Djakarta Djournal

Jakarta Globe on July 1, 2012

2012-05-10T20:49:00.002-07:00

Old-Style Batak Justice: A Taste for Blood

2012-05-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

Stone Court

The court was fashioned from stone, the chairs arranged in a circle, facing inward. The king presided over affairs from an elevated seat. His advisors and the village shaman sat near him. Directly opposite the king, in a comparatively tiny, lower chair, sat the accused. There was a stone bench several meters away, outside of the circle, where women could watch the proceedings.

If it was a matter involving theft, and the defendant found guilty, a judgment could be to pay back four times what was taken. But if the crime was rape or murder, he (yes, he) paid with his life. (Female criminals, if the transgression was severe, would be banished from the village, chased away.)

Our explanation of a Batak execution began with a description of the Batak calendar. The top part resembles a traditional A-frame Batak house; from the bottom hang twelve narrow strips of wood, each bearing 30 symbols - one for each day of the Batak month. The shaman would pick an auspicious day for the execution.

Besides the calendar, the shaman executioner’s toolkit included the laklak book, containing such information as the Batak alphabet (19 letters, 16 syllables), natural medicinal recipes, and, more relevant to the task at hand, guidance on how to give magic and take out magic from a criminal's body. The third tool was the shaman's intricately carved, hefty stick.

Execution Circle

As with the court, the action takes place in a separate circular area, the king once again presiding from an elevated chair. At the appointed time, villagers would sit on benches off to the side of the circle. The condemned man would eat his last meal, from the stone table in the center of the circle, his hands tied behind his back, like an animal.

When he had finished, officials would chain his legs, blindfold him, and lay his body on a rectangular table on the periphery of the circle, at the six o’clock position, opposite the king’s chair. The shaman would slice the condemned’s chest with a small knife. If blood gushed out, the criminal was deemed not to have protective magic powers. He was ready to be killed.

If instead he was found to have protective magic powers (no bleeding from the incisions), the shaman summoned his stick for assistance. The shaman would beat the criminal until he responded to the pain. Further mutilation would ensue. The criminal would be cut from head to toe. If he was a traitor, the shaman would cut his tongue out. If a rapist, his penis. A concoction of lime juice and salt would add to the agony - the point being to make the man weak and unconscious, to make it easier to kill him.

The execution was by decapitation. The ward would move clock-wise to a low-lying strip of stone. A wooden plate lay where his head would fall. The executioner got one chance to sever the man's head with a sweep of his sword. If the executioner failed, the king took the executioner's head.

Blood from the dead man's head would be mixed with lime juice, to prevent it from congealing, and served to the king, who would share it with others in the audience. Bataks believe blood makes you stronger. Even now, they include an animal's blood when preparing food.

The corpse was placed back on the table, its heart and liver (believed to have magical importance) were removed for the king, for only his consumption. The rest of the body was available to spectators. Whatever parts were left over were thrown into the lake. Villagers were then advised not to take water from the lake for seven days. The deceased’s head was hung on a post at the gate, to deter others from crime.

Mercifully, the last such execution was in the 19th century, when Christianity took hold. English and Americans failed, but Germans succeeded. They were low-key, learned the local language, and attended to villagers’ medical needs. They were persuasive. And the Batak village kingdom persists, in its 18th generation. Our guide was the niece of the present king.

Inside a Traditional Batak House

2012-04-22T21:00:00.002-07:00

Entrance gate to the village

We entered the small, enclosed village through a narrow arch, wide enough for one buffalo – a defense measure, our petite guide informed us. We reached the village after a 15-minute drive along the quiet road, passing folks dressed up in their Sunday best, proceeding to church. Yes, Samosir Island, geographically the size of Singapore, in the middle of North Sumatra’s ancient Lake Toba, is predominantly Christian – one of few such enclaves in this country where more than 85% of the population is Muslim.

Traditional Batak houses

But Ted and I were here to learn about the local culture before the arrival of the Christian missionaries. The three traditional homes, positioned in a row, resembling A-frame houses on short stilts, provided some clues. The style of homes became popular in the 16th century here, but the ones we visited were constructed in the 1950s, following a fire, rebuilt to about half their normal size.

Construction of these wooden homes was no mean feat. There were no nails used. And though a house could be built in just one year, the process normally took at least five years, because of local superstition. Work could begin and proceed only on good days, even if it meant waiting another week or month in between good days.

Sinewy connections

The symbols on the façade of the houses have particular meaning. The four bulbs symbolize fertility. The sinewy lines illustrate the connections among Batak families. Daughters cannot marry men with whom they share a last name. But first cousins can marry, if they have different last names.

Three to six families lived in each house. And families weren’t so small then. Normally, couples had 10 to 20 children. The ideal was to have 33: 17 sons and 16 daughters.

A traditional Batak house has one of three types of entrances – inset wooden stairs, wooden stairs positioned outside of the house, or stone stairs leading up to the house from the outside. There are three levels – the ground floor, where the livestock were kept; the middle floor, where the families slept and ate; and the top floor, which were really shelves around the inside perimeter, where the families stored items. The roofs have the typical Minangkabau, or parabolic slope, which our guide thought resembled a canoe. The rear is higher by a hand’s length, as a nod to the younger generation, a wish for more success to them.

Dragon Style

2012-03-13T03:03:00.000-07:00

When I first heard about Komodo Dragons, I imagined them as small, adorable little reptile creatures, as though the name dragon were the inverse of a large man being nicknamed tiny. I wasn’t prepared for the much larger reality of the animals that are not unlike crocodiles or alligators in form, size and behavior.

Komodo, a world heritage site and the main island where these dragons reside in eastern Indonesia, is reachable only by boat. It was one of the principal attractions of our week-long cruise from Labuan Bajo, Flores to Bali.

We arrived at the island in the early morning. During breakfast, vendors came onboard, offering small, carved wooden dragons of the size that I had been given to believe earlier were life-size, maybe two feet long.

Before our trek, we were advised not to wear red or orange colors, which attract unwanted attention from the dragons. We should keep with the group, escorted by three locals with long sticks, who, we hoped, would protect us in case the dragons got rowdy.

Our first dragon sighting occurred quickly, just after our local guides briefed us on the geography of the island and safety precautions. They then led us to an area they described as the kitchen, a short walk away from the entrance, where a low fire was smoldering. The creature emerged, heaving one side of his body at a time, in a slow crawl. As he got closer, within 30 feet from us, we heard him, “haaahhh,” like a witch at Halloween. Viscous, poisonous saliva dripped from his mouth, his forked tongue hanging languidly from his mouth. Not pretty.

More dragons followed. A female, recognizable by her smaller head and shorter tail, emerged and lay about 20 feet in front of us. A male approached her, somewhat hesitantly, it seemed, until he was on top of her. Our guide smiled and told us this was love, dragon style. Copulation seemed imminent, but she appeared listless, uninterested. He didn’t push matters. And so they lay for a while, one on top of the other, before he slowly wriggled away.

But despite their heft and otherwise slow movements, when hungry and prey is in sight, they can move surprisingly swiftly. Thankfully, we didn’t have occasion to witness such a feat.

No, these are not gentle beings. When hatched after nine months in an egg, the baby dragons instinctively climb up trees where they live for several years, until they feel safe enough to descend without the fear of being eaten by other dragons, including their parents. And when they hunt, they bite their prey, poisoning them with the bacteria in their saliva. They then follow the infected animal around for up to two weeks, before it collapses. The feeding begins. We noticed skulls of water buffalo and other unlucky victims here and there along our walk.

Occasionally, humans find themselves on the menu, having misjudged the intentions, ferocity and speed of the dragons. Once bitten, they must be rushed to a hospital for treatment if they are to have any chance of survival. But, according to our guide, the nearest adequate medical facility is in Bali, several islands and nearly 300 miles away. And transportation in these parts is unreliable.

Struggling to Survive

2012-02-15T01:40:00.000-08:00

As I peered out of the stern of the speedboat, I noticed in the distance fish soaring briefly out of the water, before plummeting rather clumsily back into the sea. The engines churning the deep indigo water beneath us left a frothed trail in our wake. Patches of turquoise and light brownish-grey water denoted shallow areas. A few fluffy cotton-ball clouds flecked the bright, cerulean sky.

We were in Wakatobi Regency, in Southeast Sulawesi, Indonesia, named after the four islands that mainly comprise the protected area: Wangi-Wangi, Kaledupa, Tomia and Binongko. The warm, affable, charismatic mayor, or bupati, has published several self-help books, one or two of which have just sold 10,000 copies, he informed us. One is titled Rich or Poor: It’s a Choice. He is the local celebrity.

Before our journey, in conversations with friends (both Indonesians and Americans), I found that few had heard of this part of the Indonesian archipelago, mostly known to divers. It is home of some of the greatest marine biodiversity on the planet. Several countries, including the United States, are trying promote sustainable development here, so that fishermen will be able to continue to make a living, and rare and yet unknown species (some of which could potentially be found to cure cancer, or lead to some other major scientific breakthrough) can continue to exist. One popular and particularly harmful method of fishing involves dynamiting coral reefs.

