BEING
TAKEN FOR A RIDE IN INDONESIA
I recently traveled from Denpasar to Jakarta
with many stops along the way. After landing
at Ngurah Rai Airport, I proceeded to employ
every conveyance imaginable; bus, train,
taxi, becak (those little bicycle driven cabs), motorbike,
and feet. About the only methods left unexplored
were camel and hot-air balloon. Years of
living in New York had made me soft, at least
in terms of travel. Perhaps my new perceptions
of traveling in the country of my birth were
due to the fact that, for the first time,
I was traveling with a bule (White man). This particular bule is my half brother with whom I share a Javanese
mother. While I look Malay, my brother Hamid
really looks like a White man. No doubt the
experience of being identified as an American,
or at least in the company of an American,
had something to do with the reception we
encountered. Traveling with my bule brother also gave me the opportunity to
see the experience through someone else’s
eyes. Hamid grew up in America and has seen
little of this gracious land. I was very
proud to show off my beloved Indonesia to
my brother. However, the journey between
splendors, like the waters between islands,
was fraught with inconvenience and occasional
peril.
Walking is not permitted in Indonesia. Anyone
who has ever tried to take a leisurely stroll
down a street in Solo or Denpasar will testify
to this fact. We found ourselves in Kuta
(not the most gracious face of Bali) and
decided to take a walk after dinner. One
after another, taxi drivers would say “Taxi,
Boss?". Taxi and becak drivers in large cities accross Indonesia
will hunt you down like prey, following you
as you get off a bus or train. At first we
would politely replied, "Mboten pak,
matur nuwun." (No thank you, sir). After
hundreds of requests that gets shortened
to "No!" If we ignored them they
would say, "Dubleg bekne!" (Are
you deaf?) or "Lagi mlaku karo Landa
bae wis gayane seje" (Just because you're
walking with a White man, you are acting
arrogantly).
In major cities and in tourist areas, Americans
are reduced to walking dollar bills in the
eyes of the envious locals. Hamid wasn’t
seen as a person, he was more or less an
ATM machine and they wanted to make a withdrawal
no matter what it takes. Once it was clear
to the taxi drivers that we were not interested
in a ride, the sales pitch would change,
“Woman?” “You want a woman?” After about
an hour of this my brother turned to a driver
and replied, “No, leave me alone. I shan’t
be riding anything and anyone today.” I felt
embarrassed. I had spent years bragging to
Hamid about how wonderful Indonesia is, and
this was the first impression my countrymen
served up.
It isn’t simply the level of harassment that
bothered me. What does this say about our
respect for ourselves and for our sisters?
Talk about reducing people to dollars, this
is a prime example. ‘Boss, would you like
a cup of coffee or perhaps you’d prefer to
abuse and dehumanize a precious human being?
Just let me know. For a price, I’m here to
serve’.
Taxi driver/pimp is an odd combination of
professions. I'm not sure what connects these
two jobs. Surgeon/plumber would seem more
logical, at least on the surface of it. I
have never encountered the combination of
taxi driver and pimp in any other developing
nation. Perhaps I've been sheltered, or many
it was just that I had never traveled with
a bule before. Perhaps the taxi drivers don't
pimp for people of color. Last year I visited
Morocco and not a single taxi driver offered
me his sister. The taxis are very crowded
in Morocco. The driver often stacks people
on top of each other. At times a sister or
brother was sitting on top of me, but they
never got paid for it.
Perhaps the taxi drivers in Indonesia are
merely concerned for our well being. After
all, walking in Indonesia can be quite death
defying. The traffic has reached a new level
of insanity. Also, the sidewalks in Kuta
are intermittent at best. I have nearly broken
my neck on them many times and I found myself
playing mother to Hamid in order to prevent
a broken ankle. There are holes in the sidewalks
large enough to conceal all of the missing
rivals of Suharto.
