by David Nesbit
So, I accepted the job with my old friend and started work in Jakarta in March of 2003. I ended up being sort of railroaded into taking the management position but actually soon found myself enjoying it and the job was not difficult at all. I felt I had landed on my feet despite being under-qualified for my new position as the Director of Studies at an English Language School.
Although I had sufficient experience in teaching, I still didn’t have any formal teaching qualifications at this point and I knew that I would be coming into contact with those that did, so I would definitely be needing to up my game. This in itself didn’t really worry me and I was looking forward to the challenge. I had managed to save and salt away some money whilst working in England, and I was now in a position to start studying again and finally get some qualifications. I knew I couldn’t keep ‘winging it’ so I enrolled online and got cracking on a degree in education.
At the same time, I started to get used to my new surroundings. Although I had visited Jakarta a number of times when I lived in Surabaya, I’d never stayed long and wasn’t particularly a fan of the city known locally as ‘The Big Durian’. I’d always considered it to be too noisy, crowded, polluted and, to be honest, too much. Previously, I’d always maintained I could never see myself living in Jakarta, yet, with necessity being the mother of invention, or something, here I now was having to get to grips with the place.
To be fair, I found my prejudices and fears regarding the city to be both outdated and unwarranted, and I quickly discovered that Jakarta had a charm all of it’s own. Although bigger, busier and noisier than anywhere I’d ever encountered before, it was never boring and it really did offer up opportunities for all tastes. For example, I found a much larger expatriate society than in Surabaya and I was able to start playing proper organised football again. After such a long time of ‘going native’ I now found myself making expatriate friends and as a result experiencing more of what the city had to offer.
I visited museums and art galleries for the first time in my life, and also enjoyed the experience of becoming a semi-regular visitor to the theatre too. I was introduced to a new cosmopolitan way of life and in no time at all, it seemed, I became acclimatised to my new surroundings.
I fell into a new routine whereby I would wake up early and go for a run before breakfast. Then I would settle down for a couple of hours studying before heading to the office to start work at around 11. As lessons at the school didn’t normally commence until mid-afternoon, I would then have a while in order to deal with administrative issues and plan my own lessons. Reasonably late finishes of around 8 or 9pm would usually prevent too much socializing during the week, but weekends would be spent following leisure activities, both old and new, and making new friends.
Jakarta’s malls are legendary and the metropolis is probably second only to Singapore in Southeast Asia in that respect. Never really having been one for spending days on end traipsing around such places, they held little personal interest for me but even I had to admit they were a haven for when I wanted to visit good eateries, bookshops or cinemas.
The traffic jams were, and are, legendary of course, but steps are constantly being taken by the city’s municipal government to try and alleviate this. My arrival in Jakarta more or less coincided with the inauguration of the city’s bus-route programme. This is a system of bus routes around the city designed to reduce private vehicle use. One lane of the main thoroughfares in Jakarta is totally cut off to general traffic and only buses can plough these routes. The bus lanes are raised to prevent normal traffic entering them. The upshot of this innovative programme is that the pedestrian travelling around Jakarta now finds it much easier to get around.
Another less successful innovation by the city’s governor was the introduction of a 3-in-1 traffic system. This was a system in which certain designated areas of the city were no-go-zones at certain times of the day to private vehicles with less than three occupants. The idea was to try and encourage car-pooling, and so policemen were stationed along these routes checking that each private car did indeed contain the minimum number of people. However, this ‘solution’ proved to be unworkable and thus short-lived due to the almost immediate appearance of ‘street jockeys’ – a name given to the number of intrepid people who quickly figured that standing along the routes leading into the 3-in-1 areas offering themselves up as extra ‘passengers’ was as good a way as any of earning a few rupiah.
Although I was a bit disappointed that my return to England hadn’t quite turned out the way I hoped, and also that Jolie had knocked me back, I still felt I had been lucky and come up trumps with this deal and the way things had worked out in general. The school was, of course, sponsoring me with regards to my work permit and visa, and also agreed to sponsor Tess, who under Indonesian law was automatically deemed British and so needed relevant immigration documents, never mind the fact she had an Indonesian mother, and was born and had spent her entire life here. The school also provided me with a partially furnished house and transport to and from the school, so things were finally beginning to look up.
Initially, Yossy was staying in Surabaya while Tess finished kindergarten and the plan was for them to join me at the end of the school year.
And yet, Yossy continued to insist she had not been unfaithful. I knew that it was lies, of course, and my moment of wavering and actually beginning to believe her had passed, but I did now think she had a point when she said that all of this could be a blessing in disguise and we could at least try and start again away from everyone and everything else back in Surabaya.
As the pregnancy progressed, I preferred not to think about it too much and I just concentrated on establishing myself in my job and preparing for their imminent arrival.
