Sometimes the way real life comes together is much more phenomenal and inspiring than anything that could be made up in a book or movie. And strangely enough, sometimes less believable.
A few years ago I read an article in The Atlantic Monthly about Winton Marsalis. It said in a time when jazz was about to roll over and die (the early ‘80s), up rose this young talent who revived and resuscitated the music. The son of a New Orleans jazz pianist, Marsalis played trumpet with Art Blakey – one of last of the old guard of musicians from the ‘50s and ‘60s heyday. And then young Marsalis just took off from there. It’s amazing to think about: a brilliant young African American born to a family of musicians, raised in the birthplace of jazz, played the signature instrument of the music’s formative years, and was taught by one of the most respected teachers of his day. The article’s author said that if this were a movie script, the producers would’ve handed it back to the writers. Try again. A little too perfect.
But, of course, it’s a true story.
Most all of you know I grew up in Indiana. And when I was 27 I moved to Portland, Oregon, after spending a rough year and half riding a steep learning curve at a newspaper. In Portland I learned a new trade and much more about life in general. Blah, blah, blah.
Ten years later… I ended up moving to Indonesia to start a new career in teaching. Those of you keeping up know it has been pretty crazy year of trying to figure out which side is up for us. Just when we were getting a feel for Indonesia (kind of), Sarah and I have already done the job search for next year. And Radom, Poland will be the next home for this couple beginning in September. We will be teaching English there and pursuing a masters in education through a commuter program. The prospect of Europe is more exciting than we can put in a blog entry.
So. I’ve thought about this.
Starting points for me: Indiana and Indonesia. Next stops: Portland and Poland. Hm. It’s also interesting to note the countries’ flags. Both are half red and half white. Indonesia has the red stripe on top, Poland has white on top. (On a strange almost unrelated note, I’ve been listening to a lot of The White Stripes lately, a duo whose gimmick is to dress in red and white.) This all is cheesy in the Shakespearian or Greek theatrical coincidences. If this were a story, I’d never write anything so transparently “poetic.”
Now please don’t think I’m making a comparison between Mr. Marsalis and me. That’s not my intention at all. I’m saying it’s just funny how life can sometimes come together so neatly.
The characters I work with here in Makassar could not be found in any (good) book or movie either. Their racism, chauvinism, alcoholism, and psychological projections are just too obvious – too straight out of Psych 101 textbooks and AA literature. But as I know all too well, they’re waiting for me at work today. They’re real. And I’ll have to listen to them order Ballentine’s whiskey by the case (sometimes two at a time), listen to why things were better for Africa in the old colonial days, listen to patriotic recollections of the Faukland Islands conflict, and joke about how their Indonesian girlfriends will have to be quarantined with their pet Dalmation upon returning to Europe.
Yeah. It’s been a rough ride. But I can’t wait to find out what’s next.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
April 13, 2008
After working in the coffee business for 11 years, I now have the unique and somewhat surreal opportunity to teach a unit whose theme is coffee to a class of advanced students on the island of Sulawesi. It’s pretty weird.
In case you don’t drink coffee, Indonesia and Sulawesi in particular produce some of the best coffee in the world. Years ago, I discovered that Sulawesi and Sumatra were my favorite coffee origins. And there’s really not much that can beat Arabian Mocha Java (the world’s first coffee blend) brewed as a shot of espresso. Now, these things aren’t why we chose to work in Makassar, Sulawesi. It was just coincidence that the teaching positions presented themselves to a guy who used to sell coffee from here and his wife.
Anyway, the curriculum of this English unit revolves around using contrasting and comparing terms, discussing supply and demand, and charts and graphs vocabulary for analyzing trends.
I asked my class of seven students who had been up north where most coffee is grown on Sulawesi. Two had. I asked who had seen a coffee tree and unpicked coffee berries. “Tree?” they asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Coffee grows on little trees. The beans start as little red berries.” I thought about one of these trees in a café I had worked in – right next to the merchandise. Then I described how coffee was picked, processed and roasted. They had no idea. It was new to them. Five of the seven drank coffee (the other two preferred tea), and of those who drank it, drank instant coffee. Instant coffee: I usually refer to this as an abomination in the eyes of God. Unbelievable. It’s the Mountain Dew of the coffee world. Only one had ever been to a Starbucks. (This fact seemed so quaint to someone from the Pacific Northwest.)
I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Since coming here I‘ve learned that all the superior coffee is exported. All of Sulawesi’s best resources are shipped away. Not long ago, I got a pound of Sulawesi beans from my nephew who works for Starbucks in the mail. This irony was even more profound when I tasted it, and it was better than the beans I actually bought up north in Toraja – coffee growing country. This would be like getting better corn on the cob from Germany instead of Indiana or better apples from China instead of the State of Washington. It’s difficult for an American to grasp.
