So the cameras can't protect you, but are hopefully some kind of deterrent. And at least we'll have footage if someone gets killed.

(The Deutsche Bank building, incidentally, houses most international media outlets including the ABC, BBC, AP and The Australian. It is right in the middle of the city and opposite the famous Hotel Indonesia and sprawling Plaza Indonesia mall.)

About 2pm last Friday, I left the office and crossed the footbridge nearby, which straddles what appears to be between three and five lanes of traffic, depending on the time of day, and not including scooters.

I was off to buy some office supplies: sambal sauce to eat with my $1.50 nasi goreng, which had been delivered that day by Ismail, the man-Friday of the 14th floor.

As I ate my lunch and surveyed the detritus of 16 years' reporting, I decided to do a tidy-up. I started with an unexplained pile of used A4 paper on one of our desks, and pulled empty boxes off the shelves to serve as a makeshift bin.

"Wait," Runi said. "Ismail wants that paper. He can sell it."

"But it's used," I point out, thumbing through the stack. "See, printed on. What is he selling? The information?"

Loading

"No," Runi responds. "One side can be used still."

She pauses, and then continues. "And those cardboard boxes, I have promised to someone I know. They will sell them."

I stop to think about this for a moment. We're on the 14th floor of a huge building that houses a multitude of multinational companies, looks out over the centre of Jakarta, and offers all the trappings of the modern, 21st -century office. The Presidential Palace is 10 minutes' away, 45 in traffic.

It's no different to an office building in any global city. But Ismail wants the A4 stack to make a few rupiah on the side? And there is a market for used cardboard boxes?

I must see this market. So we hop in a taxi and take a short drive up the road to one of the streets that is home to the box-sellers. Vendor after vendor line what passes for footpaths in Jakarta, towering walls of both new and used boxes behind them.

I approach one of the cardboard moguls, Eni, who is seated cross-legged on a stack of collapsed boxes. She tells me she sells five to 10 boxes a day, at a minimum, and the prices range from 3000 to 30,000 Rupiah (about 30 cents to $3).

Sometimes, local police arrive to clear the street of its vendors, but the sellers usually get a tip-off and have time to spirit most of the boxes away up a nearby alley.

As we talk, a customer arrives and begins haggling with her grandson and son-in-law over the price of a largish box, which looks like it began life wrapped around a washing machine.

Eni gestures to a derelict building behind her. She used to live there, but the family got evicted and they now live about 30 kilometres west of the city centre, in Tangerang.

It's a hard life, but, fixing me with an even stare, Eni says with some pride that she's been doing this for 20 years now and, yes, she makes a living from it.

Much as our office in Jakarta is a snapshot of change, and of 16 years' reporting from one of the most dynamic capital cities in the Asia-Pacific region, so, too, is Eni's working life.

It's a reminder that while so much has changed in the 20 years since the fall of the Suharto regime and the transition to democracy, the rising tide of Indonesian affluence has not lifted up everyone, yet. Not by a long shot.

As we turn to leave, Eni motions that we stop and wait a moment more. Carefully, she removes a small box from a side pocket, pulls out a business card, and thrusts it in to our hands with a smile.

James Massola began his assignment as Fairfax Media's South-East Asian correspondent based in Jakarta this month.