Expats

By Max de Bruijn

About EXPATS

Every decade or so a previously forgotten tropical backyard flowers unexpectedly thanks to the discovery of gold, oil or cheap labor. Enlightened royals and savvy dictators attract investors and foreign companies to their domains. Growth figures – real or inflated – spread the lore of an economical miracle. Factories replace traditional farming fields. Skyscrapers rise amidst the country’s slums.

In the wake of economic boom, western expatriates – expats – flock to this next promised land. There are the veterans, who have seen more of the world than the countries where they were born and bred. They are accompanied by their expatriate wives who spend scorching hot days with their local drivers commuting between the international school and social events specially organized for expat women. And then there are the newcomers, the first timers, the bachelors and newlyweds for whom an expatriate posting is their initial adventure abroad and a life-changing experience.

So what happens when you dump thousands of western expatriates into a sweltering hot capital at the equator? How do they relate to the local population and their customs? How do they deal with third world infrastructure and services? Can they handle major social differences? And in the meantime, doesn’t their very presence there raise other issues? Why can’t the locals do what they do? Perhaps expatriates are simply the new brand of colonizer.
Expats takes a first-hand look at life in the expat business community in Indonesia at the end of the 20th century. A revealing, entertaining and personally confronting moral drama.

Max de Bruijn (1966) is a Dutch historian and journalist. The newspaper and magazine articles he wrote about his expat experience in Jakarta in the 1990s resulted in his first novel Expats. His non-fiction work Indonesië op vrijdagmiddag (Friday Afternoon in Indonesia) was released in 2009.

“Seldom have I read such a hard-hitting book about the cynical behavior of the Dutch living and working abroad as Expats.”
Elsbeth Etty, critic & columnist
Dutch newspaper NRC Handelsblad

“Successful, confounding, and above all captivating social commentary.”
Belgian newspaper De Standard

“De Bruijn’s attempt to discredit the good intentions of the business world
in Indonesia is shameful.”
Reader’s reaction, Boeknet.nl

“There was so much drinking during the Orange Ball to honor the Queen
that people were passed out on the Dutch Embassy’s lawn.”
Radio Netherlands Worldwide

“I’ve had a truly wonderful time here... with one exception: that book Expats.”
Dutch Ambassador Schelto baron van Heemstra, in his farewell speech
to the Dutch community in Indonesia, 2002

“Expats is undeniably successful as a parody, but it left me with quite a bitter aftertaste.”
BZ-Blad, staff magazine Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2001-2002

“Hilarious and moving...”
Reader’s reaction, Bol.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max de Bruijn
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310938399

Max de Bruijn

Max de Bruijn (1966) is a Dutch historian and journalist. The newspaper and magazine articles he wrote about his expat experience in Jakarta in the 1990s resulted in his first novel Expats. His non-fiction work Indonesië op vrijdagmiddag (Friday Afternoon in Indonesia) was released in 2009.Expats has been translated by Lorraine T. Miller (Epicycles), an American professional translator based in Amsterdam.

Book preview

1

Welcome to Jakarta

Saturday

The sound of sweeping approaches, slippers shuffle slowly, a twitter of gossip muffled midway by giggling, then whispers beyond the door: it’s already eight o’clock. Time for mister John’s bedroom to be cleaned. Is mister John still sleeping?

No, I shout at the door, mister John is very much awake and you all know it!

Confused voices. May we come in or not? Is mister John alone?

Let’s all pray for a five-day workweek for domestics in Indonesia. I certainly haven’t managed it. I once tried giving my personnel an entire weekend off instead of just the customary Sunday. On their first free Saturday, the girls kept appearing with the ironed wash and their dustpans and brushes. The second time, when I thought they were all out, they’d taken the ironing to their cramped bedrooms and all my jeans and even my swimsuit were fitted with razor-sharp folds. The third Saturday, I caught them all sulking in the garden behind the garage.

But mister John, they said, "try to understand, you cannot give us Saturdays off just like that… people will think we are sneaking out on you, that we are badpembantus."

So now, I take them out once a year: koki Minah, my pembantus Josi and Arta, the night watchman and gardener Agus, and of course my driver Muhidin – even if it’s far beneath his position to mingle with the ordinary servants.

