As an American living in a foreign country, sometimes I get this enormous urge to rant. Perhaps something bad has happened to me, or I've witnessed something horrible -- a messy experience in traffic, an upsetting interaction at work, sexual violence or discrimination. It has to be something so frustrating that my blood will boil, and I'll want go straight to my fellow expats who might be able to empathize, and I'll want to tell them all about it.
For smaller problems, I try not to rant too often, mostly because I'm afraid to make it a habit. It's easy to fall into a certain trap of ethnocentrism (as if we don't have our own issues to deal with back in America). The truth is, I've heard of expats out there who will meet with other expats, and dinner gatherings will involve complaining about the people they interact with on a daily basis. What started out as a therapeutic exercise to get something off their chests has turned into a gathering of hatred... and weren't we, instead, supposed to become more open-minded when we decided to go abroad?
When trying to come up with explanations for any tough situation, the challenge comes in trying to think about what just happened from a more wide-angle lens. It's not easy, because it seems natural to cross-reference our current experiences with what we're familiar with back home. It takes a certain amount of education, wisdom, and compassion to realize that sometimes our "advice" might not be entirely relevant because of such vastly different social, economic, and cultural circumstances. That's not to say we need to accept the upsetting thing that happened, but the question is more so, how do you deal with it appropriately?
It's during these challenging moments that I then turn to some of my local friends -- people who are arguably more equipped to analyze the situation, since they are more familiar with the local context.
The discussion is usually fruitful. Sometimes I'll learn that although I'm frustrated, my frustration is not a unique and entitled expat frustration. In fact, there are locals who are also frustrated by the same thing, and certain NGOs and groups exist to try and combat those very problems.
Traffic laws and road customs, for example, are not some kind of static, never-changing ideas. When you hear people tell stories about traffic in Southeast Asia, you might hear them talk about how limited rules (or "no rules") is the way of the land, and that if you want to live there, you have to learn how to drive like everyone else. Usually that means buying a motorbike and quickly adapting to the flow of traffic. I was once riding with a group of expats and Indonesians, and as we approached a red light at a major intersection, they decided to stop their vehicles in the on-coming traffic lane, knowing that no vehicles would come. One of them joked that everyone was riding "Indonesian style."
But do you ever hear about local groups that are trying to change how things work? Local groups that are trying to fight for bike lanes, pedestrian rights, and tougher enforcement of traffic laws? Groups that are trying to expand and improve public transportation? They exist, and they're there, even though they seem invisible among the roar of traffic.
I'm writing about this now because I got in a really weird, upsetting, and awkward accident yesterday on Maliboro. A becak (pedicab) rammed into my back wheel of my bicycle, and I almost fell off. We weren't going very fast because there were pedestrians scattered around us, but it was a noticeable impact for sure. When I turned around, the passengers -- two Ibu (middle-aged women) -- were laughing! The tukang becak (pedicab driver) was smirking. None seemed apologetic. It was one of those blood-boiling moments that left me feeling very confused about how to respond. I shot them all a mean, dirty look before moving on.
This is going to take me a while to mull over and come to terms with. I'm going to be thinking about how crowded that street was; could I have been riding differently? I'm going to think about the pedestrians I was avoiding on the road; I'm glad none of them were hurt. I'm going to be thinking about the laugher, and how laughter and smiles can mean something different here.
And should I have just ignored them or laughed it off, instead of getting upset? My co-worker once told me, "If someone gets upset, it means they're not from Jogja." We had just witnessed a motorbike driver get super angry when his rear wheel got bumped by a car that had been creeping forward at a stop light. The motorbike driver slammed his hands into the hood of the car to express his discontent. Apparently this action was very un-Jogjanese, which my co-worker confirmed by his license plate. I couldn't help but empathize with the motorbike guy, but my co-worker seemed to think differently, as if the biker's actions were not justified.
