WATCHING THE PUDDLES JOIN …
by grant morgan
Someone once told me that Australians think linearly, in straight lines, and that Indonesians think in blobs. I had no idea what that person meant, but I thought it sounded interesting. When I went and lived in West Java for 18 months it was one of the things I tried to find out.
In the first month I was in awe of everything. Once off the plane, the heat and humidity hit me like a barrage of beggars; and it was unending. I would wake up more tired than when I went to bed. I made a promise never again to say, ‘Gee, it’s hot’.
Next, the people: 230 million of them, everywhere! And every one of them had time to sit, to chat, try to sell me something, or to give me directions, even if they didn’t know.
Then, the food: perhaps the only thing hotter than the air! Aside from sambal, chilli sauce, which Indonesians put on everything, the food is simple and delicious. I had nasi goreng coming out my ears.
And ,of course, the scenery. Travelling by train through Java was spectacular. From the doorway, my feet dangled above the dense jungle as the land fell away at each river crossing. The hills were green and lush, sectioned into watery steps where the rice grew. In the distance, the mountains called and from one came a plume of smoke.
After dropping in a few resumés around the place, I got a job at an English language school in Bandung, a large city three hours from Jakarta. Although it didn’t follow my plan to save the world, at least I could say I was a millionaire! My salary was Rp.6,000,000 per month—about AUS$1200—which was heaps over there.
I was determined to live with Indonesians. I had studied the language at high school and at uni and wanted to use it. So I moved into a kos, a rented room with board, with Indonesian uni students. The house was owned by an old lady who lived there with her daughter and grandchildren. Along with the family there were a couple of maids who did the cooking and cleaning. I was eating, speaking and breathing Indonesian! We played guitars and sang, watched the soccer on TV and chatted long into the night. It was here that I made some of my best friends.
I didn’t always love Indonesia though. The lack of personal space and the cultural differences really took some adapting to. On the days when it became all a bit too much, I would hire a video and retreat to my room. I’d watch it on my laptop with the headphones on and, for two hours, cut myself off from the world. It was bliss.
One particular day, while I was watching a film, one of the guys, without a word, came in and sat down. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that uncommon a thing to happen. I should’ve had the door closed but it was too hot. I ignored him and hoped he would go away. He couldn’t see the screen properly because of the angle so he moved closer, almost on to the bed. He watched the film in silence, unaware of the effect he was having on me. I was staring daggers at him, incredulous.
After a time he sauntered out, leaving me ready to explode and vowing to buy a fan and to keep my door shut permanently. I was fluent in the verbal language but obviously my body language was on the wrong wavelength. ‘They just don’t get it,’ I thought.
Over and over again, scenes likes this frustrated me to the point of tears. Unwittingly and effortlessly, Indonesians got into my personal space and under my skin. Then they would calmly ignore my arrogant fuming, which would make me feel even worse. ‘Maybe it’s me that doesn’t get it’, I thought. Frustration would grow and the cycle of self-resentment turn until I hated the whole country and everyone in it. Those were dark days.
How strange and wonderful then were the other days where I slipped so seamlessly into the slow-paced joy of Indonesian life that I sometimes forgot I wasn’t an Indonesian myself. In the shopping centre, I’d stare at the strange, pale-skinned, big-nosed Westerner, then realise, with some alarm, it was me in the mirror! The sellers and beggars too seemed to sense a change in me on those days and hassled me less. I would actually enjoy haggling for an ojeg, a motorcycle taxi, and merrily join in the pulsing crowd at the post office.
I noticed a change in the way I rode my motorbike. Early on I would become quite indignant when someone cut me off. ‘I’m in the right’, I would think as I blared my horn and scowled at the bemused pedestrian who had just stepped into my path.
This self-righteousness was a defining characteristic I noticed in other Westerners. I think it’s because we’re so used to being bound by the chains of law. Such restrictions don’t exist in Indonesia where rules are treated more like elastic bands.
As I adapted, I stopped getting so angry in traffic and knew I was starting to fit in. Whenever I was wronged by a fellow motorist, the key to maintaining sanity was to avoid internalising everything and to remain detached.
Some days, I would arrive at work not even realising that on the way I’d been cut off three times, swerved to miss a pedestrian and made an emergency stop to avoid hitting someone going through a red light. ‘I was in the zone this morning’, I would joke to my Kiwi mate.
Even now I don’t profess to understand the way Indonesians work. We make the most unlikely of neighbours and we drive each other crazy, I’m sure. But that’s okay because even mates can be pretty annoying sometimes. I’m just happy for the time I had in Indonesia, chatting with friends on the veranda, watching the rain connect the puddles in the street.
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