Weeks 7 and 8: Sulawesi

Apologies for the delay in posting - I have spent the last week and a half travelling with limited internet access. The other volunteers and I have been travelling around Sulawesi, another of the big islands in Indonesia. It has been a fantastic trip and I was lucky enough to spend it in excellent company.

We spent the first couple of days visiting one of the regional offices of our NGO in an area called Jeneponto. I was completely blown away by the kindness and generosity of the people we met there. They were so welcoming of us, even though we were only there for a brief visit and some of them only spoke basic English. There seems to be a different attitude to friendship here; it is immediate and automatic rather than reserved for those who have proven their 'worth' in some unspoken way, as often seems to be the case in our culture. One of the employees in the Jeneponto office, Annie, not only allowed us to stay in her house, but took her entire Saturday to show us around. Moreover, her mother and grandmother, who didn't speak a word of English between them, made sure that we were well fed at all times. In Jeneponto, we were first taken to see the office, then to visit a horse market (horse meat is a local delicacy) and then to a village. In the village we went to visit the local chief and were once again treated to a delicious home-cooked meal. After lunch we were taken on a tour of the village, including a boat ride round the chief's seaweed farm. I am so lucky to have the social network provided by the NGO; it has allowed me to visit places and meet people that would otherwise be entirely inaccessible. The NGO describe themselves as a family and this was certainly borne out by our experiences in Jeneponto

On Sunday we headed to Tana Toraja (that of the Lonely Planet fame) for a whirlwind tour of the region. Whilst planning the trip we had unfortunately overestimated our tolerance of long bus journeys and underestimated our need for sleep and booked ourselves onto two consecutive overnight busses. I think overnight busses are a little like childbirth; you subconsciously forget how bad they are, otherwise you would never get on another one. They are sufficiently comfortable that you feel sleepy, but not quite comfortable enough to actually allow you to sleep (the air conditioning on this one was practically arctic). We survived, but I would not recommend it.

We arrived in Rantepao at around 5am and spent a good half an hour wandering the streets, stupid with tiredness. We eventually found a cafe where we could sit and drink tea until daylight came. As soon as morning arrived we headed to the tourist information centre to hire ourselves a guide for the day. Our guide Asis took us to a number of Tarajan villages and through a valley of rice paddies. The first village we visited confirmed some of my fears about tourism in Toraja (see last week's blog entry). As beautiful as the traditional 'boat' houses were, the village seemed to have been created entirely for the purposes of tourism. Despite Asis' protestations that the village had inhabitants, I saw no real signs of life, and there seemed to be more souvenir shops than houses. Nevertheless, the houses were stunning and it was interesting to hear how their size and layout relfect social organisation and cultural beliefs (for instance, the bigger the house, the more important the person). Later in the day we visited another village, in which the houses were more lived in - one was even under construction - which made me feel a little less of a gullible tourist.

It might sound morbid but Torajan culture is famous primarily for its fascination with death. The traditional house all face North - the domain of the divine - in order to form a bridge between the living and the dead. We were taken to see some elaborate graves, including a tree in which dead babies are buried because the white sap of the tree is thought to be like the mother's milk. Torajan culture is perhaos most famous for its elaborate funeral rituals, some of which involve slaughtering hundreds of buffalo at immense financial cost (a big funeral is a sign of high social status). Unfortunately the funerals only take place in July and August (sometimes people save up for years to hold a funeral) but Asis kindly invited us back to his house to see some photos he had saved on his computer.

As anyone who has travelled round Asia will tell you, lavatory facilities can be a little - how shall I put it? - unsavory. Over the course of the week a competition developed to see who could find the worst offender. The toilet in the cafe we visited in the early hours of Sunday morning was a definite contender: it was a simple concrete shed with no lock and no lighting; not even so much as a squat toilet, only a drain in the corner. Now, I don't know whether you have ever tried to pee in pitch black, holding the door shut with your hand, desperately trying not to let you clothes or belongings touch the walls or floor, with an Indonesian woman chopping vegetables only a metre away, but I can assure you that it is a deeply unpleasant experience. This was followed by an amusing incident later in the day when Hannah realised she needed the loo in a remote Torajan village. At the behest of our tour guide she decided to brave the 'natural toilet', only to emerge from the bushes a few minutes later looking sheepish, flagged by an angry looking farmer. Over the course of the long journey home this competition developed into an elaborate ranking system, which we designated the Study of the Hygiene of Indonesian Toilets (S.H.I.T.)

