I

f there is anything that can get you attention in Jakarta, which has its own share of freaks and eccentrics, it is doing a fast walk '€” sporting situations excepted, of course.

Double that amount of attention if you are a woman.

'€œMbak, mau ke mana? Buru-buru amat.'€ Sister, where are you going? Why the rush?

'€œMbak, jangan lari-lari. Nanti jatuh.'€ Sister, don'€™t run. You'€™ll fall.

One is discouraged to run or walk at a fast pace in the capital, as if the traffic and Internet weren'€™t moving slowly enough.

Walking quickly is considered arrogant, indicating a love for selfish individualism and all things material.

Perhaps, as Yukio Mishima wrote in The Temple of Dawn, it is simply part of the beauty of the people of the tropics, akin to the beauty of the fruit, that ripens lazily and gracefully.

'€œThere is no such thing as a dilligent fruit,'€ so the quotation goes.

Whatever the explanation is, the act of ridiculing those who walks briskly has irked me time and again.

There would be instances when I desperately needed to get somewhere fast, and had no time to respect all the lazy and graceful glory of my fellow tropical people.

I resent the fact that I somehow have to feel apologetic for walking faster. They are not going to pay my salary if I lose my gig just because I am late!

It is safe to say that most of the time I walk pretty fast for an Indonesian.

But living overseas has taught me that, as with many things, the speed of things is relative. The experience also gave me newfound respect for the art of walking slowly.

Despite taking pride in my faster-than-average-Indonesian walking ability, I have found myself having to do little skipping manuevres to keep up with most people here in Australia '€” fellow Indonesians excepted. Having short legs does not help with this either.

One day, though, I was walking with a group of Indonesians in the center of Melbourne, at an Indonesian pace, of course.

Amid the crowd, two young women walked past us, with one of them muttering '€œI hate people who walk slowly.'€ They were probably walking behind us before.

 As they were not wearing protective gear, I doubt that they were in a rush to defuse a bomb somewhere, and, as it was mid-morning on the weekend, they were unlikely to be heading for classes or work.

A feeling rose within me, something similar to the one I used to feel in Indonesia when people teased me for walking quickly.

Then I realized that I was as tropical as a durian fruit after all. Or perhaps this is merely my indecisiveness when it comes to the Indonesian-Western way of life '€” a symptom typical of Indonesians living in a country where Western culture dominates.

'€œI love how orderly the transportation is here, but sometimes I wish I didn'€™t have to walk so far to the station and could just hop on an ojek.'€ '€œIt'€™s a relief that I don'€™t have to deal with invitations from people I barely know all the time, but I miss the warmth of Indonesian friendliness.'€

I know, how selfish.

My current state of mind tells me to break free. In fact, I should be proud of myself for having experienced life in several different places and seeing how things can be done differently and still get done.

Maybe my walking pace is a delightful combination of Indonesian and Western values, or, perhaps, that of a dilligent fruit.

Now if you'€™ll excuse me, I should prepare to go out and, quite literally, walk this talk.

'€” Dina Indrasafitri