Java and Sumatra

Secret Secret Beach

2010-06-26T01:13:00.000-07:00

I've now been to four or five beaches since my arrival in Aceh. One of them is referred to by many as "Secret Beach." My journey to Secret Beach was the second trip that I made with my new friends here. It involved riding through torrential rain and high winds on a motorbike to the base of a small mountain, where we had to hike up and around -- in the same weather conditions as the ride over -- to get to the sea. Upon our arrival, we immediately had to seek shelter in the foliage because the winds coming from the ocean were so strong, that salt water was being relentlessly pelted onto our bodies and into our eyes. Nevertheless, despite these conditions, we still saw a few more adventurers huddled around one another, trying to stay as warm and dry as possible. Secret Beach was no doubt a worth while trip, and its virtual seclusion made it utterly enjoyable in spite of the elements.

But this past weekend, I made the journey to another beautiful coastal area that proved to be one of the most breath-taking places I'd ever been, and my group ran into absolutely no one else the entire day. "Secret Secret Beach," as it has been appropriately named, requires a much longer motorbike trip, and a far more grueling trek through a mountainous jungle before being able to set eyes on land's end. Unfortunately, most groups of Acehnese thrill-seekers are explicitly denied access to the nearly hidden path that leads to the coast. Cultural rules that don't apply to foreigners inhibit locals from enjoying their own natural environments. Any Indonesian group containing both males and females is held to a higher Islamic moral standard, per se, and in the eyes of society, there is too high a risk of "funny business" between guys and girls at a secluded beach. Most Indonesian women who've seen this beach have been part of a larger group comprising mainly Westerners. That's essentially the only way that they'd get past the ever-lurking moral police, who literally just hide out in bushes waiting to deny young people an opportunity to make out in the jungle. Even my most outdoorsy Indonesian female friends -- who've got this place and this culture figured out to a tee -- have until now always been stopped and informed that they could not proceed to Secret Secret Beach.

This trip, however, I made with my new group of ex-pat friends, five Americans and one Australian. Self, the Australian (whom I'd actually met before and hiked with about 2 and a half years ago on Java... but that's another story) brought with him a huge fish that he'd bought earlier that morning at a local market, as well as some other snacks. We made a fire, grilled on the beach, and enjoyed the sun.

I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story!

Sorry for the first couple, by the way, my camera was having shutter problems, but I still wanted to include them.

Another one for the Mercy Corps Blog

2010-06-16T02:03:00.000-07:00

Two weeks can tell one a great deal about a new environment, a new job, a new staff. On average that’s 112 working hours – admittedly a long time to spend with the same four people in tiny, crowded room. First impressions have been made, and the mood has been set. Since I’ve been in Banda Aceh, my team has been absorbed in making adjustments to accommodate for donor deadlines, budget modifications, as well as moving to a new office, which have all posed substantial hurdles; all the while our program, Kedai Balitaku, has had to continue as normal. Stress has been high, indecision has been unavoidable, and new challenges seem to be constantly arising from nowhere. Yet, above all these annoyances, lies a secure blanket of pure enthusiasm for a rock-solid development concept, which has already demonstrated success. When the right people are working on the right project, even a new office building that poses actual physical stumbling blocks in between the car park and the desk, and between the desk and the bathroom – an environment likely dangerous for children and barely suitable for the elderly – can do nothing to break our collective spirit and our drive to continue serving the residents of Banda Aceh. These past two weeks have been inspirational if anything, and I feel fortunate to have been placed with such a committed group of individuals for my first experience with actual fieldwork.

Realistically however, the reasons why I have been so impressed by these past two weeks have nothing to do with any scarcity of problems or issues associated with Kedai Balitaku. If any particular aspect of this project is examined thoroughly, one will find that improvements can and should be made – certainly no program is perfect, and neither will be any of its individual components. But it is precisely these problems that indicate what an exceptional program I’ve become a part of.

Let me explain:

As an outside evaluator, a contracted consultant of sorts, I fully expected my first two weeks to resemble something of an investigation, rather than a two-way open discussion. How could I have assumed that a tightly knit local staff – who’d spent hundreds of hours building this program from the ground up – would want to immediately begin deconstructing and analyzing their work, so that an outsider could give it a rating? But until now, no degree of office politics has distracted anyone from their goals, and it has been interesting to find that, not only are a great deal of problems with this program completely external to staff coordination, but even the majority of the internal problems have already been acknowledged. Working to find solutions to these problems, rather than debating contested shortcomings, will encompass the bulk of our collective efforts here for the remainder of my short contract.

I look forward to the next seven weeks with my new staff, and I’m already falling in love with Aceh. Engaging work and creative projects seem to be the norm, rather than the exception, and I imagine that we’ll all continue to learn a great deal from one another.

Murah Senyum

2010-06-03T22:23:00.000-07:00

Let’s say you go out with a group of new people for the first time, but despite being a little nervous, and maybe a bit more self-conscious than you would generally be with close friends or family, the entire afternoon goes extremely well. Everyone is joking around, getting along, sharing stories, and truly getting to know one another. You find yourself laughing at just about every sentence that comes out of your new friends’ mouths, and they’re laughing too, even at your worst jokes. But then, suddenly, someone says to you in a semi-serious tone, “Ya know, your smile’s really cheap.”

This past Saturday was not the first time I’ve been told by a group of Indonesian friends that I have a “cheap smile,” or murah senyum. And admittedly, the first time I was accused of such a thing, I was quite shocked. I was thinking to myself, hey now, I really do think you guys are funny! I’m sorry if my smile looks “cheap,” but I’m actually having a really good time! Why would you say that?

But see, there’s a big difference between how money and merchandise are viewed in America and in Indonesia, and in turn, the vocabulary that describes them. The connotation of saying that something is “cheap” in English immediately leads one to make judgments about its quality. Saying something like, “If you hadn’t bought such a cheap phone, maybe it wouldn’t have broken so quickly,” or “What a cheap toy,” both indicate dissatisfaction. In Indonesia, it’s very different. The word, murah, simply refers to getting something for a, nonetheless, relatively small amount of money. And the same goes for the word 'expensive,' or mahal. If someone told you in the U.S. that he or she had just bought an expensive car or an expensive TV, in all likelihood, you would begin making judgments about its quality; maybe you’d picture a Jaguar or 1080p flat screen. But in Basaha Indonesia, the word mahal, has nothing to do with quality – only with the amount of money (or effort) put into something, in order to get a return. In fact, mahal never has a positive connotation in Indonesian. It sometimes can be translated to “difficult,” or at best, “not cost effective.” If something is mahal, Indonesian people don’t get images in their heads of luxurious amenities. They simply acknowledge that a better deal could have, and should have, taken place.

Accordingly, expressions in Bahasa Indonesia follow suit. Telling me that I have a “cheap smile” in Bahasa Indonesia is, in fact, quite a complement. It simply means that people don’t have to work very hard to get me to smile and enjoy myself. Likewise, the word mahal is also used differently than its English counterpart in common language. If you wanted to say something like, “These days it’s hard to find someone who smiles as much as you do,” when translating to Indonesian, you could absolutely us mahal in place of the word ‘hard’: “These days it’s mahal to find someone who smiles as much as you do.”

I’ll let you make your own judgments concerning what that says about our consumer culture.

But that discussion is actually beside the point. The real question is, why is it that I find myself being so constantly entertained in this country? Granted, I’m not a sourpuss in The States, but with all the hardship in this country, I still feel so jovial all the time, and seemingly, so does just about everyone I’ve ever met. Right now, I’m actually just recovering from my first bout of distinctly-Indonesian, low-hygienic-food-standard stomach flu, which I came to know so well during my two previous years here. Last night I was alternating between being freezing cold and blazing hot, throwing up, and having a pounding headache – but this morning, although I’m still not fully recovered, I nevertheless feel compelled to write about what a good time I’m having

So again, why is this? Why do I have a murah senyum? I think it’s because of the way people tend to make jokes with one another in this country. Jokes here are often about physical attributes, peculiar mannerisms, and other noticeable character traits– essentially, the things that define you, the inherent things that make us different from one another. These are the things that are targeted. So to put this into perspective, a night out with a group of Indonesian friends is like a constant mutual roast. Age, weight, good/bad looks, sexual orientation, race, religion, and death are all fair game! And if current events were a bigger topic of discussion, politics would also be included on this list. Everything that most Americans find to be offensive, politically incorrect, and tend to steer away from, are the main topics of discussion and ridicule.

Now, I’m not saying that all Americans are uptight about these things. I can’t even imagine the countless offensive, politically incorrect, wildly entertaining conversations I’ve had back home. But suffice it to say that these aren’t the types of things that I’d make blatantly pointed jokes about on, say, the first date. That’s where the difference between our two cultures becomes painfully obvious, and it just kills me. I love it. After only one week of knowing the friends I've made here (and it would have been less time if only I’d gotten sick earlier), they feel totally comfortable coming into my room at my darkest hour, just after I’d been in the bathroom for 30 minutes, and then making fun of me for how shitty I look. Sometimes I wonder, “do you guys have any remorse?!” But, then I have to consider that these are the same people who, without being asked, also brought with them chicken soup, a light porridge, and drinks – never expecting to be compensated – just so I didn’t have to go outside to find food.

Why do I enjoy myself so much here? Because people are so incredibly kind-hearted, but at the same time, even if murah senyum were in fact a blatant insult, they still wouldn’t hesitate to keep saying it!

First Impressions: Kedai Balitaku, Banda Aceh, Mercy Corps 2010

2010-05-30T07:26:00.000-07:00

**I'm probably going to be writing another blog on the Mercy Corps website. This will be the first entry once I get the password for it**

I have been at my post in Banda Aceh, Indonesia for not even two days. It’s currently Sunday morning, and I’ve yet to see the Mercy Corps office here. What I knew about my position before I arrived, I gathered from a few informative documents sent to me by e-mail, and of course, from the two-paragraph job description that I read online when applying for this internship. But after arriving on site, and after being here for only a slightly greater number of hours than I can count on my two hands, I can assert – with the confidence of someone who knows this country quite well – that my experience here with MC will be an overwhelmingly positive one.

Development work can try one’s patience, force one to constantly rethink decisions, drive one to question widely-accepted and long-established standards of efficiency and effectiveness, and provide one with no fine line between success and failure. But that, my friends, that is the name of the game. That is precisely why most who enter this field are compelled so strongly to become part of the solution. My first impressions of the local Indonesian staff hired by Mercy Corps to run and implement Kedai Balitaku (the program I’ll be focused on all summer) could not be more positive. The limited interactions I’ve had so far with my new colleagues have already instilled a confidence in me that I will be working with a results-oriented group of experienced professionals. I am not so unrealistic to immediately assume that the road ahead won’t be bumpy and won’t lead to a certain degree of debate and conflict among staff, but at least my initial experience certainly did not have to be as positive as it has been.

Two years of prior experience working as a teacher in Indonesia allowed me to become familiar with common, local organizational challenges, as well as cultural obstacles to progress. One of my favorites is the notorious Indonesia expression, jam karet, or “rubber time.” Whether you interpret this as a healthy, laid-back, stress-free outlook on life, or simply as a lame excuse for poor work ethic, it is nonetheless a reality. Behavioral change and improved quality of life will remain the broad, intrinsic goals of my team’s work here over the life of this project, and I already believe that my Indonesian co-workers are making sizable efforts to combat a number of local challenges,whether directly or indirectly.

I am a second-year graduate degree candidate at Boston University, and my development experience to this point has been largely theoretical, but the passion I’ve built, and the knowledge I’ve acquired, over the last year has ingrained in me a very high – but realistic and empathetic – set of expectations for how onsite project operations should be conducted. Maybe I’m still naïve about the nature of development work, and maybe I shouldn’t make hasty conclusions about my position here with limited evidence. But I buy that argument only to a certain extent. What I’ve seen in such a short time has managed to build my enthusiasm and motivation to the point where I’ll at least be able to coast on pure excitement until I truly get this job and situation figured out!

Knock on Wood

2010-05-28T19:36:00.000-07:00

Although many Indonesian cultural dynamics remain endlessly puzzling to me, I have still become accustomed to many important and ubiquitous features of this complex society. I certainly like to think of myself as a member of “the club.” When I step foot on Indonesian soil, I generally know what to expect from people and how to interact with my surroundings.

The time I spent on the island of Nias, where people are notorious for their fiery and combative personalities; multiple trips to Lombok, where residents are among the poorest in the country; a year in Central Java, where I was an instant and permanent local celebrity; and another year in North Sumatra, where the Catholic community tops off every social gathering with a strong glass of homemade palm wine, have all conditioned me for virtually anything that could happen on this archipelago. Additionally, I know where I feel most comfortable, or more aptly, where I will feel most comfortable.

Let’s talk about first impressions.

If I had been air-lifted and dropped off in middle of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, I could only hope that I would have felt as giddy, amazed, and excited as I felt yesterday afternoon.

The Acehnese experience began on my plane ride from Jakarta, where I sat next to a couple of punchy, witty Acehnese men, as well as an eager college student who is also involved with NGO work in Banda Aceh. The plane landed for a temporary stop in Medan and then continued to Banda; and without a single dull moment or lapse in conversation, we passed over the entire vertical stretch of Sumatra. Phone numbers were exchanged about the time I began to gaze out my cabin window, as our plane neared the end of its descent. A barely discernible boarder separating a vast seascape from kilometers of entrenched, glimmering, inland fisheries, and miles more of breezy green rice paddies almost distracted me from enjoying the seemly endless volcanic mountain range stretching along the opposite side of the city.

As our Boeing 737 came to a bumpy – and admittedly unnerving, but nonetheless expected – stop at the end of the runway, my charge and anticipation had begun to manifest themselves physically, and I’m sure I looked no less ridiculous than the two-year-old in front of me, who’d been entertaining himself with a few new toys his parents had gotten him from Jakarta. I even managed to do something that I hadn’t done since the first international flight I’d ever been on – forget my baggage tags in the seat pocket in front of where I had been sitting. But of course, being that it’s Indonesia, the pencil-and-paper-wielding security agents at the baggage claim exit trusted me wholeheartedly that I had retrieved the correct luggage from the revolving conveyor belt.

And as I walked toward the exit and gazed through the dense crowd of anxious friends and family members, who were eagerly awaiting their loved ones at the security gate, something caught my eye. Just as we all hope for upon landing in a new city – and don’t pretend like you don’t – I was greeted with a big sign that read, “KENNETH MOORE, Mercy Corps.” Nothing makes you feel more important than having your own sign at the airport.

And then, in accordance with the same fortuitous pattern that the trip had been following all day... why wouldn’t the person holding the sign have been a strikingly gorgeous Indonesian native? Piva, who’d conducted my phone interview, then led me to where our car was parked. And in all honesty, our drive back to my new apartment will likely remain in my memory as one of the most entertaining car rides of my life. Both Piva and the driver were rattling off eccentric facts about Banda Aceh in a passionate and comical manner that put to shame any scripted lines that even the most talented tour guide could have come up with. I was squirming in the back seat, almost in tears from laughing so hard.

Upon arriving at my new place, Piva also happened to drop some new information on me. Not only would Mercy Corps be covering my living expenses, but I would also be receiving a modest salary. This was not expected – not in the least. In fact, the title for this job when I applied online was, “Aceh Unpaid Internship,” and I was told explicitly through e-mail how much money I could expect to pay for an apartment. I’m absolutely going to be giving half the bag of the bite-size Snickers bars that I brought as gifts to the person in the Mercy Corps office here who made that happen!

Later I intend to give more details about how awesome my place is, and what a great location it happens to be in. And I may describe later how a huge fair and expo is currently going on in the city, and also how I’ve already got a young, cool group of friends to show me around, but I think the euphoria has gotten annoying even to me at this point. All in all, it seems like nothing short of a natural disaster or a civil war could possibly…

…oh wait.

Well, be happy for me, but pray for me too, would you?

Closure to an Indescribable Adventure. Transition to a New Life.

2009-07-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

I never got to spend enough time writing about my last days and months in Indonesia. Living life was my number one priority during those final moments, and in many ways, it all seems like a dream now. I awoke after a 2-year fantasy and a 50 hour journey from Medan to Mayfield in my home town in Western, KY. Some things had changed, but not a disorienting amount. Arriving back so suddenly wasn't a startling realization of reality -- but more of a thought-provoking, mystical feeling that's left me to unravel and piece together all that I experienced during a chimeric exodus to South East Asia.

I've been back for about a month and a half now, and I've already met with a number of old friends. My memories of them from up to two summers ago are still as clear as day, and I greeted them as if we had all just graduated together only weeks before. But people here, who's lives had been continuing at a similarly unrelenting pace, saw me instantly back in their lives after 22 months of absence. It's nice to say that friendships don't die easily, and very little, if anything, had been lost between all of us. Nevertheless, seeing everyone still seemed overwhelmingly surreal.

It just so happens, however, that everything that occurred during my life on Java and Sumatra was not a dream at all, and I can remember entire days, even run through the course of a random week, a month, etc. I can look at my experience from a number of different perspectives and angles, and I can understand many different past and future consequences of my time there. It's not a fight to recall the climax, and I didn't wake up before it was over. I left with an astonishing amount of closure, life long friends, the ability to speak a new language, and a clear direction for my career and future. I closed one door, a door to the past, one that is shut any time you experience anything. But I've opened a hundred more, and I can always take a moment to step back and look through the windows that still show a vast panorama of a time that I'm never going to forget.

* * *

There's still much to be shared about what happened in Indonesia, and while some of it will inevitably stay in Indonesia (by my judgment to extend it to you or not), I'll continue to draw on my experiences. However, it's going to be in a different form. I'll probably not have entire posts dedicated to humorous batak anecdotes anymore, but they'll be embedded in new narratives and accounts of my life, which is about to take a drastic turn in a direction that only my time in Boston will give a destination.

That's why I'm happy to unveil a new blog: "Bostoken: Life in Boston"

And you can find it at bostoken.blogspot.com

Please continue to enjoy!

A Hike from Hell that Lead to Heaven: Part 2 ... kinda

2009-03-21T21:26:00.000-07:00

This is an article that I wrote for Madina Magazine out of Jakarta. It's written for an Indonesian audience, and specifically for more educated Muslims. Hopefully you'll find it interesting.

The First Sun of a New Year
Eight Indonesians and one American climb to new levels of understanding.

Blinding clouds converged on us from all directions. My tired lungs ached as my chest painfully squeezed in on them. I had not experienced such a challenge in over a year. Wet and muddy, I forced my legs to stand, and I strained my eyes to see, but with each breath, my open mouth comfortably formed a natural smile. It was a smile that was immediately answered by eight others, and as two warm arms wrapped around my shoulder, our group shared in a mutual sense of genuine accomplishment. Mixed emotions of frustration, euphoria, and achievement defined the mood and helped to solidify an unbreakable bond between nine very new and very unlikely friends.

Since that moment on top of Gunung Sinabung, two and a half kilometers above the earth, I've laughed to myself about what it might look like to see a group of people on Jalan Setia Budi in Medan, huddled together, each in near agony, some with visible wounds, but nonetheless each person still laughing and joking uncontrollably. You would probably suspect that we were all utterly crazy. Maybe you would even avoid walking passed us until you had a sizable friend to protect you. But nothing like this could ever happen on the streets of Indonesia's third largest city. Our unique case of insanity was actually a healthy condition – a condition which could have only been brought on by the emotional, physical, and mental challenges that only an American English teacher and eight Indonesian college students could experience after hiking together, up to one of North Sumatra's highest peaks.

Our journey began on December 30th, 2008 at the campus of North Sumatra University (USU). I was introduced to most of the group for the first time, and friendships began to form on the spot. Pipi, who was already a good friend of mine, had invited me to join everyone on this expedition. A few nights before I had played indoor soccer with Djarot and Reza. However, Gulit, Noni, Yogi, Hussein, and David, I had only met that day. They were all college students at USU. Some had a great deal of experience hiking, and some had never climbed a mountain in their lives. It was a dynamic group, and each of us were equally enthusiastic.

I was the only non-native Indonesian and the only one who had not been raised in a Muslim household, but that was never a concern of mine. Only six months earlier, I had been living and teaching on the campus of a pondok pesantren in Central Java, where I taught for a year without any problems. So even though I had not yet traveled exclusively with a group of Muslims my age, I had already gained a strong appreciation for Islam and a considerable knowledge of Indonesian culture. The contrasts between us were as clear as day, but our countless similarities were already bringing us together. No differences were interpreted as anything negative. Working together, we organized all of our bags, rolled up the tent and mattresses, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and then set off on foot to Jamin Ginting Street, where many buses head straight to Berastagi and to the base of Gunung Sinabung. A new adventure and a new year awaited us all.

Even the first leg of the trip was exciting for me. Bussing cross-country in the United States is an entirely different experience from bussing cross-country in Indonesia. The common occurrences that define public transportation in North Sumatra, which all my new friends habitually ignored, were captivating for me. The iron bars on the outside of travel busses in Medan had always drawn my attention. I had assumed that they were supposed to serve as roll bars. If a bus accidentally tipped on it's side while driving down a curvy mountain road, it seemed to me that these bars would help to prevent broken glass from injuring the passengers. That very well could have been their original intention. However, only as a passenger did I witness a new application of these bars. But startlingly, their new use seemed to present a great amount of danger, rather than protection. They were being used by the conductor who, to my surprise, utilized them to hang, swing, and climb on the outside of the bus to collect money from each passenger. I could have just as easily been watching Spiderman 3, as our Batak superhero risked his life to save everyone on board from forgetting to pay their bus fair!

It is difficult for me to leave the mindset I've always had in the United States. We Americans are a large group of health, safety, and comfort freaks. Our affluent society has molded us so that we have come to expect certain luxuries and some admittedly hard-to-reach standards. For example, I'm accustomed to vehicles traveling smoothly at 100-130 km/hr, while simultaneously obeying very strict traffic laws. A man who climbed on the outside of a bus in my home-state of Kentucky would be out of his mind. Not only would he be braving hurricane-like winds, but he would also be risking unavoidable fines if a policeman happen to see his dangerous behavior. So, when my Indonesian friends saw the genuinely shocked expression on my face, while I was transfixed on our courageous conductor, I was providing just as much entertainment for them as he was providing for me.

In only a day's time, I was going to experience first-hand that the human body is capable of much more on a daily basis than what many of my American friends and I give it credit for. I have always gone out of my way to plan hiking and adventure trips to minimize the possibility of danger. I've tried to bring every single tool that could fit into my bag: tissues, hand sanitizer, band-aids, flashlights, etc. But, when I traveled with this group of eager new friends, who all cared deeply about one another and who were always concerned about each other's well-being in ways other than providing handy gadgets, I could see that my portable necessities were going to become quite secondary. I knew that climbing this mountain was going to be an unprecedented physical challenge for me, but at least the company put my mind at ease.

After arriving at our campsite later that evening, we began to arrange all of our bags in the dark and set up the tent. The night's events would include cooking rice, veggies, and kerupuk on Reza's gas stove, and then playing cards until we could no longer stay awake. That night and the next day were essential for relationship building in our group. With nine people to get up this mountain in the middle of the night, group consensus was going to be important. We did not plan to start hiking until after midnight on January 1st because we wanted to experience the view at the top of Sinabung with the unique lighting of a rising sun. Consequently, we had about 24 hours to relax at the base of the mountain and to strengthen our friendships before we left. The next 24 hours brought us all incredibly close together, and it could have never been planned this way, but I would have been ready to face any challenge with them after creating so much trust in such a short time.

In all honesty though, December 31st was not all fun and games. It was a day of ups and downs. There were invigorating times of warm sun and disheartening stretches of cold rain. The weather prompted a few of us, including myself, to have second thoughts about whether or not we could even get up the mountain. However, we had already come this far, and the elements, no matter how adverse, were not going to influence our decision to climb. The real switch in mood came later that afternoon, and it had nothing to do with the temperature or the rain. Only three days earlier, Israel had begun its most recent bombing campaign in the Gaza Strip, and many of our most deeply-seated and emotional ideologies were placed at the head the table.

