Berastagi Bound

Last weekend, Erin and I made our first trek outside of Medan to a beautiful little mountain town called Berastagi.  After reports from other people that the trip is only an hour and a half by motorcycle, we decided to drive ourselves and avoid the stuffy, overcrowded, uncomfortable public transports that pass for intercity buses.

Our trip started at 4pm.  Fortunately, there is one road that goes directly from Medan to Berastagi, so once we were on it, we thought we were golden.  Shortly after we began, the rain started.  Like every other Indonesian on the road, we pulled over at the first available shelter - an awning over the door of a family's home.  Within seconds the owners of the house were outside, offering us a dry seat inside their home.  With no other option - it would be rude to refuse to go inside but continue to stand right outside their front door - we went inside.  In no time we were talking about Obama and the war in Iraq and Justin Bieber and the healing power of guava fruit for malaria.  Together Erin and I make a great Indonesian language team - she knows the words, and I've tackled the pronunciation.  When the rain stopped half an hour later, we left with a fresh guava in our backpacks and the phone number of the family for a future visit.

When we hopped back on our bikes, it was still spitting a little rain.  Within ten minutes, we were totally soaked through.  After another hour on the road, we pulled over to ask how much longer it would take to get to Berastagi.  The first person we asked said it was very close - maybe half an hour.  So half an hour later we pulled over again, and that person said "jauh!" - very far.  Maybe another hour and a half.  So again we hopped onto our motorcycles and plodded along.  By this time it was dark and rainy and we had just started at the foot of the mountains, so the road was getting curvy.  After pulling over a third time and getting yet another conflicting answer, I couldn't help myself.  I started to laugh.  I was wet to the bone and freezing cold driving up a mountain on a motorcycle in Indonesia with no idea where I was going.  I think I lost my mind for awhile because I was laughing like a lunatic, so loud that Erin could hear me 30 feet ahead and over the roar of the engines.

Finally, five hours after we began, we made it to Berastagi.  All we had to do was find our guest house.  The only thought in my mind was taking a hot shower and climbing into bed.  I made reservations at a specific guest house that boasted hot showers, and I was not about to let go of that dream!  After driving up and down the one road in Berastagi for half an hour and asking people for directions, we finally found the guest house.  We went inside.  I thought it was odd that the owner wasn't expecting us, but I didn't think too much of it until I went into my room, hung up all my wet clothes, and went into the bathroom ready to warm up.  I turned on the shower head and was met with ice cold - mountain ice cold - water.  As it turns out, there are two guest houses in Berastagi with the same name.  One has hot water.  Guess which one we ended up at.

Ok, now I'm tired of writing so I'll just post a bunch of pictures and say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE Berastagi.  The weather, the food, the fruit, the people - it's my favorite getaway from the city!

Although we had planned to sleep in the morning after we arrived, we were awakened promptly at 7am by the loud, tone-deaf, English-language music from the Christian praise band at the high school directly behind the guest house.

Before heading out to Mount Sibayak for a nature hike, we went to the local traditional market.

In case you wondered, this is where trash goes.

The market is in sections.  This was the pork meat section.  The FDA would have a field day.

And this was the chicken section.

And this was the goat and beef section.

Everybody loves to get their picture taken!

This is tofu.  They cut it, weight it, and bag it for you right here.

These are dried fish and dried fish scales.  Turning these into a paste for seasoning dishes is very popular.  Not my cup of tea - the dried fish taste like oversalted pork rinds.

After the market, we drove our motorcycles through the mountains.  This is a family burial site, traditional to the ethnic tribe Batak Karo.

Everything was just beautiful.  

Happy Slaughter Day!

I had the pleasant surprise of a two-day holiday this past week.  Idul Adha (aka Eid Mubarak) is the Muslim holiday of sacrifice.  In honor of Abraham sacrificing a sheep instead of his son, Muslims all over the world will slaughter goats and cows once a year and distribute the meat throughout their families and communities.

The week before the holiday, goats started to appear in the markets.  On my way to work, I would discover cows staked in the front yards of houses.  Everyone was revving up for the big feasting to come.

At my school, a few teachers went in together to buy a cow.  Meat here is very expensive, especially beef, so it's a big deal to buy a cow.  They invited me to join them at the traditional ritual slaughter on Thursday morning.  Although I had every intention of arriving in time to see the cow while it was still alive and perhaps give it a name, the warm comfort of my bed and the cooling breeze of my air conditioner gave me cause to push the snooze button a few too many times.

Although I missed the killing, I still got experience enough for a long time.

Why yes, that is me holding the head of a dead, skinned cow by the horns.

Here is what it looked like before I picked it up.  Notice the hair between the horns.  Not cute.

Slaughter Party!  This is in the parking lot/basketball court of my school.  

This was the final portion of the slaughter.  He was using the hatchet to break up the skull.  Bone was flying everywhere.

It's Not All Sunshine and Roses

Today I had one of the most miserable Indonesian experiences ever.  I went shopping.

I have needed to buy some things for my house for the past oh . . . six weeks.  But I hate shopping, especially here, so I've been putting it off.  Today was finally the day, though, and I grabbed a becak around 4pm to go to Carrefour.  Some things I forgot to consider before heading out:

1.  Sunday is the only weekend day for most Indonesians.  Most schools and many jobs are Monday through Saturday.
2.  Carrefour is like Wal-Mart, both in quantity of products and congestion of people.
3.  Going to Carrefour on a Sunday evening is like going to Wal-Mart after church lets out.
4.  I can never be inconspicuous.

After trying to haggle with the becak driver and still getting a totally unfair bule price, I arrived at the mall that houses Carrefour.  As soon as I walked into the mall, I was overwhelmed by the number of people.  Screaming babies, annoying teenagers, and families of seven or eight people filled the aisles and made it impossible to move at more than a snail's pace.  The whole time, I kept thinking about a blog my friend, Kathryn, in Thailand wrote about people in Thailand having no spacial awareness.  I think it might be a larger trend throughout Southeast Asia, one that couples with a very widespread, slow, meandering walk.  I get teased a lot by the teachers and students at my school for "walking like an American."  In other words, I walk quickly and with purpose.

Once I finally waded through the crowd to the Carrefour entrance, I had to find a buggy (aka a cart for you Yankees).  All of the buggies in the stall were gone, so I wandered around outside looking for an unclaimed one.  There were plenty - I counted at least 15 empty buggies - but they were all attached to people who were just sitting on benches with no indication of going into the store.  I assume they were waiting on family members, but I have no idea.  And no one would give me their buggy!  I finally pounced on one that an elderly man abandoned - the only person in Carrefour who decided he didn't need a buggy for his one bag.  Sheesh!

Once I got inside the store, I kept a kung-fu grip on the handlebar.  I was paranoid that someone was just waiting to steal my buggy away from me.  As I walked up and down the aisles full of gleaming pots and pans, cooking utensils, and kitchen hardware, I began to amass a small following of curious Indonesians.  They peered into my buggy to see what kinds of things the bule buys.  I could feel their eyes following my every move.  If I picked up an item, they would look at the price to see how much money I would spend on a blender or a spatula.  Normally I would laugh at the situation - who would have thought that I was just a few paparazzi short of Hollywood fame - but I was not in the mood.  Instead, I got angrier and angrier.

By the time I paid for all of my items, I was fed up.  In the course of an hour of shopping, I had been hit in the thigh by a random, snotty-nosed little boy, followed around by a pack of overly curious, rudely intrusive Indonesians, and pushed out of the checkout line on multiple occasions by people who don't understand the concept of a queue.  Then I had to find a taxi.

