Let's Do Lunch

It has been too long since I have had lunch with my coworkers, so, after six hours of straight teaching, I agree to join an expedition.

I am hungry. To emphasize this in the most Javanese way possible, I stand really close to one of the women we are waiting on. Really close. And watch her. I do not speak. She looks up and says, “Alright, I’m coming.”

We must wait for one teacher to finish praying. Sadly, she is not menstruating. When menstruating, she excitedly announces upon occasion that she does not have to pray. I love her for it. Her pride at being a woman. Her English. All of it. I am still hungry.

I settle onto a bench and pull up an article by I Fucking Love Science about drug addiction. It is a fascinating read, and I am engrossed to the point that I momentarily forget my hunger.

Here is the article, if you’re curious: http://www.iflscience.com/health-and-medicine/many-people-use-drugs-here-s-why-most-don-t-become-addicts

One of the vice principals sits next to me. Ibu Tuti is a true gem, but she is conservative. During my first week, we had a botched conversation about the inappropriateness of me lifting my skirt above my ankles to fan myself in the Indonesian heat.

As is usual in Indonesia, she looks over my shoulder onto my screen. There is a large picture of what is presumably meant to be cocaine alongside a hand holding the tools to snort the line of said powder. She looks down, then back up at me and smiles. I quickly switch tabs and return the smile. At least there were no ankles showing, right?

We drive what I would estimate to be about ½ mile to lunch—entirely walkable by my standards, but it is more than the Indonesian walking tolerance of 50 feet. (At the beginning of the year, I was asked to please wait for someone to drive me to my dance class each week. My dance class is right behind my school. For Ohio University readers, imagine driving from Morton to Shively. For Sandusky readers, imagine driving from the grocery end of Target to the swimsuit end.)

We arrive at the pecel restaurant. My colleagues order for me, and as a result, my food is not spicy. I eat without crying. My nose does not become stuffy, and I do not have to excuse myself periodically to do some deep breathing. The crazy part, though, is that I miss it. I do not like my pecel without pain.

I have become a masochist. To quote Ashlee Simpson, “I like it better when it hurts.” Based on life experiences, I have to assume she was talking about eating pecel.

And, lunch continues.

Pecel

Pecel is nothing short of a delight. In a country where I struggle to find enough vegetables to eat, pecel gives me almost a full cup of sprouts, spinach, and cabbage, along with white rice and spicy peanut sauce. In other words, I get to fulfill my childhood dream of living off of peanut butter and vegetables in a sense, and it is everything I dreamed it could be.

When imagining my post-Indonesia life, I felt myself filling with sadness every time I remembered that I would have no access to pecel. The sauce in particular is a cooking challenge.

I decide I would remedy this by hovering around my non-English-speaking pecel chef, hoping that in time she would impart her wisdom.

To begin, I sit down next to her behind the counter. She stares for a moment, then goes back to her work.

I tell her, "Mom, I want to learn." She stares some more, then goes back to her work. 

I pick up a potato and begin peeling, to show that I am actively ready to help her cook. There are no potatoes in pecel, but it is a start. She stares again, then goes back to her work.

I peel diligently.

She returns, laughing. "You're slow," she tells me in Indonesian.

"I am not!"

She peels with me, completing three potatoes for every one I complete. "You are not good at this," she says.

She eventually began the process of showing me how to make the sauce. Unless I find an easier method, I will not be eating pecel upon my return to the United States, as just step 1 of the process took hours. I gave up after watching for almost 2 hours, realizing that this could easily be a multi-day process in 100+ degree heat next to a fryer.

As a reward for my efforts, I have now been told in three different countries that I am bad at peeling potatoes. (Shout-out to Cees Meijer and my parental units.)

I maintain that I merely enjoy the steady process of peeling potatoes and see no rush in task completion.

Tikos

Eliza and I had a mouse problem for months. Hatred hath no bounds when it comes to how I feel about these devils.

Anna, a fellow ETA, affectionately calls them tikos due to their large behinds and complete lack of inhibition when it comes to shaking said behinds while sauntering around the house. From this point forward, I will refer to them as tikos, the saucy name they deserve.

We tried everything. We tried traps, taping doors, stuffing towels into cracks, wearing ear plugs to sleep through their ruckus each night, and setting aside a portion of all of our food as an assumed ritual sacrifice to the tikos.

Finally, finally, Pak Gi, Eliza’s counterpart, comes to set up a trap.

The trap works on the very first night. We catch one. Better yet, the trap is large and humane. My only responsibility is to then take the mouse and cage far from the house and release it.

The mouse very clearly seems displeased about his inability to steal my bananas and relocate my possessions from within the cage.

(Did you know mice move things? They do. Once, one actually took a different mouse trap we were trying out to the sewer. No joke. If tikos ain’t happy [with the interior decorating], ain’t nobody happy, and he will rearrange to his liking.)

I take the caged mouse outside. Dangling the cage from the right handlebar of my bike, I peddle the mouse farther and farther from home, hoping to confuse him into not returning.