Throughout my year and a half in Indonesia, I've been involved in countless controversial conversations about politics, current events, Christianity, Islam, “free sex” in America, and corruption in the Indonesian government. But, until I found myself comfortably lying down in a tent, in one of the most beautiful locations in North Sumatra, I had never felt so challenged and unsure about my own beliefs.

This group of college students was informed, curious, and skeptical of American involvement on a world scale. For the last eight years, the United States' government has given Israel what many believe to be unconditional support, and it's no secret that most Americans do not identify with Hamas, who is currently governing the Gaza Strip. However, even our group of young students realized that if we reinforced our own personal prejudices by blaming a single side of this multi-faceted conflict, we would not be able to accomplish anything. Although many pointed and intentionally powerful questions were raised during our talk, we only used this heated issue as a medium of conversation to learn more about ourselves.

The place where we were born and the way we were raised have everything to do with how we feel about these heavily debated issues. Simply watching one of CNN, The BBC, Al Jazeera, or Trans TV will shape our opinions about people we have never met and who we frankly know nothing about. Noni, Pipi, Djarot, and David were the most interested in talking to me about my opinions concerning The Middle East, and our group of five young people did more to clear up the misunderstandings between us than 500 news programs could ever do. What we truly took away from this conversation actually had nothing to do with Palestine or Israel. We learned together that it is important to first understand a person's background and only then to try to begin analyzing the words that he or she says. It takes much more effort to comprehend why a person believes what he believes, but the importance lies in “Why?” and not in “What?”

No feelings were ever hurt during the conversation, but emotions were high. There was a point when tears actually began to form in my eyes, and everyone realized that we were going too far. Some awkward jokes started to circle around the tent in order to lighten the mood, and I got a pat on the back from Djarot. In some ways I felt embarrassed, but mostly I felt motivated to learn more about my new friends, and I know that they were just as happy to learn more about me.

At about 12:30 a.m. Reza, Hussein, and David became our unofficial group leaders. They lead us up the mountain in the rain, only minutes after the fireworks had ended at our campsite. We had hired no guides, brought only a few flashlights, a few bottles of water, and many of us were carrying packs. The six-hour ascent to the top was not going to be relaxing. On top of this, my sandals, which had served me so well while climbing the much less challenging Gunung Sibayak, were no match for the muddy paths that lead to the peak of Gunung Sinabung. Already slipping around within the first hour, I knew that I was going to have to be extremely careful for the rest of the hike.

We spent an hour and a half just searching for the trail to the top before we even stated to climb. We roamed the mountainside, walking through farmland and accumulating new group members who were also lost in the fields. My American danger alarms were loud inside my head. Only a year before, I had climbed a mountain with a friend who was not expecting such an extreme challenge, and she hurt her leg half way through the hike. I was worried about those in our group who had never climbed a mountain before because, even at this early point in our journey, the group leaders and I were already beginning to get tired. I could feel myself getting frustrated. Already our water bottles were starting to get low, and I began to doubt whether or not we could reach our destination at the top, much less make it there before sunrise.

It is important to have a goal in mind, but the road one takes to achieve his goals is no less important. My time in Indonesia has shown me that when we find ourselves in an unlucky situation, we should not worry about what we can no longer do, but instead consider what we can do at that moment to make our situation better. As I shook my head in disappointment, I looked at the people around me and noticed that I was the only person who was overtly displaying negative feelings. In this situation, which would be terribly stressful for the average group of Americans (or at least the ones I know), I was surprised to find myself still surrounded by smiles, people making jokes, and no one complaining about anything. I left my negative thoughts for a moment and imagined the millions of ways in which this situation could have been much worse. It wasn't so bad. I was with friends, and if there was nothing we could do, we would just make our way back, get some sleep, and always remember the fun we had trying to get to the top of Gunung Sinabung.

As it turned out, we were not far from the trail, and our group leaders, whose egos were the only things in jeopardy, managed to find the path. Soon after that, we found a clean mountain spring and were able to refill our empty water bottles. Our climb to the top remained very difficult and strenuous, but we had a direction, and no one was willing to stop. We reached the peak hours later in a thick patch of fog, and we missed the sunrise. However, the volcanic mountain provided us with warmth as we waited at high elevation for the clouds to clear. Huddled together at daybreak, we cured our chills with the steam pouring off the top of the mountain, and some of us fell asleep, calmly passing the time before the clouds cleared and an astounding view was revealed.

The first sun in 2009 broke through the overcast at about 7:30 a.m. and shed light over hundreds of kilometers in one of Indonesia's most spectacular regions. We could see all the way from the mountains of Aceh to the waters of Danau Toba. I'd never imagined my home in North Sumatra could be so breathtaking, and the light in which I saw my new friends could not have been brighter. Our journey back down the mountain was imminent, but we had already raised our spirits and our awareness to a point where nothing could knock them down.

Sometimes it takes more than it should: Part 1

2009-03-21T21:17:00.000-07:00

How easy it is to make judgments and form conclusions about matters we don't fully understand or about customs to which we can't relate. It's no secret that people do this all the time, and it might even seem trivial to discuss it at this point. As it happens, the importance of openness has been quite the reoccurring theme in many of my blog entries. I have been able to appreciate my time abroad in a very dynamic and genuine way almost entirely because my opinions concerning Indonesia, America, and the world have been constantly changing. Being open to changes like this, as opposed to rejecting them, will inevitably lead to some confusion, but ultimately it's the only way to get to the bottom of things.

The idea of cognitive dissonance suggests that our behavior and our daily routines must be in line with our beliefs and our set of values. Otherwise, how could we possibly maintain our sanity? But, what is it that generally changes when a conflict arises between what we do and what we believe? Our routines and our environment are considerably more difficult to manipulate than what we simply daydream about on a regular basis, so when a problem occurs, the easiest thing to change is, in fact, how we feel about what is going on around us. It's not just common; it's necessary. How could I possibly continue living in a house that I don't own, whose actual owner is apathetic, whose bathroom is infested with cockroaches, if I didn't change (at least slightly) how I feel about cockroaches? Do they bite? No. Do they stink? Not noticeably. Do they crawl on me when I'm sleeping? Not that I know of. I've personally just had to respect the fact that, although my random roommate assignment isn't going to blossom into a cohesive or even a healthy relationship, we'll still be able to tolerate each other until I move out (if I alter my own standard of living).

When we're forced to change our perceptions because of a futile situation, it's not so exciting, nor is the change even always admirable. It's when we reluctantly but voluntarily throw away an obsolete belief that we've acknowledged was hindering our development as an individual. When stated so plainly like this, it's easy to brush off my last statement as common knowledge, and I'll be the first to admit that I've probably had a bit too much time for self-reflection. However, after having lived for almost a year in the middle of a half-Muslim-half-Christian city, which is many times larger than Louisville, KY, I've often encountered people who not only refuse to change their actions based on their beliefs, they even refuse to change their beliefs based on their actions. I know people who simply refuse to acknowledge the reality which with they don't agree, and they continue to lead a life that, in many ways, is quite false. That might be kind of nihilistic, but it's apparently the only way for many of us to function together in plural societies currently, where a large number of people simply don't care to put forth the effort to understand one another.

On a daily basis this year, I've spent more time among more Christians than Muslims. And since I come from a predominantly Christian nation, I'm generally assumed to be able immediately identify with all the Indonesian Christians and “take their side” when it comes to discussing religious topics. Consequently, I have been subjected to a wide-range of critical and sometimes very nasty conversations, which unfairly pigeonhole the very people with whom I spent an entire year during the first half of my grant. I don't have any doubt that just as many scathing conversations about Christians commonly take place within any given Muslim community, but I wasn't exposed to it last year because, even if animosity toward westerners existed in Guyangan, everyone there saw how quickly I would have been alienated by such discussions.

The most common complaint I've heard this year in Medan is one that really strikes a chord with many of my fellow teachers at St. Yoseph, and it stems from nothing but an abysmal attempt to actually understand the other party's intentions. A great deal of Christians here feel very put off by the fact that it is “against Islam” to wish someone a merry Christmas during the holiday season because doing so would “acknowledge the validity of another religion.” After hearing this over and over again, and then after receiving probably 40 or 50 text messages and e-mails from my former students and teachers in Central Java on Christmas day, I could no longer be quiet about it. I finally asked a teacher if they had ever uttered the words, mohon maaf lahir dan batin, to a Muslim neighbor during his/her biggest holiday of the year, Idul Fitri. This Indonesian Islamic seasonal greeting is one that I learned literally within the first two months of living in Indonesia, and of course, my teacher's answer was, “No.”

It's certainly not my intent to pick on only Christianity because, from what I've observed in Medan and in Pati, I could just as easily pull examples from Islam or even Sikhism. It's just that I currently spend a great deal of my time at a Christian school, and this is what's most fresh on my mind. All I wish to express is the importance of understanding and admitting when our society and our own lives have become berkotak-kotak (arranged into impenetrable little boxes).

Pipe Dreams of Becoming a Star

2009-02-19T02:44:00.000-08:00

I guess I am officially now on the home stretch of a two-year adventure. However, if you had asked me no more than a few weeks ago, I might have told you that 2009 would mark only the beginning of my real career in Indonesia.

I haven't said much about it, but I am virtually a phone call away from a total lifestyle change. The acting profession is one of great desire and stiff competition. So unless one is content playing a supporting role in his/her local community theater, his childhood dreams of becoming an actor probably don't even cross his mind anymore, much less affect the way he makes decisions concerning his near or distant future. However, if that person happen to want to spend two years teaching English in a country where the average height is about five feet, six inches, and the most advertised product on television is skin-whitening lotion, then his chances of “making it big” would dramatically increase. It's not that I am particularly fond of taking advantage of this unique form of racism, in a country that has suffered a collective inferiority complex after 400 years of Dutch colonization, but it's difficult to ignore the screaming demand of becoming, perhaps, the only young white male in Indonesian show business.

It might sound crazy that I could even hint at the notion of becoming famous in a nation of 230 million people. But I want you to take a step back for a moment from what I've just said. Have you ever met an Indonesian person? Have you ever met an American who's traveled to Indonesia? Have you ever met an American who's traveled to Indonesia and who's spent enough time there to learn the language? I've been living in Indonesia for quite some time now, and with all the traveling I've done and of all the people I've met, I have not yet encountered a single young, white male who speaks Indonesian at the level I'm currently at. I don't say this to toot my own horn. Before I ever even began the application process for a Fulbright scholarship, I was looking into The Peace Corps because my primary goal for living abroad was to become proficient in another language. I just happened to end up in probably the only country on earth with all the right chemistry to produce a superstar out of a regular guy who happens to know the local language.

Recently I have been following leads and looking under rocks for opportunities that could put me ahead in this unique field. I've never been completely serious about an acting career here, so much as I have been simply intrigued to find out if it were possible. But that didn't stop me from arranging a meeting with possibly the only successful, full-time American actor Indonesia has ever seen. Jason O'Donnel is quite a man. I've got his card right here. He's 39 years old; he's five feet, nine inches tall, and he weighs 150 pounds. Granted, he was glazed-over drunk when I met him, but I can confidently say he was one of the more annoying people I've ever met in my life. He spent most of the evening avoiding my questions, belittling my Indonesian, suggesting I know very little about the culture, and encouraging me to find work in another country. When I finally got his card (only because our mutual friend, who arranged the rendezvous, all but forced him to give it to me), he began to lecture me about “how show business works” in Indonesia. He discouraged me from contacting his manager, who's number is on the card, because of the fact that she would likely “demand that I sleep with her” before considering to help me find work. He continued to describe her physically, and I began to drift off into another conversation with a few other Fulbighters who had also come to the restaurant.

His threat level was at red, and I had only wished that he could have been honest with me about the realities of being one of the only westerners in the business here. But the fact that he was so protective and ultimately displeased that another white male dared to show interest in his beloved profession only served to raise my confidence even more. By that time I had already become Facebook friends with a few famous musicians, begun writing an article for a magazine who's owner was also one of the producers of Indonesia's biggest movie in 2008 (Laskar Pelangi), and had already been exchanging e-mails with an enthusiastic recruiter for a modeling agency. You might wonder how I've had time to teach this year!

Ultimately, I don't think that this career is going to work for me though. The program to which I have been accepted at Boston University is suited perfectly for me, and I've already taken a two year hiatus from my formal education. If I really do plow through my master's degree and finish it in a year and a half, as the program is designed to allow, I don't feel that I will have significantly lowered my chances to become a hit in Indonesia, should the desire continue to be fueled throughout my time in Boston. Going back to Indonesia to start an acting career in my mid 20s, however, doesn't seem very likely though if I remain diligent enough to earn a Master's of Education in International Development. Indonesia is huge, but I guess Jason might have been right. This island simply isn't big enough for the two of us.

hmmmmm

2009-01-04T01:28:00.001-08:00

Sorry about the formatting on the next post. Blogger really isn't giving me a lot of options.

A Hike from Hell that Lead to Heaven: Part 1

2009-01-04T00:25:00.000-08:00

Domestic tourism among college students seems to be quite popular in North Sumatra. I've hooked up with a group of students, many of whom are from the English department at North Sumatra University, who always seem to have something going on. I anticipate that the second half of my stay in Medan will be even more action packed, with more indoor soccer and more adventure. I admire that such large groups of students get together fairly often to enjoy their country, and with all it has to offer, as well as inexpensive public transportation, why wouldn't they? Once I get back to the States, I'll be excited to start taking more advantage of the travel destinations around where I live. The U.S. has a great deal to offer in the way of beautiful nature spots, and
I don't think that I've taken enough initiative to see them (at least certainly not the kind of initiative I see groups of college students taking here). Of course I've gone on yearly trips to Current River; I've been to Mammoth Cave a few times, but I'd like to make more day trips or weekend trips with groups of friends to sites I haven't been yet, even if they might seem plain or boring. The massive amount of fun i've been having exploring this country, has really sparked a curiosity in me to see what more my own home has to offer.

My New Year's trip with the group of students I mentioned above turned out to be one of the most memorable, exciting, dangerous, and pleasant trips I've ever been on. It was complete with just about every emotion I'm capable of feeling, and thanks to my wonderful new group of friends (who never worry about anything *see previous blog post*) any negative emotion I experienced was quickly blotted out by the constant smiles of eight other people.

Our journey began on January 30th at the campus of North Sumatra University, where I was introduced to most of the group for the first time. Pipi, who invited me, has become a good friend over the last few months, and I had already played indoor soccer with Jarod and Reja, but the rest of the crew I hadn't yet met. We organized all our bags, rolled up the matresses, collected some money for a group transportation fund, and we set off on foot to Jamin Ginting Street, where many buses head straight to Berastagi. Berastagi is a beautiful city and a well-known tourist spot, about an hour and a half away from our destination, Gunung Sinabung, an active volcano and one of the highest peaks in North Sumatra

On the bus ride to Berastagi, I sat next to Pipi and Noni – Noni whom I had only just met on campus. She studies English with Pipi and is quite fluent. Both girls are strong Muslims (Noni wears a head scarf), and both of them are extremely in tune with world events. We had some great conversation, and it was nice to sit down and just talk for a couple hours with some very sharp girls my age. This bus ride was a sure sign that a lot of entertaining chat and productive discussion was to come.

Our bus stopped at one of the larger traditional markets in Berastagi, where many different bus lines run through. It was already a familiar spot for me, so I knew we were about to stock up on the local fried goodies, gorengan, before we continued our journey. We had about 30 minutes to kill before we could board a smaller van, called an angkut, which would take us to the base of the mountain. So of course, the guitars began to emerge from their cases, and some of the guys played a few Indonesian tunes while we waited.

A van arrived, and our group of nine adventurers crammed into the back and sat on wooden benches, which stretched lengthwise on both sides of the viehicle. An angkut is about the size of a standard mini-van in the US, so you can imagine how nine people plus the driver would be a tight squeeze. And hence, you can also imagine that when seven others from a different group started to push their way in, a futile situation began to arise. This is the tragedy of public transportation in Indonesia because there are so many people, not enough buses, and each driver wants as much fair as he can get. So, even though it was physically impossible to get seven more people inside, the driver was unquestionably determined to take everyone to their respective destinations. And certainly the latecomers were equally as eager to get back to their homes, rather than wait another half an hour for another bus, which was probably going to be just as full.

I had previously admired the iron bars on the outside of bigger busses in this country, which line the windows from front to back. I had assumed that they were to serve the purpose of roll bars. And that very well could have been their original intention. Roads here twist and turn up and down mountains, conditions vary, and so does the weather, so it's not really anything special to see four-wheeled vehicles oriented in every imaginable way in the grass on the side of the roadway. However, these metal bars, which were most likely initially intended for safety, have fallen victim to the ingenuity of Indonesian drivers, who plan to get the most bang for their gasoline buck. The more people who can fit inside, or outside, means that the driver's gratuities go up for each subsequent trip. The conductor, who collects money from each passenger usually has a permanent spot, hanging on the outside of the bus, as to not occupy a valuable seat. He climbs like Spiderman from the front of the bus to the back, collecting money and using the metal bars as it tears down mountain switchbacks at uncomfortable speeds, while other buses do the exact same from the opposite direction. So, if the conductor can seemingly accomplish this feet safely on the outside of the bus, why shouldn't this exposed but precious space also be used for passengers?

After forcing in three extra people into our mini van, of course, the four remaining commuters were ushered to the roof, in a uniquely Indonesian procedure I like to call, “risking your fucking life.”

Arriving at the campsite later that evening with everyone in one piece was the first major accomplishment of the trip, and I was happy we were able to begin relaxing after the day's journey. We got all our bags in order, which had been serving as cushions for the lucky travelers on top, and we began to set up the tent. Our evening's events were to be comprised of eating rice and veggies with the gas stove Reja had brought and then playing cards until we fell asleep. The tent was a three-room mansion, suitable for probably 20 people. Reja had acquired it after refugees from the 2004 tsunami began to migrate either back to their homes or seek new lives in Medan. He'd gotten the tent for the equivalent of about $40, four times less than the one-person bivy sack I had brought with me.

January 31st was a day of total relaxation. Our plan was to climb the mountain at midnight before th new year, so that we could not only see the sunrise from the top the next morning, but also so that we could enjoy the festivities at the crowded campsite on the lake before setting off. I don't know if the gas stove was ever turned off that day. We were constantly cooking either rice, sardines, or veggies, or we were frying crunchy little cakes called kerupuk. It's a wonder how I didn't get more burned in the strong Indonesian sun, but it seemed like we played cards outside for hours, humiliating the loser by smearing ashes all over his or her face, and then making him run through the crowd to bang on a medal railing with a rock, only to draw hundreds of people's attention to his smudged appearance.

Later that afternoon, the mood of the trip went in a slightly different direction. Not that this next fact was ever threatening, or even something I had so much as slightly considered, but there's no denying that I was unique amidst a group of Muslims – informed, curious, and skeptical of American involvement on a world scale. I have had countless conversations about politics, current events, Christianity, Islam, American culture, corruption in Indonesia, the Middle East, etc., but I'd never been as challenged as when talking with Pipi, Noni, David, and Jarod inside Reja's tent.

Since I have been here, I've not only become inexpressibly more informed about Muslim views concerning international politics, but I have become extremely sympathetic. At the same time, however, I have become just as much more patriotic toward my own country. I'm certainly more moderate in my views than when I left for Indonesia, and I can confidently admit that there are certain policies of Greorge Bush's with which I agree. I hate the way the war has been waged in the Middle East, but I am not in total disagreement that something had to be done. Especially Noni and Pipi were asking me deliberately pointed questions, ones to which I had no good answer, but I know that we were able to help eachother understand more about each other's points of view.

Having been here for only a year and a half, I could never say that I know it all, but I do know a lot more about what's going on in the Muslim world, and the most unfortunate problem is that there is very little effort toward creating a mutual understanding. The misunderstandings are as simple as watching only CNN, FOX News, and The BBC, or only watching Al Jazeera, TransTV, GlobalTV, and reading the Jakarta Post. Media just isn't helping relations. Different and exaggerated sides of the story are being told on both ends, and having sat and talked with this group of people, for only an hour, elevated us all to an entirely new level of understanding. I could never exaggerate the impact or the importance of experiences like these because it's clear that this is the only way we're ever going to get the real story. An hour long conversation, where both parties show equal interest in the other's stance can do more good than I can describe.

No feelings were ever hurt during the conversation, but although emotions were controlled, they were very high. When tears began to form in my eyes, so did awkwardly stated jokes with intentions to make light of the situation. The realization that we'd started to go too far was humbling and relieving. I pretty much live for interactions like that, and although I was being tested to my core, I brought up just as many challenging issues for them too. Having friends that I can trust but who also hold vastly different opinions has been one of the most amazing parts of my experience here, and it will be nice to let these friendships really grow over the next many months. I feel that I got very close to everyone from that discussion. I know that they also got closer to me too.

As it began to get dark, we all started falling out. Of course, the previous night none of us got enough sleep, and everyone thought it best to nap before our midnight journey, summiting one of North Sumatra's most challenging peaks. The guitar came out once again, and most of us were lulled to sleep by a couple of the guys' acoustic versions of Indonesian classics and pop songs.

My Travel List Includes Mangos for You!

2008-12-25T16:02:00.000-08:00

I guess this always seems to happen, right? Here I've gone another three or four weeks without posting anything. This past stretch of time has been different though. I've genuinely been suffering from writer's block. While I've no doubt been busy, I've also already sat down on numerous occasions to write a blog entry, but I hadn't gotten past the first paragraph, until today. And I guess I'm not to the second one yet, so maybe I shouldn't make any assumptions, but today I actually have an idea for where this entry might go. Recently, I've had no idea what I've wanted to write about at the time I sat down with my laptop, and that's been precisely the problem. As I mentioned in the last entry, my life is getting to be very normal – not in the sense that you might deem as normal, but at least my life is semi-standard on an Indonesian scale. Because of that, (from my perspective) fewer profound things have been occurring. This might just be a sign that I'll never be a journalist, columnist, or novelist; or maybe it's a sign that I should think more critically about what's going on around me, but nevertheless, as things have begun to fall into place (even if that means shoving a square block into a circle hole), it's become more difficult for me to express my feelings and recount my experiences in ways that I believe would be interesting for you. Even though I can acknowledge that many recent events here would be totally entertaining and unbelievable for you, to the point of being almost unconvincing, writing about them now has become a chore. I see odd things go down literally every day, and on top of this, I've already been seeing them for a year and a half.

Not just my daily life, but also my thinking has become inarguably more Indonesian, and I can illustrate that fact pretty easily. First, I have developed an inescapable urge to always acquire bags full of seemingly meaningless gifts for people when I travel. And second, I've gotten to the point where no matter what horrible things are happening around me, I tend to either not give it much thought (assuming it's something that's out of my hands) or just not be affected by the thoughts that I'm having. When practiced by Indonesians, both of these cultural aspects never stopped infuriating me last year. The endless requests for gifts from 30 or 40 villagers each time I traveled away from Guyangan drove me up the wall; but now, if I haven't supported various local economies through buying trinkets or fabrics from family owned shops or from vendors, I feel a deeply seated guilt that my trip has been almost wasted. I also hated it last year when I would find myself in situations where I had become irreversibly displeased by an outside event, and no one around me seemed to be at all bothered. The fact of the matter is that misery loves company, and I can't tell you how many times I wanted to complain to someone last year and have them at least relate to my frustration or hey, maybe even receive some moral support. You might remember my post last February about the flood in Juwana. People here handle their problems differently, and empathy is not real big on the list; if you're visibly upset about something, the first thing people wonder is, “what could possibly be that bad?” The only thing that seems to merit on overt display of negative emotion is when relationships with friends, family members, or significant others go wrong. However, that's a-whole-nother discussion.

For the sake of effective transitions, rather than getting into the topic for which this blog entry was named, let's go ahead and continue with our thoughts of uncontrollable events and of the displaying of negative emotions.

