Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Cafe meetings/
The last month included tour around Java and Bali with first my friend Melanie, then my brother Dietrich, then off to East Java for a tour with Kiai Kanjeng and Emha Ainun Nadjib,I find myself sitting in an outdoor internet cafe, watching a lunar eclipse, as I get ready to go a Afro-Latino concert at a Catholic University. Not very Indonesian,but just thought I'd share. I ate Mie Ayam with a caccupino, it tasted unimaginably delicious.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Wait a sec!!!
"With her last son graduating and making plans to move out of the house, Knauth, who says she never planned to have a large family, said she isn't overly sentimental."
Ok, ok, so she's not sentimental...I get that. But she's making plans to move out of the house?!!! No way! Someone confirm please. Where am I going to live when I come back from the Indoland?!?!?!
Ok, ok, so she's not sentimental...I get that. But she's making plans to move out of the house?!!! No way! Someone confirm please. Where am I going to live when I come back from the Indoland?!?!?!
Knauth Family Infotainment!
Seven months abroad can make you a little homesick. Or forgetful, as Cluckie said in Disney's Robinhood. That's why my heart was warmed to see a picture of my very own Ibu-Bapak (mother-father), with my adik laki-laki bungsu (youngest brother.) You might have noticed that my blogging has suffered over the last month, due to not ever being in the same city for more than a few days at a time. So, as a gift, I give to you the wonderous light-hearted reporting of Daily Freeman Correspondent...(drum roll please)...KATHRYN HEIDECKER!!! No, I have no idea who she is, but she made me happy, hence the drum roll.
One big class act
By KATHRYN HEIDECKER, Correspondent
06/24/2007
Statewide, just 67 percent of New York high school students graduate in four years, making the benchmark of high school graduation a significant accomplishment for any family. Multiply that times 11, and you have the Knauth family of Kingston.
The 11th child of Christopher and Thereza Knauth graduated from Kingston High School on Friday night, with son Devon following in the well-worn path of his ten brothers and sisters.
Taking a break from reading "Dumbth: The Lost Art of Thinking" by Steve Allen, mother Thereza Knauth took some time last week to reflect on the accomplishments of her brood, 10 of whom are Kingston High School graduates. Eldest son Daniel graduated from John A. Coleman Catholic High School in 1987.
"Kingston High School offered my children a great variety of programs and extra-curricular activities," said Knauth, who initially moved to Kingston with her husband, a human rights lawyer who works in New York City, because they thought it would be a good place to raise a family.
Daniel Knauth, the only Coleman graduate, later earned his law degree from Cornell University and today works as a corporate litigator in New York City. David Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1989, went on to earn his doctorate from the University of Toledo in astrophysics. David now lives in Maryland with his wife and two children and teaches high school physics and math. He dedicates his summers to research at Johns Hopkins University.
Deana Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1989, later graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology and works for a publishing company in New York City. Dorie Ann Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1993, eventually earned her degree in anthropology from the State University of New York at New Paltz. She now works for homeland security in Washington D.C.
Dalinda Knauth, class of 1995, holds a degree in music education from Lebanon Valley College and is a high school music teacher. Deahnara Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1996, graduated from the State University of New York at New Paltz and today teaches at Wallkill Middle School.
Dorcinda Knauth, class of 1998, holds a master's degree in musicology from the University of Pittsburgh. She is currently earning her doctorate and is studying on a Fulbright scholarship in Indonesia. Dietrich Knauth, a 2002 Kingston High School graduate graduated in January from New York University.
Deidra Knauth, a 2004 Kingston High School graduate is currently studying nursing in Albany at the Good Samaritan Hospital. Desmond Knauth, a 2005 Kingston High grad, went to Ulster County Community College and will head in the fall to the State University of New York at Albany, where he will major in computers.
As for Devon, he will be attending SUNY New Paltz in the fall. His major may be business or music and theater, Thereza said. He has acted and sung and also plays the piano and viola, among other instruments, she added.
That all of the Knauth children's first names start with the letter D was not originally planned, according to their mother. It was something the older children wanted to keep up, she explained.
With such an immensely successful family, Thezera said respect for her children was an important value that helped place them on the right track.
"You treat your children as human beings, not as little nothings," she said. "You must give them their value as people. Whatever they are going through at that particular time in their life, you must remember (that) to get respect you must give it."
Along with respect comes discipline. "People also think if a child (is) little, 'They are so cute!' They excuse ill-mannered behavior because they are little!" To Knauth, this borders on ludicrous. Discipline must start at a young age and continue throughout child-rearing, she said.
"You have to start right from the very beginning and never let up. Each phase of childhood is a challenge, but a challenge that can be met," she said. Of course, sometimes it is all in how a parent delivers the message, Knauth added.
"It was not always fun," she admitted, "but if you give children discipline (with) love, whatever it is you say they might not appreciate it at the time, but, if discipline is tempered with love, it works."
Today in society there is a lot of negativity, according to Knauth. It's a message that can infiltrate any home. "You have computers TVs and everyone thinks ... it is easy to put on the TV on and say, 'Watch this program,'" she said. But tuning in usually means children are tuning out, she added.
Growing up, a favorite family activity was camping. Camping "teaches them life skills and an appreciation for nature - to respect life," Knauth said. "Too many children think they have to go to hotels. Teach them how to pitch a tent!"
Having respect for one another is reinforced by camping, she said, because children need to learn to depend on one another in the wilderness.
With her last son graduating and making plans to move out of the house, Knauth, who says she never planned to have a large family, said she isn't overly sentimental.
"It's exciting - I don't view it as nostalgic, I view it as positive because realizing that they are realizing their dreams is a great joy. I don't view it as an ending. I view it as the beginning."
©Daily Freeman 2007
Best quote of the article: You treat your children as human beings, not as little nothings. Very to the point. That's my mama!
Congratulations, Devon! Happy Birthday, David!
One big class act
By KATHRYN HEIDECKER, Correspondent
06/24/2007
Statewide, just 67 percent of New York high school students graduate in four years, making the benchmark of high school graduation a significant accomplishment for any family. Multiply that times 11, and you have the Knauth family of Kingston.
The 11th child of Christopher and Thereza Knauth graduated from Kingston High School on Friday night, with son Devon following in the well-worn path of his ten brothers and sisters.
Taking a break from reading "Dumbth: The Lost Art of Thinking" by Steve Allen, mother Thereza Knauth took some time last week to reflect on the accomplishments of her brood, 10 of whom are Kingston High School graduates. Eldest son Daniel graduated from John A. Coleman Catholic High School in 1987.
"Kingston High School offered my children a great variety of programs and extra-curricular activities," said Knauth, who initially moved to Kingston with her husband, a human rights lawyer who works in New York City, because they thought it would be a good place to raise a family.
Daniel Knauth, the only Coleman graduate, later earned his law degree from Cornell University and today works as a corporate litigator in New York City. David Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1989, went on to earn his doctorate from the University of Toledo in astrophysics. David now lives in Maryland with his wife and two children and teaches high school physics and math. He dedicates his summers to research at Johns Hopkins University.
Deana Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1989, later graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology and works for a publishing company in New York City. Dorie Ann Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1993, eventually earned her degree in anthropology from the State University of New York at New Paltz. She now works for homeland security in Washington D.C.
Dalinda Knauth, class of 1995, holds a degree in music education from Lebanon Valley College and is a high school music teacher. Deahnara Knauth, Kingston High School class of 1996, graduated from the State University of New York at New Paltz and today teaches at Wallkill Middle School.
Dorcinda Knauth, class of 1998, holds a master's degree in musicology from the University of Pittsburgh. She is currently earning her doctorate and is studying on a Fulbright scholarship in Indonesia. Dietrich Knauth, a 2002 Kingston High School graduate graduated in January from New York University.
Deidra Knauth, a 2004 Kingston High School graduate is currently studying nursing in Albany at the Good Samaritan Hospital. Desmond Knauth, a 2005 Kingston High grad, went to Ulster County Community College and will head in the fall to the State University of New York at Albany, where he will major in computers.
As for Devon, he will be attending SUNY New Paltz in the fall. His major may be business or music and theater, Thereza said. He has acted and sung and also plays the piano and viola, among other instruments, she added.
That all of the Knauth children's first names start with the letter D was not originally planned, according to their mother. It was something the older children wanted to keep up, she explained.
With such an immensely successful family, Thezera said respect for her children was an important value that helped place them on the right track.
"You treat your children as human beings, not as little nothings," she said. "You must give them their value as people. Whatever they are going through at that particular time in their life, you must remember (that) to get respect you must give it."
Along with respect comes discipline. "People also think if a child (is) little, 'They are so cute!' They excuse ill-mannered behavior because they are little!" To Knauth, this borders on ludicrous. Discipline must start at a young age and continue throughout child-rearing, she said.
"You have to start right from the very beginning and never let up. Each phase of childhood is a challenge, but a challenge that can be met," she said. Of course, sometimes it is all in how a parent delivers the message, Knauth added.
"It was not always fun," she admitted, "but if you give children discipline (with) love, whatever it is you say they might not appreciate it at the time, but, if discipline is tempered with love, it works."
Today in society there is a lot of negativity, according to Knauth. It's a message that can infiltrate any home. "You have computers TVs and everyone thinks ... it is easy to put on the TV on and say, 'Watch this program,'" she said. But tuning in usually means children are tuning out, she added.
Growing up, a favorite family activity was camping. Camping "teaches them life skills and an appreciation for nature - to respect life," Knauth said. "Too many children think they have to go to hotels. Teach them how to pitch a tent!"
Having respect for one another is reinforced by camping, she said, because children need to learn to depend on one another in the wilderness.
With her last son graduating and making plans to move out of the house, Knauth, who says she never planned to have a large family, said she isn't overly sentimental.
"It's exciting - I don't view it as nostalgic, I view it as positive because realizing that they are realizing their dreams is a great joy. I don't view it as an ending. I view it as the beginning."
©Daily Freeman 2007
Best quote of the article: You treat your children as human beings, not as little nothings. Very to the point. That's my mama!
Congratulations, Devon! Happy Birthday, David!
Sunday, June 17, 2007
A Commentary on Women in Indonesia via Pirates of the Caribbean
A friend invited me for a night out at the Bandung theater. It was a traditional Sundanese comedic form complete with music, traditional costumes, etc. I was all keen on going until I found out that it didn’t end until 10pm. Which meant that I would have to drive my motorbike the hour back home after the standard feminine curfew…9pm! Pretty bahaya for an unaccompanied woman if you ask me. Yes, that’s right, bahaya means dangerous….or something you should really avoid. Someone once told me that if I ever was forced to ride unaccompanied after 9pm, I should really make sure that I was wearing a headscarf.
In a lot of ways, Indonesian morality reminds me a lot of what I imagine the U.S. to have been like in the 1950s. However, since I wasn’t around in the 1950s, this is just a hunch. My meaning is probably best illustrated by sharing some commonly held understandings of what women should and should not do. For example, it's a common saying that it's totally inappropriate for women to smoke. A female smoker clearly has loose moral standards, and is very likely a prostitute. Bahaya! Women who return home after nine (unless they are accompanied with a boy who has been interviewed by the family and deemed to be a suitable guardian) also have loose moral standards. Bahaya! Americans of course, are expected to break these rules, because Americans, as we all know, have NO moral standards. Indonesians know this, because they all have watched the movie American Pie, which, according to standard belief, is a highly accurate portrayal of American culture. Never mind the outcry that went up in America after the release of this film, because, let’s face it, it was a just a wee bit in poor taste. Also, do not date anyone in Indonesia, unless you have an intention of marrying them. Bahaya! Actually, in all seriousness, please let this be a warning to anyone coming here, who might think that there is such a thing as casual dating. In Indoland, it (mostly) does not exist. A kiss before marriage is like saying, “I do” (or, maybe an admission of being easy.) Of course, none of these rules apply to men. Men can return home as late as they want, smoke until they get lung cancer, and have a running line of girlfriends, all with no discredit to their name.
Despite Indonesia’s reputation for having very little gender discrimination, in my experience, a women’s role in life is to be a supportive wife to her husband, and a loving mother to her children. Indonesia probably gets its reputation for being “moderate” by once having a female president, though one might be suspicious of this on the grounds that she was not publicly elected, and she was the child of the first president…so it’s kind of like royalty. But Indonesia also probably gets this reputation because of the abundance of women in the workplace. Having children doesn’t preclude a woman from working; she most likely has a servant with whom she can leave the kids, or she can take them to work with her. However, work should never be an ambition for her. Her highest ambition should be to her family. Her biggest embarrassment would be not being a good wife to her husband; one of the signs of her devotion is always serving her husband his rice at meals. Men of course should be thinking of settling down too, but they can take their time about it. A 26-year-old woman who is not already married with kids, or even engaged, or worse yet…still single and not even prioritizing settling down, clearly has something wrong with her. She really should just get married already. That’s much more important than finishing school and choosing a profession. Life as we otherwise know it also pretty much ends after marriage. For example, let's say you were a professional dancer before you got married (the traditional type of dancing, not the hooker kind)...you'll probably give it up to be with your kids the moment you sign the marriage contract.
How do sexually liberated American men deal with this? Well, I have one friend who said he refuses to get involved with Indonesian women, ever since the girl he was dating had no conception of what a condom was. Others prefer to remain hopeless clueless. My other friend said, "When Indonesians start sending me messages saying, I love you, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, I figure they don't really mean it. How can they? We just met. So I just say it back to them. I loooooove you. I don't mean it either!" Personally, I'm convinced he's breaking a whole lot of hearts.
In any case, I opted not to go to the Bandung theater, in favor of an early showing of Pirates of the Caribbean. A show, by the way, which made me re-appreciate the magic and creativity of Walt Disney productions. Speaking of which, I’m really glad that Hans Zimmer wrote the music and not John Williams, who seems like the more common choice for that type of trilogy-adventure show. And even better than the movie, I was able to appropriately guard my feminine honor by being home safely by 9pm.
Although, if a career in ethnomusicology doesn't work out for me, I think I want to be a pirate. Embrace the Bahaya. Aargh!
In a lot of ways, Indonesian morality reminds me a lot of what I imagine the U.S. to have been like in the 1950s. However, since I wasn’t around in the 1950s, this is just a hunch. My meaning is probably best illustrated by sharing some commonly held understandings of what women should and should not do. For example, it's a common saying that it's totally inappropriate for women to smoke. A female smoker clearly has loose moral standards, and is very likely a prostitute. Bahaya! Women who return home after nine (unless they are accompanied with a boy who has been interviewed by the family and deemed to be a suitable guardian) also have loose moral standards. Bahaya! Americans of course, are expected to break these rules, because Americans, as we all know, have NO moral standards. Indonesians know this, because they all have watched the movie American Pie, which, according to standard belief, is a highly accurate portrayal of American culture. Never mind the outcry that went up in America after the release of this film, because, let’s face it, it was a just a wee bit in poor taste. Also, do not date anyone in Indonesia, unless you have an intention of marrying them. Bahaya! Actually, in all seriousness, please let this be a warning to anyone coming here, who might think that there is such a thing as casual dating. In Indoland, it (mostly) does not exist. A kiss before marriage is like saying, “I do” (or, maybe an admission of being easy.) Of course, none of these rules apply to men. Men can return home as late as they want, smoke until they get lung cancer, and have a running line of girlfriends, all with no discredit to their name.
Despite Indonesia’s reputation for having very little gender discrimination, in my experience, a women’s role in life is to be a supportive wife to her husband, and a loving mother to her children. Indonesia probably gets its reputation for being “moderate” by once having a female president, though one might be suspicious of this on the grounds that she was not publicly elected, and she was the child of the first president…so it’s kind of like royalty. But Indonesia also probably gets this reputation because of the abundance of women in the workplace. Having children doesn’t preclude a woman from working; she most likely has a servant with whom she can leave the kids, or she can take them to work with her. However, work should never be an ambition for her. Her highest ambition should be to her family. Her biggest embarrassment would be not being a good wife to her husband; one of the signs of her devotion is always serving her husband his rice at meals. Men of course should be thinking of settling down too, but they can take their time about it. A 26-year-old woman who is not already married with kids, or even engaged, or worse yet…still single and not even prioritizing settling down, clearly has something wrong with her. She really should just get married already. That’s much more important than finishing school and choosing a profession. Life as we otherwise know it also pretty much ends after marriage. For example, let's say you were a professional dancer before you got married (the traditional type of dancing, not the hooker kind)...you'll probably give it up to be with your kids the moment you sign the marriage contract.
How do sexually liberated American men deal with this? Well, I have one friend who said he refuses to get involved with Indonesian women, ever since the girl he was dating had no conception of what a condom was. Others prefer to remain hopeless clueless. My other friend said, "When Indonesians start sending me messages saying, I love you, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, I figure they don't really mean it. How can they? We just met. So I just say it back to them. I loooooove you. I don't mean it either!" Personally, I'm convinced he's breaking a whole lot of hearts.
In any case, I opted not to go to the Bandung theater, in favor of an early showing of Pirates of the Caribbean. A show, by the way, which made me re-appreciate the magic and creativity of Walt Disney productions. Speaking of which, I’m really glad that Hans Zimmer wrote the music and not John Williams, who seems like the more common choice for that type of trilogy-adventure show. And even better than the movie, I was able to appropriately guard my feminine honor by being home safely by 9pm.
Although, if a career in ethnomusicology doesn't work out for me, I think I want to be a pirate. Embrace the Bahaya. Aargh!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Dealing with Political Correctness (or the Lack Thereof)
I always thought that the “politically correct” phenomenon in America was just plain annoying, and (dare I say it?) just a little bit offensive in its own right. However six months in Indonesia will just about make anybody feel all warm and fuzzy about the whole P.C. trend. (And this is coming from a mac user!) You see, political correctness as a concept doesn't really exist in Indonesia. I remember learning this lesson pretty early on in the game, when back in 2003, my first language teacher thought it would be a great idea to teach us colors by referring to the skin hues of various people around the world. Chinese were “yellow”; American Indians were “red”; etc. The state of shock that this induced in the all-American class was completely inconceivable to our Balinese teacher, who was only annoyed that all of a sudden, his students were rendered mute, unwilling to participate in the “let’s name people’s skin colors” game. To put it even more in perspective, these classes were held at the University of Gadjah Mada (UGM), Yogyakarta, which is always ranked as one of the top three universities in Indonesia.
