TRISTE

Through the gap between the door and floor

Through the dusty window screen

The sun tap dances across

Heralding the portents of a propitious day

Like the smell and touch of the first page of a new book

A fresh adventure awaits the soul eager to soar

Wasn’t it just yesterday that she blazed through the halls of hallowed learning?

Ready to shape minds

Fine tune thoughts

Heal bruised egos

Fuel self-confidence

Straighten crooked tongues

Mold values

From the fickle mindedness of the Gods and Goddesses of yore

The great battles of Troy

Eerie tapping on window of a lovelorn figure

From under the three planks of the floor of a chamber

Madonna and Rick’s professions of love

Amidst youthful brazenness, arrogance and hauteur

She stoked the fires of erudition with zeal

Wasn’t it yesterday that greetings of happiness were well received?

Candles blown

Wishes and prayers pitched through heaven’s doors

Gifts unwrapped

Feast enjoyed

Songs sang

Shrugging off the night’s heaviness

She turns to honor the sun except she stumbles

Floundering into the abyss of despair

Falling from the warm precipices of joy

Shivering from the icy stroke of loneliness

Running the length of her spine

There’s much to celebrate that she knows

Illnesses are kept at arm’s length

Estranged from family she is not

Friends far and near keep in touch

A roof over her head amid floods and earthquakes

Food on the table, simple or lavish

New experiences and ideas abound

She crawls up from the chasm of gloom

Braves the wintry blast

Parries the ghost from the past

Exhales despair

Inhales hope

Exhales doubts

 Inhales faith

Exhales misgivings

Inhales trust

And waits for her spirit to rise

 

PASTIMES

Ask what my favorite pastime was then and now my answers would be reading coupled with practicing yoga. In a recent Show-and-Tell activity with my grade seven and eight students, their pastimes highlighted how reading has come to rank way below the list of favorite activities. It’s no surprise then that writing essays has become a horrendous task to most students and speaking fluently in English is an arduous undertaking. No one reads at all. Imagine the consequences of not being able to comprehend, say, simple instructions on how to answer the exam questionnaire or how to go about conducting a science experiment. The laboratory might go up in smoke and the school’s national standing might plummet because the students didn’t understand the instructions.

For some unfathomable reason, students take reading to literally scanning the words separately, not reading them in its entirety to get the meaning of the whole text. It’s mind-boggling for most to have to re-read the text if they don’t understand it for the first time. It’s mind-boggling and ironic that I have to tell them to re-read the text because that’s part and parcel of the reading process. Looking up the words they don’t understand in the dictionary is another bone of contention. They have this annoying habit of turning the teacher into a walking dictionary even though the dictionary is right on their desks. It’s risible that I have to remind to look up the words they don’t understand so they can comprehend what they’re reading.

So what are the favorite pastimes of the children today? At Global Prestasi National Plus School in Bekasi, Indonesia, majority of the students are engrossed in:

*Yoyos – There’s a yoyo club that some of Global Prestasi students are active members of where they network and, obviously, try to outdo one another in yoyo tricks. My student buys his yoyos online, the few game stores that sell yoyos in Indonesia and Singapore.

* Card games –Tot talking Solitaire or Black Jack but Japanese card games Yugioh or Bakugan. The former’s object is to beat the opponent with trap or monster cards. The winner gets a chance to collect one card from the opponent’s deck. Bakugan, on the other hand, is all about raking up the most points. The card set includes a metallic ball that is rolled onto the magnetic cards and which pops up revealing a little character. The space that a Bakugan land has corresponding points, which is written at the back of the card. Like the yoyos, they’re available in most game stores in Jakarta.

* Basketball – Just like the Filipinos, most Indonesian kids are dribbling on the court and shooting hoops. One student is hoping that his family relocates to the US so he can play in the NBA.

* Futsal – Basketball ranks second to this favorite sport of most of the male students at Global Prestasi. Tall, short, fat or thin, they’re on the futsal court dribbling, juggling and trying to score a goal. They come fully garbed down to the futsal shoes, which said my die-hard student, he wears based on the position he plays. For example, as playmaker he’ll wear his red Nike futsal shoes; he has another pair when he plays forward.

* Coin collection – Two of my female students are into coin collecting, which they manage to do with the help of their parents, uncles and aunts who travel frequently abroad. Singapore and Hong Kong coins form a huge part of their collections, and both want to have more European currencies in their respective collection.

Meanwhile some students are into their own pastimes. One finds amusement in reading the Twilight series and amassing all paraphernalia highlighting Robert Pattinson including a doll. Two girls are into dolls – one likes the one that has a porcelain face, which she has christened as Kici (pronounced Kichi) and given a Facebook Profile while another likes Barbie dolls.

