I Feel Full

It's so easy to forget how limited our own life experience is. Which is why I love the internet, specifically blogs and social networking. Yes, most of what's on this interweb machine is twitterpation, mundane drivvel that probably doesn't need to be archived in the cloud of human history. But then so much of the beauty of life lies in the mundane. The extraordinary cyber art project "We Feel Fine" filters, molds and encapsulates the internet into the ultimate expression of humanity. I spent too much time today reading everything from a 19 year old anorexic who feels happy about her recovery to a 43 year old divorced male who still feels confused about his marriage. And, at the end of the day, instead of feeling like the internet robbed me of hours of my life with its flashy lights and irresistible links, I feel more connected to the human race than I have in months. 

Sheep sate and lontong rice for dinner helped too.

"Who are these neighbours?" asks Ms. Yeni as we sip our mango juice. "I never heard them. No music. No rooster."

I don't know but if I have to listen to Meatloaf one more time I'm going to punch someone in the face.

Bahasa Phrase of the Day: Aku mau ke mana ...= I am going to ...

All You Keep's The Getting There

"He says we are two adventurous sisters," Yeni glows and gives me a high five. "He" is the security guard at the resort who is surprised to see us and even more surprised that I want to go swimming in the rain but generously offers the use of his office as a locker room. To use the real change rooms the resort will charge us $10 USD so I'm fairly quick to agree. I grab my towel and head out in the rain towards the salty, warm Indian ocean, leaving Yeni under my puyang (umbrella) to tell him our story.

We left at 6:45 in the morning, hoping to catch the 7:30 ferry from Pungurri terminal. When we finally found the right bis (bus) it involved a transfer and a forty five minute bus ride through two outlying villages. A boy on the bus tells Yeni it is four hours to Lagoya Beach by ferry.

"Four hours?" I say doubtfully.

"Yes. Maybe we go to Pengyenget instead." She says, brow furrowing with worry.

I shrug. There's no beach there and I'm not keen on the plan but it might be the best option. "First, we will check at the ferry, yes? If it is four hours then we will go to Pengyenget."

At the ferry terminal they say it's only an hour via Unjur so we buy our tickets and board the ferry. Once we have seats Yeni giggles and tells me excitedly that a group of teachers had come to visit her the night before and asked her if we would join them on their trip to Bintan next week.

"But they are renting car and I say no, because this is no good. There is no adventure in this. I want adventure so we go. They say, You can't. But I said yes."

"Why did they say we can't?" I ask, hesitatingly, uncertain I want to know the answer.

"Oh there is no public transportation to there."

"Oh really?" I say suppressing a worried laugh.

The ferry ride is a short twenty minutes. When we arrive in Unjur Yeni confers with a man from the ferry, then tells me we need to wait on a corner for the bus. Half an hour later there is still no bus. A man offers us a cab ride, another offers unjet (motorbike cab) but I shake my head no. After half an hour a bus rumbles by but doesn't stop. After several more minutes I convince Yeni that the man from the ferry probably didn't know and we should walk a ways then ask again.

We pass a ring seller and, when I comment on how nice they are, Yeni says we should stop there and look while we wait. We examine every ring in the man's stock. He shows me beautiful opals and onyx, stones with interesting fossil imprints and shapes in the striations. There is one that looks like a map of the earth and I ask "Berapa?" (How much?)


Yeni tells me he says $2,000. She asks him if this is the boolay price and insists he barter with her. I feel kind of awkward about this as it's only $2 but she gets him down to $1500. When I hand him the money she says, "Oh no! Not 1500, one hundred and five." After much discussion I finally grasp that she is trying to say
 $150, 000 IDR ($15USD) so I put it back explaining that that's more than I paid in Canada for the ring I'm wearing, though I don't point out that the setting on the one I'm wearing is silver plated and not already rusting unlike his.

