Part 2: The Culture in General
The welcoming attitudes, the warm gazes, the incessant giggling, the sweet kids, the eager adults, and the effortless smiles are just some of the untouchable qualities that make Indonesian culture what it is. Granted, poor work ethic, rivers of garbage, roads plagued with oil-guzzling trucks, above-ground sewage, and preposterous standards for education also help to define this society. However, from day one, these blaringly obvious pitfalls have never seemed to stack up against the positive qualities I mentioned in my first list. I'm not sure if Indonesian people are so happy because they just ignore all the misfortune around them, if the are able to ignore all their misfortune because they have so much to be happy about, or if they encounter so much misfortune because they tend to happily ignore the root causes of all their problems. Regardless, these people struggle daily but remain unequivocally carefree. That sort of attitude is contagious. So when I talk about my experiences, it's not only difficult, but also culturally abnormal to mention drawbacks. Few people talk to me about Indonesian's problems in all seriousness, so what I end up noticing on a day-to-day basis (or maybe what I fight to stay focused on) is just how cute and enduring everything is.
The substitution of mind for heart in daily expressions, and in general thinking as well, is something I find, not necessarily comforting, but certainly, for lack of a better word, heart-warming. If a person wanted to express, “It's been on my mind for a while,” the common Indonesian equivalent phrase would translate directly as “It's been saved in my heart.” The word from Indonesian for heart is hati, and if you wanted to tell someone to “be careful,” you would say hati-hati. Suggesting that someone “pay attention” or “pay it mind” would be stated as memperhatikan, or “give it your heart.” And it's not common to simply call someone “sincere” or tulus in Indonesia; you would want to tell them that they are tulus hati.
Another reason why this brings a smile to my face, though, is because the Indonesian core of emotions is, in fact, not the heart; it is the liver. So actually, when telling someone to “give it their heart,” you are indeed suggesting to them to “give it their liver!” This may sound silly, but there might actually be more to this.
Let's look at the two vital organs side-by-side. The heart is without a doubt one heck of an important muscle, but let's face it; it's just a muscle. It's a strong muscle, creating enough pressure to circulate blood through the entire body, but it pales in comparison to the complexity of the liver. The liver has it's hands in such important enterprises as managing our metabolism, protein synthesis, decomposition of red blood cells, producing bile to aid in digestion, and as you heavy drinkers know, detoxification. Biologically speaking, the liver simply has a better track record and has proven itself time and time again that it is a more organized, responsible, and trustworthy candidate for taking on another important task, such as regulating our emotions. If a person in the U.S. gets “stabbed in the heart,” they will die instantly. An indonesian person, on the other hand, who takes the same blow to the liver has at worst 24 hours to collect themselves, make some phone calls, and chances are, they'll probably survive. Heart simply falls short.* If nothing else, this is as good an explanation as any for the causality conundrum on which I was commenting in the first paragraph.
If you happen to be quite close to someone's liver in this country, then you will be subject to all sorts of interrogation. In fact, it seems that the mundaneness of the questions someone asks you on a daily basis is a perfect indicator of the degree to which they care about you. The more uninteresting the questions; the more concerned they are.
“Sudah sembuh?” is the entry level question for a person who has entered your life and whom you see regularly. This means “Are you feeling better?” As you might have noticed, climbing “above the weather” and staying there is not the easiest task in this country. Getting sick in some respect (be it a cold, sore throat, or some stomach discomfort) is probably a biweekly occurrence for most Indonesians, and feeling ill is something simple that anyone with whom you have frequent contact would know about you. So basically, anyone who knows that you had, at one time, not been well will, with out fail, ask you if you are doing alright.
“Sudah tidur?” is a step up. Sleeping is something we people do once daily, and asking if you have “gotten enough sleep” shows that you are truly a fixture in that person's life. As it happens, lack of sleep can lead to illness, and we wouldn't want to have to take a step back in our relationship and ask something semi-irregular, like “Have you gotten better yet?” It's more promising to keep tabs incessantly on one's sleep patterns.
“Sudah Mandi?” is a question which shows that you have more or less entered the realm of family. Bathing is something Indonesians do at least twice a day, by culture. Plus, this is, by nature, a bit more personal. If someone has asked you if you've already taken a bath by late afternoon, they are in no way insinuating that you stink; they are simply making sure that you haven't neglected to consider your personal hygiene. Appearance and first impressions are even more important here than in the U.S., and we wouldn't want to find ourselves in a position where we would have to meet someone of a “higher status” without having taken a shower, now would we?
Let me put it this way; if a girl asks me, “Sudah makan?” I can be pretty sure that marrying her is not out of the question – or that she views me as a son (or both). And if this question comes from a male, we are basically siblings. We eat at least three times a day, and when people are checking up on your dining habits, you know that you could not be closer to them. In Indonesia, a question like “How have you been since your sister's death?” withers in the shadow of a question like, “Have you taken your lunch yet?” A true friend would not only already have a firm grasp on any case where your family member has died, but they would have already gone to great lengths to make sure you are coping positively. Conversing about death and serious injury in Indonesia is basically chewin' the fat and could come up as a side conversation in literally any setting. However, if it so happened that I forgot to bring a sandwich to the teacher's lounge, my closest friends would be eager to share half of their fried rice.
As I mentioned above, status is quite important in this country, and it's an Asian phenomenon that just doesn't exists to the same extent in the western world. “Saving face” and “keeping your name” are of utmost importance and are always on people's minds. And what better way to show that you are an upstanding and contributing member of society than to have a boatload of abbreviated titles prefixing your name? These aren't just novelties either that you simply let go of after you switch jobs. In Indonesia, if you were ever manager of a Pizza Hut, then Mgr. is something you could always insert after Mr. and before your name. People often call me “Pak Guru Ken.,” which translates to “Mr. Teacher Ken.” Guru is just another heading I can now save, until the end of my days, within my ever accumulating list of titles. Should I obtain a doctorate and then acquire some sort of religious standing in the upcoming years, if I come back, then I will surely be referred to as Mr. Dr. Preacher Teacher Ken!
*The heart and liver commentary was in no way an endorsement for John McCain
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Goat's Eyes and Rat's Tails
You might refer to my blog entries from last January and February to refresh yourself on what it's like to be sick on Java. That experience, however, was quite different from the one I most recently had. Last year, many factors distorted the reality of what being sick in Indonesia really means. In fact, the entire institution of being sick in this country is all together different. By the time I fell ill in the pesantren, I had already established myself in the community; people already knew my personality and had already begun to understand the cultural differences between westerners and indonesians. That being said, while I was in the village, I dealt with being sick much as I would have any other time. Of course, at the hospitals, I was at the mercy of local culture and business, but while in Guyangan, I stayed in my house, and I rested. I watched a lot of TV, and I lied on my bed. People didn't really disturb me because they knew I was sick. Until now though, after having observed people in this culture for six or seven more months, and also after having just moved to a new location with new friends who don't really know me yet, I hadn't consciously recognized how abnormal it must have been for the people in Guyangan to have handled my sickness as they did – that is with relative indifference, as I would have expected from any neighbor in the U.S.
