Playing Santa to 900 Orphans

Bob's Story: last Thursday I met for the first time Joe and Ratih Kirk. Joe keeps a web page for Expats in Malang and sends out announcements to everyone on his list. I was happy to make their acquaintance and enjoy their hospitality for dinner. Afterward, we proceeded to the Wesley International School, a private English language school for the children of expats from many countries. The elementary school children staged a play based on a short story by Leo Tolstoy. With their own musical creations they enacted "Papa Panov's Magic Christmas." Their pleasure was infectious.

Earlier, Joe told me that he was slated to play Santa at a special program the following evening. But he looked at my white beard, and thought.... Of course, I said yes, who would pass up such an opportunity, not a ham like me, and so the next evening we went to the NHK hall, snuck in the back and found a room where I could robe in Santa attire. Then I was brought out onto the stage for the initial Santa appearance.

Before me sat a crowd of some 900 or more children from twelve Christian orphanages in Malang, Batu, and surrounding areas. I waved and "ho, ho, ho-ed" and they cheered and waved back. Then Santa went down the aisles calling out "Merry Christmas" and "Salamet Natal." Children smiled, answered, reached out to shake hands, and a dozen photos with happy kids were taken (you wouldn't believe how many of these children had cell phones with cameras), before I returned to the front row to watch the show.

Kids from each orphanage put on a musical performance, to the enjoyment of the crowd which applauded each one with delight. At the end the two MCs invited Santa back to the stage to announce the top three acts chosen by the judges. A representative from each winner came to the stage as I called out, "Hadiah ke tiga; Hadiah ke dua; Sekerang, hadiah ke satu." There were cheers for each, and especially for the first prize winner, the group from Bhakti Luhur.

Let me say something about Bhakti Luhur, which brought 200 kids to this annual event. Founded by a Roman Catholic priest, the organization has set up a home in Malang for physically and mentally handicapped children, some deformed, some missing limbs, some showing the marks of Down's syndromes, some blind, some in wheelchairs. To see this group enjoying this moment moves me even now as I write. I felt privileged to be Santa for them as well as for the other orphans.

Well, I know not why, but after the prizes were announced the female MC turned to Santa and said, "Would you like to sing a song?" Did she intuit that I love to sing? I said yes, paused, and then began "Silent Night." The keyboardist immediately came in with backup, but what blew me away was the sound of a thousand voices joining in, singing both in English and Indonesian. We sang two verses, ending with "Christ the Savior is born." There are no words to describe the spirit of that moment.

Then I made my way to the back of the hall where an Indonesian Santa waited with a dozen women who had neatly packed a thousand Christmas gift bags for each of the orphans, standing efficiently at the ready. We two Santas took turns passing them out and shaking hands with each of the orphans, who smiled and occasionally held a hand of ours to their cheek in a gesture of gratitude and respect. We moved quickly along, and when the last group, the children from Bhakti Luhur, came through I found myself moved as we exchanged greetings. They touched something deep inside me, some emotional or spiritual connection that we made.

I will never forget this evening. It was more than simply the most enjoyable evening I have spent in Malang. It was an evening of grace.

The Wayang We Almost Saw

On December 11, we took Habib, his wife Nancy, and their younger son out to dinner. Afterward Habib drove us to the village of Pendem, just outside of Batu and close to Malang. We were going to see a Wayang.

A wayang is a traditional shadow-puppet play. Large leather puppets are held high behind a plain, back-lit screen by a highly skilled puppeteer, called a dalang. He manipulates the puppets, imitates voices, sings when appropriate, and provides sound effects as he improvises on a familiar story. The play often consists of scenes from the Ramayana. Thanks to the light thrown on the puppets behind the screen, the audience sees the shadows of the puppets. Singing and music from a Gamelon band accompany the play.

It had been raining that day, and we had to pick our way through a muddy field, the track partially covered with mats. We came to the front of a large tent set up for the audience, and could see another tent before us for the musicians, singers, and puppeteer. Habib uttered the magic word tamu, then left us with the village officials. They greeted and invited us to sit in plush seats in the front row. Once again we were kindly shown matchless Javanese hospitality. We were greeted by the headman of this village of 10,000 people and by the village secretary, who sat next to Maria. The two of them and an army officer living there managed some conversation. Someone bought boxes of treats.

A young man came up, dressed in Javanese formal attire with that magnificent and mystical curved dagger called a kris stuck in his belt. He explained that he was the Master of Ceremonies, and that this wayang was a ceremony being held to cleanse the village. We were not going to be entertained with a show but witness an important spiritual event in the yearly life of Pendem. The news gave this whole experience a new dimension and meaning and we responded to the solemnity of the event.

Alas, the ceremony was cut short. A unusually strong wind had been blowing through the region all day and that evening, and the workers were unable to get the puppet screen up. The ceremony was put off until the next evening. The secretary graciously provided us with transportation home, but we had to turn down his invitation for the following evening, to our great regret, as Maria was leaving for the States the next day. We were touched by the hospitality of Pendem's leaders. We hope that there will be an opportunity in the future to be present for such a celebration.

Javanese New Year

Just two days after our trip to Bromo, on Saturday, November 20, we were treated to another cultural event, thanks again to Habib. A van picked us up, along with friends Izidro and Cristina and their friend Inge, and we were taken to a suburb of Malang. We drove along a parade route lined with spectators into a stadium parking lot to a stand already filled with men and women. It is a custom here that if you are a foreigner, you are automatically a tamu, a special guest of the event. So, to our surprise we were seated in the front rows, introduced by name to the audience, and given treats, while we awaited the arrival of the Mayor and other dignitaries. It is really nice to be offered such hospitality.

We learned that we were celebrating New Year's Day in the Javanese calendar, and also the 1250th anniversary of the founding of Malang. The Mayor and his wife arrived in an old Dutch-style carriage, and took their seats. He gave a speech welcoming all; following another speech and a prayer, the parade began.

