I am staying and working within the Plaza Indonesia complex, a swanky mall which greets you with uniformed doormen and polished marble. I hate the concept and will take any opportunity to escape its clutches. I departed the Plaza last Saturday evening during Earth Hour. I was going for a walk and selected an outfit which would help me be easily spotted by cars or muggers: fresh white t-shirt, new jeans and a pair of bright yellow thongs. I went past the security doorman and has to wriggle through a large crowd - sheltering from the dark and the rain while waiting for a cab.
Then it happened.
Grandpa took a fall.
Unlike the wet marble stairs, I was neither smooth nor polished. My thongs were no match. This was not any old fall. It was a public, dramatic, me-loudly-crash-landing-on-my-right-shoulder-in-front-of-everyone fall.
At any given moment, a walk around Jakarta can turn into an obstacle course. This is no Nanny State. You have to take care of yourself while working your way through unexpected humps, smooth surfaces and slippery landings. Potatoes - raised as they are on a diet of vitamins O, H and S - find the adjustment perilous.
I let out a gasp as I commenced my decline. I desperately tried to avoid hitting the ground ... slipping across, then down, then across again, then down again before eventually hitting hard ... awkwardly dancing for my life. I heard other gasps on my way down and they weren't from me. They were from the crowd, which by then could be called an audience.
The water and the gasps took me back to a memory I didn’t know I still had. It was the swimming carnival at Hurlstone Agricultural High School. I was in Year 7 and had entered the diving competition, an event requiring the least exertion. My chosen dive was a backward somersault tuck from a standing position: a safe choice requiring no coaching, low difficulty and nottoomuch turning.
Halfway through my dive I heard loud, audible gaps from the crowd. I was no gasp connoisseur but could tell these were not impressed gasps. These were gasps of fear. Scaredy gasps.
The somersault was over before I had time to wonder or worry.
Afterwards I was told that my head had missed the board by about half an inch as I flicked it back to prepare myself for the water. People couldn’t quite believe I had missed the board and told me so, repeatedly. I wanted to tell them that this had never happened during practice .... but how would I know ... maybe this near miss was my “thing”.
After this I retired from diving. Eric the Eel had met Greg Louganis and neither liked what he saw.
Back to the Plaza Indonesia stairs. After landing, I quickly put down my right hand to steady myself as I got up. Time was ticking and my fans were watching eagerly. My hand slipped again and I had a mini fall onto my funny bone, which recoiled and caused me to go down again.
This reminded me of the great flu shot collapse of 1999. I had had a busy week, followed by a flu vaccination, followed by 3 drinks on a Friday night. I was renowned for having unexpected consequences on Friday nights and this was no exception. We got outside of the Erskinneville hotel and I collapsed on the street. I got up, then went down again on my elbow as they called the ambulance.
Back to the Plaza Indonesia stairs. It a bit of scrambling on my part to get up. I can only imagine how this reinforced the image of a big clumsy potato to my new fans.
I heard people shouting the only English they could muster at short notice. Things like "Hey you – ok?" and "Hello Mister You!" and "Taxi sir?" I vaguely recall hearing the word “shoeshine” – a cruel irony indeed. I did not look back at my admirers though. I didn't need any more souvenirs of this moment and walked down the remaining stairs with caution. The thongs were unforgiving and it was still quite precarious, like ice skating at a cheap rink. Albeit with an alert audience.
These were some of the slowest seconds of my life.
I jumped into the cab and headed to the nice restaurant, a fairly fancy example of Indonesian fine dining. As I entered the room I looked down at my white shirt and realized it was covered in street dirt. My shirt looked like it had been smoking for 20 years and had now developed a hack.
It was too late to turn back though so in I walked. I told myself that perhaps if I behaved really nice, or posh, they would think the dirt was a contemporary print? These were desperate measures.
I have a sore shoulder to go with my bruised ego. Newer bruises have also been appearing quite regularly without notice, a flashback to childhood. The front number pad of my phone has also gone missing, so I need to make phone calls with a pen.When I wake up it feels like I had a really tough work-out the night before.
Moan moan moan. I miss my nanny.
