I find that while blogging on a daily basis seems tedious and maybe not too eventful, letting more than four or five days go by is like forgetting about my blog for a year. I don’t even know where to start.
In Indonesia it’s totally acceptable, even maybe encouraged for teachers (especially young foreign English teachers!) to hang out with their students outside school. That said, yesterday I found myself at TimeZone (an arcade in one of the malls), playing horribly at a sort of erm…DanceDanceRevolution type game, except I think this one was more difficult…with one of my students, Fia. At some point, when we were sitting on big plastic hamburgers that functioned for the moment as chairs, waiting for our turn at this crazy game, I got massively involved in a conversation with two twelve year old girls. By the end, they’d asked me everything from my religious preference to my marital status to my phone number and email address. Can you imagine this happening in the states? All the same, it was completely sweet, innocent, and entertaining. Then I got on the back of 16 year old Fia’s motorbike, and she drove me home. During this ride, we both talked about not having boyfriends and both agreed that this was more or less a choice of ours, because for the time being we enjoy the freedom and lack of stress that comes with being single.
Well, suffice to say Ramadan is drawing to a close, there are only six days left of the twenty-eight. What’s happened, strangely, is that because I spend so much of my time with Muslim fasters, I myself have inadvertently fasted to some extent; lately I’ve been having 1.5 meals a day instead of my usual 3.5. It isn’t because I’m trying to fast, necessarily, but more because now that food isn’t everyone’s motivating factor in life (they can’t eat between 4 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. every day), I’ve just sort of lost my appetite, and even when with appetite I have found it much easier to put up with until I feel like cooking or buying food. I guess this is a good thing, because a couple women at my school recently commented that my stomach is getting so fat I have started looking a little pregnant. Thanks, orang-orang (people), for your honesty…
Today I got called “sir” and “mister” at least four times.
People in Indonesia don’t walk places. They just don’t. They either ride a motorbike, drive, take an angkot (public transportation, sort of a cross between a van and a bus)… a bike, a pedi-cab, or do the unthinkable and drive (cars are definitely a luxury here…reserved for the rich). Today I walked about 30 minutes in the hopes of getting a pedicure before I leave for my 9 day beach vacation. I have never been talked to by so many people in my life. I think in the 30 minutes at least 100 people either said hello or waved or honked at me, and with that kind of positive attention, it’s really hard not to smile the entire time. Which attracts even more attention. It’s so weird being a symbol. People aren’t interested in me because I’m me, far from it. They’re interested in the fact that I come from the West and have white skin. It’s like the aftermath of being a colonized people or something. Rather than hate Americans, like Europeans do, they think we are all movie actors or pop singers, or just beautiful. If they only knew...
Speaking of which, I saw the new Kevin Bacon movie with my ibu the other day, and it was HORRIBLE! I was shocked that American film companies export so many bloody, cruel and violent movies to Asian countries. One of the women I was with actually had to explain one of the movie’s premises (it’s about a gang in some run-down American city) regarding the mobster hierarchy; she had seen so many gangster movies at the cinema that she was a veritable expert on the topic. Do wonders never cease?
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Stray thoughts
This week I've been having my students create identity “pages” on which they give me information about themselves (including a photo) so I can start getting to know all 270 of them.
One component of the id page is a list of “three things I like.” A male student wrote “praying to God.” Okay. But once he wrote that, the head teacher came over to me and asked if it was appropriate! In a place where all students have a full week of Ramadan religious education in place of normal classes, a Mushollah in a conspicuous, central area of the school, and a group prayer at the end of every class or school day, the teacher asks me whether the boy’s “like” is appropriate! I was a little thrown by the unintentional irony here. Also with these id pages, several students wrote that they did not like "drugs" or "smoking." With a huge statue in front of the school that depicts a giant hand clutching a lit cigarette and a sign above reading "No Drugs! No Smoking!," I can't say that I'm surprised, but I am a little shocked by how easy it is to brainwash these high school students.
