immortality

She’s in Fashion

2010-12-12T04:37:00.000-08:00

(Melbourne Notes - Written in 2009)

By now y’all must have figured out that despite my headscarf, I actually have a secret fashionista in me (fashion-ista, not fashio-nista!). So when I was told that Australian office dress code is quite formal, I hastily rummaged Mal Ambasador to procure some decent shirts and jackets (or “blazer” as you call it) to wear at work in Melbourne. Quite a fortune spent, that was, for a proletarian.

Months went by since I first came and those jackets never once find the occasion to leave my closet.

That bloody person who tipped me off must have not acknowledged the fact that I am an *engineer* working in *oil industry*, not some high-profile admin staff in a private bank. As far as the eyes can see, ladies here dress more or less the same as in Jakarta. Or should I say, less!

For isn’t it a miniskirt that she’s wearing? Like 15 cm above the knees? Isn’t it a body-fit cotton tee that I see over there? And anticipating summer, I swear the ladies are all flaunting their “yukensi” shirts & dresses! Who actually wears a jacket? Supervisors. And those putting on “minimalist” tops when they actually have an important review coming up (old trick!).

So pardon me for going about this Melbourne office in my usual fashion statement. That is, “tadpole fashion” like you used to see me back then in Jakarta. And pardon me if those jackets eventually fly back to Indonesia with their price tags still on. Because it is highly unlikely -and against my favour- that I’d suddenly become a supervisor within these 18 months, ha ha =)

Note:

- For the gents, it is true though, that the dress code is quite formal. If you can get away with short-sleeve shirts in Jakarta, here you must grope further into your long-sleeve drawer. And don’t forget your shiny patent leather shoes. Putting on a tie all day is pretty common, too.

- Summer is really a fascinating time for fashion studies. Look at the way the ladies dress (do so with your shades on, ho-hum)! Some just have no clue they look downright hideous, I can tell ya!

Better Ways to Answer “How are You?”

2010-12-12T04:33:00.000-08:00

(Melbourne Notes - Written in 2009)

I never thought my supposedly smooth transition will be crippled by such a trivial thing as everyday how-are-you’s. I coped gracefully with bigger things: the new job, the language, the cold (imagine a tropical creature journeys in winter), the settling-in, the food. But in the first weeks, there were always those awkward seconds before I could respond to a simple “How are you?”.

I believe it is cultural! We do greet each other with a genial “Apa kabar?” (how-are-you equivalent in Bahasa), but certainly we don’t apa-kabar each other every 5-minute! In Indonesia, if you see them & interact with them on a daily basis, a nice good-morning and an occasional “hi” every time you bump into them will be sufficient. But in Western culture they fire on with how-are-you every time they set eyes on you. Or so I felt.

Then followed the awkward seconds in which I struggled for an answer.

It was hard for me to respond readily because I could not tell if they sincerely wanted to know how I was or if it was just something mechanical; something meaningless that did not demand meaningful answer.

If I were honestly feeling low, should I just say it? Would they care or would they brush it off? If they cared, I might have to elaborate. But would I care to? I’m not someone who could just pour my heart out to a perfect stranger.

But if this whole how-are-you thing is just mechanical, why bother answering it anyway? Could I just brush it off?

See? All these “philosophical” questions passed through my mind every time a random, well-meaning person asked me that simple “How are you?”. And if I was an idiot for taking three days to realize that the office has no tea girls, I must have been a bigger idiot for taking three WEEKS to get it into my system that I shouldn’t worry about the (in)sincerity of the meaning; I should just take it as a cultural thing and produce a prompt “Good. Yourself?” with a genuine smile, both in the ups and downs of my day.

So I got over it now. You can how-are-you me every 5-minute and I wouldn’t bother. Except that now I’m feeling a bit bored with the words good/fine/well as universal answers. Surely there are better ways to respond to this standard greeting! “Never been better”. “Still hangin’ on”. “Getting there”. “Fabulous”. “Sensational”. “Like sunshine!”. "Living my dreams". Oh, I can invent other things and heaps of them. So you’ll be surprised the next time you fire your “How are you?” at me! :)

PS:

This is something that happened during my Uni years, when I was a part-time Bahasa teacher in Jogja. One of my favourite students, a British diplomat, came to me and idly asked me to translate “Mustn’t grumble” to Bahasa. “Why would you need to say ’mustn’t grumble’ anyway?”, I was sincerely curious. “Alternative answer to how-are-you”, he said. NOW I know what he meant. “Good” is just sooooooo boring! :)

Eating Out vs Eating In

2010-12-12T04:26:00.000-08:00

(Melbourne Notes - Written in 2009)

CBD & suburbs are filthy with excellent eateries scattered around most tauntingly. I mean it, Melbourne is a superb place if you’re into walking and eating (& wine!). Is it good news? Yes, but not always to me.

Being a Muslim in a predominantly Christian country is a challenge. True, halal butchers are not so hard to find and there are halal eateries in the city, but sometimes (just sometimes!) hovers the temptation to taste that dish so famous in that renowned restaurant everyone’s been showering with praises… but you can’t since it’s not halal-meat. Sure you can go anyway and order some seafood or veggie stuffs if you insist. Then you see the aforesaid dish come floating about to the next table and it smells so good you literally drool. You look at your own dish and you ponder. Temptation is in the air!

So you know that you can’t always eat out, because even if they are cheap, the choice is limited. And they’re not exactly cheap, mind you. Regular lunch in a tiny eatery will cost you around AUD 8, drinks excluded. Dinner set is around AUD 15/pax by a struggling student’s standard. Desk-jockeys like me are expected to go to better restaurants/bars; there goes *extra* AUD 20/pax, desserts excluded. Ridiculous when you try to convert everything to Rupiah.

And when you know you can’t always eat out, you find yourself face to face with the cooker.

Yes, cook your own food. I never dreamt of having to do that. In Jogja (God bless this peaceful place!) food was dirt-cheap and there were food stalls galore just around every corner; cooking was simply deemed unnecessary (and more costly if you’re cooking for one). In Jakarta it wasn’t so cheap, but I lived on a street renowned as a culinary haven; it was downright stupid to try and cook on my own when so much better food was at my disposal. And now Melbourne: an apartment with lovely, modern, convenient kitchen that beckons me to challenge my culinary quotient. So I cook. Yes.

It is not that hard, really. Especially after a raid to Laguna (an oriental grocery shop) and be amazed by those tall shelves of INSTANT condiments. I know I will survive Melbourne, and will definitely survive my kitchen challenge! Even a culinary idiot CANNOT lose when the logistics is just colossal. So I cook. Yes.

WHERE'S THE TEA GIRL?

2009-11-03T21:54:00.000-08:00

(Melbourne Notes pt.1)

First day in the office is always both challenging & interesting, isn’t it? On the first day, my “buddy” (the colleague assigned the extra burden of ensuring my smooth landing) was out in the offshore platform, so I was practically a lost lamb.

Finding the restroom was easy, but finding out how things run here was a bit trickier. You see, I came from a feudalistic culture. An average desk-jockey tadpole as I was, I STILL had my tea served in the morning, my water cup re-filled in the afternoon and another cup of coffee if I so requested. But there I was in a Melbourne office, struggling with LAN connection, and the clock was ticking and I was starting to feel thirsty, but WHERE THE HELL WAS THE TEA GIRL?

I popped my head in the hall way, hoping to catch a glance of some suspect-tea-girl, but saw none. I thought the tea girls had not been aware that I existed there, since it was only my first day. Very well, I had got my bottle of water anyway.

The second day dawned and the tea girl was still nowhere to be seen.

On the third day, I was running out of drinks (and patience) when FINALLY I saw someone holding up a mug of milk. She was coming out of a small hidden room I hadn’t ventured to. Curiously, if timidly, I set my foot in the room.. and Voila! A huge fridge! Cartons of milk inside! A big can of Milo & Nescafe! Drawers full of plastic glasses, spoons, forks, knives.

So they don’t have tea girls in Melbourne. Everything is self-service. You thirsty, mate? Go get your own cup of water. It took me three days to realize that. Idiot!

This story remains my favorite anecdote about settling into Melbourne office life. I soon found that they have no bystander office boys, too. No, there’s no one to run errands for you. Moving to another room? No handyman to help you with those heavy boxes. No copier guy when you need to generate numerous copies of review material either. Mails are not delivered right to your desk, but to some corner of pigeon holes that you have to check daily by yourself. Indeed you are expected to do many things on your own.

On weighing the current office culture with my previous experience in Jakarta, I cannot tell if one is better than the other, really. I did mention the feudalistic culture, but the thing is, Indonesian population is massive & the work force so big that it’s literally impossible to create jobs for everyone. With limited job opportunities, here and there people are forced to take “part time job” as their only source of income or share one job with other folks (pseudo-underemployment). The employers are also “forced” to create jobs that are probably unnecessary. Can’t Jakarta folks make tea on their own? Sure they can. But it’s just unimaginable for an established office in Jakarta not to have tea girls & office boys. It’s cultural, but more than that it’s the socioeconomic mould.

I bet I’d feel funny when I’m back to Jakarta and having the good-natured lady serving my morning tea again!

LIVING & WORKING IN MELBOURNE

2009-11-03T21:46:00.000-08:00

Proletarian Girl Meets World

I set out for Melbourne on July 9, 2009 to try my luck in the big oil game in Gippsland Basin. It has been almost four months (& counting!) now. Some of the highlights of my "adventure" will be shared in later posts.

THE LAST BITS & PIECES

2009-06-10T08:12:00.001-07:00

(Many people complained about the *quality* of my writings lately, i.e. the lovey-dovey stuffs. My sincere apologies for not being able to keep up with your expectations. I promise this will be the last piece in my “Love” series. Then let’s talk about soup-opera-like conflicts with Malaysia or the presidential campaign-- just as you like it!)

Marry Me By Next Year

This is a story about someone I knew: a girl blessed with extraordinary beauty & an amiable disposition. Men went after her like a group of dazed bees. But she wasn’t into dating—she was one of those “pure girls” who want to go straight to the wedding vow, be a good housewife and breed babies.

Because she is always timid and sweet, you’d think her weak & indecisive. So wrong. Just when she felt she was of age, she announced that she wanted to get married by next year. To whom? Dunno yet.

Quite a shock for me. This was a girl who left so many hearts broken because she wanted a Prince Charming, nothing less. And suddenly she was ready to marry anyone just to get her target achieved? Are you kidding me? It’s marriage, man—it’s no trivial matter!

She did get married the next year, by the way. To a “blackhorse” one wouldn’t consider a suitor in the first place. Many hearts were bleeding open—but then she got what she wanted. A husband & a kid now, and a happy life.

Was that love? It’s more like she made a bet—and got lucky.

It’s Just A Feeling

A drunkard was drinking heavily in a bar and got into a conversation with a stranger beside him. He told that stranger, “I love my family so much. I love my wife and my kids. I am nothing without them”.

But then he spent his time in bars getting drunk day-in day-out. His wife struggled alone with the house chores & the kids did not have anything to say to the daddy.

“If you love them you shouldn’t be here being wasted. You should be with them”, said the stranger.

“But my feelings are true! I truly, deeply love them! I am not lying; I really love them!”

What a joke. Love is not just a feeling; love is an action.

It reminds me of myself: all the years when I *felt* I loved my sempai.
It was just a feeling. In reality I did not do anything about him. It was not love.

As far as feelings go, I am deeply in love with Gong Yoo. And Sakaguchi Kenji. And Christian Bale. I am not lying! I feel very strongly for them. Now who would say these are loves?

How Long Does the Hormone Last?

A worthwhile 2005 Korean sappy series, My Lovely Sam Soon, got me thinking. There is a couple in the story: the girl is a dazzling med school student and the guy is a spoiled rich brat. The guy is madly in love with her, to which she laughingly explains, “It’s just the hormones”.

They will be in love just as long as the hormones are still flowing in their bodies, being pumped to their brains.

How long does the hormone last?

Approximately two years, she said. You’ll be tired of me after two years, she said. That is a very disheartening statement.

But didn’t I tell you that being in love is not love? You have been warned.

The Myth of True Love

I have this stubborn belief that the myth of true love is responsible of many of the breakings-up of otherwise repairable relationships.

You think in your life there is “one true love” you have yet to find. You and the fated one are “meant for each other” as “a match made in Heaven”—everything will be just perfect when you are finally together.

When later on you find out that it’s not exactly perfect, you back off. You think you’ve made a mistake recognizing “the one”. You think you should break free from this relationship ASAP, and start searching for “the one” again, “the TRUE one”.

Gimme a break. To begin with, nothing is perfect. Even if you think that it is, it is not. (Except if you take this argument into a whole higher level of spiritual realm—then *everything* is indeed perfect.)

Blame it on the fairy tales you heard when you were little—truth is, Prince Charming does have his own worries and fears—he’s not one supreme being whose sole purpose in life is solve all your problems. He goes to the bathroom, too, you know.

So this is your wake-up call. True love is something you work for; it is not Given. To love is to labor. Destiny has little to do with your well-being, because happiness is a state of mind.

Let’s see things as they are, shall we readers? “True love is just co-dependency with a better soundtrack”.

I LOVE HER BUT I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH HER

2009-05-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

Tom Cruise said this on getting a divorce from Nicole Kidman: “I love her but I am not in love with her”.

There is a grain of truth in what he said. The feeling of being in love is not love.

We all *love* being in love, don’t we? When we waltz along the street (or at least walk, but with those springy steps). When the world is still the same but it just looks different: more colorful, warmer, brighter. When a 5-minute phone call makes us smile all day long. When a date is the only thing that matters in this whole world.

Indeed those are the best moments of our lives. Those are the times when we truly feel alive, and be grateful to be alive. So full of hopes and bursting with energy. So full of dreams and bursting with passion. Amazing how one person can inspire us so.

But here is Life’s little secret: you cannot be in love forever. It is too tiresome; it takes up too much energy. The feeling, with all its roller-coaster ride sensation and rainbow colors, will soon wear off. You fall in love, and then you fall out of love.

So did Tom Cruise. So does everyone.

The question is: what to do next when you fall out of love? Get a divorce? Cheat on your partner? Suddenly support polygamy?

M. Scott Peck, a psychoanalyst I most respect, argued that the end of “being in love” could well be the beginning of “a real love”. When you get over your infatuation, when you no longer crave your beloved, and yet you two are willing to stay together and help each other to grow beyond the boundaries— that is Love. Will and acts (sometimes hard-labored!) to be better, happier persons both.

So Tom Cruise got over his infatuation. If only he (and she) had worked on their Love, the couple might have been together still, and happier than ever. Pity.

LOVE (OR LUST?) AT FIRST SIGHT

2009-05-15T06:19:00.000-07:00

This one has been talked about quite a lot already, so I’m gonna make it quick.

I don’t believe in love-at-first-sight. True, you can still gather something about the personality from appearance only, but they are often deceiving. The so-called love-at-first-sight is mostly about liking what you see.

I went out for lunch with Mike once, and somehow we ended up talking about love-at-first-sight. “It is not love at all; it is lust”, said I decisively. Mike, being a true Briton, laughed politely with that amused spark in his eyes, and remarked, “Why, you are being cynical, Elok”.

“And when you are telling the truth, people call you cynical”, I replied.

“A true cynic!”, he was looking more amused than ever.

But he did not say a word against my (not-so-original) lust theory. I left it at that.

Note:
Written with a smile of remembrance. Happy belated birthday, you blue-eyed bloke! :-)

THE HEIRS OF NARCISSUS

2009-04-24T04:12:00.000-07:00

I often wonder just how far one would go to appease someone he/she loves.

This is a blatant debility typical to those “in love”. I remember my own best friend undergoing such an ordeal shopping for a pineapple her boyfriend asked for on HER birthday, and it was pretty exasperatingly comical how she (we) struggled to bring the darn pineapple home by a tiny scooter, along with heaps of other goods we bought.

Well, it WAS comical, until it turned out that the couple had a row (on her BIRTHDAY!) and he ended up returning all her things from his room, including, guess what, our own darn pineapple, untouched. So in the evening of her birthday, the two of us struggled once more, this time to finish the famous pineapple. Tragedy.

Seeing it as an event afar in the past now, I must admit that the whole tribulation was actually quite droll. Even more surprising to me, they made up soon after! Why on earth she could endure such a treatment I cannot tell. What other impediments he has imposed on her I would not long to hear. After the Pineapple Incident, I refuse to stand for my friend’s sanity whenever this guy is involved.

How come one causes so much trouble to others, and yet they still cling to him/her? Except for familial relationships, I find it hard to accept. If he hurts you, if he treats you like dirt, you MUST walk away. Even better, kick his arse as you walk away. And kick it hard.

But no, you would linger. You would seemingly do anything to please the one you love, even if he/she would not do the same to you. You’d call it sacrifice; you see yourself a martyr of love. What a bunch of hokum. I’ll tell you what’s going on exactly:

1. He/she is the heir of Narcissus; the person he/she loves best is him/herself. NOT you.

2. You have a masochism tendency; better go consult a shrink.

These heirs of Narcissus are not necessarily as good-looking, mind you. Don’t be deceived by their looks. One thing they have in common is that they are so full of themselves they hardly have a room for you. Real love, on the other hand, is about sharing metaphorical common rooms for you both to grow spiritually together.

Echo, the nymph falling victim to Narcissus, ended up pining away in a cave. Alone. Not a good sign at all. I guess I better give my friend some hints!

DON'T LET HIM CALL YOU PET!

2009-04-24T03:49:00.000-07:00

Pet, huh?

Truth is, my idea of a pet is a virtual one: (fluff)Friend, Tamagotchi and the likes. Being not so caring, I used to admire those pet-owning friends of mine for their great capacity for love and care. I envied the pets for being so much adored. I envied girls who were adored like pets. “Jane, pet, I have missed you!”, said John, hugging her So sweet, I used to think.

Not anymore.

Today, if I hear another “Jane, pet, I have missed you”, I will most probably frown and feel sorry for the girl.

I have come to realize that your “love” to a pet is not love. Love allows independent thoughts, personal colors. Love is about two SUBJECTS choosing to be together.

The case with your pet is different. By definition, a pet is something you take care of; something you feed and play with. You are essential for it to thrive. Your sentiments exactly: you do want to have control and superiority over your pet. You want it to be loyal and dependent— to be your OBJECT. That’s the whole point.

He who calls his sweetheart “pet” is subconsciously expecting the girl to be an object. John wants loyalty and obedience; Jane will be loved and adored as long as she keeps her thoughts to herself. The problem starts when Jane tries to get the message across that she’s not a puppy.

I value my independence too much to ever commit a master-pet relationship. I do not want to be called pet either. Nor should you. Show that you OBJECT being treated as an OBJECT; do not let him call you pet!

A NECESSITY TO "LOVE"

2009-03-13T06:10:00.000-07:00

I was driving with some friends when we -twenty something, vibrant, viable- eventually ended up talking about how hard it is to find a perfect partner, a Yamato Nadeshiko, in this metropolitan full of pretty wolves.

“I had a pearl of a girl once, but I was dumb enough to let her go...”, one of them mused regretfully. We were all silent for a second or two- probably involuntarily being reminded of one particular dearest we lost in the past as well.

“I think very few people managed to marry the ones who are perfect for them. Instead, the majority married whom they considered the most suitable ones when the time came for them to marry”, another replied.

“The time came for them to marry? I thought we could decide ourselves when we want to wed”, I responded laughingly. But then it is not true. Somehow most of us decide to get married at the age that the society sees fit for us to get married. We do not want to be called old spinsters or old chaps; and we dread being relentlessly nagged by our parents about “settling down with a nice guy/girl” and “giving them a grandchild”.

In Indonesia, at twenty something, particularly after college, the folks are entering the realms of “Panic Age”. They will start thinking seriously of settling down and starting a family, and the more they are into the idea, the more panicky they become in the quest of finding The One. The Perfect One.

Some of them turn to jerks checking out every girl they set eyes on; some of them quietly restrain themselves in great distress.

Until one point the pressure is just too big to bear and they fall victim to the craftily devised “trap” in which nature & culture unite. Marriage as a compromise, defense, or even defeat. That is the point where Yamato Nadeshiko no longer matters. They have this necessity to “love”, and it could be just anyone, as long as they seem fit and “okay”.

Marriage as a compromise, defense, or even defeat. Isn't it sad?

How unfair and unjust the twists of Life are. You might love your high school sweetheart with all the loves in the world; she might be just perfect; but the time was not right and you two went your separate ways. She might be the queen of your heart still; and she might even love you still; but if she was not around when the time “came” for you to marry, you would end up with someone else. Someone tolerable or even nice, perhaps, but not this “pearl of a girl”. And there you are stuck for the rest of your life.

Just before we get off the car, another friend, staring at the traffic, mused quietly, “I read somewhere once that life is like crossing a desert. Along the journey you could pick the loveliest flower you saw and bring it with you for solace and consolation, but you could never go back. It's a take-it-or-leave-it situation. Sure enough, there might be a prettier rose just around the corner, but are you going to risk the whole journey reserving yourself? You either be content with the one you had, or be content knowing that you had once beheld the prettiest of all flowers there were, yet you could not bring it home because it was too late”.

His somewhat tragic allegory relates to us too well. Spending a lifetime trying to find Mr./Ms. Perfect sounds quite unworthy, but picking up a rose only out of a necessity sounds horrid as well.

I believe that to love is voluntary. A necessity to love is not love. It is compromise.

THE DOMESTICATING LOVE

2009-02-15T05:13:00.000-08:00

It is a pitiful sight when an open-minded, brainy girl is being bogged down into the humble service of domestic realms. To see her wake up even before the sun peeped in the east only to cook breakfast for the beloved. To witness her let her wings be clipped and her roaming space at the mercy of the beloved. To find her succumbing to every word he said. To see how he is slowly becoming the axis of her universe. And to see her struggle to ignore how infinitesimal her universe has now become.

What to say when you see all that? Don’t you just wish you could grab the girl and shake her and tell her to end this folly? But then you’ll see her eyes brimming with tears of joy; she is deliriously, foolishly happy to the point of numbness of the senses.

Perhaps love is meant to overcome your reasons and make you look like a complete idiot. Perhaps you should just let it be. But I don’t think love should be domesticating. Domestication underlies the notion that you live not to be your own master, but to be someone else’s “slave”. Domestication demands your every effort neither for your fancy nor betterment, but to please the “master”. It is an insult to human dignity, in a way. Being in love or not, I don’t think the brain should be let in a deadened state as to tolerate such domestication.

Does love bring you face to face with your primordial instincts? When in love, can’t women resist the temptation to SERVE? Can’t men resist the temptation to RULE? It is a pitiful sight indeed, yet if you would just look around you would see so many women succumb to domesticating loves and embrace their shrinking potentials quite welcomingly and happily. Letting go of their dreams, walking away from the promising future so casually, only to be at home and do HIS laundry. I am sorry to say that this happens to women only.

I am not a feminism freak who would accuse every housewife of gender blasphemy. But I believe love is supposed to be expanding your universe, to be lifting you spiritually, to be blissfully beautiful. Yet domesticating love is not blissfully beautiful. It can’t be love. It just can’t.

WHAT LOVE IS AND WHAT LOVE IS NOT

2009-02-15T04:51:00.000-08:00

Love is overrated.

Too many people talk about it, moan about it (both quietly & noisily), write songs about it, sing & dance for it, cry, swear, be full of passion and be made foolish because of it. Yet too few people truly understand what love is.

I myself don’t understand what love is.

But thru my recent travels to Texas, Bali & Yogyakarta, thru my quiet time of pondering & wondering, I think I am justified to say that I have come a step closer to grasping what love is NOT. I’ll share my thoughts in upcoming posts.

Idul Adha yang Memuliakan

2008-12-07T18:53:00.000-08:00

Komentar Papa selepas salat Id membuatku berpikir.

"Nggak bener ini", ujar beliau tentang fenomena bagi-bagi kupon daging kurban.
"Apanya, Pa?", tanyaku ringan.
"Pembagian kupon begini. Seharusnya kita yang datang pada mereka dengan membawa daging kurban. Bukan mereka yang harus datang untuk meminta".

