singapore

Mag and I went to the coolest retro antique shop in Singapore. I thought Singapore was dull, but Mag took me to up-and-coming hip streets of shops run by new entrepreneurs my age. We had the "best and cheapest" tea in the city and wandered around positing potential business scenarios for Mag.

I realized I have hit culture shock, and I'm still halfway across the globe. The hyper-consumerism and uber-stylishness of Singapore has come as a shock to my system (I haven't seen so many malls since the Orange County in Cali!) Coming home may be a challenge...

Kuala Lumpur, bright lights, big city

I love the anonymity of Kuala Lumpur.  After two months of being either the only white girl in town, or one of a clump of tourists in an economically depressed town thronged by touts and hopeful tour guides, it's a marvel to walk throught the streets ignored. 

 

Malaysia is also way more ethnically diverse, linguistically as well, than any of the Indonesian islands seemed.  If you compare Indonesia as a whole, with hundreds of languages and 17,000 islands, many with distinct cultural and linguistic traits, Indonesia is a far more diverse place.  But each of the islands compared with Kuala Lumpur falls short in diversity.  Here, there are Chinese, Malay, Indians, and more.  The food offerings are a delight after the steady diet of fried rice, fried noodles, or overcooked tempeh/tofu. 

 

I have grown to love fried chicken.  I broke my vegetarianism when I came down with food poisoning; it was the only pre-cooked dish to look halfway edible.  And now I'm hooked (for now).  KFC is big in Asia.  Like Mickey D's in America.

 

The malls are gargantuum, shiny, sterile, overpriced.  The prices are commensurate with the United States.  I found it alarming to go from dirt streets and onion farms in the cold mountain town in Indonesia to Nike stores and chain food restaurants in a shiny glass building two days later. 

 

Streets are well manicured and fountains and flowers are sprinkled amidst the city in its many parks.

 

I had wanted to go straight to the ticket counter when I arrived in KL and book myself a flight straight away from Malaysia, but after coming here, I've realized that there are delights in the city.  I met a guy from San Luis, my hometown, in the bar attached to my hostel - what are the chances? - and as he leaves the military in 40 days we traded views (many similarly inclined) about the state of the world.

 

Travel magic continues....

State Department warnings

It’s hard to tease fact from fiction in regards to threats to personal well-being here in Indonesia. The US State Department warns Americans to postpone all non-essential travel to Indonesia. From their website, one would imagine that terrorists might well lurk around every island – all 13,000 of them.

They’re not the only cautious ones. I stayed with an Indonesian family for my first two days in the country. They offered me a ride from the airport, and then, a place to sleep. When I pried myself away (against their exhortations to stay a week) they insisted upon placing me into the safe hands of the national train system. The buses are full of thieves, they claimed. There’s no telling what might happen.

The next town I hit, I was warned by a hotel proprietor not to set up a tour with a street guide. We’ve had them drug our tourists and rob them, he said. Not the first time I’ve heard that story either, though usually it involves tourists on night buses, drugged with the water bottles handed out by the bus staff!

A solid half-dozen times when I’ve told Indonesians I’ll just hop on a bus to get to my next destination, they pause, pursing their lips or leaning closer to me. Watch out for pickpockets! Maybe you should take a taxi, instead?

I ride the bus with my purse on my lap, my hands folded on top for added measure. But, I must admit, I also ride with a great deal of peace of mind. Perhaps I’m simply naïve.

harrassment, Indonesian style

He leaned in too close to me as I was stumbling over the keypad on my new cell. His body pressed against my side, as he feigned a casual interest in my affairs.

“I can’t do this,” I told him, and moved noticeably to my left. “I don’t know how to adjust the keypad from its numerical setting.” Beneath my words, I was telling him to back off. But he didn’t read the undercurrent of my speech. And why was he so eager to go through the motions of this useless exercise? I had no inclination to call this man, ten years or more my senior, and should he need assistance with proofreading his English grants, as I had offered, it would be him calling me to request help, not the reverse.

I hunched over my laptop that afternoon, on loan from the organization, and my frustration mounted as I replayed that casual exchange. Adding insult to injury, the man charged with keeping the building orderly kept trying to make flirtatious conversation. “Kamu cantik,” he said. “You’re pretty.” He kept playing with the dog who barked in alarm at each of my patrols from my workspace to the central office.

I asked him if he had his own dog at home. “Tidak,” he said. No, he couldn’t own one – it was against the Muslim religion to touch them. I wasn’t sure I understood his Indonesian, as I watched the dog lick him on the side of his face and even on his lips. “Kiss?” he asked me, pointing to the dog, as if I should follow its example. “Kiss,” he repeated, in his limited English. When that failed to rouse my interest, he tried a more direct approach. “Kamu indah,” he said – “you’re beautiful.”

I stared at him, soundlessly, for a few deliberate moments, before launching into an overly simplified lecture. “In America, men don’t tell women that they are beautiful. Understand?” I returned to my grant-writing and ignored him for the rest of the day.

On the way home that day, I walked to the corner to wait for the bus. A becek - bicycle taxi - driver initiated a conversation, which, within two minutes, had turned to the same compliment: “kamu cantik!” I explained the same thing to him, this time with the benefit of being able to use my mother tongue. “Tidak apa-apa?” he questioned. No worries?

I guess so, I said. “Tidak apa-apa.”

A shame that even volunteering for a Catholic-rooted non-profit in Indonesia leaves me exposed to the casual sexual harassment I unwillingly greet every day on the streets.

Being followed

I do take care when walking on the streets. Sometimes irrationally, I look back and get nervous in the middle of the day when a man walks just a few dozen paces behind me. I was a bit nervous the other day and kept trying to keep this man in my peripheral vision as I looked to the side, feigning interest in the old-skool Honda motorbikes lining the road.