The Mars Company has several conservation projects here, as do the Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF) and the Nature Conservancy, many of which are funded by the U.S. Agency for International Development, several of which our group visited.

Researchers from the U.S. and the UK, and probably other countries come here to work. At Rp 40,000 (roughly USD 4.50) per night for accommodations, doctoral and postdoctoral students can afford to stay many months. One British woman we chatted with waits tables back home so that she can come over and conduct her research each year. She has interviewed many women here and learned about various local loan practices, some legitimate, some usurious, in this overwhelmingly Muslim country. Interest rates vary from 15 to 65%, recalculated every 10 months. Being an entrepreneur here takes a lot of guts. But times are tough. Fewer fish than before swim in these waters. And the fish are getting smaller in size. The human population continues to rise, barely sustained by ever smaller incomes.

Much has been written about the problem of managing fisheries sustainably. We know that among the best practices is to secure true buy-in from locals so that their interests are protected and are seen to be protected. And those interests aren’t so divergent from our own; as the fish stocks and their habitats are depleted, everybody loses. But then communicating across cultures and languages can be a particular challenge. And well-intentioned people can look at the same picture and draw different conclusions.

Back on land, I recounted to one member of our traveling team how happy a sight the flying fish appeared. He told me, “well, actually, when they’re jumping like that, they’re more likely than not fleeing for their lives.”

Gado Gado Masala

2012-02-05T19:53:00.000-08:00

On June 3, 2011, in the streamline modern home of the Indian ambassador to Indonesia, Mr. M.K. Singh, Director of the Indian Cultural Center in Jakarta, shared with Indonesian Heritage Society members his professional and personal fascination with the cultural exchange that has taken place over millennia between India and Indonesia.

He was careful to note that he doesn’t see the connection as influence or a one-way relationship. Initially, I thought perhaps he was just being diplomatic. And, it is true, there appears to be much more of India in Indonesia than the other way around. But that isn’t the full story.

Cultural and historical linkages between the two countries began through trading, thousands of years ago. Though some might view the relationship through a soft power lens, hegemony was not necessarily on the minds of the early merchants, Singh explained.

In fact, there was great resistance in ancient India to geographical exploration. The high-caste Brahmin religious leaders discouraged their countrymen from traveling abroad. Those who dared venture overseas were deemed outcasts, untouchable.

The earliest contact between India and Indonesia is believed to have begun around 261 BC, when Ashoka, King of the Maurya Empire, conquered Orissa, in northeast India, home of the Kalinga people. Some Kalinga began to drift East to what is now Indonesia.

Over time, Hindu symbols and culture attained prominence in Indonesia. Temples such as Prambanan, in south-central Java and elsewhere in Indonesia, including Bali, were erected.

The Javanese language contains approximately 6,790 Sanskriti words. Singh was careful to note that though Sanskrit did not originate in India, the language was further developed there and spread farther East.

Rama, Sita, Hanoman and other characters from the Ramayana are very much a part of Javanese culture, easily recognizable in the Wayang Kulit or Wayang Orang performances. (They are also on view in the recently-renovated Puppet/Wayang Museum, in Fatahillah Square.)

And the elephant-featured Ganesha, Hindu god of beginnings, and the remover of obstacles, appeared on the 20,000 Rupiah note.

The cultural sharing has not been just one-directional, however. Singh noted that following a visit to Indonesia in 1927, Indian cultural icon and Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore introduced batik to students at his Visva-Bharati University in Shantiniketan, West Bengal.

Tagore also introduced to India Rabindra Nritya Natya dance, inspired by mudras, or movements, from Javanese and Balinese dance.

I asked if there were additional examples of Indonesian cultural influence in India.

Singh recounted a romantic tale of a Kalinga prince who meets a Balinese princess studying dance in Kalinga. When she returned to Bali, he followed her there. Though she was engaged to another, he asked her father for her hand in marriage. Her father offered that if the prince could defeat the princess’s fiancé in a duel, the prince could marry her. Victorious, the prince was ready to take the princess back to Kalinga, but her father decreed that she must stay in Bali. The prince left Bali alone, vowing that he would love her forever and that every year, on the day of their parting, he would remember her. Each year, on a full-moon day in November or December, thousands of people converge on the shores of Orissa and launch small paper boats and candles to remember the star-crossed couple.

Singh said that similar examples of Indian-Indonesian cultural sharing can be found along the southern peninsula and eastern regions of India, which he looks forward to exploring further.

Culinarily, and more personally, he added that he and his wife love gado gado, which they’ve tweaked a bit and plan to share with family and friends in India.

The Titanic Burj al Arab

2012-01-31T17:39:00.000-08:00

What to make of this imposing structure, an icon of Dubai? The Burj al Arab, shaped like a full, white spinnaker sail, carrying passengers where?, I wanted to know. The hotel lures visitors as much for its whimsical design as for its exclusivity. Against the backdrop of the global Occupy movements and the attention they have brought to the growing, vast disparity in wealth between the 1% and 99% of the world’s population, the Burj seems alluringly out of reach, and perhaps antagonizing.

As my spouse and I prepared to visit Dubai, we struck up a conversation with a couple who had spent quite a bit of time in the emirate and grown to love it. One of their top recommendations was high tea at the Burj, which at 275 dirhams (or $75) per person was just within our reach, and the only way we were going to be able to set foot in the seven-star hotel whose least expensive rooms go for two to three thousand dollars per night.

This isn't the sort of place you can just walk into from the street and look around the lobby. When the much more modest family hotel where we stayed reconfirmed our reservation for tea, the concierge printed out the details, complete with the booking number, and advised us that we would have to show it to the guards in order to gain access to the purpose-built island, the perch of the yacht-looking hotel where, I'm told, the local police are not allowed.

Traffic was bottlenecked at the entrance to the island, but it didn't take long for the guard to view our documents and for us to proceed through the checkpoint. Our Toyota Camry pulled up to the entrance, amidst the latest models of Mercedes and Rolls Royce. It was like pulling up to Cinderella’s ball in a pumpkin. But we didn't mind. We were there, at last.

Inside, it is garish, resembling a casino or large cruise ship. The decor is intentionally over the top, with visual stimulation everywhere, such as the two-storey aquariums on either side of the escalators that transport visitors between the ground and first floors. In the middle lies a cascading waterscape, offering a constant show of captivating choreography. But the aquatic piece de resistance presides at the top of the escalators, where the non-stop water show with somewhat irregular intervals (all the better to maintain the audience's rapt attention in a "what will happen next?" way) erupts with a majestic spray reaching nearly nine stories. I was startled the first time it happened, as I stood otherwise transfixed at the base of the grand fountain.

Tea was offered in a terrace opposite the water show, where the decor is as kitsch as the lobby. We plopped down on a red leather sofa and took in the view of the world's largest indoor atrium. Turquoise predominates on the lowest floors, and then gradually fades to green and then to yellow toward the top, where the most expensive VIP rooms are.

Large gold-colored pillars in the shape of palm trees are arrayed vertically around the lower floors, reaching four stories. They intersect with three wide rows of glistening chrome. Altogether, it felt the perfect setting for a Lady Gaga video.

But this monument to nouveau riche excess also offers examples of good taste. The service is courteous and helpful without being obsequious. Harkening to the times of vast country estates and attending butlers in Britain, of which Julian Fellowes and many of the rest of us are so fond, one's request is met with "right away; thank you, sir" in reply.

And after we finished a glass of champagne, as the sandwiches arrived, a four-piece chamber ensemble featuring mostly string instruments serenaded us with waltzes, swing and more contemporary melodies including Moon River. The setting and the melody of the waltzes reminded us of that scene in Titanic when the ship’s orchestra played beautifully, calmly while the grand vessel sank.

Our 11-year-old nephew anxiously wanted to visit the restroom, about which he had heard that anything that looks gold is. I braced myself for a gaudy display and was pleasantly surprised by restraint. The heavy handle of the gold-colored sprayer adjacent to the toilet suggested it was the real thing. The kleenex cover also looked to be at least nine karats. But as a whole, the room was elegant, not ostentatious.

As we prepared to leave the hotel, gesturing all around, I asked my dining companions what it all meant. We weren't immediately sure. But as I thought about it more, it seemed a triumph of human ambition and ingenuity over the natural environment, much like the indoor refrigerated ski resort, the world’s largest mall and the world's tallest building, all nearby in this desert city. It also appeared to be a glaring triumph of the 1% over the 99%. Can it last?

Christmas at the Airport

2012-01-25T05:52:00.001-08:00

We arrived in Abu Dhabi at 6pm on Christmas Eve, after a relaxing though long flight in Singapore Airline's economy class. Eagerly, we approached the immigration counter, pleasantly surprised that there were no lines. We expected to sail through the formalities and get to our hotel, freshen up and meet my spouse's sister and our nephew for dinner at their nearby home. I got a chance to practice my New Year's resolution (to keep calm and be grateful) early, when the immigration official refused to allow me to enter the Emirate.