Of course, we don’t go to some discotheque because, again, what would people think?! No, going out is the disgusting zoo in Ragunan and fluorescent lemonade specked with coconut in the company of an ailing camel. Going out is stuffing your face at Kentucky Fried Chicken or Dunkin’ Donuts. Going out is a trip to Taman Mini Indonesia, the open-air museum, where they’re chauffeured around in an omnibus – preferably a Kijang – lined up in traffic behind other Kijangs jam-packed with Indonesian families. Strolling there is also lovely, but hardly qualifies as going out.

Well? Come in then! I shout when they’ve waited for what feels like an eternity.

Josi first, of course Josi, opening the door as if it’s a spider’s web that mustn’t be disturbed, accommodating stance, her head bowed appropriately toward the ground, yet with those dark ovals peering out through her cascading hair.

Is mister John sick?

She halfheartedly sweeps a few of the white tiles visible under the bed, sets the broom and dustpan against the wall, and then besieges my bedding repeatedly bending decently at the knee. With her neck and the soft brown vaulting of her breasts exposed, she gathers my clothing strewn here and there. I gave up neatly depositing my dirty laundry ages ago.

No, mister John is not sick. Why, Josi?

Mister John is still in bed, and it is already past noon, tihihi.

One of their standard jokes, since they’ve all been up since 4:00 A.M. Behind her Arta shuffles back and forth with piles of ironed laundry and freshly polished shoes.

Mister John is still in bed because he feels like it, white gentlemen are allowed this luxury.

Did mister John drink a lot?

Yes Josi, mister John drank a lot but mister John is an experienced drinker. Besides, beer is very healthy.

Yuck, beer is horrible and not healthy.

Did Josi ever drink a beer?

Mister John really, tihihi.

She gathers all the clothes into one pile, also shuffling back and forth, and then returns to her broom and dustpan. She circles my bed entreatingly, sweeping the visible tiles meticulously and those half-hidden under the bed hastily. Her sarong rustles whenever it brushes the end of my bed. I can smell her body close to mine, no deodorant but something faintly sweet and secretive in itself with a hint of perspiration.

If Josi is almost finished, I say, then mister John can get out of bed and go to the bathroom.

"Okay, sudah, sudah mister John, enough, tihihi."

• • •

The gate is already open. My night watchman and gardener, Agus, has planted himself beside it wearing his at-your-service face. Koki Minah lingers at the front door with a dish towel, ready to wave me off, yet barely able to contain her impatience. It’s almost time for Pamili, the most popular Indonesian soap opera. I hear the pembantus jabbering in the background – just a matter of time and the house will be all theirs again.

My driver, Muhidin, shuffles out of the garage, clears his throat and spits to avoid swallowing a glob of saliva, which devout Muslims consider drinking – strictly forbidden during the fast period. Then he takes his place behind the steering wheel.

Where to mister John?

To the office, Muhidin, I reply.

We drive along the green avenues in my neighborhood, Kemang, and then pick up the connecting road into Jakarta’s business district.

I like to take it slow on Saturday mornings. Besides this lonely ex-pat and the doorman, the office personnel have the day off. The five-day workweek has been instituted at my company – thank heavens! With a slightly nagging hangover, I attend to lesser matters that got buried that past week under the unremitting and nearly completely unnecessary telephoning and the more than unnecessary questions about every last thing by my Indonesian employees. At any rate, during Puasa – the fast days – they’re basically a worthless bunch. For a whole month, they’re deprived of the only thing they care and talk about the entire day. Makan, food! Outside of this fasting period, the hours they define as work are nothing more than layovers to the next fantastic dinner of rice, adorable vegetables, chicken gizzards and fish heads doused in spicy chili sauce. Arriving at the office in the morning, they shuffle out of the bus talking about makan. At the end of the afternoon, they cram themselves back into the bus still obsessing on the subject. The essence of their existence is ripped away without food. The girls in the office are listless at their desks, unable to utter anything louder than a whisper. The men stare despondently into space, yearning for one of those nauseating kretek cigarettes they’re always chain smoking.

