Every morning, I walk across the street from my building to
take the mini-van that brings me to my work place. This mini-van, called an Angkot in the local language in Jakarta,
is one among the few modes of public transport that this city offers. I hail
one of these light blue coloured vans, and try to get on to it. There are days
when it is empty, and then there are days when it is so full that one man is
hanging off the door-less entrance. I
think such transport systems are very typical to this part of the world. There
is no dearth of similar sights back home, in India.
The sometimes-empty-sometimes-full nature of the Angkot
seldom has a fixed pattern. It is not like I can step out of my house and
assume that it is 8:15 and therefore it will be full. Nor can I tell myself
that since it’s raining, it will be empty. There is no predictable pattern,
whatsoever! And that makes the choice between a cab and an angkot even harder,
everyday.
Nonetheless, I prefer the angkot over taxis. I choose to forego
the air-conditioned comfort of the taxis, the smooth leather seats of the Blue
Bird cars to enjoy my morning moments of people watching. (If you have ever
been to Indonesia, you will know that people swear by Blue Bird as the safest
company running the maximum number of taxis here)
The angkot, bigger than an Ambassador taxi in Kolkata, and
smaller than a mini-bus: can ferry exactly 13 people at a time. They huddle on,
to go in the same direction as their fellow travellers
and soon find their spots to get off and along. It’s no fancy ride- no
luxurious leg room, not enough room for your bags if you don’t want to rest it
on your lap and if you’re sitting on the far end, the sun will shine down
brightly on you. You may or may not like that but you will surely be happy to
see how peacefully the group traverses the distance. People seldom know each
other, though sometimes you notice acquaintances exchange niceties. Smiles come
easily, and so do frowns. You will see groggy eyes, scarred faces concealing a
story, dishevelled hair and then you will see people smiling into their phones,
lost in thought or even catching a quick nap in the evening traffic. That’s the
nature of any crowd, after all: diverse yet united, lost and unknown, oblivious
yet careful in their own ways.
I enjoy people watching. On this ride, I do not get lost in
conversation with my friends and colleagues. I look around; catch a glimpse of
the young girl struggling to sit uptight in her skirt, the man who decides to
give his eyes some rest, with his spectacles resting lightly on his long nose.
I don’t peek into people’s phones but while they’re at it, I can’t help but
notice their updates on Instagram, Path and Twitter. Every small detail goes up
on News Feeds these days. Sometimes people are putting up pictures of the
traffic.
I’ve had my own set of memorable experiences on these
journeys. There were times when a girl in a bright yellow dress, was not
comfortable and chose to sit close to the entrance. The driver wanted her to
shift further in because she was giving his potential passengers the impression
that the van was full. She couldn’t shift in, and therefore she simply got off,
to avoid causing trouble for the driver.
There was a time when I thought I could read in the van on my way back
and the dim light from the single lamp in the far end did not allow me to
indulge in the murder mystery. When I shut the book sighing from my failed
attempt, I raised my head to smiling faces. I realized they noticed how naive I
was, in this simple act of ignorance. Then, there have been days when I have
skipped the ride to evade traffic and walked the 2 kilometre distance back home
instead. While on the vehicle, I’ve had my own share of feet being stamped by
pointed heels, boxes of non-vegetarian food emulating a fishy smell and then
there was one specific instance of translations gone utterly wrong:
My stop to get off the angkot, on my way home is actually at
the start of a bridge. In Bahasa, the word for bridge is “Jimbatan” So, by way of urging the driver to stop at the spot, I
need to call out to him saying “Jimbatan,
Mus” and he will stop. However, for the longest time since I was here, I
kept calling out to him saying, “Jambutan,
Mus” There were times when he would smile back at me and nod his head
disapprovingly. Sometimes fellow passengers would repeat the phrase for me in
case the driver didn’t hear. At that time, I didn’t pay much heed to the
difference caused by the few letters in a syllable or two. I was an expat and people
were looking at me like that, smiling at me and even exchanging funny glances.
I passed off all of that, assuming that it was probably because I was not a local. Until one day; a local colleague of mine accompanied me
on the ride back home and laughed until her stomach hurt when she heard me use
the word: Jambutan.
Jambutan means vaginal hair.
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