Tid Bits for Turkey Day

Warning: This blog entry is a series of random events that have occurred as of late. Or, things that would never happen in the States.

To begin: the other night I was sitting on my living room couch, talking to a friend after a hard days work. Suddenly, like a trail of black dust blowing past, I see a large rat silently scurry across my floor, coming from the Master bedroom headed towards its apparent refuge under my refrigerator. I didn’t scream, I just pulled my feet up under myself and waited for the “Rassie” (Rat + Lassie, named by my friend Cappy due to its polite nature and intelligence at having avoided thus far the poison I’d placed for it) to return to the place from whence it came. My constant exposure to cockroaches, ants, and flying insects must have dulled my fear of critters over these past three months.

Today I was teaching a makeup class for my Drama students outdoors. The breeze was just right and the sun shone bright and nourishing. One of those days where I wonder to myself: “Wait, what month is it? November? Where am I?” I’m giving instructions to my class for a group project when a large, gorgeous black and white spotted butterfly lands directly on my left hand, which was formerly gesticulating to make a point. My whole body stopped, looked, and smiled at the stunning creature. My students echoed an “Awwwww, Miss! So cute!” as I stared, dumbly transfixed by the sheer joy of that moment. Then, just as nonchalantly, the butterfly wandered off. A.Mazing.

Later, I’m at my desk reading a 20 year old girl’s journal during a tutoring session and notice that she used the term “youngsters” and “youths” a few times each. Being quite "youthful" and naive herself, I had to chuckle at the word choice.

On to even more unrelated topics: the other day I was asked to attend a meeting. Some sort of Indonesian Secretariat was going to visit my University to monitor the “Native” teachers currently employed at BU from other countries. At the initial meeting with the Rector’s Assistant to discuss this upcoming visit, the Japanese and Korean lecturers show up to also talk about what will happen the next day when the government officials come to ensure the international agreements between our bosses and Brawijaya are up-to-date and kosher. Having never met before, we introduce ourselves, and the Japanese instructor looks at me and goes, “So, how many classes do you teach?” I replied, “Four”. He burst out laughing for what seemed like five minutes. “Four? Really? What a waste of resources!! Ah ha ha ha!” I did not think this was particularly funny. I replied, somewhat reluctantly, that I also privately tutor my writing students 6 hours a week, and have other responsibilities outside of the classroom (and that my contract limits my teaching time to 12 hours per week in order to make room for cultural activities and outside speaking engagements). I then ask him, “How many do you teach?” He shrugs and pretends to be cavalier, “Oh, 12 or 14 maybe”. I inquired as to how that’s even possible, and he says, “Well, that’s what I’m planning to ask the Monitors tomorrow. Ah ha ha ha!” In that moment, I’m quite thankful I hail from a country where sanity and “me time” are priorities.

The next day the meeting with these said “officials” (two women about my age) goes well, albeit the 45 minutes I spent sitting there while they all spoke Bahasa (which I still don’t) and then turned to me and said (in perfect English), “We already know about your program, and your documents are up to date. All we want to know is if you teach private lessons outside of the classroom?” I replied: “My contract states I cannot, therefore, no, I don’t.” They smiled, “That’s the answer we wanted to hear. Thank you.” Why I had to sit there for almost an hour to answer that one question, I don’t know. That’s Indo for you...efficiency is not their forte.

To switch gears again: while riding to school this week, I’ve been passing temporary holding pens housing multiple goats. These goats are being gathered and in preparation for Eidul-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice. On Friday the 27th, all of these goats will be slaughtered to symbolize the sacrifice of Abraham’s son Ismael. One third of the meat from each goat will be donated to the homeless (the other two thirds typically go to family and friends of the person responsible for the slaughter). Every time I drive past the poor creatures, I want to run towards them, throw open the gates, and shout for them to run free. Now, I know I’m not a vegetarian, but I try to stay away from more exotic meat like veal. It’s wonderful that homeless individuals will not have to worry about where to find food this weekend, however, I cannot imagine the amount of blood that will flow two days from today. Right after Thanksgiving. Which I will miss for the first time in 31 years. Ouch. I’d much rather be on my Grandmother’s farm with my Aunt, cousin, the llama, chickens, puppies and a turkey...

And finally, last week, I almost had a roommate. I was pulled into the Dean’s office Monday afternoon after just returning from a weekend in Central Java with the other Fellows, when I was informed that a visiting lecturer from Australia (she’s Indonesian but received her PhD in Oz) was returning to BU for three months and was going to move in with me. That day. I was asked to hand over my house keys to make copies, and was told that I would have to move my clothes out of the ONE closet in the house and move my personal papers from the ONE desk to a different location as soon as possible. Stunned to say the least, I asked the Dean if RELO (“Regional Location Officer”, aka, my boss) knew about this, and she replied that no, they did not, but if I wanted to call them and inform them of this change, I could. I walked out of her office stunned at the complete and utter professional disrespect that was just shown to me, and called my boss’s assistant in Jakarta. She assured me that she would look into this right away, and apologized for the very un-Indonesian manner in which this situation was handled. For the next 24 hours my counterpart, my co-teachers, and my friends went to the Dean on my behalf and explained that when it says, “private accommodation” in my contract, it means I ought to live alone. Apparently, I was told, the Dean chuckled and responded, “She has a key to her bedroom, that’s private enough. Besides, that house is too large for one woman to be living in by herself”. When I heard this, my claws came out. I’ve been living independently for 13 years, and when I’ve had roommates, I’ve chosen them. They have not been plopped down into my house by an outsider who knows diddly squat about me or my history, completely out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever.

Thankfully, my boss’s assistant in Jakarta, Dian, is a rock star and solved this issue by the following afternoon. Because the Dean did not sign my contract (in fact, I learned later, refused to) and because the house I live in belongs to the Rector of the University, she technically has no right to “assign” me roommates (especially not ones 25 years my senior). Her “misunderstanding” of the term private was egregious, and a formal complaint was filed against her with the Department of Cultural Affairs. I was informed, by the Rector himself (a very kind and generous man) that his “extra” house was to be used by me and me alone for the duration of my contract, and that he was sorry that I was put in such a position. I thanked him profusely.

The copied set of “my” house keys were eventually returned to me, four days later, by the Rector’s assistant, only after the Dean approached me and told me she wanted to “destroy” them, to which I informed her that my counterpart should actually have them in case of an emergency, to which she told me she had to “check with the Rector” before she could agree to “not destroying them” because they “should never have been made in the first place”. Precisely.

Seriously... Only in Indo...

Temple of my Familiar

Two months ago, had you told me I’d be doing the Cha Cha with a Indonesian man in his fifties while his ten year old son circled us on his scooter, I would have suggested you see a doctor. Lo and behold, yours truly is learning to ballroom dance. And cook. As I type this I’m enjoying a meal of grilled eggplant, onions, green beans, and chicken breast, soaked in lemon, extra virgin olive oil, oregano and garlic (while drinking a San Miguel and listening to Billy Idol). Earlier today I showed my “slow” Writing class the “Yes We Can” music video/Obama speech as an example of persuasive writing, and they walked out of class singing “We want change! I want change! Yes. We. Can!” To top it all off, I rode to my dance instructor’s house this evening without getting lost. Didn’t have to turn around once. That is the first time this has happened in two weeks. It’s been a darn good day.

My previous hours since my last entry have been rough. Hence, my lack of updates. I simply refuse to blog if I’m going to be a Debbie Downer, thus, my waiting patiently for a day like today to shine on me. Flashback to last week...

The education system here is set up like a construction site without a blue print. You have an idea in your head, but no standards, albeit some extra wood and maybe a few nails. Perhaps, there are a few people willing to build something, when they get around to it. In the end, you might get a structure that stands upright, with a roof, and perhaps a door, but it don’t keep ya dry.

I teach three sections of Writing 4 (and one section of Drama 2). That’s the highest level of writing offered for undergraduates studying English. Our task is the argumentative essay. Each class averages 30 students. Each class meets ONCE a week for 100 minutes. Each class usually has only one teacher, who also has 7 other classes, over 200 students, a family, and administrative responsibilities (that is not an exaggeration). There is no one on one interaction or tutoring unless the student finds the teacher, on a good day, and takes 10 minutes of their time...which means a student’s chances at improving are slim to none.