If I'm feeling particularly under-stimulated and have absolutely nothing to do at night, one of my favorite activities is to walk about 100 yards to the entrance of my complex and hang out with the security guards, who will inevitably be getting drunk on the local alcoholic beverage, tuak. One night last week, however, was a particularly eventful evening. I was chatting with the merry gang of rent-a-cops, when suddenly a band of motorcyclists stopped in front of my neighborhood and proceeded to beat the hell out of one another. It was happening uncomfortably close to where I was sitting, and immediately all the security guards ran to break up the fight. I slowly sat up, drink in hand, watching the events unfold from about ten yards. My local security force managed to calm them down substantially, but I think the turning point happened only when one of the belligerently drunk members of the motorcycle gang caught my eye. He stood out amongst the crowd for about 10 seconds because he was (other than me) the only stationary participant, standing confused with an ambiguous and possibly irritated or offended expression on his face. My false state of security and exclusion from this brawl was immediately broken with, “HEY! Mister!” At which point, most attention was placed on me. There were a couple smiles, and since the unfortunate fellow toward whom most of the aggression had been directed was already out of the picture (not dead, but he had jumped into a taxi), I wasn't as nervous as I should have been when two of the guys began to approach me with unclear intentions. Until that point, my experiences with strangers in nearly every situation imaginable had been positive, and so I planned on handling this situation just as I had handled every other situation in this country – with a huge and genuine, but totally unwarranted smile.

As I am still capable of writing this e-mail, you might have guessed that everything turned out fine. They weren't as friendly as sober Indonesians, but possibly much more so than a mob of thugs in the US, who had only recently tracked down a rouge member of their crew, forced him to pull over at roadside in the middle of the night, and then drunkenly beat him down until outside forces made them stop. They were a little put off by my dismissal of their invitation to come continue drinking with them, but when they asked if I had been scared during the incident, my response made the whole group laugh, and everyone went home. I just told the guy that if he had come one step closer to me, then I would have smeared the bodies of everyone involved all over the street.

So you see, if a group like that in this country can get passed their violently drunken rage in a matter of seconds, after having instigated a clearly premeditated and savage motorcycle assault, only to joke around with a foreigner, as if nothing had ever happened, it shouldn't be too hard to understand how I might have changed a bit over the last year and a half. With those kinds of constant influences, if I had ever worn my emotions on my sleeve, then they're not even hanging on by a thread anymore.

Emotions on my sleeve really only applies to negative ones though because I've definitely made up for it by adding even more cheer to the heavier side of an already unbalanced scale. I'm sure that most people in the US would find me unnecessarily and obnoxiously, maybe even threateningly, upbeat. Of course I exaggerate, but the pleasant aspects of this culture are the ones that I have always clung to, and I've put real effort into making the negatives become positive. Expected and thankless gift-giving is something that I have actually begun to embrace.

Before I travel away from my home, for any number of days, I always refer to an ever-growing list that I've made with the “Notes” application of the “Office” program on my cell phone. It includes such things as: towel, power adapter, sunscreen, hand sanitizer, swimsuit, and dictionary, among many other items that I wouldn't want to forget based on the length of my trip. The most recent necessity I've added to the list, though, is not actually for me. “Gifts for locals” has become a must-bring. Of course, I had already been in the habit of buying memorabilia and other small presents for people back in Medan, but my style of travel these days has changed dramatically from how I had been traveling in the past. My new confidence and trust in a travel system that most might consider to be relying on random events, or simply a laziness to plan, has been working seamlessly and unprecedentedly successfully for about three months straight. I've been having more fun than ever, and this new addition to my travel list has become downright essential.

Here's the deal, no one has ever known me to be anything but shameless, so I guess I'll just tell you my travel arrangements like they are.

1) Choose an area, landmark, or city of interest in North Sumatra
2) Pack bags and ride there by motorcycle
3) Arrive at destination and ask villagers about local color and particularly interesting destinations
4) Wait to be approached by a group of girls
5) Explain to them why I chose to come here and my tentative plans
6) Take their suggestions, invite them along, or hone in on their plans
7) Spend the day making friends
8) Be invited to spend the night with one of their families
9) Meet the parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and cousins (that's where the gifts come in)
10) Spend time in the kitchen, help to cook dinner, and depending on the age of the parents, fall in love with the oldest or youngest daughter
11) Somehow end up getting a massage from the grandmother, mother, or one of the daughters with traditional oils in the living room, while chatting with the family
12) Be offered a place to sleep in one of the brothers' rooms
13) Talk about European soccer clubs until we fall asleep
14) Wake up, eat breakfast, sometimes go to church, and spend time with the family until I have to leave
15) Head back home to Medan, having made friends for life

I don't mean to downplay or exaggerate any part of that list. It's just the truth.

Probably the most interesting occurrence of this rarely deviating pattern was on the island of Samosir. I had rented a bicycle, and had wanted to pedal along on a famous stretch of the island, which is lined with beautifully arranged rice fields, bordered by a wall of mountains that reach across the land and out of sight. Within 30 minutes, I was coaxed by a group of women, who were working in one of the rice patties, to come and join them. It would have been an unforgivable oversight to have shrugged off the opportunity to spend the day, joking around, knee deep in mud with a group of women aged 10 to 60, and I'm glad that my senses were with me that day. Granted, five hours of bending over, trudging through saturated earth, planting seeds was nothing less than grueling, but spirits were quite high, and I helped them finish the days work earlier than what they would have normally been able to do. After completing the task, we all walked about four miles back to their home, which was right on the water. Next we all went out onto the dock with soap and shampoo to take a bath in the lake. From there, you can just read from step 9, and the only difference was that I don't think I talked any soccer, nor did I go to church the next morning.

Yesterday for Christmas eve (by the way, MERRY CHRISTMAS!), I went through the same process because I wanted to see what a traditional Christmas celebration would be like in one of the more predominantly Christian areas of the country. I went to an elaborate Catholic mass, where everyone was sitting on the floor, cross-legged on mats, and a priest from The Netherlands, who was fluent in Bahasa Indonesia, gave the sermon. Of course, there was a nativity play by Indonesian children and singing performances by many members of the congregation. At that point, steps 1 through 9 had already been accomplished, but step 11 was omitted, and step 10 was moved in between 14 and 15.

Are you still taking me seriously? Maybe this is why I haven't been writing as much.

English Club: a Work in Progress

2008-11-29T10:06:00.000-08:00

I've been singing the same song for a while now, and that's the main reason why I haven't written as much in recent weeks. There's been one overwhelming and reoccurring thought on my mind for the better part of two months – how could things get any better? I'm completely ducking the financial crisis because of the fact that, while the U.S. economy is falling, the U.S. dollar is in extremely high demand, so our currency is quite strong around the world. In Indonesia, the dollar is worth 33% more than it was last year at this time. So while I haven't been doing as much inter-island traveling, I've been making up for it with many day trips on my motorcycle and just living it up in Indonesia's 3rd largest city. My teaching is going phenomenally well because I have been spending much more time on preparation. Last year when I was living on my school's campus, it might seem as if I should have been more productive. However, I've found that I can separate myself from my school any time I want this year, and consequently, I'm more motivated to make a difference while I'm there. I spent a lot of time with people in my village last year, but I also spent a lot more time in my room, trying to escape in the only place where privacy was possible. When I was in my house, the last thing I wanted to think about was lesson planning. I wasn't unhappy, but I needed more time to unwind.

I've now gotten over most of the hurdles that bothered me in my first year; I've reached the top of the mountain, and with a much broader perspective, I'm looking down at all I've accomplished thus far. I can Also see what is possible for me to achieve within the next 6 or 7 months with a clarity of vision I could have never hoped for this time last year, even when trying to plan a weekend vacation. The vast majority of cultural differences that bothered me last year don't even phase me anymore, and I know how to avoid situations that still make me cringe. The remainder of my time here is not even going to be a down-hill-battle, so much as rolling down a clover-covered hillside. There will inevitably be a few pebbles and bumps, but I just bought some band-aids at a local pharmacy. I've never felt more prepared to deal with the unpredictable and the unknown. There's no reason for me to feel overconfident about this either. This is currently my home; I speak the language, I have tons of friends my age, and I know the street names. When I was in college, I never found myself looking at the upcoming semester with skepticism or apprehension. I see no reason to be any more cautious than I was during my sophomore year of college.

The fact of the matter is that if I approach people in this culture in the way that they prefer (not the way that I would want to be treated... If there's anything I've learned, it's that in a global era, the Golden Rule is simply obsolete and quite frankly alienating), then I've basically got the key to people's hearts and ultimately the city. I'm not saying this to be funny, and I'm not saying it because I've been insincerely taking advantage of anyone, but the fact of the matter is that racism takes a different form in every culture, and the role I play in this country could never escape from the reality of how people see foreigners within their own borders. I don't use my status to get lower prices at the market or to get people to cancel their plans to do things for me, but I do use it to make connections everywhere I go and to create unique situations, where I know I will get an experience that would have never otherwise been possible.

Bule is the slang term for a westerner, and Bules are known for being rich, handsome, intelligent, successful, motivated, and arrogant (probably in that order). They are usually very high-profile, living in exclusive neighborhoods, driving (or being driven in) expensive cars, and shopping at costly grocery stores that most Indonesians would never enter. I'm a different kind of high-profile though, and arguably, I'm probably considerably more high-profile than the businessmen pulling tens of thousands of dollars a year. I go riding around on my motorcycle (which is low-end even by Indonesian standards) waving and stopping at street vendors, and yelling back “I love you too!” when a middle-aged man feels compelled to shout from his front porch the only thing he knows in English. Usually, I feel like I stand out more because I try to fit in. It's easy to ignore someone who you assume is probably going to ignore you. I often felt cornered by all the attention I got in Central Java, and although I tended to be one of the Fulbrighters who enjoyed playing up the constant flattery, I'm not ashamed to admit that this year has reached a whole new level.

I can see how many people from back home would scoff at my daily interactions with people, and if I were put into an American context, then yeah, I would probably look like a creep, or at least annoying. But, what is important to mention is that my primary concentration (and it will remain my number one focus as long as I'm living in another country) is to mirror everything from attitudes to tones of voice. I would never be the ham that I am in this country if people weren't begging for it. Women and men from North Sumatra are inconceivably flirtatious performers (and I thought Java was something). I like to see people smile, and when I show them that I am just as happy to be talking with them as they are to be talking with the only westerner they've ever met who can speak their language, and when I take the microphone at the karaoke shed across the street from my complex, there's really no where to go but up. I mean seriously, the other day a police officer asked me for my phone number as he pulled beside me while we were both driving on a busy street, and the armed guards at a military base close to my house almost drop their machine guns every time I pass by trying to wave at me.

See, this is why it's hard to write about my experiences here. I don't know how to express this stuff without giving off a blatant air of narcissism. You'll have to come and see for yourself, so you can get some perspective if you ever want me to get into the 75% of stories that I'm withholding!

All that being said, I'm not just going to stop being careful. This past week I had a painful reminder of why I should not let myself get too comfortable.

Monday's session of English club was, overall, the most successful meeting I'd had had to date with my students outside of class. I facilitated an activity where all students had to rank criteria and priorities that came from different topics and categories. For example, one category was “leisure activities,” which including swimming, dancing, reading, drinking, etc. They then had to rate each option based on criteria such as “educational,” “healthy,” “sociable,” etc. The students were engaged, speaking English without thinking, and laughing about their explanations. But, in the midst of all the fun, I misspoke – big.

One negative aspect of this culture that I don't want to pick up is the tendency people have here to generally lack what westerners would consider to be “tact.” Empathy isn't real big in this part of the world, and with all the strife, I can understand why. The fact of the matter is that people say what they think and don't see much of a reason to sensor their thoughts. Consequently, they normally have tremendous amounts of fun because, within a group of friends, no one is worrying about what other people think. They aren't easily offended. However, they are not immune, and I often see quarrels.

Let's say that, in Medan, the ratio of snide comments made to persons who get offended is 10:1. Let's say that it's 10:5 in the U.S. (I don't think this is an exaggeration. Imagine you had just met your high school sweetheart for the first time in 6 years and the first thing he or she said to you was, “Wow, you look so fat now,” would you not be offended? This kind of greeting is not only typical here; a comment about how your physical appearance has changed for the worse would be totally expected.) Anyway, the sheer volume of snide comments made here is mind-boggling, so even if people are five times more likely to be offended in America, I bet that there are still more arguments in Medan.

To tell you the truth, that sort of mindset has already begun to rub off on me, and I find myself rattling off just about anything that comes to mind on a pretty regular basis. It's received very well though, because not only do people appreciate honesty more than flattery, they have pretty dark senses of humor (and I guess you'd have to). What happened on Monday though was still an overt cultural blunder. And really, what am i saying? This was a blunder that would surely transcend cultural barriers. Nevertheless, I'll blame it on being in the habit of not thinking as critically about the things I say before I say them.

The category was “Ways of getting money.” Some of the included options were practices such as “hard work,””tax evasion,” “bank robbery,” and “marrying a rich wife/husband.” Students had to rank these things based on criteria such as “efficient,” “ethical,” “difficult,” and “reliable.” We had some entertaining conversation especially concerning which was most and least ethical. Some of the girls in the room had no problem saying blatantly that they planned on marrying rich, and a few of the guys laughed at the idea of actually paying their required taxes after they graduate.

It wasn't until the very last criterion of “reliability,” that the problem arose. The students' answers had been varying all afternoon on each subject, so it was common for them to seek my opinion. But, when they asked, “Mr. Ken, what do you think is the most reliable way of getting money in Indonesia,” I should have prefaced my answer with an explanation of the duties of the IRS before I said “tax evasion.” In my mind, I had already thought about the fact that, while tax evasion here doesn't ensure you a large sum of much money, it is a sure bet to get at least a little extra because there's virtually no government effort to regulate it, and almost everyone does it. Nearly all transactions are made with cash, and nobody has registered businesses. Neglecting your duties to pay taxes to the government is easy, common, and doesn't have any real consequences. The actual unemployment rate in indonesia is probably miles higher than the percentage of people who pay their taxes.

Nevertheless, my comment was a conversation wrecking-ball, and I immediately realized it. I had to work very hard to recover because it was not at all the answer any of them were expecting (and I shouldn't have said it). The students ended up not caring, and they were laughing in a couple minutes after I tried to explain what I meant. The teacher who was accompanying me, however, was not so easily persuaded that I had only misspoke. She had interpreted my comment as a product of the tendencies of westerners to project their superiority onto people in struggling countries. Any teacher should have answered “hard work” to a group of students, and my analysis of the situation should have been restricted to a time of established discussion – not during a light-hearted game. Thankfully my students, just being teenagers, didn't think twice, and I apologized personally to a couple of the really thoughtful ones, but Ms. Siregar later told me that my comment had brought her to tears later that day. I didn't even know it, but the next day was a huge nationalistic holiday for Indonesia. Tuesday was Hari Guru or Teacher's Day, and the celebrations at schools that accompany this holiday are massive. I hadn't realized that the extra after-school meetings and extracurriculars, which had been going on for weeks, were all in preparation for Teacher's Day, a holiday I saw on the calendar but never gave a second thought. Indonesians have a different kind of pride in their country than Americans, and because they show their love for their country in different ways (like with huge, frequent, lengthy, and organized ceremonies), Americans would probably consider them to be more nationalistic. The spirit of patriotism in Indonesia was high, and Ms. Siregar was quite disappointed in me that I had, in effect, told a group of students that stealing from your government is more promising than following your dreams.

The situation is neither here nor there at this point because I honestly felt terrible for saying it, and Ms. Siregar knew it, plus I made every effort to apologize and to make up for it. I had overstepped my bounds, so without being defensive, I silently endured some pretty pointed and harsh text messages. It's nice to be an adult and to know that when problems arise, most people are actually willing to work at making the situation better, as long as the offending party makes the first attempt to genuinely reconcile. I'm so happy that the days of high school grudges are over because I was losing sleep about this. All I could think about for a few days was an Eddie Izzard comedy sketch that mocked a British ambassador who gave an embarrassing speech in China a few years ago.

“Hello, I'm not too happy to be on the job, and I think you're all a bunch of bastards. I hate you personally. Bye...

“...did I do something wrong –

“what? Ohhh... the whole thing...”

Election Time

2008-11-12T04:52:00.001-08:00

Every four years, the beginning of November will leave a number of people twinkling with anticipation and just as many soured with disappointment. Many hoped their choices this past week would help to propel our nation in a new direction, and others felt that remaining in cruise-control would ensure better gas milage. Both sides had their arguments; both felt strongly; it was a left vs. right battle. One could maintain that there was, in fact, very little difference between last Tuesday's election and any other recent election (it's clear that an unvoiced but very loud half of our country felt this way). However, despite the lingering political apathy and the disheartened right-wingers, I'm positive the modest minority of our citizens who voted for Barack Obama were onto something.

My November 4th began just like any other day of the week in North Sumatra. I woke up at 6:00 a.m., ate a rice-based breakfast, rode my motorcycle down the palm tree-lined street that leads to my school, and began to teach my 10th graders a lesson on conditional clauses. The only way this morning was different for me was because my friend, Jonthon, another Fulbrighter, had come to visit. There has been a decent amount of buzz going around the school about the US presidential elections and specifically about Obama, but it's been no more intense here than it has anywhere else in Indonesia for the past year. Most have been excitedly watching from a distance, as Obama emerged victorious primary after primary. Jonthon helped to add a new dynamic to my classes and made some fresh new jokes, but everything proceeded very much as normal.

It wasn't until after English Club, at about 5:00 p.m., that things started to heat up. That was, after all, 5:00 a.m. in the U.S. I double-checked with my headmaster to make certain that my plans to miss school the next day were still no problem, and Jon and I went back to my house to begin compiling all of our politically oriented periodicals from the past two months. I studied my map of Medan, and we both set off on my mo-ped. Equipped with a bulging, wobbly, mountain-climbers backpack full of reading material and electronics, we began our trek to the only place I could think of where we could watch CNN International and simultaneously get updates from other sources with free, high-speed, wireless internet – Medan's branch of the international chain of hotels, Novotel.

Lucky for us, it was grill night at the Novotel restaurant. For $5 we had free rain over the buffet, which contained everything from shrimp and squid to steak and pork chops. All we had to do was bring the raw meat to the man with the fire, and he eagerly used whatever spices and sauces we figured might taste good. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, however, Jonthon happens to be a vegetarian. Not to fear though. As we happened to have noticed some bell peppers on display at the salad bar, I urged Jon to insist that they grill him up some veggies. They weren't on the menu, and technically, they weren't even part of the salad bar, but if there's one thing I've found about this country, it's that when it comes to food, people will bend over backwards every time to please you. I would feel guilty to take advantage of something like this on a daily basis, but given the circumstances, and the fact that Jon had come all the way from his small village in West Sulawesi, I wanted to make sure he could fully enjoy some of the splendor that city life offers.

A night of downloading all three presidential debates on Youtube was followed by a morning of watching them on my laptop back in the dinning room. By that time, the polls had begun to close in the US, and results were starting to pour in. Jonthon and I decided that we needed to take a break for breakfast and come back a couple hours later, so we could more greatly appreciate the progress. While enjoying a range of rare dairy products offered at this fine international establishment, we were being constantly accompanied by a rotating group of Novotel staff members. They talked excitedly about the election, as if it were their own, and they attentively watched our internet recordings of the debates, as if they had any idea about what the English-speaking candidates were saying.

As a U.S. citizen working overseas, some of the most powerful footage for me after Obama's victory were the images of entire crowds in other nations celebrating the success our new president elect. Hotel Novotel Medan was no exception. High fives were getting passed around as fast as it took people to make eye-contact with one another, and wait staff, as well as managers, were neglecting the bulk of their duties. How does it make sense that these people, who might seem so far removed from the realm of international politics, could get excited over a president who lives on the complete opposite side of the globe? Do they even know what they're happy about? I've found that most of them do, but it's not so obvious.

As Americans it's easy to get caught up in our own lives, enter and leave work every day, study for our exams, take care of our families, and never realize the impact that our choices, ideals, and beliefs have on the lives of other people (and for that matter, our own). We are constantly shaping the face of democracy without even knowing it. We're proud of our American Dream, but it's clear that few of us understand exactly what that is. For us, our country is our home; it is the place where we grew up and the place where we will likely settle down. We have been brought up with a culturally unique, constant, and ingrained encouragement to strive against all odds and to “be whatever you want to be.” We have the riches and resources to make these dreams a reality, and because of that, there's hardly any reason to give these privileges a thought in our day-to-day lives. This is what we have, and this is what we live; it's comfortable, and it doesn't leave a whole lot to be desired. For most U.S. citizens, the American Dream has unfortunately become an American routine. People in other nations see our success, but they don't fully understand how we've come to achieve it, nor how we sustain it. That, however, doesn't keep them from being impressed. Indonesians want to like America, albeit they have many reasons not to, but they are a struggling new democracy; they want and need an ideological example.

Those whom I've talked to in Indonesia generally don't have any idea about what's going on with foreign policy; their lives demand that they know even less than the average politically naïve westerner. They generally don't have a clue about the global financial crisis, how it was caused, or even about it's implications. They know that there's a problem, and they know it started in the West, but they don't care one way or the other about how McCain or Obama plan to tackle the problem. They do, however, see how poorly things have been handled in the Middle East for the last many years; they know about Guantanamo Bay, and recently they've see white, elderly, political everyman, John McCain juxtaposed with a dark-skinned guy, who's father came from Africa, and who has drastically different opinions about how the U.S. should conduct itself abroad. Many of them see Obama as a symbol for how democracy can work at it's best, and how even though he's a member of a minority, the American people came together, over their differences, and chose the only real option for the presidency.

A constant struggle with corruption, poverty, a rise in religious fundamentalism, unemployment, failed educational reforms, and poor healthcare, has led many Indonesians to become understandably skeptical as to whether or not democracy is any better than Suharto's autocratic and many times cruel regime, which ended only ten years ago. Many remember a sense of security under Suharto that isn't as present today, even though the over-all state of their country has undeniably improved. Indonesians are longing for a boost in patriotic spirit and self belief that could help them realize their own potential as the 4th most populated country on earth. Personally, my spirits have been boosted to have a pragmatic leader who's not afraid to listen to his opponents, but the rest of the world (at least my friends in Indonesia) is excited to see that the American Dream is not a myth and that, while it may take many years, they have every opportunity to continue fighting for the same standards within their own nations.

I'm Glad I Chose Education

2008-10-18T08:55:00.000-07:00

Something I realized this past summer, as I was galavanting around the country with Jon (and i wonder if you've noticed), is the fact that I have unintentionally but, nevertheless, consistently excluded writing about my experiences teaching here. I've relayed some humorous anecdotes from the pesantren, and I've hinted at the character of certain staff members at my current school, but I don't think I've even once mentioned what it's been like for a math major to suddenly change focus, submit the grades of 15 Jefferson Community College algebra finals, and only two days later leave the University environment altogether to begin teaching English in an Indonesian high school. This is my job here. I don't know how, but I guess sometimes I forget about that.

My intentions are not to convey that teaching is an unimportant part of my time hear, but it is apparent that I have chosen to embrace the ultimate goal of the Fulbright Program, rather than thinking of myself exclusively as an English teacher. It's easy to make all my experiences very much my own, especially since AMINEF does very little to monitor my progress or accomplishments. Last year I felt I was put into an almost impossible situation as a conversational English teacher, so I chose to focus on different aspects of the grant. I made life-long friendships with the people in my community and I know almost all the local foods, in which they take so much pride. I could have stressed about planning futile lessons with students who just don't speak English, and I could have taken relieving vacations every weekend; that would have been no problem and likely no less rewarding. My pesantren students very well could have been able to speak better English at the end of 10 months if that was the route I had taken. However, I relaxed, and I used my inherent influence as a foreigner in a village that hasn't seen a white resident since Dutch imperialism (which is very far from a joke). I made impressions in my own way. I coasted through my classes, acting like a clown, relying on my humor and facial expressions, and I passively improved my students' motivation to study English; however, I actively tried to increase their curiosity about life outside a traditional village. Last year, the role I played in Guyangan was very far from “English teacher,” but I felt that I maximized my experience, even though my prescribed title was “English Teaching Assistant.”

