Ramblings from Patti

time is both passing incrementally and then also monumentally as the countdown to leaving is this friday. we splurged for an a/c room in an a seaside hotel with all the types of things that work. Fresh water (4 nights w Salt water in the Gili Islands), private garden, amazing island beach view, hot water, air conditioning (our first), no ants, yes crickets/termites, real mattress, butter (not marg), evaporated milk for coffee (my first as usually is sweetened condensed) and fresh towels everyday. got a screaming deal of $35 a night including tax as we are one of only three in the whole place so it's as if we own it. met some divers from Hungary on the boat coming back from Gili Islands who have their own private driver for a month who gave us a half hour ride to Candi Dasa and this hotel. it's a beautiful spot. They are living the high life as it is so inexpensive and do whatever they want.

traveling on the cheap has been a mental strain for me and something i work through. to live in pure luxury by western standards is so cheap (ie. our $35 room above) and yet we have opted until now for $10-15 places with the fan and waking up soaking wet in the middle of the night from the lack of air flow/humidity/temperature. sleeping on the Gili's was definitely challenging for me (wondering what would be in the room at night when turning on the lights to go to the bathroom) and i kept asking myself why to do such? maybe to remember early days with Tweeter (when a fan would have been a luxury in the south pacific), respect Julia's student minded budget or think that it really doesn't matter to me. Yahoo- i have two nights now of $35 here and then we go to the 5 star hotel in Kuta which in retrospect i must be COMPLETELY out of mind to pay $100/night!). Good thing i booked it two months ago! so, getting older definitely has it's handicaps as my flexibility is not so resilient. Changing between locations is another area for me to improve.

admittedly when julia would discuss not knowing if, when or how she might be going someplace in the last three months it would occur to me that it was julia's communication style. i had completely forgotten what it is like to be traveling - my fault! communication here is much like playing telephone with young children as there is never a concrete policy or schedule for anything as it is always changing and takes place incrementally as each person calls the next. getting to Gilli was like this with so many people being involved in the issuing, touching, calling,contacting, transferring and taking of our sole ticket. we looked at the one ticket as if it was our passport and were very nervous when it was out of our hands! once when it was out of our hands and the person gone for 10 minutes we thought surely we had just lost our $75. not the worst issue but one that undermines your trust in the next experience especially as we do hear stories of this.

the Indonesians are very nice especially all of the men who constantly approach you for taxi, tour or motorcycle. there are many men all around us all the time for this and other foreigners and women are especially hidden in the background. this is so hard for me in two ways: as one being a woman it makes it obvious how women (even tourist)stand from the man's perspective; and also just seeing the lack of freedom and opportunity for the women in general. they say that 40% of the Muslim population in the world is under the poverty limit and julia and i would guess that Indonesia would be more along the lines of 90% or more. people are really at some bare levels here as we find out anecdotally through individual stories all the time. $5 to come and visit a son that has lived away for 7 years is just too much bus fare for the parent to afford. this is heart wrenching to think about this money separating families on a long term basis and makes me feel so sorry for the priorities that must be met first and recognize the complete ease of our life in the states.

well, it's almost $1.25 of my internet time and thinking in terms of rupiah $12,000 is my goal instead of thinking in dollars. That way it's more of the local shock of saying, "really, $15,000 rupiah for a beer? too much!!!!"

all is quintessentially well in my travels, world and life and reflecting on this from a past, present and future tense is also included.

The Pasar

The traditional Indonesian market, the pasar, is all but extinct in most of Indonesia, slowly replaced by the convenient one-stop supermarkets. On the island just east of Bali, Lombok, few pasar exist at all, but on Bali, the pasar still thrive, sustained by the ancient rules of Hinduism. Hindu people are required by their gods to dedicate offerings several times a day, and they are required by their village to buy the supplies for the offerings in the pasar. Hence, while the traditional markets throughout a densely Muslim Indonesia disappear, the markets of Hindu Bali thrive still.

From the early morning on, women lay out their wares to sell. In Ubud, the local women selling food and offerings from woven baskets to other local women leave by 9:00, opening the space for more permanent stalls to open for the tourists, selling textiles and handicrafts. It is clear, that before 9:00, the tourist does not belong in the pasar, and after 9:00 they only represent a healthy and naïve wallet. I unknowingly entered the pasar at 7:00 one morning in Ubud in search for some fried bananas to snack on a pre-breakfast walk. As soon as I walked up to the lady selling pisang goring, among other things, the surrounding locals started commenting on the tourist trying to mingle. After five harrowing minutes, I bought my four pisang goring for four thousand Rupiah and fled, knowing I had been scammed- I should have gotten 20 for that price- but too afraid to try to bargain.