The beauty of malls in Medan is that, in a city where taxis are scarce, you can always find an available taxi.  Each mall has a taxi concierge service.  Although you usually have to haggle with the driver for a semi-fair price (they don't like to run the meter), the convenience is well worth it when you have a buggy full of items to lug home.  The starting quote from the taxi drivers is always Rp 50,000 (about $5).  Always.  I've used every taxi service in Medan at every mall, and every time I always bargain down from Rp 50,000.  On this particular night, however, I walked out with my overflowing bags in my overflowing buggy.   The taxi driver was ready and waiting at the door.  I told him where I wanted to go and asked how much he wanted to charge.  Before answering, he took a long look at me, a looooonnnng look at the things in my bags, and then said "80,000."  I could just see the dollar signs going off in his head.  I laughed and countered with 30,000 (the actual cost of a metered ride), but he wouldn't budge.  He would not BUDGE!  I pulled out my cell phone to call a taxi from a reliable service, but the concierge came over at that point and told me to put my phone away.  I obliged.  Despite the concierge's best efforts, the driver would not go lower than 80,000.  It was not just annoying - it was an insult.  Finally I couldn't take it, and I stomped my foot and yelled "Saya tahu saya bule! Tipa saya tidak mau harga bule! Saya tinggal disini!" The translation: I know I'm a foreigner! But I don't want the foreigner price!  I live here!

The concierge started laughing uncontrollably.  The taxi driver's face remained stone cold.  The concierge started pointing at the driver's very dark skin and saying "Dia orang Africa! hahahahahaha!"  Basically that means he's stupid because he's black.  It's wrong on so many levels.  Anyway, he shamed the taxi driver enough to bring him down to Rp 50,000 - still too much, but worth it if I could get home before my meat spoiled.

Idiotic Idiomatic

I have a challenge for you, dear reader.  As you go about your day, I want you to try to keep a mental note of how many idioms you use in everyday speech.

You know idioms.  Those crazy little phrases we use to describe things that, when taken literally, make absolutely no sense.  Things like bend over backwards or make ends meet or let the cat out of the bag or money talks or get off my back or jump the gun or it's raining cats and dogs.  If you haven't noticed, Americans use a lot of idioms.  A LOT OF IDIOMS!  I had no idea until I started teaching English just how many idioms we use.  And when I try to explain the meaning of an idiom to my students, I end up just using more idioms!

The more I teach, the more I realize how difficult the English language is to learn.  Each day, I gain so much respect for my students and their teachers for learning what they know.  Just the pronunciation is enough to make anyone pull their hair out!  Think about all the different sounds we have from letter combinations.  The silent "k" at the beginning of words, or the "ight" or "aught" combinations.  Or our failure to pronounce the "ed" at the end of many words.  And then we have all those grammar rules which I can't explain to anyone for the life of me!  This week the big question circulating my classes is the difference between "when" and "while."  Have you ever tried to explain the subtle difference between using these words?  Well I have.  And I failed.

I keep having to remind the teachers that I. Cannot. Teach. Grammar.  End of story.  I can speak correctly.  I have excellent grammar.  But I don't know how to explain sentence structure or parts of speech.  When someone asks me, "What is the subjunctive of the past present participle of the transitive form of determiners", I can only respond with a blank stare.  And I'm pretty sure that the sentence I just made up is nonsense - I don't think all those grammar things go together.  See!  I can't even speak intelligently about not knowing how to speak intelligently about grammar!  Yikes!

I'm an English Language Whore

Even though at some point everyday I ask myself if this is really my life, I'm starting to feel at home here in Indonesia.

Last night Erin and I went to meet up with a bunch of expats who live here in Medan.  There is an Australian English teacher at her school who invited us to join them at a restaurant called Medan Club.  I had no idea where I was going.  All I had was the address of the restaurant, so I gave it to the taxi driver and, yet again, entrusted my life and safety to the hands of a total stranger who drives like a mad man.  He dropped me off in a complex that had several restaurants in it.  None of them had a sign that said "Medan Club" so I didn't know which door to enter.  I walked toward one building but immediately turned around when I saw that the door said "Members Only."  For about ten minutes, I walked around in the parking lot like a major creeper until I could get Erin on the phone to come and find me.

The night picked up from there.  When we walked in, the waitresses stopped us at the door to learn our names.  This is standard procedure for anywhere I go in this city, but their inquiries had a different tone.  Because they see Westerners all the time, they had no need to practice their English with Erin and me.  Instead I think they wanted to learn our names to make us feel more comfortable.  The impression I get is that once an expat goes to Medan Club, he or she quickly becomes a regular customer.

I do think they were a little excited to see female expats; as it turns out, in a city of two million people, there are only 300 expats.  Of those 300, there are no more than 5 women.  We asked the men who were there to tell us about some of the other Western women in the city, but they could only think of one woman.  They did say that there was an American woman here teaching, but she left after only five days.  When we heard that, Erin and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.  We understand.  We totally understand.

Being a woman in this country is hard.  Being a Western woman in this country is really hard.  I'm used to a very different way of life.  Privacy and independence are difficult concepts for anyone in this culture, but for a woman alone . . . man oh man!  I think it's time for an explanation.

In Indonesia, people function as a community.  Your family is always first, and your friends and neighbors are a close second.  Unlike in America, it is very rare for young adults to move away when they start work or go to college.  Children live with their parents until they get married.  Sometimes men will move to another city for work and live in an apartment with other friends, but often they will move in with extended family - aunts and uncles, cousins, etc.  When I first got here and was trying to make some friends, I asked people what they do for fun.  I was expecting to hear them say things like going to the movies, hanging out at coffee shops, or going to dance clubs or karaoke bars (karaoke is HUGE here!).  Instead they all said, "We hang out with our families."

Whoa.

For fun?  No offense to Mom and Dad - I love y'all and love hanging out with y'all - but really?  Hanging out with your families ALL the time?  Not at all what I wanted to hear.

To make matters worse, I haven't yet been able to find any Indonesian people my age that I can really see myself becoming friends with.  Most of the time, they make me feel like an English language whore. They only want to practice their English with me or try to get me to teach their families or their children English.  No one wants to be my friend because they like me for me.

Correction.  I feel like no one wants to be my friend just because they like me.  I'm sure that it's not true, but right now it's so hard to tell.  When the first thing anyone says to me is, "I want to practice English with you" or "Can you teach me English?" it makes it difficult for me to want to move forward with a friendship.  Especially when the conversation that follows is so dry and the person so void of personality that we cannot even share a laugh.

Speaking of sharing a laugh, that is something that's hard to do here as well.  As I wrote in a previous post, the only laughing I do is at myself.  Unless I'm with Erin - we laugh ALL THE TIME!  I love her! She's wonderful!  But an American sense of humor does not translate well into Indonesian culture.  Ever heard of a little thing called sarcasm?  Yeah . . . they haven't in Indonesia.  They don't understand sarcasm at all.  And most people who speak English are very literal.  Painfully literal.  So I have to watch myself or I could get into a lot of trouble.

The more Indonesian I learn, the easier it will be for me to find Indonesian friends.  But because shared interests are still few and far between,  we'll see if this can really happen.

No Catchy Title, Just an Honest Problem

I've been staring at the forms on my computer for a few hours trying to wrap my head around the idea that it's halfway through October and time to start grad school applications.

Before that, I was staring at my GRE study book trying to muster the courage to open it.  Today I am a coward.

For the past few weeks, I've been debating with myself about whether or not I'm ready to go back to school.  I know I want to get my masters.  There is no doubt about that.  But I don't know if I want to get my masters yet.

I really like my life right now.  Granted, I am in a unique situation.  But I like not having homework all day, every day.  I really enjoy being free of that constant nagging guilt that comes from knowing there is always something I should be studying or reading or preparing.  I like it that my nights are free and my weekends are for fun.

But I also miss school.  I am and always will be a nerd.  I miss going to class and learning new things and constantly engaging in theoretical discussions.  But I don't know if I miss it enough quite yet.

