Sara and Lee . com

Sorry, it’s been a couple months since photos have been uploaded. Now there are two new sets from our adventures at Sekaten and the PSS Game.

Sara has already blogged about the PSS game, and she is planning on uploading one on Sekaten soon. But in the interest of giving some context, I will give a brief description of Sekaten.

Sekaten is a festival celebrating the birth of the prophet Mohammad. While this sounds like a very religious thing, it really is more like Indonesia’s answer to the American county fair. There are ferris wheels, haunted houses and cotton candy, but there are also gobs of vendors selling everything from souvenirs to housewares to bras. Rides are similar, but they are, well they don’t quite have the safety standards we have back home. Overall, like the Equator, it’s totally awesome.

Sekaten Photos
http://www.flickr.com/photos/leebecker/sets/72157600159550643/

PSS vs Persija Photos

http://www.flickr.com/photos/leebecker/sets/72157600159600095/

*Note*: My apologies to Tom for using Flickr.

It’s hard to know what to make of being a celebrity.  Certainly in the US Lee and I are about as normal and boring as you get, but here, our mere presence is enough to elicit grins, waves, shouts, photos….and sometimes even the gathering of a crowd.  At first, the “Hello Mister” was jarring to me.  Then, when I realized that the grin that was usually offered with it was enough to nearly single handedly turn around a bad day, I grew to like it.  I still like it most times, even though in general I’d prefer to be referred to using the correct gender.   I even find the “I love you”s, and the “I miss you”s kind of funny, though I understand Lee’s point of view that they are sort of weird and disrespectful when he’s standing right there   Were this my “real life” though, the one I plan on living for years to come, I would probably be more sick of it.  It can be stressful being a constant spectacle, and it gets physically and emotionally draining dealing with it day in and day out.  I never thought that one of the things I would learn in Indonesia was sympathy for all those movie/music/whathaveyou stars who complain about “not enough privacy”

But the weirder thing lately has been the way that people want my phone number.  There were those early on who wanted it for “interest in dating” reasons, or “interest in learning English”, and I managed to keep those to a minimum.  Lately though, there have been a couple that are just plain odd to me…and a little sad.  The first was when my coworker, D, asked me if she could give my phone number to someone I’d met once at an “office retreat.”  I asked her why he wanted it and she said “So he can have the phone number of a foreigner.”  Harmless enough, I gave it to him….with the assurance that I would not be bothered.  Then there was a guy who came biking up to me on the street (as I was on bike) and talked to me for a bit when we had to pull over to make way for an ambulance.  He’s in his early 20s, works near me (in tourism), wants to practice his English, and knows that I’m married, so I gave him my number figuring maybe sometime I can help him practice, given that it’s convenient.  Upon receiving my number, he, a 20+ year old man, grinned, jumped up and down in a little dance of sorts, and proclaimed that he was “So excited” because this was his “first phone number from a foreigner.”   I tried to tell him, in both English and Indonesian, that foreigners were just people too, nothing special, and that I’m at least as flawed as anyone else, but he wasn’t buying it.

So why is this sad to me?  I guess just because of the value that some people (not all, but more than I’d like) seem to put on me, because I’m foreign, because I’m white, or because I’m a guest.  I’m hoping it’s mostly because of the latter, or just that I’m different, but I see all the whitening creams advertised on TV, including one that’s a “Detox” product, as though non-whiteness is toxic, and it’s just difficult to process.  Stories of plastic surgery where fake bones are inserted into peoples’ noses to make them more “pointy”, emulating “western” features are no more reassuring.  Is this really a nation of wonderful, creative, intelligent people conditioned to favour foreigners and lighter skin?    If only there were a way to explain to these people how great (even with its many, many flaws….er….differences) I think Indonesia is, and how much I’ll miss it when I have to leave.

On Saturday, Lee and I went to our first Indonesian soccer game. (and probably our last, seeing as the last home game of the season is tomorrow and we both have to work). The league is “Djarum Indonesia”, with Djarum being Indonesia’s premier cigarette brand. The teams are international, lots of Africans play for these Indonesian teams, and people from other places as well…and some Indonesians of course. We had heard from one of last year’s volunteers that soccer games were pretty much for men, and that it might be a little weird for me to be there, but the locals assured us that it would be safe, especially if we bought the pricey “VIP” tickets (which hooligans can’t afford – they are $4.50)

We went in support of PSS, the Sleman team, since we live in Sleman. They were playing against the Jakarta team, which also has a lot of supporters in Yogya. Sleman has a group of hardcore fans, “Slemania”, and even a group of female fans “Slemanona” (nona = word for Mrs, sort of). Anyway, Sleman’s colors are green and white, so I wore a green shirt for our bus ride and then rather long walk to the stadium. This meant that every person on the way grinned like idiots and yelled “Slemania!” or “PSS”…even the orange clad Jakarta supporters. It was a nice change from “Hello Mister!”

