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