Lighten up please, it's the golden anniversary

Lighten up please, it's the golden anniversary

JAKARTA (JP): It certainly looks as if it's getting somewhere
-- "it" being the celebrations to mark Indonesia's 50th
anniversary, or, as you see and hear in every type of media,
"Indonesia's golden anniversary."

Somehow I do not seem to be able to dissociate those two words
from marriages that have lasted 50 years (well on the way of
becoming a rarity) which, in turn, are closely linked with the
ages of the pairs who have sworn to be together "until death do
us part," while in the background an organ goes on about Oh,
Promise Me, or The Voice That Breath'd O'er Eden.

What I mean is that the stars in such a performance would be
well past the three score and ten years allotted to man (and
woman, of course), so they would also be well past the age of 70
-- a time when it's pointless to dye the remaining 91 strands of
hair, eating peanuts is a painful, rather than pleasant
experience and bending down is absolutely out of the question.

But what Indonesia is actually celebrating on Aug. 17 is a
divorce, getting out of a marriage concluded at the point of a
gun and a 300-year-period that was unhappy, to put it extremely
mildly. Anyway, I'm sticking to plain 50th anniversary. Besides,
for a country, 50 years is nothing compared to, say, the age of
China or Egypt.

However, Indonesia's 50 years constitutes a period which its
citizens may rightly regard with a degree of satisfaction. Not
pride -- there are many aspects that do not as yet, if ever,
justify that sentiment. What aspects? Well, let's leave that to
the distinguished experts, whose writings and commentaries you
come across in this paper every day.

Anyway, 1995 is party time for all Indonesians. So how come
Mrs. Malik, my next door neighbor, isn't so thrilled with it all?
There she stood in her front yard one morning, arms akimbo, head
covered with a scarf to hide curlers, and obviously very angry.

"Look at it. Just look at it! I've already gone through two
lots of bulbs!"

"What's all this, Mrs. Malik?"

"Colored bulbs, that's what! I must've replaced a dozen of the
damn things by now. This morning I noticed another three gone!"

I'm sure you haven't missed those bamboo poles that have been
sprouting from every front yard of every building in the city, to
which are attached a dozen or more colored bulbs, that in the
evening create a pretty and festive atmosphere in the streets. I
noticed them first in mid-May returning home from a weekend trip,
and thought they were erected to celebrate Waisak, the Buddhist
new year. That wasn't the case, however.

I don't think they were put up because of a sudden burst of
excessive patriotic ardor on the part of home owners like Mrs.
Malik. We had received a letter from the chief of our district
(I'm sure everyone in Jakarta received one from theirs), which
urged one and all to do their bit to commemorate the
anniversaries: "... we are celebrating... as of the first of
June... it would be appreciated if..." and so on and so forth.
The letter included all manner of suggestions, descriptions and
directives regarding bamboo poles and bulbs, which homeowners
were asked to install in their yards. The poles should be curved
at the top end and turned towards the street, so that in the
evening they would create a corridor of colored lights. The
chief's wish being the command of everyone in the district, poles
began shooting up from every yard, including mine. I can't quite
remember how long those lovely lights -- which, by the way, are
plugged into the power supply of the house in front of which they
stand -- are supposed to be up for, but it certainly would be
well past Aug. 17.

All went well, and come nightfall the street did indeed look
quite lovely with all those colored lights. But on the morning of
the third day I noticed that there were two bulbs missing from my
pole. They were duly replaced, but the next morning another had
gone, and the day after... need I go on? You can't point an
accusing finger in any direction, of course, and it would be
sheer idiocy to go through the entire district in search of the
missing bulbs.

I commiserated with Mrs. Malik, and, pointing to my semi-naked
pole (there were only five bulbs left of the twelve I'd strung
up), invited her to join the club. I also pointed to other houses
in the street that were sporting de-bulbed poles and indicated to
her that there wasn't much one could do, was there?

"Oh yes, there is," Mrs. Malik said. "I'm going to stop
replacing missing bulbs. What's more, I'm going to disconnect the
thing. Electricity rates are high enough!" What else could I do
but thank her for the suggestion.

-- Jak Jaunt