Like Standing between a Grizzly and Its Cub

Addison, the man who once bested Miss South Carolina in a karaoke contest (it's true), just brightened my Christmas with this new single release.

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Southeast Asians eat a lot of rice. You get it.

But do you really? It’s certainly the bulk of every meal, and the Indonesian government suggests I’ll have eaten 693 pounds of it by the time I finish service. But there’s more. Rice is so important to Indonesians that its significance transcends diet. To understand, suspend rationality, and accept this: it’s gastronomically impossible to feel full after a riceless meal. Where I live, most villagers believe that's true, and as a result, they’re fiercely invested in the grain.

It doesn’t matter that corn and cassava may be cheaper and readily available. Indonesians won’t settle for substitutes. It’s pony up for the good stuff or go home. NPR’s Planet Money just published a podcast on how of a perceived shortage sparked both a run on rice and a tripling of global prices from $350/ton to $1200/ton in 2007. High prices were no hurdle for demand. Stephen Colbert noted that even in America,

“CostCo and Sam’s Club are now both rationing rice. You can’t buy more than eighty pounds in a single visit. Only eighty pounds! How am I supposed to make my famous kiddy pool jambalaya!”

Now you get it: Southeast Asians really care about their grain. And extrapolating further, you can imagine that standing between an Indonesian and his grain is like standing between a grizzly mom and its newborn cub. Outcome? Trouble.

***

And that’s more or less what drew a few hundred angry demonstrators, some tv cameras, and sixty police to my village office on Monday. The background: it’s Javanese tradition for well-off community members to donate a certain portion of their harvests to the poor. These farmers bring a share of their unrefined rice—called beras—to the local village office. The officials are then charged with distributing the rice to the needy.

At least they’re supposed to…

My community suspects at least one of the administrators has been embezzling rice to benefit friends and family (pretty common here). So they stormed the office, forced their way in, and demanded a hearing. The police then pulled up in their regency paddywagons and kept order. Women and children flocked to the spectacle, and even though the shouting got heated (heard from my house), nobody was arrested or hurt. And though I have no idea how the situation will play out, it’s safe to say that the grizzly mother-cub metaphor has really struck home. If you’re interested in more, you can run this Indonesian article through Google Translate for a better scoop.

On to this week in photos…

Yes, they do wear those.

A neighbor chopping down his mango tree in the rain because it had
the audacity to drop a limb on his roof.

Local paddy and local volcano.

Kids eating chocolate... real chocolate.

New friends.

Old friends.

The Big, Awkward Question

There’s an elephant in the room… can you see it? I noticed it for the first time almost as soon as I received my invitation to come serve in East Java. People at home didn’t know much about Indo. “That’s near Borneo, right?” “Didn’t they film Eat, Pray, Love in Bali?” “My buddy went on a mission trip to Sumatra…” I heard a lot of these vague connections, and until I’d read up on Wikipedia too, I couldn’t find Jakarta on a map either. But as Americans, even though our knowledge of the world’s 4th most populous country tends to be as fragmented as the Indonesian archipelago itself, we do tend to share at least one common bit of trivia: Indo is the world’s largest Muslim country.

Enter the elephant. Life in post-September 11th America has revolved around an Islamic world that has stood at the center--or at least very near the center--of our politics, economic woes, religious life, and moral debates. And we’re definitely still struggling to make sense of this belief system and the cultures that embody it. Friend or foe, liberating or restrictive, democratic or theocratic, homogenous or diverse: our interpretations of these scales are far from stable, evidencing the breadth of the unknown that’s still out there. And let’s face it, mysteries are more easily regarded with suspicion than acceptance, and the biggest, most highly populated representation of the Islamic mystery is no exception.

And believing that “showing” is generally better than “telling,” here’s how the mystery has unraveled so far, at least in this PCV’s experiences.

In a word: it’s been fine. Case in point, a few weeks ago, a few, fellow teachers approached me at school and asked, “Meester Danil, are you free today?” Of course. “The students at [local middle school x] want to meet you. Will you follow?” Sure. So after school, we piled into the school car and drove a few miles uphill to one of the local middle school madrassahs. The teachers there had piled about one-hundred students into the mosque for a Q and A, meet-the-whitey session. Indos being Indos, of course the questions jumped straight to the personal. (1) “Are you married? Why not?,” (2) “Why are you here?,” and of course, the big one,(3) ”Are you a Muslim?” Number three always pops up, and I’ve been coached to gingerly dance around this one if need be. However, at least so far, I’ve never needed to muddy the waters, and my answer to these students was no exception: “No, my religion is different, but I want to learn about your culture and beliefs, too.”