Part of the problem, too, is that there is only one masters program that I want to apply for, and only one barrier to my application: the GRE.  If I was back in the states, it wouldn't be a problem.  I would join the droves of terrified, grad school-bound, mentally exhausted people at the testing center and come out five hours later knowing if I had what it takes to get into graduate school.  But in Indonesia, it's not so easy.  In order to register for the GRE, I have to call internationally to Singapore to schedule a computer test in Jakarta.  Then I have to get approval from AMINEF and my school to fly to Jakarta to take the test.  Then I have to book a ticket and a hotel, figure out where the testing center is, and hope I can get there in time.  Before I came to Indonesia, I thought that this would not be a problem.  Now that I'm here, however, it seems so much more difficult.  Going anywhere in this city, let alone this country, is never as easy as it seems.  Murphy's Law applies all day, every day.  Especially in my life.  And I'm starting to wonder if I, the girl who never seems to mind getting across these barriers in other areas of my life, want grad school enough right now to deal with all the hassle and the immense cost of getting there.

I'm starting to think that the answer is belum (not yet).

When I came to Indonesia, I made the conscious decision to not make any plans past May 22, 2011.  I had no idea what the upcoming year had in store, and I wanted to be open to any opportunity that might come.  But one week before I left, I stumbled across the perfect program for me - a Masters in Development Practice at the University of Denver.  So on a whim, I bought a GRE book and planned to apply while I'm here.

Now I'm not so sure.  Despite my best efforts, I cannot help but think about what happens when I finish my Fulbright grant.  Should I go to school?  Should I go to work?  Should I apply for the Fulbright research grant and spend another year in Indonesia?  Should I not worry about it?  Should I move back to the states?  Should I go to another country?  Should I, should I, should I?!

The worst part is that I don't have my support group here with me to help me figure it out.  I miss the people who know me best and can listen to what I say and read between the lines and help me realize what the best thing is.  It's at times like this that I don't know if I'm lazy, scared, or just not ready.

Home Sweet Home

Four weeks and three houses later, I finally have a place to call home.  Geez Louise!  Here's what happened:

My first apartment, which I described in a previous blog, was really nice.  It was in a brand new building, and it came with the sweetest, most hospitable family.  But unfortunately, the apartment didn't have a kitchen.  Given that I still have regularly scheduled gastrointestinal problems from eating Indonesian food (I now sing Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" in the bathroom), it's absolutely crucial that I can cook for myself.  So I moved.

My school found me a really nice house in a safe, quiet area of Medan.  It was a beautiful (can't post pictures because the internet is too slow, but I do have them) two bedroom house with a front porch, a spacious kitchen, good water pressure for the shower, and the nicest neighbors.  My street was full of young families with great kids, and for two days I was the pied piper of Bandar Khalifah.  Unfortunately, within less than a day of moving in, I was voted off the island.  Yes, that's right.  I got kicked out.  Apparently the complex in which I lived was intended for Muslim families, and my single, female, non-Muslim behind was not the right fit for the community.  At least, that's what the men said.  The women were so mad that I had to leave.  But it's okay - in only two days, I forged some great friendships and will be going back once a week to teach the kids English.

Something good always comes out of things like this, though.  All of the teachers at my school (who are Muslim) were so appalled that I was being religiously discriminated against.  They didn't understand why I had been voted out, and they were so nice to me about it.  So when I came to school the day after I'd been voted out and burst into tears from stress and exhaustion, I suddenly had 40 mothers to look out for me.  Despite my assurances that I was not crying about having to leave my house, they were convinced that I had received a fatal blow to my heart and a forever-negative impression of Muslims and Indonesia.  Really, I was crying because I was tired and homesick and needed an emotional release.  I thought (and still think) the reason for me being asked to leave Bandar Khalifah was hilarious (if you know about the stereotype of American women in the developing world, feel free to read between the lines here!) and just one more ridiculous thing to put in the book I will write one day.  But because they couldn't understand anything I said between sobs ("I'm just so GASP tired and GASP homesick GASP and I really love GASP Indonesia but GASP some- GASP -times GASP it's just hard because GASP GASP GASP I don't speak the GASP language GASP and I can't GASP eat GASP the GASP fooooood...), they thought the only way to fix me was to get me a new house.  So while my Ibu went with me to buy chocolate (the international tear stopper), they all got on their cell phones and started calling people to find a house.  By the time I returned, I was hearing about this great house in a nice complex where lots of foreigners live so they won't mind if I live there too.  If I remember correctly, the explanation was "They are foreigners like you, so you will have people to talk to."  It was really so so nice of them, and I will be forever grateful for their kindness and their hugs.

That very afternoon, I piled into the school van with six other teachers to go look at this house.  I had no idea what to expect.  We pulled up to this HUGE housing complex with guards out front.  After passing through the gate, we drove to this enormous house and got out.  This turned out to be the house where the sister of one of the teachers at my school, Ibu Murni, lives.  We went inside and had tea and snacks (everywhere you go you have tea and snacks), and then we piled back into the van and went to the house for rent.  The complex is so big that Ibu Murni's sister had to get on her motorcycle and lead us to the house.  We got out and walked into the cutest little house, complete with a sliding wrought iron gate, a porch, a screen door, and air conditioning in the bedroom.  It was so much more than I had ever expected!

The house is beautiful.  It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious living room, and an open-air kitchen.  That's right - my kitchen has three walls.  Which means the house gets excellent air circulation! And because AMINEF requires that I have both a Western toilet and a shower, they had to install both in the house.  Which means that I got to pick which bathroom got the new hardware.  Which means I was able to get them to put the shower head in one bathroom and the toilet in the other.  WHICH MEANS that the toilet (and toilet paper) doesn't get wet when I bathe!

While we were looking at the house, the women kept saying that there is a pool inside the complex.  I didn't really understand the big deal - I was still pretty overwhelmed from the idea that this could be my home - so I wasn't paying too much attention.  As we left, however, they insisted that I see the pool.  So we pile into the car again and drive to an enormous rec center inside the complex.  On the way, we pass a tennis court, two convenience stores, four internet cafes, three restaurants, and a car-free jogging track. Then we park and walk into a two story building that looks on the outside like an American-style sports complex.  We go through the front desk check-in and walk into the outdoor pool area.  I was expecting some dinky little kidney-shaped pool with some deck chairs.  Boy was I wrong!  This is a resort-style pool complete with a separate kiddie pool.  Then we walk into the FULLY STOCKED gym with every style of weight lifting equipment ever invented.  All of this is available to me for free.

Oh, and my landlady gave me a free motorcycle.  

Yeah, life is pretty good.

Calling All Cooks!

Now that I'm at my new house, I want to give a party for the teachers at my school.  The only problem is that there are 80 teachers, and I only have two gas burners to cook with.  I want to introduce them to American cooking, but given the limits of my preparation resources, it's difficult.  Thanks to my dad, however, I now know the best way to feed 80 people: a good old-fashioned Southern Low Country Boil!

The only problem is that I have no idea how to do that.  Now, dear readers, I need your help!  If you have a great recipe for a Low Country Boil, please send it my way.  I'm ready and waiting!

Motorcycle Mama

I am fully aware that I am long overdue for a blog entry.  A lot has happened over the past two weeks, but unfortunately I only have time to elaborate on one important thing.

I am a motorcyclist.

That's right!  I have a motorcycle.  And I ride it like a pro!  Now I no longer have to squeeze into an angkut, hang on for dear life in a becak, or break the bank with a taxi.  I am a fully independent woman!