We continue walking and after several inquiries find the bus. We hop on and, despite being the only one's on it it sets off immediately. After two blocks it stutters to a stop and we wait. After ten minutes a man climbs on and tries to sell us on a tour, by car, for only $30 USD. We shake our heads. It's another fifteen minutes before the bus pulls out and heads out of town.

Yeni gives me a bahasa lesson on the way before we settle in to watch the inda (beautiful) scenery roll by. But clouds begin to darken the skies overhead and two minutes before our stop the thunder rolls in and the rains are unleashed on the red earth. We dash towards the nearest convenience store to wait out the rain and buy some snacks. Yeni buys some sort of fish cake with chili sauce.

"Have some," she insists.

"What's it made from?" I ask, pointing to the pita shaped crisps.

"Fish and powder," she says. "They're my favourite."

"Powder like tepung?"

"Yes, yes," she is pleased I understand.

"Tepung terigu (wheat flour) or tepung nasi (rice flour)?" I ask.

"Nasi," she says. So I try one. It tastes like fish with throw-me-down-and-choke-me hot chili paste. Fish not being my favourite flavour I wouldn't eat them by choice but, they are ubiquitous here and it's good to know that, if I'm in a pinch and need a snack, these are safe to eat.

When the rain eases and settles into a steady drizzle we head out in search of unjets for hire but because of the weather there are none. Yeni is becoming discouraged, certain that the day is ruined thanks to the rain. I point to a gathering of police men watching TV under a tent pitched on the boulevard across the street.

"Let's go talk to them," I say.

So we cross the road and Yeni asks them how we might get to Lagoya as there are no unjets about. They tell her to go to the gate and wait, we can hop a ride with one of the buses that will come through. But, when we get to the gate the security guards insist that we must take a cab for $7 USD.

"What do we do?" Yeni is near tears, though I don't quite understand why.

"Well, we either pay for the cab or we go back and talk to the police again."

But Yeni doesn't make a move. She just repeats the story and tells me how unfair it all is. Several times.

"Yeni," I finally say, "it's the boolay tax. If you want to travel with boolay get used to it. We have two choices. We can take the cab and I will pay or we go back to the police and ask sweetly again about this free ride."

She just stares at me. I grab her hand and we walk back to the police tent where she says something in Bahasa to the incredibly fit and handsome police man who greets us. He laughs and waves us into the tent where he parks me in front of the TV to watch "The Prestige".

"Hey, where's your husband?" A policeman playing a tile game in the corner of the tent calls out in English.

"No husband." I answer warily. I already know where this conversation is going, I have it dozens of times every day, but it still unnerves my sensibilities as being rude.

"How old are you?"

"34," I answer honestly.

"What religion are you?" Of all the questions this one bothers me the most, probably because I don't have a religion but the few times I have tried that answer I am greeted with uncomprehending stares so I've taken to saying, "Buddhist." Of course this isn't true. For me Buddhism is a philosophy, not a religion. I don't have a clue what any of the Buddhist rituals are about and I could never prostrate myself or chant. I'm not wired for it. But secularism seems not to be an option here, pantheism too hard to explain, humanism more so, so I opt for the closest explanation they will understand all the while resisting the Western impulse to simply say, "It's none of your business."

"What?!?" He exclaims, shocked as everyone always is. "You are not Roman Catholic?"

"No." I say, then offer helpfully, "My parents are Christian. Protestant Christian."

This time he nods. This makes sense and is acceptable to him.

Yeni exchanges phone numbers with the gantung (handsome) police man who's been chatting her up while we wait and I will tease her mercilessly about this for the rest of the day. (She insists because he is not boolay he is not boolay she is not interested. I tell her she is barking mad pointing to the skinny, pasty pink Western boys who pass on the beach with their prim girlfriends and saying, "Really? You want that?" "They are like you" she says laughing. "Precisely," I answer triumphantly. Well, at least we know I'm not narcissistic). Eventually we are whisked into a land rover full of police men, including the gantung William who speaks impeccable English.

