Photos and Descriptions

Although the title of this section is essentially what my blog has consisted of all along, these particular photos stand alone without the assistance of much of a back story. These are all photos that I recently entered into an online contest. I hope you enjoy!


Caption: Becak-pooling!
Description: In front of the largest mosque in eastern Indonesia, a group of children split the cost of a 20 cent becak ride (pronounced bey-chak). Although much of Indonesia is plagued by environmental challenges such as deforestation, rampant water pollution, and excessive carbon emissions; incidentally these children combine two popular and environmentally sustainable practices that are common in the USA--carpooling AND bicycling!


Caption: Sailor's Delight
Description: This is a pensive moment staring out at the major shipping lane known as the Makassar straight. The distinct cloud formation that seems to be emanating from the ship on the horizon appears almost as smoke, and reminds me of how most Americans experienced this gorgeous part of the world over 60 years ago. Although the purpose and context of our journeys contrast even more deeply than the left and right portions of this photo, my grandfather must have taken solace in similar unspeakably beautiful tropical moments.


Caption: Welcome to our country, brother.
Description: This is one of my first days in Indonesia at an Islamic boarding school with male students aged 12 to 18. The glow of sunset just before maghrib (the sunset prayer in Islam) perfectly highlights the enthusiasm on my new friends' faces. Faced with such a warm welcome and immediate acceptance into their community as a "brother", I couldn't help but redefine some of the stereotypes I had previously held about Islam.


Caption: Sunglasses at Night
Description: My traveling companion and I received local permission to enter a limestone cave that served for thousands of years as the catacombs for the tribal elders. The scene is lit by a hand held gas lantern. Strange thing is, I had just lost my sunglasses, and I was on the quest for a new pair! Best to leave these undisturbed, this guy might need them where he's going.


Caption: New Friends!
Description: Traveling through the small villages of Indonesia is a bit like being inside a Mickey Mouse costume at Disneyland. On this adventure, my friend Ken Moore and I were met at every roadside stop with hospitality from everyone--and unadulterated pure enthusiasm from the children. These little ones used their curiosity to guide us to the foot of the majestic waterfall in the background.

Another Ending and Beginning

note: This was written on May 25th, but my internet access has been so limited that I just now posted it. Also, there are some other good pictures added to the "Muslim Indonesian Women" post.

It seems like every May, something significant is happening in my life. My birthday is May 30^th (the end of the month, which is the beginning of a new year in my life). Last year May was the month of MAYhem, which was a clever way of defining the unbridled debauchery of the end of a glorious four years at Claremont, and this year my contract ends, a new phase in my life begins, along with what could possibly be my best voyage to date. Right now I’m in an ultra-modern mall in Jakarta, a place where I can’t afford most of the goods that are sold, a far cry away from the congested and stifling atmosphere of the Makassar MTC mall, which in terms of price and organization is equivalent to a giant multi-vendor thrift store. The past week has been an uncontrollable rollercoaster of culture shock, drastically different lifestyles, and new perspectives on what is the “real” way to live. No…I haven’t actually figured it out yet.

Is this the "real" way to live?

My time bonding with the members of the Pesantren culminated in my tearful speech in Bahasa Indonesia, and a great poem by one of my best students, incorporating all of the slang I had taught him (“Mr. Jon, you are my homeslice, I love you G.”) I wore a suit and tie during my speech for all of the students and Pesantren staff, then quickly ran back to my room, put on some orange, gray, and white camo pattern pants, aviator sunglasses, a student-made T-shirt, and a gangster style hat with the words “pimp juice” embroidered on the front, in order to sing, jump around, and headbang as the star of the song played by the student rock band. It was an appropriate representation of the two lives of Mr. Jon. One formal and procedural, with plenty of speeches beginning with the words “yang terhormat…” (the honorable) and then an interminable listing of names of all of the important people present in the audience. Another, the life of Mr. Jon as an IMMIM boy, a pseudo-student at a modern Islamic boarding school, someone who swims in the disgusting floodwaters, plays basketball during recess, and makes jokes to the students about jumping over the wall at night. It seems that both were quite well received, and I was indeed sad to formally break ties with the place that, despite being completely unfamiliar to my former self, has now become my second home.

Bonding with teachers...

...and students.

That night, I stayed up until 3 AM talking with the students, and was quickly awakened by the Direktur of the Pesantren at 6 AM the next morning, because I was about to embark on the trip of the lifetime. The Direktur is 60 years old, and ever since he was old enough to function independently, he has awoken at 5 AM for subuh prayer, so sleeping in is not even a concept that enters his mind. I was told to quickly prepare my belongings, stop by his house (next door to mine) for a quick and spicy breakfast, and then we were on our way with his wife, child, and three other members of the Pesantren staff for an eye-opening 3 day journey around the villages of South Sulawesi. The most English this group speaks are the words “thank you” and “let’s go Jon” so I was in for a real immersive experience. I thought I was adjusted to this culture, hardcore, speaking the language fluently, ready to deal with any level of discomfort, and no longer needing the comfort of western amenities and interactions, but this trip took cultural differences to the next level. The culture shocked me harder than any dangerously faulty Indonesian electrical outlet.

It didn’t help that I began the trip with an extraordinary sleep deficit, coming off of the social stress of saying goodbye to Makassar, and simultaneously being needed by everyone to an even greater degree. Usually, just because I am the tall white guy that everyone wants to befriend, and it is literally my job to be nice to everyone (which sometimes can be A LOT harder than it sounds), in terms of my social life I feel like William Wallace being drawn and quartered with a rope tied to each limb. In these last few weeks, my friend groups in Makassar have been more like wild packs of hyenas, vying aggressively for even the smallest scraps of my time, and leaving behind an exhausted and emotionally drained skeleton of a person. This is how I felt when I got in the car with the Direktur and his family, I was in no condition to fluently and exclusively speak a foreign language for the next three days straight, not to mention arising with everyone else at the call for subuh prayer. Wheww!