Now consider that Writing 1, 2, and 3 are prerequisites for not only Writing 4, but also for most other classes students needed to graduate on time. Which means, if they are held back in writing, they are held back from most other required courses. There are no standards for grading: each teacher has their own rules. There is no set curriculum, and there are no text books (but plenty of photocopies...which the STUDENTS have to copy themselves...when they can afford to). ‘You tube’ is banned on campus. The wireless network at my University will not allow you to see it. Back in the States, I used you tube weekly as a teaching tool, and had text books galore, for free, from the publishers. All supplemental “handouts” were made by me, for free, and given to the students in class. Not here. I try to make copies for my students and the other teachers click their tongues at me and tell me I’ll go broke if I keep doing favors the kiddies. I tell them, where I come from, students are broke. They shake their heads and remind me in Indonesia students live with their parents and get monthly allowances. Right. Silly me.

The obvious result of this “system” is that 50% of my students cannot write their way out of a paper bag. Nor can they express themselves to me verbally. Nor have they EVER written creatively. I’ve been tutoring students (54 to be exact) for about a month now and some of them even plagiarized their JOURNAL entries. They did not understand that journals are about freedom of expression (ie: there are no rules aside from stick to the topic given). What? No thesis statements?? But Teacher, I don’t get it...

After realizing quite quickly there was a problem here, I met with my three team teachers and explained that I would need their help. It’s physically impossible for me to meet the needs of my entire class with such varied degrees of ability, thus, they were going to have to give up a few hours a week to asses the students who are below level and work with me on finding some sort of solution. The first meeting went well. The subsequent meetings have been me sitting at my desk, waiting for the other teachers to show up, and then watching them walk out of our meeting when their cell phones rang, not to mention them asking me what exactly it was I wanted them to “do” with the students once they made tutoring appointments with them. Insert me banging my head against a map of Indonesia here.

However, there are diamonds hidden in every dark cave. I had a student come to me last week who is one of my rare exceptions. Her writing is brilliant; her ideas are critical, accurate, and well crafted. Since she’s stellar, I told her she could move ahead of the pack, and so she came to me with a journal about schizophrenia. It started out with her talking about the film “A Beautiful Mind”, and moved to her admitting she is a schizophrenic. She then proceeded to advise her reader on how one can be a motivated, positive, and healthy mentally ill individual living and thriving in “normal” society. This woman is Moslem (like 85% of my students), and as she read her words out loud to me, her jillbob (the head covering) clung tightly around her face, neck, and hair. It was all I could do to not weep with elation and relief. FINALLY! Someone direct, shrewd, honest, and brave. Someone who is willing to stand alone, to stare normality in the face and tell it how very boring it can be.

I cannot wait to see her again.

This leads to me follow up on my Halloween Party. It happened, finally. My rookie mistake (as Momma Goose would say) was to expect anyone to show up during the first hour it was scheduled. I’d forgotten that Friday is a very holy day, and Indonesians must eat rice before they can eat chocolate, and so, I sat alone, with the Tech guy, for 45 minutes...feeling quite small and neglected by my students who had told me they were coming dressed up like Balinese monsters. One by one, a little head peeked around the door frame, giggles filled the hallway, and I see my students clustered in a smiling bunch. I beaconed for them to enter, and they shook their heads fiercely, leaving me quite puzzled. I hadn’t even started the scary movie, what on earth was their problem? The one student in the room with me at that time informed me that these girls could not actually come inside the room without their friends next to them. They move in a group. Always. And that’s how it began. People waiting in the hallway, coming in with another girl’s hand attached to their forearm, bowing slightly to me as they passed. Hence my flood gates of affection towards my schizophrenic dare devil willing to brake the mold.

I suppose I have my hands full (and now I know why they sent me to this island). But I’m learning to ride my motorbike to the store, the coffee shop, my friend’s houses, the gym...alone. In traffic. On streets with no name or names I cannot possibly pronounce while passing ojeks and oncots (public modes of transport). Maps are useless to me as I need to see the places where I turn as opposed to memorize road names, so I'm learning, week by week, how to get myself where I need to go. It feels good to grow out of the toddler stage of culture shock and enter a level of autonomy...

I did visit some temples this weekend from the 10th and 14th centuries, and bathed in outdoor pools of crystal clear water before meditating with my Hindu friends over incense inside dark, cool enclosures against well worn stones smoothed over by centuries of hope and prayer. I’ve met some lovely people and now know I’m not the only white woman in Malang. I bought patio furniture so that I may eat my meals under the orange moon, or with the morning birds and my cup of instant coffee (surprisingly tasty).

I’m adjusting. Colors are no longer striking dissonant chords in my brain, nor am I simply walking to and from but not actually going anywhere. I am here now. And with that presence comes a letting go of my former life, of the past in general. Which is why, as I sat in that first temple this weekend and placed my hands palm up on bent knees, my eyes spilled over with a mixture of grief and gratitude.

Back in Black

My first movie theater experience in Indo was awful, and quite eye opening. No wonder my students are writing journals about vapid Americans having “free sex” (sex before marriage) and the “liberal/dirty” behavior of us Westerners. They actually think we walk down the street, point to someone we find attractive, and go home with them that very night. Katherine Heigl should be ashamed of herself. She’s (almost) turned me off of Dr. Izzie Stevens forever. For a woman who I thought could actually act, she’s not doing any of us American ladies any favors. Granted, if I knew I was a walking international paycheck....well, I hope I’d still make better character choices. That’s right. I saw “The Ugly Truth”, and left with a smutty aftertaste. It was like a bad dream, except a Hollywood studio actually spent time and money to film it, with real actors, and ended up with not a single shred of redeemable “art” to show for it. What a shame. So, why did I go? It was the best choice available. The other films, believe it or not, were worse. The crap that gets distribution over here is embarrassing. I was ashamed. My country is better than that. We have integrity. We’re not shallow puppets. Except, how are my students supposed to believe that when all they see is utter cinematic slop?

It’s been a heck of a few weeks. Let’s start with Halloween. I decided to throw a Halloween Party (Indo style) for my students so that they could experience the creepy fabulousness of one of our most incredible holidays. I like Halloween, very much. On the last day of October, we don’t stuff ourselves with too much Cool Whip (I admit I’m just as guilty as the next girl), forget that Christopher Columbus was a genocidal murderer and call it a day, nor do we celebrate the birth of a child from the womb of a virgin, nor is it a day about bombs bursting in air. Instead, we play, we create, we cross over into the unseen (or, undead, depending on who you ask). Where else do adults who don’t do theater or film for a living get to put putty on their faces, wear ridiculous clothes, and be someone else for a night? Granted, our teeth hate us the next day, but we have the best dental hygiene of any other country I’ve seen, so it’s forgivable.

Anyway, I’d planned the “party” for Friday the 30th, and have been trying to confirm the time and place on campus for over a week when the head of the English Department came to speak to me. She said the Dean had asked her (not me, mind you...that would be too direct for South East Asia) “Why did Courtney have to start with Halloween as her holiday/cultural event? Why couldn’t she have started with, say, Thanksgiving instead?” (here we go with the genocide again) It just so happens the Dean and Vice Dean of my University are not going to be in town this weekend, and so they’d asked two other faculty members to be at my party, making sure the students arrive in costumes that were appropriate. There is to be no dancing, no live music, and obviously no booze (that I of course understood...I do know I’m not in Kansas anymore). I was given three hours, total, and the students had to be out by 8pm (mind you, I do teach at a University). I was told to “keep it simple”, and to show a movie that did not have too much violence. Now, I do know that part of my job is to respect the new and different culture I’m in, and to adhere to sensitive boundaries, but 8PM? NO LIVE MUSIC? Do they know we’re in Indo? There was LIVE music, ON CAMPUS, YESTERDAY, DURING my Writing class. I could hardly concentrate while I was teaching topic sentences because someone was singing karaoke 20 feet away, outside, at 2pm. Not to mention there were two men sharing coffee and a smoke on the other side of the wall behind my white board. Instead of hearing the sounds of my students’ brains digesting the material, I heard a conversation steeped in fumes. I had to stop class, poke my head outside the door, and politely ask the men to take their conversation elsewhere, as there was a class being conducted 3 feet away.

