A Public Love Letter

Dear Beatrice,

I know it has only been three weeks, but I’m not afraid anymore.  I love you.  People might judge us.  They might think that we “don’t go together,” or that you somehow “rob me of my masculinity.”  Something about my Y chromosome and your pink, effeminate charms evoke laughter, embarrassment, and more laughter.  When hordes of Indonesians guffaw as we gracefully lope by the Tlogowungu-Bapoh turn-off on those two elegant yet sturdy wheels of yours, I don’t hear them.  I don’t care about them.  I care about you.

What we have is pure, raw, unbridled chemistry.  When I look into that big, beaming headlight of yours, I know that somewhere in Southeast Asia someone with oil soaked hands, or an unfeeling machine, put you together, piece by piece, specially for me.  When I pop the key into your ignition and gently turn your right handlebar, when that puttering opens into the loud gurgle of your engine, the exhilaration is indescribable.  The heavens open and a beam of light falls upon your glistening, pink body.  An aria can be heard, faint but beautiful, in the distance.  I pat your side, and away we go, into the shimmering sunlight.  

I am looking forward to the day when we can ride together in a fourth of July parade.  I will put streamers on your handlebars.  We will blow kisses to the adoring public.  You will look beautiful.  You will shame those Barbie tricycles that try to outshine you, and you will make a mockery of the Hannah Montana backpacks that attempt to imitate your graceful shade of pink.

You are magical, Beatrice.  We are magical.  I want the world to know.

I love you,

J.T.

B and me.  2gether, 4ever.

Did You Hear About The Church That Burnt Down?

Holy Smoke!   

Ah, that line never gets old.  You know what does get old, though?  Trash fires that smell like barbecue.  I drive through these almost every day.  Most evenings, if I drive down the gravel road that leads to SMK Farming Pati and hit Jalan Tlogowungu-Bapoh (my Queen’s Highway), smoke fills the air.  People are burning trash.  As I drive, I inhale as often and as deeply as possible.  This sounds counter-intuitive, no?  Well, I want to do my part for the ozone layer by acting as an organic air purifier.  Also, let me repeat, the SMOKE smells like BARBECUE.  The smell isn’t spot on, though.  It’s like an oddly tangy BBQ sauce, as if someone added a lot of cayenne and a dash or two of honey.  Regardless, it makes me think of football season and pork.  If I lose 5 years on the end of my life because I am inhaling carcinogenic American nostalgia and saving the world one O₃ molecule at a time, so be it.

Inspiration strikes

New invention idea: cigarettes that smell like BBQ when smoked.  We (you, inevitably, see the profit to be made in such an idea, and thus have begged to be my business partner) can call them Little Smokees™ .  They will come in Honey, Hickory, and Super Smokey flavors.  They will be packaged with Little Smokies to enjoy whilst smoking.  Who hasn’t been enjoying a tobacco product when their joy is sidelined by an urge to eat a sausage?  No one, that’s who.

But, I digress.

More often than not, a different kind of smoke fills the air in Indonesia.  It is the smell of kretek, unfiltered clove cigarettes.  I have visited two kretek museums to date.  If there are more out there, it seems that I will hit those, too, at the rate I am going.  None of these visits were preconceived, but they were each enjoyable.  Also, in each location, you were not allowed to smoke in the museum.  Apparently cigarette docents are highly ironic people.

L-R, 1st Row: Me, Leif, Eric, Jack.  L-R, 2nd Row: Mrs. Sampoerna, Mr. Sampoerna

The first museum I visited was in Surabaya.  The House of Sampoerna was great, and I can thank Jack for this visit.  A crew of men (because MEN smoke CIGARETTES), Jack, Eric, Leif, and I descended upon The House of Sampoerna like the kretek enthusiasts we are.  However, when Leif asked our guide how much tar content was in each Dji Sam Soe cigarette, and he replied with an automatic and deadpan “31 grams,” even we were impressed.  In the museum, we enjoyed the different packaging throughout the years, the artwork dedicated to smoking, some great WARNING messages (cigarettes can cause sexual malfunction in men.  Who knew?), and a host of well conceived exhibits.  No doubt, there were two highlights.

