Sara and Lee . com

Kody and I want to wish everyone who could not join us (including my wonderful wife Sara and her family), a happy Thanksgiving Holiday.

Lately Kody has been wearing an big, ugly t-shirt to prevent him from licking a wound he got from having a lump removed. Though the shirt is held on with safety pins and duct tape, he still manages to wriggle much of it off by the time we get home. Hopefully we can take it off in the next day or two, but in the meantime I’m going to laugh at how Eeyore-like this shirt makes him look.

We now have a mooshable lump of labrador in our home. Meet Kodiak aka Kody aka Kode Red aka Kode Warrior. Right now we’re only fostering him, but we may be adopting him in the not too distant future. It’s hard not to fall for a creature as sweet as Kody. He tolerates my strange schedule, my many hugs and my talking to him in a “Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals” voice.

To see photos of Kody click here or here.

It’s been over a year and a month since we left Indonesia, and only now that we have a house have we started to show our friends back in the U.S. some of the toys we brought back with us.  While we brought back a ton of things (another story that needs relaying one day), this post will focus on one of our most prized possessions, an action figure replica of a bakso (meatball) street vendor.

[picture here]
Acquired while taking a road trip to Lake Serangan, this figure was a gem hidden in a field of gawdy t-shirts, ugly jewelry, and cheap toys.� Its appeal is its perfect lack of appeal.� The muscular man isn’t equipped with a gun, sword, or lasso, he has but one simple weapon, a wheeled food cart.� Using Sara’s newly refined bargaining skills (with helpful advice from our friends Eko and Reny), we were able to obtain this treasure for less than $5.
Last night, while showing Mr. Bakso off to our friends, we realized that we had no idea what song is emitted from this device.� Even with careful listening, we could not deduce the exact lyrics.� Fortunately the Internet can provide answer which promptly quickly showed how little I really understood.

� For your enjoyment, I’ve posted the exact lyrics and a rough translation below.

Ok, ok, so the timing of this isn’t great, coming as it is right on the tail of part 2, but hey, my degree’s not in marketing you know? Besides, I would have been thrilled if all the Harry Potter books came out at once….and this tale is at least as epic as that one.

Just across the southern hemisphere line we waited, still full of appreciation for the greatness of the equator of course. And waited. Finally, a van full of schoolchildren and their teachers stopped by us, asking if we needed a ride back. Seemingly they desperately wanted to practice English with *Native Speakers*. Regrettably, as their van was already packed and as there were 4 of us, we had to decline. But consider this scenario, possibly mirrored in the northern hemisphere. Say in the US an elementary school Spanish class is on a field trip and sees a native speaker (employment and character completely unknown) standing by the road. Say they then offer a ride to said person, no questions asked, so that the students may practice their Spanish. Lawsuit!

I think the southern hemisphere just won any contest it and the northern hemisphere were having that day. At least at our tiny section of the equator.

The drizzle turned to rain and we moved to huddle under the massive metal equator land bridge with some of the local staff. Conversation covered the usual chit-chat and then….behold….a bus! Huge and luxurious looking, it approached and we stuck out our hands in the usual waving down a bus motion. As the bus slowed to a stop we moved to alight but…what? What do you mean no space? I don’t see anyone standing! Nobody is standing yet so there must be space! But no, the driver would not budge. Seemed that, despite the promise of receiving an inflated bule rate, the bus had a certain luxurious image to uphold and bedraggled us standing in the aisles wouldn’t cut it.

We were, at this point, noticeably worried about catching a bus, as well as wet, hungry, and sting-itching slightly from the bites of giant equatorial ants. Perhaps sensing our impatience, one of the local staff members changed the topic to questions about whether you spin faster at the equator than at the poles. And which way water would swirl when you flush at the equator. THIS was fascinating stuff! We didn’t come to any earth-shattering conclusions, but it was pretty cool just to be talking about this in Indonesian.