A panorama of Javanese history and legend passed by us, in colorful costume and drama. The first group performed traditional rituals, another staged a toepang scene from the Ramayana, others performed other ceremonies, all in gorgeous, traditional dress of bright golds, reds, greens, and yellows. Dancers from Bali, dragon displays, clowns dressed as monkeys from Madura, and many other groups paraded by, including men and women dressed as Sufis, representing the spread of Islam to Malang. This parade was a feast for the eyes. The celebration brought home to us how deeply embedded Javanese culture is in this predominately Muslim island. The Javanese are intensely proud of their mythology, history, social relations, and customs, and they showed it in this festival of the New Year.

Our day concluded with a dinner of traditional foods hosted by the Mayor. Once again we enjoyed hospitality and history, as well as time with our friends. We took delight in this celebration, grateful for another opportunity to participate in the life of these lovely and gracious people.

The Haj

  We returned to the home of Bandiya and her husband this week to welcome them back from their 25-day pilgrimage to Mecca and their performance of one of the five great "pillars" of Islam, the Haj.  It is every Muslim's duty, at least once in a lifetime, if they are financially and physically able, to go on pilgrimage to Mecca and there perform the sacred rituals that recall primarily moments in the life of Abraham.  Here in Indonesia, this obligation is taken very seriously, and neither distance nor finances seem to be obstacles.  Just as before, at the Slametan that sent them off on their journey, we were greeted and sat, the women in one room, the men in the other.  Bandiya made herself available to me, the foreigner, as she came in (obviously exhausted from the trip and a flu she had caught while there) and sat down on the floor in front of me, allowing me to ask whatever questions I might find appropriate.  Of course, it was hard to think of the most important ones.  I asked her what were her greatest spiritual experiences on the Haj, and she replied, "the prayer."  When I asked if she thought it would change her life, she nodded vigorously.  What was even more moving began shortly afterward, when both women and men, excluding Bob and me, gathered in the next room, while Bandiya's husband led the chants from the Qur'an, and broke down in tears continually as he clearly opened his heart to God and the tears just flowed.  We are told that many people cry at Mecca, and that they are very conscious of their sins there, and perhaps this was part of it, but I can't help thinking there was this sheer love for Allah pouring out of him as well. 

  Many people save their whole lives here not to buy a new car or renovate their homes, but to go on the Haj.  That is the kind of piety and single-minded devotion we see often in the Muslims we meet here.  When I try to think of what counts as sacred places of pilgrimage for us Christians at this point in our shared but diverse history, I see it as far less important.  I did tell them about Lourdes and Fatima and even Medjugorje, but so many Christians and even Catholics ignore these places.  The whole idea of pilgrimage, that these are places where we touch God, where heaven and earth meet, is disappearing from our sensibility of what it means to be religious.  May it not be replaced by mall-hopping!

Bromo

Step back to the day following our journey to Sendangbiru Beach and come with us to Mt. Bromo, one of the several active volcanoes in East Java. We left at 2:30 p.m., mercifully affording us a morning's rest from the previous day's exertions. Our driver took us north and east into the Bromo Tenggara Semeru National Park and part way up the mountain to a little village. There we checked into our hotel, the Yoshi, a charming place with rooms in cabins set among a delightful garden of trees and beds of flowers. It was dark by that time, so we ordered dinner. The German owner had taught the kitchen staff how to make really great roasted potatoes, and to our surprise we dined on good German peasant cuisine.

We retired early to our room, most charmingly appointed with colorful spreads, throws, and other furnishings, and to bed to catch a few hours sleep before our 3:00 a.m. wake-up. Then, bundled up, we boarded our jeep, and our driver drove us through the darkness to the very top and edge of a huge caldera. There, in the cold (yes, in East Java!), wearing rented sheepskin coats, we joined other tourists to watch a breathtaking sunrise over the caldera and view the cone of Bromo below and the cloud of sulfuric steam and ash that rises from it. We gawked. There is really no way to describe with justice this remarkable scene. We took turns trying to capture it in digital images, and they do better than any words of ours.

After some time, we headed down the road which in the growing sunlight we could see hugged the interior edge of the vast caldera, covered with green, the remains of a more ancient, now dead volcano. We passed up a chance to ride ponies up the side of Bromo and opted instead for the restful, leisurely breakfast we enjoyed in the beautiful hotel garden, before returning to Malang.

Chorus Sounds

Kecak Dance Chorus


 

This group of about seventy men are performing the kecak "dance," named for the cak -cak chirps that sound like hundreds of geckos (or at least that is what I was told by someone who also does this dance in his village).  Originally, this was a ritual performed to purify the village by communicating with the spirits.  It is the most amazing sound that goes on throughout the performance of scenes from the Hindu epic, the Ramayana, and lasts for an hour.  They move and sway in rhythm, almost at times it seems in a trance, and their bodies rise, arms waving above their heads, and then they fall back to the ground, while one man hurls a chant in what is likely the Balinese language.  I couldn't help but think toward the end that if I closed my eyes, I could be in the Trappist monastery at Gethsemane, listening to Gregorian chant.  there was something ancient and primal about it all, something I as a modern Westerner, could not quite grasp, at least not intellectually.  But the whole setting of the dimming light, the sun setting so majestically in the background, and the actors lightly gracing the scene, was mesmerizing at some visceral level.







 

Bali

I went to Bali to meet my cousin, Vivien, for the first time, so my trip was colored by the poignancy of a family that had been torn apart by the ravages of WWII and the Holocaust.  Vivien's family chose to go to Israel before it got really bad in Austria, our common ancestors' homeland.  But from Israel they went some years later to Australia, and so it was that I had never met that part of my family.  Yet, my mother and her mother had kept up a thriving correspondence for many years until her mother's death in 1981.  So we mostly shared stories and photos and tried to catch up on about 60 years of life.  She had not known that my father and grandfather had gone through a concentration camp experience, and that my grandfather had not survived. So that was the main purpose of the trip of three days.

