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