I did a little research for the class. I not only wanted to give them an English lesson, I wanted to present them with information about an industry so important to their country. As many of you know, the coffee industry is a nasty, nasty business. While over the past few years coffee production has increased 1-1½%, the demand has increased by 2%. And as farmers try to meet the demand, they’re producing inferior quality, and about 8% of all beans go unused. Producing countries exporting profits have dropped by billions of dollars in just a few years as well while their buyers try to increase company profits. (Admittedly, I got some of this from the Internet, so give me some slack on these figures.) I introduced the idea of the Fair Trade consortium and of those smaller roasters (as opposed to the gargantuan buyers: Nestle, Sara Lee, Proctor & Gamble, and Kraft) who pay enough for farmers to live. Some had at least heard of Fair Trade, but they didn’t really understand it.
This was a moment I could certainly tell that I was working within a young democracy. This information had never really been presented to these students before. It makes me appreciate my rights of freedom of press and speech all the more. Indonesia observes these rights now but only since 1997, and this concept takes a while to reach an archipelago that’s also the fourth most populous nation in the world. Information is so important to the prosperity of a country. This seems so obvious, but now I have seen why first-hand.
Such a strange full-circle of events.
In case you don’t drink coffee, Indonesia and Sulawesi in particular produce some of the best coffee in the world. Years ago, I discovered that Sulawesi and Sumatra were my favorite coffee origins. And there’s really not much that can beat Arabian Mocha Java (the world’s first coffee blend) brewed as a shot of espresso. Now, these things aren’t why we chose to work in Makassar, Sulawesi. It was just coincidence that the teaching positions presented themselves to a guy who used to sell coffee from here and his wife.
Anyway, the curriculum of this English unit revolves around using contrasting and comparing terms, discussing supply and demand, and charts and graphs vocabulary for analyzing trends.
I asked my class of seven students who had been up north where most coffee is grown on Sulawesi. Two had. I asked who had seen a coffee tree and unpicked coffee berries. “Tree?” they asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Coffee grows on little trees. The beans start as little red berries.” I thought about one of these trees in a café I had worked in – right next to the merchandise. Then I described how coffee was picked, processed and roasted. They had no idea. It was new to them. Five of the seven drank coffee (the other two preferred tea), and of those who drank it, drank instant coffee. Instant coffee: I usually refer to this as an abomination in the eyes of God. Unbelievable. It’s the Mountain Dew of the coffee world. Only one had ever been to a Starbucks. (This fact seemed so quaint to someone from the Pacific Northwest.)
I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Since coming here I‘ve learned that all the superior coffee is exported. All of Sulawesi’s best resources are shipped away. Not long ago, I got a pound of Sulawesi beans from my nephew who works for Starbucks in the mail. This irony was even more profound when I tasted it, and it was better than the beans I actually bought up north in Toraja – coffee growing country. This would be like getting better corn on the cob from Germany instead of Indiana or better apples from China instead of the State of Washington. It’s difficult for an American to grasp.
I did a little research for the class. I not only wanted to give them an English lesson, I wanted to present them with information about an industry so important to their country. As many of you know, the coffee industry is a nasty, nasty business. While over the past few years coffee production has increased 1-1½%, the demand has increased by 2%. And as farmers try to meet the demand, they’re producing inferior quality, and about 8% of all beans go unused. Producing countries exporting profits have dropped by billions of dollars in just a few years as well while their buyers try to increase company profits. (Admittedly, I got some of this from the Internet, so give me some slack on these figures.) I introduced the idea of the Fair Trade consortium and of those smaller roasters (as opposed to the gargantuan buyers: Nestle, Sara Lee, Proctor & Gamble, and Kraft) who pay enough for farmers to live. Some had at least heard of Fair Trade, but they didn’t really understand it.
This was a moment I could certainly tell that I was working within a young democracy. This information had never really been presented to these students before. It makes me appreciate my rights of freedom of press and speech all the more. Indonesia observes these rights now but only since 1997, and this concept takes a while to reach an archipelago that’s also the fourth most populous nation in the world. Information is so important to the prosperity of a country. This seems so obvious, but now I have seen why first-hand.
Such a strange full-circle of events.
Monday, March 24, 2008
March 25, 2008
Sometimes living in a foreign country is all about doing things and associating with people you never thought you would. Perhaps this is what happens when you state so many things with fervor and conviction…
Many will recall that I staunchly claimed that I did not run. Running was for occasions when buildings were on fire or someone with a knife was chasing you out of a convenience store. Yet, I find that my daily 40-minute runs in Makassar keep me sane. I also was staunch in my belief that you should avoid whole milk lattes in favor of the non-fat ones and that donuts should be equated with cigarettes when it came to their negative health aspects. Yet, in Makassar, my daily cappuccino is worth every sip – even though people here have never heard of nonfat milk. (Not to mention that the cappaccino comes with a free glazed donut – I mange to stay away from them during the work week, but come Saturday, I am all about my donut.)
These little sanity checks aren’t just relegated to my eating and exercise habits – they relate as well to my female relationships. In Portland, there were the easties and the westies – those who lived on the east side of the Willamette and those who lived on the west side. You could further divide the city into its four quadrants – NE, SE, SW and NW. Peter and I were decidedly northwest – we lived in a lovely, little neighborhood just blocks from coffee shops, pizza restaurants and some of the hottest bars in town. People came to the west side to dress up and shop, eat and drink along the hip people of the city. Or, at least to be around those who thought they were the hip people of Portland.
