Editor’s Note:
This humorous essay by Aida Greenbury was originally written in the early 2000s and first published in The Jakarta Post. While some references reflect Jakarta during that period—including shopping mall security procedures and mobile phone use—the observations about everyday life and human behaviour remain an entertaining snapshot of expatriate life in Indonesia. The article has been lightly edited for readability while preserving the author’s original voice.
I looked at my face reflected in the mirror, trying to trace any She-Devil lines in between my laugh crinkles and mumbled: “Could people actually see me as a criminal? A replica of the famous Thelma and Louise duo perhaps – with a five-year old girl as the mischievous accomplice?”
The story began one beautiful Sunday; the sun was shining brightly and the birds were chirping in the lush green trees, cheerfully decorating my old black car with their droppings. My two-year-old son wanted to go to the park and see wild animals. My five-year-old daughter thought that it was about time we went shopping.
After some persuasion, my son was finally convinced that it would be too difficult to visit Safari Park on a Sunday, as every weekend more than half of Jakarta’s population seemed to head to the famous mountain resort area of Puncak in search of some allegedly fresh air.
Being a very reasonable mother, of course I added that these very people usually ended up breathing an abundance of carbon monoxide produced by their less-than-pristine weekend cars.
“You don’t want to witness those cute cuddly bears choking on pollution—or chewing plastic wrappers thrown by careless visitors—do you?”
He got the picture.
We voted and finally agreed to spend the beautiful sunny day closeted inside a crowded shopping mall, where shop windows were richly adorned with overpriced Versace pillowcases and must-have limited edition LV bags.
My husband, who is shopping-phobic, reluctantly agreed to come after finally giving up his search for the television remote control.
After packing the children’s essential survival kit—which naturally included hand sanitiser, mace and a dog leash—inside a bright pink Barbie bag, we were ready to leave.
We reached the entrance gate at half past ten.
It felt like trying to enter a military base.
Security officers dressed in intimidating black uniforms (which hardly intimidated anybody since most of the officers were barely taller than my children) stopped our car while our driver wrestled with the parking ticket machine.
One officer asked him to open the bonnet so they could inspect the engine for explosives. I wondered who would be foolish enough to store explosives inside a blazing hot engine compartment. They then searched beneath the seats while somehow managing to peek beneath my skirt, which struck me as an equally impractical hiding place for a bomb.
Our driver dropped us at the entrance while he disappeared into the labyrinth of the parking garage.
Four entrance doors stood before us.
It always amused me how Indonesians often queued patiently behind the one door everyone else happened to be using, while three identical doors stood empty nearby. Like a trail of obedient ants, few people seemed willing to choose a different route.
I opened one of the unused doors.
Not only did it save standing in line, it also reduced my chances of being hit in the face.
One thing I had already learned was that many people walked through a door without any thought of holding it open for the person behind them. After having several doors swing back into my face over the years, I had adapted.
Apparently, most Indonesians didn’t find this particularly bothersome.
Feeling hungry, we headed for the food court.
By lunchtime the enormous hall was overflowing with families, colourful plastic chairs, conversations, laughter and every imaginable food aroma competing for attention. More than two dozen restaurants lined the walls while an oversized television blared advertisements at full volume.
We ate our deep-fried mystery meals as quickly as possible.
“Somebody get me out of this onion-infregnated, sweaty hole,” I silently pleaded.
Like almost everyone nowadays, I normally carried my mobile phone everywhere.
That day, however, I had forgotten it.
My daughter and I were admiring a pair of bright green hair clips when I suddenly realised my husband had disappeared.
After searching everywhere without success, we went to the department store information desk and asked the attendant to make an announcement over the loudspeaker.
“You have to wait,” she replied.
Apparently, she needed the telephone first.
Unfortunately, another employee was happily chatting away on it.
I politely explained that I only needed the phone for a few seconds.
She ignored me completely.
Then inspiration struck.
My husband had his mobile phone.
Surely someone nearby would lend me theirs for one quick call.
I asked.
Then another person.
Then another.
“No,” one middle-aged man replied bluntly. “I don’t want to lend you my mobile.”
He examined my daughter and me from head to toe as though we were professional con artists about to steal his entire life savings through a single phone call.
I felt like pointing an Aboriginal curse bone at him and declaring that one day he too would become separated from his family and desperately need a stranger’s help.
I can only hope that if a worried parent ever asks to borrow my phone under similar circumstances, I won’t hesitate for a second.
What had happened to this city that made people so suspicious of one another?
The security checks.
The unquestioned queues.
The swinging doors.
The unwillingness to help.
Somehow, the shopping mall felt far more primitive than any zoo.
The following weekend we visited Safari Park instead.
Standing on the gravel road in the African Village, breathing in wonderfully fresh manure-scented air while a strand of longhorn steer hair clung to my nose and a blob of llama spit decorated my shoe, I couldn’t help but smile.
“I just love civilisation!”
by Aida Greenbury
First published in The Jakarta Post.
