Yesterday's post, posted today (finally found some wireless!)

Hip-Hop Dance Competitions, Grilled Corn, and Friends

Ibu set me up today. I organized my day (not that I had much to do!) around attending my SMAN’s birthday party (apparently it wasn’t an independence day celebration, it was the school’s birthday!) at three o’clock. At 2:30 I got a text from my Ibu telling me to plan on being picked up for the party at 6:00 instead, “because the dance and music performances weren’t good enough just yet.” Okay then. When we arrived at around 7:15 (there’s a concept in Indonesian culture called jam keret= rubber time), we went to the central courtyard where a gigantic performance stage had been installed; the kind they have at radio station music festivals. On stage was our dear old principal, who immediately announced my arrival to the entire student body, and beckoned me to cross the expanse of grass and students and get on stage. Dammit, Ibu, why didn’t you warn me of this? Of course she didn’t warn me because that would ruin the surprise, and apparently in Indonesia we love surprises! Oh well. I won’t pretend that it was horribly mortifying or anything that hyperbolic, because it wasn’t. I was expecting something like this to happen at some point, and from my class visit back in Bandung, I realized that it’s pretty easy to get high school students “pumped up” by doing silly things like woo-hoo-ing and fist-pumping. It worked.
We stayed for a few of the dance and music acts, and from what I could tell the competitors were mostly hip hop dance acts (in one, the girls all wore matching blue sweatsuits) and emo/numetal/hardcore bands of disaffected boys, whom according to one of the English teachers, start these bands because “they aren’t too smart, so they need something else to be good at in school.” I’m going to withhold judgment until I actually have these guys in class! They seemed pretty cool. If I were an Indonesian high school student I would probably want to hang out with these dudes. Also, stage gives the band boys at good foot of height. They looked somewhere between 5’10 and 6’ while they were performing, but afterwards they walked by me and I realized they couldn’t have been taller than 5’6! Now I understand why everyone is in a band.
Later last night I met up with some of my American friends, including a former ETA who was visiting for the weekend from Jakarta, and we went to a café whose specialty was flavored grilled corn. On the menu was sweet corn, spicy corn, sweet AND spicy corn, super spicy corn, chocolate corn, strawberry corn, etc. It didn’t taste particularly wonderful, but the concept was pretty precious. The ETA had some of her student friends meet us there, and Gilang and Riri were straight out of an SNL skit. They talked at a speed (even in English) I couldn’t keep up with, they smoked strawberry-flavored cigarettes, and spouted off the names of myriad characters in myriad American reality tv shows and sitcoms without breaking a sweat. Apparently they are BOTH competitive hip-hop dancers (in Indonesia, who isn’t?) and we may see them compete in Surabaya soon enough. Also, according to this fabulous pair (one male, one female, I should add) our city has its first nightclub with a pole (i.e.: for pole dancing) and they are super excited about this. I love it here.

Earlier post: The second day in my city (blogging problems; don't ask)