I had brought only my diplomatic passport, normally sufficient to assure entry with ease in many countries. But the UAE, as of last year, requires a visa obtained beforehand if an American desires to enter the country on a diplomatic passport. I had forgotten to bring my tourist passport, with which entry without a visa is allowed. My spouse happened to bring both his diplomatic and tourist passports, so he was fine. I had to stay in the airport, like Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

As a Foreign Service Officer, in the Management cone at that, I was embarrassed. Of all people, I should have been fully on top of the logistics. I called the Embassy's Duty Officer, reluctant even to give my name. I've been a Duty Officer before and might not have been entirely sympathetic of callers in similar situations. What were they thinking when they left home? Why hadn't they done their homework?

Only the night before, an Indonesian friend texted me in a panic. She had just then realized, hours before her family's holiday trip to the U.S., that her son's visa was expired. She asked if my spouse, the DCM, could help. Knowing how often he gets hit up with visa requests, and not wanting to burden him with yet another, I calmly directed her to information on the Embassy's website concerning emergency visa requests. Though at first I wondered why she hadn't checked the visa's validity before, I quickly, thankfully (lest I be too much the hypocrite), remembered that everybody makes mistakes.

In speaking with the Duty Officer, I owned up to my mistake in planning, and tried to trouble-shoot solutions short of returning several thousands of miles back to Southeast Asia. Could I fly to a nearby country in the Middle East that allows visa-less entry on a diplomatic passport and there request a visa from the UAE's Embassy, returning to Abu Dhabi within 24 hours? Could the embassy in Abu Dhabi issue a new tourist passport for me (my current one had already expired or was close to expiring - I wasn't sure; I so rarely use it)? I hated calling on Christmas Eve and was certain nothing could be done on Christmas Day.

My devoted spouse lovingly stayed with me overnight in the airport. "We're a team," he affirmed. The airport hotel was full, but the front desk attendant said we could wait in the adjacent lounge and that she'd let us know around midnight whether there were any cancellations. Exhausted from our day-long journey, we tried sleeping on a bench in the lounge, but the harsh light, clanking dishes in the background and frigid, over air-conditioned temperature made slumber impossible. At around one a.m. on Christmas Day, a room at the inn became available.

We planned our next moves the following morning. I printed out and completed a new passport application and some color photos in the lounge. We would try again to pass through immigration, pleading, if necessary, to be allowed to spend Christmas with our family, promising to go to the Embassy the following day for a new tourist passport. No dice. Immigration refused to let me in until I had a new tourist passport. The Embassy assured me that first thing the following morning, Boxing Day, they would help me to obtain a new passport. My spouse entered Abu Dhabi to see our family and I remained in the airport, hopeful that I'd at last be free the next day (mercifully, I was).

Not so bad, we kept telling ourselves. This could have been worse. It wasn't a car accident. And, as I've had many occasions to remind myself over the past year, maybe this setback really could be an opportunity. The airport lounge was comfortable and, on Christmas Day, very quiet. I could write, read and watch DVDs. I would have enough to eat. I was safe. Which is a lot more than many people in the world have. So while this wasn't how I envisioned spending Christmas, I kept calm and was grateful.

Losing Septi

2012-01-12T21:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, the head official at the orphanage told us that Indonesia would rather the eight-month-old girl we are interested in adopting, who was abandoned by her mother at birth, remain a ward of the state.

We've been planning for some time to adopt, but as a same-sex couple had given up hope of being able to do so from abroad. So it was a pleasant surprise when we learned about Septi. We hadn't imagined being able to adopt in predominantly Muslim Indonesia, but we would be honored to raise an Indonesian child. And this one has fixable special needs - mainly, a surgery when she is four years old to close her abdominal cavity with muscle tissue. Septi was born with gastroschisis; part of her intestines were outside of her body at birth. If that surgery is done too soon, it could suffocate her; the intestines could push too much against her major organs.

A charitable organization paid for Septi's first surgery, to close the opening with skin. They've remained interested in Septi's welfare and along with the government hospital that performed the surgery, to find adoptive parents for her. We happen to know a member of the charitable organization, who informed us about Septi. The baby has spent the past eight months in the hospital with loving (but busy) nurses looking after her. Given the number of Indonesian children without health problems who need parents, no one seemed interested in adopting her. We expressed interest and began to visit her, playing with her, bringing her a walker, stroller and other gifts.

We knew we had at least three strikes against us according to Indonesian law: we're foreigners, not Muslim, and we're spouses of the same sex. But we thought that perhaps on humanitarian grounds, we might have the privilege to raise Septi. We love Indonesia and would have made sure Septi knew about the country where she was born, as well as its predominant religion.

But instead, we fear she'll languish in an orphanage. The official there told us that not even the Minister of Social Affairs would allow our adoption of Septi, explaining that it would have been different if we were an opposite-sex couple. We briefed a friend about our setback. He said, “Maybe God has some other plan for you.” Perhaps. I hope that somehow, in the mysterious workings of the universe, our setback is Septi’s gain.

At Home in Yogyakarta

2011-11-08T23:59:00.000-08:00

Gamelan music plays from the speakers, a conversation hums in the background. A motorcycle putters past along the lane in front. Cars from the nearby road motor by. Frogs are chattering, the engine of a motorbike starts. I look out from the terrace of d'Omah Hotel, into the darkness of the rice field, stretching beyond the narrow lane between us. It is evening in Tembi Village, as I reflect on our royal afternoon.

I am here with my mother, visiting from half a world away, to show her one of my favorite places in Yogyakarta (and probably the entire country), a city which coincidentally she recently learned about in an episode of the Amazing Race. The participants hadn't made it to this cozy village 20 minutes north of Yogyakarta, but we had a chance to retrace some of their steps nearby.

On the way to the Sultan's Palace, at a traffic light, Mom pointed out the masked man dancing for money, as the racers had done one afternoon.

We proceeded to the Sultan's Palace, passing Taman Sari, a park in which kids play, and which is home to two expansive banyan trees between which people stroll, eyes closed, and make a wish, our driver informed us.

Green predominates throughout the rambling grounds of the palace, or kraton. We saw traditional dancing, the performers' graceful, controlled movements, with a gamelan orchestra playing their bell-like, xylophonic music in the background.

Among the many open air structures that form the palace, our guide pointed out a capacious hall where VIPs including Hillary Clinton had been received by the sultan. Was this also where the Amazing Racers presented themselves to the Sultan? My mom tells me the Sultan asked them whether they had donated all of the money on their person, including that which they made from street dancing, to the orphanage earlier, in order to receive their next clue. Our guide, remarkably, hadn't seen or wasn’t aware of the episode.

The palace was built in 1756 and has housed Yogyakarta's royal family since then. A younger daughter of the present monarch married here just weeks ago in a traditional ceremony. Her father decided to break the polygamist tradition of his ancestors and has remained married to the same woman, who bore all daughters. The tradition of a male heir inheriting the throne persists, however, and unlike the United Kingdom, there does not appear to be an effort to allow the first-born offspring, regardless of gender, to rule.

At the end of our tour, having viewed the vintage photos, heirloom crystal, china, silverware, and palanquins, we shopped at the comprehensive gift store managed by the Sarinah group, and proceeded to lunch at the adjacent restaurant, which offers guests the opportunity to try the beverages and dishes favored by the royal family.

Sated, we returned to d'Omah, which in Javanese appropriately enough means "at home," to cool off and relax in slightly more humble surroundings.

d'Omah Hotel
http://yogyakartaaccommodation.com/

email: bookings@domahyogya.com
phone: +62 274 368050
address: Jalan Parangtritis KM. 8.5 Tembi,
Timbulharjo, Sewon, Bantul Yogyakarta

How to get there
I’ve taken both Air Asia (www.airasia.com) and Garuda (www.garuda-indonesia.com) to Yogyakarta. Lion Air, Batavia Air, and Merpati Airlines are among the other carriers offering service to Yogya.

Train information is available at: http://www.seat61.com/Indonesia.htm#Jakarta_to_Yogyakarta_by_train

Visiting the Kraton, or Sultan’s Palace
Admission: Rp 12,000 (about $1.50)
Gentlemen should remove their hats while in the palace area
Dress conservatively; no shorts
Further information is available at: http://www.yogyes.com/en/yogyakarta-tourism-object/historic-and-heritage-sight/kraton/

"Are You Gay?"

2011-10-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

My mother’s question seemed totally random, completely unexpected. We had just gotten into the car and begun to drive home from the airport. I was in the middle bench of our family’s minivan. My mother was in the front passenger seat, while my father was driving. Silence. And, then, barely out of the parking lot, she turned around, faced me and asked, “Are you gay?”

It was September, 2000. I was returning from an internship in Botswana and preparing to begin a graduate course in the United Kingdom later that month. I had come out to myself a few months earlier, though I had known for some time that I was attracted to other men. I knew from my mother that what I felt was totally unacceptable – an abomination, no less.

