Adventures in Yogyakarta

The Virgin

2011-06-17T03:54:00.000-04:00

It's a new life, and a new blog to go along... don't worry, you can still access all the old favorites here, and there!

go ahead, click it for the very first time: http://virginjournal.wordpress.com

Pak Min's Chicken Soup from Klaten or Why Won't a Food Magazine Publish a 900-Word Essay about Chicken Neck and Donuts?!

2011-05-14T04:15:00.000-04:00

This blog is also available in an audio format! I couldn't upload it to this page (technology will always elude me), but I'll be happy to email the mp3 for your entertainment :)

***

I'm sick. So I've positioned myself at the Dunkin Donutsdirectly across from Sop Ayam Pak Min Klaten, or Mr. Min’s Chicken Soup from Klaten. Though chicken soup is a Jogjaspecialty, this just-out-of-town style has an unbelievably fast turnover; theyopen at 2pm and are often sold out, or habis of their delicious soup by around 8. Many a timeI’ve tried to buy Mr. Min’s Chicken Soup from Klaten only to be confronted withbig red-lettered ‘HABIS’ signs. My logic tonight is that since I'm not hungrynow, I will be able to watch the soup store while I use the internet and thenmake a mad dash across the street as close to the time of habis-ing as possible. Of course now that I am in DunkinDonuts I realize this strategy is flawed because surely I will only know if Mr.Min’s Chicken Soup from Klaten is going to be habis by the 'HABIS' sign that will eventually fill thefront window (does it have to be such a BIG sign? and two of them?). There isalso the conundrum of the donuts; eating a donut will delay the time at which Iwant to eat Mr. Min’s Chicken Soup from Klaten, thus placing me closer to theETH—estimated time of habis—andyet their multi-colored reflection in the nearing night-time window is sotempting.

I eventually decide that the time is nigh and (cleverlygetting a donut to go) rush over to Mr.Min only to realize that I was little prepared for the moment at hand. The menuis unreadable, and instead there are bunches of small plates with differentcategories of chicken in them—I have forgotten about this peculiarity of Mr.Min’s since Jogja style chicken soup is usually of one variety. In my haste toobtain the goods, I point to the two top bowls this and thisand, after an awkward moment where I realize I don’t have enough money and haveto fish around in my bag for change, am on my way back home, Chicken Soup fromKlaten by Min secured.

The first soup contains large chunks of a dark colored meatthat at a glance look like liver, but the consistency is not dense enough. Isettle for flavorful ‘dark meat’ but on reconsideration decide it may becongealed blood, if chickens have that much blood. Dessert by DD: Honey-glazedchocolate.

The next couple day are a bit of a blur; in between 104fevers, coughing up strange material and vomiting every last iota of pocarisweat out of my body, I manage to see a doctor (and see Die Hard—ain’t being sick great?!). On the first day of medsI’m finally in the land of the semi-lucid, and when my next-door neighboroffers me a donut from the local bakery ‘Kuki Donuts’, it’s enough to get me toleave my room, a veritable struggle. As I bite into the doughy goodness, Iunderstand why Indonesia has a Dunkin Donuts in every hospital—because when youhaven’t eaten for several days, what could be more delightful, more hopeful,than a frosted cloud of sweetness with sprinkles? All of a sudden there issweat pouring down my body and I realize (1) that it’s awkward to sit at atable with five other people and be visibly dampening your clothing and (2) myfever has broken.

The next day, I’m not sure that the anti-biotic isn’t makingme more ill, but in a different way. Again I’m unable to eat, but mostly becausemy body refuses to process anything in a normal fashion. Gross. At around 4pm,I’m starving and the memory of that divine donut is fading. I remember mygenius in buying two soups from Mr. Min from Klaten, and gleefully dump thecongealed refrigerator goo into a pot for reheating. While I’m stirring theessence of poultry, cilantro, and a yellowish lime, I try to identify the partsof chicken swimming around in my peppery broth. (A fun and absolutelycommonplace game for the American foreigner in Indonesia. Just the other day atlunch Nicole ordered something that seemed quite normal but showed up withsmall pieces of furry-looking translucent material covered in hot sauce. Ipopped one in my mouth. Intestine.) I closely examine the chunks until I concludethat this is a chicken head, split open with half an eyeball still visible ineach socket, and the sliced segments of chicken neck, commonly known as ‘crabfood’ in my homeland.

Though not usually slight of stomach, I’m hesitant to pushmy luck today, and toss the chicken head in a bag, half-eyeball still glaring.The neck turns out to be the most delicious part of the bird, a fact my motherknew long ago, but I have somehow overlooked until fate and Mr. Min intervened.After scraping the last bit of tenderness from gritty spine, I wonder why Ihaven’t caught more crabs in my life. This thought is quickly replaced by acalculation of how much energy it might take to walk the one block from myhouse to ‘Kuki Donuts’—it’s no Severna Park Donut Shack, or Gibson’s applefritter, but I swear there’s still magic in those sprinkles.

What we Mean

2011-04-11T01:09:00.000-04:00

After almost two years, I have quite ahandle on Indonesian, and recently have started taking Javanese lessons (whichis a whole different ball game, oh my god). But sometimes I think that even ifI were fluent, I would still have miscommunications and conversations where oneparty does not believe that we are actually speaking in Indonesian, like thisone last night at the pharmacy between me and the pharmacist:

[in Indonesian] Hi sir, I am looking for allergy medicine.I have very bad allergies, so bad that I wake up in the middle of the night andhave trouble breathing.

You have an allergy and can’t sleep?

Yes.

What allergy?

Everything, but mostly mold. Usually thereis no reaction on my skin, just a respiratory problem. In the states, I used totake Claritin.

Oh yes a respiratory problem, I see. Well,we have Claritin. [starts to turn around, but then hesitates and then grinssheepishly] Can I try in English? Maybe I understand better in English.

[In English] Sure, ok.

You have an allergy?

Yes.

Hmm. Ok.

And usually in the states I take Claritin.

Oh, I see. We have Claritin.

That’s terrific [retrieves Claritin].

I understand that this man probably had tostudy English at the pharmaceutical school and just wants to practice; butisn’t it cruel to make a sick person stand around longer while you repeat theexact same information?

Actually I would have thought the abovesituation endearing had my head not been threatening implosion. Much worse isthe situation where someone does not listen because they expect that a communication is not possible. So I don’t know the word for “to stall” inIndonesian, but if I tell you that when my bike stops moving, the engine dies,can you try and understand? No, I don’t know the word for pillow, but if youwait for 20 more seconds I can explain that it’s the thing upon which you restyour head when you are in your bed (NOW I know the word for pillow and Iwon’t forget it).

I try to look at it from the other person’sperspective. As a business owner, he/she probably wants each transaction to beclear and hassle-free. So in that sense I understand not wanting to bear withmy foreigner’s accent and patchy vocabulary.

Butplease, oh shopkeepers of the world, think about it—youonly have ONE difficult communication today: with me! But after I leave yourshop, I still have a day’s worth of possible mishaps. If you put a little bitof effort into our three minutes together, you can help a fellow human being(and you can sell an item, something that you never seem very eager to do).Just pick up the toothpaste and ask me, Isthis what you meant?

The glitch is obvious when there are two(or even three) languages to negotiate. But don’t we have to give a little bitof ourselves with every conversation, even in our native languages?

Recently, I read Chang Rae Lee’s Native Speaker, a truly terrific novelabout a Korean-American whose line of work forces him to keep secrets about hisidentity. The novel talks a lot about the immigrant experience, but I felt thatthe larger message was about how we all struggle to describe ourselves to ourloved ones.


Wondering what my strange Xmas present means

Language is inherently limiting; when webottle our emotions into the small packages of words, something is always lost.And so we struggle to understand our friends, our loved ones… what are thenuances in a statement of forgiveness? What was the exact moment thatfrustration turned to anger? When we care about someone, we try to reach acrossthe gap between spoken language and feeling and get closer to their inner pulse.

It is harder to make this same reach with astranger, though it is usually on a much smaller scale and with much lessemotional strain. Sometimes, of course, we do. The owner of the mechanic shopwas happy to stand with me while I talked around and around the machine’sidiosyncrasies until he could propose a solution. And I did, eventually, get mypillow; I just had to ask a different employee.

The U.S. is not a monolingual country,though some people would like to believe it so. I expect that living in a citywhen I get back, not all of my interactions will be in my native language withanother native English speaker. But there, mine will often be the defaultlanguage. And that time, it will be me reaching across the gap, over thecounter, and asking, Is this what youmeant?

I Hate Twiggy

2011-04-06T03:54:00.003-04:00

Remember cultural tip #6 from my textbook waaay back when I firststarted taking Indonesian lessons? No? I’ll remind you:

Cultural Note #6: “Commenting on somebody’s physicalappearances is somewhat customary in Indonesia, and not to mention as one of thebest ways to show warmth/friendliness. It is wise not to be upset if someonecomments on your body, like ‘Wow, you look fat/thin!’ In this circumstance, youcan respond by smiling or you can also tell a bit joke (about being fat), like‘Yeah, I can hardly find a T-shirt at the store!’

Ok. This is nothing new to me… when I was in India, my hostbrother (sorry Bharat but you know it’s true) used to say to me after a longweekend vacation, “Wow Britt you look so much fatter!” I usually did notrespond with a ‘bit joke’ but instead with, “Dude, you canNOT say that to anAmerican girl!”

Here I’ve tried to just let it roll off my back and for mostof the two years have barely given a second thought to comments about myfatness/thin-ness which usually do not correspond to my actual body weight atall. However, for some unknown reason, this month has been the month ofcommenting about how fat Britt is. An unprecedented number of Indonesians haverecently come up to me and said, “Waaaaaah tambah gemuk! [Wooooowwww you gotfatter!]” while grabbing some gelatinous segment of my body to demonstrate infact how much fat is there. Most popular method: extending the pointer fingerand thumb to ‘gauge’ my upper arm like wowwww look at all your arm mass! Thoseare my guns, son. Get up off.

It’s strange timing because I look pretty much EXACTLY thesame as I have all year, and if anything thinner than last year. And since Iknow it’s just a random comment on their part, I shouldn’t let it bother me.Except, come on people. Honestly, you KNOW that’s a rude thing to say to anAmerican woman. And #2, please remove your fingers from my belly fat. If I’mnot allowed to show my skin in public, you are certainly not allowed to pinchit for measurement purposes.

I keep thinking it will be nice to get back to a countrywhere I’m not an enormous obese giant (although they have a point: Whileshopping the other day, I picked up a pair of pants that went a little morethan halfway across my hips. They were labeled XXXXL). But then I remember allof the wack American beauty standards.

For example, how did we go from this standard of beauty...

...to this one...

...in less than 10 years?

And why haven’t we gotten bored of the Twiggy look? I guesswe added plastic breasts at some point, but the barely pubescent thinness is stillthere. At least in Indonesia, being fat is considered sort of a positive thing.To get fatter means you are happy and prosperous, stress-free, while a skinnyperson might be short on money, ill, or emotionally burdened.

So I guess I should take “You got so fat!” as a compliment.I just wish they would phrase it a little differently. Attention Indonesia: next time youwant to comment on my tambah gemukplease just say, “Wow you look so much more like Marilyn Monroe than Twiggy!”And don’t even think about jiggling my tummy rolls. Thank you.

Sinking in the Swamp, Drinking in a Bar

2011-04-04T09:49:00.000-04:00

You all know the titles of these blogs are just my way of amusing myself, right?

***
So this weekend I made a last minute decision to go with Nicole to Jakarta to visit our Obie friends Lindsay and Eric. We always have these grand plans of going clubbing when we get there, and this time we had a goal of epic proportions: STADIUM. Stadium is a nightclub in Jakarta that is apparently open for 4 straight days. As in you could enter after work on Thursday and literally not emerge until the following week. I've heard all kinds of insane (and illegal) things go on in this 5-story pulsating behemoth of a party, and one person even told us it's "not possible" to experience Stadium unless you are on drugs. The Lonely Planet forum on Stadium is hilarious, with gems like this:

Stadium was my 2nd home for about a year. Then I came to the realisation I needed to maintain my severely diminished seratonin levels. So I don't venture out kota way as often now.

We were willing to take the risk of not fully experiencing Stadium and mostly just wanted to see the mythic black hole of dance to make sure that it's for real.

But when Saturday night rolled around, what actually ended up happening was this:

Or a version of that. The above pic is actually from the time we were exiled to Jakarta because our local volcano was exploding. This weekend we just played Settlers of Catan all weekend, which is a significantly more nerdy game than SET that revolves around 'resource acquisition'. I have to say that we probably had more fun that we would have at Stadium. And the mystery remains... one of these days, I WILL go.

Other funny thing that happened in Jakarta: Amazingly, my cab from the airport had a customer complaint and suggestion sheet laying on the backseat which was translated into "English" for my convenience. This is what it looked like:

Why wasn't "kidnapped" on the list? "Threatened at gunpoint"? I mean, if blackmail makes the cut why not just go all the way. I also noticed that my most common complaint wasn't listed: "Proposed marriage by driver". Or even more common: "Took 3 hours to drive 5 kilometers." All though that one is not really the cabbie's fault I suppose.

Jakarta must be the only city in the world that has complete stand-still traffic going in AND out of the city. Traffic experts predict that the city will be completely gridlocked by 2014 and there are constant rumors that the government of Indonesia is going to move to Borneo. The real question is, will Stadium move to Borneo too?? And will people go all the way across the country for an epic clubbing experience? I better get there before the whole city disappears... if only there weren't so much damn traffic.

These are a Few of my Least Favorite Things

2011-03-26T05:40:00.001-04:00

Recently, I've been mooning over Jogja and indulging in some super pointless future-nostalgia ("I'm going to miss Indonesia so much blahblahblah"), so it was almost refreshing to have a series of super-frustrating things happen to me this week. It was time for a reality check. Hence the inspiration for the list:

Things I Will Not Miss About Indonesia

1. Being judged based on the color of my skin and the shape of my nose.
2. Being treated like an idiot or someone with no character just because I'm not fluent in Indonesian or Javanese; alternately having people give up on a communication before it's even begun because they are too lazy to engage in a non-fluent communication or assume that I don't speak Indonesian (even when I am speaking Indonesian in their face)
3. Consistently breathing air full of cigarette smoke (inside), artificial perfumes, or black fuel exhaust
4. Not having my own a) kitchen b) bathroom, especially sink and mirror c) living space
5. Covering my body all the time or feeling shame when I don't; always being conscious of the way I move my body in public
6. Pretending that I don't have sexuality or sexual needs or feeling shame when I do
7. Having the professional responsibility of someone twice my age
8. Lacking any socially acceptable outlet for drinking/partying/dancing
9. Never hearing western classical music
10. Being bit by insects INDOORS
11. All of my clothes molding and never getting properly cleaned
12. HELMET HAIR

Of course the "Things I Will Miss About Indonesia" is a longer and more important list, but it's nice to dwell for a minute on the imperfections. I've fallen in love with this place, and in many ways have become the infatuated lover that puts their partner on a pedestal. I could gush about the view of Jogja from my zippy motorbike seat, tell you how I adore the cool tingle of morning sun 350 days a year and imagine spending an interminable evening Jogja-style chatting and drinking ginger tea. But the feeling that I had for the first 15 months of being here--that this place judges me, hurts me, alienates me--shouldn't be forgotten.

When I can remember the flaws, both trivial and serious, I can learn to love Jogja more completely for what it really is. And in the meantime, I can get some seriously cheap spa treatments to compensate for all the other shit.

If I'm Dreaming, at Least it's a Funny Dream

2011-03-20T07:18:00.000-04:00

Even now, after almost two years, I'm not really sure if I'm awake or dreaming.

Things that happened to me this week that contribute to this feeling:

#1. I volunteered to speak at a children's school (already surreal; I NEVER interact with anyone under the age of 18) and after the kids screamed with delight through my entire presentation they tried to attack me. Why? All 30 of them wanted my autograph. I may as well have been Miley Cyrus or Justin Bieber for all the excitement I caused. Especially since they couldn't hear me explain that I wasn't famous because their hysterics were too loud. I had to pry them off me to get out the door of the classroom.

#2. I had a very small amount of alcohol on Friday night and was as good as dead all day Saturday, not even able to eat plain rice and gatorade without throwing up. Slept 15 hours. Absolutely unbelievable.

#3. After coming back to life on Saturday evening, but before eating, I ran out of gas (this is very common because my gas gauge doesn't work), and had to push my motorbike across a highway in the pouring rain. Some men assembled on the side of the road as spectators, so I asked them where the nearest gas was. Shrugs. Then, when I told them I was out of gas, they laughed at me. Obviously then I started crying and then they felt really bad (meanwhile, a car almost runs me over by backing into my bike. I have to slam on the horn to keep from being flattened). So what did these men do? One of them pushed my bike up out of the rain because I was too weak to do it myself and the other SIPHONED GAS FROM HIS OWN MOTORCYCLE into a water bottle and GAVE it to me and wouldn't let me pay him. It was probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done.

****
It was comforting to talk to one of my friends back in the US and confirm that life in general is bizarre and that dream-like (or nightmare-like) things happen just as easily in New York as in Jogja. It also reminded me of Takashi's wise words that we are never in control, only that sometimes we are more arrogant and think that we are in control once we're comfortable with a situation. When he said that, almost two years ago, we were comparing life in Indonesia to life in our native countries. But now, it also applies to my life here. I've gotten so comfortable here that I forget how damn crazy everything is, and then every now and then I get a funny little reminder.

That's it. No umbrella anecdote this week, just one point: life is weird. I think that's what makes it fun.

Oh and by the Way...

2011-03-16T10:45:00.000-04:00

THIS WAS THE PIE

The Next Best Thing to a Dance Party

2011-03-16T06:58:00.000-04:00

Despite the fact that we all work for the same organization, purportedly striving towards the same end-goal of Asian-American understanding, no Shansi fellow's experience is alike. Between the sites, the variance is amazing. One example is that the Shansi fellows in Taigu, China, have frequent drunken dance parties with their students, at their campus house. Not only does the formality at UGM absolutely rule this out, but I can't imagine many of my students drinking alcohol, much less drinking with me... at my house [shivers]. I'm all for some boundaries between teachers and students, but in a way I'm also very jealous that the Taigu fellows get to bond with their students and don't need to guard themselves as much as we do.

The lovely Novi in front of all my wonderful apple-peelers!

Looking for a compromise, I suggested to my superior that we ought to hold an American-style "Coffee House" for the students enrolled in my American Cultural Studies class. The students would get a chance to perform some American songs and poetry in an informal setting and participate in an event that resembles something we would have held at Oberlin (Baldwin Coffee Houses were always wonderful). Pak Aris, my boss, also suggested that since the department's guest house has a kitchen, that we cook American 'comfort food'... like apple pie. Free apple pie: an offer the students could not refuse.

After making attendence (and performance) required, I started to get excited. Hosting an event where the students do all the work is terrific, and I decided to just let the coffee house take shape as it went along. The students started filtering in around 6.30pm and were immediately set to work peeling the 8 kilos of Granny Smith apples. Soon enough they self segregated: girls in the kitchen, boys in what had now become the guitar and electronic equipment room. I almost intervened in the spirit of American equality, but when I saw Hendro with the apple peeler--he looked like a caveman discovering a coconut for the first time and trying to open it by hitting it with a stick--I decided it was all for the best.

Moodi and Hendro act out a love song

Nicole helped out by pouring her sweat and sanity into some gorgeous pie crust and it turned out absolutely delicious. While the baked goods were in the oven, the performances commenced with me as the charming MC. These students totally blew my mind... the first group performed Maya Angelou's "Phenomenal Woman" in beautiful spoken word and song, taking me totally by surprise. The other groups chose to go more contemporary, and I even had one performance of "Love the Way you Lie" with my student Dichy tearing it up as Eminem (she dropped the F bomb a couple times, necessarily... it was hilarious). Another group had choreography and props and had convinced two members to act out the love song by holding hands--the audience obviously loved this and was yelling and cat calling--and throwing roses into the audience.

This particular group of students is very close to my heart, because I've taught them since my first semester here at UGM. After so long, it's great to have a chance to interact with them outside of school, which is something that my Taigu co-fellows get to do all the time with their students. And while it was neither a typical Oberlin coffee house (there were no impromptu solos or overly shouting renditions of the Vagina Monologues) or a drunken dance party, it was just about the next best thing.

God Luck

2011-02-23T06:30:00.000-05:00

An hour before my weekly English Club yesterday (a class for adults that I teach at Alam Bahasa), the skies darkened and then opened into a long-overdue and violent monsoon season storm, completely with bolts of lightening and thunder galore. The god Thor smiled ironically at me as I threw on a jacket and rain poncho and headed out into the flash floods to Alam Bahasa.

Amazingly, many students were there on time; a great start to the club. Midway through, when the power went out, no one moved to leave. Instead we had a battery-operated lantern and candle-lit session. This week my theme was "Luck and Fortune." We talked about good and bad luck in different countries, played Jeopardy and then broke into discussion groups. My question: "Is luck or hard work more important for personal success?" I figure this was a controversial question and one that could spur fruitful discussion in any cultural context. Except I forgot to figure in one thing: God.

The discussion started off well, with most students arguing the side of hard work but a brave few trying 'luck'. One student though, refused the existence of luck, saying that all good fortune is preceded by some action. I offered the example of walking down the street and finding money on the ground as 'luck', but she disagreed. It also had to have been preceded by 'some action'. I was confused until she said, "And the most important thing is to pray."

Although Indonesia is a majority Muslim country, Jogja has several Catholic universities and a healthy Catholic population around Alam Bahasa. In this particular class, I also had two Catholic nuns join, though it was a different student who was insistent against the existence of luck.

Thinking on my feet, I chose to introduce 'fate' to the list of vocabulary: luck, fortune, fate. But honestly, the anti-luck student had stonewalled the activity. It reminded me of my Cross-Cultural Understanding class last year, when there were several conversations about sexuality and gender that just ended because God entered. And I've observed countless discussion circles at the graduate school (in the Cross-cultural and Religious Studies program, no less) come to a impasse because of a statement like, "But the Qur'an says..."

Many of the classes I teach depend on dialogue and creative, open-minded, student-driven discussions to flesh out the course material and to encourage conversational speaking in English. When God is put on the table, there can be no counter-argument without blaspheme, no continuation without offense. And so I ask myself a question that's been asked a thousand times before: is belief in God diametrically opposed to dialogue?

Over the 20 months that I've been living abroad, I've questioned my own relationship with God many times. Living amongst so many who are so religious, but also in many ways less fortunate than I is a strange paradigm. I can't help but think that some people are just "luckier" than others.

