Stare at Me

By: Bartele Santema

After running a bar for ten years, I was happy to finally do something totally different. My new thing would be an antique map gallery. A gallery where it would be quiet and nice; the opposite of a smoky and busy bar as BuGils used to be in its heyday. And it shouldn’t be just an ordinary gallery with pretentious artists and skuffy dealers trying to sell fake Affandis, but a place where ‘normal’ people could enjoy the old maps and prints of the Dutch Indies. I thought it would be great to have the rich history on the walls, so Indonesian students could learn from it, and an occasional buyer would come to look for a good investment or classy ornament for their home.

To be honest, I felt I needed a break from the beer drinking crowds and smoky nights to try the family life. So here I sit, in my gallery on Kemang Raya and it is certainly is quiet. The drinking patrons telling their life stories have been replaced by framed maps. In a way, the maps tell a story too, but they don’t spit in my ears and the smell is certainly better. When I am bored with one map, I just hang another one. Perfectly relaxed. No arguments about bills anymore, no bar fights, no drunks to deal with, etc., etc. Just me and my maps, or so I thought.

The Torments Inflicted by the Dutch on the English.." by J. Harris, Circa 1764."

I had just poured myself a cup of tea (who would have ever thought I would write a sentence like that!) when I saw this motorbike in front of the gallery slowly passing. The young guy driving it had troubles keeping his bike upright, as on the back seat he had this girl frantically screaming and hitting him from behind on the head! She suddenly pulled his arm, and while he was trying to keep the motor upright, the girl fell off, right in front of my map shop! Cars hit their brakes and luckily just missed the girl. Screaming and with two hands forwards, she started attacking him! I think the guy regretted to be a Bob Marley look-alike, as his hair offered an easy grip for the shouting girl. She pulled him while he pulled the bike, and before I could blink, the whole party was rolling and fighting right in my doorway.

She was in tears, while he quietly defended himself with a smile on his face, but I wondered why, as his situation was not ideal. She tried to scratch his face, knock him with her shoe and at the same time she was screaming for answers. The shouting and hitting went on for ten minutes and the crowd was building up. Even the policemen from the ‘kantor polisi’ next door where observing safely while leaning on the hood of their car, with kretek cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. Suddenly there was a stand off. The guy firmly held both the girl’s hands and it looked like a time out, when they, at the same time, suddenly turned their heads and looked into the gallery. I tried to duck a bit behind my banker’s lamp, pretending to be busy (but how can you look busy with old maps?), but they looked me straight in the eyes! The guy’s expression was a sad, ‘Please help me, Mister,’ while the girl looked at me with a, ‘Stay out of it or you will be next!’

In my BuGils days I had always been good in solving domestic problems. Could I still do it? I slowly lifted an old print that pictured the Dutch VOC water-boarding some British prisoners (note: the Ambon massacre in 1654). I hold it up to them. The boy looked back at the girl, who still had a devil’s glare. For one second I was afraid she would storm into the gallery and drag me over the floor, but I guess when she saw my limited hair, she decided to concentrate on the poor young boy again. After another minute of fighting against the window (the globe on display was shaking), they stopped and turned to me one more time! I just stared as I used to stare many a night in BuGils some years earlier. Do I brag when I say I am actually pretty good at looking blank? Surprisingly, while looking at me, they slowly released their grips on each other. Without saying a word, they picked up the bike, and slowly drove off. She did hit him a few times more from behind on the head, but it was not so hard anymore. Dear reader, I was not sure where I was going with this anecdote, but now, while the word count is reaching its limit, I proudly notice a moral. For the men, if you have a wife with a temper, do not try to look like Bob Marley, and get a haircut. And my advice for the ladies with a temper, come to Bartele Gallery and stare at me for a while. Everything will be alright again…■

Ps. Two days ago I saw the dreadlock guy again, passing by on his motorbike, but this time without his previous travel companion.