That being said, my situation this year is a far cry from what I went through last year. There are plenty of similarities, but I have to deliberately look for them because I'm already used to Indonesian high school norms. There are plenty of defining characteristics that almost all Indonesian schools possess simply because of culture. For example, neither of my schools have a cafeteria; both are built around a courtyard, and they have open-air classrooms, which are consequently subject to an number of regular disturbances. Educators in both environments tend to value quiet mouths, unconditional respect for teachers, and memorization more than they appreciate interactive environments, fostering independent thinking, and problem solving. That's just the culture of secondary education in this country. However, the organization and administration of St. Yoseph is much closer to that of an American high school than Raudlatul Ulum (YPRU), which never pretended to be anything other than a conservative madrasah. There are two assistants to the head master at St. Yoseph, one for curriculum and another who is the dean of students. They both have a significant amount of pull, and their suggestions to Sister Modesta are always taken into consideration. I've seen arguments between administrators arise and then be calmly and diplomatically resolved, leaving no party at any significant loss. At YPRU, I only saw consequences for those who intentionally (or unintentionally) “crossed” Mr. Humam.

Mr. Humam is a brilliant Individual, a moving public speaker, and a convincing politician. I found myself laughing at his speeches before I had any idea what he was saying. The fact of the matter is that he is a highly effective community and religious leader, who just so happens to own and operate a school. And it just so happens that he has some strong opinions on how that should be done. Ultimately, he had total control and no control over the school at the same time. He demanded the obedience of staff, teachers, and students, but he was constantly making presentations in Jakarta, Semarang, and Surabaya to various ministries of religion and local governments for grant money. His presence was seen only half the time at the pesantren, and when he was gone, problems simply went unresolved until his return. If an administrator or teacher were 95% positive that he could handle a dispute on his own, then that 5% of uncertainty was more than enough to forgo the risk of possibly disappointing the Kyai. Consequently, the curriculum was lacking, teachers' schedules constantly conflicted, and the key to the copy room remained in one man's possession, whether he was present that day or not. My students there were raised with the fear of Allah, and rarely did I have anything resembling a disciplinary issue, but the national examination at the end of the year was a collective and excused cheat-fest that I doubt excluded a single sole.

I don't know yet if rampant cheating is commonplace at my new school or not, as it seems to be pretty normal in most Indonesian high schools, but I can't imagine that it happens to the same degree at St. Yoseph as it does at most others. Of all the schools I've visited in this country, having had the opportunity to travel to other fulbrighters' sites, I've not yet seen a single other institution staffed with a workforce of entirely full-time employees. I've yet to see another school with mandatory time-cards. And I've never seen another teachers' office with personally assigned spaces and desks sporting ornamental name-plates. My fellow teachers all have college degrees and seem to be pretty motivated to plan lessons in advance. This is unfortunately not always (usually?) the case. When teachers put in effort, they are obviously more likely to be disappointed in students who don't take them seriously. But teachers who don't even put in time to plan their own classes don't have the right to be let down by a student's lack of motivation. In most cases, teachers in this country simply don't push their students because they, themselves, were never pushed to excel by their own teachers.

My new colleagues are an entirely different breed from the devout group who sat and lectured endlessly at my old school. I see so much more of a community within the teachers' lounge here. There were over 120 instructors in Guyangan's only high school, and some of them showed their faces just once a week. Few friendships were made in the teachers office at YPRU, only continued.

That's more than a slight contrast to the perpetual “open mic' night”, that is the first door on your right on the ground floor of St. Yoseph Catholic High School. There is always an empty guitar case on top of the history bookshelf, and that's not because the music instructor has stubbornly avoided returning its contents. I can safely say that every single day I will be serenaded in either a tradition Batak tune, Indo-pop, or a common Indonesian rendition of “Hotel California,” which has somehow come to necessitate a three-part harmony. The people of North Sumatra are admired by the entirety of an already musically inclined culture. My counterpart, Mrs. Simbolon, sang a traditional song at our orientation in August, when all the counterparts arrived, and I heard comments circulating the room about this requisite talent of Batak people. I was duly impressed by my students in Guyangan, who could put together an impressive ensemble with virtually no time to practice, but it should tell you something that I no longer even have a reaction when the communal guitar gets passed randomly to the biology teacher (whom I hadn't before even seen whistling to herself), and she breaks out “Bohemian Rhapsody,” while the Chemistry teacher is singing “Unchained Melody” a cappella. People tell me that if I just sang louder, I would impress everyone in the room, including myself – I assure them that my barely audible volume is more than appropriate.

Spaghetti Really Takes You Places in this Country

2008-10-06T01:06:00.000-07:00

I don't think I ever painted a picture of my life in a madrasah, in a small and conservative town away from all things western, as a grim experience; you already know it was quite the opposite. However, there were aspects of my personality that I had to constantly highlight, alter, or even omit altogether in order to assimilate harmoniously in Guyangan. It was never really easy. I didn't feel that I was ever being dishonest with myself or with the people who lived around me, but I soon realized that to reveal certain aspects of my character would not only be shocking , but it would be downright inappropriate considering the circumstances. If I wanted to convey a self image comparable to the open, friendly and joking person I try to be in the U.S., then there were certain behaviors I would have to change, in order to fit in with the local culture. I wasn't really Kenneth Scott Moore in Guyangan, but while I was there, I at least tried to be the equivalent of Kenneth Scott Moore, if that makes sense.

That being said, I have come to enormously value my experience there, and I've come to value it in a number of ways. Today however, I want to discuss only one aspect in which I now appreciate what was an overtly restricted life in Central Java. That aspect is the extent to which my time there has allowed me to relish in the sweet fruits of my now almost totally unencumbered life in North Sumatra! Don't get me wrong; I'm not running a muck every weekend. If fact, I've so far been to only one bar in this entire city, and by no means could they consider me a regular. However, I have been making up for last year's repression in other ways. When female Fulbrighters came to visit me in Guyangan, we were not allowed to walk from the school to the dining hall side-by-side. And of course, they were highly encouraged to wear head scarves, which all of them did except on one occasion earlier in the year before I had truly realized the intensity of my situation. Nothing about my stay in Medan even remotely compares to the severity of Kiayi Humam's rule over his small kingdom within the regency of Pati. So, for a change, I've been spending a completely different kind of quality time with my new headmaster – headmistress actually.

Sister Modesta is perhaps one of the kindest and most benevolent individuals I have ever known. She has been responsible for such efforts as making sure that Mr. Monang is on hand to keep me company at any time when she has the slightest inkling that I might be lonely; going beyond the owner of my house to have the school's repairman fix the leak in my roof; sending bushels of fruit to my doorstep when I was sick; regularly calling me to her office during my breaks so she can get in as much English practice as possible, and frequently making rounds in the school to make sure it is being run in a proper manner. This is one of the those times when I won't even bother to compare my two principles, head-to-head, as far as their effectiveness as educators. Nevertheless, Sister Modesta has taken a keen liking to me and is always thinking up some reason why I should come visit her. My arm has been burned and braised with twist marks, as I've been relentlessly forced to spend hours of my free time within the confines of the all-female boarding house at St. Thomas Catholic University.

Should I find myself already on her campus when a slight shower begins to drizzle from passing clouds, the harem of 35 women will do anything to keep me from leaving and risking getting a cold. But yesterday afternoon, as I had promised to bring 11 pounds of tomatoes and six boxes of pasta to cook spaghetti for everyone, I was pitilessly urged to just put on my raincoat and ride through a torrential downpour. I arrived 15 minutes later at the university kitchen with Indonesia's acid rain dripping from every inch of my body, and I was greeted by two eager nuns and four smiling girls from the English department. I removed all the ingredients and supplies from my over-sized, mountaineering backpack, and we quickly began to mince onions, peel tomatoes, and boil water. It turned out to be a monumental success, as I just let the enormous pot of sauce simmer, while I repeatedly taste-tested it to make sure the proportions of garlic and Italian seasoning hadn't gotten out of hand through the madness of preparing enough food to feed an army.

As all the students made their way down to the kitchen, I climbed the stairs to eat my meal with the eight or nine sisters who were present (Sister Modesta actually didn't make it because she was visiting a friend in the hospital). We joked around, while making comments about how this would have to become a weekly event, and once again, I felt my arm being squeezed red with friction. I was promised the opportunity next week to dine in the student-canteen with the girls if I came back to learn the traditional cooking methods of a Batak dish with the same crew.

...And now the story of Sir Galahad, the pure.

Motorcycle Madness

2008-10-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

I love driving. I don't know what it is, but I whole-heartedly enjoy the activity. Destination is secondary if I am behind the wheel. As a kid, I must have regularly complained about mowing the lawn, but when I look back at all my memories of actually sitting on the riding mower, I don't think I have a single negative one in store. I used to humor myself by trying to mow soccer-field-like stripes in the front lawn; I had strategies to trim our amorphously shaped yard in a path that was as symmetrical as possible, even though it undoubtedly took longer; I was thrilled to mow a walkway in our overgrown field one summer when many relatives planned to visit us; it killed me to share the mower with my cousin when it came time to cut down the cornstalks in my grandfather's garden; I begged incessantly for at least a couple years to have a go-cart. And when I was finally given a golf cart, it took only months for it to be driven to an anticlimactic death of smelly electrical smoke.

It's times like yesterday when individual qualities such as this, which have been engrained and nurtured for years, come in markedly handy. My motorcycle trip to Lake Toba, which started only on Monday and ended promptly on Tuesday consisted of over 12 hours of driving. It was supposedly a 4 hour trip in either direction, but as I've discussed before, estimates of time, distance, and speed are seldom accurate here. Indonesian people will consistently underestimate distance and time, but they will always exaggerate speed. This undoubtedly means that the more questions you ask about any particular destination (concerning the three variables mentioned above), the more your travel plans will differ from the reality of your actual trip.

For example, I'd like to share an excerpt from the pre-travel-coordination conversation I had with my friend Chris the night before we left for Lake Toba. Distances have already been converted to miles for your convenience.

“So, how far would you say we're going to be riding tomorrow?”
“It's right around 60 miles”
“Great, how long do you think that will take?”
“It's usually around five hours, but if we tried to average 60 miles per hour, we could easily do it in four.”
“I'm sorry, could you repeat that?”
“Yeah, if we average 60 miles per hour, then we could make the trip in four hours.”
“...and how far did you say it was again?”
“60 miles”
“So... it's going to take four hours to get there?”
“Sure, but only if we average 60 miles per hour”
“Alrighty then.”

You can see the logic just completely break down right in front of you if you ask too many questions, and I honestly don't know why I still bother. First of all, I'd like to note that we likely traveled over 100 miles in each direction. And secondly, there's no possible way anyone could average 60 miles per hour riding on mo-peds in Indonesian traffic. I've never even gotten my mo-ped up to 50 miles per hour going down hill, and if I could, I wouldn't have any desire to do so. To make a lazy comparison, driving in Indonesian is like a constant game of Frogger – a game of Frogger in which the roles are reversed, and instead of a frog trying to avoid many cars, it's a motorcycle trying to avoid an amalgam of other motorcycles and a plethora of other randomly shifting objects. There are four chief differences, though, that add four new dimensions to the game. The first is that driving here is, in fact, not a game at all, which tends to amplify the gravity of the situation. The second is that actual gravity does, indeed, play a role. Helmets are flying off people's heads, shoes are coming off people's feet, and unsecured furniture is falling off people's trucks. Next is that, contrary to frogger where individual lines of traffic move at constant speeds, people in Indonesia are always accelerating, decelerating, and switching lanes altogether, at totally unpredictable times. And hey, what am I saying? There never really were lanes here to begin with. And lastly, in Frogger, you only have to worry about cars moving perpendicular to your path. In Indonesian traffic, you must avoid drivers who commonly head the wrong way down one-way streets, pedestrians crossing at inopportune times, carrying gigantic, vision-obstructing boxes of tofu, and let's not forget stray farm animals of all sizes, running in all directions.

I can't imagine how naturally adept at games like Need for Speed Indonesian children must be. When driving here, my awareness peaks, and I feel like I've inherited some sort of Spiderman-like super power, where I know exactly what's happening behind me as I follow multiple other simultaneous events in front and on either side of my motorcycle. I've always been one to analyze my soccer game, and even at age 23 and not playing on a team, I still can't help but do it. The last few times I've played pick-up games in Medan, in some aspects, I've been playing better than ever before. This made no sense to me until I started writing this entry, but I'm now pretty sure that even though I hardly played in Pati after Christmas, and though I didn't play when I went home this past summer, I have had numerous grueling practice sessions on Indonesian streets. It's not that I'm running faster or doing any impressive ticks, but my concentration on the ball and on my teammates has jumped to a whole new level over the past six months. I'm sending one-touch passes to people making runs behind me that I would have never been able to do a year a ago.

Amidst all the confusion on the roads here, there is one thing you can always count on though, which adds an undeniable element of safety that does not exist on American streets. You can always take for granted that no other drivers are taking anything for granted. People drive more slowly; they are constantly scanning their surroundings (because they absolutely have to), and road-rage just isn't a factor because, guess what, shit happens, and it happens a lot on Indonesian streets; people just don't get angry about it. The phenomenon of over-correcting because you made a mistake and became panicked doesn't really exist here either. Indonesian drivers cannot afford to drift into a state of complacency and controlled cruise, where being startled is even an option. You can't do anything resembling “cruising” in Indonesia. Truth be told, you're sort of always panicking on the roads here, and while that may seem super dangerous on the surface, I think it actually falls into the category of, “if you emphasize everything, then you emphasize nothing.” What I mean to say by that is if you're always in a state of panic, then after a while, panicking ends up not being so bad.

So even in Indonesia, I still love driving, and again, that served me incredibly well last night when I found my way home against all odds. Chris, who I knew was going to be a fast driver from his personality, ended up totally ditching me only an hour into our drive home from Lake Toba. It was dark and rainy, and I simply wasn't going to step out of my comfort zone to try to keep up with him. There are certain things I am just not willing to do. One of those things happens to be driving entirely too fast in adverse conditions, risking the remaining years of my life, in order to save an hour. So, not paying enough attention, Chris kept the pedal to the medal, and he lost me. When I talked to him later, I found that he had made multiple stops to wait and watch for me, but since it was at night (cloudy and rainy), the only thing that was clear was that I did not see him. It would have been so convenient if we could have just called each other and figured out our respective locations. However, last night happened to be the year's biggest night of celebration in the whole country, the last night of Ramadan. And as to cater to nostalgic families, Telkomsel deemed it appropriate to make all calls free. Consequently, the air-space was completely clogged, and you couldn't make a call if your life depended on it. And so, Telkomsel entered my life in yet another area to inconvenience me again.

The magnitude of this particular holiday in Indonesia is far beyond Christmas Day in the U.S.; it's like comparing President's Day to Easter. The Christmas season as a whole in the U.S., however, is much more of an affair than the Ramadan season in Indonesia. We have decorations that we keep up for over a month; there are tons of Christmas songs and movies, and we even have a season change that adds the image of “a white Christmas.” There's virtually nothing like that in Indonesia. However (and this is a big however), the last night of fasting is the most impressive collective societal event I've ever conceived of, and no other culture on earth has a comparable holiday, even in other Muslim countries. Last year, locked away in the confines of an Islamic boarding school in a small village, I couldn't really appreciate it. This year however, I found myself driving alone, through villages and cities, at prime time (6 pm – 12 am), through some the most intense insanity I'd ever experienced.

Indonesians are very proud of their unique holiday, Lebaran, which marks the end of Ramadan and the beginning of Idul Fitri. It's a nation-wide migration, where nearly every person in the country leaves their home. Traditionally, you go back to your childhood town or village, where your parents are from, but families generally take turns visiting a different prominent family member each year. It transcends religion, so even Christians join in on the madness. I've been told that nearly 80% of the residents of Jakarta's metropolitan area (that's over 16 million people, but don't quote me on that because I just talked about how people exaggerate) leave the city to head home. It's the only time of year when you can drive freely on Jakarta's infamously crammed streets, and every plane and train ticket in the country is booked weeks in advance, and of course, travel agencies jack prices 3-fold. Frankly, it's extremely difficult to find a single person who's not going at least somewhere for Lebaran, even 15 minutes away. Indonesians love to get together to hang out, and no other country can boast a nation-wide migration even remotely close to the world's 4th most populated country.

On any saturday night, at any given city center in Indonesia, you'll find something comparable to the proportions of an annual county fair in America. Tents are set up; people sell produce and food from carts; stands are available where you can buy music and DVDs, and kids have every kind of entertainment they could ask for. So, to put this terms we can all hopefully understand, my journey home last night, during the biggest holiday of the year, was like driving through miles and miles on end of Thunder over Louisville, the Kentucky Derby, or within a half-mile radius of the racetrack parking lot directly after the checkered flag of the Indianapolis 500. Fireworks started as soon as the sun went down yesterday and hadn't stopped by the time I got back to Medan at midnight. Every mosque in the area was sounding it's call to prayer. Trucks everywhere were decorated like floats in a parade with people playing music in their beds. Countless gangs of motorcycles road together, revving their engines in synchronized rhythms. Policemen and other security were directing traffic at every stoplight. Makeshift stands, selling fried goodies lined the streets. Kid's carnival games were at every big intersection, and probably 90% of the population was outside. I've always heard people talk about Lebaran and how many people go out at night to celebrate it, but last year, circumstances prevented me from seeing what really goes on. This year, circumstances allowed me to see Lebaran from farm to village to the 3rd largest city in the country.

All this was admittedly quite nerve-wracking for me, considering that I had no clue where I was (except that the road signs kept saying “to Medan”) and that it was pouring rain the whole time. It is currently the most intense part of the wet season in North Sumatra, and at one point around 10 pm I was riding through six inches of water with a legion of other motorcycles. Despite the chaos though, from the moment I lost sight of Chris, I had already decided that I wasn't going to be angry with him. I know Indonesian people well, and I was positive that the extent to which he was going to be worrying about me, once he realized that he had lost me at night, in a monsoon, hours before arriving in Medan, on the last night of Ramadan, was going to far and away surpass whatever combination of emotions I could possibly be feeling about the situation. I also knew that if he had started to make calls to people at my school about his losing me, then they were going to be so angry with him, that there was no need for me to add any more negative feelings to the equation. In fact, I was hoping in my heart of hearts that he had not already begun to make calls (that is if he could have gotten through to anyone in the first place).

The fact of the matter is that I would have never agreed to go on an epic motorcycle journey if I wasn't already 100% confident that I could have done it by myself. I know how to handle myself here, and I know how to talk to strangers. After more than a year of constantly traveling in this country, I'm also much better equipped to deal with unpredictable circumstances in unfamiliar environments. If something to the degree of losing my only guide in the middle of nowhere had not happened on this trip, truthfully I would have pretty surprised. I may not willingly put myself in positions of needless risk, such as driving like the MotoGP champion on pothole-laden roads; on the other hand, I have come to the point where I seek adventure at virtually every opportunity.

Once I arrived in Medan, I went straight to Chris's house, and despite his having stopped to looked for me (as well as having asked locals if they'd seen a white guy wearing a silver poncho) at every intersection in each subsequent city before Medan, he still managed to get back before me. Truth be told, not too long after I lost sight of him, I decided that since I wasn't going to be mad at him, I would make up for those feelings in another way and just relish in the fact that he should have been more responsible and that he was certainly going to be feeling intense sensations of guilt. Accordingly, I slowed down, pulled over, got my iPod out of my bag, safely secured it under my rain jacket, and fed the headphones into my helmet. I reduced my pace to a speed that would ensure my utmost safety, and I drove happily in the rain for hours, listening to my favorite music, through the craziest bedlam Indonesia has to offer. I then cruelly enjoyed the desperate expression on his face when he burst through his front door to meet the motorcycle pulling into his driveway at 12 am.

Did I mention that Lake Toba happens to be one of the most beautiful places on Earth? Well, it is.

Why this Language and Culture are so Darn Cute

2008-09-24T02:22:00.000-07:00

Part 2: The Culture in General

The welcoming attitudes, the warm gazes, the incessant giggling, the sweet kids, the eager adults, and the effortless smiles are just some of the untouchable qualities that make Indonesian culture what it is. Granted, poor work ethic, rivers of garbage, roads plagued with oil-guzzling trucks, above-ground sewage, and preposterous standards for education also help to define this society. However, from day one, these blaringly obvious pitfalls have never seemed to stack up against the positive qualities I mentioned in my first list. I'm not sure if Indonesian people are so happy because they just ignore all the misfortune around them, if the are able to ignore all their misfortune because they have so much to be happy about, or if they encounter so much misfortune because they tend to happily ignore the root causes of all their problems. Regardless, these people struggle daily but remain unequivocally carefree. That sort of attitude is contagious. So when I talk about my experiences, it's not only difficult, but also culturally abnormal to mention drawbacks. Few people talk to me about Indonesian's problems in all seriousness, so what I end up noticing on a day-to-day basis (or maybe what I fight to stay focused on) is just how cute and enduring everything is.

The substitution of mind for heart in daily expressions, and in general thinking as well, is something I find, not necessarily comforting, but certainly, for lack of a better word, heart-warming. If a person wanted to express, “It's been on my mind for a while,” the common Indonesian equivalent phrase would translate directly as “It's been saved in my heart.” The word from Indonesian for heart is hati, and if you wanted to tell someone to “be careful,” you would say hati-hati. Suggesting that someone “pay attention” or “pay it mind” would be stated as memperhatikan, or “give it your heart.” And it's not common to simply call someone “sincere” or tulus in Indonesia; you would want to tell them that they are tulus hati.

Another reason why this brings a smile to my face, though, is because the Indonesian core of emotions is, in fact, not the heart; it is the liver. So actually, when telling someone to “give it their heart,” you are indeed suggesting to them to “give it their liver!” This may sound silly, but there might actually be more to this.

Let's look at the two vital organs side-by-side. The heart is without a doubt one heck of an important muscle, but let's face it; it's just a muscle. It's a strong muscle, creating enough pressure to circulate blood through the entire body, but it pales in comparison to the complexity of the liver. The liver has it's hands in such important enterprises as managing our metabolism, protein synthesis, decomposition of red blood cells, producing bile to aid in digestion, and as you heavy drinkers know, detoxification. Biologically speaking, the liver simply has a better track record and has proven itself time and time again that it is a more organized, responsible, and trustworthy candidate for taking on another important task, such as regulating our emotions. If a person in the U.S. gets “stabbed in the heart,” they will die instantly. An indonesian person, on the other hand, who takes the same blow to the liver has at worst 24 hours to collect themselves, make some phone calls, and chances are, they'll probably survive. Heart simply falls short.* If nothing else, this is as good an explanation as any for the causality conundrum on which I was commenting in the first paragraph.

If you happen to be quite close to someone's liver in this country, then you will be subject to all sorts of interrogation. In fact, it seems that the mundaneness of the questions someone asks you on a daily basis is a perfect indicator of the degree to which they care about you. The more uninteresting the questions; the more concerned they are.

“Sudah sembuh?” is the entry level question for a person who has entered your life and whom you see regularly. This means “Are you feeling better?” As you might have noticed, climbing “above the weather” and staying there is not the easiest task in this country. Getting sick in some respect (be it a cold, sore throat, or some stomach discomfort) is probably a biweekly occurrence for most Indonesians, and feeling ill is something simple that anyone with whom you have frequent contact would know about you. So basically, anyone who knows that you had, at one time, not been well will, with out fail, ask you if you are doing alright.

“Sudah tidur?” is a step up. Sleeping is something we people do once daily, and asking if you have “gotten enough sleep” shows that you are truly a fixture in that person's life. As it happens, lack of sleep can lead to illness, and we wouldn't want to have to take a step back in our relationship and ask something semi-irregular, like “Have you gotten better yet?” It's more promising to keep tabs incessantly on one's sleep patterns.

