Thanksgivings Abroad: First Love and New Loves

November 29, 2011

I’ve had my fair share of Thanksgivings abroad, but being away for the holidays is still one of the most difficult parts of living in a different country. It’s never an easy time to spend away from family, crisp autumn weather and Mom’s homemade pies, but I must admit that I’ve had some rather fortunate experiences overseas throughout the years.

Regensburg: My first Turkey Day away and I somehow got finagled into making a thank you speech on behalf of our study abroad group (in my less than stellar German) at our host university’s annual English Department Thanksgiving dinner. With some encouragement from my Gastfamilie and a much needed glass of wine, I stepped up to the microphone with shaky hands, and successfully spoke of tradition and the concept of hand turkeys. Not much else from that night stands out besides spending an excessive amount of time mashing potatoes prior to the event and going out for a time-honored German beer afterwards- the latter of which led to a most auspicious introduction…

In an attempt to welcome the new Amis to Deutschland, a few former German study abroad students invited the Americans out after our overindulgence in turkey and pie. My girlfriends and I couldn’t stop whispering about how attractive ‘the blonde one’ was, and after an evening of intercultural sharing with our newfound friends, I was completely twitterpated when he asked for my phone number. I didn’t know then, but that would be the story of how I met my first real love. I was sure that no other Thanksgiving abroad could top that magical evening, but then Thanksgiving 2011 unexpectedly stumbled into my life.

Mojokerto: More than 5 years later and I still manage to get beckoned to the microphone to give some semblance of a public proclamation in a foreign language. Somehow my impromptu thank you speech (yup, my hands still shake when I hold a microphone, even after all these years of practice) turned into a public forum on why I should marry the Village Head- after all, our babies would be the most beautiful in all the Mojokerto Land. But the most memorable part of this fourth Thursday in November will forever be the public acknowledgement of Bu S and Bu E’s hard work. Our proposal, PowerPoint, and heartfelt speech won over the visiting mayor who was eager to support and discuss future plans for our English Kids Camp volunteer program.

The Mayor with the Mic, Village Head Looking Down

Shortly afterwards, still soaring on a natural high from our success, I headed off on the multi-transit bus ride to the big city. I was eager to reunite with PC friends with whom I’d partake in service events followed by Thanksgiving dinner at the Consulate General’s the next day. We celebrated our first night together by going out to the highly anticipated new Twilight flick. It was a much needed, albeit not necessarily anticipated, evening of in-theater laughing and new group bonding. The night ended with a giant slumber party….

…then started again at 1 in the morning with horrific stomach pains which, in my delusional dream state, led me to consider that I was experiencing sympathy pains for Bella’s semi-vampire pregnancy. I was confined to my bed for the rest of the morning, missing out on the first volunteer event, but was determined to participate in the second. In the interim period I was graced by visits from new and old volunteers alike, each bearing get well wishes and one special ginger infused dark chocolate bar.

Inspired by my friends’ compassion, I stumbled into the shower and managed to get dressed in time to go to the second service event at a local Islamic orphanage. Again, the renowned hand turkeys made their way into our cross-cultural lesson and we spent the afternoon with Mr. Sketch markers drawing on the floor. Unfortunately tracing hands exhausted the remainder of my reserves. Feeling completely incapacitated, I thought it best to stay behind and pass on the much talked-about Thanksgiving dinner…not an easy decision to make.

Very Creative Hand-Foot Turkey

Despite feeling completely debilitated for a majority of the day, this was one of my most special Thanksgivings in recent memory. I realized how strong the intrinsic bond is among the members of PC-Indonesia. I barely know the new group, but that didn’t stop Southern Dan from getting my medicine, Cody S. from bringing me chocolate and Thanksgiving leftovers, Brianna from tirelessly offering saltines, carrots, and an abundance of other treats from her Mary Poppins-like goodie bag, or Taylor and Erin from being my comical entertainment for the evening. It goes without saying that the 19 people I originally came to Indo with are like my family, but I’ve finally come to realize that our keluarga is growing, and will continue to grow as each new generation accepts their invitations to serve in Indonesia.

November 2011 has not been ideal for me health wise, but I will gladly sacrifice a few days of feeling fit in order to recognize how lucky I am to be a part of Peace Corps Indonesia. Although my blonde-haired German and I have gradually drifted out of each others’ lives, he will forever hold a special place in my heart. After this long weekend among friends, I know, without a doubt, that so will the people I’ve connected with on this distant little island of Java. Instead of falling in love with one person, I’ve fallen in love with several individuals who have fortuitously been placed in my life. From my counterparts at site, to my new PCV family, I couldn’t have asked for a better support group to be surrounded with in this long 27 months abroad. And that is what I’m most thankful for this year.

And after a great deal of analysis, I’ve come up with an exact formula for a perfect Thanksgiving abroad:

Tremblingly Holding a Microphone + Hand Turkeys + Falling in Love

a few random thoughts from a few random days

November 15, 2011

I’m Turning Javanese, I Think I’m Turning Javanese, I Really Think So...

Throughout my time in Indonesia I’ve been told that I’m destined to marry a man with facial hair (because I didn’t sweep the floor properly), that my future fiancé will leave me before our wedding (because I’ve eaten standing up in a doorway) and that I’ve been at constant threat of a genie inhabiting my body and mind (due to my natural proclivity to daydream). Apparently becoming dispossessed is a fairly strenuous process, so lately I’ve been trying to not let my mind drift off to lands of bacon cheeseburgers and margaritas.