 

    Still, I wanted to experience Bali, since I had heard so much about it here, and the saying is that you haven't been to Indonesia until you have been to Bali.  Even with the knowledge that Bali is far more oriented toward tourists than the sleepy big small town where we live, I was disappointed by the rush of vendors and hawkers everywhere in the resort area of Nusa Dua and the surrounding towns.  When we got out of the car in Kuta, a place that Vivien had remembered as a quaint little town, we were surrounded by people shoving merchandise in our faces.  I found myself buying a sarong (when will I ever wear a sarong?) and several other articles just to get rid of them.  I even bought a fake wood case containing three "silver" elephants.  Yes, I guess I bought a white elephant or three.  But despite the clamor of sellers with money on their minds, I found the scenery quite lovely.  The dance performance at the temple at Ulu Watu was memorable, with the chirping chorus of seventy men whose sounds were unlike anything I had ever heard.  In addition, I found that the people of Bali are just as committed to their Hindu religion as the Muslims of Java.  I found little "chanang saris," little bamboo plates full of offerings of flowers and fruits, in front of each shop and stacked at the many shrines and temples along the way.  The whole experience just deepened and enriched what it means to be in Indonesia's incredible diversity of cultures and ethnicity.

A Day at the Beach (Ha!)

Last Tuesday and Wednesday classes were canceled due to the Muslim holy day of Idul Adha, celebrating Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son (Ishmael) at God's command. So, we planned a couple of trips, the first to Sendang biru Beach, on the south coast of Java. A local travel agent arranged for a car and driver and a visit to a lovely island, a nature preserve, across the lagoon there. We rode through a lush green countryside of cane, rice, and corn fields and plantations of fruit trees. Our driver then crossed a mountain range. You Watauga County-ans, imagine NC 194 from Valle Crucis to Banner Elk, but three times the length and the road even narrower, and you'll get the picture.

We came right off the mountain to the beach, and one of the many colorfully painted boats took us to the island. We enjoyed the lovely view seaward as we sailed into the narrows and came to a deserted small beach. "Oh, great!" we thought, "just what we wanted."  But our guide had other ideas, and took us up a muddy trail into the jungle.  It was awful. We slipped and slid, got our sandals thoroughly mud-encrusted, and fell frequently. After a while Maria asked the guide in Indonesian, "How much further?" "Two and one-half kilometers," he replied. He probably told us there was an impressive waterfall and swimming pool ahead, but since the language barrier proved insurmountable, he resorted to "internet and computer."  We didn't want that! and told him we wanted to go back.  Later, we could laugh at how ridiculous it all was; but it was no fun being the Mud People for nearly an hour.

While we sat apart for rest and cleaning up, our guide cleaned our sandals (we should have been told to wear boots), and called for a boat, and we eventually went on to another, cleaner beach, virtually deserted, and with a lovely view of the lagoon and the mountains. And we rested: "At last, just what we wanted!" The place was beautiful; we sunbathed, read, and traded photo shots with some friendly teenagers from Malang who wandered by.

Two hours later the boat returned us to shore and our driver took us back to Malang. An exhausting day thanks to the hike, but not entirely wasted. The scenery was beautiful and the beach was just the balm we needed.

A Slametan

   Ever since arriving in Java, I had wondered if I would hear about the ancient Javanese ritual called the "slametan" that Clifford Geertz devotes so much space to in his famous book, The Religion of Java.  I did not have to wait long, as one of the staff at the International Relations Office told me early on that she often participated in these rituals to mark stages in a person's life.  A slametan is an ancient Javanese ritual meal which families hold on a number of important occasions. Slametans may mark a birth or a death, a marriage or a coming of age. Many slametans are held to mark important dates in the Muslim calender, such as the birthday of the Prophet, or in this case, to honor family members such as this couple on the eve of their departure to Mecca for the Great Pilgrimage of the Hajj.

  The slametan is a ritual feast that is not so much about eating as about making an offering to the spirits (or Allah in the most observant Muslim homes).  Very little food is consumed, though much is brought in, traditionally by neighbors called on a moment's notice, and somehow ready with mounds of rice and other food.  There is an eclectic mixture of Hindu incense, Muslim chant, and underneath it all, providing its raison d'etre, the Javanese ethos.

  Our experience of the slametan was a bit more Islamic than most, since its occasion was the going on the hajj of a husband and wife.  Last Saturday evening Habib arrived at our house, dressed in traditional Javanese cap, long shirt and sarong. He drove us to the home of his niece and her husband. She had invited us to participate in their  slametan.

  We were greeted with the warm hospitality we have grown accustomed to and joined the family members present already. With sandals off and seated on carpets, the men gathered in one room, the women in another, we conversed and ate sweets. Given that family had just arrived that day, there was surprisingly little talking among the women seated on the floor, some with a child nestled in their laps.  The occasion seemed more solemn and momentous than festive.  Only I, the"bule" as we Westerners are called, was encouraged to try each of the several sweet treats arrayed on trays around the floor.  Then the most honored guest, Kiyai Haji Askuri, an esteemed community prayer leader who had made the hajj, offered the ritual prayers and formal remarks about the importance of the pilgrimage. The husband also spoke. All responded with Amins, and joined the rhythmic chant that plays so much a part in Sufi worship: La ilaha illa'Llah - "There is no god but God," in pulsating repetitions around the rooms. 

The slametan concluded with a sumptuous meal of Javanese and Indonesian dishes. Once again, thanks to Habib, we were able to experience a very important event in the lives of the people of Java.

Prambanan

Following our pilgrimage to Borobudur, and with a lunch stop at a wonderful restaurant, we drove on to the Hindu temple complex at Prambanan. While massive Borobudur amazes, the mountain-temples here are striking in their beauty, the finest examples, we are told, of Indo-Javanese architecture. Finished in 856, Prambanan was damaged in a 16th century earthquake, restored, damaged by Merapi eruptions, and then in 2006 by a massive earthquake. Now a UNESCO World Heritage site, it is being restored again.

Rising in the center of the complex, surrounded by the jumbled remains of 214 other small temples, are three much larger temples dedicated to Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer. The architecture combines delicate grace with a sense of solidity without the massiveness of the great Buddhist shrine we visited earlier. The interiors contained images of the gods. Somewhat smaller temples stand with them, all of them tall and steep, inspired by the peaks of the Himalayas. We wandered with our guide and wondered at the sheer beauty and spiritual power of these shrines. They invite admiration for the mystical and spiritual aura of this ancient site of Javanese Hindu religion.