What it boils down to it, I think, is this: cities like Jogja are the kind that attract people from all over the country, as well as internationally. With over one hundred institutions of higher education, that's not exactly something you're trying to avoid. And if that's the case, we need to learn how to bring different kinds of ideas together to challenge some of these very real problems. If a newcomer gets upset, maybe there's a good reason for it. In terms of traffic, there needs to be a strategy in dealing with the vehicles that have increased in number throughout the last decade, the increased pollution and congestion on the road. It's definitely not an easy feat. The traffic all over SE Asia is changing, so how do we plan for positive solutions? It's a challenge that locals and newcomers are going to have to work on together.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Saturday, February 8, 2014
A Saturday Before Work
Mornings are always filled with the same sounds. At about 4am the rooster starts crowing. I've learned to tune him out while I continue sleeping, and he blends in with the morning prayer. In addition to the rooster, our neighbors have a hen and four chicks. Before a month ago, these birds barely existed. Now they're the first things I look for when I leave my house.Then there's Molly, a fluffy brown dog that's growing up too fast in her cage. During moments of heavy rain, you hear her whining, and your heart breaks a little each time. Kak Lidya decided to voice concern to our neighbors, so they recently added a canvas to cover up the exposed side of the cage. Molly gets taken out from time to time, and when she does, she goes absolutely insane, sprinting in every direction, jumping all over me. In the morning, like now, she barks sporadically. I've been thinking about dogs lately, and how nice it would be to have one. I'm not sure when I would be ready for the commitment.
Somewhere in the main kampung street, there are birds chirping happily. I listen to them until they stop, abruptly, as if they've moved on to the next neighborhood. Occasionally a motorbike revs up its engine: someone going to work or out to run an errand. And even further out, past the kampung, there's a dull roar from the main road of Monjali. Jogja wakes up early. A baby cries.
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| Path outside my house |
Friday, February 7, 2014
Our Potential for Greatness
I stumbled across an article today titled "The Asian-American Quarter Life Crisis" that really resonated with me. It's a piece that I think every Asian-American parent & child should read, as well as anyone who may be struggling with their career due to societal pressure. Here are a few passages:
I made a new friend the other day, a Chinese-American, who recently graduated with a degree in Environmental Science and Public Policy. This girl has a way of talking, of inviting you to listen. She's got a smile that makes you certain she has a million friends... yet you still want to be friend number 1,000,001.
We talked for a long time at a coffeeshop, and as we sat there on a saggy couch, sipping our too-sweet coffee shakes, she confessed what she really wants to do: I want to spend time on the island of Kalimantan, tackling deforestation problems with local NGOs.
Please believe me when I say, these dreams are within her reach. Contrary to the notion that dreams are up in the clouds, hers are there in front of her, as many of our dreams actually are. She's come this far, and she's going to grab it. She knows what she wants to do, and she knows how to network. She already knows a few people who could help set her up.
She's also very humble.
In a fit of curiosity, and as I am wont to do among other Asian-Americans I find in SE Asia, I started interrogating her about how her family felt about her being in Indonesia. She answered almost immediately that her parents didn't support her decision, that her parents would rather have her working a more stable and lucrative job. That she had to defy her family's desires so she could pursue her own.
I wasn't surprised, but it made me sad -- not just for her, but for her family too. We all want our parents to be happy, and it's unfortunate when choosing to take care of ourselves, emotionally and professionally, results in their disappointment.
So is she self-centered? Is she ungrateful? How can she be, when all she wants to do is preserve the environment we call Earth? She's leaving her mark in a way that she does best, in a field that she feels passionately about. Maybe she'll help save some trees along the way, and if she does, I will applaud her efforts. More rainforest in Kalimantan means more biodiversity, and not to mention, happy orangutans.
I made sure to tell her that I thought she was doing the right thing.
In my experience, it's always nice to hear that.
Working a job that you don’t like isn’t unique to Asian Americans, obviously — it’s a problem so common that complaining about it is cliche. But I think this issue is especially pervasive in Asian American communities. For one, Asian cultures tend to be risk-averse, to value knowing your place and not rocking the boat. On top of that, our parents came to this country for the sake of financial security and stability, and they inculcated us with the same values. Most of us have been raised to think about our futures for as long as we can remember. It starts with math workbooks. Gifted summer camps. Endless SAT prep. All for the sake of fabulous college applications, which lead us to the best universities. The best internships. The best (read: most lucrative, most prestigious, most stable) careers, which usually fall somewhere in the vicinity of medicine, law, engineering, and (corporate) business.