I realize that my being a foreigner and a guest at this school tends to amplify whatever reaction people might have to my being in a state of need; however, that's not actually the biggest factor when looking at all the reasons for the differences in how people here are treated when they are ill. Number one is, with out a doubt, the sense of community that people have here. I've made comments like this before, but it's worth mentioning again. It's just so far beyond “southern comfort” that looking out for your friends and family doesn't only function as an aspect of the culture here; it defines social norms and the way people treat each other everyday, in every situation.
I entered St. Yoseph and my community here in a much different light than I did at the pesantren. I immediately started making friends who don't speak English; I instantly began making cultural jokes and quickly learned new ones; I could sing their songs, and I already had strategies for the classroom. By default, I was also less of a novelty. I'm in a big city with more cultured people who, aside from that, have grown up in a culture where everyone seems to be a little less willing to immediately take things at face value. What I mean to say by telling you all this is that I entered this community much more as a community member than as outsider, as compared to last year. And so, I'm being treated as one. I'm already used to how people act around one another (Medan just isn't that different from Java, from the perspective of a westerner, as far as interactions between friends and family); I expected this and instantly accepted it – rather than both parties starting from ground zero and learning everything from one another. Consequently, people look at me, and instead of trying to figure out what a westerner might want in a particular situation, they just assume that I would want to be treated as they treat each other. This is all you could expect from people who've never had intimate contact with an outsider, but because I was already familiar with so many aspects of their culture, I've made it much easier on them, and in some ways harder on me because now I don't even have the relative luxury of people trying to figure me out. You don't expect people in your own culture to have to figure you out, but at least subconsciously you know that people from other cultures are doing their best to try; however, when people here confidently treat me like an Indonesian, it can sometimes be even more frustrating than entering a completely new and unfamiliar place, without any prior connections.
Nevertheless, I've digressed. The second biggest reason why people feel the irrepressible urge to take care of me is due to a fact that I've already mentioned in a previous post; I'm 23, unmarried, and living by myself. At least last year, I was living on the campus of the school. This year I'm in a neighborhood ALONE, away from the people with whom I work, around people who no one knew before I moved there. This is a constant source of distress for my headmistress, who's sister once knew a German guy who died in Indonesia on vacation.
I'm currently half way through my round of antibiotics, and I'm almost well. I've been laying low in my house, trying to get over a throat infection, but to anyone from the outside, it probably looks like I've been having a week-long garage sale, judging by how many people have been coming in and out of my house all day. At this point, I really don't know how to tell people to stop bothering me. Once again, I have to come back to this western sense of privacy that these people just do not have. The two people sitting with me right now informed me that after they called my cell phone, and I didn't answer, they decided to come over (which is surely what they were going to do even if I had picked up). They've now been here for over two hours because it's apparent that they don't have to work (on a Monday), and one of them has fallen asleep watching, guess what, Indonesian day-time television with the volume at full blast. I feel like I've been running a circus all week, and it's no coincidence that it's because I've been feverishly ill.
I guess what has gotten on my nerves the most is having had to listen to the incessant suggestions as to how to get better and everyone's diagnosis, as well as probable cause for the illness. First of all, when I say diagnosis, what I mean to say is hearing people exclaim, “Ooooh, masuk angin!” Masuk angin seems to be the only illness afflicting anyone who's not perceived to be 110% healthy in this country. This is their expression for “catching a cold.” According to my co-workers and friends, my particular case of masuk angin could have potentially been caused by the following:
1)Eating too much spicy food
2)Playing soccer with the middle schoolers a week and a half ago
3)Riding my motorcycle in the rain
4)Riding my motorcycle without a jacket (even when it's sunny)
5)Watching TV with the fan pointed toward me
6)Taking a nap on the floor on my new mattress
7)Breathing chalk dust from the chalk board
These are all perfectly sound arguments for why I had a fever for 3 days in a row, a headache, dizziness, and swollen glands with a soar throat and redness. And interestingly enough, after my counterpart (who is just about the loopiest woman I've ever met) gave me her advice about not eating spicy food, she opened up the bag of arsyik she had brought me for my lunch, certainly the spiciest traditional Batak dish that I know of. I was positive that spicy food had not caused my throat infection, but honestly, stuffed chilies surrounding a goldfish swimming in chili sauce was not what I wanted at the time.
There are an ample amount of remedies for curing masuk angin, which range from a traditional massage to seemingly random concoctions of god knows what, and I've been subject to them all. The massage I was forced into left me with bruises on my shins, but the special drinks, at least, weren't physically painful. My favorite has been just taking huge double-shots of honey! I've also seen people taking shots of olive oil and strange fermented milk drinks. Honey, though, in this country is by far the most common drink that one might make a toast to. It is viewed as the preferable alternative to sugar in almost all cases because it makes you “strong instead of fat.” So like I said, people tend to just throw their head back and down a glass of it in fractions of a second. Another drink, however, that has only recently been brought to my attention was unfortunately forced down my throat twice in two days. When Mr. Jon walked in my house with two glowing blue eggs, I knew I was in for it. He casually walked into my kitchen, needing not to start any sort of conversation, and began draining the whites from the two eggs he had cracked on my counter.
“Are raw eggs healthy?” I asked in Indonesian, to which I got a delayed answer but instantly raised eyebrows followed by an intimidating glare. “This is medicine,” was Mr. Jon's only verbal reply.
He proceeded to mix the egg yokes with honey and some indonesian spices, which I don't think even have English names. After the brew was homogeneous, it was handed to me in a coffee cup. All I could think of was bird flu, and so I asked one more time if it was okay to drink. Mr. Jon assured me that there was no need to worry because these were not chicken eggs, but instead they were telur desa, or “village eggs.”
Oh great, “Village eggs!” I thought to myself. Well, why didn't you say so???
Reluctantly, I gulped down the entire glass, while Mr. Jon put a couple more eggs into my refrigerator. I didn't want another glass of that stuff, but I wasn't going to insist that he take the eggs home. The next day, he barged in while Mr. Sinaga had been making himself comfortable on my couch. Immediately he asked if I had eaten the other eggs. Pretending like I didn't know what he was talking about, I just looked at him with a confused expression, and hesitantly answered no. I guess I was hoping he would just let it go, but instead he simply opened my refrigerator and got them out himself. About that time Mr. Sinaga had awakened and walked into my kitchen to see what the commotion was about. He looked at me, then looked at Mr. Jon, and with a concerned but eagerly consenting tone, he exclaimed, “ahhhhh yes, village eggs!”
