BECAUSE I SPEAK ENGLISH February 9, 2010

I never gave it much thought until he accosted me.

“Hi,” he said unsteadily although he was smiling. “Do you remember me? You asked me about the machine two weeks ago.”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were Indonesian and which was I was wondering why you were speaking to me in English,” he explained with a lopsided grin.

“I get that a lot,” I replied laconically.

And then he was gone to another part of the gym to work on presumably his pectorals. Now that would explain the scowl he flashed me when I asked him about the machine and the subsequent furrowing of his eyebrows whenever his gaze fell on me. The gym manager probably told him that I wasn’t Indonesian but a Filipino. People say we look alike.

He wasn’t the only one who was far from welcoming. There was another – a woman in her 50s – who’d glare at me whenever she’d hear me order in English at the juice bar.  When she eventually cottoned on to the fact that I was not some rude Indonesian refusing to speak in the national language, she smiled my way and even cracked a joke.

“The cost will be Rp1, 000 less without ice,” she said. “It’ll be another less Rp1, 000 each without milk and sugar, and it’ll be half the price with no cup.” Then she burst out laughing. My friend Alvin laughed. I merely smiled as I don’t forget easily – it’s a Scorpio thing.

It wasn’t until Kriesky, a new Indonesian friend who speaks with an American twang, enlightened me on the English language and Indonesians. I had explained to him the predicament I always faced wherever I went around Indonesia.

“This is the thing,” he began, in between bites of tofu one Saturday afternoon. “It’s an unwritten rule. It’s rude to speak English to an Indonesian even though both of you can converse in English.”

His explanation had me thinking about the situation in the Philippines, which is more than a case of impoliteness. Speaking in English becomes an engagement in war – class or otherwise – in the archipelago. Within the context of social classes, English is the language that separates the probinsyano (person who lives in the province or rural area in one context and country bumpkin in another), heightening the classic conflict of barrio (village) versus ciudad (city), and probinsyano versus taga-ciudad (from the city). This conflict extends to the war of the mahirap (poor) and the mayaman (rich), of which Philippine history is fraught with. The probinsyano is stereotypically viewed as poor and uneducated, which is a prejudice that has never waned resulting in most probinsyano undergoing a complete make-over to cover, hide or elide – pick the verb – their origins that do not begin in the city. Filipino movies have never failed to highlight these social class tensions and, in fact, romanticize the binary opposites, which only strengthen the stereotypes of the probinsyano, taga-ciudad, mahirap and mayaman.  The endings are predictable fairy-tale-ending of love overcoming social class differences and living happily ever after.

But reality bites. English is generally spoken among friends, colleagues and business associates and the vernacular is used to address helpers, vendors at the wet market, jeepney, taxi and bus drivers, gasoline boys and security guards. English is the lingo in uppity places in Manila – think five-star hotels, Coffee Bean & Tealeaf, Starbucks etc.

In Singapore, speaking in English is not a case of impoliteness or a class war. It’s all about sounding like a reporter for BBC. The Singaporeans I’ve met have no qualms of lecturing you on the “correct way of speaking English” even though, most of the time, their own tongues get all twisted in a bunch. A former pedantic colleague tried putting me down by saying that I couldn’t pronounce the words correctly, and by correctly she meant sounding British, which she tried to sound like but ended up sounding like Ross. Remember that episode of Friends where Ross tried speaking with a horrible British accent in his class? That was her. I just asked her if her wedgie was cutting off the oxygen supply to her brain. A friend of friend encountered a similar situation. A student who thought he grew up in England gave her impromptu pronunciation lessons in Math class. He hadn’t noticed that he fell back quickly into his colloquial accent after reciting several words in his false British accent.

English is the language that my sister and I grew up much like the languages that other people grow up with whatever they are. My speaking in English was brought about by training. I attended schools that used English as medium of instruction and was – it still is – the language spoken at home alongside Filipino. Admittedly, there have been instances when I’d been forced to wield it like a light saber to put people in their places. I’ve registered protests in English with service staff – it was the language that could get them to act more hospitable rather than condescending. And I’ve locked horns with people in and out of work whose remarks had gone beyond the line of polite conversations.

English is my language of communication and ammunition when required. Spanish is another but I haven’t been able to utilize that fully. I’m working my way through Bahasa Indonesia; I’m grappling right now with the greetings in the afternoon – I need to distinguish between Selamat siang and Selamat sore. But I do know when to call out goblok every now and then. In the meantime, bearing in mind what Kriesky said, my conversations in Indonesia are a colorful mix of pantomime, tourist Bahasa Indonesia and, naturally, English.

CAT WOMAN February 3, 2010

“Cat food?!? Sosyal naman ng pusang yan!*” muttered the cashier with disdain under his breath while snickering as he packed the Whiskas into a plastic carrier.

We were running low on cat food, which was catastrophic because that would mean that Cayenne and Bugsy would not have anything for dinner so my father and I made our way to SM supermarket to get a bag of dry cat food (we call them pellets).