In midst of all this striving for the best, there’s little to no attention paid to what we might actually enjoy. That would be indulgent, if not completely unheard of. There’s little concern in Asian cultures for personal strengths and weaknesses; there’s no such thing as someone who’s “not a math person” or “not an science person,” because excellence in any area can be attained through hard work. There’s nothing that can’t be achieved through more repetitions or more discipline.
...
The result of all of this: a generation of Asian Americans who are excellent at achieving but have no idea what they want to do. (Or, if they do know, are reluctant to pursue it because it isn’t as stable or well-paid as their current jobs.) A generation that is incredibly successful but, professionally speaking, not terribly happy.
...
I can’t help but wonder what kind of creative, innovative projects and careers Asian Americans would tackle if they weren’t confined — psychologically, financially, or culturally — to jobs they didn’t enjoy. And how much happier and more fulfilled they might be as a result.I've been thinking about this issue lately. What kind of amazing things can we, as individuals, pursue if we didn't have anyone to answer to? If we decided to take more risks? If family members and friends supported one another to pursue aspirations, even if it means going against cultural norms and expectations?
I made a new friend the other day, a Chinese-American, who recently graduated with a degree in Environmental Science and Public Policy. This girl has a way of talking, of inviting you to listen. She's got a smile that makes you certain she has a million friends... yet you still want to be friend number 1,000,001.
We talked for a long time at a coffeeshop, and as we sat there on a saggy couch, sipping our too-sweet coffee shakes, she confessed what she really wants to do: I want to spend time on the island of Kalimantan, tackling deforestation problems with local NGOs.
Please believe me when I say, these dreams are within her reach. Contrary to the notion that dreams are up in the clouds, hers are there in front of her, as many of our dreams actually are. She's come this far, and she's going to grab it. She knows what she wants to do, and she knows how to network. She already knows a few people who could help set her up.
She's also very humble.
In a fit of curiosity, and as I am wont to do among other Asian-Americans I find in SE Asia, I started interrogating her about how her family felt about her being in Indonesia. She answered almost immediately that her parents didn't support her decision, that her parents would rather have her working a more stable and lucrative job. That she had to defy her family's desires so she could pursue her own.
I wasn't surprised, but it made me sad -- not just for her, but for her family too. We all want our parents to be happy, and it's unfortunate when choosing to take care of ourselves, emotionally and professionally, results in their disappointment.
So is she self-centered? Is she ungrateful? How can she be, when all she wants to do is preserve the environment we call Earth? She's leaving her mark in a way that she does best, in a field that she feels passionately about. Maybe she'll help save some trees along the way, and if she does, I will applaud her efforts. More rainforest in Kalimantan means more biodiversity, and not to mention, happy orangutans.
I made sure to tell her that I thought she was doing the right thing.
In my experience, it's always nice to hear that.
Blogging and Social Media
My good friend and part-time roommate Rifka recently linked me to this job description, which seems like an absolute perfect job when you look at it from a purely professional standpoint. Imagine - being able to turn your silly blogging habit into a five-figure salary, where you can work from anywhere, get a free Macbook Air, read as many Kindle books as you want, and have a very loose vacation policy.
It's totally the kind of white collar job we all dream about, and when I see a five-figure salary like that these days, after living two years without one, I can't help but goggle.
More importantly, though, it got me thinking about the power of social media in SE Asia, and how blogs, twitter, and fb groups are actually REALLY critical tools, especially for development organizations. It's a great way to keep the rest of the world knowledgeable about current projects, while adding some visual legitimacy and documentation that's there for the world to see. My contribution's to YDD's social media has mostly been through photography. A couple photos I've taken in the field (that I'm actually quite proud of) have even made it to our Alliance website. Here's one.
