Wednesday, 4pm. A group of five to six year old girls sit facing me, looking crisp in their starched uniforms, white belts tied snuggly around their waists. “Eyes closed, take a deep breath”, I say, peeking out from under my lids to see if they are listening. Giggling at first, then sitting attentively, backs straight. A few seconds later – silence. Ten more seconds as they feel the stillness… “Okay, eyes open, meditation finished.”
We begin class, and each girl begins her journey. They don’t know it, but in this hour, they are picking up much more than how to kick and punch. Like it or not, by studying an ancient martial art steeped in the ‘ways of the warrior’, they’re getting a little taste of some life lessons.
Katherine skips into the room, her brown curls bobbing energetically around her smiling face. Dressed in black lycra shorts and a bright pink shirt that says ‘run like a girl’, she says ‘hello Sensei’ as she goes by.
“Where’s your gi Katherine?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t want to wear it because it’s too hot”, she replies non-chalantly. She’s right of course. I think of how I sweat wearing the long-sleeve, long-pant uniform in this tropical weather.
“Sorry, but wearing your gi is a ‘must do’. Your gi is a special uniform just for practicing karate, and you have to wear it, hot or not.”
“But I get all sweaty and itchy”, she moans.
“That’s okay” I deadpan, “you’re supposed to work hard and sweat in karate, and do it without complaining.”
For a second, she looks at me with surprise, as if I’m from another planet, then quickly changes into her uniform without another word.
Self-discipline.
Ayu R. is quieter than the other girls, and appears shy at first. But towards the end of just our second class, she runs over and gives me a big hug around the waist, then flops down on the floor playfully. Initially pleasantly surprised by her show of affection, then curious about why she is suddenly so playful, I hang onto her hands, helping her up. Is she simply genuinely happy, looking for a little extra attention, testing the waters for what comes next, or all of the above? Up on her feet again, she plonks down at the side of the room, not wanting to participate in the last round of the ‘big ball game’.
“What’s up Ayu?”, I inquire.
She glances over at me, but remains silent.
“You don’t want to play the game anymore?” I suggest.
She nods. She already had her turn, and now wants to sit out. Is she tired? Bored? Tuning out?
“Is it fair that when it was your turn everyone joined in, but now that it’s someone else’s turn, you’re sitting out?” I continue.
Silence. “Did that register?” I wonder.
A few seconds go by, as if she’s processing what I just said. Turning the words over in her mind and making her decision about how to react. Then she looks over at me, grins, and jumps in to join the last minute of the game.
Participation.
“Ready to do a kata?” I ask the group. “Okay, let’s line up. Three people in front, and three behind”.
“Feet together, stand up straight, hands by your side. Bow. Step forward and punch. One, two, three, four…”
Ratu confidently repeats my instructions and corrects the other girls during class. “Not like that, do it like this…” she instructs, her brown eyes wide and wavy black hair moving from side to side across her bony shoulders. She is used to being a big sister. She is used to being the boss.
“Who’s job is it to be the teacher?” I ask gently.
“Yours”, she replies softly, glancing down. She is quiet for about five minutes, until we move onto another exercise with a new set of instructions which she repeats again. She just can’t help herself. I remind her. Again. Old habits are hard to break, even at age six. By the end of class she’s got it. She listens quietly, attentively, eyes fixed on me, as I talk to the group. She doesn’t repeat a thing.
Restraint.
Hanna is the smallest girl in the class. She has great technique already, after just two lessons. Standing straight, her blond hair tied back in a cute ponytail, she turns her hands just before the punch reaches its target, thumb tucked in to make a tight fist, first two knuckles hitting the bag square on. One, two, three - “hit harder”, I urge her. Four, five, six - she turns it up a notch, her mouth pursed with concentration, spunky bright blue eyes focused like a tiger on its prey. Seven, eight, nine – her little hands pound the white circle in the middle of the punching pad. Ten! “Kiaaaaaaaiiiiiiiii” she shouts at the top of her lungs, releasing the energy from her body and letting her punch Rrrrrrrip. A big smile spreads across her face. She knows she punched as hard as she could, and it felt good.
Focus.
Tara is tall and lanky, her long limbs and skinny frame discovering the meaning of co-ordination. I roll the big exercise ball towards her and she kicks it back to me, her delicate brown eyes fixed on the moving target in front of her. I roll it to another girl, she kicks it back, and on we go. The pace picks up, and the ball flies quickly around the room, girls jumping here and there. Suddenly there’s a crash and I see Tara on the floor. “Is she okay?” I worry. She gets up slowly, brushing herself off, flicking her sandy brown braid behind her again. Seeing that she’s fine, no one says a thing. Seeing that everyone simply continues with the game, she joins right in again without missing a beat. Falling down and getting back up again. The cycle of life.
Perseverance.
Ayu S. is a rambunctious girl in constant motion, hard to contain, like a shaken bottle of coke, desperate to fizz out of the can. At the end of class, her body twitching with excitement and concentration, her black bob-cut locks sticking to her sweaty round face, she sits still, legs tucked underneath her in seiza, hands on her lap, eyes closed, meditating with the rest of the group for a full minute. Sixty seconds doesn’t sound long, but to a five year old sitting quiet and still with eyes closed and five friends beside her, it is an eternity.
Willpower.
Class over, we kneel down again, girls in a straight line, facing front. We bow to each other, closing class with a simple show of respect.
