31 December 2009

The Spice Route to Cancer City


Visiting Ika in Welahan, a small town that functions as Jepara’s Chinatown (hence the Confucius Temple), I forgot how close we would be to the hipster holy grail: Kudus, the birthplace of the Kretek (with a sharp rolled-“R”). In Indonesia, clove cigarettes have an onomatopoetic name, and with that crisp, crackling of the burning clove oil, my white-Anglo skin tingled with colonial desire (okay, so the Irish were on the Colonized-end of things… let’s just ignore that for effect). I needed to follow the clove-smoke-wisps to the origin of the industry here in the Spice Islands.

In reality, the “Spice Islands” refer more directly to the Maluku Islands to the east of Java, which were famous for their density of spices – cloves and nutmeg in particular. But as far as my History and Social Studies education stretched in High School, the whole of Indonesia was the “Spice Islands”, and apparently Indonesia’s history ended with the inventions of Mrs. Dash and Refrigerators. So in the Middle Ages, when Marco Polo and his posse of Crusaders (or Monks… was Gregor Mendel there?) went in search of spices, he would have landed in the Malukus. For modern day Colonist Posses in search of clove cigarettes, they will land in the town of Kudus on the North coast of Java.

Driving through the streets, past the Djarum factory (Djarum Blacks were often the Hipster clove of choice before the US Government banned the import of clove cigarettes back in August or September of this year) and some of the smaller, local brands, the air is filled with a heavy scent of fresh clove, in contrast to the common scent of clove cigarette smoke. Winding past the factories, we opted to visit the Kretek Museum and get a little more history rather than take a factory tour. The simple and donation-based (FREE) museum consisted of a few awesome dioramas depicting the rural, cottage-industry kretek production and the modernization of the industry into factory-based production. Highlights include a Wall-of-Fame for influential individuals in the invention and industrialization of the kretek, as well an extensive display of special packages, including Djarum packages which were created just for Indonesia’s President and Vice-President (since we wouldn’t want them smoking cigarettes out of the same packaging as the lumpen, or even the proletariat for that matter…).

Inspired by the displays, we decided that Ika’s future children should be named Nico and Tiana, which combine to commemorate the genus of that nicotine-breathing plant we know as tobacco. The scary thing is that the names would actually work pretty well here with the local languages. I was satisfied with the museum, and we opted out of searching for the local, filter-less clove cigarettes which are still hand-rolled in corn husk. My lungs are appreciative.


Wall of Fame:



Cigarette boxes:



President's and VP's Boxes:



29 December 2009

a few photographs from North Java

We went to the Clove Cigarette Museum in Kudus, where clove cigarettes were invented in the 1880's Century. Kudus is home to the Djarum company, which is a huge producer of clove cigarettes.









We also visited the city's famous mosque, which was built in 1549 -- supposedly on the site of an older Hindu-Buddhist temple.






In case you can't tell, that is a human tooth. Woops.

Regression and Repetition

The Waters of March is playing out of the speakers here at Parsley (an Indonesian bakery-cafe chain), reminding me of NPR soundtracks on the drive from my parents' home over the river to our relatives' homes in South Jersey. Although the song was introduced in the context of jazz singer Susannah McCorkle's suicide, it reminds me of home and consistency -- the calming vibrations of the tires gracing the road surface, and curling in a fetal position in the back of the car as my parents drove towards our family's holiday-oriented gatherings and odd articulations of tradition.

Last night, as I lay in a fetal position -- the only vibrations coming from sickness-intensified pulse, as if my heart shouts to the rest of my body that it is still pumping, like a coxswain to its vessel -- the dull ache of my body breaking my mind's tendency to weave context and situate each experience in some kind of narrative. Sitting here, resuscitated and once again able to drink coffee, I can't help but think about the tempos and periodicity of my body's traumas, but last night, the pain and pulse trapped me in "the moment". With the strength and comfort to analyze and contextualize, I think back to the first time I was sick here in Yogya. In 2004, during my first few days in the country, my body revolted against the cigarette smoke, pollution, noise, and severe decrease in personal space, and I wretched out all of my discomfort into the flower beds in front of the cell phone market.

Yesterday, I could feel my body tense with the desire to clear out all digestive and foreign matter. Aware of the potential bed-ridden evening-to-come, I raced on my motorbike to the mall where I intended to buy a DVD or two so that I could lay in bed with something to distract me from the pain. Bad bad idea. As soon as I stepped foot into the food court, the noise, sights, and smells of food and cigarettes -- things that I don't seem to notice when I'm feeling healthy -- shook my sensitive body, and I walked quickly to the front entrance so I could sit down outside and calm down. Feeling slightly better, I slipped back inside, and decided to head to a cafe, which I thought would be serene in contrast to the rest of the mall. The hot peppermint tisane was not as soothing as I imagined, and the whir-grind of the espresso machine challenged my body's ability to hold down the maelstrom. I imagine I looked quite pale, and my upper lip was dotted with sweat as I paid my bill and rushed to the bathrooms. For a second time in Yogya, I threw up uncontrollably in public. Fortunately, I was in a clean toilet stall in the mall where I received a little privacy (although the retching noise produced by my body echoed throughout the bathroom). When it finally ended, I flushed a final time, washed my hands, checked my stress-blotched face for traces of what had happened, and rushed down to the parking area. No DVD. I went straight home, locked my door, got my water bottle and laptop, and curled into a fetal position.

As I learned in Jakarta, a fever, throwing up, and dehydration are the ingredients for hallucinations. I tried to sleep after watching a few episodes of 30 Rock on my laptop, and I quickly settled into a strange succession of what I thought were bad dreams, and then I realized that I wasn't sleeping, and that I was receiving cryptic riddles which, once solved, would allow me to find the comfort I needed to sleep. Rather than the directions for rolling my body into difficult geometric patterns -- a kind of tetris-gymnastics which I was convinced would take away the pain and allow me to sleep -- which were the main part of my hallucinations in Jakarta, last night had to do with different spiritual traditions from across Java. I was convinced that each town had a different style of wrapping themselves in the sheet and blanket (conveniently in the exact pair that I own!), positioned between the pillows and the fan in a similar way in which Yogya is positioned between Parangtritis, the beach, and Mt. Merapi, the volcano. I struggled with the blankets, trying to figure out the riddles in my mind about culture, spirits and traditions. Finally, I rolled over, saw on my cell phone that it was already 2:30 in the morning, and was hit by the reality that I was just laying in my bed, dehydrated and aching. I drank some water, took an ibuprofen, and gradually drifted into a relaxed slumber.

