Ramadan

For approximately the last 3 weeks, Indonesia (and the rest of the Muslim world) has been partaking in Ramadan. Beginning June 28th and lasting until July 28th, Ramadan is a spiritual experience which forbids individuals of faith from eating during the day. Don’t get me wrong, there is food, and quite a bit of it, but it is eaten at 4am and after 6pm. The rest of the day is spent fasting. From strong willed children to the elderly, everyone but the sick and menstruating, fast. (Note, children are not required to fast, but my six year old host sister has taken it upon herself to prove she too is capable.) Fasting consists of not consuming food, drink, or, most difficult for a majority of men, smoking. During this time, schools, such as mine, have orientation for the new upcoming students and are forced to finish early in the day so as not to risk exhausting both students and teachers. (Fainting among students is still rampant however). Even the federal post offices close by 2pm. You can imagine, that during this time, pace of life can be, occasionally, agonizingly slow.

I am not fasting, but I commend my fellow Volunteers who are. With the slow passing days, it has brought many of us to the brink of boredom, constantly asking ourselves, what should I do today? Take another walk? Watch another movie? Read another whole book? We were told Volunteer’s lives move at a very different pace than in America. And for some this is the most difficult part of service. But after being at permanent site for a month, just beginning to get our bearings, Ramadan began. This has tested our patience and self-ingenuity.

Having been very ill when Ramadan began, I was not back on my feet, and eating, until after a week of fasting had passed. But that time in my sick bed gave me an opportunity to seriously prioritize what endeavors I would undertake once I was recovered. As awful as it was, being out of commission helped me formulate a game plan for Ramadan, and quite possibly, for the future of my service. My plan was put into motion with the unassuming help of my sister.

Thanks to her inspiration and creativity, Liz dared my mom and me to an exercise challenge. At first, it was to provoke the competitive natures in both of us. But it has evolved over the last 2 weeks into a very motivational and empowering family activity. That, in combination with purchasing a bicycle have helped add a feeling of order and structure to my daily life. Biking through my community, it is so clear the joy of seeing a white woman riding a bike brings to people. Children run after me, woman point and giggle, and men ask me twenty questions. It seems to be quite the icebreaker.

Ramadan is a physically and spiritually challenging time for its participants. But ultimately, very rewarding. Six o’clock and the end of fasting is market by the mosque’s call to prayer and a countdown on the television. With the family gathered around the TV and food, we countdown the time together. The number 1 is followed by a communal shout of “Alhamdulillah!!” (Thanks and praise to God). And the feast begins…

Swear-In Speech

On June 2, 2014 the 8th group of Peace Corps Trainees were Sworn-In as official Volunteers in Indonesia. We spent 10 grueling weeks preparing for this momentous event, including language classes, cultural education, and teacher training. But alas, we made it to the finish line of Training and embark on our new adventures as Volunteers serving our respective communities for the next 2 years. A great honor that was only surpassed by being selected by my fellow Trainees and PC Staff to give a speech at the Swear-In ceremony. The following is the speech I gave, which has been translated from Bahasa Indonesian back into English for you to enjoy: 

‘”When I was 15 years old, I had a high school teacher who forever changed my life. This teacher knew the importance of building a relationship in the classroom. He was supportive, encouraging, and inspired us with his passion. In his classroom, our imaginations were sparked and our self-worth flourished.

Victor Hugo was right when he said, “He who opens a school door, closes a prison”. Every day a teacher can change the world. Student by student, they can spark a passion for lifelong learning. If we can build a relationship with our students, the opportunities for their success are endless. Not only inside the classroom, but in life. As we embark on this journey, we recognize that as educators, we are role models to our students and to our community. This is a great honor, and we will lead by example, because every student deserves a champion.

