There are not long, I watched Dawn of the Planet of the Apes in a 4-D cinema complex in Blitzmegaplex Jakarta. Strapped into a seat that moved about in rough weather pistons with the action on the screen for 90 minutes, I bucked vigorously, swayed, shook, shook, out.
The water sprayed me whenever rain or projections took place in the film. air jets update the wind celluloid. Flashing lights lightning intensified. Even smoke pumped under the screen when the monkey camp was burned down by a fighter primate. To be honest, I started wishing the movie would catch fire midway through the film.
Despite the film being largely forgettable, the ride was a new one. But it occurred to me that I might have had the same experience at a fraction of the price of the ticket Rp.100,000 watching on my iPad in the back seat of a bus Kopaja battered and largely windowless crisscrossing the city. Take a taxi on some bumpy roads would have the same effect, especially if I had picked the wrong taxi.
When I arrived in Jakarta in the 1990s, there were two main taxi companies. Blue Bird was the sensible option, the drivers extensively worthy of trust used their meters and pretends to know where they were going. President taxis, with their red and yellow livery formidable (a fleet of these vehicles called to mind a swarm of insects stinging), had to be flagged down as if you were a hardened price negotiator and knew exactly how to reach your destination. It helped to be lightly dressed too, for these beat-up old sedan rarely had working air conditioning. Usually I am around the city on ojek , a motorcycle taxi cheap. It was because I am a novice English teacher with little money.
I had fallen into an English teaching career, like many of my colleagues, as a way to support myself while traveling through Southeast Asia. Jakarta in those days was still a frontier town feel to it, behind the gleaming skyscrapers, attracting many marginal and thieves from abroad. And my language school reflects this. The teachers formed a gregarious and eccentric group, among them casual alcoholics, drug users, unemployed thespians, manic and a high number of English public school dropouts. Several managed to tick all these boxes.
Surprisingly, when I applied for a job there, I was told that I do not fit in. It was only after I had started drinking excessively and hanging out in the dives I was taken.
There may be a difficult task. When I was forced to go beyond general English and teach a preparation course for TOEFL, I entered the classroom feel the fear of an escalation rookie wrestler in the ring to face not one but 16 burly and deadly adversaries. In the mid 90s, the Test of English as a foreign language - an entrance examination for those who want to study at universities abroad - included a section on the structure of the sentence. This meant that I had to be able to explain the principles of language on the equivalent of the molecular level. Or so it seemed. I swotted all week, anticipating all sensitive issues, and the lesson was well until a student jumped and - keep my analogy Wresting - brutally manhandled me in a vise. He shook me violently and grimaced. "OK sir. Tell me, why is it that preposition there and not there?"
I became ill towards the end of that day. Take a taxi during peak hours would have been unwise, I took a ojek up. Before we had gone so far, I tapped the driver on the shoulder and asked him shoot. once stopped, I slipped off and loudly chundered in the gutter, shaken by the roar of traffic in front of me only inches. This happened three times.
the driver was friendly, each time saying, " Masuk angin , sir."
This means "indoor air", describing a condition that Indonesians is that the common cold is Colombia - widespread, perennial, almost iconic; although I've never heard Masuk angin convincingly explained. It seems as indigestion. It could be the wind.
In a rare example of cultural indulgence, I once had a case of suspected Masuk angin treated at a friend's house with a traditional procedure called kerokan . This involves a practitioner - anyone standing nearby with a small change in his / her pocket - scraping the edge of a coin several times in the bare back, until long red welts appear. It lets you watch as you turn into a tiger.
I was hungover this morning. My body does not respond well to be wiped with a dirty room. Indeed, the process started I felt a wave of nausea rising from my stomach. I apologized and dropped into the back garden, bent over a low wall, gave a low growl and vomiting. My executioner nodded knowingly and gave a satisfied smile. He explained that vomiting indicated the "wickedness" escape my body. I had been healed. I found a ojek and asked the driver to take me home. Unfortunately, this was one of those days where only a helicopter could beat the traffic.
Moto - easy to get by cheap credit and often serving as the only member of the family - is a hard folly in Jakarta. I was soon caught in one of the famous tangles of city traffic at a major intersection. These virtual nodes vehicles typically form after a downpour that disables traffic signals, sent scarpering of traffic police and can spread for miles. The mass of the stationary motorcycle stretching all around me like an outdoor rock concert crowd; extensive pumping sea jerky helmets. It was a surreal spectacle.
But by far my scariest ride in Indonesia was a hobby. It happened during my visit to the theme park Trans Studio Bandung. I was advised to go during the week when there was no wait for rides. This lack of crowds was nice, until I climbed on the roller coaster and waited for other thrill seekers to join me. None did. Seats behind and in front of me remained disturbingly empty. I was alone. Yes, only on a roller coaster - it sounds like a horror story
.There are a few places - inside an airliner on a cruise ship, on a roller coaster - where it is inconceivable to be alone. Yet I was there. I had no one else to share the danger. Fate has its finger on me only. I became aware of the strange and always close to the roller coaster had become.
with none of the expected and rattling jerks, the carts and rushed speeding toward a massive loop in the track. I could not believe they had not canceled the trip. This, undoubtedly, was the culmination of an elaborate attempt on my life. I imagined newspaper headline tomorrow. Suspiciously Solitary Rider Flung to death in Rollercoaster Horror
I wavered. I was shouting. I lived. But I never went near a theme park again. Cinematic simian simulations and Indonesian public transport provide all the thrills that I'll ever need.