The only real blight on the week was that soon after arriving at our hotel in Makassar we realised that Hannah and I had been robbed on the bus. As soon as Hannah realised her cash had been taken, I was filled with a horrible sense of foreboding, soon confirmed when I found my camera missing. My camera was by far the most valuable of my posessions, in both economic and sentimental terms, and I was utterly devastated by the loss. It left me with a bad taste in my mouth to think that someone could be so selfish, so devious, as to climb under my seat whilst I was asleep, take by bag, remove the valuables, and then carefully return it. Even worse was the realisation that the other passengers must have been aware of what was happening, but no one saw fit to stop it. However, there is nothing that can be done to change the situation and I have been trying to see the bright side. I am one of those tourists who takes a million pictures, terrified of missing an opportunity, convinced that somehow can experience doesn't 'count' if you don't have a photographic reminder of it. I think that travelling without a camera will force me to value experiences for what they are, rather than worrying about documenting them on film.

Luckily, I spent the next four days in such an amazing place that the theft could not have been further from my mind. Bunaken island forms part of the Manado-Bunaken National Park, one of the world's best diving sites. We were met at the airport by a representative of our hotel - Lorenzo's - and driven to the coast, where a small motor boat was waiting to take us to the island. It was sunset when we arrived and I remember sitting in the boat, looking out over the stunning scenery, just awestruck by the simple thought that of all the places in the world I could possibly be, I was here .

Lorenzo's Beach Garden is a small collection of bamboo huts, sitting on a beach in a private lagoon. I think it is entirely possible that the proprietor, Lorenzo, is the happiest man on the planet. He spends his days lounging in hamocks, eating amazing food and swimming in the world-class coral reef that is his garden. The four of us passed four very happy, lazy days in his establishment, reading in hamocks and sitting up at night playing cards. We were treated to three amazing meals a day; pancakes and fruit every day for breakfast, followed by two hearty meals of rice and fresh fish. The first night happened to be my birthday and, unbeknowst to me, my friends had prepared a few suprises, including a birthday banner, a feather boa and sparkly tiara (what birthday would be complete without a little humiliation?) and a very thoughtful present: a lock for my posessions! We spent that evening having a few drinks at a neighbouring resort. Presumably as payback for my actions on our night out in Jakarta, Hannah made sure that the lead singer of the band knew it was my birthday and I was soon up on stage being serenaded. The singer began with happy birthday and then moved on, somewhat less traditionally, to Creep by Radiohead. I found it impossible not to get the giggles when he was kneeling at my feet singing "you're so very special . . ." with all the verve and sincerity of a Celine Dion Power Ballad.

It would have been a dreadful shame to visit one of the world's premier diving sites without seeing the coral for ourselves, so on Thursday the four of us hired a boat and an instructor and headed out to sea. I was aware that scuba diving would be a once in a lifetime experience, but when I got down there I was absolutely dumbstruck by the beauty of it. Words, quite simply, cannot do it justice. It was like every David Attinborough documentary you've ever seen, but better. Even though we were only about 12 meters down, we were right up close to the coral, swimming through shoals of brightly coloured fish. I had expected that the fish would swim away whenever we tried to get near them, but they seemed almost oblivious of us and I even reached and and touched one. During my dive I saw a stingray and a barracuda (on their dive Jenna and Kamran saw sharks but, if I'm honest, I was quite happy to miss out on that experience). Whilst we were on our way home we saw a school of dolphins in the distance, which was just the icing on the - already delicious - cake.

Week 6: This Week I had Too Much Time to Think

This week has been quiet. Very quiet. With the other volunteers away in Aceh (Sumatra) I have been spending quite a lot of time alone. I dont mind solitude - I can be impressively antisocial when I want - but it does tend to result in me over-thinking things. This week I have been thinking, in predictable anthropological fashion, about cultural tourism.

It all began when I started to look back over my week and consider all the things I had done. This week I went shopping, went to a yoga class, went swimming, watched a couple of DVDS, finished my book - all things that I routinely do at home. When this realisation hit me I was immediately racked with guilt. I am a bad traveller, I thought to myself, and - worse - a bad anthropologist. After all, why come to the other side of the world to do what you do at home? I should be doing what Indonesian people do. But when I tried to think of what this might entail I realised that this is exactly what I had been doing. Life in Jakarta simply isn't that different to life at home (attitudes to time management and saturated fat aside). Why, then, did I feel like there must be this 'Indonesian culture' above and beyond the daily lives of Indonesian people?