The thing about it that's most disturbing to me, is that a lack of political correctness means you can get away with saying really racist things and no one will even bat an eye. Personally, I’d rather be annoyed at people being overly careful with their speech, than having to be horrified by overt racism. In Indonesia, most of the racist comments are reserved for the ethnic Chinese. In my mind, I liken the ethnic Chinese situation to what the Jews probably faced in pre-World War II Europe. Ethnic Chinese are the embodiment of all the worst personal qualities: uncharitable, exclusivist, opulent. At the same time the ethnic Chinese, as successful businesspersons, are thought to own a disproportionate distribution of the countries wealth. Moreover, they are subject to all sorts of discriminatory legislation on the basis of their ethnic origins.
The other most hated groups of people are communists, mostly because Indonesians have been indoctrinated to hate communists from the former regime’s anti-Communist stance. I think it also has something to do with the Marxian understanding of Communists as atheists, something that is not only inconceivable (How can someone not believe in God?), but unpatriotic. The Indonesian constitution requires the belief in one supreme God. Your religion (which can either be: Islam, Christian, Catholic, Hindu, or Buddhist) is even noted on your driver’s license. Hey, I'm just highly entertained to find out that in Indonesia, Catholics aren't really Christian. :)
Curiously enough, one man did rant to me about hating the Jews, something that I still find puzzling, since he himself to this day, has never met a Jewish person. Judaism is not even one of the five permissible monotheistic religions according to Indonesian law. It legally doesn't exist. Actually, what he told me was: “Indonesians don’t hate Americans. When they say they hate Americans, they’re really saying that they hate the Jews. If you’re not a Jew, then there’s no problem.” Now, I understand this kind of comment to be attributable to Indonesia’s support for Palestine as a display of Islamic solidarity, and therefore a criticism of the U.S.’s foreign policy and apparently unwavering support for Israel. I’m quite sure that if this guy ever met an American Jew, he would probably backpedal and say, “Oh, its not the Jews that we don’t like, but the American government.” However, it is more disturbing in light of Indonesia’s search for a charismatic leader, which commonly leads to the idolizing of Hitler as a powerful leader. You would not believe how many times I've seen pictures of Hitler as coffeehouse art, the sides of buildings, etc. But, Hitler-idolatry, my friends, is a whole other story, for another day.
The thing about it that's most disturbing to me, is that a lack of political correctness means you can get away with saying really racist things and no one will even bat an eye. Personally, I’d rather be annoyed at people being overly careful with their speech, than having to be horrified by overt racism. In Indonesia, most of the racist comments are reserved for the ethnic Chinese. In my mind, I liken the ethnic Chinese situation to what the Jews probably faced in pre-World War II Europe. Ethnic Chinese are the embodiment of all the worst personal qualities: uncharitable, exclusivist, opulent. At the same time the ethnic Chinese, as successful businesspersons, are thought to own a disproportionate distribution of the countries wealth. Moreover, they are subject to all sorts of discriminatory legislation on the basis of their ethnic origins.
The other most hated groups of people are communists, mostly because Indonesians have been indoctrinated to hate communists from the former regime’s anti-Communist stance. I think it also has something to do with the Marxian understanding of Communists as atheists, something that is not only inconceivable (How can someone not believe in God?), but unpatriotic. The Indonesian constitution requires the belief in one supreme God. Your religion (which can either be: Islam, Christian, Catholic, Hindu, or Buddhist) is even noted on your driver’s license. Hey, I'm just highly entertained to find out that in Indonesia, Catholics aren't really Christian. :)
Curiously enough, one man did rant to me about hating the Jews, something that I still find puzzling, since he himself to this day, has never met a Jewish person. Judaism is not even one of the five permissible monotheistic religions according to Indonesian law. It legally doesn't exist. Actually, what he told me was: “Indonesians don’t hate Americans. When they say they hate Americans, they’re really saying that they hate the Jews. If you’re not a Jew, then there’s no problem.” Now, I understand this kind of comment to be attributable to Indonesia’s support for Palestine as a display of Islamic solidarity, and therefore a criticism of the U.S.’s foreign policy and apparently unwavering support for Israel. I’m quite sure that if this guy ever met an American Jew, he would probably backpedal and say, “Oh, its not the Jews that we don’t like, but the American government.” However, it is more disturbing in light of Indonesia’s search for a charismatic leader, which commonly leads to the idolizing of Hitler as a powerful leader. You would not believe how many times I've seen pictures of Hitler as coffeehouse art, the sides of buildings, etc. But, Hitler-idolatry, my friends, is a whole other story, for another day.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Tango in Singapore, the Review
(Warning: this is a topic of considerable interest to me, and therefore is pretty darn long!)
I must say that for a thriving metropolis, I was pretty disappointed with the tango scene in Singapore. Not to say that I didn’t enjoy myself or meet cool people. Although I certainly didn’t have that special dance with anyone, the one that fills you with perfect contentment and sends you home warm and fuzzy no matter what else had happened that evening. Trust me: tango dancers reading this will understand.
I tango-danced a total of three nights: Saturday, Tuesday, and Friday. Each time, I was the only “newbie” to the scene, and not a single person came up and introduced him or herself to me or asked me to dance. Note: this would not normally be a crime in another type of dance venue, but to me, this is one of the main indications of how friendly a tango community is. Argentine tango outside of Buenos Aires is often freakishly small, and can sometimes be described of as “cultish”. However, this means that when a new person arrives on the scene, they immediately stand out as someone “different.” Not a bad kind of different, but just someone of interest. When the seasoned tango dancer sees one of these new people, the first thought in their minds might be, “however did this new person hear about us; we must find out everything we can about this kindred spirit in our midst.” However, such was not my experience in Singapore. My presence did not so much as garner a hello from anybody.
Luckily, I am not the kind of person who sits in the corner and mopes by myself, especially if I had to pay $20 just to get in the door—a ridiculously expensive sum to do anything in Southeast Asia. So, first I worked my way through the ladies table. I introduced myself, chatted a bit, and generally tried to get a feel for what tango was like in this part of the world. Now this night, there were more ladies than men. Apparently, the night before, there were more men than women…go figure. So I had a lot of time to check out the dancers. I think I saw every one of my pet peeves (beginning with the aforementioned lack of friendliness.)
For example, one man went up to each of the female dancers at my table with outstretched hand, just saying “Next!” with not-so much as idle chitchat, or a “how are you?” Now, for all you aspiring tango males out there, this is really annoying. Instead of being a social experience, the dance has been relegated to a charity case for female dancers. No thank you, I’m not that desperate. And the worst part was, that he never finished a tanda (the traditional set of 3-4 dances) with any of these women. Instead he displayed another example of poor tango etiquette, which is to walk away, leaving his partner stranded and feeling abandoned on the dance floor. Note#2 to aspiring male dancers: Walk off the floor with your partner. This is no buffet, where you can try one thing, decided you don’t like it, and leave it for someone else to clear away. Manners, people!
However, at least he was circulating dancers. The other male dancers stuck to their partners like glue, never moving one step beyond their comfort zone.
Now we get to the sixth pet peeve of the evening: women dancers who just sit there, waiting to be asked to dance. Not a single woman could lead, so, because it was a female-heavy evening, most of them sat dourly on the sidelines, looking bored. Note to women in this situation: Practice your leading…it’s not like there ain’t room! Especially in this particular dance space, which had a whole separate dance area just for practicing. Or get over there and just practice walking by yourself. At the very least, chitchat; be merry; eat the food; enjoy yourself! I practiced leading with some of the ladies, and it was probably the only moment of happy silliness the whole evening. Tango doesn’t have to be super-serious. It can be fun.
I finally scored a dance, when I forced one of the female dancers to introduce me to somebody, anybody… Now, while he quickly repeated pet peeves #2 and 3 (looking bored without so much as a hi, how are you?” and not finishing the tanda) he did walk me off the dance floor, where he proceeded directly to pet-peeve #7: “Criticizing your Dance Partner.” Granted, he only told me that I needed to relax my body but: a) I don’t recall criticizing him when he knocked me off my axis as he barreled through the steps) b) no offense mister, but you are not my teacher and I didn’t come to you for a lesson, so chill and enjoy what is meant to be a purely social dance, and c) if you don’t even finish the tanda, how do you ever get to the point of knowing another person’s dance style to the point where you can relax and enjoy the dance? Usually, my favorite dance is the second or third, after we’ve gotten acclimated to the way the other person moves and the bodies start working together.
Pet Peeve #8: A guy who repeats the same move three or more times, cuz the girl didn’t “do it right” the first time. Now listen guys, if this happens to you, chances are you led something wrong in the first place, or the lady has never done that before and she’s feeling a bit confused. Don’t make her feel stupid too, by repeating the step again and again until she “gets it right.” Bad, bad etiquette! Luckily this didn’t happen to me; I just witnessed it with some other poor misfortunates.
All those pet peeves aside, once I decided to brazenly talk to the “taken” boys, (those who obviously had set partners) we broke the dating barriers and had a merry time. We even went out for an early morning breakfast and I was offered a ride home.
So, moral of the story: if you are a tango dancer, avoid the top eight pet peeves of all time (or of me, in any case!), get to know the newbies, and help make the world a smaller place.
Overall score of the Singapore tango scene: C-
Tango dancers are very knowledgeable about the dance, but don’t adhere to standard etiquette practices, of which they claim to be aware. Music is ok, a varied mix of traditional, movie music, and Nuevo tango stuff. Dancers are friendly once you get to know them, but don’t expect anyone to go out of their way to make you feel welcome. Tips: Introduce yourself to a guy named Zee. He will put you in touch with tango dancers all over Southeast Asia, including...(gasp)...Indonesia!
I must say that for a thriving metropolis, I was pretty disappointed with the tango scene in Singapore. Not to say that I didn’t enjoy myself or meet cool people. Although I certainly didn’t have that special dance with anyone, the one that fills you with perfect contentment and sends you home warm and fuzzy no matter what else had happened that evening. Trust me: tango dancers reading this will understand.
I tango-danced a total of three nights: Saturday, Tuesday, and Friday. Each time, I was the only “newbie” to the scene, and not a single person came up and introduced him or herself to me or asked me to dance. Note: this would not normally be a crime in another type of dance venue, but to me, this is one of the main indications of how friendly a tango community is. Argentine tango outside of Buenos Aires is often freakishly small, and can sometimes be described of as “cultish”. However, this means that when a new person arrives on the scene, they immediately stand out as someone “different.” Not a bad kind of different, but just someone of interest. When the seasoned tango dancer sees one of these new people, the first thought in their minds might be, “however did this new person hear about us; we must find out everything we can about this kindred spirit in our midst.” However, such was not my experience in Singapore. My presence did not so much as garner a hello from anybody.
Luckily, I am not the kind of person who sits in the corner and mopes by myself, especially if I had to pay $20 just to get in the door—a ridiculously expensive sum to do anything in Southeast Asia. So, first I worked my way through the ladies table. I introduced myself, chatted a bit, and generally tried to get a feel for what tango was like in this part of the world. Now this night, there were more ladies than men. Apparently, the night before, there were more men than women…go figure. So I had a lot of time to check out the dancers. I think I saw every one of my pet peeves (beginning with the aforementioned lack of friendliness.)
For example, one man went up to each of the female dancers at my table with outstretched hand, just saying “Next!” with not-so much as idle chitchat, or a “how are you?” Now, for all you aspiring tango males out there, this is really annoying. Instead of being a social experience, the dance has been relegated to a charity case for female dancers. No thank you, I’m not that desperate. And the worst part was, that he never finished a tanda (the traditional set of 3-4 dances) with any of these women. Instead he displayed another example of poor tango etiquette, which is to walk away, leaving his partner stranded and feeling abandoned on the dance floor. Note#2 to aspiring male dancers: Walk off the floor with your partner. This is no buffet, where you can try one thing, decided you don’t like it, and leave it for someone else to clear away. Manners, people!
However, at least he was circulating dancers. The other male dancers stuck to their partners like glue, never moving one step beyond their comfort zone.
Now we get to the sixth pet peeve of the evening: women dancers who just sit there, waiting to be asked to dance. Not a single woman could lead, so, because it was a female-heavy evening, most of them sat dourly on the sidelines, looking bored. Note to women in this situation: Practice your leading…it’s not like there ain’t room! Especially in this particular dance space, which had a whole separate dance area just for practicing. Or get over there and just practice walking by yourself. At the very least, chitchat; be merry; eat the food; enjoy yourself! I practiced leading with some of the ladies, and it was probably the only moment of happy silliness the whole evening. Tango doesn’t have to be super-serious. It can be fun.
I finally scored a dance, when I forced one of the female dancers to introduce me to somebody, anybody… Now, while he quickly repeated pet peeves #2 and 3 (looking bored without so much as a hi, how are you?” and not finishing the tanda) he did walk me off the dance floor, where he proceeded directly to pet-peeve #7: “Criticizing your Dance Partner.” Granted, he only told me that I needed to relax my body but: a) I don’t recall criticizing him when he knocked me off my axis as he barreled through the steps) b) no offense mister, but you are not my teacher and I didn’t come to you for a lesson, so chill and enjoy what is meant to be a purely social dance, and c) if you don’t even finish the tanda, how do you ever get to the point of knowing another person’s dance style to the point where you can relax and enjoy the dance? Usually, my favorite dance is the second or third, after we’ve gotten acclimated to the way the other person moves and the bodies start working together.
Pet Peeve #8: A guy who repeats the same move three or more times, cuz the girl didn’t “do it right” the first time. Now listen guys, if this happens to you, chances are you led something wrong in the first place, or the lady has never done that before and she’s feeling a bit confused. Don’t make her feel stupid too, by repeating the step again and again until she “gets it right.” Bad, bad etiquette! Luckily this didn’t happen to me; I just witnessed it with some other poor misfortunates.
All those pet peeves aside, once I decided to brazenly talk to the “taken” boys, (those who obviously had set partners) we broke the dating barriers and had a merry time. We even went out for an early morning breakfast and I was offered a ride home.
So, moral of the story: if you are a tango dancer, avoid the top eight pet peeves of all time (or of me, in any case!), get to know the newbies, and help make the world a smaller place.
Overall score of the Singapore tango scene: C-
Tango dancers are very knowledgeable about the dance, but don’t adhere to standard etiquette practices, of which they claim to be aware. Music is ok, a varied mix of traditional, movie music, and Nuevo tango stuff. Dancers are friendly once you get to know them, but don’t expect anyone to go out of their way to make you feel welcome. Tips: Introduce yourself to a guy named Zee. He will put you in touch with tango dancers all over Southeast Asia, including...(gasp)...Indonesia!
Sunday, April 15, 2007
New Life Skills
Today I found myself learning the art of jewel shopping with a Frenchman. I met him at the hostel that I moved into that morning, after a successful evacuation from Crazy Hotel Panget. Apparently, he is an artist, as well as an employee of the French government.
We wandered together to the Bugis market where I discovered that there is indeed a place to buy things cheaply in Singapore. Unfortunately, you have to really sort through stuff to make it worth your while. It’s like one of those garage sales where someone dumps all the junk from their dresser drawers onto a blanket on the sidewalk, and the customer has to sort their way through everything. The Frenchman, who has a typically French name, like Michel, was searching for “cat’s eye” which can be differentiated from quartz by its changing color when viewed from different angles. I, in turn, bought a snakelike steel belt, in order to practice my newly acquired bargaining skills in French. Oo la la, C’est chère! Tsssssssss… Bargaining in French is so much fun; I’d say it’s one of those things worth moving to Paris for.
We wandered together to the Bugis market where I discovered that there is indeed a place to buy things cheaply in Singapore. Unfortunately, you have to really sort through stuff to make it worth your while. It’s like one of those garage sales where someone dumps all the junk from their dresser drawers onto a blanket on the sidewalk, and the customer has to sort their way through everything. The Frenchman, who has a typically French name, like Michel, was searching for “cat’s eye” which can be differentiated from quartz by its changing color when viewed from different angles. I, in turn, bought a snakelike steel belt, in order to practice my newly acquired bargaining skills in French. Oo la la, C’est chère! Tsssssssss… Bargaining in French is so much fun; I’d say it’s one of those things worth moving to Paris for.
Monday, April 9, 2007
My Crazy Landlord
As the saying goes, if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. The writing was on the wall from the beginning.
My first day in Singapore found me standing at a payphone in front of one of the cities malls, named of all things, "Lucky" Plaza. My luggage was in one hand, while the other clutched a piece of paper with a number and a name of a person who I thought was a legitimate hotel Manager, who turns out to be well, what's the politically correct term for slum lord? Well, actually, he runs something like an unregistered hostel for hospital patients and Filipino migrant workers.
I'm a strong believer in premonitions/first impressions. Just reading his name, something in me already knew...this man was crazy.
It's not just that I have trouble understanding his Singlish (Singaporean-English--the kind-of Asian English that comes straight out of a Kung-Fu movie). Although he does have a tendency to repeatedly shout "Can!" which might mean "No problem" or a variety of other things, depending on the context. It's not just a problem with his accent either, because usually there are people standing in the near vicinity who can mouth what he's trying to stay and still be clearer. For example
"I take you to the Jew," might not be the eye-raiser that you originally think. Instead, he could be saying, "I take you to the zoo," at which point you can politely decline. Why? Because this man is crazy.
He's the kind of crazy that knocks on your door for half an hour at 1:00 in the morning, waking up everyone in a two block vicinity. And when you don't answer the door, because you're presumably sleeping and in your pajamas, only then does he think of calling you. And when you decide to answer the phone, he simply goes on and on about how his friend is coming tomorrow and wants you to meet the room servant tomorrow. Understandably confused and annoyed, you say fine just to end the conversation, only to wake up and see 6 Vietnamese faces peering at you, urging you to move out your things so they can occupy "their" new room. After a long conversation is carried out through jumping, hand gestures, and other dance-like movements since none of you speak the same language, you call the landlord. Of course, his phone is turned off until early afternoon, because, well, this is a Sunday, and he did stay up so late pounding on your door.
