Surabaya is a coastal city on the east side of Java. It is the second biggest city in Indonesia after the capital, Jakarta, and has a population of approximately four million in its provinces. Unlike Jakarta, there is still a heavy reminder of the Dutch colonial period in certain parts of the city and many town houses in the Jembatan Merah area of the city built by the Dutch masters date back to the mid nineteenth century.
Jembatan Merah translates as Red Bridge and it is named so in order to commemorate those who fell in the 1945 Battle of Surabaya. The British army really did a number on the indigenous population of Surabaya over a period of three days and bombed them to the edge of oblivion. This was in retaliation for the murder of Brigadier Mallaby, who had been in Surabaya at the time allegedly trying to broker a peace agreement between the locals and the Dutch army.
Up until 1942, when they were pushed out by the invading Japanese, the Dutch had colonized Indonesia for more than three hundred and fifty years, and in 1945, at the end of the war following Japan’s recapitulation and retreat, the locals wanted independence.
The British came from Singapore in order to try and facilitate a handover of power to the indigenous people, but for some unknown reason someone killed the brigadier in charge. The British were not amused and gave the locals twenty-four hours in which to give up those responsible or else the whole city would pay the consequences.
Twenty-four hours later, with nobody coming forward or being given up by others, that is exactly what happened. The British went a tad over the top, it must be said, and proceeded to bomb the hell out of the city, killing tens of thousands of people. A particularly brutal battle took place on a bridge over the city’s river and was fought with such ferocity that it was said blood could be seen dripping into the river from the bridge for days afterwards: hence the rechristening of the bridge ‘Jembatan Merah’.
Surabaya is hardly a cosmopolitan city now, and back in 1993 when I came to live there it was even less of one. It was relatively strange to see an expatriate in the city’s malls or cinemas, and so whenever Yossy and I ventured out at the weekend we would be accosted by groups of people staring at us. This didn’t really bother me much, in fact I found the novelty of it slightly amusing if anything. Yossy, however, was usually far from amused!
We spoke about this phenomenon on occasion and Yoss told me that the reasons people paid us so much attention when we were out together were mixed. Some, she said, were genuinely interested because they had not seen a real-life westerner; others were jealous because for some a ‘white boyfriend’ was a status symbol; while yet more were judging us.
Yossy reckoned that some people, especially older ones, were probably thinking that I was just like those mean white guys on TV shows like ‘Beverly Hills 90210’ and was almost certainly a playboy, while others would be judging her as a ‘gadis nakal’, a naughty or promiscuous girl.
I told her to just ignore the stares and the whispers, as it wasn’t worth getting upset by them. In return she told me that I might enjoy all the attention now but I had to be careful because not only would being stared at and being talked about get old quickly, but it also had the potential to cause problems further down the line.
‘You’ll see, Neil,’ she told me. ‘Everyone is talking about you now and you’re their favourite, but just wait and see how quickly people here can turn on you if you give them the slightest chance.’
I worked as an English teacher in a small institution of further education in the west of Surabaya. It was ostensibly a secretarial academy, whereby young ladies who’d just left school would come and spend six months training to be secretaries, but in reality it was little more than a ‘time-fill’ course which did little if anything to educate or prepare them for any possible employment. The students were taught typing as well as basic computer skills and other bits and bobs that were supposedly going to help them get jobs in offices, and it was my job to ‘teach’ them English.
You will note the usage of inverted commas there as in actuality my teaching comprised of little more than providing bits and pieces of English vocabulary and then encouraging discussions or role-plays in English. Although the job itself paid peanuts, the school provided me with a work visa and other related documents, and didn’t take up too much of my time, so I was able to supplement my meagre income by offering private English lessons to individuals and, more lucratively, to companies and businesses.
This private work, although technically illegal by the terms of my work visa, necessitated I travel around the city going from place to place. As money was tight, the preferred mode of travel was almost always public transportation, and, boy, this was an eye-opener for someone used to a provincial British transport system.
Buses were antiquated converted trucks. If you were ever unfortunate enough to go to a First Division football match in England in the 1970s you’ll be familiar with the experience. These buses were full to overflowing. People were squashed into every available cavity and if you had to stand you would often find your feet would be off the ground. There were no timetables or schedules, and a bus would simply leave the terminal when it was full to the rafters and not before. This meant if you wanted to get on the bus en-route
