I'm too sexy for the gym.

Well, this is as good an excuse as any not to work out. I wouldn’t want to arouse any “sexual desires.”

Here’s an article from today’s Jakarta Post, forwarded to me by the lovely Andrea Reichert, with a warning for those headed to the gym or planning to celebrate the upcoming holiday. Yup, this is right in my hometown of Palembang.

I wonder if this will affect my students’ reactions to the Valentine’s Day lesson I already planned. Nothing says debauchery like candy conversation hearts.

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Indonesian Muslim Organization Cracks Down on Tight Gym Clothes and Valentine’s Day

Nurfika Osman

The head of the Indonesian Ulema Council (MUI) in Palembang, South Sumatra, has warned people, especially women, not to wear sexy and tight attire when they undertake aerobic exercise as it might arouse sexual desire.



Sodikun said that most aerobic clothing was not in line with Islamic cultural values the issue needed to be resolved. 



But leggings and tank tops are not the only sexual temptation at the gym, according to Sodikun. He warned that aerobics class moves could also spark sexual desire.



“Exercise is recommended to maintain physical fitness and health, but it must be conducted in accordance with our existing social norms and culture,” Sodikun said. “Aerobic exercise must also avoid the use of transparent suits as it does more harm than good.”



At the same time, the MUI in Pamekasan, East Java, called on the Muslim community to refrain from celebrating Valentine’s Day, stating that it was not a Muslim tradition.



The clerics issued the call because in past years certain segments of the population in Pamekasan had taken part in activities to celebrate the day.



“After all, Valentine’s Day is not an Islamic tradition,” said Lailurrahman, chairman of the MUI’s Pamekasan branch.



“Also, Valentine’s Day celebrations tend to be marked by frivolous, extravagant behavior or even improper activities,” he added.



He said that filling one’s life with love was actually in accordance with Allah’s commands. But Valentine’s Day, which falls on February 14, had pagan connotations, and therefore celebrating it would be a deviation from the Islamic faith, he said.



In Indonesia, the day is mainly observed among young people living in urban centers.



But Lailurrahman said that when one studied the origins of Valentine’s Day, it was obvious that it had nothing to do at all with Islam and Islamic cultural values. 



“So, it is only proper for the MUI to forbid Muslim youths from observing the day,” he said.

Monster mash

“Have you ever felt a man in your house?” my friend asked.

“Huh? I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

“I asked if you ever felt a man in your house. A spirit. Do you believe in spirits?” she continued.

I said no, I don’t really believe in spirits. But what do I know?

She started this discussion over dinner one night in a restaurant. When I asked why we didn’t have the conversation in my house earlier, she said she didn’t want to scare me.

“I have magic,” she said.

Ok, that’s a little strange, but it's really not so uncommon in Indonesia. The people here are very comfortable believing strongly in their Muslim faith and in the spirit world. There are all sorts of legends about ghosts and animal spirits. My friend says her animal spirit is the tiger.

“So… did you see a man in my house?” I asked.

“I see him every time I’m there,” she answered. “He is always watching you.”

“And he was watching me when we were sitting on the couch earlier?”

“He is always watching you when you’re in the house. But don’t worry. He’s a guardian spirit, not an evil one. And he really likes you, I can tell.”

“He likes me?”

“Mmhmm. He thinks you're nice.”

I’ll be honest… that’s kind of unnverving. Not so much that there’s a guardian watching over me, but that my friend swears she can see him and he’s always watching me.

Also, I’m slightly embarrassed about the number of times I’ve jumped around my living room listening to Rihanna under the guise of ‘cardio.’ I wonder if he’s disgusted by the number of manggis I can eat in rapid succession.

Indonesians think it’s very strange that I live alone. Most of them live in a house the same size as mine with as many as eight or ten people. They always ask if I’m afraid to be by myself. So far, I really haven’t been afraid at all. I’d much rather live alone than with a host family, except my Bahasa Indonesia skills would probably benefit from some more native speakers. The only time it’s frustrating is when beggars or salespeople come to my door and try to force their way in. I’ve perfected my passive-aggressive “Ok, nope! Can’t help! Thanks for coming over! Bye!” as I shut and lock the door.