I'm still not entirely sure on what side I stand. I do, however, know one thing for sure: God is powerful. I have faced nearly every obstacle a teacher may face: reluctant/shy/hostile students, lack of class materials, technological disasters, monsoon rains and lightening, power outages, cultural disconnects... I could go on and on. And yet the only force that can consistently ruin my lesson plan and leave me searching for a way out is that one almighty force. Thanks, God.

Karaoke, Revolution, Black Magic

2011-02-21T05:42:00.001-05:00

At first glance I'll admit that the words 'karaoke', 'revolution', and 'black magic' don't really seem to have anything in common. But in Indonesia, anything is possible. Here's the story of my weekend.

Karaoke, like in many other Asian countries, is huge in Indonesia. Unlike in some other Asian countries and certainly unlike in the US, people here sing karaoke sober. Yep, stone cold. But we Americans always find ways around this and so a few Bintang beers augmented the already delightful rendered versions of songs by such classic artists like Billy Idol, the Backstreet Boys, and of course, Queen. Because really, what is a trip to a karaoke house without an entirely raucous belting of 'Bohemian Rhapsody'? Walk next door to find that the local Circle K now imports M&Ms (first time in Indonesia)... all is a success.

Fast forward to Saturday night: The crew has decided to go see a concertt being held at UGM. Iwan Fals, virtually unknown in the States, is an Indonesian legend who wrote incredibly potent protest songs during the regime of President Suharto in Indonesia. He was so critical of the government that some of his songs were banned and concerts frequently canceled during Suharto's presidency. For young Indonesians, he has become a symbol of revolutionary fervor and demand for government transparency.

Sri Sultan Hamengkubowono X in a flashy purple number

The anticipation was high, but in classic Indonesian style Iwan Fals himself did not actually come on stage until two hours after the concert began. First, an opening performance to the opening performance, some MC banter (MCs being an integral part of every event here), a speech by the Sultan (see pic) and finally the real opening performance: the Indonesian wind orchestra and the UGM students choir, featuring some of my students! The choir/orchestra set included some psuedo-film soundtrack music, some humorous Javanese numbers that I did not understand at all, and finally juuuust to keep the audience on their toes... Bohemian Rhapsody.

It's at moments like these, when I wish so desperately that I could insert my family and friends from the US into my life for just a minute. Because no matter how hard I try to describe the scene, the total effect is lost: 30-something students singing in the choir with a mic'd wind band and a very young, very skinny, VERY rocking out nasal alto boy singing the solo. Green laser show overtop all. Freddie Mecury done be proud.

The feature performance was well worth the wait, especially when Mr. Fals decided to take a break from the protest music to give a little love ballad. At this moment the laser show turned into two flying hearts that would fly towards each other and pucker into a kiss in the middle of the screen. Incredible. Only at one moment was I unsure that this was the best concert I've been to in Indonesia, and that was the moment that fervent Iwan Fals fans started yelling "Bring down the President!" from the rafters. Were we to have a revolution in the UGM concert hall? Ah someone's bark is worse than their bite... no revolution for now. Put your shirts back on, boys.

The sexy Iwan Fals and the not as sexy flying heart laser show

The night progressed into a multi-language game of Taboo, and finally wound down with some 24-hour Padang (west Sumatran) style food at a little diner up the road. To the background of the most melodramatic TV show I've ever seen (perhaps with the exception of Passions), the conversation turned to black magic. This is just the sort of thing that happens here. The best late-night chatter involves animals born to humans, being possessed and of course, walking corpses.

It seems that everyone has a story about dark powers, and our friend Ganda is from Tanah Toraja, one of the most saturated-with-spirits locales in all of Indonesia. In Toraja, there are elaborate funeral customs that require so much money that bodies are left unburied for weeks, months, and even years until the resources can be collected for the funeral. And that's only the beginning... I better stop before I give myself nightmares.

All in all, a pretty good weekend filled with unexpected twists and as usual, plenty of absurdity... It almost makes Oberlin seems boring.

*photo credits Geger!

Love Day in a Land of Laws

2011-02-17T05:18:00.001-05:00

Oh, Valentine's Day. Some of us hate it; some of us welcome the sparkles, sweets and sap as a breath of cheer in a long and dreary winter season. Many people choose to boycott the big V, considering it a totally commercial holiday celebrated only for the benefit of greeting card companies. But all in all, Valentine's Day is pretty innocuous. For me it usually passes with the over-consumption of homemade chocolates (thanks Dad) and a nice evening with friends/boyfriend/family depending on the year.

There are some parties in Indonesia who do not see the Day of Love as quite so innocent. Believing that celebration of Valentine's Day might lead to kissing (gasp) or even pre-marital sexual relations, the Islamic political party MUI has proclaimed V Day as haram, or forbidden. Some Muslim clerics also hold that since Valentine's Day is linked to St. Valentine, it is a Christian holiday, making it innappropriate for Muslims to celebrate.

On the 14th, an interactive section of the Jakarta Post printed letters from readers in response to this declaration. Some comments basically said, "Who cares what the MUI thinks? We also can think for ourselves," while some of the letters agreed completely that Valentine's Day is immoral and should be banned.

Strange that anyone cares, since my Indonesian friends and students informed me that almost no one celebrates Valentine's Day other than middle school students, and what opportunity do 13-year olds have to "engage in sexual relations" in Indonesia? Not much. Definitely less opportunity than 13-olds in the US, I'm guessing.

Then again, I did see several couples out having candlelit dinners on Monday (and wearing matching couples T-shirts), and my buddy told me that on Valentine's Day, the number of condoms sold at convenience stores shoots through the roof. I'm thinking, That's terrific! People are using condoms! But the MUI probably doesn't share my enthusiasm.

At least Indonesia's practice of religious tolerance prevents the federal police from taking drastic measures like in Malaysia, where under Islamic law, 100 couples were arrested for celebrating V Day. The Jakarta Globe article talks about the public campaign, "Mind the Valentine's Day Trap" set up to encourage people not to celebrate the holiday and engage in "vice activities."

Signs that say "Beware the Valentine's Day trap!" in Malaysia, courtesy Times of Pakistan

Doesn't the Malaysian special police have more important things to worry about than some red construction paper and chocolate-flavored smooches? But we aren't the only ones thinking that the show of force on a day meant to celebrate caring is ridiculous. As the human rights lawyer Malik Imtiaz Sarwar tweeted, "Happy V Day. Am so happy for a government that micro-manages my life and does all my thinking."

If I were the government, I'd be worried that my people would go eventually go brain-dead from not ever having to exercise decision-making skills. A country without creative thinkers = a country without entrepreneurs. That can't be good for Malaysia's 'Tiger Economy,' now can it?
All because of a little love.

Word Association Game

2011-02-15T02:33:00.000-05:00

Everyone's played some incarnation of the old word association game, where a word is thrown out by one person and the other has to say the first thing that comes to their mind:

Peanut butter! Jelly!

Winter! Hot Chocolate!

Infidelity! Tiger Woods!

Ok, so we all know the basic format of the game. Well, in Indonesia, things get a little topsy-turvy, since objects that we associate with one thing in the US often have other functions here. For example, toilet paper is rarely available in bathrooms, but often sits in plastic dispensers on top of restaurant tables, subbing for napkins. Still serving a 'wipe' function, I guess. A better one is chickens. In the US, I imagine the word association game going like this:

Chicken! Egg! or

Chicken! Farm!

But here, chickens are commonly seen tied together by the feet in bundles and hanging off motorbikes. Additionally, the phrase ayam kampus, or 'campus chicken' means a college-campus whore. Definitely a game-changer.

Chicken! Prostitution!

This same-object-different-function phenomenon has occured to me before, but after so many months, I start to forget that these things "don't belong" in the framework of my mind. So the other night when I was driving home and approached two enormous potted plants sitting in the middle of the road, I didn't quite know what to do.

Two potted plants, so large that they were almost trees, sat one in front of the other, completely obstructing the middle of the road. Riding a motorbike, I could go around, but for a car it would have been completely impassable. Upon closer examination, I realized that they were 'guarding' patches of wet cement. Turns out the potholes in the road were being fixed and they were fresh out of orange cones! Totally brilliant, if you ask me; there was no possibility of me driving over the fresh cement. But how mammoth potted greenery was easier to come by than a reflective piece of plastic, I'm still not sure. I am sure, however, that in the case of...

Potted Plants!

...I will now always think...

Asphalt!

Hopefully I can find a different association for 'chicken' as well. Indonesia is giving them a bad name.

Two Days Ago triumph

2011-02-07T20:17:00.002-05:00

I’ve been waiting to use this one for a long time. Today Ifigure, I have pink eye, swollen lymph nodes (still not sure why), and can’tsleep. It’s too cold to take a cold shower and there’s no gas to heat water… mymoment is here.

There’s no one on the road at 6am on a Sunday, and it’srelaxing to cruise along with little need for rear-view mirrors. I park,proceed into the Jogjakarta Plaza Hotel and down the stairs to the KiranaHealth Club—my gym. The attendant greets me with the usual: Selamat pagi! Good morning! Fitness? But before he can hand methe small-size sweat towel, I say, Sebetulnya, airnya kosku mati,jadi saya hanya mau mandi. Actually, thewater in my house is broken, so I just want to take a shower. Mutual laugh.These things happen.

And I stroll right on by the treadmills, weight room andscale, straight to a hot shower.

Eggers, etc.

2011-02-06T00:08:00.001-05:00

My body is under assault again. Evidently, no matter howmuch I like being back in Indonesia, my immune system disagrees. While I’mawake waiting for an appropriate hour to head to the pharmacy, I figure I mayas well crank these pink and puss-filled eyes open, and do some writing. Iwould rather wait for the sun to come up before heading to the pharmacy.

So. My pre-dawn insomnia offered me some extra time forreading, and the book of the week has been Dave Eggers’ Zeitoun, a biographical account of a Syrian-American’spersonal nightmare in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. It seemed almostserendipitous that I be awake, reading passages from the Qur’an (because Eggersincludes certain passages as the main character looks to faith to give himstrength) when the morning call to prayer began.

I’m not sure if I’ve described the morning call before, butit is one of the stranger sensations of living in a Muslim-majority country.The “call” is a musical recitation (through in Islam it is not consideredmusic) of verse, amplified from neighborhood mosques over a loudspeaker andquite literally calling people out of sleep and to the mosque for prayer-time.The first prayer happens after “first light” and before sun-up, which is around4.30am here. Throughout the day there are four more mandatory prayer times:mid-morning, noon, mid-afternoon (pre sunset) and after sun-down. All of thesetimes are based on the sun and so vary depending on where you are in the world.

(Incidentally, I asked one of the teachers in the office howthey knew what time to pray when they were in Oberlin, where there isn’t aproliferation of mosques. He told me that initially he was unsure, but realizedthat you can get the exact times for your location on the internet, along withthe weather. I love technology).

As my friend Anna described it after a trip to Turkey, thecall is the one thing that breaks through the day and gives you the shiversevery time. It’s beautiful, and never quite loses that exotic feeling of beingvery very far away from your native land.

In any case, it was during this pre-dawn dissonance—becausethere are several mosques in my neighborhood all reciting at slightly differentmoments, with different “melodies” in different keys—that I was reading aboutAbdulrahman Zeitoun, and thought that I would share an extended excerpt fromthe book.

During one of the more biographical chunks, Eggers relatesthe experience of Abdulrahman’s wife Kathy when she was first learning aboutIslam. She converted from Christianity before she and her husband ever met.

The excerpt is a bit long, but it’s crucial stuff. Eggers(or perhaps Zeitoun in her testimony) is spot-on in what he includes to bring anon-Muslim through the murky water of misconception to relate to this MuslimNew Orleans family. About Kathy,

“At first she was simply intrigued by the basic things shedidn’t know, and the many things she’d wrongly presumed. She had no idea, forinstance, that the Qur’an was filled with the same people as the Bible—Moses,Mary, Abraham, Pharaoh, even Jesus. She hadn’t known that Muslims consider theQur’an the fourth book of God to His messengers, after the Old Testaments, thePsalms, and the New Testament…

She was frustrated that she hadn’t known any of this, thatshe’d been blind to the faith of a billion or so people. How could she not knowthese things?

And Muhammad… She’d thought He was the actual god of Islam,the one whom Muslims worshipped. But he was simply the messenger who relatedthe word of God. An illiterate man, Muhammad was visited by the angel Gabriel (Jibrilin Arabic), who related to him the words ofGod. Muhammad became the conduit for these messages, and The Qur’an, then, wassimply the word of God in written form. Qur’an meant ‘Recitation.’ ”

The next part captures exactly what I’ve tried for months toarticulate about Indonesian (and Jogjakartan) Islam:

“She’d assumed that Muslims were a monolithic group, andthat all Muslims were made of the same devout and unbending stock. But shelearned that…there were the same variations in faith and commitment as therewere in any church. There were Muslims who treated their faith lightly, andthose who knew every word of the Qur’an and its companion guide to behavior,the Hadith.

There were Muslims who knew almost nothing about theirreligion, who worshiped a few times a year, and those who obeyed the strictestinterpretation of their faith. There were Muslim women who wore T-shirts andjeans and Muslim women who covered themselves head to toe. There were Muslimmen who modeled their lives on the life of the Prophet, and those who strayedand fell short.

There were passive Muslims, uncertain Muslims, borderlineagnostic Muslims, devout Muslims, and Muslims who twisted the words of theQur’an to suit their temporary desire and agendas. It was all very familiar,intrinsic to any faith.”*

This reminded me of an opinion piece printed in the New YorkTimes a few months ago that offered up this idea: the greatest variance ofideas does not come up between Muslims and non-Muslims, but within Islamitself.** I think if that were a more widely accepted notion—that moderates of any faith have more in common with each other than withfanatics of their own religion—there could be a lot more tolerance in theworld. Might be something to think about in a country built on the principle ofreligious freedom.

*[pg61-62 of Zeitounby Dave Eggers, McSweeny’s Book: San Fransico, 2009. Random House ed.]

**For a good contrasting book, I would recommend TheBookseller of Kabul. Arne Sierstad uses asimilarly intimate and engaging but no-frills journalistic prose to give anaccount of a family in Afghanistan. It’s unsettling, but is interesting as anexample of Islam on the other end of the spectrum from that depicted in Zeitoun.

The Perfect Day

2011-02-04T01:17:00.000-05:00


Gde and Geger being silly with chopsticks

Just like some days are “wrong side of the bed” days, someare destined to go down in the books under “absolutely wonderful things couldnot have been better” days.

Just to preface this account, I’d like to say that this wasmy first whole day back in Jogjakarta after almost six weeks of being gone. Sixweeks! Yes, taking a cold bucket shower after all those hot showers wasdifficult. Yes, my room was full of mold (all my fabrics are at the cleaner).Yes, my bike did not want to start. Yes the gas is out in the boarding housekitchen and no one is taking the responsibility to get a new tank (I did it last time,just for the record). And yes, my house is suffering from a massive plumbingmutiny because someone decided that their women’s-time-of-the-month itemsneeded to be flushed down the toilet. Come on, people, even I know better (soyes all three bathrooms downstairs are full of shit, like, literally).

Friend Dia's soon-to-be-dorm-style-hostel house!

So maybe it was springing off of yesterday’s milddisappointments that made today so wonderful. But I have a feeling that it waswritten in the sunshine. Today IT DID NOT RAIN. So wonderful was the not-rainthat after a delicious breakfast out on the town (see above note about no gas)with my dear friend Gde, I returned to the house and decided to get out theol’Honda.

Now Honda Supra Astreas, though marvelous specimens on theroad, do not take kindly to six-week abandonments, and Betty (yes, named afterJanuary Jones) is especially sassy towards me when I return from abroad. You thinkyou can just leave me in the garage, covered in dust for weeks and I’m justgonna START UP right away? Nuh-uh. So after a few failed kickstarts, mysensitive side told me that maybe Betty just needed a little love. Luckily,there is a lovely patch of pseudo grass and a water spicket just next to thehouse, and a cleverly stashed away sponge in my possession.

I must have looked like the equivalent of a cheerleaderbikini car wash, since I decided that shorts and a tank top were appropriatefor my front lawn. But actually my outfit was less strange than just the factthat I was washing my own bike. Queenie (my Taiwanese next-door neighbor whostudied at Oklahoma University, married a Jogjanese man), after squealing anddoing the regular, “How was your break?!?!” stuff, asked, “Why are you washingyour bike? You can do it around the corner for 2000!” This is the equivalent of22 cents USD. I had a good laugh at myself and a good defense: “It’s atime-honored American tradition to wash the car!”

And wouldn’t you know, a little love worked… Betty is back.

And this was only the beginning of my glorious, wonderful,very perfect day. I’ll compress it into a list:


The master chef and host, Astrid

PERFECT weather. I know I should pretend to not gloat about 83, dry, breezy and sunny with cotton-puff clouds to those of you buried under snow in the NE US, but it would ring false. So this is me gloating.
Chinese New Year! Or as they call it in Jogja: Imlek. Gong xi fa choi!! Gde, Geger and I went to our friend Astrid’s house and helped her (marginally) cook an amazing Chinese meal and then shared it with friends down the road.
What could be more beautiful than the late afternoon sky reflected in young rice paddies?
Visit to Geger’s “countryside” house and meeting his parents (obviously this means drinking tea and eating MORE).
Return to JAMU! the bitter herbal medicinal drink known to cure everything from hangovers to heartache and high cholesterol to boot. Keep posted for an in-depth blog coming up about my new favorite jamu joint.
No work tomorrow. ‘Nuff said.

Welcome back.

Note to Self (and Y'all)

2011-01-31T08:50:00.001-05:00

Didn't think this merited being expanded into a full blog post, but just wanted to get it out there for posterity:

Getting honked at as a pedestrian is not as fun as honking AT pedestrians, which is a lot more fun than you might imagine.

Muah haha.

Ode to an Airport

2011-01-29T00:13:00.000-05:00

Traveling can sometimes be a stressful experience: long lines, sore back from carrying your luggage and interminable delays. Most people don't really like being in airports, which is why budget flights (like the one I took to Asia) usually have absurdly long layovers or multiple stops in different countries. Asian airports, on the whole, are pretty terrible.

But the Singapore Changi Airport.... is probably the loveliest place on earth that uses recycled air. Seriously, I wouldn't mind having an overnight layover here because Changi Airport is nicer than most hotels I stay in. Changi airport is SO NICE that they have their own motto to describe your time here: "the Changi experience."

It's like a cornucopia of public services, with free internet, free massage chairs, incredibly clean bathrooms (I think I've mentioned this before) and even a swimming pool! The lines for security and immigration are orderly and speedy, so much so that I noticed no one was standing in aisle 5 at immigration today because the man had not replenished his supply of free candy! I went right ahead with no line (I did notice that he had a half-open drawer full of candy and that perhaps he was just being stingy by not replacing the stash. It was a little sad because the Changi airport immigration has the BEST free candy in the world!)

I would take a picture for your viewing pleasure, but I'm a little afraid to be carted off by airport security. If I were Changi airport, I wouldn't want spies from other countries coming to steal the secrets of satisfying travelers! You'll just have to come here yourself.

Now I'm off to peruse the full-stocked bookstore, sparkly candy shops and get on that free massage chair... and whatever else might constitute the "Changi experience"!

NYE Dropped the Ball

2011-01-26T11:17:00.001-05:00

me, Nesaru and Michele about to go out on the town

This NYE, as the kids are calling it (that's New Year's Eve for all you old folks or people who have been living in total isolation from pop culture for the past 18 months, ahem) was the first one that I spent on the streets of a major city. Well, other than the grand cosmopolitan metropolis of Annapolis, Maryland that is. I kind of always imagined my first big New Year's to be in the place where it's all happening: NYE in NYC. After all, it's a favorite American tradition to watch the Times Square ball drop to bring in the new year, unless by midnight we have already passed out on the couch watching re-runs of Homicide:Life on the Streets and drinking champagne out of the bottle.

You don't do that on New Year's Eve? Oh, yea... me neither. That would be like so lame, so lame.

Anyway, as this year was to be my big NYE party year, I wanted to dress the part. A disco ball mini-dress and neon pink wig were perfect for the occasion, and needed only to be supplemented with some Lady Gaga feathered fake eyelashes. But on the eve itself, I lost my nerve. Thinking it would be tacky to be dropping hot pink nylon strands in the lasagna while cooking at my friend Dan's, I decided to go with something a little more classy and less... shiny.

me and friend Dan in the metro, classin it up

But I was still fired up; as we pranced out of the metro down to the bay to watch the fireworks, I imagined noisemakers, crazy costumes, and everyone kissing. Imagine my surprise to find a polite little bunch of families dressed in their everyday jeans not even quietly sipping champagne. Sure, there was somewhat of a countdown, and a few 'Whoo hoo's were heard during the fireworks (mostly from my sister and Nesaru), but nothing like the barbaric New Year's yelps that we're used to in the States. There was an astounding lack of sparkly clothing, and almost zero drunkards yelling profane things for no particular reason. It was... classy.

I actually was joking about my disco ball dress with a Singaporean friend (who kindly agreed to be the DD since drinking and driving automatically results in jail time in Singapore, not just a little slap on the wrist DUI warning), and he could totally laugh about the tameness of it all. We decided in jest that had I worn my pink wig, I may well have started a revolution and next year everyone would don costumes.

But we won't know, because next year I'll be in the USA... kissing everyone in sight and yelling at the top of my lungs how wonderful this year is going to be. Or passed out on Anna's couch watching Homicide. In a pink wig and sequined dress.

American Girls

2011-01-24T02:33:00.000-05:00

So I just got back from a trip to Vietnam and Cambodia, the last leg of which I was "by myself" in Hanoi. Really when you are backpacking a worn path, you are never by yourself, but with hundreds of other disenchanted 18 to 35 year-olds looking to lose themself or find themself or something a little less or a little more cliché.

There are all kinds of people who, for one reason or another, take off from their land of residency and wander the southeast asian mainland. Some are on two-week holidays from university, while some people break up with their girlfriends, quit their jobs, and set out on the open road for months, even years, with no sign of turning back. Some people are trust-fund babies, with unlimited budgets, choosing to stay in backpacker's hostels for the romance and grit, and some have scrimped and saved for years to make this trip happen. A lot of stories start to sound the same, but actually it's just the way we have of paraphrasing the experience: "Yea I was just in [other southeast asian country]... been traveling for [x number of months]... looking for a job [usually teaching english in thailand]".