To be sick, and to loose control of my body is both infantilizing and humbling. Leaning over a toilet, or a patch of impatiens, it is a reminder that I do not always take the best care of myself, or that sometimes I need help taking care of myself. It feels as if I have regressed, since I've always considered myself to be independent, and I associate the depth of one's independence with their maturity. Just as our age increases in a linear movement, I have often felt that independence and responsibility increase in a linear fashion, following a consistent, progressing tempo. Yet in these moments during my time abroad when my body is so explicitly vulnerable, and I'm shaken out of the schedules I've created around my body, I'm reminded that independence, and the states of being a child and being an adult are not always so clear. I can crawl into a fetal position, and whether lulled to sleep by the vibrations of the car, the warm beat of jazz, or the hum of my sick body, I find a syncopation in the rhythm of progress. It has been a consistent syncopation here in Indonesia, where I'm quickly reminded that as independent as I become with my language, transportation, schedule and research, the shell that gives me the sense of being an autonomous being is really just a semi-impermeable membrane, and I'm still part of an organic tapestry. Inoculations, antibiotics, and flashy, travel-related vitamin supplements will not protect me from illness. Exercise, sleep, and a healthy diet cannot keep everything stable and consistent within my body, and it is these moments when the tempo radically shifts out of my control -- and I crawl back into a fetal position -- that I must try to find humility in my dependence on others.

27 December 2009

The Sperm and the Egg[nog]

So two Hindus and an Agnostic wander into a Mennonite church...

I'm back in Jogja, safely nestled next to an electrical outlet in a Starbucks -- it's been flooding due to heavy rains, so I sought shelter in the mall -- after a long weekend traveling around the North coast of Java.  I took a bus with Termana and his younger brother, Hadhi (both Balinese Hindus), up through the hills to Semarang, the capital of Central Java. We went to visit Ika, whose family lives in Welahan, a small town nestled between the chaotic city of Semarang and Jepara. Arriving on Christmas afternoon, we joined Ika's family to attend the evening service at her Mennonite church. We were promised delicious and plentiful Christmas bread, which has become an increasingly prominent tradition handed out at the end of the Christmas service.

So, to get our hands on some of this sweet, sweet Christmas bread, we arrived to witness the sermon and various activities. Little did we know our curiosity and sweet tooth (sweet teeth?) would be met by a passionate and tireless visiting preacher from Jakarta. From the start, her voice hit a high pitch and she continued to shout through her points. My mind wandered, as the sound and quality of her voice connected to sound and video clips in my mind of various totalitarian leaders shouting at their people.  Her vigor was exciting, and then frightening, and then just annoying. What finally grabbed my attention was her turn to the topic of the "miracle of life" -- sperm and ovaries. She lectured the audience like a thorough Sex Ed teacher on the millions of sperm cells that rush towards the egg, and how it is one, very special sperm cell that makes it to -- and is accepted within -- the egg. What? Sperm? Ovaries? Zygotes? On Christmas? The shock wore off as she spun through some adjacent topics including Abortion. At this point, my mind turned back to the sweet, sweet Christmas bread awaiting each of us outside the doors to the church. Leaning over to Ika, I asked where the church found such a crazy preacher, and she informed me that the woman is Batak -- an ethnic group from Sumatra -- and Batak people are just like that, yelling all the time. I guess it makes sense...

When her two-hour sermon finally came to a close, we joined in song,  accompanied by the new Christian rock band that was incorporated into the increasingly Pentecostal-y service. Flag dancers came out, and I was reminded of the same strange combination of Mennonite and Pentecostal practices created by a church of Indonesians living in Philadelphia. As we closed our eyes, and raised our hands to the ceiling, singing joyously of the Lord, Jesus Christ, I could not imagine that this Mennonite Church exists in the imaginations of the more conservative Mennonites nestled near their Amish brethren in Pennsylvania and Ohio. But, then again, I'm no religion expert. The one comforting similarity to the christmas celebrations within my memory was the highs and lows hit while singing "O Holy Night", or "Malam Kudus" in Indonesia. At the very same points, people seem to lose all control and their inner divas find expression, such as the point where it transitions into "Fall on your knees, O Hear the Angel's voices". It is a transition where all carolers the world-around seem to have the same divine-yet-nightmarish tremor and belt out their souls.

More Flag dancing ensued, and then, just as I thought it was bread time, I saw that we would not escape the 4 hour service until we shook the hands of everyone involved in the service -- all thirty-something individuals.
Haven't they heard of H1N1?! And here I just wanted to get a peak at an Indonesian Christmas service and binge on some Christmas bread. Squeezed in line, I repeated "Selamat Hari Natal" (Merry Christmas) to each and ever person I came to face, and finally, my feet bumped the threshold of the doorway, and my eyes met the darkness of the night sky, and my hands met the contours of the generous box packed with sweet, sweet Christmas bread.

As I eat the last crumbs, and type these words, I just ask that each reader take a moment to pray for my crass, bread-laden soul.

Merry Christmas!

PS. I had my fate read at the Confucious temple next door -- this only took 15 minutes (for comparison) -- and I received some good news directly related to applications... Strange and hopeful.

22 December 2009

sun rain sun

It is hard not to get spoiled with the weather here. Yes, I'm talking about weather. Theoretically, rainy season kicked in almost two months ago, and a solid week of rain had me nervous that the season would be difficult. With a motorbike-culture, the arrival of rain throws all plans and schedules into chaos since no one wants to be zipping around, getting sloshed in the face with sheets of rain. Fortunately, that solid week ended, and it has been pretty much sunshine every single day since. Until yesterday... Following my usual workout, I headed up to the lap pool with some friends. I got in my usual laps, and as we were laying by the side of the pool, drying off slower than usual because of the cloudy sky, drops started to fall. This turned into a solid 3 hour rain storm. But it is these three hours that remind me how lucky I am to be in Indonesia during an El Nino-dry winter.

