• Selling raw tofu and tempeh by driving around neighborhoods on motor or bicycle, mostly in the morning, and yelling stuff
• Selling nasi goreng, chicken sate, and terang bulan from small stalls on wheels, at night
• Driving around a bicycle, squeaking a funny horn and selling balloons to parents to give to their small children
• Selling gasoline by the liter for people on motorbikes (including me)
• Selling market produce from a big basket that women skillfully carry on their head around neighborhoods in the early morning
• Becak drivers (pedi-cab men) delivering people, but very often industrial material like two-by-fours or scrap metal, from one site to another
• Selling various kinds of Indonesian “special” cold drinks; es doger (a weird combination of black sticky rice, bread, milk, sugar, and tapioca), es degan (young coconut and sugar), es buah (fruit cocktail), etc, from stalls (mobile or otherwise) on the street
• Selling newspapers, peanuts, and other things to people at traffic lights
• Copying keys for people, also from kiosks on the side of the road
• Selling rides on what I can only describe as a sort of carousel that doesn’t go “round and round,” only up and down. These men drive around neighborhoods playing ridiculous recorded music; parents pay probably a thousand or two to put their kid on the pony for a few minutes
• Selling computer generated city maps to people waiting at traffic lights
• Working at a night market (produce market open from 8 pm to 3 am or something)
• Selling fruit, of course
• Driving around a bicycle full of brooms and other household necessities
• Selling shoes
• Selling phone minutes (pulsa)
• Selling water, other bottled drinks, and processed snacks from a kiosk (this has to be the most over-staffed, unnecessary vocation in Indonesia)
• Acting as a “parking man.” Rachel and I describe this as Indonesia’s version of social welfare. Those without other employment will sit at particular parking lots and areas, their “turf.” When you, the driver, are ready to leave, you have to give the parking man 500 rupiah. You don’t ask why, you don’t bargain, and you NEVER leave without paying.
• Acting as unofficial garbage collector
• Acting as unofficial recycling man/woman: collecting bottles or paper from people’s homes. I don’t know what they do with it once they have it.
• Making power strips and other electrical devices for people, because you generally can’t trust the quality of those you buy in the store (true story)
• Sharpening knives for people at their homes
• Driving a becak (yes, I am fully aware I’m repeating here)
• Copying things for people. I swear there is a photocopy shop on every block in my neighborhood
• Doing people’s laundry
• Cleaning rich people’s homes
• Being a “driver” for rich people
• Operating “warkop”s, a version of a coffee shoppe that’s usually outdoors or underneath a rickety structure. The coffee is usually of the instant variety.
• Washing motorcycles
• Washing motorcycle helmets (in 20 minutes or less!)
• Working for rich people. Being the person who cleans all the glass in the house, or the person who revvs all the engines (motorcycle and car) daily (thanks to Caitlin for her extensive knowledge of the Things That Rich Indonesians Employ Other People to Do For Them).
People have frequently asked me what people do, career-wise, in Indonesia. Obviously the educated and the rich are an exception, but the list above pretty well illustrates the jobs available to Indonesian people. They do whatever they can figure out to do; I don’t think there’s a science to it. Personally, though, I think they are creative, industrious, and open-minded. They are survivors.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Today...
I listened to the lyrics of a White Lion song and furiously typed them out for one of the teachers at my school, a male biology (physics?) teacher who "really likes the song." Now he's playing it for the fourth time and studying the lyrics.
Freak bule travels solo in Indonesia
Over the past weekend I took a trip by myself to Gili Trawangan, a tiny island off of Lombok: one of the main (albeit a tiny one) islands in Indonesia. I’d already been there once before (during Idul Fitri) with a large group of friends, and I was dying to go somewhere where Islamic culture wasn’t the focus of the entire population, and where I could get some sun, some reading done, and some perspective on my recent malaise. I couldn’t have chosen a better place.
