Finally, our last lesson, and an up-to-date blog. We cannot keep our culture to ourselves. It is meant to be shared; if something is secret, it cannot remain a part of our culture for very long. Some select group of people must be made privy to the knowledge, and pass it along.
Lesson SIX: Culture spreads, because it consists of the things about ourselves and our people that we desire to share with others. These things can be goods, services, or ideas.
Eastern North America's aboriginal people built vast trade networks that can be traced even today by any trained archeologist, based only on the shape and style of pottery found amid ruins. And thanks to Syifa, and the Borneo custom of bringing back oleh-oleh whenever we go away for a visit home, future cultural researchers will wonder how ROLL TIDE sweatshirts came to be distributed so far away from their original place of origin.
During my recent trip home, I was really shocked at the price of gasoline - more than $3.25/gallon US in most parts of Alabama. It's normal for gas prices to increase, and for Americans to grumble and complain about them. Olaf, my European friend, reminds me that we are complaining about nothing, as far as people in other Western nations are concerned. What isn't normal in the USA are long gas lines. In Pontianak, the city took to bicycles recently, when a local fuel crisis ensued as a result of an accident (never really explained) that prevented the state petroleum concern from delivering fuel into the harbor terminal. The result was something I hadn't seen since Hurricane Katrina paralyzed the southeastern USA in August 2005: marathon gas lines stretching several kilometers down the highway in front of every gas station. I was glad to be a walking, bike-riding foreigner who didn't have to worry so much, but also concerned that my friends and neighbors were spending so much time out in the heat. I could not believe that the international press had not picked up the story, but saw nothing on CNN or BBC. What I saw was a city of almost a million people, where everyone was leaving work at five o'clock in the afternoon, having dinner in line, and arriving home at around 3 A.M. the following day. Ten hours to get your fuel for the week. I began, at last, to glimpse our own future absent alternative fuels, mass transit subsidies, and a national energy policy for the USA. Folks, this is where we're headed, and you can make book on it... 
But beyond the politics of the impending U.S. fuel and transportation crisis - "Without Trucks, America Stops!" says the bumper sticker - lies the lesson for cultural studies. Why are people forming a line in the first place? Queuing up for gas or any other goods or services isn't an expectation with which we are born, and doesn't happen by instinct. "Every man for himself" or in other words, a melee, would be the natural state of things in this situation. We form an orderly line based on the cultural expectation that we will do so.
Lesson FIVE: Culture establishes the expected behavior for most any given situation, both positive and negative.
Of course, it's not all unpleasantness, like a terrible gas line. Culture will make you do a dragon dance, too.
After we meet our basic needs for food clothing, and shelter, and augment them with the three more necessary for life in the modern world - transportation, education, and healthcare, we choose the ways in which we express what we want to say. Art, music, poetry, drama, media, entertainment - these things all represent the ways in which we attempt to communicate with one another, as soon as the necessities of life have been attended to.
Lesson FOUR: Culture includes our attempts to communicate, and the messages we send to other human beings, in whatever form.
The original title for this post was to have been "Paul: Photographing the Photographer." That's because during Paul's December visit, we spent two days walking through traditional markets in Pontianak and Singkawang, in search of his favorite photo opportunities.
Pontianak's traditional market sells fresh fish and produce of every description, and its name, Pasar Flamboyan, is very appropriate for the explosion of colors and intensity of smells one encounters walking through. I advised my friend, Olaf, today that Indonesian traditional markets are not spotlessly clean like those he might encounter in his native Switzerland, so he might want to wear shoes with a closed toe instead of sandals on his first visit to the Flamboyan. His question basically was "okay but what happens to your shoes?" Wear old ones, 'cause you don't wanna know :)
Paul's photographic journey through the Pasar Flamboyan, and the Pasar Hong Kong in Singkawang, was focused on texture, not color. He likes to photograph objects at extreme close-up range, in part because the resulting image, with its unusual textures, almost always becomes an excellent conversation starter for an ESL/EFL conversation class. By contrast, I often photograph "street scenes" at long range.
Indonesians are such "hams" for the camera - especially the guys, who will insist that the Western dude walking around their community take their picture as though it were a matter of self-preservation. For a people planning to rely on tourism in the future to support themselves through tough times, it perhaps does mean life and death. Being a professional, Paul had a professional's equipment, and he had only to point it toward a group of people to make them spring instantly to life, as though conditioned to respond to the lens.