When we got to the stadium (which holds 30,000) there were already tons of people, even though we were nearly 2 hours early (VERY early by Indonesian standards). Some “parking officials” tried to charge us an “entrance fee”, but when we started talking in Indonesian, they started laughing and waved us through. Clearly there was no entrance fee for people on foot, just some guys who thought maybe we would pay a little if they asked. All the cheapest tickets had already been bought by scalpers, though there were still middle class tickets left. Thinking safety, we asked a security guard where the VIP ticket window was. He told us, but did not look enthused. I asked him “Is the VIP section exciting? Or is it always empty?” Immediately he looked much more animated and said that it was usually empty, and was mostly reserved for businessmen or foreign guests….we would be much happier with the middle class tickets ($1.75). So that’s what we got, figuring we could buy the more expensive ones later if we wanted to.  Then before entering we went and bought PSS t-shirts (but not scarves, which are equally popular but did not seem useful to us in the tropics even though Indonesians wear them with pride) and food and water (the water had to be emptied out of its plastic bottles and into plastic baggies — bottles being a problem as you might remember from a previous post)

The stadium is only 2 years old or so, but it has flooding problems, so on the top floor we had to wade through large lakelike puddles. We got to the middle class section (the “red” section”) and found that it was, as we expected, just concrete steps for bleachers and no assigned seats. Though it was pretty full, we managed to snag prime seats near the midfield line. The hardcore fans from each team sit in the cheaper endzone seats, and the VIP section was on the side directly across from us – also concrete bleachers, but with assigned numbers. Though we were a little worried about crowd violence or something, there were a few women sitting near us, and plenty of little kids (funny though, as far as we could tell, we were the only white people in the stadium, and it eventually filled to what we guess was at least 20-25 thousand people) Also, the Slemania fans would cheer (roughly translated) “Here is Sleman, there is Jakarta, everywhere is family” and then the Jakmania fans would cheer back “Here is Jakarta, there is Sleman, everywhere is family”. This went on for a while before the game, and pretty much told us that the fans were going to be civil to one another.

The game itself was played quite well. Surprisingly, the underdog PSS team dominated, and the ref did a really good job of letting people play through the small stuff, but being strict about big stuff (there were 3-4 yellow cards). There was an absolutely torrential downpour, which huge lightning, but this did not stop the game at all, just meant that people hid under umbrellas, ponchos, and their motorcycle helmets – except in the hardcore fan sections where they did coordinated cheers almost continuously throughout the game. Unfortunately, the bleachers were designed for drier conditions, and turned into waterfalls….which meant that people may have had dry heads, but everyone’s pants got soaked. By halftime, PSS was up 2-0 on a couple of very well orchestrated goals. Unfortunately, our section was oversold, which meant that when we stood up to cheer for said goals, people tried to rush in and steal our seats. Luckily we managed to save a little room, and were just mashed in a little. With each goal, the Slemania fans would light fireworks and sparklers in their section, to the point where the smoke looked a bit like a bomb had gone off in their endzone.

In the second half, the rain stopped, and PSS started playing what basically looked like “prevent defense.” This meant that of course Jakarta scored (complete with fireworks in the Jakmania seating area), but PSS was able to hold on for a 2-1 win. The mood was jubilant, but not too obnoxious, as fans here don’t drink. We followed the crowd out of the stadium to find that much of the parking area had flooded and peoples’ motorbikes were sitting in a foot of standing water. Nobody seemed too concerned about this; maybe they’re just used to it. We found a small bus (a van really)to take us back home, which sat until traffic had abated (30 minutes) and then filled up with a bunch of Lee’s students who had snuck out of the Pesantren to watch the game. As they ran over to board the van, they yelled “Mr. Lee!?!! Is Mr. Lee in there?” Maybe someone had told them in advance white people were on board, we’re not sure. Anyway, quite a coincidence! The bus/van broke down several times on the way home, making it necessary for the boys to get out and push frequently, but they were quite good-natured about it. Lee went ahead and paid their bus fare since they got off before we did. We paid the driver a little extra too, figuring that he was going to need it soon (his van sounded like it could die at any time, plus he lost his cell phone during one of our unplanned stops to fix it). All in all, it was a lot of fun!

