Today I had one of the most miserable Indonesian experiences ever. I went shopping.
I have needed to buy some things for my house for the past oh . . . six weeks. But I hate shopping, especially here, so I've been putting it off. Today was finally the day, though, and I grabbed a becak around 4pm to go to Carrefour. Some things I forgot to consider before heading out:
1. Sunday is the only weekend day for most Indonesians. Most schools and many jobs are Monday through Saturday.
2. Carrefour is like Wal-Mart, both in quantity of products and congestion of people.
3. Going to Carrefour on a Sunday evening is like going to Wal-Mart after church lets out.
4. I can never be inconspicuous.
After trying to haggle with the becak driver and still getting a totally unfair bule price, I arrived at the mall that houses Carrefour. As soon as I walked into the mall, I was overwhelmed by the number of people. Screaming babies, annoying teenagers, and families of seven or eight people filled the aisles and made it impossible to move at more than a snail's pace. The whole time, I kept thinking about a blog my friend, Kathryn, in Thailand wrote about people in Thailand having no spacial awareness. I think it might be a larger trend throughout Southeast Asia, one that couples with a very widespread, slow, meandering walk. I get teased a lot by the teachers and students at my school for "walking like an American." In other words, I walk quickly and with purpose.
Once I finally waded through the crowd to the Carrefour entrance, I had to find a buggy (aka a cart for you Yankees). All of the buggies in the stall were gone, so I wandered around outside looking for an unclaimed one. There were plenty - I counted at least 15 empty buggies - but they were all attached to people who were just sitting on benches with no indication of going into the store. I assume they were waiting on family members, but I have no idea. And no one would give me their buggy! I finally pounced on one that an elderly man abandoned - the only person in Carrefour who decided he didn't need a buggy for his one bag. Sheesh!
Once I got inside the store, I kept a kung-fu grip on the handlebar. I was paranoid that someone was just waiting to steal my buggy away from me. As I walked up and down the aisles full of gleaming pots and pans, cooking utensils, and kitchen hardware, I began to amass a small following of curious Indonesians. They peered into my buggy to see what kinds of things the bule buys. I could feel their eyes following my every move. If I picked up an item, they would look at the price to see how much money I would spend on a blender or a spatula. Normally I would laugh at the situation - who would have thought that I was just a few paparazzi short of Hollywood fame - but I was not in the mood. Instead, I got angrier and angrier.
By the time I paid for all of my items, I was fed up. In the course of an hour of shopping, I had been hit in the thigh by a random, snotty-nosed little boy, followed around by a pack of overly curious, rudely intrusive Indonesians, and pushed out of the checkout line on multiple occasions by people who don't understand the concept of a queue. Then I had to find a taxi.
The beauty of malls in Medan is that, in a city where taxis are scarce, you can always find an available taxi. Each mall has a taxi concierge service. Although you usually have to haggle with the driver for a semi-fair price (they don't like to run the meter), the convenience is well worth it when you have a buggy full of items to lug home. The starting quote from the taxi drivers is always Rp 50,000 (about $5). Always. I've used every taxi service in Medan at every mall, and every time I always bargain down from Rp 50,000. On this particular night, however, I walked out with my overflowing bags in my overflowing buggy. The taxi driver was ready and waiting at the door. I told him where I wanted to go and asked how much he wanted to charge. Before answering, he took a long look at me, a looooonnnng look at the things in my bags, and then said "80,000." I could just see the dollar signs going off in his head. I laughed and countered with 30,000 (the actual cost of a metered ride), but he wouldn't budge. He would not BUDGE! I pulled out my cell phone to call a taxi from a reliable service, but the concierge came over at that point and told me to put my phone away. I obliged. Despite the concierge's best efforts, the driver would not go lower than 80,000. It was not just annoying - it was an insult. Finally I couldn't take it, and I stomped my foot and yelled "Saya tahu saya bule! Tipa saya tidak mau harga bule! Saya tinggal disini!" The translation: I know I'm a foreigner! But I don't want the foreigner price! I live here!
The concierge started laughing uncontrollably. The taxi driver's face remained stone cold. The concierge started pointing at the driver's very dark skin and saying "Dia orang Africa! hahahahahaha!" Basically that means he's stupid because he's black. It's wrong on so many levels. Anyway, he shamed the taxi driver enough to bring him down to Rp 50,000 - still too much, but worth it if I could get home before my meat spoiled.
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