Sultry South Sumatera

I made my first trip to Sumatera last week for Thanksgiving. It was really fun and so different from the atmosphere on the other islands. The fun started in Jakarta where I boarded my second plane without having to use a boarding pass or going through any type of security. My first plane from Solo had been delayed three hours, and when everyone deboarded in Jakarta, there was no one to direct us to the correct entrance to the airport. Everyone just kind of picked a direction and went for it. I ended up wandering down some long hallway that was glass on both sides. I could see the passenger waiting rooms, and I could see planes, but I couldn’t get to either one of them. Finally a guy chased me down and asked me where I was going, to which I replied, “Palembang.” He then escorted me to the door of the plane. No lines, no boarding pass, nothing. “Here’s your plane. Have a good flight.” So I got on the plane and found that my seat had been double-booked, but since I’m a girl, the guy had to get up, even though he had gotten there first. He may or may not have had to stand at the back of the plane the entire flight. I realized that I might actually not be on the correct flight, but it turned out that I was, which was kind of lucky.

When I arrived in Palembang, Dre had arranged to have me picked up by her ojek-driving friend Alem. Right when I walked out of the airport there he was waiting for me at the front with a sign that said something along the lines of, “Her Royal Majesty – Princess Erin.” Or something ridiculous like that. It was very fun. Alem took me directly to Dre’s house.

I got in Thursday night and we bummed around Palembang until Sunday night. On Friday, we got up kind of early and Dre had to take me to her school and show off her American friend so she’d be allowed to have the week off too. Her school is an enormous building that looks like a hotel and obviously has a lot more money than my school. Her headmistress took us out for lunch at this really expensive outdoorsy restaurant to try pindang and some other local food. It was really good and not all that irritating. Dre has a really awesome counterpart, Agus, who takes amazing care of her and makes sure people don’t irritate her too much. Agus also takes care of me when I’m around.

That night we met up with Eric, another ETA, and had dinner on the Musi River. They’re favorite restaurant is kind of on a boat on the river and overlooks this enormous bridge that’s all lit up with pretty colored lights. I guess usually things are pretty quiet, but I happened to come on the night of some enormous celebration that was supposed to draw tourists. The otherwise empty restaurant was packed, as was the city. There was a big stage set up within view of our table and one of Indonesia’s most famous bands was playing. At the end of the concert there were fireworks over the bridge and the river. It was a nice little free show. I wish I had had my camera, but I didn’t. It would be the first of many times on this trip.

The next day, we were supposed to see Dre’s school’s marching band perform at a mall, but we found out when we got there that every person in Palembang had thought the competition was on Saturday, but really, it was on Sunday. So we had Pizza Hut with Eric instead. We bummed around downtown (Palembang is not a pretty city) and then went back to Dre’s house to chill with the neighbors. Her neighbors are really sweet, awesome people who cook amazing food from Bengkulu. Java is a nice place to live, but they’re food is worthless compared to Sumateran food. Sunday was another day to lay around and that was also the day that I got to try Pempek. Pempek is made of sago and fish and compressed into balls and fried. Pempek is the biggest deal in Palembang, and everyone said that if I didn’t try it, I hadn’t really been to Palembang. I ate two pieces and decided that it was a tasty little snack, but should not be consumed in large quantities or too frequently. Which is exactly the way that Dre and Eric are forced to eat it.

Sunday night we caught a night train down to the city of Bandarlampung, which is the provincial capital of Lampung. This isn’t EuroRail night train stuff, this is about twenty steps below that, but we both took a Panadol night and knocked out. We woke up in Bandarlampung and got a shared car to the coastal town of Kalianda. Kalianda is the usual jumping off point for tours to Krakatau. There’s not much going on there, and the beach was disgusting, but it was a nice break from the congested air and rude people in Palembang.

We both really wanted to go to Krakatau, so we started scoping out prices and options. The hotel wanted $60 bucks a person, which is ridiculously expensive for Indonesia, so we thought we’d hop on over to Canti, a smaller fishing village just down the coast. We went down the next morning and went straight to the dock. A big, burly Indonesian police officer decided he’d help us arrange with some of the boat owners, but really, all he did was comment repeatedly on how we were traveling without a man. One guy offered to take us for about $150 for a charter boat that could hold up to 15 people, but since there was only two of us, it wasn’t exactly worth it. Frustrated and irritated, we walked down the road and went looking for a prettier place to hang out.

A couple men were standing on the street and started waving us over. They asked us where we wanted to go so we told them we wanted to go to the beach. Two women came out of the house and basically said, “here come through our yard, the beach is right here.” We were wondering if there was a catch, but there wasn’t. Just a beach. And a very nice beach at that. It overlooked a bunch of islands and had clear water and white sand. We sat around talking to the family for awhile, and when they excused themselves we went swimming and climbed some rocks. There were some men nearby and we didn’t want to be too scandalous, so we kept our rainjackets on over our bathing suits while we were playing. That’s why I’m not wearing pants in any of the pictures.

We had to head back to the dock afterwards to catch a ride back to Kalianda, and while we were there, one of the men said, “Oh yeah, I forgot. If you take a ferry to that island over there for ten cents, you can go to Krakatau from there for $50 for both of you.” Yes, I’m sure you forgot. The catch was that the ferry was leaving in a few minutes, so we had to rush back to Kalianda and grab our bags and rush back to Canti to catch the ferry. The ferry doesn’t go that often, so we were going to have to spend two nights on Pulau Sebesi, which is in between Sumatera and Krakatau.

On the ferry ride over, we found out that Sebesi has a population of about 2,000 people, and one of the sailors informed me that there was an expensive hotel, but a home-stay was a better option. Sebesi is kind of what I imagined Indonesia would be like. A couple tiny fishing villages spread out over an island with rattan huts in between, connected by dirt paths. One of the men took us to the home-stay, which ended up being the nicest part of our trip. A family of five cleared out a room for us, cooked us three meals a day, plus endless snacks of fried bananas, mango and sweet tea. We spent most of our time either reading in bed, or drinking hot tea on the front porch and watching the rain. It was like spending a recuperative weekend with your parents, only your parents don’t talk to you or bother you and only try to make you happy. Doesn’t that sound nice? The house didn’t have running water, and only had electricity after sunset until midnight. Did I mention the food was incredible? The mother and grandmother were such good cooks.

Wednesday morning, we got up bright and early to find our boat to Krakatau, but when we got to the dock, our guy was not there. What a schmuck. We wandered the village, looking for someone to take us, and ran into the owner of our ferry from the previous day. Turns out, he lived across the street from our home-stay. Once again, he offered to take us for $150, or said that a small boat could take us for $20, or we could wait for another ferry to come in which could take us for about $40. We said the small boat would be fine, but then we were told that the wind was too strong, for that, so we’d just have to wait until 2. So we waited until 2, but in the time that we were waiting we went swimming in a cove of mangroves (a mangrove cove) and walked around the island.

At 2 o’clock, the ferry hadn’t arrived yet, so we waited some more. When it finally arrived around 3:30, and we finally found the owner, he told us that he couldn’t take us because the sea was too rough. We begged and pleaded, but he wouldn’t take us. He showed me pictures of Krakatau on his phone and thought that should be enough to satisfy me. We sat there for a little while just hoping that he’d change his mind. He didn’t, but he ‘suddenly remembered’ that if you take an ojek to the other side of the island you have a beautiful clear view of Krakatau, weather permitting. We so said we’d do that. I’d come all that way and I needed to see it, even if it was from a distance. So the boat-owner, Chandra, and his friend, took us on their motorcycles to the other side of the island. Which ended up being an adventure all its own.

The tiny dirt paths that zigzag around the island had turned to mud paths from all the rain. Part of the way we were riding through water a couple inches deep. It was a rough and slippery ride, but it was so beautiful. The whole ride was right along the coast with palm trees on one side and the ocean on the other. We were mostly just riding through the jungle, but every once in awhile we’d pass a little rattan hut on stilts. We rounded on corner and there was Krakatau. It was enormous and beautiful and we had a perfect view, but we didn’t stop, because, according to the guys, there was an even better spot further on. So we kept riding, and it kept getting closer, and the view kept getting more beautiful. And then came a torrential downpour that obscured our view of Kraktau and made the roads almost completely impassable. We stopped for a couple minutes under an enormous tree that grew out over the sea. It was a fun spot to stop and would have made for great pictures if we hadn’t been afraid to ruin our cameras.

When the rain didn’t let up after fifteen minutes or so, we made a mad dash to a nearby hut. We sat in the front room of this old man’s house for about an hour, maybe more, drinking coffee and watching the rain come down. The sun set and all hope was lost of taking pictures of Krakatau. But at least we got to see it. The rain continued to pour, and by that time, it was completely dark out. The guys decided it was better to head back even though my driver wasn’t wearing a jacket, and it was going to be a wicked ride. The whole ride back, I kept thinking we were gonna wipe out, but we didn’t, although my driver shivered the entire time. Dre’s driver had to stop, cause a puddle splashed up and drenched his sparkplug. That took a while to fix. We finally made it back, and paid the guys way more than we’d promised them and then had dinner and went to bed.

We got up early the next morning (Thanksgiving!) to catch a ferry back to Sumatera. When we got our stuff packed and ready to leave, we asked our Ibu how much we owed her. She looked at us and laughed and said, “I don’t know, you’re our first guests.” She didn’t make a suggestion and didn’t count the money when we handed her what we thought was appropriate, so I hope it was ok.