As they chatter excitedly while putting on their shoes, I smile to myself, knowing that with every punch they throw, with every kiai they shout, these girls are becoming stronger people, physically and mentally. Self-discipline, participation, restraint, focus, perseverance, willpower, and respect all add up over time to confident young women. There’s something intangibly empowering about hitting a target with all your might, then adding timing, technique and speed to the equation when you thought you couldn’t do any more, and exceeding your limit. Call it what you want, it’s the stuff about yourself that feels good, not in relation to anyone except yours truly (and maybe the punching bag). A lifelong journey, beginning with a first step – er, punch.
“the ultimate aim of karate lies not in victory or defeat,
but in the perfection of the human character.”
- Gichin Funakoshi, Founding Father of Karate
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
FRIDAY NIGHT WITH RUBY WOO
It’s Friday night and I’m in the mood to let my locks fly. Various multi-faceted life events of weeks gone by had started to that their toll, and I need a temporary release from it all. So when Kumi, my Japanese friend called to say that she’d be in town on Friday, we immediately committed to getting together for dinner. I’d spent most of the day looking forward to our rendezvous.
As I got dressed, I could feel my enthusiasm growing. I smiled to myself, decades gone by I took partying for granted. Now, at the supposedly ripe old age of 40, each time that I hang out with my younger colleagues and am able to rise to the occasion, I give myself a chuffed pat on the back. What’s age got to do with anything? Everything and nothing really, depending on how you look at it. It’s my 4 year old self that manages to balance and keep the 40 year old ‘sane.’
In recent times, I’ve noticed an increasing attraction to the color red. This fascinates me, given how much I hated it as a child. Whenever I wore red then, I’d always get into fights. My mother knew to never buy me anything red. I guess I had to ‘grow up’ to appreciate its vibrant impact on me.
One girlfriend of mine brought [it] to my attention a few years back – ‘you take on a whole different personae whenever you’re dressed in red,’ she commented. Upon reflection, I see that I can only wear red when I feel secure, grounded and confident. It’s the one color that brings my daring Lioness to the foreground. There’s no hiding for me when I’m clad in red.
Dressed in red, I become a magnet – for good and bad. This was abundantly clear to me by the end of the evening.
After dinner at Blowfish – the latest addition to Jakarta’s ‘hot spots’ – it is an exquisite Japanese restaurant catering to the pallet as well as the sub-conscious through its subliminal ability created by its ambience, lighting, décor and music, our diverse group proceeded to the adjoining lounge to begin our adventure. It never ceases to amaze me that Indonesians don’t dance.
Non-conformists and true to form, Kumi and I just took off! Mischievously, I began taking the sprinkles out of the huge vase on a banister before me and scattered them across everyone who remained totally oblivious to my childish antics. The bouncer, frazzled by my frivolity, didn’t know what to do with me. Clearly, he took himself and his profession way too seriously!
Our appetites whet for the night that lie ahead, we exited Blowfish and headed for what I later learned to be a place called Stadium; one of Jakarta’s primary spots for nightlife decadence. As I’ve traveled the world, I’ve come to learn that if you really want to know the spirit of a city, you have to check out how it transforms itself after dark. Jakarta’s freaks and vampires were in full effect in this sordid spot.
No sooner had we arrived, we positioned ourselves on a little balcony overlooking the myriad of people who all seemed to be in some sort of hypnotic trance totally immersed in the pulsating music. Clearly infectious, we too were quickly engulfed in the beat, bopping this way and that. Freeing myself from the restriction of my navy pin stripe blazer – entirely inappropriate for this locale – and the attachment to my [red] purse, I placed both items at my feet.
As I moved and grooved, I started to write a story – perhaps this one even – though I had no idea how it would all end while I danced and scripted. Every moment in life presents the artist – be it the painter, the writer or the musician – with an opportunity to tell a story. The more my body loosened up, so too did my mind, and I amused myself with the story of the Frenchman who clearly attracted to me fled our posse too early in the evening. But perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing given that I could feel my wild, decadent, unbridled self on the verge of making a debut at Stadium.
What seemed like only a moment later, I bent down to check that my belongings were in tact, only to find that someone had nicked my purse, right before my very eyes. ‘Ah, here’s my cue to check out,’ I said to myself, ironically relieved. Knowing myself fairly well, I could tell from the energy brewing between my dance partner and I that ‘trouble’ lurked on the horizon.
Listening to my inner voice at the start of the evening, I had chosen to travel light, carrying only my hand phone, a credit card, an ATM card and my newly acquired red lipstick, MAC’s Ruby Woo. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked my Higher Powers for having guided me earlier to listening to my gut.
A few telephone calls later, the cards were cancelled and the phone blocked. That bloody phone – it had been trying to separate itself from me for the past few days – first the number was blocked ‘in error’ by the phone company, and then right after that, I’d left it in someone’s office. The message was now LOUD and CLEAR: time for purging – to let go, wipe the slate clean and create space for new communities.
But alas, what will be more difficult to replace is my red lipstick! Red, the color of life, that lipstick was/is an intrinsic part of me and who I’ve become – the bold, courageous, mystical diva who dared to give her inner child permission to come out and play!
As I got dressed, I could feel my enthusiasm growing. I smiled to myself, decades gone by I took partying for granted. Now, at the supposedly ripe old age of 40, each time that I hang out with my younger colleagues and am able to rise to the occasion, I give myself a chuffed pat on the back. What’s age got to do with anything? Everything and nothing really, depending on how you look at it. It’s my 4 year old self that manages to balance and keep the 40 year old ‘sane.’
