The World of Mine

I have lost my privilege as a public bus passenger to relax with easy-listening music on my digital player after spending most of the work day on overheated Jakarta streets.

Recently I was forced to stay awake during nearly the entire 90-minute trip home to the Jakarta suburb of Tangerang, as one street musician after another boarded the bus to perform for the duration of the trip.

The "torture" began as the bus fled from my point of departure, the Slipi intersection in West Jakarta, around 10 p.m.

Two teenage street musicians, who boarded the bus along with other passengers at Slipi, kicked off their performance soon after all passengers were seated.

I have to acknowledge that they performed quite well. The girl had a somewhat melodious, strong voice that attracted the passengers' attention, while the boy played the guitar remarkably well.

Too bad they chose fast-beat songs at a time most people are already cozily asleep in beds or loafing in front of the TV, forcing those less fortunate like me to stay awake for about 20 minutes during the three- or four-song set.

But despite the interruption I decided to appreciate their work by handing over some Rp 500 (6 US cents) to the girl, who collected money from bus passengers and put it in her hat after the show was over.

For those who don't know, people usually give street musicians either Rp 500 or Rp 1,000 for each performance depending on how good they are or how much small change they happen to have on them.

The two musicians and some passengers got off at Meruya tollgate, and others got on, leaving a number of people standing in the aisle.

The bus ride turned very uncomfortable. But such a condition never seems to discourage street musicians, and now a man with a rocker-like appearance stood in the midst of the crowd.

He played guitar and sang rock ballads, mostly by Guns N' Roses.

He, too, sang quite well, with a voice sounding a little like Axl Rose's (at least to my ears).

His only problem was singing that high-tone music with his so-loud voice amidst people that looked exhausted (it was now around 10.30 p.m.). And he made it even worse with his farewell, which to me, sounded nothing but rude.

"Please, ladies and gentlemen, DON'T PRETEND to sleep. Please appreciate my effort, hand me over some money to eat...," he said, over and over, underlining the "don't pretend" words, while collecting money up and down the bus with a candy sack.

He made slurred remarks to those refusing to give money, such as me.

Well, who wants to donate under coercion? If I donate my money, I want to do it because I want to, not because I'm forced to. I think many people on the bus had the same thought because only a few gave him money, prompting him to yell at us.

I didn't know where he sat afterward. But one thing that drove me crazy was when I thought I could finally enjoy my easy-listening music in the last minutes of my trip: here came another street musician.

This last one was better in attitude but had a terrible voice, and persevered in singing four dull Indonesian ballads by the time the trip was really nearing its end.

And so my plan was messed up; I could neither sleep nor relax my mind even a bit, and the 90 minutes of travel time had been wasted. I mean, if I could rest or sleep on the trip, I could reduce my slumber time at home and have time for more useful activities.

Street musicians, and, sometimes, street poets (which are more terrifying to me than other kinds of so-called street entertainers due to their sarcastic poetry), are always there, ready to accompany us on the journey.

The longer the trip, the more street entertainers to watch, whether it's early in the morning or late at night. Many of them sing and behave well, but many do not. Sometimes people can find among them children under the age of five.

By writing how annoyed I often am with their performances, I don't mean to support in any way the new bylaw on public order that makes donating money to these buskers a crime.

The reason they choose to stay on the streets, I believe, is because they don't have a more reliable source of money. Well, how can they with the poor educational and family backgrounds they often seem to come from?

I don't agree with letting these people to continue wandering around the streets, especially when it comes to the kids. But I don't think endorsing the bylaw is a solution either, unless the government can provide them with access to better jobs at the same time.

Whether or not I end up giving them money, well, that remains an internal conflict.

I give them some if the atmosphere of sympathy dominates me. But I prefer not to give when I'm dominated by thoughts that it will keep them on the streets, or, when I feel badly annoyed with them.

Taking taxis is, of course, one solution, but that costs more than twelve times what I pay for the bus, which is usually only Rp 5,000.

And the busway does not cover the route I take to home. Well, not yet.

Only recently did I discover another solution to the "misery." I moved into a boarding house near my office, and now I walk the five minutes it takes to get home from work. For ten minutes every night, it's all my own music.

My trip to Surabaya last week was my first assignment outside Greater Jakarta, and my first flight, too.

But, that’s not of the thing I want to say here. Let’s just talk about the city itself.

Surabaya is the capital of East Java and is located on the northern shore of the province, right next to the Madura Strait. People say it’s Indonesia’s second largest city after Jakarta, but I don’t agree with that.

The fact is, although Jakarta is some 660 kilometer-square width and Surabaya is some 460 kilometer-square only, the former is a province, not a city. Jakarta, which is Indonesia’s capital, consists of five municipalities (North Jakarta, West Jakarta and so on), and those are the cities.

So, based on the argument, I say that Surabaya is the largest city in the archipelago.

Anyway, I hardly knew anything about the city’s condition before paying a visit there. I only heard that it had high temperature, even higher than overheated Jakarta (a thing I couldn’t imagine before because Jakarta is the hottest city I’ve ever visited, regarding the fact I’ve only paid visits to the capital, Tangerang (in Banten), Depok, Bogor, Bandung, Cianjur, Purwakarta (West Java) and Kebumen (in Central Java) during the nearly 25 years of my life).

