Jakarta Earlier today as we approached a stop light at the crest of a small hill we happened to be behind a bus. I may have mentioned earlier that the larger busses have attendants clinging to their open back doors, helping people in and, I suppose, although I’ve never witnessed it, facilitating the collection of fares. The first several times I spotted these guys hopping off to help small families get everyone on the bus or helping the elderly aboard, I thought it was testimony to the courteous and communal nature of the Indonesians. It turns out they’re just doing a job. As this particular bus came to a stop on the incline, the attendant sprang from his post and, with a well-practiced economy of motion, placed a rough-hewn, wooden chock behind one of the back tires. Perhaps this should have engendered some measure of comfort, but it really just reinforced the rationale of the company policy to stay off such public transportation. Not that these busses offer any sort of allure in the first place. After all, a 30-minute ride in a Silverbird – the “executive” taxi – might cost $2. Also decidedly not tempting are the various roadside food carts. Although the smells occasionally wafting from them are not at all unpleasant, the conspicuous lack of refrigeration quickly curbs any appetite. Okay, call me an unadventurous germ-phobic, but some of you may remember the genuinely yellow complexion of a certain Mr. Brummer – a former colleague who had a fondness for the food stalls in Korea. On the other hand, hepatitis-induced jaundice may be the next supermodel look, following the anorectic waif look and the despondent insomniac look. Displayed in small stacks atop these mobile eateries are the (sometimes very) raw materials of their trade – eggs both white and blue; entire, small, apparently deep-fried chickens (yes, of course, heads and all); stiff noodles; various homemade condiments; mysterious small mounds of meat (almost certainly not pork, in this 85%+ Muslim country); and a variety of entirely unfamiliar produce. I’m sure their consumers are regularly transported into a gastronomic rapture, but we must steel ourselves and forego that aspect of the Jakarta experience. Not so tangentially, Alissa informed me just yesterday of a report stating that virtually everything grown in the city’s soil is frighteningly laden with pollutants. Regular consumption of local fruits and vegetables will almost certainly lead to at least low-level toxicity. This news thwarts at least two of our number: Nani, the cook, who is stunned by the amount we pay for fruits and vegetables at the “expat” grocery stores, and Annaliese, who for six months clung to the idea that she would pass her Saturday mornings strolling, a slight sea breeze playing gently with her hair, through the exotic, open-air food bazaar. Sorry kid, the shrink-wrapped Australian tomatoes from Ranch Market will have to suffice. To help Arianna develop her soccer skills we now have on the household staff a half dozen training partners. They usually work out in the front yard and occasionally just outside the gate. They can’t really leave the premises because the trainers are actually here in their official capacity as security guards. I believe I’ve mentioned elsewhere that we have three guards assigned to us; they rotate in eight-hour shifts to give us 24-hour coverage. Three weeks ago a second set of three began showing up, so that we always had two guards at a time. We finally learned this was not indicative of a heightened security stance; the extra guys are just new-hires doing their on- the-job training at our house. As far as Arianna is concerned, though, it just increases the chance that somebody at the house will be willing to kick the ball around with her at any given moment. We’ve already grown fairly accustomed to having the guards around. They dash out to open the gate for the car (and, now, the school bus); they help us bring in groceries or whatever acquisition requires hauling; they keep a log on all the comings and goings of workmen, language teachers, and anyone else visiting the house; and, after dark, they sporadically inspect the entire perimeter of the house. This last task requires that they walk past our large, not-yet-curtained master bedroom windows and into the backyard. No particularly awkward or embarrassing moments have resulted so far, and we expect our curtains to be installed within a week. I have woken up to readjust a pillow or some such, and been subjected to a sudden flashlight beam seemingly penetrating my brain, but most nights I never notice the patrol. Also on the security front, the company mandated the installation of an alarm system, which was put in this week. It did give me cause to ponder when I noticed one of the alarm installers sporting an Osama bin Laden t- shirt. I inquired of a variety of sources what to make of this, and I was universally assured that, to paraphrase Dr. Freud, sometimes is t-shirt is just a t-shirt. That aside, we can’t figure out what to do with the alarm system. They installed an alarm trigger for our master bedroom door and motion detectors for the backyard. However, if we arm the motion detectors for the backyard, the guard can’t go back there without tripping the signal. We also now have two “panic buttons” beside the bed. The first one was installed the week we arrived – it simply sets off a siren and flashing light in the front of the house to alert the guard(s). The second one is part of the new alarm system and will alert the local, private security patrol and, in turn, the company security office. In our rather brief experience here, and upon comparing notes with those who have lived here for years, this is all rather excessive. Ultimately we believe it’s designed so that U.S.-based parents, relatives, and insurers have a sense that we’re gently nestled within an envelope of safety and security. If we ever have to use it, I’m sure we’ll be very grateful. Otherwise, I’m just careful not to accidentally call out the private militia when I’m reaching to click off my bedside reading lamp. |