As we descended from the interior of Vishnu's temple our guide pointed out Mt. Merapi, and we could see steam rising from vents near the cloud-shrouded peak. Three hours later, the volcano erupted.

Borobudur, a Great Temple of the Buddhist Era in Indonesia

Borobudur is one of those subjects that make you wish you possessed genius to capture its awesome (here it is appropriate, believe me) achievement.  It was built in the 9th century, though our guide told us it took two centuries to complete.  Its greatness is self-evident but it also holds a high degree of tragedy that is not at first apparent.  As it was being finished, the guide told us, it was sinking under its own weight, its 3 and a half million tons of volcanic rock carved into exquisite scenes that are both existential and devotional.  The beautiful bas-reliefs at the first stage of the many-tiered temple began to actually disappear into the earth.  As if this were not enough, only a few decades after completion, in the 11th century, the whole edifice was buried in an avalanche of volcanic ash from the same volcano that now spews out its hot gas and ash over much of the territory around this same temple.  It seems to me a very Buddhist story of impermanence.  It remained buried for about nine centuries, until in 1814 a famous English Governor General named Sir Thomas Raffles discovered what looked like a temple atop a windy hill.  Since that time, and especially after a paper was given at a conference in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in the 1960s, Borobudur was seen for the priceless treasure it is, and was declared a World Heritage site.  The renovation of Borobudur continues today.
  To climb up the  many steps from the square ground level depicting life in this world with its temptations and choices to the highest circular level is to make the Buddhist journey of transformation.  This was the Buddha's journey, and his life is shown in much detail around the several levels on the way up.  It is also that of an "everyman" figure who could be just as successful as the Buddha.  I would like to say that the climb was a deeply spiritual one, but for me it was a hot, arduous series of steps that made me grateful every time the guide stopped at a level to explain the intricacies of its carved images.  As I stood among the many stupas of the Nirvana or highest level, I was just glad that I made it there, and that I still had enough wind in me to admire the serenity of the Buddha holding court from these heights.
  What made this visit even more poignant was that just hours after our visit, the very volcano that had buried this temple so long ago began erupting, the largest eruption in more than a century.  So this incredible sight has been closed to tourists as workmen once again attempt to uncover its treasures from beneath the ashes.

Christian-Muslim Relations

  This again is such a big topic that I have been reluctant to address it.  But some events have been forcing it into consciousness.  The Constitution republic of Indonesia which became an independent nation in 1945 is founded on a preamble like that of the American guarantee of freedom of religion.  It is called "Pancasila," the "five principles," the first of which is belief in "God as the  One Supreme Being," which pointedly does not use the word, "Allah" to speak this God.  The Constitution goes on to recognize at first five major religions, Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and later added a sixth, Confucianism.  One result of this classification was that everyone, even Buddhists, had to subscribe to belief in some sort of god if they wanted to be Indonesians with an identity card marking them as adherents to one of the religions.  Mystical and other sects were given a lower status as "beliefs" or "faiths," not religions.  Despite this enshrining of tolerance and pluralism, the events on the ground may be quite different. 
    A recent article in the Jakarta Post, online, tells that "Church violence is spreading outside Jakarta, and West Java, into Central Java."  While in Jakarta during our week of documentation (the first of several), we heard of a church burning in a suburb of the city.  At first, it seemed these were the more aggressive proselytizers among Christians, but in fact these Christians had been denied a permit to build a church and were meeting outside, while some young hooligans harassed them, and other Muslim youth locked arms and came to their defense.  Now we hear that some of these churches are Catholic churches as well.  The population of Christians (and here I include both Protestants and Catholics) has been variously described as 5% up to 10%, and I think given that some areas such as Papua are majority Christian, it is closer to the latter figure. 
  Last Sunday we worshipped in a Catholic church in central Yogyakarta, in a church really full of people of all ages.  This church had been rebuilt after the 2006 earthquake in Yogya (yes, another Indonesian disaster), and its walls were lined with murals depicting Indonesians in traditional dress--women bare-shouldered in long dresses with no scarves--greeting Christ like those women in the gospels.  The service was a moving one with music that was deeply spiritual.  It was good to get a bit of a Christianity "fix" in this so pervasively Muslim country.
  On the other hand, and it is a big one, we experience nothing but warm hospitality and kindness exceeding any expectations everywhere we go.  Not a note of hostility in anyone's face or attitude.  If there is "harassment," it is only that perfect strangers like to greet us and try to speak English with us.  They love American pop culture, a phenomenon we keep marveling over, as we see yet another sign in English, another American song played in restaurants and cars, American stars and athletes idolized as much here as in our country.  And of course they love Barack Obama, who went to school in a posh neighborhood of Jakarta.

Mt. Merapi

By now you probably have seen photos and videos of Mt. Merapi erupting and learned something about this volcano located in central Java about 20 miles north of Jogjakarta, and one of the most active in the Pacific "Ring of Fire." We got a glimpse of the volcano a week ago Tuesday from the steps of the Temple of Shiva at Prambanan. The mountain was letting off steam (literally). A few hours later it erupted--we safely back in our hotel--and a huge cloud of ash and gas (reaching 600 C) rolled down the mountain. Almost all of the inhabitants from the villages on the mountain had been evacuated except for Mbah Maridjan and several companions.

Mbah ("Grandfather") Maridjan was perhaps the most beloved of Javanese mystics. In 1974 he succeeded his father as "Gatekeeper of Mt. Merapi," a position of honor bestowed by the Sultan of Jogja. In his mid-eighties at the time of his death, he looked like a man in his sixties with the vigor of a man half his age, when he was interviewed for a film about him showed on Asia News International. Mbah  Maridjan described his work this way: his task was to commune with the mountain and the spirits who dwelt there, to "listen" to the mountain. He made regular walks to the villages and to the top of the volcano. Having survived unscathed the previous eruption he refused to leave this time ("I follow the orders of my King not the President," he said), although he advised all of the mountain inhabitants to evacuate. He died  of aphixiation while in prayer, along with several companions. Some say that that at the time of his death he might have been praying to the spirits to lessen their fury, to "gentle" the mountain.