Now, luckily, that was the night you'd decided to go tango dancing, so you hadn't actually had to suffer through the door-pounding. This is unlike your unfortunate neighbors, who happily express their innermost feelings about the experience in the morning. Rather unluckily, you'd decided to join one of the other tango dancers for a late night dinner/early morning breakfast, which is a common enough tango activity after the dance ends. This means you are now operating on a little under three hours of sleep, and now have a huge sore throat for your retardedly late night activities before you're fully recovered. Unluckily for your landlord, this also means that you are happily ready to tell him your own "innermost feelings."
His answer to the crisis, is that you move out, and then all of you can go out for karaoke later that night. He'll buy all the beers. Great idea, right?
You end up moving to a single room in a nicer apartment for the same price. All the other tenants, in a heartwarming show of solidarity, parade through the streets, helping you carry all of your stuff amidst barrels of bad jokes, mostly aimed at how crazy our landlord is. You spend the rest of the day trying to catch up on sleep. That evening, as you and the other tenants are chatting with the crazy Panget, as the Filipinos have taken to calling him, he starts going on about how you should really see the room servant again. As he plies you his mother's cooking, you ask, "Who is this room servant that you keep going on about?" The Filipinos laugh. The "room servant", which you thought meant "maid" really means "room seven." So the 1am conversation was really his way of telling you that he wanted you to move out, to room seven.
Even though the mystery is solved, you still check out as quickly as possible the next morning.
My first day in Singapore found me standing at a payphone in front of one of the cities malls, named of all things, "Lucky" Plaza. My luggage was in one hand, while the other clutched a piece of paper with a number and a name of a person who I thought was a legitimate hotel Manager, who turns out to be well, what's the politically correct term for slum lord? Well, actually, he runs something like an unregistered hostel for hospital patients and Filipino migrant workers.
I'm a strong believer in premonitions/first impressions. Just reading his name, something in me already knew...this man was crazy.
It's not just that I have trouble understanding his Singlish (Singaporean-English--the kind-of Asian English that comes straight out of a Kung-Fu movie). Although he does have a tendency to repeatedly shout "Can!" which might mean "No problem" or a variety of other things, depending on the context. It's not just a problem with his accent either, because usually there are people standing in the near vicinity who can mouth what he's trying to stay and still be clearer. For example
"I take you to the Jew," might not be the eye-raiser that you originally think. Instead, he could be saying, "I take you to the zoo," at which point you can politely decline. Why? Because this man is crazy.
He's the kind of crazy that knocks on your door for half an hour at 1:00 in the morning, waking up everyone in a two block vicinity. And when you don't answer the door, because you're presumably sleeping and in your pajamas, only then does he think of calling you. And when you decide to answer the phone, he simply goes on and on about how his friend is coming tomorrow and wants you to meet the room servant tomorrow. Understandably confused and annoyed, you say fine just to end the conversation, only to wake up and see 6 Vietnamese faces peering at you, urging you to move out your things so they can occupy "their" new room. After a long conversation is carried out through jumping, hand gestures, and other dance-like movements since none of you speak the same language, you call the landlord. Of course, his phone is turned off until early afternoon, because, well, this is a Sunday, and he did stay up so late pounding on your door.
Now, luckily, that was the night you'd decided to go tango dancing, so you hadn't actually had to suffer through the door-pounding. This is unlike your unfortunate neighbors, who happily express their innermost feelings about the experience in the morning. Rather unluckily, you'd decided to join one of the other tango dancers for a late night dinner/early morning breakfast, which is a common enough tango activity after the dance ends. This means you are now operating on a little under three hours of sleep, and now have a huge sore throat for your retardedly late night activities before you're fully recovered. Unluckily for your landlord, this also means that you are happily ready to tell him your own "innermost feelings."
His answer to the crisis, is that you move out, and then all of you can go out for karaoke later that night. He'll buy all the beers. Great idea, right?
You end up moving to a single room in a nicer apartment for the same price. All the other tenants, in a heartwarming show of solidarity, parade through the streets, helping you carry all of your stuff amidst barrels of bad jokes, mostly aimed at how crazy our landlord is. You spend the rest of the day trying to catch up on sleep. That evening, as you and the other tenants are chatting with the crazy Panget, as the Filipinos have taken to calling him, he starts going on about how you should really see the room servant again. As he plies you his mother's cooking, you ask, "Who is this room servant that you keep going on about?" The Filipinos laugh. The "room servant", which you thought meant "maid" really means "room seven." So the 1am conversation was really his way of telling you that he wanted you to move out, to room seven.
Even though the mystery is solved, you still check out as quickly as possible the next morning.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Miracles!
I found tango in Singapore! I guess I am less a die-hard tango fan than I suspected, otherwise I would have googled "tango in Singapore" even before I left Bandung, but let's not quibble over facts. I was so excited, I immediately splurged on tango shoes for after all, you can't possibly dance in flip-flops. :) Plus it was an excuse to see late-night shopping on Orchard St., which if you can imagine it, is worse than Black Friday in the States.
By the time got home and showered, well, it was quarter after midnight. Yes, again I failed the "die-hard tango-fan" test. By the time I would have got there, let's say 1:00am, there'd still be one whole hour left of dancing. But after walking the whole day around Singapore, my tired body said "go to sleep". So instead, I sit at the kitchen table writing about the greatest discovery of all time. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. But only slightly.
If I stay in Singapore 10 more days, I could tango six evenings before I go back to Bandung. That's almost more excitement than my little tango-deprived body can stand. How ever will I be able to go to sleep tonight? Oh, and what's great is that they had a whole slew of of size 34 shoes, high heel, in stock! That is a size 3 kids, back home. I positively love Singapore right now.
By the time got home and showered, well, it was quarter after midnight. Yes, again I failed the "die-hard tango-fan" test. By the time I would have got there, let's say 1:00am, there'd still be one whole hour left of dancing. But after walking the whole day around Singapore, my tired body said "go to sleep". So instead, I sit at the kitchen table writing about the greatest discovery of all time. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. But only slightly.
If I stay in Singapore 10 more days, I could tango six evenings before I go back to Bandung. That's almost more excitement than my little tango-deprived body can stand. How ever will I be able to go to sleep tonight? Oh, and what's great is that they had a whole slew of of size 34 shoes, high heel, in stock! That is a size 3 kids, back home. I positively love Singapore right now.
Health Update
The doctors in Singapore were very good. I like the Infectious Disease doctor, he reminds me of Bell Yung, one of the ethnomusicology professors in Pittsburgh...very smart, professional, nice.
All of the blood tests/x-rays were either within normal range, or almost back to normal. So the doctor says whatever I had is gone. I asked him if that's the case, how come I keep getting sick? (Every couple of days I feel ill). He said I just need to rest more, because if you get a variety of tropical diseases at one time, than it takes the body several months to recover. So I'm taking vitamins now to boost my immunity and drinking tons of water. I'm off all my former medication, and trying to keep things simple. So now I just have to go back for a few more check-ups and can concentrate on being a tourist in Singapore.
I'm so excited to be on the mend and get back to work!
All of the blood tests/x-rays were either within normal range, or almost back to normal. So the doctor says whatever I had is gone. I asked him if that's the case, how come I keep getting sick? (Every couple of days I feel ill). He said I just need to rest more, because if you get a variety of tropical diseases at one time, than it takes the body several months to recover. So I'm taking vitamins now to boost my immunity and drinking tons of water. I'm off all my former medication, and trying to keep things simple. So now I just have to go back for a few more check-ups and can concentrate on being a tourist in Singapore.
I'm so excited to be on the mend and get back to work!
Singapore
Singapore is: hot, trendy, expensive, cheap, Western, Chinese, touristy, over-protective, safe, clean, fun, quaint, modern, a late-night party city, full of foreigners, pretty darn cool.
I've been trying for days to think of a good way to describe Singapore, and that is the best I could do. The string of adjectives that could be applied to the city is endless. My one friend, Charlie Augustus, always says _______ (fill in the blank with any place name) is a land of contrast. So, Singapore is a land of contrast. But not in the Indonesian sense, where you go to the next city over and the inhabitants speak a different language, have different fashion tastes, and new cuisine. Singaporean contrast is much more subtle. I've talked to a lot of people, and the common consensus seems to be that when you first get here, you're not that impressed. But the longer you stay, the more you love it.
There's so much to do in Singapore. Every day can be packed with adventure catered to your individual interests. There are world-class museums, parks, jungles, a zoo, beaches, walk-in classes on every imaginable subject, Chinese opera, independent film festivals, dancing, bars, temples of every sort, you name it and more. It's a city-country where everyone speaks either Mandarin or English although the official-est of the four languages is actually Malay. It is a Western-style oasis in the midst of Southeast Asia, with a shopping mall on every street corner. I've taken to thinking of it as: The West for the East, and the East for the West.
I've been trying for days to think of a good way to describe Singapore, and that is the best I could do. The string of adjectives that could be applied to the city is endless. My one friend, Charlie Augustus, always says _______ (fill in the blank with any place name) is a land of contrast. So, Singapore is a land of contrast. But not in the Indonesian sense, where you go to the next city over and the inhabitants speak a different language, have different fashion tastes, and new cuisine. Singaporean contrast is much more subtle. I've talked to a lot of people, and the common consensus seems to be that when you first get here, you're not that impressed. But the longer you stay, the more you love it.
There's so much to do in Singapore. Every day can be packed with adventure catered to your individual interests. There are world-class museums, parks, jungles, a zoo, beaches, walk-in classes on every imaginable subject, Chinese opera, independent film festivals, dancing, bars, temples of every sort, you name it and more. It's a city-country where everyone speaks either Mandarin or English although the official-est of the four languages is actually Malay. It is a Western-style oasis in the midst of Southeast Asia, with a shopping mall on every street corner. I've taken to thinking of it as: The West for the East, and the East for the West.
Friday, March 30, 2007
If You Can't Give 'em a Diagnosis, Give 'em a Big Mac...
The journey to Jakarta began in "subuh sekali:" the wee hours of morning, in the dark, before the first call to prayer.
I taxied to the train station where Ethan was waiting for me at a Western-style coffee house with a cappuccino in hand. For a moment, the setting seemed so familiar to me, meeting a fellow grad student at the local coffee shop to exchange ideas and feel all intellectual and stuff. Then, as a crowd of Indonesian men descended upon us to help carry our luggage to make a quick buck, (or a thousand rupiah, as the case may be) reality set in. Ethan and I pushed our way through the crowds, purchased our tickets and settled in for the ride.
It was nice to have a companion, especially one who had never been to West Java before. He gleefully pointed out all the international products that I could buy in Bandung, as opposed to the central Javanese town that he was living in, like Time Magazine! And on the train ride, where I would have slept through the glorious views, he helped me re-appreciate the lush green mountainous landscape that has helped make the area a tourist destination for city-slicker Jakarta types--after the sun came out, that is. After we got into the city, through his eyes, I realized that Jakarta is much prettier and greener than I ever gave it credit for being.
The doctors at the clinic took about a gallon of blood out of my body, ordered us Big Mac's (thereby solidifying to me that I was no longer in America) and promptly told me that I didn't have AIDS, leukemia, or even hepatitis. I certainly didn't have an allergic reaction to my medication. One of the doctors thought I might have mono. Wouldn't that have been great? I went from being diagnosed with all sorts of exciting tropical diseases only to find out that the whole time I just had mono. Thank goodness that test came back negative!
Then they called in the head doctor. He was from France and he really wanted to talk about an ethnomusicologist he knew living in Makassar. Doctors love talking about ethnomusicology; it makes them feel like they're developing a good doctor-patient relationship.
After the chit-chat ended, he got to the diagnosis part. (Note to reader: Try to imagine this next part with a cute French accent.) "You have an inflammation somewhere in your body, a rash, a cold; you're feeling nauseous...you are clearly ill. If you stay in Indonesia, it could take months to figure out what is wrong with you. I suggest you fly directly to Singapore where they can diagnose you much, much quicker. Singapore is not so far. It is like flying from Marseille to Paris."
So that was it. They drained me of most of my blood, gave me a Big Mac, and then told me that Indonesia couldn't help me. And that is why the US Embassy declares Jakarta a "Hardship Zone" as far as health-care is concerned, and the rest of Indonesia as an "Extreme Hardship Zone."
The rest of my time in Jakarta was spent: 1) convincing Fulbright and the US State Department to splurge on a plane ticket and some real doctors, 2) almost getting kicked out of the US Embassy cuz those people are just plain mean, and or course, 3) EATING! My personal goal was to gain ten pounds in four days. I'm pretty sure I accomplished it. I think I out-ate Ethan every day, with such delectable activities as single-handedly devouring a whole grouper, ordering bowls of Indian curry, and eating sushi roll after sushi roll. Mmmm, yummy... And not once did we order Indonesian food! Yay!
I taxied to the train station where Ethan was waiting for me at a Western-style coffee house with a cappuccino in hand. For a moment, the setting seemed so familiar to me, meeting a fellow grad student at the local coffee shop to exchange ideas and feel all intellectual and stuff. Then, as a crowd of Indonesian men descended upon us to help carry our luggage to make a quick buck, (or a thousand rupiah, as the case may be) reality set in. Ethan and I pushed our way through the crowds, purchased our tickets and settled in for the ride.
It was nice to have a companion, especially one who had never been to West Java before. He gleefully pointed out all the international products that I could buy in Bandung, as opposed to the central Javanese town that he was living in, like Time Magazine! And on the train ride, where I would have slept through the glorious views, he helped me re-appreciate the lush green mountainous landscape that has helped make the area a tourist destination for city-slicker Jakarta types--after the sun came out, that is. After we got into the city, through his eyes, I realized that Jakarta is much prettier and greener than I ever gave it credit for being.
The doctors at the clinic took about a gallon of blood out of my body, ordered us Big Mac's (thereby solidifying to me that I was no longer in America) and promptly told me that I didn't have AIDS, leukemia, or even hepatitis. I certainly didn't have an allergic reaction to my medication. One of the doctors thought I might have mono. Wouldn't that have been great? I went from being diagnosed with all sorts of exciting tropical diseases only to find out that the whole time I just had mono. Thank goodness that test came back negative!
Then they called in the head doctor. He was from France and he really wanted to talk about an ethnomusicologist he knew living in Makassar. Doctors love talking about ethnomusicology; it makes them feel like they're developing a good doctor-patient relationship.
After the chit-chat ended, he got to the diagnosis part. (Note to reader: Try to imagine this next part with a cute French accent.) "You have an inflammation somewhere in your body, a rash, a cold; you're feeling nauseous...you are clearly ill. If you stay in Indonesia, it could take months to figure out what is wrong with you. I suggest you fly directly to Singapore where they can diagnose you much, much quicker. Singapore is not so far. It is like flying from Marseille to Paris."
So that was it. They drained me of most of my blood, gave me a Big Mac, and then told me that Indonesia couldn't help me. And that is why the US Embassy declares Jakarta a "Hardship Zone" as far as health-care is concerned, and the rest of Indonesia as an "Extreme Hardship Zone."
The rest of my time in Jakarta was spent: 1) convincing Fulbright and the US State Department to splurge on a plane ticket and some real doctors, 2) almost getting kicked out of the US Embassy cuz those people are just plain mean, and or course, 3) EATING! My personal goal was to gain ten pounds in four days. I'm pretty sure I accomplished it. I think I out-ate Ethan every day, with such delectable activities as single-handedly devouring a whole grouper, ordering bowls of Indian curry, and eating sushi roll after sushi roll. Mmmm, yummy... And not once did we order Indonesian food! Yay!
The Case of the Missing Cow
It was a dark rainy night.
Amidst claps of thunder, Ibu Laksmi, the kids, and I piled out of the car and ran into the house, giggling over the amount of ice cream we planned to consume that night. But our laughter quickly turned into hushed whispers as we found Pak Muharam in serious conversation with two Sundanese men we had never seen before. Their faces were rough, dark, and wrinkled, as if hardened by a life spent working outdoors under the hot Indonesian sun. There was something about their expressions and the way they sat uneasily in their chairs that instantly sobered us.
Ibu Laksmi tarried to greet them as the kids and I hid in the kitchen unpacking the grocery bags in silence. She joined us minutes later and I could only hold back a moment before asking, "What's going on? Who are those men?" She held my gaze and replied in a low voice:
"Mereka jaga sapi kita. Sapi kita hilang." They take care of our cow. Our cow is lost."
With the four of us sitting symmetrically around the kitchen table, the seconds that followed must have resembled an amateur artist's character piece on the range of human expression.
Bila, the elder child, immediately went into a state of panicked shock, asking her mother a flurry of worried questions. "What happened? How will I afford to go to school next year?" Ibu Laksmi's normally smiling face remained grave, the bearer of bad news. Fauzan, the younger child, blissfully chose to ignore the bovine catastrophe and focused on more imminent disasters at hand, ones that still had the potential to be averted by immediate action. "Ibu, when can we eat the ice cream? It's melting!" And I looked on in complete bewilderment, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this twenty-first century family, who owned several entrepreneurial businesses and lived in a thriving metropolis, owned a cow, and that cow was now missing. Why? How come I'd never heard of this before?
As the facts emerged, it turns out that the family had invested money in buying a calf for $400, which, when it grew up, would be worth twice what they had put into it. This return would be used to pay for Bila's graduation from elementary school and her entry fee into middle school. Bila was now ready to graduate and the cow had grown up. However, it was nowhere to be found.
Now, I don't know about you, but at the time, this seemed utterly preposterous to me. Actually, it still seem utterly preposterous. How could a fully-grown cow just disappear? Did it run away or was it stolen? And anyway, what kind of respectable city person saves their money in a cow?! Well, besides maybe a plastic one with a slot in the top for dropping coins. Besides, cows get sick and die, and you have to feed them and clean up after them. It just didn't seem like the safest or most reasonable kind of investment. But hey, I'm an American and I study music. What do I know?
So that's the story. If anyone finds a cow wandering through the streets of Indonesia, send a line my way. I know a little girl who really wants to go to school next year.
Oh, and by the way, the ice cream was delicious.
Amidst claps of thunder, Ibu Laksmi, the kids, and I piled out of the car and ran into the house, giggling over the amount of ice cream we planned to consume that night. But our laughter quickly turned into hushed whispers as we found Pak Muharam in serious conversation with two Sundanese men we had never seen before. Their faces were rough, dark, and wrinkled, as if hardened by a life spent working outdoors under the hot Indonesian sun. There was something about their expressions and the way they sat uneasily in their chairs that instantly sobered us.