For the last three weeks, I have been teaching at MA Ma’arif, in Batu. The classes are rowdy and the curriculum, at times, overwhelming. But every day, the teachers are there because they believe in their students. My counterpart shared an important piece of teaching advice with me. He said that ‘We are not here to perfect the grammar of our students. Yes, we are English teachers and we will help to improve the language skills in our schools. But more importantly, we are here to inspire the students to WANT to learn. To cultivate a thirst for knowledge and to strive in their own education’. I think these words will ring true for us.

During our time in this great country, there will be experiences that will touch our heart, and some that will break it. No one ever said our assignment would be easy, but we are all capable of the tasks that are ahead of us. We are strong and we will do so much more than just teach English. The people in this room share my passion. I am honored to be among you, and look forward to working with you over the next two years.”

My First Dead Body

In the midafternoon heat we climbed into rickety old angkots and embarked through the city on our first sports outing. Dressed in our adopted teams’ colors, the blue of our clothing complemented the angkots all-green motif. The caravan of bules flew through the streets proudly displaying the “AREMA” team scarf across the windshield, insighting cheers and honks from fellow fans. With only six of us populating the angkot, the ride was spacious, comfortable, and filled with music and laughter. The farther we trekked outside of the city the more isolated the scenery and denser the parade of die-hard soccer fans become.

Unexpectedly, the angkot slowed to a crawl and filed in line to avoid buses parked along the side of the road. As we approached the bottleneck, I spotted what I assumed was the cause of the traffic—the driver of the bus was underneath the vehicle fixing a mechanical problem. A common enough sighting on the road.

We inched closer and a motorcycle became visible laying in the middle of the street. Emma, quickly evaluating the situation, warned us to close our eyes. Steph sat directly across from the open angkot door, oblivious of the situation. With headphones in and music playing, a feeling of chaos ensued as Emma was shouting for Steph not to look at the scene enfolding in front of us.

As we came up upon the rear of the bus, the accident came into full view. Being the person I am, I couldn’t close my eyes. The curiosity, the anticipation, and the doom held onto me tight…

The man had been thrown from his bike and laid to rest under the rear wheel well of a bubblegum pink couch bus. At first, it appeared he had been run over by the enormous machine, but his helmet was still mercifully intact. There he lay in front of me. Ten meters from my safe seat inside the angkot, a soccer fan would never make it to the stadium. His excitement and enthusiasm cut short, his well-worn “AREMA” scarf soaked in his own blood.

This man, did he have a family? Were his friends waiting for him at the stadium? This man, whose name I will never know and whose life story I will never learn, will stay with me forever. When a motorcycle skirts by or an angkot sketches to a halt, his image comes to me. His body laying undisturbed on the road, the bystanders standing around dumbly, making no moves to help. Why didn’t they move him? Why didn’t they cover him? Why did they leave him there to be gawked at?

The only positive, if it can even be called that, is that he was riding alone. Here, it is common to see a family of four or five riding on the same motorcycles, including children and babies. A child’s life may have been spared, but that in no way lessons the blow of this life ending.

 

Please, I beg of you, drive safely!

“Good Woman Cook”

On an evening when my Ibu was out visiting a sick family member in a nearby town, I was left with only my Bapak and younger sister. Clearly my Ibu had bigger responsibilities, so that day, the dinner preparations were left to us. I asked that night, as I had every night before, if I could help. Unlike the uniform “no” I received each night prior, my Bapak pulled me into the kitchen with a wide grin.

He asked:

“In America, you no cook?”

“A little bit… no.”

“In Indonesia, good woman cook. Here you learn to cook.”

That evening we collaborated to create a gastronomical journey, one made up of mysterious ingredients and exotic spices. We made… Ramin noodles. Now, with the ability to wash, clean and cook, I am well on my way to becoming a “good” Indonesian women.

My Bapak: Gym teacher, social, ethical, silly, community leader, English student, politically neutral, overly polite, for the betterment of Indonesia, family man, Javanese, believes everyone is beautiful, strong, anti-corruption, worried father, moral compass, big fish in a small town, Muslim.