Following the two major eruptions that Tuesday evening Jogja was covered with a millimeter or less of ash, and we who ventured out for tasks wore face masks. We were grateful to be far enough away not to worry about immediate threats, and very grateful that we had been able to visit Borobudur and Prambanan the day before they were closed. We did wonder if the airport would be open for our Sunday flight, but the mountain was quiescent for a day, and we got out. As we flew toward Surabaya, Maria looked out of the window and called Bob's attention to the bright red glow visible through the clouds from 15,000 feet. It was the lava flow from the smmit of Mt. Merapi.

UPDATE, November 7: Merapi had its worst of almost daily eruptions yesterday, sending a massive cloud of ash and hot gas 10 kilometers (six miles) into the air. This eruption has been described as the worst in 100 years, and the huge cloud spreading first to the north and west, then to the south and east, has forced cancellation of international flights. The government has had to move evacuees out of their camp ten kilometers down the mountain to another place ten kilometers further out and closer to Jogjakarta. A large indoor sports stadium in Jogja has been opened to refugees. Over 125 people have died, numerous others seriously burned or injured, thousands of survivors huddled in despair: shocked, ash-covered, frightened villagers, now forced to leave everything that means anything to them. As the English slogan on local TV urges, "Pray for Indonesia."

Di Pasar (In the Market)

Yesterday, Saturday (sabtu), we went to the large market in the center of Jogja with one of our tutors, Ari. Those of you who live in Boone, imagine the Farmer's Market multiplied by some orders of magnitude, and you may get a hint. This huge covered market of two stories houses dozens of small shops selling batik clothing, both men's and women's. Upstairs are dozens of stalls with fruits and vegetables on display in large containers. Some sellers specialize in citrus fruits, where we would see large baskets of limes, lemons, oranges, and other tropical fruits. Passion fruit, guava, mangos and other fruits in season greet the eye. And there were many fruits new to us, such as jackfruit, leche nuts, and star fruit. (Some we have sampled with our ample breakfast at the hotel.) The vegetables are familiar ones: carrots, cucumbers, various greens, cauliflower and broccoli, potatoes, eggplant, sweet potatoes, and many others. When we walked into the section housing the spice sellers, the aromas were delightful, coming from baskets filled with ginger, coriander, turmeric, nutmeg, cinnamon, and others. Ari showed us various foods special to the region, gave us advice on bargaining (Maria purchased a shopping basket), and just enjoyed the time with us. We two who enjoy strolling through the Farmer's Market in Boone found the Pasar (think "Bazaar") an even greater feast for our senses, and took pleasure in the crowds of people doing the same.

Afterwards, we treated Are to lunch at a traditional Indonesian restaurant, and in a shop there found some nice batik shirts for Pak Bob and a blouse and kimono for Ibu Maria. We waited out the usual afternoon thunderstorm, returned to our posh hotel, said goodbye to our delightful tutor, and rested. That evening we donned one of our new batik outfits and dined at a very fine restaurant. All in all, a good day.

The Language

Language

We decided to tackle the problem of the language head-on.  So we are here for Bahasa Indonesia lessons twice a day.  In the process of learning the language, we are also learning about the rasa, an almost untranslatable word that means “feeling,” “true self,” or even essence of the people.  For example, we have learned from one of our two excellent tutors that the people of Indonesia prefer using the passive voice to hide themselves behind the subject they are speaking of.  I am sure this goes back to centuries of non-individualism, to a more obeisant way of being in a world of superiors such as the sultans.  They speak indirectly and we must learn to catch this indirection.  We have already learned that Indonesians do not accept food or drink the first (or even second) time it is offered, and we must be more persistent in making our offer.  We also are finding out how words are made, by adding more and more prefixes and suffixes to root words.  The grammar is not hard because there are no tenses, but the words themselves can be tongue-twisters that are impossible to hear in everyday speech.  We are trying though!  

  There is the added problem of not one language but many.  In everyday speech among friends, we often hear they are speaking "Javanese," which is more comfortable but among those higher up and those who are employed by them, it is Indonesian, a language created from "Malay" and related to several other "Austronesian" languages around the Pacific.  Our motivation in learning had to be ginned up simply because this language is unrelated to anything we have learned before.  In many ways, it is a simple language of a more simple, less complex civilization, like forming the plural by saying the word twice.  Thus. "laki-laki" for boys.  I really like how I can speak about my grandsons; they are "cucu laki-laki."  Doesn't that sound sweet?

In the Palace of the Sultan

In the Kraton (Palace) of the Sultan

The Current Sultan and His Wife

Today we visited the Kraton, seat of the Sultanate which began in 1756 here in Yogayakarta, and has had ten  Sultans down to the present one.  The Sultanate actually began while the Dutch were very much a presence here and perhaps in response to them.  Some of the Sultans were depicted arm in arm with the Dutch governors and were educated in Holland.  But in 1945, this city and its Sultan were the first to break away and declare independence, even becoming for awhile an autonomous region of independence.  Today the Sultan is by all reports a rather modest figure. He so loves his wife who has given him five daughters that he would not consider taking a second wife to have sons to succeed him.  So he will  be succeeded most likely by one of his many brothers.  The ninth Sultan had about five wives (I lost count) and 22 children.  Some striking features of the compound that included several pavilions, open-air marble platforms for dances, wayang (shadow puppets) and gamelon performances,  were the ornateness of some of the structures.  The whole kraton is built in a line from Mt. Merapi, still an active volcano, to the kraton to the sea.  In ceremonies such as coronations, women were dressed in noticeably scantier dress than one could find today among women of Islam.  The Hindu influence in ceremonial dress is prevalent.  And many elements of indigenous religion remain as well.  Once a year, on the Sultan’s birthday, there is an offering to the Goddess of the Southern Oceans (Ratu Kidul) where the Sultan and his family make elaborate offerings.

