Fragments of my Covid-19 pandemic stories.
‘Happy new year, Scott! How are you?’
‘Happy new year too, Suar! It’s hot here, 51 degrees [Celsius].’
‘Right, the bushfire.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m starting work at the new firm tomorrow. With a broken ankle. I slipped on ice in Georgia. Got too excited seeing snow on Kazbegi mountain.’
‘My family will be coming with me to Jakarta after this Christmas holiday. Let’s catch up then.’
‘Yes. I hope their adaptation from Phuket-Brisbane to Jakarta would not be too shocking.’
…
‘Happy Australia Day, Scott!’
‘Thanks Suar! *Australian flag emoji*’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, but this dispute with Pertamina is keeping me busy. Angus is enrolled at the British International School. How is your leg? How’s working in the new firm?’
‘I’m good. My mobility is still restricted, good thing I don’t have to go to courts yet.’
‘We’ll catch up, ok?’
…
‘How are you during this lockdown, Scott?’
‘I’m good. I still need to meet a lot of officials though. How are you?’
‘Coping with the isolation. I just realised this is the first time I have to be with Dinda all the time at home. Usually we are only together for 24 hours when travelling. How’s your PhD?’
‘On track. I can’t travel to London to meet my supervisor. But it’s a part time programme anyway.’
I texted Scott again on his birthday, undelivered. I emailed him in August 2020. But no reply. I thought our friendship drifted off.
In 2021, Hanna texted me: ‘Do you know that Scott died of Covid in August last year?’
Scott’s death made news. He died just before he was about to be evacuated to Australia.
We met at Queen Mary, University of London. Part of LLM programme’s induction was drinks at a bar in King’s Cross.
‘Banyak cewek-cewek manis di sini, ya?’ He said in Indonesian, looking at our classmates.
He commented at my drinking pace, ‘There is no Indonesian word for “tipsy”, because you all get straight to drunk!’
He took Energy and Natural Resources specialisation. We were in the same class for International Energy Transactions and Energy. An overachiever: he’s a C-level executive in an Indonesian oil company. He had five bachelor degrees. An MBA from Oxford and master’s degree in law from QMUL. He was doing his PhD in SOAS. He was a mayor of the City of Victor’s Harbor. He spoke Mandarin, Thai, and a little Indonesian.
He loved drinks, rugby and Australian football. He looked serious. Corporate: suits, ties, loafers, polo shirts–country club wardrobe.
St. Patrick’s Day. We were at McGettigan’s, an Irish pub in Jakarta, the wives of expats were dancing. ‘You see, that’s why bule men prefer their Asian girlfriends.’
He hated entitled mediocre white men. Maybe he feared to be associated with them, being a member of Jakarta’s expat communities who work in the private sector.
He knew how to act Indonesian. His boss, who died with him at a Jakarta hospital, was an Indonesian tycoon. Scott could work with him because he understood Indonesian quirks in doing business; on how we mix professional and personal life, family and business relations.
‘This is Pak Scott. He’s an Australian, his wife is Thai,’ Scott’s boss always introduced him with such irrelevant personal details. Yet, in Indonesia, your Self is defined by your role and relationship in the society; family matters a lot.
He wanted to return the favour, ‘This is Pak Boss, his wife is Chinese Indonesian. His mistress is Sundanese.’
When we were in London, sometimes he acted like a chaperone to his boss’ son—making sure he’s completing his study, not consumed by the temptations and vices of the Greatest City in the World.
I was not comfortable friending him at first. Being around overachievers made me feel inadequate. But I know, I needed that.
Scott loved to learn. He encouraged me to push a little further in my academic pursuit. He gave me a ticket to Magna Charta public lecture at the Temple Inn; proofread my dissertation. We talked about books, we both love Alain de Botton’s works (he didn’t like him when he met in person, though).
He suggested that I get a Neapolitan suit, because it is suitable for the Indonesian climate. He taught me not to be apologetic, to make the most out of this Asian Century and to be prepared for the upcoming rise of Africa.
I never got the chance to be introduced to his family. So I didn’t send my condolences to anyone. In 2021, when we stayed at Portibi Farm, we met a British couple. The wife is a teacher at BIS. She was Angus’ teacher. She knows Angus’ dad died of Covid.
‘Angus is a good kid. He and his mum moved back to Thailand. That’s all I know.’
