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.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
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!
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Indonesian Thanksgiving is Slightly Different
At the beginning of November another teacher here, Ms. Eny informed me about two happenings in her village that would occur at the end of the month. Ms. Eny has become one of my best friends here (despite the fact that she is female… har har har), and she always keeps me up to date about opportunities to have an authentic Indonesian experience. She told me that I simply could not afford to miss Wayang Kulit and Panjat Pinang near her house. I was very disappointed to tell her, though, that I had already made plans to attend an “American Thanksgiving in Indonesia” with some other Fulbright scholars on the island of Sumatra. After telling her this, the celebration never really came up in conversation again, and the idea of going to the traditional function left my mind before I really knew what I was going to miss. However, as Thanksgiving started to draw near, I had not yet ordered plane tickets because I started to have second thoughts about traveling so far away. I already knew that I would be gone from the village for the better part of December, and I started to feel guilty about leaving.
On November 18th, I found myself at Ms. Eny’s home, talking about my Thanksgiving plans. She has traveled inside Indonesia more than anyone else I know here, and she has given me valuable tips every time I’ve had an aspiration to leave Guyangan. On top of this, she’s the only person I know who has an internet connection in her home, and hence, she has affectively assumed the role of my travel agent. So, as I was talking to her about buying tickets to Sumatra, she casually interjected, “Too bad you can’t see an Indonesian Thanksgiving in Indonesia.” Her comment genuinely confused me, and I asked her to clarify what she meant. Apparently, because of where Ramadan fell this year, the Javanese equivalent of our Turkey Day (a sort of giving thanks type of holiday) was happening on the exact same weekend. With this new knowledge, combined with my already ambivalent attitude toward leaving, I made the executive decision to experience Sedekah Bumi as an Indonesian.
I’m not entirely able to express how happy Ms. Eny was to hear about my staying. At age 30, she has really started to enjoy living vicariously through me at events that would never be tolerated in my pesantren community. She’s always encouraging me to do silly little things like gamble behind an eating stall (illegally) or to enjoy a savory meal in front of people during Ramadan. The hilarity of these situations never stop for me because she absolutely falls into the category of a conservative Muslim, even for a Javanese person. She’s just so excited to have an American friend that she’s always cheering me on to do all the things that she would never do. On top of this, her sense of humor is spot-on, and wow, if only I had known a bit more about Panjat Pinang before smugly riding the headmaster’s mo-ped to her home.
Any time I leave Guyangan, the novelty of my presence is immediately set back four months, and I feel like a rock star all over again. Even though I had no idea what to expect, I didn’t anticipate that the Sedekah Bumi celebration in Ms Eny’s village would be an exception. I’ll tell you what though; if I told you that I didn’t enjoy every minute of the attention, I would be inaccurately conveying to you my genuine feelings about living here! Nevertheless, because I know that I will be leaving after only one year, it has not been a challenge for me to strike a balance between vanity and humility.
Ms. Eny and I left her home and made our way to the popular event. Upon entering the mystifying scene of a few hundred Indonesians huddled in a scrappy back-alley, a makeshift wooden stage, and two 30-foot-tall oil-slicked shoots of bamboo with prizes dangling from the top, I knew immediately that I was about to witness some sort of wacky competition. After being urged to the front of the crowd to get a better view, I stood and waited as the M.C. blared his introduction to the audience in traditional Javanese. At this point, I was pretty inattentive because I’ve made very little effort to learn the Javanese language, and I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. However, I became promptly engaged after I picked out an unmistakable “Mrrrrrr. Kennnnn!” While a cheering audience pushed me up to the stage, I quickly forced a smile to mask my shock, and I looked back at Ms. Eny with a playful sneer and a sigh. I quickly noticed that everything else seemed to be totally blacked out by her glowing grin, and it then occurred to me – she must have previously informed someone that I would be attending.
An intense tag-team competition was about to go down, including a combination of events that the producers of Fear Factor would love to get their hands on. Panjat Pinang is no joke! Starting with a group of blindfolded people, jumping around trying to smash hanging ceramic pots (with their heads) that were filled with red die, to pulling out embedded coins with your mouth from an oil-covered coconut, I was in for a real treat.
