Ridwan had appeared at my door in Fylde College, Lancaster University, in July 1982. He had disappeared for several years after obtaining his BA in English, teaching at Udayana University, Singaraja.
"Long time no see," I welcomed him in Tarzan language. Then, of course, I turned to speaking Indonesian. Some months ago Wong, my college friend from Indonesia, had returned home because he had failed the program in the marketing department, and since then I had no one to speak Indonesian with. It was good to meet an old friend from home. We talked about various things. He told me that since he had graduated he had worked in Nusa Tenggara in some foreign companies and had been well paid.
"Then, why the UK?" I asked.
He told me about his meeting with Dr Peter Southwell in Mataram, who had become a good acquaintance, and had sponsored him to come to London. That did not mean that Peter bought a return ticket for him, not at all. He saved up, bought a house in Mataram by installment, and somehow still had money to travel. Peter just went to a solicitor and asked him to write a letter stating that he would sponsor Ridwan during his stay in London. And, of course, Peter was entitled to do this because he had a house, a permanent job and a salary. Peter himself traveled around the world frequently. Kenya and Guatemala, and of course Bali and Lombok were his favorite destinations.
Ridwan said he had just returned from Aberdeen, berry picking together with Italian workers, living under tents in the field. Then I remembered that during the Malvinas War, tons of strawberries were sent to Malvinas to satisfy the soldiers' homesickness. Perhaps Ridwan had taken part in this.
I invited Ridwan to a picnic in Blackpool and also Morecombe near Lancaster, on the west beaches. They say the warm stream in the sea makes Lancaster warmer than other areas, but, as I am a foreigner and used to the warm and hot weather of the tropics, I couldn't feel the difference.
We took pictures of ourselves next to different tourist objects in Morecombe, hoping to take home memories of this country. We had a bad experience buying a postcard as a souvenir in Blackpool. The shop keeper showed us the postcards and said,"50 pence each".
I thought I misheard him because I know that in other places in England, postcards cost only 5 pence.
"You mean, 15?"
"50! You take it? If not, go away."
I was stunned and said nothing. He looked at me and asked, "Are you skeptical?"
I left the shop without saying a word and I heard him say swearing.
"Oh, tourist destination. Tourist price!" I thought of Bali, my dwelling place whose people sometimes do similar things. But the Balinese never swore at tourists. They always smile and try to sell souvenirs. Little girls on the beach would say: "Buy me, Sir. Very cheap. You promise," while holding two or three pineapples.
***
When not working in Aberdeen or Somerset, Ridwan stayed with Peter in London. There, he took an evening job at a restaurant near Victoria Central Station. Not a legal worker, but something illegal. He went to an agent, found a post and was given a job in a restaurant, not as a waiter who met customers, but working underground, passing orders sent from the first floor to the chef, and then later back up to the first floor - by putting all the orders in the small lift that went up and down. This way he could earn enough money to buy cigarettes.
Before going home for good, I stayed at Peter's house for several days. During the day, Ridwan and I explored the city using public transport: a one-day ticket to travel around greater London by train, on the underground, and by bus was only 3.50 pounds. We could even take the tube out to Heathrow Airport. In turn, in the evening, Peter took me in his car to the Barbican Centre, to watch plays.
Victoria Station was the busiest station in London, where the underground, buses and trains all met. As I missed Indonesia, we spoke Indonesian the whole time. There, we met a girl from Jakarta who was studying fashion and had a short chat during the journey. Traveling by underground was not pleasant, but it was an experience.
While we talked seriously and happily in Indonesian, a man turned to us and said rather roughly, "This is England! You should speak English."
I was surprised to hear that. I looked at him, and tried to understand what he intended to do.
"You talk to me, Sir?"
"Yes, you!"
I felt excited and my eyes turned red.
"Sir, have you traveled abroad?"
"Yes, of course."
"To France?"
"Yes, sure."
"Did you speak French to your fellow Englishmen there?"
"Why, of course not. I don't speak a single word of French except merci."
"Oh, that's surprising. I thought you spoke French to your wife and children there only because it was France."
He looked angry, but I was much angrier.
"We are visitors to this country, Sir. We are not job-seekers. We paid for everything with our money. We give you reserve."
Ridwan continued.
"We are from Bali. You know Bali, Indonesia?"
No sign of understanding.
"Tourists from all over the world come to Bali and we welcome them in their own languages: Chinese, Japanese, Italian, French, English. We never ask them to speak Indonesian, let alone speak Balinese, that is more difficult. Just to let you know if you understand it!"
That time, the underground slowed down and we jumped out of the train to continue our travel on another line. Not on the blue line but the northern line - looking for a good place to buy a leather jacket in the northern part of London. What a narrow-minded man, I thought.
Singaraja, Dec. 26, 2009
