It’s 7 PM. Do you know where your prayer rug is?

I am happy to say that my time in Indonesia has already taught me a lot about Islam, and I have developed a much deeper understanding of the faith. For example, yesterday I discussed wearing a hijab with my friends. Their reasons were thus: if a man sees a woman not wearing a hijab and short shorts and a tank top, he will desire her. Therefore, women wear hijabs and long clothing. I asked if it made them upset that they had to do something that would make them hotter and sweater just because men had a problem controlling their thoughts, and they said, no, they are used to it. It’s just normal. And there are various teachings. Some women must be completely covered, everything but their eyes. It depends on the imam’s teachings. The Muslims in Mojoagung with me are in the middle, not uncovered but not totally covered.

The more I thought about it, though, I realized that I do the same thing in the US. I do not wear shorts that are too short and I do not wear low cut tops a) because let’s face it I’m not stick thin, b) because I do not feel comfortable, and c) because I do not want unwanted attention. Just like the women here, I choose to dress in a way that respects my body while protecting me from unwanted stares. The level to which we cover up is simply different. Asking me to come to school in short shorts, where I would clearly be uncomfortable with glances, is like asking a Muslim woman to go to school and not wear a hijab. She feels too revealing. We have the same intentions, Muslim women and I, but manifest this with different levels of covering ourselves up.

Last night I spoke with my host sister-in-law and received a really big compliment. She said that her parents were really surprised by me. “How can she eat our food?” “How come she wants to learn about Islam?” “How does she feel at home here?” They didn’t think an American would want to do all of these things, yet here I am, always going for the shock factor (Sam, think cockroach!) This is a really big compliment to me, that they are surprised (yet presumably pleased!) that I am learning about their faith and culture.

This being said, it was only natural to “go native” as we say in anthropology, and go pray at the mosque with my family!

Allaahu Akbar. Allaahu akbar. Allaahu Akbar. Allaahu akbar Asyhadu an laa ilaaha illallaah. Asyhadu an laa ilaaha illallaah. Asyhadu anna Muhammadar rasuulullaah. Asyhadu anna Muhammadar rasuulullaah. Hayya ‘alash-shalaah. Hayya ‘alash-shalaah. Hayya ‘alal-falaah. Hayya ‘alal-falaah. Allaahu Akbar. Allaahu akbar. Laa ilaaha illallaah.

God is Great! God is Great! God is Great! God is Great! I testify that there is none worthy of worship except God. I testify that there is none worthy of worship except God. I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God. I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God. Come to prayer! Come to prayer! Come to success! Come to success! God is Great! God is Great! There is none worthy of worship except God.

This is the call to prayer that I hear 5 times a day, at approximately 4:30 AM, 12:30 PM, 3:30 PM, 5:30 PM, and 7 PM. Oh yeah, I can’t forget to mention that this call to prayer is blasted over a loudspeaker that, while about a block away from my window, magically sounds like it is 1 foot from my window. Miraculously, sometimes I sleep through the call to prayer at 4:30 AM. Sometimes.

The Islamic faith has five pillars, one of which is to sholat, or pray, five times a day. The other four pillars are: proclamation of faith (“There is no God but Allah and Mohammad is his prophet”), tithing, fasting during Ramadhan, and visiting Mecca at least once as an adult if financially able.

Naturally, my interest in understanding the manifestation of God in other faiths led me to ask my host family if I could follow them to the mosque on Monday night and sholat with them. I borrowed a prayer rug, slipped on my host sister’s long skirt (that I’d pull down over my feet once entering the mosque to pray) and a hijab that went down to my waist. This skirt and hijab were so long because women’s feet and hands can’t be showing during prayer. Simply a rule!

I told my host mother, “Ibu, saya tidak bisa lebih siap untuk ikut ke musholla! Saya selesai menstruasi, sudah mandi, dan pakai jilbab!”  Of course she cracked up, because I had just testified, “Ibu, I could not be more ready to follow you to the musholla (small mosque)! I am done menstruating (not allowed to enter the mosque if you are), I already showered, and I am wearing a hijab!”

I’ve only been inside a mosque a few times in my life, and I have watched Muslims pray approximately three times in my life, including two Eid al’Fitr service sat Carleton, and once during high school when I visited a Muslim camp with my God camp (Youth in Theology and Ministry, shout out to St. John’s and St. Ben’s in Collegeville, MN!) I may have prayed with the women at that point, but I don’t recall…

Anyways, this was the first time I was doing it right! Excuse me, Lauren and Danielle, this was the first time I was doing it correctly. After dawning my prayer clothes and slipping off my sandals outside the mosque, I lined up in the last row of women (women in this mosque prayed on the right side of a curtain, men on the left, but it can also be women on the left, men on the right, OR men in front, women in back), I placed my prayer mat facing Mecca, and was ready for action.

Usually the 7 PM prayer is about 10 minutes long, but it is Ramadhan, so I was attending the regular prayer time followed by Teraweh. The next 40 minutes basically consisted of standing, bending at the waist, prostrating with my forehead touching the ground, and sitting. The Isya’ prayer time (the regular night prayer) consists of doing this 4 times, so it’s a repeating system.  Teraweh is the same series of motions and prayers, but done in sets of 2, up to 11 times. At each stage of the prayer, people say the Arabic prayer to themselves, so I just did my own prayers.

So logistics aside, how did I feel being there?

I loved it!

One of the hardest things about leaving the Christian community at Carleton (though it was easy to leave behind the feelings that I had to hide my liberal identity and silently disagree with some people’s conservative theology) was the lack of Christian community after graduating. I thrive in community and moving to St. Paul lacked the built-in college community of young people seeking how to be better people. Or at least I didn’t find the right group in St. Paul. So being here at the mosque among believers was so comforting. So natural. Everyone praying together, moving in sync.

