Solo in Solo

Well I have arrived in Solo after what seems an eternity. All of the new volunteers were apprehensive about actually moving to our placement cities after the splendour of Bali and the security of common experience, none more than me as I am the only volunteer who was going to a city where no one else was going. Actually ‘apprehensive’ is not an accurate word to describe how I felt, more like terrified. What if I didn’t like Solo? What if I didn’t click with my new employer? What if my language skills were worse than I thought and I was unable to function?

The bottom line to all of these fears is: Too bad. Yes you just have to get over them and move on. It turns out that so far the only one of my fears that is rooted in any kind of reality is language. Bahasa Indonesia is a much different language in the classroom than in the real world! People speak much more quickly, and randomly leave out or add words that make perfect sense to them but really throw me off. Add to the mix that the native language of Solo is Bahasa Jawa (so complicated that it is essentially five different languages depending on whether you are speaking to someone older, or younger, or better looking, or smarter – at least that is the gist I have gotten) and no one speaks Bahasa Indonesia unless they talk to me. This means that I can’t even pick up bits and pieces of conversation in the office and has resulted in me having absolutely no clue what is going on.

Solo is actually a very nice city, despite the fact that it is constantly compared unfavourably with its more famous neighbour Yogyakarta. It is green and leafy, and makes much more sense than Denpasar. It basically has 2 main east-west streets, and that alone helps make it relatively easy to navigate. The busiest street, Jalan Slamet Riyadi, has little lanes on either side that are separated by barriers planted with huge trees; on these lanes are the entrances to the buildings on the street. The result is a much safer entrance and exit to the street and an overall feeling that the traffic is separate from the city rather than part of it. It is also much less hectic; the motorcycles still drive in a manner that is mind-boggling, but there are fewer of them. I do not yet have my motorcycle, which I am picking up next week, but I have had the immensely fortunate stroke of luck of having had a previously placed VSO volunteer lend me a bike, and that has allowed me to explore and familiarize myself with this city of a million souls.

The first crucial steps in a foreigner living in a city like Solo are to register with the various authorities so they are informed of your presence. This means that I was required, within 48 hours of arrival to register with:

• The Police in my district – which included several photos and fingerprinting – I firmly believe that I have now had more fingerprints taken than Conrad Black
• The Kepala Desa (Head of the Village)
• The Licensing office (something to do with my international driver’s license, I think?)
• Immigration (despite the fact I already did this in Bali)
• Another random head of some kind of sub-district or something
• The Barack Obama Fan Club
• And a few others that I can no longer remember as the bureaucratic nonsense was so numbing I actually went into a coma for awhile

Clearly I jest – slightly – but I really did spend almost all week in smokey offices while people in unattractive brown or green uniforms discussed my presence with expressions that conveyed very clearly that I was interrupting either their sleep, cigarette, lunch, or in some cases, their crucial work (in one instance we waited about 6 minutes for a woman behind the counter to give us attention; she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was, in fact, playing solitaire on her computer).

Having said that about the bureaucrats, I feel it’s very important to mention that my overall impression of the Javanese so far has been extremely positive. They are gracious and helpful, and quick to smile. In one amazing instance I left a laundry shop with my newly cleaned clothes and headed home with them on my bike. When I arrived at my home, I turned to find the man who runs the laundry service on his motorbike behind me. He had followed me because I had forgotten to take my change from the payment I had made; he had been honking to get my attention, but it simply blended in with the usual honking that occurs on any Indonesian street. The change was 100 rupiah, which is the equivalent of about 1 cent. It must have cost him 10 times that to deliver it to me – pretty astonishing.

I think everything is going to be all right here in Solo.