So Fat, so Beautiful: An American Woman in Indonesia

I had the remnants of a cold but was feeling good as I slipped into my running shoes for the first time since my bike accident.

As I stepped out the door, Shienda, my Indonesian co-teacher, called my name, “Grace!”
I stopped in my tracks, “What?” She looked up from her laptop to study me, then pronounced, “Grace you are SO fat.”

I looked down at my 120ish pound body. I didn’t feel fat, or at least not any fatter than usual to deserve one of the most damning judgments in the English-speaking-female world. Seeing the disbelief on my face, she assured me with her matter-of-fact voice, “Yes, Grace, you have definitely gotten fatter. Look at your stomach, your face- everything is now bigger.”

I think I rambled off some lame excuses: I’ve been sick, I haven’t been exercising because of my leg, blah blah. Shienda, agreed and generously added that, it “must have been the food” from the conference in Lombok that I had just returned from.

With the causes of my fatness agreed upon, Shienda went back to Facebook and I returned to my running, making a mental note to eat less deep-fried tempe.

In Indonesia, you are either very fat or “need to eat more”, and someone must always remind you, lest you forget the size of your own waist. Perhaps one reason you need to be reminded so often is because weight tends to fluctuate in Indonesia more severely than it does in the Western world. There have been times when I have been told, “Grace your face looks like it is sinking in, please, you must eat more” only to be asked hours later, “You used to be so skinny, how did you become so fat?”

Or perhaps this is a way of looking out for your pals. In America, we expect our friends to be honest to us when we’re drinking too or dating a jerk so that we will not wake up married to God’s-greatest-punishment-to-the-female-race. But in Indonesia, your girlfriends just want to make sure that you know when you look less “cantik” (pretty) so that you can whip yourself back into shape and attract a spouse before the ever-approaching marriage deadline- age 27.

But the problem I have with that theory is, Indonesians never really sound concerned when they tell you you’re too fat. I’ve seen Indonesian students introduce their classmates as, “the fat one” with a mean-sounding laugh and even call their teachers “big and ugly” to their face. Office-banter usually involves someone pointing out the fattest person in the room.

The whole phenomenon of weight-bashing can be unsettling and even damaging to the frail self-esteem of the average, sheltered American who has been told all her life that it is “okay to have extra curves” and has only, only talked about weight publically in the following context: Girl A- I’m so fat, Girlfriends of Girl A- OMG, no you’re not.

But having grown up in a Korean-American household where every pimple and weight fluctuation has been monitored by the watchful eye of my grandparents, I wasn’t too surprised by the sudden attention my butt received and was even amused by the contrast between the matter-of-fact attitude Indonesians take towards weight (one Indonesian explained that telling someone they are fatter is like commenting that their hair got longer) compared to the culture of deceit that pervades American fat-talk. Just think: how many Americans have told their friends, “Oh you look so skinny” while silently thinking, “ those pale rolls of fat gushing from the sides of your pants are repulsive.”

I’m not saying that children should call their teachers fat or that you should start telling your friends what you really think about their rolls of pasty blubber. I just find the contrast between blunt honesty and deceit, well, interesting.

After all, even my tough ego was ever-so-slightly wounded after Shienda’s evaluation of my anatomy. But fortunately, there is a panacea to the wounds inflicted upon the over-sensitive.

No matter how fat you really are, if you are a female American, you will always be cantik (pretty) so long as you live in Indonesia. In fact, I get reminded about a dozen times a day how “cantik I look with my jilbob” or how “cantik my white skin is” or how “cantik I look” in my hideous school uniform. When I walk through the hallways in my school, I hear, “I love you!” “You’re beautiful!” from my students- male and female- and if I need an afternoon ego-boost, I need only to walk around my neighborhood to hear, “Beautiful woman!” from the local construction workers.

And from what I’ve gathered, this is not unique to me, but common to all the Fulbright English teachers- big and small- who live and work in Indonesia. We American women are exotic and yes- beautiful- even in our slightly-chunky state to the eyes of Indonesians.

So if you’re a little curvy or slightly malnourished, remember that no matter what Indonesians have to say about your waist size, you’re still damn sexy.

Questions from Mount Ijen

Looking down into the crater, I saw nothing but endless miles of white-streaked dirt and rocks descending into a sea of smoke. But a few obligatory photos later, I saw what we came for. A strong, sulfur-infused wind lifted the fog, revealing at the bottom of the crater, the vast robins-egg-blue lake which put Mount Ijen in Lonely Planet's guide to Indonesia and brought me to the summit of the active volcano.

