The popular claim is that in Banda Aceh everything happens in the coffee shops. This speaks both to the quality of kopi aceh as well as the Acehnese approach to life, both of which I have been enjoying. The coffee is the best I have ever had—fresh, highland grown coffee—prepared by straining piping hot water back and forth between two long handled tin cups through a ground filled sieve. The whole process is mesmerizing to watch—all dip and flourish—like a juggler slicing deliciousness through morning’s pleasant vapors.
All day the shops are humming, filled with men nursing short glasses of the black stuff over a conversation or a smoke, the swirl of steam and crackles of kretek nearly ubiquitous. This is the way the Acehnese have always preferred it, casual and laid back, so much like Java (outside of the fact that Java’s coffee is decidedly average) that it is a wonder these two rival identities do not get along better.
The other morning, on the way to the office by way of the coffee shop, I ended up catching a ride with one of our vehicles that happened to be passing by. The driver and I ended up going in together, me for my usual rice/coffee breakfast, he for a coffee/raw egg/condensed milk combination, the name of which slips my mind.
Anyhow, after exhausting my reserve of Bahasa Indonesian small talk topics (marriage status and children leading the way, followed by the heat, followed by how terrible the city of Medan is) the Simeulue earthquake came up. We talked a little bit about it and its strength and then all of a sudden we were back in December 2004, me listening as he talked quietly about the 9.3 earthquake that set off the tsunami.
He talked about the unbelievable violent strength of the quake, about not even being able to stay on one’s feet. When it was over everyone came out in the street, stunned and unaware that in less than 20 minutes the city was going to be inundated. He talked about families, missing persons, foreign prospectors buying—cash on sight—orphaned children and spiriting them out of the country, bodies stacked in the courtyard of every mosque in the city. Mostly he talked about the smell, an asphyxiant haze that hung over the city for weeks.
The tsunami is rarely spontaneously talked about by the Acehnese—too much trauma, too many fresh graves—and listening to him was both humbling and completely heartbreaking. It amazes me even more because this driver and I have been around each other frequently with nothing approaching this level of intimacy. In fact, between Monday and Tuesday we probably spent 15 hours driving around the province together, and while I always try to speak Indonesian with the local staff, we did little more than exchange greetings and smiles. But, as I am learning, this is typical to many Indonesians. Initially, before they feel as if they know you (especially difficult for a foreigner), they are often shy, guarded, and obscure in their interactions. However, once you spend a little bit of time together they truly become some of the most wonderful people in the world: kind, genuine, and generous. In this case it was so spontaneous that I was stunned, looking around the shop it was clear that many of the other customers felt the same. All the time he kept talking, quietly reflecting on all that he had seen, never demanding the pity and emotion that I found anyways impossible to withhold, and a personal catharsis that I was not even aware I was waiting on. I finally arrived at the office late—as we ended up sitting around for about an hour talking—feeling blessed to have passed a morning as the Acehnese do.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
my newest caption contest
Trolling the news this afternoon, the item 'Gates Seeks Closer Ties With Indonesia' crawled across the news ticker. Stunned by the big day Indonesia was having in world affairs ('rocking' quakes, tsunami warnings, bank scandals), I immediately thought of Bill Gates and his billions and though I was wrong, it is not like Defense and Development do not already hail from the same alphabetic enclave.
Anyhow, while I had no idea our Defense Secretary was in Indonesia, I am delighted by the news. While here, Gates has pledged to help Indonesia reform its military, support democracy, and provide airlift/maritime support. As anyone who I have buttonholed on the strategic importance of Indonesia can attest, it is really important Indonesia's nascent democracy succeeds, both because of its wealth of natural resources (read: commodities) as well as to disprove all the haters that claim Islam and Democracy are less than halal. Easy to miss, but I promise that what we seem to have here is a real, live, kicking, and civil war free democracy—absolutely chock full of Muslims!
One of the more interesting things about Indonesia as a democracy is not only that it came into existence with an unusual amount of spontaneity (in 1998 then-President Suharto had to interrupt a state visit—he was playing golf—in Egypt to come home and resign the Presidency), but that in spite of broad religious homogeneity, Islamists hold nothing close to a political monopoly. Muslims in Indonesia do not poll as any sort of monolithic bloc: in the last legislative elections the best performing Islamic party (PKS) polled just over 7.3% (7th best overall), running largely on a staunchly ‘we are the only party who can deliver you the anti-corruption goods’ plank and opposing syariah (Islamic) law. Political pluralism is seemingly alive and well in Indonesia.
Anyhow, having verged from my original train of thought, Defense’s interest in Indonesia is truly good news. Even if all they really want is the same thing they wanted in the early 1960s: a firewall against the Chinese and a place to sell military hardware (evidence that the Bush administration is taking the economic backslide seriously: Gate’s itinerary—Indonesia, Turkey, India), it is still an important and somewhat overdue gesture.
