Since 1995 over 70 indonesian football fans died. For the Persija Jakarta ultras, every away trip could be their last. 11FREUNDE takes a road trip through a war zone.
“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.
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.
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.