There are corrugated iron shacks on the dockfront, selling snacks when Ramadan permits, and housing entire families. As pretty, in their way, as the corrugated houses of Reykjavik, half a world away or more.

The old Bugis sailing ships come in, their grimy hulls still throbbing with colour.

Some of their wares are destined for Makassar Mall, in the bowels of the city.

A slice of pure Indonesian craziness. Shoes, plastic flowers, sugary drinks and fake CDs teeter as if to fall. Indo techno pumps out of the speakers at a volume to make your ears bleed and the motorbikes boom by. It’s an intoxicating, toxic smells of durian, sewers, grilling fish and cheap perfume.

The noodle, meatball soup and rice stands shout out their wares.

Not half as loud as the becak drivers. Peddling as they pedal their bright rickshaws like so many pimps, pushing them at you from every side, as lovingly tended as the jeepneys of the Philippines.

There’s one parked round the corner from our guesthouse, customised with old CDs.

Our window looks out on a grey plaster wall. After the buzz and noise, its textures are pure tranquility.

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