“He was a guru in the true sense of the word, its Hindi meaning: a person who not only transfers knowledge but who also is a friend and spirit guide to his student.” –The Rainbow Troops: A Novel

Desa Life

After 6 weeks at training site, I’ve been asked to go into some detail about my daily activities here in East Jawa. Hopefully this gives you a better understanding of my life here in the desa (village).

The breathtaking scenery I see on a daily basis due to walking everywhere.

My villages is called Sumberejo. It is a small community outside the cities of Batu and Malang in East Java, and its biggest attractions are the rose fields. I live with a wonderful host family who have taken me in as their oldest daughter. My family consists of my Bapak (dad), a gym teacher at the local elementary, middle and high schools, my Ibu (mom), Nio, my 16 year old brother and an automotive student, and Vanessa, who is recently turned 11. Both my Bapak and brother speak a little English, and have such a random assortment of vocabulary, I’ll never know what movies they got them from. Both parents have a wicked sense of humor and love to laugh, laugh, laugh. In all, my family has a wonderful character and have made me feel at home since the first day I walked through the door. The daily grind and full schedule of training can start to weigh down on me, but a few minutes spent with my family watching Bollywood films or helping me with my homework can distract me from the outside world. Below I’ve given an example what a typical day would be like for me:

My Ibu and I in our house.

My Bapak and I. He, with the help of other individuals in the community hosted the elections. It’s tradition that the pollsters wear the Madurese dress as well. So essentially, this is where Hollywood got its inspiration for pirate outfits!

After voting on Election Day, the Ibus got a hold of me and dressed me in this, traditional clothing from the island of Madura.

5:30 am wake up, a quick workout in my room, cold mandi (a cold bucket shower in the bathroom). That is if, in fact, I can sleep through the 5am call to prayer.

For breakfast, my usual options are a combination of white rice and fried tempeh accompanied by piping hot sweet tea. (Note: at every meal, at least in my home, there is always one fried food category. Be that rice, chicken, or noodles, Indonesians love their food fried and extra spicy! Thankfully I’ve been able to communicate to my family that I love fruits and vegetables as well, so my meal is usually accompanied by exotic local fruit). Food is made in the morning and set out under a large basket to await the following meals.

7am- 12pm Bahasa Indonesian language class, followed by lunch and a quick break before going to my teacher training class from 1-5pm.

Nights are spent studying and relaxing with my family. It can be hard to make enough time to study while going to cultural events and just having a few minutes of alone, but I find the most rewarding experiences for me come from conversations I’ve had with my host family. They have ranged from religion, politics and corruption, and my family back home. This process usually takes 2 dictionaries, but afterwards I think both parties are both happier and wiser for the conversation.

Here, similar to back home, nights are spent together eating, watching TV and telling stories. Some nights feel like a long continuation of language class, but most nights are very rewarding with all the laughter in the house. But my host family loves an adventure like no other— the term “jalan-jalan” means to go for a walk, to go somewhere, or to travel. My Bapak’s version consists of taking me for a car ride on random outings. They have thus far included a karaoke party, community Wayang performance (traditional Indonesian shadow puppets), and a Ferris wheel ride. I never know where the night will take us, or who we will pick up along the way, but it’ll be a good story!

Charades

My apologies for not writing sooner, as many of you know, I have been without a laptop for the last several weeks. My perfectly functioning American laptop was the unfortunate victim of an overly competitive game of charades. Having had a local friend take a look at it after I was having difficulty with the Indonesian plugs, it was returned to me in perfect working order while I was in language class. I placed it carefully on the floor in front of me, and then anarchy ensued…

One of my class’s favorite games to review our new vocabulary is charades. And let me tell you, acting out obscure words that deal with emotion, or full sentences take on an art form of its own. Being paired with Stephanie, my witty and eccentric friend, I knew we had the competitive edge. She was given a complex sentence (complex in relation to acting skills required), and began her 1 minute performance while I guessed emphatically. Having almost completed the sentence, and with one word left, I leapt with excitement and screamed “AMBIL” (the verb to take)!