Today as I sat alone in the office (others were at a meeting, in class, and/or buying printers today), someone came in and told me to come to the kebaktian.  The what?  Turns out I didn’t get the invitation to a sort of workplace religious service gathering that was taking place in two minutes (my organization is Christian, so yes, there are religious things here).  I headed over to find that I was the first person there (everything starts late) and was told that it was a service to celebrate Easter.  When I politely inquired, “Wasn’t Easter two weeks ago?” I was told that “It is better that we celebrate now than never.”  Ok, fine.  I sat and talked with a coworker, laughing at her as she threw trash out the open window behind her, rather than into the trash can beside her.  There are lots of good things about Indonesia, but littering isn’t one of them.

Half an hour later, there was singing of songs (hymns), a short opening prayer, and then a guest speaker to talk to us about Jesus and Easter.  The amazing thing was, I understood almost everything he said, the whole time!  He started talking about Easter’s meaning, then headed into a little speech about the 3 main temptations facing people.  These included wealth, something I couldn’t understand, and….women.  Or men, the speaker was quick to say.  Then he launched into examples of each temptation.  When he got to women (or men) it went something like this:

There are these women who work in PR (public relations).  Watch out for them!  They are very friendly, they always greet you and want to help you.  They are always asking “how can I help you?”  They are young and pretty, and they wear clothing that is appropriate for children (ie short skirts, short sleeves I guess).  Watch out for them, they can be trouble!  They are like Satan!

Luckily, I was not the only person at this point who was looking incredulous and laughing at the same time.  I think in the future I’ll continue to celebrate Easter in my own way, just eating crème eggs. 

Last night Lee and I were watching the news about a big speech recently given by the sultan in Yogyakarta. The sultan is an important guy culturally – sultanism has been passed down for generations and he’s well-respected, sort of like a king, even if he does not really wield political power. The station we were watching decided air an interview with the sultan and so we watched as he, clad in a bright yellow patterned shirt, black pants, and prominent blue argyle socks, sat answering all sorts of questions. Unfortunately, Lee and I were unable to concentrate on the program, not because we couldn’t understand it exactly, but because of the loudly squawking birds off-camera. As we sat snickering at this, the off-camera rooster started crowing….and continued to do so about every 30 seconds for the duration of the program. At this we both sort of lost it….roosters are truly _everywhere_!

While we were in Singapore, I have to confess that we both got a little “home”sick, oddly for Indonesia and not the USA.  Every day we would make comments to one another like “Imagine if this were Indonesia, these trails would be littered with trash” (in a nature area).  Or “I bet Indonesians would like these” (McDonalds fried banana pies).  Or “What IS this?” when people lined up in an orderly fashion to board the airplane in Malaysia.  Or even “He didn’t try very hard, did he?” when a bus conductor invited us onto his bus but did not grab our arms to pull us on or repeat his query after we gave a polite no.  Luckily, Indonesia was waiting for us, just as we had left it.

It started as soon as we got through the boarding pass check to get on the plane.  A little background, we were late to the airport and thus the very last people in line to board, on an airline that does not assign seats.  Luckily, in order to board the plane, you don’t just take a short covered jetway; you have to walk around outside, navigating around baggage trucks and the like.  As soon as we got out the doors, we started walking very speedily, and, as Indonesians tend to be more comfortable ambling than walking, managed to pass a good third to half of those who had been in front of us, ensuring our success in getting seats together.

Then, as the weather in Indonesia was bad, our destination airport got closed, necessitating a return to the gate before we even took off.  When we went to reboard the plane an hour later, there was no real line, just a sea of shoving, with us right in the thick of it near the front.  The poor Malaysian gate official kept saying things like “Do not cut” and “Do not push”, which were met with guilty slightly embarrassed little kid smiles from the passengers…and more pushing and cutting.  This time, thanks to our shoving and quick walking skills, Lee and I were among the first onto the plane and secured seats right near the exit row (strategic, what with this being Indonesia and all).  I think a certain family member of mine would really like the plane boarding process here.

