Being Indo(nesia)

“ACTION!”

So here I am, speaking cheesy lines and making cheesy expression. White skin, a pretty face, and a foreign accent are all you need to make it here. Stay cheesy and the green will just keep on coming, well maybe it’s not always green, sometimes it’s red, or blue, or just some numbers in the credit side of my bank account. I’m playing this foreign-amnesia girl who is found by a bus driver and became his kondektur while searching for her true identity, story of my life. Doesn’t make sense, but here I am.

I’m a star. No matter where I go there are people who want to take pictures or just saying hi. Sometimes I’m tired of it, coz I can’t have any privacy in public places, the price of being a public figure, but sometimes I enjoy the attention. I just don’t understand what they see in me. I’m just another, you know, white, beautiful (what they say about me, though I don’t really believe it), foreign-accented girl. And I have only been here for 6 months. Geez… Popularity and money do come easy here.

I wasn’t like this. I was just a nerd with no friends back in Frisco. I remember they used to put a bag of dog shit in my locker, weekly, god, it’s disgusting. SCUM was written on the bag. I was just about to kill myself, well not really, when my parents decided that I must learn my mother’s culture after I graduate high school, which three months away. Well, I could live in hell school for another three months. “Nanti kamu tinggal sama Om Jaki ya di Jakarta. Dia juga nanti yang ngurusin pendaftaran kuliah kamu,” Ibu always speaks in bahasa with me and sometimes too with Dad, she doesn’t want me to forget who she is, therefore who I am, and maybe to remind her where she came from. She was a dancer, tari topeng dancer. My dad met her when he visited Jakarta to open one of his companies; he was married back then, but left her wife for Ibu. He said, “Ibu is a god sent. She showed me things that I didn’t know they even exist. She changed my view of the world, you know.” I didn’t understand what he was saying, and I still don’t.

It was hot as hell; the traffic was also just like hell. A mess, the city was. Beggars were all over the place. Temporary huts on the river banks. How could people live like that? Just not right. Luckily, I was protected in a cool cabin of a Honda City. Om Jaki seems to earn a good life. He’s an accountant manager on dad’s trading company. He’s holding a board with SARI written on it when I just arrived at the airport. Sari Putri Blake, my name is. An odd name, another reason for my “friends” to make fun with, Sari stinkin cherry. But, sometimes I prefer to be called Cherry, sounds more down to earth at that time.

“Yak, Cut! It’s a wrap. Kita istirahat dulu setengah jam ya abis itu lanjut ke scene berikutnya.” The soundman said. It’s 2 a.m in the morning. Why don’t we just keep on going and get it over with, so that I can take my break in my cozy room, Steve? This is another thing that I don’t understand. It seems that the crews have the control on this process of production. The director’s just lying around, the only thing he’s busy with is his phone. He’s just talking on the phone and jiggles once in a while, what an ass. Oh, god, here comes another ass. “Cherry, want a cup of coffee?” Dude asks me. “Tidak, terima kasih.” Mr. Punjabi thought that Sari is not pop enough for a stage name, so he named me Cherry Blake, huh, history repeats itself. First as tragedy, second as farce.

“Are you sure?” he asks me again, ain’t he stubborn.

I just ignore him and pretend the music 'That’s not My Name' of The Ting Tings from my Iphone blocked his voice infiltrating the membrane of my earlobes. Probably he just wants to get into my pants or maybe it’s just one of those famous Indonesian hospitality. Dude Herlino, that’s a laugh for a name. What kinda idiots gave their son a name like Dude?

“Sari, kamu nanti ikut seminarnya Pak Joko nggak? He talk the influent of American couture terhadap Kesusastraan Indonesia. Interested?” a colleague of mine, I didn’t quite remember her name, asked me to come to a seminar after Indonesian history class.

“Hmm, saya tidak tertarik dan kayaknya American culture deh, bukan couture.” Ibu sent me to learn about her culture, but it seems everybody speaks, barely, in dad’s language. Or is this the culture that I must learn? That they accept the superiority of other cultures, especially American culture, the consumptive self-centered war-loving color-loathing stupid culture. America doesn’t have any culture, whatsoever, maybe the native-Americans, but not American people as a whole. Don’t they learn from three and a half century of Dutch occupation, apparently not.

“Oh, aku salah ya? Hihihi…. Memang kamu mau ngapain?” She continued her empty chitchat.

“Saya ada shooting schedule, maksud saya, jadwal syuting.”

“Wah, salam ya buat Dude Herlino, aduh dia tuh ganteng banget deh orangnya, baik lagi, udah gitu soleh, udah gitu…”

“Maaf, saya benar-benar harus pergi.” I left her hanging. I don’t have time to listen to her admiration of an ass. I might not have any friends in Frisco because they alienated me because I wasn’t white enough, but I’m not going to start making friends just because I’m white enough. Fakes. I can’t stand ‘em.

