A day at the 'zoo' with other human attractions

Aida Greenbury, Contributor, Jakarta

I looked at my face reflected in the mirror, trying to trace any She-Devil lines in between my laugh crinkles.

"Can people actually see me as a criminal? A replica of the famous duo Thelma and Louise perhaps -- with a five-year old girl as the mischievous accomplice?" I mumbled to myself.

Our story actually begins one beautiful Sunday. My two-year- old son wanted to go to the park and see wild animals, he said. My five-year-old daughter thought that it was about time we went shopping.

After some persuasion, my son was finally convinced that it was too difficult to visit the Safari Park on Sundaym because every weekend more than half Jakarta's population heads for the famous mountainous recreation destination, Puncak, for some supposed fresh air.

Being a very reasonable mother, of course, I added that at the end of the day these very same people end up sniffing the abundant fresh carbon monoxide produced by their pristine weekend cars. You don't want to be part of that not so pretty sight or, God forbid, witness those cuddly bears choking to death from inhaling the excess pollution or from chewing plastic-wrapped candies thrown by ignorant weekenders, do you son?

He got the picture.

We agreed to spend the beautiful sunny day closeted in a crowded shopping mall, that other favorite family weekend destination, with shop windows richly adorned with overpriced Versace pillowcases and must-have limited edition LV bags. My shopping-phobic husband reluctantly decided to come with us after he gave up trying to locate the whereabouts of his TV remote control.

After we finished packing the children's essential survivor kits -- including a bottle of handy clean, mace and a dog leash inside a bright pink Barbie bag -- we were set to drive to the mall.

We reached the entrance gate of the mall at half past ten that morning. It felt like penetrating a military camp. Security officers clad in intimidating black uniforms (which hardly intimidated anybody since most of the officers are rather vertically challenged) stopped our car and interrupted our driver while he was playing tug of war with the ticket machine, which was actually the highlight of his day.

One security officer asked our driver to lift up the hood of our car, checking for an explosive device. Who would be so moronic to keep explosive materials in the raging hot machine, I wondered? And I'm pretty sure we didn't really look like a bunch of martyrs ready to explode ourselves.

Our driver dropped us off at one of the mall's entrance doors and parked the car somewhere inside the labyrinth styled parking lot. There were four swinging doors at the mall's entrance we approached. It's funny to see how we Indonesians tend to use only one door, which is the door opened and used by the people before them.

Rarely does somebody open and go through another door, even if it would mean saving them from a long queue at the particularly sacred door. It's like watching ants following their leader; the ants are too scared to take the risk involved if they choose other route.

I opened the other door on the left, not only to avoid the stupid queue, but mainly for a safety reason. Most of us here are so absorbed in our notions of self-importance to remember the standard courtesy to hold the door open for a while for the people behind us. I have had to experience several doors slamming in my face, before it finally sank in, although most of my countrymen seem to take it in stride.

Feeling famished, we headed to the food court. Close to lunchtime, the huge hall was packed with weird and wonderful people sitting on colorful plastic chairs, eating and talking (often doing both at the same time). More than two-dozen restaurants lined up on the sides, the backdrop to the song advertising the latest Taiwanese mobile phone gadget screamed loudly from the multifaceted wide screen TV stationed in the middle of the court.

We sat down, tried to finish our fat saturated deep-fried meaty things served on Styrofoam plates as quick as possible and leave the crowd behind.

Since the late 1990s, like most people, I always bring my mobile phone in my bag wherever I go. If I forget to bring it, I usually feel so hopeless and miserable -- the catastrophic effect is even greater than if I forget to put on mascara.

That day, I forgot to bring my mobile. My daughter and I were watching a pair of bright green hair decorations shaped like Pamela's appendages displayed in one of the shops, when we realized that I lost my husband. I looked in every nook and cranny but I couldn't find him.

We went to the department store inside the mall. I told the person behind the information counter I would like her to announce through the store's speaker that I would wait for my husband at the information desk. Yes, but you have to wait, she said.

Apparently, she needed to use the telephone to make the announcement. And at the time a female shop attendant was busily chattering away on the phone. I tapped the attendant's shoulder and explained to her that I needed the phone for a few seconds. She ignored me and kept talking with a smile plastered on her face. Then I had a better idea: My husband had his mobile, so I should just borrow someone's cellular phone and ring him. I approached two guys and one woman nearby me, but to no avail.

"No, I don't want to lend my mobile to you," said a middle- aged man bluntly. He scrutinized me and my daughter from head to toe, totally ignored my usually charming "puppy" look, treated me as if I was some suspicious criminal who was going to misuse his mobile phone. Inspired by an Aboriginal story I read, I felt like pointing a dead chicken's claw at him while cursing that one day he would be in my position and suffer greatly.

I can only think that if one day a lost mother and her toddler come to me and ask the same help, I would not think twice to assist her. What had happened to this city that drove its people to be ignorant, suspicious and selfish?

The security checks, the unregulated queues, the face-smashing doors and the selfishness of the people in the mall we visited sound a lot more primitive than a zoo. The following week when I stopped my car on the gravel road in the African Village in the Safari Park, I inhaled the fresh manure scented air, a strand of a Texan long-horned steer's hair stuck on my nostril, a blotch of llama spit perched at the tip of my Reebok shoe.

"I just love civilization!" I shouted.