Kami manggut-manggut. Papa menimang sejenak buku The Tao of Islam yang baru kemarin kuberikan.

"Idul Adha seharusnya memuliakan, bukan merendahkan", tandas Papa.

Pada kenyataannya, tidak banyak yang berpendapat bahwa pembagian kupon daging kurban itu merendahkan. Kebanyakan orang menerimanya sebagai sesuatu yang wajar, dan sesuai kewajaran, orang-orang datang mengerumuni barang gratisan.

Tetapi ibadah kurban tidak dimaksudkan sebagai sekadar bagi-bgi gratisan. Dan kewajiban setiap makhluk berakallah untuk mempertanyakan dan menimbang ulang suatu "kewajaran".

Manusia yang setia pada harkatnya, meskipun papa dan kekurangan, tidak akan tunduk begitu rendah sampai mau berebut jatah bersusah-susah. Aku selalu berpikir begitu setiap kali menonton tayangan berita di TV yang menampilkan gambar puluhan dan ratusan orang menyerbu pembagian sembako atau apa saja; saling menyikut dan mendorong dan menginjak saudara demi sesuatu yang tak seberapa. Merubung gula seperti serangga gila. Aku selalu berpikir, bukan seperti ini kodrat dan fitrah manusia. Aku selalu berpikir, si penderma yang mengkondisikan sekumpulan manusia ini berlaku seperti binatang belaka tentunya sunguh tidak beres moralnya.

Islam adalah agama yang mulia dan memuliakan. Aku tidak rela kalau Idul Adha pun dijadikan dalih untuk mengerdilkan fitrah manusia dan kemanusiaan.

Ini membuatku teringat pertanyaan yang dilontarkan Prof. Hasanu Simon, patron Pengajian Bubur Ayam di Pogung, Jogja, yang biasa kusambangi dulu. Beliau bertanya, "Mana yang lebih baik: orang miskin yang sabar atau orang kaya yang bersyukur?". Saat itu aku mesti berpikir keras sebelum menjawabnya.

Orang miskin yang sabar punya harga diri ke-Islam-an yang tinggi; percaya bahwa Tuhan sudah dan sedang memberikan yang terbaik baginya; yakin bahwa benda bukan ukuran kebahagiaan yang sebenarnya; dan tentunya tidak memuliakan daging kambing/sapi sebegitu tingi sampai merendahkan diri sendiri.

Orang kaya yang bersyukur percaya bahwa di mata Tuhan hanya ada ketakwaan; bahwa harta adalah titipan; bahwa kekayaan tidak membuatnya lebih tinggi daripada orang-orang miskin di luar sana. Dia tidak akan merendahkan mereka. Dia akan berbagi dengan tulus; dengan hati, bukan hanya dengan fulus.

Yang manapun tidak akan terlibat skema pembagian kupon daging kurban ini. Yang manapun aku rasa baik untuk menjadi. Tetapi tangan di atas lebih baik daripada tangan yang diberi, jadi begitulah jawabanku kala itu.

Aku percaya bahwa ketika semua orang miskin rela bersabar dan semua orang kaya senang bersyukur, yang dimaksud dengan kewajaran adalah "Islam yang memuliakan".

Dan aku percaya Papa akan mengiyakan.

ON BIRTHDAY

2008-11-07T02:49:00.000-08:00

Note 3

MAN and AGE. The two things most girls cannot MAN-AGE.

This birthday reminds me of my excess of age and my lack of men. Not that I bother. I am single, yes, —but I DO like being single. Girls of my age might have one or two kids already—they all look very busy and happy—but what do I care? I love children so long as they are not mine. So there.

Mr. Perfect does not exist, says my friend who wants to reconcile my stubborn peculiarity with the common sense of our wonderful society. Stop looking for him and start looking around, she says. Which amuses me a great deal. Who says I am looking for Mr. Perfect? What good can a “standard” Mr. Perfect do me? (except if he happens to be Prince William). I am quite well-off on my own and not on the look out for anyone particular, thank you very much.

Truth is, I am not inclined to have a relationship just so I’d have a relationship. “What you don’t have, you don’t need it know”. I believe that. I do not care how many men love me, or do not love me. When the right man comes around (he himself will be peculiar, like half-Mr. Darcy and half-Mr. Thornton with a hint of Shinichi Chiaki, metaphorically), I will struggle to be worthy of him. So I will not settle for less. I am so not going to settle for and be forever tied to someone I will detest and despise before long, just because the Society dictates so. And if it is God’s will that I remain forever single because of what I stand for, then be it.

So there.

Afterwords:
So many historical events in the week of my birthday. First i lost both my cellies. Then Obama won the election (amazing speech there, buddy!). Wow.

ON BIRTHDAY

2008-11-07T02:41:00.000-08:00

Note 2

OK. I am twenty something, a reservoir engineer with prospects (or so I hope), and more or else have everything I need to enjoy life and be happy.

So what do I want to do next?

The ideal thing will be to step on Aurora’s shoes: sleep and sleep and sleep until a handsome, charming, reliable prince embraces me with a kiss, and I wake up a princess.

No. What nonsense. If I were a true idealist I would rave on about making the world a better place for mankind and fellow creatures. Stop global warming. Plant trees. Live more closely to the nature. Educate the ignorant. Stop the greed, stop the hatred. A world without prejudice & discrimination, amen.

Those are all good causes, but please, for once, let me be selfish on my own birthday. Let me make wishes dearest to my heart. I wish to be sure that my loved ones are sound and content. I wish to be relieved of the petty struggles and worries of everyday life. I want to live BEYOND. I want to live bravely and love without fear. I want to see more of the World. I want to die while I am living.

I want to die smiling—with no regrets. It sums up to that.

ON BIRTHDAY

2008-11-07T02:35:00.000-08:00

Note 1

Birthdays should be the moment when you make a halt—to sit and contemplate what you’ve done with your life already, and what you want to do next.

When I was younger, I did not mind doing that. But the older I get, the more reluctant I am to “contemplate the past & plan the future”.

I can’t help feeling (and am sure I am not alone) a sense of loss—of the time passed—the time that can never be reversed. I am not young anymore. How time flies. And with every breath I take, an opportunity of becoming “another me” is lost, while “myself” comes more into being.

I am not sorry for what I am. I am not sorry for what I have done. I AM sorry for what I haven’t done, though; for what I could have become.

If I were 5, I could still grow up to be a space traveler. Or a dancer. Or a lawyer. Or a painter. Perhaps that’s why the world is always full of wonders in the eyes of children—because unlimited opportunities and endless possibilities hang about the air—like sparkling bubbles that they can reach when they extend their hands—like being surrounded by tender little lights of millions of fireflies—it has a magical quality in it.

But I am twenty something now—the magic has gone; I see the world as it is. No matter how keen the space traveler or lawyer or painter in me are, I cannot be them anymore. To think about the opportunities I have missed; the different paths I could have walked on—really, I ALMOST hate birthdays.

AN AWARD!

2008-11-02T04:30:00.000-08:00

My blog got an award!

And yet you know i hardly update it. And lately i don't think i write anything worth reading (except for the few people who want to know what i'm up to but too lazy to make personal contacts).

This must be a joke. Specially because the award is from Astrid (an excellent writer, and as the case always is, an intriguing person). Could she make a joke of this kind? Nominate the "Worst Blogger of the Year" award to me probably? I believe she could. But i trust she won't.

So i guess i just have to live with it. And let the game rolls on.

Ladies & gentlemen, let me pass on the award to these five blogs (or bloggers):

1. Bondan Caroko (www.bondancaroko.blogspot.com) - for the wit! And then we both share one thing in common: we update our blogs in such a looooong period. Him getting the award too will somewhat clear my conscience of winning one in the first place, haha.

2. Simon's MetroMad (www.metromad.blogspot.com) - a different view about lives in the Big Durian and Indonesia in general. Should not miss any of the posts!

3. Loosewire (www.loosewireblog.com) - simply resourceful. He talks about how technology shapes our lives in such a way that i believe i myself am a techno-savvy (doooohhh!).

4. Charles Frith (www.charlesfrith.com) - brainy in a bold way. How i envy his adventures- and how i wish to walk tete-a-tete with him one day- a bright blue sky & ample time to talk about ideas! That would be lovely!

5. Maharani DS (www.ranids.blogspot.com) - the epitome of "simple is beautiful". Her honest eyes and boundless compassion give colours to the trivialities of everyday life.

If you're interested to game on, put on the award badge on your blog & pass it on to other five blogs. But if you don't fancy passing a "chain-award", just blog on, please. Coz i do love, love, love your writings.

Note:
(Mbak Astrid, you deserve an award, too, but you've got too many already *wink*)

A TASTE OF TEXAS

2008-10-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

Texas is great.

What i mean is, everything in Texas is great; huge; massive. Buy a meal and you'll be surprised by the size of it. Buy anything- most likely you'll need two hands to handle it. Being a petite Asian, i am literally dwarfed both by the native and the things around.

But really, Texas is great. Especially when you come expecting the worst (like i did). To begin with, Houston -where i'm staying- is a very flat city. In a literal sense- it's just soooo vast a space of land. Then there's the fact that it's an oil city. Meaning it's not exactly the place you'll go to if you expect to have a wonderful evening in a piano recital or so. To top it all, it has just been struck by the Hurricane Ike. So really, you could not bring yourself to expect a lot.

But it's been three weeks now (and counting) and contrary to all prejudiced thoughts, i'm enjoying my stay immensely. We can put all kinds of arguments into it, of course. It might be because it never takes much to make me happy & occupied- I'd have been happy even if they have sent me to Nigeria. It might be the human power of adaptation. It might be the whole first-class stuff that i have the privilege to enjoy.

But i think partly it's because i come to the States at the right time- when the TV is full of the clamour of presidential campaigns. Barack & John are my two faithful companions- they have the rare skills of creating all kinds of news to keep me amused & entertained. And don't forget Sarah Palin- and oh! Tina Fey!

I'm going to confess that never much of a couch potato as i am, i even find myself being deeply interested in TV ads. They're just stunning. They mention their rival brands & openly claim that they are better. Probably that's capitalism realised. Probably defamation is not a big deal. The election campaign ads are the best of 'em all. They name names and put nasty labels to them. "Liar". "Dangerous". "Out of touch". Oh-so-amusing! Woohoo!

So there i go with my TV set, lazying around with Barack & John & the fabulous Anderson Cooper. There i go with my AMEX card, swiping here & there, shopping more than what i can handle. There i go ordering lunches & dinners- only to request boxes "to go". There i go with trips to the museums, the parks, the NASA Center, the outlets. There i go practising to say "y'all" the way the Texans do.

Texas is great. I'm glad i made this trip. Hell yeah! :-)

Teman = Aset

2008-09-03T02:33:00.000-07:00

(Ke Laut Aja..)

Teringat masa lalu. Zaman saya kuliah dulu (duluuuu.. sekali!) saya punya satu teman dari kelas borjuis. Saya yang sejak dulu proletar sebenarnya punya kecenderungan bergaul dengan sesama proletar; tapi cowok satu ini nempel-nempel dengan begitu polosnya, jadi apa daya.

Tapi dasar borjuis. Suatu hari dia (juga dengan polosnya) berceloteh ringan bahwa baginya teman adalah aset. Nantinya pasti dia akan bisa memetik manfaat dari teman-teman yang telah dipeliharanya sejak sekarang.

Ternyata waktu itu saya belum cukup dewasa untuk bisa menertawakan dia dan menganginlalukan pendapatnya. Saya menolak dijadikan aset yang ditimbang-timbang potensi & kemanfaatannya; maka saya ucapkan selamat tinggal terhadap pertemanan dengan portofolio dagang itu.

Padahal kalau dipikir dengan kepala dingin dan akal sehat, premis yang diajukan si (mantan) teman itu kan sah-sah saja. Manusiawi. Orang lain mungkin juga diam-diam menimbang-nimbang potensi & kemanfaatan saya sebelum memutuskan berkarib dengan saya. Bedanya cuma bahwa mereka tidak bilang siapa-siapa; apalagi bilang ke saya.

Bahwa seleksi pertemanan saya hanya mencakup sejauh mana si teman bisa membuat saya nyaman dan tertawa, dan bisa sama-sama menikmati mendiskusikan berbagai hal (dari ide-ide filosofia sampai gosip-gosip paling nggak mutu sedunia) dengan gembira, bukan berarti orang lain harus berbuat serupa. Malah sebenarnya si (mantan) teman itu orang yang luar biasa kan; karena meskipun saya murba & bertampang biasa, dia bisa-bisanya melihat suatu potensi & nilai lebih pada diri saya, sehingga berkenan turun kelas untuk bahkan ”ngangkring” bersama. Dia borjuis yang dengan caranya sendiri menentang logikanya demi berteman dengan saya.

Apa kabarnya kini, saya tidak tahu (kangen juga ya). Kalau bertemu lagi mungkin giliran saya yang akan menentang logika demi berteman dengannya lagi.

Tulisan sembarangan ini lahir karena hari-hari ini saya barusan menyadari bahwa selama bertahun-tahun ini mungkin saya telah dijadikan aset oleh teman saya yang seorang lagi. Ditimbang potensi & kemanfaatannya lagi. Jadi, saya pun berpikir-pikir apakah saya harus tersinggung sekali lagi, atau (pura-pura) dewasa menerimanya, atau (pura-pura) tidak peduli.

Satu hal yang pasti, hubungan antarmanusia itu benar-benar rumit, terutama kalau sudah melibatkan hati.

Ah, ke laut aja, 'kali...

Putih-Putih Melati, Alibaba..

2008-08-07T06:22:00.000-07:00

(Sekali-sekali saya mau menulis dalam bahasa Indonesia ah, biar orang-orang percaya bahwa saya sungguh orang Indonesia asli, hihihi)

Syahdan, sambil makan siang di Chicken Story, sahabat saya Tiessa menelurkan teori luar biasa tentang kecantikan sejati. Anda pikir itu teori basi yang melibatkan konsep “inner beauty”? Sama sekali tidak. Ini lebih mirip konsep papan catur: hitam-putih.

Menurut Tiessa, pengamat kecantikan kita, jika perempuan masih tampak cantik meskipun berkulit gelap, itu tandanya dia memang benar-benar cantik. Sedangkan mereka yg cantik DAN berkulit putih, kecantikannya diragukan.

”Itu hanya karena mereka kelihatan bersih!”, demikian sang pakar mengakhiri penjelasan teorinya. Saya tentu saja mengangguk-angguk sambil nyengir geli. Teori ini menguntungkan saya yang kebetulan berkulit gelap (dan tidak cantik). Artinya secara teoritis mungkin saya lebih cantik daripada mereka yang berkulit putih (dan tidak cantik).

Bicara soal hitam-putih, saya jadi ingat saudara sepupu saya yang tidak habis pikir kenapa para turis bule gemar mandi matahari. Agaknya sama dengan keheranan saya mengapa banyak ekspat yang menggandeng perempuan lokal ternyata memilih mereka yang berkulit ”eksotis”. Rumput tetangga selalu lebih hijau kan? Manusia tidak pernah merasa puas kan? Sudah putih, ingin hitam. Yang dari awal hitam, ingin putih.

Ujung-ujungnya adalah konsumerisme; dan yang diuntungkan adalah produsen krim pemutih dan krim penggelap (tanning cream).

Kita yang muak dan lantas ingin cuci-tangan dari mitos kecantikan ini pun masih saja jadi korban: haruskah kita menghabiskan ratusan ribu untuk membeli satu pot krim The Body Shop, hanya karena kita percaya bahwa mereka percaya cantik itu tidak harus putih & langsing?

The Body Shop jadi semacam Gerakan Non-Blok dong? Yang kita beli bukan krimnya, tapi filosofinya dong?

Saya yang proletar belum percaya bahwa kita boleh buang-buang uang untuk membeli sebotol filosofi. Khususnya kalau uang jadi satu-satunya cara kita untuk meyakinkan dunia bahwa kita ”modern & berpikiran terbuka”.

Teori saya sederhana saja: punya bilangan e yang mendekati satu masih jauh lebih baik daripada punya porositas otak yang mendekati satu.

Dan, suer!, ini juga teori tentang kecantikan sejati.

Afterthoughts:
- Tahu bahasa bunganya kecantikan yang sempurna? White Camellia. Hah! Kenapa mesti white sih?
- Yang tidak bisa memahami teori kecantikan sejati versi saya memang sebaiknya membeli krim pemutih saja. Atau The Body Shop, sambil bergaya. Hihihi.

WITH ALL DUE RESPECT

2008-06-28T05:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve just hung up a phone call and I’m fighting the urge to scream.

I want to scream for my motherland Indonesia. I somehow foresee its fate: a resource-rich poor country heading inevitably for an uncertain future where oil is USD 200/bbl; where the sky gets greyer and allies turn enemies. For God’s sake, no! Indonesia deserves better.

But it is being run by a corrupted, patriarchal, narrow-minded government; civil servants who don’t have any idea of how to serve and respect their civilians.

A humble junior engineer who happens to work in some oil company, I am merely plankton in the sea of oil people. I’ve just hung up a phone call, I said. It was with a (male, senior) officer from the governmental body that happens to be the Poseidon of my sea. He expected me to respect him; three-headed spear and all. I did. I expected him to respect me, too—plankton as I was. He did not.

How dare you, you probably think, to expect Poseidon to bow to crappy plankton?

Well, when it comes to respect, I’d venture to propose that there’s a certain degree of respect that you have to pay fellow human beings out of nothing at all— simply because you respect Humanity. I have sat and chatted with ambassadors, and I treated them with the same respect as when I sat and chatted with a janitor. Why should this Poseidon be treated any better? We human beings are equal— even God see us that way.

I was modest enough, though, to let my more refined nature get the better of me and be nice to His Excellency Mr. Poseidon— acknowledging his older age and male superiority. The Javanese culture I grew up in favours older people, and I don’t oppose this gracious custom. (The male superiority part of course sucked; nonetheless I managed to cope with it.)

All the same, I refused to respect him more than that. Not when he failed to show integrity, kindness and humility. Higher respect is earned- not bestowed nor bought. His job title and his money can’t help him earn my respect when he failed to respect the fellow human being in me. He took all my efforts on politeness for granted. A typical government officer in a spiritually retarded country.

For God’s sake, no! Indonesia deserves better than spiritual retardation— especially with so many challenges ahead. Indonesia could do better without a bunch of Poseidons who sit up high looking down to people they are supposed to serve.

I hope the day will dawn when we could build relationships (both professional and personal) based on mutual respect. It would be the start of a true civilian society, and the spark that ignites progress. On that day we could say to His Excellency Mr. Poseidon, with all due respect, “Good riddance!”

I AM NO DANCER

2008-06-15T03:06:00.000-07:00

I am no dancer. I’m pretty good at memorizing steps, but my body moves like a log despite the correct footwork.

My dance instructor tells me again and again, “Elok, it’s all in your head. If you believe you can, you can”.

“But indeed I can’t. I can’t shake my torso like you do; can’t wiggle my bottom like you do; can't wave my hands like you do. Every imbecile knows it”, says I stubbornly.

The funny part is, I do believe in self-fulfilling prophecy. And my case is exactly that.

My mum first took me to a traditional dance class when I was little. I remember the joy at the beginning— dancing with my peers and having great times swirling about the room. That was until I heard what my dance instructor said to my mum.

I wasn’t actually eavesdropping. My dance instructor was talking to my mum, but he was fully aware that I was there listening to every word he said as well. My dance career (or what could have been) ended right then, right there.

He told my mum that I couldn’t join the other girls in the next performance because I wasn’t up to their level yet. My mum argued that the girls and I joined the class at roughly the same time—but to that, the dance instructor shook his head, saying that it wasn’t a function of time. Simply put, I was no dancer, and no matter how long I practiced, the sad fact would remain.

Finally my mum nodded, if quite gravely. I stared at the two of them -at the agreement they made- with innocent eyes, thinking that if two grown-ups said so, then it must be true: I was no dancer. I was silently accepting my “fate”.

This ghost of my past haunted me in good many years that followed. Every occasion that included dancing saw me running home or elsewhere. I wouldn’t dance because my dancing sucked—and to be forced to dance in public was my worst nightmare.

Even to this day the ghost haunts me still, but I can see that it has reduced itself from a gigantic no-no to an obstinate, tiny prejudice towards myself. The fear of being humiliated has evaporated somewhere along the fight. I was on the stage last month-- line-dancing with several other ladies in IPA Cocktail Party. I dance in every social event my function arranges. I attend a regular dance class and somehow bear with being the stupidest in the room (trust that my being the stupidest is a very rare occasion *cough*).

Ten years ago I would never had dreamed of enjoying dancing very much to the point of buying pricey dance shoes. I do now. But the thought that I am no dancer obstinately lingers. I guess it means that I have to pay more respect to Freud-- childhood trauma does leave a lasting mark.

As I’m writing this, one of Jewel’s songs quietly plays in the back of my head, “I have this theory/ that if we’re told we’re bad// That’s the only idol we’ve ever had// But maybe if we are surrounded in beauty/ someday we will become what we see.. //”

And I dance to its tune.

REGIONALISATION IS THE NEW GLOBALISATION

2008-05-27T07:17:00.000-07:00

Here’s news: the world isn’t really flat. Especially if (when) oil is USD 200/bbl.

Is it possible that one day oil price reached the doomsday scenario of USD 200/bbl?

My say is yes. Keep on consuming energy and resources like you have no care in this world- and what you might think highly unlikely could suddenly come into being. Wasn’t it like that a few months ago? Oil price was climbing from 50-ish to 80-ish dollar per barrel and we laughed when somebody predicted that it would soon hit 100. No way. The world as we knew it wouldn’t be able to bear it.

It turned out that we underestimated The World. Oil price today is about USD 120/bbl (and climbing) and life goes on. Things get harder, yes, but life always goes on in an unstoppable power that’s both fascinating and terrifying.

And because globalisation speeds up the pace of everyone’s lives, we grow up knowing that energy is as essential as water and oxygen, and as addictive as dope and TV series. We cannot sacrifice the consummation of energy to ease our boredom (don’t we play PC games, watch movies, fly around the globe to escape this many-faced monster?) and would rather come to terms with paying bigger bills for it. Given this looming recession in US and how the rest of the world is responding the issue, I believe that we will live to see the day when a barrel of oil is tagged for USD 200. And it’s not doomsday yet.

The only thing that stays constant is change, or so they said. USD 200/bbl oil price will trigger a seriatim of inevitable changes, I guess. I’m not underestimating The World (I’ve learnt not to!)- but even its languorous flexibility has limits. And globalisation, who gave birth to the excessive use of energy, will be among the firsts to be swallowed by its blackhole.

Transportation cost will soar, that’s for sure. Rather than traveling to UK, I’d be forced to tighten my budget for Bali or Phuket. Instead of selling Indonesian goods to US, we’d eye Japan or Korean market- shorter distance means more profit. Rather than take a car (even the tiny hybrid one), we’d take a petrol-free bike ride.

But you can’t go too far by a bike.

That’s the essence of this whole oil price hike: we’ll find our world grow smaller. Not in the sense that The World can be navigated on the palm of our hands (virtually & physically) as globalisation claimed—but that our roaming capability shrinks.

Regionalisation will be the new globalisation—if not already is!

STOP BREEDING, PLEASE!

2008-04-21T05:59:00.000-07:00

A tadpole in the world’s largest pond is destined to be overworked, I guess (I do consider going home at 8 pm unusually early!). But when I’m in my philosophical mood, when all the big fish are minding their own business, I sometimes think about the world beyond this cold office, beyond optimizing hydrocarbon production and running reservoir simulations..

And in times like that, what do I see? Indonesian politics drama, Zimbabwe’s super-inflation, Chindia’s soaring industrial growth, Pope’s silly moves, US embarking on -what could be- a recession. And those old stories: global warming, ethnic wars, deforestation, malnutrition, third world countries, climate change, endangered species..

Homo sapiens is indeed the fittest to survive on earth, don’t you think? We survive in spite of all the trials bestowed on us, and we relentlessly enjoy surviving. Cut the trees down- build a condo. Shoot the foxes and wear a pretty fur coat. Breed and breed and breed. Drive and fly and explore the five continents just as we wish- without a care that progress comes with a price.

