There were two positions available in Sumatra when I applied for my job; one in Medan and one in Jambi. I asked for the latter but was pipped to the post and had to settle for Medan. Jambi had sounded far more exotic, being a small city surrounded by jungle, as opposed to a huge, polluted and populous metropolis. So despite being exiled from a city that I was becoming quite attached to, I was quite excited about coming here.
Indonesia’s never had much luck. Plundered by the Portuguese and colonised by the Dutch, shaken by the cataclysmic eruption of Krakatoa in 1883 which had massive global repurcussions, let alone the devastating effects unleashed by it upon the country. Invaded by the Japanese, two twenty year military dictatorships, violent upheavals, regular natural disasters including the 2005 tsunami; crippled by the ’97 economic crisis and unfairly portrayed by the western media as a boiling hotpot of Islamic fundamentalism that has had a terrible effect on its tourist trade. All of which would explain, I pondered as I wandered around Jambi after arriving, they haven’t had a lot of time or money to think too much about prettifying their towns and cities.
Jambi is at the heart of a thriving illegal logging trade, a fact all too apparent as you fly over it . If you naively imagine that purloining a few trees under the noses of the local constabulary might result in the thinning out of otherwise abundant lush greenery in the middle of Who-Cares-Can’t See-It-Anyway then you’d be sadly shocked. As far as I could see, in every direction as the plane came in to land was the absence of jungle, gashed by ugly, uniformly straight scars made by the loggers; row upon row of gigantic, bald squares. It’s a depressing and disappointing introduction to the place, a feeling not easily alleviated once here.
If David Beckham was to walk down The Parade in Leamington Spa wearing nothing but a thong, singing “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” and smoking a big fat reefer he would not receive as much attention as I do here in Jambi. The city is roughly the size of Coventry but with less attractions; tourists do not come here in their droves, they do not come in anything, they just don’t come. So having a genuine, white-skinned bule in town is a source of massive interest to a population that is otherwise bereft of entertainment.
“Hello mister” is a phrase so ingrained in the collective consciousness of Indonesia that it is as automatic as blinking; on sight of a Westerner it passes their lips before they have time to think about it. In Medan I would receive perhaps as many as a dozen HM’s a day; here in Jambi it is that number just crossing the road. When I pass by on a motorbike the result is a little like when you’re looking up at the night sky and you see a shooting star that you want to draw everyone’s attention to, but it’s disappeared so quickly that all you get a chance to say is “shztar!” Except all I hear here is “...ster!” as I go zipping past.
I wouldn’t wish to give you the impression that Indonesians lack variety in their hails; you may also hear such greetings as “Hey mister!”, “Mister!” “How are you mister!” and “Where are you going mister?!” (even if you are female) all called with the same mixture of awe, astonishment and mirth. “Where are you going?” can sound quite nosy and intrusive until you learn that this is a common greeting, similar to an American “What’s up?” (Another greeting which I always had trouble answering when I was living there; a surprised “nothing,” was always my first response,). The expected reply to “Where are you going” is to say “walking” or “just going for a walk” translated to “jalan-jalan”, which means that I wander the streets continuously repeating “hello” and “jalan-jalan”. They never get bored of it; it is a never ending source of amusement to them.
The members of the community who call out these greetings, or automated responses, (I can’t help thinking that Pavlov did some experiments in Indonesia) are the extroverts; I also provoke other reactions that range from fear to hysterics and I have had more double-takes than Beckham’s nude, singing, smoking antics ever would. I have frequently been used to shut crying babies up; the parent will catch sight of me and then point their screaming child in my direction, the shock rendering the poor infant senseless every time. People in queues will alert their fellow shoppers to my presence with frantic whispering, before collapsing into embarrassed giggles. Accidents galore are narrowly missed as the population gawp unrestrainedly in my direction; one girl caught a glimpse of me behind her while descending some stairs and was only prevented from falling down them when she did a frightened double-take, by me catching her arm.
Considering that these islands were colonised by the Portuguese and Dutch for several hundred years you would imagine that the populous would have grown used to the sight of a white face by now, but apparently not. An upside to this fascination of theirs is that the women find western men incredibly exotic and attractive. So it’s not all bad, eh?
It would be fair to say that drinking beer in a good bar is a religious experience for me. I certainly attended The Cask & Bottle for Sunday lunch with more love, devotion and regularity than most Christians attend church. Miracles happen in that establishment more frequently than in any orthodox faith; like every Christmas Day when Wranga, the landlord, buys everyone a drink. So it is faith that I must cling to if I am to believe that I will find such a haunt here in Jambi.
It wouldn’t be so bad if there was anything else to do. I don’t say this with the flippancy of a bored teenager; I am a champion time-waster. But there really is nothing here; it is a city plonked completely in the middle of nowhere without the charm, scenery and activities that you may get in other places happily set in the middle of nowhere. Jambi is situated in the epicentre of a steadily receding flat jungle; it is being illegally logged at an alarming rate, leaving behind nothing but angry stubble and listless English teachers. When I ask my colleagues what they did at the weekend they seem mildly surprised at such an odd question and their faces take on a distant and pained look as they try to remember. Answers usually range from “watched a movie” to “slept” with little in between.