He asks a million questions too, though none of them are of the usual personal nature that makes a Western girl feel shocked by the impertinence.

"We will drop me off at my office and then my men will take you to the beach." He says, and when we drop him off he says, "I hope you will come again, please. Many times." I tell him I will try to come back again some day when the sun is shining.

And so we finally arrived at Lagoya by police escort and I am finally body surfing the waves as the tide rolls in. Later, Yeni and I explore the beach but what we really discover is that, besides adventurous spirits, we both are paralyzed by lost loves and restless souls and neither of us can keep track of our keys. We collect sand dollars and clams, navigate slippery rocks and climb trees in sheltered groves and, over the course of the afternoon, we become kas (sisters).

At 3 o'clock the security guard tells us we can get a free ride back to town if we go with him to the bus. On the way he tells me, through Yeni, that he hopes I will come back to stay at the resort. I tell him, through Yeni, that I don't think I can afford to stay at the resort. He tells me if I come back I can stay with his family and come to work with him and swim all day. I laugh and say that is very kind and maybe I will come back one day when it's sunny.

The staff -security, janitors, maids- all stare at me when they get on the bus. This makes Yeni laugh maniacally. "They are all so shocked to see boolay on their bus!" I just smile. At them and at her. Nothing about where I find myself in the course of a day surprises me anymore.

Sak Ramu

I woke up yesterday with a throat so swollen I could neither swallow nor talk. Mr. and Mrs. Principal take me to the hospital with them when they take their son for a follow up appointment. There the doctor asks if I have a cough or sneeze. I shake my head no. After taking my temperature, blood pressure and using his stethoscope to listen to both my breasts and my stomach he concludes that I have an infection and writes me a prescription six prescriptions. At the pharmacy, I insist on buying just the "antibiotik" thus solidifying any lingering doubt that I am a crazy boolay.

I stay home in the afternoon and sleep.

In the evening I drag myself to the Lebaran celebration at school, which is basically the Muslim version of Christmas/ Neufeld gathering with a pageant and great big potluck after to celebrate the end of the fasting month.

I talk to Mr. Jay and his seemingly high maintenance wife (Ms. Winnipeg-seriously, no matter how far you roam you will meet a Winnipegger) for a while, excusing myself from talking too much because my throat is still sore though I can swallow again.

"So you've been to the Farmasi then?"

"Yup, and the hospital, the whole treatment."

"Oh, you don't need to see a doctor to get prescriptions here. I bet he wrote you six prescriptions, right?"

I nod wide-eyed. How do they know?

"Yeah, doctors here don't make any money from your visit only from how many prescriptions they write so they always write six or seven. The rest are all just pain killers and vitamins. Next time just go straight to the dealer with the active antibiotic that you want and they'll sell it to you for fifty cents."

The school pays for my medical expenses, so the $30 I spent isn't lost but still this is good to know, if I happen to be traveling and don't have my forms or time to waste. Jay also tells me where  I can find wine on this island before Mr. Principal drags me around to meet the school board members and owners who insist on foisting all manner (not necessarily gluten free) food on me. By the time I leave almost regret that Indonesian antibiotics were so effective in getting me swallowing in a few hours.

I am still feeling a little tired today but Ms. Yeni and I went to the traditional market by the astonishing albeit pungently odorous fishing village.

Kampong

Wandering through the market we stumble across a Buddhist shrine in a small temple. We are invited in and Ms. Yeni answers the keeper's of the shrine's curious questions about me. We are encouraged to check out everything, including the mausoleum, and are told where we can find the main Buddhist temple.

It turns out the main temple is bursting with my favourite laughing Buddha's (!), a buffet vegetarian restaurant for only 7,000 IDR (70 cents) a plate, and a curious fellow who Ms. Yeni says was trying to convert us to be followers in his temple. Strange. This made her uncomfortable so we left.