So, back to Halloween. The students have been so excited. This is the first Halloween Party at BU’s campus, ever, and they very much want to gather together, dress up, eat sweets, and watch a scary movie together. I’ve kept the agenda innocuous and have tried to find an exciting prize for the costume contest. However, because the Dean and Vice Dean want to check up on me, it has been rescheduled, for a week after the Day of the Dead. I guess I should count my blessings. It’s just hard to do when I know my friends back home are having a Hellishly good time walking through amazing haunted houses, carving pumpkins, dancing to Thriller, buying fake blood, and reliving nights of trick or treating. Ah, Indo. What a G rated web you weave (except when you go to the cinema)...

Oh, and the love songs! So help me...my department swoons over saccharine ballads of the heart. They pump all day long while I’m trying to grade quizzes, and seem to favor the pipes of Celion Dion, Brian Adams, and LeAnne Rimes. If I hear “My Heart Will Go On” one more time I’m going to start eating ink pens with my Nasi Ayem (fried chicken). I think they have a total of TWO CDs on shuffle, and they’ve had them longer than I’ve been addicted to coffee. Why they don’t branch out into tunes past 1996, I’m not entirely sure. Except, I think it’s related to this “G” rated phenomenon. It’s like being stuck in a doctor’s office, or an elevator, for 8 hours every day. The brain, as much as it tries not to, absorbs the ideas of love everlasting and eternal dedication, and all hard edges start to soften as the hours wane. By the end of the day I leave feeling...fuzzy, kind of like a Sesame Street character, or a Walk Disney reject. Sometimes I have to put in my ipod before I get on my bike and zone out to the Stones/Rob Zombie/Metallica/Busta/ACDC just to get the blood flowing again. It helps having a motorcycle waiting for you in the parking lot, I have to admit.

However, when I need a solid dose of realism, I can just pay attention to some of my male co-workers across the way. Yesterday, one of them belched, loudly and proudly, three times. I’ve also seen them picking their noses (my students seem to like to go digging for gold as well) as if they were, well, raised in a barn. Once, I saw a man blowing a snot rocket off the side of a boat. As I’ve noted in previous locations to certain individuals, not only does privacy not exist, but there is no division between “outside” and “inside” over here, and I mean for that to have a double meaning.

Speaking of privacy not existing...I was recently asked by a co-worker if I had a problem with the meals I’ve been receiving at the office. You see, a group of us “order” boxed lunches to be delivered to our desks daily, but you never know what is lurking under the lid. The other day it was fish. The entire thing. Head and tail included, guts in tact. In Malang, they serve you the whole sha-bang, and the locals pick at the meat and discard the bones. I, instead, chose to put my little Nemo aside (he was looking at me funny), lost most of my appetite, and threw the box away. My actions apparently were reported and circulated, because days later, I was being questioned as to why I did not finish my lunch (by someone who was not present at the time of my disposal of Mr. Fishy). Oh, and when I do finish the TINY portions they give me in under 15 minutes because I forgot my snack that day and haven’t eaten in five hours, I’m told I should eat slower. I guess it’s permissible to eat a fried fish head (slowly) if it’s kosher to burp in front of co-workers while checking your email. Silly me. I ought to refer to my barn yard manual more often.

One more thing I have to note that puzzles me before I retire with my book (side note: I highly recommend The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram. Even if you don’t teach a language or are not a teacher/English nerd at all, this novel is an exquisite pleasure. Thank you Vanessa for your recommendation), is pulsa availability. “Pulsa” is the word for minutes on your hand phone (cell). People don’t have phone bills with plans out here. They pay for minutes as they go (at least the ones I know). Thus, there are pulsa “dealers” all over the place, both in phone stores, in private vendor stalls, and in the office. My dealer is a sweet man who works at a desk down the hall from mine. I don’t know how he does it, but I give him money, and he adds minutes to my phone. The other day I approached him requesting he “top me up”, and he shook his head. “Sorry Miss, today not good day for pulsa”. I asked why, and he said he didn’t know, but that I should try again tomorrow. Having a fantastic memory for minor details and a horrible memory for important things like where I put my keys, I returned the following day. Again, the smile and head shake. “Bad day for pulsa again?” I asked. He nodded. “Sorry Miss. Try again maybe tomorrow?” Fast forward to day three. Apparently, the pulsa Gods were in a better mood and communication has been restored.

That, in a nutshell, is my experience of Indo. Some days it works, and some days are just not good. Ah well, at least I can hop on my bike tomorrow morning and ride to school, invisible broomstick tucked in my backpack, Back in Black pulsing in my head.

P.S. I've decided to go to Jakarta and spend Halloween with Momma Goose and Cappy, dance, dress up, and feel somewhat American for a night. Thank god for Lion Air.

A rather short, but full, weekend

I blew my very first fuse at 7am today trying to charge my camera for a morning of monkey watching. The electric pop sparked behind the outlet, and so I got ready vowing to simply remember my day rather than document it. My counterpart (Iis), her adorable husband Reza, and Reza's 9 year old little sister and I drove about 20 minutes away to a water park/monkey hang out. Buses, children, and families clamored outside the gates. Peddlers hawking their goods, beggars asking for money. The same grey monkeys I saw in Bali were all over the grounds. At first I was enamored, as I always am with animals, until I saw the monkey on a chain. A man sat in a folding chair not far from the main entrance, a small drum in his hand. At the end of a "leash" sat a monkey, dressed in clothing, wearing a hat, and hissing at his audience of mildly amused pedestrians. I stood stone still, my hands over my mouth, as this man jerked the chain back and forth, made the monkey do flips, made him stop, made him pick things up with his hands, made him behave like a circus freak. It took all I had not to walk right up to him and...well...my Mother taught me better than to say what. I was enraged. Animals do not like cages or chains. They need wide open spaces, good healthy food, and peace and f*#king quiet. Not a drum that bangs endlessly in their ears, or people throwing peanuts and then screaming when they peel the shells and ask for more, unable to find their own food.

We kept walking. We had fun on the bumper cars, merry go round, and dirt bikes. People stopped to take pictures of me on the massive three wheelers because, as usual, Bules are a hot commodity. This time I actually smiled. They were genuinely excited to have me there, and shoot, who doesn't like such attention? However, the reality of Indo was inescapable, despite my moments of joy. The small lake where we went row boating was filled with trash. Small fish swam over forks, plates, plastic water bottles, and god knows what else. Once ashore, I saw a monkey up a tree chewing on a dirty, abandoned sandal. CHEWING it. Like it contained actual food. Next to him perched a monkey nibbling on a plastic spoon. Below him, a monkey trying to eat the lid of a soda can. Looking closer, I noticed these monkeys had growths, bubble like additions to their jaws that looked like small white marbles protruding from their cheeks. Many of them. Cysts? Tumors? Who knows. My stomach turned. Walking out of this "park", I tried to rationalize what I'd seen. However, I cannot escape the fact that animals are treated terribly in this country. Cats are kicked, tails are cut off, and rats run wild.

I came home to two rooms that had light and thankfully, a fridge that was still cold. Iis had found the circuit breaker on the outside of my house and flipping one of those switches seemed to turn on a few bulbs. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the dirt off my floors, and doing the usual Sunday tid bits one does when one doesn't have to be anywhere (or when one is trying to avoid doing school work). The sun set with still no air conditioning or DVD watching in clear sight, and so I took a walk around the homestead, looked in every room, and could not find the answer to my dilemma. Seeing no alternative, I sent my counterpart a text message, and she agreed to come over and help. She lives 30 minutes away, with her husband, in-laws, and his family. She's incredible to even offer to come back after driving me around all morning.

While waiting for her arrival, the white cat who has visited me in the past showed up at my door once again. Her eyes still in a daze, her fur still matted. I fished out the chicken in my fridge, filled a bowl with filtered water, and left it out for her. She pecked at it, and snuggled next to the water. I noticed her gait was a little slow, and her hind legs were spread wider than usual. Dear God, "Pus pus" (one of the names for cats in these parts) is going to have kittens.

