A day at the 'zoo' with other human attractions
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.