The last and main event, however, was the Panjat Pinang, from which the whole competition gets it’s name. Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin with this…
After being thoroughly humiliated during all of the previous events, I was ushered over to one of the axel-grease coated towers, around which this event was to be centralized. All of the people I had been competing against in the previous competition now joined with me in order to defeat a common enemy, the Waria, who were already waiting for us at the other pole. This was a big surprise to me. Waria have quite a reputation in Indonesia; they happen to be a socially accepted, vastly prevalent, jolly group of transvestites and transsexuals. They are loud, crazy, and many times homeless (but more in the sense of a gypsy, not so much that they sit around asking for money). And apparently, they have a reputation for honing in on events such as this, in order to try and win money, prizes, and the attention of audience members.
As you might be questioning right now, considering what I’ve told about how much Indonesian people love to be entertained by my being around… which team do you think I was urged to join? Well, it wasn’t the crew of people I had just made friends with during the rice-eating contest!
For the first couple attempts at climbing the tower, I was to join the team of Waria, who predictably enjoyed my being on their side more than the audience members. After sufficiently patronizing me, attempting to flirt, trying to kiss, and making very little effort to win the competition, I fled the scene and joined my former teammates. Unfortunately (mainly due to the cheating Waria, who were constantly leaving their post and knocking down our tower of people), my team did not win, but the memories I gained from this experience certainly rival anything else I’ve ever done in my life. From here, I’ll just let the photos speak for themselves. They’re coming soon, I promise!
On November 18th, I found myself at Ms. Eny’s home, talking about my Thanksgiving plans. She has traveled inside Indonesia more than anyone else I know here, and she has given me valuable tips every time I’ve had an aspiration to leave Guyangan. On top of this, she’s the only person I know who has an internet connection in her home, and hence, she has affectively assumed the role of my travel agent. So, as I was talking to her about buying tickets to Sumatra, she casually interjected, “Too bad you can’t see an Indonesian Thanksgiving in Indonesia.” Her comment genuinely confused me, and I asked her to clarify what she meant. Apparently, because of where Ramadan fell this year, the Javanese equivalent of our Turkey Day (a sort of giving thanks type of holiday) was happening on the exact same weekend. With this new knowledge, combined with my already ambivalent attitude toward leaving, I made the executive decision to experience Sedekah Bumi as an Indonesian.
I’m not entirely able to express how happy Ms. Eny was to hear about my staying. At age 30, she has really started to enjoy living vicariously through me at events that would never be tolerated in my pesantren community. She’s always encouraging me to do silly little things like gamble behind an eating stall (illegally) or to enjoy a savory meal in front of people during Ramadan. The hilarity of these situations never stop for me because she absolutely falls into the category of a conservative Muslim, even for a Javanese person. She’s just so excited to have an American friend that she’s always cheering me on to do all the things that she would never do. On top of this, her sense of humor is spot-on, and wow, if only I had known a bit more about Panjat Pinang before smugly riding the headmaster’s mo-ped to her home.
Any time I leave Guyangan, the novelty of my presence is immediately set back four months, and I feel like a rock star all over again. Even though I had no idea what to expect, I didn’t anticipate that the Sedekah Bumi celebration in Ms Eny’s village would be an exception. I’ll tell you what though; if I told you that I didn’t enjoy every minute of the attention, I would be inaccurately conveying to you my genuine feelings about living here! Nevertheless, because I know that I will be leaving after only one year, it has not been a challenge for me to strike a balance between vanity and humility.
Ms. Eny and I left her home and made our way to the popular event. Upon entering the mystifying scene of a few hundred Indonesians huddled in a scrappy back-alley, a makeshift wooden stage, and two 30-foot-tall oil-slicked shoots of bamboo with prizes dangling from the top, I knew immediately that I was about to witness some sort of wacky competition. After being urged to the front of the crowd to get a better view, I stood and waited as the M.C. blared his introduction to the audience in traditional Javanese. At this point, I was pretty inattentive because I’ve made very little effort to learn the Javanese language, and I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. However, I became promptly engaged after I picked out an unmistakable “Mrrrrrr. Kennnnn!” While a cheering audience pushed me up to the stage, I quickly forced a smile to mask my shock, and I looked back at Ms. Eny with a playful sneer and a sigh. I quickly noticed that everything else seemed to be totally blacked out by her glowing grin, and it then occurred to me – she must have previously informed someone that I would be attending.
