The last few weeks of the summer included playing as many card games with neighborhood friends and the host family as possible, helping new students with class registration and orientation, and preparing lesson plans with my fellow English teachers. I spent every morning and afternoon at my school, socializing with administrators, teachers, and students. Most people expressed conflicting feelings identical to the teachers and students at the end of summer break in the United States: many are sad to see break come to an end, but they look forward to making this the best school year yet. Conversations with school staff seemed to grow exponentially as the school year rapidly approached. I think that it’s because they are all excited to see the bule in action. Mas Wendi, my Counterpart (CP) noticed that I was exploring Google Maps on my laptop one day. I was exploring Latin America, and Mas Wendi got excited. “The Caribbean Sea, that’s Jack Sparrow’s territory!” We briefly spoke about his love for Pirates of the Caribbean, and his fascination with pirates in general, but his questions made their way back to Google Maps. I toured him through North and South America and detailed where the different continents are located relative to Indonesia. When I pointed out Alaska at the top of the hemisphere, Mas Wendi said, “That’s where Wolverine lives.” It seems as if the majority of my friend’s geographic knowledge stems from American films. He told me that he has never been off the island of Java, which is why he is so unfamiliar with the rest of the world. I made a mental note, because one doesn’t have to travel around the world to be familiar with its layout. Mas Wendi certainly isn’t an outlier with his elementary knowledge of geography; I can recall similar instances with other teachers, and many students, as well. This is something that I can work on during the next two years. The unique conversations with Pak Rahadi, one of the school’s vice-principals, have not diminished whatsoever. If anything, our growing familiarity has lead to questions that require awkward, and even uncomfortable answers. One morning he asked, “Why do Americans refer to someone’s penis as a cock?” Since I was sure that I had misunderstood him when he asked the first time, I asked him to repeat the question. Unfortunately, I had heard him correctly. He commanded more people’s attention the second time he asked the question. “That term is used almost like a nickname. People might use that word when the particular body part is brought up in conversation outside of a scientific or academic setting,” I responded. I couldn’t think of any other answer, and I still don’t know if there is a better response to that question. Pak Rahadi caught me off guard. Many teachers say that they wish to visit the United States. Now they are more inspired than ever to visit because they have made their first American friend. I tell all the teachers that they are more than welcome to visit me (I wonder if I will ever see one of them in Wisconsin). Bu Pita, another English teacher, asked me where the Statue of Liberty is located in the United States. I showed her the small island between New York City’s Manhattan and Staten Island boroughs on Google Maps. I told her that the statue serves as a symbol of freedom. “If I visited you, I would have to go past the Statue?” I was confused so I asked her for clarification. She added, “Don’t all visitors who go to America have to go past the Statue of Liberty and New York City when they begin their vacation?” This led me to talk about Ellis Island, immigrants, and most importantly, the diversity of America’s population and the pride many Americans have for the country’s historical alacrity of accepting people from all different walks of life—from anywhere in the world. When the majority of immigrants were traveling from Europe many years ago, they arrived on the east side of the country, and New York City proved to be an ideal location to process arrivals. I assured her that she could enter the country from other cities too: Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, etc. If she wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, then that’s something I could work into the itinerary. Registration was important; because once all the students were registered, the administration could finalize the school-year calendar and teachers would learn their respective class schedules. School registration in the United States often occurs months before the beginning of the school year; while in Indonesia, registration happens to take place the two weeks before the semester starts. During the first week of registration, students submit an application, which includes personal information, school records, and track preferences. I teach at a vocational high school (referred to as an SMK in Indonesia), which is designed to prepare students for the workforce after graduation. Most students who attend SMKs do not go to college afterwards. For this reason, they rely on the technical training that my vocational high school offers in order to be prepared to work after gradation. While the technical tracks—and how many are offered—vary among different SMKs, my school has six: automotive mechanics, motorcycle mechanics, electronics, computer software, accounting, and office administration. Once the school receives all the applications, they decide what students will be accepted. They take a student’s national test scores and previous school grades into account when making the decision. Unlike public schools in the United States, students in Indonesia are not guaranteed a spot in a certain school. The school also decides what a student’s track will be. This will dictate the individual’s core classes for the entire three years at my school. Often times, students are placed in the track of their first preference. However, a student’s application must include a second track preference as well. If there are too many students in one track, some of them will have to be placed in a different track to achieve a balance in the classrooms. The students’ registration finished and the teachers had a two-day curriculum workshop conference during the last weekend before the new school year. The workshop demanded teachers to listen to speakers for eight hours on Saturday and Sunday. Moreover, everything was in Indonesian and I couldn’t understand anymore than ten percent of the conversation. I certainly was not amused, despite the fact that lunch was included on both of those days. Many of the speakers’ slides spoke about teaching strategies, and there was a strong emphasis on incorporating students into the learning process. During my brief time in Indonesian classrooms, teachers don’t do much more than lecture at their students. It is rare to find a class of students engaged in a lesson. There was a lot of English terminology littered throughout the slides, and the teachers looked to me to read them out loud. I assured Bu Nina, one of the English teachers, that she is more than capable of reading them. After all, I was sitting in the back of the lecture hall; I didn’t want to walk all the way to the front of the room. Bu Nina read every term, and then looked back at me to confirm that she pronounced and translated the words correctly. I shook my head in approval, even though I had no idea what the words were in Indonesian. The speaker and Bu Nina were unable to translate the term “metacognitive knowledge,” so they asked me to do it. I told them I didn’t know how to say it in Bahasa Indonesia. They asked me to describe