There are endless variations on a theme, and what it really comes down to is that people are out there because they are interested in seeing the world, no matter what their method of exploration, time frame or budget. That being said, it's impossible to avoid stereotypes when people from dozens of countries around the world (though usually Britain, mainland Europe, the US and Australia) are bumping elbows around the hostel breakfast table. It's easy to be surprised that people you meet are not representative of the national stereotype you imagined, and yet it makes perfect sense: one person never describes a whole nationality or group identity. Despite this most basic fact, the most frequent comment I get while traveling is something like, "If you are American, why are you so cool?"

At first, it seems like a compliment. It's nice to stand out in a group, especially when the stereotype of that group is generally negative: Americans are perceived as loud, disrespectful and arrogant in many countries. Even I've witnessed groups of American travelers who fit that exact description, but let's be honest... any large group can get pretty obnoxious, regardless of the color of their passport. Have you ever been to an art museum in Italy during Chinese tourist season?

After a while, I started to see this comment as kind of strange... the note of surprise in their voice, "But you are so nice for an American girl!" or "You're not stupid at all!" as if this fact contradicted certain forces of nature. A Vietnamese man even told me, "I thought you were half Vietnamese because you are so much less fat than other Americans!"

Now let's think about it. I would NEVER go up to a British person and say, "Wow you are so not arrogant and condescending!" or a French person and say, "It's great that you are not a wretched snob!" or to my new Australian friends: "I just don't understand why you're not drunk and obese!" So why do people say similar things to me?

It might be partly because the type of Americans who travel are willing to take it. The Bush years were a humiliating time to be abroad, and we couldn't help but make some apologies for our country, and by extension, our people. Further, those of us who are educated and interested in the world around us want to differentiate from the "dumb American"... and so we make fun of them too, and sort of count ourselves out.

For me, it's over. I AM AMERICAN. I am also smart and considerate, humble and strongly motivated to engage with the world. These things do not make me separate from the American identity, but in fact describe it! I am so so proud of my blue passport, and I absolutely will not apologize for it any more. There are stupid assholes of every ethnicity just as there are wonderfully brilliant people from every state in the world. There happen to be a lot of kind, creative and worldly people from the USA, so I suggest the world get to know them.

So the next time someone tells you that you aren't like an American, or as one very nice but confused Dutch boy told me, "You don't match my vision of American girls at all...", feel free to use my line:

"I am exactly an American girl. You just need to expand your vision, my friend."

Day...whatever the heck... 26?: NICE

2010-12-06T12:03:00.000-05:00

Ok, don't even remind me how many days this "30 day" adventure is taking. But I swear I will finish it!!!! Also I just miss the blog. The word of the day is NICE, because some people are nice and some people are not. This is not something unique to Javanese culture, but I thought I'd tell you some stories about the extremities of nice and not nice here.

Good or bad news first? How about good, then bad, then good. Ok.

When Merapi erupted (The big one), everyone was pretty freaked out. Not like running-through-the-streets screaming freaked out, but definitely I-feel-like-I-have-to-pee nervous. My first instinct was to get a train ticket outta town, and then to get close to people who I love. So after sailing through the ash to the train station with Jozi, we returned to Sekip and found that the head of the English department and faithful professor Pak Eddy had brought over bags and bags of food for us to take on our trip. Bananas, biscuits and pizza!! for the poor little shocked American girls. I was almost moved to tears, but instead grabbed a slice and kicked back. From there I went straight to packing and down to my friend Geger's house, where we passed the day in mutual solidarity until it was time to say goodbye to friends and for me to get on the train. My best buddy here Megan would be leaving to go back to the US before I woudl get back from Jakarta and it was an emotional farewell. The warmth and love were amazing... and I was so thankful to have such amazing friends.

But it's normal for your friends to be nice to you right? What about random people on the street? Well, have I ever told you about my mechanic? He might be the nicest person in Jogja if not the world. From the first time I had a problem with my bike and barely knew how to say 'bike', my already-graying but probably only about 35-year-old neighborhood mechanic was there with me, pointing and grunting our way through a communication. The guy chains smokes like no one I've ever seen before and usually wears the grimace that one wears when one is holding a cigarette in one's mouth without hands-on assistance, but I knew he loved me. Firstly, he did not try to rip me off, which is not even something I can say for mechanics in the US (in fact, his service fee is the equivalent of $1.10 as in one dollar and ten cents). Secondly, he treated me like a human being, not a foreign female. After this, and a damn good tune-up, he had my undying allegiance. Now, Pak Nur looks out for me and my total ignorance about my bike and is really concerned that I seek him out before I sell the bike so that I don't get ripped off. What a sweetie.

This is how I think of the Yogyanese norm: really nice. So imagine my surprise to learn that I am living with some very very NOT nice girls. In fact, I would go so far as to call them mean girls. Now, let me take a minute to say that not ALL of the girls in the kos are mean. In fact, I absolutely love the girls who I've gotten to know personally and am really happy to be around such great people when I get home from work. Truth be told, I thought everyone in the kos was nice, and assumed that they all liked me too.

But then one day, the fridge is cleaned out, and a semi-expensive bottle of wine that I had stored unobtrusively on the bottom shelf and wrapped in plastic so as to not offend Muslim eyes, is missing. I inquire as to who cleaned out the fridge and get the same answer from every single person: "I don't know WHO cleaned the fridge." Everyone.

I post a note on the fridge: "Dear friends: whoever cleaned out the fridge, please help me! I had a bottle of wine and I'm very confused that now it is missing. Please come talk to me in the room next door. Thanks! Brittany." No response. Finally I ask my friend across the hall what is going on. I'm worried that someone doesn't like me and is trying to harm me deliberately. Well, after all this time, I've finally interpreted a Javanese interaction correctly: I'm informed that this kos has a tradition of... 'cattiness', to use the English idiom. That is, if someone has a problem, they will not confront the person but instead gossip and then start stealing their stuff. Yes, stealing.

One story was pretty harmless; some sandals were stolen and the girl learned to say 'hello' more often. One story was terrifying; a girl's computer, clothing (how low!) and shoes were stolen and eventually she was harassed out of the kos, partly for a conflict with another girl's boyfriend. Keep in mind that boys are not even allowed to enter the building officially.

"So what do I do?" I ask
The answer: "Be even nicer. And stop asking about your wine. You're not going to get it back, and it's just going to make people more angry." As if I had done something wrong in this situation.

But here's the thing: I probably DID do something wrong. Probably at some point, I parked my bike in the wrong place, or left my umbrella in someone's way, or hung my clothing up to dry in someone's spot or whatever. But I'm in a foreign culture, and if no one is going to let me know that I'm screwing up, there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. There's only so far that observing and guessing can get you. And what baffles me is that someone's solution to this problem is to take my things and try and intimidate me out of the house.

From the first day that I moved in, I've tried to be nice. I was genuinely enthusiastic to move to this house, and immediately introduced myself to everyone and always said 'hi' when I came home. I tried to figure out all of the house rules, official and unofficial, asking when necessary, and respect the status quo. I baked cookies, and a cake and put a sign on it for the girls to share. Never once have I been invited to any of the many parties held downstairs or even the informal chatting sessions in which everyone else in the house is included. When Merapi erupted, everyone woke each other up... but no one knocked on my door. A few days ago, my iPod disappeared from it's normal station on my desk.

I can't help but feel really disappointed, and hurt. And I try to imagine... if the tables were turned, and there were one foreigner in my dorm, alone and far away from her homeland, family and friends, would I treat her like this? I mean obviously I would never steal from anyone, much less a totally harmless and sweet violinist. But wouldn't I reach out to someone obviously struggling in a foreign country? I hope I would, but I'm not sure that I have. I honestly can't remember. But let me tell you I will NEVER forget what this feels like. It's just not nice. Not nice at all.

Day 25: PRESIDENT

2010-11-09T10:16:00.000-05:00

Today President Obama is in Jakarta. And the big question is... WILL HE EAT THE BAKSO?

I heard from a friend in the US that everyone is wondering if he will eat the flour-and mystery meat testicle-sized balls that he claimed as his favorite food (Usually these balls are sold from street vendors who cart them around in the heat all day. Several years ago there was a scandal when it was discovered that many vendors were using formaldehyde to keep them looking 'fresh').

I'm betting that 'bakso' was the only Indonesian food that the president could remember, and then he immediately regretted not picking another food. At this moment, he is on TV live testifying that the bakso and nasi goreng was semuanya enak (everything was delicious).

On a slightly more serious note, Obama's full schedule of speeches tomorrow has been shortened. According to Foreign Policy's morning brief, they want to get the president in the air as soon as possible since Merapi is so 'unpredictable'. Translation: the American vulcanologists know something and they are hiding the information. It gives me the shivers.

Honestly, Obama needs to get out of here not because Merapi is going to blow ash up his propellers but because he is practically fainting with exhaustion at Indonesian president SBY's banquet table. I'm afraid that the one glass of champagne is going to do him in. I'm glad that our president is here, but sad that he looks so gaunt and so gray. Get on your private plane, Mr. President, and get some rest.

Day 24: EVACUATION

2010-11-08T05:50:00.000-05:00

Ok, once again, I know that 'evacuation' is not a basic or useful English word. I also know that I haven't written for days. I felt a little strange keeping up this chipper and usually sardonic blog in this time of distress. Let me catch you up to date:

On Friday morning at around 1am, Merapi exploded again; in fact it has been exploding non-stop since it started almost 2 weeks ago, but the Friday explosion was teh most violent that Jogja area has seen in a century. Ash covered the city, more dramatically than the previous weekend, blanketing our bodies, bikes, books and unfortunately, lungs. And what I'd been expecting and waiting for finally happened: the Javanese people panicked.

It's hard to explain why Javanese people panicking is so scary. One reason is because Jogja culture is SO relaxed that there is rarely a reason for people to get worked up about anything. The status quo is to remain chill in the face of danger. Secondly, in Java people tend to shy away from 'seriousness'; in public, it's better to laugh off sad stories and remain stoic than put everyone in a bad mod. Emotions are private things, not to be aired like dirty laundry. In fact, unless among very close friends (and sometimes even then), a strong display of any emotion is bizarre. Basically it's like the 1950s.

But by far the most terrifying thing about the locals' state of unease is the history of Merapi itself: Never in the lives of any living residents of Jogja has the city been coated in ash. No one, even the top Indonesian and American vulcanologists, who are spending millions of dollars and have been studying this volcano for decades has any idea what is going to happen. "It's not done," is the official word. I know there's more information, but when are they going to tell us?

So I've been evacuated from Jogja. When I left, my kos was practically empty, with girls from as far away as Southern Sumatera jumping on 2-day buses to get out of town. The airports are closed, so any trips were made by land, ours by train. A lot of my friends, however, stayed. Jogja is their home, and so far there hasn't been any actual danger in the city. There's no way I could have stayed in my room, with the amount of ash there, but I hate being away from Jogja at this time.

Everything is uncertain, nothing is safe, and I feel perpetually on the edge of an emotional precipice. And I've been evacuated to a beautiful home of a friend in the nicest neighborhood in Jakarta, with hot showers and AC. Thousands of people are in all sorts of makeshift camps in the city (my university is serving as a refugee camp right now), many not knowing what is to become of their home. I don't know what to do. All I can think about is how helpless we are in the face of nature. All we can do is run.

Day 23: PICTURES

2010-11-02T07:56:00.000-04:00

You guys gave me a free one, you know.

The rooftops are usually bright red tile. Merapi is due ahead in this photo.

Day 22: MEET

2010-11-01T12:00:00.001-04:00

*pictures of crappy ash to come. but first...

@Anne

I like to start out my cross-cultural understanding classes with a little trick I learned from Emma (who may have learned from Maya from Guy from Nat from Kate...). "When you meet someone," I say to the wide-eyed and duly suspicious group of newbies, "how do you shake his/her hand?" The greeting is a terrific example of a cultural convention (I hear in Japan you bow and some Indians namaste with folded hands and South Americans kiss on both cheeks and Italian men just make out with you immediately), and the Javanese handshake is especially hilarious in comparison with the American handshake.

"How do you shake their hand?" I ask, and then proceed to the first willing student in the front row to mimic a Javanese handshake. We hunch our shoulders in a deferential half-bow; right hand extends and with a simultaneous (and also deferential) head-bob, we touch hands in the epitome of a limp fish handshake. At the exact moment of contact, both people say their names very softly and simultaneously: "Lu-ad-na-i" so that it is totally impossible to learn the other's name. After a handshake, you retract the right hand to touch your heart, if you are Muslim, or the other person is Muslim. (Since there is no way to tell if someone is Muslim unless they are wearing Muslim clothing, I usually touch my heart and then the other person doesn't, indicating they are Catholic/Christian/Buddhist/Taoist/a foreigner/confused).

In the classroom, this is the cue for the students to laugh. A foreigner impersonating a Javanese person is the funniest thing that can possibly happen. Then, for the real punch line, I find a less willing student to engage in an arm shaking mega-grip American howdy-do. The class erupts in more laughter. I'm a comedic genius.

**
The word "met" in Indonesian is used both for the first time you meet someone and... every subsequent time. This leads to some intense miscommunications between the foreigner and Indonesians.

Indo: I met Stefanie on the street!
Foreigner: You've never met Stefanie before? I thought I introduced the two of you!
Indo: No, I met her today.
Foreigner: I'm confused by this interaction.

Subsequently, once said foreigner adjusts, it leads to some intense miscommunications with people at home:

Friend at home: Yes, I'm planning to finally meet Andrew Arceci!
Foreigner: That's great that you guys are going to hang out. You guys are really good friends.
Friend at home: No we're not. I've never met him before.
Foreigner: I'm confused by this interaction.

Additional note: when you 'meet' someone, be it for the first time, or one of many subsequent times, the 'meeting' will usually last much longer than you expect/desire. More on this later.

Day 21: ESCAPE

2010-10-31T10:22:00.000-04:00

@Michele

There once was a mountain Merapi
The locals, they called fire, 'api'
And when it exploded
The news, it was loaded
With rumors and reporting crappy.

We knew we were safe in the city
But the mountainers--oh what a pity!
Their houses are rubble
Because of the bubble
Of magma and pyroclasts--shitty!

It wasn't till late we would gain
The forecast of some sort of rain
For after the gases
The sky pours down ashes
In your eyes and your lungs it will pain.

While our city was blanketed thus
In corrosive and horrible dust
We made our escape
To a gorgeous seascape
Ayo! Ngandong or Bust!

Day 20: SNOW

2010-10-30T00:24:00.001-04:00

How could I have known that 20 minutes after I fell into a deep sleep last night, Merapi decided to make its biggest statement? If I had stayed awake, I might have heard the boom, might have seen ash raining down over the city, and very well might have had a panic attack. Instead I--without reason--closed my curtain for the first time since I moved to the boarding house, and fell asleep.

Sipping my tea this morning and reading a book as always, I felt no need to rush into the world, until my kost-mate Petty arrived home and said, "Brittany have you been outside? It's like white Christmas!" Tea down. Book dropped. Curtain thrown aside to my street, but not my street; more like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.

Snow is white, but ash is gray.

Day 19: NEWS

2010-10-28T03:17:00.001-04:00

It's become apparent that I really couldn't live in a more disaster-prone area. Today the news stories were, "30 victims of Merapi buried", "311 victims in Mentawai tsunami" and "Police airplane crashed, killing five". The police airplane by the way was on the way back from bringing aid to the still flood-ravaged area in Papua. Also there is major flooding in Jakarta.

Obviously there's nothing that can be done about natural disasters... the Earth has a mind of its own. However, the following things happened that exacerbated each of these situations:

1. People living at the foot of Merapi were ordered to evacuate. Many did, but then decided they would just go home. They were not stopped from doing so.

2. After the earthquake in Mentawai, a tsunami warning was issued. Then a few hours later it was repealed: as in, the area was given the all-safe sign. The next day a 7-meter wave decimated the area. Turns out the tsunami detector in the ocean was "broken."

3. There is a pipeline to channel floodwaters out of Jakarta and into the ocean so that people aren't wading around knee or waist-deep in filthy water, BUT the pipe keeps getting clogged with trash, stopping the flow of water. Also it is not nearly wide enough because the government couldn't figure out a way to work with the communities living in the area to make enough space for the pipeline.

Arggghh I want to tear out my hair.

And in the midst of all the chaos, the news is portraying these events as if they are the daily drama. Sappy music plays in the background (once I saw a news feature about poverty that was accompanied by "Swan Lake"... can it get more blatantly manipulative?), and footage of CORPSES is freely shown. The Merapi story featured footage of people dying in the hospital, and the bloody white-sheet wrapped corpses of the ash victims being interred (Muslims cannot be buried in coffins unless the coffin is broken because their body is supposed to be in "earth"). I can't help but find that tasteless reporting in a tragic situation.

Sorry this is not a clever nor well-written post, but a frustrated one.

Day 18: VOLCANO

2010-10-27T00:06:00.001-04:00

Ok, originally I wasn't going to do 'volcano' since it is neither a basic word in English, nor a word that you use every day in the U.S. But it's just too important this week.

Merapi, the volcano that presides over my city, which I can see from my office window, which I climbed a year and a half ago (with mixed result)... is "exploding". This doesn't mean a whole lot to us here in Jogja, fortunately. For example last night there was an explosion that spewed ash a mile into the air and we did not feel or hear a thing, neither was there dust in the city.

We're only about 20 miles away, but it seems to be far enough to be completely not affected by the most active and dangerous volcano in the world. In fact, last night I baked cookies. (In the face of death and destruction, the best course of action is always to bake cookies. On September 11th, what did we do at my house in Arnold? We baked cookies. Remember, guys?)

Anyway, the latest BBC article says that 13,000 more people need to be evacuated from the area, as the explosions continue. Unfortunately this probably isn't going to happen. Firstly, it's not really practical to get 13,000 people off of a mountainside with few roads in a few hours. Secondly, there's Bah Marijen.

Who??

Ok people, dig out your 2007/08 copy of National Geographic withMerapi on the cover. Now flip open to the interview with the wizenedman who lives on the mountain side and claims to 'know' the volcano.This spiritual man, who is described by many as the 'gatekeeper' ofMerapi, does not descend when the volcano erupts unless he's sure thatit's dangerous. So last time, in 2006, he stayed on the mountainsideand miraculously survived. The problem is that many people follow hislead and don't come down until he gives it up.

BBC hasreported that Mbah Marijan was among the first victims and found amongthe dead yesterday. If it's true, the small amount of superstition inme is scared shitless--it's a bad sign. However, maybe it will encourage more people to evacuate. If the mountain can get Mbah Marijan, it's serious this time.

Day 17: FOOD

2010-10-26T06:07:00.000-04:00

@Sandhya

Anyone who knows me might well surmise that this post is going to be long, based on my love of said word-of-the-day. But actually there's not a whole lot to say. Because while Javanese food is delicious (when prepared well), there's not a lot of variety. Ok natives of Java, before you censure me for cuisine libel, let me state my case:

The spices mainly consist of garlic, shallot, sugar, and most importantly chilis and MSG. Sometimes a chef will go crazy and use coconut milk and lemongrass, but mostly only when trying to imitate another country's food. Peanut sauce is also very popular, which is a combination of peanuts, lots of sugar, chilis and MSG.

Also, everything is fried. When I first got here, I thought I was beingreally clever by ordering my meals 'grilled', but it turns out thatgrilled items are just deep fried before being coated with sugar/MSGsauce. I've heard that when Shansi fellows get back to the US, their hair starts falling out because of oil withdraw. Yum.

I'm actually surprised, given the very limited amount of actual flavors here, how much I still like Javanese food. And I know that I'll miss it when I leave, since there's no abundance of Indonesian restaurants in the U.S.

Beach meal: fried tempe at top left

The most fantastic thing about Central Java is the tempe. STOP! Do NOT think of the refrigerated shrink-wrapped tasteless bundle of soy crap only available at your local health food store. No matter what those hippies say, we all know it tastes like rained-on cardboard. The tempe here is a whole different animal, as it well should be, since Java is it's place of origin.

Tempe is made by splitting, soaking, and pressing fermented soy beans. Unlike tofu, the beans remain halved, giving the final product a nutty and crunchy texture. But the real secret to tempe's deliciousness is in the funk: After the soy is harvested, little Javanese grandmothers jump into large bins of the stuff and stomp, I-Love-Lucy style on the beans. Then a special fungus is added, and the soy mixture is pressed and wrapped in banana leaves. The fermentation process is rapid; the tropical climate practically does it instantly.

I know you won't believe me, but it is the combination of old lady foot juice and mold that makes tempe absolutely divine. It is also why you should NEVER EVER eat tempe unless fully cooked. Mmmm.

Day 16: GUITAR

2010-10-25T11:14:00.000-04:00

In the US, when mentally distressed, I used to frequent bookshops and libraries, reading back blurbs, running fingers over spines of titles I will probably never read. Something about the variation within repetition was like quiet water music to me. Not to mention that I love reading.

Here, there aren't very many bookstores, and there aren't any English language bookstores and the library is also not very appealing, but there ARE a lot of guitar stores. Masquerading as all-purpose music stores, these shops are a one-stop wonderland for every crooning black-heart romantic in town. That's like every single boy at UGM, and me.

In an uneasy emotional state, tonight I headed to my favorite guitar shop with the urgency that a 'Djarum Black' smoker seeks out his next clove (YES they sell those here, this is the original land of the cloves, people). Usually I use the hit-and-run method with this shop: go in, buy the cheapest guitar strings and leave before the other customers, exclusively of the opposite sex, can start hitting on me by asking me banal questions like, "So are you a student here?"

Tonight though, I was the only one in the shop, so after I checked out the selection on violin strings (one choice? ok i'll take that one!), I spent a few minutes courting the Indonesian-made guitars with an attendant nervously looking on, perhaps afraid that my extra X chromosome was going to make me drop the guitar and, domino-effect, ruin his entire display. I tried a few, all Spanish-style, and made in West Java. The salesboy decided that he should continue to supervise and we took the opportunity to have pleasant conversation: "So are you a student here?" Things were going well.

And then... I fell in love.

She has the sweetest sound, and her varnish is the color of honey. A junior, nylon-string, she fits perfectly in my arms. I think she's looking for more of a commitment than I am, and is stubborn about tuning, but it just might work. I have to have her. Also, she's 25% off.

Day 15: FRIEND

2010-10-24T12:26:00.000-04:00

One of the hardest things about moving to a new city, especially after the peer-dense experience of college, is making new friends. Being unfamiliar with social norms and unable to communicate in the host language can complicated this process. At a certain point last year, I was totally convinced that I was never going to make any Indonesian friends. I felt hopeless. I must be the luckiest girl in the world, because believe it or not, Jogja has concluded that I am not a leper nor freak and instead of being forever banished from social circles, instead I've found some of the most amazing friends anyone could ask for.

