Sunday, January 4, 2009
hmmmmm
Sorry about the formatting on the next post. Blogger really isn't giving me a lot of options.
A Hike from Hell that Lead to Heaven: Part 1
Domestic tourism among college students seems to be quite popular in North Sumatra. I've hooked up with a group of students, many of whom are from the English department at North Sumatra University, who always seem to have something going on. I anticipate that the second half of my stay in Medan will be even more action packed, with more indoor soccer and more adventure. I admire that such large groups of students get together fairly often to enjoy their country, and with all it has to offer, as well as inexpensive public transportation, why wouldn't they? Once I get back to the States, I'll be excited to start taking more advantage of the travel destinations around where I live. The U.S. has a great deal to offer in the way of beautiful nature spots, and I don't think that I've taken enough initiative to see them (at least certainly not the kind of initiative I see groups of college students taking here). Of course I've gone on yearly trips to Current River; I've been to Mammoth Cave a few times, but I'd like to make more day trips or weekend trips with groups of friends to sites I haven't been yet, even if they might seem plain or boring. The massive amount of fun i've been having exploring this country, has really sparked a curiosity in me to see what more my own home has to offer.
My New Year's trip with the group of students I mentioned above turned out to be one of the most memorable, exciting, dangerous, and pleasant trips I've ever been on. It was complete with just about every emotion I'm capable of feeling, and thanks to my wonderful new group of friends (who never worry about anything *see previous blog post*) any negative emotion I experienced was quickly blotted out by the constant smiles of eight other people. 
Our journey began on January 30th at the campus of North Sumatra University, where I was introduced to most of the group for the first time. Pipi, who invited me, has become a good friend over the last few months, and I had already played indoor soccer with Jarod and Reja, but the rest of the crew I hadn't yet met. We organized all our bags, rolled up the matresses, collected some money for a group transportation fund, and we set off on foot to Jamin Ginting Street, where many buses head straight to Berastagi. Berastagi is a beautiful city and a well-known tourist spot, about an hour and a half away from our destination, Gunung Sinabung, an active volcano and one of the highest peaks in North SumatraOn the bus ride to Berastagi, I sat next to Pipi and Noni – Noni whom I had only just met on campus. She studies English with Pipi and is quite fluent. Both girls are strong Muslims (Noni wears a head scarf), and both of them are extremely in tune with world events. We had some great conversation, and it was nice to sit down and just talk for a couple hours with some very sharp girls my age. This bus ride was a sure sign that a lot of entertaining chat and productive discussion was to come.
Our bus stopped at one of the larger traditional markets in Berastagi, where many different bus lines run through. It was already a familiar spot for me, so I knew we were about to stock up on the local fried goodies, gorengan, before we continued our journey. We had about 30 minutes to kill before we could board a smaller van, called an angkut, which would take us to the base of the mountain. So of course, the guitars began to emerge from their cases, and some of the guys played a few Indonesian tunes while we waited. A van arrived, and our group of nine adventurers crammed into the back and sat on wooden benches, which stretched lengthwise on both sides of the viehicle. An angkut is about the size of a standard mini-van in the US, so you can imagine how nine people plus the driver would be a tight squeeze. And hence, you can also imagine that when seven others from a different group started to push their way in, a futile situation began to arise. This is the tragedy of public transportation in Indonesia because there are so many people, not enough buses, and each driver wants as much fair as he can get. So, even though it was physically impossible to get seven more people inside, the driver was unquestionably determined to take everyone to their respective destinations. And certainly the latecomers were equally as eager to get back to their homes, rather than wait another half an hour for another bus, which was probably going to be just as full.
I had previously admired the iron bars on the outside of bigger busses in this country, which line the windows from front to back. I had assumed that they were to serve the purpose of roll bars. And that very well could have been their original intention. Roads here twist and turn up and down mountains, conditions vary, and so does the weather, so it's not really anything special to see four-wheeled vehicles oriented in every imaginable way in the grass on the side of the roadway. However, these metal bars, which were most likely initially intended for safety, have fallen victim to the ingenuity of Indonesian drivers, who plan to get the most bang for their gasoline buck. The more people who can fit inside, or outside, means that the driver's gratuities go up for each subsequent trip. The conductor, who collects money from each passenger usually has a permanent spot, hanging on the outside of the bus, as to not occupy a valuable seat. He climbs like Spiderman from the front of the bus to the back, collecting money and using the metal bars as it tears down mountain switchbacks at uncomfortable speeds, while other buses do the exact same from the opposite direction. So, if the conductor can seemingly accomplish this feet safely on the outside of the bus, why shouldn't this exposed but precious space also be used for passengers?
After forcing in three extra people into our mini van, of course, the four remaining commuters were ushered to the roof, in a uniquely Indonesian procedure I like to call, “risking your fucking life.”
Arriving at the campsite later that evening with everyone in one piece was the first major accomplishment of the trip, and I was happy we were able to begin relaxing after the day's journey. We got all our bags in order, which had been serving as cushions for the lucky travelers on top, and we began to set up the tent. Our evening's events were to be comprised of eating rice and veggies with the gas stove Reja had brought and then playing cards until we fell asleep. The tent was a three-room mansion, suitable for probably 20 people. Reja had acquired it after refugees from the 2004 tsunami began to migrate either back to their homes or seek new lives in Medan. He'd gotten the tent for the equivalent of about $40, four times less than the one-person bivy sack I had brought with me.
January 31st was a day of total relaxation. Our plan was to climb the mountain at midnight before th new year, so that we could not only see the sunrise from the top the next morning, but also so that we could enjoy the festivities at the crowded campsite on the lake before setting off. I don't know if the gas stove was ever turned off that day. We were constantly cooking either rice, sardines, or veggies, or we were frying crunchy little cakes called kerupuk. It's a wonder how I didn't get more burned in the strong Indonesian sun, but it seemed like we played cards outside for hours, humiliating the loser by smearing ashes all over his or her face, and then making him run through the crowd to bang on a medal railing with a rock, only to draw hundreds of people's attention to his smudged appearance.Later that afternoon, the mood of the trip went in a slightly different direction. Not that this next fact was ever threatening, or even something I had so much as slightly considered, but there's no denying that I was unique amidst a group of Muslims – informed, curious, and skeptical of American involvement on a world scale. I have had countless conversations about politics, current events, Christianity, Islam, American culture, corruption in Indonesia, the Middle East, etc., but I'd never been as challenged as when talking with Pipi, Noni, David, and Jarod inside Reja's tent.
Since I have been here, I've not only become inexpressibly more informed about Muslim views concerning international politics, but I have become extremely sympathetic. At the same time, however, I have become just as much more patriotic toward my own country. I'm certainly more moderate in my views than when I left for Indonesia, and I can confidently admit that there are certain policies of Greorge Bush's with which I agree. I hate the way the war has been waged in the Middle East, but I am not in total disagreement that something had to be done. Especially Noni and Pipi were asking me deliberately pointed questions, ones to which I had no good answer, but I know that we were able to help eachother understand more about each other's points of view.
Having been here for only a year and a half, I could never say that I know it all, but I do know a lot more about what's going on in the Muslim world, and the most unfortunate problem is that there is very little effort toward creating a mutual understanding. The misunderstandings are as simple as watching only CNN, FOX News, and The BBC, or only watching Al Jazeera, TransTV, GlobalTV, and reading the Jakarta Post. Media just isn't helping relations. Different and exaggerated sides of the story are being told on both ends, and having sat and talked with this group of people, for only an hour, elevated us all to an entirely new level of understanding. I could never exaggerate the impact or the importance of experiences like these because it's clear that this is the only way we're ever going to get the real story. An hour long conversation, where both parties show equal interest in the other's stance can do more good than I can describe.
No feelings were ever hurt during the conversation, but although emotions were controlled, they were very high. When tears began to form in my eyes, so did awkwardly stated jokes with intentions to make light of the situation. The realization that we'd started to go too far was humbling and relieving. I pretty much live for interactions like that, and although I was being tested to my core, I brought up just as many challenging issues for them too. Having friends that I can trust but who also hold vastly different opinions has been one of the most amazing parts of my experience here, and it will be nice to let these friendships really grow over the next many months. I feel that I got very close to everyone from that discussion. I know that they also got closer to me too.
As it began to get dark, we all started falling out. Of course, the previous night none of us got enough sleep, and everyone thought it best to nap before our midnight journey, summiting one of North Sumatra's most challenging peaks. The guitar came out once again, and most of us were lulled to sleep by a couple of the guys' acoustic versions of Indonesian classics and pop songs.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
My Travel List Includes Mangos for You!
I guess this always seems to happen, right? Here I've gone another three or four weeks without posting anything. This past stretch of time has been different though. I've genuinely been suffering from writer's block. While I've no doubt been busy, I've also already sat down on numerous occasions to write a blog entry, but I hadn't gotten past the first paragraph, until today. And I guess I'm not to the second one yet, so maybe I shouldn't make any assumptions, but today I actually have an idea for where this entry might go. Recently, I've had no idea what I've wanted to write about at the time I sat down with my laptop, and that's been precisely the problem. As I mentioned in the last entry, my life is getting to be very normal – not in the sense that you might deem as normal, but at least my life is semi-standard on an Indonesian scale. Because of that, (from my perspective) fewer profound things have been occurring. This might just be a sign that I'll never be a journalist, columnist, or novelist; or maybe it's a sign that I should think more critically about what's going on around me, but nevertheless, as things have begun to fall into place (even if that means shoving a square block into a circle hole), it's become more difficult for me to express my feelings and recount my experiences in ways that I believe would be interesting for you. Even though I can acknowledge that many recent events here would be totally entertaining and unbelievable for you, to the point of being almost unconvincing, writing about them now has become a chore. I see odd things go down literally every day, and on top of this, I've already been seeing them for a year and a half.