There were those who lived on the east side – they tended to be a little earthier – maybe they had their own mulching area in the backyard, maybe they grew their own organic vegetables, perhaps they recycled everything one could think of while listening to reggae and the Grateful Dead. They related to the world in a different way. They marched in peace rallies, stood up for the Tibetan people and believed in taking care of animals as much as they believed in taking care of those who didn’t have a voice.
Somehow, the two sides were at odds with one another. That’s not to say that we didn’t all live peaceably with one another. There were places we all loved – Peet’s Coffee & Tea, McMenamins, etc., but we were in different worlds.
In Makassar, the east and west sides of the Willamette don’t matter.
In October, Peter and I were invited to a bar b que. A new bule would be there – she was from Portland and vegetarian so surely we must know one another… right? Of course not – she was from the east side. We sat for hours talking about Portland and the paths we had taken which led to Makassar, Indonesia. She worked in homeless shelters in Portland, her partner was still living there, and Peter’s Peets was her favorite coffee shop. Over the remainder of the fall, our paths crossed every now and then, and we continued to figure out what it meant to be so differently connected.
Since January, Sandra has become an invaluable asset to my quest to remain sane. She and Peter and I have begun meeting for dinner once a week designating our group the “Makassar Support Group”. She enjoys working out, she loves cats, she doesn’t eat meat, and most importantly she wants to be healthy – to figure out where her path will eventually lead – to never be settled when you could strive to develop more fully into the person you’re supposed to be. What we have in common outweighs our differences – at least here in Makassar.
Sandra is also as different from me as one can imagine. She dresses in earth-y, hippy styles, she has permed her hair, she collects kittens and takes them in to provide a home for them. She has a degree as an anthropologist and hopes to move to Ethiopia to work with women’s health issues there. Our ideas of good music and good shopping are as different from each other as one can get. Yet, she is valuable to me.
Sandra provides me with feedback that allows me to feel connected to my true self. She listens and relates to me as only one can who has been thrust into this strange land. She understands what it’s like to have people touch you every time you wander to the grocery store. She knows how exhausting it is to feel vulnerable among the creepy men in the city. She understands that it’s not because I’m weak that I stay inside my home on the weekends, but rather it’s a coping strategy and allows for my batteries to be charged for another week. This is someone I cannot put a price tag on.
Someone once coined the phrase that “No matter where you are, it’s you’re friends who make the place”. That person must have spent time in a land far from home. It’s only when you are alone and the people around you are strange that you can truly recognize the necessity of friendship.
Many will recall that I staunchly claimed that I did not run. Running was for occasions when buildings were on fire or someone with a knife was chasing you out of a convenience store. Yet, I find that my daily 40-minute runs in Makassar keep me sane. I also was staunch in my belief that you should avoid whole milk lattes in favor of the non-fat ones and that donuts should be equated with cigarettes when it came to their negative health aspects. Yet, in Makassar, my daily cappuccino is worth every sip – even though people here have never heard of nonfat milk. (Not to mention that the cappaccino comes with a free glazed donut – I mange to stay away from them during the work week, but come Saturday, I am all about my donut.)
These little sanity checks aren’t just relegated to my eating and exercise habits – they relate as well to my female relationships. In Portland, there were the easties and the westies – those who lived on the east side of the Willamette and those who lived on the west side. You could further divide the city into its four quadrants – NE, SE, SW and NW. Peter and I were decidedly northwest – we lived in a lovely, little neighborhood just blocks from coffee shops, pizza restaurants and some of the hottest bars in town. People came to the west side to dress up and shop, eat and drink along the hip people of the city. Or, at least to be around those who thought they were the hip people of Portland.
There were those who lived on the east side – they tended to be a little earthier – maybe they had their own mulching area in the backyard, maybe they grew their own organic vegetables, perhaps they recycled everything one could think of while listening to reggae and the Grateful Dead. They related to the world in a different way. They marched in peace rallies, stood up for the Tibetan people and believed in taking care of animals as much as they believed in taking care of those who didn’t have a voice.
Somehow, the two sides were at odds with one another. That’s not to say that we didn’t all live peaceably with one another. There were places we all loved – Peet’s Coffee & Tea, McMenamins, etc., but we were in different worlds.
In Makassar, the east and west sides of the Willamette don’t matter.
In October, Peter and I were invited to a bar b que. A new bule would be there – she was from Portland and vegetarian so surely we must know one another… right? Of course not – she was from the east side. We sat for hours talking about Portland and the paths we had taken which led to Makassar, Indonesia. She worked in homeless shelters in Portland, her partner was still living there, and Peter’s Peets was her favorite coffee shop. Over the remainder of the fall, our paths crossed every now and then, and we continued to figure out what it meant to be so differently connected.
Since January, Sandra has become an invaluable asset to my quest to remain sane. She and Peter and I have begun meeting for dinner once a week designating our group the “Makassar Support Group”. She enjoys working out, she loves cats, she doesn’t eat meat, and most importantly she wants to be healthy – to figure out where her path will eventually lead – to never be settled when you could strive to develop more fully into the person you’re supposed to be. What we have in common outweighs our differences – at least here in Makassar.