In the distance, a van approached, going absolutely 100% the wrong direction. As it got closer, we could see that its windshield said “Golden Boy” in ridiculously large, view-obstructing letters. I thought that was cool, given that it’s the name of Seinfeld’s favourite t-shirt, but didn’t think much more of it until the van pulled a quick u-turn when it got to us and offered to take us back to town for the same overprice we were charged on the bus. Of course, we agreed.

Once inside the van, we sadly waved farewell to the equator, then laughed and sprawled, thrilled with our luxury. This lasted for 5-10 minutes before we started picking up passengers. Lots of them. The van had seats for 7, plus a little stool to make 8, but we had 11. And then a 12^th wanted to join, but after taking a quick glance inside, he opted to ride hanging off the back instead. In the drizzly rain and (by this time) dark, twisting and bumping over the mountainous roads. Occasionally we would hear him tapping on the top or back of the van, possibly due to an emergency, though the driver seemed to think it was just a reassuring tap and acted accordingly (ie ignored it). It’s hard to say who had the better deal, as we were mashed together on the inside for the whole 2 hour ride, a kind of mashing that makes you think you’re paralyzed, as you go numb from the waist down. During the ride we were informed by the other passengers that we had paid too much. They all laughed, as did the driver, but nobody offered us any money back. I guess that’s the price you pay when you visit the equator, but really, the whole experience is priceless. THE EQUATOR IS AWESOME!

Where were we? Oh yes, at the glorious, awesome equator, tourist trap extrordinaire. No sooner had our feet touched the ground (still in the southern hemisphere) than we were mobbed by no fewer than 4 tshirt vendors. They heeded our polite requests for space (nanti, nanti aja! = later, later!) and we took in the splendour that was the equator. It was hard not to notice the shocking difference between the hemispheres or at least it should have been. We knew in our hearts that the northern hemisphere is much more sophisticated and wealthy, while the southern hemisphere is drowning in savages and poverty. Unfortunately this wasn’t totally evident from our vantage point, even when straddling the fading white painted equator line, but perhaps it was just hidden by the constant drizzle and light fog.

After experimenting with different ways to stand on and around the equator, we decided to visit the equator monument itself, an impressive epcot-esque metal orb obviously meant to evoke images of the earth itself. This was evident not only from the shape (ball!) but also from the rust and dilapidated condition (pollution!). When we nervously crossed the rusting bridge to enter the sphere, we found that it was in fact empty on the inside, save for some rusted, twisted metal pieces that had once formed a staircase to the bottom (the earth has no soul!). After a few documentary photos, we decided to run for our lives before the ball collapsed generously leave the monument so that other visitors could enter and take in the glory.

Next we headed for the under-construction Bonjol museum, located inside the equator complex. None of us had the slightest idea who Bonjol was (turns out he is the important man on the important 5000 rupiah bill here) but the museum had a huge towering statue in front, plus it itself was a whopping two stories tall, plus it had a roof and it was raining, plus the entrance fare was 10 cents. The museum was, we were guessing, avant garde, or whatever it is you call a place that is close to empty (featuring lots of floor space!). Highlights included a story about Bonjol and the 5000 Rupiah bill, and well-labelled relics such as various old rifles, an old dutch hat (safari hat) and an old tube (a native English speaker might choose the word binoculars instead) used by the Dutch. Strangely absent were any references to the equator and its sordid history.

When we emerged from the museum, it was finally time to face the tshirt vendors. We entered heated bargaining with them regarding shirt prices. It seemed that shirts could be all different sorts of prices, depending on quality, but none could be as cheap as tshirts in Yogya. Despite our most valiant efforts, we could not get the prices down to $2 or less per shirt, so we sacrificed and went without. I still tear up just thinking of it. Luckily, salvation came in the form of another souvenir, an even _better_ one, as it will not ever need to have fabric softener used on it. A S-T-I-C-K-E-R! But not just any sticker, a huge circular sticker, as big as my (or maybe Lee’s) head! It was dirty and tattered, but the largest sticker to be had, and the only one of its kind, so we took it.

