I
received an email from my friend the other day. She’s one of the few
Indonesians who could hop on the plane and fly to the US when she’s fed
up with what she’s encountered. Which means 1) she has money, 2) she has passport, and 3)
most importantly, she has her visa ready. Nevertheless, she said that
she’s so jealous to find out that I’ve been living outside Indonesia
for several months now. She said that I’m so lucky, and is sure that
I’m having a good time. That I must be relieved to get out Indonesia,
or Jakarta in particular.

This is not the first time I received such comments. Several friends commented the same thing. Some even said I’m not meant to be living in Indonesia, that I’m better off somewhere else. Funnily enough, only my colleagues in L’Oréal reacted differently (when I said Scotland, they looked at me like I was out of my mind and said, "It’s really cold up there!". Which means they know exactly where Scotland is - a plus point because most of Indonesians don’t). In general, the reactions I’ve received so far is a mixture of amazement and jealousy, that I finally can get out of Indonesia.

Really?

Is it true that everything is better outside Indonesia?
Not quite.

Perhaps the perception is built because they think that whatever relates to bule country is better. Perhaps the perception is built during holidays or tours, where they spend 5 minutes in tourist spots and everything looks polished and perfect through a window glass.

But we, Indonesians who already live in foreign countries, know better. That of course, we are so relieved to escape from Jakarta’s endless traffic jam and pollution. That we could reach most of the destination in 10 minutes walking and don’t have to drive for 30 minutes from Gran Melia to Cazbar. That we could trust the health system here without questioning whether the doctor takes advantages of us and we end up paying bills of all examinations that we don’t really need. That we don’t have to stuck in our office until 9.00 PM (due to our own inefficiency) or at least have to wait until 3-in-1 time finish. That we don’t have to be cautious continuously, even in premium shopping centres, of never-ending crimes from thugs to hypnosis. That we don’t need to question whether the chicken is free from bird flu or not. That we don’t need to argue with the laundry service which puts French name on their sign yet still manages to shrink our DKNY skirt and only reimburses Rp 70,000. I think my worst nightmare of living in Indonesia can be read in my old posting, Oh Indonesia, Oh Valet, where I had an unnecessary encounter with security guards in Plaza Abda.

But we (or say I) find out that Indonesia has several things which are better than the rest of bule countries. Here are the things that we miss from our beloved country:

Indulgence

As part of the deal with Stuart, when he watches football in the stadium, I get to go to spa and treat myself. But I never find some place which is as good as in Indonesia. Not to mention the price, which if converted, can get me mild heart attacks! Tony&Guy charges me £80, or about 1.6 millions, to get my hair colour done, so up to date I still postpone my appointment. My back, neck, and shoulder massage for 30 minutes at James Dun’s House costs £25, or about Rp 500,000. I got my manicure & pedicure at The House which costs £54 or around one million rupiahs (I knowww, ridiculous! With one million rupiahs I could get 8 manicure & pedicure treatments in Jakarta). One place advertises relexology that costs £35/hour, and with the same amount of money I could get at least 7 treatments in Zen Living Jakarta.
It’s not that Indonesia doesn’t have expensive treatments, but they are usually in premium places which target business people or tourists (Four Seasons Hotel charges about 400 thousands for a 90-minutes massage and Kirana Spa in Ubud posts all prices in USD, between USD 150 to USD 950), and we don’t go there in daily basis unless we’re the daughters of Lim Siew Leong. I and most of my friends in Jakarta spend at least twice a week in B+ class saloon and still get good service, good value with good money, something that I couldn’t do here that often. I know, there’s no point of converting here, and people keep telling me that you can’t compare apple to orange. But still, one million for toenails and hand nails??

Food


I don’t have problems with food, since I love trying out everything. I got minor culture shock when I arrived in Scotland at the first time (see my old post: Things That We Thought Are Normal…), but I still manage to find several Indonesian food and spices here, 12,000 km from Indonesia (see My Survival Kits). However I sometimes miss simple Indonesian food like sambal terasi or sayur asam. Lewi, despite only has to move to Singapore, told me that she misses Nasi Padang, and even though there are many places in Singapore serving the dish, it’s still not as good as in Indonesia, as they don’t use the secret ingredients (read: cannabis leaves) that Indonesians usually put. Also it’s so easy and cheap to find good food in Indonesia so I rarely cooked except to impress my partner. There’s no Indonesian restaurant here (there are 5 in London though) so if I have some craving for Indonesian food, I have to cook it myself, and anyone knows that Indonesian recipes need a lot of spices and take a lot of time to prepare. Plus we couldn’t get out everyday unless we’re Richard Branson’s children.