On our trip across Jawa, we found ourselves
on a bus to Surabaya (we hit all the most
glamorous and exotic locations). "Boyo, Boyo, Boyo!" cried out the kondektur (ticket-taker) on the bus to Surabaya, as
he dangled dangerously from the rear door.
Despite the fact that the bus was already
full, the kondektur kept calling out "Boyo, Boyo, Boyo!" in an effort to drum up more business. Unlike
America and Europe, they’re not paid by the
hour. As they are renting these busses and
have to pay a setoran (fixed amount) each day to the bus owner,
they keep cramming the people in. After the
horizontal space is full, they begin to arrange
people vertically. Hamid accidentally steps
on six people as he tries to get closer to
me on the bus. He only speaks three words
of Indonesian, Selamat Pagi (which he uses morning, noon and evening), Terima kasih and Maaf which seemed like the obvious choice for
this moment. “Maaf, maaf,” he says as he untangles himself from an
embarrassed sister.
Armed with this extensive vocabulary we wound
our way across the verdant climes of Jawa.
Proudly on the front window of the bus, in
large Times New Roman letters, is displayed
A C. To an American this means cool, clean
air. To an Indonesian, AC means 'Angin Cendela" (literally, 'wind window'). This means
that the windows can be opened thus enabling
the hot breezes to enter the bus. Hamid made
the mistake of actually opening a window.
This caused quite a controversy among the
passengers. The problem is that Indonesians
are afraid of the wind. Indonesians believe
in "masuk angin" (wind sickness). Our fear of the wind
is second only in strangeness to our fear
of walking. The lovely scent of diesel fuel
drifted up from the floor of the bus. Half
a dozen of my Indonesian brothers were chain
smoking without the slightest concern for
the health consequences, but the same brothers
raced in terror to close the window so that
none of that evil fresh air would come and
take away our precious carcinogens. Twelve
hours later we arrive at Surabaya. I’m a
smoker, and quite accustomed to the rigors
of economy travel in Indonesia, so the trip
didn’t phase me. By contrast, my brother
Hamid emerges from the bus looking like the
morning after Christmas: green from hours
of toxic air and red from the heat.
In the cold climates of the northern continental
United States, where winter temperatures
can descend to well below 0 degrees Celsius,
Americans will often open the bedroom window
before going to bed. They believe that the
fresh air, even when subzero, is beneficial.
When I lived with my brother in New York,
his constant refrain was, “The fresh air
will do you good”.
Nothing could be truer of Indonesia. Indonesians
do business as if they are trying desperately
to live up to the title of “Third World”.
We grasp for today’s Rp 10,000 at the expense
of tomorrow's Rp 20,000. For example, I
lived within the complex of Kraton Solo (a
place that could do with a lot of fresh air).
The moment that all of my neighbors in and
near the Kraton found out that I had been
living in the United States, they decided
that I must be rich and ripe for the picking.
I am neither, but I find myself constantly
fending off the scams and ploys of my envious
countrymen. Everyone wants my alleged money
even when Hamid is not around, but with his
visit came a fresh round of envy. Many merchants
up their prices when they saw us coming.
Once my unsuspecting bule brother paid Rp 20,000 (about $ 2) for the
use of the bathroom. It isn’t simply that
he was unaware of the proper price five cents
(Rp 500). It is the mindset of otherwise
honest Indonesians that they owe it to themselves
to liberate this filthy rich tourist from
his money. In other words, cheating is fine.
The consequence of this, other than ethical,
moral and spiritual (those I reserve for
a different essay), is that people are less
likely to want to do business with us.