The lake, which sits on Ijen's summit, is superb and certainly worthy of any backpacker- lonely or not. But what emerged from the desolate crater (kawah) impressed me more. One by one, a man appeared over the cliff, carrying two baskets filled with hefty blocks of bright-yellow sulfur over his shoulders. I crept over the edge to see where these hardy miners were coming from but the path was too steep and whatever I would've been able to see was obscured in smoke. So, I went down.

Most of the men I passed on my way down looked about my height, but thinner. My hiking buddy pointed out that the upper backs of older men- which you could glimpse through their shirt collars- had been blackened from years of carrying the sulfur (usually 70 kilos at a time) over their shoulders. They wore worn and torn rubber boots. Perhaps these protected the mens' feet from getting wet, but I wondered if they could keep a man from slipping down the steep muddy mountain paths after one of Indonesia's regular downpours. I saw at least one worker in rubber flip flops.

As I carefully made my way down path, using hands and feet to keep from falling 500 meters or so into the crater, miners briskly passed me up and down the steep, rocky path , like mountain goats seemingly unaware of the danger of one misstep. I asked a couple if they were ever afraid, "Ngak, no!" they would respond with a smile, "Biasa,"- the usual.

When the sulfur wind picked up again, the men mining below still looked like small toys in a lemon-yellow, baby-blue world. The workers continued to pass, some with cotton cloths tied around their noses and mouths, but most directly facing the toxic wind, occasionally coughing and spitting. Despite burying my nose in my shirt, the sulfur chocked me and brought back that rattling cough I'd battled my first month living in Indonesia. My vision blurred, my eyes burned and my breath became wheezes. When my friend suggested we head back up, I took the opportunity to escape the suffocating crater. My last memory from climbing out of the crater was seeing a worker near the top casually smoking a cigarette.

When we emerged from the kawah and I had recaptured my breath, questions flooded my head, nagging me throughout the day. How do the workers come back every day? They're paid about $4 for each trip they make down into the crater and few men can make more than two. That's more than you can make as a farmer in East Java, but surely the dangers are greater. Why can't the companies using the sulfur (and no doubt, profiting) invest in their workers by making conditions safer? Where are the pulleys? The gas masks?

What is the value of one life?

700 handshakes and casava bbq

I now truly understand what it is like to be "in a fishbowl". I don't think I have ever been watched by so many eyes at once. All 700 students lined up around the school courtyard, in and outside nearby classrooms and on the balcony, pointing at me and looking very surprised and amused to see that their English teacher from America, dressed in slacks, a long button down shirt, and a blue headscarf (jilbob), did not look like a bouleh (white person) at all.

Today instead of classes, we had an outdoor orientation ceremony (Halal bihalal) to welcome all 700+ high school students back to school after the Ramadan/Idul Fitri holiday. The ceremony, which took place in the school courtyard, consisted of every single student lining up to shake every teachers' hand- including mine- as dramatic music played in the background. I say shaking hands, but it is more accurate to say that some students lightly held my fingertips, while others kissed it, and still others pressed my hand to their cheek.

The generosity of Indonesians never ceases to amaze me. I was exhausted when school ended and my cheeks were sore from smiling but I happily joined the teachers to visit Mr. Mu'at (who works at the school) because his wife wife had a tiny, tiny baby just yesterday. After a visit to another teachers' home and a trip to the market, Shienda and I finally returned to my yellow house and I knocked out for a two hour nap. I woke up to the sound of talking from my kitchen and after finally getting up, discovered a small army of chefs at work. Shienda's mother and sister had arrived to help my cook dinner and when I opened the door to my backyard, I was surprised to see Mr. Mu'at (whose wife just had the baby) himself sitting outside fanning a small fire (made from woodchips, a cigarette box, and a flip-flop- yes a shoe) where he was grilling a casava for me. He also grilled a corn on the same fire and carved a young coconut for me.

This is just one of many examples of abundant kindness that I have been flooded with. When I first moved into my dark and empty house I wasn't worried, but I questioned whether I could ever feel at home in such a foreign place. My power and water occasionally turns off, my kitchen ceiling leaks and my house seems to to be the favorite hangout for ants and fruit flies; yet surrounded by all these wonderful people I think someday soon, I will be able to call this house my home.