We renovated an unused bedroom upstairs during the pandemic. We converted it into a home office space. The working from home transformation taught us that we need a psychological buffer between rest and work. Working from our bedroom messes our mind. It is harder to switch off from work when you spend all day in the same space, blurring the boundaries between work and rest.
Remote working is a worker’s paradise, to a certain extent. Especially if you live in a congested city like Jakarta. No commute means time and effort conserved. When the lockdown started, 17 March 2020, I had already removed the cast. But I still needed to use crutches. I was saved from commuting as a disabled person, but I was prevented from working on my ankle’s recovery. Cancelled my physiotherapy bookings; less opportunities to move around.
Remote working can work. Lawyers’ work is consulting work. However, the sense of isolation is depressing. I feel less connected with my coworkers. It may be my extraversion. I need the casual interactions: the impromptu coffee or water fountain small talks. They build emotional bonds.
The best thing about the pandemic is the digital transformation. People are forced to embrace digital communication technologies, the collaborative softwares, to survive. Even the Luddites yielded and actually made the efforts to catch up. The Indonesian courts’ e-Court system was launched in 2018, but its effective utilisation only came through due to Covid emergency.
That being said, the pandemic has taught us that digital totalism is not feasible. At least, not yet. We can work remotely, but there are times when being in the same space and time makes collaboration more effective. The digital world is flat and two dimensional, there are aspects of communications which are lost. The simplifications and representations are helpful, but oftentimes we need the analogue observations. Our touches and smells are yet to be digitalised. Our visual and auditory senses become tunelled in the digital world. Speed is not always desirable; efficiency is not always effective. Frictions are needed for tractions.
Video calls, except for personal relationships, are overrated. Good old fashioned audio calls, one-on-one and conference, can still get things done.
The home office space also becomes our library. We have been putting our collection of books in our bedroom before. While it is nice to always have access to all my books before sleep and the morning wake, I am asthmatic. Books collect dust.
Mari Kondo said that if a book we bought remains unread for a few weeks, most likely we will never read it. Such a rule was overridden during the pandemic: I often browsed my old book collections. I picked up some unread books bought years ago and enjoyed them. My reading speed has always lagged behind my purchasing speed. But that’s okay. The cluttering of books makes me feel the pressure to read more. Digital books don’t create storage costs, easier to buy and forget.
We decided not to install any television in the home office. We want to limit the available screens to our laptops and mobile phones. The essentials for working. If we need entertainment, browse the books or listen to music (we bought Marshall speakers).
The home office is where I go when I need alone time. Other than ‘work’, this is where I write with my typewriter, have my online therapy sessions, clean my cameras, daydream and have my alone time.
When the lockdown was relaxed, we gladly returned to the office. My firm and her firm offer flexible arrangements. We don’t have to clock in and out at specific times. We can drive when the traffic is less bad.
The hardest part of the lockdown is the repetitive days. You wake up and repeat what you do. Weekends don’t feel special anymore. Hermetically isolated like a monk. It was a time for contemplation and reflection, a long period of withdrawal from the world. An exile, a prison.
I read my travel journals whenever I suffer from wanderlust withdrawal. Travel experience is one of the most valuable savings in my memory bank. When I close my eyes, I can relive the moments in my mind’s eye. The photographs I took or taken by my travelling companions augment them. My travels provide me with writing materials—a narcissistic effort in immortalising my life.
Pandemic days were long, but pandemic years were short. I know we all went through the same storm. But some of us are luckier to go through it in more comfortable shelters. I did.
For the privileged members of the society, the lockdown was a boredom to endure. We distracted ourselves with overconsumption: GoFood deliveries, Netflix, Instagram and/or TikTok, online shopping. Got into new hobbies: baking, cooking, gardening, Siamese fighting fish breeding, analogue photography. Eid was hampers galore. People were sending each other snacks and meals, but had no guests to serve and share those food for.
But even a palace turns into a prison when you are unable to travel outside. I developed PTSD and the home office triggered it. There are times when I hated to be in this space now, where I am writing this piece. I feel guilty for this trauma. I know this is the shelter I took refuge during the storm.
A friend told me that he lost so much time during the pandemic. He was poor; his starting point was rock bottom. The pandemic prevented him from doing more personal and professional development.
‘I need to hustle more to catch up with my peers from a middle class background,’ he said.
He was learning to drive cars at 29 (I, like most middle-class Jakarta men, started driving at 17). Never had the luxury of owning a car. Got married a few months just before the pandemic hit. Like most perantau (migrant Jakartans), he has to pay a premium for housing. The rent price in Jakarta is cheap compared to big cities in affluent countries. But the average income is much lower too. Landlords ask for 6 months rent upfront, at least. Guarantor or referral means nothing due to an ineffective judicial system; the only way to protect their economic interests is to receive cash.