Here I have to go into a digression about language. For those of you who have never lived in a foreign country where you know the language, but you still don’t speak it naturally, speaking in a different language is a lot like driving a car. If you are driving, your actual physical body is doing very little exercise, but your brain is constantly receiving and processing information, identifying hazards, subconsciously watching your speed, listening to the radio, navigating, etc. Consequently, 8 hours of driving, even though you are really just sitting there, is overwhelmingly exhausting. It’s the same way with speaking a foreign language. You must be acutely aware of the each word someone says, trying to identify different accents, and contextually define the few words that you may not know. Even if you know the definition of the word, sometimes the way they put it together just doesn’t make sense to a native English speaker. I will give you some of my funniest and favorite examples.

Sudah sampai? Literally means “Already until?” If you directly translate that, it makes very little sense. Hmm…a good indirect English translation of this would be “Are we there yet?” or “Have you already arrived at your destination?”

The addition of the prefix pen- to a root word turns that word into a noun. Hiburan means “entertainment” so penghibur is “an entertainer”. I talked in previous posts about the propensity of Indonesians to sit on the side of the road for hours and just sit there, watching the road like Americans watch television. Duduk means to sit, so penduduk should mean a person who sits, but it actually is used in the context of jumlah penduduk (jumlah means quantity). So instead of jumlah penduduk meaning something like “the quantity of people who are sitting” it actually just means “population.” In other words, the entire population of the country of Indonesia is literally defined as “sitters”! I was delighted to learn this, given that it jives so well with my conclusion that Indonesian people spend an overwhelming amount of time sitting.

Finally, slightly more disturbing but strikingly representative of the condition of the country, is how the language distinguishes between urination and a bowel movement. Where we would say “number 1” or “number 2” an Indonesian says buang air kecil or buang air besar. I would translate buang air as “to throw away water” or “to get rid of water” whereas kecil means “small” and besar means “big”. So a bowel movement is literally “getting rid of big water”, this makes a lot of sense, given the fact that I have had the runs for about all but 2 of the last ten months (too much information?? Woops!)

This is my friend Anton the security guard. He doesn't speak English, and I can't really understand him when he speaks Indonesian, so we communicate exclusively with one-word sentences.

Okay, back to the journey into the villages. This trip was conversation based, not necessarily activity based. By this I mean the vast majority of our time was spent sitting in a car, or sitting in chairs and just talking. Listening and understanding became extremely difficult. Phrases were sometimes a huge struggle for me to contextualize. Properly forming a sentence of my own was hard enough, but doing it quickly enough and fluently enough to fit it into the context of the conversation was next to impossible. Add to this that most of their conversations were in Buginese, the local language of South Sulawesi, which bears no resemblance to Bahasa Indonesia. When they wanted me to understand something, they would subtly switch to Indonesian without warning, and expect me to be all caught up on the context of the last 25 minutes of Bugis conversation. We went to about 20 different houses, at each one, we would go through a ritual of sitting down on a bunch of couches, and I would have to try all of the food before they allowed themselves to eat. They carefully monitored my reactions and proceeded to explain all the processes for making said food, and all of the names of the different cakes in Bahasa Bugis. It was exhausting, and I was so full that I was bursting at the seams. I literally had to undo my pants to absorb more cake, and I was not allowed to leave the house until I tried it all. Consequently, I learned a few of the most important words in Bahasa Bugis, mandre beh pah means “eat cake” and messona means “I’m too full!” After all that cake, I felt like vomiting, a feeling that was not aided by the frequent roadside stops to allow Dede, the Direktur’s son, a chance to empty his puke bag that he had been perpetually filling the entire trip.

At one point, we drove the car right to the bank of a fast flowing muddy river about 200 meters wide. Okay, now what do we do? There were some concrete pillars in the middle of the river, the beginnings of a bridge foundation, but it looked as if the project had been abandoned several years ago, with only a tattered Indonesian flag sticking out of the rusty rebar at the top of the pillar where the bridge should have been. Shortly after noticing this, I saw a wooden platform carefully being motored across the river by three men. Then, to my utmost shock, the driver of the Pesantren car nonchalantly drove right onto the plank, which made it sink to only about 2 feet above water level. This didn’t seem to make anyone else nervous. In fact, we loaded the plank with several more motorcycles, and all of our bodies. I was sure if an accident occurred I would have the strength to swim to shore, but was equally sure that no one else in my party even had the faintest idea of how to swim. No one worried too much though, and after a few minutes I found that we had been deftly and dryly motored to the other side. Who needs a bridge anyway?

Bridge is not yet (and will probably never be) completed.

Once we crossed the river, we were REALLY in the villages. The unofficial title of the trip was bule masuk kampung which means “the foreigner enters the villages”. When people saw me, instead of erupting in the usually enthusiastic “hello meester” that is an essential part of my daily existence, they literally just froze with an expression of deer-in-the-headlights style shock. My saving grace was that I was traveling with a band of locals, back to their roots, and we had to stop about every 500 meters to say hello to a different family member. I finally made a joke that about half of the jumlah penduduk in this particular regency are family members of the Direktur or somehow connected to my Pesantren. It was hardly an exaggeration. We met an alumnus of the Pesantren who has the largest sandal selling operation I have ever seen. He spent an hour searching his entire warehouse for shoes that would fit me, and finally just ended up giving me three pairs, none of which actually really fit, but it would have been rude of me to decline his hospitality.

The Direktur caught in a pensive moment. A very intelligent man that i respect immensely.