At this point, we decided that as we were in the middle of the jungle, and as it was getting towards night, we should probably think about catching a bus home. First, though, Lee and I decided to share a special snack with our fortunate friends. When we came to Indonesia, we brought not one but TWO king-sized pina colada almond joy bars. One was sacrificed to ants (sort of a peace offering, though at the time we viewed it as an obscene declaration of war), but the other, mushed and oozing coconut everywhere, was our triumphantly celebratory equatorial snack. Unfortunately, it could only last for so long, maybe half an hour, even including the time needed to lick the melted part off of the wrapper. So why weren’t there any buses yet? (to be continued)

Indonesians seem to have no trouble finding a place to sleep. This can be interpreted in a two ways: 1) findings a spot that is physically comfortable or 2) finding a place to stay the night. Both are equally applicable. I should also add that there is no specific word in Indonesian for a bed. It’s simply “tempat tidur” which translates literally as “place to sleep”. Again, this is wide open to interpretation.
Not to be too harsh on Americans, but we’re a rather pampered bunch. Look at all the commercials for the Sleep Number. Comfort is big business in the U.S. and we’re pretty much convinced that you can’t sleep well without a suitable bed. Sara and I are quite guilty of this, and definitely have a preference for our own bed (more on this later). Indonesians seem much more versatile.

I’d say the average Indonesian has a bed or mattress. It’s not in the same league as a Sealy Posturepedic, but it’s good enough. A step down from there is a foam mattress. This seems to be the workhorse of the Indonesian sleeping world. At least for young, student-types. The kids at the Pesantren sleep on these, often with 12 kids to room. Going a bit lower, there are what are called “kasur tipis” or “thin mattress”. I’m not sure how many people sleep on them, but my guess is by the number I’ve seen being aired out during the day, that there are quite a few. Sara and I have one for our living room (we thought this would be a cheaper than trying to by coaches and chairs for one year) which I often pass out on as I watch TV at night. The old Indonesian standby is a straw mat on hard floor (I have yet to see real carpet in Indonesia). While these mats are most commonly seen in living rooms and restaurants for sitting around, socializing, and eating, they do overtime as a place to sleep. I found it endearing when one of my friends admitted that the sight of a straw mat made him sleepy.

Not that Indonesians do not have their creature comforts. While there are many that sleep nightly on a straw mat, tucking their arms under their heads for use as a pillow, the vast, overwhelming majority of Indonesians use, prefer, and possibly need a hug pillow to sleep. I’m not sure that hug pillow is the proper terminology. It is basically a long cylindrical pillow. The Indonesians term is “buntul guling” which translates as “roll pillow”. When Sara and I first came to Indonesia, we noticed there was a roll pillow on our bed. We thought it was for decoration, and promptly kicked it off our bed when we slept. Then we started noticing that every single bed is equipped with one of these pillow. I did not realize how these were used until October, when during our overnight drive to Surabaya for Idul Fitri, I saw our friend’s sleeping on the floor of the van with their arms cuddled around their hug pillows. It incredibly cute.

When Sara and I went to “Silat Camp” in a very rural village west of Yogya, we were once again reminded of how prominently these hug pillows are used. That weekend we were sleeping in tight quarters on the aforementioned straw mats, but there were no hug pillows. When I woke up in the morning, I saw an absolutely very un-American sight. My silat friends (men in their early to mid-20′s) were using each other as hug pillows. Again I found it very endearing, albeit a bit odd.

So now that we’ve established that Indonesians are a hearty bunch when it comes to sleeping, I wanted to address how open they are about sharing their home for you to sleep in.  It’s not just common, it’s exceedingly common, and I have only recently begun to figure out why.  I feel like we Americans often take house guests begrudgingly.  It’s almost perceived as an invasion of privacy.  As Benjamin Franklin wrote in Poor Richard’s Almanac, “Guests, like fish, begin to stink after three days.”