The list of Javanese superstitions is endless, varying from province to province, and even village to village. I’m not sure which to believe (actually, as of now, I don’t believe any), but I regularly try to appease whatever company I’m in by complying with his or her innate convictions- I sweep more meticulously, step out of the doorway and sit down to eat, and try to keep my mind focused on the present. Like a good number of superstitions from around the world, I have a strong inkling that these originated as an attempt to cultivate proper behavior in young ladies by threatening what a Javanese woman should value most: potential matrimony and piousness.

In any case, it appears that my future has been decided for me. All I need to do is sit back and wait for a mustached man to leave me at the altar.

A few more amusing Javanese beliefs:

· Massage cures almost any ailment from a simple cough to serious motorcycle injuries

· Firmly rubbing the edge of a coin on one’s back until it leaves long red streaks is a sure way rid the body of masuk angin. Masuk angin, literally meaning ‘entering wind’, is caused by any number of unwise scenarios: lying on a cool floor when it’s hot out, sleeping with the fan on, drinking a beverage with ice in it…the list goes on and on. Needless to say, neither I nor any westerner I’ve met thus far have ever suffered from this condition.

· The existence of pocong, Javanese ghosts whose hands are fastened across their waists, with burial robes bunched and tied atop their heads, and who hop from place to place on account of their bound feet. Everyone in my village is consequently inclined to cross to the other side of the street when walking past the cemetery - day or night - and cautious to leave one’s house after Maghrib.

For the duration of my time here I’ve adamantly disputed the existence of pocong and masuk angin, but last week my whole skeptic belief system was shaken to the core; sorry, no ghost stories yet. I did, however, wake up in the middle of the night, head spinning as if I had been twirling in circles for days. My stomach was turning too, and in a state of midnight disorientation I convinced myself that I had just dreamt that I was on a rollercoaster and that by opening my eyes and turning on the lights I could clear the whirling in my head. As soon as I stood up, I suffered from extreme vertigo and was instantaneously crippled to a half kneeling position, crouched over, and incapable of moving for fear my brain might fall out. Sweat saturated my clothes as it surged from every pore. Spinning and sweating out of control, I somehow managed to find a semi-tolerable position lying on my cool tile floor (a closer option than my bed 8 inches away), occasionally drifting in and out of a dizzy sleep until I heard the morning call to prayer. One way or another I made it up into my bed where I stayed, impaired by feelings of faintness and queasiness, for the remainder of the day. As I lay imprisoned in my mosquito net-enclosed bed, a result of my own ineptitude, my mind raced through all of the plausible causes that could have possibly led to my current state. Nothing quite fit my symptoms except for the mythical masuk angin. I assure you that I didn’t get it from sleeping with the fan on or by eating ice cream, but my host mother did suggest that it could be a possible result of exhaustion from spreading myself too thin over the past couple of weeks. That, I can accept as true.

Although I’m not quite ready to believe in hopping ghosts or my bearded betrothed abandoning me due to my improper sweeping technique, I am willing to concede that there is such an ailment as masuk angin, and that the reason I momentarily suffered from this medical condition was because I’ve adapted so much to the Javanese way of life. This incident, coupled with my increasing plumpness, ‘darkening’ skin, and limited, yet improving, aptitude for the Javanese language, has warranted several remarks akin to ‘Mbak Maggie menjadi orang jawa- Maggie is turning Javanese.’

*************

November 17, 2011

As the sweltering heat transforms into thunderous rainclouds, my students are more intrigued than ever to know what my favorite season is. When asked, I automatically gush about winter and rave about all its wonderful qualities: snowboarding, family holidays, snow days, hot chocolate, snuggling in warm blankets, rosy cheeks, snowflakes on eyelashes...I can go on for awhile. All of which, however, are completely lost on my kids- those are scenes from a make believe land, not real life. They’d rather know which I prefer: the rainy season or the hot season. In addition to the fact that I’m already missing out on changing leaves and sledding in knee-high deep snow, neither of Indonesia’s seasons is extraordinarily appealing. This is a less than compelling debate for me to participate in. Nevertheless, my Type-A American self made a list of pros and cons for each season:

SEASON	PROS	CONS
RAINY	· Much cooler temperatures · Misty mornings · Legendary thunder storms · More likely to see my mountain in the mornings · Occasionally wearing a long sleeve shirt to ward off a potential chill · None of the dry season cons	· Every conceivable nook and cranny becomes a squalid breeding ground for flies and other disagreeable winged creatures · Flooding · Molding everything · Taking cold bucket baths on chilly mornings · Difficult to ride bike/walk on muddy ‘roads’ · Laundry in a perpetual state of dampness between the afternoon downpours and continuous cloud cover
DRY	· Clothes dry in one afternoon · Greater appreciation for the occasional cool morning (until 6 am at the latest) · Cool bucket baths after a sweaty day of teaching · None of the rainy season cons	· Unbelievably high temperatures · Sweating profusely 24-hours a day · Droughts and dying crops/plants · Increase in disease-carrying mosquitoes

And some things remain constant year-round. I will always perspire, day or night, and wish for a fan; there will always be Dengue-ridden mosquitoes droning about; it will always be relentlessly humid. The levels of each of the aforementioned simply fluctuate as one season morphs into the other.