Even today, after running to the Indonesian Visual Art Archives to return some books, gather more, and then vietnamese spring rolls for lunch at Ben's (an American who is on his way home after 18 months in Yogya), I squeezed in an hour at the pool. It makes me nervous how dependent I've become on the gym and pool for a sense of continuity and stability.

The sun, warmth, fruit, vegetables, exercise and independence have created an ideal situation for me here, and I feel almost obnoxious, continually gushing about how much I love it here. The city is just amazing. As for my activities, there are stresses here and there, and every now and then my anxiety kicks in about the progress of my research. But then I look outside, and think, 'yay. it is amazing here.'

19 December 2009

a few images

From the opening of the Bienale, on the 11th of December:


Okay... so maybe 30% of the picture is pole. sorry.
The opening had tons of interactive projects, including dozens and dozens of Ronald McDonald sculptures which were violated cathartically by artists:






Wiss and the guys from Komunitas Pojok painted an amazing mural right in the middle of the festivities:



Amber and I tried Kopi Luwak -- coffee beans that are improved through the digestive process of a civet cat and are retrieved from the cat's feces, roasted lightly, and served to crazy people, Yum -- in the midst of a Christmas nightmare:




And a Britney Spears moment, also known as ambiguous Angel genitals:

And for a last taste of Summer Sunshine, a picture with Ika in Ubud, Crunchy/Hippy-Capital of Indonesia:


And with Termana and Putra at Degung's 50th Birthday Party:

ouch

Without endless online forms and the immediate demand to write, my life has taken a few interesting turns. I've developed a strange, piercing nerve issue in my shoulder, and cannot figure out the culprit, though signs are pointing to my pillows...
This new condition has claimed some agency in determining the duration and qualities of my states of animation. For example, when bending over to grab up my book bag in the morning, which is usually a nice, fluid sweeping motion, some internal, painful pause button is pressed, and I dangle, arm tense with the weight of the bag, reconsidering whether the contents of the bag are worth the increasing pain.
In an attempt to stave off these periods of inanimation, I find myself considering the options for local treatment, which is limited to osteopathic medicine, acupuncture, or some intense massage.

More interesting with less whining, I've been taking part in events for Jogja Bienale, which  has been amazing. I've been reconnecting with some amazing artists and intellectuals, and it has been fun hearing people reconsider Yogya's, Java's, and Indonesia's place in a global art world. Yesterday, I joined a discussion on Visual Perception in Yogyakarta, which addressed this issue of aesthetics and lived experience within a rapidly urbanizing place.

Beyond the din of bienale activity, I attended a latke party thrown by a bunch of the thoughtful, post-liberal arts kids living in Yogya, which was followed by a mildly-alcoholic karaoke party at a snazzy place called Happy Puppy.  The next night, I went with some friends to see a Christmas-themed Drag Show, which was probably the most bizarre Christmas event I've ever attended. Throw in a few more crunchy, ex-pat potlucks, and life here is feeling pretty nice.

Aside from the shoulder issue, I'm having an amazing time here and Yogya.

15 December 2009

first day back

This morning, with a tap of my laptop's touchpad, I submitted my sixth and final application, setting me free. For the past 8 weeks I've compromised my research and focused on editing writing samples, creating a new CV, and writing personal statements and statements of purpose (two things which I still can't seem to differentiate). After coordinating recommendation letters, transcripts, gre scores, and navigating the power outages and wifi malfunctions, it all seems to have come together, and I can focus full time on my research (and blogging and facebook and planning trips!).

Meanwhile, the Jogja Bienale started on the 10th, and I'm excited to spend a few more days just absorbing the incredible art projects here.



Unfortunately, there have been some art-related incidents already.

25 November 2009

12 days, and, well....

... progress is negligible. One draft is finished, leaving some solid writing to crank out before my applications are due. It is a pity to be overwhelmed by graduate school applications while I am developing my research here. In terms of my research, the only progress is visible (or audible, really) in the improvement of my language skills. 

37 days in, and I've acquired a researcher identity card, a temporary residency card, registration with the local police (including a suspicious transaction involving a contentious 10,000 rupiah note which was quickly returned when I asked for a receipt), a motorbike, a "room" in a boarding house, and "furnishings". The room suffered an invasion a few days ago when a mysterious animal fell through the ceiling, leaving a large hole, and left a large pile off feces in the transitional space between my sleeping area and bathing area. The feces are gone, and the violated bathmat has already returned from the laundry place (not really a laundromat since they do all the laundry for you) -- the hole remains.  My ibu kos (Mother of the boarding house) promised to bring in a repairman today and requested that I wait in my room, yet no repairman showed. I will start leaving my room keys with her during the day, travelling with my laptop, camera, and legal documents (significantly larger in quantity) everywhere I go.

I spend a couple of hours at this place (http://www.jogja.pphotels.com/) everyday, running, exercising and swimming. For those two hours, I'm offered a world of luxury, and then I go out, hop on my motorbike and drive back to my room with holes in the ceiling, random cockroach appearances, leaks when it rains, and the noise of twenty-five 18-26 year olds. It is a dramatic transition, and I've become reliant on the order, cleanliness, and personal space available in the recreation areas of the hotel. I love living here, but the disorder and disrespect shown to schedules and other people's time starts to drive me crazy. For the 30 minutes that I spend at the pool, life here seems surreal.

13 November 2009

MIA

I should be writing personal statements right now. Things are amazing here, regardless of the manic rain storms.
Updates will follow the completion of personal statement drafts.

10 November 2009

They are coming!!



Rambutans are popping out everwhere. Once these suckers are bright red, they are ready to be cracked open and eaten. They might be my favorite fruit ever.

