A Jamaican Experience: The Ambassador’s Wife and the MTV Dancers
By: Baron Stewart
After the fight, I headed to the airport to catch my flight to Singapore. As I moved through the terminal, I spotted Sugar Ray Leonard again, sprinting through the crowd to catch his plane back to the States. It was like watching a boxer still in rhythm, even off the clock.
I checked into a hotel near the Singapore airport. It was nothing fancy, just functional. The next morning at breakfast, I sat beside an Indonesian woman. We talked casually—nothing deep, just an easy exchange between two strangers passing through the same hour. After breakfast, we realized we were on the same flight to Jakarta.
I had used up all my cash in Tokyo and didn’t think much of it—things had been smooth so far. But just before departure, I was blindsided: Singapore charged an exit tax. And once again, American Express wasn’t accepted. I had no cash, workable credit, or time to solve the problem.
The woman I’d just met stepped forward and immediately paid the tax.
I was stunned. “Thank you,” I said, utterly unprepared for the moment's grace.
Then came the next surprise: she was the wife of the United States Ambassador to Indonesia.
We arrived in Jakarta. My IBM driver was waiting. Hers, however, was not. I offered her a ride to her residence, and she accepted, with the same calm generosity she had shown earlier. The car was quiet, but I felt the echo of her gesture. Sometimes, the universe speaks softly, through the right person at the right time.
That night, I checked into the Jakarta Hilton—one of the most elegant hotels I’d ever stayed in. But it didn’t just feel like a hotel. It felt like a curated world: polished marble floors, hushed corridors, the scent of orchids and opulence. My room was beautiful—everything was in its place, and the fabric was thick and soft. But I was too tired to appreciate it. I dropped my bags and collapsed into the massive bed.
The next day, I discovered a tennis tournament at the hotel—international players in bright whites volleying on manicured courts under blue skies. Champagne flowed near the courtside. The whole thing gave the impression of a world paused in luxury, untouched by the grit and struggle outside the gates.
It was surreal. I was living in two worlds. One wrapped in privilege and perfume. The other pulsing just beyond the hotel driveway—hot, crowded, raw, and loud. I couldn’t unsee it.
Somewhere between waking and sleeping that night, I heard faint, familiar, and irresistible music. Reggae.
Half-asleep, barefoot, I followed the sound like a child drawn to magic. A live band played reggae through hallways and staircases, out into the garden, under a velvet sky. A group of young Indonesian girls danced barefoot on a stage. Their movements were effortless, free, full of joy, and rhythm that felt like home.
I stood in the shadows, captivated.
After the performance, I asked the dancers how they learned to move like that.
They smiled and replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“MTV.”
And just like that, the world felt both enormous and impossibly small. Kingston echoed in Jakarta. Culture, like music, doesn’t ask for permission—it travels, lands, and lives.
The next morning, I headed to the IBM education center. The ride was a jolt. Outside the hotel, the road pulsed with life—donkey carts, bicycles, mopeds, trucks, people on foot, everything moving in chaotic harmony.
And then, strangely, right in the middle of it all: an empty highway. Elevated, pristine, and utterly untouched by the mayhem below. It was a private road, reserved for the wealthy—an invisible border that separated two versions of Jakarta. One lived in the tangle. The other floated above it, untouched.
When we finally reached the IBM building, I stepped out of the car and nearly fainted. The pollution under the concrete overhang was suffocating. I gasped for breath and had to steady myself. No one else even blinked.
And at that moment, I understood something:
This was the rhythm of a different world.
And I was still learning how to dance.
Reflections on “The Ambassador’s Wife and the MTV Dancers”
Why was I traveling through Asia?
At the time, I worked for IBM as an executive instructor, teaching courses on using technology to transform businesses in various countries. This trip was my first, but not my last.
What was the fight I mentioned at the beginning?
The fight was Mike Tyson versus Buster Douglas, when Tyson, once thought invincible, lost for the first time. It shook the sports world, and strangely, it set the emotional tone for my journey.
How did I feel about being helped by the ambassador’s wife?
Grateful, of course. But also disarmed. Her gesture cut through whatever pride or self-sufficiency I’d been holding onto. I was a man used to navigating the world alone. Her help reminded me that sometimes grace arrives through strangers—and that accepting kindness is its kind of strength.