After my failed pasar experience, I decided to go with the experts, and next time arrived to a pasar near the orphanage with Komang, the cook, and another girl, Cynthia. We walked through every type of fruit my American imagination could fathom and more. Ginger was spread on the road between stalls under the sun drying. Baskets filled with small purple onions stretched into the shadows of the stalls, covered by tarps, while rows of baskets of small dried and bony fish sat waiting with hundreds of glassy eyes unseeingly staring ahead. Traditional Balinese dresses for religious ceremonies hung on models colorful rainbows of lace, and in the next row down, a woman chopped up chicken on a stump of wood with a machete. The ground, damp from yesterday’s rain, had spilled and wasted produce littering the main walkways while the traditional offerings, the life source of the pasar, tucked under poles and behind baskets, wafted incense into the air.

I had only wanted to come to the market to watch, to discover what prices Komang wrangled from the sellers, to learn how to bargain. But Komang had decided to come to the market for me, thinking I wanted to buy something. Luckily, while the pasar is a great place to buy fruits and vegetables, it is also a wonderful place to buy traditional sweets. From stall to stall, Komang practically danced, knowingly examining rice sweets and explaining her white shadow with a laugh. She didn’t bargain, just requested, received, and paid the given price. Only one time, when looking at some sweet oranges, did Komang walk away from a price. She started examining the oranges, squeezing and smelling while the vendor assured her they were sweet, opening one for her to see, maybe even sample. Komang didn’t touch it, asked how much for one kilo (10,000 Rp, I think), shook her head, and walked away. I was surprised by her either downright acceptance or rejection of products, and I wondered also: would those same women have given me the same prices for those same items had I been by myself? (Since then I have received some bargaining lessons and pricing guidelines from Chi Chi, my problem solver.)

My local pasar experience was much more enjoyable than the few harrowing moments I spent in Ubud. Accompanied by two locals, I was excusable entertainment, a tourist with an appreciation for traditional sweets and a good humor, essential when everyone else knows more than you, but even with them I didn’t quite belong. If I have the choice, I will probably choose to avoid the early morning pasar in any village, venturing in later, after the seriousness lifts and just before the hot weather sets in. And if I lose my humor and still cannot find my place in the pasar, I know that the Circle K just down the street has banana flavored, SpongeBob themed ice cream bars with smiley faces.

Cynthia

Some girls live in the orphanage because their families are too poor to afford to feed them and send them to school, others are here because they have no family, and finally a few are here because where they live is not safe. Cynthia is from the island of Sulawasi. She came to the Untal-Untal orphanage because just before she was about to start junior high school, riots broke out in her town. Her father woke her up in the middle of the night, told her to get dressed, and together with her mother, her family fled their home and their village. From a hilltop, she watched her village light up in flame, and at one point, her father showed her which fire was their house. Thankfully, it was not her house that was burned, but the small building right on the road which they used as a small store. When Cynthia returned to her village, she found out three people were killed, including her favorite teacher. In order for Cynthia to go to junior and senior high school safely, her parents sent her to Bali while they remain in Sulawasi fulfilling their service as pastors.

. Cynthia is amazingly generous with her time: if she has a holiday, she spend it in the kitchen frying tofu balls for dinner, and once she spent over four hours helping me find a lady in Denpasar to figure out my visa. A wonderful friend, she told me once that if her friend needs help she will do anything to help them, and if she cannot help them she becomes really sad and cries. That’s another thing about Cynthia, she wears her emotions right out there on her sleeves, and sometimes her attitude crosses over from emotional to down right dramatic (which is quite hilarious, really). One night we corrected a practice test she took in preparation for the final exams, and she had a few answers which she had changed the right answer to the wrong one. As we went through and came upon each these problems she would exclaim, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh. My. God. OhmyGod!” I thought the world was about to end right then and there.

Originally Cynthia wanted to become a doctor but after finding out how long she would have to go to school for, she decided that maybe a nice English degree would be just the right thing for her. Besides taking national exams and school finals, she has been applying to university English programs (I guess Senior year is the same everywhere). Now, she is just looking forwards to returning home to Sulawasi and her family for a month in June once she gets her test scores.

It is easy to forget or never even learn what really happens to people after violence or disaster because that reality is either not newsworthy or so long lasting that the world cannot keep interest. But Cynthia is a living, breathing, tofu-frying reminder of the reality of conflict. When I read about all the “bad stuff” that happens, now I don’t just think of the families of the people killed, I think of the children like Cynthia, who had to run from their homes in the middle of the night and watch their safe place burn.

