Laughing at oneself while learning about Indonesia

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