After landing in Indonesia, we had our passports checked, collected our bags, and hit the customs desk.  The only question asked was “What’s in the box?” – the box being a 25 pound cardboard monstrosity filled with the chocolate and cookies we had brought back for everyone.  Rather than answer with much detail though, Lee just replied “oleh-oleh,” which roughly means “souvenirs for friends” and this was met with a “Good” and we were waved on.  At this point, another staff member seemingly recognized us from the week before, and suddenly most of the staff were watching us leave, calling out Javanese farewells and pleased by the few words of Javanese we managed to throw back to them.

Once back in Yogya, feeling much more at home amongst the crazy motorbike-laden streets, Lee asked his friend from Silat if there would be practice that night.  The reply was “Yes, just show up at the normal time.  Bring oleh-oleh, ha ha!”  However, when we showed up for Silat that night in our rumpled workout clothes, we were told that actually, we would be going to the wedding of the brother of one the members.  Luckily, we were allowed to stop at home for 5 minutes to change clothes first!  The wedding was nice…always fun to return to a place where dinner is cooked for you!  And what of the friend who said there was practice?  He had actually already left Yogya to move away to the island of Batam, and just chose not to mention that…so of course there was no way for him to a) know if there was practice or b) collect any oleh-oleh.  Ah, Indonesia, always there to remind us to stop planning too carefully and just go with the flow!

The next morning, before I went to work, our neighbour stopped by.  She had just baked a fresh pizza for us, and so we had piping hot pizza at 8AM.   Made no sense, but boy was it delicious.  It’s good to be “home,” even halfway around the world.

A while back I was walking to work down my usual neighbourhood alley and there, in the middle of the walkway, was a potted plant. I thought that was odd….people here take really good care of their plants as a general rule, and aren’t likely to let them stray. Only when I got a bit closer did I see that behind it was a giant hole, waiting for the road crew (probably aka the neighbourhood men) to install a drain. I didn’t think much of it afterwards until yesterday as I was biking home. I got to a busy 4-way intersection with a traffic light and there in the middle was a large potted plant. When it was finally my turn to go I got a better look and, sure enough, there was a big hole next to it. Orange cones have their charms and all, but give me a potted plant any day!

This is a little old…seeing as it was in December, but I forgot to publish then so here goes

In early December, I was told that there would be a national congress (ie conference) of people who were affiliated with my NGO and development in their communities.  International guests (mostly donors) were also invited, and after much muttering, my coworkers resigned themselves to the fact that they couldn’t afford real interpreters, so they asked me if I would be willing to act as an interpreter, should I be needed.  Of course I would….but…. as they knew, my language skills were still a bit weak, especially in the “speaking and listening” department.  I spent the next couple of weeks diligently watching TV and movies, reading all sorts of books on learning Indonesian, and generally trying to prepare myself for the terrifying reality that someone might be counting on me to communicate.

As luck would have it, most of the international invitees decided not to come.   When I think of national conference, I think of something at a big hotel, sort of like a big conference would be in the US.  This conference, however, took place in the areas hardest hit by last May’s earthquake.  Instead of comfortably cool conference rooms plush seats and tasteful-yet-opulent décor, meetings at this conference took place under giant tarps.  Instead of buffet meals with fine china, our meals came in small, white cardboard boxes complete with plastic spoons, all the food a uniform “room temperature.”  Nightly entertainment was held on an outdoor stage and consisted of people performing traditional dances from their regions, a comedy act or two, and then a singer who sang cheesy love songs as some of the attendees (all men, it should be noted) came up on the stage and unselfconsciously danced around her, some looking suave and some looking downright goofy.

Each day’s events were held in a different village, and in each village children grinned and peered eagerly at the commotion while women and men set up stalls selling food, drinks, and traditional local handicrafts.  I noticed that everyone would listen attentively when their fellow participants would speak, while when it was government officials, attention would wane.  During one speech, I think the speaker was a parliamentary official, the man next to me asked what I thought of the government, and then without waiting for a real answer, started talking about how the man speaking was like Jabba the Hut (well, he was a powerful guy who seemed very detached from the public…and he was extremely fat by Indonesian standards.)  Everywhere I went people wanted their picture taken with me, even though I really had very little to do with the reason they were there.  Shouldn’t _I_ be the one wanting my picture taken with them?  After all, they are the ones who have survived disaster after disaster, the ones who are bravely trying to rebuild and improve their communities.  It was strange.