The only critique I have about the experience is the lack of time for personal prayer. As Christians, we have a lot of freedom in how we pray, when we pray, why we pray. During this exercise of ups and downs at the mosque (putting our Catholic calisthenics to shame, I may add!), there wasn’t much time for personal prayer. Or if there was, I missed it trying to make sure I wasn’t standing when everyone was sitting and vice versa! Praying with one eye open is not my preferred way of prayer, but that’s life for a first-time mosque-goer!

Anyways, I love being in a country where God is so present. God’ s power is different, here, though. I have gleaned (mainly from a conversation with my host mom and host sister, so sample size n=2) that Muslims can lead a somewhat stressful life of trying to please God by following all the rules and doing good because God will judge you after death. This reaffirms for me my freedom in being a Christian. I don’t have to do anything but believe in who Jesus was and what he did. While this is liberating, I also experience some guilt about this free pass. Does believing in Jesus’ sacrifice make Christians lazy and complacent? We know that we are always forgiven, so what is stopping us from doing bad things over and over again? I suppose the idea is that the more we don’t do bad things, the closer we become to God and the more we want to please God, therefore resulting in us striving not to be bad. Still, I think that the humility that Muslims practice is something to be better explored by Christians. Though the fear of God’s judgment is something I can live without…

From the Classroom:

Frustration begins to arise in the Indonesian classroom. My 10-2 class was interrupted yesterday for an administrator to come in and make the students clip their nails.

Naughty student? While Ms. Prather in Central High School would stop the class and wait for the student to be quiet, and occasionally send a student out of the class to think about their behavior, Indonesian teachers simply tug their ear. Reminiscent of the USA elementary school classroom in 1850? I think so! 

The ability to write what is on the board and listen to the teacher at the same time escapes Indonesian students. (Though to be fair, they never learn to do this in the first place.) I should start a stopwatch of how much teaching time will be sucked up by standing there in silence waiting for students to copy what’s on the board… today, 7 minutes to write 10 phrases.

I may take to just walking out of the classroom and not coming back when students just laugh nervously and take more than 10 seconds to respond to the simply question, “How are you?” I will try to be patient, but I don’t care how poorly you were taught English through all of elementary and middle school, you should be able to respond to this one question as a 10^th grader.

Goal number one with my counterparts? To encourage them to go to class on time when the bell rings. Usually we are between 5-10 minutes late, because they are still chatting with other teachers, no big deal.

In other words, there is a lot of work to be done here in Mojoagung…

In other news:

I think I prevented my principal from being stalked by a foreigner. He received a Facebook message from an alleged “Peter” from the UK. My principal isn’t fluent in English, just words here and there. So he used Google to translate Peter’s English message, which asked for Indonesian contacts because he is coming to Indonesia on business. My principal wrote a response, graciously including his name, phone number, and address. Thank the Lord he showed me the message before he sent it, or Peter could have shown up at his house! I explained to him that this Peter was probably not legit. Businessmen from the UK do not ever start a message with “Hello dear” and use poor punctuation.

Indonesians do not drop everything and watch the Olympics like we Americans do, and I miss it! I tried to find out when I could tune into watching gymnastics and swimming here, but it is simply not aired. What is aired, you ask? Why, soccer and badminton, of course! Indonesian favorites! But they air live at 1 AM, so I’m not doing that. I guess that the Olympics is not as bit a deal here when your country only has 22 athletes as compared to the US’s 530 athletes. I still miss it, though! 

I visited a neighboring village the other day to check out the shoe production…all made by hand, wow! When we asked around if they could make sandals for me, everyone said, “Size 43? No! We don’t make shoes bigger than 40!” Well shoot! Finally, we found who would, and I picked out the size, color, style. Then she asked, “How many do you want?” I said, “Just one pair, for me!” She said, “Oh, you can’t! You must order at least 20!” Turns out, this is a village that mass produces shoes. No one wants to make one big pair (excuse me, size 9-9 ½ is not THAT big!!) for the bule! 

You know you are a Peace Corps Volunteer in Indonesia when:

Random shot of Udik cooking burgers on 4th of July! Expect pictures to be random and sporadic as I upload with slow internet!  

Shopping at the big grocery store in Mojokerto is just like shopping at home! Here is Nurul with Adira, enjoying his toy car shopping experience!

You know you live in Indonesia when...

It is 6 PM and you have bathed, eaten, and are tired enough to go to bed.

Your ibu burps in your face and says nothing.

You are technically a millionaire each month that you get your Peace Corps stipend.

You freak out you will get in trouble for returning home after dark (read: 6 PM).

You are desensitized to the fact that women are riding sideways behind their husbands on a speeding motorcycle wearing no helmet and simply carrying a newborn baby.

You are a woman but you no longer flinch or respond at all, really, when you are called "mister" five times a day.

You are sweaty, red-faced, smell gross, and are wearing the baggiest clothes of your life, but everyone still calls you "cantik" (beautiful).

You wake up at 2 AM to find a mouse running around your room trying to eat your snacks, freak out, and go downstairs to find someone to help. Of course your ibu is up (do moms ever sleep here?!), but her response to your fear? "Tidak apa apa" (“Nevermind, it's fine.” Which can also be translated to: “What a dork. Go back to sleep, it's just a mouse”).

You have no problem walking out of the bathroom with your pants or skirt all wet. That means you are clean.

"Sudah mandi?" (“you already shower?”) is not a creepy pick up line, but a perfectly common question.

Your greeting to the locals as you pass is, “Monggo,” (sorta like “Hello” and “Please, keep doing what you are doing”) is met with a slow, drawn out, “Nggeh,” pronounced GAY.

You are sweating like a fiend in English class, try to wipe your sweat off discreetly, and are not laughed at by the students as you unknowingly have just wiped black whiteboard marker all over yo’ face. (In the US, they would have been laughing instantly. Maybe these students will too, after they know me more than a week!)