Excitement


You may laugh, but everything is predictable here. Everything is smooth, like a well-maintained machine. But it gets boring. It’s not like in Jakarta where every single minute can be an excitement. From a sudden traffic jam to a sudden clear traffic 30 minutes later. There’s a funny story during big flood last February. I was in HK for a conference and Friday was our last day. The ASEAN boss, who’s going back to Singapore, said that he could only stay until 1.30PM because he had to catch a plane at 4.00PM. I asked him if I could share a taxi with him since my flight was at 5.00 PM (means he’d take the bill so I didn’t have to pay, another saving for L’Oréal Indonesia haha!). After lunch time, however, I got a lot of texts from my colleagues, reporting that Jakarta was flooded, that airport was closed, that the main road was closed and even though we tried, the furthest we could go was Sheraton Airport Hotel, and the toll roads were now full of thugs asking money. In 1 hour the reports got worsened, and I was advised to stay in HK, my flight would be delayed anyway, etc. etc. Of course when the French boss was saying goodbye, in front of everyone in the conference room he asked, "Anita, are you going with me?". And when I told him, and everybody, that I had to stay for one more day because Jakarta’s flooded, no one believed me. They thought I was making things up. Some guy from Taiwan said he just watched CNN during lunch time and there was no news about flood in Indonesia. Patiently I told him that there a lot of things can happen during 30 minutes, if you live in Jakarta. Nothing is predictable. I was lucky I was stuck in a comfy hotel HK rather than in Cengkareng Airport! Poor Stuart had just arrived though, and he’s stuck in Eastern Promise, where he and everybody else watched the water rising so fast until GG’s Subaru was drowned in front of its owner. If this story didn’t shake you, how about when Stuart and his friend got rescued with Bart’s farmer truck, and they saw 5 people walking on Kemang street holding a….. phyton! One held the head, one held the tail, the other three held the body.

Can you imagine such thing happen in Scotland? They call it traffic jam even though that it’s only 5 minutes macet. Compare to Stuart who had to take 1.5-3 hours back from his office in Karawaci to Kuningan, 5 minutes is nothing. The only excitement I saw so far was when we’re stuck in traffic last Saturday because there’s a car full of smoke and flames coming out of its machine. But within 30 seconds the police came to handle the traffic and make sure no one was close enough to get injured, and within 2 minutes the fire brigade came, and after less than10 minutes we’re allowed to pass because everything’s under control. Boring….!!

I
lived in Sydney for two years and even then the only excitement I could
think of was when the transit authority officers raided our bus to bust
people who were using student ticket while they actually had to pay
full price. Mardi Gras and Olympics are prepared events and
predictable. No one can beat the pyhton story and where else we could rowing a boat on the road?….

Weather


If only I’d moved to another tropical country, I wouldn’t have made a lot of fashion blunders like what I’ve done here. My old posting Confusing Weather has mentioned about it, and I still make some mistakes, like last Saturday, when I insisted on wearing mini skirt with nude colour tights.
I thought I’d be warm enough, but every time the wind blew, my legs were frozen. Or the other day I wore my jacket with flurry hoodie like some Eskimo girl, and after 2.00 PM the sun shone so bright everyone started walking with tank top around Union Street, while I was left feeling stupid with my knee-high boots! So just to go out of the house takes a lot of preparation. I must make sure that I’m warm enough, not too hot and not too cold. It’s so easy in Indonesia, where I just need to wear jeans and whatever top and we don’t need to work out our brain and watch weather forecast before going out.

However I must admit that there are several things I don’t miss from Indonesia, like:

("Good") Customer Service

I sent email to Krisflyer Indonesia the other day, asking them to note my new address and stop sending mails to L’Oréal  Indonesia because I’ve already moved to UK. After several days I’ve got the reply like this,

"With regards to your query regarding Krisflyer including updating the krisflyer particular such as address…" (deleted). "As for other option, you may come to our ticketing office and proceed to counter #5 during office hours at …" (deleted).

Didn’t I just state that I’ve moved to UK? Why did they suggest me go to their office in Menara Kadin? D’oh! Only after contacting Singapore office I got more sensible answer.

("Better") Preparation

Part of my job as a project manager was to make sure that the construction schedule was obeyed, but it’s difficult in Indonesia because it’s typically like this:

• 
  The contractor informed that they’re going to supply & install a cabinet on date A.
• On date A, no one turned up up until lunch time so I had to call to confirm. Usually they said the cabinet was on its way but it’s either stuck in traffic, or the truck was still delivering other items in different place, or the cabinet was already in queue in front of service lift on the basement.
• The cabinet’s bits and pieces finally arrived, 6 hours late than it’s scheduled, accompanied by its labour, between 4-6 people.
• The labours put the bits and pieces at the destined spot and just sat down next to it.
• When asked why didn’t they start assembling, the normal answer were usually 1) they forgot to bring the screwdrivers so they must wait, 2) they forgot to bring bolts so they must wait, 3) the head labour hadn’t come so they must wait

In general, one small simple cabinet can take 1 full day and 6 people to install in Indonesia. When finally it is installed there are always something missing, usually shelves or lockset, so the cabinet was nicely put but we must wait for at least another day to get it done. Ok, let’s compare to my small experience having the bed delivered to our place. The bed we ordered has storages (drawers) underneath so it requires small work of assembly. 

• Two people came, precisely on time. One was acting as the driver too.
• They make sure that the bed is positioned as I wish, and went out to get toolboxes.
• I phoned my mom when they started to work.
• The whole assembly process took 30 minutes. Even before I finished talking to my mom.

I couldn’t even putting a show to them, to let them know that I was a project manager with sharp eyes, because their work was perfect, I couldn’t find a single flaw.

("Cheap") Wine and Books

Yes, not everything is expensive here compare to Indonesia. Wine is incredibly cheap. A glass of red wine in Burgundy can buy the whole bottle here. I remember the last time we had dinner in  Scusa

and Stuart ordered a bottle of Barolo, which I really loved, but hate when saw the price. So it was a nice surprise to find the same type which only costs around Rp 180,000/bottle in here! Books are also very cheap, which is a good solution for me, since I’m a fast reading (I could finish one John Grisham’s novel in 2 hour without interruption), so since July I’ve already bought around ten books. Something that I couldn’t do in Jakarta.

So do I really love living in a foreign country? Yes and no.There are certain things I’d always miss from Indonesia, there things that I won’t, ever.  Either way, I’d always try to get the best out of everything. Everywhere.

