The Kid's New Vektor
I have found myself the prototypical Indonesian village. If I were a director trying to find a more perfect Javanese backdrop for my new movie (I'm thinking "When the Chickens Revolted: Attack of the Bird Flu, Part Deux"), I would be hard pressed to do so.
My house is a two-storey affair with two bedrooms, a cement-floored kitchen and a living room on the bottom floor. I have a paved-over front yard with an enormous mango tree sprouting in one corner. I can pick fresh mangoes from the second-storey balcony cum rooftop, where I do yoga and read in the sun, and where there are two more bedrooms. From the roof, I have a picturesque view of the setting sun over rice and sugar cane fields.
Almost every hour of the day, and night, is filled with the chanting of the muezzins from the half dozen mosques that surround my house. The electronic jangle of the Good Humor ice cream man, who pedals around the neighborhood every hour on the hour, and the rhythmic thumping of the omnipresent motorbikes round off my auditory backdrop.
My next door neighbors – the sister-in-law and her husband of Pak David, the owner of my house and principal at my school – own a sundries shop where I buy candy bars, shampoo, and eggs. Their year-old daughter has Down Syndrome, and slaps herself in the face every time I say hello.
Rich, the Fulbrighter who lived here last year, sold me his furniture, DVD player, stove, and mattress. I bought a fan, TV, incandescent reading lamp, and mosquito electrocuter today. I’m putting up maps and photos on the walls, and am adjusting to the naked fluorescent bulbs that adorn the house.
Bathing, or mandi, consists of filling a 20-gallon cement tub with water, from which I splash myself repeatedly until saturated. The toilet is non-squat (i.e. Western) but does not have a flush mechanism. I find myself pouring water into it from staggering heights in order to activate the reverse pressure release, whatever that means. There is also no toilet paper. I still haven’t figured out how to wash myself without soaking all my clothes.
It’s already starting to feel like home.
My house is a two-storey affair with two bedrooms, a cement-floored kitchen and a living room on the bottom floor. I have a paved-over front yard with an enormous mango tree sprouting in one corner. I can pick fresh mangoes from the second-storey balcony cum rooftop, where I do yoga and read in the sun, and where there are two more bedrooms. From the roof, I have a picturesque view of the setting sun over rice and sugar cane fields.
Almost every hour of the day, and night, is filled with the chanting of the muezzins from the half dozen mosques that surround my house. The electronic jangle of the Good Humor ice cream man, who pedals around the neighborhood every hour on the hour, and the rhythmic thumping of the omnipresent motorbikes round off my auditory backdrop.
My next door neighbors – the sister-in-law and her husband of Pak David, the owner of my house and principal at my school – own a sundries shop where I buy candy bars, shampoo, and eggs. Their year-old daughter has Down Syndrome, and slaps herself in the face every time I say hello.
Rich, the Fulbrighter who lived here last year, sold me his furniture, DVD player, stove, and mattress. I bought a fan, TV, incandescent reading lamp, and mosquito electrocuter today. I’m putting up maps and photos on the walls, and am adjusting to the naked fluorescent bulbs that adorn the house.
Bathing, or mandi, consists of filling a 20-gallon cement tub with water, from which I splash myself repeatedly until saturated. The toilet is non-squat (i.e. Western) but does not have a flush mechanism. I find myself pouring water into it from staggering heights in order to activate the reverse pressure release, whatever that means. There is also no toilet paper. I still haven’t figured out how to wash myself without soaking all my clothes.
It’s already starting to feel like home.
posted by Nick Taranto | 5:06 AM
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