Tag Archives: yogyakarta

40 years no go out

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Just as there are its own spritis and ghosts in Tartu, Paris or London, we could aslo find some of incredible souls in the deepest corners of Yogyakarta, Java. Our local friend,  performance artist Iwan Wijono invited me and Kiwa along for a visit to these legends – born artists, who have totally abandoned the norms of the conformist society. 

Through thick rain shower and rivers of water floating under my motorbike wheels we zigzag ourselves along the narrow streets until we find the house of P’trus. Coming from the gray of the outside we suddenly find ourselves in the midst of the striking psychedelia – the walls are covered with colorful dragon paintings, various masks are hanging on the door. There’s a little baby riding a weird machine on the floor, singing merrily a tune, that somehow reminds me of  Pink Floyd‘s early psychedelic chords. 

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P’trus

P’trus is a legendary street artist, who supposedly used to ride a huge high bicycle around the town, blowing trompet, which sound was known all around Yogyakarta. With this trompet, he sometimes intervened some concerts, no-body minded, it was rather seen as a bliss. Or he was organizing performances on a daily basis, making people happy to be together and share the passion of making art out of life. For him esthetics and ethics are the same. Experiment and spontaneity are his keywords for life. Life is art. Art is life. Smile with tears, as he sais. 

Three years ago he found himself a young women, who cleaned his house and made the eyes of this old hippie shining even brighter. 

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P’trus blowing his magical trompet

When the rain was finally over, we took a ride to a man, who’s living even more radially underground. Iwan told us: “This man, 40 years no go out.”

In the house of Puthut al the things are left as they are. Here’s no electricity, no water. He cooks his meal outside on a tiny gas lamp. The man with dark pony tail smokes his thick roll of tobacco happily and seeks for some pieces of wood under our butts. What first seems to be a pile of trash now rather takes a form of some of his creatures – there are tiny sculptures made of cigarette packages, some retro-spirit works of collage and many other things that Puthut has created along his daily blows of inspiration. 

So you never leave the house?

Why don’t I?! As soon as I run out of tobacco I have to go outside to get some more. 

He gets the tobacco from just around the corner – 40m walking. He smokes from the moment he wakes up until his eyes fall close again. And he doesn’t fall into bed when it happens, he sleeps gently where he happens to be at the very moment of falling asleep – in a chair, on the floor or on the pile of these unidentified objects, usually in lotus position. 

If he doesn’t find a canvas, he can use any other piece of paper, seems to be his artist statement. As we wander around his dark house, I come to realize that probably he approaches any piece of paper or furniture with equal creativity and good-hearted apathy.   His monthly costs are around 100 000 rp (10 euros). 

The most important … (he first laughs loud at my question)… is to be happy in this life.

What makes a person happy?

There’s nothing particular. It gotta be flow. There’s no certain thing – you can sit in your house and be happy, or travel from Estonia to Indonesia just like you, and be happy.

Just the feeling!  sings P’trus happily and Puthus plays some blues. 

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Exactly one year later I was back in Yogyakarta. I visited Puthus again, and you know what – nothing had changed! Still no bed in his house,  no electricity, some wonderful miniature sculptures had appeared in his garden that wasn’t there before, he’s shown some creativity, and… his eyes have the same happy shine, just as a year ago.

Seems like nobody cares if these guys live or die, but I do. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe myself how much I care for people like Phutus and P’trus, whose existence seems to amplify the colors and richness of life on this planet. Personally even more – when  looking back at these sweet encounters now, me and Kiwa consider these two gentelmen giving us the first direct input that led us to the path of the hippie-underground of Soviet Estonia. 

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Puthus in in his house 2012  - nothing much had changed since one year

I made it into the fifth life cycle

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Some first nation people in North America talk about 7-year life circles. Each of them carry some specific function for personality, each of them opens up some new layers in life. Since I was child, I somehow never imagined my life lasting longer than the age of 27. I just didn’t see it coming afterwards, except perhaps an image of driving a motorbike when already retired. But apart from that I didn’t really relate to any imaginations that would go towards the period of life which would start the fifth life circle.

IMG_8823Exactly one year ago I was raising some glasses with my friends in Yogyakarta, joking, that I sure will have a great last year of my life. And I felt I didn’t want any party, but at the night of my 27th birthday I wanted to pray. Pray for some absolute energy, ultimate vibration, null-energy, tone of the universe. And Shiva, yes. Hindu temples could possibly raise this connection. So I told my friends that I’ll be taking a motorbike an hour drive away from the city to a small hindu temple at night, feel free to join me. Instead of couple of friends (I didn’t expect anyone care to drive out in the middle of the night), we were altogether seven people – Berit, Marie, Monica, Jali, Ethel among them.

What happened though, was that our crowd turned out to be joyful people, full of life and… bigger plans. So on the way we managed to set up another plan for a much bigger Hindu temple. The one which was so heavily calling.

What followed, was the most exciting, beautiful, breathtaking birthday one could ever imagine. And then what followed, was the most absurd, ridiculous, embarrassing and terrifying birthday one could imagine. Which eventually still ended without any real problems, but the threat was real – to be fined for 10 000 rp!! And we only wanted to pray… Luckily, we were left with just the bittersweet memory of an adventure of layered meanings, absurdities, guilt, joy and a fortunately, a sweet follow-up.

Although I probably knew a year ago that setting my age of 27 as the last one to remember must be a joke, I was still curious enough – am I gonna make it or not. The year blessed me with moments, when I almost didn’t care for further. But even then it also striked my mind that the exhibition I was curating was supposed to open when I would be already 28. That kind of meant that I should become 28. How otherwise?!

