Written during
various nights in my bed under my mosquito net...
Today’s PC Indonesia
Glossary:
Indo – Indonesian
PCV – Peace Corps Volunteer
PCT – Peace Corps Trainee (Me until June 2nd)
Ibu (Bu) – Mom
Bapak (Pak) - Dad
Mandi – Bathe
Apa – What
Bahasa Indonesia (Bahasa) – Language of Indonesia (language)
Bule – Indo term for white foreigner
Ereeka – How every Indo says my name
Peace Corps has a way of bringing heaviness where there is none
and levity where it should never be. The first time I poured a
bucket of cold water over my naked body at four in the morning amongst a myriad
of bugs and lizards made me giggle, while my first time watching Futurama on my
laptop in my bed under my mosquito net gave me melancholic introspection.
Needless to say, the past few weeks have already begun to change
me.
To spare you from a detailed account of the first two weeks of my
journey (because every minute in a new job, new country, new life contains a
whirlwind of emotion-filled sagas), I will categorize my overall experience in
sections. The first one being:
A Day In The Life of
a Peace Corps Indonesia Trainee
I wake up somewhere between 4am and 6am to the Muslim call of
prayer and roosters having heated debates.
Anecdote #1: My first
morning staying with my family in the village of Oro Oro Ombo, I saw a
cockroach on my bedroom floor. Here are the steps I took in dealing with this
situation:
Step 1: See
cockroach. Widen eyes, let out a “huh.”
Step 2: Realize that
this is my first bug encounter in the Peace Corps. A milestone really. Smile
and take a picture.
Step 3: Look up
“cockroach” in my English/Indonesian dictionary in order to tell my Ibu.
Step 4. Go to the
kitchen to tell my Ibu. While she’s doing dishes, second guess this, wondering
if she’ll make fun of the Bule for worrying about a little cockroach.
They’re probably common here.
Step 5: Go back into
my room. Get a folder to scoop it up. Realize how fast they can run, drop the
folder and watch it scurry under my bed next to my duffel bag.
Step 6: Watch it for
a moment. See how scared it is. Recall the cockroach in the movie WALL-E. Start
to feel a strange sympathy for the creature.
Step 7:See Ibu pass
by my door, wondering what I’m doing on the floor. Point to cockroach. Watch as
she grabs a shirt from the other room, and picks up the roach with it.
Step 8: As it hisses
and writhes in her hand above me, realize how crazy Peace Corps is already
making me.
Step 9: Let Ibu
squash my cockroach moment with a t-shirt and her bare hands.
Step 10: Recognize
there should have only been two steps: Step 1: Scream. Step 2: Kill
cockroach.... So in a contemplative daze, I get dressed and move on with my
life.
Some days I either go to the backyard and watch/help my Ibu cook
the meals for the day, or I go for a run up my street and watch the sunrise
while doing some stretches... or I sleep in until 6am. Then I bathe (mandi).
While many volunteers were placed in homes with squat toilets, I was lucky
enough to be placed in a house with a western toilet bowl. Both situations
require you to take water from the basin and make a few pours into the toilet
to flush. Tip: Make it a point to make the toilet seat as wet as possible in
the pouring process. In Indonesia, that means it’s clean.
Anecdote #2: When I
came home from school on the second day of my stay, my Ibu sat me down with a
list of questions she had written in English using her dictionary. One of them
started as follows: “Ereeka, when you pup...” Then she proceeded to reach her
hand behind her back.” “Apa?” I asked, having a feeling what she was trying to
say but seeing as it was my second day, didn’t want to assume. “Pup... Pup!” I
slowly and awkwardly as possible mimicked her hand gesture... she finally
showed me the word she had written on the page,
“Defecate.”
As she reaches behind
herself again to explain how to pour water over yourself and wipe with your
left hand, I stopped her and explained (as best I could) that Peace Corps had a
whole hour-long training session on how to use the mandi and squat toilet.
