Maaf, Suharti
Yesterday, August 17th, was Indonesian Independence Day. It’s celebrated much the same way as 4th of July is celebrated in the USA, with picnics, games and fireworks. The streets are festooned with red and white flags and buntings. The stage was set for a rousing good time—then it rained. I’m glad it rained.
Suharti, my maid Rusnati’s youngest sister, about 35, a single mother of 2 children, a girl about 7, and boy about 4, died yesterday morning, August 17th at 2:30 am. She died of either a heart attack or stroke, we will never know which. Suharti was a runner, a strong, smart woman, with a shy demeanor, determination, and quick wit.
We first met Suharti 4 years ago, when our friends: Joy, Michael and their son, Alexander, relocated to Jakarta. As we do for some new families, we helped them find household staff. When Rusnati learned that I was looking for a maid, she mentioned her sister, Suharti. At that time, Suharti was living in the village with their parents and her 2 young children. A shy, skittish, cowed woman, Suharti would barely look you in the eye.
She’d started with a bright future. Educated in Catholic school, like her siblings, Suharti was working, doing well when she met and married a “bad” man. From what I have been able to piece together, “bad” means her husband was a womanizer, drinker, maybe gambler—or any combination of bad. At some point in their marriage, either before their 2nd child, Kiki, was born or after, he took her to live with his family in Sumatra and dumped her there.
The part of Sumatra where Suharti’s husband is from is matriarchal, meaning the woman own everything, and is advised by her oldest brother. The men must leave the area, make their fortune elsewhere and return with enough to pay the bride price if they want to marry well. Returning home with a strange wife (and daughter) would not sit well with mama, to begin with. However be dumped there when you husband leaves is really bad. A woman without a husband is nothing in this society. A woman left by her husband is even lower. A woman who can't keep her husband is trash. So, Suharti, who had by all accounts been abused by her husband, after he left was then abused by his family—physically and mentally.
Rusnati wasn’t sure what all went on at this time. After Suharti married and her husband took her away, they had very little contact with her. Then, one day, shortly after the birth of Suharti’s son, the family got word—either Suharti called, or a friend called…somehow, someone got word to the family that Suharti’s situation was bad. Rusnati, oldest child and bossy-boss took the ferry to Sumatra, made her way to the mother-in-law’s home, bundled up Suharti and the children and took them home to the family village near Cirebon. (The boy baby was either too tiny for the mother-in-law to care about, yet, or else Rusnati snuck them out without her knowing, because in Muslim families a boy child never would have been allowed to leave.)
Although Suharti was safe there, life was still not good. She had failed—miserably. It didn’t matter what her family thought, and how happy they were to have her and her babies, to everyone in the village, she was a disgrace. Not enough woman to hold her man, she was shunned, gossiped about, laughed at…Suharti couldn’t wait to get away.
When she first arrived in Jakarta, Suharti rarely spoke, often didn’t seem to respond to what was said. She cowered when a man, any man, walked in the room. And she was terrified of Joy and Michael’s dog, Callie, a Dalmatian who growled and snarled at everyone—us included. (He scared me, too.) Many Muslim’s are scared of dogs. Many won’t touch them and won’t work in a home with a dog, because dog’s are unclean animals. Devout Muslims who touch or are touched by a dog must go through a complicated cleansing ritual to be purified.
Suharti was definitely not a quitter. She stuck with it, stuck with the job, stuck with the family. She watched and listened and learned—and even learned to manage Callie. She could have lived-in as Joy and Michael had servant’s quarters. But she chose not to. She craved independence. At first she stayed with Rusnati’s family. Then she got her own tiny space—a room with a shared bath. She started running, made some friends, cut her hair in a swishy shoulder-length bob. Began dressing well, wearing lipstick, and smiling. She blossomed. We watched the flower unfold, marveled at the changes, rejoiced in Suharti's rebirth.