One girl is into graphic design and even did a little demo with her Mac in class. She taught the class how to “draw” a laser point via the Photoshop application.

One boy loves his Pokemon and can recite all the Pokemon monsters in existence if you let him. Another boy is into collecting miniature airplanes buying them every time he gets on a plane – British Airways, United Airlines, Singapore Airlines, Delta Airlines etc. He doesn’t want to be a pilot but a cabin crew member.

There’s one boy who loves to wakeboard and competes regularly. He explained one of the equipment he uses in wakeboarding at Show-and-tell, the handle bar, and also demonstrated how to get up to a standing position from the starting position. He credits his mum as his biggest inspiration in taking up the sport who is a champion jet skier and whose love for water sports has rubbed off on her son.

 There’s a young 12-year-old singer in my class who already has one album. She sang a capella in my class, and I thought Simon Cowell would have loved her even though he wouldn’t have understood any of the Bahasa Indonesia lyrics. Her classmate, on the other hand, is into modern dance and choreographed a short dance using one of Taylor Swift’s songs.

They’re talented children whose passion for their pastimes is praiseworthy. I just wish that they’d develop the habit of reading – I’m certain it will enhance their skills even more.

 

THE BIG 4-0

She – a long time friend who’s now based in France – asked for friends to send her birthday cards (not the virtual cards) on the day she turned 40. And her friends – including me – honored that request by inundating her mailbox with just that. It was her way of marking what others have touted to be the start of life. I thought of borrowing her idea and for two years I planned of doing just when I hit the big 4-0. It’s just a couple of days before the counter turns 40 but I never asked her for permission to borrow her idea and I never asked any of my friends to.

It’s been three months since I packed my bags for Bekasi, Indonesia, for a break from a life in another country that had reached a dead end. The past three months have been filled with epiphanies and self- rediscovery. New friends, new routine and new surroundings – the perfect recipe to move on after stumbling and wallowing at the crossroads of life. And a birthday package from back home is set to arrive soon – I love getting presents! However, birthday package aside, I find myself beset by the old feelings of being at the crossroads again, plagued by loneliness and regrets that have descended from nowhere and planted themselves on my head. Making lesson plans and jousting with recalcitrant students who have yet to learn the meanings of diligence and academic integrity help, but when the school bell rings, they weigh on my shoulders heavily.

I see his face over and over again. The firmness and resolve I built through the months in facing the fact that the decision to part was all for the best are crumbling amidst the intense longing and desire to turn back the hands of time. Turning old arguments in my mind, looking for signs of love and reconciliation burn through me and leave me in abysmal despair. A song, a smile from a colleague, the calls for prayer, a line once heard crack open the vaulted memory banks of a past long gone and overwhelm my consciousness until I feel I’m drowning.

Broken friendships sail on the waves of lost love as well. Was I too caught up in the friendships that I didn’t see their true colors? Was it just a joy ride because I was the next available person for the ride?

Meanwhile, old school wounds have stowed away on the boats of broken friendships and lost love. Episodes of the high school bully jog through my mind. Intimidated by my ease in speaking in English, among other things, she and her cohorts of equal vacuity resorted to accosting me in hallways or classroom to warn me against speaking in English. Then there’s that cretin masquerading as a teacher who despised people who didn’t subscribe to her religion. And there’s the “best friend” in elementary who decided, with a drop of a hat, to change best friends. She favored the new girl who had tons of Hello Kitty bits and pieces with her. I only had Peanuts and a couple of My Melody items.

Is this what the big 4-0 is all about? The ghosts of the past dropping by unexpectedly and at the time when you think you’ve finally awakened to days brimming with happiness and high hope? That you’re besieged with that feeling of missing out on life as old high school friends plaster their Facebook profiles with wedding and family photos, and former students of the births of their first newborns?

A friend’s story of how her friend is once again battling cancer hop-scotches through my thoughts suddenly. I have a lot to be grateful for – I’m in perfect health except for the occasional stress-induced headaches and tummy problems. My old-new profession lets me be of service to people instead of pleasing Neanderthals and their massive egos. My family back home is kept safe by the universe. My true friends are thriving despite the occasional spanners thrown by the mischievous deities. I harbor no ill feelings towards foes and, as dictated by the rules of decency, wish them well.

 I still remain grateful and try never to forget to express my gratitude to the universe yet the heaviness and hopelessness in my heart remain. If only the universe could spell out what I have to learn from the old wounds festering inside. That’s wishful thinking, isn’t it? Yoga is still the antidote although sometimes something stronger is needed except I don’t know what it is.