Having guessed the wrong word and as a result losing the game, I discovered later my eagerness had landed directly on top of my computer. With a cracked screen leaving it completely nonfunctional, I’ve taken to good ole fashion pencil and paper to collect my favorite stories to share with you. Now, with a big thanks for my good friend Ben, I have a brand new small laptop that will allow me to share my experiences with you in a timelier fashion. But before I forget, thank you so much for everyone who has sent me a card or piece of mail since I’ve been here. Having something tangible to hold in my hand that reminds me of you has been so wonderful! Please, if you have any questions, comments, or want clarification, feel free to comment on the blog or email me at KirbyJLanders@gmail.com. Now comes the time to inundate you with what’s been going on in my neck of the woods…

Saya Sadik: Montezuma’s Revenge

Disclaimer: The contents of this blog post are vulgar, but in a developing region, your health is priceless! Unfortunately, I was sh*t out of luck.

The morning of our move to Batu started without incident. Our 5 days in the comfortable and relatively western-style hotel in Surabaya had come to an end. A 4am wakeup to Morning Prayer and the last serene moments of a “hot” shower, the next part of our adventure began. We loaded our over-stuffed luggage into vans and set off early into the mountains, not knowing how truly unprepared I was physically, emotionally and psychologically for the next phase of my Indonesian life.

Our drive took us from the busy streets of Surabaya in East Java to the volcano-encircled Batu, Malang, where we’ll be in homestays for the next 10 weeks. Our itinerary had us scheduled for a tour at the locally famous UMM (Universitas Muhammadiyah Malang) followed by a welcome speech from a local politician. All was going according to plan entering the highlands: the refreshing temp of the mountains, the lush landscapes, impromptu car renditions of Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Wagon Wheel”… and then Indo gave me a friendly hello. Having lost my breakfast during our bathroom stop (let’s just say, I did not misplace it), the rest of the drive through the back roads of Malang were made bearable simply through mediation, water, and some kickin’ toons on my ipod.

By the time we reached the University, the illness had spread and it took every ounce of energy I had left to stay conscious. Were it not for our Program Manager, Puji, I would still probably be holding back tears between my bouts of vomiting and bowel evacuation. She went above and beyond, acting more as a mother than an administrator when one after another volunteers were dropping like flies with the same illness. At least I had company!

While the physical toll on my body was pretty extreme, the emotional toll of having to meet my Indonesian host family that same day was quite upsetting. During our training in Surabaya, it had been explained at length that Indonesian’s rely heavily on first impressions, far more than Westerners do. We were instructed to look ultra conservative and mimic the habits of our host family until, in a few weeks, we could begin to relax around them and introduce them little by little to our American habits (i.e. wearing t-shirts around the house as women).  After receiving a picture of my host family the night before, I had dreamt and day-dreamed about the cute and smiley teacher who would become my Bapak (father). And this was not the condition I had envisioned.

I was taught a very important phrase that day—one that has rescued me dozens of times since. “Saya sakit”. I am sick.  In such a hospitable and giving culture, kindness and acceptance are displayed through food. If you eat with your family, you will be encouraged to eat more. If you visit a school to shadow the teachers, you will be encouraged to eat at every opportunity. These meals have been prepared specifically for you, and your host finds great joy in watching you eat traditional snacks or locally grown fruit. While I appreciate the gesture, and try to communicate that to my gracious hosts, most meals consist of me saying “no, thank you, I’m sick”. Everyone seems to understand and sends me well wishes, but I’m still sent to bed every night with Tupperware containers filled with peanuts, chips, and a loaf of bread, just in case I get hungry.