The first writing assignment that I set for my more intelligible students was “A Guide to Jambi”; it became depressing reading, if not just for the interesting grammar. At first I was excited by many references to Kerinci which I had heard mentions of before. Kerinci is an active volcano set in a beautiful national park, abundant in flora and fauna; tigers, rhinos, elephants and tapirs frolic gaily within the verdant landscape. Unfortunately it’s over twelve hours away from here, putting it slightly out of reach for a weekend jaunt. There are the remains of an ancient Buddhist temple half an hour away. And that’s it. The 150 word assignments stuttered to a halt after these two focal points and ended up talking about the ‘unique’ food of Jambi which, without wanting to sound too cynical, like everywhere else in Indonesia it’s rice. Or noodles.
In Medan, my life had slipped into a comfortable and satisfying pattern. I would go off on a trip somewhere nice for two or three weekends out of four, and spend the other weekends with Novi and/or at the fantastic bar that I had discovered, where I could watch more West Ham games than I ever could on Sky back home; although that wasn’t always such a good thing. With no beautiful places to visit nearby, I would have to begin my religious studies again, but with more fervour, commitment and regularity. Unfortunately, I hadn’t found a suitable place of worship; there is the Novotel Hotel which sells beer at prices more expensive than England or a billiard hall that is equally expensive and much less inviting. I tried the local brothel, but it too, is rather pricey and not the type of place one goes for a quiet read.
So I was very pleased when an ex-teacher dropped in to say hello. He had worked at the school a couple of years previously and had many drinking tales to tell; he might have finished some of them had I not thrust paper and pen at him and demanded to know where such watering holes could be found. I stood impatiently over him while he nervously wrote them down and then I ejected him from the building before he could tell me any more stories about how much fun it used to be here. I’ll bet he was at the first Glastonbury too.
Anyway, cackling devilishly all the way to the teacher’s room where I had left Citra (one of the two Indonesian teachers) slavishly organising all of the recently laminated tests that I had foisted upon her, I slapped my treasure map of hidden bars under her nose and mocked her Christian abstinence.
“Look!” I cried, pointing at one of the three scribbled holy places, “look, I can renew my special relationship with Johnny Barleycorn, get pickled, palintoshed, paralytic, right and regally ratarsed AHAHAHAHAHAH! Curse you and your false idols! Tonight I shall get lathered and leathered...” and so on. She stood up and rubbed her wrists from where I had chained her to her task, and took the piece of paper from me while I danced a merry jig.
“This one is a very expensive hotel,” she said, bringing my cartwheels to an abrupt end. “And this one I think is closed and this...” she paused for dramatic effect “... is now a church”.
“Lies, you mendacious witch!” I cried, snatching back my last scrap of sanity.
“No, I pray there sometimes.”
She told the truth, it was a church. And the other one was closed. And the other one was an expensive hotel. And so I burned her.
Now I spend my days in search of the Holy Grail. Occasionally I hear rumours of some charming bar that sells cheap, cold beer, where karaoke is banished and the regulars organise weekend trips to wonderful, secret places that only they know of. But so far, they are only tales....
41 days to go.
Dear Mr Steve’s friend and family,
Mr Steve is our teacher. She is very strange and cruel. He very kind sometime and give special help on some of the student like my friend Anna, she very pretty. Sometime we doesn’t know why we does some of the activities which is that we does. Like last week yesterday he telling the boys to going walking around the city and finding all places where he can drink some beer for less than a weeks bloody wages. And the girls he say must play game “Twister”. He like to playing too. He so funny and OLD!
Last yesterday week he give us homework. It is “Ten Interesting Things To Do In Jambi” but we do not understand, so he say to try “One Interesting Thing To Do in This Godforsaken Place” but still we not understanding and he very angry so he say we must writing “10 Things I Do At Weekend” but is SO HARD. Here is the my list:
Sleeping.
Praying.
Watching movie.
Saying “Hello mister” at white peoples (Mr Steve).
Praying.
Watching a TV.
Going to supermarket to look what white peoples (Mr Steve) buys (beer Bintang) and giggling.
Sleeping.
Praying.
Sleeping.
Next week last Friday Mr Steve come into classroom singing and he fall over twice three times and he sitting in floor. He tell us girls must sitting on his lap and he teach us new song. It is the same like this: “Show me the way to go to Medan, I’m bored and I want to go to Medan, I had a little drink about an ...” but then we not learning anymore because Mr Steve is very sick all over Ella and is falling asleep. Maybe he is having a Malaria?
Any fucking way, as Mr Steve is say, I hope you liking my letter. That is me.
Xhen Erix Toodent (15)