the word; maybe they could think of the Indonesian word from my description. But I had no idea what that term meant—even in English. I still don’t have a clue as to what it means. Everyone looked at me, surprised, that I was so helpless. Oh well. I must have projected some sense of profound boredom, because many teachers asked me countless times if I was bored. At first, I insisted that I was tired. Eventually, I told them that I didn’t understand a single word and I wanted to go home. There was an older woman on the other side of the room, one of the school’s Bahasa Indonesia teachers, who wrote “Your such handsomely” on a piece of paper and held it up as a sign for me—and everyone else—to read. She caught me at a time when I was especially tired, which made her sign that much more demoralizing yet simultaneously hilarious. I wish I had taken a picture of the sign; or even, I wish I asked to keep it. She certainly knows a way to this guy’s heart. I took time to run, walk, or bike around my community after registration or workshops. I tried to take as much time to explore as possible. Who knows how much free time I will have, or how tired I will be, once the school year begins. There is a particular running route that I have revisited several times. I pass kids flying kites in the rice fields, Ibus pulling laundry off the clotheslines, and a variety of livestock: cattle, chickens, and goats. I wear headphones when I on a run so that I can focus, but that doesn’t keep me from saying hello to all the people I pass. One time, I ran past a girl who was about my age sitting on her front porch, playing with her cellphone that was attached to a selfie-stick. When she saw me, she sprang up and tried to take a picture with me. She attempted to free the phone from the claws of the selfie-stick, but she couldn’t do it quick enough. Despite her request, I wasn’t going to stop in the middle of my run to take a picture. I continued down my path and shouted back at her, “Next time—don’t buy a selfie-stick!” I also endured my first scolding, or “talking-to,” from my host parents. I have lived with them long enough, and I suppose that I am no longer a guest, but a member of the family instead. The issue for which I was being reprimanded unfolded over the course of a day, but may have resulted from some pent up frustration that has slowly grown since I first arrived at site. I woke up one morning to get ready for school. I went downstairs to eat breakfast, just like always. I found that the food on the table was leftover from the previous day (remember, Indonesians cook food in the morning and then leave it out for the rest of the day’s meals). It was clearly old, but I picked around at the different dishes and ate enough to hold me over until lunch. Just as I was leaving the house, Bu Hertati arrived on her scooter, carrying several packages of food from some café. She explained that she didn’t have time to cook food that morning so she ran into town and bought nasi pecel (white rice with vegetables in a spicy peanut sauce) for my breakfast. I explained that I ate enough food that was on the table and I needed to go to school. Bu Hertati scoffed at me. She whipped her hand across her body and stomped her foot, frustrated by my refusal to eat the food she just bought. I offered to take one of the orders with me to school so I could eat it there. She liked that idea and let me leave the house, carrying my second breakfast. I returned home that night excited to attend a welcome home party at a neighbor’s house. I was dressed in my traditional clothes (the same as Idul Fitri) and waiting to leave the house. I was hungry and wanted to get to the party so I could eat. Bu Hertati told me that she bought food for me to eat dinner; she wanted me to eat before we left for the party. I knew that there would be dinner at the party. I told her that if I ate dinner at our house now, then I wouldn’t be able to eat at the party. She complained, stomped her foot (again), and said something to Pak Djito before leaving the room. Pak Djito sat me down in a chair on the front porch and looked at me seriously. “Your mom cried today Addison, because you don’t eat enough of her food.” My first instinct upon hearing Pak Djito’s concern was to laugh, or at least smile. But my host dad maintained a solemn face; he was one hundred percent serious. I told him about all the food I ate that day, thinking that he would understand. Wrong. He wasn’t too pleased with me either. I was fascinated about two things. First of all, my host parents were genuinely upset with me for only eating five meals that day. Second, this was the first time in my entire life that someone has accused me of eating too little food. This is one for the history books, folks! After that conversation, I’ve gotten creative with ways to make it look like I am eating more than before. Instead of taking a huge amount of food on my plate for first helpings, I take a smaller amount and then go back for seconds. I end up eating the same amount, but the parents see me eating two servings. As far as I’m concerned, they haven’t started visually measuring my portions. I will run into more problems if they start doing that. In addition to that strategy, I make it widely known whenever I eat; whether that is a full meal, a piece of fruit in the afternoon, or a sweet snack any other time throughout the day. It doesn’t matter what time I eat or snack; everyone in my house and down the street will know that I am eating something. I hope that this also reduces the number of times someone asks me, “Sudah makan?” or, “Have you eaten?” I will report back with results in the near future. Despite these new strategies, Bu Hertati is just as relentless as ever in making sure that I eat. She wasn’t as harsh when I first moved here; I’m not sure what caused her to police my eating habits with such ferocity and ruthlessness. Here is an example of her unyielding persistence: my host grandma (Pak Djito’s aunt) became ill and was hospitalized for about ten days. My host family spent time with her at the hospital every day. At least one member of the family always spent the night with her. The nearest hospital is in Tulungagung, which is a ninety-minute bike ride for me. I couldn’t visit her in the hospital since I am not allowed to take a motorcycle with the family My entire host family spent the night at the hospital one Saturday, leaving me alone at the house. I didn’t mind at all. I actually looked forward to being home alone and sleeping in Sunday morning. For once, I would not have to wake up to an alarm clock—either from my phone or from a family member. Once they left for the hospital, I locked the house and climbed into my mosquito net for a long, much-needed night of sleep. I woke up Sunday morning around 5:30am from a knock on the front door. Indonesians are up early and often visit one another around this time every morning so the knock wasn’t unusual. I rolled over and ignored it. The short knock, however, evolved into a steady stream of tapping. I figured that whoever was knocking would quickly realize that nobody was home and give up. I rolled over and ignored it, again. The knocking persisted, and it increased in pace and volume. Whoever was knocking knew that someone was home. This person wasn’t looking for a member of my host family; the person was looking for me. I continued to ignore the knocking, grasping onto the slim chance that I could fall back asleep. Then I heard a lady yell, “Addison! Addison! Addison!” while the knocking—more like pounding at this point—carried