Anyway, I still love, therefore I am. Now 28, silently entering my fifth life circle. It will be a blessing. How otherwise. 

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When the trajectories of two souls meet in a geographical point x

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While thinking about Monica, whose photography was briefly introduced in my previous post, I first get a warm feeling in my stomach. This feeling is usually yellow and it knows that some interesting time with a steady partner is now guaranteed for me, and it radiates simple love and respect for each other, support. This is friendship in its wonderful form. We share, we support, we’re proud of one another’s success.
Monica and I have born the same year, only about a month apart. She was born somewhere on the West coast of the USA, in San Francisco, I was born in Eastern Europe, far in the North, in central Estonia. The paths of our lives have run on absolutely different geographical radius, we grew up one on the one side, the other on the other side of the world. Despite this we share a lot. Starting from the cultural room – we value similar music and understand certain things in visual culture, and finishing with the fact that although  we’ve experienced different things we’ve separately reached the same things. We’re both radicals what comes to certain things, and absolute relativists what comes to some other things. Sometimes I’m more radical than she is, and sometimes I learn from her radicality. I believe she’s right. I know she’s right.
I also believe a person has a good nature – our souls are good, like angels are. When thinking about several global issues it often rises a wish inside me that people would shape themselves according to their souls, and not so much according to the external pressure.  If they don’t do it, they’ll shape too much according to the hopes and wishes of the society, where certain groups of power have gained strength on discursive surfaces, which would do everything to paint a picture which would be beneficial for them only. Who once has the power will create the world according to their face, just like gods, or they’ll do it so that the latter would remain pretty – this means well rested, healthy and definitely in a big car.
As this picture still motivates many, they work endless hours to achieve it. In order to enjoy even a little bit of luxury they take loans to have a big car and to spend each year a week i Egypt. At least your face is pretty.
Or they take alternative genders and sexualities and place them into the box of sins, they pee on them, and this is how power structures that are harassed with “morality” are kept alive – the structures where too often a woman is below and a man is above. And those harassed souls accept the forced shapes – like proper women they wear head wears, men marry women, although they’re MSM (men who have sex with men), or look for jobs that’d bring more in, forgetting to do something else besides shopping.
And every time I enter a shop in Estonia I see how a father padding before me sighs. Once again he has to start the saga, he’s in the current of his own desires, clogged by the size of his wallet and yet dumbstruck by all of it.
In many cultures they talk about a human being as a trinity which consists body, mind and soul. The body keeps us on the physical surface, it offers us pleasures and carries our mind and soul through this world. Our mind is our intelligence, our culture. But our soul is something more abstract, it’s our living force, it’s also love, friendship, power, light, balance. And since in modern society dealing with our soul has been left behind the other poles, it’s more difficult to shape ourselves – our identities and it’s different expressions – so that the shape would also correspond to our souls. What I mean here is something like : you do what you r e a l l y feel, you say what you r e a l l y mean. If you don’t pay attention to your soul then how can you know what your soul is like, where are you from, what do you feel and what is your consciousness capable of. Alas we are shaped in conformity.
See-you-soon-party, no farewells
But Monica is a woman who has her tanned thigh covered with tattoos showing her city experiences (a chair, a mail box etc.) and plans to cover those with her future tattoos depicting fleshy plants. Monica says that this is not alright when there’s someone who fixes misunderstandings with money or doesn’t show respect towards her as a woman. Or more precisely, towards her as a human being. But as we know it’s true that a woman’s respect quite often gets scratched when a man looks at her in a way as if their communication was based on the fact that the other side is a woman – as if only the difference in sex would bring the chemical attraction about. Usually an interest of that kind, which is often constructed socially, turns the preceding events lame, violent or boring.My friendship with Monica seems to show that physical distance and cultural roots are no longer the most important, because the world is more and more connected. Although everything gets more balanced, it still erodes differences and peculiarities. When the trajectories of two souls meet somewhere between the rice fiels in South Yogyakarta, build themselves a nice home in a haunted house with high ceilings, and melt into Indonesian everyday systems but still keep alive this something that makes those souls Monica and Terje, or Monica and Ce in the Indonesian context. And this homely feeling was exactly what led me to ask Monica to edit “Seven worlds”, a soon coming book written by Berit and me.

We have to meet again, no matter where, no matter how.

Between the worlds: airport in Dubai

“Are you a friend of Mr. Eddy?” – “Mr. Eddy? I knew her as miss.”

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The humming parade of countless motorcycle wheels emits a cloud of strong fume in the air of  Sunday morning Yogyakarta. I try to keep my breath as I swing on my motorbike through they hideous traffic trying to make my way to the house of the parents or my lost friend. She only died this morning. It’s my last day in Indonesia  before heading back to Europe, which now seems as far as a blurry dream. I’ve grown so much into this world here, this life, this reality, and just after the last night good-bye party – the terrible news.

“Is this the house where the funeral is being held?” I ask modestly.
A young woman trying to find some shelter from the heat of the sun asks: “Are you a friend of Mr. Eddy?”
“Mr. Eddy?”
Right, she had mentioned me the name though.
“I knew her as miss, Miss Sisi Renata.” In Java it’s always a customary to use gender-and age-specific titles.
My eyes travels to the open room, in the middle of which stands the coffin. In front of it there’s a black and white photograph portraying a young man dressed in black suit. His looks is very serious, even sad. Next to the photograph there are some candles and sad flowers. And again I hesitate – am I still at the right funeral?

