The Best of Indonesia, Part 2

I'm riding home from Manado in the front seat of a bus, and it is the most fraught drive of what will surely be my foreshortened life. (That is saying something when you consider the fact that I've been driven by a) a one-eyed man, during a storm, up a mountain, in a car that stalled, and b) me, who once spun 360 degrees on a slick West Virginia interstate.)

The utterly incompetent driver chatters, smokes and texts as we hurtle down the road, taking every mountside zig and zag as if he believes the bus to be a descendant of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that will sail cheerfully off the cliff to safety. Passing a truck, we come within inches of a head-on collision; I clutch my seat, gasping "Jesus Christ," and he chuckles. Just when I think I'm so wound up I could slap him, he offers me a cigarette.

The road levels out and my body unclenches and then, as if God is chuckling at me too, a rainbow appears above the mountains. "Colors in the sky!" I shout, being too incompetent an Indonesian speaker to know the word for rainbow.

****

I meet an Indonesian college student who's majoring in forestry and, when I tell her I majored in English, says that she loves reading English novels. I am skeptical--North Sulawesi bookstores have a breadth of selection similar to Walgreen's. I ask her which novels and she responds "Oh, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Little Women, but my favorite is Anne of Green Gables because Anne has such a big imagination."

My voice gets shrieky with excitement: "No way. Anne of Green Gables has been my favorite book since I was a kid." She tells me she never got to finish the Anne series because its unavailable in Indonesia; getting even shriekier, I say "I can help you with that!" That evening, as I email her the Anne e-books from my Nook, I laugh thinking of Anne's favorite phrase: "kindred spirits."

****

Ester and I are staring at the third draft of my student's speech on unity. Like the first two, this one is clearly plagiarized.

She is giving the speech at a national competition in Jakarta in one week. A sinus infection makes my ears buzz and my head heavy, and all I can think of is the plane ticket Fulbright has already bought for my cheating student, and how much I'd like to be asleep right now. We have already had two grave meetings with her, explaining in English and Indonesian that her speech must be original work. "Go home and write another essay in your words," I had admonished her, "Miss Ester and I will translate it." But the concept of cheating here is fuzzy: "She is scared," Ester says, "She is only a tenth grader," these being legitimate excuses, which I've heard many times, for plagiarizing. I am baffled.

"Okay," I say, tearing up the pages of too-perfect sentences, "Instead of writing a speech, how about the three of us just sit here and talk about why unity is important for Indonesia." In a plodding, triangular conversation between my student's Indonesian and Ester's Indoglsih and my English, we discover that she has a fully developed, unique argument in her head. But since she had never been asked to write an essay before--let alone one for a national competition--she had assumed her ideas weren't good enough to be written down.

I am ashamed: Why didn't I think of this before? But Ester is laughing "See? Before, she worked alone and then I fixed her work and then you corrected it, and it was imperfect. But together, we work perfectly."

The Best of Indonesia

Just when you think this wild and unpredictable country can't surprise you anymore...

...you see sunset over the Togian Islands.

Flotsam and Jetsam

The beach in front of my house is dirty.

I mean really, really dirty. First there's the black sand. Sure, black sand isn't intrinsically dirty, and the fact that it's made up of ancient grains of lava is neat, but I challenge you to look at a beach of black sand and think "sunbathing!" instead of "composting soil." Then there's the waves that vary in color from flat gray to turbid brown. (Personally, when I go to the beach, I like my skin, not the water lapping at my feet, to turn brown.) And then there's the litter.

Litter isn't the right word, though. Litter sounds little. Litter makes me think of newborn kittens and other adorable critters. There are no adorable litters of critters littering my beach. There are, however, decapitated geese.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I went for a walk on the beach last Sunday afternoon. It was overcast and windy, and there wasn't another person in sight. Of course, I'd been on the beach countless times, but somehow never quite processed its astounding filth. Besides dog shit and your average plastic-bags-and-bottles trash, there was a whole array of more savory items: bulging diapers, dead frogs, condoms, the waterlogged body of a goose, and 50 feet down the beach, its waterlogged head.