It all comes down to this: old, poor Mother Earth could no longer support our population growth and frivolous habit of wanting instant gratification. Progress does come with a price- and a high one, too.

So I sit enjoying my rare musing moments, and like a world leader I scribble three options for mankind to respond to this global issue:

1. Find another earth
This is probably what NASA is doing.. but I’m not too sure.

2. Be environment-friendly, be green, be far-sighted
Easier said than done, especially with runaway population growth in third world countries, where the immediate needs are of decent food instead of decent education.

This leaves us the third option to act on first, which is:
3. Stop breeding

Yes sir. For the short-term action, if you want to improve the quality of our life as a whole, I’d recommend mankind to minimize breeding. I’m not against our biological functions—I think it’s pretty understandable that having sex doesn’t mean having another baby every 10-month or so.

Now you have your eyebrow raised. Fine. I’ve always had this idea of enforcing regulations on whom are permitted to have babies and whom restricted—and I’m open to discussion. See if we start from the same ground here.

To procreate is of course our basic instinct, just as survival is. But it takes a lot more than just lust and instinct to raise and educate your kids. Every child is born with unlimited potentials, and more or less it’s up to you to shape them into environment-friendly, green, far-sighted people- or into good-for-nothing, ruthless, reckless creatures.

Let’s just humbly admit that some people are not up to bringing up little kids: drugsters, the mentally imbalanced, the very uneducated, he very poor ones. You see people deteriorating their dignities in the struggle to keep on living just because they have lived. It might not be their chief faults, but you can’t help trying to avoid reoccurrence if you can manage it, right? So what’s wrong with the idea of restricting them to have kids that they’d just ruin as well in the end? On the opposite, if you’re mentally, culturally and financially ready to enlarge your family, please do. Only bear in mind that having kids is a lifelong job- you make a contract with God and the consequence will tail you forever.

Again and again I ask myself if I’m being unfair, if I’m violating human rights by saying that some people don’t seem to be eligible to have kids—but I think I am practicing the basic concept of free justice: that you have to meet the required standard and prove that you are competent before you get the opportunity to perform something- including having kids. What the standard is, and how to implement it, I leave it to the REAL authority on mankind issues. The government. Or probably you.

I’m just a tadpole in a capitalistic system, and really, I don’t have much time to muse around. But even within these four walls, I have a dream of a better future for mankind: a loving family living happily close to the nature-- living in such a way that they don’t have to deny Humanity. That's what it means to be God’s perfect creation.

100 QUIRKS

2008-04-05T05:29:00.000-07:00

1. I used to leave out my surname “Nur”-- coz I didn’t like the sound of it.
2. My vanity includes 20 shades of lipstick colours, 8 different fragrances and 17 pairs of footwear.
3. But I don’t wear make-up and I stick to my old pair of 20,000-rups wedges most obstinately.
4. I hum when I’m self-conscious.
5. I was in a stud choir once—a soprano.
6. Words are my passion. I have this yen to be a writer.
7. Greek mythology fascinates me.
8. The three blokes I drool over: John Mayer, Jakob Dylan, and Jamie Aditya.
9. Open air exhilarates me.
10. What I consider greatest achievements: standing on top of Mt. Sindoro, Lawu & Merbabu.
11. I scootered around the island when backpacking in Bali with Pristi last year.
12. I am not humble –tried and failed to be.
13. My favourite book of all time is “Immortality” by Milan Kundera.
14. I don’t take things seriously, save for good books and recitals.
15. I speak a little Japanese and Korean— used to write in Hiragana and Han-gul, too.
16. I don’t eat chicken wings. Nor ducks.
17. I’m still using my 5-yr-old mobile. It doesn’t have colours.
18. Vests, not jackets.
19. I used to write poetries.
20. I was an MTV addict.
21. My idea of a pet is a virtual one.
22. I’m good at Sudoku and Othello.
23. But in general, I’m not much into games.
24. I cannot spell “bureaucracy” without consulting a dictionary.
25. The nearest to perfection in women would be Alicia Keys.
26. I love the smell of cinnamon and sandalwood, lily and lavender.
27. I’m a very direct person.
28. I don’t like dolls. They’re cute alright—but utterly useless.
29. But I do long to have a black cat doll. Will name it “Dem”, after “Demon”.
30. I can’t swim. My pretty swimsuit remains forever dry.
31. I fell madly in love with Tay Hanson when he was 14.
32. Most of my clothes are black/green/pink.
33. I’m a clumsy dancer who keeps on cha-cha-cha-ing despite the obvious lack of talent.
34. My research back in uni was about process optimization of chitosan membrane production. Novel technology—or so they said.
35. I crave yoghurt, corn and all kind of fruits.
36. I’m half-sanguine, half-choleric. Very un-phlegmatic.
37. My wish list includes learning Latin. And reading Newton’s Principia. And learning to play a fiddle.
38. I’m a reservoir engineer in a “Fortune’s Big Five” company.
39. I’ve been wearing jilbab (headscarf) since my freshman year.
40. My true interests are of ideas and philosophy.
41. The longest time I’ve spent chatting online was 6 hours straight. With a forlorn Indonesian guy in U.S.
42. Gael Ulrich was the only chemical engineer (so far) who could write textbooks in a fun way.
43. My favourite music piece currently is “La Caccia” by Antonio Vivaldi (4Seasons – Autumn – 3rd movement).
44. I walk fast. I mean, FAST.
45. I’m prejudiced against strikingly beautiful people. They are either brainless or bitchy.
46. Astronauts were my heroes. Cosmos remains my fascination.
47. I adore the wits of Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain and George Bernard Shaw.
48. I don’t have internet access in my office.
49. I melt when exposed to a suave British accent talking about sophisticated, cultured matters.
50. Pursuing a master degree is in my 5-yr plan list.
51. My costliest worldly possession is a dark grey, fur-lined French Connection winter coat the company paid for.
52. My nails are exceptionally beautiful.
53. At the age of 11, I did not know the meaning of the word “yesterday”. I did know “yes” and “day”, though.
54. I collect freebies from hotels I’ve stayed in. Toiletries, stationery, teabags—you name it.
55. I was in the Girl Scout ‘till 17. Learnt Morse codes, mapping, encrypted languages and all.
56. I have three brothers and no sister.
57. If I were an animal, I’d be a bird.
58. Like a helpless romantic, I instantly fall for Austen’s Mr. Darcy.
59. I want to die young.
60. Groovy words like “proletarian”, “helter-skelter” and “plebby” take my fancy.
61. My average bowling score is 105.
62. I am starting a campaign to drop plastic bags.
63. I can’t sleep before I read something. Anything.
64. Nothing beats a cup of hot Earl Grey. Not even Starbucks.
65. Self-sufficiency is my forte.
66. I like rains only when I’m indoor—warm and dry.
67. But I do like drizzles.
68. I’m not good at taking rejections. Never was.
69. My delight is in hot showers and cosy bath-tubs.
70. I don’t watch telly. I don’t own one.
71. My hair is straight, waist-long and claret-coloured—constantly braided into a bun under the headscarf.
72. I did not go to kindergarten.
73. My mum is a housewife.
74. During my uni years, I worked part-time as an Indonesian language teacher for foreigners.
75. I don’t read chicklits. In fact, I detest them.
76. I want to be able to cut and make my own dresses.
77. I procrastinate scheduling an appointment with a dental surgeon.
78. I hate my passport photo. I look horrendous there.
79. My mobile is kept silent all day. I leave it in my drawer during meetings.
80. It takes me a couple of seconds to tell right from left.
81. I think there’s a fair chance of my remaining single ‘till ripe age—and I’m OK with it.
82. My secret desire is study social science at Columbia Uni.
83. I could be an exasperating perfectionist at times.
84. I don’t understand chaos theory. Did not finish the book.
85. First received a love letter when 10. First (and only) sent one when 18, I guess. Stupid crush.
86. I’m not much into texting. Except when waiting for boarding.
87. I’m sweet-toothed. Sweets are in my pockets.
88. My heart goes soft for BBC Drama Series.
89. I was there when earthquake hit Jogja in 2006.
90. First time abroad, I went to Melbourne.
91. I normally eat once a day. Lunch.
92. I cry when I’m sleepy. I mean tears just come trickling down.
93. I must see Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra’s New Year’s Eve Concert before I die.
94. When I’m rich, I will build a small school. Free education and a REALLY good library.
95. What I quote most frequently: “The most important thing in this world is not so much where you are as in what direction you are going”, by Goethe.
96. I tend to get entangled with married men— simply because they are mature, sensible, gentile and don’t ask for commitments.
97. I’m in the lookout for Jewel’s old poetry book “A Night without Armor”.
98. One of my fondest memories was when my crush drove me home at 3 in the morning. Those frivolous days.
99. Blueberry ice cream, please!
100. I thought I was narcissistic enough to list my 100 quirks without difficulties. The fact showed otherwise.

GLOBBIE, RE-THOUGHT OF

2008-02-10T03:45:00.001-08:00

Globalisation, in environmental point of view, is about rainforests.

The idea is that rainforests are fundamental requirement to keep our old Earth the way it has been in the last thousands of years- nice, homey and comfy to live in. But then by nature, rainforests are limitedly distributed. And by human law, they are subject to the policies of the countries where they are located in. To put it bluntly: the lives and survival of the entire global human race depends on either discreet decisions or sheer idiocies a few governments who happen to “own” rainforests make. Mostly the cases are the latter.

I say it’s about time we gave a significant meaning to the word “globalisation”. It’s about time we spent more time, energy, funding and attention to things that really mattered. Global management of rainforests, folks. Let’s work it out.

Note:
CIFOR has done a lot when it comes to rainforest issues. It has been a long
year since i saw and talked to Frances Seymour- its President. I'm so looking forward to attending her lecture at ERASMUS HUIS (Dutch Embassy - Rasuna Said St.) on the upcoming Feb 26. Do come if you're interested.

DECEMBER IS CHINA

2007-12-01T05:48:00.000-08:00

December is Christmas. And Christmas is gifts. Gifts are toys (for our young ones). Toys are China-made (mostly). Hence- December is China.

This is especially true for me. December last year saw me write gibberish on China and its forthcoming social challenges- December this year sees me write twaddle on China and its potential end of economic jet coaster ride.

Since China was admitted to WTO in December 2001, moving on with Chinese economy has been like a jet coaster ride, hasn’t it? Gliding so fast it excites you (thinking of the massive potential market it is), thrills you (wondering to what extent economic progress can soar up), pulls on your nerves (what if something goes wrong and the safety belt doesn’t hold?) all at once.

And when dealing with China it never hurts to check and double-check those safety belts. That’s the bottom line of the whole campaign on www.china-free-products.blogspot.com, which specialises itself in informing public of the potential danger of consuming/using China-made tainted products.

And indeed the aforementioned China-made tainted products have come swarming to global market -US in particular- along with its skyrocketing of manufacture industry. We are talking about a wide variety of goods -from toothpaste to toys- with “Made in China” label on it. Cheap, abundant, on display with bright colours that are both tantalising and alarming. Just pick one and drag it to the nearest lab to see what it’s made of- then the hysteria begins.

“China-free” has become a new adjective of considerable use lately, or so it seems. Tune in CNN or Fox and in no time you’ll hear this massive China-free Christmas campaign romping about. What with that melamine used as food additives and cardboard box turned to make-believe meaty dim sum filling, some eyebrows are bound to be raised. And now this toy coating havoc- scientists swore that a chemical coating found on the China-made beads, when ingested, metabolizes into the so-called date rape drug gamma hydroxy butyrate. Rape drug, I beg your pardon. The setting-up of “China-Free-Products” blog does not seem groundless now that everyone sees a justified cause with eyes wide open.

Let the hub-bub, hullabaloo, clamour go on a bit more and we may see the end of our Chinese seatbelt-less jet coaster ride as we know it - when customers all around the globe turn up their noses at China-made goods (assuming high scores on their health and safety awareness, of course).

Which is not wholly fair- because not all products from China are tainted and not all tainted products are from China. It might well ended up as another scapegoat story.

But don’t let’s worry about it (yet). Give some time for the plot to emerge and find its shape. China will always be an object ready at hand to pull your interest- and in many senses. We shall see what becomes of this China-free uproar later on. December next year, perhaps?

In the meantime, do check those safety belts, dear.

THE COUNTRY OF SUPERWOMEN

2007-11-27T05:48:00.001-08:00

There’s no country in the whole world that practices the concept of equality of gender better than Indonesia.

I realized this as I was huddled in a packed Trans-Jakarta bus, along with a dozen of other women, while the (young, vibrant) male members of our society were sitting solemnly, watching us swaying and rocking and clinging miserably to the hand grips in a bumpy ride.

So what? Man and woman are equal. Whatever men can do, women can do just as well. Women are strong- to the bones and to the heart. Standing and swaying are nothing for us. We know it and every man in the bus (apparently) knows it just as well.

There’s no country in the whole world that I love and hate so passionately all at once- more than Indonesia.

THE SOCIAL INEFFICIENCY OF SELF-SUFFICIENCY

2007-11-19T02:51:00.000-08:00

Overheard in a bus, “I just hate self-sufficient people”.

Ha! Laughingly I texted my friend Gatot, away in Borneo, for he was the first person popped into my mind when I attempted to vividly picture the epitome of self-sufficiency.

I said to him, “Somebody hated you”.

I bet he had been hated before (all brilliant, confident people had), but never solely for being self-sufficient. He found it odd. He seemed to think self-sufficiency a remarkable virtue. Pardon me, I beg to differ.

Well I have this heartfelt disregard for self-INsufficient people- folks who seem to thrive on the helps and kindness of others. But I can also relate to the uncomfortable feelings creeping and crawling inside of you, surging up a nausea either consciously or subconsciously, when being around one who seems to need nothing else in the world apart from what s/he has already possessed. It is quite irritating the way these fellas keep themselves for themselves. And intimidating.

I remember the day I went to Djoko’s room (some time during uni) with tears on the verge of trickling down my cheeks. I remember how I stared hopelessly at him- begging for help. And that day when I arrived in Melbourne (first time abroad!)- hugging Icis tight with sincere joy of knowing that I was not alone. And how Libre Tango sent a terrible pang straight to my dear heart- missing Pristi much much much.

I am not ashamed of such exuberant emotions. I think it human to be insecure from time to time; to be in dire need of company and comforts from others. Yet self-sufficient people might never feel these feelings of vulnerability.

Might, I say. Probably they just hide it deep down underneath their confident air. But then it leaves them two possibilities: either they are people less human, or perfectly masked cowards who would not reveal their true colours for fear of social inacceptance.

Both do not sound nice. While I can assure you that this Gatot bloke is indeed a very nice person. Well probably he is not that self-sufficient after all.

Whatever. On the whole, I think it fair to say that in most cases, self-sufficiency leads to social inefficiency; and that being self-sufficient is remarkable remains a remark questionable.

Note:
Written during bowling practice with office folks- scribbling it down on a REAL piece of paper with a REAL scrawny pen between my thumb and fingers- and feeling the ink conjuring REAL lines and curves and dots as I moved my hand. The sensation of REAL writing was then undermined by people shouting, “For God’s sake, Elok- stop analysing logs when we’re bowling!”.

ON ESSENCE

2007-11-07T06:56:00.000-08:00

The essence of higher culture and civilisation
is restrain ourselves against our base nature
and bring forward our divine nature.
It is self-discipline and love.

Nothing else can be said of the matter.
The essence of higher culture and civilisation,
by deduction, should be Islam.

A Bloke from My Past

2007-10-22T05:07:00.000-07:00

A bloke from my past turned up unexpectedly. And how he did change! As I stood gawping, I recalled those years behind- only to mount up my flabbergastedness.

Here’s the story. A naïve, foolish girl as I was, a lingering crush (NOT love!) overtook me. The object of my affection was this bloke- a bassist, with torn jeans, black shirt and long, unruly hair. A rebel- with ideas, struggles and such sweet desperation. He loved music. But more than anything he loved freedom.

Did things go well between us? Absolutely (not). The course of true love never did run smooth, Shakespeare said. But I’m not a romantic. It was never a romance to begin with. Truth is, we belonged to different leagues. Me- a plain-looking girl wearing headscarf. Him- a handsome-figured bassist thriving on the stage. Me- listening to Tchaikovsky and Vivaldi. Him- POD and Korn. Had we been in love; had we tried harder to cling to whatever worth clinging to; perhaps we could have been Romeo and Juliet (ha-ha!). But no- we went our separate ways. I could not put off my headscarf to be in his society and he could not hang his bass guitar to be in mine. The whole affair was perfectly natural.

But he COULD (and did) hang his bass guitar after all. In addition to that, his music and his wild ideas and his whole lifestyle. He has become very Islamic (let me be heard of saying “Alhamdulillah – Praise the Lord” on this) that it scares the h*ll out of me (let me be honest on this).

How he did change.

Man, how he did change!

What can I say? Remember that old song saying “shoes don’t stretch and men don’t change”? I kinda like the song and have always believed what it utters. You know- the “once a beggar always a beggar” thing. I don’t think people REALLY change- they can’t- not to the core of their beings. Anything changeable is always superficial: apparel, tone, possession, manner, routine. The self, all the while, is intact.

(except, perhaps, if you have a near-death experience to reset your “defaults” and start anew all over again)

Then what of this bloke? What changed him? Did he really change or had he always been that way deep within? (Did he almost die?)

What of thousands of other blokes who “changed”- who would gladly sacrifice their dear lives –if for God’s sake- in suicide bombings?

Was it God, the Architect of all these “wonders” (that being the case, I CAN’T have anything further to say)? I should imagine changing someone is not a five-minute job. Perhaps long exposure to something extreme would suffice. Or the will power- the works of incessant therapy. Or Lord Voldemort with his ultimate wand. Or alien kidnapping. I don’t know.

My head is in a turbulent daze- I don’t think I’m fit to write.

We’ve been entertaining the idea of meeting up again- but both hesitant. Him- probably because it’s not a proper thing to do according to Syaria. Me- because I need to know this first and foremost: is change contagious?

Note:
Tiessa- stop laughing. This is a serious business.

with arms wide open

2007-10-20T21:37:00.000-07:00

For more pics of my Victoria quest, click my Photo Blog.

BORN TO TRAVEL, FORCED TO WORK (2)

2007-09-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

(ACEH: TRAVEL FOR WORK)

Perhaps I should tell you about Aceh. Because it was my recent “travel for work” projects- just before Melbourne.

Aceh is of course a globally well-known place; owing to the devastating tsunami that hit the region back then in 2004. Hundreds of thousand people were killed. But actually, disregarding the tsunami, Aceh has always been a place of interests due to its turbulent relationship with the govt of Indonesia, politically speaking. I’d say the conflict in Aceh was a multilayered one. Not only did the people hold a rather different perspective of how the region should be run, they also bore grunts of how economically unfair Javanese people were (Java was, beyond any doubt, the unofficial “central” of Indonesia, and so the Javanese ruled).

Economically unfair! That’s where my office gets into the story. Aceh is indeed a rich region. Fertile soil for plantation in the South, huge gas reservoir in the North. The gas thingy means money- big time! My office drilled wells and got the share, the govt in Jakarta sat watching and got the share, the people in Aceh sacrificed their land and got next to nothing.

(Pray this won’t make me sound like a company woman!) As far as I know, my office did quite well with social programs and community development there –but stuffs like this are never enough, ain’t ‘em? And after all we’re talking about capitalism here. Who says the world is fair?

(Pray this won’t make me sound like a typical hypocrite critic!) But what of the govt? The govt ain’t a product of capitalism as well, were they? They should be fair. If it was Aceh that made the money, it was Aceh they must distribute MOST of the money to. On the contrary, they distributed a bunch of army to suppress the rebellions- and another, and another- when Aceh cried for their rights. And when you start disliking someone, it’s easy to point out the differences between you two. You don’t feel like you belong to the same league. For Aceh people, the Javanese practiced Islam too moderately, invaded their lands so shamelessly, and so on as the list grew longer. It was only natural that they wanted to be out of the league: independence.

I, a Javanese (though a Humanist at heart), came to this “historical” land last month. Sorry to say: for gas exploitation instead of humanitarian aid. But it was Aceh all the same. Land of Syaria. Land where using your left hand is uncultured and therefore unforgiven. Land of headscarved women.

Did I get to see the beauty of exquisite nature? Only so far as the work allowed me- and gas wells with their Xmas Trees and pipelines weren’t exactly pretty, FYI.

Did I get in touch with the local people? Did I immerse myself in their culture? Depends on how you define “local people”. Do people who had been with the company for ages count? Because thanks to this conflict hovering the region, it was literally forbidden for me to get my curious feet even a step away from the Camp. Every trip to outer fields was of Army convoy. Stop by a bit to lay hands on those seemingly delicious local fruits galore along the way, perhaps? “No Ma’am, security measures cannot permit such a risky venture”. Merlin’s pants! I thought we had peace in Aceh already!

Moral of the story?
Inasmuch I enjoyed my trip to Aceh, I would have enjoyed it MORE had it not been for work! Travel and work should be kept separate, folks. You work to earn money to travel, that’s how it is.

PS: I had the rare opportunity to visit offshore platform because of WORK, though. I’ll share it (hopefully) later.

BORN TO TRAVEL, FORCED TO WORK

2007-09-18T16:36:00.000-07:00

What- I don’t like my job? Naaah- it’s just something I read on souvenir mugs in Melbourne last week. It reminds me of Pristi, actually; ma cherie ami living in Bali currently.

But if you travel a lot, and you end up in big cities like Jakarta or Singapore or Tokyo or Melbourne, you’ll get to see something in common sooner or later: shopping malls. Perhaps that’s the inevitable implication of this thing we call globalisation. The other implication is, whereas in the past a traveler was always associated with broad-minded, reliable, sophisticated person, nowadays it is not necessarily so. It expands your soul to see the beauty of exquisite, almost undisturbed nature. It gives you another perspective of life to learn local wisdoms practiced by tribes of thousands of year history. But it gives you nothing to shop at yet another global brand stores.

Margaret, a friend of mine, told me of her one traveling experience that changed her forever. She was only ten, spending her summer holiday in China with her family. Note that China twenty five years ago was not the fast-emerging China as we perceive it today. It had been more or less a closed territory- Margaret went there exactly when it was about to open up. It amazed her how little children and adults alike literally approached her in awe- touching her hair and her skin and her clothes like they had never seen anything like them before. Indeed they had never set eyes on them. There was no TV in the villages; no newspaper, no phone, nothing whatsoever to link them to the “global” world. It was mind-opening for Margaret and her whole family- that there were still people in other parts of the world who didn’t realize that there were other human races living on earth. When I heard her story, even I was thrilled. Imagine what such an experience could do to a girl of ten. Well, that’s what traveling meant in the old days.

Now? Between Senayan City in Jakarta and Chadstone in Melbourne I don’t see many differences. Gucci and Prada and Versace- what else? They’re meaningless- those extravagant shopping sprees. When Margaret plans her next travel with the children, shopping malls sure are way off her list. So are commercial beaches. “Just the beach and the hotel and the crowd of other foreign tourists. What I want is for my family to get in touch with a culture different from their own, so that they may grasp the idea that this isn’t their planet alone.”

That’s her idea of traveling. And if everyone shared her opinion, perhaps you didn’t have to meet so numerous bores well-traveled today.

TO TAKE THINGS FOR GRANTED

2007-08-08T05:42:00.000-07:00

I remember years ago Tiessa and I nodded our heads in unison, saying “She takes things for granted!”. We were trying to justify our sheer dislike to this particular girl (yea- females are the living image of "homo homini lupus", ha ha). We seemed to find that taking things for granted was deplorable.

Was it? Is it, really?

But most people do take things for granted. Sunrise is just sunrise- not a majestic scene of celestial beauty and a kind reminder of The Power Beyond. Food is just food- not something you ought to be grateful for (considering Africa!). Friends are just friends- not beloved people you should care for. Being healthy is the normal state- not a privilege.

If it’s there on a daily basis, if you can get it without efforts, you take it for granted.

