I beg your pardon for it being so long since I last wrote. I had a little medical condition. When I was in Madagascar I had Giardia, a form of amoebic dysentery. I got it again last month. The Peace Corps doctors tell me that having had it before made this bout not as bad. Alhamdu Allah.

One of the teachers had reason to celebrate and treated the whole staff to lunch one day.  I ate something new. Jengkol. The name in English is “Dog Fruit”. The next day three of us teachers were sicker than dogs. I joined them in blaming the Dog Fruit. The day after that the other teachers were well but I was not. Nasty runs and amazing burps reminded me of the Giardia I had had in Madagascar but this time there were no cramps. I waited about week to see if it would ‘run its course’ sorta speak. When it wouldn’t stop running, sorta speak, I contacted the Peace Corps doctors. I was told to go to a local clinic for tests and buy the medication for Giardia. Ten days into the course of medicine, the belches were still there but the runs had stopped.  Stopped completely. The doctors told me that one aside effect of the medicine was often a complete stop. I still had the belches because of eggs still in my system. I am now in the last days of another medication to kill off anything nasty still living in my digestive track. I can’t say I was ever in pain.  I was inconvenienced and had the energy drained out, sorta speak, of me but never missed a class. I missed a lot of evening walks but have gotten back on track since the second medicine has kicked in.  I’m ok, well and almost back to being regularly normal, sorta speak.

School has started. I started with four eleventh grade English classes taught by two different teachers. Each class meets for four hours a week. Sixteen is about the average number of hours an Indonesian high school teacher teaches. When I realized that one of my counterparts was always at least half an hour late for class and often didn’t show at all, I dropped his classes and took two more with the other counterpart. I felt a little badly about leaving the students but Peace Corps reminded me that my job is “Teacher Trainer” not substitute teacher. My one counterpart has an advanced degree in English Education. Ihsan is always thinking of new ways to make his classes more interesting and effective. He takes any idea I have and runs full speed with it.  We are getting along very well.

One of my ideas was for the students to keep English journals. I told the students to just write in English.  I don’t care about the grammar or punctuation or (as you might guess) spelling. If I could understand what they were saying it was good enough. I collect them every other week. (160 high school journals a week is a little much for me to read.) There have been some very interesting entries. It’s interesting to read how many of them LOL at their BFFs, BFs and GFs.

In class Ihsan and I work as a team. We both go around checking on 

homework and classwork so have more time for new material and practice. Last week one topic was “Giving Advice.” We had the students write on a piece of paper one of their concerns, worries or problems.  The desk-mates exchanged papers and offered advice.  One boy wrote, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”  His buddy wrote, “Take a bath.” We have fun in class.

We have nothing BUT fun in English Club. Almost three hundred students signed up for English Club. Classes of 40 students sitting at desks is one thing. Three hundred in folding chairs?  NO! So, we have three English clubs. We sing songs and play games. The only kinda teaching is the vocabulary for the songs and games. We have a good time.

Bu Noureine, my home stay ‘mother’ (younger than I) took their daughter to Bandung for a week where she will study for a Masters degree. Pak Ahmed my home stay ‘father’ (also younger than I) and I, were without Bu Noureine’s well cooked meals. Breakfasts of eggs, toast and coffee were not difficult. I went back on my Ramadan lunches of noodles in a paper cup. Each evening, Pak Ahmed led me through a maze of side streets to a little restaurant he knew and Bu Noureine approved of. A couple dozen different pre-cooked dishes were on display in the window. We pointed to what we wanted and ate. It was an adventure.

The maze of allies were almost as much of an adventure as eating in the restaurant. We walked between a mosque and an Islamic boarding school, past ponds and the homes of several of my students who all seems to be sitting out when we walked by. By the third evening the two minute walk was taking about a quarter of an hour.  “Mr. Jay!  This is my house. Come in. Meet my father – brother- sister- cat.” Getting to the restaurant was more than half the fun.

If I go out of the door of my room at home, walk across a bridge and out into the middle of one of Pak Ahmed’s fields (planted in cucumber and tomatoes at the moment), about 25 yards from my door, I can see my school.  However, because of the fields I cannot walk there directly. I was walking out to the main street, two blocks down that street then two long blocks up to the school.  Pak Ahmed showed me another maze I could use to get from home to school more quickly. It would be quicker if I could walk without interruption. These little allies are at the most four feet across. Yet, at 6:45 a.m. there are people selling cooked stuffs for breakfast, mothers checking their kids school uniforms before letting them go off, old men (probably younger than I) having their morning coffee and chatting, and kids everywhere.  I pass three schools on the way to mine. I have visited all three. The students all know me. They ALL (street sellers, mothers, old men and students) know me. Little kids (little age and size) all say, “Good Morning.” Or, “Good Afternoon.”  I started out greeting the older people in Bahasa Indonesia but most of them have now switched to “Good Morning.” Mothers yell into the houses to have pre-school age children come out because, “Mr. Good Morning is here.”

I had a rough time getting started here. The school was closed when I arrived, Ramadan meant nothing was happening, most of the teachers live far from the school, living in a family compound, even on a pond, is not conducive to entering the larger community and needing to being close proximity to my western (sit) toilet at home have all held me back a bit. But now I have started teaching, interacting with the teachers at school, getting to know the people in my neighborhood and am feeling well, all seems to me falling into place.

Please share letter with anyone you think will read it. Make sure all my friends get it since I don’t have all your e-dresses. Write soon with your news and views.

It’s been many hours since I was Mr. Good Morning. It’s time for me to be Mr. Good Night.

The fish send their greetings.

Some pictures from my walk home from school today