This is unrelated to the rest of my post, but I have recently discovered how sexy I find men who wear sarongs. In Indonesia and especially in Java and in madrassah (small religious villages), men basically wear skirts. They tie a decently large garment (often batik print) around their waist and wear this rather than pants. On Fridays, which are the special Muslim prayer day (shollah jum'at, I think), most men around Malang are in sarung. And you'd really have to be here to understand what is so sexy about this look. I'd date a man in a skirt any day.
So I've only recently come home from the Christmas trip to the island of Sumatra. I spent 8 nights in Sumatera Utara (the north) with three other Fulbrighter girls. We hung out in the capital city, spent two days trekking and rafting through a jungle filled with monkeys and even a few orangutans, another day climbing an inactive volcano, and a few days chilling out at the largest volcanic lake in the world. Suffice to say it was probably the best of my trips thus far. This might be in part due to the fact that I was courted by a Batak guy. Batak is the tribal group of North Sumatra (the same way Javanese is the tribal affiliation of most who live in East and Central Java). Basically, Bataks are known for their square, "nostrilly" noses, brutal honesty (as opposed to the Javanese excessive politeness/indirectness), and the men are known for being somewhat lascivious. Rather than shout "hey mister!" to me from afar, they walk right up to me and say "you're beautiful, want to come home with me?" Verrrry different cultures. I should also mention that most Bataks are Christian. Thus traveling there for Christmas.
So, what began as a lesbian vacation turned quickly into a party of two.
(I guess I should explain. Rachel, Caitlin, Claire and I coined the term after taking a serious of vacations that were always female-only affairs, usually involved several candle-light dinners, and lots of sharing beds [ie saving money on hotel rooms]. Hence, lesbian vacations were born. And I imagine there will be more before the year is finished.)
We had heard that Batak men on the island of Samosir (the island in the center of the lake) tend to lust intensely after bule women who come there for vacation. If they happen to hit it off with a particular lady, they fall pretty madly in love, keep a photo of their beloved with them always, and are under the impression that they are in a serious, committed relationship even if they never see their girlfriend again. My relationship (I use the word somewhat facetiously) with Nicolas followed this pattern. It started as middle-school style flirting: for some reason, we began a serious of play-boxing matches, (ie: let's hit each other playfully). Within a matter of hours we were holding hands, and less than 24 hours later, people on the island were referring to us as girlfriend and boyfriend. Will I see him again? It's hard to say, but I now have a bracelet with his name on it strapped to my wrist, and frankly i don't know how to remove it without cutting it off. That's saying something.
And then there was Mister Roy. Roy is an ageless (somewhere between 29 and 42 I think) single guy with long (below his shoulders) almost kinky-curly hair, half of which seems to have been dyed blonde, and an array of euro-trash/metro-sexual/muscle-man ensembles. Roy first comes across as a Rastafarian; he offers to hook you up with marijuana or magic mushrooms (illegality aside), he brings out some great food and wine (he runs a restaurant on the island), offers to take you on a motorbike tour of the island the following day. But things change quickly enough. You soon discover that Roy wants women. Whether he wants an actual sexual encounter or just to creepily touch your feet is unclear, but it's obvious enough that Roy eats, sleeps, walks, and dreams only in pursuit of women. He calls you "darling," he puts his hands in inappropriate places (ie your shoulders, your feet, your head); he stares at you from beneath his fake Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. As you walk out of the lake in your bathing suit, he nonchalantly mentions how sexy you are. When you're in the process of deciding who will ride with whom on the motorbikes, he immediately points to you and says "I want that one" as if he is choosing from so many cuts of meat. Yes, Roy is an unforgettable man. When you meet up with him the next morning, he quite graphically informs you that he had no woman to take home last night, and thus there was "only wanking" (his words, not mine).
Sadly, I was rarely, if ever, the object of Roy's desire, but I couldn't be happier that I got to witness the scenes above. As for my friends, well, I 'm not sure they feel the same way. Roy was pretty sure he'd end up with one of them, and by the end, the most action he got was a few slaps on the wrist from the girls when they found his inappropriateness to be downright annoying. When I asked Nicolas if Roy would ever get married, he sighed and said wistfully, "Ugh, well, I don’t know." That sounded more like "no" to me.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
Scenes from everyday life...or something
I have gotten into the bad habit of telling the students (mainly the girls) at my school that I “love” them. So they’ve really taken off on this. They will accost me from random classrooms with “Miss Tori! WE LOVE YOU! We LOVE YOU!” Only here.
But the absurdity of my relationships with students isn’t limited to the love we’re always proclaiming. As most know, I LOVE using the word “naughty” to describe Indonesians. The truth is so few of them are bad (that is, morally corrupt, evil, cruel, whatever), though so many of them are naughty. My meaning of naughty is a playful sort of badness, usually done in innocence. My boy students who wrestle one another in class, for example, or my girls who secretly have pierced tongues, or even my bad gang of boys who sit outside warung and smoke cigarettes after school instead of praying, are all what I consider naughty. But because I enjoy using the word “naughty” so much, it’s really caught on, and now the students label anything at my school as “naughty”. A Christian boy named George who sings while I’m giving a talk, a student who takes more than 2 minutes to wash his hands (the boys love to leave class to ‘wash their hands’…I don’t get it), a girl from another class who pops her head into my class to say hello: these are the new “naughty.” Essentially, naughty at my school means doing absolutely anything that isn’t perfectly in line with the rules of decorum or state-school style discipline. The best thing is that the students have taken an intense liking to being called “naughty” by me; it’s almost become a sort of popularity contest to be called this magic word the most frequently. What have I done to these poor children?!