I came across this article the other day, and saw that the post got 239 comments. The
author and the main contributor of the blog, remains anonymous so I
wouldn’t know whether it’s a guy or a lady. A lady named Parvita left a lengthy comment and I guess that was when everybody started the subject of discussion: an expatriate (by expatriate I think she meant a Caucasian) guy vs. Indonesian girl.

I
don’t understand why this became a topic anyway? It’s a preference that
people make, like I like orange more than grape, or I prefer Frank
Gehry rather than Norman Foster. Some people prefer to like Caucasians,
some only choose Asians, etc. It’s a taste. You can’t tell people what
or who to like or dislike.

But then throw some spices on the relationship between Caucasian and Indonesian, namely money,
and this becomes a horrendous subject. Like what Indonesian girls do
are so taboo and so sophisticated no other ethnic groups do that. So
what if one side has money and is ready to throw it to anything that is
covered with skirt, and the other side is ready to surrender for
whatever it takes as long as their taxi ride and meal are paid. If you
want to say that both sides are stupid, that’s ok. But that’s the
choice that they deliberately make, and both know the consequences. It
doesn’t matter whether we are Caucasians, Asians, Africans, etc. Why
make such a fuss because there are people from different genders date
(or have sex)?

Is it bad because of money involved? Then what would they say about this millionaire dating site?
It’s specifically dedicated to people who are looking for dates who
earns at least a million (I assume in US Dollar currency). Some people
are so certain about the criteria of their partner(s) and they are not
ashamed of drawing a borderline between what they want and what they
actually could tolerate. Some can go as far whether she would date a
baldie or not, or whether she would date a guy shorter than Tom Cruise
or not. But some are very précised and know what they really, really
want, including how much money their partner’s minimum earnings.

And how about an Indonesian girl who’s looking for (or dating for) money with Indonesian guy? My old post Upgraded Girls
already talked about this subject. It’s everywhere too, except that
it’s probably unseen because hey, we have the same skin colour and oh,
probably because Indonesians are much more discreet because they have
to save face,
they can’t do what the Caucasian obnoxiously do, so they’d rather go
behind the curtains (of karaoke bars probably) with loads of girls serving while they’re singing.
How many of you have a friend or know someone who is a mistress of an
Indonesian guy? I encountered one, and she’s having a good time,
because she could treat a bunch of friends to stay in private villas in
Bali (two villas at one visit, each costs close to USD 200 per day,
with its own swimming pool, butler, and breakfast served at the spot),
complete with cars and drivers, got the best table in clubs, before
jetted off to Singapore for shopping trip the next month. Don’t tell me
she’s being a mistress for love! I’ve got lots of stories similar to
this, and usually the Indonesian girls are not poor, they’re just
greedy and want to keep up with the latest handbag trends.

But
again, it’s about choice. It’s like choosing job, or house, or clothes.
If the (Indonesian) girls look for easy ways and choose to have fun for
free, so beat it. I’m sure behind everybody’s back they tell their
friends how stupid the bule guy spending so much money buying
them expensive watch and paying for their mobile phone bills just for
20 minutes time (probably less) of their life. And the buy guy will
brag to his friends how he scored 2 girls in one night for cheap price.

What
I don’t understand, and this seems like a virus across Jakarta, is then
if the casual dating becomes a relationship. My article Open Up and Say… Aaahhh! expressed how confused I was to see my Caucasian friends (who are smart, descent, have good jobs, and not like Parvita claimed cannot compete in their own countries. See, some Caucasians do
look for serious relationships) choose to have a girlfriend or are
married to Indonesian girls who, I must say here, are not equal to
them? I’m not talking about money here. I’m talking about other other
essence: educations. language, and cultural understandings. I point out
education here because I couldn’t imagine my friend, a guy who is a
finance director of a multinational company, comes home to a girl who
doesn’t even speak English. What would he share with her about what
happened to him during the day? Would she listen when he tells her
about the conference call with head office?

Then
what happen to the rest of smart, descent, Indonesian girls who happen
to date or are married to Caucasians? They’re from educated, well off
family, have their own jobs (mostly very good ones in multinational
companies), and can afford whatever the guys would offer, whether
they’re Caucasians or Indonesians. But they demand to be treated well.
Because they damn right know that they are entitled to it and ask for
no less. Hmm…. another label to make up.

I
guess regardless of our skin colour, we could end up with jerks or
saints. And if we’re lucky enough, we would find someone who are smart
and descent, who treats us with love, honesty and respects.

It’s our own choice.

Note: Parvita has read my post in blogspot and left a comment as below:

"Yeah, said, isn’t it, (Anita’s comment: I think Parvita meant SAD and not said) how expats are seen here. Even the expats here
often says, "I’m not like other expats". What are other expats like?

You
must have read the Indonesia Matter website. Yup, that article gave
tons of response, didn’t it. You can write almost all sort of things
including BS in that forum. Take it with a grain of salt.

You
should also read Thang Nguyen’s blog about his comments on Expats who
likes pembantu look woman. Now that one was a big kick, it was also
posted in Jakarta Post.

Anyways, beauty is in the eyes of the
beholder. And there must be some exceptions. I have to admit my post
was a generalisation. I do see once in a while those who are decent and
competitive, that are pretty useful in this country. Cheers."

I‘ve just checked my blogspot just now and found out someone, who puts a screen name as Jakarta Casual, has left a comment about my writing in early October. The writing was talking about football, about how I never understand why men in general are so crazy about this game, and about me offering a solution for a truce between men and his girl. When men think that shoes and handbags are stupid hobby and boring, so do I think about football in general.