Sympathetic and modest Sisi Renata grew up in a poor family in Yogyakarta Old Town. Her mother raised her and her siblings alone, which in Indonesian patriarchal context is anything but simple. She wiped away the tears as she told me about her mother for the first time. She did not want to disappoint her mom at all, but already since little she had felt differently. She often found herself playing with girls and in early puberty accidentally fell in love with her male teacher. Later, she kept her love life under strict secrecy, and every night before going to bed, she held a spiritual wrestling with God, to try to deal with guilt of her “abnormalities” and ask for forgiveness for the “sins” she had committed in her fantasy world.

Sisi had worked as tour guide. Once she got an affair with one Dutch visitor. Their  remote relationship with regular meetings lasted for many years, they travelled through half of Indonesia. The man noticed his Javanese friend’s inner brilliance and sharp wit, and decided to give him – back then as Eddy – a respectable amount of money for education. Through her education and life experience she slowly began to move towards deeper self-reflection and harmony. And she realized that she had a soul of a woman, has always had it!
One day her Dutch boyfriend found an elegant lady in front of him when taking her out for a date. Sisi was employed for support organization for warias, where she was an outrage worker for waria sex workers and support person for HIV-positive warias living in the shelter.

Sometimes at weekends, she came up as a singer in clubs, dressed in fluffy bright green, singing tears touching ballads. To her mother, however, she never revealed her new life – she just did not want to create such a burden. Although it was obvious that the heart of a mother surely knows. Also, many guests at the funeral didn’t seem to have much idea of Eddy’s journey towards her better self known as Sisi Renata. Until she was suddenly knocked down by tuberculosis. 

This time we have a guest photographer here – funeral photos by Monica Dominguez. I love her and her touch in photography, see for yourself! 

Serial: Let’s Do the Leaves, Jogja!

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By the time of the grand clean-up day I had reached the state of nonchalance as nothing seemed to be working out anyway. The environmental ministry had changed its boss who in turn sent us only three trucks instead of the promised 40. Companies that had been bragging about excessive supports had sunk into silence. And out of the volunteers who praised the flexibilities of rubber-time, only 10 were really reliable and saving us from going thoroughly mad. But even though, two of them ended up in hospital, two went off to a planned trip and one got busy with exams. Intended cleaning was sinking from the ambition of doing the full city and became an action around the riverside only.

To my great surprise, on the final day, the river was full of people. Hundreds of individuals stood in the water, a trash bag in one hand and a glove in the other. The environmental minister was sunbathing against a pier and was observing the workers, doing nothing himself. And the garbage collectors kept throwing huge bags of trash into the trucks. Only when I went closer, a dim reality loomed. Green grass flashed from the mouth of the bin and packaging still floated down the river.

Plastic into sea, grass to the landfill

Old men were sitting on the riverbanks and pulling out grass from between the stones of the pedestrian road. It was then thrown into the river which in turn carried it along to where the volunteers were standing. They, in turn, collected it and stuffed it into a plastic bag and finally sent it off to the garbage truck. When, on the other hand, they saw a piece of plastic floating by, they opened their legs to let it pass towards the sea.

“But please tell them that this is biodegradable and can dispose in the water. Instead, the problem is with the plastic packaging,” we tried to find some local to guide the cleaners.

“We already said so, but it changed nothing,” he answered with the usual smile. The smile that Indonesians love to get on their face when there is nothing they can do about a problem. 

I then tried my luck myself. A young guy was sitting in satisfaction claiming that it’s all done. There was an immense trash pile at his back, untouched. I started cleaning it myself, bit by bit, and asked if anyone cared to help. But they all shrug and answered:

“This is not on our territory, but a sewage canal that belongs to the house. Anyway, it all goes to the river in the end anyway and the problem will solve in a few days by itself.”

I really didn’t know what to reply to this, but only to accept the reality that our words were just received by smiling walls.

But to be fair to the others, let’s end this post with a positive vibe. We also did have a group of people working their asses off to go through all of this and a large group of people actually cleaning what was necessary. I guess we should be happy for what was done and hope someone will take it another step further next year.

Cultural differences from a new angle

Let’s Do It! project opened a brand new reality within these months. Suddenly everything that I had believed and promoted concerning travelling, cultural differences and any of the kind, turned into a naïve shallow approach of faraway places. I used to believe, deep in my heart, that all the people of the world are existentially the same and, despite all the variations, have similar needs, wishes and hopes, that are made distinctive only by traditionally learned behaviors.

But during the project it grew more apparent that cultural peculiarities are like roots collecting its energy from somewhere so unfathomably deep down in a gulf, that in need to proceed the tiniest change, the whole rootstock should be extracted. To say that the bottle of coke doesn’t belong to the sea, the whole system of material values should be given a new sense. To reduce bureaucracy even the subordination inside of families need to be reassessed. To give up corruption, the cult of giving gifts should be started with.

But also the other way around. To exercise us with the flexibilities of all operations, the traditional belief in responsibilities, transparency, keeping promises and structured worldview all need to be fractured.

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: The Secret Language of Corruption

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Each step you take in Indonesia, a small bribe goes along. If there is no problem, a problem will be invented and solved for a small sweetener. There are stories where a robbed one is held in police station as long as they lose the patience or at the doctor’s waiting room until the health cannot take it anymore, so that they would pay some bribe just to fasten the process. After that, of course, things get done immediately.

Sometimes they drive you around between different offices, keep your car stuck at the customs or keep visiting your home for some random papers. An European mostly doesn’t surrender and plays along until the corrupters get tired after hours. But an Indonesian tallows the system with cash notes without even questioning why has the tradition grown into something intangible like this.

