Jeepers Creepers

Living in Indonesia is often like being an albino goldfish in a crowded tank of my amber-hued brethren...bottom line, I stick out like a prostitute in a convent. Often referred to as my "celebrity status" my ability to be recognized as a foreigner can be both a curse and an honor. In just the past week I have guest taught at three different English courses, one for high school, one for a mix of elementary and middle school, and one for teachers. The grapevine here in Pekanbaru is strong and while I was asked to teach two of the courses for fellow teachers, the last was an invitation by a woman I had never met. Along with these English courses, my voice was also immortalized for a listening section of an examination to be given in all of the vocational high schools in Pekanbaru. I felt more than a little cool as I was ushered into a sound booth (albeit an Indonesian sound booth that looked like it had been built in 1982 and smelled of stale cigarettes even though a large sign pronounced "No Smoking") and seated in front of a microphone behind a large glass window. Slowly and clearly I read a  sometimes-grammatically-incorrect script while my fellow teacher nodded in approval from the other side each time I repeated "mark your answer on your answer sheet." Afterward I was praised for my accent and what could I say? I'm a natural.

Along with the honors of being a foreigner come the curses...or should I say creepers. For a reason unknown to me Indonesians do not understand creepiness, and I constantly find myself disregarding all of the "stranger danger" training I had as a child to make excuses for the men who ask for my phone number or stop me to chat- it's cultural right? Last Monday was one of my favorite encounters of this kind. While on my daily run a small red sedan slowed next to me and the open window revealed a beaming Muslim couple. Usually when this sort of thing happens (and it's happened before) I can answer the simple "Where are you from?" and be on my way; but, the man behind the wheel of this car was a little more curious than the average Indonesian. After about a ten minute interrogation session on the side of a busy road which revealed my height, weight, and that yes I do like bakso (meatball soup), but not for breakfast-he was satisfied and left me with a "Happy Valentine's Day" as they pulled away. Yesterday while running I heard something over my music and turned to find a teenage boy keeping pace with me. The adrenaline that the scare of this new addition to my run pumped through me elicited a "Jesus f*%!ing Christ!" (so much for that whole ambassador thing) while he laughed and continued to keep pace. This boy, a twelfth-grade student at a local high school, had started running with me in January but I hadn't seen him since returning from my mid-year conference. After recovering from my shock he told me in his halting English that he had been following me and then promptly asked if he could come to my home. After giving him the vague answer of maybe sometime in the future, he told me that he would wait for me everyday and asked if I would like a ride home. After refusing twice and telling him that I needed to go home he left me to retrieve his motorcycle, but no sooner had I rounded a corner than he was there waiting for me and drove along side me for a few minutes before speeding off. A similar situation occurred during a bike ride in which a guy, with his girlfriend on the back, drove his motorcycle in pace with my bicycle in order to talk to me. When faced with these situations I have learned to laugh, it's one of those things that is truly Indonesia and I don't think I could avoid it if I tried. I just hope that I remember my "stranger danger" training upon my return to the states- I doubt that strange men at home will want nothing more than to practice their English.