Every morning I go outside my house (oh yeah, now I live in a house.  Long story for another blog to come soon), put on my helmet, open my privacy gate, roll my motorcycle onto the road, and shift into gear.  I maneuver through the crazy Indonesian traffic without a scratch and park at my school amidst perpetually curious and impressed stares from the teachers, students, and guards.  As I throw my leg back over the bike and stand up, I feel unbelievably badass.  There is no other word to describe it.  Except for I also have a tendency to forget to take the key out of the ignition at school (nowhere else but school), so the guard comes running after me with the key.  Needless to say, my high plummets and my cheeks turn red.  It is not in my nature to be badass.  I'm too absentminded to be anywhere close to that cool.

One Motorcycle, Please

I. need. a. MOTORCYCLE!  End of story.  When I came, it was a luxury that I merely wished for.  Now, after only ten days, I want to shoot myself for every day that I do not have a motorcycle.  This is no luxury - it's a necessity!

Here's why.  I live in a kampung (village) outside of the city called Laut Dendang on a street called Jalan Perhunbungan.  Ever heard of it?  Neither has anyone else in Medan.  I'm not even sure that the people who live here know about it.

Okay, so that was a bit mean.  Let me explain.

REASON #1: The Becak Drivers
On my second day in Medan, I joined my friend Erin (the other ETA in Medan) in the city to buy an internet modem and have some dinner.  When we were done, I went over to her house to see her new digs.  At about 10pm, we walked to the corner of a main road in the city so I could grab a cab.  We waited, and we waited, and we waited.  Much to my dismay, I could not find a taxi.  Reluctantly, I hailed a becak and gave him my address.  He said he knew the place (as I've come to learn, they all say they know the place), so I said goodbye to Erin and hopped in.

A few minutes into the ride, the driver turns to me and begins speaking in English.  I tell him that I am an American English teacher at MAN 1.  He tells me that he is a math and finance teacher, but that he cannot find work so he drives the becak instead.  Then the conversation takes a turn:

Driver:  I want you to meet my wife.
Me:  Oh, haha. Umm, haha.
Driver:  Yes you will meet my wife, yah?
Me:  That would be nice, but I need to go home.
Driver:  Yes, I will take you home.  But first you will meet my wife.
Me:  Oh, ummm, no, I don't think so.  Not tonight. I want to go to this address (I shove the paper in his face)
Driver: Oh yes we will go there.  I will take you home.
Me:  Ok good.
Driver:  Yes, I will take you there.  And first I will take you to meet my wife.  Yes.
Me: Noooooooo, I cannot meet your wife.  I have a family at home (I have started to lie a lot) and they are worried about me
Driver: No problem
Me:  So you will take me home.  No stop?
Driver:  No, no stop.  We will go to your house, yes?  After you meet my wife.
Me: NO!  I do not want to meet your wife.  I want to go home.  You take me home.  Do not stop until you get to this address.  I will not meet your wife tonight.
Driver:  Okay.  We go to your house.
Me:  Yes.  To my house.  Nowhere else.  Right?
Driver: Yes, no stop.

Right as I was preparing to jump out of the becak and save myself from potential rape and robbery, the driver mentioned my landlady by name.  I calmed down a bit and decided he might really just want me to meet his wife.  Not that I would consent, but I decided to trust him just enough to let him continue to transport me.  3 stops to ask for directions and 4 phone calls to various people later, including my landlady and my principal, I made it home.

REASON #2: The Taxis
My favorite place in Medan thus far is Sun Plaza.  It is this big Western-style mall with a movie theater and a Starbucks and lots of cool stores and food.  These are all great perks, but the reason that I love it is because I can walk around with my white skin and blonde hair and people don't stare at me or catcall me or shout at me.  I can exist in peace.  The second time I went to Sun Plaza, I wrote my home address down on a piece of paper so that my taxi driver would know exactly where to go.  After my above-mentioned becak experience, I was not taking any risks with a lost driver.  Naively, I thought that surely a taxi driver would know his or her way around the city and could take me where I wanted to go.  After all, they have a dispatch with a map who can say how much to charge.  Surely that person can say where it is as well!  So when I was done, I went to the valet service at Sun Plaza and asked the overeager adolescents to hail me a cab.  They did, and I hopped in, sat back, and relaxed.  An hour later, I was home and burdened with as much stress as before, this time because the driver wouldn't let me out of the car until I paid him an additional 50% of the price we had already agreed upon (cabs here choose not to use their meters) because he had spent so much time trying to find the place.

REASON #3:  The Angkuts
The standard method of transport throughout this country is a public bus-like vehicle called an angkut.  These are vans that have bench seats lining the inside of the vehicle in a U-shape.  They are very cheap and can take you anywhere you want to go.  The only catch is that there is no published route system, so people really only know which bus will take them on their regular route.  Not too many people in my neck of the woods do too much shopping at Sun Plaza, so no one knows which bus to take to get there.  In addition, there is no such thing as a maximum capacity, so they are typically very crowded and uncomfortable.  Today I sat shotgun with two boys.  I was next to the driver, and after he switched gears a couple of times, I had enough cause to make him marry me.

REASON #4:  The Harassment
I have started to hate going out in public because it means an onslaught of unwelcome catcalls, questions, shouting, and staring.  It's everywhere!  Even when I go to eat somewhere, I can't be in peace.  I feel like an animal in a zoo.  Everyone is watching me and taking pictures (no lie - pictures of me because I'm white) and yelling things at me, and I can't escape.  If I had a motorbike, I could put on the helmet and gloves.  With long sleeves and pants, no one would know I'm white.  I could just breeze on by and get where I want to go.

I have no idea where to get a motorcycle.  No one will tell me because they're scared I will die.  All I want is a motorcycle.

Ice Cold Coke!

Nothing beats an ice cold Coke.  Nothing.  No matter where I am, no matter what my mood, drinking a Coke is like a taste of home.  Their commercials are just so true!

Because an ice cold Coke makes me feel better, I am only drinking them when I really need them.  Translation: they are my substitution for a good stiff drink.  Only one week in my location and I totally understand why so many Peace Corps volunteers come back with alcoholism.

Right now I am sitting in a Pizza Hut enjoying a freshly poured Coke and waiting for my delicious American lunch.  I have decided to make today my food day.  After Pizza Hut, I am going to Starbucks.  After Starbucks, I am going to this frozen yogurt place that has America in the title (so I'm bending the rules a little for that one).  Then, if my stomach doesn't explode, I'm going to A&W for a root beer float.  I don't think I'll make it through all of it, but it's nice to dream!  And then I will follow up with an American movie! OH HAPPY DAY!

With all this talk about American food, I feel a sudden compulsion to list all of the ways in which globalization has benefitted me over the past week.

1.  Without globalization (and Al Gore), internet in Indonesia with a tiny USB drive might not have happened.
2.  Without globalization, Coke would not be able to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside (but I'm still not as warm and fuzzy as with a nice glass of cabernet)
3.  Without globalization, Pizza Hut would not be able to serve me an oddly delicious interpretation of pizza that substitutes soy sauce for tomato sauce(see picture below):

4. Without globalization, there would probably be no need for a Fulbright program.  And definitely no need for English teachers.
5.  Without globalization, I might not be able to buy vegetables imported into Indonesia (sidenote - I would love nothing more than to buy locally grown vegetables from Indonesian farmers, but human excrement is a very common fertilizer here and I just cannot risk Hepatitis right now!)
6.  Without globalization, I would not be able to shop at Carrefour, the WalMart of the rest of the world.

Okay, I am going to stop now.  This could go on forever because my entire existence lately seems to be all tied in to globalization in a very scary way.  But I don't know what I would do without globalization.  I love it - the good, the bad, and the ugly!