How I Became a Keynote Speaker without even Knowing the Topic

Yesterday, after a harrowing time waiting for a taxi that didn't come, we arrived finally at the Campus "Satu" ("One) that will be my teaching venue, which is about 30 minutes from the campus near our house.  I only knew I was to be part of a "panel discussion."  Imagine my surprise when kind, intelligent Bu (Mrs.) Vina (pronounced "Fina" and not to be confused with wine), told me I was keynote speaker and showed me that next to my name on a banner that adorned the stage, were those very words.  The only way I was saved was that right before that in the few minutes I had before calling the taxi, I opened my email to find a very helpful message from Susan Reed-Kelly telling me about the new Frontline series, "God in America."  That became the subject of my talk, er, keynote address.
 There were two other panelists, one from Spain and one from here in Indonesia, making for an interesting international mix.  Even thought the students, grad students in an M.A. program in Islamic Studies, were not fluent in English, and certainly not I in Bahasa Indonesian, we communicated as they asked terribly difficult questions about the Qur'an burning, why did Islam disappear from Spain, and What is terrorism? and How do you solve it? Also an interesting question about Max Weber's "Protestant Ethic" and whether it could be applied to Indonesia's poverty.  I felt he was wondering if good Muslims could become more like hard-working, thrifty, saving Protestants, the ones who made America the capitalist power-house it is today.  Hmm. . . It was good to get into the minds of these serious students, even if only briefly and with guesses at what they were saying.

Chaos in the Streets

Chaos in the Streets

One of the first things our Fulbright director in Indonesia told us was that the most dangerous thing for a foreigner was not a terrorist attack but trying to cross a main street on foot. You literally take your life in your hands. We discovered the truth of this dictum as we settled in Malang.  The main streets wind in various directions about the city, and without a compass it is very difficult to determine which direction you are going.  Off the main streets are warrens of neighborhoods with narrow streets (except for our upscale Cemara Tujuh).

On the main streets, traffic flows in a never-ending stream.  Countless motorbikes weave in and around autos and trucks in a ceaseless and unpredictable pattern. The vehicle emissions are nothing to breathe, and the cacophony of sounds, including the revving of motorbike engines and frequent honking of horns, is constant.  Our friend and Director of International Programs Pak Parto says that he drives by intuition, and added, “Don’t try this at home.” Once in the midst of a early evening traffic jam, he said, “What are you thinking, Bob, when you see this?” “Crazy,” I replied, and we all laughed. There have been a few times when we gasped as a motorbike suddenly cut in front of us; the driver took it in stride. But you would have to put a gun to my head, or I would have to be faced with an emergency, before I would get behind the wheel here.

Yet, somehow it all works. We’ve yet to see an accident, and what we would think of as a close call is merely part of the ordinary flow of traffic. Someone expert in Chaos Theory should undertake a study of traffic flow patterns here; she would have a great time working out formulas that might end up visualized as a “strange attractor," with a beautiful set of fractals.

And, we are learning how to cross the streets on foot, weaving our way through traffic, or awaiting those rare moments when a break in the flow occurs and we can move expeditiously.

The Topeng Mask Dance

Thursday evening we drove to a village outside Malang and attended what turned out to be one of the most amazing performances we have ever seen.  The villagers acted out an ancient drama using masks and costumes they had made themselves.  The dancers were acting out an ancient story of a princess whose hand is sought by several warring groups. The artistry of the costuming would have been enough to captivate us, but it was the grace and beauty of the dance itself that was so incredible.   None of us Westerners, including an Australian family that had been there earlier for the making of the costumes, had seen anything like it.  Here I am going to quote from a description of Javanese dance found in Clifford Geertz' well-known book on The Religion of Java:  "Eyes must be kept fixed in one place, directly forward and a little down, giving a trance-like effect to the dance, an effect heightened by the frequent use of the 'waves of the sea' step, which is merely a gently rocking motion while standing in one spot, a motion that seems to be hypnotic for both the performers and the spectators.  The set expression, the carefully controlled motions, give a feeling of inwardness, of concentration on the self, and of a conception of a perfection of self-contained grace which each dancer is trying to reach independently of the others."  The whole of the dance was accompanied by the traditional Javanese gamelon orchestra, an experience in itself.  But no description does it justice, so I will try to insert a clip of the performance below.

Evening with a jihadist, Ali Fauzi

An evening with a former jihadist

Last evening our Indonesian Fulbrighter friend, Habib, arranged an amazing encounter, one that will probably stay with us for the rest of our lives.  This university is engaged in a research project on terrorism, a project some seem to be approaching with some trepidation.  As part of the project, Habib went to Surabaya, a city on the northern coast of Java, to interview a man whose name is Ali Fauzi,  whose three older brothers were among the 2002 Bali bombers.  And this week when there was an attempted suicide bombing (a man on a bicycle who managed only to injure himself) in a town near Jakarta, aimed at the police, Ali was interviewed several times on television.  He dismissed the bombing as “a silly bomb.”

Last evening we sat in a café, and he gave us several hours of his time to answer any questions we might put to him.  Beginning at the age of twenty Ali was thoroughly trained as a jihadist fighter in camps in Mindinao, the Phillipines, and he went on to train others in Thailand, where he was caught and sent to prison for more than a year.  Somewhere along the line, he gradually came to change his understanding of jihad, which is often mistranslated as “holy war,” but really means “striving in the way of God.”  For his three older brothers, jihad meant terrorism, yet when they killed over 200 people in the Bali bombings, Ali Fauzi disagreed with their methods and felt jihad should only be waged in a real war, such as that in the war between Christians and Muslims being fought at that time in Ambon.  Even though it was Fauzi who had to collect the bodies of his three brothers and see that they were given burial once they were executed for their crime, he appears to harbor no bitterness about this loss.  Instead, a serene smile often brightens the face of this handsome man, now forty.

Ali wages a new kind of jihad, now dedicated to educating young people in his school and supporting his brothers’ widows and their nine children (he has four of his own).  When Maria asked him if he feared for his life in dealing with his former comrades in the Jamail Islamiyah movement, he said no; he has continued to be in dialogue with them, and sees them moving from violent jihad to what is called dakwah, which can be translated “preaching” but also includes showing others through example what is God’s way through peaceful means. 

