Family,
Monday night Mas Kuncoro greeted us at the door with his copy of the Kitab Mormon in hand. And handed it back to us. "Here," he said, no trace of his usual smile, " I don't want this anymore. I don't believe it." My heart skipped a beat and back again and also maybe my soul stopped but thank heavens Mas Kun couldn't keep a straight face for long and before I could finish whatever sputtered sentence I had attempted to begin, he had bust up laughing.
And, okay, I admit it. It was a pretty good joke. Turns out he'd just finished Ether 6 and found that there wasn't an Ether 7, so he was looking for a swap, not full surrender. Printing errors like that happen a lot here (everything Church-related is required by law to be printed in Indonesia, which takes the usually unparalleled level of LDS quality down a notch. Or maybe more like a leap. Wait, make that a mayday-worthy nosedive. Oh, Indonesiaku.) so that was something we could easily solve with the extra KMs we keep in our proselyting bags, so Wahlah. Emergency avoided and our lesson on Baptism and Ordination continued on without a hitch, even ending on time and exactly at 45 minutes. Which could be a continuation of last week's Miracle theme.
And was a much better record than all the hours previous to that appointment, seeing as it took us TWO HOURS to get out to Mas Kun's, opposed to the usual 20 minutes. Why, you ask? Thank you. I've been dying to tell you.
Because while you're all wrapped up in South Africa's world cup, Malang's got a trophy of her own: the all-Indonesia league's official champion. Maybe you've heard of it? Okay, I know. Indonesia's pretty hopeless when it comes to any international contest—-but they make up for that in national spirit, especially when it gets down to the city level. I mean, I thought the Arema craze was bad enough within the first week I arrived, but that was nothing to the uproar we've got these past few days. They are the Champions and goodnessgracious, they're making the most of it. Arema's been the sure champion since last Wednesday (they already had top points in the league so the tournament's final game on Sunday afternoon was just a formality) and so for exactly a week now the entire city's been bumper-to-bumper motorbikes, angkot, cars, and convoys basically just driving about in circles for celebration. Everyone is in blue and white, carrying flags or scarves or banners or life-sized stuffed animal tigers and everywhere you go they are singing Singo Edan or pumping their fists to Aremania or honking their horns ‘til they're hoarse to the beat of all soccer stadiums' triumph: baa-ba-da-baa-da-da!
The revelry has no time restraints, no age restrictions, no liability limits. Newborns ride squish-saddle on their parents' motorcycles, little ears kept warm in Arema hats over their Arema scarves over their Arema t-shirts. Teenagers takeover angkot and ride from the roofs, trailing Indonesia's red-and-white behind them and Arema's blue in front. Little old Javanese men still in their sarung and pece join the parades, hanging out of car windows, standing to wave from truck beds, marching along the curb to answer the traffic's rallying cry. I would send you a picture, but I only just took them along our walk to the warnet and haven't had time to resize them—-and that really wouldn't do it justice, anyway. This is something you have to experience, and annoying as it is (we can't go anywhere today, because the team just came back to Malang with the trophy and all angkot have shut down their usual service to join in the welcoming party), I am glad I am here to experience it. As crazy as this last transfer was, I sure did get to Malang at the right time. Dolphin show, Malang Tempo Doeloe, Arema's rise to the top. Yeah. It's been a good two months.
Tangent: Malang's brand of slang is to rearrange everything or say it all backwards. I don't like it. I can't really do it. And I also don't think it's all that creative and slightly pointless, but for example: Malang becomes Ngalam and Singo Edan, the lion mascot for the Arema soccer team, is Ongis Nade. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.
Besides Mas Kuncoro, the work is slow but that's nothing new. Our contacts seem all enthusiastic until we call back and then suddenly they don't remember who we are or why they ever talked to us in the first place, which is mostly frustrating but also sometimes funny. Last week we dropped by a contact's house and were so obviously lied to that Marno and I have been trying to recreate the moment for days and still haven't been able to do it justice. Basically we could see the girl in the front room but she sent her friend out to fake stupid and in the course of that one conversation she said that she a) didn't know anyone by the name of Ibu Zamarsin, b) Ibu Zamarsin was her mother-in-law, and c) she was just a guest at the house and didn't know anything. We're thinking of telling SisLily to go back with Sister Bajodo and let them have a go at it.
On Friday we had our fortunes told by a Chinese lady in our branch. She told me I'd be married by this time next year so I'm not setting much store by it (and you shouldn't either! My word. Yeah right.), but in Elder Martoyo's life she confirmed that he had already met his future wife, that she was from his home branch in Tanggerang, and that her name began with "S." Since then Martoyo has been all sorts of breakdowns. One day it's Siska. But then what if it's Sofia? Or there's always Sari!! Such a dilemma.
Speaking of Martoyo, he made nasi goreng for us this morning and brought it over to Jalan Ogan for lunch. Great guy.
Okay, last thought before I go: Yesterday at Bhakti Luhur I taught the nuns "I Am A Child of God" and we basically sang it maybe a hundred times or more for the space of an entire hour. They loved it.
Oh, the Church is happiness. It is joy, it is true. Keep the faith! I love you.
Sister E.