Not just my daily life, but also my thinking has become inarguably more Indonesian, and I can illustrate that fact pretty easily. First, I have developed an inescapable urge to always acquire bags full of seemingly meaningless gifts for people when I travel. And second, I've gotten to the point where no matter what horrible things are happening around me, I tend to either not give it much thought (assuming it's something that's out of my hands) or just not be affected by the thoughts that I'm having. When practiced by Indonesians, both of these cultural aspects never stopped infuriating me last year. The endless requests for gifts from 30 or 40 villagers each time I traveled away from Guyangan drove me up the wall; but now, if I haven't supported various local economies through buying trinkets or fabrics from family owned shops or from vendors, I feel a deeply seated guilt that my trip has been almost wasted. I also hated it last year when I would find myself in situations where I had become irreversibly displeased by an outside event, and no one around me seemed to be at all bothered. The fact of the matter is that misery loves company, and I can't tell you how many times I wanted to complain to someone last year and have them at least relate to my frustration or hey, maybe even receive some moral support. You might remember my post last February about the flood in Juwana. People here handle their problems differently, and empathy is not real big on the list; if you're visibly upset about something, the first thing people wonder is, “what could possibly be that bad?” The only thing that seems to merit on overt display of negative emotion is when relationships with friends, family members, or significant others go wrong. However, that's a-whole-nother discussion.
For the sake of effective transitions, rather than getting into the topic for which this blog entry was named, let's go ahead and continue with our thoughts of uncontrollable events and of the displaying of negative emotions.
If I'm feeling particularly under-stimulated and have absolutely nothing to do at night, one of my favorite activities is to walk about 100 yards to the entrance of my complex and hang out with the security guards, who will inevitably be getting drunk on the local alcoholic beverage, tuak. One night last week, however, was a particularly eventful evening. I was chatting with the merry gang of rent-a-cops, when suddenly a band of motorcyclists stopped in front of my neighborhood and proceeded to beat the hell out of one another. It was happening uncomfortably close to where I was sitting, and immediately all the security guards ran to break up the fight. I slowly sat up, drink in hand, watching the events unfold from about ten yards. My local security force managed to calm them down substantially, but I think the turning point happened only when one of the belligerently drunk members of the motorcycle gang caught my eye. He stood out amongst the crowd for about 10 seconds because he was (other than me) the only stationary participant, standing confused with an ambiguous and possibly irritated or offended expression on his face. My false state of security and exclusion from this brawl was immediately broken with, “HEY! Mister!” At which point, most attention was placed on me. There were a couple smiles, and since the unfortunate fellow toward whom most of the aggression had been directed was already out of the picture (not dead, but he had jumped into a taxi), I wasn't as nervous as I should have been when two of the guys began to approach me with unclear intentions. Until that point, my experiences with strangers in nearly every situation imaginable had been positive, and so I planned on handling this situation just as I had handled every other situation in this country – with a huge and genuine, but totally unwarranted smile.
As I am still capable of writing this e-mail, you might have guessed that everything turned out fine. They weren't as friendly as sober Indonesians, but possibly much more so than a mob of thugs in the US, who had only recently tracked down a rouge member of their crew, forced him to pull over at roadside in the middle of the night, and then drunkenly beat him down until outside forces made them stop. They were a little put off by my dismissal of their invitation to come continue drinking with them, but when they asked if I had been scared during the incident, my response made the whole group laugh, and everyone went home. I just told the guy that if he had come one step closer to me, then I would have smeared the bodies of everyone involved all over the street.
So you see, if a group like that in this country can get passed their violently drunken rage in a matter of seconds, after having instigated a clearly premeditated and savage motorcycle assault, only to joke around with a foreigner, as if nothing had ever happened, it shouldn't be too hard to understand how I might have changed a bit over the last year and a half. With those kinds of constant influences, if I had ever worn my emotions on my sleeve, then they're not even hanging on by a thread anymore.
Emotions on my sleeve really only applies to negative ones though because I've definitely made up for it by adding even more cheer to the heavier side of an already unbalanced scale. I'm sure that most people in the US would find me unnecessarily and obnoxiously, maybe even threateningly, upbeat. Of course I exaggerate, but the pleasant aspects of this culture are the ones that I have always clung to, and I've put real effort into making the negatives become positive. Expected and thankless gift-giving is something that I have actually begun to embrace.
Before I travel away from my home, for any number of days, I always refer to an ever-growing list that I've made with the “Notes” application of the “Office” program on my cell phone. It includes such things as: towel, power adapter, sunscreen, hand sanitizer, swimsuit, and dictionary, among many other items that I wouldn't want to forget based on the length of my trip. The most recent necessity I've added to the list, though, is not actually for me. “Gifts for locals” has become a must-bring. Of course, I had already been in the habit of buying memorabilia and other small presents for people back in Medan, but my style of travel these days has changed dramatically from how I had been traveling in the past. My new confidence and trust in a travel system that most might consider to be relying on random events, or simply a laziness to plan, has been working seamlessly and unprecedentedly successfully for about three months straight. I've been having more fun than ever, and this new addition to my travel list has become downright essential.
Here's the deal, no one has ever known me to be anything but shameless, so I guess I'll just tell you my travel arrangements like they are.
1) Choose an area, landmark, or city of interest in North Sumatra
2) Pack bags and ride there by motorcycle
3) Arrive at destination and ask villagers about local color and particularly interesting destinations
4) Wait to be approached by a group of girls
5) Explain to them why I chose to come here and my tentative plans
6) Take their suggestions, invite them along, or hone in on their plans
7) Spend the day making friends
8) Be invited to spend the night with one of their families
9) Meet the parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and cousins (that's where the gifts come in)
10) Spend time in the kitchen, help to cook dinner, and depending on the age of the parents, fall in love with the oldest or youngest daughter
11) Somehow end up getting a massage from the grandmother, mother, or one of the daughters with traditional oils in the living room, while chatting with the family
12) Be offered a place to sleep in one of the brothers' rooms
13) Talk about European soccer clubs until we fall asleep
14) Wake up, eat breakfast, sometimes go to church, and spend time with the family until I have to leave
15) Head back home to Medan, having made friends for life
I don't mean to downplay or exaggerate any part of that list. It's just the truth.
Probably the most interesting occurrence of this rarely deviating pattern was on the island of Samosir. I had rented a bicycle, and had wanted to pedal along on a famous stretch of the island, which is lined with beautifully arranged rice fields, bordered by a wall of mountains that reach across the land and out of sight. Within 30 minutes, I was coaxed by a group of women, who were working in one of the rice patties, to come and join them. It would have been an unforgivable oversight to have shrugged off the opportunity to spend the day, joking around, knee deep in mud with a group of women aged 10 to 60, and I'm glad that my senses were with me that day. Granted, five hours of bending over, trudging through saturated earth, planting seeds was nothing less than grueling, but spirits were quite high, and I helped them finish the days work earlier than what they would have normally been able to do. After completing the task, we all walked about four miles back to their home, which was right on the water. Next we all went out onto the dock with soap and shampoo to take a bath in the lake. From there, you can just read from step 9, and the only difference was that I don't think I talked any soccer, nor did I go to church the next morning.
Yesterday for Christmas eve (by the way, MERRY CHRISTMAS!), I went through the same process because I wanted to see what a traditional Christmas celebration would be like in one of the more predominantly Christian areas of the country. I went to an elaborate Catholic mass, where everyone was sitting on the floor, cross-legged on mats, and a priest from The Netherlands, who was fluent in Bahasa Indonesia, gave the sermon. Of course, there was a nativity play by Indonesian children and singing performances by many members of the congregation. At that point, steps 1 through 9 had already been accomplished, but step 11 was omitted, and step 10 was moved in between 14 and 15.
Are you still taking me seriously? Maybe this is why I haven't been writing as much.
Not just my daily life, but also my thinking has become inarguably more Indonesian, and I can illustrate that fact pretty easily. First, I have developed an inescapable urge to always acquire bags full of seemingly meaningless gifts for people when I travel. And second, I've gotten to the point where no matter what horrible things are happening around me, I tend to either not give it much thought (assuming it's something that's out of my hands) or just not be affected by the thoughts that I'm having. When practiced by Indonesians, both of these cultural aspects never stopped infuriating me last year. The endless requests for gifts from 30 or 40 villagers each time I traveled away from Guyangan drove me up the wall; but now, if I haven't supported various local economies through buying trinkets or fabrics from family owned shops or from vendors, I feel a deeply seated guilt that my trip has been almost wasted. I also hated it last year when I would find myself in situations where I had become irreversibly displeased by an outside event, and no one around me seemed to be at all bothered. The fact of the matter is that misery loves company, and I can't tell you how many times I wanted to complain to someone last year and have them at least relate to my frustration or hey, maybe even receive some moral support. You might remember my post last February about the flood in Juwana. People here handle their problems differently, and empathy is not real big on the list; if you're visibly upset about something, the first thing people wonder is, “what could possibly be that bad?” The only thing that seems to merit on overt display of negative emotion is when relationships with friends, family members, or significant others go wrong. However, that's a-whole-nother discussion.