Nothing without money

Though the West is more likely to be blamed in capitalism, then the power of money seems to have even a bigger role in Indonesia. People would do anything for money and nothing without it. And it is not always money that has to be paid, but an even wider concept – a gift (hadiah in Indonesian) and gifts should always be shared.

The city of Jogja is covered in posters which promise awards for the ones who attend. “Come to concert and win money”, “Take part in out bicycle ride and win a scooter”, “attend the seminar and receive a free language course”, as if a concert, a bicycle ride and a seminar weren’t worth visiting on their own.

Unfortunately also our program was forced to follow the road if we wanted to have any participators, because we started receiving questions concerning the extra profits of cleaning up the whole city, the profits of coming together and discussing about the green environment and the profits of changing something in the mindset of people. And as a cherry on a cake, when arriving at the city hall to fix the final logistics of the clean up day with fifty leaders from the riverside communities, an envelope of 12 000 rupiah (1 euro) was given to participators as a thank you for wanting to clean their neighborhood.

Food and paper as a form of a present

If the organizer has a bit less money and not too many sponsors to back up the activities, then the poor man can buy his guests in another way. Two most effective ways are food and paper.

Food definitely is not a shortage in Indonesia and I never saw a gathering within my time spent there where no food was given out. But even if it is a banquet hall, food is still served in boxes and a new box brought in each few hours. There is rice, snacks, sauce, fruits and everything else packed separately in plastic bags and accompanied by a plastic spoon. Boxes are given and thrown away so easily as if Indonesian kids had never heard horror stories of starving children in Africa in their childhood. 

The same applies for papers. While Kalimantan, Papua and Sumatra’s forests are cut down breathless, a tradition in Jawa follows that the more paper, the better. Therefore a gift can also be given in a form of certificate. To earn it, one really needs to do nothing. He needs to be there, write down his name, gulp down the content of the food box and be awarded with the recognition.

So in this country where things are given out without ever asking: do I or the other really deserve it, how can one ever overcome corruption?

Anyway, we wish a strong will to the new governor or Jakarta!

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: Moneygames

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Our meeting takes place somewhere in a noodle bar, synth sound playing on the background and an old man in worker’s clothes singing out-of-tune karaoke so loud that we can hardly hear other tones. But I have been invited here by a leader of a female organization who, covered with gold and tinsel, doesn’t seem to fit in the environment, She listens to the overview of our project, brings on an important face and suggests us to join their monthly gathering to find support.

The meeting of women happens on the top floor of a hotel, where an empty echoing banquet hall for 20 people has been set for us. One by one middle aged dames walk in the hall, all of them appearing as if from a Bollywood movie. They waddle there on their 10-cm heels, hardly being able to move their legs under tight dresses. They hug, kiss and chirp between each other, scrutinizing in each other shopping bags.

Then the official meeting starts. The leader opens the get-together with some fancy words and as it is common here, murmurs it all into a microphone that echos so much that one can hardly understand the message, but at least everyone is forced to listen. So here we are, at an important happening where “Javanese culture’s backbones and values are being developed and the traditions carried on,” and a lot more available for a read in a brochure.

“This is some kind of a Tupperwear meeting,” Marie whispers in my ear when one of the guests has started to introduce some fabrics and to wrap them around women as a commercial. The women explore and investigate, probe about the tying techniques and marvel the patterns, which all evokes a homogeneous chatter.

Once the presentation of fabrics is done, the microphone is given to Marie. She speaks emotionally about the need for a clean environment and garbage problem, how we are looking for sponsors and people with similar worldviews. I look around and see how the dames start pulling out their golden phones from the handbags. One adjusts her fringe, the other refreshes her pink lipstick and only two of them try to pretend to be interested, but nonchalance is reflecting from their faces.

Once Marie is done with her presentation the leader gets the microphone again and thanks us for the topic. She then takes the lead:

“Ok, my friends, now it’s time for some money collection. Everyone, put 500 000 (45 euros) in the envelope. I will gather it all and then…”

Our hearts are beating. Is it possible they will donate something for us? Oh dear, that will be our lucky day, we are so running out of funds already.

“…will choose the lucky winner. Who will go home with 10 million ruupias?”

She shakes a box with nametags and draws one out of there.

“Sari, congratulations! You just won 10 million. A good day to go shopping for you!” 

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: The recyceler-cows project

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A phone rings and a man speaking in English, claiming to be from the environmental office of Jogja says to have read about our project from the newspaper and is interested in meeting us to discuss possible ways of collaboration. Wow, from the government! Calling us! Want to help and support the program. That kind of attention doesn’t fall on us every day and naturally we are flattered.

We meet up, they show great concern, they appreciate our struggle, promise to give their best to make it work and we agree mutually that they will become the leading force of our logistics compartment. They promise to find us one representative who will follow our meetings.

During our next get-together a silent girl hidden under a headscarf appears from the city office. She hardly says a word during the whole discussion but only smiles in agreement to what ever anyone says. Only when it’s time to talk about the recycling system of the city, her voice raises, she tosses a few brochures in front of us and starts elucidating Jogja’s garbage reuse ideas.

“First, a waste truck comes and collects bags from the houses. It will then be proceeded to the landfill where recycling process starts…”

Then the girl turns the page and our eyes grow boiling red. A huge pile of trash, cows and coats walking on it, is presented as something to be proud of.

“…Then the neighbourhood people bring their animals to the landfill, who start eating the organic waste.”

A cow with a plastic bag in its mouth looks at me from the picture.