07 November 2009

the bule network

When Lolly asked me to accompany her to a friend's housewarming party, I agreed quickly. I like my friends from the university, but I am interested in broadening my horizons. As Lolly seems to be an expert at finding other Americans living and working in Yogyakarta, I figured it would be interesting to see who would end up at the party. Living in a small neighborhood in the northern sprawl of the city, the host's home was difficult to find, and after a frazzling taxi ride, we wandered in to find a handful of women eating noodles and rice, and drinking beer and mixers. While chatting with one of the women -- Erica -- we discovered that we were in Bali together in 2006, each connected to a different project yet living in the same suburb of Denpasar. It is a pleasant coincidence, since she is another vegetarian, and she is a kind, thoughtful person -- these kinds of national allies are particularly important when dealing with sticky situations, like parasites or a conflict within the boarding house.

The group multiplied with the arrival of more motorbikes and cars, and the rooms soon filled with Germans, Americans, Generic Expats, wealthy Papuan youth, Smoke, Alcohol and hip hop. Hiding in the corner, I was fortunate to meet Amber, a graduate student of Rhetoric who is teaching at a local university while conducting research. Our bond was struck through our childhood experiences in 4-H, our transition from rural communities into privileged liberal arts colleges, and common interests in language and power.

As the room grew smokier, louder, and the constituents drunker, momentum hit a critical point, and the party tumbled toward Hugo's, a mythical (yet disappointing in terms of size and character) club located at the Sheraton near the airport.  Somehow Lolly and I had infiltrated a group of young, rich, international, party people. They seemed shocked when a few of us expressed an interest in skipping the club and going home, but they cordially invited us into their Oil/Mining-money monster trucks with bumping bass and tv screens for every passenger.

It was great to meet Erica and Amber, and it was an interesting experience to witness -- and even be included in -- such a privileged group of young people with, at the moment, the single desire to have fun. I couldn't help but think that their actions were superficial and escapist.  Escapism echoes throughout the experiences of most bules (originally meaning albino, it is now the term used for white and Japanese) in Indonesia and my recognition of escapist behaviors is probably a projection of my own insecurities.  When people ask me why I come to Indonesia to do my research, I often stumble, thinking 'well, it's an amazing place, and the art scene is dynamic", but I understand, ultimately, that I come here because it is easier -- it was easier to find money to do research full time in Indonesia, it is easier to feel special because there is so little written in English about contemporary Indonesian cultural issues, and it often seems easier to do research as an outsider who will not struggle with local repercussions when the topic or product is controversial.

I'm happy to be here and the currency exchange rates are generous. But why Indonesia? I wish I had a clear, rational reason for here.

05 November 2009

A Well-Stocked Bathroom, or my new roommate.

My bathroom is a small, tiled room with a squat-toilet set into a slightly elevated section next to a deep (about 3 feet) basin to hold water. It came with a plastic pan with which to pour water over anything in need of cleaning, and a nice crust of mold, dirt, and scum accrued over years of use by college-aged men. I've worked at scrubbing away much of that crust, and this morning, as I dipped in the pan for my morning bath, I noticed something more ominous wiggling through the water -- about a dozen tiny, black mosquito larvae. 


When I told Bram about this infestation, he insisted that he knew of a solution, and that we would go out in search of it. Arriving in front of Pasar Ngasem (the bird/endangered animal market), he explained that I needed a cupang, which I discovered is a common beta (or "Siamese Fighting") fish. Not sure about the prospect of bathing with fish scented water, or the probability of replacing larvae with fish poop, I protested briefly, and then quickly settled on a small, dark, feisty fish. Upon releasing it into the basin of water, I stared in amazement as it darted around, eating the larvae. I guess I didn't expect a fish to make it onto the list of items required for my living space. Mattress, check. Fan, check. Clothes hangers, check. Live fish for my water basin? Umm, check. 


Having just taken my first bath following the addition of the fish, I am happy to note the disappearance of the larvae and the current lack of fish poop and fish scent. Note to self -- research fish-to-human transferable diseases. 
As long as the quality keeps up, and I don't need to flush the little guy, he is my best 5,000 Rupiah investment yet. And if you are wondering about currency exchange rates, that is about 60 cents.

03 November 2009

Disciplinary Friction

While hanging out with Lolly, Tom and Sarah, the topic of graduate school arose.  The three are fresh out of college, and they seem idealistic and motivated to go straight into school following the termination of their fulbright programs. The topic gets my pulse racing.

I've just moved into my boarding house. My bags lay open, with clothes arrayed around the periphery. My language classes are improving, and I'm delving into some actual grammatical structures. And I am ready to start looking for a motorbike so I can develop further independence and start heading out through the streets of the city in search of paintings and discussions. An intense discussion with Romo (Father, as in Priest) Baskara about the development and downfall of LEKRA (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, or the People's Cultural Organization), a group from the Communist party concerned with the arts, has given me many contacts and ideas for my research. Yet, here I sit in the office at my laptop, congested with a cold and staring at the traces of a future personal statement.

With a little more than a month before the first set of applications are due, I've decided to launch in. The GREs are out of the way, and now I just have to coordinate the creation and convergence of the appropriate documents from the assorted wifi hotspots around this campus. I'm concerned about the investment of time and money that is required for this process, and I don't want it to interrupt my research.  But it is also an important step in planning some kind of extended project leading out of this year of research.

I have been looking at various programs around the US for a long time, and I have created many opportunities to discuss graduate studies with various professors of anthropology. This has yielded some strange conceptions of the application process and the quality of various departments. One department to which I will apply has a few professors with relevant experience in contemporary Indonesian studies, although two of these professors have strange reputations. In particular, one received a MacArthur "Genius" Fellowship, and I've been told there was an interesting story behind the reception of the grant. When the committee was forming to select the fellows, a prestigious anthropologist turned down the opportunity to be on the committee because he said that he would be tempted to select one of his students for the fellowship. In his place, another anthropologist joined the committee, and as suggested, a recipient of the fellowship was a student of the anthropologist on the committee. So there is the suggestion that the grant is influenced by relationships, perhaps beyond the perceived value of the recipients' research. Additionally, it is rumored that the recipient spent the grant drawing comics, which is an, well, interesting departure (or, being generous, offshoot) from anthropology. Hearing these stories will not affect whether I apply to graduate school, but ignite feelings of concern within me about the characters with whom I could be working. It is an emotional investment simply to apply to graduate school, but what happens upon arrival when the professors turn out to be crazy, emotionally-unstable, immature, or downright bitter and angry. I know that I am applying for the right reasons when I am already aware of disciplinary and departmental frictions, and I still want to try.