For the sake of effective transitions, rather than getting into the topic for which this blog entry was named, let's go ahead and continue with our thoughts of uncontrollable events and of the displaying of negative emotions.
If I'm feeling particularly under-stimulated and have absolutely nothing to do at night, one of my favorite activities is to walk about 100 yards to the entrance of my complex and hang out with the security guards, who will inevitably be getting drunk on the local alcoholic beverage, tuak. One night last week, however, was a particularly eventful evening. I was chatting with the merry gang of rent-a-cops, when suddenly a band of motorcyclists stopped in front of my neighborhood and proceeded to beat the hell out of one another. It was happening uncomfortably close to where I was sitting, and immediately all the security guards ran to break up the fight. I slowly sat up, drink in hand, watching the events unfold from about ten yards. My local security force managed to calm them down substantially, but I think the turning point happened only when one of the belligerently drunk members of the motorcycle gang caught my eye. He stood out amongst the crowd for about 10 seconds because he was (other than me) the only stationary participant, standing confused with an ambiguous and possibly irritated or offended expression on his face. My false state of security and exclusion from this brawl was immediately broken with, “HEY! Mister!” At which point, most attention was placed on me. There were a couple smiles, and since the unfortunate fellow toward whom most of the aggression had been directed was already out of the picture (not dead, but he had jumped into a taxi), I wasn't as nervous as I should have been when two of the guys began to approach me with unclear intentions. Until that point, my experiences with strangers in nearly every situation imaginable had been positive, and so I planned on handling this situation just as I had handled every other situation in this country – with a huge and genuine, but totally unwarranted smile.
As I am still capable of writing this e-mail, you might have guessed that everything turned out fine. They weren't as friendly as sober Indonesians, but possibly much more so than a mob of thugs in the US, who had only recently tracked down a rouge member of their crew, forced him to pull over at roadside in the middle of the night, and then drunkenly beat him down until outside forces made them stop. They were a little put off by my dismissal of their invitation to come continue drinking with them, but when they asked if I had been scared during the incident, my response made the whole group laugh, and everyone went home. I just told the guy that if he had come one step closer to me, then I would have smeared the bodies of everyone involved all over the street.
So you see, if a group like that in this country can get passed their violently drunken rage in a matter of seconds, after having instigated a clearly premeditated and savage motorcycle assault, only to joke around with a foreigner, as if nothing had ever happened, it shouldn't be too hard to understand how I might have changed a bit over the last year and a half. With those kinds of constant influences, if I had ever worn my emotions on my sleeve, then they're not even hanging on by a thread anymore.
Emotions on my sleeve really only applies to negative ones though because I've definitely made up for it by adding even more cheer to the heavier side of an already unbalanced scale. I'm sure that most people in the US would find me unnecessarily and obnoxiously, maybe even threateningly, upbeat. Of course I exaggerate, but the pleasant aspects of this culture are the ones that I have always clung to, and I've put real effort into making the negatives become positive. Expected and thankless gift-giving is something that I have actually begun to embrace.
Before I travel away from my home, for any number of days, I always refer to an ever-growing list that I've made with the “Notes” application of the “Office” program on my cell phone. It includes such things as: towel, power adapter, sunscreen, hand sanitizer, swimsuit, and dictionary, among many other items that I wouldn't want to forget based on the length of my trip. The most recent necessity I've added to the list, though, is not actually for me. “Gifts for locals” has become a must-bring. Of course, I had already been in the habit of buying memorabilia and other small presents for people back in Medan, but my style of travel these days has changed dramatically from how I had been traveling in the past. My new confidence and trust in a travel system that most might consider to be relying on random events, or simply a laziness to plan, has been working seamlessly and unprecedentedly successfully for about three months straight. I've been having more fun than ever, and this new addition to my travel list has become downright essential.
Here's the deal, no one has ever known me to be anything but shameless, so I guess I'll just tell you my travel arrangements like they are.
1) Choose an area, landmark, or city of interest in North Sumatra
2) Pack bags and ride there by motorcycle
3) Arrive at destination and ask villagers about local color and particularly interesting destinations
4) Wait to be approached by a group of girls
5) Explain to them why I chose to come here and my tentative plans
6) Take their suggestions, invite them along, or hone in on their plans
7) Spend the day making friends
8) Be invited to spend the night with one of their families
9) Meet the parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and cousins (that's where the gifts come in)
10) Spend time in the kitchen, help to cook dinner, and depending on the age of the parents, fall in love with the oldest or youngest daughter
11) Somehow end up getting a massage from the grandmother, mother, or one of the daughters with traditional oils in the living room, while chatting with the family
12) Be offered a place to sleep in one of the brothers' rooms
13) Talk about European soccer clubs until we fall asleep
14) Wake up, eat breakfast, sometimes go to church, and spend time with the family until I have to leave
15) Head back home to Medan, having made friends for life
I don't mean to downplay or exaggerate any part of that list. It's just the truth.
Probably the most interesting occurrence of this rarely deviating pattern was on the island of Samosir. I had rented a bicycle, and had wanted to pedal along on a famous stretch of the island, which is lined with beautifully arranged rice fields, bordered by a wall of mountains that reach across the land and out of sight. Within 30 minutes, I was coaxed by a group of women, who were working in one of the rice patties, to come and join them. It would have been an unforgivable oversight to have shrugged off the opportunity to spend the day, joking around, knee deep in mud with a group of women aged 10 to 60, and I'm glad that my senses were with me that day. Granted, five hours of bending over, trudging through saturated earth, planting seeds was nothing less than grueling, but spirits were quite high, and I helped them finish the days work earlier than what they would have normally been able to do. After completing the task, we all walked about four miles back to their home, which was right on the water. Next we all went out onto the dock with soap and shampoo to take a bath in the lake. From there, you can just read from step 9, and the only difference was that I don't think I talked any soccer, nor did I go to church the next morning.
Yesterday for Christmas eve (by the way, MERRY CHRISTMAS!), I went through the same process because I wanted to see what a traditional Christmas celebration would be like in one of the more predominantly Christian areas of the country. I went to an elaborate Catholic mass, where everyone was sitting on the floor, cross-legged on mats, and a priest from The Netherlands, who was fluent in Bahasa Indonesia, gave the sermon. Of course, there was a nativity play by Indonesian children and singing performances by many members of the congregation. At that point, steps 1 through 9 had already been accomplished, but step 11 was omitted, and step 10 was moved in between 14 and 15.
Are you still taking me seriously? Maybe this is why I haven't been writing as much.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
English Club: a Work in Progress
I've been singing the same song for a while now, and that's the main reason why I haven't written as much in recent weeks. There's been one overwhelming and reoccurring thought on my mind for the better part of two months – how could things get any better? I'm completely ducking the financial crisis because of the fact that, while the U.S. economy is falling, the U.S. dollar is in extremely high demand, so our currency is quite strong around the world. In Indonesia, the dollar is worth 33% more than it was last year at this time. So while I haven't been doing as much inter-island traveling, I've been making up for it with many day trips on my motorcycle and just living it up in Indonesia's 3rd largest city. My teaching is going phenomenally well because I have been spending much more time on preparation. Last year when I was living on my school's campus, it might seem as if I should have been more productive. However, I've found that I can separate myself from my school any time I want this year, and consequently, I'm more motivated to make a difference while I'm there. I spent a lot of time with people in my village last year, but I also spent a lot more time in my room, trying to escape in the only place where privacy was possible. When I was in my house, the last thing I wanted to think about was lesson planning. I wasn't unhappy, but I needed more time to unwind.
I've now gotten over most of the hurdles that bothered me in my first year; I've reached the top of the mountain, and with a much broader perspective, I'm looking down at all I've accomplished thus far. I can Also see what is possible for me to achieve within the next 6 or 7 months with a clarity of vision I could have never hoped for this time last year, even when trying to plan a weekend vacation. The vast majority of cultural differences that bothered me last year don't even phase me anymore, and I know how to avoid situations that still make me cringe. The remainder of my time here is not even going to be a down-hill-battle, so much as rolling down a clover-covered hillside. There will inevitably be a few pebbles and bumps, but I just bought some band-aids at a local pharmacy. I've never felt more prepared to deal with the unpredictable and the unknown. There's no reason for me to feel overconfident about this either. This is currently my home; I speak the language, I have tons of friends my age, and I know the street names. When I was in college, I never found myself looking at the upcoming semester with skepticism or apprehension. I see no reason to be any more cautious than I was during my sophomore year of college.
The fact of the matter is that if I approach people in this culture in the way that they prefer (not the way that I would want to be treated... If there's anything I've learned, it's that in a global era, the Golden Rule is simply obsolete and quite frankly alienating), then I've basically got the key to people's hearts and ultimately the city. I'm not saying this to be funny, and I'm not saying it because I've been insincerely taking advantage of anyone, but the fact of the matter is that racism takes a different form in every culture, and the role I play in this country could never escape from the reality of how people see foreigners within their own borders. I don't use my status to get lower prices at the market or to get people to cancel their plans to do things for me, but I do use it to make connections everywhere I go and to create unique situations, where I know I will get an experience that would have never otherwise been possible.