It also got me thinking that while I'm here, I really want to find ways to improve my blogging habits. So I did some quick googling to find out how, exactly, I might go about that. Some typical pieces of advice boil down to the following: write shorter entries, write often, and establish a voice. Maybe I ought to practice these things, if not for readers, then at least for the sake of developing my social media skills, which I can hopefully put into positive practice as I continue on in my career.
It's totally the kind of white collar job we all dream about, and when I see a five-figure salary like that these days, after living two years without one, I can't help but goggle.
More importantly, though, it got me thinking about the power of social media in SE Asia, and how blogs, twitter, and fb groups are actually REALLY critical tools, especially for development organizations. It's a great way to keep the rest of the world knowledgeable about current projects, while adding some visual legitimacy and documentation that's there for the world to see. My contribution's to YDD's social media has mostly been through photography. A couple photos I've taken in the field (that I'm actually quite proud of) have even made it to our Alliance website. Here's one.
 |
| Two YDD employees meet with a Bapak from Kulon Progo to demonstrate how lighting cones work to increase ignition time while reducing start-up emissions. |
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Lunar New Year in Yogyakarta
The weekend wanted to slip by unnoticed. It snuck up on me on Thursday when my co-workers casually mentioned that Friday was a hari libur. I perked up at the mention of a day off, a bad habit that's been instilled since I was a kid. I thought of all the things I could do -- all the sleep and the reading and the coffees to be had. Maybe I can wake up at 6am and go on a bike ride... but do I really want to?
Of course, ideas of a purely self-centered day flew out the window when I realized the case for the holiday: Lunar Near Year, celebrated by both Chinese and Vietnamese alike. How could I have forgotten? Living in Asia, forgetting Chinese New Year might be akin to living under a rock.
To be fair, the Chinese New Year celebrations in Jogja tend to be a little more downplayed compared to other countries in the region. The visual reminders aren't as obvious as, say, in Vietnam (where it's known as Tết) or Singapore. My Chinese boss even told me that she herself doesn't identify with the occasion, at least not to the same extent as Christmas. There were two years in a row when she had to work in Flores, an island east of Java, and didn't even notice when Chinese New Year slipped by.
My weekend started off with the delightful smells of lemongrass, garlic, and fish sauce. Ly, my roommate from Vietnam, started cooking early in the morning, preparing to host a lunch party with friends, to which I was happily invited. When I passed the kitchen in a half-sleepy daze, the room was already filled with a lovely fragrance. I promised not to eat anything until the party started.
The result was a delicious and colorful assortment of egg and crab soup, garlic fried chicken, and beef tomato stew, all prepared with a balance of flavors, while of course maintaining the staple of fish sauce. I've been quite fascinated lately (read: obsessed) with Andrew X Pham, a Vietnamese-American writer/food-enthusiast, and in a cookbook he wrote titled A Culinary Odyssey, he describes fish sauce as being "the soul of Vietnamese cooking."
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| Food for Tết |
The food was luar biasa (extraordinary!), but honestly what also made this one of the coolest parties I've attended in Jogja was the spontaneous singing and dancing that followed the meal. My other roommate, Kak Lidya, has a talent for knowing how to play and sing traditional songs from many islands in Indonesia, so she played the tunes on guitar while everyone sang (or tried to sing) along. It was like having a musical tour of Indonesia, all in the comfort of our house.
I was especially happy when Kak Lidya taught us how to dance the poco-poco, dero', and manortor, three traditional dances from her home island of Sulawesi. I caught on very quickly to poco-poco, since it's identical to a dance I once learned in the Philippines when I was a kid. I'm not the only one who knows about this, either. It's neat to finally know the origin of this dance!
Honestly when I started this entry I wanted to write in detail about the entire weekend, but I'll stop here to keep it short. Suffice it to say it was a good one, involving live reggae music, massages, long walks, bike rides, good food and good company. It was a pretty good example of how in-tune I've become to my casual lifestyle here, and I really could be happy doing the same thing weekend after weekend. But with the calendar crossing off days until I return to the US, I may need to be more diligent about ticking off all the other items on my bucket list: all the eco-villages I need to visit, all the farms I need to volunteer at, all the educational programs I want to help with, all the mountains I need to climb, all the beaches I need to sleep on, all the neighboring cities I need to bike to. Gonna shoot for it all, I guess, and if I don't get them all ticked off the list -- hey, at least I've had the chance to live in Indonesia.