Anyways, I found this awesome photo, of Gates and Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (or SBY), the President of Indonesia, and had to figure out a way to get it into wider dissemination (i.e. my grandparents, people in my mom’s office whom I have never met, Winslow Pogue). So, I want to announce my first caption competition since the abortive 2004 Colby Echo Joke Issue Caption Contest. Just to clarify, I am not joking; I really hope people send in entries (yes, Sahil Mahtani, looking at you), mostly so I do not have to make up the winners myself. And because Steven and Noah (not to mention the McCaferty Challengees) are unavailable for shot-gunning in the dark room.
So here are a few just to get things started:
“Sorry, about that whole supporting 33 years of brutal totalitarianism thing. Yeah? He got you this job? Get. Out. Of. Here.”
“Soo, using covert military force to resist an internationally sanctioned democratic election and in the process inciting an attack on a UN compound was just a one time thing, right? You guys! Now, how about buying some fighter planes?”
“I hope this doesn’t end up on the internet: just think what happened to Rumsfield and Sadaam.”
Anyhow, while I had no idea our Defense Secretary was in Indonesia, I am delighted by the news. While here, Gates has pledged to help Indonesia reform its military, support democracy, and provide airlift/maritime support. As anyone who I have buttonholed on the strategic importance of Indonesia can attest, it is really important Indonesia's nascent democracy succeeds, both because of its wealth of natural resources (read: commodities) as well as to disprove all the haters that claim Islam and Democracy are less than halal. Easy to miss, but I promise that what we seem to have here is a real, live, kicking, and civil war free democracy—absolutely chock full of Muslims!
One of the more interesting things about Indonesia as a democracy is not only that it came into existence with an unusual amount of spontaneity (in 1998 then-President Suharto had to interrupt a state visit—he was playing golf—in Egypt to come home and resign the Presidency), but that in spite of broad religious homogeneity, Islamists hold nothing close to a political monopoly. Muslims in Indonesia do not poll as any sort of monolithic bloc: in the last legislative elections the best performing Islamic party (PKS) polled just over 7.3% (7th best overall), running largely on a staunchly ‘we are the only party who can deliver you the anti-corruption goods’ plank and opposing syariah (Islamic) law. Political pluralism is seemingly alive and well in Indonesia.
Anyhow, having verged from my original train of thought, Defense’s interest in Indonesia is truly good news. Even if all they really want is the same thing they wanted in the early 1960s: a firewall against the Chinese and a place to sell military hardware (evidence that the Bush administration is taking the economic backslide seriously: Gate’s itinerary—Indonesia, Turkey, India), it is still an important and somewhat overdue gesture.
Anyways, I found this awesome photo, of Gates and Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (or SBY), the President of Indonesia, and had to figure out a way to get it into wider dissemination (i.e. my grandparents, people in my mom’s office whom I have never met, Winslow Pogue). So, I want to announce my first caption competition since the abortive 2004 Colby Echo Joke Issue Caption Contest. Just to clarify, I am not joking; I really hope people send in entries (yes, Sahil Mahtani, looking at you), mostly so I do not have to make up the winners myself. And because Steven and Noah (not to mention the McCaferty Challengees) are unavailable for shot-gunning in the dark room.
So here are a few just to get things started:
“Sorry, about that whole supporting 33 years of brutal totalitarianism thing. Yeah? He got you this job? Get. Out. Of. Here.”
“Soo, using covert military force to resist an internationally sanctioned democratic election and in the process inciting an attack on a UN compound was just a one time thing, right? You guys! Now, how about buying some fighter planes?”
“I hope this doesn’t end up on the internet: just think what happened to Rumsfield and Sadaam.”
the latest from Aceh
So a few words on my latest posting, as a way of contextualization for posts yet to come--
I am newly based out of Banda Aceh (the northern tip of both Sumatra Island and Aceh province) working with an NGO on their programming in the province. This idea began to germinate while in Yogyakarta, where my first day of Indonesian school coicided with the last day of Mark, the head of this organization . We kept in touch, and we eventually put together what I see as a mutual beneficial job description to get me out to Aceh (a place on my list since before I arrived in Indonesia).
Basically, the idea is for me to spend a good amount of my time around the organization's various field projects (the NGO's banner programming areas are health, education, livelihoods, and child protection, all with an eye on at-risk children and their mothers) in a sort of research/strategy capacity. For one, I will be working my way around the programming as a sort of journalist for the organization, covering various human interest stories and chronicling the stories of our beneficiaries. What I end up putting together will end up on the organization's website and included as color in Donor Reports and brochures. In additon, I will likely spend a few weeks on Simeulue (where the earthquake last week was, though the news ticker says there was another one in the Mentawis a few hours ago, nobody worry) working on a strategy paper for the scale-up and sustainability of what has been a long neglected and geographically isolated corner of the Aceh operation. Simeulue, both physically remote and the poorest subdistrict in Indonesia, is a place where the organization already has a foothold and, with some guidance, has the opportunity to make serious contributions to the welfare of the children there. I am excited about the opportunity to contribute to this.
