The Secret's in the Flow

Oftentimes, living in Jakarta can be infuriating. I mean, full-out open the flood gates, shaking of fists and nashing of teeth frustrating. The infrastructure is so horrendous that just the thought of leaving your house more than twice a day is exhausting. Every venture outside must be carefully planned out - the day, time of day, probability of a demonstration occurring somewhere, the weather, availability of taxis, one's level of patience for bargaining with an ojek (motorbike taxi), the alignment of the moon and stars - all of these factors must be considered. And then, even after careful consideration of all of these things, there is a 90% chance that you'll end up in a situation like this: 

On this particular day, my friends and I had already been rear-ended once by a McDonalds delivery motorbike (he drove off without stopping), and our side mirror had been clipped by a truck (drove off also) all in the span of one car ride. Normally, despite the apparent chaos of traffic patterns (ha! patterns!) in Jakarta, there is a "flow." But there are certain days, like yesterday, that something seems to have disrupted the flow and there is a ripple effect that causes these little bumps and snarls to reverberate throughout the rest of the day.

It makes sense, then, that I frequently get the question, "Why do you like living there?"  Fair question. The best answer I can give so far is - The small things, the little vignettes that pass by my taxi window of people connecting with other people. Old men sitting around smoking and laughing, guards giving each other back massages, people on bikes riding slowly from shop to shop to offer hot drinks, snacks, or even seamstress services. I remembered jogging through my hometown this past summer and realizing how quiet it was. No one was on the streets or on their porches. In Indonesia, everyone stays outside to chit chat and become part of that flow of energy. Anther Fellow, Deirdre, described it like this in her blog:

One interesting thing I’ve noticed, here and in other parts of Indonesia, is that so many people are sitting and waiting.  Old men just sitting outside shops, or women sitting beside food stalls; people sitting outside their houses; becak drivers sprawled out, sleeping in their becaks.  It doesn’t strike me as lazy at all, just a calm, patient, endearing practice.  They aren’t in a hurry to get everywhere.  There aren’t so many jobs here, so people do what they can to make a living, and in the meantime, they wait.  They talk to each other, and they smoke.  Lots of smoke. Anyway, driving through these smaller neighborhoods, it was really cool to see so many people just out and about.  Sitting, or working in shops.

I realize that I spend much of my blog space talking about particular one-off adventures that I have here in Indonesia. Those adventures are surely a big part of why I like living here, but perhaps more so it is being plugged into that daily energy and flow that helps balance happiness with the need to punch someone in the face. Recently, my teman Jess and I (known affectionately as J-squared at work) were invited to join our staff and students to walk about the city as part of morning exercise. This was a perfect opportunity to snap some photos of what I'm talking about. I apologize that I didn't get many pictures of people sitting about; I still feel a bit uncomfortable intruding on people with my camera. 



First, an introduction:

Here's what we saw on our walk and things that are common everywhere in Jakarta and Indonesia:

Sharing the road with bajai...and everything else on wheels - sidewalks are pretty uncommon.

Man selling balloons and pinwheels on sticks.

Everyone is an entrepreneur here. This house sells electricity (listrik) vouchers.

This one sells gasoline (bensin).

Bicycles can deliver anything: Vegetables...

...gas for your stove,

...and entertainment for your children.

One of the best places to connect to the flow - have dinner at a street stall. This one sells sop kaki gambing (goat-leg soup...mmmmm)

Happy goat-leg soup customer

I hope that at least starts to answer your question. Of course, the longer I'm here, the more amendments I find to my answer. There are ways for this small-town girl to make it in this big, chaotic, let's be honest - sometimes smelly, city. The secret's in the flow.

Seoul Searching: A Comedy of Errors

Washington DC to Seoul: 6945 miles and 14 hours. Jakarta to Seoul: 3287 miles and 8 hours. Meeting your brother half way around the world: priceless...well, mostly.

When my brother announced that he would be paying a visit to South Korea in September, it seemed like our one and only opportunity to do some world traveling together, even if it could only be for a few days. I arrived at the Incheon Airport early Friday morning, and the (mis)adventures began.