 

"White People"

Today I read on Facebook that for Native Americans white people were the original "illegal immigrants."  That's how we feel here.  For one thing, we are still UNDOCUMENTED, after days of either sitting in immigration offices or flying to Jakarta, of being finger-printed on all ten fingers, and of countless photos  being taken. (I lost count after the original 19 have been supplemented about three times with six more here, four there.  You get the picture.)
  There's another aspect to the whiteness.  We are what the Indonesians call "bule" (sp?).  We are foreign because we are white and everyone else is brown.  So they don't actually know where we are from, which is new for me, because I'm used to being tagged as American right away.  Here we could pass for Aussies or even Europeans.
  And another ironic aspect of the whiteness is the vast array of whitening creams seen in even ordinary small shops.  Everyone, or at least those who buy the creams, and nearly everyone we see on television, wants to be more white.  I have tried to tell them that in America everyone wants a tan to look more like them!  What a funny world we live in. 

Islam in Java (First Thoughts)

I will probably change my mind about this several times before the ten months are over, but now I think that Indonesian Muslims wear their Islam more lightly than say, those in the Middle East.  That is, they do not bother to learn extensively the Arabic language of the Qur'an, for example.  They do know what they recite in the prayers (salat) that many say faithfully.  Yet, they take their Islamic faith very seriously.  It permeates every aspect of life here, from the call to prayer that occurs not only at the beginning of the five periods (starting at 4 AM) but often too at the end, to the everyday aspects of life, like food and animals. 
  Having said that, I have to add that here in Java there is another still very vibrant dimension of religious experience, and that is the mystical aspect.  I learned about it the very first week in the neighborhood, when our new friend, Mira, told us about JFK who was given the "kris," the sword or dagger carried by the Sultans.  It had mystical power, she told us, and only someone of Kennedy's stature could hold or pick it up.  "We have many mystical things here in Java," she told us.  A more intellectual version of this case was put by an anthropologist we are getting to know:  "The back stage is mysticism," he said, "and the front stage is Islam."  I am pondering and absorbing all that this means, as I navigate between the scholarly accounts (often conflicting!) of all this. 

Finally in the house and online

After five grueling days of shopping with many, many helpers to interpret and drive us around, we are in the house.  Getting it furnished and usable for us spoiled Westerners has been a major undertaking.  Basically, I have needed to learn all over 1) how to eat (more rice, no bread), 2) how to bathe (see below), and 3) how to communicate (very little progress on that front).  As for the bathing, I gave the "team" a huge belly laugh when I asked how to get into this large tiled basin that sits on the floor of each bathroom.  It is used for dipping and showering, and Pak Parto had to demonstrate that for me.  Thus, the need for a more familiar type of shower added to this bath configuration.  Essentially, the whole bathroom is now a shower.
  But everyone is so helpful!  I have just asked either the neighbor family we met or someone from the university (through interpreters of course), and they are out that day or the next to fix and engineer things that seemed unworkable.  Today, for example, we are getting more lighting.  I know I am beginning to appear to myself more and more like a colonial, and that will be even more evident when we (hopefully) get a housekeeper next week.  That is necessary because a) we don't know how or where to shop; b) we don't really know how to cook (really) with the available ingredients.  The food is delicious and more on that later.  For now, it is sufficient that we are here.

Classes begin!

Just met students in the class that Bob will teach in English conversation.  They are so lively!  All answered as one when I said "Salam aleiku," ("peace be with you").  They love using their limited English.  I left to come by the "American Corners" run by the American-Indonesian Exchange Foundation (AMINEF) that brought me here.  It is nice to have a little American corner in a country that can be overwhelmingly different, geographically, linguistically, and in many other ways.  Whenever I get the thought, "I can't believe I'm in Indonesia," I look around at completely new sights and sounds and am immediately reminded, "Oh yes, I am."  But it's nice and interesting and even fun.
 The other night was karaoke night at the hotel where we are still staying until we get our house fixed up (including getting a sink in the bathroom, along with hot water for a shower).  It was hilarious trying to sing along with Muslim women in head scarfs who knew our American songs so much better than we did.  What a great time getting up sing, and then even dance.  They told me it was "Javanese custom," but to us it sure looked like disco!

Halal bil Halal at the University

O.K., where to begin with another amazing morning.  This may take several blogs!  We were invited to a combination opening convocation, end of Ramadan, "Halal bil Halal" at the university where we will be teaching. The Arabic phrase means, "I forgive you and I ask your forgiveness."  To my surprise (and slight discomfort), I and Bob were asked to be guests of honor in the very front, right next to the Rector of the University.  At first, he seemed quite formal and stiff, but as we sat together, along with his two adorable four and five -year-old boys and wife, we began opening up to each other, and despite the loudspeaker blaring a Muslim singer of "soft rock," we had a fascinating conversation.  We heard what the organization that founded this school was about:  social welfare, education, and health care.  he was proud to say that Muhammadiyah (the name of one of the two major Muslim organizations in Indonesia) has founded schools of higher learning all over Indonesia, as one of their primary focuses.  They also have about a hundred hospitals, and he commented that when this organization was founded, 1912, they got the idea from the Catholic missionaries who were here.  He stressed the idea that they were "non-partisan," serving everyone.  He agreed that diversity was important.  He learned on a tour of American universities what building a great university would entail, so took this school from about 800 students 12 years ago to the 20,000 it has today. 
 Our conversation also involved the nature of Islam in Indonesia, and he remarked at one point that "we are all Sufis."  yet, he drew a distinction between his Muslim organization and the other leading one here ("N.U.), in that this one is more modernist, interested in reform.  At one point, he said we follow Muhammad directly, thus Muhammadiyah; we are not "followers." This was to point out that the other organization, the more traditionalist one, is founded on the principle of a charismatic leader, called a "kyai," and hundreds of followers.
Following a beautiful recitation (i.e., singing) of a Koranic passage, the Rector spoke to the assembled faculty and staff and their families. After another speaker and what appeared to be a sermon by an imam, all rose and passed by the main party in greeting. It was a beautiful gesture of community and halal.
 We joined a group in the rector's tent for a fine Indonesian meal and fellowship. We met colleagues and those studying from Spain, Germany and Australia. What a wonderful experience of hospitality, friendliness, and a family atmosphere that made us feel truly welcomed and valued!  

