The perils of assisted living

It was all a huge misunderstanding. And Marnie had started so well. The concierge had rung the bell at the back door. She had struggled with the heavy frame and finally pulled it open to find the young man standing there sheepishly holding up a small cage in which three cats of various ages and sizes had been squeezed. Her expressions reflected a range of emotions like the daily Melbourne weather they had left some months earlier: Surprise, joy, horror and then resignation. Fortunately, Pak Jono, her patient and long-suffering driver was standing just behind the man, eyes glued to the floor.

They all agreed that she had made such a promising start. Three months of language training and Marnie had arrived in Jakarta with all the chutzpah of a recent graduate who has little knowledge of their shortcomings and could conquer all problems in time for happy hour.

Jam Senang - Happy Hour

The Office had insisted on language training. It was not often the business made such an investment, so she had jumped in with alacrity. They say if you are going to learn a language from scratch, Indonesian is a wonderful place to start – no tenses, phonetic spelling, Roman alphabet, and an obliging population willing to ‘hear you out’ and applaud your efforts.

Marnie’s language teacher, a PhD student from Bandung, looking to supplement his meagre scholarship to Melbourne University with income from private tuition, displayed little enthusiasm for the task in hand preferring to share regular articles from the Western media indicative of ignorance as to both Indonesian and Asian politics and culture. Nevertheless, he was glowing in his write-up of her language capability prior to departure and even ascribed a ‘level of fluency’ in his report.

Language is not culture of course and culture is not language. What they do not tell you is that there are hundreds of ‘Indonesian’ dialects and a quite different view of how to agree / disagree. Concepts of time and forms of address are rooted in an old and syncretic cultural mix.

Bule – Indonesian for ‘white’; Derogatory term for someone of European descent

When Mary stepped out of the Jakarta terminal for the first time, the tropical heat had slapped her across the body like a hot wet flannel, taking her breath away and soaking her linen shirt within seconds. The children were overwhelmed by the cacophony of traffic and street vendors, acrid pollution which hit the back of the throat and the heady smells of sweet jasmine and chicken sate. They all stood there on the sidewalk in a state of shock.

Her supervisor, who was meant to meet them at the airport, had succumbed to a bout of sinusitis, a common Jakarta affliction. Fortunately, Pak Jono was their assigned driver. An experienced and laconic Javanese in late middle age, he shepherded them into the official vehicle, parked illegally on the Arrivals’ forecourt. Always immaculately coiffured and dressed in a dark blue short sleeved safari suit, he quickly became the anchor around which life, school and work revolved. The children had remarked that only Pak Jono could interpret Mum’s requests or directions even when communicated in a stream of consciousness fashion amidst heavy traffic. He knew where to be and when. Nothing was too much trouble.

Deference to authority or class however meant that beyond Pak Jono and the Office Staff, local people were not prepared to correct her speaking or pronunciation. At worst, her request or comment would be ignored. At best, there would be polite smiles and confusion. The concierge of their apartment block, who worked extraordinarily long hours, was keen to oblige and reinforce her perceived success in grasping the language. He would say “yes Missus” regardless.

The Office helped with the engagement of a local housekeeper Ibu Kas, and cook Ibu Harini, vetted by Security. The children did not need a nanny so that was one complication avoided. Nevertheless, with so much help compared to home, they had jokingly referred to the apartment as being akin to ‘assisted living.’ It was easy to tread on people’s toes: Early-on and to Ibu Kas’ horror, she had loaded the washing machine herself and hung the clothes out to dry on a small hoist on the balcony. The appalled woman asked Pak Jono to explain that this was not her job and not respectful to either of them.

Marnie’s reputation as an employer was further tarnished when she tasked the cook Ibu Harini, with an Australian recipe which required white wine. Unfamiliar with alcohol let alone wine, the woman had opened a bottle of champagne. Diminutive in stature, she broke a window with the cork and soaked herself in Prosecco.

Rote chores also created confusion. She had tried to find a dry cleaner for the, recently bought, beautiful but delicate batik clothing, a prerequisite for all sort of informal and formal occasions. The concierge had said “yes, Missus” and nodded enthusiastically. Later that day, two “engineers” from building maintenance – any male in a boiler suit who worked onsite was labelled an “engineer” - arrived at the back door to “clean up the mess” as per the instructions given to the concierge. The words for ‘dry cleaning’ having been interpreted most literally. Pak Jono intervened and whisked the clothes away to some unknown destination, returning them within a few days together with a ridiculously small bill, a fraction of what it would cost at home.

Pembersihan – Cleaning; Membersihkan – Cleaning-up

With the addition of domestic staff, there was an urgent need to get more door keys. They had been issued with two sets and the children arrived back from school at separate times, sometimes quite late with after hours theatrical pursuits and sports. The concierge, for all his geniality, would not admit the children into the apartment without her or a nanny, or at least one uniformed as such. Mary needed to seek the owner’s permission via the real estate agent via the concierge for more keys. She had carefully rehearsed her request and had the concierge repeat back to her what she had said in Indonesian.

After almost two months and weekly reminders, she was beginning to despair. The poor concierge to whom the request had to be repeated each time, seemed in equal parts mystified and apologetic that he could not fulfil Ibu’s most ardent request. So it was with some scepticism that she listened to his assurance one morning the keys would be here “later.” She was wary of the word “later,” having learned that concepts of time were slippery even in a metropolis like Jakarta home to the national government, international business, and a population the equivalent of Australia. Without a specified hour, “later” could be later today, tomorrow, or next week.

Kunci – Key; Kucing - Cat

Marnie was mortified at the sight of the caged animals, and asked Pak Jono to sort out the situation. After a long day in the Office interspersed by complaints from the children that they had been stuck in the foyer for some hours, she wanted nothing more than to shut the door and down a large gin and tonic. Pak Jono explained the confusion to the concierge and the closeness of the pronunciation to Chris. She had asked for three cats not three keys. In the end, she had to pay for the cats, their dispatch to a welfare home and the keys.

The following morning before work and with both Pak Jono and number one daughter in tow, she had insisted on descending to the reception and apologising to the young man despite Pak Jono’s entreaties that this was entirely unnecessary. She explained how embarrassed she felt and please would he accept her sincere apologies. At which point the concierge looked shocked and Pak Jono burst into tears: Tears of laughter not sadness. Mary had meant to say she was greatly embarrassed but had said instead that she had large privates.

Malu - Embarrassment / Shame; Kemaluan - Privates

Her daughter, who had grasped Bahasa Gaul, the street language, much more quickly spelt out the error and for good measure, whispered “Bule” under her breath, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as teenagers are wont to do.