Ibu Laksmi tarried to greet them as the kids and I hid in the kitchen unpacking the grocery bags in silence. She joined us minutes later and I could only hold back a moment before asking, "What's going on? Who are those men?" She held my gaze and replied in a low voice:
"Mereka jaga sapi kita. Sapi kita hilang." They take care of our cow. Our cow is lost."
With the four of us sitting symmetrically around the kitchen table, the seconds that followed must have resembled an amateur artist's character piece on the range of human expression.
Bila, the elder child, immediately went into a state of panicked shock, asking her mother a flurry of worried questions. "What happened? How will I afford to go to school next year?" Ibu Laksmi's normally smiling face remained grave, the bearer of bad news. Fauzan, the younger child, blissfully chose to ignore the bovine catastrophe and focused on more imminent disasters at hand, ones that still had the potential to be averted by immediate action. "Ibu, when can we eat the ice cream? It's melting!" And I looked on in complete bewilderment, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this twenty-first century family, who owned several entrepreneurial businesses and lived in a thriving metropolis, owned a cow, and that cow was now missing. Why? How come I'd never heard of this before?
As the facts emerged, it turns out that the family had invested money in buying a calf for $400, which, when it grew up, would be worth twice what they had put into it. This return would be used to pay for Bila's graduation from elementary school and her entry fee into middle school. Bila was now ready to graduate and the cow had grown up. However, it was nowhere to be found.
Now, I don't know about you, but at the time, this seemed utterly preposterous to me. Actually, it still seem utterly preposterous. How could a fully-grown cow just disappear? Did it run away or was it stolen? And anyway, what kind of respectable city person saves their money in a cow?! Well, besides maybe a plastic one with a slot in the top for dropping coins. Besides, cows get sick and die, and you have to feed them and clean up after them. It just didn't seem like the safest or most reasonable kind of investment. But hey, I'm an American and I study music. What do I know?
So that's the story. If anyone finds a cow wandering through the streets of Indonesia, send a line my way. I know a little girl who really wants to go to school next year.
Oh, and by the way, the ice cream was delicious.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Bananas
Ok, Ok, so I got sick, whoopdy-do! Sorry for harassing you with all these tales of bodily ailments! I mean, I write these things to entertain, but really, all I’m doing is whining about being sick in Indonesia for two months.
I did eat a banana today, which was interesting. Well, no, the act of masticating wasn’t interesting, but the banana did have an interesting name. They have like a zillion different types of bananas here, and it always amazes me that people can instantly tell them apart. This one was called “Pisang Raja Cerai.” The king of divorce banana. Now how do you even earn a name like that? Especially when you’re a fruit?!
I did eat a banana today, which was interesting. Well, no, the act of masticating wasn’t interesting, but the banana did have an interesting name. They have like a zillion different types of bananas here, and it always amazes me that people can instantly tell them apart. This one was called “Pisang Raja Cerai.” The king of divorce banana. Now how do you even earn a name like that? Especially when you’re a fruit?!
My First Ever Trip to the Hospital: Part 2
What’s that thing that they stick in your hand to control your fever and give you shots of medication called? I’ve never gotten one in the U.S., so I don’t know the name in English. Dude, that thing HURTS!!! And then if you accidentally rip it out, it’s a real bloody mess, and it hurts all over again. So, I don’t recommend doing that…ever.
When I got to the hospital, I gratefully sank onto the emergency stretcher, which I sincerely never suspected would be that hard. Even in the height of my fever, I could tell that it could have been a lot more comfortable. I was immediately surrounded by doctors. I guess I came in a bit of a star. You see, accompanying me was Pak Muharam’s brother-in-law. As previously stated, he is a doctor, also married to a doctor, and are well known in the community of Bandung doctors. (Yes, I used the word doctor three times in that sentence.) To put it in clearer terms, when I showed up, I didn’t have to sign anything, I didn’t have to put down any money or show them a credit card. They never asked me for my insurance card the entire time I was there, and they even released me with my entire $700.00 bill outstanding, without even getting the desired letter of promisary money from the U.S. embassy.
The doctors looked at my tongue, looked at the bumps all over my body, and immediately announced that I had the measles. I was like, “Dudes, that’s impossible. I’ve been vaccinated since I was a kid.” And then, they were like, “Dude, nothing is impossible. This is Indonesia.” So, at the point, I just started laughing. I mean, typhoid fever, hepatitis A, gastric ulcers, and now the measles, all in the span of two months? I really got the full experience this time around coming here. At this point, the doctors must have thought I was crazy so they told me to go to sleep and left me. I was wheeled up to a private VIP room with air conditioning and a television, and I lay in bed, unable to get up for the next three days. This meant that nurses helped me bathe myself, lifting the water to my mouth cuz I couldn’t drink it alone, etc, etc. Normally I’m a pretty independent person, not to mention shy at strange people taking off my clothes. That’s actually probably a pretty normal feeling though, right? Let me tell you that I did not mind in the least bit; I was just thankful to be lying there.
After I got some of my strength back, I started paying attention to what the doctors were saying and asking questions. This is where the confusion started. Apparently, the Dokter Kulit said that I had an allergic reaction to one of my antibiotics, sulfa. The Dokter Penyakit Dalam, whose name was Eddy, said that I had a virus, either Measles or Rubella. Dr. Eddy also said that he had never diagnosed me with typhoid fever OR Hepatitis, and why in the world was I telling people that I had? After I showed him the laboratory results that he himself had given me and signed over a month ago, he changed his tune and suddenly remembered. He told me to go to the Chapel and pray. I thought that was nice advice, especially considering that I wasn’t able to get out of bed.
Now I’ve been home for two days. I think it will take a while to heal. I’m still not up for walking around without supervision. The rash hasn’t totally faded. It’s mostly on my stomach, arms, and legs now. I don’t think it will affect my dating career though, after a young man followed me home yesterday trying to get my phone number. Boys! Ethan is coming to Bandung on the night train, and we are going to go to a clinic in Jakarta tomorrow morning to see if I can get a real diagnosis.
When I got to the hospital, I gratefully sank onto the emergency stretcher, which I sincerely never suspected would be that hard. Even in the height of my fever, I could tell that it could have been a lot more comfortable. I was immediately surrounded by doctors. I guess I came in a bit of a star. You see, accompanying me was Pak Muharam’s brother-in-law. As previously stated, he is a doctor, also married to a doctor, and are well known in the community of Bandung doctors. (Yes, I used the word doctor three times in that sentence.) To put it in clearer terms, when I showed up, I didn’t have to sign anything, I didn’t have to put down any money or show them a credit card. They never asked me for my insurance card the entire time I was there, and they even released me with my entire $700.00 bill outstanding, without even getting the desired letter of promisary money from the U.S. embassy.
The doctors looked at my tongue, looked at the bumps all over my body, and immediately announced that I had the measles. I was like, “Dudes, that’s impossible. I’ve been vaccinated since I was a kid.” And then, they were like, “Dude, nothing is impossible. This is Indonesia.” So, at the point, I just started laughing. I mean, typhoid fever, hepatitis A, gastric ulcers, and now the measles, all in the span of two months? I really got the full experience this time around coming here. At this point, the doctors must have thought I was crazy so they told me to go to sleep and left me. I was wheeled up to a private VIP room with air conditioning and a television, and I lay in bed, unable to get up for the next three days. This meant that nurses helped me bathe myself, lifting the water to my mouth cuz I couldn’t drink it alone, etc, etc. Normally I’m a pretty independent person, not to mention shy at strange people taking off my clothes. That’s actually probably a pretty normal feeling though, right? Let me tell you that I did not mind in the least bit; I was just thankful to be lying there.
After I got some of my strength back, I started paying attention to what the doctors were saying and asking questions. This is where the confusion started. Apparently, the Dokter Kulit said that I had an allergic reaction to one of my antibiotics, sulfa. The Dokter Penyakit Dalam, whose name was Eddy, said that I had a virus, either Measles or Rubella. Dr. Eddy also said that he had never diagnosed me with typhoid fever OR Hepatitis, and why in the world was I telling people that I had? After I showed him the laboratory results that he himself had given me and signed over a month ago, he changed his tune and suddenly remembered. He told me to go to the Chapel and pray. I thought that was nice advice, especially considering that I wasn’t able to get out of bed.
Now I’ve been home for two days. I think it will take a while to heal. I’m still not up for walking around without supervision. The rash hasn’t totally faded. It’s mostly on my stomach, arms, and legs now. I don’t think it will affect my dating career though, after a young man followed me home yesterday trying to get my phone number. Boys! Ethan is coming to Bandung on the night train, and we are going to go to a clinic in Jakarta tomorrow morning to see if I can get a real diagnosis.
My First Ever Trip to the Hospital: Part 1
I wanted to name this entry, “Five days in a Hospital, hooked up to stuff with all kinds of tests, and I still don’t have a diagnosis…what’s up with that?” But that seemed a tad long.
One of my friends got into a rather serious motorcycle accident. So serious that she had to cancel her trip abroad. I was feeling on the mend, only six more days of antibiotics! so I decided to go visit her. She wasn’t really conscious so I didn’t stay long, just enough to talk to her relatives and find out the extent of her condition. The next day, I woke up with the measles.
At least I think it was the measles. Or more accurately, I think it was Rubella, the German Measles. I mean, what happened is that I had a cough that day, then I spent all night in a fever, and when I woke up there were all these little red bumps on my face. I was like “Man, God, why are you sending me a rain of pimples? What did I do to deserve that?” But Ibu Laksmi insisted I go straight to a lab to get my blood tested for one of the various mosquito diseases people seem to get here. It came back negative. I spent the rest of the day in bed, waiting for the fever to go away. Sometime after lunch, I decided to change my clothes in the hopes that I would feel better. I looked in the mirror, and was instantly horrified. My face was absolutely covered in red bumps. It was ghastly. I lifted my shirt, exposing my belly…and immediately dropped the cloth again…more bumps! After a frantic examination, I discovered there wasn’t an inch of my body, (oh, well, except for my feet,) that wasn’t infected.
Ibu Laksmi came home from work when I whimpered to her that there was something wrong. Much to my surprise, she assured me that I was fine and this was absolutely normal. All the red bumps were just a special Indonesian sign that my fever was going away and I would feel better soon. As soon as she left again, I took matters into my own hands. Somehow, her explanation had not eased my panic. Via text message, Ethan from Solo told me that I should find myself a good doctor in Jakarta and get the heck out of Bandung before I caught any other weird diseases.
Jakarta was a good idea, but not practical. I could barely stand, let alone get on a train by myself. As soon as I got the ok from Nelly, the Fulbright coordinator in Jakarta, I checked into the local hospital. Now, this particular hospital was run by seventh-day-Adventists, and that is a whole story in itself. Do you know that they keep the Sabbath? This prevents anyone from checking out on a Saturday. Sucks to be you if you want to go home on that day. They also keep kosher foods, and all the old Jewish laws. Now, I do realize that Jesus did say in one of the good gospels that he wasn’t coming to destroy the law, but to uphold it, but he also said way more frequently, and so did Paul repeatedly in his letters, that its not the signs of the faith that are important, but the faith itself. And it’s directly stated that as such, there is no need for fasting, circumcision, avoidance of certain foods, etc. So, if a learned Christian that has studied in some kind of accredited Seminary feels so inclined, feel free to comment on this, and clarify to all us non-learned peoples. Otherwise I’m tempted to believe that those good Gentiles are misguided into upholding the law for the sake of show, and setting themselves apart from the greater community of Christian believers. I also apologize in advance if this is coming across as very cynical, but in my defense, they never did give me a diagnosis. On the other hand, I did very much enjoy the pastor coming to pray with me every day, and all the musicians who came to sing me hymns while I was confined to my bed. I also got to read the Bible a lot. And the pastor told me not to convert to Islam, so there you have it.
One of my friends got into a rather serious motorcycle accident. So serious that she had to cancel her trip abroad. I was feeling on the mend, only six more days of antibiotics! so I decided to go visit her. She wasn’t really conscious so I didn’t stay long, just enough to talk to her relatives and find out the extent of her condition. The next day, I woke up with the measles.
At least I think it was the measles. Or more accurately, I think it was Rubella, the German Measles. I mean, what happened is that I had a cough that day, then I spent all night in a fever, and when I woke up there were all these little red bumps on my face. I was like “Man, God, why are you sending me a rain of pimples? What did I do to deserve that?” But Ibu Laksmi insisted I go straight to a lab to get my blood tested for one of the various mosquito diseases people seem to get here. It came back negative. I spent the rest of the day in bed, waiting for the fever to go away. Sometime after lunch, I decided to change my clothes in the hopes that I would feel better. I looked in the mirror, and was instantly horrified. My face was absolutely covered in red bumps. It was ghastly. I lifted my shirt, exposing my belly…and immediately dropped the cloth again…more bumps! After a frantic examination, I discovered there wasn’t an inch of my body, (oh, well, except for my feet,) that wasn’t infected.
Ibu Laksmi came home from work when I whimpered to her that there was something wrong. Much to my surprise, she assured me that I was fine and this was absolutely normal. All the red bumps were just a special Indonesian sign that my fever was going away and I would feel better soon. As soon as she left again, I took matters into my own hands. Somehow, her explanation had not eased my panic. Via text message, Ethan from Solo told me that I should find myself a good doctor in Jakarta and get the heck out of Bandung before I caught any other weird diseases.
Jakarta was a good idea, but not practical. I could barely stand, let alone get on a train by myself. As soon as I got the ok from Nelly, the Fulbright coordinator in Jakarta, I checked into the local hospital. Now, this particular hospital was run by seventh-day-Adventists, and that is a whole story in itself. Do you know that they keep the Sabbath? This prevents anyone from checking out on a Saturday. Sucks to be you if you want to go home on that day. They also keep kosher foods, and all the old Jewish laws. Now, I do realize that Jesus did say in one of the good gospels that he wasn’t coming to destroy the law, but to uphold it, but he also said way more frequently, and so did Paul repeatedly in his letters, that its not the signs of the faith that are important, but the faith itself. And it’s directly stated that as such, there is no need for fasting, circumcision, avoidance of certain foods, etc. So, if a learned Christian that has studied in some kind of accredited Seminary feels so inclined, feel free to comment on this, and clarify to all us non-learned peoples. Otherwise I’m tempted to believe that those good Gentiles are misguided into upholding the law for the sake of show, and setting themselves apart from the greater community of Christian believers. I also apologize in advance if this is coming across as very cynical, but in my defense, they never did give me a diagnosis. On the other hand, I did very much enjoy the pastor coming to pray with me every day, and all the musicians who came to sing me hymns while I was confined to my bed. I also got to read the Bible a lot. And the pastor told me not to convert to Islam, so there you have it.
Rethinking Life
Synopsis of blog below: I thought I was healed. Read former entries for details. Then I started stressing out about bills and where I was going to get funding for next year. This has resulted in a complete overhaul of my lifestyle.
It all started again when I went to a music rehearsal with some fantastic tembang singers (an awesome genre of music, coming soon to a city near you!) who are embarking on a tour through North American. Now, the rehearsal was scheduled to start at four, but typically, nothing actually got started until after 9pm. Indonesia sometimes outdoes itself… I chatted the time away, and scheduled appointments with all the people that I had wanted to visit in the last month, but had been ill. The rehearsal was ok, and I got to practice singing a lot myself. By the time I got home, it was midnight.
Armed with my new phone card, I called my mom. Then I called my advisor in Pittsburgh. Could he write me a letter of recommendation for a grant, due March 1, 2007? He agreed, and seemed consolatory about my stories of diseases. I called every credit card company to which I owed money. This made me unhappy. I went to bed tossing and turning, wondering how I was going to get everything done and pay all my bills. I contemplated getting a job. When I woke up, I couldn’t speak. I had somehow gotten a cold, “masuk angin” as they call it hear. I cancelled my plans for the day, and Ibu Laksmi insisted I go to the doctor. I agreed, but in my heart, I was sure that it was just a minor cold, and that it would be better if I just slept the day away.
Doctors, being the loveable people that they are, always say what you least want to hear. The cold had weakened my immune system, and now I was both hepatitis and typhoid positive again. They were also worried that I’d been taken off the antibiotics too quickly and now I might have an infection, I think in my gall bladder. They ask me if I wanted to stay at their home as their personal patient—for a minimum of two more weeks! (They’re a married couple, both doctors, and related to Pak Muharam). I said thank you very much, but if all I have to do is lie and bed, self-medicate myself three times a day, and stare at the wall again for two weeks, I’d rather do it at home in my own bed.
Now, the first thing that went through my head was…but I have a deadline at the end of this week! I need to work on my proposal! I’ve already lost so much time being sick. But it quickly became clear that bedrest did not entail going to an internet café, so I was left feeling guilty that I had just promised my advisor one thing and now couldn’t follow up on it. Nor could I even let him know until my condition improved slightly.
Life returned to being very boring. My diet was once more restricted to chicken soup-flavored mushy rice. I postponed all my appointments again. After a week, I went back to the doctor for a check-up. We talked for several hours about what the effects of each problem I had, and the dos and don’ts associated with my condition. The one that hit home the most was the gastric ulcers. Apparently, that little ball of stress that I always carry around with me and store as a knot in my stomach, is not just a reminder that I have a lot of things to do. It’s really untreated chronic ulcers. Now that I’m aware of what they feel like, I think I’ve had them for over a year. Up until this point, I’ll feel that tightness and think, what is that about? What should I be doing that I’m not? And then I get totally stressed out about that, but the real problem is that my stomach is hungry, or that my diet was wrong, and my gastric juices start flowing and creating sores on my stomach. So, this has led me to rethink my lifestyle.
1) First of all, I am addicted to Pepsi. Hmmm…Let’s put that aside for the moment, because I’m not sure I’m willing to give that up.
2) Second of all, there is nothing in life that cannot be changed. Sometimes life has plans for us that are different than what we have arranged, so always expect things to take a different route than what we imagine. Five years ago, I hadn’t even imagined myself in graduate school, let alone in Indonesia! Heck, I didn’t even know where Indonesia was!
3) Replaces feelings of stress with calm. A stressed person means a sick body. A healthy body follows a healthy mind. It’s all very scientific.
4) Strive for perfection, but if you don’t achieve it, and you won’t, relax. There is always tomorrow for improvements.