“Oooh, cleaver girl.” She said. I made the safe assumption she meant clever,
and we smiled at each other, sweetly.
Then, I mandi. I strip, I sit and do my business, putting my PC
training to work, then after washing my hands, thoroughly, by pouring water
over my left hand holding my bar of soap, I pour water in the toilet. I pour
more water on myself and soap up. If I’m lucky, my Ibu felt inclined to heat up
a tea kettle of hot water to mix into the water basin. Then I brush my teeth,
spit on the floor (quite satisfying), and rinse. Mandi.
Anecdote #3: One
morning during my mandi, a mosquito flew from the hole in the ceiling straight
towards me. I remembered the horrifically descriptive session we had on
Malaria and Dengue fever. That session made every mosquito an immediate
threat to my life. As it bolted toward my face
I instinctually launched my bucket of mandi water in its direction to
no avail. It persisted. A second splash. A third. But it was able to dodge every
hurl with alarming swiftness. After the seventh or eighth launch, with every
wall dripping with failed attempts, I was able to see myself, naked and crazed
with the mosquito no where to be found. Thats when I realized: while I was not
stung, the mosquito had won.
Then I put on my robe (which I thank myself every day for
packing), go to my room and apply lotion, then sunscreen, then bug spray. Then
I get dressed and make my bed. This takes twice as long because my Ibu insists
I sweep my bed with a hand broom made of bamboo. I have yet to find out why.
Then I have to tuck in my mosquito net. Many physically awkward and tedious
minutes later, bed made. Then I pack my bags, fill my water bottles from the fresh
water cooler in my room that every home stay is required to have to host a
Peace Corps trainee. Next, I sit down to breakfast. Today it was small whole
fried fish (about the size of my hand), fried dumplings, fried spiced tempeh
nuggets called mendol, and nasi (rice). Always nasi. All day, every day.
Anecdote #4: Within
ten minutes of walking into my family’s house for the first time, they made me
eat. This practice hasn’t stopped since I’ve been here. When submerging
yourself into this kind of situation with very little grasp of the language,
every move you make is reanalyzed as to not offend. This is triply true when it
comes to eating. Usually it is smart to wait for locals to start
and follow their lead. This was impossible as it seemed my place was the only
one set at the table. They were just watching me, talking sounds at me and
urging me to eat. I was afraid to pick up my utensils. I think they finally
assumed I didn’t know how to eat food because my Ibu took it upon herself to
teach me in the same fashion you teach someone how to practice their swing in golf,
coming behind me, taking each of my wrists and scooping each bite and feeding
me with my own hands. Luckily, I finally had the common sense to find my
dictionary and look up the word “sorry” and “left-handed”.
Then my Ibu gives me a packed lunch and my Peace Corps neighbor,
Lindsey stops by and we walk to school together. During
this walk, we get nothing but stares and smiles from locals, with the
occasional honk from a family on their sepeda motor (motorcycle).
Three minutes later, we arrive at the small elementary school
tucked away in an alley, which consists of two buildings, one with three small
classrooms, and one with two small classrooms. Then we, the six of us in Group
Oro Oro Ombo A, learn Bahasa Indonesia (language of Indonesia) from 7:30-noon.
During our hour break, we usually go to the classroom lay on the colored padded
floor in the kindergarten classroom and either snack on lunch, exchange
cross-cultural stories of awkwardness, compare the food our families cook us,
or complain about irregular bowel movements. Or you might even happen to find
us having a normal conversation. We also like to stop at one of the many
locally owned convenience shops, usually based out of a neighbor’s house (a one
minute walk away) for some kind of beverage or snack. Children are bound to
peak into our classroom and giggle at us. Sometimes greeted with “salamat
pagi/siang! (good morning/afternoon!).” We are quite the spectacle in Oro Oro
Ombo.
