What time is it?

“What time do you close today?” I ask one of the guards outside the driver’s license building in west Jakarta. We were shooting the breeze as I stood waiting for my taxi. He said that they close the doors at noon, but don’t lock up until everyone who passed through the doors before then gets taken care of. That was at 11:48 a.m.

As “waiting” is nearly a schedulable activity here, I get to do a lot of people watching. It takes less than a minute to realize the guards enjoy their walkie-talkies like six year olds. My new friend called the front entrance, instructing them to send an arriving Blue Bird taxi straight to our building. That was nice of him. Earlier when I was asking this same guard for directions to an office, that office walkie-talkie-ed down to say they were sending someone to get me. He told them I was at the front door with him, then repeated a couple of times in English into his walkie-talkie, “Ms. Karen is bee-u-ti-fool.” That was unnecessary—but everyone likes to practice their English, however limited it is. A little later he broadcasted something about a fat policeman. And then his friend replied, from three feet away, into his own walkie-talkie. That was plain boredom taking over.

By 12:12 p.m., I was sitting with the guards, still waiting for my taxi. A group of confused young men came up to ask questions about where they needed to go; they were told to see someone inside. I ask the officer again, “What time do you close?” He responded, “Twelve o’clock, noon.” Puzzled, I looked at his watch, said something about it being after noon, and then gestured to the wide open doors. “Well,” he said, “it’s all relative. You know, flexible.” He went on to explain, “If they really did shut the doors at noon, the people who show up after 12:00 will be disappointed that they can’t get in.” Seems to be a reasonable enough explanation. I tried to figure out who has the final say on when to shut the doors, but my Indonesian failed me. This flexibility, however, explains why even though the officers, “don’t let people in after noon, [they] don’t get to go home sometimes until 5 p.m.”

Unlike in the States, my cell phone doesn’t connect with any official world time satellite sync-up system, so I never know what “the real” time is. Nor does anyone else in this country it seems. The clocks in taxis are always 8, 9, 10 minutes behind (even though they show up 10 minutes early when you request a pick up at your house—but not at the driver’s license building). A few nights ago, I met up with friends to go play pool. I sat on the side of the road for nearly twenty minutes, waiting. My friend’s cell phone was 9 minutes behind mine. No one really worries about exact time, or if they do, you just hope your clock is in sync with theirs.

Fish Food

While in Jakarta, I have been enjoying the nearly surreal life of an expat—like getting my feet exfoliated by fish. Flesh eating fish, that don’t have any teeth. They do, must, have a set (I assume fish have sets) of power lungs because they suck the dead skin right off! It only takes 5 minutes or so to get used to the sensation which I can only explain as either the pricking feeling you have when you feet have fallen asleep, or the feeling of grains of sand from a strong gust of wind striking against your skin. It certainly isn’t painful, but I didn’t find it relaxing. The idea, more than anything—you know, fish actually nibbling on your toes, and ankles and calves—is what takes getting used to. But hey, it only cost like 7 bucks.

Sarting out with a splash

I arrived in Jakarta Tuesday afternoon and headed directly to the Herstein's where I am staying for the next a couple of weeks. Jon Herstein and I became friends at Harvard in 2000 and I got to know if wife, Briton, too. Jon is currently working in Jakarta for RTI, a US NGO. I got to their beautiful home and within an hour I was in the backyard swimming pool, even though I wasn't dressed for it. Carter (4 years) and Caiden (1.5 years) and Briton went for a little swim. I was going to join, them but it took too long for me to figure out which suitcase my swimsuit was in. When I finally came out of the bathroom dressed for action, Carter informed me that they had finished swimming. So I changed back and then went outside to join them as they ate their snacks. Carter then decided he wanted to swim again. However, he didn't quite get his arm floaties on tightly; one floated off his arm as he started to splash around. Needless to say, he freaked out a little and as he tried to grab it, he took himself into a deeper end where he couldn't touch. When he started yelling for help, I, being the closest adult around, jumped into the pool and waded nearly up to my shoulders to grab him. He hadn't swallowed any water, but he got a good scare. What a start to my year here.

I am happy to be here with Jon and Briton and their family. I will stay with them for two weeks as I run around getting the right visas, research permits, and IDs. Then I will go to Malaysia for a Fulbright conference. Once I return, I'll find a little room for rent in the center of Jakarta for the rest of the month.

Taxi?

Thought you would enjoy this picture. I rent my 'motor' (a car is called a 'mobil') for a month at a time, and when I headed to Jakarta, it was time to return the motor for a checkup, etc. So I decided to drop the motor off and catch a taxi to the airport from there. Pak Parno, (the one in the photo, also the gatekeeper/security gaurd), Mbak Mifa (one the maids), and I had a good laugh as I tried to figure out the best way to carry everything. They were trying to tell me to put the large bag between my feet. But then that didn't fit. Then we joked about balancing it on the handle bars, or me resting my feet on the handle bars since there wouldn't be any room for them if we did finally get the bag on the floorboard. In the end, I opted for strapping both bags to my body. Please note the 'Sport Center' in the background. A dirt field I sometimes see kids playing soccer in. This is also the space where Pak Parno raises his chickens and has a little open air shed to store his becak (rickshaw Indonesia-style) which you can see behind him to the right.

