Stocking up in panic-buy mood, ah, what an experience
Stocking up in panic-buy mood, ah, what an experience
JAKARTA (JP): That awful sinking feeling came over me when I
read recently that people are stocking up on food in case the
distribution network seizes up during the election period.
Panic-buying is no joke. Remember that day last year when the
rupiah crashed through the 10,000 to the dollar mark? Within
minutes, Jakarta was sold out of rice, and the population turned
to devouring other commodities.
I don't like shopping -- my legs start aching after a couple
of minutes. But the problem with panic-buying is that everyone
has to do it, even shop-shunners like me. The whole thing becomes
self-justifying; the first rush of panicking consumers creates
shortages that generate the next wave, and so on. So, lemming-
like, my wife and I had to go shopping simply because everyone
else was. On this particular evening, most people in South
Jakarta chose a large store in Ciputat, so that's where we went.
Everything there was giant-sized, including the shopping
carts. Naturally on that special day, the crowds were enormous,
too, so as we arrived at the giant-sized revolving doors, there
weren't any carts -- they were all in use. Here was a real panic.
What to do?
Naturally, I was all for giving up immediately and began
edging my feet to the exit while making noises expressing
disappointment. But my wife is made of sterner stuff. Undeterred,
she propelled me to the end of the longest checkout queue I've
ever seen, equipped me with a large box of noodles (to
demonstrate to other shoppers and to store staff that I was a
genuine customer, not some half-wit who likes queuing) and told
me to wait.
Dutifully, I stood there. Minutes passed. Looking at the goods
on the shelves, I saw products I'd never before encountered. At
my shoulder was arrayed a truckload of Chocolate Sandwich
Cookies, boldly claimed to be "America's Favorite Cookie". I
wasn't tempted: the sight of such a quantity made me slightly
nauseous. Across the aisle were stacked about a million packets
of Mayasi Onion-Flavored Japanese Beans, clearly aimed at those
who have difficulty building up flatulence. These were not for me
either, though we needn't go into why. Next came a wall of Snak
Con Riso Soffiato.
What? As the labels disappeared off into the distance, the
product names appeared increasingly vapid. Further on I could see
packets of Sponge Fingers alternatively named -- with a laughable
attempt at alluring coziness -- "Boudoirs". I imagined going into
a corner shop in England and asking Mr. Patel for a large packet
of Boudoirs. Even with his knowledge of French, he'd hand me a
gross of condoms and give a knowing smile.
The line was hardly moving and my legs were aching. I felt
like a half-wit who likes queuing. After a long time, my wife
struggled through the crowd with a plastic dustbin, which she'd
filled with foodstuffs. This we positioned in front of me where
my shopping cart should have been, and off she went again. I put
my noodles in the bin. Now I had both hands free, but not the
slightest inclination to grab anything from the shelves. Was I
abnormal? I glanced around at my fellow panic-buyers for
comparison. Never has panic looked so dull. No one in sight bore
any resemblance to the bright, alert people who grace the store
handouts. Nor was the stuff they were buying appealing. One man
had bought a washing machine; that would be a nutritious source
of iron if all the food ran out. Favorite purchases seemed to be
cream crackers, 12-packs of toothpaste, baby milk and sacks of
garlic. I tried to picture an evening at home with one of these
families. With Dad busily plumbing in the new washing machine and
cursing, the rest of the family would sit eating cream crackers
and garlic, before retiring to the boudoir to gobble up Sponge
Fingers. They would then brush their teeth using copious
quantities of toothpaste and fix up a nightcap of hot baby milk.
This reverie was interrupted, mercifully before the subjects
undressed, by the return of my wife. It was like being visited in
hospital, except that I wasn't brought flowers or grapes -- this
time she was dragging a kiddies' plastic swimming pool full of
vegetables.
After several more gift-bearing visitations, I finally
approached the checkouts. The shopping carts are arranged with
the pivoted wheels at the back not the front. This necessitates
turning the thing around before entering the checkout, a maneuver
requiring an area about the size of a tennis court. It was chaos.
In a moment of smug defiance, I congratulated myself on having no
carts. Wheels -- who needs them when you've got a paddling pool
and a dustbin? One shopper had bumped her cart and a bottle of
cola had smashed. Everyone stared at the pool of dark fluid
spreading slowly across the floor; little mutterings occurred,
and people inched microscopically away from the slowly advancing
tide. I wondered which unfortunate shopper was fated to step in
it first.
Eventually we escaped clean-soled having suffered only mental
damage. But I for one shall not be stocking up this time and I
shall wear with pride and determination a lapel button reading:
"Jakarta 1999, I DON'T PANIC-BUY." I shall have a few thousand
run off. Any takers? Buy now before they run out.
-- Michael Upton