But imagine this: you’re in a packed bus, standing and swaying miserably, and then out of the blue a perfect stranger offered you his seat. You’re touched. You’re moved. You think him saintly.

It happened to me. I was deeply touched- whilst I perfectly knew that Arko or Dewa or most of my male friends would have done exactly the same: letting me have their seats. Would I have been as deeply touched if it had been Arko or Dewa? I don’t think so. Of course they’d do that- indeed they SHOULD; they’re my own friends.

Of course Mum MUST love you- she’s your mum. Of course your boyfriend SHOULD check on you and call you everyday- he’s your boyfriend. It’s the natural thing to do.

I dunno, Tiessa. I hate to admit this- but perhaps taking things for granted is indeed the natural thing to do. How deplorable.

E-MAIL TO PRISTI AND ICIS ON JULY 4, 2007

2007-07-11T04:52:00.000-07:00

Subject: The Philosopher in Me

Dear girls,

I'm not gonna blabber events- only Average Minds discuss Events. I'm much more into Ideas- like Great Minds are (haha- still NOT humble, ain't I? ;p)
And the idea i'm entertaining at the moment is- how scary human beings are. Or how scary I am- depends on your perspective.

It's about changes and how adaptive we are to them. I mean- look at me. Been in Jakarta for 20 days only- yet no symptoms of what they call "homesick". I'm perfectly happy and busy- even when apparently there's nothing to do, it turns out that something can always be done. Yet it bothers my self-conscience. I should not be this "at ease". I should feel a bit lonely. I should miss my old life awfully. Things i had on a daily basis- classical tunes, mangas, internet, Pristi (yea- i did stick to her like a leech, didn't I?). Those are the things i had attachments to, and by definition, an attachment is not something you can throw out of the window very easily.

Is it natural not to miss them? Or is it just me? Coz i'm this heartless girl who cares for nothing but her own interests?

Or is it about time? How long will it take ‘till you start missing things? I mean- perhaps i'm still fascinated by the new life i'm leading- so glaringly different from the life i used to lead. Perhaps it's like finding a new toy- you're absorbed by the "newness" of it. But then you start hankering after your dear old Teddy Bear- you start re-inventing the meaning of "the good old days". The honeymoon is over and you see your spouse for what he/she really is. Perhaps the charms of Jakarta will soon wear off.

But how soon is "soon"?

Now don't get me wrong. I do miss the stuffs i mentioned previously, in a way. It's like the humming of machines you hear at the background of things, perhaps. It's there but you don't pay much heed to it. Only once in while does it surface to your consciousness and annoys you- especially when you have nothing more interesting to occupy your mind than to listen to this stupid, constant humming. Well my point is- that's exactly the case. I feel a most terrible pang when larking about Gramedia and having a look at mangas- remembering Dhika and realizing my lost blessing. But it's OK, i can't cope with it. Of course Life will be most enjoyable if have Eltira and Dhika and Realia and Pristi here with me (that's why i enticed you to apply, Sup), but then if not, well i can still cope with it.

For shallow people, it might sound like i don't love these stuffs- like i don't appreciate Pristi half her worth. But Sup, you do read that marvelous book, "The Road Less Traveled", right? The true meaning of Love is when two people feel happier and much more self-expanded to be together, yet they can still do fine living on their own. No dependency whatsoever, only mutual spiritual development. I believe that. In that respect, with all this cold-hearted "i-don't-miss-you-much" stuff, i know i do LOVE you, Sup.

I think the bottom line is that- there is a God. Yes indeed. You can't play Life just as you want it -otherwise both of you will be near me at Jakarta!- coz God give you the cards to play with. Screw the atheists- there is indeed a Divine Power Beyond. You have your cards as It give you, and you have to play them to the best of your abilities. Life's like that. Am i right, girls?

If you can't be with the ones you love, love the ones you're with.
And i'm loving them now.

****
Names:
Pristi: my best friend, living in Jogja and a “professional interviewee”
Sup: the nickname I gave her, short for “Supristi”
Icis: my best friend, currently pursuing a Master Degree in Melbourne
Manga: Japanese comic books
Gramedia: a well-known bookstore
Dhika: book/manga rental nearby my place in Jogja
Eltira: a radio station in Jogja airing classical music
Realia: Indonesian/English language center- where I used to work part-time
The Road Less Traveled: a book by Scott Peck. Also a famous phrase quoted from a poem by Robert Burns.

UPON LEAVING JOGJA

2007-06-25T04:33:00.000-07:00

I left Jogja on June 13. As my train strolled across vast lands with enchantingly beautiful views, I sat thinking of Change- and smiled.

That was odd, actually. I never thought I would leave Jogja smiling. And my relationship with Change had always hovered between love and fear. I used to boast that I DID love change, yet inside, fear kicked love down most shamefully.

Fear of Change. Restlessness. Those are what I scribbled on Feb 1, when I had just got hold of my degree.

“As I was walking along my favorite lane, I thought of the future (again) and what would become of me. I guess these are the days when I am compelled to ponder the next stages of my life. So- as I was saying- I pictured myself leaving Jogja to work elsewhere.

Will I be happy? To part with this lane I love so much? With Dhika and recitals and blue sky and cozy dinings? With the people I love? With the life I’m used to?

Will I be happy to be uprooted from this fertile soil I’ve come to love, and be planted in an unfamiliar ground? I don’t know. I think I’ll be happy still. But will I be HAPPIER?”

The future is always scary, because you don’t know what will happen next. Yet the future is also exciting, exactly because you don’t know what will happen next.

When I was that silly, lazy girl in Jogja, leading a frivolous life, I KNEW what would probably happen next. Life was so comfortable and predictable and perhaps less exciting. Life was- in one word, easy.

But then easy things don’t instruct you much. Deep inside I’ve had always kept aflame the urge to move on. Progress is the essence of one’s existence- even if it pains one. And progress means Change.

So here I am, in Jakarta. I’m writing this in my cubicle- 3x4 sq meters, chilly, full of filing cabinets, very business-like and with no access to see the sky. How funny it is. The sky used to be so natural a view to me- I saw it when I woke up, I stared at it while planning my day, I walked under it humming silly tunes- on a daily basis. Now, I have to walk along the hallway to have a peep at the sky- only to find it greyer than ever.

But really, I mustn’t grumble. In what aspect can my new life be perceived as wanting? Friends are abundant- of registered working class. Meaning, they seem to be around only when you’re at your busiest. But then malls are also abundant. Living in this confirmed money-driven world, when you lack agreeable company, spending is the quickest shortcut to happiness. You’re happy when you pay- you’re happy because you know (and people notice) you CAN pay. Yet you eat your burger with a somber look. You drag your shopping bags sulkily. At the end of the day it’s just you and those useless stuffs. Piles and piles up- hunting your conscience down- of how FUTILE this pursue is.

It’s scary being alone. I’m telling you, it really is.

No, folks- save your worry. I’m NOT exactly alone.

Just next door at the lodging, an old pal is always ready at my service. At the office I come across a whole bunch of familiar faces –thanks to my “reputable” uni background- and am excited to get to know the unfamiliar ones. I schedule weekly bowling and yoga and sport dancing and choir and all. Then there’s Tiessa with her karaoke/footwear hunting moods. Here’s Alice-in-Wonderland. Adventures beckon.

After all is said and done, I find myself sufficiently happy- even with the realization that Jogja is left behind. Happy there as I was, if I had stayed, I don’t think I would have been as content. That’s the answer to my questions. Change is not awful- it’s the fear. And the only way to conquer fear is to look at it squarely in the eyes and fight it.

So I left Jogja- smiling in the anticipation of what lied ahead. Smiling- knowing how much happier I would be when I came back. Jogja remains a place most dear to me. Well- that is to say that some things just don’t CHANGE, man.

BOTTOM-UP APPROACH... LITERALLY

2007-05-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

My pals jeered me for that shameless blabber i posted before- so i suppose i have to show them i learned my lesson. They wanted me to stop being so pompous. Fine- I'm all ears. I am exercising the bottom-up up approach: you listen to people's aspirations first before taking any action.

And my immediate action is- to recognize what other people seem to do so well naturally, whilst i am cornered with my incapabilities. Bottom-up approach once more... literally.

Here's the story. The ladies at my usual haunt have been committing such obvious a folly concerning this new bloke who happened to show his "cute" BOTTOM up last week. Bottom in capital letters: it brought great impacts, that's why. They talk about it incessantly. Or to be exact, they *giggle* about it incessantly.

So everyone is enjoying their selves hugely in this yummy -if not scientific- discussion on his sexual appeal- and i'm unjustly excluded. Because i'm clueless. They made me look at that allegedly gorgeous bottom- and i saw nothing. I mean of course I saw his bottom -covered in jeans- yet i lacked (still do) the capability to exercise any judgment regarding its beauty. I am sexually stupid.

But then perhaps it's something i could even flaunt. Moral values. You shall not judge a book by its cover, nor a man by his bottom. Bottoms are just skin deep.

I remember the riot over recent Miss Universe pageant in Mexico. People yelled that beautiful or ugly, women should not be an object. If you really believe in the equality of gender, you will tell those drooling ladies that beautiful or ugly, his bottom should not be an object. Then the never-ending hilarious break-time discussions -in which i have no say- will be coerced to stop.

But of course nobody really believes in the equality of gender. Nor anybody cares enough to dispose of their rich heritage of checking the opposite sex out just for the sake of this vague concept.

So the male members of our society will continue assessing me by the size of my cups and the female members of our society will continue celebrating some bloke's famous bottom surreptitiously. (Surprisingly sounds almost like the equality of gender itself, don't you think?)

The giggle and the whispers shall thrive. And these dignified ladies -me included, attempting to excel at this art- shall keep on stealing glances at his anatomy: bottom, chest, arms, shoulder, nose, eyes.

Thighs? Of course not. It's a bottom-up approach :-)

End note:
I sincerely hope this post will not be perceived as some "sexual harassment" towards one particular Mr. X. Sexual harassment? Pious girl like I am? Huh.

HUMBLE ME

2007-05-11T22:09:00.000-07:00

Confession. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Most dreadful sin of all, too: Lack of Humility.

This is what *I* think about me:
I am witty.
At times I *can* be pretty.
I am well-educated. Analytical. Creative.
I have smart conversations.
The rest of the folks are usually less bright than I am. Although not necessarily less worthy.
I can master *anything* if I care to learn it.
I am not lovable, yet some people just love me MADLY.
I am a Lady of the World. Or will be.

Throw up, ladies and gentlemen- follow my example. But you should have been prepared to face such boastful remarks; I've warned you I am not humble. Never been, 'thru all these lovely 25 years.

I don't gloat, though. No hubris either. Too well-behaved for that. (Yes, you just got it, should cut-paste to the list above: I'm proud of my manners as well. Dear me.) Thus so far, my hidden pretentiousness never does me any harm. The problem is, I begin to realise *things* about me. Like, it seems I'm no longer witty. Or I never was, and the self-deceit I had been engaging myself in has come to a screeching halt. And should it be true, all the rest of my good qualities would then be condemned questionable.

This is a solemn, aching moment- to sit and reflect upon the truth in (or lack thereof) these alleged qualities of mine.

But why bother? True or not true, I'D LIKE to keep the good opinions I give of myself. Lack of humility is better than lack of self-confidence. And way way way better than hypocrisy. Nietzsche even wrote of humility as a false virtue which concealed the frailties and hidden crookedness in its holder (what a mouthful!). You go, old man.

However, as I'm *still* sitting solemnly to contemplate all my wonderful virtues, let me finish this rambling with a solemn prayer, "Lord, where I am wrong, make me willing to change; where I am right, make me easy to live with".

There! :-)

I'M WRITING FOR FUN :-)

2007-05-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

This is for Dewa. (Hear ye, Dewa, i specifically dedicate this to you! Now buy me lunch :p)

He once -and twice and thrice- said that my writings were so gloomy. A bit creepy. Positively distressing. Like i had no sunshine in my life. And what was worse- i deliberately tried to wipe off my readers' bit of sunshine, too. Now it doesn't sound so appealing. I believe he even went further as to say that my writings were responsible for some of his fits of nausea. His other fits were probably the result of my killing glance on hearing that very comment.

Oh well. He's always exaggerating; my friend Dewa. But being a sensible person, i had to take precautions of his senseless ramblings. Taking the pains to read over my own written blabber, i found out the aching truth: he was right. I hardly wrote anything fun. The bottom line of each and every writing i posted was always about my being slighted by the gender-biased society, my being annoyed by someone who expected me to be sharp, my being p*ssed off because people wouldn't listen, my pseudo-broken heart, my constant deficit in financial department, and so on and so on.

I wonder why.

Am i not content with life? Am i not a person with cheery, happy disposition? Am i not "Joy. Pure Joy." as what i took the liberty to label myself?

And even *this* is going to end up as another distressing post, i see.

Better bend it before it's too late, won't we? Think of something heart-gladdening. Like sunshine. Blue sky. Birds chirping. Breeze blowing in. Friends nearby. Liverpool winning all the matches (in MY dreams, ha ha). Jamie Aditya down on his knees proposing to me. Me lying down on the grass, staring at the sky of Hokkaido. All the books I drool on. Chocolate. Loads of chocolate.

But i gotta stop- it has grown to be a very selfish list. Let's think of something heart-gladdening, yet more beneficial to fellow mankind. Like Barack Obama becoming US president. Indonesians dropping dead when they commit corruption. People commencing war against ecological violations. Every John minor and little Siti having the much-needed education they deserve. Poverty then will be history. So will capitalism. And greed. And all evil drives.

Feeling better? I've pictured you an utopia. But to tell the truth, i am *not* feeling better. Because the very essence of an utopia is that it is unreal. And the very essence of being unreal is that it is not what you have. It might never be what you have (save for Barack Obama, coz very likely he'll be doing great with the presidency run).

And where it leads us to?

Simply that *this* is yet another disturbing writing of mine. Oh Dewa, i'm so sorry i can't be cheery. But it's just me.

lost in bali

2007-05-02T21:23:00.000-07:00

THE BUSINESS OF LYING

2007-04-23T03:50:00.000-07:00

I said I wasn't gonna eat anything. He asked why.
"I'm on a diet", I replied. A lie*, of course, but it was far less lengthy an answer than to elaborate on my economy, appetite and general taste in relation to the place we happened to drop by.

And so the four of us got in. Pristi and I, plus two guys we had just met in an event. It was a Padang restaurant. A costly-looking Padang restaurant.

They picked their dinner and took their seats. I was seated, too- foodless.
"Why don't you have your dinner?", the same guy asked.
"I'm on a diet", same answer.
"What?"
And I gave him a reluctant smile. This would not do. "Nothing", I said.
"She's on a diet!", snapped the other guy, and then he blurted impatiently, "O God!".

My grinned grew broader.

Because, one: it was a blatant lie- so blatant that everybody in their right sense would notice it instantly. Very cheeky of me, too, to lie blatantly twice in a row on the same subject. And two: because he didn't mean what he asked despite the fact that he asked twice.

Now that I come to think of it, as I'm writing this, I'm beginning to feel p*ssed off. So this guy deliberately threw me a question, yet just a second later didn't care enough to hear what I gotta say? What does it mean?

Well, everybody knows this simple rule: "ask questions = show an interest". He wanted me to believe that he was interested in me. What a BIG lie.

Hear ye, folks. The true sign of interest is when you listen. The best of friends is the one who would listen- even when you say nothing. They give you the priceless access to their ready ears. And when they really listen, you know they care. Sincerely.

So when this guy did not listen to my answer, he didn't really care what I said. He didn't mean a fiddle what he asked. And people who don't mean what they ask are not worth answering to. You should just ignore them. It's actually a lie and an insult- to pretend to be interested while condemning you not interesting enough to listen to. The hypocrisy.

Therefore I'm not sorry I lied twice about my being on a diet. I only did a disservice to a person who was a bigger liar than myself- he lied twice, too. He started all this business of lying.

But next time (yeah- I reckon there will be next time, since a great deal of people seem to lack the prominent "skill" to mean what they ask) when facing such a plight perhaps I should just keep quiet. It won't make any difference to the asker- and it keeps me from lying and being enraged. Win-win solution.

*I mean, seriously, why would I need a diet? I'm wearing size 6.

Patah Krek Krek (Mungkin)

2007-03-28T06:48:00.000-07:00

Seperti inikah rasanya patah hati?

Deskripsi keadaanku secara fisik: dada terasa sesak, badan lemas, mata berkunang-kunang, sedikit pusing dan langkah menjadi berat.

Secara kelakuan: terus-menerus mendesah, tidak ingin bicara, tidak ingin mendengarkan orang.

Secara emosi: campuran sedih, sesal, kesal, sedikit mengasihani diri, sedikit ingin mencari kambing hitam, ingin teriak, tidak ingin memikirkan konsekuensi dari semua ini, tidak ingin berpikir tentang ini sama sekali, tapi bagaimanapun tetap terpikir, terus dan terus dan terus, tidak bisa lepas dari ingatan- seperti lintah besar dan buas yang tidak puas-puas.

Tolong, seseorang yang pernah patah hati. Tolong konfirmasi gejala-gejalaku ini. Seperti inikah patah hati?

Benar-benar berat. Tuhan, sungguh berat. Kesadaran bahwa yang biasanya selalu ada di sana, selalu bisa diandalkan, selalu membantu tanpa ba-bi-bu, kini tidak ada lagi. Kesadaran bahwa hari demi hari yang berlalu membuatku lupa bahwa kebersamaan senantiasa fana- entah kenapa aku pikir dia akan menyertaiku selamanya.

Sekarang sudah tidak ada lagi. Dan bersamanya, hilang sebagian diriku. Hilang sesuatu yang penting bagiku. Menguaplah detik demi detik yang aku luangkan untuknya.

Benar-benar berat. Flash disk-ku berhenti bekerja dan separah inilah efeknya.

Aku tidak sedang bercanda. Aku patah hati (mungkin- makanya tolong dikonfirmasi) gara-gara flash disk-ku mati. Karena bersamanya -seperti sudah kubilang- lenyaplah file-file pentingku. Karena artinya aku akan menghabiskan entah berapa jam atau hari atau minggu untuk mengganti dataku yang menguap itu.

Aku tahu, aku tahu. Aku memang perempuan berhati dingin. Ditinggal flash disk buatku lebih menyakitkan daripada ketika ditinggal sahabatku yang melanglang ke lain kota. Atau ketika mengakhiri kisah dengan si ini dan si anu. Tapi bukankah secara esensial perasaan sakitnya tetap sama, apapun obyeknya?

Patah. Krek krek.

Hotel Mawaddah, Diskotek Hamdalah

2007-02-06T02:09:00.000-08:00

Pristi, sarjana psikologi yang lulus cum laude, cantik dan cas-cis-cus berbahasa Inggris, menyatakan ketertarikannya bekerja di bidang perhotelan.

Aku, perempuan culas oportunis yang melihat kesempatan makan gratis di hotel tempat Pristi bekerja (kalau jadi), segera menyambut keinginannya dengan dukungan berbunga-bunga.

"Tapi mana ada sih hotel yang mau mempekerjakan perempuan berjilbab?", tukasnya kemudian sambil mendesah. Harapanku pun hancurlah.

Ada kebenaran di situ. Aku ingat aku sendiri pernah meragukan apakah jilbabku ini dibolehkan masuk Hugo's dan TJ's. Di dunia hedonisme, jilbab yang menjadi simbol keagamaan jelas menguarkan bau-bauan yang mengernyitkan kening para sekuleris.

Pristi bilang sebenarnya masih ada harapan, misalnya kalau dia ditugaskan menjadi HRD Manager di hotel cabang Dubai atau Oman. Aku bilang, kesempatan lain akan datang ketika berdiri hotel yang kami impi-impikan (dengan setengah bercanda): HOTEL MAWADDAH. Dan di dalamnya: DISKOTEK HAMDALAH.

Kalau Hugo's menghalauku pulang, aku akan pergi ke Hamdalah dan menikmati kesetaraanku sebagai manusia. Dengan cara Islami, tentu saja. Ada hijab untuk ikhwan dan akhwat. Bukan host music tapi nasyid. Dan setiap kali akan terdengar, "Alhamdulillah bisa ke disko". "Alhamdulillah bisa dugem". Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.

Atau kalau studi kelayakan pasar untuk wahana semacam ini ternyata kurang menawan -berapa sih jumlah perempuan berjilbab di Indonesia, apalagi yang otaknya berantakan?- yang bisa dilakukan Pristi adalah berdoa. Agar P** menang Pemilu 2009 nanti. Mungkin syariah akan diterapkan di seluruh penjuru bumi pertiwi. Ketika semua perempuan muslim menutup auratnya, Pristi pun bisa bekerja di hotel mana saja.

Sampai di sini aku bertanya-tanya, sebenarnya aku sedang bicara omong-kosong apa?

Dulu, dulu sekali, dengan mata mengawang Pristi bilang bahwa tadinya dia pikir jilbab hanya akan membatasinya dari berenang. Orang-orang berkoar soal dunia tanpa diskriminasi. Ras, gender, agama- sama, sama, sama.

Aku dan Pristi warga negara miskin di Asia, perempuan, berjilbab pula. Pada gaung kesetaraan yang cuma samar-samar di Dunia Nyata, kami tertawa. Dunia Nyata itu kejam. Bisa tertawa pun suatu berkah. Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

2007-01-30T03:20:00.000-08:00

The Importance of Being Earnest. Sounds familiar? It sure is. But it had nothing to do with neither Oscar Wilde nor Colin Firth when I had the phrase banging on the back of my head yesterday. It was Life teaching me a lesson: “Elok, you wicked girl, don’t deceive people!”

I learned another thing as well. That when you are tired of someone, actually it is YOU whom you’re tired of.

Let me put some light to this seemingly obscure argument. I met a friend yesterday. Someone I knew months before in a brief encounter, but who seemed to grow quite fond of me and had been seeking opportunities to see me again. His eagerness was alarming. Yet romance was utterly out of question. So far as I was concerned, he just wanted to talk. And he was a good talker, too, with a witty touch here and there.

All the same, I was tired of him. Or, to put my hypothesis in use, I was tired of myself when I was with him. His presence, in a way, compelled me to be someone I wasn’t. Because he expected me to be sharp.

I don’t blame him, really. It served me just right. When we parted before, I left him under the impression that I was this smart, bright girl with attitude. Which of course I’m not –and wasn’t either. But I’m telling you, I’m pretty good at deceiving people in this sort of things. Unluckily for me, the art of deceiving requires that you live up to your bogus image ‘till the end. Hence this tribulation of “Bunburying”.

I’ll do you good by warning you that such an exercise is extremely dangerous in the way that it’s stressful and tiresome. The efforts of pretending to be smart! It put my brain to a non-stop work for hours. I must be constantly on guard while actually displaying pretty laid-back air. Few that I could call as a more industrious labour.

What obliges people to stick themselves to such calamity is, I reckon, more than the fear of unmasking. In most cases, unmasking is indeed impossible. Everyone has a stock of personae, as psychologists would gladly expound. When you deal with someone, you pick one or two personae on display; the ones that you feel most appropriate to manage his acquaintance with. It’s a self-defense mechanism you perform subconsciously.

More personae –probably all- will surface once you develop a more intimate relationship; when you think you are emotionally safe with him. I have this belief that the person you love most is always yourself. But then you come to love those who make you feel comfortable being yourself; those who make you love yourself more. Those to whom you reveal all your personae genuinely and like you anyway.

Of course you would die for them, because if you don’t you’ll hate yourself and that makes Life unbearable. When you hate yourself, it’s the end. And when you’re tired of yourself, you’re heading towards the end.

I wonder why I –and perhaps many of you, occasionally- drag myself towards the end yesterday. Why did I have to pretend that I was sharp when I was just a half-silly, half-sassy girl? Jack Worthing “Bunburyed” to escape the boredom of his country life. Algernon to run away from social obligations he detested.

Me?
The urge of being agreeable. It’s the whole truth pure and simple.

But no worries, people! Lessons learned. I decide that rather than being liked, it is more important for me to LIKE myself. Or, to the way Jack put it, “I’ve now realized for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.”