I felt sorry for the cashier – sorry that he ever opened his mouth. My father picked up on the snicker and he wasn’t going to let it past one bit. I stayed quiet, not wanting to be in the line of fire.

“What’s your problem?” asked my father in that deep, low voice that would have sent even Hades crawling back to the underworld.

“Uh, Sir, ahh… err… I…” stuttered the cashier whose face was turning beet red under my father’s sharp stare.

“Cats make better companions than most humans,” retorted my father, his stare never lifting from the cashier until we were out of visible range.

Cats – the domestic kind, not the feral ones – occupy a huge place in our family. Cayenne was a serendipitous arrival in our lives. The little kitten followed my sister home one day and stayed on. Cayenne, named after the pepper, has white fur with streaks of brown, and can be bossy about his meals. He’d know when my father would stir from bed early in the morning so he’d make his way up the stairs, tiptoe slowly into my parents’ room and then let out a high-pitch meow. Translated: “Hello, I’m awake and hungry. Breakfast please.” This would continue until my father walks downstairs; Cayenne will walk by his side. Cayenne also likes having his bowl filled with pellets when he wakes up from a nap or he’ll be really grumpy. His nose knows if the bowl is empty even if he’s nowhere near it.  Cayenne is snobbish. He doesn’t like our male helper and never liked our former laundry woman.  He’s not the type who would wind through the legs of his human friends to show affection.  Cayenne selects –he waits for my mum to arrive home from work, but he never waits for me. He does meow at me if I’m the only one left in the house to give him his Whiskas.

The keen sense of smell is one of the astonishing traits of cats. This is due, I read, to their well-developed olfactory bulb and the large surface of the olfactory mucosa, which, in a nutshell, is the part of the nose that allows odors to dissolve and be detected by olfactory receptor neurons. The size of the cats’ olfactory mucosa is said to be twice that of the humans, explaining why they can smell tuna and salmon a mile away.

Excellent hearing is another amazing cat trait. Compared to dogs who can hear up to only nine octaves, cats go one and a half octaves higher so there’s no getting past them because they can hear you loud and clear. In addition, cats know where the sound is coming from because of their large movable outer ears. Cats also have exceptional night vision but they’re color blind. They can only identify blue and green and can’t tell between red and green. 

Bugsy came a little later. This brown kitten also followed my sister home one afternoon and, like Cayenne, never left home. But unlike Cayenne, Bugsy was leaner and more extroverted than his brother, but frequented the veterinarian often. Sadly, we lost him a couple years ago. 

Our non- pedigreed cats have been a part of our lives for so long I seem to exude an aura alluring to cats anywhere I go. I could just imagine the cat talk: “Look! There’s cat woman! Hello food! Hello warm place to sleep in! Yippee!” Butch was this amicable tubby white cat I met when I moved into Stevens Road several years ago in Singapore. He had a habit of dropping by our flat through the door or the window and lying spread-eagle in the living room. He’d leave an hour later and walk up to his flat on the second floor.  At other times, he’d just peep in like a mother hen checking to see if everyone’s home. We were stricken with fear when he disappeared for a day because it was not in his character at all. While we were calling out his name our ailurophobe neighbors stared at us as if we had just escaped from a mental asylum. He returned the next day unscathed and, naturally, we have no idea where he went.

Like Bugsy, Butch passed away. His owner was overseas and had a close friend cat-sit when he quietly succumbed to kidney failure.

I have a new cat in Indonesia. He never came to my flat until one rainy night wet and hungry. Luckily, I had a can of tuna, which I served him. From then on, he’s now my morning call, meowing early in the morning for his breakfast pellets, and my welcoming committee at night whenever I get back from work, the gym or an outing. I call him B and remember not to get him Friskas Gourmet Flavor –he prefers Ocean or Tuna.  He’s the touchy-feely type, winding through my legs whenever he sees me. Come to think of it, he looks a lot like Bugsy except for the white booties.

My flat has come to serve as a half-way house for B’s friends who come meowing at the front door for Friskas. It seems word has gotten around that cat woman at Bougainvillea serves meals regularly – dry, wet and tuna (in brine or vegetable oil).

*Roughly translated as “That cat is so high-class!” The subtext is that they’re mere animals so they shouldn’t be fed at all. Unfortunately, most ailurophobes and those who have something against animals feel that animals should not be taken care at all.