Monday night Mas Kuncoro greeted us at the door with his copy of the Kitab Mormon in hand. And handed it back to us. "Here," he said, no trace of his usual smile, " I don't want this anymore. I don't believe it." My heart skipped a beat and back again and also maybe my soul stopped but thank heavens Mas Kun couldn't keep a straight face for long and before I could finish whatever sputtered sentence I had attempted to begin, he had bust up laughing.
And, okay, I admit it. It was a pretty good joke. Turns out he'd just finished Ether 6 and found that there wasn't an Ether 7, so he was looking for a swap, not full surrender. Printing errors like that happen a lot here (everything Church-related is required by law to be printed in Indonesia, which takes the usually unparalleled level of LDS quality down a notch. Or maybe more like a leap. Wait, make that a mayday-worthy nosedive. Oh, Indonesiaku.) so that was something we could easily solve with the extra KMs we keep in our proselyting bags, so Wahlah. Emergency avoided and our lesson on Baptism and Ordination continued on without a hitch, even ending on time and exactly at 45 minutes. Which could be a continuation of last week's Miracle theme.
And was a much better record than all the hours previous to that appointment, seeing as it took us TWO HOURS to get out to Mas Kun's, opposed to the usual 20 minutes. Why, you ask? Thank you. I've been dying to tell you.
Because while you're all wrapped up in South Africa's world cup, Malang's got a trophy of her own: the all-Indonesia league's official champion. Maybe you've heard of it? Okay, I know. Indonesia's pretty hopeless when it comes to any international contest—-but they make up for that in national spirit, especially when it gets down to the city level. I mean, I thought the Arema craze was bad enough within the first week I arrived, but that was nothing to the uproar we've got these past few days. They are the Champions and goodnessgracious, they're making the most of it. Arema's been the sure champion since last Wednesday (they already had top points in the league so the tournament's final game on Sunday afternoon was just a formality) and so for exactly a week now the entire city's been bumper-to-bumper motorbikes, angkot, cars, and convoys basically just driving about in circles for celebration. Everyone is in blue and white, carrying flags or scarves or banners or life-sized stuffed animal tigers and everywhere you go they are singing Singo Edan or pumping their fists to Aremania or honking their horns ‘til they're hoarse to the beat of all soccer stadiums' triumph: baa-ba-da-baa-da-da!
The revelry has no time restraints, no age restrictions, no liability limits. Newborns ride squish-saddle on their parents' motorcycles, little ears kept warm in Arema hats over their Arema scarves over their Arema t-shirts. Teenagers takeover angkot and ride from the roofs, trailing Indonesia's red-and-white behind them and Arema's blue in front. Little old Javanese men still in their sarung and pece join the parades, hanging out of car windows, standing to wave from truck beds, marching along the curb to answer the traffic's rallying cry. I would send you a picture, but I only just took them along our walk to the warnet and haven't had time to resize them—-and that really wouldn't do it justice, anyway. This is something you have to experience, and annoying as it is (we can't go anywhere today, because the team just came back to Malang with the trophy and all angkot have shut down their usual service to join in the welcoming party), I am glad I am here to experience it. As crazy as this last transfer was, I sure did get to Malang at the right time. Dolphin show, Malang Tempo Doeloe, Arema's rise to the top. Yeah. It's been a good two months.
Tangent: Malang's brand of slang is to rearrange everything or say it all backwards. I don't like it. I can't really do it. And I also don't think it's all that creative and slightly pointless, but for example: Malang becomes Ngalam and Singo Edan, the lion mascot for the Arema soccer team, is Ongis Nade. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.
Besides Mas Kuncoro, the work is slow but that's nothing new. Our contacts seem all enthusiastic until we call back and then suddenly they don't remember who we are or why they ever talked to us in the first place, which is mostly frustrating but also sometimes funny. Last week we dropped by a contact's house and were so obviously lied to that Marno and I have been trying to recreate the moment for days and still haven't been able to do it justice. Basically we could see the girl in the front room but she sent her friend out to fake stupid and in the course of that one conversation she said that she a) didn't know anyone by the name of Ibu Zamarsin, b) Ibu Zamarsin was her mother-in-law, and c) she was just a guest at the house and didn't know anything. We're thinking of telling SisLily to go back with Sister Bajodo and let them have a go at it.
On Friday we had our fortunes told by a Chinese lady in our branch. She told me I'd be married by this time next year so I'm not setting much store by it (and you shouldn't either! My word. Yeah right.), but in Elder Martoyo's life she confirmed that he had already met his future wife, that she was from his home branch in Tanggerang, and that her name began with "S." Since then Martoyo has been all sorts of breakdowns. One day it's Siska. But then what if it's Sofia? Or there's always Sari!! Such a dilemma.
Speaking of Martoyo, he made nasi goreng for us this morning and brought it over to Jalan Ogan for lunch. Great guy.
Okay, last thought before I go: Yesterday at Bhakti Luhur I taught the nuns "I Am A Child of God" and we basically sang it maybe a hundred times or more for the space of an entire hour. They loved it.
Oh, the Church is happiness. It is joy, it is true. Keep the faith! I love you.
Sister E.
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