On the light side, I tried “es degan” today. It’s young coconut flesh on ice with coconut water and loads of sugar. Absolutely delicious. And I’m now the proud owner of a kilogram of jambu. The food choices are never-ending here, that is, once you realize that nasi goreng is not the only meal in Indonesia.
I took my first spinning class today at the bule-centric gym. I loved it, and especially how ridiculous it is that one of my Indonesian “firsts” is something that was invented and popularized by an American.
One component of the id page is a list of “three things I like.” A male student wrote “praying to God.” Okay. But once he wrote that, the head teacher came over to me and asked if it was appropriate! In a place where all students have a full week of Ramadan religious education in place of normal classes, a Mushollah in a conspicuous, central area of the school, and a group prayer at the end of every class or school day, the teacher asks me whether the boy’s “like” is appropriate! I was a little thrown by the unintentional irony here. Also with these id pages, several students wrote that they did not like "drugs" or "smoking." With a huge statue in front of the school that depicts a giant hand clutching a lit cigarette and a sign above reading "No Drugs! No Smoking!," I can't say that I'm surprised, but I am a little shocked by how easy it is to brainwash these high school students.
On the light side, I tried “es degan” today. It’s young coconut flesh on ice with coconut water and loads of sugar. Absolutely delicious. And I’m now the proud owner of a kilogram of jambu. The food choices are never-ending here, that is, once you realize that nasi goreng is not the only meal in Indonesia.
I took my first spinning class today at the bule-centric gym. I loved it, and especially how ridiculous it is that one of my Indonesian “firsts” is something that was invented and popularized by an American.
The other day as I was walking around my area of the city and getting pretty lost, a young guy in a group of friends asked me "Can I kiss you?" Ha! The funniest thing is he probably heard it on a movie or tv show and was just repeating it back to me. Speaking of naughty English, yesterday one of my students said aloud to his friend (both boys) "Please kiss my ass" in as robotic voice as you can imagine. I had to chastise him a little bit, but it was obvious to all that I found it really funny. Whoopsie.
In other news, little Mau is loving her new life as a housecat. I keep meaning to post pictures. ! I even had confirmation by an outside source that she's a cute kitty. Last night I walked into the kitchen and found her looking rather guilty in front of something that looked like a really large animal turd. Well, after I looked more closely, I realized that it was a filthy, dusty, stuffed kangaroo key-chain accessory. Suffice to say Mau has fallen in love with it, and Kanga has given her hours of entertainment. At one point I saw her crouched in the water gutter, positioned to attack. I love my little predator!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
It seems necessary to mention that almost every time i post on this blog, I'm posting from the wireless connection I get at a MEATBALL RESTAURANT. Anyone reading this probably knows about my slightly psychotic vegetarianism, so obviously this is pretty ironic. But their wi-fi is the fastest in Indonesia, I think! Anyway, I always order juice or tea or something lame, spending maybe 30 cents a visit, but the women who run this place don't seem to care too much. They are my Indonesian friends in the same sense that I'm their American friend. It works out.
So, Kitty took a trip to the vet last night. Good old Doctor Kitty has postponed this appointment for a few weeks, so it was a major relief to finally meet this guy. He had three teeth. I counted. In America I think we would be mildly horrified if our doctorate-holding vet didn't find the time to get some drilling or some dentures. But here, well, it's just not a big deal. And the guy had such a way with my little psychotic Mau. She cried at fever pitch during the three minute car ride over to Doc's house, but once she was in his office she calmed the hell down. I couldn't believe it. He even got her to choke down some worm medicine without much trouble, and gave me a free litter box and sand (I'd been having her do her thing in the garden...it's organic and whatnot).
