Chapter 1: A Life Transformed

Adapting to life in Jakarta felt like grappling with the aftermath of a global pandemic, though it was fifty years ago.

Like the restrictions of a pandemic, the basics of daily life transformed dramatically.

One of the first shocks was realizing that tap water was off-limits, even for brushing teeth. At the tender age of six, when my father was assigned to Jakarta, I discovered that this place was unlike any other I had known. Water had to be boiled for an extended period—two hours, to be precise—before it was deemed safe to consume! Our kitchen, with its lone stove dedicated to boiling water, could have easily been mistaken for a Turkish bathhouse.

Living in a tropical climate meant enduring 99% humidity as a constant. While the rest of the house sweltered, the kitchen was a veritable inferno. Although we had ceiling fans, their feeble attempts at relief were unnerving; I often found myself captivated by their erratic movements, anxiously awaiting the moment when one might detach and wreak havoc.

Water, once a mundane necessity, took on a menacing persona. It appeared clear but concealed a multitude of germs ready to pounce. Even ice had to be made from boiled water, a fact that not everyone grasped. Consequently, we were strictly forbidden from consuming ice in drinks while away from home.

My previous thoughts about water had been limited to puzzling over why washing my hands made them feel drier. Now, every scorching afternoon, I yearned for the refreshing embrace of a swimming pool, which required a drive to the embassy pool—an infrequent treat. Ironically, a large pool lay just down the street at the American Club, a place we were not permitted to enter. Listening to the joyful splashes and laughter from afar was pure torture. I wished for an American identity.

It took an entire year before I could swim there, thanks to Kathy, an American girl who graciously invited us as her guests. Kathy quickly became my closest friend.

Her most memorable visit was when she walked in on my sister and me washing our hands before dinner, bickering as usual. "Wow," she exclaimed, "you speak English when you're alone!"

We were left speechless.

"I thought you were Australian!" she accused. "Why don’t you speak Australian?"

Before Kathy came along, we simply endured the heat. Ironically, despite the sweltering temperatures, I missed having hot water for bathing. We had to resort to dousing ourselves with buckets of cold water every morning, a process I despised.

When I voiced my grievances, my dad had a clever retort: "Go wash in the kali, like most people do," he teased.

"Ew!" I recoiled at the idea of bathing in an open sewer. These foul ditches lined the streets and fed into larger rivers, often crowded with people using them as public restrooms.

My older sister seized on that banter, using it to manipulate me into compliance.

"You better," she would threaten, "or I'll toss you into the kali!"

Our washing took place in the mandi, a square tiled basin filled with enough cold water to accommodate six people each morning—unless an oblivious visitor treated it like a bathtub and used all the water for themselves.

A significant change in our lives was the presence of household staff. My mother had prepared us for this, clarifying that the servants in Indonesia were not ours to command; we were to follow their instructions instead.

Each meal was served on platters by Suparmo, who circled the table, allowing us to help ourselves from each dish. I felt embarrassed, as if we had traded our home for an upscale restaurant. The formal serving order added to my discomfort: adults first, women before men, and in order of age. Since my younger siblings couldn't serve themselves, I was always the last to choose. Was this the root of my aversion to hierarchy?

Though my mother enjoyed cooking, the cook would be offended if she entered the kitchen. Likewise, my dad preferred to drive, but the driver refused to let him take the wheel. For them, these tasks were their jobs, and if my parents attempted them, it would imply the staff were inadequate, a source of significant shame.

Servants were commonplace for Indonesians as well; owning a house often meant having at least one servant, who was viewed as part of the family. In our household, some staff were indeed considered family.

Then came the milk dilemma. Fresh milk was nonexistent; we could only find powdered milk. Yuk! Our mother resorted to mixing Ovaltine into our milk to make it palatable. For a mother who had restricted us to one chocolate treat per week, this was a desperate measure to ensure we received enough calcium.

This first compromise laid the groundwork for another, during our six-monthly booster shots. My older sister, always on the lookout for new threats, would joke about sticking a needle in my eye or punching my cholera arm. The latter became a reality one day.

My mother, tired of our wailing about sore arms, decided to bribe us.