I was armed with a bus number, hotel destination, newly exchanged money (won), and the look of an experienced traveler (ha!). Despite the fact that nearly all of the airport personnel had a passable level of English, they all told me - with emphatic hand gestures - that neither my bus number or destination existed. Puzzle. Finally, a helpful woman directed me toward a special desk for military personnel since I'd mentioned that I was going to a military base. On the way to the desk, I was intercepted by a kind-looking, elderly gentleman. Battle-weary from my own experiences with unsolicited help in Jakarta and just plain weary from looking for ground transportation that didn't exist, I gave the man a wide-berth to try to dodge his advance. As it turned out, though, the man was as kind and genuine as he looked. He set me up on military transport to the base (for free!), and then chatted me up about his experience in Ohio many years ago for pilot training. I decided it was best to look for cute, elderly men when in distress.

Mike gathered me at the visitor center of the base, and we got my base pass squared away. The first thing that hit me was that the weather was just like Ohio fall, which makes sense since we share the close to the same parallel. I haven't experienced fall for at least two years, so I loved every minute of the crisp air. The second thing that hit me was that I was that everything else was just like Ohio as well: organized roads where people followed traffic laws, fast food chains, Chevys, potable water, clean air, greenbacks excepted everywhere, and, well, Americans. There was an adjustment period for my Jakarta-minded self. Mike continually had to hold me back from crossing the road at any old time I felt like - there are crosswalks for that - and I had to remind myself that taxi drivers weren't going to pull U-ies in the middle of the road to pick me up. I decided it would be best to stick to the side walk and appreciated a little more my life in Jakarta where everything comes to me.

First on my agenda was to meet up with a former boss who happened to be stationed in Seoul, so I left my brother and went walking around the base to find the USO, which I thoughts was near by our hotel. Wrong. After walking in circles - safe circles, obeying the Walk/Don't Walk signs - I finally learned I needed to get in a taxi to reach my destination. The scenery outside my taxi window transformed very quickly from America to Korea as we entered streets lined with Korean signs and heavy traffic. I found my former boss and enjoyed a traditional meal with him and his staff to celebrate his retirement from the Foreign Service. When we wrapped up, I climbed back into a taxi and directed the driver to the military base. He did not know the base name or any English at all. Since I knew equally as much Korean, I could see this was going to be a problem. Remarkably, the driver drove to the American Embassy and found a random Korean man who just happened to be bilingual. We made it back to the base, where I then learned that I couldn't actually get on base without Michael. Another hour and taxi ride later, my brother collected me at a different gate. We decided it would be best for me not to leave base without him again.

With that kerfuffle over, we headed out to Gyeonbokgung Palace, an immense palace built in 1395 that was set just on the edge of the city. The palace, complete with over 7,700 receiving halls and concubine rooms, had been destroyed during the Japanese occupation and is still being restored to this day. After we climbed out of the taxi to enter the palace, Mike realized that his cell phone was no longer in his possession. Helpless to track down our orange taxi...one of thousands just like it...we continued on to the palace. We decided it would be better for us to not leave our cell phones in taxis. 

Mike phoneless.

Royal Chicken

Throne room

Turtle Dragon

Concubine house

We decided Mike should be shorter.

We made it back to the hotel without losing anything or ourselves. That evening's events went like this:
1). Tell the front desk staff what happened with the phone. They give us a taxi number to call.
2). Report the missing phone to the taxi company, that we think might be the same company we rode in.
3). Try to call Mike's phone from my cell and cannot connect.
4). Download special software to my cell so we can reach Karrie in Virginia.
5). Get through to Karrie to tell her what happened.
6). Karrie calls Mike's phone and has the following conversation with the cabby:
"Hello?"
"No Ingrish! No Ingrish!"
7). Mike and Jackie run to the front desk to find a bilingual person to help talk with cabby.
8). Learn that front desk cannot make international calls.
9). Purchase international calling card.
10). Purchase the right international calling card.
11). Try 10 to 15 combinations of international phone codes.
12). Hotel staff reaches cabby!
13). Cabby negotiates for a returner's fee.
14). Fee agreed upon and cabby is directed to bring the phone to the hotel.
15). An hour later, Mike is reunited with the phone.
16). We decide that the hotel staff and Koreans in general are awesome.

The next day, we decided, would be better. Our plan was to go to the Seoul Tower, the highest point in the city. We started off well, getting a discount on tickets from our hotel. We tried to walk to the tower, but ended up in a taxi after losing confidence in our directional abilities. The area surrounding the tower is a beautiful metro park complete with walking trails and outdoor gyms. While climbing the wooden staircase to the tower, we enjoyed the flora and fauna that was remarkably like what we would find back home in Ohio. We also learned that our tickets had fallen victim to the same mysterious taxi vortex and were no longer in our possession. We decided that we should maybe not get into taxis anymore.