Is this what the big 4-0 is all about? One thing is certain though. I always look forward to my birthday because it’s my day. A visit to Hard Rock Café, Jakarta is in the pipeline among other things. It’s the day after that I’m apprehensive. I’ll be 40 and a day old. What’s next universe?

 

BUBBLE READING

I enjoy reading. It’s a family tradition. Shopping for us is buying books wherever we are. I love books and being surrounded by books so it’s no surprise that I like going to the library – Singapore libraries are fantastic – and Borders and Kinokuniya, the haven of bibliophiles. So when a friend suggested I pick up Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi there was no hesitation on my part until he added, “It’s a graphic novel.”  And that’s when I vacillated – I have problems reading bubbles. I read lines in the balloons but I forget to look at the illustrations. The last graphic novel I read was about a Filipino superhero – he turned into Super Girl after swallowing a magical stone.

But I breezed through bubble reading with Persepolis. The black-and-white illustrations were straightforward in its depiction of Satrapi’s childhood in Iran. They didn’t overshadow the wit, sarcasm and irony of the child, teenager and, finally, adult, as one followed her personal history, which was inextricably linked to her country’s history. It was Iran’s history in comics.

It begins with The Veil where the author/artist is 10 years old and is wearing the veil in 1980 in school. A revolution occurred in Iran a year before; a year later the revolution was called Islamic Revolution in which it became mandatory to wear the veil to school. The next frame read, “We didn’t really like to wear the veil, especially since we didn’t understand why we had to” [page 3] and the drawings succinctly captured the vacillation.  One student decided to play around with by putting it over her face, saying, “Ooh! I’m the monster of darkness.” Another decided to use it as reins– her classmate was the horse and she the equestrienne shouting “Giddy up!” A third classmate decided to tie up all the veils into a skipping rope.

She and her classmates didn’t understand the need for the veil because a year before the revolution they were in a French non-religious school where boys and girls were together. However, a year later, it was announced that “Bilingual schools were to be closed down (as) they were symbols of capitalism, of decadence.”

“This was called a ‘Cultural Revolution’. We found ourselves veiled and separated from our friends,” wrote Satrapi, “And that was that.”

This was also the period that Satrapi decided she wanted to be a prophet. Her teacher was perturbed and called her parents who were not bothered by their daughter’s declaration at all.

In The Water Cell [pages 18 – 25] the reader is privy to Satrapi’s history when her father related her family’s background, revealing their unique place in the historical annals of Iran. [Aside: I’m reminded, for some reason, of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s her family history.]

Father: God did not choose the king…

“The truth is that 50 years ago the Father of the Shah, who was a soldier, organized a putsch to over thrown the emperor and install a republic. At the time the Republican ideal was popular in the region but everybody interpreted it in his own way. For example, Gandhi in India, Ataturk in Turkey.

Father: So the Father of the Shah wanted to do the same. But he wasn’t educated like Gandhi, who was a lawyer or was he a leader of men like Ataturk who was a general.

“He was an illiterate low-ranking officer. A blessing for the very influential British who soon learned of his projects.

British: When you are Emperor, your Secretary of State will shine them for you.

Reza: Emperor, me?

British: But, of course, my friend. It’s much better than being President.

Reza: What do I have to do?

British: Nothing! You just give us the oil and we’ll take care of the rest.

Father: And that’s how he became king and naturally his son succeeded him. God has nothing whatsoever to do with this story…The Emperor that was overthrown was Grandpa’s father.

And since his entourage was uneducated, your Grandpa was named Prime Minister…He had studied in Europe. He was a very cultivated man. He had even read Marx. Once he was sidetracked from his Princely duties he began to meet intellectuals. So he became a communist and he was jailed often.

Mother: Sometimes they put him in a cell filled with water for hours.

The subsequent strips recount Satrapi’s experiences through her growing up years: the Iraqis bombing Iran; the scarcity of food and gasoline; the dislocation of friends and relatives whose houses were destroyed by Iraqi missiles; the prohibition of holding parties and drinking wine; the crackdown on people going against the Islamic code of living; her parents’ decision to send her to Austria in 1984 to “escape a religious Iran for an open and secular Europe” and the discovery that her mother’s best friend, Zozo, was not who she thought she would be; her cultural dislocation in Austria and epiphany; her heartaches; and her return to Iran and her decision to leave again.

Satrapi: “…Not having been able to build anything in my own country, I prepared to leave it once again. I went to France for the first time in June 1994 to take a test to enter the school of Decorative Arts in Strasbourg. I was accepted. Then I had to go back to Iran to exchange my tourist visa for a student visa. [page 339]

Between June and September 1994, the date of my definitive departure, I spent every morning wandering in the mountains of Tehran, where I memorized every corner. [page 340]

The graphic novel ends on a bittersweet note. The departure was different from 10 years ago – her mother didn’t faint and her grandmother was there.