5) Don’t try to cram all your research and learning into a short time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
6) It’s good to think of how other people feel, but don’t be empathetic to excess. For example, if you have an appointment with someone, but you’re sick, they’ll understand if you have to cancel. There’s a difference between disappointing someone deeply and causing them a minor inconvenience in their plans.
7) Health first! Work only comes second to being able to carry out your job effectively, with a healthy body.
8) Eat regularly, don’t skip meals, and snack in between if you’re hungry.
I also lost a lot of weight. I’m only 84 pounds now. That’s back to high school days! So, put that weight back on! I’m striving for 92.
It all started again when I went to a music rehearsal with some fantastic tembang singers (an awesome genre of music, coming soon to a city near you!) who are embarking on a tour through North American. Now, the rehearsal was scheduled to start at four, but typically, nothing actually got started until after 9pm. Indonesia sometimes outdoes itself… I chatted the time away, and scheduled appointments with all the people that I had wanted to visit in the last month, but had been ill. The rehearsal was ok, and I got to practice singing a lot myself. By the time I got home, it was midnight.
Armed with my new phone card, I called my mom. Then I called my advisor in Pittsburgh. Could he write me a letter of recommendation for a grant, due March 1, 2007? He agreed, and seemed consolatory about my stories of diseases. I called every credit card company to which I owed money. This made me unhappy. I went to bed tossing and turning, wondering how I was going to get everything done and pay all my bills. I contemplated getting a job. When I woke up, I couldn’t speak. I had somehow gotten a cold, “masuk angin” as they call it hear. I cancelled my plans for the day, and Ibu Laksmi insisted I go to the doctor. I agreed, but in my heart, I was sure that it was just a minor cold, and that it would be better if I just slept the day away.
Doctors, being the loveable people that they are, always say what you least want to hear. The cold had weakened my immune system, and now I was both hepatitis and typhoid positive again. They were also worried that I’d been taken off the antibiotics too quickly and now I might have an infection, I think in my gall bladder. They ask me if I wanted to stay at their home as their personal patient—for a minimum of two more weeks! (They’re a married couple, both doctors, and related to Pak Muharam). I said thank you very much, but if all I have to do is lie and bed, self-medicate myself three times a day, and stare at the wall again for two weeks, I’d rather do it at home in my own bed.
Now, the first thing that went through my head was…but I have a deadline at the end of this week! I need to work on my proposal! I’ve already lost so much time being sick. But it quickly became clear that bedrest did not entail going to an internet café, so I was left feeling guilty that I had just promised my advisor one thing and now couldn’t follow up on it. Nor could I even let him know until my condition improved slightly.
Life returned to being very boring. My diet was once more restricted to chicken soup-flavored mushy rice. I postponed all my appointments again. After a week, I went back to the doctor for a check-up. We talked for several hours about what the effects of each problem I had, and the dos and don’ts associated with my condition. The one that hit home the most was the gastric ulcers. Apparently, that little ball of stress that I always carry around with me and store as a knot in my stomach, is not just a reminder that I have a lot of things to do. It’s really untreated chronic ulcers. Now that I’m aware of what they feel like, I think I’ve had them for over a year. Up until this point, I’ll feel that tightness and think, what is that about? What should I be doing that I’m not? And then I get totally stressed out about that, but the real problem is that my stomach is hungry, or that my diet was wrong, and my gastric juices start flowing and creating sores on my stomach. So, this has led me to rethink my lifestyle.
1) First of all, I am addicted to Pepsi. Hmmm…Let’s put that aside for the moment, because I’m not sure I’m willing to give that up.
2) Second of all, there is nothing in life that cannot be changed. Sometimes life has plans for us that are different than what we have arranged, so always expect things to take a different route than what we imagine. Five years ago, I hadn’t even imagined myself in graduate school, let alone in Indonesia! Heck, I didn’t even know where Indonesia was!
3) Replaces feelings of stress with calm. A stressed person means a sick body. A healthy body follows a healthy mind. It’s all very scientific.
4) Strive for perfection, but if you don’t achieve it, and you won’t, relax. There is always tomorrow for improvements.
5) Don’t try to cram all your research and learning into a short time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
6) It’s good to think of how other people feel, but don’t be empathetic to excess. For example, if you have an appointment with someone, but you’re sick, they’ll understand if you have to cancel. There’s a difference between disappointing someone deeply and causing them a minor inconvenience in their plans.
7) Health first! Work only comes second to being able to carry out your job effectively, with a healthy body.
8) Eat regularly, don’t skip meals, and snack in between if you’re hungry.
I also lost a lot of weight. I’m only 84 pounds now. That’s back to high school days! So, put that weight back on! I’m striving for 92.
My love is Like a Red, Red, Rose….
It always starts with the guys that are keen on helping you with your research. I met him at a nasyid event, and he’d been eager to take me to Islamic universities around Bandung. His “I have a little girl crush on you” text messages had begun simply, straightforwardly, and very cliché. “Kenapa saya ingat kamu terus?” How come I can’t stop thinking of you? One of my friends told me that I should answer in the form of a joke. Something to the effect of, “Did you borrow one of my things, and that’s why you keep thinking of me?” I decided that the safer thing to do would be just to ignore the text message.
Three weeks passed. After my typhoid fever had reached stage four, (the first time), the fellow visited me at my house with one of his friends. He wanted me to speak Spanish for a segment of a video he was making for an event that celebrated speaking your mother tongue. He already had another American to help him out, so he didn’t need to me to speak English. And he remembered me telling him that the left half of my body was Puerto Rican, descended from my lovely Camuy-born mother. Unfortunately, I seemed to have missed out on learning Spanish from her. I assured him that I really couldn’t speak Spanish, so he settled for me saying “Me llamo Dorcinda. Wilijeng melimping Hari Bahasa Ibu 2007!” A little Spanish, and a little Sundanese! We could both be happy.
That night, I received another text message. “Cinda, tadi kamu tampil cantik sekalih! Aku jadi suka…” Cinda, earlier, you appeared very beautiful. I like…”
So, he hadn’t given up quite yet. I waited until the morning to text him back, deciding to try the “laughing it off” technique.
“O tentu, memang cantik. Semua orang mengatakan begitu! ” Well sure, of course I’m beautiful; everyone tells me so!
He didn’t respond. I thought I’d conquered, by my pompous, full-of-myself attitude. The day passed uneventfully. My new drum arrived, and I had a lesson with my friend and teacher, Cecep. He’s only two years older than me, and we have a lot in common; especially in that we forget things all the time, and we have a tendency to be running behind schedule. We’re both Virgos; his birthday is two days before mine, September 9. His wife’s hair is died bright red, which surprised me some reason, as both Cecep and his wife speak flawless Sundanese. I guess I imagined she would be very traditional.
During the lesson I got another text message from my admirer, but as it was very poetic, and I decided to leave translating it for later. I didn’t remember it again until later that evening when I was eating dinner with the Muharam-Laksmi family.
Dunia mempesona
semakin senja, semakin manja…
Adakah di sana cinta untukku,
wahai bidadariku?
The interesting world, as the afternoon grows late, become more spoiled. Alas, is there a possibility of love for me in your heart?
After confirming that I understood the meaning, all three of us (Pak Muharam, Ibu Laksmi and I) pondered over the correct response. It had to be poetry, and it had to be clear. I had already tried the methods of ignoring and joking my way through it. Now I would have to be delightfully indirect at being direct!
Pagi terlihat cerah,
tetapi hatiku tidak secerah pagi ini.
Ternyata ada yang hilang,
Cintaku tertinggal jauh di sana.
The morning seems bright, but my heart is not as bright as this morning. Something is lost. My love is left behind, far away.
Not great poetry, but then again, verse was never my strong suit. I was more concerned with the content than lyrical language. I hoped he would choose to take my meaning as a boyfriend in America, although I am actually rather single at the moment. Meanwhile, I would choose to interpret it as my love for my family. Such is the beauty of poetry! Before half an hour had passed, a new poem awaited me—his response:
Harum Bunga yang mekar di taman itu,
Aromanya telah merasuki jiwaku…
Alangkah beruntungnya dia
Dan aku hanya pemuja cinta…
The flower that blossoms in the garden, its aroma possesses my spirit.
How lucky is he, and I only, a worshiper of love.
I smiled. He’d gotten the message, as indirectly as it had been given.
Later that evening, he apologized, once more via text message for speaking so honestly, if it disturbed me. I told him not to worry about it—that I enjoyed his poetry. Although I didn’t let him know, in fact, I was more flattered by the attention than disturbed, although quite truthfully unwilling to let the situation get out of hand. This was in fact, the first time that someone attempted to woo me with poetry. He responded with another round of flowery poetry, more difficult for me to understand.
Cinda, Kubisikan namamu dengan kalbu penuh rindu, ketika senyummu makin bersinar dalam kbut n gerimis. Tapi suaraku tigal gema memantul didinging sepi!
Cinda, I whisper your name in my heart, full of longing. When your smile shines again, it is within mist and showers. And my voice is but an echo, resounding back to me from the silent walls.
I had to look a few of the words up in the dictionary, but once I understood his meaning, I had to smile. We had now entered into the realm of friendly ridiculousness. The situation was under control. I settled down on the couch to watch my favorite Indonesian telenovela with Ibu Laksmi and her terror of a child, and smiled. We would be friends.
Three weeks passed. After my typhoid fever had reached stage four, (the first time), the fellow visited me at my house with one of his friends. He wanted me to speak Spanish for a segment of a video he was making for an event that celebrated speaking your mother tongue. He already had another American to help him out, so he didn’t need to me to speak English. And he remembered me telling him that the left half of my body was Puerto Rican, descended from my lovely Camuy-born mother. Unfortunately, I seemed to have missed out on learning Spanish from her. I assured him that I really couldn’t speak Spanish, so he settled for me saying “Me llamo Dorcinda. Wilijeng melimping Hari Bahasa Ibu 2007!” A little Spanish, and a little Sundanese! We could both be happy.
That night, I received another text message. “Cinda, tadi kamu tampil cantik sekalih! Aku jadi suka…” Cinda, earlier, you appeared very beautiful. I like…”
So, he hadn’t given up quite yet. I waited until the morning to text him back, deciding to try the “laughing it off” technique.
“O tentu, memang cantik. Semua orang mengatakan begitu! ” Well sure, of course I’m beautiful; everyone tells me so!
He didn’t respond. I thought I’d conquered, by my pompous, full-of-myself attitude. The day passed uneventfully. My new drum arrived, and I had a lesson with my friend and teacher, Cecep. He’s only two years older than me, and we have a lot in common; especially in that we forget things all the time, and we have a tendency to be running behind schedule. We’re both Virgos; his birthday is two days before mine, September 9. His wife’s hair is died bright red, which surprised me some reason, as both Cecep and his wife speak flawless Sundanese. I guess I imagined she would be very traditional.
During the lesson I got another text message from my admirer, but as it was very poetic, and I decided to leave translating it for later. I didn’t remember it again until later that evening when I was eating dinner with the Muharam-Laksmi family.
Dunia mempesona
semakin senja, semakin manja…
Adakah di sana cinta untukku,
wahai bidadariku?
The interesting world, as the afternoon grows late, become more spoiled. Alas, is there a possibility of love for me in your heart?
After confirming that I understood the meaning, all three of us (Pak Muharam, Ibu Laksmi and I) pondered over the correct response. It had to be poetry, and it had to be clear. I had already tried the methods of ignoring and joking my way through it. Now I would have to be delightfully indirect at being direct!
Pagi terlihat cerah,
tetapi hatiku tidak secerah pagi ini.
Ternyata ada yang hilang,
Cintaku tertinggal jauh di sana.
The morning seems bright, but my heart is not as bright as this morning. Something is lost. My love is left behind, far away.
Not great poetry, but then again, verse was never my strong suit. I was more concerned with the content than lyrical language. I hoped he would choose to take my meaning as a boyfriend in America, although I am actually rather single at the moment. Meanwhile, I would choose to interpret it as my love for my family. Such is the beauty of poetry! Before half an hour had passed, a new poem awaited me—his response:
Harum Bunga yang mekar di taman itu,
Aromanya telah merasuki jiwaku…
Alangkah beruntungnya dia
Dan aku hanya pemuja cinta…
The flower that blossoms in the garden, its aroma possesses my spirit.
How lucky is he, and I only, a worshiper of love.
I smiled. He’d gotten the message, as indirectly as it had been given.
Later that evening, he apologized, once more via text message for speaking so honestly, if it disturbed me. I told him not to worry about it—that I enjoyed his poetry. Although I didn’t let him know, in fact, I was more flattered by the attention than disturbed, although quite truthfully unwilling to let the situation get out of hand. This was in fact, the first time that someone attempted to woo me with poetry. He responded with another round of flowery poetry, more difficult for me to understand.
Cinda, Kubisikan namamu dengan kalbu penuh rindu, ketika senyummu makin bersinar dalam kbut n gerimis. Tapi suaraku tigal gema memantul didinging sepi!
Cinda, I whisper your name in my heart, full of longing. When your smile shines again, it is within mist and showers. And my voice is but an echo, resounding back to me from the silent walls.
I had to look a few of the words up in the dictionary, but once I understood his meaning, I had to smile. We had now entered into the realm of friendly ridiculousness. The situation was under control. I settled down on the couch to watch my favorite Indonesian telenovela with Ibu Laksmi and her terror of a child, and smiled. We would be friends.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Healthy Again, and Yet Not Quite
Yea! I’m cured! No more Hepatitis; no more Typhoid Fever! And only three more days of not being able to ride my motorbike or travel far, and then I am a free woman. Oh, and I'm also not allowed to eat anything spicy, fatty, or sour for the next month. My one friend said, have fun eating white rice for the next month. Yes, it's true, those orders do come in conflict with most Indonesian foods. However, I reiterate...Yea!
I went to the doctor today; I wanted to ask if I was all better, and also, why do I have this ongoing stomach pain? You know that feeling you get when your stomach tightens because you’re stressed out about something? It’s like that, only constant. So apparently, that’s a completely unrelated problem I picked up, a nice lifetime condition called maag. I looked up maag in the Indonesian-English language dictionary. According to John Echols and Hassan Shadily, maag means “stomach (as a source of sickness)” or to “suffer a stomach disorder…gastric problem.” So, after talking to the doctors, I think it's really a pesky little peptic ulcer, also bacteria related. It's hard to tell when you're dealing with Indonesian names for things. Anyway, if this is the case, then it's not really a now and forever thing. Although according to this doctor, it is, but the safeguards are: eat regularly, don’t get stressed out, and think happy thoughts. But the point is, I'm no longer disease-ridden! I left the house for the first time today! Yea!
P.S. Now it is time for an official apology. Sorry for bombarding you with all these blogs at once. I hope you read them, but I also hope not in one sitting! I wrote them from over the course of being ill and am just now getting to post them.
P.P.S. Don’t let my stories of getting sick scare you away from coming to Indonesia. It’s an awesome place. Instead, let it instill upon you the importance of getting your immunizations!
P.P.P.S. Happy way-belated Birthday sister Sheri, brother Keith, and cousin Freddy!
P.P.P.P.S. There, Dietrich, another unnecessary use of the P.S.; I wrote them all for you.
I went to the doctor today; I wanted to ask if I was all better, and also, why do I have this ongoing stomach pain? You know that feeling you get when your stomach tightens because you’re stressed out about something? It’s like that, only constant. So apparently, that’s a completely unrelated problem I picked up, a nice lifetime condition called maag. I looked up maag in the Indonesian-English language dictionary. According to John Echols and Hassan Shadily, maag means “stomach (as a source of sickness)” or to “suffer a stomach disorder…gastric problem.” So, after talking to the doctors, I think it's really a pesky little peptic ulcer, also bacteria related. It's hard to tell when you're dealing with Indonesian names for things. Anyway, if this is the case, then it's not really a now and forever thing. Although according to this doctor, it is, but the safeguards are: eat regularly, don’t get stressed out, and think happy thoughts. But the point is, I'm no longer disease-ridden! I left the house for the first time today! Yea!
P.S. Now it is time for an official apology. Sorry for bombarding you with all these blogs at once. I hope you read them, but I also hope not in one sitting! I wrote them from over the course of being ill and am just now getting to post them.
P.P.S. Don’t let my stories of getting sick scare you away from coming to Indonesia. It’s an awesome place. Instead, let it instill upon you the importance of getting your immunizations!
P.P.P.S. Happy way-belated Birthday sister Sheri, brother Keith, and cousin Freddy!
P.P.P.P.S. There, Dietrich, another unnecessary use of the P.S.; I wrote them all for you.
Escape Part 2: Or, “How I Became a Sundanese Woman”
The second day I violated my Ibu Laksmi-imposed-house arrest was the day of the kecapi performance with Pak Yeng. I woke up at 5:30am, showering and breakfasting before the rest of the household was awake. It was now 6am. I was about to call a cab and sneak out of the house when Ibu Laksmi sleepily emerged from her bedroom. When she realized what I was up to, she quickly woke up her husband and asked him to drive me. “Kasihan Dorcinda; dia masih sakit!” After Pak Muharam had showered and breakfasted, we left the house. It was a little past 7am, and the adrenaline rush I’d gotten from trying to escape the house without anybody’s notice had long faded, replaced with many-a-drowsy yawn, combined with the internal stress of realizing how late I would be.
When I arrived at Pak Yeng’s place, I remembered that I had forgotten to wear my headscarf. Even worse, I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt! I was immediately embarrassed, and shy to exit the car. It was the first time that I had ever not been fully covered in their presence. I reminded myself that I would have had to take the headscarf off to get in the traditional garb anyway. Pak Muharam laughed and told me to believe in myself (percaya diri). I took a deep breath, deciding to play my role as a good, little Christian American girl, waved goodbye to Pak Muharam, and sauntered on into the house. There were quite a few looks from the passerbys on the street who knew me and from the people in the house, but no one said anything. I inwardly thanked Pak Muharam for taking so long to drop me off, because by the time I arrived, everyone was waiting to leave, and they seemed less concerned with my non-Muslim looks than they were with shoving me into the hot pink kebaya (traditional dress) that they had chosen for me!
