R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Earlier today, I was sitting at my desk and slurping noodles when the thought crossed my mind, “These are good, but I could really go for some rice…”

Over the past 19 months, I have adapted to Indonesia and Java in many ways. Yet, there remain currents of social communication and expectations that are so inherently Javanese and so foreign to my American upbringing that I still sometimes stumble over where I fit in the grand scheme.

There is a sense of decorum inherent in Javanese culture. This includes treating your guest like royalty, avoiding conflict, and saving face. It also encompasses how people speak to one another. To really understand Javanese decorum, you have to look at the Javanese language itself.

Javanese skript – broken into the basic phonemes.

Javanese has multiple levels of politeness, and each level can have its very own vocabulary. This means that learning Javanese is almost like learning 3-5 different languages.

The three basic levels are…

Ngoko: used for close friends, peers, and those of a lower “status” relative to you (ex. younger siblings or children).

Madya: used for ‘in-between’ situations in which you don’t want to be too formal, too informal, or don’t the status of a stranger with whom you are speaking.

Krama: (pronounced “kromo”) used in formal situations or when showing respect to people of higher status (ex. parents, elders, officials, or when speaking in a formal setting).

For example…

Indonesians love to eat. If you wanted to eat, this is what you could say in Javanese.

Ngoko: Aku arep mangan.

Madya: Kulo ajeng nedha.

Krama: Kulo badhe nadhi. (or, if you want to be more humble, Dalem badhe nedhi.)

But then if you want to politely welcome your guest to eat, you wouldn’t use mangan, nedha, nadhi, or nedhi, but rather dhahar. As in Mongo, didhahar (“Please, eat.”)

So for one daily action, you have your choice of five different words.

I hope it is becoming clear to you at this point why I have been slow to learn Javanese.

Nevertheless, I have been struggling through the most basic of basics with my language tutor as she tries to drill into my brain the most menial of Ngoko and Krama sentences.

My tutor and me at Candi Ceto.

One week, with my list of Ngoko and Krama vocabulary spread before me, I wrote short descriptions of my family. My language tutor checked off my Krama paragraph fairly quickly, and moved on to Ngoko. I thought this would be a simple act of substitution – formal for informal – but as it turned out, the issue wasn’t quite so simple.

I had written a sentence about having one sibling: my older brother. Although I was writing as if I was talking to someone of equal or lower status to me, because I was referring to someone older – the first born of my family – I was still expected to use the formal Krama as a sign of respect.

Simply memorizing which vocabulary fits in which category, Ngoko or Krama, wasn’t enough – I also needed to develop an internal Javanese sense of where I was in relation to both the person I was talking to and the person I was talking about.

My futile attempts to learn Javanese – note the Indonesian to Ngoko to Krama translations. Too many words!

Life in a Javanese village tends to be intensely communal, and the Javanese language, in its very structure, is a constant reminder of where you fit in the societal puzzle – and that is something that is often difficult for me to figure out in Indonesia.

Raised in a land that aspires to equality and mobility, I believe fiercely that I am worthy of equal respect by the very virtue of being a human individual. In our frequent Star Wars action figure battles and Lego construction projects, I expected that my ideas and personal agency would be given as much consideration as my older brother’s (and my feelings of being deprived of these rights led to many a meltdown in my youth). This, for me, forms a large part of my identity.

One of my host family’s cats laying chillin’ on some Javanese.

Identity in much of Asia, and certainly on Java, however, is often formed based on where you see yourself (your past, your purpose, and your potential) in the social framework. It certainly doesn’t mean that Indonesians don’t believe in equality and mobility, but these concepts manifests themselves differently. Their ability to see themselves as fitting into a social slot – of knowing when to give and expect respect – is as inseparable from their personal identities as their mother language. It was, after all, their mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, older siblings and neighbors, who taught them that language. And that, perhaps, does deserve some gratefulness and an added helping of respect.

In every culture, there is so much more going on than what we see on the surface. Often, we are unaware of what exactly makes us the way we are – why we communicate and behave towards others the way we do. Our identities are inextricably wound into history, climate, family, and society. But discovering the intricacies of the people and cultures around us, and thereby shedding light into our own, is what makes the world such an exciting place to explore.

The Neighborhood Hindus

Fact 1: Indonesia is home to the world’s largest Muslim population.

Fact 2: Java is the world’s most populous island.

It will not surprise you, then, when I tell you that there are a whole lot of Muslims on Java. Wikipedia approximates that 90% of Indonesians living on Java identify as Muslim.

But Java wasn’t always this way – before Islam, the Javanese-Hindu-Buddhist Majapahit Empire ruled the land (1292- approx. 1500). The archipelagic empire was a formidable force in South East Asia, and has left its mark on Java to this day.

Ceto – pronounced “Cheto” – Temple.

Javanese-Hindu temples dot the island, and one of the final areas of temple-building before the courts of Java were converted to Islam is in my very own backyard! Candi Ceto (Ceto Temple), is one of many small temples built on the western slope of mythical Mount Lawu during the 15^th-century – shortly before the close of the Majapahit Empire.

Offerings.

Javanese-Hindu fertility shrine at Candi Ceto. By the 15th century, the Majapahit aesthetic had taken on a distinct Javanese quality, replacing earlier Indian motifs.