Being on Gili Trawangan brought me back to all I love about Indonesia, as well as all that makes me anxious and uneasy. On the plus side of my Gili balance sheet, the people on the island have very little fear of social interaction (yelling things at random to me whenever I walk by) are extremely hospitable (the managers of the ‘motel’ I stayed at gave me free stuff on a daily basis, from wine to bananas), and just generally enjoy laughing, hanging out, befriending strangers, and cuddling babies.
They were also hysterically funny. When I sat down to lunch at the café of a dive center, a pretty boisterous group of Indonesians on holiday were ordering at a table nearby. I heard a number of them inquire about the ingredients about particular dishes on the menu, the same way a bule might ask about the composition of “special sauce” or “whole chicken” (here, it includes the head!). But what the family was politely inquiring about was the limited menu of Indonesian food; asking about the komposisi of the most basic Indonesian grub around: fried rice (nasi goreng), fried chicken (ayam goreng), mixed rice (nasi campur), and fried fish (ikan goreng). And of course, these were precisely the dishes they ordered. Just imagine a family in America walking into a nice restaurant and asking “could you please explain what the ‘chicken pot pie’ consists of?” or “what exactly is the ‘burger and fries’?” I don’t know if they were joking or serious, but I will remember that conversation for years to come (okay, maybe not). Epic.
But there was one element of Indonesian cultural consciousness that I found to be exaggerated here, and one that made me extremely uncomfortable. You know the phenomenon in which the post-colonial still idealizes its colonizer? It was definitely at work on Gili T. No matter whom I befriended, I always felt, suspected, that there was more at work than a simple meeting of the minds or something equally idealistic. I’ll try to illustrate: whenever I sat down at a café, bar, restaurant, or even at my own hotel, I struck up a conversation with an Indonesian person that always inevitably led to (1): them telling me how fluent I was in Indonesian (not true!), (2): them making some remark about what a good character I have, what a good person I am, and (3): how much I can teach them about “American” or “speaking English.” At one bar, I ended up talking to a 33 year-old mother of two and her 16 year old sister-in-law (ie: she was already married!), for an hour or so. While we sat together we talked about a number of things (in Bahasa Indonesia), some of them really personal and intimate, and yet the entire time the older woman addressed me as “Anda” (it’s the very formal version of the “you” pronoun, usually reserved for people older than you or your boss). Not only is this woman significantly older than me, but there was no external power relationship between us (she wasn’t my waiter, for instance); still she insisted on taking the subservient position. Finally I told her she had to start calling me “Kamu,” and she acted like I was granting her a great privilege. I didn’t like it. Not only does it make me question the validity of any casual friendship I strike up with other Indonesians, but it makes me wonder if I’m having delusions of grandeur or something (look at me, I only hang out with locals, I am so kind and friendly, etc). When I told an American friend about my feelings, he even wondered if I am so friendly and open to Indonesians precisely because I have tacitly acknowledged my inherently more powerful position in any relationship I establish here. It’s a scary thought. It makes my skin crawl.
So how do I deal with loving this island country and the people in it if I have to constantly challenge (inwardly, at least) my motivations for feeling thus? Sometimes I wonder if being here in any capacity is a kind of act of colonialism, an exercise of power: exploiting a people and an economy for personal gain, however idealistically we envision it.
Being on Gili Trawangan brought me back to all I love about Indonesia, as well as all that makes me anxious and uneasy. On the plus side of my Gili balance sheet, the people on the island have very little fear of social interaction (yelling things at random to me whenever I walk by) are extremely hospitable (the managers of the ‘motel’ I stayed at gave me free stuff on a daily basis, from wine to bananas), and just generally enjoy laughing, hanging out, befriending strangers, and cuddling babies.
They were also hysterically funny. When I sat down to lunch at the café of a dive center, a pretty boisterous group of Indonesians on holiday were ordering at a table nearby. I heard a number of them inquire about the ingredients about particular dishes on the menu, the same way a bule might ask about the composition of “special sauce” or “whole chicken” (here, it includes the head!). But what the family was politely inquiring about was the limited menu of Indonesian food; asking about the komposisi of the most basic Indonesian grub around: fried rice (nasi goreng), fried chicken (ayam goreng), mixed rice (nasi campur), and fried fish (ikan goreng). And of course, these were precisely the dishes they ordered. Just imagine a family in America walking into a nice restaurant and asking “could you please explain what the ‘chicken pot pie’ consists of?” or “what exactly is the ‘burger and fries’?” I don’t know if they were joking or serious, but I will remember that conversation for years to come (okay, maybe not). Epic.