In other news, my bestest friend—a woman who sells nasi Madura on my walking route to school—has finally returned. Like most of my friendships with Indonesians, my relationship with this woman is based solely on the fact that I walk by her food stand every day, that I’m friendly and that she’s curious. But what was first an unimportant relationship has gotten a lot more intense. We began to talk every day; I’d tell her about my week, my plans; she’d tell me about her kid, her family, her food. Then, for more than a week she wasn’t at her nasi Madura stand. My morning walk felt bizarre and unfulfilling; I wanted to find out where she was but I had no way of doing it. I don’t know where she lives, I have no contact information, no mutual friends. But today she was back. I can’t remember the last time I felt such relief. We shook hands for about five minutes straight (it’s a Muslim thing); she told me she had to return to Madura because her daughter was sick and she needed her family to help out, she admired my tunic (bought here, not in America), and I told her about a zillion times how much I missed her. Some of the most “random” (whatever that means) people in this country have begun to mean so much to me. It’s unsettling.
My other recent “best friend” is the becak driver who sits outside Indomaret all day, every day. He’s started shaking my hand every single time I walk past, and the other day he said “ya, kita teman-teman” (yes, we’re friends). A few days back TWO different becak drivers offered me free rides (if you’ve been to Indonesia you know how and why this is so strange), and about a week ago, at 10 a.m., they asked me to drink whiskey! True naughtiness, if you ask me.
But the absurdity of my relationships with students isn’t limited to the love we’re always proclaiming. As most know, I LOVE using the word “naughty” to describe Indonesians. The truth is so few of them are bad (that is, morally corrupt, evil, cruel, whatever), though so many of them are naughty. My meaning of naughty is a playful sort of badness, usually done in innocence. My boy students who wrestle one another in class, for example, or my girls who secretly have pierced tongues, or even my bad gang of boys who sit outside warung and smoke cigarettes after school instead of praying, are all what I consider naughty. But because I enjoy using the word “naughty” so much, it’s really caught on, and now the students label anything at my school as “naughty”. A Christian boy named George who sings while I’m giving a talk, a student who takes more than 2 minutes to wash his hands (the boys love to leave class to ‘wash their hands’…I don’t get it), a girl from another class who pops her head into my class to say hello: these are the new “naughty.” Essentially, naughty at my school means doing absolutely anything that isn’t perfectly in line with the rules of decorum or state-school style discipline. The best thing is that the students have taken an intense liking to being called “naughty” by me; it’s almost become a sort of popularity contest to be called this magic word the most frequently. What have I done to these poor children?!
In other news, my bestest friend—a woman who sells nasi Madura on my walking route to school—has finally returned. Like most of my friendships with Indonesians, my relationship with this woman is based solely on the fact that I walk by her food stand every day, that I’m friendly and that she’s curious. But what was first an unimportant relationship has gotten a lot more intense. We began to talk every day; I’d tell her about my week, my plans; she’d tell me about her kid, her family, her food. Then, for more than a week she wasn’t at her nasi Madura stand. My morning walk felt bizarre and unfulfilling; I wanted to find out where she was but I had no way of doing it. I don’t know where she lives, I have no contact information, no mutual friends. But today she was back. I can’t remember the last time I felt such relief. We shook hands for about five minutes straight (it’s a Muslim thing); she told me she had to return to Madura because her daughter was sick and she needed her family to help out, she admired my tunic (bought here, not in America), and I told her about a zillion times how much I missed her. Some of the most “random” (whatever that means) people in this country have begun to mean so much to me. It’s unsettling.
My other recent “best friend” is the becak driver who sits outside Indomaret all day, every day. He’s started shaking my hand every single time I walk past, and the other day he said “ya, kita teman-teman” (yes, we’re friends). A few days back TWO different becak drivers offered me free rides (if you’ve been to Indonesia you know how and why this is so strange), and about a week ago, at 10 a.m., they asked me to drink whiskey! True naughtiness, if you ask me.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Indonesian Twilight Zone
More strange things have happened to me in the past week than I can count.
Last week, a man driving a pedi-cab/becak with no teeth looked at me and said--at least I think he said--"You is the best." or "You is the boss." I'm not sure which was iterated. But it was pretty cool.
Last week, a different man--an old-ish man with no teeth and bright blue eyes--said "Mongo [Indonesian greeting], honey."
I have been adopted by a construction crew of men working to build or re-build a house on my street. Any time i walk by the house and they notice, they greet me with a rousing "GOOD MORNING MISS!" (doesn't matter what time of day it actually is). If I make the first move and shout hello to them, they absolutely lose it. All the men come out from wherever they are working and begin shouting things like "Good morning! Selamat pagi! I love you I love YOU! Hello hello hello mister!" It brightens my day.
Today as I walked to school a very, very old becak driver rode by me and said the usual "Ya, naik becak" (ride the becak), but he said it with the biggest, goofiest grin on his face, and was chuckling the whole time. It was almost like he knew there was no way I'd get in the becak--as i tell all the local drivers no on a daily basis--and he thought the mere idea of asking me to take a ride was the funniest thing since Mr. Bean (Indonesians LOVE Mr. Bean).
And on Monday, well, I truly entered the IndoTwilightZone. I had been invited to give a "guest lecture" at a university in my area of Malang. The lecturer--a Lombok man with really good English, spoken with an inexplicable German accent--had asked me to give a talk about American culture, society, and values with his 4th year English students. So I fretted and planned and created a too-elaborate PowerPoint and met Mister Zainul outside my house the morning of the lecture (he was driving the company Suburban utility vehicle). Zainul starts mentioning that there will be some musical performances at this lecture so that my students can share Indonesian culture with me just as i am sharing American culture with them. Okay. Sweet.
