Hello Yogya!

Time is Flying -- Expectations are Rising

2010-06-01T15:37:00.000+07:00

Today is the first of June, and I've now been living in Yogya for well over seven months. I've become increasingly aware of how little time I have left in my grant, and the next two and a half months.

While my research remains scattered, I have to salvage it with diligence over the next few weeks. I've been invited to present a paper at the first International Conference on Civic Space to be hosted by the University of Indonesia and the University of British Columbia. It will be held from August 3-5 on the campus of the University of Indonesia in Jakarta, and the conference's theme is "Space, Culture and Power: Identity and Civility in the Post Authoritarian Urban Asia". I submitted an abstract based on my research, which I titled "Re-Inscribing the City: Public Art, Graffiti and Urban Subjectivity in Yogyakarta", so now I have a three week deadline to convert that abstract into an articulate, meaningful paper.

In addition to drafting my conference paper, I have agreed to contribute a chapter to a book project that my sponsor, Romo Baskara, has arranged with a local publishing house.

And I've starting working on a third paper relating to consumerism, iconography and violence. It will be a meditation on two troubling occurrences which are seemingly disconnected -- the intense debate over visual representations of the prophet Mohammad and an increase in depictions of Adolf Hitler on t-shirts -- but which I analyze in the context of Yogyakarta's "Copy Culture", relating to issues of copy write, replication, iconography and the social/psychological value of images. It is kind of messy, but hopefully I can rope it in and discipline my ideas into something worthwhile, which I would then like to share at IVAA, the Indonesian Visual Art Archives.

Ideally, I will be able to complete each of these three pieces in a satisfactory manner before I leave Indonesia. These are my current goals.

Kalimantan Trip: Derawan middle

2010-05-31T19:14:00.004+07:00

Our first evening on Pulau Derawan had already captivated us, from its tiny size (appearing as a dollop of palm trees floating above turquoise water) to its crisp, three lane town and abundance of sea creatures which are disappearing from the rest of Indonesia's coastlines.

Wandering in search of nesting turtles in the moonlight, we were given a peak at the extensive, winding sandbars leading out from Derawan, sinking and rising to form tiny, islands exposed only during low tide. I was excited to explore the sandbars, so after breakfast on our first full day, Megan and I crawled along the beach towards the sandbar hook extending out into the sea.

During high tide, the sand in the foreground is underwater all the way up to the sinking cement strip, which appeared to be an old helipad destabilized by erosion. The night prior, we watched the turtle lay eggs just 30 meters to the right of the red-roofed building in the photo.

Winding out along the sandbar, we encountered giant, colorful, spitting clams with creepy mouths and amazing aim, starfish of varying colors and sizes, schools of tiny, flesh-nibbling fish, and even the odd anemone housing black and orange clownfish.

Eventually, about a half-mile from the island, the end of the sandbar grew near.

Looking back, the island seemed separate from us by the watery horizon, even though we still had plenty of time left with the tides.

Peneliti Tamu

2010-05-28T19:01:00.000+07:00

While searching for the mailing address of my sponsor institution, I stumbled upon my photograph and inclusion on the list of Staff as a Visiting Researcher: http://www.pusdep.usd.ac.id/en/staf.php
They do a good job of trying to professionalize me.

I would identify more as a common guest/coffee drinker/wifi borrower/gossiper.

So, ever since the shift to Dry Season, its been raining every afternoon from 3PM onwards. Dry?? Come on!? I demand the old, distinct seasons back!

I've included a few random photographs taken along the street in Yogya -- the top show's the street running along Pasar Beringharjo, Jogja's central market. Below, there is a random painting and a portrait of a becak/rickshaw driver with whom I had a brief conversation about getting married to and having babies with a woman from Yogyakarta. When I made it clear that I'm not interested in either of those things, he decided that we should focus our time and energy on creating a portrait.

Last night, I saw Green Zone. It was difficult to watch, and particularly upsetting to watch amongst an Islamic-majority audience. Indonesians have a particularly difficult time applying for visas to travel to the US, and although many people have a positive outlook on the future of US-Indonesian relations (largely due to the election of Obama, or Mas Barry as they know him), there remains a deep skepticism about the level of tolerance towards Muslims in the US. The complexity of the US military intervention peaks when a US military officer successfully protects a controversial Iraqi General from assassination by fellow US militia, only to see the General murdered by a fellow Iraqi whom the US officer had recruited to be his interpreter. In response to the look of shock on the US officer's face, the interpreter explains, "You shouldn't even be here, these are not your decisions to make" (or something to that effect).

So, while the film emphasizes the enormous mess the US military made in Iraq, the film suggests that, with or without US intervention, Iraq would have been a mess. The US may have just made it messier and killed people faster and to a greater degree.

Hopefully the environment-compromising move to open oil-drilling along our coastlines will help us avoid more stupid actions in the Middle East in the future.

And I'm just hoping that Green Zone doesn't amp-up anti-American sentiment amongst the less-critical viewing population in Indonesia, who could easily take the film as an indictment of all US citizens.
At least for a while, it was getting easy to be an American living abroad...

Rasa Extreme, or the troubling of Bhinneka Tunggal Ika

2010-05-25T15:43:00.000+07:00

In typical scattered fashion, a loose union of places, times, driving routes, and should-be-sent-text-messages orbited my brain as I collected Lolly and puttered out into the crisp Yogya evening (Still hot and a little humid, and definitely not crisp in comparison with a Fall night in Pennsylvania, but crisp for Yogya standards). With a line-up of gallery openings and public theater, I did not imagine that I would have my first run-in with religious fundamentalists.

Opting to start at the opening of the somewhat controversially-titled "Re:Horny95", an exhibition of current big names in Jogja's art scene, at the Jogja National Museum, Lolly and I wandered around the southwestern section of the city. Without an address for the museum, I relied on my memory of previous visits. The magnetic coordinates in my wrists guided us straight to the museum, with a necessary stop by a bakpia bakery. We arrived early and sat for a few minutes on the back of the motorbike, eating the sweet, dense, buttery biscuit/cookies. After a quick run-through of the exhibit allowed by an errant security guard, we were escorted back outside, and while waiting for the actual event to open, I received a series of text messages from a friend who coordinated our next intended destination.