Even with my systematic table, I’m still not ready to commit to a preferred time of year. I usually give a rehearsed, culturally sensitive answer describing all the great things each season has to offer. In actuality, I long for Colorado’s ever-changing seasons and the nostalgic sentiments associated with each of them. I’m sure that when I finally am home and that first dry snowstorm hits, I will long for the hot, humid days of Indonesia. But for now, Colorado is perfectly preserved in my mind as the land of ideal, yet continuously changing, weather conditions.

**********

November 19, 2011

Most days I have nothing better to do than toil over my less than trivial dilemmas like which of Indonesia’s two seasons is less desirable. Then a situation arises which makes me feel extraordinarily guilty and selfish for wasting my days away contemplating such inconsequential foolishness.

One of my soon-to-be graduating senior girls is being forced to marry as soon as she finishes school in May. I know this happens here. It won’t change within my remaining 6 months in country. It will forever be one of my least favorite parts of my host culture. But it hits so much harder when it’s one of my own. A girl I’ve taught in class and mentored in English Club. A girl with whom I’ve choreographed aerobics routines, enthusiastically sung ‘Alice the Camel’ and ‘Five Little Monkeys’, and giggled wildly about my cultural faux pas. The real sting comes from the fact that, unlike a majority of my students, this girl comes from a family with money. While most of my kids do aspire to continue on with their education, financially, it’s just not an option. Neither situation seems fair to me, but the idea of a bright, monetarily well-off student’s dream to continue onto university being thwarted by her own parents simply on account of her gender is a difficult pill to swallow. I feel so helpless. Feelings of guilt once again rage through my head and heart. I’ll soon be back in my liberal by comparison homeland while archaic concepts of sex and gender continue to thrive here. I know they’re changing, but just not fast enough!! Should I be content that at least she wasn’t pulled out of school to marry a man ten years her senior like in so many stories I’ve heard from fellow volunteers? Why can’t the future of my student(s) be spared in this battle against conforming to tradition?

Idul Adha 2 and the Unrelenting Rain

The evening started with a stream of distraught tears from 7-year old Ryan (pronounced Ree-an). “We’re (sob) late, (sob) and I wanted (sob) to join Takbir!” It may have been the first sentiment of remorse for being late in Indonesia that I’ve witnessed over the past year and a half. Fortunately we could see the mob glowing paper lanterns just ahead, so Ryan hopped on the back of a neighbor’s motorcycle and sped off towards the candle-wielding parade of village children.

It seems almost surreal that I’ve been in my village long enough to have already been party to two Idul Adha. This second Takbir around I was still in awe at the toddlers- with their fumbled, exhausted steps- carrying their disproportionately sized flammable lanterns; all the while their older elementary-aged cohorts whizzing by, flame in hand, weaving in and out of the bewildered munchkins, trying to catch up with their mates from school. But fear not: should the littlest tykes feel too overwhelmed or fatigued to take even one more step, a concerned parent or neighbor would swoop in on their exhaust –generating motorcycle (scorching hot exhaust pipes at just the right height for 3 and 4-year olds to breathe in profuse amounts of fumes) and scoop their little one to safety. We’d never allow so many child safety hazards in America: open flames; overweight, splinter-ridden lanterns; scalding exhaust pipes; direct inhalation of harmful vapors. But here, it works. The kids had a blast, and I can honestly say that I enjoyed my nighttime, color-lantern lit stroll through the neighborhoods. Whereas last year there were unrelenting shouts of “bule/londo/tourist” through the entire event, this year I was excitedly addressed as Ms. Maggie by kids and parents alike. It felt like I was legitimately a part of this cultural evening rather than an outsider trying to sneak in.

The Glowing Lanterns of Takbir

Early the next morning (Sunday) I headed to school to partake in the other obligatory Idul Adha traditions: communal prayer followed by a symbolic slaying of cows/goats. The mist coated dawn was idyllic for preserving the cool temperature for the duration of the morning. And again, I realized how much I’ve become a part of this community and how comfortable I felt amongst my praying students. Although I didn’t actively join in the prayers, it was nice to be in the middle of such a spiritual setting.

Women In Back

The Men In Front

In Full Prayer Robes

Little Boys in Kopia

Divided for Communal Prayer

From Above

My X.5 Boys in Sarongs and Kopia

And once more, I was surprised at how accustomed I’ve become to situations that would have made me uneasy in the past. Sure, the sight of spurting blood coming from the neck of an animal that is still groaning in powerless distress wasn’t the most charming part of the day, but it was nonetheless amazing to be a part of this distinctive culture and finally understand the history and the ritual behind the occasion. This year I was close enough to the slaughter site to hear the uttered prayers of the surrounding executioners as they slit the throats of the sacrificial beasts; somehow that made it seem all the more pious. From the four cows at school I headed to my neighborhood mosque to observe the partition of 15 butchered goats + 1 cow (in accord with Muslim tradition, 1/3 is donated to the poor, 1/3 to family, and 1/3 to neighbors/friends) and enjoy a bite of ice cream with some of my English Camp girls who were not at all inclined to help handle the meat. On my way home for breakfast I stumbled across Bu Sari and friends working on the largest cow I’d seen by far. I was unsuccessful in my attempt to remain an innocent onlooker, and somehow ended up in the packaging assembly line. Luckily I was only in charge of opening the plastic bags and was not compelled to touch any raw cow parts. That brings my bystander total to 15 goats and 6 cows, all before 9 am. I felt that qualified as my daily cultural integration, and was much obliged to promptly go home and take a cold bucket bath.

