A thankfully short walk on the wild side

A thankfully short walk on the wild side

JAKARTA (JP): Two hours can seem a lifetime in some places.

I am not just talking about being bored to tears in a seminar
as a speaker drones on and on about the use and misuse of the
serial semicolon. Or biding your time in one of the city's ever-
present traffic jams.

It can be when you are suddenly thrown out of your element,
the forlorn fish flapping and floundering to get back into the
swim of things.

I had that sinking feeling when I returned to England to visit
my parents a month ago. I have not lived in Britain since I was
14 and have been a resident of Indonesia for the last eight
years, only returning to England once during that time.

I returned to the merry old land of my ancestors only to feel
the pangs of reverse culture shock sweeping over me. It's like a
colleague joked to me when I came back to Indonesia; you find
yourself stumbling on your words in your native language,
disoriented after being the big cheese who can do no wrong in
Indonesia.

I felt myself drowning in a sea of "luvs" and "ducks", and
being at a loss how to respond without seeming like a complete
imbecile. The money looked new and strange, and I would pore over
the unfamiliar coins in the palm of my hand to try to come up
with the right change. I was bemused, bothered and bewildered as
I tried my utmost to reacquaint myself with the familiarities of
life in the West.

Then it was back to my adopted home, where I can safely don
the mask of the expatriate. No matter how much you try to learn
the language, familiarize yourself with the culture, take on the
trappings of the "Indonesian way of life", you are bound to
remain a stranger in a strange land. Thus, it does not really
matter if you screw up; you are different anyway and it's only to
be expected.

That mask came in handy about a week after my return when I
found myself in the very unfamiliar territory of the Kampung
Rambutan Bus Terminal. Isn't that the place where a crowd set
upon a suspected pickpocket, beat him to a pulp and then made a
bonfire of him one fine Friday afternoon last month?

Right you are.

I was there to pick up a friend who was arriving at night from
West Java, and I decided I would head out to Kampung Rambutan
without waiting for his phone call first. An unwise choice.

Talk about being totally out of my element. It was 8:30 p.m.
and I was the lone westerner venturing out to these parts at this
time of night. It is not a visitor-friendly place; vehicles have
to navigate the gauntlet of food stalls, street vendors and the
thugs who still run the show.

My taxi driver dropped me off and I was out on my own, dealing
with some sights and sounds which may be familiar to many
Indonesians but were alien territory for me. With a companion it
might have been fun, but alone it proved an excruciatingly long
wait.

A cup of coffee at the donut shop became increasingly
uncomfortable, its full-length windows exposing me to the passing
masses and inviting stares and finger-pointing. I made a hasty
dash outside and headed over to the refuge of a spot outside the
police post.

An unusually tall, broad-shouldered young woman walked past
me, from the police post through the line of fruit stalls to the
terminal. Back and forth she went, sashaying a little uneasily in
her high heels as she paraded on her own private catwalk past
gawking onlookers; I imagined a poster advertising her escapades:
"Tuti Tickles Your Fancy at the Terminal". Unbeknownst to her,
she gave me a little comfort because she garnered nearly as many
stares as me. Somehow, though, I do not think it was simply
because of her Amazonian proportions.

It was human flotsam and jetsam time. A man walked by, did a
double take at the cell phone peeking out of my pocket and
proceeded to circle me for the next five minutes (I turned back
toward the police post, but the trio of officers were having a
chinwag with aforesaid big girl). I stood my ground as long as I
could, and then retreated to a seat under the flagpole.

I was the prize exhibit. People passed by, stared and gave me
the once over in an ordeal which seemed like it went on for
hours. Finally, I was accosted by a weaselly little man who
reminded me of Ratso from Midnight Cowboy except he was Javanese.

"You're very fat, mister," he said, stating the obvious (then
again, that seems to be an Indonesian predilection, with people
telling you "You're sweating" after you have played tennis at
high noon).

I kept quiet, doing my best to ignore him and hoping against
hope he would head off to catch some of the rats which
occasionally scurried by.

There were a few more asides before he said what was really on
his mind.

"You know, I like to give a massage now and then."

Oh yes.

"Sometimes I even give the policemen a massage. They want a
rub down, and I like to massage, so we reach a compromise."

Compromising position more like it. Before I could tell him to
skedaddle and find out if big girl really was a girl after all,
my friend arrived.

It was over and done with and, unlike the average Indonesian
who will be passing through the terminal upon arrival after a
trip home for Lebaran, it was an experience I'm not likely to opt
for again anytime soon. Still, I lived through it and it showed
me a side of Indonesian life I rarely encounter. Thankfully!

-- Bruce Emond