Shaken and stirred

It was just yet another evening when Pratap sat staring at the computer screen that displayed the web pages of ‘Oanda.com – the currency site’ speculating over the exchange rates and equivalences of the US dollar, the Indian rupee and the Indonesian Rupiah on which “oh so depended our retirement plans,” in the words of the wise one. I sat on an adjoining chair waiting to chance upon a change in his facial expression to indicate a glimmer of hope…

Things don’t look good I thought – as I felt myself shake. Obviously Pratap was shaking his leg in anxiety resulting in the table shake in unison. Pratap sprang up. “Did you feel that? It’s an earthquake,” he yelled as we sprang into action. The first thing of course was to get into suitable attire, grab our black leather bag, which contains our passports, documents and the ‘emergency fund’. Within minutes – (and we do commend ourselves on the quick reaction time -must be the military environment that was an integral part of our growing up years) we were running down the stairs – sprinting twelve floors with Pratap shooting instructions.

Flushed, wild-eyed and disheveled, leather bag on shoulder, we burst into the reception area. Pleasant conversations fell silent as the Manolo Blahnik pointed toe and stiletto heel clad groups of residents, lounging around in the posh and serene environ threw startled and incredulous glances towards us. Everyone was obviously oblivious of what had occurred. It was a Saturday evening and people were dressed for an evening out. We sat down – catching our breath, clad in our Indian Hawai chappals, dripping in perspiration. Pratap walked around acknowledging the salutation of the receptionist pretending to play calm. Everything seemed normal.

“Go to the mart,” he suggested, “ and buy something” hoping to reduce our embarrassment and hoping to change the perception of those around us while he guarded the black leather case. There were many people at the store and I had to wait to get my turn at the counter. We met at the lift to quietly retreat to our abode – only to find to my absolute horror, as I looked at the mirrors that lined the elevator, that I had worn my shirt inside out with the pockets limply hanging out and the label displaying my ‘not so complimentary’ size for the world and his wife to savour!

Pratap returned to the computer table wondering whether it was the spring of the aging computer chair, or the effect of the fluctuating Indonesian Rupiah that had sent us in a tizzy while I sat and nursed my aching Gastrocnemius (calve muscles for the ignorant) and sore ego.

The next morning had us a lot more shaken and stirred – for The Jakarta Post announced that The Meteorology and Geophysics Agency had confirmed that tremors measuring 5.5 on the Richter scale had jolted Jakarta at around 8:50pm the previous evening. We now sleep in our track suit – and use our brand new ‘Nike’s as bedroom slippers!

Priceless

Jakarta never ceases to amaze us. This one incident had Pratap and me throw up our hands in the air and resign to our fate.

The relocators (‘movers and shakers’ as I now call them) had damaged the frame of our Ganesh Tanjore painting. Photographs were taken, damage evaluated, forms filled in triplicate and the claim finally forwarded to the insurance company headquartered in the US. Pratap insisted, as is his wont, that the Ganesh painting be restored and returned in time for Christmas. (?????) The Indonesian staff of the relocation company looked perplexed at this strange request but abided. The picture was returned on Christmas Day!

With much correspondence going to and fro between a Ms Heng, a Mr Tam and ours truly, Mr Rana, a claim of $18 was approved and agreed upon. The cheque, which was issued by the HQ of the insurance company arrived from New York with the new year and a gleeful Mr Rana went to bank it.

The ‘wanita’ at the bank greeted him with a warm cheerful smile – and Pratap smugly placed the $18 cheque on the counter. “No ploblem mistah,” the clerk announced, “ but it take one month.”

“Oh! Not a problem,” said Pratap with a superior wave of his hand.

“And there will be $10 charge as transaction fee,” she said.

“Okay never mind,” said Pratap with a resigned shrug “something’s better than nothing.”

“And $7 fee for correspondence banking,” she continued.

“That leaves me with $1,” said Pratap thinking aloud.

“Not really Mistah” said the clerk, “finally $2 will be charged as processing fee” hammering the last nail into the coffin and sending Pratap back home with the cheque tucked safely under his arm.

Well we’ve now framed the cheque and intend to keep it on our mantelpiece back home – for there will be many a winter evening over a cognac, beside a log fire and in the company of friends when it shall be the focus of our conversation – bringing back fond memories of Jakarta and making this $18 cheque absolutely priceless!

The 'dokter'

We knew it was just a question of time when the excitement would wear thin and exhaustion would catch up. Just a week into her holiday in Jakarta and my mother-in-law was laid in bed drained and fatigued. Still groping about as we had barely been in Indonesia for a week ourselves we chose to ask the reception at our service apartment to arrange for a ‘dokter’.

Within minutes we heard the screech of an ambulance and the hurried footsteps of a doctor and a nurse at our doorstep. The doctor in a spotless white coat introduced himself with a polite bow. The nurse who was really pretty and in a smart uniform – gave a lovely smile and I could hear Pratap's and Yudi’s hearts skip a beat.

The nurse carried an impressive first aid kit. Saying we were impressed is an understatement – for the case opened into a four-tiered tray that housed every imaginable first aid equipment under the sun. The patient was introduced – after which we were witness to a very long dialogue in ‘Bahasa’ between the two medical experts accompanied by feverish gesticulation. The three of us stood around anxiously wringing our hands not understanding a word while the patient’s eyes grew wider by the second.

The doctor explained that the nurse would have to go to the ambulance to get some ‘equipment’. The nurse returned looking glum and again a verbal exchange ensued between the two. We looked at them gravely. I could see the blood drain from my mother-in-law’s face. “Mister” said the doctor in his heavy Indonesian accent “ambulance gone to medical center for ‘equipment’.” We nodded. I chewed at my nails as the ambulance siren faded into the distance.

After a long tense wait the doorbell rang and we all ran to open the door. There standing at the door was the ambulance driver – holding the much needed equipment - a stethoscope! The doctor sheepishly prepared to see the patient. He took out his torch and asked the now chirpy and talkative patient to open her mouth. We all tried to peer in as the torch light slowly faded and the battery died at the hands of the medico!!