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.

a rollercoaster

April 19, 2011

Peace Corps forewarned that our 27-month dedication to live abroad would be full of ups and downs; a rollercoaster of highs and lows. They even hand out a timeline displaying when those highs and lows are likely to happen- usually along the same path as culture shock adaptation and re-adaptation and re-adaptation and...

I’ve hit a low and I can’t pinpoint exactly why. A loss of motivation. A feeling of insignificance after 11 months at site. Committing two years of my finite life in an attempt to ‘make the world a better place’ isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. Instead of being valued for my educational background and new ideas, my work community looks to me as a walking advertisement to increase school enrollment- ‘the native speaker who looks like a stereotypical American should look.’

Although no one has said those exact words, they’ve come pretty close. I’m ready to get dirty, not just be an alluring face.

As a result of this slump, I realize now more than ever what truly makes me happy in this whole crazy experience: watching and helping kids learn. For now, forget the other teachers and the untimely meetings and the shady administration and my homestay family. Hands on, one-on-one, I can see my kids’ improvement. From my elementary school kids who spontaneously stop by my house in between the days we have English Camp; to my high school students who ask for help outside of class or text me with their ever-improving English; to my host siblings, both of whose English has drastically improved over the last few months, I’m most happy when I see one of them finally ‘get it’. I can’t make every person fluent in English, but I can gradually help students improve their vocabulary and understanding of the language; and better yet, increase their confidence along the way.

April 5, 2011

Did not see that coming. Made a student cry today. I figured her group would be upset when I confronted them outside of class about copying their drama from the internet. I didn’t think there would be tears. But the confrontation led to the realization that my students (specifically in this class) are stressed about being perfect. Terrified of making mistakes, but wanting to improve. I never thought of myself as a threatening teacher, but this group of students admitted that they were scared of me. Not the impression I want to exude, and I think all of the other PCVs would laugh if they heard me described that way.

But I think that’s part of the cultural exchange. As an American, I’m more direct with my expectations. What I consider constructive feedback may be taken as severe criticism by my students.

I left that small group meeting feeling pretty low. About the situation. About myself. About how to proceed with the remainder of my time here. I relayed what I had learned to my co teacher, and it’s been weighing on my mind ever since. How can I make it better?

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I just opened a text message from this student. This is the first time she’s ever sent me an SMS. Giving out my number and offering individual extra help isn’t always the most successful approach, but today it worked. She’s feeling much better and is eager to improve her English. Sometimes you have to go down before you can go up. And maybe the tears from earlier this afternoon were necessary in moving forward for both of us...and in building those one-on-one relationships that so often epitomize a significant Peace Corps experience.

April 20, 2011

I love eating breakfast out on my front porch. Everyone else is inside watching TV or getting ready for school and it seems to be the only time it’s cool enough to enjoy a substantial period of time outdoors…up until about 6:30 am when I can already feel the sun beating down. My once pristine view of corn fields and Mount Penanggungan was quickly replaced by the construction of new houses. I guess that’s the price for living on the most densely populated island in the world. Every day new faces walk by. Today, two little boys, slightly younger than my oldest niece who just turned 6, were walking their two grown goats (roughly the same size as the boys) to graze in between two of the newly built houses. It made me reflect on the roles of children around the world. Right now, back in Colorado, little E would be picking out her weather-appropriate clothes for school, feeding herself the breakfast her parents prepared and being escorted to the bus which would then take her to school. In Indonesia, children the same age are still handfed by their parents, play with knives and fire, and are expected to take care of goats. The teachers at my school are amazed when I tell them that both my 3 and 6 year old nieces can not only feed themselves, but sleep alone and dress themselves. “Wow, how do you teach them that?!?!” My answer: The same way you teach Indonesian children to not use their left hand in public, or to bring an elder’s hand to their cheek as a sign of respect…it’s learned behavior. In some ways Indonesian children seem so much more grown up and experienced than kids in America, and in others, so sheltered and dependent. It’s interesting to see what is prioritized in different countries. One’s not necessarily better than the other, just different.

