Don't sit next to children in moving vehicles

On Friday, I learned a valuable lesson:  Don't sit next to children in vehicles.  In fact, don't allow ibus (mothers) with children to sit next to you either.  It might seem heartless, but trust me.  Don't do it.

Those children might pee on you.  Literally.

I am riding along in a Toyota Kijang from Rantepao to Makale enroute to see Eda so we can explore Toraja together.  The ride is a good half hour drive and, in typical Indonesian transportation style, I'm squished alongside 11 other people.  Kijangs, in case you didn't know, are small SUVs that hold 7 people - 3 in the back, 3 in the middle, 2 in the front, but this is Indonesia, where people cram as many passengers into one car as possible. 

All of a sudden, I feel something wet on my seat, creeping alongside my leg.  Flinching, I frantically look around for the source of this unpleasant mishap, convinced that maybe I had left an open water bottle in my purse.  "Basah! Apa itu???"  I exclaim, searching the car for the wet source.  The ibu next to me shakes her head in confusion.  Her little boy, probably about 5 years old based on his little SD (elementary school) uniform, tugs on his mother's sleeve and whispers in her ear, stealing tiny glances at me. She glances at me sharply and quickly turns her head away.  With horror, I realize that the boy just wet his pants and I am in fact sitting, soaked, in his urine.

And we still have 25 minutes to go until Makale.

One thing you come to realize in Indonesia is that often situations are out of your control and you just have to let things go.  I could have expressed frustration and irritation, but what good would that do me?  The poor kid couldn't help himself - it was an accident.  There was nothing I could do - I still had a 25 minute drive, I couldn't change my clothes in a car crammed with 12 people, and getting upset wouldn't change the fact that I was stuck in the back corner of a car, covered in urine.  So, I smiled at Ibu (who I'm sure was embarrassed) and said "Tidak apa-apa" (it's okay), popped my earbuds in, and listened to my iPod for the remainder of the drive.

Indonesia's a tough country for Americans to experience.  I've woken up on non-air conditioned bus rides through the jungles of Borneo to find strangers touching my face and hair and taking pictures of me sleeping.  One time, I was on a bus and discovered upon waking that there was a line (I kid you not, A LINE) of people who wanted to touch my nose (Indonesians love my Eastern European long nose, which they often point to and exclaim "Hidung mancet!"  Pointed nose!).  I often see Indonesian boys creepily taking pictures of me on their handphones, pretending to text even though it's quite obvious that they're snapping photos.  The other night, I battled a spider almost as big as my hand (and I mean LEGIT spider, not some daddy longlegs) that refused to die when I sprayed it with bug spray.  I was in a motorcycle accident and was given placenta gel (the placenta of what I really don't want to know).  Needless to say, my injuries didn't heal.  I've been stuck in airports, missed ferries and flights, been served fish heads and chicken feet for dinner, and encountered people who didn't respect me or treat me fairly.

The key is to not get upset.  You can't always control your circumstances and showing frustration or anger merely exacerbates the problem.  To be able to enjoy Indonesia, you have to be able to let go of the things that might annoy you as an American. Acknowledge that you're not in control of the situation.  Let the circumstances be an opportunity for personal growth and character development.  Learn patience and understanding.  Try to see every challenge from an Indonesian perspective and realize that you might be overdramatizing an incident through the way you perceive it.  Understand that things will never work in an American way.  If you're able to let go and laugh off ridiculous circumstances, you'll integrate and adapt much quicker and things will bother you less.

My best piece of advice from personal experience is this:  Let the Fulbright program teach you patience, compassion, understanding, kindness, humility, grace, and endurance.  Don't sit there and try to mold Fulbright (or any cultural exchange for that matter) into what you think it should be from an American perspective.  Let it change you into a more open-minded individual.

That being said, develop a really good poker face.

And don't sit next to children.