She was upset because her event had been wrecked and disassembled by a group of haughty, slow-moving police. Having coordinated a series of plays and songs as the end of a week of anti-homophobia activism, she had gathered a series of pro-LGBT communities in the Alun-Alun kidul -- the southern public park of the city. Upon arriving, they were greeted by an aggressive group of men dressed entirely in white, with their heads masked by black and white keffiyehs. Although the only people aware of the planned events were the local police, someone had alerted the Front Pembela Islam, and a group from the FPI arrived to disrupt the events.

Worried about the safety of the participants, she asked if Lolly and I could drive around the park and determine whether the FPI group was still there. Tracing the square road bordering the park, we came to face the gathering of rowdy men in the southeastern corner. Lolly snapped a quick, blurry photo (see above), and we drove off to find our friend, her community of lesbians, and members of the various pluralist/anti-homophia communities in Jogja.

The FPI, or Islamic Defender Front, is a fundamentalist group which employs violence to deconstruct businesses, communities and events that are considered to be anti-Islamic. Within the last two months, they effectively shut down two other events. They surrounded a hotel in Surabaya and threatened the lives of the participants of a conference for the International Gay and Lesbian Conference, causing the local Police to revoke the permission they had previously provided to the conference organizers. Following this, they attacked a community training of warias (a male-to-female transgendered figure common throughout Indonesia). They forcibly entered the room, threw chairs and bottles at the participants, and wounded many of the warias.

A trend is developing. Members of the FPI are intimidating and attacking people while the police and military watch. And although the national motto is Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, or Unity in Diversity, the police and military seem satisfied to remain spectators as the unity of one portion of the population is enhanced through the forcing of others to the margins. It is difficult not to implicate the police and military in the increasingly structural violence against LGBT-idenified individuals, Christians, Ethnic Chinese, and anyone deemed too liberal. Is it getting easier to be cast as "anti-Islamic"? It is certainly easy enough for members of the FPI to intimidate and use violence -- intimidation and violence which is seemingly validated by the lack of legal repercussion from the State.

Shaken up by the aggressive and somehow ghostly presence of the FPI in the carnival-like setting of the alun-alun, Lolly and I sat with the community members in a restaurant not far off. With unease, we chatted, as if to create a new purpose for gathering -- we weren't displaced from the park, but had gathered instead to hang out and socialize. And while it was nice to chat with new individuals from various communities, I couldn't help but share in the disappointment that so much preparation and energy could be denied its deserved outlet.

The night served as a reminder that while Yogya feels like a bohemian city with space for everyone from any kind of background, its openness also allows for the existence of (often invisible) of hard-headed, narrow-minded groups riding on Fundamentalism's moral high-ground.

Kalimantan Trip: The Derawan Islands

2010-05-19T01:43:00.000+07:00

We climbed into the tiny speedboat and puttered off towards slightly-more-than-sandbar islands. Our ride lasted about 45 minutes, and we cruised along the beach, looking at each of the hotels built out on piers over the water. The driver quickly maneuvered us along the dock of our hotel of choice, and we climbed up, tossed our bags into a room, and settled into deep relaxation.

After catching our breath, Megan and I wandered around the island -- literally. The island is tiny and requires about 30 minutes to circumnavigate.

Because of our curiousity, the sun began to set as we curved around back towards our hotel. Each time we ventured out along a pier, we encountered numerous sea turtles drifting along, gracefully searching for evening snacks.

Back at the hotel, we sat down with the other guests to eat dinner, and Jeanette, a frisky and elderly French woman, introduced us to the local employee of the World Wildlife Foundation. Yusef's job is to monitor the nests of sea turtles, and to relocate the eggs to a secured area where the eggs can incubate without the risk of being dug up and cooked. Apparently turtle eggs are quite tastey.

The full moon guaranteed that eggs would be laid, and we set out with flashlights, following Yusef to the popular parts of the beach for egg-laying. Eventually, we heard the scraping and huffing of a digging turtle.
She panted and groaned as she whipped sand out of the way with her flippers, eventually filling back over the hole after depositing about 50 eggs. She seemed to collapse, her head and fins laying lifeless on the sand. With a raspy gasp, she lifted her head and began her painful, syncopated scramble back towards the sea.
We followed her, mesmerized by her size and movements, each of us willing her closer to the water. When the tide finally lapped up over her fins, we all breathed a sigh of relief, and watched her sway out into the waves.

After following Yusef to re-bury the eggs in a safe location, we wandered back to the hotel along the beach, lit up by the moonlight. Maybe it was the warm breeze, but it was hard to control the shivers traveling down my spine as I tried to record every second of my visit to the island in my mind.

Kalimantan Trip: To the islands

2010-05-06T13:27:00.000+07:00

When our friend and fellow researcher, Desmond, told us about his research plans in Samarinda, a city on the East coast of Kalimantan (Indonesia's claim on Borneo, representing roughly the Southern two-thirds of the giant island shared with Malaysia and Brunei), he suggested that Megan and I arrive and travel with him. Inspired to visit the island to the north of our home on Java, we discussed the geography and decided on thee main points of interest: the Derawan Islands, Banjarmasin, and Tanjung Puting National Park. Due to Samarinda's proximity to these sites, we purchased airfare to fly from Yogya to Balikpapan, the largest city on the East coast, and then for a smaller flight from Balikpapan to Berau, the airport closest to the islands. On Monday, the 26th, we boarded our Sriwijaya Airlines flight and landed in Balikpapan, where we wandered around until we found a hotel with a suitable price-quality ratio. Desmond contacted us to let us know that he was asked to give a presentation and wouldn't be able to join us, so it would just be the two of us on the trip.

After an uneventful night along the city's waterfront, we boarded our first KalStar flight -- a small airline flying propeller planes between cities in Kalimantan.

The flight was pleasant, and after arriving in Berau, we found a ride in a car traveling to Tanjung Batu, the small port where boats leave for the Derawan Islands. It was a relatively smooth trip from Plane to 4x4 vehicle to boat, and before we knew it, we were cruising towards the small chain of islands that are famous for sea turtles, a rare lake full of sting-less jellyfish, and manta rays.