on like a cadenced drumbeat. Almost fifteen minutes had passed since I heard the initial knock. This lady wasn’t going anywhere until I let her into the house. I begrudgingly climbed out of my mosquito net, stomped downstairs and unlocked the front door to find the noise culprit to be Bu Tandi, my host aunt (Pak Djito’s sister). She was there to cook me breakfast. Let me rephrase that: Bu Tandi knocked on my door at 5:30am, pounding and yelling for nearly twenty minutes, to cook me breakfast. Disgruntled, I assured her that I was fine eating the food that was already on the kitchen table. If I was still hungry, I could go to a food stand nearby to buy some more. She didn’t like that answer. She informed me that Bu Hertati had asked her to cook food for me, and Bu Tandi wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. She told me that nanek, my host grandpa, was asking—from her deathbed—if I had enough food to eat (fortunately, she later recovered and returned home, but still). Bu Tandi entered the house, squeezing between my determined stance and the doorframe, and went straight to the kitchen. For the first time since I arriving at permanent site, I was livid. All I wanted to do was sleep and not have to deal with any social interactions for the morning. It took Bu Tandi all of two minutes from entering the house to begin cooking. I couldn’t go back to bed because she wasn’t able to lock the door behind her when she was done. I marched back upstairs to my room to sulk. I figured I could take advantage of being awake so early and go for a bike ride while it was still relatively cool. Well, almost as if on queue, it started to pour—the weather perpetuated my damp mood. I was stuck inside the house at 6am, and I couldn’t sleep. I sat in my chair, sending negative thoughts to the woman downstairs in the kitchen whom was lovingly cooking me breakfast. I sat upstairs for fifteen minutes and watched the rainfall. Of course, the one day it rains during the dry season is when I want to go on a bike ride. The longer I sat, the calmer I became. It didn’t take me long to realize how ridiculously ungrateful I was acting. My aunt came over that morning to make sure I would have fresh food for the rest of the day. She had already cooked food for her family, and she voluntarily decided to do the same for me. If I had any issue with the abrupt Sunday morning wakeup call, I should take it up with Ibu Hertati. Damn her doggedness. I went downstairs to the kitchen and sat at the table while Bu Tandi cooked. I felt guilty (and I still do) for acting grumpy earlier so I asked her lots of questions in order to generate conversation. I learned more about her family and her interests. I learned that she has worked for a family in Hong Kong for six years. She only visits home one time every two years. That morning was in the middle of her one-month visit home. She would return to Hong Kong one week later to work for another two years. When I asked if she found it difficult to be away from her family, she told me that it’s all worth it. She earns significantly more money working for a family in Hong Kong, and this way she can provide for her own family. I thought about how she is heading on her fourth consecutive two-year jaunt to Hong Kong. If she can do that four times in a row, then I’m motivated to complete one measly two-year stint in Indonesia. After she finished cooking, we ate breakfast together and continued our conversation. I thanked Bu Tandi for the help and locked the door behind her when she returned home. I was grateful that I calmed down in time to talk with Bu Tandi in the kitchen; that conversation put the length of my service in a different light. I needed a new perspective. The month of July is filled with benchmark dates: July 8th, 2017, marked one full year since I accepted my invitation to serve in the Peace Corps; July 12th, marked four months since I arrived in Indonesia; and July 22nd marked two full months since I moved to permanent site. Some of you might be surprised; I have already been in Indonesia for a significant length of time, but I just started teaching this week. I admit that I originally thought that four months was far too long without assuming a routine teaching schedule. Pre-Service Training consumed ten weeks of this four-month period, which was essential to acquire basic language skills, teaching strategies, and the basic guidelines of the Peace Corps organization. But still, was it really necessary to be at site nearly two full months before I start to teach English? I certainly thought it was unnecessary. Every day I pass many Ibus, Bapaks, and children on my way to school. I exchanged basic pleasantries with all of them when I first started making my daily bike ride to work. I remember when I first moved to permanent site, it was still challenging for me to carry on a simple introductory conversation with my neighbors. I didn’t know anyone’s name, or how they were related (Everyone on my street is related to each other in one way or another. I’m still trying to complete the web). Even though the neighbors were all impressed with my basic language skills, and I was proud of myself for putting myself out there, my relationship with each respective person was shallow at best. This morning, Monday, July 24th, 2017, is my first day of school as a teacher. I rode my bike to school this morning along the same path as always. I saw many of the same people who I had said hello to during my first days at site. This time, however, there was so much more depth behind our greetings. When I saw Bu Endang, I thought about her husband and their daughter Alivia. When I said hello to Bu Lili, I knew that her son would be a first-year student at my school. I knew to greet Pak Yani, who sits on his front porch, in Javanese, because he is very old and never learned how to speak Bahasa Indonesia very well. I stopped and shook hands with an elderly couple that have grown to be my favorites. They welcomed me into their home during Idul Fitri. Now I know that my host grandma—recently returned from the hospital—lives on the left side of the street, in the third house from the corner of the third block. Over the course of my first two months at site, I have spent time, and shared a special moment, with nearly every person that lines the streets of my morning bike route. I spent time in their homes during Idul Fitri; I greeted them personally when they visited my house. We waited in line together to get our haircut. The same goes for my interactions with people at school: endless conversations with the vice-principal about questionable topics, helping students with registration, and getting to know my Counterparts. I wouldn’t have any of those connections or the confidence if I started teaching right after arriving at permanent site. I realized how crucial the first two months have been for establishing connections with family members, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and students. That recognition made Monday morning’s bike ride so enjoyable. I have been very nervous these past several months about beginning a new chapter of my life—the one of a teacher. But more importantly, the bike ride measured the amount of progress that I have made during my first two months at site. I look forward to seeing how much more growth takes place throughout the rest of my service—all twenty-two months that I have left! Shout-Outs:
