Big Hair Filled With Big Dreams

It’s been nearly 6 years since I celebrated my high school graduation, and over 2 since my college graduation. These anticlimactic moments that are so talked up seemed to have snuck up on me, come and gone just like that, while I was busy living life, anticipating big moves and changes, and now here I am, in Indonesia, sweating bullets as my polyester government uniform suffocates every pore on my chest, back, and arms. Yesterday, I was once again celebrating a monumental moment; another graduation, only it wasn’t for me this time. When the 12th graders arrived at school, they were barely recognizable. Perhaps because most of the boys looked more mature in button-ups and nice slacks while most of the girls were covered in thick cakes of make-up, accentuating their noses, sporting obviously fake lashes, wearing blindingly sparkly kebaya‘s and huge fake hair pieces bedazzled to the max in sparkly pins to accompany, or maybe just because of their conspicuous demeanor that displayed how absolutely thrilled they were to graduate and move onto the next step of their life, just like I had not too long ago.

Other things that struck me as unique but that I haven’t the desire to elaborate on — I can’t believe most of the teacher’s didn’t stick around for the bulk of the ceremony. How everyone was so blatantly congratulating our school for our 100% passage rate, when there was some obvious forging of scores going on. The teacher’s procession led by one of my students wearing lots of make-up in his traditional topless Javanese costume. The parents were so hard to read, how were they truly feeling? The fathers were smoking packs upon packs of cigarettes as if it was the last pack left on Earth. They were obviously bored out of their minds, chattering non-stop. Was it rude? Not really. Why were all of the students still required to come to school if there was no place for them in the ceremony? No one hung around afterwards, there wasn’t a real reception, unless snack boxes count. No one clapped. Our school surely saved a lot of money not hiring a photographer. I was called to the stage for a mini improv speech (thanks, Pak Dinas). That there was a student-led drama performance at the end. Many unique moments that hopefully my photographs will help describe because I think I’m drowning in my own sweat. Nice image, right?

Snapshots from an Indonesian high school graduation:

My Favorite Color Used To Be Indigo

An excerpt from my journal, Thursday — May 24th, 2012:

My favorite color used to be indigo. Maybe I am being dramatic. But now when I see a male wearing an indigo colored shirt cruising by me on a motorcycle, I tense up, my palms begin to sweat momentarily and the beat of my heart starts to mimic a techno song.

Next week is graduation for the 12^th graders at my school and I had a traditional kebaya made at the tailor for the occasion. Earlier this afternoon I went to pick it up. It’s a bike ride that I’ve done plenty of times alone before, far enough, hilly enough, and indeed peaceful enough, with a nice stretch of nothing but forest for a solid kilometer or so — no houses, no people, just pure land, stunning views and pristine air to restore my lungs after conquering the hills. I always look forward to biking out there for these distinct qualities.

Today was different and that area has instilled a fear in me that I am hoping will dissipate with time.

As I was biking, I spotted a man on the side of the road. His faded indigo shirt caught my eye. He was hunching over his crappy motorcycle, fidgeting with his cell phone. I thought nothing of him and kept going. I was happy, with many accomplishments to be proud of that had seasoned my day with flavor. I was jamming along to an upbeat playlist. A few meters down, I was startled when the guy in the faded indigo shirt reappeared, slowly pulling up next to me. As the labyrinth of my inner ear community was having its own dance party, I could read his lips ‘apa sampayan ngapain? ke mana? blah blah blah’ (what are you doing, where are you going?). I reminded myself that as a young female traveling alone, I have no obligation to answer to weirdo strangers. Sure his curiosity of my whereabouts was harmless, but I could feel him growing more aggressive, I had no idea who he was, I was alone along this quiet stretch, so I ignored his questions, told him to leave me alone and made hand motions for him go away. I can’t be nice to everyone. It all happened very quickly, I thought little of it, not knowing really what to think, as he rode away. I continued peddling, where I found that he had pulled over a few meters away. He was motioning for me to stop and pullover too. Ignoring his request, I continued riding, passing where he’d stopped, when he unexpectedly ran out into the middle road, audaciously reaching out, attempting to grab me off of my bicycle. Catching my balance from swerving, I peddled as fast as possible, frantically shifting the gears to elongate my stride with each rotation. I don’t know what was going faster, my heartbeat or my feet. Looking back, I could see him getting back on his motorcycle. Knowing he could catch up with me if he wanted to harm me, I needed to reach people. Only a few meters more. Only a few meters more. Nearly rupturing my gears I continued peddling away as fast as possible, dodging hungry potholes, not slowing down or stopping until I found a toko (little shop) with people. Before I neared the toko, he sped by me once more, giving me evil eyes, and made another loop back attempting to taunt me. Calm down, calm down. I wanted to cry but I was so startled. I was unsure if I’d be stupid to cry at something like this, not understanding this platter of emotions that had become, so I held it in, trying to control my breath. I stopped at the toko where two orang tua (older people) were leisurely enjoying their afternoon, sitting on plastic crates, sipping kopi. I apologized that I had so abruptly stopped there, and between catching my breath, and allowing for the sweat to funnel out. I explained to them what had happened. They smiled, laughed and replied that the guy was obviously crushing on me where my mind read out something like this ‘WTF! This isn’t funny! I didn’t know the guy. I don’t care what culture we’re in, he has no right to taunt me like that when I am visibly scared and denying whatever he’s trying to convey’

The toko owners, pulled up a plastic crate for me to sit on, where I calmed myself down for a few minutes and called a close friend to talk it out.