While growing up, I actively tried to deny to myself and others that I was gay. It was a relief when in college I fell for a female classmate whom I found sexually attractive. The softness of her svelte body, the fullness of her lips and the fragrance of her Pleasures perfume were irresistible. Maybe I was or could be saved after all, I thought.

But why did I still, from time to time, find other men attractive? The more I think about human sexuality, the more I am swayed toward Kinsey’s belief that bisexuality is much more common than we tend to think it is, and toward Gore Vidal’s view that homosexual is an adjective, not a noun. At the time, though, I believed that sexual orientation was like racial identity in Detroit, where I grew up: you were either black or white. There was no in-between.

And then I met M., a handsome fellow classmate in graduate school. He invited me to a dinner party at his place. At some point that evening, I wandered alone into the kitchen, where M. found me. Before I knew it, we hugged and he licked my ear. The scent of his Kouros cologne, the touch of his cashmere sweater and the seductive contact intoxicated me. I wanted more.

Was I gay? After a brief, tense moment, I answered,“Yes.”

The Tear

2011-09-29T04:00:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of Jack Wyse

As we calmly chatted on the upper deck of the boat after dinner, somewhere between Komodo Island and West Nusa Tenggara, someone noticed a small tear in the canvas overhead.

We had begun to enter choppy water. The wind, sudden and powerful, thrashed against the taut covering.

The small opening in the canvas grew. It was now the focus of our attention as we heard it rip apart and flap about. We called to alert the crew, who methodically pulled the entire tarpaulin down.

Unveiled, the clear night sky brilliantly came into view. We stared in awe. The more celestially knowledgeable among us began pointing out constellations I had only previously seen in a planetarium.

Though we would miss that overhead covering, which had shaded us from the scorching mid-day sun, we continued to stare upward, contentedly, admiring the twinkling heavens.

A Weekend in Solo

2011-09-24T04:13:00.000-07:00

With a long weekend coming up, my spouse, Ted, and I thought we would get away, but not too far. Having visited Yogyakarta a number of times, we thought we'd try its neighbor, Solo, considered by many to be another (the?) important center of Javanese culture.

We booked at the Kusuma Sahid Prince Hotel. And while this hotel had seen better days, its character and friendly staff made up for what it lacked in upkeep. We love heritage properties and are willing to sacrifice some comfort for the experience.

After great coffee from room service, we ventured out for dinner. The two guidebooks we consulted recommended Restoran Sari, which our cab driver hadn’t heard of and couldn’t find. We emerged from the taxi, spotted what appeared to be a relatively modern hotel nearby and figured, correctly, that they had a satisfactory restaurant. While we enjoyed our meal, we were a bit concerned about the “fried brown partner,” advertized on the menu for dessert. With our limited Indonesian and the waiter’s limited English, we came to understand that this delicacy was actually a fried chocolate bar. I’m sure the description in Indonesian on the menu conveyed that meaning better than the English version did.

Following dinner, we sprinted through a heavy rain to the Sriwedari Theater, home to Solo’s Wayang Orang production. The colorful interpretation of the epic Ramayana was performed in Javanese, with Indonesian translations visible on either side of the stage. An hour into the production, still wet, we slipped out, returned to the hotel and called it a night.

The next morning, fortified by a hearty breakfast in the hotel, we ventured again into town. Our first stop was the Kraton Hadiningrat, one of the city’s two palaces. A Detroiter at heart, I’m intrigued by modes of conveyance. Among the many interesting items, such as krises, masks and colonial photos, there were exquisitely detailed palanquins and elegant, though decaying, carriages on display.

We had heard much about Solonese batiks and decided to check them out for ourselves. We visited Batik Keris, but we thought their prices were a bit high, so we moved on. Batik Semar, no less elegant, was much more what we had in mind in terms of value. Earlier, our driver pointed out the batik market, where much better deals were certain to be had, if we had been willing to contend with the crowds.

Pigeon on the Menu

For lunch, we tried Restoran Ramayana. Intrigued, but not so much enticed, by the pigeon, available fried, buttered or flattened, we opted for sate ayam, vegetables, noodles and cold beer.

After lunch, we looked for a spa for Ted. We kept asking around and no one seemed to know of such a place in Solo that catered to men. Despite a banner next to the front desk at our hotel advertising their spa, no spa services were available. The driver took us around, we asked further; nothing. Perhaps an entrepreneur will seize the opportunity to offer professional massages for men in Solo.

We were invited for dinner that evening by friends who happened to be in town as well; we endeavored to bring wine. Yet, like our efforts to find a spa for men, our quest was unsuccessful. Instead, we found a grocery store, wandered around, and saw brownies. It happens that “American” brownies are popular in Solo. As we were trying to select which package to buy, we noticed an attendant open one for a customer who wanted to inspect contents. A glorious whiff of chocolate bliss wafted to our nearby noses. Those brownies smelled just like the real thing, maybe better. We had found our hostess gift.

A Solonese feast was prepared for us at the lovely terra cotta villa where our friends stayed - the home of a designer friend of theirs who employs scores of people who produce batiks and furniture in a factory on the same compound. For dessert, we were treated to Serabi, a delectable coconut sticky-rice dessert wrapped in something like a crepe, followed by a Chinese chilled dessert soup with pastry nuggets containing delightful peanut paste. We didn’t mind that our brownies weren’t served.

Candi Sukuh

We set off the following morning for Candi Sukuh, the ancient Mayan-looking temple complex about an hour up a winding, mountain road with beautiful views of verdant rice fields. We had the windows rolled down for much of the journey, preferring to take in the cool, fresh air. We reached the peak of the mountain. The temple was appropriately perched there, offering expansive views of the city and surrounding area. Though sometimes referred to as the erotic temple, the carvings and statues of aroused men were interesting, though relatively minor, features of the site.

Returning to the hotel, we thought we had a couple of hours to relax before heading to the airport for our flight back to Jakarta. Ted prepared for a nap, and I called room service to order brownies, hoping to finally actually try the Solonese American variety. Sadly, they were all out. And that was just as well. After getting off the phone, I casually checked our itinerary and realized our flight was two hours earlier than we thought! We quickly packed our things, checked out and rushed to the airport, barely making our flight. Our colorful weekend adventure had come to an end.

(Published in the Newsletter of the Indonesian Heritage Society, Spring-Summer 2011)

Undaunted

2011-09-08T05:54:00.001-07:00

"Aren't you afraid?," my classmate asked. We had just received news that the embassies in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam had been bombed.

Weeks before, I learned about the Graduate Foreign Affairs Fellowship Program, one of two programs now known as the Pickering Fellowships, and I had applied. Though it involved a three-year work commitment in the Foreign Service following graduation, it was a no-brainer for me. I loved the adventure of international travel, I needed the money, and I didn't have any strong feelings one way or another about a specific career, so long as it was interesting work and comfortably remunerative (my commitment to public service would grow later). The Foreign Service appeared to be a good fit.

As for danger, I was from Detroit and had traveled a little bit. I figured the possibility of harm was everywhere. I was also a bit naïve.

Following graduation, I joined the 104th A-100 Orientation Class at the Foreign Service Institute on Monday, September 10, 2001, bright-eyed and ready for the world, or so I thought.

The second day, thirty minutes into our first session, the deputy course coordinator ran down the left aisle and exclaimed that a plane had struck one of the two World Trade Center Towers in New York. We were to remain calm and seated and await further information. I first thought of my uncle who regularly attended business meetings in the World Trade Center. Was he ok? Then I thought about my friend whose father also had regular meetings there. Was he ok? Neither, we later learned, was harmed.

We then heard that another plane had struck the second tower, that the Pentagon had been hit and that the Department's main building in Foggy Bottom was evacuating. And then we evacuated. I returned to my hotel room, numb. Like the rest of the world, I remained glued to the television.

The next morning, I boarded the hotel's shuttle to FSI. I hadn't heard whether class was still on; I assumed and perhaps hoped it would be. Ninety-seven of my 98 classmates felt the same way, it turned out.

Following training, several of us were sent to Bogotá for our first assignment. While there, Club El Nogal, a country club in the city, was bombed, blocks from where many embassy personnel lived, including me. There were other terrorist incidents in the city during our posting. But it was clear to most of us how seriously the Department and Embassy leadership considered our safety. Phone tree drills, regular security briefings and updates when there were credible threats helped me, and I think others, feel more secure.

I have felt the same priority on safety in subsequent overseas assignments in India, Singapore and now in Jakarta.

Since joining, only a handful of my 104th colleagues have left the Foreign Service. Most of us have served in danger or hardship posts, and will likely do so again, proudly. We remain undaunted.

Published in the September 2011 issue of the Foreign Service Journal

On the Wolverine, Cookin' with Hot Grease

2011-08-25T19:16:00.000-07:00

It was turning into a bright, sunny morning as we emerged from the apartment building. The cloudless sky was pale blue, with hints of amber as the sun began its ascent. Quiet, peaceful.

But rather than walk the few blocks over to the train depot, we took a taxi, given my luggage, and our concerns about safety - particularly the dark, crumbling underpass where Woodward Avenue dips under the railroad tracks.

