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!].  

Jakarta: Where Entropy Reigns, Motorbikes Are Omnipresent, And Kudus Have No Apparent Relevance

Cities, on occasion, intimidate me.  Jakarta is a big city.  If you've put my predicament together by now, kudus to you:

Kudus are more fun than kudos.  African ungulates > granola bars.  It's math.

In the five days I spent in Jakarta, I was occasionally intimidated in big ways.  I don't consider myself an easily intimidated person.  However, this city can cow the most valiant knight of whatever polygon table you prefer (rhombus?).

Consider:

This representative picture--taken in Jakarta-- isfrom allworldcars.com

You are walking down a street in Jakarta.  All around you is traffic.  The sea of motorbikes, buses, cars, and bemo taxis (three-wheeled vehicles that belong in Mario Kart) is never ending.  To your left is a "river."  This river is a suspicious aquamarine color, and it smells like some combination of iodine, cabbage, and month old milk.  The best word to describe it is "putrungent."  The cacophony of traffic, a chorus of horns, motorbikes, and shouting, is momentarily quieted when, out of nowhere, an ojek (Indnesian motorcycle taxi) careens through the air, pauses for a moment, suspended, and plummets into the "river" below.  In seconds, the ojek and its riders are stripped of metal and skin, too fast for the victims to even scream.  Not even a skeleton or steel frame are left.  The "river" fizzes and burps with inanimate glee.

End Scene.

That's right, Jakarta is built atop acid pits, streams, and creeks.  If anyone tells you otherwise, ask them if they have ever seen anything enter the suspicious blue/green "water" of Indonesia's capitol and lived to tell the tale.  If they have, lend them your kudu for a bit.

Your kudu is majestic.  Make sure to get it back.

A city of 8,490,000 people is bound to be intimidating.  It is doubly so if it is in a developing country, and triply (wow, that's a word?) so if nobody has any inkling of what a traffic law is.  Entropy reigns.  Sure, people drive on the left side of the street, but that's more of a recommendation than a law.  In Jakarta, motorbikes are the ubiquitous gnats of the traffic world.  They are everywhere: motorbikes on the sidewalk, motorbikes on all sides of your taxi, motorbikes in the "river," motorbikes on your eyelids, motorbikes in your nostrils. When I go outside, I am immediately covered in motorbikes.  This makes crossing the street incredibly difficult.

Crossing the street in Jakarta is akin to playing the super-duper-advanced-and-a-half level of Frogger with your thumbs taped to the palms of your hands, blindfolded, and upside down.  Yeah, it's hard.  Here is evidence.
 

 Not Pictured: motorbike death. *Thanks for the pic, Polly-Pocket.

Really, though, Jakarta is fascinating, friendly, and safe.  I managed a series of adventures and experiences--visiting the largest Mosque in Indonesia, Masjid Istiqlal, walking through Merdeka Square, shopping for dictionaries in the labyrinthine Gran Indonesia and Plaza Indonesia, browsing a local market in North Jakarta, walking through residential areas, playing soccer with some local boys and against our hotel staff, and shredding some karaoke--in the meager five days here. Also, Jakartans are nice.  They love pointing out to white people that we are, in fact, white (astute observation, my Indonesian compatriot!).  They do this by shouting bule! 

bule      n.      a term for a white-skinned foreigner; a variant of "bulai" meaning albino; a paleface

However, nine out of ten times, this doesn't seem to be meant offensively.  Rather, it's just an observation or an exclamation, like "what's good, vanilla face?"  Or, "I think you're trying to imitate a ghost.  Are you?"  Whities don't walk around this part of town a lot, so I guess when we do, it's important to point out to us that we look a little . . . different.  This interpretation of bule--as lighthearted commentary on racial difference--is furthered by the fact that Indonesians are willing to speak with a stammering, near incomprehensible, foreigner.  Here are some anecdotal illustrations:


Elena and I (a fellow ETA) decided to walk around for an hour or so before our next obligation.  We asked how to get to Kota, which is the old Dutch part of Jakarta.  Knowing full well we didn't have enough time to reach our destination, we set off in the right direction.  I immediately started sweating.