Welcome to Toraja

It's cold here.  Fresh, crisp, American fall cool, sans colored leaves and pre-winter chills.  The weather in Toraja is perfect - sometimes sunny and warm without being unbearably hot and humid, sometimes cool and moist, like an autumn rainy day.  I wake up burrowed under my thick blankets and step out of bed into the crisp, cold morning air.  It's too cold to take a shower in the morning from my low pressure shower.  It's so cold, in fact, that I heat my water and pour it into a large plastic bin, so I can scoop it over my head with a plastic scooper.  No long showers here.

I live in a village, approximately 2 kilometers from Rantepao, the largest town in the province of Toraja, South Sulawesi.  Town is an overstatement, I think, since Rantepao is about 1/8 the size of Bontang, the town in which I lived last year in Kalimantan (Borneo).  Rantepao is a town of contradictory ideas.  There are so many bule here - foreigners from America, France, Germany, the Netherlands, Australia and other places - who tour around to see Torajan mountains and funerals.  I have yet to sit in a cafe in which I am the only non-Indonesian person there and I'm not sure .  The prices in the local warungs reflect the tourism industry - nasi goreng (fried rice) costs about Rp. 20.000, groceries cost double what they did in Kalimantan, and everyone solicits me on the streets for ojek rides, tourist excursions, etc.  I'm not used to this side of Indonesia. 

At the same time, I can't find yogurt or fresh milk, among other items non-existent in my village.  In fact, I buy most of my groceries in Makassar, a large city and international hub 8 hours away, due to the limited supplies of necessities I can't find here.  The roads are tiny and crowded, bustling with sitors (motorbikes pushing covered seated carts around town), motorbikes, cars, and the occasional truck full of kerbau (buffalo) in the back, heading to a funeral.  There are lots of small shops with everything imagineable - mechanics shops with pipes, tires, and appliance pieces (imagine the mechanics/plumbing/construction sections of Home Depot thrown together in a space the size of a convenience store), and housewares shops with plastic tubs, dishes, rugs, ovens, stoves, and shelves.  Shopping in Rantepao (in any Indonesian community for that matter) is like rummage sale/Goodwill/secondhand shopping.  It's chaotic and crazy - everything crammed together in tiny, barely walkable aisles, dishes piled next to cleaning supplies that are randomly placed in front of feminine care products.  

Begitu.  It's like that.  I love it.  Shopping for even basic necessities is like an unexpected treasure hunt - you find things you need and want in places you'd never expect.  The other day, I found Fillippo Bergio Italian olive oil next to bottles of sambal (chile sauce), chocolate chips on the top shelf above instant noodles, and Pepsi wedged between chocolate milk and beer in the tiny local grocery store.  The ability to find tems available on a day to day basis changes constantly - one day you might find spaghetti noodles, the next day they're gone and you won't see them for two months.  Imagine if Kroger or Meijer or Whole Foods suddenly stopped providing cheese, noodles, or some other item for a few weeks.  Hence I stock up on products I like when I find them.  I never know what will be available in my grocery store.

Rantepao is a bustling little town, due (I think) to the influx of tourists and constant funeral preparations.  However, the town still retains its village-like mentality and charm.  When I drive around with my counterpart, he always rolls the car window down to extend greetings to his friends and neighbors around town.  The employees of every store I visit know Pak Marthen and SMA Kristen Barana'.  Random people I meet in warungs (small cafes), on ojeks (motorcycle drivers who act as taxis), on the streets...all know "Mr. Ezra," my friend and fellow ETA from last year.  I love the close-knit feel of the community - it's much more communal than Bontang.  Also, people use the local language much more frequently here than in Bontang, probably due to the fact that most people here speak the same language, Bahasa Toraja, because they're Torajan.  Bontang is very ethnically diverse, with Dayak, Kutai, Banjar, Bugis, Javanese, Torajan, Minahasan, Balinese, and Batak people all living together in the same town.  Everyone spoke Bahasa Indonesia in order to understand each other.  Here in Rantepao, people interchangeably use Bahasa Toraja and Bahasa Indonesia, even mixing the two languages together.  It's a fascinating place to live and I can't wait to learn more about the culture.