Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 07

March 6th

Dear Journal,

Oh, it’s an absolute disaster, a living nightmare from which there seems no escape! My heart yearns for the familiar greyness of London skies, the taste of my mother’s pot roast, the comfort of my own bed. How I wish I could teleport home, away from the sweltering heat and the confusing hustle and bustle of Jakarta.

The past two days have been nothing short of miserable. Confined within the four walls of my hotel room, I’ve become a prisoner of my circumstances. My food supplies have dwindled down to a lone packet of instant noodles, my water is running ominously low, and my wallet is as empty as a beggar's bowl. Each day, I call the airline about my suitcase, hoping for a reprieve, but all I receive are polite apologies and promises to locate it.

Today was the day of the disaster. I had to go to my new school to sign my contract and present them with my passport and degree certificate. Despite the absurdity of my situation, the adult responsibilities of the real world didn't seem to pause. Therefore, with a heavy heart, I once again delved into the dreaded suitcase.

Standing in front of the mirror, I examined my outfit. The denim daisy duke-style shorts were back - I've come to accept them as the lesser of two evils compared to the skirts. I teamed them with a thin, white spaghetti strap top, which clung to my body and highlighted my bare shoulders. I had learnt my lesson the hard way after almost succumbing to heatstroke in the wool sweater. On my feet were the same Spartan-like flat sandals, the only bearable footwear from the suitcase’s terrifying collection.

As I looked at my reflection, I could barely recognize the man staring back, hidden beneath the feminine attire. The despair hung heavy in the air as I hoped the school would understand my unusual attire and offer some solution to my predicament.

With a bitter taste in my mouth, I once again approached Amirah at the reception. The poor woman tried to keep a straight face, her eyes widening momentarily before she quickly looked away. I asked for a printed map to the school, my heart sinking with each step I took towards this new reality. The truth was, with no money left, I had no other option but to embark on the 45-minute journey on foot.

As I stepped out into the world, I felt like a lamb walking into a den of lions. The relentless sun seemed to mock me, beating down on my exposed shoulders. The noisy streets of Jakarta swallowed me up, making me an unwilling participant in what felt like a twisted pageant.

Every step I took felt like a battle, with the intrusive stares of passersby pinning me down. I could feel their eyes, studying the curves of my outfit, scrutinizing me from the rigid soles of my sandals to the unfamiliar drape of my thin spaghetti straps. Yet their curiosity, uncomfortable as it was, seemed trivial compared to the calamity that was about to unfold. The illustration below captures a moment in time before the disaster, one I wish I could revisit. If I could, I would tell my past self to turn around and sprint back to the safety of the hotel.

(See Illustration 07)

Without warning, the sky boomed, as if the world's largest drum was being struck by a wrathful god. A deluge poured from the heavens, turning the bustling streets of Jakarta into a chaotic sea. As the locals scattered like ants into the safety of their homes, I found refuge under an overhanging roof, watching with a mix of awe and horror as the streets rapidly filled with water. The world had transformed in mere moments, with the hard asphalt now a turbulent river.

But the rain was indifferent to my predicament and my paralyzing fear. It fell relentlessly, and soon, water was lapping at my upper ankles. I gasped, realizing I was standing in the path of the swiftly rising flood. Panic constricted my thoughts, and my breath came in ragged gasps. I tried to move, to run, but my sandals slipped on the slick surface, sending me tumbling into the rushing current.

My surroundings blurred into a disorienting whirl of fear and water. The current lifted me off my feet, its force overpowering my struggles. I fought to stay afloat, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped bird.

Finally, my fingers gripped something solid. With a strength born of desperation, I hauled myself onto safer, higher ground, escaping the terrifying clutch of the current. Exhausted, I lay there panting, allowing the rain to cascade over me. My torn clothes clung to me like a second skin, and one of my sandals had been swallowed by the deluge.

However, as I began to recover from the initial shock, a more horrific realization struck me. My heart sank as I remembered the leather bag - the one that held my passport, wallet, and phone. It was gone, swept away by the merciless tide.

After waiting out the rain, I observed the water on the street receding as abruptly as it had risen. Stunned and shell-shocked, I undertook the agonising journey back to the hotel, my remaining sandal squelching uncomfortably against my soaked skin. A sizable tear in the right side of my denim shorts flapped against my thigh, revealing more skin than was decent. But more than the physical discomfort, it was the enormity of my loss that burdened me, the stark reality of my situation hitting me like a freight train.

When I finally staggered into the hotel, Amirah's eyes widened at the sight of me. "Oh my god, David!" she exclaimed, hurrying over. Exhausted, drenched, and teetering on the edge of tears, I collapsed into her arms. The familiar walls of the hotel blurred around me, my heart beating a painful rhythm against my ribs.

I pen this entry, Journal, with a heavy heart and a profound sense of despair. As I sit here in my drab, silent room, I'm left to wonder just how much more I can endure. My only recourse is to hope for a miracle, for a silver lining in the storm cloud that has now become my life.

Yours in utter exhaustion,

David.