One day, we hiked 3 kilometers through the rice paddies to arrive at the family empang, a pond that is encircled by narrow berms of dirt on all sides, crisscrossed by treacherous little wooden plank bridges. (Sorry about all of the Indonesian in this post, but for the past week that is the only language I have been expressing myself in, so it just makes sense right now). Once there, we proceeded to catch fish and crabs—traditional style! I loved this. I climbed a coconut tree, and we had fresh fire-grilled fish and crabs for lunch, washed down with delicious sweet coconut water! Then came the heat. There was no wind, and in the 2 PM direct tropical sun I started to get heat exhaustion. I can honestly say that I have pinpointed that moment as the hottest I have been in my entire life, and it was excruciating. At that point, I was really craving some AC, or at least some refrigeration, but alas it was no where to be found and I had to tough it out. They said I should bring my parents next year, but I am positive that my mom would be miserable in that environment.

Soaking up the sun, practicing my "Indosquat", and catching crabs.

The delicious fruits of our labors.

Now I’m in Jakarta, sipping on a Mocha Freeze coffee drink, enjoying the AC and WiFi internet. A far cry from life in the kampung. I went straight from the villages onto an airplane and out to Singapore for just over a day, where I spent most of the time in the airport. Singapore is the most diverse place I have ever seen. All signs are written in seven or eight different languages. There is no such thing as a domestic flight out of the Changi Airport in Singapore, an airport that has been touted as the most modern in the world. This airport really feels like the center of the world, an essential stopover for anyone who is looking to cross the Pacific Ocean to the east, or the vast undeveloped stretches of China and the former Soviet Union to the west. It was an amazing feeling to walk around the airport, seeing people of all different shapes, styles, sizes, and colors, and really feeling like a part of the global community. People here paid me no heed. The exact opposite reaction to the villager’s frozen stares I had been subject to just two days ago. A Chinese girl sings an Alanis Morissette song with a perfect American accent. Shiny bald-headed monks in orange robes ride the sky train with Saudi Arabians who wear clothing that looks like they just stepped off their camels. Asian girls wearing shorts that are about 3 inches long and have smiles wider than their hips stand next to fully covered Muslim women wearing socks with sandals so as not to scandalously expose any skin. A German face of disgust when he finds his flight has been delayed, sharing his disappointment with an Indian couple, the woman in full traditional garb with a dot on her forehead. English, my own native language, takes on forms and accents that I never knew existed. Even though it seems like no one ever stays here, everyone is just passing through, all the inhabitants treat their city with the utmost respect. It seems like no one has EVER spilled a drink in the metro. Even chewing gum is outlawed, and I felt like I could eat a meal off the concrete. Actively seeking a piece of litter was seldom successful. The fines for smoking or littering approach 500 dollars. Standing inside the check-in terminal at the Changi Airport, I felt like I could not see the bottom few inches of the wall at the other end of the building, because of the curvature of the Earth (slightly exaggerated, but still the largest indoor environment I have ever seen).

I’m about to embark on a trip to the island Lombok, back to Makassar as a tourist, then on to Maluku and the spice islands for some snorkeling and spearfishing. Like the past week, it should be interestingly punctuated with stark contrasts between modern wealthy urban lifestyles and extremely rural areas. Places where money hardly has value because bartering is the basis of the tiny economies. The experience of transitioning between the two “builds character.” The ability to do so is known as privilege.

I've seen more of their country than they have.

Muslim Indonesian Women

A woman quietly prays inside of my favorite mosque in Makassar--Masjid Raya.

Wow. One could probably write volumes about the above 3 words. Here, I will try to elucidate some of the aspects of this topic that will be most intriguing to those back home, especially those who have not yet visited a majority Muslim country. Although it is quite difficult, I am attempting to remember how I felt and what attitudes I held about Muslim women before coming to this country, and direct my writing toward an audience that holds similar stereotypes. Of course, as usual, the explanation is supplemented with a liberal supply of personal anecdotes and photos.

By the way, I want to acknowledge that this thing has not been update for like....well...FOREVER! My apologies, I actually wrote this about a month ago, and since then I have been struggling to upload it. If you want some more photos, try this link http://community.webshots.com/user/jstrahl07

This is a time-lapse of one of the major intersections in Jakarta, from 5 AM until 12 PM. Nothing to do with Muslim Indonesian women, but still really cool.

The Jilbab.

A jilbab is a headcovering worn by Muslim women. In my city of Makassar, I would estimate that 70 percent of women wear some form of headcovering, be it a simple scarf, a jilbab, or a full birka (in order from most liberal to most conservative—a birka only exposes a small slit through which the woman can see). A woman wearing a birka is a rare sight, I usually see about 1 per week. Interestingly, Jane, a Fulbright ETA who lives in my same city but near the beach in a more modern community, has seen less than five to ten birka-touting females in the span of eight months.

My first stereotype was violated right away. In Bandung, when we were at our teachers’ orientation, there was a young woman in her late 20s, wearing a tightly wound jilbab. However, she also wore sagging western-style tomboy jeans, carried a digital camera with her everywhere she went, relentlessly flirted with some of the boys, was quick to laugh, and talked the whole time about how much she wanted to travel the world. I found this a little strange, because her behavior and even her style matched that of an American woman of the same age…everything except the jilbab. At this point, I’m not sure what I expected from a jilbab-wearing woman other than for her to be different. Perhaps this is why the similarities were astounding to me.

Okay, I had heard that Makassar is a more conservative Muslim area of Indonesia, second only to the providence of Aceh in northwest Sumatra. I thought maybe my friend from Bandung was merely an eccentric exception to my stereotype of the quiet and reserved Muslim woman who chooses not to show the world her hair. When I arrived here, I was initially terrified to even TOUCH a woman who was blatantly Muslim (i.e. wearing a headcovering). Yet as time went on, I discovered that, just as in Christianity, there is a very wide spectrum of levels of faith. I realized that just because a woman wears a headcovering, does not necessarily designate her as a devout Muslim.

