Dave Gullett

The past few days since returning from our stay with our Indonesian hosts have been very eventful. This weekend we were privileged to be invited to a traditional Javanese wedding between one of the staff here and her fiancé. The ceremony can last up to seven days, though in Jakarta they are often shortened to a weekend. Some aspects of the ceremony are held privately and separately for the bride and groom and their families. The part which we attended on Friday afternoon was the Siraman, or ritual bathing. The bride is bathed with scented water by her parents and distinguished female relatives as a symbol of her purity. The ceremony took place in a garden like area of the family home, decorated with flowers and was accompanied by a traditional Javanese band. After the bathing, the guests are given Javanese coins to exchange with the parents for a kind of brown sugar beverage. Then the father releases a chicken which guest must catch as s symbol of good fortune for the marriage. Then there is the meal. And like most Indonesian meals they don’t hold much back. The variety and quantity of the food is amazing. The ceremony ends with greeting the bridal parents as you leave, since traditionally the bride is kept in seclusion until the next day. Saturday afternoon we attended what was basically the reception. The marriage ceremony, held earlier in private, is reenacted for the viewing of the guests. There is a lot of ritual and tradition in how the ceremony progresses and it is full of beauty. As the couple are Christians, it differed somewhat from the true traditional ritual, but held as close as possible to its form. The end of the reception was marked by another large meal and lots of celebrating. With all the ceremony, picture taking and feasting we didn’t make it back to the guest house til very late. There isn’t enough time to describe the whole thing in the detail it deserves, but these sites might help a little: http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Pagoda/4455/inhoud.htm http://website.lineone.net/~suryo/suryowed.html(Bear in mind that they are outside links) The most obvious differences of the Javanese wedding are its adherence to tradition al culture and its emphasis on the whole involvement of both families. All in all it was an amazing experience to be allowed to be a part of.

That’s what I tried today.

When I came to Indonesia I decide to follow the dictum of Dan Allender, president of Mars Hill graduate School, and “Try anything moral once”.

So for lunch today I had a plate of rice (because here without rice you haven’t eaten) and a decent sized helping of daging anjing.

It was spicier than I expected.

And had small bits of bone in it.

And was full of grizzle.

Dan saya tidak suka. (And I did not like it)

Although I suppose if necessary I could eat it again.

But I am not looking forward to it.

So what is daging anjing.

Its a popular dish among the people of Menado in northern Sulawesi here in Indonesia.

And….

It’s meat from what used to be man’s best friend.

Disclaimer: If you’re looking for a short, encouraging update that has consistent grammar and an uplifting point, you might want to skip this one. If you prefer honesty, keep reading. There is something inherently dignified about a violinist. Maybe it is their particular posture or facial expression. Maybe it is the craftsmanship of the violin itself. Or perhaps the dignity comes from the convergence of the artist and their instrument, the experience of the created creating together. Whatever the reason a violinist exudes dignity. One does not mock a violinist. Not if one has any since of beauty at all. One does not ignore a violinist. Even a novice demands attention from her audience. Rather the sometimes haunting strains that come from its strings, twining beauty and sadness and grace and sorrow into continuous melodies enrapt us, move our souls, even bringing tears to our eyes. Such raw emotion is brought forth not only by the master, highly practiced and perfected… But also by the beggar playing whatever he knows to earn change to feed himself as he serenades a cross town bus. The children who step on board singing folk songs or tapping rattles, you give them a few rupiah out of compassion or guilt. The teenage guitarists entertain with their renditions of Bob Dylan and John Denver; you give them change because the show was at least worth that. The ranting poets and storytellers might get change, if they don’t smell too bad, yell too loud or harass the other passengers. But for me all this was done with a bit of emotional detachment, a bit of reflex rather than response. Until that violinist broke my heart. I’m not sure why it took him to do it and I’m not sure how I got so calloused so quickly. It has only been two weeks since I started commuting from across town to the office here in Jakarta. It’s a time consuming trip to say the least. In order to be in by eight, I get up at four and hit the road by five or five-thirty at the latest. The first leg of the journey is made in an “ancot” Basically, its an old Toyota minivan of sorts with two sideways bench seats in the back. Fully loaded (and they rarely move when they are not) they seat at least 13, and sometimes more. There are thousands of ancots and they run routes in neighborhoods all around the city, each one color coded according to the beginning and ending of the route. In the morning ours is green and white. They belch diesel smoke and travel slowly through the early morning haze and congestion then speed recklessly when the traffic flows. On a good day the ancot gets us to the bus station in 45 minutes to an hour. Our alternating sprint and meander takes us through dusty city streets crowded with “becaks” (three wheeled bike taxis), “bajai” (three wheeled motorized taxis that look lie a cartoon golf cart), more “sepeda motor” than one could count (scooters and motorcycles), buses, trucks, and any other “mobile” you can probably imagine. Add to that countless pedestrians, many pushing or pulling carts, carrying loads or rolling “kaki lima” (roadside vending carts) all along roads hopelessly out of date and all too narrow. We pass shops and open markets, houses in varying states of disrepair and countless abandoned structures along the way. Things change, though, when we get to the bus station. The TransJakarta busway is the new ultra modern mass transit system being built to replace the old, decrepit “metro minis”. These are small diesel buses that seat about 20 and are not even regarded as safe by those who live here. They are neglected mechanically and are a haven for pickpockets and the like. In most areas of the city, though, there is no other way to get around that is affordable by most since it costs only 2000 rupiah (about 2 dollars). In contrast, the TransJakarta is new, modern, computerized and air conditioned. The buses are far nicer than those of most US cities. There are attendants (guards) on every bus and at most stations keeping order and ensuring safety. Its no coincidence that the TransJakarta line goes straight into the center of the government and financial district of Jakarta. As we ride on the scenery progressively becomes more and more modern and less and less decrepit. From the tiny shops and road side vendors we move on to shopping centers, supermarkets and malls. We pass several hotels, many banks and at least four Starbucks coffee shops as the bus rolls steadily on. When we reach downtown after about an hour we transfer to a second TransJakarta for the next leg of the trip. By now the sun is fully rises and throngs are making their way to their jobs. The bus is packed and often we end up standing most of the way. The route of the second bus takes us through the rest of the business district and into what I suppose would be called a depressed area of the city. Once the main area for shopping and trade, the Blok M area is still popular but is overshadowed by newer shopping areas around the city. It’s a good place for deals, though, as most vendors will bargain with you and since some sections while not quite black market, are certainly on the edge. The trip to blok M takes about 45 minutes, so generally we’re there by 7:30. Here the TrasnJakarta ends its route and we transfer to “taksi” to finish up the trip. Not all taksi are created equal and we stick with Blue Bird. They actually use the meter and are very reliable, and the drivers usually know where they are going. Other companies tend to be sketchy and unreliable. The taksi ride takes about 30 minutes and passes quickly. Usually the whole process takes 3 hours in the morning, and up to 4 hours in the evening to get back home. It’s been a long two weeks to say the least. And maybe the exhaustion is what made me calloused. Or maybe that between Indonesian lessons, commuting, eating and a little bit of sleep there just hasn’t been much time for reflection at all. So when the violinist woke me from my fitful nap on the way home Thursday night, I suppose I was ready to have my eyes reopened. To actually see what is around me again. And it’s about time too. Last night was our last night with our Indonesian hosts, and this morning was my last three hour commute through Jakarta. And thanks to that violinist I remembered to look at what matters most. Not the traffic, not the shops and buildings, not the statues and scenery, but instead I saw the people. People just like the violinist. People just trying to survive. People trying to find security and hope in a culture that offers little of either. Factory workers, security guards, bankers, bureaucrats, students, executives, salesmen, beggars and thieves all breathing but not all living. All hearing, but not all listening to the sounds.. All looking, but not all seeing what is around them. Closing their eyes, trying to sleep, trying to shut out the world for just a few minutes Just like I was. Until God used the violinist to wake me up. I think I gave him 750 rupiah for his trouble.