FITTING THE WORD II January 25, 2010

I’m still searching for my word for Singapore as I mentioned in the first part of this entry. But I don’t lack words for Indonesia. Several words come to mind. First is enchanted because the only island I knew way back then was Bali, the hailed island of the gods where dreams and romance come true. My first visit to Bali was far from romantic, but it was pleasant and relaxing. In fact, I had all the time in world. I stayed in Ubud, in this rustic resort, waking up to clear blue skies and views of quaint paddy fields. Processions of women dressed in their finery on the way to the temple were a refreshing sight every time I’d walk down the streets. Everything seemed so placid and everyone so good-natured that one might mistake it to be an ancient order of things in Bali until you read the tales of Bali of Elizabeth Gilbert in her best seller Eat Pray & Love. Bali in the halcyon days, according to Gilbert, had its share of history that was marked by oppression. It began with the Javanese royalty who, upon settling down in Bali, established a caste system and you know what happens in a society with a caste system. Slave trade was not absent from Bali of the early years either. The Balinese’s reputation was that of fierce fighters specially the traders and sailors, and well-disciplined particularly the army that was successful in repelling the Dutch colonizers until greed for power broke the united front of the Balinese.

The present sees Bali as paradise on Earth. It is the place that people find balance and peace from the maelstrom in their lives. Sanctuary is the word that is generally associated with Bali nowadays and I’m in total agreement with that.

The word changed when I visited Lombok and Manado separately with a friend on our “girls-only-holiday”. Both islands were bucolic so simple – as opposed to complex– was the word I associated it with. From the design of the resorts to the lifestyle to the food like nasi champur, everything was simple. No urban complexities to grapple with here – just pure and natural simplicity punctuated by bonhomous demeanor of the islanders.

When I found myself in Jakarta simple was replaced with cosmopolitan. The city reminded me of Makati, the dubbed central business district of the Philippines with its tall buildings, paved roads and sidewalks, massive malls and, not to forget, the legendary colubrine traffic jams. Walking would have been a better option that one time I got into a cab to go to Blok M to buy shawls. Bekasi, its suburban neighbor has its own charm. The pace is laidback – it’s somewhere in between urban nimbleness and village slowness. The people are generally amiable and exhibit none of the urban aggressiveness and callousness.

My word for Bekasi is haven. Although it lacks the convenience and modernity of Singapore, it’s a place that brought me back to myself, to the core of my essence. Bekasi is where I can be quiet without being questioned unnecessarily and where I can laugh out loud without being shushed. Here is where I’m not labeled atheist, irresponsible, non-conformist, crazy or different. I’m simply Ms. Liana with the nice curly hair. Here is where I rediscovered equanimity – I don’t lock horns with conceited people so I’m always in Zen mode – and it is the place where I’m piecing together my tattered life.

Refuge is my other word for Indonesia and Bekasi is that at the moment.

FITTING THE WORD January 10, 2010

It was while reading one of the first 36 tales of Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert that I found myself looking back on why I liked certain places, why I fitted in and why I could see myself residing in it. Gilbert said Rome wasn’t the place for her but she couldn’t pinpoint the reason behind it. The Italian husband of her American friend summed it up for her in one of their causeries – she had to identify with the word of the city, be the word of the city. And what was the word of Rome? Sex.  A word she could not relate to yet coming from a messy divorce and a failed relationship after the divorce.

Family is my word for Philippines, not home. Home is where my family is and, right now, they’re in the Philippines. My family has helped me through tough times, shaped my being and lent me support when I needed it. Amidst everything, we’d all fall back on each other. A former friend, this English woman, was baffled at why I worried about my family and always consulted with them.

Mum and Dad can take care of themselves,” she caustically pointed out.

“My family is important to me and we have a good relationship. I work hard on maintaining a good relationship with them. And you?” I retorted.

On the other hand, conform is the word for Philippines that makes me unable to fit in. It begins with religion. Filipinos are expected to have a religion even if it’s not Catholic, the dominant religion. I don’t have a religion, meaning I wasn’t born into one; I am a free thinker much like my family, which is often mistaken for being an atheist. I was treated differently in school especially in elementary because I didn’t subscribed to an orthodox religion. Former co-teachers in the school I used to teach at viewed me with a suspicious eye – ah, a rebel, a lost soul, a heathen in their midst! My religion is my business.

With religion comes a difficult word, stereotype, because one has to conform to the prescribed rules of behavior based on gender, which are ludicrous. For example, they had to act a lady (whatever that means); women had to pander to the men’s demands, transgressions and shortcomings; they must marry at a certain age or be a spinster; they must have children to be a complete woman, and the list goes one. Women have buttressed these Lacanian binary opposites and have browbeaten their daughters, sisters and other women into submission.

Cousin Isabelle comes to mind. She badgered me to marry soon because she’s married. What riled me was she used the grandfather card. My grandfather – he’s late now – was ill at that time, but no one in my family was thinking death. Second, my grandfather never pressured me to get married, not subscribing to the prejudiced notion of marriage being the culmination of a woman’s life, and here was this woman acting grand because she already has a husband.

“Don’t you think of getting married? When will you and Zainal get married?” she asked.

“We’re in no rush. We’re fine where we are.”

“Well, you know Ate, Lolo* doesn’t have much time so don’t you think it’ll be nice if you marry if he was still here?” she replied.