So, more on my Ibu, Lilik. Did I mention before that Indonesians use the same honorific for ma'am, Mrs., and mother? It's so indicative of Indonesian culture. Women are the mommies of Indonesia, not just of their own children, but of their students, their neighbors, their friends. I love having Lilik, and I'm pretty sure I don't come CLOSE to deserving her kindness. She brings me food out of the blue, whenever she comes across something vegetarian or yummy-looking; she drives me wherever I need to go without my asking; she thinks about me, thinks about things I might like to do (we visited the Wonosari tea plantation on Tuesday...during her day off); she checks in on me, but never once in an invasive way. My mom said on the phone the other morning, "She's a better mom than I am!" Lilik wears "full makeup, every day" (which involves bright pink lipstick), glittery jilbabs, and the occasional velour two-piece jogging suit. She has so much attitude, so much pizazz (is this even a word?), but is, at her core, a selfless and loving person. She is truly too good for me, but then again there's no point in complaining.
In other news, I've started correcting grammar of the men and boys who yell at me, "Hey mister! What is your name? Where are you going?" (typical Indo way of greeting). A couple of them now know that "Mr" refers to a man, and they have thanked Ma'am Tori for the grammar lesson. Of course, I can hardly stammer a sentence in Bahasa Indonesia, so what I really end up telling them is "Mister=Putra, MISS=Putri." Nothing special. But after being called "Mister" more than five times, I think the novelty has worn off.
So, Kitty took a trip to the vet last night. Good old Doctor Kitty has postponed this appointment for a few weeks, so it was a major relief to finally meet this guy. He had three teeth. I counted. In America I think we would be mildly horrified if our doctorate-holding vet didn't find the time to get some drilling or some dentures. But here, well, it's just not a big deal. And the guy had such a way with my little psychotic Mau. She cried at fever pitch during the three minute car ride over to Doc's house, but once she was in his office she calmed the hell down. I couldn't believe it. He even got her to choke down some worm medicine without much trouble, and gave me a free litter box and sand (I'd been having her do her thing in the garden...it's organic and whatnot).
So, more on my Ibu, Lilik. Did I mention before that Indonesians use the same honorific for ma'am, Mrs., and mother? It's so indicative of Indonesian culture. Women are the mommies of Indonesia, not just of their own children, but of their students, their neighbors, their friends. I love having Lilik, and I'm pretty sure I don't come CLOSE to deserving her kindness. She brings me food out of the blue, whenever she comes across something vegetarian or yummy-looking; she drives me wherever I need to go without my asking; she thinks about me, thinks about things I might like to do (we visited the Wonosari tea plantation on Tuesday...during her day off); she checks in on me, but never once in an invasive way. My mom said on the phone the other morning, "She's a better mom than I am!" Lilik wears "full makeup, every day" (which involves bright pink lipstick), glittery jilbabs, and the occasional velour two-piece jogging suit. She has so much attitude, so much pizazz (is this even a word?), but is, at her core, a selfless and loving person. She is truly too good for me, but then again there's no point in complaining.
In other news, I've started correcting grammar of the men and boys who yell at me, "Hey mister! What is your name? Where are you going?" (typical Indo way of greeting). A couple of them now know that "Mr" refers to a man, and they have thanked Ma'am Tori for the grammar lesson. Of course, I can hardly stammer a sentence in Bahasa Indonesia, so what I really end up telling them is "Mister=Putra, MISS=Putri." Nothing special. But after being called "Mister" more than five times, I think the novelty has worn off.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
On the phenomenon that is Indonesian Food.
Indonesia doesn’t just have its own food, it has its own food culture, food laws, foodaica (like Judaica, but for food?).