In recent times, I’ve noticed an increasing attraction to the color red. This fascinates me, given how much I hated it as a child. Whenever I wore red then, I’d always get into fights. My mother knew to never buy me anything red. I guess I had to ‘grow up’ to appreciate its vibrant impact on me.
One girlfriend of mine brought [it] to my attention a few years back – ‘you take on a whole different personae whenever you’re dressed in red,’ she commented. Upon reflection, I see that I can only wear red when I feel secure, grounded and confident. It’s the one color that brings my daring Lioness to the foreground. There’s no hiding for me when I’m clad in red.
Dressed in red, I become a magnet – for good and bad. This was abundantly clear to me by the end of the evening.
After dinner at Blowfish – the latest addition to Jakarta’s ‘hot spots’ – it is an exquisite Japanese restaurant catering to the pallet as well as the sub-conscious through its subliminal ability created by its ambience, lighting, décor and music, our diverse group proceeded to the adjoining lounge to begin our adventure. It never ceases to amaze me that Indonesians don’t dance.
Non-conformists and true to form, Kumi and I just took off! Mischievously, I began taking the sprinkles out of the huge vase on a banister before me and scattered them across everyone who remained totally oblivious to my childish antics. The bouncer, frazzled by my frivolity, didn’t know what to do with me. Clearly, he took himself and his profession way too seriously!
Our appetites whet for the night that lie ahead, we exited Blowfish and headed for what I later learned to be a place called Stadium; one of Jakarta’s primary spots for nightlife decadence. As I’ve traveled the world, I’ve come to learn that if you really want to know the spirit of a city, you have to check out how it transforms itself after dark. Jakarta’s freaks and vampires were in full effect in this sordid spot.
No sooner had we arrived, we positioned ourselves on a little balcony overlooking the myriad of people who all seemed to be in some sort of hypnotic trance totally immersed in the pulsating music. Clearly infectious, we too were quickly engulfed in the beat, bopping this way and that. Freeing myself from the restriction of my navy pin stripe blazer – entirely inappropriate for this locale – and the attachment to my [red] purse, I placed both items at my feet.
As I moved and grooved, I started to write a story – perhaps this one even – though I had no idea how it would all end while I danced and scripted. Every moment in life presents the artist – be it the painter, the writer or the musician – with an opportunity to tell a story. The more my body loosened up, so too did my mind, and I amused myself with the story of the Frenchman who clearly attracted to me fled our posse too early in the evening. But perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing given that I could feel my wild, decadent, unbridled self on the verge of making a debut at Stadium.
What seemed like only a moment later, I bent down to check that my belongings were in tact, only to find that someone had nicked my purse, right before my very eyes. ‘Ah, here’s my cue to check out,’ I said to myself, ironically relieved. Knowing myself fairly well, I could tell from the energy brewing between my dance partner and I that ‘trouble’ lurked on the horizon.
Listening to my inner voice at the start of the evening, I had chosen to travel light, carrying only my hand phone, a credit card, an ATM card and my newly acquired red lipstick, MAC’s Ruby Woo. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked my Higher Powers for having guided me earlier to listening to my gut.
A few telephone calls later, the cards were cancelled and the phone blocked. That bloody phone – it had been trying to separate itself from me for the past few days – first the number was blocked ‘in error’ by the phone company, and then right after that, I’d left it in someone’s office. The message was now LOUD and CLEAR: time for purging – to let go, wipe the slate clean and create space for new communities.
But alas, what will be more difficult to replace is my red lipstick! Red, the color of life, that lipstick was/is an intrinsic part of me and who I’ve become – the bold, courageous, mystical diva who dared to give her inner child permission to come out and play!
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Jakarta Flood: There and Back Again
Day 1 – Thursday
Tropical storm. All day and all night. Bolts of lightning reach down, grabbing the earth like goblins fingers – thin, white and jagged. A thunderous orchestra of drums plays before our front row seats. Heavy rain drenches everything. Unrelenting. Our four year old son Bodhi awakes and comes into our room to sleep – he is uptight. Two year old Meijin, on the other hand, sleeps all night. I am awed by the intensity of this tropical monsoon, but remain oblivious as to what lies ahead.
Day 2 – Friday
The phone starts ringing at 7am. It is Ibu Ati, our cook. She sounds desperate. She cannot make it through the streets to our place. I tell her not to worry about coming in. Later, the school calls – it’s closed. Bodhi is thrilled. A playdate, previously arranged for today hangs in the balance. Are the streets passable or not? We don’t know. I suggest we stay home, but Bodhi has his heart set on seeing his friend and underneath my concern, I am curious as to the effect of the showers on the city. Although the concierge of our apartment warns against it, we decide to go out. Driving slowly on Jalan Sudirman we spot people paddling kayaks down the city’s main drag. We squeeze by the water – just. Hours later, on the way home, we see the pond, now turned into a lake, with traffic backed up for miles. Luckily, we are going the other way. One wrong turn, and we could be stuck for hours. I decide to stock up on food and water.
Day 3- Saturday
Curiosity turns to awareness, then alarm as we read the papers and learn of entire neighborhoods under water, of hundreds of thousands of people flooded out of their homes, electricity and water supply disrupted. I SMS friends to see how they are doing. Many have moved into hotels. They are the lucky ones. Others, in low-lying parts of the city, have seen all their possessions float out of their homes, onto the streets. A pang of guilt stabs me as I think of our life, uninterrupted, living in a bubble next to such despair. I collect clothes and supplies to contribute to the relief effort.
