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Jeannie Fairfax is a freelance writer  living and working in Indonesia and Malaysia.  Her work takes her to many places including trips into Sumatera Bara, recently.  She has proposed articles on living and working in Sindri and "Made-Up Jobs: The Ever Entrepeneural Indonesians.  After communicating with Escape from America Magazine and reading some of the stories written by contributors on living overseas and unique travel, she writes, "Now I better understand why I always feel weird, and a little different (from all my neighbors) and from all the world unless speaking to another independent traveler."  The following article is really three.  Fairfax gives her unique impressions of living in a unique place. Additional Resources Articles on Indonesia  Current Jobs  Embassies Near You

I live in a distinctly Indonesian neighborhood, or, "kampung."  And, although bordering Jalan Sudirman, one of Jakarta's largest, most important thoroughfares, here in "Ben-Hill" (Bendungan-Hillerman) I can safely wander the curving, crooked paths day or night and feel far away -- in another world from the city.
 

The houses are joined at the sides. A family group lives in the five or ten meter width of a typical house which is quite contiguous to the next family and just two meters at most from the neighbor "across " the path.  Walking through all of this you see into people's lives.  There are living rooms, some without a pane of glass in the window, just two feet from me, as I walk the center of the path street.  In the living rooms, teenage daughters sit together on the floor, heads aimed at a small TV.   Women prepare the evening meal in pairs, or bunches.  In groups they stand outside and visit while the dark thickens, while the heat abates and the evening breeze commences.   Men sit together on little cooling pads beside the canals, talking about what men talk about at the end of a day. On Ben-Hill the same rooster crows to his hierarchy over a stretch of field facing  the rumah sakit.   Along the side streets, evening blossoms perfume the air, and nightbirds sing against  a backdrop of the scents of spicy cooking and the busy sound of conversation.

Just arrived, I thought, the peeping, I heard, the lilt of calling nightbirds as I walked in the dark amidst my vivacious neighborhood.
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The Parking Directors

Parking Directors are what I call the ones responsible for the constant whistling and shouting one hears outside the building where you are having your massage, visiting the dentist,  or eating at a restaurant.  These volunteer enforcers of the rule-of-order are lively and colorful, but far less qualified than a hermit in the Himalayas to direct traffic. 

"TuRUSSSSSSSSs!" goes the whistle.  "TuRUUUUUUUSSss, TuRUUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" For, without this vigorous noise and  commotion, any  backing out of a parking space, or any driving forward onto the edge of the road is deemed by the Parking Director and agreed upon by all else as absolutely not possible!
 

The Parking Director claims his territory by right of might, or just plain stubbornness.  He returns to the same location -- his place of work -- everyday.  He installs himself, equipped  with uniform and whistle, at parking areas, which is defined as any place a car can stop, or wherever vehicles try to enter, turn around ,or leave the flow of traffic.  One arm waves (directs) continuously in sweeping, exaggerated motions while the great commotion is kept ongoing by means of shouts and whistles facilitated with the hand of the other arm -- employed to snatch out the whistle intermittent to powerful, bark-like bellowings. Often small groups of them will suddenly appear and move big traffic along large avenues.  At other times  whole gangs will appear even  when the flow of vehicles seems to be moving along quite jauntily.  If there is ever the sound of argument between two drivers, an adequate number of these enforcers of the rule-of-order will miraculously appear to return traffic to its intended purpose.

Late in the heat of the day when a director is feeling a teensy bit less exuberant, the entire process will be reduced to just the mad, frenzied whirling of the one arm in a rotary motion designed to both impel the otherwise incapable driver inside the vehicle and to convey a fervent devotion to his duty.

So, they stand at all small intersections. They help the lucky to get out. They stuff the requisite small sum (500 rupiah) into the less-whirled hand. There's one who hails my morning taxi as I approach our road's tiny, bustling intersection with Ben-HILL. But I know him, and don't really poke fun at any.  Heaven only knows what the streets would be like without them.  The are the enforcers of the rule-of-order. 

Those GUYS who MAKE NOISES in front of your house

Men push wagons or carts laden with vegetables and fresh fowl, plastic goods,  flower pots and houseplants, even peripatetic cooking stalls complete with ingredients, plates and fire for cooking! And it's all on wheels! You thought catalogue shopping saves time!!

I wish this were a recording! There's the very nasal one who makes his own distinct sound that goes something like, "NIEMP!!"  His cart is piled high with jars of cooking oil.  "NiemP, NiemP, NiemP!"

A sodden clanging announcing  a food car, probably the original fast-food.  Seafood?  Fried rice? Chicken soup?   Horrible fish-balls?  He'll light up and begin the cuisine if you only wave or clap.
There's an old man, actually saying the names of fruit I can understand, "MeLON!…. ManGA!…"

--"ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzing!"  a peddle cab passes, his bicycle causing  a pleasant, percussive small orchestra  sound,  "ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzxing!"

The man with fruits, vegetables and dead chickens hollers, "Oooooooooo, EEEEEEEE, eeeeeeee!!!" His papaya is fresh, his cabbage wilty, his daily takings a matter of barter, and he's proud to be able to bring his produce to those awaiting his arrival.

There is one whose large, flat cart is here to take away old cardboard boxes.  He rustles up with nary a sound.  There are ones with a shoulder pole and two large covered pots.  He hits the pots!
 

There's the horrible high-note whistle of one.  He shoves and pushes along a one-of-a-kind sea food cart with dolphins painted on his perambulated food stall, the horrid whistle shooting out steam from a stumpy pipe. I stopped for shelter during a rainy night walk once, and one of these came in under the same shelter, the owner smoothly removed the whistle from a vented pot of boiling water, causing  the whistle noise to slowly subside. There's a "plastics" one with buckets and brooms, rugs, wash pans, sifters, trash cans. There's a charming houseplant one. In the very early morning there's a boy on a bike, no cart, who travels fast, shouting newspaper names. Very early, too, the  Ibu-Jamu-woman's call is  gently moaned.  She has remedies of herbs and potions that  will cure your every ill.  She is eye catching  in a long skirt of batik, balancing  the basket of bottles on her head.

There are the nine different voices raised together six times a day -- a call-to-prayer.  Ben-Hill's a densely packed neighborhood!

This mild cacophony is best enjoyed  at dusk from a rooftop when  bats clip across  the evening sky's short color display and the evening breeze leavens the  past afternoon heat.

Throughout the evening and all night quiet reigns, good sleep is possible. At five, five-thirty, before morning light, silent couples walk for morning exercise.

Then, very soon, the workers noises start again.

Motorcycle delivery boys, who also carry passengers.  Pembantu's scratch the road outside the house with "brooms," then  mind your house, raise your kids, shop and cook your meals, wash your clothing, wash your car (wash the driver???) open your gate for you, answer the phone.  If you own a car, you also have a driver, perhaps a night guard.

They say there's a neighborhood security person, who rides the street at night, knows when you have a guest staying, and who wants a monthly stipend for "watching over" you.  But as for me, as a sindiri female, there are all the eyes and minds on Danau.  Diatas noticing, inquiring, and discussing my every daily destination or activity

But that also works, like it did for me in Paris, as security.
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