That tan you were hoping to get is non-existent because you are respectful and wear long sleeves and a floor-length skirt every day of your life. If fact, you are potentially more pasty pale white in Indonesia than you were in the negative degree winter in Minnesota or Wisconsin.

No meal is complete unless you eat copious amounts of nasi putih (white rice)

You do not freak out when there is no toilet paper left. There was never toilet paper to begin with...

You find yourself living in fear of two main things: the rats in your house, and that someone will see you dressed immodestly. Another volunteer, Emily, sums it up perfectly. “You can sleep in [yoga pants] when you’re nervous about sleeping in shorts, because you have a fear that the rats in your ceiling will fall through on nights when it’s raining, land on your bed, your subsequent screams will alert your Ibu who will bust into your room, see you covered in rats and wearing shorts, and then be offended by your immodesty.”  Yup, that pretty much sums it up!

You think buying something for more than 15,000 Rp is expensive. That’s $1.50 back home.

The wrinkliest, shortest old woman you’ve ever met grabs you, without fail, every day when you pass her on the street, blabs incoherently at you in Bahasa Jawa while squeezing  your arms until they are sore, and only lets you go when you sorta wiggle out of her grip and mumble something about going to school first. Keep in mind that she is so short that when she reaches up to grab your arms to squeeze, she pulls you down about a foot to stick her face approximately 2 inches in front of hers (she’s old, maybe her vision is going?!?), offering you a close up of the potentially only tooth she has remaining. Yes, this happens to me…every time she sees me.

You are frequently offered by anyone you are visiting to sleep at their house that night. Doesn’t matter if you’ve known the person for 30 minutes or more! 

For Kelsea

Fitri and I at Gerak Jalan (students and community members do a military-style marching parade!)

Marching ibus is serious business! 

Ramadan has come, and my sanity wanes…

Ramadan is the Muslim month of fasting each year. It lasts 30 days, but the exact date changes, like Easter, based on the moon cycles. It is mandated to fast from 3 AM before sunrise to 6 PM after sunset, including no water. The purpose is much like Lent, a time of repentance and reflection about one’s life. Fasting carries the same meaning for Muslims as it does for Christians, purification and feeling closer to God. Not that I can say that I have ever felt that the very limited number of times I have fasted…

Anyways, after these long 30 days of fasting is the Muslim New Year, called Idul Fitri. From what I have read, this is the biggest celebration of the year for Muslims. They buy new clothes, visit family, and have feasts! Lots of celebrating, thanks to the end of fasting and the promise of a new year, free of sin.

Unfortunately, my Ramadan experience (keep in mind, I’m only 2 days in…) has not been so great.

Top reasons that I believe Ramadan and I will not be buddies:

(Keep in mind these dissents are all personal feelings toward sleep and fasting and have nothing to actually do with Islam itself! So far, I have had a really great time learning about Islam!)

#1: From approximately 1:00 AM to 2:30 AM every morning for the next 30 days, a group of teenage boys will walk the streets and bang on drums and play traditional music instruments louder than humanly possible to wake people up to eat before sunrise. So I’ll be awake in the middle of my beauty sleep every night for the next 30 days (update: not every night apparently, the last 2 nights have been silent…). Which is really confusing and resulted in me missing the first 3 AM breakfast with my family because I was startled awake at 1 AM, only to say, “Hey, why are they waking people up now, we still have 2 hours until breakfast,” and promptly go back to sleep, missing breakfast because there is no 3 AM wake up call. What the heck!? I get that the 1 AM wake up call is for moms and women to cook the breakfast, but still…

#2: I was feeling pressured to try fasting with everyone from 3 AM to 6 PM (sunrise to sundown, including no water…). Not pressured by any adults, but my darn 13-year old neighbor, who kept asking me if I was going to fast or if I wasn’t strong enough. Normally I’d try to let that roll off my back, but she gets to me, constantly talking about me in Javanese so I can’t understand, and laughing, so I can only assume that she’s making fun of something weird I did. Ugh. Also, pressure from stories of other Peace Corps volunteers. From what I heard, everyone in the last two groups fasts during Ramadan, so I felt pressured to not be the one volunteer not fasting. Not to mention pressure from the anthropologist in me trying to fit into the surrounding community….

So this pressure resulted in me trying to fast for the first day. That’s what I told people, I’ll try fasting the first day and see. This announcement was met with a mix of delight (my 13 year old host brother who may be the sweetest teenage boy I’ve every met), confusion (my host sister-in-law and host mom), wondering why I’d fast if I don’t need to, and mockery (by that darn 13 year old neighbor girl “Apakah Miss Sarah kuat?” “Is Miss Sarah strong enough?”)

Day one of fasting. Wake up half an hour late to the 3 AM breakfast, so I eat some rice and cold tempe alone. Back to bed.

8 AM-2 PM: Wake up again. Wander downstairs to see what my family will be up to. Same old, same old, they are cleaning and chilling. I decide if I’m about to fast for the next too-long amount of time, I’m taking it easy. Retreat to my room for the next 6 hours, where I proceed to watch a lot of Big Bang Theory, sleep, and read the last book of The Hunger Games. Thank gosh for bringing a computer and kindle, after all that fuss I put up pre-departure about wanting to be cut off from everything.

2 PM: I can’t take it anymore. I’m starting to feel the lightheadedness that plagued me for 2 years during college, which will bring on really scary vision shifts. I was going to break fast early anyways to go to church, what’s another 3 hours early? I eat some crackers, peanut butter, and an orange, and then go meet my Javanese language tutor.