The ferry ride back to Kalianda was rough, but not too bad. We caught a car back to Bandarlampung where Eric was waiting for us. He had stayed behind to teach that week, since he’d already been to Krakatau, but wanted to meet up with us to go to Way Kambas National Park, better known as the Elephant Place. We spent the night in Bandarlampung and had a humble dinner of chicken and French fries in a cafe for Thanksgiving. We did, however, go around the table and tell each other what we were thankful for, and we all got pretty sad, because we all missed our families.

The next day we headed to Way Kambas. Eric had arranged a tour package for us, which was nice, cause we didn’t have to deal with anything. A car took us directly to the park, minus an hour waiting while the car was being fixed. I had been feeling kind of headachey all day, but decided it was just dehydration. Our first stop was the Elephant Training Center. This place rescues elephants from circuses all over the world and gives them a nice place to live in the Sumateran jungle. They don’t get any funding from the government, so they train the elephants to do silly tricks and play soccer to help support the center. We were going to take an elephant trek through the jungle, but as soon as I got on the elephant I started feeling really, really sick. I made it about five minutes into the trek before I spiked a fever and my stomach exploded in five directions. I had to drag myself back to the office. Eric and Dre continued the trek, while I was drinking ginger tea and sleeping in the back of our car. It was really, really lame, but Dre bought me a cool Way Kambas shirt for my birthday to cheer me up.

After elephant trekking, we were taken to a guesthouse in the middle of the park where I slept, while Eric and Dre went on a hike. I basically slept the rest of the day and the entire night. I woke up Saturday morning feeling a lot better. My fever had gone away at least. We took a boat ride part-way through the jungle and then did a 2-hour hike. We were hoping to see elephants and rhinos, but we didn’t. We did, however, see tiger tracks, which was so exciting and cool. Sumateran tigers are super rare and are hardly ever seen, but seeing their paw prints in the mud was thrilling. We saw some gross leeches, got leeched, saw some birds and butterflies and then packed our stuff and headed back to Bandarlampung.

At nine that night, Dre and Eric caught the train back to Palembang, and I started my journey back to Ponorogo. This journey started at nine that night also. I had a seven hour bus ride (which included a ferry ride) from Bandarlampung back to Jakarta. I arrived in central Jakarta at 3:45 in the morning, and got a cab to the airport. I was at the airport from 4:30 until 11:30, during which time I slept for two hours in the middle of a crowd of people going on the Hajj. Then I had McDonald’s for breakfast and a Starbuck’s Toffee Nut Latte to kick off the holiday season. The flight from Jakarta to Solo was only about an hour. Then I caught an ojek from the airport to the bus station, rode a two-hour, unairconditioned, packed bus from Solo to Madiun, another one-hour bus from Madiun to Ponorogo, and then got an ojek from Ponorogo to the pesantren. It was exhausting, but it made me really glad to be back, especially because I came in right before sunset and the sun was reflecting very nicely off the rice paddies.

So, my birthday is in 6 days, which is very exciting for me. My birthday happens to fall on the Muslim holiday Idul Aadha. It’s a day of slaughtering goats and cows. I’m not sure why. No one will tell me. But it should be interesting.

Emotional Repression.....really sucks

The word amok is an Indonesian word – amok as in ‘to run amok.’ It’s hard to believe in my tranquil little village that any Indonesian could ever run amok. People here don’t want to put effort into walking around the corner let alone to run amok. I think that takes a lot of energy, and the Indonesians that I’ve seen around here would much rather spend an entire afternoon sitting on their front porch staring at nothing. According to Al Jazeera, there are some people running amok in Java right now. People are freaking out in a few villages, because the Bali Bombers were just executed. I believe them, but I still can’t picture it.

Running amok is a very Indonesian concept. Indonesians are very good at staying calm and collected and harmonious for long periods of time, but after awhile, all that repressed emotion builds up and people go crazy and run amok. Then, when all that repressed emotion is spent, they settle down and live harmoniously for another eighty years or so. I had my own mini explosion of repressed emotion the other day.

Now, when I say I had an explosion of repressed emotion, I mean this in the Javanese sense. So basically, I raised my voice. I wasn’t shouting, but I raised my voice. And I think I stopped smiling for five minutes. In Javanese culture, this is probably considered something close to being homicidal. The Javanese always smile. Always. And I’m pretty sure they only raise their voices when they’re singing praises to Allah.

So anyway, I lost my cool. My teaching counterpart is supposed to take care of me, but she doesn’t. She’s supposed to teach with me, but she doesn’t. She’s supposed to do a lot of things, but doesn’t do any of them. I’m ok with this, because I’d rather be independent anyway, but then she told me that I couldn’t go to Nasya’s house for some random Muslim holiday.

For those of you who know me, you know that what I hate most in the world is being told what I can’t do. Especially when the person doing the telling has no right to tell me what I can and can’t do. Weny has no say in this matter. So I lost it. I talked loudly at her without smiling for five minutes and told her that she didn’t get to decide when I got to travel and if she had a problem with that I would call AMINEF. I guess she got the point that I was mad, because she was very apologetic after that. I marched back to my room and sat down on my bed, and I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt so good. I felt amazing. Not because I had asserted myself or gotten my way or any of that. No, I felt great, because sometimes, it feels really good to get angry, and I guess I never realized just how good it feels.

You might be asking yourself, why is she writing about this? Well you see, I’ve been thinking a lot about emotional repression. I’m feeling repressed. As a member of this little Indonesian community, I have to be happy all the time. Even when I want to punch someone in the face, because he or she is an idiot, and they’re bothering me, I have to smile and nod politely to their asinine remarks and pretend that they are very interesting and also my best friend. Again, for those of you who know me, this is very difficult and has been a huge lesson in patience and self-control. So basically, I’m tired of being happy. Or rather, I’m tired of being required to be happy. If I’m in a bad mood, why can’t I just be in a bad mood?

I thought that I was the only one in the pesantren who felt this way. You know, the independent, individualistic American girl doesn’t know how to control her emotions and is having a rough time adjusting. I thought I was the only one, but I’m not.

This girl Peni likes to come to my room to practice her English. She’s works as a secretary at the school in addition to having nine hours of lessons everyday and all the other activities that these girls are forced to do, yet somehow, she makes time to do her homework and study English with me. She’s pretty impressive, but as a secretary she has to be a lot more reserved than the other girls, because apparently being a secretary is super important and means you can’t have fun.

A couple days ago Peni unloaded about five years of frustration onto my floor. It went something like this, “I am informal girl, but I must always be formal! I cannot practice my hobby! Why can I not dance? Why? I want to dance! I like to dance! But no! I cannot because I must always very proper and formal girl! Sometimes I just want to scream!!!!!! I am so stress I want to cry, but cannot cry because everyone think I am crazy. Sometimes I just want to leave this place! I am so glad I leave in June forever!” It was a lot longer than that, but you get the picture. Peni was shouting, although she continued to the smile the whole time. Like I said, they can’t ever stop smiling.

I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be Mary Sunshine all day long. It’s tiring and stressful. I asked Peni if other girls felt this way too, and she said yes. Most of them do. I asked my friend Dika if this was all true – if most of the girls were stressed out. She told me that they were only stressed out if they didn’t know how to properly express their emotions. I asked her how she properly expresses her emotions. Apparently, she goes to the middle of the farm and screams or cries by herself in the bathroom. I suppose this is an improvement to bottling up your emotions forever, but it still seems a little wrong.

But it makes sense, this endless cycle of bottling up your emotions until they explode out of you. Java is the most densely populated island in the world. People can’t afford to let their emotions run all over the place. American teenagers kind of know they can throw their angst around, even let it make everyone else miserable in the process, because at the age of 18, they’ll move out. Usually. Even while they’re still living at home, they can always stomp upstairs and slam their door shut, cause, hey, they have a room and a door. Not so in Java. Three or most generations live together in the same house, maybe even in the same room. If everyone let their emotions get out of hand, they’d kill each other. Thus the harmonious existence of life in a collectivistic culture. Indonesians are nice, because they have to be. You’d be nice too if there was no escape.

I do have a room here, but I still can’t really escape unless I leave the pesantren and Ponorogo altogether and visit other ETAs. It should be noted that whenever ETAs do get together, we end up sitting around for at least an hour complaining/venting about our lives/Indonesia/students/classes/whatever comes to mind. This is not because we hate any of these things. We’re a pretty happy bunch. We just don’t ever get the chance to vent except to each other.

Indonesians may be equally stressed at having to hold everything in, but at least they’ve had practice. We are mostly new to this game of constantly feigned delight. We come from a culture where it’s considered mostly normal to punch your sister, yell at your mom, complain about your professors, write songs about how miserable you are and sometimes be grumpy just because you didn’t get enough sleep. Like I said, we have the space for this to be acceptible. But I have to wonder if sometimes I would be less miserable if I wasn’t allowed to be miserable. You know, that ‘fake it til you make it’ stuff. If Indonesians spend so much time pretending to be happy, do they end up being happy as a consequence? And because Americans are allowed to complain to their friends for hours on end about the miseries of life, do they end up dwelling on those miseries longer than is necessary? And which is a better, less destructive way to live? Throwing one solid hissy fit a day? Or holding all that in for months, maybe years until you explode like Krakatau? (I’m going to see Krakatau next week, by the way.) I don’t know.