Next, she insinuated that I must have children. Prior to the birth to her first child, her pregnancy was heralded by a spate of repetitive announcements accompanied by images of the growing fetus via e-mail. She had attained womanhood apparently and I was way behind. Reading between the lines, she was also hinting at the fact that I was no longer in my 20s. It’s amazing how some women suddenly think they’ve reached a level of sagacity childbirth!

Adventure is the word for Palo Alto, California, where my family and I lived for a while. With adventure comes fun and new experiences like taking the Caltrain every weekend to San Francisco; walking around Chinatown and eating great food; strolling around Ghirardelli Square and Fisherman’s Wharf. Ice skating was a novel experience altogether especially getting my behind whipped by a young kid who glided on the ice with ease.

Back in Asia, opportunity was my word for Singapore. I had the chance to establish a career in journalism and to travel as well as understand first-hand the cultures of the Malays, Indians and Chinese. Then opportunity faded and was replaced with disillusionment. Prejudices against Filipinos were rife and I felt like a specimen under a microscope. Among other things, my exuberant demeanor was frowned upon; my enthusiasm was misconstrued as craziness on one hand and inefficient on the other. In one company I worked for, my enthusiasm for arranging, for example, weekly bowling tournaments was read as negligent of my responsibilities at work. I was blatantly told by a senior that I better watch it as management was keeping an eye on me. It was useless telling them that I did all that after work and, for once, people were socializing out of their own volition. Office politics changed everything.

Disillusionment and fair-weather friends are twins, which accounts for my jaded view of colleagues and friendships. One woman ended our friendship, through e-mail, because of my closeness with my family and the lack of it in her family. I cut ties immediately but, weirdly enough, she, for a time, sent greetings cards, little presents and would ask about my “upcoming wedding” after the e-mail. This other woman made me her shoulder-to-cry-on with her marital and extra-marital issues but conveniently dismissed me when it was my turn to pour my heart out after another one of those gut-wrenching break-ups. She ended our phone conversation because she didn’t want to miss the Rachel-Ross saga. Another woman was just downright insensitive.

“Is this going to be another sick Monday?” she asked mockingly.

Excuse me for not smiling while I try to pick up my life from a break-up I thought. Too think, she’d involve everyone in her daily drama and she never heard a pip from me.

And, the final nail on the coffin of disillusionment, this social-climbing, conniving, two-faced, pretentious, lazy compatriot. She’d siphon everything from you until you’re just a shell, a ghost of your former self, and offload you like cheap merchandise on the market. People are taken by her because of her sweet innocent ways. If only they looked harder they’ll see a snarling wolf underneath all that fluff.

There is an exception to this jadedness. Fistri and I started off as colleagues, but we’re good friends to this day. We’ve weathered more than a decade of silences, misunderstandings and falling-outs.

When I met Zainal love became my word for Singapore. The Garden City was suddenly a pleasant place again. The disillusionments of the past were replaced by all the good things that love can bring until everything came crashing down and am back to square one looking for a word I can identify with.

*Ate (pronounced a-teh) is a form of address, which means big sister in Filipino. Lolo means grandfather.

FULLY LOADED December 23, 2009

I’ve only seen a real gun up-close three times in my life. The fourth time was a vicarious experience; my mum saw one and she told me about it. The first gun encounter was in California where my late uncle resided. He led me and my family to his garage where he kept his shotgun and showed us how to make bullets. While he made the bullets, he rattled on about his rationale about keeping a gun in the house – for safety reasons, it was legal and getting a license wasn’t difficult.

The second time was when an ex-boyfriend showed me a birthday present from his father. It was a handgun – I forget what type – that had a nice black case. He was seemingly thrilled while I was completely perplexed. “A gun for a birthday present? A bit much, isn’t it?” I mused to myself

The third incident was when a driver drew his firearm from his belt and aimed it at my father and me through his car window. My father had the right of way on the highway but he, inebriated driver, thought otherwise when my father didn’t yield to him. Our cars met up at a stoplight and when I glanced his way, he had drawn his gun and was aiming right at us. I placed my across my father’s chest, which, on hindsight, was a symbolic gesture of protection, but a futile effort against dodging a bullet. I wasn’t imbued with spider senses. Fortunately, the mad man’s girlfriend – am assuming it’s a girlfriend but it could have been either his wife, mistress or just a friend – tugged at his gun-arm and stopped his madness while miming an apology to us. The drive home was a quiet one until my father broke the silence, uttering, “I was afraid something like that would happen.”

Right there and then I made up my mind to have a gun of my own. But my mum put her foot down. “Buying a gun isn’t the solution to problems,” she said and that was the end of that conversation.

My mum’s gun encounter was with her old college friend who did a Show-and-Tell with her gun that fitted snugly in her hand (my mum’s friend’s hand). The handle was exquisitely “bedazzled” with pearl. She cajoled her, making getting a gun seemed like buying a loaf of bread at a convenience store, which probably was the case. But no dice – my mum was adamant of no guns in the house or in her purse.