After about fifteen minutes we reached a stretch of residences where people were sitting outside as children, goats, ducks, and geese ran around.  The occasional motorbike would rumble down the street, weaving in and out of pedestrians, and the aluminum siding of the houses baked in the sun and gently echoed the evening call to prayer.  Elena and I tried to greet as many people as we could (selamat sore!).  As we walked past the residences, we came across a soccer field.  We made our way to a cluster of boys at the far end of the field to try and get in on a game or just kick around for a bit.  As we were walking there, an SUV that was driving around the field slowly passed us.  I was no more than a foot away from the vehicle, and as it slowly passed by, the back right window rolled down to reveal the comically round and chubby face of a three or four year old Indonesian boy.  He lazily looked at me, smiled, and through his rotund cheeks, seemed to burp bule!  His assessment complete, he rolled the window back up.

Coming back from Central Jakarta, two ETAs and I (Thomas and Victor) wound up in the Bluebird Taksi of Mahandi L.  Despite having an active vocabulary of about 45 Bahasa Indonesia words between us, the two other ETAs and I managed to communicate with Mahandi and share a few laughs.  He was floored that we were English teachers, he brought up the embarrassing story of Miss Indonesia not knowing enough Bahasa Indonesia to answer a pageant question (she had to have it translated into English), and enlightened us as to the basic religious breakdown in Jakarta.  This is just one instance of many where Indonesians took the time to talk to one or more foreigners, despite us not having a good handle on the language.  Parisians: take note.

Today we leave Jakarta and travel to Bandung, where we will complete our training over the next three weeks.  I fully intend to return, but for now, I am hoping that Bandung is weaker in the motorbike department, and stronger in the enthalpy domain.  If these wishes come true, I'ma give the whole damn city one big kudu.

Note: I took zero of these kudu pictures.  Kudus to those sources from which I borrowed.  If you want to know where I found them, let me know.

The Inaugural Post: Wherein I Demonstate My Powers Of Inane Rambling

I've never considered myself a "blog guy."  However, I think that living internationally as a twenty-something necessitates I become one.  I tried to confront the fact that, at the end of the day, blogs are somewhat narcissistic.  However, when I looked in the mirror to have the conversation, I just couldn't stop complimenting my reflection.  I mean, that guy is SMOKIN'.  Eventually the tension was palpable, the air crackling with romance and--dare I say it?--lust. I made a move, only to be shut down by a hard, reflective surface.  Rejection has never tasted so . . . Windex-y.  I had to leave, but as I did my best to walk out of that bathroom with my dignity intact, I heard a whistle echo off the mirror.

I am now, officially, a blog guy.  I hope to infuse this corner of the interweb with some interesting insight, recent relevancy, putrid puns, lyrical lilts, and ample alliteration (huzzah!).  Also, you will have to strap yourselves in for some wild Pati humor (huzzah, huzzah!).  If these things are not to your pleasing, you can always admire my leaf.  I picked it out myself, and it is a beautiful leaf.  Go on, don't be shy, admire the leaf a little bit.  There you go.

I strained myself, ultimately pulling the cerebral equivalent of a hammy--I suppose that would be in or around the brain stem, as it most looks like a meaty, well formed, athletically inclined gam--when naming this web log.  Perhaps you don't believe me.  Allow me to show you the rather rotten fruits of my labor:

Pati Time (Winner)  
Pati Humor 
The Pati Mouth (Runner up)                           
J.(Pa)T(i)n Indonesia
Pati Language       
Pati Cakes  
Pati: Not Just Your Aunt's Name
Can You Spot Me In Pati? (Second Most Embarrassing)
LoPatamy
Spotty in Pati (Most Embarrassing Idea)
Would you like a CuPati? (Wow, Pretty Bad)
Does Anyone Here Want To Be Friends With The Tall White Guy?

You might be thinking, "but J.T., you don't really have that many names, given that you strained yourself so terribly as to jostle an important, albeit fictional, brain muscle/tendon."  Well, in response, I suppose I didn't know how to stretch up there.  Also, screw you, I thought it was kind of a lot of names.

Regardless, Pati Time won out because of its vision, its multiple layers of meaning, its descriptiveness, and because I asked someone who asked two other people and they said it was the best of all given options.  I didn't press them into saying whether or not it was, objectively, decent, pretty good, or awesome.  I let them keep their actual opinions to themselves, and I assumed they thought I was, if not a genius, wildly clever.  I'm sure they were thinking that, anyway.

So, without further ado or flourishing, here is Pati Time, for your reading (dis)pleasure.