Sunday Afternoon in the Park

I have been in Jakarta for a week. Since I’ve already seen just about everything there is to see in the city or care to see (there are countless huge, and I mean huge, pricey malls with Tiffany & Co. and Armani stores—it’s as if the malls are trying to make up for the lack of green space in the city by providing some kind of gathering place for people. I think one of the national pastimes in the large cities here is walking through malls), I headed out of town to Bogor, a small town 45 minutes away by train. Laureen, a graduate student who just arrived to do a 4 month internship with UNESCO, and I headed straight for Bogor’s botanical gardens. The shade and break from street noise was a treat. We were going to sit on a bench and read our books or write in our journals for a few hours, but we ended up talking the entire time instead.

This photo is one of those classic photos where Indonesians like to have their pictures taken with foreigners. It’s a bit blurry, but then again, we got what we paid for. I really enjoy seeing the style of the younger generation--pegged jeans and converse shoes. Perhaps most noticeable in this picture by the guy in the purple sweatshirt, but guys here often have quite stylish haircuts with longer bangs, and shaggy (but controlled) sideburns or spiked (but don't think punker or anything) hair. They definitely take time do something with their hair each morning.

We grabbed the last train home. It was impressive to see how the beggars, musicians, and hawkers had it down to a science. The footage below is of one of several musicians that came into our car as we were waiting for the train to take off. You will notice this is a group effort—a guitarist/lead singer, an electric guitarist (note the portable amplifier), the kid they hired to carry the amplifier from car to car (he is the one on the outside of the train lingering on the left side of the door who hid each time my camera pointed in his direction), and the drummer. Others to notice are a drink and snack vendor who his preparing his bucket of goodies out on the platform before entering the train, the man selling newspapers, and the blind man who slowly made his way down the aisle asking for a donation (his back is to the camera since he had already passed us, the newspaper man walks around him). My favorite was the kid standing on the seat holding on to the rings overhead. I was secretly hoping he would launch himself into the aisle and swing back and forth so I could vicariously fulfill my own urge, but he never did.


As I write this entry for posting later, I am again on a train. But I am heading back to Jogja. This time the ride is 8 hours. After 3 hours, I am already wishing it was over. Not that I can complain; it is clean and I don’t have to stand I the aisle, and it is unlikely I will be robbed if/when I fall asleep. This ride was $23 as opposed to a $60-$90 one hour flight. (Was it worth it? No comment.) We left Jakarta at 8 pm and will arrive in Jogja at 4 am.

A Night on the Beach

Indonesia does not lack for national holidays. In an effort to be a religious country without an official religion, it celebrates all religious holidays (well at least the 5 recognized religions: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism--or Confucianism isn't one of them and Christianity is divided into Protestant and Cathlic--it's kind of confusing). For the most recent national holiday, which was on a Wednesday, a group of us spent the night on a beach. Java aint Bali. The beaches around Jogja are known for being rough, unpredictable and consequently dangerous. This is all explained by the local legend of the Sea Goddess who lurks in the surf, waiting for people to come near the water, then launches huge waves to pull them down to her lair, and if they are men, they become her concubines. She is particularly attracted to the color green, so people going to the beach are often told not to wear anything green. There are several cases where people actually have been washed out to sea from the beach and never seen again. Needless to say, I didn’t even bring my swimsuit for this trip.
We had perfect weather. Our rented sleeping bags were quite thin and rightfully so. In the morning around 6, while most of the other Americans continued to sleep, the Indonesians and a few of Americans took a misty walk down the beach.


We passed a fishing village—there may have been more boats than houses. Around 8 am, they were coming in with their morning catch.

By the time we walked back past them, they had had already emptied their boats and were carrying them to higher ground on the beach.

Then we ate breakfast. I took a bite of my apple and dipped it in some peanut butter. I got some strange looks, so I offered them a taste. Suddenly everyone was taking a big bite out the apple, then dipping it in the peanut butter. It was a hit! One friend thought I was genius for coming up with the combination, but then Jake filled them in that it was a common snack for kids.

After breakfast we took a walk along the beach in the opposite direction before heading home. I was concerned that spending the night on the beach was going to turn my sore throat into a cold, but it was the air conditioning blowing in my face during the drive home that did me in. Every time I come to Indonesia, I get at least one cold. The sun and weather wear me out and then combining that with air conditioning, it always does me in.

Rice vs. Wheat

There is a Javanese saying: “If you didn’t eat rice, you didn’t have a meal.” Vegetables, soup, tofu, eggs, and even fish and other meats are side dishes to rice. Rather than a cake, pie or some extravagant dessert, fried rice is served to celebrate a special occasion. This dish features yellow rice that has been packed into a mold that looks like an upside-down ice cream cone. Chicken or other various foods circle the base of the rice mound/cone. The person being honored cuts off the top of the rice cone and gives it to the most important person in his or her life who is attending (talk about pressure, I mean, do you choose a parent, spouse, or someone else?). McDonalds serves rice with it’s chicken. Orders for hamburgers or chicken sandwiches at McDonalds are rare enough that they are not pre-prepared, but made to order. Last week I group of friends spent the night on the beach. I showed up with bread, jam and peanut butter for dinner. My Indonesian friends brought cooked rice wrapped/packaged in banana leaves.

Breads are not very common. So much so that when I taught Raras and Dimas how to make pancakes, we had to check to see if there was any flour in the house. The driver had to make a run to who knows how many stores to find baking powder.
We used box milk—I don’t think I have ever seen milk sold here in pints, let alone gallons. I guess you don’t need that much milk if you are eating rice instead of cereal for breakfast.


The well-worn wooden spoon was used to flip the pancakes since they didn’t have any spatulas.


We ate our pancakes with a Blue Bonnet margarine knock-off—the color and consistency of really smooth yellow play dough—, some jam, grated cheese or/and chocolate cake sprinkles (a common topping for toast if it is ever made). The pancakes were a success, even without maple syrup.