++++++

I’m starting to realize why there are so many accounts of PCVs marrying other PCVs. They’re the only ones who really understand what this whole experience is like. As much as one can blog or call home to share about this experience, it can be difficult to fully grasp the conditions here unless you live it every day. It’s great to have support from back home, but I wish everyone could come out and live and work with me for a month to see it first hand.

On that note, my parents are coming out in June for a few weeks! Can’t wait to show them around site then escape to one of the other islands for a bit…maybe even go down to Australia.

April 21, 2011

Beauty. Perceived differently around the world. What unites us all is that every girl is at some point (or several points) in her life self-conscious about the way she looks, regardless of how beautiful she is considered by the rest of society.

There are three little girls who periodically come over to my house after evening prayer to study English. Usually we just practice reading stories from Highlights magazines or have vocab races with the flashcards my mom sent out. Last night we made ‘love letters’ for our friends and family. When they asked who I was making mine for, I pulled out a picture of me with my four closest friends from high school.

I’ve commented that skin color is of foremost significance here, but I was still shocked at the first words that came out of the girls’ mouths. ‘Hitam, hitam! Yang lain lebih cantik!” They immediately singled out my friend who was tanner than the rest of us- not considered black by any stretch of the American imagination, but golden by comparison due to some quality time spent at the tanning salon. This particular friend is considered strikingly beautiful by American standards. Bronze skin, blond hair, stylish, perfect hair and makeup. She was even a contestant on The Bachelor “Wings of Love”. But all these girls could see was that she had darker skin than the rest of us- darker skin that my friend had striven to attain. In their 4^th grade minds that made her different, different in a negative way.

There’s such an emphasis placed on physical appearance here. I’ve heard stories of the ‘pretty’ students getting higher scores than their less ideal looking classmates based solely on the fact that they have fairer skin and a pointed nose. Not my favorite part of Indonesian culture, but something that will not change during my short time here. But I still share about the different types of beauty all over the world in hopes that these girls might one day look in a mirror and think that their nose and skin and eyes and hair are beautiful. And one day, maybe they’ll even share with their children that physical beauty is only skin deep- what’s more important is what's inside.

That being said, it still totally makes my day when an 8 year-old little boy runs up to me, expending all of his courage, to tell me that his equally young friend thinks I’m pretty.

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EARTH DAY

Earth Day (April 22, 2011)

As part of an assignment at ‘teacher training’ a few months ago, the science teachers were asked to come up with a hypothetical plan for composting at our school. I was stoked to hear that thoughts of composting were circulating through the minds and mouths of the teachers. But that was the last and only time I heard any discussion about it. Weeks later it was still just a thought on a missing piece of paper, and a constant on my mind. So in hopes of doing something productive at my school before my two years comes to a close, I approached one of the biology teachers who seemed to have a more vested interest in the potential of composting. And that’s how our Plant for MAN Mojosari group came about; a group composed of 8 teachers spanning the Biology, Chemistry, Geography and English faculties, each of whom is optimistic about working towards a more eco-friendly school. Of course, my idea of a green school and that of my fellow teachers differs somewhat. Needless to say, I may have been slightly overambitious.

Soon after, the not-yet-named Plant for MAN Mojosari group started fairly-regular weekly meetings to discuss the idea of composting at our school, and eventually scaled back our lofty ambitions to something a bit more manageable and multifunctional: planting a garden. The biology teachers were eager to have it as a new biology lab, the chemistry teachers for experiments, the geography teachers for the 10^th grade curriculum, and I was excited to take the first step in a greener direction.