FYI:
“The Importance of Being Earnest” is a play by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900). It tells the stories of Jack and Algernon, both inventing fictitious people for their own advantages. The term “Bunburying” refers to the activity of making use of the bogus, whose name is Bunbury in Algernon’s case.
The classic play came to the big screen in 2002 with Colin Firth playing the cast of Jack Worthing.

CHICKENOCIDE

2007-01-20T02:02:00.000-08:00

Jakarta bans backyard farming!

Just like Hitler’s SS on the Jewish, Jakarta govt officials will go door-to-door in a mission to seize and destroy chickens –probably before the very eyes of the owners’. I assume there will be “trials” to decide whether the chickens in question are deemed potentially responsible for future bird-flu disaster or not, but this bylaw is a chickenocide all the same. And what with the Avian Rights –that chickens, like other animal and people alike, have the equal right to live in the city? (haw haw)

I see Mr. Sutiyoso has made it a second habit to take things to the extreme. How many troops will be needed to enforce the ban? How much money to get them moving? Not to mention the not-in-the-least-cushy jobs of chicken slaughtering: what to compensate the owners? Those chickens might be their lives. And how to execute the whole bloody affair, anyway? I have this vivid imagination of Ciliwung River transformed to the cesspit of dead poultry; flowing red and emanating rot odour all the way, while the city streets are covered in white feathers. Cute.

With so many slaughtered, the price of chicken will surely soar. And -knowing Indonesia- with it perhaps every other price. But don’t let’s worry about it. Something even worse is threatening. If you believe chickens have souls, just be prepared to take back the fruits of your injustice. Yes, I’m talking about The Curse of the Chickens. Mankind, thou wilst suffer!

Bird-Flu is a serious issue. Every sensible step to prevent its outbreak and spread should be done without delay. I’m all for the fight against bird-flu –and bird-flu related folly.

MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING

2007-01-16T17:54:00.000-08:00

No, it's not happening (yet). Wedding's on the way for sure, but at this very moment my best friend still manages being unmarried -thank goodness! But the end of this month will see her long-time boyfriend propose to her; family ties, ceremony and all. They've been together for ages that I knew -for ages, too- this would eventually take place. But having her telling me that she's literally stepping into the realm of matrimony opens my eyes of what it really means, both to her and to our "partnership".

Yes, partnership. That's how we label our friendship: Partners in Crimes. With her I spent my frivolous youth doing fun, crazy things good girls didn't even think of.

So my best friend, my loyal partner-in-crimes, is getting married. She sounds quite thrilled and sufficiently happy. After all the groom is an eligible guy (kind-hearted, funny, well-bred, financially secured, all the good things you can possibly name) who adores her madly. They share the same interests. What else to ask? She must be happy.

Now the crucial question: Must I be happy? I guess I must. That's the least someone can do when a friend gets married. The "I'm happy for you" stuff. That's the moral standard; good girls' answer.

But I'm not a good girl and she's not my friend. She's my partner-in-crimes. If truth be told; No- I'm not exactly in rapturous anticipation for the event. I'm going to lose my partner-in-crimes; why should I be happy? We cannot re-live the days when we were so careless and free; why should I be happy? From now on I will stand second to her in all matters -including girl things, because girl things are creeping out of her world. The supremacy of Domestic Life will claim her.

"Let's hit the mall; big sale at The Executive!"
"I can't. My child is ill."

"Quite a while since we bowled, eh? Feel like going?"
"Umm- love to, but I've got the laundry to deal with.."

The future doesn't sound very appealing both for the married lady and her humble friend.

Si, amigos, *I* sound like a venomous witch speaking out of spite. I can't help it. I asked my self if I was jealous- coz she's with a fiancé and I Mr. Not Exist. But no, I'm too content in my independency of men to bother being jealous with someone else's love affairs. Wedding -my own, that is- could be the last thing on my mind at present. And to the best of my belief, love her as I do, I'm STILL more interested in men than in women. Really, this pang I'm feeling was born merely out of the knowledge that what HAS BEEN no longer WILL BE.

It will never be the same. Say whatever you like, but the truth remains unchanged: things will never be the same once one ties the knot.

I can't say I'm looking forward to her wedding. But I'm not holding her back -can't even if I try. I'll cope with whatever becomes of the two of us, and wish her joy whole-heartedly. I guess it sums up to what she texted me one evening, "Well, life goes on". Damn right, girl. I mean- damn right, Ma'am.

HOW TO SPEND 2 HOURS IN A BAD FASHION

2007-01-07T04:14:00.000-08:00

(scroll down to read in Indonesian)

This is how: make an appointment with a gang of five blokes you barely know, and see where it leads you to. I did it last week, and I’d call it “hospitality gone mad”.

They were my seniors at uni; way above my year. I happened to be in emailing terms (every once in a while; the “how are you doing” stuff) with some of them, and when they announced their visit to my town, I was prompted to say, “Do come and let’s meet”. It was hospitality; a value Indonesians most treasured and were known of.

Well, people make stupid decisions from time to time. Last week was my time, and as I sat waiting for them for half an hour, I could easily depict what was coming.

They were of course nice, kind-hearted, good sort of fellas. It was not for them to blame that they lived in worlds I knew little of. They had their own language and topics. I ended up being the social outcast –not by design, I’m sure. Mind you, in most cases I LOVED learning about people and their lives, but they were too busy with themselves to let me start my civil attempts. And so there I was, curled myself in a ball right there in the corner, while the big blokes were laughing at their own jokes. Words reduced me to some occasional “Really?”, when I had the chance of speaking at all. Most of the time I was just smiling sheepishly and wondering what morass it was that I let myself be bogged down into. If hospitality had permitted, I would have got up and leave. But I was an Indonesian after all, and Indonesians were not supposed to do that.

The worst blow was when he (one of them) started preaching at me. I swear to God I stared at him in a startled, obvious dismay. He would have understood what he trespassed - had he been more sensitive-, yet he went on with his “moral lecture”. I thought of some possibilities: 1) snapping him off, 2) laughing at his verbose attempts, 3) walking out right away. But I checked myself. Again, politeness ruled.

And I knew he intended well.
To tell the truth, in the beginning, all of us intended well. They didn’t wish to be perceived as neglecting me while in town. I shared the opinion and wanted them to feel welcomed. But the fruit of all these kind intentions was 2 hours wasted in a bad fashion. Because in fact, I didn’t need to see them and they didn’t need to see me. My time was precious, and so were theirs (probably more!). In scenes like this, we should have let “hospitality” halt at the point where nobody got hurt.

Moral of the story:
The next time someone you hardly know, someone you don’t care enough about, someone you do not need/want to see, says he’s in town, the best policy is to text him, “Really? That’s good. Enjoy your visit.” and nothing more. It saves trouble.

I don’t think the gang cares enough about me to read my blog, but if by chance they do, I know I’m in trouble.
Well you see, blokes, I appreciated that you spared your precious time for me, but let’s be honest to admit that the rendezvous wasn’t fun.

Sitkom Dua Jam

2007-01-07T03:17:00.000-08:00

(How to Spend Two Hours in a Bad Fashion -Indonesian version)

Masing-masing pihak tidak bermaksud melucu, tapi mereka terjebak dalam satu situasi yang lucu, itulah sitkom.

Minggu lalu aku jadi bintangnya. Sitkom versi dunia nyata.

Syahdan aku punya beberapa teman –mantan senior di universitas- yang kadang kirim-kiriman imel. Lokasi mereka tersebar di seantero Indonesia dan bola dunia. Suatu ketika mereka mengabari rencana mereka untuk bereuni di Jogja. Pada posisi ini, aku hanya bisa berkata, ”Oh bagus! Ayo kita ketemuan!”.

Dan memang bagus kalau bisa ketemuan kan? Aku selalu senang pergi makan malam dengan teman, saling bercerita tentang banyak hal, dan berbagi pandangan tentang hidup dan dunia.

Dalam kasus ini, kondisi ideal diganggu beberapa fakta:
1. Aku sebenarnya tidak terlalu kenal mereka
2. Mereka bawa teman yang belum pernah aku lihat seumur hidup
3. Dunia kami jauh berbeda

Hasil dari ”percobaan” atas nama keramah-tamahan ini,
Mereka: sibuk bicara dengan topik mereka sendiri, dengan bahasa mereka sendiri, komunikasi yang dikatagorikan para ahli sebagai ”full of contexts”.
(Wajar, karena ini reuni mereka, tentunya mereka ingin bicara tentang dunia mereka, tanpa bermaksud membuat-)
Aku: tersudut di pojok, berusaha menyimak, berusaha mengerti, kehilangan kata-kata dan memutuskan membiarkan mereka dengan topik mereka.

Sambil bertanya-tanya apa sebenarnya yang sedang aku kerjakan di sana, aku menyadari kebodohan situasi ini dan tidak bisa berhenti nyengir gila.

Semua pihak bermaksud baik. Mereka tidak ingin dianggap mengabaikan aku sementara mereka mampir ke Jogja. Aku tidak ingin dianggap mengabaikan mereka sementara mereka mampir ke Jogja. Jadi dibuatlah janji bertemu. Yang sedikit kami lupakan adalah: mereka tidak benar-benar perlu dan ingin bertemu denganku, aku idem ditto, dan bahwa keramah-tamahan tidak seharusnya justru menghancurkan keakraban.

Aku akan bilang ini dengan terus terang: keberadaanku di sana sedikit-banyak mengganggu acara mereka. Dan waktu dengan sok tuanya ada yang menceramahiku soal hidup, aku hampir-hampir berdiri dan pergi, jika bukan karena mengingat norma kesopanan yang harus dipatuhi.

Jadi dua pihak yang sama-sama ”tertekan” terpaksa duduk dan tertawa bersama sampai waktu yang sepantasnya. Lucu kan? Terlalu banyak yang ditahan-tahan dan dikorbankan atas nama kesopanan dan keramah-tamahan.

Izinkan aku belajar dari pengalaman ini. Lain kali ada yang mengabarkan kunjungan mereka, tanggapanku akan berhenti pada ”Oh bagus!” saja.

THE CROSSROADS

2007-01-02T02:54:00.000-08:00

Bad habit it might start to become, yet the beginning of 2007 sees me post words that are not my own. A new year is always the time for resolutions and turning points; I hope to be permitted to nourish the wish that the following excerpt from Somerset Maugham’s “The Razor’s Edge” would find its way into the heads and the hearts of as many blogwalkers as possible. Nice stuff to contemplate, and what not.

‘When are you coming back to Chicago?’
‘Chicago? I don’t know. I haven’t thought of it.’
‘You said that if you hadn’t got what you wanted after two years you’d give it up as a bad job.’
‘I couldn’t go back now. I’m on the threshold. I see vast lands of the spirit stretching out before me, beckoning, and I’m eager to travel them.’
‘What do you expect to find in them?’
‘The answers to my questions.’ He gave her a glance that was almost playful, so that except that she knew him so well, she might have thought he was speaking in jest. ‘I want to make up my mind whether God is or God is not. I want to find out why evil exists. I want to know whether I have an immortal soul or whether when I die it’s the end.’
Isabel gave a little gasp. It made her uncomfortable to hear Larry say such things, and she was thankful that he spoke so lightly, in the tone of ordinary conversation, that it was possible for her to overcome her embarrassment.
‘But Larry,’ she smiled. ‘People have been asking those questions for thousands of years. If they could be answered, surely they’d been answered by now.’
Larry chuckled.
‘Don’t laugh as if I’d said something idiotic,’ she said sharply.
‘On the contrary I think you’ve said something shrewd. But on the other hand you might say that if men have been asking them for thousands of years it proves that they can’t help asking them and have to go on asking them. Besides, it’s not true that no one has found the answers. There are more answers than questions, and lots of people have found answers that were perfectly satisfactory for them. Old Ruysbroek for instance.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Oh, just a guy I didn’t know at college,’ Larry answered flippantly.
Isabel didn’t know what he meant, but passed on.
‘It all sounds so adolescent to me. Those are the sort of things sophomores get excited about and then when they leave college they forget about them. They have to earn a living.’
‘I don’t blame them. You see, I’m in a happy disposition that I have enough to live on. If I hadn’t I’d have had to do like everybody else and make money.’
‘But doesn’t money mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing,’ he grinned.
‘How long d’you think all this is going to take you?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Five years. Ten years.’
‘And after that? What are you going to do with all this wisdom?’
‘If I ever acquire wisdom I suppose I shall be wise enough to know what to do with it.’
Isabel clasped her hands passionately and leant forwards in her chair.
‘You’re so wrong, Larry. You’re an American. Your place isn’t here. Your place is in America.’
‘I shall come back when I’m ready.’
‘But you’re missing so much. How can you bear to sit here in a backwater just when we’re living through the most wonderful adventure the world has ever known? Europe’s finished. We’re the greatest, the most powerful people in the world. We’re going forward by leaps and bounds. We’ve got everything. It’s your duty to take part in the development of your country. You’ve forgotten, you don’t know how thrilling life is in America today. Are you sure you’re not doing this because you haven’t the courage to stand up to the work that’s before every American now? Oh, I know you’re working in a way, but isn’t it just an escape from your responsibilities? Is it more than just a sort of laborious idleness? What would happen to America if everyone shirk as you’re shirking?’
‘You’re very severe, honey,’ he smiled. ‘The answer to that is that everyone doesn’t feel like me. Fortunately for themselves, perhaps, most people are prepared to follow the normal course; what you forget is that I want to learn as passionately as – Gray, for instance, wants to make pots of money. Am I really a traitor to my country because I want to spend a few years educating myself? It may be that when I’m through I shall have something to give that people will be glad to take. It’s only a chance, of course, but if I fail I shall be no worse off than a man who’s gone into business and hasn’t made a go of it.’
‘And what about me? Am I of no importance to you at all?’
‘You’re of very great importance. I want you to marry me.’
‘When? In ten years?’
‘No. Now. As soon as possible.’
‘On what? Mamma can’t afford to give me anything. Besides, she wouldn’t if she could. She’d think it wrong to help you to live without doing anything.’
‘I wouldn’t want to take anything from your mother,’ said Larry. ‘I’ve got three thousand a year. That’s plenty in Paris. We could have a little apartment and a bonne a tout faire. We’d have such a lark, darling.’
‘But, Larry, one can’t live on three thousand a year.’
‘Of course one can. Lots of people live on much less.’
‘But I don’t want to live on three thousand a year. There’s no reason why I should.’
‘I’ve been living on half that.’
‘But how!’
She looked at the dingy little room with a shudder of distaste.
‘It means I’ve got a bit saved up. We could go down on Capri for our honeymoon and then in the fall we’d go to Greece. I’m crazy to go there. Don’t you remember how we used to talk about traveling all over the world together?’
‘Of course I want to travel. But not like that. I don’t to travel second-class on steamships and put up at third-rate hotels, without a bathroom, and eat at cheap restaurants.’
‘I went all through Italy last October like that. I had a wonderful time. We could travel all over the world on three thousand a year.’
‘But I want to have babies, Larry.’
‘That’s all right. We’ll take them along with us.’
‘You’re so silly,’ she laughed. ‘D’you know what it costs to have a baby? Violet Tomlinson had one last year and she did it as cheaply as she could and it cost her twelve hundred and fifty. And what d’you think a nurse costs?’ She grew more vehement as one idea after another occurred to her. ‘You’re so impractical. You don’t know what you’re asking me to do. I’m young, I want to have fun. I want to do all the things that people do. I want to go to parties, I want to go to dances. I want to play golf and ride horseback. I want to wear nice clothes. Can’t you imagine what it means to a girl not to be as well dressed as the rest of her crowd? D’you know what it means, Larry, to buy your friends’ old dresses when they’re sick of them and be thankful when someone out of pity makes you a present of a new one? I couldn’t even afford to do to a decent hairdresser to have my hair properly done. I don’t want to go about in street-cars and omnibuses; I want to have my own car. And what d’you suppose I’d find to do with myself all day long while you were reading at the Library? Walk about the streets window-shopping or sit in the Luxembourg Garden seeing that my children didn’t get into mischief? We couldn’t have any friends.’
‘Oh, Isabel,’ he interrupted.
‘Not the sort of friends I’m used to. Oh yes, Uncle Elliott’s friends would asks us now and then for his sake, but we couldn’t go because I wouldn’t have the clothes to go in, and we wouldn’t go because we couldn’t afford to return their hospitality. I don’t want to know a lot of scrubby, unwashed people; I’ve got nothing to say to them and they’ve got nothing to say to me. I want to live, Larry.’ She grew suddenly conscious of the look in his eyes, tender as it always was when fixed on her, but gently amused. ‘You think I’m silly, don’t you? You think I’m being trivial and horrid.’
‘No, I don’t. I think what you say is very natural.’
He was standing with his back to the fireplace, and she got up and went up to him so that they were face to face.
‘Larry, if you hadn’t a cent to your name and got a job that brought you in three thousand a year I’d marry you without a minute’s hesitation. I’d cook for you, I’d make the beds, I wouldn’t care what I wore, I’d go without anything, I’d look upon it as wonderful fun, because I’d know that it was only a question of time and you’d make good. But this means living in a sordid beastly way all our lives with nothing to look forward to. It means that I should be a drudge to the day of my death. And for what? So that you can spend years trying to find answers to questions that you say yourself are insoluble. It’s so wrong.’

To put it briefly, the couple then broke up their engagement.

Now don’t get me wrong. Lovey-dovey stuffs (interesting as they are) should not be spotted as the highlight here. Frankly I don’t know why I was so much drawn to this piece of two lovers’ conversation. It just got me thinking. Of passions and decisions, of dreams and the pursue, of sacrifice and selfishness. Of social construction and upbringing. Of idealisms; of practicality. Of honesty, of being normal, of responsibilities. Of money. Of going off the beaten track. Of choices. Of crossroads. Of compromise. Or the lack of it.

Perhaps I’ll pour ‘em down into words in my next post. Perhaps not.
At any rate, happy new year.

While writing this somehow I remember Tiessa and Pristi. The ‘marrying for money’ thing we talked about, Tiesz, and all your globetrotting plans, Sup. I wonder if you princesses will be Isabels.

About W.Somerset Maugham: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W_Somerset_Maugham

ANA CHI POLY

2006-12-10T18:25:00.000-08:00

(Anagrams, China and Polygamy)

I always love anagrams, and recently I came across this hilarious, amusing one by Tony Crafter:

Apparently, one in five people in the world are Chinese. There are five people in my family, so it must be one of them. It's either my mother or father or it's my older brother Colin or it's my younger brother Ho Cha Song Sa Chu. But I think it's Colin.
=
Inferior logic. It obviously can't be my mom or my pop, for neither venture anywhere near the Chinese restaurant. Furthermore, my brother Colin (timid poof) likes pie 'n' chips. Ho politely doesn't say a thing. Therefore it has to be... Oh hell! It's me!

What a witty way to spot the population problem in China; and what a good laugh! Unfortunately, population problem in China is actually no laughing matter.

We all know how China struggles with it- and at what cost. Currently China is of the population of 1.3 billion, and the number could have increased by a quarter if not for the one-child-per-family rule. The birth of about 300 million babies -almost entirely female- has been prevented since the policy was first in effect in 1980. We are talking about 300 million female babies who were aborted selectively, or were born and then just left to die when the family favored a son. The price of curbing the runaway population growth has been very high, but if you think the "missing girls" were the only ones to pay it, think again. Eventually the boys must also pay their share.

By 2020, China will be flocked by some forty million men of marriageable age who will not find a wife, simply because the females who might marry them were never born. Over forty million unattached males wandering off the streets and crowding around pubs with nobody to come home to- utterly scary! More than mere social problem (pimps being encouraged), it's a recipe for riot. No sane gov't would find anything funny about it.

Yet here in Indonesia we are facing a different plight when it comes to marriage issues. Unlike China, Indonesia has a constant surplus of females, thus the main concern should be of these spouseless women with nobody to support them. Just when some renowned cleric decided that taking a second wife seemed like a good idea to help the situation, the polemics started like hell. The gov't is now considering widening the ban on polygamy for civil servants to cover all officials working for the state, amidst the pros and cons of everyone who suddenly thinks he/she has something to say over the matter.

Polygamy is beyond any doubt a complex practice. Muslim males cry for their religious rights to take up to four wives, yet here and there Muslim scholars point out the deficiencies of such -allegedly- misled thinking. Aspects other than religion are also concerned: social, cultural, ethical, financial, biological. Surprisingly, the object of this practice does not respond in unison. Some women shake their heads firmly in dignity, others literally welcome the idea. But let's put all prejudices aside; let's stick to the fact: Indonesia has a surplus of females. It is going to be a bit hard to get all these spare women married when the gov't legally opts against polygamy.

So on the one hand, China is going to crave brides, and on the other hand Indonesia is about to let millions of women spouseless.

What's the logical solution of these two situations?

Crystal-clearly simple- export brides to China. Keep the number of women in Indonesia only to fit the number of men. Count the advantages: Increase on Gross Domestic Product. Cultural expansion to the massive territory of China. A boost in bilateral relation as the two families will subsequently visit each other (not to mention the possibility of small scale joint enterprises to emerge between). Monetary gain as China's economy is soaring high. It's a polygamy-less, sparkling future.

We will also have a substantial improvement in how the male members of our society treat their counterparts. No more harassment. The end of any sort of subjugation. Domestic violence will be history. Imagine the girls boldly say, "Don't mess with me, boy. Or else I'll leave you for China". Because she could.

Tony Crafter would have to create a new anagram.

Note:
An anagram is a word play; the result of rearranging letters into some sort of parallel. Perhaps it's best to define anagrams anagramically: "Anagrams = Ars Magna" (Latin for Great Art).
Examples of short anagrams:
The eyes = they see
Eleven plus two = Twelve plus one
Internet addiction = Cannot end it. I tried.
Iraq oil + arms trade = Al-Qaida terrorism
The typical blonde-haired woman = On the whole, rated incapably dim.
Bonnie Parker & Clyde Barrow = Known pair declare: "Robbery!"

A THING OF BEAUTY

2006-12-01T20:55:00.000-08:00

I went to a fashion show last night.

I am not the sort of girl who frequents fashion shows, and I hesitated before actually going, but yes, I was there last night. To my great surprise, it was not as flashily tedious as I thought it would be.

Because it got me thinking, even with all the hedonistic crowd and music so loud.

Models walked to and fro on “catwalk” and they did seem like cats- purring, satisfied, cunning, dangerous cats. They hid their claws. They were without flaws. Those models were so awfully beautiful that I thought they were creatures from another earth.

Well I have this prejudice about beauty. I believe that in most cases beautiful means brainless. Perhaps you are actually bright, but the more striking your beauty is, the less you need to make use of your grey cells. Being beautiful is enough work. Hence, as I was saying, in most cases beautiful means brainless.

Anomalies?- there are some. I heard Natalie Portman had brain (so was the rumour about Dian Sastro –an Indonesian celeb- but I’m not convinced). Jewel and Vanessa Mae could be in the list. And Arundhati Roy.

And these models pampered in extravagant dresses- I tried to find anomalies last night; to break the myth. But when you see models on catwalk what do you see?

Bodies.

It sounds derogatory, yet that’s the stalk-naked truth. Mere bodies.

“It takes bright girls to be models, I reckon. What with all these sophisticated walking and turning around. You have to estimate the angle of your turn, or else you will shamefully stumble. Something to do with physics, eh?”, Pristi, standing next to me, whispered in a suppressed giggle.

“It takes a lot of practise and that’s about all”, I replied coldly.
“Aww come on-“
“No, I’m not going to buy your campaign of how bright models are”.

Because, if they have beauty, elegance, and brains, all in one package, what’s left for ordinary girls like me? That will make Life seem a bit unfair.

So long as gorgeous models are concerned, I’ll only go so far as to admit that underneath the glamorous images, a whole bunch of hardworking is involved.

