one year in country

I still remember Month 1 of being in Indonesia. So excited to be in a new country as the first Peace Corps group since the 60s, but equally perplexed about how I would manage 27 months of spicy food, squatty potties, and a seemingly impossible language barrier. One year seemed infinitely far away. Would I really be able to commit to this new life for that long, let alone the full 2 years? But I made it. Officially 12 months in country. I remember leaving Colorado on that icy March day, following the joint birthday party of my two nieces and a family dinner at my brother’s new place. Not really sure what to expect, but aware that I needed a new adventure in a new place with new people and a new mentality.
365 days later I’m almost halfway through that adventure. With all of the ups and downs over the past year, I can honestly say it has been an amazing experience thus far. Sure, I’ve had my battles with head lice, ringworm, vicious mosquitoes, ants, cold bucket baths, not being in control of my diet, moldy clothes and shoes, and extreme culture shock. But I’ve also been serenaded more times than I will probably ever be the rest of my life, inspired others…been inspired, been told I’m beautiful on a daily basis by strangers and friends alike, become competent in a new language, been challenged in ways I never anticipated…succeeded…and failed, made lifelong friends, seen some of the most unbelievable sites in the world, and met the President of the United States.
I feel good. I’ve become a better person, someone I’m proud of. Not flawless by any means, but continuously in the process of transforming into someone I could one day admire. I look forward to what the next 15 months has to offer.

A Much Belated Picture of Our Meeting with President Obama

The Sugarcane Thieves and Our Market Adventure- March 6

Traditional Market

As a result of Peace Corps protocol, I give my host family money every month for food rather than shopping and cooking for myself, so it’s a special occasion when I do frequent the pasar tradisional or traditional market. Despite the gawking stares, open slabs of meat, and fly-covered piles of fish, I enjoy walking through the market, soaking in the sights and sounds. Today Bu S and I went to a type of krepuk manufacturer in the market where we got to meet the female workers, learn the process, and practice hands-on how to make the traditional Javanese snack.

Afterwards we strolled through the narrow alleyways of the market where ominous low overhangs threatened anyone over 5 feet. We ran into one of Bu S’ cousins, a seamstress who mends garments using a foot-powered sewing machine strategically placed in one of the market passageways. A cat distressingly feeding her four kittens, and mountains of shredded coconuts were also among the highlights of our market excursion.

I’m so sheltered in my homestay and school, that it’s nice to experience the daily routines of, and talk to, other people in my community. While navigating the crowded stalls, Bu S told me of a 70-year old woman who, without fail, herds 50 goats to a particular secluded location at 7 each morning. So, after a suitable amount of time at the pasar we hopped back on our bikes and headed off in search of the infamous woman.

We waited for the ancient, legendary goat herder, bordered on both sides by endless rows of 10-foot sugarcane stalks. While waiting we were unavoidably tempted to break down one of the alluring shoots and sample. Apparently it’s common knowledge that as long as it’s not more than one or two stalks, there’s no harm in not asking permission. In addition to Bu S’ childhood sugarcane knowledge and experience, we were armed with only our hands and teeth. But we managed to acquire a nice-looking plant, break it in half, each peel back its thick armor with our teeth, and attempt giant bites of the insides as sugar water dripped down our arms mixing with the earth from our soiled hands as a result of our dirty conquest. You can’t swallow the rough produce, so after chewing and sucking out all of the juice, we spit out the organic surplus and went back for bite after bite until our jaws hurt and we realized that the goat herder wasn’t coming today.

As we headed back to our bikes which we had left unchained in front of a small junior high school, we came across a group of about 15 students in their brown scout uniforms sitting outside and becoming increasingly giddier as the bule (foreigner) approached their school. Not surprisingly, Bu S knew several of the students and asked what subject they were supposed to be studying. “Sport. But the teacher didn’t come to school today.” Not uncommon for the small school (36 students total for 3 grades) which can’t always afford to pay their teachers. It was still early Sunday morning, so the two of us offered to be their guru olah raga for the remainder of the period. As neither one of us is extremely athletic, we focused on stretching, then found a volleyball and practiced passing with a language twist- encouraging students to introduce themselves in English each time they hit the ball. We finished the short lesson with a quick relay race. And the final event: a head-to-head race between Bu S and myself. The students went crazy cheering us on, even though we’re two old, slow ladies.