He passed me when I slowed, and I saw that he was my age, and cleanly dressed and neatly groomed. Green cargo pants, a black short-sleeved dress shirt, sandals. Clean-cut short hair.

Oops, I thought. Seems harmless. Maybe I misread the situation.

I somehow inadvertently caught up to him a few blocks later. “Hot, isn’t it,” he offered, in clear English. We started chatting, swapping pleasantries. I was mildly disinterested; I find myself approached often. Some days, I imagine, I’m spoken to or stared at by hundreds of people – 200, 300. After a while, out of fatigue, I don’t feel I owe people any extra measure of kindness or interest.

I paused at a street stall to buy a few balls for the kids in the earthquake affected area I volunteer in on Wednesdays. He said, from behind me, that he worked for Walhi. I turned, astonished. Walhi is the Indonesian arm of the environmental group Friends of the Earth. I’d been meaning to go down to their office to introduce myself, since RAN works closely with Walhi on occasion. I’d even called a few days ago, but the speaker on the other end spoke no English and my Indonesian is too limited to be productive.

He does disaster relief for them, traveling to Sulawesi, Aceh, all over Java. I’ve now made another friend in Yogya. Maybe there was good reason I felt such a strange presence about this man.

back streets of yogya

It’s true that I brought no money. Or rather, I had brought money, earmarked for a ballet performance, now resting safely in the pockets of a batik artist named Susie. So I had none to spend as I wandered further into the batik neighborhood near the Keraton of Yogya.

A man in a becek convulsed his right hand, flagging me down. I consented to cross the street and say hello out of politeness; after all, I was pulling out a map and deciding how to make my way to the home of Hajir, the batik instructor.

“I’ll take you, 3,000 rupiahs,” the taxi-driver said. I figured it couldn’t hurt; I really had no idea where I was going. But then he carted me a mere 50 yards down to the end of the lane and stopped. There was Hajir’s home. He beamed at me, in victory, and then chuckled boldly. I slapped half of his inflated asking price into his outstretched hand and shook my head in dismay. After a month living here, I am unaccustomed to being duped. That, and most Indonesians I encounter are quick to provide accurate advice and assistance in exchange for a smile and a chance to practice their English.

I looked at Hajir’s offerings, passed, and then slipped out into the muggy afternoon. I wandered through small, windy streets prisoner to none of the principles of orderly city planning. A good percentage of the homes produced some sort of craft: batik, wooden masks, bullhide puppets. Children flew kites or rode bikes through the quiet lanes.

Two old women hunched on their front stoop. All empty gaps in her smile and with the eeriest bright blue eyes, one offered graciously for me to come inside. But then she brought out her batiks, quite rudimentary and unattractive, and when I said, “tidak, terimah kasih” – thanks, but no thanks – she snatched the batik piece from my hands, threw it down on my lap, and puckered her lips, turning away while muttering. I’m not so easily guilted. “Suit yourself,” I said, and walked outside to her ill-tempered sputtering.

Two pre-teen girls followed me on bikes. I raced them on foot, my plastic bag with the balls whipping behind me, until they escorted me away from their neighborhood.

another quake and tsunami

i probably wouldn't have still been there when the quake hit at 3:30-ish in the afternoon, but i would have just left on a bus to go back home. about an hour later, the tsunami would have hit shore at parangritis monday night. i was going to go there on sunday, and possibly spend the night. instead i ended up going to central java - the dieng plateau.

people are still shaken. a week ago, i went to see superman at the new theater. it's part of a mall that opened recently, and the theater had been open just for a month before the quake partially destroyed it. there were earthquake-type scenes, and the seats even shook a bit, and it was clear that people in the room didn't want to be reminded of what had shook their world just a month earlier.

quake relief is divided amongst big ngos, small locally-based groups, and then people simply trying to rebuild their lives. i wish i spoke more indonesian because there's quite a vibrant and engaged community of people working to rebuild the community, and many focusing on keeping the arts and traditions of the region alive - making sure that cultural traditions aren't lost as focus shifts to basic necessities.

i'm glad i'm here. hoping i can be of some small help. if you want to send funds to help, please email and let's go from there.

spooky landscapes

today i took a day off to travel (two, actually). a friend was driving to a town far away and passing through the dieng plateau, which is one of the top tourist sites in java, it seems. that said, i didn't see more than 6 other foreign tourists today. i think they're really hurting for cash.

it's beautiful here. they work the fields for every last scrap of food it can produce. all of the hills are terraced. there were 7 mountains surrounding us today - 7! we went to see these geyser-type things, lava-type black goo bubbling up and no safety nets to keep people from falling in down the slippery slopes to their hot deaths. and a lake that shimmered a strange bright pale green from all of the sulfur.

we hiked 2 kilometers up a dirt road to see another geyser, off the beaten track. the working day was wrapping up and men were hauling giant bags of potatoes down the mountainside, boys in tow. they kept cracking jokes with us, and the women and girls at the side of the road made lots of good-natured jokes about us.

my friends dropped me off as they continued on and i hopped on a bus to start the journey home. but the bus was totally crowded so i jumped off a minute later in a little village that i thought i'd been by before. turns out, i hadn't. i can't imagine them ever really getting tourists. so many people followed me around and i ended up getting invited into one person's home to watch a band performance with bamboo instruments. the women begged me to dance and the children giggled behind their hands. it's been great. i was in a home wtih all muslims, the women all cover their heads, but no one seems to have a problem with americans and people seem largely thrilled to meet me. i feel safe here, despite all of america's travel warnings. i'm sure the terrorists are lurking somewhere in indonesia, but it certainly doesn't feel like java.