Here’s an example of the kind of food I’ve been buying and eating. I took two trips to the market today: one a traditional morning market, one a lebaran (sp?) market, which happens only during Ramadan. At food market #1 I came home with (2) eggplant, (1) papaya, (10) farm-fresh eggs, (1) block fresh tempeh, (2) packets flour (one specifically for making fried banana), (1) packet of some sort of bean that apparently one boils, then simmers in coconut milk (it looks sorta like lima beans), (1) 10 cent bottle of vinegar, (1) stick of doughnuts, (1) plastic bag of some crazy sweet porridge made from black sticky rice, tapioca jelly, crazy fruits/leaves that have been boiled and made gelatinous, all in some coconut milk, and (1) half-kilo of potatoes. Okay, that’s pretty standard. At lebaran market, I came home with: (1) bag of some sort of chips—Lilik could tell me only that they’re made from flour—, (1) plastic bag of fresh soymilk (apparently it exists in non-Silk-brand form!), (1) plastic bag of a drink called kolak kacang hijau (from what I can tell, it’s made from palm sugar, coconut milk and mung beans! Strange, but so delicious), (1) bag of paper-wrapped items: 1 fried tofu in some special seasoning, 1 fried tempeh in some special seasoning, with packets of fresh veggies and sambal to make the full meal, I guess, (1) package of black fermented sticky rice and normal white sticky rice.
This is the kind of stuff I eat every day. It’s as if your entire food consciousness, all your learned habits and acquired tastes and dislikes can be completely obliterated once you’ve entered a new food culture. I eat mini brown bananas (and by mini I mean 4 inches long at the most) like candy, I eat black gelatinous goo when it’s in something called es campur, I eat sticky rice like pizza. And the stuff is good. I mean, I can hardly believe I didn’t know these kinds of foods and meals and desserts existed. Let me try to recall some of my other memorable meals. Ah, yes, gado-gado. It’s fried tofu, potatoes, a hard-boiled egg, and raw veggies like cucumber, tomato, lettuce and green beans, saturated with peanut sauce. Amazing, and lots of protein. It does, however, come with these weird shrimp crackers. Okay, something I tried in Jogja this week: nasi gudeg telor. The nasi is just white rice, the telor is a hardboiled brown egg, but the gudeg is something entirely foreign to me: it’s young jackfruit, simmered for hours in a bunch of leaves, including cassava and who knows what else, and then chopped up, almost minced. Let’s just say it’s pitch-black in color and completely unrecognizable, both its taste and its texture. And again, absolutely delicious.
And then there were snacks. Indonesians love, love snacks, maybe as much or more than Americans do. They have chips of every kind (here, chip means something fried in oil until crispy). My favorite is the mlinjo chip: it’s made from the fruit of that name, which has an awesomely bitter taste. I cannot get enough mlinjo. If you can dream it, you can turn it into a chip.
Oh right. My entry on Indonesian food would be incomplete without a mention of durian. Yes, anyone who’s currently in Indonesia with me knows about the durian, so skip this, maybe. Durian is about as big or bigger than a pineapple. It is covered in a spiky skin, its inside is white like coconut, and it has by far the worst food smell you can imagine. Think filthy socks, body odor, and any residue in your toilet, and maybe throw in some animal droppings. But Indonesians, and I think at least some bule, love this fruit. I have yet to get over the smell. The best is when fruit at the supermarket smells and even tastes a little like durian, just from being near it in the stock-room! Truly powerful, this stuff. I want to like it! I will try again. I think it tastes like liver, if I knew what liver tasted like.
I think I’ve spoken enough about food, now. For a while I missed pizza and Mexican food. Now I fear that leaving this place will mean no more jackfruit, no more fresh papaya, no more soymilk made in people’s homes, no more mungbeans included in every kind of meal. I’m going to pretend that day isn’t coming.