Even more noteworthy, whether or not one wears a jilbab is dependent on situations and one’s outlook on life. I learned that many of the jilbab-wearers that I know now did not wear jilbabs in the past, when they were in high school or university. They only decided to wear a jilbab when the “time became right” or they “came to terms with their faith.” It is definitely not a black and white cut and dry decision to wear a jilbab, more like a fluid style expression. For some, wearing a jilbab could be our equivalent of a man wearing a tie to work. For instance, at the Pesantren, women wear jilbabs tighter than American women from the 1980s wore spandex track suits. Not a single strand of hair is exposed. Conversely, at the mall, the same women wear headcovers that are nothing more than loosely wrapped scarves, showing half of their hair anyway.

A very happy student, and a teacher wearing a jilbab that may be a little too tightly wound...

The minaret and some beautiful tropical skies outside of Masjid Al-Markaz, Makassar, the largest mosque in eastern Indonesia.

Now here is where the topic becomes juicy. The jilbab is widely used as a tool of sexual attraction and suggestion. I learned this from talking to men, women, and…personal experience. The men I talked to say they just love it when they go to a woman’s house and she takes off her jilbab (a headcovering is usually not worn in a private area like a house). Initially, I scoffed at this, thinking “those poor guys, they are crazy about seeing some girl’s hair! Just her hair!” Well, that was in the first three months. As time wore on, and the realities of living in an all-male Islamic boarding school began to set in, I found myself seduced by any opportunity to see a woman who usually wears a jilbab in the rare “hair exposed” state. I know, I know, it sounds pitiful, but would breasts be as attractive if all women always walked around topless?

Women here are acutely aware of this. If we talk of making progress with a woman in terms of the commonly used middle-school ‘base’ system…first base is holding hands, second base is kissing, home run is…well you know, then seeing a woman without her jilbab on is the equivalent of stepping into the batter’s box. I don’t actually know this from personal experience, but I have a few remarkable stories. For instance, I met a tightly-jilbabed woman at a coffee shop in the mall. She made an appointment with me because she, not surprisingly, wanted to “practice her English.” After a well-orchestrated and predominately English speaking interaction, she casually asked if I wanted to wash my hair. I was a bit taken aback as hair washing is not a typical American custom while walking around the mall. However, because of incredibly inexpensive service costs (a haircut is 70 cents!!), the salon is a pervasive element of life in Indonesia, especially for women. I found this suggestion particularly strange for a woman who keeps her hair covered for 95 percent of the day, but oh well, that’s just another one of the countless inexplicable aspects of this country. I just accept things for what they are.

I decided I wasn’t in the mood for a hair wash that day, so I just waited. I am a professional waiter (see previous posts) so I was sure to have a book in hand, and her time in the enclosed hair-washing station just flew by. After emerging from behind the barrier (presumably constructed so that boys could not get sneak peeks of womens’ naked hair), she said “Oh Meester Jooooonn!” and casually flicked her EXPOSED hair at me, shaking her head like a supermodel on Fashion TV. I laughed at the absurdity of this situation, but also laughed a little at myself perhaps for actually being attracted to her hair, only because I was one of the privileged few to see it. Throughout the rest of the day, her headscarf was consistently “accidentally” falling down. Alhamdulillah!! Send this lovely Muslim hair temptress back from whence she came!! She is clearly aware of the power she is able to wield, and the male’s undeniable attraction to all that is mysterious and unknown regarding the female body. Luckily, as an American, I have spent the vast majority of my life seeing a lot of female hairstyles. So, compared to the typical Indonesian boy who attends my Pesantren, I have a better-established resistance to this seduction strategy.

A glimpse into a musholla, a small "on-the-go" style prayer room. This one happens to be located in one of my favorite restaurants.

Dowry and Arranged Marriages

When I was riding on the back of my new friend’s motorcycle, a 30 year old English teacher, and he asked me if I had ever kissed a girl then proceeded to giggle uncontrollably, I knew I was in a different world. Turns out, among the lower-income families of South Sulawesi, the 30, 35, 40 year old kissing virgin is a prevalent, shall we say…issue. South Sulawesi is Bugis territory, a region dominated for ages by the Buginese language and culture, famous for their expertise in boat building and brilliantly-constructed stilt houses. They also require rather steep dowries before any respectable girl is permitted to marry. Combine this aspect of their culture with the “hands off until marriage” Islamic religiosity that came later in the 17^th century, and you end up with a lot of poor, sexually frustrated men who have confided in me. They just plain can’t afford to “purchase” a wife. On the opposite side of the spectrum, Islam permits up to four wives, so the very rich men in town may own four houses on one street, with a different wife occupying each one. I was literally told that a marriage proposal involves a lot of monetary bargaining between the prospective husband and the woman’s parents. The parents demand 30 million rupiah, the suitor bids low at 15, they compromise somewhere between 20 and 25. Yowza!

My other teacher friend is in his mid-30s, and he doesn’t have this problem. He already has a wife and two daughters. Apparently, back in his day, he had a number of different girlfriends. Unfortunately, although he was quite fond of his girlfriend, he felt obligated to obey his parents when they chose to purchase his cousin for him as his wife! This is actually more desirable than marrying outside of your family. Hmm...

Okay, well I hope you enjoyed my brief analysis based on some of my limited experience. A few caveats: Islam in Indonesia is not exactly the same type of Islam we are used to hearing about in the Middle East, precisely because it mixes so differently with local beliefs on the many different islands in this astoundingly diverse nation. Likewise, these stories are not a representative sample of the whole of Indonesia. In metropolitan Jakarta, about 20 percent of women wear head coverings, Bali is a Hindu area so a head covering is a rare sight, and the eastern island of Flores is so strongly Christian that it bares more resemblance to areas of South America than to Makassar. Modernization and western beliefs have also played a significant role in further distorting the convergence of all these customs defined by culture and religion. This is manifest in the concept of “free sex,” a brand new term in the English language that most Indonesians believe they imported from America (even though I had no idea what exactly this meant the first time I heard it). Turns out, “free sex” in this country is sex before marriage that you don’t pay for (i.e. not a prostitute). The mere existence of this term is a testament to the fact that all of the above-mentioned rules are not zealously observed by all members of society. The precise frequency of this particular phenomenon is still under investigation…

Two different types of Muslim Indonesian women.