I realize that my being a foreigner and a guest at this school tends to amplify whatever reaction people might have to my being in a state of need; however, that's not actually the biggest factor when looking at all the reasons for the differences in how people here are treated when they are ill. Number one is, with out a doubt, the sense of community that people have here. I've made comments like this before, but it's worth mentioning again. It's just so far beyond “southern comfort” that looking out for your friends and family doesn't only function as an aspect of the culture here; it defines social norms and the way people treat each other everyday, in every situation.
I entered St. Yoseph and my community here in a much different light than I did at the pesantren. I immediately started making friends who don't speak English; I instantly began making cultural jokes and quickly learned new ones; I could sing their songs, and I already had strategies for the classroom. By default, I was also less of a novelty. I'm in a big city with more cultured people who, aside from that, have grown up in a culture where everyone seems to be a little less willing to immediately take things at face value. What I mean to say by telling you all this is that I entered this community much more as a community member than as outsider, as compared to last year. And so, I'm being treated as one. I'm already used to how people act around one another (Medan just isn't that different from Java, from the perspective of a westerner, as far as interactions between friends and family); I expected this and instantly accepted it – rather than both parties starting from ground zero and learning everything from one another. Consequently, people look at me, and instead of trying to figure out what a westerner might want in a particular situation, they just assume that I would want to be treated as they treat each other. This is all you could expect from people who've never had intimate contact with an outsider, but because I was already familiar with so many aspects of their culture, I've made it much easier on them, and in some ways harder on me because now I don't even have the relative luxury of people trying to figure me out. You don't expect people in your own culture to have to figure you out, but at least subconsciously you know that people from other cultures are doing their best to try; however, when people here confidently treat me like an Indonesian, it can sometimes be even more frustrating than entering a completely new and unfamiliar place, without any prior connections.
Nevertheless, I've digressed. The second biggest reason why people feel the irrepressible urge to take care of me is due to a fact that I've already mentioned in a previous post; I'm 23, unmarried, and living by myself. At least last year, I was living on the campus of the school. This year I'm in a neighborhood ALONE, away from the people with whom I work, around people who no one knew before I moved there. This is a constant source of distress for my headmistress, who's sister once knew a German guy who died in Indonesia on vacation.
I'm currently half way through my round of antibiotics, and I'm almost well. I've been laying low in my house, trying to get over a throat infection, but to anyone from the outside, it probably looks like I've been having a week-long garage sale, judging by how many people have been coming in and out of my house all day. At this point, I really don't know how to tell people to stop bothering me. Once again, I have to come back to this western sense of privacy that these people just do not have. The two people sitting with me right now informed me that after they called my cell phone, and I didn't answer, they decided to come over (which is surely what they were going to do even if I had picked up). They've now been here for over two hours because it's apparent that they don't have to work (on a Monday), and one of them has fallen asleep watching, guess what, Indonesian day-time television with the volume at full blast. I feel like I've been running a circus all week, and it's no coincidence that it's because I've been feverishly ill.
I guess what has gotten on my nerves the most is having had to listen to the incessant suggestions as to how to get better and everyone's diagnosis, as well as probable cause for the illness. First of all, when I say diagnosis, what I mean to say is hearing people exclaim, “Ooooh, masuk angin!” Masuk angin seems to be the only illness afflicting anyone who's not perceived to be 110% healthy in this country. This is their expression for “catching a cold.” According to my co-workers and friends, my particular case of masuk angin could have potentially been caused by the following:
1)Eating too much spicy food
2)Playing soccer with the middle schoolers a week and a half ago
3)Riding my motorcycle in the rain
4)Riding my motorcycle without a jacket (even when it's sunny)
5)Watching TV with the fan pointed toward me
6)Taking a nap on the floor on my new mattress
7)Breathing chalk dust from the chalk board
These are all perfectly sound arguments for why I had a fever for 3 days in a row, a headache, dizziness, and swollen glands with a soar throat and redness. And interestingly enough, after my counterpart (who is just about the loopiest woman I've ever met) gave me her advice about not eating spicy food, she opened up the bag of arsyik she had brought me for my lunch, certainly the spiciest traditional Batak dish that I know of. I was positive that spicy food had not caused my throat infection, but honestly, stuffed chilies surrounding a goldfish swimming in chili sauce was not what I wanted at the time.
There are an ample amount of remedies for curing masuk angin, which range from a traditional massage to seemingly random concoctions of god knows what, and I've been subject to them all. The massage I was forced into left me with bruises on my shins, but the special drinks, at least, weren't physically painful. My favorite has been just taking huge double-shots of honey! I've also seen people taking shots of olive oil and strange fermented milk drinks. Honey, though, in this country is by far the most common drink that one might make a toast to. It is viewed as the preferable alternative to sugar in almost all cases because it makes you “strong instead of fat.” So like I said, people tend to just throw their head back and down a glass of it in fractions of a second. Another drink, however, that has only recently been brought to my attention was unfortunately forced down my throat twice in two days. When Mr. Jon walked in my house with two glowing blue eggs, I knew I was in for it. He casually walked into my kitchen, needing not to start any sort of conversation, and began draining the whites from the two eggs he had cracked on my counter.
“Are raw eggs healthy?” I asked in Indonesian, to which I got a delayed answer but instantly raised eyebrows followed by an intimidating glare. “This is medicine,” was Mr. Jon's only verbal reply.
He proceeded to mix the egg yokes with honey and some indonesian spices, which I don't think even have English names. After the brew was homogeneous, it was handed to me in a coffee cup. All I could think of was bird flu, and so I asked one more time if it was okay to drink. Mr. Jon assured me that there was no need to worry because these were not chicken eggs, but instead they were telur desa, or “village eggs.”
Oh great, “Village eggs!” I thought to myself. Well, why didn't you say so???
Reluctantly, I gulped down the entire glass, while Mr. Jon put a couple more eggs into my refrigerator. I didn't want another glass of that stuff, but I wasn't going to insist that he take the eggs home. The next day, he barged in while Mr. Sinaga had been making himself comfortable on my couch. Immediately he asked if I had eaten the other eggs. Pretending like I didn't know what he was talking about, I just looked at him with a confused expression, and hesitantly answered no. I guess I was hoping he would just let it go, but instead he simply opened my refrigerator and got them out himself. About that time Mr. Sinaga had awakened and walked into my kitchen to see what the commotion was about. He looked at me, then looked at Mr. Jon, and with a concerned but eagerly consenting tone, he exclaimed, “ahhhhh yes, village eggs!”
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How I Long for Seinfeld
My blog entries seem to be going about once-a-week strong. I'd like to write even more, but I think we can all agree that if this pace keeps up, then I will be doing much better than last year. This new rate of postings, however, is admittedly not the result of a new-found motivation for writing; it is just as much a product of the time I spent watching TV in Pati being displaced to other mediums. While I did not veg-out exorbitant amounts last year, I can certainly attribute my recent and genuine interest in politics/current events to having had access to both Al-Jazeera and The BBC on my satellite television. I watched them enough to have both of their musical themes memorized, and I know the names of my favorite shows on each station. This year, however, my only exposure to televised media is through the 12 or 13 channels on Indonesian basic cable. AN-TV, Trans-TV, and Trans-7 are the only stations that I have ever had the slightest interest in sitting in front of and watching straight through an entire program. I highly doubt I will be able to elucidate just how terrible television programming is in this country, but I will try.
