Indonesia a train on an unknown track
Indonesia a train on an unknown track
By Nathaniel Myers
JAKARTA (JP): I am on a train, in the Indonesian unknown. Out
my window the countryside hurtles by. The train shows signs of
previous glories, of luxuries once proudly offered. It is an
"Executive Car" with air-conditioning. Large, plush, cushioned
seats. Footrests. Women handing out sealed cups of water. A
"refreshing tissue".
The train is nice, but seems to only hint at what it once was.
Like much of Indonesia, it looks as though it has not seen
maintenance in some time. My seat is soft, but a large spring
protrudes uncomfortably into my back. The kick-down footrests are
dirty, creaky and unwilling to move. On the wall, a strange black
beetle scurries to safety at the top of a battered and cracked
window. The paint around the window's metal frame is cracking,
chipping, falling.
Down the aisle trudges a young man, carrying a plastic tray
displaying containers full of little box lunches. He traverses
the entire compartment and makes one sale. He smiles sadly. That
seems to be the way many Indonesians are taking their newfound
problems, with a sad, accepting smile. The dreams are fading.
Perhaps nowhere is this more evident than on street corners,
where we spend so much time waiting in front of stop lights. As
the light turns red, a multitude of people pour off the corner.
Crippled beggars appear at the window, piercing the air with what
is left of their arms or legs. Young teenagers strum miniature
guitars as their friends sing along. Little kids stand next to
them, clapping their hands and shaking rickety homemade
tambourines. In between are the vendors, hawking everything from
newspapers to dictionaries to wooden sculptures. They smile
suggestively, nodding hopefully at their wares. I shake my head
and they reluctantly move on.
The vendors and the beggars leave me in a moral quandary. I
find myself turning my eyes from a man selling magazines before
passing a tattered bill to a beggar. One is attempting to work
for his money, one is simply asking for charity, and I give to
the latter. There is little I feel I can do; I have no need for
any of the vendor's magazines and The Jakarta Post is delivered
to my house. I have contemplated simply giving the vendor some
money without receiving a product in return, but I fear insulting
him. Instead I give to the beggar, and feel guilty that the hard
worker walks away empty-handed. It's certainly not fair, but I do
not know what else I can do.
The city's street corners all seem identical, tied together by
a common feature: people trying to scratch together just a few
more rupiah, by begging, by selling, by singing, by whatever else
might win a few bills. Not everyone has been able to adjust to a
life on the street corners. I hear weekly of the increasing crime
rate, of some new ploy that criminals are using to stop cars and
rob their passengers. Stop-light muggings last week, nails strewn
on the highway this week. Indonesians are in trouble, some are
getting desperate. The train is still chugging, but no one knows
where the next stop will be.
The desperation plays a role in the Indonesian political
arena. The general election went peacefully, to most people's
approval, but that is not the end of this nation's political
dilemmas. Secessionist movements in Aceh, Irian Jaya and East
Timor have provided glimpses of horrible brutality, driven in
part by the krismon (monetary crisis), and encouraged by the
political uncertainty here in Jakarta. The recent East Timor
elections were unexpectedly peaceful despite attempts at
intimidation, but intense violence has since consumed the
territory; its future is unknown.
Perhaps saddest of all is that the unrest and its chaos are
created not by the popular masses, but by smaller minorities
striving to further their own agendas. The over-95 percent
turnout in the East Timor ballot proved that the high majority of
Timorese supported the peaceful plebiscite but the army-aided
militias have since devastated Dili. East Timor's train is headed
in a different direction from Indonesia's, and certain forces are
doing their best to derail it.
Jakarta itself seems more stable, but at times it still feels
as if we are living in a police state; it is impossible to ignore
the ever-present soldiers on our streets. But it is relatively
peaceful here, contrary to what foreign news agencies would
sometimes like us to think. Despite the tendency of these
agencies to occasionally sensationalize outbreaks of violence,
the Indonesian media has taken up its newfound freedom with
gusto, and now reports on anything and everything it sees fit.
What would have been taboo three years ago is now seen daily in
Post, and so much the better.
The media is now able to maintain pressure on the government,
to ensure that it does its job properly. But despite all these
gains -- civil rights, a free press, democratic elections --
Indonesia has not found stability. There is a prevailing air of
uncertainty that lingers in the city; no one really knows what to
expect from the future. The train's destination remains unknown.
Here in my train we are rocking gently through the green
countryside. The man now pushes a large cart down the center
aisle, from which he offers goods, like they do on airplanes. In
front of my seat, in the weak and dying webbing, there is a
catalog showcasing his products. I look closely at it, there is a
date in the corner: June 1998. The month after Soeharto resigned.
Things will never be the same.