Bule is the slang term for a westerner, and Bules are known for being rich, handsome, intelligent, successful, motivated, and arrogant (probably in that order). They are usually very high-profile, living in exclusive neighborhoods, driving (or being driven in) expensive cars, and shopping at costly grocery stores that most Indonesians would never enter. I'm a different kind of high-profile though, and arguably, I'm probably considerably more high-profile than the businessmen pulling tens of thousands of dollars a year. I go riding around on my motorcycle (which is low-end even by Indonesian standards) waving and stopping at street vendors, and yelling back “I love you too!” when a middle-aged man feels compelled to shout from his front porch the only thing he knows in English. Usually, I feel like I stand out more because I try to fit in. It's easy to ignore someone who you assume is probably going to ignore you. I often felt cornered by all the attention I got in Central Java, and although I tended to be one of the Fulbrighters who enjoyed playing up the constant flattery, I'm not ashamed to admit that this year has reached a whole new level.
I can see how many people from back home would scoff at my daily interactions with people, and if I were put into an American context, then yeah, I would probably look like a creep, or at least annoying. But, what is important to mention is that my primary concentration (and it will remain my number one focus as long as I'm living in another country) is to mirror everything from attitudes to tones of voice. I would never be the ham that I am in this country if people weren't begging for it. Women and men from North Sumatra are inconceivably flirtatious performers (and I thought Java was something). I like to see people smile, and when I show them that I am just as happy to be talking with them as they are to be talking with the only westerner they've ever met who can speak their language, and when I take the microphone at the karaoke shed across the street from my complex, there's really no where to go but up. I mean seriously, the other day a police officer asked me for my phone number as he pulled beside me while we were both driving on a busy street, and the armed guards at a military base close to my house almost drop their machine guns every time I pass by trying to wave at me.
See, this is why it's hard to write about my experiences here. I don't know how to express this stuff without giving off a blatant air of narcissism. You'll have to come and see for yourself, so you can get some perspective if you ever want me to get into the 75% of stories that I'm withholding!
All that being said, I'm not just going to stop being careful. This past week I had a painful reminder of why I should not let myself get too comfortable.
Monday's session of English club was, overall, the most successful meeting I'd had had to date with my students outside of class. I facilitated an activity where all students had to rank criteria and priorities that came from different topics and categories. For example, one category was “leisure activities,” which including swimming, dancing, reading, drinking, etc. They then had to rate each option based on criteria such as “educational,” “healthy,” “sociable,” etc. The students were engaged, speaking English without thinking, and laughing about their explanations. But, in the midst of all the fun, I misspoke – big.
One negative aspect of this culture that I don't want to pick up is the tendency people have here to generally lack what westerners would consider to be “tact.” Empathy isn't real big in this part of the world, and with all the strife, I can understand why. The fact of the matter is that people say what they think and don't see much of a reason to sensor their thoughts. Consequently, they normally have tremendous amounts of fun because, within a group of friends, no one is worrying about what other people think. They aren't easily offended. However, they are not immune, and I often see quarrels.
Let's say that, in Medan, the ratio of snide comments made to persons who get offended is 10:1. Let's say that it's 10:5 in the U.S. (I don't think this is an exaggeration. Imagine you had just met your high school sweetheart for the first time in 6 years and the first thing he or she said to you was, “Wow, you look so fat now,” would you not be offended? This kind of greeting is not only typical here; a comment about how your physical appearance has changed for the worse would be totally expected.) Anyway, the sheer volume of snide comments made here is mind-boggling, so even if people are five times more likely to be offended in America, I bet that there are still more arguments in Medan.
To tell you the truth, that sort of mindset has already begun to rub off on me, and I find myself rattling off just about anything that comes to mind on a pretty regular basis. It's received very well though, because not only do people appreciate honesty more than flattery, they have pretty dark senses of humor (and I guess you'd have to). What happened on Monday though was still an overt cultural blunder. And really, what am i saying? This was a blunder that would surely transcend cultural barriers. Nevertheless, I'll blame it on being in the habit of not thinking as critically about the things I say before I say them.
The category was “Ways of getting money.” Some of the included options were practices such as “hard work,””tax evasion,” “bank robbery,” and “marrying a rich wife/husband.” Students had to rank these things based on criteria such as “efficient,” “ethical,” “difficult,” and “reliable.” We had some entertaining conversation especially concerning which was most and least ethical. Some of the girls in the room had no problem saying blatantly that they planned on marrying rich, and a few of the guys laughed at the idea of actually paying their required taxes after they graduate.
It wasn't until the very last criterion of “reliability,” that the problem arose. The students' answers had been varying all afternoon on each subject, so it was common for them to seek my opinion. But, when they asked, “Mr. Ken, what do you think is the most reliable way of getting money in Indonesia,” I should have prefaced my answer with an explanation of the duties of the IRS before I said “tax evasion.” In my mind, I had already thought about the fact that, while tax evasion here doesn't ensure you a large sum of much money, it is a sure bet to get at least a little extra because there's virtually no government effort to regulate it, and almost everyone does it. Nearly all transactions are made with cash, and nobody has registered businesses. Neglecting your duties to pay taxes to the government is easy, common, and doesn't have any real consequences. The actual unemployment rate in indonesia is probably miles higher than the percentage of people who pay their taxes.
Nevertheless, my comment was a conversation wrecking-ball, and I immediately realized it. I had to work very hard to recover because it was not at all the answer any of them were expecting (and I shouldn't have said it). The students ended up not caring, and they were laughing in a couple minutes after I tried to explain what I meant. The teacher who was accompanying me, however, was not so easily persuaded that I had only misspoke. She had interpreted my comment as a product of the tendencies of westerners to project their superiority onto people in struggling countries. Any teacher should have answered “hard work” to a group of students, and my analysis of the situation should have been restricted to a time of established discussion – not during a light-hearted game. Thankfully my students, just being teenagers, didn't think twice, and I apologized personally to a couple of the really thoughtful ones, but Ms. Siregar later told me that my comment had brought her to tears later that day. I didn't even know it, but the next day was a huge nationalistic holiday for Indonesia. Tuesday was Hari Guru or Teacher's Day, and the celebrations at schools that accompany this holiday are massive. I hadn't realized that the extra after-school meetings and extracurriculars, which had been going on for weeks, were all in preparation for Teacher's Day, a holiday I saw on the calendar but never gave a second thought. Indonesians have a different kind of pride in their country than Americans, and because they show their love for their country in different ways (like with huge, frequent, lengthy, and organized ceremonies), Americans would probably consider them to be more nationalistic. The spirit of patriotism in Indonesia was high, and Ms. Siregar was quite disappointed in me that I had, in effect, told a group of students that stealing from your government is more promising than following your dreams.
The situation is neither here nor there at this point because I honestly felt terrible for saying it, and Ms. Siregar knew it, plus I made every effort to apologize and to make up for it. I had overstepped my bounds, so without being defensive, I silently endured some pretty pointed and harsh text messages. It's nice to be an adult and to know that when problems arise, most people are actually willing to work at making the situation better, as long as the offending party makes the first attempt to genuinely reconcile. I'm so happy that the days of high school grudges are over because I was losing sleep about this. All I could think about for a few days was an Eddie Izzard comedy sketch that mocked a British ambassador who gave an embarrassing speech in China a few years ago.
“Hello, I'm not too happy to be on the job, and I think you're all a bunch of bastards. I hate you personally. Bye...
“...did I do something wrong –
“what? Ohhh... the whole thing...”
I've now gotten over most of the hurdles that bothered me in my first year; I've reached the top of the mountain, and with a much broader perspective, I'm looking down at all I've accomplished thus far. I can Also see what is possible for me to achieve within the next 6 or 7 months with a clarity of vision I could have never hoped for this time last year, even when trying to plan a weekend vacation. The vast majority of cultural differences that bothered me last year don't even phase me anymore, and I know how to avoid situations that still make me cringe. The remainder of my time here is not even going to be a down-hill-battle, so much as rolling down a clover-covered hillside. There will inevitably be a few pebbles and bumps, but I just bought some band-aids at a local pharmacy. I've never felt more prepared to deal with the unpredictable and the unknown. There's no reason for me to feel overconfident about this either. This is currently my home; I speak the language, I have tons of friends my age, and I know the street names. When I was in college, I never found myself looking at the upcoming semester with skepticism or apprehension. I see no reason to be any more cautious than I was during my sophomore year of college.
The fact of the matter is that if I approach people in this culture in the way that they prefer (not the way that I would want to be treated... If there's anything I've learned, it's that in a global era, the Golden Rule is simply obsolete and quite frankly alienating), then I've basically got the key to people's hearts and ultimately the city. I'm not saying this to be funny, and I'm not saying it because I've been insincerely taking advantage of anyone, but the fact of the matter is that racism takes a different form in every culture, and the role I play in this country could never escape from the reality of how people see foreigners within their own borders. I don't use my status to get lower prices at the market or to get people to cancel their plans to do things for me, but I do use it to make connections everywhere I go and to create unique situations, where I know I will get an experience that would have never otherwise been possible.
Bule is the slang term for a westerner, and Bules are known for being rich, handsome, intelligent, successful, motivated, and arrogant (probably in that order). They are usually very high-profile, living in exclusive neighborhoods, driving (or being driven in) expensive cars, and shopping at costly grocery stores that most Indonesians would never enter. I'm a different kind of high-profile though, and arguably, I'm probably considerably more high-profile than the businessmen pulling tens of thousands of dollars a year. I go riding around on my motorcycle (which is low-end even by Indonesian standards) waving and stopping at street vendors, and yelling back “I love you too!” when a middle-aged man feels compelled to shout from his front porch the only thing he knows in English. Usually, I feel like I stand out more because I try to fit in. It's easy to ignore someone who you assume is probably going to ignore you. I often felt cornered by all the attention I got in Central Java, and although I tended to be one of the Fulbrighters who enjoyed playing up the constant flattery, I'm not ashamed to admit that this year has reached a whole new level.