Iis and Reza arrived, took one look at Pus pus and agreed that she was indeed pregnant. Reza took three steps into my sitting room (yes, I actually have one...this place is the biggest house I will never pay for in my life, better appreciate it while I can) and found the second circuit breaker box. He flipped a switch, and the air was back on. With my lights. In under 20 seconds my problem was fixed. How I had missed the box labeled "Curcuit Breaker", I don't want to know. Feeling terrible that I made them drive out to my place for the second time today, I offered them cookies, teaching materials, etc. We decided on a night I would take them out to dinner this week, and then I mentioned the cat. I simply cannot let her deliver kittens when she's obviously sick and no one gives a hoot whether she lives or dies. Turns out, Reza's Uncle is a vet.

Part of me wonders if Miss Pus Pus found her way into my house and flipped a switch of her own to rig this situation. After they left (books and cookies in hand), I filled a shoe box with a towel, a bowl with tuna fish, and set both on my front porch, just in case.

Looks like I've been adopted by a cat.

In other, more academic news, school is going well. I had my first formal presentation on Saturday (yes, my day off, but, you have to show up when invited to such things) where I spoke on Language BA programs in the States as the Language Department at Brawijaya is revamping their curriculum and they wanted to know how things are done back at the ranch. However, I had to wait and listen to 4 hours of Bahasa before it was my turn. At about hour one I felt completely ridiculous and totally unqualified. I need to get on those language lessons, and fast. (The actual presentation went fairly well.)

I'm also tutoring my writing students outside of class on how to, well, write better. This is a daunting task as I have over 70 of them. 60 of them really need my help but their classes meet once a week and there are about 30 of them per class. Thus, I've started a program of sorts where I sit for a half hour with any student who signs up to see me, voluntarily, and we review a one page journal entry on a topic they enjoy writing about. As exhausting as this is, it seems to be working. My students are coming back to see me at least twice per assignment. They thank me often, and they leave feeling, hopefully, a little more capable. I'm so proud of them. And so lucky to be here.

Before I sign off I have to mention that I start bike lessons tomorrow (mine is a standard and I've never actually driven a motorcycle before). Watch out world. This lady's got her very own hog and she intends to ride it like the wind (while adhering to the speed limit and wearing a helmet at all times, of course)! Goodnight ya'll...

Because it's October

I now have internet at home, which means my blog entries might just be a bit more frequent. Lately, I'm feeling the need to say how much I miss the change of seasons.

When I applied for this Fellowship, it was February in Chicago: a deep, dark, and soul sucking time of year. As much as I heart Chi-town, that's about the month where I give up and say "I am never doing this again, I'm done, I hate it here, get me the heck out!" So I move to a country where there is the rainy season, and the dry season. When I got the job in May, I thought to myself "Well Mr. Winter, time to take that long walk off that short pier once and for all!" And now...well...the grass is always greener.

I miss Fall. I miss scarves and long sleeved jean jackets, boots, and cardigans. I miss the trips to the knitting shops with Sandra (Arcadia!) to buy yarn for my yearly project, booking a flight to Oregon for Thanksgiving, pumpkin carving, Halloween parties, baking cookies, and the general feeling of a city stocking its shelves for the long winter up ahead. Chicago comes together in the fall. People are walking the crisp streets, enjoying the last few days at the Lake, going to the last few restaurants that still have outdoor seating, drinking the fall beers at the local watering hole (Ok, I'll admit, I never finished my beer, but I gave it a good try).

While I'm typing this, however, I could not be further away from the feeling I grew up with associated with school supplies, new clothes, new books, and hot apple cider. My front door currently lays wide open in front of me, letting in the 80 degree breeze. Butterflies flutter in my back garden, the trees out there desperately needing me to water them, the air conditioning cooling my bedroom into a hazy, cozy temperature perfect for burrowing under the covers with a book. I am wearing a t-shirt and cut off jeans, no shoes, hair pulled away from my neck. It's October, but I'm stuck in a terminal June.

I've always been the type to learn the lesson by actually living it. And so I admit that yes, I like cooler weather, I like coats, and perhaps, maybe, a small part of me even likes February in Chicago. Perhaps only because for the first time in 8 years, I won't be living it. This is, in fact, the first time in my life I'll be missing a winter altogether. Never ever thought I'd long for a season I used to loathe. There's still a good chance, if I do come home for the holidays, that I will long for Indonesia just the same, while the wind bites at my ears and freezes my fingers. I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Hope you're sitting down. This is a long one. Might as well get comfy.

I have a Balinese vacation hangover. Coming from a place of literal culture shock, this tiny spot in Indonesia brought me back to life, slowly and surely. Where to begin?

The people: my fellow “ELFs” are amazing. Not sure how I ended up being chosen as one of them, but I find myself marveling at the company. As far as I know, I’m the only one of us who has never taught abroad before, and the only one who does not speak another language, fluently. The ages range from 26 to 35, and the experiences are boundless. Some of us have taught in Muslim countries far more restrictive and violent (places where public execution by beheading is still practiced) than anything I could live with or near, some of us have taught the blind in Europe, some of us scuba dive, others are Linguistic masters, all are adept travelers, beyond competent at navigating new and unfamiliar situations, and each of the Fellows are totally hilarious in their own ways (and I must say we’re not bad on the eyes). It took time to peel back the layers within people who were strangers only a month ago, but by the end of our 8 days together, I felt like I’d found my family away from home. Thus, we made up “call names” for each other (in case we come across CB radios) based on personality traits, and these I list below for posterity sake (in no particular order).

-”Big Daddy Sheik” is a man of grand stature and goofy smile. I’ll admit, I massively misjudged the fella upon first encounter. A dry humor so subtle it fooled us all, this lovely man has a gushy heart of gold beneath the seemingly simple and unaffected exterior. Who knew a burly, dark haired Ken doll could recite the names of all respectable “chick flicks” in the last 20 years? All I can say is wow. You da man Big D. I’d be stuck on a desert island with you any day.

-”Blackjack” is the opposite of Big Daddy in age and size. This sassy sweet woman can talk to anyone, and frequently was beloved by our cab drivers and street vendors because of her limitless openness to strangers. At one point the man driving us to the ATM broke into song in the front seat along with a Brian Adams oldie and Blacky and I shouted back karaoke style as we bounced around the curvy roads together. Who does that? People who ride with Blacky, that’s who. Oh, and the type on her computer is in Portuguese. Cause she’s fluent (who isn’t?).

-”Supafly” was my roommate the whole time and not only did I NOT want to kill her by the end, but I actually liked her MORE. This lady is pure, simply put. The spirit beneath the corn-flake blue eyes is both innocent and wise, and her energy is unassuming and ultra giving. I probably talked her ear off way too much during our mosquito net chats, but she never complained. I also give her props for being so adventurous and daring as to climb a volcano with a heights scaredy cat like myself. And she’s fluent in German and French (and has been to Iceland--SO jealous!!).

-”Cooky” got her name because she is a self professed “foody”. She’s also a walking Encyclopedia Britanica, a Linguistical wizard, and an idiomatic talking fool. Nothing gets past this lady. Organized and whip smart, she could kick my rear end at Trivial Pursuit any day. She’s also ADORABLE. Love the pig tails. They remind me of a Winnie the Pooh character that shall remain nameless.

-”Princess” got her name because of her posh digs in Jogja. She has two servant boys and lives in a palace. However, this woman ran up that volcano like she was running to the post office. A PhD student at UMass Amherst (Blaky is also a UMass alum) she’s wicked smart and could take us all in an arm wrestling competition or a triathlon. Her man back home is a lucky boy.

-”Merlin” takes no b.s. from anyone. This gal knows what she likes and sticks to it. I respected her standards of living (ie: nice hotel room with WiFi over mosquito netted bed in the woods) and her unwillingness to compromise. She and I never got to go on our horseback ride, sadly, but I’m hoping we do someday. A sly cowgirl and a great listener, I found I wanted to hang out with her the more we spoke about life issues and lady stuff.