I arrive at the classroom (thank god it was a classroom and not a lecture hall, I probably would have frozen in fear) only to see that there is an elaborate set-up in the front end of the room--several mic stands, a keyboard, lots of electric cords. Okay, I reason, this must be for the traditional Indonesian music performance. Well, people start to pile in for class, and it's revealed to me that there will be an MC presenting this "event"--and the presenter is none other than a third-place winner in the recent season of Indonesian Idol! Woo! So Amelia--or something like that--is dressed to the nines. She comes to the stage, pumps up the audience, introduces me in a rather grandiose fashion. I try to act like everything's normal and begin the lecture. The students are pretty clever. Unlike my high school students, it appears that they can actually understand me when I talk, comprehend the more advanced lexicon, and can speak English spontaneously. It was truly surprising and really enjoyable.
But as I switched to a new slide and new topic, suddenly Indonesian Idol interrupts me and says "Okay guys, time for the break!" I assume this is a water/bathroom break, but instead a girl named Tharie is called to the stage and asked to sing. An older man comes on "stage" as the keyboard accompanist, and Tharie begins singing the Dionne Warwick song "That's What Friends are For" (ie 'keep smiling, keep shining, knowing you can always count on me, for sure, that's what friends are for"). Why in God's name do Indonesians even know about this song? At any rate, Tharie makes a dedication to "all her friends," counts me as one of them, and takes her seat. Two extremely shy jilbab-girls then come to the stage and sing Indonesian love ballads. I actually really enjoy these songs, they are far better than their American counterparts. And lastly, Indonesian Idol comes back to the stage and serenades me with a jazzy, almost sexy rendition of "L is for the way you LOOK at me, O is for the only ONE I see, V is very very, EXTRA ordinary, E is even more than anyone that you adore..."
Not kidding. Not kidding. Not kidding.
After the musical break I resumed the lecture, took a number of interesting, thoughtful questions from the students, and Tharie graced us with Natalie Cole's "Route Sixty-six." I then spent thirty minutes in a photo session. Indonesians think it is hilarious to take photos with Bules, so I posed for about 50 individual and group photos.
It was a day that entertained, shocked, and boosted my ego to unhealthy proportions. But damn, am I grateful for every second of it.
Last week, a man driving a pedi-cab/becak with no teeth looked at me and said--at least I think he said--"You is the best." or "You is the boss." I'm not sure which was iterated. But it was pretty cool.
Last week, a different man--an old-ish man with no teeth and bright blue eyes--said "Mongo [Indonesian greeting], honey."
I have been adopted by a construction crew of men working to build or re-build a house on my street. Any time i walk by the house and they notice, they greet me with a rousing "GOOD MORNING MISS!" (doesn't matter what time of day it actually is). If I make the first move and shout hello to them, they absolutely lose it. All the men come out from wherever they are working and begin shouting things like "Good morning! Selamat pagi! I love you I love YOU! Hello hello hello mister!" It brightens my day.
Today as I walked to school a very, very old becak driver rode by me and said the usual "Ya, naik becak" (ride the becak), but he said it with the biggest, goofiest grin on his face, and was chuckling the whole time. It was almost like he knew there was no way I'd get in the becak--as i tell all the local drivers no on a daily basis--and he thought the mere idea of asking me to take a ride was the funniest thing since Mr. Bean (Indonesians LOVE Mr. Bean).
And on Monday, well, I truly entered the IndoTwilightZone. I had been invited to give a "guest lecture" at a university in my area of Malang. The lecturer--a Lombok man with really good English, spoken with an inexplicable German accent--had asked me to give a talk about American culture, society, and values with his 4th year English students. So I fretted and planned and created a too-elaborate PowerPoint and met Mister Zainul outside my house the morning of the lecture (he was driving the company Suburban utility vehicle). Zainul starts mentioning that there will be some musical performances at this lecture so that my students can share Indonesian culture with me just as i am sharing American culture with them. Okay. Sweet.
I arrive at the classroom (thank god it was a classroom and not a lecture hall, I probably would have frozen in fear) only to see that there is an elaborate set-up in the front end of the room--several mic stands, a keyboard, lots of electric cords. Okay, I reason, this must be for the traditional Indonesian music performance. Well, people start to pile in for class, and it's revealed to me that there will be an MC presenting this "event"--and the presenter is none other than a third-place winner in the recent season of Indonesian Idol! Woo! So Amelia--or something like that--is dressed to the nines. She comes to the stage, pumps up the audience, introduces me in a rather grandiose fashion. I try to act like everything's normal and begin the lecture. The students are pretty clever. Unlike my high school students, it appears that they can actually understand me when I talk, comprehend the more advanced lexicon, and can speak English spontaneously. It was truly surprising and really enjoyable.
But as I switched to a new slide and new topic, suddenly Indonesian Idol interrupts me and says "Okay guys, time for the break!" I assume this is a water/bathroom break, but instead a girl named Tharie is called to the stage and asked to sing. An older man comes on "stage" as the keyboard accompanist, and Tharie begins singing the Dionne Warwick song "That's What Friends are For" (ie 'keep smiling, keep shining, knowing you can always count on me, for sure, that's what friends are for"). Why in God's name do Indonesians even know about this song? At any rate, Tharie makes a dedication to "all her friends," counts me as one of them, and takes her seat. Two extremely shy jilbab-girls then come to the stage and sing Indonesian love ballads. I actually really enjoy these songs, they are far better than their American counterparts. And lastly, Indonesian Idol comes back to the stage and serenades me with a jazzy, almost sexy rendition of "L is for the way you LOOK at me, O is for the only ONE I see, V is very very, EXTRA ordinary, E is even more than anyone that you adore..."
Not kidding. Not kidding. Not kidding.
After the musical break I resumed the lecture, took a number of interesting, thoughtful questions from the students, and Tharie graced us with Natalie Cole's "Route Sixty-six." I then spent thirty minutes in a photo session. Indonesians think it is hilarious to take photos with Bules, so I posed for about 50 individual and group photos.