Then from 1pm-5pm we meet up with the 7 others in Group Oro Oro
Ombo B and receive TEFL training. We’ve been getting visits from the ID6 and
ID7 Peace Corps groups (we are ID8). It’s nice to hear from them. They are
quite positive but do not sugar coat it. It is a hard job, sometimes it sucks,
but this country is beautiful and all of them either rate the experience an 8
or a 9 out of 10 in the end. This gives me a lot of hope.
Then after 5pm we can either go home (which I tend to do), or
sometimes walk further up the hill the Warnet café (the only internet café in
the village consisting of 7 computers).
One day Lindsey and I visited Alejandra’s house where her Ibu
served us tea with the usual 5 scoops of sugar in it, and some kind of cold
milky soup with various colored rice goop in it. This was after we insisted she
did not feed us. You cannot visit anyone’s house without being fed. She even
made us a full fledged to-go meal for the 5 minute walk back home consisting of
noodles, spiced potatoes, a curried hard boiled egg, and, you guessed it: a big
ass scoop of rice. I was full just watching her dish it out. Then her Ibu
insisted she walk us home, arms linked the entire way.
Another day we made the 20 minute hike up to the high school where
we can get wifi. So I brought my ukulele up there to look up some tabs on the
internet and found a few other PCTs shooting some hoops. Then Ophie (pronounced
Opey) the tiniest cutest sweetest woman, who is our group’s cultural liaison
rode up on here motor bike (by far the most popular form of transportation in
Java/the one mode of transportation that PCVs are forbidden to use. If we are
caught sitting on one, we will be immediately sent home). She sat
next to me and we made a very sweet attempt at playing/singing “Somewhere Over
the Rainbow”.
When I go home, I usually mandi again. Both because of my Ibu’s
assistance and of pure necessity. I really have to with the hot humid climate.
It’s really a constant state of moisture. Splash splash splash, then I do my
PR, pronounced pay-err (homework). My Ibu “helps” me by looking over my shoulder
and saying the answers. Finally asked my teacher how to politely say that I can
do it myself without offending her. The other night she was doing some kind of
worksheet at the dinner table. When I asked her what she was doing, she
replied, “Anak PR (my son’s homework). So, there’s a lot of that type of thing
here. Did I mention my Ibu is the headmaster of the elementary school where we
meet for class?
Then we eat makan malam (dinner). Can I just say how much I love
the food here? The curries, the soups, the meat, fried mashed potato pancakes,
Tempeh and tofu cooked in a style that leaps beyond tolerable to delectable.
They way they cook eggs here is something to behold. I’ve always been into the
weird foods. And when it comes to food, Indonesia caters to my every need.
Quail eggs, Goat meatballs and chicken satay, fried whole fish (found a love
for eating the crispy tails). Spicy peanut sauce on
everything! My Ibu and Bapak brag to their neighbor how much I love
spicy foods. I’ve only had to spit out one dish. I took a big bite of what I
thought was curried tempe with potatoes. I was right about the first two
ingredients. But it was not potatoes. It was boiled cow skin. I took one bite
and new I couldn’t swallow.
After dinner, we do various things. We talk, we watch tv, share
pictures of our lives, play with Fino, my 4 year old little brother. We laugh a
lot. Then, I tell them “Saya mau tidur.” (I want to sleep).
I go to my room, change into my pjs, take my malaria pill, crawl
under my mosquito net in my bed, write for a bit or make a phone call to
another PCT, then I turn off the light and listen to the sounds of my village
outside my window. Resonant pop music in the distance... Spurts of laughter,
singing, and children... motorcycles coming and going,... a cat fight of
apocalyptic proportions....and my thoughts...
I have traveled far and wide in my short and privileged life. But
never have I looked at the exotic excitement of a destination through the lens
of familiarity... But I can see it...glimpses of it, with constant refocusing,
albeit. But the adjusting will inevitably become less frequent. And though the
lens will surely get scuffed and tainted from time to time, I can see it... I
can see my home.