But, as soon as I arrived at Surabaya’s Juanda airport (in Sidoarjo, actually, not in Surabaya), I learnt that the high temperature is not a rumor, but is a fact.

Sun does overheat the city more than any other cities I’ve ever visited (that I just mentioned in an earlier paragraph), making you wish for nothing but rains to fall over you all the time you’re walking along the sidewalks.

If you travel through the city with a well air-conditioned car, perhaps this overheated stuff wouldn’t bother you a lot.

I was formerly a little bit disappointed for finding nothing so special about Surabaya, despite the saying, claiming and stories that it’s the city of heroes (the name came from its occupants’ heroic role during Indonesia’s struggle for independence against the Allied-back Dutch).

I saw that Surabaya had no different physical appearance from ordinary parts of Jakarta. I guess it looks very like the Central Jakarta’s Harmoni area.

But, as I then traveled somewhat across the city with a new acquaintance, who is of Surabaya origin, I started to notice that the East Java’s capital had a characteristic that differs it from any other cities I have visited.

First, Surabaya has far cleaner, neater streets compared to Jakarta’s, although the streets are as simple and humble as the latter’s very ordinary parts. Second, it has better overpasses, again cleaner and neater, but also more artistic and unique due to cigarette brands decorating them.

The cigarette brands indeed decorate nearly all overpasses I saw in the city, making me think Surabaya deserves another name…The City of Cigarettes (I heard that Sampoerna, the country’s top tobacco producer which has been acquired by the United State’s Phillip Morris, opened its first factory in the city).

Third, well, Surabaya has better taken-care-of old town, compared with Jakarta’s, which looks rather dirty and smell bad due to the black, stingy Ciliwung river passing through it. I think most of the old buildings in Surabaya are still in use, too, not like those in Jakarta, which mostly are abandoned.

Fourth, riding on a becak (pedicab?) around its famous Jembatan Merah (Red Bridge) is also somewhat an unforgettable experience, especially because, I guess, of the neat, pleasant look of the area, which brings the typical aura of Central, East Java traditional towns.

Among the city’s weak points, compared especially to Jakarta, Tangerang and Bandung (where I’ve spent nearly all years of my life), is that the angkot (public minivan) drivers caused me a lot more resentment, and that we can’t find delicious foods in Surabaya’s streets as easy as we can find them in the other three cities.

Overall, despite the uniqueness, the famous monument of white shark and crocodile, etc of the city, I don’t think I want to spend my days in Surabaya again, unless I really have something to do there.

I just can’t stand the heat.

I’ve just finished reading the last series of Sherlock Holmes, one of my most favorite books of all time, and now feel so discontent.

I don’t understand what’s happening, but I’ve always felt the same sense every time I finish reading a masterpiece of a writer, whose works I like a lot.

Like when I finished reading Mark Twain’s The Adventure of Huckleberry Finn, o gosh, I just felt so … so … I can’t find the right word, indeed, can anyone help me?

Maybe it’s like when you’re losing someone and know that you’ll never meet him/her again…? Or like you have to leave people, and places you love so badly?

I don’t know. But, perhaps, I can try to explain the feelings I experienced when I read Huck and just finished it.

First, of course, as with many other books I’ve read, I got so much involved with the lives, the characters, the settings (including time and space) and every other things that made up Huck.

I felt as if I was indeed a part of the story, living the same lives as the characters’, although I’m not sure where or who I was there.

When I read Huck, as he and runaway Jim drifted along Mississippi river and engaged with a lot of unique occurrences, I felt that I was so close to them. I felt as if I was in the same dark, wet nights they sometimes experienced, and like I could see the black figures of tall trees and some homes alongside the river amid thick or crimson darkness that covered the scene.
I could clearly see the ripples, especially those around the drifting raft that Huck and Jim were at. And I could somehow feel the same emotions they had. I felt their fears, hopes and weary; I felt their disappointments, and others.

So when I finally finished the book, I felt so miserable; so between sad and as if just losing someone (or something?) important in my life.

Huck has since become one of my favorite book characters, and I think he’s the best that Twain could create, so I’m not interested in tackling with the longing (or whatever that is) stuff by reading Twain’s other work; Tom Sawyer, for example … I’m a type of person who doesn’t like looking back, or taking steps backwards, degrading, etc…and I consider Tom Sawyer is not at all a better work, or an equal one, with Huck.

I finished reading Huck about two months ago, and I’ve tried to forget it by reading another book. I then chose my other favorite: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

I’ve read some series of the book, so when I went to a bookstore less than two weeks ago, I picked one that I hadn’t read.

And you know what? It is the last series. So, when I finished it, and then realized that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his work on Sherlock Holmes there, I experience another despair, misery moment.

The longing (or whatever) that I’ve been feeling for Huck has yet to end, but I have to endure another longing caused by Sherlock Holmes.

I experienced the same stuff when I finished Laura Ingalls’ Little House on the Prairie series and Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, Good Wives, Eight Cousins and Rose in Blooms.
Only after many months I could recover.

I wonder what’s wrong with me…is such a sense/feeling something normal to anyone just read a book? Or it’s only on particular type of people, one like me?
If this is a psychological disorder (I hope not), what I have to do to cope with that then?

Do I have to stop reading books, even if that’s the thing that I like the most in my life?

Please, anyone…give me some advices. I terribly need that.