Last night I had come home from breaking fast with a new Muslim friend, Era, whom I made ironically at the Liquid Chlorophyl presentation. She's really sharp, and she's the only person I even bothered to try and convince not to be sucked into this down-payment, 4% yield, pyramid scheme. We had a really pleasant time and hung out for close to 3 hours, if not more (which is border-line monumental for me for three main reasons: 1) she is female, 2) this did not happen on vacation, which means I will be able to continue to build a relationship with her, and 3) we actually broke cultural norms and chatted through an entire meal). The only snag is that she doesn't speak any English. So, after straining my brain for the better part of the evening, and only after getting turned around in the rain on my motorcycle and having had to ask three or four street vendors how to get to Setia Budi Street, veging-out in front of the television was really the only thing I wanted to do once I got home.
The only redeeming quality that Trans-TV possesses is the fact that every night there is a line-up of American movies. I've seen quality films such as “Batman Begins,” “In the Line of Fire,” and “Air-Force One” during my time in Indonesia. Despite this however, movies of that sort are somewhat of an anomaly when you consider the type of flicks that are regularly shown. For example, last night I watched the second half of “Boa vs. Python” for the forth time since I've been here.
I was more discouraged than ever and no less mentally exhausted, after having had to endure predictable one-liners and horrible quality CGI, so I decided to wait for the midnight movie. The movies shown at midnight are usually of a slightly higher quality, which unfortunately is pretty disappointing, since I rarely stay up that late. Last night's feature, though, was Oliver Stone's “U-Turn,” possibly the most frustrating movie I've watched since I saw David Lynch's Mulholland Dr. four years ago. I don't know how they get off on juxtaposing a low-budget horror flick with an experimental art-film that caters to the tastes of only a small minority of people in the country in which it was actually intended to be seen – but it's not the first time I've seen this happen on Trans-TV. Ultimately, I forced myself to watch the entire movie, despite the fact that by every commercial break I could only reflect on how badly I wished the main character would just die and the movie would end.
Wishing that programming in this country would just end is regrettably the sole reason why I've only turned my television on four or fives times in the three weeks I've been in Medan. The only actual news I've seen so far was last night at 2 a.m., when “U-Turn” finally ended. And even when watching real news, I can hardly bring myself to pay attention because it's so graphic. When you actually do catch news in this country, it's nothing like our own. Instead of airing a professional shot of the crumbled roof from outside, Indonesian news usually seems to include personally submitted “handycam” footage of someone walking into the destroyed house and video-taping lifeless, legless children.
Everything I've ever seen during the day is either celebrity gossip or an intolerable “Morning Cup of Coffee” kind of show, with more fake laughter in five minutes than I would care to endure in five hours. Prime time sit-coms here are actually what we would label as daytime soap-operas. And thankfully, we don't even have a word in English for Indonesian day-time television. These shows are so horrible that I guarantee I could star in any one of them. I'm not joking, I've considered it, and I may still try.
Cheap laughs are incredibly common as well. Game shows usually include some ridiculous obstacle course with conveyer belts and moving walls, where people are sure to fall and then be shown at least four times in a row in reverse-motion, slow-motion, and fast-motion replay. Commentators with silly voices, such as on “America's Funniest Home Videos” or “The Planet's Funniest Animals” are also overused to the farthest imaginable extent, on any show where a reply could possibly be shown.
If I must have the television switched on, nature shows are what I usually find myself staying tuned into. The apparent demand for 1970s American science programs is simply astonishing. I'm sure I could find at least one subtitled documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman each week. Just as with Trans-TV's choices of films, though, it's not even the out-of-date, science and nature programming that entertains me; it's the choice of programming that generally comes on directly afterwards. I've gone from watching cute panda cubs quarreling over a shoot of bamboo to seeing an interview with a crazy indonesian man, with a 5-inch mustache and a Metallica shirt, talking about his professional horse-fighting ring. I imagine you've probably never seen a dog fight or a chicken fight. Maybe you have. Nevertheless, I bet you can at least imagine how brutal it must be. Now, lets add about 4 feet in height to those dogs and about 600 or 700 pounds of muscle. I promise that unless you ever seen a horse that has been trained to fight other horses, you cannot imagine how horrible it is, especially considering how majestic these animals are and how our culture tends to hold them in such high esteem. Watching Sea Biscuit get the shit beat out of him is pretty traumatizing.
Last night I had come home from breaking fast with a new Muslim friend, Era, whom I made ironically at the Liquid Chlorophyl presentation. She's really sharp, and she's the only person I even bothered to try and convince not to be sucked into this down-payment, 4% yield, pyramid scheme. We had a really pleasant time and hung out for close to 3 hours, if not more (which is border-line monumental for me for three main reasons: 1) she is female, 2) this did not happen on vacation, which means I will be able to continue to build a relationship with her, and 3) we actually broke cultural norms and chatted through an entire meal). The only snag is that she doesn't speak any English. So, after straining my brain for the better part of the evening, and only after getting turned around in the rain on my motorcycle and having had to ask three or four street vendors how to get to Setia Budi Street, veging-out in front of the television was really the only thing I wanted to do once I got home.
The only redeeming quality that Trans-TV possesses is the fact that every night there is a line-up of American movies. I've seen quality films such as “Batman Begins,” “In the Line of Fire,” and “Air-Force One” during my time in Indonesia. Despite this however, movies of that sort are somewhat of an anomaly when you consider the type of flicks that are regularly shown. For example, last night I watched the second half of “Boa vs. Python” for the forth time since I've been here.
I was more discouraged than ever and no less mentally exhausted, after having had to endure predictable one-liners and horrible quality CGI, so I decided to wait for the midnight movie. The movies shown at midnight are usually of a slightly higher quality, which unfortunately is pretty disappointing, since I rarely stay up that late. Last night's feature, though, was Oliver Stone's “U-Turn,” possibly the most frustrating movie I've watched since I saw David Lynch's Mulholland Dr. four years ago. I don't know how they get off on juxtaposing a low-budget horror flick with an experimental art-film that caters to the tastes of only a small minority of people in the country in which it was actually intended to be seen – but it's not the first time I've seen this happen on Trans-TV. Ultimately, I forced myself to watch the entire movie, despite the fact that by every commercial break I could only reflect on how badly I wished the main character would just die and the movie would end.