Steve, the soundman, comes to me after we finish shooting. “Cherry, tadi kamu bagus sekali acting-nya. Gue suka banget pas adegan lo marah sama Dude gara-gara godain lo terus. Sinar mata lo kaya nyata banget gitu, nggak fake kaya yang lain. Itu baru acting menurut gue.”

“Terima kasih.” If only he knows that I actually hate the guy.

I have waited for hours for my driver, well, Om Jaki’s driver, to pick me up, but he is not here. I called him but he didn’t answer, so I call Om Jaki, it’s 5 a.m so it takes a while for him to pick up his phone. “Sari, maaf Om belum kasi tau kamu. Pak Deni tadi kecelakaan di jalan pulang ngambil laptop Om di kantor. Om sekarang masih di Rumah Sakit Pertamina. Kamu bisa pulang naik taksi?”

“What happened? Is he okay?” I always forget to use bahasa when I’m in panic. “Dia nabrak motor. Pak Deni-nya gak kenapa-napa. Tapi yang ditabraknya sekarang masih koma dan bagian depan mobilnya hancur.”

“Oh, gitu. OK. Aku bisa pulang naik taksi, Om.”

I ask Steve to find me a cab. But, instead, he offers me a ride home. “Aku anter pulang aja. Rumah kamu emang dimana?”

“Rumah saya di daerah Bintaro. Tapi, saya pulang naik taksi saja. Saya tidak mau merepotkan kamu.” I try to politely refuse. First, I’m afraid he will take advantage of me, because he thinks that because I’m bule he can easily seduce me to pull down my pants. Well, I’m maybe bule, but I’m not that easy. Second, because I’m not very good in private conversation, except with Ibu and Dad and close family relatives like Om Jaki, Tante Mita, Adil and Adis. It will be an awkward 45 minutes ride from Ciganjur to Bintaro.

“Oh, sektor berapa? Rumahku di Tanah Kusir. Masih searah. Aku anter aja ya?” He insists driving me home. I pause, thinking of the probability of danger that I may encounter. But, he’s a co-worker that I meet everyday for the last six months, he will probably think a hundred times before he does something stupid, he might lose his job if he messes around with me. So, I accept his offer. “OK.”

“Tapi mobilku mobil tua, nggak ada AC-nya. Nggak papa kan?”

“Nggak apa-apa kok. Karena aku dari Amerika bukan berarti aku takut panas, lagian ini sudah jam 5 pagi, jadi kayaknya nggak akan sepanas itu.”

“Hahaha. Bener juga kamu. Yauda, mau pulang sekarang?” Stupid question indeed, of course I want to go home now. But I answer anyway. “Boleh.”

It’s a blue VW Beetle. Classic. I always wondered what it’s like riding in such old car.

Fifteen minutes without conversation. Good. A bit awkward but good.

“Jadi, kenapa kamu pindah ke Indonesia?” Argh. Why does he try making a conversation? But, for the sake of politeness.
“Ibu ingin saya belajar tentang budaya Indonesia.”

“Oh, gitu. Hmmm…

Trus, apa aja yang udah kamu pelajari tentang Indonesia?” He continues trying to break the ice. I pause, I want to make an honest answer but it may offend him.

“Orang Indonesia ramah.” I answer with a smile. Then, he laughs. “Kenapa kamu ketawa?”

“Jawaban kamu klise. Hahaha.” Well, I don’t see that coming.

“Orang Indonesia emang ramah, kecuali sama bangsanya sendiri.” He continues.

“Kenapa kamu bilang begitu?”

“Kamu nggak nonton berita atau baca koran? Banyak kerusuhan dimana-mana. Bangsa ramah macam apa yang bisa melakukan kekerasan terhadap bangsanya sendiri?” Another I-don’t-see-that-coming answer. But, he got a point. I can’t answer the last question. Because, to be honest, I don’t know why.
“Ya, you got a point there. Tapi kamu bilang kecuali sama bangsamu sendiri, maksudnya apa?”

“Aku waktu itu ke Bali dan waktu disana aku ngerasain banget diperlakukan berbeda sama orang sana. Mereka tersenyum dan berbicara ramah sekali sama bule. Tapi giliran aku yang bertanya, mereka jawabnya ketus.”

“Tapi nggak semuanya kaya gitu kan?”

“Iya, emang nggak semuanya sih. Tapi tetep aja kan, itu menandakan bahwa bule diperlakukan lebih baik daripada turis lokal.”

“Berarti sekarang kamu baik sama saya karena saya bule?”

“Wah, ya nggak gitu. Lagian kamu kan gak bule, kamu itu indo.

Tapi, ngomong-ngomong. Kan kamu sering dikira bule, pasti temen kamu udah banyak ya disini.”