3 PM: I’m starting to feel dizzy again. That little bit of peanut butter protein will not sustain me! But how to tactfully tell my Muslim tutor I can’t study any more, I need to go eat? Luckily he points out that I’m looking pretty pale, and while he goes to pray the afternoon prayer, I eat a little. And feel like a total jerk. I manage to hold back tears at my failure to fast one day when I go into the kitchen and get some of the food that my host sister-in-law is cooking, the food that she won’t be eating for another 2 hours…I go upstairs and eat in private, feeling like crap. The teasing of the 13-year-old neighbor is true, Miss Sarah is not strong enough. What’s more, I feel like I’ve let down my community by not being in solidarity with them. It doesn’t feel sufficient to say, “I’m Christian, I don’t have to.” Because let’s face it, Christians do fast…okay, every now and then. Maybe. But I feel like a dumb American, doing just yet another thing to stand out…this time, eating.

5:30 PM: My family invites me downstairs to break fast. I feel like crap, a little dizzy, crazy stomach. But I go, get a plate with a little food, but I can’t bring myself to eat. What’s up? Usually I feel like this, wanting to puke, if I wait too long to eat, but I ate at 3, which should have made this feeling go away. It’s not going away. I apologize after sitting with my family for about 5 minutes. Retreat back upstairs. Don’t eat anything else, because it makes me sick to think about doing so.

5:30-9 PM: Fitfully sleep and think about how I have to deal with the world of fasting tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…

9 PM: Vomit all contents of my stomach into my trash can. Yet another reason I am happy I am not in the Peace Corps in a hot hut with no electricity. I’m on a cushy mattress with a fan blowing cool air at me.

9 PM – 1:30 AM: Sleep

1:30 AM- 2:30 AM: Fitfully sleep and think about how much I’m going to dislike the next month as I listen to the loud drumming outside.

3:30 AM: Wake up to a grumbling stomach. Shakily walk downstairs to try to eat something. But almost puke again in the kitchen when I see food. Guess I’m not ready to eat yet.

6:00 AM: Make plain pasta and slink back upstairs to eat my noodles over the course of the next 8 hours as I rest and have a self-pity party. Throw in a 2-hour stint in which I chat with the neighbors, do some laundry, and shower, but right back to bed because I’m too weak to stand any longer.

5:30 PM (present time): Feel much better, still a little weak, about to go down and eat my first proper meal in 36 hours and can’t wait!

The next 2 days: my sickness relapses, with a stomach ache and trips to the bathroom…for those of you who know me well, you know that I love to eat, so a loss of appetite is a big indication that I have got a bug living in my stomach. Not literally…at least not that I know of…

Have I made it clear enough why Ramadan and I have yet to make peace?!

To top it off, school will run from 7 AM to 10:30 AM every day, leaving me hours on end of boredom. Luckily, that’s only for 2 weeks, because then, yay, we have another full 2 weeks of school off in which everyone will still be fasting so lounging around. I can’t leave my community (Peace Corps rules for the first 3 months at site), so I’ll be finding new ways to fill my time, I guess.

I know, I know. This is all terribly negative and I hope the Peace Corps will not kick me out for being insensitive, but really the issue I’m having is with my own feelings about fasting, and annoyance at being sick. I’m still not sure what made me sick, though my leg cramps for 12+ hours point to food poisoning. What food?! The one orange or a little rice I ate??

Anyways, the main disappointment I have with not being able to fast is that it will set me apart from the community. And I’m trying so hard to fit in. I’ve even told my ibu (“mom”) that she has to tell me when it’s more respectful for me to wear a head covering to Muslim gatherings. I want to be respectful. I’m trying to eat like an Indonesian (though I’ve taken up oatmeal for breakfast, I can’t do plain white rice three times…), sleep like an Indonesian (aka naps in the afternoon!), clean like an Indonesian (washing clothes by hand), etc. But this fasting is one thing that I find myself unable to do for 2 reasons. First, I physically can’t do it, 13 hours of being active with no food (I was drinking water even during my brief fasting yesterday). Second, as much as I want to fit in, I have to recognize that above all, fasting is done for a spiritual purpose, and my purposes for fasting here were community-based, not spiritual. I have never found spirituality through fasting (though again, my fasting experience is very, very limited). And as a practicing Christian, I cannot justify following a month of fasting if the drive and motivation has not come from my heart and religious motivations. I feel it is a betrayal to say that I am fasting if I am merely doing it to fit in.

Unfortunately, that last (and most accurate) reason that I have chosen not to fast is really hard to convey to anyone because I don’t speak Indonesian well enough. And when I was able to talk to my tutor in English about this yesterday, he laughed. So I think either a) he’s immature, b) he thought it was an excuse not to fast, or c) a collective culture doesn’t think this way, choosing whether or not to fast because one’s heart is in it. You fast because everyone around you is fasting, not to mention it is one of the five pillars of your religion, mandated to be a “good” Muslim.

Sigh.

I now understand the response of one of the volunteers who’s been here for a year. When I told her that this feels like “posh corps” because I’m living in a beautiful, clean, electricity-and-running water-equipped house, she responded not to let that fool me, it is still hard to be here.

The physical hardships of sweating and heat exhaustion that I expected, maybe even sorta wanted to try to contend with to push myself, are not nearly as bad as I had expected. Honestly, the physical hardship is virtually non-existent.

But what I am finding is the emotional and cultural strain of being here is more than I expected, and it creeps up at unexpected times to break me.

The frustration of an inability to communicate my most important feelings with anyone other than English speaking-Indonesians or other volunteers. And even the relief in getting to speak to them is only a reminder of my inadequacy at the Indonesian language.

