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.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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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