Eat My Dust, KFC!!

After the Indonesian economic collapse of the late 90s, they created a job for the common man: a "parkir" or parking attendant/director. This person has an official vest and waves people in and out of traffic. In the "pasar," or market, they are in charge of a stretch of stores and are paid a few coins per vehicle.

The best parkir in Salatiga works at KFC. He's efficient, diligent, and has foresight when giving directions. After my twentieth or so visit, I thought I should introduce myself. I was on my motor bike, so it was easy to chat while he pulled my bike out of the narrow slot. His name is Widodo. I told him mine and said I'd see him again soon. And I sure did. The following week, Mo and I took some friends out to eat. After eating, while pulling into traffic, I said in Indonesian, "I'll see you next time, Mr. Widodo." He waved me into traffic, then, just as I stepped on the gas, he suddenly leaned on the car and said, "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name." I kept right on, only to see him in my rearview mirror spinning in the street.

Now, please don't think I'm a brutal colonialist or anything. Truth is, I actually didn't understand him, and was more focused on the raging bus bearing down from behind. But just as we were leaving the block, my friends all started laughing and asked somewhat mortified, "Why'd you drive off without answering his question?"

The following week, when again on my own, I apologized to Pak Widodo and reintroduced myself. Then, when leaving, I dropped a larger than normal tip in his hand. The next time Mo and I drove up, he cheerfully welcomed, "Good afternoon, Mr. James." I wonder if it was the tip or the apology that spawned his glee....Perhaps both.