Peeling Potatoes

This past weekend was the boys' spiritual retreat. Four of us teachers took twenty-two boys to a mountain vacation home for a time of listening and growth. An unintentional but overarching theme was brotherhood. Each of us teachers shared something from our lives that we wish someone had told us when we were younger; something we wish a mentor had spoken into our lives before we stepped out on our own. All of our "wishes" turned out to be somehow related to the formation of deep community; that stable sense of oneness with another man that you can only comprehend if you've experienced it.

Saturday afternoon, halfway through the retreat, we sent the boys in teams to develop a launching mechanism and collect the stankiest ammunition they could find for a championship round of targeted launches. While they were out bargaining and building, we teachers prepared a feast of barbecue chicken, coleslaw, nasi goreng (friend rice, which goes with everything here), and mashed potatoes. Mike and I toted several kilos of potatoes, two paring knives, and a large pot out onto the patio. The afternoon shower insulated our discussion, and, for nearly an hour, we peeled laughter and potatoes. Mike and I are closer than brothers. He's more than just a friend or an accountability partner; for Mike, I would lay down my life. About the time a raw spot sprang up from holding the blade against my forefinger, a thought dawned across Mike's face. "This is exactly what I want for these boys," he said. "Peeling potatoes in the rain?" I mocked. Chuckling slightly he clarified. "No. This. Deep rooted friendship in Christ. We talk about more than just sports or music or gossip. We feed each other on what the Lord has been speaking to us. My walk with God is not solely my walk; we share it in community. And I want that for these guys so bad."

"Ya," I brilliantly concluded.

Later, as we closed out the weekend, Mike told the group that his favorite memory from the retreat wouldn't be sliding down the staircase on matresses or the food or even the launching of gook from the third floor balcony. The memory that he'll take with him to Tanzania next year is that of peeling potatoes with a brother, chatting away about our love relationship with Jesus. I think that's probably what I'll remember most too.

Eat My Dust, KFC!!

After the Indonesian economic collapse of the late 90s, they created a job for the common man: a "parkir" or parking attendant/director. This person has an official vest and waves people in and out of traffic. In the "pasar," or market, they are in charge of a stretch of stores and are paid a few coins per vehicle.

The best parkir in Salatiga works at KFC. He's efficient, diligent, and has foresight when giving directions. After my twentieth or so visit, I thought I should introduce myself. I was on my motor bike, so it was easy to chat while he pulled my bike out of the narrow slot. His name is Widodo. I told him mine and said I'd see him again soon. And I sure did. The following week, Mo and I took some friends out to eat. After eating, while pulling into traffic, I said in Indonesian, "I'll see you next time, Mr. Widodo." He waved me into traffic, then, just as I stepped on the gas, he suddenly leaned on the car and said, "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name." I kept right on, only to see him in my rearview mirror spinning in the street.

Now, please don't think I'm a brutal colonialist or anything. Truth is, I actually didn't understand him, and was more focused on the raging bus bearing down from behind. But just as we were leaving the block, my friends all started laughing and asked somewhat mortified, "Why'd you drive off without answering his question?"

The following week, when again on my own, I apologized to Pak Widodo and reintroduced myself. Then, when leaving, I dropped a larger than normal tip in his hand. The next time Mo and I drove up, he cheerfully welcomed, "Good afternoon, Mr. James." I wonder if it was the tip or the apology that spawned his glee....Perhaps both.

Indonesian KFC

Okay, it's confession time. About once a week I crave french fries and coerce James into taking me to KFC. Yes, that's right, Kentucky Fried Chicken. There's just something about greasy fried chicken and coke that comforts me. Our KFC has a slightly different menu than the ones back home. Sadly, it does not include mashed potatoes and coleslaw; only rice and perkedels (fried potato dumplings). The chicken is a little spicier, but the french fries are fantastic.

This week we stopped in for lunch and happened upon a birthday party. I counted between 40 and 50 children. Now, I don't know if you had birthday parties as a child, but I seem to recall little gatherings of 6-8 children. So I'm wondering, how does this kid even know 50 people? Are they the children of his parents' friends? His entire school class? His religious youth group? The events of the party are a little different than I remember too. Used to, my 6 friends and I would eat a McDonald's hamburger, throw a few bean bags at Grimace, and leave with a helium-filled balloon. Inevitably, someone would let loose her balloon and stand screaming in the parking lot while it drifted heavenward. To this day, when I see a child sobbing over a lost balloon, it makes me smile nostalgically. The Indonesians celebrate a little differently. KFC provides a PA-system, and someone makes a few speeches, tell a few jokes, and generally riles up the children.

So James and I are sitting in KFC, listening to a man chatter away on a microphone while 50 children sit and eat chicken and rice. Then comes my favorite part; it's time to sing to the birthday boy, and they actually sing "Happy Birthday"--in ENGLISH. Why? It's a mystery. I'm no anthropologist, but I find the reach of the American influence on this Oriental island truly fascinating. One day, perhaps, we'll sit down to good, old southern coleslaw and biscuits with our chicken. Any of you grandmas got a recipe we can sell them?