This was the dirtiest and most fascinating beach I'd ever seen. I stepped on a spoon. Cool, I thought, a spoon--how Little Mermaid-esque. In one 20-foot stretch, I found a dozen fresh carrots strewn about. I found pretty green floor tiles, a baseball hat, toothpaste, a flag, a backpack, a brush, one rubber boot, a blanket, a Halloween mask and a telephone, spiraled cord and all. It was flotsam and jetsam straight out of someone's kitchen. A high-minded person would have felt convicted and started a beach clean-up on the spot.

I am not a high-minded person. I'm a former homeschooler, creative but lazy, and on that abandoned beach it made sense for me to do only one thing: collect all that cool stuff and make something out of it. So like a grungy Ariel, I gathered anything colorful or strange that wasn't too grime-encrusted, and piled it artistically into a beach-side shrine.

Some fishermen joined me on the beach for half an hour; we exchanged friendly hellos. A few neighbors waved to me from the embankment. Two teenage boys walked by and tore down part of my shrine, but that made me smile: teenage boys are supposed to tear things down. One of them--I pegged him to be around 13--sidled up to me.

"The sea is beautiful," he said in Indonesian.
"Very beautiful," I agreed.
"What's your name?"
"Polly."
He switched to English: "Want to have sexy?"

I walked away. He was just a kid, I thought, who didn't know what he was saying. Fog bloomed over the hills, and everyone disappeared indoors as it started raining. I wandered happily up and down the ugly beach, feeling close to Indonesia: its trash charmed me, its rain warmed me. I turned around, and saw the boy kneeling at the water's edge, a few yards away. He scooted toward me, calling "Hey, mister, look, mister!", his arm pumping wildly, and I realized: he's masturbating. He's masturbating at me.

I whirled around and walked straight back to my house, through a swampy area where the water was knee-high and the mud sucked my flip-flops from my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the boy sprint away; I didn't stop. At the spigot outside my house I rinsed off the mud grafittied to my legs. I went inside, got in the shower and scrubbed my skin till it was blotchy and red.

I'd like to think I gave the boy a look of disdain--a look that said "What's that supposed to do, little boy, scare me?"--before I marched away. But my face was too busy with shock and revulsion to affect nonchalance. Two days later, even after laughing it off a little, I still feel the same: How shocking, that something that dirty would happen on the beach in front of my house.

Day Tripper

On a recent school holiday, several teachers took me on a day-trip into the mountains east of Amurang. They told me excitedly that they were taking me to a coffee plantation, which I'd been begging to see, but having been in Indonesia for six months, I was skeptical. Both the frustration and the fun of this country tend to come from its unpredictability. You're told you're going to a birthday party, and instead you end up singing worship songs and praying for an hour with a bunch of 60-year olds. You're told you'll be giving a 3-minute speech to the school's faculty about the Fulbright program, and instead you end up quietly playing Truth or Dare for hours in the back of the room while the principal drones on.

On this particular day we visited a cemetery, a sister-in-law's house, a playground, a lake, a mall and a roadside pineapple stand, but no coffee plantation. To be fair: the teachers did pull the car over at one point and say, "Look, Polly, coffee trees!" It was a lovely day, and if nothing was what I expected, so much the better.

Entering the agricultural valley of Modoinding, or "The Promised Land," as this billboard boasts.

Mountains surrounding Modoinding.

One of my co-teachers' husband's grave, which we visited.

The road to the cemetery. It was lined with small palm branches in honor of a 16-year old girl whose funeral had been a few days before.

Flowers by the side of the road.

Everyone, even my 50+ year old co-teacher, enjoyed the playground equipment.

My co-teacher's sister-in-law gave us souvenirs: cabbages and cucumbers grown in her fields.

A lake outside Modoinding.

Ester and me.

The elusive coffee trees.

Food for Thought

In my first days in Amurang, I would get fed up by how often teachers, neighbors and strangers wanted me to talk about food. Are you hungry? Did you have bread or rice for breakfast? Do you like Indonesian food? What kind of fish do you like--kelelawar, cakalang, mujair, nike? What kind of bananas do you like--king, shoe, milk, horn?

The truth was, food was just a blur then. All fish tasted the same, all bananas tasted the same (who even knew there were different types of bananas?) and every meal tasted like a slight variation on the white-rice-with-indeterminate-meat theme. There were only two flavors: spicy and fried. I ate everything, and I liked it fine, but it wasn't something I wanted to chat about.