Paintings and a visitor

2010-04-23T09:52:00.000+07:00

Here are some pictures of the paintings which I bought a couple of weeks ago:

I bought the freaky rabbit one directly above the window (it is green, yellow and red), and the small, rectangular one on the bottom left side.

I got the blue one with the reference to the Cure ("Boys Don't Cry"), but it says "Boys Don't Pray", a statement about gender and religiousity in Indonesia.

And here is a blurry close-up of the small rectangular painting from the first photograph.

And this is the freaky giant, jumping spider that was in my room.

Jakarta-Bandung-Yogya-Kalimantan-Bali-Yogyaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

2010-04-22T20:03:00.000+07:00

Last friday, I went to Jakarta to see Peaches, a crazy Canadian singer, perform, and I visited with Megan (the other Fulbright researcher based in Yogya) and Desmond (a Fulbright researcher based in Jakarta). I stayed in Desmond's swanky apartment in downtown Jakarta, and Megan has been staying with her friend Yuyun in the same apartment complex, in the adjoining tower. I headed straight from the airport to meet Megan in Jakarta's classiest mall, where we drank coffee and browsed designer clothes which cost more than our 10 month research grant. After dropping our stuff at the apartments and cleaning up, we grabbed dinner at a pancake restaurant in FX Lifestyle Center, an absurd mall with bars, lounges, a few shops, and a 10 story slide in the middle. It turned out that a receipt for a purchase of 50,000 rupiah (about 5 bucks) gets you a free ride on the slide, and our combined dinner cost just enough for Megan, Desmond, Yuyun (who met us at the resto) and me to ride for "free". Of course, we didn't figure this out right away, and had to descend back to the ground floor to ask the restaurant staff for a copy of our receipt.

The slide, which kids fly down every few minutes, terrified me. Helmet and safety jacket strapped on, I plummeted to the bottom, where I was greeted by a series of flashes. The whole thing is photo documented, and we had a few group shots taken to memorialize our infantilizing traumatic experience.

Afterwards, we went to Indochine, the giant club complex at the top to linger with Jakarta's avant-garde hipster kids -- metallic bat-wing ponchos, black tights, black framed glasses, mini-bubble dresses, and asymetrical bowl-cuts abounded. Peaches appeared in a giant fur-suit, which she quickly shed for raunchy outifts to match her obscene lyrics. There is an amazing novelty seeing Peaches perform songs like "f*** the pain away", while wearing a leotard with a light glowing in her crotch, in a country home to the world's largest Muslim population. Was I worried about police shutting it down, or Islamic extremists attacking the venue? Mildly. But it was refreshing to see these crazy, funky hipster kids go wild.

The next day involved a few galleries and malls, and early Sunday morning (10AM, haha, sigh), I set off to the train station to ride to Bandung, Java's style capital. I will try to write a little about it later.

I got back to Yogya on Tuesday, and Megan and I gathered to plan a trip to Kalimantan (the southern 2/3rds of Borneo which are Indonesian territory -- the northern 1/3rd is split by Malaysia and Brunei). Desmond alerted us in Jakarta to a research trip he is taking to the east coast of the island, and asked if we would want to meet him there for some traveling once he finished his research.

So, on Monday, Megan and I fly to Balikpapan, where we will catch a propeller plane to Berau, a bus to some boondock coastal town, and a boat to the Derawan Islands. After a couple of days, we will travel back to Balikpapan, where Megan and I will get a plane to fly down to Banjarmasin on the southern coast. From there, we'll fly on a prop plane to Pangkan Bun to hire a boat to go into the jungle. I'm torn about this segment -- a few-day boat ride into the jungle so that we can see orangutans will involve wayyyy toooo much wildlife for me: crocodiles, leopards, pythons, and all things evil/dangerous. Megan seems confident, and I know that I'll appreciate the experience. Once we are back in Banjarmasin, we will check out the city before flying back to Yogya, where will get clean clothes, and then go to Bali for a week for a Fulbright event.
The next few weeks will be crazy.
Deep breathes.

Down the hole...

2010-04-19T23:16:00.001+07:00

As I sat on the stiff seat, tense springs pressing against my body, I struggled to keep the pages of the weekend Jakarta Globe stiff against the shaking and vibrations of the old train. I was heading east on my way from Jakarta to Bandung, a city in West Java, and given some extra time in Gambir Station due to a delay in the train, I picked up a copy of the newspaper to avoid explicitly productive reading. It was my first time on the Parahyangan line -- the budget line between Jakarta and Bandung, and as I began to process the length of the journey (the mountainous terrain and the track's dangerous curves require the train to crawl for most of the trip), I wondered who takes this train?

Answering my question, an article on page two of the newspaper explains: very few people. The line is a big loser for Indonesia's train company, and to cut their losses, the company is cutting the Parahayangan line just two weeks after my trip. Sure, the seats are awful and the pace is mind-numbing. But as we crawled through the mountains, crossing numerous towering railway bridges (I try not to think about their stability), the windows of the train look out over West Java's most beautiful landscapes. Physics-defying, terraced rice paddies are wedged in steep valleys, and volcanoes bite down on the horizon like Java's sharp, black teeth. I didn't even try to take a picture through the age-worn plexiglass windows, but did snap a shot of the rocks beneath the train made visible in the hole of the toilet.

Cafe_Street_Cafe

2010-04-10T15:13:00.000+07:00

Grabbing a table and settling into the hard, weathered, geometric-wooden seat, I scanned the room while restlessly opening and closing the menu. Lolly and I had arrived at the cafe early enough to catch the DJ's warming up for their scheduled hiphop performance necessitated by the street art exhibit opening in the cafe that night. It seems as though you cannot have a gallery opening without the complete package of food, jesters and fireworks -- live musical acts are the standard at gallery openings in Yogya. Openings also offer free catalogues, posters, stickers or even odd plastic trinkets. Thus, an early arrival guarantees the best selection of loot. Lolly and I scanned the room, registering the usual European backpacker clients, common opening snacks of crispy cassava chips and glutinous rice cakes, cluster of baggy-clothes-clad hip hop kids, and recognizable LoveHateLove paintings filling the walls.