Satrapi: “Since the night of September 9, 1994, I only saw (Grandma) once, during the Iranian New Year in March 1995. She died January 4, 1996….Freedom had a price…” [page 341]

 

POST SCRIPT

Every day is a discovery of little things that make a Filipino almost an Indonesian and vice versa or the opposite. Just last week I stumbled upon a sweet serendipitous find – both races love bananas and both have a sweet rendition of fried banana wrapped in spring roll wrapper. In the Philippines, Filipinos love to have the turon – I prefer it sans the sliver of jackfruit inside – that is coated in caramelized brown sugar for dessert or snack. The Indonesian version called pisang goreng is still sweet although it’s not wrapped in caramelized brown sugar. Instead, the inside of the spring roll wrapper is drizzled with chocolate sauce and in which they roll up the banana in. Great for an afternoon bite with a mug of steaming green tea.

But when it comes to white clothes, Filipinos are slightly more persnickety about keeping the whiteness of their attire. They’re not going to just sit on any surface – they’re going to check if it’s powdered with dust or not. Indonesian students, I realized, have no qualms about changing the color of their white clothes. It’s the same phenomenon when it comes to the sun. Don’t get me wrong – I love the sun. In fact, a friend of mine who is posted in Ireland has christened me sunflower while she has candidly taken on the moniker of mushroom. However, I am not about to stay out of the sun without some form of protection like a hat or umbrella. But, again, my Indonesian students and colleagues have no reservations about turning into burnt ducks. They’d play futsal or basketball even at high noon!

Another interesting discovery has something to do with sunglasses. While wearing sunglasses is routine with Filipinos, it’s not the case with Indonesians. A student of mine, in fact, had to ask me why I wore sunglasses during flag ceremony although the sun was clearly blinding that day. Apparently, shades are not that common and somehow carry an unflattering connotation for men who wear them. They are taken to be gays. I wonder what the Indonesians would think about Filipino men who use headbands, fan themselves and use facial blotting paper to rid the forehead and nose of excess oil. Or Singaporean men who go for facials and have their backs waxed in spas.

Next week is a new week and I’ll soon find out more quirks and idiosyncrasies of these almost twin-like races.

 

MONEY

Donna Summer’s song never fails to sweep through her mind every single time she sees the sun-roasted man cycling along the road, his wrapped vegetables swinging like pendulums from the trellis that somehow manages to say clipped on to the front of his bike. Market on wheels! It sure beats walking all the way down to SuperIndo. At other times, it could be the plastic ware vendor pushing his trolley of goods at early evening or the young children who intrepidly hang on from the angkot by hooking their shoulders onto the ceiling of the entrance while strumming their ukulele and singing off key. She would then remember – without fail – the shriveled and fatigued clown entertaining the children at a colleague’s daughter’s first birthday party. His costume was filthy and his face lined with weariness. But – applause, applause – he soldiered on in making the children laugh.

Even the motorcycle has become a source of income for most people. In Bekasi alone, a multitude of ojek riders continuously jostle for passengers alighting from the angkot. Forget about the helmet! Hold on for dear life or make like the Flying Wallendas as he meanders through the rush-hour traffic.

She recalls a friend’s adventure (or misadventure?) with the ojek.

“My knee was almost touching the door of the vehicle on my right!” he narrated in horror. “And I was getting dizzy with the way he was darting in and out of traffic.”

In a country where the value of the currency fluctuates between Rupiah6, 720-6730 to S$1| Rupiah9, 360 to US$1, every idea is seemingly exhausted in trying to make ends meet even though the takings are meager. Pillion riders are good money if you’re lucky to get a lot of them in a one day, given the stiff competition. Aside from the other ojek drivers, there are also the angkot drivers who charge much cheaper fares. An angkot ride starts at Rupiah2, 000-2,500 to almost any destination in the area while it’s Rupiah7, 000 per pillion rider.

She thought she had seen it all when it came to eking out a living, but she was mistaken. It was during an afternoon trip to Jakarta when she spotted them from the SUV she was in. They – men and women – were standing almost near the middle of the road. Each one had a hand raised in the air. Were they flagging down the bus? But there were no buses in sight. A Bluebird taxi  perhaps? Apparently not, as several cabs whizzed past them.

“Pak, what are these people doing? Why are they on the road?” she asks.

“They’re riders for hire Ms,” he answers.

“Riders for hire?”

“Yes, Ms. They’re called jockeys. In Jakarta, from 4pm to 7pm, vehicles must have at least three passengers inside. You can hire them at Rupiah10, 000 to ride with you so you don’t get pulled over by the police,” explains Pak Rudy.

