To Market, To Market

When I first came to Indonesia, I was terrified of the pasar (market).  It was loud, crowded, hot, and full of entirely unfamiliar and not always pleasant smells.  And in Indonesia, unless you are at the rare stall that uses harga pas (fixed price), you are expected to menawar (bargain), and I am terrible at haggling: I’m never aggressive enough, and always end up either stubbornly walking away on the principle that I should not be grossly overcharged just because I am a foreigner (therefore empty handed), or submitting to being charged harga bule (the foreigner’s price) (therefore with damaged pride).

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Approaching the market, surrounded by bentors, as it always is.

Throughout my first grant, I rarely had any need for the pasar, as I ate all of my meals at school and wasn’t overly fond of berbelanja (shopping), generally speaking.  Every so often, I stopped by the fruit stalls that were near the entrance of a market I would pass on my way home from school, and bought batik fabric (the one thing, other than books, I do enjoy shopping for) from the market a handful of times, but for the most part, I avoided them.

This year, I live right in the middle of two of the main markets in town.  Pasar Selasa (the Tuesday Market) is perhaps a ten minute walk from my house, and Pasar Rabu (the Wednesday Market), is a mere five.  And both semesters, my class schedule has allowed me a free morning on at least one of these days.  Since I am on my own for meals this year, and wanted to do some of my own cooking—instead of just eating at the warung near my house—without paying ridiculous grocery store prices, I decided I would need to brave the market.

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The tarps give everything in the market a warm orange glow.

For the first few months, market day was my least favorite day of the week.  I would wake up early, knowing it would take me at least a half hour of hovering in my front room to work up the courage to actually walk out the door and head to the market.  Market day was a day of dripping with sweat under the make-shift tents, no matter how close to opening I arrived.  Market day was trying to get fair price for the vegetables on my list without having to go to too many sellers.  Market day was trying to weave through the crowd amidst the cacophony of shouting (in Indonesian mostly, but the occasional English, too)—“Ayam! Ayam! (Chicken! Chicken!) Miss! Cantik! (Beautiful!) Ikan!  Ikan! (Fish Fish!) Mister! You like fish?”—as I tried to find the one tempe and tahu (tofu) seller that I had been promised was at the back of the market[1].

Some people are good at this kind of chaos.  I am not one of them.

Still, I kept going, every week, week after week, month after month.  I told myself the fresh vegetables were worth it (and they absolutely are), and refused to give up and only eat out.  And slowly, market day became a bit less intimidating.

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My tempe/tahu lady on the right, and Mr. Kopi on the right.  They’re always teasing one another, and I ended up capturing it when I tried to take a picture of them.

By this point, I am well-known at Pasar Selasa (Pasar Rabu is no longer as convenient because of my new school schedule).  I have my favourite sellers from which to buy various delicious, fresh vegetables and fruits, and they are always telling me what is in season and how the weather is affecting various crops (it has been particularly dry this year, and the manner in which they lament this fact takes me back to my own farming community in New York).  The man I buy eggs from asks me about my classes.  The fish sellers know by now that I do not buy fish, and have ceased to try to tempt me with their fresh, still-flopping wares, except occasionally in jest.  There is a man who sells coffee next to the only stall that sells tempe/tahu, and it has become a running joke for him to try to convince me to buy coffee from him, even though I always tell him that I only drink tea.  I didn’t make it to the market at all in January (except for the occasional quick trip to get eggs for breakfast), because I had gotten busy, and when I finally went for a full-fledged shopping trip in early February, my tempe/tahu lady actually asked me if I was okay: after not seeing me for so many weeks, she thought maybe I was ill; I smiled warmly at her kindness, and noted to myself that I wouldn’t have this element of community if I had given up on the market  experience entirely.

Though I feel I have gotten much better at the ins and outs of market life in Indonesia, I have yet to master it, and I look forward to my relaxed, quiet farmers’ markets at home.  But nonetheless, the pasar has become a key part of my life here, and I have come to find joy in the chaos.

[1] While I am not a vegetarian, I find that cooking meat for one person is far more work than it is worth, especially with only a single burner in which to cook anything, so I tend to only eat meat when I go to a warung.

