Another First Day

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.