Here’s an example of the kind of food I’ve been buying and eating. I took two trips to the market today: one a traditional morning market, one a lebaran (sp?) market, which happens only during Ramadan. At food market #1 I came home with (2) eggplant, (1) papaya, (10) farm-fresh eggs, (1) block fresh tempeh, (2) packets flour (one specifically for making fried banana), (1) packet of some sort of bean that apparently one boils, then simmers in coconut milk (it looks sorta like lima beans), (1) 10 cent bottle of vinegar, (1) stick of doughnuts, (1) plastic bag of some crazy sweet porridge made from black sticky rice, tapioca jelly, crazy fruits/leaves that have been boiled and made gelatinous, all in some coconut milk, and (1) half-kilo of potatoes. Okay, that’s pretty standard. At lebaran market, I came home with: (1) bag of some sort of chips—Lilik could tell me only that they’re made from flour—, (1) plastic bag of fresh soymilk (apparently it exists in non-Silk-brand form!), (1) plastic bag of a drink called kolak kacang hijau (from what I can tell, it’s made from palm sugar, coconut milk and mung beans! Strange, but so delicious), (1) bag of paper-wrapped items: 1 fried tofu in some special seasoning, 1 fried tempeh in some special seasoning, with packets of fresh veggies and sambal to make the full meal, I guess, (1) package of black fermented sticky rice and normal white sticky rice.
This is the kind of stuff I eat every day. It’s as if your entire food consciousness, all your learned habits and acquired tastes and dislikes can be completely obliterated once you’ve entered a new food culture. I eat mini brown bananas (and by mini I mean 4 inches long at the most) like candy, I eat black gelatinous goo when it’s in something called es campur, I eat sticky rice like pizza. And the stuff is good. I mean, I can hardly believe I didn’t know these kinds of foods and meals and desserts existed. Let me try to recall some of my other memorable meals. Ah, yes, gado-gado. It’s fried tofu, potatoes, a hard-boiled egg, and raw veggies like cucumber, tomato, lettuce and green beans, saturated with peanut sauce. Amazing, and lots of protein. It does, however, come with these weird shrimp crackers. Okay, something I tried in Jogja this week: nasi gudeg telor. The nasi is just white rice, the telor is a hardboiled brown egg, but the gudeg is something entirely foreign to me: it’s young jackfruit, simmered for hours in a bunch of leaves, including cassava and who knows what else, and then chopped up, almost minced. Let’s just say it’s pitch-black in color and completely unrecognizable, both its taste and its texture. And again, absolutely delicious.
And then there were snacks. Indonesians love, love snacks, maybe as much or more than Americans do. They have chips of every kind (here, chip means something fried in oil until crispy). My favorite is the mlinjo chip: it’s made from the fruit of that name, which has an awesomely bitter taste. I cannot get enough mlinjo. If you can dream it, you can turn it into a chip.
Oh right. My entry on Indonesian food would be incomplete without a mention of durian. Yes, anyone who’s currently in Indonesia with me knows about the durian, so skip this, maybe. Durian is about as big or bigger than a pineapple. It is covered in a spiky skin, its inside is white like coconut, and it has by far the worst food smell you can imagine. Think filthy socks, body odor, and any residue in your toilet, and maybe throw in some animal droppings. But Indonesians, and I think at least some bule, love this fruit. I have yet to get over the smell. The best is when fruit at the supermarket smells and even tastes a little like durian, just from being near it in the stock-room! Truly powerful, this stuff. I want to like it! I will try again. I think it tastes like liver, if I knew what liver tasted like.
I think I’ve spoken enough about food, now. For a while I missed pizza and Mexican food. Now I fear that leaving this place will mean no more jackfruit, no more fresh papaya, no more soymilk made in people’s homes, no more mungbeans included in every kind of meal. I’m going to pretend that day isn’t coming.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
After a long absence...
I don’t know where to start.
Because I haven’t had regular access to the internet, I’ve been really behind in reporting on la vie indonesienne. And a lot, a hell of a lot, has happened since I first got to my city. I think I will have to skip writing about the first week of school and the out-of-the-blue rush to Jakarta for visa business. Oh, see?, I didn’t skip that part. There it is.
