Shakeleg on Play: Walking Barbie

It's very easy to tell the rich from the poor in Indonesia.



The richest are chauffeured around in flashy cars, wear beautiful clothes, and hang out at swanky Grand Indonesia and Plaza Senayan. They have bodyguards and maids in uniforms pushing baby prams behind them as they teeter about in their Christian Louboutins.

The poorest beg, walk barefoot, and live hand to mouth.









Me? I'm one of the ordinary folks who ride ojeks (motorcycle taxis) and shop at Mangga Dua and Blok M.

Wait a minute. Actually, I don't fit into any category.

Being a foreigner means I'm not trapped by social conventions so, I present myself in whichever way I fancy and nobody gives a damn. I could be at a messy wholesale market haggling over batik pajamas today and have cappucino and pancakes at Harvey Nichols tomorrow.

What Indonesians embrace as life here is play to me because I have zero identity. And I try to have fun when dealing with the unfamiliar.

I play around with Indonesian names. Last week I told the Starbucks cashier my name was Cahaya Bintang (Light of the Star) when he took down my latte order. The previous week, I was Bunga Dewi (Flower Goddess).

I thought they were outrageous but nobody batted an eyelid. I think I'll name myself after the airline Merpati Nusantara (Dove Archipelago) next week.



I play around with Indonesian public transport. So many to choose from – the ojek, the bajaj (three-wheel taxi), the mikrolet (minibus), the kopaja (non-aircon bus), and the Transjakarta (aircon bus).





There's always live entertainment on the bus by way of hawkers selling anything from roasted peanuts to nail clippers and buskers strumming miniature guitars and crooning pop songs for a hundred rupiah (two cents) or two.






Typical Guitar Man (video taken by my friend, The Brown Dot)

Bored one day, I decided to join a busker in his massacred rendition of John Denver's "Leaving on a Jetplane." Kudos for the effort, though. Most streetbuskers sing only Indonesian songs.

"Am living owner jade plains, don't know when I will beg again," he sang with a thick Javanese twang.

"Oh babeeeeee, I had to goooooooo," I continued, howling like a werewolf.

He jumped, probably shocked that someone was actually listening to him – and responding in a way only a crazy foreigner would.

I smiled and said "Mas, lagu Peterpan, dong," encouraging him to sing a song by a local poprock band. He obliged and I slipped a 1,000 rupiah in his grubby plastic bag.

I play around with various Indonesian personas. I am the talented housemaid who can manouevre two trolleys along supermarket aisles, cook, clean and charm security guards into helping to clear nasty cockroaches and grasshoppers in the apartment.



But I'm less successful in being a Walking Barbie. These creatures come in all ages, shapes and sizes and are seen everywhere in the glitzy malls and clubs.

This is a typical Walking Barbie's beauty routine: several hours at the salon for a keramas (hair cream bath and head massage) and then styling the locks in tight curls or cascading lush waves. While the hair is being worked on, the feet are massaged and the fingernails, shaped and painted.


Indonesian girls spend hours at the salon to get these cascading waves!

Like in Singapore, there are plenty of beauty services here but at the fraction of the price. Full-on makeup with fake curly lashes? Brow shaping? Your wish is my command, says the beauty genie.

But the difference? It seems that girls here prettify themselves too much, too often. A little terrifying for this plain jane whose standard Singapore attire is a tee matched with a pair of capris and Crocs sandals.

But I did try. Let's just say since I arrived here, I've become vainer. I exercise regularly, eat moderately and shop happily.





Now I own lace dresses, tailored pants and bow hairbands! I get body massages (six Singapore dollars an hour) and foot reflexology sessions weekly. I even have a personal masseuse who makes house calls.

The potions seem to be working. On a visit back to Singapore once, several former colleagues commented that my face was glowing and "You're resembling those Indonesian stars more and more" – kind compliments which I don't take seriously. Because ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you, these so-called stars' asses look prettier than my face.



Looking beautiful is too much hard work. I only tried the Walking Barbie stunt once and I didn't like it, so I stopped playing.

I continue to look for more "toys" in Indonesia. I don't care if they're played by the rich or the poor.

As long as my senses come alive and I feel alive, my life is richer than ever!

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)