On the way, the Kijang is crawling along in the traffic headed further to the north. It’s still sunny on the Sudirman, but I can hear rumbling behind me to the south. No doubt, it’s already raining in Kemang. We get held up for a considerable while near Garuda Airline’s headquarters. A taxi in the lane next to ours has forced itself between two overfull buses. The taxi driver gets out screaming. The bus drivers and ticket punchers on both buses – from their appearance Sumatrans – exit their vehicles and ominously surround the taxi driver. A crowd of bus passengers, passersby, and Garuda’s security guards gather around them. In an instance, the crowd dissolves into a jumble of flailing arms and bobbing heads. I fear the worst for the taxi driver but then two policemen appear out of nowhere, their Nazi-style caps pulled down to just above their eyes. The crowd quiets down and starts to disperse.

The officers wade through the throng with their batons raised, here and there delivering a whack. By the time they reach the epicenter of the disturbance, the bus drivers are both settled back behind their steering wheel and the Garuda’s security guards have withdrawn en masse to a safe distance. The taxi driver is leaning against his sedan. He’s bleeding. The traffic begins to move. When we’re a distance further, an ambulance approaches from the other direction. Its siren is blaring wildly; its emergency light flashing in an effort to get through the traffic jam.

Arriving at the Hyatt Hotel, we find a parking spot. Muhidin shuffles over to a group of fellow drivers crouching on the stairs under a concrete overhang, smoking and talking. I head for the lounge where Pia is hosting High Tea. Practically our entire group is present, along with a few new faces. A radiant Pia has seated herself at the best table. Waiters parade back and forth with scones, marmalade and cream, sandwiches, and tea.

I give her a kiss, dole out kisses to the rest (women) and handshakes (men). Seated off to the side is a pair of newcomers, husband and wife, looking somewhat out of place with their winter pallor. She’s come to work for Nutricia and he tells a story designed to disguise the fact he still hasn’t found any work in Jakarta. Apparently Pia has already taken them under her wing. They inquire with a nervous laugh if I happen to know of a house in the price range (Pia is paying), with a garden and swimming pool (like Pia’s) of course, preferably in Kemang (Pia lives ten minutes from me by car). The husband requires a satellite dish so he can watch Dutch soccer.

So, what sort of work do you do? he says with a pretentious air.

Im busy with unemployment relief in Jakarta, I say, excuse me, I see somebody I really need to talk to for a moment."

Someone next to Pia has gone off to take a leak or something. So I grab his seat.

John, everything okay? she asks.

Most certainly and judging from where I’m sitting, with you too!

She reacts somewhat surprised, but basks in the compliment. Pia is one of the few blonds who can handle this country’s climate. Only under her eyes can you make out that sallow tint familiar to Jakarta.

Aren’t you the sweet-talker, she says, hey, you’re coming to Pulau Seribu in a fortnight, aren’t you?

Hmm, I was planning to. And who else is going to the islands with us?

Nearly everybody and I invited the Brummelkamps …

Who?

The Brummelkamps: Bob and Bianca, the new couple! You just shook hands with them.

Oh, them.

I hope you were nice.

Of course, extremely nice.

They’re not so bad, really. She’s Ageeth’s friend, you know …

Ageeth? Hmm, rings a bell…

Yes, Ageeth, her husband worked for Boskalis, and she came down with paratyphoid fever, you remember…

Yeah, yeah, now I remember.

Good, then we’re almost a dozen strong – if everyone shows. And I was thinking about asking the new kid, Floris. Said he might turn up today for my little soirée, I wouldn’t know how to reach him otherwise. I don’t know where he lives and he didn’t have a card yet.

Which new kid? We’re drowning in new kids.

C’mon John, I’ve already introduced him to you twice. He’s an extremely nice fellow and he’d be an asset to our group. Though I forgot to ask him if he dives. We’re still one short for the trip to Sulawesi.

Suus’ piercing voice resounds from the hallway.

PIAAA, you’ll never guess what I just bought!

Suus and her husband Harold enter the lounge area.

A sofa? Pia says.

No dear girl, an armoire! Don’t you remember, we saw that armoire, which was so pricey in that shop on the Kemang Timur? So, Harold and I happened to be at the market in Ciputat – a disaster, endless traffic jams – but they had one, somewhat different, but with those rods in the doors and I thought it was such a pity about that other expensive one, ’cause it didn’t have the rods, so we bought it immediately. Fantastic, right? We could take it with us straight away; it’s in the back of our car.

