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