The joys of moving, or ode to Pak Toha

The joys of moving, or ode to Pak Toha

JAKARTA (JP): "Ibu....," I implored quietly (even if you're
seething with indignation, you don't shriek at the one from whom
you've contracted a modest roof to put your head unde) "the pump
isn't working again."

The pump in question is the contraption responsible for your
daily dose of one molecule of hydrogen and two of oxygen. You
see, I'd recently moved to a part of our fair capital that has
been kind of ignored by the water company known as Perusahaan Air
Minum, or PAM for short. Of course this doesn't matter in the
least. Every Tom, Dick and Harry in this town -- regardless of
whether they live in a PAM-rich or PAM-less suburb -- has a
sanyo. Now, what on earth is a sanyo?

Well, you've no doubt heard about radios, fridges, TVs,
washing machines and other electric what-nots made by Sanyo, one
of those mammoth companies from the Land of the Rising Sun
specializing in such gadgets. That brand-name has become
something of a generic term here. Go ask your servant, a passing
truck driver, a government minister, a gem-laden ibu or whoever
what a sanyo is and I'll bet my bottom rupiah the answer will be
"pompa air" or water pump to you. Actually, I'm wrong. The
answer will be "jet pumm", which, I suppose, stands for jet pump
-- Indonesians are terribly lax when pronouncing a lot of final
consonants, especially when they're preceded by a lot of other
ones.

I'm still waiting for a fellow countryperson to say "project"
instead of "projeck."

Where was I? Oh, yes, moving house. It's been a few years
since I had a little nest of me own to hang me hat. Won't bother
you with the thousand and one hassles involved in a venture like
that, but I would like to point to what I regard as a bright and
thick line surrounding the gray cloud. You see, I needed
a few pieces of furniture, like a kitchen table, a book shelf, a
work table without drawers (I don't much like drawers -- they
only serve to be stuffed with things you forget about).

So off I went to furniture shops to have a look at what was
available at prices I could afford, and in the process reeled
from one seizure into another. What?! A slab of timber nailed
onto four legs for Rp 300,000! Go suck a lemon!

Salvation came through the good offices of a neighbor who'd
been through the same routine, i.e. refusing to enrich furniture
shops. I recruited his carpenter, and one morning found this
short, skinny, wizened, old man on my front doorstep.

"This," I thought with a sizable dollop of apprehension, "is a
furniture maker?" Shows you never to be premature in your
judgments.

Pak Toha (that's his name) is a marvel. In a matter of three
days, working at home, he'd put together three solid pieces
comprising two occasional tables, one kitchen table, one
bookshelf and one large work table. He wasn't the one who did all
the work. Four sons have followed in daddy's footsteps and they
were the ones who sawed, planed, sanded, nailed and polished
everything that needed to be put together, with Pak Toha
supervising.

He didn't say much during the proceedings but small and thin
as he was, especially next to his four strapping sons, he did
exude an air of authority.

The job done, I added a hefty extra on to what he'd charged.
You may think that I spoiled him and maybe I did. But Pak Toha &
Sons didn't just make furniture. They added electrical points,
they repaired the confounded jet pump (or sanyo), they gave some
pieces of old furniture a lick of paint, they repaired
the roof, they replaced locks, and all those extras were carried
out practically for free.

Pak Toha only charged for things he had bought to replace
anything faulty in the house. If that ain't a silver lining
around the annoyingly gray business of moving and settling in, I
don't know what is. We parted firm friends, with Pak Toha urging
me not to hesitate calling on him if I needed something done
around the house. Bless you and your sons, Pak Toha.

-- Jak Jaunt