Indonesians seems to feel quite the opposite.  I recently visited a friend who had moved away from Yogya to Kendal, a regency several hours away.  I had only planned on spending one night at his place, but he and his family urged me to spend two nights because it would be more enjoyable for everyone.  On another occasion, while visiting a friend who only lives 5 minutes (by motorbike) away from our house, she and her family repeatedly insisted that we should spend the night at their house, and if not that night, then some night before we go back to the U.S.  Before Sara and I had spent a night at the pesantren during Lebaran, we were frequently asked when we wanted to spend the night.  On some nights after visiting Silat friends, we are repeatedly urged by people who those who do and do not live at the house to just spend the night instead of riding our bikes home.

This is in direct conflict to a very strong instinct Sara and I have to sleep in our own bed.  Back in the U.S. there was always a designated driver, so that we could be sure to get home.  Spending the night is something for people coming from out of town or college students crashing in a drunken stupor, not grown adults with a place of their own.  But to Indonesians it seems to be that having someone spending the night is a sign of friendship and closeness.  By sleeping in their place you’re saying you are like family.  When I first went to the home of my Silat teacher in Yogya, he pointed to a corner of the living room and said that “Your teacher back home used to sleep there.”  I’ve even heard people talk about me with other guests to the pesantren explaining how Mr. Lee and his wife very much enjoyed it there and that they even spent a night there.

And while I’m sad to be leaving Indonesia in the next week, I’m excited about sleeping on my nice and cushy Denver Mattress Company bed once again.  Also it will be good to see family and friends.

One year ago today, Lee and I got on the first plane in a series of flights that would finally dump us in Indonesia.  It was difficult; we knew we wanted to do this, but were so torn about leaving our family and friends.  I remember wondering, though we had been planning this for over a year, what in the hell we were doing.  There was a lot of excitement, but also a lot of sadness.  Of course we knew we would be coming back to the US, but also knew that it would never be the same again, that we would never be the same, and that we were closing the door on a chapter of our lives.

Fast forward a year, and we’re a few weeks from leaving Indonesia.  The feelings are altogether too similar, maybe even more tinged with sadness and regret.  They say that Indonesia will always be there for us to come back to, and that’s (probably, depending on natural disasters of course) true, but it won’t be the same, and I’m really going to miss what we have here, now.
Funny how our time here, which seemed so long a year ago, seems so short now.  But there are still 26 precious days left!  What a year it’s been……

The other day I was asked by my coworkers if I wanted to go to the local community-access-type TV studio the next night for a quiz game show.  Well, of course I did!  But…what exactly _IS_ this event, I asked.  I was told that it was the XXXX Quiz show, that there would be a band, and that my organization was invited as a special guest. 

I’ve biked by this studio before, it’s right near our house.  And while biking by there, I’ve seen dangdut (a rather popular with the men kind of music here…it deserves a post of its own) concerts with people spilling out into the street.  I’ve also watched a quiz game before, sort of like a Jepoardy-meets-HIV/AIDS-awareness event put on by my organization.  So, I asked, I don’t have to do any quiz show stuff, right?  Because I don’t know if I would understand the questions.  I was assured that no, I would not be quizzed.

Having watched a quiz-gameshow thing, and having seen a band playing at the TV station, I thought I knew what to expect.  Teams (perhaps made up of some members of different organizations, including my own) would compete in a quiz show.  Afterwards, there would be a band playing outdoors.  It would be a fun and relaxing party!  I asked if Lee could come, and was told that yes, he was welcome too.

The next morning, I noticed that my coworker, D, was wearing a nice batik shirt, quite the departure from her normal t-shirt.  As she was attending a conference that morning, I thought not too much of it.  When we all piled into the car to go to the quiz show though, I started to get suspicious.  Why were most of my coworkers wearing batik or nice jackets, while I was wearing a tshirt and a sporty hooded sweatshirt?  We got to the TV studio and….oops, no party outside.  Lee soon showed up wearing jeans and a tshirt and we followed the others inside.

