Ted Meinhover

I’ve got it – it’s air conditioning. Air conditioning and moving pictures. They are opiates, and they are responsible for passivity and aborted potential. They sap away the desire to challenge and create, drain away the passion of life. Ya, I always feel really guilty after going to the fancy, air conditioned mall… I admit to succumbing to that tragic acceptance of comfort far too often the past while. Perhaps it has been a reaction to the intensity of my experience here sometimes, an over-stimulation, a desire to escape to a place where every sight and sound does not offer the opportunity for analysis, the need to process a new input; an easy place where every single moment in public requires so much patience, and a tremendous outpouring of extroverted energy, simply to survive the expectations that the masses have of you simply because you are a foreigner, oh so exotic, that is unexpectedly roaming their streets. Sometimes you just don’t want to deal with the constant ambiguities of existence, the promises, challenges and insecurities.

Of course I am exaggerating. In fact, the past few weeks have provided more interactions and new stimulations than I’ve had for a while, as is usually the case when I can get away from the campus, out to a new place.  

It’s true, however, that I have had a very good time being quite… comfortable, and yes, quite lazy. I spent the holiday of Lebaran, or the week or so off during Idul Fitri, in my temporary home with Suroto’s family in their village outside of Purwokerto. I have not been the most prolific of writers or communicators, which I do regret and apologize for.

            However, after that week in Purwokerto, more than seven days of complete indulgence in comfort, lazing away the heat of the afternoon underneath the mango tree in front of the house, my blood is thick with sambal and sayur asem, the mountains and sky of Java are radiating from my eyes.

Drinking addictive Acehnese coffee and having deep, multi-lingual discussions (Indonesian, English, the local dialect of Javanese) about politics – the roots of the Indonesia’s and the world’s woes and hopes for its future; culture – the deep mysteries of ancient Java, the “high” language used in sensitive situations where communication occurs strictly though symbolic language – there was no deep urge to break the routine and sit down and write. Discomfort, I have discovered, is a key element in creation and creativity.

            Now, however, just getting off the bus from Pasar Minggu (where I was doing some shopping for fresh pisang Ambon and getting away from campus on a Saturday afternoon), my sweat and snot mixing with the dirt from the road, the experience of communal discomfort is oddly pleasurable. And inspiring.

            I’ve a date for dinner with a Suroto and a few of his friends in South Jakarta – assuming I can find the place – but I look forward to sharing my experiences and trying to get across how incredibly important I think they are.