Sandra is also as different from me as one can imagine. She dresses in earth-y, hippy styles, she has permed her hair, she collects kittens and takes them in to provide a home for them. She has a degree as an anthropologist and hopes to move to Ethiopia to work with women’s health issues there. Our ideas of good music and good shopping are as different from each other as one can get. Yet, she is valuable to me.
Sandra provides me with feedback that allows me to feel connected to my true self. She listens and relates to me as only one can who has been thrust into this strange land. She understands what it’s like to have people touch you every time you wander to the grocery store. She knows how exhausting it is to feel vulnerable among the creepy men in the city. She understands that it’s not because I’m weak that I stay inside my home on the weekends, but rather it’s a coping strategy and allows for my batteries to be charged for another week. This is someone I cannot put a price tag on.
Someone once coined the phrase that “No matter where you are, it’s you’re friends who make the place”. That person must have spent time in a land far from home. It’s only when you are alone and the people around you are strange that you can truly recognize the necessity of friendship.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
February 28, 2008
With all our talk of negative personalities at work, profiles of reptiles, fashion critiques of the expats, one might think this blog has become less of an overview about adjusting to life in Indonesia and more a record of two people’s descent into madness.
While that might be true, there are actually some very nice aspects here in Makassar. There are people we come in contact with regularly who make us feel like we aren’t freaks on display for a whole city to point at. People who like us.
After working for years in the service industry I’m finally one those regulars the staff greet by name. Sarah and I have our “usual” drinks, and our baristas make them just the way we like them. I always wanted to be on this side of the relationship. Juanda (pronounced Joo-AHN-da) and Danda (DAHN-da) at J.CO Donuts and Coffee are great. Our first time there they gave me an Americano (espresso and hot water) instead of regular drip coffee. I wrote a comment that said I’d rather have regular coffee and got a reply via email the next day. Now they make a fresh press pot of Sumatra every day just for me. They add an extra shot of espresso to Sarah’s iced latte too.
This is a very nice daily luxury for two people who lived in the Pacific Northwest for ten or eleven years. I wrote to J.CO the other week and thanked them for their fine service. This was their reply:
Dear Mr/s JPeter,
Hi Mr/s JPeter, Thanks for your comment of our job.i have you get comfortable and enjoy on J.CO Mall Ratu Indah.
you are our best customer :>
Thank's
No. Thank you.
There is a very bright class of fifteen-year-old students at English First. Sarah taught them a few months ago, and now I’m teaching them. (EF changes class teachers approximately every two to three months, the length of one term.) They’re pretty proficient and like to discuss such things as Soeharto’s recent death, sex before marriage, vegetarianism and also like telling jokes. They are a challenge to teach – that is, to keep the class challenging enough so they don’t get bored. So we’ve translated Indonesian poetry. We’ve also listened to Johnny Cash (they think he sounds kind of funny), the great crooner Johnny Hartman (kind of boring, they said) and the song “Cleveland Rocks” (they liked that one a lot). We’ve spent one class just talking at a coffee shop too.
They wrote their own poem for me. Only they wrote it about themselves in the persona of me, their teacher. (What follows is slightly edited by me to help it make a little more sense.)
My Students, My Diamonds
Peter, that’s my name
Paul, is my nickname
I’m a tooth that shines brightly
I’m smiling table
My students are my soul
I said to them,
If you are the stars
I’m the moon
If [I am] the stamp
[You] are the envelope.
Even if Sarah is [my] cupcake…
But [you] are the sugar…
That giving taste to your
Cupcake.
I think this might be one of the most amazing things ever given to me. It helps on those nights I can’t hear myself think and want to duct-tape their mouths shut.
Makassar also gives us the guy who says, “Hello, chickadee!” every night we pass by. There’s also the security guard outside a big oil and business complex who always says hello a gives us the thumbs-up. Our own building’s security/fix-it men Jama (JAH-ma) and Rici (RICH-ee) are always kind with the little English they know. Rici gets us our water for us each week.
These people help us feel adjusted and like fellow humans. Not the circus. We wish we could bring them to the States for you to meet. But if we ever do, please don’t point.
While that might be true, there are actually some very nice aspects here in Makassar. There are people we come in contact with regularly who make us feel like we aren’t freaks on display for a whole city to point at. People who like us.
After working for years in the service industry I’m finally one those regulars the staff greet by name. Sarah and I have our “usual” drinks, and our baristas make them just the way we like them. I always wanted to be on this side of the relationship. Juanda (pronounced Joo-AHN-da) and Danda (DAHN-da) at J.CO Donuts and Coffee are great. Our first time there they gave me an Americano (espresso and hot water) instead of regular drip coffee. I wrote a comment that said I’d rather have regular coffee and got a reply via email the next day. Now they make a fresh press pot of Sumatra every day just for me. They add an extra shot of espresso to Sarah’s iced latte too.
