2023 Report

Mar 23

By Jack Stevens ‘22, Syiah Kuala University Fellow 2022-2024

In the mid-afternoon or early evening I usually take a walk around my little neighborhood. Sidewalks are nonexistent here, and so I follow the side of the road, keeping to the right so I can see motorbikes coming toward me. I turn right out of the house, then straight, then left until I am back—a short loop. I walk it multiple times.

I started taking these walks when I returned from my long vacation between semesters. On vacation I had been walking everyday and I wanted to continue the habit, even if it meant walking with no end destination. I do it because the steps matter to me. I feel sedentary in Banda Aceh because I ride my motorbike everywhere. I imagine other people feel the same. Every time I leave Darussalam I drive past a soccer field ringed by a shabby dirt track. Passing it anytime of day I always see dozens of people jogging or walking on it. Especially in the afternoon. I prefer quiet, and privacy, so I do my low intensity exercise near home.

It is glorious to go outside and feel the sun’s heat on my face. I probably derive so much pleasure from such a simple thing because I know the weather so well back in America. I arrived here in October, just as it was getting truly cold back home. I adjusted quickly to the absence of autumn and winter. November, December, January, February—month names that I associate with increasingly frigid temperatures and the sun only occasionally peaking out from behind a shroud of dour cloud cover—they soon blended together into monotonous warm weather. It does rain more during this time of year, but otherwise the days are partly cloudy, 80s and sunny.

Lots of sun and rain means vibrant flora. The flowers are dazzling; they overflow and spill their color everywhere. Fruit trees grow everywhere too: mango, banana, papaya, waxy apple, durian, pomelo, and calamansi lime. They hang over the street and so I walk beneath branches heavy with fruit, tantalizingly close, easily within arm’s reach. The branches connect to trees rooted in private property and so I do not take any. I can actually walk to a fruit vendor located just outside my neighborhood anyway. Occasionally on my last lap I will detour to buy rambutan, pineapples, and bananas, then lug a bag of fruit in each hand back to my house.

Houses in my neighborhood are snug to the street. Their proximity affords me a passing view of my neighbor’s lives. If I meet eyes with someone I smile and duck my head in a mini bow, or say selamat siang/sore/malam, whatever’s appropriate for the time of day. They reciprocate, and I carry on with my walk. I often see them again on my next loop, and the next, and I pay the same respect each time.

Once I intercepted an old man strolling toward the neighborhood’s mosque. He was clad in all white and sported thick glasses that shielded pupils misty blue from cataracts. As we approached each other he reached out his hand to shake mine and asked in clear English where I was from. I accepted his hand and said America. At that he perked up and told me he studied at the University of Albany back in the 70s. He paused, searched his memory for a few seconds, then said near Schenectady! with glee. We made small talk, exchanged farewells, and parted ways with another handshake.

Sometimes I pass other neighbors that randomly cast lines of clear English at me. I bite and answer their questions. Why am I here? I volunteer as an English teacher at FKIP and Pusat Bahasa. How long? Until June 2024. Where do I live? In the neighborhood, in the International Guest House. I point in its direction. Then I ask them if they work at Syiah Kuala, and they invariably answer yes. Or worked at Syiah Kuala and are now retired, like the old man. They all learned English from some past study abroad experience. Our short interactions usually end with them saying bisa bicara bahasa? to which I say sedikit sedikit. They send me off with a laugh.

About halfway through my walk there’s a vacant lot where I usually see half a dozen elementary school age boys playing soccer with a red plastic ball. The first time I walked past them they stopped their game and stared at me. I waved and said halo; they kept staring and said nothing. The second time they waved back and said halo mister. Every time after they have run up to me and babbled questions in rapid bahasa that I mostly cannot yet understand. I stammer and search for words I recognize in their overlapping queries. They like me despite being consistently disappointed by my incomprehension. I think my effort amuses them.

Once while walking back from the motorbike repair shop I saw three of the boys fishing in the roadside drainage ditch. Two had nets twice as tall as their bodies, and the third had a gallon sized plastic bag that, as he ran up to say hi, I saw was filled with little silver fish. He hoisted the bag with two hands so that I could see what they caught. I stooped to inspect the fish. They mouthed soundless vowels back to me. The sun sparkled and danced on their tiny silicon bodies. I told him banyak ikan and gave him a thumbs up. He beamed at me, then raced to resume his position beside his friends who had already moved onto another spot.

A few days after I went for a walk while it was raining. I arrived at the vacant lot and saw the boys playing as usual. They wore soccer jerseys, shorts, and no sandals. They were drenched and did not care. They recognized me under my hooded rain jacket and ran over to greet me. I complimented some of their choices—a Messi Argentinian national team jersey, a Salah Liverpool jersey—and then said I preferred Salah. That set off an outburst of boasting and arguing. I walked away laughing. A chorus of goodbye misters followed me. I looked over my shoulder; they were all waving to me, so I waved back. Then I watched one boy sneak up behind his friend and yank his shorts down to his ankles. The victim of the pantsing grabbed his shorts and gave chase to the culprit while the other boys cackled.