Indos have had absolutely zero problems with this response (the kids cheered), and they seem particularly excited to have the opportunity to share their religious culture with an outsider (i.e., me, a non-Muslim and a Christan) as opposed to someone whose beliefs and practices are already integrated with their own. It’s sort of like the excitement of “show and tell” where Sharing something isn’t that exciting if that something is already ubiquitous. The discovery of sameness can certainly lead to interesting conversations, but it can also lead to awkward “Oh, then you probably aren’t that curious about this” moments, too. So openly embracing one’s otherness, then, can be a quick and effective way to encourage Indos like these kids to open up. If done tactfully, it says, “I’m not an expert, but I want to learn.”

It’s also worth noting that like other Muslims the world over, many Indos are dismayed to see their spiritual convictions misrepresented and distorted through radical acts of violence. National terror tragedies in Bali, Jakarta, and just a few weeks ago, Solo, have already left and continue to leave a sour taste in the mouths of the vast majority Indo Muslims who’d like nothing more than to attain the legitimacy and respectability that their individual-level acts of tolerance and generosity merit. And who might be some of the most significant, symbolic conferrers of this self-respect? Americans, that’s who! Specifically the churchgoing kind… because as I see it, if Indonesian Muslims can win the esteem of members of the religious and political culture historically most abrasive to their own, then they believe they’ve overcome one of the tallest hurdles towards validating themselves in the world’s eyes as a noble people.

So my religious beliefs, if framed correctly through a lenses of openness and curiosity, might give me multiple advantages in integrating into my Indonesian community that the non-religious, and maybe even American Muslims wouldn’t have… especially in terms of my community's "show and tell" fervor. Locals gets super excited opening doors for me to experience their religious culture: attending prayer meetings (selamatans), shopping for Muslim clothing, and invitations to break Ramadhan fasting with friends all come to mind. Sometimes, my co-teachers and family even go overboard, and at least a few times, I’ve had to awkwardly turn down opportunities to partake in the praying experience. “Meester Danil, we must go to pray at mosque. Do you want to try?” Thank you, but I don’t think so this time. “.....Why?” I don’t know if that’s a good idea today." Can you feel the awkward?

I hope this does give a good sense of what the Indonesian “elephant” really looks like. Few Americans have ever seen it, and the majority who haven’t have little choice but to associate the unknown with those selected, often dramatized stories fed to them by the media. But when the elephant is seen for what it really, it becomes pretty clear that (1)Indonesian Muslims are not nearly as threatening as we’re often led to assume [cliché but true] and that(2) they—perhaps more so than Muslims in other countries—are particularly driven to actively build and mend bridges between themselves and other, disparate religious cultures. By and large, they want to been seen, they want to be recognized, and they'll gladly open their arms to anyone willing to show interest.

When Downtime with Friends Trumps the Wonders of the Mataram Sultanate

At first glance, Java probably doesn’t seem like a tough PC assignment. Our “basic” needs are definitely well-covered: host families cook delicious meals, (many) schools have free Wi-Fi, electricity is consistently available, and water comes directly from taps. So amidst all the amenities, it’s easy to wonder “where’s all the hardship?” And sometimes I certainly do. It’s hard to appreciate the difficulties of living here while immersed in the culture because PC life makes it easy to lose perspective regarding some of the subtleties of transition. Case in point: this past weekend’s mini-vacation to Yogyakarta was amazing, but not for the reasons anticipated. Initially, I felt pumped to explore the former Mataram Sultanate. However, priorities were quickly reshuffled when I realized how much I missed important American "idiosyncrasies" like emotions, directness, and meaningful conversation.

Indonesian’s aren’t short on friendliness; however, they have a sort of formalized friendliness that makes integrating difficult for volunteers trying to make emotional connections with the culture and their communities. Having spent time in seemingly much poorer places (Peru, Namibia, Botswana, and South Africa), I think there are some unrecognized advantages to serving in societies whose people reciprocate American values regarding openness, expressing passion, and so forth. As an American, I don't feel invested in relationships unless there’s some sort of trust built up between myself and another person. And usually, that trust has to be connected to some sort of acknowledgement of vulnerability: I worry about this…, I felt sad when this happens…,I dream of doing this…, etc. That person and myself have to be comfortable enough with one another to express our anxieties, opening the door for support and trust in confidentiality. There has to be some opportunity for people in meaningful relationships to "give" and "receive" from one another.

But the suppression of vulnerabilities in Javanese society makes it difficult to find that foothold for integration here. My co-teachers and family are friendly, often too friendly, and sometimes I wish that wall could come down for just a minute, so I could learn a little more about what life is like in the shadows, not just the sunlight. I’d like to know where my host-brother’s father is. I’d like to be told if my counterparts are really okay with my teaching methods. I’d like to learn how several local friends are coping with the recent deaths of loved ones.