Well, personally, I blame the Lonely Planet Guide. Indonesia is a popular tourist destination. People come here for a variety of reasons - the weather, the food, the surf etc - but perhaps the biggest appeal is Indonesian culture. The Lonely Planet Guide to Indonesia is explicit on this point. Their recommendation? Get out of Jakarta as soon as possible and head to Bali or Tana Torajah. Indonesia might be an eminently cultural place, but some parts of it are clearly more cultural than others (have you spotted the sarcasm yet?)

Anthropologists are rightly critical of this attitude. In anthropological circles cultural tourism has come to resemble something of a dirty word. For one thing, the idea that one culture is more cultural than another is clearly absurd. Lesson 1 of an anthropology degree: culture is not a quantifiable substance that you can have more or less of. Lesson 2 of an anthropology degree: cultural 'authenticity' is an ideological construct, albeit a powerful one. The idea that some beliefs and activities are more authentic - or more cultural - than others, is pervasive, increasingly globalised and seemingly intractable.

Anthropologists are also critical of the impact that tourism can have on the host culture. Tourism leaves an indelible mark, not only in the economic relations it creates, but also in the ideological shift it engenders. Cultural tourism encourages local people to view their activities and traditions as part of a cohesive whole - culture - which endows them with new value. It also provides an economic motivation for preserving cultural traditions, at least nominally. Tourism contributes to the reification and the romanticisation of culture. It can lead to the absurd scenario of cultural practices being maintained purely for the benefit of foreign observers, devoid of their original meaning.

It is often the case that we find personality traits in others irritating because they remind us of the more unsavory aspects of our own character. The same principle can be extended to the relationship between anthropology and tourism. For anthropologists, cultural tourism is just that little bit close to home. There is a cartoon by Gary Larson that depicts some tribal people running away from their village clutching TVs shouting "quick, hide the electrical appliances, the anthropologist is coming!". In making 'culture' their object of study anthropologists contributed to the reification of culture long before tourism had been invented. Cultural tourism is sort of like the bastard child of anthropology.

It is possible to criticise an outlook without entirely removing yourself from it. I too succumb to the fictions I have been discussing. I am as suceptible to the illusion of cultural authenticity as anyone else. I would feel slightly cheated if I stayed in Jakarta for sixth months; I too want to watch traditional dancing in Bali and observe a Tarajan funeral procession. Perhaps the only difference between a tourist and a tourist with an anthropology degreee is a tendency towards self-relfection. I had to laugh the other day when I found myself persuading Kamran that when we go to Tarajah we should visit tau taus (effigies to the dead), not only because they are of cultural interest, but because tourism has transformed their meaning; what we once perceived to be recepticles of spirits are now seen as mere artistic representations. This is obviously absurd: tourism is one thing; the tourism of tourism quite another. I find myself getting caught up in the fascination of 'traditional' culture and then berating myself for it. For instance, Jenna and I are hoping to go and visit Papua, famous for its tribal culture, but I can't help but be slightly repulsed by the adverts for 'indigenous tribal cultural tours'.

Basically, I think I have just had a little too much time for contemplation this week. I am resolved to enjoy Jakarta and stop feeling like I am somehow missing the 'real' Indonesia. I am also going to give in to my inner tourist and stop feeling bad about it. Anthropology, as interesting as it is, has a tendency to draw you into furstrating intellectual quagmires. Sometimes it is best just to enjoy experiences for what they are rather than over-analysing them.

Week 5: A digression on food

This week has been quite uneventful so I thought I would use this opportunity to digress on a particular topic of interest: food. Food is everywhere here, both physically and in terms of the cultural importance allocated to it. Eating out is commonplace and in Tebet there are hundreds of restaurants, cafes spilling out onto the street and street stalls, where you watch your food prepared on the spot and eat it sitting on a little plastic chair. I am also a big fan of warungs, small cafes, usually run by little old ladies, where you order your meal by pointing at the different dishes lined up in the window.

