The Spice Route to Cancer City

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

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

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

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

Wall of Fame:

Cigarette boxes:

President's and VP's Boxes:

a few photographs from North Java

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

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

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

Regression and Repetition

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

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

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

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

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

The Sperm and the Egg[nog]

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

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

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

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

More Flag dancing ensued, and then, just as I thought it was bread time, I saw that we would not escape the 4 hour service until we shook the hands of everyone involved in the service -- all thirty-something individuals.

Haven't they heard of H1N1?! And here I just wanted to get a peak at an Indonesian Christmas service and binge on some Christmas bread. Squeezed in line, I repeated "Selamat Hari Natal" (Merry Christmas) to each and ever person I came to face, and finally, my feet bumped the threshold of the doorway, and my eyes met the darkness of the night sky, and my hands met the contours of the generous box packed with sweet, sweet Christmas bread.

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

Merry Christmas!

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

sun rain sun

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

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

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

a few images

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ouch

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

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

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

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

first day back

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

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

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

12 days, and, well....

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

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

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

MIA

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