Settlin’ in to the Big Mak

“Big Mak” is the preferred term of endearment amongst Fulbright scholars for our hardly-humble and humongous hometown. Indeed appropriate for this particular blog entry, for, despite numerous hardships, this place is predominately and remarkably endearing to me on a daily basis. I say “predominately” because I will never find public urination endearing, and I say “remarkably” because I am one of the few Americans who actually really likes it in this city. Others, less-endearingly, refer to it as “the armpit of Indonesia.” It may have garnered this undeserved reputation because of its size yet remarkable lack of not only culinary variety, but a cohesive expatriate community and a self-expressive artistic scene.

One of Makassar's most endearing moments. A mosque, a becak, a motorcycle, and an overabundance of small children. Oh Indonesia!

Nevertheless, the almost obscene amount of pride that local people have for their city is not entirely unfounded. On first glance, it appears to be relatively cultureless…at least it is not up to snuff with our preconceptions of Indonesian traditional dances, skilled craftsmanship, and masterful gamelan performances. The endearing qualities of Makassar lie in its people and their enthusiasm. My students, the teachers I work with, and the friends I have made here are all such interesting characters that sometimes I feel like I am in the middle of a Steinbeck novel. The fact that I feel this way without even sharing a common language is a real testament to their hospitality and general good-nature. Just last night, I felt so comfortable at the Pesantren that I was able to spout some comedic commentary on a portion of the teachers’ badminton game in front of about 100 students in three different languages—English, Bahasa Indonesia, and Arabic. Every wisecrack or funny gesture led to the now common chorus of “yea ya ya’s” from the student peanut gallery, and midway through the game, the director of the Pesantren and religious leader of the community turned to me and said “You are like a real Ustad now.” Ustad is an Arabic word meaning something like teacher and respected brother, and I didn’t need to say anything for him to know that was one of my proudest moments of this entire experience.

Turnin' up da heat at the market in Makassar.

Also, I finally made it to the main tourist destination of South Sulawesi called Tana Toraja. This place is very beautiful and also quite unsettling. Here, they celebrate deaths with a lot more fanfare than births, and what better way to celebrate a death than with more death? Specifically, the slaughter of copious amounts of buffalo and pigs. Its an all around unsettling place. Lots of slaughter, lots of human skulls, yet incredibly unique, interesting and beautiful. Tough to describe in words so I will rely on this pictures to help convey a bit of the message.

Drying rice on the roadside.

Traditional boat-like Torajan house.

Well, it has been so long since I updated this thing that this entry is bound to be slightly incohesive. I mentioned above that some hardships have ensued. You may remember that the last entry entailed a detailed description of a colossal and joyous flood event at the Pesantren. Well, needless to say, I was not so joyous when, via a number of absurdly ridiculous coincidences, my computer got wet and refused to turn back on. I won’t go into all of the details here, but not having a computer as an outlet for my writing (not to mention the MASSIVE and significant loss of all pictures and music) was a major psychological blow that took some time to recover from. Internet cafes are just too dirty and hot to actually do any real thinking. I am currently writing this on a friend’s computer.

On a more positive note (often to the chagrin of those back home) I have shaken my e-mail addiction and have taken to checking only about once every four or five days. I still love everyone and miss them a lot; it is just logistically quite difficult to keep going to an internet café, trying to write an e-mail of substantial length. This frees up a lot of time for activity within the Makassar community, of which Meester Jon is in no short supply. Just last week, I was on a national radio program (in Bahasa Indonesia!), a local radio program, I tutored the owner of my Pesantren in English, taught at the Montessori school, and started an English conversation group at the nearby university! I now have a legitimate friend group of Indonesian people, which really enhances the experience. Then, I went on another field trip with the students from IMMIM—full of sports feats and high pressure impromptu performances.

This time we went to stay at a brand new Pesantren that was built in Pangkep about 45 minutes outside of Makassar. At the Pesantren, I ate with the students, slept with the students, and even went to the mosque with them for prayer (though I just sat there and watched). I gave a speech about how I am not afraid of Muslims, and made sure to highlight the good things I had noticed about the local Muslim communities (and sort of gloss over the few bad things…if you want more info on that ask me later). Honestly though, coming to this country has been almost an unconditionally positive interaction with Indonesian and Muslim people, so the speech was not hard to come up with on the spot. The real memories began on the way home however. We left Pangkep and I was under the impression that we were on our way more-or-less straight back to Makassar, when suddenly my public bus packed with about 18 students took a little detour to an intense water park called “Dunia Fantasy” or “Fantasy World”. Essentially, this is an entirely unregulated area, a veritable fantasy where any boy who has a desire to break the rules doesn’t even have to because there are none. This place is so different that it warrants some elaboration.

Not surprising for an island nation, Indonesians love fishing. So…a fishing pond is included in amongst all of the waterslides and diving boards (an interesting side note, Indonesians call waterslides the ‘water boom’, I was about to find out why). These are no ordinary pools and water booms however. The pool was huge, beyond Olympic sized, with a liberal allotment of about 3 meters of ultraslick white tile surrounding it, with a ditch surrounding that. So, as most of my students were running full tilt along the side of the pool, I could picture them slipping and careening either into the pool (hopefully) or the opposite directions into the treacherous ditch full of brown water for “foot washing.” The pool was not chlorinated, the underwater visibility was only about half a meter, and so much water had been displaced from it that it was at least a meter below full capacity. That really wasn’t the kicker however. The craziest thing was that over the deep end, three platforms of various heights had been constructed for the implicit purpose of inciting extremely dangerous masculinity contests. The LOWEST of the platforms was a high dive, about 6 meters off the water. To access this high dive, one must climb a ladder, walk a plank about 6 inches in width OVER CEMENT(!) for about four steps, then finally walk out onto the end of the diving board and attempt some sort of crazy skin-stinging flip. I visibly cringed as my students raced up the ladder to be the first to jump off, and coordinated simultaneous jumps of six or so bodies colliding in mid air. The second highest platform was about 12 meters…definitely enough to make you feel like you are falling for a WHILE. The third floor, although technically closed, was still in use by the most brave of waterpark attendees. I’m not sure how high it was, but I am guessing about 70 feet or 22 meters!! Throughout the day, after various (mis)communications, I found out that it was closed because someone had recently died jumping off of it into the water. So it was definitely really high. Indonesians report news like that with a laugh and a smile, and another daring jump.