In this process, it's been important for me to keep in mind that my friendships here, while just as important and real as my friendships at home do not resemble what I think of as a close friendship in the US, simply because the social norms and, yes, social taboos, are totally different in Jogja than they are in Oberlin (the social norms and taboos in Oberlin are probably pretty different from any other city in the world, but that's beside the point).

A Manual for those attempting to making friends in Jogja:

Phase 1: The Opportunist Poser Friend

At first you will think that you have lots of friends. People who you meet will immediately demand four forms of contact and speak enthusiastically about 'hanging out' and 'talking in English... oh of course also in Indonesian!' During this period, your phonebook will become full, and you will feel optimistic, perhaps even a little over-confident about your friend-making prospects. Unfortunately these people will not contact you for social reasons, but instead ignore you for months and then eventually ask you to edit their undergraduate thesis or teach their little brother English.

Phase 2: Making Real Connections

No, a real friend will at first seem aloof, not overly eager. They will either acquire your phone number through a mutual friend, or you will exchange numbers but not use them for several weeks while testing the waters at group gatherings. This time might feel discouraging because you have met interesting people, who don't seem very interested in you.

Phase 3: Making More Real Connections

Eventually those people from phase two will contact you, or you'll get up the balls to contact them. A few preliminary meetings at coffee shops confirm the friend chemistry and meet mutual friends. You make more connections. Soon you have a social 'circle'. Your depression lifts and you start to have hope for the future.

Phase 4: The Attack and Retreat

Your friends who initially seemed apathetic about your relationship are now a little too enthusiastic. You receive 5 phone calls in one day from the same person. Your text message inbox is blinking when you wake up at 8am, and occasionally someone shows up at your door without notice. Friends start to give you gifts on what you consider random occasions, such as before or after taking a small trip or after not seeing you for a few weeks. When you compliment your friends' jewelry/clothing/bag/anything, they immediately remove that article (if decent to do so) and try to give it to you. This makes you uncomfortable. You freak out, crave your American privacy and feel dejected. This just isn't going to work out.

Phase 5: The Real Deal

In this phase, you conclude that approaching your friends about their excessive texting habits is worth the awkwardness. These are really awesome people we're talking about. You use humor and let them know that Americans are sterile asocial robots who can't handle excessive interpersonal contact, but that you still value and enjoy their friendship... as long as phone calls take place on an after 9.30am and not more than once a day basis.

You have real friends. And these friends are willing to overlook the fact that you speak like an impaired 5-year old and you constantly make offensive remarks unknowingly. They don't care that you only have four pairs of shoes in your traveler's wardrobe and that you will never really understand how to dress appropriately for formal functions. Instead, they are patient while you learn the ropes, and forgiving when you make huge social faux pas. These friends help you learn slang Bahasa, take you to their favorite hideaways and when you are sick, they bring you food and juice and never think that it's an inconvenience to them. Because your friends here are genuinely kind and generous, in a selfless way that is treasured for its rarity in your home country. Perhaps they still text you slightly more than you could deal with at home, but you know that if you ever needed a friend, they would drop all plans and be there for you.

And actually now you really like texting too. You consider getting a smart phone so you can text even faster. You decide against it.

Day 14: SEXY

2010-10-23T03:58:00.000-04:00

A good follow-up to 'toilet', I know.

In a Muslim-majority country, it's in the best interest of many women not to look sexy, and instruments of veiling like the jilbab (scarf covering the hair, ears and neck) and burka (usually covering entire body and face except for the eyes) are extra safeguards against any possibility of looking as such.

In the office yesterday, I was having a conversation with one of the English professors, Bu Rose, about the way she wraps her jilbab. Rose wraps her scarf herself, using a piece of silk-ish material, rather than buying a ready-made slip-on jilbab. The effect is quite elegant. We got to talking about the pros and cons of ready-made versus do-it-yourself veils and I told her that when I was in Hyderabad, many girls on campus who wore burkas wrapped a black scarf around their forehead, hair, ears, nose and mouth each day instead of using a ready-made veil. I told her that I thought the ready-made burka was not attractive (think of the bandit-mask snow hat for a visual). Rose agreed, saying she didn't think burkas were attractive. Then we burst out laughing, because, of course, the point of burkas is to be the opposite of attractive: to hide a woman's attractiveness from men.

Though most Muslim girls here do not wear burkas, many still cover up with their apparel. All clothing covers the shoulders, breastbone and most of the leg, and girls who wear the jilbab also wear full-length sleeves and pants. However, it's common to see incredibly tight sweaters and skinny skinny jeans paired with the jilbab, in my mind defeating the purpose of covering up in the first place. They are trying to look sexy.

There are a few places in which it's acceptable to dress 'sexy' (and therefore not really socially acceptable to go there at all): the bars and nightclubs in Jogja. Clubs are few, and prohibitively expensive, but for those who do decide it's worth risking their good (chaste) reputation, anything goes in the dress department. And thus we have another type of 'sexy'--a balls to the wall, leaving nothing to the imagination type.

My apologist theory for the bad taste displayed in nightclubs is that since girls don't get to express their sexuality on a daily basis, they don't really know what to do when they get the opportunity. Because what else could explain what goes on with these clubbing outfits?! The dresses are tight, extremely short, usually strapless or skinny-strapped, made of cheap shiny fabric and bejeweled for extra 'pop.' And then there are the shoes: silky, strappy, sparkly, a mile-high and often with clear heels. The result? Semi-prostitute effect.

Once in the club, most of these women prefer not to dance (hard to do much in 4-inch plastic stillettos), but instead stand on the fringe of the dance floor with their arms folded, their painted faces construed into bored expressions. They are not there to take advantage of the rare opportunity to move your body! but instead to be seen. Exacerbating the hookerness.

The other option is the cutesy baby-doll effect, also favored in Southeast Asia as a whole. Because many Indonesian women have small (and not-voluptuous) frames, they can fit into dresses that look to my eye like they are made for dolls, without appearing grotesque. However, it does give one the feeling of checking out your friend's 12-year old sister.

Then there is the matter of foreign-ness. Because Western facial features and skin color are 'exotic' (just like Southeast Asian facial features and skin tone are in the US, go figure), we get almost automatic 'sexy' status, with some pretty funny results. For example, some time last year I was having coffee with a friend and his English student, a local high schooler. We'll call her Wahyu. My conversation with Wahyu:

W: You have such a great nose!
Me: Uhhh [I wasn't yet used to this compliment, which is a popular one, since a 'prominent' or sticking-out nose is considered exotic-looking]
W: No really it's a really good nose. A beautiful nose.
Me: Ok. Thanks, you have a nice nose too.
W: No I don't!
Me: Ok. But you do.
W: No, it's like... your face!
Me: ?
W: Your face is... THE SEX!
Me: [laughs uproariously]

This became the favorite joke compliment between Fiona and I for the remainder of the year. Hey do I look ok? For sure, your face is the sex!

In the UGM English department, where students are more comfortable with their adjective-noun transitions, I was told by one of my students that I looked 'very sexy'. At work. I explained that 'nice' or even 'pretty' would be a better phrase to use in the classroom. Hopefully I won't be sued. Oh right, it's Indonesia, no one sues anyone.

And finally, my favorite mis-used phrase of all time: "Free Sex" as in the phrase, "Americans are very liberal and will have lots of free sex?" Time and time again, I've explained that for sex to be "free" implies a monetary transaction in which the cost is $0, as in a brothel with a bi-annual 2-for-1 sale or something. More than once I've tried to explain the word 'promiscuity', but with little success, usually retreat to the concept of casual sex. All before I explain that this stereotype is not necessarily true. No one believes me. Ever. My face must betray the lie; after all, it is the sex.

Day 13: TOILET

2010-10-20T10:50:00.000-04:00

@ Amanda

What is there really to say about squat toilets? They are little more than a hole in the ground covered in traction-ribbed porcelain and occasionally attached to a plumbing system. I actually like them, because although you usually end up peeing on your feet (you can wash it off people, and it's sterile anyway), it's very... ergonomic. If you know what I mean.

Anyway.

The thing I can't get on board with is the no toilet paper thing. I've been trying to wrap my head around it since India, and I just... can't. So what do people use instead of paper?? WATER (and soap). In some bathrooms here, there is this awesome little hose next to the toilet, exactly like the hose you have near your kitchen sink that you spray your dishes with. In the event of good water pressure, I am all in favor of the hose + toilet paper method. Because really if you think about it, cleaning is good too. That means water (and soap). However, usually there is not a hose, in which case there is just a little scooper to get water from a large basin and... splash? I really don't understand the physics of it; making water go upward and all. There's also something involving the left hand, which I won't really go into. Just don't be waving your left hand in people's faces when you come to SE Asia.

A final note: all you book/newspaper-on-the-toilet folks... squatters are not for you. Just believe me, it's not gonna work out.

Day 12: WEDDING

2010-10-19T07:53:00.000-04:00

For many women in Indonesia, their wedding is the most important day of their lives. Being married means becoming an adult (more on that later), and for many, finally moving out of their parents' house, or out from under parental supervision. The single women in Jogja who don't live with their families usually live in a boarding house like mine, but with many more rules and a supervising live-in landlady. Single women usually do NOT live in apartments by themselves in Jogja, no matter their age.

Other reasons for a Jogjanese woman to marry:
1. relieve the burden on their parents
2. stop harassment of family memebers and friends, "Aren't you married yet?!" (of course this soon turns into, "Why don't you have a child yet?!"
3. fulfill a Qur'anic duty (for Muslims)
4. wear a really SWEET outfit and have a ridiculously complex ceremony

I was lucky enough to be invited to the wedding of my friend Dewi last year, the daughter of UGM English teacher and my mentor, Pak Eddy. Because the Eddy family is both Muslim and very Javanese, there were several different ceremonies to take place.

First, the siraman, or water bathing ceremony, which is the Javanese ceremonial version of one of those dunking boxes at the county fair. Blessed water is stored in a ceremonial basin and then scooped out by members of the bride's family and poured over her head. At her siraman, Dewi wore a shawl of jasmine flowers and looked alternately happy/amused and well... just wet. The dunkers allowed to participate are members of the family who have already given a child away in matrimony, as well as the bride's parents. This ensures that these people know what they're doing; they did not leave a dry spot for the dunkee to wipe away her tears of happiness.

After the siraman, (keep in mind that everything is repeated for the groom, sort of like the one-less version of a Greek orthodox ceremony... in other words, it took a long time) there is a forgiveness ceremony in which the bride and groom alternately thank their parents for their sacrifices and love, and ask forgiveness for everything they have done wrong in their lives. This part took place in the closed-off Eddy home, and I could catch only a glimpse of the bride kneeling before her emotionally overwhelmed parents.

I'd like to take an intermission from the description of ceremonies for a moment and wonder--WHY do I always cry at weddings?! Seriously, I don't really have any interest in weddings in an abstract way, I have no interest in getting married any time soon, and in this case, I couldn't understand a DAMN WORD that anyone was saying (really, it was mostly in Javanese or an Indonesian too complex for my understanding), and I still cried.

At this point in this specific wedding, I knew that this was the moment when the parents, who have lived every day with their daughter for 28 years, who have given everything for the success of their children, were giving their daughter over to another family and man... saying goodbye. (In this case, the 'giving' was more symbolic than actual, since Dewi entered a master's degree program in Jogja and continues living in her parents' house while her husband is working in Sumatera for the time being).

On one hand, there is a disarming formality about the thanks/apology that is mandatory in a wedding ceremony here (many Muslim holidays also center around this idea of asking forgiveness). But on the other hand, there is so much often left unsaid between parents and children--when is ever the right moment to say, "Thanks for everything. Really everything. I was a twerp in high school, sorry about that." It's an incredibly beautiful moment. I think I would incorporate this tradition into my marriage if I thought that my father could withstand the emotional implications and not melt into a weeping blob (he would, wouldn't you, Dad?).

Dewi at her wedding

In any case, after this... or before this? I honestly can't remember... There's a formal marriage done by an imam, or other religious officiate. Then the father of the bride throws a chicken into the crowd of males. I don't know why--the explanation was seriously lost in translation originally and I never sorted it all out. I guess it's sort of like the tossing of the garter at American weddings, except it's a live chicken. Live. Honestly it's pretty funny.

End ceremonies... for the first day.

Second day is the reception. Dewi's reception was held in a gorgeous ballroom facility and included a full gamelon orchestra, a professional dance performance of a scene from the Ramayana (because Dewi and her sibling are professional dancers as well) and 20 pounds of costume for the bride and groom. Whole books could be written on the elaborately symbolic bride's makeup and I am not nearly familiar enough with the tradition to explain it. Some things to note in Jogjanese style makeup and dress:

1. the bride must shave parts of her hair back to create the deep V's seen on Dewi's head. the shaving must happen no later than midnight on the night before the wedding

2. the bride's batik skirt is wrapped so narrowly around her ankles that she cannot move more than a few inches with each step. the women on either side of her are holding her up, and will support her when she must lower herself to her knees for a cermonial washing of her husband's feet

3. the make-up varies from region to region: in nearby Solo, the hairline is painted green instead of gray

4. the bride looks NOTHING like she does in real life when made-up for her wedding day. she looks like a doll, and in no way resembles her day-to-day self. I'm not sure the significance of the complete transformation, but I'm sure that if I saw one of my friends on the street in bridal get-up, I would not even recognize them. Exhibit A: my friend Herlin

Herlin pre-wedding foto

Herlin post wedding makeup

So anyway, after the ceremonial part of the reception, hundreds of people file in, greet the bride and groom and have pictures taken, and then eat as quickly as possibly and immediately leave. Most people actually stay exactly as long as it takes to sample each of the deliciously catered food items and then book it out of there. No lingering to celebrate, no dancing, definitely no alcohol, and strangely, no gifts. Instead, everyone puts money into a box (with a card? I'm not sure. I did), amount varying depending on social status (foreigners usually give more) and age. No duplicate Cuisinart items for this couple.

My friend and Indonesian teacher, Herlin (see Exhibit A) also told me that it is Javanese philosophy that a happy bride will be "shiny" or "sparkly" on her wedding day, but that a bride with reservations or doubts in her heart will show it on her face. Herlin was a sparkly bride, as I'm sure you can see. Dewi looked pretty sparkly to my eye. My cousins Amy and Marco were super sparkly when they married last June, as I'm sure were my cousins Pam and David at their respective weddings this fall. And I guess that's a hope that is cross-cultural; that beneath the obvious nervousness and apprehension, there is a deeper sureness and lightness of heart. Even when you are weighed down by 10 pounds of sparkling Javanese headgear.

Day 10: BIRTHDAY

2010-10-18T10:19:00.000-04:00

It’s a great American tradition, that on your birthday, youpay for nothing. You eat for free, you drink for free, and usually people giveyou gifts.

Startlingly, in Indonesia you have to take all of your friends outfor dinner when it’s your birthday. This also leads to weird situations wherelots of uninvited people show up for a free meal (it’s common here to tag alongwith a friend to a party or an event without an invite or even knowing thehost). Tricky.

I also learned that a 'fun' birthday tradition in Indonesia is getting pelted with eggs, water and flour (basically the pastry version of tar-n-feather) by your friends. You are then supposed to not get mad.

Last year I managed to avoid all of these unfortunate cultural norms bygoing to Singapore, where I was treated like a queen. This year, illness and American-ness combined saved me fromhaving to orchestrate any elaborate birthday plan, but I still plan tocelebrate next weekend. For now, what does a birthday girl do 8,000 miles awayfrom her place of origin?

Got a manicure/pedicure, got stuck in a monsoon downpour,and finally when I got home drenched, de-robed and snuggled under the covers to eatdonuts. And write this blog. Mmm perfect. Happy 24 me.

Day 9: FACEBOOK

2010-10-17T05:57:00.000-04:00

I know I said 'everyday words' in English, but I think 'facebook' is a pretty everyday word in the English language. I mean, hell, my grandmother is on facebook. Isn't yours?

Indonesia has the second most users of facebook of any country in the world, next to the US. I'm not really sure where that statistic came from and actually I'm convinced it's just the sheer number of damn people in this country that make that possible, since almost 18% of the population lives below the world poverty level, according to CIA factbook. The factbook also tells me that 1/8 of the country uses internet, but of course 1/8 of 240 million, is... well, still a lot, eh? I'm betting that most of those 30 mill have a facebook account.

Facebook is so important, in fact, that one of the first questions people ask after you've met is, "Can I add you on facebook?" and then subsequently, "Thanks for accepting my friendship!" This usually happens before any semblance of a real-world friendship is made, and often without the intention of that even happening.

At first, this was really creepy for me.

I won't pretend that I don't regularly use facebook--actually it's the best way to promote my blog... but I know what facebook is primarily for: Stalking. And giving that ability to someone you met 20 seconds ago is not the most comforting.

Like most Americans I think, I also dislike using facebook as a mode of serious communication. It's easier (and more socially acceptable?) to pick up the phone, or even use email if the internet must be employed. Here, because a lot of kids have smart phones and can get online for a few seconds from anywhere, facebooking (if I can verbify that word) is easy and instant. And it's cool, which really makes a difference it seems. Posting things on facebook gives them legitimacy, and the more comments on a photo (once I saw almost 40, that had taken place in the span of 2 days), the better.

(There's also a funny habit of tagging people in pictures that they are not in, but maybe pictures of an event that they were at. This means that I have some facebook friends who have 20 or more tagged pictures without their face visible in any of them--just pictures of food, or a scene, or a party invite... I thought this was FACEbook. Confused.)

The thing is, I'm being slowly converted. I like facebook; my friends' pictures remind me that I'm doing cool things here even when I forget and start to wallow in self-pity for not being in New York. I even considered getting a smart phone, but decided I didn't have enough money. Instead, I go to the local 'warnet' or place to get wi-fi (pronounced Y-FEE) sans any other frills place where the teenage boys go to play video games and use facebook. I stay away from the ones with individual cubicles. Ew.

Day 8: SICK

2010-10-16T08:44:00.001-04:00

I'm sick. It's boring.

Actually though, it's not too boring, because at least I got to have a ridiculous encounter with a doctor, as always happens when I get ill abroad. Remember when I got sick in India and the campus doctor shined a flashlight down my throat (like a full size camping flashlight)? And then asked me what I thought I had (sinus infection) and what I wanted to take for it (antibiotics)? Yea. Oh, and last winter, when I had been ill with digestive problems for months and reached the culmination, a doctor in Aceh put a stethoscope on my abdomen, tapped with two fingers and said, "You are fine" (um sir, I haven't pooed for 8 days and I've taken a few bottles of laxatives. Not fine.) "There is nothing wrong with you." Hmm.

Of course it hasn't all been bad. When I first got here, and couldn't breathe or speak (lost my voice) because of the cigarette smoke and artificial air fresheners everywhere, an super kind old ENT put a metal rod up my nose and told me to start jogging and eating vitamin C and my allergies would go away. Then he talked to me for 15 minutes about studying bioethics at Harvard in the 80s while some babies cried outside the office. Turns out he was correct in his medical advice.

Today was not one of those good experiences. At Jogja International Hospital, my doctor's visit went something like this:

Doctor: [looks in my throat, presses on my abdomen. examination complete]: You have a common cold. This is a virus. I will give you an antibiotic.

Me: Uhh, but if it's a virus, what will an antibiotic do?

Doctor: What?

Me: What?

Doctor: antibiotic

Me: but it's a virus

Doctor: sorry?

Me: I just don't want to take an antibiotic if it's not necessary

Doctor: it's not necessary

Me: ok... [blows nose]

Doctor: what color is your snot!?

Me: yellow?

Doctor: here is an antibiotic

Then I picked up my medicine at the counter and it included a strong antibiotic used to treat streph throat, and Prednisone, the STEROID. When I asked the pharmacist why I would need to take a steroid she explained for the inflammation of my throat. Has no one heard of IB profin? Lord...

Anyway, one interesting thing about being sick here is that EVERYONE WANTS TO VISIT YOU. I think it stems from a really sweet Javanese fear of leaving anyone alone, especially someone who is vulnerable. But I'm kind of scared to let anyone know that I'm sick for fear they will show up to visit you. I'm afriad I've already offended some of my friends by telling them to leave me alone. I mean, I'm miserable company, I'm dirty and snotty and feel like shit and my room is a germ-y cesspool, but still people want to visit me. The only way I can get out of it is by framing it as a cross-cultural misunderstanding: "American people like to be alone when they're sick" is the grossly over-simplified and not really true explanation I've come up with. I truly appreciate the thought, and it makes me really happy to know that my friends and co-workers care so much. But for right now, I just want to go to sleep.

Zzzzzzzz.

Day 7: SING

2010-10-15T06:26:00.000-04:00

Everyone loves to sing, or almost everyone. But it seems too common that in the US people will refrain from singing in public (even with their close friends) because they are embarrassed at having a poor singing voice. Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you feel about this, no such shame exists in Jogja. In fact, there is a general earnestness about amateur musical ability that leads to a lot of performances that just wouldn't happen in the U.S. of A, land of perfectionists and, um... snobs.

I'm not discounting myself from the snob category: I went to a music conservatory, and well after I could be considered a violinist, I still judged the performances of others. I don't have an exceptionally great voice, so I NEVER considered myself a singer, though I sang in a fabulous small chamber group, often with solo parts, and I never played violin in front of anyone ever again. Until coming to Jogja. Then there was the brilliant, if humiliating Alam Bahasa's "Indonesian Night" debut, where I shakily played my own personal rendition of an Appalachian folk tune. And then the overly-appreciated performance for the benefit concert for the Padang earthquake last fall (see left).

What's great about this sort of attitude toward music--you don't reeeeaally have to be any good to put yourself on display AND be appreciated for it--is that people sing when they feel like singing, and play music when they feel like playing music. No one is worried about being amazing or 'the best', and the merit of music is judged by how much you like it, not by how pure or authentic it is.

Thus, my housemates put on Justin Beiber and sing at the top of their lungs at all hours of the day. And let's just say that they are no Joan Sutherlands (RIP). At a certain school event, one student volunteered to sing a religious song a capella in front of a room full of her peers. I've never heard a more heartfelt (to the point of overly dramatic) production, right through the voice cracking and the obvious range limits. People go to karaoke because it's fun, regardless of quality of singing and extreme sobriety. As I'm writing this upstairs in my grad school office hallway, there is a terrible and over-mic'ed performance of an Indonesian song going on outside for some school function. It sounds really bad, but everyone is cheering and singing along. I love it. Singing makes me so happy; and playing my three guitar chords in accompaniment even more so. It doesn't really matter that I suck at guitar. No one in the house ever complains.