And how could a cow tell a difference, which is organic and which non-organic? And if the cow eats plastic and later we will eat the cow? These questions flew the little girl to the world of question marks for a moment, but she didn’t float there for too long:

“This system has worked for years,” we hear as an answer as if it made clear everything.

Despite all the girl promises to draft a budget concerning the logistics of collecting the trash and hand it in in 2 weeks time.  

Pic taken from Dora’s FB wall

Two weeks have passed, but there are no news from the Jogja environmental office. The same time our faith in their wish to do something diminishes in seconds. We walk into one of their cabinets and see the everyday life of officials. In a large classroom type of space at some empty tables a few people are sitting down. One reads a magazine, one stares at a fly, one plays tetris with her phone and the rest two gulp down greasy burgers.

“Oh, sorry, we haven’t had time yet to deal with the budget!” one of them murmurs through his beard.

Another week passes and our souls get anxious. I send a SMS.

“What about the budget, is it getting ready?”

and I receive as an answer “Ready! It’s 27 000 ruupias”.

Yes, indeed, the local government offered us a budget as big as 3 euros after a 3 week waiting. So there was nothing else left to do than to grab the pen and paper, figure an approximate cost of human resources, trucks and gas, guess the amount of waste in the whole city and put it all together ourselves.

“187 000 000 seems fine?”

“Yeah, whatever, better than 3 euros at least.” 

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: No communication and miscommunication

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After a prolonged and tiring meeting with the local government, we settled the deadline – two weeks from that moment they would present us the crucial information. All happy with the agreement, we concentrated on other things. Within the two weeks me met for other reasons, we nodded, we smiled politely and seemed to share a mutual understanding. But on the day of deadline there is just a great silence. Another week passed that we started to ask for explanations. Mildly and overpolitely, like they do here in Indonesia.

“Excuse me, sir, did you, by any change, happened to have an infinitesimal moment to have a glimpse on our project, or not yet?

“No, not yet. I’m sorry, it’s not a problem I hope.”

“Well, dear sir, excuse me for my frankness, but, at the moment, I hope you understand, we have fifty people waiting for the results to continue working. I’m sorry to say that.”

“Oh, dear Lord, I’m thoroughly sorry. I’m sorry. You see, madam, the be honest with you, if I may, we didn’t really understand what we had to do.”

Then everything starts again. Telling the same story, making a new deadline, spending more and more hours explaining and seeing the same faces nodding as they did before. This time we are smarter and call them every few days to make sure we are still in the same boat.

This story doesn’t stand alone but is an exemplary one to illustrate most of our endeavours. If we said a poster was beautiful, only needed to change the colour from red to green, next day the whole design was marred, but still red. If we asked someone to invite our team members to an internal meeting, he forwarded it to all public Facebook groups. There were ones who quitted three weeks before, but forgot to mention it, forgot to share e-mails passwords or forgot to put our logos on event posters. But if you call and ask, then everything is always going flawless. No problems, no questions, no hesitations no negations. Until one day…

..”Sorry, I hope it’s Ok. We just had a miscommunication.”

“So you are sure all equipment and space will be provided by you?”

“Right.”

“And we don’t need to pay rent for space?”

“Right.”

“And our way of saying thank you is providing food for teachers who stay as guards?”

“Right.”

Being exhilarated by the simplicity of our negotiation didn’t last long though. Two days later a sms arrived:

“And where was the transportation for teachers? And no presents? They came there from their free time!”

All this made me want to bang my already fragile head against my phone, as nothing seemed to make any sense at this point. The only way to get myself out of that problem was to reply as an Indonesian would reply. But the same time I thought that the day of me understanding Indonesian subliminal messages would probably never come.

And you can imagine my glee when at the same moment two men at my next table were discussing some business deals when one of them said: “Sorry, miscommunication, iya?!”

It is not just me!

Serial: Anyone responsible here?

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Do you know this anecdote about blondes (I am a natural blonde, so let’s all laugh about ourselves during this post). “How many blondes do you need to change a light bulb? Answer: 10. One holds the bulb and the others spin the ladder.”

I find this anecdote suiting perfectly with Indonesian working styles, where it takes three extra people to get something done. To sell three different products one needs six guys, as no one has a very clear overview what they are selling, no one has the right to take any decisions and you always need a friend to delegate the problems to.

In the situation where no real power is given to workers, no one cares to take the responsibility either. So each time they screw something up they can just shrug carelessly as nothing depends on them anyway. Probably it was the friend’s fault, who even more probably doesn’t know anything about the issue. So all in all, no one knows who should be answerable, but definitely not him and not concerning the matter that has just ruined the customer’s life.

The only solution then is turn to the boss, where all the fingers point, but mind you to go down that road. The Boss is a mythical creature who floats somewhere between the mundane and the divine and whose time is so precious that he can only be reached through the endless corridor of stamped, signed letters carried on a velvet pillow. The letters will linger between offices for so long that the details of the case have marred to the point they become unidentifiable. The only solution to the problem will be the predicted: Maaf iya? Tidak apa-apa iya? (Sorry, hope it’s ok).

A poor European, who mainly tries to keep promises, will perish in anguish. Especially if the poor European has promised to feed 150 people during two days but nothing goes according to the plan:

By the breakfast of an important morning exactly half of the promised sushi arrives to our environmentally-friendly event. And it arrives in fifteen plastic boxes in six plastic bags even though we especially emphasized that we need to set an example with how we are supposed to serve food*. The boys give us some vouchers and say that they hope they can use those another day. But they won’t be hungry the other day, they are hungry now!

