Smack in the middle of Java

2002-11-21T05:20:00.000-08:00

Killing me softly with his song...

A few days ago, I was taking a shower and jamming out to Third Day. Toward the end of an upbeat song, guitars and voices are wailing when I keep hearing one of the background vocalists improvising something very off beat and very out of tune.

And then I realize...those aren't the vocal stylings of Third Day.

It's the guy at the mosque across the road singing the call to prayer.

2002-10-28T05:17:00.000-08:00

Elevator etiquette

Setting: Smack, Yusuf and friends, waiting for an elevator to come down from the fourth floor, pick us up on the second floor, and take us up to the fourth floor.

Smack: Yusuf, why did you just push the down arrow button if we want to go up?

Yusuf: Because, Jenni-per, we have to invite the elevator to come down.

2002-10-22T06:36:00.000-07:00

A new record

My Centrin dial-up internet connection this evening is a screaming 2.4kbps.

2002-10-21T07:55:00.000-07:00

I am the Chosen One

Today's evidence of a higher power being on my side...

I drove through three (count 'em -- three) police traps today without being pulled over. This, a veritable miracle being that I was a white female on a motorcycle. Not to mention my pink shirt and sunglasses brazenly announcing my femininity and bule-ness (a bule is a white person), respectively.

Until now, I've only been pulled over once by the police. It was an interesting exercise in cross-cultural communication. And although I was in a bit of a hurry at the time, I determined that the best (and cheapest) way out of the situation would be to act like I had all the time in the world.

The policeman was quite pleased with his catch, a white girl driving a motorcycle missing a rear-license plate and using an out-of-date registration card (I'm still trying to get that thing updated!) He knew he had it made. He presented my options, painting a bleak picture of having my vespa confiscated, receiving a ticket, appearing before the court in a month and paying up to Rp200.000 (just over US$20) in fines.

OR, I could simply pay him Rp150.000 and he would take care of everything for me.

Inside, I was indignant. The going rate for bule ticket bribery is only Rp50.000-100.000. Clearly, I was being taken advantage of. Remaining calm, I smiled and replied that I was eager to cooperate and follow Indonesian law. I told him I was more than happy to receive a ticket and go to court. Yes, Sir. I love Indonesia. I want to follow the law.

He was definitely surprised. After a few moments of trying to change my mind, the policeman proceeded to look for a ticket to write up. He was fresh out. Out of the 10-15 of his friends that were also stopping cars, protecting and serving, not a one of them had a single ticket in his possession.

By this time, a few other policeman had gathered around and started asking the usual slew of questions...where was I from, what was I doing here, how long would I be in Indonesia, etc. We were creating a bit of a scene and disrupting the 'flow' of traffic. Finally a senior officer stepped over. I thought my luck had run out.

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

"America." I replied.

"Indonesia and America are friends." he said, smiling and grandly clasping his hands together. And then, in a final sweeping gesture with his arms he said (nearly pleading), "Please...GO."

2002-10-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

Finishing well

The reality is, I have two months left until my planned departure date.

No other impending "ending" in my life has had such a profound impact on my everyday living as this one. Leaving different jobs, graduating from college, going from known countries and cultures to unknown ones...none of these carried the effect I now feel knowing I will leave Indonesia in two months.

I was talking with a friend today about a new habit I seemed to have picked up -- running. I'm by no means the avatar of health, but I have come to know the joy of the runner's high, and I am addicted to the energy I feel all day after a great morning run. In talking with my friend about different habits on the road, I shared with him that I prefer running on the side of the road where I can see the oncoming traffic (here, the right side.) It gives me a sense of control and the feeling that I have more options if I know what is headed toward me. I run in this way, this mindset, for the majority of the course I have mapped out -- all the while juggling the obstacles of vehicles with thoughts about my time and form, staying out of potholes, and planning my schedule for the day.

And then I turn a corner onto the homestretch.

And I cross to the otherside of the road. And I am so focused on finishing well, to the best of my ability on that day, that I would rather forget about the onslaught of cars and step to the side of the road where they are behind me. All the other concerns of the day fade away. Finishing well becomes so important that I don't even think of the cars as obstacles any more.