For the show, LoveHateLove, the most prolific graffiti artist in Yogya, turned his spray and brushes to mobile, salable surfaces and filled the walls of ViaVia with pieces to make some income. Graffiti, Murals, or vandalism -- whatever you prefer to call it -- doesn't usually lead to income, so an artist/vandal cannot continue without some source for money and supplies. ViaVia, an institution in Yogya that is part of a larger chain of Belgian "traveler cafes", has long supported "alternative artists", so it was no surprise to hear that they would host LoveHateLove and a crew of hiphop musicians.

So, as I considered ordering something from the cafe menu, I also scanned the walls, wondering whether one of LHL's paintings would be my loot for the night. We noticed Boy, the curator/organizor of the event, who confirmed that all of the paintings were for sale and that the numbers joining each piece was in fact the cost in Indonesian Rupiahs and not US Dollars. Stimulated by the low costs and lack of buyers, Lolly and I scanned the rooms for our favorite works and informed Boy that we wanted to purchase them. Once the red-dots were permanent, I stepped back to re-evaluate the $80 worth of paintings which will have a new home in my boarding house. Perhaps I went a little overboard by purchasing three canvases. There were two random paintings which I wanted to buy together as a set -- one with the face of a young man with four eyes, with the text "Boys Don't Pray", and one with a rabbit with the same four eyes, reading "Going to Logos". The third is a smaller piece with some printed-images pasted on, which in combination with paint create an intense, energetic composition.

It was a strange experience to purchase paintings, which I associate with wealthy individuals and either a kind of investor-consciousness or a romanticism for a kind of aesthetic purity. My motives were completely selfish in buying the paintings -- they are awesome keepsakes to remind me of Yogya's streetscape, a material link to the past. But if I'm not a collector of Indonesian art, how does this transaction reflect on my identity in Yogya's artist communities? My funds for art are limited, and I make no promises about a safe or accessible storage facility -- in my possession, art will have a limited lifespan.

More details and maybe even some images will come soon! I'm still re-adjusting to the new digital environment of my back-amongst-the-living laptop with its new version of Windows. I'm still something of a tourist in Windows 7, having yet to accept that it might be permanent on my computer, and that I might just settle down with it, living a Windows 7 expatriate life.

fizzle pop

2010-03-22T15:00:00.000+07:00

this week, I'm trying to take it easy and pick up the pieces of my life here in Yogya. Starting just over two weeks ago, I developed a messy ear infection, and then Windows died on my computer, rendering me deaf and laptop-less. Thankfully, the kind folks at Computa helped scavange all of my important image and text files.

I was in Manila for a mid-term Fulbright Southeast Asia researchers conference from Wednesday night, the 17th, through Saturday morning, the 20th. I was feeling exhausted and overwhelmed about preparing a presentation without a computer or access to my digital files with weird pressure and pulsing noises in the right hemisphere of my head. My presentation went fine -- it was a bit scattered, but I was able to open my flashdisk on a friend's laptop and arrange some images to take attention away from my circuitous and confusing language.

The three days were filled by the conference and an absurd amount of eating at Heat, the hedonist restaurant in the hotel.

I wish I had more time to see some of Manila, but I am thankful that the trip at least inspired some interest within me.

Day trip and juicy ear

2010-03-04T14:15:00.000+07:00

I've been living in haze for the past few days, as the right side of my head feels swollen with an ear infection. It isn't visibly noticeable, but the pulsing, fuzzy pressure in the right hemisphere has off-set my balance and compromised my already-troubled hearing, so understanding a foreign language has become doubly-challenging.
Thankfully, I brought medicated ear drops with me, so I've already started the juicy, humbling, healing process.

In other news, I received notification from Irvine's anthropology department that I've been admitted with five years of funding: a combination of a tuition fellowship and a teaching-assistantship to cover my stipend and health insurance. YES. Health insurance! It is an amazing privilege to have the opportunity to continue my studies with the guarantee of health care.

Additionally, on Sunday, I joined some of my peers and my sponsor on a trip to visit my sponsor's family in the rural northeastern part of Central Java -- a town called Purwodadi.
It included a stop at a bizarre, belching mud pit. wooo.

Spin, Bule, Spin!

2010-02-27T18:09:00.002+07:00

On Thursday night, caughing, wheezing, and crawling on tippy-toes through jammed traffic-lines towards the beams of light and the peak density of Jogya's gathered people, we sought one final sip of the night fair. The month long fair, often described as an event for the rakyat -- the people, as a bottom-up category that often insinuates the prioritized perspective and experiences of the lower classes -- came to an end on the Javanese holiday which took place on Saturday. The final few days offered free admission, so crowds amplified, vibrating and overflowing from the giant alun-alun (public square) out through the streets and walkways. The lively crowds were an aspiring politician's dream and a public health figure's epidemiological nightmare.

Lolly, Megan and I sunk into the current of bodies and flowed through the fair, gawking at snacks and objects for sale. We settled on ice-cream and donuts, and as we passed a shallow, dark pool of water with giant clear beach balls, I stopped. They looked like inflatable, human-sized gerbill-balls. A childhood filled with 80's and 90's American television provided enough American Gladiators viewings to plant the seeds for a particular dream: I would rise up like Nitro, Lazer and Viper to plow my way through a gauntlet in the trappings of bubble. And while theirs were cast out of metal and padding, I was offered a soft, floating, plastic version.

The ride was dark, lacked participants, and had the manager seemed listless. Pushed forth by my Gladiator-ambitions, I asked the manager if the ride was still open, and his slow nod confirmed that I would have my cake. I paid the dollar entrance fee, he tugged on a rope, reeling in a large, clear orb. Standing awkward and unsure on the platform above the pool, I watched as he unzipped the ball, releasing all of the air, and motioned me to climb in. I folded my body up and wriggled into a situation which seemed too close to the "child's head in a plastic grocery bag" scenarios that haunted parents in the '90's.

Refilled with air, I tumbled around inside, coating myself with grit as I thrashed and bounced. The space seemed to light up, and people gathered to watch and laugh.

