Fairy tales for a not-so-young Republic

Indonesia is a land of fairy tales. Or so you will be told by many expatriates, especially those hailing from the colder and more industrialized regions of the globe. The natural beauty! The fabulous sunsets (and sunrises)! The living art! The joyful and oh so gentle people!

Many expats who have finished their time of service in Indonesia will often seize any excuse to return. I once knew a Nordic diplomat who had been posted to New York and had to attend the 1985 Women's Meeting in Nairobi. Of course she stopped in Jakarta en route.

"Since when is Jakarta en route from North America or Northern Europe to East Africa?" I asked.

"Well, if you fly over the Pacific, it is!" she gushed happily.

Encouraged, I tried to tell my sponsors that the most scenic route from Jakarta to Nairobi would be over the Pacific. It was a nice try, but they sent me across the Indian Ocean anyway.

The Indonesian word for fairy tale is dongeng. Now let's not split hairs about whether it means folklore, legends or myths.

The story about the Tangkuban Perahu is a dongeng. So is the story of the Queen of the South Seas, Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, better known in her demonic aspect as Nyai Lara Kidul.

The stories about the brave little mousedeer, kancil, are dongeng. And the story about the Bear with a Little Brain who Loves Eating Hunny is also a dongeng.

Fairy tales are usually considered to be mainly for the very young. Not just for their edification, but also -- at least until not too long ago -- as a soporific.

I had a young nephew who loved the grimmer of Grimm's fairy tales. One was his absolute favorite, and you had to tell it exactly the same way every time, or he would rise like a dragon disturbed in his slumber and cry: "No! You're telling it wrong again!"

It wasn't until I came across Bruno Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment that I ceased worrying about what dire effects these dark tales might have on him. In fact, he's grown into a rather nice person, although I still hope he doesn't read this particular piece, or there may be cases of aunt abuse in the offing.

As Indonesia is celebrating the 57th anniversary of its independence this month, I find myself increasingly preoccupied by the fairy tales that abound in our not-so-young Republic. During the so-called Orde Baru (New Order), there was so much delusion and illusion all around us that we the citizens often felt that we were trapped in a shadow puppet play. Things were happening, were moving, people were jumping high or falling low ... but who or where was the dalang, the puppet master?

Now, we hear, we have Reformasi (Reform). Down with demagogy, long live democracy! ... And rallies are the order of the day. Food and fuel prices are rocketing sky high. Transportation, telecommunications and electricity are all getting dearer and dearer. And ... dear me! What does it cost to hold the People's Consultative Assembly's Annual Session? Only Rp 18 billion (US$2 million)?

Aren't those people's representatives supposed to strive for the best interests and the welfare of the rakyat, the citizenry? At Rp 1.8 billion a day, this is definitely not a case of "talk is cheap".

A police chief stated confidently a week or so ago that Jakarta is very safe, very secure and very peaceful. Maybe it is in his corner, but as one Indonesian newspaper commented caustically, "No doubt the police feel safe, because they have guns."

If one watches the news on the Indonesian television stations, especially their crime coverage, one wouldn't really feel so safe nor secure.

My own little corner in Pamulang used to be quite idyllic: fresh air, nice neighbors (also the kampong people) and hardly any traffic. I have a great view of beautiful sunsets, sunrises and moonrises, because the land across the street is empty, on account of the Pertamina gas main which runs from Cirebon to Cilegon.

Covered by wild grass, one is not supposed to erect any buildings, plant any trees nor light any fires on this 20-meter wide strip of land. I used the word "suppose" deliberately, because this is Indonesia, after all. Red warning signs posted at regular intervals are probably considered to be only ornamental.

Anyway, my tribe of happy cats and I used to enjoy ourselves tremendously, strolling through the wild grass and all that, gazing at the distant mountains.

Then a preman (hoodlum) appears out of the blue and establishes a cigarette stand right across from my house. Were he only selling cigarettes and bottled tea at normal opening hours, his presence would still be bearable. However, his customers became increasingly rowdier and were coming and going at all hours. In the end I had a full blown preman's nest across the road.

My efforts to enlist the Community Unit to really uphold its name, the "harmonious neighborhood", were to no avail. They were obviously too afraid. Alerting the police had virtually the same effect, although I pointed out that I had strong reason to suspect that the preman dealt in certain substances much stronger than tea or tobacco.

"Well, if the worst comes to the worst you can always call 112," the police said helpfully.

112! The mysterious number that appears on my cell phone when -- yet again -- I get no signal. It's supposed to work even without a SIM card. Needless to say, I would hate having to put it to the test. What if it should turn out to be another fairy tale, designed to lull us to sleep?

-- Marianne Katoppo