Before lunch when the stomachs of underfed participants rattle, Marie and I go to the next restaurant to double-check if we will get what we were asking for. The ibu had met the requirements beautifully and wrapped everything in banana leaves, but once I try, it seems strangely light. “We didn’t have time to make enough, we gave half a portion for everyone,” she looks at me with such an innocent face that I even feel ashamed to be overloaded by anger. We try to imitate her guiltless face when handing over the food to 150 hungry people.

And on top of all we receive a phone call from a restaurant just before dinner saying they cannot provide us what they have promised. The boy suggests us to call the boss, but as no one has the bosses number we could instead try to send him a stamped letter.

Being totally browned-off we organize some emergency food to the participants and then do like Indonesians would do in that case. We ask our volunteers to apologize politely and if someone has a problem, to lead them down the path where no one has responsibility. Send a stamped letter, maybe. Maaf ya?

* For those non-indonesians who don’t know, at all Indonesian events they give out food boxes where each piece is wrapped in plastic and it’s all accompanied by a plastic glass with a plastic cover and a plastic straw. For those Indonesians who don’t know, at least in Estonia food at events is served on tables on reusable dishes.

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: Kafka-like Days in Indonesian Bureaucracy

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Pretty soon we figured out that bureaucracy in Indonesia is not only a party of the everyday life, but the only way to do things, because without bureaucracy a huge punch of mess is created.

When building our environmental project, our first goal was to reduce bureaucracy to its minimum. Everything had to be as simple as possible. There were two leaders, a few advisors to guide us and the rest of the work was done in teams of different topics, where the team leader was the link between us and the team. So that if anyone had a question, he just needed to ask the team leader and if he didn’t know the answer, he would ask us.

We even thought it would be making a favour to Indonesians – the communication would be fast and direct, without any paperwork or twiddles, and the locals suffering in the bondage of bureaucracy could finally be set free. Of course, a naive Westerners view as always.

When we introduced our innovative plan to our volunteers, a loud confusion rose.

“But if we want to ask something, where shall we go then?”

“You will get the answers from the team leader who, in case doesn’t know the answer, asks us.”

“But usually (biasanya – and if something is biasanya it has to be like that forever) in these cases we would go to the headquarter to the secretary, who sends the question to the secretariat, then they will send it to the secretary-general, who in turn communicates with the director who is advised by the initiator of the project. Then the process of answering starts and depending on the severity of the question it will be sent either via letter or a meeting will be held.”

“You see, it’s pretty complicated, isn’t it? Now we do it the easy way. You have a question – call my number.”

A long silence followed my insane idea and a row of confused eyes investigated my each movement.

“We don’t understand this system. It would be easier if we did like usually.”

I felt like we had just done the world’s greatest outrage trying to favour easy collaboration instead of running between offices, like we had to do each month eight times between immigration bureaus. 

The Holy Trinity

We finally reached the stage where 30 crucial letters were to be sent out. So important they were that it took us a week to reach our goal. Because in Indonesia a procedure is like a ceremony – only when you have served the God well, he will treat you generously in return.

The more time and effort the procedure takes, the more authoritative it seems. Therefore each letter must be accompanied by a set of ritualistic decorations, the Holy Trinity: letterhead, stamp and permission (izin).

Somehow Indonesians think that the letterhead and stamp are the ultimate proof of reliability. Therefore the letterhead as well as the stamp are always owned by a small circle of bosses and even if the secretary has it, she will answer you,

“Sorry, I have no permission to use it”.

Instead, she proposed me to drive all the way to Merapi, where a conference was held, to meet the boss who could then add the stamp. Much easier would be to go around the corner and copy the stamp for some pennies, as the fakes are done by the same people as originals and no ethics is ever followed. Also to get the letterhead nothing more than some basic knowledge of Photoshop is needed.

So, to add some extra extra reliability to the letters, you will need to write at least two of them. One is the letter you want to send and the other one is to prove that you really have the right to send it. An izin from the almighty. To get this mystical izin, it could take you days, weeks, months, as nobody really knows who should give out this permission.

It also turned out to be important w h o sends out the letter. It cannot be done via e-mail as no one reads emails more often than twice a month and local post is pretty much a hazard. Therefore we needed at least two volunteers to go together to all 30 places because likewise with letters, one carries the message and the other one is like a proof that it is indeed an authorized deed. To make them reliable, each of them needed a neckline. The neckline, of course, had to be covered with the Holy Trinity. 

Once this was also done and the letters sent out, we received a response.

“We don’t have the izin to accept your letter, because the envelope you sent didn’t have the letterhead nor stamp.”

So the procedure started again.

Now you wonder what did these highly authorized letters consist of? It was just a letter to highschool teachers that they would tell their students about the possibility to take part in our debating competition. That’s what all the fuss was about. 

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: The Rotten Green

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While reading, check out Marie’s Indonesian pop song which talks about cleaning Jogja from trash.

It was the same week when our gathering took place in one courtyard as an initiative of a local guy. With the address tag in our hands, we found our way to Indonesia’s largest green organization Walhi.

As far as we knew our early arrival concerned checking over the place and talking about the night’s logistics. Instead, we landed in the middle of an internal meeting, 15 sceptical faces staring at us and waiting for a great performance.

Indonesian green force now demanded a presentation of something that we were still in the process of figuring out ourselves. Heart beating inside, we opened our computers and held a speech on our plans for the future, but especially for the forthcoming night. They observed, waggled their heads and finally asked the important questions.

So what could be these important questions. Like “what will you do with all the collected trash in the end?” or “what is your funding plan?”. No, this organization focused on something else.