After picking up my kebaya, I felt a little bit reluctant about biking back through that area but I knew I had no choice. I could have called someone to ride their motorcycle along with me to ensure my safety but I didn’t… not wanting to be a burden and honestly to feed my own ego, telling myself I needed to be tough, I was still tough. I needed to suck it up, and just go. As I rode home, I was more vigilant very paranoid,  looking back every few meters. Suddenly, a male with an indigo shirt pulled up directly in front of me. Panicking for a split second, not knowing what to do, he quickly glanced back at me, offering a wide smile, a friendly ‘hello Miss Elle!’ and sped off. It was one of my students. Caught completely off-guard again, my heart had begun racing once more.

I felt at ease once I reentered the overpopulation zone that litters East Java. Usually this is the type of area I’m trying to retreat from.

I hate it. When I’m on my bike, I feel safe (for the most part), liberated, honest to my body’s capabilities and myself, not to mention completely independent. It’s my primary outlet for relieving stress here. The bike becomes an extension of me, taking me places I’d never explore by foot. I also like to think that riding in my community and the surrounding area is safe enough, but alas, my bule status makes me an automatic target and creepo men looking to cause trouble are everywhere and I am not as strong or fearless as I’d like to believe. Though this man may not have had ill intentions and genuinely wanted to talk to me, I have the right to refuse. Peace Corps volunteer or not, my personal safety comes first and I refuse to smile and be friendly to people who appear threatening even though they may be harmless.

Integration doesn’t ensure safety. I’m not trying to have someone accompany me EVERYWHERE nor am I trying to stay at home all the time. I want to feel safe and independent, but how?

I am not the only one that this type of thing has happened to. To all PCVs out there, especially females PCVs, we surely put up with a lot of shit, stay tough and be careful. In the mean time, I’d like PC to provide some self-defense classes.

Privilege

Being the token foreigner in a pretty remote area has given me several privileges. Some are great, and some I could live without.

Example one: A couple of weeks back, I was asked to speak to a handful of students at an local Islamic boarding school, a pesantran. I have never seen kids as psyched to sing ‘itsy bitsy spider’ until I visited that school, the enthusiasm almost left me deaf. After a few Q & A’s, and a middle school boy asking “miss, do you love me?” another youngster followed up asking if they could have my autograph. There I was, standing in the front of a classroom as 50 middle schools rushed to me with their notebooks, pencil cases, and backpacks. A local celebrity just for being foreign.  Now there’s a handful of tots walking around East Java with my loopy signature donning their school things.

Example two: A new salon just opened up. Don’t get hyphy, it’s not posh or anything, just a little ruko or rumah-toko (houseshop). The owner told my laundry lady he wanted to meet me, so the other day, I did. He is this wonderfully giddy and flamboyant young guy who told me that I am orang asik (fun/interesting person) and that there’s a shortage of them in our community (perhaps, there is some truth to this statement). He then insisted on giving me a free cream bath — a fun procedure where a bunch of goopy lotions/gels are deeply massaged into your scalp, heat is momentarily added, and then you wash all the goops out and have very silky hair. How could I say no?

Example three: It’s impossible to go home empty handed. I get invited to many places and saying “no” in Indonesia when you’re offered something is sort of like plotting to kill kittens, YOU JUST DON’T DO IT. When I visited the pesantran, I came home with a big container full of dadar jagung (like fried corn cakes) because my host mother told the teachers there I liked them. When I went to my friend Evira’s house, and her family found out I liked kerupuk, I came home with a huge bag of kerupuk. During the mango season, I stopped by a teacher’s home, maybe for 2-minutes for a quick hello and I left with at least 20 mangoes. And this afternoon, I went to visit some fields where one of my students’ parents works as farmers, growing melons among many other things. Granted the bike ride was a couple of miles long, they did not let me leave empty handed as they threw a bunch of large ripe garbis (tastes like cantaloupe, but isn’t) into a rice sack and strapped it onto the back of my bicycle, where riding uphill made my thighs and calves resent me, like there was a set of infant quintuplets weighing down my bike. Upon entering the doorway to my house, I could already see my host sister, squinting with curiosity; her face read ‘what sort of goodies has she brought home this time?’ 

Example four: I can get away with being weird! My curiosity is constantly screaming: FEEEED MEEEEE and the people of East Java are saying: INGGIIIIIIIIIIIH (high Javanese for ‘yes’). At the other end of the spectrum, my naivety to some cultural norms is sometimes acceptable – I know this sounds negative for the most part, but I also believe it is important to expose people to new ways of thinking, of doing things and behaving as long as they’re not offensive or harmful to others. After all, this is one way social change is born.

Example five: A simple wave or smile can evoke uncontrollable giggling and joyful shouting. Wearing a batik (traditional Indonesian fabric) will tap the keg of infinite compliments. And saying a simple phrase or counting to ten in Javanese is enough to persuade people that I am fluent.

Example six: My opinions and what I say are the real deal. I have the ability to validate anything and people will believe it! This privilege is sometimes frightening even to me, sometimes I doubt myself. Don’t worry; I’m not spreading too much nonsense around.

Example seven: I’m like a baby. People constantly want to take me places and expose me to things. This is both a blessing (for learning and bonding) and a curse (because sometimes I want to say ‘no’ and not be paraded around and hawked at, but the PCV in me often says I can’t).