Graffiti

2010-02-24T10:30:00.000+07:00

How to Raise a Voice: A Metonymic Approach to the Private/Public Dualism

2010-02-23T11:20:00.001+07:00

Twee screams of children echoed throughout the locker room, and after the pain in my ears calmed, I traced the intensity to the shower stall next to the one which I occupied. The screaming continued, gaining layers and volume as the father contributed complementary chords. It shocked me that rather than creating a “teachable moment” by explaining the difference between “indoor” and “outdoor” voices, the father seemed to revel in the play of testing out the strength of one’s voice. Had he no shame, awareness, sympathy, or concern for humankind?

The experience -- showering in silence while accosted by the radical, aural experiments of my neighbors – inspired me to think back to my youth. If it was not a teachable moment for my neighbor, rather than begging for mercy, I decided to re-evaluate my own perception of socially-appropriate noise levels.

I wasn’t the quietest child, nor was I apprehensive about speaking to strangers. Yet, the flustered responses of my parents and random temporary guardians imbued in me the value that public spaces are shared spaces, and it is disrespectful to those with whom we share the space if our voices compromise the peacefulness of the space. So while I might not always withhold my passive-aggressive judgements of strangers' behaviors, I voice my expressions is a manner where at least the volume can be described as unoffensive.

Remaining silent, I began to think further about the experience of growing up in a household often filled with silence. We were never one of those fabled singing families, and as I accepted the silence, growing to appreciate prolonged moments of silence, I've struggled internally to negotiate my love of conversation and shared social analysis with my discomfort at breaking silences. While listening to the child scream proudly from the stall next to me, and his father seem to encourage his child's voice, I wondered whether my discomfort with speaking out and singing is due in part to something inherited from my family and community. We are not afraid to speak out about our social concerns, but, perhaps, we also do not find comfort or joy in the sound of our own voices. My talkativeness is symptomatic of my curiosity, but it has never filled the vast space of my family's home.

Having grown up in a house that provided private spaces for each member of the family, my comfort with silence is bolstered by my appreciation of personal space. We often moved through the house quietly, crossing each other's paths. Here, as soon as I drive into the entrance of the boarding house, the children who live at the front shout my name, "Om Colin!" (or Uncle Colin), and the guys hanging out by their rooms ask where I am coming from and what I am doing. They ask out of politeness, and the polite chit-chat has a way of affirming our concern for each other. Already comfortable with the continuous conversation, they lean in the open doorways of the rooms as they relax, while I quickly shut my door and soak up the silence and stillness. Despite my immersion here, the closeness and intensity of noisy bodies continues to challenge me.

Indonesia's quickly growing middle class is providing more spacious, private, family homes, where children and parents are experiencing new kinds of silence in urban spaces. But traditionally, children are raised without much -- if any -- private space. They are always with at least one adult or a pack of peers, and the presence of such companionship is enhanced by physical affection. Holding hands, draping arms over shoulders, and rubbing arms, backs, and thighs are common ways of expressing friendship and they are carried over into adulthood. It felt odd when an acquaintance massaged my shoulder while inquiring about my experiences in Jogja, and I was initially shocked when a friend grabbed my thigh to get my attention while listening to live jazz and drinking beer with a group of friends.

In contrast to my expectations for privacy and silence, the vast majority of my friends here grew up without privacy or silence and find comfort in physical and sonorous contact. Standing in my stall, in the gym where I usually find respite from the chaos of Yogya's streets, I was reminded that the financially-exclusive gym is still a public space, despite the sense of privacy I derive from the quiet, calm atmosphere. I associate my intolerance of closeness, touching, and noise with the degree of privacy which I was given as a child, and I think there are links between exposure to bodies and noise and the degree to which one is part of a "public". And maybe this is a problem, because I'm suggesting that a public only exists beyond a critical mass -- there must be a certain number or density of people to require a management of shared spaces to a degree where individuals lose privacy and must compensate with tolerance for those around them. A shared enjoyment of voices and physical affection will make life easier when one does not have access to private, personal space, but that does not mean that everyone who lives without privacy is comfortable with constant noise and touching...

As I am confronted increasingly by social inquiries by voices which demonstrate their strength over the constant growl of motorbikes, and unexpected physical affection, the difference between private and public is articulated as being able to escape the contact of others versus tolerating -- or maybe even learning to appreciate -- the contact of others. To me, a public space offers an unlimited possibility of interactions with individuals from every possible background, and I contrast it with private space where I am allowed to be alone and offered as much calmness and stability as my mind will allow. Standing alone inside the shower stall, the screams of the child tore down the four walls around me, re-situating me outside of a private space. Although I wanted to shower, change, and get ready to go back out into the heat, traffic and noise in silence, I challenged myself to tolerate and maybe even enjoy the liveliness and potential chaos of a public space.

Blizzard or Monsoon??

2010-02-17T18:50:00.006+07:00

Once I'm on my motorbike, I have a stubborn momentum which will not be re-routed. As the rain intensified, dropping in what felt like solid sheets, I stayed the course. I had scheduled a meeting with colleagues at the Center for History and Political Ethics, and I won't let the weather control my schedule. If my colleagues were in the same position, they would never have left their home. It is a fact here that the chill and dampness accrues against and within our bodies as we travel through a rainstorm. Thus, the decision to go out is paired with the fate of "catching one's death", a "cold", or "masuk angin" -- the entering wind. When the wind enters one's body, it results in chills, a fever, sniffles, and fatigue. Countless meetings have been cancelled because of rain; nobody wants to risk being vulnerable to that wind. I often feel like the only risk-taking individual with the audacity to challenge the wind.

The ride quickly grew dangerous as the roads filled with water. The backed-up drains burped up brown waste, and water began flowing across the platform on my motorbike where I rest my feet. Anxious about the height of my tailpipe and the rapidly rising floodwaters, I accelerated, sending waves across the street. The water continued to rise as I approached the campus, and the large speed bumps served to slow the current of water as it reached the height of each, eventually spilling over into the next low section of macadam. Dropping off each elongated speed bump felt like diving recklessly from a sandbar into an unknown depth of water.

I made it safely to campus, and 3 hours later, I'm still sitting in the office, listening to the rain.

I can't wait for dry season!

The Afternoon Matinee

2010-02-16T16:29:00.000+07:00

Thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk
bang babangbang bang... babababang bang
pow tchiiii-thunk

Blood pulses quickly from the gunshot wound, and I keep jogging, my feet padding along the path, thunk-thunking. Somehow I keep running, neither towards nor away from the violent scene. The CIA operatives were attempting to disarm some Muslim extremists, and they started shooting right in front of me during my daily run -- on a treadmill at the posh Jogja Plaza hotel.