And then there was Jogja. Yogyakarta, that is: the place some call the cultural capital of the island of Java. We discovered, almost accidentally, that most SMAs (Indonesian public high schools) have a long weekend during the first weekend of Ramadan. That meant we had from Thursday morning until Wednesday morning essentially free. From Saturday until Tuesday I traveled to Jogja with two ETA friends who live somewhat near me for a first trip of the year. Our main purpose was to see Borobudur, the Indonesian Buddhist temple built (I think) in the 800s C.E. We flew there from Surabaya, and I feel obligated to report that Indonesia has the most stress-free airports in all the world. People don’t rush here, planes never leave right on time so there’s never any real worry about missing a flight, people seem to enjoy flying and even enjoy hanging out in the airport (okay, really they like hanging out anywhere). So Borobudur was not a disappointment in the least. I think we were all in love with the place, and it turns out there were a number of other temples and monasteries in the little village that we decided to stick around for a second night. Well, we also opted for sticking around for night 2 because the guy who seemed to be the assistant manager of the little homestay was an adorable 22 year old; we all had funny, confused conversations together; the bules practicing Bahasa and Golan practicing English with us. Fun was had by all, and Golan made the most delicious banana crepes for breakfast. Fun fact: I think all Indonesian losmen/hostels/homestays believe westerners eat only pancakes. If you’ve ever been to Amsterdam, you can see how they might have gotten this idea.
I think I’ll leave out the part about how we tried to get a meal at a warung in Borobudur and the girls working the place laughed in our face each and every time we tried to order in Bahasa Indonesia, and despite being able to understand us, wouldn’t do us the courtesy of giving us what we asked for. Yes, I’ll definitely leave out that part.
Jogja city itself was thus a real rush-through; we only stayed one night and accomplishing anything seemed to take forever, so we didn’t do or see much. But we did go batik shopping, because that’s what you do in Jogja. I bought two dresses and a pair of pants (all thin cotton batik print) for less than seven dollars. That’s my brag of the day. Of course I had to bargain, but that’s just the way they do things here. I’m getting more comfortable with it. The idea is not to be argumentative, but to be as sweet as possible: “Well I love this beautiful tunic, but 75000 rupiah is just too expensive! I can give you RP 40000… No? Okay, RP 45000 it is. Zing.
In other recent news, I now have a kitten. She’s a few months old, a quasi-street cat (she and her cat momma have been living at the high school forever…), and not really the prettiest thing. But she has been dreaming of being a housecat, I think, because the cat craves affection like fish do water. I’m naming her Mau, the Indonesian word for “want.” She yells at me in cat language whenever I’m at home, demanding something I can’t give her (she seems to wish she could climb back into the womb, which is a bit backwards developmentally, considering she’s well over 3 or 4 months old), and she generally chews me out whenever I walk anywhere in the house. Apparently she hates movement. My new vet was supposed to come over tonight (veterinarians make house-calls in Indonesia?!) but he has not shown. I suspect little Mau has some worms and fleas, if nothing more serious.
I am surprised by the day by how much I love Indonesia. When I was preparing to come here, I by no means thought Indo would end up being the place I could see myself living in permanently. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I am so in love with this country that I honestly scare myself. I think you have to have visited a developing country to understand my love-struck-ness. You drive past huge billboards for cigarettes and shiny shopping malls while old, skinny men drive becaks (pedal-cabs) and farmers wearing the traditional agricultural uniform (sarongs and bare feet) plant and harvest on small rice farms.
I want to stay in this place. Make it right. Develop a waste-management and recycling system. Get Indonesians some solid, good healthcare. Raise the economy out of the pit it’s been in (according to one of the teachers) since Suharto’s crash-and-burn exodus. Obviously I can't come close to any of this. But maybe if more Americans discovered what a staggeringly beautiful and plaintive country lies below Thailand and above Australia, we could get something done. Unfortunately, when countries neither pose a threat nor harbor natural resources that we think we might want, the US doesn’t pay too much attention to them.
Because I haven’t had regular access to the internet, I’ve been really behind in reporting on la vie indonesienne. And a lot, a hell of a lot, has happened since I first got to my city. I think I will have to skip writing about the first week of school and the out-of-the-blue rush to Jakarta for visa business. Oh, see?, I didn’t skip that part. There it is.
