A street holdup, and the kindness of strangers
A street holdup, and the kindness of strangers
Joseph Kirschke, Contributor, Jakarta
It was one of those moments that every foreigner -- expat or
tourist -- dreads.
My rickety taxi was making its way from my home in Kemang,
South Jakarta, to a Jakarta nightclub when it stopped in its
tracks in front of Blok M.
A man in his twenties with a black T-shirt on circled the cab
while pounding on its windows; I reached over to lock the door
opposite the driver's seat; mine was already locked.
It was 11:30 p.m.
"I break my leg," shouted the man through the driver's seat
window which my cabbie had conspicuously rolled down. "I break
leg so I need some money!" he demanded, standing without the
assistance of crutches, pointing to his clearly unbroken leg.
"Go to a hospital!" I shouted back, my temper boiling with
frustration.
"No, you give me money!" he continued.
"You want police?" he asked.
"Yes!" I replied. "Where are the police?"
"Over there," he said, gesturing to a dark corner of the
nearby mall which had been blackened out for the night. It was
not a promising option.
I turned my attention to my bone-thin taxi driver and demanded
that he drive on. "Go!" I growled repeatedly. It was all in vain.
He shook a handkerchief at me.
At that, I emerged from the cab, noticing a larger group of
people gathering around me, among whom I saw no potential allies.
I paid the cabby and began to walk away, hoping to hail another
cab, but black T-shirt wouldn't give up, grabbing my arm
insistently. "You give me money!" he said.
Sensing a whiff of violence in the air, I retreated to the
very relative safety of a nearby bajaj (three-wheeled motorized
taxi), where I lit up a cigarette with the hope that the
situation would just fade away.
Needless to say, the driver, while casting me a sympathetic
glance, wouldn't budge either, perhaps out of the fear that he,
too, could fall prey to the thugs if he were to attempt to
deliver me from their grasp.
"You give me Rp 50,000!" insisted the leader of the gang. At
last, I complied.
"No, two more!"
A total of Rp 150,000, at that point the bajaj driver took off
down the street, with black T-shirt following in his path. My
feeble attempt at retribution was to give him the finger as I
trailed off in a smoky cloud.
True, I should have known better than to be taking such a
dodgy cab so late at night.
"You got off lucky -- they could have pulled a knife to your
neck and taken you to an ATM machine," said a friend and fellow
journalist. "You've gotta know who you're dealing with. You have
to check out the cab driver; especially at night."
Another expat had a different take.
"No, no," he said, shaking his head while staring into a half-
empty beer at a bar in Jl. Jaksa. "You give in like that."
"You have to say hey, hey, my girlfriend's father is a cousin
of such and such (insert name of mafia kingpin here), and if you
don't get out of my face right now, you are going to have big
problems. A big gang will come down here and beat you up."
If nothing else, it was food for thought.
The next day, in what can only be described as ineptness, I
left my wallet in my taxi, perhaps still unsettled by the events
of the day before. The fact that I left my wallet behind dawned
on me after I had ascended to the 10th floor of the information
ministry where I went to renew my visa.
In a panic, I raced downstairs, punching the number of the
taxi company into my cell in the hope that my wallet would be
returned. I have been the victim of identity theft before, and
wasn't keen on reliving the experience.
To my utter relief, the taxi driver drove right up to me arm
extended, wallet in hand, with a broad grin on his face, grateful
to be of help. I immediately gave him some cash for his kindness.
After shaking the driver's hand vigorously, I turned and went
back into the building.
My faith in the Indonesian spirit had been fully restored.