As I said, I was living in a school house not far from my job and relished the experience of living completely alone for the first time in my life. I lived a simple but enjoyable life then, and it was great to just kick back and relax after all the stresses and strains of the last few years. I managed the art of rudimentary cooking and so knocked myself up something simple like egg, sausage and chip sandwiches most evenings. I hardly ever went out anywhere, and I just stayed home enjoying my culinary delights in front of a 20p knock-off DVD most evenings.
I was beginning to get my mojo back and, as much as I had enjoyed my time in England, was actually quite happy to be back in Indonesia.
The one frustration I was consistently feeling then, though, and it really was quite a big niggle at times, believe me, was my almost constant inability to be able to contact Yoss. She had at least three mobile phones which were seemingly permanently switched off, the house phone at our place just rang and rang, which indicated it’d been unplugged, and whenever I called one of the schools in Sidoarjo looking for her, her staff informed me she was not there and they had no idea where she was.
Frustrating, as I say.
She arrived at my house out of the blue. It threw me off kilter a bit, to be honest, this just turning up. I wasn’t expecting her and I thought she would at least give me a bit of notice.
However, that’s not what flummoxed me the most. Nope, somewhat more perplexing was the fact that she was quite obviously around six or seven months gone and in addition to Tess and the servant, she had someone else in tow. A male someone at that and, so she informed me, he would be staying with us.
With that she went to what she described as ‘her’ bedroom to unpack, followed by Tess, the servant and this guy. I was left alone in the living room and, with nothing better to do, I went off to what was obviously now ‘my’ room and went to sleep.
It seemed that this chap was one of her workers from the schools in Sidoarjo. His name was Ritchie and he had, in Yossy’s words, ‘helped’ her a lot.
It was a bit of a brow-frowner as to what exactly Ritchie intended doing now he was in Jakarta or, indeed, why Yoss would think we should be putting him up, presumably free of charge.
The cause of even more scalp-scrat
ching was why exactly the four of them set up in ‘her’ room while I continued to sleep alone.
Very perplexing.
So, anyway, the next few months progressed and events unfurled. The child, a boy, was born in September that year and a DNA test to determine the little lad’s paternity wasn’t exactly a nailed on requirement as anyone giving the fella and Ritchie the most cursory of glances could be in no doubt whatsoever.
Yossy, upon realising the ‘miracle conception’ story was out of legs, came up with another, equally fantastic, explanation for little William’s coming into being. This tale involved black magic, white magic and the necessity to be with child in order to ward off evil spirits attempting to attack her.
As I was otherwise detained in England, she related, she needed to find somebody to impregnate her, and so Ritchie was her man of choice. Now, evidently she didn’t think he would be up (in a manner of speaking) for this, and so she gave him a ‘magic potion’ which made him act in the, er, required manner.
Anyway, conception was achieved (although whether this was at the first try or not is sadly unrecorded) and William was the result of it all.
And yet … it still wasn’t the end. So, why? Why and how could someone, anyone, put up with such behaviour, such blatant disrespect and downright absurdity? I wish I could answer that. I wish I knew.
Oh yes, I tried to leave her on a number of occasions or else tried to persuade her to go, but it never worked. Either she bluntly refused to go, or else I had a change of heart and decided that I did love her still and I did want things to be ok again.
My problem was I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t let go of either my love for her or of the memory of the times we shared together. I suppose I also couldn’t let go from hoping that somehow, someday we would have that back again.
I guess this is what having Alzheimer’s disease must be like. I mean, I spent most of my time in a fog-like trance with short spells of clarity and lucidity when I was able to see things as they really were and as other people surely did. In short, I could see her lies for what they were and the fool that I was.
They never lasted long though, these spells. All too soon I was once again lost in a fog of confusion and self-delusion where I convinced myself that everything was fine and she was telling me the truth and that we had a marriage in more than just name alone.
I would go from day to day coping with other aspects of my life – my work, fitness, etc. – and nobody except those closest to me ever suspected anything out of the ordinary. Most people never began to imagine my situation.
Yet even the very small number of people who did know what was going on, those who were the closest to me in Jakarta and to whom I told some, if not everything, of what’d been going on, were unable to assist or advise me in any meaningful way. Nobody could get through to me. Nobody could truly understand what was happening or, more pertinently, why I was allowing these things to happen.
The only explanation I can give to this day is that I felt like this was it. This was my life; the cards I had been dealt with were these and nothing was ever going to change.
Coffee Plus Café, Plaza Indonesia, Jakarta, 2006
Back in the café, on my first date, I was approaching the end of my tale of woe.
I told her how Ritchie was no longer here on a permanent basis. He had a job the other side of Jakarta and rented a room, or kost, closer to his office, only returning sporadically. Yossy still slept in the other room together with the maid and the two children, while I continued to sleep alone in ‘my room’. This arrangement suited us both for now, and I no longer asked her to spend any time with me in that way.
I hadn’t been living the life of a monk, though, and I believed the only way I might ever be in a position to alter my life was by meeting someone through these illicit trysts who I could care for. It didn’t exactly fill me with pride, being unfaithful in this way, but I rationalised it on the basis of ‘needs must’. After all, Yoss and I had not had any sort of physical relationship pretty much since Tess was born.