Day 4 – Sunday
The flood waters are rising. We live by a canal which is overflowing. As we head out to meet friends, I am shocked by the flooded roads around our apartment. The main gate is closed, piled high with sandbags, but the back gate is still passable – barely. Cars surround the building as people have moved them out of the underground garage, up to higher ground. Alarmed and upset, I chew out my husband for taking such a laissez-faire attitude towards the flood. With just a little more rain, our apartment building could easily become an island, with no access in or out for food and water. Then, if electricity shuts down and tap water is unavailable, what will we do? I have visions of swimming through the flood with the kids on our backs. Bodhi hears all, and sucks in my fear like a sponge. I have always known that living here, we are a just mosquito-wings-breadth between paradise and hell, but I have never felt the precariousness of our existence more than I do now. That night, the rains continue. As I lie awake, listening to the sound of water pouring everywhere, my mind is attacked by negative thoughts.
Day 5 – Monday
After a sleepless night, I feel exhausted. I cannot keep up this level of worry, physically or mentally. Fatigue numbs my sense of danger until a sense of adventure arises. The kids and I walk to the back gate to view the flood scene. People and ojeks everywhere. Someone has built a mud crocodile on the edge of the flood waters. A smile creeps across my face as I witness the essential nature of the Indonesian people. Warm-hearted, resourceful, playful, even in the face of disaster. We spend the day at home, school being closed again. Bodhi is behaving strangely – clingy, whiny, not wanting to play with his friends. Highly unusual. By mid-afternoon he becomes insufferable, so I suggest we go out for a haircut. It is no longer raining, and cars can still pass through. We take a detour on our way to the barber shop, avoiding the flooded roads. Weaving in and out of the small streets, we come to a horse cart filled with kids. Crawling behind, unable to pass, we watch the jovial, loud, happy bunch on their way. A glance down a side street reveals a horde of kids, perhaps home from school, (or maybe they don’t go to school?) playing in the flood waters. A group of boys balance carefully on the edge of large gutters, presumably looking for frogs and snakes. I am awed again, by these kids who find opportunity in the most unlikely places.
Day 6 – Tuesday
The sound of rain awakes me. It has become a foreboding sound now. Yet despite nature’s tears, the flood waters have receeded around our building. A feeling of pleasant surprise, followed by relief, washes over me. Perhaps the city sluice gates were opened? We venture out to school, despite Bodhi’s vehement objection. He is worried about being left behind, about the flood separating him from those who protect him. I make a mental note to be more careful about revealing my anxiety in front of him. “It’s okay Bodhi, the flood has gone away”, I reassure him. But he knows my words are only partly true. Only half the class shows up. Many are still out of their homes or unable, unwilling to come in.
Day 7 – Wednesday
Life seems to return to normal. Our staff show up as expected. Karate class is on. School in session. Even the underpass below Jl. Sudirman is clear. I meet up with friends for playdates, finding comfort in conversation. I feel shaken by the whole experience, the closest we’ve come to falling off the edge of our precarious paradise. Driving home after yoga class that night, it starts to drizzle lightly. “Oh no, here we go again”, I think to myself. Having gone through the flood once though, this time I will be simply stirred, not shaken.
Tropical storm. All day and all night. Bolts of lightning reach down, grabbing the earth like goblins fingers – thin, white and jagged. A thunderous orchestra of drums plays before our front row seats. Heavy rain drenches everything. Unrelenting. Our four year old son Bodhi awakes and comes into our room to sleep – he is uptight. Two year old Meijin, on the other hand, sleeps all night. I am awed by the intensity of this tropical monsoon, but remain oblivious as to what lies ahead.
Day 2 – Friday
The phone starts ringing at 7am. It is Ibu Ati, our cook. She sounds desperate. She cannot make it through the streets to our place. I tell her not to worry about coming in. Later, the school calls – it’s closed. Bodhi is thrilled. A playdate, previously arranged for today hangs in the balance. Are the streets passable or not? We don’t know. I suggest we stay home, but Bodhi has his heart set on seeing his friend and underneath my concern, I am curious as to the effect of the showers on the city. Although the concierge of our apartment warns against it, we decide to go out. Driving slowly on Jalan Sudirman we spot people paddling kayaks down the city’s main drag. We squeeze by the water – just. Hours later, on the way home, we see the pond, now turned into a lake, with traffic backed up for miles. Luckily, we are going the other way. One wrong turn, and we could be stuck for hours. I decide to stock up on food and water.
Day 3- Saturday
Curiosity turns to awareness, then alarm as we read the papers and learn of entire neighborhoods under water, of hundreds of thousands of people flooded out of their homes, electricity and water supply disrupted. I SMS friends to see how they are doing. Many have moved into hotels. They are the lucky ones. Others, in low-lying parts of the city, have seen all their possessions float out of their homes, onto the streets. A pang of guilt stabs me as I think of our life, uninterrupted, living in a bubble next to such despair. I collect clothes and supplies to contribute to the relief effort.
Day 4 – Sunday
The flood waters are rising. We live by a canal which is overflowing. As we head out to meet friends, I am shocked by the flooded roads around our apartment. The main gate is closed, piled high with sandbags, but the back gate is still passable – barely. Cars surround the building as people have moved them out of the underground garage, up to higher ground. Alarmed and upset, I chew out my husband for taking such a laissez-faire attitude towards the flood. With just a little more rain, our apartment building could easily become an island, with no access in or out for food and water. Then, if electricity shuts down and tap water is unavailable, what will we do? I have visions of swimming through the flood with the kids on our backs. Bodhi hears all, and sucks in my fear like a sponge. I have always known that living here, we are a just mosquito-wings-breadth between paradise and hell, but I have never felt the precariousness of our existence more than I do now. That night, the rains continue. As I lie awake, listening to the sound of water pouring everywhere, my mind is attacked by negative thoughts.
