JP/1/BY

Laughing at oneself while learning about Indonesia

They say that laughter is good medicine and we should learn to laugh at ourselves. Perhaps those two thoughts partially explain why I have enjoyed such good health for so long.

Over the years I've found that many humorous situations occur because of differences in language and culture. And I have had a few good belly laughs because of my own inadequacies with the local language.

I get it honestly, though. In Zip City, Texas, where I grew up, the only foreign language I was ever exposed to was English. However, by the time I arrived in Indonesia I had been broadened by world travel and education. I had a university degree and had been to Vietnam once and Mexico twice -- I could count to six in Vietnamese, ask for beer in Spanish and say "I love you" in three languages (not counting English).

I arrived in Jakarta with these tools and an adventurous disposition in March 1979.

After years of adventure and misadventure, I still am not fluent in the Indonesian language. My vocabulary may be as high as 500 to 600 words -- I can get by in the kitchen and in most taxis.

Amongst my friends and colleagues, I guess I rank about in the middle in terms of language ability. A few of my long time friends are fluent in Indonesian (they are not from Texas), but several still can't even smile in the local language (Texans).

But my facility with the language did not come easily. I had many teachers and almost all lamented my lack of skill at reproducing sounds. It turns out that, like English, many Indonesian words are not pronounced as written.

Take Tebet (a residential district in South Jakarta) for instance. I lived in that neighborhood for several years and had more than a little difficulty getting taxi drivers to take me there.

That is because Tebet is pronounced "TeButtttt" by all taxi drivers and most local residents. And it doesn't matter that there is no other word in the Indonesian language similar to Tebet to be confused by, if you ask to be taken there by a taxi driver, you can bet you'll end up in Kali Malang or Kebayoran Lama.

During my learning process, I was always envious of the more intelligent expatriates like Chad from Bakersfield, California. Chad was a fast learner.

I remember that after only about a month here he knew almost all there was to know about the problems with Indonesia.

I wasn't amazed so much that Chad had observed all these things in only one month, but that he had perceived that Djoko was unaware of these problems and that he would be able to fix them once he understood.

I wish I were as smart. I have known for some time how to correct a lot of the traffic problems at Semanggi and have never learned to whom to explain my solution.

Not so long ago after attaining proficiency in the language of the kitchen, Siti, my domestic assistant came to me in much embarrassment and asked permission for her husband to visit and stay overnight.

I, of course, gave my permission immediately.

Several days later, having forgotten the conversation, I arrived home, slightly inebriated from a game of golf, to find a young Indonesian man sitting on the front stoop.

At first I was puzzled, then Siti's request came to mind as I approached. Pleased that I had remembered, I extended my hand and said, "Selamat sore, nama saya (Good evening, my name is), Ron."

"I'm sorry," the young man replied.

Having learned from several teachers that my Indonesian enunciation was often incorrect, I was pleased that even though he hadn't understood my name, he had answered in English.

"My name is Ron," I said, still shaking his hand.

"I'm sorry," he replied again.

I was a little taken aback, so I tried again, taking pains to try to roll the R.

"My name is Rrrrron," I said, looking at him hopefully.

"I'm sorry," he said just as hopefully.

Recalling that I had once had a couple working in my house that couldn't speak Indonesian (it only took me six months to discover we had a communication problem), I decided this was probably the case here and I would dispense with the formality of exchanging names and invite him in.

Later as I showered, it occurred to me that he wasn't confused about my name; I was confused about his name.

I started to laugh at the idea that his mother had named him I'm Sorry because she had liked the sound. Like a poorly educated girl from Zip City might have named her daughter La Dolce Vita, because it sounded good to her.

I had a couple more chuckles as I dried and slipped into bed for a nap.

Just as I was slipping into dreamland, I had a revelation. He wasn't telling me his name was I'm Sorry; he was telling me his name was Ahmsari. Then I had to laugh at myself.

Ahmsari must have thought I was demented, or the very least deaf.

If we don't take ourselves too seriously and think of ourselves as overly clever, life can be pretty humorous -- at least in the circles in which I travel.

-- RG Pate