The passengers crowding the waiting room were a surprisingly mixed group, perhaps 35 per cent white. In this predominantly black and historically divided city, such settings still are somewhat rare, in my experience. The demographics are changing, though. A New York Times article on July 3, 2011, heralded the growing number of creative people under 40 who are moving to the city. People have been hoping for a renaissance here for decades.

Mom wanted to have a look at the train, the Wolverine, which links Detroit and Chicago. But it hadn't yet arrived. As we looked around the station, she noticed an old menu from a train's snack car, posted on a bulletin board, meant as decoration. It was a glimpse into bygone times, a reminder of her girlhood trips to the South, to visit relatives. Upon reaching Cincinnati, my mother and her sister and mother would have to move to the segregated Day Car. They would pack fried chicken and pound cake in shoeboxes before leaving Detroit, because on the southern portion of their journey, they would otherwise only be able to eat in greasy spoons at stops along the way. The narratives Isabel Wilkerson recounts in The Warmth of Other Suns are all too familiar to Mom.

As the train limped along from Detroit, I could see some of the new center area, and then stretches of neighborhood and industrial blight as we ran parallel with Kronk Avenue, before the scenery changed to landscaped lawns and other images of relative prosperity near Dearborn.

The snack bar attendant assisted passengers getting on the train.

"We got a full train today, folks. If you travelin' single, you might want one of the single seats."

"You want company?" he said to the well-dressed, middle-aged woman with a chestnut complexion who had chosen a seat on the side of the car with two seats.

"What?" she asked, in a tone suggesting she interpreted the attendant’s question as an unwelcome pass.

"We got a full train,” he replied. “Someone's going to join you over there. If you want some space to yourself, take one of those single seats over there (on the other side of the aisle). I'm just trying to let you know what time it is. Might not like to have someone sit next to you. Guy might have bad breath."

The attendant looked as though he were in his sixties, nearing retirement. He had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a generous waistline and caramel complexion. He had an air of, "been there, done that, seen it all."

Our next stop was Ann Arbor.

The conductor, a heavy-set man in his late thirties or mid-forties, with mocha-colored skin, entered the car and asked, "Who's our newbies?”

"OK. We're cookin' with hot grease now," he exclaimed, and began punching tickets.

When Patience Fails

2011-08-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

A sign at the Labuan Bajo Airport.
Photo courtesy of Becky Gaghen.

Out of the blue, the airline representative approached us in our seats at the back of the plane, bent down, put his hands together as if in prayer, and pleaded with us to give up our seats. His manner was that of someone whose child urgently needed medical assistance that he couldn’t afford – as though life and death turned on our response. I was bewildered and a bit terrified. He said there was a later flight he could put us on. I was skeptical.

Six months ago, we began planning our week-long cruise among islands in East Nusa Tenggara, or the outer limits, as one Indonesian friend referred to them. The journey would allow us the opportunity to visit islands otherwise unreachable by air, especially Komodo Island, lair of the famed dragons.

But first we had to get to the boat, which involved taking an unknown airline from Bali to Labuan Bajo. We had been sitting on the plane for nearly an hour, parked on the tarmac, without air conditioning, before the pilot announced that our 8am flight would be delayed. By that time, passengers, soaked with sweat, began closing the window shades. The air was stale; I was barely hanging on. It felt like I was going to suffocate.

In due course, we taxied toward the runway, then stopped. The captain announced that there were mechanical problems with the plane and that we would have to return to the gate.

While on the bus back to the gate, we began to compare notes with other passengers about what was happening. We learned that the airline overbooked the plane by two seats and only realized their mistake after handing out two more boarding passes than there were seats available. As a result, there were no seats on the plane for the two flight attendants, who now had nowhere to sit for takeoff and landing.

We returned to the gate, where we were told to sit, pending an update from airline staff. By this time, the airline’s 10am flight to Labuan Bajo was boarding and then took off. It, too, was fully booked, as was their 2pm flight, and another airline’s 4pm flight.

Several of us were increasingly annoyed that there were no additional announcements from the airline. Taking matters into our own hands, approached airline staff regularly for updates. Finally, one, almost in a whisper, informed me that our flight was now cancelled. She said she could do nothing for us but direct us back to the check-in counter on the ground floor.

There, confusion reigned. What would happen now? Would the airline put us up in a hotel? Which one? Would they confirm us on a flight tomorrow? Or were those flights all booked up as well? It was as though the airline’s staff had hoped we would sort ourselves out somehow; as though the problem – and we – would vanish if they didn’t acknowledge it or us.

I had just written an essay a week before about traveling in Indonesia, and how patience can help. But, sadly, that approach was getting us nowhere. After much cajoling, the airline put us up in a 1-star hotel, which we’re told was better than the other hotels where they booked less vocal passengers, and ultimately got us to Labuan Bajo the next morning. The ordeal made us all the more grateful for our relaxing cruise.

Portraits of Indonesia

2011-07-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

I visited the National Museum in the afternoon, thinking it would be quiet and that maybe I would get a personal tour from the volunteer English-speaking guide provided by the Indonesian Heritage Society (IHS). But not so. As I stood in the foyer, awaiting the guide, there were schoolchildren everywhere – apparently, that afternoon, several schools had planned a field trip to the museum.

I don’t remember how this happened – whether they approached me first, or whether I, just meaning to be polite, greeted them first. But no sooner had the words “Selamat Siang (good afternoon)” sprang from my mouth, I was swarmed by smiling kids who wanted to take a photo with me. “Where are you from?,” they asked, in English. “Amerika serikat (the United States),” I responded. Their excitement grew. “Oh-bama!”

While I've been told I resemble our 44th President, I knew their glee was not about me, but about what America, as an idea and a place, is - so much more accessible to them, in no small part because our president spent several formative years of his life in Jakarta, in schools not unlike theirs. And after a few unsuccessful attempts, he finally made it back for a visit just months ago.

The schoolchildren’s teachers signaled that it was time to enter the museum. And then something very unexpected happened. One by one, single-file, the students – scores of them – shook my hand, bringing my hand to their foreheads, a mark of high respect. I was moved.

By then, the IHS guide had arrived along with three other visitors who joined our tour. We followed the kids into the museum, allowing some space so that those of us in our small group could hear each other. Our guide, a French expat, was very well-informed about the museum, and her enthusiasm about its holdings and story was infectious.

Our first stop was an immense map on the wall, displaying the vast swath of the approximately 17,000 islands that comprise Indonesia. All along the borders of the map were sketched portraits of inhabitants, illustrating the breadth of the population’s phenotypic diversity, from sub-Saharan-African-looking people to fair-skinned-Chinese-looking people. Our guide explained that each person had come to the museum to sit for his or her portrait.

Opposite this vertical map was a horizontal one, in relief, about waist-height. Our guide explained that millions of years ago, there were two main land masses, now mostly under water, that made up Indonesia and much of the surrounding area. The Wallace Line, running between Bali and Borneo to the west and Lombok and Sulawesi to the east roughly demarcates those two ancient land masses. Generally, organisms to the west are biologically distinct from those to the east.

Two members of our impromptu tour group were tourists, just visiting Indonesia for a couple of weeks. They were planning to spend most of their time on Java Island, so our guide suggested that we focus our 1.5-hour session that day on Javanese history and culture. We could tell that she was also well-prepared to give us any number of other-themed tours.

We learned about ancient Java Man, believed at one time to hold a key to understanding human evolution. We learned about the variety and history of Javanese batik fabrics, and about the music, fables and homes of early Javanese people. There was still much to see and learn about our day's topic by the time our tour ended. But I’ll be back. And, I suspect, so will the President.

(published in the Kayon, Summer 2011)

A Tourist in Bridgeport

2011-07-02T18:17:00.000-07:00

A life-size statue of Charles Stratton atop his grave marker, Mt. Grove Cemetery

The stocky, middle-aged, dark-chocolate-complexioned man wearing an oversized blue T-shirt and jeans approached the front desk attendant and asked quietly if there was tourism and visitor information available. She pointed to the stand with pamphlets advertizing local attractions and he thanked her. The Holiday Inn Hotel in downtown Bridgeport, CT, is, as far as I can tell, the only hotel in the center of this mid-sized city of approximately 140,000 residents.

Bridgeport experienced a population and industrial boom that peaked in 1950 and has since atrophied, like Detroit, my hometown city. The signs of urban decay and grit abound. Main Street has maybe two or three blocks with buildings and shops in reasonable repair. But venture one block West of the hotel, and you'll see building after building of blight - shot-out windows, vacant, sad.

Driving or walking around the small city, comprised mostly of African Americans and Hispanics, a number of residents can be seen wearing oversized T-shirts, sagging jeans and baseball caps positioned to the side of the head, rather than forward, evoking memories of the 1990s and Boyz in the Hood. There are cars blaring hip-hop music and rap, the bass reverberating through nearby cars and their passengers.