“Ang hirap talagang kumita ng pera ngayon*,” was the thought that suddenly zipped through her mind, eclipsing Donna Summer’s song.

*Translated from Filipino: It’s hard to earn money these days.

 

ALMOST FILIPINO, ALMOST INDONESIAN

“Ah, I thought you’re Indonesian!” she exclaimed, as a smile crossed her face. She had been speaking to me in Bahasa Indonesia in rapid-fire fashion, which always left me with a puzzled look on my face.

“Saya tidak orang Indonesia. Saya orang Filipino,” was my normal reply to such exclamations of discovery. Translated: “I’m not Indonesian, I am a Filipino”, which is one of the few complete sentences that I can utter in Bahasa Indonesia aside from “How much is the chocolate bun or brownie?”

What’s different about this situation is, aside from not raising my hackles, the sincerity in the smile. Unlike elsewhere in Asia where I’ve been to, generally speaking, my identity as a Filipino – after a long and winded guessing game of where I’m from – has always been met with either a snide look or a sudden switch from being interested to coldness or both. And the conversation ends abruptly. The ambience suddenly hangs heavily with a mixture of disguised disdain and forced civility. Suddenly everyone seemed to be seized with the bizarre triskaidekaphobia disorder. Yet, the one time I said that I was a Filipino-American from Palo Alto, California, on holiday in Asia, the causerie flowed like the gentle rushing of the waves to the shoreline.

The astonishment that accompanies the smile is more because of their folly in automatically assuming I’m an Indonesian – which, apparently, borders on rudeness (isn’t talking to someone in a language they don’t understand impolite?) – than a bigoted perception of a Filipino who keeps Singapore and Hong Kong, among the many countries, tidy. I’ve slightly let my guard down against questions on my national identity in Indonesia, having observed that I’m asked not out of malice but pure interest in knowing who I am and my culture that is similar and dissimilar to theirs.

Language is one commonality although not in its entirety. It’s more the parallel words such as, to mention a few, payong (umbrella), mangkok (bowl), kanan (right – as in the direction), mahal (expensive in both languages, but which also means love in Filipino), murah (inexpensive), panas (warm or hot) and sala (mistake). The Filipino phrase for I love you, “Mahal kita”, strikes the funny bone of the Indonesians all the time.

When it comes to food, Filipinos and Indonesians like to eat rice and sweet stuff. Rice is a staple feature of meals, which is accompanied by vegetables and chicken or beef and fish dishes. Couscous, my rice-substitute, is not part of their menu though. Similarly, instant noodles are part of the repast, which is disconcerting for me because of the proliferation of MSG and other preservatives. However, I’m certainly one with them when it comes to the sweet stuff  that run the gamut of brownies, chocolate bread, banana fritter with chocolate, martabak (Indonesian pancake with fillings of caramel, chocolate and cheese) and sponge cake. Concomitantly, donuts bond Filipinos and Indonesians together much like what fags do for smokers.

On the other hand, unlike Indonesians, Filipinos (excluding me) have a great proclivity for pork dishes – grilled, stewed, boiled, roasted or fried – and sour dishes. Obviously, pork is absolutely haram (forbidden) in Indonesia and the locals’ palate is more attuned to the taste of chili. Vegetables are laden with diced red chili; the Indonesian croquette, risoles, is best eaten with green chili; and fried noodles are equally laced with chili sauce.

Faith in the Almighty is another trait by and large shared by the two races. Each day is began and ended with a prayer to their own deities to express gratitude for the abundance of blessings and also to convey their concerns in life. Indonesians practice a high level of tolerance towards religious differences, which strongly mirror author Karen Armstrong’s discussion in her book Islam:

“Do not argue with the followers of earlier revelation otherwise than in a most kindly manner – unless it be such of them as are bent on evil-doing –and say: ‘We believe in that which has been bestowed from on high upon us, as well as that which has been bestowed upon you; for our God and your God is one and the same, and it is unto Him that we [all] surrender ourselves.’”

-          Page 10, Islam

The Filipinos’ religious tolerance is summed up by unpleasant experience with my grade 2 teacher who loathed agnostics.

Laughter is another commonality. Amidst the disasters, personal problems and angst, and the stresses of the daily grind, Filipinos and Indonesians never fail to see the therapeutic power of laughter. The situation reminds me of Persepolis the book by Marjane Satrapi.  In one of the comic strips, The Joke, Marji reaches an epiphany after visiting an old friend who had been seriously maimed during the Iran war. She learned, “We can only feel sorry for ourselves when our misfortunes are still supportable…once this limit is crossed the only way to bear the unbearable is to laugh at it.”