This dance, known as "Tortor", comes from north Sumatra. According to my friend Rifka, who comes from the region, giving and receiving money in this way symbolizes the respect and love among Bataknese people.
Honestly when I started this entry I wanted to write in detail about the entire weekend, but I'll stop here to keep it short. Suffice it to say it was a good one, involving live reggae music, massages, long walks, bike rides, good food and good company. It was a pretty good example of how in-tune I've become to my casual lifestyle here, and I really could be happy doing the same thing weekend after weekend. But with the calendar crossing off days until I return to the US, I may need to be more diligent about ticking off all the other items on my bucket list: all the eco-villages I need to visit, all the farms I need to volunteer at, all the educational programs I want to help with, all the mountains I need to climb, all the beaches I need to sleep on, all the neighboring cities I need to bike to. Gonna shoot for it all, I guess, and if I don't get them all ticked off the list -- hey, at least I've had the chance to live in Indonesia.
Photo on left: Me, with my roommates. Photo on right: With roommates and friends.
Monday, January 13, 2014
On My Way Home
I bike through kampung streets close to dusk. My mind zones in. There's me, riding over a speed bump. Me, weaving around a motorbike. Boys playing on a road filled with potholes. A man pushing a cart filled with meatballs. Two mothers carrying their babies. The road is bumpy, not smooth.
I see a grandpa riding a city bicycle, and I pass him on the left, saying, "Permisi, Pak," with a huge grin. He nods his head, smiling back, "Ya, monggo! Monggo!" I laugh to myself at the politeness of the situation, and I'm happy, just happy. It's a different kind of friendly back home.
And then, as I'm passing the rice paddy that I've passed many times before, I feel the wind and I stretch my back. I notice the skies: blue with purple clouds, not dark enough yet for rain. I'm about to continue on as usual, but when I look to my left, I see the rice paddy stretch out, houses in the distance. It's beautiful, drawing me stop, and so I do. I stand there for a while, just staring.
Then, when something inside me sparks, I decide to take a picture. My phone is off, having died during the last hour of work, but I force it back on, squeezing the last bit of battery. It works! and so I take a picture, quickly saving it before my phone shuts off once more.
It's a routine ride home, and my body guides my bicycle, having long memorized the path. Years ago, in Delft, I also memorized the path -- of course, I forget it now. And I know that one day, like with Delft, I'll forget the way to my home in Jogja. But until then, I'll live it.
As I turn into an alley seconds away from home, voices fill the air, and the prayers begin.
I see a grandpa riding a city bicycle, and I pass him on the left, saying, "Permisi, Pak," with a huge grin. He nods his head, smiling back, "Ya, monggo! Monggo!" I laugh to myself at the politeness of the situation, and I'm happy, just happy. It's a different kind of friendly back home.
And then, as I'm passing the rice paddy that I've passed many times before, I feel the wind and I stretch my back. I notice the skies: blue with purple clouds, not dark enough yet for rain. I'm about to continue on as usual, but when I look to my left, I see the rice paddy stretch out, houses in the distance. It's beautiful, drawing me stop, and so I do. I stand there for a while, just staring.
Then, when something inside me sparks, I decide to take a picture. My phone is off, having died during the last hour of work, but I force it back on, squeezing the last bit of battery. It works! and so I take a picture, quickly saving it before my phone shuts off once more.
It's a routine ride home, and my body guides my bicycle, having long memorized the path. Years ago, in Delft, I also memorized the path -- of course, I forget it now. And I know that one day, like with Delft, I'll forget the way to my home in Jogja. But until then, I'll live it.
As I turn into an alley seconds away from home, voices fill the air, and the prayers begin.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
On the Senses
Being back in Indonesia causes my senses to go in overload again. What was "normal" for about a year is foreign again, yet it inspires a nostalgic effect in me that didn't exist before. I'm encouraged to take my camera out, my pen out, to document and tell stories. Perhaps it comes with the impending end to my two-year stint in this fascinating country, but everything I experience now is coupled with an odd sense of longing. As if I need to cherish each moment, each interaction, with the people and things around me.