Rush Week

It's all about the little things, right?  This morning I woke up to find, for the first time since I've lived in Medan, that my water is working.  That's right!  On this Friday morning, my water was not cut off mid-shower.  For the first time, I did not have to run down the stairs with shampoo in my hair and soap in my eyes to tell my landlady TIDAK AIR (no water).  For the first time, I did not have to endure yet another chuckle at my expense from my landlady as she flips the switch to let the water run against gravity and up to the second floor and into my bathroom.  And for the first time, I did not shock the neighbors on the street who just so happened to be passing by at the exact same moment the ghostly white bule (ghostly white because of the soap on my face, oh and my pale skin that has already become my claim to fame in this unfair city) comes barreling down the stairs in a most immodest towel.  Yes, I think today will be a good day.

You see, I needed my water to be working this morning.  I needed it so badly because when I woke up, my first thought was, "*#@&^!#*, I'm still in Indonesia."  Then I weighed the pros and cons of not washing my hair today and calculated how much more time in bed and away from Indonesia I could have if I just said no.  The pros won.  The winning argument?  I have to wear a jilbab to work anyway.  I could not wash my hair for an entire year, and it wouldn't matter.  Most of my thoughts these days are pretty negative.

The thing is, I really do like Indonesia.  And I am SO EXCITED to be here.  And I am so grateful for this opportunity!  Just not today.  And probably not for the next couple of weeks.  I have hit the One Month Wall.  I hit it hard.  As my friend Wesley said (shout out to WESLEY and see you in TWO WEEKS!), how could I not hit The Wall with full force when right at the one month mark I am moved from 5-star resort heaven to real life in a developing country?  Man, I really miss that Sheraton.  And the reality is that I don't have it that bad.  I live in a brand new, clean room.  I am safe.  If I need something, I have people I can call.  I have running water (when my landlady remembers to turn on the switch), electricity, air conditioning, internet, and a cell phone.  I am in a good spot.  Despite the fact that I know all of this, I just cannot make my emotions catch up with my brain.  I ride the emotional roller coaster on express speed about 100 times a day.  One minute I think, "Man, this is awesome!  I can't believe I am in Indonesia!  I can totally do this!" and the next, it's "Why am I here?  I hate the food, I can't communicate, I don't know where I am, I miss my family and friends, this isn't worth it, I just want to go home."  By noon I'm already wanting to go back to sleep from the sheer exhaustion of these thoughts.  But I can't.  Why?  Because it's sorority rush month in MAN 1 Medan, and I have to put my best face forward so that people like me and don't think Americans are horrible Muslim-hating heathens.  Yeah, that's right.  I said it.

All this is to say that I was so naive to think that life in Indonesia would be a breeze.  I overestimated my own strength and underestimated the challenges of living in a foreign country.  Now I have to deal.  Thank goodness for my family and friends for letting me cry on the phone and rant and rave like a maniac (speaking of maniac, my mother did remark that my laugh is turning maniacal - uh oh!).  And I am so so so so grateful for my wonderful Fulbright friends around Indonesia who can relate to me and help me laugh about the ridiculousness that is too quickly becoming my normal everyday.  Y'all have no idea!  Finally, if there is any state department official monitoring my blog, I want to give props to AMINEF because Nellie, Astrid, Rizma, and Nadia are AMAZING women and work so hard to make sure we are safe and happy and taken care of.  They deserve a major pay raise!

22 and Single

The first question any Indonesian will ask me is, "How old are you?"  The second is, "Are you married?"  And the third - "How about an Indonesian man?"

The culturally appropriate answer is belum, which means "not yet."  Sometimes I say that, but sometimes I just say tidak (no)!  These moments so far have been so awkward because they are almost always in front of an audience.  When I say I am single, they cheer.  Ugh.  I'm over it.  It's the Brawny Man or nothing for me!

Okay, here is what has happened to me over the past week:
1. I moved to Medan.
2. I got my apartment.
3. I met my students.

MOVING TO MEDAN
I flew on an airplane.  End of story.  Oh oh oh except for when I was in the airport in Jakarta, this random lady walked over to Erin and me and asked to take a photo with us.  Like we were celebrities!  And all because we are white.  Now that's screwed up.

GETTING MY APARTMENT
(I have pictures that I am trying to post, but my internet is slow so they might come in a few days on this same post)

Okay, so this is interesting.  I live in a one-room apartment above a pharmacy/clinic which is owned and operated by a Muslim midwife.  Is that not my own personal WGS dream or what?!  The family that owns the building is really cool.  The mom - Maulina - owns this clinic, and her husband has some kind of government job in the city.  He's cool, but I still don't know his name.  They have three kids - Nanda, Nora, and Ahwil - who are SOOO FUN!  Nanda is 14 and speaks excellent English, so she has been kind enough to translate for me and her family.  The kids like to come and hang out in my room.  On Saturday, we are going to cook some American style hamburgers.  They think I am cool because 1) I'm American, 2) I lied and said that I like Justin Beber (Beber Fever is everywhere in this country!), and 3) I can cook.  No lie!  I am cool because I can cook.  The pressure is on now!

My first night in Medan was really hard.  My room, which is really very nice, was not at all what I expected.  I thought I would get something with a kitchen and a bedroom, not just a bedroom.  When I arrived, I had a twin bed with plastic still on the mattress (that's good - no bed bugs), a pink sheet, and no blanket.  I didn't even have a top sheet.  Thank goodness that I brought a blanket with me because otherwise I would have spent the first night without a blanket to sleep under!  In addition to my bed was a small desk, a plastic deck chair, and a wardrobe closet like what you see in a dorm room.  In my bathroom was a western-style toilet and a tub of water with a big dipper to scoop water into the toilet bowl for flushing.  I took one look at the bare walls and the lack of kitchen and cried myself to sleep.

Since then, things have improved.  I got internet, which makes a huge different on my mood level.  Not being able to talk to folks back home is really hard, especially when culture shock hits and you need all the love and encouragement you can find.  And finally today, I got a shower head in my bathroom, a refrigerator, a water cooler/dispenser, and a gas stove.  I feel like a real grown up again!  The last on my agenda is getting a motorcycle or scooter.  That's all I need to regain my much-needed independence and sense of self!

MEETING MY STUDENTS
My students are awesome.  I never thought I would want to be a teacher, but I am starting to see it's appeal.  Would I want to teach in American where I have no celebrity status for my American passport and white skin?  Probably not.  But at least I'll enjoy it while I'm here!  I have a different class every day, and I only see my students once a week.  Thus far, all I've done is introduce myself and observe the classes.  I got to help in one class that was working on reading comprehension - students had to pick ten words that they did not know.  I walked around the class like a real teacher and helped explain the meaning of words like "bloodthirsty" and "surely."  Have you ever tried to explain the meaning of "surely?"  It's not easy!  But the whole experience was very odd.  In a lot of ways, I still feel like a child. Putting on my teacher hat and claiming to be an authority on something feels like playing dress-up.  I keep waiting for my mom to come and pick me up from school or the real teacher to walk in the room and tell me to sit down and be quiet.  I wonder if the feeling will ever go away.

I haven't even finished the week, and I already have a favorite class.  They were loud and rambunctious and totally disrespectful, and I ate it up!  It was fun because I wasn't the teacher in charge.  I just wanted to go and give all the naughty boys in the back of the class noogies!  They love the Mr. Bean movies here, so they would keep impersonating Mr. Bean.  Every once in awhile someone would shout out "Obama!" or "Hey America!" and I would giggle.  I suppose I have to learn how to hide my laughter on the inside.

Even more than the students, I love the teachers!  Most of the teachers at the school are women, and they are a RIOT!  Going into the teacher's lounge is like going into a hen house.  They are always gossiping and joking around and teasing each other.  I love to just watch them!  The men are cool too, and I already have this inside joke with one guy where every time I see him we do an elaborate secret handshake thingy like what I used to make up with my friends in junior high school.  He gets such a kick out of it, and I saw him teaching one of his students a handshake too!  I love it!  Everyone thinks it's so funny when we do fist bumps (yes, that is my cultural contribution to Indonesia: the fist bump) because he has very dark skin, and I have very light skin.  For some reason, everyone starts to crack up when they see the contrast.