To a TV studio.  Full of a studio audience wearing nice batik clothing.  With a stage and fancy beruffled betableclothed tables in the front with fancy be beruffled becovered chairs and waitstaff serving tea in special flutey-tutey looking glasses.  That was the reserved section, where my coworkers and I were to sit.  Lee and I were horrified (he perhaps moreso that I was, as at least I had a sporty hooded sweatshirt).   We know from experience that as bules, we may be called on to do embarrassing things like “go up on the stage and sing and dance”  And here we were wearing very sloppy clothing and looking generally like crap, perhaps even moreso than usual.

As such, we declined to follow my coworkers and sat/hid together in the back row.  When one of the tables in front had nobody sitting at it minutes before the show was to start, we were asked to sit there, but politely and firmly declined.  Let someone Indonesian sit there, we begged, we are happy in the back.  Luckily, after insisting 4 times, we were left alone and some other lucky group sat at the coveted table. 

The show consisted mostly of a couple of bands on the stage playing older songs that neither of us knew (though much of the audience could sing along).  Whenever the announcer spoke, Lee and I would slump and/or stuff our mouths with food, in hopes that we would not be singled out for anything.  Luckily, for once we were ignored (mostly, except by the guys standing behind us, who seemed to think that we should clap and dance along to the music like they were). 

Toward the end of the show, there was the “quiz” part, in which simple multiple choice questions (2) were asked and at-home viewers (not my coworkers) could call in for prizes.  That part took all of 3 minutes, leaving me wondering why it was called a quiz show at all.  A representative from the Bethesda hospital was asked to speak and she talked about the services that he hospital provides – for 20 seconds – and then launched into a speech about how the hospital also has a community development unit (my organization).  Then Mr O, one of my bosses wearing his usual black tshirt and black jeans, spoke.  He was followed by Mr B, also from my organization, and wearing a batik shirt hidden under a brown motorcycle jacket because he was cold. 

Afterwards, on the van ride home, my coworkers were jubilant.  “Look at all the publicity we got!  More even than the sponsor!”  Then the peals of laughter started “But they will think that we need to start a program to buy clothing for our staff!  They will think we do not have enough money for good clothes!”  Then I realized that my clothes probably would not have mattered, that maybe I should have just gritted my teeth and sat up in the front, enduring whatever humiliation may have arisen.  Lesson learned:  I guess I’m not Idol material after all (yet!).

Karimunjawa is a beautiful set of tropical islands, a national marine park in fact, just north of the Java island (which, for those not in the geographic know, is the island we’ve called home lo this past year).  It doesn’t make the “to do” list for most tourists, as it doesn’t have a lot of facilities and access is limited.  However, after seeing some of our fellow vols’ pictures and hearing their stories, we were convinced that we had to go.

The first step of our trip involved catching the bus to Semarang, where we would spend the night as a “hopping point” to get to the islands.  As we live a 20 minute walk from the bus station, this was not hard.  We chose the luxury bus, which had AC and a TV.  It was pretty empty, being the luxury bus and all, but it was a nice break from having chickens sitting around you for hours.  And, it was only $1 more than the regular bus.  Sometimes when you’re on vacation, you have to think in American dollars….  Unfortunately, the AC-ness of the bus was a bit extreme and I was actually cold to the point of pain.  I spent most of the trip curled in a shivering, heat-conserving ball trying to sleep. 

Once we got to Semarang, we decided to immediately search for a boat ticket to Karimunjawa.  We went to the Pelni (official national boat company) office and were told there was no boat.  Standing in the office, Lee placed a call to the office (to the employee standing 100 yards away) and was told that there was a boat.  He went to the desk and mentioned that he had just called and been told there was a boat.  Apparently, though, the person who had talked to him on the phone thought he meant a _different_ Karimun, and in fact, there really was no Pelni boat.  There was, however, a private boat.  You could buy tickets for it on X street.  But the ticket guy didn’t know a) the name of the place to buy tickets or b) its address. 