The Indonesian ability to maintain harmony results in really supportive, loving, close-knit familial structures, though individuals may be churning inside, while Americans are living ever more isolated and depressed lives, even though they can express their unhappiness. That’s not to say that all Indonesians are happy and have great families, or that all Americans feel isolated. But people in collectivist cultures, like Indonesia, generally have more supportive environments, and individualistic cultures, like the U.S., are more concerned with individual feelings than protecting the feelings of those around them.

I wouldn’t dare try to decide which is a healthier way to live. You’d first have to ask whether the health of the group of the health of the individual is more important. If I tried to answer that question, I might as well hand back that degree it took me four years and thousands of dollars to earn. So, yeah. Just something to think about.

I’m leaving for Palembang in a couple hours – the self-proclaimed rudest city in all of Indonesia. I might yell at a stranger and give them the finger just because I can. Or maybe I won’t.

Teaching.....Finally

It’s been awhile since I’ve written about what’s been going on in my life. I thought that there wasn’t anything new to talk or write about, but yesterday I realized that there is. First of all, the days are moving a lot more quickly. November is already half way over. I keep forgetting that we are so far into the year, because it’s still so hot here. I got kind of sad the other day, because everyone in the U.S. is in the midst of the most exciting time of year – that is, the Halloween, Thanksgiving, my birthday, Christmas, New Year’s stretch of time. I wish I could celebrate these holidays like a normal person, but it makes it easier that it doesn’t feel like the time for year for these holidays. It’s easy to forget.

In my part of the world, the rainy season has started, and it now rains everyday. This suits me a lot better. When it’s sunny all the time, I feel like I should be doing something, but since there’s nothing to do, I just feel restless. Now that it rains a lot, I can peacefully shut myself in my room and keep my nose buried in a book. Unfortunately, with the rain come the mosquitoes. There still aren’t too many, but they buzz around my head when I’m trying to sleep, and there’s one trying to bite my foot right now. Once a day, I turn the AC in my room down really low to try to freeze them all out. This seems to at least make them slower, so it’s easier to kill them.

I still take long walks around the farm everyday. Sometimes its really muddy, and then I take my shoes off and walk barefoot through the mud. People think I’m crazy, but I don’t mind. Almost all the corn has been harvested, and they’ve planted tomatoes, eggplant and peppers in its place. Some of the areas look like they’re being prepared for rice, which would be pretty cool. Once in awhile, someone from the village will invite me back to their house while I’m on my walk, which I think is very neighborly. I sit in their front room and drink tea and eat snacks (they aren’t always gross), and try to be charming.

There is a whole group of village kids who follow me around. They live at the edge of the farm, and they’re usually sitting around waiting for me on my way home. I sit and talk to them for a while each day. They ask me how to say things in English, until their moms come out and take over the conversation and ask me when I’ll come to their house or if they can come with me back to America to be my maid. This makes me uncomfortable, so I just smile and pretend not to understand.

In the pesantren, I’ve made friends with four girls who are all eight and nine years old. The elementary school is all local kids except these four girls. I’m not sure where they’re from, but they live far enough away that they board with one of the teachers. I’d like to find their parents and punch them in the face for sending their children away at such a young age. I know it’s for the sake of a “good Muslim education” and all, but they’re still babies and they should be with their families. They’re all really sweet and clever girls. They’re names are Riski, Mega, Selsa and Okta. They come to my room to do their homework and eat all my snacks, but I don’t mind, because it’s nice to have them around. They wear little kid jilbabs that have elastic bands that fit around their heads so they don’t fall off.

Yesterday, they were hanging out with me, but I had to leave to go sit in the front room for an hour for a teacher’s meeting. Halfway through the meeting they left to go home, but while they were waiting for me, they cleaned my room. My room was already very clean by American standards, but Indonesians are habitual straighteners. Everything has to be perfectly organized, folded, straightened, etc. So they did, even my refrigerator. I thought that was really sweet….or obsessive compulsive.

I also started teaching in mid October. I just finished my fourth week in the classroom, and it’s going really well. All of my students are really eager to learn, even if they’re really chatty as well. Not paying attention and having side conversations seems to be the way in Indonesia. I only teach nine lessons a week and each lesson is 40 minutes long, so my schedule is pretty light. I’m supposed to teach five of the classes with my counterpart, but since she is worthless and never comes to class I get to teach by myself. I prefer this, because then I can teach whatever I want. My main aim is to teach them to think. This is a much harder task than it may sound. Indonesians aren’t accustomed to thinking. After centuries of oppressive governments, they only know how to regurgitate what they’ve been told. This applies to all aspects of life, not just school. Someone who is older than you is supposed to tell you what you need to know, and you don’t need to question it. If someone younger asks you a question, you’re supposed to answer even if you don’t know the real answer and you have to make something up. My students ask me for study tips all the time. I try to tell them that I’m not the best person to ask for study tips, but they just sit and stare at me until I come up with something. This is why Indonesians aren’t always so bright. Teachers just sort of make stuff up as they go, because they’re supposed to have answers, even if they’re wrong.

My other four classes are taught with one of two teachers – Bu Noriati and her husband whose name I do not care to remember. Bu Noriati likes to teach out of a book that was written in England in the 1920’s and teaches phrases like, “oh, many happy returns of the day” as a proper birthday greeting. While I get a kick out of this, I don’t think it’s necessary for our students to learn that Stilton is a kind of English cheese. Her husband is even worse. My first day of class he had me read down a list of verbs without bothering to explain what any of them meant. His English is atrocious, and he’s a control freak. He won’t let me do anything, and even if he asks me to explain something, he inevitably interrupts me to repeat what I have just said, but in a grammatically incorrect way.

This week I did some really fun listening exercises using the song “Suddenly I See.” It’s that song by KT Tunstall that is always used in coming of age chick-flicks, and makes girls feel empowered and happy. Anyway, it was really awesome to hear all my students singing this song, especially the part that says, “Suddenly I see, why the hell it means so much to me.” They were singing about being strong, empowered and beautiful women. This was the highpoint of my month.

The lesson went really well and Bu Noriati let me teach the lesson in her classes too. Her husband on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten that I had planned a lesson and started droning down a list of verbs at the beginning of class. I gently reminded him that I had a plan, and that he had agreed to let me teach it. This was especially annoying to me, because every class he asks me how he can make class more interesting and exciting. So I did and he ignored me. He said, “maybe later.” While he was droning on, I went to the board and started copying out my lesson, in a not so gentle way. It was clearly distracting him, because he kept pausing down his list of verbs. Finally he stopped and let me teach, but several times while I was speaking he would interrupt me mid-sentence to say something completely irrelevant or incorrect, so I kept speaking right over his interruptions until he sat at the back of the room and shut up.

Despite the battles that I have to fight with stupid teachers who think they know everything, I’m enjoying my job. I’m also looking forward to some adventures I have planned for the end of this month. On the 20th, I’m flying to Sumatera to hang out with Dre and Eric. We’re going to ride elephants through the Sumateran jungle, looking for the elusive Sumateran Tiger, the White Rhino and the wild Sumateran Elephant. I’ll also be looking for the rafflesia – the largest flower in the world, that can be up to a meter in diameter, but smells like rotting flesh. Then Dre and I are taking a boat to Krakatau, the volcano that has almost destroyed the world on several occasions. Doesn’t that sound fun? I’ll let you know how it goes.

Brainwashing and Faith

I was hoping that after ten months in a pesantren, I would be able to go back to the United States with enough first-hand experience to battle and disprove all those Americans who think that Islam is full of crazy, brainwashed, extremist, would-be suicide bombers. I can happily report that all the Muslims I’ve met are friendly, polite, clean and peaceful people. Unfortunately, I’ve been forced to accept that these people are BRAINWASHED. The pesantren is a religious cult where young girls and boys are sent by their families in order to become “devout and faithful Muslims.” All of the typical brainwashing techniques are used. Students get very little sleep, have little to no free time being kept always to a very strict schedule, uniformity is demanded and the same songs, prayers and rituals are repeated over and over again until they become second nature. The “outside world” is kept at bay by high walls around the compound of the pesantren, and it is common knowledge that pesantrens are almost always in the most remote villages so that this rigorous Muslim education is not interrupted, even by family.

If you could only see the creepy little lights that shine in their eyes when they speak about their “lovely, holy Qur’an.” It’s all very “Village of the Damned.” Then again what exactly makes brainwashing so bad? Ok, brainwashing is certainly bad when it takes a hold of an emotionally vulnerable person and tells them to give all their money to the cult. It’s most definitely bad when the result of brainwashing is a mass suicide or mass murder. But what if the result of this brainwashing just means that men and women try to be clean and loving and pray five times a day?

Often, the only difference between brainwashing and religion is some arbitrary line that society throws down according to what is “acceptable” or not. So, your religion thinks that you can all sail away into the universe on a comet? Sorry. Not socially acceptable. You are all crazy and brainwashed. Oh, 2,000 years ago the son of a carpenter was executed on a cross and now all your sins are forgiven and you automatically get to go to heaven because you say you’re a Christian? That’s absolutely acceptable by our social standards. And when I say socially acceptable, I mean now. If you had believed this 2,000 years ago you would have been thrown up on a cross too. But congratulations, you are a Christian, therefore, we deem you ‘not brainwashed.’

