Stories from a Market
Pasar Mardika, like any market, is a microcosm of the society it serves. On the surface it is the thriving, if ugly, commercial heart of the city, but the market also exemplifies the roiling tensions and brewing conflict that threatens to tear Indonesia apart.
Within Mardika are sold those goods which it is deemed profitable to transport to this isolated corner of the globe such as manufactured goods from Western Indonesia and the rest of South East Asia, as well as a few imported goods from the West. More fascinating for the Westerner is the exotic produce imported from the even more isolated specks of land which form the Malukan archipelago – fruits such as rambutan, durian, and manggosteen, plus any number of different varieties of banana from the tiny pisang susu (milk banana) to the huge pisang Ambon (Ambon banana) and all sizes in between. Spices are sold here too, intoxicating to the senses – cengkeh (cloves) and pala (nutmeg), native to this part of the world, marica (pepper), kayu manis (cinnamon) and, of course, cabe (chilli). The smelliest section of the market is undoubtedly the pasar ikan (fish market), the most frustrating is the clothes shops – no matter how I try I can’t fit even the XXXL clothes over my sturdy Western frame.
However, the market tells other stories, too – the design itself speaks eloquently of the poor town planning, appallingly bad architecture and shoddy workmanship that is characteristic of much of the developing world. The result of lack of funding and unimaginative beauracracy, Mardika consists of a series of concrete boxes, four stories high, arranged into long avenues in which identical shop fronts display their bewildering array of goods. In odd corners, enterprising marketeers set up trellises of cheap consumer items, vie-ing for space with the innumberable mini-busses which fan out from here to all corners of the island.
The market encompasses a huge area – extending for nearly a kilometre in all directions. The box construction of the concrete buildings, lining long, crowded and bewildering avenues of people and goods is disorienting for someone unfamiliar with the district. This can be dangerous in a city which is on the edge of anarchy, for Mardika exemplifies the very real tensions which beset the entire Maluku Archipeligo. Mass transmigration of Muslims from the overcrowded islands of Western Indonesia has created a growing sense of frustration and alienation among the predominantly Christian Eastern Indonesians.
“I wouldn’t mind being considered a second class citizen if I lived in Australia or the Netherlands” says my exchange sister, Stany, “but I am made to feel like a second class citizen in my own country, and it isn’t right!”.
Caught uneasily between these two groups is the native muslim population – they too feel threatened for space and livelihood by the transmigrants, yet remain irrevocably tied to them by the sense of brotherhood that is the essence of Islam.
Added to these tensions is the lack of education, which can make people suspicious of outsiders, as well as poverty which encourages resentment of us rich Westerners. One day when I was trying to find a bus that would take me from the market to the city centre I found myself totally lost. I turned corner after corner only to find myself confronting yet another long, stifling avenue of tall concrete boxes lined with yet more stalls of bewildering colour and content.
Gradually I found myself moving into the rougher areas of the market where there were few respectable traders. Asking for directions, I found myself caught up in a group of youths, both guys and girls, who, although not physically threatening, appeared to derive great joy from my plight. They whispered snidely to each other and menganggu (teased) me with their refusal to give me logical directions. One of them, with a leer on his face, offered to give me a lift on the back of his scooter, which I hastily declined.
Into this scene of conflict between East and West strode more tinder in the form of a man who, in his presence, exemplified the tensions between the two halves of Indonesia. He was a young Javanese transmigrant, but I don’t remember his name despite his gallantry – perhaps because for me he is the archetype of all that is good and bad about Java. Taller and thinner than the locals, with straight hair in place of Ambonese curls, he consciously sought to maintain his Javanese halus (calm) in the face of the youths’ kasar (courseness).
Indicating that I should follow him, he walked briskly through the market, with me skipping along to keep up with him. He wore his “halus” like a shield, unaware (or uncaring) that the locals interpreted it as arrogance, and that the youths we had by now left behind would consider his actions extremely provocative.
Within a few minutes we found a bus that would take me to the centre of the city, and as I had discovered that it was his destination too, I insisted on paying his fare as a thankyou. He protested vigourously that he was quite happy to walk, and looked sullen during the ride. When we reached our destination he left the bus with barely a word or backward look, and it was only later that I realised what the problem was.
He was bored.
Lacking both employment and money, he was desperate for something to while away the hours. Too “halus” to lower himself to the sport of “menganggu” Westerners, he had been looking forward to the stroll as a way of passing the time. I, in my stupid, Western arrogance, had stolen his walk, making his day half an hour longer than it needed to be.
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Four months after this trip to Ambon, sectarian violence between Muslims and Christians broke out in the city. Pasar Mardika was one of the first areas to be razed, in a conflict which has taken over 3,000 lives. The fighting still continues, 2 years later despite (because of?) the intervention of the Indonesian Army, which consists primarily of Western Indonesian Muslims.
