June 16, 2017, marked twenty-three days since I moved to permanent site. But that day also denotes the completion of three full weeks of Ramadan, which has provided many opportunities for integration into my new community. Since Ramadan began only two days after I moved to permanent site, many people—Peace Corps Staff, senior Volunteers, and community members alike—assure that my first few weeks have been abnormal relative to the rest of the year. If I have learned anything from experiencing three weeks of Ramadan in Indonesia, it is that all of my schedules: school, sleeping, eating, pooping—are far from regular. I arrived at my school, with my composure in tact, around noon on Wednesday, May 24th. Pak Nurhasyim, the school principal, wanted me to say hello to all of the teachers and administration, letting everyone know that I had arrived. I recognized some of the teachers, particularly the English department, during my stroll around the offices; however, there were many teachers that I had not met before. After a short, ceremonial meeting with the English department and school administration, Mas Wendi drove me to my new home. We took a left, and later a right, towards the mountains and that “fresh” air that I was assured to find revitalizing during my initial visit. My new host parents sat on the steps of the front porch, anticipating my arrival. Neighbors watched from the front of their homes as my host parents greeted me and brought me into the house. They led me upstairs to my room and allowed me to being unpacking my bags. Mas Wendi offered to help place my clothes in the wardrobe, but I insisted that I would rather do that by myself on my own time. I was preparing for a slow first month at site so I wasn’t in a hurry to unpack everything within the first hours of arriving. Mas Wendi left the house, allowing me to reacquaint myself with the new family. I had one goal for the following day—to buy a bike. Peace Corps provides us with money at the beginning of service to buy a brand new bike. Since we are not allowed to ride motorcycles, and many families do not own cars, PCVs come to rely on their bikes as their main mode of transportation. My family owns four motorcycles, but no car. I knew that I wanted to buy the bike as soon as possible so that I would not be stuck at my house with no way to get anywhere other than my neighbors homes. Mas Wendi and Mas Kiki, a motorcycle-engineering teacher at the school, drove me that Thursday to the nearby town to find a bike. After visiting three different stores, we realized that the small town didn’t have bikes big enough for me. As a result, we ventured to the nearest city, which is about a thirty-minute car ride. Even in the bigger city, my options were limited. Ultimately, this made it easy to choose a bike. I opted to buy a new set of handlebars that curve up, which means I don’t have to lean over as much. I also bought a front and back light and lock too. Much to the teachers’ dismay, I also had a rack installed over the back wheel. Apparently, only ‘girl bikes’ have the back rack. I didn’t care; that rack was at the top of my bike accessory list. I wasn’t going to leave the bike store without a rack installed on the back of that bike. I bought a few bungee cords to secure any bags I place on the rack, and I left the store incredibly fond of my new purchase. We ended the day at a local café before returning to our village. I took time on Friday to bike to the local convenience store to purchase some necessities for home: soap, shampoo, etc. Ramadan—the impending month of fasting—was set to begin the next day. I wanted to avoid any reasons to leave the house, and into the heat, while I was fasting. Even though my host family, fellow teachers, and community members do not expect me to fast, I made the decision to try it because I believed it would be good way to show genuine interest for learning about Indonesian and Muslim culture. Furthermore, I have absolutely no idea what fasting is like. If I was ever going to try it, Ramadan in Indonesia is the perfect opportunity. I returned home determined to successfully get through the ensuing month. I had taken the time to gather supplies as if I was preparing for a storm that promised to bring an ice age to this equatorial nation. My alarms were set, my toiletries were stocked, my dehydration salt packets were plentiful, and my errands were complete. If needed, I could ration my supplies and survive until Peace Corps Staff rescues me. I bunkered down and went to sleep that night sporting a serious game face; “prepared” for whatever curve balls Ramadan might throw my way. I envisioned something along the lines of a month-long battle between my brain and my stomach. Meanwhile, Indonesians everywhere—grandparents, parents, teenagers, and young children—likely fell asleep without a single apprehension concerning the following day. The entire month of Ramadan is a time of spiritual discipline and deep contemplation of one’s relationship with God. Many Muslims exemplify that spiritual discipline with increased levels of charity, generosity, and prayer. Though that sounds fairly intense, Ramadan also serves a similar purpose to Christmas in the United States—celebrations with friends and family. During Ramadan, Muslims fast every day from dawn to dusk. The practice of fasting encourages Muslims to focus on their respective relationships with God, and also to experience what it feels like to be hungry and thirsty so that one feels compassion for the poor and needy. People participating in