“Sudah Mandi?” is a question which shows that you have more or less entered the realm of family. Bathing is something Indonesians do at least twice a day, by culture. Plus, this is, by nature, a bit more personal. If someone has asked you if you've already taken a bath by late afternoon, they are in no way insinuating that you stink; they are simply making sure that you haven't neglected to consider your personal hygiene. Appearance and first impressions are even more important here than in the U.S., and we wouldn't want to find ourselves in a position where we would have to meet someone of a “higher status” without having taken a shower, now would we?

Let me put it this way; if a girl asks me, “Sudah makan?” I can be pretty sure that marrying her is not out of the question – or that she views me as a son (or both). And if this question comes from a male, we are basically siblings. We eat at least three times a day, and when people are checking up on your dining habits, you know that you could not be closer to them. In Indonesia, a question like “How have you been since your sister's death?” withers in the shadow of a question like, “Have you taken your lunch yet?” A true friend would not only already have a firm grasp on any case where your family member has died, but they would have already gone to great lengths to make sure you are coping positively. Conversing about death and serious injury in Indonesia is basically chewin' the fat and could come up as a side conversation in literally any setting. However, if it so happened that I forgot to bring a sandwich to the teacher's lounge, my closest friends would be eager to share half of their fried rice.

As I mentioned above, status is quite important in this country, and it's an Asian phenomenon that just doesn't exists to the same extent in the western world. “Saving face” and “keeping your name” are of utmost importance and are always on people's minds. And what better way to show that you are an upstanding and contributing member of society than to have a boatload of abbreviated titles prefixing your name? These aren't just novelties either that you simply let go of after you switch jobs. In Indonesia, if you were ever manager of a Pizza Hut, then Mgr. is something you could always insert after Mr. and before your name. People often call me “Pak Guru Ken.,” which translates to “Mr. Teacher Ken.” Guru is just another heading I can now save, until the end of my days, within my ever accumulating list of titles. Should I obtain a doctorate and then acquire some sort of religious standing in the upcoming years, if I come back, then I will surely be referred to as Mr. Dr. Preacher Teacher Ken!

*The heart and liver commentary was in no way an endorsement for John McCain

Goat's Eyes and Rat's Tails

2008-09-23T01:59:00.000-07:00

You might refer to my blog entries from last January and February to refresh yourself on what it's like to be sick on Java. That experience, however, was quite different from the one I most recently had. Last year, many factors distorted the reality of what being sick in Indonesia really means. In fact, the entire institution of being sick in this country is all together different. By the time I fell ill in the pesantren, I had already established myself in the community; people already knew my personality and had already begun to understand the cultural differences between westerners and indonesians. That being said, while I was in the village, I dealt with being sick much as I would have any other time. Of course, at the hospitals, I was at the mercy of local culture and business, but while in Guyangan, I stayed in my house, and I rested. I watched a lot of TV, and I lied on my bed. People didn't really disturb me because they knew I was sick. Until now though, after having observed people in this culture for six or seven more months, and also after having just moved to a new location with new friends who don't really know me yet, I hadn't consciously recognized how abnormal it must have been for the people in Guyangan to have handled my sickness as they did – that is with relative indifference, as I would have expected from any neighbor in the U.S.

I realize that my being a foreigner and a guest at this school tends to amplify whatever reaction people might have to my being in a state of need; however, that's not actually the biggest factor when looking at all the reasons for the differences in how people here are treated when they are ill. Number one is, with out a doubt, the sense of community that people have here. I've made comments like this before, but it's worth mentioning again. It's just so far beyond “southern comfort” that looking out for your friends and family doesn't only function as an aspect of the culture here; it defines social norms and the way people treat each other everyday, in every situation.

I entered St. Yoseph and my community here in a much different light than I did at the pesantren. I immediately started making friends who don't speak English; I instantly began making cultural jokes and quickly learned new ones; I could sing their songs, and I already had strategies for the classroom. By default, I was also less of a novelty. I'm in a big city with more cultured people who, aside from that, have grown up in a culture where everyone seems to be a little less willing to immediately take things at face value. What I mean to say by telling you all this is that I entered this community much more as a community member than as outsider, as compared to last year. And so, I'm being treated as one. I'm already used to how people act around one another (Medan just isn't that different from Java, from the perspective of a westerner, as far as interactions between friends and family); I expected this and instantly accepted it – rather than both parties starting from ground zero and learning everything from one another. Consequently, people look at me, and instead of trying to figure out what a westerner might want in a particular situation, they just assume that I would want to be treated as they treat each other. This is all you could expect from people who've never had intimate contact with an outsider, but because I was already familiar with so many aspects of their culture, I've made it much easier on them, and in some ways harder on me because now I don't even have the relative luxury of people trying to figure me out. You don't expect people in your own culture to have to figure you out, but at least subconsciously you know that people from other cultures are doing their best to try; however, when people here confidently treat me like an Indonesian, it can sometimes be even more frustrating than entering a completely new and unfamiliar place, without any prior connections.

Nevertheless, I've digressed. The second biggest reason why people feel the irrepressible urge to take care of me is due to a fact that I've already mentioned in a previous post; I'm 23, unmarried, and living by myself. At least last year, I was living on the campus of the school. This year I'm in a neighborhood ALONE, away from the people with whom I work, around people who no one knew before I moved there. This is a constant source of distress for my headmistress, who's sister once knew a German guy who died in Indonesia on vacation.

I'm currently half way through my round of antibiotics, and I'm almost well. I've been laying low in my house, trying to get over a throat infection, but to anyone from the outside, it probably looks like I've been having a week-long garage sale, judging by how many people have been coming in and out of my house all day. At this point, I really don't know how to tell people to stop bothering me. Once again, I have to come back to this western sense of privacy that these people just do not have. The two people sitting with me right now informed me that after they called my cell phone, and I didn't answer, they decided to come over (which is surely what they were going to do even if I had picked up). They've now been here for over two hours because it's apparent that they don't have to work (on a Monday), and one of them has fallen asleep watching, guess what, Indonesian day-time television with the volume at full blast. I feel like I've been running a circus all week, and it's no coincidence that it's because I've been feverishly ill.

I guess what has gotten on my nerves the most is having had to listen to the incessant suggestions as to how to get better and everyone's diagnosis, as well as probable cause for the illness. First of all, when I say diagnosis, what I mean to say is hearing people exclaim, “Ooooh, masuk angin!” Masuk angin seems to be the only illness afflicting anyone who's not perceived to be 110% healthy in this country. This is their expression for “catching a cold.” According to my co-workers and friends, my particular case of masuk angin could have potentially been caused by the following:

1)Eating too much spicy food
2)Playing soccer with the middle schoolers a week and a half ago
3)Riding my motorcycle in the rain
4)Riding my motorcycle without a jacket (even when it's sunny)
5)Watching TV with the fan pointed toward me
6)Taking a nap on the floor on my new mattress
7)Breathing chalk dust from the chalk board

These are all perfectly sound arguments for why I had a fever for 3 days in a row, a headache, dizziness, and swollen glands with a soar throat and redness. And interestingly enough, after my counterpart (who is just about the loopiest woman I've ever met) gave me her advice about not eating spicy food, she opened up the bag of arsyik she had brought me for my lunch, certainly the spiciest traditional Batak dish that I know of. I was positive that spicy food had not caused my throat infection, but honestly, stuffed chilies surrounding a goldfish swimming in chili sauce was not what I wanted at the time.

There are an ample amount of remedies for curing masuk angin, which range from a traditional massage to seemingly random concoctions of god knows what, and I've been subject to them all. The massage I was forced into left me with bruises on my shins, but the special drinks, at least, weren't physically painful. My favorite has been just taking huge double-shots of honey! I've also seen people taking shots of olive oil and strange fermented milk drinks. Honey, though, in this country is by far the most common drink that one might make a toast to. It is viewed as the preferable alternative to sugar in almost all cases because it makes you “strong instead of fat.” So like I said, people tend to just throw their head back and down a glass of it in fractions of a second. Another drink, however, that has only recently been brought to my attention was unfortunately forced down my throat twice in two days. When Mr. Jon walked in my house with two glowing blue eggs, I knew I was in for it. He casually walked into my kitchen, needing not to start any sort of conversation, and began draining the whites from the two eggs he had cracked on my counter.

“Are raw eggs healthy?” I asked in Indonesian, to which I got a delayed answer but instantly raised eyebrows followed by an intimidating glare. “This is medicine,” was Mr. Jon's only verbal reply.

He proceeded to mix the egg yokes with honey and some indonesian spices, which I don't think even have English names. After the brew was homogeneous, it was handed to me in a coffee cup. All I could think of was bird flu, and so I asked one more time if it was okay to drink. Mr. Jon assured me that there was no need to worry because these were not chicken eggs, but instead they were telur desa, or “village eggs.”

Oh great, “Village eggs!” I thought to myself. Well, why didn't you say so???

Reluctantly, I gulped down the entire glass, while Mr. Jon put a couple more eggs into my refrigerator. I didn't want another glass of that stuff, but I wasn't going to insist that he take the eggs home. The next day, he barged in while Mr. Sinaga had been making himself comfortable on my couch. Immediately he asked if I had eaten the other eggs. Pretending like I didn't know what he was talking about, I just looked at him with a confused expression, and hesitantly answered no. I guess I was hoping he would just let it go, but instead he simply opened my refrigerator and got them out himself. About that time Mr. Sinaga had awakened and walked into my kitchen to see what the commotion was about. He looked at me, then looked at Mr. Jon, and with a concerned but eagerly consenting tone, he exclaimed, “ahhhhh yes, village eggs!”

How I Long for Seinfeld

2008-09-11T23:47:00.000-07:00

My blog entries seem to be going about once-a-week strong. I'd like to write even more, but I think we can all agree that if this pace keeps up, then I will be doing much better than last year. This new rate of postings, however, is admittedly not the result of a new-found motivation for writing; it is just as much a product of the time I spent watching TV in Pati being displaced to other mediums. While I did not veg-out exorbitant amounts last year, I can certainly attribute my recent and genuine interest in politics/current events to having had access to both Al-Jazeera and The BBC on my satellite television. I watched them enough to have both of their musical themes memorized, and I know the names of my favorite shows on each station. This year, however, my only exposure to televised media is through the 12 or 13 channels on Indonesian basic cable. AN-TV, Trans-TV, and Trans-7 are the only stations that I have ever had the slightest interest in sitting in front of and watching straight through an entire program. I highly doubt I will be able to elucidate just how terrible television programming is in this country, but I will try.

Last night I had come home from breaking fast with a new Muslim friend, Era, whom I made ironically at the Liquid Chlorophyl presentation. She's really sharp, and she's the only person I even bothered to try and convince not to be sucked into this down-payment, 4% yield, pyramid scheme. We had a really pleasant time and hung out for close to 3 hours, if not more (which is border-line monumental for me for three main reasons: 1) she is female, 2) this did not happen on vacation, which means I will be able to continue to build a relationship with her, and 3) we actually broke cultural norms and chatted through an entire meal). The only snag is that she doesn't speak any English. So, after straining my brain for the better part of the evening, and only after getting turned around in the rain on my motorcycle and having had to ask three or four street vendors how to get to Setia Budi Street, veging-out in front of the television was really the only thing I wanted to do once I got home.

The only redeeming quality that Trans-TV possesses is the fact that every night there is a line-up of American movies. I've seen quality films such as “Batman Begins,” “In the Line of Fire,” and “Air-Force One” during my time in Indonesia. Despite this however, movies of that sort are somewhat of an anomaly when you consider the type of flicks that are regularly shown. For example, last night I watched the second half of “Boa vs. Python” for the forth time since I've been here.

I was more discouraged than ever and no less mentally exhausted, after having had to endure predictable one-liners and horrible quality CGI, so I decided to wait for the midnight movie. The movies shown at midnight are usually of a slightly higher quality, which unfortunately is pretty disappointing, since I rarely stay up that late. Last night's feature, though, was Oliver Stone's “U-Turn,” possibly the most frustrating movie I've watched since I saw David Lynch's Mulholland Dr. four years ago. I don't know how they get off on juxtaposing a low-budget horror flick with an experimental art-film that caters to the tastes of only a small minority of people in the country in which it was actually intended to be seen – but it's not the first time I've seen this happen on Trans-TV. Ultimately, I forced myself to watch the entire movie, despite the fact that by every commercial break I could only reflect on how badly I wished the main character would just die and the movie would end.

Wishing that programming in this country would just end is regrettably the sole reason why I've only turned my television on four or fives times in the three weeks I've been in Medan. The only actual news I've seen so far was last night at 2 a.m., when “U-Turn” finally ended. And even when watching real news, I can hardly bring myself to pay attention because it's so graphic. When you actually do catch news in this country, it's nothing like our own. Instead of airing a professional shot of the crumbled roof from outside, Indonesian news usually seems to include personally submitted “handycam” footage of someone walking into the destroyed house and video-taping lifeless, legless children.

Everything I've ever seen during the day is either celebrity gossip or an intolerable “Morning Cup of Coffee” kind of show, with more fake laughter in five minutes than I would care to endure in five hours. Prime time sit-coms here are actually what we would label as daytime soap-operas. And thankfully, we don't even have a word in English for Indonesian day-time television. These shows are so horrible that I guarantee I could star in any one of them. I'm not joking, I've considered it, and I may still try.

Cheap laughs are incredibly common as well. Game shows usually include some ridiculous obstacle course with conveyer belts and moving walls, where people are sure to fall and then be shown at least four times in a row in reverse-motion, slow-motion, and fast-motion replay. Commentators with silly voices, such as on “America's Funniest Home Videos” or “The Planet's Funniest Animals” are also overused to the farthest imaginable extent, on any show where a reply could possibly be shown.

If I must have the television switched on, nature shows are what I usually find myself staying tuned into. The apparent demand for 1970s American science programs is simply astonishing. I'm sure I could find at least one subtitled documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman each week. Just as with Trans-TV's choices of films, though, it's not even the out-of-date, science and nature programming that entertains me; it's the choice of programming that generally comes on directly afterwards. I've gone from watching cute panda cubs quarreling over a shoot of bamboo to seeing an interview with a crazy indonesian man, with a 5-inch mustache and a Metallica shirt, talking about his professional horse-fighting ring. I imagine you've probably never seen a dog fight or a chicken fight. Maybe you have. Nevertheless, I bet you can at least imagine how brutal it must be. Now, lets add about 4 feet in height to those dogs and about 600 or 700 pounds of muscle. I promise that unless you ever seen a horse that has been trained to fight other horses, you cannot imagine how horrible it is, especially considering how majestic these animals are and how our culture tends to hold them in such high esteem. Watching Sea Biscuit get the shit beat out of him is pretty traumatizing.

I Can't Understand Mr. Monang

2008-09-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

I'm still not quite to the point where I can fully comprehend the actions or intentions of many Indonesians, but at least I have finally gotten to a place where expecting the unexpected is second nature. I feel like I've developed a unique ability to at least recognize situations where the result will be doubtlessly unpredictable. In Medan I've already been doing much more laughing to myself (as opposed to staring in confusion) about the strange occurrences that happen here, mainly because leastwise I'm prepared for the irony. This year, rather than hitting trip mines and getting blown away, I will be watching time-bombs from a safe distance.

My second night in Medan truly began about two hours after dark with a shout from outside my bedroom window, produced by the high-pitched voice of five-foot-nothing Mr. Monang, an employee at St. Yoseph. I had met him briefly at school that day, and he had already been to my house that afternoon to help fix a slight problem in my bathroom. Especially at the time, but even right up until yesterday afternoon, I'd had a problem communicating with this man. I did deduce, however, that he wanted to enter my house, totally unprompted, after I'd already eaten, prepared for bed, and locked my doors. I'd been home alone for hours and was fully expecting to sleep soon, so his abrupt and arguably discourteous arrival puzzled me slightly. Of the few people I'd already met in Medan, and with whom I'd formed only a 24-hour relationship, I inarguably knew Mr. Monang the least. Wielding an over-night bag, he walked past me at the front door, sat on my couch, and turned on my television.

I've been in my new home for over two weeks now, and I've had countless interactions with Mr. Monang. He's taken me to the bank, motorcycle shopping, and has often given me rides home from school. Even now, I'd say I can understand maximally 20-30% of what he says to me. It's not because I have a hard time with his accent nor with his choice of words; it's mainly because I absolutely have no idea where this guy's mind is, and it doesn't help that he speaks in sharp, short bursts. I can literally speak in Indonesian with a group of people for 20 minutes straight and be totally within an Indonesian mindset, and Mr. Monang can enter the scene, and I can no longer communicate with anyone in the room. He destroys my groove like nothing else. One thing I never let slip by me, though, are his frequent queries about why I'm always laughing at him. I don't know how to explain that I pretty much never know what on earth he's talking about, so I've just resorted to laughing at the situation every time I'm around him. I feel like every once in a while we have the occasional and exciting breakthrough, but each time that happens, only 30 seconds later does he ask me a question that I simply don't have an answer to, nor can I think of anything to say that might be even slightly related. I usually just look at him with a huge smile on my face and get nothing back but a blank stare. He sees me speaking in Indonesian with countless people, so I'm sure he's also confused as to why we can't seem to get ideas across to one another. I love him, but I'm not sure that he likes me at all.

That night when he arrived at my house for an unannounced sleepover (or maybe it was; I guess I'll never know), I couldn't even understand him when he asked me simple questions like “what time is it?” His questions not only came up at seemingly random times during what I'd like to think was a conversation, but he'd use expressions that I'd never heard before (and of course using nothing but words that I actually did know, so it was all the more frustrating to not understand). He repeatedly kept saying “jam kita,” and with his unfamiliar Medanese intonation, I didn't even realize that there was an implied question mark until he reached for my cell phone to look at the clock. Jam can mean “time,” “hour,” or “clock,” and kita means “we.” I finally figured out that kita was modifying jam and, therefore, probably meant “our time.” But it was “our time” for what? I guess it's not so uncommon for someone to ask, “Yo, what's our time, bro?” But at least in English, we've got a question word floating around somewhere within the sentence.

Clearly, in his mind, there had to be no question as to why he was slipping into his pajamas and making himself comfortable on my couch. So, I was at least hoping that his thoughts were going farther than the fact that we had finally established that it was bedtime. Nevertheless, my knowing that he certainly must have some straightforward reason for being in my house, it made it extremely difficult for me to phrase the question that was turning over and over in my head; “what the hell are you doing here?!?” One thing I have gathered is that people in this country, especially if they work with you, are almost always obliged to assist you, and so rarely do they have negative intentions. I knew that I had nothing to worry about, but I certainly wasn't expecting to have a room-mate. I was admittedly in a tough spot because I really wanted to know what was going on, but if there's anything you shouldn't do in this country, it's insult or refuse someone's attempts at kindness, especially upon first meeting them (and especially in Medan, where I had heard that people are more vindictive and easily upset).

Ultimately, I willingly let this complete stranger take a shower and brush his teeth in my bathroom, and I gave him my extra pillow. The next morning, he left without a word, and I went to school alone, as I had expected to do all along. Once I got there, I decided it might be a good idea to give Sister Modesta, the school's headmistress, my account of last night. Simply ecstatic to hear that I had spent the night with Mr. Monang, she explained to me that she had “ordered” him to sleep at my house. I assumed it had to be something like this, and that's why I went to her first. Indonesian people are always genuinely concerned about whether or not others are lonely, and for them, this sort of thing is not only common, but it would be totally unacceptable to have a new guest in the ranks and not provide company for them. After all, I'm only 23 (a kid in the minds of many here), so how could I not be scared and lonely in a new house? It's a simple fact that there was no word in Indonesian for the western notion of privacy until they added pribadi, only recently, into their dictionary. Oh Indonesia.

Reactivating, Body Cleansing, Energy Revitalizing Trickery

2008-08-31T10:25:00.003-07:00

Here am I at 8:00 am, sitting in my living room on a Sunday morning, laughing to myself because after one year of living in Indonesia, it's still so difficult to accept the crazy reality that, in fact, I am living every day. I was just awakened by my new team of servants, who come to my house two or three times a week. Ika is a 17-year-old girl, who's currently in trade school, studying telecommunications. Her mother, Sia, has lived in Medan her whole life. After she cleans houses in the morning, she opens a small warung (eating stall), where she sells various fried indonesian snacks. They both seem to have the typical Batak personality – loud and direct, much different from my passive and polite Javanese friends. They cut me no slack when speaking the language and leap at every opportunity to make fun of my unfamiliar, American-Indonesian dialect. They were recommended to me by my neighbors, who apparently have been hiring them for quite some time. Last week they came to my house for the first time, and we negotiated a price of Rp. 150,000 per month. Compared to Java, that seemed pretty fair to me, but when I spoke to my co-workers at school about how much I had agreed to pay them, each of my new friends' expressions changed, and they scolded me for not asking their advice first about how much to pay. I guess a whopping $16 a month for washing dishes and clothes, ironing, and mopping my floor multiple times a week is pretty unheard of in Medan.

Someone outside school, however, who has already gone to great lengths to introduce me to the culture, to befriend me, and to show me the ropes may or may not have the noble intentions that I would have hoped for. Chris drove me from the airport to my home on my first day here, and since then, I have spent a couple really long days with him, visiting his friends and family, as well as checking out some scenery in the area. I had a wonderfully genuine experience with him last week when I ate dinner with his family. Before the end of the night, I was deemed 'Uncle Ken' and was asked to say the blessing before dinner. I had multiple kids climbing all over my back for the better part of an hour, and I was receiving constant directions about how to cook the delicious food that I had been served.

Later that night, we moved from his mother's home to one of his friend's places, where many people had already gathered together. One of the crew is a local TV personality, and a couple more seemed to be pretty successful business types. They were great people, and we talked about everything from our future plans and goals to how they were going to “open my third eye” and show me a ghost who tends to hang out around their house – which hell, if they can do that, then I'm totally up for it. A couple hours passed, and throughout the course of the evening, mentions of their business popped up as non-sequiturs in our conversation. I didn't really have much interest in it because I was so tired by that time, so I never really bothered to ask what they were all into. Without a doubt, however, they were certainly selling some product.

This past friday was a good 20-hour day, which started at my school, St. Yoseph, and ended on the back of Chris's mo-ped. I was in Medan city for many hours with my friend, John, another teacher at the school, where we tried to sort out my internet situation at the infamous Telkomsel office. This year, I'm handling the complications with Telkomsel quite productively, whereas a few interactions last year ended up in tears later in the day, when I still could not begin to apply for graduate school... but that's beside the point. After John toted me around on his Suzuki for half the day, he dropped me off at Citra Gardens, where I was supposed to meet Chris for dinner. However, this place's formal atmosphere looked much more like that of an office complex than that of a food court, and in fact, it was.

I sat down with my new friend and three other people I hadn't met yet and was given expensive coffee to drink while Chris explained to me that, actually, he wanted me to see a presentation before we went to eat, and how that was actually the true reason why he wanted me to meet him there. I'm not going to say that I had been leery of him the whole time, but since our first meeting, I hadn't forgotten seeing his set of motivational tapes and secrets-to-success guides (all from the same publisher) in his car on the ride back from the airport. And sure enough, all the people I had met with him the previous weekend, who had all been introduced to me merely as friends, immediately showed up wearing suits and carrying bundles of electronic equipment.

While the crew began to assemble their mini-stage upstairs, Chris began to entertain the many guests who started to filter in. To my utter disappointment, he whipped out a few boxes of Liquid Chlorophyll, a product of some pyramid scheme (which is now referred to as “Multilevel Marketing,” by the way). Last year, a few teachers at Guyangan, including Imam (who is always scheming about something), came to school one day with this great new idea about how to get rich and how to sell a product that cleanses your body naturally. Liquid Chlorophyll is just some drink with a lot of iron and a lot of calcium, but a new cult of multilevel marketers has apparently started to go around (especially in developing countries, where people have a lower standard of education), in order to promote their product with a super fancy presentation, including an LCD projector, an advanced sound system, and a Powerpoint slide-show with all the bells and whistles that the program has to offer.