I always thought that British people loved their food but Indonesians put us to shame. I think Western people are more ambivalent about food than we care to admit; we eat it, enjoy it, obsess over it, but then feel bad about it afterwards. Indonesians simply cut out the last step, which seems to me to be a far healthier attitude. One of the unexpected joys of travelling has been feeling like I am re-discovering food. I have been enjoying eating here in a way that I rarely do at home. You don't really realise how repetitive your eating habits are until you are placed in unfamiliar culinary terrain. Western food is easy accessible in Jakarta - all the usual global brands are here - but so far at least I have no desire to eat it. I am having far too much fun trying new foods and, now that I have been here a few weeks, indulging in new-found favorites.

Most dishes here are pretty carbohydrate and protein rich, although sop (soup) is also popular. The two basic dishes in Indonesia are nasi (rice) and mie (noodles), which are usually served with meat or tofu, plus maybe a token gesture towards vegetables such as a slice of cucumber. The other volunteers and I were commenting the other day that all of us learnt the word for fried (goreng) within a few hours of being in Indonesia, but we all agreeed that this was a bit of a wasted effort since fried food here is pretty much synonymous with food. I was even presented with deep-fried sushi the other day, which I must admit was surprisingly palatable.

One of the prominent flavours in Indonesian cooking is peanut and two of my favourite dishes I have found are gado gado, which is cabbage, avacado and beansprouts in a rich, peanutty sauce, and ketoprak, which is similar but comprised of a mix of lontong (congealed rice), noodles, beansprouts and tofu. Another of my favourite finds is tempe, soybean cake marinated in soy sauce, which tastes so good it almost makes me want to turn veggie.

The lack of vegetable dishes is made up for by the quantity and quality of fresh fruit. I swear, even the familiar fruits taste better here, and I have come across some interesting new ones, such as Rambutan and Durian. You can buy fresh (and I mean actually fresh, as opposed to Innocent smoothie 'fresh') smoothies on the streets here for 6,000 Rupiah (less than 50p). As you might expect in a country with a tropical climate, drinks here are rather more exciting than they are at home. One of their more peculiar traditions is putting jelly in drinks. I honestly didn't know what to do with myself when on my first night I was presented with a drink of iced coconut milk with cubes of pineapple, jelly and avacado floating around in it.

One of things that has suprised me about Indonesian food is their love of all things sugar-based. I always thought that cakes and puddings were a Western invention, eschewed in more health conscious Asian countries. How wrong I was. Cake is big business in Indonesia and never before has a culture so wholeheartedly embraced the humble doughnut. It is no exaggeration to say that the American chain Dunkin' Dohnuts is ubiquitous in Jakarta. The flavours, however, are slightly more adventurous than they would be in the states (mango and lychee for instance).

Not all Indonesian foods have been a hit though, I must admit. One of the most famous Indonesian dishes is baso - meatballs - but I find them rather tasteless in comparison to their Italian counterparts. Also, I find sweets made of congealed rice pretty inedible. The same goes for rujak - fruit salad covered in a spicy sauce - which tastes not dissimilar to vomit. Also, whilst I am not craving Western food per se, I do miss breakfast. What I wouldn't give right now for a good bowl of porridge . . . .

The most notable event this week was my first Indonesian night out on Friday. Indonesia, as you might expect, is not a drinking culture, so most of the bars are in big hotels. Whilst it was certainly nice to be in such plush surroundings, the exorbitant drink princes were a bit of a shock (around 160,000R per drink, which would normally feed me for 3-4 days). The two bars we went to had house bands, who play an impressive repertoire of Western pop songs, complete with matching outfits and choreographed dance routines. Shoreditch it was not, but it was fun nonetheless. There were a few memorable moments, such as persuading the lead singer that it was Hannah's birthday and watching her squirm as he pulled her up on stage and made the whole room sing happy birthday. The evening also produced perhaps my favourite chat-up line of all time, when a Saudi Arabian guy that Hannah was talking to told her "if only you were my cousin I would marry you". The evening was a bit blighted, however, but the feeling that Indonesian bars mostly exist to facilitate sleazy encounters between Western expats with beer bellies and receding hairlines, and distressingly willing young Indonesian girls. Nevertheless, the evening was a lot of fun and it was good to see a different side of Jakarta.