First, the rolling room.  All Dji Sam Soe cigarettes, made by Sampoerna, are hand-rolled.  We were able to catch some of this rolling in action.  It was like the workers were in fast forward.  I have never seen hands move so fast.  Also, the matching uniforms and unrelenting concentration gave the entire place a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory like quality.  I suspected the Oompa-Loompas were three-pack-a-day smokers.  The House of Sampoerna only strengthened this theory.  

The second highlight was FINALLY enjoying a cigarette. . .outside the museum.  We went to the associated restaurant and had some good ol’ fashioned fish and chips (wot, wot?), a beer, and a smoke.  It felt so right, how could it be wrong?

The second kretek museum I visited was in Kudus.  After visiting my friend Christian, Finda and I went to check out the Djarum cigarette museum.  Kudus is known for kretek, and despite the Kudus museum lacking when compared to the Surabaya edition, I support this potentially misplaced pride.  It puts a city reasonably close to me on the map . . . kind of.  Anyway, I learned that corn-husk kretek are no longer in production.  Bummer.  I also learned that in the ornately carved, traditional houses in Kudus, everyone used to enter through the kitchen.  Thank you, tour guide.  Next time you are in Kudus, and you are going to your friends dinner party, make sure you enter through the kitchen and praise the ornate woodwork.  You will be Mrs. or Mr. Popularity in no time, you local, you.

Smoke:  It’s not so bad, you know?   I don’t know why we vilify it in the U.S.  I mean, sure, smoking kills, but so cars, sharks, lightening, and chainsaw wielding psychopaths.  I haven’t seen the Surgeon General putting warnings on any of those dangers.  Do you know why?  The Surgeon General is a wimp.  He is too scared to get close to the aforementioned, much less stamp a warning on charging bulls, active volcanoes, and anvils hurtling from on high.  Instead, he bullies the poor, very enjoyable, cigarette.  Until all risks are labeled equally, until the Surgeon General gets up and warns me properly, I am going to believe what I want to believe:

Little Smokees™ cure illness, increase virility/fertility, and make you more beautiful.  If you need me or my green-haired, gruff-voiced, short-of-stature compatriot, we'll be taking our Little Smokees: Hickory ™ break.

No, he didn't bring the Oompa Loompas back up?

Yeah, he Oompa-Loompa-Doopity-DID.

You Over At Somebody Nesia's House, Eatin' Up Her Tsunami?

Last night there was a torrential downpour.  Sitting nice and warm in my house, I watched as the storm rolled in and raged for hours.  Luckily, damage was minimal, though there was a minor flood about 17 km away.  There were no deaths, but the roads were blocked.  The seriousness of this situation aside, I thought of a video a friend showed me when he first found out I was going to Indonesia.  Admittedly, floods are much different than tsunamis, but this video is still pretty funny.

After about minute four, it loses most of its relevance.  I mean, it's still good, it just isn't about Indonesia.
 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPIgs-90vuc


"When you gotta spin a globe to find a country, it ain't none of my damn business."

Legends of the Hidden (and Not So Hidden) Temples

Cue the theme music.

Writing a web-log is a lot like playing that old Nickelodeon game show, Legends of the Hidden Temple.  In it, kids have to complete a variety of tasks to gain entrance into the Hidden Temple.  Once granted entry, they race against the clock to find the Silver Monkey Key and unlock . . . something.  Then, they win a prize to NASA Space Camp or something else that kids who have mouth-gear and an abnormal love for Mayan history enjoy (I undoubtedly mumbled “Schpache Camp?  Schweet” while eating popcorn and reclining on a gratuitously padded chair at my grandparents house).  Such is my life in Indonesia, minus Schpace Camp. 