Day 5 – Monday
After a sleepless night, I feel exhausted. I cannot keep up this level of worry, physically or mentally. Fatigue numbs my sense of danger until a sense of adventure arises. The kids and I walk to the back gate to view the flood scene. People and ojeks everywhere. Someone has built a mud crocodile on the edge of the flood waters. A smile creeps across my face as I witness the essential nature of the Indonesian people. Warm-hearted, resourceful, playful, even in the face of disaster. We spend the day at home, school being closed again. Bodhi is behaving strangely – clingy, whiny, not wanting to play with his friends. Highly unusual. By mid-afternoon he becomes insufferable, so I suggest we go out for a haircut. It is no longer raining, and cars can still pass through. We take a detour on our way to the barber shop, avoiding the flooded roads. Weaving in and out of the small streets, we come to a horse cart filled with kids. Crawling behind, unable to pass, we watch the jovial, loud, happy bunch on their way. A glance down a side street reveals a horde of kids, perhaps home from school, (or maybe they don’t go to school?) playing in the flood waters. A group of boys balance carefully on the edge of large gutters, presumably looking for frogs and snakes. I am awed again, by these kids who find opportunity in the most unlikely places.
Day 6 – Tuesday
The sound of rain awakes me. It has become a foreboding sound now. Yet despite nature’s tears, the flood waters have receeded around our building. A feeling of pleasant surprise, followed by relief, washes over me. Perhaps the city sluice gates were opened? We venture out to school, despite Bodhi’s vehement objection. He is worried about being left behind, about the flood separating him from those who protect him. I make a mental note to be more careful about revealing my anxiety in front of him. “It’s okay Bodhi, the flood has gone away”, I reassure him. But he knows my words are only partly true. Only half the class shows up. Many are still out of their homes or unable, unwilling to come in.
Day 7 – Wednesday
Life seems to return to normal. Our staff show up as expected. Karate class is on. School in session. Even the underpass below Jl. Sudirman is clear. I meet up with friends for playdates, finding comfort in conversation. I feel shaken by the whole experience, the closest we’ve come to falling off the edge of our precarious paradise. Driving home after yoga class that night, it starts to drizzle lightly. “Oh no, here we go again”, I think to myself. Having gone through the flood once though, this time I will be simply stirred, not shaken.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Foothold
You would think he was a raving lunatic. Sputtering out seemingly random words and phrases from the local language, or the top ten favorite expressions of the kids. He could be in the shower, sitting in a cab, or staring out the window at a café. I move from being startled, to amused and then wonder briefly if he is on a slow slide to the looney bin.
Upon closer examination there seems to be a pattern to this madness. He appears to pick phrases that capture the essence of a language he otherwise knows not a word of. It is the Thai lyrical krap khun ma khrap*, accompanied by hands clasped in a wai, or the warmly laced Paggi ‘Bu* in Bahasa. A repertoire of sounds repeatedly heard, plucked and honed to perfection. Clinging to those words and phrases, you can almost feel fluent. You can almost ignore the privileged corner you are pinned to and feel in the thick of things. Yah you become a local bule*.
There are things the kids say once or repeat often that seem to capture the essence of their personality. You know them: Even if they are in constant flux and you are always playing catch up. So, you want to hold on to that fleeting moment. Repeating them makes the snapshot come alive and a warm glow washes over you. And you become your mother.
Being an expat you are constantly looking for a foothold. Repeating the rituals of making friends, a home, and collecting memories which glow warmly in its retelling. Home is a concept in motion. If you stay out long enough, even going ‘back home’ becomes a new posting. But the seasoned nomads learn to pick an essence and own it, defying, ignoring or immersing in other people’s realities. You become a part of that which you swore you never would. His lunacy is a foothold to belonging.
*
Krap khun ma krap (Thank you very much)
Paggi ‘Bu (Morning Mam)
bule (foreigner)
Upon closer examination there seems to be a pattern to this madness. He appears to pick phrases that capture the essence of a language he otherwise knows not a word of. It is the Thai lyrical krap khun ma khrap*, accompanied by hands clasped in a wai, or the warmly laced Paggi ‘Bu* in Bahasa. A repertoire of sounds repeatedly heard, plucked and honed to perfection. Clinging to those words and phrases, you can almost feel fluent. You can almost ignore the privileged corner you are pinned to and feel in the thick of things. Yah you become a local bule*.
There are things the kids say once or repeat often that seem to capture the essence of their personality. You know them: Even if they are in constant flux and you are always playing catch up. So, you want to hold on to that fleeting moment. Repeating them makes the snapshot come alive and a warm glow washes over you. And you become your mother.
Being an expat you are constantly looking for a foothold. Repeating the rituals of making friends, a home, and collecting memories which glow warmly in its retelling. Home is a concept in motion. If you stay out long enough, even going ‘back home’ becomes a new posting. But the seasoned nomads learn to pick an essence and own it, defying, ignoring or immersing in other people’s realities. You become a part of that which you swore you never would. His lunacy is a foothold to belonging.
*
Krap khun ma krap (Thank you very much)
Paggi ‘Bu (Morning Mam)
bule (foreigner)
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Donuts, anyone?
