The Freak Fest...

As is the case with many things Indonesian, I was asked last week Friday , at the last minute, to participate in a 3-Day “Culture Fest” by the American Corner— the US Dept. of State literally buys a “corner” of a library and installs books, internet access, and language lessons to spread good will and the love of all things Americana. The theme: American holidays—Halloween, Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras. Having little to contribute (I left my beads and jack-o-lanterns at home), I hoped that just my American body would suffice. The American native on display. Step right up, folks.

And then...the night before my debut... my American body broke out in bright red pustules that looked alarmingly like poison ivy. In a panic, I itched my way into school to teach, hoping no one would notice. Of course, the first thing Ingrid says when sees me is “Oh My God! What's wrong with your skin?!” All 7 people in the office huddled around me, worried in a sweet way, prodding, touching, asking questions, giving predictions as to the cause. “Maybe it's the dust.” “The changing weather?” “Did you eat something?” “Too much sun?” We finally decided that I was OK to teach, and that we'd go to the hospital before my American corner exhibition. Class went well—I kept the itching to a minimum to avoid distressing my thoughtful students.

When I was finished and had taken some private itching time in the bathroom to avoid distressing the people in the office, Ingrid and I hopped in the car and headed to the hospital—I brought multiple books, anticipating that in Indonesia, where it takes 45 minutes to have one photocopy made, I would be there for at least 3 hours. BUT NO! I was literally in and out in 15 minutes. And, disgustingly, Ingrid, the doctor and I decided the rash was from the yoga mat, provided by the yoga studio that I had patronized the night before. Gross. In any case, the moral of the story is: the hospitals may be the most efficient institutions in the entire country. Much better than the U.S. And the crème they gave me was straight from Heaven, though it did leave a pasty white milky residue on my skin. Hoping the people visiting the American Corner wouldn't notice my rapidly subsiding rash, or perhaps that they would admire the milky whiteness (oh yes, all natural, of my skin)I headed on over.
Skeptical as I was about the whole “Go America” idea of the American Corner booth, it wasn't so bad. And about every other country in the world, including Iran, had a booth too, though Suriname had the only other native on display. Most people ignored the rash, and the volunteers, two Indonesian undergrads, were great. Other smiling undergrads, excited about the chance to use their English, flocked to the scene. We chatted, and, inspired by their interest in the sparkly Mardi Gras masks the volunteers and I had cobbled together during prep time, we held an impromptu make your own Mardi Gras mask workshop. Boys and girls alike joined in, creating sparkly pink and blue and yellow and red masks. To disrupt the sweet picture you have running through your mind—of arts and crafts and girls and boys—I'll give you a glimpse into our conversation. The nice Muslim girls talked about makeup and sneaking out of the house, behind their parents backs. When I asked what I should be for Halloween, the boys said I should be an Indonesian ghost—perhaps one whose head spins around 365 degrees who has a hole in her back. Yes. And then the girls giggled and said I should be...I don't remember the word...and the boys blushed and said, “no...be quiet!” Of course, girls have a hard time being quiet, and they caved to my peer pressure. This...creature...has what they described as “very long breasts.” By their gestures I imagined torpedo-sized mammaries, hanging down to this creature's waist. Evidently this creature steals children who wander out after dark and hides them under her giant, long breasts. Ew. What a boogey-man story!

The mask-making went well, and, excited by the chance to speak to such intelligent, thoughtful undergrads (who don't, like everyone else my age here, have 3 kids and a husband), I invited one volunteer—an international affairs student— to supper at the Indian restaurant/yoga studio near my place. She is absolutely lovely. Strangely, she was sent, on an exchange program, to a working class, largely African American and Hispanic Texas vocational school, where she spent one year. Evidently there was a lot of racial tension at the school, and one of her friends was stabbed, and two were shot. On her first visit to the U.S. It's a miracle she volunteers at the American corner. Our conversation moved from my research (where she offered useful insights into various genres taught to undergrads here), to educational inequality between the global north and south (Indonesians,even in the best university, can't access online sources because they're too expensive and current books are often scarce in the libraries) to her identity as a Muslim. Interestingly, when the conversation shifted to her head scarf, she said that 4 years ago, she never would have guessed that she would be as devout as she is today. She said that after coming back from the States, she felt like she had “too many identities” and that she had lost what it meant to be Indonesian. So she had, against her parents wishes (she calls them agnostics), become Muslim. Her parents, she said, were influenced by the media, and were scared she would become fundamentalist, but she describes herself as a progressive Muslim. And she is.

And then the conversation shifted to ghosts. Again. Yes. The Indonesians love some ghost stories. After I shared some of my little brother's freakish experiences with the supernatural, she explained that her grandfather was a gifted psychic, but that, to be so, one must be friends with evil spirits. And these evil spirits procreate. They have babies. And these babies haunt the psychic's babies and so on and so forth. Since she was a child, she explained, she had seen ghosts. Imagine a world where ghosts can fill a house just like humans can. Frightening. All of this was to say that when she went to America, despite the shootings and violence, she felt safe from her Indonesian ghosts. Indeed.