The self-esteem blow I experience day in and day out as I constantly have to say, “Saya tidak mengerti” (I don’t understand). This phrase, probably said by me more than anything else, is usually met with so much patience and the attempt to use other words until I do understand. But the emotional blow is almost unbearable to a confident Carleton grad who is not used to saying, “I don’t get it” at the simplest things. I yearn for the Indonesians I have met to magically speak English, come to the US, and see that I am not dumb. Don’t get me wrong, no one says anything but how smart and beautiful I am, but that is largely cultural. At the end of the day, when you feel stupid because you don’t understand a simple thing someone is saying to you, all the “you are so beautiful” comments cannot counteract feeling like an idiot.

The unyielding stares and shouts of “Hello!” (half of the time that “Hello!” is followed by “Mister!”) are reason enough for me not to live here after 2 years. I am patient to respond hello, allow my picture to be taken, and play the part of celebrity, but it doesn’t mean in any way that I like it. There are 2 major consolation points, though. Whereas in West Africa I was always called the toubab or batoure (white person in Senegal and Togo, respectively), Indonesians rarely call me bule. I am eternally grateful for this, as being objectified as race sucks. Additionally, and frankly to my shock, Indonesians do not automatically assume that I am American. I get Dutch a lot because of my pale features and because the Dutch colonized Indonesia, but I’ve had people ask me if I am German or French surprisingly often, too. Thank you, Indonesia!

So the Peace Corps is changing. Now there is technology, phones (thank gosh, how did volunteers 20 years ago stay sane not having contact with any Americans!), spring mattresses, fans, and grocery stores with oatmeal and spaghetti.  But the Peace Corps, I am quickly realizing, is still hard. It is emotionally and culturally isolating. It exhausts my patience. It breeds new hobbies out of sheer boredom. But most of all, it continues to make me a better person. 2 years in Indonesian...work your magic!

The Art of Patience

If there is anything that I have learned from the Peace Corps over the last year and a half (this includes the time I waited to see if I was accepted to serve), it is patience.

I had to be patient for months before I knew if I had, as we all said in preparing to graduate from Carleton, "a future!!" When I finally knew that I had "a future!" after Carleton, I still didn't know what country I'd be going to, or when I'd be going. Admittedly, I hoped the Peace Corps would change their minds about East Asia and tell me I was going to West Africa.

But my part in Tikkun Olam was destined to be elsewhere, Indonesia. Leading up to my departure, I had a heavy heart, worried about learning a new language, learning who Indonesians were and how they were different (and the same) as me...

Now I am here and my patience paid off! That makes it sound like I had a choice in being patient or not and I chose to be patient. Let's be honest, I didn't have a choice, or as I like to say here, "Tidak ada pilihan" (there aren't choices!) So while I was patient not by choice but out of necessity in waiting to come here, now is the time that I can really hone my patience skills, and believe me, people, I have!!

Here are some examples of trying to be patient in Indonesia...read: I really wanted to scream during these situations (or maybe cry...there is a whole spectrum of emotions here!), but I'm the only American many people will meet here, so I need to act normal. Aka I can't tear at my hair and jump on a chair and act like a wild animal and scare people away. That will just confirm that Americans are strange.

All this being said, I've only been here for 3 months...imagine how patient I'll be in 2 more years...

Anyways, example #1 of my patience tested...

"Mister, mister, photo, photo!"

The offenders...and they look so sweet and innocent...

If there is one thing virtually every Indonesian has, it is a camera phone to take pictures with your local bule (foreigner). This translates to sweet, innocent children (from elementary school to high school) in a school classroom turning into photo-hungry monsters as soon as the lesson or program is over.

As if taking pictures when you are sweaty and annoyed isn't bad enough, I don't understand why some students are so pushy about it. Like physically pushy. Some people cram into the photo and shove me and I literally almost fall over. Half of the photos that they take are probably of me falling over, or gritting my teeth and trying to stand my ground while they push me over so they can get into the picture...

Photo-taking is a time commitment here. The time commitment exists because every last person wants a photo with you and herself individually. It doesn't matter how many times I politely say, "Satu lagi saja, sama semua" (only one more, with everyone), the individual photos of me and one student continue. Eventually, after usually about 5-10 minutes, I have to calmly walk away before I start pushing people over, too.  

The worst part of this picture-taking is not the fact that it takes time, or that I'm sweaty and red, or that I'm ten feet taller than everyone in the picture, or that I'm being pushed over. It is the flood of emotions that comes during and after taking the pictures.  

For someone who, Alhamdulillah (thanks be to God), has not really ever felt objectified as a woman, one day of photo-taking in Indonesia leaves me wanting to cry at my objectification.

Now while I think I can safely assume that the young people who want to take a picture with me are not trying to objectify me, knowing this does not mean I have to stop my natural reactions to a situation. And man, do I feel objectified. Even more so when I'm almost shoved out of the picture because of people pushing me. This makes me feel that the goal is not to get a picture with a friend and English teacher, but to get a photo with the white lady to show one's friends later. The request for a photo does not come after knowing me for a week and spending time getting to know me, it comes after seeing me for one minute and simply wanting a photo with a white person. I become an object to show off rather than a friend or a person.

I realize that my point of view is skewed because I am only expressing my opinion rather than allowing students to share their side of the story, too, but everyone needs a moment to vent, so this is my moment. That being said, it is not everyone who objectifies me and shoves me over in a photo. Adults are usually very polite. University students are educated about respecting the person with whom you want to take a picture. Boys take one or two photos all together. Some girls shyly ask if they may take a photo, and bonus, they may ask in English! But the general horde of teenage girls in the school setting is pushy and objectifying and it drives me up the wall.

I almost lost it one night at a small festival when I was talking to a principal. His students gathered around while we were talking and started taking pictures. Okay, that's life. But one girl's stupid camera phone had a flash on it, and she extended her arm over everyone else to get closer to my face, and pressed that flash button right in my face. Let's just say that that flash could have been the light at the end of someone's tunnel...

"There is still work to be done here:" Skin Color in Indonesia

Indonesias have beautiful complexions! I only wish they could see this, too. These are 2 girls from my school.