But there was one element of Indonesian cultural consciousness that I found to be exaggerated here, and one that made me extremely uncomfortable. You know the phenomenon in which the post-colonial still idealizes its colonizer? It was definitely at work on Gili T. No matter whom I befriended, I always felt, suspected, that there was more at work than a simple meeting of the minds or something equally idealistic. I’ll try to illustrate: whenever I sat down at a café, bar, restaurant, or even at my own hotel, I struck up a conversation with an Indonesian person that always inevitably led to (1): them telling me how fluent I was in Indonesian (not true!), (2): them making some remark about what a good character I have, what a good person I am, and (3): how much I can teach them about “American” or “speaking English.” At one bar, I ended up talking to a 33 year-old mother of two and her 16 year old sister-in-law (ie: she was already married!), for an hour or so. While we sat together we talked about a number of things (in Bahasa Indonesia), some of them really personal and intimate, and yet the entire time the older woman addressed me as “Anda” (it’s the very formal version of the “you” pronoun, usually reserved for people older than you or your boss). Not only is this woman significantly older than me, but there was no external power relationship between us (she wasn’t my waiter, for instance); still she insisted on taking the subservient position. Finally I told her she had to start calling me “Kamu,” and she acted like I was granting her a great privilege. I didn’t like it. Not only does it make me question the validity of any casual friendship I strike up with other Indonesians, but it makes me wonder if I’m having delusions of grandeur or something (look at me, I only hang out with locals, I am so kind and friendly, etc). When I told an American friend about my feelings, he even wondered if I am so friendly and open to Indonesians precisely because I have tacitly acknowledged my inherently more powerful position in any relationship I establish here. It’s a scary thought. It makes my skin crawl.
So how do I deal with loving this island country and the people in it if I have to constantly challenge (inwardly, at least) my motivations for feeling thus? Sometimes I wonder if being here in any capacity is a kind of act of colonialism, an exercise of power: exploiting a people and an economy for personal gain, however idealistically we envision it.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Timeshares on Bali, Or: Pregnant Street Dogs Bark in the Night
This is no country for new souls,
A woman a fraction of my size cautions me,
Wordlessly.
She points me toward the “blissful view”
We’ve read about
On the undersides of the coffee tables.
We’re told that stabilizing forces
Are extraneous here.
Relax and enjoy the show.
***
The dead fish, animal waste, and plastic grocery bags
Spatter the beachfront
In an unpretentiously
Erotic display,
As unconvinced of their intimacy
As the pile of rocks those men just hauled
To its soon-to-be embodiment as
Bali’s Newest Tourist Resort.
***
A scrawny she-dog gives birth
In the dank safety of the night market
A woman a fraction of my size cautions me,
Wordlessly.
She points me toward the “blissful view”
We’ve read about
On the undersides of the coffee tables.
We’re told that stabilizing forces
Are extraneous here.
Relax and enjoy the show.
***
The dead fish, animal waste, and plastic grocery bags
Spatter the beachfront
In an unpretentiously
Erotic display,
As unconvinced of their intimacy
As the pile of rocks those men just hauled
To its soon-to-be embodiment as
Bali’s Newest Tourist Resort.
***
A scrawny she-dog gives birth
In the dank safety of the night market
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Sudah makan?
I am so tired of being asked if I've already eaten. In any given lunch period (between 11 and 12), I run into maybe 25 teachers, of whom at least 15 or 20 ask me "Sudah makan?" "Silakan!" "Eaten?" "Please eat," or "I am eating."