On Western Comfort, “Culture” and the Ibu with whom all things are possible

I am writing from my new home in East Java. I live by myself in a six bedroom, 2.5-bathroom house on a quiet street in a residential part of the city. I would be uncomfortable with my situation (and the fact that the only house my organization approved of was one that could house six or seven people) except I won’t lie: I really like this place. I like the three mandis, the fact that the kitchen is split into two separate rooms on two different parts of the first floor (one with cabinets and a fridge and table, the other with the sink, shelf space for dishes and cook stove), and the beautiful front porch and second floor balcony. I like the fact that the laundry/purified water/dry-goods store is five houses down from me. I like that across the road is a sort of undeveloped make-shift park where cute kids play and older student-types play volleyball and soccer. I like that rickshaws and fruit and ice cream vendors walk by my house twenty times a day. I like that the house owners left my bed and their tv remote wrapped in plastic (my ‘bu says it’s a ‘cultural’ thing). I like that the prayer calls here sound different and more plaintive than in Bandung. I like that I have encountered at least three lizards in my house in the past twenty four hours, and that on at least one occasion a cat has wandered into my house. I like that the owners have left me with a tissue box that looks like a stuffed kangaroo. I almost don’t dislike the absence of hot water in the house.
Enough about the house. None of this would be possible, anyway, without my counterpart teacher, a woman about my mom’s age, who speaks damn good English and gets things done in a way that leaves me awestruck. From the moment we got on the bus to the Jakarta airport, she started distributing the mineral water our org had gotten us (at the last second) to keep us alive during the four hour ride. After this my ‘bu went through the bus, taking photos of all the ETAs with their counterparts. Once we arrived at the airport she organized all the luggage our group had brought, hired several porters, helped us all weave through the disorganized check-in lines, bargained-down the price for our oversized luggage, and brought us all to our gate without batting an eye. I lucked out in a huge way. When we got to the airport in our city she found our two rented cars and drivers and got us to my house. Waiting there was a welcome committee of two teachers from the SMAN, the house owner and his niece Lia (Lya?). They came with fruit, drinks, and snacks (traditional way of greeting travellers in Indo), made me get comfortable, and talked to me in a combination of Bahasa and English that left all of us mildly confused (I’m getting used to this…). We promised to learn our respective second languages so we could talk to each other more easily in a month or two. Then my Ibu got me in her SUV and we headed to Hypermart to start the moving-in process. I think we had to have been for two hours…maybe longer. I ended up with some basic Indonesian food staples: tofu, tempeh, oil, sambal and kecup [actually soy sauce], veggies, rice, noodles, and tea. I bought a water boiler, rice cooker, some awesome bed linens and towels, and candles for the frequent power outages. Malls (like the mall where our Hypermart is) are the cultural and social centers of city life. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m becoming a little obsessed with them. I am sort of itching to go back. The people- watching opportunities abound, and being stared-at there has its benefit: once I smile at someone, I get a beautiful smile in return. It doesn’t get old.
Today Ibu and my other English teacher friend showed up at my place around lunch time. They decided I didn’t have enough to eat. They brought me nasi puluh; tofu/tempeh in ketcap; cooked greens and chiles; some traditional drink that involves milk (maybe coconut milk?), sugar, and what I believe are mung beans or soybeans; sliced fruit in spicy peanut sauce; a fried rice-noodle dish; some amazing Indonesian rice-chips, and a gigantic papaya. They take such good care of me! Also, my current opinion is that East Javanese food is superior to its Western counterpart. Much spicier, and more vegetable-oriented.
I’m not really sure what to do with myself for the next few days. Tomorrow I am going to school at three to see the August 17th party, which I think involves music and dance performances by the students (and maybe the teachers too?). On Saturday I’ve been told that I’m going to the (female!!) principal’s house for dinner with the English teachers and the principal’s two “handsome, medical-school” sons who are about my age. Maybe I shouldn’t have told my Ibu that I’m single!
I suspect there will be more blog entries soon enough. Every day is new. Why didn’t I realize that back in the States?

Internet in Indonesia...and hot water too

I'm beginning to see how much I have taken high-speed internet for granted when I was in the States and in England. I've spent the past forty minutes trying to figure out how to open my Mac Word document (a blog post I wrote last night) on the computer in this internet cafe with no success. It takes close to five minutes just to open the GoogleDocs site, if it opens at all. So all my first impressions of my new city will have to wait until another time, until I can save the post in another format. I wonder if it was a mistake to buy a Mac this year in a country where PCs are everywhere.
Regardless, I still love my new house and my new street and I survived my first cold shower of the year. It was unpleasant, but it defininitely forces one to cut down on water consumption (and in Indonesia, homeowners are billed for their water usage every month, so this is good for me financially.) It's also nice to have the option of doing a hot-water mandi. On my first night in the house, my Ibu (teaching counterpart) boiled me three pots of hot water, put them in my mandi and added some cold, and I was able to bathe with hot water by dipping a pan/scooplike tool into the tub/bucket of water and ladle it on to wash. It felt pretty amazing. I will be doing that in the future whenever the two and a half minute cold water shower drives me crazy. If nothing else it gives me a small taste of how the majority of the world bathes. Hot water is a luxury everywhere but the West.
I've discovered a new way of enjoying coffee: it's the way most Javanese coffee is prepared. I boil some water, put a few spoonfuls of ground coffee in a glass or mug, add the boiling water, stir, let the grounds settle to the bottom, and enjoy. It is phenomenal. Also, regarding hot drinks: Indonesian black tea is far superior to western black. I can't describe it, except I might say that it tastes similar to Asian green tea in that it has a leafy/ nutty taste. Teh manis (black tea with a lot of sugar in it) is also amazing. For some reason sugar also tastes much better in Indonesia. Maybe it has to do with the fact that it's made domestically? I also noticed that the tofu and tempeh I bought at the Wal-Mart-like grocery store was grown and packaged in my city. How often does that happen at a chain grocery store in the States? I like it.

I woke up this morning covered in mosquito bites, mostly on my face and arms. They don't really itch, but man are they ugly.