Wishing that programming in this country would just end is regrettably the sole reason why I've only turned my television on four or fives times in the three weeks I've been in Medan. The only actual news I've seen so far was last night at 2 a.m., when “U-Turn” finally ended. And even when watching real news, I can hardly bring myself to pay attention because it's so graphic. When you actually do catch news in this country, it's nothing like our own. Instead of airing a professional shot of the crumbled roof from outside, Indonesian news usually seems to include personally submitted “handycam” footage of someone walking into the destroyed house and video-taping lifeless, legless children.
Everything I've ever seen during the day is either celebrity gossip or an intolerable “Morning Cup of Coffee” kind of show, with more fake laughter in five minutes than I would care to endure in five hours. Prime time sit-coms here are actually what we would label as daytime soap-operas. And thankfully, we don't even have a word in English for Indonesian day-time television. These shows are so horrible that I guarantee I could star in any one of them. I'm not joking, I've considered it, and I may still try.
Cheap laughs are incredibly common as well. Game shows usually include some ridiculous obstacle course with conveyer belts and moving walls, where people are sure to fall and then be shown at least four times in a row in reverse-motion, slow-motion, and fast-motion replay. Commentators with silly voices, such as on “America's Funniest Home Videos” or “The Planet's Funniest Animals” are also overused to the farthest imaginable extent, on any show where a reply could possibly be shown.
If I must have the television switched on, nature shows are what I usually find myself staying tuned into. The apparent demand for 1970s American science programs is simply astonishing. I'm sure I could find at least one subtitled documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman each week. Just as with Trans-TV's choices of films, though, it's not even the out-of-date, science and nature programming that entertains me; it's the choice of programming that generally comes on directly afterwards. I've gone from watching cute panda cubs quarreling over a shoot of bamboo to seeing an interview with a crazy indonesian man, with a 5-inch mustache and a Metallica shirt, talking about his professional horse-fighting ring. I imagine you've probably never seen a dog fight or a chicken fight. Maybe you have. Nevertheless, I bet you can at least imagine how brutal it must be. Now, lets add about 4 feet in height to those dogs and about 600 or 700 pounds of muscle. I promise that unless you ever seen a horse that has been trained to fight other horses, you cannot imagine how horrible it is, especially considering how majestic these animals are and how our culture tends to hold them in such high esteem. Watching Sea Biscuit get the shit beat out of him is pretty traumatizing.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
I Can't Understand Mr. Monang
I'm still not quite to the point where I can fully comprehend the actions or intentions of many Indonesians, but at least I have finally gotten to a place where expecting the unexpected is second nature. I feel like I've developed a unique ability to at least recognize situations where the result will be doubtlessly unpredictable. In Medan I've already been doing much more laughing to myself (as opposed to staring in confusion) about the strange occurrences that happen here, mainly because leastwise I'm prepared for the irony. This year, rather than hitting trip mines and getting blown away, I will be watching time-bombs from a safe distance.
My second night in Medan truly began about two hours after dark with a shout from outside my bedroom window, produced by the high-pitched voice of five-foot-nothing Mr. Monang, an employee at St. Yoseph. I had met him briefly at school that day, and he had already been to my house that afternoon to help fix a slight problem in my bathroom. Especially at the time, but even right up until yesterday afternoon, I'd had a problem communicating with this man. I did deduce, however, that he wanted to enter my house, totally unprompted, after I'd already eaten, prepared for bed, and locked my doors. I'd been home alone for hours and was fully expecting to sleep soon, so his abrupt and arguably discourteous arrival puzzled me slightly. Of the few people I'd already met in Medan, and with whom I'd formed only a 24-hour relationship, I inarguably knew Mr. Monang the least. Wielding an over-night bag, he walked past me at the front door, sat on my couch, and turned on my television.
I've been in my new home for over two weeks now, and I've had countless interactions with Mr. Monang. He's taken me to the bank, motorcycle shopping, and has often given me rides home from school. Even now, I'd say I can understand maximally 20-30% of what he says to me. It's not because I have a hard time with his accent nor with his choice of words; it's mainly because I absolutely have no idea where this guy's mind is, and it doesn't help that he speaks in sharp, short bursts. I can literally speak in Indonesian with a group of people for 20 minutes straight and be totally within an Indonesian mindset, and Mr. Monang can enter the scene, and I can no longer communicate with anyone in the room. He destroys my groove like nothing else. One thing I never let slip by me, though, are his frequent queries about why I'm always laughing at him. I don't know how to explain that I pretty much never know what on earth he's talking about, so I've just resorted to laughing at the situation every time I'm around him. I feel like every once in a while we have the occasional and exciting breakthrough, but each time that happens, only 30 seconds later does he ask me a question that I simply don't have an answer to, nor can I think of anything to say that might be even slightly related. I usually just look at him with a huge smile on my face and get nothing back but a blank stare. He sees me speaking in Indonesian with countless people, so I'm sure he's also confused as to why we can't seem to get ideas across to one another. I love him, but I'm not sure that he likes me at all.
That night when he arrived at my house for an unannounced sleepover (or maybe it was; I guess I'll never know), I couldn't even understand him when he asked me simple questions like “what time is it?” His questions not only came up at seemingly random times during what I'd like to think was a conversation, but he'd use expressions that I'd never heard before (and of course using nothing but words that I actually did know, so it was all the more frustrating to not understand). He repeatedly kept saying “jam kita,” and with his unfamiliar Medanese intonation, I didn't even realize that there was an implied question mark until he reached for my cell phone to look at the clock. Jam can mean “time,” “hour,” or “clock,” and kita means “we.” I finally figured out that kita was modifying jam and, therefore, probably meant “our time.” But it was “our time” for what? I guess it's not so uncommon for someone to ask, “Yo, what's our time, bro?” But at least in English, we've got a question word floating around somewhere within the sentence.
Clearly, in his mind, there had to be no question as to why he was slipping into his pajamas and making himself comfortable on my couch. So, I was at least hoping that his thoughts were going farther than the fact that we had finally established that it was bedtime. Nevertheless, my knowing that he certainly must have some straightforward reason for being in my house, it made it extremely difficult for me to phrase the question that was turning over and over in my head; “what the hell are you doing here?!?” One thing I have gathered is that people in this country, especially if they work with you, are almost always obliged to assist you, and so rarely do they have negative intentions. I knew that I had nothing to worry about, but I certainly wasn't expecting to have a room-mate. I was admittedly in a tough spot because I really wanted to know what was going on, but if there's anything you shouldn't do in this country, it's insult or refuse someone's attempts at kindness, especially upon first meeting them (and especially in Medan, where I had heard that people are more vindictive and easily upset).
Ultimately, I willingly let this complete stranger take a shower and brush his teeth in my bathroom, and I gave him my extra pillow. The next morning, he left without a word, and I went to school alone, as I had expected to do all along. Once I got there, I decided it might be a good idea to give Sister Modesta, the school's headmistress, my account of last night. Simply ecstatic to hear that I had spent the night with Mr. Monang, she explained to me that she had “ordered” him to sleep at my house. I assumed it had to be something like this, and that's why I went to her first. Indonesian people are always genuinely concerned about whether or not others are lonely, and for them, this sort of thing is not only common, but it would be totally unacceptable to have a new guest in the ranks and not provide company for them. After all, I'm only 23 (a kid in the minds of many here), so how could I not be scared and lonely in a new house? It's a simple fact that there was no word in Indonesian for the western notion of privacy until they added pribadi, only recently, into their dictionary. Oh Indonesia.