“Saya belum punya teman disini. I’m not very good in making friends.” Then, he asks why. So I tell him about how I was back in Frisco. He seems a bit shocked. Well, my friend, I wasn’t white enough back then to have a lot of friends. Funny, this is the first time I tell someone about my making-friends difficulties other than Ibu and Dad.

“Trus kamu gimana bisa belajar budaya Indonesia kalo kamu gak berteman sama orang Indonesia? Lagipula disini kan kamu gak diperlakan seperti kamu di, ehm, San Fransisco. Semua orang Frisco emang sebrengsek itu? Memangnya disana nggak ada anak-anak Indonesia yang bisa diajak temenan?”

“Kamu bertanya kayak wartawan. Besok mau terbit di tabloid mana artikelnya?” He turns to silence. Perhaps I have offended him. I corrected my answer.

“Mereka sama brengseknya, Steve. Jangan bertanya brengsek seperti apa?”

“Baru aja aku mau tanya itu ke kamu, udah dilarang duluan. Hahaha. Are you a mind reader?” Then, we both laugh. First true laugh I have for a very long time.

"Panggil aku Sari."

"OK," he answers.

Steve said he can’t make on time. It’s fine. “No problemo”, I said. It’s only 'Bukan Empat Mata', not a big deal. We’ve been going out for a couple of months now. Now, I have few more friends, Steve’s friends, and I know more about Indonesia, the politics, the society and what not. Ah, tai. Berisik banget sih nih banci-banci. The make-up room is so crowded. I have just had a chat with Tukul, the host for the show, about on what we’re gonna talk about on the show. He is a funny guy and smart, that make-a-fool-of-himself-on-stage is just a part of his act, brilliant.

“Kembali ke laptop!” The crowd cheers with him. Then he starts the interview with me after he talked with Luna, Cathy, Rianti, and Pevita, “Jadi, Cherry, katanya kamu datang ke Indonesia untuk belajar Indonesia, apa yang sudah kamu pelajari sejauh ini?”

“Orang Indonesia ramah.” I smile. Same answer for same question. He smiles too.

“Singkat, padat, dan jelas ya Cherry jawabnya.” He speaks to the audience. They laugh. “Bisa ceritain nggak, Cher, pengalaman kamu yang menarik selama di Indonesia.” I paused, and then I speak of the truth.
“Saya mau cerita kalo Mas Tukul panggil saya Sari, karena itu nama saya, bukan Cherry.”

“Ohhh, nama kamu Sari toh? Hoalah, bule ndeso ternyata.” The audience laughs. This time not because it’s funny but because the floor director instructed them to.

“Saya bukan bule, Mas. Saya orang Indonesia. Jadi, Mas Tukul, balik ke pertanyaan yang tadi ya. Berdasarkan pengalaman saya, orang Indonesia yang saya temui biasanya berusaha keras untuk menjadi orang lain.” Kali ini dia tidak tersenyum atau tertawa, begitu pula penonton.

“Maksud kamu?”

“Saya melihat banyak orang Indonesia yang mencat rambutnya pirang, berlomba-lomba untuk menjadikan kulitnya putih, membeli produk-produk luar negeri supaya terlihat sebarat mungkin, berbicara bahasa Inggris walaupun mereka tidak sepenuhnya menguasai, kalo Mas Tukul kan demi kepentingan sebuah hiburan, bukan untuk sok keren. Menurut saya, ini gila.” Dia membatu, mungkin bingung bereaksi seperti apa. Hahaha. Matanya melototi laptop, menunggu petunjuk apa yang diberikan oleh kru acara. Let truth be told. Karena dia diam, aku melanjutkan bicara, “Saya tidak mengerti, padahal identitas orang Indonesia itu unik, sangat berharga, tapi malah berusaha untuk menjadi seperti bangsa lain. Dan lebih gilanya lagi, orang Indonesia memuja siapapun yang bukan Indonesia. Kulit putih, wajah cantik, bertubuh Barbie bisa menjadi artis.” Kali ini, wajah-wajah bintang tamu lainnya berubah masam. Hanya Luna yang tersenyum. Floor director memberikan kode untuk iklan. Tukul pun menggiring penonton untuk iklan seperti biasanya. Suasana studio hening. Mereka mungkin tidak suka aku bilang mereka gila, biarkan saja. Aku tidak peduli, kegilaan ini harus berhenti.

Tiga bulan sudah berlalu. Hari ini adalah ulang tahunku yang ke-19. Steve memberikan aku Dunia Sophie sebagai kado ulang tahun. Dia bilang aku sudah bisa lepas dari kefiksianku. Tak ada lagi tawaran main sinetron atau iklan. Tak ada lagi wawancara tabloid atau infotainment. Orang yang minta tanda tangan atau foto bareng berkurang. Aku senang, aku tenang. Temanku tambah banyak, bukan karena aku bule, tapi karena aku jujur. Aku orang Indonesia, dan aku tidak takut. Never afraid to be who you are.