The once disgruntled mouse begins to change. His face lifts, and he begins sniffing around. He is unmistakable enjoying the bike ride.

We stop. I’m exasperated. I open the cage to bid good riddance.

He sniffs the opening. Then, he waltzes back into the cage and looks from me to the bike. Then, he sits in his tikos-sitting way.

I gape. My tikos is so comfortable with my presence and enjoying the joy ride so much that he is indisputably telling me to get back on the bike and take him for another spin.

Kantor Pos (Post Office)

Yesterday, I walked one mile to the nearest post office, hoping to mail postcards to friends and family back home.

Upon arrival, I am informed that, because they are a new post office, they are not equipped to mail things.

Curious, then, as to what their daily life consists of, I watch other customers come in and out. Admittedly, none try to mail anything, and none walk out with anything new.

My interest is piqued. If a post office cannot receive mail, cannot mail mail, and does not sell stamps, and has no camera for passport photos, what exactly is its function?

I go to school the next day and address my counterpart, Pak Ali. Using the same voice Arthur Weasley might use to ask the function of a rubber duck, I asked, "What exactly is the function of a post office?"

He looks at me. "Well, YOU keep trying to send mail, but no one else does that. For you, it is where you try to send mail."

"Pak Ali, what do YOU do at the post office?"

"I buy pulsa*."

This solves nothing. Pulsa is easy to buy at every convenient store in town, and convenient stores are on every street.

The mystery continues.

*Pulsa is monetary credit for services such as internet, phone, and electricity.

Clare vs Mosquito Round 1

28 September 2014

Clare vs. Mosquitos
Round 1


A teacher at my school loves to tell me that there is only one mosquito living in my house, he just simply has a lot of friends.

Dear mosquito (and friends), today we go to war.

I've got my game face ready.

Arena 1: My Bedroom.


My Tactics:

First, I hang my mosquito net from the wall. Walls here are made of cement, so I use duct tape to complete this project.

Second, I spray 100% DEET on my legs and feet before bed. I am not yet ready to spray my face/neck, even though these areas are attacked regularly.

Third, I buy a general mosquito plug-in.

Here are my supplies:

Effectiveness:

The mosquito net falls every night when I tangle myself in it.
Clare: 0   Mosquito: 1

The bug spray involves a lot of harsh chemicals, but my feet and legs survive the night without receiving new bites. I might end up with cancer, but for now, I'm itch-free.
Clare: .5   Mosquito: .5

I have no idea how this plug-in works. Also, I tried to buy replacement inserts, and instead of inserts, they were just sheets of paper that I *think* I am supposed to light on fire. Again, I have no idea. Finally, I have only one outlet in my bedroom, so using this every night for mosquitos when I have other devices to charge is not practical.
Clare: 0    Mosquito: 1


Total Score:
Clare: .5      Mosquito: 2.5


Such is life.

Here is a photo of where I tried to tape the net to my wall:

I am committed to continuing and doubling my efforts in the future. Please stay tuned for round two. From what I hear, I can buy a tennis racket with an electrical current designed to allow me to chase mosquitos, and I can think of no better pastime.

Have You Seen My Bule?

Have You Seen My Bule?

"Bule," is a mildly derogatory term for, "foreigner."

Throughout my time here, I have heard many people openly refer to us as foreigners, but they often do not to expect that we know the meaning.

Sometimes, while out and about, I lose track of Eliza. This is one of the few times that being the two most ostentatious looking people in the room is helpful.

I now have a new method of finding her.

I approach almost anyone within a 50 foot radius of me and ask, "Have you seen my bule?"

*Blink*
Their eyes show their brains screaming, "Bule say waaaaat?"

I ask again, "Have you seen my bule?"

Then I receive a response. "Yes." They point. I find Eliza. My bule.

Here is a photo of my bule:

The Starving Games

The Starving Games

At the beginning of my grant, I made a pact with my roommate Eliza that we would try living, at least initially, without internet in our home. Our thinking was that we would have plenty of time for activities that we otherwise would not have time for were we at home browsing the internet.

Left alone with our thoughts, we must discover who we are without wifi and smartphones.

While waiting for a taxi one evening, I saw a small outdoor stand selling DVDs for a dollar. Intrigued, I flipped through an array of ridiculous titles. I indulged.

For the total price of $1.10, "The Starving Games," came home with me.

As someone who enjoys, "The Hunger Games," I decided that I would expand my horizons.

I watch as President Snowball, decorated with animated devil horns, introduces the games. Kantmiss cheers as her sister is chosen, and severed limbs fight to the death as Kantmiss, who has finally volunteered as tribute, uses a fire extinguisher to dominate fireballs flying from the sky.

Here is a picture of some tributes collecting tasty spoils from a piñata:

I wait for the movie to improve, but it never does.

Who am I without internet? I am someone who watches, "The Starving Games," straight through, despite the fact that it might be one of the worst movies I have ever seen.