A major perk of working out in the hotel's gym is the projection screen in the cardio room. Everyday, as I jog, I'm anesthetized by premium American television: HBO, Cinemax, and E -- except when the remote is wrested away and the channel is changed to the local news, which, mimicking Jerry Springer, seems to focus on weird outbreaks of girl-fights in high schools. The American shows and movies are a welcoming respite from Indonesia's slapstick humor, though the quality oscillates, and only on lucky days am I delivered engaging cinema.

I've been fortunate to catch some intense movies, which have provided surprisingly great running-entertainment. Yet, the movies I appreciate aren't universally enjoyed in the gym. It was difficult to watch the violent shooting scenes of No Country For Old Men amongst my fellow cardio-fanatics. I couldn't watch without wondering how the film might be accepted as a representation of life in America, and, thus, if any of the story accurately portrays the experiences of real people. The relatively slow, intense tempo, which for me is oddly similar to certain gamelan music, doesn't seem to be a natural workout stimulant, but I maintained my tight, anxious, neocolonial grasp on the remote control.

Similarly, earlier today, I watched The Kingdom as I jogged. I wasn't familiar with the movie prior to my workout, and was a bit surprised to find an action/drama dealing with terrorism in the Middle East. Indonesia has an active film censorship board, and some strange things get cut out of the viewer's consciousness. I wasn't sure how the portrayal of Islamic fundamentalism-related terrorism would be received in Indonesia. Although the government takes a staunch anti-terrorist stance, usually siding with the US government and military in the "War on Terror", I imagined that an Islamic-majority nation might be concerned with vilifying Islamic conservatism.

Indonesia experiences its own rare expressions of irrational violence, which is quickly rationalized as religious-fundamentalist terrorism. While there are factions of extremist, conservative Muslims in Indonesia, and some may resort to violence, the government -- with its odd, long history of friendly relations with the US -- is often quick to categorize violence as a terrorist act, and to further classify it with the "enemies in the War on Terror".

Now I'm just a kid from the suburbs, so I'm not privy to the same documents as the FBI, CIA and Indonesian Military. I must bow to their exclusive knowledge, and hope that they are portraying things as accurately as possible. In a way, I need to keep the representations created by the government separate from those crafted by Hollywood. As I run on my treadmill watching anonymous Islamic fanatics shoot and bomb Americans -- harbingers of Democracy or Neocolonial-Totalitarian Militia? -- I can focus on the quality of entertainment and stop thinking about the complexities of the society in which I find myself daily.

Killing Them Softly (Part of the "Secrets We Shouldn't Share" series)

2010-02-12T18:28:00.001+07:00

Two dark, hollow eyes stared at me -- well, one open mouth stared at me, and two dark, hollow eyes stared out, one to the east and one to the west. Like the remora to my whale shark, I thought that our symbiosis was simple -- I maintain a relatively soap-free environment in the water basin, and the beta fish eats any foreign matter that falls, jumps or wriggles into my bathing water. But looking around the sharp edges of its hungry mouth into the sorrowful corona of its convex eyes, I realized it needed more out of our relationship -- namely, a more consistent source of food.

I know, it seems so obvious: feed your fish. But I bought this sucker because I had an infestation of larvae in my basin, and when I was told to buy a beta fish, no one told me that it would greedily eat all of the larvae, leaving itself in an isolated, foodless environment. I don't want my fish friend to go hungry, but manufactured fish food does NOT smell good, and there is noooo way that I'm sprinkling a new, chum-scented cologne into my bathwater. My dislike of antiperspirants provides enough of an olfactory challenge in my daily life -- I don't need to also smell like a dingy aquarium shop. And so I watched my fish get skinnier and skinnier, until I could no longer plead innocent obliviousness. Fish? What fish? Skinny? What do you mean? Well, slender, maybe... but, really? Too skinny? I don't know...

Determined to feed my aquatic-friend, and unwilling to purchase and release additional mosquito larvae into my water basin, I've taken up an unsavoury practice:

murder in the form of insecticide.

It is rainy season here, and there are a lot of mosquitoes buzzing around. I'm going to kill some anyway, as I attempt to stop the theft of my blood. Rather than wiping away the remains, I tenderly nudge them with the tip of my finger until they stick, hanging loosely. I walk into the bathroom, careful not to shake loose the corpse, and tap the tip against the meniscus, simultaneously loosing the body onto the surface of the water and sending out the Morse code for "Dinner's Ready". For a moment, I feel like a daring Paleontologist hired to hand-feed goats and sheep to the Velociraptors* in Jurassic Park -- except that I am feeding smashed insects to a scrawny fish in my boarding house bathroom. Rather than resembling a bronzed, rugged scientist, I've developed a pale, nerdy-likeness with Rick Moranis's Seymour from The Little Shop of Horrors -- his doppelganger in an Indonesian alternate universe.

Now, I do have some standards for this process. It is, after all, still my bathwater, and while I may let a fish swim through it, I won't throw just anything into the water. Two laws guide my practice -- the insect body must remain intact, and it must be a dry kill. We've all had that moment where we catch a mosquito during -- or recently after -- a feeding, and the smack of the palm is met with a bloody splat. And while I have accepted that my bathwater might not be so sterile, I can't bring myself to drop a blood-soaked carcass into the water. So the second rule keeps foreign fluids out of the water, and the first minimizes the number of legs and wings floating around in the aftermath of a feeding.

And now for the scariest details: Having watched my fish regain its health through our continued feedings, I am determined to maximize these feedings. Thus, I've softened the impact of my slap against the mosquitoes, hoping to minimize the number that are smashed or that splurt blood. It is with a newfound tenderness that I hunt the mosquitoes across my bedroom, seeing them not as pests or enemies, but as tiny teammates who sacrifice themselves for the health of my fish. Cue the bongos: I've entered my own twisted version of The Lion Kings "Circle of Life", where I encourage mosquitoes to enter my room so that I may kill them softly and feed them to my beta fish, ensuring that he will live on to eat any of their larvae, should any of them survive long enough in my bedroom to reproduce and violate my water basin with their squiggly young.