The one negative (aside from the haunting images of cow heads being chopped off, layers of fat being stripped away, and pools of blood brimming over the edges of man made holes) was the abundance of flies that took up residence wherever there was even the slightest indication that uncooked cow had momentarily passed through. Naturally, the floor-level sink where my ibu washed the dirt and grass off the donated slabs of beef was swarming the next morning. Then, stepping outside the front door on my way to school, I was again greeted by an unpleasant buzz from the new the tenants. Fortuitously, however, a torrential shower of much needed rain poured (and still is pouring) down, challenging the longevity of those pesky little bugs.

A BRIEF HISTORY

In Islam, Idul Adha is considered the ’Day of Sacrifice’ and commemorates the Prophet Abraham’s compliance to sacrifice the life of his only son, Ishmael, for God. God spared Ishmael, replacing him instead with a sheep. Muslims today observe this event by slaughtering one or more animals and giving the meat to family, friends and the needy.

During this multi-day event, all Muslims perform the morning Eid prayer in a large congregation, either in an open space or at a mosque. Muslims in Indonesia who have adequate means then sacrifice a cow or goat, but in other countries it is often a camel, sheep or ram (animals which were present during Abraham’s test of loyalty), each symbolizing Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son. The sacrificed animals, called al-Qurban, must meet certain requirements in order to be considered acceptable to sacrifice. For example, a cow must be no younger than 2 years in order for it to be a satisfactory sacrificial candidate. Families that can not afford livestock often make a donation to the larger community who will then donate meat to the needy. After the killing, the meat is then carefully weighed and divided into three parts: one-third is kept by the family, one-third is given to relatives, friends and neighbors; and the one-third is donated to the poor in the community. In addition to the sacrificial slaughtering, community members continuously chant the Takbir before Eid prayer on the first day and then again after prayers throughout the remainder of Idul Adha. Both are considered indispensable acts on this momentous day for Muslims.

Takbir:

Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar

la ilaha ill Allahhu

Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar

wa li-illahil-hamdu

Allah is the Greatest, Allah is the Greatest, Allah is the Greatest,

There is no deity but Allah

Allah is the Greatest, Allah is the Greatest

and to Allah goes all praise

In an attempt to share my experience with those back home I took a myriad of photos, none of which do the day justice, yet still manage to give a glimpse into the holy day of sacrifice. WARNING: there are some graphic photos below, but the animals were all killed mercifully in accordance with Islamic law.

School Sacrifices

Draining the Blood to Help it Die More Quickly

Peeling Back the Layers

Did you Know a Cow's Stomach was That Huge?!?

Cow Hide, Basket of Intestines, and Tethered Bovine

Mosque Sacrifices

This is What 15 Slaughtered Goats Looks Like

Completely Intrigued by What the Big Boys are Doing

Not Wanting to Get Too Close

Ice Cream Girls

Neighborhood Sacrifice

Weighing Out the Meat to be Distributed

The Assembly Line

My Honorary Indonesian Nephew Doing What I'd Rather Be Doing: Making a Bridge

Selamat Ulang Tahun

October 9, 2011

It has recently been brought to my attention that as my time in Indonesia progresses, I have written less and less about being Inspired In Indonesia. It’s not that I haven’t been inspired lately, quite the opposite actually, it’s just that things have become so routine that it feels almost monotonous to write about my seemingly mundane experiences…a routine, by the way, that I am wholeheartedly clinging to after the complete and utter chaos of my initial 18 months here.

So, for those of you who don’t find my contributions monotonous and mundane, here’s my October shout out to my most recent inspiration: all the little Javanese munchkins who join English camp twice a month. My kids are awesome! Today we celebrated our 1 year anniversary of English Kids’ Camp. It’s hard to believe that it’s already been 12 months since that first frenzied afternoon at the balai desa. While fundamentally still the same, things are noticeably different with our camp. Instead of the nearly 100 disorderly children of days past, we now have an enthusiastic group of thirty kids who religiously show up every other Sunday with their over-sized backpacks and occasional bewildered looks in tow. And now, in addition my 30 fabulous elementary school kids, I have half a dozen unbelievable high school English Club members whose skills and confidence flourish more and more each progressive time they teach or plan a lesson.

In order to celebrate the Big One, my high schoolers came up with inventive and entertaining ways to practice what the kids have learned over the past year: balloon races to study body parts, songs to help with prepositions, and wildlife voice competitions to practice animals. While still somewhat disorganized (I’ve finally learned to embrace that particular Javanese approach) I can confidently say that our one year celebration was a success- my untamed host brother even managed not to complain or get too wild for the whole 90 minutes. And like any other outstanding birthday party, we ended with some sticky American candy, a few rounds of singing ‘Happy Birthday English Camp’ and a goofy group shot.

Happy Birthday English Camp!

Practicing Prepositions: "Thumbs Up, Elbows Out..."

The Whole Group Singing Together

One-legged Races

Acting like Frogs

Body Relay Race Using Heads

My Host Brother and His Posse Enjoying Themselves

Group Shot After a Great Day

all the cool kids are doing it...

August 20, 2011

Sometimes I wish I was Muslim…all the cool kids are doing it.