I pick on Christianity only because I am speaking to a culturally Christian crowd. All of the religions are the same. All those wannabe yogis who run off to study in Ashrams in India are just in for a good round of brainwashing. It’s the same deal as the pesantren. Or that lovely weekend retreat that most of us have been on called Chrysalis, or Emmaus for the old folks, that’s brainwashing too. Does anyone really think it’s the work of God that everyone on these trips ends up having some profound spiritual experience and ends up in tears on the floor? It’s all brainwashing. It’s all groupthink. Deprive a person of their sleep and throw them into a situation where spirituality is socially demanded of them, and yeah, they’ll really feel the love of Jesus or Krishna or Mohammed or the comet that comes around every 5,000 years. This is psychology NOT spirituality.

Now, before everyone gets all pissed and ready to thump me with a Bible, let me remind you that I haven’t made any value judgments. I simply want to ask where we draw the line between faith and brainwashing. Is brainwashing ever a good thing? Let’s say for the sake of argument that little Susie grew up in a Christian family, in a Christian community, in a Christian nation where everyone believed everything that goes along with being a Christian. Every Sunday, the preacher told Susie that Jesus loves her and if she’s a good little girl she’ll go to Heaven. And so, because no one ever suggested that this could be anything but the truth, Susie believed, and she was a good little girl. She always obeyed her parents, she was nice to her little brother Jimmy, she gave ten percent of her allowance to the orphans in Uganda and everyone congratulated her for being a good little Christian.

Now, is this not brainwashing? Did they not spoon-feed her religion in the same way those crazy occultists are spoon-fed their nonsense about Nike’s and Kool-Aid? “But Erin, it’s not brainwashing if it’s the truth!” To which I say, “Yes, it sure as hell is brainwashing!” Because if little Susie had been born into similar circumstances but in a Muslim family, in a Muslim community, little Susie would be little Fatimah instead, and she’d just as certainly be studying Al Qur’an, and fasting during Ramadhan and praying five times a day in a mukenan. This ‘faith’ of little Susie/Fatimah is entirely circumstantial, and ladies and gentleman, faith is not circumstantial.

So, I have to ask again, is brainwashing necessarily bad. Either way, little Susie/Fatimah leads a very good life. She loves those around her, and she follows all the rules that religion and society have laid down for her to make her a happy and successful person. If you’ve ever heard of Durkheim, well, this is totally his forte. Religion is the glue that holds society together, and teaches us to live harmoniously. But that’s religion, and in my humble opinion, religion is nothing more than a social tool to do exactly what Durkheim posits – to keep us in line. Or take us out of line, depending on your religion and its size and prevalence.

Having religion stamped into your brain, no matter what religion, no matter how true or not true you think it is, is little more than socialization. It is a social/psychological process that we all go through and is entirely dependent upon our environment. But like I said, I’m not casting stones at religion, it gives us guidelines that we all desperately need. Religion also provides us with the tools we need to find our individualized faith. In a world that encouraged faith rather than religion, preachers and teachers would educate the masses about the many ways that people before them have found God/Allah/Shiva/Om/Nirvana and then tell them to go find it on their own. The individual could then use some of the tools they’d learned from the previous masters to find their own faith. Or they could throw those tools out the window and sit under a tree until God smacks them in the face. But of course, if everyone did this, we’d have no social cohesion. We wouldn’t share a set of values that made us all ‘good’ citizens of this world, and who knows if we’d even have an environment in which sitting under a tree was possible without getting beaten, robbed or raped. We might all be Rousseau’s primitive man.

Was I brainwashed as a child? Yes, of course. I was brainwashed to be a Christian, an American, a democrat, a believer in democracy and many more things, which I probably haven’t even realized. (Here I could diverge into a long discussion of brainwashing and ethnocentrism, but I won’t.) And, as I will repeat again, I don’t consider this to be definitively negative. Luckily for me, I left my original environment and have lived in communities far different from my own. I’ve gotten to explore the other options that are out there and discover where my faith really lies. My faith in God, country, man, government, etc. I find that my faith still retains some of those ideas that were initially hammered into me in Sunday school and kindergarten, as those initial teachings continue to provide the framework for the way I see and understand the world today. But my faith/ideals/values look different.

So it seems as though brainwashing is almost a necessary precursor to faith. Let someone indoctrinate you so you at least learn some faith structure that one time worked for one, maybe two people, then go out in the world and throw this off and create your own.
Religion can be uniform, but true faith will probably get you labeled as a heretic no matter where you go, because faith is, by nature, personalized. Then again, if enough people call you a heretic you might just get your own legion of devotees ready to set up a religion around you. And pretty soon there will be an entire community of people who are brainwashed to have faith just like yours. As almost always happens with the prophets/sages/masters - their follows completely miss the point.

A Nation of Responsibility

The Loss of Self is found, in some form or another, in most of the world’s religions. Whether it is the destruction of the ego, dissolution of the individual back into the universal, or losing yourself in Christ, sages, priests and devotees spend years trying to banish their individuality. It only took me a couple weeks.

Let me explain. Most of the people here have seen American movies, listened to American music and have certain ideas about the American way of life, but to actually encounter an American is a totally different experience. They’re curious. They stare. They ask the most random questions you can possibly imagine. They walk into my room uninvited and go through my drawers. If they knew the password to my laptop, I’m sure they’d go through that too. Even if Indonesians did understand the concept of privacy, which they don’t, they probably wouldn’t grant me any anyway, because privacy is something granted to the individual, and in my role as a cultural ambassador, I’ve lost my identity as an individual. Or, perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, that I have been stripped of my role as an individual and been given the role of a nation.

Trust me when I say that I am not being arrogant about my position here. I am the United State of America. Everything that I say, do, eat, don’t eat, the way that I dress, walk and talk - all of these characteristics are instantly attributed to all 200 million Americans, or however many there are of us now. That is a lot of pressure. You can imagine how long I have to think before I answer even the simplest question. This is especially hard, because I usually don’t think at all before I speak.

This loss of my identity is exhausting. With the exception of maybe four of the teachers here, I’m not a person. Those four treat me like a human being. Everyone else treats me like a vast source of knowledge to be put on a pedestal and shown off to the world, and then sucked dry of all its resources. Of course, vast sources of knowledge do not get tired, have all the answers, and want to spend all of their time answering questions about American culture and English language. They enjoy being grilled about their religion, family, education and home over and over again. And of course, when this vast source of knowledge answers any of these questions, they’re not really answering for themselves, though it might sometimes appear that way. No. The dehumanized vast source of knowledge is answering for the entire nation, which it represents. The personal preference does not exist.

Let me share an example with you. I was not the cultural ambassador who made this impression, though I am feeling the effects of it. The ETA last year didn’t like rice. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like rice, but she didn’t, and everyone here knew that she didn’t. For the first three days of my stay, everyone was asking me if I liked rice. Of course I said ‘yes,’ because who doesn’t like rice? Whenever I would say ‘yes,’ everyone would act really surprised, because, ‘Miss Natalie didn’t like rice,’ so they assumed that all Americans dislike rice.

Believing that a whole country doesn’t like rice just because one of its citizens doesn’t is really pretty absurd. Then again, thousands of Americans seem to think that all Muslims are terrorists because some terrorists are Muslim. Which is more absurd?

Lately, I’ve been getting really irritated with anyone who asks me the above-mentioned questions. Doesn’t anyone realize that I want to be left alone sometimes? Or that some of their questions are just plain ridiculous? I was venting some of my frustration to a good friend, and he, being wise beyond his years, had some really interesting insights to share. Some of them made me feel a lot better, and some of them made me feel even more burdened with responsibility.

We were discussing the way that society holds up certain individuals to be revered and respected. The person who is being admired often doesn’t want this separation to occur. Maybe a little recognition would be nice, but it certainly isn’t pleasant to be separated from your fellow man (or woman). Yet, that’s exactly what society does. Why? Why don’t they want their hero to live and breathe amongst the community? Ryan thought that it might be, because the average man wants to believe that there is something beyond himself, something extraordinary of which man is capable. If we kept our heroes amongst us, they would cease to be heroes and become average people. But then I have to ask, why does being American automatically catapult me to this elevated status?

Indonesians have a very schizophrenic view of America. Immediately after they ask me why American troops bomb mosques and shoot babies, they tell me that they’ve always dreamed of going to America to study and work. And the reality is (this makes me quite uncomfortable) that I represent their dreams. I am a living, breathing, walking representation of this utopian ideal that they’ve all been carrying around for twenty-some years. Tell me that’s not a lot to handle. And I’m not exaggerating either.

It’s humbling experience, because I realize how much I don’t deserve to be in such a position of respect. I’m a kid straight out of college with no real work experience. I have a few stamps in my passport and suddenly, I’m the most important person in town? That’s ludicrous. It’s humiliating in a way. My inadequacies are constantly staring me in the face. I have no actual teacher training. People keep asking me for study tips and tricks to become better English speakers. I am the last person in the world that should be giving study tips. And yes, I can speak English fluently, but my students probably know more about English grammar than I do.

The only thing I have to offer is myself, and I have to hope that simply being American is enough. Ryan made me really squirm when he said that it probably meant a lot to the people in my village that an educated, well-traveled American would take a year out of their life to spend time with some Muslim high-school girls. I’m squirming right now. I’m so uncomfortable with this whole situation. I understand it in theory, but to be that person….