And there is pride in the city. Several books in the main library attest to the important history of Bridgeport. From P.T. Barnum and his industry of curio to Lewis Latimer and the invention of the incandescent light bulb, to the frisbee, Bridgeport and its famous and not-well-enough-known residents have made an indelible mark. On a visit to the city's Mount Grove Cemetery, its president pointed out the grave site of “Bridgeport's most famous resident” (Barnum). He also proudly pointed me to two other graves. One marks the final resting place of "the little man," Charles Stratton, aka General Tom Thumb, "who made Barnum rich." In the same vicinity rests Fanny Crosby, a blind woman who wrote over 3,000 hymns, many of which – such as Blessed Assurance – are sung in churches throughout the world.

When I checked out of the hotel, I told the front desk attendant that I enjoyed my stay and that I was sorry about the condition of the surrounding neighborhood. I did not detect a note of defensiveness when she replied in an upbeat tone, “No, it’s a good city. It’s getting better.” I hope so.

Ode to Kindness

2011-06-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

Compelling, engaging, beautifully-written, evocative are some of the words that spring to mind when I think of Kathryn Stockett’s novel The Help.

The story is semi-autobiographical. Like Skeeter, one of the book’s three narrators, Stockett was a young writer, fresh out of college in early 1960s Jackson, Mississippi. She was raised by an African American maid such as the two from whose perspective the story is partially told.

Employing an effective technique that is sure to rankle some readers who understandably would rather not be reminded of history’s humiliation, Stockett’s maids speak in a dialect that rings true. She accurately captures the patois of the African American working class in the Deep South in the middle of the 20^th Century: “Law” for “Lord;” “on” for “going to;” “set” for “sit;” “a” for “of;” – as in, “Law, I’m ‘on set myself down in one a them chairs.” I heard my older relatives’ voices, and those of the older church folks in Detroit, where I grew up – many of whom had migrated there from the Deep South.

Skeeter gets the idea to write a book, called Help, about what it’s like to be an African American maid in Jackson, Mississippi in the age of Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. At first, not one maid is willing to share her story, fearing the likely repercussions. Pushed too far, though, some maids reluctantly agree to be interviewed for Skeeter’s book, under the condition of anonymity.

Some stories are surprisingly heartwarming; there are beautiful examples of whites and blacks looking out for each other. But even in the best examples, there is no escaping the complete imbalance of power between the two groups, which makes one wonder, as Howell Raines, a favorite of Stockett’s, did, “whether what flowed between the two people was honest feeling or pity or pragmatism.”

Most of the characters are well-developed, complex individuals with whom we can’t help but empathize. Minny is probably the most interesting character – so strong and so vulnerable; so flawed and yet so noble. We really want her and the other characters to find happiness. Except for Miss Hilly, who seems irredeemably evil. But what makes her so? There is a brief allusion to a strained relationship between Hilly and her mother. What was it about their relationship that made Hilly so mean? Or, was there another reason? It is as though Hilly is a caricature. I can’t help but wonder if Stockett’s portrayal of Hilly is a missed opportunity to provide some insights into human motives.

Stockett is effective in pointing out the many ironies and hypocrisies of life in the South. The North doesn’t appear to be subjected to such scrutiny. Though they play somewhat important roles in the story, references to Chicago and New York seem wholly positive, except for the terse but supportive editor in New York who mentors Skeeter.

Of course, the North was no utopia. There was certainly more opportunity for African Americans there than in the South at the time, which was why my grandparents joined the great African American migration from the South to the North in the early to middle 20^th Century. Sadly, they and others – black and white – found segregation and other prejudice and hypocrisy there, too; it just wasn’t as immediately visible as it was in the South.

But back to the story, while an interesting technique, sometimes it’s hard to remember which of the three principals is telling the story, despite a helpful header at the beginning of each string of chapters told from the respective narrator’s perspective. Skeeter’s voice is easily decipherable and readable. At times, it is difficult to distinguish which of the two maids is speaking. They share roughly the same dialect and point of view. Aibileen, however, is the most profound and eloquent of all the characters when she explains her theory of race relations, which is that the lines of division that we think are there exist only in our minds: “All I’m saying is, kindness don’t have no boundaries.”

(Published in the Kayon, Summer 2011)

Some Marriages Are More Equal Than Others

2011-06-02T19:07:00.000-07:00

Five years ago, my spouse and I legally married in Canada. The morning of our ceremony, June 3, 2006, we awoke to news that, in our own country, President Bush again called on the Senate to amend the Constitution to ban two people of the same sex legally affirming their commitment to each other. Thankfully, it didn’t. But, sadly, it didn’t need to.

Nearly 10 years earlier, that chamber joined the House of Representatives in passing the ironically named Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), which President Clinton signed into law. For federal government purposes, DOMA defined marriage as a legal union between one man and one woman, and despite legal challenges, today it remains the law of the land. In addition to other examples of the discriminatory impact of this misguided law, I cannot be covered as a family member under my spouse’s federally-subsidized health insurance. More egregiously, same-sex partners and spouses of U.S. citizens cannot legally immigrate to the U.S. on the basis of their legal relationship. We know couples facing this excruciating inequity right now.

Ted and I met on September 13, 2004, at a monthly business meeting in Washington, DC, of Gays and Lesbians in Foreign Affairs Agencies, an officially-recognized federal employee group. I was ready for a long-term relationship, having dated for several years in my early twenties and deciding that I was ready for a commitment. But I didn’t think I would meet my life partner that evening.

In the host’s living room, the chairs were arranged in a U shape. I noticed that a man appeared to be looking at me from across the room. It was initially a bit unsettling. Why was he looking at me? During a break, we ended up chatting. As we spoke, I began to feel that he was special, authentic and possibly the one. The meeting resumed, and he remained on my mind. After the meeting adjourned, I shyly kept an eye on Ted, conspiring to meet again. I found out later he had the same intention with regard to me. And so began our romance.

Four months later, we moved in together, and not long afterwards registered as domestic partners. Some months later, we decided to have a commitment ceremony the following summer with family and friends in Ted’s home state, Maryland. (At that time, Massachusetts was the only state that offered legal marriage, but we were not residents, a requirement then.) As we considered honeymoon destinations, we decided on a cruise starting from Vancouver. As we thought about it more, we realized we could legally marry there, just before sailing to Alaska.

We got in touch with a highly-recommended marriage commissioner, Johanna, and began to make the arrangements. We booked the carefully manicured Japanese Nitobe Memorial Garden on the campus of the University of British Columbia for our legal ceremony. With friends as witnesses, we vowed to give each other the love of our person, the comfort of our companionship and the patience of our understanding; to share the necessities and pleasures of life; to respect each other’s dignity and to recognize the need for communication and compromise in our marriage.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, we signed the wedding registry. Johanna, having performed several marriages for two people of the same sex, had helpfully crossed out the pre-printed “bride” and “groom” column headers and replaced them with the gender-neutral “spouse.” Soon, she said, the books will be printed like that from coast to coast. And while there has been some progress, I can’t wait for the day when my own country, from coast to coast, will recognize marriages like mine.

Trailing Tandem

2011-05-09T22:27:00.000-07:00

Trailing Tandem

By Clayton Bond

Clayton Bond entered the Foreign Service with the 104th A-100 class on Sept. 10, 2001, following internships as a Pickering Fellow in the State Department’s Office of Environmental Policy and in Embassy Gaborone’s political and economic affairs section. Prior to taking leave without pay and joining his Foreign Service spouse, Ted Osius, in Jakarta, he served in Singapore, New Delhi, Washington, D.C., and Bogotá. He and Ted married in Vancouver in 2006.

I don’t recall ever feeling as lonely and sad as during my first night in Singapore, Sunday, August 16, 2009. I was in a city-state where things worked; a fully developed, orderly, clean country, which couldn’t have been more different from the one to which we were previously posted. But Ted wasn’t there. And I had no easy way of communicating with him that night – I had no e-mail access yet in my apartment, and didn’t yet know how to dial Jakarta from my home phone.

It was just me, my two carry-on bags and a welcome kit from the embassy, with bed linens, towels, plates, glasses and related items to get me started until my own things arrived. Why did I decide to do this? Was it worth it?

We had always known that if our Foreign Service careers both continued to advance, it would be increasingly harder to get assigned to the same city. But that problem had seemed hypothetical until nearly one year before, when we were bidding. And because we were both up for promotion, the process was more complicated than usual.

We thought it would be helpful to have some principles to guide us in thinking about which jobs we wanted and where we hoped to serve. One of the main ones was to work in the same city. And so we lobbied. Then Ted got promoted and quickly pursued positions for which his more senior grade now allowed him to compete. He was offered the position of deputy chief of mission of a very large mission, but one of the conditions was that I would not be able to work there, too, due to nepotism concerns.

Ted had 24 hours to decide, and we were visiting his sister in the United Arab Emirates at the time. We agonized over the decision, ultimately deciding he should accept.

Now I had to decide what I would do. If I accompanied Ted to Jakarta, what would my status be? (This was eight months before Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton’s groundbreaking June 18, 2009 announcement that same-sex partners of Foreign Service personnel would be entitled to Eligible Family Member status – a major leap toward equality.) What would I do for health insurance? As a same-sex couple, federal law denies me the option of being covered under Ted’s government-provided plan. Would I be okay with putting my career second? How would I keep myself busy? And could I deal with not earning my own money? Could I be “kept?”