One of the first things that struck me was how ugly an Indonesian plate of food looked. I drank glasses of coconut juice with what appeared to be flakes of skin floating on the surface; lumpy meat dishes made me want to invent words, Roald Dahl-style, like glopswosh or mulg; Obama's much-hyped bakso was several slick gray meatballs bobbing about in transclucent broth. Even a dish I liked right away, gado-gado, was a mound of pale vegetables slathered with a chunky brown sludge that reminded me of...well, I'm sure you can imagine. I'd been expecting to leave behind the luxury of American supermarkets and restaurants, but it didn't occur to me that an attractively presented meal was a luxury too.

Chicken--fried.

Fish--spicy.

Fruit salad--tasteless.

Then I tried pisang goreng--fried banana--and everything changed. A banana dipped in flour and sugar, fried in frighteningly bubbly oil, and served hot with grated cheese, chocolate sauce, chillies or alone may not sound like a treat, but baby, you have no idea what you're missing. Its outside is light and crunchy, and just greasy enough to make your lips taste soft and smooth. Its inside is sweet and fresh and perfect. I haven't met an ETA yet who hasn't fallen in love with pisang goreng. They're sold everywhere, from  roadside shacks to the classiest Balinese restuarants. Indonesians eat them frequently and at unexpected times, like for breakfast or as a pre-dinner snack.

For me, pisang goreng was the gateway to understanding Indonesian food. Not only did I learn to distinguish between the varieties of banana (king and milk are best; shoe is mealy, horn is bland), but I finally had a sincere and enthusiastic answer to the question, Do you like Indonesian food? Yes! Pisang goreng--despite its misshapen, warty looks--is my absolute favorite.

Humble but delicious pisang goreng.

One of my 12th graders drops a batter-soaked banana into oil.

After the fried banana breakthrough, I started noticing how interesting, and even beautiful, Indonesian food can be--it's all just so much more unpredictable than food in the States. There are the baskets of colorful vegetables at the downtown market, and the roadside fruit stands, with their bright melons and oranges that dangle like Christmas tree bulbs.

On a road in Makassar, South Sulawesi.

In Amurang's traditional outdoor market.

And there was the meal a lovely Indonesian family treated me to where they carefully included Western food, along with giant, grimacing fish, to make me feel comfortable.

Fresh-water fish from Lake Tondano and good ol' french fries.

One of the most remarkable things about local Minahasan culture is people's inclination to eat anything that moves. Snake, bat, rat and dog are the favorites. These foods are special, so you don't see them in your average mom-and-pop warung, but they've been offered to me at plenty of parties and weddings. So far I've only had the courage to try bat; I get physically and morally queasy when I think about eating dog with cute little Louisa May barking outside my door. But some friends and I did have the courage to visit the traditional animal market in Tomohon, about an hour from my town. We spent most of the time yelping, squealing, shrieking, and trying not to get spattered by pig blood. But what we saw was certainly food worth talking about. (Note: if you have a weak stomach, are a vegetarian and/or love dogs, some of these photos may be disturbing.)

Left to right: ETAs Melina and Nicole, bat, rat, two butchers, snake, me.

Holding a rat and trying not to puke or scream.

 

The market's most unsettling sight: dog meat on top of a cage of sedated dogs.

There is one Indonesian term for dog the animal--anjing--and another for dog the food--rintek wuuk or fine hair (but everyone just says RW).

While I still have to swallow my impatience every time a teacher asks if I've eaten breakfast, I've realized that maybe food fascinates Indonesians for good reason. They keep some dogs as pets and serve others at celebrations. They spend half an hour at lunch methodically picking out the bones of a fresh-water fish. And the fish they're eating was probably caught early that morning by their cousin or neighbor or cousin's neighbor. Indonesians are close to--and intimately, enthusiastically wrapped up in--food, in a way that I've never known. Ester, my closest Indonesian friend, explained it to me like this: "Other people eat to live. We live to eat."

Eat (pray love) Your Heart Out, Ms. Gilbert: My six-week jaunt across Sulawesi, Java, Lombok and, yes, Bali

Thanks to my school's exam schedule and generous Christmas vacation, I had most of December and half of January off. I spent the time traveling around Indonesia with ETA friends--from my home island, Sulawesi, to the mountains of East Java, to the temples and nightclubs of Bali, to the beaches of Lombok, and home again. I hope these photos will tell the story more interestingly than I can. 