In the evening Ms. Kahlo invites Ms. Yeni and I out with her husband and daughter. We go to an "ankung" which is basically an outdoor restaurant, with mats on the ground and tables. The Baba there is a tall, kindly bespectacled man with an easy laugh. He restores antique bikes and his family runs the ankung. We drink ginger tea, and everyone laughs while I try to choke down a hard boiled baby bird's egg. When you have food allergies and have to decline so many things because they will make you sick it's hard to decline something because the thought of it makes you sick so I suck it up and chew. It's eggy. Hardboiled eggy. Ms. Yeni and Vanna (Ms. Kahlo's daughter) teach me an Indonesian board game, that involves moving seeds (or in our case pebbles) around a board shaped like a dragon. Over the course of the evening I learn other things too, like my favourite TV show, "Glee" is a huge hit here in Indonesia and if I say "sak ramu" to Baba he will laugh uproariously.

A simple evening spent in good company is by far the most amazing blessing a person can have in this life.

Bahasa Indonesia Word of the Day: Sak Ramu = whatever (considered rude)

Cock a Doodle Croak

The rooster crows every morning at 3:30. The wailing prayers begin shortly thereafter. Sometimes I can fall asleep again but usually not. Mostly I lie in bed listing the things that would be fun to throw at the damn cock if the banana tree wasn't in the way. Last Sunday however I slept until 10:00 am. Monday and Tuesday I almost missed work because I didn't wake up at all. I thought I must be getting used to it.

But, at 3:30 this morning I heard definitive rooster noises, though it was more of a croak than a crow. I guess he just had laryngitis and he's still not over it. I tried to imagine bludgeoning him to death, but honestly he sounded so pitiful, like even he didn't want to crowing and was cursing himself for tormenting his throat with his damn instinct, that I just felt sorry for him.

My own throat's been killing me for the last couple of days and at dinner tonight I had Ms. Yeni in stitches with my sick rooster imitation.

"Didn't that thing drive you crazy?" I ask. She lived in my room when she first arrived in Batam but was moved out when she was hospitalized indefinitely.

"No," she says still laughing, "no rooster when I was there."

"What?!?!?"

"No rooster then. This rooster is special for you. He love you. He sing song just for you."

"Great. My sayang, a noisy bird."

It seems likely though. If I'm going to have a lovestruck bird outside my window I'm not the sort who'd get a nice cooing type bird. No, I'm definitely the sort who gets a rooster in need of a tonsilectomy.

Bahasa Indonesian Word of the Day: sayang = sweetheart

Mall Rat

I've had a week now to shake off the jet lag and settle in. So far having a roommate hasn't been bad at all despite the fact that I don't think either of us likes the other all that much. I'm not much bothered by that. When I suggested she must miss her old roommates she replied without hesitating, "No. Not at all."

I have the top floor of the house to myself at the moment. My room is small but thankfully air conditioned and I have my own bathroom for now. This is a blessing as my hair is falling out like I'm a chemo patient, which I've been told happens to everyone when they first arrive here, but still, it's embarrassing.

Another source of shame, at least to my liberal sensibilities, is the maid. I am appalled at the notion of paying someone else to wash my underwear and clean my bathroom but it's expected here. It's only $15/month and frankly I haven't had pressed pants since I left home so I try not to think about how ridiculous it makes me feel. Besides, it's a trickle down economy and I've already set tongues wagging in the neighbourhood and school with all of the walking I do. "I saw you walking," I hear at least once a day. "Why you don't take cab?" This is said accusingly and I am in constant fear my feet will be severed if I get caught doing it again.

There are things I love though, like the kids I teach, the sudden, intense and almost daily thunder storms, and the momentary relief from the heat that follows them. The mournful lamenting sound of what I assume are the calls to prayer emanating from what I also assume is the neighbourhood mosque. I have loved the far too few cool days like today when I can sit out on my balcony and watch the bats swooping exuberantly to feed on the urban jungle mosquitoes against the backdrop of a rapid sunset. There are the bananas growing on the tree outside my window and for breakfast mangoes that haven't traveled halfway around the world.

