Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 18

March 24th

Dear Journal,

Oh, what a day it has been. It started with such promise, the plan in place, a shimmer of hope. Yet, as I write this, I'm still Fifi, stuck in the same predicament.

It began with the wig. That pesky, infuriatingly stubborn wig! I swear it has formed a bond with my scalp stronger than superglue. Despite multiple attempts, I couldn't coax it free. The adhesive they used in the salon is worryingly powerful; I think it would rather strip my scalp bare than release the wig.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Annisa and Kartika decided to spend the morning at home, stationed conveniently in the living room, blocking my path to the front door. With each passing hour, my chances of escaping dwindled.

Then, early afternoon brought a new turn of events. Plans were made for an extravagant evening out at an upscale restaurant, followed by cocktails at a hidden gem of a bar nestled somewhere in the city. Suddenly, my day was no longer my own. It became a whirlwind of preparations: showering, shaving, applying makeup, dressing, and of course, the meticulous styling of my unyielding wig.

As the hours slipped by, I found a fleeting moment to escape. Not to the embassy, as planned, but to the rooftop of our building - a place that has recently become my sanctuary for fresh air and solitude. The thought of strutting into the embassy, in a long, elegant white gown and the torture devices masquerading as shoes, filled me with a dread I couldn't overcome. So instead, I fled to the roof.

So, dear Journal, here I am, in the midst of towering white buildings that stretch into the smog-filled air, their lofty peaks lost in the cotton-like fluffiness of the clouds. The incessant city noise is dampened here, replaced by the soothing lullaby of the wind. It rustles the synthetic strands of my hair, whipping them into an elegant dance of surrender. Alone, I sit, feeling small and lost in this vast expanse of man-made concrete and open sky.

My sketch today is a poignant symbol of my isolation. It captures me seated on the roof's edge, bare feet propped against the wall, with my hands clutching at the flowing fabric of my white gown to protect my modesty from the mischievous gusts of wind. The picture is complete with my borrowed handbag and my dreaded Biancas, resting innocently next to me on the wall - my momentary relief from their torturous grasp.

As perched there with my mascara-laden lashes clasped shut, Annisa came up. Her face was a blend of concern and disapproval. The source of her concern was primarily my dangerous position on the wall, before quickly changing to the disapproval of my bare feet and discarded shoes. Lately, I've been guilty of slipping them off at every available chance. It seems my feet crave liberation as much as my soul does. Yet, as I was reminded once again, showing the soles of one's feet is considered offensive in Indonesian culture. Not to mention, the act was far from ladylike.

(See image 18)

I apologised, my face a blend of guilt and discomfort as I forced my slightly swollen feet back into the snug confines of the Biancas. She sashayed away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete, a lulling melody in this symphony of solitude. I watched her move with such grace, her feet seemingly unfazed by the stilettoes that mirrored the height of mine. I felt a pang of annoyance, tinged with an inexplicable sense of jealousy. How effortlessly she glided, while I felt like a newborn calf, fumbling and wobbling.

I remained on the roof for another half an hour, stealing a moment of tranquillity amidst the chaos, pouring my thoughts into you, dear Journal. But it's time to descend back into reality, back to the whirlwind of Inner city Jakarta.

My dreams of hopping on a plane back to London have been swapped for an evening of faux sophistication and insincere smiles. Yet, I suppose, there's a silver lining. I can drown my sorrows in exquisitely mixed cocktails, let the liquid numb my aching feet, and lull my troubled mind into temporary oblivion.

Until we meet again,

David.