This oft-repeated phrase is one of the ways we used to express our extreme frustration at things not done in a timely manner when I was growing up...like, for example, blog postings for December that are delayed until the following March! Since my last entry, I have gone from Pontianak on a three-week home visit to America and come back again, and Christmas 2010 seems like all the other Christmases...now a memory.
Here are the celebration videos from December 4th, when the English Luncheon Meeting, a group of language teachers who meet each Friday, and who have, I think, an affiliation with the Full Gospel Business Men's Fellowship (FGBMF), put on their annual Christmas show. As you will see, it was a pleasure to attend and much preparation went into it.
So, let's begin with November 28th, the week after Thanksgiving...
My best friend in Pontianak is a fellow English language teacher who is completely self-taught in English (high fluency), and supplements his income by offering private lessons to kids whose parents want them to learn our language. To protect his privacy, I'll call him by his Chinese name, Lim.
Chinese people are said to be the single largest ethnic group in the city of Pontianak, though they are not in the majority. Pontianak is anywhere from 25 to 40 % Chinese, depending, of course, on whom you ask. Half Christian, half Buddhist-Confucian, the Kalimantan Chinese speak two languages that came to Indonesia from southern China - Teochew and Hakka. Hakka is also known as Khek, and its classical form, the Haklo dialect, is still spoken in Singkawang, a Chinese-majority city not far from here. Pontianak, in contrast, has slightly more Teochew speakers than speakers of dialects derived from Hakka. And I'm boring everyone except those whose hobby is linguistics or anthropology. You want to know about Lim, my Buddhist Sunday School Road Trip, and everything they both have taught me about myself and my surroundings.
When I first met Lim, he was doing the same thing many other young men in Pontianak do that no one in America does: offering a stranger (me) a ride home on his motorbike because I was walking through the neighborhood late, and it was starting to look like rain. Of course I hesitated to accept, but something told me his only motive truly was charity. I've been right about that, and he has been my friend ever since.
After we had discussed English language teaching several times, I was invited to his home, met his brother and parents, and began to learn more about them and their lives here in Pontianak. Lim's father has sour memories of times past when being Chinese in Indonesia was even more difficult than it is today. But he has raised two sons who seem, in their late 20s and early 30s, to be the very definition of hard work and talent.
Lim is a Buddhist, and while he likes to have fun as much as any other young single guy, he also takes his faith very seriously. Like most Chinese Buddhists here, he belongs to the Maitreya movement, a messianic form of Buddhism that draws a lot of criticism from Christians in my part of the U.S., many of whom list it among the "cults."
Those types of arguments were part of my old life. I can see that it's long gone. And now?
I'm a Christian, and I have no intention of converting to Buddhism, but if time allowed, I would probably study the religion - with a view toward understanding, not converting. My old college roommate already offered his two cents worth, saying that Buddhism interested his Southern Baptist self simply because he had always noticed how among the Buddhists, there were very few "freaks."
Umm...okay, man, thanks for sharing. I will now share what I have seen during the time I've spent around Lim, his friends, and his family...
The first meal I ate in their home was in front of the television set in the living room where many family friends had gathered on a Sunday evening. His mom had cooked for anyone and everyone who might drop by, and it was quite an eclectic group - all Chinese, but both religions and both languages. My couch-mate was a teacher who was physically challenged - by multiple sclerosis, I think, though I cannot be sure. As we all watched a movie, Lim's friend, Eddy, began to share with me his experiences teaching English. Several people exchanged glances across the room, as the Sunday School Guys (for there's no better name to give them) made a quick plan to use me as a walking, talking motivational device for the kids they teach - kids who study English, but have never met a native speaker. Classes are taught weekly by Buddhist university students who volunteer to travel to Kumpai, a remote Chinese village two hours from Pontianak by motorbike.
I was asked to visit Kumpai the following Sunday, and without knowing what to expect, I agreed.