They have to walk back and forth for hours to rehearse a two-minute appearance on stage. The demanding “healthy” diets for those slender bodies. The bills for pots of cream to keep their skin so silky smooth. Having their make-up on since 12am while the show won’t start before 7pm. Not to mention the guts to show your body around like that in clothes that are more revealing than covering. And just imagine the backstage- it takes skills and a strong will (and perhaps a certain moral standard, ha ha) to undress completely among a crowd, don’t you think? These are things not everyone can do. Models, in their own ways, even excluding their divine bodies, ARE superb.

But they are not necessarily bright. I’m sorry that I choose to be undoubtedly arbitrary as to stick to my prejudice. I’m going to say it for the third time: in most cases beautiful means brainless. Brain and beauty just don’t go together- Nadine Chandrawinata has already showed us a good example.

Names:
Natalie Portman: actress (Starwars, Garden State, Closer, V for Vendetta, etc) and international celeb
Dian Sastro: actress (Ada Apa dengan Cinta, Ungu Violet, Pasir Berbisik), presenter (Who Wants 2b A Millionaire –Indonesia) and Indonesian celeb
Jewel: singer and writer- www.jeweljk.com
Vanessa Mae: violin player
Arundhati Roy: Indian writer (The God of Small Things, The Cost of Living)
Pristi: one of my best friends- see her pictures in my album!
Nadine Chandrawinata: Miss Indonesia 2005, known for her ridiculous blunder during Miss Universe 2006 pageant.

To Yessi, my model friend for whom I went to the show: of course you have brains, girl! YOU are an anomaly.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MAS JASON

2006-11-04T10:26:00.000-08:00

Meskipun sedikit terlambat, saya ingin mengucapkan selamat ulang tahun kepada Mas Jason.
Mudah2an Mas Jason mendapatkan segala yang terindah yang layak didapatkan orang sebaik mas Jason.
The same goes to mbak Jen.
The two of you have a place in my heart.

SAY NO TO FORGIVING

2006-11-04T09:04:00.000-08:00

(Lebaran Bits pt.2)

I just realised how cheap and trifling forgiveness was. I mean in Indonesia, particularly with the atmosphere of the blessed Idul Fitri lingering on, forgiveness has always been cheap, yet the subtext never really dawns on anyone.

Yes my friend, I'm starting a campaign!
Aren't you tired-to-death of forgiving people? Isn't it curious how they seem to keep making the same mistakes, and then apologise, and then start all over again in a silly cycle where YOU play the kind-hearted fool? Isn't it odd how you play the fool in one cycle yet probably the knaves in others?

Come on now. Admit that there are people that you take less seriously because you know they will always forgive you no matter what mischief you do. Like, you deliberately come late to an appointment and you don't feel sorry. No worries, they're easy. On the contrary, you make a mental grouping of the sort of people who won't take it easy. With them you behave.

What makes the difference? One forgives you easily, the other does not. Yet one thing you probably don't realise yourselves: you (slightly) look down on those whom you can "fool". Using the theses in reverse, I can sum up that if you don't want people to look down on you, then don't let them get away with it easily when they make a mistake.

Gold is valuable because it's rare and scanty. What you can get without efforts will be taken for granted. Think about it. Be hard-hearted. Be mean. Don't forgive those unworthy of forgiveness. Forgiveness (and apologies) should be more sacred, more solemn, more sincere. I'm sick of these people saying sorry in a casual way, without any trace of penitence whatsoever. You know they don't mean it. Yet there is this social pressure to conduct what is proper: to forgive them accordingly. The funny thing is, they know you don't mean it. So the problem is (superficially) solved, both parties are (superficially) happy, hypocrisy ends the story. Man, this gotta stop.

My (tentative) campaign goes something like this:
DO NOT FORGIVE PEOPLE IF THEY DO NOT SEE WHAT THEY DID WRONG.
DO NOT FORGIVE PEOPLE IF THEY ARE NOT TRULY SORRY.
DO NOT FORGIVE PEOPLE IF THEY DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MEND WHAT THEY HAVE CRUSHED.
DO NOT FORGIVE PEOPLE WHO CANNOT APPRECIATE FORGIVENESS.
DO NOT FORGIVE PEOPLE WHO CANNOT LEARN FROM A MISTAKE.

Come on all people! For social reforms, let's crowd the streets!

(The content of this post is, of course, a parody. I apologise if it causes you any inconvenience. And I know you WILL forgive me, coz forgiveness is ALWAYS cheap; yours' no exception. Ha ha.)

Maaf (Bukan Barang) Obralan

2006-11-04T08:33:00.000-08:00

(Lebaran Bits pt.2, Indonesian version)

Hari-hari ini saya jadi menyadari betapa murah dan remeh-temehnya sebuah maaf. Tentu saja ini hal lazim di Indonesia, apalagi sementara kemeriahan Idul Fitri masih di depan mata. Saking biasanya, tidak banyak orang yang keberatan dengan maaf obralan, dan tidak banyak pula yang menilik ada apa di belakang.

Biar saya yang memulai kampanye ini. Bukankah kita semua sudah kepayahan terus-terusan memaafkan orang? Bukankah aneh bahwa yang dimaafkan acapkali mengulangi kesalahan yang sama, dan minta maaf lagi, dan terus berputar dalam siklus konyol di mana kita kebagian peran sebagai si Pandir-nya? Bukankah lucu bahwa si Pandir di satu siklus ternyata berjaya menjadi si Buaya dalam siklus-siklus lainnya?

Ayolah, jujur saja. Memang ada orang-orang tertentu yag bisa kita "kadali" kan? Orang-orang yang dikerjai seperti apapun masih mau memaafkan kita. Yang kita bisa santai bersiul-siul meski terlambat janjian dengan mereka. Toh mereka tidak akan marah. Minta maaf sambil nyengir, bereslah. Sebaliknya ada juga orang-orang yang tergolong "garis keras" dan segalak satpam. Dengan mereka kita tidak berani macam-macam.

Apa bedanya? Sederhana: yang satu gampang memaafkan dan yang lain tidak. Tapi seringnya kita tidak sadar: dalam hati, kita (sedikit) memandang rendah mereka yang gampang dikadali. Dengan membalik premisnya, bisa disimpulkan bahwa kalau kita tidak ingin dipandang sebelah mata, jangan memberi maaf cuma-cuma.

Kenapa emas dianggap berharga? Karena langka; tidak banyak jumlahnya. Apa yang bisa dengan mudah diperoleh tidak akan benar-benar dihargai, ini kita mengerti. Untuk urusan maaf-memafkan pun setali tiga uang. Keras hatilah sedikit. "Dingin" sedikit. Jangan obral maaf pada yang tidak layak mendapatkannya. Maaf (dan permintaan maaf) seharusnya lebih suci, lebih khidmat, lebih tulus. Orang-orang yang minta maaf seenaknya saja, tanpa menunjukkan penyesalan sedikit pun, cuma bikin muak. Bayi juga tahu itu basa-basi belaka. Namun kita "ditekan" untuk menanggapi seperti ajaran PMP, alias memaafkan mereka dengan senyum lebar. Yang lucu, mereka juga tahu kita tidak sungguh-sungguh memaafkan. Tapi dalam panggung sosial, masalah sudah diselesaikan, kedua pihak berjabat tangan, cerita rampung dengan kemunafikan. Bung, malpraktek begini mesti berhenti!

Kampanye saya kira-kira akan begini bunyinya:
JANGAN MAAFKAN ORANG YANG TIDAK BISA MELIHAT KESALAHANNYA!
JANGAN MAAFKAN ORANG YANG TIDAK SUNGGUH-SUNGGUH MENYESAL!
JANGAN MAAFKAN ORANG YANG TIDAK BERUSAHA MEMPERBAIKI KEADAAN!
JANGAN MAAFKAN ORANG YANG TIDAK BISA MENGHARGAI MAAF!
JANGAN MAAFKAN ORANG YANG TIDAK MAU BELAJAR DARI KESALAHAN!

Bapak-bapak dan Ibu-ibu! Ayo turun ke jalan dan kita reformasi ini sosial punya aturan!

(Isi tulisan ini, tentu saja, adalah parodi. Mohon maaf bila ada bagian-bagian yang kurang berkenan untuk Anda. Dan saya tahu bahwa saya pasti akan dimaafkan, karena di mana-mana maaf memang murah, dan Anda bukan pengecualian. Ha ha.)

BANANA SPLIT

2006-11-03T01:02:00.000-08:00

(Lebaran Bits pt.1)

Sometimes on a sizzling, fasting day in tropical Indonesia, Idul Fitri took the shape of a few scoops of ice-cream to me. People sure had more philosophical views on the sacred meaning and prominent importance of Idul Fitri, but the right to claim ice-cream, to enjoy it on one scorching hot day, was about what mattered most when the heat (hence dehydration) drove me to the verge of lunacy.

It is clearly understood, then, that everyone looked forward to the “arrival” of Idul Fitri. And it is equally clearly understood that the annual battle of determining when-it-befalls somewhat became less and less enticing to me.

It’s that “hisab and rukyat” thing. It’s whether you will trust your astronomical calculations or your very own eyes. Now I’m not going to go into details. In most cases, what you see is what you get, but when it comes to seeing a (hazy, tiny, hardly visible) object on the far sky, one might be intrigued to seek encouragement in other methods (if any). This year both Muhammadiyah –who trusts their hisab- and Nahdlatul Ulama –who relies on their rukyat- had publicly agreed to disagree. That was to say that they decided to go their separate ways and each wouldn’t give a darn of what the other did. Seemingly the two schools of thoughts took “pleasure” in retaining their constant animosities, whilst ignorant fellows like I were caught in the middle. So some had their ice-cream on Oct 23 and some on Oct 24.

Leaders of the two so-called giant Islamic organisations had both declare that there was to be no “open dispute” in the grass-root concerning their different ice-cream days. The Minister of the Dept. of Religions hastily nodded his approval. Even the President urged the two parties involved in this “war of nerves” to view the matter as the freedom for religious expressions and thus to “behave” themselves. It was a formal assent for the Idul Fitri split. And splits are sure natural; even trees have branches. Yet I just can’t find my way to be so indulgingly tolerant to man-made split on things you could actually reconcile; if only you had the will.

Except for Banana Split. But of course in that case you have three scoops of ice-cream in between (instead of this Idul-Fitri-date row), and it’s a good man-made thing. Oh, I love ice-cream.

(As to what day I had my ice-cream, can you guess, guys?
It was on Oct 28, unfortunately, coz I was too busybusybusy to get it sooner. Shame!)

SMS TEXTS GALORE

2006-09-24T02:30:00.000-07:00

I'm in the state of bankruptcy.
In terms of mobile phone credit.

It's this "please 4give me" thing, gnawing at my credit with every beep of SMS texts. It's this noble, humbling custom of welcoming the sacred month of Ramadan with the purity of hearts. Thus, you ask forgiveness from each other. Thus these SMS texts galore if you don't happen to live precisely side by side with all your friends. Thus this state of bankruptcy.

What is kindly meant is not always practical, or so it seems.

You have your mailbox full of texts that sound (sender, wording and font may vary):

"As divine as the purest soul.. As crystal clear as the deepest thoughts.. As shimmering as the will to do good.. With the approaching holy month of Ramadan let us be thoroughly cleansed of sins. Do accept my apologies for any inconvenience I have imposed on you. Intensify our worship acts in humble serenity and may God bestow the blessings of Ramadan upon us all."

Mind you, English will be the last language of choice. Indonesian is still the common lingua franca, though lately its position has been seriously undermined by the extensive use of Arabic language. The poetic attempt and the verbosity yet remain.

May God forgive my impertinence, but keeping such boring, clichéd texts to pile up in my mailbox doesn't seem very inviting. And there comes the obligation to send similar texts in return. It's an impoverishing, cliché-ridden triviality, and who'll wear the widest grin in the end? GSM provider companies only.

I mean, suppose it's been over a year since the last time you see a person, no calls or emails in between, and the two of you are not even in SMS-ing term. Why on earth do you send a "pls 4give me" SMS text to that particular person? What mischief have you probably done him/her? Or perhaps you understatedly apologise for failing to keep in touch over the year? Nonsensical. Yet ignoring him/her could be perceived as an effort to eradicate the very person from your friend-list. Another social casualty. No, you wouldn't like that. So you buy that nonsense for the price of (generally) Rp 350. The price of claiming friendship.

OK, I'm being cynical. Nothing's really wrong with SMS texts galore; they add a touch to the glorious season, and besides, I'm always in the constant state of mobile phone credit bankruptcy anyway. In the spirit of Ramadan, do accept my apologies for any inconvenience I might have imposed on you by writing this rubbish. Then let our soul be divine, our thoughts be crystal clear, our goodwill be shimmering, blah, blah, blah. :-D

TO SMILE OR NOT TO SMILE

2006-09-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

A reason to smile this morning: I came across this amusing little poem. Listen.

The girls that are wanted are good girls
Good from the heart to the lips
Pure as the lily is white and pure
From its heart to its sweet leaf tips.

The girls that are wanted are girls with hearts
They are wanted for mothers and wives
Wanted to cradle in loving arms
The strongest and the frailest lives.

The clever, the witty, the brilliant girls
There are few who can understand
But, oh! For the wise, loving home girls
There’s a constant, steady demand.

(from “The Girls that are Wanted”. J. H. Gray, c. 1880)

So true, so true. Even the passing millennium can’t change the truth in it. But after the nodding smile, here come the questions.

Like, should I be upset about such idea? Should I be offended? In terms of gender relation, I KNOW some people (umm.. ladies, mostly) would.

The feminists.

But of course. It is their job to be infuriated by any minor violation to the concept of equality of gender. Even I can count a few reasons of their rage.

1. You cannot say “the girls that are wanted”, since it indicates that some girls are unwanted and it is bad for the dignity of women in general.
2. Plus, girls are not objects on display for men to choose from. Girls CAN also choose their men if they wish to.
3. The patronizing voice of the writer urges girls to be “good” and “pure”, and emphasises the expectation for girls to take the roles of mothers and wives. Which is deplorable. Girls should have the freedom to choose their own roles; their own ways, their own points of view, without being browbeaten by the patriarchal society.
4. The writer clearly discourages girls from taking more intellectually challenging roles. Domestic girls are stated to be preferable; they were, they are, and will always be.

Frankly, I’m bored of this never-ending battle. Say no more of “women on top”, for women are not supposed to be on top if it’s just because men used to be. I mean, it’s so childish and meaningless. Mere revenge will get you nowhere.

But then perhaps I said all that because I didn’t really know what it felt like to be oppressed, abused, subjugated. I am lucky. Lucky girls don’t usually end up being feminists.

Which reminds me of a hate-mail I received a couple of months ago. An anonymous person accused me of being a half-hearted feminist. Mind you, he/she might be right. But it depends on how you define feminism, right? Depends on whose glasses you’re wearing, and how verbose you are.

Which leads us to yet another question: What REALLY makes a feminist?

Honestly, I dunno and I don’t think I care. Jammy as I am, I do have compassion for the less fortunate girls. I’m all supports when it comes to fighting for the rights of women, for them to be treated with respect and dignity, for better niche within the society. Only I want also to cherish the right of smiling at amusing things that come my way.

Because once you get too focused, you take the fun out of everything, and the world grows bitter.

What is so hard about admitting that we live in a patriarchal world, that women are still the second gender? It might not be right thing, but it is the truth. I want to make peace with the truth. And smile at it, even whilst I’m making efforts to change it.

This morning, I learned that domestic girls were always preferable, and that perhaps I was indeed a half-hearted feminist, but the world was still indulging.

GOLD MEDAL, ANYONE?

2006-08-07T04:18:00.000-07:00

Andi Mallarangeng, formerly eminent politics analyst and currently spokesman of the president, appeared in the most popular variety show in Indonesia. He said, “Although PSSI –the national football association- did not participate in the World Cup finals, but Indonesia was the world champion in recent Int’l Physics Olympiad, with 4 gold medals!”. It was sort of “I’m Proud of My Country” campaign.

Well, good for you, Sir, because your “campaign” was surely heard by millions of Indonesians watching the show. Count me in. I don’t watch gossip shows, nor sinetron (unbearably nonsensical soup opera), nor Extravaganza, but by a chance I came across this interesting “campaign”. And by another curious chance, exactly five minutes later I stumbled upon an article: interview with one of the celebrated Int’l Physics Olympiad champs. (1)

Here are some facts:
He could deal with master degree level physics probs.
He spent 8 months in a special “quarantine” to prepare for the Olympiad, during which he couldn’t see his schoolmates.
He didn’t know what his dad’s major was. And didn’t seem to care either.
E-mails, online chat, blogs, and friendster were not a part of his life.
He didn’t recognise popular music groups like Radja or Samsons.
He didn’t even know the meaning of dugem. (2)

An intelligent boy, undoubtedly. A good, intelligent boy. A good, intelligent, DULL DULL DULL boy, perhaps.

Now don’t get me wrong. Don’t think that I’m being objective here. We’re talking about a boy of sixteen with an international gold medal, who showed up on the telly relentlessly. At sixteen! Let me be envious a bit, okay?

But on second thoughts, no I don’t envy him. He might be smart, but he sounded so geeky I couldn’t help pitying him. I believe in simple things, that children should run about in a park, play on the swing, laugh cheerfully, and be heartily happy. That boys and girls should enjoy their crushes, hang out with friends, be obsessed with various passing fads, and be foolishly happy. That this young whiz at physics should enjoy his adolescent days as well. That he doesn’t have to go dugem or so, but at least he shouldn’t be so socially ignorant. He has the right to be happy.

But on the THIRD thoughts, I don’t think I have the right to consider him unhappy. It’s just ridiculous to employ MY standards to measure HIS happiness. He didn’t say he regretted winning the gold medal. Nor that he wished he had been a brainless Mr. Popular. Maybe in his own way he was content with life. Maybe the wicked girl in me should mind her on business, ha-ha!

And maybe I should stop my ramblings here, saying how proud I am of those int’l gold medals for Indonesia; and all the three of us (the boy, the president’s spokesman, and I) will be happy. Yet is the quest of education merely about gold medals? Does the nation building emphasise on how many gold medals we obtain, or how good we are as human beings? Should I really be proud if my country gets all the gold medals in the world, but the youngsters who achieve them turn to people lacking empathy and interpersonal skills?

Again, I’m exaggerating. This is not exactly the case with the aforementioned gold-medal-boy. I’m taking it to the extreme: that sometimes we pay all our heed to physical (physics? ;p) achievements that we neglect things that really matter.

I’m proud of Indonesia, Mr. Mallarangeng. But I would be prouder if we could trounce the corruption, the ill-developed culture, the lies, the greed, the evil, the ignorance, the LACK OF EMPATHY. Shoot me now.

Note:
(1): Tempo Weekly News Magazine, edition No. 23/XXXV, July 31-Aug 6, 2006
(2): Dugem, short for DUnia GEmerlap, literally means "glittering world". Dugem is a very popular slang, referring to clubbing, hanging out in a fancy cafe, and other so-called hedonistic conducts.

COME ORIGINAL

2006-07-31T21:29:00.000-07:00

How delightful it is to be an intellectual -particularly in this country where the ignorant find the bliss in their ignorance. The intellectual step forward to grab it all: prestige, privileged social rank, job, fame, fortune. You could even make the president step down if circumstances admit.

A long and winding road? Not so fast, pal. Becoming an intellectual is a piece of cake once you get the hang of it. You would, of course, find yourself under the obligation to “prove” your intellectual capacity by some written work. Which means piles of thick books in advance, during what’s-so-called “preliminary literature study”. Rummaging the libs and reading-reading-reading.

Undoubtedly it will take a great deal of time to read all those heavy stuffs, -a great deal of boring time, you might as well say. But then you don’t really need to read them all. If you’re lucky, you don’t even have to read any. List of references, or bibliography, or anything you’d like to name it, is just a formality, as every imbecile knows. Such a trifling stuff is not to be sweated, though, for surely some fellow scholar will only be too happy to lend you a copy of his/her own list on the very subject. “Copy-paste” is the lingua franca of scholars in here, or so it seems.

But actually you have two strategies to cope with this text-book-reading business. Either you choose obscure works of reputable geniuses –that nobody would dream of arguing- and list them without reading a single word, or you read some (endure!) and mix ‘em here and there to create an even obscurer idea. There. Some irksome people might question your originality, but let them bark. The fact is every John does it and gets away with it.

It is curious to figure out that most people measure your intellectual capacity not by your originality but by the great names you claim “acquaintance” with. Or those you plagiarize. Just like that Harvard-freshman Clark in Good Will Hunting* (1997). Things would just run smooth if not for the irksome Will’s questioning Clark’s originality: “You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? I read that, too. Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me?”. And then, “.. you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library.” It was indeed an abuse that sounded so much like the truth. If you’re not careful, you will have your conscience shaken, your pride sunk.

You will rejoice, of course, when Clark smartly pointed out to that ill-bred janitor, “But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive trough on our way to a skiing trip..” It can’t be more eloquently expressed. And –thank God- this is the world which regards diplomas too far above originality anyway. So Will and all those dumb originality-worshipper idealists can go to hell.

And when all is said and done, you may lay back, relax and enjoy the hymne sung in YOUR praise: Vivat academia/ Vivant professors/ Vivat membrum quodlibet/ Vivat membra quaelibet/ Semper sint in flore/*

Oh, and don’t forget that skiing trip, while your assistants are dutifully writing your thesis for you. It’s your turn to say, “Hey Will, how do you like them apples?”

Note:
* Good Will Hunting (1997), directed by Gus Van Sant, written and starred by Matt Damon and Ben Affleck

* “Long live the academy!/ Long live the teachers!/ Long live each male student!/ Long live each female student!/ May they always flourish!” from Gaudeamus Igitur (aka. De Brevitate Vitae -On the Shortness of Life), a song in Latin that is a popular academic commercium song in many European countries.

A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

2006-07-19T05:35:00.000-07:00

I saw her plunged herself into the bed in a desperate manner, declaring “I’m stuck with my life!”. I didn’t know what it meant.

She went on telling me how unadorned her life was. Office job from 9 to 5. Same stuff everyday. Same people. Boring boring.

Mockingly I reminded her of her upcoming wedding. “You’re gonna taste a brand new experience. The sacred “first night” and stuff.” (FYI, most -?- Indonesian girls remain virgin till they’re married).

To my great surprise, this silly notion didn’t stir her in the least. This was the girl who used to be raring to talk when it came to sex topics. Something was definitely wrong with her.

“Yeah, it’ll be something. But then I’m just following the common path. It is what everybody does.” she uttered.

“So? Everybody works and gets married and has babies, but in the end each life is unique, right? I mean, they all lead their own lives anyway.”

“But I wish I had more priceless experiences like you do..”

Good. So it was about ME after all.
“Hey-”, I began with a frown, “it’s not- “, but I checked myself.

She was my best pal. Graduated from Chemical Engineering Dept. at one of the best universities in Indonesia, she is currently working for an explosives manufacturer (or so). She knew me inside and out. She knew that I was 24 (old girl!), without a diploma (and hating my thesis), without a boyfriend nor fiancé nor Significant Other, without a steady job, without capital, simply without any prospects in life (seemingly). And not even pretty. *sigh*

By any standards, she should not envy me. It should be the other way around. But then life is a very funny thing, right? It is always amusing to see things turn upside down.

Yet it wasn’t amusing to see the look on her face. A damsel in distress, I thought. Or, to tell the truth, another damsel in distress. I remembered perfectly how several days back a friend called me, whining over the phone about her “disorientated life” (whatever that meant). Same complaints here.

So what was going on, actually? A quarter-life crisis? When you’re 25 and you have a nice steady job, you just get bored and wish you were 20 with a frivolous life again? When you finally obtain financial security (for most people it matters most), you start hankering for some inane adventures? Is it about the concept of wanting more, -about greed?

Or about wanting something you can’t have?

When I asked her if her life was that bad, she said nope, basically she was fine. She wouldn’t trade her life for mine, I dare say. Perhaps it was just kinda hard to accept –and adjust to- the fact that office work suited her best; that it was gonna be her fate forever. The thing about life is that you make a choice and you live with it. She chose the common path, yet I know it wasn’t easy to let go of the unlimited possibilities which were to be hers if only she had taken “the road less traveled”. The grass is always greener on the other side, they say. Life’s like that.