View of the city from the lower-base of the tower.

The tower area was surrounded by fence on which visitors put locks to symbolize their love for their significant other.

After the tower, we got lost, watched an archer shoot an arrow, and caught up on life. We eventually found our way back down and spent some time roaming around a shopping district. Here we were handed a mysterious green goo-cake by a woman dressed in traditional clothing, I bought traditional Korean candy, and Mike bought some squid in a bag (probably) and some traditional liquor called Soju. We decided alcohol could not hurt our luck at this point.

No, you are, Seoul.

Through a series of seemingly unfortunate events, Mike and I were still able to explore a new city and even learn a little bit about its culture, history, and people. Its organization and gracious people were both very forgiving to two bumbling tourists such as ourselves. In the short, two-day visit, the city left a warm impression on our hearts, and we decided - despite our inadequacy as travelers - that we should come back again some day.

Bonding Over Machetes & Sulfur

Meet the 2012-2013 Fellows,

Photo by Adam Brock

whoaredefinitelynotdoinganythingthatthestatedepartmentwouldfrownuponinthispicture. For two weeks, eighteen of us (two are still coming at the end of the month) are bonding in Bandung, a city two hours outside of the capital. We spend most of our days blundering through language class and sessions on the education system in Indonesia. However, we've had some time outside of our luxurious hotel to go explore Bandung and the Sudanese (ethnic group of West Java) culture. 

Our first group outing was to a Sudanese restaurant called the Dago Teahouse. We piled into an angkot - a minivan of sorts used for cheap public transport - and headed uphill. Our fearless leader, Kang Kelley, had tipped us off to a cultural event that was going to be happening at the restaurant. He called it a 'real, not-for-tourists' event that may or may not include machetes and trances. Perfect.

In traditional Indonesian style, we sat cross-legged around a short table. We ordered two of every item on the menu (fish, tempe, tofu, sate, spicy veggies, and rice) and shared a family-style meal.

When our bellies were full (this would turn against us later), we headed to the main event. On the stage, before an sparsely scattered audience, were a group of men all dressed in black. Kang Kelley explained that these men came from a remote village in the middle of West Java. He called them "backwoods" and likened them to the Amish, saying that they like to keep to themselves and stay away from modern conveniences. What's more, they are very devote followers of Islam. This strong faith originally led them to hold these expositions of sorts to demonstrate the power of Allah and draw in other believers. The expositions, called Debus, are martial arts-like demonstrations of the strength and protection of Allah against bodily harm. From what I could see, the men use instruments and singing to put themselves into a trance. Then, when there are good and ready, they put their faith to the test by sawing at the their skin with machetes - without a scratch remaining when they're finished. Check it out - excuse my gag-reflexes as the camera dips when the machete comes out. Other feats of strength can be seen in the second video when a man rips into an unripened coconut with his bare teeth.

The rest of the night was less...painful to watch. The ringleader did a series of magic tricks including: making a ball disappear and reappear in the audience and pulling an enormous string out of his mouth.

Our next adventure was a day trip outside of the city to Kawah Putih, or The White Crater. We took a bus up through rice fields and villages up Mt. Patuha.

Eventually, we had to switch from our bus to a much more rudimentary truck that could climb the steep incline to the crater, as Jen will now kindly explain:

At the top, we were greeted with a spectacular view...and smell.The enormous crater mouth was filled with a brilliant bluish-green lake. While the volcano has been dormant since the 1600s, this lake still steamed from the heat beneath it. The lake and the bleached rocks surrounding it all get their color from the acid and sulfur in the water.

It was a popular weekend destination for the locals. We weaved our way around the lake, sometimes stopping for group shots with families. Apparently, breathing in the sulfur can be poisonous, so we didn't stick around too long.

The Fish and The Fox

We rounded out our day with a stop for lunch at another delicious Sudanese restaurant. This one, however, had the bonus feature of a strawberry patch attached to it. So, after dining, we picked a kilo of fresh berries.

In about a week, we'll all move to our sites and get settled into the business of English teaching and learning. Here's hoping that these shared experiences, though grotesque and poisonous as they were, will have formed the bonds we'll need to support each other over the next 10 months.

