S**t Old People Say (Part 1 of 2)

We Americans spend our 20s searching for ourselves. We discourse about job fulfillment and finding our place in the world. Those who can afford it defer future adulthood by backpacking in Europe or distance work in tropical Asia and making videos about it to share with anyone who cares to watch. We spend our 30s becoming set in our ways. We assert the only good music was from our youth. We share our discoveries of heretofore unknown muscle groups when they start to malfunction. Those with children start their path to hair loss and premature greying with declarations that the little ingrates have it so good. From 40+ most of our conversations revolve around our children, other people’s children, and real or imagined medical issues.

I have yet to pinpoint when and how it happens, but at some point the social filter comes off. Something clicks in our 50’s and 60’s where nothing is too sacred for public discourse. Hushed dialogues about digestion issues later become open discourses on stool consistency and the color of one’s mucus the night before. One of my favorite mother-figures openly described her experience with a rectal-camera insertion during her colonoscopy. My father casually declared to all of Marie Callendar’s, “Joshua, your sperm is getting old.” Thanks, old man.

It turns out that Indonesia is no different. Gems still freely pour forth from the beloved seniors of our neighborhood. Nothing is off limits. The primary difference here is that old-people dialogue usually revolves around children and giving unsolicited love advice to their juniors.

Kampung Life Chose Me

Some context is important to understand how these stories come about. Indonesia’s big cities generally have four classes of housing. In order of descending socioeconomic status, there are mansions, (luxury) apartments, perumahan (puh-roo’-ma-han), and kampung (kahm-poong’).

Kampung are the local neighborhoods, veritable rabbit warrens bracketed by larger thoroughfares. Most of its houses are low, squat, and tightly packed together. The street layout is a bit chaotic. It is what I imagine would happen if (a) people decided to build wherever they wanted, and (b) the government later came and built roads for them.

Kampung streets are called “gangs” (gah-ngs) because they are thin enough that two motorbikes cannot drive side-by-side. Turn off a gang and you might find yourself in a long, dark alleyway that houses whole families on either side. People easily get lost in the gangs because google has never been able to fit a camera car inside for mapping. Once strangers enter the kampung they are at the mercy of its residents to direct them to their destinations. I suspect this is viewed as a feature rather than a bug.

Yet the kampung’s defining characteristic is the human presence. Residents from areas higher up the SES ladder rarely hang around outside. Their focus is security and the comforts of air conditioning. The average kampung resident hangs around outside after hours because their brick houses become roasting ovens by midafternoon.

Dana and I live in a working-class kampung. Many of its men are married but send support to their village-bound spouses and children. Many of the women hang out with each other long into the evening because their husbands work through to midnight. For both genders, the universal hangout spot is outside. Outside is cheaper than air conditioning and more fun than sitting alone in an oven.

Like a Bapak

Our kampung is located near a local university. This means that our kampung is peppered with student dorms and single-occupancy-residences for college students. It also means that our neighborhood has a fair amount of student foot-traffic. Many of the students are female.

Close by our house is a bench in a pertigaan (per-tee-gah-ahn; a 3-way intersection) of the kampung. It has a modest amount of foot and moped traffic running through it from morning to night. Dana and I often go to that bench to hang out with the ladies and gentlemen that sit there night after night. One time, the ladies were gone. I sat down and hung out with three other men, all somewhere between 45-55 years.

It turns out their activity of choice is catcalling. Pak Naadim catcalled to two college-aged ladies passing on the left. Pak Ria catcalled to another group of girls passing in front of us a few minutes later. Pak Agus catcalled to some ladies coming in from the right. I had zero idea what was being said, but catcalls are easily recognizable. The girls often laughed and continued on their way. They were apparently unfazed and/or accustomed to being catcalled by men twice their age.

Pak Naadim confirmed that: (a) I was indeed married; (b) lived with my wife; (c) very nearby.

Agreeing with my imminent danger, Pak Ria did not push. I was honestly deeply uncomfortable. Or at least fearful of guilt by association. It was equal parts parental raising, American feminism, my marriage, and the fact that all these ladies were slightly under half my age. Regardless, I am almost positive none of the bapak were serious. Nor did they ever think anything would come of it. It was merely a way to pass the time as they idled and smoked on the bench.

Dana said she has never heard any men (especially the ones at the pertigaan) catcalling the ladies. I gave her the look that spouses give each other when one thinks the answer is obvious. I guess the social filter is still there, somewhere. Interesting how that works.

Same Same but (Totally) Different

Two guests came to visit from the US. I brought them to that same pertigaan because we were eager to introduce them to our friends in the neighborhood. Pak Bagus, Pak Naadim, Pak Api, and his wife Bu Nur eagerly greeted and welcomed us. We sat, made introductions, and poured the coffee.

Everyone had a good time fueled by diabetes-inducing sachets of powdered coffee. The friends at the pertigaan produced some chips for my (and now, theirs) honored guests. I sat and played translator for the better part of 45 minutes as they peppered my friends about their lives in America. Then this curious gem came into play.

Pak Bagus said, “They should go to the college campus and find themselves some wives!”

Bu Nur was shocked into disbelief, “Why don’t they want to get married?!”