An intense tag-team competition was about to go down, including a combination of events that the producers of Fear Factor would love to get their hands on. Panjat Pinang is no joke! Starting with a group of blindfolded people, jumping around trying to smash hanging ceramic pots (with their heads) that were filled with red die, to pulling out embedded coins with your mouth from an oil-covered coconut, I was in for a real treat.
The last and main event, however, was the Panjat Pinang, from which the whole competition gets it’s name. Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin with this…
After being thoroughly humiliated during all of the previous events, I was ushered over to one of the axel-grease coated towers, around which this event was to be centralized. All of the people I had been competing against in the previous competition now joined with me in order to defeat a common enemy, the Waria, who were already waiting for us at the other pole. This was a big surprise to me. Waria have quite a reputation in Indonesia; they happen to be a socially accepted, vastly prevalent, jolly group of transvestites and transsexuals. They are loud, crazy, and many times homeless (but more in the sense of a gypsy, not so much that they sit around asking for money). And apparently, they have a reputation for honing in on events such as this, in order to try and win money, prizes, and the attention of audience members.
As you might be questioning right now, considering what I’ve told about how much Indonesian people love to be entertained by my being around… which team do you think I was urged to join? Well, it wasn’t the crew of people I had just made friends with during the rice-eating contest!
For the first couple attempts at climbing the tower, I was to join the team of Waria, who predictably enjoyed my being on their side more than the audience members. After sufficiently patronizing me, attempting to flirt, trying to kiss, and making very little effort to win the competition, I fled the scene and joined my former teammates. Unfortunately (mainly due to the cheating Waria, who were constantly leaving their post and knocking down our tower of people), my team did not win, but the memories I gained from this experience certainly rival anything else I’ve ever done in my life. From here, I’ll just let the photos speak for themselves. They’re coming soon, I promise!
Friday, October 26, 2007
I need pest control... now...
Good day/morning/evening/night!
Well, it turns out that from no matter which source one chooses to obtain internet in this country, the problems remain the same. Namely, it’s just damn hard to use! At this point in time I, as well as many others, have done virtually everything in our collective power to get me wired (well, “wiredless” as it were). And now that we’re about 3 weeks in, I’ve got a slick new phone from the future, a binding contract, and a new group of jolly friends from the Telkomsel support staff. Seriously, considering the generally hasty Indonesian relationship dynamic, I’m almost certain that I’m dating one of the technicians now.
But, on another note… MOSQUITOES!!! I’m starting to have some serious doubts about the parenting skills of certain insects and the morals being passed along to our newest generation of blood-sucking pests. There’s more careless unprotected sex going on in my kitchen than in… well, you just go ahead and make your own really offensive joke. Seriously though, I swept up over 100 dead mosquito carcasses in my kitchen this morning and over 100 more about ten minutes ago. I’m currently looking into a solution to this problem, which will likely include a spray that turns your lungs inside out. So, I may not be cooking as much over the next few days.
Speaking of food, after about two weeks I’ve managed to regain the 10 pounds I lost during Ramadan. Unfortunately though (in conjunction with the mosquitoes), it has recently become much more of a chore for me to utilize my kitchen. I hope this is a just phase that passes quickly because, quite frankly, I did very little cooking over the last month and a half, and I’ve gotten pretty lazy. I became accustomed to only making breakfast and then simply waiting to feast in the evening with families in the village. To motivate myself, I’ve made plans with Imam to visit a traditional market, where I can get “complete” Indonesian spices. Imam is so funny about cooking. (Andrew, I don’t think you would approve.) There’s really no such thing here as winging it and using whatever you’ve got in the refrigerator – largely because very few people own one. So every day, the average Indonesian villager makes a trip to the market to buy food for the family’s daily intake. Case in point, people commonly get into undeviating routines when they cook, and consequently, they quickly form ideas about the correct way to prepare boiled carrots and an infinite number of wrong ways. Imam and a few other people who’ve had the pleasure of tasting my cooking have made little comments like, “Oh, you forgot the coriander,” or “Yikes, not enough MSG.” To which I replied in my head, “Ya know, in this batch of fried rice, I don’t want any friggin MSG!!” Oh well, haha. I will tell you though; thank god for Imam, Mr. Wiwid, and Kiswanto because really, I’m going to be a pro at preparing Indonesian cuisine by the time I come home. This is of course assuming that I’ll be able to find orange leaves and galanger at Wal-Mart.