My coworkers were all very busy facilitating the conference, so I was left to my own devices a lot, or rather, I was given to a very nice woman, Ibu T, for her to essentially babysit me.  She and her friends always made sure that I had food and drinks, and periodically checked my understanding of the events.  I had arranged to spend the night at the conference site, but predictably, at 9PM, I was told that the room I was supposed to stay in, that of a coworker, was full.  Ibu T said “well, I am alone in my room, you can stay with me.”  Her room turned out to be an 8×10 concrete cell in the back of someone’s house; it was made of cinderblocks and had a board as its one bed, had no windows, and was outfitted with a large can of RAID.  The light stayed on all night (I guess Indonesians don’t like the dark) and periodically I would be woken from an uneasy sleep by the sound of cows mooing outside, well, that and Ibu T spraying RAID, which she did at least twice during the night.  Though it was incredibly hot and we were sharing the bed which made it hotter, she was still seemingly chilly and slept with a blanket on, at one point pulling the blanket over me too (sweating miserably, I waited until she was asleep to kick it off). 

I was really impressed by all the sharing and ideas that came out of the conference.  Seeing these people who care enough to come from all over Indonesia and meet under tents, surrounded by palm trees and piles of earthquake-induced rubble, was pretty darn inspiring.  It’s the kind of thing that makes you strangely proud of them, and at the same time so angry at their government – like “Indonesian government, WHY can’t you just HELP these people?  Can’t you see how hard they are working to help themselves?”  Argh.  I guess that’s the constant complaint of people in this line of work all around the world. 

There is a word here that I hate, kehujanan.  It comes from the word hujan, meaning rain, and means “caught in the rain.”  You know things aren’t good in the foreign country you live in when they have one word specifically designed to indicate that you were caught in the rain!

I get kehujanan a lot, as does Lee, and lately, as it now rains 4-5 times per day, it’s pretty much every day.  Unfortunately, this means that nothing in our house is ever dry, the pretty blue walls are sprouting mold in places, and my bike is getting creaky from the damp.  It also means that when I accidentally split my rain pants the other night, I needed to get a new raingear solution stat.

It took me a couple days, but finally after soggily biking home in a downpour last night, I headed to the store today.  Only to find that, since it is near the end of the traditional rainy season, stores don’t have a lot of selection anymore.  I ended up with a long bright orange coat, chosen because it has real snaps so it won’t just flap all over the place, it is long so does not need rain pants, it will fit over my backpack and….it was there.  No matter that it was covered in dirt, obviously tried on 50 million times, and came in a very tattered package – it was still full price.  Here’s a list of raingear that Lee and I have owned while in Indonesia

1.)    The coats we brought from the US.  From EMS.  They are *nice* coats, so nice that I refuse to wear mine in Indonesia anymore.  I don’t want anything to happen to it!

2.)    The two headed brilliant blue poncho I bought as a joke.  It’s really cool, a poncho with two heads, but as it’s meant for couples who ride motorbikes, we haven’t had the chance to use it (and probably never will).

3.)    Lee’s first jacket/pants combo.  It was bright yellow, with a rather unnecessary neon yellow stripe on the back so he would be even more obvious to traffic.  The pants split one day and that was the end of it.

4.)    Lee’s second jacket/pants combo, dark blue.  This time, Lee reinforced the crotch heavily with tape to prevent splitting.  What he didn’t count on was this set isn’t exactly waterproof, so it’s like wearing soggy plastic bags with holes in them in the rain.  

5.)    My second poncho, one headed and dark green.  It would have been fine, but the side snaps were so weak that anytime I biked with it, it would flap all over the place showing my *gasp* uncovered knees sticking out of my rolled up pants.  This got to be too distracting, as I was constantly trying to cover up as I biked.  Lee has no such qualms about showing his legs, so he now uses this poncho.  Of course the problem is, it got caught on a fence while he was flapping around in it.  And a hanger poked through the hood somehow.  So now it’s tattered…but marginally functional.

6.)    My first jacket/pants combo, also brilliant blue.  The zipper started to come off the jacket since a) it was only held on by tape in the first place and b) I tried to stretch it around my full backpack.  The bigger problem though is the afore-mentioned split in the pants….in the crotch of course

And that brings me again to 7.) My new big orange coat.  I really hope this one will be the last.  We’ll see when I get kehujanan tonight.