__________

Surely being the only foreigner around here has its advantages but aside from the celebrity status, there’s times nearly every day where I wish for one second that I could truly blend in and not captivate people and gain unwanted attention and honks. After all, I’m not a freakin’ alien. Despite having Asian blood and Asian features, I still stick out. Anonymity is impossible where most PCVs are placed. On mediocre days, the combined concoction of people (mostly men) yelling unintelligible things and catcalls or even ‘hey mister’ when I’m obviously not a dude on top of the staring, steers me closer and closer to acting out impulsively and purchasing a jilbab and a housewife duster (muumuu) so I can finally blend in and trick people. Would this allow me the freedom and blessing of anonymity?

Example One: My growing derrière is an obvious result of Indonesian hospitality (and biking daily!) I’m fed quite well over here though palm oil has also become my arch nemesis. Weight gain is a natural conversation starter here, and no matter how much I tell myself that it’s a cultural thing and that I don’t look like a whale, that tambah gemuk (fatter) isn’t intended to make me feel self-conscious about my body, I still take it very personally. I’m trying to take more control and kick up the exercising a few notches, but the lack of anonymity here (on top of the repelling heat) makes it difficult to conjure-up the courage to go jogging. To all the bules in the world who go jogging and tolerate the attention, rock on.

Example Two: Some people still treat me like a baby. With that comes mockery, in which case strikes up the rude and snarky match within that I quickly have to extinguish. I am always being watched. There are a few older male teachers at my school who have never taken the time or effort to get to know me (and visa versa, I’m totally guilty too) and thus they don’t know the extent of my language abilities. One morning when a teacher brought in a large bag of fresh peanuts, a bunch of us flocked over, who doesn’t love fresh peanuts? A couple of male teachers came over to my desk, holding the peanut away from their faces within their thumb and index fingers, saying in a painfully condescending and slow monotone way ‘KA-CANG’ (peanut), when I already know the word. It’s not like I haven’t been living here for over a year.

Example Three and on…: I can’t and will never be able to blend in. That in itself has instilled a lot of fear and shyness that has prohibited me from going to certain places and seeing certain things on my own. While this may be a disadvantage, I see it as a means of toughening my skin, becoming braver, and meeting a goal of ‘breaking out of my comfort zone’.

__________

Between the celeb status and feeling like a baby alien tot, I realize every week that the longer I’m here, the more I actually don’t understand. Can I get a worldwide PCV confirmation on this? Why are people treating me this way? Will I have the same privileges a year from now? Will the kid I pass on my way home still continue to confidently shout “mom!” in a poor attempt to say “ma’am” without me stopping one day to correct him? Will those pesantran kids ever resent that their backpacks read “Elle Chang” in big squiggly letters? Will returning home empty handed ever become an option? Will I be able to maintain this orang asik status? Will I ever stop asking myself rhetorical questions and writing them down so people all over the world will know what I’m thinking in some of my most personal moments? I want to continue to keep things in perspective as I am only a normal person so should I embrace the balance of having privileges (while I do) and giving up my anonymity — because when I return to the States, the majority of people won’t give a hoot who I am, if I go jogging for whatever image conscious reasons, or if I can count to ten in Javanese?

90 Seconds at Pii Mai (Lao New Year 2555)

Reblogged from 90 Second Travel:

I want to rewind the clock a bit to last month. After returning from a solo excursion to Thailand’s Ko Chang island and  spending a couple of days in Bangkok with my buddy Joe, I wandered north to Laos for a bigger hometown reunion.

This reunion was the whole reason for coming to South East Asia over say, South America.

Read more… 249 more words

Superstitious Little Fried Chicken

Babies. I’ve never been much of a ‘baby’-person or really a ‘children’-person for that matter. Surely that has changed (not really by choice) in the past year as my neighborhood (and this country in general) is exploding with the little tater tots that you just have to like them. Evidence of this rapidly growing new generation of rugrats is unavoidable. I remember the thought first really manifesting itself back in August.  Everyone was out shopping for Idul Fitri goodies at a local supermarket in Mojokerto. I was waiting for my host family in the front of the store. It was jam-packed with people. Especially ripe tots. Literally every person that walked into the store had at least one bewildered looking baby attached at their hip in a polychromatic floral sling. And if it wasn’t a baby, it was a tot under the age of 10, shuffling along the among the chaos, desperately clinging to the tail of their parents’ shirt, aimlessly peering up and around, occasionally face-planting into their parents’ butt. The tots here are either super terrified of me and are on the verge of crying or else overly giggly with joy to see me, eating me up with their eyes, but when I catch wind of this, they nonchalantly pretend to look away. They know I’m different, they know I’m an outsider. When I learned of my host sister first being pregnant and the thought of having a newborn baby in the house, being able to watch it develop during my time here made me giddy. I’d never lived with a newborn before and really I’ve never been close-knit with anybody who’s had babies while I’ve been old enough to care and really understand babies (not that I understand babies much more now). Kids are wonderful but I don’t think I will ever fully appreciate them until I have my own one day.

But they’re so cute. Working in a restaurant, you learn to despise babies. Their painful screeches piercing the chill ambiance, sometimes their parents are too oblivious to their cries to remove them from disturbing others. Most of their food ends up smudged nicely into the high chair or on the floor. Their used wet-wipes smeared with questionable colors and goop, empty Gerber jars of pureed mush left for you to clean, not to mention the dirty diapers that parents leave in the bathroom waste bins. I mean, can’t they just keep the food in their baby’s mouth or else hire a babysitter? I’m allowed to say these things. I’m not a baby’s mama yet.