01 November 2009

New Friends, New Home

Yesterday, I met up with Anam and we road off to meet up with some more of the students who study English at Muhammadiyah University. They picked up Lolly and two of her ETA (fulbright English Teaching Assistant) compatriots -- Tom (from Cincinnati/Earlham College) and Sarah (from Vermont/Colgate University). It was fun to see Anam and Idham again, since they have a good sense of humor, and we went to a restaurant that only serves mushrooms. They have mushroom soup, mushroom satay, mushroom pepes, and a bunch of other options. It was pretty awesome, and along with the delicious food, we were allowed to wander around and look at how they grow all of the mushrooms. Paired with the Mushroom fest in Kennett Square, PA, this has been quite a year for learning about (and eating) mushrooms.

Lolly, Sarah, Tom and I hung out afterwards, watching an episode of the Sarah Silverman show and grabbing drinks from the Circle K. We met up with some Australians at a futsol (soccer played indoors on turf, and it definitely isn't the same as indoor soccer) place. I don't know what I was thinking. They said that it would be casual and relaxed, but the pace of the game quickened, and as soon as I had the chance, about halfway through, I jumped out. Unless we played soccer in gym class in high school (which I don't remember), the last time I played soccer was in middle school. Yikes.

Exhausted and sweaty, I went home early to clean up and start packing. Tom lent me a dvd, so I watched Adventureland and went to bed.

This morning, I went through my things, packed, and when Bram showed up with five other guys together on four motorbikes, we balanced my luggage between the people and drove off to my boarding house.


  Things are settling organically in my room, which is actually pretty large -- the picture above only shows half, without the bathroom included. After moving things around, and hanging out, chatting with a few of the guys -- Novun, Yoga, and some others -- Nana showed up with her parents, and Bram and I went out to eat with them. It is a funny experience tagging on with a family, and although they are really nice, it reminds me why I no longer have the desire to do the homestay thing.
Now, I just have to wait for the next rainstorm and see how the roof and ceiling hold up!

31 October 2009

Moving

Tomorrow I am moving into my boarding house. Goodbye refrigerator and air-conditioning! I've been so spoiled for this first week, and I'm not entirely looking forward to living without AC in the consistently 95 degree weather. Every single day, the forecast calls for isolated thunderstorms and highs between 94 and 96. Hot and humid. It will be a funny scene, dragging my suitcases down the road tomorrow.
My language classes are fine, although they don't seem to know what to do with me, since my vocabulary is much more advanced than my grammar. Yesterday, my teacher spoke very slowly and we reviewed a short piece of writing about the fishing industry along the coast near Yogya. If anything, I now know where the commercial fisherman sell their daily catch.

I had a late lunch at Milas with Rizmah and Nellie from Aminef and two of the English Teaching Assistant fulbrighters, and I got my fill of fresh fruit and veggies. There is a party that we've been talking about, and it just seems so bizarre to me. It is a Halloween party, and it is advertised on Facebook and Couchsurfer, and it is located a good deal outside of the city. Since it is located out near Borobudor, a massive buddhist temple, it will not be easy to get to without private transportation -- We'll see what happens.
Okay! running to post office and picking up laundry. things really are pretty typical here.

27 October 2009

tales of progress?

Quick catch up -- on Sunday, Bram from my boarding house went mattress shopping with me, and I splurged on a double made of dense foam. Additionally, I ended up with some Manchester United-branded pillows, which are a strange choice for me, but Bram seemed excited since they are his favorite team, and I figure that I at least leave the pillow cases with him when I leave. Apparently it was all delivered yesterday.

I made my second visit to the immigration office Monday morning and I was asked to wait until 2:00PM, when I was told that they couldn't help me and that I needed to return the next day. Returning home, I was enveloped in a sudden down pour, and being rained-in, I spent the afternoon reading in bed sleepy from the timbre of the rain drumming the roof. As the rain calmed, I made plans to meet up with Laura (who goes by "Lolly"), a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant from Pitzer College. We met at the Starbucks, which she refers to as the American Embassy, since it is popular with tourists and expats seeking American-style coffee. She seems like a fun, relaxed person, and I already have plans to grab dinner with her and a mysterious third person at Milas (an amazing vegetarian restaurant) tonight.

Today, I returned to the immigration office, which is currently undergoing a huge renovation with additions.  While I sit, yet again, on a bench outside an office, watching the employees wander around chatting with each other, the sound of hammers provides the sense that work is being done somewhere in the building.  After waiting for an hour, I was told that the person who will help me would not be in for another 2 hours, so I took a stroll, grabbed some food, and returned. At this point, I was finally ushered into an office where my extended stay permit application lay scattered across a desk. The gentlemen processing my case fanned himself with another application as he replaced all of the details in another applicant's word.doc with my own. Finally, I had some success, until he tried to print the document. None of the three abused printers in the office would cough out my document, so I was asked to wait further. I couldn't help noticing that printer boxes remained in the office, with shipping information -- none had been purchased locally, as they had all been shipped from the central immigration office in Jakarta. This disbursement of printers from Jakarta is the closest thing to a centrally-organized universal immigration program. The application process for various visas differ between offices -- even between the various offices in Jakarta.

Finally they printed my document in an adjoining office, long after I finished reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (Michael Chabon), and I was told that the cashier had already left and that I would need to return tomorrow just to pay. At this point, I don't mind another visit because I am getting to know the employees at the office while simultaneously losing any sense of self-worth.

I'm excited for the healing power of the food at Milas.

24 October 2009

progress!

