Spaghetti Really Takes You Places in this Country

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

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

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

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

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

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