Puking. The first trimester was rough for my host sister. And for my poor sanity. Her morning sickness often progressed into afternoon sickness, evening sickness, and all around sickness, unable to keep anything down. I tried to be understanding through the retching and gagging but I have been terrified of vomit since I was in elementary school. It’s a real issue that still haunts me today. During that time, I often woke up like clockwork to my host sister violently retching and heaving outside of my bedroom window. I can think of a million of things I’d love to wake up to in the morning. Heaving and vomit splattering the ground is not one of them. I completely avoided going near the area where she would vomit for fear of seeing it. (I have made progress with my vomit fear!)

Big day (false alarm). Right before I left for Laos, my host sister looked like she was literally going to menggelegar (explode). Fun story: During one of the days while we were all waiting in anticipation for the big arrival, I had returned home from a bike ride. I saw a figure lying on the floor, without a shirt on, getting lathered up by someone, it wasn’t initially clear who. My heart stopped for a moment, thinking it was my host sister on the verge of giving birth right there! Once I got closer and my eyes adjusted to the light, it was actually my host father who had stopped by for the day from Surabaya. He was getting a massage in our living room. Kind of looked like a wet seal. A very brittle man (the masseuse), who looked approximately 102 years-old, smiled up at me as he moisturized my host father in a lavender lotion I had given to my family. I knew that I would miss my host sister melahirkan (give birth) to her baby while I was gone and that was that. She ended up having a C-section in Mojokerto city on Monday morning, April 16!

After my traveling nightmare, returning to site, to meet the new addition to our family, couldn’t have seemed more welcoming.

It’s a girl! Initial thoughts: Tiny. Pink. Peaceful. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Perfect. Looks like my host sister. Beautiful. Nameless? The next few days, I learned a lot about traditional rituals that pregnant women and newborn babies endure around/during this special time.

• Her name? For the first week or so, we called her various cutesy terms of endearment, like ‘ancil’ ‘unyu-unyu’ and my favorite ‘ayam goreng’ which means fried chicken. In Indonesia, the umbilical cord of many babies isn’t cut off completely, leaving a couple of inches still intact. Once the papak puser (umbilical cord) falls off, the baby is given a name. Now that her umbilical cord has fallen off, she is whole enough for a real name: Khanza Nur Shakaila !
• Next to the cooking area in our house, I found what appeared to be a small pile of dirt, with a halogen light bulb dangling precariously by a thin cord. When I asked my host sister about this mysterious little mound. She pointed to her stomach, made some fun hand gestures, said something of which the only word I recognized was saudara (sibling). Though confused, I interpreted this as having to do with preserving her placenta. The next morning I asked my counterpart to clarify. Surely enough, buried beneath the dirt, mixed with various seeds, was rahim (the womb) which many Javanese believe carries the spirit of the newborn’s sibling. The inauspicious spirit is kept for an indefinite amount of time. For female babies, it is kept inside the house, for male babies, it is kept outside. Sometimes there is a ritual performed, with a man (sometimes the father) dressed as a woman and scripture from the holy al-Quran is read.
• Instead of a crib, baby Khanza sleeps under a collapsable net fixture, also known as slambut that keeps the mosquitoes away. The net fixture could easily be confused for the plastic cover that Indonesians place over food that is yet to be eaten, to keep insects away. Baby Khanza sleeps between two baby-sized (SO CUTE) body pillows. Hiding under one of the body pillows is a pair of scissors — also to ward off bad spirits. Some people hide scissors, others a knife. Sometimes both! 
• Many traditional Javanese thinkers still believe that when there is a lunar eclipse, the pregnant woman must eat a hard-boiled egg, and either hide under their bed momentarily or else sit on top of a rice-shucking machine (commonly found in most villages). This is a ritual that even my counterpart performed though she doesn’t believe in the superstition. The saying goes that there’s a buto hijau (green ogre) that lives on the moon, and he’ll come and harm the baby if the pregnant woman doesn’t follow the ritual.

Other ‘no-no’s':

• before and after bathing, pregnant women should not wrap a towel around their neck. Consequence: while giving birth, the baby may become trapped/strangled by the umbilical cord.
• pregnant women should not eat anything while standing in a doorway (who eats in front of doorways anyways, go sit down!). Consequence: will have difficulty giving birth.
• pregnant women should not consume too many chilis (who’s to set a limit if everyone has differing tolerance levels?). Consequence: the baby will have many beneken (Javanese for ‘eye boogers’).

Other thoughts. I held baby Khanza for the first time the other day, she’s the cutest and calmest thing. She surely smells powdery and rosy as babies should. It was the first time I’d ever held a baby that tiny and well, new, before. Have you ever seen a newborn with hiccups? It is one of the most heart-wrenching things in the world. No joke. My house constantly smells like fresh laundry. My host sister has a mountain of gifts piling up in the corner of a room, there’s enough soap and laundry detergent to last until I start having children (which will be quiiiiiite a while from now). My host sister says that when she bathes Khanza, she tries to sculpt her nose to become more pointed like mine. The goal is to keep her skin as white as possible. I wish Indonesians would accept and embrace their natural complexion and nose shape, if we all looked the same, the world would be the most mundane place. Of course, the reality is that I have a light complexion and only a half Asian nose, and thus I am content.