My mum was right. Stories still abound about accidents and deaths resulting from the use of firearms.  The illusion of power descending on the gun owner is more than enough to fill his/her head with megalomaniac ideas of playing God. Eeenie meenie mi nee moe – to live or not to live.  To this day, I wonder if the people I knew who owned guns ever pulled the trigger. Conversely, how would I have behaved with a gun in my hand?

Owning a gun in the Philippines is commonplace that I took it for granted that it’d be a similar situation in other countries. That wasn’t the case obviously. For example, only police officers carried guns in Singapore said a Singaporean friend of mine. As for Indonesia, a conversation on guns, an offshoot of the news on TV about the massacre in Maguindanao and the arrest of the Ampatuan family an Indonesian colleague watched the night before, had us both dumbfounded.

“Pagi Miss. What happened in the Philippines? Why do they have guns?” he asked in complete disbelief when I entered the administration office one morning to ask for red spidol (marker in local parlance).

“Pagi Pak. People in the Philippines can own guns,” I answered nonchalantly.

He stared at me, his jaw dropping to the floor.

“Isn’t owning a gun in Indonesia allowed?” I queried.

“No, only the police can own guns,” Pak Nova answered matter-of-factly.

Seeing the look on his face, I stopped myself from relating more guns stories such as the one I couldn’t get out of my head. A man died because of a tussle over a parking space. The owner of the gun lost his temper and pulled the trigger because the dead man had taken his parking space. Or the story of gun-owners firing into the sky as part of New Year merry-making in the Philippines, and that a bullet missed the head of my high school buddy’s brother by a few centimeters. I didn’t want to fill his head with the idea that it was the wild wild West in the Philippines. It’s too loaded a picture.

SCHOOL’S OUT! December 14, 2009

Imagine Bugs Bunny traipsing through the forest, twittering “No more books, no more school! No more dirty looks!” That was, more or less, the atmosphere at Global Prestasi as the students piled into the hall for the Christmas program, which ushers in the end of the first semester. School’s out! No more waking up at the crack of dawn to get to school on time. No more burning the midnight oil studying for exams or finishing a paper. No more assignments – at least for the next two weeks. Gut feel tells me that all my students from Grades seven to 10 will be cramming to read the literary pieces I assigned them viz. Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for Grade 7; Coraline by Neil Gaiman for Grade eight; Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (retold by Clare West) for the ninth graders; and As You Like It by William Shakespeare for the 10th graders during the last week. Worst case scenario – they don’t read at all.

I'm not a morning person but Ibu Liertji, principal of Junior High School, of Global Prestasi is all set for the Christmas Celebration.

The Junior High School division had their Christmas Celebration program at the Global Hall of the school while the Senior High School occupied the lobby of their building. It was a celebration of the birth of Christ with a service for the Christians and, afterwards, a variety show that featured the talents of the students. It was a medley of songs by the teachers (except this one who gave moral support from the audience) who sang “I Will Follow Him” and students who sang, well, Christmas songs at Global Hall. Naturally, there were dance numbers – one was a ballet by an eighth-grader; a tambourine dance by a group of girls representing the seventh grade; and a modern dance routine by yet another group of ladies representing the eighth grade.

An interesting break from the Christmas theme of the program was the yo-yo demonstration by two boys from the ninth grade. The dexterity was amazing – the yoyos were flying in the air with not one of them skipping a beat.

All's ready for the Christmas program of the Junior High school division of Global Prestasi.

Over at the Senior High School’s program, I managed to catch the teachers singing a song and, shortly afterwards, a skit on putting a party boy who disses Christmas on the right path [read: being a church-going boy]. And a simple lunch of, what I think, was nasi uduk.

The teachers from the Senior High School division of Global Prestasi take center stage.

Then school was a ghost town at around 1pm.

Selamat Natal dan Selamat Tahun Baru!

[Photography by Ibu Henney and Jessica Maria]

FUNNY HABITS II December 12, 2009

And here’s another look at those idiosyncratic tendencies that delineate a Filipino from an Indonesian and vice versa.

Marked

Parking in the Philippines is a humongous problem especially if we’re talking about cities like Makati and Quezon City, areas with large malls. The car park buildings are not even enough to hold the throng of shoppers and whatnot. Some people like my dad would simply leave and forget about looking for a space if one or two rounds around the car park building result in no empty spaces. Other drivers, meanwhile, just go around or park behind the boot of a car and wait for any of the owners to come. Some, who spot an empty at the opposite end, have his/her companion get down and run to the lot to mark it as taken by standing there and waving people away.

