Hard Heart

I have been in Jakarta on holiday. The rented apartment this time even though it’s in the same building and place is much nicer than the last time I did this and it’s quite a bit cheaper. My partner arranged it by actually making a phone call rather than me doing it all online as I did previously. Jakarta is probably most peoples’ hell on earth. It’s not a tourist destination by any stretch of the imagination. But once you take time to explore and appreciate both its beauty and madness, as I have started to do to, it’s just like any other big city. I actually enjoy being here. I hate the pollution and traffic and about one hundred other things too, but when it comes to the crunch – I love Jakarta and because I have spent a lot of time here now I have become a bit of an advocate for this strange out of control megalopolis. When I talk to most people they base their opinions on my adopted city on pure here-say. Many of them have never been here but they have heard all the stories and been cautioned not to go there. So now when I hear this sort of garbage I make a point of saying, Jakarta is an interesting place – just like any city and have you ever been there? As soon as they pathetically state that their husband has told them how bad it is I then going into hard sell mode. “Do you realise that Jakarta has many international class shopping malls?” That makes them sit up and take notice. It’s a city of immense contrasts and like any huge city you will find obscene wealth protected by the latest electronics and security guards right next to people living on the ground with a tattered piece of blue plastic sheeting, for a roof over their meagre possessions.
Living in Indonesia more so than my home country makes you humble. Sure there is poverty in Tasmania but not on the same scale and nowhere do you see people as deprived as I have seen in Indonesia. It is shoved right in your face here too. Sitting in a taxi at the traffic lights on my way back to the apartment many times, Oliver my six-year old Indonesian son and I have endured the beggars tapping on the window of the taxi. He just hides till they go away. I used to feel guilty and in my early days here I would sheepishly give some money. I don’t anymore. Oliver gets the money. My heart has hardened. I too try to hide which isn’t possible but I don’t ever look them in the eye. One day we arrived at the same traffic lights where several people cruise around the cars like hungry bears after a long hibernation. A young woman with a small child in a sarong taps insistently on the window pleading, “Mister, mister.” I ignore her. Oliver as usual is mortified and tries to crawl under the floor mat. She persists. I ignore her now demanding tapping on the glass. Finally she realises my heart is now hardened to practically anything like this and she bangs the car saying, “Mister kontol!” I know that the Indonesian word kontol is a rude word for penis. The hard side of me couldn’t help thinking as she stood there with the baby hanging off her arms, that maybe if she hadn’t been so fond of kontol, in the first place - she wouldn’t be in the predicament she was now. That’s a hardened heart.