SO to season seven of Game of Thrones! I’ve been eagerly awaiting its arrival. Whether or not I’ll get to watch it anytime soon is an entirely different matter. SO to my dad for sending a package. I hung up the screens on my bedroom windows so that I can open them without letting the bugs come in. SO to all the Baes who had a weekend vacation at the Bay, but still didn’t forget about me. Thank you for the phone call! ESO goes to the friend who added my Bitmoji to the event’s Snapchat filter so that I could be there too. Who would have thought that Snapchat could make me feel so special? J SO to my friend who sent a postcard from Door County. It provided a perfect English lesson for the teachers AND it gave me an excuse to brag about our great state! SO to the people who let me know that they read the entirety of my last blog post, including the Shout-Out section that followed. HSO to Bu Tandi for cooking me food that day. I don’t think I can say thank you enough! But one last time…thank you for caring about me.
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The last days of fasting played out similar to the first weeks: small allotments of sleep, reading to ignore the 11 o’clock wave of hunger, and card games with the neighborhood kids to pass the remainder of daylight. I became more determined than ever to stick to fasting the closer we got to Idul Fitri. I don’t know if I’ll participate in the month-long fasting ritual again, which is why I wanted to make this year count. I continued to visit the school for a few hours every day. I always hoped for some time to myself to plug in earphones and surf the web, but teachers and administrators usually didn’t let that happen. I generally spend a solid portion of my time at school answering questions about my family and explaining what I ate for breakfast that morning. One time, the Vice Principal Pak Rahadi asked me if I knew about a place called Chippewa Falls. “Of course I do,” I responded. “My dad grew up there.” I asked him how he knew about the Wisconsin town, and he responded that he heard about it on TV. I could only think of one moment I have ever heard Chippewa Falls mentioned in a movie or TV show. I followed up with another question: “Did you watch the Titanic, Pak Rahadi?” He grinned at me, and sheepishly admitted that it is one of his favorite American movies. I said, “A lot of Americans like that movie.” Then, Pak Rahadi asked, “Are the winters there really that cold?” I responded with, “You’ll have to come to Wisconsin and see for yourself!” Whenever I biked to school, or to a relative’s house, I saw people on ladders hoisting up banners, flags, and lights—decorations for Idul Fitri. I would look up to the sky as I biked down the center of a small street, admiring the many colors. For all of those Mario Kart fans out there, Idul Fitri on Java is the closest thing to the real-life Rainbow Road racetrack. I stopped to introduce myself and helped several people fasten the banners to the polls that held up the decorations. I am quite a bit taller than most people around here so they appreciated my height. I tried to take alternative routes every time I biked back home so I could see the decorations along another street and row of houses. I also enjoyed walking around the neighborhood at night and seeing the houses lit up with their blinking, multi-colored lights. I played Uno with my neighborhood friends for three hours on the afternoon of Saturday, June 24th, as we all impatiently waited for Magreb, or the call to prayer that corresponds with sundown. We were so antsy because this call to prayer was special; it marked the last berbuka puasa, or breaking of fast, for the month of Ramadan. The energy among the kids playing Uno on the front porch matched the energy throughout the rest of the village—and I’m sure across the entire country. This meant no more fasting; plus, the next day was Idul Fitri! Roughly thirty minutes before the highly anticipated call to prayer, card playing seized and everyone left my porch to mandi and get ready for the evening. I, too, bathed and eagerly waited for my Ibu’s approval to start eating dinner. Just as Pak Djito and my host siblings joined us at the table, the lights went out. The call to prayer had just started. The sun had officially set, meaning there was no natural light to compensate for our loss of power. Power outages occur often in my village, and throughout much of Java, but this was the first time the outage happened to coincide exactly with the evening call to prayer. I don’t know how widespread this particular power outage was, but it definitely affected my entire neighborhood. While many families in my village likely broke their last daily fast by candlelight, my Bapak fired up the house generator and we began to eat. There was no way to talk while we ate our dinner since the generator was in the backroom right next to the kitchen. The family ate in silence—I laughed occasionally—as the generator raucously presided over our last meal before Idul Fitri. The neighborhood mosque must have a generator too, because the one thing I heard over the generator was the call to prayer from its speakers perched high above the rooftops. We finished eating dinner and I followed my Ibu outside to the street. Pak Djito came out of the house with several bundles of fireworks. Fasting was over, and fireworks were the best way to celebrate! I saw Bapaks come out of several other neighbor houses with their own fireworks; and the kids followed, clamoring to get their hands on those firecrackers. Pak Djito set the fireworks down and let the neighborhood kids go to work. For an hour, I watched kids as young as maybe five-years-old light of firecrackers and shoot off Roman Candles. Eventually, the Roman Candles turned into weapons and the boys started shooting them at each other. The parents all looked on and laughed hysterically. I hid behind a tree, shielding myself from the potential detached extremities flying through the air, and the kids continued to gallivant. The fireworks show eventually came to an end, and everyone still had ten fingers, ten toes, and two eyeballs. I went to sleep, relieved that fasting was in the past, and excited for the day that would follow. I woke up to my alarm, just like every other day for the past month. This time, however, my alarm was set for a more “reasonable” time—4am. Sunday, June 25th, was Idul Fitri, which is “the Festival of the Breaking of the Fast.” People come together for meals with friends and family, and they often exchange presents. Despite the still-early wake up call, my family wanted me to wake up at that time so we could prepare for the day’s celebrations. Oh boy, there were a lot of festivities in store. The important reason for fasting for an entire month is for a Muslim to contemplate his or her respective relationship—and use that time to develop a closer connection—with God. Idul Fitri is the time where people apologize for the sins they have committed throughout the previous year and ask for forgiveness. Essentially, Idul Fitri implies that people are able to burry the hatchet of their past sins, and begin the New Year with a clean slate. I had the privilege to witness just how the Indonesian people, and thus Muslims throughout the world, go about seeking forgiveness during this cherished time. I dressed in my finest Indonesian holiday garb, which my host mother Bu Hertati—along with the help of several other neighborhood Ibus—carefully selected for me to wear on the special day. I wore a black sarung, which is a loose-fitting, skirt-like bottom that men wear for religious and ceremonial events. The sarung is a continuous loop: one has to step into it, then fold the fabric so