Java has always been a mosaic of peoples, religions, and cultures, and visiting the Javanese-Hindu temples of Mount Lawu is like dusting off hidden tiles. These structures are a connection to the past, an outpost of what once was.

Looking out from the upper levels of the Candi Ceto.

My students exploring Candi Kethek, another (though less intact) temple near Candi Ceto. 

The sites of Candi Ceto and surrounding temples also represent an ongoing connection to the present – a bond between the now-minority Hindus living alongside Mount Lawu and the bustling haven of Hinduism, Bali. In 2004, the governor of Bali gifted a beautiful statue of Saraswati – the Hindu goddess of knowledge and the arts – to the area in a show of religious and cultural solidarity.

A gift from Bali.

Saraswati

Indeed, much of Balinese culture was shaped by the Java-based Majapahit Empire. So much so, that some claim, “without Java there is no Bali.” In a turn of fate, Bali has become the keeper of many of the Javanese-Hindu traditions that are now extinct in many parts of Java.

Worn-down statues at Candi Ceto.

In my very Javanese, very Muslim corner of East Java, it is easy for me to forget that Indonesia is a nation of incredible diversity and rich cultural and religious heritage. Candi Ceto is a reminder that we are perhaps not so far removed from the legacies and memories of a different era.

Flower offerings, a typical site throughout Bali, given at Candi Kethek in Central Java.

Ode to the Mandi

A large part of travel is learning to make fine adjustments to our assumptions about life. After being away from my village for a while, I have had to re-calibrate myself to the slower pace of life, the lack of English speakers, and the cold bucket baths. In light of that latter joy, I give to you this little essay I wrote after first coming to Indonesia. It stands true to this day, and is a daily metaphor for getting over myself and diving in. Enjoy!

Before I traveled to Asia, I took my bathroom for granted. I took for granted that people sat on toilets, spit their toothpaste in sinks, and, if they were polite, put a towel on the floor to keep it dry when they showered. But a change in place often brings a change in perspective, and as anyone else who has abdicated the porcelain throne can attest, a change in perspective may mean getting your feet wet.

My mandi, aka. Home sweet home.

Many travelers to Asia have come to love or loathe what some call the “wet bathroom.” Here in Indonesia, where I work as a Peace Corps education volunteer, we say “mandi”. Mandi is both a noun and a verb. To mandi is to take a cold bucket bath, and the place in which you perform this activity (and others) is called the mandi.

The mandi consists of three major areas. The first is the infamous squat toilet (more affectionately, the squatty potty). Set into the floor, it requires one to – as the name suggests – squat. As a result of performing this action multiple times a day, Indonesians are remarkably good at squatting as they complete many of their daily tasks. I have seen children under the age of one and old men and women with wrinkle-worn faces squatting with perfect form as they play or shell beans.

The mandi’s second area of interest is the water source. In many Indonesian homes this is a tiled, square or rectangular tub that holds anywhere from a few to many gallons of water. In less homey atmospheres, you may just get a large bucket. This water is essential in all the tasks that are undertaken in the mandi, because there is no toilet paper. This water is also the source of the mandi’s wetness, from which it receives its “wet bathroom” reputation.

After brushing your teeth, relieving yourself, soaping up your body, or any other activity, it is recommended that you splash some water around the whole room and on yourself in order to remove any possible residue. Unless you are very unlucky, a scoop will be provided to assist you in these duties. Wetter is cleaner, therefore wetter is better.

The final area of import is the floor itself. Tile, linoleum, concrete, or dirt, it slopes slightly towards the drain. This feature is specially designed to carry away soap, toothpaste, or any other unwanted material.

Skeptical to say the least.

Experiencing the mandi for the first time was like traveling to a new country. Everything I had read and heard about it couldn’t compare with actually standing there and facing the invigorating, cold, wet reality. This place felt totally foreign, and I definitely didn’t speak the language. I stared at the water for a few moments, bracing for the cold. But I knew that, eventually, I would have to take the plunge – or rather the splash. I would have to get low, and just embrace this new, uncharted territory. Sure, the water was cold, my quadriceps burned, and I missed my target many times, but I was there. I was immersed in something so foreign, so startling, and so wonderfully different.

At first I hated it. I wondered how anyone in their right mind could possibly live without toilet paper. I pined for a hot shower and dry bathroom floor. I cursed myself and the world when I missed my target for the tenth time, hitting my feet instead. But then, slowly, things started to change.

I learned that when Indonesians bathe in the mandi, they splash themselves with ferocious speed. If you have ever passed the mandi while a native Indonesian is bathing, it sounds like a hurricane has been unleashed. I started splashing myself with as much speed as I could muster, and found the water didn’t feel quite so cold.

Then I discover the beautiful efficiency of spitting out my mouthwash and relieving my bladder simultaneously. I practiced until I could expertly wield the bucket in my right hand and splash with my left while perching with newfound balance. I began to wonder why I had ever used toilet paper in the first place, and I found myself regarding the western world flushing millions of scratchy, papery sheets down toilets every day with scorn. In this environment where I once felt so strange, uncomfortable, wet, and cold, I began to feel at home.

I learned from the locals, and I learned from experience. Through trial and error I discovered the hidden beauty and ingenuity of the mandi. My world was graced with a new perspective and a new appreciation of a different way of life. From now on, both the quick efficiency of the wet mandi and the luxurious comfort of my hot shower back home will hold special places in my heart.