It was a day that entertained, shocked, and boosted my ego to unhealthy proportions. But damn, am I grateful for every second of it.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
There are ants living in my keyboard...And other things I hate about Indonesia
For some reason this blog makes me out to be some sorta Sally Sunshine. Every day in Indonesia is a blessing, every person I meet is a saint, etc. Of course anyone who knows me must have his or her doubts about this supposedly "New Tori" who's happy-go-lucky, sleeps a lot, doesn't have anything substantial to complain about. But I'm living in a developing country, man, of COURSE I've got complaints.
1. My laundry place is never open. Now a good Sally Sunshine would thank Allah every day that she has huge load of laundry laundered, dried and IRONED for a cool $1.20 or $1.30 a pop. But, for crying out loud, who runs a business that's open from 6-8 a.m. and 4 or 5-8 pm, and closed on Friday? The real problems arise when every work garment I own is at the stinking laundry place and no one's there to help me out. And then I wear something with sequins to school and curse myself silently.
2. The post office is only open until 2 p.m. Well when I work 8-1:45, how am I ever supposed to pick up a package? Wah.
3. I have cockroaches in my house. They are big and slow and stupid. I can kill them with my broom. But boy can those suckers hide from me.
4. This country does not have safe drinking water.
5. This country rarely, if ever, has toilets that flush.
6. Whenever I enter a bathroom, I have to pull my pants up a good foot from the ground and have to wade through a flood-zone just to pee. If you've used squat toilets you may understand the phenomenon of needless bathroom floods.
7. Bathrooms don't have toilet paper. If you forgot tissues, you're screwed.
8. People in this country don't drink alcohol.
9. The floors in every room of my house are infested with ants and there are no ant poisons in Indonesia. Just that stupid chalk.
10. Everything I own is covered, on a daily basis, with another coating of volcanic dust.
11. I can't date here. I'm not Muslim, I'm not Christian. I just don't really fly. If I like someone, they are already married.
12. My windows are all frosted and I can never see outside my house.
13. I'm never safe. That is, according to all the Indonesian people in my life. Either I'm at risk to be blown up by an anti-Western terrorist or I'm taking public transport or my motorbike out after 6 p.m. and am therefore susceptible to all kinds of dangers. You know, robbers and stuff.
14. I wake up every day with the threat looming over my head that I will be fired, lose my grant, and be sent home in a matter of days. That's the way our lovely organization keeps us in line.
15. People want to be my friend because of the color of my skin and my country of origin.
16. I will spend the next five months in "rainy season." What this means: either I am stuck in my house with no food and nothing to do, or I am forced to ride a half hour on my motorbike through the downpour with nothing on but a short-sleeved dress. Happened twice last week. Although now I own a rain coat and pants, which barely fit under the seat of my bike. Wish me luck!
Okay, I think I'm done (phew!). I just think a picture of my life here is incomplete without the daily annoyances that build up from time to time and make me wonder if I'm crazy for living here.
And then I'm over it, and I buy some more 20 cent mangoes, and my life goes on.
1. My laundry place is never open. Now a good Sally Sunshine would thank Allah every day that she has huge load of laundry laundered, dried and IRONED for a cool $1.20 or $1.30 a pop. But, for crying out loud, who runs a business that's open from 6-8 a.m. and 4 or 5-8 pm, and closed on Friday? The real problems arise when every work garment I own is at the stinking laundry place and no one's there to help me out. And then I wear something with sequins to school and curse myself silently.
2. The post office is only open until 2 p.m. Well when I work 8-1:45, how am I ever supposed to pick up a package? Wah.
3. I have cockroaches in my house. They are big and slow and stupid. I can kill them with my broom. But boy can those suckers hide from me.
4. This country does not have safe drinking water.
5. This country rarely, if ever, has toilets that flush.
6. Whenever I enter a bathroom, I have to pull my pants up a good foot from the ground and have to wade through a flood-zone just to pee. If you've used squat toilets you may understand the phenomenon of needless bathroom floods.
7. Bathrooms don't have toilet paper. If you forgot tissues, you're screwed.
8. People in this country don't drink alcohol.
9. The floors in every room of my house are infested with ants and there are no ant poisons in Indonesia. Just that stupid chalk.
10. Everything I own is covered, on a daily basis, with another coating of volcanic dust.
11. I can't date here. I'm not Muslim, I'm not Christian. I just don't really fly. If I like someone, they are already married.
12. My windows are all frosted and I can never see outside my house.
13. I'm never safe. That is, according to all the Indonesian people in my life. Either I'm at risk to be blown up by an anti-Western terrorist or I'm taking public transport or my motorbike out after 6 p.m. and am therefore susceptible to all kinds of dangers. You know, robbers and stuff.
14. I wake up every day with the threat looming over my head that I will be fired, lose my grant, and be sent home in a matter of days. That's the way our lovely organization keeps us in line.
15. People want to be my friend because of the color of my skin and my country of origin.
16. I will spend the next five months in "rainy season." What this means: either I am stuck in my house with no food and nothing to do, or I am forced to ride a half hour on my motorbike through the downpour with nothing on but a short-sleeved dress. Happened twice last week. Although now I own a rain coat and pants, which barely fit under the seat of my bike. Wish me luck!
Okay, I think I'm done (phew!). I just think a picture of my life here is incomplete without the daily annoyances that build up from time to time and make me wonder if I'm crazy for living here.
And then I'm over it, and I buy some more 20 cent mangoes, and my life goes on.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Age is a relative thing, man
For some reason I have always had this idea in my mind that at least part of the accepted definition of "culture" comes from a white/eurocentric/heteronormative perspective and is thus inaccurate, if not flat-out bigoted. Even the concepts of anthropology and "ethnography" has always bothered me a little bit, because it seemed to imply we can study "different" cultures from some sort of neutral p.o.v., thus glean insight about "ourselves" and "our culture." I have long held the belief that we give far too much credence to "cultural difference" and that ultimately, we're all humans and similar, with geographic, linguistic, and religious barriers aside.