But parking on the main road is something I have yet to witness in the Philippines, and which I saw on a Saturday night en route to dinner at Hard Rock Café at Entertainment X’nter on Jl MH Thamrin Kav in Jakarta from Bekasi. Vehicles, pointed out the driver Pak Nana, were parked on the main road, eating up a good three quarters of it, outside of the national stadium. It seemed legitimate because there was were parking officers signaling oncoming traffic to the other side of the road even way back before you hit the road where the stadium is. Apparently, it was the Indonesia Super League and super soccer fans were out in full force. And that meant traffic was reduced to a snail’s crawl from Tebet all the way to the national stadium. *groan*

Singaporeans have a funny way of marking their territory, too so to speak. No they don’t occupy three-quarters of the main road, as they’ll be fined and given a point-deduction.  But I have seen them have their companion reserve the empty lot by standing on it. When it comes to eating spaces, Singaporeans love to reserve tables at hawker centers, canteens and fast food places by placing certain items on the table. The most popular is a packet of tissue while others use their umbrellas. Naturally, foreigners only learn about this rule after living in Singapore for a period of time or if they’re dining with the locals. I think, at one point, one angmo (white man) got back at the locals by putting rolls of tissue paper on all the empty tables at this eating place he frequented. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the saying goes.

Junk food Goodness

Chips are the ones that come to mind when someone mentions junk food. Throw in chocolate chip cookies, ice cream and the sweet and fried stuff that, if taken in excess, really mess up one’s health. Instant noodles are both a favorite snack of Indonesians and Filipinos. A former flat mate of mine – an Indonesian – filled our cupboard with packs of Indo Mie Mie Goreng Original and Mie Goreng Satay instant noodles and was happy as a lark. A box of instant noodles always arrived in the post every month – her mum wasn’t going to let her daughter starve in food-paradise Singapore. I’m no fan of instant noodles, completely put off by the headache-inducing monosodium glutamate. But, out of desperation one time (read: nothing much happening in the fridge), I had Mie goreng. Boiled the noodles until I was certain that whatever preservatives where in the noodles were gone. Skipped the seasoning oil and powder, and chili sauce, but sprinkled the roasted garlic and drizzled kecap manis (sweet sauce) over the noodles. I then piled it high with the tomatoes and cucumber I scrounged from the vegetable crisper and topped it with sunny-side up egg cooked in olive oil.

To my surprise, instant noodles have turned into something like potato chips. I’ve seen my students emptying tubular packets of crispy noodles into their mouths at one go. That’s lunch for them. It’s a cheaper lunch at Rupiah1, 000 per packet compared to, say, Rupiah7, 000 of a bowl of freshly made mie ayam (chicken noodle). That’s healthy diet defined by high school students for you.

Where’s the Dip?

The sweet-ish Jufran banana ketchup is the perfect companion to Max’s fried chicken for most Filipinos and Mang Tomas’ Lechon sauce, which is made out of liver, for the lechon or roasted pig (babi guling as the Indonesians call it). Bottles of chili sauce are not that ubiquitous in Manila although I vaguely remember bottles of hot sauce in pizza places. There’s also bagoong, or shrimp paste, which is not spicy but salty, served with kare-kare (tripe in peanut sauce) and green mangoes.

Meanwhile, the array of dipping sauces for the Indonesians includes the kecap manis that most drizzle over their nasi goreng (fried rice) and which I drizzle over my fried chicken at times. Another is sambal – the Indonesian version of the bagoong – that’s absolutely spicy. Next is the ubiquitous chili sauce. It’s so popular that this Japanese restaurant at Mega Bekasi Mall recommended it as dipping sauce for my ebi tempura –tempura sauce was an alien concept to the waiter and his manager. *rolls eyes*

Fish sauce, on the other hand, is commonplace in the Philippines, Singapore and Thailand. I can’t say I’ve seen a bottle of it at the canteen of Global Prestasi National Plus School.

Which sauce tickles your taste buds?

FUNNY HABITS December 9, 2009

It can’t be helped. It’s seemingly second nature to contrast other people’s customs with one’s own especially when one is visiting or living in another country. One reason for the almost-automatic evaluation is one wants to know how different or similar certain rituals are. Another reason is to trace the origins of a particular custom or ritual, even a word. After all, for example, countries like the Philippines, Indonesia and Malaysia are historically linked to one another hence the similarities in their way of life, from religiosity, festivals to family life.

But it’s the quirks of the Filipinos and Indonesians that have caught my attention, which have raised my eyebrow at several occasions or had me bursting out into laughter at other times. On hindsight, it’s these idiosyncratic tendencies that delineate a Filipino from an Indonesian and vice versa.

Eskimo Fashion

Indonesia and the Philippines are obviously tropical countries so there’s no winter and autumn, which characterize Europe and parts of United States of America. The climate of the two Southeast Asian countries is distinguished by two seasons, wet and dry. Given this glaring truth, it really is eyebrow-raising to see youngsters in Bekasi, Indonesia, wearing thick, heavy jackets, pullovers and hoodies in and out of school. I fully understand if they wear such apparel in class because the temperature inside the room resembles Vancouver’s five degree-temperature. You’d expect frost to form slowly on their noses! But it’s ludicrous to see such clothing worn while they’re riding the angkot or simply out of the classroom. Similarly, in the Philippines, if memory serves me right, some Filipinos have a penchant for wearing leather jackets under the blazing sun. Someone told it has something to do with being cool and looking macho like the Filipino actor/action star Robin Padilla. *rolls eyes*

December is considered a “cold” month so a light cardigan or shawl is expected but most certainly not winter clothing. Imagine macho-looking and stinking to high heavens! Que horror!