It's just fact that a great deal of people in developing countries are fascinated with new technology, and because they haven't been exposed to it (nor to fraudulent money making schemes, nor to many science or psychology classes), when they see a production like this, they have absolutely no reason in the world to doubt the truth of what the presenters are saying. I actually talked for over an hour about this kind of marketing and about the psychological tricks that are used in order to get people to join these scams with the group of teachers in the pesantren, who were all highly considering dropping the equivalent of $200 to join – that's two months' salary for a lot of them.

On some level, I was actually happy that I was about to see this presentation, which had excited my co-workers in Guyangan so strongly. And about half way through, I wanted my video camera so badly it was killing me. They were making claims that if you were to leave a cigarette near a closed bottle of Liquid Chlorophyll for some mentioned length of time, that the nicotine in the cigarette would be absorbed (into what, I don't know). They had so much scientific-sounding lingo for the different kinds of products, like “omega squared,” “universe induced energy,” “solar-harnessed negative ions,”and “the six elements of health.” Each time a new presenter entered or left the stage, they were given an up-beat, rock 'n' roll intro or exit track, to which they jogged off the stage, through the audience, giving high fives to the other presenters and sometimes even to excited audience members. And at one point, they had four volunteers come up onto the stage, not knowing what their assignment was to be, and they were all told to lift a man into the air using only their index fingers (a seemingly impossible task). The man was sitting in a chair, and of course the participants were confused; they were only told where they could lift him (under his arms and legs), but they didn't know exactly why they were doing this, nor how.

After they failed miserably, they were each given a glass of Liquid Chlorophyll to drink and were told that after 15 minutes, when the product had been properly metabolized (also a perfect amount of time to think about their new job and mentally prepare), they would be asked to try and lift the man again. The second time when the group of people went up in front of everyone, you could see that their attitudes had changed. They knew what they had to do, and they had all been thinking about how they would do it. Also, unlike last time when they were expected to fail, this time they had 35 pairs of eyes expecting them to succeed. The participants had smiles on their faces instead of grimaces, and they had bent knees and fully planted legs instead of precarious and apathetic postures. Of course the four of them were able to lift the man, and to their own amazement and satisfaction, an audience of genuinely impressed people began to clap. I was desperately scanning the room to see if I could make eye-contact with anyone who wasn't buying into the silly deception. Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful.

After the presentation, everyone was broken into groups, and round-table discussion ensued. Everyone was asked to stand, introduce him/herself, and give his reason for wanting to join the Liquid Chlorophyll family. If they had already joined, they were encouraged to give a testimonial about how Liquid Chlorophyll had changed their life. I'm not exaggerating about that last comment either; Indonesian people in general love drama much more than western people. For example, yesterday I was asked to video tape the speeches that some individuals made at a going away party for one of the teachers at my school who is about to move to another island. Any time someone started crying while the camera was off, John, who was sitting next to me, gave me an urgent look and pressured me to switch it on. The fact that, in a group of friends at someone's house, people were giving speeches one-by-one to honor their departing workmate should tell you enough. Anyway, I of course was not exempt from the introduction process at the Liquid Chlorophyll debriefing. If there is anything that I have learned to do during my time in Indonesia, it's been how to handle myself in completely random, awkward, and uncomfortable situations.

After the hours of craziness, I actually did have a good time with Chris and his friends at an eating stall outside the building. They were pretty genuine people, and I couldn't really be frustrated with them. Chris had been slightly deceiving, but I have truly begun to embrace all unpredictable things that happen while I'm here. I honestly just don't have a whole lot on my plate, so it's not like anything could really inconvenience me. So many things that used to frustrate me last year just make me excited now, and I when find myself in these situations, I'm always taking notes with the software on my cell phone, just so I can remember exactly how silly everything is. The only undeniably disturbing aspect of the evening was having to silently watch desperate people get taken advantage of by an American product, clearly aiming to take advantage of desperate people in other countries (there's a reason why you probably haven't heard of this drink before). But hey, that's why I can't wait to start focusing on education next year in grad school.

Another First Day

2008-08-22T05:46:00.000-07:00

One year ago, I walked outside of the Semarang airport to immediately meet my gleaming counterpart, my enthusiastic headmaster, and my shy but ever-smiley driver. Imam, Mr. Humam, and Mr. Muslikhan were all fully outfitted in their monochrome, army-style school uniforms, ready to escort me all the way back to the pesantren from Central Java's capital, a route that I would frequently take for the next 10 months. After a surreal, nighttime drive through Indonesia's most crowded island, we stopped to pray at a mosque in Pati city, about 30 minutes away from Guyangan. I was asked to wait in the car where I sat for 15 minutes, listening to the sound of azan – a loud, captivating and, at the time, almost unsettling recitation of the Koran. All three of my new workmates re-entered the car together; they offered a humble apology for taking up my time, and I avidly reassured them that I was comfortable and content. At about 10pm, I stepped out of the car in Guyangan for the first time, and I was bombarded by a crowd of adults and students who were so enthusiastic to shake my hand, that my back was soon pressed against the door of the vehicle. Mr. Humam promptly broke up the mass and allowed me to enter the school's library. I was urged to sit at the front of the room, and Mr. Humam began to say a few words in Indonesian. He spoke unintelligibly for maybe five minutes, invoking constant laughter from a crowd of people whose eyes never left me. He then handed me the microphone. Even before my luggage had been unloaded from the car, I was being urged by Imam and Mr. Humam to give “my speech” in front of the most captivated audience I'd ever seen.

So here I am with another first day behind me. The parallels to last year have been undeniable, and the differences have been sobering and invigorating. Again, a group of three accompanied me from the airport. But this year at the arrival gate, I met my kooky counter part, my intrigued head mistress, and my stern but gradually friendly driver. Ibu Berna, Sister Modesta, and Chris sported their own personal styles – Chris with totally western pants and a button-up shirt, Ibu Berna with a more Indonesian blouse, and Sister Modesta with covered hair and a full nun get-up. Also like last year, the first stop was to obtain sustenance, but instead of a buffet-style feast, eaten humbly with our hands in the eyes of Allah, I used chopsticks to shovel in an explosively tasty dish of rice, veggies, and (praise Jesus) pork!

The crowd waiting for me at my residence this year was much smaller and considerably less star-struck. I entered my off campus home to meet a group of loquacious and cheery women sitting, watching TV, preparing tea, and sewing my brand new pillowcases. They were all employees of the school in some capacity, most of them teachers. This fact, however, still did not keep me from initially feeling astounded that, in Indonesia, there were members of the opposite sex, not only standing in the general proximity, but within the walls of my house, under my roof. We joked around as if everything were normal, but my eyes couldn't keep themselves from wandering toward the windows in my front room, making sure that neighbors weren't peering in, actively judging my character.

I look forward to all the relationships I will make with people this year. In only 24 hours, the screaming differences between Batak culture (the largest ethnic group in Medan) and Javanese culture have already begun to emerge. People don't give you a smile unless you earn it, which I suppose is similar to the US, but so far, all earning it seems to entail here is smiling first. That might not seem so monumental, but I assure you it is. It's also taken longer for people to warm up to me in general. Going from complete strangers to best friends was an instant transition on Java; therefore, no matter how long or quickly it takes people here, this difference is quite substantial. After taking me shopping and around Medan on his motorcycle I've already encountered an employee at my school who thought twice and then apologized for asking me for my phone number so quickly within our acquaintance. On Java, I've had strangers look over my shoulder on public transit, steal my phone number, call me later, and then introduce themselves as “your friend from the bus.”

One thing sure hasn't changed though – people's generally non-linear, completely inaccurate judgments of distance. I've had people tell me that my house is everywhere from 500 meters to 5 kilometers away from my new school. Turns out, it's about a mile.

Why this Language and Culture are so Darn Cute

2008-08-07T03:59:00.000-07:00

Comment on Culture

The differences and variations in cultures around the world are terribly fascinating, but until one truly begins to recognize the individual perspectives of the people in those cultures, as well as to genuinely become aware of his/her own, he can never fully appreciate the distinctions. Of course, Indonesia was totally captivating from the moment I stepped foot on it's soil (or swam in one of its many seas); the vegetation here is different, the land is different, the animals are different, and the people are different. However, it has taken a great deal of time for me to understand what exactly has been quite so personally absorbing. Before I ever boarded my initial flight to this country, vast differences were to be completely expected. But the importance does not lie in what is different; importance lies in how and why. The way you see a culture will depend gigantically on your own background and very little on the electrical signals being sent to your brain via your eyes, nose, ears, etc. At my pesantren, when I managed to have an intelligible conversation with one of the Arabic teachers after class, I sometimes wondered if he had truly just stepped out of the same classroom into which I was about to enter. Mr. Syaid's views and comments concerning the santri (pesantren students), and of Guyangan as a whole, were so completely different from my own that I'd found myself contemplating which one of us was the blind one? Now I realize, though, that neither of us was completely blind; it's just that he had sand in his eyes, and I had exhaust fumes from SUVs in mine.

The Cute Factor

Your perspectives and degrees of openness will define your experience abroad, as well as how you interpret all aspects of a particular culture. What's nice though is that, chances are, if you're reading this blog, you're probably from the US, and that means that we have very much in common. Republican, Democrat, cityboy, redneck, black, white – we all grew up with the same movies, the same music, the same TV shows, McDonalds, Wal-Mart, and free public education. Consequently, at least to some degree, by the end of this entry, I'm sure we will all be able to come to some sort of consensus that Indonesian culture is... well...

...just plain cute.

Part 1: The Language, Bahasa Indonesia

Indonesians have described their language to me as being hemat, or economical. There are no articles, no linking verbs, no verb tenses, pronouns are often left out, and verbs in general are commonly omitted if the meaning of the sentence is still clear. So for us, “economical” might just seem like a sloppy euphemism for bona fide baby-talk. For example, the English statement, “I am hungry,” would be stated as “I hungry” in Indonesian. “Do you want some Doritos?” would become “Want Doritos?.” If you needed to ask, “May we please go to the bathroom,” the Indonesian syntax would be “May we to bathroom?” And if you then wanted to express, “I am as hungry as a pig,” in Indonesian your sentence would read “I same hungry with pig” (although, few would ever think of using such an expression). Examples like this are endless, but you cannot judge the legitimacy of the language! All the essential information is there, is it not?

Excessive abbreviation doesn't just stop with syntax and diction either. It works its way right into the spelling of words. In fact, it's so common to shorten words when writing, it would be nearly impossible to use an Indonesian-English dictionary effectively without knowing the meanings of the abbreviations for the following common prepositions, conjunctions, etc. (and there are countless more):

bhw
blm
dgn
dpt
kpd/pd
sdh
spt
utk
yg

I realize that, for conciseness, many translating dictionaries will use concise spelling in their example sentences, as not to necessitate a 5-volume series. However, if I had included all the shortened forms, the above list would extend considerably further – as it fills two full pages with two columns each at the beginning of my particular dictionary.

I understand why the editors chose to organize their dictionary in such a manner; that is, leaving you with no other choice but to memorize a hundred vocab words and their truncations before you can really even begin to use their product. This is nothing more than their fair warning to those who truly want to be serious about using the language in everyday life. Indonesians send about as many text messages in a day as there are hours in a week. So, combined with the culture's already established tendency to truncate sentences, phrases, and individual words, we also have the fact that you must pay for text messages per every 100th character, and Indonesians are always trying to squeeze as much as they can out of every penny. Consequently, deciphering an indonesian text message can be a day's task in itself because of the cryptic SMS language they tend to use, called bahasa singkat. If a 60-year-old indonesian man, who knew the language fluently, had just purchased his first mobile phone, and his granddaughter sent him an SMS, I guarantee he would likely not be able to identify whether or not the message had been sent to him in his own mother toungue.

With no information being lost in translation (and I swear to this), the sentence, “Even though it's late at night, I'm still not able to sleep,” would likely appear as the following in an indonesian text:

“udh mlm2 tp q gk bs tdr”

And no, that “2” was not a typo.

My favorite example of this came from an unforgivably flirty and clingy, unmarried teacher at my friend Jon's former school. This lady simply loved tall, handsome, Western men, and she ceaselessly sent Jon love notes, stole his pictures, invited him to her classroom, barged in on his, and above all, bombarded him with text messages. About six months into our grant period this past year, both Jon and I had already established ourselves as being quite enthusiastic toward using Indonesian in our daily lives. So, our indonesian friends, most of whom never having had a relationship with a foreigner before, began to send us text messages as if we were fluent and were totally up on modern use of the language. More indonesian people than you could ever imagine have never actually spoken to a person of a different nationality. As a result, only those who are particularly self aware would alter or slow down their speech, in order to oblige a foreigner who is beginning to learn their language. This is simply because the only people they've ever spoken to in their entire lives are those in their communities who already know the language fluently and who would never need special treatment for comprehension. Jon's not-so-secret admirer was no exception.

Workplace and classroom culture, as one might expect, are also slightly different in Indonesia. What we would deem to be text-book sexual harassment runs rampant. Relationships among co-workers are also incredibly common, and even dating among students and teachers is considered normal in many places. Other than simply not being interested in this woman, Jon was also still accustomed to workplace culture in the U.S., where employee relationships must be handled with extreme care. Her blatant attempts to court him were making him uncomfortable on at least two different levels. Consequently, it was one particular text message, with a small English phrase plopped right in the middle, that left him at a total loss, as far as how to continue handling this situation given his current knowledge of indonesian social dynamics. Jon forwarded the message to me, so that I might be able to make something of it and then possibly give a suggestion as to how he could proceed. With my limited Indonesian, I could unravel no more than the following:

Ktg$baJ D^&a;d .. yudt2
hgh1 UY +lk2 ty #* dd2
kjkjkjkjkaaaaaajkjkjkjkjk
ty&you make me cry%2
ytd kd2 &()kY sl2 dd!!!!

I had no substantial advice.

Another aspect of this language that I've noticed, which only adds to its relative cuteness, is the fact that it contains an inconceivably large number of two syllable words that end in “i.” I'm not sure why these words tend to invoke such warm feelings, but I guess it comes from the connotations we're already used to. Just consider the following English words: doggy, kitty, baby, lilly, silly, tiny, shiny, smily. That being said, I dare you to read the following list of terribly basic and commonly used words aloud without at least cracking a smile!

pagi, tapi, laki, kopi, kami, cari, nasi, bayi, jati, pipi, rapi, janji, jadi, jeli, lagi, jari, tadi, putih, sapi, diri, sami, hati, nanti, masih, candi, sini, dewi, cumi, bumi, kursi, mili, seni, senti, ini, kiri

The following Indonesian sentence could, in fact, easily be mentioned in passing by two native speakers on any given day (actually, I would assume that this sentence has been uttered literally thousands of times)

Tadi pagi kami cari nasi putih lagi. Which translates to:

Earlier this morning, we looked for white rice yet again.

I've mentioned it before, but the economy of the Indonesian language is to be truly marveled at. A new concept, the doubling of many words, separated by a hyphen, allows for new but totally related ideas to be conveyed. Consider the following words: macam, pagi, siku, cium, bapak. They mean: type, morning, elbow, kiss, and father, respectively. However, let's see what happens to their meanings when we say each one, twice in a row:

macam-macam – a wide variety
pagi-pagi – very early in the morning
siku-siku – right angle
cium-cium – kisses
bapak-bapak – a way to describe a club or bar whose patrons tend to be older men looking for prostitutes half their age.

Meanings aside, the fact that I get to say pagi-pagi on a fairly regular basis gives me a feeling of genuine delight.

Coming soon...

Part 2: The Culture in General

Back at it!

2008-07-28T04:12:00.000-07:00

I've always confidently and shockingly informed everyone back home that the jaunt to Indonesia lasts a grueling 30 hours. That seemed pretty realistic. Of course, it's difficult to estimate the true time when the entire trip is a half-conscious, heavy-eyed haze. Studying one's flight itinerary is not much help either. With no way to reasonably expect fewer than three layovers on three drastically different parts of the planet, one would need a time-zone map, a protractor, and a slide rule to get accurate information from a North West Airlines internet printout. So, I decided that on the morning of July 23rd, I would simply strap on a good old fashion analogue wrist watch to keep track of my travel time before arriving in Jakarta on the afternoon of the 25th. Granted, I got the cheapest flight I could, which included a 14 hour layover in Singapore, so I knew the actual time in between leaving my house and getting to a hotel on Jaksa Street would comprise of more than than just air time. However, I truly believed that crossing the mystical International Dateline would significantly make up for the artificial two-and-a-half day gap in between my port of embarkation in the US and the Soekarno-Hatta Airport just outside of Jakarta. Consequently, when glancing at the time, nearing the end of my odyssey, I gasped (well, likely yawned) in a sleepy stupor when realizing just how many times the hour hand had circumnavigated the face of my indonesian, counterfeit Fossil Watch. Well into my 50th hour of travel, I found my self, still standing, finally on the last leg of the journey, talking to a loquacious german fellow, in a familiar, over-crowed un-air-conditioned airport bus, headed toward the city center.

My exhaustion, however, was immediately counteracted by marveling, once again, at the wildly weaving traffic on the spaghetti streets of Jakarta, skyscrapers towering over makeshift huts constructed out of bamboo and scrap sheet-metal, ever-smiling indonesian faces, the statue of Monas, and a hole-in-the-wall, all inclusive convenience store, a little gem that a couple friends and I accidentally stumbled upon during our first visit to this dynamic city. I could not help but get choked up at the flooding memories of this place, which defined fun for me during all my travels in the previous year. Jakarta is a city of character. It's loud, it smells awful, it's impossible to navigate, it's dirty, it's dangerous, but at the same time, it offers so much solitude and allows one to unwind in the most unlikely of environments, in a country where a 5am call to prayer awakens the majority of it's residents every day of every week.

Jumping right back into the swing of things and speaking Indonesian even more fluently than a month ago when I left here, Jakarta has already filled me with an unparalleled excitement and anticipation for the upcoming year. I've already made a great friend from germany, who I will see again next month when he visits Medan (where I'll be living this time around); I've begun rekindling the relationships that I temporarily left behind during the month of July, and I've already got a shiny new, hot pink indo-phone, which will provide me with scarce internet time during the inevitable stretches of prolonged waiting I'm going to be doing over the next many months in the midst of this laid-back culture.

Mixed with these euphoric feelings, though, are ones of slight confusion and of blinding nostalgia. Firstly, I can't help but already miss my friend Jon, another Fulbrighter who, over the course of the year, became pretty much my exclusive travel companion and one of the best friends I've ever had. It will certainly be different this year, not being able to easily talk with someone who I can relate to so well and who is on the exact same level of understanding this culture. I'll have to wait quite a few months for all the new grantees to find their respective grooves before I can genuinely start making the jokes I want to make and before I'll be able to unwind and talk with someone who fully understands what I'm going through. This is much different for me than last year because each grantee was in the same boat, all dumped into a foreign country, having fun figuring things out together. Even though I'll have a year of previous experience, in many ways I'll have to be much more independent than before. Secondly, I have very freshly on my mind all the things I miss about home. I fully appreciated spending time with my family more than I ever had before, and seeing my best friends again was refreshing, productive, and just terribly fun. There are a great deal of people with whom I want to share this unique time in my life, but with whom I'll just have to settle for infrequent phone conversations and with limited e-mail.

Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel that Indonesia, which I chose to live in virtually by throwing a dart at a map, has become the place where I truly belong at this point in my life. I doubt if I'll always feel like that, but the circumstances under which I am staying here are so incredibly ideal, it's impossible for me to imagine any other alternative that would have even closely stacked up. This place has allowed me to set a bar for happiness that I may not have otherwise known, and I will not settle for much less in the future. This certainly doesn't mean I'll always live here, but I know so much more about myself and what motivates me (no matter where I'll end up), and I could have never fully known these things if had I not made the fleeting decision to go to this mystifying part of the world. I owe a great deal to the Fulbright program, and I'm gleaming at taking advantage of what it has given me... again.

Let's just keep our fingers crossed that this year E. Coli bacteria won't find itself living in the completely WRONG part of my body... again, as well.

On The Run!

2008-03-27T04:00:00.000-07:00

The fear being instilled into these poor pesantren children on a daily basis can, in no way, be productive. There are basically three punishments that I know of at this school. The first and least severe is having to stand out in the sun in front of the office until the headmaster has decided that the offending party has had enough time to think about what they have done. The second is losing one's privileges to see his or her parents on Friday (the Muslim “sabbath”). Friday is the only day when students are allowed to both leave the school grounds and to have visitors. And lastly, the headmaster sometimes decides to just kick people out of the school, condemning them to fend for themselves, find another school, and unavoidably repeat a year of their education.

What's really interesting, though, is the fact that the harshness of his punishments is not a function of the severity of the offense. I have seen students loitering outside the teacher's office for a couple hours as a result of their getting into a fight, and I have seen students virtually banished from the community for having been late to class. Yesterday, a notoriously bad student blatantly cheated on his midterm and was asked to leave the classroom, only to be able to retake the test later; however, at the beginning of this semester, my class 10-C dwindled from 40 students to 25 students because 15 of them were caught playing basketball on a Wednesday.

---

At the end of February, directly after the headmaster began his spring cleaning in my 10th grade class, three male students were sitting with me on my living room floor, forcing laughter to try and hold back the tears in their eyes. As a result of this sporadic dealing out of punishments, students are afraid of their own shadows here (as if the intense cultural belief in reality-altering ghosts weren't enough). They had just tried to leave my house after spending some time with me, but they immediately rushed back inside my door after finding that the gates to my complex had already been locked and that they could not exit. I knew the magnitude of this problem and was trying to help find some solution for them.

They were boarding house students and had innocently lost track of time while they were practicing English with me after class. Now, you might think (as I would have thought eight months ago) that it would be no problem for me to casually walk over to the assistant headmaster's home, only 25 feet from my front porch, and explain the situation to him. You might think that, since I am a teacher at the school, since the gates had actually closed five minutes earlier than normal, and since these students had taken the personal initiative to spend their scarce free time developing their English skills, an explanation to the powers that be would not even be necessary. However, what I have failed to mention, and what you might remember from past descriptions of my home, is that the female housing area borders literally the only outside wall of my home. These kids were in a strictly prohibited area after hours. If I truly felt the urge and wanted to break a window or two, I could feasibly climb the wall of my laundry room and be right inside Guyangan's forbidden paradise. These students were ultimately trapped inside the only corridor that leads directly to the mysterious place, which would ensure them all a one-way-ticket to hell, should they decide to walk north instead of south. My house was their only refuge, right next to a chained cast-iron gate, a “DO NOT ENTER” sign, an authority who could ruin their future, and the house of the most senior conservative teacher at the school.

Every creak of my house, every faint outside voice, and every muffled footstep made these kids shudder in fear that Mr. Najib had seen them and that he was about to knock on my door and send them all home to inconceivably disappointed parents. So, when there actually was a knock on my door, three petrified boys scrambled into my kitchen, out of sight, and left me to deal with whatever wrath Mr. Najib was about to lay down, hoping that I would just lie about their presence. I braced myself, knowing that I couldn't lie to my boss, but I was also feeling a lot of compassion for these poor kids. I opened the door, and thankfully, I was relieved to be welcoming nothing but a smile and a Jurassic Park DVD being held in the hands of one of my favorite students, Salim, the headmaster's grandson and frequenter of my home. The three fugitives dashed back into my living room immediately upon hearing his voice. Salim, who doesn't live on campus, might have actually been the only person who could have helped us get out of this pickle, and man, did he deliver!

When Salim realized that Reza, Afif, and Bam were all in my house, he immediately knew the gravity of the situation and instinctively greeted them all with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. Jeff Goldblum and the velociraptors were going to have to wait. Figuring out a plan of action would require some serious devotion. Salim, who was more familiar with the layout the complex than anyone else in the room, knew what had to be done. However, it was going to require three cell phones. We had mine and Salim's, but boarding house students aren't allowed to carry them, so the first course of action was to quickly locate an active phone. Luckily, this wasn't difficult. Salim left my house and came back after about five minutes with his friend's Nokia. Now we just needed to wait until dark, when the open area of the complex would be deserted, and the female students would be finished with their evening prayer session.