I can see how many people from back home would scoff at my daily interactions with people, and if I were put into an American context, then yeah, I would probably look like a creep, or at least annoying. But, what is important to mention is that my primary concentration (and it will remain my number one focus as long as I'm living in another country) is to mirror everything from attitudes to tones of voice. I would never be the ham that I am in this country if people weren't begging for it. Women and men from North Sumatra are inconceivably flirtatious performers (and I thought Java was something). I like to see people smile, and when I show them that I am just as happy to be talking with them as they are to be talking with the only westerner they've ever met who can speak their language, and when I take the microphone at the karaoke shed across the street from my complex, there's really no where to go but up. I mean seriously, the other day a police officer asked me for my phone number as he pulled beside me while we were both driving on a busy street, and the armed guards at a military base close to my house almost drop their machine guns every time I pass by trying to wave at me.
See, this is why it's hard to write about my experiences here. I don't know how to express this stuff without giving off a blatant air of narcissism. You'll have to come and see for yourself, so you can get some perspective if you ever want me to get into the 75% of stories that I'm withholding!
All that being said, I'm not just going to stop being careful. This past week I had a painful reminder of why I should not let myself get too comfortable.
Monday's session of English club was, overall, the most successful meeting I'd had had to date with my students outside of class. I facilitated an activity where all students had to rank criteria and priorities that came from different topics and categories. For example, one category was “leisure activities,” which including swimming, dancing, reading, drinking, etc. They then had to rate each option based on criteria such as “educational,” “healthy,” “sociable,” etc. The students were engaged, speaking English without thinking, and laughing about their explanations. But, in the midst of all the fun, I misspoke – big.
One negative aspect of this culture that I don't want to pick up is the tendency people have here to generally lack what westerners would consider to be “tact.” Empathy isn't real big in this part of the world, and with all the strife, I can understand why. The fact of the matter is that people say what they think and don't see much of a reason to sensor their thoughts. Consequently, they normally have tremendous amounts of fun because, within a group of friends, no one is worrying about what other people think. They aren't easily offended. However, they are not immune, and I often see quarrels.
Let's say that, in Medan, the ratio of snide comments made to persons who get offended is 10:1. Let's say that it's 10:5 in the U.S. (I don't think this is an exaggeration. Imagine you had just met your high school sweetheart for the first time in 6 years and the first thing he or she said to you was, “Wow, you look so fat now,” would you not be offended? This kind of greeting is not only typical here; a comment about how your physical appearance has changed for the worse would be totally expected.) Anyway, the sheer volume of snide comments made here is mind-boggling, so even if people are five times more likely to be offended in America, I bet that there are still more arguments in Medan.
To tell you the truth, that sort of mindset has already begun to rub off on me, and I find myself rattling off just about anything that comes to mind on a pretty regular basis. It's received very well though, because not only do people appreciate honesty more than flattery, they have pretty dark senses of humor (and I guess you'd have to). What happened on Monday though was still an overt cultural blunder. And really, what am i saying? This was a blunder that would surely transcend cultural barriers. Nevertheless, I'll blame it on being in the habit of not thinking as critically about the things I say before I say them.
The category was “Ways of getting money.” Some of the included options were practices such as “hard work,””tax evasion,” “bank robbery,” and “marrying a rich wife/husband.” Students had to rank these things based on criteria such as “efficient,” “ethical,” “difficult,” and “reliable.” We had some entertaining conversation especially concerning which was most and least ethical. Some of the girls in the room had no problem saying blatantly that they planned on marrying rich, and a few of the guys laughed at the idea of actually paying their required taxes after they graduate.
It wasn't until the very last criterion of “reliability,” that the problem arose. The students' answers had been varying all afternoon on each subject, so it was common for them to seek my opinion. But, when they asked, “Mr. Ken, what do you think is the most reliable way of getting money in Indonesia,” I should have prefaced my answer with an explanation of the duties of the IRS before I said “tax evasion.” In my mind, I had already thought about the fact that, while tax evasion here doesn't ensure you a large sum of much money, it is a sure bet to get at least a little extra because there's virtually no government effort to regulate it, and almost everyone does it. Nearly all transactions are made with cash, and nobody has registered businesses. Neglecting your duties to pay taxes to the government is easy, common, and doesn't have any real consequences. The actual unemployment rate in indonesia is probably miles higher than the percentage of people who pay their taxes.
Nevertheless, my comment was a conversation wrecking-ball, and I immediately realized it. I had to work very hard to recover because it was not at all the answer any of them were expecting (and I shouldn't have said it). The students ended up not caring, and they were laughing in a couple minutes after I tried to explain what I meant. The teacher who was accompanying me, however, was not so easily persuaded that I had only misspoke. She had interpreted my comment as a product of the tendencies of westerners to project their superiority onto people in struggling countries. Any teacher should have answered “hard work” to a group of students, and my analysis of the situation should have been restricted to a time of established discussion – not during a light-hearted game. Thankfully my students, just being teenagers, didn't think twice, and I apologized personally to a couple of the really thoughtful ones, but Ms. Siregar later told me that my comment had brought her to tears later that day. I didn't even know it, but the next day was a huge nationalistic holiday for Indonesia. Tuesday was Hari Guru or Teacher's Day, and the celebrations at schools that accompany this holiday are massive. I hadn't realized that the extra after-school meetings and extracurriculars, which had been going on for weeks, were all in preparation for Teacher's Day, a holiday I saw on the calendar but never gave a second thought. Indonesians have a different kind of pride in their country than Americans, and because they show their love for their country in different ways (like with huge, frequent, lengthy, and organized ceremonies), Americans would probably consider them to be more nationalistic. The spirit of patriotism in Indonesia was high, and Ms. Siregar was quite disappointed in me that I had, in effect, told a group of students that stealing from your government is more promising than following your dreams.
The situation is neither here nor there at this point because I honestly felt terrible for saying it, and Ms. Siregar knew it, plus I made every effort to apologize and to make up for it. I had overstepped my bounds, so without being defensive, I silently endured some pretty pointed and harsh text messages. It's nice to be an adult and to know that when problems arise, most people are actually willing to work at making the situation better, as long as the offending party makes the first attempt to genuinely reconcile. I'm so happy that the days of high school grudges are over because I was losing sleep about this. All I could think about for a few days was an Eddie Izzard comedy sketch that mocked a British ambassador who gave an embarrassing speech in China a few years ago.
“Hello, I'm not too happy to be on the job, and I think you're all a bunch of bastards. I hate you personally. Bye...
“...did I do something wrong –
“what? Ohhh... the whole thing...”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Election Time
Every four years, the beginning of November will leave a number of people twinkling with anticipation and just as many soured with disappointment. Many hoped their choices this past week would help to propel our nation in a new direction, and others felt that remaining in cruise-control would ensure better gas milage. Both sides had their arguments; both felt strongly; it was a left vs. right battle. One could maintain that there was, in fact, very little difference between last Tuesday's election and any other recent election (it's clear that an unvoiced but very loud half of our country felt this way). However, despite the lingering political apathy and the disheartened right-wingers, I'm positive the modest minority of our citizens who voted for Barack Obama were onto something.
My November 4th began just like any other day of the week in North Sumatra. I woke up at 6:00 a.m., ate a rice-based breakfast, rode my motorcycle down the palm tree-lined street that leads to my school, and began to teach my 10th graders a lesson on conditional clauses. The only way this morning was different for me was because my friend, Jonthon, another Fulbrighter, had come to visit. There has been a decent amount of buzz going around the school about the US presidential elections and specifically about Obama, but it's been no more intense here than it has anywhere else in Indonesia for the past year. Most have been excitedly watching from a distance, as Obama emerged victorious primary after primary. Jonthon helped to add a new dynamic to my classes and made some fresh new jokes, but everything proceeded very much as normal.
It wasn't until after English Club, at about 5:00 p.m., that things started to heat up. That was, after all, 5:00 a.m. in the U.S. I double-checked with my headmaster to make certain that my plans to miss school the next day were still no problem, and Jon and I went back to my house to begin compiling all of our politically oriented periodicals from the past two months. I studied my map of Medan, and we both set off on my mo-ped. Equipped with a bulging, wobbly, mountain-climbers backpack full of reading material and electronics, we began our trek to the only place I could think of where we could watch CNN International and simultaneously get updates from other sources with free, high-speed, wireless internet – Medan's branch of the international chain of hotels, Novotel.
Lucky for us, it was grill night at the Novotel restaurant. For $5 we had free rain over the buffet, which contained everything from shrimp and squid to steak and pork chops. All we had to do was bring the raw meat to the man with the fire, and he eagerly used whatever spices and sauces we figured might taste good. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, however, Jonthon happens to be a vegetarian. Not to fear though. As we happened to have noticed some bell peppers on display at the salad bar, I urged Jon to insist that they grill him up some veggies. They weren't on the menu, and technically, they weren't even part of the salad bar, but if there's one thing I've found about this country, it's that when it comes to food, people will bend over backwards every time to please you. I would feel guilty to take advantage of something like this on a daily basis, but given the circumstances, and the fact that Jon had come all the way from his small village in West Sulawesi, I wanted to make sure he could fully enjoy some of the splendor that city life offers.