This new relationship is something that I am really excited about, largely because it gives me an opportunity to have an exciting, meaty, and supported project that I can feel really good about contributing to. After all, who can say no to cute kids? Moreover, it gives me a chance (and a purpose) to get to know the province of Aceh, a location with an interesting and unclear place in the Indonesian constellation--devoutly Islamic, partially autonomous, post-conflict, post-disaster, grass loving, natural resource wealthy--that makes this country so diverse and so difficult to tackle.
I am newly based out of Banda Aceh (the northern tip of both Sumatra Island and Aceh province) working with an NGO on their programming in the province. This idea began to germinate while in Yogyakarta, where my first day of Indonesian school coicided with the last day of Mark, the head of this organization . We kept in touch, and we eventually put together what I see as a mutual beneficial job description to get me out to Aceh (a place on my list since before I arrived in Indonesia).
Basically, the idea is for me to spend a good amount of my time around the organization's various field projects (the NGO's banner programming areas are health, education, livelihoods, and child protection, all with an eye on at-risk children and their mothers) in a sort of research/strategy capacity. For one, I will be working my way around the programming as a sort of journalist for the organization, covering various human interest stories and chronicling the stories of our beneficiaries. What I end up putting together will end up on the organization's website and included as color in Donor Reports and brochures. In additon, I will likely spend a few weeks on Simeulue (where the earthquake last week was, though the news ticker says there was another one in the Mentawis a few hours ago, nobody worry) working on a strategy paper for the scale-up and sustainability of what has been a long neglected and geographically isolated corner of the Aceh operation. Simeulue, both physically remote and the poorest subdistrict in Indonesia, is a place where the organization already has a foothold and, with some guidance, has the opportunity to make serious contributions to the welfare of the children there. I am excited about the opportunity to contribute to this.
This new relationship is something that I am really excited about, largely because it gives me an opportunity to have an exciting, meaty, and supported project that I can feel really good about contributing to. After all, who can say no to cute kids? Moreover, it gives me a chance (and a purpose) to get to know the province of Aceh, a location with an interesting and unclear place in the Indonesian constellation--devoutly Islamic, partially autonomous, post-conflict, post-disaster, grass loving, natural resource wealthy--that makes this country so diverse and so difficult to tackle.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
one afternoon in Simeulue
This afternoon in Simeulue—where I have been since Monday observing my NGO's programming here—we felt a pretty big earthquake. Sitting in a sort of raised pavilion that functions as the ‘meeting room’ for the field office here, we all sort of stared at each other while cups clattered and the water cooler took a spectacular dive before clattering down the steps and out into the driveway. It probably shook for a little more than a minute and gosh was it a strange sensation. There have been about 2 hours worth of aftershocks.
Without much of a frame of reference in terms of earthquake experience, I can only relay that we were told it was a big one (7.5) and centered right on Simeulue. As far as I can tell, though it was felt in Banda Aceh and other parts of North Sumatra, everything should be fine: no signs of the sea receding and the sounds of nature are alive and all around (apparently before the tsunami all the birds and insects put up). The most serous complication seems to be the motor bike packed road (there is truly only one road in Simeulue), snarled as everyone preventatively heads for the hills.
Nothing really happened here in the compound, but I don't know much more than that. If it is big as they say it was on the radio, I am sure it will make the world news, so please don't worry, I am fine.
Electricity, cellular phones, and the internet went down immediately after the first shake and it feels a bit disquieting to be so cut off. Until something happens I will be sitting here in the middle of the badminton court watching the ripples reverberate through the mud puddles.
Update: 7:15pm- Internet is back, generators are running, everything is still fine. No tsunami materialized and the BBC says few deaths. Hope all are well.
Without much of a frame of reference in terms of earthquake experience, I can only relay that we were told it was a big one (7.5) and centered right on Simeulue. As far as I can tell, though it was felt in Banda Aceh and other parts of North Sumatra, everything should be fine: no signs of the sea receding and the sounds of nature are alive and all around (apparently before the tsunami all the birds and insects put up). The most serous complication seems to be the motor bike packed road (there is truly only one road in Simeulue), snarled as everyone preventatively heads for the hills.
Nothing really happened here in the compound, but I don't know much more than that. If it is big as they say it was on the radio, I am sure it will make the world news, so please don't worry, I am fine.
Electricity, cellular phones, and the internet went down immediately after the first shake and it feels a bit disquieting to be so cut off. Until something happens I will be sitting here in the middle of the badminton court watching the ripples reverberate through the mud puddles.
Update: 7:15pm- Internet is back, generators are running, everything is still fine. No tsunami materialized and the BBC says few deaths. Hope all are well.
