FAITH IN INDONESIA

FAITH IN INDONESIA
The shape of the world a generation from now will be influenced far more by how we communicate the values of our society to others than by military or diplomatic superiority. William Fulbright, 1964
Showing posts with label Indonesian poor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indonesian poor. Show all posts

Sunday, April 08, 2012

AN EASTER MORAL MESSAGE

Going to hell in a handcart

Moral challenges don’t play fair. They ambush the unwary, confronting us before we have time to prepare the right response.

There should be early warning systems in place, like tsunami alerts, so we can race to the moral high ground and pass judgment.

Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that, as I discovered in Malang early one Sunday.

The day started uneventfully. Such days always do. The Bromo-Tengger massif stood clear against the dawn, the peaks yet to disappear in the fog of fumes.

The five kilometer walk from home to Oro-Oro Dowo market goes through central Malang, past the Dr Syaiful Anwar Public Hospital. Opposite is the Catholic Cor Jesu (Sacred Heart) high school. Both flank Jl Jaksa Agung Suprapto which rises uphill, heading north.

And on this road, between the two caring institutions (one with a statue of Jesus), shuffled a ragged, tragic figure, a man so old or so damaged, that any guess about his age would be wrong.

Like a human buffalo he was hauling a cart, an enormous flat-bottom trailer so overloaded with rubbish that some bags were dragging on the road, adding to the friction.

Like Atlas the man’s neck was at right angles to his body, set in a permanent hunch. He seemed burdened not just by his impossible load, but the anguish of the world.

He sought to maintain momentum on the 30 degree slope, but the effort was too great. He paused between steps, straining against gravity.

He could not be missed. I stood at the crossroads. What should I do? The man clearly needed a hand. I’m fit enough to give him one. It would be the natural, decent thing to do. No one else was paying attention

Then the devil spoke.

To get to the carter I’d have to cross a dangerous road and scramble over a concrete barrier. This wasn’t just a short rise – I’d have to pull for 500 meters or more. I’d get dirty and hot, maybe miss my lift home from the market.

The filthy load was probably full of disease. Dengue fever was abroad. He hadn’t asked for help, so what business was it of mine? I’m a foreigner. My embassy warns against getting involved in local issues; I should follow its wise advice.

Indonesians could see his plight; they weren’t helping, so why me? The last time I protested about a social injustice the police came a crowd gathered and I had to retreat.

In any case he was probably a scavenger, maybe crazy. He’d only understand Javanese and might react badly if confronted by a babbling white man. He’d think I’m a ghost. He might drop the handle. Terrible accidents could follow as the cart rushed backwards, crashing into cars, crushing little children.

These things have to be considered rationally.

An angel blew awkward thoughts in my ear: Suppose the ancient was really a mystic testing the compassion of those who claim to care? If it was a woman pushing a disabled car, would I hesitate?

Then the angel suggested a compromise: If I wouldn’t help why not pay a strong boy to assist?

The devil was not to be outdone. Was I carrying small change? And where were the willing lads? Should I find one he’d pocket the rupiah and run.

Why do such issues always arise in Indonesia? In my homeland I’d know what to do – call emergency services, contact social welfare. Not that I’d ever encounter such a distressing sight in orderly Australia.

While I dithered the pitiful porter dragged himself away from my dilemma. I hope he rested his body when he reached his destination. I wasn’t able to rest my soul when I reached mine.

I’ve glimpsed the old fellow once since. This time I was a passenger in a car speeding in the opposite direction, thank God. This time his clumsy contraption was going slowly downhill. Like my conscience.

He seemed to know where he was going. Not me, I’d lost my moral compass. I fear it’s slipping and sliding among the garbage of excuses in citizen carter’s tumbrel, waiting to be recovered with a gesture of humanity.

(First published in The Sunday Post 8 April 2012)

Monday, December 31, 2007

SAPATUN'S SIORY

Banana lady minds her own business

Most Western countries provide pensions for the poor. That’s not the situation in Indonesia where the extended family is expected to support the needy. But what happens to a widow with no children? Duncan Graham reports:




It took some tricky negotiations for permission to use the photo above, though not because it had been snapped by some sly paparazzi while the celebrity was sans make up, dirty bra straps cutting into surplus fat.

Slim, neatly dressed Sapatun was well aware of the camera but the result was not to her liking. “If my friends see this they’ll laugh because I’m showing my teeth,” she said.

Some persuasive chat was required – all true. ‘Ibu, your smile is a real delight. It lights up the whole street when you turn the corner. It makes everyone’s day that much better. Clearly it’s one of your better points, particularly when the sunlight winks off your silver crowned front tooth.

‘This is a much better picture than the stern formal one you want and where you look like a politician. You see it’s already charmed me into wanting to write your story.’

