Today is a blah day. I feel fat, my a/c is giving me congestion problems, I'm wearing dirty clothes because I've been too lazy to wash my clothes by hand, and nothing sounds better than sitting on my bed-turned-couch all day sipping tea and reading Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation. But here I am, dressed for school (sans that horrific and HOT jilbab), typing on my blog and trying to think of games to play so I don't have to teach.
Thursdays are always blah days. My classes on Thursday are really bad. The students are unruly, discipline is nonexistent, and I spend most of my time waiting for them to be quiet. Here's an example:
A few months ago, I was doing an activity with this class that lets them talk and move around a lot. Unbeknownst to them, I'm always trying to find fun, energetic activities to connect to the lesson to accommodate their, well, spunk. It doesn't seem to matter what I do because I can't keep control of these students no matter what. And it's not just me - my co-teacher gave up on them before I even got here! A class usually has one or two bad students that rile up the class. Bond with them and your golden. But when a class of 43 students has 15 boys who would've been in alternative school in America at the age of 7, there's really no chance. Especially if you can't speak the same language. And when any form of discipline results in cheering and clapping from their cohorts, it all seems pretty pointless.
So on this particular day, we were doing an activity. The time was up and I needed them to sit down. Despite my many efforts of speaking to individual students, yelling over the noise, and attempting my pathetic teacher staredown, nothing worked. So finally I thought, "Hey, they just can't see me. I'll pull a soapbox!" And I stood on my chair to make the announcement.
Did this work? NO! I got their attention all right. They heard me speaking and they looked around to see me standing on the chair. For just one fleeting moment I thought I'd achieved success. And then a Dead Poet's Society scene unfolded. Only instead of me being the thought-provoking Robin Williams and my students feeling inspired by my wit, intelligence, and compassion, they jumped on their desks and started shouting at me and each other. I suppose it would be more accurate to liken it to the crucifixion trial of Jesus.
That's why I hate Thursdays.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Tales of Tails
Today I walked into class and was immediately met with a horrible, death-like stench. I asked the students to sweep the floor, hoping it was some rotten food that could be removed after a short cleaning session. As I supervised the girls (boys don't clean, of course) who were pushing around the scraps of paper, food wrappers, mothballs (don't ask), grains of rice, and food crumbs with the broom, I discovered the culprit. A group of boys was crouched in the corner. They surrounded the supply cabinet and, while laughing and whispering in Indonesian, kept poking at something inside. I peered over their shoulders and saw, with great surprise, a cat curled up inside the cabinet with six newborn kittens drinking milk from her teats. She had given birth the night before and stayed in the stinky, nasty, birthy rags she curled up in before. Yuck!
Cats are everywhere. Big ones, little ones, yellow ones, black ones, fat ones, starving ones, and oh-so-pregnant! ones. Maybe one out of 20 cats has a full tail. The rest have a variation of bobbed, zig-zagged, crimped, and just plain funky. Many a night we've spent discussing the possible causes of this strange disappearance. The Indonesians insist that the cats are born this way, but we see as many kittens as we do cats and the kittens keep their tails for at least the first five or six weeks. The kittens born in my classroom had full kitten-sized tails. So where do they go?
Speculation ranges from spontaneous detachment to traffic mishaps to cat fights to incest. There is compelling evidence for all four. Never fear! I will outline all of them.
Spontaneous detachment seems quite likely given the whole mystery surrounding this issue. One day it's there, the next it isn't! As I said, compelling evidence.
Given the commonly displayed crimped and zig-zagged tails we see, many of them violently bent at a right angle, I think it is safe to assume that these cats have encountered a fair amount of violence in their pathetic lives. Since the staple food in an Indonesian cat's diet is rice, we can all imagine what a food scarcity they are facing. Everywhere they go, they prowl around with hungry, sunken eyes, ribs showing through their patchy fur, and a little too much alleycat swagger in their walk. They circle the cast-aside banana leaves full of unwanted rice and threaten any fellow cat from stealing their prize. Needless to say, a loud food-fight RAAEEEEERRRRRRR is all too regular in schools, in restaurants, and in my trash bags. And when they're not fighting for food or giving birth inside my classroom's supply cabinet, they're darting through traffic in search of food or a suitable kitten-birthing cabinet. I'll never forget the time I was driving to the grocery store on my motorcycle and saw a roadkill cat in the middle of the road. It's fur was matted with blood, it's tail bent into the air like a flag pole, and it's eyes had popped out of its head, blowing around on the road, held on only by the bloody strings still attached inside the eye sockets. Not the best thing to see on your way to buy food, let me tell you!
Finally we have the incest theory. As soon as my friend suggested it, everything suddenly made sense. All the cats at my friends' dorm never leave. There are three females and one male (lucky guy) nicknamed Garfield for the uncanny resemblance (both in size and laziness - the only time we've ever seen him move is to impregnate a member of his harem). We've spoiled their boom-boom on many an occasion and even interrupted what I will always believe was a cat rape. This male cat has impregnated each of the females at least four times since I've been in Medan. And now their kittens are cats and making their own kittens. Who's the daddy? None other than Garfield.