My host nephew (L) and brother (R), chilling in the living room.  

It is simply a fact of life here that I am beautiful since I have white skin. I finally worked up the courage to ask someone who was constantly calling me beautiful if she called Indonesians beautiful, too, or just me. She said she calls everyone beautiful, not just me, but I have yet to hear her call an Indonesian beautiful... 

I have taken this opportunity of being called beautiful all the time to turn the tables on the complimenting person and tell her she is beautiful, too. And then when someone pats my arm and says, "kulit putih, cantik," (white skin, beautiful), I launch into my explanation of how many white people in the US like to be tan because tanner skin is considered more beautiful in the US. Tanner, like an Indonesian's skin. I think the general reaction has been either disbelief that this could be true, or blatant disagreement that that it is stupid to think that tanner is better.

Patience.

I'm not sure if this next anecdote should be under the heading of patience or under a heading about breaking my heart. But this is truly what someone said to me...

"Sebelum kamu pergi ke sini, Sarah, aku takut bahwa kamu akan punya kulit hitam, seperti orang dari Africa. Dan aku takut orang yang punya kulit hitam. Mereka bukan orang baik."

(Before you came here, Sarah, I was scared that you would have black skin, like an African person. And I'm scared of people with black skin. They are not good people.)

Well good God, what do you say to that?

I took a deep breath and asked her why she thought that. She said she just did. I asked if she'd met a person with black skin. Nope. So I resorted to a simple explanation about how people with black skin are just like us. They are nice, they work hard, they are smart. Simply having black skin doesn't make someone a bad person.

I also was honest and told her that it was hard for me to hear her say that because I did not feel the same way and that her belief that black people are bad made me sad. In my broken Indonesian, I went right into a explanation on the source of a lot of racial problems (or at least what I believe to be a major source of many racial issues), colonization. I explained about how in Indonesia, the Dutch came and tried to convince Indonesians that white people are better. The same thing happened in many parts of Africa, too. At the present time, it is really frustrating for me to meet Indonesians who desire white skin because it is more beautiful. I think that belief is a result of oppressive colonization and continued stereotypes. I'm not sure how much of that appropriately translated, but she definitely understood that I disagreed with her and wanted her to learn more about race.

Patience. I have two years to help people unlearn that white is beautiful and brown is bad.

Posh Corps...

For those of you who doubted that I have been doing anything productive for the last 2 1/2 months...

Julie, Prez Kennedy and I!

Kenalkan. Nama saya Sarah. Saya beresal dari Amerika Serikat. Umur saya 23 tahun. Sekarang saya tinggal di Indonesia. Saya sudah tinggal di Indonesia selama 11 minggu. Saya belajar Bahasa Indonesia selama 6 minggu, dan Basa Jawa selama 1 minggu saja. Tetapi, kemarmin saya bertimu Rois, dan dia akan mengajar saya lebih banyak Basa Jawa! Saya senang sekali dengan keluargan baru saya di Mojoagung, dan semua guru-guru di sekolah saya ramah sekali. Saya harap bahwa saya bisa melakukan hal-hal baik selama 2 tahun!

Not perfect, but then again what is!

Haha! So here's some info on what's been up in my life the past week.

Last week I spent most of my time with other volunteers and the cultural facilitators, and yes, I may have been slightly freaking out that in a mere few days I was going to be on my own for the first time basically ever. On Thursday I met my principal, Pak S, who came for the principal conference.

My principal and I!

I was FREAKING out that morning. This was some sort of weird like blind date...meeting my boss for the first time. Was he the one who advocated having me at his school, or someone else? What if his is indifferent? What if he doesn't like me? What if we can understand a darn word the other is saying? AHHHH!

Fortunately, his is a very kind man who knows his stuff! After spending time on Thursday with him and driving to site on Friday with him (though thankfully another volunteer and his principal were in the car, too, to help foster conversation!), it was clear that he wanted me at his school and is going to help a whole bunch! His happiness is also apparently contingent on mine:

Kalau anda baik-baik saya senang, sebaiknya bila anda tidak baik saya jadi sedih.

If you are doing well then I am happy, but if you say that you are not doing well, I am sad.

Yikes!

Anyways, on Thursday I had a goodbye party with my host family, complete with donuts and pictures. It took all I had not to burst into hysterical laughter when my family decided the best photo of Bu Mul and I to take together would obviously be us lying on the living room mattress together. When stuff like this happens, sometimes I wonder how my friends think I am the crazy one!

Friday we finally became volunteers and has a beautiful closing ceremony. Everyone wore batik and looked amazing! The ceremony was quick: some greetings by important people, including the US Ambassador for Indonesia, Scot Marciel. A speech in Bahasa Indonesia by two other volunteers...very impressive! The Indonesian and American national anthem. And reciting the 10 Peace Corps Core Values in Bahasa Indonesia. After the ceremony, Ambassador swore us in with the same oath that all federal employees take, including, more or less the same, presidents!

Then came my hysterical crying as I freaked out even more than before that I was about to be alone. Oh my gosh. It was funny to see the volunteers like me who had tears, and then those who were like, "Oh brother. See you in three months anyways!" Well, we are who we are! And for the record, my host family cried, too, including my brother. But it was more like a few tears as our principals threw our stuff in the car and were like, "Let's go!" whisking us away to some remote location...

Which brings me to my new family! I was a little nervous upon arriving, but no big deal, just like 6 teachers to meet me, my host parents, and a slew of siblings! That is obviously an exaggeration! It was totally a big deal! Meeting your coworkers and family for the first time means you have to impress. Luckily, in words that Kelsea always uses, I was lookin' fabulous. While I will discuss more later about my struggle to come to terms with how posh  Peace Corps Indonesia is, at this moment I was glad to be looking good and having all the cosmetics I needed to do so!