Judging by his blog it seems like he’s a true believer of football or anything to do with it, and I apparently touched his soft spots and he counter-wrote my writing. I think it’s hilarious, and I quote verbatim here (he quoted my 8 rules and left comments on each):

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

A woman trying to get her head round football!

This
post made me smile. I don’t normally go off about ather blogs unless
they have a relevance to the main topic here but things are a bit
quiet. This blog
is from an Indonesian woman living in Aberdeen (which is in Scotland,
that funny bit above England.) She has a good style, you can find more
of her here, but this particular thread she bemoans being a footballing widow!

But
I have nothing against football, as long as I don’t have to watch it.
In fact, I think I’ve found a recipe for guys to make peace between
football and a lovely girlfriend/wife: (my comments come after)

Have
more than one TV and put them in different rooms. So you guys can watch
football match in the living room and the girl can watch E! News in the
bedroom, or vice versa. Better
still, she can buy her own TV instead of buying nonsense handbags that
all look the same and asking what we think! Of course it’s blody nice,
just show me it at half time!

Everytime
you watch football, your girl entitles to indulge herself on shopping
trip. Your treat, of course. So you could sit and watch the match in
peace, drinking beer, putting your feet up on the coffee table, picking
nose, and farting, without having someone else reminds you to behave. No problem from me on that one. Working wives should have some independence.

Or
better, without having someone asking where Jose Mourinho is or why
David Beckham is not playing tonight with MU or why there is a guy with
flag in every corner…. See above

You
must do something nice prior to the match i.e. cook dinner, accompany
the girl for grocery shopping, etc. Yes, it’s like a bribery. Or even visit the in laws. That’s credit in the bank for at least 6 months.

Never, ever, force your girl to watch the game with you, no matter how important the game is. Believe
me, most sane guys would rather visit the dentist. The thought of
sitting next to someone screaming like a fan at a Bay City Rollers is
not most guy’s idea of fun.

Unless
you’re sure that she’s a football junkie as well. Unless you’re up for
a risk of going to search a perfect party dress for next month’s event
together with the girl in 7 different malls and hundreds different
clothing shops. Feel free to go to all the malls you want. Just pick me up at Eastern Promise when you’ve finished. Already? That was quick dear, can I just have one more…

Never
try to explain the difference between Champions League and Premier
Leagues, unless you’re ready to know the difference between platform
and wedges, or between maroon and burgundy, or between pouch and
wallet. I won’t even try
explaining the offside law. There is a beauty and complexity about
sport that is lacking in the average chat about shoes. We’re talking
space shuttles here, asteroids…way over your head!

Record the game and watch it while she’s sleeping. Remember what I said about beauty and complexity?

Do
not dare to watch the game while eating but not paying attention to
what she’s cooked. Unless you’re ready to buy her a Louis Vuitton
Lockit bag or worse, take her out for dinner every single night for the
rest of the year because she refuses to do it again (come to think
about it again, LV bag turns out to be much cheaper than 10 times
dinner at 4 Seasons…). A bag’s a bag…you wouldn’t know the real thing from a 20 dollar rip off bought in KL. Remember all those business trips?

You
might try to repeat the story of your favorite team’s victory. But be
prepared to hear the victory of your girl of finding a vintage Fendi
for 20 pounds. I don’t bother.
The ejaculatory experience of Micky Thomas, one minute and it’s up for
grabs is wasted on blank faces caught between the latest LV or Burberry
bag.

Cool isn’t it?

I specially love the image of him sitting in Eastern Promise, drinking and waiting for his girl shops around Kemang. It’s not bad idea at all, since the more he spends, the better for the me (aah, another mystery like the offside law, space shuttles and asteroids, which I’m sure only a handful of people are able to understand…).

No idea why he thinks that I don’t understand the game and its rules. D’oh, football is too simple to understand, it’s the simplest game in the world (why else it becomes the most popular sport on earth?). But it’s boring. Period. I’d rather to discuss about space shuttles and asteroids (and hopefully my another interest, the big bang theory) rather than player transfer season and ridiculously large amount of money Beckham’s got when he’s off to play with LA Galaxy. I tried to watch my then boyfriend once when he was playing for FC
Bugil’s but after 45 minutes watching the game, in between their beer
drinking, player swapping, listening to my ipod and reading my book, I
gave up and told him I’d go somewhere else and pick him up when it’s
done.

I was actually crazy about football when I was in junior high, the period of Marco van Basten and Ruud Gullit (I have no idea why I picked Dutch team as my favourite) and I think that was the time when Maradona was still fit and scored goal with his golden hand (did I just reveal my age here? Oh no), but then I discovered nothing’s evolved afterwards, and soon I’ve lost interest. So I chucked my clippings away (oh yeah, I did have a thick book full of news and pictures of football players, plus Matt Biondi and Andre Agassi. I know, sad!) and started to enjoy the real life.

But just because I compare football with fashion show doesn’t mean I have the brain with the size of peanuts and handbags & shoes are the only things I care about in life or those are the only things I could think of. What I DON’ GET from football is NOT the game itself, but how could men sit motionless except to put beer glass into their mouth and watch the same thing over and over and over and over again for hours, and the difference is only the uniform colours?