puasa, or fasting, refrain from eating, drinking, smoking, or engaging in sexual activity throughout the day. I begin the day with Sahur at 3am, which is the morning meal. I awoke to the sound of blasting music from the street. A man, driving a motorcycle and pulling a large speaker on a trailer, drives around the neighborhood playing music so that everyone wakes up. I stumbled downstairs to eat with my host parents. Nervous about fasting for my first time, I consumed as much food as possible and polished off two 1.18 liter bottles of water in the interim. Like a bear ready to hibernate for the long winter, I slowly climbed the stairs to my cave, returning to my deep sleep. I quickly realized, however, that unlike a bear, I couldn’t fall asleep on such a full stomach. It took me until five o’clock (approximately ninety minutes later) and at least half a dozen trips to the bathroom to pee until I could doze off once again. I awoke from my slumber around eight that morning. Instantly, I reminded myself to avoid excessive movements, fearing that otherwise I would run out of energy before dusk arrived. I slowly got out of bed, changed clothes, and made my way downstairs, expecting to witness the aftermath of something along the lines of a great apocalypse. I was surprised to see, conversely, that my host dad was working in his brick factory to the side of the house along with two of his employees. The sun was shining, the chickens were roaming, and my neighbors were still hanging clothes out on the line to dry. That morning scene appeared eerily similar to the other mornings I had experienced at site. Could it be possible that fasting did not necessarily mean the destruction of people’s day-to-day agenda, and civilization along with it? People carried on as if nothing had changed. My worst fears proved to be overly dramatic and far off from the true reality of Ramadan. While my family and neighbors were able to continue their days while fasting, I didn’t trust myself with the ability to do the same thing. I did, however, resort to reading in order to distract myself from my augmenting hunger. For the first time in a long while, I passed literally an entire day reading a book. Since I could not mask my hunger by drinking copious amounts of water or exercising, I forced myself to get lost in the story of Lawrence in Arabia. Magreb, or the evening call to prayer, sounded from the neighborhood mosques at sunset, which is around 5:25pm. When you hear the call to prayer that means it is time to berbuka puasa, or break fast (eat dinner). Indonesia sits on the equator so the exact time of sundown does not vary as we move further into summer. I gorged myself with food and water. After eating, I watched a television Ramadan special that starts with the evening call to prayer. Eventually, I entered a profound comatose state, and was in bed by 9pm. I had survived my first day of Ramadan; and fortunately, I did not have to resort to rationing my supplies quite yet. However uneventful and uninteresting that first day of Ramadan was, it prefaces many similar days over the course of the following few weeks. Despite a similar—and somewhat lethargic—schedule during the first three weeks of the holiday, I have made some changes. I go to school for a few hours every day. The students were taking their final exams during the first two weeks of Ramadan (their final exams take place while they are fasting). I spent time in the office to socialize with teachers, principals and students, and to access the Internet. The bike ride from my house to school is only five minutes, which is manageable in this heat while fasting. I spend those few hours each day writing emails to friends and family, catching up on the news back in the United States (all I can say is WOW), and reading Indonesia travel articles. Despite many teachers’ offers for me to proctor final exams, I consistently declined. Since I am still new around the school, students often gawk and become distracted when I am in their presence. I did not want to be a distraction during their final exams. The further into Ramadan I go, the less sleep I get. I was able to sleep for five or six hours before waking up for Sahur at 3am, and then could sleep for another couple hours at the beginning of fasting. Now, I rarely get more than three hours of sleep at night and I am lucky if I can fall asleep again after my morning meal. Originally, I could fall asleep about ninety minutes after Sahur, but that time grows longer by the day. I do chores after Sahur—washing clothes, sweeping the floor (must be done daily), folding laundry, read a book—instead of lying in bed for extended periods of time. Due to the lack of sleep at night, I tend to become very tired and take naps during the day. It is extremely hot during the day, which makes it difficult to sleep in my bedroom. I have learned to nap like my host mom, host dad, and many other Indonesians. There are tile floors throughout the entirety of my house, which feel nice and cool to the touch when the sun is beating down outside. While walking around the house throughout the day, it is not uncommon to find my host dad sleeping in the doorway to the kitchen or my host mom sleeping at the base of the stairs near the front entranceway of the house. I figure, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I, too, have fallen asleep on the floor in multiple rooms of the house. I wondered if taking naps during the day was preventing me from falling asleep at night. I varied my napping schedule, some days with naps and