Being in Indonesia has done nothing but contradict this theory. Again, and again, and again.
If I've learned nothing else in this country it's that EVERYTHING is culture. It is so much more automatic, latent--phenomenological, if you will--than traditions or food or style of greeting. If affects perceptions of distance, of weight, of age, as well as ideas about morality, obligations, manners, and the other obvious cultural indicators. I am totally floored by it.
Take age. We all have some notion of what people at specific ages do and think. There's the "little kid" paradigm, the pre-teen and adolescent, the college student, twentysomething, senior citizen, etcetera. But what we take for granted is that the traits associated with a particular age or stage are culturally bound. Rachel and I have both commented numerous times to numerous people about how we feel as if we are teaching middle schoolers rather than 11th and 12th grade high school students. The girls are obsessed with accessory stores in the mall, stuffed animals and writing notes (okay, friendster messages) to one another. Most of them are borderline teacher's pets. The boys are notoriously "naughty" in the way that we think only recently pubescent boys can be. They fly paper airplanes, they come into class soaked in a can of soda from a lunch time food-fight, they actually WRESTLE with one another in the classroom. They refuse to get near the girls, and it really has little to do with the Muslim male/female separate-spheres business, and more with the fact that they have NO IDEA how to interact with one girls unless it's in a teasing--omigod he smells!--fashion.
Rachel and I have a running theory that whatever age you think an Indonesian is when you meet them, add three years. If they act like an eighteen-year old, they're at least 21. Etc. But I didn't realize quite how accurate this theory is until recently. I wrote about Ranie in my last post. And I mentioned her friend from Malaysia with whom I had a great conversation. Well, Malaysian friend has taken a liking to me and wants to befriend me, if nothing else. He stopped by my house (I was unavailable) and asked Ranie for my phone number. Now while she is adamant about the fact that she is NOT dating, nor does she WANT to date Thanes, she absolutely lost it when she realized he was interested in me on any level. She started barraging me with SMS that so closely mirror the conversations I had with friends my junior year in high school (after a boyfriend left me) that it's a little unnerving. "Forget Thanes, I hate him, he is a bad man, but if you want him, go for it! It's not my problem." "If Thanes talks to you, don't listen, because that boy tells many lies and I hate him." The subtext of this strained SMS dialogue seemed to be "I am jealous that my ex-person-I-was-dating/friend has an interest in you and therefore you must choose: him or me! But actually, I will demonize this guy so you will have no choice but to opt for this friendship with ME!"
I wish I had evidence of a situation I was in during high school, when I became jealous that my ex was still friends with my friends. I suppose it happens after high school as well. Now of course it stings a little, but you get over it, you set some boundaries ("I don't want to hang out with you guys if my ex will be around"), and you learn to hold your tongue. But Ranie did the impulsive high school girl thing and gave me a ridiculous ultimatum that was completely divorced from reason or reality. I wanted to be angry with her, but she was really just behaving the way a 16 or 17 year old girl would, and in some ways it's unfair for me to demand that she act like the kind of 20-year-old that I am familiar with. It just ain't the same here.
I'm gonna continue my thoughts about culturally-bound phenomena in future posts, if for no other reason than writing it down helps keep me sane.
Being in Indonesia has done nothing but contradict this theory. Again, and again, and again.
If I've learned nothing else in this country it's that EVERYTHING is culture. It is so much more automatic, latent--phenomenological, if you will--than traditions or food or style of greeting. If affects perceptions of distance, of weight, of age, as well as ideas about morality, obligations, manners, and the other obvious cultural indicators. I am totally floored by it.
Take age. We all have some notion of what people at specific ages do and think. There's the "little kid" paradigm, the pre-teen and adolescent, the college student, twentysomething, senior citizen, etcetera. But what we take for granted is that the traits associated with a particular age or stage are culturally bound. Rachel and I have both commented numerous times to numerous people about how we feel as if we are teaching middle schoolers rather than 11th and 12th grade high school students. The girls are obsessed with accessory stores in the mall, stuffed animals and writing notes (okay, friendster messages) to one another. Most of them are borderline teacher's pets. The boys are notoriously "naughty" in the way that we think only recently pubescent boys can be. They fly paper airplanes, they come into class soaked in a can of soda from a lunch time food-fight, they actually WRESTLE with one another in the classroom. They refuse to get near the girls, and it really has little to do with the Muslim male/female separate-spheres business, and more with the fact that they have NO IDEA how to interact with one girls unless it's in a teasing--omigod he smells!--fashion.
Rachel and I have a running theory that whatever age you think an Indonesian is when you meet them, add three years. If they act like an eighteen-year old, they're at least 21. Etc. But I didn't realize quite how accurate this theory is until recently. I wrote about Ranie in my last post. And I mentioned her friend from Malaysia with whom I had a great conversation. Well, Malaysian friend has taken a liking to me and wants to befriend me, if nothing else. He stopped by my house (I was unavailable) and asked Ranie for my phone number. Now while she is adamant about the fact that she is NOT dating, nor does she WANT to date Thanes, she absolutely lost it when she realized he was interested in me on any level. She started barraging me with SMS that so closely mirror the conversations I had with friends my junior year in high school (after a boyfriend left me) that it's a little unnerving. "Forget Thanes, I hate him, he is a bad man, but if you want him, go for it! It's not my problem." "If Thanes talks to you, don't listen, because that boy tells many lies and I hate him." The subtext of this strained SMS dialogue seemed to be "I am jealous that my ex-person-I-was-dating/friend has an interest in you and therefore you must choose: him or me! But actually, I will demonize this guy so you will have no choice but to opt for this friendship with ME!"
