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.’

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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.

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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?