Week 4: Gong Xi Fat Chai

I once read an article about life in a Dayak community (Borneo) claiming that it is impossible to be truly alone in a Dayak longhouse. Although each family unit has their own quarters, the permeability of the partitions creates a constant flow of sound down the longhouse. After four weeks of living in an Indonesian kost (boarding house) I cannot help but draw parallels. Each resident has their own room and bathroom looking out onto a communal square, but for some reason the upper segments of the walls are made of netting. The sound of people coming and going can be quite comforting - in a foreign country it is quite nice never to feel alone - but can also be intensely irritating. My neighbour, for instance, has a penchant for country music and, somewhat incongruously, bad 90s dance tracks, blasted out at unsociable hours. Also, because my room is located next to the external entrance I can hear everything that goes on in the street. When a motorbike goes past in the street it sounds like it's driving right past my face. Likewise the calls of the street sellers, so intriguing and amusing in the day, become massively irritating at 7am. Nevertheless, I like living in the kost and although I get woken up early in the mornings, I fall immediately asleep most evenings which, after months of insomnia, is blissful.


Monday was Chinese New Year so we headed to Glodok, the Chinese quarter, which was a bit of an eye-opener. The area is pretty run down compared to Tebet and a million miles away from the imposing sky-scrapers of central Jakarta. There were a lot of beggars and I felt awful walking through the streets clutching my digital SLR. The temple was absolutely beautiful though - hundreds of candles (some taller than me), shrines covered with food and money and incense everywhere (so intense that my eyes started streaming and I had to leave). We then went to a New Year performance in one of the malls (malls, it seems, are Jakarta's cultural epicentre), which was absolutely swarming with people. In the end we couldn't actually see anything of the performance and just sat on the floor listening to the music, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the crowds. Whilst we were sitting there people kept asking us to pose for photos with their children, who stared at us wide-eyed.

I spent the latter half of this week at a conference in Bandung, a city about 3 hours drive from Jakarta. Spending time in Bandung helped me to clarify why I dislike Jakarta. Although they are similar in size, Bandung is a whole lot more pleasant than Jakarta. Bandung has wide, roomy streets, lots of greenery and hundreds of cheap 'designer' shops, whereas Jakarta has congested streets, no pavements, parks or trees and actual designer shops (which are, of course, no use to me whatsoever).

The conference was interesting - it was about school accountability - but the same old frustrations arose. When I was arranging my placement I was told that the two working languages in the office would be Indonesian and English, which I now consider to be slightly misleading. Although the NGO publish reports in English, all meetings are in Bahasa. For the first day of the conference they kindly arranged for a member of staff to translate for us, but for the remaining two days I understood nothing. Not only is this slightly dull, but it means that we, as volunteers, are very limited in what we can contribute. Also, I'm still struggling with the different working culture here, particularly the propensity of plans to change at the last minute. For instance, after spending a week reading up on accountability in schools and traveling all the way to Bandung, I was told by the programme director that I probably wouldn't be working on the project any more. Also, our start time on the last day was changed from 9.00am to 7.30am AT 5.30AM THAT MORNING (which involved ringing around all the hotel rooms to let everyone know). I do love how relaxed it is here, but I have my limits!

Week 3: Obama Fever

The homesickness has, thankfully, almost entirely disappeared this week. It happened almost without me noticing - I suddenly realised that I hadn't felt bored or homesick in days. Hannah, Kamran and I have joined a gym in a hotel near our kost, which not only gives us something to do in the evenings, but provides a welcome source of warm showers (what luxury after three weeks of showering by throwing cold water over my head!). The hotel is amazing and we have access to a gym, sauna and outdoor swimming pool. There are also classes and the three of us have taken up yoga and pilates. The only problem is that the instructor, used to teaching people of a different body type to me, tends to confuse my inflexibility with a lack of understanding. His subsequent efforts to correct me contort my body into some interesting, often painful, positions.

On Tuesday we all went to an inauguration party in a hotel thrown by Democrats abroad. They had big screens showing the ceremony - he was sworn in at midnight Indonesian time - and the atmosphere was amazing. Jenna, my American friend, a self-confessed politics addict and dedicated Democrat, was ecstatically happy. The news this week has been totally monopolised by the inauguration. Indonesians are very proud of their Obama connection and there have been a number of interviews with Obama's sister's counsin's dentist etc. The only Indonesian not to be obsessed with Obama, it seems, is Anggrek, who took one look at the hotel room - with its floor length posters and red, white and blue banners - and asked "what are we celebrating?"