Later that evening, when I said I might also like to learn more about the Buddhist faith, I didn't have to ask twice. While still plotting my appearance in their English class, The Guys placed me on the back of a motorbike for a visit to the neighborhood extension of their viharra, or temple. Maitreya worship spaces contain an altar on which a figure of the "laughing" Buddha (quite familiar in the Chinese culture) is placed, with offerings of incense and the words TUHAN MAHA ESA (Almighty God) posted on the wall above. The religion teacher at the temple explained in flawless been-to-America English that the Maitreya are distinct among Buddhists as acknowledging One God, all powerful, all knowing, all forgiving, and conceived in their minds as "Mother" almost as often as we call God our "Father." Still, TUHAN MAHA ESA places them squarely within Indonesia's legal formula for "recognized" religions. More on that issue much later :) Worshipers bow but do not prostrate, and pray on their knees using "box kneelers" covered in vinyl, such as you might find in a Catholic or Anglican church meeting in a storefront.
Having been exposed to many Christian opinions about his faith, Lim seemed uncomfortable when I entered the worship space. It was not that I was not allowed, I was told, but rather, was I really sure it was okay for me to be in here? I assured him it was, but this was only the beginning of my self-discovery. I listened to an explanation of Maitreya Buddhism while a Mandarin language class studied in the next room. According to custom, The Guys got a bucket and sponge and each took turns cleaning a section of floor or wall in the viharra.
Fast forward almost one week. Eddy picks me up at seven o'clock the following Sunday morning, and we ride on his motorbike to Kumpai. The weather and drive are beautiful, and I wish I had a camera in hand, 
but holding on to the bike is the first concern. About two hours later, we arrive at a house belonging to the temple, where children from the Chinese Buddhist community are taught English, Mandarin, and religion. Lim and the others are not there yet. Eddy sits me down in the kitchen, and cooks my breakfast in a wok over a gas burner. He does a damn good job too, and the food is delicious.
I am embarrassed when I am finally led into the room filled with 15-20 children and teenagers gathered for an English lesson. These classroom visits are almost always organized in question-and-answer format, and you would think I'd have learned by now that preparing an activity is the way to go, even if they tell you it's not necessary. I wind up talking the entire time about the reasons why I look "different" to these kids, many of whom have only seen a person of European descent on television or in movies - never in person. One or two of them are brave enough to introduce themselves in English.
When my talk was finished, the real learning experience began. As I looked around the room after Lim and the others had arrived, I truly began to see his friends with more than just my eyes. In their starched white shirts, they had a look about them that was very church youth group. As my gaze fell toward the spotless wooden floor, I was struck by how they functioned together as a group of young men dedicated to a cause. And that's exactly when, in the most deferential, indirect, Indonesian way possible, they let me know that I needed to leave for a while. The reason?
It was time to pray. Buddhist worship involves concentration and focus, so that the presence of an unusual stranger can be distracting during prayer and meditation. But more than that, they were preparing to go, as a group of young men, to a spiritual place I could not follow. Two young women were chosen to be my "tour guides," and we made our way up the main street to the Confucian temple. But my spirit was right back in Alabama, the unmistakable karmic imprint remaining stuck to the forehead of a "soft" liberal Christian who needs to find something else to do while the real men pray, just as surely as if the Sunday School Guys has been Baptists, not Buddhists, or a bunch of orthodox Wesleyans on the way to a Promise Keepers' meeting in a football stadium. Spirituality as a spectator, not a participant, for the first time appeared as my permanent destiny, and not as a mere accident of life in Alabama as a non-Evangelical. My sad destiny had positively followed me all the way to Indonesia, and this was a stark revelation.
But I haven't shared with you yet the other surprising things - the ones that can be illustrated by photographs...
Offerings of incense are placed at the foot of statues - Confucianism appears to have many saints, and their images are placed near the river bank in Kumpai for all to see.
Confucian temples have several altars at which incense is burned. A gong or bell is sounded each time someone makes an offering in the temple.
Confucian and Buddhist altars are never very far apart in Chinese traditional religion, though some ultra-devout Buddhists will occasionally say that this is not appropriate. It appears to be a fact of life in most villages.
Kumpai's waterfront is breathtaking...
Elderly people serve the viharra by working as calligraphy artists. This gentleman is making Buddhist prayer flags that will be burned as prayers for the dead.
Kumpai is actually two villages, not one - there is Kumpai Besar (big) and Kumpai Kecil (little) each being located directly across a wide river from the other, and accessible to each other only by sampans with loud, click-clacking diesel engines. It's quite a ride!