I’m trying to live up to their expectations, but anyone would get tired of answering the same questions over and over again. I’m just trying to keep a smile on my face. I don’t care if anyone here thinks I’m grumpy, but I’d feel more than a little guilty if they thought all Americans were grumpy because of me.

Reflections on the Kraft Single

Some of you may not know, that I come from a family with a long tradition in both sandwich-making and sandwich-consuming. Many frown upon the sandwich as being a second-rate food – something reserved for lunchboxes and picnics at the zoo, or trips to Chuck-E-Cheez for that matter. Really, however, the sandwich is the perfect food – all of your basic food groups, stacked neatly together and edible by hand. For me, a basic sandwich would consist of one type of meat, one type of cheese, lettuce, tomato, onions, mustard and mayonnaise (or olive oil and balsamic vinegar), but really, the possibilities are endless. There are so many different types of meats, cheeses, vegetables, breads and condiments to choose from. Think of your favorite meal, and then put it on bread. It really is a wonderful thing, the sandwich: from the basic grilled cheese to the much anticipated turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, and whatever else was left over from Thanksgiving dinner sandwich. I could eat a sandwich for every single meal, every single day for the rest of my life and never get bored.

You may wonder why I have mentioned the Kraft Single in the title of this note. During the writing of the first paragraph, I was daydreaming of a chicken salad sandwich with avocado and bean sprouts on a Kaiser roll. This seems worlds beyond a shiny, processed, individually-wrapped slice of “milk-product.” And it is, but let me remind you, that I am in Indonesia, and as in all areas of my life, I am being forced to simplify. Which brings me to the Kraft Single and the state in which I was drawn to indulge in this guilty pleasure from the developed world.

On Wednesday morning I awoke with stomach cramps, which quickly developed into your basic traveler’s sickness (the details of which I will spare you). For the first two days of this illness I was mostly confined to bed and had no desire to eat a thing, but by the third day, I was starving. I tried to eat one of the meals that was sent to my room, but the smell alone turned my stomach, and actually eating sent me into another round of stomach pains. I was quite miserable.

When you’re sick, you can think of a food and just know if it will make you more sick or not. Every food that was available to me made me queasy at the thought of it, but I was still hungry. I lay in my bed for another day, absolutely grumpy with hunger, daydreaming of cheeseburgers, Italian subs, pizza, French fries and every other cheap greasy food you can possibly imagine. I don’t even eat pork, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how delicious a pulled-pork sandwich with bbq sauce would be. It was absolute torture. The longer I lay there, the hungrier I got, and the grumpier I got. It was a really bad day. All I wanted was a good sandwich!

For dinner that night, I tried to eat with the other girls. I managed to eat half a bowl of rice and some vegetables, but I wasn’t satisfied and my stomach was hurting again. I asked them if there was a grocery store they could take me to, but I don’t think they quite understood the concept of a grocery store. I’m still trying to work on that one.

After dinner, still grumpy and still hungry, I dragged myself to the school’s cooperation to grab some more Powerade. I decided to browse through a little more than usual, hoping against all hope that something familiar and edible would present itself to me….and there it was, staring me in the face. A package of Kraft Singles. And on the next shelf? A loaf of white bread. I could not believe my luck.

Let me take a moment to explain to you the culinary atmosphere in which I was raised. My parents always made sure that we ate healthy, well-balanced meals. Milk with dinner and all that. I have never seen a loaf of white bread in my house. Ever. We are a strictly whole-wheat family. I did, however, get to eat white bread whenever we went to my grandparents house, and for us, white bread was a special treat, like McDonald’s or any of that other overly processed crap that isn’t good for you, but you want cause you’re a kid. My brother always begged my parents to buy Tang. They didn’t because it’s garbage, but for him it would have been a luxury. As a matter of fact, I seem to remember my sister having an especial taste for Kraft Singles. I did not share her enthusiasm. To this day, I feel that way about white bread. I know it’s not as good for me, and I do so appreciate the taste and texture of a nice 11-grain bread, but once in awhile, I will indulge and buy white (though always with a bit of guilt).

So it was with the greatest of joy that I purchased both Kraft Singles and a loaf of white bread – low-grade, but familiar. It didn’t matter that I think Kraft Singles are absolutely disgusting. At that moment, they were exactly what I wanted. The fact that I happen to love white bread doesn’t hurt either. I immediately ran back to my room and made myself a sandwich, if it can be called that. Under normal circumstances I would never call that a sandwich, but if you really think about it, it does meet the basic requirements.

I don’t think it could’ve tasted more delicious if it had been a baguette and fresh mozzarella with tomatoes, basil and olive oil. From the first bite, my mood was instantly elevated and the prior three days seemed no more than a bad dream. I was so delighted that I made myself another, and I washed that down with a glass of coke. Oh the delights of American cuisine.

I’m beginning to find, in my experiences here, that there is no such thing as good or bad. (I’m not speaking of morals and ethics and all that philosophical nonsense, so please don’t get all worked up just yet.) People always ask me if the food is good here, if the people are nice, blah, blah, blah. As a foreigner, I really can’t answer. There is no good and bad when observing another culture. There’s only familiar and unfamiliar. After weeks of being surrounded by the unfamiliar, the familiar really starts looking good, even if it wasn’t good when you were home (like Kraft Singles). This particular sandwich wasn’t good because it tasted good, it was good because it tasted familiar. As for the unfamiliar….I’m not sure yet. I wouldn’t say it’s bad, but I also know that, once the novelty wears off, the unfamiliar just leaves you feeling, well, unfamiliar.

My stomach still hurt after my cheese sandwich binge, but my mood certainly improved.

Watching Corn Grow....

As the title of this note suggests, I am literally spending my time watching corn grow. This isn’t such a bad thing though. I’m lucky enough to live in a village where the local economy is based almost exclusively on cooperative farming – the traditional Javanese way of life. As is typical of many farming communities that lack modern farming equipment, it is necessary for neighbors to help one another to bring in a good crop. As they say here, “together is better.” It would be almost impossible for individual families to achieve what the community can achieve in cooperation. Not only does this sort of lifestyle foster a more harmonious atmosphere within the village, but you can literally see the difference between the collective village and the more individualistic city. Almost everyone is of the same socio-economic status, there’s virtually no trash in the streets, they really put effort into making the village beautiful, and people are genuinely nice to one another.

I spend around three hours a day, every day, just walking. I have a lot of free time on my hands, and walking around the village and the surrounding land helps to expend some energy, pass the time, and it’s also my way of shaking hands with the community. I always sneak out the back entrance of the pesantren so no one tries to accompany me. It’s really odd for anyone to try to do anything by themselves here. Everyday, people tell me how brave I am, because I sleep in my own room. I know that I wouldn’t enjoy my walks nearly as much if I was with someone else, and I also know that anyone who would join me would just be doing it so I wasn’t alone. Indonesians hate walking. I mean hate! They don’t walk anywhere. Nasya complained all the way to the tailors the other day, cause she couldn’t find her bike and had to walk two blocks. They also hate being out in the sun. They also seem to be really bad with directions, because each time I return home safely, I have twelve people tell me how clever I am that I can find my way back.

So anyway, I walk, and I walk, and I walk. I’m pretty sure I’ve never gone more than a mile from the pesantren. I just sort of walk in circles. It works. It’s only a two-minute walk from my door to the farm, but I never go directly there. I’ll walk down a few random streets in the village first. Most of the people who live here spend the majority of their time sitting on their front porches, and I am absolutely obligated to say hello to every single one of them, but I don’t mind.

As you walk by someone you have to say ‘mari,’ which literally means, ‘come’ and then ‘pak,’ ‘bu,’ ‘mas,’ ‘mba,’ ‘adik,’ or ‘ade,’ depending upon whether you’re speaking to an older man or woman, young man or woman who is still older than you, or boy or girl who is younger than you. Then they ask ‘dari mana?’ where are you coming from, or ‘mau ke mana?’ where are you going? Followed by the appropriate title. Everyone addresses me as mba, or sister. It’s a very nice system. You know exactly how to be polite, and you know exactly what’s coming. In a village where everyone knows each other anyway, it would be ridiculous if neighbors didn’t address each other every time they passed, and this way, they don’t really have to think about it too much. Although, I don’t know that they really need to save time. They definitely have enough time to sit around and chat on their porches. But, it’s also a really nice feeling when the whole village addresses you as ‘sister,’ or addresses you at all. It makes you feel like you belong. I’m getting to the point where I feel unloved or uncared for if someone doesn’t ask me where I’m going.

Everyone in the town seems to like me, but they probably also think I’m crazy. 1. Because I’m walking, 2. because I’m walking alone, and 3. because I’m walking alone during the hottest part of the day. I don’t know what it is, but I love walking around in this heat. Perhaps I feel more accomplished if I work up a sweat.

Regardless, everyone is very friendly, and they give me the biggest smiles when I speak to them in Indonesian. They’re absolutely tickled that the new, crazy American can communicate. Or maybe they’re laughing at me cause I sound like an idiot. Either way.

After I walk around the village a little, I head out to the farm. That’s my favorite place to walk. The two main crops are corn and soybeans, funny because that’s what they grow in Earleville, but in between all the fields there’s cassava, bananas, beans and probably a lot of other stuff that I haven’t noticed yet. I even stumbled upon some sort of orchard, but it was fenced off, and I can’t figure out what they’re growing. The corn is starting to get really tall now, and it’s making the land look way different. I’m afraid that pretty soon I won’t be able to walk in between the cornfields and the trees, which is the best part. There are these long dirt roads that go out into the fields, but there are tiny little paths in between the fields and along the irrigation ditches. Some of them are lined with bamboo, and it’s always much cooler to walk there.