A night of downloading all three presidential debates on Youtube was followed by a morning of watching them on my laptop back in the dinning room. By that time, the polls had begun to close in the US, and results were starting to pour in. Jonthon and I decided that we needed to take a break for breakfast and come back a couple hours later, so we could more greatly appreciate the progress. While enjoying a range of rare dairy products offered at this fine international establishment, we were being constantly accompanied by a rotating group of Novotel staff members. They talked excitedly about the election, as if it were their own, and they attentively watched our internet recordings of the debates, as if they had any idea about what the English-speaking candidates were saying.
As a U.S. citizen working overseas, some of the most powerful footage for me after Obama's victory were the images of entire crowds in other nations celebrating the success our new president elect. Hotel Novotel Medan was no exception. High fives were getting passed around as fast as it took people to make eye-contact with one another, and wait staff, as well as managers, were neglecting the bulk of their duties. How does it make sense that these people, who might seem so far removed from the realm of international politics, could get excited over a president who lives on the complete opposite side of the globe? Do they even know what they're happy about? I've found that most of them do, but it's not so obvious.
As Americans it's easy to get caught up in our own lives, enter and leave work every day, study for our exams, take care of our families, and never realize the impact that our choices, ideals, and beliefs have on the lives of other people (and for that matter, our own). We are constantly shaping the face of democracy without even knowing it. We're proud of our American Dream, but it's clear that few of us understand exactly what that is. For us, our country is our home; it is the place where we grew up and the place where we will likely settle down. We have been brought up with a culturally unique, constant, and ingrained encouragement to strive against all odds and to “be whatever you want to be.” We have the riches and resources to make these dreams a reality, and because of that, there's hardly any reason to give these privileges a thought in our day-to-day lives. This is what we have, and this is what we live; it's comfortable, and it doesn't leave a whole lot to be desired. For most U.S. citizens, the American Dream has unfortunately become an American routine. People in other nations see our success, but they don't fully understand how we've come to achieve it, nor how we sustain it. That, however, doesn't keep them from being impressed. Indonesians want to like America, albeit they have many reasons not to, but they are a struggling new democracy; they want and need an ideological example.
Those whom I've talked to in Indonesia generally don't have any idea about what's going on with foreign policy; their lives demand that they know even less than the average politically naïve westerner. They generally don't have a clue about the global financial crisis, how it was caused, or even about it's implications. They know that there's a problem, and they know it started in the West, but they don't care one way or the other about how McCain or Obama plan to tackle the problem. They do, however, see how poorly things have been handled in the Middle East for the last many years; they know about Guantanamo Bay, and recently they've see white, elderly, political everyman, John McCain juxtaposed with a dark-skinned guy, who's father came from Africa, and who has drastically different opinions about how the U.S. should conduct itself abroad. Many of them see Obama as a symbol for how democracy can work at it's best, and how even though he's a member of a minority, the American people came together, over their differences, and chose the only real option for the presidency.
A constant struggle with corruption, poverty, a rise in religious fundamentalism, unemployment, failed educational reforms, and poor healthcare, has led many Indonesians to become understandably skeptical as to whether or not democracy is any better than Suharto's autocratic and many times cruel regime, which ended only ten years ago. Many remember a sense of security under Suharto that isn't as present today, even though the over-all state of their country has undeniably improved. Indonesians are longing for a boost in patriotic spirit and self belief that could help them realize their own potential as the 4th most populated country on earth. Personally, my spirits have been boosted to have a pragmatic leader who's not afraid to listen to his opponents, but the rest of the world (at least my friends in Indonesia) is excited to see that the American Dream is not a myth and that, while it may take many years, they have every opportunity to continue fighting for the same standards within their own nations.
My November 4th began just like any other day of the week in North Sumatra. I woke up at 6:00 a.m., ate a rice-based breakfast, rode my motorcycle down the palm tree-lined street that leads to my school, and began to teach my 10th graders a lesson on conditional clauses. The only way this morning was different for me was because my friend, Jonthon, another Fulbrighter, had come to visit. There has been a decent amount of buzz going around the school about the US presidential elections and specifically about Obama, but it's been no more intense here than it has anywhere else in Indonesia for the past year. Most have been excitedly watching from a distance, as Obama emerged victorious primary after primary. Jonthon helped to add a new dynamic to my classes and made some fresh new jokes, but everything proceeded very much as normal.
It wasn't until after English Club, at about 5:00 p.m., that things started to heat up. That was, after all, 5:00 a.m. in the U.S. I double-checked with my headmaster to make certain that my plans to miss school the next day were still no problem, and Jon and I went back to my house to begin compiling all of our politically oriented periodicals from the past two months. I studied my map of Medan, and we both set off on my mo-ped. Equipped with a bulging, wobbly, mountain-climbers backpack full of reading material and electronics, we began our trek to the only place I could think of where we could watch CNN International and simultaneously get updates from other sources with free, high-speed, wireless internet – Medan's branch of the international chain of hotels, Novotel.
Lucky for us, it was grill night at the Novotel restaurant. For $5 we had free rain over the buffet, which contained everything from shrimp and squid to steak and pork chops. All we had to do was bring the raw meat to the man with the fire, and he eagerly used whatever spices and sauces we figured might taste good. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, however, Jonthon happens to be a vegetarian. Not to fear though. As we happened to have noticed some bell peppers on display at the salad bar, I urged Jon to insist that they grill him up some veggies. They weren't on the menu, and technically, they weren't even part of the salad bar, but if there's one thing I've found about this country, it's that when it comes to food, people will bend over backwards every time to please you. I would feel guilty to take advantage of something like this on a daily basis, but given the circumstances, and the fact that Jon had come all the way from his small village in West Sulawesi, I wanted to make sure he could fully enjoy some of the splendor that city life offers.
A night of downloading all three presidential debates on Youtube was followed by a morning of watching them on my laptop back in the dinning room. By that time, the polls had begun to close in the US, and results were starting to pour in. Jonthon and I decided that we needed to take a break for breakfast and come back a couple hours later, so we could more greatly appreciate the progress. While enjoying a range of rare dairy products offered at this fine international establishment, we were being constantly accompanied by a rotating group of Novotel staff members. They talked excitedly about the election, as if it were their own, and they attentively watched our internet recordings of the debates, as if they had any idea about what the English-speaking candidates were saying.
As a U.S. citizen working overseas, some of the most powerful footage for me after Obama's victory were the images of entire crowds in other nations celebrating the success our new president elect. Hotel Novotel Medan was no exception. High fives were getting passed around as fast as it took people to make eye-contact with one another, and wait staff, as well as managers, were neglecting the bulk of their duties. How does it make sense that these people, who might seem so far removed from the realm of international politics, could get excited over a president who lives on the complete opposite side of the globe? Do they even know what they're happy about? I've found that most of them do, but it's not so obvious.
As Americans it's easy to get caught up in our own lives, enter and leave work every day, study for our exams, take care of our families, and never realize the impact that our choices, ideals, and beliefs have on the lives of other people (and for that matter, our own). We are constantly shaping the face of democracy without even knowing it. We're proud of our American Dream, but it's clear that few of us understand exactly what that is. For us, our country is our home; it is the place where we grew up and the place where we will likely settle down. We have been brought up with a culturally unique, constant, and ingrained encouragement to strive against all odds and to “be whatever you want to be.” We have the riches and resources to make these dreams a reality, and because of that, there's hardly any reason to give these privileges a thought in our day-to-day lives. This is what we have, and this is what we live; it's comfortable, and it doesn't leave a whole lot to be desired. For most U.S. citizens, the American Dream has unfortunately become an American routine. People in other nations see our success, but they don't fully understand how we've come to achieve it, nor how we sustain it. That, however, doesn't keep them from being impressed. Indonesians want to like America, albeit they have many reasons not to, but they are a struggling new democracy; they want and need an ideological example.
Those whom I've talked to in Indonesia generally don't have any idea about what's going on with foreign policy; their lives demand that they know even less than the average politically naïve westerner. They generally don't have a clue about the global financial crisis, how it was caused, or even about it's implications. They know that there's a problem, and they know it started in the West, but they don't care one way or the other about how McCain or Obama plan to tackle the problem. They do, however, see how poorly things have been handled in the Middle East for the last many years; they know about Guantanamo Bay, and recently they've see white, elderly, political everyman, John McCain juxtaposed with a dark-skinned guy, who's father came from Africa, and who has drastically different opinions about how the U.S. should conduct itself abroad. Many of them see Obama as a symbol for how democracy can work at it's best, and how even though he's a member of a minority, the American people came together, over their differences, and chose the only real option for the presidency.
A constant struggle with corruption, poverty, a rise in religious fundamentalism, unemployment, failed educational reforms, and poor healthcare, has led many Indonesians to become understandably skeptical as to whether or not democracy is any better than Suharto's autocratic and many times cruel regime, which ended only ten years ago. Many remember a sense of security under Suharto that isn't as present today, even though the over-all state of their country has undeniably improved. Indonesians are longing for a boost in patriotic spirit and self belief that could help them realize their own potential as the 4th most populated country on earth. Personally, my spirits have been boosted to have a pragmatic leader who's not afraid to listen to his opponents, but the rest of the world (at least my friends in Indonesia) is excited to see that the American Dream is not a myth and that, while it may take many years, they have every opportunity to continue fighting for the same standards within their own nations.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
I'm Glad I Chose Education
Something I realized this past summer, as I was galavanting around the country with Jon (and i wonder if you've noticed), is the fact that I have unintentionally but, nevertheless, consistently excluded writing about my experiences teaching here. I've relayed some humorous anecdotes from the pesantren, and I've hinted at the character of certain staff members at my current school, but I don't think I've even once mentioned what it's been like for a math major to suddenly change focus, submit the grades of 15 Jefferson Community College algebra finals, and only two days later leave the University environment altogether to begin teaching English in an Indonesian high school. This is my job here. I don't know how, but I guess sometimes I forget about that.