And perhaps 25 is just the age when you start pondering on your whole life all over again: to reveal the reason of your existence and the ultimate aim of your being. Old enough to be sensible (+ boring) and young enough to be nonsensical (+ trying). A viable, die-able age. Hence these damsels in distress.

By the way, about this “greener grass” she kept an eye on, -the celebrated “priceless experiences”. So far as I’m concerned, the list might well include being tried by a board of lecturers for writing opposing views, clashes with seniors, hate calls from jealous wives, getting entangled with divorcing guys, six-week attachment in a remote village (no clean water, no electricity, no mobile), two-month exhausting job training in world’s largest gas producer (offshore!), and two-week interpreting job at a disaster relief (plus three weeks of nightmare afterwards). Talk about a damsel in distress. I AM the damsel in distress! :-(

WE'RE "NOSY", YOU'RE "FLIRTY"

2006-07-14T05:30:00.000-07:00

When I was a naïve girl of 12, just beginning to learn English, I thought that to bridge two cultures, language was all you needed. I thought that if I could master English, I would understand “English-speaking people” thoroughly.

I am now a naïve girl of 24, and 12 years of experience has shown that I thought wrong.

Suppose you’re a bule (this is our “affectionate” way of calling foreigners, especially when they’re white), just arrived here in Indonesia. Local wisdom urges you to visit your immediate neighbors right after you moved in, but how could you possibly know? Definitely not from Indonesian Grammar books. They don’t really tell you what’s acceptable and what’s not when it comes to custom.

And when you find yourself being subjected to an inquisition about your private life, with an Indonesian looking sincerely curious, waiting for your hesitant answer, what could you possibly think of? Indonesian people are all nosy! They ask things like “Are you married, Mister?”, and “How many children do you have?”, and “How old are you?”, and even “How big is your salary?”. Yet for an Indonesian it would be most natural to inquire personal information of a stranger: to weigh up their social position, to start a conversation, as well as to show that you care about that particular person. Once learning the motives, I don’t think you will find sufficient reason to be pissed off with this “interrogation” ritual.

And once learning your motives, I don’t think any Indonesian will find you flirty when you pat her (especially HER!) on the shoulder. Of course you know you only mean to be friendly, to show a little harmless affection, but does the object know? You can never be sure. It is not in English Grammar books either. The thing is, it’s not common for Indonesians to have such a “free” inter-gender contact. Plus all you bule suffer from the stigma of being too relaxed in “relationships”, be it true or exaggerated. It all sums up to one thing: fat chance of your not being regarded flirty while you’re keeping your old habit.

Yet the facts remain: bule ain’t really flirty, just as Indonesians ain’t really nosy (of course in both cases we might have some exceptions ;p). This is what they call “cross-cultural understanding”. This is what prevents wars and disputes between groups of people from different backgrounds. This is what could save you from malicious rumors (believe me; it will be malicious once people here start thinking you flirty or so). This is what I learnt the hard way.

24 and still a naïve girl, I’m at least determined to learn from my mistakes. And as to this cross-cultural stuff, I could well say that all you have to do is to keep being open-minded and positive. Before passing any judgment –“nosy”? “flirty”?- just bear in mind that everybody has a reason. And a whole set of culture behind him.

(Mas Kris made me work on these cross-cultural understanding topics for some upcoming focused group discussion. Nasty little thing.)

Pada Akhirnya adalah Fakta

2006-07-11T04:31:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, -end)

Selesai Sudah

Dan selesailah ceritaku ini. Sebelas hari dalam Ekspedisi Sewon. Sebelas hari yang berkilauan seperti permata, yang kuabadikan sebagian kerlipnya dalam kata-kata.

Sekarang aku yakin, aku tidak akan lupa pada semua orang di OR, di klinik, di X-Ray Room, di out mission. Aku tidak akan lupa pasien-pasien yang aku jumpai, tidak akan lupa teman-teman sesama interpreter (kami sudah bikin milis!), tidak akan lupa jiwaku sendiri, atau alasan kami ada di sana. Perasaan ini aku tulis, perasaan ini abadi: Patria Es Humanidad!

Pic: (some of) the interpreters, with Rob Woodard and Rudy.

PADA AKHIRNYA ADALAH FAKTA

III Marine Expeditionary Force Medical Assistance Team dari US Marine Corps pangkalan Okinawa tiba di Bantul dan memulai operasinya pada 31 Mei 2006, hanya 96 jam sesudah terjadinya gempa. Selama 11 hari mengadakan pelayanan medis, mereka telah menangani lebih dari 3000 pasien, terdiri dari perawatan di klinik, di ruang operasi, maupun di desa-desa dalam pengobatan keliling. Tim ini juga bekerja sama dengan rumah sakit lokal di Bantul dan Jogja, sekaligus mendukung program-program Dinas Kesehatan Provinsi. Untuk itu tim ini mengimunisasi semua pasien dengan vaksin tetanus immunoglobulin, dan mengadakan imunisasi keliling bagi sekitar 2000 orang. Semua pihak menyebut misi ini sebagai “kesuksesan besar” dalam hal upaya kemanusiaan.

Pic (from VoA): US ambassador visits the medical set up

Misi ini didanai oleh USAID dan dikoordinasi oleh Kedutaan Besar Amerika Serikat. Pada tanggal 9 Juni 2006 Duta Besar AS Lynn Pascoe mengunjungi lokasi untuk meninjau langsung pelaksanaan pelayanan medis. Pelayanan medis ditutup tanggal 10 Juni 2006, dan pada tanggal 14 Juni 2006 semua personelnya dilepas oleh Mayjen Bambang Darmono (koord. DIY-Jateng, Dewan Koordinasi Manajemen Bencana) untuk kembali ke pangkalan Okinawa.

Hari-Hari Terakhir

2006-07-10T12:16:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.12)

107 dalam Empat Jam

Hari terakhir klinik.

OR hanya menerima pasien sampai jam sembilan pagi; mesin X-Ray sudah dikemasi. Tiba di stadion lima belas menit lebih awal, kami kaget mendapati dokter-dokter sudah bekerja. Tenda pelayanan medis didirikan di pelataran parkir. Persis di bawah matahari.

Ada rasa sedih, ada rasa kehilangan. Tenda klinik ini akan dibenahi pada jam 12 nanti, dan selesailah semuanya. Hari-hari ketika kami bekerja seperti mau mati akan berakhir di sini.

Kuhampiri seorang pasien yang aku tahu sudah diwanti-wanti untuk kembali ke OR hari ini. Kubawa dia ke dalam stadion, ke tenda OR, tempat kesayangan. Di dalam, Mueller sedang mengemasi berbagai barang. Yang biasanya ada empat tandu di ruang transit, pagi ini hanya ada satu. Rasanya pilu.

Pasienku sudah terbaring menunggu Cmdr Godinez ketika bahuku dipeluk dari belakang. Aku berbalik, mendapati Cmdr Vilhauer berkata, “Look who’s here!” seraya memegangi kedua lenganku. Aku tersenyum padanya, “Yes, i’m here, Ma’am. And this is my last day..”, dan ia memelukku.

“It’s sad to see you take down things..”, kataku, memperhatikan Mueller, Sheggrud, dan Adefisan yang sibuk menurunkan perlengkapan medis yang bergantungan di dinding. Mereka menoleh dan tersenyum maklum. “I know. Before noon we have to take down the tent, too.”

Dan itulah pasien terakhirku di OR. Pembicaraan terakhir. Kerja sama terakhir.

Usai mengantar pasien, aku menyibukkan diri di tenda klinik dengan menjadi “asisten” Chief Snyder. Kami bercanda dengan Pristi juga, dan waktu berlalu begitu cepatnya. Beberapa kali kami terpaksa menolak pasien yang perlu rontgen atau prosedur bedah. Beberapa kali Chief Snyder berlari-lari mengejar anak-anak yang kabur takut disuntik tetanus. Ditangkap, dipeluk kuat-kuat sementara mereka meronta, dan jlub! imunisasi terlaksana! Kami tertawa-tawa melihat bagaimana seorang anak meninju Chief membabi-buta sampai kacamatanya jatuh, sedangkan Chief yang jagoan perang itu hanya bisa pasrah. Dr.Daily, dr.Santoyo, dan dr.Ferrara sibuk menangani sederetan pasien yang sudah antri. Panas mentari tidak kami pedulikan lagi.

Pics (from mbak Nur-USAID): 1.clinic tents: patients come swarming, 2.eloque, latu and tracey, 3.pristi, dr.Ferrara and Chief Snyder, 4.dr.Santoyo on duty :-)

Jam 11, garda depan ditutup. Jam 12, pelayanan medis ditutup. Dalam empat jam kami melayani 107 pasien dan mengimunisasi 120-an orang. Dr.Ferrara mengamati obat-obatan yang tersisa. Dimintanya kami membawa pulang dan sebisa mungkin membagi-bagikannya pada para korban, karena “otherwise we have to throw ‘em away”. Tentu saja yang boleh kami bawa hanya obat-obat nonresep seperti vitamin, zat besi, dan salep antiinfeksi. Mbak Lilis pun "berpesta", karena kebetulan dia kenal seseorang yang bisa menyalurkan obat-obatan itu kepada korban gempa.

Satu demi satu kami kembali ke dalam stadion. Masih empat jam sampai kami bisa pulang. Aku dan Pristi bergabung bersama para marinir untuk makan siang. MRE terakhir. Siang yang terasa panjang. Pandanganku menumbuk tempat tenda OR berdiri, tapi di sana sudah tidak ada apa-apa lagi. Hamparan kosong dengan tanah berwana merah. Dokter-dokter bedahnya pun sudah diangkut ke hotel Melia.

Di sekitarku, orang-orang sibuk bertukar alamat e-mail dan berfoto-foto. Aku coba turut larut dalam gelombang itu. Di kepalaku terngiang lagi, “the end is the beginning is the end”. Damn, i hate parting.

Pic: taking down the tents. Every beginning has its end?

The Very Last Day

Kami masih kembali ke stadion keesokan harinya. “It’s gonna be a slow day. Lotsa sitting around”, kata Lt.Woodard. Toh ada beberapa out mission dengan pasukan dokter, dan aku dan Pristi sudah bercita-cita untuk ikut misi ini.

Empat interpreter (aku, Pristi, Aulia, mas Bimo), empat mobil USAID, dua belas dokter, dua marinir pengawal (Ortiz –tentu saja!- dan Gonzales), tanpa TNI kali ini. Berangkatlah kami.

Aku semobil dengan dr.Choe dan Capt.Lane (bos besar kami), dan dari mereka kuketahui bahwa ini “misi belajar”. Mereka mendengar ada banyak kasus tetanus di Sardjito pasca gempa ini, sementara di Amerika, dalam setahun hanya ada 3-4 kasus saja, itu pun di pedalaman desa. Dokter-dokter militer ini belum pernah melihat kasus tetanus yang sesungguhnya, dan tak mau menyia-nyiakan kesempatan langka untuk “belajar”. Mereka memiliki kontak dari WHO dan USAID di Crisis Center Sardjito, maka muluslah rencana “kelas tetanus” mereka.

Dr.Sutaryo dan dr.Bambang menemui kami, dan lantas kami digiring ke ruang ICU. Pasien-pasien di bangsal juga ditilik keadaannya, didampingi seorang dokter muda yang gugup dan kacau bahasa Inggrisnya. Di sinilah dilema seorang interpreter mengemuka. Di stadion, aku bisa menjalankan peranku dengan wajar dan luwes, karena para pasien adalah orang-orang sederhana yang tidak bisa bahasa Inggris sama sekali. Sekarang, ada dokter berpendidikan tinggi di hadapan mereka, yang meskipun melihat badge interpreterku, tetap memaksa berkomunikasi sendiri dengan para dokter Amerika. Capt.Lane tidak sabar dengan bahasa Inggris patah-patah itu dan memberi isyarat agar aku menerjemahkan, tetapi bagaimana bisa kalau dokter muda itu tidak mau menyampaikan idenya padaku? Ini tentang kesopanan dan harga diri. Ini tentang unggah-ungguh juga, dan aku meyesal bahwa Capt.Lane bukan orang Jawa.

Jangan-jangan dr.Sutaryo juga bukan orang Jawa! Kami tersentak waktu dengan lugas dia menanyakan sebenarnya dengan maksud apa para dokter Amerika mengunjungi rumah sakitnya. Rupanya tadinya dia mengira mereka adalah dokter-dokter dari Crisis Center WHO. Capt.Lane repot menjelaskan bantuan USAID dan sebagainya, namun dr.Sutaryo malah menuding preseden bantuan untuk Aceh yang dipotong sana dipotong sini. Aku bisa bilang mereka tidak siap dengan konfrontasi macam ini. Maksudku, mereka itu dokter di lapangan, bukan yang mengurusi keuangan. Lebih bagus kalau dr.Sutaryo menuding-nuding Rudy, hehehe.. (aku membayangkan uang bantuan dipotong untuk perbaikan stadion ;p)

Capt.Lane ketiban pulung untuk ikut rapat dengan orang-orang Crisis Center, sementara kami mengobrol di lobby untuk membunuh waktu. The Hyatt adalah tujuan berikutnya, rapat lagi dengan petinggi-petinggi USAID, dan sepanjang sore kami habiskan di sana.

Pic: pristi and eloque, taking advantage of our brief stay at the Hyatt. Nice postcard pic, eh? Thx 2 Chief Snyder!

Ketika kembali ke stadion, tempat itu sudah benar-benar bersih dari tenda. Semua personel diangkut ke Melia. Hanya Rudy dan Woodard yang tersisa. Entah kenapa, rasanya sedikit hampa.

All the Stupid Things

2006-07-09T21:43:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.11)
This section contains really silly stories. Dissatisfaction guaranteed ;p. Skip it if u like.

We Love Your MRE!

Ini kondisi kerja kami: mulai jam delapan pagi, selesai jam empat sore (kecuali kalau overtime), tidak ada libur akhir minggu, tidak ada seksi konsumsi, tidak ada waktu khusus untuk makan siang, bahkan tidak ada “makan siang”!

Mas Bimo menyelamatkan cacing-cacing di perut kami dengan mendatangkan nasi bungkus dari warung setempat setiap makan siang. Itu menjadi makan malamku, karena sungguh sepanjang siang tak ada waktu. Yang bikin kami bertanya-tanya adalah: 135 orang militer yang kerja berat itu makan apa?

Pada hari kedua, baru aku tahu bahwa selama perang, latihan, atau deployment macam ini, makanan wajib mereka adalah ransum tentara yang disebut MRE. Officially, itu singkatan dari Meal Ready-to-Eat. Bagi mereka para tentara, itu Meal Rejected-by-Everyone. Bagi kami para interpreter, itu Meal Robbed-by-Everyone.

Benar! Sejak Fusilero mengatakan “You are welcome to our water and MRE”, pasukan interpreter merampok MRE habis-habisan. Sampai-sampai ada lagu tentang tas yang “datang kosong, pulang isi empat”. Dimas malah mengoleksi keseluruhan 30 menu, yang artinya dia berhasil membawa pulang minimal 30 kantong MRE!

Ini bukan karena kami kapiran, rakus, atau pecinta gratisan. Masalahnya, MRE mereka keren sekali. Satu kantong terdiri dari full-course meal: appetizer, makanan utama, dessert, snack, permen dan coklat, selai, dan bubuk minuman instan. Plus kantong kecil dengan tisu, tisu basah, korek api, bubuk garam-lada-cabai, permen karet, dan bubuk kopi-gula-krim di dalamnya.

Pic: MRE party! Look at those little brown bags.. our beloved MREs!

Yang lebih keren adalah “kompor”-nya. Elemen pemanasnya berbentuk kantong yang praktis sekali: cukup tuangkan sedikit air dan masukkan kemasan makanan ke dalam kantong, dalam 10 menit makanan yang hangat siap dinikmati. Dugaanku, itu butiran karbit. Selamat tinggal generasi tentara yang menyalakan api di tengah rimba!

Karena ada 30 menu (termasuk 5 menu veggie), dan setiap menu disertai extra yang berlainan, rasanya seru ketika membuka kantong baru dan mendapati Cinnamon Imperials atau Apple Toast yang enak sekali. Man, we just LOVE your MRE! :-D

Yang Konyol, Yang Ceria

Pic: massage line.. hawhawhaw! Mbak Lilis, Pristi, our dear Latu, and me. Silly but we enjoyed it :-)

Every cloud has its silver lining, kata orang. Terhimpit oleh beban kerja yang gila-gilaan begitu pun kami masih punya cerita-cerita konyol ceria dan gosip-gosip bergembira.

Misalnya Dimas, yang sejak hari kelima tampil bak pedagang asongan: menjinjing cooler box sebesar bagong di tangan. Isinya macam-macam dan berganti tergantung suasana hati. Hari ini durian -cukup untuk memberi makan seluruh pasukan-, besoknya kerupuk rambak dan berbungkus-bungkus mie instan, besoknya brem dan keripik bayam. Tidak, saudara-saudara, dia tidak sedang menjajakan dagangan. Itu cara dia mengenalkan Indonesia: “This is Indonesian Fear Factor! Dare to try?”, dan maboklah para bule itu makan durian, hihihi..

Atau, ketika tanggal pulang ke Okinawa telah ditetapkan, tiba-tiba Merapi di Utara menggeliat dengan awan panas dan lavanya. Para dokter dan paramedis pun cengar-cengir kuatir. “We better get home before it explodes, man. Otherwise we might have to stay another month!”. Sheggrud di OR yang sudah setahun tidak pulang kampung pun menyilangkan jari-jemarinya, “Please, please, wait ‘till i get home!”. Candaan kami pada hari-hari terakhir berbunyi, “See you in another disaster, Elok!”. Orang-orang gila.

Tapi mungkin tidak ada yang segila Chief Snyder. Orang yang sudah malang-melintang di berbagai lokasi perang ini justru "dipecundangi" di Indonesia. Pelakunya adalah seorang bapak yang mengaku kehilangan pendengaran sejak gempa. Oke, itu klaim serius. Chief Snyder pun serius. Faktalah yang tidak serius: gangguan pendengaran itu ternyata karena kotoran telinga yang telah menumpuk selama lima tahun! Meskipun begitu, dengan niat baik Chief berjuang selama setengah jam demi membersihkan telinga si bapak. Segala alat dicoba, sia-sia. Akhirnya dia menyerah, “I’ve been to Iraq and Afghanistan, y’know. But this earwax is kicking my butt!”. Hehehe.. bayangkan paramedis perang didatangkan ke pusat bencana gempa untuk mengurusi.. kotoran telinga!

Berburu Campak

2006-07-08T22:37:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.10)

Lagi-lagi aku dibajak. Lt. Woodard –komandan para interpreter, pengganti Fusilero- perlu satu orang untuk out mission, dan lagi-lagi semua interpreter lain kelihatan sibuk. Maka lagi-lagi aku bilang, “OK, i’ll go." (dengan wajah ditekuk lucu). Woodard nyengir dan bilang sesuatu tentang “dr.Landro”.

Oke, ada bunyi-bunyi nama dokter. Jadi ini medical mission. Baguslah. Dr. Landro ini dokter dari USNS Mercy, ahli masalah Public Health khususnya di daerah bencana, sudah berpengalaman di Aceh, Nias, dan di mana-mana. Koneksinya dengan Dinas Kesehatan juga kuat sekali. Kalau mengutip istilahnya sendiri, “i’m in front of the Mercy”, alias dia yang datang duluan ke lokasi untuk melihat kondisi dan memperkirakan apa yang bisa dilakukan Mercy.

Yang mendampinginya kali ini adalah dr.Livingston dan Ortiz, tentu dengan satu TNI juga. Dengan sigap dr.Landro mengarahkan timnya menuju medan laga. Kami mengikuti sebuah sepeda motor yang dikendarai bu bidan. Sepanjang jalan kedua dokter sibuk mendiskusikan identifikasi gejala campak dan pencegahan wabahnya. Aku yang sering mendengar cerita sesama interpreter tentang betapa megap-megapnya mereka dalam misi medis ke desa jadi bernafas lega. Misi kali ini cuma mau memastikan apakah kasus yang dilaporkan sebuah puskesmas sebagai campak adalah benar-benar kasus campak. Misi santai. Temukan rumah si sakit, cek dan ricek gejalanya, analisa, selesai sudah. Memang masuk-masuk ke jalan desa, dan disambut riuh-rendah anak-anak yang girang lihat rambut pirang, tapi masih tetap santai sehingga dr.Landro sempat memotret bangunan runtuh di sini dan di sana.

Selanjutnya ke Puskesmas. Gedungnya sudah rata dengan tanah, yang menyambut kami adalah ibu-ibu dokter dalam tenda terpal. Rupanya pascagempa kekuatiran merebak seputar wabah campak dan tetanus. Aku ingat betapa dr.Choe (penanggung jawab klinik) sangat berapi-api dengan suntikan tetanus, dan menghadiahiku segerobak pujian ketika kuingatkan untuk menyuntik para pasien OR juga.

Segala yang bisa diupayakan harus dilakukan untuk mencegah bencana sekunder macam ini. Dan muncullah formulir-formulir pemantauan yang harus diisi, nomor kontak yang bisa dihubungi. Dibuatlah janji imunisasi tetanus di puskesmas ini esok pagi. Vaksin –puluhan ribu dolar harganya- tentu saja dari tim medis Amerika. Terakhir aku dengar, tim imunisasi dr.Landro berhasil menangani 2000-an orang. Brilian!

Sebelum kembali, kami memeriksa satu kasus dugaan campak lagi. Negatif. Hanya serangan virus anak-anak biasa, namun bidan desa yang naif keburu melabelinya campak ketika bintik-bintik merah muncul di mana-mana. Soal salah diagnosa ini dr.Landro tidak berkomentar apa-apa.

Orang-Orang Indonesia: Shirt Attack!

2006-07-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.9)

Hari itu, bukan cuma aku yang kepanasan dan tidak bahagia. Pristi juga. Mbak Lilis juga. Chief Snyder juga. Semua dokter, paramedis, dan interpreter di klinik juga.

Klinik yang biasanya menangani 140-an pasien sehari, hari itu jumlah pasiennya melonjak menjadi 400-an. Pristi yang seringnya memang tidak sempat makan siang tapi setidaknya masih punya kesempatan bernafas, hari itu, beranjak dari kursinya pun tidak bisa. Catatan medis untuk disalin datang bertubi-tubi. Dokter-dokter yang berpeluh dan kelelahan menghampirinya silih berganti.

Saking kurangnya interpreter, seorang marinir Amerika ketiban pulung harus berjaga pintu klinik, memanggili pasien yang dapat giliran selanjutnya. Wajah Pristi makin ditekuk setiap kali terdengar para pasien tertawa-tawa mendengar "bunyi aneh" ketika si marinir melafalkan nama Indonesia. Ini bangsa yang katanya sopan dan ramah itu. Udara panas, wajah si marinir panas, hati Pristi panas. Klinik serasa neraka.

Bagaimana Jeff di X-Ray Room? Ternyata dia baik-baik saja. Jumlah pasien yang perlu rontgen tidak lebih banyak dari hari biasanya. OR juga berjalan normal. Yang berjejalan di pintu klinik sampai dr.Kim berwajah kecut adalah pasien-pasien kategori 3 dengan keluhan sebangsa pusing, batuk ringan, gatal-gatal, pegel, dkk. Pasien-pasien “manja”, istilah Chief Snyder. Belakangan dia mengaku bahwa dia menikmati pekerjaan medisnya ini, menikmati mengobati luka dan mengganti perban. Tetapi yang paling tidak dia sukai adalah jika ada yang bertindak di luar prosedur dan mengacaukan segalanya, seperti membagi-bagikan kaos pada pasien.

Itulah rahasia di balik kerumunan pasien “manja”. Mulai kemarin setiap pasien yang datang kebagian kaos putih bertuliskan “USAID, FROM THE AMERICAN PEOPLE”. Berita pun menyebar dari mulut ke mulut. Datang berobat gratis ke stadion, dapat kaos! Berduyun-duyunlah mereka. Ini tipikal orang Indonesia.