Hours spent on a proposal to be submitted to our principal, combined with the time spent researching ways to incorporate our ideas into the current national curriculum, and creating sample projects to share with the students (smaller bamboo gardens) absorbed most of my mental energy for several weeks, but it felt nice to be working towards something. We selected two students from each class to help with the project and little by little worked our way towards launching the project.

working on our small, but very loved garden

I’m not going to lie; planning was by far not the easiest part. Conflicting views on how to handle logistics, fund the project, include the students and when to ‘launch’ made it a bit stressful at times. Not to mention everyone’s different concept of being on time. But like most projects, it was well worth it in the end. Each student brought two plants from home, categorized them based on their scientific family, and started working even though it should have been a holiday- Good Friday. Yeah, most of the girls were afraid to get dirty, so they used a plastic bag as hand protection from the soil; and the other teachers showed up at least an hour late or not at all, but we did it! It was less than structured, but that’s how things roll at my school. Now it’s just a matter of maintaining our project goals and objectives. We’ve already started outlining how to compost at our school and taken the first baby steps towards becoming more environmentally friendly. Now if I could only get the students and teachers to throw their trash in the plentiful trash bins around our school…

preparing the soil

sorting the plants

identifying the scientific family

mixing in the compost- protected by plastic bags

teacher shot


one of the many hardworking students

April 24, 2011- Earth Day cont.

Today at our English Kids Camp, we watched FernGully- FernGully with successfully translated Indonesian subtitles (after many, many long hours and an absurd amount of help from a good friend and a dictionary)! The kids loved it! Sparked a conversation about organic and inorganic trash and led to a trash pick-up race. Helping the environment can be fun.

April 25, 2011

Today concluded our Earth Day garden project. Our principal ceremoniously planted an avocado tree. Well, actually she posed with it. Bright pink ribbon-wrapped trowel in one hand, tree in the other. After pictures the students got down in the soil and did the dirty work- no protective plastic bags this time! The Jawa Pos, a regional newspaper, came to cover the story, so we were also able to show off the beginnings of our composting project as well as the environment posters my kids had made as part of a group assignment the week before. The students did a great job explaining the composting process to the reporter, and I think having another party interested in our project was really encouraging for them. We’re hoping that this little bit of publicity will boost support and enthusiasm from people who are higher up and who could potentially help out financially in the future so that we can expand our green efforts. As chaotic as it seemed at times, we successfully completed the first step. I look forward to updating everyone on our future ventures. Wish us luck!

posing with the avocado tree

showing off the beginnings of our composting project

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.

Happy Birthday M! February 15

This year February 15 commemorated the birth of Prophet Muhammad, or Maulid Nabi Muhammad. Our school observed the national holiday by conducting various class competitions including Arabic calligraphy, reading the Holy Qur’an, cooking/presentation of yellow rice, soccer for the boys, and performing various passages referencing the Prophet. The teachers and students also participated in a blood drive…set up a bit differently than what I’m used to in the US, but it was great to see the student involvement nonetheless. We have so many talented kids at our school, and I was continuously impressed with the showcase of their various abilities throughout the day. The first, second, and third place winners for each competition received an envelope for their class, each enclosed with a set amount of rupiah to use as they wish. Back when I was in school, we just earned a pizza party. Given my current situation however, I would have much preferred a gigantic slice of pizza...New York style; the kind that you can fold in half and the grease runs down your arm and drips onto the newly transparent paper plate. I’m not gonna lie, food is a very close second behind family, as far as things I miss most from home. Luckily the food here is relatively delicious, and Maulid Nabi Muhammad was no exception. The day ended with a communal feast of yellow rice with various side dishes, spread across the floor atop banana leaves and eaten with our hands. Everyone says it’s more delicious if you eat with your hands, and I have yet to find otherwise.

1. Performance 2. Blood Drive 3. Yellow Rice Presentation 4. Eating with our Hands

Camp Trawas February 20-21

Not sure what I was expecting. I went in with mixed emotions; part of me was excited to be spending a night away in the mountains, the other part was baffled as to where the money came from for all the teachers to have this 2-day workshop-outbound experience.

PROS: It was great to see other parts of the teachers’ personalities come out…I talked with the one English teacher who has rejected speaking to me for the last 9 months -it was only a few words, but it was definite progress…I tried my first ropes course…made new friends…the scenery was absolutely incredible: terraced rice fields intertwined with copious banana trees and mountain trails.