My intentions are not to convey that teaching is an unimportant part of my time hear, but it is apparent that I have chosen to embrace the ultimate goal of the Fulbright Program, rather than thinking of myself exclusively as an English teacher. It's easy to make all my experiences very much my own, especially since AMINEF does very little to monitor my progress or accomplishments. Last year I felt I was put into an almost impossible situation as a conversational English teacher, so I chose to focus on different aspects of the grant. I made life-long friendships with the people in my community and I know almost all the local foods, in which they take so much pride. I could have stressed about planning futile lessons with students who just don't speak English, and I could have taken relieving vacations every weekend; that would have been no problem and likely no less rewarding. My pesantren students very well could have been able to speak better English at the end of 10 months if that was the route I had taken. However, I relaxed, and I used my inherent influence as a foreigner in a village that hasn't seen a white resident since Dutch imperialism (which is very far from a joke). I made impressions in my own way. I coasted through my classes, acting like a clown, relying on my humor and facial expressions, and I passively improved my students' motivation to study English; however, I actively tried to increase their curiosity about life outside a traditional village. Last year, the role I played in Guyangan was very far from “English teacher,” but I felt that I maximized my experience, even though my prescribed title was “English Teaching Assistant.”
That being said, my situation this year is a far cry from what I went through last year. There are plenty of similarities, but I have to deliberately look for them because I'm already used to Indonesian high school norms. There are plenty of defining characteristics that almost all Indonesian schools possess simply because of culture. For example, neither of my schools have a cafeteria; both are built around a courtyard, and they have open-air classrooms, which are consequently subject to an number of regular disturbances. Educators in both environments tend to value quiet mouths, unconditional respect for teachers, and memorization more than they appreciate interactive environments, fostering independent thinking, and problem solving. That's just the culture of secondary education in this country. However, the organization and administration of St. Yoseph is much closer to that of an American high school than Raudlatul Ulum (YPRU), which never pretended to be anything other than a conservative madrasah. There are two assistants to the head master at St. Yoseph, one for curriculum and another who is the dean of students. They both have a significant amount of pull, and their suggestions to Sister Modesta are always taken into consideration. I've seen arguments between administrators arise and then be calmly and diplomatically resolved, leaving no party at any significant loss. At YPRU, I only saw consequences for those who intentionally (or unintentionally) “crossed” Mr. Humam.
Mr. Humam is a brilliant Individual, a moving public speaker, and a convincing politician. I found myself laughing at his speeches before I had any idea what he was saying. The fact of the matter is that he is a highly effective community and religious leader, who just so happens to own and operate a school. And it just so happens that he has some strong opinions on how that should be done. Ultimately, he had total control and no control over the school at the same time. He demanded the obedience of staff, teachers, and students, but he was constantly making presentations in Jakarta, Semarang, and Surabaya to various ministries of religion and local governments for grant money. His presence was seen only half the time at the pesantren, and when he was gone, problems simply went unresolved until his return. If an administrator or teacher were 95% positive that he could handle a dispute on his own, then that 5% of uncertainty was more than enough to forgo the risk of possibly disappointing the Kyai. Consequently, the curriculum was lacking, teachers' schedules constantly conflicted, and the key to the copy room remained in one man's possession, whether he was present that day or not. My students there were raised with the fear of Allah, and rarely did I have anything resembling a disciplinary issue, but the national examination at the end of the year was a collective and excused cheat-fest that I doubt excluded a single sole.
I don't know yet if rampant cheating is commonplace at my new school or not, as it seems to be pretty normal in most Indonesian high schools, but I can't imagine that it happens to the same degree at St. Yoseph as it does at most others. Of all the schools I've visited in this country, having had the opportunity to travel to other fulbrighters' sites, I've not yet seen a single other institution staffed with a workforce of entirely full-time employees. I've yet to see another school with mandatory time-cards. And I've never seen another teachers' office with personally assigned spaces and desks sporting ornamental name-plates. My fellow teachers all have college degrees and seem to be pretty motivated to plan lessons in advance. This is unfortunately not always (usually?) the case. When teachers put in effort, they are obviously more likely to be disappointed in students who don't take them seriously. But teachers who don't even put in time to plan their own classes don't have the right to be let down by a student's lack of motivation. In most cases, teachers in this country simply don't push their students because they, themselves, were never pushed to excel by their own teachers.
My new colleagues are an entirely different breed from the devout group who sat and lectured endlessly at my old school. I see so much more of a community within the teachers' lounge here. There were over 120 instructors in Guyangan's only high school, and some of them showed their faces just once a week. Few friendships were made in the teachers office at YPRU, only continued.
That's more than a slight contrast to the perpetual “open mic' night”, that is the first door on your right on the ground floor of St. Yoseph Catholic High School. There is always an empty guitar case on top of the history bookshelf, and that's not because the music instructor has stubbornly avoided returning its contents. I can safely say that every single day I will be serenaded in either a tradition Batak tune, Indo-pop, or a common Indonesian rendition of “Hotel California,” which has somehow come to necessitate a three-part harmony. The people of North Sumatra are admired by the entirety of an already musically inclined culture. My counterpart, Mrs. Simbolon, sang a traditional song at our orientation in August, when all the counterparts arrived, and I heard comments circulating the room about this requisite talent of Batak people. I was duly impressed by my students in Guyangan, who could put together an impressive ensemble with virtually no time to practice, but it should tell you something that I no longer even have a reaction when the communal guitar gets passed randomly to the biology teacher (whom I hadn't before even seen whistling to herself), and she breaks out “Bohemian Rhapsody,” while the Chemistry teacher is singing “Unchained Melody” a cappella. People tell me that if I just sang louder, I would impress everyone in the room, including myself – I assure them that my barely audible volume is more than appropriate.
My intentions are not to convey that teaching is an unimportant part of my time hear, but it is apparent that I have chosen to embrace the ultimate goal of the Fulbright Program, rather than thinking of myself exclusively as an English teacher. It's easy to make all my experiences very much my own, especially since AMINEF does very little to monitor my progress or accomplishments. Last year I felt I was put into an almost impossible situation as a conversational English teacher, so I chose to focus on different aspects of the grant. I made life-long friendships with the people in my community and I know almost all the local foods, in which they take so much pride. I could have stressed about planning futile lessons with students who just don't speak English, and I could have taken relieving vacations every weekend; that would have been no problem and likely no less rewarding. My pesantren students very well could have been able to speak better English at the end of 10 months if that was the route I had taken. However, I relaxed, and I used my inherent influence as a foreigner in a village that hasn't seen a white resident since Dutch imperialism (which is very far from a joke). I made impressions in my own way. I coasted through my classes, acting like a clown, relying on my humor and facial expressions, and I passively improved my students' motivation to study English; however, I actively tried to increase their curiosity about life outside a traditional village. Last year, the role I played in Guyangan was very far from “English teacher,” but I felt that I maximized my experience, even though my prescribed title was “English Teaching Assistant.”
That being said, my situation this year is a far cry from what I went through last year. There are plenty of similarities, but I have to deliberately look for them because I'm already used to Indonesian high school norms. There are plenty of defining characteristics that almost all Indonesian schools possess simply because of culture. For example, neither of my schools have a cafeteria; both are built around a courtyard, and they have open-air classrooms, which are consequently subject to an number of regular disturbances. Educators in both environments tend to value quiet mouths, unconditional respect for teachers, and memorization more than they appreciate interactive environments, fostering independent thinking, and problem solving. That's just the culture of secondary education in this country. However, the organization and administration of St. Yoseph is much closer to that of an American high school than Raudlatul Ulum (YPRU), which never pretended to be anything other than a conservative madrasah. There are two assistants to the head master at St. Yoseph, one for curriculum and another who is the dean of students. They both have a significant amount of pull, and their suggestions to Sister Modesta are always taken into consideration. I've seen arguments between administrators arise and then be calmly and diplomatically resolved, leaving no party at any significant loss. At YPRU, I only saw consequences for those who intentionally (or unintentionally) “crossed” Mr. Humam.
Mr. Humam is a brilliant Individual, a moving public speaker, and a convincing politician. I found myself laughing at his speeches before I had any idea what he was saying. The fact of the matter is that he is a highly effective community and religious leader, who just so happens to own and operate a school. And it just so happens that he has some strong opinions on how that should be done. Ultimately, he had total control and no control over the school at the same time. He demanded the obedience of staff, teachers, and students, but he was constantly making presentations in Jakarta, Semarang, and Surabaya to various ministries of religion and local governments for grant money. His presence was seen only half the time at the pesantren, and when he was gone, problems simply went unresolved until his return. If an administrator or teacher were 95% positive that he could handle a dispute on his own, then that 5% of uncertainty was more than enough to forgo the risk of possibly disappointing the Kyai. Consequently, the curriculum was lacking, teachers' schedules constantly conflicted, and the key to the copy room remained in one man's possession, whether he was present that day or not. My students there were raised with the fear of Allah, and rarely did I have anything resembling a disciplinary issue, but the national examination at the end of the year was a collective and excused cheat-fest that I doubt excluded a single sole.