The herder never came, but it was still one amazing morning.

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International Women’s Day- March 8

I was seriously energized about participating in my first International Women’s Day in Indonesia as well as my first as a PCV. And to top it all off, 2011 marked the 100^th anniversary!

Maybe it’s because I had an older sister who taught me the concept of Frauen Power at an early age. Or the fact that the two of us used to team up against our younger brother and threaten to make him drink water from the turtle tank unless he consented to saying the words “Girls are better, stronger and smarter than boys!” It was definitely an unfair matchup- there are ten years between he and my sister and it was 2-on-1, but it was the principle of gender equality that drove us to such levels of coercion. Not that he deserved it; we were just trying to assert our feminine supremacy at an early age with the only male that would succumb to threats of dirty turtle water. We never actually made him drink it, and I think as an adult he now has a greater respect for women. His past girlfriends and future wife can thank his older sisters for that. Since those youthful days, I’ve come to realize that it’s not about girls being better than boys; it’s about girls being equal to boys.

I teach at a school where the ratio of female to male students is approximately 6:1, where we have a headmistress and not a headmaster, and where 11^th grade girls have the option of wearing pants rather than the ankle-length pleated skirts their 10^th and 12^th grade counterparts are required to wear- a pretty significant detail when talking about a madrasah, or Islamic High School. I thought for sure my students would full-heartedly embrace the idea of celebrating the successes of women. In actuality, I was caught off-guard by their complete apathy. Usually if I’m passionate about something when I walk into the classroom, at least a handful of my students jump on board. Not this time. None. Not even my most devoted and ambitious students.

Completely baffled by their persistent indifference even after I shared about the history and the injustices that women have faced in the past, I asked them one simple question: “Do you think men and women are equal in Indonesia today?” In my mind there was undoubtedly only one accurate answer.

Based on my first-hand observations and conversations with male and female colleagues alike, I’ve learned that it’s the wife’s religious obligation to obey everything her husband tells her to do; that physical and verbal abuse against the wife is not uncommon; and that oftentimes girls are expected to drop out of school in order to marry a man 5-10 years her senior, regardless of it being against the law.

But according to my students, men and women aren’t unequal in Indonesia. The above facts are just a part of the culture; just the way it is. I felt a little bit nauseous when I realized the overwhelming consensus. Statistically, 80% of my school’s students will get married directly out of high school, rarely considering furthering their education. Culturally it’s taboo for a woman to decide to never marry because the only way she can be happy in life is if she has a husband (translated verbatim from my notorious host father) who promptly impregnates her. I get so much slack for being 25 with no immediate plans to get married, whereas the 30-35 year old single male teachers at my school aren’t confronted with the same societal demands. It’s stereotypes and double standards and overwhelming mentalities like these that allow oppression to take place, however large or small the scale might be. Needless to say, my students did not share my same mindset when I threw out ideas of “100 Essays/Poems About Women We Admire” or “100 Photographs of Women in Achievement” or “An All-Day Girls-Only Sports Competition” to celebrate 100 years of women’s rights and accomplishments.

Instead, I commemorated the 100^th Anniversary by unexpectedly staying up till midnight (keep in mind that I haven’t stayed up past 9 in almost a year now) and helping my host sister complete her scholarship application for university. I thought it was a pain to fill out applications in the US, but the lack of concern for a student’s future here makes getting letters of recommendation and copies of school transcripts nearly impossible. Forms her teachers and principal should have filled out remained bare on desktops until a third party came into the picture (usually Bu S).

My sis is the oldest of three daughters of a housewife and a krepuk (traditional Indonesian snack) seller, whose monthly income is less than $100. (In comparison, I give my host family about $80 a month solely for food). She lives with her aunt and uncle, my host parents, because she cannot otherwise afford school fees. In return, she cooks, washes dishes, irons, and cleans for the family. So while my untamed host brother sits in front of the TV, oftentimes ‘too tired’ to feed himself and oblivious to the inequality, she carries out her daily tasks and manages to go to school full time, usually without complaint. At 17 I thought it majorly cramped my style to empty the dishwasher, let alone take care of the rest of the family.

