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:

Today I took my motorcycle to get it serviced. A strange man sat down next to me and asked if I could speak Indonesian. I told him that I know only a little, and then I pulled out my cell phone and called someone so that I would be left alone. When I hung up the call 30 minutes later, he turned to me and said in English, "Why so big?" I said, "What?" He proceeded to make the monkey arms with which I have become all-too-familiar and said "Big girl. Big girl." I said, "WHO!" and he pointed at me and said "You big girl."

After I got my motorcycle serviced, I had to buy a new tire. So I went to another store. The man there started to tell me he likes me and wants me to be his friend so he can practice English. Then he told me I should always come to his shop for my motorcycle needs because he will give me free service. All free for me, he said. Then he asked me who I live with. I told him I live with my big, muscly husband who is very very tall and kind of mean and doesn't like other men to talk to me. Then he said, oh yeah....you should come here again for motorcycle service. All cheap, very cheap for you. I wonder if I would have had to perform some favors to get the free stuff before he thought I was married.

After all was finished with my motorcycle, I went to Pizza Hut (I've been getting a hankering for cold pizza for breakfast) to get takeout. After I got the pizza, I went to my motorcycle. Btw, I was still wearing my jilbab from school so everyone thought I'm Muslim. I paid the parking attendant, and he shouted, "I LOVE YOU! I love Muslim you!"

Before all this happened, I was teaching. Today I had my students write round-robin stories (each person in a group writes a little bit in every story). They were supposed to be creative. I gave them the beginnings of their stories. Somehow, in spite of the fact that there were 10 different groups and the potential for 40 different stories, I had 40 of the same.

During the sholat break at school (sholat means prayer), I went for lunch. Not in the mood to be stared and gawked at and forced into awkward, shallow conversations in a combination of English and Indonesian, I went to a chain called Texas Chicken (the same as Church's Chicken in the US - I'll let you use your imagination as to why the name was changed for the largest Muslim country in the world). Usually, I can sit in a corner and no one bothers me. Today, however, I was not so lucky. I watched a parade of businessmen do a double-take charade. They'd walk by the window out of view, then double back and stare at me. Then they'd leave and come back with 2 or 3 more and repeat. And the janitor boy (no older than 15) managed to mop the exact same spot on the floor directly beside my table for the entire 20 minutes I was there.

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.