My second night in Medan truly began about two hours after dark with a shout from outside my bedroom window, produced by the high-pitched voice of five-foot-nothing Mr. Monang, an employee at St. Yoseph. I had met him briefly at school that day, and he had already been to my house that afternoon to help fix a slight problem in my bathroom. Especially at the time, but even right up until yesterday afternoon, I'd had a problem communicating with this man. I did deduce, however, that he wanted to enter my house, totally unprompted, after I'd already eaten, prepared for bed, and locked my doors. I'd been home alone for hours and was fully expecting to sleep soon, so his abrupt and arguably discourteous arrival puzzled me slightly. Of the few people I'd already met in Medan, and with whom I'd formed only a 24-hour relationship, I inarguably knew Mr. Monang the least. Wielding an over-night bag, he walked past me at the front door, sat on my couch, and turned on my television.
I've been in my new home for over two weeks now, and I've had countless interactions with Mr. Monang. He's taken me to the bank, motorcycle shopping, and has often given me rides home from school. Even now, I'd say I can understand maximally 20-30% of what he says to me. It's not because I have a hard time with his accent nor with his choice of words; it's mainly because I absolutely have no idea where this guy's mind is, and it doesn't help that he speaks in sharp, short bursts. I can literally speak in Indonesian with a group of people for 20 minutes straight and be totally within an Indonesian mindset, and Mr. Monang can enter the scene, and I can no longer communicate with anyone in the room. He destroys my groove like nothing else. One thing I never let slip by me, though, are his frequent queries about why I'm always laughing at him. I don't know how to explain that I pretty much never know what on earth he's talking about, so I've just resorted to laughing at the situation every time I'm around him. I feel like every once in a while we have the occasional and exciting breakthrough, but each time that happens, only 30 seconds later does he ask me a question that I simply don't have an answer to, nor can I think of anything to say that might be even slightly related. I usually just look at him with a huge smile on my face and get nothing back but a blank stare. He sees me speaking in Indonesian with countless people, so I'm sure he's also confused as to why we can't seem to get ideas across to one another. I love him, but I'm not sure that he likes me at all.
That night when he arrived at my house for an unannounced sleepover (or maybe it was; I guess I'll never know), I couldn't even understand him when he asked me simple questions like “what time is it?” His questions not only came up at seemingly random times during what I'd like to think was a conversation, but he'd use expressions that I'd never heard before (and of course using nothing but words that I actually did know, so it was all the more frustrating to not understand). He repeatedly kept saying “jam kita,” and with his unfamiliar Medanese intonation, I didn't even realize that there was an implied question mark until he reached for my cell phone to look at the clock. Jam can mean “time,” “hour,” or “clock,” and kita means “we.” I finally figured out that kita was modifying jam and, therefore, probably meant “our time.” But it was “our time” for what? I guess it's not so uncommon for someone to ask, “Yo, what's our time, bro?” But at least in English, we've got a question word floating around somewhere within the sentence.
Clearly, in his mind, there had to be no question as to why he was slipping into his pajamas and making himself comfortable on my couch. So, I was at least hoping that his thoughts were going farther than the fact that we had finally established that it was bedtime. Nevertheless, my knowing that he certainly must have some straightforward reason for being in my house, it made it extremely difficult for me to phrase the question that was turning over and over in my head; “what the hell are you doing here?!?” One thing I have gathered is that people in this country, especially if they work with you, are almost always obliged to assist you, and so rarely do they have negative intentions. I knew that I had nothing to worry about, but I certainly wasn't expecting to have a room-mate. I was admittedly in a tough spot because I really wanted to know what was going on, but if there's anything you shouldn't do in this country, it's insult or refuse someone's attempts at kindness, especially upon first meeting them (and especially in Medan, where I had heard that people are more vindictive and easily upset).
Ultimately, I willingly let this complete stranger take a shower and brush his teeth in my bathroom, and I gave him my extra pillow. The next morning, he left without a word, and I went to school alone, as I had expected to do all along. Once I got there, I decided it might be a good idea to give Sister Modesta, the school's headmistress, my account of last night. Simply ecstatic to hear that I had spent the night with Mr. Monang, she explained to me that she had “ordered” him to sleep at my house. I assumed it had to be something like this, and that's why I went to her first. Indonesian people are always genuinely concerned about whether or not others are lonely, and for them, this sort of thing is not only common, but it would be totally unacceptable to have a new guest in the ranks and not provide company for them. After all, I'm only 23 (a kid in the minds of many here), so how could I not be scared and lonely in a new house? It's a simple fact that there was no word in Indonesian for the western notion of privacy until they added pribadi, only recently, into their dictionary. Oh Indonesia.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Reactivating, Body Cleansing, Energy Revitalizing Trickery
Here am I at 8:00 am, sitting in my living room on a Sunday morning, laughing to myself because after one year of living in Indonesia, it's still so difficult to accept the crazy reality that, in fact, I am living every day. I was just awakened by my new team of servants, who come to my house two or three times a week. Ika is a 17-year-old girl, who's currently in trade school, studying telecommunications. Her mother, Sia, has lived in Medan her whole life. After she cleans houses in the morning, she opens a small warung (eating stall), where she sells various fried indonesian snacks. They both seem to have the typical Batak personality – loud and direct, much different from my passive and polite Javanese friends. They cut me no slack when speaking the language and leap at every opportunity to make fun of my unfamiliar, American-Indonesian dialect. They were recommended to me by my neighbors, who apparently have been hiring them for quite some time. Last week they came to my house for the first time, and we negotiated a price of Rp. 150,000 per month. Compared to Java, that seemed pretty fair to me, but when I spoke to my co-workers at school about how much I had agreed to pay them, each of my new friends' expressions changed, and they scolded me for not asking their advice first about how much to pay. I guess a whopping $16 a month for washing dishes and clothes, ironing, and mopping my floor multiple times a week is pretty unheard of in Medan.
Someone outside school, however, who has already gone to great lengths to introduce me to the culture, to befriend me, and to show me the ropes may or may not have the noble intentions that I would have hoped for. Chris drove me from the airport to my home on my first day here, and since then, I have spent a couple really long days with him, visiting his friends and family, as well as checking out some scenery in the area. I had a wonderfully genuine experience with him last week when I ate dinner with his family. Before the end of the night, I was deemed 'Uncle Ken' and was asked to say the blessing before dinner. I had multiple kids climbing all over my back for the better part of an hour, and I was receiving constant directions about how to cook the delicious food that I had been served.