others without, but did not see any difference in my sleeping schedule at night. I have concluded that I will just have to suck it up and get through these last nine days. I think that my sleep schedule will go back to normal once my eating routine does too. I have not engaged in physical activity other than my short daily bike ride to school. Peace Corps encouraged us during Pre-Service Training to take this first month as an opportunity to learn about our surroundings while we are not dealing with a regimented teaching schedule. I heeded their advice and set out for a nice ride one day. I found some beautiful fields, biked some steep roads that went up the side of the nearby mountain, and met new neighbors. The adventure, however, kicked my hunger into high gear, much earlier than other days, and the rest of that day was quite difficult. The evening call to prayer couldn’t come soon enough. Thank you Peace Corps, but I do not plan on exploring my surroundings again until after the conclusion of Ramadan. Other than a large spider the size of my hand that lives in the bathroom, which dictates when I use the toilet, I feel relatively comfortable at home. I spend a lot of time talking with my host parents. Our topics of conversation evolve as my language skills develop. Neither of my parents has been to the United States, and that seems to steer the majority of our discussions. They began asking me about my family, American food, and my hobbies. Those conversations developed into discussing what crops and livestock are common in certain areas of the country. There is no better example to magnify the cultural differences between Indonesian and American societies than during a particular conversation I had with my host parents. While roughly 150 million people live on the island of Java, which is approximately two thirds the size of the great state of Wisconsin, I have found it difficult to depict how big our country is—in size and population. For example, the Peace Corps Headquarters is located in Surabaya, the second largest city in Indonesia, which is located about 180 kilometers (112 miles) from my site. It takes someone almost six hours to drive from my village to Surabaya. Someone could drive from Minneapolis to Chicago (408 miles) in the same amount of time. I gave this example to my host parents, and we dived into a conversation about infrastructure in Indonesia and the United States. Someone who drives a car from Minneapolis to Chicago will be on the interstate with four, six, or even eight lanes. Signs along the highway indicate how far you are from the next city, exit, or rest stop. Sometimes you can drive thirty miles without seeing civilization from the road, and other times it is nothing but concrete jungle. The road I take from my village to Surabaya is only two lanes, nearly half the width of local American city streets, and is traversed by cars, buses, bicycles, street vendor carts, and cows pulling wagons. There is a mix of homes, stores, and small fields along the entirety of the road. While at times—driving along the interstate in the United States—you might feel like your in the middle of nowhere; but I that doesn’t seem to be the case here. There is a clear dichotomy in Indonesia concerning large cities and small rural villages, but in between the two, one is always passing a combination of rural and residential scenes. The island is too small, and has too many people, for there to be any “no man’s land”. When I thought I was being clear enough, my host dad asked what happens to people in America who run out of water while driving. I assured him that people don’t usually die of hydration while traveling the interstates in the United States, but I will have to think of better examples for another one of our future discussions. These daily conversations with my host parents, and the questions they ask, are the easiest way for me to achieve my goal of promoting effective cross-cultural understanding. I am sure that during the next two years there will not be many other Indonesians, those whom I am able to spend an equally significant amount of time with, to paint such a comprehensive and profound portrait of my homeland. I can only hope that my host parents help me achieve this goal by spreading the knowledge themselves. I am also spending time getting to know my neighbors. I try to stop and talk to people outside their homes along my bike rides to and from school. There are different groups of kids who bike around, and I run into them frequently. I bike past one of the mosques and I might see a dozen of them sitting on the steps hanging out. When they see me, they shout “Bule, Bule”, which means “foreigner, foreigner”. I respond in Bahasa Indonesia with, “Where is the foreigner? I don’t see him.” I take off and the group of kids will chase after me on their bikes. As I pass more houses, and maybe another mosque, more kids join the mob in hot pursuit of the white Bule. I can bike faster than them so they never catch up to me. But I can hear them shouting at my off in the distance. Even though they can’t catch me, they know where I live. The kids like to pull up in front of my house and yell my name until I come down to talk with them. I offered to teach them some new card games and they eagerly accepted. While I usually berbuka puasa with my host family at home, some teachers from the school have invited me over to their homes to break fast with their families. Fellow Peace Corps Volunteers informed me that this is a great way to meet community members, and to get to