The market and residential areas of both Kumpai Besar and Kumpai Kecil are beautiful beyond description. Our trip across the river had a purpose - some of the guys needed to be measured for traditional costumes worn during an upcoming festival, and visited the home of a temple elder to get this errand completed. 
In fact, every space has a purpose. Most rice fields are also fish farms...
And all of Kumpai proved to be a place full of surprises, but never complications. The educational philosophy was a simple imperative of survival for the community: the children must learn! The children must learn English in case they end up in America, and Mandarin in case they end up in China. They must learn their Buddhist-Confucian spiritual values, so that they do not forget who they are. Young people who are able to teach must give their time to kids who might otherwise have little chance, and in so doing, bear witness to the necessity of people being there for each other. With care and sacrifice, everything beautiful about them shines through.
That's why there will always be a Kumpai village, no matter where on the map it's located in our common, uncertain future. Take comfort, then, in the fact that somewhere, someone will always be preparing to dance in celebration.
6:17 P.M. on a Wednesday evening. I am at the beginning of the longest marathon blog-updating session I have ever tried to complete, and it will be followed by lesson plans till the break of dawn. This is what happens when work piles up due to lack of planning and organization. Yet, some people back home actually know me as "organized." I had many high hopes for the six blog postings I will have to do to bring everyone up to date on all that I have done and seen these past two months since the TEFLIN conference in Bandung.
Bandung, I guess, is a good point of beginning for all I have to tell. It was there and then that my attention was drawn to the fact that Paul seemed a little "down" at the prospect of spending Christmas and New Year's Day alone in Palembang, without much to do there. So, I invited him to come to Pontianak on Christmas weekend, and to my surprise, he accepted. A weekend quickly turned into a week when we discovered that my counterpart really wanted him to present his critical thinking workshop during his stay here, and scheduled this event for the 28th.
I soon realized that I would have several days to show Paul as much of West Kalimantan as he might wish to see, and knew that I would have to rely on the many friends I have made here for help in making it happen. As a non-cooker, I am a poor host, and an even worse tour guide!
The workshop was a big hit with all the teachers from the local schools who attended. So was the regular Thursday night "open house" at my place, especially since all the guys from the OMIT LMC dormitory came over, along with my students from UPT Bahasa, plus Willy, Jimmy, Argo, Lenny, and her friend, Mark, from USAID. There must have been 30 people in the house, and Paul and Willy commandeered the kitchen with positively no resistance from me, as they cooked spaghetti for everyone. Mark and I amazed everyone with how different two Americans could be in their ideas about language, and I hope he understood he's invited back every Thursday that he's in town. OMIT LMC members love to practice English with my students and me. But now that Paul has moved on, I'm not sure what I'm going to do about food on Thursdays :(
The mall was open on Christmas Day, the one thing that distinguished it from American malls in the U.S., which would be closed at about 6 every Christmas Eve. We spent Christmas Eve at Olaf's house. He's from Switzerland and cuts me no slack about being a non-cooker, especially since the party at his house was "bring your own stuff to grill." In exchange for doing an interview for the Pontianak Post, I was able to score a ride on the back of Dina's motorbike so that I could go to Hypermart after the party had already started and buy chicken and fish for Olaf to grill. I still haven't seen the article, which I'm told appeared on the 26th, and I'm almost afraid to look. In keeping with the Kalbar tradition, Paul and I visited three homes on Christmas Day, including Ibu Sumarni's house (lunch at a Japanese restaurant) Pak Bunau's house (early dinner), and Michele's place (snacks again). It was at Michele's that Paul met Willy and Jimmy for the first time, and our escape from Pontianak for New Year's weekend was planned.
After all, we couldn't just hang around the mall all frickin' week, even if there was live music...right?
I never saw an artificial Christmas tree larger than the one on the provincial governor's (Catholic, not Muslim) front lawn...
Nobody ever sang "Silent Night" as well as Judyanto, even if the damn file will not upload!
I never had more fun being "interviewed" than at Excellence English Club.
And I never before spent a Christmas week with both feet firmly planted on the Equator, and my mind as thoroughly in two different hemispheres as this year.
The area around the Tugu Khatulistiwa - Equator Monument - is swampy, but beautiful.
And English is the language to learn, especially for the staff at the biggest tourist attraction in the province. At left is Pak Zainal, the lecturer with whom I team teach extensive reading. 