that it is snug around your hips, and then roll the fabric down from the top so that it holds the skirt in place. I put on my baju koko, which typically is an ornately patterned, button-down shirt. To top off the look, I donned a peci—a traditional Muslim hat frequently worn with a sarung at religious and traditional ceremonies. I walked downstairs at 4:30am to find my Ibu, Bapak, host siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, and many of the neighbors all anxiously waiting for me. They wanted to catch the first glimpse of the bule, or foreigner, in the traditional clothes who they would be showing around for Idul Fitri. After I was instructed to walk across the room, and twirled around several times, everyone insisted that I sit down in the kitchen to eat. Everyone else said that they had already eaten (I was up at four in the morning but still not the early bird), which lead to me eating alone while everyone watched. Many people told me how excited they were to take me to the day’s first activity—the morning service at the mosque. I helped several other family members carry food—cooked chicken, vegetables, and rice—to the mosque, because there would be a (second) meal after the morning service. It wasn’t just the food that looked great; every person in the family was in their new clothes, dressed to the nines. The mosque is maybe a five-minute walk from my house, but I had to pass many houses in the process. Families came outside to see my good-looking family walk down the street, and they joined us on our way. I lead a small procession of children and curious adults by the time we reached the mosque. We walked along the side of the mosque so we could enter from the back. I caught glimpses of the inside from the windows we passed. The front hall was filled with men aged five to ninety-five; the back hall was similarly packed, but with women. Since I was able to make those observations before I even entered the mosque, all the people in the mosque watched me walk by as well. When I entered the mosque behind my host dad through a doorway that led to the front chamber, the heads turned and I had never felt more uncomfortable in my entire life. Various factors contributed to that unparalleled level of discomfort. As the only foreigner, I innately command the attention of most rooms I enter. I grew up as a Catholic in a smallish town in Wisconsin; and despite my best efforts, I am not entirely familiar with the religion of Islam. I did not want my inherent unfamiliarity to come across as ignorance. Lastly, very cognizant of how sacred religion is, I walked on eggshells, hoping to obtain even the slightest innocuous level of conformity. I was a guest, and I was grateful for the opportunity to observe Idul Fitri in its rawest form. Looking towards the front of the mosque, I watched the men stand, kneel, and bow, turn their head left, then right. They repeated this cycle several times. Some of the young boys sitting next to their Bapaks sat backwards, their eyes transfixed on the bule sitting against the wall. When the men stood up, I would lose them among the sarungs, but they would reappear when the Bapaks kneeled down and bowed. I swear I was in a staring contest with those kids. They were just as fascinated with me as I was with the Sholat, which is a service. But my level of discomfort grew when the Imam called me to join him in the front. I reluctantly walked towards the front, weaving through the men seated on the floor and hearing whispers from the women in the back of the hall. My language skills were about to be put to the test. This time, however, the test came on Idul Fitri, in a mosque with an Imam, in front of an entire Jamaah, or congregation, speaking into a microphone. That microphone is connected to the giant speakers on top of the mosque and can be heard throughout the village, even over the noisiest generator! Our conversation, which I will never forget, went something like this: “What is your name?” “Addison.” “Ah, Adshun. Very good! Where do you live?” “Pak Djito’s house.” Everyone laughed and the Imam repeated his question. I must have misunderstood his question. “No no no. Where did you grow up?” “I am from America.” That time I got it right. “Are you married?” “No [way Jose].” “Why aren’t you married?” “I’m still young.” “How old are you?” “24.” “In Indonesia, many people are married when they are 24. There are many pretty girls here. Do you like Indonesian girls?” That question, which many people ask me, always makes me uncomfortable. “All the women in Indonesia are beautiful.” I responded. “What do you like about Indonesia?” “The food is delicious, and the people are very nice.” After giving that answer so many times, it rolls off the tongue so easily. “I’m glad that you think we are nice. It is important that you know we are not terrorists!” Did he just say what I think he said? He asked, “What would you like to tell everybody here?” He handed me the microphone and I thought for a moment before speaking. “Thank you everyone for welcoming me into your homes, schools, and villages. I am very excited to be here. I look forward to promoting cross-cultural exchange during my two years at site. I am excited to learn about Indonesian culture and pass that information along to my friends and family back in the United States. I am also eager to teach all of you about American customs and culture. Please do not be afraid to ask me questions!” I returned the microphone to the Imam. “We are all very excited to host you in our village for two years. Please take the time to get to know every family while you live here. I am happy to know that you don’t think we are all terrorists! Please pass that information to your friends and family in America.” Ultimately, the congregation’s laughter confirmed that, in fact, the Imam did bring up terrorism. I couldn’t keep myself from wearing a serious expression when he said that word, but I’m glad that the Indonesians could all laugh at it. They know they aren’t terrorists, and conversations I have had with people since Idul Fitri exemplified just how absurd, racist, and insensitive they think that horrific stereotype is. Well, the conversation ended—the last word being ‘terrorists’—with a selfie, and I returned to my spot on the floor next to Pak Djito. There was one last prayer before everyone indulged in the food. While eating, many of the boys and girls came over to show off their new clothes—tailored dresses and shirts, embroidered pecis, and sandals—that are special for the holiday. Several of the kids also took time to make fun of me for wearing the same articles of clothing as the Indonesian men. Their logic—I’m white, and I shouldn’t be wearing the same thing as the Paks and boys in the village. I made a mental goal: the kids will see past my skin color by the time I conclude my service in Indonesia. Everyone finished eating and I headed back home with the family. I waved goodbye to the kids and parents as we left, completely unaware that I would see many of them several more times that same day. Idul Fitri is reserved for people to apologize for the sins they have committed and to ask for forgiveness. Just how, exactly, do they do that? Well, that happens to be the most fun part! During the holiday, people roam from house to house, and literally ask for forgiveness from the different families. People say Mohon maar lahir dan batin (“I am sorry for the sins I have committed”) when they are standing at the entranceway to someone’s home, waiting for permission to come inside. While younger individuals and families