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 Day of Contrasts

IntrosSo this post originally went up last Wednesday... just on the wrong blog. Better late than never I hope.

I began this past Saturday with low hopes for my last weekend in beautiful Batu, hoping to make a final run for school supplies and little more. However, events took an exciting turn when friends planned an impromptu trip to a local temple. Thanks to the Lonely Planet, I knew that Malang had several abandoned monuments secluded in unexpected spots around the city, all in various states of decay. So I was a little surprised when—just a mile or so from my home—I walked through the gates of an impressive, very functional Theravada monastery.

Who knew that such a pocket of solitude existed so close to bustling Malang. Even when I’m walking through my village’s rice paddies, it seems impossible to escape thumping wedding music and the relentless staccato of “Hello, Meeester. What. Is. Your. Name.” The monastery, though, provided a refreshing escape—at least for a few hours. We certainly took our time wandering through the gardens, browsing the library, and practicing Indonesian with the monks. And surprises we found. For example, I noticed the monastery’s museum is full of golf trophies, and the library has a complete set of Twilight. Someone else even learned that the headman had seen more of America than he had. Thus, some staple monk-assumptions were casually eroded.

And then things got more interesting.

See this little guy? He’s called a civet, and thanks to him, stuffy connoisseurs all over the world eagerly shell out $300-$600 for a single pound of beans extracted from his prized scat (“kopi luwak”). Civets live in forested areas across Southeast Asia and preferably feed on coffee beans. In turn farmers harvest the droppings, whose beans have been transformed by the civet’s digestive enzymes in ways that significantly alter their coffee’s taste. In the words of a renowned critic (whom I know nothing about), “The aroma is rich and strong, and the coffee is incredibly full bodied, almost syrupy. It's thick with a hint of chocolate, and lingers on the tongue with a long, clean aftertaste. It's definitely one of the most interesting and unusual cups I've ever had.” That reflects the general consensus from the interwebs. Now, I don’t know much about coffee. In fact I’m not even sure I like it. However, after tracking down one of the few places in East Java that sells this brew, I can proudly vouch that Kopi Luwak’s uniqueness is evident even to a novice.

And that’s how I spent my last free day in Malang, ironically partaking in two incredibly divergent experiences, the first characterized by social insight and the second by physical excess. At the monastery, I felt incredibly encouraged that I was uncovering a different facet of the Indonesian experience—Buddhist culture—to consider in my sense-making of this incredibly diverse, often confusing country. I felt more like an insider then than I had in the past two months, having achieved a bit of a breakthrough. However, I couldn’t have felt more opposingly positioned while sipping Sumatran Kopi Luwak at the posh café in colonial Malang. For a few moments, I was clearly the Dutchman enjoying something unreachable to the common Indonesian. In hindsight though, I’m still glad to have had taken the experience to try something new, despite its expensiveness, knowing well that I certainly won’t be making such things a habit during my service.

In ten minutes, I'll be walking from the internet cafe over to Muhammadiyah to meet with the U.S. ambassador and officially swear-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Next stop: my permanent site for the next few years in Ngawi regency.