I let them look out for me.

The stitch in my side seems a small price to pay for a new personal best. And the weight of my tired legs doesn't seem so burdensome because I know I won't have to carry them much further.

I have turned the corner onto the homestretch of my time in this country. And the last couple weeks, I have started to cross to the other side of the road. Never before have I so clearly seen a finish line. Obstacles I feared before don't seem as big a threat. I am learning that the things I do are not as important as how I am knowing and seeking to know God in the moment -- and yet seeking to know God is essential to what I do.

There is so much that needs to be done before I leave this place. My sides are beginning to ache and my legs are getting weary, but there is a high to be enjoyed by making the most of every moment.

I hope to...strike that...I plan on finishing well. Not by thinking of every obstacle and task that must be overcome, but by knowing purpose and chasing after the heart of my Creator.

2002-10-07T08:24:00.000-07:00

Of note...

In Bahasa Indonesia, the word "pimpin" means to lead.

2002-09-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

I spent some time in Jakarta, the nation's capital, this past week. Imagine 9 million people (although I've heard figures of up to 12 million) crammed into a 250 square mile city. (Houston is twice as large with half the population.) According to lonely planet, Jakarta is "the 'big durian' - the foul-smelling exotic fruit that some can't stomach and others can't resist." I know which side of that line I'm standing on. I had a great time while I was there, but I was pleased to return to the climes of the half-mile-high city that I call home, Bandung.

One day in Jakarta I was riding in a taxi on the toll road having a seemingly decent conversation with a seemingly normal driver, when all of a sudden, the driver expresses his need to pull over and (literally) "throw little water".

Translation: the man needed to pee

"Uhhhh...okay." What else was I going to say. I was glad he didn't have to "throw big water".

So when the driver pulls over, gets out, and disappears behind the rear of the car out of sight, I'm wondering how naive I am and can't work out whether to keep one eye on the guy or trust the man and give him his privacy.

I chose to lock the back doors and wait it out. Luckily he was quick to return and we were on our way in no time.

2002-09-26T03:10:00.000-07:00

Nine times out of ten, when I tell an Indonesian I'm from the state of Texas, they respond the same way.
"Ohhhh...cowboys!"

To be fair, I think there are some people in the recesses of the Northern US that think the same. But recently, I heard that my home state has even become an idiom of sorts. If I am in a place where there is a lot of traffic, or is very noisy, or maybe people are fighting, I may have a friend turn to me and say,
"Wah! Texas sekali!"
(Wow! Very Texas!)

Because Texas = cowboys.

And cowboys are renegades, carry guns and make a lot of noise.

2002-09-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

Bird is the word

"Chickens can definitely not get mange. Mange is a chronic disease pertaining only to mammals, in the class of Mammalia. Everyone knows that chickens are in the class of Aves. Therefore, no chickens can get mange." - Nic Cannington

Being that I know Nic, I thought he made this one up. But upon receiving his succinct admonition to look it up, I went ahead and did my own homework. Here's what I found:

mange n.
Any of several chronic skin diseases of mammals caused by parasitic mites and characterized by skin lesions, itching, and loss of hair.

mammal n.
Any of various warm-blooded vertebrate animals of the class Mammalia...

aves n.
The class of Vertebrata that includes the birds.

(italics added)

So everyone give Nic a pat on the back for being so smart. Even if he does get negative cool points for making me do my own homework. Any postcard requests Nic? A Balinese dancer? An Irian Jayan man in a traditional koteka?

And since Nic's already been to Indonesia, the first person to email me his/her snail mail address (who has not yet been to Indonesia) will get a postcard too.*

*Employees of smacknjava™ and their family members are not eligible to win.

2002-09-16T10:24:00.000-07:00

Question for today...

Can chickens get mange?

I saw one today that inspired this question. Three actually. Very Scary.

I'll send a postcard to the first person who can answer this question and back it up with a source. Email me your answers.