Ido and I!

 It took me about 3 days, but now I can recognize who is in my family, who is extended family, and who is a teacher. Does that mean I know people's names? Absolutely not! The teachers think it's hilarious that I have a running list of who they are, what they teach, and maybe one fact about them. Such as Pak F: teaches religion and is responsible for the sign. See below.

Olah, what a big photo!

There are few times in my life when I have been truly embarrassed. The first is when Samantha took our cardboard cutout of Edward from Twilight, put a big sign on him that said, "Sarah Prather, I hate you for making me want you so much," and proceeded to put this on the balcony of the biggest common meeting place at Carleton. Thank you for that, Samantha.

Yes, I used your full name. You know what that means.

Anyways, this sign was the second time I have been totally embarrassed. I know that my school was trying to welcome me, but a huge sign of my big, white face? Olah.

My family is great. They are well-respected in the community and pretty, well, rich. My house is yet another mansion (who would have thought I'd live in two in my lifetime!).

Which brings me to the big discussion about what the Peace Corps means. I am not going to hide that I joined the Peace Corps still chasing the romantic idea of being in the middle of nowhere with no modern-day amenities. Instead, this is my house...

My new room! Don't worry, PC, the mosquito has since been put up!

The facade of my rumah!

The parlor upstairs

My fancy hallway

Kamar Mandi!

I know. Not quite a hut in rural nowhere. And my counterparts all speak English pretty well. And my school is beautifully kept. And the teachers have computers, internet, etc.

So what is my role here?

I do not doubt that there is something I can bring to the community, but my selfishness leaves me asking, what about the hardships and stripping away of comforts I wanted the Peace Corps to bring?

Maybe I'm jumping the gun when I say that I don't foresee some of these hardships happening, and anyway, why do I desire these hardships? Actually, my Peace Corps friend and I were having an interesting discussion about hardships. He was telling me about a class of his on Muslim and Christian martyrdom at Brown University, and he commented that the Christian idea of martyrdom can be manifest in many different ways. This includes how monks began to live in remote locations without the best amenities. It was considered giving up worldly things and struggling in order to be closer to God. I wonder if that is what I sought when signing up for the Peace Corps, in addition to wanting to serve in educational development. Huh.

 On a positive note, I think that I am going to fit into my family and staff nicely! So far all th teachers are really nice, want to hang out with me and just talk, and are very conscious of making sure I feel at home. I am so impressed that so many teachers and my host family have asked me about whether or not I was able to go to church. Everyone wants to help me find one to go to. There are three to choose from, and I will begin checking them out next weekend. About a 15 minute drive, and on Saturday night, so I'm not sure exactly yet how I'll get there because biking at night may not be my first choice. I will have to befriend a parishioner with a car!

My host family consists of A'ang and his wife, Nurul, and their son, Adira (2). They are in their mid-20s and Nurul and I are already becoming good friends. She really wants to improve her English and is very brave to constantly try! Udik (24), Iqbal (20) and Fahri (13) are my other host brothers, and Fitriah (15) is my host sister. Ibu and Bapak are in their mid 40s and early 50s, respectfully. Everyone is very excited to hang out with me, learn about American culture, and help me learn Basa Jawa. I am definitely going to take advantage of Peace Corps' offer to pay for a tutor for the first year of my service. To see people's delight when they hear me try to speak is encouragement enough to continue to learn. I don't know if it is surprise that a white lady can speak their language(s) or happiness that someone like me cares so much about the people here that I want to learn their language, but I am happy to be that-white-lady-with-the-ridiculously-large-picture-in-front-of-school-who-is-learning-Javanese!!!

Myself with 3 of the teachers, Bu Ifa, Bu Tatik and Bu Lilik (one of my counterparts!)

Like Vanna White in the library!

The library!

The B-ball court and the library in the background (the white building!)

The volleyball court in front

On becoming Indonesian...

As my time dwindles down in Batu and I prepare to leave for Jombang, I am reflecting on how I'm feeling about life in Indonesia so far.

Selalu sakit di Indonesia

Always sick in Indonesia

I have had some sort of problem at least once a week, ranging from my eyes to my stomach to my head to my legs aching. Most of this is regular adjustment to the food and the climate, but each time I find myself back in the bathroom with issues at both ends, I pray that that is the last time this is gonna happen...it usually isn't.

Sudah selesai dengan 6 minggu kelas Bahasa Indonesia

Already finished with 6 weeks of Bahasa Indonesia class

I have finished 6 weeks of language training in Bahasa Indonesia and my test results showed that I am at an intermediate mid level. Allegedly this was good for the Peace Corps, as some got intermediate low and some got beginner status, but I could have just been told that to boost my confidence! Either way, I feel really confident in my Bahasa Indonesia, and I am excited to get a tutor for the next year to continue to improve. My host family has already complimented me on my language acquisition, which is probably one of the best compliments I have gotten here so far! 

Saiki, kelas Basa Jawa

Now, Bahasa Jawa class

I am currently taking one week of Bahasa Jawa which is, BONUS, three languages in one. The Javanese people are big on speaking to people of different ages and social standings with different levels. Not sure that I'm convinced that this is actually a bonus, more like a headache as I have to think about how to say one word 2-3 different ways...luckily, Bahasa Indonesia was created after Basa Jawa and borrowed many words, so some of the words that I already know in Bahasa Indonesia carry over into Basa Jawa.

Ngoko ("nGO-ko")	Krama ("Kromo")	Krama Alus  ("Kromo Ah-lus")
Spoken with people the same age as you, same social status, close friends	Spoken with older, respected people in the community. When mixed with Ngoko, used to speak to elder family members, as this signifies a mixture of closeness but respect.	Spoken with, from what I gather, VIPs, like the President! But maybe also with local government officials, too.
Aku arep mangan. I want to eat. Dheweke duwe anak 3. She has three kids.	Kula badhe nedha. I want to eat. Piyambakipun gadhah anak 3. She has three kids.	Kula badhe dhahar. I want to eat. Panjenenganipun kagungan anak 3. She has three kids.