I wish I had evidence of a situation I was in during high school, when I became jealous that my ex was still friends with my friends. I suppose it happens after high school as well. Now of course it stings a little, but you get over it, you set some boundaries ("I don't want to hang out with you guys if my ex will be around"), and you learn to hold your tongue. But Ranie did the impulsive high school girl thing and gave me a ridiculous ultimatum that was completely divorced from reason or reality. I wanted to be angry with her, but she was really just behaving the way a 16 or 17 year old girl would, and in some ways it's unfair for me to demand that she act like the kind of 20-year-old that I am familiar with. It just ain't the same here.
I'm gonna continue my thoughts about culturally-bound phenomena in future posts, if for no other reason than writing it down helps keep me sane.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Slumber Party: Java-style
I have a friend named Ranie. She's a 20-year old Indonesian who studies medicine at the Universitas Muhammadiah Malang (UMM or UnMuh, not to be confused with Universitas Merdeka Malang: UnMer, or Universitas Negri Malang, aka UM). Ranie has been sort of a happy accident in my life. I met her in my gym's locker room (she may be the ONLY Javanese woman who uses the gym; the rest are Chinese Indonesians). She noticed there was a bule and wanted to befriend me. She has told me a number of times that she is internationally-minded; she is vaguely disdainful of her Indonesian/Javanese heritage, the millions of 'jilbab-girls' at her kos, (single-sex boarding house for young unmarried women and students) who do everything the way their parents want them to and don't drink or have fun except when "walking-walking" in the mall. Granted, my understanding of Bahasa Indonesia is still shaky, so I'm sure I'm projecting a lot onto Ranie. But at any rate, she is an atypical Muslim girl--she doesn't seem to pray too much; she drinks; has multiple boyfriends; doesn't cover her head except when required to do so in school. Ranie's kind of a badass. And what began as a superficial acquaintance between us has blossomed into a full-blown friendship.
Yesterday afternoon she called me. (For the first few weeks of our acquaintanceship, I avoided her phone calls, because to be honest I couldn't understand a damned word she was saying. But she's gotten used to my inability to understand slang or fast talking, and my Bahasa lexicon has expanded significantly since I met her). So yesterday, I heard Ranie ask both if I had plans for tomorrow morning, and if I had plans for tonight. I heard mention of a mandi, and that she was going to come over to my house. So I assumed that she was going to mandi dulu (take a bath first), then ride over to my house. To my surprise, Ranie showed up with a huge bag full of stuff. She was staying the night! Imagine my surprise.
The first order of business for our sleepover was that Ranie needed to mandi AGAIN. Indonesians have this awesome habit of soaking a bathroom top to bottom when they mandi. Rachel guesses that they take the mandi ladle and just toss water all over the place for fun. I don't have a better explanation. At any rate, I found my bathroom in the same condition when she left, and shortly after the mandi business, she announced that her friends were coming over. Okay, great, I thought; I always love meeting students. I imagined a gang of jilbab-girls scooting over on motorcycles.
Not so. Two dudes showed up at my house; one is a handsome Malaysian guy whom Ranie was dating for awhile, maybe still is, and the other, it turns out, is my neighbor. We sat awkwardly for an hour or so in my "parlor" and I talked to the Malaysian, Dannis, in English, 'cause he's fluent and a really interesting guy. Ranie sat around and looked shy, embarrassed, uncomfortable and quiet. A little while later I got a text message from her that said "Victoria, do not talk badly about me!" (Jangan berbicara tentang aku. oke.) I had absolutely no idea what she meant; but I pulled her aside and asked her what was the matter. She was close to tears, which she was hiding behind a strained, almost sickly-looking smile. From what I could gather, she was angry at me for two reasons, both having to do with my making her 'lose face' (the Javanese's biggest hangup...the cause of a million fights, failed relationships, etc). For one, I told Dannis that I hoped Ranie would not learn any more English, because by talking to her in Bahasa Indonesia, my language skills are improving significantly. This was said totally in jest, and the company knew this. My other mistake was letting it slip that the bag she was flashing around--an oversized handbag from TJ Maxx--was mine. I made a comment, as Ranie was flashing this thing around, that she liked it because it was an American bag. Apparently making both of these comments was seriously detrimental to Ranie's relationship with these guys, as they must naturally think poorly of her now: she can't speak English, and she pretended my bag was hers (I didnt' realize it was a secret!). I thought I was hyper-sensitive! I can't hold a candle to the Javanese. I had to do a lot of leg-work to redeem myself with Ranie. I apologized something like eight times; I offered to SMS Dannis to apologize for my behavior (she said it was out of the question, naturally he couldn't know that she was upset). She was in a funk for a good two hours, and only later in the night did I see her smile. Wah-aduh.
At any rate, this story continues. Before we left my house that evening to meet Rachel and Andrea for dinner at MATOS (the mall and social capital of Malang), Ranie asked me something that I didn't follow. It had something to do with my being outside with her flame, Dannis, who was smoking a cigarette on the porch. I thought she wanted me to keep him company while she did her makeup for our going-out extravaganza. Not so. In fact, she wanted me to stay INSIDE so she could have a private conversation with Dannis on the porch. It was an Indo-style date. Young, unmarried women and men are never allowed to be together in any sort of intimate or private setting. It has to be available for all to see: whether at the mall, a cafe, or outside someone's family home. Of course there are secret trysts (and they frequently happen on the football field across from my house). But even Ranie doesn't dare this sort of thing. In this case, mine was the family home in which their date took place. Whoops.
