I awoke yesterday morning unusually excited and immediately began anticipating the adventure ahead of me. I quickly dressed myself, made a wonderful breakfast of French toast, and gathered together all the little accessories I thought I might need for a day of hiking. My departure time of 7:00 AM rolled around in a flash, and I scurried out the door to meet my travel buddies, some other teachers of Raudlatul Ulum. I had stayed in Surabaya this past weekend, but my friend, Mr. Imam, had followed up with his part of our plan to organize an excursion with the other instructors, for whom I hold a weekly English session. This past Saturday evening, we all enjoyed ourselves so much, and many of the teachers were participating more actively than in any of our other previous meetings. Each week they exhibit increasing excitement toward learning English and also toward my living on their campus. Because of this, I suggested that during the holiday, before the commencement of Ramadan, we should plan a trip together to Mount Muriah and the 70m waterfall raining down from one of its cliffs. Imam beautifully planned a day trip for all of us.
Subsequent to startlingly encountering part of the group standing right outside my door, I was gradually reminded of a sacred Indonesian philosophy, Jam Karét, or “rubber time.” There really don’t exist any expressions like “Time is money,” or “Time is of the essence,” in Indonesia – only, “Time is flexible,” or “Let’s just do it tomorrow.” Needless to say, we didn’t load the bus until after 8:00 AM. A few days ago, while I was staying with Samson, my friend in Syrabaya, he shared we me an anecdote about his friends with whom he’s formed a small rock band. A couple weekends ago, Samson’s buddy “Cobra” (a short, plump man with a wife and small daughter no less) gave him a call to let him know that he would pick Samson up for practice at 5:00 PM. 6:30 was no longer even a faint image on Samson’s watch when Cobra pleasantly arrived at his apartment with news that practice had been canceled. Slightly irritated after having sat outside for nearly two hours and certainly confused that Cobra would make a drive all the way across the second largest city in Indonesia, only to bring news of a postponement, Samson replied, “Dude, you have my cell phone number; you could have called. Remember, you used it four hours ago to let me know that plans were set in stone?” To which Cobra retorted, “Jam Karét, my new friend, Jam Karét.”
My content group of Math, English, Science, and History teachers walked to the court yard of the school and loaded into the back of a huge, U-Haul-like bus, which was to be our primary source of transportation for the trip. Earlier, Mr. Imam had informed me of his excitement that the head master, Mr. Humam, was allowing us to take the “children’s vehicle” for our journey. Almost dismissing Imam’s text message because I had no idea what the “children’s vehicle” was, I reciprocated excitement in a generic message, which conveyed only my enthusiasm for the excursion in general. However, if I had known that all of us would be piling into a diesel-powered moving van from the 1980s with wooden benches and two dusty, six-inch, powered speakers that were shoddily wired in from the cab of the truck, my expression of excitement to Imam the day before would have certainly been more genuine.
After only five minutes on the road, I could see that the other teachers were just as thrilled to be making the trip as I was. First of all, none of them had ever been in the back of the pesantren’s “school bus” either, so I wasn’t the only individual experiencing giddy amusement before the wheels had even started moving. Secondly, a trip like this amongst the faculty is extremely rare, and I can tell that many Indonesians in general do not travel often. Mount Muriah is only 40km from the pesantren; Imam’s last visit was during his junior high school days, and some of the teachers who’ve been living in the area their whole lives had never been there. On top of this, I was told that the last faculty trip was to the island of Karimunjawa in 1998. Having traveled there two weeks ago, and furthermore, having also traveled by boat, I can relate first-hand to why that particular staff trip was probably the last. The waters of north Java are very rough, and apparently some of the teachers refused to get back on the ferry home because of their dreadful, seasick experience on the way to the island. Some were left behind, and extra arrangements had to be made in order to transport them back home by plane. However, with those memories safely compartmentalized in a 9-year-old safe, in the back of their minds, everyone came with great expectations and equipped with their English notebooks.
Immediately, I was able to see how much better some of the teachers were at English once I got them out of a classroom setting. The classrooms in Indonesia truly promote an environment where mistakes are unwelcome and full preparedness is the only acceptable option. I can see so clearly now that even teachers display counterproductive apprehension toward me during our sessions; so more than ever, I will now gear my lessons toward making students feel comfortable and making them feel less like they are in a class.
To be Continued...