On Thursday 1 February, we experienced the Full Moon in Leo; my zodiac sign. I couldn’t understand why I felt so edgy on its eve, unable to sit, stand, relax, meditate or unwind. In a word, I felt tentative. All was revealed when I awoke to the floods on Friday morning. It took me 3 hours to ATTEMPT to get to work, and then in the end, I surrendered to Nature’s havoc and returned home.
There is something eerie-ly calm and surreal about disasters inflicted by water. Unusually cool, Jakarta was a sight to behold. The rivers had burst their banks and flowed freely throughout the city, with no discrimination against those who normally enjoy the benefits of socio-economics. Even the ‘posh area’ of Kemang – ‘the expatriate ghetto’ – could not escape.
In some areas, water reached 7 metres high and actually went over the roof of some houses. The house across the street from me – the pool chairs were floating in the garden. The mariners had to be called in to fish people out of their homes with only a few ‘essentials’ like passports and a change of dry clothing. Just before hitching a ride with a truck to take me a few metres along Kemang Raya, I met an English couple while walking down the street – they watched all of their furnishings and appliances – washing machine, fridge, and sofa – float right through their front door.
Thankfully, my house is built on a slight incline so I suffered neither floods nor leakage. But places have been without electricity, water, telephone and cable. Again, I've been blessed with both water and electricity.
An empty house opposite mine was transformed into a 'safe haven' for those who'd been evacuated from their homes. Amir (my faithful gardener) had been up all of the previous night helping people to evacuate. We then sent out and bought provisions to make soup and to provide water. There are so many children running around and playing in dirty water that it's frightening. The flood is one thing. In a city like Jakarta, I shudder at the thought of potential diseases to follow.
On Saturday, determined to see and explore more, bravely I jumped on the back of my driver’s ‘ojek’ and headed towards our offices in the city. ‘No wonder the vast majority of the local community opt for this mode of transport,’ I thought. We were able to dodge and weave ourselves into the tiniest alternative routes, to avoid the cappuccino coloured water swirling around the city. Lake Thamrin (formally known as Jl. Thamrin) was virtually empty and impassable.
All shops were closed on Friday. When they managed to open their doors on Saturday, I witnessed likewise expatriates stocking their shopping carts only to arrive at the check out counters to greeted by signs screaming CASH ONLY! ATMs are also not working properly which only exacerbated an already desperate scenario. This just goes to show how much of an illusion we all live under with our credit cards, mobile phones, blackberries, blueberries and cherries, internet connections, etc. Luckily, I had enough cash in my wallet to pay for the few items I came to purchase – and even some left over to buy some of my favourite flowers – 'Sexy Pinks!'
At the end of the day, we've only got ourselves and our abilities to adapt and thrive in adversity to rely upon.
A few things have struck me through all of this: in spite of their plight, how the Indonesians continue to smile, to bear witness to the immediate formation of communities’ void of demographic divide unite and just support each other and lastly, how ALIVE I feel in the midst of all of this mayhem.
There is something eerie-ly calm and surreal about disasters inflicted by water. Unusually cool, Jakarta was a sight to behold. The rivers had burst their banks and flowed freely throughout the city, with no discrimination against those who normally enjoy the benefits of socio-economics. Even the ‘posh area’ of Kemang – ‘the expatriate ghetto’ – could not escape.
In some areas, water reached 7 metres high and actually went over the roof of some houses. The house across the street from me – the pool chairs were floating in the garden. The mariners had to be called in to fish people out of their homes with only a few ‘essentials’ like passports and a change of dry clothing. Just before hitching a ride with a truck to take me a few metres along Kemang Raya, I met an English couple while walking down the street – they watched all of their furnishings and appliances – washing machine, fridge, and sofa – float right through their front door.
Thankfully, my house is built on a slight incline so I suffered neither floods nor leakage. But places have been without electricity, water, telephone and cable. Again, I've been blessed with both water and electricity.
An empty house opposite mine was transformed into a 'safe haven' for those who'd been evacuated from their homes. Amir (my faithful gardener) had been up all of the previous night helping people to evacuate. We then sent out and bought provisions to make soup and to provide water. There are so many children running around and playing in dirty water that it's frightening. The flood is one thing. In a city like Jakarta, I shudder at the thought of potential diseases to follow.
On Saturday, determined to see and explore more, bravely I jumped on the back of my driver’s ‘ojek’ and headed towards our offices in the city. ‘No wonder the vast majority of the local community opt for this mode of transport,’ I thought. We were able to dodge and weave ourselves into the tiniest alternative routes, to avoid the cappuccino coloured water swirling around the city. Lake Thamrin (formally known as Jl. Thamrin) was virtually empty and impassable.
All shops were closed on Friday. When they managed to open their doors on Saturday, I witnessed likewise expatriates stocking their shopping carts only to arrive at the check out counters to greeted by signs screaming CASH ONLY! ATMs are also not working properly which only exacerbated an already desperate scenario. This just goes to show how much of an illusion we all live under with our credit cards, mobile phones, blackberries, blueberries and cherries, internet connections, etc. Luckily, I had enough cash in my wallet to pay for the few items I came to purchase – and even some left over to buy some of my favourite flowers – 'Sexy Pinks!'
At the end of the day, we've only got ourselves and our abilities to adapt and thrive in adversity to rely upon.