Before I forget, are there red dragonflies in the states? I see them everywhere here, and I can’t tell if I’ve never seen them before, or if they just seem striking because everything else is so green.

Depending on the time of day, the fields can be just as crowded as the village, or there might not be anyone there at all. The first couple days, everyone seemed really confused that I was there and kept asking me what I was looking for, but they seem to have gotten used to me. There’s one guy who follows me on his bike and tries to get me to sit in the shade. The shade can seem quite inviting, if not also a bit creepy, but I don’t think it would be proper for a young Muslim woman to sit in the shade alone with one of the farmers. People might talk.

The farm is just the most idyllic place you’ve ever seen. In every field there’s a little brown hut where there are wells to irrigate the crops, and usually, one or two farmers taking naps. It’s very seldom that I actually see anyone really working. They just sort of watch, although today I did see a woman weeding. Everyone rides bicycles out in the fields, and you may not see people if you go out there, but you’ll see bikes leaning against banana trees or in between rows of corn, so they’re probably all just sleeping in their huts.

Everyday, as I’m walking, I think to myself how beautiful and perfect everything out here is, and how it couldn’t possibly be more perfect. I get so caught up in watching the people and the plants and the animals that I forget about the mountains, because they’ve been at my back this whole time. Every single time, as I turn around to go home, I see them and think, ‘Oh yeah, there are mountains. Mountains make this more perfect.’ And then I get to look at them on my walk home.

Of course, I am romanticizing this whole cooperative farming thing. The people who I talk to out in the fields probably do work very hard, most of their teeth are rotting, and they look thirty years older than they probably are. All the same, there is something to be said for being a part of a real community.

The First Month

Today, September 1, 2008, marks the end of the first month of my stay in Indonesia. Although I’ve already realized that Indonesian time is approximately three times longer than American time, it’s still hard to believe that it’s only been a month, or three months for that matter. Regardless of what it feels like, it has, in fact, only been a month, and in honor of my first month, I’ll be noting some of my observations and sharing my favorite cultural breeches.

First of all, I would like to note that Indonesian culture is so amazingly conservative while being absolutely progressive at the same time. If only all religious communities could follow their example. All of the women in the pesantren wear a jilbab at all times outside of their rooms. This is, however, about the equivalent of Catholic school-girls having to wear ugly, plaid skirts at boarding school. Many Muslim women in Indonesia do not wear a veil at all, and many of the girls at this school wear them only while they’re boarding. It’s normal to see a Muslim woman wearing a veil in any sort of setting, but I know that if a woman is wearing a jilbab, it is because she chooses to. These women go to school, go to university, choose their own husbands, work if they want to, etc. They choose to live and enjoy their conservative lifestyle.

In regards to the veil itself, they come in all styles and colors. Some of them are so bejeweled they’re hard to look at. The girls at the school always color coordinate their veils with their outfits. The jilbab has, in every way, been incorporated into their sense of beauty. Whereas I think they kind of look goofy, they seem to think that everyone is more beautiful when they veil. Besides making a person more or less beautiful, they also have an amazing effect on the personality.

Amongst the teachers, it seems that everyone is so much older and more mature when they are covered. They are perfectly mannered, humble women, but as soon as we get behind the curtains in their rooms, and they can take off their veils, they’re instantly twenty years younger. They’re playful, loud, girly, vain, materialistic even. These are not bad things at all. I like them more when they have their veils off. They’re much more relaxed and carefree, but the contrast is stark. Perhaps we would all be a little better-behaved in public, if we could be totally ridiculous behind a blue curtain. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing; maybe it’s not.

In Jakarta this weekend, I remembered what it was like to get hit on by a guy that you’re absolutely not interested in, and I’m so glad that there aren’t men around to bother me here. It’s relaxing to only be around women all the time. There’s no cattiness (which may or may not have more to do with the communal culture), and I spend zero time in front of a mirror. ZERO. It’s a relief. Muslim women may be “restricted” by their clothing, but western women are restricted by the expectation to always have their hair and makeup done. I choose the veil. For now.

Probably my favorite thing about feminine life here in the pesantren is the period book. Muslim women do not go to mosque when they’re on their periods. Because the teachers are responsible for making sure the girls always go to mosque, each girl has a little book in which she keeps track of her dates. When she starts, she takes the book to a teacher, has it signed and then receives a little pin with a red rose on it. If the girl is wearing this pin, the teachers know that she doesn’t have to go to mosque. The dates and signatures are recorded so the girls can’t lie to get out of mosque. I think it’s kind of cute.

So now, I’ll share a couple of times when I made a complete ass of myself. The first time was just kind of cute. A couple of my students came to my room to ask me some questions about their English homework. I offered them a seat on one of my couches, and then, because there was no more room on the couch, I knelt down on the floor beside them. As soon as I did, they both jumped off the couch and on to the floor, making sure to duck down lower than I was. I knew immediately why, but they jumped so suddenly and started screaming the word ‘forbidden’ with such anguish that I almost fell over. I tried to explain to them that in American culture, lowering yourself to the height of another shows concern or care, but they insisted that I sit on another couch so we all wouldn’t have to sit on the floor. Of course, from the other couch I couldn’t see their homework, but at least I wasn’t shaming anyone by allowing a student to sit in a higher place.

The second time was less funny. As I’ve written before, I’m made to sit in on a lot of very important, very boring meetings, because I’m American. A couple days ago, my front room was being prepared for some super important person, which is the only reason I had any idea that this super important person was coming. I asked who it was, and the answer I received was, “someone very important.” Anyway, I was swept off to Ponorogo that morning by some of the women at the school. At the time I was wearing my most ragged pair of jeans, rainbows, a button up paisley shirt and some random pashmina that didn’t match my outfit. It shouldn’t have mattered because we were only going to the fruit market. I ended up sitting in the car for three hours, sweating through my clothes and probably smelling and looking like a street child.

Immediately upon my return to the pesantren, I was ushered directly into the meeting. I made the mistake of walking over in that direction, because I had to use the bathroom. Every other bathroom in the pesantren, besides mine, is a squat toilet. I tried to explain to someone that I could use one, but they insisted that I couldn’t, and walked me towards my room. To this very moment, I still have no idea where any of the toilets are in this whole village, because no one will tell me. So, knowing that I had to go to the bathroom, they walked me towards this very important meeting with the very important person that I was supposed to walk through to use my bathroom. Of course, that didn’t happen. Some women grabbed me, dragged me in and pointed me to a seat. They put yet another pile of gross snacks in front of me, and forced me to eat them. I realized how severely underdressed I was, which, in Java, is so bad. Everyone was wearing nice slacks, closed-toed shoes, their little Muslim hats. I was so embarrassed, and I felt so bad, because I didn’t want to embarrass my headmaster. Then, in the middle of some atrocious egg tart, I looked down and realized the middle button on my shirt was unbuttoned. You should have seen me trying to rebutton it without anyone noticing. I pulled the front part of my veil down over it, but I’m pretty sure it was really obvious.

At this point, I still didn’t know which person in the room was the super important person. After a bunch of super boring slides (yes, power-point, as if the story wasn’t bad enough) on goats and cows, the super important person left. I asked, yet again, who this person was, and found out it was the Minister of Poultry. I’m thinking that was a bad translation.

And now for the final story. It really isn’t funny at all. I think I brought shame to my whole community. I had to fly to Jakarta last Thursday to get my ID from immigration. The drive is about three hours, and the school’s driver took me again. About an hour into the trip, my veil fell off, which was fine, because I was in the back seat, and he’d seen me without my veil before when he picked me up on my first day. I figured it was ok, because we were well away from Coper and Ponorogo. Two hours later, at the airport, I was checking in, and the driver was standing around talking to a couple of guys. I didn’t think anything of it, because Indonesians are super friendly, and they’re always chatting with strangers. So a couple minutes later, the driver comes up to me and tells me that I need to put my veil back on, because those two gentleman are the headmaster and director from our school's other campus. Blah. I was so embarrassed. It’s nothing to see a woman without her veil on, if she never wears one, but if she does, seeing her without one is about the equivalent of being seen without a shirt on. And here I thought it would be safe to take off my veil if I was four hours away.

I'm pretty sure I am destined to shame my community for the next ten months.

Pesantren Life

After the last note, I thought it might be a good idea to devote an entry to the advantages of living in a pesantren in the middle of nowhere. After all, it’s not entirely bad. For one, I had developed some serious respiratory problems in Bandung, and as soon as I got to Coper, they all seemed to disappear. The air out here is clean and fresh. I also seem to have drawn the weather card, because it’s not very hot here at all. I’m very comfortable in long sleeves and pants and even my veil, except for maybe around noon. Everyone else seems to be dealing with super hot and humid weather, like I was expecting, but I think I might have to invest in a warm sweater or two when the rainy season comes.

Another advantage to being in a place where you’re bored all the time, is that everyone else is bored with you. This seems to be the best part of pesantren life. There are a ton of other teachers who are just about my age and live here also. We spend endless hours sitting around doing nothing. It’s the most boring fun ever. I don’t ever have to be alone if I don’t want. The girls have been really good about taking me out and keeping me busy, but I think it’s because they also want to be busy. I asked them if the days seem long to them too, and they said that it does, and it’s because they don’t work enough. Apparently, Indonesians wouldn’t be so lazy, if they actually had something to do. It’s not often that I see Indonesians working, but I think that requires further investigation. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about some of my new friends and what we’ve been doing.