know the teachers on a more personal level outside of school. When Mas Kiki, the motorcycle-engineering teacher who helped me buy my bicycle, invited me to his home for dinner, I readily obliged. I had already visited his house, and met his family, the day we drove into the city to buy my bicycle. I looked forward to breaking fast with Mas Kiki, his wife, and their two children. When I arrived at the house, it was not just the four of them; there was probably close to fifty people, and all of them rushed outside the house when Mas Kiki’s ten-year-old son (and my buddy) Fajri announced my arrival. There was a band—drums, keyboard, xylophone, and singer—on the front porch playing traditional Javanese music. The group provided the background noise as people lined up to take photos with me. I sat with Fajri and he introduced me to his friends. He ended up staying directly at my side for the remainder of the evening, except for the one song when he joined in on the fun and played the drums. He later told me that he would teach me how to play if I was interested. I think I will have to take him up on his offer! The food was delicious and I thoroughly enjoyed socializing with my new co-workers and meeting their families. Fajri was the life of the party; he took just as many pictures with other people as I did. Occasionally, people gave him new clothes and money—presumably gifts for Ramadan. After a couple hours I bid my farewells, shaking hands with every person in the house and biked back home. Before leaving, I assured Fajri that I would see him again soon. The next day I was at the office talking with Mas Kiki and other teachers. They informed me that the male teachers would break fast at the school that evening, and they wanted me to join. Mas Kiki added that his son Fajri would be there too. Since I enjoyed the previous evening so much, I happily agreed to break fast with them again that night. Mas Kiki said that Fajri was sick. I told him that I was surprised, because Fajri was in such great spirits the previous evening; and if he was sick, then why was he coming to break fast at the school that evening? Mas Kiki assured me that Fajri was all right, but he just couldn’t walk well. Confused, I asked why his son could not walk. Mas Kiki grabbed a pair of scissors from the nearby desk and made a cutting motion in front of his crotch. After an additional period of confusion, and a quick search on Google Translate, I learned that the event to break fast at Mas Kiki’s house the previous night was also Fajri’s circumcision celebration. That might sound oddly strange to you, but circumcision parties are very common in Muslim culture and throughout Indonesia. For reasons that I am unable to explain at this point in my service, Muslim boys are not circumcised when they born; rather, the operation takes place when the boys reach the age of ten years old. Fajri happens to be ten years old; and the looming operation—the reason why Mas Kiki’s family hosted a celebration at his house the previous evening—took place this morning. That’s why everyone wanted to take pictures with Fajri and give him gifts; they were all there to celebrate his circumcision. Even though Fajri was circumcised the very next morning, he still needed to break fast that evening and eat like the rest of us. What a champ! Sure enough, when Mas Kiki pulled up in his van later that evening, Fajri carefully climbed out of the car and walked—pigeon-toed—across the school’s courtyard into the office. I cringed at the sight of watching him walk uncomfortably, alongside his father, until he got to me. I offered to prepare him a plate of food so he could sit down and relax. After dinner, I went outside with him and he showed me his finger fidget spinner, a gift that he received for his circumcision. Occasionally, he dropped the spinner on the ground. Unable to pick it up himself, he asked me to get it for him. Meanwhile, some of the teachers came up to Fajri and gently tugged at his shorts or playfully pretended to hit his crotch. Trying not to laugh, I continued asking questions about his new gifts. I sure hope that his new finger fidget spinner can distract him from the pains originating in his penis! But at the end of each day during Ramadan so far, I like to sit out on my balcony to read a book, talk to a friend, or to work on a new blog entry. There is always at least one house in the neighborhood that sets off fireworks after the evening prayers, and I enjoy listening to them off in the distance. Sometimes, I sit on the front porch and talk with my host parents. Earlier this week, my host dad asked me, “What are you afraid of?” I told him that I am afraid of spiders. After that conversation, he must have taken care of the spider in the bathroom. I haven’t seen it since that talk. That is just one example of how attentive and thoughtful my host parents are. Every night when I am falling asleep I think about the people at my new site, the conversations I have with my new community members and people back in the States, and I remind myself how fortunate I am. Shout-Outs:
SO to all of my friends and family who have reached out during my first month at site. The phone calls make my days that much better! HMFSO to my kickball squad back in D.C. for destroying the competition thus far this season. HSO to Mas Wendi for taking care of me since arriving at site. The transition would not have gone as smoothly without you! ASO to the spider that lived in the bathroom...get out of here.
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