Culture, Part III: Accumulation

Semester break, like life, is "nasty, brutish, and short." Getting to spend three weeks in America talking with family and friends was wonderful, but not so wonderful was my first experience in the wonderful world of extended stay hotel rates, and the realization that Tuscaloosa, for now, isn't exactly home, even though nearly all my stuff is still there. One would think that being without a family, I would have relatively few material possessions to weigh me down, but this is not the case. When I was preparing to come to Indonesia, I had to vacate an apartment where I have lived for more than 20 years, and had to do it in a very short time. Thus, all my possessions came to live in Unit A534.

I had to spend my last Sunday morning in Tuscaloosa rearranging Unit A534, so that I could reach books and computer software I thought it necessary to put hands on, and longingly survey the warm winter clothing that I was never able to reach, it being located all the way at the back of the damn thing, which is quite full top to bottom, front to back. When I had finished, A534 looked just as much in disarray as when I had begun. And the winter clothes were still beyond reach, unavailable for my three more days in freezing cold Atlanta in February. Last August, I just didn't think about this.

Why is there so much junk in Unit A534? Is it because of indecision, or a misapplication of values - the part of culture that tells us what to leave in, and what to leave out?

Perhaps. But that would ignore another terribly important principle for cultural studies - that of accumulation. Culture is not built overnight, or even over 20 years, the time it takes to accumulate 2000 cubic feet of useless junk.

Lesson THREE: Culture represents the accumulation of lessons learned by countless people we will never meet, and their life experiences piled one on top of the other for many generations.

This, of course, is possible because of sentiment, the idea that value can be assigned to places, things, and thank God, people, giving them value beyond their actual material worth. The paper on which all of my college notebooks are printed might be worth a nickel, but I doubt it's worth even that. The same is true of the couch on which I slept as a boy.

As Slow As Christmas! Part IV: journey

Jakarta will always be the largest city I have visited, and Nahaya village will always be the farthest "off-grid" I have ever been. Located on the Landak River near Ngabang, about 20 clicks off the paved road, it is accessible only by motorbike for much of the year, as the rainy season makes the dirt-track roads too soft for any automobile. The other option is a speedboat, which takes only two hours from Pontianak. This option, I have learned, is only available to the wealthiest persons wishing to go to Nahaya. On the back of my friend's motorbike, the travel time was more than eight hours, with a stop overnight at his mother's native village simply because we could not continue, due to fatigue.

Along the way, you might forget you are traveling through Indonesia by simply letting your mind wander wherever the panoramic views might take your memory. Round the corner and see a hill covered with green vines, and you would swear you were driving through Alabama or Tennessee in the month of June. Off the pavement, the road contains more than enough red clay to be located in Alabama or Georgia. It appears to roll on forever, as hamlet after hamlet that will not be mapped by GoogleEarth any time soon continues to drift past.



I went to Nahaya at the invitation of my friend and student Irwan's parents, who did not believe that a Western guy would actually visit their home. They are rubber growers, and their cabin near the village has no electricity or running water. A nearby stream provides what they need for bathing and washing, while drinking water is bottled. My friend and student belongs to West Kalimantan's Dayak nation, which accounts for about 1 in 4 persons province-wide.









However, Landak Regency (or county) is very much Dayak country.




Ahe, the local language, is related to Indonesian, but not the same. I amused a room full of seventh-graders with my attempts to pronounce its unusual consonants.

During our journey, I was tired to the point of illness and far from anything that might be considered familiar, but never frightened as I thought I would be. Probably, this is because I was never alone. To be as far "off-grid" as it seems to a Westerner, Nahaya and surrounding villages seem to be densely populated, and everyone depends on a vast network of friends and family. We joke in Alabama that the people in another small town "all know each other" or are "all related." Here in the middle of the forest is a place where people have always existed that way. Christmas was two weeks away. If ever you thought you were as far away from another human as you could get, in the next moment, you'd hear Christmas carols on tape blaring from someone's house, probably less than a quarter-mile away. Remote, yes, but with very close neighbors. So, I survived our long journey. My shoes didn't.









Off-grid people socialize on Saturday night the way some of my friends' parents remember from rural Alabama a generation ago. There's an old country store where everyone gathers after sundown, with a TV playing for anyone who doesn't have one at home to watch. There are cans of soup, dried provisions, and soft drinks on a wooden shelf. The three dozen people hanging around may be the only souls present for miles in any direction, but they are all you need. Everyone sits on wooden tables and benches, plays board games, or shoots a game of pool in the room next door until well past midnight, by the light of a loud diesel generator. The only request directed at a visitor from far away - please come back. Don't forget about us.
TIP: If you play pool, do not assume that the game is "8-ball" as it usually is in the States.

Most Westerners know the Dayak as the people of the longhouse, from the endless articles about them in National Geographic and other publications. The Ahe language group only claims one fully operational and still inhabited by their people as a home, not a tourist attraction. I was glad to be able to see it.















A wood sculptor whose studio was located in the longhouse explained through translation how spirituality and the Dayak view of the universe impact upon his art, which apparently has been purchased by collectors worldwide. Much of his explanation flowed from conservative Catholic teaching on human sexuality, which would make sense, given the fact that the Ahe people are nearly all more Catholic than the Pope. But it seemed (appropriate for an artist) highly spiritualized and esoteric. He's incredibly talented, but lost my liberal Western self after a few minutes of explanation.

My most memorable place to see was the cemetery at Mandor, site of one of the worst mass killings ever committed by the Japanese Army during the Second World War - with the mass graves to prove it. While it was a gruesome event to contemplate, the future came to life before my eyes on top of the ruins of the past. My friend and student met two other young men from his home area whom he didn't know before. They spoke the same language, are all into martial arts, became friends in about five minutes, and I think will remain friends for some time. A lot of bad things do happen here, but the Dayak are always there for each other. It simply appears to be their way.



Most young people in the Nahaya area like Western music from the 1980's, and stores sell tube after tube of hair gel, so that they can look like they are ready to go back in time to play in an '80's "hair band." I had serious high school flashbacks. Anyone having any Guns 'n' Roses memorabilia should forward it to me, since it would be a dream come true for Salia, a young teacher who teaches English to 89 seventh graders five days a week.

Buddhist Sunday School Road Trip

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.

Selamat Hari Natal dan Tahun Baru!

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.