Scent of a Gay

Speaking of scent, Filipinos are quick to chastise people reeking of body odor. One can be forgiven for looking like they crawled out of the garbage bin but it’s sacrilegious to smell like sour milk or petrified socks. And this is why deodorants are a must for both men and women. Others go for the more natural chemical-free deodorant such as tawas, which are crystals of purified potassium alum. I expected that to be a must in Indonesia but the scuttlebutt is that it’s not. A friend of mine was told by his colleague that men using deodorant is not common in Indonesia upon learning that he – my friend – used deodorant regularly. He, being a Filipino, was flabbergasted.

“How come?” he queried, intrigued at the phenomenon.

“It’s not manly. Only gays use deodorant,” his colleague said matter-of-factly.

He stared at his colleague, incredulity written all over his face.

I’d rather be branded gay and smelling good than be manly and smelly, he thought to himself.

 

LINGUISTIC TWISTS II November 30, 2009

It’s seems fair enough. After all, we both mangle each other’s language in our attempt to communicate with each other. I mangle their language, Bahasa Indonesia, in my attempt to converse with the locals. For instance, one time I kept on saying I wanted to try the dish nasi duduk when I should have been saying nasi uduk all along. Nasi is Bahasa Indonesia for rice while duduk means to sit in English so it’s really hilarious to hear about someone wanting to taste “sitting rice”, as there’s no such dish. Nasi uduk, or Coconut Milk Rice, is a rice dish traditionally served with fried shallots and Indonesian chili sauce called sambal. In one of the food kiosks at the cafeteria of Global Prestasi School, nasi uduk is served with meat of choice (chicken or beef), shredded scrambled egg and krupok (Indonesian crackers), and drizzled with kecap manis (it’s like soya sauce but thicker and sweeter).

I’ve sorted out my nasi uduk terminologies as well as goblok, the Indonesian word for stupid or idiot. I first heard goblok from my sister who learnt it when she stayed for several months in Yogjakarta years ago in connection with the Artist-in-Residency program of the Cemeti Art Foundation.  When she uttered it I thought she was referring to a friend – I just automatically assumed the person who entered the room was a friend. Apparently, they weren’t friends and his name wasn’t goblok.

The results are equally rib-tickling amusement when the residents of Indonesia twist the English language.

Tough Tail

I have this habit of reading menus from first to the last page. I find it amusing how the food items are named and described in an attempt to make them sound absolutely delectable even though you know, for example, that a drink called Blue Mountain is just soda mixed in with blue syrup or that Chocolate of a Thousand Leaves is really just chocolate cake.

In one menu, I was snickering at one item under Local Favorites, which got me thinking of two things. One, people who love Sop Buntut (Oxtail Soup) must have a taste for the unusual. Two, the chef has gone completely batty. The menu read: Sop Buntut lovers have a choice of the oxtail steamed, fried or drilled.

When the S goes Missing

Having a dish named after an animal will make you think twice about digging into it. And learning that it uses certain animal parts – my mind always reels back to that infamous Scottish dish called Haggis, which is made with sheep’s heart, liver and lungs – would definitely make someone turn vegetarian over night.  But desserts are quite an exception. Chocolate Mousse is a favorite dessert of mine. I’ve long gotten over the image of a moose and its huge antlers popping out of the cup. Similarly, I’ve gotten pass the idea that the pastry chef might have been too experimental and decided to mix in a bit of hair styling gel.

However, I’m far from erasing the idea of a small rodent mixed in with my favorite dessert. At this café at CyberPark Bekasi Mall, part of the menu is Chocolate Mouse priced at Rupiah17, 000 per order. I think I’m better off sticking to my Dindi roti cokelat (chocolate bread) selling for Rupiah5, 000 a bun.

One Too Many

Mathematics has always been my waterloo but I do know my basic sums.  It’s not like I intentionally  set out to hate Mathematics , In fact, it’s the other way around – numbers don’t like me, they run away from me particularly the fractions, percentages,  and their cohorts. I thought I was the worse example of a Mathematics student until I attended this “concert” – a friend was singing so I lent moral support.

Someone had a jolly good time with Power Point presentation and flashed the program on screen inside the hall. Every number was a special song – no one bothered to find out the titles of the songs. My attention was held completely by two slides.

One slide read “Special Song”, single by Rainer Remuba. Impressive – one of the participants already had a single out in the market. Apparently, I was mistaken, as I learnt that the singer hadn’t released any single at all. He was simply going to do a solo number.

