Tolong, bicara pelan-pelan. (Please, speak slowly)

I got a comment from my friend Jean-Paul, yes he is French, about his experience as an expat in the US. This notion has crossed my mind on occasion as to what it must be like to experience America from another culture's point of view. Now, more than ever,it is a very relevant topic as I try to assimilate into the culture here.

One of the fun aspects of being an expat is that you get to meet lots of other folks who are expatriated from other places around the world and are also trying to figure out all things Indonesian at the same time as you. However, to add to the confusion of it all, you are also trying to figure out what they are saying to you as well because they are from somewhere else than your home country. Nothing like being stupefied in multiple dialects.

I have to say that I know that I have totally confused some of the folks I have met with my little "southernisms." I have really tried to go easy with that, but sometimes stuff just pops out.

For instance, the other day I had an absolutely delightful lunch with a British woman and her sister. This is the sister's first time in Indonesia and we were sharing jet lag stories, adjusting to the heat stories, adjusting to the money stories, etc. As we chatted over lunch, I was telling them about finally seeing the absolutely horrific picture that was taken of me at the Immigration Office 4 or 5 days after I touched down (you all remember that little story I am sure). It was one of those "as if I didn't feel bad enough already" moments when my honey bunch showed me the results of that faithful day. As I explained how I looked I said, "I looked like I was rode hard and put up wet." I wish you could have seen the expression on their faces. We all erupted in laughter. Me, due to the reaction I got from them and them from I assume was a where in the world is she from and what in the world did this crazy expat just say.

To digress just a bit, let's talk about that picture that even your mother couldn't love you in. I was informed that no matter what you do to make yourself look stunning for this annual ritual of the renewal at the Immigration Office you still look horrible. I really don't know what this guy does when he takes the photo, but he would make Angelina Jolie look like a bloated toad. My friend said she went to extra special trouble to do her hair and makeup before her last picture. It came back as if she had just stepped off the plane after 27 hours of travel and walked in front of the camera. I can hardly wait for my turn again.........

Back to the subject of assimilating. Everyone keeps telling me how easy the language is. All I can say is that I am blessed to be in a place where the people are patient and don't laugh at you directly to your face. You see bemused smiles and you know that they want to run to a different room, roll around on the floor and have a good belly laugh over what you just said or tried to say.

It reminds me of an occurrence when I was young. My siblings and I had gone to a wedding with my mom. Due to circumstances at the wedding, my brothers began to snicker. Then my sister and I began to snicker. My mother was horrified and she began giving us that evil eye that was passed on to me to give to my son. The point being that you could not laugh out loud. You were having to hold it in to the point of tears kind of squirting out of your eyes. You knew that you could NOT, under any circumstances, look at your siblings because you would burst into laughter that you would never, ever be forgiven. I feel sorry for the folks here, for I know I am making them agonize like this every day.

I don't know how some folks learn English. There are some out there who would doubt that I was a very good student of my native tongue after reading my blog. English has so many rules and exceptions to rules. Maybe for folks coming from countries where romance languages are king, it isn't too bad. We have so many root words that come from French, Old English, Greek, Middle English, yada, yada, yada. There is some hope for them to make sense of it all I guess.

Obviously, some people are just natural linguist. I am not among them. So, I hack through and hope something works out.

There is a wonderful staff member here named Eko. He is always trying to help hubbie and me with our language lessons. He has so patiently written stuff down for us. Telur mata sapi is the equivalent to an egg sunny side up. Telur setengah is an egg over medium. Telur matang is an egg well done. Telur rebus is a boiled egg. I get the telur out and then I have to leave it up to them to guess how I want it cooked. Is this my version of performance anxiety? I just freeze up. Any and all suggestions of how to address this issue would be appreciated. Otherwise, I might have to eat eggs however they want to fix them for the next three years.

If I feed it, will it follow me home?

I have been eyeballing some of the things that are part of my life in Jakarta that would be outstanding additions to life back in the ol' US of A. Some are things for the public good and some would be for just me, myself and I. *Disclaimer - I know that some of these things may be part of other people's lives somewhere else, they just haven't been part of mine.

First up. Stoplights at major intersections have LED displays above them that count off the time the light will remain either green or red. I think it is an excellent traffic accessory and would help cut down on folks running lights and keep people from getting so impatient for the light to turn green. It also is good for allowing the driver and passengers know how long they can relax before all the chaos begins again.

Next, I like the public buses that slow down just long enough for you to jump on or off. It is a really efficient system. The buses don't have door on them and people kind of use a version of the magic hand (discussed earlier)to signal the bus they need their services. The bus slows down and people jump on board. They may board from the middle of the street or the side of the road and from either side of the bus. The idea is you come to the bus, the bus doesn't necessarily come to you. There is a man who wanders up and down the aisle and collects a fare once you are on board, a conductor of sorts. Then, when you want to get off, you just step off when the bus slows down. Since I haven't ridden on a bus yet, not sure if you shout out or wave or pull a rope to have the bus slow to an easy roll to disembark. It works surprisingly well.

Here is a "I want this for me" candidate. Electric curtains in your bedroom. The hotel has sheers (day curtains) and draperies (night curtains) that will open and close at the push of a button. Even better, this button is right next to your bed. I know of people who have window shades that are remote controlled, but they only go up and down. I am sure there are those who are reading this that may have these electric curtains in your home already. I have not. And I like them a lot and I want to take them home.

Next up are the two story grocery stores that are a great use of small plots of land. I went into a grocery store the other day and came around the end of the aisle; low and behold there was an escalator to take you and your cart to the second floor. These are not the style of escalators that you have at the mall or a department store. No, they are kind of like a cross between an escalator and a conveyor belt. The same grooved metal steps, mind you, but flattened out. The incline and decline are pretty steep and scary looking. You push your cart on and it kind of grabs it and holds it in place by magnetic force or something. Must inquire about that. You hold on to the cart until you get to the top and then you are free to roll it off. Coming down, you do the same thing in reverse and just kind of brace yourself to keep from sliding down. A little odd, but I think I am going to like it.