Was I aware of my privilege?
In moments, yes. But it would not be ethical to say I was fully aware then. Working for IBM, staying in five-star hotels, and flying around the world, I was caught up in corporate momentum. That highway in Jakarta—empty, elite, and inaccessible to most—burned an image into me. It wasn’t until later that I sat with the meaning of that division.
Did race play a role in my experience abroad?
Maybe, but I did not notice. As a Black Jamaican-American, I was often viewed through multiple, sometimes conflicting lenses: exotic, professional, mysterious, invisible.
What struck me about Jakarta beyond the chaos?
The energy. And I felt like you could buy people there. Many houses had six or seven servants: cook, cleaner, nanny, gardener, driver, etc. Europeans lived well there. Comfort was built on a stark imbalance.
Was MTV really that global?
Yes, and it shocked me. Those girls weren’t just dancing—they were translating culture, moving in sync with a beat from thousands of miles away. It made me realize that influence travels faster than people. It also made me wonder: What else were we exporting?
What did that empty highway symbolize to me?
A separation of lives—a visual metaphor for inequality. I couldn’t unsee it. That highway wasn't just a road—it was a border. Above it, the powerful moved silently. Below it, the world honked and shouted and struggled forward.
Did my views on travel change after this?
They deepened. Travel stopped being just movement. It became a witness. The more I saw, the less I could compartmentalize. That Jakarta trip forced me to hold beauty and injustice simultaneously.
How do I reconcile the beauty and the ugliness of that day?
I don’t. I carry both. The kindness of a stranger. The scent of orchids. The barefoot dancers. The choking air. They coexist. That’s life. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: don’t run from the contradiction. Walk into it. It’s where truth lives.
What did this teach me about interconnectedness?
That we're always closer than we think. A reggae beat in Indonesia. An ambassador’s wife stepping in. Cultures crossing without a passport. The world isn’t a set of countries. It’s a web of small, human moments—some fleeting, some unforgettable.
Did this experience change me?
Yes. But change doesn’t always feel like thunder. Sometimes it feels like a dancer’s smile. Or the hum of tires on a private road you’ll never drive. It’s quiet. But it lingers.
How does this connect to the rest of my life?
It’s part of a theme I keep returning to: the tension between worlds—rich and poor, East and West, corporate and soulful, seen and unseen. I’ve lived in the spaces between—maybe that’s why these moments stay with me—because they remind me I was never entirely in one world or the other. I was always crossing over.
Life Lessons & Reflections from Jakarta
1. Accept help with grace.
Even the most self-reliant among us will need help. When it comes, don’t resist it. Accepting kindness doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. And it creates a bond that transcends nationality, class, and circumstance.
2. Be present in your contradictions.
You can enjoy the Hilton and feel discomfort at the poverty outside. You can marvel at dancers and feel crushed by smog. Holding those opposing truths is not hypocrisy—it’s maturity. Let it teach you.
3. Pay attention to invisible borders.
Whether it’s a private highway or a tennis tournament in a walled-off resort, power often travels unseen. Notice the systems that divide us, and be mindful of how easily we can drift above them.
4. Let travel make you a witness.
Don’t just collect passport stamps. Let the world teach you something. Ask: What does this place reveal about me? What does it show me about others? Then carry those questions home.
5. Be curious about cultural exchange.
The dancers moved to reggae because MTV had reached them. Global culture is influential—so ask yourself what you're bringing into a space, and what you're learning from it.
6. Be aware of how privilege shapes your experience.
You may not always feel privileged, but privilege isn’t about how you think—it’s about your choices. Acknowledge that. Use it to open doors for others.
7. Don’t wait for the thunder.
Transformation doesn’t always come with fanfare. Sometimes it’s a smile, a moment of silence, or the shock of seeing your world from a new angle. Those moments change you—if you let them.
8. Live at the edge of things.
Between cultures. Between classes. Between certainty and not-knowing. That’s where life is richest. That’s where empathy grows. That’s where you evolve.
"The Jakarta trip didn’t change my life in one dramatic moment—but it made my world wider. And once that happens, there’s no going back."