My friend says there are many evil spirits in the area surrounding my neighborhood. That’s not shocking—if there is such a thing as evil spirits, I guarantee they’d love the road to my house. It’s a wet, dark forest. Luckily, my friend says my guardian spirit keeps them out of my house.

She says lots of people I know have magical powers, too. I asked her if I have a spirit animal.

“Do you feel like you have a spirit animal? Do you ever see magical beings?” she asked.

Well, no.

“You probably don’t.”

Hmph.

Doctor doctor, give me the news

Part 1: “It’s pronounced ‘appendicitis.’”

So, wow. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been less qualified to do something in my life.

I found myself standing in front of 200 ICU surgeons from the Palembang Hospital at 7am sharp, lecturing them on correct medical terms while they scribbled down notes. I wanted to say, “Perhaps you shouldn’t really listen to what I’m saying. After all, you routinely cut open bodies and sew them back up, and I try not to even make contact with my own fingernail clippings because they’re gross.”

As a rule, we’re not allowed to accept any other jobs during our 9-month contract in Indonesia, teaching English or otherwise. But I couldn’t refuse Gustina, one of my favorite teachers at IGM, since she’d been begging me for weeks to accompany her to the class she teaches at the hospital every week.

Luckily, the class pretty much runs itself. The surgeons take turns presenting cases they’ve worked on in the last week. Instead of explaining them in Indonesian like they normally would, they conduct all business in English on Fridays. And MY job was to correct all their mistakes. Very publically.

So after each presentation, I would clear my throat and sort of wobble my way to the front of the room. Then I would hold my page of notes up in front of me and say things like, “Um, actually, you ‘commit’ suicide, you don’t ‘get’ suicide. And you just ‘slip,’ not ‘got slipped.’ But, uh, everyone did a, uh, really great job today. You just keep on keeping people alive…”

I still can’t believe how often English words just blow my mind while I’m trying to explain them. One doctor used the word “reposition” incorrectly. “Reposition,” I explained, “means to move something again, usually just a little bit.” He nodded. “To move again?” I nodded. “So… to re-move. Remove is same as reposition.”

Hmm. No, it’s definitely not. But that’s weird.

All of the surgeries fell into one of two categories: motorcycle accidents and stab wounds. I feel like that pretty much sums up Palembang in my mind… crazy traffic and unbridled tempers.

Honestly, though, it was really shocking. Slide after slide after slide showed these terribly bloody, often fatal, photographs of crash victims. I complain a lot about not getting my international driver’s license before I came here, but seeing those pictures made me think that maybe it’s ok I’m not weaving my way through traffic every day. At least half of the people brought into the emergency room died from head trauma where they collided with another vehicle or “got slipped” on the road in the constant rain.

Another interesting point: the other IGM teacher Gustina and I were the only people in the room who weren’t medical professionals. And still, in each of the pictures where brains and other organs are splayed out across tables, any genitals or breasts were completely blocked out with bright, funky purple ovals. That is so trademark Indonesia.

Why do we “perform” surgeries?

“Flatus” is a word that has been haunting me in Indonesia, only in the vocabulary sense, I swear. They use it as a substitute for “fart” or “flatulence,” which, I mean, it is. But it is so odd to hear my students and teachers say, “I flatus often.” They also use the word “defecate” in a lot of uncomfortable ways.

One lesson I learned: doctors in Indonesia are really no different than children or teachers or ojek drivers in Indonesia. I entered the room to whispers of “bule,” and they all wanted to shake my hand and ask me if I like pempek. They offered me a paid position on the staff, but I politely declined.