The real interesting episode for Meester Jon was when it came time to try out the top floor of the “water boom” (mom you will not like this). Compared to some of the waterslides at Raging Waters in Southern California, this waterslide looked pretty tame so I thought ‘ahh, no sweat.’ My entire way up the ladder I was greeted by chants of “mis-ter-jon mis-ter-jon mis-ter-jon!” so by the time I got to the top, I was surrounded by about 20 of the demanding youth who insisted that I go first. Okay, so they gave me a big push, and I was going fast…too fast. I conjectured later that I was probably the largest creature ever to have descended said water boom, and I once again paid dearly for exceeding the recommended size limit of this country. This time, I went up on the side of the second-to-last curve, was catapulted into the air, and landed back in the slide, dislocating my left knee after what seemed like an eternity of airtime. By now, I am Jonny on the spot when it comes to knee dislocations, so I was able to manually reset it before hitting the bottom. Thank goodness because, at the bottom, there was literally (no exaggeration whatsoever) a foot of water to fall into. The splashdown proceeded to bruise my hip and tailbone quite severely, all to the ignorant cheers of the students who were demanding that I go again from the top of the slide. “No way!” Add these several injuries to a horrendous sunburn and a head cold garnered from the unchlorinated water, and I realized that I am not yet (nor will I ever be) cut out to keep up with these Indonesian Islamic boarding school adolescents.

Flood Day!

Well, last night I slept great, only waking up to the constant pitter-patter of rain on my tin roof. Every now and then, the rain gets so hard that it sounds more like the drumline from an 80s punk band, but for some reason all that noise puts me right to sleep. The only unfortunate thing is, at 6 AM, it’s really difficult to climb out of bed and face a whole day of teaching occasionally ill-behaved high school students. Ah well, it always works out after drinking 3 cups of coffee, eating oatmeal with copious amounts of palm sugar, and seeing the excited grins on my students’ faces as they anticipate Mr. Jon’s daily lesson.

This morning, however, was a different story. Same routine with the coffee and oatmeal, but when I walked out to the classrooms, there was only a smattering of uniformed students taking shelter under the awning of the mosque. Hmmm…well, jam karet (Indonesian for ‘rubber time’) is a particularly prevalent phenomenon on those rainy days. Suddenly, a student ran up to me through the torrential rain, and it looked like he had just escaped from the trenches of some aquatic warzone. After a few more scattered reports, word got to me that class was cancelled because of a waist high flood throughout the dorms of the senior high school students (our equivalent of grades 10 through 12).

Okay great, no class. So, I decided to return to my room and gear up. This meant: REI rain jacket, umbrella, highwater pants (actually normal sized pants for an Indonesian, but on me they are slightly longer than capris), T-shirt, and waterproof diving camera. I was going to do some investigative reporting on the massive flood that had recently struck the campus of Pesantren IMMIM. Little did I know, I was in for a real treat.

As an avid kayaker, recreational diver, occasional surfer and consistent swimmer—I love water. If there must be a natural disaster, a flood is my preferred medium of destruction. As I approached the dorm, I saw many students running in all directions, as if a fire had broken out. It was total chaos, and everyone was soaked to the bone. At the teachers’ houses, I noticed the irony of a clothesline, usually about head high, ‘drying’ clothes that were now only about 3 inches off the water. Teachers were frantically moving their most valuable furniture upstairs to escape the wrath of the canal that had surged over its banks. One of my best students beckoned me to visit his friends over at the senior dorms. When I arrived, I saw what is typically a soccer field inundated with water up to my hips. Several boys were in the water, laughing and splashing and attempting to play a much-impeded game of futbol. The rest were tentatively sheltered at the entrance of their dorms, the water mere centimeters from breaching the entrance which is typically about 3 feet off the ground. The students were soaked to the bone, shivering, and to me they looked like an old woman standing on a chair in the middle of a room in a futile attempt to escape a mouse. Several other students had taken the mattresses off their beds, and were paddling them around as makeshift boats. When I arrived on the scene, all hell broke loose.

Taking refuge on the high ground.

More often than not, in a dry environment, if Mr. Jon is around and has his camera, there is a lot of pushing and shoving to be the first one in all of his pictures. It’s a struggle for fame and attention. Adding the element of water was like pumping these boys full of adrenaline, steroids, caffeine, alcohol and cocaine all at once. The situation quickly devolved and became uncontrollable. As I approached with my camera, about 150 students jumped in the water and began violently and playfully moshing each other. Any student reluctant or unwilling to get wet was immediately singled out and forced into the water: either via irresistible peer pressure or the use of physical force. The demands that I jump in and swim were unrelenting.

Ahh…what the hell.