This is a very nice daily luxury for two people who lived in the Pacific Northwest for ten or eleven years. I wrote to J.CO the other week and thanked them for their fine service. This was their reply:
Dear Mr/s JPeter,
Hi Mr/s JPeter, Thanks for your comment of our job.i have you get comfortable and enjoy on J.CO Mall Ratu Indah.
you are our best customer :>
Thank's
No. Thank you.
There is a very bright class of fifteen-year-old students at English First. Sarah taught them a few months ago, and now I’m teaching them. (EF changes class teachers approximately every two to three months, the length of one term.) They’re pretty proficient and like to discuss such things as Soeharto’s recent death, sex before marriage, vegetarianism and also like telling jokes. They are a challenge to teach – that is, to keep the class challenging enough so they don’t get bored. So we’ve translated Indonesian poetry. We’ve also listened to Johnny Cash (they think he sounds kind of funny), the great crooner Johnny Hartman (kind of boring, they said) and the song “Cleveland Rocks” (they liked that one a lot). We’ve spent one class just talking at a coffee shop too.
They wrote their own poem for me. Only they wrote it about themselves in the persona of me, their teacher. (What follows is slightly edited by me to help it make a little more sense.)
My Students, My Diamonds
Peter, that’s my name
Paul, is my nickname
I’m a tooth that shines brightly
I’m smiling table
My students are my soul
I said to them,
If you are the stars
I’m the moon
If [I am] the stamp
[You] are the envelope.
Even if Sarah is [my] cupcake…
But [you] are the sugar…
That giving taste to your
Cupcake.
I think this might be one of the most amazing things ever given to me. It helps on those nights I can’t hear myself think and want to duct-tape their mouths shut.
Makassar also gives us the guy who says, “Hello, chickadee!” every night we pass by. There’s also the security guard outside a big oil and business complex who always says hello a gives us the thumbs-up. Our own building’s security/fix-it men Jama (JAH-ma) and Rici (RICH-ee) are always kind with the little English they know. Rici gets us our water for us each week.
These people help us feel adjusted and like fellow humans. Not the circus. We wish we could bring them to the States for you to meet. But if we ever do, please don’t point.
Friday, February 22, 2008
February 22, 2008
I am trying to be more involved in the blog writing although Peter’s writing is much better, and more entertaining, than mine – he is a writer after all.
And so it goes… I enjoy the things that most western women enjoy – I love to shop, I enjoy getting my hair done, and I want to be pretty, clean and stylish. Many of you have observed that I like things a little out of the ordinary – my hair has been many different colors ranging from red to platinum to pink and purple, etc. My fashion sense is my own. I love these things – they are my creative outlet.
In preparing for Indonesia, I spent time trying to figure out how I could maintain my hair color in an unknown situation – battle plans were drawn up between my hair person, Lauren, and myself as to whether or not Peter could bleach my hair if she vowed to provide toner. Could I take the bleach and do it myself? Certainly someone in Indonesia could do the bleaching and I could tone it to platinum with Peter’s help. All of these ideas were considered. In the end, I figured it was better not to have color than to end up with strange roots in an unknown country…
I spent the first few months trying to figure out where exactly to get my hair cut. I spent even more time trying to figure out if there was anywhere that I could go shopping. As I stopped and looked around me, I realized that the only women shopping were Indonesians with distinctly different body types and style preferences. In general, their hips are small and their shoulders a bit broad. The clothes are designed to make their hips appear wider and their shoulders more narrow. Now, this does not work very well for me. My hips don’t need any help looking curvy and my shoulders are narrow unto themselves. Strange shorts that look like bloomers are all the rage. Peter and I both think they are hideous. To add to the style difficulty is the fact that none of the clothes are large enough for me. I used to think I was small, but here I am a giant. I went to buy some workout clothes and they offered me the extra large. It didn’t fit.
So, my ego takes a bit of a hit. In fact, on Friday the manager of the fitness center asked me why I had gained weight in this country – did I eat too much? Since I work out every morning, she suggested I should start eating less and then maybe I would look better. I wasn’t sure if I should burst into tears on the stairmaster or wait until I got home. I weighed myself as I was leaving and found that I had indeed gained two pounds since my arrival. Great, I’m on the slippery slope… Bear in mind that this woman really wasn't trying to be mean. Indonesian women see nothing mean or unsupportive in pointing out appearance issues with blatant honesty.
I have not given up my pursuit of pretty things. In Bali, I found some delightful designers and purchased a few new and beautiful items. In December, I found someone who could bleach my hair. (This was a bit of a disaster, but it was a necessary trial into the world of Indonesian hair color.) Last weekend, I turned to the color red and found that red is definitely something Indonesians can do. I have some relatively different pinkish-red locks and I love them. Peter likes them too. However, I do get even more strange looks. (I will note that my aerobics instructors really like the new hair color – exclaiming with great delight that it is “bagus” – Indonesian for good.)