And, finally, hospitality is a common ground that Filipinos and Indonesians trek upon. There’s nothing like being welcomed as a friend each morning, which crackles with amity. Given this, it’s no surprise that resort islands in Indonesia and the Philippines are teeming with Europeans and Americans who, aside from escaping the cold season, bask in unparalleled warmth and generosity.

 

TRULY INDONESIA’S

Everyone at Global Prestasi National Plus School, which is Located at Kalimalang, Bekasi, Indonesia, was in THE mood to celebrate last October 2, 2009. Aside from the school’s Halal biHalal, a program honoring the end of Ramadan that was highlighted by scriptures reading from the Koran, fashion show and a feast, the entire community was rejoicing over UNESCO’s decision about their national costume, the batik. Friday was the day that batik – in the words of one of my Grade X-5 students on her Facebook page – “was ours, absolutely ours!” Her sentiments were succinctly echoed by one of the pastors at Jakarta International Seventh-Day Adventist Church the day after, adding “Goodbye Malaysia!”

The euphoria of the students and staff were visibly seen as they entered the campus in their batik ensemble. Naturally, I joined in the celebration by donning my own batik top that I bought from Cililitan (pronounced Chililitan).The batik is the third cultural heritage icon of Indonesia to make it to the representative list compiled by UNESCO, which details the intangible cultural heritage of humanity. The other two Indonesian cultural heritage emblems already on the list are the wayang (shadow puppet) and Keris (sword).

“]

The Grade X-5 students of Bekasi-based Global Prestasi National Plus School join the rest of country in commemorating the day batik became officially an Indonesian cultural heritage, as proclaimed by UNESCO. [Photography by Jessica Maria

Batik has always caught my interest because of the intricate and delicate process involved in using the dyeing technique in “drawing” elaborate designs on the textile. It takes a while to finish a whole length of fabric as it’s done by hand. My first preview of batik-making was during my initial trip to Jakarta several years ago; part of the tour was witnessing a batik demonstration. At the corner of the batik store was a woman “designing” the cloth, simultaneously dipping an instrument in ink and wax, and tracing the pencil outline of the design on the cloth. It was truly laborious, but the woman moved adroitly with ease on the cloth, completing a part of the pattern within seconds.

The declaration of batik as truly Indonesia’s will spur batik makers to come out with more beautiful and creative designs, as well as encourage Indonesians to further preserve the tradition and knowledge of batik and batik-making especially given “the 50 regencies and cities in Java as well as parts of Aceh, Riau and Solok and Padang in West Sumatra” that produce batik according to The Jakarta Post [October 2, 2009].

With such a milestone event for Indonesia, I find myself pondering on what cultural heritage emblem of the Philippines will make it to the representative list of UNESCO. Similarly, I wonder at what is being done to preserve the heritage of the Filipinos that, sadly, seems to be heading to oblivion with the rapid incursion of Western norms in the archipelago.

 

FEELING PECKISH

Roadside eateries are ubiquitous in Bekasi, Indonesia. They line almost every road in the city, obstructing pedestrian or traffic flow. You can’t miss the taut awnings guarding against the scorching sun or heavy rain, and the multi-purpose cloth banner signs. The cloth signs serve as menus announcing what they offer such as nasi uduk (yellow rice), nasi goreng, ayam goreng, mee goreng, bakso (beef noodles), pecel lele (cat fish), soto ayam (chicken noodles) etc. They also serve as soft walls separating one eatery from another, and sheltering the diners from the motorists’ prying eyes.

I’ve never eaten in one and I don’t think I will. The first and last roadside eatery I went to with my former colleagues who were raving about this fantastic fish head, which was in the Philippines, had me recuperating from stomach problems for almost a week. My two friends – Arnel and Alvin – have given up eating at the roadside eateries of Jakarta after the former inadvertently bit into a huge fly, which he hadn’t notice was hiding in his bowl of noodles that he was happily digging into.

Close at the heels of the roadside eateries are the meals-on-wheels or little carts parked by the road. Some vendors sell fried snacks such as tempeh goreng, pisang goreng and tauhu goreng while others sell ready-to-fry fish balls, siomay and bubur ayam (chicken porridge). Meanwhile another group of vendors opt to sell es buah or fruits with shaved ice.

The peculiar thing about these roadside eateries is that they seem to transcend social class differences momentarily. Alvin told me that he once saw a lady, obviously a member of the upper echelon of society with the sparkling jewelry wrapped around her like Christmas ornaments and her ride, a luxurious Mercedes Benz, have her meal at one of these establishments. She got down from her car, ordered her food and waited for her meal to be served. The day’s heat was no problem too – she fanned herself as she sat on the bench. I discovered too that the owner of Global Prestasi National Plus School is also a regular patron of these roadside eateries especially the one near SuperIndo supermarket where we bumped into him one Friday evening. There are two of these eateries outside of the supermarket and he favored the first one.

