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.

Bandung Excursions: One Through Three And A Half

Excursion One: Gunung Guntur.

The first weekend the crew was in Bandung, half of the crew wasn’t in Bandung (hm, paradox!).  Instead, we voyaged to nearby Ciapanas, known for its hot springs and volcano hiking.  Now, when I say “volcano hiking,” I imagine trumpets blaring, and for some reason (no doubt, a good reason), I am wearing a cape, spandex, and I am pointing. 

Yes, [cue trumpets, don cape] VOLCANO HIKING.

We arrived in Ciapanas to check in at the Terta Merta hotel on a Friday.  The rooms were nice enough, but the major pull was the in-room natural hot tub/toilet combo.  The volcanoes that surround Ciapanas generate a great deal of hot water.  This water is channeled into various locations, one of which is the Terta Merta.  So, in comes the water, piping hot, to a tile room connected to the sleeping quarters.  It swirls around for a bit until it is channeled into the toilet.  The toilet water then exits the premises and goes. . .somewhere.  The point here is that the well conceived water flows permits the hot tub water (which I/everyone inevitably urinated in. . .it’s more than a habit, it’s a compulsion, and don't pretend you are above it) to enter the toilet, where it belongs.  It’s like the engineers behind the Terta Merta  had me (and you) in mind.

Throwing the peace around at the Terta Merta

After enjoying the hot-tub/toilet combination during the evening, a small group of ETAs left early to ascend the looming Gunung Guntur.  Yep, the volcano’s name was Guntur.   The personification would have been an Indonesian with big shades and an awesome mullet.  We ambled up through a village and eventually made it to some dirt excavation sites where our “path” became more of a labyrinth.  Fortunately, no David Bowies were present.  Also fortunately, a quick-thinking entrepreneur decided to shirk the dirt for a day, put down his shovel, and lead us up the correct “path.”  We managed—with his help—to find the two waterfalls and to make it to the top (kind of) of Gunung Guntur.  The hike was pretty grueling, lasting about 12 hours total, with a lot of elevation gain and some nasty, loose rock.  Once we got to the first caldera, we decided that was the top.

Getting close to the top.

Waterfall Two

Brian, and the top of GUNUNG GUNTUR.  Not Pictured: exhaustion and the caldera

After navigating the way back—with only a few unexpected twists and turns—it was time to drain some Sprites and Pocari Sweats (Note: This is an electrolyte infused beverage, not an awful, dehydrating exotic disease.  Though, if you come down with the Pocari Sweats, things could get dicey).   Following the re-hydration station,  we took a dip in the local pool that was, you guessed it, warmed via volcano.

Volcano Hike!

Excursion Two: “BAH ANKLUNG DONE BROKEDED!” 

The following weekend we went to an angklung performance.  The angklung is a traditional instrument made from bamboo.  It plays a single note when jiggled, so an angklung set is used in much the same way one would play a xylophone or marimba.  However, let’s not lose focus; the angklung is not struck with a mallet.  It is jiggled.  There are few things that are jiggled, much less jiggled intentionally, but an angklung is something I can confidently say is jiggled with purpose (I contest that Jello is most often jiggled unintentionally.  What say you, Bill Cosby?).  Let me tell you, there was some awesome angklung jiggling at this performance.

The performance was at Saung Angklung, a school where angklung(s) is/are made and taught, along with the teaching of traditional dance.  Though a bit touristy, the location satiated my previously unknown appetite for all things angklung (jiggling included).

Despite an overwhelming urge to type “jiggle” repeatedly, I think the pictures of this excursion can stand alone.  Here they are.  Jiggle.

Oh, and the relevancy of this title is that one of the ETAs in our group was given a defective anklung at the time when the audience participates in the performance.  Instead of graciously waiting and enjoying the soothing and percussive surrounding music, she stood up on her own hind legs, drew herself up to the intimidatingl height of 5 foot nothing,  and, bellowed, “BAH ANKLUNG DONE BROKEDED!”  [this translates, roughly, to “unfortunately, everyone, my anklung is not currently functional.”]  All jiggling stopped.  She then sat down, proceeded to smear one of the five pieces of fried chicken she had purchased all over her face, and occasionally managed to angle it close enough to her mouth for ingestion.

Talya: one classy dame.

Excursion Three: Classroom Visit

During week two (I think it was week two. . .), we visited schools that pertain to our placements.  ETAs went to SMAs (Sekolah Mengenah Atas), which are university preparatory schools for students that will further their studies at a university after high school; they went to SMKs (Sekolah Mengenah Keluarah), which are vocational high schools aimed at preparing students for a particular career after high school; and Pesantrens (Indonesian Madrasahs) that combine Islamic teaching and practices with regular curriculum.  Since I am teaching at a vocational farming school (SMK Farming Pati), I went with a crew to an SMK. 

 

Where are the Americans?

The SMK we visited was a very cheery, high energy school.  It focused on tourism and business.  Out of approximately 2,400 students, 2,360 were girls.  I observed an English class with the one Kelsey Ritzel, and we subsequently fielded questions from the students, took pictures with the students, and allowed the students to lavish praise upon us.  I truly felt like a celebrity, something  I knew I was destined to feel.  Who needs a red carpet when the tiled floor of SMK Bandung waits? 