*Can you believe that the spell-check function disagrees that this is a valid word?

Structural [Dys]functionalism

2010-02-09T13:00:00.000+07:00

{ERROR}
Page unable to load {ERROR}

For a moment, blinking at the screen, frustrated and cloudy-minded, it is as if the maelstrom of ideas and disjointed schedules in my mind escaped through osmosis into the hotspot ether, tempering the quality of my connection to the internet. Webpages will only half-load before failing, or offer up an error message before continuing to load in a plain text version. The less structured my world becomes, the more rigid my body becomes, tensing in its stress response.

Drivers here are often described as passive, since they seem to flow, relaxed, through the streets, seemingly as unconcerned with traffic signs as with schedules. The drift of motorbike traffic undulates, floating in a rapidly shifting current, around cars, horse-carts, rickshaws, and conversationalists who stop their vehicles to practice their skills. Amidst the chaos and pollution, peoples' faces seem placid, if not serene.

To contrast, I sit rigidly on my seat, shoulders tense, gripping the handles of my bike with anxious intensity. I speed not so much to keep my schedule, but to weave my way through the mass as fast as possible. Struggling to get around the clusters of passive motorbikes, puttering down the avenues, my eyes seem to register the same messages typed across their backs: {ERROR} {
ERROR} {EFFICIENCY COLLAPSE}

Only after arriving at my destination, tense, pulse-beating -- with only a marginal sense of success at having navigated my way as efficiently as possible -- that I realize the {ERROR} message is in my mind. I may be driving effectively, ensuring a better schedule and minimizing my participation in what I have seen as chaos, but the stress incurred on my body is my punishment. It is because of my inability to accept the roads as they are and just drive as another passive motorist that I will actually take years off of my life.

I don't have to love erratic internet service and chaotic traffic, but I must at least learn to accept it. If I can stop myself from tensing-up, and learn to relax a little, I can slowly shut down the remnants of my Nationalist, Xenophobic character.
So, no more : "This wouldn't have happened in America", or "In America, it would function this way..."

Up the hill?

2010-02-02T17:36:00.001+07:00

It has proven tenuous, my situation within this training. When Megan mentioned the multifaith workshop on supporting LGBT individuals and people living with HIV/AIDS, I wasn't sure how to feel. I was nervous about the combination of the two communities, and I wanted to make sure that the workshop did not replicate earlier cultural narratives about LGBT as illness, HIV/AIDS as Gay diseases, and HIV/AIDS as death sentences. At Haverford, I was able to take courses on Gender, Queer Movements, Identity and Representation, as well as courses on HIV/AIDS. My experiences in Cape Town increased my awareness of the two topics, so I decided to offer my perspective, and hope that I could contribute something that isn't already over-represented.

The workshop takes place in Kaliurang, a hill resort town nestled on the side of Mt. Merapi, the volcano that puffs away on Yogya's horizon. The workshop consists of six days of lectures and discussions, followed by four days of live-ins where the participants move in and live with LGBT individuals and people living with HIV/AIDS. I am responsible for a series of presentations about gender and queer theory, and I've spent too much of the last week preparing powerpoint presentations (I HATE POWERPOINT). Yesterday, after stopping in the office, I grabbed a change of clothes, my toothbrush, hopped on my motorbike, and drove straight north, going up and up and up and up. The drive is beautiful, exiting the heat, traffic and pollution of Yogya, heading further into forest. Finally, after a grueling hour ride (for my bike! it wasn't so bad for me!), I pulled into the driveway for the Inn and stumbled into a room full of motivated, young activists representing the six government-approved religions (Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Catholicism, Protestantism, and Confucianism).

Coming to the end of the second day, and knowing that I will leave in the morning to head back to my life in Yogya, I'm exhausted yet happy to have met some interesting, engaging individuals. It has been interesting watching them grapple with social-constructionist theories of sex, gender and sexuality, and it will be a relief to return to my research, which feels much calmer in comparison.

time time time

2010-01-29T10:29:00.000+07:00

time for an update. proof that I'm still pitter-pattering around Yogya. I've reached an apex of local responsibilities, and haven't seemed to manage the writing and energy required for these projects in balance with the writing and energy to narrate my experiences to friends and family. I've greatly appreciated the time people have shared in reading my blog, and doubly appreciate any responses. Selfishly, I'm trying to maintain this as my most substantial mode of contact with the people I care about in America, so as to minimize time spent re-writing update email, or mass emails which gather odd response branches in my gmail inbox.
Wah. okay, so in this brief excuse-post, I'm already accumulating some stream-of-consciousness gravity.

final note (before I return later to compose something more thoughtful):
I've been missing:
friends and family!
good beer!
crispy french fries!
falafel
all-you-can-eat vegan dimsum
Philadelphia!
bicycling
farmers markets
costume parties
fromageries (philly cheese heavens!)
spring-summer-fall in the city
transbridge buses from frenchtown to Oli
the Lovin' Oven
local yogurt
philly art

But I still love here:
$1.50 current movies at the super-nice, fancy theater
TEMPE
my motorbike
extensively-intellectual city (academics and students over-run this place)
$1.50 haircuts, including pre- AND post- washes and scalp massages
new friends
workouts with Lolly at the Yogya Plaza gym (including swimming and laying by the pool)
rolling my R's
the Arrrrt Arrrrrchives!
getting paid to do rrrrrresearch!
endless summer and a smoking volcano on the horizon
Milas and everything on their menu!
Conferences and trying to compose abstracts
marrrrtabak telurrrr
yogya art

wow. feeling slightly split-personality right now.

Separation, Re-connection

2010-01-19T08:05:00.000+07:00

It's the last day of an 8 day visit, and we are relaxing in Ubud before my parents fly to Melbourne. We visited a Hindu temple surrounded by monkeys, clutching the cliffs at the Southern tip of the island, and we had drinks surrounded by people in bikinis and speedos at Tommy Suharto's (the son of Indonesia's former military dictator) new development project carved out of those same cliffs. We were harassed by con-men in a dismal Lombok port, and had a run-in with a sea snake. We visited a town flooded with egrets who are considered to be the reincarnation of victims of the mass killings that took place in 1965, and then we had a family spa day. Everything seemed to work out, and we had some great meals and plenty of rest in some snazzy hotels.

