my eyes to it.
Bake me new. Bake me new. I can feel the ingredients starting to cook, standing here on this street corner where no one knows me and I know no one and a thousand different people travel past me in little yellow buses and on motorbikes and becaks and in the occasional black-windowed four-by-four.
‘So why you here, man?’ Kim asks.
I look at him. He’s also turned his face to the sun with eyes closed.
‘Jalan jalan,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m doing. Just strolling, minding my own business, trying to get on with nothing. Going nowhere in particu-fucking-lar.’
‘Good fucking answer, man.’
‘And you?’
‘Me? Fuck, I dunno.’ He opens his eyes. ‘I don’t seem to fit in back home. I may be American, but all those flags flying outside every fucking house. Too much nationalism. All that “‘American People”’ shit the government has started using. Brainwashing us into believing we’re in a great nation together. Leave me out of your generalisations, fuckers. I’m just me and great on my own, thanks. And it’s only gonna get worse if Bush gets in.’ With that he steps off the pavement with his hand in the air. ‘Here’s ours, the 65.’
It pulls in at a diagonal, wobbling stop, ignoring anything else on the road. We climb in. This bus is quieter but the other passengers still steal glances at us. A couple of young guys give us big white smiles.
‘Why do you say that about Bush?’ I’m not even sure who he is, but I’m guessing a candidate for Presidency.
‘Fucking nationalist loon, man. Scares me what he’ll do to keep the “‘American People”’ happy. Probably declare some sort of war to boost the economy.’
‘And he’s the reason you’re here?’
‘Nah, not just him. It just wasn’t my country, man. I feel more at home here. Different sets of values here. That’s all.’
We all hold on as the bus lurches to a quick stop and two more men get on. They squeeze in as close to us as they can and nod at us in greeting.
‘Where you go, mister?’ asks one.
Kim looks at me and smiles.
‘Jalan jalan, my friend. Jalan jalan.’
Fifteen minutes later we’re at the school and I’m being introduced to the other staff. Their names are told, they enter my ears and are lost in the melee of muck that swishes around between them. I forget everyone’s in admin as soon as Pak says them, although I remember fat Albert from two nights ago. I also forget everyone’s in the teaching department a second after being introduced. Considering there are only four of them here this morning including Kim, my mind is being extra feeble.
I’ve got two classes this morning and then I’m back in for a six p.m. class. Split shifts are the newbies’ tough shit, according to Kim. ‘And you’re the fucking newbie.’
It’s eight thirty and my first class is at nine. I’m feeling uncertain of myself and anxious about the parasites in my gut. I’ve had a day of relaxing, sleeping, looking at my teaching file and settling into the house and the heat, but things still stir within me. I will them to stay sunk while I sit at my desk and look at the array of weird names on my first class’s register. The teachers in the room throw random questions and bits of information at me.
‘Where you from?’ Australian accent with a beard.
‘Why the hell did you choose this shithole?’ English thirty-something with big breasts, frenetic fingers and wide eyes.
‘The little kids are fun. Don’t bother teaching them anything, just fucking play games with them.’ Kim.
‘How’s your jet-lag?’ Manchester with deep worry lines etched around his eyes and across his forehead.
‘Pak’s a cunt. Tell him to fuck off if you don’t want to do something.’ Big breasts again.
A second warning about Pak. I force optimism; from previous job experience, slagging off your boss isn’t that unusual.
‘Where’s my class exactly?’ I ask the room in general as a way of ignoring more questions.
‘Which one you got?’ asks bearded Australian.
‘Dickens.’
‘That’s on third, next to Austen. Come on, I’ll show you.’
As I follow Australian up the stairs, course book and pens in my hand, Iqpal is coming down with a mop and bucket in his. He shows us his wide toothy smile.
‘Apa kabar?’ asks Australian.
‘Baik-baik. How are you, Marty?’
‘Baik-baik.’
‘How you doing, Iqpal?’ I say.
‘Baik-baik. You? Good sleep?’
‘Very. Thanks.’
He smiles and rests his bucket on the step as we walk past him.
‘Have good day with students.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
We trudge up the next flight of blue-tiled stairs and away from the air-conditioning, footsteps echoing as we go.
‘He’s a happy little bloke, young Iqpal,’ says Marty. ‘Pak treats him like shit, but he keeps smiling,’
We’re on the top floor and the air-conditioning is a long way behind. I wipe a bead of sweat from my temple.
‘Here we are. You’re in that one and I’m next door. Come give me a knock if you have any problems. Not that you will. These little kids are bonzer.’
‘Thanks, Marty.’ One memorised. Laura always says I’m rubbish with names; she’ll be impressed.
No she won’t. Quit it, you, and learn to shut up.
I open the class door and flip on the lights. They flicker and buzz and finally light up my green-and-white windowless room. Chairs sit on top of tables like swimmers lined up on the edge of a pool. On my desk is a remote control for the AC. I press buttons on it until at last the machine on the wall starts moving up and down and blowing cool air across the muggy room.
I’m expecting thirteen kids any moment. All I know is they range from eight to fourteen. Should be interesting. Probably be embarrassing. Probably be painful. Probably be horrible.
Turn and run.
Get to the airport.
Go home.
Pull a duvet over my head. Cuddle pillows. Sniff them, try to get a hint of her. ‘Shut the FUCK up.’ I whack my chest with a balled fist.
‘Sorry sir. This Dickens?’
The