-”Mother Goose” took care of all the travel arrangements and paid everyone before we got there so that her little ducklings could have a seamless adventure. Trained in elementary education, “Mo” was the master organizer and chief party planner. I don’t know how she lives in Jakarta full time, but after having lived in Oman and China, she can take any city you throw at her, blindfolded and hog tied. Impressive woman with the quickest wit since Richard Prior. And best head of blond hair I’ve seen in a long time.

-”El Capitan”...so much to say, so little room. One of my favorite memories of the trip is when I woke up one morning to find 11 text messages on my phone, all sent from him within the span of 45 minutes the night before. Only one of them was in English (the others were in German, Spanish, and Bahasa...and some Gibberish and Pig Latin thrown in for good measure). Another favorite memory is his Lacan impression of the Theory of French Fries. It isn’t a party without Cappy. A dancer to rival the late M.J., this man needs little sleep and attracts an entourage wherever he goes. I heart you.

-”Wonder Woman” is what they call me. Cappy mentioned it was because I apparently look like Linda Carter. I’d like to think it’s because I run into the ocean with my invisible bathing suit on at the blink of an eye (I was wearing clothes Mom...inside joke) or because I can repel bullets with my fancy arm bands. Either way, I’ll take it.

The places: There was a lot of driving from one end of the island to the next. That meant a lot of bathroom breaks. There are no “rest stops” in Bali. When one of us had to use the facilities, we simply pulled over (gas stations don’t seem to have bathrooms or candy here, just gas) in front of someone’s house. The driver then asked the old woman sitting outside on her stoop if we could come inside. Now, I can be messy, but I always make sure my house is respectable. These houses were...not what I expected. The bathrooms were all squatters (no flushing toilets) and I had to bring my own paper and hand sanitizer (which, to be fair, I bring everywhere). Upon closer inspection I would find a toothbrush stuck into a crevice between the stones in the walls, or underneath a crack in the roof. But hey, they were free, and one doesn’t have time to clean for unexpected visitors. “Cooky” developed a rating scale for the bathrooms, and we had a good time whispering “that one’s a negative 2” to each other in passing. “Big Daddy” had a great scale for bathroom use urgency, a “10” being you were actually to the point of peeing in a cup while driving. To amuse ourselves, there was one point during a drive when we spoke only in idioms, and the texting between cars (you have to take 2 with 10 people...the extra one being Rich, “Momma Goose’s” sweet as pie boyfriend) was constant and incited much spontaneous giggling.

Oh, and when you order a carbonated beverage at a road side stand and mention you are taking it ‘to go’, they pour the contents of said beverage into a plastic baggie for you, and provide a straw. In case you’ve never tried it, soda is hard to drink out of a plastic bag (and they don’t refrigerate the cokes at such places, so it’s luke warm at best). They do this so they can keep the bottle and get the return on the glass. Just in case us Bules want the 5 rupiah, to bad for us.

Villa Toke was our first accommodation in Ubud. We had this place all to ourselves, and the showers had hot water (HURRAY!!!) and rose colored soap. Evening dance parties on the patio and breakfast at the long wooden table, we played in the pool and watched videos over burgers (The Hangover made me almost pull a “10” in my pants). An artsy town made famous by the book Eat, Pray Love, it was indeed my favorite place. For those of you on facebook, this is where I ate the green coconut cake and took the photos of monkeys. This is also were I bought a lovely red silk scarf, delicate flowered pink fan, and soy milk for my morning coffee. The stars in the sky were plentiful, and we were there during a Balinese ceremony that decorated the streets in flowing cloths and colorful offerings. The cab drivers were super talkative and if you want to shop for anything while in Bali, Ubud is the place to go. Ex-pats were everywhere. And I could finally wear a tank top without feeling like a flaming hussy.

And then there was Tristan, the 10 year old French boy (who spoke English, obviously) that lived next to our Villa. Walking back from the beach one day, we ran into him near the front gate. Around his right hand was a python. A baby python (I’m pretty sure it was his pet). Fearlessly, he was winding it around his wrist, watching it move slowly over his skin. Because “Supafly” speaks French, she initiated conversation, and we soon found out he was born in France, but spent many years in Morocco before coming to Bali. So he spoke Balinese, Bahasa, French and English. It must be mentioned that this little man was stunning...in another ten years he’ll stop traffic, and have tons of stories to tell at the bars, languages to speak, and hopefully a happy life ahead of him full of opportunities. He was also quite sweet, talking with the adults with very little hesitancy. We were all enamored, and I walked away hoping that my children (or child) has the same amazing life available to him or her. One thing is for certain, all children should learn languages while their brains are still spongy and open. Being able to communicate with others is a key to survival. We all deserve that much.

Our second accommodation was called the Manjangan Resort, and it lay in a nature reservation dotted with rust colored deer (“manjangan” means deer) and more monkeys (careful, they hiss when approached). This place was rustic, and right on the ocean. We broke into pairs and slept in grass covered huts with sliding doors that did not lock and hardly shut (it was, however, quite safe, save for the rat that ate poor “Princess’s” beaded purse). We ate in a restaurant made of local wood and palm leaves that had five stories, and the view from the top was straight out of a postcard. We were escorted around in a double decker bus (the resort was on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, so you could not get around much on your own unless you were willing to walk for miles on end with nothing much in sight) that was essentially seats on platforms with four wheels, and it was here that we went snorkeling (while the brave scuba dived). I saw fish in these clear waters decorated in fluorescent blues, glowing yellows, and every other color in the rainbow. The coral was perfect, and the temperature was soothingly warm. The boat that took us to our diving point was more like a skipper and on the way back we were splashed by the waves to the point of utter drenchville. Two of us actually vomited from sea sickness (the innocent shall remain unnamed). Coming from someone who thinks she could live on a boat (like Cooky did in the Caribbean), this was a bit much. The wind was freezing due to how fast we were going, and by the time we got to shore, we all felt like dryness was a distant ideal never to be reached again. Note to anyone thinking of traveling near the equator: the only people who did not get scorched by the sun after layers of sunscreen were wearing dive suites. Cover. Up. My back is peeling into my bed sheets and water blisters keep popping under my clothes. Not attractive.

Before leaving this part of the island, five of us took a ferry back to the East coast of Java and climbed the Ijen Kawah (a HUGE volcano/crater). The ride from the resort to the ferry was about 30 minutes, once on the ferry, one hour to Java, then 90 minutes to the middle of the volcano, at which point we spent another 90 minutes hiking. We left at 5am, and got to the top of the volcano some time around 10. Black monkeys swung from trees and colorful birds chattered all around me. Because volcanic lava produces the richest soil on earth, the trees and greenery going up the volcano were the most beautiful I have ever seen with hanging “leaves” that looked like a cross between spanish moss, weeping willows, and silky spider webs. We also passed a coffee “farm” on the way up, and little did I know that coffee beans are actually bright red before they are roasted to the deep brown we see in the bags at the shops. And no, you cannot smell coffee while it’s hanging from the branches. Much to my dismay.

We got to the top (props to all who suffered the thinning oxygen and perilous rocks) and I thought was going to collapse. The view was incredible, something out of a fairy-tale cartoon with slopping hills and mist everywhere, but I couldn’t see all the way down to the road we came in on because we were literally above the clouds. The reason my legs almost gave out was the view INTO the volcano itself. That sucker was deep. And the interior walls looked like they were covered in vanilla icing cracking over a black forest chocolate cake. Sulfur is yellow (didn’t know that either) and near the “inside” of Ijen little sulfuric chunks lay scattered about. Those chunks are actually frequently removed, and locals carve them into mini sculptures and sell them as souvenirs. “Big D” bought a few for ‘ole ole’ (gifts to bring to people after a trip away) and we made fun of him for being a softy on the way back.

This volcano has a lake in the middle as well. When the smoke was blowing in the right direction (parts of the volcano were hissing hot grey smoke that smelled like rotten eggs straight up into the ether) we could see the most science-fiction looking blue I will probably ever see outside of a Star Trek episode. I can imagine that is the hottest water found in Indonesia. Wish I could ship some of that back to Malang to pour into my shower water. Ah well. Cold showers make you stronger.