After crowding into a rented angkot (public transportation with hard benches), we arrived at the performance venue. We took a detour to put on our make-up and finish the costuming process on the second floor of a mosque. Since it was a house of worship, there were no mirrors. That meant that I couldn’t see what was going on when Pak Yeng’s wife and daughter-in-law descended on me with bags of make-up, hairpieces, combs and hairspray. Oh the amount of hairspray! I had to rely on the whisperings of the dancers and musicians as they witnessed the process. “Cantik!” “Seperti Barbie!” I had a certain idea of what was going on, as I had once participated as an attendant at a Javanese circumcision ceremony back in 2003, Yogya. But Pak Yeng’s wife’s excited whispers of “Now you are becoming a real Sundanese woman” filled me with curiosity. Finally the process was finished. I picked up a mirror, glanced at myself, and immediately laid it back down again. The person staring back was no longer me! I took the mirror and looked again. This time I could see a little of myself. I definitely fit the image of a Sundanse kecapi player. Everyone crowded around me. That’s when the pictures started. I had just wanted to get a picture of my new looks to mail back to my folks, but then all the boys wanted to take pictures with me and pretend they were my husband. With all our get-up, we certainly looked like we were about to get married!
The performance went really well, despite the embarrassment of having to endure the M.C. constantly reiterating that the kecapi player had come all the way from America. This made a lot of people interested in getting to know me afterwards and inviting me to their houses! Don’t worry, they were the Ibu-Ibu type (housemoms). One of the comments I often hear is: “Oh you should come to my house and meet my son. He wants to study in America and needs the work on his English!” Uh huh. Yeah, right. We played for a couple of hours, mixing kecapi kawih songs with the occasional jaipongan (sexy traditional dance) number. And then it was over. I’d been to a lot of Indonesian weddings, but I never thought that I would be able to participate in one as a musician! When I returned home, Ibu Laksmi and the gang were all taken aback with the get-up, and immediately dragged me to a photo studio to get the memory officially imprinted for all time. Which is another embarrassing event if you ever have to endure it. “Move around, try to look like a model!” What the heck am I suppose to do? Anyway, at least I have the photo for my mom.
When I arrived at Pak Yeng’s place, I remembered that I had forgotten to wear my headscarf. Even worse, I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt! I was immediately embarrassed, and shy to exit the car. It was the first time that I had ever not been fully covered in their presence. I reminded myself that I would have had to take the headscarf off to get in the traditional garb anyway. Pak Muharam laughed and told me to believe in myself (percaya diri). I took a deep breath, deciding to play my role as a good, little Christian American girl, waved goodbye to Pak Muharam, and sauntered on into the house. There were quite a few looks from the passerbys on the street who knew me and from the people in the house, but no one said anything. I inwardly thanked Pak Muharam for taking so long to drop me off, because by the time I arrived, everyone was waiting to leave, and they seemed less concerned with my non-Muslim looks than they were with shoving me into the hot pink kebaya (traditional dress) that they had chosen for me!
After crowding into a rented angkot (public transportation with hard benches), we arrived at the performance venue. We took a detour to put on our make-up and finish the costuming process on the second floor of a mosque. Since it was a house of worship, there were no mirrors. That meant that I couldn’t see what was going on when Pak Yeng’s wife and daughter-in-law descended on me with bags of make-up, hairpieces, combs and hairspray. Oh the amount of hairspray! I had to rely on the whisperings of the dancers and musicians as they witnessed the process. “Cantik!” “Seperti Barbie!” I had a certain idea of what was going on, as I had once participated as an attendant at a Javanese circumcision ceremony back in 2003, Yogya. But Pak Yeng’s wife’s excited whispers of “Now you are becoming a real Sundanese woman” filled me with curiosity. Finally the process was finished. I picked up a mirror, glanced at myself, and immediately laid it back down again. The person staring back was no longer me! I took the mirror and looked again. This time I could see a little of myself. I definitely fit the image of a Sundanse kecapi player. Everyone crowded around me. That’s when the pictures started. I had just wanted to get a picture of my new looks to mail back to my folks, but then all the boys wanted to take pictures with me and pretend they were my husband. With all our get-up, we certainly looked like we were about to get married!
The performance went really well, despite the embarrassment of having to endure the M.C. constantly reiterating that the kecapi player had come all the way from America. This made a lot of people interested in getting to know me afterwards and inviting me to their houses! Don’t worry, they were the Ibu-Ibu type (housemoms). One of the comments I often hear is: “Oh you should come to my house and meet my son. He wants to study in America and needs the work on his English!” Uh huh. Yeah, right. We played for a couple of hours, mixing kecapi kawih songs with the occasional jaipongan (sexy traditional dance) number. And then it was over. I’d been to a lot of Indonesian weddings, but I never thought that I would be able to participate in one as a musician! When I returned home, Ibu Laksmi and the gang were all taken aback with the get-up, and immediately dragged me to a photo studio to get the memory officially imprinted for all time. Which is another embarrassing event if you ever have to endure it. “Move around, try to look like a model!” What the heck am I suppose to do? Anyway, at least I have the photo for my mom.
Escape Part 1: The Kecapi
I have violated my bedrest and exited my residence in Southern Mars exactly two times. Both of them were to play kecapi (a 20-string Sundanese zither). The first was to practice at the house of my teacher, Pak Yeng. That was the day after the doctor’s orders. At the time, I figured that I’d already rested 24 hours and taken my medication. What harm could sitting in his house with a kecapi at my lap do? Besides, Pak Yeng had promised that he would invite a bunch of his friends over so that way I could practice with a full group of musicians, including gong, drum, suling (flute), and sindhen (female singers). We were preparing for a performance the following week, and he wanted to make sure I didn’t get confused with more commotion than just the sound of a second kecapi, the way we usually practiced together. Pak Yeng is a sweet man in his mid-70s that is excited to share his musical traditions with anyone, let alone a foreigner. How could I let him down?
Almost as soon as I entered the taxi, I immediately regretted my decision to come. The road conditions, with potholes every two feet in all directions, not to mention the countless speedbumps on the smaller roads, are simply not conducive to someone with holes in their intestines and continuing abdominal pain. Trust me; you feel everything, and it all hurts. I hid my eyes under my headscarf to trick myself into imagining I was still in bed.
When I entered the house, though, the regret faded as quickly as it had come. There was a gong in one of the entryways, and the normally quiet rooms were crawling with Sundanese musicians. A wave of excitement filled me. The gong player looked ancient, as if he’d been sitting beneath the gong for centuries—a relic waiting to be photographed and commoditized by Indonesia’s booming tourist industry. We played kecapi kawih (genre of music) for two hours until finally one of the singers had to pick up her daughter, and the group dissembled into chatting, mostly in Sundanese, discussing which song sounded better in which mode. I stayed as long as I could, trying to put off the return journey as long as I could… an hour-long taxi-ride by the way, that I thought was outrageously expensive. 55,000 Rupiah…almost $6! (Translating the figure into American dollars always makes me feel better when I feel like I’m wasting my money.) I left Pak Yeng’s house, agreeing that we would meet the morning of the performance, between 6 and 7am. In my heart of hearts, I hoped I would be feeling better and could attend.
Almost as soon as I entered the taxi, I immediately regretted my decision to come. The road conditions, with potholes every two feet in all directions, not to mention the countless speedbumps on the smaller roads, are simply not conducive to someone with holes in their intestines and continuing abdominal pain. Trust me; you feel everything, and it all hurts. I hid my eyes under my headscarf to trick myself into imagining I was still in bed.
When I entered the house, though, the regret faded as quickly as it had come. There was a gong in one of the entryways, and the normally quiet rooms were crawling with Sundanese musicians. A wave of excitement filled me. The gong player looked ancient, as if he’d been sitting beneath the gong for centuries—a relic waiting to be photographed and commoditized by Indonesia’s booming tourist industry. We played kecapi kawih (genre of music) for two hours until finally one of the singers had to pick up her daughter, and the group dissembled into chatting, mostly in Sundanese, discussing which song sounded better in which mode. I stayed as long as I could, trying to put off the return journey as long as I could… an hour-long taxi-ride by the way, that I thought was outrageously expensive. 55,000 Rupiah…almost $6! (Translating the figure into American dollars always makes me feel better when I feel like I’m wasting my money.) I left Pak Yeng’s house, agreeing that we would meet the morning of the performance, between 6 and 7am. In my heart of hearts, I hoped I would be feeling better and could attend.
Oatmeal Bliss
Still sick. Today, I have progressed in my diet. In addition to bubur, I can now eat oatmeal! There was never a happier person to eat oatmeal for three meals a day. Believe me, that is some real kind of happy. Also, I’ve discovered that I enjoy cheesy Indonesian teeny-bopper films. They’re so deliciously corny and predictable! And where else would I have learned the oh-so-translatable Indonesian version of the endearing phrase, “talk to the hand” ? “Omong sama tangan!”
Solo, Part 2: The Discovery of the Cream Bath
When Ethan arrived in Indonesia, I decided to meet him in Solo and help him out with the settling in process, so that way he didn’t have to handle all that bureaucratic nonsense alone. Unfortunately for both of us, the drive was all-night long, and miserable. Cigarette smoke in an enclosed space for 8 hours is never fun. A little after dawn, I arrived at the hotel; I was “langsung sakit” (immediately sick!) and headed straight to the little girl’s room to get rid of all the badness.
Ethan was staying in this ultra-posh hotel that was just a little too pricy for us, so after I slept a couple of hours, we ate our breakfast and prepared ourselves for the walk of shame. That is, we physically dragged all of our luggage—no small feat considering he had three big suitcases alone—down the street to the neighboring hotel that was just a wee bit cheaper! Arriving at this hotel was a bit of a walk down memory lane, because it was the exact same hotel we had stayed at over three years ago with USINDO. At that time, there were 25 of us, and we practiced our dangdut (a kind of Indian influenced Indonesian rock music) karaoke over dinner, and stayed up all night singing Indonesian pop songs in the hotel lobby. This time, was slightly different. Our days were filled with going to immigration offices, police offices, and universities, and our evenings were spent with me shivering under four blankets, and Ethan expending his precious drugs brought from America to make me better. One interesting development came out of this though. Figuring that we needed to treat ourselves after all our hard work, Ethan helped me to discover the cream bath.
A cream bath is when someone puts mashed up avocado in your hair and massages it all around for about half an hour. And then they put it under one of those hot steamer things, before they wash it out. Sounds gross, right? Believe me, it feels awesome. I was skeptical at first, but Ethan made it sound so great. And heck, I’ll try anything once. While I was at it, I also decided to try my first manicure, because they said they could do them at the same time. The whole process took about an hour and a half, and what a relaxing time that was! You see, they didn’t just stop with the cream bath and manicure. Both were combined with a neck, back, and arm massage that was just heavenly. I almost forgot I wasn’t feeling well, it was so lovely. For two people, it only cost seven dollars. So, it’s not even too expensive. I’m not so sure about repeating the manicure, but the cream bath I plan on doing as often as possible from now on!
Ethan was staying in this ultra-posh hotel that was just a little too pricy for us, so after I slept a couple of hours, we ate our breakfast and prepared ourselves for the walk of shame. That is, we physically dragged all of our luggage—no small feat considering he had three big suitcases alone—down the street to the neighboring hotel that was just a wee bit cheaper! Arriving at this hotel was a bit of a walk down memory lane, because it was the exact same hotel we had stayed at over three years ago with USINDO. At that time, there were 25 of us, and we practiced our dangdut (a kind of Indian influenced Indonesian rock music) karaoke over dinner, and stayed up all night singing Indonesian pop songs in the hotel lobby. This time, was slightly different. Our days were filled with going to immigration offices, police offices, and universities, and our evenings were spent with me shivering under four blankets, and Ethan expending his precious drugs brought from America to make me better. One interesting development came out of this though. Figuring that we needed to treat ourselves after all our hard work, Ethan helped me to discover the cream bath.
A cream bath is when someone puts mashed up avocado in your hair and massages it all around for about half an hour. And then they put it under one of those hot steamer things, before they wash it out. Sounds gross, right? Believe me, it feels awesome. I was skeptical at first, but Ethan made it sound so great. And heck, I’ll try anything once. While I was at it, I also decided to try my first manicure, because they said they could do them at the same time. The whole process took about an hour and a half, and what a relaxing time that was! You see, they didn’t just stop with the cream bath and manicure. Both were combined with a neck, back, and arm massage that was just heavenly. I almost forgot I wasn’t feeling well, it was so lovely. For two people, it only cost seven dollars. So, it’s not even too expensive. I’m not so sure about repeating the manicure, but the cream bath I plan on doing as often as possible from now on!
Solo, Part 1: Introducing Ethan
The word doppelganger comes from German, and literally means “double-goer.” According to the handy-dandy Oxford American Dictionary built into my Mac dashboard, it means “an apparition, or double of a living person.” My now Alaskan, former Baltimorean friend Kyle once told me that if you ever meet your doppelganger, legends say that you could die instantly. I think that I have met as close to what comes as my doppelganger without having to forever depart this world, if only because he comes in the form of a six-foot, red-headed man from Alabama, named Ethan.
Ethan and I met in Tokyo, Japan on our way to Indonesia back in 2003, through the program USINDO, and I swear we have shared the same life ever since. We both entered graduate school, only becoming interested in Indonesian ethnomusicology after randomly joining the gamelan ensembles at our prospective universities. We both ended up studying Indonesian language and culture in Yogyakarta, where we became friends. Also, we’re both pretty bad at keeping in touch with old friends. That’s why I’m always half-surprised and yet half-expecting to see him whenever I do anything Indonesian-y related. For example, I’ll go to an ethnomusicology conference, and there is Ethan. Not so strange, right? I go to Yogyakarta in 2005, randomly meet a dude at the foot of the volcano, Mt. Merapi, only to be told that he had recently met another American ethnomusicologist in Sulawesi. This particular American had gotten a grant to study in Indonesia for the exact same amount of time that my grant lasted to be in the country. I call the number he gives me, and lo and behold am talking to Ethan. I decide to study advanced Indonesian language at the University of Wisconsin for the summer, and I walk through the door on the first day of icebreakers, and who do I meet, but Ethan! And after a bit of chatting, it turns out that we both received Fulbright grants for ten months to be in Indonesia during the same year. We both planned on leaving in September, but the visa process ended up holding us back a few months.
So, here we are, in Indonesia again, albeit he in Solo and I in Bandung. Luckily, for two people whose lives happen to run in parallel tracks, we get along great. A little too well, actually. As adults and colleagues, we recognize that it can’t last forever. To that end, we have already staged our professional rivalry that begins with a race to steal each other’s students, and results in him ending up as a crippled, embittered old man, and me an old woman, sentenced to life emprisonment, after having unsuccessfully tried to run him over with my car while he’s riding his bike home from work.
Ethan and I met in Tokyo, Japan on our way to Indonesia back in 2003, through the program USINDO, and I swear we have shared the same life ever since. We both entered graduate school, only becoming interested in Indonesian ethnomusicology after randomly joining the gamelan ensembles at our prospective universities. We both ended up studying Indonesian language and culture in Yogyakarta, where we became friends. Also, we’re both pretty bad at keeping in touch with old friends. That’s why I’m always half-surprised and yet half-expecting to see him whenever I do anything Indonesian-y related. For example, I’ll go to an ethnomusicology conference, and there is Ethan. Not so strange, right? I go to Yogyakarta in 2005, randomly meet a dude at the foot of the volcano, Mt. Merapi, only to be told that he had recently met another American ethnomusicologist in Sulawesi. This particular American had gotten a grant to study in Indonesia for the exact same amount of time that my grant lasted to be in the country. I call the number he gives me, and lo and behold am talking to Ethan. I decide to study advanced Indonesian language at the University of Wisconsin for the summer, and I walk through the door on the first day of icebreakers, and who do I meet, but Ethan! And after a bit of chatting, it turns out that we both received Fulbright grants for ten months to be in Indonesia during the same year. We both planned on leaving in September, but the visa process ended up holding us back a few months.
So, here we are, in Indonesia again, albeit he in Solo and I in Bandung. Luckily, for two people whose lives happen to run in parallel tracks, we get along great. A little too well, actually. As adults and colleagues, we recognize that it can’t last forever. To that end, we have already staged our professional rivalry that begins with a race to steal each other’s students, and results in him ending up as a crippled, embittered old man, and me an old woman, sentenced to life emprisonment, after having unsuccessfully tried to run him over with my car while he’s riding his bike home from work.
Why I am an Idiot
So, sorry for not writing any entries in a long while. Remember that handy dandy “get-better” list I wrote in the last blog? Well, let me tell you, it did absolutely nothing for my health. I visited my friend in Solo and got sick again. I went to a ritual adat and got sick again. Finally, I checked myself into a hospital to get the scoop. Two and a half weeks of recurring stomach problems and fever is never good, right? So, it turns out that I have Hepatitis, and Paratyphoid Fever. The first is caused by a virus, and the second one means that there’s a bunch of salmonella rumbling around in my belly. I can hear it. And the doctor confined me to bed rest until after Valentine’s Day. That’s when God loves me again. Once they explained to me that we were talking about my liver and my intestines, I was like, “Yes, doctor, anything you say, doctor.” I have lots of different kinds of medication and a bunch of snacks and water bottles stashed near my bed. Hurray for antibiotics! And I have to eat bubur ayam for every meal, which is the sick person’s food here. All it is, is rice that’s over-satiated with water and mashed up so that it’s soft, and then mixed with chicken soup flavoring. Yummy. Oh, and they told me that I’m not supposed to think of anything, watch movies, read the newspaper, walk around, that sort of thing. It’s so boring! (Sometimes I watch movies anyway.) Thank you, Ibu Laksmi for taking care of me! Anyway, now I can use the time to catch up on my blog.
The dumb thing, is that before I come to Indonesia, I usually get vaccinations for both of those things. But for some reason, I forgot this time around. I guess I was all kind of crazy, traveling around for weddings and conferences and trying to pack, at the same time finish my dissertation prospectus. Plus, Fulbright made me get full medical tests, for absolutely everything including every STD known to man on this green earth. So I was tired of doctors and needles. But now I know, and will remember. No matter what is going on in your life, get your shots first, before even thinking of getting on that plane!
The dumb thing, is that before I come to Indonesia, I usually get vaccinations for both of those things. But for some reason, I forgot this time around. I guess I was all kind of crazy, traveling around for weddings and conferences and trying to pack, at the same time finish my dissertation prospectus. Plus, Fulbright made me get full medical tests, for absolutely everything including every STD known to man on this green earth. So I was tired of doctors and needles. But now I know, and will remember. No matter what is going on in your life, get your shots first, before even thinking of getting on that plane!