Terus. After our dinner and drinks at MATOS, Ranie and i came back to the house. It was a little past ten, and Ranie went immediately in the house and put on her pajamas, and if you're here in Indonesia, you know about these ensembles. They're what my mom calls "jammies"--little cutesie matching pink things--and in Indo they usually consist of a t-shirt and cropped pants. Ranie then began to plead with me to turn off the oscillating fan in my room because it was FREEZING COLD in my room (we're in Indonesia here; it's NEVER freezing) and she would get sick if she slept with the fan on. I politely informed her that I had a guest room with not one but TWO fully-made beds, in a nice warm room with no ventilation. What, was I crazy??? She was afraid to sleep alone! She was sharing my bed, and there was no arguing it! What did I expect, after all, when there are a plethora of ghosts around Indonesia? So Ranie and I had a peaceful 7.5 hours of rest, and at 5:50 a.m. (VERY late for an Indonesian woman to get up), Ranie hopped out of bed (and she really did hop) to begin her day. I got maybe thirty minutes of sleep after that; I would have liked to sleep more but when someone is awake and about your house, it's difficult to relax. By 8 a.m. we were on the motorbike, on our way to the Sunday Market: a huge ordeal of a thing that includes a million food vendors, lots of tents selling children's clothes (I don't really get it) and toys, cookware, fruit, the works. It was great; I plan on going back. By ten, I had other business to attend to, and Ranie set off for her kos. All in all, my night with her was an unforgettable indoctrination into all that is endearing, infuriating, and downright puzzling about Javanese culture. I hope we do it again soon.
Yesterday afternoon she called me. (For the first few weeks of our acquaintanceship, I avoided her phone calls, because to be honest I couldn't understand a damned word she was saying. But she's gotten used to my inability to understand slang or fast talking, and my Bahasa lexicon has expanded significantly since I met her). So yesterday, I heard Ranie ask both if I had plans for tomorrow morning, and if I had plans for tonight. I heard mention of a mandi, and that she was going to come over to my house. So I assumed that she was going to mandi dulu (take a bath first), then ride over to my house. To my surprise, Ranie showed up with a huge bag full of stuff. She was staying the night! Imagine my surprise.
The first order of business for our sleepover was that Ranie needed to mandi AGAIN. Indonesians have this awesome habit of soaking a bathroom top to bottom when they mandi. Rachel guesses that they take the mandi ladle and just toss water all over the place for fun. I don't have a better explanation. At any rate, I found my bathroom in the same condition when she left, and shortly after the mandi business, she announced that her friends were coming over. Okay, great, I thought; I always love meeting students. I imagined a gang of jilbab-girls scooting over on motorcycles.
Not so. Two dudes showed up at my house; one is a handsome Malaysian guy whom Ranie was dating for awhile, maybe still is, and the other, it turns out, is my neighbor. We sat awkwardly for an hour or so in my "parlor" and I talked to the Malaysian, Dannis, in English, 'cause he's fluent and a really interesting guy. Ranie sat around and looked shy, embarrassed, uncomfortable and quiet. A little while later I got a text message from her that said "Victoria, do not talk badly about me!" (Jangan berbicara tentang aku. oke.) I had absolutely no idea what she meant; but I pulled her aside and asked her what was the matter. She was close to tears, which she was hiding behind a strained, almost sickly-looking smile. From what I could gather, she was angry at me for two reasons, both having to do with my making her 'lose face' (the Javanese's biggest hangup...the cause of a million fights, failed relationships, etc). For one, I told Dannis that I hoped Ranie would not learn any more English, because by talking to her in Bahasa Indonesia, my language skills are improving significantly. This was said totally in jest, and the company knew this. My other mistake was letting it slip that the bag she was flashing around--an oversized handbag from TJ Maxx--was mine. I made a comment, as Ranie was flashing this thing around, that she liked it because it was an American bag. Apparently making both of these comments was seriously detrimental to Ranie's relationship with these guys, as they must naturally think poorly of her now: she can't speak English, and she pretended my bag was hers (I didnt' realize it was a secret!). I thought I was hyper-sensitive! I can't hold a candle to the Javanese. I had to do a lot of leg-work to redeem myself with Ranie. I apologized something like eight times; I offered to SMS Dannis to apologize for my behavior (she said it was out of the question, naturally he couldn't know that she was upset). She was in a funk for a good two hours, and only later in the night did I see her smile. Wah-aduh.
At any rate, this story continues. Before we left my house that evening to meet Rachel and Andrea for dinner at MATOS (the mall and social capital of Malang), Ranie asked me something that I didn't follow. It had something to do with my being outside with her flame, Dannis, who was smoking a cigarette on the porch. I thought she wanted me to keep him company while she did her makeup for our going-out extravaganza. Not so. In fact, she wanted me to stay INSIDE so she could have a private conversation with Dannis on the porch. It was an Indo-style date. Young, unmarried women and men are never allowed to be together in any sort of intimate or private setting. It has to be available for all to see: whether at the mall, a cafe, or outside someone's family home. Of course there are secret trysts (and they frequently happen on the football field across from my house). But even Ranie doesn't dare this sort of thing. In this case, mine was the family home in which their date took place. Whoops.
Terus. After our dinner and drinks at MATOS, Ranie and i came back to the house. It was a little past ten, and Ranie went immediately in the house and put on her pajamas, and if you're here in Indonesia, you know about these ensembles. They're what my mom calls "jammies"--little cutesie matching pink things--and in Indo they usually consist of a t-shirt and cropped pants. Ranie then began to plead with me to turn off the oscillating fan in my room because it was FREEZING COLD in my room (we're in Indonesia here; it's NEVER freezing) and she would get sick if she slept with the fan on. I politely informed her that I had a guest room with not one but TWO fully-made beds, in a nice warm room with no ventilation. What, was I crazy??? She was afraid to sleep alone! She was sharing my bed, and there was no arguing it! What did I expect, after all, when there are a plethora of ghosts around Indonesia? So Ranie and I had a peaceful 7.5 hours of rest, and at 5:50 a.m. (VERY late for an Indonesian woman to get up), Ranie hopped out of bed (and she really did hop) to begin her day. I got maybe thirty minutes of sleep after that; I would have liked to sleep more but when someone is awake and about your house, it's difficult to relax. By 8 a.m. we were on the motorbike, on our way to the Sunday Market: a huge ordeal of a thing that includes a million food vendors, lots of tents selling children's clothes (I don't really get it) and toys, cookware, fruit, the works. It was great; I plan on going back. By ten, I had other business to attend to, and Ranie set off for her kos. All in all, my night with her was an unforgettable indoctrination into all that is endearing, infuriating, and downright puzzling about Javanese culture. I hope we do it again soon.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Martyrdom
I have often talked and written about the almost shocking degree of relaxed-ness that seems inherently Indonesian--one can even witness this in the Javanese, who are known for being the passive, worrying sort. Being around perpetually chilled-out people has done wonders for my anxiety, my internal organs, my skin, my weight (gaining!), etc. I find almost no shame in talking two-hour naps daily; I've stopped feeling guilty about the fact that I teach less than fourteen classroom hours each week (I'm not kidding here...), and I walk around Malang with very little inhibition--rarely worrying about whether people will silently or public judge me (a bule! an infidel! a slut!...a laundry list of possible accusations).