It’s one thing to go through the superficial motions in order to respect the religion of everyone around me: to fast during Ramadhan; to greet the class with as-salamu-alaikum (may God be with you); to deferentially sit in the background while the entire student body or my host family make their ablutions and pray. But sometimes I wish I knew what it felt like to earnestly go through the prayer motions, to be fully veiled on a daily basis, and to somehow sense that I was closer to a higher power and a part of something bigger.

It’s like a kind of subliminal peer pressure. No one comes out and directly says I should become Muslim. Well, usually not. But being surrounded by devout devotees 24 hours a day does start to affect the way one thinks about the matter. The constant comments about how beautiful one would be if she wore a jilbab or the undisclosed desire to not feel like an outsider during religious events begin to seep into the part of one’s brain that just wants to fit in and belong. It would feel really good to legitimately be a part of something so significant in my community.

That being said, I have zero intention of ‘converting’ any time in the foreseeable future…and I can see pretty far. If I survived high school, I’m sure I can make it through the next 9 months without making any eccentric life changing alterations to my lifestyle, i.e. abruptly becoming pious or being fully covered in 90 degree weather.

School Prayer Before Breaking Fast Together

*******
August 25, 2011

I assumed this Ramadan would be just as distressing as last year’s. I forgot to take one minor detail into account: a lot has changed over the last 12 months. This time last year I felt trapped in my homestay situation, a prisoner to my host father’s expectations and commands. Slightly dramatic sounding, but that’s the way it was. I was rarely allowed to leave the house without someone accompanying me (they even tried to set up a system where a different student would pick me up and walk me home from school every day…a 3 minute walk from my front door to the gate of my school). During Idul Fitri (the festive end of the fasting month of Ramadan) my overbearing tyrant of a host father paraded me around in such an uncomfortable manner that I had to hold back tears and fits of rage until I was in the privacy of my own room and eventually in the company of my empathetic Peace Corps friends. I knew no one outside of my immediate host family and a select few teachers who lived in the neighboring city. Those emotional hardships, coupled with fasting (including no water) for 14 hours a day, every day, transformed me into quite the acrimonious individual. Needless to say, I was not looking forward to reliving last year’s flagrantly dreadful events.

In no way did I want to put myself through that chagrin again. As a result, I zealously jumped at the chance to hop over to another island for a week during the Idul Fitri holiday. I thoroughly contemplated whether it was a good idea to travel during that time. On one hand, it’s 1) an important Islamic holiday which one should spend with neighbors and family 2) more expensive to travel during those few days 3) I’m currently studying for the GRE, scheduled for the end of September. On the other hand, there’s 1) no physical way I can put myself through the same torment and suffering as last year 2) I won’t have the opportunity to travel again for awhile because of my teaching schedule, and 3) I guarantee that I’ll be able to study better without my current home distractions, like my host father’s plangent voice reverberating through the house or the constant stream of unannounced guests flowing through our doors- not the most ideal setup for studying. I wish I could just grab a tall Starbucks caramel frappuccino and head to the library for a few solid hours of uninterrupted studying. Instead, I’ll gladly settle for a 1 ½ liter bottle of water, my SPF 55 sunscreen, and head down to a pristine beach, the sound of waves crashing in the foreground.

The one thing I didn’t anticipate when scheduling this ideal getaway was that now I actually do have people I want to visit on Idul Fitri. Neighbors who are no longer strangers, but friends. Students who I’ve not only taught over the last year, but who have grown to be a part of my Indonesian family. In stark contrast to last year, I do want to take part in the customary Muslim-Javanese practices surrounding the end of Ramadan; I do want to minta maaf (ask for forgiveness) and silhaturahmi (build/strengthen relationships) during the holiday break.

Ultimately though, I think I made the right decision to absent myself for a few days. It’s inevitable that I would have been pressured into traveling all through Mojokerto with my host father, made to feel guilty, and thus miserable, because I have to take the slow, crowded public transportation rather than jumping on a speedy motorcycle to all of the unfamiliar destinations. I will see my kids after the holiday, and I was lucky enough to break fast with several of them prior to the break. Sulawesi, here I come!

My Neighbor Friends- I Love These Kids!

Some of My New English Club Family

Breaking Fast with Rosyid and Tyka

maybe it’s because…

Almost 3 weeks into the new school year and, al-hamdulillah, I have a completely contrasting outlook on the future compared to how I felt this time last year. Not just a little different, but a radical distinction from the neurotic mess I was one year ago.

Maybe it’s because I now know what to expect- that the first week, or even month, of school doesn’t necessarily mean the first week of teaching. That the teaching schedule is tentative and apt to change at least a dozen times over the next month. That planning with counterparts is great in theory, but ostensibly uncharacteristic in the Indonesian school system. That teachers are late, students do cheat, there’s corruption in schools and classes get cancelled on a whim.

Maybe it’s because I have a year of experience under my belt. A year of trial and error. A year of fine tuning lessons, so that by the 5^th time I teach them, I’m finally successful. A year of evaluating what my students are actually capable of in relation to where the national curriculum expects them to be. A year of learning Indonesian. And a bit of Javanese. And a smidgen of Arabic should the appropriate occasion arise. A year of simply standing in front of a group of students who do not share my mother tongue and not only transferring knowledge, but also, as the Indonesians like to call it, memberi motivasi or ‘giving motivation’.