Monday, February 18, 2008
feline update
Translation from a text message that I recieved today from Farizhal, my housemate in Kalimantan:
"Hello, mas! Last night Harimau birthed five kittens on top of the sofa."
This means that not only did my decision to get a cat with two weeks left in my stay saddle them with a promiscuous kitty, but also 5 more already on the way. Hopefully it skips a generation?
"Hello, mas! Last night Harimau birthed five kittens on top of the sofa."
This means that not only did my decision to get a cat with two weeks left in my stay saddle them with a promiscuous kitty, but also 5 more already on the way. Hopefully it skips a generation?
Saturday, February 16, 2008
bucking the motorcade
Having hooked up with an NGO here, I have recently moved to Banda Aceh. I should be here for a few months, keeping occupied with a post-conflict project (in addition to the tsunami, Aceh has had 30 years of violence centered around its independence movement) in some of the non-tsunami affected areas. It is great to have a project that allows me to simultaneously feel stimulated (and excited) while also contributing something that helps other people. Too often during my time in Indonesia I have found myself only fulfilling one of these desires.
From time to time I field complaints about this blog, of which one of the leading has to be ‘you never tell us what your living situation is like.’ So, in an attempt to rectify this, let me tell you a bit about my new home in Banda Aceh.
My NGO has put me up in one of their many guesthouses here in town, which means that I have a room to myself in a nice middle class neighborhood. The house backs up to a fairly large mosque, ensuring daily 4:45am wakeup calls, and the neighborhood is largely expatriate (NGO workers), ensuring that they will be especially amplified. My room is massive—king sized bed, dual air conditioners, two makeup tables, three wardrobes—and it feels a bit like sleeping in a vault. My bathroom, private, has hot water, an absolute first for me in Indonesia. Lying in the middle of the bed, I can just get the very side of the mattress with the tips of my fingers. A big bed, but with only one pillow, I am unsure how to handle all the responsibility.
The nature of guesthouse living is that it is difficult to pin down exactly who you live with, since so many consultants, field workers, and members of the downstream branches are shuttling in and out of the head office, but I have taken to (and they to me?) the people that are around on a fixed schedule, the security guards that keep an eye on the place.
If you have ever heard of the ‘compound’ lifestyle of NGO workers, it is true. All of the guesthouses are gated the entire time and it seems as if all of the workers are shuttled everywhere—to and from work, to eat their meals, on personal outings on the weekends—in a fleet of sleek and burly-looking SUVs.
This has been the first thing that I have cropped up against, and my buddies the security guards are less than sure how to handle me. During the first few days as I met each security guard, I would roll out of the house to go get something to eat. Usually I might ask of a place to eat nearby—we bullshit for a little while. The problem always comes when I start to walk out the front gate. These guys, bless them, start to look absolutely apoplectic. They cannot believe that I am not taking a car. To me it seems logical: it seems a bit ridiculous to call a car (they all stand-by at the depot across from the office) to drive me less than a kilometer to get some rice. Mostly though, I do not really relish rolling up to a small little warung in an SUV with blacked out windows; I imagine this has something to do with the community relations troubles that all the NGOs scratch their heads about. Inevitably, a conference ensues, often involving security guards from other guesthouses on my road: Are you afraid? Do you know the way? Won’t you get tired? But, but none of the bules do this! In the end, we usually cobble out some sort of middle ground: he gives me a ride there on his motorbike, while I manage to extract the right to walk back on my own.
It certainly is funny, and probably only further secures my status as one of the crazier bules around, but I think it does say something about the difficult mission that NGO workers face, especially in emergency (of which Aceh is no longer, but was recently) situations where people hit the ground regardless of any linguistic, cultural, or local familiarity. In spite of all the good that they do (which people recognize) you still hear people on both sides complain that things could be better. Locals often do not feel as if their views, status quos, or contributions are accounted for, while NGO workers feel misunderstood and a bit like cash machines (i.e. ‘people only want to see me when they are getting something’). I do not want to sound too judgmental; after all I speak Indonesian and have had the experience of taking care of myself here for a little while, but for me this experience makes me reflect on a few sleek and shiny ways that NGOs could improve upon their relations with the community.
From time to time I field complaints about this blog, of which one of the leading has to be ‘you never tell us what your living situation is like.’ So, in an attempt to rectify this, let me tell you a bit about my new home in Banda Aceh.
My NGO has put me up in one of their many guesthouses here in town, which means that I have a room to myself in a nice middle class neighborhood. The house backs up to a fairly large mosque, ensuring daily 4:45am wakeup calls, and the neighborhood is largely expatriate (NGO workers), ensuring that they will be especially amplified. My room is massive—king sized bed, dual air conditioners, two makeup tables, three wardrobes—and it feels a bit like sleeping in a vault. My bathroom, private, has hot water, an absolute first for me in Indonesia. Lying in the middle of the bed, I can just get the very side of the mattress with the tips of my fingers. A big bed, but with only one pillow, I am unsure how to handle all the responsibility.
