The Call

            The email that I quoted in my last entry is proof that I am some sort of American devil. Look at it, all righteous and demanding.

            One time, when I was hitchhiking with Laura in Costa Rica, we got picked up by an American who already had two Costa Ricans in the small car, and as we drove, he had a kind of simultaneous conversation with Laura and me, in regular speed English, and with the Costa Ricans, who appeared to speak excellent English, in Loud Slow English, the official language of many American travelers abroad. To Laura and me he would say things like, “I love Costa Rica, you’ve got to travel to the west coast, you’ve got to see…” and so forth, extolling the virtues of the country. To the Costa Ricans, he would say things like, “THE   CORN    YOU   EAT   IN    YOUR   COUNTRY   IS   THE   CORN    WE    FEED   TO  OUR    CATTLE    IN   THE     UNITED    STATES.”

            That email I wrote to Tina proves that I am that American.

            While I was on the phone last night, speaking to a friend, I ignored the incoming call like I always do. But after I hung up I listened to the message and cursed myself: “Hello, this is Tina calling from the office in Jakarta. I left a message at your work office last week and I am trying to call your home.” I frantically emailed her and she called me back within one minute. “Hello, this is Tina calling from the office in Jakarta.”

            Of course I was immensely relieved, and we had a half an hour conversation. It turns out that she had left a message on my office phone last week - I've been avoiding my office while I run a writing workshop - so she hadn't, of course, been ignoring me. The gist of the conversation was that there is no more hope that they can speed along the process any more quickly getting the work permit. According to Tina, this has in part to do with the change in government and in part with the ethnicity of the people who run that office. “I don’t know how much you know about Indonesia,” she said, to which I remained politely silent, which is how much I know about Indonesia. “You cannot push the people of that ethnicity. It doesn’t work.” She then proceeded to tell me how much pushing she had done before she had to stop, and that others who were hoping to arrive in earlier than September – others with dependent children – were in the same position. In short, the end of July is too soon to expect, and the worst case scenario is the end of August for our departure. At least I know.

            Tina was full of pleasant wisdom about the system. “Kirk, I have been doing this since 1986. American scholars always want to come prepared to teach, and they never do, because the system is not like the US system. You have to lower your expectations. It is not a job, it is a grant.” And so I join the ranks of 34 years of whiny American professors who NEED   TO   KNOW   WHAT    CLASSES   I     AM    TEACHING    RIGHT    NOW.   I like Tina, as has been my instinct when I was not being terse and petulant, and I trust her more after this phone call, and it looks like on July 12, when I hoped to be three weeks out from leaving, I might actually be 7 weeks from leaving. It’s Bozeman, and it’s summer, and I don’t have a job. I can’t really complain, even if we don’t have a house anymore for the month of August, and our kids will miss three weeks of school, and things are not as we thought they would be.   That last part, I suspect, will be a recurring theme.