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
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Back at it!
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.
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.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
On The Run!
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Goodbye Telkomsel... Hopefully Forever
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Can I please write about something other than a hospital???
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.
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.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Banjir or Disney Land?
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…
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…
Thursday, January 3, 2008
At least I had my health...
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!
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!
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