Thursday, January 25, 2007
New Resolutions from Delirious Dreams
So, I was sick for the earlier part of this week. The weather has changed to becoming rainier for longer parts of the day, and motoring around through the pouring rain is never a great idea for one’s health. No one knew exactly what I had, but they narrowed it down to either “masuk angin” (enter the wind) or “panas dalam” (hot inside). Despite the very descriptive names, they remain meaningless to me. And anyway, both of the symptoms seem the same...kind of like the flu.
In my delirium, I had an amusing dream, afterwards which I confined myself to two days of bed rest.
It was Monday morning, and I was at the mosque, listening to Aa Gym’s weekly inspirational speech to the Daarut Tauhiid staff. (These speeches by the way, start at 7am, which according to me, is just a wee bit too early.) Anyway, this week, he was taking a new tack to his sermon. He wanted to encourage us to always try to do our best. To teach this more directly, he was introducing a competition that would be decided by the end of the day. We each had to go out and create a collection, of all things, of Spiderman. We could only shop at approved stores, each of which Aa Gym owned, thereby profits would go straight to him, and thereby the pesantren. In my mind, I grumbled. “Way to go, come up with a plan to increase the sales of your own stores,” I thought to myself. Very convenient too, since his sales had been notably down since the discovery of his second marriage. At 2pm, the competition would be ended, and the person with the best Spiderman collection would be publicly acknowledged, and the compilation would be awarded to Aa Gym’s youngest son, who as it turns out was quite a Spiderman devotee.
As previously implied, I was not amused, and was not inclined to waste my time or my money. But my friend Rahma, who I was sitting with, directly stood up, and steered me to the first store. I expressed my discontentment, and she only replied, “But he’s an ulama (Islamic religious leader)! Just do what he says and you’ll feel better.” So shopping we went. And man, did we get into it. Some of things I bought were really abstract, like a bar of soap shaped like a lighthouse, and a ceramic frog. Don’t ask how it fit it. Others were more obvious, like Spiderman the firecracker, and the complete Spiderman pencil set. The end result was that I felt very proud of myself, and was sure that my collection was far superior to Rahma’s…very in keeping with religious principles of modesty, right? At 2pm, I showed up at the competition site, only to find an irritated shopkeeper demanding payment, because apparently earlier I had forgotten to pay. “Don’t worry, I already started writing you some checks,” I said. “Just tell me what name to write on them.” I reached into my pocket, pulled out twenty signed checks, each for the amount of $200, and proceeded to write his name on each one of them. He looked at me in bewilderment. “Why didn’t you just write out one for $4000?” he asked. I looked up, surprised. That would have been easier, I thought. Oh well,I looked back down and continued to write his name again and again.
So, despite the entertaining repercussions in the dream world of being sick, especially because it was such a cynical portrayal of the dude I'm here to study from, I’ve decided to try and take better care of my health, which mostly involves drinking more water and getting more sleep. The Indonesian method of 3 hours is actually not enough sleep for an active schedule. However, my plan is far more advanced than that. It also involves the following shopping endeavors!
1) Buy a sheepskin leather jacket. First, to increase my coolness factor on my motorbike, and secondly to shield off the wind and rain, cuz it does get pretty cold riding after dark.
2) Buy a mask, to filter out the noxious fumes from the other cars on the road, because unlike other parts of the world, they do not have quite the same emission standards here. I never thought I’d regret that, since it often involved me paying quite a bit of money to get my beloved, though not quite new, cars to pass. But I’m happily recognizing the error of my ways. Anyway, this lowers my coolness factor a bit.
3) Buy a pair of shoes that do not consist of sandals. So when it rains, I won’t always have wet feet. Not so comfortable, that. I'm not sure the rating on this one, but I don't think it has any effect on my coolness factor.
So it comes out about even. And many thanks to “Enter the Wind” and “Hot Inside” for tomorrow, it’s shopping day! I always wanted a leather jacket.
In my delirium, I had an amusing dream, afterwards which I confined myself to two days of bed rest.
It was Monday morning, and I was at the mosque, listening to Aa Gym’s weekly inspirational speech to the Daarut Tauhiid staff. (These speeches by the way, start at 7am, which according to me, is just a wee bit too early.) Anyway, this week, he was taking a new tack to his sermon. He wanted to encourage us to always try to do our best. To teach this more directly, he was introducing a competition that would be decided by the end of the day. We each had to go out and create a collection, of all things, of Spiderman. We could only shop at approved stores, each of which Aa Gym owned, thereby profits would go straight to him, and thereby the pesantren. In my mind, I grumbled. “Way to go, come up with a plan to increase the sales of your own stores,” I thought to myself. Very convenient too, since his sales had been notably down since the discovery of his second marriage. At 2pm, the competition would be ended, and the person with the best Spiderman collection would be publicly acknowledged, and the compilation would be awarded to Aa Gym’s youngest son, who as it turns out was quite a Spiderman devotee.
As previously implied, I was not amused, and was not inclined to waste my time or my money. But my friend Rahma, who I was sitting with, directly stood up, and steered me to the first store. I expressed my discontentment, and she only replied, “But he’s an ulama (Islamic religious leader)! Just do what he says and you’ll feel better.” So shopping we went. And man, did we get into it. Some of things I bought were really abstract, like a bar of soap shaped like a lighthouse, and a ceramic frog. Don’t ask how it fit it. Others were more obvious, like Spiderman the firecracker, and the complete Spiderman pencil set. The end result was that I felt very proud of myself, and was sure that my collection was far superior to Rahma’s…very in keeping with religious principles of modesty, right? At 2pm, I showed up at the competition site, only to find an irritated shopkeeper demanding payment, because apparently earlier I had forgotten to pay. “Don’t worry, I already started writing you some checks,” I said. “Just tell me what name to write on them.” I reached into my pocket, pulled out twenty signed checks, each for the amount of $200, and proceeded to write his name on each one of them. He looked at me in bewilderment. “Why didn’t you just write out one for $4000?” he asked. I looked up, surprised. That would have been easier, I thought. Oh well,I looked back down and continued to write his name again and again.
So, despite the entertaining repercussions in the dream world of being sick, especially because it was such a cynical portrayal of the dude I'm here to study from, I’ve decided to try and take better care of my health, which mostly involves drinking more water and getting more sleep. The Indonesian method of 3 hours is actually not enough sleep for an active schedule. However, my plan is far more advanced than that. It also involves the following shopping endeavors!
1) Buy a sheepskin leather jacket. First, to increase my coolness factor on my motorbike, and secondly to shield off the wind and rain, cuz it does get pretty cold riding after dark.
2) Buy a mask, to filter out the noxious fumes from the other cars on the road, because unlike other parts of the world, they do not have quite the same emission standards here. I never thought I’d regret that, since it often involved me paying quite a bit of money to get my beloved, though not quite new, cars to pass. But I’m happily recognizing the error of my ways. Anyway, this lowers my coolness factor a bit.
3) Buy a pair of shoes that do not consist of sandals. So when it rains, I won’t always have wet feet. Not so comfortable, that. I'm not sure the rating on this one, but I don't think it has any effect on my coolness factor.
So it comes out about even. And many thanks to “Enter the Wind” and “Hot Inside” for tomorrow, it’s shopping day! I always wanted a leather jacket.
War in the Bedroom
The door is shut. As I write this, I am sitting on my bed, iBook on my lap. I am alone, and yet not. My senses are alert, and my eyes lift from the computer screen to scan the room searchingly. I have entered into an epic battle in my bedroom that has been ongoing for the past three days. The scars I bear are many…large red welts cover my back, my thigh, both of my arms, my toes…fortunately thus far my face has remained unscathed. I hear the familiar buzz; my enemy is close by, coming in from behind. The laptop is momentarily thrust aside; it almost falls. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. My hands slap together and mercifully, the whirring stops. I look down reluctantly. A black body lies crushed in my hands. It looks harmless while dead, and for a moment I regret my actions, wishing that I had followed a more Buddhist path, and learned to live in my surroundings without willingly harming another creature. Just as quickly as it arose, the thought fades, as a familiar itching consumes my senses, a round mark swelling, this time on my neck. The beast did not die without a fight. My wrath rises anew. Thus another skirmish ends in the epic saga of Man Vs. The Mosquito.
In the early days of my mosquito rage, I asked God, the World, and www.google.com why the mosquito seemed especially attracted to me, even more so than my Indonesian brethren. When in a crowded place, it is upon I that the mosquitoes magnetize, no matter where I run in a room or how many of them I manage to take down. In the absence of a fragrant bug repellant, I hoped to change my behavior, my bathing habits, or whatever was necessary to rid myself of my enemies’ unwanted presence. And in my quest for that answer, I discovered some interesting facts about mosquitoes. After all, this is a war. And the first rule of combat is: “Know thy enemy.”
Fact: only the female mosquito draws blood from its victims. The male is content to copulate, drawn to the female by the high-pitched whirring of her wings, which can beat as fast as 1000 times per second. He only lives 7-10 days, the first two of which he is disoriented, unable to hear until his hairy antennas dry. The female is the bloodsucker because she needs the blood to develop eggs inside her body. If she draws blood from you, be sure to kill her quickly. One female can lie up to 3000 eggs within the approximately thirty days that she’s alive. She’s sure to be moving slower, as she can suck up to 1.5 times her body weight in blood before full. And the suckers fly fast…as much as a mile an hour. One study mentioned that overweight males with a type-O blood type are more likely to be victims of mosquito attacks, but as I am none of those things, I remain skeptical. That in combination with the fact that there are over 3000 mosquito species, so unless we know exactly what species of mosquito we’re dealing with, there is only a small chance that the statistic applies to our specific situation anyway.
Back in the bedroom, my hands clap together again. Too late, the mosquito escapes my grasp. It looks insane, darting to and fro about the room, taunting me. Enough is enough. I leave the room, to return a few moments later, grinning. I am armed with a deadly oil. It plugs into the wall and is discharged throughout the room at a steady rate. It has a cloying smell and almost certainly is accompanied by some sort of health risk. There is small print on the bottle, but I’m afraid to read it. I leave the room again, this time returning twenty minutes later. I sit on the bed, computer once more in position. Directly in front of me, I watch as the results of my labors take affect. A mosquito struggles to fly towards the ceiling. Its wings seem to be working too hard, it splutters upwards, and falls. I smile, a little wickedly, as I absent-mindedly scratch my right forearm. I’m not sure who wins, because I feel in my heart I have cheated, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore. It is finished. I shall sleep in peace tonight.
In the early days of my mosquito rage, I asked God, the World, and www.google.com why the mosquito seemed especially attracted to me, even more so than my Indonesian brethren. When in a crowded place, it is upon I that the mosquitoes magnetize, no matter where I run in a room or how many of them I manage to take down. In the absence of a fragrant bug repellant, I hoped to change my behavior, my bathing habits, or whatever was necessary to rid myself of my enemies’ unwanted presence. And in my quest for that answer, I discovered some interesting facts about mosquitoes. After all, this is a war. And the first rule of combat is: “Know thy enemy.”
Fact: only the female mosquito draws blood from its victims. The male is content to copulate, drawn to the female by the high-pitched whirring of her wings, which can beat as fast as 1000 times per second. He only lives 7-10 days, the first two of which he is disoriented, unable to hear until his hairy antennas dry. The female is the bloodsucker because she needs the blood to develop eggs inside her body. If she draws blood from you, be sure to kill her quickly. One female can lie up to 3000 eggs within the approximately thirty days that she’s alive. She’s sure to be moving slower, as she can suck up to 1.5 times her body weight in blood before full. And the suckers fly fast…as much as a mile an hour. One study mentioned that overweight males with a type-O blood type are more likely to be victims of mosquito attacks, but as I am none of those things, I remain skeptical. That in combination with the fact that there are over 3000 mosquito species, so unless we know exactly what species of mosquito we’re dealing with, there is only a small chance that the statistic applies to our specific situation anyway.
Back in the bedroom, my hands clap together again. Too late, the mosquito escapes my grasp. It looks insane, darting to and fro about the room, taunting me. Enough is enough. I leave the room, to return a few moments later, grinning. I am armed with a deadly oil. It plugs into the wall and is discharged throughout the room at a steady rate. It has a cloying smell and almost certainly is accompanied by some sort of health risk. There is small print on the bottle, but I’m afraid to read it. I leave the room again, this time returning twenty minutes later. I sit on the bed, computer once more in position. Directly in front of me, I watch as the results of my labors take affect. A mosquito struggles to fly towards the ceiling. Its wings seem to be working too hard, it splutters upwards, and falls. I smile, a little wickedly, as I absent-mindedly scratch my right forearm. I’m not sure who wins, because I feel in my heart I have cheated, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore. It is finished. I shall sleep in peace tonight.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Robert E. Lee, Edgar Allen Poe, and Deidra
Selamat Ulang Tahun Deidra!
Robert E. Lee (b. 1807) and Edgar Allen Poe (1809) share the same birthday, January 19. And only two years apart, too. For some reason, it seems incongruous to me that they lived in the same era. One a popular wartime general, the other a famous writer, albeit a bit of a depressing one. I’m still amused that Baltimore people claim Poe as their own, just because he happened to spend the last four days before his death there. Anyway, I always thought that Poe was British, but after reading up a bit about him, it turns out he only lived in the UK for five years, when, as a ward of Virginians merchants, the family moved there temporarily. In fact, he was a New Englander, born in Boston, orphaned at the age of two, and eventually studied at the University of Virginia. He was a bit of a strange guy, with problems of drinking and gambling, thus not so popular with his literary readers. At one point he enlisted in the U.S. army, was honorably discharged, and then enrolled in the West Point military academy. Eventually, he was kicked out, and so he went on to marry his thirteen-year-old cousin. I guess I always imagined him to be more like his character in “the Raven,” or the male British counterpart of Emily Dickinson…. a bit of a crazy loner living in his parents attic in jolly old England. But really he was just a kind of wierd, confused American. Who knew?
Robert E. Lee (b. 1807) and Edgar Allen Poe (1809) share the same birthday, January 19. And only two years apart, too. For some reason, it seems incongruous to me that they lived in the same era. One a popular wartime general, the other a famous writer, albeit a bit of a depressing one. I’m still amused that Baltimore people claim Poe as their own, just because he happened to spend the last four days before his death there. Anyway, I always thought that Poe was British, but after reading up a bit about him, it turns out he only lived in the UK for five years, when, as a ward of Virginians merchants, the family moved there temporarily. In fact, he was a New Englander, born in Boston, orphaned at the age of two, and eventually studied at the University of Virginia. He was a bit of a strange guy, with problems of drinking and gambling, thus not so popular with his literary readers. At one point he enlisted in the U.S. army, was honorably discharged, and then enrolled in the West Point military academy. Eventually, he was kicked out, and so he went on to marry his thirteen-year-old cousin. I guess I always imagined him to be more like his character in “the Raven,” or the male British counterpart of Emily Dickinson…. a bit of a crazy loner living in his parents attic in jolly old England. But really he was just a kind of wierd, confused American. Who knew?
Bathroom Survival Course 101
The first time I came to Indonesia, I remember that my biggest culture shock was getting used to going to the bathrooms here. After a total of seven months living in Indonesia, I am finally at peace with the process. And as such, I feel that it is my duty to warn would-be visitors before they find themselves in an unfamiliar, potentially undesirable, situation.
The first thing you’ll notice when you walk into a bathroom is that there is water everywhere. It’s as if someone walked into the room and just started pouring buckets of water onto everything in the room. Actually that’s pretty close to the truth. You see, in Indonesia, there is a well-known adage: Wet is clean, and clean is wet. So, if you want to leave the bathroom neat and tidy after you leave, just spray everything down with the handy little hose…you’ll find it right next to the toilet. Or use the small dipper, which is oftentimes floating in a large bucket of water that also serves as the sink. (The traditional western variation of the sink is rarely found in Indonesian bathrooms, except in the wealthier homes.)
The downside of this "wet is clean" philosophy is that you will probably never sit down on a toilet for the rest of the time you are Indonesia. My one American friend solves this problem by leaving a towel in the bathroom to wipe down the seat before each toilet use. She is convinced that her Indonesian roommates remain unaware of the towel’s mysterious purpose in the bathroom. This method, however, only works from the comfort of your own home. The other disadvantage to a continual flood on the bathroom floor is that if you are wearing pants, the cuffs will most certainly be drenched. So don't forget to roll up your pant legs before entering the bathroom. On the same token, never, ever enter a bathroom in socks. I cannot stress this enough.
After you’ve done your business, or perhaps beforehand if you are a very observant person, the next thing you will notice is that there is no toilet paper to be found anywhere within at least fifty yards of the bathroom. And even if there is, it is most certainly soaked through. Hopefully you remembered to bring your handy-dandy stash of tissues or toilet paper, whichever you prefer, and that you carry at all times. Personally, I prefer the tissues; they’re more diversifiable. And try not to think about what other people use…it makes life just a little bit easier that way.
Ok, so that’s the basics of what it takes to survive in the toilet world… Now let’s see how well Bathroom Survival Course 101 has prepared you for adventures a bit further from home. As my one Indonesian teacher at the University of Wisconsin was fond of saying… “Contoh, contoh, contoh.” For example!
It’s a Thursday night and you’re tired of the usual Indonesian nightly activities, which often consists of squatting on a crowded, noisy sidewalk, drinking the strongest, sweetest coffee that exists anywhere on these formerly nine-now eight-planets. So you decide to broaden your horizons and spend the evening at a village festival. Everything is amazing, the atmosphere is “cukup ramai” (just the right amount of busyness,) and the music is rockin’ in a traditional Sundanese sort of way. About 10pm though, you decide to frequent the facilities, confidently armed with tissues in hand. You tentatively ask for directions and are told something that only vaguely makes sense. Don’t worry though, because only a finely tuned instinct and/or the grace of God will ever help you make sense of a Sundanese person giving you directions, no matter how strong your command of the language is.
