Ramadan Party time!

I apologize that I have so far neglected to talk about Ramadan here in Yogya, and, well, I'm going to leave it out just a bit longer. Today we're leaving for Nusapaneda, an island off of Bali, for a week of internet-free, nature-filled vacation. Ramadan is nearing an end, so everyone is off to visit family and friends and celebrate this Muslim holdiay while we'll be in Bali celebrating an important Hindu one instead. I'll be back on the 1st, and photos are coming!

One more week, it's a flip-flop.

I have only one more week left in Yogyakarta before I head out for a bit a travel and then for my move to Banda Aceh. My time here as been pretty amazing , and I've learned so much about language, life, and culture. As with anywhere, the location in which you learn colors the experience. This is particularly true here where Javanese culture and pride permeates most everything. Pretty soon I'll get to find out if all those little things I thought were Indonesian were really just a matter of island. Not only will I be reconfiguring my own stereotypes but matching up those of Indonesians here in Yogya as well. I've gotten to hear a wide variety of Aceh praise and criticism. Most good things I've heard have to do with the food which is supposed to be incredibly fresh, seafood based, and wildly spicy. The negative is really centered around religion. A lot of people here seem somewhat afraid to even visit there for fear of being subjected to Sharia law. I've been able to explain that when I'm there I won't have to wear a veil, but I don't know the situation for Javanese people. I believe if your identification card (which has a mandatory section for religion) says your are Muslim, then you must abide by these laws, even if you are a Muslim from another island. However, every person I've heard say something negative about Banda Aceh has never actually been there and every foreigner who has loves it. My current expectations are to build my spice tolerance, drink a lot of very good coffee, eat even more fish, enjoy the nearby beaches and countryside, and have to work to keep up with their faster paced Indonesian.

Tongue Tied

Try this new one: Kaki kaka kakekku kaku-kaku = The knee of the brother of my grandfather is stiff.
plural: Kaki-kaki kaka-kaka kakek-kakekku kaku-kaku....

Who needs help?

This is a quick entry as I’m a bit in a rush. But, I finally got some answers to a long-standing question of mine. Here in Yogyakarta, most homes have servants- or house helpers (pambantus)- usually live-in. In my homestay there are two permanant people and two who seem to come in and out. Though the legal working age is 15, pambantus often are even younger. If they live there, they are on duty 24hours a day, even during Ramadan. I have been wondering what would make a child or teenager be a pambantu if even as a homeless kid they could receive some kind of free public education and housing. Today I had a long conversation with one of my language teachers who explained that to be a street kid could have an even worse reputation and a pretty terrible quality of life, presumably in the children’s shelters. Pambantus occasionally are permitted to go to school, but usually just work until married (this applies to woman only I think). When I asked how someone who works 24hrs a day could possibly find a spouse, she told me there are pambantu communities that put on a variety of activities including meetings about worker’s rights and equality. My teacher’s husband is a professor of gender and worker’s rights at one of the Universities here and was invited to lecture at one of these meetings. Her own one pambantu lives in a separate house with pretty self defined work hours. While we agreed that this system of hired help is much better (which means I can’t blame this bias totally on my western mindset!), I will admit that the pambantus at my homestay seem like part of the family, albeit a very hardworking part. But there’s no denying that whether or not they are part of the family this also means they’re not at school, and instead of reading or drawing or gossiping on the phone, they’re cleaning and working from early morning to late at night.

Here’s short grammar lesson too:

Tanda Tangan = signature
Me+ tanda tangan + i = menandatangani = to sign many things
Me + tanda tangan + kan = manandatangankan = to sign for someone

This is what makes my head want to explode...

Smile like a Bule.

So I know that I smile a lot and that it’s pretty easy to make me laugh. Turns out, this is internationally true. Here in Indonesia, I was told that I am different from the foreigners because I smile a lot and all the foreigners look grumpy and upset, or at least not that happy. But today I realized that, just like all the other foreigners, when I am alone and walking around town, I look at the ground, avoid eye contact, and rarely smile. I ignore hellos in English altogether or respond in Indonesian, seeing even simple greetings as a subtle harassment because I am foreign, I am a bule (pronounced buleh). I do all these things because I do not want to attract attention-usually male- and because in other countries I’ve learned that simple eye contact can mean flirting. But thanks to my Indonesian friend, I realized that we’ve all created a negative cycle where the foreigners are scared to smile and then the locals just think we’re unfriendly and unhappy. I was advised to smile more and let myself be comfortable. I did mention that usually my fear is more acute at night when there are men around, and my fears of that were confirmed. He said that if harassed I should feel free to use force (my friend knows I played rugby). I shouldn’t really ever be out alone in the dark anyway and I’m not for the most part (it also gets dark here at about 6pm though so on occasion it’s unavoidable). Since this conversation I’ve been trying out this new tactic of being at least somewhat friendlier, and less worried. So far so good.
On a side note, I went to another Jatilan, and this time we got to sit on stage. It was amazing, and way scarier than the sidelines. I also got pulled into the dance – something that usually happens to men. I had a suspicion that by sitting right up front I’d be pulled in and then, well, there I was, terrified, not knowing what to do with a hundred eyes on me. The dancer had his scarf around me and mostly I just stood there looking scared, I have no idea how a woman is supposed to behave in that situation. Eventually I was released and ran back to my sit. My friend got a couple photos of me looking like a scared tourist; I’ll put those up soon.
I’ve been spending some time a bit outside the city in a farm area, which has been a relief. Though only fifteen minutes from my house, the air is cleaner, everything is quieter, and there are delicious tomatoes and peanuts to eat. I also got another driving lesson there away from traffic. Yesterday, though, I drove in the city for the first time, and while no one was injured, I did accidentally pop a wheelie...