I did leave the house yesterday, after the killer headache that I didn't mention in my posting yesterday but which kept me up half the night subsided, and I remembered how funny people thought it was, before, that I would just go walk places, and by myself. I found my way to campus, which is quite near where I am staying, and within minutes I'd run into a former colleague, now the chair of the English Department, and a former student who was just in town for the weekend from Surabaya. He was in my public speaking class, which I taught in my first semester here, one of the classes they told me not to worry about because the curriculum was already written. I wandered up into the Language Training Center where Laura and I spent three mornings a week learning Indonesian, and saw another former student and several of the staff members, and it was lovely. No one knew I would be there - I'm expected in two weeks for the conference.
The custodian there invited me back for coffee and we sat and visited, if that's what you can call a conversation where I can barely understand what he is saying because I have forgotten all my Indonesian and all I can say is "I remember you. You were nice and talked to us during every break when I had coffee" - or, more accurately, probably "I remember. Nice man talk when I get coffee." I reiterated that point several times, in various syntax, with great enthusiasm. He used to have long conversations with me during our class breaks, and he speaks no English, and he was like another teacher there, speaking slowly, teaching me new words, but also just talking and expecting me to get the gist. I really liked him, and I had forgotten I liked him so much.
Then a couple of other staff members popped in and we chatted too, half Indonesian and half in English - Indonesian when they wanted to humor me and English when we had actual things to say to one. I asked after the family of one of the women, because I had attended her father's funeral when I was here, an esteemed local whom I unfortunately never met. I reminded her that I had committed one of my Indonesian faux-pas at the funeral because I wore a red batik shirt. (My Indonesian teacher and friend Ibu Frances whispered over to me when I sat down by her, "you shouldn't have worn red.") She laughed and said that she had been too busy to notice. "Of course," I said. "But several other people told me about later," she said. That made me laugh very hard for some reason. She also said that in Indonesia, people usually wear dark colors to funerals, which of course is a crazy exotic Javanese tradition that no one could have expected this Westerner to comprehend in advance.
I walked from there to lunch at Bu Rini's, which might be, I remembered, one of my favorite restaurants in the world. It's delicious traditional Indonesia food - I had ayam bakar pedas (spicy grilled chicken) and a lime squash. It's a miracle of a place - feels like a haven, because it's right in the middle of the city, really, and yet you enter and sit out on the edge of a rice paddy with a view of the volcano and it's so incredibly pleasant. I ended up there again for dinner because Colin and Retno wanted to eat there again, and I had beef ribs, fried noodles, mixed vegetables, some tofu, and this head exploding samba (spicy condiment) that I accidentally ate too much of - even that sensation, the way the heat moves from inside your mouth and then encircles your entire head and makes the entire world revolve around the experience of your exploding and then imploding brain, even that was nostalgic. There is a notable absence while I am here in Salatiga, of my family, who shared that year with me and who I desperately wish could share this return with me too. I think of them every where I go here, and miss them not because we are separated, exactly, but because we had such an intense year here (as past readers of this blog will understand carries many meanings). Everyone asks about them, especially istri Anda (your wife) Ibu Laura.
The nostalgia ends today though. This morning Colin and Retno will drive me to Semarang (via the new toll road that I've never been in) and then I fly to Surabaya, a giant city in East Java, where I'll spend the night. My friend Ibu Umi, about whom I will undoubtedly have much to write, will meet me there tomorrow and we will drive about five hours to the island of Madura, where I'll meet with students for a day and then run a two-day workshop for English Language Teachers at an Islamic Boarding School there. I have never been to Madura - it's a renowned and even legendary island in Indonesia - so I am excited.
The custodian there invited me back for coffee and we sat and visited, if that's what you can call a conversation where I can barely understand what he is saying because I have forgotten all my Indonesian and all I can say is "I remember you. You were nice and talked to us during every break when I had coffee" - or, more accurately, probably "I remember. Nice man talk when I get coffee." I reiterated that point several times, in various syntax, with great enthusiasm. He used to have long conversations with me during our class breaks, and he speaks no English, and he was like another teacher there, speaking slowly, teaching me new words, but also just talking and expecting me to get the gist. I really liked him, and I had forgotten I liked him so much.
Then a couple of other staff members popped in and we chatted too, half Indonesian and half in English - Indonesian when they wanted to humor me and English when we had actual things to say to one. I asked after the family of one of the women, because I had attended her father's funeral when I was here, an esteemed local whom I unfortunately never met. I reminded her that I had committed one of my Indonesian faux-pas at the funeral because I wore a red batik shirt. (My Indonesian teacher and friend Ibu Frances whispered over to me when I sat down by her, "you shouldn't have worn red.") She laughed and said that she had been too busy to notice. "Of course," I said. "But several other people told me about later," she said. That made me laugh very hard for some reason. She also said that in Indonesia, people usually wear dark colors to funerals, which of course is a crazy exotic Javanese tradition that no one could have expected this Westerner to comprehend in advance.
I walked from there to lunch at Bu Rini's, which might be, I remembered, one of my favorite restaurants in the world. It's delicious traditional Indonesia food - I had ayam bakar pedas (spicy grilled chicken) and a lime squash. It's a miracle of a place - feels like a haven, because it's right in the middle of the city, really, and yet you enter and sit out on the edge of a rice paddy with a view of the volcano and it's so incredibly pleasant. I ended up there again for dinner because Colin and Retno wanted to eat there again, and I had beef ribs, fried noodles, mixed vegetables, some tofu, and this head exploding samba (spicy condiment) that I accidentally ate too much of - even that sensation, the way the heat moves from inside your mouth and then encircles your entire head and makes the entire world revolve around the experience of your exploding and then imploding brain, even that was nostalgic. There is a notable absence while I am here in Salatiga, of my family, who shared that year with me and who I desperately wish could share this return with me too. I think of them every where I go here, and miss them not because we are separated, exactly, but because we had such an intense year here (as past readers of this blog will understand carries many meanings). Everyone asks about them, especially istri Anda (your wife) Ibu Laura.
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| The view from my table at Bu Rini's |
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| I saw this banner several times around Salatiga yesterday. It is in honor of the new president, and it translates more or less as "Good work my president. Democracy is heard and carried out by the wishes of the people." That's President Jokowi on the left with his vice-president. Before when people met us, they always mentioned Obama; now they say that their new president is just like Obama, which is to say, I think, that he is a man of the people, etc. etc. The symbol of unifying the nation on the banner is the outline of all the religious buildings. The note at the bottom of the Magnum Blue banners that frame it says "Warning smoking kills." They really really love big banners here. |
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