travel from house to house, elders remain at home and wait for people to come to them. For this reason, my host parents stayed at the house while I went off with my host sister Nita to visit houses around the neighborhood. This proved to be great sibling bonding time! Each guest exchanged a brief, heartfelt conversation (including Mohon maar lahir dan batin) with the host before being welcomed inside. Once inside, the host introduced the guests to a spread of food: candies, fruit, fried snacks, and other traditional Indonesian munchies. We sat and talked for a little bit, nibbling on the food laid out in front of us. I usually took pictures with the people who lived in the house and then we took off to see the next family. I repeated the cycle—pleasantries, Mohon maar lahir dan batin, food, photographs—at least twenty times. As repetitive as it was, I never seemed to get sick of it. It was a great opportunity for me to meet people in the village and see their homes. I also ran into kids on the streets as we crossed paths, heading in different directions to ask for forgiveness from neighbors. When we ran into each other, we also let each other know what houses had the best snacks. I didn’t want to miss out on anything delicious! We returned home with full stomachs, sore legs, and heavy eyelids. It was time for a nap. We spent the remainder of Sunday laying low at the house. My host family was worried that I was too tired, and they didn’t want me to walk around visiting houses again. It was hot outside so I didn’t push back. Unfortunately, the day ended with a rather sad event. The family’s cat Molli (pronounced Molly)—Bapak Djito’s close confidant—was hit by a motorcycle on the street in front of the house. When I was ready to head upstairs to bed, I saw Pak Djito carrying the cat from the front of the house to the back room. The cat meowed incessantly and clawed its front paws at the curtains as it passed. My host dad laid the cat on the floor of the room and covered its body with a blanket. Pak Djito explained that the cat was paralyzed. I watched my host dad as he knelt over Molli, feeding her water and trying to make her as comfortable as possible. Just when I started feeling remorse about the cat’s imminent death, Ibu Hertati started laughing. I knew she didn’t care for Molli, but I didn’t expect her to laugh at what happened to the cat. “The cat was always so stupid. I’m not surprised that a motorcycle hit it. The cat shouldn’t have been in the street!” She continued to laugh uncontrollably, creating a rather uncomfortable, combative duo of dynamisms in that room of the house. I’m not a huge cat fan myself; I decided to retire to bed where I could escape the unremitting meows coming from the recently incapacitated feline. The following day, Monday, June 26th, I did not wake up to an alarm. Instead, I woke up when my body decided I was good and ready. I didn’t loose a wink of sleep over Molli’s paralysis. The next morning, however, it was very apparent that Bapak Djito had lost several winks of sleep. He told me that Molli had died in the middle of the night. The sadness in his eyes made me feel guilty for going to bed the previous night without a care for his feline friend. There were no scheduled activities for Monday, but people continued to visit each other’s homes. Other than visiting our nearest neighbors, I stayed at home and greeted guests who came to visit my host family. I made sure to be extra sensitive to any of Pak Djito’s requests or questions. On that second day I did much less walking, and far more eating, than the day before. While the Idul Fitri holiday lasted for two days, the celebration is followed by a two-week liburan, or vacation period, when millions of people across the island of Java travel to see friends and family. Effectively, many people spent the two days of Idul Fitri to seek forgiveness from their neighbors and other community members, but now they take the show on the road and seek the exoneration and compassion of their friends and relatives in “far away” places. Keep in mind that the island of Java is roughly two-thirds the size of Wisconsin. When the island is that size, could there really be places on the island that are “far away”? The island is home to over 150 million people, and a large portion of that population is participating in a mass migration of people in all directions. That large number of people, combined with relatively underdeveloped transportation infrastructure, makes travelling any distance over these two weeks incredibly taxing and time-consuming. Fortunately, I was privileged enough to join my host family in this mass exodus from people’s homes to venture around the island. Just like my attentive host family in Kediri when they took me to see President Sukarno’s museum and burial site, my thoughtful permanent site host family knew that I was interested in visiting the city of Yogyakarta, known as the cultural capitol of Java, and perhaps, even Indonesia. There are gorgeous Buddhist temples such as Borobudur and Prambanan, which are world heritage sites. Many of the streets are lined with buildings designed with European architecture, reflecting the unique colonial history of the country. Since the beginning of Ramadan, the family knew about my interests in visiting the city and said that we would travel there sometime during the two-week liburan following Idul Fitri. I learned mid-afternoon on Monday, June 26th, that the family would leave for Yogyakarta that evening at 10 o’clock. They wanted to drive through the night in order to deal with less traffic. Borobudur, the largest Buddhist temple in the world, is less than 115 miles from my house, but my Bapak said that they expected a seven-hour drive—not including traffic. I didn’t care how long the drive was; I was ecstatic to see the temple, and even more happy to spend time with my host family. My host dad planned on renting a car because the family does not have one. Pak Djito was pulling a lot of strings to make this happen, and I promised myself I would enjoy the trip no matter what. It turns out that the promise would be harder to keep than I originally thought. I was packed and ready to leave for Yogyakarta (Yogya for short) by 10pm. I sat on the front porch with Bu Hertati and Nita, waiting for Pak Djito to arrive with the rented car (my host brother Budi did not join because he had to work the rest of the week). I didn’t think anything of the mini-bus that pulled into the front yard of the house across the street until Pak Djito climbed down from the driver’s seat. I asked myself, why would he rent such a large vehicle, and why did he park it front of the neighbor’s house? I immediately received the answer to both of those questions. Shortly after Pak Djito climbed out of the mini bus, the neighbors who live in the house across the street appeared at their front door carrying bags, pillows, blankets, and food. They quickly began loading everything into the vehicle. Then I saw neighbors from the house next door do the same thing, and then my host cousin came out of his house, which was two doors down, and jumped into the bus too. This trip was not just for my host parents, Nita, and myself; I was about to embark on a neighborhood road trip. I hopped into the bus, found an open spot in the back row—I turned down several offers for food—and dozed off. The potholes and sharp curves in the road didn’t allow me to have the best night’s sleep. Potholes in the States don’t even compare to the mammoth craters that one comes across on Indonesian roads. I just couldn’t