Handy too are the self-appointed traffic control officers. It is wonderful when things get really nasty out on the Jakarta streets with traffic; guys will just step out and start trying to unclog the mess. They motion cars here and there. Hold up their hands and have people stop so others can take a turn and get everyone around a round-about in pretty much one piece. They are not paid police men. Their ages run from young boys (who seem to love to have a shiny whistle to blow on while directing) to older chaps who must have a bit of a death wish (my mother told me not to stand out in traffic, but maybe the rules are different in North Carolina) and/or they are enjoying the opportunity of being in charge of things since much of life just happens without you getting much say.

Along the same lines, since parking is almost always an issue and streets are narrow in a lot of places, there is always someone to help you get in and out of the lot. Well, calling some of these areas to park a parking lot is just wrong. The spot in front of the store may be a car or two wide and you have to pull in nose first. It is kind of like trying to land a plane on an aircraft carrier, except the parking space is not moving unless there is an earthquake going on. Conversely, when you back out of the lot, you are backing directly into traffic. Some nice chap will motion you along and stop other cars so you can get out. They also will tell you how close you are to a wall to keep you from ripping off some valuable part of the car. They get cars so close to each other and the wall that you think they are going to collide or be seriously mangled. Have yet to see that happen. Miracle in my book. Sometimes there is money exchanged for these services,sometimes not. I have had many occasions in my own driving experience that I could have used this kind of help and paid a lot more for it than what I see exchanged.

Finally, and this is the number one thing on my list, some of the biggest, warmest smiles I have ever seen. They have some of the most adorable young woman who stand by the front door of the hotel and greet you with a huge smile, gloves that kind of dwarf their small hands, spiffy little hats and uniforms. They always say good morning or good afternoon or good evening and open the door for you. They inquire how you are. They make you feel happy no matter how hot and sweaty you are from being out all day in the heat and begin your day with such a contagious smile you can't help but smile back. As not to appear sexist, the valets who help you get in to or out of the car, the young men operating the scanner you have to run you bags through, the bell hops.....all greet you with a smile and an inquiry as to your disposition. WalMart - PAY ATTENTION - you are not even close.

As time goes on, I know I will find many other things that I will come to treasure and would like to bring home to improve life in my country. It doesn't seem quite fair that all I have to offer Jakarta is me and my snazzy little accent. In fact, the other day someone asked if I was from Spain. Well, for those of you who know and love me, you know there is no reason for this to be even a remote possibility.

After thinking about it, maybe while I am here I should just agree with whatever their guess is and become a seasoned world traveler without having to spend additional money for airfare. What a bargain.........Ole!

Weekly Reader lied to me

You know, when I was in elementary school and junior high Weekly Reader and Walter Cronkite told me all the things to expect when I reached the age I am now. I was told we would be flying around like the Jetsons instead of driving cars, we would have robots for maids and you would push a button and food would appear. I was also told that the whole world would go metric.

Maybe I am being a little harsh. Some of those things did come true. You can push a button and out pops a drink from a machine or a meal from the microwave. We have Roombas that vacuum the floors for us. In Jakarta, cars don't fly but they do defy a lot of physical laws I once held dear so we are kind of close.

However, my world most definitely didn't go metric. I remember learning what conversion factors to use to go from feet to meters, pounds to kilograms, gallons to liters. I also learned about Fahrenheit and Celsius. I did use those units of measurement for many things since I majored in a science in college. In everyday life, not so much.

Now I am totally surrounded by metrics. Gas is sold by the liter, temperature is done in Celsius, mileage by kilometer. Heck, I had to try to guess what weight to enter on the treadmill in the gym the other day. Did not have a clue and just kind of guessed. It was obviously a wrong guess since I burned a lot more calories according to the "workout summary" after my walk than I believed. So, I got on the scale and weighed myself. I am pleased to announce that I like my weight in kilograms much better than in pounds. I haven't weighed this amount since I was in about 5th grade. Maybe Weekly Reader and Walter Cronkite were on to something.

To date, I am trying to learn Bahasa Indonesia (without a teacher so far), the metric system (which I haven't used since ???? (not telling that one), how in the world street names and house numbers are done (Jalan Kemang Dalam VIII No F17), not to accept or give things with the incorrect hand, and how not to be so BULE. What is a girl to do? It is a lot to ask anyone to learn all of these things in three weeks time, but a middle aged anyone is really pushing it.

My brain is fighting back every step of the way. I keep thinking how great this is for me since I read in my AARP magazine challenging your brain everyday helps to stave off Alzheimer's and dementia. I am gonna be dementia if I have to try to learn one more thing. Either that, or I am gonna be Albert Einstein.

I know I have mentioned the heat several times. Yesterday while I was out looking at houses, I was melting. According to msn.com, which I checked when I got back to the hotel, the temperature was 86 degrees Fahrenheit (thank you msn). However, with the humidity factored in, it felt like 96 degrees (thanks again msn). Maybe if I converted the temperature to Celsius I would have felt cooler because it would be a smaller number. Don't ask me what that number is. My brain hasn't gotten to the Einstein level yet. However, with the humidity, my hair has.

Location, location, location

Friday was a day of looking at more houses in the mega-city known as Jakarta. We revisited a house that I liked, but just couldn't quite get a handle on the neighborhood. Looking for a place to call home is always an interesting experience no matter where you are.

The last house of the day was about the best combination of things we have seen and therefore told our realtor to inquire with the landlord about the possibility of renting it. Apparently, there is a lot of negotiating that will go on as far as rent; what they will provide, inspections to be made and such. Here, you must sign a two year agreement and pay all of the rent up front. It is not the kind of arrangement I am used to and it makes me uncomfortable, but that is the way it is done.