Just because there's an over-abundance of enthused amateur singers here doesn't mean that there isn't truly accomplished singing as well. The singers of some of the campus bands truly rock, and one singer-songwriter from school has a great Regina Spektor-ness about her. And of course there is the Javanese traditional singing. Imagine a nasal warbly pentatonic version of the most beautiful operatic aria you've ever heard. That about sums that up... I love it, but you'll have to come hear for yourself.

Day 6: EYES

2010-10-14T07:53:00.000-04:00

@Brendan

#1 most important thing about eyes in Jogja: GLASSES ARE COOL. Yep, that's right, I'm finally living up to my four-eyed foxiness with some sweet new specs which are on display in my various facebook albums.

#2: I've yet to jump on this train, but if you wear contact lenses, apparently this is a great opportunity to change your eye color (seeing as the only eye color here is black, it wants some variation). One of my students had violet eyes for a while, and then changed to 'honey brown' and another superbly fashion conscious student has 'grey'. Too cool.

Sample conversation between me and one of my students before I realized the colored contact phenomenon:

student: do you wear lenses brittany?
me: yes
students: what color are they?
me: what color are my eyes?
student: what color are your lenses?
me: my eyes are brown
student: you have brown lenses?
me: i have clear lenses
student: there's NO COLOR?
me: no
student: oh. why?!?!

#3: Rules for eyes contact:
Do not make eyecontact if the person with whom you are speaking is:

A woman (and you’re a man)

A man (and you're a woman)

Older than you

More important than you

Taller than you

Any combination of the above

Day 5: SAFE

2010-10-12T05:21:00.001-04:00

Indonesia is a rare country in Southeast Asia that has neither the uncontrollable crime and violence of the Philliphines nor the fierce governmental oversight of Malaysia or Singapore. Violent crime in Jogja is almost non-existent (not so in Jakarta), and I have never felt immediate danger, not at night, or by myself. Luckily, the parking situation in Jogja is a protection racket which also carefully controls all bike thefts in the city. It's not likely for a bike to be stolen, even left outside a gate for the night.

It's almost a joke when my friends say, "Be careful, it's late!" when I go home. I always smile to myself, imagining the time I would walk home alone from the DC metro at 1am on a street host to stabbings and um... hollow-tipped bullets (that's a different story). But while I'm safe from the scariness of American cities, there's a different kind of security that is missing. Logically it's the earthquakes and anti-American and terrorist activity that should make me unsafe. But in fact, earthquakes are few and far between, usually small, and though there are terrorist cells in Central Java, they've never bothered me. What I actually miss is being...

Safe from being stared at just for doing normal things like getting gas or buying water

Safe from being judged based on my lifestyle or values

Safe to hug my friends in public

Safe from being treated like an object to be photographed by strangers or yelled at by boys

Safe to wear a sleeveless shirt when it's hot

Safe to breathe clean air, indoors and out

Safe from biting insects (see Day 3: BUG)

Most of all, when I'm physically broken, tired and ill (as I am right now), I just want a place to go where I can sleep and repair. But my bedroom is like an oven, a corner room gathering enough sun to raise the temperature well above the outside tropical. And inevitably, the brand of mosquitos that carry dengue fever weasel there way in, and feast on my defenseless body. God forbid I get actually sick... I'm afraid I won't have a safe place to go to.

Day 4: BEACH

2010-10-11T08:14:00.000-04:00

It’s no surprise that going to the beach is a nationalpastime in a country made up of 13,000 to 17,000 islands (they really took carein counting with that statistic…). What is a surprise is that many people donot know how to swim and are, in fact, terrified of the water. There’s goodreason for this; the South Java sea claims lives every year because of itsstrong currents, deadly undertow and rocky shoreline.

Cheesy pose in Ngandong sunset, courtesy Mas Geger

At Parangtritis, due south of Jogja, many make offerings tothe sea and cast them into the waves at sunrise, as local legend has it thatthe Queen of the South Java Sea loves the color green and will ‘take’ anyonewho wears green. Actually the truth is that she will take anyone idiotic enoughto swim past the drop-off point into the haphazardly and violently crashingsea. Just in case, I never wear green.

But that’s just an intro to the word “beach.” Actually, thisis not a story about people who can’t swim, or people who wear green… this is astory about harmonious living.

The 16^th annual Parangtritis beach kite festivalcoincided with Leah’s trip to Jogja last month, and thus I had a loving witnessto one of the stranger events in my life. The festival itself was acollaboration of artists and kite enthusiasts that ended with an invitation to spendthe night at a beautiful brick and bamboo home right on the shore—a friend of afriend.

Like so many artist homes in and around Jogja, it was hardto tell who actually lived there. Officially one one, since sultan-owned landat Parangtritis is fair game for squatters and only the most dedicated wouldset up permanent residence on a harsh shoreline of a geologically unstableisland.

We were there barely a minute when the anggur orangtua or “parents’ wine” was opened—a sickly sweetfermented grape juice that makes Carlo Rossi seem like a prized vintage. Themain topics of conversation were few: to what songs could we all remember thelyrics? (none); and “harmonious living.” Over the course of the evening, I cameto realize that Mas Aji’s version of ‘harmony’ is a distortion of a moretraditional Javanese concept of sakmadya—“one harmony.”

Though Mas Aji values having a sustainable lifestyle, beingrelaxed and flexible, and preserving local wisdom (his kites are made in atraditional way from a special type of bamboo) as part of harmonious living, healso fits the more undefined role of just being an irresponsible hippie.

view from Mas Aji's house at Parangtritis

For the first few minutes of enthusiastic recitation of MasAji’s personal creed about cultural exchange, loving the earth and yourneighbors, I was completely with him: “Yea, man; totally, recyclying, yeatolerance and sharing… word.” But after a while it became clear that Mas Ajiwas not interested in exchangingphilosophies as much as listening to his own interminable monologue. Andsustainable living was a great thing when convenient (are those take-outcontainers wrapped in plastic with plastic spoons sitting in the trash pile tobe burned?). The number of times in an hour that he used the Indonesian wordfor ‘overjoyed’ was serious—I started to doubt that the man was capable ofbeing in any emotional state other than ecstasy.

Don’t get me wrong; Mas Aji was generous, hospitable, andkind, and I admire his devotion to local wisdom. Passing down knowledge thatmight be otherwise lost and living in communion with a formidable landscape arebeautiful things. It’s all of the other bullshit that I can’t put up with. Forexample, during the fifth iteration of “cultural sharing” and “moderation”,Aji’s vastly more burnt-out buddy started puking up the anggur orangtua on the side of the house. It was about 9pm.

Later, when one of our friends, quite a lightweight andobviously a new drinker was so sick that Leah and I were seriously consideringthat she needed hospitalization, all Mas Aji would say was, “She is sooverjoyed, so much joy.” I didn’t even try to conceal my anger. I left onSunday confused. I had felt a lot of things during my weekend at the bamboohouse, but harmony was not one of them.

While Mas Aji and some other counter-culture personalitiesthat I’ve met here have a slightly deranged idea of harmony, the actualJavanese concept is beautiful: As far as I can tell sak madya can encompass all of the following English idioms:“Go with the flow…” “Life is short…” and “Do unto others as you would have doneunto you” and simply “Don’t worry be happy.”

The idea, which I haven’t fully grasped yet, seems to embodythe spirit of sharing, being flexible, and appreciating the present moment.Past the philosophical nitty-gritty, what it means is that I get to go campingat the beach, drink endless fruit juice and do a lot of sitting around chattingand just hanging because my friends are super chill.

Our campsite at Ngandong

In fact, this weekend I went back to the beautiful Ngandongbeach for a full 40 hours of real harmonious living. It’s not common to swim inbathing suits here, and some women choose to dive in even in their head scarvesand jeans. But that’s because looking hot in a bikini and achieving the perfecttan are not the main events at an Indonesian beach. What really matters is muchbetter: hands down the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen, watched from atopa craggy cliff over the most perfect waves, and a black black sky chock-full oftwinkling stars. Cheesy as it sounds, Mas Aji’s noisy profession of harmony wasempty; it was the quiet of a few sun-seared hours—to forget work, internet andshowers, and feel the power of the ocean, the nurture of the sun, and thewarmth of friendship—that finally struck a chord.

Day 3: BUG

2010-10-10T10:21:00.000-04:00

I know, I know, I know, I said EVERY day for 30 days and Iskipped a day. The good news is that I only skipped a day because it was inSERVICE of the project. You will be happy to know that the word of the day fortomorrow is (in honor of Monica…)

BEACH.

However. Back to bug.

When my good friends Cyrus and Emma were in Jogja last year,Cyrus used to tell us a story about a man who was a paranoid skitzophrenic andconspiracy theorist who thought the government was spying on him. The dude wastotally convinced that his house was bugged; the government was reading hismail and prying into his personal life. As it turns out, the government wasindeed spying on him, bugging his house, etc. The moral of the story, saidCyrus, is “Just because you think the government is spying on you doesn’t meanthey aren’t.”

Take a minute and chew on all those double negatives.

Now, how did this apply to our life in Jogja? Well Cyrus andI had the mutual problem of waking up in the middle of the night convinced thatants were crawling all over our bodies. It also happens periodically during theday that I’m 100% sure there are ants on me, or in my shirt or on my face. Whenwe were cracking up about this in their kitchen, I was nearly in tears: “Thething is,” I told them, “At first I think I’m nuts, but then I look down andthere ARE ants crawling all over me!”

To which Cyrus replied: “Just because you think there arebugs crawling all over you doesn’t mean there aren’t.”

And then he told us that story.

I share this today because a few minutes ago, I threw on myjeans and ran out the door, annoyed by the prickly biting feeling in the bottomof my pant legs. I was about 5 minutes on the road before I realized there werebugs in my pants. Right now my pants are sitting in a tub of boiling water on the balcony of my boarding house and I’m googling phrases like, “bugs that live in my jeans,”and “do people have fleas?” I’m trying to convince myself that this could alsohappen in New York; that it is NOT Indonesia that is causing bugs to be in mypants. I’m also trying to convince myself that I imagined the whole thing; someother irritant caused all the little welts on my ankles.

But I know the truth.

Just because you think there are bugs living in your pantsdoesn’t mean there aren’t.

Day 2: RAIN

2010-10-08T00:25:00.000-04:00

This post goes out to my Mom who wanted to know about 'weather'... because the weather in Singapore is really different (it's not, that is sarcasm).

So it's supposed to rain for exactly half the year here. During rainy season, the rain starts before noon and lasts well into the night. There are few words for rain, which roughly translate to "drizzle," "rain," "hard rain," and "monkey rain." I've been informed by a Javanese person that actually "monkey rain" is "gecko rain" but I'm failing to see the significance. Basically it just means "crazy rain" where the sun is shining but it's still pouring.

Rain here... how do I describe this... it hurts. It rains so hard that 'buckets' doesn't begin to describe the effect. It's more like the clouds are armed with some kind of water propulsion device, like in your jacuzzi. And when you're driving a hot 40 kilometers per hour on your motorbike, it's like every star in heaven is armed with two Super Soaker 9000s and is pointing them directly at you face.

However, rain is actually a wonderful thing. It feeds the iconic rice paddies of the Javanese landscape...

It cools down my room after it's been beat by the afternoon sun...

And it provides brilliant photo ops at the most second most awesome temple in Southeast Asia (damn you Anchor Wat)...

Day 1: LAUNDRY

2010-10-07T07:07:00.004-04:00

In the US, you can go broke cramming quarters into greedycoin slot machines that never—let’s face it, really never—adequately dry yourclothes in a reasonable amount of time. Here in Indonesia, laundry-doing isalso an industry, but get this—when you pay money to get your clothes cleaned,you don’t have to do any work--someone else does it for you!

Actually most students and young people like myself do theirown laundry, and occasionally I’ll have a fit of domestic upkeep energy ordecide I want to fit in more and my panties will join the ladies laundry lineon the second floor balcony of my boarding house. However, on days that rain,one either has to wake up pre-dawn to get clothing washed and hung before thestorm or stay home all day in anticipation of the moment when you’ll have todash out to the porch and snag the clothes off the line. Not for me.

There are an array of small shops on my street that havelaundry services, varying in quality, price and… speed.

****

One day, Fiona and I (yes it was a long time ago) stop infront of her favorite laundry spot to pick up her cleaned and pressedduds. The sign on the bubble-gumpink open-front box of a shop features an abundance of soap bubbles (This is alie—most of these places use barely enough soap to produce one bubble let alonemountains), and it reads:
“Simply Laundry: 4-hour service!”

“Wow that’s fast,” I say to Fiona. I assume she’s pickedthis spot as her favorite because of this handy express service.

“Yea, but it’s never done in four hours. More like eight…if you’re lucky.”

“But that’s not even close to four.”

“I know.”

“That’s a 100% difference.”

“I know.”

“Then why do they say ‘4-hour laundry’?!”

Fiona then glares at me. I should know better than to ask‘why’ questions in Indonesia. There is never an answer to ‘why’ questions, soit’s better just not to ask.

I shoot a glace at the stout woman behind the counter; sheis spraying “Flower-flower” perfume on a stack of greyed clothing (to mask thesmell of the clothing which has NOT been cleaned due to lack of soap suds). Shesmiles broadly, proud to have been the first one on the street to think ofoffering a service as fantastic as ‘4-hour laundry.’

30 Days

2010-10-06T00:09:00.000-04:00

A few of my friends here in Jogja have joined a writer's project to write every day for 30 days--in any medium, fiction non-fiction, or other--and post it to their blog. The original description of this project is in Indonesian and I've never actually seen the creator's blog, so I'm not sure if this is described as the '30 Day Challenge' or the '30 Day Experiment' or something more creative, but I'm going to just call it '30 Days.'

My theme will be equally simple as its title: each day, I will take one concept that is both basic and integral to every-day life/expression in the US and describe it as it is in Indonesia, in whatever form strikes me (beware, I might try to write a poem...) The topics will be one-word topics from any part of speech, in English, such as Sit, Rain, or Sexy.

This is where I need your help, O faithful blog readers! Submit me one word that you think would make an interesting post and I'll come up with... well, something entertaining. Also, I want to make this project more interactive than my normal blog; if you are surprised by a post, or disagree with something I've written, or have a related story to share, please TELL ME! I love getting responses, and hearing from you makes me feel a little closer to home :)

Finally, because this is a blogging experiment, I would appreciate if all word submissions and responses are submitted in the form of comments directly below the related post. That way, there can be a sort of running conversation and multiple people can interact with each other, a la facebook thread. Ok, wish me luck! As many of you know, I don't have internet in my house and the wi-fi at work has been spotty, but I'm going to try my hardest to bring you 30 days of stories....

Starting tomorrow.

Feed me

2010-08-26T04:17:00.001-04:00

Today I received the news that I wasn’t selected as a Glimpse Correspondent Program fellow, a travel-writing contest that I applied for with incredible optimism and perhaps undue confidence in June. The Glimpse project, sponsored in part by National Geographic, offers the finalists professional photographers’ and travel writing editors’ advice, and a $600 stipend for keeping a ten-week blog on their website. There is also a chance to be published in National Geographic. The Correspondents’ Program is relatively new, but still had over 700 applicants for 10 spots and professional writers and photographers are free to apply, as long as they are under the age of 30 and living or working abroad. In other words, I would have had a better chance applying to an Ivy League grad school (not a bad idea…) or getting employment in the U.S. (gasp) than winning this fellowship.

In any case, I am trying, as my excellently phrased rejected letter instructs, not to take this as a measure of my talents etc, and move on with my life. Easier said than done, and as I sat in my office after class looking at the harsh formatting of the HTML version gmail (slow internet connections…), I wondered what to do next. Much as I crave feedback in my amorphous job in this indirect society, it’s always difficult to digest negative feedback, especially about something you love and have worked hard on.

I pondered these thoughts, and decided that a big bowl of pecel (Indonesian veggies with rice and peanut sauce) would assuage my pain. So I grabbed Patrick to head to his favorite lunch spot Phoebe Cates, a small cafe behind campus whose décor boasts two photos from a fluffy cats caldendar and a faded portrait of the eponymous celebrity hanging high above the register like a more reverent home’s picture of Christ or the virgin mother.

Our non-fasting grad students, who include a Buddhist, a Presbyterian pastor, one Christian from east Indonesia and one undefined pseudo-Maoist, were also at Phoebe Cates. I didn’t mention the competition, because who wants their students to see them fail? but a tiny nagging teardrop tempted the corner of my eye. And then Darwin, the pastor and most likely the oldest member of the class said, “Your teaching, Brittany. It’s really good. You are very clear and it’s a really good method.” Embarrassed, I tried to make a joke about how I always feel like I’m shouting when I speak in front of a class, but nothing could have been more perfect for me to hear at that moment.

Genuinely good feedback, always more spare than bad or none, can be like a twinkle in George Clooney’s eyes, or a neck massage… or your own version of something that radiates sparkle, relaxation and warmth. Glimpse could have been a great achievement, but for today, I’m pretty thrilled about being a great teacher--nothing could really be more important or more immediate than that.

Below, I’m going to post the essay that I submitted for Glimpse (a re-write of the Merapi blog from last year) and a link to the Flickr photo album of my “25 best photos”. Enjoy!

*****

If moving all the way across the world into the disaster zone known as The Ring of Fire wasn’t crazy enough, just two weeks after arriving in my new home in south-central Java, I decided to climb a volcano. Mt. Merapi is the highly active volcano that presides over the city of Jogjakarta, and while the south side of Merapi has constant and dangerous lava flow, several ‘safe’ trails cut through the north side of the mountain all the way to the bubbling sulfurous crater mouth.

My only relationship with Merapi before this hike was pure awe: it’s silhouette, which only appeared in early morning and after a cloud-clearing rainstorm was majestic, if slightly fearsome. It did not surprise me when I heard that many Javanese living on Merapi’s slope continue to make offerings to the mountain in the fashion of their pre-Islam ancestors to pacify Merapi’s spirit.

I checked the know-all Lonely Planet guide for Indonesia in case they had any advice for climbers of mystically powerful volcanoes. Instead, I found a description of the Merapi climb as appropriate for anyone with a “reasonable level of fitness.” This also made me a little doubtful; I’d never hiked a mountain before and didn’t know what to expect. But I figured that being able to run a few miles and not being grossly obese qualified as “reasonable,” so I knocked aside all reservations and went.

Besides, I had heard that this 3,000-meter baby was a cinch.

*****

On the night of the hike, we arrive first at a crumbling traveler’s lodge at the base of the mountain and are served tea that perfectly represents the Jogjanese obsession with sugar. I can smell the mold left over from rainy season in my moth-eaten chair, and I shiver from the cold mountain temperature. It’s late, the tea is too sweet, and we are cold, but the mood is lively, and I joke with my party about the nonsensical English on our release forms. We set off at 1am with gusto, and torches to light the still night. We are two guides, and five students from Europe and America.

For me, the hike is challenging from the start, but I feel strong and optimistic, proud of my ambition to climb a mountain. This isn’t bad, I think. I can do this. I have a “reasonable level of fitness”! Having never climbed anything higher than the stairs to my third floor office, I do not realize that compared to what is to come, we are actually just strolling along in an uphillish direction. Just walking.

Soon, we are faced with 6 or 7 kilometers of steep trail, mostly loose rock left over from Merapi’s last purge of fire and molten rock in 2006. About an hour in, I am fatigued and my encouraging mental mantras are replaced with: I’m going to die. My heart is going to stop working and I’m going to stumble on a rock that I can’t see in the dark and fall down the mountain. I turn around to receive some solidarity from the others. My guide is chain smoking and picking his fingernails. Greg, the French guy, is whistling in the chipper way that people whistle when they take the dog for a walk, or find out they got a promotion at work. “I hope there are not any moskeeetos,” he says, smiling broadly, “I do not like the moskeeetos.” I can’t answer him, because I’m out of air. I take a long, deep breath.

*****

I do not make it to the summit of the volcano to look inside the fiery crater. According to our guide, today is “safe” to climb to the crater (although to my mind, standing over a steaming pit of sulfur at the mouth of one of the world’s most overdue-for-a-blowout volcanoes doesn’t qualify as “safe” on any day), but I simply don’t make it. Our group splits into two, with three of my friends reaching the summit for sunrise, and two of us deciding to climb just to the highest plateau, a sheer 100 meters below the crater.

As a consolation prize, we get to take a rest just before reaching the plateau, and our guide builds us a fire on a sheltered edge. We huddle close to the smoky grass-fed bundle of flame and try to ignore the sharp rocks we are using as seats. I barely notice the first twinges of pink coming over the horizon, as I am too busy trying to collect as much warmth as possible from the quickly dying fire. Like a rotisserie chicken, I rotate my body, one side scorching, the other goose bumped with cold.

When we finally reach the flat open space, I can see Mt. Merbabu—Merapi’s taller and inactive next-door-neighbor—peeping through a ring of salmon and orange clouds, and our own mountain becoming formless in the fog below. Above, I can just make out the tiny figures of those on the summit, 40 minutes of intense climbing away. The rays of the newly awakened sun cannot penetrate the mountain chill to warm my stiff and frozen body, and I crave the half-cooked warmth of our cliff-side camp.

And then without warning, standing there on the plateau, I start to cry. Of the million moments that I’ve wanted to lose it since coming to this country, I have chosen to weep with an audience of men who climb Merapi like they’re going to fetch the mail. Maybe I’m crying because I feel defeated—I thought that I had a “reasonable level of fitness” –or because of my screaming limbs and the cold wind that freezes my sweat under layers of jackets. Maybe it is the beautiful sunrise, the steam coming from the crater and the majesty of Mt. Merbabu in its tutu of clouds.

Or maybe, standing on the veritable top of a volcano in Indonesia, I realize just how far away I am from home. Standing there, I feel as though I can see the thousands of miles between Indonesia and everything I know. The volcano doesn’t mean anything to me, but there are lots of things and people I love in Annapolis and Oberlin and Bethlehem and all the scattered cities across the States. I have climbed this mountain to prove something about my trip, and here in this moment that should be triumphant, I ask myself, Why am I here?

*****

If I had known that climbing down a slope is more physically and mentally demanding than going up, I think I would have questioned my original motivations with a less philosophical tinge. I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that I hadn’t slept since the day before, had not eaten for 12 hours, or that I had gouged my hand on some stick and was bleeding. I was thinking about how in bloody hell my legs were going to continue supporting my (now probably several kilos lighter than when we started) body. As I wallowed in my own despair and sweat, a small, brown, wiry man with a 50 lb bundle of 7-ft long mountain grasses balanced on his head jogged barefoot past me.

We made it down. I did not die, or even pass out. I did not get smothered in a pyroclastic flow or knocked unconscious by a falling boulder. I did see a beautiful sunrise and learn that I am not ‘reasonably’ physically capable. And that’s about it.