New home and new friends

Finally got internet up and running in my new home! On Sunday morning at 2 a.m. I arrived in Genteng, a small city in East Java, where I will spend the next 9 months. My house is bright yellow (both inside and outside) and I think the color attracts butterflies because every day I find at least three of my flying friends perched on my walls. There is a living room, three rooms and a spacious kitchen that leads out to a backyard where soon, I will begin planting my own vegetables. Around my backyard (I just noticed this today) is a tall fence crowned with sharp pieces of glass, which I think are intended to keep intruders out. My kitchen is loaded with casava, coconuts, fruits, and cookies that people have brought over for me. There are always people at my house checking in on me and giving me food and whenever I walk around the neighborhood, people invite me into their homes. It is like being a part of one massive family.

For now, Shienda (my co-teacher/counterpart) at my school is living with me. I am very thankful for this because there are so many things that I didn't know how to do- like wearing a jilbob (Muslim headscarf that I wear to school) and taking showers. In my bathroom there is an elevated upright rectangular cube in the corner which can be filled with water. Naturally, I assumed this was a bath-tub. On my first night, I climbed inside to take an uncomfortable, cold bath, all the while wondering how I would tolerate this for one year. Later I learned from Sheinda that I'm not supposed to climb into the tub but in fact the entire bathroom is the shower floor. Thus, to wash yourself, you just stand in the middle of the floor and use the showerhead or dump water on yourself from the tub using scoopers. This was strange to me at first but now I am used to it.

A little about Shienda. She is 24, has a radiant smile, "single and very happy", and probably the most vivacious person I have ever met. She's been teaching English for only 8 months at our school but speaks wonderful English. She learned most of her English from watching American movies and listening to music- everything from Jason Mraz to heavy metal. When she was in college, she was in three different heavy metal bands (much to the demise of her more conservative parents).

In addition to Shienda, I have a friend named Mohammad Syaefulloh that everyone calls "Syaefull" (pronounced Si-full). But I call him Superman because he helps with everything- driving, shopping, and fixing things in the house as they break down. He does all this in addition to starting college (which he just began today) yet he never looks tired. With Shienda and Syaefull I have no worries except that I might burden them too much. Right now my two buddies are lounging in the living room munching on mango dipped in rujak (spicy peanut sauce) and chatting in Javanese and occasionally asking me questions. It is raining heavily and I will probably find lots of puddles in my kitchen tomorrow morning.

Celebrating Idul Fitri in Indonesia!

After a month of abstention from food, water, and sexy time between sunrise and sunset, followers of Islam gathered to celebrate one of their most important holidays, Idul Fitri. This year, our Indonesian teachers, invited all the English teaching assistants (yep all 44 of us) to their home to celebrate the holiday with them in Indonesian-fashion.

During Ramadan (the fasting month), most Indonesian Muslims wake up around 3 or 4 am to eat sahur (the pre-fasting meal)- the only meal and drink until sunset which occurs around 6 p.m. here. My Indonesian friend Elly explained that fasting is a part of her jihad or "struggle" to gain control over her emotions and draw closer to God. To get a better understanding of what she meant, I fasted on Thursday.

At 3:40 a.m.- before a ray of sunlight had touched the sky- I woke up to eat a large breakfast at the hotel buffet and drink water- lots of water. Throughout the morning I felt fine, but as soon as our guest speaker began lecturing on lesson-planning techniques, my eyes wandered wistfully to the espresso machine and plates of snacks piled in the corner of the classroom. Long story short, I survived and emerged with a renewed appreciation for the food that I have and respect for everyone that fasts throughout Ramadan.

Probably the hardest part of the day was when we discussed traditional foods eaten during Idul Fitri in our language class. I didn't realize until that then, how difficult it must have been for our teachers- Ibu Vita and her sister, Ibu Lilly (both Muslim)- to teach a group of Americans who constantly snacked and drank coffee, but they never once showed a trace of impatience or annoyance. In fact, at the end of the day, the two sisters invited all the ETAs to celebrate the end of Ramadan in their home!



On Friday, about 40 ETAs piled into ancots (little green buses), ojeks (motorcycle taxis) and taxis headed towards Ibu Lilly and Ibu Vita's house. Pretty soon, their house was full of buleh! (Indonesian slang for white people)






















To celebrate Idul Fitri, the sisters cooked a variety of traditional Indonesian foods for us including eggs boiled in a soy-sauce, pickled vegetables, and chicken curry. There was also a basket filled with passion-fruit, snake-fruit, and pears and of course, plenty of ketupat- rice steamed in a basket woven from young coconut leaves. When you unwrap the leaves, you use a knife to slice the densely packed rice. You can find ketupat sold in bushels at street stands all around the city.