“Very interesting project, but let us now talk about the important things – what will our position be in this project?” asked the boss with dollar signs blinking in his eyes.

“Well, we are opened for co-operation and hope to established a mutually accepted partnership. Especially as we have the same goals concerning the environment. We would need to discuss Walhi’s role, how would you like to contribute to the wellbeing of the city. But as we were invited here to plan tonight, maybe we could fix a separate meeting for this negotiation?”

“Sure-sure. But still, what will be Walhi’s position in your project? Who will be obeying who? Walhi cannot afford obeying to Let’s Do It, Jogja!” he said while drawing different niveaus in the sky, the one above referring to them and the one below to us.

“But we never asked you to obey us, it is supposed to be a co-operation to achieve same goals. It all depends what will be the most suitable area for us to work together.”

“If you wish, Walhi can take all responsibility for your project to work.”

“Please understand, the organization is a world-wide one and we are not here to look for someone to lead us.”

“Well you need a steering committee, Walhi can take this role.”

Somewhere at the resonant steering committee our negotiation stopped when the boss’s shirt turned wet of sweat and he opened the top bottom. And us being utterly confused because instead of borrowing their garden for the night as one of their members had offered us, we were now standing in a position to negotiate who will lead the project. Therefore we tried to lead the conversation back to the tracks.

“Maybe we should discuss about the essence of the project to see if our visions correspond to each other and how would you see it working?”

“Yes, sure. We were thinking that we should collect the trash and throw it in front of the government offices, they should be responsible!”

Really, a very brilliant solution.

Men’s shirts dripping of sweat, we stopped the conversation but continued having several of similar kinds. As we were not willing to leave the responsibility to Walhi who wanted to pick a fight with the government, they now started indoctrinating our volunteers. Each time they met someone they gave them pressure to make us reconsider our viewpoint until one day a representative from Walhi came to talk to us in our office.

“You know what, Walhi thinks this cooperation cannot last.”

This was such a good news of ending this oppressing relationship with the rotten green force that we spurted out (though in Indonesian polite-mannered way) all that we thought of this situation. After exchanging ideas for almost an hour and making clear of everything (again) the gentleman stood up,

“Alright. We will talk about it in Walhi to see if we want to continue the cooperation.”

This was the last drop into the cup of patience that was already splashing out frustration. We confirmed politely that we didn’t have time for these power games and left the weird situation for ever. Even though our hearts crippled for leaving the largest green NGO of Indonesia, we indeed received many more evidences that the organization didn’t really care about the environment after all.

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Serial: Garbage rivers and trash hills

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Less than a week had passed since our lavish speech, when fifty volunteers gathered under one open roof, watched the introduction video and promised to take pictures of trash to map the problem point in town. We drew lines on the map and off they went, each of us with our mobile phones.

One has to mention that all sorts of people came to help us with the garbadge issue. The ones who threw their fag-ends between the trees and the ones who packed banana leaves into plastic bags instead of throwing them in bushes. And also those who returned with pictures of hay stating it to be litter.

I also went to take some pics. Crawled in the shadows of banana trees of river sides that formerly seemed so tropic but now blinded my exotic eye for ever. In stead of water there streamed plastic bags and worn-out clothes, bottles and cans, sickening remnants of irresponsible consumption. The banks of river now became archeological points of interest, as below a riverhouse and visible trace back to decades could be found.

Image

There, standing between those crying trees, nauseating, the shivers of fear struck me. Did I really decided to go through with this?

***

Well, while taking pics I fortunately also saw some weird and funny stuff like this:

Image(sorry for the poor quality of mobile pics)

** Read how it really works: http://www.letsdoitworld.org and do not get discouraged by my subjective blog posts about leading the project. The stories are intended to be entertaining, therefore I will mostly describe the conflicts instead of successful moments, which there were plenty as well. How ever it all sounds to you, I still believe this one one truly amazing project and should be carried out in all parts of the world. Hopefully, with your help.