Every Monday, I will be documenting Khanza’s growth (first picture is from week one and so on):

When my family has asked if there were any rituals that Americans have for pregnant women, nothing really came to mind. Does anyone know of any unique traditions? 

Community Night With James, Toilet, and “Free Sex”

Scribblings from my journal on Tuesday night, April 24th…

A man with a small caged trailer trailing behind his loud gas gurgling motorcycle, pulled up in front of my house earlier this afternoon. No one knew where he was from or why he had arrived in our village. Before I knew it, he was unloading various equipment–a makeshift children’s carnival (this is actually normal by Indonesian standards, the most common: men riding modified bicycles with either a  ferris wheel or ‘carousel’ in the front, merely powered by peddling). Several unfamiliar men followed with their ‘kaki lima’ (standing/portable carts with 5-legs), whipping out precarious gas tanks, woks, and frying oil to make fried tofu and ‘ote ote’, some to sell cigarettes, some to sell cold artificial drinks, and others a cornucopia of plastic junk. All of this happening directly in front of my house. I watched in amazement as the caged trailer transformed into a playpen of colorful plastic balls that children would later dive and slide into, a plain box converted into a temporary pond where children could fish out baby catfish with rusty nets, and to top it off–a massive piece of white tarp was strung up to a couple of trees and bamboo poles for what I thought had great potential to be a community-family-oriented movie night. Once the massive wall of speakers were set up and facing my house, I knew that I wouldn’t be getting my typical 8 hours of peaceful sleep that night.

I did what I usually do when something out of the ordinary happens. I took out my camera, slipped my feet into my worn-out Birks, let the little ones gravitate towards me, and started digging around, for information, but also to just converse with people in my community because they were all out of their homes and in the spirit to socialize. ‘Apa kabare?’ (how’s it goin’?). No one asked me if I was ‘kerasan’ (feeling at home), woo!

<snap snap>

‘Gak tahu’ (I don’t know) was the general response I gathered from both adults and children when I asked them what this big set up was for. Maybe it’s someone’s birthday. Maybe it’s not. An older man began setting up movie equipment. We’ll call him ‘Pak S’. His English was decent despite claiming to not have spoken English in over 20 dry years. He’s from my village and is the owner of the local movie rental shop–the one in town I always pass when I go to drop off my laundry. Pak S tells me there’s three movies scheduled for tonight, set to start at 8:30pm (I think to myself ‘kok malam!’, that’s late!). The films (in order) are James Bond’s ’007 Tomorrow Never Dies’, ‘Toilet 105‘ (an alleged horror film, and after seeing the trailer, looks like teens with very little clothing getting killed in a high school locker room), and ‘:: unintelligible words that I don’t recognize:: Free Sex’, “for adults only” Pak S utters. When he tries to clarify, I naively process this to not be what is really is (I mean, how could it be? I live in a tame conservative Muslim community… I can’t leave my house with my thighs exposed, so how can some get away with showing a porno?) and we change the subject to projection methods. He’s brought with him an entourage to operate the ancient projector along with a truckload of stuff…namely the stack of reels… yes REELS (!!) that each movie dominates at least three of. It’s time for me to take one last bucket bath before the sun goes down so I tell him I’ll return later on.

Before I cross the street, Danny, an 11 year-old  friend of mine hands me a questionable clear gooey brown substance on a popsicle stick. It is a mixture of honey and other cavity expediting enhancers. Yum. It gets caught between my teeth and I awkwardly try to chew. The kids laugh at me.

A splendid blend of pink and orange delicately grace the sky, the sun cradles to rest and I attempt to cross the street once more, waiting for motorcycles so I can pass. I am interrupted once more. One of my neighbors, a great-grandmother gestures for me to come sit with her. The entire ‘event’ has engulfed every centimeter of her home’s exterior. I plop down next to her on a rickety bench and she playfully but vigorously pinches my chin, my cheeks, my arms, in complete disbelief that I’ve become ‘tambah ayu’ (more beautiful). I sit for a little while longer, skipping bathing altogether, other female neighbors join us, we stare into space, I soak up everything around me, the kids screaming, the babies, teeming with joy, the ibu’s (mothers), watching their kids with fervor, making sure they stay out of harm’s way.

I see Pak S again. He is holding a poster under his arm and he tells me it’s for the adult film. He begins to unfold it where my assumptions are confirmed by the stills of people making love! I begin to ask several questions trying to make sense of it all. Absolutely baffled. How is this okay?! Isn’t this illegal? Obviously people watch porn but out in the open? A communal event? Isn’t that so 1980′s New York before Giuliani cleaned things up? So many things don’t make sense. I’m not necessarily against porn but when it’s shown out in public, in a neighborhood with many, many small children, I have a problem. It’s encouraging men’s inner-creeps to surface, for their dirty minds to be momentarily accepted in the community, together. While I know Indonesia, despite its religious intensity, is not immune to people like this, I would prefer not to see, meet, or mingle with them, especially when they are without a doubt students (I would find out the following day that a couple were MY students), fathers, shop owners I support, and community leaders in the village we share. Obviously these titles have never prevented people like this from partaking in gross societal events in the past, anywhere in the world.