Later that night, we moved from his mother's home to one of his friend's places, where many people had already gathered together. One of the crew is a local TV personality, and a couple more seemed to be pretty successful business types. They were great people, and we talked about everything from our future plans and goals to how they were going to “open my third eye” and show me a ghost who tends to hang out around their house – which hell, if they can do that, then I'm totally up for it. A couple hours passed, and throughout the course of the evening, mentions of their business popped up as non-sequiturs in our conversation. I didn't really have much interest in it because I was so tired by that time, so I never really bothered to ask what they were all into. Without a doubt, however, they were certainly selling some product.
This past friday was a good 20-hour day, which started at my school, St. Yoseph, and ended on the back of Chris's mo-ped. I was in Medan city for many hours with my friend, John, another teacher at the school, where we tried to sort out my internet situation at the infamous Telkomsel office. This year, I'm handling the complications with Telkomsel quite productively, whereas a few interactions last year ended up in tears later in the day, when I still could not begin to apply for graduate school... but that's beside the point. After John toted me around on his Suzuki for half the day, he dropped me off at Citra Gardens, where I was supposed to meet Chris for dinner. However, this place's formal atmosphere looked much more like that of an office complex than that of a food court, and in fact, it was.
I sat down with my new friend and three other people I hadn't met yet and was given expensive coffee to drink while Chris explained to me that, actually, he wanted me to see a presentation before we went to eat, and how that was actually the true reason why he wanted me to meet him there. I'm not going to say that I had been leery of him the whole time, but since our first meeting, I hadn't forgotten seeing his set of motivational tapes and secrets-to-success guides (all from the same publisher) in his car on the ride back from the airport. And sure enough, all the people I had met with him the previous weekend, who had all been introduced to me merely as friends, immediately showed up wearing suits and carrying bundles of electronic equipment.
While the crew began to assemble their mini-stage upstairs, Chris began to entertain the many guests who started to filter in. To my utter disappointment, he whipped out a few boxes of Liquid Chlorophyll, a product of some pyramid scheme (which is now referred to as “Multilevel Marketing,” by the way). Last year, a few teachers at Guyangan, including Imam (who is always scheming about something), came to school one day with this great new idea about how to get rich and how to sell a product that cleanses your body naturally. Liquid Chlorophyll is just some drink with a lot of iron and a lot of calcium, but a new cult of multilevel marketers has apparently started to go around (especially in developing countries, where people have a lower standard of education), in order to promote their product with a super fancy presentation, including an LCD projector, an advanced sound system, and a Powerpoint slide-show with all the bells and whistles that the program has to offer.
It's just fact that a great deal of people in developing countries are fascinated with new technology, and because they haven't been exposed to it (nor to fraudulent money making schemes, nor to many science or psychology classes), when they see a production like this, they have absolutely no reason in the world to doubt the truth of what the presenters are saying. I actually talked for over an hour about this kind of marketing and about the psychological tricks that are used in order to get people to join these scams with the group of teachers in the pesantren, who were all highly considering dropping the equivalent of $200 to join – that's two months' salary for a lot of them.
On some level, I was actually happy that I was about to see this presentation, which had excited my co-workers in Guyangan so strongly. And about half way through, I wanted my video camera so badly it was killing me. They were making claims that if you were to leave a cigarette near a closed bottle of Liquid Chlorophyll for some mentioned length of time, that the nicotine in the cigarette would be absorbed (into what, I don't know). They had so much scientific-sounding lingo for the different kinds of products, like “omega squared,” “universe induced energy,” “solar-harnessed negative ions,”and “the six elements of health.” Each time a new presenter entered or left the stage, they were given an up-beat, rock 'n' roll intro or exit track, to which they jogged off the stage, through the audience, giving high fives to the other presenters and sometimes even to excited audience members. And at one point, they had four volunteers come up onto the stage, not knowing what their assignment was to be, and they were all told to lift a man into the air using only their index fingers (a seemingly impossible task). The man was sitting in a chair, and of course the participants were confused; they were only told where they could lift him (under his arms and legs), but they didn't know exactly why they were doing this, nor how.
After they failed miserably, they were each given a glass of Liquid Chlorophyll to drink and were told that after 15 minutes, when the product had been properly metabolized (also a perfect amount of time to think about their new job and mentally prepare), they would be asked to try and lift the man again. The second time when the group of people went up in front of everyone, you could see that their attitudes had changed. They knew what they had to do, and they had all been thinking about how they would do it. Also, unlike last time when they were expected to fail, this time they had 35 pairs of eyes expecting them to succeed. The participants had smiles on their faces instead of grimaces, and they had bent knees and fully planted legs instead of precarious and apathetic postures. Of course the four of them were able to lift the man, and to their own amazement and satisfaction, an audience of genuinely impressed people began to clap. I was desperately scanning the room to see if I could make eye-contact with anyone who wasn't buying into the silly deception. Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful.
After the presentation, everyone was broken into groups, and round-table discussion ensued. Everyone was asked to stand, introduce him/herself, and give his reason for wanting to join the Liquid Chlorophyll family. If they had already joined, they were encouraged to give a testimonial about how Liquid Chlorophyll had changed their life. I'm not exaggerating about that last comment either; Indonesian people in general love drama much more than western people. For example, yesterday I was asked to video tape the speeches that some individuals made at a going away party for one of the teachers at my school who is about to move to another island. Any time someone started crying while the camera was off, John, who was sitting next to me, gave me an urgent look and pressured me to switch it on. The fact that, in a group of friends at someone's house, people were giving speeches one-by-one to honor their departing workmate should tell you enough. Anyway, I of course was not exempt from the introduction process at the Liquid Chlorophyll debriefing. If there is anything that I have learned to do during my time in Indonesia, it's been how to handle myself in completely random, awkward, and uncomfortable situations.
After the hours of craziness, I actually did have a good time with Chris and his friends at an eating stall outside the building. They were pretty genuine people, and I couldn't really be frustrated with them. Chris had been slightly deceiving, but I have truly begun to embrace all unpredictable things that happen while I'm here. I honestly just don't have a whole lot on my plate, so it's not like anything could really inconvenience me. So many things that used to frustrate me last year just make me excited now, and I when find myself in these situations, I'm always taking notes with the software on my cell phone, just so I can remember exactly how silly everything is. The only undeniably disturbing aspect of the evening was having to silently watch desperate people get taken advantage of by an American product, clearly aiming to take advantage of desperate people in other countries (there's a reason why you probably haven't heard of this drink before). But hey, that's why I can't wait to start focusing on education next year in grad school.
Someone outside school, however, who has already gone to great lengths to introduce me to the culture, to befriend me, and to show me the ropes may or may not have the noble intentions that I would have hoped for. Chris drove me from the airport to my home on my first day here, and since then, I have spent a couple really long days with him, visiting his friends and family, as well as checking out some scenery in the area. I had a wonderfully genuine experience with him last week when I ate dinner with his family. Before the end of the night, I was deemed 'Uncle Ken' and was asked to say the blessing before dinner. I had multiple kids climbing all over my back for the better part of an hour, and I was receiving constant directions about how to cook the delicious food that I had been served.