And then there was Jogja. Yogyakarta, that is: the place some call the cultural capital of the island of Java. We discovered, almost accidentally, that most SMAs (Indonesian public high schools) have a long weekend during the first weekend of Ramadan. That meant we had from Thursday morning until Wednesday morning essentially free. From Saturday until Tuesday I traveled to Jogja with two ETA friends who live somewhat near me for a first trip of the year. Our main purpose was to see Borobudur, the Indonesian Buddhist temple built (I think) in the 800s C.E. We flew there from Surabaya, and I feel obligated to report that Indonesia has the most stress-free airports in all the world. People don’t rush here, planes never leave right on time so there’s never any real worry about missing a flight, people seem to enjoy flying and even enjoy hanging out in the airport (okay, really they like hanging out anywhere). So Borobudur was not a disappointment in the least. I think we were all in love with the place, and it turns out there were a number of other temples and monasteries in the little village that we decided to stick around for a second night. Well, we also opted for sticking around for night 2 because the guy who seemed to be the assistant manager of the little homestay was an adorable 22 year old; we all had funny, confused conversations together; the bules practicing Bahasa and Golan practicing English with us. Fun was had by all, and Golan made the most delicious banana crepes for breakfast. Fun fact: I think all Indonesian losmen/hostels/homestays believe westerners eat only pancakes. If you’ve ever been to Amsterdam, you can see how they might have gotten this idea.
I think I’ll leave out the part about how we tried to get a meal at a warung in Borobudur and the girls working the place laughed in our face each and every time we tried to order in Bahasa Indonesia, and despite being able to understand us, wouldn’t do us the courtesy of giving us what we asked for. Yes, I’ll definitely leave out that part.
Jogja city itself was thus a real rush-through; we only stayed one night and accomplishing anything seemed to take forever, so we didn’t do or see much. But we did go batik shopping, because that’s what you do in Jogja. I bought two dresses and a pair of pants (all thin cotton batik print) for less than seven dollars. That’s my brag of the day. Of course I had to bargain, but that’s just the way they do things here. I’m getting more comfortable with it. The idea is not to be argumentative, but to be as sweet as possible: “Well I love this beautiful tunic, but 75000 rupiah is just too expensive! I can give you RP 40000… No? Okay, RP 45000 it is. Zing.
In other recent news, I now have a kitten. She’s a few months old, a quasi-street cat (she and her cat momma have been living at the high school forever…), and not really the prettiest thing. But she has been dreaming of being a housecat, I think, because the cat craves affection like fish do water. I’m naming her Mau, the Indonesian word for “want.” She yells at me in cat language whenever I’m at home, demanding something I can’t give her (she seems to wish she could climb back into the womb, which is a bit backwards developmentally, considering she’s well over 3 or 4 months old), and she generally chews me out whenever I walk anywhere in the house. Apparently she hates movement. My new vet was supposed to come over tonight (veterinarians make house-calls in Indonesia?!) but he has not shown. I suspect little Mau has some worms and fleas, if nothing more serious.
I am surprised by the day by how much I love Indonesia. When I was preparing to come here, I by no means thought Indo would end up being the place I could see myself living in permanently. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I am so in love with this country that I honestly scare myself. I think you have to have visited a developing country to understand my love-struck-ness. You drive past huge billboards for cigarettes and shiny shopping malls while old, skinny men drive becaks (pedal-cabs) and farmers wearing the traditional agricultural uniform (sarongs and bare feet) plant and harvest on small rice farms.
I want to stay in this place. Make it right. Develop a waste-management and recycling system. Get Indonesians some solid, good healthcare. Raise the economy out of the pit it’s been in (according to one of the teachers) since Suharto’s crash-and-burn exodus. Obviously I can't come close to any of this. But maybe if more Americans discovered what a staggeringly beautiful and plaintive country lies below Thailand and above Australia, we could get something done. Unfortunately, when countries neither pose a threat nor harbor natural resources that we think we might want, the US doesn’t pay too much attention to them.
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