The nature of guesthouse living is that it is difficult to pin down exactly who you live with, since so many consultants, field workers, and members of the downstream branches are shuttling in and out of the head office, but I have taken to (and they to me?) the people that are around on a fixed schedule, the security guards that keep an eye on the place.
If you have ever heard of the ‘compound’ lifestyle of NGO workers, it is true. All of the guesthouses are gated the entire time and it seems as if all of the workers are shuttled everywhere—to and from work, to eat their meals, on personal outings on the weekends—in a fleet of sleek and burly-looking SUVs.
This has been the first thing that I have cropped up against, and my buddies the security guards are less than sure how to handle me. During the first few days as I met each security guard, I would roll out of the house to go get something to eat. Usually I might ask of a place to eat nearby—we bullshit for a little while. The problem always comes when I start to walk out the front gate. These guys, bless them, start to look absolutely apoplectic. They cannot believe that I am not taking a car. To me it seems logical: it seems a bit ridiculous to call a car (they all stand-by at the depot across from the office) to drive me less than a kilometer to get some rice. Mostly though, I do not really relish rolling up to a small little warung in an SUV with blacked out windows; I imagine this has something to do with the community relations troubles that all the NGOs scratch their heads about. Inevitably, a conference ensues, often involving security guards from other guesthouses on my road: Are you afraid? Do you know the way? Won’t you get tired? But, but none of the bules do this! In the end, we usually cobble out some sort of middle ground: he gives me a ride there on his motorbike, while I manage to extract the right to walk back on my own.
It certainly is funny, and probably only further secures my status as one of the crazier bules around, but I think it does say something about the difficult mission that NGO workers face, especially in emergency (of which Aceh is no longer, but was recently) situations where people hit the ground regardless of any linguistic, cultural, or local familiarity. In spite of all the good that they do (which people recognize) you still hear people on both sides complain that things could be better. Locals often do not feel as if their views, status quos, or contributions are accounted for, while NGO workers feel misunderstood and a bit like cash machines (i.e. ‘people only want to see me when they are getting something’). I do not want to sound too judgmental; after all I speak Indonesian and have had the experience of taking care of myself here for a little while, but for me this experience makes me reflect on a few sleek and shiny ways that NGOs could improve upon their relations with the community.
i've been scooped
The more devoted of you may have noticed that the blog has been on a bit of a break of late. After the experience that I will presently unfold to you, it needed a bit of time to breathe.
I was browsing through the bookshop in Singapore’s Changi Airport and trying to decide if I was willing to shell out twelve Singapore dollars for a New Yorker (I wasn’t) when my eyes alighted on the jaunty looking paperback, Hardship Posting: True Tales of Expat Misadventures in Asia. On each cover of the series’ three volumes (and counting) is a walrus-mustached, knee sock encamped, floral shirt sporting, Rip Taylor look alike (clearly the publicity photographer misplaced his pith helmet that day) engaged in some sort of ensemble scene with two scantily clad Asian beauties—themes like Noodle House, Massage Parlor, or Beach Bar. I would have kept moving, but I was puzzled, mostly by the fact that they were all autographed copies.
Closer examination revealed a self described,
“A no-holes-barred romp through Asia! Great reading for the expat that can’t remember what he did last night, for once-were expats to remember what Asia was like, and for might-be expats to what they’re really getting themselves in for.”
Putting English Grammar aside, I was understandably disturbed. The back contained a fitting catalogue of the low-brow ‘misadventures’:
· What you maid might be doing with a jar of Vaseline and an Indian gentleman while you are at work!
· The guy who bought a Phuket bar with his AMEX!
· Confusing hair remover for lubricant!
· The guy who used rupiah notes for toilet paper!
· The guy who left a 500 baht tip under his wife’s pillow!
I know, it does sound like a rollicking ride, and one that, to be truthful, many expats that I have met could enthusiastically do you one more. Perhaps this is why I avoid hanging out with most expats. Yet while I have avoided blogging about all my boozing and whoring (at friendly exchange rates, no less), it gave me pause. True, some of you have had the pleasure of hearing about the continuing (seemingly interminable at times) misadventures of mas Zach, but how are my wacky ‘misadventures’ any different than something that is decidedly tasteless and unliterary (and makes me bitter that it has made it to three volumes)? Maybe I have been going about this all wrong? Give the people what they want: shitty grammar and VD!
Well, I tried to emulate during the break and I just can not seem to carry it off. This generation of pieces really lacked any verve (or any depth of research). Maybe in a few years, but for now you’re stuck with my writings about Nescafe and Vespas.