It is a privilege to receive the funding and support to live abroad, and it is always interesting to share this experience with my family. I'm sad to see them leave, since there is always more that I want them to see, but it is also time for me to focus on my research.

Resolutions

2010-01-07T23:21:00.001+07:00

No more:
-visiting schools here. I'm done with performing in front of classes and being begged to "be our native [-english speaker]".
-eating an entire, deep-fried martabak telur by myself. eek.
-impulse-buying clothes! ahhhh.
-eating an entire roll of oreos. eek.
-being afraid to put myself first.
-feeling sad when I see curious people staring at me with angry faces.
-speaking English

More:
-photography
-talking to strangers
-speaking Bahasa Indonesia
-Going out when I feel tired and just want to lay in bed.
-eating fruit -- especially jackfruit!!

Jalan Jalan

2010-01-04T00:05:00.000+07:00

In a community where it is polite to ask everyone you meet, even if just passing by, "Where are you going?" or "From where are you coming?", it isn't expected that one actually delineate all of their daily activities. And as a Bule (literally "albino", but in common use it refers to foreigners -- Caucasian foreigners or Japanese in particular) with skin that stands in contrast to the masses, I receive an excessive amount of attention. With this attention comes what feels like an oppressive number of inquisitions about my comings and goings. This polite expression of curiosity and concern begins to feel like surveillance -- especially if one still feels as if he must respond comprehensively to each. One of the earliest and most-practical phrases a person can learn in Bahasa Indonesia is the generic jalan-jalan, which literally translates to "pathway-pathway" and carries the same meaning as "hanging out" with a touch of "wandering". And it is a perfectly acceptable answer with minimal demand for further information. When I first arrived in Indonesia in 2004, I was overwhelmed by the questions, but the words "jalan jalan" seem to escape my mouth before the inquisitor even finishes his "Mau ke mana?" (Where do you want to go?) or "Dari mana?" (From where are you coming?).

While I welcome the phrase as a brisk response, in a city full of students, it takes on the character of a casual, aimless lifestyle. As I meet more contacts for my research, and people ask me what I am doing -- and this time they are really asking -- I want more and more to say something that expresses the opposite of jalan-jalan. I want to say, "I'm being productive", but that isn't really something one can say without explaining how one is productive. And rather than experience the mangling of a foreign language as I attempt to explain that I've been, haha, studying the language, reading important texts that aren't available in the part of the world from which I came, and gathering contacts, I feel the shy, insecure urge to mutter, "oh, jalan-jalan aja" ("oh, just hanging out, here and there").

Tonight, at a book launch for an Australian academic who translated and edited her BA thesis on a "radical", local art collective into an Indonesian text, I bumped into a researcher from PUSdEP, my sponsor institution. He had been a member of the collective, and as someone familiar with the artists, curators, critics and academics present, he was happy to walk around introducing me to everyone. While it was inspiring to meet such interesting, intelligent individuals, I felt a pressure to reciprocate those qualities of character and to exude them while explaining my presence. Yet, as both a critical thinker and a prisoner of humility, my initial desire is to say, "I'm just a kid trying to catch up and figure things out here". Gradually, I'm getting better at quelling my desire to belittle my research and reduce it to an extended jalan-jalan, and I can explain that I'm carrying out extensive literary and ethnographic research on the topic of public art as an attempt to understand how "public space" is created and understood in Yogyakarta, and how it reflects local, complicated, multiple "publics". Even when explaining it in English, it can sound confusing or useless. While people from academic backgrounds in the humanities and social sciences tend to grasp the importance of understanding how a "public" is created in the image of a universalistic ideal, which often overshadows a reality plagued with exploitation and marginalization, I've drawn quite a few blank stares, asking "what is the point?".

At this moment, I cannot adequately delineate the point. My hypothesis is that a number of inequalities exist, latent in the various productions of a "public" in Yogyakarta, and I hope that my analysis will lead to a critical awareness with the use of the term "public" and the potential for greater equality in the creation of public spaces. We will see if my jalan-jalan-ing leads to any of this...

The Spice Route to Cancer City

2009-12-31T09:39:00.000+07:00

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:

a few photographs from North Java

2009-12-29T12:08:00.002+07:00

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

2009-12-29T11:48:00.000+07:00

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.

The Sperm and the Egg[nog]

2009-12-27T19:45:00.002+07:00

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.

sun rain sun

2009-12-22T16:48:00.001+07:00

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.'

a few images

2009-12-19T11:29:00.000+07:00

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

2009-12-19T10:56:00.000+07:00

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.

first day back

2009-12-15T22:54:00.000+07:00

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.

12 days, and, well....

2009-11-25T21:30:00.000+07:00

... 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.

MIA

2009-11-13T23:07:00.001+07:00

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.

They are coming!!

2009-11-10T16:59:00.000+07:00

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.

the bule network

2009-11-07T14:12:00.000+07:00

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.

A Well-Stocked Bathroom, or my new roommate.

2009-11-05T22:44:00.000+07:00

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.

Disciplinary Friction

2009-11-03T11:15:00.000+07:00

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.

New Friends, New Home

2009-11-01T20:20:00.000+07:00

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!

Moving

2009-10-31T10:47:00.000+07:00

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.

tales of progress?

2009-10-27T17:05:00.000+07:00

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.

progress!

2009-10-24T21:26:00.000+07:00

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.

blackout

2009-10-23T21:27:00.000+07:00

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.

Hello Yogya!

2009-10-22T18:50:00.000+07:00

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

2009-10-22T09:42:00.002+07:00

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.

Finally

2009-10-21T20:10:00.000+07:00

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.

Singapore Airport!!

2009-10-17T23:09:00.002+07:00

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.

12 hours!

2009-10-16T06:26:00.001+07:00

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...

Candidates? or Caricatures?

2009-04-15T01:56:00.000+07:00

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. Leo

Jakarta post article

2009-04-15T01:42:00.000+07:00

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

leaving a trail, setting a path

2009-04-12T07:45:00.000+07:00

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

2009-04-12T07:28:00.000+07:00

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.