After an early and enlightening meeting reviewing my immigration paperwork with Mbak Yovi, who breezed through the questions, I went for a walk to pass some time before my next meeting with Nana (from PUSdEP's office) and Bram. I remember visiting a bookstore/library/cafe called Perpustakaan ("library") with Ayi in 2004, and I went in search of it. Along the way, I passed near the Galleria (a now outdated mall which was still popular in 2004), the French Cultural Center, and Gabah (a restaurant with good salads -- good, safe, raw greens are tough to come by). I even walked past a Muhammadiyah facility, but I found no library. I did stop in at Top Java, one of my favorite warungs, for tempe and greens. Back on Sanata Dharma's campus, Bram told me that his ibu kos (the boarding house mother) was out, so we couldn't check out the rooms yet. My consolation prize was a motorbike lesson, which I accepted nervously. I'm not sure what I expected, and I must have appeared pale and sober as I sat on the bike, nodding with each suggestion. When Bram stopped, turned, and pointed to a loop in the parking lot, saying "You should go try now", I stared for a moment, and then gently revved the engine. It turns out that driving the bike is actually quite easy. It is the weaving through traffic and badly maintained streets which will pose problems. Even though I may start looking at buying a bike, I'm in no rush to be out on the streets by myself. My final challenge of the lesson was to navigate between the parking lot and my guest house, which are separated by maybe 500 feet and a few speed bumps. This went smoothly, and a few minutes after Bram left, he returned to bring me to his boarding house to see a room. It is a huge blue room in need of a new paint job, but with nice floor tiles. It has its own bathroom, which is clean enough. My main concerns are the two holes in the ceiling, left open for natural light and ventilation. They are angled over with roof tiles, but I'm more worrying about the odd animals that could come in. Additionally, there are 22 college-aged guys living in this boarding house, and while I agreed to take the room, I am a little overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Once I have the room set up, it will begin to feel like a sanctuary, and I definitely appreciate flexibility of a house with so many people coming and going.
Returning to the guest house feeling a little overwhelmed, I settled in bed to read. It started to rain, with some intense downpours, and I haven't been able to leave the house since. The rain seemed to have stirred up the various reptiles and amphibians -- there are a few tree frogs hiding in the hallway, and all I can hear are the croaks, quacks, groans and barks of frogs and geckos.

23 October 2009

blackout

I dropped my arms, dangling limp at my sides, in disbelief. Scrambling with my keys, I unlocked my bedroom door, dropped the small, black, plastic bags, one hot, one cold, on the bed, and started crawling, feeling for my headlamp. Thankfully, I remembered that I had thrown it on the bed while excavating my luggage earlier, and I found it quickly. Had I not gone to Burning Man, and delayed my departure, I would never have purchased a headlamp, and would not have had a source of light.

With my cold blue beam, I locked and unlocked my way into the kitchen, and sprawled out with the nasi goreng (indo-style fried rice), tempe penyet (crushed tempe with chili), and jus nanas (pineapple juice) -- a little feast that I grabbed from Resto PKL, a food hall with various vendors located down the street from the university guest houses. It was a bumpy day, and I was happy to relax with some comfort food.

I had a bad start when I arrived at PUSdEP's offices (Pusat Sejarah dan Etika Politik, or Center for History and Political Ethics), and my contact seemed confused as to whether he would help me.  I required a host from the center to assist me at the immigration office, and the professor who offered hadn't scheduled enough time between my arrival and his class. This wouldn't be a problem, except that I had a week upon arrival to register at the local immigration office, and today is the final business day.  After three days of scurrying between MENRISTEK (the Indonesian government's office overseeing all foreign researchers), the national Police office, and the Department of Home Affairs, I was left with little time to handle the local process.

I convinced the Professor that we would be able to figure things out quickly at the immigration office, and we left immediately. Once we arrived, we quickly discovered that the KITAS application (a temporary citizenship card of sorts for researchers and students) required materials in addition to those prepared while I was in Jakarta. I should have expected this, since the immigration office in Yogya has a reputation for being difficult. Ultimately, I was unable to submit my application, and so I cannot return until Monday to attempt again. This means that I will overextend the application time limit and I will be fined what amounts to $60.

We returned to the campus, and the professor ran off to teach his class. Darwin, from the office, helped me get more copies of my official, red-background-portraits for the application, and then I wandered home to rest and grab a snack. Mango Activia is my new addiction, and while eating some in bed, I checked my email, only to find out that I didn't do as well on the writing portion of the GRE's as I would have liked.  And rather than thinking about how they aren't that important, I thought, instead, about how I should retake them and try to prepare this time. At this point, I'm over thinking about it.

I couldn't access my blog -- I kept receiving error messages, so I decided to go back out. No one was in at PUSdEP's office to advise me on preparing my application, so I headed to the Carrefour to grab some groceries, and to the Grammedia for an Indonesian/English dictionary. Getting home after dark, at dropped my things and wandered around the block, passing children's murals that I remember seeing in 2004, looking for a spot to grab some food di bunkus (wrapped up, to go). I stumbled upon Resto PKL, which I had forgotton about.

I arrived back at the guest house with my black bags, and as I let myself in through the front door, the lights turned off. It went completely black inside and outside. I had to feel my way around the house for a bit, and I walked out front to ask the security guard about candles. After getting the candles lit, PUSdEP's secretary, named Nana, arrived with her boyfriend, Bram. They had some good news about boarding houses, and will be showing me some rooms that are available tomorrow afternoon. If I like any of the rooms, I could start transitioning into a boarding house this weekend. The bonus is that they are going to be cheap -- one room will cost $175 for a year, and one with its own bathroom will cost $400 for a year. Yes. A full year. Nana and Bram know of another room, though at first they hesitated to tell me about it. Then, cautiously, they asked if I would be okay living in a boarding house owned by ethnic-Chinese Indonesians. It seems like a funny question, but there is a great deal of prejudice against the ethnic-Chinese. I assured them that I would be happy living with ethnic-Chinese, and so we will check out that place as well.  As Nana and Bram left, the lights came back on, and I returned to my bedroom to reconnect with the World.

22 October 2009

Hello Yogya!