Maybe it’s because I finally understand the culture, even if I don’t necessarily agree with it. That people here will inexorably comment on skin color, age, weight, marital status and overall physical appearance on a daily basis. That the typical role of women is to marry young and start having babies. That higher education is rarely prioritized. That being force-fed will inevitably occur at least once a day. That there are infinite little cultural lessons I’ve learned over the past year which couldn’t possibly fit into this limited space, and can only truly be understood through first hand experience.

Maybe it’s because there’s finally evidence that my time here has had some type of positive impact. That the English Kids’ Camp we set up last October is still attracting kids every other week- and that my English Club girls’ confidence in speaking as well as their impressive improvement as teachers has been a direct result. That the English Corner plans I’ve been trying to push forward are finally, yet unhurriedly, becoming a reality- we received our first International Book Project donation last week! That my host brother no longer blatantly disrespects me; we’ve actually established a legit sibling relationship! That even though my kids are not fluent in English, they are more confident in speaking, less afraid to make mistakes, and know that there’s more to American culture than Justin Bieber (who I’m pretty sure is from Canada anyway.)

Maybe it’s because I’m now inured to things that used to trouble me. To the oversized rats scampering around the rafters above my mosquito net clad bed each night as I attempt to fall asleep, causing superfluous raucous and, as a result, needlessly unsettling dreams. To the unrelenting, incessant attempts to set me up with an Indonesian man. To a diet of shrimp still encased in shells (extra calcium), fish with heads still attached (less prep work), and significant portions of rice I’m expected to eat three times a day, every day, and from which I perfunctorily pick out tiny stones before I take my first bite (minor labor for my essential carbs for the day). All of which, by the way, has been sitting out for the duration of the day and/or over night uncovered.

Maybe it’s because I’ve made a couple of lifetime friends. That I have someone to vent to. Someone to genuinely laugh with. Someone with whom to go exploring and share secrets. Someone who doesn’t make snap judgments about me based on my background, current routine, or future plans.
Maybe it’s because I’ve accomplished things that I may have never experienced otherwise. That I can ride a bike in a skirt fairly gracefully. That I can eat noodles with a spoon and rice with my hand. That I can bust out the lyrics to an Indonesian pop song should I feel compelled to do so…and, amazingly, I feel compelled to do so more often than one might think.

Or maybe it’s because I’m in the homestretch. That I can see the light at the end of my transitory 10-months-remaining-tunnel, or as one of the new PCVs likes to say, only 22 2-weeks left (thanks Taylor).

It’s not all rainbows and butterflies this second year around, but it is significantly better than the beginning of year 1. So, to any new PCVs who may be feeling slightly overwhelmed, frustrated, confused, or simply uncertain that they made the right decision to commit 2 years of their life to this crazy endeavor, I promise, it does get easier.

Grades 1 & 2 Drawing their Family at the First English Camp of the Semester

Enjoying the Newly Opened Package of Books

English Club Excited to Open the Books

Two of the Best Friends a Gal in Indonesia Could Ask For

lebih gemuk, lebih cantik

“Lebih gemuk, lebih cantik.” Those were the first words out of my host father’s mouth as I walked through the front doors of our newly completed garage-kitchen after a fleeting 2 weeks away from site. Roughly translated: “you look fatter, and consequently, more beautiful.” I guess I’ve adapted to Javanese flattery more than I thought I had. Having someone immediately tell me I look fatter as I exhaustedly fumble into the house, weighed down by my oversized backpack after having to walk back from where the bus dropped me off because I missed the last microlet of the evening would not have gone over so well one year ago. Yeah, I probably packed on a few pounds thanks to the considerable amounts of food I voraciously consumed in the short 14 days I was away from site, but it was nice to instinctively grasp that my host father was complimenting, not insulting, me…that being fatter denotes that I’m more beautiful which he attributed directly to me being reunited with my family. These anomalous kind words were unexpectedly the perfect way to be welcomed back to site following severe feelings of trepidation towards the return.

A long, long time ago during PST I remember someone sharing that the best time for one to take PC vacation days is when one feels like it’s an impossible time to leave site. I’m a living testament to the legitimacy of that statement. The amount of stress, pressure, guilt and obligation I felt towards my school, host family and community right before I left was almost unbearable. I felt like I was deserting everyone or letting them down by leaving. But taking these two weeks away from site rejuvenated my mind, body and soul. Although I may eat these words later, I feel like I can handle anything that comes my way over the next 11 months.

Top 5 Things I Didn’t Realize I So Intensely Missed Until I Was Reunited With Them On Vacation:

1. Being in charge of my own diet: going to the grocery store, choosing healthier alternatives, and cooking for myself.
2. Western style bathrooms: flushing toilets with toilet paper, hot showers with decent water pressure, brushing my teeth at a sink, and not having to change clothes in a dripping room that’s roughly the size of a medium-sized closet.
3. Having a washing machine at my disposal.
4. Seeing/joining a myriad of people outdoors who were enjoying the abundant pedestrian friendly areas whether it was women running, men pushing baby strollers or families riding bikes together.
5. Blending in with the ‘locals’ and being with people who ‘get me’.