There are actually two sets of chained gates that these students were going to have to by-pass. But, exiting my complex without being noticed was clearly first priority and, without a doubt, the most important and challenging. Once outside, Salim would have to help them get by the second gate, into the male dorms. He was key; he was going to be the innocent and inconspicuous lookout the whole way through. With free range of any part of campus, excluding the girls' dorms, he was unique, and because it was no secret that he often drops by my house, no one would question his walking around after dark. My role was also going to be integral. Mr. Najib loves it when I spend time at his house, so that night, I was certainly going to be paying him a visit.

When Salim went to borrow his friend's phone, he also had another important task. Mr. Najib's blinds are unpredictably open or closed on any given night, and Salim had to let us know the status of his windows. Had the blinds been closed, I would have been unnecessary in the escape plan because Mr. Najib virtually never leaves his house after dark, but as it turned out, I would need to be a decoy.

Salim would take his first post, just inside the servants' entrance to Mr. Jalil's home (the senior teacher at the school). This entrance opens into a washroom and a pretty long hallway that leads right into the kitchen at the back of the house, bypassing all the bedrooms and the living room. Once through the kitchen, there is another hallway and then a door to the outside of the complex. Salim would have to make sure that this path was clear. But, before any of that could happen, I had to distract Mr. Najib. Although the chance was minimal, we couldn't risk him seeing the students running from my house to Mr. Jalil's.

I was first to leave the house, and Salim was pretty close behind me. I knocked on Mr. Najib's door as Salim took his position. Of course, he received me with utter delight and excitement, and I was encouraged to take a seat - the first obstacle. This was going to be a little awkward. Clearly, the most obvious seat to take would be the one that was closest to me, the one right in front of the window. I didn't initially think about the layout of Mr. Najib's living room, but having him talk to me with a view of the student's path in the background would totally undermine the entire purpose of my going to his home. So, not skipping a beat, I walked right passed him at the door and took a seat at the opposite side of his living room. His only option then was to sit with his back to the window.

I talked to him for about 30 seconds before receiving a text message from Salim, telling me that the coast was clear. I excused myself from conversation for just a moment, in order to immediately send a message to the boys in my home (who had Salim's friend's phone) that they could run for it. Trying desperately to not burst into laughter and to keep my eye-contact with Mr. Najib, I saw three frightened kids out of the corner of my eye, running like hell across the small courtyard.

Salim obviously did a good job from that point on because I still see Reza and Bam on a regular basis. I know they'd never been trapped inside my part of campus before, but after they got passed that hurtle, I take it that getting back into the male dorms after hours isn't too difficult if you know what you're doing. I was pretty amused by the entire scheme, but those boys were certainly not having fun that night, and I actually had to be pretty serious too. While I'm pretty much immune to anything that goes down at this school as far as punishments go, I'm sure that if Mr. Najib had seen those boys running in front of his house, from the direction of mine, with sitting me in his living room, he probably would have been pretty angry. I was definitely facing a loss of trust, but Salim made us all feel confident that it would work, and now everyone has a pretty wonderful story!

Goodbye Telkomsel... Hopefully Forever

2008-03-26T03:29:00.000-07:00

I first want to apologize for the sparse (lack of) updates recently. It has been a perfect storm of mundane misfortunes that has kept me from not only using the internet but also writing in general. The biggest deterrents have been increases in my responsibilities at the school, as well as having to keep up appearances in neighboring villages. I haven't really written much about the flooding here, but as catastrophic as it has been, I still would have been tied down in Guyangan flood or not.

The last half of February and the first half of March went by without my having ventured outside Pati at all. Spending extended amounts of time in my village with no breaks has been incredibly rewarding, but I can certainly understand why most of the Fulbrighters don't do it. Your daily activities, friendships, tasks, and expectations that others put on you start to snowball exponentially, out of control, until no semblance of your life in the States remains.

After eight months of living in an exotic alien environment, I've only now come to fully understand my daily needs and recognize what is essential to ensure my happiness. Everything really comes down to people and relationships when I take into account what keeps me smiling on a day-to-day basis. If you know me pretty well, you know that I'm a social person, and this might not come as too much of a shock. However, the extent to which it is true has surprised even me. Any time I leave Pati, the only thing I really ever buy is ice cream at the mall in Semarang. And if I do shop, I inevitably end up with two bags full of imported candy that I use as rewards for my students. My vices and my splurges are so minimal here. The sacrifices I've made to live in Guyangan have ended up being so inconsequential. That's why I've been able to afford a video camera and a new computer from nothing other than my Fulbright stipend; there's really nothing to spend money on here. I guarantee that I use no more money on a daily basis than most teachers at my school, other than when I travel of course (which is a big expense). Friendships have always been my number one priority here, and while they've sometimes been confusing and occasionally frustrating, they have been my most worth while investments.

That being said, I can't leave these introspective thoughts without telling the whole story – if I didn't have a lock on my door, I would probably go insane. I'm positive that people know (to the minute) when I'm in my house, when I'm at school, and when I'm in Jakarta. So, when someone comes to my door, I'm sure that he (not “or she...” that would be disastrous) knows quite well that I'm in my living room. But, do I always respond to their obsessive knocking? God no. Being no less than 100% extroverted when I'm outside my home has lead to my becoming virtually 100% introverted while I'm inside my home. I'm in the center of a fairly large complex of buildings, I have no outside windows, and I can't even hear the call to prayer. It has been terribly satisfying to spend an entire day, from time to time, ignoring every Indonesian phone call I receive, laughing at different cadences of knocks on my door (trying to guess who will certainly not be entering my house today), and not even seeing the light of day from sun up to sun down. That might sound depressing, but it doesn't happen like that very often. Waking up to random people watching my television, using my computer, or reading my books didn't bother me at first (kinda), but I felt that it was necessary to have at least some sense of privacy. When you set boundaries here, ya gotta set 'em high!

Oh, and one more thing. Internet. I either want a reliable source of internet or no internet at all (preferably the former). My cell phone being stolen was a real blow, but I can confidently say that my blood pressure has gone down since it happened. One evening, upon being blindingly furious about the 7th failed attempt in row to connect to Telkomsel's remote server (a pretty common occurrence), I calmed down and decided that I would get to the bottom of why exactly I was so irate. This had to be done. I remember very few times in my life, if any, of being angered to the point of wanting to inflict physical harm to virtually anything I looked at, and I didn't want this to be a new personality trait. My soul searching some how lead me to the school's library, where I looked up the word “technology” in an English dictionary. Its entry was this: “Technology – The application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes and for simplifying our daily lives.” I want to stress “simplifying our daily lives.” Simplifying. By it's very definition, this advanced piece of equipment sitting next to my computer was contradicting its only purpose for even being in existence. I take that very personally. So, I'm not even angry with the guy who stole my phone, which is much more than I can say for my friend Imam. He was so appalled and embarrassed to hear that something like that had happened to me in his country that he promptly wished an eternal stomach ache on the thief. I doubt though that his curse was even necessary, because if that pickpocket hasn't already keeled over from a heart attack of frustration, then he deserves to have a Nokia N70.

Can I please write about something other than a hospital???

2008-01-30T04:16:00.001-08:00

Saturday afternoon…

I think it will be interesting to see just how this blog entry turns out. What makes this particular entry unique is that I’m not in an exceptionally good mood, and I’m sitting in a crowded waiting room in Hospital Telogorejo in Semarang. Maybe we’ll blame this medical visit on my having waded through flood waters infested with god knows what, or possibly, it could have been devouring food that had been sitting around all day at a popular eating stall, or maybe it was just using the notoriously soapless bathrooms at nearly every public establishment. No matter what, the fact of the matter is that my stomach is really bloated, I’m extremely drowsy and a little dizzy, and a doctor is about to analyze the results of a stool sample I just had to carry around with me for about 2 hours. Too much information? Too bad.

Sunday night…

Unfortunately, I feel worse than yesterday, and I’ve decided that it’s worth flying to Jakarta in order to get this checked out. I’m headed there tomorrow. Don’t be concerned yet though. It might seem like only something severe would merit a trip across the country, but it’s not as bad as it sounds (knock on wood). I’ve certainly never had to suffer through digestive problems quite like this before, but in order to get medical treatment resembling anything like that in the U.S., one simply has to go to the capital.

Having the privilege of dropping everything and heading to Jakarta for treatment is actually a pretty sobering experience. Sitting impatiently in Semarang, I had to reanalyze my situation because I started feeling conflicted about my feelings of irritation. I see people everyday who have problems like mine (or much worse) and who absolutely do not have the resources to treat their illness or injury. While hopelessly navigating that terribly disorganized hospital, moving from unclean room to unclean room, and being taken from person to person – over the course of 2 days – I began to get incredibly frustrated. My physical discomfort level was reaching a peak, and virtually no progress had been made toward solving my problem. I was bordering on becoming quite upset, but then I then I started to think about the fact that my even being present in that building was much more than the vast majority of people in this country could do for themselves or their families. So, I decided to be more patient.

Finally, a receptionist called me to one of the operating rooms, so that I could meet with the doctor I had been waiting for. It initially struck me as odd that I would be meeting with him in the OR. However, given the previous sequence of events that had led me to sitting around in the laboratory and chatting with people while they were getting their blood drawn, my state of surprise immediately subsided. I began to question how I could have thought that, in this country, any other location might have been more appropriate.

Now, this next occurrence might seem like something that would only happen in a silly movie, but keep in mind that I only post on this blog every once in a while, so it’s safe to assume that I’m saving the craziest stories for you! If movie-like incidents didn’t happen in people’s lives, then there wouldn’t be any movies.

Once I got to meet with a doctor, I felt much better, even though I was watching other surgeons strip out of their bloody scrubs about 10 feet away from me. Nevertheless, he was terribly pleasant and made me feel comfortable. Well, he made me feel comfortable until he started to look at my lab results with an expression of utter confusion. A series of outwardly irrelevant questions directed toward me suggested that something had to be wrong. Now, It’s hard for me to believe that in a Muslim country such as Indonesia, in a Muslim hospital such as Telogorejo, and in a file index organized by Muslims – such as the one in which my test results had been stored – a mistake concerning the name of an American male could be made. But low and behold, among the names Mohammad Markason, Muhammed Ansori, Mohamed Ahkyar, Imam Sujono, and Kenneth Moore, I managed to leave the waiting room with a sealed envelope, inside which the medical files of, yes, someone else were enclosed.

The doctor didn’t tell me anything about whose results these were or what this person’s condition was. But judging by his questions, I imagine that it was either a pregnant woman or an amputee.

Tuesday evening…

I honestly couldn’t even be angry about the mix-up. I just laughed, went back up stairs, and had them give me a copy of my actual results. It’s unfortunate that, once the doctor got to look at my true printout, a conclusion still could not be made. But at least I’m in Jakarta now, getting the opinion of AMINEF’s official doctor. I’ll probably know next week exactly what’s going on, when all the lab tests come back. In the mean time, I guess I’ll just lounge around this hotel some more and enjoy the free wireless… that is, if the power comes back on.

Banjir or Disney Land?

2008-01-13T03:00:00.001-08:00

I think I’ll begin by saying:

Ms. Eny, my God, you never fail to deliver!

January 10th was Tahun Baru (New Year’s) for Muslims, year 1428. And, to celebrate this occasion, I agreed to cook spaghetti for Ms. Eny’s entire extended family. Well actually, I agreed to cook spaghetti for Ms. Eny and her mother, but when I arrived at her house and met a crowd of hungry people playing monopoly on her front porch, as well as three more kilograms of tomatoes than what I had suggested she get, I couldn’t really refuse the major cooking operation that was about to go down. I was quickly ushered to the backyard, where the kitchen is located under a canopy attached to the house. We immediately arranged some cutting boards and started a fire.

I arrived at noon, and apparently everyone had been expecting to have already begun eating around that time. So, numerous jokes immediately ensued about how this meal had certainly better be delicious and about how they’d all been waiting. I knew though, that with an intimidating collective hunger working on my side, it would be hard to disappoint, especially with nothing but fresh ingredients at my disposal.

Initially, this was supposed to be the “Ken show,” where I was to prepare everything and serve the meal, but since Ms. Eny had opted to buy cherry tomatoes, it was imperative that I enlist some help to dice the couple hundred pieces of fruit sitting in front of me (so are tomatoes fruit, or what?). This was a really fun undertaking; Ms. Eny and I got to sit around at her home for a couple hours, preparing the meal for everyone. All the while, we were able to chat without any pressure on us from other community members. I know her better than most people I’ve met here, just because she can speak English pretty well, but our relationship is still kind of superficial (by my definition of friendship). Any time we are in public we can’t really walk next to each other, and at the school, we never could have anything more than a passing conversation between classes. The very real fear of Ms. Eny getting fired because of an alleged relationship between us is not worth us sitting together at the same table in the teacher’s lounge. In all seriousness, because I actually speak to another female openly in public, every single one of my female classes makes jokes about us “being together.” Case in point, it was refreshing to have a nice conversation with her. But I digress.

The spaghetti was a success, and some of her relatives had actually never eaten pasta before. And because of this, many liberties were taken to Javanize the meal! I started to laugh out loud when they all brought out the kecap manis (sweet soy sauce) and crupuk (rice crackers) to eat with their dish. By our standards, Javanese people in general must have their food screaming with sugar, so my conservative use this staple ingredient did not suffice. When I saw 15 plates with dark goopy ketchup plopped on top of my wonderful tomato sauce, I could hardly deal with the atrocity I was witnessing!

Despite what I had initially assumed, the New Year was, in fact, not the occasion why so many people had unexpectedly dropped in to enjoy a popular American meal. This wasn’t a typical intentional scheme to put me on the spot, and my suspicions were raised when everyone sat down to eat in Ms. Eny’s living room. It was completely rearranged, and beside it was a luggage-packed foyer. Her relatives actually were seeking refuge because of the fact that their living rooms were sitting about two feet under water.

Upon hearing this, I was truly shaken and felt a good deal of remorse, but I can’t say I was surprised; right now flooding in Indonesia is worse than most of my friends here have ever seen. There are floods displacing families all over Java, as well as in many other places across the country. When we hear about floods in the US, it’s usually because of a natural disaster or an unexpected excessive amount of rain – but mostly because it’s occurred in a populated area. On an island with more people than Japan, Java doesn’t boast many rural districts. So when it floods, somebody is affected, and it’s not because of a natural disaster; it’s because of the rainy season – every year.

For the last week or so, I had been hearing about the flood in Juwana, the closest city to my village, but I hadn’t yet seen it. I’d listened to some stories about people helping their friends and family move out of saturated houses and of others who were preparing for an imminent river through their neighborhood. So, along with many graphic pictures in various newspapers, I was feeling reasonably distressed. What I couldn’t initially understand though (and I’m sure you can relate) is why no one else seemed at all worried or even unhappy about the situation. I guess when you live in a country rife with earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, sulfur geysers, corruption, and poverty… floods don’t really add a whole lot to the playing field. If there’s one difference I’ve noticed about people here, it’s that their outlook on misfortune is completely nonchalant. They deal with it much better than we do, and that’s for sure. I was introduced to a woman two days ago as follows… verbatim:

“Hey Ken, this is Mrs. Sujono. You know, the pregnant lady in the office who lost her baby last week.”

“Oh. Hi… yeah, I’m… really sorry? …”

I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised when, directly after the meal, Ms. Eny excitedly asked me if I wanted to go hang out at the banjir (flood) that had just rendered her family homeless. I guess I was expecting a more solemn tone in her voice, especially right in front of her refugee aunt. Nevertheless, I was curious to see the condition of Juwana, and from her enthusiasm, as well as from what I already knew about Indonesian people, I was confident that I wouldn’t have to witness pain, misery, and panic. So with that in mind, I looked at the time and realized that, actually, I was overdue that day for a life changing experience. Camera and plastic bag in hand, we immediately hopped on a motorcycle and headed toward the disaster area.

Crossing the familiar bridge into Juwana, I looked down at what was once a calm stream but what was now a massive torrent of water, engulfing houses farther than I could see. From this perspective, even the word, “flood,” seemed like an understatement. Traffic was terrible because of the alternate roots that had to be utilized, and once we finally parked the mo-ped, among hundreds of others, I saw canoe-like water taxis taking people to their homes in the middle of the newly formed lake. Most people, though, were just swimming to their destinations.

The goal for the afternoon was actually to visit Imam, my counterpart, whose house is currently located about half a yard from the edge of the water, which had extend about a kilometer past the banks of the river. This meant we had to travel up stream about two kilometers through the submerged neighborhood before taking a left and heading away from the river toward his house. But first, we had plans to stop at the home of another of Ms. Eny’s reletives, who had decided to stick it out, even though her house was about 25 yards from the river.

As we approached a water taxi at road’s end, I could immediately see that the atmosphere of this occasion was certainly not that of a flood – but of a banjir (flood in the Indonesian sense). All the ingrained images I had of people crying because of lost possessions, of families seeking refuge on rooftops, and of rescue boats frantically stretching their limits to save as many lives as possible were thrown completely out the window. This banjir defied every news report of a natural disaster I’d ever seen. The backed up traffic, in fact, was not the result of an inconvenient detour; it was queue. It was a line in which people were waiting patiently to come and enjoy this once-a-year festival, brought by the broken banks of the Silugonggo river.

I realized the surprising reality of the line to enter the community when the flooded streets became exponentially more crowded as time went on. By evening, there were so many people chest deep in water, playing merrily in the alleys, that the boats could barely pass by. Even still, I could hardly shake my deep-seated western perspective, and I was constantly focused on the blatant damage all around me. I couldn’t begin to count how many times I exclaimed to Ms. Eny, “…and they’re not even upset about this???” To which she finally responded, “Ken, this is like temporary Disney Land for these people.”

Wrapping my mind around that statement took a while, but I guess I can understand. In general, traveling is not a pastime for most Javanese people. In fact, the government is giving transmigration incentives to those who will actually consider moving off Java to another island. That being said, something out of the ordinary is exiting, no matter what the context. Also, houses are simply not the same here. A flood isn’t going to do a whole lot more damage to most of these homes than a hard rain would do. There’s no such thing as weather stripping, expensive carpets, insulated walls, or furniture you couldn’t just replace by bartering with the local carpenter or wood carver. Not to mention, the sense of community is so much stronger here. For example, the roof over Imam’s kitchen was ripped right off his house during a powerful storm last month, and it was actually a joyous occasion for his friends and family to gather together and build a brand new one, the very next day. So, cleaning up after the water finally drains out will not be the depressing, murky project that I could only imagine for populated city in the U.S.

That being said however, next year, if Juwana’a village leader charges admission to enter the floating town, I’m confident it would more than fund the efforts to clean it up afterwards. And now, I’m also confident that if Disney World dropped its crappy western-themed section and added a brand new water park, resembling a half-sunken Indonesian city, where children could share in the experience of swimming to their bedrooms, inner-tubing to their friends houses, or buying freshly cooked fish from a vendor on a raft with a portable kerosene stove… well, at least I would be much more likely to take my family there.

Since I’ve been in this country, some of the most powerful images for me were of the small neighborhood close to the river where Ms. Eny’s relatives live. Off the beaten path (stream?), where not as many people were gathering to play, residents of the village were sill going about their normal routines – just in a slightly different manner. Laundry was hung out to dry on tall TV antennas, people were bathing in their front yards, and I helped to make a banana smoothie in someone’s kitchen, waste deep in water.

As children, we are taught to make the best whatever situation we might find ourselves in, illustrated by the hackneyed expression, “If life gives you a bowl of potatoes, make potato salad.” Well, in Indonesia, if life gives you a bowl of shit, guess what you make…

At least I had my health...

2008-01-03T07:33:00.000-08:00

I'm back in the game, and by that, I mean I've recovered from the horrible Javanese bacterial infection that totally immobilized me for about a week. It's unfortunate I didn't get a free "holiday" to Singapore, so that I could have visited an internationally recognized hospital, but my experience with Indonesian medical care was certainly memorable. St. Elizabeth's will always be a landmark for me in the city of Semarang.

I entered the facility through an outdoor waiting area, complete with many dismally furnished aquariums, containing very lonely fish. I was feeling quite ill, so on the advice of the director of Fulbright, I made my way directly to the emergency room, since apparently things are supposed to move pretty quickly in Indonesian ER's. And I will say that this was certainly the best thing to do; I absolutely cannot complain about how this Indonesian hospital moved people in and out in such a timely fashion. Alas, this economical system of seeing, treating, and releasing patients left open a substantial gap that could presumably be filled with quality care.

I drug myself into the ER waiting room and was hit straight in the face by a wave of heat that curiously and exactly matched the outside temperature. This lack of air conditioning did not mix well with the second-hand smoke that was being created by hospital employees. I sat pretty miserably for about 15 minutes, but hey, I was promptly moved into the OR, where I got to observe a sizable chunk of some poor soul's surgical procedure and received an education comparable to one's third year in medical school. Politely closing the curtain, after about 20 minutes, I got to have some intimate time with the nurse. The apparent teenager approached me with a surprised expression, which couldn't be misconstrued as anything other than an excitement to be treating a bule (foreigner). She put the thermometer in my mouth, prepared to take my blood pressure, but suddenly became distracted with nosy whispers coming from the other side of the curtain. Sitting slightly irritated, with a thermometer in my mouth and a half-filled bag of air around my arm, I grudgingly eavesdropped on a poorly concealed Indonesian conversation about yours truly.

A doctor entered the scene a few minutes later, puzzled by why I might still have a thermometer sticking out of my face, and she speedily checked my vitals by herself. After this, she directly began asking me questions in Indonesian about my condition. Luckily, I had studied the “At the Doctor’s” section of my Teach Yourself Indonesian booklet, and I knew how to explain to her that I had a headache, that I vomited twice, and that my diarrhea was still a big problem. Giving a nod and a smile, she returned with a shot that, immediately upon being injected, rendered me horribly dizzy and gave me somewhere in the vicinity of 20:200 vision. Of course, these side affects did not ware off until after I had to fill out all the paper work at the end of my treatment and after I had to explain my insurance claim form to an Indonesian girl who worked at the pharmacy.

Once the dizziness subsided, I looked in the goody-bag of pills I had just received and noticed that, on top of some mystery bonus set of pills, I had with me a separate baggy of medication for each symptom I had described to the doctor. A diagnosis was clearly secondary to a quick fix, which was to entail my taking seven pills before each meal of the day. This lasted about a day and a half before I could no longer force sweet, bitter, sour, and papaya-flavored tablets down my throat.

But, I’m better now. Alham-freakin-dullila!

Indonesian Thanksgiving is Slightly Different

2007-12-01T01:12:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of November another teacher here, Ms. Eny informed me about two happenings in her village that would occur at the end of the month. Ms. Eny has become one of my best friends here (despite the fact that she is female… har har har), and she always keeps me up to date about opportunities to have an authentic Indonesian experience. She told me that I simply could not afford to miss Wayang Kulit and Panjat Pinang near her house. I was very disappointed to tell her, though, that I had already made plans to attend an “American Thanksgiving in Indonesia” with some other Fulbright scholars on the island of Sumatra. After telling her this, the celebration never really came up in conversation again, and the idea of going to the traditional function left my mind before I really knew what I was going to miss. However, as Thanksgiving started to draw near, I had not yet ordered plane tickets because I started to have second thoughts about traveling so far away. I already knew that I would be gone from the village for the better part of December, and I started to feel guilty about leaving.