I walk across the street to my house, to tell my family about the ‘late-night’ viewing. I don’t know what kind of reaction or actions I expected of them. But they didn’t appear to be fazed, just responding with an awkward giggle followed by “well, I’ve never see one, so I don’t know”. Meanwhile I was mildly furious.

I went to sit outside as the loud speakers began to blare the ultimate Indonesian favorite, dangdut. Full blast. Not only will I not be getting good sleep tonight, but I’d have to lay in bed knowing there’s a gathering of creeps right outside of my window, while I have no choice but to listen to the ‘bow-chicka-wow-wow’ porny-tunes. My sister, who had just given birth the previous week joins me outside and says in a thick accent in English “May-be my bay-bee will cry” accompanied by a look of worry. We giggled, but I become serious again, reciprocating the same look of worry, and tell her “Maybe I will cry”. When I told her my hope that the electricity goes out, she laughs, and says “diesel”–meaning everyone had brought generators. I let out a big whiny groan. BAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Update: It turns out Pak S was the organizer of the event. He’s going on a mini tour to several different villages to promote his movie rental business. I had attended the first 40 minutes of the event, watching a handful of previews, showcasing Indonesian movies from love to horror. It seems like many Indonesian horror films involve barely clothed women implying sexual gestures dancing under outdoor showers as a killer/zombie hides behind a tree, plotting her death while becoming inexplicably turned on. It’s weird. Other than the weird previews, it was a great and unique experience, sitting on the ground, in front of this huge tarp, as children fell asleep in their mother’s laps, while the men sat in the back together smoking away their lives.

Late into the night into the early morning, drifting in and out of interrupted sleep, I heard bits and pieces of the movies, shrieks from ‘Toilet’ and then awkward saxxy-jazzy-synthy music as the soft-core ‘Free Sex’ movie played. Feeling restless, I got up to pee, where I found my entire host family soundly passed out even though without a ceiling anywhere in the house but my bedroom, the sound was much more amplified.

The next morning, I told my counterpart who was appalled to hear what I had told her. A couple of my students (all male), jokingly asked me “miss, you see movie last night?”, and when I scoffed, they knew I knew what they were implying. When I asked which film they saw, they all said ‘film hot’. My counterpart did some snooping around, where she concluded the film wasn’t real porn, but something like it. Turns out the movie selection is one that is requested by each specific village. Regardless, I don’t approve! Women in my village clearly didn’t get any sleep that night as they strutted slowly around in their dusters (housedress) carrying out their daily errands.

Curse of the External Forces

Disclaimer: this hellacious traveling experience by no means overshadows the fantastic blur of a week that I spent reuniting with hometown friends in Laos while celebrating the Laos New Year (think Asian Mardi Gras) and visiting the sleepy city of Luang Prabang.

The root of all evil…

My debit card of 4 years expired a few months before I came to Indonesia. Once renewed, the new expiration date read 3/12. Still haunted by a past memory where I was traveling without a card, I foresaw an impending nightmare of similar magnitude from the day I received it. The bank insisted they would send a new card before the expiration date and everything would be all fine. Banks like to make things difficult and I had no choice, I thought about ‘losing’ my card in order to receive another with a more promising expiration date that would last throughout my service, but it was all too risky.

Early March rolled around, and I was relieved to find that my sister had already received my new card and it was already en route. Time flew and before I knew it, we were already one week deep into April. I grew more and more anxious, getting overly excited when the overweight guy from the post office dropped by my school, only to drop off government paperwork.  As my upcoming trip to Laos crept up, the impatience flooded my fingers and I found myself dialing my bank.

My friend and I had devised a brilliant plan—to have a new card sent to his office in New York and then he’d bring it to Laos the following week. After answering several questions verifying that I was indeed THE Miss Elle Chang, and everything was 95% processed, my call dropped. GAHHHHHH! Cursing the phone gods and wanting to cry at the same time, I called again only to be redirected to a rude and impatience representative named Donna, whom I can only imagine to be a partially deaf, overweight, puppy-hating, old Southern woman with short frayed blonde hair that’s been permed one too many times. She was so rude that I wanted to report her terrible service but she wouldn’t give me any more information about herself and I wasn’t trying to waste more pulsa (Indo phone credits) to hear her raspy-ugly-impatient voice (she was awful!). But she got the job done and promised a new card would arrive.

I took a few deep breaths and headed to my first class of the day, only to return ninety minute later to a package on my desk. Lo and behold, my new card that I had just reported ‘lost’, had arrived. What a relief, right? Wrong. Oh, so so wrong. I phoned the bank again to let them know I had received the new card and hoped they could cancel the new one I’d wasted an hour, while raising my blood pressure to record highs, trying to re-obtain. Apparently I’d struck a cord with the bank gods. They had already canceled the brand new card I was excitedly holding in my hand. Disappointed but hopeful, I was ready to wait, assuring myself the new card would arrive at my friend’s office before he departed for Laos… but the snail mail gods were also after me, and my card didn’t arrive before he left. Don’t worry, I had a back-up plan, but even that ended up failing me eventually which led me to test how much Peace Corps really wanted to bring me back to Indonesia once I was stuck at the labyrinth that is the Bangkok airport ::cue vulnerabilities:: moneyless (sort of, being the ultimate penny pincher, or kip/rupiah/baht pincher), phoneless (sort of, no Thai SIM card), homeless (really, because you need a card to book hotels), destination-less (to a temporary extent), and alone (for real), really, really alone.