One thing that I've got to get used to is the meddling.  For instance, on my first day I was going around to all of the teachers and introducing myself.  I met all the women, and they were nudging me to the back corner where there was a young male teacher working very busily at his desk.  They pushed me over, and I leaned over to shake his hand, but he wouldn't shake mine.  Instead he just bowed toward me.  I think he is super super super conservative and doesn't touch women.  Too bad - he's pretty cute!  Anyway, all the women started saying very loudly, "He is SINGLE!  SINGLE!  You know, NOT MARRIED!  And Miss Hannah, you are NOT MARRIED!  He is SINGLE, you are SINGLE!"  Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.  He and I both turned bright red, and they just died.

Beasty Woman

My strength in Indonesia is beastly.  Here are several examples of the way in which I awe my steadily growing audience:

1.  Upon arrival in the Medan airport, I saw my 60lb suitcase coming around the baggage claim belt.  Naturally, I lifted it off.  It was by no means effortless, but my counterpart (who shall now be referred to as my Ibu) was so surprised that I could lift my own suitcase that her mouth dropped to the floor.  Then she laughed and pointed.  Rule of thumb: never pack a suitcase that you can't lift yourself. Duh!

2.  Yesterday I took my backpack with me to school.  In it was my laptop, a few books, and my purse.  Maybe 30 pounds - nothing compared to the average weight of the American high schooler's backpack - and the other female teachers tried to move it.  They almost fell backward and said it was far too heavy.  They are tiny women.  Then they laughed and pointed at me as usual.

3.  Today I got a water dispenser for my room.  Ibu Mai, the vice principal in charge of accounting, drove me to the local supermarket to buy a 5 gallon jug for my dispenser.  When we got to my house, I knew there was no way that the women who were there would carry the jug up the stairs to my apartment, so I threw it over my shoulder and marched upstairs.  Again, laughter and pointing.

I hope you have noticed the common theme of laughter and pointing.  This is what happens in my life.  Everything I do, whether it's carrying a bag that weighs more than 20 pounds or buying a liter size bottle of water, initiates laughter and pointing.  Everyone talks about needing to have a sense of humor when you come here, but what they really mean is a sense of humor about yourself.  Sometimes I will do something that is really and truly funny, like accidentally call the chief of police an orangutan while I wave my finger in his face (true story), but most of the time I just do normal stuff, like buy a big bottle of water when I am thirsty.  Anything I do that is different is, apparently, funny.  Good thing I can laugh at myself, although sometimes it does really get old.

Quick Update

I just realized it's been two weeks since my last post - TIME FLIES!  It feels like just yesterday that we arrived here in Bandung, and now we're leaving on Friday for real life.  I don't have time to post much right now, but I hope to appease my anxious reader (Hey, Sarah!) with the link to some of my pictures.  It is a lot easier to caption and upload photos quickly than it is to knock out a post that won't offend anyone or get me in trouble (the stories I could tell!), so over the next few days, I'll be adding several more photo albums from the past month.  The link to my photo albums is here so click away!  Hopefully the pictures will fill in some of the time gaps.  And I promise that I will post once a week at a minimum once I move into my permanent location.

Also, Grammy, if you're reading this: Mom said that you check my blog every morning when you wake up.  That made me feel so good!  Thanks!  I love and miss you and Granddad!

The Volcano's Not Here, but Thanks for Asking

Earlier this week, a volcano erupted in North Sumatra after being dormant for 400 years.  Many people were displaced and are now living in refugee camps and shelters, but some have been relocated to Medan - that means I'll be safe.  Right now I am not at all affected because I am currently on the island of Java and nowhere near the volcano.

In other news . . .

It has been a rather boring few days.  I don't want to give any gory details, so all I'm going to say is this:  Montezuma gets his revenge in more places than Mexico.  AND I have become quite familiar with the flushing mechanisms of Western-style toilets in Indonesia.  AND it gets expensive to hydrate in a country where you can't drink the fluids, and you're trying to replace the fluids you're losing.

I am really enjoying the breathing time we get here in Bandung to acclimate ourselves to the food (see above), the culture, and the language, but I must admit that I'm tired of it, too.  It's exhausting trying to find places to eat out all the time, and it's frustrating to come back to my hotel room and remember that I have to pack everything for a third time in two and a half more weeks.  I'm ready to get settled in, but I have to bide my time.  I'm sure, though, that in three months I will look back over this post and think, "What was I thinking!  I would kill to go back there!"  I'm hoping, though, that since I'll be in a huge city, the kinds of creature comforts I might crave won't be so far out of reach.

In spite of this, I am really enjoying myself.  The Bahasa Indonesia lessons are a slap in the face - I never have liked learning languages.  I was hoping that I could do this with just the motivation I get from not being able to communicate with people on the street, but it's not as driving a force as I first anticipated.  We went to visit an English class at a pesantran yesterday (that's a Muslim boarding school), and one of the first questions the students asked us was how to stay motivated to study.  HA!  If only they knew . . .

The good news is that I'm getting through.  I'm discovering that I can learn the language best once I understand the logic behind it.  Once I know the pattern, I can piece it together.  Today's lesson took much better than yesterday's because we learned how to use pronouns.  Basically, I can string simple sentences together.  What I love most about this language is that there is no conjugation, so I don't have to learn a billion different ways to say "to be" (am, is, are, were, was, will be, etc) and remember which goes with what tense and which pronoun.  I can just say be - (I be, he be, we be, etc).  The most FUN part of Bahasa Indonesia, however, is that plural words are just repeats.  In English when there is more than one, you typically add an "s" to the end of the word (with many many many confusing exceptions).  In Bahasa, you just say it twice.  So say I am referring to one child.  That's anuk.  But if I'm referring to more than one (aka children), I say anuk-anuk.  How cool is that!  It gets really hard to keep a straight face when you get into words like babi-babi (pigs), hari-hari (days), or koki-koki (cooks).

I'm guessing that the mention of the pesantran visit is probably bringing up some questions, so I gueeessss I can talk about it!  As part of our teacher training, we got to observe some English classes at local schools.  We were divided up into three groups.  The school that my group went to is about a 45 minute drive from the hotel (the farthest away), so we got to see even more of the city and the surrounding suburbs.

Everything here is so lush and green.  The old cars in the third picture are actually out of place.  Almost all of the cars in the city are brand new, shiny Toyotas, Hondas, Isuzus, Suzukis, and the occasional Ford.

At the pesantran, I observed a class of 12th grade girls.  It was so much fun!

The man on the right is the teacher.  I can't remember his name, but he is really nice!  He's thirty years old and teaches English (duh!).  The incredible thing is that he is almost entirely self-taught.  He learned English mostly through following American pop culture - music, movies, TV - and reading, and his English is really good!  As we're starting to find, though, English teachers are not always as fluent as we might assume.  Especially if they've never had formal training in school, they might not always use correct grammar, or the words that they use are extremely outdated.  Although this can be a setback, the students and teachers we met at the school were far more proficient at English than I had anticipated. Their pronunciation was excellent, and really all they needed was practice.  After this experience, it really hit home how important native English speakers are in the learning process.  Actually, it makes me wonder a bit about my Spanish - did I learn Spanish like these girls learned English?  Thank goodness I've forgotten most of it, just in case!

Before ending, I have to show you my favorite part about the school.  Below is a picture of the auditorium:

Now look at the place where the headmaster sits during assemblies:

It's a plush club chair!  Like a throne!  So funny!  This is where the headmaster gives news, announcements, etc.  And finally, some of the beautiful girls at this school:

They were so funny.  As soon as we pulled out our cameras, they would flock together in groups like this just hoping to get in the photo.  Afterwards, I shook their hands and spoke with them in English.  The experience was like this odd combination of paparazzi/celebrity status - I could definitely get used to it!