I was browsing through the bookshop in Singapore’s Changi Airport and trying to decide if I was willing to shell out twelve Singapore dollars for a New Yorker (I wasn’t) when my eyes alighted on the jaunty looking paperback, Hardship Posting: True Tales of Expat Misadventures in Asia. On each cover of the series’ three volumes (and counting) is a walrus-mustached, knee sock encamped, floral shirt sporting, Rip Taylor look alike (clearly the publicity photographer misplaced his pith helmet that day) engaged in some sort of ensemble scene with two scantily clad Asian beauties—themes like Noodle House, Massage Parlor, or Beach Bar. I would have kept moving, but I was puzzled, mostly by the fact that they were all autographed copies.
Closer examination revealed a self described,
“A no-holes-barred romp through Asia! Great reading for the expat that can’t remember what he did last night, for once-were expats to remember what Asia was like, and for might-be expats to what they’re really getting themselves in for.”
Putting English Grammar aside, I was understandably disturbed. The back contained a fitting catalogue of the low-brow ‘misadventures’:
· What you maid might be doing with a jar of Vaseline and an Indian gentleman while you are at work!
· The guy who bought a Phuket bar with his AMEX!
· Confusing hair remover for lubricant!
· The guy who used rupiah notes for toilet paper!
· The guy who left a 500 baht tip under his wife’s pillow!
I know, it does sound like a rollicking ride, and one that, to be truthful, many expats that I have met could enthusiastically do you one more. Perhaps this is why I avoid hanging out with most expats. Yet while I have avoided blogging about all my boozing and whoring (at friendly exchange rates, no less), it gave me pause. True, some of you have had the pleasure of hearing about the continuing (seemingly interminable at times) misadventures of mas Zach, but how are my wacky ‘misadventures’ any different than something that is decidedly tasteless and unliterary (and makes me bitter that it has made it to three volumes)? Maybe I have been going about this all wrong? Give the people what they want: shitty grammar and VD!
Well, I tried to emulate during the break and I just can not seem to carry it off. This generation of pieces really lacked any verve (or any depth of research). Maybe in a few years, but for now you’re stuck with my writings about Nescafe and Vespas.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
You and Your Body
Harimau (in Indonesian—tiger) proved ruthlessly efficicient at killing rats. Unfortunately somewhere between the swaddling and the fish heads (though, what is an Indonesian cat that will not eat rice?) I managed to impress upon her something along the lines of: ‘I am your master. Share all kills with me.’ This resulted in the unfortunate tribute of precisely half of each kill being deposited at the foot of my bed. The bitch always kept the better half for herself; I always got the (uncomfortably lengthy) tail.
Anyways, the only thing that the cat proved more efficient at than exterminating was entertaining the fellas. Yes, soon after her arrival, our house became the hub of the gentleman-cat-caller circuit. It got bad. The constant barrage of seriously unsettling foreign sounds, feral cats breaking into our house (only to be chased out again by our broom-wielding superstar, Ibu), the term ‘tag-teamming’ making it into the constellation of my roommate’s dinner conversation repartee, all these things combined, precipitated this conversation:
‘So, ah, Harimau, I think we should talk.’
‘About what? Oh, nothing in particular, we just don’t talk like we used to. You used to tell me everything, remember? Best-est friends, right?’
‘Well, if you are not going to come out from behind the oven, I will just have to talk through it.’
‘So, I, umm, well, I couldn’t help but wonder, while I was going through the rubber tub of dirty water where we all wash our clothes, who these belonged to?’
‘Your silence is damning! To begin with, I find it hard to believe that these are even remotely comfortable! What’s more, what makes you think you are old enough for this? Who even bought you these?’
‘I am not ruining your life! And it is not just about the thong underpants! It is about the sullying of your good name and our fine home! I refuse to be merely a crash pad for the neighborhood harlot!’
‘Now, look, that was unfair, I am sorry I raised my voice. All I want to say is that I brought along these helpful little pamphlets: ‘Changing Bodies, Changing Kitties’ and ‘You’re not Crazy, You’re Just Polyestrous.’ There. See? They look pretty, ahh, crucial. Yep, very legit. Umm, you know, they seem pretty good, I, uh, learned stuff, uh, that I didn’t even know.’
‘Redundant? Don’t change the subject, young lady, or I’ll cuff you. I am going to leave these here and I expect you to read them and straighten up.’
‘I am glad we talked.’
I figure it should tide things over for the next few years.
Anyways, the only thing that the cat proved more efficient at than exterminating was entertaining the fellas. Yes, soon after her arrival, our house became the hub of the gentleman-cat-caller circuit. It got bad. The constant barrage of seriously unsettling foreign sounds, feral cats breaking into our house (only to be chased out again by our broom-wielding superstar, Ibu), the term ‘tag-teamming’ making it into the constellation of my roommate’s dinner conversation repartee, all these things combined, precipitated this conversation:
‘So, ah, Harimau, I think we should talk.’
‘About what? Oh, nothing in particular, we just don’t talk like we used to. You used to tell me everything, remember? Best-est friends, right?’
‘Well, if you are not going to come out from behind the oven, I will just have to talk through it.’