The next day at language school, the German girl who joined me on the slow track said in her sharp consonants, “It wasn’t worth it! It totally sucked and even the sunrise wasn’t that good. It really wasn’t worth it.”

Standing on wobbly legs in the school courtyard, I reconsidered my mountaintop doubt: Why am I here? Would living in Indonesia for two years give me something better than two years of living in my own country, with people who I love and a life in which I am already invested? Would it be “worth it”?

I didn’t know. One year later, I still don’t know. But I do know that “worth it” is a phrase as subjective and meaningless as “reasonable level of fitness.” I don’t think I’ll ever be able to weigh the things I’ve gained against the things I’ve missed while living abroad and come up with a net worth. Every experience I’ve had while traveling has been valuable, even if I can’t exactly quantify that value.

And in the end, maybe I’m here just to ask questions and not get the answers… and to climb that damn mountain all the way to the top. It’s been one year, and I think I’m almost ready. Watch out Merapi; I’ve been working out.

album link:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/50362681@N06/sets/72157624094904550/

Jogja Year 2 - More to Come

2010-08-23T05:59:00.000-04:00

Ramadan Time is Beach Time

2010-08-23T05:22:00.000-04:00

A little while ago, I posted a blog about taking chances. I needed some inspiration to say "yes"; some energy to go out of my comfort zone and live it up in my remaining year in Jogja. I thought I needed some super willpower to trick myself into thinking I wanted things that I don't. But really all I needed was an offer good enough to say "yes" to... and who could refuse a camping trip at a secluded white sand beach with five fantastic people? Not I, not I.

(It wasn't until I was well on the way to Ngandong Beach this Saturday that I remembered a similarly capricious beach trip almost exactly one year ago to the day! It was also Ramadan and I was similarly invited by a new friend to visit Parangtritis Beach for sunrise. I'm not sure if it's the lull of the fasting month of Ramadan or the pressure of teaching the August intensive, but something about this month makes me stir-crazy, and thus more likely to accept wonderful invitations).

In any case, the group, led by outdoor-ing afficionado and chaos-creator Geger, was to leave from Jogja at 3pm. But of course we were on Waktu Indonesia Benar or 'true Indonesian time' (that is what WIB stands for, right guys?), which added a few hours to the ETD. The reward of gorgeous Ngandong beach comes with somewhat of an investment, specifically a really sore ass from the 2 hour drive through Gunungan Sewu, or Range of a Thousand Mountains (despite the romantic-sounding name, these are just some hills south of Jogja). Though the sun was sinking fast, by hour 1.5, our stomachs were rumbling almost are loud as the motorbike seats, and a food stop was in order.

Most of the road trips I've taken have been in the U.S., and pretty much nothing could be more boring than a side-of-the-road food stop. Indonesia, however, has a knack for unusual situations in very unimpressive places. We and the local news team from TV Trans7 who were also dining at this tiny stop were enjoying our chicken soup and fried rice when all of a sudden I was certain my ass was having PTSD from the road. I looked at the others, and then felt the floor rattle again. Earthquake season has begun.

Generally I'd say that a beach isn't the first place I want to go after experiencing an earthquake in a country known for its vicious tsunamis, but it seemed like this beach was going to be reaaaaaallllly beautiful. So we continued our journey without a thought to the rumble.

Though night was fully upon us as we pulled up to the campsite, the scene was alive: I could hear the roar of the waves and feel the ocean mist. "Just be careful," the proprietor told us, "Because there was an earthquake before, so... there might be another one." We five looked out at the waves, and, deciding there was probably nothing we could do about an earthquake. And in honesty, if it was to be my last night on this good earth, not a bad place to spend it. The sand was soft, the air cool, and a full wind from the ocean brought the scent of... photo credit: Joan Prahara Bumi
deep-fried tofu?

It seems that my friends Geger, Dion, Merio and Joan are virtual professional campers---before fellow lady friend Erna and I could even set down our bags, the four had erected a tent and created a restaurant, complete with plates, cups, utensils.... and even cinnamon for my tea. Munching on our second dinner and listening to the requisite best of late-80s and 90s playlist (Bon Jovi you should thank your Indonesian fans for continuing to support you), I felt truly relaxed for the first time all month.

I think it will suffice to say that the weekend was a success, and I don't think I'll have a problem saying "yes" in the future. Judging by the color of my face today, I should also probably start saying "yes" to offers of sunscreen. But that's another story...

Photo credit: Regeg Gnuga

No Boys Allowed!

2010-08-12T22:55:00.000-04:00

I moved again.

It's actually Shansi's suggestion thatafter the first year in the UGM campus apartment, the senior fellowlive in housing that is 'integrated in the community.' Which means thatall the hard work that went into Sekip (see "The" "New" "Apartment" and ColoRevolutionfor these adventures) is but a fleeting memory in the Shansi legacy,not least because I think I made enough of a mess to compensate foranything amount of cleanliness that once was. Good luck Nicole.

The new place is a kost, or Indonesian-style boarding house or like a privately owned dorm. Honestly, I feel a slight regression in maturity, bringing my showercaddy to the common bathroom, and trying to read the long-blurred floor refrigerator signs. I'm considering making a cuteposter with my name for my door. I guess the shower caddy couldn't be avoided, but I did look long and hard to find a kost that was close to campus, with a nice room and with a less strict version of the sometimes formidable Javanese kost rules.

For many students, a kost is the first experienceliving away from home, and it is society's idea that they be highlysupervised, in boarding houses with live-in landladies or caretakersenforcing rules. Many kost have curfews of 9 or 10 pm and all women's kost have very visible signs reading "Cowok Dilarang Masuk!" [cowok meaning 'guy', dilarang meaning 'forbidden' and masuk meaning 'to enter'. For all the round-about ways of communication in Java, they can be straightforward when necessary].

Americans don't usually go for such highlyrestrictive living situations, but I can't help thinking that my ownfather wouldn't have minded the peace of mind that such rules mightbring.

Ex. 1: First time away from home, Brevard, c.2001

Dad, upon finding out that cabins were situation on boys' hill and girls' hill: "I like this!"

Ex. 2: Conversation with Dad at Oberlin housing selection:

Dad: All-women dorm!

Me: No. Dad, no.

Dad: Ok, all-women wing.

Me: Ugh, dumb.

Dad: Floor? All-women floor?

Me: Fine. Boys are smelly."

Except that I and the other anak-anak kost, or'kost-children' aren't freshman in high school or in college. The other12 women living in my dorm-style boarding house are mostly older than Iam, in graduate school or working.

So what's thedeal with all these rules? Well, like most things in Indonesia, printedwords are not always reflected by reality, such as:

1. store hours

2. menu items

3. stop lights

4. job contracts

A coffee shop opening at 4pm instead of 11am is annoying, butsome things are dangerous, like people driving through intersection 20seconds after the light has turned red. And needless to say, anyAmerican is going to have trouble with someone tossing a contract asideand saying, 'Well it's not really important that it's not in yourcontract..." [note: this has not actually happened to me, my bosses areterrific!] Culturally it has been very hard for me to understand whysomething would be written down if it just plain ain't true.

But my new kost situation has helped me see the light. I thinkof it like this: sometimes rules are just written for our fathers... inother words, for someone's peace of mind. No more. Our landlady livesin a city 8 hours away and the caretaker only comes to clean early inthe morning, so the anak-anak kost are actually on their own to decidehow many cowoks are allowed to masuk. But when Dad calls, he can be assured that there is a caretaker and there are rules.

It might seem silly to offer menu items that don't exist, orwrite contracts that don't always hold water. But this one instance Icompletely understand. Because no matter the reality, it's priceless inany culture to be able to say, "Don't worry, Dad. No boys allowed."

The Art of Waiting (you passed the first test)

2010-08-03T06:35:00.002-04:00

America, for better or for worse, is the land of instantgratification. Want to listen to a song that you don't own? Download itfrom iTunes to your computer. Need it right now on the walk to work?Use your Blackberry. Want a new car but can't afford it? That'sOK--we'll finance it so you can have it today (and pay later). Inthe US, we kiss on the first date, and if our half-skim half-soy lattetakes more than exactly 60 seconds at Starbucks, we freak out.Lines exist, but when they aren't speedy, we stomp, sigh, check ourwatches incessantly or complain to the person behind us, "Can youbelieve this? Wow [shakes head with shared-experience grimace]."

Yes,I too was one of those line-sighers, "Seriously? They should pay ME forthis bagel [smug chuckle]," but in Indonesia, I am constantly waiting.When I take my bike to the shop, I don't leave it, but sit there,chatting with my mechanic while it's repaired. Queues are endless; inthe grocery store, at the movies, at a stop light, and especially atthe BNI bank on the first day of the month: rent day.

Indonesia'stolerance for inconvenience used to flabbergast me, and sometimes itstill does. But often I find myself waiting for take-out for an hourbefore I notice the time. Many Indonesian businesses don't have clocks,and I've yet to decide if this is because time isn't important, orbecause they don't want you to know how long you've been waiting.

The name for this phenomenon in Indonesian is jam karet, ortranslated, "rubber time." Rubber is tricky, because it can bestretched and contracted. I can only conclude, as former Shansi fellowGuy Brown suggested, that all Indonesians have some communal clockimplant or a secret algorithm that allows them to know the true starttime of events.

The surprising part of all ofthis is that no one seems to mind the waiting. I've had a few studentssay that it bothers them and they find it an 'annoying' aspect ofJavanese culture, but in general, people seem to expect delays. Thoughdifferent Americans have different takes on timeliness, I'd say thisdiffers wildly from the general American value that 'time is money' andthat to waste someone's time (especially without notice), is at leastinconsiderate and at worst offensive or cost-inducing.

I also wait for people to show up at meetings,events, or class. "The rehearsal starts at 3pm" could mean anythingfrom "The rehearsal starts at 3.30" to "There is no rehearsal. It'sraining." In the beginning, after the first time I showed up at the stated time to an empty room, I assumed the rule was just be late to everything. But in fact, there is no set rule, as I discovered when I cleverly showed up a half hour late, not 'on time' but 25 minutes after the program had started.

If getting used to lounging around in my errand time was hard,adjusting to Javanese workplace etiquette was off the charts. It tookme months to get used to the idea of taking a half hour from theworkday to chat with the other faculty before class. Sometimes all Iwanted was to bury my head in ESL lesson plans without distraction (andbelieve me I never thought I'd say that), but on Javait's fairly rude to ignore your co-workers in the interest ofproductivity. Initially this shocked me; time is money, time is money, productivity = good,my American brain chanted. It would make me anxious to know that Ineeded to reserve an hour before each class for social time, with my bosses no less!

And at first, the conversations seemed forced, the chitchatartificial, but now I have an amazing community of mentors andco-workers who I knowfairly well, and on whose advice I depend. The office is a safe andwarm place, not the cold sterile cubicle that I see in my nightmares.And productivity? You'd be surprised how much quicker work gets donewhen everyone is laughing and snacking together. Most of my friendswith office jobs spend time on gchat or facebook while on the clock. Atleast in Java the time away from 'real work' is social, real time.

I still think it's inconsiderate to stand someone up without a warming, but in general maybe all of this waiting around isn't a bad thing.It gives me a chance to sit down in the middle of a busy day and take adeep breath, or find out that my mechanic's daughter is in the eighthgrade but shy about her English. Instead of rushing by the world, I cantake a few minutes to soak it up.

Michele, Drew and I managed to make it to the top of Ijen despite a bus break-down and hour long tire change episode.

I wonder how I'll fare in the US... certainly I'llneed to find a job that has a sort of personable work environment, butinevitably I will still be more busy, less relaxed and moreself-centered with my time than I am here. Hopefully when I'm back, and time costs more, I won't let it become more valuable than relationships... although I'm not sure I'll necessarily be chatting up any mechanics once I get my Harley.

The Art of Waiting

2010-08-02T05:55:00.001-04:00

Kuta, Bali: The Place between Heaven and Hell

2010-07-29T14:17:00.000-04:00

If I believed in heaven, purgatory or hell, I would say that I have just visited the first two and I know who's going to the latter.

A lot of people hate Kuta Beach, the noisy and over-touristed surfer town on Bali's southwestern coast (see map). Others pretend to hate Kuta because to admit liking the cigarette burn on the face of lovely Lady Bali would be too shameful. But like it we do; because even upstanding and intelligent human beings sometimes just need to get their party on. Ahem.

The original draw of Kuta was its gorgeous beaches and pristine waves, but over the past few decades this paradise has morphed into a sort of dirty in-between place. It's where all those carrying the strong dollar, Euro or pound go to get cheap party commodities, and where those carrying the weak Rupiah go to get rich.

People planning to stay for a few days or weeks get stuck because of stolen money, bad drugs, lost flights. Some stay because they are hypnotized by the rhythm of Kuta life: the undulation of sun and surf, drunk and dance.

And here we find the perfect melting pot of hedonism and greed, perpetuating stereotypes that all Westerners are wealthy sex fiends and the confirming fears that certain Indonesians are ever willing to drug and steal to make a buck.

Stereotypes about Westerners that are born out of mass media and confirmed in places like Kuta pervade much of Indonesia. As a sort of cultural ambassador, I try to dispel the notions of American women as necessarily drunk, rich and loose. In Jogja, I cover my [almost] cleavage and shoulders. I drink less alcohol and discreetly, and during the fasting month I don't eat in front of observers. I curtail my sexuality to a point where I'm safe from any judgement.

Strangely though, actions which once felt forced are playing a trick on my mind; sometimes instead of thinking I can't wear this tank top in public, I think It is wrong to wear this tank top in public.

That's about the time I feel like banging my head on the table. I don't agree with these values at all! Where did they even come from?

The Qur'an, the Islamic Bible of sorts, is veeery specific about what deeds will be rewarded or punished in the afterlife; so much so that there are special hells for those who dress provocatively (women), wear gold or silver jewelry (men), those who refuse to give alms, and those who drink alcohol or eat pork, etc. Such are the restrictions in life that there is a saying that goes something like this: "Alam Dunia (Earthly Life) is a prison for the Muslim man."

But before you shed your sympathy tears, hear this: Those who sacrifice in Earthly Life will be rewarded in Paradise! ...which is basically an eternal party. Wine and beer flow in rivers, everyone gets 40 virgin escorts, and Allah hosts a suckling pig all-you-can-eat buffet.

Which kind of sounds like Kuta, Bali.

Ok, it might be overblown to liken my compromises in Jogja in exchange for a few good days at the beach to a heaven-aimed Muslim's sacrifices in life. But there is something to be said for living a life of self-censorship and repression; sometime, somewhere, something's gotta blow.

For me, a few days in Kuta was like lifting the button on the pressure cooker. All of the little compromises that I make in my daily life in Jogja had built up to the point where I was starting to forget what I believe is important. Let me tell you, it's not keeping my shoulders covered.

Did I find 40 muscle-bound virgin surfers to help me eat a whole suckling pig? No! (Actually that's not possible, partially because.... ahem.... and partially because one surfer can eat a whole suckling pig by himself). But I did take off some layers, and have more than a few brews with my ham-bacon pizza. If I have to go to hell for it, so be it. It was heaven while it lasted.

'three very best friends' have a night out on the town -->

Blinded by the White

2010-07-19T12:07:00.000-04:00

I've been meaning to write a blog post about the culture of 'whiteness' for a long time, but never quite found the words. Instead, I'm going to link you to my friend Megan's recent post: Obsession with White and Fiona's recent: Don't Judge a Bule by her Color.

In short, Indonesians are consumed with the idea of being pale, and most skin products are marketed as 'skin-brightening' or 'whitening'. The notion of white as beautiful is absolutely blatant; no one tries to hide their preference for paleness because it's not really considered politically incorrect. Perhaps this is because Indonesia has a different history of slavery than the US--Javanese people were exported as slaves under colonial rule to other Dutch colonies, including South Africa and Suriname.

A brief anecdote: my roommate, Lisa, is a tall and quite fair-skinned redhead. It's pretty typical even in Jogja for her to get attention based on her 'foreign beauty, but the obsession was even stronger while she was traveling on the island of Borneo (the Indonesian part of which is called Kalimantan). When Lisa's friend Griffin asked the locals in Borneo, 'What about Lisa is so beautiful?' they answered:

Kalimantan: "Her white skin."

Griffin: Is there anything else about Lisa that makes her more beautiful than another foreign woman?

Kalimantan: No.

Griffin: Just her skin?

Kalimantan: Yes. See, this man [pulls a friend from the back of the crowd] is the ugliest man in our city because he is the darkest.

Griffin: Oh.

Kalimantan: [Man shrugs and nods]

I could go on for a while, but my friends' have already said it well. For more on this, visit the links above!

A Week to Remember, A Night to Forget

2010-07-18T02:16:00.000-04:00

One of the cruel aspects of living abroad in a university town like Jogja is the unending turnover of visitors. Most foreigners stay for less than a year, so for those staying, the months of May to August are an exercise in saying good-bye, one by one, until we are left to start again.

After Fiona went back to the US last Monday morning, I caught the first flight to Jakarta, looking to escape and to meet up with some remaining friends in the Big Durian.

Arriving in Jakarta after living in Jogja is like arriving in New York City straight off the turnip truck, but in a good way. I feel like the proverbial country girl gone to make her fortune as an actress, gazing starry-eyed at tall buildings, and fast cars. In Jakarta, I can also go 'shopping' (trying on lots of beautiful things that I never buy), and fulfill any outstanding 'Western food' cravings. And indeed this week was one to remember: food adventuring, wine drinking, sight-seeing, and public transport experimentation. [TransJakarta busways: A for ease; C for reach; B for ambience; D for mosquito control].

The week couldn't have been happier, but the unusual activities of staying up late, drinking, and sleeping not in my own bed left me bleary-eyed. What could be a better opportunity to catch some shut-eye than my cost-effective train ride back to quaint Jogja?

Or so I thought.

ONLY in a Muslim country would there be neon lights at full volume on an overnight 'executive'-class sleeper train. By the time I realize this is the case, I'm bitter, and when the young man next to me asks if I am looking to get married (actually a common question in Indonesia, to which the answer must always be 'yes'), I say 'no'. When he asks my religion, I say 'atheist.'

This is actually poorly played, because I end up getting pulled into a conversation about why I don't know God' and why, if I think Islam is interesting, don't I just convert! I try to explain that while my Indonesian might be good enough to read the Harper's Bazaar Indonesia that I was enjoying before you interrupted me, I'm not fluent enough to discuss religious theory and the meaning of life. Yes, he did ask me that.

So now I have to feign sleep, which is obviously the only thing that isn't going to happen. I pull my surprisingly cuddly train blanket (IDEA: train slanket!) over my face, hoping the my mind will be tricked into thinking the lights went off or that I will eventually just pass out from lack of oxygen. No luck.

One more sleepless night in Indonesia, rolling into Jogja at 5.30am with some vicious bags under my eyes and a moderately entertaining story. The only 'taxi' driver who will give me a decent price takes me putt-putting away in a spray-painted bundle of metal that might have once been a recognizeable car, but is now struggling not to collapse like a backyard cardboard-box fort after a rainstorm. As we stall out around every turn, I look out of the place where a window would have been. The pink morning sky is gorgeous, and I'm safe and warm... but I can't help the shiver that creeps up my spine.

*Photos, from top: a menu at a creative coffee shop specializing in variety, importing from all coffee-growing regions in Indonesia; at a 'German brewery' downtown, thrilled at drinking a draft beer for the first time in many months; wayang golek or wooden puppet in the style of west java in the Museum Wayang in Jakarta

Peel it Open, Look Inside.

2010-07-09T23:24:00.002-04:00

Please take a moment by clicking here to read a really brilliant final blog post by my friend Fiona, who is leaving for the US on Monday.

*****
Have you ever noticed how people love using fruit as analogies for life and people? "Americans are like pineapples," my Shansi director told me when I complained about having trouble making connections abroad. "They are hard on the outside, but once you really get through the superficial stuff, you can count on a close friend. Indonesians... are like peaches. They are incredibly friendly, hospitable, will invite you to their cousin's wedding or their hometown, but to make the deep connections your are craving, well that's like hitting the pit. It might take a while."

Or maybe it was the other way around.... American are peaches, Indonesians are pineapples... that would definitely be more climate appropriate. Either way, fruit metaphors are ridiculous because pineapples are very acidic and often tart inside, so what does that say about my stalwart friendship? and you can't actually ever eat a peach pit, so looks like I'm bum out of luck once I exhaust my dinner invitations.

So even though I know that the following metaphor has as high a chance of flopping as the above two, I'd like to introduce a new fruit to the mix: the Jeruk Bali, or Bali Orange. The Jeruk Bali is a green sphere about the size of a newborn baby's head, and can only be compared to the pomello. Sweeter than a grapefruit, with deliciously plump pulp pockets when ripe, the Jeruk Bali can also be sour, tough and verging on bitter.

How can you tell a good Jeruk Bali from a dud? In my good experience, you can't, because the damn skin on these things is about 3 centimeters thick. Even if you manage to claw apart the dinosaur-egg shell, there is still a nearly impenetrable white membrane underneath. Just getting to the fruit part of the fruit takes about 15 minutes. Here is a picture of a genetically modified Jeruk Bali that someone put on the internet to torture me:

Here is a picture of a real Jeruk Bali, in my kitchen, halfway to being in my mouth:

So what am I saying? What life metaphor am I trying to convey?

Life--get ready for it--is like a Jeruk Bali. You can try to feel out a situation, smell it, squeeze it with your fingers to see if it's ready (less appropriate in some situations than others, as in please don't squeeze your boss to see if she's ripe before you ask for a raise), but ultimately you have no idea what the results are going to be until you claw it apart, and invest a little time and energy.

This is even more true living abroad, where I don't even have a frame of reference for how to evaluate situations. Accepting an invitation or investing in a new friendship might mean a very rewarding experience, or it might lead me down a path to disappointment and discomfort. But here, I can't even rely on my gut instinct for guidance, because there is a world of information that hasn't been translated for me. So do I take the risk? or do I retreat back to the few reliable things in my life here--my American friends, my teaching, books and music--and leave the adventuring for another day?

I'd like to say, "No! I fearlessly dive into the day's adventure--that's why I'm in Indonesia!" but often this is not true. A few weeks traveling... sure go all out. Even on a semester abroad, a few failed expeditions or relationships is no skin off my back. But after a year, I'm tired. I want to have experiences that make me feel good about myself, that make me feel loved and competent and strong.

I am not willing to get a bitter fruit 50 percent of the time, and because of that, I'm stuck.