A few things have struck me through all of this: in spite of their plight, how the Indonesians continue to smile, to bear witness to the immediate formation of communities’ void of demographic divide unite and just support each other and lastly, how ALIVE I feel in the midst of all of this mayhem.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Jakarta Floods 2007
My Amazonian Ibu walks into the house this morning, visibly shaken, and with moist eyes. The water has been in her house for 3 days. Over the weekend she was stuck on its upper floor without food or clean water. Someone dropped off a bucket of cooked rice per house. That was their meal. She must have watched with a strained heart as things that could not be rushed upstairs floated away with the murky brown floodwater; possessions accumulated over years, by cleaning other people’s houses. “All the clothes”, she said, with a choked voice, and her hand motioned their slow passing. She could not bring herself to give an accounting of all that was lost. Her precious shelter, how long and how much will it take to clean and repair that sanctuary? Every Rupiah is carefully budgeted towards essentials. Where is the money for this new challenge?
Ibu wakes at four, cooks two meals for three grown children, herself, and my nanny. She takes the bus for an hour to get to my house by 7:30 everyday, even though her start time is designated at 8. Then she works non-stop to clean, wash, iron all day. She is not one to sit around. She, like many other pembantus, is too embarrassed to be seen sitting down, and fears being insulted by the term lazy. I had bought a dining table and chair set, for her and my nanny, to eat their meals and rest their feet. It has become a resting place for our iron and their bags. I have often wondered where and when do they eat? One afternoon I found Ibu huddled in a corner of the pantry with the lights off. She was quickly scoffing down the food from her own lunch box. She did not feel entitled to sit and eat. Those “habits” come from past experiences and reminders of ones place in the world. After that kind of day, she gets home to take care of her own, sleep, and start all over the next day. This is her 25+ years of employment as a pembantu. No 401 K. Just what the body can make everyday. Hers is the life story of millions of others, deemed lucky to get 15 seconds of human-interest slot, squeezed in between heads of state, the stock market, star lives, and not-so-random violence. Yet this is her life, moving on, in-spite of the silence.
It is the man the man the papers whisper. The man who built too many luxury villas and apartments, cut down too many trees, didn’t get a move on to build flood control mechanisms, and built factories and cars that caused global warming. Some day we will find the man that lives in and amongst us. Today, all I see is Ibu renting a boat she can ill afford, to carry her down the flooded streets to her home in this concrete jungle.
Ibu wakes at four, cooks two meals for three grown children, herself, and my nanny. She takes the bus for an hour to get to my house by 7:30 everyday, even though her start time is designated at 8. Then she works non-stop to clean, wash, iron all day. She is not one to sit around. She, like many other pembantus, is too embarrassed to be seen sitting down, and fears being insulted by the term lazy. I had bought a dining table and chair set, for her and my nanny, to eat their meals and rest their feet. It has become a resting place for our iron and their bags. I have often wondered where and when do they eat? One afternoon I found Ibu huddled in a corner of the pantry with the lights off. She was quickly scoffing down the food from her own lunch box. She did not feel entitled to sit and eat. Those “habits” come from past experiences and reminders of ones place in the world. After that kind of day, she gets home to take care of her own, sleep, and start all over the next day. This is her 25+ years of employment as a pembantu. No 401 K. Just what the body can make everyday. Hers is the life story of millions of others, deemed lucky to get 15 seconds of human-interest slot, squeezed in between heads of state, the stock market, star lives, and not-so-random violence. Yet this is her life, moving on, in-spite of the silence.
It is the man the man the papers whisper. The man who built too many luxury villas and apartments, cut down too many trees, didn’t get a move on to build flood control mechanisms, and built factories and cars that caused global warming. Some day we will find the man that lives in and amongst us. Today, all I see is Ibu renting a boat she can ill afford, to carry her down the flooded streets to her home in this concrete jungle.
Covert racism shows up everywhere, when you least expect it'
When I enter a room, repeated experience reveals that I am identified and oftentimes subsequently defined by the color of my skin.
Another frequent observation is the unwillingness by human beings on all sides of the racial frontier to openly discuss the issue of race.
In attempting to engage white folk in discussions about race the ‘reflex reaction’ is one of defense – ‘I wasn’t around when slavery was taking place so why should I now be held responsible?’
Recently, we have borne witness to male world leaders from ‘first world’ nations echoing apologies for the slave trade. The victim (most often female and a person of color) or the victims children’s children are forced to forgive with the ultimatum: we have little alternative but to believe that their apologies are heartfelt and sincere.
Facing reality of slavery’s overt impact which continues to be covertly dumped in present day is a necessary brutality and life experience within the Black Diaspora.
Covert racism shows up everywhere, and oftentimes when you least expect it.
I long for the day that when I show my credentials on paper, in person I am not forced to bear witness to discomfort of the other because my profile doesn’t match a pre-defined stereotype.
The knifing part of covert racism appear when ‘glaring examples’ pointed out to white colleagues, friends, peers, demand Black experiences to be frequently invalidated with such comments as: ‘Are you sure s/he said or did this or that?’
Unconscious of white privilege and entitlement affords a position of ‘power over’ even in these small actions and responses.
Perpetuating racist socialization endorses me to be someone who I in fact mightn’t be; i.e., a [stereo] typical black female – single mother, multiple fathers, drug addict, prostitute, maid, HIV/AIDS carrier, entertainer, athlete.
In an intricate exchange with Danica Anderson, executive director, The Kolo: Women’s Cross Cultural Collaboration, we candidly shared about the impact of white supremacy. Anderson’s work in Bosnia with the frontline women as well as from Africa, India and Sri Lanka prompted her painful look at white supremacy issues.
‘Like the issue of gender along socio-cultural lines, the racial divide will not be bridged until humanity is willing to embrace and honor diversity,’ she strongly feels.