Joy encouraged Suharti to be more, to take English classes and cooking classes—American, Thai, Indian. She and Xan (who is an inspired, creative chef) taught Suharti to cook Mexican food, BBQ and other family favorites. “Why are you so nice to me?” Suharti would ask. When we had parties, Suharti and Rusnati worked them together, earning some extra money, enjoying the excitement, the preparations, the festive foods.
Joy suggested Suharti take computer lessons so she could get a better job, but Suharti didn’t want to. She could make more money as a maid, she told us, “besides, I am too old.” (Indonesians have mandatory retirement at 50, so it’s difficult to get a good job, or start up the ladder at the ripe old age of 35 or so.) Suharti religiously sent money back to the village to pay for her children’s school, clothing, etc. and returned to Cirebon to see her kids occasionally, but it was clear that she didn’t enjoy being there. When their father became ill, she joined the family in chipping in to pay for the cost of his medicine, too.
Their father, Bapak, a retired wood-carver, is the primary caretaker for Suharti’s children. (Men here commonly tend the children while the women work. It’s usual to see a group of men gathered on a bench, chattering and smoking while holding babies and tending toddlers.) Rusnati loved to tell me how Bapak would take them with him to the garden and they’d follow behind like ducks in a line.
After Joy, Michael and Xan left Jakarta, Suharti went to work for Mrs. Terri as a cook, upon their recommendation. Being a “cook” is the highest job in the household help chain. It is testament to Suharti’s commitment to learning that she made the huge leap from maid to cook, got the job and kept it. When I saw Mrs. Teri at the hospital on Monday, as she was leaning over Suharti’s bedside, all Teri could talk about was how much they loved Suharti’s mashed potatoes and chicken enchiladas, how much the boys were missing her being there, making all their favorites. How anxious they were to have her back… Although Suharti was on a respirator, with unfocused eyes and an erratic heartbeat, she responded to Teri’s words, even smiled a little from one the unencumbered side of her mouth. She deserved to smile.
Suharti took excellent care of herself, was thin and strong, exercised, ate well (shunning traditional mostly fried Indonesian food, she preferred steamed fish and vegetables). How had this happened? On Friday, Suharti wasn’t feeling well. At the end of her work day, she retired to the servant’s quarters and was taking a shower when she collapsed. She called for help, and one of the maids helped her up and to bed. (Suharti decided to live in at Terri’s house as they have lots of staff and Suharti enjoyed the company.) Saturday was Suharti’s regular day off, so Terri didn’t expect to see her and so had no idea Suharti wasn’t well. However, at around 10:00 am, Teri noticed a strange woman going into the servant’s quarters. She asked the houseboy who it was. He told her they had called a traditional healer to massage Suharti because she was ill. Terri went back to see what was happening. Suharti was in bed, speaking gibberish, clearly out of it. Terri ordered her driver to take Suharti to the hospital. She then called Suharti’s mother in Cirebon who called Rusnati. Rusnati and Rohemon rushed to the hospital.
Hospitals in Jakarta do not treat charity cases. When the driver brought Suharti in, they would not do anything without money. The driver returned to Teri’s house, got a few million Rupiah (a couple of hundred dollars), and headed back to the hospital. Whether before or after he returned, Suharti’s heart stopped, she was resuscitated and a nurse was keeping her breathing by pumping a hand-held respirator. Suharti lapsed into a coma. Her eyes were open but, as Aan, our driver, and Sani, our helper and Suharti’s friend, told me: “there was no person inside.”
The hospital took x-rays, did blood work and determined that nothing body-wise was wrong. The problem was either her heart or her head. They wouldn’t know until they scanned her head and that small, ill-equipped hospital didn’t have the scanning machine. Besides, the heart doctor doesn’t work on Saturdays.
Slow, long, agonizing, worrisome wait to early Monday morning. Suharti regains consciousness. She responds correctly to questions asked her by the nurses and by Rusnati. She knows she has 2 children, she knows she works for Mrs. Terri. She knows her sister. But no one knows what will happen next. And no one knows when the doctor is going to come or when the scan will be done.