Anyway, I guess I’m trying to say that everyone has a hobby and we just need to find a balance in between the hobby and the people we care about. No pain, no gain. You get what you want, but you must sacrifice a little, pay the price. Why do you think we need good shoes? So if you start mumbling on last night’s good game, we’re ready to run away in steady feet. And the bags? They’re like shields, as we know you’d fall asleep when we start talking about it, we use them as our protection. When you start talking about football, we’d start talking about bags. Then both can fall sleep peacefully…..

In my short career as a globetrotter I’ve learned something valuable: it sucks being Indonesian. As a country we only have dual agreements with 11 countries which allow Indonesian citizens to enter those 11 countries without having to applied for a visa. That means for the rest of countries in the world, we have to go through a tiring process of applying visa with supporting documents from family card,
bank statement, proof of evidence that we have friends/family in the destined country, until the assurance from our office that we, indeed, are coming back to work for them, but wait, they don’t pay for our holiday (hence bank statement). But funnily enough Indonesia allows 63 other countries’ citizens to apply visa on arrival, (click here for a complete list) which doesn’t apply to Indonesians who travel to those 63 countries. So Stuart can apply his visa when he lands in Jakarta, in between his toilet visit and luggage collection, but I couldn’t dream the same thing for UK. It’s not fair, isn’t it??

My first traumatic encounter with the embassy and immigration was when I was applying for a student visa in Australian consulate in Bali. I was a bit lucky that I didn’t have to be present when submitting the application, as the education agent did everything for me.
However, they managed to scare me by telling me horrible stories about people whose application weren’t approved and the embassy entitles of giving no reason at all, or who were caught lying, that even though everything seems ok on paper there will be no guarantee that my visa will be approved (it didn’t help even though I’ve paid for tuition fee already, so I was so stressed out to think about a lot of money I’ve already spent), that the embassy will probably call you and interview you in person just to make sure you’re genuine (which means I had to polish my voice to sound like a young, enthusiastic, Australian-loving, pro-democracy, educated lady), etc. So even I didn’t do anything wrong and did everything by the book, I was really scared I couldn’t make it through I had recurring nightmares for weeks.

  After waiting for a very long time I got my student visa without any sweat. All the horrible stories didn’t happen. But the experience has left a tiny scar on my head and since then I’ve developed a habit of submitting more, if not everything, than what the embassy asks for. I put myself into their shoes, thinking that dirty papers, unreadable writing, or messy documents in application will lessen my chance to get the visa asap.
So I always treat my application with a great respect, putting all necessary documents in order (either based on what the embassy asks, or by alphabetical order), provide minimum 2 copies, provide everything that is not in English translated by certified translator, have everything stamped by the highest authority possible, and so on. No wonder that on every visa process I’ve done, I’ve always felt tired afterwards. It felt like I was preparing a research paper to be presented before the Noble committee!

It didn’t help that most of, if not all, embassies treat the applicants with a  suspicious eyes, and most of the local staffs have the superior auras under their noses so they either 1) flirt with you or 2) despise you because you will be going abroad and hence 3) ask you to bring souvenirs for them. I’m not kidding, it happened to me! Why do you think I insist to look gorgeous in my passport? haha!

I accept this difficulty as one of the process of having fun later on (when the visa’s approved). No matter how irritated I am (and God knows
how easy to make me feeling annoyed!), I always project the complete fake version of myself: nice, smiley, approachable, presentable (nice clothes but never flash money), a little bit flirty if required but not too much as I don’t want to be tick under the box ‘hooker’, all those necessary positive attitudes, no matter how grudging the officer in front of me is. I should consider myself lucky, I never went through an experience like Jenny who had to go through the interview process when she’s visiting me here, and the visa officer asked her endless, unbelievably irritating questions and she could maintain her composure. Not to mention that everytime I passed the US embassy I saw the long line of people standing in queue, some were from 5.00 AM just to be able to get an entry permit (can you imagine Americans standing in queue in Indonesian embassy in Washington DC? They’d probably shout at the staff to get served faster). I guess I was so used to being treated like no-one, I’ve always believed that everything is never easy if it’s regarding a visa process. That’s why I couldn’t believe that UK embassy
actually approved my visa in 48 hours (that included 1 day transport
between the collection and the embassy points, and it’s not a tourist
visa, it’s fiancée visa, which required at least a hundred documents to
prove that I was a fiancée of a British national). And of course, since it’s your passport, your travel, your journey, your documents, the embassy wouldn’t bother to tell you whether it’s done or not.
UK embassy has a system that posts the information on the website, and it will tell us that the passport is ready to be collected. Anther embassy just gives us a piece of receipt and tells us to come back on certain date, but ho-ho-ho, no guarantee amigo. You can come, but you might not collect your passport back. However, in my experience, they’re never late (if they can actually keep their promise, why not tell us upfront rather than give ambiguous hints?).

When I decided to join Stuart for a trip to the Netherlands on this upcoming weekend, I know that at least I will need 2 weeks for my visa process (and oh, Stuart doesn’t need a visa dong! Huh! I don’t understand. Why Malaysian and Singaporean don’t need a visa, while we, the country which was occupied by Dutch for 350 years and have made them prosperous, are not on the list?). Even though the Netherlands website states that the visa process will take up to 48 hours, again, because I am Indonesian, I am immune to that luxury. How do I know that? Of course I had no proof, but bear with me and you’d see that I’m right. Anyway, we couldn’t confirm whether I could/couldn’t go before October 5, and when finally confirmed that I could go, I got confused with 2 slightly different documents required by the consular, so I decided, as usual, to provide everything. The latest document, travel insurance, took 3 days to proceed and I only got it last Friday.