To Jakarta and back to Malang

We spent the last week running around offices in Jakarta.  "Running" is euphemistic for sitting in offices waiting for officials to prepare and sign off on forms.  We are still not quite documented, although I have something called a "KITAS," which I think means I can do research here.  I still have to visit the provincial governor in Surabaya, perhaps a holdover from the colonial days of hierarchy and bureaucracy.  But it gives more people jobs!
 On the last night in Jakarta we visited "Plaza Indonesia" which consists of four huge floors of sheer glitz, Gucci, Armani, all the big name stores.  As a man we met in the airport (another person trying to be helpful to these confused Americans) put it, there is wealth concentrated at the top, and that makes it look like the average is higher than it is, when there is still much poverty.  Sound familiar?  He should know.  He works for the Ministry of Finance.
 One great benefit of these days of satisfying officialdom was getting to know two other Fulbrights who were going through the same process.  Besides bemoaning the tedious process, we shared our interests in being here.  One has worked for NPR and will do reports for the World, on PRI.  The other is making a trip to Bali, a place he has known since going there many times when he was a surfer kid.  Now he does research on Balinese rituals and theater performances.  Very sophisticated. 
  I am just glad to be here, and whatever "research" I do will be to get to know and understand this country and its people, and especially try to link Muslim and Christian a little more.  As Pak Parto, our all-around helper in Malang, put it so well:  "When we open our hearts, love will find a way."  Could we find a better vision for this adventure?  Obviously, thanks for reading, and I welcome your comments.

First day in the neighborhood

Idul Fitri

Today is the beginning of Idul Fitri, the Muslim holiday that ends the fast of Ramadan.  It is party time!  But all last night we heard the chanting of the Qur'an, most likely from the large mosque that borders the university inn where we are staying.  That did not put us in the mood.  I wonder if it was Sufi chanting.  That sort of thing also seems to be present on some of the television shows.  Except for American cartoons, we seem to have the "Muslim package" on our TV here.  But it's all part of the learning experience. 
Next week we are invited to the university celebration of Idul Fitri, since it goes on for at least one more week.  I asked what happens when the whole university gathers in the "Dome," (like our convocation center), and our hosts told me that people shake hands, eat varieties of foods, and make gestures of forgiveness to one another.  This element we had not heard of before, and it is really impressive.  When do Christians ritually do this act of forgiveness?

Shopping

Yesterday we went shopping with the "team" for all the items we will need for the house, which is mostly unfurnished.  We were a bit dismayed to learn we had to buy a stove, but learned that a "stove" consisted of two burners fueled with gas, costing only about $38, which in rupiahs looks more like $380,000. We are still trying to get used to the conversion and thrown off before we realize it's far less in American dollars.
  We also met Eka, one of the team.  Her name means "One," because she is the first-born, and many Indonesians name their children by the birth order.  I think I learned this in "Eat, Pray, Love."  When Eka taught me the first three numbers, something like "Sat, Digo, Trigo," I wondered why the difference in the number one.  I was delighted to learn that "Sat" comes from Sanskrit, an early influence on this language of Bahasa Indonesian. That connects this language in some distant way to all our Indo-European languages.  I said, "we are one globe after all."

Also, in the car on the way back, I saw a water buffalo grazing in a rice paddy, which line the roads even within the city.  After saying "Look" to anyone in particular, I commented, "We are easily impressed."  They all laughed.  This is one example of a common experience of their laughing at my amazement over it all.  I hope that never stops, even in the ten months I have here.  Well, this is more than I meant to write, but since sleeping at night is still not quite possible, I write blogs in my head, and this is the result.

House

Thanks to our wonderful hosts, we found a house, or rather they found it for us.  It will not be ready until we get back from Jakarta and the Muslim holiday of Idul Fitri (end of Ramadan) where everything stops, as it does in the U.S. for Christmas.  But riding around in the van with the team meant laughing often.  I am glad they even laugh at my little jokes.  The Indonesians seem unpretentious, just themselves with nothing to prove.  They are a happier people than those of East Europe who had had the trauma of the war (1992-95) and so much else before that. 

House hunting

From Bob:  Yesterday Pak Parto took us to see possible living places. One, on campus, is not inviting. The other, lovely from the outside; we shall see the interior today. Our guests are very hospitable. The staff at the University Inn are delightful youngsters.
  I have been asked to offer conversational English to new students at the university. It would be like the elective I offered in Bosnia.

New "Home": Malang

Hearing the call to prayer right now outside the campus of Universitas Muhammadiyah Malang.  Once I saw people's faces getting on the plane in Singapore I felt real happiness, the beginning of connection.  And everyone smiles at us, enhancing that connection.  The Indonesians love to laugh at little things, at finding amusement in the everyday, and that is sheer delight for me.  Everything else is slow, and painstaking, trying to get registered with the police, but not having the documents and permits that we have to go back to get in Jakarta next week.  At least we have a week before another airplane ride.  Then four days of office-hopping and papers to validate ourselves to myriad authorities.  But we will persist. That's it for now, in this novice attempt at a blog.  Thanks for reading!

Leg one of three-leg trip

We are waiting in the Hong Kong airport, having given up several nail files and my nice Apple spice body wash (very thorough security).  Now having a coffee latte, with free Wi-Fi Internet (for a change!). 

We're going!

Our visas arrived today to our great surprise.  I was actually called by the president of the International Institute of Education who greatly sympathized with our predicament of waiting and living down in our basement while waiting.  He personally got the Embassy of Indonesia going on processing the visas and the passports came (to our mailbox) through Express Mail.  Good thing we called and found out they had been left there.  Anyway, now it is all excitement, all the time, anticipating the complete newness of Asia, its sounds, smells, people, food.  It will be overwhelming for  quite a while, I'm sure.  But we're going.

Waiting

We are still waiting for visas, for confirmation from the contact person in Indonesia, for everything to begin.  Some of us ten Fulbrithters are already over there, and for us, it is just a big wait.  Slow.  Welcome to Bureaucracy.