I sat myself down on the rim of this massive organically made crater and felt not only proud of myself for making it all the way up, but also so utterly at Mother Nature’s mercy in a way I cannot really explain. With my sunburned skin and the feeling of the solid yet potentially fatal rock beneath me, I understood fully how superior Mother Earth really is. I sat there in awe, and a deep and infinite peace washed over me. Now, I believe that there is something far greater than us humans in existence...but “God” has never really been my thing because the Western Christian “God” is based on a story book about someone (granted, Jesus was a righteous dude) who lived thousands of years ago. I’m sorry if I’ve offended some of you by typing this, but, sitting there, I felt humbled by the smallness of us humans and in utter worship over the planet we live on. I just hope my children and their children to follow can revile in the same striking beauty that I did that afternoon...hint to those who don’t recycle...start now. Cause Momma Nature is in charge, and she has one hot temper.

The descent from the top was just as hard as the hike up because of the slippery steep angle, but this time we were stalled at least four times by the locals taking pictures of the Bules in the “wild”. That was actually sweet. Families would see us from a distance and motion to their cameras while saying “Picture! Picture!” I even had one guy stop dead in his tracks, put out his hand to shake mine, and say, “Hello! Where are you from? My name is.....You are so beautiful!” Once back in the car we shook and bounced to the bottom, our behinds actually lifting off the seats between dips in the road. Much like the skipper ride back to shore after snorkeling, this was super fun at first, but after a while I found my backside quite sore and glad I’ve never been one to succumb to carsickness.

Our last place of rest was called the Padang Beach Resort in Padang Bai. This area had as many Bules as Ubud, but instead of Australians, it was littered with Frenchies (hence Cappy’s impression of Lacan) and Germans. A few doors down from the resort was the Topi Inn, which had internet (when it felt working), workshops, tours, and darn good food. Thus, we spent most of our time there. “Merlin” and I took a motorcycle tour of two of the nearby temples (there were many more that had to be skipped over due to time) and through isolated and quiet rice fields, which was totally amazing. The intricate details of those places of prayer, filled with historically mythic paintings floored me. However, I got to a point where I felt over stimulated and the stone carvings started to look the same. That’s when I knew I needed some down time, so I broke out the Uno cards with Cappy and Big D for a few hours of mindless smack talk. The local vendors in this area were really chill, and I bought a necklace that is now my new favorite from a woman who made me swear I would never forget her.

There was one moment in my final days in Bali that I hope to take to my grave. I was sitting alone at a table in the Topi, waiting for “Merlin” to show up for our temple tour, and an adorable little boy maybe two years old walked over to me. He was dressed in bright clothing, and wearing a little black hat with tufts of jet black hair escaping from under the edges. Smiling, he grabbed my right hand with his, and held it, looking straight into my eyes. I smiled back, instantly in love. He then turned my hand over in his so that the back of it was facing up, and then brought it to his lips and gave me the sweetest little kiss (all the while not taking his eyes away from mine). He let out a little giggle as I said “thank you”, and ran back to his Daddy’s lap (who was sitting a few feet away from me) with a shy blush to his cheeks. He looked back at me with a smile only a child can muster and it was all I could do to not follow him and scoop him into my arms. For all the complaining I do about getting starred at and having people stop me to photograph my white skin, it is this joyous, open curiosity that gets me about Indonesians. They are so kind.

...

I am one lucky woman.

"M" is for Magic

Yesterday: “...me, and a gun, and a man on my back...but I haven’t seen Barbados, so I must get out of this...”

An old and dusty Tori Amos song circa Little Earthquakes wafted into my new bedroom as I swept behind a bed that had not been moved since the time of Christ. This song of hers is one of her more raw, brutal tunes (and one of my favorites because of its honesty). Simultaneously, as I scooped the dirt of years past into a dustpan, I could hear the call to evening prayer all around me, outside my windows, permeating the air waves. An Arabic male reminding disciples of Allah what time it was. Tori singing acapella on my computer.

As usual, I had gotten distracted. In the middle of my living room sat an open box filled with gifts from previous female American ELFs in Malang. A DVD player, an iron, novels, maps, hair gel, Bahasa lesson books, English lesson books, a blender, kitchen rags, batik shirts, pot holders, a rolling pin: all gifts from women who came before me to a woman they would probably never meet. Tori and the Qur’an still battling it out around the pile at my feet.

It’s been a full few days while I settle into my apartment. Four cockroaches, countless mosquitoes, and endless scrubbing. Outside my nesting routine lays a much more chaotic and unpredictable scene. Venturing to the mall alone for food still renders staring. The other day a group of teenage boys “accidentally” brushed up against me on the escalator, got in front of me, then turned behind their shoulders to look at me, smiling mischievously, waiting for my reaction. Thankful for my many acting classes, I resisted the urge to move a single muscle in my face as I met their gaze. Stupid Bule (Bule= “native”, “foreigner”, think “gringa”) I am not. Crazy, maybe.

I control my anger in situations like these because for the first time in my life, I am the “other”. I’ve been a privileged white girl for 31 years. I’m here for a reason. Besides, anger is so banal. I know they’re curious. These boys, in my opinion, were quite rude, but the ones that look and don’t touch just want see the real thing. The American in 3D. Alone, I am an anomaly. A pale female freak out and about. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever had to think about why people might not be able to stop themselves from starring at another human being. I never knew I had it so easy.

Without internet at home or a television worth watching (Indonesian t.v. makes zero sense to me) I’ve been devouring Obama’s book, Dreams From My Father. The man can write. Well. Both having lived (living) in Indonesia and Chicago, I foolishly feel we have something in common, regardless of how marginal. But the more I read, the more I realize why he’s so much more than our current President. And the more I’m proud of my country for electing him.

Driving along the roads of Malang, women stand in the dirt, off to the side. Their hands outstretched, hair unbrushed, faces unwashed, bellies empty. Human trafficking happening. Women and children for sale. I hold my breath in utter disbelief and horror as the cars and motorbikes start to move away from them. Why don’t I see that in Chicago, even though it happens there too? How (and when) did we learn to hide it so well? More importantly, where is the police to take these women to a safe house?

Earlier today I was eating breakfast in Duncan Donuts with Wayan when a white man in his mid 40s walks past our table. They extend a familiar greeting. I perk up in my seat at the sight of another ex-pat. I’m not the only one! Hurray! “M” is from Texas and has been living in Indonesia for 10 years. He’s the father of four young children and teaches English in the area (he used to teach at my University, hence his greeting with my co-worker and friend Wayan). His Bahasa is perfect. We get to talking, and I feel myself relax as I speak to his daughter (maybe 9 years old) about their most recent visit back to the States when Mike asks if I’d like to join him and his family for a “meeting” on Sundays where other ex-pats will be gathered. I said, “Yes, I’d really like that”. He then continues, “Now, I don’t know if you’re a Believer, but we usually go to Wendy’s afterwards for dinner, and....” Suddenly he goes mute. The word “Believer” hangs in the air between us as his mouth continues to move, forming words with blurry, distant sound. All I can do is study his shiny gold wedding ring, look at his perfectly groomed head of ash blond hair, notice his nicely pressed clothes and think, “No, not here”. The coffee colored girls at the side of the road flash before my eyes once again with nowhere to go. Not here.

It’s explained to me later that “M” no longer works at my University because he converted a number of former Muslims (students) into Christians. A Missionary in Teacher’s clothing. Perhaps I’m being too sensitive, but those who are hired to teach English abroad have one job: teaching ENGLISH. That’s all. Religion is personal. What happens between you and your God is no one else’s business. Change someone’s religion, and you change their way of living. Literature class is not an invitation to pass out fliers that invite students to “free conversation classes with native speakers” only to have the topic of conversation be about Jesus and why he should be your personal savior. The white man with the invisible cross “teaching” his students a new way to pray. I thought I was here to educate college kids on contemporary drama, not to evangelize. I thought they hired me to plan lessons, not to persuade. He leaves our table with a smile and a wave. I sit in silence. Yes...even here.

Every day I notice walls I never knew I had inside of me being pushed. Bending a little in slightly uncomfortable directions. I’m going to this “meeting” because I have to observe before I condemn. And because I’m curious as to how I will be approached and how I will chose to respond.