Unwinding this weekend was like surfacing for a lungful of fresh air. Underwater, senses are dulled, and there’s a vague feeling of pressure whose source can’t quite be placed. But breaching the surface—i.e., interacting with American friends—reawakens sensitivities to the world above, a world I can perceive and navigate comfortably, a world I’m much naturally much better adapted to. This isn’t meant to say that Java is a hostile environment to westerners, or that its culture is less than our own... in many ways, I find people here enjoying a superior quality of life, at least emotionally if not physically. However, it is an affirmation that friends will provide a much more important support than I recognized before this past weekend, and I’ll be more than stoked to take advantage of these “vacation” opportunities in the future.

It’s funny how the next day’s schedule can be full of expectations to (1) wake up early and (2) tourist until dinnertime(ish), but quickly changes when catching-up runs to past 3:30 A.M and visiting stunning Prambanan temple is scratched in favor of chilling by the pool, when exploring notable restaurants is traded for making tacos at home and an ambitious evening on the town is declined to relax on the patio.

So laying out an itinerary for what was seen in Jogja and would be an injustice to the little things I enjoyed most. I've honestly never been happier doing so little, and I'd definitely recommend checking out some of the other blogs for much better photo documentation. Elle's "Fresh To Death" and "From Charlottesville To Indonesia," Nicole's "The Personette," and Tim's "Thought Pouridge" should all be blogrolled to the right.

(1) Old, underground mosque near the Taman Sari.

(2) Feeling the "Om" at Borobudur. The structure's upper tier was closed for cleaning.
(3) All visitors are respectfully asked to wear sarongs when touring Boro. The ones given to us were unusually small.

A Javanese Wake

After two weeks of Ramadhan vacation, school is back in session, and I again have access to a connection fast enough for posting.

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Beginnings of Ramadhan holidays usually call for celebrations, but this year, events took a different turn. Students went home as usual, and I was about to follow when one of the head teachers approached me and politely explained the situation: one of our teacher’s grandfathers had just died, and since his father was already in the hospital (unrelated), he could especially use our support. So six of us crammed into one of the head teacher’s cars and made the bumpy trip through the countryside up to the family’s home.

Anytime I leave the main road, I feel like I’m in a different world. Sure, the schools are a bit shabbier, the homes a bit plainer, the goats a bit freer. But the big difference is the paddy, which terraces stretch for kilometers on end in some places. Usually, the waters cascading down the mountain north of town keep all the vegetation a constant, brilliant green. However, because we’re in the dry season now, not all fields can be properly irrigated, and the dirt roads have become sun-scorched and cracked. So where the drive up to the grieving teacher’s home might usually be a serene experience, at least this time, the enjoyableness was muted by the intense heat, yellowed paddy, and clouds of dust.

Showing up to the wake unannounced and—thanks to my whiteness—diverting substantial attention away from the ceremony would have been a recipe for awkward five months ago. But thanks to PC, I feel pretty well desensitized to uncomfortable situations. When we arrived at the teacher’s home, the tone was a heavy, can-hear-a-pin-drop silence. Dozens of sandals already crowded the front steps, so we took off our own. As we did so, a young man came outside to greet us with handshakes and his best smile. We followed him inside to the family’s reception room (the first room at the front of most Javanese homes). There, the space was divided into two groups of folding chairs facing each other across the room. On the side already mostly filled sat the extended family of the deceased, the men and women sitting together for once. The teachers and I quickly walked over to the other chairs, giving quick greeting and handshakes to all the men before sitting down.

No one talked aloud… just whispers. The teacher sitting next to me quietly indicated a few of the important family members seated across from us: the wife, son, and grandchildren among others. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any tears among them even though the grandfather had passed away (unexpectedly) just that morning. If the mood was serious, then, it was also composed in an utterly Asian way. Emotions seemed sublimated in order to preserve dignity (“saving face”),and given the formality of the experience—the ritual handshakes, the pointing out of key family members, the head teacher’s condolence speech—our significance as guests seemed not so much centered on emotional commiseration as on validating the family’s dignity. Despite the somber circumstances, the ability to “hold it together” in this culture by keeping a straight face or even cracking a smile while facing grave circumstances appears to indicate strength and discipline. So likewise, as guests, a few things that I initially found strange, maybe even a little disrespectful, might make sense after all. The fact that we only stayed for fifteen minutes, just one of us offered condolences, and no one bothered to keep up a sympathetic frown might be interpreted as complimented to the family’s honor. No one denied that intense pain was still being felt. As one of my counterparts noted, there had been plenty of wailing before we’d arrived. However, by maintaining a “no-nonsense”, formal performance as guests, the teachers and I seemed to have made the implicit statement “We respect you, and because you are strong, we know that you will be able to move past this experience quickly.”