In Bu Nur’s defense, it is uncommon to find a single man in his 30’s in Indonesia, or at least one that hasn’t yet been married at least once. Indonesians tend to marry young and have children early. In addition, here were two young men gainfully employed and making decent money (they could afford to fly to Indonesia from the US, after all). The girls should be after them in droves! The only reason they were still single had to be because they did not want to get married. And why not find them on campus?

“Oh yampunnn! You should go home then! Take care of your wife!”

Retirement Assets

The first questions asked in conversation upon meeting is usually, “How old are you?” This is absolutely par for the course in most of SE Asia. I suspect that the one asking does so to establish the proper 2nd-person form of address [for more detail, read You (1 of 3)]. Yet I may be wrong. My friends (even ones half my age) call me by my first name. Those who never ask arbitrarily pick an honorific. Those that ask normally only greet me with a, “Hai!” and then ask where my wife is.

The second question lobbed in introduction is, “Are you married?” Answering affirmative branches into two parallel interrogatives. The first is, “Do you have children?” If I answer, “No,” the response is usually expressions of shock, dismay, and mild disapproval. It is tantamount to adamantly stating that I will never have children. In that moment I become a cultural throwback, a true foreigner with an alien mindset. The more socially acceptable answer is, “Not yet.” They then respond, “Then may may God bless you with a child very soon!” The proper response to such utterances is, “Amin!” I usually demur towards, “Thank you,” because it seems unwise to invoke the Almighty’s name in having a child if I’m trying to avoid fatherhood.

The second branching interrogative is “How long have you been married?” That answer (fourteen years now!) normally leads to the question, “How do you not have children?!” The more astute conclude straightaway that we opted to not have any. They reply, “But if it’s only you and your wife you’ll suffer from loneliness!” “Kids will make your marriage strong!” The answer most commonly heard is, ““But who will take care of you in your old age?”

I sat with Pak Api one day. Pak Api is an affable man, starting to bald and slight in stature. His skin is dark and leathery, signs of a hard life of labor and chain smoking. He told me I need to get working with Dana and make some babies! Else I would die without a helper. He then proudly declared that he just received news of a second grandchild. I congratulated him on his new future caretaker. I asked Pak Api his age.

Pak Api mumbled something unintelligible in response. It was probably related to the twin surprises that (a) I’m far older than I look; and (b) he looks far older than he is. It might also have been my unintentional implication that his kids made him look old. Oops. Thankfully I did not see Pak Api again for a week or two. We had time to let the awkwardness settle.

Baby Factory

I quickly became a regular of two warung nasi owners in my neighborhood, named Pak Ube and Bu Jiya. Their food is delicious and cheap and both of them are always good for a natter. This particular day was the eve of the start of Ramadan. They would theoretically open at 4am to feed people before the daily fast began.

“No, we have a room in the building behind this one (referring to the warung).”

Bu Jiya waved goodbye to us. “Okay! Don’t get too tired!!”

Ruminations

The charm of talking to older people comes from their willingness to say almost anything in public with a straight face. They’ve seen it all, done it before, and are too tired to concern themselves with the judgments of Joe Public. It helps that old people are generally highly respected in Asia. They thus have something of a captive audience. At the very least, the audience cannot stop them from saying whatever they want. The jarring thing is that the people saying these things are generally within 10 years of me. Many of them are my age, as in the case of Pak Api.

The end result is that I almost always feel that I am talking to my elders, not my peers. My social filter is attached quite strongly. I’ve never thought to tell anyone they should enter the sex hut. The difference may be a matter of lifestage. Children have a universal tendency to make people age. The difference could be generational. Current teens and young adults may have a different view on socially acceptable topics. It might also be between city folk and village folk. Most of our friends in the above stories were born and raised in the surrounding villages rather than the city. It may very well be as simple as East meets West: Sex and Children Edition.

Yet the given context seems to contradict the reasons above. Conservative Muslim society seems inter-generational and far too prevalent to openly talk of sex and baby making. Young adults additionally do quietly talk about sex within their circles even if they rarely do openly. That, or they televise and monetize the talk over social media. I’ve had discussions around sex and children with people from both the villages and the city (though I have yet to attempt a comparative tally). I thus conclude the social filter has simply fallen off with age.

My theory is that Indonesians’ shorter average life expectancy quickens the degradation of the social filter. Shorter life expectancy certainly factors into why official retirement age is 50. As a result, what the average Indonesian considers as “old” simply occurs earlier. Everything thereafter follows naturally. This is just my theory, though.

If my theory is accurate, it might help to explain why everyone thinks I am younger than my actual age. I do look fairly young though I have a large Chinese-grandpa spot (liver spot) on my left cheekbone. I also wear nothing but graphic tees and cargo pants. And Dana is quite adamant that no man in his 40s wears graphic tees. Yet my social filter is strong for many reasons. Thus I more resemble an Indonesian young adult rather than a grandpa. I rather doubt that I’ll ever encourage others, enumerate missteps, and push young folk to make babies at equal volumes. Maybe I just need ten more years. I hope I become as fun as my neighbors.

Coda

I went to the local hardware store to buy some wiremesh for my fencing. The store owner is an older gent in his 50s. He asked me if I had children. I answered the standard, “Not yet”. He gauged my face and then asked,

“Amin!”