9:00 pm. The house is still and sleepy. I hear the chirping of the gianormous grasshoppers outside. I hear my new electric stabilizer jumping into action every so often. My typing echoes. A cockroach just attempted a flying assault upon me in the bathroom. I left him there. Crunching their bodies under foot is more than I can bear. They pop, splatter, and ooze. Thus I prefer to let them co-habitat with me… or perhaps it’s me with them.
Details, details, and settling in.
Apprehensive
Excited
Unsure
Eager
I asked during my visit about the workweek. The staff work 7-2 Monday-Saturday. But I can come in at 8. I want to be a team player… shouldn’t I start at 7 as well? Reported to the office a bit after 8 am for the first day of work. First one to the office. I loiter around a bit. Should I stay? Or go browse about the town? I don’t want it to appear that I was late. The finance girls arrive and hop to work… sweeping and cleaning. Apparently their not just good at numbers but also at cleaning… or is that just because their women? We try to communicate but it’s not happening. I manage to understand ‘please sit’. So I do for a bit. Then browse the posters and pictures on the office’s cement walls. Feigning comprehension. My supervisor arrives at 9.
We sit down to discuss my first month. He speaks no English. I speak less than basic Indonesian. I could have told him (in perfect Indonesian) that he had on a green t-shirt and black shoes. That today was Monday. That I am 26 years old and from America. Unfortunately he knew all of that info. He texts another VSO volunteer to come help interpret. It’s slightly helpful, as the volunteer is neither a native speaker of Indonesian nor of English. No doubt a true ‘lost in translation’. My supervisor ask what my plan is for the next 2 years. What are my ideas for projects. My plan? My ideas? Indeed, a sense of empowerment and individual direction is good, nevertheless, perhaps the organization should provide a bit of a guideline. We agree that for the first month I observe, learn more Indonesian than green shirts and black shoes, and develop my job description.
Police reporting.
It reminds me a bit of high school ag or shop class. Boys. Boys with guns. Simply lounging about. No real purpose evident. Reading the newspaper. Chatting up girls. Smoking.
These boys (and I do indeed mean boys… young faces, immaturity gleaming in their eyes) have a sense of power. They are the police. They pass me around to several offices. They crowd around to carefully scrutinizing my documents, as if my passport photo is clipped from the pages of the latest playboy magazine. They want to know why I’m here, where I live, how old I am, am I married, what’s my religion… the normal. The first attempt was a failure. I am sent away to obtain a fax of my passport from VSO for verification. My notarized copy seems inefficient… I am suspect. But of course obey. These are the law boys. Day 2. Again, passed around to be scrutinized and questioned. I am thankful for the company of two colleagues. We wait for an hour for the person with power. Who he is I not sure. Dressed in a camouflaged t-shirt and combat boots (not the official dress of the police). His hair long and pulled into a pony. He lights a cigarette and bounds to sit by my side. Jovial, yet somehow unsettling. First impressions maybe wrong, but I wouldn’t classify him in the trustworthy category.
He tells me I am beautiful.
He tells me he should be my boyfriend.
He sings me a love song.
Is this part of the official questioning?
Before I go, he insists I smoke a cigarette with him. No thank you. No forms unless I smoke. ‘They’ preach not to give into peer pressure… but what about police pressure? A giggle and an “I don’t understand” seems to get me off the hook. Already I have self-diagnosed lung cancer from the wreath of smoke engulfing this country. I don’t much care to willing aid in the blackening of my lungs.
Thanks to Jess, a Filipino volunteer whose real name is Jesus as he was born of Christmas, I have managed to secure furniture and kitchen equipment. He’s been a tremendous help. Even if I could have negotiated the purchases and loans, I wouldn’t have been able to direct them to my new home.
A table and 2 chairs from the office
A cabinet from Jess’s shopkeeper friend
A rice cooker and few odd dishes from a previous volunteer
A thorough shopping trip about town to pick up a refrigerator, electricity stabilizer, a water dispenser and jug, a burner, an oven… or the Indonesian equivalent of an oven in the form of a tin box that sit atop my burner. The shop keepers and Jess chat about Americans need for bread. Can’t an oven be used for more than baking bread? Admittedly I do miss bread… especially the bread from the Saturday evening bread pick-ups in Maine for the farm. Delicious bakery breads of all sorts sent to feed the livestock… and human staff. The mere thought stimulates salivation. Bread in Indonesia is rare. The staple is rice. And it is a widely known fact that Americans only eat rice in California. Home of Arnold, The Terminator.
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