This is how I justified my decision. As a self-proclaimed water lover, I would be violating my own carefully constructed self image if I refused to jump in the water, right? Swimming was certainly not my original intention, as the canal typically carries what I believe to be sewage down to the lake nearby the school. Well, the germ theory of disease was sooo last century, and, in general, witchdoctors hold more credence with the people of this country anyway. Despite the little voice in my head (Uncle Tom) warning me about the myriad cocktail of endemic third-world waterborne tropical diseases found in Indonesia, the hundreds of loud voices of my students overpowered my good conscience. I quickly disrobed and transformed into a beast of an adolescent boy. It was a transformation to rival that of Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. As soon as Mr. Jon entered the water, all inhibitions were lost, and if there was a student even considering the prospect of NOT swimming, that was no longer a viable option. What happened next was a truly unique sort of Pesantren-style baptism, fueled by unparalleled excitement and unbridled teenage masculinity in a single-sex environment. No fewer than 60 students quickly joined hands and formed a circle around me, and then began to jump and chant as they ran around me. The running became faster and faster, the chanting louder and louder, and I facilitated the mob mentality by splashing a few of the students as they ran around. Suddenly, they unleashed an unrelenting torrent of splashes. Let me tell you, there is nothing more intensely fun than being simultaneously splashed with pseudo-sewage by 60 adolescent Indonesian boys. I could no longer stand. I fell to my knees, head barely above water, outstretched my arms, and begged for mercy. All the barbarous students then converged on a single point which was Mr. Jon’s sopping wet body. For a brief moment, I feared for my life. Then I began to physically dominate their genetically-predisposed and malnourished small bodies. These boys sure know how to make their own fun!

An Islamic (boarding school) baptism.

I still exist somewhere in the midst of that nastiness.

The mosh pit of madness.

After a few more pictures, a grand raft was specially constructed for my use, made with student’s belts, 3 mattresses, and 4 pieces of wood. They floated me on the raft as if I was some sort of Persian or Egyptian water god—I sat with my legs crossed in a meditative state as 12 of my minions carted me around the soccer-field-turned-lake. Again with the chants. This time “ca-nal, ca-nal, ca-nal”, they wanted to take me to the portion of the campus that still had current, the only spot where even Mr. Jon could not stand up—the canal. The raft soon became overloaded with boy bodies, and sank into the canal before we could get too far…oh well no time to worry about that. Too bad for whoever doesn’t have a mattress tonight!

Nothing like sacrificing comfort in the name of fun. In this case someone is not getting a good night's sleep for the next few weeks.

Muddy happiness. I'm on the 'boat.' "Ca-nal, ca-nal ca-nal!"

The arrival of Ustaz Ewan was the next major event (‘ustaz’ is ‘teacher’ in Arabic; Mr. Ewan, at approximately 5 feet, chubby, and balding, is one of the funniest people I have ever met. He also happens to have an insatiable appetite for sport and is the best badminton player I have ever seen). When he arrived, we ran toward each other screaming and giving high fives to all the students. Of course this entire 40 minute episode was punctuated by copious amounts photos and nonstop giggling. The soccer goals were still set up, and a few balls were floating around, so we decided to practice our semi-submerged bicycle kicks. After doing that for a while, and just generally roughhousing, the energy level was still incomprehensibly high. So, we barely organized a game of wading water polo, with about 40 people on each team. The general strategy of this game for my team was to throw the ball as high as possible and make Mr. Jon perform a sport feat by grabbing it above the heads of everyone else. A goal was always followed an inexplicable amount of roughhousing and dog piling. Looking back on the savagery, it is remarkable that nobody drowned.

The arrival of Ustaz Ewan was a joyous occassion.

Playing goalie in the...rain.

More insanity.

Go team! "Futbol" with our hands!

We had just scored the game-tying goal to make it 2 to 2, when the headmaster appeared on the dry side of the sidelines with an unmistakably upset scowl on his face. The crowd dispersed even more quickly than it had formed. In typical truth-bending Indonesian style, all the students immediately decided that they wanted to “take rest” even though they evidently could have continued playing for several more hours. Ustaz Ewan sulked back to dry land and quickly beckoned me over. All the students, now at the windows of their dorms at the behest of the headmaster, were still watching my every move. One moment of slapstick comedy remained...as I was walking back to dry land I unexpectedly encountered the canal, obscured by the brown muddy water I was walking through. I immediately fell in over my head, and the sound of uproarious laughter emanated from the dorms. This last little unintentional stunt earned a further shake of the headmaster’s head, and a typical ‘tik tik tik’ noise of reproach directed at the students. Clearly, it was time for me to return to my house, take a 30 minute long shower and some preemptive antibiotic medication. I don’t know if I earned myself any punishment…it’s typical for teachers at the Pesantren to maintain distance from the students and demand their respect. As for myself, being only 4 or 5 years older than them, I pride myself as a ‘nontraditional’ teacher. I make an effort to become familiar with their interests, plan interactive English lessons based on said interests, and, from time to time, completely cut loose and have some good old-fashioned physical non-language based fun. I would consider it an essential element of my job description.

Very happy to have the day off!

XB07

At dawn, an Indonesian man adopts the preferred mode of transport as Gunung Merapi steams away in the background.

2007 was quite a year of acronym-based trips for me. Beginning with the highly anticipated SB07 (spring break) followed by the gargantuan and tremendously successful WAC07 (week after college). Both trips explored the magical realm of pristine beaches, fish tacos, endearing canines, and omnipresent sand that is Baja Mexico. As a capstone to the year 2007, and in homage to these epic trips, Elliott Vanderkolk, a seasoned Baja veteran and beloved friend, came to visit Indonesia to chalk up one more memorable acronym-07 extravaganza. This one, XB07 (X-mas break) earned a well-deserved place next to the other 07 trips—we even made a token hat (as is tradition ever since FB05).

Well, the past month has been another flurry of official and unofficial travel throughout the great and gorgeous nation of Indonesia. December 3^rd through 10^th was a reunion for all other Fulbright scholars. A conference of sorts where we “shared resources” and basically took comfort in the fact that we were not alone trying to adjust to teaching in this foreign land where sometimes everything seems the opposite of what it should be. It was great to talk to everyone, rekindle friendships and create new ones. This is a great group of people overflowing with profound and influential ideas, and the whole week renewed my confidence and sense of purpose for being here in Indonesia on this grant. Also, I can’t lie—one of the highlights was spending 6 dollars at the western food store to get my long-overdue chips and salsa fix. Hooray!

