Context (T -0 minutes)
Jakarta’s apartment high-rises (and the malls they rest upon) are monuments of modernity, all steel, glass, processed stone, bright lights and giant screens. Government buildings are cubic, stately, covered in slate and sheet rock that lend an air of stateliness. The empty space afforded by the large grass fields, trees, and paths that lay below them enhance their gravitas. In the shadows of these government buildings and shiny apartments are “gangs”, tiny streets that only fit motorbikes. These house hundreds, cramped in their tiny shacks of concrete, scrapwood, triplex boards, corrugated steel, and rotting terracotta shards. Jakarta is a city of stark and definitive contrasts.
Then there’s the national library. It’s base is wide and squat like a government building. Its upper floors reach towards the sky like a high-rise but stops just 50 meters short of Jakarta’s shortest skyscrapers. Its modern body is glass and steel, but decorated with the cement and marble veneer of officialdom. It is as if the need for gravitas holds down the library’s skyward aspirations. The national library is not a study of contrasts so much as a confused building.
The national library is a busy place during the weekends. The hallway before entering the library holds a small, well-done display of the library’s history. The ground floor is a combination of cafe, snack shop, display of best-seller books / popular reads, and shelves of immovable books. Domestic tourists come from all over to pose in front of the shelves of faux books and then post to instagram. Ironic, that.
Skipping Leg Day (T +0-10 minutes)
I made an appointment to work on a curriculum review project with an external colleague on the 13th floor national library some months ago. My colleague enjoyed the quiet atmosphere. I agreed because I’d not yet been to the national library. Our primary mistake was planning to meet during the weekend.
My colleague was already on the 13th floor when I arrived. I briskly wended my way through the museum and entered the library foyer. To the right were a bank of six elevators. Two were marked non-functional. The other four had snaking switchbacks one might see in Disneyland or understaffed immigration offices. One of the functional elevators opened to reveal it had been filled wall-to-wall. They disembarked and the next group filled it to capacity. The next passenger in the line was too big for the door to close, so the next person in line (much thinner) entered. I could only think the elevator’s weight limits had been horrifically exceeded. I would not ascend via claustrophobic overburdened death-trap.
I wended my way around the instagrammers and hopped an escalator in the center of the ground floor. It might take a bit longer than an elevator, but I would not complain if I arrived at the 13th floor. The escalator ended on the fourth floor with no second escalator in sight. Of course not. The elevators were as busy as the ground floor’s.
I joined the long, snaking lines of hopeful elevator passengers. Three elevators opened over the next five minutes. Each was crammed to capacity with passengers. No one stepped off, nor was there room to step on. I messaged my colleague to apologize for my tardiness and explain the situation. She told me I could use the stairwell that was neatly tucked near the elevators. I opened the stairwell door and entered into hell’s more pleasant, distant cousin.
Leg Day (T +10-20 minutes)
The stairwell was narrow, fitting 2.5 Indonesians abreast. Jakarta’s 85% humidity solidified the stairway’s air into a musty blanket of shoe rubber, sweat, human bodies, and cement dust. It felt at least 10 degrees (Fahrenheit for American exceptionialists) warmer with no AC or air circulation of any kind. It was full of fresh-faced climbers and solemn descenders.
I took two stairs at a time, weaving in and out of passers and descenders. Fellow stairwell denizens stood on every landing, gasping for air. Some laughed at their lack of fitness. Floor 7…. floor 8…. floor 9…. 10…. 11… 12a?…. 12b…. I finally reached Floor…14. I went back down a floor to ascertain that I did not miss Floor 13, then returned. I somehow reasoned that I could enter and then find the thirteenth floor that somehow existed between Floors 12b and 14. Why not? They built an escalator that only takes one up to the fourth floor.
Floor 14, locked. I shrugged and turned to descend. Floor 12b, locked. Floor 12a, locked. Every floor between the 14th and 8th floors were locked. The rest of the floors above the 14th were probably locked as well, but I ultimately did not know. A rush of cool air and the sound of running, playing children welcomed me onto the 7th floor. This was the children’s library.
Resigned, I joined the short line of people waiting for the elevator. Adults played on their phones or posed for instagrams on the benches outside the children’s library as they waited for their children. Smaller children ran and played tag in the hallway. Periodically, the stairwell door would omit another tired group of climbers. One elevator dinged, opened, revealed a full car, and closed every 5 minutes. I waited 20 minutes.
Enforced Cooldown (T +30-45 minutes)
I sent another apology to my colleague and explained the new predicament. She asked, “Is there a security guard? Maybe you can ask him to unlock the door for you.” This was a novel concept. The nearby security guard promised to call ahead to the 13th floor (which was, in fact, 12b) and request the security guard to unlock the door. She bade me to ascend through purgatory again.
I wearily plodded to the 12b-th floor, pants and shirt drenched in sweat and the must of a hundred other stairwell climbers. The door remained locked. My body sagged with my spirit. I was ready to rot in this purgatory until my penance was paid in dehydration and misgivings. I messaged my colleague to open the stairwell door. Then I waited.
Three others joined me as I sat on the floor. The two descending from above confirmed that every door up to the 20th floor was locked. We informed the one ascending from below that he had to get off on the 7th floor. Then we sat. We talked about the weather. We poured mild abuse on the library administrators. I told them America does not have this issue in their libraries. The levity did not open the door, but it did make the wait more pleasant. A security guard accompanied by my colleague opened the door to floor 12b opened ten minutes later.
The Library of Mysteries (T + 1hr)
Our first task was to collectively ask the guard why all the doors were locked. He answered that they were supposed to be unlocked, and indeed had been. Some kids later decided to pull a prank and lock them. This was possible since all the locks used turning knobs rather than keyed latches. On the other hand, what are the chances that a stereotypically lazy Indonesian (they voted themselves the Southeast Asians most lazy to walk) takes an elevator to the top floor, descend via stairwell, and locks every floor on the way down? Moreover, why would they considerately stop locking doors from the 7th floor on down? Consider me disappointed by the lackluster attempt to save face by the guard of floor 12b.
Floor 12b was cool, quiet, and spacious, clearly designed as a co-working space. We found a spare table and sat. I proceeded to complain about the library and detail my stairmaster workout, as work colleagues do. My colleague assured me she was not mad. I assured her I was thoroughly annoyed with the library and its network of pranking teens. Then we started to work.
The 15-minute audio warning of library closure came an hour later. I had lost half our allotted time trying to get to Floor 12b! Having learned my lesson about the elevators, we descended via the stairs. A sense of freedom overcame me as we walked through those front doors. I was never coming back here. And I would skip going to the gym that day.
Coda: Spotter
I explained the story to my Batak friend Yohanes. Batak are stereotypically loud-spoken and expressive; every sentence ends in an exclamation mark of excitement or anger. As is his way, Yohanes guffawed loudly and said, “You Westerners, you’re so individualistic! You do everything by yourself. You need to learn how to do things the Indonesian way! If you were Indonesian, the FIRST thing you do is get someone to help you!” He smiled with self-satisfaction and a laugh, slapped my shoulder, and walked away muttering to himself about Western idiosyncrasies.
I considered that for a minute. The assertion did not seem wrong. The security guards had always been present. It never occurred to me to talk to them and ask for assistance.
Yet Yohanes was not right either. I live in a country where all my cultural and linguistic knowledge are consistently defenestrated. Asking for assistance is crucial. I think my determination to reach the not-quite-existent 13th floor gave me tunnel vision. Put another way, I developed a psychological blind-spot to any method other than the route set before me. And now I know, don’t go to Leg Day without a spotter.