Of Independence and Dancing Citizens

Another year of independence has gone by. Twitter rang with diverse definitions of the word independence. I, on the other hand, had nothing to say but Retweet Ezra Koenig who was kind to have greeted Indonesia "Happy Independence Day!" though maybe just because he will be visiting in a few months, much to my excitement.

I am quiet most of the time, to anything politics-related, Indonesia Unite-related, Indonesia this and that related. Not that I have set myself indifferent or apathetic, just mostly because my thoughts have been well verbalised by others and, oh I don't know. It just sounds so much better coming from others.Or, It just really isn't me.

I did not know what to make of the holiday, but participate in the celebration of my grandma’s 75th birthday. That is what Independence Day has meant to me all these years. Appreciation of dead heroes I find hard to manifest , so mostly silent i kept.

Later that evening Douchebag The Great swung by my house and we decided to take a holiday drive somewhere in the city. It turned out we had no idea where to go and he came up with a stupid game he named Drive Me Anywhere where the driver gets to take the other person anywhere he pleases. As far as creativity may take him/her. Smart he was, because I was on the wheels and had to do all the thinking. But I played on anyway, out of boredom and utter helplessness.

I was not sure what he had in mind, so I drove somewhere I have always been curious of.

Kota Tua is, undoubtedly, a a popular tourist sight and photo hunting place by day. But what of it by night? I have always wondered. I imagined the space infront of Fatahillah empty and quiet, as the building who has witnessed executions enjoy the peace it has always wished to see. I imagined the building sleeping in the quietness of the night, loving what it has finally become.

But what a surprise it was to find all those sweet imagination shattered when I stood there in front of Pos Indonesia to hundreds of people crowding the square. Street food packed every side, the young and old gathering in groups chit-chatting the night away, buskers serenading as they sip their coffee.

A sinden in full kebaya costume, yes, her hair done in a perfect sanggul, came up to me and rendered a performance, with a traditional instrument player to perfect it.

The rest of the people went about their activities. A peanut seller paddled his bike accross the square, fortune tellers told their stories, little games being played for Rp 1,000 per game, traditional drinks and goodies snacks, and just about anything you don’t every day find in the buildings where consumerism is highly and most religiously practiced. By that, I surely mean the malls.

There, I witnessed people, not spending much, but enjoying from the little they had, the little they could afford.

At that moment I realised that this was the Indonesia that I loved and have always missed. The simple Indonesia, the Indonesia known for its amiable and hospitable citizens, the Indonesia whose good times are not limited to having a designer label in hand while walking out a certain prestigious mall, the Indonesia whose joy is not limited to cars but who takes joy in evening bikerides (oh, ofcourse, bikes are so in these days). The Indonesia whose company its citizens were proud to have.

It was a sight so endearing because for so long I seem to have been visiting the wrong side of the city, if not in body, then at least, in mind.

“Alay-fest”, The Douchebag, obviously not in his best moods as he had just woken up from the nap he took while I did the driving, commented of the evening’s little festivity. But isn't Alay really just a state of mind? Some who were spending hundreds of thousands at the mall that evening might not have been any better than the hundreds I saw at Fatahillah. Or were their life any better, financially, physically, fashion-wise, knowledge-wise, their state of happiness might still not have beaten the display in front of me.

The Douchebag and I walked around the square, though he did not seem to be much amused by the sight as I was. “It’s probably because you have never seen anything like it before,” said he. I disagreed. I indeed have seen something akin to that of the night. It was alot like the traditional, well preserved traditional city of Yogyakarta. Precisely my favorite city in all of Indonesia.

It’s because all these years I have under the shadows of the skyscrapers of Sudirman Street and the pricey frozen yoghurts and coffee shops, that the memory of the little things people still do seem to have gone to oblivion, thought I.

There was a massive crowd right on the balcony of the museum, just outside its entrance. We walked up the side stairs to make something of it and what we found sure highlighted the night! A group of people were dancing like nobody’s watching--exactly the best way to dance, if you ask me—to buskers playing guitars, a kettledrum, an accordion, and a contrabass. Mostly, to the contrabass’ enticing beat.

They went round and round and performed silly steps just for the heck of the night. So much fun they seemed to haveI myself was tempted to join in.

Laughters of the independent filled the air, the old museum must not have slept the whole night. One happy sleep-deprived museum.

And so I came to my own definition of Independence. It is not holding back, to be able to dance in open air to the contrabass and accordion, not because the world tells you to, but because you know you want to.

Independence is a state of mind, and not (necessarily) that cup of Starbucks coffee in your hands, if you know what I mean.