Not to worry; this liberal feminist knows where she stands and to whom she prays. She’ll listen, meet new people, and then return home to familiar lyrics playing in her clean corner while mutable, unfamiliar chaos buzzes past her door.

I recently underlined an excerpt from Obama’s book that eloquently captures the root of (some of) what I’ve been experiencing while mopping my tiled floors and meeting other “natives” over iced Americano:

“For there were many churches, many faiths. There were times, perhaps, when those faiths seemed to converge-- the crowd in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the Freedom Riders at the lunch counter. But such moments were partial, fragmentary. With our eyes closed, we uttered the same words, but in our hearts we each prayed to our own masters; we each remained locked in our own memories; we all clung to our own foolish magic” (163).

I think I'm gonna like it here

The title of this post comes from the film "Annie". The one with Carol Burnett, Tim Curry, Albert Finney and Bernadette Peters filmed in 1982 that I used to watch religiously as a little girl. (I played Grace Farrell in the stage version in High School...I like to forget about that chapter in my life as I cannot sing, and still feel empathy for my poor cringing audience) The song "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here" is the one little orphan Annie sings when she arrives at Daddy Warbuck's mansion and dances all around the shiny floors with the maids and her new "Mom" (Ms. Farrell). I've caught myself singing that song in my head a few times. Today I wanted to shout it from the top of the Crystler Building.

I finally got in front of a classroom this morning. Thank Sarasvati (the Hindu Goddess of knowledge and peace of mind). You see, I don't do well without structure and a schedule (that's the Tarot Emperor in me). Left to my own devices, my head gets me into a lot of trouble. I can forget why I do things. I can forget who I am. (I know--David Lynch would tell me I need to find the inner universe of infinite happiness within me...working on it) This morning I had a "SLA" class (two in a row, actually) which stands for Second Language Acquisition. Initially I was not thrilled. Theory? Ick, groan, no thanks. However, nothing is as it seems here. The students were amazing. Excited, curious, polite, kind, eager, knowledgeable, sweet, and brave.

I noticed two cultural differences right away. 1) They are hesitant to speak up. 2) They only speak up when the group allows it. They consult their friends first, then ask the question. The collective mentality is big here. Individualism is an American concept. Being quiet, listening well, and thinking deeply are stereotypically Asian characteristics. I find it refreshing in a lot of ways. No one interrupts each other. No one talks over anyone else. No one thinks they are the smartest person in the room.

To transition them, I introduced myself at the beginning of all 3 classes, and spoke a little about why I'm here and who I am. The conversations that followed went something like this:

Me: So, now that you know a little about me, I'm sure you have some questions. Don't worry, there are no stupid questions. You can ask me anything.

Silence/wide eyes

Me: Ok. What do you know about America?

Students: The American Dream (whoah! huge side conversation about what that means, how everyone is *not* rich in America: education, health care, etc...too much to type). Hollywood!

Me: Ok, great. Who is your favorite American actor?

Students: Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Adam Sandler, Jim Carey (in that order)

Me: Has anyone been to Chicago? (nope, heads shake) What do you know about Chicago?

Student #1: Chicago Bulls! (giggles) It is a movie. It won the Oscar. (giggles)

Me: Ok, great. What did you learn from the movie?

Student #2: Well, we want to know, do people sing and dance a lot in Chicago like in the movie?

Me: Yes, actually. Chicago is a very artistic city with a lot going on. There is every kind of art in Chicago and people from all over the world. It is diverse, big, and beautiful. (I'm a little partial) Other questions?

Student #2: How much does it cost to go to the theater in Chicago?

Me: Depends on the theater and on the show. Theater tickets can range anywhere from $10-$60.

(Collective gasp)

Student #3: Do you know where Oprah works? Have you seen Harpo Studios? (giggles)

Me: Yes, I have. But Harpo is sort of hidden. I lived in Chicago for about 7 years before I saw her studio. What other famous American (whose name starts with an "O") is from Chicago?

Students: OBAMA! (smiles)

Me: And he's from Indonesia as well, right? (nods) So he can speak Bahasa Indonesia and Chicagoan. (I smile because I crack myself, and usually only myself, up in the classroom)

Student #4: We have studied American culture and we know a lot about America. We hear that there was a lot of racism there. Is that still true?

Me: (pause) That is a very hard question to answer...(long explanation ensued that included elements on culture, history, stereotypes, hope for the future, etc)

Student #5: What languages do you speak?

Me: (blush covers face, deep breath) Just English (collective gasp). That is why I'm here now. As a teacher of students who speak multiple languages, I feel ashamed that I only speak one. So, I'm learning Bahasa Indonesia while you are learning English. I hope we can help each other (collective nods and smiles).

Student #6: Why are you a teacher?

Me: I'm a teacher because I love to learn. There is an African proverb that says (write on the board) "She who learns, teaches". I believe that we all have things to teach each other, and I am happiest when I'm learning from others. I also love people. I love working with them and helping them (mental flashback to Planned Parenthood). So teaching makes me happy because I feel that I am always learning and I hope I'm helping as well (voices echo that yes, I'm helping them because I am there).

Student #7: Where else have you lived besides Indonesia?

Me: I've lived in about 5 states in the US and in two areas of England. This is my first time in Asia. (eyes grow wide)

Student #8: What do you think of Malang?

Me: I think it's beautiful. The trees, birds, flowers are all new to me. I've only been here 5 days so I'm still experiencing a bit of culture shock (giggles and nodding) but I like it. Honestly, I found Jakarta hot and crowded (nodding) and I'm happy to be in a smaller city.

Student #9: What did you know about Indonesia before you came here?

Me: Very little! (gasps)

Student #9: You knew about Bali, right? (giggles)

Me: Yes, I did, but like most Americans, I didn't know where it was. Someone asked me if Indonesia was in India! (Loud gasps and sounds of disapproval) Someone else asked me if people spoke Spanish here (loud laughing and sounds of shock). I know, it's common. Americans know very little about your country. I hope to help change that. (smiles) I knew about the tsunami in 2005. I knew that it was located on the equator. And I've read a few books (Eat, Pray, Love and Tales of a Female Nomad) by Americans who have traveled here, so I knew a little more based on what they wrote.

Student #10: Did someone pay your way here, or did you pay by yourself to come here? (explanation of ELF program followed--as a final side note: "small talk" does not exist here, hence the personal questions. In a country where the weather is always more or less the same, you can't 'talk about the weather' so they move right on to the real issues...which I actually don't mind).

And that is why I think I'm gonna like it here.

Gotta motor if I want to make it to the electronics store.

The Circus is in town

And you guessed it, I am the circus. Now, being an actor, I'm used to having eyes on me. This, however, is entirely different. This, is me being watched all the time. Cameras click behind my back, children gather all around me, looking at what I'm typing, whispering openly in each other's ears as strange sounds come out of my mouth. Today I was brave and ventured out onto campus where the only "hotspot" is outdoors, next to the local caged rooster. What people don't realize is computer screens reflect much like mirrors. And what they don't know is that I can see their group, poised behind me, right now, taking pictures of my back. When I turn around to smile at them, they are shocked that I caught them in the act. They giggle, and return to watching me. No stage, no curtain, but still, the circus has arrived.

Bathrooms. Oh the glory. At my University, in my department, there is no flushing toilet. Although my campus is stunning, the facilities are way outdated. To use the lav, one must bring their own toilet paper, or take a "wet" bathroom break. There is nothing dry about the experience of using the bathroom, even if you have your own paper. You're going to come out of the experience with something splattered on you. Picture a small tiled room like the inside of a shower. Except there, in the corner, is a "potty", and you are supposed to remove your pants (put them where? no hooks, so be creative) and squat on either side of the pot. You do your business, and then get dressed again. The toilet paper goes on the shelf next to you. I still have not figured out who removes it, but every time I visit this little room, the tissue and what I left behind have been removed. The sink is outside the wet room. There is soap, but there is not always water. Sometimes the pipes just don't feel like producing anything, and sometimes they do. Thank God for hand sanitizer. I take it everywhere I go. Oh! For those who do not use toilet paper, there is a spigot on the wall of the wet room for you to "wash" (no soap) yourself after you are done (using your left hand). How you dry yourself is still a mystery to me. No towels. And the floor is always wet, so you have to wear bathroom sandals to use the bathroom as your regular shoes will not suffice. You'll end up slipping and soaked in god knows what.