Psycologically, my experience using a mandi can only get better from here… For those of you only familiar with a western-style bathroom, “mandi” means shower, and squatty potty. You enter the room barefoot, and your first sensation is the absolute wetness.  The wetter the mandi, the cleaner it is. Water is taken from a large tub-looking container using a small bucket. That bucket is used to either bath yourself in cold water for your twice daily showers, or to splash on your hand to clean yourself after using the squatty. Either way, there’s a lot of water being splashed around and your own hand to wash yourself. Being an amateur, I still haven’t perfected the speed or accuracy Indonesians seem to have, but I’m learning.

It has now been 2 days since my health started improving, and I’m back to loving my language class and increased interactions with my loving host family. I can’t wait to reunite with the rest of my Peace Corps training class in a few days, but till then, may my health stay strong and I satisfy my neighbor’s curiosities of who the new person is in their village, Sumberjo!

Needless to say if you’ve never been deathly ill in a foreign country (which I had not till this special point in time), let me tell you, you’ve never wanted your mom so bad in your life. Barb Landers anyone?! While you might consider “deathly ill” to be an overstatement, until your day (and night) revolves around trying to make it to the mandi and avoiding the phrase “makan-makan” (eat eat!), then I don’t want to hear it. If not for my amazing trainee partners, the PC staff, and my amazing host family, I’d still be laid up in bed wishing for my mom and a toilet. But alas, you adapt and get left behind, and this turned into a a good, yet unfortunate learning experience.

So, just to summarize, I not only pooped my pants in the Peace Corps, I did it the first day of training.

 

Jetting Off

Waking up in a twin bed, in a windowless airport hotel room in Singapore, all I could think was “today’s the day”! In about 30 minutes I’ll be boarding my last flight which will finally deposit me in my future home country of Indonesia. Singapore has been a wonderful way to enjoy the last bits of 1^st world luxury. A beer at lunch to celebrate St. Patty’s Day, browsing the sunflower and butterfly gardens, and enjoying my last American burger, it is the end of an era.

Europeans, North Americans and a various collection of people from all over South East Asia mingle in this airport. Beautiful flight attendance from Malaysian Air chat alongside minimally clothed tourists on their way to or from a beach vacation. It really is the melting pot of Asia. The moment it became real was when we rounded the corner to arrive at our gate, and were confronted with a group of about 40 conservative Indonesian Muslims waiting for the same flight. A glimpse of the culture we hope to learn and integrate into. The two groups sit separately, the young Americans on their phones and computers, trying to get a last minute word home, and the Indonesians quietly conversing and watching us in amusement. We are all modestly dressed in long button-down shirts, and long pants or skirts, but in comparison, I feel exposed. The lack of language and understanding between us leaves us nothing our physical habits and clothing.

 My recent thoughts have been consumed by the original 51 Peace Corps Ghana volunteers, who were embarking into their new lives without Lonely Planet guidebooks, Facebook, or any idea of what they had gotten themselves into. Nowadays we have such a supportive network of returned volunteers who put up with our pestering questions, like “what kind of shoes should I bring?” or “how good will our internet access be?” These things seem incredible trivial in comparison. Armed with just their suitcases and a desire to serve the United States and others, I know no matter how nervous or anxious I feel it is nothing compared with those brave souls. They paved the way for me to sit here barefoot, in my conservative clothing, writing my first blog.

Speaking of having more contact with family and friends back home, I may not have reliable internet for a while, but will try to update the blog and get back to each of you as often as I can (with pictures to follow). I do have a mailing address that I will be using for the first 10 weeks of service. Boxes are expensive on both ends (shipping on the home front and customs for me), but letters and postcards would be wonderful! My address will be: 

Kirby Landers – Peace Corps Indonesia

Gedung Perpustakaan Lt. 1 (Library Building 1st floor)

Kampus III Universitas Muhammadiyah Malang

Jl. Telogomas 246

Post code: 65114

Malang-Jawa Timur

INDONESIA

 

Talk soon,

K