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