I politely rise for Suus who somehow manages a quick Hello John in the middle of her decorating story. Then, accompanied by Harold, I head toward the bar where Mark is installed with a bir Bintang – the leading brew in these parts – and a cigarette. He’s reading the Jakarta Post.

"Dua bir lagi, two more beers," Harold says to the bartender who has a perpetual smirk plastered on his face. These are the only Indonesian words Harold can spit out perfectly, that is up to and including the number twenty, because he never has to order more beers than that.

Didn’t I tell you? Harold offhandedly says to Mark, No? The Tangerang project came through, the apartments and the shopping mall. Would you believe, yesterday, on Friday? However, it was close… otherwise, the Australians would have landed it. I specifically told my Indonesian draftsman that the drawings had to be done before 11:00 A.M., therefore before Friday afternoon prayers. He wasn’t pleased. Too bad for him. At least it could all be faxed that afternoon before my boss met with the commission’s rep at 4:00 P.M. And what I also said: if he didn’t finish, I wanted to know. Because, if need be, I could’ve tie up the loose ends myself. So what happens? Half the office leaves for the mosque at 11:30. I smell trouble and go to the drafting department. Not a soul in sight but there’s a scribbled note lying on his table: Sorry, not finish, pray, his exact words… in that fantastic English of theirs. With about ten spelling mistakes in that one sentence. Ugh, I could have strangled the guy. He just left for the mosque. They just can’t come clean, admit the work isn’t done. So I, like a maniac, finished it up myself with another draftsman. He wanted to leave too, but I know for a fact that he’s a Christian. So he didn’t have an excuse to go to the fucking mosque. Really, it reached the client just in the nick of time.

And your draftsman? Mark inquires from behind his newspaper.

"Lucky for him that he returned much too late, it was already around 2:00 P.M. Of course, he knew he was completely in the wrong, but by then I was way past being furious. So I didn’t go ballistic on him. And he just smiled ’Sorry boss, sorry boss,’ but the next time won’t be any different, I know it. Up for another beer, Mark? Hey you there, tiga bir lagi."

Listen to this one, Mark says, "page three of the Jakarta Post, these incidental items are always so entertaining:

A young woman died yesterday in traffic in Slipi. Ani S. (20) was on the back of the moped belonging to her fiancé M. Ansar (22). The young man was zigzagging through traffic on the Gatot Subroto’s busy service road when his fiancée fell off. A truck that was overtaking them, failing to stop in time, crushed her skull.

Hahaha, especially that last bit, unbelievable!"

Who’s the clown with the tacky shirt? Harold asks.

The new guy from Stork, that’s to say his wife. He’s something of a dickhead but apparently plays a decent game of hockey… Mark says.

Nutricia not Stork. Do we have a game tomorrow? I ask Mark.

There’s no regular competition during the fast, if it doesn’t rain we could have a game among ourselves. Let’s see, if everybody can make it, then it’s five against five. If the Stork, uh, Nutricia people take part. Hey, have you ever seen him before?

A vaguely familiar youngster, with an awkward but not unfriendly expression, timidly enters the room. While Suus is painting an image of the closet in the air for the rest of the group, Pia motions to the kid, waves someone out of the chair next to her, parks him there, and in a rapid tempo brings him up to speed about her guests. With quick nods, she points out individuals, couples, and groups. The kid follows her gaze and one can tell from his vacant expression that he’s trying hard to absorb everything she is throwing at him. He’s not nearly as pale as the Nutricias; in fact he has almost a tropical face. At best, he’s a bit too healthy. Yet, you can still see he’s a newcomer. To begin with from his wrinkled clothing, furthermore his demeanor is much too unassuming. A real ex-pat continually scrutinizes with a steely gaze. No need for concern; he’ll have it down in no time. Only a handful of aid-worker types succeed in boarding the plane home wearing the same expression as when they arrived.

Pia glances at the bar questioningly; the kid’s eyes accompany her. Pia says something; the kid rises hesitantly and heads in my direction. Pia motions to Suus who, still only halfway through her decorating story, flops into the chair that was just vacated.