Friday is the only day the students have off. I was supposed to go to Ponorogo in the morning, but for some reason or other, that didn’t happen. Instead, I got a knock on my door at 6:30 from a bunch of the Class 6 girls who wanted to talk to me. I was pretty irritated, but I hid it, because they had already been up for two and a half hours and were probably tired of waiting for me to get up. We sat in my front room for a little while, just talking, and they watched me eat my breakfast, and then we went for another walk to the farm. Walking to the farm is the only thing to do, so I’ll be walking to the farm a lot. Luckily, it’s beautiful. If I get more than two seconds to myself, I want to find a quiet spot and read a book by myself, and maybe even take off my veil, if no one’s around. So we walked to the farm, and then to the house of one of the girl’s aunts. She’s the local beautician, and she’s scary as hell, because Javanese makeup is way over the top. Think “Follow That Bird.” We sat in her living room, and I was forced to eat disgusting Javanese snacks, until we went outside and picked fruit. That was way better. Indonesians are way into gardening, which, for those who really know me, makes me extremely happy. We picked starfruit, water guavas (kind of like apples) and some brown things that were really good. She also had grapes, mangoes, papaya, guava and pomegranate, but they weren’t ripe.

As a side note, don’t ever come to Java, if you’re not ok with gaining some weight, at least initially. The Javanese insist on constantly giving their guests food. The food they serve at mealtime is great, but the snacks are gross, and it is EXTREMELY rude to turn anything down. You can’t believe some of the repulsive food I’ve had to choke down for the sake of custom. Bleh.

As a side note to my side note, I have a cook. I don’t know her real name, but I call her Ma Tam, and she is hilarious. She just yammers on and on to me and acts as if I understand. She’s probably not even speaking Bahasa Indonesian. She’s probably speaking Javanese or Madurese, but I guess it doesn’t make too much of a difference. Anyway, she cooks for the whole school, but she also cooks for me. Initially, she was serving me three meals a day in my front room. This isn’t such a bad thing, except that each meal was enough food to feed an entire Indonesian family. I was throwing away half the food, because I couldn’t eat all of it, but I didn’t want her to think I didn’t like it. Finally, I managed to explain to her in my broken bahasa that I didn’t need breakfast, because I only eat fruit, and that I didn’t need so much food. I’m pretty sure she started laughing hysterically about how she was going to fatten me up. No worries though. The meals have gotten smaller, and she only tried to serve me breakfast once, when she thought that fried fruit was a good idea. Today, I tried to bring my own dishes back to the kitchen (usually someone picks them up), but she yelled at me. Not really yelled, just scolded in some unknown language. So, yes. I have a cook, and I love her.

Anyway, after that trip, we went back to the pesantren, and I laid around with the teachers for the rest of the afternoon, until Budi decided to take me to Ponorogo on her vespa. By the way, I love Budi. She is the sweetest person I’ve ever met. She’s 24, but seems 34 when she has her veil on and 14 when it’s off. The ride was only about a half hour. We went shopping, cause I needed some more pesantren clothes, then we had nasi pecel and srabi solo. Afterwards, we walked around the city square. Because it’s August and Independence Day was on the 17th, there is a flower market and a lot of vendors. Budi immediately walked over to all the flower stands and told me the names of all the plants. A girl after my own heart.

The next day, the funniest thing happened, and when I say funny, I mean tragicially comic. At 5 o’clock in the morning, the school’s marching band marched right past my window. I think this happens every Saturday morning? I was in such a state of disbelief that I couldn’t even be irritated. Later that day, Nasya (another one of my new friends, I think she should marry Kieron) took me around Coper and a couple of the neighboring villages on her vespa. It’s apparently parade season, cause there were parades in every village and we saw them all.

Then this morning, the headmaster, Pak Us, as we call him, invited me to a seminar at a local pesantren. The seminar was something about providing poor kids with an education, but it didn’t really matter since I didn’t understand any of it. Then, one of his friends paraded me around her school like the freak of a buleh that I am. Anyone who wants to be famous should first visit Indonesia. Just being American means that you get asked ridiculous personal questions all the time, you have to eat a bunch of food you don’t like and sit with the important people in the comfy chairs at the front of the room, while strangers take pictures of you. Comfy chairs are fine, but sitting with important people sucks. I just wanted to sit with Budi. I’m also really tired of being asked for my phone number. Indonesians loves getting phone numbers and then sending you ridiculously meaningless text messages.

But anyway, after the seminar, Pak Us took us for sate and nasi gule. It was great. He’s the nicest, most distinguished man ever. He sits around smoking cloves, he wears his awesome Muslim hat, and I just want to take distinguished pictures of him in black and white. When we got back to Coper, he invited Budi and I to watch another parade from the roof of his house. It turned out to be a perfect viewing spot, and this time there was Reog, which is what Ponorogo is famous for.

Reog is CRAZY!!!!!! These guys hold giant 40-pound masks with their teeth and do crazy dances. I have pictures, cause I can’t explain it. Then there are these other mask dances, but the masks are much smaller and are shaped like crocodiles. I was told that there had to be something magical about Reog, because otherwise, the men wouldn’t be able to hold their masks, and I’m pretty sure, if it’s not magic, their chewing on some sort of indigenous herb. All the guys looked super drunk or high. When they did the crocodile dances, they’d get worked up into this frenzy, and they had the craziest look in their eyes. Some of them went out of control and started attacking people in the crowd. Then a bunch of guys would have to pin him down and rip his mask away. As soon as he lost his mask, he’d calm down. It was madness. Oh, and also, they were chewing on glass while they were dancing. All the while, I’m standing there with the headmaster and a bunch of teachers from an Islamic boarding school. Whenever one of them would go crazy they’d just chuckle to themselves then look at me and say, “mystic.” I expected them to be a little more disapproving, but that’s one of the cool things about Indonesian culture. Everything is layered. Somehow, they’ve managed not to lose any of their indigenous culture, while totally accepting and integrating imperialistic culture. You’re Javanese and Muslim? That’s fine. We’ll just incorporate a jilbab into this traditional Javanese costume.

I Survived an Earthquake!!!!!

The first day and a half in East Java has been pretty volatile. It all started at the Solo Airport. In order to save money, AMINEF had all the ETAs fly to their cities on the nice airline, and all the counterparts flew on the cheap and dangerous airlines. Way to go AMINEF. Besides being a completely insensitive move, it was also extremely inconvenient, because my counterpart’s flight wasn’t schedule to get into Solo until three and a half hours after mine. Factor in Jam Karet and you’re looking at about five hours.

Five hours at an airport may not seem like such a bad thing, but we’re talking about a small airport in Indonesia. It was basically a bathroom (with squat toilets) in between the runway and the street. No air conditioning, no chairs, no restaurants. But being the intelligent, world-traveler that I am, I knew that there was only one place to find refuge, so I found the nearest cab and had him take me to McDonald’s. Laugh if you want, but anyone who’s traveled knows that McDonald’s is always a safe bet. I was also super proud of myself, because I managed to get the driver to take me to the right place, come back to pick me up to take me back to the airport and negotiated the price – all in Bahasa. I also tried my hand at a little Indonesian small-talk, which is far different than American small-talk. They don’t talk about the weather. They skip straight to age, marital status, occupation, salary, number of children and religion. It is hardly small.

So anyway, I spent three hours at the McDonalds in Solo, eating, writing and reading. After another hour of waiting, Weny (my counterpart) arrived and the driver came to pick us up. We then had a four hour drive to Coper. Luckily, I slept most of the way.

We got to the school (Al-Mawaddah) at about 11:30. I was extremely exhausted, and already a little emotionally fragile. Then they showed me my room. I guess it’s not so bad, but it is much less than I expected. I have a pretty large bedroom, a tiny room about 4x4ft. that they consider a kitchen (though it lacks any kitchen appliances) and a bathroom. What made me cry myself to sleep was not the fact that I am both physically and culturally isolated, not the fact that I will not see my friends and family for ten months, but rather, the reality that I will be brushing my teeth over a hole in the ground for the next nine and a half months. Yes, indeed. Where there should be a sink, there is a small hole in the floor. The toilet doesn’t flush, I get all of my water out of a mandi, and worst of all, my bathroom floor will never EVER dry. I have a shower of sorts, but it’s just sort of attached to the wall. My sink is also my shower drain. Thus, it was the idea of having a perpetually wet bathroom floor that sent me into hysterics, strong enough that I forgot that I slept through my first earthquake.

Earthquake? Yes, we’ll get to that.

I was pleasantly awakened at 4:00am to the low murmurings of the morning azan. It’s actually quite pleasant if you forget that it wakes you up at 4. One of the girls at the school does the call to prayer, and she has a beautiful voice.

I managed to fall back to sleep and didn’t wake up until 8. I got up and wandered around until someone pointed me towards my counterpart. She stayed around just long enough to walk me over to the classroom campus on the other side of the village (about ¼ km. away), before hopping on a motorcycle to go to Bali for University exams. I can’t tell if she actually has exams or not, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.