Next slide read “Special Song”, duet by Kezia and friend. Great – I get to listen to wonderful blending of two voices (Indonesians have beautiful voices). One singer went up on stage and started to sing. Wait a minute, I said to myself. What happened to the other? There was no second singer.

Is it a case of last-minute change in the program, merry mix-up or of one too many? I wondered.

SURREAL November 28, 2009

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred of Years of Solitude always comes to mind whenever I’m faced with absolutely surreal events that completely defy logic. In Singapore, many years ago, I was nonplussed at the waiter’s explanation of why he couldn’t move another table to accommodate late comers to a gathering I was at. His reason was that the table we wanted moved belonged to section A, and we were in section B. There was no point in talking with him because he remained adamant in his decision. Never mind that our group was quite a big one running up a huge bill. Never mind that he missed the point of what a gathering was – how can you segregate people in a gathering when the whole point is to come together? And to make it more tragic was the smug look on his face that seemed to taunt us of his empty victory.

A friend of mine also had her share of surreal moments when she was still in the teaching field. One incident she couldn’t forget was the utter lack of common sense in this student who, otherwise, was courteous, diligent and well-mannered. She – my friend – was in the office waiting to use the photocopier when she saw the student. He was about to leave the office and his hands were full. He was holding a guitar case with his left hand and a bag with his right. What she saw next flabbergasted her.  The young man proceeded to walk towards the door and just stood there for a couple of minutes, things in hand, wondering how he’d open the door while holding his things. Luckily for the young man, another person was coming in and gladly opened the door for him. To this day, she wondered what he would have done if no body, at that point, came through the door. She would, of course, have helped but would dove tail it with a dressing-down for his failure to use his head.

Recently, I went through a spate of surrealist episodes (magic realist moments in Marquez parlance) that left me wondering if what I learned in school really mattered in the real world. Somehow all the talk about rational thinking, hospitality, among others, are merely for convention’s sake, and don’t have any deeper meaning to them at all.

The first was when I was checking-in for my flight back to Indonesia from Singapore. The time of departure was delayed by about 40 minutes.

“It’s not delayed Ma’am,” said the cabin crew matter-of-factly when I asked her for the reason for the delay. “The departure time was re-timed, which is normal for AirAsia. It’s done every six months and we’re now following the winter flight schedule. You should have been informed via e-mail or SMS.”

Nice euphemism for delayed flight – re-timed flight. Luckily, she explained everything with a smile or she wouldn’t have anything to smile about after my little chat with her.

Back in Indonesia, there is much to be desired about the level of customer service (and they say customer service in Singapore is atrocious!). In a branch of Pizza Hut in Bekasi, at Metropolitan Mall, enquiring about why your order of, in my case, fish and chips is taking so long will get you an infuriating reply of “I don’t know.”  To make the situation worse, your order arrives not piping hot, but cold.  Moreover, they bill you wrongly and it takes forever for the mistake to be rectified.

In another restaurant, the noodle-rice place Baso Malang Karapitan, which is also at Metropolitan Mall, gives you the feeling that you’re not a trustworthy customer so you have to pay upfront after ordering. When the waitress was done taking our orders, she simply demanded – it felt like a demand – that we pay without delay.  Hospitality has certainly been reworked in this restaurant – and it’s not even a fast food joint.

Ordering McFlurry at McDonald’s is another unreal experience. It seems that the McFlurry machine – that blender-like machine – is just for display. Order a McFlurry and you’ll get a chocolate sundae in a McFlurry cup topped with nuts and drizzled with chocolate sauce. The attendant seemed surprised when I pointed out that he didn’t use the machine.

“Ah, you want it blended?” he asked, quite surprised at my statement.

“Yes, that’s the whole point of a McFlurry, isn’t it?” I answered back.

He smiled sheepishly and got to work in making the proper McFlurry.

An experience in at Gokkokan Teppanyaki at Mega Bekasi Hypermark, which is parallel to Metropolitan Mall, possibly takes the cake in bizarre dining experiences. Unless the rules of eating tempura have changed, ebi tempura is usually served with tempura sauce. Apparently, it’s different in Bekasi where they’ve rewritten the rules of enjoying Japanese cuisine. Tempura sauce is unheard of! I asked the manager of the restaurant – I didn’t trust the server who looked like he hadn’t a clue about Japanese cuisine – who was equally oblivious. He just pointed to the bottles of tomato and chili sauces sitting on the table and walked away.

Weird, annoying and frustrating as the episodes might seem, they provide a sense of comic relief and equilibrium to life’s vicissitudes. They also serve to remind everyone to be a little more flexible, a little more forgiving and a little more open to differences in circumstance no matter how exasperating they maybe. Naturally, the flip side of the situation is, while one is accepting, one shouldn’t lose sight of what’s right and the rationality of a situation. After all, pardon the cliché, life is one delicate balancing act.