The Other Side

In the few years I've been a teacher, I've discovered one constant: It always takes me three tries to get it right. When I taught intensive writing at U of Akron, it wasn't until my third semester that I finally knew what I was doing - my endless apologies to my poor, poor first semester students. In Indonesia my first year, I didn't 'get my legs' until my third rotation of students. Now that I'm moving into my third year of teaching at the Police Language Center, I'm hopeful that it will mean some proportionately large growth in my teaching behaviors and effectiveness.

Why is it that the road to growth always begins by being cut down to size? For our first few weeks in country, we EFLs are being treated to Bahasa Indonesia language lessons. This is fantastic. By some miraculously good guessing on a placement exam, I was placed in the advanced class. This is a disaster. In two years, I (hang head here) haven't been a very proactive learner of the national language. The capital city is swarming with people who speak English and speak it very well. My joke is that my 'bahasa (language) taksi' is excellent because that's the only place where I'm forced to use the language. So, without having taken a formal course, the language I do have came from what I heard in the office or with friends.

I once heard someone say of bahasa Indonesian that it can be learned in a month, but it takes a lifetime to master. I've experienced the first part of that adage, and I can do a lot with very little vocabulary or grammar. But, while that level of language can help me order food and direct taxis, it doesn't allow me to have in depth conversations about teaching with my colleagues or even join in the banter and gossip with my Indonesian friends. In short, it limits the relationships and experiences I can have.

Despite being in a small class with a kind instructor and three very close friends, I reach a level of anxiety in the classroom that I haven't experienced since puberty hit. I'm definitely the lowest level in the class, and that is a strike to my tender ego. The class is also entirely in bahasa Indonesia, so I'm nearly constantly frustrated. Then, today, the instructor announced - or at least I'm pretty sure she did - that we would be giving a speech. Not just any speech, either. It would be - I'm nearly positive - a speech on how we could invite the Indonesian government to increase their collaboration with the American education system. My classmates talked on about the finer points of collaborative partnerships - or at least I think they did - while I flashed back to my high school Spanish class where I'm fairly convinced that I had an anxiety attack during a similar speech assignment. Right. Now I remember what's going on behind that blank-stare look that my students often have.

It is from here that I am once again acutely aware of what it is like to be a language learner. And it is from here that I also remember the impact that good instruction can have on language learning. So, despite wanting to slink under the table to choke back tears or avoid direct eye contact with my bahasa instructor, I'm sticking with my advanced class. I try to spend my time focusing on what the instructor does that supports my learning. I'm reminded of how important the extra practice is for some students. Also, constant checking for comprehension and allowing opportunities for questions. Most importantly, however, she reminded me of the importance of not just teaching the language, but also the deep-seated cultural aspects that affect the way we form our communications. As we're writing our speeches, we're learning about the most appropriate way to structure it so that it is both understood and heard. We learned the ever-important acknowledgements, the prayer-like introduction, and the humble conclusion. I realized how brash I must have sounded giving speeches in my very American, very straight-to-the-point, way. Now, I'm equipped to have similar conversations with my students.

Two weeks into my third year and I'm starting out on the other side of the classroom; rebuilding from the ground up. Hopefully, it will be a good foundation for a great year.

To all my fellow, fellows, colleagues and future students: Akhir kata bila ada kata-kata yang kurang berkeran, kami mohon maaf.

Round Three

America is great. Or is it just that America is home that makes it great? When I'm home for the summer, I am wholly me again, assured and confident in familiar surroundings. In Indonesia, I am stripped of some of this confidence and independence.

Getting back behind the wheel of a car is so simple, but it is an enormous pleasure that I cannot experience in Indonesia (I could, but choose not too because of crazy traffic and that whole right-side drive thing). This might explain why I put over 2,000 miles (four new brakes and two tires) on the VW in the span of two months. I love driving. Surfing the wind with my hand, blaring good cruising tunes, and shifting like I'm starring in the next Fast and Furious film. There is a freedom in it as well. I can get from point A to point B without tracking down a taxi, bargaining poorly with an ojek driver, or burdening a friend or coworker for a ride.

How I feel when I drive:

Even without wheels, I can lace up and go for a lone run or a ride on a bike without concern for offending passersby with my exposed knees or shoulders. I can wear short shorts and tanks in Jakarta - a very moderate city in the world's largest Muslim nation - but I would only do so with a herd of other runners dressed similarly. To do such an act alone would surely invite unwanted stares and comments in a culture where modesty is highly valued. It's not that I am particularly immodest, but there was something about pounding pavement in just a sports bra, shorts, and shoes that is sublime.