2002-09-13T08:47:00.000-07:00

While I was out for a jog this morning, I was thinking how much I enjoy running/walking around my neighborhood. There is such a variety of scenery and of people. I can head up the hill and see Bandung, quiet and settled in the valley centered in a ring of mountains. I pass by a rowdy group of kids gathered around a street vendor's food stand just outside an elementary school. I cross a ditch through a kampung (poor housing area) that ends in a palatial neighborhood of the most gargantuan houses I've ever seen.

The hills can be killer to climb, especially if I wait until too late in the day to go out and the tropical sun has melted through the cold morning crispness. But the reward is great and the views are breathtaking with palms and terraced fields of rice crops.

This morning was one of those mornings when I caught a glimpse of that "something greater" that we all desire to know and experience. It was a moment to revel in; a moment I hope to know again. And at the same time, just as Brent Curtis cautions in The Sacred Romance, I recognize it as a desire that only points to something greater from this side of Paradise. I know the moment itself it not to be worshipped. And yet it is no less enjoyed.

This morning I was reminded of the brevity of my time here. I will be leaving Bandung in early-mid December. A month ago I had a day where I actually told a friend (I'm embarrassed to admit this) "I don't want to be here today. I just want to be in America." Thankfully not every day is like that, and today was definitely not one of them. So here are some random things I have grown to love about this place...some things that I deeply enjoy, however simple, that are pearly aches of a reminder of the true citizenship that lies ahead...

Sending up a paper kite into the sky on a windy day from a hill that overlooks the city

Waking up on a cold morning, curled up in my fluffy comforter

Seeing averted eyes from beneath a jilbab (Muslim head covering for women) light up when I say, "Hello"

Driving down Pahlawan Street on the Vespa over rollercoaster bumps at shocking speed

Feeling the cultural and language barriers come down and really connecting with a friend

Being able to sing a song of worship from my heart in a language other than English

2002-09-08T10:45:00.000-07:00

My heart sank earlier this week when I opened CNN.com and read that a homemade bomb had taken three young girls’ lives in Ambon, Indonesia. I was sad for the useless loss of these lives and reminded of the violence that continues to rip apart the people of this Eastern Indonesian city. There are so many things I want others to know about Indonesia. Sadly, what most people know (if anything) is that this is a place of unrest.

My time here in Bandung has given me an interesting perspective on danger and fear. To be sure, there is danger in this country. But it’s not the kind of danger that I expected to find. I don’t worry about walking down my street at night as I might in America. I live in a city that has relatively the same population as Houston, my hometown in America, but the crime rate is nowhere near as high or as violent here as it is back in the States. In America, I am aware of my surroundings when I am out and about by myself because I am a girl and there are a lot of sick people out there. Here, I’m just trying to make sure I get out of the mall with my wallet and my handphone intact.

My stay in Bandung has been a relatively peaceful one. The public transportation workers started some riots about a year ago at the local governmental building when gasoline prices were going up, but I happened to be out of town at the time. I was headed home to America for my best friend’s wedding last September when things started to get tense, and by the time I got back in early November, the tension had abated. Laskar Jihad collects money on the some of the street corners, but sometimes I wonder if they’re more afraid of me than I am of them. I’ve witnessed a number of demonstrations, but they’ve all been peaceful rallies. The first demo I ever ran into had a decent turnout (a thousand + people). And while these people were quite passionate about the issue at hand (supporting Pakistan in their differences with Israel) they were easily distracted by my white face and camera and were excited to pose for a photo. And I don't mean 'Let's burn the effigy!' excited, we're talking people making bunny-ears behind a friend's head with one hand and a peace sign with the other. Even the military van of imposing policemen grinned widely when I asked if I could take their picture.

“Kita cinta Indonesia damai” We love a peaceful Indonesia reads a sign in my room. The average Indonesian does not think daily about the threat of unrest or violence. But most long for a day when Indonesia can wholly enjoy peace. Different groups from within and without seem forever to be in a struggle for power, especially in the outlying islands. The fear the people in these areas face is something I hope I never have to live with. I guess all I can do this side of Paradise is pray for peace in this land and the wisdom to know how and where to carry on daily…here and in America.

2002-09-03T06:53:00.000-07:00

Keepin' the home fries burnin'

"I need to eat more hamburgers and pizza," Aldi explained, "then I will be able to speak English better."

I laughed. I thought he was kidding.