But there's another element of Indonesian--(Muslim?--Javanese?)-- culture that I find a little hard to take. It's the assumption that women are responsible for holding up the entire underbelly of society. Women cook two to three meals a day for their entire family. Most women--employed or not--wake up by 4 a.m. to start boiling water, cooking rice, sweeping the house and porch, and of course to pray at dawn. Now that woman can work outside the home, they often do. Bu Lilik makes only $200 a month, while her husband makes probably five times that much, and despite the relatively small dent her income makes, she works five days a week (sometimes six). She is the treasurer of her "Persik"--(social club for the wives of military men--I think maybe it's like the Twigs...), treasurer of the school's mini-bank, faculty member in charge of English Conversation Club, and faculty in charge of "foreign affairs"--i.e. me. She is the faculty member responsible for attending all the Sampoerna Foundation's trainings, conferences, workshops, etc. She has two daughters still living at home, a husband, and a house. From me, she's got two cat-granddaughters whom she feeds while I am away. And she does all of this without complaining.
But her health is in peril. She has been sick for about three weeks now, and it's showing no signs of letting up. She is constantly fatigued, congested and coughing, and she truly does not think she can give up a single one of her voluntary obligations in order to rest up and get well. It makes me crazy.
I know that the over-achieving, assuming-too-many-responsibilities thing is totally prevalent in America. The arrogant assumption that women, now that we're 'liberated' will manage both family and career, is equally problematic in the States. But I do thing there's something about being a Muslim woman in Indonesia that is far more constricting for these martyrs: they are simply not allowed to complain. When my mother was in charge of a family of five and supported all of them while my step-father was unemployed for over a year, she periodically had-it-to-here, and gave my stepsisters and me good a scolding or more chores or whatever it was that we needed. I used to tease my mom by imitating her "Do you KNOW how STRESSED I am?" routine. But in a way I think it helped keep her--and other women--sane. Bu Lilik grins and bears everything, and does not think she is allowed to be angry, annoyed, or even just tired. I think she honestly believes it is the "women's burden" or something, and that she is truly obligated by Allah (or whomever) to wake up yet another morning at 4 a.m.
Indonesia is really a weird place. Women do the shopping and cooking and child-rearing just as they did 100 years ago (more or less), and yet they cruise by on Honda motorcycles, wear jilbab decked out in glitter and sequins, smoke cigarettes, own businesses, and go window-shopping at fancy import malls. I am stumped by it all.
But there's another element of Indonesian--(Muslim?--Javanese?)-- culture that I find a little hard to take. It's the assumption that women are responsible for holding up the entire underbelly of society. Women cook two to three meals a day for their entire family. Most women--employed or not--wake up by 4 a.m. to start boiling water, cooking rice, sweeping the house and porch, and of course to pray at dawn. Now that woman can work outside the home, they often do. Bu Lilik makes only $200 a month, while her husband makes probably five times that much, and despite the relatively small dent her income makes, she works five days a week (sometimes six). She is the treasurer of her "Persik"--(social club for the wives of military men--I think maybe it's like the Twigs...), treasurer of the school's mini-bank, faculty member in charge of English Conversation Club, and faculty in charge of "foreign affairs"--i.e. me. She is the faculty member responsible for attending all the Sampoerna Foundation's trainings, conferences, workshops, etc. She has two daughters still living at home, a husband, and a house. From me, she's got two cat-granddaughters whom she feeds while I am away. And she does all of this without complaining.
But her health is in peril. She has been sick for about three weeks now, and it's showing no signs of letting up. She is constantly fatigued, congested and coughing, and she truly does not think she can give up a single one of her voluntary obligations in order to rest up and get well. It makes me crazy.
I know that the over-achieving, assuming-too-many-responsibilities thing is totally prevalent in America. The arrogant assumption that women, now that we're 'liberated' will manage both family and career, is equally problematic in the States. But I do thing there's something about being a Muslim woman in Indonesia that is far more constricting for these martyrs: they are simply not allowed to complain. When my mother was in charge of a family of five and supported all of them while my step-father was unemployed for over a year, she periodically had-it-to-here, and gave my stepsisters and me good a scolding or more chores or whatever it was that we needed. I used to tease my mom by imitating her "Do you KNOW how STRESSED I am?" routine. But in a way I think it helped keep her--and other women--sane. Bu Lilik grins and bears everything, and does not think she is allowed to be angry, annoyed, or even just tired. I think she honestly believes it is the "women's burden" or something, and that she is truly obligated by Allah (or whomever) to wake up yet another morning at 4 a.m.
Indonesia is really a weird place. Women do the shopping and cooking and child-rearing just as they did 100 years ago (more or less), and yet they cruise by on Honda motorcycles, wear jilbab decked out in glitter and sequins, smoke cigarettes, own businesses, and go window-shopping at fancy import malls. I am stumped by it all.
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