There is a distinct class system in Jakarta (maybe all over Indonesian, but I can only speak for here.) Unless you are a rich Indonesian, or an Ex-patriot you are nobody. The rich Indonesians make sure everyone knows they are somebody by speaking out—loudly—to be sure they are heard and they get what they want. They also push and shove their way to the front of lines and into elevators, toilets, etc. usually leading with their giant purses. Expats command attention by similarly being loud, but it’s not necessary as our very “caucasian-ness” commands attention. Indonesians, Javenese, however, soft-spoken, round-eyed, unassuming Indonesians, taught to stoop with one hand beside their backs when passing superiors, taught not to draw attention, not to make a fuss, are invisible.
When I arrived at the hospital Monday morning, Rusnati, her sister Ruskeni, and cousin, Yani, were there. So was Mrs. Terri, who had arrived shortly before me. Having never seen Ruskeni or Yani before, I had no idea who they were and they sat quietly, hands folded, waiting… Rusnati hadn’t left the hospital. She alternated between checking on Suharti in ICU, going to the mosque to pray, and sitting, waiting. Still no doctor had spoken with them, any o fthem. They didn't even know which of the busy looking people was a doctor. And they had no idea what was going on. It wasn’t that they hadn’t asked. Rusnati is a lion, never shy about speaking up, ferocious in defense of her family. But the nurse couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them anything except that the doctor was coming later…maybe at 3?...maybe this evening?
Finally, bossy me, muscled my way in. I asked the nurse questions, everyone Aan, Rusnati, Ruskeni, translated my pigeon Indonesian and together we learned that the heart doctor would be in until he was finished with everything else, after 8:00 pm. Suharti was supposed to be taken to Pondok Indah hospital (the larger hospital) for the scan, but when??? In the end, I got the doctor’s phone number from the nurse, gave it to Terri, who sent an SMS to her doctor, an ex-pat doctor who is Indonesian, Dr. Isabel, and Dr. Isabel called the heart doctor who immediately returned her call. Suharti was too unstable to move. “Frankly, at this stage, it doesn’t matter which hospital she is in,” Dr. Isabel said. “Until they can wean her from the respirator, they can’t do the scan or move her to a better hospital.”
Suharti’s heart failed early Tuesday morning, August 17th at 2:30 am. It is Muslim tradition that a person be buried before sundown on the day they die. So, while no one at the hospital could rush to help her until the payment was secured, they sure could bundle her up and ship her out post haste. By 4:30 that morning, 2 short hours later, she was in the ambulance with her sisters on her way home, to the village near Cirebon. Two other cars full of Jakarta family drove with them. By 4:00 that afternoon Suharti had been buried.
Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting started last week. During this month, it is Islamic tradition for believers to ask forgiveness of family and friends for any harm they have done in the past. “Mohon and maaf,” they say, “forgive me and I am sorry.” The practice of asking forgiveness is familiar. In Christian religions believers also ask for forgiveness. Rather than asking forgiveness from those they have wronged directly. Forgiveness is asked from higher powers. “Forgive us our sins,” goes the prayer. “Forgive for our trespasses and forgive those who have trespassed against us.”
After the funeral Rusnati called me. She told me about the funeral. I told her that I had called Joy, Michael and Xan to tell them about Suharti and other platitudes one says when one doesn't know what to say. In closing, Rusnati apologized to all of us. At first I thought she, Rusnati, was apologizing for any trouble she was causing for inconveniencing us. I shushed her. She repeated what she had said, naming each of us in turn. And then I realized, Rusnati wasn't apologizing for herself, she was apologizing on behalf of her sister. “Maaf Suharti,” she said. “Forgive Suharti.”
Forgive me, Suharti. Mahon and Maaf. I am sorry.