Top 5 Things I Was Surprised I So Strongly Missed About PC Life In Indonesia:

1. The neighbor kids’ unfailing alacrity in greeting me every time they see me.
2. Riding my bell-and-basket adorned bike every day.
3. Never having to use lotion as a natural result of living in a humid climate.
4. Feeling fairly competent in a foreign language.
5. The appreciation one gains for things otherwise taken for granted when having predictable access to them, like my secret stash of American treats stored under my bed in case of an arduous day emergency.

May 10, 2011

Today was a good day. Nothing extraordinary, but pretty darn good. Sometime between stepping off the plane in Jakarta and crafting my day-to-day teaching life, Indonesia has become my home. It’s a pretty cool feeling to finally be familiar with a majority of the people on my walk home from school. To recognize Yaya, an 8-year-old boy living in a boarding house nearby and who sporadically sneaks into my 3-4 grade English Camp class instead of staying with the 1^st and 2^nd graders. To wave and smile at each of the shop owners along the way, and know that I finally have the ability and relationship to chat with them about something more substantial than the weather. I don’t smile and wave and stop to chat because I’m trying to portray a positive image of the American bule; I do it because I’ve actually formed relationships with these people. My people: my neighbors, my students, my people who sweep up the trash every morning or drive their beceks up and down the main road. I used to feel pressure to be on point all day, every day. Always smiling and hiding how internally frustrated I was/am most days. But today I soaked it all in. I was smiling because I was happy; it wasn’t a facade. Happy because I finally have a decent grasp on the names of the over 300 students that I teach in any given week, plus a respectable number of students outside of my teaching schedule. Happy because I can see my kids’ improvement and increase in motivation to study. Happy because the call to prayer is really beautiful and spiritual some days, especially considering I’m someone who’s not necessarily religious. Happy because my parents are coming out in just over a month and I can’t wait to share all of this with them.

Lately these good days have been pretty rare, but I have a feeling that they’ll become more regular as time goes on. I think I’m finally coming to terms with Diana leaving us- out on this great Asian adventure without us, but having an unforgettable time.

This is my life and my home, even though some days I feel like throwing in the towel.

May 21, 2011

I thought for sure I’d have millions of hours of time on my hands once I joined Peace Corps. In reality, it’s the complete opposite.

Oftentimes, I feel like I don’t have a say in the events of my day to day life. My schedule is built around the spontaneous chaos and irregularity that seems to embody Indonesian life. Peace Corps says that starting a routine is key to feeling at home and settling in, and I’ve tried. It seems that an unstructured schedule has become routine.

I eat what and when other people tell me to eat. Mandi, or am requested to wait to mandi (take a bucket bath), based on when other people feel they might need to use the bathroom. Am rarely, if ever, told about significant events taking place right outside my bedroom door: “surprise Maggie, there are 6 strange men sleeping here tonight because we’re building a new garage.” So now, even the glimpse of a routine I thought I once had has been thrown into a whirl wind spiral. The laundry line was mysteriously moved to the other side of the street then disappeared all together; my host parents made promises to their friends on behalf of me (without informing me) saying I’d give their kids private lessons every Saturday. Seemingly trivial events to someone on the other side of the world, but fairly significant to someone whose life this has inevitably become. I feel like I’m living with college roommates again, but this time I didn’t get to choose. And I’m not allowed to have boys over.

I relish in the fact that I can occasionally (a total of about 7 times in the past 15 months) cook for myself. I live for the mornings I can walk out of my bedroom in a tank top because my host father and brother have already left for the day. Living with a homestay family has probably been my least favorite, and most difficult, part of my PC experience; but to be fair, it’s gotten slightly easier to cope with over the past few months.

May 29, 2011

Not sure if life is getting monotonous or if I’m just getting used to the things I used to consider out of the ordinary. Are they mutually exclusive? I love that my life has taken me halfway around the world, but I am ready for something different; but different has taken on a whole new meaning since being here.

This week I brought my camera around to document a routine yet simultaneously random week at site. Somewhere along the line disorder became routine, and what I used to consider irresponsible chaos rarely astonishes me now. I just roll with it…most of the time anyway. So this is my week in a nutshell, through pictures and short blurbs.

Sunday: Our Sunday morning bike ride took Bu S and I to one of my most devoted English Club student’s homes where we met his entire extended family including his 90+ year-old grandfather who reminisced about the time of Dutch colonial rule and commented on each of the subsequent Indonesian presidents’ strengths and flaws.

Rosyid (far right) and his Immediate Family

On our way home we rode through the Sunday chicken marketplace. Lots of plucking and clucking and neck breaking and chicken baking. The motorcycle-packed market teeming with caged birds and loose feathers didn’t faze me the same way it would have a year ago. Such is life in Indonesia.

The Motorcycle-Filled Chicken Market

Plucking Some Chickens

This was also our last English Kids Camp of the year. Bittersweet, but knowing that it will undoubtedly resume in July once school starts again made it easier to say goodbye. I love that I see and recognize these kids out in the community and that they no longer call me bule (foreigner), but light up and call me Ms. Maggie as I ride by on my bicycle.

Ika and Nurliana with Grades 1 and 2

All the Volunteers and Kids Together for One Last Picture

Monday: Mr. Jonathan, a current PC trainee, came to observe my site. What it’s like to team-teach in an Indonesian school, take public transportation to a new location, and have daily interaction in a permanent community. Logically (Indonesian logic), half the students and teachers thought he was my secret boyfriend coming to visit, and the other half wanted him to immediately take my place at school- most of the time those halves overlapped.