I am constantly trying to go on adventures, figuratively gaining entrance to my temple (i.e. finding inspiration to web-log).  Then, once I have gained entry, the clock starts ticking . . . and it doesn’t stop.  I have to dodge appointments, forego sleep, and avoid various obligations to reach my goal: current, comic, and poignant web-logging.  However, the obstacles are many.  Sometimes, big adults in Mayan themed Temple Guard costumes emerge from the goat pen, burst into my room, and hold my arms as I am trying to type.  I scream “you are supposed to be professionals!” as they administer nipple twists, limpers, and monkey bubbles.  Then, weeks go by and I haven’t updated this  forlorn and dusty attic of my daring-do and mundane day-to-day.  Other times, I look at my computer and think, “meh,  I would rather read.”  Either way, from watching Legends of the Hidden Temple at my grandparents’ house in the mid ‘90s, I have realized that to succeed in this game, one should always be on team Blue Barracudas.  Another hot tip: never go into the Cave of Sighs.  Right now, I am on the Green Monkeys and the echoes of my sighs are reverberating, but I do have a few temple adventures to relate.

Borobudur: Not So Hidden

The view from the top of Borobudur, stupas and all.

 

The first Saturday at my placement site, I was planning to have a nice, quiet morning, to run in the afternoon, and then rustle up some food for dinner.  My host family had other ideas.  My host mother asked, “Jems (how my name is pronounced over here, somewhere between ‘James’ and ‘Jim.’), we are going to Yogyakarta.  You will come?”  I wanted to respond, “hell yes,” but I settled for “tentu saja, bu” which means, “of course, mom.”

I tend to say tentu saja a lot.  This is partly inspired by the fact that Indonesians, when speaking English, say “of course” all the time.  However, my reasoning is not exclusively influenced by environment.  It has ideological roots as well.  I read the David Sedaris essay “In The Waiting Room,” and it helped me realize that the adventure potential for the always agreeable is much greater than for the perpetually disagreeable.  Also, it’s nice to be nice.  So, my mantra has been tentu saja whenever I am offered any choice.  Do you want to try grasshopper chips?  Tentu saja. Do you want to go fishing next weekend? Tentu saja.  Do you believe I can call demons and speak with spirits? Tentu saja (and that guy looked crazy). Do you think my daughter is beautiful? Tentu saja (in reality . . .) .  Do you want to see me hit your host dad with an ancient, Javanese sword, to prove his strength?  Tentu saja (times two).  Do you want to come to church with my wife and me? Tentu saja.  Do you want to work in the garden? Tentu saja.  Do you want to dance on stage, awkwardly, in front of over 200 people and your town's ruling officials? Tentu saja. Do you want to [incomprehensible Bahasa Indonesia]?  . . . Tentu saja! 

At 4:30 AM (a normal time to wake up for all of my students and counterparts) we left for Yogyakarta.  Yogyakarta is a cultural hotbed, recognized as the beating heart of Javanese music and arts.  In total, we drove for about ten hours that Saturday.  This provided for a lot of family bonding time.  It helped me realize that my family is incredibly fun and cohesive.  Everyone would sing along to songs on the radio (including Avenged Sevenfold.  Yes, pious Muslims can really get behind Avenged Sevenfold.  Who knew?), laugh at jokes (some I understood, most I didn’t) and at my inability to stay awake (sleeping with your mouth open and drooling is cross-culturally hilarious.  Color me a comedian). 

While we were in Yogyakarta, though, we stayed in a hospital.  The impetus of the trip was to visit the mother of a family friend who was critically ill.   She was in her mid-seventies, and suffering from organ failure.  The family seemed at ease, though, as the sick woman had lived a long and happy life.  I smiled, offered my condolences, played with the four children who were visiting their grandmother, and struck up conversations with the adults as I was able.  When talking to the grandfather, I noticed he had on Ohio State slippers.  When he asked “anda dari mana?” I had only to point to his shoes to indicate where I was from.  The great state of Ohio has made its mark across the ocean, if only on one pair of slippers.

To be fair, though, I haven’t seen any Michigan paraphernalia anywhere . . . .