"I don’t want to hear a single complaint; no arguments, no whining about sore arms for the next two weeks. If you can manage, I’ll give you each a whole box of chocolates."

We had to wait until our return to Australia for the chocolates, as even the embassy Commissary didn’t stock them. But we succeeded, and boy, did we earn that reward!

I devoured mine in one sitting, with my father defending my actions against my mother’s disapproval.

"You promised them a whole box each; you didn’t say they couldn’t eat them all at once!"

That bribe was never repeated. We attempted to negotiate again, but my mother replied, "You already proved you could go two weeks without complaining, so you can do it again—no more chocolates!"

Then there was the issue of lettuce. My family adored salad. Before moving to Indonesia, dinner always featured a large bowl of lettuce, dressed with garlic, salt, and olive oil, which made my mouth water just thinking about it. But there was no lettuce to be found in Jakarta. However, Singapore—only two islands away—had plenty.

Singapore was a hygienic paradise, where people could drink tap water and even lettuce was considered safe. Visitors to Jakarta always received a shopping list, with lettuce topping the list.

At seven years old, I impressed a visitor by gravely explaining, "We can’t eat the lettuce here because it’s got a vascular system."

She left convinced I was a child prodigy, only to feel duped when she discovered "vascular" simply referred to a system of veins.

My mother had to clarify that, yes, all leaves possess a vascular system, but lettuce absorbs water directly from the soil—tropical pathogens and all—without any filtering.

In addition to food, other conveniences I had always taken for granted were now absent. Telephones were scarce and often malfunctioned, forcing the driver to deliver notes instead. Electricity was unreliable; during outages, Suparmo had to unplug the fridge to prevent the motor from burning out, allowing it to rest for ten minutes before being turned back on.

The upshot of these lifestyle changes was that I became grateful for drinkable tap water and hot showers. These basic comforts evolved into my new definition of luxury, alongside functional toilets and toilet paper.

"You don't know what you have until it's gone" seems to encapsulate the nature of privilege. It wasn't until I faced the challenge of using a floor hole for my needs and then having to clean myself with my hand that I truly appreciated Western toilets.

Though I understood the theory of using my left hand, the practice was new to me, and I mistakenly used my fingertips instead of the side of my hand along with ample water. Regardless of how often I washed my hands with soap, a persistent odor lingered. After that experience, I developed a newfound love for toilet paper!

When the COVID-19 pandemic struck fifty years later, people across the globe hoarded toilet paper. Store shelves were emptied, and it became nearly impossible to find. Other essential items were still available, but toilet paper was in short supply.

Why toilet paper? Perhaps because everyone understands the embarrassment of being caught without it, especially when shopping was suddenly restricted. Maybe it was a subconscious realization of the relationship between emergencies, hygiene, and the necessity of having enough toilet paper.

The pandemic forced a collective awareness of how easy life used to be. Standards of living are relative—what one country considers poverty may appear affluent to another—but within your own country's context, certain comforts are often taken for granted.

As the pandemic unfolded, tourism ground to a halt; once-ordinary items became scarce; actions once taken for granted were suddenly perceived as dangerous or offensive.

It felt as though the world was reflecting my childhood experiences, abruptly thrust into a new standard of living.

The key difference, however, was that no one grasped the rules governing this sudden cultural upheaval.

Except the Japanese. I can’t help but think it's no coincidence that Japan was one of the few countries to avoid lockdowns while effectively containing COVID-19, known for their civility and advanced toilet technology that washes and dries!

Once COVID-19 emerged, the most sought-after items worldwide became respirators, bottled oxygen, and disposable masks.

And, of course, toilet paper.

Chapter 2: The Shifting Sands of Culture

The first video, titled "Significant Changes in the Tropics! Concerning Trend... A Threat? Detailed Update on What We Know!" explores the ongoing alterations in tropical environments and highlights the potential threats they pose.

The second video, "Tropical Storm Ernesto Expected, Likely a Hurricane Later..." discusses the forecasts for Tropical Storm Ernesto and the likelihood of its evolution into a hurricane, providing critical updates for those in affected areas.