Aside from putting in a few hours of bahasa practice, my only obligation today is to visit the school at three for their annual August 17th (independence day) party. August 17th was five days ago.

Independence Day and Celebrity

Yesterday was the official day for celebrating Indonesian independence from the Dutch. I had heard that our hotel would be having traditional games and contests during the morning hours to give Westerners and other Asians a feel for the way Indonesia has its fun. I watched what seemed like a gladiator-style pillow fight in the outdoor pool (?) and assumed that I'd just bum around with some friends, maybe catching a pole-climbing contest somewhere along the way. I was not expecting to find myself at a school for the blind, dancing to a live band playing reggae with a bunch of my fellow bule (foreigners/westerners/white people), taking photos with countless kids and their parents, and enjoying the free treats they gave us without a second thought. 

Indonesians are great dancers. They dance in what I can only describe as hippie dancing. I'm not joking. The dancers were mainly adults (including the resident police-man who was chain-smoking and rocking out with the rest of us); the children stood around and stared, the little girls wearing makeup (I am not sure why, maybe it has to do with the way they celebrate?) and shyly declining my invitations for them to come dance. But at some point someone decided we should start taking pictures together. I am going to guess I posed for about ten photos altogether, plus the three of four I arranged to have taken. I never imagined people would find it interesting to have their photos taken with me on the sole fact that I have white skin and speak English. But it was so much fun! I almost think I can deal with having creepy celebrity status if it gives me the chance to hang out with Indonesian kids and their parents, to dance and share beverages in plastic bags (that's how a lot of venders sell their drinks...) and take pictures together without understanding more than three words of what the other is saying.

All of the ETAs go our separate ways in just a little over 24 hours. I can't decide how I feel about this. I know it's the last time I'll be with 35 other American English-speakers for the next ten months, and I dread the moment we all really separate, but I can't help but wonder if the past three weeks bear no relation on what the next nine months will be like in Malang. I don't know what to think, I don't know how to feel, I am terrified about loneliness and long distances between friends, and I miss my friends from home. Jesus, yes. The depressing fact that the "friends" one makes in a three week orientation are nothing compared to the friends one's had for three or four years (or in Lindsay's case, just less than a year)---has sunk in for me. I can't give it too much thought. I don't want to find myself in the state I was in in England. 

What have I gotten myself into?

I want a kitten. 

Publishing Anxiety

For the past two and a half weeks, that is, since my arrival in Southeast Asia, I have been steadfastly avoiding documenting anything about my time here. No photos until today, no blogs, no mass emails. I haven't even decided why it's been so difficult to start something.  If I have any inkling of what lies behind my reticence, it might be that I feel completely incapable, unworthy even, of documenting this place, of giving it the justice it deserves. 

Frankly, I am awestruck with Bandung, West Java (the city I've been in since my arrival). It is a consumerist mecca (forgive the pun), filled with strip after strip of factory outlet stores, shops selling ole-ole (cheapie souvenir-type merchandise), and the most intense, eye-popping shopping malls I've ever seen. Sounds pretty awful, right? But strangely, it isn't in the least. The people here put Americans to shame for their friendliness; it's rare that I don't inadvertently elicit a smile from someone walking by. Indonesians smile; they practice their English with us; they ask veritable strangers for their cell phone numbers because they just love being in contact with other people, I think. They do on most city streets what people do only in the Lincoln Tunnel and other commuter areas of New York: peddle cold drinks and snacks and occasionally hot herbal concoctions, busk with acts ranging from "emo" acoustic guitar acts to Rolling Stones covers and traditional Javanese instrument playing. Rather than finding this irksome, I (and others in my group, I think) find it comic sometimes, occasionally enchanting, but always warm and strangely genuine. Being stuck inside a Novotel for at least 18 hours a day, I've hardly seen more of the city than what I've just spoken about. But last night I took an Ojeg (mo-ped taxi) from a lounge bar called Cloud 9 (or Cloud Sembilan in Bahasa...) back to my hotel. Riding down into the city from up in the hills, I saw what I hope will never leave my consciousness completely; the city strung with holiday lights, covered in Independence Day banners, and inhabited by people whose houses and apartments practically jutted into the road we drove on. I don't think the phrase "gated community" translates into Bahasa Indonesia. People love and need other people here; the aloofness and obsession with individuality and quiet just aren't a part of Indonesian culture. They string up their lights, peddle their wares, celebrate the end of colonization, and smile at complete strangers and I just stare with my mouth agape. Then I stutteringly ask my ojeg driver how much this ride has cost me.