Salon Wanderlust | Letter from Jakarta

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

A L S O _T O D A Y

The man who would be king
By Jonathan Broder
Indonesia's new leader says he has been given divine gifts and that his name vibrates in the hearts of children. How is that likely to play with the IMF?

T A B L E_T A L K
Discuss the Indonesian crises in the International Issues area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y

Mondo Weirdo
Oh, those tropical nights!
Readers relate their nocturnal adventures in the wilds of Australia and Indonesia
(05/21/98)
"A Walk in the Woods"
By Bill Bryson
An almost-encounter with two big animals in the middle of the night
(05/20/98)
A talk with Bill Bryson
By Don George
On writing, hiking and other arduous pleasures
(05/20/98)
Student protests bloom
By Rolf Potts
Spring is here -- time to put on the riot gear!
(05/19/98)
The tomb of the unknown soldier
By Roxanne Nelson
An unforgettable encounter in southern France
(05/18/98)

Browse the
Wanderlust Postmark archives

LETTER FROM JAKARTA | PAGE 2 OF 2
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I think hard for a moment.
"I'll ride you through; you can make the turn. They know me."
The driver takes the turn slowly as I wait, pacing me as I ride next to them. The crowd parts; I'm glad I don't have to do this in an area where I'm not known.
Paul's smile of relief is priceless. "I've got three big tenderloins," he says, patting a parcel from the restaurant he manages.
We get to the house and big hugs ensue. Paul is wiped out.
"Troops were walking up and down my street all night. Downtown is -- it's gone, Jeff. It's just gone."
I hand him over to my wife and get back on the Net.
"The American Embassy is bringing in evacuation flights for all American citizens ... Meet at midnight at the International School. One carry-on bag is allowed."
I don't even consider it. I'm caught up in the moment, adrenalin substituting for common sense. I don't think about a new president here after 32 years of the same -- let's call it "creative fund-raising." I don't think about every one of my private students -- the source of the bulk of my revenue -- going to Korea or Singapore to wait the fires out. I certainly don't think about figuring out what to put in a carry-on bag. My attitude is: I've been here for seven years. I live here.
Now I'm back out on the bike, riding through the rural kampungs, looking for information and cans of Coke, which will probably be worth their weight in gold tonight. Women in the villages ask me for news, knowing our compound has a satellite dish. Three young people I know ask me to find them jobs. Riding out here, it's almost as if the drama on the roads and in the city is on another planet.
I am constantly stopping to take calls. The image of a great big white guy on a green bicycle, on a path in the jungle, stopping and speaking a foreign language into a cell phone -- if that isn't conspicuous, I don't know what is.
Most of the calls go like this:
Them: "Should I go?"
Me: "I can't answer that."
Them: "Well, are you going?"
Me: "No, but remember -- I'm not that bright."
JC, my occasional boss, calls. He had to run from two mobs and climb fences all night, finally reaching his house at dawn to see his neighbors turned into vigilantes, ready to defend their homes with 5-irons and cricket bats.
"Jeff, please get down here. The school is ruined, all the windows have been smashed. Come and get me -- help me ..."
In the car, I tell my driver to take me to Chinatown, to the heart of it. The first thing I notice are the tanks. Would the soldiers really shoot their own people? Or are they here to protect the first family's interests, their banks, their car showrooms?
Looking down the street, I can see nothing but gutted buildings, the scattered survivors bearing signs attesting Milik Pribumi -- "owned by native Indonesians." I think about my in-laws, living here for three generations, employing hundreds of Indonesians in their businesses -- will those people be happy, now that the jobs are gone? No one has thought this through. It has struck like a snake.
JC greets me with, "Don't hug me or I'll start crying." All the windows of all the businesses are smashed, every store in the neighboring mall looted. We quickly grab the valuables, stopping to laugh every few moments -- him with relief, me with the pure joy of being here, of deciding not to run. We load up and head out.