Excursion Three and a Half: Miscellaneous

The time spent out of training, and not on the previously described trips, was ambled away in various ways.  Dinner was always a delight, with a bunch of restaurants in walking distance and many more just a short angkot ride away.  Cloud Nine, a neat bar set atop a hill that overlooked Bandung, provided a few nights of enjoyable entertainment.  Then, there were errands to be run, the city to see, holidays to enjoy (Idul Fitri/Lebaron, the celebration at the end of Ramadan), and an abundance of good company.

Bandung: not an anti-fecal sentiment, but a great host city for training, adventures, and Indonesian acclimation.

Ban Dung!

Kelsey Ritzel, of photo notoriety, looking . . . comfortable?

Note: Again, K. Ritzel helped me out with a good portion of these photographs.  Thanks, Kelsey.

Belated Bandung Business . . . and Pleasure

The question is, 100% of what?

Assiduous followers of this web log, you don’t exist.  However, if you did exist, I would apologize.  I would vow never to let my posts be so far and few between, again.  Also, I would conditionally promise to buy all of you an imaginary Squeeze-It to quench your hypothetical thirst and love of ‘80s and ‘90s kitsch.

On a more (indeed, utterly) serious note, I vow never to call my web-log a “blog.”  Do you call your country a . . . tree?  That one is for you, Mom.  Enough small talk, it’s time to play catch up on this mother (that one was not for you, Mom).

From the hotel.  Goodbye, Jakarta!

A lot has happened since I was in Jakarta.  The forty three other ETAs and I completed our three week training in Bandung (the Paris of Java), we tearfully spread across the archipelago (this is a map of all ETA placements in Indonesia for 2010), and we have been at our placements for two weeks.  Put in such brief summary, this all sounds pretty unexciting.  My 10^th grade English teacher, and Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird, both told me “show, don’t tell.”  However, I prefer the advice of my Kindergarten teacher, who liberally advocated both showing and telling.  So, the rest of this post, and the next several posts, will be a show and tell about my time in and around Bandung (the Paris of Java).

Upon arriving in Bandung, we were greeted by dancing and lemonade.  

 

Oh, to be a finely crafted and honed instrument, courtesy of the State Department. 

Imagine forty four Jason Bourne/James Bond (styled like Connery, but with some Brosnan lilts and Daniel Craig underpinnings) types tearing around Indonesia, driving all manner of terrestrial and aquatic vehicles, and seducing  everything  animate . . . and inanimate.  Now, firmly but politely dismiss that thought, as it comes nowhere close to reality.  Instead, imagine forty four decently cerebral human beings, forty three of whom had back-stories that are all individually fascinating, and one of whom commonly goes by initials and sweats his body weight everyday in Indonesia.  Yep, there you go.  That’s more like it.

Bandung at sunset.

 

Our training in Bandung (the Paris of Java) consisted of teaching and language lessons.  The teaching lessons focused on the development of lesson planning and implementation.  The language classes focused on the most basic and essential information and was called “Survival Indonesian.”  It seems effective, in that I am still alive two weeks into my placement where my Bahasa Indonesia skills are tested everyday.  However, “I desperately need to use the bathroom, right now,” “where can a guy get a Bintang [local Indonesian beer] around here,” and “I will seduce either your friend or your cockatoo” were not covered.  I suppose in writing the language lessons focused on basic and essential information.  Fortunately for you, I have included them below.

      Saya dengan seger harus mengunakan kamar kecil.

     

      Di mana laki-laki bisa minum Bintang di sini?

      Saya akan merayu temanmu atau kakatuamu.  (Note: this sentence assumes you are on informal terms with whom you are speaking.  I don’t think this is a stretch, as nobody would consider seducing the cockatoo of a stranger).

       Use these whenever necessity dictates.  I hope they are correct.  The consequences are dire.

Poolside at the Sheraton in Bandung

These classes, which in retrospect were very helpful, lasted from eight to four thirty, Monday through Friday.  We had ample snacks provided, unlimited coffee, and a comfortable break schedule.  All in all, it was a very positive experience.  Oh, and we stayed in a beautiful hotel, as the State Department is obligated to use a certain caliber hotel for any government related hosting.  The Sheraton in Bandung (the Paris of Java) came complete with all the amenities I assumed my stint in Indonesia would have: an oasis like pool, a hot tub, a steam room, a sauna, a workout room, unbelievably delicious dining, and spacious rooms.  In a lot of ways, this training it reminded me of TFA Institute, except for the, you know, everything.

Although the majority of our time in Bandung (the Paris of Java) was spent in training, the city was interesting, vibrant, and very temperate for Indonesia.  The time I spent outside of training was mainly centered in the area around our hotel, though my fellow ETAs and I did manage several excursions. The following posts will be a few anecdotes from those experiences.

 

 NOTE: A few pictures of the picture included here are courtesy of Ms. Kelsey Ritzel, photographer extraordinaire and founding member of Kelompok Burung Kakatua [kakatua!].