Looking for a nice, bright house?

JAKARTA (JP): Ever scanned the classifieds for a place to stay? This newspaper carries enticing messages from landlords, housing agents, brokers and entrepreneurial housewives (or should I say home-makers?) flogging accommodation to prospective lessees. They promise, "nice, bright, spacious house, with swimming pool, all facilities, 10,000 watts, furnished or unfurnished, two telephones, servant's quarters," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

The message is near perfect, and taken at face value seems an answer to one's prayers and an end to the problem of house- hunting.

Considering the measly US$60,000 a year budget allotted by the company, you secretly wish that this dream house will be affordable.

Your fact-finding mission makes you breathe a sigh of relief because the "nice-bright-airy-spacious" house is in Menteng, just where you want it, and as luck would have it, the rent is exactly US $5,000 per month. You are ecstatic and you startle your secretary when you break out into Louis Armstrong's, What a Wonderful World.

You take stock of the enticing proposition in Menteng and decide to make your first telephone contact with Mrs. What's-Her- Name. The maid tells you that Ibu is in the mandi, or baringan. The former means that Mrs. What's-Her-Name is showering and the latter that she's resting. Be warned, landladies have a habit of constantly being in a state of mandi or baringan.

Anyhow, you receive a response and Mrs. What's-Her-Name is cloyingly sweet whilst her fractured speech is assertive. The conversation is decidedly one-sided and takes on a drab gray and easily shifts in the direction of a question and answer session.

Question: "From which country you are coming?"

Answer: "New Castle."

Question: "You have family?"

You are not one for discussing your personal life with someone you do not know, but,

Answer: "Yes."

Question: "When your Mrs. coming to Jakarta?"

You feel horribly homesick.

Answer: "Shortly."

Mrs. What's-Her-Name seems satisfied. She's happy that you're not a mean, sneaky, filthy philanderer.

Question: "You know we want three years in advance?"

Question: "Are you from embassy? My last tenant, Ambassador of Liechtenstein. Nice man."

Answer: "I am in commodities. I'm afraid I am an ordinary person."

It so happens that Mrs. What's-Her-Name is the wife of a retired businessman, she does not bite, she cuddles your infant son and pinches his cheeks, and your wife takes to her as a duck would to water. End of story -- you live happily ever after.

You swear at your predecessor who had the gall to welcome you to Jakarta with horror stories about house-hunting and landladies who gobbled up tenants' children for breakfast and terrorized helpless wives. You smile your broadest smile and shower a few more colorful expletives on the blighter and empathize with the company for having shipped him to Burundi.

Your house-hunting was not the dilemma you had been warned about by your recently-relocated-to-Burundi friend. But, wipe that smirk off and count your blessings, there are many who have not been as lucky.

Let's change the scenario and say that you are single. Then, you had better be male. Because if you are a lady, the same smiling, quivering mass, Mrs. What's-Her-Name, the pincher of baby's cheeks, the non-biter, the gracious server of teh, changes color and assumes the dimensions of Mrs. Busy-Body.

That quivering mass is almost indignant that a "nice lady" should stay single, as no "nice lady" stays single unless she's up to "no good." Mrs. Busy-Body's mind works differently, and to her, lady minus husband equals mischief.

"But where is your husband?" she will coyly ask, leading you to believe she's harmless.

So you answer, "Here in Jakarta."

"Why you cannot live with him?"

You don't wish to shock her or bring on a stroke or heart attack. You're itching to joke and break the grim conversation. This is no time for being frivolous. You decide to play on her feelings and answer rather morosely,"Because it is better this way."

She then assumes a conspiratorial stance, "Why? I know, I know, he marry? Oh, I know he keeping woman?"

This can go on if you do not take the upper hand and excuse yourself saying you have Delhi-Belly (a runny stomach you caught when you were in the Indian sub-continent). That will set her thinking about the kind of job you handle.

Some landladies are a superlative class of "questions wizards". They never uttered the first cry that newly borns cry in their joy of living. Instead, this species came out asking questions. Questions such as:

"Is that the umbilical cord? Shouldn't we be selling it? Are you sure this goon is my real father? Why is he burping? Do you call this yukky stuff breast milk? Where's my nursemaid? Why is she so sloppy? I don't like the way she rocks me, why don't you give her another job? Why is it you never think of serving me the elixir that Count Dracula thrives on?"

One of my friends turned to housing brokers in desperation and found them a challenging lot. At least they seemed more civilized. No more searching questions, except two all important queries.

Number One : "What is your budget?"

Number Two : "How many years in advance can you pay?"

Heaven forbid that your budget allows you only six months in advance, as these brokers do not waste time chatting up a MBP (Measly-Budget-Prospective). They don't handle small deals and will let you know. At least you know where you stand.

This friend's budget would only allow her places with precarious skylights, or sagging roofs with a romantic view of a star-studded night sky. She once had the pleasure of viewing a place that boasted designer touches such as a wash basin in the living room and an open-air lavatory with a rustic, thatched door.

Another friend rented a nice, little place in Kemang and inherited a pious landlady who would not tolerate friends staying overnight. This friend went overboard with his amorous encounters and brought home a different girl on a regular basis. Midnight was "Cinderella time," and the visitor in question had to leave no matter what.

After a series of bad nights he decided to play deaf, even though Mrs. Pious was banging on the door reminding him that it was the witching hour. The next time I heard from my friend, he was back home. He had been summoned back by the home office.

My own encounter was with a heavily pregnant landlady who defiantly wore the pants in her household. Whilst I inspected her pathetic "pavilion", which in fact was a glorified garage, her better half lurked in the background, walking their two-year-old daughter, making himself useful. Mrs. Heavily-Pregnant had studied overseas and was well versed in the intricacies of renting her "property properly". She handed me a six page Agreement weighed down with some severe Terms & Conditions.

I opted to give her pavilion a miss as she would have been aghast if I had revealed that besides my pet panther, I also kept a pet ostrich. Pets were taboo, and visitors had to be "approved". The last straw was when she said I had to give her advance notice when my only son visited.

How was I to tell her that she was in for a nightmare with a completely debauched family, and that my son visited every time he stumbled out of Tanamur or the Hard Rock Cafe.

-- Marianne Pereira