On the way to my house, my father calls on my cell phone, worried out of his mind, asking me to leave. I calm him as I watch cars burning.
At the house, I shift from the Net to CNN to Australian News Service to CNBC, cursing as CNN decides to pay tribute to Frank Sinatra. He had a lovely voice and was a heck of a swingin' cat, maybe even a hell of an American -- but could we please go back to coverage of my world that is burning down around me?
We cheer and salute Maria Ressa, CNN's local voice -- she hasn't left. We sit and eat our siege rations (beef cooked in coconut milk, sweet buns with spiced beef, Bintang beer) and make scabrous comments about the talking heads from the States, analyzing a situation they are not here to see.
May 22: We settle into a routine. Unable to work, I write and sleep and ride. My wife relishes the thought of cooking for a full household and makes her famous spaghetti sauce. Paul practices magic tricks. In the afternoon, we go to the second floor and look for smoke, trying to discern burning trash from burning buildings.
I hear that one of my students was beaten after being dragged from his car. Another source tells of rioters blocking the roads to the airport and beating up anyone who is not native Indonesian -- pribumi. These stories are hard to relate to the gentle, kind Indonesians I have come to know and love.
I am picking over saffron rice with chicken when I hear screams from our TV room. I rush upstairs -- is our office finally gone? Is the Old Man dead?
I find everyone around the television, mouths gaping open, my wife's relatives shaking their heads and jabbering in Chinese and Indonesian at the same time. I shout for news. Paul turns to me. "He quit. Suharto quit. Habibie's in." This man has colored the lives here like a painting you see every day, morning until night. Imagine how you would feel if the painting went away.
We try to grasp what this might mean for the future: unity; a lowering of the centuries-long discrimination against Indonesian-Chinese; an end to police shakedowns based on ethnicity; peace. But mostly, an end to the feeling of not being allowed to talk.
We called him Bapak, Father, and in Javanese culture the father rules the home completely, accepting no dissent. This "father" ruled this country, and no one made jokes. People got in trouble for drawing cartoons of him.
I simply can't see the new president, B.J. Habibie, being treated with the same deference. There simply isn't the same potential for fear. I look at his face and I feel -- I feel that he might be as surprised at this turn of events as I am.
I take a quick ride down to the University of Indonesia. The young protesters are laughing, some are blowing their noses, the way you do after you've cried for a long time.
I ask them what they think of their new leader.
There is some laughter.
But that's a lot better than the angry shouts of the weeks past.
At night, a friend here calls me. He's on his way to the airport. He asks me if I'm leaving. I want to say something profound, something I'll remember, something American.
But the fact is, I can't think of anything profound to say. All I know is how I feel.
After we hang up, I think of the "we few, we happy few" speech from "Henry V." If I had decided to leave, would I have "cursed myself and held my manhood cheap," as King Harry said? I don't know. I'm just glad I didn't have to find out.
SALON | May 22, 1998
Originally from Los Angeles, Jeff Pulice has been living and working in Jakarta for the past seven years.
T A B L E_.T A L K
Discuss the Indonesia crisis in Table Talk.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
R E L A T E D_.S A L O N_.S T O R I E S
Letter from Jakarta, Part Three After the political turmoil, politicians reinvent history, foreigners become attractive to local women -- and other bits of hard-earned wisdom.
By Jeff Pulice
June 11, 1998
Letter from Jakarta, Part Two Expats drink, rumors run amok and Habibie has an amazing first week.
By Jeff Pulice
May 29, 1998
Dickering with the devil The U.S. says it wants democratic reform in Indonesia. But what if a new military dictatorship takes over?
By Peter Dale Scott
May 21, 1998
A country amok An Indonesia expert says the time for peaceful change is past and that President Suharto can't survive.
By Jonathan Broder
May 15, 1998


