I know Bahasa, really I do

I know Bahasa, really I do

I can still vividly recall the words of a friend -- "Edwin, you
will enjoy living here because Bahasa Indonesia is so easy" --
told to me back in 1980.

Since then my proud declaration of "I know Bahasa" -- meaning
that I can speak the local lingo and get by in it quite nicely,
thank you -- has been my constant hang up and, occasionally,
downfall.

We left Indonesia in 1997 and are now back on a short visit.
My wife, knowing full well my language limitations, does her best
to shield me from having to actually speak Indonesian.

However, I had to attend alone a memorial service for a
departed friend in the Sikh temple in Pasar Baru, Central
Jakarta.

My wife gingerly asked, "Shall I give directions to the
driver?"

"Oh, dear, you don't give up, do you? Knowing Bahasa is like
knowing how to swim; however long ago it was when you learned it,
you still know how to do it when you jump into the water. I shall
do just that. Thanks, anyway."

So I set off, dozing during the drive.

"We're here, sir," my driver Agus said. To my shock, we were
in front of All Saints Church in Central Jakarta, nowhere near
Pasar Baru. In a flash, I realized that I had used gereja
(church) in my briefing to Agus.

We eventually got to the temple, and I was homeward bound by 6
p.m., presuming it would be smooth sailing. But the car crawled
along and Agus fidgeted in his seat.

"Cepat-cepat (quickly)," I said crisply.

"We can't sir, it's three-in-one."

Just then, as Agus almost stopped, squinting and peering
intently to his left, there was a gentle tap on his window.

Agus brightened and told me, "Sir, there's a jockey".

The jockey slid into the car, looking like a pro on the prowl.
I rehearsed my little Indonesian exchange for him for the end of
the journey.

When the time came I asked the jockey, "Harga mana?"

It was met with palpable confusion. This time I knew that my
Bahasa really was off the mark; while I was rehearsing my speech,
"harga berapa? (What's the fare?)" cropped up again and again,
but I somehow blurted out the equivalent of "Where's the fare?"

"Rp 50,000," he said.

How nice, I thought. He had enjoyed the free BMW ride and his
modest fee was just icing on the cake for him. With alacrity, I
took out a Rp 5,000 note and gave it to Agus to give to him.

But no "'makasih" (thank you) was forthcoming. Instead the
silence in the car was, as they say, deafening.

"He said Rp 50,000, not Rp 5,000, sir."

I was shocked, took back the note from Agus and replaced it
with Rp 20,000. The jockey was unmoved. He insisted on his pound
of flesh, a ransom of a crisp Rp 50,000 note.

In my state of agitation I was not even aware that my "I know
Bahasa" had suddenly taken leave of me. In rapid-fire English, I
ordered Agus, "Go to Jl. Ragunan Raya. We'll settle it there."

English unnerved the jockey, for English has power, no matter
who speaks it. The jockey, less bull-headed than Shylock, grabbed
the wad of money from Agus, jumped out and melted into the
darkness.

On reaching home, Agus said he had paid the jockey Rp 30,000,
and he now asked for his Rp 10,000, which I grumpily paid.

I was sure I had been robbed. Whether by one or two people was
immaterial. But I had no regrets. Rp 30,000 was a small price to
pay for an engaging and enjoyable evening when I got to show my
"I know Bahasa" one more time.

-- G.S. Edwin