I guess what bothers me is that it's none of their business whether I've had my meal yet or not. I am well-fed, everyone knows how big a deal I make of every meal we share, and furthermore we all know I have a pretty high salary and can thus afford to never be hungry.
Although all but the poorest individuals have a solid 3 meals a day, I think this place is so used to lack and need and want that if there is plenty, they want to make sure no one's been left out.
That, or I'm just ornery.
I guess what bothers me is that it's none of their business whether I've had my meal yet or not. I am well-fed, everyone knows how big a deal I make of every meal we share, and furthermore we all know I have a pretty high salary and can thus afford to never be hungry.
Although all but the poorest individuals have a solid 3 meals a day, I think this place is so used to lack and need and want that if there is plenty, they want to make sure no one's been left out.
That, or I'm just ornery.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
On Malas
About 50 meters from my house is a structure of sorts, that sells stuff. Apparently they don’t have water or fruit (I’ve checked), but they seem to sell processed snacks (and the Indonesian equivalent, krupuk) and maybe, I don’t know, some newspapers, and definitely gasoline for motorcycles. There’s a shelter attached that has a low-lying table and some mats, and by about noon every day, some middle aged Muslim dudes congregate, sometimes with their families, to nonkrong (Indonesian word for hanging out, doing nothing, wasting time). But what I discovered by popping my head in, a little rudely, maybe, is that they spend that nonkrong time playing chess. Not some crappy chessboard they bought used for 5 bucks, but a handcrafted, heavy-weight chessboard with carved wooden pawns. These guys, mind you, are pretty poor. They hang out in the equivalent of a shack every day in perhaps a futile attempt to sell crap, and meanwhile they’re spending hours upon hours in focused games of chess. I wish nonkrong took hold in America. Can you imagine?
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Rainy Season brings out the worst in me
Sometimes I can’t tell if I love Indonesia so much that it hurts, or if actually, deep down the place depresses my spirits so much that it goes full-circle and starts to resemble love.
I can’t explain it.
It’s rainy season now. What I thought was rainy season, back in October, November, and December, was just a teaser. Sort of like an appetizer that disappoints, only to be overshadowed by a far more thoroughly disappointing main course. You know what I mean. This is rain that begins at 11 a.m. and doesn’t stop until 9 or 10 p.m. And while sometimes the rain might be moderate-to-moderately heavy, more often than not it’s an all-out downpour that floods the streets, causes people to be impaled by 2x4s that have blown off construction sites, drowns kittens, crashes cars, ruins lives.
Well, when my anger and seasonal affective disorder (doesn’t every American have it?) get the best of me, it certainly seems this way. But what I can say for certain—puce-colored glasses aside—is that rainy season makes the lives of the worst-off in Indonesia, well, worse. I would say that at least 60% of the jobs worked by the poor Indonesians (here I’ll define poor as living on less than a dollar a day and not owning a motorbike), and when the rain strikes (and boy, does it strike at any moment, usually without much notice), guess who has to bear the brunt of it? Those who make their living selling balloons from a bicycle, those who push around nasi goreng carts or bakso carts or es (various iced drinks; difficult to explain) carts, those who stand around with baskets of fruit or tempeh or veggies, those who peddle around becaks (human-powered pedi-cabs), those who stand on the corner and sell liters of gasoline. You get the picture. The entire underbelly of the Indonesian economy, and even the culture, I think, is composed of poor people who work outside, who, if they decide to escape the rain (which often lasts all day) actually won’t be able to have dinner or pay the rent or get to the other side of town by public transportation. I have become so depressed by this weather; so frequently confined to my house because I am unwilling to ride my motorbike through flooded streets, and I am near the top, the absolute best-off, in this society. What right do I have to complain that my 6 dollar rain jacket and pants aren’t completely water-proof, when I make FIVE TIMES AS MUCH money as the BEST PAID teacher in my school?