He continued, "You eat sambal (Indonesian hot sauce) and rice, right?" "That's why you speak Indonesian so well."

Oh. And I thought it had something to do with speaking to Indonesians every day. I advised Aldi to take a course in logic...and to keep practicing proper pronunciation, pizza or no pizza. Luckily, my other Indonesian friends found his thread of logic as amusing as I had.

I must admit, I am shocked that I eat McDonald's here at least once a week. I rarely ate McDonald's in America. I didn't enjoy it all that much, and it always seemed like food for kids or something. But every month that has passed since my arrival in Indonesia, McDonald's has become more and more appealing. Here, there is something about a McDonald's cheeseburger with no onions and that single, lovely pickle that seems familiar...nostalgic...like home. It's hard to find foods here that aren't fried, be it national foods or fast foods. So yes, I guess when I choose between fish sauce and a french fry, I'm going for the fry.

*I love you french fries*

Which is why today's CNN article about McDonald's new slim spuds leaves me with feelings of relief...and a bit of concern. While this news was sure to bring a broad smile to the face of Willie Munchright, and I'm glad the consequences of my frequent fry consumption will soon be lessened, questions abound. Will they taste the same? Will they satiate the desire for something known? We shall see. There was no official word as to whether or not McDonald's global enterprises would follow suit using this new, improved, healthy grease. It could be that non-health-conscious nations will be sticking to the same old clog-your-arteries oil.

Either way, I will still be able to rest in the comfort of my cheeseburger and its lovely pickle.

Update: This McDonald's press release indicates McDonald's USA will be affecting TFA-reduced oil soon, with the hopes of extending the health buzz to foreign ventures some time in the future.

2002-09-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

Help Wanted - English Editor

Recently sighted posted to a tree in Bandung...
I am For
To Look Job Driver
HUB. 0818433310

2002-08-29T11:27:00.000-07:00

a mother's remorse

received from Mom Smack 29 Aug 02, 8.20PM, WIB
"I wish I would have read your weblog yesterday (see "cheap thrills", 28 Aug 02). When I made my lunch at work I took my pickles out of one baggie & my bread from the 2nd baggie and really struggled with what to do with them. I felt so much guilt when I decided the easy, lazy way was to just throw them out. The rest of the day when I walked in the kitchen past the open garbage can my baggies were there staring right at me. I was dissappointed in my laziness not to recycle. Ho Hum - today I am over it.
Love-
Yoyoma"

2002-08-29T10:27:00.000-07:00

interesting...

I decided it was time for a change, so I swung by the haircolor section at the grocery store the other day and picked up a box of Natea in ebony something-or-other. My friends think I'm trying to look more Indonesian.

I noticed they now carry two shades specifically for men (the color must bond to the Y chromosome.) And most interestingly, I also noticed that the two manly boxes of haircolor were the only two boxes that bore a small but evident notice in the upper right-hand corner:
IMPORTANT:
Follow Safety Instructions

2002-08-28T09:08:00.000-07:00

cheap thrills

I grew up in a stewardly family. I was taught the value of a dollar. And the limit of how many times a plastic baggie can be washed and reused. But having lived in this country for one year, six months and five days has given me a new perspective on the meaning of the word 'frugal'.

I just spent 15 minutes on the phone with a friend having a conversation that should have taken under a minute. I'm not sure when this movement began, but some thrifty individual figured out that if you call someone for under three seconds on your handphone (cellphone in America), the call is free.

This person started employing this method in talking with his/her friends.

The trend caught on.

Now, every so often when I answer my phone, I'll have a question spat at me followed by an immediate hang-up. Then I'm supposed to call back and answer said question or follow with a question of my own...my friend and I calling back and forth in successive three-second calls until the conversation peters out.

Oddly, it's kind of fun.

2002-08-25T02:35:00.000-07:00

overheard...

Patrick: You just can't eat rice in America like this with your hands...it doesn't stick together.

Yusuf: Not even at McDonald's?

2002-08-24T09:15:00.000-07:00

Living the high life…taking the low road.

“You’re kidding, right?” She smirked. “We really ran out of gas?”