How do you say "Double Cheeseburger" in Bahasa?

Today I completed my mission as an American in a foreign country.  I went to McDonald's.  But this was unlike any fast food experience I've ever had in the states!  The building was a beautiful two-story, shiny white, mirrored window business.  Instead of a parking lot filled with broken-down Cutlasses, though, there were brand new motorcycles, scooters, and luxury SUVs and a DOORMAN!  As soon as I walked in, I was met by a bright and shiny woman working behind the patisserie counter.  I moved on through the restaurant to the counter, where I ordered a double cheeseburger - get this - a la carte, and the cashier both looked me in the eye and smiled at me.  We're definitely not in Kansas, anymore!

After I ordered my lunch, I took my tray up to the second floor.  There I found an 8-computer wi-fi counter and flat-screen TVs.  Oh, and a smoking section!  So weird.  

Here is a picture of the tray paper:

Notice the big yellow letters at the bottom that promise 24 hour delivery service.  That's right, y'all.  Southeast Asia is fully equipped with McDonald's home delivery.  Taco Bell's 4th Meal campaign is looking pretty silly right about now!  Oh, and here's a picture of the cup lid.  Nothing important, I just thought it looked cool.

I cannot conclude this post without a picture of the totally disturbing mural of Ronald McDonald on the wall.

Arizona, Take a Knee!

If Americans are so concerned about illegal immigration, they should take a lesson from the Indonesian government.  Any time we go anywhere within Indonesia, we have to report to the local organization (which we would probably equate to a neighborhood watch) so that the police know we're there.  If we don't, we could be fined 5 million rupiah or put in jail for a year.  I saw the Bridget Jones movie - ain't no way I'm going to jail!  I'm reporting!

We also have to keep our passport, our visas, our KITAS (which allow us to travel around the country), our work permits, and our Indonesian-issued ID cards with us at all times.  This isn't as much as it sounds because the first three things in that list are all a part of the passport, but if you lose the passport . . . well, you just don't!  Actually, you're allowed to lose your KITAS twice, and then they deport you.  And the immigration officers will do random sweeps, which is a targeted identity and document check at a select location like a hotel, a store, etc.  If you don't have yours with you, you go to jail.  If we don't have ours with us, we call Nellie.  She moves mountains.  It's awesome.

The immigration office has taken up my passport with my hard-earned visa in it in order to give me my KITAS.  That's right, I am officially passport-less.  I have a photocopy, but that isn't like the real thing.  I'll get mine back hopefully by Wednesday, but I already had my visa checked while I was out the other day.  Photocopies make me nervous, but thankfully the policeman accepted it as legitimate.

Real Housewives? Real WHAT?!

Okay, I have an announcement to make. I LIKE TELEVISION! I do! I like TV. And movies and commercials and magazines and brain-killing, ignorance-building, mass-controlling popular culture. I'm fascinated by it. And from this day forward, I am going to own my fascination!

I met a girl the other day, and I asked her if she ever watched the Real Housewives shows on Bravo. Suddenly the conversation, which I thought was going pretty well, was cut short as she quickly and less-than-tactfully bowed out. She didn't really speak to me anymore after that. Was it because I had offended her? Perhaps. But how had I offended her? As I think back over the conversation, I remember that I laughed at her jokes (and it wasn't some stupid pity laugh. They were genuine laughs because she was genuinely funny), I showed interest in her life by asking questions, I didn't interrupt, and I, in turn, gave her cause to laugh. The only reason that I can think of for her sudden and violent disinterest in me is my Real Housewives confession.

Why is it that so many extraordinarily intelligent people of my generation seem to snub their noses at television, and reality television in particular? I've been working in the trenches for the past three years, so maybe my perspective - that if I come home from spending five hours at the hospital with the family of a 4-year-old rape victim and do something that might cause me to think too much about what I had just witnessed, I just might lose my mind - is a little different. Or maybe I'm just meeting the wrong people. But it seems like there exists only an either/or option for people of all intellects. I can either read, or I can watch TV. But if I do watch TV instead of read, it absolutely must only ever be a show on National Geographic, PBS, Discovery, or History. Why can't it be both? I do both. I am currently reading three books: Orlando by Virginia Woolf, The Collected Short Stories of Edgar Allen Poe, and Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. I am also watching many shows. Well, I was before I came to Indonesia. I think it is crucial to maintain a balanced interest in both worlds, especially because I am going to be in a position for the next nine months to really give an in-depth and more accurate picture of America to my students than they might ever encounter again. Hopefully not, but just in case, I feel like I need to make every medium of popular culture available to them. If it turns out that, god forbid, my students watch Jersey Shore (which, for the record, even I cannot bring myself to watch), I need to know how to counteract that swiftly and effectively. When I went to Kenya, the most common questions I got were related to the idea that everyone in America lives like the people on MTV Cribs. Who can blame them for thinking that? That's all they've been exposed to. Likewise, many people I know in America think that a) Africa is a country, not a continent, and b) everyone runs around wearing loin cloths and killing lions. Because that's what we see in America.

As I think about some of these past experiences, I realize now more than ever how valuable this upcoming year will be. One of my favorite things is showing people my own experiences in another culture and watching their expressions as they realize that, in the end, we're all just people. We might dress differently or eat differently or speak differently, but we all smile. And we all laugh. And we all love.

I'm Here

This is for the family members - I'm here. I'm safe. I'm exhausted. I have lots of interesting things to say, but first I'm going to sleep. More to come tomorrow!

Whatever the game is, I lost it!

Despite my best efforts, jet lag got ahold of me and won't let go. So while I sit here in my gorgeous hotel room watching Indonesian television (thanks to globalization, this consists of primarily English-language channels with Indonesian subtitles), I might as well catch up on my blog.

Thanks to facebook, most of my friends and professors have been in touch with my visa woes, but few know the whole story. I arrived in Jakarta this morning - one day after everyone else - because my visa did not arrive in time for my original flight.

So here's what happened:

I waited all summer for the Indonesian government to issue my work permit. Without the permit, I could not apply for a visa. Thankfully, I did not have to actually DO anything to apply. Nellie, the AMINEF coordinator in Indonesia, and the other lovely ladies who work for the organization were the ones who did the paperwork, the haggling, and the legwork. I just sent in info when it was requested - that's clean living, y'all! Because Indonesia has recently tightened it's immigration laws, however, there was a lot more trouble getting all of us our proper documentation than anyone expected. So about three weeks before we were scheduled to leave, twenty ETAs (that's short for English Teaching Assistants, aka the type of Fulbright grant we have) got their paperwork. That's half of us. So these lucky folks had plenty of time to apply and get their stamped passports returned to them by takeoff on August 20. I resented them slightly. Who wouldn't?

Once this lucky groups of folks got their stuff together, the stress came down on me like never before. My hair started falling out, I quit sleeping, and my poor gastrointestinal system . . . well, I'm sure you can imagine. The most shocking thing was that I lost my appetite. Me! The poster child for emotional eating! You know things are bad when Hannah turns down chocolate!

Bless my poor parents for putting up with me. I got mean and moody and irritable and depressed and just all around unpleasant. But life went on! I kept going to see people to say goodbye and trying to enjoy myself. When my mom and I went to see my grandparents (shout out to Grammy and Granddad!), I finally got my documents. And subsequently freaked out. I had exactly one week between the time of receipt of my documentation and the departure date to apply for a visa. The nearest Indonesian consulate is the actual embassy in Washington, D.C. If I mailed my visa application and had them mail it back, it would not have arrived until Monday or Tuesday. The embassy was closed on Tuesday for Indonesian Independence Day, which meant I had 3 workdays to get my application in, get it processed, and get it mailed back. Even on the fastest of cycles, a visa application that is mailed in would take 5-7 days to be processed and returned by mail. When I realized all this, I called my dad and cried. His immediate response was, "Well we'll just drive up tomorrow so you can be at the embassy on Monday morning." Sigh. I have a great daddy! So we did. We got in the car at lunchtime Sunday and got to D.C. eleven hours later.