And one more thing before I cut this off. Haircuts here are fantastic. Not really because of the haircut though, but because you get a massage afterwards!
And not a creepy massage...
…like in Yogyakarta…
If you haven’t yet heard this story, ask me later.
Well, it turns out that from no matter which source one chooses to obtain internet in this country, the problems remain the same. Namely, it’s just damn hard to use! At this point in time I, as well as many others, have done virtually everything in our collective power to get me wired (well, “wiredless” as it were). And now that we’re about 3 weeks in, I’ve got a slick new phone from the future, a binding contract, and a new group of jolly friends from the Telkomsel support staff. Seriously, considering the generally hasty Indonesian relationship dynamic, I’m almost certain that I’m dating one of the technicians now.
But, on another note… MOSQUITOES!!! I’m starting to have some serious doubts about the parenting skills of certain insects and the morals being passed along to our newest generation of blood-sucking pests. There’s more careless unprotected sex going on in my kitchen than in… well, you just go ahead and make your own really offensive joke. Seriously though, I swept up over 100 dead mosquito carcasses in my kitchen this morning and over 100 more about ten minutes ago. I’m currently looking into a solution to this problem, which will likely include a spray that turns your lungs inside out. So, I may not be cooking as much over the next few days.
Speaking of food, after about two weeks I’ve managed to regain the 10 pounds I lost during Ramadan. Unfortunately though (in conjunction with the mosquitoes), it has recently become much more of a chore for me to utilize my kitchen. I hope this is a just phase that passes quickly because, quite frankly, I did very little cooking over the last month and a half, and I’ve gotten pretty lazy. I became accustomed to only making breakfast and then simply waiting to feast in the evening with families in the village. To motivate myself, I’ve made plans with Imam to visit a traditional market, where I can get “complete” Indonesian spices. Imam is so funny about cooking. (Andrew, I don’t think you would approve.) There’s really no such thing here as winging it and using whatever you’ve got in the refrigerator – largely because very few people own one. So every day, the average Indonesian villager makes a trip to the market to buy food for the family’s daily intake. Case in point, people commonly get into undeviating routines when they cook, and consequently, they quickly form ideas about the correct way to prepare boiled carrots and an infinite number of wrong ways. Imam and a few other people who’ve had the pleasure of tasting my cooking have made little comments like, “Oh, you forgot the coriander,” or “Yikes, not enough MSG.” To which I replied in my head, “Ya know, in this batch of fried rice, I don’t want any friggin MSG!!” Oh well, haha. I will tell you though; thank god for Imam, Mr. Wiwid, and Kiswanto because really, I’m going to be a pro at preparing Indonesian cuisine by the time I come home. This is of course assuming that I’ll be able to find orange leaves and galanger at Wal-Mart.
And one more thing before I cut this off. Haircuts here are fantastic. Not really because of the haircut though, but because you get a massage afterwards!
And not a creepy massage...
…like in Yogyakarta…
If you haven’t yet heard this story, ask me later.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Telkomflict! Prequel
… so, instead of continuing the story and telling you about how my internet situation has gotten better, let’s back track and talk about my experience in Semarang a few days ago. I’ve been living in Indonesia for just over two months now and have gained a pretty strong self-confidence in my language ability. However, once I was on my own and was taking care of business in a big city, while I didn’t exactly resemble a chicken with it’s head cut off, I found out pretty quickly that my self confidence had developed a bit prematurely.
My first stop, and what I thought would be my only stop, was the Telkomsel headquarters, GraPARI, in Semarang (where I was told all my problems would be solved). After walking in to the building and after being placed in the queue, I gave a huge sigh of relief because I could just sit there, relax, wait for a representative to help me, and then buy the proper cell phone to grant me access to the internet! As I waited, I watched a soccer match and chatted with some others who were sitting close. But, as I noticed more details about my surroundings, I started to become acutely aware that I would not be able to buy a cell phone here. I remembered finding it odd when I saw no merchandise on display upon entering the building, and then, after talking to a couple people, my doubts were confirmed. This was only a service center. That was fine though; I had all day, and I figured that before I bought a phone I should get some professional advice anyway.
