I hid my food under my tongue from ibu ibu (my indonesian grandma)

that's really all I have. today while eating lunch I couldn't take her anymore so I just stuffed my mouth full of food and then spit it out afterwards. desperate times...

obat - some indonesian healing

raking by spork massage

today i woke up to throw up in the mandi at 3 a.m. and then again right before my alarm went off at 5:20 a.m. i decided that i could afford to sms a few people and head into school for my class at 10, rather than risk the return of my nausea outside of the house.

ibu comes to check on me since i sent her an sms as well (despite the fact that we live in the same house, as a disclaimer she began this trend), and immediately calls in mbak. apparently, the best medicine for indigestion and nausea is a massage. harmless and sounds even kind of almost good, right? oh sure, i am in for a real treat, mbak gets to business right away. she instructs me (mostly hand motions, as our communication is very rough) to pull off my shirt and puts a tiny tiny dollop of lotion on my shoulders, and proceeds to rake my back with what feels like a spork. yep, i got my back raked by the javanese maid this morning. as a result i look like i have a million little blood blisters, or series of hickies all over my shoulders and back.

luckily, my well-informed taiwanese friend, sarah, was able to explain that this is actually not an accident, and that the intended consequence is the release of the toxins in the blood - see attached link above "raking by spork massage". but she did say that it's used mainly for colds (the worse the cold the worse the bruising). to mbak's credit, i guess, i have not gotten ill again today...

budding conservationists

I found this pyramid poem entitled Forests in an English classroom at my post, SMP 1, a junior high school.

 Forests

Our forests

Our large forests

Give us many things

Support the world's economic growth

Here is Indonesia's future, recognizing the economic vitality of it's natural resources. This place is doomed.

What the future holds...where a forest once was in Tuban

 

On a different note, I was asked a few days back by some coworkers whether men and women who are not yet married sleep in the same house in America. I fluctuate between wanting to preserve some innocence among the small town folk in East Java and wanting to completely blow their minds.

kaki kotor

carolyn | me | jenny

This post is both out of order and context, but I am afraid that is how things will be for a little while I revisit the past few months enough to get on track with updates on how life has transpired. I am also thinking that, in lieu of longer posts, I might start to upload pictures with captions, at least to illustrate my earlier adventures. Since my camera(s) come with me just about everywhere, and I (have been known to) take pictures of just about everything, some explanation here will suffice...

The picture attached conveys the meaning of kaki kotor, meaning dirty feet in Bahasa Indonesia. In my case it inadequately conveys just how sick and dirty my feet became during the course of one day. In Jogja, where VIA held our language training in August, I donned flip flops everyday. The walk to the school was short but dusty enough so that by the end of a few laps back and forth throughout the day, I felt guilty walking into my homestay with my kaki kotor (even after removing my shoes). If any kind of long distance trip was undertaken, say to one of the two nearby temple complexes of Borobudur or Prambanan my feet no longer resembled my feet as I knew them, and they became island feet or kaki pulau. The most remarkable thing, though, wasn't that the feet were dirty, which is bound to happen, but that my feet were substantially more disgusting than my fellow volunteers'. My kaki kotor became a constant source of confusion. We even compared flip flops; were mine closer to the ground and the dirt? did they lack the support the other's had? why was it I was guaranteed to return from the day with the dirtiest dirty feet of all?

At the point the picture above was taken, a few of us were on a smelly bis kota (city bus) after a long jaunt at Prambanan (also pictured with boys playing soccer, with kaki kotor, no doubt). My feet have more recently been subject to closed toed teaching shoes, and no longer face the daily turmoil which they once endured.

Pak Hery and digital cable

The following things happened to me today:

Part I

In the Intensive English Conversation course that I team teach with a nice, soft spoken teacher, Pak Hery, the class had finished the initial task for the day and we were moving on to a free activity which I was leading. We were going to split into pairs and compare and contrast ourselves, and then explain our observations to the class. As I was giving instructions and examples to a group of students, I noticed that Pak Hery was attempting to explain something to a group of girls in the front. I looked up at the board and saw that he had written "Tooth Holder" and underneath that "Breast Holder".

Tooth holder, ok fine maybe I get it, but breast holder? And this is a public school in which nearly everyone is devoutly Muslim. Jilbabs abound and skin is not shown. What is Pak Hery doing bringing up the breasts in the first place.

At first taken aback, I gathered myself and turned the wayward ship back to it's course. Toothholder meaning toothbrush? No no is not that, Miss Kety. (points to adolescent girl's metal plated mouth). Oh ok, toothholder meaning braces. To brace your teeth. We call them braces. Just before I could get to Breastholder, one swift sweep of the eraser silenced the Bra forever.

Pak Hery also excused a girl to go to "urinate" yesterday. "Sorry, Miss Kety, she has urinate. yes she must urinate."

Part II

I am sitting in my room minding my business and listening to the rain drizzling outside when Mbaa (we'll call her Mbaa though it's spelled mbak, just a way to address a woman who is not married, or who is a Javanese maid with a lazy eye in your bizarre, overly formal Javanese homestay) calls to me. I recognize these calls not because I hear my name, or anything that resembles my name, but because they are loud shouts in my general direction.

Anyway, I am beckonned by Mbaa because it seems that Ibu Ibu (the old lady of the house whose job it is to sit around all day, occasionally dable in soap operas, and take great interest in me during meal times when she will push dishes in my direction, demand that I finish my food, ask/tell me that it's enak or delicious, force me to take more, and pound her hand on the table to get my attention) is calling me for help. I rush down the stairs not knowing what is in store, and I come to find Ibu Ibu sitting amongst her oversized throw pillows in the tv nook looking perplexed holding two remotes.

"Aku tidak bisa..bahasa inggris ini"

she claims as if English is what is keeping her from dexterity in things electronic. Wonderful, I'm thinking. I have been called down to play the home entertainment fix it man. We both hammer at the remotes for a good 15 minutes until finally something pops up here and there and I not at all intentionally actually end up getting the thing to work. This is my life. Better yet this is my Saturday night, here I am in Indonesia fixing an old lady's remote.