We took to the streets, baggage in tow, and finally found a taxi to flag down.  We told the driver the street name and he started off.  As we got closer he asked “What is the address?”  “We don’t know”  “What is the name?”  “We don’t know”   He could have been a real jerk about it and driven us around for an hour pretending to look for it (and oh, the tens of dollars he could have raked in!) but instead he was nice enough to take us to the street it was on and drive slowly, helping us look for it.  Good thing, too, as he was the only one who saw it – a tiny sign for what turned out to be a booth in a convention center or something like that building.  There was nobody at the booth, but once the security guards heard that we wanted to buy tickets they told us to wait a moment and called the guy who runs the boat.  Though he was “on vacation” he made it to the office in 10 minutes just to sell us tickets.

The next morning caught a cab to the harbour, arriving a nervewracking 5 minutes before our boat was set to depart.  Some helpful vendors told us that we would have to run to catch the boat, and when Indonesians tell you you’re late for something, you know you’re _really_ late.  The boat ride was fun, 2-3 hours of plush seats and A/C, plus the opportunity to walk/lurch around on the deck and admire the ocean.  For entertainment, there was a TV playing oddly-chosen movies (who wants to see a movie about sharks attacking when you’re in a tiny boat on the sea?) and somewhat provocative music videos from the 90s. 

Eventually we reached our tropical island paradise destination which looked….exactly like a tropical island paradise should look.  We weren’t sure where to stay on said island, so we allied ourselves with some Indonesian tourists from Jakarta who had commissioned a van to take them around to various hostels.  As the van was full, we shared the single front passenger seat.  Not wanting to be too “rich American-y”, we chose a hostel without A/C, figuring “How bad could it get?”  The first night on the island was spent in misery, a fitful 6 hours of 10 minute dozes interrupted by the whine of mosquitoes and much tossing, turning, and jockeying for a position that would allow access to the stale breeze provided by the room’s tiny fan.  We “woke up” in the morning at 6AM, as electricity stopped then (electricity was only available during the night pretty much anywhere on the island), and took inventory of the damages.  I had 30 mosquito bites on ONE KNEE!  That afternoon, after returning sunburnt from snorkelling, we somewhat ashamedly switched to a more luxurious place, which, though it lacked western-style toilets, had AC, TV, beautiful rooms, and well sealed windows and doors.   This was kind of a big deal, as the island really only had the one main village and everyone seemed to know what we were doing at all times.  We got asked many times “Oh, so you switched hotels” and it seemed like the little family-run hostels were all joined against the fancier hotel that we switched to….but sometimes you just have to do what’s best for you and not care what others think I guess.

After snorkelling, and after switching hotels, we noticed to our consternation that the large boats, one of which we had counted on bringing us back to the mainland, were no longer in the harbour.  We asked about this and were told that indeed, there would not be a boat for another 2 days.  Though the evidence was against us, we showed our brochures, which clearly stated that there should be a boat ready to leave the next morning.  No such luck. (we later found that the schedule had changed…it was clearly posted in a tiny booth near where one would buy return tickets)   It is perhaps a reflection of how long we have been here that we seriously contemplated taking a tiny fishing boat back, like the wooden kind that can only hold maybe 6 people.  Luckily, there were none available for the next day, so we were forced to stay on the island.

None of the above makes Karimunjawa sound particularly attractive I suppose, and maybe that’s for the best, as I’d hate to see it spoiled like Bali from too much tourism.  However, in the interests of accuracy and honesty, here are the other parts.  Before going there, I never realized that sand could actually be so white, or that there were so many blues in the world, or that the little-used crayola “sea green” of my youth is actually an accurate portrayal of one of the many greens found in the sea.  Nor did I understand that all these things seen together, whether from a boat or from a cliff, are incredibly, vibrantly awe-inspiring.   Nor did I expect that shop owners and local English teachers, people we’d known for maybe minutes, would invite us into their home, delighted with the chance to speak with us (though I guess I _should_ have expected that, given the way some people in Yogya are).  There aren’t bars on Karimunjawa, the place only has 1 “restaurant”, which really is more of a food stall, electricity is for the nighttime only, etc – but when you have entire beaches and roads and cliffs to yourself, surrounded by tropical beauty….it’s definitely worth it.