Some friends noticed there were management-coned positions available at my grade in Singapore, which, according to maps and airline schedules, appeared a short journey away from Jakarta. Maybe a commuting marriage was possible. During the week, we could focus on our respective jobs and then share the weekends. It seemed a workable compromise.

Time Management 101

Almost as soon as I made the decision, I began to have doubts. Ted and I had never before lived apart as a couple. But I had committed to taking the position, so we began to think earnestly about how we were going to make it work. We would see each other at least three weekends per month, and would not invite houseguests so we could have those days to ourselves. And during the week, we would speak every day about mundane things, as couples experienced in long-distance commuting advised.

Then the reality came crashing down. We went back to Washington for training between assignments. Mine was eight weeks longer than Ted’s. We were full of angst the night he left the hotel for the airport to begin his journey to Jakarta.

Remarkably, Ted and I managed to achieve and even surpass our goal of seeing each other three weekends per month. But our weekends weren’t always our own. For instance, I soon found myself coordinating the transportation arrangements for a U.S. delegation, headed by President Barack Obama, that would be attending the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation forum, hosted that year by Singapore. That entailed long hours of extensive planning, countless phone calls and constant monitoring of my BlackBerry for several weeks.

Meanwhile, Ted and his team in Jakarta were contending with several natural disasters, terrorist bombings and other challenges. Those pressures rarely allowed him to be away from the telephone and BlackBerry, or to miss meetings.

What our friends had told us about the importance of speaking every day about mundane events was true. It helped us feel up to date with what was going on in each other’s lives, and helped lessen the distance. One trade-off for me, however, was not going out in Singapore as often as I might otherwise have done. We spoke in the evenings, often when Ted was en route to an event, stuck in traffic. (He usually phoned me because initiating or receiving a call on my cell phone proved terribly expensive compared to him calling the land line.) What little I explored of Singapore took place during lunch or on the few weekends we had together there.

Be True to Yourself and Your Partner

Because of Ted’s responsibilities in Indonesia, he wasn’t as free to travel outside of the country as I was. So I spent most weekends with him there, and that began to feel more like home.

Though on the map Singapore and Jakarta are very close, I found that the actual commute was much more time-consuming and stressful than I had imagined. Without checked baggage, the each-way commute was about five hours: a 30-minute trip from the embassy to the airport right after work on Fridays, check-in at least 45 minutes before the flight, 1.5 hours in the air (assuming no flight delays), 30 minutes from the gate to the taxi, then a 1.5-hour journey from the airport to our home. And then I reversed the process on Sundays. Occasionally, I missed flights, which was costly in terms of time, hassle (when not flying Singapore Airlines) and money.

Despite our best efforts, the commute was taking a real toll on our marriage. During a Thanksgiving trip to Vietnam, we spent a weekend in Nha Trang – a rare weekend for just the two of us. That weekend brought to the surface my growing fear that Ted and I were beginning to drift apart, and that terrified me.

I had been wondering for some time whether it was worth the hassle for both of us, and now I had my answer: no. Shortly after I returned to Singapore, I informed my boss, apologized, and began the arduous effort to curtail.

Perhaps that decision betrays a certain generational sentiment: I love the Foreign Service, but I found that I was willing to give it up if I had to choose between my career and my family. And it nearly came to that. The bureau ended up opposing my curtailment and persuaded the assignment panel accordingly. On appeal, my request for leave without pay was approved.

Making the System Work Better

I learned a lot through that process. Most important, I learned the value of being true to yourself and to your relationship first. Once you make that decision, everything else will work out, somehow, and a lot of personal and bureaucratic heartache can be avoided.

I also found that there were a number of trailing tandems who chose at the outset to accompany their spouses, and that individuals in the Department of State, on an ad hoc basis, helped them find creative ways to continue working in active-duty status. There was one person in particular, in a regional bureau, whose name kept coming up as the go-to person for facilitating these sorts of work arrangements -- which wasn’t, as far as I know, among her official work responsibilities.

Still, considering the growing number of tandem couples in the Foreign Service, and the financial and other benefits they bring, there really should be someone at State (perhaps in the Career Development and Assignments Office) whose official responsibilities include actively identifying opportunities for trailing tandems who desire to continue working.

By applying the Telework Enhancement Act of 2010 and with the backing of senior management, it might be possible for that person to formally survey offices in the department and find out whether there might be projects that trailing tandems could complete while overseas, using Skype and other technology, including remote access to the Intranet. This could be a coordinated effort, building upon the department’s Domestic Employee Teleworking Overseas policy, which provides a formal mechanism for Washington, D.C.-based Civil Service or Foreign Service employees to continue working there, even as they accompany their FS spouse or partner on an overseas assignment.

Though technology presents opportunities, the bureaucracy does not always eagerly welcome change. There is institutional skepticism about teleworking. And there are those who are afraid of the future. But with bold leadership, such as Sec. Clinton demonstrated with respect to benefits for same-sex domestic partners, perhaps one day no trailing tandem who wants to work will have to take leave without pay in order to join a spouse or partner at post.

(published in the May 2011 issue of the Foreign Service Journal)

Adventures in Trailing

2011-04-16T02:07:00.000-07:00

Until a few months ago, I was unaware of what life as a trailing spouse is like. Nothing informs like experience. Sympathetic to this new phase of my life, my sister-in-law shared with me a copy of Brigid Keenan’s Diplomatic Baggage: The Adventures of a Trailing Spouse.

Funny, honest, colorful, and sometimes a bit too chatty, Keenan shares her thoughts about having left her career as a fashion journalist to trail her diplomat spouse on postings to far-flung corners of the world. The overarching narrative is of a battle-worn survivor offering advice to newly-trailing spouses. Those with more experience trailing might also enjoy the book.

Though Keenan at times describes bouts of sadness and loneliness, she’s no victim. She found extraordinary opportunities to contribute wherever she was, like writing four other books – two within her chosen career field. Sometimes, events were thrust upon her, such as when she was one of few journalists in Ethiopia when the famine began, and she published articles for papers in the UK about the epidemic. In Damascus, she restored a heritage property in the center of town, and wrote a coffee table book about other enchanting homes in the old city that were lovingly being returned to their original splendor. Being a trailing spouse can be a gift.

As enjoyable as it is to read her book, the story feels disjointed at times. There are random ditties here and there that don’t seem to add meaning. And while Keenan had multiple harrowing experiences driving on perilous mountain roads teetering dangerously close to the precipice, one recounting is sufficient. The gossip was mostly interesting. And, overall, Keenan is insightful and inspiring.

(published in the Spring 2011 issue of The Kayon)

Robena Virginia Davis, Social Worker, 93

2011-03-07T14:46:00.001-08:00

Robena V. Davis grew up on her family’s farm in Floyd, VA, one of eight children of William Harvey Helm and Sarah Malinda Robertson Helm. Though she lived most of her life in Detroit, she maintained a special fondness for the farm throughout her life, often recounting the hard work and perseverance of her father to buy the land and of her parents to retain the land. Their example inspired Mrs. Davis to consistently, often successfully, challenge conventional class-, race- and gender-based expectations.

Mrs. Davis attended Harris Hart School in Floyd, VA, through the 10^th grade. There being no school in her town at the time where African Americans could complete high school, Mrs. Davis moved in with relatives 200 miles away, in Asheville, NC, graduating from Stephens-Lee High School in 1937. At Stephens-Lee, Mrs. Davis served on the editorial staff of the Stephens-Lee Pioneer, as exchange editor.

In 1939, seeking greater economic and social opportunity, Mrs. Davis and her sister, Lucile Helm, joined their brother and his wife in Detroit. After working as a domestic helper, Mrs. Davis landed a job as a waitress at Black Bottom Detroit’s BNC night club, where she met her future husband, Claude Davis. They married shortly before he was deployed to the South Pacific, where he served as a supply sergeant during World War II.

Upon Mr. Davis’s return from the War, Mrs. Davis served as his administrative assistant in their real estate firm. Mr. Davis was among the realtors working with James Del Rio, who sold homes to African Americans in Pontiac, Michigan, facilitating that city’s racial integration. The Davises also owned and operated a restaurant in Detroit at 440 Antoinette, on land now part of Wayne State University’s campus.

Mrs. Davis later served as a social worker with Wayne County’s Department of Social Services, retiring in 1982. As a social worker, Mrs. Davis counseled drug addicts, helping to break their addiction and guiding them toward becoming productive members of society.

Mrs. Davis’s civic engagement and community involvement was substantial. Four years after the Supreme Court’s landmark Brown vs. Board of Education outlawed segregation in public schools, Mrs. Davis helped integrate Detroit’s High School of Commerce and Business Administration, successfully persuading administrators to enroll her daughters, who became proud alumnae.