That means today’s the day I must apply the Schengen visa. 1 week left. I knew I will have a small chance, but I decided to go with it anyway.

This is what happened two hours ago.

The lady who assisted me glanced at Stuart’s passport and smiled. She said, "Oh, you’re married to a British! This will make your life easier!". Wow, suddenly I’m not a no-one from a country which is famous for terrorism and jihad. And from then on, the slightly different rules applied to me.
As an Indonesian, I had to prove that I’m not a beggar and could provide for myself during my visit, therefore they ask either bank statements or traveller’s cheque. But since I’ve got Stuart’s passport, hey no need lah. She gently gave back my cheque copies and didn’t even look at my original cheques (I was so disappointed! I was running to the post office this morning to buy the cheques, went back home to make copies - as stated in the website that they require everything to be copied - then went to the consular, only to find out that because I’m married to a British, I don’t have to prove that I do have money!). Then in the website they ask for a travel insurance, but she obviously thinks I don’t need it. My life is indeed easier.

But hold on! She looked at my passport, found out that I’m an Indonesian, and without a word provided a terrifying black book on the desk, open some page which consists of a loooong list, and eventually found out, err.. Indonesia in the list. "I’m sorry," she said with a smile, "I think it will take 3 weeks to proceed your visa. Because your husband is British, you will get a spouse visa that allows you multiply entries to all Schengen countries for, I don’t know, perhaps 3 months. But because you’re from Indonesia, we have to correspond with other Schengen countries to clear your multiple entry visa." She went to a great detail to explain to me everything more than I necessary need to know.

I smiled back. Why am I not surprised?

After all, I’m an Indonesian. Nothing’s ever easy to us.

Sad.

Note: The story happened more than 6 months ago. By then I was still working for L’Oreal Group Indonesia. I was managing a finance project which consolidated 9 countries throughout Asia, and then my boss decided to go ahead with office renovation project, which was my responsibility too. I thought it should be easy, but boy how wrong I was! I think now it’s safe to publish the story based on several reasons: 1) the project was finished including the maintenance period, 2) I’m no longer working for L’Oreal, 3) the person I mentioned a lot here has moved to another company 4) both my boss in L’Oreal and the person’s boss have moved to different companies respectively too.

Here is my story….

Saturday, 27 January, 2007

I just changed my job, and like any other story, I was
asked to join my client’s company, L’Oreal Group Indonesia, the very great opportunity that I
wouldn’t want to miss.

This means that now I’m being Procon Indah’s client.

We
have one office fit-out/renovation project which has started a couple
of months after I’ve moved, and automatically my boss assigned me to
handle this project on top of my main project.

The
disaster starts when Procon Indah  appoints a new girl to manage
the project. She’s never handled a project bigger than a Starbuck’s
counter. So she looks, sounds, and behaves like she has no clue what
she’s doing, and before long I have to take the lead, and bam! suddenly I became a project manager again, full time.

This wouldn’t be a
problem if I only handled this tiny, 600 sqm project. But I am actually
leading another project, which consolidates 9 Asian countries and
involves almost a hundred of people in the team. With different accents, currencies,
and time, this project’s already confusing, not to mention that I have to
handle 10 categories altogether, which means I am scheduled to meet around 200 vendors from all over Indonesia to find the best one for L’Oreal.

with a little time left, I’ve tried
to help this new project manager to understand the step-by-step,
how-to, and everything about our office renovation project. But of
course, after a while, I was drowning. Handling office fit-out project
means we have to manage several contractors, suppliers, and vendors,
not to mention from the client side (my side), I must handle IT
department and the end user. It’s an exhausting task, especially because I wasn’t suppose to handle all in the first place. I should have been relaxing in my office, checking, approving, mediating, etc. Not jump into the field physically and have workers & labors came to ask me endless questions.

With only 24 hours a day, I
already spend 12 hours in the office every day. So instead of getting
updates everyday, I randomly check on her job, finger crossed, hoping
she’s doing ok.

This is what has happened.

Me: "have you ordered the new chair?"
Project Manager (PM): "Umm… no."
Me: (started to look and sound annoyed): "WHY?"
PM:"I, um… forgot."
Me: "??????"

Chairs must ordered the first time we got the approval because it
takes at least 4 weeks of manufacturing. We have 2 weeks left, which means this task becomes urgent and there’s a possibility the staffs will have their new offices, but without chair.

After directing her what to do, precisely each one, I ASSUMED she went back back to her office and finished her duty. But later
in the afternoon I got a phone call from the chair vendor, whom I
worked with in several projects before, and knows me quite well (which
means she knows that I’m fussy, perfectionist, and want everything to
be done fast).

Chair vendor: "I am waiting for the LOI (Letter of Intent) from the project manager so I could start manufacturing the chairs."
Me: "What do you mean you’re awaiting it? I already told her to go ahead like a year ago."
Chair vendor: "Well, she told me verbally to go ahead, but she can’t send me the LOI. Yet."
Me: (annoyed again):"WHY?"
Chair vendor (flatly): "Because she doesn’t know how to do it and she must wait the secretary to come back and make the letter."
Me: "??????"

Then
there’s another unimportant item: A MAILBOX, which became a big issue
because it’s on hold for about a month as well. We were supposed to
have a mailbox that must accommodate 250 staffs. We were having a
conference call, me, the PM, and the designer.