Trying to pull this blog out of a mire of self-pity and fruit-deprecating remarks, all I can do is ask for advice. I have to find a way to make the risks worth taking. Perhaps if I loved Indonesian cultures as much as I love Jeruk Balis, I'd be willing to take a few more risks, but unfortunately the motivation will have to come from somewhere else.

How to go outside my comfort zone--again? And how--please tell me someone knows the answer to this--to tell if a Jeruk Bali is sweet before opened?! No metaphor here, I just really like this fruit.

Who needs smart phones? I like to be smarter than my phone.

2010-07-07T05:46:00.002-04:00

The key to getting a good helmet is making sure it's tight. It should have a sweet design and phat aerodynamic detailing.

Ok that pun didn't work. Fine.

Really your helmet just needs to fit closely to your head. Over time of course of time however, the inner padding will become more and more compressed. This is pretty much inevitable and is just an unfortunate discomfort that should not significantly affect your safety.

However, every helmet has a silver lining.

When the padding has compressed to approximately 80% of its initial paddosity, there will be exactly enough room to wedge your cell phone in between your ear and helmet (increased risk of cancer due to ear sweat absorbing more radiation unknown).

Voila! Third-world bluetooth.* You can now talk and drive at the same time without removing your hands from the hand brake or horn access zone. Just make sure you are talking to someone who you actually like, because hanging up is not possible.

*Note: this does not work for iPhones, Blackberries, or basically any phone other than the smallest and crappiest Nokia available. Smart phone owners, your phone might be phat, but it's too fat to phit in my helmet.

Laughing in Indonesia, Smiling in New York

2010-06-23T05:54:00.001-04:00

Today I'm sitting across the coffee table from my friend, Takashi. That's right, the same Takashi who stayed in the Bu Wiwik's home with me one year ago, and became my first friend in Jogja. Back for a visit, my old buddy asks me just how long I'm going to be in Indonesia, anyway, spurring a thread of speculations about my future life in the States. The move is far away, and I pick a different city for my fantasy each time. We talk about New York and imagine how bizarre I would look in the Big Apple, a city almost exactly opposite from Jogja. We imagine the things that people would say to me: "Walk faster!" and "Why are you smiling?!"

In Jogja, I feel like smiling and laughing are mandatory during any interaction, and the more 'polite' or formal the situation, the more smiling. When Emma returned for Christmas mid-way through her first year in Jogja, the immigation officer at JFK asked her, "Are you always this... happy?" Emma took it in stride, and explained that in Jogja, that's just the way people are. They smile.

Two more examples: my Javanese friend Ajik thought that I didn't like him for our first few weeks of aquaintence. Culprit? Lack of constant smiling. And the most frequent suggestion from my students this semester was, "Smile more!" I already feel like my cheeks need a rub-down after class from holding up the corners of my mouth in encouraging and 'happy' expressions.

Because smiling and laughing seems to be the default emotion here in Jogja, I often wonder... are all these people really that happy? What does a central Javanese have to laugh about that a New Yorker doesn't? My first suggestion would be tropical sunshine. But this year I learned that a 6-month rainy season can do about as much for the mood as a 6-month Oberlin winter [Talk about SAD]. So if there's no sunshine for half the year, what is making everyone so cheery? Or are they just way better fakers than I am?

Worst fake smilers ever. But we really did like the sultan's carriage, i promise.

I hear a lot of stories about travelers like myself--often young and privileged Americans--going to poor countries and observing that people have no money but are 'truly' or 'deeply happy'; that somehow without the distraction of material possessions or trust funds, they are able to be grateful for the things that 'really matter' like personal relationships, nature, and God.

I remember one particular report of a small and poor town in South India where life is 'so much better' than in the US. My friend is in fact so taken by the place where he had taught for a year that he plans to return and bring up his family there. According to him, it's the best place in the world to have children; not least because a community spirit eliminates concerns about security and parents and children can live unburdened by the kind of fear that consumes many urban families in US cities.

But apparently not all is perfect in paradise. The nearest hospital? About two hours down a hill. Reliable ambulance to get your child there after they crack their head on a rock playing soccer? None.

In my opinion, romanticization of poverty doesn't do anyone any favors. No one is smiling because ofpoverty and 'rich' people don't have to be miserable. [In fact, even if wealth did directly increase misery, no one has to be rich, right?]

In Jogja, there isn't the same sort of inaccessibility as in some poor rural areas of the world. There are about five hospitals within a mile of my house, and most people I know can afford some sort of medical treatment for minor sicknesses or injuries. But even middle-class Indonesians are 'poor' on a global scale because of the country's depleted currency. And how 'happy' are my friends who can't afford to travel outside the country (maybe ever) because of wild exchange rates? I'm sure you can imagine.

So back to my question: why is everyone smiling here and not in New York? Does smiling have anything to do with 'real' or 'true' happiness? Surely everyone, here and in the US, has smiled when they don't feel happy... and we don't necessarily break into pearly laughter at the peak of our contentment.

Smiling is a non-verbal message that we give to the world to project an image of ourselves, whether it truly reflects our feelings or not. What's interesting is that in Jogja the image that society most appreciates is a happy one, not necessarily an honest one. In Indonesia, my biggest struggle is to portray myself in the way that people here want to see me, not in the way that I am.

So until I can move to someplace like New York and frown to my heart's content, I have to smile. And even though they may not always coincide, it is definitely easier to smile when I'm happy. Luckily, there are lots of opportunities to not fake it.

Flying kites with Ajik and his brother Venda in the rice paddies. What could be easier to smile about?

The First Year is the Hardest and Cite your Sources Properly

2010-06-18T11:02:00.001-04:00

Note:This article maybe too longto read and navigate comfortably. Please consider splitting content into sub-articles andusing this article for a summaryof the key points of the subject.

****

Ok, folks, it’s about time. One-year anniversary (last week)and contrary to all of my own predictions, I am going strong. My Cross-CulturalUnderstanding students were very cute atthe end of the semester, most especially in their course evaluations. Theyseemed to take the ‘additional comments and suggestions’ section as anopportunity to write me a personal letter, dotted with gratuitous smiley faces,sticking-out-tongue smiley's, etc.

The earnest:

“I feel amazing when I know about something knew informationfrom other country.”

“Brittany, I love your high expectation towards the studentsJ.Don’t be to high thought…ha…ha…”

The mysterious:

“During this semester, that was good.”

The straightforward suck-up:

“I love this class!!” “ I love u!!!! J”

“Perhaps after ended this class we can hang out together.”

“Don’t go… J I hope you still gonna be mylecture.”

“The lecturers are beautiful, that motivated me to come toclass! LOL.” And “Britanny smile a lot please… you’re beautiful…”

Obviously these students got As.

Just kidding the forms were anonymous.

*****

All of the positive feedback from my students combined withthe fact that Patrick and I are now the (dum dum duuuum) SENIOR FELLOWS, hashad me thinking a lot about authority.

So there’s one kind of authority… like the kind that yourcollege professors or boss at work encourage: peer-reviewed, scientificconsensus, expert in their field… these are the buzzwords if you want to betaken seriously. But then again, who doesn’t use Wikipedia these days? And after you read an article on Wikipedia,do you cross check all of the information with scholarly journals andgovernment publications? Of course not, because we trust in the authority ofthe masses—all of those geeks out there fact-checking Wikipedia articles forfun, loving information, crazy for the truth.

What’s my point?

Starting tomorrow, when the new Shansi fellow arrives, Iwill be considered an authority on living and teaching in Indonesia. At leastto her, and she’ll have no way of knowing any better (hopefully she has lostthe link to this blog)! In a way, it’s kind of true.

List of things in Jogja on which I have authoritativeknowledge:

getting drinking water
faking diabetes so to bypass the normal several cups of sugar per juice drink
finding the XXXL sizes in the department store
not sweating through my work clothes before 10am
avoiding activities like climbing volcanoes which are supposed to be “easy” [see article on 'Mt. Merapi']
squishing biting ants on my sofa

Pretty good. But let’s face it people, I’m still not super proficient in Indonesian, am endlessly baffled at people’s lack of helpfulness in the interest of saving face (a story on this later), and can’t seem to stay dry on my motorbike even after a whole rainy season. There is also a rat in my apartment that I have not the heart to kill, but I guess that could happen as easily in New York, eh?

When Madurai fellow Kelly came to visit, I was the Indonesia authority. Kelly is, however, the party authority, so it was good to have her at Emma and Cyrus' farewell bash.

What I’m getting at is that when you start something… be ita musical instrument, sport, computer skill, or language, living in a newplace… the small achievements areclearly visible (“I can already play G, D, and A chord—that’s like every GreenDay song ever!”) Once we reach a certain level of proficiency, it’s easier tosee how far we are from the top instead of how far we have already come. But tothose around us just starting off, we ARE the authority, just by having moretallied experience than the newcomer.

It’s easy to forget that you too were once the ‘newcomer’and didn’t know jack shit, whereas now… well now you have the whole metrosystem memorized, or can fluently conjugate the present tense, or are able towalk in heels without falling down (modeling industry anyone?). Luckily thereare also usually people who were around during this learning process to remindyou of your comparative authority.

My 'authority'... the endlessly patient Emma.

In other words, I am my own Wikipedia article. I’m not teacher-certified, or a government-employed translator, and no, I still don’t have a master’s degree. But to a newcomer, or to the Brittany/Luna of June 12, 2009, I am an expert, source of all information needed for survival.

Need citation for verification? Nope, I am bolstered by all the encouragement of family and friends who keep telling me that I am doing a good job of adjusting to a new culture, a new country (but by the way, those same people who are telling me that I’m actually good at guitar, that one just isn’t true, folks). Sometimes there are even those little pop-out references in their encouragement, like email from August 12, 2009: doesn’t know how to get drinking water: “See you totally know how to do that now!”

Thank you so much all you loving cross referencers forhelping me remember that living in Indonesia is hard, but I’ve come a long way.Hopefully Nicole will be able to find some comfort in having an “authority”around… but I also hope she won’t trust me as implicitly as I trust someWikipedia articles J

:P LOL d:)

Home for Christmas, if only in my Dreams

2010-01-05T01:50:00.001-05:00

Red dust stings my eyes and I slam on the horn as we whizz by a fat cow sitting in a pile of trash. Cyrus and I are taking Kelly's 'scooty'--an automatic scooter that makes my 'bike' look like a hog--to the local grocery store to look for nutmeg for Christmas spice cookies. Kelly has drawn me a very detailed map from her house to the store and from the entrance of the store to the spice shelf. She even out the word for 'nutmeg' in Tamil script and phoeneticized roman letters.

"Don't let them give you anything except nutmeg," she tells us. "The people who work at the grocery store always think they know what you need better than you do. Usually they're right, but sometimes it's like, 'No I really need two tomatoes, not six.'" Kelly's overflowing bubbly laughter assures us that she's taking all the cultural disconnect in stride. "In fact, just say you need it for chai. Ja-thee-kai is nutmeg.'

We laugh, consult the map, and we're off. We nearly cause several accidents on the way because everyone is rubber-necking, staring for any of the following reasons:

a. we are the only people on bikes wearing helmets

b. I, a woman, am driving and Cyrus is on the back

c. we exist

[This last reason is probably the most common reason that people stare at me/laugh at me in Yogya. I drive my bike up to the grocery store and take a parking ticket all the lot attendants laugh. I take my laundry to the laundry woman and everyone on the street outside laughs. Best of all, I get food for lunch and everyone eating lunch and all the workers laugh. For me, just existing makes me the center of a huge comedy, all lost in translation. I'm glad I'm making someone's day.]

Kelly was right to give me a map of the store and correct in predicticing that the incredibly over-employed staff would try to give me lots of spices besides the one I'm looking for. I know from Java that sometimes the best way to get what you want is to just repeat the request several times until the corresponding item appears. I try it.

"Jatheekai."' I am handed anise.

"Jatheekai?" This time I get mace.

"Ok, yes, but jatheekai only." Nutmeg is produced.

It blows my mind that this works, since I'm saying the exact same thing over and over, but soon enough, Cyrus and I are ringing up at counter 1, paying at counter 2, and getting our recipt stamped at counter 3 (for more on the hilarity of Indian over-employment and love of counters, see my old blog: http://livejournal.hyderabritt.com/).

Anyone who has witnessed one of my attempts to make cookies or muffins knows that I'm not much of a baker, and my already rudimentary skills are definitely challenged by the lack of conventional baking supplies or ovens in asia. So it is one of the more gratifying successes of my life abroad when my spice cookies are warmly received and gobbled up at Christmas dinner.

And where do we spend the holiday? At the president of Lady Doak College's beautiful house, just down the road from Kelly. And unlike other years, there is no need to assess the implications of going or not going to Christmas Mass; the decision is made for us. 'Pastor Sam', a friend of the college, leads the 20 mixed Americans and Tamil guests in the singing of a few carols ('hymns') and then graces us all with a sermon so non-linear that it could only have occurred on the subcontinent.

Pastor Sam is talking about God's many names, and an eagle, something about an eagle...

...and I drift off.

I remember another Christmas in India, or rather on a plane to India, when I looked down at the city of Delhi, catching my first glimpse of the nighttime lights of a city that really never sleeps. Exactly three years ago. That night is ingrained in my memory as the beginning of a chain reaction that landed me in Java, doing what I'm doing today.

"Is this your first time to India?" the man sitting next to me on the plane asks me. I nod, and crane my neck past him, envying his window seat. "I am going home for the first time in five years," he said, sort of to no one in particular. "I haven't seen my wife since I left, only a few weeks after we were married."

My thoughts are interrupted by a minor surge of passion in Pastor Sam's speech: "...and the eagle's beak grow back, until is is a full beak again!" I think I've missed the point of this story. Or more likely, much has been lost in translation, and I haven't been listening closely enough to break the code. I smile and slightly bob my head to the right in affirmation. After this gesture of participation, I am free to wander back to my musings.

The man on the plane, though his story seemed sad, is only one of many young Indians who I would meet with similar stories of transplantation. It is much more common here than in the States for young people to go abroad for studies or for work, leaving behind friends, family and sometimes, like this man, even new wives.

Like an old transistor radio, my own monologue fades, and merges with the activity in the room around me. I gather that this is the moment to tune back in: "... And thus God is called by the name Emmanuel: He who will give us comfort in our time of need. Comfort you, my people, comfort you." I nod appreciatively, consider crossing myself, but miss the appropriate moment, blush, and decided that no one noticed.

And whether is was the sermon, or being with Kelly and Emma and Cyrus, or being back in India, or the warmth of a family home at Christmastime... or thinking of the man on the plane... I am truly comforted.

SingSane and a not-so-white Christmas

2009-12-21T17:49:00.001-05:00

I make a bee-line for the shiny black LG monitors under the haloed sign that reads "Free Internet." My one-track mind thinks of my blog as much as the novelty of using the web for free. I am back in the land of order, control, and toilet seats so clean you could eat a meal off of them (make that one bagel breakfast sandwich with cheese and bacon please. No halal food for me).

After making sure that my boss received my quarterly report, and checking up on my friend Daniel's white Christmas in Taigu, China, I sit down at Starbucks ["Billie Jean" playing behind the counter, and mixing interestingly with airport smooth jazz]. I figure I may as well enjoy the comfort while I can.

I'm leaving my family in Singpore and headed to South India, in a sort of reverse homecoming, to spend Christmas with my dear friend and co-fellow Kelly, and to visit my old host family in Hyderabad. After the New Year, I plan to visit another family to whom I played host in Oberlin a few years ago, the Godeys. Finally, I'll go to the southernmost tip of the subcontinent and meet up with Emma and Cyrus before catching the Cochin-KL flight on my favorite budget airline, Air Asia.

I feel a twinge of discomfort as I think about these plans (and as I think about how Starbucks is really stingy with cream cheese, damn economic recession). I have no train tickets for any leg of this journey and no guarantee that I'll get to any of the above-mentioned places after Christmas.

With a trite sigh of nostalgia, I remember a similarly ill-planned (but well-fated) trip three years ago post-Hyderabad semester. But this time, I'll be alone--no travel buddy Cahalen to laugh with or to wiggle out of tricky/frustrating situations with. Or to pretend to be my husband. Nope, I'll be more or less alone in a land that I never considered particularly friendly to women. Or type-A people.

Which brings me back to the Singapore airport (because don't you know I love when things go full circle): Singapore is clean, orderly, and sane in every way. And it will be my new home-away-from when my parents move here next month. I always thought that I liked things clean and safely sane. As a kid, I was excessively cautious, refusing to try things that didn't have a 100% success or safety rate. When I got to college, I was still washing my hair twice a day and mostly afriad of failure of any kind.

Turns out, these days, I kind of like dirt. I like disorder, and eve if I don't like failure and frustration, I thrive in it. Dirt shows that things are alive and failure that we are human. And I like to be both of those things.

Which is a good thing, because I can't imagine how much of both I'll encounter in the next four weeks.

I'll take another bagel and cream cheese to go, thanks.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2009-12-13T02:29:00.000-05:00

Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you are the only sane person in the room? Where basic logic is defied? You look to your friend, or the person standing next to you to confirm that the events unfolding are real, that you are not imagining this totally nonsensical situation.

That perfectly describes my everyday life. And while Indonesians go everywhere with a friend because it’s not socially acceptable to do things alone, I go everywhere with a friend because I need someone to be next to me when something happens that is beyond belief.

Logic enables us to function as humans in society; reason is the filter through which we take information about the world and decide how to react. It is the most basic form of truth, the most obviously understanding of cause and effect. It’s hot, so I’ll take off my sweater. An ambulance needs to get by, so I’ll slow down and pull over to make way. I only have five minutes to complete this task, so I won’t chat with my friend while I’m doing it.

On Java, all of what my American brain understands as logical is contradicted daily. The hotter and sunnier outside, the more clothing people wear. Ambulances are completely ignored in the normal pattern of traffic, and the busier you are at work, the more people expect you to stop and chat.

Logic, in fact, is very cultural. On Java, all of the above contradictions can be perfectly explained by cultural context: people are petrified of getting a tan, since whiteness is considered attractive; if cars and motorbikes slowed down or pulled over for ambulances, the sheer volume of traffic would make it impossible for the emergency vehicle to pass; and being busy is considered negative--going about your work without chatting with your co-workers might be conflated with being too proud. Socializing is considered much more polite in Javanese culture.

Sometimes I am able to remember that logic is cultural, as in these situations, but sometimes my American brain just cannot accept what is happening around me. That’s when I need a buddy by my side so that we can look at each other and say, Really? And burst into giggles.

My favorites are things like this:

At the gym, four people are swimming laps lengthwise in the pool. One Indonesian man gets in the pool and starts swimming laps width-wise, at the exact pace to collide with all four of the other swimmers.

To get a 5-gallon water tank, you must trade in an empty bottle. One cannot buy a full bottle even for an extra cost. Once, I tried to explain that I couldn’t possibly give them an empty bottle before I could use the water out of a full bottle. No one was moved.

And my absolute favorite:

3. At our favorite Italian pizza joint, medium pizzas are always sold out but large pizzas are always available even though pizzas are made fresh for each order.

Once in a while, however, I am just not able to see the humor in an illogical situation. Sometimes I’m just tired out from a whole day of dealing with incomprehensible situations and something has to be the last straw.

For example, on Friday, Fiona, Michele, and I decided to go see the 9.30 showing at the local movie theater, but were late to the theater. By the time I showed up, it was 9.40 and to my surprise, the front ticket desk was already closed. When I went to the theater doors, there were two attendants guarding the entrance. Here was our interaction:

Me: Can I still buy tickets for this movie?

Attendants: No. The desk is closed.

Me: Well can I go in the theater?

Attendants: No.

Me: So…. I can’t buy tickets and I am not allowed to go in.

Attendants: Right.

Me: But there are empty seats.

Attendants: [sideways glances at each other] Maybe.

Me: But not all the tickets are gone because the sign at the front desk says so.

Attendants: [smile].

To me, this seemed like the most unbelievable defiance of common sense. Why wouldn’t you want to sell extra tickets? Or, if you don’t want to sell any more tickets, who are you hurting by letting me in the theater to fill an unused seat? At times like these, I really wish I could zoom back to the States for a minute and be somewhere where things make sense.

Not least because I was trying to see Twilight: New Moon for the second time in three days… which, while might make sense in Indonesia, definitely defies all logic otherwise.

Think Thank

2009-12-03T23:11:00.000-05:00

My own joy and excitement was overflowing, just as our meter-long breakfast table was exploding with the greens, reds, and golds of a real Thanksgiving feast. Piled with roast chicken, stuffing, mashed potatoes, fresh bread, cranberry sauce, and pies galore, every surface of my apartment exuded the smells and colors of holiday, and… home. Everyone pulled out the stops; Lolly made salad with red wine vinegar dressing and basil, Becca’s mom sent real pecans for pie, and I splurged on imported cheese for the pasta.

The mood leading up to our Friday Thanksgiving celebration was strange indeed. I, as many of my friends here, hadn’t yet had a Thanksgiving without either my family or my closest friends. And the scenery couldn’t be less fall-like: in mid-November, it is still over 80 degrees F and the foliage is only getting greener in the first weeks of rainy season, not red and yellow and orange.

To make things even stranger, the Friday after Thanksgiving, on which day we decided to hold our celebration, was a major Islamic holiday. Idul Adha celebrates the Abraham-Issac incident that appears not only in the Old Testament but also in the Qu’ran. The week leading up to Idul Adha saw tons of goats brought in from the country and penned up for a few days under signs that read, "Only 1 million rupiah [$100] for a goat!"

When I drove by the poor animals on Wednesday and Thursday and heard them bleating, I imagined that they knew exactly what their big trip to the city meant: on Idul Adha, the celebration of a day when a father tried to make a human sacrifice of his only son, thousands of goats are slaughtered throughout the city as a symbolic gesture (and as a precursor to some delicious goat curry)!

Living in Indonesia means being destined to have an a-traditional Thanksgiving, and if goat slaughters and the absence of turkey were to dictate the day, why not invite some non-Americans too? Ours was truly an international celebration, with Malaysian, Viennese, and Ecuadorian friends. We ate, and drank terrible Indonesian beer, and we were thankful:

Thankful to be part of such a vibrant foreigner community, with some the most enthusiastic and friendly travelers in the world. Thankful that even though we are thousands of miles from anything familiar, that our friends and family haven’t forgotten about us. Thankful to be an American abroad in a time when we don’t need to apologize for our nationality.

We gave thanks for having enough food to eat, and for the unique opportunity to be able to travel, when most natives of our host country will never leave Indonesia. Many will never be able to leave their island or even their city, though their country is vast and hosts an unimaginable diversity of people and landscapes to explore. Though my whole life has been filled with things to be thankful for—two incredible parents, an amazing sister, a loving and supportive family, the best friends on the earth, a warm house, an invaluable education, access to music and art—I never felt so close to all of these things as I do now.