Once my number was called, I spoke with a Telkomsel rep, and we had no real problems understanding each other; she basically just gave directions to where I should buy my phone. And of course, I probably could have guessed that the directions would be to the huge mall down the street. It was a little hike, but no big deal, so just I left and headed towards Mal Ciputra. I wasted some time in a few stores, just looking around (melihat-lihat), before I made it into one of the many cell phone shops. I had a few specific questions and some new technical vocabulary in my arsenal, which I had learned from the woman at GraPARI. I could now use that to my advantage for buying a phone, and I wasn’t really worried about making this semi-large purchase by myself. I asked the salesman a few questions about a particular phone I was looking at, and he gave me only positive responses, so I decided that it would be the one!
Well, rather than saying, “No, this phone does not have that feature,” or even “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t understand your broken Indonesian,” the salesman gave me a resounding “Yes” to everything I asked. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and attribute this misunderstanding to the reasons that I gave in my last blog entry – Indonesians do not want to disappoint. He saw that I liked this phone and just couldn’t stand to be the bearer of bad news and let me know that,
“No, this phone does not have GPRS Flash capability. You will have to buy another phone.”
Or, it could have been that he understood me just fine, but since his shift was almost over, he certainly would not have wanted to lose the last sale of the day. But, surely… surely, something like that would never happen in Indonesia!
Anyway, I made it back to the Telkomsel service center, where they were supposed to configure my phone for the internet, and of course, after waiting patiently and unknowlingly in another 45-minute queue, I was told that this task would be impossible. I would need to purchase a different phone.
Now, having gone shopping in this country a few times before, I was already aware that the return policies here aren’t quite what they are at BestBuy. So, bearing in mind that I had just bought a $150 phone, a slight sense of panic began to set in. This time on the way back to Mal Ciputra, I walked a bit more quickly.
Luckily, resale value in this country is notably higher than in the US, and people aren’t worried about making large profit margins on used items, so when I went to exchange my phone, I only lost $20, about 13%. That might seem shitty, considering I had bought the phone only an hour and a half previous, but during the walk there, I had fully anticipated losing at least $50 with this transaction, so I was actually in a pretty good mood. I just bit the bullet, bought the more expensive phone, lost a little cash, and walked back to GraPARI. This walk was much less pleasant than any of the previous three though. Not only did I have a completely justified lack of confidence about this phone actually being “the one,” but I was also nearing the completion of my eighth kilometer… in 80¢ flip flops. This time, as well as being worried about throwing away large sums of money, I was becoming aware of the blisters forming on my feet. I hate you, Mal Ciputra.
But back at the service center, and after yet another 45-minute queue, I was placed at the desk of my 3rd Telkomsel rep for the day. She was the only person with whom I was able to speak English all morning and afternoon, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. We finished configuring my phone pretty quickly, and I was ready to go home. However, I had to wait another hour for my ride to arrive. Even still, after getting the phone situation under control, and even after having dealt with telecommunications people for 7 hours straight, I was still looking forward to just sitting back in the GraPARI waiting room, in the air conditioning, watching the rest of the soccer match that was on TV.
But guess what. It was closing time.
I called my ride to let them know that I could no longer meet them at our previously specified location, and when we worked out a new meeting place, guess which “close” well-known landmark was the rendezvous of choice…
My first stop, and what I thought would be my only stop, was the Telkomsel headquarters, GraPARI, in Semarang (where I was told all my problems would be solved). After walking in to the building and after being placed in the queue, I gave a huge sigh of relief because I could just sit there, relax, wait for a representative to help me, and then buy the proper cell phone to grant me access to the internet! As I waited, I watched a soccer match and chatted with some others who were sitting close. But, as I noticed more details about my surroundings, I started to become acutely aware that I would not be able to buy a cell phone here. I remembered finding it odd when I saw no merchandise on display upon entering the building, and then, after talking to a couple people, my doubts were confirmed. This was only a service center. That was fine though; I had all day, and I figured that before I bought a phone I should get some professional advice anyway.
Once my number was called, I spoke with a Telkomsel rep, and we had no real problems understanding each other; she basically just gave directions to where I should buy my phone. And of course, I probably could have guessed that the directions would be to the huge mall down the street. It was a little hike, but no big deal, so just I left and headed towards Mal Ciputra. I wasted some time in a few stores, just looking around (melihat-lihat), before I made it into one of the many cell phone shops. I had a few specific questions and some new technical vocabulary in my arsenal, which I had learned from the woman at GraPARI. I could now use that to my advantage for buying a phone, and I wasn’t really worried about making this semi-large purchase by myself. I asked the salesman a few questions about a particular phone I was looking at, and he gave me only positive responses, so I decided that it would be the one!