The houses are unfurnished. Since we were not allowed to bring any furniture with us, the landlord will provide a few pieces and then we will have to shop for the rest.

At this point I am unsure if a washer and dryer will be part of the package, so I guess our days at Laundrette are not over yet. We will break free from the plastic enshrined clothing syndrome one way or another. I promise.

I think a fridge comes with the deal and hip-hip-hurrah this house has a range. But, and there is always a big but, the kitchen is kind of divided in to a front kitchen and back kitchen. The front kitchen has a refridgerator, a large basin to wash hands or rinse fruits and veggies and lot of cabinets and counter space. The back kitchen area has a regular kitchen sink and range and counters and cabinets too. A little odd, but I guess there are some advantages. The back kitchen can be closed off from the front kitchen so if you are cooking or baking you could close the doors and keep the heat out of the rest of the house.

Almost every house we have looked at seems to have some unorthodox features or location. One just never knows what awaits behind the gate. See my previous post for a recap if you don't know what I mean.

The houses all have some form of walls around them. Kind of like the Indonesian version of the privacy fences that are so predominant in Texas neighborhoods. Some of the walls are made of cement, some of them the bottom is one material and the top three feet or so are corrugated metal or bamboo. Atop each wall are spikes, razor wire, barbed wire or the ultra chic jagged pieces of glass artistically arranged. It gives one the feeling of being in Huntsville, for my Texas friends, Alcatraz for anybody else who needs a point of reference. All of this lends an air of uncertainty as to exactly what your disposition is. I really try not to focus on why all of this is deemed necessary in every single neighborhood.

I know this sounds frightening to many of you who read this. It is frightening to me too. It was one of the more in-your-face kinds of moments when we began our search for a place to live. I hope to goodness that I never need to pluck anyone out of the wire because: #1. To do so would mean someone was trying to enter my yard without coming through the front gate which isn't a good sign. #2. It would be a very messy thing to have to encounter for many reasons. So, keep good thoughts if you wouldn't mind.

With that said, let's move on to more pleasant subjects.

The primary neighborhood in which we are searching for a home is called Kemang (pronounced Kuh-mong). It is a popular area with a couple of good sized grocery stores, lots of shops and restaurants. The nice thing about Kemang is that it is a walking neigborhood. One can get to many things on foot if you choose to.

The housing runs from big, elaborate expat housing, old very much in need of repair expat housing, down-right strange expat housing, little villages (as our realtor calls them) tucked in and around the expat housing. There are several mosques, a couple of international and local schools, gas stations, convenience stores, gyms, hair salons, furniture making places and pretty much all the things you would find in a neighborhood.

There are also lots of feral cats roaming around, butterflies, dragonflies, orchids, mango trees, multiple varieties of palm trees, guys pushing food carts selling all kinds of things that at this point I would not feel safe eating, guys with sewing machines mounted on carts so they can wheel them from location to location (I find them particularly interesting), people begging for whatever coins you will give them, school children dressed in uniforms going to or from school (which BTW they go to school 6 days a week from 6:30am to 1:00pm).

Once we are settled, if this deal goes through, we can say..."I had a house in Jakarta." Meryl Streep, forgive my poetic license.

I spy, with my little eye

Over the last several days I have seen some animals you would not expect to see in a cityscape. Yesterday, I saw a man with this wonderful rattan, bell-shaped cage that was about 3 feet tall. There was no bottom to the cage and inside was a very colorful rooster (sorry Janet, I didn't get to take a picture before we passed him by). The assumed owner of the rooster was moving him from one area to another by lifting the cage just enough so the rooster could walk, but could not escape. He would nudge the rooster the direction he wanted him to go and then sit the cage down flat on the ground. Worked well and was a very practical thing.

Today as I was riding to the building where my husband works, we passed through a small, neat neighborhood that is just on the fringe of several very tall offices. In a large metal cage there were three monkeys looking out at us. Then on the way back to the hotel, there was a man with a sheep on a rope and a lamb following along behind. This was not in a neighborhood. They were just walking down the sidewalk of a busy street off to who knows where and who knows what destiny (the sheep and lamb, and I guess if you want to be really philosophical the man too).

After living in both New Orleans and Houston, you see some unexpected things, but these things were not among them.

As I mentioned in the previous post, we went to the mall over the weekend. We went in to a store that sold fish. I haven't really seen fish like these before. Many had disproportionate size heads or bodies or odd projections coming usually coming from the head. Not exactly what you want to walk in to the den and see first thing in the morning before breakfast. At the top of the post you will see the ping-pong ball fish that were in one tank. Yes, I made up the name, but don't you think I am correct? They were not very efficient swimmers. I think out in the wild their life span would be under 5 minutes.

There was an area outside the fish store selling all kinds of snakes and things slithery. Which reminds me. On our orientation tour, our guide asked us if we were up for extreme dining. Uhh Ohh! (My friend Karen told me before we left Texas that if they offer you the local delicacy you might want to decline.) I asked the guide what she meant by extreme dining. Apparently, in some location(s) in the city (don't know where or if I want to know) you can go and some very fast handed Indonesian will catch a cobra and kill it, skin it and slice it up and stick it on a skewer and cook it for you. Cobra Sate! Of course I asked what it tasted like and of course you know the reply......let's say it all together........it tastes like chicken. Chickens can be mean and aggressive, but I don't think that unless they are really lucky they can kill you. All of this took place before the cow brain in coconut milk encounter that I mentioned before and that seems extreme enough for me.

I am looking forward to getting more confident to get out and tour with my camera. I have seen wonderful faces, interesting activities, people going about life in a very public way that is so unlike my little suburban Houston neighborhood. It would be best, I think to do this with a companion of some sort. Not that I am overly worried about being accosted, even though I am sure an expensive camera could feed a large family here for a really long time. But, the space for footing can be narrow and not always a lot of room to negotiate without stepping into the street. Would need someone to keep me from getting run over or falling into an open ditch which would be a really nasty thing to have happen either way.

So, I do grab shots which are a bit unsatisfying when you know what can be. However, it is all I have at the moment and there are other things that I am supposed to be focusing on, like finding a house,learning a new language(which by the way Bahasa Indonesia is NOT one of the romance languages) and doing the metric thing (that is another blog entirely).

I have appreciated the comments folks are making in relation to my blog. I will do updates to my little life's journey so you know how some of the things I have experienced work out. Here is one for you now.

Several of you wanted to know if there was starch in the undies. Thank goodness the answer is no. Greatly pressed, but no starch. Two additional discoveries were made as well. Laundrette does not use safety pins or clips to attach slacks or capri pants to a hanger. They are basted on each side to the hanger. Can you imagine your dry cleaner or laundry taking the time to do that? They also seem to do some very odd things to tee shirts or jersey knit shirts. Our shirts are getting wider and wider with each pressing. They aren't getting shorter, just wider. Don't know how they are doing this. I speculate that they are trying to prepare our clothing for the bodies we will have after living in an area where rice is served at every single meal.

Today I read something in the news magazine that my son's college publishes several times a year. The newly appointed president of the college said "One of the pleasures of travel is the chance to "re-understand" the meaning of home." I thought about that a lot when I returned to the hotel and began typing up this post.

Living abroad is very different than being on vacation. On vacation you go, you see the tourist attractions, you send post cards to your friends and family wishing they were here (where ever here is), you sample the local cuisine, you buy art, jewelry, get a great tan and go home. To your home and all of its comforts and warts. Where you know pretty much how banking is handled, what to expect to see in a grocery store, how to ask someone a question and most likely not eat cobra on a stick.

However, as a tourist you don't get to experience how other people really live. How other cities function (or dysfunction many times). What may seem like poverty to us is a cultural way of life somewhere else. How commerce is really working on many, many levels. I am trying to be a faithful observer and figure out the rhythm of this place and try to synchronize with it. Till I get that rhythm, I watch, I look up words, I order food and get surprised and I am learning about life on this side of the world.

The zeros on the bus go round and round

I think as much as the Indonesians love to have you sign things, they love zeros even more. What else could explain their currency. On Sunday, we spent about 30,000rupiahs for a round trip cab ride to and from the mall we can see from the hotel window. Sounds kind of like a cab fare in Washington, DC. In reality, it is a little more than 3 US dollars.

The current exchange rate is 1 US dollar equals 9348 Indonesian rupiahs (IDR if you are looking at a currency conversion table). For those of you who are math whizzes, you can multiply all of it out when someone tells you how much something costs and know what you are spending exactly in US currency. For the rest of us, you just move the decimal 4 places to the left and know that it is close.

It is mind boggling when you order a 17" pizza (I am taking this from the hotel room service menu) and it is 145,000 rupiahs. At first, it is so shocking for them to tell you something cost 100,000 units of anything you stand there looking at them with wide open horrified eyes. Then you try to calm yourself, and count to four. That would be four spaces to the left. I mean are there that many places where you look at a pair of shoes and the price tag has 1,000,000 written on it? I kind of feel like Dr. Evil with his ransom demands in an Austin Powers movie.

The money is pretty colorful. Red, green, fuchsia, tan and blue bills. The coins feel so light you would think that they are the chocolate filled, aluminum foil wrapped candy you buy at the grocery. They are about the same size, thickness and shiny silver color. Since I picked up laundry yesterday I am out of the red 100,000bills. Maaf.

I don't know why it is so confusing to me. When I go to pick up my laundry from Laundrette and they tell me that the total is 184,500 I need to go through all kinds of gyrations to give them the correct amount. I had to buy some cold medicine for my husband the first week we were here. Now keep in mind I was severely jet lagged. They told me how much and I panicked because I didn't have enough cash on me to pay for it. I went back to the hotel, got more rupiahs (like way too many) and just gave them a wad of money. It is a good thing they are honest people. They helped me straighten it all out, gave me a wad of money back along with some really stinky pills to give my honey bunch to help with the congestion he was experiencing.

These things will sort themselves out....I hope.

It is so strange to have everything that you are familiar with not there any more. There is the language issue, the hotel living issue, not knowing how much to tip in the country issue, not knowing where you are most of the time issues, even the ickiness of what major diet and water changes does to your digestive system issues. Jamie Lee Curtis, where are you with that Activia yogurt?

Today I went to look at houses. I actually looked at a nice modern looking house with a beautiful pool. Problem with it was there was no place to cook anything. No cook top, no oven or range in the house or in the staff quarters. The kitchen sink was a little bigger than a bathroom sink and there was one electrical plug in the entire kitchen. Most of the houses I have looked at are designed for expats like me and my husband. But this was totally amazing to me. Why in the world would anyone design a house without a range, cook top or oven? I guess the builder assumed that anyone living here would eat every single meal out and there would be no dishes to wash. That does not even rate as a "It seemed like a good idea" kind of moment in my experience.

I try to keep in mind that just as I am confused about who these people are and what kind of lives they are living, they feel the exact same way about me. This house was a complete tribute to that fact. Marble floors, sweeping staircase, lovely pool, and nowhere to cook a meal.

My life is so removed from a large percentage of the people who live in Jakarta. This current life for me is so removed from anything I have ever done before. I am sure there are possibly some of you reading this that have maybe never cooked a meal, or cleaned your own bathroom. If so, I think it would be someone who just randomly came across this blog for I don't know you personally.

But I am learning each day. I will be glad when I quit feeling like an idiot all the time. I am not sure when I will cross the line from idiot to D+, but I will be glad to get there. Till then, I am taking it one 12 day at a time, one house at a time, one word at a time, and one step at a time. No running just yet.

Holy Smokes B.A.T.S.man!

There is a nightclub in the far recesses of the hotel called B.A.T.S. We haven't discovered why it is called this. Hubby says that is stands for Bar At The Shangri-La. I think it has something to do with the fact that this here area was called Batavia at one point. One of my husbands associates, Vincent - who by the way is French, came up with some other possible meanings which I will not publish here. There are fruit bats here, but of course you don't spell it fruit B.A.T.S. Enough speculating and on with the story.

Vincent is a young French fellow and he has told us many tails of B.A.T.S. after 10:00 at night. Being older and still adjusting to the time, if we make it to 9:00pm we feel pretty good about ourselves.

This week, Vincent moved from the hotel and in to a house. He got here a few weeks ahead of us and is further along in the process than we are. He insisted we come to B.A.T.S. for a "farewell hotel living" dinner and drinks on his last night. We agreed to meet at 7. For us more mature adults, we knew that time might give us an hour or two of still plausible brain function.

This was our first time going to the club. We wandered around and wound down stairs and noticed the walls were beginning to turn black. No, I wasn't loosing consciousness, it is the decor. I have my suspicions we are entering B.A.T.S.man's batcave. Security check before entering. Guess lots of outsiders come here to party. No frisking by a Russian woman here, just hand scanners waved over you and your possessions.

The place is pretty funky looking. Very hip with brick work, murals of various people that I feel like I should know since they were important enough to paint on the walls. Heck, they even had first names written under their pictures. Not sure if this is a function of my age or no frame of reference on this side of the planet as to why they are unrecognizable. There is a stage and a band is setting up. There is a bar area off to the side. That is the smoking area; kinda, sorta.

I cute little girl with her hair in a pony tail and black combat boots on her feet, that are about a size too big, hands us large metal menus. They weigh several pounds. Trendy and hip, but not overly practical. Lots of American style food. We actually took a break from sushi and Asian dishes and ordered a hamburger. I like my meat medium-rare. Hot pink is a good color. The waiter, who I don't think had on combat boots, asked if having my burger cooked well done was OK. I inquired if medium-rare was a possibility. Yes, he said....BUT I would need to sign a waiver, put in my room number, give them my passport information and swear that if I became deathly ill or developed mad cow disease I wouldn't hold them responsible. OK, well-done it is.

The band starts to play. It is two guys with guitars and an Asian woman on vocals. Very soft rock stuff. After I listen for a bit to the selection of songs, it transports me back to high school. "Country Roads, take me home. To the place I belong. West Virginia......." I feel 99% certain they do not know where West Virginia is. "You make me feel brand new." Holy Smokes B.A.T.S.man! What decade are we in, what century for crying out loud. Finally, she sings something a little more current. Sarah McLachlan "In The Arms of an Angel." One tiny little problem. It comes out sounding like "You're in the arms of an ANGLE; may you find some comfort here." Would that be obtuse or acute? As I mentioned in a previous post that space-time continuum is working me over. This is not helping. In all fairness I would hate to think what I would sound like trying to sing something in their native tongue. Not only would I slaughter the lyrics, but my musicality is limited. They are at +2. I am at 0.

As we sit and chat with Vincent, I can't figure out how this bar could work it up to "racy" based on old 70's tunes. However, if I could stay up past my bedtime I am reassured that I would be treated to a heavily tattooed New Zealand band with loud music and lots of gyrating bodies (many of which are for hire). No wonder none of us from the 70's can dance. We had John Denver walking us on a country road in West Virginia.

He tells us the band is good, but you have to be prepared for lots of inquisitive hands checking you out as you walk across the room. Who needs security when you have this kind of crowd?

About 8:30 we leave the B.A.T.S.cave and head for bed. Maybe we can check it out before we leave the hotel. I am not sure I am hip enough to participate in a B.A.T.S. after 10 experience. If I have to pass some kind of test to decode who those people are that are painted on the walls, I will remain in the 70's forever.

Two weeks and counting

Today is Saturday(Sabtu for those of you learning the language with me). Sabtu means that we have completed two weeks of having our feet on Indonesian soil. Hard to believe in some ways and not so hard in others. I still have a hard time figuring out what day it is. Due to no real consistancy in my schedule yet, it is often difficult to tell what day of the week you are celebrating. No, "Gosh it must be Thursday because I hear the garbage truck crusing the neighborhood." The call to prayer is every day. Same time. Same channel. Motorcyclists, which are kind of like an army of ants, are always whizzing to and fro. The days are always about 12 hours long, hence the name of my blog.

The easier part is that some of the buildings and billboards are looking familiar. Not sure what I am going to do when they change the ads because they help me judge when we are getting closer to the hotel. I know we are close when a bevey of young models all dressed in white, using the pouty look that is the international symbol for hipness, stare at me in one intersection. They look like they are having a bad day in a cool sort of way.

I am still amazed at what I see on motorcycles. So far, I have seen crates of chickens stacked about 5 crates high and strapped to the back, a passenger holding a car windshield between he and the driver, a man holding a propane cylinder in one hand and a 4 foot ladder in the other (guess he was squeezing the driver with his knees to stay on)- Nurdin, let that one get WAY ahead of us, arm loads of dendrobium orchids apparently in some kind of baskets that I couldn't see on the sides of the bike making the rider appear to be cruising on a cloud of soft magenta colored blossoms, sleeping children wedged in between two adults, big blocks of ice which I am sure will be much smaller when they arrives at their destination, assortments of plastic tubes, boxes, crates, poles, metal contraptions, a heavy duty Hagen Daz delivery box -- Nurdin, follow that one!

Another observation, totally unrelated to motorcycle cargo, is that many of the Indonesians wear shoes that are several sizes too big. Not sure if it is a hand-me-down situation or that at the time of purchase it was the only size available. Most of the time the shoes look pretty new and like they intentionally bought them that way. Whatever the reason, it makes walking a bit of a challenge. The foot has to be raised and lowered more straight up and down so the wearer can keep the footwear on the foot or there is a lot of shuffleing so your shoe doesn't fall off. In some ways this style of walking or shuffleing isn't necessarily bad. Most surfaces here are stone or some type of tile. Not anything with a tooth to it so your feet don't slide. Think highly polished marble and ice skating. Not very safe for someone like me who is always rushing and walking fast. Maybe this life here will make me slow down a bit.

I have not started Bahasa Indonesia lessons yet, but have learned a few words. Some of my favorites are berapa - meaning how much, Jum'at - meaning Friday (I think it is fun to say but doesn't help me much), maaf - which means sorry (and I say that a lot), cuci ini - as you have already read in a previous post means wash this, apa kabar - means how are you and the answer to that is baik - which means good, fine, Okey Dokey. Some of the words I feel certain George Lucas has used in Star Wars movies. I see the word baru on lots of things. Wasn't that Luke's aunt?

As time goes by, I know the words will become familiar, the heat and humidity won't feel quite so bad, and I will be able to look at a menu and figure out what I am about to order. Speaking of which, the other day during our orientation tour of the city, we stopped at the mall for lunch. Our guide proceeded to give us a tour of the food court. Many places and nationalities were represented, including Burger King. We walked past each restaraunt and she discribed things that were obvious and not so obvious. We paused at one restaraunt and she said that it served traditional Sumatran food. Geography Lesson - Jakarta is on the island of Java and Sumatra is the island north and slightly west of us. I examined the food and asked what was in one of the chaffing dishes. It appeared to be some kind of vegetable in a creamy looking sauce. She confered with the man and he told her what it was. She said a word and then something to go with it - hmmmm...wasn't getting it. "Maaf what?" On the next try, the second word she said sounded like brim and then something about everything tastes better with coconut milk. "Maaf again." On the last try I got it - it was cow brain cooked in coconut milk. Okey Dokey. In my book coconut milk would NOT make that taste any better.

Excuse me! That is my underwear.

Part of the blessing and bane of hotel living is that you don't have a washer and dryer at your disposal. This is a joy most of the time, but does have down sides. After looking at the price list of having laundry done at the hotel, we decided to look for an alternative.

There is an office building next to our hotel. On the second floor, in the back of the Starmart, there is a laundry called Laundrette. Their prices are about a third of what the hotel charges, so we thought we would give them a try for our cleaning needs.

After conferring with my honey bunch, we decided that undergarments were the priority items to test out Laundrette's skills. We sorted our unmentionables based on if they were light colored or dark and placed them in two bags for transport. On Friday, I carried the bags down to the ground floor, through the hotel, across the lawn and out the gate to the small street that separated us from April freshness. After crossing the street, I then had to go through security in the building where Laundrette does business.

I will stop here to explain something. Every building here has security. I don't mean Barney Fife style policing. The grounds of our hotel has a fleet of dogs and handlers, x-ray machines, metal detectors and a machine that sniffs inside the car when they open the doors and rear hatch. All of this policing begins the moment you drive onto the driveway. The car is searched. Mirrors on long poles look under the car and if the all clear signal is given, the large gate is opened to allow you to continue approaching the hotel. Once out of the car, you must place your purse, bags, jackets, umbrellas or whatever you are carrying on a conveyor belt to run through a scanner. This scene is re-enacted each and every time you come to the hotel, any shopping center or any large building for that matter. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the inspections as I would like to reach a riper old age than I already am.

However, upon reaching the front door of the adjacent building, I realized that my dirty laundry was about to be aired. I plunk down the bags and step through the metal detector. The young Indonesian man looks into the bags and declares it "laundry" before sliding it along to me. Nice English dude. Thanks for checking my drawers and declaring them safe.

I kind of thought the embarrassment would end there, but hold your horses. It ain't over yet. I go to the second floor, which by the way they call the first floor because the ground floor doesn't count as far as they are concerned, and go through the Starmart and back to Laundrette. A very soft spoken young woman stands at the counter. I approach with bulging bags of laundry and nerves of steel to try to make this transaction go smoothly.

Plopping the first bag of undies on the counter I ask "Cuci ini?" That means wash this. Of course I said it in such a way it was clear that it was a question and not a command. I am trying hard to learn useful words to help me along. I am a terrible language student. My North Carolina, Texas, and a little Louisiana accent totally roughs-up anybodies language. Maaf to everyone who has to experience it. Maaf means sorry. Indeed.

She shakes her head yes they can wash the clothes and begins to pull the laundry out of the bag and starts to sort things on the counter. Eeeek! Lots of counting of underthings, socks and the like. Ticking off items on a sheet and having to write in the ones that aren't on there. Oh Lord....I have two bags of humiliation to go through. Having your underwear sorted in front of a bunch of strangers in the back of a convenience store should be on everyone's bucket list.

Once the inventory ends, the signing begins. They love to have you sign things here. Giving them your name and number isn't enough. I have to sign the front of each sheet. Then I have to sign the back of the sheet. Why? Because she said so. I leave with a fist full of papers, two blessedly empty bags and a decision that I will run water in the bathtub, put in soap and pretend that I am Lucy and stomp my underwear clean the next time.

The weekend passed and the eagerly awaited pick-up date of Monday arrives. The same route was covered and we arrived at Laundrette with the copies of the four pages containing our laundry inventory. "No tickie, no undie," was the understanding I got before leaving my goods. I handed over the sheets and she located the four bags of the now clean undergarments, socks and sleepwear.

The same nice young woman indicates I must sign these same pieces of paper yet again. Why? Because she said so. The papers are handed back to me and we must go to the front to pay and then she will give us our clothes. I wait in the back with the clothes and hubby goes up and pays. Back he comes with the sheets and she takes them from us and releases our precisely packaged garments.

We carry the bags back through the hotel security. This time no one declared that it is laundry. I guess only when it is dirty it receives that designation. We get to the room and begin to check it out. I have never in my life seen such packaging, pressing and attention given to my underwear, socks and nightgown. Many of my husband's boxer briefs were individually packaged in plastic bags. The socks were paired up and beautifully arranged - all enshrined in plastic. All of it had been pressed! I swear even my bras were ironed. Everything appeared to be sorted by color before being bagged.

I never realized I was a complete slob. It never occurred to me that all of the things under my clothes should be so pressed and tidy. I realize now the shame I have brought to my family. Maaf dear ones.

I don't know what that is, but take my picture by it!

There are lots of unknown, unfamiliar things here. For example, lunch today was a global smorgasbord. I had lots of things on my plate that were unrecognizable, but when sampled, were pretty tasty fare.

One of the restaurants down stairs is called Satoo. It seats over 400 people. It has has a buffet that winds all around and through the restaurant. If that isn't enough for you, you can order from a menu. There is a proverbial United Nations of food within its walls. Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Indonesian, and European dishes to choose from. There is a salad station, a fruit station (with a juice bar), and a beautiful dessert station.

The sushi bar always has a long line. The Asian soup station is fun. You get a bowl, spoon in fixins' like, glass noodles, bits of chicken, various veggies, and sprouts. You then hand it over to a large Asian man who dumps it into a deep strainer type basket and places it into a vat of hot water. After warming and poaching your goodies a bit, he will then ask you what kind of stock you would like - chicken or fish. He then dumps all of the warmed-up bits back into your bowl and ladles the stock on top of it. If you want to jazz it up, there are all kinds of sauces to add. Some hot, some very hot and some "wholly cow, where is the milk?"

We have made friends with Herwig who is the Belgian pastry chef in Satoo. He is a really friendly guy and always stops by to chat with us when we are eating in the restaurant. Can't wait to meet his wife and experience where the chefs like to eat in Jakarta. He has a staff of 36 under his command. They produce yummy and beautiful hip expanding items. Thanks a lot Herwig.

Earlier in the week we reported to Immigration. Thursday was our let's go get our official papers day. We had some confusion about things and wound up at the wrong immigration office to begin with. Should have know in a country where the population fluctuates from 10 to 13 million, based on the number of immigrates coming in and out, one office would not work. On Thursday, we made the population 13million and 2.

The first office we reported to was most likely a satellite. Our driver, Nurdin, dropped us off and went to park the van. We entered the office and wandered around a bit. After not having a clue what to do and phoning the contact, Mr. Tono (who speaks only about 2 or 3 words of English) that we were supposed to meet at immigration, we knew there was a problem. We showed a guardish looking man sitting at a metal desk by the front door our email. He kept saying something to us and I think was trying to tell us to which office we needed to go.

We called Nurdin and told him we were coming out of the building and to start looking for us. We stepped out onto the sidewalk and began desperately looking for the van. One cannot fully appreciate Jakarta from a hotel room or the confines of a vehicle. Standing on a small patch of concrete, that was kind of like a sidewalk, while seemingly hundreds and hundreds of cars, motorcycles and motorized carts fly by and an endless flow of people coming and going around you, one gets kind of dizzy. The exhaust, grime, grit and sweat are clinging to you within seconds while you stand on the side of the road.

After I know what was only a 10 minute wait tops, but seemed about 10 times longer, we see Nurdin. Unfortunately, he is on the OTHER side of the road. Hmmmm. This is a problem. But he uses what my friend Laura calls "the magic hand" and makes his way across traffic. The magic hand is kind of a very low profile signal to the drivers that " I am a thrill seeker and I am going to cross the street no matter how many of you there are." He retrieves us and we make our way safely to the other side and hop in the van. After a brief discussion, and looking at our email, we are on our way.

I'll pause here and say that Nurdin is our temporary driver. He is small of stature and large of ear. My mother would say he looks as if someone left the cab doors open. He is a very sweet fellow and I am enjoying getting to know him as he negotiates us through the unbelievable traffic with patients and skill. He doesn't speak a lot of English, but then I don't speak much Bahasa Indonesia so we are evenly matched.

The second Immigration Office is much, much larger. We get out of the van and meet Mr. Tono. He is a young man who looks pretty annoyed that we have missed our scheduled time. And even though he doesn't speak a lot of English, we get the message. Up 4 flights of stairs we climb. We are deposited into hard plastic chairs and Mr. Tono goes and stands by a door that leads to our ticket to long term residency in Indonesia. As he stands and peeks in the room behind the door every time it opens, we are stuck in front of a television. I would say that TV advertisements must be pretty cheap here. Lucky Indonesians are bombarded with at least twice what we get during a show back in the US. They get increased volume and frequency to boot.

To one side of us is a plate glass window and a counter that are part of the room we will go into to get our papers. Typical government office stuff. Notices stuck on the glass. Most likely telling you what you can and cannot do, what they will and won't take. All of it is in Bahasa Indonesia, so I only get to speculate. The only sign in English is a large "NO SMOKING" sign. Too bad that isn't in Bahasa Indonesia because the guy sitting inside the room, right next to the sign, must have Phillip Morris stock.