A group of surgeons approached me after class and invited me to go with them on their weekly bike ride. Keep in mind I have a general distaste for physical activity. Still, I figured I had a good fifteen years on even the youngest surgeons. How bad could it be? I gave them my number.

Part 2: Tour de Palembang

Later in the day, I got this text: “Hi, Ketty! I pick up you at 5:30 for 70km on bike.”

Uhh. They expect me to ride 70 kilometers at 5:30am?

I groaned. Oh, well. I can do it one time. How bad can it be?

As it turns out, it can be kind of bad. I could have handled the distance had they not all wanted to prove how very ‘fit’ they all were. I explained that I’m grossly out of shape, but they insisted on off-roading.

In Indonesia, driving on paved highways can feel like off-roading in the US. You have no idea. There was simply no way to bike through the mud on the path they were following.

“So sorry, Miss Ketty,” they said. “We should not have tried to show off for you. We picked the wrong road, and our bikes do not work.”

One doctor broke his chain trying to pedal through it. They instructed me to carry my bike the next 10 kilometers. Carry doesn’t mean push. It means lift into the air and carry.

“With all due respect,” I began. “I am trying. It is early. I have had zero servings of caffeine, and I haven’t bitten anyone yet. That alone is a considerable feat. I cannot carry this men’s mountain bike 10 kilometers in any direction.”

Frustratingly, they delighted in my struggle. They took pictures while I cursed them under my uncaffeinated breath. Finally, after I fell over in the mud four times because my shoes were too heavy to left, they helped.

One of the doctors shouted, “Miss Katie! This is the test of your life!”

I considered that. If that off-roading path really was the test of my life, I apparently survive with the help of friends while I complain that life is ruining my shoes. Actually, it sounded pretty accurate to me. I finally emerged triumphant and exhausted on the other side.

Emotionally, I think I was pretty done at that point. I’ve never been a biker. Actually, I really enjoy it, just as a means of actual transportation, and usually with a stop for dessert somewhere in between.

“Hey, want to ride our bikes to Dairy Queen?”

I’m your gal.

On the infrequent occasions I subject my body to actual exercise, I prefer something that burns calories a little more efficiently. Still, I couldn’t help but enjoy the scenery. Sumatra is smelly, but it is smelly and beautiful. We passed palm trees and rice paddies and forests and piles of burning trash.

Then what always happens to me… happened to me. I started to get bored.

I sought distractions. I taught them all to say, “Katie is the queen of the road!” every time any time one of us passed another. That entertained me for a good half dozen miles before it backfired and became grating.

I tried to salvage a little respect with my one very basic bicycle talent: riding without hands. Note, surgeons do not think this is impressive and will begin yelling in unison for you to stop immediately, causing you to swerve embarrassingly.

I talked to the doctors about all the motorcycle accidents. They said crash victims account for a huge majority of the cases they see each day. One surgeon said, “Yeah, do not wear your helmet! It is money in my pocket!!” Grr.

Luckily, we stopped for a break at about 35 kilometers. A few of the doctors took me on a hunt for coconuts up in the trees. It’s times like that that I can’t help but be immeasurably happy. We just pulled to the side of the road and are hunting for coconuts up in the palm trees on the island where I live.

So it was while I was skipping along thinking grand romantic thoughts about traveling the world that I fell into a hole.

Indo has a way of pulling you back down whenever you’re up. Literally.

Ok, it wasn’t very deep, but it scared the s*** out of me.

“Do you teach those words you just said to your students?!” they all cackled and whooped.

But we found coconuts. You just hack off the bottom of the husk so it’ll sit without rolling and hack a big hole in the top. Then you drop in a straw and just drink the water. I mean, it’s no Diet Mountain Dew, but… oh come on, that’s awesome.

Then we dined on tempe (one of my favorites) and sat around taking pictures and laughing. I managed to actually forget we had another half of a bike ride to finish.