‘So, I, umm, well, I couldn’t help but wonder, while I was going through the rubber tub of dirty water where we all wash our clothes, who these belonged to?’
‘Your silence is damning! To begin with, I find it hard to believe that these are even remotely comfortable! What’s more, what makes you think you are old enough for this? Who even bought you these?’
‘I am not ruining your life! And it is not just about the thong underpants! It is about the sullying of your good name and our fine home! I refuse to be merely a crash pad for the neighborhood harlot!’
‘Now, look, that was unfair, I am sorry I raised my voice. All I want to say is that I brought along these helpful little pamphlets: ‘Changing Bodies, Changing Kitties’ and ‘You’re not Crazy, You’re Just Polyestrous.’ There. See? They look pretty, ahh, crucial. Yep, very legit. Umm, you know, they seem pretty good, I, uh, learned stuff, uh, that I didn’t even know.’
‘Redundant? Don’t change the subject, young lady, or I’ll cuff you. I am going to leave these here and I expect you to read them and straighten up.’
‘I am glad we talked.’
I figure it should tide things over for the next few years.
'hang on to yourself' or 'Ibu and The New Yorker'
Every once in a while I come to realize just how serious my swoon for the comforts of home-- the idea of western intellectualism, pork, stores that sell more than random shit with completely nonsensical signage systems (shout out: A. Riley), an overabundance of (working) electrical outlets--has become. If you have received emails from me where I say things like, ‘I had no idea how cosmopolitan I can be!,’ here is an example. (I also have realized how attached to carpet I am.)
Sitting at the breakfast table one day, I noticed that Ibu (Indonesian for mother, mrs, maam, and everything in between—in Ibu’s case she actually does not have a name other than this, something fairly common in Indonesia), the lady who does the cooking, washing, and general invocation of the third person at our house, was holding a tattered and greasy magazine that I believe had been used to line the bottom of a trash can. Inconsequentially peeled back where it had been torn halfway through, I knew the typeface in an instant. It was ‘The New Yorker’ and I actually demanded it brought to me, upon which I began greedily thumbing it through. Ibu, understandably, seemed stunned by what was taking place and kept telling me, 'no, this is trash, you must be confused, sudah trash, sudah mas,' all while I refused to release it. And indeed it was sudah trash in that about half of it had been penetrated by a massive grease spot and the entire thing kind of smelled. I realized this but needed to muster an intense detachment to finally give it up to Ibu's tugging, demanding all the while, 'Where did this come from? How did you get this? Who left this?.'
Having prevailed, she just stood there and stared (I usually avoid all talking, let alone competitions of physical strength and stick-to-it-ness, before my morning coffee) at me while I mumbled something about 'Oh, that is from America' before walking off. As I left the room I noticed her looking at me suspiciously through the narrow eyes of mistrust while she tore it both lengthwise and widthwise (I imagine both for good measure and her future safety) before again laying it to rest in the rubbish heap.
Sitting at the breakfast table one day, I noticed that Ibu (Indonesian for mother, mrs, maam, and everything in between—in Ibu’s case she actually does not have a name other than this, something fairly common in Indonesia), the lady who does the cooking, washing, and general invocation of the third person at our house, was holding a tattered and greasy magazine that I believe had been used to line the bottom of a trash can. Inconsequentially peeled back where it had been torn halfway through, I knew the typeface in an instant. It was ‘The New Yorker’ and I actually demanded it brought to me, upon which I began greedily thumbing it through. Ibu, understandably, seemed stunned by what was taking place and kept telling me, 'no, this is trash, you must be confused, sudah trash, sudah mas,' all while I refused to release it. And indeed it was sudah trash in that about half of it had been penetrated by a massive grease spot and the entire thing kind of smelled. I realized this but needed to muster an intense detachment to finally give it up to Ibu's tugging, demanding all the while, 'Where did this come from? How did you get this? Who left this?.'
Having prevailed, she just stood there and stared (I usually avoid all talking, let alone competitions of physical strength and stick-to-it-ness, before my morning coffee) at me while I mumbled something about 'Oh, that is from America' before walking off. As I left the room I noticed her looking at me suspiciously through the narrow eyes of mistrust while she tore it both lengthwise and widthwise (I imagine both for good measure and her future safety) before again laying it to rest in the rubbish heap.
rats!
One of the more charming amenities of my home in Kalimantan was the family of rats built in, gratis. When they were not carrying off unattended small children from neighboring villages, they spent a good deal of time holding impromptu nighttime contra dances in the walls surrounding my room.
It was a bad situation. Having lived in Indonesia for a little while, you become accustomed to rats being around—the occasional scamper across the kitchen, chance encounters in dusky alleyways—and yet nothing prepared me for the sheer size and brazenness of my Kalimantan rats. It was like having a live-in crew to prewash all my dishes and in terms of household power dynamics, the rats pretty much ran the dark.