And what in hell am I doing in this country if I’m not doing something to help the lowest echelon rise to something approaching bearable (and I do not think working bare-foot on a construction site for 50 cents a day is bearable)? I just don’t know how I can justify my being here when I am living like royalty, disappointed that I lost $280 during my traveling because I missed a flight (that lost money is what many people in Indonesia earn in a YEAR!). What am I supposed to do? And I complain that the wireless internet connection I’ve been stealing inside my house is now password protected and I have to wait until I’m in my beautiful 10-year old school building which has its own wireless network to check email that, if I wanted, I could read in three different languages?
I just can’t figure out where my perspective is supposed to be right now.
Especially because, despite the hardships that being poor in Indonesia throws at people, they don’t seem too upset by it. I’d guess that part of this is just not knowing a different life, part is being member of a society that has always had and assumes it always will have a poor, traditional, laboring underclass, and part of it is probably religion. Do your work and be honest, get married, have some kids, and your life will be okay. It’s not so much complacency as it seems to me a sunny optimism. Hey, life isn’t so bad. So in that case, who am I to think that Indonesia needs me and people like me to step in and make things right? What if this is the way things are supposed to be?
I can’t explain it.
It’s rainy season now. What I thought was rainy season, back in October, November, and December, was just a teaser. Sort of like an appetizer that disappoints, only to be overshadowed by a far more thoroughly disappointing main course. You know what I mean. This is rain that begins at 11 a.m. and doesn’t stop until 9 or 10 p.m. And while sometimes the rain might be moderate-to-moderately heavy, more often than not it’s an all-out downpour that floods the streets, causes people to be impaled by 2x4s that have blown off construction sites, drowns kittens, crashes cars, ruins lives.
Well, when my anger and seasonal affective disorder (doesn’t every American have it?) get the best of me, it certainly seems this way. But what I can say for certain—puce-colored glasses aside—is that rainy season makes the lives of the worst-off in Indonesia, well, worse. I would say that at least 60% of the jobs worked by the poor Indonesians (here I’ll define poor as living on less than a dollar a day and not owning a motorbike), and when the rain strikes (and boy, does it strike at any moment, usually without much notice), guess who has to bear the brunt of it? Those who make their living selling balloons from a bicycle, those who push around nasi goreng carts or bakso carts or es (various iced drinks; difficult to explain) carts, those who stand around with baskets of fruit or tempeh or veggies, those who peddle around becaks (human-powered pedi-cabs), those who stand on the corner and sell liters of gasoline. You get the picture. The entire underbelly of the Indonesian economy, and even the culture, I think, is composed of poor people who work outside, who, if they decide to escape the rain (which often lasts all day) actually won’t be able to have dinner or pay the rent or get to the other side of town by public transportation. I have become so depressed by this weather; so frequently confined to my house because I am unwilling to ride my motorbike through flooded streets, and I am near the top, the absolute best-off, in this society. What right do I have to complain that my 6 dollar rain jacket and pants aren’t completely water-proof, when I make FIVE TIMES AS MUCH money as the BEST PAID teacher in my school?
And what in hell am I doing in this country if I’m not doing something to help the lowest echelon rise to something approaching bearable (and I do not think working bare-foot on a construction site for 50 cents a day is bearable)? I just don’t know how I can justify my being here when I am living like royalty, disappointed that I lost $280 during my traveling because I missed a flight (that lost money is what many people in Indonesia earn in a YEAR!). What am I supposed to do? And I complain that the wireless internet connection I’ve been stealing inside my house is now password protected and I have to wait until I’m in my beautiful 10-year old school building which has its own wireless network to check email that, if I wanted, I could read in three different languages?
I just can’t figure out where my perspective is supposed to be right now.
Especially because, despite the hardships that being poor in Indonesia throws at people, they don’t seem too upset by it. I’d guess that part of this is just not knowing a different life, part is being member of a society that has always had and assumes it always will have a poor, traditional, laboring underclass, and part of it is probably religion. Do your work and be honest, get married, have some kids, and your life will be okay. It’s not so much complacency as it seems to me a sunny optimism. Hey, life isn’t so bad. So in that case, who am I to think that Indonesia needs me and people like me to step in and make things right? What if this is the way things are supposed to be?
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