You find the place. It’s a dark building with two doors. You choose one at random to be the ladies or the men’s room, depending on your particular preference. You comb the walls for the light, until a lurking man tells you that this area does not have electricity yet. It is pitch black. There appears to be a labyrinth of rooms, and you can’t even see in which one lies the toilet. For some strange reason, the idea of going into a dark building and closing the door behind you (a door that almost certainly doesn’t lock,) with a lurking dude outside does not appeal to you. For a second, you think about leaving the door open and letting the moonlight assist in the process, but then you come to your senses about that idea too. So here you are at the perempatan, your crossroads of decision-making. You can either:
A) Go back and find a friend to guard the door and distract Lurking Man. Maybe leave the door open just a crack?
B) Try the “mind over matter” way… You really don’t have to use the bathroom, do you?
C) Brave the dark alone. You can feel your way to the probably not-so-clean toilet.
D) Trust your Indonesian brethren. Bergaul (talk slang)with Lurking Man until divine inspiration strikes.
The first time I was in this situation, I stood at my crossroads for a long time, talking to Lurking Man as he smoked a cigarette. Where was he from? What was he doing so far away from the event? After a few moments passed and he realized that I could speak Indonesian, he warmed up a bit, and told me there was a house down the street; I could try to borrow a candle there. Nice Indonesian Man, Formerly Known As Lurking Man (NIMFMALM) had hit the jackpot. I knocked on the door, gave the 8-year old son about ten cents for the temporary use of a candle, borrowed NIMFMALM’s lighter, and have lived happily ever since. Well, to be honest, I did manage to spill quite a bit of wax on me in the process.
Thus ends my overly descriptive introduction to the world of Indonesian bathrooms. Stay tuned for Bathroom Survival 102, where we move on to discuss the finer points of taking a shower in a room with only a bucket, a cold-water faucet, a dipper, and a drain in the floor, while still making it an enjoyable, refreshing experience. Don’t worry; it doesn’t involve singing!
The first thing you’ll notice when you walk into a bathroom is that there is water everywhere. It’s as if someone walked into the room and just started pouring buckets of water onto everything in the room. Actually that’s pretty close to the truth. You see, in Indonesia, there is a well-known adage: Wet is clean, and clean is wet. So, if you want to leave the bathroom neat and tidy after you leave, just spray everything down with the handy little hose…you’ll find it right next to the toilet. Or use the small dipper, which is oftentimes floating in a large bucket of water that also serves as the sink. (The traditional western variation of the sink is rarely found in Indonesian bathrooms, except in the wealthier homes.)
The downside of this "wet is clean" philosophy is that you will probably never sit down on a toilet for the rest of the time you are Indonesia. My one American friend solves this problem by leaving a towel in the bathroom to wipe down the seat before each toilet use. She is convinced that her Indonesian roommates remain unaware of the towel’s mysterious purpose in the bathroom. This method, however, only works from the comfort of your own home. The other disadvantage to a continual flood on the bathroom floor is that if you are wearing pants, the cuffs will most certainly be drenched. So don't forget to roll up your pant legs before entering the bathroom. On the same token, never, ever enter a bathroom in socks. I cannot stress this enough.
After you’ve done your business, or perhaps beforehand if you are a very observant person, the next thing you will notice is that there is no toilet paper to be found anywhere within at least fifty yards of the bathroom. And even if there is, it is most certainly soaked through. Hopefully you remembered to bring your handy-dandy stash of tissues or toilet paper, whichever you prefer, and that you carry at all times. Personally, I prefer the tissues; they’re more diversifiable. And try not to think about what other people use…it makes life just a little bit easier that way.
Ok, so that’s the basics of what it takes to survive in the toilet world… Now let’s see how well Bathroom Survival Course 101 has prepared you for adventures a bit further from home. As my one Indonesian teacher at the University of Wisconsin was fond of saying… “Contoh, contoh, contoh.” For example!
It’s a Thursday night and you’re tired of the usual Indonesian nightly activities, which often consists of squatting on a crowded, noisy sidewalk, drinking the strongest, sweetest coffee that exists anywhere on these formerly nine-now eight-planets. So you decide to broaden your horizons and spend the evening at a village festival. Everything is amazing, the atmosphere is “cukup ramai” (just the right amount of busyness,) and the music is rockin’ in a traditional Sundanese sort of way. About 10pm though, you decide to frequent the facilities, confidently armed with tissues in hand. You tentatively ask for directions and are told something that only vaguely makes sense. Don’t worry though, because only a finely tuned instinct and/or the grace of God will ever help you make sense of a Sundanese person giving you directions, no matter how strong your command of the language is.
You find the place. It’s a dark building with two doors. You choose one at random to be the ladies or the men’s room, depending on your particular preference. You comb the walls for the light, until a lurking man tells you that this area does not have electricity yet. It is pitch black. There appears to be a labyrinth of rooms, and you can’t even see in which one lies the toilet. For some strange reason, the idea of going into a dark building and closing the door behind you (a door that almost certainly doesn’t lock,) with a lurking dude outside does not appeal to you. For a second, you think about leaving the door open and letting the moonlight assist in the process, but then you come to your senses about that idea too. So here you are at the perempatan, your crossroads of decision-making. You can either:
A) Go back and find a friend to guard the door and distract Lurking Man. Maybe leave the door open just a crack?
B) Try the “mind over matter” way… You really don’t have to use the bathroom, do you?
C) Brave the dark alone. You can feel your way to the probably not-so-clean toilet.
D) Trust your Indonesian brethren. Bergaul (talk slang)with Lurking Man until divine inspiration strikes.
The first time I was in this situation, I stood at my crossroads for a long time, talking to Lurking Man as he smoked a cigarette. Where was he from? What was he doing so far away from the event? After a few moments passed and he realized that I could speak Indonesian, he warmed up a bit, and told me there was a house down the street; I could try to borrow a candle there. Nice Indonesian Man, Formerly Known As Lurking Man (NIMFMALM) had hit the jackpot. I knocked on the door, gave the 8-year old son about ten cents for the temporary use of a candle, borrowed NIMFMALM’s lighter, and have lived happily ever since. Well, to be honest, I did manage to spill quite a bit of wax on me in the process.
Thus ends my overly descriptive introduction to the world of Indonesian bathrooms. Stay tuned for Bathroom Survival 102, where we move on to discuss the finer points of taking a shower in a room with only a bucket, a cold-water faucet, a dipper, and a drain in the floor, while still making it an enjoyable, refreshing experience. Don’t worry; it doesn’t involve singing!
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Dangers and Joys of My Mio
Ah, nothing is quite like the feeling of racing through traffic, fighting for the right to wait at a stoplight first, only to be cut off by a motorbike swerving in from the left at the last minute to take your coveted position in the traffic-standstill line-up. Right before I left for Bali, I got my Indonesian driver’s license. No, this doesn’t involve a test; rather it involves paying someone to deliver a ready-made driver’s license to your door. Of course, right? This is Indonesia after all. Actually, it cost a little over thirty dollars, which is not a bad price to pay for almost certain death or dismemberment. I joke. A little.
Today I went to the hospital with a friend, who wanted to visit his former elementary school classmate of 32 years old. He had gotten in a motorbike accident--an event that probably occurs more frequently than one might imagine. Just the other day I witnessed a motorbike speed past a becak (a traditional bicycle buggy thingamajigger), and knock it over, leaving the driver sprawled out in rush-hour traffic, as other motorcyclists scrambled out of the way to avoid running him over. Then he promptly got up, left his becak in the middle of the road, and began running down the street after the offending motorcyclists, much to my amazement, because after all, it was still rush hour traffic. And it wasn’t very likely that a man on foot is going to catch a speeding motorcyclist anyway. I had to make a right turn though, so I never really saw how it all played out.
Anyway, so the hospital was a real wake-up call to me. I am not really all that comfortable in any hospital, which I think is pretty normal for people not used to dealing with illness and death. But this particular rumah sakit was appalling. It was just like the temporary hospitals you see in war-time movies, with rudimentary-looking stretchers, and rows of hospital beds lined up against the walls, with no privacy for individuals, and each one filled with terrible looking injuries. A man with a bandage over his eye; a man with one leg and a rough bandage over the stump, etc. There were so many of them, all I really wanted to do was leave, but we hadn’t yet found our particular person we were visiting. Finally we located him; he was a cheerful guy and reminded me of every Indonesian surfer I have ever met. I’m not sure exactly how the details of his particular accident, but his right foot was very swollen, and he must have had an operation to remove part of his bone, (his femur?) because his right leg was about six inches shorter than his left leg.
That story told, I love riding my motorbike. It’s an automatic, so it’s just about the easiest thing to drive around, but it also has a good enough engine to drive straight up a mountain carrying two people. It makes getting research done so much easier because it gives me that edge of independence I have been craving since I arrived. I also discovered that when it comes to being on the road, I’m a bit of a control freak…I love being in charge of getting somewhere, rather than just being a passenger. And the thrill of being able to get to my destination point without getting lost on the confusing streets of Bandung is undeniable. Today I cut my driving time down between Margahayu Raya and the DT pesantren from one hour to 35 minutes. Although going fast on the flyover did make feel like I was going to blow away. I used to laugh to when my fifth grade teacher was so afraid to go over bridges that she had sometimes had to call my mom to drive her across the river. I think I understand it a little now, especially with the wind rushing past and threatening to steer you off course. So I’ve decided not to go above 60 km/h on that part of the journey.
One of the other things that I find highly entertaining is the ferocity of my thoughts towards the other drivers as I zigzag my way through traffic, trying to avoid incoming buses, motorbikes going the wrong way on a one-way road, and the like. In most situations, my thoughts are pretty benevolent, but behind the wheel of the motorbike, I surprise myself with the unuttered phrases journeying through my mind, directed at unsuspecting drivers on the road. But it does keep me on the edge, observant, ready for the quickly changing road conditions.
And when I’m driving with someone else around behind me, I find myself borrowing Grandpa Bob’s coined phrase, my favorite woodturning teacher from Hurley… “It’s your turn to pray."
Today I went to the hospital with a friend, who wanted to visit his former elementary school classmate of 32 years old. He had gotten in a motorbike accident--an event that probably occurs more frequently than one might imagine. Just the other day I witnessed a motorbike speed past a becak (a traditional bicycle buggy thingamajigger), and knock it over, leaving the driver sprawled out in rush-hour traffic, as other motorcyclists scrambled out of the way to avoid running him over. Then he promptly got up, left his becak in the middle of the road, and began running down the street after the offending motorcyclists, much to my amazement, because after all, it was still rush hour traffic. And it wasn’t very likely that a man on foot is going to catch a speeding motorcyclist anyway. I had to make a right turn though, so I never really saw how it all played out.
Anyway, so the hospital was a real wake-up call to me. I am not really all that comfortable in any hospital, which I think is pretty normal for people not used to dealing with illness and death. But this particular rumah sakit was appalling. It was just like the temporary hospitals you see in war-time movies, with rudimentary-looking stretchers, and rows of hospital beds lined up against the walls, with no privacy for individuals, and each one filled with terrible looking injuries. A man with a bandage over his eye; a man with one leg and a rough bandage over the stump, etc. There were so many of them, all I really wanted to do was leave, but we hadn’t yet found our particular person we were visiting. Finally we located him; he was a cheerful guy and reminded me of every Indonesian surfer I have ever met. I’m not sure exactly how the details of his particular accident, but his right foot was very swollen, and he must have had an operation to remove part of his bone, (his femur?) because his right leg was about six inches shorter than his left leg.
That story told, I love riding my motorbike. It’s an automatic, so it’s just about the easiest thing to drive around, but it also has a good enough engine to drive straight up a mountain carrying two people. It makes getting research done so much easier because it gives me that edge of independence I have been craving since I arrived. I also discovered that when it comes to being on the road, I’m a bit of a control freak…I love being in charge of getting somewhere, rather than just being a passenger. And the thrill of being able to get to my destination point without getting lost on the confusing streets of Bandung is undeniable. Today I cut my driving time down between Margahayu Raya and the DT pesantren from one hour to 35 minutes. Although going fast on the flyover did make feel like I was going to blow away. I used to laugh to when my fifth grade teacher was so afraid to go over bridges that she had sometimes had to call my mom to drive her across the river. I think I understand it a little now, especially with the wind rushing past and threatening to steer you off course. So I’ve decided not to go above 60 km/h on that part of the journey.
One of the other things that I find highly entertaining is the ferocity of my thoughts towards the other drivers as I zigzag my way through traffic, trying to avoid incoming buses, motorbikes going the wrong way on a one-way road, and the like. In most situations, my thoughts are pretty benevolent, but behind the wheel of the motorbike, I surprise myself with the unuttered phrases journeying through my mind, directed at unsuspecting drivers on the road. But it does keep me on the edge, observant, ready for the quickly changing road conditions.
And when I’m driving with someone else around behind me, I find myself borrowing Grandpa Bob’s coined phrase, my favorite woodturning teacher from Hurley… “It’s your turn to pray."
Emerging from the Fireworks in One Piece
For New Year’s Eve, I thought I’d shake up my tradition of watching really bad movies until midnight, while drinking homemade cocktails and quickly switching the channel at midnight to watch the ball drop. Lame, ya? So what, pray tell, precipitated such a momentous change? Well, first, cuz they don’t have footage of NY ball-dropping here, and second cuz I don’t actually think anyone ever fully appreciated that tradition, even amongst us tradition-followers. So, instead, I bought a train ticket: destination Yogyakarta, and celebrated New Year's Eve with my first-ever Indonesian friend, and former language tutor, Ipung.
Going to Yogya was definitely the right decision. It just so happens that this New Year’s Eve coincided with a lovely Muslim holiday, which involves the sacrificing of a great many goats. Now, because Ipung also has a great many friends, we went from place to place, cooking sate over campfires, and eating until there was absolutely no way that anything else had even a teeny-tiny possibility of fitting into our stomachs. At that point, we began a tour of local coffee houses where some Javanese men tried to scare me by telling me that they were in fact terrorists and manufacturers of bombs, and other Javanese men impressed upon me the importance of Javanese philosophy and taught me songs from their childhood.
Fully satiated and appropriately caffeinated, midnight found us beneath a fairly clear sky on the main town square, on a grassy field filled with anticipation, fire-crackers, and motorbikes. I was pretty much afraid for my life as we meandered through the crowds of motorcycles and mopeds on foot, each one just a little too close for comfort, driving what seemed like just a little too fast. Finally, Ipung and I found a fairly secluded sidewalk to call our own, a bit apart from the crowds, where we took our seats and waited for the action to start. It was easy to tell when it was close to midnight, because the noise level reached new heights with the synchronized blowing of cheap noisemakers bought from street venders, the revving of motorbike engines, and the honking of horns. And then the fireworks started. Now, this was nothing like the pre-arranged fireworks shows in the states, which are organized by one contracted company and that start off strong, and ends with a big finale. No, not at all… Instead, individuals bring their own fireworks and set them off from within the crowd, to the wonderment of those who did not plan ahead and bring their own fireworks. Did I mention yet that I was afraid for my life? Actually it was pretty amazing. It felt like we were part of the fireworks, rather than spectators, far away from the action. Did I also mention that it was really noisy? It was really noisy. But no one got hurt, and New Year was welcomed in an appropriately happy and festive manner.
Going to Yogya was definitely the right decision. It just so happens that this New Year’s Eve coincided with a lovely Muslim holiday, which involves the sacrificing of a great many goats. Now, because Ipung also has a great many friends, we went from place to place, cooking sate over campfires, and eating until there was absolutely no way that anything else had even a teeny-tiny possibility of fitting into our stomachs. At that point, we began a tour of local coffee houses where some Javanese men tried to scare me by telling me that they were in fact terrorists and manufacturers of bombs, and other Javanese men impressed upon me the importance of Javanese philosophy and taught me songs from their childhood.
Fully satiated and appropriately caffeinated, midnight found us beneath a fairly clear sky on the main town square, on a grassy field filled with anticipation, fire-crackers, and motorbikes. I was pretty much afraid for my life as we meandered through the crowds of motorcycles and mopeds on foot, each one just a little too close for comfort, driving what seemed like just a little too fast. Finally, Ipung and I found a fairly secluded sidewalk to call our own, a bit apart from the crowds, where we took our seats and waited for the action to start. It was easy to tell when it was close to midnight, because the noise level reached new heights with the synchronized blowing of cheap noisemakers bought from street venders, the revving of motorbike engines, and the honking of horns. And then the fireworks started. Now, this was nothing like the pre-arranged fireworks shows in the states, which are organized by one contracted company and that start off strong, and ends with a big finale. No, not at all… Instead, individuals bring their own fireworks and set them off from within the crowd, to the wonderment of those who did not plan ahead and bring their own fireworks. Did I mention yet that I was afraid for my life? Actually it was pretty amazing. It felt like we were part of the fireworks, rather than spectators, far away from the action. Did I also mention that it was really noisy? It was really noisy. But no one got hurt, and New Year was welcomed in an appropriately happy and festive manner.
Santai Ajalah… Or, “Why I Love Procrastinating On The Ring Of Fire”
Apparently, as one of my friends pointed out to me recently, I have not updated my blog in over a week. This was followed up by another friend berating me for having time to write comments on the blog without adding a new entry. My answer is: A) hey, thanks for taking so much interest! And B) Ok-lah, you try living on the ring of fire, and dealing with the havoc it wreaks on your daily activities.
So, maybe you heard; there was this earthquake in Taiwan the day after Christmas, (because there is always some sort of natural disaster around Christmas time here. It does make one wonder about being a Christian!) Anyway, it was a 7.1 on the Richter scale. Which means it was pretty large, right? So, one of the exciting side-effects was that the internet throughout Southeast Asia was inaccessible for over a week, specifically opening any site that ended with a dot-com. They were predicting two weeks, but I don’t think it lasted quite that long. Personally, I think it was perfect timing, because I needed a clear lesson about why I should not wait until the last minute to get things done. This, or course, is the week for fellowships to be handed in, so while I did manage to finish my applications, I didn’t get a chance to have my people in Pittsburgh check out my proposal and give me comments. (Yes, as if I hadn’t learned that lesson often enough in my life. J) Anyway, who doesn’t love a good earthquake now and then to make life interesting?
Just to give a shout-out to the other disasters that recently occurred in Indonesia, such as the missing flight of Adam Air somewhere in Sulawesi and the capsizing of boats due to strong winds, please remember the families of victims in your prayers, meditation sessions, and/or thoughts.
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