appreciate their efficacy of prohibiting a smooth ride until I tried to sleep on the road. As predicted, the ride took seven hours—excluding traffic. Including the Idul Fitri liburan traffic, we arrived at the Borobudur temple grounds at 7:30am, more than nine hours after we embarked on our 157-mile journey. On average, we travelled about seventeen miles every single hour. Borobudur, however, opened at 8am, which meant we couldn’t have arrived at a better time. The entire group waited in line to buy our tickets (I was sent to the foreigner line where I paid the special bule price). We slowly walked as a large group in the direction of the temple, stopping frequently for parents to buy their kids souvenirs and to pay for pictures with weird Indonesian cartoon characters. Since the temple is a world heritage site, and the city as a whole is a tourist destination, there were other bules in our midst. I admit that I was overtly aware of their presence, just like all the other members of our neighborhood-travelling group. However, we definitely reacted in different ways. I was relieved to see other foreigners, knowing that they could share some of the stares and attention that I normally take on myself. When I made the occasional eye contact with another non-Indonesian-looking person (profiling, I’m aware), I telepathically sent them thoughts like, “thanks for taking some of the heat,” or “you are not alone,” and also, “can you believe that I am travelling with twenty other Indonesians right now?” If a “friend” caught me in the act of pushing down my travelling companion’s hand from pointing, or covering a boy’s mouth to stop them from yelling bule at the top of his lungs, I gave an apologetic look. My family and neighbors thought they were hilarious. I assured them that I would not know a single person at this temple, and they didn’t need to ask me if I knew another person. Strangely, the walk to the temple made me wish that I was the only foreigner there; I wanted to take on all the attention so that the others didn’t have to deal with it. Once we finally arrived at the grounds immediately surrounding the temple, I learned that every person in my group wanted to sit underneath the trees back by the entrance to the temple’s grounds. It was too hot and there were too many stairs to get to the top—they were too tired. Surprised by this declaration (really, Addison? You should know better by now!), I continued onward to the base of the temple, weaving through the crowds. I thought that the abundance of bules would mean less attention directed towards me, but it turns out that the locals were felt that much more comfortable approaching me! I was just as comfortable turning down any wishes for pictures; I was rejecting selfie requests left and right! I like to take my sweet time and absorb the information and culture when I am at historical sites such as Borobudur. Especially after the nine-hour pothole journey, I thought that I was entitled to quality time at the temple. Still, I was conflicted about the group of twenty people patiently waiting for me back at the entrance. They did, after all, endure the same pothole-ridden drive as myself. I did my best to avoid the most popular path, and kept to the unbeaten walkways so I could admire and appreciate the temple’s significance a little quicker. I headed back to find the group so we could hit the road and finally get to Yogyakarta, which is about forty-five minutes from the temple grounds. I was foolish to think that Yogya was the next stop. It just so happened that one of the Ibus in the group, Bu Ani, was originally from a town nearby the temple. She still has family that lives there so our bus took us to the village. Upon arriving, her parents greeted us with a complete feast. We were all hungry, and we ate like royalty. An apparent lack of good sleep the night before, combined with bellies full of food, led everyone in the group to pass out on rugs on the living room floor. Everyone must have been tired, because it appeared that I was the first to wake up when I raised my head over three hours later. I decided to close my eyes again and sleep on the floor a little longer. It was almost 4pm when I woke up the second time. I figured we should be heading to Yogya shortly, but it was evident that we wouldn’t be moving anywhere anytime soon. Each person took turns to mandi. We had been on the road for nearly twenty hours so it was a good idea to be fresh again. We finished our baths and ate more food. Despite having the newfound capacity to eat during the day, my metabolism had lowered significantly from fasting for an entire month. I was so full and I couldn’t continue eating as much as my family insisted. When my Ibu asked why I ate so little every meal, I explained to her that I do not need to eat such large quantities if I am eating more often. She was only used to my eating habits while fasting; my first—and only—month living with her was Ramadan. She didn’t like my reluctance to eat more, but she’ll just have to deal with it. People were done eating, our bags were packed, and I was ready to drive to Yogya. I appeared to be the only person ready to do just that, because we all left the house and walked to the neighboring houses to ask for forgiveness for our sins, eat, and take pictures—the cycle. I was irritated. I was tired of all the pictures, the food, and the questions. We finished meandering around the neighborhood by 8pm, and I assumed that we were sleeping on the floor at the house that night. It was supposed to take two hours to get into the city; what were we going to do as a group if we got there after 10pm? I quietly asked my cousin and a neighbor what our plan was, and they responded with, “we will find out later.” That wasn’t the answer I was looking for. Honestly, I don’t even think my Bapak knew what the plan was, and he was the ringleader! The bus left the village by 9pm that evening. I sat in the way back of the bus, deeply frustrated and completely clueless about what was going on. Most people started arranging themselves to sleep, others ate some snacks. Were we driving back home? Were we driving to Yogyakarta? What would we do once we got to Yogya? Would we sleep in the bus? I had no idea, and I decided I didn’t care. I quickly checked Google Maps on my phone and saw that we were driving away from the temple, away from Yogyakarta, and towards home. Part of me was relieved; I had already seen Borobudur, and I could plan another trip to visit Yogya with other PCVs in the future. I decided that that moment was the perfect time to embrace the unknown and to go with the flow. I threw the questions out of my mind and fell asleep. I woke up and noticed the bus was stopped. I sat up and saw Pak Djito and my host cousin Arif outside the bus talking to a man I had never seen before. They pointed left, then pointed right, then pointed left again. I checked the time—one o’clock. I checked Google Maps to see where we were—Yogyakarta. Okay, so we didn’t go home after all. Considering that the majority of Indonesians I know wake up around 4am, I figured the night was almost over and we would start sightseeing soon. Wrong. Pak Djito and Arif got back in the bus and we drove through the streets to a hotel. Pak Djito went into the front office and quickly returned. We drove off again, winding through more neighborhoods, and arrived at a second hotel. Pak Djito entered the office, and returned to the bus just as quickly as the first time. The bus pulled away from the hotel, winding around corners and over bridges. We pulled up to