Just before she left, she had someone set up the internet for me, but he was having trouble getting it started. He walked out of the room for just a minute and that was when I chose to burst into tears again for no apparent reason. Let me tell you, it is awesome to bawl your eyes out in front of a bunch of strangers in the place where you’ll be living for the next year. Luckily for me, Indonesians are great and within seconds there were eight of the sweetest women ever fawning over me like I was their daughter.

Since then, they haven’t left me alone for a second. In Indonesia, they think it’s really strange when anyone is alone for more than five seconds. They don’t even understand why I’d want my own room here, but it is helpful to be able to blame your random crying on missing your family, which, I guess isn’t a complete lie.

I have to ask myself why I keep doing this. Yes, I love traveling and having awesome stories to tell, but for some reason, I always forget how awful the first couple weeks are. Being so completely torn out of your comfort zone is the worst feeling in the world, and this is, by far, the worst it’s ever been. At times, I feel like I’m in a beautifully landscaped, Muslim prison.

But it’s not all bad. The food is great and the other teachers are angels. A couple of them took me on a walk around Coper, helped me unpack my stuff and insisted they refold everything for me, because I do a bad job and basically just hung out with me in my room for the rest of the day. They’re all so sweet. It was like hanging out at a middle school sleepover.

I also had a super awesome welcoming celebration today. I’ll post pictures, cause I can’t possibly begin to describe how it went down. Also, one of the teachers took my camera from me and offered to be my candid photographer. I’ve always wanted a candid photographer, so that worked out well. I can comment on how chatty these people are. All of them! And it’s totally acceptable. The school has a little color-guard, and they were doing this super intense little routine. The head guard person marched up to the stage to salute the headmaster to get the celebration started, but she just stood there for five minutes cause he was too busy chatting with me to notice what was going on. I felt bad, but I guess it’s no big deal. Later on, at a teacher meeting, he was talking and everyone was chatting away. He didn’t seem to mind.

I had to make a little speech too, but everyone was quiet for that. I think it was because they were trying hard to understand. We had a little Q&A session after my speech and in typical Indonesian form, I was asked to sing a song. The first thing that came to mind was “The Wizard and I,” so that’s what I sang. It occurred to me that it might be mildly inappropriate to sing a song about witchcraft at a Muslim boarding school, but it also occurred to me that they couldn’t understand.

After the ceremony, I went on a stroll around the village with some of the teachers, and I am so glad that I was put here. The village is tiny and beautiful and surrounding by farmland. Everyone who can, should visit me. It’s going to be so peaceful here.

So anyway, I spent the rest of the day with my new friends, and they are awesome. Probably the best part of the day was when we were sitting around my room, being all girly and giggly, when one of them asked, “did you feel the earthquake last night?” That was when I realized that, yes, I did feel the earthquake last night.

At I don’t know what time, I woke up cause my bed was shaking. Actually, it was more like it was swaying. It occurred to me that it might be an earthquake, and I was terrified. I then fell right back to sleep, and didn’t remember it at all until one of the girls asked. Do you have any idea how preoccupied your mind has to be in order to forget your first earthquake? My brain has got to be in some sort of state.

Fun Times at the Novotel

This morning, all 35 of the ETAs and their counterparts set out for their sites, and it was with much sorrow that we left the Novotel. I’ve been waiting until after we left to write about the crazy stuff that goes on in 4-star hotels in Indonesia. I wanted to write a note specifically on the Novotel, and I didn’t want to have to add anything later. So here it goes.

When you live at a hotel for twenty days, you are bound to become acquainted with some of the staff, like Ade, who makes my omelets in the morning, or Melody, the cute little waitress that Jonthon has a crush on. Not only did these people know our names, but they took us out to places like Club Violet and accompanied us to Beirut. Basically, they’re awesome.

During the second week of our stay, the staff of Novotel held their own Novotel Idol and invited us to watch and maybe even participate. As I’ve probably said before, Indonesians are amazing talented when it comes to music, so we were sure to be in attendance. We weren’t disappointed, and as is typical in singing competitions that are aided by karaoke equipment, there were lots of cheesy Asian music videos and a ton of bad choreography. There were also a couple of guys dressed as fairies with super tight, pink clothing. It was awesome.

We were encouraged to perform, and I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to say I had performed at Novotel Idol. That’s just too good of a story. So Chris and I put our names on the list to sing “A Whole New World.” Unfortunately for us, there was another couple, who started singing it right before us, so we chose “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.” I was pretty excited to get down with some classic Disney tunes, but then we had an ever better idea. We put together our very own Folk band with some of the other ETAs. Our group is just overflowing with musical talent, and basically I was the least talented person on stage. Kevin is our resident expert in folk and bluegrass, so he was our frontman and lead guitarist. Dan took care of the bass, Chris was on harmonica and Samson was on drums. I did back-up vocals, which I know is pretty lame, but none of the guys gave me crap about it, so I guess its ok.

We only planned to do one song called “Union Maid.” We expected to be greeted with polite applause, but instead the crowd went freaking wild. Indonesians love their hardcore music, and even though this was bluegrass, they started a mosh pit. A bunch of guys kept trying to jump on stage to take their picture with me, so they sent up this security guard in fatigues to stand by me and protect me. I am not making this up, nor am I exaggerating. Anyone who was there can attest to the madness. My microphone wasn’t even working, and I got to be a rock star. It was great. The crowd was so into it that we did a second song called “Roll In My Sweet Baby’s Arms.” That is now one of my favorite songs, but at the time I didn’t know it. So I just sort of made it up and botched it pretty badly, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. One guy jumped up on stage with me and the guard threw him back into the crowd. It was super fun.

We also had the pleasure of being at the Novotel for Indonesian Independence Day. Indonesians are super-patriotic and nationalistic so Independence Day is a pretty big deal. The hotel has a day of festivities and games, and we all received little rolled up invitations with red ribbons on them. It happened to be a free day, and I was woken up to the sound of super intense screaming. I thought someone was being executed, but instead, they were just doing potato sack races in the parking lot. I am telling you. Indonesians are crazy for their games.

I went downstairs to have breakfast, and was accosted by a bunch of the staff telling me that I had to participate in the eel and cracker races. I didn’t know what these were, but I was soon to find out.

Jonthon, Jambu and Kerry all took part in the eel races, which by the way, are freaking disgusting. They put a bunch of eels in a bucket of water, and then the person playing has to pick up an eel, race to the other side of the parking lot and put their eel into one of those big blue water cooler bottles. It was sick. I almost threw up at the thought of touching one of them. The host called me out from across the crowd to play, but there was no way I was touching an eel. Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.

I was asked to participate in a cracker-eating contest. Now this sounds relatively harmless, but I’m pretty sure they purposefully misled us into believing that it was harmless. Jambu and I were paired to compete with these two fat little Indo kids, who I’m sure are very used to eating these rice-crackers. Then they informed us that we had to eat the crackers without using our hands, from a string tied around the other person’s neck. Jambu’s cracker was hanging right in the middle of his chest, but being the conservative culture that they are, everyone started yelling at Jambu not to take advantage of me. Personally, I think that maybe they shouldn’t take advantage of clueless bulehs and force them to eat vomitous crackers from around each other’s necks. So anyway, to avoid any inappropriate cracker-eating, they tied my cracker rather tightly around my neck. (If you check out the pics that Chris tagged, that’s why it looks like Jambu is sucking on my neck.)

I was set to go first, and all was fine and dandy until I took a bite, and I realized, much to my dismay, that this seemingly harmless rice-cracker was in fact a rice-cracker that was doused and fried in freaking eel oil. I almost threw up, and I for sure couldn’t swallow the thing, so it sat in my mouth getting soggier and more disgusting by the second. Everyone was yelling at me to eat the rest of the cracker, that was still hanging around Jambu’s neck. I took another bite and the whole thing came off the string and was hanging out of my mouth. I was about to push it in with my hand, when the mother of one of the fat, little Indo kids started yelling that I couldn’t use my hands. So, in order to get it into my mouth, I used Jambu’s chest to push it the rest of the way in. I finally managed to get it down most of the way, at least to the point that they couldn’t tell it was still in my mouth, and it just hung out at the back of my throat.

Then Jambu started in on his cracker and as soon as it got in his mouth he dry-heaved, and I thought he was going to throw up on me. It was not fun, and I had the taste of eel in my mouth for the rest of the morning. Barf. I ended up spitting most of them into the Hibiscus. For some reason, it also looked like I gave Jambu a hickey, which doesn’t make sense since the cracker was nowhere near his neck. There are incriminating pictures on facebook. Don’t hate me Mei. I swear. I didn’t want to eat the disgusting eel-cracker off your boyfriend’s chest.

The next activity was equally ridiculous. There was a log set up across the pool for pillow fights. Looking at it, you got the idea that the two opponents were supposed to stand on the log and then whack the crap out of each other with pillows, but let me remind you that this is a collectivist culture that is very wary of shame. Ken was up first and made a big show of balancing on the log and pretending to fence with his pillow, but everyone laughed at him, because obviously you’re supposed to sit on the log. His opponent was this big Indonesian guy, and when they said “Go!” he started gently nudging Ken with his pillow. So they sat on the log and gently nudged each other until one of them fell off. No one got violent until they let Jonthon and Emmy go against each other. Jonthon started whacking Emmy, and as a result, I’m pretty sure everyone in the Novotel thinks Jon is a giant bully.

So that was Indo Independence Day. Those of you reading this who weren’t in attendance can probably never fully understand just how out of control these festivities were. Asians are crazy.