CONS: I don’t understand how our time there improved our teaching capabilities in the slightest: punctuality wasn’t encouraged, a blind eye turned towards cheating during competitions, and there was no reflecting on how we could apply any of the experience in the classroom…it was always the men who took the leadership role, both because most of them have loud, dominant personalities and because the women automatically defaulted to them to make the decisions; I imagine that if only female teachers participated they would be perfectly capable of accomplishing the tasks, maybe even in a more efficient manner…everyone threw their trash/cigarette butts throughout the pristine environment, as if plastic is somehow eco-friendly…EACH teacher was given 75,000 Rp in cash for transportation costs, even though we all carpooled together and our location was less than a 30-minute drive from school.

Each of these circumstances represents a more significant problem that I’ve perceived during my time at site, with my own biases of course. Whether relating to the environment or corruption or gender roles, I’ve been faced with the realization that injustice is alive and well in my community. In my PC position, I feel like I should somehow improve these situations, but I have no idea where to start; it seems so overwhelming. I can’t force (and don’t want to force) people to change their ideologies, and if only a small handful of people think there’s a problem, maybe the minority is in the wrong? I know what I believe in, but I can’t help but feel like an outsider imposing her modern views in a traditional society. Being a PCV is more than teaching English in a classroom…but what’s the next step?

Ultimately, I did enjoy spending time with the teachers outside of a school setting; but I don’t think that our little getaway warranted missing school for a day or the use of school funds. Several of the teachers were ‘too sore’ to teach the subsequent few days, but still managed to come in to school in order to scan in for attendance and hang out in the teachers’ room. As a ‘mandatory workshop’, I was expecting to benefit somehow as a teacher. Instead I became more frustrated with the teaching mentality at my school. As customary in Indonesia, we each received a certificate of participation to add to our portfolios; and my photo ended up in the Jawa Pos. As far as the majority of the teaching staff is concerned, that’s the sign of a successful teaching workshop.

a sadder side

My phone goes off at midnight, but I’m completely beat after a long day of teaching followed by an intense evening of reading Highlights magazines with Fani and Wanda from next door-who knew taking turns reading aloud in English could be so much fun for third-graders and so exhausting for me? I don’t answer and turn my phone to vibrate, but still keep it near as my morning alarm clock. An hour later, an SMS from one of the teachers, but it’s in Arabic and I don’t understand most of it. I’ll try again in the morning. Another SMS. This one I understand even in my sleepy state. It starts with a prayer in Arabic and ends with the words suami b han meninggal…my principal’s husband just passed away.

I knew he’d been diagnosed with cancer. I knew he was really sick. I knew they went on a second pilgrimage to Mecca a few months ago in hopes that prayer and holy water might help. But I was still unprepared for the midnight message.

Bu Han lost her mother two weeks ago. As if by protocol, school let out early so the teachers could all go to Batu to pay our respects, but no one informed me via SMS, let alone in the middle of the night.

I never met her husband; he was always in the hospital whenever I’d been to her house. But I know the rest of her family- I spent time with her son in Bali; I was introduced to her mother the same day I met her at Swearing In back in June; I’ve seen pictures of them all happy and healthy together. This was my first funeral in Indonesia where I felt any emotional connection. I later cried.

I went to school like any other day. But instead of starting the day with the standard 15-minute reading from Al Quran, a special prayer was said over the loud speaker. From inside the teachers’ room I could hear the students following along in unison in a melodious mantra. I’ve become familiar with the rhythm even though I don’t understand the words, the rhythm which asks Allah for a peaceful afterlife for the departed.

My co teacher was in Mojokerto for the day, so I entered class alone, anticipating that the end-of-school tone would sound early and interrupt the lesson. It did. My students let out a loud cheer which was eventually drowned out by the combination of the other 23 classes shouting in merriment too. It was strange to me. Someone had died, we had just finished a 30-minute prayer for the loss, and the students acted like class had been cancelled because the ice-cream man was giving out free cones.

I was in a somber state. Didn’t know how to react. Hopped in a car and headed to Bu Han’s house for the service, less than 12 hours after her husband had been pronounced dead. The house was packed with students and family and teachers and friends. Being one of the last to arrive, I stood in the back, my view of the casket blocked by a protruding wall. But I heard the grief-stricken shrieks of his daughter as they lifted his body, preparing to go to the cemetery. That’s when I cried. He left behind a wife and two children, none of whom were ready to say goodbye.