Inside, way inside, Eat, Pray, Love: The Movie
Jakarta, Indonesia, Bali is atwitter: The movie version of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir Eat, Play, Love starring Julia Roberts opens August 13th. On the cover of the paperback version is a quote from Julia which reads, “It’s what I’m giving all my girlfriends.” I wonder is she said that before or after she was offered the part?
I recently enjoyed a TED Talk by Elizabeth Gilbert on Nurturing Creativity. The lecture was interesting and, as a writer, reassuring, because it is always nice, especially when one is in a slump (as I am), to learn that other writers battle a fear of failure. On another level, it was especially fun to get to see Ms. Gilbert in action, to watch her speak and move, study her physicality and ask “can I see Julia Roberts playing her?”
In honor of the movie premiere, I’m reissuing a blog posting from 2008, when my friends Russell and Jeff were visiting and Russell and I visited the 9th Generation Medicine Man Elizabeth Gilbert immortalized:
There's a book out, a New York Times bestseller entitled EAT, PRAY, LOVE by Elizabeth Gilbert. Russell gave me a copy last winter. In true retired English teacher style, he instructed me to read it before our trip to Bali this April. The book is about a woman, Liz, who, after a horrid divorce and failed affair decides to take a year off and do what she wants--which is learn Italian, learn to pray at an Ashram in India, and find balance in Bali while learning from an old medicine man she'd met a few years before.
The old medicine man, Ketut Liyer, is really the driving force behind her year of self-realization. In the book, she meets him while on assignment in Bali doing a travel article on Yoga. The book is fiction, right, we thought. Or I thought when Prof. Russell assigned it. After all, I read children's books. I was technically cheating by sneaking this adult title in when I had a month's worth of picture books, middle-grade, and young adult novels that needed reading.
One of the wonderful things about our hotel in Ubud, Tegal Sari—which was luxurious, wonderful, delightful in it's own right with tree house-style rooms perched over the rice paddies--is free transportation. All a guest need do is give a whistle--Handphone call--and minutes later a car will pick you up. Sometimes, four times, we had to share the ride with other guests. On two of these occasions, sharing was a silent event because the French trio riding with us refused to acknowledge our presence—even to bother with a nod in response to our greeting. We showered, really! On two occasions however, we shared the transport with a youngish couple from Utah—honeymooners—glowing. On the first ride we learned that they'd just had a Balinese-style wedding complete with flowered crowns, sarongs, gamelan music and blessings. The second time we met, they said they'd just come from having their palms read. My ears cranked forward and open--as did Russell's.
"His mother gave us this book," the woman began.
"Eat, Pray, Love?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Yes! You know it?" she held up a tattered copy.
"I'm reading it right now," I told her.
"Well, I didn't read the whole thing," she confessed. "I read the beginning and the Italian part and just skipped to Bali."
"Me, too," I effused (feeling Russell shooting "cheating student" daggers into my back). In my defense, I am not usually a skip-around reader. I was reading this book that way because I needed to get through my assignment—and to the good parts—while not taking too much time from my children's books.
"We had our palms read by the old medicine man from the book," Newbie bride continued.
“Ketut Liyer?" Russell asked.
"Yes, yes," the newly weds nodded in sync and gave us a point by point recap of their readings, smiling all the while. Their smiles were a mix of he's incredible and maybe he's a fake.
Turns out they'd asked at the front desk and some of the guys who work at the hotel—all of whom are native to the Ubud area—know Ketut Liyer.
Turns out, too, that our driver knew exactly where the old medicine man lived and was happy to take Russell and me to meet him. Who cared if it was drizzling rain and Jeff had a cold? We dropped him and Curtis off at the market--with instruction to "beli, beli," buy, buy, and drove away.
The drive ended about 20 minutes later outside a wall on a narrow road. We stepped up and over the threshold and into the pages of the book. The Medicine Man's home is a traditional Balinese house, comprised of many open-sided buildings, some with rooms in the back, some without, and a temple area with at least of dozen black-grass thatched temple houses in one corner. We tentatively stepped down and into the compound.