I started warming up. “I’m decently happy with my performance up to this point, and I don’t want to end up irrevocably bitter towards all of you…”

The poor fellow whose bike chain had broken back during the off-roading asked if I would mind very much if he took my bike the rest of the way and I could follow in the car that had joined up with us after the mud portion of the trip.

I happily accepted his offer and spent the rest of the trip cheering the others on and munching on rambutan. “Now YOU are the king of the road!” I would shout as they pedaled past us.

They were very happy and the head surgeon even offered me a ride home early.

“I’m sorry I suck and didn’t make it,” I said.

“Oh, Ketty,” he said. “Biking is not really about biking. You have given us life today. You have put the life into our wheels.”

Well, shucks.

5 Simple Happy Things

I complain enough, don’t I? I figured it’s time for some happy stories. Here’s a countdown from the last week:

5. Sweet success

I made muffins! Sometimes it’s the little things, right? The delicious little things in foil wrappers. Mom bought me a camping oven for Christmas, and I assembled it, installed it, and cooked with it. Success is delicious.

4. Dirty laundry

I pay $30 every four weeks for a woman to wash my laundry. I’ve come a long way from when I arrived and felt “uncomfortable” asking someone else to wash my underwear. $30 is a lot of money, actually, but it’s that or transport my dirty clothes 45 minutes downtown and carry them on ojek/angkot, so I opted for the woman near my house. Except lately, she’s been slacking.

This week, my clothes still weren’t done two days after I was supposed to pick them up. Employing my new sassy attitude that worked at Telkom, I said “I need my clothes! I pay you a lot of money to have them done by Sunday night, and it is Tuesday!” (In Bahasa—woot!)

And later that night… she carried them over herself, apologizing for her laziness. We had a nice little chuckle, and I gave her a muffin.

3. Orange and black? That’s a go.

I discovered my fashion freedom. Do you know what Indonesians say when you wear green and red together? Nothing. They say nothing. Or they say, “You look so pretty today, miss.”

You can look like a Christmas tree or an Easter egg and it doesn’t remind them of anything but their own closet. And as a plus for me, it feels sort of ornery.

2. Sry learns to swear

One of the teachers at my school has started flipping through the pages of her English dictionary when she’s bored. She’s looking for dirty words. I would teach her some, but she’s never asked, and it’s more fun to watch her search.

After settling on a few new words, she says them as often and as loudly as she can in the teachers’ lounge.

Sry’s choices for this week? Tit, booger, and venereal disease. She uses them more than I use my hand sanitizer.

“Would people in America laugh if I yelled ‘nipple’ in a classroom?” she asks. I told her people would probably just find that awfully strange.

1. Auntie

I’ve been hanging out with an Indonesian couple named Andy and Sylvia a lot. They’re married with one daughter, and their second child is on the way. On Shanti’s birthday (their daughter), I went with them to Andy’s family’s house for the dinner and celebration.

I didn’t realize that one of my favorite teachers at IGM was giving some of the younger children private English lessons in one of the studies. When I finally saw her, we were both really surprised.

“But,” she said, looking at the kids, “They didn’t say a bule was here! They just said their Auntie Ketty was visiting.” (I am Ketty to most Indonesians.)

This was a huge victory celebrated with a single word. They didn’t say a bule was visiting, they said it was their Auntie Ketty.

Oh, you crazy kids!

Only a short video, I promise. I just want to show you what I mean when I say little kids go absolutely, insanely crazy when they see a "bule" in Palembang.

I met my friend Yanti at the elementary school where she teaches. The kids are not acting this excited because of my video camera; this is at least a minute into their rampage. Yanti says most parents here aren't interested in teaching discipline to their children and think it's their teacher's job. You can see her swoop in at the end and try to save me with some scary swatting.

Holla to Bryant for teaching me how to correctly upload a video.

When I watched the video hours after I took it, I realized it comes off as sort of adorable. And it was. But try imagining being in the middle of this frenzy. I assure you, it was cute... but also pretty intimidating. They all want to hang out with me, and if they can't hang out with me, they'll settle for touching me.