This is the quintessential Javanese countryside.

From Jakarta, Jane and I took the overnight train to Yogjakarta. “Jogja,” as it is affectionately called by locals, is touted as the cultural capital of Indonesia. As such, it is a rare gem of a city for this country, teeming with an uncanny amount of self-expression. Artful graffiti is everywhere, live music opportunities abound, public plays, concerts, fine restaurants, the works! This type of collaboration and vibrant artistic activity is what I find to be of value in a city (if it weren’t for that, why wouldn’t I just live closer to the mountains and rivers?) Unfortunately, there is a distinct lack of public artistic culture in my home city of Makassar. Not to say that culture is nonexistent here, you just have to look harder. Living in Makassar, for the first time in my life, I am genuinely excited to ‘discover’ a new mall. I shamefully admit this, but really, going to the mall is THE activity for the Makassarese.

The stoic Jane assumes her meditation pose next to the ancient Buddha statues of Borobodur temple.

Elliott, fresh from solitary pinballing around the Bali climate change conference, was relieved to meet me in Yogjakarta and offload some of his amazing presents all the way from the USA (thanks everybody!). We went back to Makassar for 3 nights of teaching, meeting, and eating. Elliott got a first-hand look at the inner workings of Meester Jon’s classroom, and a gastronomical voyage around Makassar including stops for grilled fish, prawns, calamari, and the infamous beef-gut stew (Elliott temporarily retired his vegetarianism for the expedition to a country where this dietary choice is not well understood or catered to). Three nights in Makassar is too much for any tourist, so we continued the epic tale of XB07 from Medan, Sumatra.

Sumatra offers a wealth of beautiful views, both great and small.

Again, I will let the pictures tell most of this tale. If you want details, I will have to reveal them on a case-by-case basis. Only the cursory summary should be revealed here to the general public. We started in Berastagi with a good routine of early bedtime, early wake-ups (Elliott had a hard time sleeping through the call to prayer at 5AM…for me, at this point, it sounds like a lullaby) a diet of great tropical fruit, mountain-climbing, and finally ending the day with a hot-spring soak in view of the active steam-spewing volcano.The well-arranged and very delicious fruit market in Berastagi. Famous around the country. Free samples!

Negotiating the thickness of Sumatran jungles. Luckily, the heavy rains have carved out huge gullies like this one where we can stay underneath most of the thick brush.

Happy jungle trekkers.

Then it was on to Lake Toba, where we rented a motorcycle and spent the days cruising around the lake, absorbing the beautiful views and equatorial sunshine.

The Sipiso-Piso waterfall plummets of this cliff about a kilometer from its intersection with the north end of Lake Toba

A Batak style traditional hut near Lake Toba. The Batak people are famed for having recently been cannibals! Now they are just sort of Christian and have an affinity for arak palm wine.During our triumphant ride around the lake, we ran out of gas. Partially due to poor planning and partially due to a wildly erratic fuel gauge. No problem though. After a short hitchhike, we were sold this "bag o' gas" that Elliott is holding in his left hand. In his other hand you see our brilliantly improvised funneling system. We were back on the road in no time.The countryside around Lake Toba includes the omnipresent rice padi punctuated by perfectly cloudy skies and lush green mountains.

We still hadn’t had our fill of the jungle, so we took a hellish bus ride to Bukit Lawang where we encountered a great number of primates and other noteworthy jungle creatures (snakes, insects, leeches, a monitor lizard, giant birds that sound like helicopters, etc.) We spent Christmas day camped in the jungle, on a river, playing cribbage and calling our families with my cell phone. Yep, cell phones are such a huge part of this culture that the government has provided service virtually EVERYWHERE…even to jungle campers. From there, Elliott started his long, 4-day journey back to Maryland, which included many modes of transport from a short rafting trip on the river to international air travel.

Orang-utan (literally means forest person in Bahasa Indonesia)

Another of the many inhabitants of the jungle.

After Elliott left, Pesantren IMMIM was still on vacation and I was in no hurry to get back to Makassar, so I met up with fellow Fulbrighters once again at the hub—Bali. More specifically, Matt’s house in Bali. Matt is the one ETA with the good fortune to be placed at a school on the outskirts of the crazy tourist hullabaloo that is Kuta beach. Kuta is very “westernized,” which is to say standardized, by which I mean it could be anywhere in the world. The beach is okay, but I have heard that Bali’s other beaches are far more spectacular. I went with the other ETAs to Gili Trawangan, a small, party-oriented island off the coast of Lombok. We passed the time until New Years, which was a purely social occasion and I did not see any sights of particular note. After a grueling 20-hour boat-bus-boat-bus-airplane-taxi ride, I made it back to Makassar at 3AM on the 4^th.

I thought teaching was scheduled to resume again on the 5^th, but here I am, now it is the 14^th and I still haven’t entered the classroom (except to pose in a picture for the local newspaper). All of the students are here taking exams, and I spend most of my time in the mornings being confused about why we aren’t teaching, and what exactly I should be doing. The gust of wind in my sails from the Jakarta conference has faded into a slight breeze, and again I feel like a mere fixture here—a beacon of white skin and native fluency that conveys bragging rights for the Pesantren, but little else. I have been here a little over a week and I already want to leave again and continue exploring. Especially so because I am not teaching, and my only real interaction with the community occurs between the hours of 8 and 10 PM when I make my rounds walking to peoples’ houses on the Pesantren campus. Hopefully, as the teaching picks up, so will my attitude.A small creek we encountered in the middle of the jungle near Bukit Lawang. I proudly tout this as the cleanest body of water I have seen in Indonesia to date.