I start teaching tomorrow, but before then I'm going to get a hot stone massage. They cost $15 here. My pedicure yesterday (I had to...my toes are on display every day and they were in dire need) cost $3. It was nothing like the pedicures back home. My feet were placed in a bucket that had little bumps on the bottom. They were washed, and then the woman grabbed my ankles and rubbed my feet back and forth over the little bumps. Afterwards she took about 45 minutes removing the dead skin, bit by bit, from the bottom of my feet until I swear I'd lost 5 pounds. My feet now look nothing like they usually do. They look brand new. Like baby feet. Smaller, and as smooth as a stone at the bottom of the ocean. Then the massage. This tiny woman was so strong I thought she actually was going to pop a blood vessel on my shins. At this point my friend Wayan was with me, and I told her to ask my pedicurist if she could cut my nails. Apparently she was not planning on doing so, but she did after it was requested. Then came the polish. They had 6 choices (total) for me to choose from. I chose clear. Once the polish was applied, my amazingly strong new friend blew on my toes. That's right. She BLEW on them to dry them. With her mouth. No fancy machines here to do that for you. Everything is manual. I'm glad she didn't pass out from the loss of oxygen. So, the hot stone massage should be interesting. I'll be sure to report back.

And that's it for me. It's 9am and everyone around me has been up for many hours. No such thing as sleeping in on the weekends around here. People were up and active by 6. Their buzzing motorbikes were proof. And the starring has begun again. Behind me. In front of me, all around me. The children are the worst. The adults at least try to control it. Some of them. The women seem more attune to how it all might effect me, while the men look at me as if I'm not wearing a shirt. You see, as I type this, my collar bone is showing. And I think a tiny bit of back tattoo might be as well (it's the weekend and I'm tired of looking like I work in the White House). Where's my Scarlet Letter? Quick! Somebody find me a big red "A".

In the mall, rockin' out to Arab tunes

Praise Allah, I finally found a wireless connection that doesn't take three years to load a home page. Sadly, it's a motorbike's ride away from my guest housing. Longing for the day when I don't have to depend on my super wonderful counterpart to take me around. Not used to not being self sufficient. As I type this, Iis is off looking around and reading magazines. Poor dear. Having to babysit me until I'm in my apartment, unpacked, and know where the heck I'm going.

She is so generous that it almost kills me. But don't be mistaken, she's a little firecracker. Dressed in traditional Arab attire, she's 100 lbs soaking wet and rides her motorbike like a Harley Davidson Queen on fire. I've seen so much of this city from the back of motorbikes these last few days. And I have to say, I LOVE traveling with the wind whipping my hair and the locals starring at the white lady dwarfing her drivers. Everyone here is tiny. But strong. Iis is a smart, capable, truly lovely person. I feel very lucky to be in her care (until I'm on my own two feet).

So, observations. Let's start with food: if you order "American" you get the simplest version possible. The other night I went to a restaurant and asked for a cheeseburger (I was not feeling adventurous at the time as my stomach was still suffering from what I call the "small knives"--cramps that feel like little amoebas are eating at your insides) and that's what I got. On the square plate they brought out sat a cheeseburger. Alone. Lonely, crying for a side dish. No french fries, salads, or cole slaw here. Just the burger.

Yesterday I was in my office, sitting at my desk, starving (people are fasting all around me, so the fact that the American needs to be fed can sometimes be overlooked), and my wonderful Hindu co-worker offered me crackers to snack on. Wonderful! I pictured round, supple Ritz crackers dancing in my head, loaded with peanut butter. Silly me. She was proud to present me banana/cheese crackers instead. The "cheese" was in the middle, the wafer was banana flavored. I declined and had an apple instead.

Last night I went out for "real" Indonesian food and was pleasantly surprised at what was probably the most delicious thing I have had here yet. Don't have any clue how to spell it, but it was essentially noodles with lightly shredded chicken, scallions, and onions, sitting on a bed of greens. Then a separate, smaller bowl was brought to me containing the broth and two dumplings. I poured that into my noodle concoction and heaven arrived in my mouth. Not too spicy, hardy, and chock full of flavor. To drink was coconut/orange juice with chunks of "young" coconut swimming in the glass. They give you a spoon to scoop that into your mouth. The best part, I left with nothing chewing at the inside of my stomach. And I was brought home on the back of a bike. So. Much. Fun.

So, they have McDonald's here. D-n-D is here. KFC is here. The catch: "McDs" delivers. 24 hours a day. For only $1 you can have them bring a big mac to your house. The novelty.

Although I'm on the island of Java, no one drinks regular coffee (kopi) here. They all drink instant. I finally asked Wayan (my Hindu/Balinese friend) why this was the case last night. She said that regular coffee keeps you awake (really?? no one told me!) and it's hard on people's hearts here. So they prefer the weaker instant brands. Ah ha! Finally cracking the culture codes. Sandra: remember how you said you'd send me Metropolis coffee? I'd give you my first born child for some real java....mailing address arriving soon in your inbox!

Eggs are served with hot sauce here. My breakfast at the guest house usually consists of a tiny omelet (two eggs max), some toast with butter (only white here...ick), and a little saucer with one half ketsup, and one half hot sauce. Not bad. My palette is getting used to strange fair...

In addition to the fast food chains listed above, Pizza Hut also exists on the other side of the world...but the Indo version. Which is kind of like the British, Australian version. I had to try it, so I ordered a stuffed crust personal pizza (the size of a regular American omelet) with tuna and sweet corn on top. It was delicious. To drink, an avocado smoothie. Michal, I finally understand the obsession. It was amazing!

No one tips here. Waiters, that is. You DO, however, tip the man sitting in all the parking lots for the honor of stowing your bike. Not to worry, the "tip" is the equivalent to 10 cents.

There is a "monkey park" in Malang. The word for monkey is "monyet", or "kera". They are the smallish kind, and I cannot wait to see them. We passed this monkey park on the way into town coming from the airport on Wednesday. I squealed and jumped up and down in the back seat when I realized what it was, and my counterpart smiled at me, which happens a lot. She must think I'm a trip. My big barrel laugh that you all know (and love) is culturally quite shocking. Women cover their mouths when they laugh over here, or close them altogether. I think it's a shame. But it's the norm.

Another cultural thing I'm noticing that would simply not fly in good old America is the covering up of men who make "mistakes". I'm around quite a few strong women here, and there is one man in particular (who shall remain nameless) who is a coworker of mine, that seems to have issues with the competence and adaptability of his female counterparts. The reason I'm staying in guest housing and not in a real house is his fault. He didn't do his job before I arrived, thus, my counterpart, the amazing Iis, found me something else within a day. And because he then looked stupid in front of her hard work and quick thinking, he retaliated with lies and purposeful miscommunication that sent her to the Dean's office and brought tears to her eyes. During Ramadan, one not only fasts. One cannot cry. One must obstain from quite a lot, apparently. And this...man...made her cry. Needless to say I hope karma kicks him where it counts. I'm not a fan of watching men mistreat women, no matter what form that takes, but here, instead of telling him off, Iis had to apologize to him, and stick up for him, make excuses for his behavior, etc. It was terrible to watch.

And finally, there are roosters in cages here, waking us all up in the morning (with the prayers and motorbikes of course). They are apparently quite rare and endangered, so the University has various places all around campus where roosters pace, back and forth, crowing and strutting, on display. The Recktor's "favorite" rooster is right outside my guest house. I have not introduced myself, as it's hard for me to observe any creature in a cage. It kills me. There is a Tennessee Williams quote about the wild left in cages (it's an Angelina Jolie tattoo...you can look it up) that comes to mind whenever I see anything behind bars. I asked Iis what would happen if they let him go free. She said someone would sell him, as he's worth quite a lot of money. Sigh.

That's it for today. Except for the purple elephant stirrer. I just got a coffee, which is really instant coffee mixed with milk and frankly tastes disgusting, delivered to my table. No lie, there is a purple plastic elephant head sticking out of it, used to stir up the milk with the instant. I think I'll keep the elephant and leave the drink. Bye for now.