Leaving the hospital, I assumed we would tour Yogya and head home.  Again, my assumptions were incorrect.  My bu turned around to say, “Jems, we are going to Borobudur.  Is that ok?”  My response: “tentu saja, bu.”  

Borobudur is a Buddhist temple that dates from (presumably) AD 750 – AD 850.  It is a gorgeous cultural icon, set atop a verdant, green hill, surrounded by cloud cloaked mountains and volcanoes.  Borobudur is the largest Buddhist monument in the world, a large temple that, when viewed from above, resembles a giant tantric mandala.  It is adorned with numerous stupas, Buddhist statues, and elaborate carvings that depict Buddhist cosmology, ontology, and morality.  The base of the temple shows man at his lowliest form, seeking only hedonistic pleasure, searching for fulfillment in the illusive and sensory.  As the tiers progress, the birth and life of Siddartha Buddha and the Buddhist quest to enlightenment/nirvana is depicted, as is a spotty, pictorial history of Javanese life from early AD.  Finally, the temple ends in the grand stupa that crowns the top of the temple.

Make a wish and touch Buddha's ring finger.

Borobudur was high on my list of places to see, and being able to experience it the first weekend at my placement site was overwhelming.  Also, sharing the experience with my host family added an additional aspect of bonding and fellowship.  Surrounded by ancient stonework, marveling at the artistry and dedication of the people who dreamed and built this structure, and hearing my family chat and laugh in a foreign language for hours helped me realize the beautiful and complete foreignness of my situation. 

Gedung Songo: Impossibly Hidden

The following weekend I ventured to Semarang, a large city in Central Java, to visit my friend Abbey (another ETA) and to check out the Gedung Songo temples.  Although Semarang is only a two hour bus ride away from Pati, my host mom, my counterpart, and about 10 female teachers all kicked up a huge fuss about my heading out into the world alone.  At one point, a crew of teachers was gathered in the teacher’s office, giggling, squealing, and pointing.  The focus?  My upcoming jaunt to the big city.  “Jems, you will be robbed!”  “Jems, you go alone?”  “Jems, but to where will you stay?”  All of these, and a handful more questions in Bahasa, were aimed my direction.  I fielded them all with a smile I carefully controlled so as not to appear patronizing.  At one point, though, I cracked, and said “Finda (my counterpart), I need to grow up.  Let me grow up!”  This garnered big laughs, as Finda is a year younger than me.  She countered with “what will you do if you get lost?”  I responded, “Finda, if I get lost, or if I get hungry, or even if I die, I will SMS, and you can make it better.”  Now, I thought this was a pretty good joke, but nobody else did.  It was met with stony looks.  These women really thought Semarang would kill me.  Despite their doubt as to my competency, I made it to Semarang, to Gedung Songo, and back, with but one flesh wound.  Not too shabby.

Upon arrival in Semarang, I met Abbey at a small bus stop.  From there, we took a bus up to a town called Bandungan that is in the mountains surrounding Semarang.  We hopped out at Bandungan, and hiked up to the temples.  Bandungan is a beautiful area, and it is cooler than Semarang and Pati.  This meant that I didn’t sweat through my shirt instantly.  It took several hours.  

Gendung Songo is a collection of Hindu temples, built in the foothills of Gungung Ungaran (Mt. Ungaran).  The temples are not the biggest or the most ornate, but they are set amid beautiful scenery, with some great views as well.  Mountains and volcanoes sprout in every direction, there is an open, hydrothermal sulfur vent, and the forest seems to hum as you walk through it, hemmed in on all sides.  While songo means “nine” in Javanese, Abbey and I managed to find only five temples (that would be limo in Bahasa Jawa).  Yes, there is a legend, and these temples are hidden.  I murmured “Green Monkeys until I die” as we walked.  However, there was no winning this game show. The reason: Gedung Songo has been reduced to Gedung Limo as the years have filed by, slowly wearing away temples six through nine.  Lonely Planet was not privy to this information, and it took a solid hour of hiking, questioning, spouting facts about Mayan history, avoiding those unrelenting Temple Guards, and gesturing frantically to determine.  Use this newfound knowledge wisely.