Jam empat, dokter-dokter angkat tangan dan Pristi menyelesaikan Medical Record-nya dengan nyaris sempoyongan. Esoknya Fusilero mengumumkan perubahan strategi: akan didirikan tenda medis di gerbang muka, sehingga mereka yang keluhannya hanya sakit kepala tidak perlu membuat dokter-dokter sakit kepala. Chief Snyder terbukti efektif berjaga di garda depan, dalam sehari dia menangani 120-an pasien "manja" sendirian.

Pembagian kaos? Dihentikan. Memang sudah habis sih ;p

Pic: mas Wawan, Pristi, Eloque, mas Kris; few among the victims of "shirt attack". With those celebrated shirts on! :-)

Orang-Orang Indonesia: Beliau Minta Tas Segala

2006-06-28T23:29:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.8)

Tiba kembali di stadion! Belum sepuluh meter dari tempat parkir mobil, di gerbang muka aku dibajak Rudy. “Elok! Are you free?”. Lantas tanpa ba-bi-bu dia memintaku untuk menjadi penerjemah dalam pertemuannya dengan birokrat lokal yang akan datang tiga menit lagi. Mbak Dede dari USAID yang seharusnya mendampinginya hari itu terjebak di OR. Aku pikir lebih baik aku kembali ke OR dan menggantikan mbak Dede –toh sebenarnya itu tugasku- tetapi oh no! Mbak Dede persis di tengah operasi. Maka kembalilah aku pada Rudy dan tertawa penuh kemenanganlah dia, “I told you! You didn’t believe me. You just hated me.” Giliran aku nyengir, “No Sir, i was just thinking that if you were used to Dede then it was best to get her.”

Namun si birokrat keburu datang sebelum Rudy sempat menerjemahkan smirk-nya dalam kata-kata. Birokrat ini (sebut saja Pak Joko) dari Pemda Bantul, entah kantor apa, aku hanya melihat sepintas name tag-nya. Rudy langsung mengajak Pak Joko masuk, dan bicara tentang “melihat kerusakannya”. Kerusakan apa, aku masih meraba-raba sambil menerjemahkan sebisanya. Pak Joko bicara tentang “lapisan-lapisan tanah” dan “pasir yang tidak boleh tercampur”. Setelah tiga menit, baru aku bisa menebak arah pembicaraan mereka, dan wajahku yang sudah gosong seharian jadi bertambah suram.

Ini tentang stadion kebanggaan Bantul, tempat rumah sakit lapangan berdiri. Ini tentang bagaimana hujan sederas apapun tidak akan membuat lapangannya banjir, karena ada lapisan karpet di bawah struktur tanah, dan batu-batu dan pasir dan sebagainya. Ini tentang aktivitas para marinir dengan alat-alat beratnya –mendirikan tenda, mengangkut mesin-mesin medis- merusak lapisan karpet itu dan memporakporandakan struktur tanahnya. Ini tentang keharusan ganti rugi untuk memperbaiki semua kerusakan ini. Singkatnya, ini tentang uang.

Pak Joko mau bilang –kalau diterjemahkan menjadi bahasa yang paling lugas dan sederhana: stadion ini rusak gara-gara usaha KEMANUSIAAN Anda menolong orang-orang BANTUL yang saudara bukan teman bukan, dan saya tahu Anda sudah menghabiskan jutaan dollar, tapi di mana TANGGUNG JAWAB Anda terhadap stadion ini?

Pics: The accused of the so-called damage: tents, boxes, skytrax..

Rudy mangut-mangut dengan wajah serius. Aku tertunduk dalam-dalam. Sepertinya Rudy sadar suaraku makin lama makin pelan. Dia menepuk bahuku dengan gaya menenangkan, seraya berkata “I’ll go get my lawyer!” *smirk*

Selama Rudy menghilang di balik tenda CoC, tiada hentinya Pak Joko mengoceh soal “Saya sudah bilang, kalau pakai stadion ini nanti stadionnya rusak. Kok mereka nggak mau pake pelataran parkirnya aja?”, seolah-olah dia tidak melihat bahwa pelataran parkir sudah sesak oleh puluhan mobil USAID dan IOM, juga oleh mobil-mobil tangki air dan dua kontainer obat-obatan. Lantas, "Ini harusnya rumputnya disiram, mbak. Tanggung jawab mereka. Kering nanti rumputnya." Nyuwun pangapunten! Sementara warganya sekarat, dia mikirin rumput?

Rudy kembali bersama Capt. Aoyagi, pengacara dari US Marine. Aku mendesah. Pembicaraan akan jadi semakin menyebalkan, pikirku. Tapi ternyata Aoyagi datang hanya untuk mengatakan bahwa silakan buat klaim apa saja beserta bukti-buktinya, dan selama jumlahnya masuk akal US Marine akan membayarnya. Semakin cepat klaim masuk, semakin cepat dibayar. Sama sekali tidak ada sanggahan, sangkalan, perlawanan. Pak Joko tersenyum sumringah. Aku menunduk semakin dalam, tidak ingin Rudy atau Aoyagi melihat mukaku yang aku yakin merah padam.

Pertemuan selesai. Klaim akan diserahkan segera setelah pemeriksaan awal. Rudy mengangguk-angguk dan Aoyagi tersenyum datar. Mungkin dari semuanya cuma aku yang merasa jengah. “So i’m done, Sir?”, tanyaku pada Rudy. “Oh you do hate me, Elok?”, candanya. “I like staying with you Sir, but i believe i’m more needed at the OR.” “OK then, will you kindly escort this gentleman to the gate before you return to your post?” “Yes Sir!”, jawabku dengan gaya Marine. Dia tertawa.

Andai aku juga bisa tertawa. Tapi bapak birokrat ini, Pak Joko ini, benar-benar cobaan yang tiada habisnya. Sambil kami berjalan melintasi tenda-tenda perbekalan, ia menanyaiku dengan riang.

“Sudah lihat tasnya, mbak?”
“Tas apa ya Pak?”
“Tas mereka itu lho. Tas tentara yang besar itu.”
“Oh. Saya nggak tahu.” (sedikit curiga)
“Wangun itu mbak kalo dibawa ke airport. Saya mau, itu mbak, satu atau dua.”
“Wah, saya nggak punya Pak.” (merasa bodoh)
“Tolong mintain ke mereka, mbak. Satu atau dua.”
“Aduh Pak, saya ini tugasnya di kamar bedah, jadi nggak banyak ketemu petinggi-petingginya. Yang sering tuh mbak Sari.” (kecurigaan terbukti)
“Ya tolong bilangin mbak Sari, saya mau dua.”
“Bilang sendiri dong Pak.” (suara agak tinggi).

Untung gerbang sudah di depan mata. Buru-buru aku ucapkan salam perpisahan, semoga sukses, bla bla bla. Fiuh! Kadang-kadang aku tidak habis pikir menghadapi orang Indonesia. Tapi untunglah di OR ada AC (surga di bawah matahari tropis ini), dokter-dokter dan paramedis yang baik hati, pasien-pasien yang tulus dan sederhana. Aku akan bahagia. Aku akan bahagia!

Orang-Orang Indonesia: Sopir dan TNI Kita

2006-06-27T22:13:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.7)

Hari keenam. Pagi-pagi Adefisan sudah mendatangiku di klinik dan memesanku untuk menemaninya out mission ke Sardjito. Urusan medical waste treatment itu. Rupanya mentang-mentang aku yang memuluskan jalannya di Sardjito dulu, dia pikir asal ada aku urusannya bakal beres (padahal dulu itu kan berkat dr.Suyudi yang terhormat! ;p).

Terserah deh. Tapi gara-gara itu, aku harus menunggunya mengurus izin di depan tenda CoC (Center of Command- kantor para petinggi), satu jam di bawah mentari. Baru kusadari kenapa mas Kris, mas Wawan dan lainnya sungguh-sungguh meningkat pesat dalam hal derajat kehitaman kulitnya. Ini terik yang membakar!

Pic (from mbak Nur-USAID): CoC tent, on a less sizzling day

Steve Chonajki, bos bagian planning, menyelamatkan hariku dengan mengajakku mengobrol selama satu jam itu. Pembicaraan yang cukup beragam dan dalam, mulai dari filosofi hidup, pandangannya terhadap masa depan, sejarah melting pot Amerika, bahasa-bahasa dan tren anak muda. Dari dia kudapatkan juga info berharga bahwa medical set up ini akan sudah habis sama sekali pada tanggal 15 Juni. Dalam beberapa hari satu-dua kontainer logistik akan mulai diangkut balik.

Pic: cars galore just outside the stadium. IOM cars to transport patients and USAID cars for "command" and logistic errands

Akhirnya, dalam keadaan setengah terpanggang, mobil, sopir, marinir pengawal, satu TNI, dan Adefisan siap untuk berangkat. Melajulah kami ke Sardjito. Atau entah ke mana, sebenarnya, karena ternyata si sopir tidak tahu jalan menuju Jogja. Gila! AC mobil mati pula! Klop-lah kombinasi maut antara mobil ngadat, sopir naif, dan interpreter bego. Karena meskipun bolak-balik enam hari ini, aku tidak pernah mencoba menghafalkan rute jalan Bantul-Jogja. Aku kesal pada diri sendiri karena begitu tak bisa diandalkan, kesal pada AC yang nyaris membuat kami mati kepanasan, kesal pada sopir yang menyerahkan segala tanggung jawab kepadaku. “Hey i’m only an interpreter, okay!!”, ingin rasanya aku berteriak begitu. But well, he’s only a driver anyway.

“Kita tanya orang aja Mas. Nanti kalo udah sampe Jogja, insya Allah saya tahu jalan ke Sardjito.”, ujarku akhirnya.

Di luar itu, semua baik-baik saja. Petugas sampah medis yang sudah ku-sms sigap menanti. Urusan selesai dengan cepat, dan dalam perjalanan pulang dengan keajaiban AC mobil mulai bekerja. Kami kesasar satu-dua kali, tapi aku tertawa saja. Ortiz si Marinir Pengawal memanfaatkan kesempatan itu untuk belanja rokok di warung pinggir jalan –lantas menyumpah-nyumpah karena baginya harga rokok di Indonesia jauh terlalu murah.

Sepanjang perjalanan pulang, dihadiahi pemandangan langit biru dan sawah menghijau, berulang-ulang Ortiz berkata, “I can live here, man. I can stay and live like a king.”. Ia dan Adefisan membahas harga-harga yang luar biasa murahnya (wajar bagi orang Amerika yang pendapatan perkapitanya 35 kali orang Indonesia), dan membanding-bandingkan gaji tentara di kedua negara. Aku tidak sampai hati menoleh ke belakang untuk melihat air muka personel TNI yang menyertai kami.

Pic (from USMC): A US Marine and a TNI: the political side of the disaster relief. Yet also the "social" side.

Di luar soal gaji, ada satu hal yang mendasar yang membedakan sistem militer Indonesia dan Amerika. Militer Amerika menerapkan sistem kontrak dalam keanggotaannya. Mereka digaji untuk mengisi posisi tertentu, dan setelah kontraknya selesai mereka bebas merdeka untuk memulai hidup baru. Steve misalnya, berencana terus di Marinir sampai 9 tahun lagi, dan kemudian menjadi polisi. Waktu kutanya apakah mungkin mulai karir di kepolisian ketika umurnya sudah 40-an, dia bilang bukan masalah. Dia tidak harus mulai dari akademi atau apa. Sedangkan di Indonesia, kalau mau jadi polisi harus masuk sejak usia muda, dan kalau masuk tentara sampai mati harus jadi tentara (yah, tepatnya sampai umur 55 sih..). Aku ingat pada kesempatan lain dr.Maria berkomentar tentang sistem ini, bahwa wajar kalau TNI kelihatan kurang antusias dalam bekerja. Ikatan dinas bisa menjadi kutukan juga.

Dan kutukan itu merambat sampai ke klinik kami! Berkali-kali aku dapati calon pasien kami adalah anggota TNI yang seharusnya berjaga! Ada juga yang repot-repot membawa istrinya untuk diperiksa. Seolah itu hal paling wajar di dunia, mereka petantang-petenteng di muka klinik, minta didahulukan padahal simbah-simbah dan puluhan pasien sungguhan telah menunggu sekian lama. Aku berwajah sedatar mungkin waktu berkata bahwa mereka harus mengantri juga.

Sopir yang kurang tanggung jawabnya, oknum TNI yang seenaknya, interpreter bego yang tidak tahu jalan dan tidak mahir bahasa Jawa, juga dokter nganggur yang kemarin menertawakan Nova. Tidak kusangka bahwa hari itu aku dipaksa banyak berpikir tentang orang-orang Indonesia.

Kaki Pak Darmo

2006-06-23T23:50:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.6)

Kaki Pak Darmo adalah kaki fenomenal. Aku ingat suatu hari di tengah operasi, tiga atau empat paramedis menyerbu masuk dengan kamera di tangan, khusus untuk mengambil gambar kaki Pak Darmo. Dr.Santoyo menyesal kehilangan kesempatan itu. Cooky (paramedis OR) dengan bangga memamerkan foto koleksinya padaku.

Pak Darmo bercerita, butuh dua orang untuk mengangkat batu dan reruntuhan yang menimpa kakinya. Dokter-dokter di OR geleng-geleng kepala; mereka tidak perlu bukti lain untuk percaya. Aku sendiri suatu kali diminta menerjemahkan Cmdr Godinez mengajari perawat rumah sakit setempat bagaimana prosedur untuk merawat luka parah itu. Yang biasanya aku bisa memalingkan muka selama operasi, kali ini luka menganga itu tersaji tepat di depan mata dan tak bisa aku hindari. Cmdr Cooper pasti melihat bagaimana berkali-kali aku menarik napas untuk menenangkan diri, karena siang itu dia memberiku sebatang chocolate cookie.

Hampir setiap hari kujumpai Pak Darmo di OR, dibawa untuk mengganti perban di kaki. Meski kedengarannya hanya perawatan sederhana, untuk kasus Pak Darmo, dokter-dokter harus memberikan anestesi dan injeksi morfin berkali-kali. Aku hampir selalu mendampingi semua prosedur itu. Kami mengobrol banyak, aku dan Pak Darmo. Ketika anaknya, Rohmi, datang menyertainya, kami pun berbagi cerita seperti teman lama.

Pada operasi kelima atau keenam, aku merasakan bahwa kondisi Pak Darmo lebih buruk daripada biasanya. Dia ketakutan. Aku yang awam ini pun melihat bahwa sepertinya tidak ada kemajuan. Cmdr Godinez bilang sendiri, “We could be doing this everyday for weeks, and still nothing changes. This is insane!”. Hatiku sakit. Aku menatap wajah Pak Darmo yang tengah bermimpi di bawah pengaruh obat penenang; bahkan dalam mimpi pun tidak dia temukan kedamaian. Aku menoleh pada Cmdr Cooper, tapi kehilangan kata-kata. Ia menunggu. “It’s just.. it’s just.. Oh, Sir- can it ever be cured?”.

Cmdr Cooper tidak segera menjawab. Ketika akhirnya bicara, yang dikatakannya adalah, “Right now it’s half-half. We might save the foot, or we might not. But so long as we have the chance, we’ll try our best to save it.”. Aku mengangguk. Aku percaya komitmen mereka. Tapi mereka tidak akan ada di sini selamanya.

Rohmi menyambutku di depan ruang bedah. “Gimana Bapak, mbak?”. Kuceritakan jalannya operasi. Ketika Cmdr Godinez menghampiri, Rohmi menggenggam tanganku, “Tanyakan dokternya, mbak, apa kaki Bapak harus diamputasi?”.

Maka aku bertanya. Jawaban Cmdr Godinez sama seperti Cmdr Cooper. Hanya dia menambahkan, bahwa seandainya kaki Pak Darmo diamputasi pun, itu yang terbaik baginya. Lebih baik kehilangan satu kaki daripada kehilangan nyawa.

Rohmi terdiam. Matanya mulai berkaca-kaca, dan seraya ia memelukku air matanya mengalir deras. Aku balas memeluknya, menepuk-nepuk pundaknya, mencoba menentramkan hatinya. Di samping kami Cmdr Godinez menyampaikan betapa ia turut berduka, bahwa ia mengerti perasaan Rohmi, bahwa akan dilakukannya segala yang ia bisa. Aku membisikkannya pada Rohmi. Cmdr Cooper menghampiri kami dan mengangsurkan segulung tisu. Pak Darmo masih dalam mimpinya, terbaring di tandu.

“Bapak itu takut, mbak.. kalau harus diamputasi..”, kata Rohmi, dan air matanya mengalir lagi. Cmdr Cooper datang dengan sebotol air mineral. Aku mendudukkan Rohmi di kursi di sisi Pak Darmo. Seteguk air membuat Rohmi lebih bisa menguasai diri. Dia menyeka air matanya, dan membelai kepala ayahnya dengan pilu.

Bahkan setelah Pak Darmo sadar, yang pertama ditanyakan kepadaku adalah, “Sudah selesai kan mbak, operasinya? Sudah jauh lebih baik, kaki saya?”

Aku bisa bilang apa? Maka hanya kutekankan bagaimana dokter sudah membersihkan bagian yang infeksi dan mengobatinya. Namun Pak Darmo terus bertanya “jauh lebih baik?”. Aku tahu, dia sangat ingin diyakinkan bahwa kakinya akan bisa diselamatkan. Mataku berkaca-kaca, karena bukan kewenanganku untuk mengatakan “ya”.

Lt.May, mendapati Rohmi duduk termenung dengan mata merah, menanyaiku apakah Rohmi baik-baik saja. Kuceritakan apa yang terjadi dan apa kata Cmdr Godinez tentang kemungkinan amputasi. Lt.May spontan menghampiri Rohmi, berjongkok di sampingnya, dan menepuk bahunya dengan lembut. “Elok, tell her that i know how she feels, that this is hard time for everyone, and what is best for her to do right now is to keep being positive for her father’s sake.”. Maka kurangkul kedua lengan Rohmi sekali lagi, dan kusampaikan kata-kata Lt.May. Matanya kembali berkaca-kaca, namun ia mengangguk kepada Lt.May dan mencoba tersenyum sebisanya.

Itu terakhir kali aku melihat Rohmi dan Pak Darmo. Pada hari-hari terakhir, mereka sudah tidak menyambangi OR lagi. Mungkin karena pengobatan Pak Darmo sudah bisa ditangani perawat yang dulu dilatih Cmdr Godinez. Mungkin karena Pak Darmo memaksa pulang (dia selalu bilang tidak suka di rumah sakit karena jadi merepotkan orang). Mungkin dokter-dokter di rumah sakit lokal akhirnya memutuskan mengamputasi kakinya.

Pak Darmo dulu petani. Sawahnya luas, tapi anaknya tidak mau meneruskannya karena gengsi. Pak Darmo punya dua rumah, yang satu di dekat sawah. Itu dulu, sebelum gempa. Betapa dalam beberapa detik hidup orang bisa berubah.

Bagaimana dan sedang apa Pak Darmo kini, aku tidak tahu. Dan setiap teringat kaki Pak Darmo, aku hanya bisa berdoa. Yaa Allah, ringankanlah bebannya! Yaa Allah, tenangkanlah hatinya!

Note:
Pics, anyone? I dunno if i'd post any pics for this. At any rate i'm still waiting for Cooky to send his. I don't have pics of the wounds, nor of myself -and others- on duty; we simply didn't have time for such a leisure!

Kasihan Nova

2006-06-22T23:44:00.000-07:00

(Patria Es Humanidad, Pt.5)

Aku ingat Nova, perempuan mungil yang baru 4 tahun umurnya. Kakinya luka dan infeksi, sehingga dokter harus membiusnya untuk dapat menyikat nanah bersih-bersih. Dia manis sekali, buah hati ayahnya tercinta. Selama operasi, aku menghibur sang ayah yang berduka berkaca-kaca. Beberapa kali Cmdr Godinez keluar dari ruang bedah untuk menjelaskan kemajuan mereka pada sang ayah.

Operasi pun selesai, dan pelan-pelan kesadaran Nova kembali. Meski dilimpahi permen dan coklat dari dokter-dokter di sini, Nova merengek minta pulang. Aku menggandeng tangannya keluar tenda, mengajaknya duduk di dekat Provision Tent. Para marinir muda yang bergerombol di sana ramai-ramai menawarkan snack mereka pada Nova. Saat itulah tiba-tiba Nova muntah. Aku terkejut, berseru mulai dari oh no, oh my, oh man, sampai sweet baby. Kuambil tisu dari kantongku dan mulai menyeka mulutnya.

Pic (from mbak Nur-USAID): provision tent, just across from where Nova threw up.

Beberapa paramedis berlari mendekat dengan kardus dan tisu basah. Nova muntah lagi, di kardus kali ini. Setengah panik kubersihkan kaki dan tangannya –yang terkena muntahan- dengan tisu basah. Ada dua dokter Indonesia di sana, dan mereka tidak melakukan apa-apa. Komentar mereka –sambil tertawa- justru, “Gila, perhatian banget dokter-dokter sana. Kalau kita sih paling kita diemin aja.”.

Nova digendong kembali ke OR. Aku mengikuti dengan kardus di tanganku, kalau-kalau dia muntah lagi. Nova mulai menangis dan meraung minta pulang, kedinginan di dalam OR yang ber-AC. Aku mengambilkan selimut, sementara ayahnya memeluknya sambil menangis. Nova anak pertama dan satu-satunya. Istrinya terluka parah juga akibat gempa. Sementara ayah dan anak itu sama-sama menangis, aku diam menunduk. Tidak ada interpreter lain di OR, kedua orang ini tidak bisa kutinggalkan. Tapi hari telah menjelang petang, mas Kris telah menungguku berjam-jam karena urusanku di OR belum kelar juga sementara semua interpreter lain sudah selesai bekerja.

Lt. May mendekat, mengeluarkan dan membuka dompetnya untuk menunjukkan dua foto perempuan-perempuan mungil pada ayah Nova. Dia memintaku menerjemahkan, “They’re my daughters. This one is 8 and she’s 6. Tell him, i know how he feels. Tell him i know this is really hard for him, but we’ll do our best for his little angel. We have our own little girls, too.”. Dan aku menyampaikannya.

Betapa berbeda! Betapa berbeda dengan dua dokter Indonesia yang sedang mengaso tadi! Kini aku sungguh mengerti, untuk menjadi dokter tidak cukup dengan kemampuan medis saja. Lebih dari itu harus punya empati.

Kasihan Nova. Tangisnya tak kunjung reda. Lt. May mengatakan bahwa saat ini Nova pasti merasa pusing dan mual, mungkin pandangannya berkunang-kunang dan berbayang. Itu pengaruh normal dari obat yang diterimanya selama operasi tadi. Berapa lama sampai Nova pulih? Mungkin satu jam, mungkin dua.

Seorang interpreter lain muncul entah dari mana dan menyatakan bersedia menunggui Nova. Aku sedikit lega. Sayangnya dia adalah interpreter yang dicurigai bahasa Inggrisnya. Misalnya ketika Cmdr Godinez berkata, “Basically she’s alright. We’re just waiting for the effect of the medicine to wear off. Fusilero is setting up transport for them, so when the little girl’s ready they can go home right away.”, rekanku ini menerjemahkannya menjadi, “Bapak jangan kuatir, obatnya sedang diambilkan, sekarang sedang dalam perjalanan. Nanti begitu obatnya siap, Bapak sama Nova bisa pulang.” What the heck-? Pelan-pelan kuajak bicara sang ayah untuk memperbaiki informasi ini.

Kasihan Nova, aku tinggalkan sebelum pulih kondisinya. Tapi bagaimanapun aku harus pulang (that’s exactly why i hate being dependent!) dengan mas Kris. Kejadian ini sering menjadi guyonan di antara teman-teman: berapa pasien yang telah menjadi korban salah terjemahan dari interpreter yang kurang kompeten? Salah dosis obat, salah diagnosa? Goodness, sebenarnya ini bukan buat bercanda. Aku membuat catatan pribadi, bahwa sebagai relawan pun profesionalitas harus dijunjung tinggi.

Di atas segalanya, kasihan Nova!