Mall Rat

I've had a week now to shake off the jet lag and settle in. So far having a roommate hasn't been bad at all despite the fact that I don't think either of us likes the other all that much. I'm not much bothered by that. When I suggested she must miss her old roommates she replied without hesitating, "No. Not at all."

I have the top floor of the house to myself at the moment. My room is small but thankfully air conditioned and I have my own bathroom for now. This is a blessing as my hair is falling out like I'm a chemo patient, which I've been told happens to everyone when they first arrive here, but still, it's embarrassing.

Another source of shame, at least to my liberal sensibilities, is the maid. I am appalled at the notion of paying someone else to wash my underwear and clean my bathroom but it's expected here. It's only $15/month and frankly I haven't had pressed pants since I left home so I try not to think about how ridiculous it makes me feel. Besides, it's a trickle down economy and I've already set tongues wagging in the neighbourhood and school with all of the walking I do. "I saw you walking," I hear at least once a day. "Why you don't take cab?" This is said accusingly and I am in constant fear my feet will be severed if I get caught doing it again.

There are things I love though, like the kids I teach, the sudden, intense and almost daily thunder storms, and the momentary relief from the heat that follows them. The mournful lamenting sound of what I assume are the calls to prayer emanating from what I also assume is the neighbourhood mosque. I have loved the far too few cool days like today when I can sit out on my balcony and watch the bats swooping exuberantly to feed on the urban jungle mosquitoes against the backdrop of a rapid sunset. There are the bananas growing on the tree outside my window and for breakfast mangoes that haven't traveled halfway around the world.

On Saturday Mr. Principal took me along with his wife and son when they went to the mall. This is what passes for entertainment here. Mallrats. The antithesis of me. We go to the largest mall in Nagoya. They insist on feeding me despite my protests. I eat alone in a practically deserted food court because everyone is fasting for Ramadan. Food doesn't taste good at all when you are eating it in front of starving company.

I slept badly Friday night and spend most of the meal maniacally massaging the excruciating pain in my neck. This does not escape the notice of Mrs. Principal and, after lunch, she drags me across the street to an alley full of massage parlours. Here she treats me to a traditional Bali massage 15,000 IDR or $15USD for 1.5 hours. Good god! I think, that's slave wages. A masseuse back home make six or seven times that. And then I remember that that's my maid's entire months wages and I feel simultaneously relieved and ashamed.

"Here in Indonesia," Mrs. Principal says, "We no rich but we have good life."

Once we have walked up the narrow staircase to the room full of curtained mattresses Mrs. Principal, who has been fairly quiet and subdued in her husband's company, transforms into a chatty, almost adolescent girl. Having removed her hijab, her face is brightens, she relaxes, and when she laughs she is breathtakingly beautiful. She tells me how she and her American husband, Mr. Principal, met and we whisper and giggle like teenagers while we wait in our terry cloth towels and spa provided gunny sack shorts.

After the massages start we settled in quietly and I think I briefly doze, until I feel my shorts being hiked up into what is practically a wedgie. Only a few hours earlier, while shaving my legs in the shower I debated shaving my thighs and netherworld which caused me to snicker. Whoever would you being doing that for in this Muslim society? So I went with the usual sloppy to the knee shave. You'd think I'd know by now that I never know where a day is going to take me and would take appropriate measures. Instead all efforts to induce my muscles to relax are instantly rendered void while I clench in terror, imagining all manner of awful she might be seeing while she tucks the billowing spa issued pantaloons under my modest bikini underwear which now seem grossly lacking in coverage and into crevices even I've never seen.

Eventually I accept that it's too late now and she's probably seen many far more horrific things than my bottom and I try to relax, and actually succeed, until she begins to pound and slap me like she might a sassy bowl of bread dough. I am about to relent and beg her forgiveness if only she'll please, please stop when she does something indescribably fantastic with her fingers. I acquiesce. This is sheer hubris on my part as mere moments later I am gleefully pummeled. I am beginning to feel betrayed by all this soothing and lulling that only ends in abuse. I am beginning to have flash backs to bad relationships past.

In the end she sits me up and, placing her feet on my back, pulls my arms straight behind me until my shoulders pop. I make a mental note to make "Are you a licensed chiropractor?" the next phrase I learn in Bahasa Indonesia.

When our time was up I leave feeling slippery and smelling like I showered in black tea. Somehow I thought jasmine oil would smell prettier. I commence rubbing my neck maniacally.

We walk back to the mall and Mrs. Principal takes me grocery shopping at the HyperMart. I have already been grocery shopping at the HyperMart in the Mega Mall by our school but now I can finally ask what is inside packages of oil that read simply "Mengiken" and what kind of eggs are blue? I buy a dragon fruit and some Pantene Pro-V that seems to be specially formulated for Indonesia promising, as it does, to "reduce hair fall".

After shopping it is time to break fast which seems an utterly impossible venture with every person in the mall making a mad dash towards every eatery. We end up eating at the "Happiness Restaurant" where I order the chicken in strawberry sauce. The Indonesians heart their chicken and inconceivably good things to it like serve it with strawberry sauce. Happiness indeed.

On Sunday Ms. Yeni calls. "I go to mall, you come too?"

So at noon, we set off to the final mall on Batam Island that I haven't seen, the BCS mall. Ms. Yeni teaches me how to use the bus which involves standing on the side of the road -anywhere on any road will do- and waiting for a van to pull over. When they do, you ask if they are going to BCS or wherever you might wish to go. Because it's an island they almost inevitably are, or will eventually, so you climb on board and try to find a patch of seat that still has some padding on it because it's going to be a bumpy ride.

I had been warned by Ms. Heni when I first arrived not to take a taxi. "They will try to hypnotize you and steal your money." When I inquired about good places to swim I was told to go to Nagoya. "But don't take a bus. They are too dangerous. You take a bike cab instead." Bike cabs are men for hire on motorbikes. When I express skepticism that these are any safer than buses I'm told, "Oh, no, this is normal and perfectly safe. Just wear the helmet." Actually it's the sweaty lice ridden helmet I'm worried about but I keep my opinions to myself.

At the mall we go to the grocery store and Ms. Yeni does her best to educate me about more vegetables I have never seen. I buy a mango and a $4.00 bottle of olive oil (half the price of the Hypermart, though only 3/4 the size) which I accidentally try to pay for using Korean coins. Ms. Yheni seems captivated by them so I give them to her. She gave me two Javanese bracelets earlier in the day and I was happy to reciprocate. Afterwards we wander around a bookstore in search of a Bahasa Indonesia - Inggris dictionary ($1.50 brand new, still wrapped in cellophane) before returning home.

We stop at a local restaurant for mango juice when we get back to our neighbourhood and she tries to convince me to get a cell phone. I am adamant that I must wait until pay day at the end of September.

"No," she says almost near tears. "I have phone I give you. No cost. You just buy pulsa."

I remember all the lovers and boyfriends who tried to buy me a cell phone. I balk now just as I always have. I don't want to always be available, accessible. I don't want to feel tied down.

"Yes, but pulsa cost money," I say by way of excuse. "Just call my home phone."

"No, this cost too much. No phone. Text. Just text. So I can reach you."

So today I have a new friend and a new, used cell phone and not a clue what to do with either.

Bahasa Indonesia phrase of the Day: Tidak, terima kasih  = No, thank you.