Designer: "We got a new information that this vendor does not sell mailbox."
Me: "PM said they sell it, but I never got updates on this matter."
PM: "Yes, but they don’t have the exact model we want so we gave them drawing and see how much it costs if it’s custom made."
Me: (started to get annoyed again): "Designer, you said they don’t sell it?"
Designer: "I,… yes, I spoke with them and they said they never sell mailbox."
PM: "Um… actually it’s technically not mailbox."
Me: "What do you mean not mailbox? What quotation did you get then?"
PM: They gave me the quotation for… this… you know, square boxes…"
Me: "What?? What square boxes??"
Designer: (genuinely surprised too): "Oh, you mean… LOCKER?"
PM: "Yes."
Me: "?????????????????????? YOU DON’T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MAILBOX AND LOCKER????? "

Yesterday,
while checking the project progress on site, I called her and showed
her the General Manager’s office. We would install a TV and a DVD player, and I saw
some flaws in the room.
Me: "You install TV and the DVD player quite far from each other. Have you checked on the connector cable? Is it long enough?"
PM: "Yes, I just saw it, it’s 5 meter long, more than enough."
Me (very unsure): "The cable that connects the DVD player to the TV?"
PM: "Yes.
Me: "Ok then, good."

But surprise, surprised! 1 hour later I was having a conference call with her and the designer.

PM: "We have a small problem."
Me: "Yyyyyeeesssshhh?"
PM: "The DVD player-TV connector is not long enough, it’s only 1.2 meter."
Me: "You said it’s long enough. You said it’s 5 meter."
PM: "Well it’s not."
Me: "You said you saw and touched the cable and it’s 5 meter!"
PM: "Well, yes, but it’s not 5 meter."
Me: "So what 5 meter cable did you see?’
PM: "I saw the 5 meter cable for TV."
Me: "So you saw a POWER CABLE? The cable that connects the TV to power outlet?"
PM: "Yes".

Anyone in  the world who has DVD player and TV would know the difference!!!!!

OH. MY. GOD.

And
I’ve got no choice, I have to trust this project on the hand of a
project manager who can’t tell the difference between a mailbox and a
locker, a DVD connector cable to a TV power cable, who doesn’t know how
to produce a LOI.

This afternoon after grabbing my laptop from
the office, I was thinking about all of those things that have happened which gradually appear in my nightmares, wondering if I could cope this, while driving back home. It’s
Saturday afternoon, and I was very worried because we had 1 week left
to finish the project. Suddenly I realized I missed the exit and I was
heading toward….. the airport!

What a wonderful way to spend a weekend…..

Note: the project finally finished. The project manager hated me, obviously. The people in Procon Indah felt sorry for her (because apparently she showed tears and projected me as a bully) and thought I was changed just because I had walls and staffs (didn’t they know me any better?). Chairs were delivered on time with a little bit confusion. A mailbox was finally installed after several weeks of unnecessary pending. The TV and DVD player were positioned and working perfectly. Me? I was bleeding inside out, but that’s ok. My shoulders are big enough. It’s just another day in the office…

Living in an English speaking country doesn’t mean we could speak English properly, let alone write correctly.

We were walking back from Blockbuster when we passed the Chinese store which (hopefully) offers some great services to their customers.

Take a look at the picture.

If you have no clue about what ‘boby‘ means, here is a hint: girls don’t have it….

Go figure!!

Check my another version of Finally Woken  at blogspot.

Sunday. Is. The. Holy. Day. For. Stuart. Because football is on. So for the entire day he will sit on the sofa watching the game, sometimes flicking the channel to see F-1 and rugby matches, sometimes golf competition, but football is the main menu.

Last weekend I was sitting with him, not paying attention because I was busy surfing Gucci website, but I glanced once in a while to see what’s one, and this time it struck me.

It’s basically the same thing all over again. 22 People chasing after 1 ball. After 90 minutes, it will be another match for another 90 minutes. And another. And another. And another. The difference is only their costume color, which determines the club or country they represent. I asked Stuart how could he stand for watching the same thing all over again for hours?

If it’s 90 minutes game, I could understand. But to see the camera moves from left to right and back again, for hours? If it’s me, I would have had a seizure after the second match….

My comparison is to see the fashion show on F-TV with models walking back and forth the runaway. Same movement, different outfit. Multiply it by 3 hours if you’re not going insane. Even I don’t watch fashion show. The only time I know that people are actually watching F-TV was when they showed a bikini photo shoot sessions in Aphrodite’s. And that’s because almost-naked ladies were on TV, it’s nothing to do with fashion sense whatsoever.

And then The Sopranos will start at 10.30. When the show is on, I won’t be allowed to ask any single question (except during the commercial break), I won’t be allowed to give a comment, to cough, even to breath. The room must be completely, absolutely silent. He treats the show as the holy show. Even though he watches it regularly rigorously, he still tapes it (just in case he’s got to go for toilet break during the show, but God forbid, or missed a meaningful blink from Tony Soprano).

My comparison to this total devotion would be, well, nothing. I’ve never had the show I love so much I ban people from my total trance moment. But I don’t like people giving comment when we’re watching a show either, so I could understand it. For fun I told Stuart that I know how The Sopranos will end (this because I watched Emmy show the other day on E!) and he was panic I will tell him eventually and makes me swear not to (with additional remark, "I wouldn’t do that for you!").