Later that night, we moved from his mother's home to one of his friend's places, where many people had already gathered together. One of the crew is a local TV personality, and a couple more seemed to be pretty successful business types. They were great people, and we talked about everything from our future plans and goals to how they were going to “open my third eye” and show me a ghost who tends to hang out around their house – which hell, if they can do that, then I'm totally up for it. A couple hours passed, and throughout the course of the evening, mentions of their business popped up as non-sequiturs in our conversation. I didn't really have much interest in it because I was so tired by that time, so I never really bothered to ask what they were all into. Without a doubt, however, they were certainly selling some product.
This past friday was a good 20-hour day, which started at my school, St. Yoseph, and ended on the back of Chris's mo-ped. I was in Medan city for many hours with my friend, John, another teacher at the school, where we tried to sort out my internet situation at the infamous Telkomsel office. This year, I'm handling the complications with Telkomsel quite productively, whereas a few interactions last year ended up in tears later in the day, when I still could not begin to apply for graduate school... but that's beside the point. After John toted me around on his Suzuki for half the day, he dropped me off at Citra Gardens, where I was supposed to meet Chris for dinner. However, this place's formal atmosphere looked much more like that of an office complex than that of a food court, and in fact, it was.
I sat down with my new friend and three other people I hadn't met yet and was given expensive coffee to drink while Chris explained to me that, actually, he wanted me to see a presentation before we went to eat, and how that was actually the true reason why he wanted me to meet him there. I'm not going to say that I had been leery of him the whole time, but since our first meeting, I hadn't forgotten seeing his set of motivational tapes and secrets-to-success guides (all from the same publisher) in his car on the ride back from the airport. And sure enough, all the people I had met with him the previous weekend, who had all been introduced to me merely as friends, immediately showed up wearing suits and carrying bundles of electronic equipment.
While the crew began to assemble their mini-stage upstairs, Chris began to entertain the many guests who started to filter in. To my utter disappointment, he whipped out a few boxes of Liquid Chlorophyll, a product of some pyramid scheme (which is now referred to as “Multilevel Marketing,” by the way). Last year, a few teachers at Guyangan, including Imam (who is always scheming about something), came to school one day with this great new idea about how to get rich and how to sell a product that cleanses your body naturally. Liquid Chlorophyll is just some drink with a lot of iron and a lot of calcium, but a new cult of multilevel marketers has apparently started to go around (especially in developing countries, where people have a lower standard of education), in order to promote their product with a super fancy presentation, including an LCD projector, an advanced sound system, and a Powerpoint slide-show with all the bells and whistles that the program has to offer.
It's just fact that a great deal of people in developing countries are fascinated with new technology, and because they haven't been exposed to it (nor to fraudulent money making schemes, nor to many science or psychology classes), when they see a production like this, they have absolutely no reason in the world to doubt the truth of what the presenters are saying. I actually talked for over an hour about this kind of marketing and about the psychological tricks that are used in order to get people to join these scams with the group of teachers in the pesantren, who were all highly considering dropping the equivalent of $200 to join – that's two months' salary for a lot of them.
On some level, I was actually happy that I was about to see this presentation, which had excited my co-workers in Guyangan so strongly. And about half way through, I wanted my video camera so badly it was killing me. They were making claims that if you were to leave a cigarette near a closed bottle of Liquid Chlorophyll for some mentioned length of time, that the nicotine in the cigarette would be absorbed (into what, I don't know). They had so much scientific-sounding lingo for the different kinds of products, like “omega squared,” “universe induced energy,” “solar-harnessed negative ions,”and “the six elements of health.” Each time a new presenter entered or left the stage, they were given an up-beat, rock 'n' roll intro or exit track, to which they jogged off the stage, through the audience, giving high fives to the other presenters and sometimes even to excited audience members. And at one point, they had four volunteers come up onto the stage, not knowing what their assignment was to be, and they were all told to lift a man into the air using only their index fingers (a seemingly impossible task). The man was sitting in a chair, and of course the participants were confused; they were only told where they could lift him (under his arms and legs), but they didn't know exactly why they were doing this, nor how.
After they failed miserably, they were each given a glass of Liquid Chlorophyll to drink and were told that after 15 minutes, when the product had been properly metabolized (also a perfect amount of time to think about their new job and mentally prepare), they would be asked to try and lift the man again. The second time when the group of people went up in front of everyone, you could see that their attitudes had changed. They knew what they had to do, and they had all been thinking about how they would do it. Also, unlike last time when they were expected to fail, this time they had 35 pairs of eyes expecting them to succeed. The participants had smiles on their faces instead of grimaces, and they had bent knees and fully planted legs instead of precarious and apathetic postures. Of course the four of them were able to lift the man, and to their own amazement and satisfaction, an audience of genuinely impressed people began to clap. I was desperately scanning the room to see if I could make eye-contact with anyone who wasn't buying into the silly deception. Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful.
After the presentation, everyone was broken into groups, and round-table discussion ensued. Everyone was asked to stand, introduce him/herself, and give his reason for wanting to join the Liquid Chlorophyll family. If they had already joined, they were encouraged to give a testimonial about how Liquid Chlorophyll had changed their life. I'm not exaggerating about that last comment either; Indonesian people in general love drama much more than western people. For example, yesterday I was asked to video tape the speeches that some individuals made at a going away party for one of the teachers at my school who is about to move to another island. Any time someone started crying while the camera was off, John, who was sitting next to me, gave me an urgent look and pressured me to switch it on. The fact that, in a group of friends at someone's house, people were giving speeches one-by-one to honor their departing workmate should tell you enough. Anyway, I of course was not exempt from the introduction process at the Liquid Chlorophyll debriefing. If there is anything that I have learned to do during my time in Indonesia, it's been how to handle myself in completely random, awkward, and uncomfortable situations.
After the hours of craziness, I actually did have a good time with Chris and his friends at an eating stall outside the building. They were pretty genuine people, and I couldn't really be frustrated with them. Chris had been slightly deceiving, but I have truly begun to embrace all unpredictable things that happen while I'm here. I honestly just don't have a whole lot on my plate, so it's not like anything could really inconvenience me. So many things that used to frustrate me last year just make me excited now, and I when find myself in these situations, I'm always taking notes with the software on my cell phone, just so I can remember exactly how silly everything is. The only undeniably disturbing aspect of the evening was having to silently watch desperate people get taken advantage of by an American product, clearly aiming to take advantage of desperate people in other countries (there's a reason why you probably haven't heard of this drink before). But hey, that's why I can't wait to start focusing on education next year in grad school.
Friday, August 22, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Why this Language and Culture are so Darn Cute
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
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
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