Obviously the world doesn’t revolve around me. However sometimes it feels likes there’s external forces out there looking to test me and break me down to nothing. Sure, they kicked my ass and undoubtedly tested the reliability of those around me (whose reliability I had never questioned in the first place) as well as my own emotional strength and ability to travel alone.

***

Travel nightmare, go…

Friday morning–It was a little bit after 10am. I hugged Joe goodbye and I rode away on a tuk-tuk that I had instructed to take me to the Laos-Thailand Friendship Bridge. But the driver didn’t listen. I knew we were going in the wrong direction from the start, naively thinking he knew a shortcut that I didn’t, having only visited Vientiane for a few blurry days. We ended up at the bus terminal where I had to transfer to another tuk-tuk for some unclear reasons. I still had an ample amount of time to make my 1:05pm flight. I arrived at Laos immigration, passed without any hassles. What I had forgotten was that I had to go through Thai immigration, a three-minute bus ride away. I could have easily gotten on one of the frequent buses shuttling people through, but instead I chose to grab a taxi van that would take me across the border, to Thai immigration and then directly to the airport. The driver insisted we wait for more passengers, ten more minutes, ten more minutes, ten more minutes, which inevitably devolved into what felt like forever. I had told him when my flight would be leaving, but he assured me it was fine, so I continued to wait. Once we arrived at the Thai border, we all hopped out of the taxi van and jetted out to get our passports stamped; only I had yet to fill out my departure card. Usually I am equipped with a pen, but I had left most of my belongings in the taxi along with everyone else’s. I frantically checked every counter that had pens attached to them, but alas none of them worked (!!!), whyyyy pen gods, whyyyyy. Eventually a very nice person lent me a working pen. I filled out my arrival card and was one step closer to returning home. We piled back into the taxi ten minutes later and zoomed to the airport, I had an hour until my departure, I knew I wasn’t going to make it but being the optimist I am, still had some hope that I could, considering how tiny the Udonthani airport was. Alas, I was met with disappointment (which unknowingly would be a prelude for the rest of my day) when the AirAsia check-in counter was left unattended. Even though I had spent $3 on flight insurance which really is a scam, I had no other choice but to purchase another ticket for a flight leaving a few hours later. To my demise, I had only borrowed enough Thai baht to pay for my taxi, not factoring in the possibility that I’d miss two flights during my trip home that day. Because I didn’t have enough baht, that meant I had to exchange US currency that I had borrowed from Joe. But of course the crisp $20 bills that he’d lent me had been stained with a dark red ink somehow and the money exchangers wouldn’t accept most of them. As four different currencies dominated my wallet, I began to suffocate in the confusion of exchange rates, trying to convert rupiah to baht, dollar to baht, kip to baht. The amount of zeros in some of these currencies is enough to trick someone into believing they’ve won the lottery only to wake up to fun inflation rates. I dug around for every last bit. I was still short about $25 (still trying to save enough rupiah for transportation and a hotel once back in Surabaya) from purchasing a new plane ticket back to Bangkok, and with no idea what to do since they weren’t accepting my ‘soiled’ US currency, I emptied my Peace Corps account (which didn’t have much to begin with anyways). I found another money exchanger, where the teller was visibly nauseated by my stained US currency. I desperately begged her to at least accept $20 so I scrape up enough to buy the ticket and worry about the rest later. Once I purchased the ticket and tried not to think about the fact that I just spent another $67 on a plane ticket, I was once again in the clear. Or so I thought…

Friday early evening–The flight from Udonthani ended up departing 40 minutes later than expected. And since I had booked that ticket only a few hours prior, I had gotten the ‘shit seat’ aka very last seat on the plane (and the closest to the restrooms), meaning I’d be the last to exit once landing in Bangkok. I was seated next to a couple who were very affectionate and amongst all of the airport hassles I’d just endured, I was reminded how much I missed Klaas and how much I wanted him to be there with me, telling me everything would be okay. Once on the ground in Bangkok, I only had 45 minutes until my flight departed for Surabaya, but with immigration and security as my final obstacles, I was cutting it too close…

As my back dripped with sweat, my mouth parched, and my breath short, still panting from the stride–from my connecting gate, I tried to gain some degree of composure despite being on the verge of panicking once I reached the AirAsia check-in counter. Sorry, the gates for that flight have already closed. You’ll never make it at this point anyways with immigration and the security checkpoint. I nearly had my first panic attack slash nervous breakdown (simultaneously). I wanted to drop everything, stomp my feet like a little girl just denied the world, and weep right there, not knowing what to do. Being cardless at the airport where nearly everything is exclusively accessible by card was like going to a buffet but having your tongue ripped out (okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy, but you get it). Not only was I cardless, but also I was alone. Thinking I could seek help from the thousands of foreigners around, I put the idea on the back-burner if all else failed, because sketchy stuff happens at the Bangkok airport and I didn’t want to have to explain my unbelievable and outlandish story only to be denied or scoffed at with disbelief. I began to pace the second floor of the Bangkok airport, searching every nook and cranny for free WiFi so I could make an emergency Skype call. I had an ‘alhamdulillah’ moment when a tourist kiosk magically revealed itself, offering 15 free minutes of internet. I immediately logged on and to my luck, Allison (first PC friend and fellow PCV) and Klaas were on gchat, where I proceeded to not only explain my unique situation but also my dire need for their assistance. From that moment, everything else was essentially out of my hands. Allison helped me contact Peace Corps who would later help me purchase my return flight to Indonesia and Klaas booked me a hotel room nearby so I wouldn’t have to sleep at the airport. (Thank you both!). The ticket stuff wouldn’t be sorted out until the following morning, but I was happy to be heading to a hotel where I could take a warm shower, eat pad thai, drink a cheap cold beer, and rest in air conditioning. I called my mom and explained everything where she both laughed but wholeheartedly empathized with me, having once been a backpacker herself. It was comforting to hear her voice. (Gosh, I love my mom!). Most importantly, I was thankful to be safe, feeling a sense of relief by Peace Corps’ promise that I’d be back in Indonesia soon enough. Despite asking myself numerous times (simultaneously laughing out loud sarcastically) ‘how the hell did I let all of this happen to me?’ I still thanked the technology gods, especially the Google gods (rock on).