First stop: Pantai Bira, a small beach town in South Sulawesi.

Brandon and Thomas with a shark some very proud fishermen showed off to us.

An enormous ship being built on the beach (and now that Sulawesi's rainy season has started with full force, I understand the ark-building impulse.)

Next stop: Mount Bromo in East Java. It has been erupting off-and-on since November, so we were warned against traveling there, but the guys "called an audible," and we did it anyway. And we were lucky: We hiked it on Saturday...on Sunday it erupted.

This expression is meant to say: "Really? You made me wake up at 3 am, climb two hours up a mountain in the darkness, and now you can't even get one good photo of me? Really??"

 

Probolinggo, a town not far from Bromo, where I got excited by the number of people riding bicycles (your work is done, Dad) and the disconcertingly litter-free streets.

Next stop: the Ijen Plateau, East Java, home of coffee plantations and what has to be one of the most stunning volcanic craters in the world.

Mini-hike (my family would call it a "hik") to a waterfall near our hotel.

Waking up for another crack-of-dawn volcano-climb was hard--so JT and Brandon got us going with an impromptu dance party.

After an hour of hiking up Mt. Ijen, this sight emerged from the mist.  But it's not just beautiful--it's an industry. Every day, about 300 men mine bright yellow sulphur with their hands and carry 70 kg baskets of it out of the crater and down the mountain.

All Thomas (an econ major) could say every time a short, scrawny man carrying a load of sulphur passed us was "The labor! The labor!"

There was a sign that said "Tourists are forbidden from walking down into the crater." So of course, we ignored it.

Next stop: Malang, a pleasant little city in East Java.

Even in mostly-Muslim Indo, tacky Christmas decorations can be found.

And this is how we spent Christmas Day: eight long hours in a series of buses traveling from Malang to the easternmost tip of Java. I will not complain...but I will say that the Wise Men probably had an easier time getting to baby Jesus.

Next stop: Baluran National Park, East Java.
 

In Baluran we went on a jeep tour and saw deer, birds and tons and tons of monkeys.

We read an online review of Baluran National Park that said "If I'd known about Baluran, I'd never have gone to Africa!"

Next stop: Ubud, Bali, a town that has become wildly popular since Elizabeth Gilbert lived here for four months in the Pray section of "Eat Pray Love."

The first thing I noticed in Ubud was all the bules. The second thing was the Starbucks. If you're a shameless bule like me, you can sit on the Starbucks' deck, sipping a latte and enjoying the view onto this lovely Hindu temple.

Our first dinner in a nice Western restaurant since leaving the US. We were like Tarzan emerging from the jungle.

Ubud is the artistic center of Bali--this is pop art for sale by the side of the main road.

Next stop: Kuta, Bali, a trashy, rowdy town full of drunk surfer dudes--imagine the Jersey Shore, but with Australians.

Letting loose, Australian-style, on New Year's Eve.

We spent a day getting swept away by the tide, and yelled at by a lifeguard, at Seminyak Beach.

Ulu Watu, a sacred cliff-top Hindu temple outside Kuta--pretty awe-inspiring (as long as you ignore the monkeys trying to steal your water bottle).

To enter the sacred grounds of the temple, everyone must wear sarongs.

Hindu worshippers entering the temple with offerings.

Next stop: back to Ubud for a final Bali-hurrah.

Roast suckling pig is a traditional Balinese dish. Thanks to Thomas and Nicole's boldness, we observed the behind-the-scenes action at one of Ubud's best restaurants.

Balinese boy playing with wayang kulit, traditional shadow puppets, in the pig restuarant.

We watched a legong, Balinese dance, performance, and this is the part I liked best: Three Stooges-esque comic relief.

Of the many Hindu temples we explored in Bali, this one--draped with trees and empty of both tourists and monkeys--was my favorite.

Next stop: Kuta, Lombok (the complete opposite of Kuta, Bali). Mostly free of tourists, with remote, smack-you-in-the-face-gorgeous beaches.

Mawi Beach--worth the hour-long motorcycle ride that ended with our bikes getting stuck in the mud.

A second beach discovery we made on motorcycles.

Another view of Mawi Beach.

At a restaurant overlooking Kuta Bay. (Those grins say: "My God, I can't believe how lucky we are to be here.")