Looking for a nice, bright house?
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