|
November 18, 2002
Here in Malang I am doing R & R. No, that’s not “Rest and Relaxation”, though I am getting
my fair share of that whenever I can. Instead, it stands for “Rainy season and Ramadhan”.
The rainy season came a couple of weeks ago, and let me tell you... it arrived with a vengeance! After months of
no precipitation, one afternoon the skies darkened, the clouds mumbled and grumbled, and we were quickly subjected
to an onslaught of rain that mercilessly pounded down. Anyone caught in the deluge was drenched to the skin in
about one second flat! I was at school and I walked out into the courtyard to watch it, as if I had never seen
rain before. And truthfully, I had very seldom seen anything quite like it before. And until April, it will pretty
much be a daily occurance.
Rainy season here means a clear, sunny morning, but by early afternoon... beware. One might want to plan their
activities wisely, and you can forget about an umbrella being of much help. It’s about as useful as screen doors
on a submarine. And considering the substandard quality of much building construction in Indonesia, leaks are inevitable.
That first day, water poured through the ceiling in Dav’s classroom while he was teaching, and our terrace roof
might need some repair soon.
The second R of R & R is Ramadhan, a month of fasting and spiritual activities done by Muslims about this time
each year. From sunrise to sunset neither food or beverage is allowed, and we can expect some students to be nodding
off in class, either due to low blood sugar, or the fact that they got up at around 3 am in order to get in both
their prayers and breakfast before daylight, which usually comes by 5:30. Sunset ( and long-awaited food) comes
about twelve hours later. Many restaurants and the few clubs in Malang (and I am sure throughout Indonesia) have
severely curtailed their business hours and the cinemas have closed.
On the second day of Ramadhan I was teaching my intermediate level class from 3:00 to 4:20 and covering the theme
of vegetarianism and veganism from our English First text book. After discussing some new vocabulary and grammar
points, their assignment was to form small groups and design a menu for dinner, as if they were hosting a vegan.
I watched the students scribble down the appetizers, soups, main courses and desserts and suddenly it dawned on
me how ill-timed this activity was and what kind of torture it must have been for the Muslim students doing it.
Whoops!
My housemate Dav recently turned 30 and was determined to make it a memorable occasion, despite the fact he couldn’t
be home in south London with friends and family having a rousing British blowout. So in his typical cheeky, madcap
fashion (remember the “coconut shell on his head” stunt in Madura?), he went out and dyed his hair bright orange.
He then proceeded to buy an orange-colored dress and show up at EF modeling his “birthday look”, much to the delight
of all the students. It was quite a sight to see him parading around the school. To his credit, William (the Academic
Coordinator) wholeheartedly endorsed it all, turning a blind eye to the obvious deviation from the teacher dress
code (no kidding!). But he has a good sense of humor, and with all the tension and stress of recent events, he’s
a bit like Colonel Potter from MASH doing what he can to keep his troop’s spirits high. After our last class finished
at 9 pm, we had a party at our house with teachers, students and friends all joining in his celebration.
The next night we went to nearby Batu, a 30 minute drive from Malang into higher elevation on the slopes of Gunung
Arjuna (3339m). First we stopped at the house of Brigitte and Ulrich, a German couple who’ve been living here for
ten years. I know them through an expat group that’s quite active within Malang and the area, with various social
events such as Coffee Mornings and Pool Side Chats. I’ve met many other Westerners, most of whom come from Germany,
Austria, The Netherlands, Australia, New Zealand and the U.S. They’re an interesting and extremely sociable group,
and mostly work for foreign companies located here – companies like Phillip Morris, for example.
Generally married, often with children, these people are usually getting paid Western salaries and enjoying a standard
of living far above mine. The houses they live in must be seen to be believed... palatial is the word that comes
to mind. At Dav’s party, a young fellow from France named Dominique was there, and when he decided to leave, someone
asked him if he had a car. “No, my driver has been waiting for me.” It was about 1 am and his driver had been out
in the car for several hours. In addition to having a pembantu (live-in housekeeper) like we do, Dominique also
has a full-time driver! Not too shabby, huh?