This same scenario occurs at my school and in my neighborhood. The same males are impregnating the females, then they impregnate their children, their grandchildren, and even their great-grandchildren. And people say cats are intelligent!
Cats are everywhere. Big ones, little ones, yellow ones, black ones, fat ones, starving ones, and oh-so-pregnant! ones. Maybe one out of 20 cats has a full tail. The rest have a variation of bobbed, zig-zagged, crimped, and just plain funky. Many a night we've spent discussing the possible causes of this strange disappearance. The Indonesians insist that the cats are born this way, but we see as many kittens as we do cats and the kittens keep their tails for at least the first five or six weeks. The kittens born in my classroom had full kitten-sized tails. So where do they go?
Speculation ranges from spontaneous detachment to traffic mishaps to cat fights to incest. There is compelling evidence for all four. Never fear! I will outline all of them.
Spontaneous detachment seems quite likely given the whole mystery surrounding this issue. One day it's there, the next it isn't! As I said, compelling evidence.
Given the commonly displayed crimped and zig-zagged tails we see, many of them violently bent at a right angle, I think it is safe to assume that these cats have encountered a fair amount of violence in their pathetic lives. Since the staple food in an Indonesian cat's diet is rice, we can all imagine what a food scarcity they are facing. Everywhere they go, they prowl around with hungry, sunken eyes, ribs showing through their patchy fur, and a little too much alleycat swagger in their walk. They circle the cast-aside banana leaves full of unwanted rice and threaten any fellow cat from stealing their prize. Needless to say, a loud food-fight RAAEEEEERRRRRRR is all too regular in schools, in restaurants, and in my trash bags. And when they're not fighting for food or giving birth inside my classroom's supply cabinet, they're darting through traffic in search of food or a suitable kitten-birthing cabinet. I'll never forget the time I was driving to the grocery store on my motorcycle and saw a roadkill cat in the middle of the road. It's fur was matted with blood, it's tail bent into the air like a flag pole, and it's eyes had popped out of its head, blowing around on the road, held on only by the bloody strings still attached inside the eye sockets. Not the best thing to see on your way to buy food, let me tell you!
Finally we have the incest theory. As soon as my friend suggested it, everything suddenly made sense. All the cats at my friends' dorm never leave. There are three females and one male (lucky guy) nicknamed Garfield for the uncanny resemblance (both in size and laziness - the only time we've ever seen him move is to impregnate a member of his harem). We've spoiled their boom-boom on many an occasion and even interrupted what I will always believe was a cat rape. This male cat has impregnated each of the females at least four times since I've been in Medan. And now their kittens are cats and making their own kittens. Who's the daddy? None other than Garfield.
This same scenario occurs at my school and in my neighborhood. The same males are impregnating the females, then they impregnate their children, their grandchildren, and even their great-grandchildren. And people say cats are intelligent!
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Boundaries, Anyone?
My latest conversation with an Indonesian cab driver:
Him: How old are you?
Me: 28.
Him: How long have you lived in Indonesia?
Me: 8 months.
Him: Who do you live with?
Me: My husband.
Him: Where is he from?
Me: America.
Him: How long have you been married?
Me: 8 years.
Him: Do you have any children?
Me: No, we're still waiting a long time yet.
Him: Oh, so you're a career woman.
Me: Yes.
Him: Good good. (thinking) So what do you use?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: Do you use condoms? Do you eat pills? How do you not have children?
Him: How old are you?
Me: 28.
Him: How long have you lived in Indonesia?
Me: 8 months.
Him: Who do you live with?
Me: My husband.
Him: Where is he from?
Me: America.
Him: How long have you been married?
Me: 8 years.
Him: Do you have any children?
Me: No, we're still waiting a long time yet.
Him: Oh, so you're a career woman.
Me: Yes.
Him: Good good. (thinking) So what do you use?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: Do you use condoms? Do you eat pills? How do you not have children?
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I'm BAAAACCCKKKK
Well, after a rather embarrassing four-month absence from the blogosphere, I have returned. Starting in November I sank into a deep resentment and unhappiness about life here. Since momma always said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," I took her advice and kept my silence.
Well, I've adjusted. Did you know it takes about six months to get used to a place? And now I'm used to it, but man oh man! I can't wait to be back in the good ol' USA. I still don't have a lot of nice things to say, but I'll try to mask it with my unmatchable wit and sense of humor (which, by the way, went MIA for about three months and still isn't what it usually is). Feel free to read between the lines, though.
Let me tell you about an ordinary day in the life of a white foreign woman in Medan, Indonesia is like:
Well, I've adjusted. Did you know it takes about six months to get used to a place? And now I'm used to it, but man oh man! I can't wait to be back in the good ol' USA. I still don't have a lot of nice things to say, but I'll try to mask it with my unmatchable wit and sense of humor (which, by the way, went MIA for about three months and still isn't what it usually is). Feel free to read between the lines, though.
Let me tell you about an ordinary day in the life of a white foreign woman in Medan, Indonesia is like:
Saturday, November 20, 2010
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!
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.
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.
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.
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