I had had a few relationships with other girls over the previous few months, and some had meant more than others to me. Some had been brief liaisons, unsavoury and unsatisfactory, but one had left an indelible mark on me, as I explained now in the café.
A short-lived affair with one particular young lady knocked me sideways, as what started as just another roll in the hay got a bit out of hand when I developed feelings for her. It all ended up a bit messy and bounced me off-kilter, to tell the truth.
But back to Yossy: I wished she would just go. I wished she would be strong and make a decision to leave me and to be with Ritchie or to live her life alone, or whatever, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t go even if I tried to kick her out. She said she had no money to go anywhere else and if I insisted on her leaving she would take Tess and go and live in a village somewhere and my daughter would suffer as a result.
She knew I couldn’t accept that and so on it went.
2
Sari’s Story
She called me a bule-mania. I am not a bule-mania, am I? I don’t think I am. I just like bules, that’s all. I think she was cruel to say that. It is the same as calling me a bad girl, and I am not a bad girl, I think.
Do you know what a bule-mania is? Do you know what a bule is? I will tell you. Bule is the name people here in Indonesia give to white men or ladies, expatriates. We call them bule because this word is similar to albino and we think their white skin makes them look like albinos. Some of them don’t like to be called bule and they say it is not a nice word. They say it is the same as calling a black man a nasty name, but I don’t think it is. We don’t mean it as a bad name. It is just a word we use. Do you think it’s a bad name? Am I bad if I call a white man a bule? I don’t think I am.
Anyway, a bule-mania is the name for an Indonesian girl who likes bules very much. Usually a bule-mania will always want a bule boyfriend or to be near bules and sometimes people think she is a bad girl. I am not a bad girl, I think.
There are many reasons why someone might like a bule. Some people, but not me, think they are very handsome; some think they have a sophistication or ‘coolness’ about them; others think they must have a lot of money if they come from somewhere like America or Europe; while others think if they marry a bule their kids will be adorably cute!
Me? I like them because I think they are different, special, and mysterious. I think they are well mannered and well educated and know how to treat people nicely. That’s all.
Maybe I should tell you about myself. My name is Sari. Actually, Sari is my nickname. My real name is Ratnasari Dwi Pramiati, but everybody calls me Sari or just Ri. I prefer to be called Sari. In my country everybody has a nickname and everybody’s name means something. My name means the girl full of love and wisdom. I don’t think I am wise, but I know now I can be full of love in the right condition.
Actually, she said I fall in love too easily.
She was my best friend in the office and her name was Selvey. She was older than me and married with a baby boy. His name is Eric and he is very funny. She had a picture of him on her desk. Selvey was very nice to me but she didn’t like it if I always talked about bules. I don’t know why, but I don’t think Selvey liked bules very much and she didn’t agree that they are handsome at all. Selvey sometimes used to call me a ‘mummy’s girl’ because I didn’t have a boyfriend for so long, but I know she always cared for me and she just wanted me to be happy.
Selvey said that I liked bules too much because I was always talking about them or else reading about them in magazines and books. I said that I was just interested in different people from different cultures but not crazy about them. I think she believed me sometimes and was just kidding with me, but other times I think she was serious.
Sometimes it was hard to understand Selvey, because often she was quiet and fierce looking. She didn’t talk much to me sometimes, and that made me feel like I had done something wrong and so I fel
t sad or worried, but then she would change suddenly and be very friendly again and spend ages just chatting away to me. Selvey never wanted to talk to me in English, though. She said we are Indonesian and so we should speak to each other in Indonesian. I know she can speak English very well, better than me for sure, because I often heard her talking with our clients on the phone, but she always refused to talk to me in English. I don’t know why.
I guess sometimes older people can be hard to understand, right? Not that Selvey is that old, really. I think she is maybe 35 or something like that.
We worked together for more than three years after I joined the company straight from university, and in that time you’d think I would understand more about her, wouldn’t you? Well, as my story unfolds you’ll learn that she is full of surprises.
Well, my story really begins a while back. I worked in an office in Jakarta for a finance company. It was easy work but sometimes a bit boring. I had lots of free time and so usually spent it reading on the internet or talking with my friends. I had many friends in the office, but most of them were a bit older than me and they were married or had serious boyfriends. At that time I didn’t have a boyfriend yet, but I used to think I would like one soon.
Whenever I was not busy in my office, I had plenty of time to browse the internet. I liked to read the news and see what was happening here in Jakarta and Indonesia, and also in other places in the world. I always tried to read everything in English because I have always wanted to learn more. I think if a person just reads things in their own language then they don’t learn so much.
Whenever there was nothing very interesting to read on the internet, I would have a look on some of the expat chat sites. There were two sites I particularly liked to look at. They were called Jakchat and Expat. They were websites set up for expatriates, bules, living here. They gave much advice to the bules about how to live here, find a job, make friends, etc., and they also had forums where people could write with questions and sometimes opinions about life here.