Transislam: in the world’s only Koranic school for transgendered people

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I’ve spent my last Sunday evenings in an Islam school, studying Islam on its practical level. As people practice it, as it is in modern Indonesia where like the rest of Indonesians 85% of warias can show an ID-card stating Islam as their religion.
It’s also true that most of them will remain simply KTP-Muslims (or ID-card Muslims), but most of them say religion is one of the most important parts of their lives, just like very many others in Indonesia.
According to some sources 98% of Indonesians say religion is the most important or one of the most important parts of their lives. (And at the same time they say Estonia is the least religious country in the world. And at the same time my friends more and more frequently refer to something that could be called Estonesia. We match. – so, it could be asked what makes us match when one is utterly secular and the other fanatically religious?)
But almost every interview surprises me – the passion and sincerity the warias here have when they talk about god. Usually we talk about it at the end of the interview. Maybe I’m surprised because after hearing the stories about the night life and sex work it’s quite unexpected to hear them openly talk about their relationship with god, they’re pathetic, sincere and generous. But still. In about 85% of the occasions I find myself surprised (as an Estonian?). One of the basic elements that help people reach greatness in religion is ritual (among other things it has been mentioned the help of a shaman or somebody else that takes them “there”, also meditation or other technique, commitment, contribution and intellectual development). You have to press your forehead against the ground five times a day – there’s something powerful in it. There’s something humble in it, no doubt. But there’s also something separating – Indonesian women wear a prayer dress, men wear a sarong and a little hat. 
The only independent Koranic school for warias in the world is in financial difficulties.
Pondok Pesantren waria has made itself comfortable at ibu Mariyan’s beauty salon.
On Sunday evening warias once again gather at Pondok Pesantren, their Koranic school. They talk about the week’s news, make jokes and simply chill-out. They don’t wear make-up or false hair, they’re in their loose prayer clothes, which sometimes look like a woman’s dress but they mostly look like men with their little hats. Then they wash themselves a bit, feet, hands, neck, the prayer carpets are put on the floor, some of them put on a white dress, the others put on the little hat and start praying after imam. It’s wonderful, I close my eyes, listen to the prayer mantra and feel close to transcendence.
Warias sound differently, it’s a bit hoarse sound, something between high and low. And it certainly isn’t common for all warias, but when I strictly generalize and listen how a roomful of warias sign amen I could easily say so. Again the imam sings a prayer song in a high voice, another piece and they all change their position, they’re on their knees now, another piece and warias press their foreheads against the carpet. He sings the next two notes and again they raise their heads. Warias finish their song with their polytonic voice. Amen.
When the first prayer, which takes place a bit before six when the sun sets, has been done they start their meeting. When looking how many warias have turned up and paying attention to their attitude it can be said that today’s meeting is important and problematic. Ibu Shinta started by saying that warias have a problem and it’s masalah uang – the problem of money. After that the headmistress Ibu Mariyani gave a long and emotional speech how in a few days she has to pay 10 million rupees (about 1000 euros), the rent for the next two years, and there’s still quite a lot missing. Who ever can, should support because it’s Pondok Waria not Pondok Mariyani. After that the priest gave a passionate speech, many warias were crying, the priest wiped the tears. The mood was oppressive, it hurt and strained me.
I made some quick calculations and proposed our film could help Pondok – we could sell dvd’s at the festival and donate the income to the school.
Exactly a week later at the same place after the second prayer, which took place about an hour after the first one, I gave warias the Wariazone donation. Like a comet – our SE Asian premier at Yogyakarta Documentary Film festival 2011 was a great success, there had been hordes of people, the dvd’s I’d ordered had been sold in minutes.
I was asked to pose when I handed over the little package with a heart to Wulan, proudly shaking hands, and of course “Smile, Cece, smile,” imam circling in the room with the camera invited me again and again.
Wulan opened the little package elegantly and arranged the rupees into a fan – for Pondok Pesantren from Wariazone, she merrily pronounced. The others were clapping hands and smirked. And then they asked me to bring them something (“oleh-oleh”) from my journey.

Dangdut! – the night life in Yogyakarta

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Just like everywhere in the world there’s the music that the elite listens and there’s the music for a simple man. Like always the first could be characterized as refined, traditional or with something else as exquisite. And like always, the other could be characterized with much earthly parameters, and in which often the everyday and the fancied are combined, in other words – cunt and whistle.

When I had just moved to Indonesia I only heard grins about dangdut – the bland music of the working class. In my head there was a parallel with South American pop music – the wiry horror that used to trill in the cassette players on public transport. And thus my curiosity calmed down.
Iwan Wijono, a political performance artist based in Yogyakarta

Until I was sitting with Iwan Wijono, a performance artist, we were talking about warias and about the joys of the lowest class in Indonesia, until we reached dangdut, in a rather positive note. As a result we spent the next day, with Kiwa who’d come  over to visit, dangdut at my place – something unseen in my playlist, this Indonesian folk music. And it’s got a charm.

To spice up the other side of the joy, we tuned our senses on slendro and vanished into a Balinese gamelan concert that shifts your mental status like trance, or to be more precise, like Autechre, as Kiwa would define it.

When these statuses of our senses had been polished by the decorous Balinese dances, meticulously tuned costumes and by the elation common to the tradition, we had to turn back to the real. We speeded through the joyful and humming Saturday night in Yogyakarta, from north down to south, from the Balinese gods up down to the everyday gloom. Here the bourgeois of the city stare with their eyes glimmering at the female potential – short skirts, hips lustily grinding, glimmering tank tops and the bitter sweet taste of the secretly smuggled local booze.
We enjoy, observe or despise the different realm in the rhythm of the modernized dangdut, stirring Iwans distilled apple wine with orange juice, which in this town is known in its goodness. On my other side there’s Kiwa sitting, coloured eyelashes, hairy legs. One has dreadlocks, the other is blonde, Estonia and Indonesia, in creation too – one manly, combative and honest, even a bit too concentrated; the other a lot more secretly, talking about the mysteries of the womanly world.
Lady and a pimp at the city’s flower market
A wish to eat the best fried rice in town – nasi goreng – took us on to Sarkem. But another round of dangdut started and this was even more real – acoustic, right under the red lights, surrounded by gorgeous flowers, who’s half an hour costs 200 000 rp. Kiwa was beating the tambourine, I was negotiating with a smily pimp, Iwan was pouring the hard from a can, and boom! I fell into a hole that had appeared onto the visual surface, right where Kiwa had just been standing before he had again gone to play tambourine. Iwan helped me up from the pavement and told to rub some ointment, which name I hadn’t heard before, on my bleeding leg.

Kiwa and I had set up a date with Hanna. At 1 am in front the Indonesian bank, next to a public toilet. (Kiwa told it to be the most disgusting loo he’d ever been to. They also offer  ”Nr 1 service, mister!”)
Hanna was more beautiful she’d ever been. We could see her pink panties from under her micro mini denim skirt. I was secretly feeling happy that she was more hanging around me than Kiwa. Oh, Hanna, we want you!!!
With Hanna at the waria hot-spot in front of Indonesian Bank

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