat. At the moment, it’s espe­ci­ally chaotic, as Jakarta rea­dies itself to host the 2018 Asian Games.

A few years ago, due to wor­sening traffic, the aut­ho­ri­ties made a law that during rush hour, cars had to con­tain at least three pas­sen­gers. It was the cue for the super rich to take their pri­vate heli­c­op­ters to work. The average rich had their chauf­feurs drive them and pick up so-called jockeys” from the side of the road, who make up the num­bers for a few rupiah. Impro­bable? You bet.

Bento

At the super­market in Tam­bora, two young men play songs by Indo­ne­sian musi­cian Iwan Fals on the guitar. During the Suharto era, many con­sidered him the Asian Bob Dylan. It’s not long before the first Per­sija fans rock up and break into a hearty ren­di­tion of his pro­test song Bento, as if they could drown out not only the bloody past but also the dif­fi­cult pre­sent. They’re still children.

Most of them have no jobs, they speak no Eng­lish, they’ve never been abroad, many of them have never left the island of Java. But they know what the two words on their t‑shirts mean: Crazy Boys. It’s one of num­e­rous Per­sija ultra groups. Their gang. Some­thing in this giant, fraying city-island at least, that pro­mises a little sup­port and hap­pi­ness. They sit down in front of the super­market and drink a home­made spirit called Ciu from pla­stic bot­tles. The har­dest streng­then it with insect repel­lent. Drink!” says one of them, hol­ding up the con­coc­tion. What’s your name mister?” asks ano­ther, offe­ring a shy hand­shake that feels like gras­ping at cotton wool.