Something else unrelated happened a few days later that sort of confirmed all these suspicions. On a quiet Saturday afternoon, my family heard ambulance sirens, and we all rushed out to the road to see the vehicle speed past. In our (relatively) rural part of Java, ambulances always come too late. If someone is truly sick or injured, it’s quicker to drive them directly to the hospital. Therefore, the only real reason ambulances are called here are for grieving families to let fellow villagers know that someone has died and that person was “important enough” to justify ambulance expenses even though the chances of the body being taken away are low (Muslim families bury their own just a few hours after death, if possible). So death becomes a sort of ceremonial spectacle, and that’s how my family treated it. Even though we all knew the mother and child who’d just been killed in the motorcycle accident (I’d photo’d with the mom two weeks before), my parents expressed being much more impressed by the ambulance call than they did being saddened by the death.

(1) On the last day of Ramadhan, my cousin and his friends built a volleyball net in the bamboo forest. We've gotten a lot of playing time in since.

(2) Men in sarungs.

(3) Family greeting more family.


(4) Idul Fitri is like the Muslim Halloween. Except the kids get money, not candy.

Pre-Ramadan Parades and PR

I showed up expecting to teach Monday morning and made it halfway to my first class before a counterpart politely mentioned that students were busily engaged in “class meetings.” “How long will the class meeting last?” I asked. “Until Saturday,” she replied. “Class meeting” sounded productive, but over the next few days, I slowly realized the term is just a formal facade for “fun and games”: specifically volleyball, futsal, ping pong, and cooking competitions all organized to celebrate the approach of the Islamic fasting month, Ramadan, and perhaps, more importantly, promote some positive PR for a madrasah looking to increase enrollment.

The pageantry of the weeklong competitions and Saturday’s culminating, district-wide parade provided an opportunity for my school to strut its stuff before the community. American students are tracked to attend particular high schools based on proximity. Undesirable districting forces parents to either put up (go private) or shut up (accept the circumstances). However, Indonesia seems entirely committed to a charter model, forcing schools to compete against one another for students and funding. As a result, my school’s pre-Ramadan festivities were about more than just having fun; they also facilitated some serious PR maneuvering. By cancelling classes itself, I assume the madrasah earned significant cool points with local students, many of whom didn’t get holidays at their own schools. In addition, though, parents were invited to a free luncheon on Thursday where they heard about the school’s recent renovations and plans to build new classrooms. And for those people who didn’t get the “we’re awesome” memo firsthand, the teachers tasked me with taking pictures of all the events, so they can be printed onto banners overlooking the main road.

Moreover, Saturday’s district parade was icing on an already successful week. Wearing my new kopia and kokok (traditional Javanese Islamic dress), I left the house around 5:30 and grabbed a bus heading into town. Then, some students, also passengers, told me to get off with them and walk through some back alleys to the home of one of my counterpart’s parents where the school drum band—horribly under-resourced, right?—was meeting for makeup and costume fitting. Then, after forty-five minutes, we left together for the parade field where about 2,000 local elementary, middle, and high school students stood gathering before the march. Some schools brought trucks to carry amps and small, five person bands. And just about everyone was holding some sort of colorful prop or sign. However, no other school had a full drum band complemented by baton twirlers much less a towering 5’11”, white foreigner. So at the end of the day, my madrasah both won the parade’s 1st place spirit prize and probably cemented a pretty strong impression on anyone who bothered to watch.



I’m still not sure why my school seems better resourced than others. My homestay cousin who graduated several years ago says the school used to support just two classes per grade level. Now, though, grades X, XI, and XII support 5, 4, and 3 classes respectively, a trend suggesting that next year’s class X may be even bigger. And because Javanese children aren’t becoming more numerous under Indonesia’s two-child and relocation policies, I assume the growth trend is connected to changes in the school’s perceived quality. But I only know a little about what’s happened at my school over the past few years. I do know that a local farmer recently donated land that was developed into new classroom. However, I’m at a loss to explain why we have a paved parade space, futsal goals, Wi-Fi, and a new breezeway while other schools—from what I’ve seen so far—are limited to dirt fields and generally much less impressive appearances.

*******

Overall, this week might’ve marked the turning point where I’m really starting to enjoy my new job despite the fact that “teaching” aspect never really happened. Between refereeing futsal games, losing in ping pong, and deciding to observe Ramadan, the Bule-Indo divide narrowed just a bit, and I feel noticeably more at home in the community than I did just six weeks ago. In addition, though, I’ve also learned a bit more about how Indonesian school’s work—the basic charter concept, my madrasah’s trending prospects, and how my school compares to the local standard. In hindsight I never envisioned myself working at a school providing facilities and amenities of this quality and probably would’ve preferred a simpler setting. However, after this week, I couldn’t care less. Worries about not feeling like a “legit PCV” have softened, and so long as I feel like a contributing member of my community, I'm sure all of my pre-service expectations can be met and exceeded.

This week provided a lot of great photos, but because the internet café is a bit slow--20 minutes per upload, I’m limited to just a few for now. These four--there should be four--were taken at Saturday's parade: