Javanese Wedding

I had the sincere pleasure this past weekend of being part of a Javanese wedding. One of the expats here in Solo, Michael Micklem, was kind enough to invite me to his son’s wedding and even invited me to dress in traditional Javanese attire and be part of the procession; he knew it would be a very unique experience for a Canadian volunteer all alone in Solo. I felt like a bit of an intruder but Michael was insistent that weddings are very much open affairs in Java, and that I was completely welcome.

Early in the morning I went to the hotel where his family was staying and was assisted by a local woman in dressing in the traditional attire. This involved donning a sarong, and then having it held in place by several layers of wrapping, extending from just below my armpits to my hips. I think I have an idea of how Victorian women felt, as this wrapping became tighter and tighter with each layer. It was like a corset, and I placated myself by thinking of the benefits to my abs. On top of this corset was placed a belt – which seemed superfluous to me until I realized it was to hold the Keris (pronounced ‘criss’), a traditional Javanese sword, in the back. Over that a jacket that buttons across the front and has a raised back (to show the Keris), a hat, the name of which escapes me, and leather slipper-like sandals. Finally dressed, I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror before heading out – very strange indeed!

We then had the distinct pleasure of being transported to the ceremony in a horse and buggy procession. Michael had paid the drivers extra to take main streets rather than shortcuts – seeing white people in horse and buggy, dressed in traditional Javanese attire no less, was quite a treat for the locals. Everyone we passed was smiling and waving, calling out the standard ‘Hello Mister!’ We would wave back and say ‘hello!’ as they seem to get more of a kick out of it when we respond in English rather than Bahasa. Many of them would giggle, blush or hide their faces if we managed to make eye contact with them, as if we were celebrities of some sort.

In standard operating procedure, the drivers (is that what you call someone in control of a horse & buggy?) did not know where we were going and we were quickly lost. Most taxi drivers, bus drivers, indeed anyone whose job it is to provide transport, gets lost at least once on the way to any destination. Stopping to ask for directions is commonplace, and because in Javanese culture you must not lose face (saying ‘I don’t know’ is apparently the equivalent of saying ‘I’m a stupid moron and not worth the air I breathe’), people would helpfully give us directions whether they actually knew or not. I am completely acclimatized to this now, and it doesn’t phase me a bit. I know we’ll get there eventually, and nothing starts on time anyway.

The ceremony itself was typically Javanese, with long, drawn-out speeches, procedures and process. The room (in a banquet hall, not a temple or mosque) was set up in such a way that the families were on opposing sides, facing each other, with the bride & groom in the middle with a number of officials. While sitting, each guest is given a snack in a little box and of course the standard ridiculously sweet tea. There were two microphones set up facing one another in the centre and both families were invited to their own microphones to make speeches, emotionless as always, as if they were reciting the world’s longest grocery list. The bride and groom signed documents in a flourish and presented their marriage certificates (which I actually thought were passports) for photos. Then the families lined up to present the couple with gifts. The gifts were arranged on the table in front of the couple for more photos – I imagine it’s impossible to ‘re-gift’ here as all the gifts at each wedding are thoroughly photo-documented.

Afterwards, the bride and groom were led out – incidentally the bride’s sarong, though elaborate and beautiful, was so tight she could only move her feet a few inches at a time, and coupled with her elaborate high-heeled shoes, she needed assistance with each step, provided by her mother rather than her new husband – apparently the ceremony was not yet complete and they were not officially married.

The guests mingled, and the crowd got larger and larger. The invitation specifically said ceremony at nine, reception to follow at ten. Around 10:30 is when most of the people began showing up. By 11:30, I was restless and bored, but the locals were again demonstrating to me their unique ability to just ‘sit.’ Finally the couple re-appeared, having changed into even more elaborate costume, and the bride with beautiful hair and makeup – tiny ornaments, bells, and flowers placed through her hair, and her forehead painted in such a way as to imply her hair was styled over it. They went through another ceremony, involving removing their shoes, stepping on offerings of flowers and bathing their feet in flower-petal infused water. This was no easy feat for the bride who practically needed to be lifted as she could not raise her foot high enough to plunge it into the water because of the constriction of her sarong. Finally it seemed to be over and the bride and groom took their place at the front of the room for photos.

At this point the guests were fed, for some reason cake and sweets first, then soup, then a main meal. In Indonesia, the rice on any plate is usually shaped into a dome – it’s never just piled on the plate – its status always recognized. In this case, the rice was bright orange and shaped into a tall cone, the first time I had seen this particular style. This was all followed by durian-flavoured ice cream (most unfortunate as I would have really enjoyed ice cream). While we ate, group after group of people went up front to have their photos taken with the happy couple. I believe I have mentioned that the Javanese typically do not smile in pictures – everyone looks very stoic and serious, perhaps to give weight to the seriousness of the ceremony? Finally it was over – all told it was six hours – and we were back in the horse and buggy, bound for the hotel.

By now the sun had passed its apex; the day was stiflingly hot – I estimate it was probably 33 or 34 degrees Celsius, and I could not wait to unwrap. School had let out for the day (yes six days a week in Indonesia) and the average age of the people on the street had dropped to about 16. I noticed immediately that the younger generation was not nearly as happy to see the white people dressed up in horse and buggy. We were much less enthusiastically welcomed, instead met with stares of at best indifference, and at worst, hostility.

Finally we reached the hotel. I was graciously invited to change in one of the wedding guests’ rooms and was soon on my way back home, unfortunately drenched in sweat from the elaborate wrapping. I had planned to visit the gym, but instead crashed on my bed, asleep in seconds, exhausted as always after an Indonesian ceremony, all of which have a truly unique ability to suck the life out of you. I am so very grateful for this opportunity to experience an important part of Javanese culture, but I will never again complain about a Christian wedding ceremony.

Adventures In Motorcycling

Muscle memory is a very cool thing. I remember, not too long ago, feeling very awkward on my motorcycle. I performed such amazing non-Indonesian tasks as signalling turns, staying in my lane, and even obeying traffic lights. Now that controlling my motorcycle is largely instinctual and I know its abilities and quirks, these things are, shall we say, less important.

I will openly admit that one day last week, the boss lady wasn’t around and I left work a ½ hour early. Don’t tell anyone from Randstad :-). It was this ½ hour that contributed to a wacky adventure that only in hindsight can I look at with humour.

I have been going to a local hotel gym regularly since I arrived in Solo. VSO strongly encourages volunteers to keep up physical activity in order to help maintain overall health, physical and mental. The fact that with my membership at this gym I also get access to the hotel’s vast, and for the most part, unused pool is a huge benefit. I have spent many an hour relaxing by that pool with a book. This gym was where I was headed when I left work early last week.

When I came out of the gym, half an hour earlier than I would have otherwise, it was that weird space between day and night. It wasn’t quite dark, but was darker than it would normally have been because of the rain clouds that had gathered. (The rainy season was supposed to be over sometime in April but it is stubbornly hanging on.) There was a tiny bit of rain falling, but there were also patches of blue, so I determined it was nothing to be concerned about. I decided to detour, take a different route, and go do grocery shopping instead of going straight home. Mistake.

When I came out of the grocery store (“HyperMart” – great name in my opinion) it was now fully dark and pouring rain – you could not see across the street. This is particularly intimidating when your only mode of transport is a motorcycle. I waited for it to let up at least a little but it wasn’t happening. After fifteen minutes I decided it was time to go; my ride home was (normally) only about 8 or 9 minutes to be honest. I ran to where my bike was parked, hung my grocery bags from the hook, fumbled with the key to get the seat up, and grabbed my poncho out of the storage bin.

Everyone in Indonesia has a poncho; it’s standard uniform during the rainy season. My poncho is particularly huge for some reason, probably the result of my inexperience with knowing when I was being shafted by an over-eager sales clerk early in my Solo adventure. I finally got it on, put my helmet on over top and was on my way.

It’s important to mention that Indonesian roads are in extremely rough shape. Potholes are gigantic – I would estimate that some of them are 5 or 6 inches deep, treacherous for a motorcycle in particular. People occasionally take matters into their own hands and try to fill the potholes with debris to smooth them out; you can find garbage, tiles, broken glass, rocks – any matter of material – in these potholes. When it rains, watch out – there is no drainage. All the rain that falls, onto trees, onto rooftops, onto everything, just ends up in the street, and can quickly become a deluge. The danger is two-fold: motorcycles do not have good traction when they are in 8 inches of water, and the rushing torrents conceal the potholes which can rapidly become small lakes. You have to proceed with extreme caution or you will lose control.

I am often victim of Murphy’s Law, as anyone will tell you. So I don’t know why I should be surprised that when I was nearly home, moving along at a snail’s pace, my poncho caught in the rear wheel of the motorcycle. It pulled taught, choking me, and almost pulled me off the back of the motorcycle in the middle of traffic. Catch-22: had I been able to go faster, the momentum would likely have kept the poncho aloft and it would not have caught in the wheel, but if it did I would certainly have been pulled off the bike and dragged by it. I had to stop the bike, but rapidly realized that I was trapped – the poncho around my neck was cutting off my air and was too tight for me to remove it. I started to panic, and didn’t even think to put the bike in neutral, let alone shut it off. I was frantically pulling at the poncho in a vain attempt to release it and give myself breathing room but was only entwining it more tightly in the chain. Cars and motorcycles were honking and moving around me, aware that I was in distress, but it was raining and… well… Indonesians don’t like rain (as a matter of fact, and in a non-related side note, rain can be a legitimate excuse for not going to work).

Luckily I happened to stop in front of a salon that was closing for the night – the woman locking the door saw my predicament and ran inside to get some scissors to cut the poncho from the wheel so I could breathe. The water around me was up to my shins; the rain was still pouring down; traffic was still moving around me in either direction. The lady came out and started to free me. By this point, some guys from the store next to the salon had come over to help as well – luckily I am a regular customer of this store so they recognized me. In a few minutes I was free, but the remnant of plastic from the poncho was so tight around the wheel that the bike was immobilized. The guys from the shop rocked the bike back and forth (I had finally turned it off after they helpfully reminded me that not only was it running but it was in gear!) and were finally able to release the plastic from the wheel.

I walked the bike through the river to the front of the store, checked it out, and started it. My wonderful motorcycle started up as though nothing had happened. The guys playfully slapped me on the back. The woman from the salon smiled and handed me back my helmet. We decided together to cut off another foot or so from the rear of the poncho to prevent the same thing from happening again. I thanked them all profusely and was on my way. At the time I was terrified, but now I can look back at the incident positively. I don’t know if I was in any real danger, but regardless, I was saved by those people.

It rained for the rest of that night. It rained again all day yesterday. Today is sunny – so far – and I haven’t seen the boss yet; maybe I’ll take off a ½ hour early tonight…

Little Things Part 2 PART 2 - Urgent Car Washing Update

I'm sorry I couldn't resist this urgent update to my 'Car Washing' segment from Little Things Part 2. If you have not already seen it please go back and read it before this crucial, breaking news.

I have occasionally been known to exaggerate (really Dan? You?) so I would not be completely offended if anyone thought I was 'over-emphasizing' how often and vigourously cars are washed in Indonesia. I swear I was not. Here is more evidence: This morning as I was leaving for work, the Nissan owner, washing his car much later than his usual 6am, had his hood up and was -- I am not making this up -- dusting off his engine with a feather duster. Not the hood, the ENGINE.

I was so flabbergasted I even asked him to pose for a picture for me. Look at that car shine!

PS: Indonesians don't smile in pictures unless prompted to, and they do as much as possible barefoot.

Countdown

As of today I have approximately 8 weeks left in Indonesia; I am a little more than 2/3 of my way through this journey. Time to take stock of where I’ve been and what I feel I can do in the short time I have left.

Are people with disabilities in Solo any better off today than when I arrived in February? Hardly. I have to say, sadly, that the exact same number of disabled people is working at our partner companies as the day I started here. Granted, Solo’s main industries, furniture- and garment-manufacturing are heavily dependent on export and the world is simply not buying right now. There are a few bright spots and some good potential at a few companies we have prospected, but the supreme challenge will remain the PWD’s themselves.

There is a strange entrepreneurial culture in Indonesia. The very fact that employment is divided so specifically into “formal” and “informal” sectors highlights this culture. It seems that everyone wants to be in business for themselves, whether it’s pushing a food cart around the streets, or operating a small store, or making a few garments on a sewing machine at home for sale. For PWD’s this is especially appealing as for the most part, they are used to being isolated, don’t have to worry about travel to and from work, and, frankly, are afraid of the big bad world outside their homes. Unfortunately, operating a business that can actually provide a livelihood is more than sitting behind a counter with a few items for sale, or making a few t-shirts and hoping someone will buy them.

So we are taking a “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” approach. Yes we are still heavily promoting the idea of PWD’s becoming employees of companies, but acknowledge that there are many people who will simply not be interested – on both sides. As a result, we are looking at creating a type of hybrid, informal/formal employment, where those PWD’s that can produce items but have no market, can be put to use through companies. These companies will outsource production to local people at a pace they can manage and pay them piece work for their products. This creates a market for the products and ensures stability of income for the producers. One of our clients, a garment manufacturer, is looking to outsource bead work, which, based on current volume, could result in steady income for 5 or 6 PWD’s. Another client, a furniture manufacturer, has indicated that they would be willing to outsource manufacture of lamp shades, and pillows for pet beds, of all things, to local PWD’s.

Of course everything in Indonesia progresses at a snail’s pace, at least compared to what I’m used to. It’s very difficult to get people to ‘do’ things. It’s so difficult to understand – in our culture we just plough ahead and make things happen, but here that simply doesn’t work. So right now what we have is potential, no more. No actual work, no actual progress. VSO strongly educates its volunteers that expectations generally need to be lowered, then trimmed, then reduced, then, for good measure, decreased. They are not kidding. I wish I could adequately explain the roadblocks that are constantly thrown up. Patience and resilience are a VSO Volunteer’s most valuable tools. Most returned volunteers indicate that the positive changes they were able to facilitate were different from what they planned, were often subtle, and only apparent in hindsight. That is what will keep me going over the next eight weeks – hopefully I will leave something useful behind. I don’t think I ever said I wanted to change the world, but if I did, I was way off. Better to hope that I just change something.