The kid has positioned himself right in front of me. I extend my hand and mumble a few words. As he turns to Harold and Mark, I quickly grab the Jakarta Post off the bar and bury myself in the sports section to avoid being at the receiving end of his needy gaze.

Harold has a first go at him.

Harold Karreman, Bohlwinkel & Co., here’s my card, he says. So, what do you do?

I’m Floris. I do water research.

Iwaco, of course?

No, Erasmus.

Erasmus, since when do they have an office here?

Erasmus University, Rotterdam, the kid says amicably.

Oh, you’re still studying.

Well, it’s actually postdoc. I finished my PhD last year… on social water management in tropical metropolises. This is kind of a follow up.

Well… that’s a new one for me!

Yeah, haha, because it ain’t part of the vocational school curriculum, Mark breaks in. I’m Mark.

Floris.

"Hey you, tiga b…, uh four, empat bir lagi!" Harold shouts at the bartender.

Uh, I don’t think having a beer is a good idea; my stomach still isn’t…

Oh, you got a case of the runs, says Harold, c’mon boy, take it. When you live here you need to eat well and drink lots of beer. It’s the only way to stay healthy.

As strange as it might sound, it’s actually true, Mark adds. Our ancestors knew it as well. If you dig for a few minutes on the islands along the coast, you find hundreds of pieces of broken glass, all from bottles of spirits. However, some people take the beer imperative a bit too literally, don’t you think Harold?

Okay Mr. Know-It-All, just gulp it back so I can order the next round. Hey you!

Are you an archeologist by any chance? Floris asks Mark.

Mark looks at him puzzled.

Well, because you dig up bottles.

Oh, no, haha, I was building a vacation resort on an island off the coast. Yeah, it would have been interesting for archeologists. We stumbled across a Dutch graveyard too. Now it’s preserved for all eternity… under a ton of concrete. Hey, Frits…

Uh, it’s Floris.

Sorry, Floris, you have a place to live yet?

Yes, I rented a house in Kemang.

Oh, Kemang is lovely. I live there too, so whereabouts?

Kemang 7-A.

I know Kemang 7, but 7-A, where is that exactly?

Umm, the first narrow street to the right after the graveyard and then close to the river.

Behind the graveyard? But that’s all kampungs!

Yes, I happen to live in the kampung.

Hey, John, Harold, incredible but the kid here… lives in the kampung with the natives!

Now Mark is shouting so loudly that everybody in the nearby lounge can hear him too. Some look up in disbelief, others chuckle.

Well, says Floris, I’m investigating the water usage in kampung Kemang 7-A. Is it so strange then to be living in the area I’m studying?

No, says Mark, but still, the kampung … nobody lives in the kampung. Here, take my card, my home address and phone number are on the back. Maybe you want to go for a swim some time?

When I have a card made, you’ll get one too, Floris says.

"Sudah, sudah, okay… so Floris… you play hockey by any chance?"

"Hey you, four bir!"

Saturday, Tanamur

"So, what’s that joker’s story?" says the new kid who has tagged along with us. He asks a bit impatiently, waving his gin & tonic glass wildly in the air. I prefer not to justify newcomers’ questions with answers, but perhaps he’s interested. Anyhow, Pia thinks he’s an asset to the group so I consider responding.

We can actually hear each other for a moment because it’s time for the Tanamur disco’s slow-dance interlude, lasting two songs. Then the mellow house-drone resumes. I’m hanging out in the corner of the dance floor our crowd always frequents: to the left in front of the main bar. Over the course of the evening, the group has disintegrated. Although Pia accompanied us to the Hard Rock Cafe after High Tea, she only stayed for a little while and then departed; she hardly ever comes to the Tanamur. Harold dropped by but went home early. He usually does this on the nights his wife is out with him. Mark has been busy half the evening with some new girl. I lost track of him on the dance floor. What remains of our crowd is now slow dancing with each other or in the shadows with one of the Tanamur girls. Some are taking advantage of the brief calm to order drinks. Or they’re catching up on the latest gossip about the gay crowd stripteasing on their balcony or the go-go girl who has the back-left position this evening.

That guy there, the new kid indicates, pointing to an older bulé on the crowded dance floor.

We