Covered in a green cloth (the color of Islam) with gold embroidered Arabic script, I saw the body being carried out via a reflection in an advantageously placed mirror. An empty feeling overcame me, the feeling of how absolute death is regardless of how much you pray for a promising afterlife.

We followed to the cemetery where a pack of men were already surrounding the newly petal-covered grave, squatting in prayer. Too far back to hear what was being said, I focused my attention on the three survivors who were now holding each other with blood-shot eyes and that empty look in their faces. Tonight won’t be the same as last night. Dad’s gone forever.

Another Sunday morning expedition on foot with Bu S, this time to the local landfill. I had run by it once when I first arrived here, not yet aware of the taboo of unaccompanied female joggers. Bu S suggested it as an interesting place to visit and a chance to meet people whose paths I might not otherwise cross.

A beautiful vegetable garden immediately welcomed us after we entered, and just a few steps further were the composting silos. Two rows of five white buildings whose sole purpose was to process organic waste. How ignorant I’d been- I thought for certain I was bringing this revolutionary idea of composting to my uninformed students and neighbors. I thought for certain if they knew about composting they would immediately opt not to burn all of their trash, but instead set aside old mango peels and apple rinds to create eco-friendly fertilizer for their small gardens. I thought for certain that the only reason they weren’t composting already was because they didn’t know it existed…because it was too advanced of an idea for them. I feel ashamed that I’d ever assumed that my knowledge on the matter was somehow superior. I quickly swallowed my pretentiousness and acknowledged the positive progress that was already taking place.

Bu S asked if I was prepared for the smell. Naturally I was, given the location, but I wasn’t prepared for the copious amounts of flies whose collective buzz made it difficult to hear at times. And the small clusters of people, with their large woven baskets and sorting tools, sifting through piles of decaying garbage also took me slightly by surprise.

Had I been alone I would have lacked the courage to approach them, but Bu S confidently greeted an elderly woman walking a few steps ahead of us. In rapid-fire Javanese, I understood little of the conversation, but the woman’s warm smile made me realize that Bu S had made yet another immediate friend. People are instantly drawn to her nonjudgmental friendliness, and I’m continually grateful for it.

We tagged along towards a cluster further down the fly infested path and gradually infiltrated the small group. Most Indonesians’ perceptions of a young, white American female don’t fit in the backdrop of a landfill, and I could tell they were slightly self-conscious of our surroundings and the less-than-glamorous work they were doing. But we gradually made new acquaintances and learned about why they go there every day, without fail.

And this is where the heart-wrenching, true-life, self-sacrificing story of determined parents comes in. Every day they come straight after morning prayer (sunrise) to sort through mountains of trash before a truck comes to pick up their collections of paper or plastic for the day, usually around 4 in the evening. They tie a handkerchief around their faces to mask the stench and fasten a bamboo hat to their heads to shield the scorching sun. The combination of intense heat and humidity is brutal when united with the rotting piles of garbage; not at all a pleasant work environment. So why go through this miserable set-up day after day, including holidays? “To pay our students’ school fees,” everyone proudly concurs. So for 500 Rp (the equivalent of 5 US cents) per kilo, they sort out the suitable paper and plastic from the mounds and mounds of other trash. Every three days they earn about 50,000 Rp, or US$5. My math is a little rusty, but I think that’s 100 kg or 220 pounds of sorted material! Low income by Javanese standards, a ruthless environment, and no recognition for hard work, all so their children will have a better future than they had. I asked if I could photograph them working in order to share with friends and family back home. They were somewhat embarrassed to have their picture taken in that setting, but pleased that I would be sharing their story.

So there is a harsher side to life in Indonesia. A group of students, who study at my house once a week, informed me yesterday that Indonesia is ranked third as the most corrupt country in the world. Something they’re not proud of, but something their generation is going to change. The students are the future, as cliché as that may sound. They have the motivation and the opportunities that their parents were never afforded. I look forward to seeing where Indonesia is at in 15 years.