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.