The descent in the airplane was abrupt, and my abused heart skipped beats. The flight between Jakarta and Yogyakarta is dramatic enough with the volcanoes scattered between the cities, creating strange air currents. With the added storm clouds, my anxiety peaked. Dropping down over the red roofs of the city -- which reminds me of an equatorial version of the town from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory -- the plane shook as we drew closer to the buildings, and when finally the buildings cleared, and the wings seemed to brush the ground, we dipped down over a river, and then the ground rose up sharply and we hit the runway.  The short length of runway is caged in by urban sprawl, and for a plane to land, it must brake sharply, with the force jerking everyone and everything forward. My neighbor turned to me, shook my hand, welcomed me back to Yogya, and left me to catch my breath. So while everyone else turned on their cellphones and jumped up to grab their bags while the plane taxied, I just sat in my seat and let my blood pressure readjust. I'm not sure if that flight will ever be easy for me.

I was met at the airport by two women from Sanata Dharma University's international office, which was pleasant, since I assumed I would just take a taxi and figure things out on my own. They delivered me to the university guest house where I will stay for the next two weeks. Right now, I am sitting at the desk in the bedroom of the house where a friend lived when I first arrived in Yogya in 2004.  It is strange, because I think of it as Katie's room. She had a Fulbright, and she hung out with Ika, Termana and me.  Driving in from the airport to the house, I recognized so many things, but so much has changed too. The earthquake in 2006 and rapid rate of new construction have created a new city in the place of the one that I knew. I'm just so excited to get out and see what has changed and to start talking to people. I've already met a few of my neighbors in the guest houses -- a group of young Papuans studying Bahasa Indonesia to teach back in Papua (the Indonesian state, which is attached to the country Papua New Guinea), and Celia Lowe, an anthropology professor from the University of Washington.

Since sitting down, the sun has set and the temperature has dropped, and I'm ready to go for a walk and find some good eatin'!

bye bye jakarta

I should be packing. My clothes are sprawled across the bed, flotsam and jetsam. Maybe I'm just not ready to leave Jakarta. The city seems to vibrate, regardless of plate-tectonics, and that vibrating energy is a narcotic. I love the craziness of the sprawling city, and will miss it when I am in Yogya. Not that Yogya is boring -- it is just not the same.


And I am ready to be in Yogya, too, where there is a little less pollution (okay, maybe this difference is marginal), and the air smells like clove cigarettes, and there are roads where I can go for jogs in the morning. But the cats will be there, too. Skinny in shades of dusty orange and grey, with dark eyes, simultaneously tired and angry. These are not pets, and seem to be scapegoats instead. It is rare to find one with its tail intact, as they are broken or cut off in awful accidents or at the hands of angry, confused, and violent kids.

The past few days have been strange, alternating between government offices and wandering the streets. On one walk with Jennifer, an anthropology professor from the University of Richmond, I was shocked by a strange feline situation. Looking down, I made eye contact with a female cat laying on her side. A few kittens were feeding from her, only to be jostled by a scraggly adult male who pushed his way in to drink from her too. I had never imagined an adult cat feeding from a mother's teat, and something about it disturbed me.
It is the kind of site that is shocking the first time I see it, yet after seeing it around the streets here, it just seems typical.

Regardless of how I feel, and where I want to be, immigration law requires that I show up at the immigration office in Yogya. The tickets are purchased, and in five hours, I fly out of here.

21 October 2009

Finally

After using the warnet (internet cafe -- without the charm implied by cafe) for the last few days, I am the proud new owner of a mobile broadband USB modem. I had no idea these buggers existed. It plugs in like a USB memory stick, and I just insert a chip to set up a prepaid monthly program.  It ends up costing me almost $30 a month, but I have unlimited wireless internet!  
So, rather than checking my email at the warnet, I'm sprawled on the bed in my hotel room posting on my blog, which I had been unable to do at the warnet. 
This is serious science. 

17 October 2009

Singapore Airport!!

After being trapped in Newark, Chicago (O'hare), and Tokyo (Narita), I have the feeling that everything will be okay. Free internet terminals and a bed, and I'll be ready for Jakarta in 9 hours.

16 October 2009

12 hours!

Well, I am actually leaving, assuming all goes well at the airport. I need to pack. woops, I lose.

Jakarta is 11 hours ahead of Philadelphia (Right now, it is 7:20PM on Thursday here, and it is 6:20AM on Friday in Jakarta), and when I arrive there at 10:30 AM on Sunday, It will still be 11:30 PM on Saturday in Philly. eeee. okay. So I will arrive in Jakarta, after stops in Chicago, Tokyo and Singapore (sleepover??), and a hotel room has been arranged for me. I leave for Yogyakarta on Wednesday (the 21st), and I think that I have a university guest house arranged for two weeks. After that, well, I need to figure something out...

15 April 2009

Candidates? or Caricatures?

Vision of unity

The Jakarta Post   |  Tue, 03/10/2009 11:56 AM  |  City

A boy and his father walk past a mural depicting the nation’s political figures and leaders holding hands. The slogan on the mural reads “United to Raise Up the People.” JP/P.J. LeoA boy and his father walk past a mural depicting the nation’s political figures and leaders holding hands. The slogan on the mural reads “United to Raise Up the People.” JP/P.J. Leo

Jakarta post article

Political messages on the walls

Sun, 03/15/2009 1:05 PM  |  Lifestyle

For Indonesians, especially during the New Order era, the general election was often dubbed a festival of democracy. There was a time when the ruling party handed out political paraphernalia and, sometimes, cash to the people to get their votes.

The country will on April 9 witness another legislative election, the third election after the downfall of the authoritarian ruler Soeharto in 1998.

Flags of political parties are flying high on the rooftops and even on steel towers. Banners with photographs of the legislative candidates and their catch phrases - some of which can provoke much laughter - fill almost all streets with all trying to promote themselves to the electorate.

A wall enclosing an empty field on Jl. TB Simatupang, South Jakarta, though, paints a different picture. A group of art workers have thrown in their two cents' worth about the election through a series of murals and posters to urge the public to be more aware of the power of their voting rights.

One mural demands the candidates not give empty promises while another shows how a young man behaves aggressively if promises are not kept.

"We just want to express our opinions through murals, posters and other art forms. We want to be neutral, not cynical. We just want to describe current phenomena in a casual way," Herwibowo, one of the organizers, said.