On Saturday Mr. Principal took me along with his wife and son when they went to the mall. This is what passes for entertainment here. Mallrats. The antithesis of me. We go to the largest mall in Nagoya. They insist on feeding me despite my protests. I eat alone in a practically deserted food court because everyone is fasting for Ramadan. Food doesn't taste good at all when you are eating it in front of starving company.

I slept badly Friday night and spend most of the meal maniacally massaging the excruciating pain in my neck. This does not escape the notice of Mrs. Principal and, after lunch, she drags me across the street to an alley full of massage parlours. Here she treats me to a traditional Bali massage 15,000 IDR or $15USD for 1.5 hours. Good god! I think, that's slave wages. A masseuse back home make six or seven times that. And then I remember that that's my maid's entire months wages and I feel simultaneously relieved and ashamed.

"Here in Indonesia," Mrs. Principal says, "We no rich but we have good life."

Once we have walked up the narrow staircase to the room full of curtained mattresses Mrs. Principal, who has been fairly quiet and subdued in her husband's company, transforms into a chatty, almost adolescent girl. Having removed her hijab, her face is brightens, she relaxes, and when she laughs she is breathtakingly beautiful. She tells me how she and her American husband, Mr. Principal, met and we whisper and giggle like teenagers while we wait in our terry cloth towels and spa provided gunny sack shorts.

After the massages start we settled in quietly and I think I briefly doze, until I feel my shorts being hiked up into what is practically a wedgie. Only a few hours earlier, while shaving my legs in the shower I debated shaving my thighs and netherworld which caused me to snicker. Whoever would you being doing that for in this Muslim society? So I went with the usual sloppy to the knee shave. You'd think I'd know by now that I never know where a day is going to take me and would take appropriate measures. Instead all efforts to induce my muscles to relax are instantly rendered void while I clench in terror, imagining all manner of awful she might be seeing while she tucks the billowing spa issued pantaloons under my modest bikini underwear which now seem grossly lacking in coverage and into crevices even I've never seen.

Eventually I accept that it's too late now and she's probably seen many far more horrific things than my bottom and I try to relax, and actually succeed, until she begins to pound and slap me like she might a sassy bowl of bread dough. I am about to relent and beg her forgiveness if only she'll please, please stop when she does something indescribably fantastic with her fingers. I acquiesce. This is sheer hubris on my part as mere moments later I am gleefully pummeled. I am beginning to feel betrayed by all this soothing and lulling that only ends in abuse. I am beginning to have flash backs to bad relationships past.

In the end she sits me up and, placing her feet on my back, pulls my arms straight behind me until my shoulders pop. I make a mental note to make "Are you a licensed chiropractor?" the next phrase I learn in Bahasa Indonesia.

When our time was up I leave feeling slippery and smelling like I showered in black tea. Somehow I thought jasmine oil would smell prettier. I commence rubbing my neck maniacally.

We walk back to the mall and Mrs. Principal takes me grocery shopping at the HyperMart. I have already been grocery shopping at the HyperMart in the Mega Mall by our school but now I can finally ask what is inside packages of oil that read simply "Mengiken" and what kind of eggs are blue? I buy a dragon fruit and some Pantene Pro-V that seems to be specially formulated for Indonesia promising, as it does, to "reduce hair fall".

After shopping it is time to break fast which seems an utterly impossible venture with every person in the mall making a mad dash towards every eatery. We end up eating at the "Happiness Restaurant" where I order the chicken in strawberry sauce. The Indonesians heart their chicken and inconceivably good things to it like serve it with strawberry sauce. Happiness indeed.

On Sunday Ms. Yeni calls. "I go to mall, you come too?"