	A L S O _T O D A Y The man who would be king By Jonathan Broder Indonesia's new leader says he has been given divine gifts and that his name vibrates in the hearts of children. How is that likely to play with the IMF? T A B L E_T A L K Discuss the Indonesian crises in the International Issues area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Mondo Weirdo Oh, those tropical nights! Readers relate their nocturnal adventures in the wilds of Australia and Indonesia (05/21/98) "A Walk in the Woods" By Bill Bryson An almost-encounter with two big animals in the middle of the night (05/20/98) A talk with Bill Bryson By Don George On writing, hiking and other arduous pleasures (05/20/98) Student protests bloom By Rolf Potts Spring is here -- time to put on the riot gear! (05/19/98) The tomb of the unknown soldier By Roxanne Nelson An unforgettable encounter in southern France (05/18/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives		LETTER FROM JAKARTA \| PAGE 2 OF 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I think hard for a moment. "I'll ride you through; you can make the turn. They know me." The driver takes the turn slowly as I wait, pacing me as I ride next to them. The crowd parts; I'm glad I don't have to do this in an area where I'm not known. Paul's smile of relief is priceless. "I've got three big tenderloins," he says, patting a parcel from the restaurant he manages. We get to the house and big hugs ensue. Paul is wiped out. "Troops were walking up and down my street all night. Downtown is -- it's gone, Jeff. It's just gone." I hand him over to my wife and get back on the Net. "The American Embassy is bringing in evacuation flights for all American citizens ... Meet at midnight at the International School. One carry-on bag is allowed." I don't even consider it. I'm caught up in the moment, adrenalin substituting for common sense. I don't think about a new president here after 32 years of the same -- let's call it "creative fund-raising." I don't think about every one of my private students -- the source of the bulk of my revenue -- going to Korea or Singapore to wait the fires out. I certainly don't think about figuring out what to put in a carry-on bag. My attitude is: I've been here for seven years. I live here. Now I'm back out on the bike, riding through the rural kampungs, looking for information and cans of Coke, which will probably be worth their weight in gold tonight. Women in the villages ask me for news, knowing our compound has a satellite dish. Three young people I know ask me to find them jobs. Riding out here, it's almost as if the drama on the roads and in the city is on another planet. I am constantly stopping to take calls. The image of a great big white guy on a green bicycle, on a path in the jungle, stopping and speaking a foreign language into a cell phone -- if that isn't conspicuous, I don't know what is. Most of the calls go like this: Them: "Should I go?" Me: "I can't answer that." Them: "Well, are you going?" Me: "No, but remember -- I'm not that bright." JC, my occasional boss, calls. He had to run from two mobs and climb fences all night, finally reaching his house at dawn to see his neighbors turned into vigilantes, ready to defend their homes with 5-irons and cricket bats. "Jeff, please get down here. The school is ruined, all the windows have been smashed. Come and get me -- help me ..." In the car, I tell my driver to take me to Chinatown, to the heart of it. The first thing I notice are the tanks. Would the soldiers really shoot their own people? Or are they here to protect the first family's interests, their banks, their car showrooms? Looking down the street, I can see nothing but gutted buildings, the scattered survivors bearing signs attesting Milik Pribumi -- "owned by native Indonesians." I think about my in-laws, living here for three generations, employing hundreds of Indonesians in their businesses -- will those people be happy, now that the jobs are gone? No one has thought this through. It has struck like a snake. JC greets me with, "Don't hug me or I'll start crying." All the windows of all the businesses are smashed, every store in the neighboring mall looted. We quickly grab the valuables, stopping to laugh every few moments -- him with relief, me with the pure joy of being here, of deciding not to run. We load up and head out. On the way to my house, my father calls on my cell phone, worried out of his mind, asking me to leave. I calm him as I watch cars burning. At the house, I shift from the Net to CNN to Australian News Service to CNBC, cursing as CNN decides to pay tribute to Frank Sinatra. He had a lovely voice and was a heck of a swingin' cat, maybe even a hell of an American -- but could we please go back to coverage of my world that is burning down around me? We cheer and salute Maria Ressa, CNN's local voice -- she hasn't left. We sit and eat our siege rations (beef cooked in coconut milk, sweet buns with spiced beef, Bintang beer) and make scabrous comments about the talking heads from the States, analyzing a situation they are not here to see. May 22: We settle into a routine. Unable to work, I write and sleep and ride. My wife relishes the thought of cooking for a full household and makes her famous spaghetti sauce. Paul practices magic tricks. In the afternoon, we go to the second floor and look for smoke, trying to discern burning trash from burning buildings. I hear that one of my students was beaten after being dragged from his car. Another source tells of rioters blocking the roads to the airport and beating up anyone who is not native Indonesian -- pribumi. These stories are hard to relate to the gentle, kind Indonesians I have come to know and love. I am picking over saffron rice with chicken when I hear screams from our TV room. I rush upstairs -- is our office finally gone? Is the Old Man dead? I find everyone around the television, mouths gaping open, my wife's relatives shaking their heads and jabbering in Chinese and Indonesian at the same time. I shout for news. Paul turns to me. "He quit. Suharto quit. Habibie's in." This man has colored the lives here like a painting you see every day, morning until night. Imagine how you would feel if the painting went away. We try to grasp what this might mean for the future: unity; a lowering of the centuries-long discrimination against Indonesian-Chinese; an end to police shakedowns based on ethnicity; peace. But mostly, an end to the feeling of not being allowed to talk. We called him Bapak, Father, and in Javanese culture the father rules the home completely, accepting no dissent. This "father" ruled this country, and no one made jokes. People got in trouble for drawing cartoons of him. I simply can't see the new president, B.J. Habibie, being treated with the same deference. There simply isn't the same potential for fear. I look at his face and I feel -- I feel that he might be as surprised at this turn of events as I am. I take a quick ride down to the University of Indonesia. The young protesters are laughing, some are blowing their noses, the way you do after you've cried for a long time. I ask them what they think of their new leader. There is some laughter. But that's a lot better than the angry shouts of the weeks past. At night, a friend here calls me. He's on his way to the airport. He asks me if I'm leaving. I want to say something profound, something I'll remember, something American. But the fact is, I can't think of anything profound to say. All I know is how I feel. After we hang up, I think of the "we few, we happy few" speech from "Henry V." If I had decided to leave, would I have "cursed myself and held my manhood cheap," as King Harry said? I don't know. I'm just glad I didn't have to find out. SALON \| May 22, 1998 Originally from Los Angeles, Jeff Pulice has been living and working in Jakarta for the past seven years. T A B L E_.T A L K Discuss the Indonesia crisis in Table Talk. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - R E L A T E D_.S A L O N_.S T O R I E S Letter from Jakarta, Part Three After the political turmoil, politicians reinvent history, foreigners become attractive to local women -- and other bits of hard-earned wisdom. By Jeff Pulice June 11, 1998 Letter from Jakarta, Part Two Expats drink, rumors run amok and Habibie has an amazing first week. By Jeff Pulice May 29, 1998 Dickering with the devil The U.S. says it wants democratic reform in Indonesia. But what if a new military dictatorship takes over? By Peter Dale Scott May 21, 1998 A country amok An Indonesia expert says the time for peaceful change is past and that President Suharto can't survive. By Jonathan Broder May 15, 1998