These beauty struggles have not been helped by the female expat community. In part because there are really only about 5 bule (western/white) women in Makassar, but in part because they enjoy not having anything to do with being feminine or pretty. This morning, I ran into a woman who teaches English to a local hospital staff. Her hair is graying and she has at one time attempted to color it strawberry blonde – there are about 2 inches of gray roots showing around her crown. She appears to not be worried about this. While we were in Bali, I found some interesting, boxy shirts that had a small gecko embroidered on them. I wondered aloud that the gecko was cute, but who would buy such a shirt and actually wear it – upon returning to work, the other female teacher was sporting the very same shirt. Other women have given up on any sort of fashion or beauty pursuit and let their hair go – preferring a ponytail to ventures into the salon.
For my part, I must continue try and find pretty things. In the end, it is part of my path to relationships with the Indonesian women around me. The female expat community may not desire beauty, but the Indonesians do – in this, I can continue to try and find our commonalities rather than be struck by all our differences.
And so it goes… I enjoy the things that most western women enjoy – I love to shop, I enjoy getting my hair done, and I want to be pretty, clean and stylish. Many of you have observed that I like things a little out of the ordinary – my hair has been many different colors ranging from red to platinum to pink and purple, etc. My fashion sense is my own. I love these things – they are my creative outlet.
In preparing for Indonesia, I spent time trying to figure out how I could maintain my hair color in an unknown situation – battle plans were drawn up between my hair person, Lauren, and myself as to whether or not Peter could bleach my hair if she vowed to provide toner. Could I take the bleach and do it myself? Certainly someone in Indonesia could do the bleaching and I could tone it to platinum with Peter’s help. All of these ideas were considered. In the end, I figured it was better not to have color than to end up with strange roots in an unknown country…
I spent the first few months trying to figure out where exactly to get my hair cut. I spent even more time trying to figure out if there was anywhere that I could go shopping. As I stopped and looked around me, I realized that the only women shopping were Indonesians with distinctly different body types and style preferences. In general, their hips are small and their shoulders a bit broad. The clothes are designed to make their hips appear wider and their shoulders more narrow. Now, this does not work very well for me. My hips don’t need any help looking curvy and my shoulders are narrow unto themselves. Strange shorts that look like bloomers are all the rage. Peter and I both think they are hideous. To add to the style difficulty is the fact that none of the clothes are large enough for me. I used to think I was small, but here I am a giant. I went to buy some workout clothes and they offered me the extra large. It didn’t fit.
So, my ego takes a bit of a hit. In fact, on Friday the manager of the fitness center asked me why I had gained weight in this country – did I eat too much? Since I work out every morning, she suggested I should start eating less and then maybe I would look better. I wasn’t sure if I should burst into tears on the stairmaster or wait until I got home. I weighed myself as I was leaving and found that I had indeed gained two pounds since my arrival. Great, I’m on the slippery slope… Bear in mind that this woman really wasn't trying to be mean. Indonesian women see nothing mean or unsupportive in pointing out appearance issues with blatant honesty.
I have not given up my pursuit of pretty things. In Bali, I found some delightful designers and purchased a few new and beautiful items. In December, I found someone who could bleach my hair. (This was a bit of a disaster, but it was a necessary trial into the world of Indonesian hair color.) Last weekend, I turned to the color red and found that red is definitely something Indonesians can do. I have some relatively different pinkish-red locks and I love them. Peter likes them too. However, I do get even more strange looks. (I will note that my aerobics instructors really like the new hair color – exclaiming with great delight that it is “bagus” – Indonesian for good.)
These beauty struggles have not been helped by the female expat community. In part because there are really only about 5 bule (western/white) women in Makassar, but in part because they enjoy not having anything to do with being feminine or pretty. This morning, I ran into a woman who teaches English to a local hospital staff. Her hair is graying and she has at one time attempted to color it strawberry blonde – there are about 2 inches of gray roots showing around her crown. She appears to not be worried about this. While we were in Bali, I found some interesting, boxy shirts that had a small gecko embroidered on them. I wondered aloud that the gecko was cute, but who would buy such a shirt and actually wear it – upon returning to work, the other female teacher was sporting the very same shirt. Other women have given up on any sort of fashion or beauty pursuit and let their hair go – preferring a ponytail to ventures into the salon.
For my part, I must continue try and find pretty things. In the end, it is part of my path to relationships with the Indonesian women around me. The female expat community may not desire beauty, but the Indonesians do – in this, I can continue to try and find our commonalities rather than be struck by all our differences.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
February 19, 2008
We have encountered many characters during our time in Indonesia – many who I never could’ve imagined on my own. But by far one of my favorites has been Phil.
Phil, as many of you may have read earlier, is our gecko in residence here at home. Phil spends much of his time on our kitchen table under our toaster oven or our storage shelves. He’s a very nice animal, about four inches long, light green, and who has helped get our ant population under control.
Phil has made himself very comfortable over the past few months. Some mornings I will write at our table before work, and he’ll come out to look at me and check out any crumbs we have missed. He often comes within a foot or so of me but will never let me touch him. (Don’t go for the tail, it comes off.) He likes sugar, and we often catch him snooping around Ziplocks with cookies or scones in them.