At long last it is our turn. Mr. Tono signals us forward and we slip past the door. He disappears and we are left with a couple of Indonesian guys at two different desks. One at a time we are seated at the first desk and we scoot our chairs back and forth so the guy can get our picture. Next, we are electronically finger printed. Weird how it makes you feel guilty and all you are doing is sitting there sweating. You then have to sign an electronic pad with your name as it appears on your passport. Unlike at Walmart, the pad doesn't have a line, is not lit and there is no X to tell you where to begin writing. After making an attempt and then being told you guessed wrong, you try again. Two or three tries later they send you to the next desk. This is done with a head shake and a muttering of the word bule. Bule (pronounced Bu-lay) is the word for foreigner. That indeed is correct.

The second desk is where you get to take pen to paper. Five or six sheets to sign. What is on them, I don't know. Yep, you guessed it...not in English. I hope I did not sign away my son upon his future arrival for a visit. We are at long last finished and told that in about 3 working days we will have our passport with a shiny new KITAS and a multiple entry visa back into our hot little hands. Or at least I think that is what they were trying to convey to us.

Upon our arrival back to our own little Shangri-La, we go to lunch. I highly recommend making friends with a pastry chef. Mango creme brulee is an outstanding salve to immigrating almost anywhere.

It's Wednesday here, Tuesday there.

Jet lag is not a pretty thing especially when you are middle-aged. Maybe that isn't true for seasoned travelers, but for this Little Tarheel/Texan now living in Jakarta, Indonesia you might want to avert your eyes.

I titled this post It's Wednesday here, Tuesday there. That isn't actually accurate at this particular hour. It is 2:35am in Texas, 3:35am in North Carolina and 3:35pm here - Wednesday in all of those places. We crossed over the Wednesday-Tuesday gap a couple of hours ago. I feel like I am in some kind of space-time continuum. This whole International Date line, below the equator thing works on your head.

The call to prayer is ringing out from several of the mosque that are near our hotel. It is a little odd since there are several mosque and they are all broadcasting over top of each other so it sounds a bit like you can't quite get the dial on your radio set to just one station.

Our arrival here came via a seemingly curious route. We left Houston, TX on Thursday at 4:45pm (that would be 5:45am Friday in Jakarta). Our 11.5 hour flight to Moscow, Russia was smooth. Yes, you are asking yourself; why in the heck did they fly to Russia to get to Indonesia. I can understand that. With more luggage than one would take just for normal vacationing, I wanted the fewest possible hands moving our bags from one plane to another. Going via Moscow meant that we would stop in Russian, get off the plane while it was cleaned and refueled and then get back on. No one told us we would be 5 degrees in the jetway and we would get frisked by a Russian woman who smelled of oranges before we could get into the terminal. But it wasn't overly invasive and she was a young, but serious looking blonde who was all business.

After enjoying the pleasures of walking around on a solid, non-moving surface, we re-boarded the plane and headed for Singapore. That leg of the flight took about 10.5 hours and we wandered dazed and confused to our connecting flight to Jakarta.

In case you should ever come to Singapore, please remember that you cannot purchase chewing gum here. It apparently is a contraband item. You can chew it, just can't buy it. I am afraid to think what they would do to you if you spit it on the ground somewhere. Consequently, we did not explore that and kept our gum to ourselves.

We touched down in Jakarta around 8:45am, Saturday (Friday in the US)and it was 81 degrees and very humid. Massive perspiring ensued and little airconditioning was happening in the van in which we were being transported to the Shangri-La Hotel. Little did we know more sweating would happen once we got out into Jakarta traffic.

It should have been an indication that mass mayhem is the norm when you notice that most of the roads have no stripes on them. Hmmm. Some of the roads we have been driven on would be about 2.5 lanes wide (going one direction) by US standards. Well, being the most enterprising people I've seen in a while, the Indonesians take those same 2.5 lanes and turn them in to a whopping 6 or 7 lane road going each direction. I don't remember who said that two objects cannot occupy the same space back many many physics discoveries ago, but they did not live here.

But I digress from the original opening comment about jet lag and middle age. In the 4 nights that we have been here, not too much sleeping has gone on. The first couple of nights we tried to go to bed at a normal time and managed to go to sleep fairly well. However, we were both awake at 4am. Pulling the curtains back from the hotel window and seeing a sparkling Jakarta below us and hearing the first morning calls to prayer, was kind of a "Toto. I don't think we are in Kansas any longer." moment. All this brain confusion has caused all sorts of issues. When I get stressed I cry. When I get sleep deprived I cry. So, between crying and sweating, I have had to consume a lot of liquids to keep from being dehydrated.

The mantra each day is "It's going to get better." Not only am I sick of hearing this from well meaning people, but also from myself. I love everyone who keeps telling me that and I do need to hear it, but when you are feeling like doggie poop it really doesn't make you feel any better. For those of you who may read this. Please don't take offense if you know you said this to me, because I know you really mean it with all of your heart and I love you for being concerned enough to say it. Just wish there was a better way to get with the program.

I never imagined that I would struggle so with this transition. I really thought that I would just slip right in and get going. Well, I totally misled myself with that premise. Unfortunately, I always think I can just jump right in there and do what needs to be done and get things going. This move has reduced me to a weepy blob of insecurity. Not pretty and not very effective when there is so much to do. I know, it will get better but I guess not quite yet.

It is very much like the stages of any major life trauma that must be passed through to make it to the end and get on with your life. Maybe instead of fighting it I need to embrace it and allow myself this time to adjust. It is hard for a stubborn person like me to let go and admit that I am struggling with it.

Over the course of the last few days, I have seen and experienced a lot. From seeing extreme poverty and squalor to beautiful exotic plants being sold from stalls lining the road. Patient Indonesian people who are always eager to assist you to inadvertently paying $800.00 for two phones that actually I didn't need to purchase. (Anybody who would like to buy one or two brand new Nokia E72 phones, please let me know)

This is my first attempt at a blog. So for folks who read this, "It is going to get better."