Unsurprisingly, without this scholarship there’s no way she can afford to go to university. And without the dedication and school connections from Bu S, there’s no way she could have maneuvered the complicated forms or convinced her teachers to take a more active role. In return for helping hours on end, night after night, Bu S and I pleaded my host sister to remember the frustrations and acts of kindness from various educators throughout this process; so that one day, she in turn can become a positive role model for the next generation of students as an aspiring teacher. She’s setting a precedent for her younger sisters by being the first in her extended family to consider prolonging her (or his) education.

Maybe I couldn’t carry out the large-scale Women’s Day celebration I had imagined, but I’m pretty content with the way I spent my day. Inspiring one girl at a time to follow her dreams in spite of all the obstacles that may arise is a pretty cool feeling, and it’s bound to cause a ripple effect.

And next year I am going to try a lot harder to promote International Women’s Day as well as participate in its Indonesian equivalent, Hari Kartini, named after Indonesia's first, and only, female president.

AMINEF Education Fair- February 26

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to take all of my English Club students, so Bu Eni and I chose the two students who had been most vocal about wanting to study abroad prior to hearing about the Education Fair. Eko and Putri, both very promising students, were ecstatic when we extended the invitation. It would be in Surabaya, so we’d have to miss the last 2 periods of the day, but what high school student doesn’t mind skipping out a bit early? The remaining days between sharing the news and the actual trip were full of questions: Ms. Maggie, what should I wear? Ms. Maggie, what do I need to prepare? Ms. Maggie, should I bring anything? Ms. Maggie, how will we get there? Ms. Maggie, tell me once more, what time should we meet to leave?

Their enthusiasm was tangible, and increased even more once we found out Bu S would be able to join us as a representative for her school. So after lunch on Saturday (Indonesian time) we met in front of our school’s mosque, loaded into Bu Eni’s car, and headed off to Surabaya to find out how to make one’s study abroad dreams a reality.

The fair itself was a bit overwhelming. It was held at the esteemed Marriott Hotel where we had to walk through metal detectors and were surrounded by more foreigners than I’ve seen in the last 6 months combined. A bit of sensory overload for my students, but they did great. They spoke with several American university representatives in English, met Lauren, Nisha and Angela, as well as their students, and overall conducted themselves in a very mature manner. Then we joined some of the Peace Corps staff and headed over to the General Consul’s residence as part of a special invitation to meet returned Indonesian exchange students as well as American Ambassador Marciel who had traveled in from Jakarta.

Sure, it was cool for me to meet the new Ambassador, but it was so much more wonderful to see how Eko and Putri responded to having not only the opportunity to meet him in person, but also the chance to speak to returned exchange students. It was the next step in realizing their aspiration to travel outside of Indonesia. I could feel the excitement radiating from them once we got back into the car, somewhat speechless trying to comprehend the significance of what had just happened. Declarations like “one of the best days of my life” and “that was so cool” echoed through the car. I had no doubt before the Surabaya trip that they would be successful with whatever path they decide to follow in the future, this just gave them a little more encouragement to take the path less traveled…a sensible man once said it makes all the difference.

Bu Eni, Bu S, Me, Ambassador Marciel, Putri, Eko

My host mom has been in the hospital for the last 48 hours due to some bleeding during her first trimester. At times I forget that I’m living outside of the ‘developed world’; I have so many modern conveniences at my site, that sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m in Peace Corps. But instances like this remind me that I am living in the developing world. Health information isn’t always as accessible or up-to-date as it is in other countries and oftentimes myths take more precedence than scientific truth. If this had happened in the US, I can almost guarantee that the woman would have immediately spoken with a doctor, but here she waited almost 2 days before consulting anyone. I haven’t been completely filled in on the details, and I’m not sure what her reasoning for waiting was, but I do know that my host mom has miscarried in the past, and I’m scared for her. Maybe a condition that is relatively easy to diagnose in the US like placenta previa, is more difficult to treat here. Indonesian hospitals are generally overcrowded- I’ve seen rooms with almost 20 patients in addition to their 3-4 family members taking care of them; there’s little to no privacy depending on how much one is able to pay; and the sanitary conditions are subpar by American standards. I hate not knowing her status or being able to help out. Her husband has spent a majority of his time at the hospital with her, so there has been a severe void in communication between my house and the actual situation. I’m worried. I know how much she wants this baby.