As if life can't get any more complicated with this language, the Javanese love to shorten words. "Gak apa apa" becomes "gak pa pa" and numbers that are already only two syllables become one syllable by only using the last syllable. For a country with rubber time, I haven't figured out why there's a big hurry to say words faster!

First Impressions

As part of a portfolio project during Pre-Service Training, I had to ask my host family what they thought about me at the beginning, and what they think now. Based on the picture they received of me before I came, my host sister thought that I was about 28 and married (wow, did I look that good in the picture below?). I asked her it she thought that my husband was coming with me to Indonesia, and she said she knew he wasn't. Interesting that she was so nonchalant about the fact that I was going to leave my "husband" behind for 2 years...

Anyways, my host brother and his wife talked reflected on my curiosity, open-mindedness and enthusiasm. They think that these are good qualities to have in a new country; I agree! My host brother also said I was a little creepy, but he laughed hysterically as he said that. I hope that this isn't true...I think he was just excited to be using the word I'd taught him! My host sister-in-law also threw in that she thinks I'll be a good mother. Not sure where that fits in, but I'll take it!

Unexpected Experiences

Three friends and I attended an event on Monday that can only be described as the Indonesian version of a dance competition not unlike the movie "Step Up." Except this competition was linked to some sort of honorary military day, so everyone competing in the dance competition was either from the army/navy/air force/police, or the wife of the aforementioned people.

Basically, we went to see my friend's ibu (mom) and her dance students do traditional dancing. We figured there would be a stage and about an hour or two of traditional dancing in which various ensembles came onto the stage and danced.

Instead, the event was in a soccer field. It began with a parade of all the officials' soccer teams marching in with their similarly-clad teammates, like the Olympics. Then we got to sing Indonesia Raya, the national anthem of which I know approximately 10 words. Then the competition started...3 dance troops of 20-30 officers and wives danced at the same time. Each group danced to a traditional East Timorese song, "Poco Poco."  Meaning that each time 3 new groups came to the field to dance, the same song restarted. This experience definitely brought me back to Togo and how we constantly shrugged, saying, "Bienvenue à l'Afrique!" (Welcome to Africa!). We used this phrase whenever something that just blew our minds happened, but for the Togolese the bizarreness of the situation was totally normal.

But back to Indonesia.

Let's be real here, why would there NOT be Indonesian dance troops made of army men and their wives competing for 2 hours to the same song over and over again with dance moves that can only be described as straight from an aerobics class?!?!

 I rest my case. This is exactly like "Bienvenue à l'Afrique!"  Although for cultural sensitivity purposes, "Selamat Datang di Indonesia!"  That better?

The Enthusiastic Crowd!

This lady LOVED the boomwhackers!

Woo, go military dancers!

And the dance troops

Look at that center woman's pizzazz! Reminds me of Kels and Scott in tap dance! 

This group even had the sweatbands, just like aerobics class!

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Just to round out this post about how I'm feeling about live here so far...

Why I could live in Indonesia forever:

- Some of my clothes are different than people's clothing here and I am- let's call it what it is- super white, so I'm constantly called "cantik!" (beautiful). So great for my self-esteem!

- More organic food, albeit all cooked in oil...

- Lots of sweet food

- Someone is always willing to help you if you have any question

- You can go to a tailor to have clothes made for you, exactly how you want them, and you do not leave bankrupt

- Laundry can dry outside all year long!

Why I could not live in Indonesia forever:

- It has only been 2/27 months, and I'm already sick of white rice.

- My chocolate addiction is going to make me bankrupt, as chocolate is more expensive than most snacks.

- Eating salad results in being nasty sick because the lettuce was not washed in, I don't know, bleach or something! Yes, I am speaking from experience. Therefore, no uncooked veggies. Yet.

- Catholics and Christians are two separate religions. That's too much of a headache to try to figure out.

- Public, LOUD burping is not impolite, nor does it require an "Excuse me." I have yet to burp without saying, "Excuse me."

Only 2 weeks to go in Malang before heading to my permanent site in Jombang! Some fun adventures have happened this week!

Below you can see photos from my photo journal with Teguh. We gave ourselves one hour (and some extra minutes...) to walk around the campus and the neighboring streets and take a picture of all the letters of the alphabet. We had to be in the photos, and had to take them in order. This led to some hilarious interactions with strangers!

The next day, Saturday, we went to Batu to buy some batik (note: I didn't get stuck in my shirt this time!). Then off to the mall to buy a guitar (yep, gonna try to learn again!) and some lunch at the food court...french fries and sate ayam (sauteed chicken, yum!)

Then to Heruh's house to see his 2-week old baby (OMG!) and play a little guitar.


Today we went to Teguh's fully UN-furnished house (how does one live on a mattress, rug, and one burner in the kitchen?!) to cook hashbrowns, french toast, and have fresh fruit! Teguh approved of the French toast! More pictures on that to come!

The Peace Corps staff, ready to kick of my photo journal with Mas Teguh!

Mas Teguh and "H" at the end of "Rupiah!"

I pulled a fast one on these Indonesian ladies and asked to take a picture with them...usually strangers ask me, but I asked them right back this time! Here we are doing the "Cherrybell" thing that is storming Indonesian pop culture now, under the sign with lots of "Ks." (A clinic to make oneself more beautiful, cantik)

Mas Teguh and the funniest picture, by far. "O!"

Can you guess which letter this is? Use the tree branches...

X!

This is Teguh, advertising for you all to learn about the Sun-Earth Day 2012! Go to google and check it out! It is happening June 5th and 6th only!