“Bagus sekali! (very good)” he said with the thumbs up sign. Unfortunately, Arnel had already ordered his nasi goreng from the second eatery. “I’ll try the other one next time, Sir,” said Arnel.

Persnickety as I am, I typically choose to eat in restaurants inside malls when I’m feeling peckish. The choices in Bekasi are limited compared to the malls in Jakarta, and they often run the gamut of American fast food franchises. Colonel Sanders is a crowd drawer. The Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet at Metropolitan Mall in Bekasi is never without a throng of diners queuing at the counter for original or spicy crispy chicken. An interesting addition to the menu is Yakuniku or skewered chicken teriyaki served with rice. The gravy that’s served usually in the Philippines has been replaced with chili sauce and ketchup you pump into miniscule plastic containers at the sauce station. And no Styrofoam or plastic plates either – they serve the chicken on good old ceramic plates. There’s no cutlery too, as everyone uses their fingers. Not to worry, wash basins are at the back of the restaurant, which is amazingly big enough to accommodate more than a hundred diners. On hindsight, I am not sure if they sell mashed or whipped potatoes and coleslaw, but they serve rice with the chicken if you order the Feast package.

McDonald’s is another favorite but not so much for the burgers as the chicken on the menu. At the outlet at Cililitan (pronounce Chililitan), it was only Alvin I saw that had a Big Mac on his tray. Majority were tucking into the two-piece-chicken-with-rice item washed down with a huge cup of soda. French fries are the next popular items followed closely by sundaes. The McFlurry was a huge disappointment; I ordered Caramel McFlurry during a previous visit and the server didn’t use the McFlurry machine that blends toppings and the ice cream into a smooth, sweet and creamy treat.

[Aside: Cililitan is a 30-minute angkot ride from Kalimalang, Bekasi. It is known for a five-storey shopping place that’s a cross between shopping venues Greenhills and Baclaran in the Philippines. Up for sale are Western and Moslem apparels, batik outfits, shoes, jackets, sunglasses, bags, toys and mobile phones at rock-bottom prices.]

Dunkin Donuts comes in at third place. In Bekasi alone there are several outlets around the area and in shopping centers such as Mega Bekasi, Metropolitan Mall and CyberPark Bekasi. Actually, it’s not just Dunkin Donuts that they’re passionate about – they’re truly wild about any kind of donut. J Co, a local donut franchise, is making waves in the country with its regular donuts and J Pops (mini donuts, which, I think, is their take on the munchkins sold by Dunkin Donuts). J Co is everywhere (including Malaysia and Singapore) and is again making waves for its newest item on the menu – yoghurt topped with fruits (peach, longan, kiwi and strawberry), gelatin or M&M peanuts.

Another donut shop, I Crave Donuts at Metropolitan Mall, is not with its regular patrons. At the entrance to Cililitan, a kiosk called Deola Donuts specializing in home-style potato donuts had just opened for the day.  Oddly enough, I haven’t spotted any Krispy Kremes outlet.

Pizza, ice cream and yoghurt are favorite snacks too – all making it to the list at number four. Baskin & Robbins is everywhere as well as New Zealand Natural. Dairy Queen, I think, is starting to grow on people; there’s one outlet at Senayan City.  For those who favor a more tangy taste, Sour Sally is a popular swanky yoghurt place at Jakarta.

By pizza I mean Pizza Hut pizza, which is everywhere as regular restaurant or food stall. It was a favorite place among the Moslems to have their buka puasa (breaking of fast) during Ramadan. The menu also offers meals with rice and side dish options of baked, fried or grilled chicken, corn on the cob, potato wedges and garlic bread. A well-liked choice among the diners is the promotional combo that comprises four choices of pan pizzas, a plate of garlic bread and four drinks (orange juice or iced lemon tea).

For coffee drinkers, Starbucks is at the first floor of Metropolitan Mall and Gloria Jean’s is at the basement of CyberPark Bekasi. Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf has yet to open in Bekasi, but Jakarta is teeming with numerous outlets.

Fast food places are not exactly my cup of tea. A single scoop of Baskin & Robbins always does the trick for me when the peckish mood strikes until I get to a proper restaurant for a proper meal.