A wrinkled, brown-faced woman flashed us a red, beetle-nut stained smile. In the book, Liz had noticed a similar brown-faced woman so we knew this was the Ketut Liyer's wife. (She had frowned at the book author, so our encounter seemed promising so far.) Ketut appeared as shrunken as described. His teeth were just as broken and yellowed, with a few snagglers as described, and his smile was as wide and inviting as expected. He welcomed up onto the concrete, roofed platform that was his living area.
The back portion was walled and windowed. Ketut cautioned us not to sit on what looked like a low bench but was actually his writing table, and motioned for his son to bring us chairs. His son (know clue how we knew this--must have been in the book, too) hoisted the red brocade living room chairs from another of the open-sided buildings and carried them over. We sat and the book pages fluttered open in our minds as Ketut repeated the text almost verbatim.
Hearing Ketut explain how he became a medicine man after being badly burned on his arm by lamp oil and going to medicine men to be healed, was like having subtitles read aloud, almost, but not quite the same. I tried peeking inside the house. (I already knew the story, so I didn't need to pay much attention. Besides Russell was nodding and listening really well.) I couldn't get a good look because every time I'd peer in I'd see the old wife, peering back. She was just inside the partially-open door, watching and listening to every word. She'd smile, I'd smile, then I'd scratch my head or shift, acting as if I hadn't meant to peek and look away.
It felt as if we were in the middle of the movie being made of the book. We both had our palms read. At the end of his readings, Ketut Liyer said "See you later alligator," just the way he had in the book. And I recited the female-lead's part: "After while crocodile."
Move over Elizabeth, stand aside Julia, when it's remake time, I'm ready!
Empty
My e-mail inbox is empty again. My pond is empty, too. All those fabulous, exciting story ideas I had have vanished, as have all the fish in my pond. And I mean all. A few yellowish, flowerless clumps of water hyacinth are the only things swirling in the crystal clear not-even-tinged-with-color water. If you cracked open my brain, I’m sure that description would fit it, too….empty.
Where the fish have gone is anyone’s guess. I finally asked Rusnati about the fish and she asked Rohemon. He said he hadn’t eaten them. He thinks the fish ate the fish, and maybe the turtles ate some, too. Or the lizards. Or, one of the civet cats (possum-like critters) who prowl at night may have eaten them. (But why now? The civet cats have been co-existing peacefully with the pond fish for years. Why would they suddenly develop a liking for fish snacks?) We have two turtles, both handoffs from children who were given tiny bowl turtles that turned out to be stinky and not so fun. They have grown to salad bowl size and we sometimes see them in or around the pond... The lizards are blue-tongued castoffs from another neighbor who received the pregnant mama for Christmas, which hatched into a family of 4 by New Years a few years back. (I doubt the lizards ate the fish as they are the slowest lizards ever. One is so slow a visiting dog caught it and chomped its back leg half-off before it managed to wiggle free.)
Where my creative drive went is likewise a mystery. Like Rohemon, I am casting about for possible cause. I took a vacation from blogging last week. Took a vacation from e-mail and the computer, too. Daughter, Lexi was visiting and I wanted to focus on the time I had with her and nothing else. I was also hoping the break would energize me, and when she left I’d be anxious to get back to it. I wasn’t. I’m not. It’s not for lack of trying. I’ve spent hours at my computer, with only an empty inbox to show for it. Empty.
Writer goddess, two-time Newbery Medal Winner E.L. Konigsberg says we need the negative space, the emptiness, the blank slate in order to create. Just as one can’t add more to a full box, one can’t add new ideas to a full mind. She says one needs to be patient and leave the void, trusting the process, trusting that the ideas will come.
Does that mean I should keep my inbox empty?
What about my pond?
Learning fun with Norman the Goldfish from Toni Buzzeo!