I see the rambutan sellers on the road, the strange hairy fruits piled up on a cart, and I think of when my friend Michael jumped to reach a rambutan fruit from a tree, only to find it covered with ants that were hungry for the same fruit. He jumped around for a while, shaking off the ants that had landed on his head. I see the becak (pedicabs) powered by the legs of old men, and I think of the second time I rode one, feeling guilty to be pushed around by a man who was old enough to be my grandpa (shouldn't it be the other way around?) I see the markets bustling and selling an assortment of produce, fruits, leaves, roots, and spices that are sometimes hard, if not impossible, to find in the United States.
I smell the exhaust from a truck hurling past me on the road. I smell the fish coming from who-knows-where -- somehow it's always in the air. I smell the smoke of burning trash from kampung houses, and I think of the palm oil plantations I saw in Sumatra and discussions I had with locals about the palm oil industry. Many were disappointed with the industry's burning of large plots of forest, destroying the habitat of orangutan and leeching water from the land. And I smell the dampness coming from the walls and ceiling of my room when it rains, a smell so distinctly tropical. It's everywhere. It's in my clothes.
I feel the caked-on dirt on my bike that's been sitting in my room for weeks, not having had a chance to clean it after a ride in torrential rain before departing for the US. I feel the sweat on my back as I bike up a hill to work, Merapi Volcano greeting me from a distance. I feel the cold of the water on my back as I bathe with a bucket and dipper; it's never felt colder, and I jump around a little in the bathroom. I feel the cool tiles under my feet as I walk barefoot in the house my roommates and I are renting. I sweep my room when I feel bits of dirt on my floor; some people would say it's dust from the ashes of Merapi.
I hear the honking from several cars on Ring Road as I cycle along the side strip designated for motorbikes and bicycles. I hear the motorbikes zoom past me, dangerously close to my bicycle, as I ride along the middle of the strip to avoid the bumpy sewage holes. I hear the the ethereal call-to-prayer from the mosque a few houses down, and I think of Idul Adha, when the prayers lasted all night, the voices of the muazin layering on top of one another from all around the city. My roommates got in a discussion that night about whether or not we minded the noise. I hear my co-workers speak in a mixture of Indonesian and Javanese as I struggle to keep up and eavesdrop on conversations in the office. I think of how much easier it was to talk to visitors from Flores and Lombok, where Indonesian is less slangy and less fused with Javanese -- more straightforward for a foreigner like me.
And taste? It's interesting because Indonesian food already has a nostalgic effect on me, like home-cooking. I had tempe penyet the moment I arrived in Yogyakarta, and the sambal was very spicy for Jogja standards. Talk to people from Lombok and they might complain about how sambal in Jogja is sweet, not spicy. This time it was crazy spicy… or maybe my tongue has just been out of practice. And there's nothing quite like freshly incubated tempe, fried to amazingness. I wonder if I could make it in the US? It's one of the things I will miss most.
Then there's durian. My friend Rifka from Tebingtinggi, a village in north Sumatra, brought oleh-oleh (gifts) in the form of durian cheese cake (of course "cheese cake" here means "topped with grated cheese", not the NY-style cheesecake we're familiar with in the US). When I took a bite of the durian-filled cake, the fresh flavor and texture that used to inspire a slight gag reflex in me instead made me smile. I think of that moment in Medan when I sat with my hostel owner and two friends, and we shared fresh durian at Durian Ucok, a famous durian "store" on the side of the road. There were mountains of durian on the sidewalk, and people could come, choose a durian, which would then be sliced open upon request. There, you're supposed to eat with your hands and share with friends, so we each grabbed the custardy fruit and ate with pleasure (or for some, disgust). To this day, it's the tastiest durian I've ever had. There's a reason why durian from Medan is famous in Indonesia.
These are a few moments of my life in Indonesia, and these day-to-day sensory experiences are ones that can't be sufficiently captured through writing or pictures. But I'll try, in any case, because I will miss these things. From now until I board a plane back to the United States, I'll try to pay more attention.