 

RANDOM MUSINGS ON CIVILITY

Half way through a seminar on communication, I wondered what the speaker’s main argument was about communication between parents with their children and teachers with their students given their diversities in terms of religion, social classes, political beliefs etc. She mentioned, at one point, that teachers were in control in the classroom but that what goes beyond the classroom was beyond their control – something like force majeure. Then she went on to explain that parents, on the other hand, when they communicate with their children only remember their slips and blunders, but never, say, their good scholastic achievements. Meanwhile, the second speaker spoke on the power of negative language, which, I think, typing up the loose threads of the thesis statement of the seminar, invokes certain responses from people. Picking up snatches of her lecture with the help of the first speaker who translated bits and pieces of it in English, speaker number two gave five situations where the power of negativity spurred students to follow teachers. They are

• Conforming through the reward-punishment system

• Conforming through fear

• Conforming by thinking that teachers know better than they do

• Conforming because of a feeling of hopelessness

• Consistency

Like the first speaker, I wondered what her main argument was. Are the five situations good responses from the students? Or are they to be deconstructed? I never found out because the English translation of that part of her lecture never ensued. I – actually all of the teachers – found out her marital status. She’s single. [Aside: It’s an Indonesian thing to ask and announce one’s marital status. I talked about that in my earlier blog post “It’s a Cultural Thing”.]

I’ve always looked forward to seminars and conferences, encouraged by the thought I’d be walking away with new nuggets of wisdom, a widening of knowledge of the world from another viewpoint. It’s exasperating when I’m besieged by thoughts of reading, going for a foot reflexology and what to have for lunch and dinner almost halfway through the talk. I could have gotten up and left, but I didn’t want to be impolite.

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Politeness is a strong trait of the Indonesians, which I’ve observed and have been told countless of times by people. So it’s truly a very disconcerting dilemma when I’m confronted by insolence. Shall I put that inconsequential person in her shoes and give her an earful? Or do I follow the dictates of being a guest of Indonesia? My friend made the decision for me and filliped her verbally a wee bit, which, thankfully, silenced her moronic babbling.

It happened one late afternoon at our regular DVD store at CyberPark shopping center. I was looking for a DVD of Troy; the owner of the store told me to come back after a week when the stocks would have come in by then. After handing me the DVD, she started talking in Bahasa Indonesia, which my scanty knowledge of the language couldn’t decipher. Sadly for her, my friend understood every word. Apparently, as translated to me, she was asking why we three were there; why we didn’t speak in Bahasa Indonesia; why were we always buying DVDs and why was I wanting to buy a DVD of Troy, which she pointed out condescendingly, couldn’t be understood by my students since it was in English.

“We are not Indonesians,” said my friend in an uncharacteristic low and serious tone. “We buy DVDs because we like to buy them. She’s an English teacher and her students will understand Troy because they understand English and they’re smart kids.”

She was quiet but her face belied a look of irritation. Petulant child was what came to mind and petulance and impudence in my book negate the ethics of being a guest in a foreign country. The next time I come I know better than to be polite.

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Walking barefoot is something I’ve never been comfortable with unless I’m on some beach in Bali. After all, the sand is as closest as one can get to natural exfoliation. The other one is when I’m practicing yoga. Naturally, I wear boots and heels to work; flats, trainers or sneakers on the weekends; and slippers inside the house. The practice of removing shoes when visiting friends and relatives is not widely observed in the Philippines unlike in Singapore. We simply wipe our shoes on the mat outside the house before entering. In Singapore, you literally leave your shoes at the entrance and walk around the house barefoot, a custom never grew on me because the floors are cold but, out of politeness, I followed the rules.

In Indonesia, shoes are left at the open shoe cabinet when you’re entering the library and when you’re entering the meeting room. However, shoes are worn at all times in all other places of the school. I learnt that it’s less a custom than the library and the meeting room being carpeted. Still, out of politeness, I follow the rules.

However, it’s the reverse with students when they enter my classroom (am not sure if they do it in other classes and are allowed to do it). My reactions have vacillated between annoyance and astonishment and back, but never tolerance of such coarse behavior. Some don’t wear their shoes properly, slipping them on like regular flip flops even though they’re trainers. They proceed to take them off in class, cooling their socked feet under their deskswith the air conditioner.  They seem annoyed at being told to wear their shoes; they slip them on for show and then take them off again when they think I’m not looking.

In my book of civility, your shoes remain on your feet unless you’re in your own home.

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Wet markets are not lacking in Bekasi, Indonesia. The first one I normally frequented is as fragrant as any wet market, smelling of fish and brine. In this “new” market I explored one time, the air was redolent with putrid garbage yet no one was covering their noses. The vendors were not bothered by the smell and looked completely inured to the smell wafting through the night air. Luckily, it’s an outdoor night market and so the smell was dissipated with the occasional night breeze. Still, unlike the vendors, I was not far from pinching my nose to stay the disgusting odor. But, guided by the dictates of civility, I bore it until it was time to leave.

Being polite is really difficult work.