Well, rather than saying, “No, this phone does not have that feature,” or even “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t understand your broken Indonesian,” the salesman gave me a resounding “Yes” to everything I asked. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and attribute this misunderstanding to the reasons that I gave in my last blog entry – Indonesians do not want to disappoint. He saw that I liked this phone and just couldn’t stand to be the bearer of bad news and let me know that,
“No, this phone does not have GPRS Flash capability. You will have to buy another phone.”
Or, it could have been that he understood me just fine, but since his shift was almost over, he certainly would not have wanted to lose the last sale of the day. But, surely… surely, something like that would never happen in Indonesia!
Anyway, I made it back to the Telkomsel service center, where they were supposed to configure my phone for the internet, and of course, after waiting patiently and unknowlingly in another 45-minute queue, I was told that this task would be impossible. I would need to purchase a different phone.
Now, having gone shopping in this country a few times before, I was already aware that the return policies here aren’t quite what they are at BestBuy. So, bearing in mind that I had just bought a $150 phone, a slight sense of panic began to set in. This time on the way back to Mal Ciputra, I walked a bit more quickly.
Luckily, resale value in this country is notably higher than in the US, and people aren’t worried about making large profit margins on used items, so when I went to exchange my phone, I only lost $20, about 13%. That might seem shitty, considering I had bought the phone only an hour and a half previous, but during the walk there, I had fully anticipated losing at least $50 with this transaction, so I was actually in a pretty good mood. I just bit the bullet, bought the more expensive phone, lost a little cash, and walked back to GraPARI. This walk was much less pleasant than any of the previous three though. Not only did I have a completely justified lack of confidence about this phone actually being “the one,” but I was also nearing the completion of my eighth kilometer… in 80¢ flip flops. This time, as well as being worried about throwing away large sums of money, I was becoming aware of the blisters forming on my feet. I hate you, Mal Ciputra.
But back at the service center, and after yet another 45-minute queue, I was placed at the desk of my 3rd Telkomsel rep for the day. She was the only person with whom I was able to speak English all morning and afternoon, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. We finished configuring my phone pretty quickly, and I was ready to go home. However, I had to wait another hour for my ride to arrive. Even still, after getting the phone situation under control, and even after having dealt with telecommunications people for 7 hours straight, I was still looking forward to just sitting back in the GraPARI waiting room, in the air conditioning, watching the rest of the soccer match that was on TV.
But guess what. It was closing time.
I called my ride to let them know that I could no longer meet them at our previously specified location, and when we worked out a new meeting place, guess which “close” well-known landmark was the rendezvous of choice…
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Telkomflict!
There’s something that I’ve been meaning to mention in my past few journal entries, and that’s how my concept of time is completely off balance, living on the equator. It’s not enough that I’m out of the country; the sun sets here at 5:45pm everyday, and there is no season change. It’s been getting cooler for you guys, but it’s been getting hotter and dryer for me. A couple weeks ago, Joe mentioned something to me about fall break, and I couldn’t believe it. I was thinking, “Shit, it’s already October?? I’ve got to apply for grad school!” That's why I’ve been on a frantic search for practical internet access lately.
So yeah, for real this time. It looks like I've been able to get the situation under control. I've currently got a temporary solution going here, but soon I will have a permanent internet connection. The other night when I thought I had it all worked out... yeah, that was certainly not the case. I was actually getting charged double, and what I mean by double is X10. I was getting charged by two different providers at the same time, and it just so happens that one of them was unreasonably more expensive than the other (the one who, at the time, I didn't know what charging me). I have to say that I was getting extremely frustrated because of this situation and have never had to conceal my emotions for the benefit of others (and myself) quite like this before.
During the orientation in Bandung, I was briefed on multiple occasions about Indonesian conflict resolution, but since I had never really dealt with fixing a problem before, I hadn't yet had any real experience with it. So, the culture in indonesia is such that it is extremely important for everyone to leave a deal/argument/conflict extremely happily, so there are two major differences (obstacles?) that a westerner has to consider when negotiating with an indonesian. 1) It's going to take much longer than what you are used to, and 2) people are going to tell you what you want to hear, no matter if it's the truth, or if they haven't the slightest clue.