After eating too much food, I accompanied Ibu Lilly and a few of the ETAs to visit the neighbors. An important component of Idul Fitri is forgiveness and rebuilding relationships with God, friends and family. Muslim families open their homes to guests and visit each other, greeting one another with the phrase "mohon maaf lahir dan batin" which means "forgive my physical and internal (wrongdoings)".

Ibu Lilly's neighbors welcomed us into their home and showered us with food and questions about what we thought about Indonesia and where we would be teaching. We also took lots of pictures. Fortunately, the neighbors were just as excited as we were to take pictures- they had never seen so many buleh in their home before. Selamat Idul Fitri!

First visit to an Indonesian school

As our massive bus rolled into the courtyard, small smiling faces suddenly appeared in windows and doorways out of the sky-blue colored school. From my window I smiled back- equally curious and eager to remember everything from this special visit.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from an Indonesian classroom, but I imagined rows of children with folded hands listening quietly as a stern but respectful teacher lectured. That image was decimated on arrival. As four other Fulbright English Teaching Assistants (ETAs) and I entered the sparsely decorated room, we were greeted by a chorus of enthusiastic “Hello Miss! Hello Mister! Good morning!” from a group of about thirty girls dressed in intricately designed uniforms and white head scarves.

When we introduced ourselves, everything we said was followed by a harmonized “Ooohhhhh” or “Ahhhh” and if we said anything positive about Indonesia (IE- “I love the food here!” or a simple “I like it here”) the kids went nuts, bursting into belly-clutching giggles and applause. When they started begging us to sing, their teacher finally stepped in and took over the class.

All of the ETAs are studying the Indonesian language and teaching methods in a city called Bandung until September 17 when we will be flown to different schools around the country to teach. Typically our lessons are held at the Sheraton hotel where we are staying, but instead of meeting in a hotel conference room, today we observed local English classes to see how Indonesians teach.

We sat in the back as the teacher began a lesson which sounded more like a pep rally than a lecture. “Is this a BOOK?” he shouted while pointing to a book. “YES! It is a book!” the students shouted back in unison. “Is this a PEN?” he asked. “No! It is a BOOK!” was the reply. This continued for about ten minutes, with the teacher pointing to different objects in the classroom and the students getting progressively louder. Once the teacher began calling on individuals, the girls suddenly became very shy though, giggling nervously and covering their faces with their hands.

At the end of the class, I asked to take a picture and the girls immediately began chattering excitedly and striking poses. They kept asking me, “Do you have Passbook?” Not knowing what “Passbook” was I apologized, but that didn’t stop dim their smiles or chatter (I later figured out they were trying to say Facebook which is extremely popular among Indonesian children).

Ever since I found out that I would be traveling to Indonesia, I have been looking forward to teaching, but meeting these kids has only doubled my excitement. I have never seen energy like this at an American high school, except maybe at a football game. As our bus rolled out of the schoolyard and headed back to the Sheraton, my thoughts wandered to Genteng, the village where I will begin teaching mid-September, and I smiled knowing that I am in the exact right place to teach.

Peruvian presidential candidate campaigns for votes... in New Jersey

Could you imagine Obama flying to France to rev up American ex-pats to get out of their cafés and vote in the 2012 election? Well that’s basically what Peru’s leading presidential candidate is doing tonight, right here in N.J.

Keiko Fujimori- congresswoman and daughter of a former president- will be the keynote speaker at a Paterson charity event- not only to help raise money for poor kids, but also to court votes from the largest émigré community from the South American country.

She’s got a good reason for doing so. Peruvian immigrants, who send billions of dollars in remittances home each year, remain actively involved in Peruvian politics, even while living abroad. One community leader recalled that during the 2006 election, the line of Peruvian Americans voters stretched four blocks, according to a report in NorthJersey.com.

The census says there are 66,000 Peruvians living in N.J., but community leaders believe there could be as many as 200,000- that’s so significant that the Peruvian government built a consulate in Patterson- only 15 miles from its other one in New York City, said the report.

Some interesting facts about Fujimori taken from Business Week:

• As a descendent of Japanese immigants, she is considered a minority

• Her father, former President Alberto Fujimori, is a political prisoner. In 2009, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison for human rights violations.

• She got her MBA from Columbia University, where she met her American husband

• She was elected to Congress in 2006 at the age of 19