“Yep.” I replied with a wide grin. “Didn’t I tell you this was going to be an adventure?” I excitedly added.

Cassie was not impressed. I had nearly bribed her to get out of the house and run around town with me. She had abandoned a typical, comfortable, predictable day at home in front of the television and was not getting what she had bargained for. “What do we do?” Her voice hinted of panic.

“We’re gonna go get some gas.” I said plainly.

The ride to the gas station was quick and painless—only 600 meters or so. At any given moment during daylight hours countless angkots (the primary mode of public transport in Bandung) can be seen weaving in and out of traffic on Jalan Cipaganti (Cipaganti Road). We had the pick of the litter and were there in flash.

After extracting our Western bodies from the crowded vehicle, Cassie trudged behind me as I walked past the gas station to a small seller’s stand. A world of choices were within arms’ reach. Through a small window in this 2x1x3 meter box, you could secure a variety of snacks, a deck of playing cards, a coke, a mass of toiletries, a pack of mints, a razor, some bug spray, a bottle of clothing spray starch, and a host of unmentionables. My typical jaunt to a stand of this sort would simply yield me a bottle of water for 2000 Rupiah (about 20 cents.) But today we were on a mission.

“Two plastic bags and some rubberbands, please.” I handed the woman at the window a Rp1000 bill.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened, is it?” Cassie questioned. She seemed unimpressed by the statistic that out of months of driving a gas-gaugeless Vespa, this was only the second time I had run out of fuel.

We made our way back to the station and waited for our turn amongst the myriad of motorcycles and motorscooters. I double-bagged my plastic sacs and held them up to the attendant. “Five liters, please.”

“Ohhh. Empty tank?” The attendant queried. Indonesians are some of the friendliest people in the world and are always eager to make conversation. Even if only to point out the obvious.

“Yes sir.” I smiled at the man smiling at the white girl filling her plastic bags to fill her empty tank. I fastened the top of the bags with the rubberbands, and once again we were on our way; a full tank of gas-in-a-bag in tow.

It was a bit of a hike back down the one-way road. I couldn’t be bothered taking the long way around, even if it meant riding as opposed to walking. Cassie was a trooper and even managed to laugh with me about our situation a few times.

She quizzically observed while I tried to maneuver the gasoline from the large bag into the tiny hole under the fixed seat. “Why don’t you just lift up the seat?”

“It doesn’t lift up.” I responded.

“My Dad’s does.” She retorted.

She curiously watched me locate a bottle of oil and a small measuring cup, and pour the contents into the tank. “What’s that for?”

“I have to add oil for this 2-stroke engine every time I fill up.” I explained.

“My Dad doesn’t have to do that.” She said. “You should get a new Vespa.”

I recoiled at the thought. “I can’t. This one’s my jodoh. We were born in the same year.” (Jodoh is a word older Indonesians use for soulmate.) Cassie giggled. Why this Vespa is so dear to me, I am not completely sure. On one level, it represents my freedom—my ability to come and go as I please without having to rely on someone else or a transport schedule. Any motorcycle or car could afford me this freedom. But this Vespa in particular, with each rusty hole, with each dying breath and miraculous resurrection, and with each kick of the infernal starter, has endeared itself to me for reasons entirely unexplainable. It’s just so ghetto, it’s cool.

I mopped up the spot of gasoline that had dripped down body of the scooter and cleaned off my hands. As we once again joined the courageous masses that brave Bandung roads, I wondered what this moment had looked like through the eyes of the 12 year old girl accompanying me. I wondered if she saw how an empty tank could become a quest, and how sometimes the things that require the most care and attention can be the things we most highly prize.

2002-08-22T11:46:00.000-07:00

"It strikes us that to hope in the kind of goodness that would set our heart free, we must be willing to allow our desire to remain haunted."
~Brent Curtis
The Sacred Romance

2002-08-21T10:31:00.000-07:00

odds and ends

...i have a friend here named "zul" (...ghostbusters...)

...i saw a guy get kicked off a moving bus on the highway in jakarta my first day here.

...chickens run around here in the neighborhood (i live in a large city of 3-4 million people.) some days they're pets...some days they're dinner.