Obviously, this would have been a more serviceable problem if not for Sukadana’s especially reliant electrical power. Usually I could just keep every light in the house blazing until battered down safely beneath my mosquito net, but without the protection of electricity there was no check to keep the rats from sitting in the shadows of the kitchen abusing me to hurry up and finish my dinner (understandably, it was 5:30, they were probably hungry, and I was just a skinny cracker in a skirt). With only candles for protection, I spent most nights eating hastily, feet inclined, while my pyrotechnic rat obstacle course provided the vantage needed to conclude that my floorboards were actually greasier than I previously thought. The neighbors across the street, who ran a convenience store out of their living room, got quite familiar to the sight of me frantically banging on their front window at 7:30pm, feverishly looking for yet another of the soiled boxes with the fatty, yellowish tapers. The old man could never get enough of this; he thought it was hilarious, even without me figuring how to explain what methadone is.
Now I like to think of myself as a pretty hearty being, but after being woken up from a dead sleep nearly every night, by their screams and scampers, something had to be done. To further my case, I would like to call upon all da ladies that have bunked with me (also rolled in the Lex) to testify and justify that I just do not wake up in the middle of the night. These rats had it coming: I got myself a cat.
First, though, I had to get the cat (taken from a friend who was tired of its behavior—more on that later) back to my house. Next time someone tells me, ‘You know Matt, your blog just does not help me imagine what you are doing:’ here is an image for you. Imagine me riding a bicycle in the dark, clattering over a mud road, pockmarked with lake--like potholes that frequently bottom out the dump trucks that rumble around the regency. In my neighborhood, its hard to purchase a candle without arousing notice, and the next day I was peppered with questions: ‘Mistah, why were you stealing a cat?’ ‘Hey Mistah! Where were you going with the cat di bungkus?’ (bungkus is usually used when you get food to go, it means wrapped up in paper into a tight triangle of deliciousness; I had unsuccessfully swaddled the cat to try to immobilize it) ‘Mistah, do all animals fear you?’
This journey is usually difficult enough: one hand for the flashlight, one for the bike. However this journey is an especially maddened weave because of the frantic, half-feral cat wrapped up in my bag. Put it this way: at some point, something that urgently needs attention—be it handlebar, torch, or feline—has to go it alone. So there you have it, this is me, cat thief, in Indonesia.
It was a bad situation. Having lived in Indonesia for a little while, you become accustomed to rats being around—the occasional scamper across the kitchen, chance encounters in dusky alleyways—and yet nothing prepared me for the sheer size and brazenness of my Kalimantan rats. It was like having a live-in crew to prewash all my dishes and in terms of household power dynamics, the rats pretty much ran the dark.
Obviously, this would have been a more serviceable problem if not for Sukadana’s especially reliant electrical power. Usually I could just keep every light in the house blazing until battered down safely beneath my mosquito net, but without the protection of electricity there was no check to keep the rats from sitting in the shadows of the kitchen abusing me to hurry up and finish my dinner (understandably, it was 5:30, they were probably hungry, and I was just a skinny cracker in a skirt). With only candles for protection, I spent most nights eating hastily, feet inclined, while my pyrotechnic rat obstacle course provided the vantage needed to conclude that my floorboards were actually greasier than I previously thought. The neighbors across the street, who ran a convenience store out of their living room, got quite familiar to the sight of me frantically banging on their front window at 7:30pm, feverishly looking for yet another of the soiled boxes with the fatty, yellowish tapers. The old man could never get enough of this; he thought it was hilarious, even without me figuring how to explain what methadone is.
Now I like to think of myself as a pretty hearty being, but after being woken up from a dead sleep nearly every night, by their screams and scampers, something had to be done. To further my case, I would like to call upon all da ladies that have bunked with me (also rolled in the Lex) to testify and justify that I just do not wake up in the middle of the night. These rats had it coming: I got myself a cat.
First, though, I had to get the cat (taken from a friend who was tired of its behavior—more on that later) back to my house. Next time someone tells me, ‘You know Matt, your blog just does not help me imagine what you are doing:’ here is an image for you. Imagine me riding a bicycle in the dark, clattering over a mud road, pockmarked with lake--like potholes that frequently bottom out the dump trucks that rumble around the regency. In my neighborhood, its hard to purchase a candle without arousing notice, and the next day I was peppered with questions: ‘Mistah, why were you stealing a cat?’ ‘Hey Mistah! Where were you going with the cat di bungkus?’ (bungkus is usually used when you get food to go, it means wrapped up in paper into a tight triangle of deliciousness; I had unsuccessfully swaddled the cat to try to immobilize it) ‘Mistah, do all animals fear you?’
This journey is usually difficult enough: one hand for the flashlight, one for the bike. However this journey is an especially maddened weave because of the frantic, half-feral cat wrapped up in my bag. Put it this way: at some point, something that urgently needs attention—be it handlebar, torch, or feline—has to go it alone. So there you have it, this is me, cat thief, in Indonesia.
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