Anyway, Brigitte and Ullie live in a beautiful house in an exclusive community in Batu called Klub Bunga, and they
suggested that D & D, myself and two other friends of ours stop in and observe a Chinese wedding taking place
there. Weddings are a really big deal here, and this one was quite a lavish spectacle with about 2,000 guests and
entertainment that included Barongsai, a Chinese lion dance that was pretty impressive.
After that we headed to the Royal Orchid Garden, a beautiful hotel, for “The Nightmare Party”, a curious enterpretation
of Halloween, to say the least. Inside there were some real cheesey decorations, a pretty decent band, overpriced
food and beverages and a modeling show with anorexic local women wearing macabre makeup and strutting around trying
to look either scarey or seductive, I’m not sure which.
At one point, the MC announced there would be a dance contest, which prompted several of the people there to jump
up and approach the competition quite seriously. At this point, the female singer came to our table and beckoned
me to join in, taking my hand and leading me to the dance floor. Big mistake! The rest of our merry little troupe
followed suit and and we then all cut loose with what could best be described as a frenzy of spinning and jumping
around. True to their nature, the locals took it all in stride, politely ignoring our antics. They also shrugged
their shoulders and smiled when Dav, who at this point had a good many beers under his belt, leaped up on stage
in order to “help” the singer belt out a Carlos Santana song.
A bit later, as if asking for trouble, the MC approached our table, microphone in hand, and started interviewing
all of us in a mix of Indonesian and bad English, posing harmless questions, i.e., “What your name is?”, etc. Eventually
he thrust the mike in my face and queried, “What do you think of Bali?”
Even though I hadn’t been there yet, I opted to speak kindly of the island paradise Indonesians are so proud of,
“Fantastic!!!” I yelled out.
After my colleagues nearly fell off their chairs in hysterical laughter, I discovered that he had actually asked
me, “What do you think of the bombing in Bali?”
Fantastic? Whoops!
From that point on that evening I was ruthlessly needled with questions from Dave, like, “So Eddie, what do you
think of the assassination of JFK? Fantastic? Huh? And how about WW2? Also fantastic? Huh? Huh?” No doubt it’ll
take some time for me to live that one down!
One activity popular with expats is Hash House Harriers. No that’s neither a drug-infused celebration, nor a proletarian
banquet. It’s actually a combination of a run or hike with good old-fashioned beer drinking. HHH was founded in
1938 by a British expat who apparantly decided that exercise and consumption of alcohol were a perfect match. Now
it’s a world-wide expat craze, with annual gatherings (this year in Goa, India) that in bring in Hashers from around
the world by the thousands.
There are eight HHH groups in Malang, mainly coordinated and attended by residents of Chinese heritage, a sector
of Indonesian society that has tended to keep to itself, even though their ancestors came here generations ago.
But this isolation hasn’t always been by choice either. But that’s another subject we can get into at another time.
One Hash that Dave and I went to one Sunday afternoon was at Kebun Wonsari, a tea plantation nearby the city of
Lawang, which is 18km north of Malang. On hills offering a stellar view of the countryside and surrounding mountains,
we walked for about an hour-and-a-half through the plantation itself, usually on paths used by the workers themselves.
There were vast numbers of fields filled with tea plants in various stages of growth, as well as many varieties
of lush and colorful vegetation. The paths are marked with small piles of shredded paper dropped on the ground
along the way, keeping you headed in the right direction. I suppose the story would be more interesting if I told
you that a wind storm came up and blew away all the pieces of paper, and that our group became hopelessly lost,
only to be heroically led to safety by yours truly as I relentlessly hacked through a snake-infested jungle with
my Swiss Army Knife! Nope. But, it was a very nice hike and when we returned to our starting point a bottle of
Guinness was thrust into one of my hands, and a bowl of tofu and noodle soup into the other, both of which I relished
while listening to other Hashers shamelessly embarrass themselves doing Karaoke.
Last weekend, after spending three consecutive weekends at home following the Bali bomb blast, Dav and I headed
for the beach. Our destination was Ngliyep, about two hours by car and lying on the southern coast. We were driven
both ways by a hired driver, arranged by the same guy that Dav failed in his English class and who once drove us
to and from Madura. In general, the southern coast is characterized by picturesque fishing villages, rocky beaches,
heavy surf and a wicked undertow that always claims a few lives each year. Here and there is a protective cove,
and Ngliyep has two of them, close together, guarded by massive outcroppings of rock.