On November 18th, I found myself at Ms. Eny’s home, talking about my Thanksgiving plans. She has traveled inside Indonesia more than anyone else I know here, and she has given me valuable tips every time I’ve had an aspiration to leave Guyangan. On top of this, she’s the only person I know who has an internet connection in her home, and hence, she has affectively assumed the role of my travel agent. So, as I was talking to her about buying tickets to Sumatra, she casually interjected, “Too bad you can’t see an Indonesian Thanksgiving in Indonesia.” Her comment genuinely confused me, and I asked her to clarify what she meant. Apparently, because of where Ramadan fell this year, the Javanese equivalent of our Turkey Day (a sort of giving thanks type of holiday) was happening on the exact same weekend. With this new knowledge, combined with my already ambivalent attitude toward leaving, I made the executive decision to experience Sedekah Bumi as an Indonesian.

I’m not entirely able to express how happy Ms. Eny was to hear about my staying. At age 30, she has really started to enjoy living vicariously through me at events that would never be tolerated in my pesantren community. She’s always encouraging me to do silly little things like gamble behind an eating stall (illegally) or to enjoy a savory meal in front of people during Ramadan. The hilarity of these situations never stop for me because she absolutely falls into the category of a conservative Muslim, even for a Javanese person. She’s just so excited to have an American friend that she’s always cheering me on to do all the things that she would never do. On top of this, her sense of humor is spot-on, and wow, if only I had known a bit more about Panjat Pinang before smugly riding the headmaster’s mo-ped to her home.

Any time I leave Guyangan, the novelty of my presence is immediately set back four months, and I feel like a rock star all over again. Even though I had no idea what to expect, I didn’t anticipate that the Sedekah Bumi celebration in Ms Eny’s village would be an exception. I’ll tell you what though; if I told you that I didn’t enjoy every minute of the attention, I would be inaccurately conveying to you my genuine feelings about living here! Nevertheless, because I know that I will be leaving after only one year, it has not been a challenge for me to strike a balance between vanity and humility.

Ms. Eny and I left her home and made our way to the popular event. Upon entering the mystifying scene of a few hundred Indonesians huddled in a scrappy back-alley, a makeshift wooden stage, and two 30-foot-tall oil-slicked shoots of bamboo with prizes dangling from the top, I knew immediately that I was about to witness some sort of wacky competition. After being urged to the front of the crowd to get a better view, I stood and waited as the M.C. blared his introduction to the audience in traditional Javanese. At this point, I was pretty inattentive because I’ve made very little effort to learn the Javanese language, and I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. However, I became promptly engaged after I picked out an unmistakable “Mrrrrrr. Kennnnn!” While a cheering audience pushed me up to the stage, I quickly forced a smile to mask my shock, and I looked back at Ms. Eny with a playful sneer and a sigh. I quickly noticed that everything else seemed to be totally blacked out by her glowing grin, and it then occurred to me – she must have previously informed someone that I would be attending.

An intense tag-team competition was about to go down, including a combination of events that the producers of Fear Factor would love to get their hands on. Panjat Pinang is no joke! Starting with a group of blindfolded people, jumping around trying to smash hanging ceramic pots (with their heads) that were filled with red die, to pulling out embedded coins with your mouth from an oil-covered coconut, I was in for a real treat.

The last and main event, however, was the Panjat Pinang, from which the whole competition gets it’s name. Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin with this…

After being thoroughly humiliated during all of the previous events, I was ushered over to one of the axel-grease coated towers, around which this event was to be centralized. All of the people I had been competing against in the previous competition now joined with me in order to defeat a common enemy, the Waria, who were already waiting for us at the other pole. This was a big surprise to me. Waria have quite a reputation in Indonesia; they happen to be a socially accepted, vastly prevalent, jolly group of transvestites and transsexuals. They are loud, crazy, and many times homeless (but more in the sense of a gypsy, not so much that they sit around asking for money). And apparently, they have a reputation for honing in on events such as this, in order to try and win money, prizes, and the attention of audience members.

As you might be questioning right now, considering what I’ve told about how much Indonesian people love to be entertained by my being around… which team do you think I was urged to join? Well, it wasn’t the crew of people I had just made friends with during the rice-eating contest!

For the first couple attempts at climbing the tower, I was to join the team of Waria, who predictably enjoyed my being on their side more than the audience members. After sufficiently patronizing me, attempting to flirt, trying to kiss, and making very little effort to win the competition, I fled the scene and joined my former teammates. Unfortunately (mainly due to the cheating Waria, who were constantly leaving their post and knocking down our tower of people), my team did not win, but the memories I gained from this experience certainly rival anything else I’ve ever done in my life. From here, I’ll just let the photos speak for themselves. They’re coming soon, I promise!

I need pest control... now...

2007-10-26T00:14:00.000-07:00

Good day/morning/evening/night!

Well, it turns out that from no matter which source one chooses to obtain internet in this country, the problems remain the same. Namely, it’s just damn hard to use! At this point in time I, as well as many others, have done virtually everything in our collective power to get me wired (well, “wiredless” as it were). And now that we’re about 3 weeks in, I’ve got a slick new phone from the future, a binding contract, and a new group of jolly friends from the Telkomsel support staff. Seriously, considering the generally hasty Indonesian relationship dynamic, I’m almost certain that I’m dating one of the technicians now.

But, on another note… MOSQUITOES!!! I’m starting to have some serious doubts about the parenting skills of certain insects and the morals being passed along to our newest generation of blood-sucking pests. There’s more careless unprotected sex going on in my kitchen than in… well, you just go ahead and make your own really offensive joke. Seriously though, I swept up over 100 dead mosquito carcasses in my kitchen this morning and over 100 more about ten minutes ago. I’m currently looking into a solution to this problem, which will likely include a spray that turns your lungs inside out. So, I may not be cooking as much over the next few days.

Speaking of food, after about two weeks I’ve managed to regain the 10 pounds I lost during Ramadan. Unfortunately though (in conjunction with the mosquitoes), it has recently become much more of a chore for me to utilize my kitchen. I hope this is a just phase that passes quickly because, quite frankly, I did very little cooking over the last month and a half, and I’ve gotten pretty lazy. I became accustomed to only making breakfast and then simply waiting to feast in the evening with families in the village. To motivate myself, I’ve made plans with Imam to visit a traditional market, where I can get “complete” Indonesian spices. Imam is so funny about cooking. (Andrew, I don’t think you would approve.) There’s really no such thing here as winging it and using whatever you’ve got in the refrigerator – largely because very few people own one. So every day, the average Indonesian villager makes a trip to the market to buy food for the family’s daily intake. Case in point, people commonly get into undeviating routines when they cook, and consequently, they quickly form ideas about the correct way to prepare boiled carrots and an infinite number of wrong ways. Imam and a few other people who’ve had the pleasure of tasting my cooking have made little comments like, “Oh, you forgot the coriander,” or “Yikes, not enough MSG.” To which I replied in my head, “Ya know, in this batch of fried rice, I don’t want any friggin MSG!!” Oh well, haha. I will tell you though; thank god for Imam, Mr. Wiwid, and Kiswanto because really, I’m going to be a pro at preparing Indonesian cuisine by the time I come home. This is of course assuming that I’ll be able to find orange leaves and galanger at Wal-Mart.

And one more thing before I cut this off. Haircuts here are fantastic. Not really because of the haircut though, but because you get a massage afterwards!

And not a creepy massage...

…like in Yogyakarta…

If you haven’t yet heard this story, ask me later.

Telkomflict! Prequel

2007-10-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

… so, instead of continuing the story and telling you about how my internet situation has gotten better, let’s back track and talk about my experience in Semarang a few days ago. I’ve been living in Indonesia for just over two months now and have gained a pretty strong self-confidence in my language ability. However, once I was on my own and was taking care of business in a big city, while I didn’t exactly resemble a chicken with it’s head cut off, I found out pretty quickly that my self confidence had developed a bit prematurely.

My first stop, and what I thought would be my only stop, was the Telkomsel headquarters, GraPARI, in Semarang (where I was told all my problems would be solved). After walking in to the building and after being placed in the queue, I gave a huge sigh of relief because I could just sit there, relax, wait for a representative to help me, and then buy the proper cell phone to grant me access to the internet! As I waited, I watched a soccer match and chatted with some others who were sitting close. But, as I noticed more details about my surroundings, I started to become acutely aware that I would not be able to buy a cell phone here. I remembered finding it odd when I saw no merchandise on display upon entering the building, and then, after talking to a couple people, my doubts were confirmed. This was only a service center. That was fine though; I had all day, and I figured that before I bought a phone I should get some professional advice anyway.

Once my number was called, I spoke with a Telkomsel rep, and we had no real problems understanding each other; she basically just gave directions to where I should buy my phone. And of course, I probably could have guessed that the directions would be to the huge mall down the street. It was a little hike, but no big deal, so just I left and headed towards Mal Ciputra. I wasted some time in a few stores, just looking around (melihat-lihat), before I made it into one of the many cell phone shops. I had a few specific questions and some new technical vocabulary in my arsenal, which I had learned from the woman at GraPARI. I could now use that to my advantage for buying a phone, and I wasn’t really worried about making this semi-large purchase by myself. I asked the salesman a few questions about a particular phone I was looking at, and he gave me only positive responses, so I decided that it would be the one!

Well, rather than saying, “No, this phone does not have that feature,” or even “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t understand your broken Indonesian,” the salesman gave me a resounding “Yes” to everything I asked. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and attribute this misunderstanding to the reasons that I gave in my last blog entry – Indonesians do not want to disappoint. He saw that I liked this phone and just couldn’t stand to be the bearer of bad news and let me know that,

“No, this phone does not have GPRS Flash capability. You will have to buy another phone.”

Or, it could have been that he understood me just fine, but since his shift was almost over, he certainly would not have wanted to lose the last sale of the day. But, surely… surely, something like that would never happen in Indonesia! 

Anyway, I made it back to the Telkomsel service center, where they were supposed to configure my phone for the internet, and of course, after waiting patiently and unknowlingly in another 45-minute queue, I was told that this task would be impossible. I would need to purchase a different phone.

Now, having gone shopping in this country a few times before, I was already aware that the return policies here aren’t quite what they are at BestBuy. So, bearing in mind that I had just bought a $150 phone, a slight sense of panic began to set in. This time on the way back to Mal Ciputra, I walked a bit more quickly.

Luckily, resale value in this country is notably higher than in the US, and people aren’t worried about making large profit margins on used items, so when I went to exchange my phone, I only lost $20, about 13%. That might seem shitty, considering I had bought the phone only an hour and a half previous, but during the walk there, I had fully anticipated losing at least $50 with this transaction, so I was actually in a pretty good mood. I just bit the bullet, bought the more expensive phone, lost a little cash, and walked back to GraPARI. This walk was much less pleasant than any of the previous three though. Not only did I have a completely justified lack of confidence about this phone actually being “the one,” but I was also nearing the completion of my eighth kilometer… in 80¢ flip flops. This time, as well as being worried about throwing away large sums of money, I was becoming aware of the blisters forming on my feet. I hate you, Mal Ciputra.

But back at the service center, and after yet another 45-minute queue, I was placed at the desk of my 3rd Telkomsel rep for the day. She was the only person with whom I was able to speak English all morning and afternoon, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. We finished configuring my phone pretty quickly, and I was ready to go home. However, I had to wait another hour for my ride to arrive. Even still, after getting the phone situation under control, and even after having dealt with telecommunications people for 7 hours straight, I was still looking forward to just sitting back in the GraPARI waiting room, in the air conditioning, watching the rest of the soccer match that was on TV.

But guess what. It was closing time.

I called my ride to let them know that I could no longer meet them at our previously specified location, and when we worked out a new meeting place, guess which “close” well-known landmark was the rendezvous of choice…

Telkomflict!

2007-10-11T05:34:00.000-07:00

There’s something that I’ve been meaning to mention in my past few journal entries, and that’s how my concept of time is completely off balance, living on the equator. It’s not enough that I’m out of the country; the sun sets here at 5:45pm everyday, and there is no season change. It’s been getting cooler for you guys, but it’s been getting hotter and dryer for me. A couple weeks ago, Joe mentioned something to me about fall break, and I couldn’t believe it. I was thinking, “Shit, it’s already October?? I’ve got to apply for grad school!” That's why I’ve been on a frantic search for practical internet access lately.

So yeah, for real this time. It looks like I've been able to get the situation under control. I've currently got a temporary solution going here, but soon I will have a permanent internet connection. The other night when I thought I had it all worked out... yeah, that was certainly not the case. I was actually getting charged double, and what I mean by double is X10. I was getting charged by two different providers at the same time, and it just so happens that one of them was unreasonably more expensive than the other (the one who, at the time, I didn't know what charging me). I have to say that I was getting extremely frustrated because of this situation and have never had to conceal my emotions for the benefit of others (and myself) quite like this before.

During the orientation in Bandung, I was briefed on multiple occasions about Indonesian conflict resolution, but since I had never really dealt with fixing a problem before, I hadn't yet had any real experience with it. So, the culture in indonesia is such that it is extremely important for everyone to leave a deal/argument/conflict extremely happily, so there are two major differences (obstacles?) that a westerner has to consider when negotiating with an indonesian. 1) It's going to take much longer than what you are used to, and 2) people are going to tell you what you want to hear, no matter if it's the truth, or if they haven't the slightest clue.

This presents a major problem when consulting with tech support over the phone, with a language barrier, and no real knowledge of the product you have just purchased.

I'm not going to lie, after an uncountable number of busy signals, three or four 30 minutes conversations with no progress, and a $250 hole in my bank account, I had developed some pretty bitter thoughts about the qualifications of the people working in the telecommunications industry here. I was not going through all of this alone either. I had one of the students, Nafe, who can speak almost fluent english help me on the phone for the last couple tries at tech support. Not even he was able to break through the impenetrable wall that is the Telkomsel Support Line. I was at the end of my patience, and I'm really glad that Nafe was around, so that I had a reason to not let my emotions overwhelm me. I was able to just sit down and chat with him after our attempts to fix my problem, and once he left, I felt much better. I had an idea about what I might do the next day (today), and I decided that I would just not think about internet for the rest of the evening.

I had bought a bicycle 3 or 4 days before and hadn’t really gotten the chance to ride it, so I decided that I would just go exploring. This proved to be a very uplifting experience. It doesn’t take a whole lot to brighten the day of the average Guyangan villager, and the sight of children running after me on a bike entertained many of the locals. Not to mention, I happened to ride past (or should I say, “immediately stopped at”) a semi-competitive volleyball match, where I was beckoned to join in. That was great because I got to hang out with some people my age, which doesn’t happen very often. And of course, when have I ever passed up an opportunity to play… well… any sport?

Ok, so I will finish the story about the internet situation later and maybe add in some more interesting tidbits about Indonesian culture!

2007-10-05T01:46:00.000-07:00

Well, I apologize for the sparse updates recently. Ramadan has been a busy time for me, and for everyone. On average, Indonesians have more to do throughout the day during the holy month than during the remainder of the year. It’s a time when they embrace hard work and sacrifice. Before I came here, I had read about how a westerner should certainly cut Indonesians some slack by the end of Ramadan. They’ve been going without normal nourishment for a month, and one might assume that the last half of Ramadan could be hard on a lot of people. However, I’ve found quite the opposite. Ramadan is also a time when people are very aware of their emotions, and to become frustrated during this time is a real sign of weakness and of a lack of dedication. This Ramadan has been an enriching experience for me, and I have met many more people and heard many more names than my brain has a capacity to memorize! But, more about this later; I have a story to finish…

Immediately after spending time with teachers in a social environment, I was able to see how much better some of them were at English than what they tend to display in a classroom setting. The traditional language classes at my pesantren cast an atmosphere 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 now, more than ever, I intend to promote a classroom environment, which is as different from the students’ typical situation as possible. I think these kids need a little more chaos in their lives!

As a westerner, there are many aspects of this culture with which I am either completely unfamiliar or even with which I am totally uncomfortable. But, when traveling to the opposite end of the earth, that’s only to be expected, and it’s certainly not detracting from my experience. In particular, one facet of pesantren culture, which never ceases to make me cringe, is the general view of women and the interactions (or lack there of) between women and men. There are many examples of this, which contrast so intensely from western culture and from what I am used to, but I’d rather not discuss that right now. What I will say, though, is that when I went on this trip, I hadn’t before seen men and women interacting so harmoniously. All of us sitting in the back of a van, making jokes – it was so refreshing.

The reason I don’t want to sound too negative about gender roles here is because Indonesian women are genuinely happy people, and the patriarchal traditions come just as much from the long engrained Javanese culture as they do from the more recent Islam. Many people here, men and women, would never say that females are treated differently (even if they know it deep down). They are so proud of their culture and so proud to be Indonesians and Muslims, that these social issues, which we hold so dear in the US are not a concern for them (even for most women). People’s sense of individuality is nothing like Americans’. Many Indonesians would define themselves by their family, their home and community, and their religion – nevert by their goals and aspirations, achievements, or career. However, just to relate to me, when I’ve had conversations about gender with people, it is an immediate response for them to give me specific examples of women who are successful and who couldn’t be considered oppressed even by the western definition. But, with my privilege of having had first hand experience in both cultures, and with the advantage of comparison, it’s still very hard for me to fully accept certain practices here… as I am sure it would be similar for them if they ever ventured to the US.

Traveling, however, tends not to be a big desire for many people in central Java, and if it were, it’s still much too expensive. Anyway, that’s one reason why the trip to this mountain and waterfall was so exciting for my new friends. Many of the teachers had never previously been, and for the ones who had, maybe they only remembered it from an excursion during their middle school years. My excitement, though, was drawn from something completely different. This trip happened nearly a month ago at this point, and some of the things here that have become commonplace for me by now were, at that time, very inspiring and made a big impression on me. I’m so happy to go back and write about this because I had almost forgotten.

The jaunt to Gunung Muria was the first time I felt like a true friend to the teachers here and not at all like a novelty. We were joking around with what little vocabulary we had in common (in both languages), trying to penetrate a steep language barrier, and when I look back on the trip, even though I could only manage a true conversation with one of the twelve people who went, I have no memories of feeling out of place or of struggling to communicate. I was even invited to go with them at noon to pray, and although I did not take part in the prayer, I felt more comfortable and at ease, barefoot, in that mosque than in virtually any other memory I can quickly conjure up. Being accepted as a true friend among these teachers, with whom it might appear I have very little in common, was one of the more moving experiences I’ve ever had. And these feelings were only compounded when I took a moment to consider the physical stimuli. There I was, sitting at the top of a mountain, inside a gorgeous mosque known to all of central Java, on an exceptionally beautiful day, with a calming breeze and a magnificent view. Let’s talk a little bit about melodrama.

As you can see from the pictures below, the waterfall was a really spectacular scene, and the walk there was just as beautiful. I learned some pretty important vocabulary during the hike as well, “hati-hati!” which means “be careful!” The trail to the waterfall honestly reminded me of a scene from Apocalypto when a guy slipped and nearly dragged four other people down a cliff with him. I don’t recall us losing anyone though, so I’m sure I’ll make my way back there sometime before I leave. I couldn’t knowingly pass up another opportunity to visit Gunung Muria with a clean conscience; from my experiences here in restaurants, I’ve come to the conclusion that that waterfall boasts the only cold water in Indonesia. Of course I’m kidding, but really, I’m so glad that I just bit the bullet and got sick from drinking the water here during my first two weeks. I’m now able to enjoy the unique pleasures of Indonesian iced drinks, which I would have otherwise been apprehensive to try.

Gunung Muria: Part One

2007-09-13T01:18:00.000-07:00

Today was probably my favorite day in Indonesia to date

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...

2007-09-10T01:48:00.000-07:00

This is the "Salt Farm" right next to my school. It's only about a 5 minute walk to get there. The workers were more than enthusiastic to seem a "Bule" walking in the middle their ponds, but it was entertaining for all of us!

This was just a little guy I found walking around my apartment. too cute not to document.

Sorry for the formatting issues, but below is a shot of me with some of the students whom I've become closer to over the past few weeks. Some of the seniors are very good English speakers, and we've quickly become good friends.

Where Energy Drinks Rule

2007-08-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

By this point in time, I've had many conversations, with many people about the amount of sleep people get in Guyangan and Pati. I may have mentioned this before (I can't remember now) but I'm actually in the town of Guyangan, just outside of Pati. Anyway as you might have guessed, people in the small towns, especially, are very devout Muslims, which means getting up at 4:30am or 5:00am to pray every day of every week. So, most people here are running on 5 or 6 hours of sleep on a regular basis, even the students. Sometimes they find time for napping during the day, but it's not like something they have built into their schedule. The fact surprised me because of how much even indonesians joke about the fact that they are really laid back. One person said to me, "Indonesians never sweat when they work, only when they eat!" This, of course, was in reference to their spice food.

But from what I have noticed, especially with the teacher crowd, is that these people are very busy and have very little free time. Most teacher work at least 3 jobs, whether it's working at three different schools, private tutoring, or just some odd job. This means that, with a daily ritual of prayer (5 times a day), they have very little time to sleep. Most of the time I've witnessed someone praying, the actual preparation for the ritual takes the most time because they must cleanse themselves thoroughly and then change clothes. They probably spend 1 and a half to 2 hours praying a day... everyday... pretty much everyone.

So, it's pretty funny because every time I watch indonesian television, the commercial breaks are full of advertisements for energy drinks and caffeine pills. M150 Energy and Stamina or two brands that I see advertised literally every commercial break on certain stations. Not to mention, every time I sit down at the school with teachers, they are drinking coffee or tea, every time, any time of day. They must think I'm lazy as hell for getting my 8 hours. Oh well, not something I'm willing to sacrifice! :-)

In Pati... for real this time.

2007-08-22T20:14:00.000-07:00

Ah... ok. Well, so last time I was at an internet cafe, the browser that the establishment was using happened to be Opera, which unfortunately is not compatible with this website. Hence, I could not post anything other that a title for a blog entry... a little disappointing.

I am pretty much completely settled now. I have a nice place to stay, which is connected to the library and very close to where the head master lives. I have a nice-sized living room, a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and a laundry area. It's very comfortable... besides of course the leak two days ago, which literally almost sent my TV stand floating out the door. I heard a sound from the kitchen, and when I made my way into the living room, I could see the the reflection of the TV in a lake of water on my floor... which was being filled by the light fixture on the ceiling. At that point, I concluded that it would be a good idea to turn the light off. But never fear, the carpenter was on the job immediately and fixed the problem!

I want to go ahead and comment on something that I've found very amusing and interesting here. Indonesians in Pati really don't have any western sense of privacy, which is really the only thing I've had to consciously adjust to. I don't really have anything to hide, so it's not a big deal, but people in Pati are not very individualistic, they are extremely community oriented, so for example, any time I write an e-mail, my driver sits right next to me and tries to read every word that I type. It's not an issue for him that I am writing my closest friends and family; for him, this is just an opportunity to read and improve his english, while learning the names of my friends and family. Also, when I'm in my home, if someone enters or exits, they have yet to shut the door. Honestly, I may have never even noticed if I didn't have air conditioning in my house, which I desperately want to preserve :-), but people here really don't see any reason why they would need to shut the door. And don't get me wrong, they are extremely polite and would never enter or exit without making sure that it is okay with me, but once they are in, it's everybody's news!

I'm running a little short on time, so I must get going, but next time I update this, I think I'll bring my journal, so I can remember all the interesting and entertaining anecdotes that have become a very common occurrence in my life!

In Pati...

2007-08-19T04:22:00.000-07:00

2007-08-12T01:35:00.001-07:00

Here I was trying to get a different perspective on the volcano crater, i.e, acting like an idiot. The view was incredible. I was disoriented looking down into it because of how huge it was, and I wish pictures could do any sort of justice. If paths had made it possible, a walk around the crater could have easily taken an hour or two.

First Post, August 12, 2007

2007-08-12T01:06:00.000-07:00

Hello all!

Hopefully I'll be able to update this pretty regularly. Rather than uploading pics in multiple e-mails, I'd really like to just do it once here because internet is fairly unreliable.

Anyway, my experience so far has been practically flawless... with the exception of contracting the Indonesian Plague of course... and the 7.5 magnitude earthquake.

But hey, no one was hurt, and my antibodies are now stronger than ever. Street vendors, watch out!