How I feel when I run:

And then there are the simple things: Drip coffee. Drip coffee alone in the house before anyone wakes up. Drip coffee shared with a friend over breakfast in a local diner. Nines without tails. Fish without heads. Water from the tap. Understanding casual conversations of others in line while waiting for my Subway sandwich. Subway sandwiches. Everything bagels. Sweater weather at night.

But then, asks everyone, why do you keep going back?

Comfort is nice in small doses, but if I'm not careful, it can lead to a very boring, fat, and small me. My colleague Tabitha wrote a great piece about having an American hangover that explains this in a bit more detail: Hi my name is Tabitha, and I'm an Ameriholic.

Everything from eating fish with heads to standing in front of 300 teachers or students of English is a challenge that makes me grow and understand the world around me just a bit more. And Indonesia is so much more than its religious beliefs (which vary largely, by the way). I experience a level of generosity here on a daily basis that boggles the mind. At birthday celebrations here, the birthday girl or boy pays for everyone else's meals. There is also a sense that Indonesians don't take themselves so seriously. They joke openly about weight and other physical shortcomings and tease easily with one another about gaffes, fumbles, and farts. It's a bit refreshing to not worry so much about embarrassing or offending someone as we do in our sometimes uber sensitive American society. My ego can take it (usually) and be all the better for it. Finally, there is a refreshing friendliness among complete strangers here, as described briefly here by an expat writing about Indonesians' affinity for taking photos of white folk:

Americans are generally more wary of strangers than were the Indonesians I encountered. Maybe it relates to the prevalence in our country of telemarketers and door-to-door salesman. In any case, a stranger’s request to take a photograph would be received suspiciously by many Americans, who would worry they were about to be taken advantage of.

'Western Tourists Visit Indonesia for the Sights, and Become the Attraction' - featured in the Jakarta Globe

It's true, we do often have great reason for not striking up a conversation with every person that crosses our path, but I've witnessed here how those small extensions can lead to big discoveries about the human spirit and warmth.

In the past two years, I've commenced my blogging with a goal list usually revolving around me. How can I be a better teacher, language speaker, traveler, adventurer? This year, maybe I'll focus on something a little outside of me: generosity, levity, and friendliness toward others.

Southpaw Living

In honor of National Lefthander's Day, I feel it my duty to dedicate blog-space to the southpaw experience. I am one of the 10 per cent of the world's population that can claim left-handedness. I am also part of the first generation that wasn't forced to be right handed. My uncle should proudly pen with his left hand, but my grandmother did what society mandated and saved him from doing the Devil's work. Even today, I still experience Southpaw persecution: I cannot eat with my left hand while in Indonesia - a country where eating with your hands is common. The left hand is considered unclean (I'll not get into why, but it involves the bathroom) and should not touch food. I had to sit on my left hand during meals for the first few months in my new home so as not to offend my friends or inadvertently spark an international-relations crisis. Even when I can use cutlery, I'm exiled to end of the table, where my elbow cannot interfere with you right-handers. Don't even get me started about trying to find a left-handed desk. 

Left-handedness even affects the brain, or at least I'm a firm believer that it does. Here are things I blame on being left-handed:

Inability to give directions (interestingly, I mix up my left and right in another language as well as in English), childhood mispronunciations (lemonwellon/watermellon, panshoe/shampoo, psgetti/spagetti), misspelling, delayed shoe-tying ability, flexible ear cartilage, missing-my-big-chance-with-the-Rockettes-because-I-couldn't-tell-my-left-foot-from-my-right-foot-during-dance-class, excessive palm sweat, letter reversals (particularly b/ds), adult mispronunciations (I call it vowel dyslexia), frequent board-writing smudges, fear of heights, sloppy handwriting, gear shifting amnesia, and gravy boat accidents.

Of course, it's not all bad. To balance out my suffering, I also get to be "right-minded." This means that I'm more creative and artsy. This is true. I have a pretty steady sketching hand with which I like to do henna and draw tattoos for my siblings. I can choreograph dances with some success. My creative writing is not bad. And, I have a knack for visual layout (i.e. I rock power point). Being that I'm not totally left-hand dependent (I can do everything but write, eat, and bowl right-handed), I can enjoy the more pragmatic left-mindedness. I am a supreme list maker, for instance. 

For good, bad, and befuddled: Here's to you, Southpaws of the world!