He is such a regular presence here that I’ve gotten to know his personality. One morning last week, when I discovered a gecko moving around underneath our kitchen burners, I knew it was not Phil. This one did not poke his head out to say hello, and after a while when I did not leave the kitchen, he made a break for it past me down the table leg and to a safe corner. Definitely not Phil.
This past weekend, Sarah and I were watching a movie and she decided to make some snickerdoodles. (Everything in Indonesia is loaded with refined sugar, and lately, we have significantly reduced our sugar intake but indulge on the weekends still.) She let the cookies cool on a paper towel on the table while we finished our movie. You see where this is going, don’t you? Well, after the movie we went to the kitchen and there are not one, but two, cookies moved about 3 inches off the paper towel. And they both have clearly been nibbled on. I look and there is a very happy little lizard under our toaster oven. This was quite a feat. Each cookie is probably close to Phil’s own body weight.
Sarah hopes she hasn’t inadvertently cause the poor guy to OD.
In the States, all of the cookies would’ve gone into trash, of course. But after six months in Makassar… we only threw out the two that were moved. After walking past open sewers with raw sewage, after finally accepting that hardly anyone washes their hands after using the restroom, after walking past rats twitching in their death throes in the street, a reptile we know being near our cookies really isn’t that big of deal. Not anymore.
Phil, as many of you may have read earlier, is our gecko in residence here at home. Phil spends much of his time on our kitchen table under our toaster oven or our storage shelves. He’s a very nice animal, about four inches long, light green, and who has helped get our ant population under control.
Phil has made himself very comfortable over the past few months. Some mornings I will write at our table before work, and he’ll come out to look at me and check out any crumbs we have missed. He often comes within a foot or so of me but will never let me touch him. (Don’t go for the tail, it comes off.) He likes sugar, and we often catch him snooping around Ziplocks with cookies or scones in them.
He is such a regular presence here that I’ve gotten to know his personality. One morning last week, when I discovered a gecko moving around underneath our kitchen burners, I knew it was not Phil. This one did not poke his head out to say hello, and after a while when I did not leave the kitchen, he made a break for it past me down the table leg and to a safe corner. Definitely not Phil.
This past weekend, Sarah and I were watching a movie and she decided to make some snickerdoodles. (Everything in Indonesia is loaded with refined sugar, and lately, we have significantly reduced our sugar intake but indulge on the weekends still.) She let the cookies cool on a paper towel on the table while we finished our movie. You see where this is going, don’t you? Well, after the movie we went to the kitchen and there are not one, but two, cookies moved about 3 inches off the paper towel. And they both have clearly been nibbled on. I look and there is a very happy little lizard under our toaster oven. This was quite a feat. Each cookie is probably close to Phil’s own body weight.
Sarah hopes she hasn’t inadvertently cause the poor guy to OD.
In the States, all of the cookies would’ve gone into trash, of course. But after six months in Makassar… we only threw out the two that were moved. After walking past open sewers with raw sewage, after finally accepting that hardly anyone washes their hands after using the restroom, after walking past rats twitching in their death throes in the street, a reptile we know being near our cookies really isn’t that big of deal. Not anymore.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
February 14, 2008
So. I’m downstairs at the bar. (Nu Bliss has been recast as a sports bar.) I’m letting Sylvia, the building owner, know that we still don’t have any water, after not having any all day. Liverpool and Manchester City are playing on TV. Liverpool is like the Portland Trailblazers, they’re having a disappointing season with one of the best players in the league. I’m watching the game and making small talk with Steve the Scotsman and watching the game. Liverpool is down 1-0, and there is a play when they should’ve scored but missed a great opportunity. They zoom in on the guy who missed: dark skin, long black braids, with snow-white extensions interspersed – a true football star. I look at Steve the Scotsman and say something about how the guy shoulda had that one, hair must’ve gotten in his eyes. His only response was, “African.” He nods. “African,” he says again.
The only shocking thing about this is that Sarah and I hear this type of comment all the time here. I thought living the expat lifestyle would be full of tolerance and brotherly union across the race lines. Guess not. It seems bad experiences while traveling gives you ammo and “knowledge” to talk trash and make sweeping, generalized statements about others.
From what I’ve seen in the small expat community here in Makassar, America looks like one of the most tolerant nations in the world. I know of some Australians, Scots and English who have a long way to go. Sarah and I have been told why you should never trust a Pakistani, an Indian, why you should never sell property to Aboriginal Australians, how only Muslim countries are filthy and poor, that “African-American” is just too much to say – whatever happened to “darkie?”
This is all for real. I’m not making any of this up. People actually said these things.
I had an argument with a co-worker about how even though you’ve met a few people from Pakistan who had lied and stole from you, you still cannot make an all-inclusive statement like “They’re liars and cheats” when someone is talking about their cricket team.
I have actually heard the words, “That’s why I wish the old colonial days would come back,” and “These people cannot run their own country. Bring back the Dutch.”
It doesn’t stop there. A student’s poor class performance was first blamed on his (supposed) homosexuality. The lesbians of Makassar have been pointed out to me like rare tropical birds. And if you’re a single bule in Indonesia and not out playing the game in the clubs every weekend… well, you’re most probably gay. What other explanation could there be?