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A Day of Sharing: Idul Adha

Having been exposed to my first Idul Adha experience last year, I was thrilled to have the opportunity of a second year to learn more about the specific traditions surrounding this celebration in Indonesia.

Idul Adha, often called Eid al-Adha outside of Indonesia, reflects the story of Ibrahim and Ishmael.  Similar to the way Ibrahim sacrificed a ram after an angel told him he did not actually need to sacrifice his son, Muslims around the world sacrifice cattle, goats, and sheep, and share the meat from these animals with family, friends, neighbors, and the poor.

Last year, after being forgotten about in all of the excitement (understandably), I never saw the actual sacrifices done at my school.  This year, however, I was part of most of the day’s celebrations.  I was picked up early in the morning by my kepala sekola (headmaster), and taken to his family’s Idul Adha[1].

The day starts with prayer: the streets are filled throughout the morning with people going to and from the local mosques, and parts of some streets are even closed.  Because I was going to my headmaster’s mother’s house, I observed most of this from the windows of his car.  Watching Ibu-Ibu and Bapak-Bapak walk home in their prayer clothes is one of my favorite sights here: it reminds me of the chatting that happens after Sunday mass lets out in my hometown, and while I am not religious, I admire the community that comes out of religion.

One everyone returns home from prayer, the sacrifices begin.  One bull was already sacrificed by the time we arrived (only males can be sacrificed for Idul Adha), and I was ushered to the front of the crowd surrounding the area where the sacrifices were taking place (there are times when being an honored guest can get you into slightly awkward situations), a spot it seemed many others were vying for.

My kepala sekolah’s family sacrificed three bulls, two of which were slaughtered by my kepala sekolah himself.  His wife, who babbled away throughout the entire ceremony, providing me with wonderful insights into all I was seeing without me even having to ask, told me the person with the highest position was the one who ought to potong (cut) the animals, and in this case it was him.  Prior to cutting the animals throat above a hole dug into the ground to catch the blood, he read off seven names, his voice drawing out each name so that it sounded almost like the praying I hear during sholat at school.  (A cow is enough to cover seven people, while a sheep or goat is enough for one.  When I asked, it seemed people only needed to be covered by an animal once they reached a certain age, but it was unclear to me what age that was.)

Following the slaughter, the carcass was skinned, and the meat was divided into even portions.  Last year, I was able to help with this portion of Idul Adha at my school, but because I was in more of a desa (village) setting, the day’s events followed a more traditional route, and it was only the men who surrounded the piles of fresh beef.  I sat with the women during this time, chatting and smiling for a million selfies.

Following this, however, the meat was brought to the kitchen, and it was the women’s turn to take over.  At first, I was told to sit and watch from the corner (again, being in a unique position as a guest is sometimes challenging to navigate), but eventually dived in anyway, and was soon skewering meat onto tiny wooden sticks, to be grilled into sate later.

Eventually, after eating more than our fill and talking for hours, we worked our way back into the city, stopping as we went to drop meat off at various homes and organizations (I believe this was the portion designated for the poor). The children fell asleep,

I can’t fully express how thankful I am to have been so welcomed, for the second year in a row, into this Muslim celebration.  Coming from a country where many Muslim students still have to miss school to participate in this important holiday (though the recent change in New York City gives me hope that this might change), the beauty of this day and how it plays out here is certainly not lost on me.  Like so many holidays, both religious and secular, this holiday brings families and whole communities together, for a day of sharing food, laughter, tradition, and love.

[1] To be honest, I actually didn’t know I was going to an Idul Adha sacrifice when I was picked up.  I had been told I was going to a school celebration on Saturday (which I ended up coming very late to, due to car-pool confusion, so I’m actually quite glad I had an unexpected day of Idul Adha), but all my kepala sekolah told me about Thursday was that he wanted to introduce me to his family.  But, as it usually goes in Indonesia, I was surprised (pleasantly so) when we got to our destination.  The only bummer was that I only had my phone, and not my actual camera, with me for the event.