Weekly update and the third chapter

The end of the rainy season in Jakarta appears to be the start of the pollution season. Overcast, gray skies that brought cleansing rain have given way to the nuclear winter orange of air pollution. During the "pollution season", Jakarta is bathed in an eternal dusk that migrates from sunkist to burnt sienna as the day grows older, more cars spew their exhaust, and the sun sets behind a curtain of smog.

Yesterday (Thursday) was a holiday in Jakarta as the city celebrated the Ascension of Christ. This is a Christian holiday I had never heard of. We took the opportunity to take a drive to our favorite zoo - Safari Park. We tried to leave the house around 9 AM. After a bathroom stop for my daughter and a return trip to the house to verify the pregnancy-induced-amnesiac didn't leave on her curling iron, we finally were able to leave the city at 11 AM.

Traffic was not too bad on the drive up. We bought bananas from a street vendor, and carrots from the usual suspects and headed up the hill in Puncak to visit the animals. It was crowded. On several occasions, I actually mistook the road were on as the parking lot at the end. At least three times I saw rows of cars through the trees and thought we had reached the end long before we actually had. The trip through the park typically requires 45 minutes. It took well over 2 hours.

Per usual, we had great animal encounters, though, so it made the trip worthwhile. One of the highlights was watching the zookeepers ride the elephants through the park. They've trained the elephants to pick up trash and put it in a bin on their back, collect money from the cars and hand it to the rider, and eat the food their given (like the bananas we gave them). I also learned the that animals are more than happy to come up to your car and take your carrots, but don't you dare try to touch them! I had a very large deer-like creature show me the business side of his horns when I tried to pat his head after giving him a carrot.

Due to a rambunctious child, we decided to forgo the rest of the activities at the zoo and head home. I don't know if this was a mistake or a wise move. We drove for about twenty minutes from the zoo to the main street heading back to Jakarta. We merged with traffic, went about 200 yards, and didn't move again for over an hour. At that point, they stopped all uphill traffic and made the road one-way, downhill. A drive that has in the past required 2 hours required 5. You do not know traffic until you know traffic in and around Jakarta.

The other thing that seems to be a constant for me in Jakarta is a head cold. I caught one in February on my pre-move visit. I caught one my first week here, and I have another one now. No fever, so it isn't swine flu, just a major sore throat and sinus pressure. I'm averaging a head cold every six weeks. I really hope that trend does not continue.

Lastly, I made a visit to the dentist on Wednesday because one of my teeth hurt. No cavities, no visible issues. He prescribed a toothpaste (the one I already use) and told me not to floss so hard. The interesting part was when I arrived. A mask-wearing nurse stopped me at the door, forced me to clean my hands with Purel, and I had to fill out a form indicating if I had been out of the country in the last 7 days or been near anyone known to have swine flu. They are taking it very seriously here and, knock on wood, still no cases in Indonesia.

CANNIBALS

Chapter 1

Roger couldn’t see how things were going to come together. No matter how he massaged the numbers, high estimates on donations, low estimates on costs, he always came up short. He needed more cash and he needed it fast or the trip was not going to happen. This was not an outcome Dr. Roger Faith had anticipated. He had spent the last several years applying for every federal grant, every stipend from professional and non-profit organizations. He had endured the ridicule of his colleagues, laughing at his child-like passion pursuing a feat no one believed possible. His dogged determination and confidence in the eventuality he would prove them all wrong allowed him to ignore the surreptitious snickering, the whispered insults, the veiled condescension.

Looking over the numbers one last time – the pledged amounts and donated equipment in one column, costs of the excursion in the other – he feared he would continue to be the butt of jokes. The poor, pitiful professor who chased a phantom and ruined his career. Roger covered his face with his old, weathered hands. Hands that had logged long hours unearthing Egyptian artifacts outside Giza as an intern for the world renowned archaeologist Dr. Frederick Mochstein. Hands that had ached with arthritic intensity after spending several hours writing copious notes of his observations of the Naktu tribe in the Amazon jungle. He sighed deeply and leaned his long, thin body back in his soft, leather chair.

It was time to face facts. “Man-up”, as his father would say, to the reality that he was chasing a pipe dream. He thought back through his career. It had started promisingly enough – undergraduate at the University of Chicago, masters degree from Oxford, a prestigious professorship at Stanford where he authored several published papers detailing the findings of his research on the impact of introducing Western civilization’s ideals to the indigenous tribes across the world. He was a rising star. A burgeoning pillar of the anthropology society. Now, he was a laughingstock. All because he believed he had discovered an unknown, unstudied tribe on a remote island in Indonesia.

Roger sighed deeply, exhaling what was left of his professional pride, and prepared to type a resignation email to his boss. He preferred retirement to banishment; a quiet send-off to an ignominious departure. He would leave on his terms, albeit prematurely. His hands trembled slightly as he authored the end to his career. His final paper. A brief note:

Peter,

I have decided to retire. Thank you for my time at this prestigious institution.

Roger

He reviewed his final words. Was this really how his career would end? It seemed a waste. He felt he had so much more to give. Before he could hit SEND, Peter rolled into his office.

“How are things, Roger?”, he asked. ‘Does he know?’, Roger wondered.

Peter was the Dean of the Boise State Department of Anthropology. His large, bulbous eyes stuck out of his head like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube. He was a very large man without a hair on his head. When he was granted his first professorship, his new-found economic security resulted in him gaining five pounds per year. When he attained tenure, it jumped to ten pounds per year. Two years as Dean had added another thirty pounds. Twenty years working for scholarly institutions and neglecting to exercise resulted in the nickname “Porcine Professor”. Of course, he wielded so much power both at the University and in the community at large, no one dared utter the name within earshot.

“I’ve come to speak to you about your expedition to Indonesia”, Peter continued.

“I was just writing you an email about it”, Roger replied.

“I was wondering if you have obtained all of the funding you need?” Peter examined his fingernails with great interest.

“I’m about fifty thousand short”, Roger admitted. He slid the ledger he was reviewing across the desk for Peter to review. Peter glanced at it by looking downward with his enormous eyes but did not move to grab it.

“Then I have an opportunity for you.”
Roger minimized his email and looked at Peter expectantly.

“I received a call this afternoon from someone who is eager to fund your expedition”, Peter explained.

“That’s great!”, Roger said closing his email completely, deleting it from his computer’s memory so he wouldn’t accidentally send it. He leaned forward in his chair excitedly. Roger felt his career coming back to him. He could feel the adrenaline rush shoot through his blood. His mind began racing through all the preparations – identify eligible and worthy doctoral candidates, get appropriate immunizations, file necessary paperwork, make travel arrangements. “Who should I call to thank?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll call you directly. He has a favor to ask.”

Roger slowly sunk back in his chair again. A catch. The donor wanted to speak to him directly for a favor, which meant there was a stipulation to the donation. This was never a good sign. Did he want partial credit? Did he want to tag along with a film crew for his own documentary? Maybe he wanted ownership of the final product so he had the opportunity to censure the discovery. Every respectable academic rejected donations with strings attached. But Roger was desperate. He either took tainted money and pursued his dream. A life-changing, legacy creating dream. Or, he respectfully turned down the money, retired with what little respectability he had left, and moved to his cabin in Montana.

It took Roger just a few seconds to make up his mind: “What’s the favor?”