I don't know yet if rampant cheating is commonplace at my new school or not, as it seems to be pretty normal in most Indonesian high schools, but I can't imagine that it happens to the same degree at St. Yoseph as it does at most others. Of all the schools I've visited in this country, having had the opportunity to travel to other fulbrighters' sites, I've not yet seen a single other institution staffed with a workforce of entirely full-time employees. I've yet to see another school with mandatory time-cards. And I've never seen another teachers' office with personally assigned spaces and desks sporting ornamental name-plates. My fellow teachers all have college degrees and seem to be pretty motivated to plan lessons in advance. This is unfortunately not always (usually?) the case. When teachers put in effort, they are obviously more likely to be disappointed in students who don't take them seriously. But teachers who don't even put in time to plan their own classes don't have the right to be let down by a student's lack of motivation. In most cases, teachers in this country simply don't push their students because they, themselves, were never pushed to excel by their own teachers.
My new colleagues are an entirely different breed from the devout group who sat and lectured endlessly at my old school. I see so much more of a community within the teachers' lounge here. There were over 120 instructors in Guyangan's only high school, and some of them showed their faces just once a week. Few friendships were made in the teachers office at YPRU, only continued.
That's more than a slight contrast to the perpetual “open mic' night”, that is the first door on your right on the ground floor of St. Yoseph Catholic High School. There is always an empty guitar case on top of the history bookshelf, and that's not because the music instructor has stubbornly avoided returning its contents. I can safely say that every single day I will be serenaded in either a tradition Batak tune, Indo-pop, or a common Indonesian rendition of “Hotel California,” which has somehow come to necessitate a three-part harmony. The people of North Sumatra are admired by the entirety of an already musically inclined culture. My counterpart, Mrs. Simbolon, sang a traditional song at our orientation in August, when all the counterparts arrived, and I heard comments circulating the room about this requisite talent of Batak people. I was duly impressed by my students in Guyangan, who could put together an impressive ensemble with virtually no time to practice, but it should tell you something that I no longer even have a reaction when the communal guitar gets passed randomly to the biology teacher (whom I hadn't before even seen whistling to herself), and she breaks out “Bohemian Rhapsody,” while the Chemistry teacher is singing “Unchained Melody” a cappella. People tell me that if I just sang louder, I would impress everyone in the room, including myself – I assure them that my barely audible volume is more than appropriate.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Spaghetti Really Takes You Places in this Country
I don't think I ever painted a picture of my life in a madrasah, in a small and conservative town away from all things western, as a grim experience; you already know it was quite the opposite. However, there were aspects of my personality that I had to constantly highlight, alter, or even omit altogether in order to assimilate harmoniously in Guyangan. It was never really easy. I didn't feel that I was ever being dishonest with myself or with the people who lived around me, but I soon realized that to reveal certain aspects of my character would not only be shocking , but it would be downright inappropriate considering the circumstances. If I wanted to convey a self image comparable to the open, friendly and joking person I try to be in the U.S., then there were certain behaviors I would have to change, in order to fit in with the local culture. I wasn't really Kenneth Scott Moore in Guyangan, but while I was there, I at least tried to be the equivalent of Kenneth Scott Moore, if that makes sense.
That being said, I have come to enormously value my experience there, and I've come to value it in a number of ways. Today however, I want to discuss only one aspect in which I now appreciate what was an overtly restricted life in Central Java. That aspect is the extent to which my time there has allowed me to relish in the sweet fruits of my now almost totally unencumbered life in North Sumatra! Don't get me wrong; I'm not running a muck every weekend. If fact, I've so far been to only one bar in this entire city, and by no means could they consider me a regular. However, I have been making up for last year's repression in other ways. When female Fulbrighters came to visit me in Guyangan, we were not allowed to walk from the school to the dining hall side-by-side. And of course, they were highly encouraged to wear head scarves, which all of them did except on one occasion earlier in the year before I had truly realized the intensity of my situation. Nothing about my stay in Medan even remotely compares to the severity of Kiayi Humam's rule over his small kingdom within the regency of Pati. So, for a change, I've been spending a completely different kind of quality time with my new headmaster – headmistress actually.
Sister Modesta is perhaps one of the kindest and most benevolent individuals I have ever known. She has been responsible for such efforts as making sure that Mr. Monang is on hand to keep me company at any time when she has the slightest inkling that I might be lonely; going beyond the owner of my house to have the school's repairman fix the leak in my roof; sending bushels of fruit to my doorstep when I was sick; regularly calling me to her office during my breaks so she can get in as much English practice as possible, and frequently making rounds in the school to make sure it is being run in a proper manner. This is one of the those times when I won't even bother to compare my two principles, head-to-head, as far as their effectiveness as educators. Nevertheless, Sister Modesta has taken a keen liking to me and is always thinking up some reason why I should come visit her. My arm has been burned and braised with twist marks, as I've been relentlessly forced to spend hours of my free time within the confines of the all-female boarding house at St. Thomas Catholic University.
Should I find myself already on her campus when a slight shower begins to drizzle from passing clouds, the harem of 35 women will do anything to keep me from leaving and risking getting a cold. But yesterday afternoon, as I had promised to bring 11 pounds of tomatoes and six boxes of pasta to cook spaghetti for everyone, I was pitilessly urged to just put on my raincoat and ride through a torrential downpour. I arrived 15 minutes later at the university kitchen with Indonesia's acid rain dripping from every inch of my body, and I was greeted by two eager nuns and four smiling girls from the English department. I removed all the ingredients and supplies from my over-sized, mountaineering backpack, and we quickly began to mince onions, peel tomatoes, and boil water. It turned out to be a monumental success, as I just let the enormous pot of sauce simmer, while I repeatedly taste-tested it to make sure the proportions of garlic and Italian seasoning hadn't gotten out of hand through the madness of preparing enough food to feed an army.
As all the students made their way down to the kitchen, I climbed the stairs to eat my meal with the eight or nine sisters who were present (Sister Modesta actually didn't make it because she was visiting a friend in the hospital). We joked around, while making comments about how this would have to become a weekly event, and once again, I felt my arm being squeezed red with friction. I was promised the opportunity next week to dine in the student-canteen with the girls if I came back to learn the traditional cooking methods of a Batak dish with the same crew.
...And now the story of Sir Galahad, the pure.
That being said, I have come to enormously value my experience there, and I've come to value it in a number of ways. Today however, I want to discuss only one aspect in which I now appreciate what was an overtly restricted life in Central Java. That aspect is the extent to which my time there has allowed me to relish in the sweet fruits of my now almost totally unencumbered life in North Sumatra! Don't get me wrong; I'm not running a muck every weekend. If fact, I've so far been to only one bar in this entire city, and by no means could they consider me a regular. However, I have been making up for last year's repression in other ways. When female Fulbrighters came to visit me in Guyangan, we were not allowed to walk from the school to the dining hall side-by-side. And of course, they were highly encouraged to wear head scarves, which all of them did except on one occasion earlier in the year before I had truly realized the intensity of my situation. Nothing about my stay in Medan even remotely compares to the severity of Kiayi Humam's rule over his small kingdom within the regency of Pati. So, for a change, I've been spending a completely different kind of quality time with my new headmaster – headmistress actually.
Sister Modesta is perhaps one of the kindest and most benevolent individuals I have ever known. She has been responsible for such efforts as making sure that Mr. Monang is on hand to keep me company at any time when she has the slightest inkling that I might be lonely; going beyond the owner of my house to have the school's repairman fix the leak in my roof; sending bushels of fruit to my doorstep when I was sick; regularly calling me to her office during my breaks so she can get in as much English practice as possible, and frequently making rounds in the school to make sure it is being run in a proper manner. This is one of the those times when I won't even bother to compare my two principles, head-to-head, as far as their effectiveness as educators. Nevertheless, Sister Modesta has taken a keen liking to me and is always thinking up some reason why I should come visit her. My arm has been burned and braised with twist marks, as I've been relentlessly forced to spend hours of my free time within the confines of the all-female boarding house at St. Thomas Catholic University.
Should I find myself already on her campus when a slight shower begins to drizzle from passing clouds, the harem of 35 women will do anything to keep me from leaving and risking getting a cold. But yesterday afternoon, as I had promised to bring 11 pounds of tomatoes and six boxes of pasta to cook spaghetti for everyone, I was pitilessly urged to just put on my raincoat and ride through a torrential downpour. I arrived 15 minutes later at the university kitchen with Indonesia's acid rain dripping from every inch of my body, and I was greeted by two eager nuns and four smiling girls from the English department. I removed all the ingredients and supplies from my over-sized, mountaineering backpack, and we quickly began to mince onions, peel tomatoes, and boil water. It turned out to be a monumental success, as I just let the enormous pot of sauce simmer, while I repeatedly taste-tested it to make sure the proportions of garlic and Italian seasoning hadn't gotten out of hand through the madness of preparing enough food to feed an army.
As all the students made their way down to the kitchen, I climbed the stairs to eat my meal with the eight or nine sisters who were present (Sister Modesta actually didn't make it because she was visiting a friend in the hospital). We joked around, while making comments about how this would have to become a weekly event, and once again, I felt my arm being squeezed red with friction. I was promised the opportunity next week to dine in the student-canteen with the girls if I came back to learn the traditional cooking methods of a Batak dish with the same crew.
...And now the story of Sir Galahad, the pure.
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