The ‘white supremacy blindspot’ continues to perpetuate, highlighted in the US without meaningful dialogue among blacks and whites about the issue of race, and continues intergenerationally.
In Jamaica, I was brought up being told we are class prejudice. When I went to live in the United States I experienced racism first hand. The racism I felt was blatant, yet subtle – like when I’d walk onto the subway and a white person would clutch their purse a tad tighter.
Of her childhood days in Chicago, Anderson re-counts that her father, a violent Bosnian patriarch, made so many racist comments about Blacks. ‘Many of the references were the recently famous N__ word. I grew up to mouth the hatred against Blacks, Hispanics- Spics who were Puerto Rican and especially the Croatians who, according to my father were responsible for the WWII Genocide of Serbs. When I first saw the fear that the television incited for my father, I asked him about the insecurity, in a rather blunt-like manner that any child of eight would do. Terrified by his response, I made sure I never did that again and grew to fear people of colour and somehow knew it would be associated with something bad happening to me.’
Even where there is solidarity amongst women, there is a fine point at which this ‘sisterhood’ diverges.
‘White women are treated differently and differentially. It is mind-boggling how quickly white supremacy rushes past the skin color into the psyche. It is embattled on an overt and covert basis to the point where I as a white female cannot even recognize my privileged life,’ says Anderson.
White supremacy forges on with ruling leaders irrespective of skin color. Subtle and overt indoctrination driven from a need to be at the top of the white pyramid at the expense of humanity triggers their survivor mechanisms into overdrive, resulting in our modern age super genocidal chapters.
Black men are behind bars at alarming rates and [heterosexual] women of color between the ages of 25 and 44 years old are among the fastest growing HIV/AIDS rates in the United States of America. And yet we have failed to engage each other in meaningful dialogue.
Racial paralysis now threatens to render us mute.
Another frequent observation is the unwillingness by human beings on all sides of the racial frontier to openly discuss the issue of race.
In attempting to engage white folk in discussions about race the ‘reflex reaction’ is one of defense – ‘I wasn’t around when slavery was taking place so why should I now be held responsible?’
Recently, we have borne witness to male world leaders from ‘first world’ nations echoing apologies for the slave trade. The victim (most often female and a person of color) or the victims children’s children are forced to forgive with the ultimatum: we have little alternative but to believe that their apologies are heartfelt and sincere.
Facing reality of slavery’s overt impact which continues to be covertly dumped in present day is a necessary brutality and life experience within the Black Diaspora.
Covert racism shows up everywhere, and oftentimes when you least expect it.
I long for the day that when I show my credentials on paper, in person I am not forced to bear witness to discomfort of the other because my profile doesn’t match a pre-defined stereotype.
The knifing part of covert racism appear when ‘glaring examples’ pointed out to white colleagues, friends, peers, demand Black experiences to be frequently invalidated with such comments as: ‘Are you sure s/he said or did this or that?’
Unconscious of white privilege and entitlement affords a position of ‘power over’ even in these small actions and responses.
Perpetuating racist socialization endorses me to be someone who I in fact mightn’t be; i.e., a [stereo] typical black female – single mother, multiple fathers, drug addict, prostitute, maid, HIV/AIDS carrier, entertainer, athlete.
In an intricate exchange with Danica Anderson, executive director, The Kolo: Women’s Cross Cultural Collaboration, we candidly shared about the impact of white supremacy. Anderson’s work in Bosnia with the frontline women as well as from Africa, India and Sri Lanka prompted her painful look at white supremacy issues.
‘Like the issue of gender along socio-cultural lines, the racial divide will not be bridged until humanity is willing to embrace and honor diversity,’ she strongly feels.
The ‘white supremacy blindspot’ continues to perpetuate, highlighted in the US without meaningful dialogue among blacks and whites about the issue of race, and continues intergenerationally.
In Jamaica, I was brought up being told we are class prejudice. When I went to live in the United States I experienced racism first hand. The racism I felt was blatant, yet subtle – like when I’d walk onto the subway and a white person would clutch their purse a tad tighter.
Of her childhood days in Chicago, Anderson re-counts that her father, a violent Bosnian patriarch, made so many racist comments about Blacks. ‘Many of the references were the recently famous N__ word. I grew up to mouth the hatred against Blacks, Hispanics- Spics who were Puerto Rican and especially the Croatians who, according to my father were responsible for the WWII Genocide of Serbs. When I first saw the fear that the television incited for my father, I asked him about the insecurity, in a rather blunt-like manner that any child of eight would do. Terrified by his response, I made sure I never did that again and grew to fear people of colour and somehow knew it would be associated with something bad happening to me.’
Even where there is solidarity amongst women, there is a fine point at which this ‘sisterhood’ diverges.
‘White women are treated differently and differentially. It is mind-boggling how quickly white supremacy rushes past the skin color into the psyche. It is embattled on an overt and covert basis to the point where I as a white female cannot even recognize my privileged life,’ says Anderson.
White supremacy forges on with ruling leaders irrespective of skin color. Subtle and overt indoctrination driven from a need to be at the top of the white pyramid at the expense of humanity triggers their survivor mechanisms into overdrive, resulting in our modern age super genocidal chapters.
Black men are behind bars at alarming rates and [heterosexual] women of color between the ages of 25 and 44 years old are among the fastest growing HIV/AIDS rates in the United States of America. And yet we have failed to engage each other in meaningful dialogue.
Racial paralysis now threatens to render us mute.
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