Aside from the missed flight disaster, I also felt like I was letting a lot people down back at my site for two reasons: (1) that Saturday I was supposed to return to site with a Peace Corps headquarters inspector general visiting from Washington, where she would visit my home and school, (2) that day was also hari Kartini, a day to remember and celebrate an Indonesian hero who fought for women’s emancipation. My school was organizing celebrations and my counterpart had prepared a kabaya (traditional Javanese clothes) and make-up so I could join the festivities. But alas, she was out of the loop because I had no way of contacting her.

Saturday morning–I awoke the next morning, with an e-mail from Peace Corps trying to work out the kinks of my flight home, more than eager to return to Indonesia at this point, I replied several times, waiting for a response, but got nothing when I was sure they had access to email through their suave Blackberrys. It turned out that the Peace Corps e-mail server was having issues (convenient timing, right?) that day of all days. I logged onto the hotel computer (10 kip for 10 minutes), endlessly renewing my minutes,10 minutes felt like 10 seconds, waiting for details on my flight out, endlessly refreshing the page, but got nothing and began corresponding with other PCVs who were online and texting Peace Corps with great vigor and determination to get me back to Java. I felt terrible, having to rely on layers upon layers of people, because of the mess that I was partially responsible for getting myself into. Once the ticket was confirmed, I then had to wait to receive the confirmation e-mail with all of the details. The cost of the new ticket is something I’m still trying to numb myself of, reminding myself to feel grateful that I’m back, but my bank account will surely take a brutal blow once I pay Peace Corps back.

Saturday early afternoon–It was nearly noon and after refreshing my e-mail inbox every literal Nano-second, impatiently waiting for details of my flight to Jakarta, I began to grow nervous at the possibility of missing this new flight which was set to leave two hours later, I was not about to play around with the enormity of Bangkok’s airport once more. Once I received the confirmation and checked out of the hotel, I saw that the next shuttle to the airport (which was only 5km away) wouldn’t be for another thirty minutes. The receptionist assured me if I waited, I’d surely miss my flight. My heart sank, yeeeeeeee-onnnn (just like that). After finding out that the hotel accepted US currency with or without stains, I paid for a taxi to pick me up.

When the taxi arrived and I hopped in, I knew the driver was no ordinary traffic-savvy driver. He was this fragile old Thai man, looking like he could croak at any moment, with the thickest rimmed glasses ever, driving erratically with both feet (Bangkok roads are no joke), stopping in the middle of the interstate ramp to ask where at the airport to drop me off. I desperately clung to the handle above the window, and thought that being so close to the airport, and after all of this, what seemed like travel failures that couldn’t get any worse, being granted death in a Bangkok taxi felt all the more possible.

Noon–Check-in was smooth and I still had an hour to relax before take off so I happily purchased hash-browns at Burger King and hung out in my gate where I was met with the sights of jilbabs (head coverings), batiks (traditional fabrics), and people speaking Indonesian. Once on the plane, I was surrounded by a big group of Thai tourists. I flew on an Indonesian airline, Garuda, which was fantastic, great food, service, movies, and wine! The Thai guy next to me downed three cups of wine within the span of 30 minutes, proceeded to cleanse his palate with a cup of guava juice and then soundly passed out (can ya blame him?). When he awoke, we had arrived in Jakarta, when he confidently blurted out “assalamualaikum”, and I got giddy, overjoyed to be back in Java (something I never thought I’d say which such conviction). The rest of my travels back to Surabaya and onwards to site were smooth and all the more rewarding.

The bank gods may have kicked my ass, but in the end, I survived with the help of others. I feel like everyone needs to experience some extention of in-transit crisis that makes them stronger, more cautious, and responsible travelers. Of course I don’t wish my said experience upon anyone. It was awful, but an entertaining story, right? I’ve learned many lessons, and am jubilantly typing this as I sit outside of my house, one ear plugged into iTunes, the other focused on how alive everything around me is (chirping night creatures, motorcycles, and the utter joy that the arrival of a new baby host niece has brought to those around me).

I surely couldn’t have gotten home smoothly without the help of many; endless thank you’s and indescribable gratitude to Peace Corps staff, namely Bravey and Megan, as well as PCVs Allison and Truong, and my fantastic boyfriend, Klaas, for getting me home safely and dealing with me in a very panicked state. And thank you to Joe and Ben for lending me money during our trip. Will write more about my adventures in Laos soon!

And for the record, I still don’t have a debit card. It arrived in New York sometime last week and is likely going to take another 2-3 weeks to arrive! Wooooo!