Not Norman, A Goldfish Story is highlighted in author, Library Media Specialist, Toni Buzzeo’s ABC Read to Me!: Teaching Letter of the Week in the Library & Classroom. Along with a synopsis of the story, Toni has created groovy curriculum activities for Pre-K and Kindergarten.
Fish Out of Water
Went out to feed the fish this morning. Tossed in a handful of food. Waited and watched. And watched. And took a closer look. And another... 90% of the plants that were there last I checked aren't there now, so I can see clearly now...
All the sapu-sapu, algae eaters, save one lone shy guy, gone...
All the ikan lele...gone.
I watch the food pellets swirl aimlessly.
"When?"
"Where?"
Not a word to me....
And why my sapu-sapu? Those were my sapu sapu...
Pickled, Again
Not that kind of pickled—although it’s been known to happen. I’m making pickles. Although Jakarta doesn’t have a designated “summer,” as the temperatures are pretty much the same year round, between 78 and 90, night and day, and there aren’t really "longer days" as this close to the equator night and day are pretty evenly divided into 12 hour periods with sunrise around 6 am and sunset around 6 pm, it feels like summertime: school vacations are on, most of the Expats are off on holidays, everyone “back home” is hot and getting hotter, and so my internal clock is calling “canning season.”
We made pickles last fall, too. “We” being Rusnati and I. While we had made mango chutney together, before, it was our first pickling season. Rusnati bought about 30 kilos of cucumbers, onions, peppers and we diced and sliced and marinated and cooked for days. We made Bread and Butter Pickles (Curtis’s favorites), Sweet Lime Pickles, Hot Pepper Relish, Corn Relish, Sweet Relish, and Fennel-Garlic Spears (which Curtis hates).
It did not turn out to be a “fun” little project for Aan, who traipsed all over buying up canning jars two or three at a time rather than buy the box, and mustard seeds late at night, and dill, which turned out to be fennel (hence the “fennel-garlic” spears instead of “dill spears”), or for Rusnati, who chopped onions
and deseeded peppers until her eyes ran and fingers burned, and washed sink loads of pots and pans and bowls, strainers and spatulas and jars and more, or for Curtis, who not only paid for all the pickling supplies and fuel, but also paid dearly in time spent listening to me fret and plan and calculate. It was an event worth writing about. Maybe reading, if so, click back on the Oct. 2009 posting titled “Pickled”
Canning—really “bottling,” as we preserve the food in glass bottles and jars, brings me close to my grandmother, Nanny.
The first batch of jam I remember us making wasn’t strawberry, though. It was plum. Made from plums plucked from the next door neighbor, Emily’s, tree. Emily and her husband, Jerry, were gone and we were minding their house, which included plum picking privileges.
Plum jam is easier that other types because you don’t peel the plums first as the peeling adds color and flavor to the jam. All we had to do was wash, pick, halve and deseed the plums—eating as many as we liked in the process. Side by side, Nanny and I leaned over the kitchen sink to sample the ripest, softest plums—too ripe for jam. So sweet and succulent the juices rolled down our chins, plopping like purple rain into the sink.
Nanny always made her jam in the turkey roaster as a larger surface air dispersed the juices over a larger area, giving us more control over the jam’s quality. My first "important job" as I recall was "keeping it from burning." I'd stand on a footstool beside the stove stirring the juice, pectin and sugar mixture, watching and waiting as it heated and bubbled, turning from murky to clear, glossy, thick syrup, while Nanny supervised. After the jam was jarred, a layer of hot wax was poured over the top and the jars were set aside to cool. Then came the fun part—the part my brother, Joe (then Joey) always showed up for. (Although now that I think of it, I bet Joey would have liked to have been invited to make jam with us. But jam making was “woman’s work” in Nanny’s eyes, and I liked keeping it that way!) Joey was invited to the “tasting” part, as was my grandfather, Poppy, who’d always bring home fresh, crusty French bread to serve as spoons. That first batch of plum jam was puckery tart and runny. Not exactly “Blue Ribbon,” but pure gold.