- Text and photos by P.J. Leo

http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2009/03/15/political-messages-walls.html-5

12 April 2009

leaving a trail, setting a path

One month ago, I found out that I was offered a Fulbright grant. As I continue to prepare for my experience, and as I initiate my project, I see fit for a space to empty my thoughts, and to compose my ideas. So, it is in this "space" that I hope to create plans, delineate my findings, and expose and trouble (a most-Butler-esque verb) my desire to label and categorize everything I encounter.


My Proposal

Public Space, Murals and Community Building in Yogyakarta, Indonesia

Armed with paint brushes and a mission, students and community members mobilized in north Yogyakarta, Indonesia on August 30, 2008, to raise awareness about environmental issues by painting murals on the walls surrounding an elementary school. Mural competitions and political public art projects are increasingly common in the city, yet the walls of Yogyakarta were not always sites of artistic exploration and public debate. Censorship had developed from a component of Indonesia’s Guided Democracy into an omnipresent control system in the 1990’s (Lindsay 2008). The shift in national leadership away from the New Order in 1998 established a new leniency in public expression, as is exemplified symbolically with the removal of a government media censorship apparatus – the licenses required for media. This action directly affected traditional media, including television and print journalism, and extended symbolically into public expression written across bodies and surfaces constituting towns and cities. Although government permission to initiate a public mural project is still required from PEMDA, or the Pemerinta Daerah (“Regional Government”), the removal of the media censorship apparatus signaled a new potential for public discourse and debate. With the realization that public space was increasingly open to free speech, the mural as a tool for expression spread throughout Yogyakarta, popularized largely by the arts collective Apotik Komik (“Comic Pharmacy”).

Discussion of the recent history of mural-painting and censorship often follows a narrative of two forces: the government elite as the repressive body and the rakyat (the “people”) as the expressive body. Yet, as art historian Jennifer Lindsay writes in Inside Indonesia, the Indonesian government was never monolithic, with its “…maze of interlocking power structures that could be played off against each other”(2008). Beyond the complexity of the government’s power structures, the dualist approach to the history of murals in the city is further inadequate when considering the various forces – collaborative, competitive, and non-participatory – that come into play on a local level. The creators of the murals are not members of a monolithic rakyat, but, rather they include artists (both formally and informally trained), students, and individuals from all career and age groups. The creators represent diverse institutions, communities, and political beliefs, and they experience varying degrees of opportunity and privilege. Their projects are initiated and funded independently, by non-profit organizations, by the government, and by businesses and corporations. The variety of artists, institutions, and concepts leads to competition for space and materials, and divergent conceptualizations of public space itself.

Approaching the murals of Yogyakarta as a student of art and anthropology, my research is guided by three main questions. First, I ask whether the alleviation of oppression has a causal relationship to expression. Government censorship is often attributed with oppressing individual expression; an analysis of the current institutional involvement in mural production can challenge this reductive attribution with a thorough portrayal of social and economic forms of censorship. To extend my initial question of institutional oppression, my second question targets the relationship of institutional politics to aesthetics. Murals have been popularized within urban planning as a tool for counteracting graffiti, and the two are increasingly differentiated by their aesthetic. I hope to understand whether the emphasis on beautification depoliticizes the presence and the subject matter of murals. Lastly, by analyzing murals as a form of public art, I bring attention to two publics – the public as a space and the public as a group of people. I question whether the public nature of the project reinforces a democratic imperative of majority participation and discussion, or whether the passion of the individual artist overrides the concern and perspectives of the surrounding community. The three questions merge in my concern for the relationship of the power of an individual to the power of institutions.

With its dense concentration of universities and galleries, and its national reputation for the arts, the city of Yogyakarta, Indonesia is a distinctive site in for the study of public art. Students of urban planning in the city’s Gadjah Mada University, Ikaputra and Dyah Titisari write in 2005 that, as of that year, over 100 murals existed in the city. To best address the artistic and sociological components of this project, I have arranged affiliation with two institutions: the Center for History and Political Ethics (Pusat Sejarah dan Etika Politik, or PUSdEP) at Sanata Dharma University, in the north of the city and the Art Institute of Indonesia (Institut Seni Indonesia Yogyakarta, or ISI Jogja) to the south. At PUSdEP, I will have resources to strengthen my understanding of censorship and public expression through the political shift of 1998 to the present. At ISI Jogja, I will benefit from the support and experiences of various faculty members, including Nano Warsono – a former member of Apotik Komik.

Tracing the streets from ISI Jogja up through Sanata Dharma University, my methodology includes three main points of departure: formal interviews, informal discussions, and participant observation. To further specify the geographic constraints of my project in Yogyakarta, I rely on the locations of existing and future murals as my fieldwork sites, and I will arrange interviews and develop discussions with two groups of people: those who are active in the creation of murals, and those who live alongside of the murals. Through these discussions and interviews, I will gather information to map out the actors, networks, and institutions involved in the creation of the city’s murals. Additionally, to extend my understanding of participation in public art, I will gather responses to the murals, including the perceived ways they alter a space, a neighborhood, or a community.

To enhance my perspective on the function of murals in Yogyakarta, I will take advantage of opportunities to participate in the conceptualization and creation of murals in the city. This will provide a site for recording both my own experiences and the experiential narratives of those individuals with whom I am working. The addition of participant observation to my methodology is intended to develop my own perspective on the life of murals, in addition to the narratives that I will be gathering from the various local perspectives. My multifocal methodology will provide a thorough understanding of public art from a blank wall through the fruition of a concept into a mural that might inspire admiration, frustration, apathy, and even public dialogue.

This project is an attempt to map and understand the intricacies of mural projects in Yogyakarta in conjunction with a re-evaluation of the concepts of public space and urban democracy. If there is an accessible analysis of how the political nature of murals is neutralized in the framework of aesthetics, future members of the “public” can establish more effective modes of public expression; their art can be seen, understood, and questioned as a form of social or political critique, rather than stripped of its message for the sake of beauty. Additionally, in a post-New Order Yogyakarta, where public expression is growing and shifting to include new communities and mediums, it is important to consider who continues to be excluded from public space, whose voices continue to be censored, and how the presence of hierarchies and exclusion temper a universal term like “public”. It is with these concerns, and the questions that support them, that I ask for the support of the Fulbright Program in my pursuit of their answers.