At one point, while searching for nonexistent temples six through nine, Abbey and I were attacked by a beast, a frothing, golden hued, flying, bulging, monster, hell-bent on carnage.  It came from the sky, unannounced, livid and aggressive.  First honing in on Abbey, the helicopter sized wasp stung lightly, probing scalp and hair to get a feel for inflicting human pain.  Then, it jumped the three foot gap to land on my skull, where it sunk its stinger as far into my brain as possible.  By my estimation, it managed to drill ten inches or so of stinger into my skull. Perhaps the wasp monster was attempting some sort of basic, bestial lobotomy.   I yelped, pawed, and continued to whine for approximately two hours.  I don’t remember which hurt more, not finding the Hidden Temples and trying my luck in assembling the Silver Monkey Key, or my throbbing head.  My only consolation was the fact that this adventure, once posted, will get me one step closer to updating my web-log and thus earning me a shot at figurative Schpace Camp.

Schpace Camp?  Schweet.

There's a Pati in Tlogowungu . . . Wait, Reverse That

The Center of SMK Farming pati

After a bus ride from Bandung to Jakarta, a plane from Jakarta to Semarang, and a car ride from Semarang to Pati/Tloguwungu, I was finally home.  SMK Farming Pati is the school where I will live and teach for the next eight or so months.  It is located about seven kilometers outside the small(er) city of Pati, Central Java, in the middle of the larger province that also goes by the name Pati.   So, Tloguwungu—and by geographic association, SMK Farming Pati as well—is Pati central.

Mas Tommy, Ibu Ning, dan Pak Bambang.

I was picked up in the Semarang airport by Pak Bambag and Tommy, my host father and 15 year old brother, respectively.  They ushered me back to school where my host mom, Ibu Ning, and Bagas, bro aged 19, were waiting with a few family friends.  I felt at home instantly.  The Bambang family lives in a nice, open house set on the school campus (they are also the headmaster and vice principal of the school).  My house is located about twenty feet away from theirs.  About fifty feet away from my door is the joglo, a raised, central structure without walls and with a high roof.  It is the center of campus and the main nonkrong (Indonesian for hangout) spot.  The joglo is surrounded by gardens that grow a variety of crops all year round.  Ringing the joglo are classrooms, the teacher office, the cow pen, the goat pen, the student dormitories, my host family’s house, and my house.  Having ready-made community out my front door, especially one that was instantly kind and welcoming, has made this transition really enjoyable.

The new abode.  Car not included.  Students included.

Harold, or Harry.

My house is pretty great, especially now that the water is running.  I have four or five roommates: four geckos and a wildly large spider I named Harold.  Since there are a ton of flies around (Folger’s has nothing on attempting to swat flies on your face, first thing in the morning), I figure the in-house fauna should stay.  Plus, it’s nice to hear the geckos bark as I go to sleep.  This crew can compete with the best pillow talkers I have come across.

Me: “Fingernails and toenails: I mean, I can see the importance, but what strange growths.  And, like, they keep growing!  Have you ever stopped to consider that?  They don’t stop.  Ever. Yeah, fingernails and toenails are crazy.  What’s up with them?”

Geckos: “Bark, bark, bark, bark.”

Me: “I shall name you Cody, and you Jesse, and you Lisa, and you Daniel.  And I shall love you all.”

Geckos: “Bark, bark, bark, bark.”

Harold: “If you all don’t shut up right now, I am going to inject venom into your circulatory system and watch as you writhe while your insides turn into goo.”

Daniel Gecko: “Bark.”

[Screaming, writhing, shriveling, gasping]

Me: “Goodbye, sweet Daniel.”

When I first arrived there was a small party of sorts that was for Halal Bi Halal (an end of Ramadan celebration) and my welcoming.  There was some musical entertainment provided by the students, a prayer, I introduced myself, all of the teachers introduced themselves, and then we ate.  It was a really kind gesture, one that I will remember for a long time.

You can call me Mr. James.