One of the weird marvels of flying west from California is watching the bright sunlight above the thick Bay Area cloud cover transform into a deep azure blue outside the plane’s window only a few hours later. On one particularly memorable trip, daylight shone through the windows on one side only to be swallowed by the midnight-azure sky from the other. I was crossing the terminator into night. Within the terminator I simultaneously beheld two diametric realities of the same object.
I was reminded of Whitman’s Song of Myself. He writes:
“Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
Everyone contains multitudes, contradictory truths that coexist, almost comfortably, side by side. Perhaps the multitudes are simply more apparent to me here because I am immersed in a culture not my own. Or it could be that Indonesia’s hustlers are more baldly honest about the unsavory aspects of their chosen professions. Whichever it is, witnessing these creative entrepreneurial opportunities in action has been wildly entertaining. What follows are some of my musings while sitting inside the “terminator into night.”
DIY Automotive Repair
About 20 minutes away from my current residence is a street well known for buying housing appliances and house parts. One might buy door handles ranging from the mundane (ye daily handle) to the exotic (a bare-breasted maiden masthead?!). One might also buy lamps, fans, meat grinders, sugar spinners, and takoyaki grills.
Less known is that the appliance/home repair stores share the street with used auto-parts vendors. One vendor might sell sideview mirrors while another sells headlights. The parts sold became increasingly internal as I progressed. One stall sold actuators and circuit boards for power locks. Between stalls was a vendor who sold rusting latches for power windows. All were clearly salvaged from other cars or scooters.
I admired the resourcefulness of the Indonesian peoples. If you knew a guy (everyone knows a guy) and found the proper part, you could avoid large fees from the dealerships. Everyone except “The Man” wins and the economy turns.
It also then occurred to me that perhaps many of these parts were from stolen, not salvaged, vehicles. Motor theft, and even late-night motor robbery, is common in some parts of Indonesia. I’ve so far met 2-3 friends who have all had their rides stolen in the last few years. I asked my Indonesian friends how likely it was that some of these parts came from stolen vehicles. They informed me that the chances were quite high, even if the vendors themselves were honest merchants (said with skepticism). Afterall, someone needs to feed the thriving DIY repair industry.
Buskers
In Indonesia it is common to see individuals, duos, or trios with instruments going about and playing for money. Sometimes their instruments have cups taped to the heads. Others will approach, hand out envelopes, play a song (or half a song), and then take back the envelopes. If they are lucky, skilled, or obnoxious enough, they will walk away with a bit of cash.
One such trio stopped in the entrance of the cafe I sat in. I made the mistake of making eye contact. The trio suddenly appeared at our table. One beat on a small djembe, another strummed a poorly-maintained guitar, and another strummed a toy ukelele. I presume they sang an Indonesian pop song, but their lack of synchronization, melody, or skill made it difficult to identify the song.
My friend sighed and said, “This is why you don’t look at them.” She took out a 2,000 IDR bill and gave it to the lead mid-song. They immediately stopped singing and playing, tipped their heads in gratitude, and left.
I felt horribly abused. They should have stayed to finish the song since we paid for it. The sentiment was a bit ridiculous, of course. It’s akin to complaining that a meal tasted terrible and then mourning there was so little of it, as if low quality can be atoned for by its sheer abundance. More terribleness is better than less.
In their defense, I was operating on a different paradigm. My error was in presuming that I am paying for a song. If that first experience was any indication, I am actually paying for the busker to go away. In that light, lack of musical talent is a must. Their primary goal is less entertainment and more to wear down everyone’s endurance. Low-quality busking maximizes profits.
I’ve since learned to avoid eye contact with buskers. Yet I cannot help but laugh. I find it immensely funny that Indonesian buskers somehow turned a noble pasttime into an extortion industry. I can appreciate someone who boldly decides that he will make money by capitalizing on his lack of musical talent.
It works, too. A busker walked into the food stall I was eating at. He strummed in a minor key (obscured by the fact that his uke was not in tune), sang in a major key (possibly obscured by the minor key), and his lyrics consisted of the idea that if money comes his way he will leave grateful and happy. He walked away with 4,000 IDR soon after. That’s 1/4 of a decent meal. Not bad for two minutes of extortion!
(to be continued)