So at noon, we set off to the final mall on Batam Island that I haven't seen, the BCS mall. Ms. Yeni teaches me how to use the bus which involves standing on the side of the road -anywhere on any road will do- and waiting for a van to pull over. When they do, you ask if they are going to BCS or wherever you might wish to go. Because it's an island they almost inevitably are, or will eventually, so you climb on board and try to find a patch of seat that still has some padding on it because it's going to be a bumpy ride.

I had been warned by Ms. Heni when I first arrived not to take a taxi. "They will try to hypnotize you and steal your money." When I inquired about good places to swim I was told to go to Nagoya. "But don't take a bus. They are too dangerous. You take a bike cab instead." Bike cabs are men for hire on motorbikes. When I express skepticism that these are any safer than buses I'm told, "Oh, no, this is normal and perfectly safe. Just wear the helmet." Actually it's the sweaty lice ridden helmet I'm worried about but I keep my opinions to myself.

At the mall we go to the grocery store and Ms. Yeni does her best to educate me about more vegetables I have never seen. I buy a mango and a $4.00 bottle of olive oil (half the price of the Hypermart, though only 3/4 the size) which I accidentally try to pay for using Korean coins. Ms. Yheni seems captivated by them so I give them to her. She gave me two Javanese bracelets earlier in the day and I was happy to reciprocate. Afterwards we wander around a bookstore in search of a Bahasa Indonesia - Inggris dictionary ($1.50 brand new, still wrapped in cellophane) before returning home.

We stop at a local restaurant for mango juice when we get back to our neighbourhood and she tries to convince me to get a cell phone. I am adamant that I must wait until pay day at the end of September.

"No," she says almost near tears. "I have phone I give you. No cost. You just buy pulsa."

I remember all the lovers and boyfriends who tried to buy me a cell phone. I balk now just as I always have. I don't want to always be available, accessible. I don't want to feel tied down.

"Yes, but pulsa cost money," I say by way of excuse. "Just call my home phone."

"No, this cost too much. No phone. Text. Just text. So I can reach you."

So today I have a new friend and a new, used cell phone and not a clue what to do with either.

Bahasa Indonesia phrase of the Day: Tidak, terima kasih  = No, thank you.

Arrival

We spend the night in a tiny room in a noisy hotel in Singapore as the last ferry for Batam left an hour before my plane landed. I take an instant liking to Ms. Heni, who reminds me Miranda Bailey on my guilty TV pleasure "Grey's Anatomy." (Wow, I can't believe I just casually outed myself like that.) I keep her talking all morning about her hometown but the minute we find seats on the ferry she falls fast asleep.

The ferry is circa 1965 but there are two brand new flat screen TV's on the wall. I become completely engrossed in the featured Kung-Fu movie in the way only the fantastically jet lagged can. The Principal is waiting at the ferry terminal when we land. He buys me an iced tea but I have to stand behind a screen to drink it because it's Ramadan and almost everyone is fasting.

When I finish my luggage and I are whisked away in the school bus. "You are basically here to increase enrollment," Mr. Principal tells me. Gee, no pressure.

Straight to school, where I am paraded through the classrooms like a prized Christmas present. in every room I am greeted with cheering children and applause. I feel like a rock star. Mr. Principal buys me lunch - chicken and rice and a spinach like vegetable - then we hide out in his office until it's time for the fire demonstration.

The school's fire extinguishers have expired and need to be replaced so it's been decided the old one's should be used to demonstrate how to use them. outside there an oil drum has been cut in half like a trough and filled with gas. The kids are gathered round in a circle while the maintenance men light the gas on fire. The kids push back from the punishing heat which is not actually that much hotter than the air, while I stand with Mr. J -the only other bule* in the school aside from Mr. Principal, and crack jokes about insurance and law suits. When the pin is pulled on the first extinguisher and the foam is released the wind blows it straight towards us and we all begin to choke.

This is my new workplace, my new school, my career. I am eventually driven to my new home, across the street from the campus and my new life begins.

*bule = white foreigner

Bahasa Indonesia Word of the Day: buku = book