We worked out at home. We bought a workout bench, dumbbells, 20kg kettlebell, Lulu Lemon yoga shirts and pants; we used the TRX suspension trainer again. But we cannot progress much. Gym membership is more cost effective. Some things are best shared. It is expensive to keep buying heavier weights and the lighter ones would occupy space, unused.
A gym also provides more than training space and equipment. It is also a social space. You become familiar with the trainers and coaches and other members. You become a part of a community.
Alas, there is also the psychological space. When you are in a space dedicated for workout, your mind is attuned to workout. Just like the office (or the home office) creates the psychological buffer to work.
I admit that I slacked off more. I ate more. Those homemade baked goods, spirits, and cocktails made by Jakarta’s idle creative minds. The isolation also prevented me from doing micro movements: walking, standing, climbing the stairs. There was little need to go to your coworkers, to fill your jug at the water fountain, to go to the shared toilet. No opportunity to go to nearby coffee shops or to have lunch outside. Sitting calories burn more than laying calories.
I drank curcuma based potions. ‘Anti-Flu Shot,’ it advertised. To prevent Covid infection. I still got infected; the only noticeable effect is the increased appetite and chubbiness. At least it tastes good.
I was depressed but I gained weight. An anomaly to my ectomorphic body. I became fat. I lost muscles. My clothes and pants didn’t fit at the wrong parts: belly and waist. Not the gain I was looking for. I started snoring.
Maybe my age also doesn’t help. I’m pushing 40. I felt I was losing my youth.
I became addicted to writing with a typewriter. It is impractical, like film photography. But my body loves the feeling of touching the mechanical keyboards. The immediate print, ink on paper. When I replaced the ink ribbon, my hands, my fingers got stained. The smell of iron, grease, and ink.
I am braver with a typewriter. No delete button, no spell check, no grammar correction.
My home office becomes one with the typewriter. It is the only locus I can write with the Arori Express R213.
The home office was also my zendo. But you can be templed out when you stay in a temple or visit too many temples. Monastic life does not suit me. I am no monk too worldly, too encumbered with desires.
I have less chance to go out and shoot during the confinement. But I read photography books, which instruct me to read books on other subjects especially fiction and literature.
I learned to appreciate instrumental music. I like to wind down with classical symphonies now. I write with jazz music in the background, imagining Murakami’s desk.
After the third dose of vaccinations, the social distancing was relaxed (either that or we just had enough and the economy could not cope). We could go to coffee shops. I could get proper haircuts at the salon. I travelled to France. I attended a jazz concert for the first time: Joey Alexander. I was worried that I would get bored, a testament that I am a philistine. I didn’t.
I decided to fix my crooked teeth. I don’t want to look like a teenager, wearing braces. I took the opportunity of the zeitgeist, when wearing masks was still the norm.
My dentist underpromised and overdelivered. Planted the braces in January 2022, removed them in December same year. I have forgotten the discomforts I endured for 11 months. The headaches after readjusting the tightness. The dirty mouth after meals, with food residues stuck in between the iron and teeth. The inability to chew on the best baguette in Paris.
Now the lockdowns have been lifted. WHO has declared that Covid 19 emergency is over. The buzzword now is no longer ‘pandemic’, ‘recession’. We’re busy planning for the future again. Worrying about missed business opportunities, of the chance for getting rich. We talk about competitions during the recession; the difficult times ahead. Made travel plans and travelled.
I often forget the core lesson of 2020: that plans could go bust. In the pandemic years, I was glad to survive. To cope with loneliness and to stay afloat living. I accumulated money, because there is only so little you can spend when you can’t go out. The economy is social.
I was in my mid-thirties before the pandemic, just broke off my golden handcuffs. During the pandemic, I renegotiated my relationship with my partner. We helped our best friends in their divorce; acted as counsels and witnesses in the court proceedings.
The four of us travelled together in our 20s: Singapore, Thailand, Japan, Turkey. We are glad that they never made us choose between them. We can’t hangout together, the four of us—not yet, at least. But we are friends with their new partners.
I am pushing 40 now. Nearing the end of my youth. I am a cis heterosexual man, ageing is not too much of a pressure. Still, I am concerned. What happens when I am no longer attractive, physically strong, or mentally sharp?