But football match is not only on Sundays. It’s on everyday. Last night Stuart got home a bit early (which means it’s 5.30PM. In Jakarta I would still have had my second last meeting at 5.30PM. Rocky and Max would still have had their afternoon snacks in Frankfurter (after pay day) or street stall at the corner of JSEB (before payday). My earliest day would have had done at 7.00PM. Damn three-in-one rule and traffic jam!!). Anyway, Stuart nicely made pea&pesto soup (copied from Nigella Lawson’s  recipe), heated the chocolate sponge cake up for me, and made some tea. He was being so nice serving me dinner and treating me like a princess I had to ask him what’s going on. Ah, turned out there was gonna be a football match on TV at 7.30PM and he hoped he could watch it without me protesting too much (I didn’t, I was happy reading my book  and watch George Michael’s Unplugged show in the bedroom like an old lady). What happened was it’s not one match at all, but five at the same time. His 42inch TV screen was divided into 5 small screen where he could watch the whole 5 games, live, or checked out the scores of each game. It’s interactive so if he must had a toilet break, he could pause the game went back to where he exactly left off. How he could break his concentration between 5 games altogether at the same time, let alone follow the move of 5 balls, and didn’t mix up which team playing against whom and who scored goals, I had no idea. You tell me…

Some say that football was invented so guys don’t have to talk when they’re in the pub (as you know guys don’t like to talk, about anything). They don’t need to sit in front of each other and, but rather side by side, so there will be no eye contacts at all except to TV screen. No intimacy. No bullshit deep feeling interaction or sharing like what girls do when they sit down and have coffee with their friends (where the story can start from the new toenails color, the hairstyle of the waiter, the boss who likes to grope his staff, until the scandal of a celebrity everyone think they know by heart). Football was invented so men could escape from home on Sunday afternoon to hang out with their friends with an excuse like, "But honey, it’s a rather big game." How come it’s a big  game every single weekend, or worse, almost everyday?

Then it’s another thing of watching football match live, in the stadium. I suspect it’s nothing to do with watching football though. Because by having corporate tickets, Stuart and his friend must dress up (I mean seriously, with jacket, shirt and tie), and are served with champagne, beer, sandwich and everything else. So the guys are practically busy with beer in one hand and sandwich in another one. Having football match in front of them is another way to divert their eyes from each other and stop themselves to share their feelings but still be together with their friends. Share some bonds but not too much. Close but not too close.

Tonight the boys will come around to watch the game in our place. Apparently there will be an important game tonight. Which I find out is not entirely true. There are at least eight games. And Stuart and his friends determine to watch the whole 8.

Of course beer and pizza are the ultimate accessories. I’ve made pho bo (vietnamese beef noodle soup) for dinner tonight, and although Stuart kept peeking his head into the kitchen and kept commenting how good the smell was and he looked hungry, he refused to eat it, because he was going to watch football. And eat pizza. God forbid he eats anything else than pizza during the match. What pizza’s got to do with the football match, I have no idea. But I’m pretty sure the guy from Piccollo Pizza must be really busy taking orders tonight from all the boys who are watching football matches like Stuart, because he forgot my chicken wing and had to run back to the shop to get it.

Oh well, no matter what, I still don’t understand men at all. I don’t pretend I do anyway. Like I still don’t understand why most the guys here like this Cadbury Chocolate Advert, which shows a gorilla playing drums and no mention of chocolate at all, or what went through Stuart’s mind when he decided to put a Scoobydoo poster up in the bedroom (I don’t dare to go through that discussion, I’m too afraid to find out the reason behind it! But Scooby is down now, replaced by our wedding picture, thank God).

I still don’t get the answer from Sunday football’s comparison to fashion show, though. I tried to make my point to Stuart’s friend, Matt
, during our couple dinner last Wednesday. I went for a length
explanation and comparison between watching football matches for hours
and watching fashion show for hours, and his reply was only, "Umm, Anita, are you crazy?" (what he meant was there is nothing compares to football match and I’m basically insane to compare it to fashion show). And then he unconsciously diverted his eyes to the TV screen that showed a football game (we’re in the pub, by the way).

But I have nothing against football, as long as I don’t have to watch it. In fact, I think I’ve found a recipe for guys to make peace between football and a lovely girlfriend/wife:

1. Have more than one TV and put them in different rooms. So you guys can watch football match in the living room and the girl can watch E! News in the bedroom, or vice versa.
2. Everytime you watch football, your girl entitles to indulge herself on shopping trip. Your treat, of course. So you could sit and watch the match in peace, drinking beer, putting your feet up on the coffee table, picking nose, and farting, without having someone else reminds you to behave. Or better, without having someone asking where Jose Mourinho is or why David Beckham is not playing tonight with MU or why there is a guy with flag in every corner….
3. You must do something nice prior to the match i.e. cook dinner, accompany the girl for grocery shopping, etc. Yes, it’s like a bribery.
4. Never, ever, force your girl to watch the game with you, no matter how important the game is. Unless you’re sure that she’s a football junkie as well. Unless you’re up for a risk of going to search a perfect party dress for next month’s event together with the girl in 7 different malls and hundreds different clothing shops.
5. Never try to explain the difference between Champions League and Premier Leagues, unless you’re ready to know the difference between platform and wedges, or between maroon and burgundy, or between pouch and wallet.
6. Record the game and watch it while she’s sleeping.
7. Do not dare to watch the game while eating but not paying attention to what she’s cooked. Unless you’re ready to buy her a Louis Vuitton Lockit bag or worse, take her out for dinner every single night for the rest of the year because she refuses to do it again (come to think about it again, LV bag turns out to be much cheaper than 10 times dinner at 4 Seasons…).
8. You might try to repeat the story of your favorite team’s victory. But be prepared to hear the victory of your girl of finding a vintage Fendi for 20 pounds.

I only manage to find 8, but I think it’s enough to start a truce…..