So it’s been a busy week here in Jakarta. We’ve been staying with Indonesian families in different parts of the city all since last Monday afternoon. It has been quite the interesting experience. Like many things here there is a mix between the familiar and the strange. Three of us have been staying with the parents of the Indonesian girl who is the assistant leader of the team. They’ve lived in Jakarta for 12 years but are originally from Manado in the north of the island of Sulawesi. Like many Manadoese they are Christian, and they are ethnically Chinese. Their family speaks Indonesian, some Mandarin, and Manado at home. They all also speak varying amounts of English. The family lives in a typical Indonesian home in a neighborhood on the outskirts of Jakarta near the airport. If the winds are just right the climb out pattern for the airliners is almost over head. The house is small by our standards, one of several in a row made of block and stucco with the typical tile roof. In front of the house is a concrete patio where the family parks their motor scooter. The main room and two small bedrooms are tiled and have basic furnishings. The living room has two chairs and a few plastic stools for gatherings, a writing desk, bookshelf and small fish tank. There is also a small TV on which we have been watching the World Cup. The bathroom is typically Indonesian, with tile walls and floors and the typical Indonesian “plumbing”. There is a cistern that holds ground water for washing and a blue barrel that holds clean water for rinsing. Since Indonesian bathrooms are “wet”, there is no separate shower like in western baths. There is also no shower head or tub, and the toilet isn’t exactly a toilet, but that’s all one needs to know about that. Unless, you’re here of course. The kitchen is in the back of the house, added onto what might have once been a patio. The roof is open in places to allow sunlight, rain and the occasional lizard in. They have basic appliances and running water, but because the water isn’t potable there is another blue barrel for washing and cooking. Beside the refrigerator is a water cooler that holds “white water” for drinking. There’s a table and chairs, some shelving and a old LPG oven and separate cook top set on blocks, I think. Ibu (their word for ma’am) prepares food on the floor, sitting on a small wooden block, in the traditional fashion. All in all it’s a simple home, modest by Indonesian standards but not impoverished, though to our eyes it seems at first derelict. It’s darker and dirtier than we would like, and maybe a bit crowded. Whatever they may lack in material things, or modern technology or “western” comfort is overshadowed by their humility and hospitality. They do everything they can to take care of us and make us comfortable and welcome in their home. They food they provide is so amazing. It’s a mix of Chinese and Indonesian, and is do good…though having rice three times a day and noodles at least twice might take some getting used to. Getting to know this family and the language and their way of life has been a challenge and a blessing. Sometimes you feel every bit at home, and sometimes you wonder exactly where you are. But every minute has been worth it, building relationships and learning about them and about ourselves. The next time I have a chance to write, I’ll talk about our morning, and evening, commutes….