This was no guile. The picture truly reflects her personality which is at the heart of her sales pitch along with her vocal chords.

For every day bar funerals, in scorching heat or torrential rain, Sapatun tramps the potholed and puddled asphalt of Malang hawking bananas, winkling customers out of their homes by singing Pi-sang! laying such heavy emphasis on the last syllable that the first one vanishes.



On a good day she might make between Rp 7,000 and Rp 10,000 profit, which is around one US dollar or less. On a bad day – well, nothing.

She prefers the cheery middle-class areas with a mixed ethnic population rather than the monocultural kampung or the gated enclaves of the rich.

“I buy about ten hands of bananas, and maybe some papaya in Pasar Buring (Buring market on the south side of Malang) every morning about 7 am,” she said. She has a working capital of Rp 60,000 (US $6)

“Then I start off for the housing areas. I don’t use a becak (pedicab) or bemo (public transport). Why should I spend the Rp 2,000 (US 20 cents) for a lift when I can walk?

“I keep going until I’ve sold everything, or till it gets dark and I’m too tired. I’m fit, though I sometimes get headaches.”

No wonder, for she carries the fruit in two wide woven baskets stacked on her head. At the start of the day she has close to 20 kilos pushing down on her skull. The load is softened by a coiled towel, but lifting and lowering the baskets requires a real knack. Either your arms get jerked in their sockets, or you overbalance and drop the lot. Not a good sales pitch.

The tendency is to push the descending load away from the body. Ergonomically unwise; that’s the quick way to tear a back muscle, as government health and safety officials warn in Western campaigns to instill proper work practices.

No one has told headstrong Sapatun this, and even if they did she’s not into style change. Maybe the way she squats in one movement as the wide baskets tumble downwards helps dissipate the weight. Chiropractors take note: Sapatun claims no spinal agony though she repeats this exercise 20 to 30 times a day.

At this stage in a profile it’s normal to highlight the age of the interviewee. Sorry, can’t oblige. Sapatun doesn’t know, reckons 50 plus. Maybe plus plus, like a hotel bill. So study the picture again and make your own best guess.



When you do, take into account that she spends all daylight hours in the open, and doesn’t use the skin creams sinetron starlets recommend. Also remember she weighs less than 50 kilos and has the frame (though not the height) that teens would squeal to achieve.

Her parents came from Madura, the long, dry island that lies parallel with the north coast of East Java, but Sapatun was born in Malang in the district where she trades. This is her world, her alpha and omega.

She wanted to be a farmer. She likes nature and being outside, but could never find the money to buy land.

She may have gone to school briefly – the facts here are sketchy because Sapatun only speaks Jawa pasaran (market Javanese). No problem for the locals for this is the patois of Malang. Big problem for outsiders who’ve been told that Indonesians speak Indonesian.

Sapatun married young. Her husband, also a street trader, died about six years ago. The union was barren. That’s a major tragedy for poor Indonesians. This is the converse of the Javanese proverb: Many children, much welfare.

When told that modern Western states supply decent pensions she laughed at such an incredible notion. The idea that a government could be benign and caring was fantasyland.

She lives in a tiny shack with no electricity and uses kerosene for cooking and light. She eats when and where she can. Sometimes her customers share a snack.

“People are generally kind and want to have a chat,” she said. “They usually like to talk about their children.” And how does she feel looking at the smart houses, the fecund mums, the flash cars? To fit the stereotype this story has to carry the bitter taste of revolt and anger.

“Angry? If I get angry I might go crazy,” she said. “Why would I want to do that?” (This wasn’t the only question that Sapatun found absurd.)

“My life is buying and selling. It’s walking and eating and bed. This is what I do. I don’t want to envy other people. What they do is their business.

“I’ll do this as long as I can. I want to work and be independent. I would never beg. I think that’s shameful.”

This comment presented an opportunity not to be missed. One of the curses of Malang is the work-shy youth who strum slack-string plywood guitars and howl like wolves hoping householders will pay them to shut up and move on.

So what did Sapatun feel about these wastrels? How about a fruity comment on idle kids? Oldies are seldom short of gratuitous advice for the young.

Unlike Eve and the apple, the banana lady would not yield to temptation. “I don’t think about them - that’s their concern,” she said.

Suitably trounced, there was only one question left that Sapatun might bite. Any comment for the buyers of her wares?

“I just want to say that I only make between Rp 500 and Rp 1,000 (five to ten US cents) profit on a hand of bananas. Then you try to beat down my price. I can end up selling for what I paid, so what do I live on then? That’s not fair.

“Please think about other people and how they have to live. That’s all.”

(First published in The Sunday Post 30 Dec 2007)