In addition, I am talking about a profound
lack of respect for ourselves and for each
other. Make no mistake about it, we are doing
ourselves a grave disservice. When I go to
a restaurant other than the little warungs, I am often treated as a threat. Once in
Kuta, Bali I was actually told to leave the
Sari Club because they didn’t want me, “to
bother the tourists”. I effected my hautiest
gaze and said, “I won’t bother them if they
don’t bother me”. They were disinterested
in my assurances that I had sufficient funds
to pay for my drinks and food. Security kept
following me. Eventually, they literally
asked me to open my wallet and show them
my money. I left. Can you imagine a restaurant
in New York refusing to sell food to a New
Yorker? Yet this is not uncommon in the “better”
restaurants and clubs in many parts of Indonesia.
What does this say about our self-image?
Until we learn to respect ourselves, we will
always be a former colony instead of the
proud nation I believe we are meant to be.
I fine example of our lack of self respect
can be seen in the phase, “Export Quality”.
This designation appears from time to time
on merchandize in Indonesia. These products
cost much more but we keep purchasing them
in the unspoken belief that by doing so we
will become equal with bules. “Export Quality” is a recognition that
we usually keep the inferior merchandise
for ourselves so that we can sell the good
stuff to those bules whose money we so worship. To make it worse,
today's adds often use White models ... and
English. Stores even show bule mannequins. Hamid and I found that particularly
strange. Indelicately put, we screw ourselves
and we screw our unsuspecting bule brothers and sisters whenever possible.
And, like the taxi drivers in Kuta, we’re
getting paid for it, just not very well.
Some might argue that it is worth it if it
makes money. But I believe that this mindset
is keeping us poor.
If Indonesians are ever to take their potential
place in the world economy, they must learn
the nature of business and how one operates
in a service based economy. It probably seems
mean spirited of me to pick on the bathroom
attendants and taxi drivers. After all, it
is the towers of Jakarta, Surabaya and Batam
that are going to define our place in the
world economy, not the becak drivers. But it is important to remember
that the policies in Jakarta and other power
centers create and influence the wealth and
poverty of bathroom attendants. It is also
important to remember that the experiences
foreigners have on the street level can dramatically
influence their willingness to invest and
participate in our economic expansion. Contrary
to the intended purpose, our lack of ethics
and honesty are holding us back.
Americans are fond of saying 'a deal is a
deal'. In other words, once we have made
an agreement, the terms and particulars of
that agreement must not change. More often
then not, one can count on this in America,
and there is something very comforting about
it. This tendency to live-up to one's business
agreements is one of many reasons why business
is so successful in America. Stability breads
confidence. Certainly, Americans can lie
and cheat with the best of them. From the
first shot fired at the Native population,
to the broken promise of ‘40 archers and
a mule’ offered to the freed slaves, America
has made a high art out of breaking promises.
However, when it comes to good repeat customers,
Americans have learned that one's word must
be good in order to succeed in business.
The United States is in the process of redesigning
its money. I was, at first, very disappointed
by the unimaginative look of the new currency.
The same figures grace the same bills with
the same colors and many of the same design
elements. “What a missed opportunity,” I
said to a New York friend of mine. He replied,
"American money means business! What
you want is the look of stability, not flights
of fancy.” He’s got a point. Like a billboard
at the foot Wall Street, the dollar-green
Statue of Liberty lifts a 24 carrot gold
torch as if to announce to the world, ‘This
is where a deal is a deal.’ I know it sounds
unspeakably crass, but to many people in
Indonesia, and the world over, money has
come to symbolize liberty. And liberty (economic
or otherwise) requires an ethical grounding.
We must respect each other and ourselves
if we are to succeed.
While we’re on the subject of symbols, it
is interesting to note that America and Indonesia
share a same national symbol, the eagle.
The American Bold Eagle looks serenely confident
and reliable. It often stands in a non-threatening
profile with its talons resting firming on
a solid surface over the Latin phrase, "E
Pluribus Unum" (which means virtually
the same as our "Bhinneka Tunggal Ika").
By contrast, the Garuda stares with bulging
eyes and talons ready to grab you. While
it is true that America and Indonesia share
the same national symbol, the Indonesian
version looks just a little too hungry to
be trusted.
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