This presents a major problem when consulting with tech support over the phone, with a language barrier, and no real knowledge of the product you have just purchased.
I'm not going to lie, after an uncountable number of busy signals, three or four 30 minutes conversations with no progress, and a $250 hole in my bank account, I had developed some pretty bitter thoughts about the qualifications of the people working in the telecommunications industry here. I was not going through all of this alone either. I had one of the students, Nafe, who can speak almost fluent english help me on the phone for the last couple tries at tech support. Not even he was able to break through the impenetrable wall that is the Telkomsel Support Line. I was at the end of my patience, and I'm really glad that Nafe was around, so that I had a reason to not let my emotions overwhelm me. I was able to just sit down and chat with him after our attempts to fix my problem, and once he left, I felt much better. I had an idea about what I might do the next day (today), and I decided that I would just not think about internet for the rest of the evening.
I had bought a bicycle 3 or 4 days before and hadn’t really gotten the chance to ride it, so I decided that I would just go exploring. This proved to be a very uplifting experience. It doesn’t take a whole lot to brighten the day of the average Guyangan villager, and the sight of children running after me on a bike entertained many of the locals. Not to mention, I happened to ride past (or should I say, “immediately stopped at”) a semi-competitive volleyball match, where I was beckoned to join in. That was great because I got to hang out with some people my age, which doesn’t happen very often. And of course, when have I ever passed up an opportunity to play… well… any sport?
Ok, so I will finish the story about the internet situation later and maybe add in some more interesting tidbits about Indonesian culture!
So yeah, for real this time. It looks like I've been able to get the situation under control. I've currently got a temporary solution going here, but soon I will have a permanent internet connection. The other night when I thought I had it all worked out... yeah, that was certainly not the case. I was actually getting charged double, and what I mean by double is X10. I was getting charged by two different providers at the same time, and it just so happens that one of them was unreasonably more expensive than the other (the one who, at the time, I didn't know what charging me). I have to say that I was getting extremely frustrated because of this situation and have never had to conceal my emotions for the benefit of others (and myself) quite like this before.
During the orientation in Bandung, I was briefed on multiple occasions about Indonesian conflict resolution, but since I had never really dealt with fixing a problem before, I hadn't yet had any real experience with it. So, the culture in indonesia is such that it is extremely important for everyone to leave a deal/argument/conflict extremely happily, so there are two major differences (obstacles?) that a westerner has to consider when negotiating with an indonesian. 1) It's going to take much longer than what you are used to, and 2) people are going to tell you what you want to hear, no matter if it's the truth, or if they haven't the slightest clue.
This presents a major problem when consulting with tech support over the phone, with a language barrier, and no real knowledge of the product you have just purchased.
I'm not going to lie, after an uncountable number of busy signals, three or four 30 minutes conversations with no progress, and a $250 hole in my bank account, I had developed some pretty bitter thoughts about the qualifications of the people working in the telecommunications industry here. I was not going through all of this alone either. I had one of the students, Nafe, who can speak almost fluent english help me on the phone for the last couple tries at tech support. Not even he was able to break through the impenetrable wall that is the Telkomsel Support Line. I was at the end of my patience, and I'm really glad that Nafe was around, so that I had a reason to not let my emotions overwhelm me. I was able to just sit down and chat with him after our attempts to fix my problem, and once he left, I felt much better. I had an idea about what I might do the next day (today), and I decided that I would just not think about internet for the rest of the evening.
I had bought a bicycle 3 or 4 days before and hadn’t really gotten the chance to ride it, so I decided that I would just go exploring. This proved to be a very uplifting experience. It doesn’t take a whole lot to brighten the day of the average Guyangan villager, and the sight of children running after me on a bike entertained many of the locals. Not to mention, I happened to ride past (or should I say, “immediately stopped at”) a semi-competitive volleyball match, where I was beckoned to join in. That was great because I got to hang out with some people my age, which doesn’t happen very often. And of course, when have I ever passed up an opportunity to play… well… any sport?
Ok, so I will finish the story about the internet situation later and maybe add in some more interesting tidbits about Indonesian culture!
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