An active member of the Ladies’ Auxiliary to the Veterans of Foreign Wars, Mrs. Davis served as president of Detroit’s Post 3080 from 1982 to 1987. She served as District 4 president from 1990 to 1991, and as State Rehabilitation Chair from 1991 to 1992. One of her favorite VFW activities was encouraging Detroit high school students to compete in the VFW’s annual Voice of Democracy speech contest.

For many years, Mrs. Davis volunteered full-time as a greeter at the Allen Park, MI Veterans Administration Hospital and, later, at the John D. Dingell VA Medical Center in Detroit. According to hospital officials, no volunteer contributed more hours at either location than Mrs. Davis.

Mrs. Davis was a life member of the VFW Ladies’ Auxiliary, Disabled American Veterans, and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.

She was preceded in death by her husband, Claude Arville Davis, of Montezuma, TN, and a step-son, Wendell N. Davis. She leaves behind a sister, Lucile Helm; two daughters, Claudette Bond and Joann Davis; a step-son, Kenneth Davis; three grandchildren, Randall Walden, Jr., Melinda Shreve, and Clayton Bond (Ted); and a great-granddaughter, Cyan Shreve.

Services were held on Thursday, March 3, at Greater New Mt. Moriah Missionary Baptist Church, in Detroit. Funeral arrangements were handled by Wilson-Akins Funeral Home.

Enigmatic Asheville leader Stephens helped generations of blacks

2011-03-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

My grandmother proudly remembers Stephens-Lee. It was the 1930s, and the black school in her rural town in Virginia stopped at the 10th grade. Grandma moved in with her sister, 200 miles away in Asheville, where she became the first in her family to finish high school. I was intrigued. Who were Stephens and Lee?

Hester Lee, it turns out, had a straightforward biography — she was born and raised in North Carolina and taught at Catholic Hill School, which would later become Stephens-Lee. Her spouse was Walter S. Lee, the first principal of Stephens-Lee.

Information on Edward Stephens was much more difficult to come by. That which was available — through newspaper accounts and books — was not entirely consistent or reliable.

And one biography I found — all of two paragraphs — ended by stating that he just sort of up and left Asheville one day, never to be seen or heard from again. I had to find out more.

Through Deborah Miles, executive director of the Center for Diversity Education, and Jill Hawkins, of the Biltmore Estate archives, I began to gather clues.

Edward Stephens was born Dec. 22, 1849, in Georgetown, British Guiana (now Guyana). There are accounts that he left British Guiana for the United Kingdom at an early age and was educated in the UK and Europe.

One report noted that Stephens was educated at Oxford University, though neither Oxford nor Cambridge has a record of his matriculation. It is possible that Stephens was educated at another school in the UK.

Racial mixing was not uncommon in the earlier years of British Guiana, and many offspring of wealthy white men and local women of color were sent to the UK for their education. Stephens might have been such a student.

Or perhaps Stephens remained in British Guiana until immigrating to the United States, and obtained a broad, classical education through one of the elite missionary schools in British Guiana, such as Queens College.

Census records indicate Stephens immigrated to the United States in 1888. He arrived in New York and reportedly spent time in St. Louis before moving to Asheville in 1889.

Arrival in Asheville

One account suggests George Vanderbilt requested him to come. But how would Vanderbilt have known of Stephens?

Another account suggests that Stephens sought out Vanderbilt. Stephens was an enterprising man, and by 1889 it was well known that Vanderbilt had begun acquiring thousands of acres of land for what would become Biltmore Estate.

We may never know for sure what led Stephens to Asheville, but he made lasting contributions here. Stephens was the first principal of the Catholic Hill School, Asheville's first public school for students of color.

The school burned down in 1917, but was rebuilt in 1921 and renamed in honor of Stephens and Hester Lee.

Until 1965, it was the only senior high school in Western North Carolina for students of color. The school's gymnasium — what remains of Stephens-Lee — is now the vibrant Stephens-Lee Community Center on George Washington Carver Avenue.

Also while in Asheville, Stephens established a version of the Young Men's Christian Association for black people. As reported in this paper in 1890, “Stephens explained the object of the association to be the moral, intellectual and social improvement of its members.”

With the help of prominent African-Americans in Asheville, such as Isaac Dickson, and the financial backing of heir and philanthropist George Vanderbilt, the Young Men's Institute, now the YMI Cultural Center, opened in 1893. Stephens was its first president.

Mysterious departure

Within a year of the YMI’s opening, Stephens resigned from the organization and promptly left Asheville.

When asked for a reference on Stephens in 1894, Charles McNamee, Vanderbilt's adviser, wrote: “For a colored man, [Stephens] has had unusual facility in the way of education, and as far as book learning is concerned, is very thoroughly equipped.

“He speaks several languages, and has unusual command of the English language,” McNamee said. “His one failing however, is his lack of tact with people of his own race, and this was very injurious to him in his career in Asheville, and it was principally from difficulties arising from his unfortunate manner, that the necessity for his leaving the work in which he was engaged here arose.”

Stephens eventually settled in Topeka, Kan., where by 1895 he and his wife, Elizabeth “Izie” Riddick, who had also taught at the Catholic Hill School, started what became a major industrial school for blacks.

According to Dr. Thomas C. Cox, in “Blacks in Topeka, Kansas: 1865-1915, A Social History,” the Kansas Industrial and Educational Institute began in 1895 as a kindergarten, sewing school and reading room in a one-room house.

Within five years, the school had moved into a small building and was receiving annual appropriations from the state.

Stephens once again had a falling out with local African-American leaders and was dismissed in 1900 from the institution he and his wife built.

The school, later renamed the Topeka Industrial and Educational Institute, and still later the Kansas Vocational School, thrived for decades. At its height, the campus encompassed more than 100 acres and included several classroom buildings and dormitories. Its patrons included Andrew Carnegie and Booker T. Washington.

From Topeka, the Stephenses moved to Bridgeport, Conn., where they continued to educate African-Americans, though on a much smaller scale.

Stephens died of tuberculosis on Sept. 30, 1909, and was buried in Mountain Grove Cemetery in Bridgeport.

Izie lived another 34 years. In her widowhood, she helped establish a colored YWCA branch in Bridgeport. She is also buried in Mountain Grove Cemetery.

An extraordinary individual, Stephens, with imagination and determination, helped countless African-Americans throughout the country.

Clayton Bond is a writer in Jakarta, Indonesia. His grandmother, Robena (Helm) Davis, graduated from Stephens-Lee in 1937.

(published in the Asheville Citizen-Times, February 20, 2011)

Stratospheric Diva

2011-03-04T14:29:00.001-08:00

The night of our arrival, we received a text message from our friend Carmen (not her real name), who noticed my Facebook update and also happened to be in Solo for the weekend. She invited my spouse and I to join her and her friend, whom we’ll call Farah, for dinner the following evening.

They were staying in the Aman-esque compound of a designer friend of theirs who makes high-end furniture and textiles. Farah asked if she should have one of her Architectural Digest photographers come out and see the place. It is a large, exquisite, modern villa; open and airy. There is warm, soothing terra cotta everywhere, and a stunning reflecting pond with a gazebo perched to the side, where you can imagine whiling away an afternoon reading or napping in perfect solitude.

After the entrée course, we retired to this idyllic spot. A woman of few inhibitions, Farah pulled up her dress and began frolicking in the shallow, custom-built pond. She proposed making the pond into a pool, so people could have the option to swim. Farah considered asking contractors to come in and dig a concave swimming lane, preserving a shallow perimeter. She asked what we thought the owner, whom we didn’t know, and who happened to be out of town at the time, might think.

Dessert was served in the living room, where Farah pointed to a chair that she had to have. It didn’t matter that the owner’s workshop happened to be making another one, for sale; she wanted the one in his house. That one. The other chair was different somehow. “Was $2,500 too much to offer?,” she asked us.

A collector, she buys by the container load. She purchased some items in Bali that she planned to showcase at a Christmas charity cocktail party in Paris for a few hundred people. In addition to the chair, she eyed some large copper pots for her place in Tuscany.

Farah talked of $300 lunches at a restaurant in Paris where not even an American Express black card could guarantee a reservation sooner than three weeks in advance. But more than a socialite, she organizes important benefits for the arts, such as the Christmas party she mentioned. She doesn’t do fundraisers unless she thinks she can raise $1 million, because, she explained, the effort to raise $100,000 or a million is about the same.

We were fascinated. Who was this diva?

The following morning, we traveled together to the Mayan-looking Candi Sukuh complex an hour away, and learned that Farah’s father was a diplomat. She had spent very little time in the mid-size Asian country he represented.

Farah and her husband met in Paris over 20 years ago, when she was in her thirties. He was older; divorced, with grown kids. Centuries ago, his family started what has become a major luxury brand.

Though a Parisian for the past quarter century, Farah embraces her Asian roots. On the way back from our morning excursion, she asked the driver to take us somewhere we could get fresh coconut juice. The roadside stall also offered durian, which she enjoyed.

We parted company that afternoon, after dropping Farah off at the spa. She invited us to look her up when we are next in Paris. We’ll review some Dynasty episodes in advance, so we can be prepared.

(published in The Kayon, Spring 2011)