Nanny was the 3rd of 9 children raised in Gustine, a town in California’s Central Valley, “God’s Garden” as Nanny called it (when she wasn’t calling it “hotter than hell”). Back then, in the icebox days, “canning season” began when the early peas came in and continued through the fall into butchering time.
While we hulled berries or stirred our fruity brews, Nanny would share childhood canning stories. Some funny, some gross, all mentioning the words “hot” and “sweaty” and “miserable heat” many, many, many times, and one that I’ve repeated and will again. It begins with a plum tree. The biggest plum tree, upon which grew the darkest, richest, biggest plums in town. (Maybe Gustine, maybe Watsonville, I won’t say.) Big and sweet and luscious as those plums looked no one dared to go near that tree. Not because anyone warned them to stay away. Not because they were hard to reach—the fruit hung so heavy on the branches they sometimes brushed the ground. But because, the tree stood in the middle of a field beside the town mortuary and, as everyone knew, as part of preparing the bodies, the undertaker drained all the blood from the bodies. And, while no one had ever seen the hose, it was a well known fact that he drained the blood into that field. That blood is what made that tree grow so large, and that fruit grow so big and ripe and dark, dark, blood red. Vampire plums...
I put up my first preserves when I was 13, living with my mom and brother on Warner Avenue in Huntington Beach. For some reason, we had a bushel of ripe tomatoes and I decided to preserve them—even though I hated stewed tomatoes with a gut wrenching passion. I found a recipe in the Betty Crocker Cookbook, rode my bike to the store to buy supplies and jars and spent the better part of a day and night stirring up a few batches of sauce. (Sauce that looked so pretty in jars lined up on the shelf that I wouldn't let anyone use it.) Nanny wasn’t there to help me, but I told her about it and made darn sure she saw them on her next visit.
This year, making pickles was an aside that came from Rusnati and my discussion about “Mister’s Lunches." Mister, Curtis, loves his pickles and we'd run out. Rusnati does not--never ever--like to run out of anything Mister likes. Be that as it may, I have a feeling that “pickling” hadn’t been as much fun as expected. Usually, when I’m in the kitchen cooking, Rusnati likes to be right there with me, cutting (sometimes taking my knife), stirring, (whatever I have the spoon), putting a hand into kneed (even when I’m elbow deep in flour), crimp the edge of the pie (my favorite part) and, if nothing else, washing everything (which I love!). This pickle session, Rusnati dutifully washed the cucumbers (only 15 kilos this time), placed them on the counter beside the five bottles of vinegar and 5 bags of sugar, said “sampai jumpa, selamat ahir mingu, see you later, have a nice weekend,” and left.
So Rusnati wasn’t with me to make pickles this year. But Nanny was. Just like she is every “canning season,” standing beside me as I stirred the bowling brew, spooned hot pickles into jars, capped and sealed each jar in the boiling water bath. Right there as I sampled the first of this year’s sweet lime pickles on a slice of fresh, crusty buttered French bread.
Ah, Summer Time! Sweet, Summer Time, Summer Time!
Pond-ering
I'm not talking to Rohemon, our resident gardener and pond thief! I might not speak to Rusnati either--they must be in cahoots. Prior to leaving Jakarta last month, I had a nice friendly chat about the pond with Rusnati, who assured me that Rohemon was well aware of my hatred of the sly, ugly, mottled, bewhiskered goldfish gobbling ikan lele he has been growing in the pond. We had an understanding--at least I thought we did. The ikan lele were big, almost big enough to eat, then. By the time I returned home, those lele would have been dinner, and I'd have my pond back to grow whatever fish I wanted--cute, bubbly goldfish at least; dead skin gobbling spa fish at best.