*****

This year, I also got to thinking about all the material things for which we, as Americans, have to be thankful, like energy and water. Unfortunately, just as in the original Thanksgiving legend, easy access to all of these things often comes at the expense of others.

Of course we all still want to buy things; many of them and cheaply. Of course I want my imported cheese to make living abroad feel more like home. But maybe it’s possible to give thanks for things that aren’t limited, like creativity and empathy, and to scale back on consuming the things that limit what is available for others, either now or in the future. It may still be possible to be joyful and conscientious; to be satisfied and to sacrifice. To thank and to think.

And with the bulk of the holiday season still ahead of us, there’s plenty of time to try and see.

The Wet and Moldy Moon

2009-11-21T23:01:00.001-05:00

It’s raining. Hard. It has been raining hard for the past two hours, starting when I was driving home from the gym on my [uncovered] motorbike. It has been raining hard for five days. It will continue to rain hard for six more months. That’s about 180 days, give or take a few. It didn’t really occur to me that “rainy season” literally meant that it would rain all day every day for half of the year. I’m not sure I’m OK with this.

First off, the appendages of my house have already started to flood. This is the downstairs lobby/garage and the balconies. I’ve also been informed that everything will soon start to mold, including my bed, my pillows, the curtains, my books, and possibly my hair and skin. Apparently even the inside of motorbike engines can mold, so I don’t have high hopes for my five-year-old Mac, which has already become a hotel for the teeny ants that inhabit every surface in the house. Time to back up some docs.

On the positive side, dry flakey winter skin is no longer a problem and I can save hundreds on moisturizing! Also it’s a lot nicer to see lush green jungle plants everywhere rather than dead brown ones. And finally, I get to look really sexy when I ride my bike in the rain:

What looks like a trash bag is actually a highly modified polyethylene “mantel” or poncho. The crumpled look is all the rage this season and can be achieved by haphazardly stuffing the mantel in the not-quite-sufficient-sized compartment under a motorbike seat. This particular mantel has been modified to fit a bigger head, which shows off the wearer’s large brain and leaves space for a bib-shaped watermark to develop when rain trickles through the opening onto the wearer’s T-shirt. How can you get this look at home? Simply pull your mantel over your head with haste, preferably in the first few seconds of a rainstorm, while frantically trying to change into the mantel at a red light. The added anxiety will ensure that the mantel is pulled hard enough to tear.

ColoRevolution

2009-11-18T09:34:00.001-05:00

There’s this great structure in Indonesian grammar whereby a prefix turns an adjective into a verb meaning, “to make object become more adjective”. This is often used with colors, as in the case of dying your hair brown, you might say, Saya mencoklatkan rambut saya, or literally translated. I enabled to become brown my hair. I really like this construction because it emphasizes the process and, like many other Indonesian constructions uses the concept menjadi, or to become. If you make someone happy, you actually enable them to become happy, spurring an evolution rather than turning on a switch of happiness.

Those of you who have followed me from my first days in the Sekip apartment (and thank you for staying with me!!! It enables me to become happy

that you haven’t given up on my blog!), will remember that the apartment was a little… unloved when I moved in. Those of you who have Skyped with me will recall walls of chipped paint and ten-year-old dirt on plain off-white 15-ft walls.

My roommate Lisa, who is an art student for the year in Yogya had the brilliant suggestion of painting at least one wall in the living room, to enable the house to become more beautiful. When we got to the paint store and realized that a five gallon bucket is less than five USD… well, we got pretty excited (see top). With the help of the lovely Fiona, we three enabled our ugly dingy wall to become bright ochre yellow in a few hours.

*****

Coincidentally, this weekend Yogya hosted a mural-painting competition honoring a historic Indonesian nationalist figure, General Soedirman. Anyone was allowed to participate in the contest, which ran from midnight to 4am last Saturday/Sunday night. The entire main drag, called Malioboro St, was closed off and lined with hundreds of 1.5 x 4meters wide wooden boards. Yogyanese, young and old (but mostly young and male), came prepared with paint, brushes cans, and caps, each striving to show off their creative skillz to the city.

It was not surprising that this mural/graffiti competition was so well-organized and well-attended. Yogya is a city full of art. There is a large art university in the south, and a general confluence of traditional culture with a couple hundred thousands college kids, many coming from privileged backgrounds with money and time to spend on art supplies. Small galleries and film festivals abound; Yogya counter-culture types ride brightly painted Vespas; and in 2003, a San Francisco-Yogya graffiti project painted walls and flyovers here and in the Bay.

What was interesting was that the many military hands helping to manage the event were working side-by-side with the artists. There was no sense of police vs. artists—in fact, most of the men wearing camo suits were sitting down right next to the painters, acting more as the peanut gallery than officers (see below right).

The painters were allowed to register individually or in teams, and the most popular team of the night was the one and only buleh team. The bulehs, which is slang for “white person” were my friends and notorious brother-sister duo Pippin and Paul accompanied by their buddy Maya. By 2am when I was photographing their station, a huge crowd had amassed around their wood, everyone anxious to see what the bulehs could come up with. It was definitely worth sacrificing a little sleep and getting a little damp in the midnight monsoon rain.

*****

Eager to continue my week of art adventures, Fiona and I visited the Affandi art gallery. Affandi is probably Yogya’s biggest art celebrity and left as his legacy not only his art collection but also his house in Yogya. Not so much a house, this compound is a wild Gaudi-ish set of buildings, a tower, and a huge (now empty) mosaic swimming pool complete with a large dolphin built into the side (see below).

In democratic Indonesia, art is more than a cultural symbol. The fact that art spaces are preserved and revered and that artists are given freedom and support from the government is the mark of an evolution from a closed society (under the military regime of President Suharto, which lasted until 1998) to an open one. I’m not sure if I can make that into a single word using a prefix, but let’s give it a shot: membebas… to enable to become free.

An Ass of U and Me

2009-11-13T06:04:00.000-05:00

One thing that I took for granted at home was the understanding of what parts of myself are valuable to other people, i.e. skills and talents. For example, I feel like as an Oberlin graduate, I have good writing skills, work ethic and creative thinking to offer in a work place. As a drop-out in a performance track, I feel that I do not have much to offer as a performing classical violinist. Both of these assumptions were turned hilariously upside-down this week, confirmed what I already know: when we assume, it makes... (see title).

*****

So first off,

I’ve been trying to get a volunteer job at a local NGO. I sought them out, went and visited and offered one or two days of FREE help per week, with the information that I’ll be living here and teaching part time for 2 years. They weren’t really interested the first time I went. “We just don’t really have a system for volunteers,” they said.

After I was rejected, I went back three more times, each time gaining one tiny bit of further information, but still no job. Smiling, I repeated that I would like to volunteer (FREE) and that I could do all of the things they were asking for—editing, teaching, grant-writing, some translation. Some interest, but still no commitment.

The last time I went, I got a small bit more of a lead, and was promised that they would contact me, but it’s been ten days and I haven’t heard back. Time to visit again… But anyway, here I am practically begging these people to take my FREE labor, my FREE skills and energy… and they can’t push me out the door fast enough.

*****

On the absolute opposite end of the spectrum,

I recently volunteered to play in a charity concert thrown by the International School at the Medical Faculty at UGM to benefit the victims of the Padang earthquake. This event was much anticipated; the initial meeting was late in September. From the beginning, all of the participants seemed thrilled, nay ecstatic to have me participate in the event.

As it worked out, I was already on the special list for being the only representative of the US and one of the only violinists, as well as the only non-student performer. Somehow, the word also got out that I attended ‘conservatory in the US’, which added a whole new level of anticipation. I tried to explain that this was very misleading since I hadn’t actually performed on the violin for four years, but everyone was nevertheless convinced that they had roped Anna Sophie Mutter to play the show. I was scared.

The day of the performance eventually rolled around and I found myself showered with more attention than is given the presidents of some small countries.

Things that will probably never happen to me again that happened for the “Hands to Share” charity concert:

1. My own ‘concert liaison’

Actually several. All of the coordinators seemed to also be my own rehearsal coordinator. These women were all amazing, supportive and kind. I actually made friends with one girl, so hopefully we can hang out in a situation where she doesn’t have to say, “Do you need anything else?”

2. My name on a dressing-room door.

Actually this was super embarrassing because the dressing rooms were divided by gender with the men’s dressing room saying “Int’l Students Dressing Room Gents” and the women’s saying, “Int’l Students Dressing Room Ladies and MS. BRITTANY JORDAN” (see photo).

3. solo session in a professional photo shoot

This was sweet. Upstairs from the green room, a whole photo studio had set up professional backdrops and had me stand for a solo session and then for a group shot with the two other violinists. The pictures look fantastic and you almost can’t tell that I’m wearing a school-marm skirt from Talbot’s (ugh).

4. Billed as the “special representative from Oberlin Shansi USA” and introduced with a short biography

I didn’t hear them introduce me because I was busing trying not to pass out in the wings. First performance in four years = nervous.

5. INTERVIEWED on stage, post concert

…where I gave a short spiel about Shansi. The second question was, “So… Ms. Brittany, what do you think of this? This event!” I responded with my most gracious beauty-queen-worthy acknowledgements and ended with a plug for the donation box. HA.

6. Paid an amount of money that could pay for two months’ rent (dumped in the charity box, don’t worry)

7. Given an extra solo bow at the end of the concert

…at which time I was presented with a huge bouquet of flowers.

8. Specially introduced to the concert VIPs, including the Indonesian ambassador to Abu Dhabi.

9. Souvenir mug, certificate of participation

Ok, maybe this will happen again, but it was still sweet.

Did I mention that I only played for 4 minutes?

*****

So, in conclusion, never under-estimate what you might have to offer… you might be appreciated well beyond your expectations! By the same token, when you think you’re hot shit, probably some one else disagrees. Even when your $$$$$ college degrees say otherwise.

Cultural Exchange: Look! before Proceeding

2009-11-04T09:45:00.000-05:00

So as I was driving home just now, I turned an only semi-familiar corner onto my street and ran smack into a tree branch. This was no small twig, but rather a full and leafy limb just limber enough to not knock me off the bike as it smacked me in the face. Or should I say as my face smacked the branch, innocently existing as a shade provider for street-corner critters and parked bikes. But before that happened…

*****

Scene: hottest day of the year. So hot that sitting still is uncomfortable. So hot that every pore on my body is open and pulsing sweat. SO HOT that even the Indonesians are complaining.

Incidentally, today was also the day that a former teacher from my faculty was honored with the title “Guru Besar” which literally translates to “Big Teacher.” I have no idea what this title means (perhaps something close to Prof. Emeritus?), but had received an invitation to the event a few weeks ago. Having only met Pak Steve once, I didn’t view it crucial for me to be at his besar-ing.

Though this conclusion was the result of serious miscalculation, I would like to point out that absolutely no one informed me of the relevance or importance of a besar-ment. Did anyone say, “Everyone in the office will be attending this event all day on Wednesday”? Did anyone take thirty seconds to mention, “This event is formal. Everyone from the whole faculty will be there and everyone will be wearing batik”?? No, not a word. Did a single benevolent soul say, “Your reputation depends on the fact that you attend this extremely important event in proper style and timeliness”? NO. Nobody told me any of these things.

And so, until this very morning, when somebody called Emma (not me) to remind her of the event, I wasn’t planning on attending. And because I was not teaching today, but merely observing midterm performances at school, I was dressed pretty much as informally as I would ever go to school. Long work pants, cotton t-shirt with a casual sweater and scarf. Belum mandi.

Me (to Emma): Yea, so I don’t think I’m going to this event today. I already made other plans.

Emma: Yeaaaaa. Mmmmm

Me: Or… ??

Emma: You probably want to go just for a little bit to show your face.

Me: Oh. Hmmm.

We walk from campus to the University Club reception center a few blocks away and by the time we arrive, I have already begun dripping with sweat. As the formal brown-and-white berbatiked crowd gets closer and closer, and my blue cotton T more and more saturated with sweat, I realize that I have made a huge mistake. The handshakes begin. “Oh hello, good afternoon Mr. So-and-so…. Oh! Your wife, how nice to meet you… yes, what a wonderful event… yes I teach English… oh yes it is hot… oh yes, I am sweating visibly down the side of my face… Oh hello, Pak [I’ve forgotten your name also]…”

By the time we make it into the reception room behind 300 other teachers (all significantly older and dressed to the nines), my head is spinning and my once-blue shirt is reaching full saturation. I’m embarrassed to be so informally dressed, and soaking with sweat, and everyone is asking me why I missed the speech that morning (what speech?). Apparently giving a midterm exam to my students is not a good response; all other classes were cancelled so that the lecturers could attend Pak Steve’s besar-ation!

The reception room is grand to say the least; inside is more like a wedding than… a besar-izing. Food to pump my extremely low blood sugar and water to hydrate my shaking body are visible, but first… a line. A long receiving line culminating in shaking hands with Pak Steve and Pak Steve’s entire family. Looking around, I realize that I have been left completely in the dark about every aspect of this event. I go into full panic mode.

It’s possible that if I had eaten sometime in the previous six hours or it had been cooler than 100 degrees, perhaps I could have weathered the anxiety attack. But as it was…. I shook hands with Pak Steve, Pak Steve’s wife, Pak Steve’s son, and some other unidentifiable male relative of Pak Steve, ducked past the fruit line, ducked past my concerned co-fellow (too little too late) and out the door.

*****

I know what you’re thinking: how is she going to tie this all together? Batik. Big Teacher. Bikes. Branches.

It might be simplifying things, but today I learned that no one is going to warn me before I drive straight into a metaphorical (or not) tree branch. In college, there was always someone saying, “And remember, your final essay is due at the end of the semester. It should be 15 pages. Please confirm with me ahead of time that your topic is acceptable.” There was always someone looking out for me. I know this, because now I’m a teacher, and I am there to guide my students. But who guides the teachers?

I guess I thought that being a clearly hapless foreigner would gain me some extra attention and advice (and don’t get me wrong, sometimes it does!), but in this situation, not so much. The truth is, I probably could have figured out all by myself that I was expected to attend the Big Teacher event, and attend in style. In the end, I ran into the branch because I was careless, not because someone else failed to post a sign saying, “Caution: Low Branch!”

I want to do the right thing, and represent well myself, my organization, and my country. I want to have a cultural exchange that is fruitful and respectful. I want to do all of these things and as somewhat of an adult, I should be doing them. But it’s really hard being an adult, even in this only semi-real world of mine. In a lot of ways, I wish I could go back to having other people anticipate my problems for me. Maybe we all feel like that; perhaps we all want someone to say, “Watch out for that branch!” But it’s still possible to duck without the warning… we just need to look at what’s in front of us. I know I will definitely be looking the next time I round that corner!

The Accidental English Teacher

2009-10-27T01:37:00.000-04:00

<--teachers like to laugh about their students in their free time.

At some point very early into this teaching gig, I realized that I have neither years of job experience or years of life wisdom to offer my students. A coarse statement I know, but that’s the truth. So, in an effort to make up for my instructor incompetence, I decided to at least do my best to fulfill my idea of a “cool” teacher. To be a “cool” teacher requires the following very demanding characteristics:

an aura of knowledge
approachability
a hint of pop culture or ‘lingo’
effortless elegance

I’m doing pretty well with the first three. Let’s take stock:

#1 is all about buzzwords, like “scholarly consensus” and “thesis-driven essay,” as well as having a very broad knowledge of every topic imaginable (Wikipedia-brain), and the ability to divert the classroom discussion when things start getting specific. For example:

Teacher: A hurricane is a type of ocean storm that involves a cyclone of violent wind and rain.

Little Student Bobby: Miss Brittany, how is the high winds forming in the ocean?

Teacher: Very good grammar question, Bobby! The structure of that question should be:
“How do high winds form in the ocean?”

#2 is self-explanatory. Am I scary? I think not. Just in case you need further evidence… when Alex, Fiona and I were on Lombok, some man gripping a bundle of loose leaf pages came up and started reading English textbook sentences containing words like ‘inevitable’ and ‘conspicuous’. Before we knew it, we were in the throes of a 2-hour long accidental English lesson. “ineVITable?” “inEHvitable!”

#3 is a little tricky, but I’m managing. When we played Scattegories in class last week, it became clear to my students that the only movies I’ve seen in the theater this year are Up and Transformers 2. Compensation exercise: Learning how to make plans with a friend using the phrase, “Let’s chill after Brittany’s class!” The hip lingo.

#4 is where I usually run into the most problems. With my graduate students, I seem to be in pretty good standing, considering one student wrote on our instructor feedback form, “Brittany, I like your fashion!” (We don’t know what this says about my teaching…). One of my undergraduates in particular is likewise enamored with my choice of blouses and also noticed the one day this month that I worse my hair down instead of in my teacher bun. “So beautiful!” she said. Ha.

However, generally speaking, being effortlessly elegant is very difficult in a country where 99% of the time I am completely drenched in my own sweat and speckled with the red welts of the mosquito bite. Even less aesthetically pleasing is the unavoidable helmet hair that follows from driving a motorbike all day, and my own unwieldy management of said motorbike while cruising into the school parking lot. Usually I look like something closer to a panicked, near-drowned rat than a collected young professional. And that’s what I look like when I’m going to work, so you can imagine what happens in my free time. Yogya is a small city, and I’ve started bumping into my students outside of school, usually when I’m looking the most flustered and un-showered. Such is the life of a teacher.

All that being said, 3 out of 4 is still 75%. In my grade-book, that’s passing.

Part II: Lunacy

2009-10-21T12:01:00.000-04:00

<-- birthday shot with new friend, Dan

Dear Friends,

This year for my birthday, I spent the day cruising a posh shopping mall, drooling over vintage edition books at a hipster bookstore and drinking tea prepared with traditional Chinese tea ceremony. All of this was followed by thirteen perfect strangers standing around me and plate of strawberry-mango cupcakes singing “Happy Birthday…. Dear Luna.”

Freeze frame.

Chinese tea? Hipsters? LUNA?!?

Let me explain….

Here in Indonesia, as in every other country I’ve ever traveled, NO ONE can say my name. Brittany. BRIT-ah-nee. Bri-TAN-nee. BRIT-nee. BRIT-nee Spears (that one hurts my soul)—not one of these variations makes the matter any clearer. This is not the first

time I’ve had trouble with my name. In India:

Brittany.

Prittnee?

Britt-ah-nee.

Preeti?

Brittany.

Preeti! (smile of satisfaction)

In Italy:

Brittany à Britan!

I was encouraged by the fact that many of my friends here have two names. For example, my Taiwanese friend picked the name “Queeny” when she went to the States for college. My Colombian friend Mabel often gives her middle name because ‘Sofia’ is easier for Indonesians to pronounce. And Quinn, from the States, chose the name Talcon when she started tree-sitting several years ago (Julia Butterfly’s got nothing on this girl). The only matter that remained was finding an alter-nomer, which brings me back to my Idul Fitri vacation, and the promised sequel to the Lombok misadventure. Here is the story…

On a particular night on a particular near-deserted island called Gili Meno, I sat looking up at the moon. Interestingly, because we are close to the equator, the half moon sits almost as a perfect saucer would sit on a plate. On this particular night, my hair was matted into a solid dreadlock, perhaps, as the Hindu aesthetics believe, giving me great wisdom. Why were my locks locked? I’ll tell you…

In the set of three gem-like specks of islands in the sea just west of Lombok, Gili Trawangan is the ‘party island’ and Gili Meno is the least inhabited (see picture above). After a few days of bikinis, white sand and tropical mixed drinks on Gili T, Alex, Fiona and I met Emma for a tranquil version of paradise. I had pre-booked our accommodation on Gili Meno because the eco-friendly Sunset Gecko bungalows tend to fill up with bohemian types from southern Europe (see picture of our bungalow).

Eco-friendly includes 1) composting toilets 2) fresh water showers to allows recycling the water to feed plants 3) natural soap ONLY so as not to harm the plants and surrounding environment. Because Gili M is a tiny island, all fresh water must be brought from mainland Lombok and on the day that we arrived salty and sweaty from the Gili T beaches, Sunset Gecko was fresh out of fresh water.

Though we were hastily promised water for showers later that day, in actuality the water never came. Far from creating a disturbance, our co-inhabitants (see above description: bohemian types from southern Europe, ahem, dirty) were not phased in the least. As for our less-than-bohemian crew, our only real problem was that our journey back to Bali was fast approaching and none of us wanted to have three days of salt, sand, grease and sweat caked onto our skin during the trip, read: ten hours of trek-boat-car-ferry-shuttle.

So Fiona and I had the brilliant idea to bathe in the sea au-natural, by which I mean using the chemical-free bar soap provided by Gecko. Understanding little about geology or chemistry, I failed to anticipate that the jagged coral bed would make it nearly impossible to stand upright in the sea, while the natural lye condenses rather than lathers when mixed with sea salt. I opted to use my scarf as a turban thereafter.

…So underneath the stars and moon, underneath a makeshift turban, my brain sat working that same night… The moon and I actually have some history—while traveling, I always look up at the moon so that I may be seeing at least one thing in common with my far-away loved ones. This orb, so special and comforting to me, I thought, might it describe me too? So I borrowed its name, translated into Italian, and voilá! Luna was born.

…But Luna was really born on her 23^rd birthday, only three days ago, in a fancy apartment building, with brand-new friends and a plate of cupcakes. This scene took place in Singapore, where I went to get my violin fixed and to meet a buddy, Annie Preis, who studied over the summer in Yogya, but who works in Aceh with Princeton-in-Asia (same program as Fiona). Along with Annie’s Singaporean friend, Ruby, we scoped out a gorgeous and totally hip (name: Polymath and Crust or Books Actually) bookstore, which I left with my bank account mostly in tact, thank you. The next destination was a Chinese tea garden complete with neon pink ‘birthday buns’ (see left) for longevity and prosperity, a tea ceremony with jasmine green and adorable rose tea cookies. And after that, when I returned to my lovely PIA hosts, there was a plate of cupcakes awaiting! How… sweet.

In conclusion, the Indonesian phrase for “Happy Birthday” can be directly translated as “Happy Repeating Year [Day].” Fiona pointed out that this awkward translation makes no distinction for the actual anniversary of one’s birth. And so my friends, is there any difference between your birth day and the anniversary of any other day of the year? Between a first birthday and a twenty-third birthday? My conclusion is this: if every day is a repeating year day, and every ‘repeating year day’ is a birthday, you may, if you choose, be reborn each and every day. Selamat Ulang Tahun!

Love,

Luna