a third hotel and Pak Djito repeated the cycle. This time when he returned, however, he instructed everyone to take their bags and come inside; the hotel had enough room for our large group. I was placed in a room with Pak Djito, Arif, and Pak Doko—another neighborhood Bapak. There was one queen-sized bed in the room. We all lied down across the bed and I was fast asleep by 2am. I woke up, startled by a knock at the door. I was alone in the room and the lights were on. I checked the time—7 o’clock. I opened the door and laid eyes on my Ibu and two little girls carrying my breakfast. The food never stops! Since I had slept-in relative to everyone else, the bus was prepared to depart as soon as I was ready. We left the hotel that morning at 8 o’clock and drove through the city—destination unknown. We parked the mini bus along side several other tourist buses and filled out. I saw signs leading to Malioboro, which is a famous street in the center of Yogyakarta with markets that opened back in the 1700s under Dutch colonial rule. When I visit Yogya with fellow volunteers in the future, we will likely spend the majority of our time here visiting the bars, restaurants, museums, and galleries lining the street. I assumed that my experience with the host family and co would be different, and that was the first time I was right. We went to a multi-level Indonesian market one block off of Malioboro. The majority of the women found refuge in the aisle that housed the purse stalls. I joined the Bapaks who sat down at the base of a flight of stairs. I wasn’t interested in buying any souvenirs. Bu Hertati bought a duster, which is exactly like a nightgown. I think it’s safe to say that every Ibu in Indonesia owns at least one duster. Also, it’s even safer to say that you can find a new duster at any corner-clothing store in any village in Java. Nita bought a wooden car the size of a Kleenex box. I asked whom she bought that toy for. She responded that it was for her to play with. Ibu Hertati and Nita were done shopping; they had all the souvenirs they needed. The rest of the group finished up too and we walked back to the bus. After two hours at the market, Pak Djito told me that we were going to head home because people were tired. I responded with, “I understand. It’s very hot today.” I was just trying to appease the masses at that point. Twenty people drove nine hours in a bus, overnight—all the way to Yogyakarta—to sit at the entrance of Borobudur and spend two hours at a local market. I was annoyed, but took time out of the eleven-hour ride home to think about the positives and negatives of the trip. I was able to see Borobudur, which was on the top of my list since preparing for Peace Corps service in Indonesia. I felt slightly guilty exploring the site while everyone else waited, but seeing the temple without twenty people breathing down my neck was another plus. President Obama and his family arrived in Yogyakarta the same day as we did. Unfortunately, they went to Borobudur the day after I did so there wasn’t a chance to see/meet them (that will have to wait until later). Nonetheless, living in Washington, D.C. while President Obama was in the White House doesn’t make me immune to the awesomeness of being in the same city as him. And this happened to me when I was on the other side of the world! I added that to the “win” column. While reflecting on the positives, our bus weaved up and down a mountain range as we passed from Central Java into East Java. The roads were lined with beautiful rice field terraces for over an hour through the mountain pass. I wasn’t able to see them during the first leg of our trip because it was the middle of the night; it was dark outside and I was sleeping. If we had left Yogyakarta for home any later, the sun would have already set and I would have missed the gorgeous mountain views. That’s definitely another positive. Perhaps, most importantly, I learned what it’s like for millions of Indonesians to travel within their own means and on their own time, particularly during the Idul Fitri liburan. It was a unique experience that I would never be able to get by travelling back home with any American. Next time I go on a road trip in the States, I’ll think twice before getting upset about highway construction or traffic congestion. I confidently crossed off my first Indonesian “vacation” as an outright success. While my travels to Yogyakarta highlighted many cultural differences between a typical American and Indonesian vacation, I think that my entire experience of Ramadan—fasting, Idul Fitri, and “vacation”—exemplified an abundance of similarities between how the two cultures celebrate significant national holidays. For example, I noted many similarities between the cultural projections of Idul Fitri and Christmas: multi-colored lights on houses, copious amounts of food, and morning religious ceremonies; while our underlying values—spending time with people we love and care about, helping those who are less fortunate—are uncannily similar too. This also leads me to believe, without a doubt, that I can put my first Ramadan in the “win” column: I was open to trying new food, participating in new religious practices, and wearing different clothes. I appreciated the cultural projections derived from this Muslim culture for an entire month, but still worked hard to understand the cultural values from which those projections stem. Lastly, I made sure to document as many of the small moments for this blog post as possible. Although they may have made this entry rather long and hackneyed, I know that they are responsible for making my first Ramadan so memorable. I think that those small moments in Indonesia—conversations with the Imam about terrorism, watching a pile of garbage burn on the side of the street, or eating chicken hearts—are why I am here. This holiday helped me realize how important it is for me to educate people back in America about the traditions and values of the Indonesian people. It’s important that my friends and family back home know how different Indonesian and American daily routines are from one another, but even more consequential that people back home understand how those distinctive ways of life still bring their respective people an equal level of happiness. At the end of the day, everyone just wants to be happy. There’s no shame in acknowledging, “there is more than one way to skin a cat.” (Sorry Molli). Shout-Outs:
HMFSO to the US of A! Happy Birthday, America! SO to my brother for turning twenty years old on July 5th. The last Winger has surpassed his teenage years! SO to my friend in Washington State for graduating with her master’s degree AND landing a sweet new job. Nice work! SO to my friend (and former CL during PST) for providing me with the proper religious terminology for this blog entry. SO to my high school math teacher of four years for engraving the cat-skinning aphorism into my brain. If I can truly embrace that saying in all aspects of my life, then I can say I was a successful Peace Corps Volunteer. HSO to my Washington, D.C. friends for winning the summer kickball league championship. Now we know that I need to be on the other side of the world in order for the team to win! HSO to my grandma for turning NINETY YEARS OLD! I hope I inherit your genes LGR! HMFSO to any person who got through to the end of this blog entry AND the Shout-Out section. Let me know that you got this far and you’ll be one of my favorites! ;) |
AddisonHometown: La Crosse, WI Archives
May 2019
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