I see the rambutan sellers on the road, the strange hairy fruits piled up on a cart, and I think of when my friend Michael jumped to reach a rambutan fruit from a tree, only to find it covered with ants that were hungry for the same fruit. He jumped around for a while, shaking off the ants that had landed on his head. I see the becak (pedicabs) powered by the legs of old men, and I think of the second time I rode one, feeling guilty to be pushed around by a man who was old enough to be my grandpa (shouldn't it be the other way around?) I see the markets bustling and selling an assortment of produce, fruits, leaves, roots, and spices that are sometimes hard, if not impossible, to find in the United States.
I smell the exhaust from a truck hurling past me on the road. I smell the fish coming from who-knows-where -- somehow it's always in the air. I smell the smoke of burning trash from kampung houses, and I think of the palm oil plantations I saw in Sumatra and discussions I had with locals about the palm oil industry. Many were disappointed with the industry's burning of large plots of forest, destroying the habitat of orangutan and leeching water from the land. And I smell the dampness coming from the walls and ceiling of my room when it rains, a smell so distinctly tropical. It's everywhere. It's in my clothes.
I feel the caked-on dirt on my bike that's been sitting in my room for weeks, not having had a chance to clean it after a ride in torrential rain before departing for the US. I feel the sweat on my back as I bike up a hill to work, Merapi Volcano greeting me from a distance. I feel the cold of the water on my back as I bathe with a bucket and dipper; it's never felt colder, and I jump around a little in the bathroom. I feel the cool tiles under my feet as I walk barefoot in the house my roommates and I are renting. I sweep my room when I feel bits of dirt on my floor; some people would say it's dust from the ashes of Merapi.
I hear the honking from several cars on Ring Road as I cycle along the side strip designated for motorbikes and bicycles. I hear the motorbikes zoom past me, dangerously close to my bicycle, as I ride along the middle of the strip to avoid the bumpy sewage holes. I hear the the ethereal call-to-prayer from the mosque a few houses down, and I think of Idul Adha, when the prayers lasted all night, the voices of the muazin layering on top of one another from all around the city. My roommates got in a discussion that night about whether or not we minded the noise. I hear my co-workers speak in a mixture of Indonesian and Javanese as I struggle to keep up and eavesdrop on conversations in the office. I think of how much easier it was to talk to visitors from Flores and Lombok, where Indonesian is less slangy and less fused with Javanese -- more straightforward for a foreigner like me.
And taste? It's interesting because Indonesian food already has a nostalgic effect on me, like home-cooking. I had tempe penyet the moment I arrived in Yogyakarta, and the sambal was very spicy for Jogja standards. Talk to people from Lombok and they might complain about how sambal in Jogja is sweet, not spicy. This time it was crazy spicy… or maybe my tongue has just been out of practice. And there's nothing quite like freshly incubated tempe, fried to amazingness. I wonder if I could make it in the US? It's one of the things I will miss most.
Then there's durian. My friend Rifka from Tebingtinggi, a village in north Sumatra, brought oleh-oleh (gifts) in the form of durian cheese cake (of course "cheese cake" here means "topped with grated cheese", not the NY-style cheesecake we're familiar with in the US). When I took a bite of the durian-filled cake, the fresh flavor and texture that used to inspire a slight gag reflex in me instead made me smile. I think of that moment in Medan when I sat with my hostel owner and two friends, and we shared fresh durian at Durian Ucok, a famous durian "store" on the side of the road. There were mountains of durian on the sidewalk, and people could come, choose a durian, which would then be sliced open upon request. There, you're supposed to eat with your hands and share with friends, so we each grabbed the custardy fruit and ate with pleasure (or for some, disgust). To this day, it's the tastiest durian I've ever had. There's a reason why durian from Medan is famous in Indonesia.
These are a few moments of my life in Indonesia, and these day-to-day sensory experiences are ones that can't be sufficiently captured through writing or pictures. But I'll try, in any case, because I will miss these things. From now until I board a plane back to the United States, I'll try to pay more attention.
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