The highlight of this week was definitely yesterday, when we went white water rafting at Citarik river. It was a bit of an epic journey, not because it was geographically far away, but because of the sheer density of traffic. Driving in Indonesia is an interesting experience and road etiquette is rather different here. When you are stuck in a queue of traffic (which is almost always) it is acceptable to start driving in the other lane if it is free. Because we were in a bit of a hurry we spent most of the journey driving down the middle of the road, which was somewhat startling to begin with but I soon got used to it. After a while I stopped noticing entirely and just stared out of the window at the beautiful mountain scenery.

After getting in the boat we were given some quick safety instructions ("if you fall in the rapids just try to keep your head above water and relaaaax"), learnt some important new words: "mandir" (paddle forwards), "mondar" (paddle backwards) and "boom" (danger! get down in the boat), and then we were off. The rapids at Citarik are level 3 (of 5), so they're not too dangerous but neither are they an easy ride. We were pretty much in hysterics the whole time. You're never quite sure how the rapids are going to carry you and each time you hit a rock you go careering off in a different direction. Every time we hit a big rapid I fell into the middle of the boat with my legs in the air, laughing too hard to get up. Occasionally our instructor would shout "move to the left/right" and we would all have to jump to one side of the boat to dislodge it. As you can imagine, with my spatial ineptitude this was a bit of a challenge, and I merrily threw myself to the wrong side of the boat a couple of times. After we'd finished the 8km route, which took about 2 hours, we were presented with fresh coconut and fried bananas (so bad but so good).

A few of you have noted my change of name on facebook, so I should probably explain. For some reason "Madeline Nightingale" is very difficult for Indonesians to pronounce. After suggesting that they might like to call me "Maddy" I was designated the name "Maudy". My initial displease at being allocated such an ugly name was somewhat mitigated by the fact that it was chosen because it is the name of a tall, beautiful Indonesian celebrity.

Week 2: And the rain came . . .

This week's phrase of the week? CULTURE SHOCK

I had hoped that my training in anthropology might render me immune to culture shock (believe me, it takes quite a lot to shock an anthropologist). However, I realise now that I had misunderstood the meaning of the phrase. Culture shock is not suprise at that which is different, but a more insidious feeling of groundlessness that comes from being immersed in the unfamiliar.
I had similarly misunderstood the meaning of homesickness, which is not necessarily desire to be at home - given the choice between being here and being at home I would undoubtedly choose the latter - but a profound awareness that you can't be. For me, culture shock and homesickness have produced a kind of emotional volatility (yes folks, even more so than normal). One minute I am contented, full of optimism, the next I am overcome by melancholy and depression. I had forgotted how hard it is to be somewhere entirely new - it's the same feeling I got when I started university. It's a confusing, guilt inducing condition because it is seemingly dissociated from your actual enjoyment of the experience. You feel ungrateful and borderline ridiculous for feeling depressed when you should be having - and often actually are having - an amazing time.

I had a bit of a wobble at the beginning of this week. The constant bouts of rain, coupled with culture shock, homesickness, illness and an agonising proliferation of mosquito bites, resulted in a period of depression and doubt. I began to wonder whether I had it in me to stick it out - six months suddenly felt like an intimidatingly long time. This has been a recurring theme this week, but the feeling is always fleeting and counterbalanced by more positive experiences.

Last week I described the traffic system in Jakarta as a sort of organised chaos. Now I see that this principle extends to all facets of Indonesian life. The pace of life here is unhurried and relaxed - stress is simply not on the agenda. Work is a relatively unstructured affair, an approach which is both pleasing and infuriating. At big team meetings, people come and go as they please, interjecting when they have something to say, emailing or chatting quietly on the phone when they are not interested in the discussion. Since the meetings are in Bahasa I sit at the back reading my book and no one seems to care. Organisation here is an imprecise art and plans retain a certain malleability - a meeting that is due to start at 10am may well not commence until late in the afternoon. A few suggestions of trips to visit regional offices have failed to materialise, which has been frustrating. Also, so far I have not been allocated much work to do, which has been slightly boring. I think that if I want to achieve anything here I will have to an engineer a role for myself, rather than relying on others to allocate tasks to me.