One of them is a small island you can reach by traversing a wooden bridge, and after climbing some steps you can
look out over the vast ocean (Australia over a thousand miles away!), or watch the waves roll in and violently
crash into the cliffs and piles of rocks within the cove. That sound is one I can listen to for hours. A small
Hindu temple sits at the island’s crest, and the lookout where I spent some time had freshly cut flowers along
with incense, all offered to their pantheon of gods.
There were a handful of warungs (food stalls) and some basic accomodation. For less than $2.50 each, Dav and I
got separate bungalow rooms directly on the beach, the sound of the surf reverberating constantly in our ears.
About 3 pm, as I threw down my sarong on the sand under some coconut palms to lie down, read and relax, Dav announced
that he was going for a swim. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. At around 4:30, I awoke and thought, “Where’s
Dav?” I read some more until dark, about 5:30, and then walked the few meters to the bungalow where I expected
to find him either sitting inside reading or crashed out in his room. No sign of him.
At this point I was becoming concerned about him. Where the hell could he be? He’s not the kind of guy to take
off some place without letting me know beforehand. By 6 o’clock (now completely dark) I was reviewing all the possible
catastrophies that might have befallen him, including being lured away and murdered by either a desperate thief
or some fundamentalist lunatic. At 6:30, I scribbled a note and stuck it on a nail on the wall near to the door
to his room, “Went looking for you... will be back soon… stay put!” and was turning to head out the door when he
suddenly bounded up the steps and through the doorway, absolutely scaring the crap out of me! Nonetheless, I was
so happy to see him I almost hugged him!
“You’re not going to believe what I’ve just been doing!” he blurted out. And I must say that when he told me his
story it did all seem totally implausible. It seems that when he back went to his room to change into his bathing
suit, the rather lovely twenty four-year-old daughter of the owner was putting sheets on his bed. (Can you see
where this is headed?) Being the friendly bloke that he is, Dab started chatting her up in his pidgin Indonesian
and Cockney accent. To make a long story short, at her suggestion they ended up strolling down the beach and rolling
around in the sand doing stuff that us better left to your imagination than to graphic description here and now.
What’s the big deal, you say? Well, bear in mind that this is a predominately Muslim country where, when you ask
a grown woman to go out on a date, she brings her friends! It’s where couples are not allowed to kiss in public!
And it’s where, if a woman loses her virginity before marriage, she is likely to be alone and a social outcast
for the rest of her life. What made it all really weird was that that evening, she, Dav and I sat around the bungalow
socializing (major language barrier here) with her mother and mother’s friend... and that there was every appearance
that her mom was in cahoots with everything going on, including the fact that this young lady would be accompanying
us back to Malang the next day, only to spend the night with Dav!
Throughout all this and since, Dav has been forced to ponder her motives. Is it entrapment into pregnancy and marriage
and hopefully eventual British citizenship for a village woman who sees no other viable future? If so, it surely
wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened in a SE Asian country, that’s for sure! Or is it just the irresistability
of Dav’s orange hair that instantly put her “in heat”? Just think if he had worn the dress? Wish him luck.
In the aftermath of my time in Ngliyep, I discovered dozens upon dozens of red welts appearing all over my body,
especially on my arms and legs, apparently the result of bites from tiny, bloodthirsty sand fleas. In addition
to the fact that they itch like the dickens, I’ve been looking all the part like a goalie for a dart team!
And in closing, I want to inform all of you reading this that fast eddie has finally achieved the lofty status
of “guru”. That’s right... it’s official! After all these years of mystical pursuit and spiritual practice, I’ve
now “arrived”. And little did I know that all that time spent in seminars, meditation retreats, therapy, self study,
etc was wasted, when in fact, all I really needed to do was to come to Indonesia and teach English! You don’t believe
me? Then just come and look at my “Kartuizintinggal Terbatus” (limited stay permit card) from the Direktorat Jenderal
Imigrasi. It states quite clearly... “occupation: guru”. And there you have it, folks!
Saya harus minta diri sekarang (I have to go now).
Salamat tinggal (goodbye),
|
Salamat tinggal,