It was dark and I was tired when I arrived home Wednesday evening, and frankly, I've been so befuddled since that I haven't wanted to face anyone, so I've stayed inside the last couple of days. But today is an Indonesian holiday so the house is mine! Early this morning, I wandered outside to inspect the pond. My heart rhythm began skipping to a happy beat when I saw it. Sweet Rohemon had culled the water hyacinth so now, it barely covered a third of the water surface. The waterfall was in full operation, splashing gaily into the cool, clear, apparently monster ikan lele-free water! Yippee!
Just to be sure I watched and waited, taking care not to cast a shadow over the water. (Those ikan lele are sneaky buggers.) A trio of sapu-sapu, algae eaters, lazily fanned their tails as they sucked the rocks, that was all. The only sign of fish life. I stood, conjuring an image of the happy fish I'd stock my pond with, the bright cushions I'd buy to line the edges, the way my feet would soon be tickle-tingling as I sat sipping wine while tiny fish nibbled my toes...what joy!
What fodder! The murderous monster ikan lele aren't gone! They were hiding. Lurking in the shadows. As the first kernel of fish food hit the water, one darted out, then another. At least three of them. Longer, fatter and more sinister looking than when I left.
A Bad Case of Spots
I have good news and bad news: Good news is my ears are not so red or swollen. Not to say they are back to normal. They are still flaming red, but at least small enough to tuck under a hat, or hide under hair--if I had long hair.
The bad news is that this dreaded "red ear" condition has morphed into a body rash. A blotchy, itchy, red rash. I am reminded of David Shannon's A Bad Case of Stripes. Heroine, Camilla Cream loves lima beans, but gave them up because her friends hated them and she wanted to fit in.
For some fortuitous reason, I am often in Singapore when health issues strike: last time it was an eye infection; the time before that an appendix attack. This time, because my flight arrived in Singapore at 1:00 am and the next flight out wasn't until morning, I'd booked a room for the night and scheduled an eye exam in the morning, with a flight out that afternoon.
In the same way damp hair drips down your back and spreads, I could feel the rash spreading during the long, long, 20 hours it took to fly from Los Angeles to Singapore via Tokyo. I'm thinking the girls seated next to me wondered about all that scratching and wiggling that went on under my blanket during lights out. Periodically, I'd slink off to the restroom to cool the rash with water and reapply Cortaid, which helped some. But by the time we landed in Singapore, I was determined to add one more doctor check to my list.
Ah, we love Singapore doctors. While waiting for my eye check, I called my regular doctor's office and was told they'd fit me in as soon as my eye check was finished. Dr. Lim, took one look at my rash, talked me through the ususal rash causing suspects--alergies, insect bites, "no" "no" "no"--then called a dermatologist who fit me right in.
Turns out my rash isn't of the normal, ate something strange or tangled with the wrong plant variety. It's a "bull's eye or target rash" meaning the red splotches are more like rings with white centers. Thus indicating that the rash is systemic. A virus perhaps contracted from someone with cold or fluish symtoms. The Dermatologist asked if I had been in contact with anyone coughing or sneezing. I laughed and told him that could be any of hundreds of people as in the past week I had been on 2 trains and 4 planes and at a 4th of July Spectacular.....
Still, as I scratch and itch, duly take the medicines the doctor ordered, which include topical cream, an antihistamine and steroids to bring down the rash, I keep returning to my friend Sydnie's theory of dis-ease as related to my swollen ears: what was I not wanting to hear? And of Camilla Cream in Bad Case of Stripes: what am I doing, not doing, or suppressing?
What's odder, the rash didn't spread from my ears down as one might expect. Instead, it skipped my neck, chest, shoulders and lower half of my legs and is instead concentrated on my underarms, hips, thighs and legs--all the fatty bits. So, does this mean in an effort to "fit in" or not...I've been eating too much and my body is rebelling? Or are my body parts rebelling because I haven't been exercising? Or?????? Help Camilla! Help David Shannon! Help Sydnie! Help me unravel the meaning behind this bull's eye rash before I scratch myself into oblivion.