This has turned into a bit of a rant, which is unfortunate because there have been some good parts to this week. The new UK volunteer Hannah has arrived, so now there are 4 of us in the office. I also made a new friend in my kost (boarding house), Anggrek, a very sweet university student who is living away from home for the first time. Anggrek would very much like an English boyfriend and wasted no time in scanning my photos for a suitable candidate. I also had the opportunity this week to visit Taman Mini Indonesia Indah (beautiful Indonesia in miniture), an epic 'cultural theme park', containing life sized models of all the traditional regional houses, and a massive lake representing the Indonesian archipelago. Created in the 1970s by the then-president's wife, this 'cultural disney land' offers a fascinating insight into ethnic identity and cultural politics in Indonesia.

Week 1: "Hello Mister"

I have been in Jakarta for nearly a week now and I don't really know how to begin describing it. I remember when I first moved to London I found the crowds and noise perpetually exhausting. Jakarta has a similar effect, but multiplied by 10. The noise, the people, the constant stream of cars and motorbikes, makes Oxford street appear serene. The area I live and work in, Tebet, has hundreds of little streets packed with back-to-back houses, roaming street sellers and little cafes. Street sellers walk the streets with their carts, advertising their wares with distinctive calls or sounds. You eat under a makeshift tarpaulin, sometimes for as little as 6,000 Rupiah (around 40p). The traffic here has to be seen to be believed; the transport system is a sort of organised chaos, with few rules and no pedestrian crossings. The only way to cross the road is to simply walk out into the traffic, holding your hand out to apologise to the drivers. As you can imagine, this is somewhat daunting task, but seems to be no less safe than walking on the pavement (where there is one), where impatient motorcyclists sometimes drive.

I have spent this week getting to know the NGO and exploring the city. My colleagues at work have been incredibly welcoming, inviting me to visit all the regional offices, visit their village, meet their grandmother etc. There are about 20 people who work in the office, but this is variable and people come and go. The working environment is extraordinarily relaxed; each employee is nominally allocated a desk but in reality people just work where they want. Most people who work here speak pretty good English, but my pitiful efforts to speak Bahasa (Indonesian) are always met with wide grins and raptuous applause. I have been learning more about what the NGO do and most of it seems to be orientated towards minimising corruption in public services. I have been working on a project sponsored by the EU to do with researching spending in education, in order to improve transparency and accountability. The government budget for education in Indonesia is massive but a large proportion of it ends up lining people's pockets. I have been doing a bit of research on this project, and I have also been asked to prepare a presentation on how the NGO could incorporate anthropological research methods into their work.

I am living in a basic but comfortable boarding house which is a short walk from the office. The other UK volunteer Kamran lives here too, and so will another UK volunteer Hannah, when she arrives next weekend. The other volunteer, Jenna, an Ameircan girl, lives in a high-rise apartment building in a more affluent area of the city. Yesterday Kamran, Adhe (one of the NGO workers) and I went to Kota, the old town, to look around and visit some museums. Kota is the old colonial centre of Jakarta and is quite pretty compared with other parts of the city. The highlight was the shadow puppet museum where we had our own brief shadow puppet performance. We then wandered down to the harbour where we were offered a boat ride round the harbour by an old fisherman which we (somewhat tentatively) accepted. It was a fantastic experience, great to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city and see a different side of Jakarta. It was an entirely different kind of harbour to those I have visited in the past; big, industrial fishing boats, polluted waters piled high with rubbish, and children everwhere, some of them showing off by jumping into the murky water. It seemed to sum up my experience of Jakarta so far; not appealing in a traditional sense, and far from aethetically appealing, but exhilerating, different and with its own unique charm.

I am beginning to understand why I was advised against living in Jakarta. To put it simply, Jakarta is not an easy place to live. When I was planning this trip I was keen to see the 'real' Indonesia, but what I did not appreciate was quite how interested the 'real' Indonesia would be in me. Knowing that Jakarta was a diverse and cosmopolitan city, I expected that my presence here would be entirely unremarkable. I could not have been more wrong. I seem to be the only Westerner living in Tebet and people cannot help but stare at me in the streets. Everywhere I go I am greeted by shouts of "hello", "Inggris?" (English?), "hello mister" (apparently in Indonesia I look like a man), but more often then not they simply shout "bule" (white person). It's only harmless curiosity, and people are absolutely delighted when I say hello back, but it has been difficult. I dislike being the centre of attention and it has been hard to get used to being the outsider for the first time in my life. It might sound like a strange thing to say but I have never really given my racial background much thought before (a very privilaged sort of ignorence I think). It seems that in Indonesia I will be defined by my race whether I like it or not.