Seriously. I’m not exaggerating here, people. And then it continues with America bashing…
The guy who wished us a “Happy Chinky New Year” called American football “one of those horrible sports no one cares about.” Then I actually had to listen to a debate in the teachers room one day about whether the Moon Landing was real or not. (How was the flag blowing in the breeze on the moon? one asked.) And if it did in fact happen what was the point? To hit a golf ball, collect some rocks and say the U.S. beat the Russians there? Really. I listened to all this. And I really couldn’t tell how serious they were. When I was little, my Mom would’ve told me they were just jealous. I mean, when we think of European technology we think of nice luxury cars, the guillotine and the cuckoo clock. OK. Maybe they discovered penicillin or something over there. I’ll give them that.
Portland may be full of do-gooders and feel-good liberalism, but I’ll take a slice of that over having to hear about how anyone but a (straight and white) European would fail at anything they’d ever try. Of course, racism and bigotry still exist in the U.S. It took us years longer than most countries to ban slavery after all. But we have come such a long a way in such a short time. Is there any other government that has anything close to Brown v. the Board of Education and the wave of change that followed?
Does this mean I think America is the greatest country in the world? The simple answer is no. The longer answer is that every country and every culture has infinite possibilities of intricate, efficient, complex and rich systems of living. And America does too. We gave the world jazz, rock ‘n’ roll, baseball, the Monroe Doctrine, Moby-Dick, Star Wars, the inspiration of the Civil Rights Movement, the cotton gin, and the light bulb. We’re not just a bunch of bullies and ill-informed morons. Don’t forget we have two former presidents who have won the Nobel Prize for Peace (Jimmy Carter and Teddy Roosevelt).
You’re welcome, world. Sorry if we get a little too excited sometimes – even, yes, arrogant. But America has given more opportunities to us than most countries could promise.
(I still want to travel all of Europe someday, by the way.)
The only shocking thing about this is that Sarah and I hear this type of comment all the time here. I thought living the expat lifestyle would be full of tolerance and brotherly union across the race lines. Guess not. It seems bad experiences while traveling gives you ammo and “knowledge” to talk trash and make sweeping, generalized statements about others.
From what I’ve seen in the small expat community here in Makassar, America looks like one of the most tolerant nations in the world. I know of some Australians, Scots and English who have a long way to go. Sarah and I have been told why you should never trust a Pakistani, an Indian, why you should never sell property to Aboriginal Australians, how only Muslim countries are filthy and poor, that “African-American” is just too much to say – whatever happened to “darkie?”
This is all for real. I’m not making any of this up. People actually said these things.
I had an argument with a co-worker about how even though you’ve met a few people from Pakistan who had lied and stole from you, you still cannot make an all-inclusive statement like “They’re liars and cheats” when someone is talking about their cricket team.
I have actually heard the words, “That’s why I wish the old colonial days would come back,” and “These people cannot run their own country. Bring back the Dutch.”
It doesn’t stop there. A student’s poor class performance was first blamed on his (supposed) homosexuality. The lesbians of Makassar have been pointed out to me like rare tropical birds. And if you’re a single bule in Indonesia and not out playing the game in the clubs every weekend… well, you’re most probably gay. What other explanation could there be?
Seriously. I’m not exaggerating here, people. And then it continues with America bashing…
The guy who wished us a “Happy Chinky New Year” called American football “one of those horrible sports no one cares about.” Then I actually had to listen to a debate in the teachers room one day about whether the Moon Landing was real or not. (How was the flag blowing in the breeze on the moon? one asked.) And if it did in fact happen what was the point? To hit a golf ball, collect some rocks and say the U.S. beat the Russians there? Really. I listened to all this. And I really couldn’t tell how serious they were. When I was little, my Mom would’ve told me they were just jealous. I mean, when we think of European technology we think of nice luxury cars, the guillotine and the cuckoo clock. OK. Maybe they discovered penicillin or something over there. I’ll give them that.
Portland may be full of do-gooders and feel-good liberalism, but I’ll take a slice of that over having to hear about how anyone but a (straight and white) European would fail at anything they’d ever try. Of course, racism and bigotry still exist in the U.S. It took us years longer than most countries to ban slavery after all. But we have come such a long a way in such a short time. Is there any other government that has anything close to Brown v. the Board of Education and the wave of change that followed?
Does this mean I think America is the greatest country in the world? The simple answer is no. The longer answer is that every country and every culture has infinite possibilities of intricate, efficient, complex and rich systems of living. And America does too. We gave the world jazz, rock ‘n’ roll, baseball, the Monroe Doctrine, Moby-Dick, Star Wars, the inspiration of the Civil Rights Movement, the cotton gin, and the light bulb. We’re not just a bunch of bullies and ill-informed morons. Don’t forget we have two former presidents who have won the Nobel Prize for Peace (Jimmy Carter and Teddy Roosevelt).
You’re welcome, world. Sorry if we get a little too excited sometimes – even, yes, arrogant. But America has given more opportunities to us than most countries could promise.
(I still want to travel all of Europe someday, by the way.)
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