That Headland, Indonesia

 

As I get to the crown, I make out the jutting headlands on either side. I feel the wind dissolve brine into my pores. I smell the air with rain approaching and listen to the waves crashing, interspersed with the click and clack of the cars rushing over the concrete slabs below. I love walking the gravel road to the headland. Even when pebbles get into my shoes and the wind stings my face, I am always thankful for the vista at the top of the path.

I am not at that headland now. That appreciation only exists in recollections. Where I am currently, is not where I want to be. I have gone from living in God’s country, to existing in a hell on earth. My days are filled dodging traffic and offensive smells, acrid smoke from burning rubbish filling the air. Teeming with people, there are no parks, very little flora and fauna and everywhere there is noise. A voluminous cacophony of shouts, motorbikes and “Hello Mister.”

On the eastern outskirts of Jakarta I bide my time. I have six months left on my contract and I dream constantly of that majestic headland back home in Sydney. Many people travel to Jakarta and thoroughly enjoy their time, but they are tourists and have the pleasure and luxury of free time. Many tourists only pass through this place. It is not a friendly city for a sightseer, unless one likes shopping malls and karaoke bars.

It is a crazy, busy place. It is the most inhospitable city that I have had the joy of living in, but it does have some of the warmest inhabitants I have encountered. Indonesians are lovely folk, but sadly their capital city is a disaster. As I have been told, Jakarta is a place to come for work. Most of the residents are not born here and when you ask where home is (meaning where in Jakarta), they will tell you about a place far removed from the hustle and bustle. No one seems to want to admit to being from here.
They are all from somewhere else.

My days are filled with the monotony of teaching English to upper middle class children with little respect for teachers, elders, or anyone else for that matter. At nights I write to a friend:

 

If you were here you might feel the same. Maybe you would like it and perhaps you would look at me and exclaim, “Stop your complaining.”

It is a culture that I am yet to understand. It is dichotomy of contradictions that fill me with a sense of foreboding, a sense of dread. Something is lacking in Jakarta and I can only surmise that it is a soul. On trips to Lombok, or Flores, or Bali, or even Jogjakarta I have felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I breathe calmer and I smile more. The sense of adventure returns and I run wildly to the next destination.

I am never alone in Jakarta and it is something I have a frightful time with. I miss those walks to the top of the headland that used to clear my mind. I hold on to those memories. It’s what makes me strong and hopeful.

At times it all makes sense. A child exclaims, “Mr, is this the right answer?”
It doesn’t last for long, and I go to the next class suffering from the tyranny of children raised by maids and nannies. I am grateful at the end of the day when I am home and the door closes to the world and the noise outside.

About the Author:

Mark is an English teacher from Sydney currently living in Jakarta. He likes to read and write in his spare time. One day he will get to go surfing again.

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