Here comes the fun part! Our hotel was only three blocks from the Indonesian embassy, so I decided to walk. The consular services office opened at 10am, which gave me time to get up in the morning and take care of printing out extra copies of everything and buying a prepaid, self-addressed, stamped envelope for a speedy passport return. The hotel had a fedex in the basement where I thought I could take care of all of it. My conversation with the fedex man went something like this:

Me: Hi. I have to buy a prepaid envelope. What's the fastest shipping method y'all have?
Him: We only ship.
Me: I know that y'all ship, but I have to buy a prepaid envelope. How do I do that?
Him: You can't. We only ship.
Me: Ooookay. I'm not sure I understand. You only ship?
Him: Yes.
Me: So then where do people pay for the packages they ship?
Him: Here.
Me: Right, so I can pay for an envelope here.
Him: No.
Me: But I have to apply for a passport today and my dad and I just drove eleven hours from Atlanta so that I could be here in time for the embassy to open and I have to get this mailed back to me as quick as possible and I'm fixing to head over there right now and I have to have a prepaid envelope so they can mail it back to me or else I'll miss my flight and this is the next year of my life! I have to get one!
Him: We only ship. If you pay for it here, it sends out here.
Me: So you're telling me that I can't go ahead and pay for overnight delivery on an envelope and then give it to someone else to send to me?
Him: Well, you'd have to put your credit card number on there.
Me: Well, yeah.
Him: But then they could see your credit card number. It's on the label.
Me: Well then I'll pay cash.
Him: You have to pay with credit card.
Me: Is there anyway I can send it without my card information visible?
Him: You can do it on that computer right over there. Pay and print online.
Me: So if I get on that computer and pay for a shipping label and stick it on an envelope and give it to the Indonesian embassy, I can do that here and it will arrive and you won't try to ship it here?
Him: Yes.
Me: Okay, which computer is it?
Him: Well our system is down. It doesn't work right now. You have to ship if you buy it here.

I kid you not. And this is a much-abridged version! I spoke with the Fedex man for a full-on twenty minutes. I finally just found a post office - that's right, y'all, the good ol' USPS. Although I was able to purchase a prepaid envelope with considerably more ease, I almost cried. It seemed like everyone I met in D.C. was mean and unhelpful unless they were working me for a tip. For example, if I had walked into a post office in Georgia like I did in D.C. - slightly frantic, near tears, very polite, and obviously in need of a kind word - somebody would have asked me what was going on or how I was doing or at least answered my questions with a concerned look on his/her face. I know because it was not, unfortunately, my first time walking into a post office when I was slightly frantic, near tears, very polite, and in need of a kind word. So I walked into the post office and asked the man who was working there what the fastest shipping method they have is, and he told me. I bought the label, envelope, and stamp. He handed me the stamp, but I didn't know where to put it. I said, "Sir, where does the stamp go? I only use email, hehe." On a side note, I'm not an idiot. I know where to put a stamp on a business envelope, just not an enormous express overnight envelope. But I can send an email with the best of them! Anyway, he responded by pointing generally in the direction of the envelope and grunting, "Right there." I asked him to be more specific, and I guess he thought he was, but I swear he just pointed again without any clear direction. Then I handed him the stamp and asked him to do it. Apparently this was a self-serve post office, and I had just violated the terms of his contract. So when I asked him to show me how to attach the QUADRUPLICATE shipping label, he took one look at me, then redirected his glare to the growing line behind me and yelled, "NEXT!"

With the first leg of my mission finally accomplished (albeit with much more difficulty than I had imagined - I should have seen it as a sign for what was to come), I headed to the embassy. Now the weather there was much nicer than the weather down in Georgia, but I was so nervous and anxious that I turned bright red and started sweating so much that even the folks down in Macon would have thought there was something wrong with me. I was gross.

When I got to the embassy, I had to stop and think. I had already had such a hard time that morning that I knew I couldn't take anymore snafus without a complete and total breakdown. The embassy entrance was blocked by an enormous iron gate. I suddenly didn't know if I was supposed to have called ahead or if there was a doorbell or what! So I pulled out my phone and called my trusty professor, Dr. Houry (shout out to Dr. Houry!). I'm sure the last thing he expected was a random phone call on Monday morning with me on the other line asking about embassy protocol. Thank god he answered! As it turns out, there IS a doorbell! It has an intercom attached, and a little man answers and says, "PUSH ON THE GATE!!!!" And when you promptly push on the wrong side of the gate, he gets very helpful - "NO THE OTHER GATE! THE OTHER ONE! NO MISS! THE OTHER - UGH!" I got it . . . eventually.

There were two other ETAs already at the embassy when I arrived. I saw the AMINEF seal on one of their letters and felt a million times better. Safety in numbers, right? Well despite our best efforts - Mia and Kelsey pleading with the man at consular services, me waking up Nellie in Indonesia to get her to call the embassy - he would not budge. We even had a letter in Indonesian from a very important man in Indonesia asking the embassy to expedite the process for us. That man at the embassy wouldn't even read it! If we turned in our visa applications on Monday, they would be ready for pickup on Thursday at 11am. I called poor Nellie for the fifth time that morning to tell her that I could not pick up my visa and passport in person, and she said, "There has to be a way. I will keep trying." Bless her heart. It turned out that there wasn't.

I left my visa application at the embassy, but I took my hard-won prepaid envelope with me. I wasn't taking any chances - in case there was some way I could get my visa in person on Thursday, I wasn't leaving an envelope with my application for it to be sent off before I got there, wasting my time and money. I called my dad on my walk back to the hotel. At that point, I was in hysterics. I was so angry that I was shaking, and I started shouting into the phone. I can't help but grimace as I think about what I must have looked like - a short, red-faced, soaking wet, crying, shaking, shouting Southerner (my accent gets real thick when I'm angry) storming up Connecticut Avenue. I've had better moments.

I ended up leaving my hard-won prepaid envelope with the embassy, The office closed at 1pm, and I didn't decide to let them mail it until 12:15, so it was a bit of a race. Even though we were only three blocks away, we didn't know long it would take to get there, what with all the one way streets! We waited anxiously for the valet to bring the car around, then jumped in real quick. Dad started cussing at the GPS because it wouldn't let him type in the embassy address the way he wanted, but finally we got it together. He dropped me at the curb and I went in - this time pushing on the correct gate the first time! When I walked into the office, there was an Indonesian woman renewing her passport at the counter. The man who had been so unaccomodating and insensitive to me just an hour earlier was laughing and joking with this woman. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought that he might be nicer this time around. Nope! As soon as he saw me, his brow furrowed and his face went to stone. It was just like in the movie, You've Got Mail, when Meg Ryan tries to use a credit card in the cash only line at the grocery store, and the cashier has nothing but daggers in her eyes. I almost laughed out loud when he did that, but I kept my composure and waited patiently in line. When it was my turn, I thought I'd try to be funny, so I walked up to the counter with a big smile on my face and said, "Hey there! Remember me? I'm baaaack!" You'd of thought I said "Heeeeeeeeeeeeere's JOHNNY!" I think the only way I could have made that man smile back at me was if I broke a bone, or maybe told him I didn't want to go to his country after all. Whatever. He took the envelope. Then we drove back home.

So that's the story, folks! They didn't mail my passport until Thursday, and Nellie sacrificed yet another night of sleep on my behalf while she got the travel agent to book me a flight for Saturday. I am so grateful! And just like I thought it would be, all that nonsense was worth it now that I'm here. It's going to be a wonderful year!