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.