Mr. Jonathan and His Sweet 1950s Ride

Tuesday: After school and my weekly study group with students from a neighboring high school, Mr. J., Bu S and I, took a bike ride around Mojosari. We stopped at the balai desa when we saw a group of little girls practicing traditional Javanese dance (the equivalent of an elementary school ballet class in the States), and naturally jumped in to try a few of the moves ourselves. Unremitting laughter from the observing parents ensued for the duration of our performance, but we had a great time. Well I did at least, not sure how 6’ 4” Mr. Jonathan felt being spontaneously subjected to dancing with a bunch of 8 year-old girls.

Not Quite as Limber as the Kids

Trying to Keep Up

With the Scarf

Group Shot

Fatigued after 2 dances, we hopped back on our bikes and cruised around for awhile longer, checking out the pasar, or market, at night. Inquiring then mentally compiling a list of food prices, we ventured through the market fruit by fruit, veggie by veggie: 1 kilo of small potatoes: 6,000 Rp (about 60 US cents); 1 kilo of melon: 4,000Rp (40 cents); the list of fresh produce, endless.

Fruit Stall at the Night Market

Weighing a Kilo of Wortel (Carrots)

Wednesday: Jonathan’s Last Day- school suddenly, yet not entirely unpredicted, ended early so that the teachers could have their government-issued ID pictures taken in Mojokerto. With only a few people at school, I helped with new student enrollment for the upcoming semester. Came home, prepared a sweet review game for grade 11, went on a brief, yet enjoyable wildlife adventure with my host bro and his friends (catching crabs and these cool golden bugs) and spent the remainder of the evening watching Batman (Michael Keaton, Jack Nicholson, circa 1989) on my modest computer.

Pam (host bro) With His Caught Crab

Catching Kepek Emas (Golden Bugs)

Thursday: I officially survived an entire year of teaching. I taught my last two classes of the semester and felt a huge, previously-ignored weight lift off my shoulders. I reflected on my own last days of high school and everything that’s happened between my 2003 graduation and May 2011. A lot. Took time to enjoy the little things on my walk home, like the two goats which I’ve fondly, yet secretly, named Daisy and Sunflower in tribute to the goats at a camp I worked at one summer; the neighbor kids walking back from mengaji (Al Quran study group) in their adorable ngaji outfits; the sound of the afternoon call to prayer; freshly laundered clothes drying in the ever-so-slight, but nonetheless present, breeze in cohorts with the unrelenting sun.

Daisy the Goat

Ngaji Girls

Friday: Since Friday is only a half day of school due to Jumatan or Friday prayer, and I don’t teach, I decided to stay home, work on plans for my parents’ visit next month, and do my weekly laundry. Regardless of how long I live in Indonesia, I will neither get used to nor enjoy washing my sheets by hand. I unequivocally despise it. The space my family usually uses to dry our laundry is currently under construction in an attempt to build a garage, so the temporary makeshift bamboo beams which have taken over have become our new drying locale. As I previously mentioned, we have some semi-permanent house guests. For the past two weeks I’ve been sharing the already hectic mandi, mealtime area, and my sandals with 4 extended family construction workers. They’re really nice guys, but the house gets a bit congested from time to time.

I had to go to school late in the afternoon anyway for graduation rehearsal, so I didn’t feel too guilty about taking some time to myself earlier in the day.

Drying Laundry

Saturday: Wisuda 2011! Another early morning (3:30 am) endeavor to be dressed in traditional kebaya in support of my school’s graduation ceremony scheduled to start at 8:00. From the three times I’ve worn kebaya (the Batu mayor’s house for wayang kulit, the wedding last December, and the recent graduation) I think I’ve worn more make-up and used more hairspray than I have collectively during my previous 25 years of life. I played a special role in the ceremony: leading the headmistress and other important school officials to the stage with a slow, very precise walk alongside Mas Manan, a friend from school. The scheme was kept a secret until the moment of, and the entire audience- students, parents and teachers alike- were in a state of complete astonishment. I had fun with it all, but I think I met my kebaya quota for the year.

Kebaya for Graduation

Sunday: As ritual insists, Bu S and I went on our Sunday morning bike ride, this time to her former Middle School a few miles away. We stopped briefly to chat with some passing students, again to gossip with four women who were planting kacang hijau (a type of long green bean), and once more to discuss the predicament that some of the surrounding elementary schools are presently facing: students coming late to school because their parents work odd hours in the factories and don’t have the capacity to take their kids to school any earlier. A tiring ride up hill the way there, which meant a refreshing downhill cruise on the way home- sun on my face, wind in my hair. Embraced every moment of it.

Planting Kacang Hijau

Early Morning Planting

Hung out the rest of the day with a few minor, familiar interruptions: English Club being cancelled because the school is preparing for semester exams, so we weren’t allowed to enter the classrooms; a random man stopping by my house to ask if I could come to his home to teach him English and additionally requesting that I teach the army stationed in Mojosari “when I have time”; my host brother wanting to show me an “anaconda” at a neighbor’s house, swearing that it’s 9 meters in length was something to be reckoned with- I had just finished my afternoon mandi, so I decided to pass this time. It was a lazy, but much needed relaxing day, and it ended perfectly with a phone call from my brother.

Maybe to an outsider’s eye this seems less than monotonous and routine, but as I mentioned before, it’s just another unsystematic week at site.