My mother raised me under the old adage: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” So, if anyone was wondering how I lived in Indonesia’s capital for a year without really writing all that much about it, it’s because, for a long time, I couldn’t find anything nice to say.
One of the nicknames I have heard for Jakarta is the Big Durian. Durian is a large, spiky fruit famous (or infamous) for its strong smell (it actually isn’t allowed on airplanes or on most public transportation systems in cities where it is sold), and people usually either can’t get enough of it, or think it is the most disgusting fruit in the world.
If this isn’t a great metaphor for Jakarta, I don’t know what is.
I do know people who like Jakarta. It attracts an array of interesting people from around the country, and even around the world, and it seems to be an especially hot hub for motivated young people in various fields. For those who enjoy a good club, I hear the nightlife is fantastic. The international food scene is booming, and even I came to enjoy the café culture that flourishes in the city. I’m convinced it is the shopping capital of the world (not quite true, but one does not go on a trip to Jakarta without shopping for at least one day). And if you, like myself and many of my friends, enjoy museums, Jakarta is pretty much the only city in Indonesia with a decent selection of them.
But though I could see why other people were able to come to love the city, I never could. Jakarta is a massive, sprawling, hot city best known for traffic, corruption, and pollution. None of this exactly adds up to my happy place. As a farm girl who still needs her fresh air, being forced to wear a mask anywhere I went was torture; my first response when people asked me why I didn’t like Jakarta: it’s hard to love a place that doesn’t let you breathe. I hated the crowded, dirty streets, and the sterile malls. I hated that the harassment, while not something unique to Jakarta, was by far the worst that I had yet experienced. There were plenty of days when I had to force myself to leave my apartment, because it was so much easier to hide in my room with a favorite Y.A. novel, pretending I was somewhere—anywhere—else.
I tried to love Jakarta. Never in my life have I tried to love something as much as I tried to love Jakarta. I subscribed to several email chains and Instagram accounts that focused on free and/or exciting things to do in the city. I went to a museum almost once a month, at least when I wasn’t doing extensive travel for work. When I took time out of the office to write my research article, I forced myself to go on a café tour, mostly to get myself out to see more of Jakarta. But though I did have a fair amount of fun doing so, I still couldn’t bring myself to love, or even like, the Big Durian.
This is not to say that I was 100% miserable living Jakarta all the time. As I have learned from the many other places that I have lived over the years, my experience in a place is not usually defined by the place itself, but by the people in it. I had two amazing housemates while in Jakarta: we had met while I was a first-year ETA in Malang, and the fates were kind enough to bring us to Jakarta around the same time. And over the course of my year there developed a network of wonderful friends, both Indonesian and American. Finding fun things to do in the city with them, learning from them, laughing with them, and yes, sometimes bonding with them over our mutual dislike of our shared city, was what really made my time in Jakarta memorable. If there is one good thing I can say about Jakarta: I probably would not have developed as many truly life-long friendships as I did while in Indonesia if I had not had my year there.
In the end, I feel about the Big Durian much like I feel about durian itself: I’m glad I tried it, and I got some stories out of the experience, but if I never encounter it again, I think I’ll be just fine.
I’m hoping that’s a nice enough statement to satisfy Momma.