　

Chi Chi

It took me over three weeks to learn everyone’s names at the orphanage. When I first arrived, I couldn’t tell anyone apart by how they looked, and so I had to depend on recognizing their earrings or hairstyle. Now, I laugh at myself for only seeing brown skin and black hair because everyone looks so different to my trained eye. But that’s what I required: training. Now that I know everyone’s names and stories, I thought it would only be right to introduce you to some of the people who I have spent so much time with for the last ten weeks.

Chi Chi was my first friend at the orphanage. The evening I arrived, jetlagged and blurry-eyed, she came right up to me and asked for help with her English homework. From that point on though, she’s been helping me. Because she has some of the best English of the girls here, I constantly ask her for translations, and she and I would often sit up on the balcony exchanging English grammar for Indonesian vocabulary. Chi Chi goes to a vocational school close by where she learns all about multimedia.

She loves computers and technology in general. Her dream is to own an iPod, and she often comes into my room to listen to mine. Everyone here loves pop music; it is the only type of music they listen to, and I don’t think Chi Chi is particularly impressed with most of the songs on my iPod. When Chi Chi has a CD or tape cassette (who knew those still existed) she listens to it over and over again. One evening she listened to “21 Guns” by Green Day three times in a row before I had to ask her to change the song. Besides Green Day, Chi Chi loves Justin Beiber, and because of her multimedia background, she is able to take pictures of Justin and photo-shop herself into them.

Besides her music preferences, I go to Chi Chi whenever I have a problem. She helped me pick out my outfit the first time I went to church and reminded me to bring a few thousand Rupiah to put in the basket they pass around; she has killed the countless cockroaches that live under my desk and find their way into my bathroom; she even helped me de-lice my hair with minimal humiliation.

I’m not sure what Chi Chi wants to do with her life. She is only 15, but with her English skills and knowledge of computers I am confident she can create a good future for herself. She has a family who loves and supports her and good friends. I know that she will do fine without me, but already I am beginning to worry what I will do without her! She helped me transition to life in a different country, with a different language and customs, and I will miss her and, as much as I make fun of them, her photo-shopped pictures of Justin as well.

A cremation ceremony procession in Mas.

An oh-so-cute monkey in Ubud.

Just the Way We Get By

I have spent the last however many weeks with mismatched flip flops. It’s not too obvious that I am wearing different shoes, but I can never forget because one shoe is more worn than the other. So my left foot always has a slightly more comfortable walk than the right. I brought them with me because when I was packing for Bali, I couldn’t for the life of me find a matching pair of flip flops in my house, and so far, I haven’t seen a need to buy a new pair since these different flip flops serve the same purpose as matching ones would.

A lot of Bali is mismatched and well worn. Like America, people use what they have, but unlike America, people keep using what they have and work around what they do not have. For example, the Untal Untal orphanage only has 2 cutting boards. One is wooden and about the size of a paperback book. Although it is thick, the wood has warped, but the cutting surface is still usable, and therefore, we use it. The other cutting board is plastic, a pastel mint green. We can only use one side of it though because the other side has been burnt or melted and dirtied. Because this cutting board has been warped as well and doesn’t lay flat on the table, it is important to place the board the right way and cut in the right spot. We use these two cutting boards to feed over 70 people 3 times a day.

In an American household, replacements would have been bought years ago and these items (and items like them) would have been thrown away for the sake of efficiency, quality, and ease. It is true; it is much easier and much more enjoyable to work with quality equipment. But the Balinese are not as spoiled as us Americans, and it seems to me that they work with what they have until it disintegrates. No one complains or talks about replacing the warped cutting boards, dull knives, our single ragged mop, or shortage of spoons. That is just the way life is, and the Balinese work with what they have.

This use-until-disintegrated habit can seem like a less wasteful, more responsible way to use resources, but it is not by choice, and given the opportunity, I think the Balinese would adopt consumerism enthusiastically. I work with what I have here, but my frugality is self-imposed. I could buy a new pair of shoes across the street for $2 if I wanted; I just don’t care enough to do so. The Balinese work with what they have because they cannot afford to have more, and if and when they can afford to do so, the Balinese will explore new found wealth and will adopt American-like consumerism just like they have with cell phones, Valentines Day, and Facebook.

In Bali, I am fine walking around for over two months with mismatched shoes because it’s just the way life is. But in America, I would have bought new shoes months ago, probably even before I realized I had a pair of mismatched sandals, probably before I noticed that the right foot was worn. I prefer to have nice, easily usable things, although I believe that our American consumerism is wasteful and irresponsible. (I am a walking, talking contradiction, but acknowledging I have a problem is the first step to solving it.) I think that it is important to find a balance between Balinese frugality and American consumerism which optimizes comfort and sustainability. I am already excited to embrace quality and flat cutting boards when I return to America, but while I am in Bali, I will work with what I have and continue to favor my right foot.

Traditional Ogoh-ogoh