In the U.S. small talk is usually about the weather or maybe what you do for a living. In Indonesia the focus tends to be on very personal details. “Where are you from?”, “Where do you work?”, “Are you married?” “How much do you pay in rent?”, “What’s your religion?” many questions Americans consider private are completely the norm in Indonesia. Answering this line of questioning on a daily basis has made it nearly impossible for me to distinguish between interest and invasiveness.

Last week, before going to Singapore, Sara and I spent a day wandering around Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. At one point in the day, the sun was getting to Sara, so she sat down and I continued to walk in the vicinity trying to get a good angle for a photograph of the largest flag pole in Malaysia. While walking around the lawns of Freedom Square, I said hello to a man washing his feet in a ditch. He recognized the greeting as Indonesian and told me the Malay equivalent, and then began into what seemed like a normal line of questioning.

“Where are you from?” America.

“What are you doing in Malaysia?” Travelling.
“Where are you staying?” I lied, and said I was staying at the YMCA.
“How much did the room cost?” Again I lied and gave a lower number than I really was paying. Remember, I answer things like this all the time in Indonesia.
“Do you like taking photos?” I smile, nod, and lift up my camera.

“Blah… blah… take photos… blah… blah…?” The Malay accent and pacing threw me off, so I didn’t get the full gist of the question. I gave a non-commital yeah.
“Blah… blah… baju?” Baju means shirt. Indonesia has both distorted my sense of normalcy and taught me when to be cautious. I’ve been asked to buy t-shirts. I’ve been asked if I wanted to donate my shirt. Past experience told me, that I didn’t want to be saying yes to this question. I ask for clarification.
“Blah… blah… buka baju?” Buka? Buka means open. I was still thinking that this guy wanted to sell me a t-shirt. I asked if he had some sort of store.

“Anda mau ambil foto saya berbuka baju?” It took me longer than I should have to process this. Before I fully comprehended the sentence I asked if he wanted me to take a photo of him.

A second later, right when I realized he was asking if I wanted to take nude photos of him he said, “Saya sex worker.” There really was no ambiguity at this point.

After a few seconds of awkward silence I said, “Sorry I’m here with my wife.” He apologized and then I replied with a “tidak apa apa” (“no problem”). Damn you Indonesia! I can’t even decline a male prostitute’s solicitation without being polite and taking into account how to save face.

Most people at this point most people would end the conversation. Instead I continued with the Indo small talk mode. I asked if he was working. He told me that he works at night and spends the day siteseeing. I followed by asking how long he’s been working as a sex worker. He then went into detail about how manysex workers work for someone else, but he’s been a “lone wolf” for a long time.

Given that I’ve never really chatted with a sex worker before, I just let curiousity dictate my speech, I asked how he liked his work. He said that sometimes it’s good sometimes it’s bad. But it’s better when the customer is satisfied. I still have not decided if this answer is surprising or unsurprising. Before this conversation, I had never really considered the parallels between prostitution and a typical cubicle job.

I didn’t know what to say at this point. So I blurted out “Be careful.”
“Why?”
“Ummm.. there are lots of diseases out there.”
“I was checked out last week. I’m clean. But, many sex workers are afraid to get tested.”
“Why? What are they worried about?”
“They are ready physically, but not ready mentally. They are scared to get tested. What’s your opinion?” I gave some vague answer about the importance of knowing if you were sick, and then told him that Sara works for an NGO that works with sex workers. She would have been much better equipped for this conversation. I guess I could have tried to fetch her as she was only about 100 feet away, but I really didn’t want to interrupt what little flow we had.

Somehow the talk of NGOs lead to a talk about religion, and the sex worker whose name I never did get started to open up. “I used to be a transvestite. I started taking hormones when I was 17 to grow breasts. I no longer do that, and now I just dress unisex, but god does not approve of my lifestyle. What do you think?”

I told him that it was between him and his god, and that in my opinion, if there is a god, he would not care. I added that it’s more important to be a good person.

He agreed and then opened up even more. “I sometimes have dreams that I am one of the beautiful women I see on TV. I am not gay though. I have slept with men and performed oral sex on them them, but I’m not gay. What do you think?”

I attempted to tell him how people need to understand it is not a choice, but it was just how he was born. I really felt bad for him, there probably is very little outlet or support for the marginalized in uber-strict Malaysia.

Sara recharged and ready to go came by to see who I was talking to. She actually thought I was talking to a woman as she could only see his long hair from afar. I wished him a good day, and we were on our way.

*This post’s title is a reference to how my friend Navin has been propositioned by a few men over the years.