I should interject quickly to make something clear: I have dedicated so much writing to my walks because I value my habits and I think they really reflect my experience. So I will continue with the others.

Almost every morning I eat breakfast and have my morning coffee at a local place called Mitra. It is a traditional Acehnese coffee shop, laid out open air and facing the road. Two food stands moveable by motorbike sit outside and complement the shop’s coffee with simple fare. The stands specialize in a dish; for one it’s Nasi Gurih, and the other, Bubur Ayam. I alternate between them. They both know to put extra eggs in my meal. After ordering my food I make eye contact with one of the coffee men and point to where I am going to sit. They bring me my black coffee without sugar, my food arrives shortly thereafter, and I settle in to my meal. If I have a class that morning then I review my lesson plan; if not, I relax and think about the day ahead.

I am friendly with a few of the other regulars. On a recent morning one of them produced a chessboard to play against his older friend. I just happened to be learning chess and the sight of the board made me stir in my seat. He saw my excited eyes and beckoned me over to play. I asked if he was sure, as his friend was there first; the friend wordlessly stood up and nodded. I played an aggressive game against him and lost in the end, but that morning I went to class unbelievably stimulated from the chess and coffee combination. I have since played a few more games against the other regulars, and every time a small crowd gathers around to watch the impromptu international match.

Once finished with my morning classes I usually drive to my gym and work out. Joining a gym was one of the first things I did here thanks in part to one of Sydney Garvis’ friends who I met when I arrived (Sydney left behind a network of friends that welcomed me immediately). The gym is located in the city center, fairly far from Darussalam; its distance from home was the impetus for my learning how to drive a motorbike. The locker room is worth the drive alone since it has showers with high water pressure and hot water, amenities my home bathroom lacks.

I love working out, but I what I love perhaps even more is talking about working out. I love when someone comes to me with a question about their routine, and I get to ask them about their goals, their strengths and weaknesses, their injury history and limitations, and then help them.

Once I noticed a group of women copying the exercises I was doing and so I invited them to join me in my workout. I led them through a leg day consisting simply of Romanian deadlifts and Bulgarian split squats, doing my best to explain each movement’s form and give them feedback with my bad bahasa. By the end they were exhausted. I was elated—they had worked hard and that was all I could have asked for as their coach. We all fist-bumped and I congratulated them on their good work.

Another time a guy approached me after my workout and asked for tips on how to build his shoulders and lats so that he could look wider. My initial recommendation morphed into a full conversation over coffee the next day. Then we worked out together so I could demonstrate different exercises and give him feedback. Now we regularly hang out.

All of the above happens after I have attended to my classes, which right now consist of two in person and two online. One in person class is with undergraduate students who are still learning English; the other is with postgraduates who are well on their way to fluency. My online classes are much more diverse: undergrads, postgrads, other English teachers, and professionals in business. All are looking for practice with a native speaker.

Lesson planning and teaching at first felt daunting because I wanted to be great for my students but I did not really know how. I had no real previous experience as a teacher. I tried different activities, I made mistakes, I learned from them, and I now feel pretty good about my ability to lesson plan and lead a class. Practice makes progress. Trite, but true.

I finished an online class the other night. We had completed our scheduled number of meetings and so it was time for a bittersweet sign-off. Before I ended the call one of my students asked if she could say something quickly. This particular student I had actually met in person a week before because she had invited me to visit her school. Of course, I said, please. She thanked me for working with her and the other students, and for sharing my native English knowledge with them. Then she told me that I had changed her opinion about Americans. Before meeting me she had assumed that Americans did not like Muslims and that Americans were disrespectful toward Muslims. But then she met me in person and saw that I was kind, and did not behave like how she expected at all. She thanked me one last time and said she hoped to see me again.

For me, that is Shansi’s essence. I embody its mission everyday in how I conduct myself through all my little interactions. Awareness of that responsibility does not really affect how I act, though. In moments of self-doubt I remind myself that this program selected me for a reason.

The most important thing I have learned is that people are people. I guess everyone knows this as an abstract idea, but I moved about as far away from home as someone possibly can and everyday I experience it. It is all so familiar. In a way, so ordinary. I know this all might sound like oversimplification; yes, of course there are major differences between here and America. Between here and everywhere else, really. But I stand by what I say. The important thing is that fundamentally people are the same. They want the same basic things, they do the same things, they care about the same things. They laugh at the same things.

Turns out getting pantsed is funny in Aceh too.

Oberlin Shansi