...it's perfectly normal to pick your nose in public in indonesia. and we're not talking about scratching a little itch, we're talking serious nasal penetration. but it's considered rude to blow your nose with a kleenex. the snot rocket is the preferred method of mass extraction.

...american fast food is well represented here in bandung with countless mc donald's, pizza huts, kfc's, popeye's, a&w's, dunkin' donuts, and even an arby's or two. sadly, wendy's just shut down. we also have a few circle k's.

...it is commonplace to talk about the status of your monthly cycle with other girls and guys.

...supposedly, we have a big green ghost that lives in our backyard bamboo trees and jumps on our trampoline.

...i once watched a neighborhood cat feed an iguana to her growing kittens.

...the students here are scared of the dark. the majority of them even sleep with their room lights on.

...i got a great pair of *real* gap pants the other day for US$7.

...i have seen a family of 5 riding a motorcycle at one time. i regularly witness 3 and 4 people riding at one time.

...i have ridden an angkot (the public transportation of choice - a gutted van with two bench seats running the length of the vehicle) with 24 other passengers. plus a driver.

2002-08-20T08:23:00.000-07:00

When in the comfort of your own home, there ain't nuthin' like the throne. But in the public domain, I must admit, I choose the squatty potty. At first sight, the squat pot and imagined mechanics required for usage can be a bit daunting. I remember the first time I entered a bathroom in Indonesia and the deluge of questions that flooded my mind with no one around to answer. Which way do I stand? How do I keep my pants from getting nasty from the wet floor? How will I ever keep myself from becoming ceremonially unclean? Where's the toilet paper? How do I flush this blessed thing? Admittedly, I have modified my usage of the squat pot as a Westerner and cannot claim to have completely joined in with Eastern methods of 'cleanliness'. But when running around town, armed with a supply of tissue, I'll take a squat pot over a Western-style toilet any day.

After living on this side of the world a few things remain, however, that I would like to clear up with my Asian comerades. Most of them have to do with simple washroom etiquette that were probably overlooked by the likes of Emily Post. Join me, friends, and share this information liberally for the benefit of all who frequent the public restrooms on this side of the globe!

1. Please do not leave the dipper cup floating in the bucket of water/bak mandi. No one wants to fish around in there for the handle. And I certainly hope no one wants to pour tainted water on their bits and pieces after someone else has gone fishing.

2. When using a Western-style toilet, do not mount it by standing on the rim to squat as this is considered poor form.

3. If you must combine the use of the Western-style toilet with the method of Eastern dipper cup washing, please lift the seat and its cover first to maintain integrity. Remember: for the Westerner, wet does not equal clean.

Thanks for listening. I hope these notes will open the lines of communication between cultural differences. For those of you who may now be more confused or intrigued, please share your comments!

2002-08-17T12:14:00.000-07:00

I know how to dream big. My freshman year of college I created a motivational tool for my studies that sparked the same question from every visitor, "Why do you have a sign on your wall that reads '$1.7 million'?" It was the amount of money I eventually expected to make annually as a cardiac surgeon. It's been a number of years since that sign last hung on my wall. The hopes and dreams that accompanied that sign have long since been packed up, given away or simply trashed. And now, nearly a decade later, I find myself living on the other side of the world in an overcrowded Indonesian city nestled among a ring of fire mountains on the island of Java. My days are filled with studying the national language, bahasa Indonesia, helping Indonesians improve their English, hanging out with friends, and battling 'no rules' traffic on a '75 vespa. Just how did this average American end up on an island named for what most people know only as a beverage? And why am I chosing to write about it on the web? Well, maybe only partially because I know how to dream big. The rest of the equasion could be accounted for by a large number of circumstances, decisions and divine interventions which bring me to my current position. Currently, that position involves playing a role in creating a website for an English center - a job for which I am neither trained nor qualified. And had blogger been brought up to me a week ago, I would have thought the conversation was centered around a British dead-beat dad or something of the sort. And so the experiment begins...will the words and ideas of this 27-year-old American student living in the world's most populous Muslim country ever be heard? Time will tell. For now, this is Jennifer Smack signing out to get some shut eye...and hopefully a few good dreams.