What not to wear to an Indonesian circumcision party.

Place: Tulungagung, East Java, Indonesia

Background:  One weekend during my stay with my host family in Malang, East Java, Indonesia, my host mom told me that we would be taking a trip to the village where her mother lives, Tulungagung.  Having never heard of this place, I was intrigued at the very least and excited to see somewhere new. This is the story of my adventures in Tulungagung.  Don't let the word "village" fool you, for this is the place where normal is nowhere to be found.

Tulungagung, the beautiful village I visited in East Java, Indonesia.  Photo courtesy of Catherine, fellow exchange student.

Upon hearing that we would be making a weekend trip to Tulungagung, my first thoughts were "What should I wear?"  This had become my main mindset after having been to several different places in East Java where my wardrobe was scarily off-target.  But I was white, give me a break. (Which they did all too readily.)  I decided to take a lap and scope out the wardrobe of my host family to get a better idea.  I started my research. 

Entering the kitchen I stumbled upon my host brother.  "Halo, Mas!..." as I thoroughly inspected his clothing of choice.  Short sleeve t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops.  Seemed pretty low-key, but I wasn't satisfied.  I moved on to the living room where I ran into my host sister.  Another jeans and t-shirt situation.  I suppose it could work.  Walking back through the kitchen to my room, I decided it was integral to ask how long the car ride would be, which my host brother informed me was around 5 hours.  FIVE HOURS!  That seemed a bit lengthy of a ride to be sporting jeans on.  (I am that person who would wear yoga pants 24/7 if it was socially acceptable.)  As I turned to walk from the kitchen to my room, I saw my host mom walking up.  It was as if she was the answer to my frantic mind, searching for an escape from the jeans that were about to envelop my body for the next five hours.  First I saw her long-sleeve neon green t-shirt.  At this point I established that a regular ole t-shirt would be my top of choice.  And then, it happened.  YOGA PANTS.  Black, stretchy yoga pants.  I gave a much more excited than usual, "Selamat siang, Ibu!!" and ran to my room to don my less-than-mediocre garb for the trip to Tulungagung. 

However, upon analyzing my clothing situation, I realized that my own yoga pants were in mid-wash process.  Moving on, I settled on a pair of parachute, polyester athletic pants.  The kind that announced your presence before you actually walked up with the "swoosh, swoosh, swoosh" of the pant legs rubbing together.  I topped this with a UB40 t-shirt and felt that I was moving in the right direction.  Deciding the shoes to wear was a bit more difficult.  I always enjoyed my rainbows, but I didn't want them to get ruined. (Who knows what to expect in a village.)  I settled on the alternative:  rubber croc sandals.  (Crocs are my guilty pleasure.  I admit to them looking atrocious.)  It was settled then.

We set out on our trip.  My host brother driving, with me and my host sister sitting in the back.  Getting through town was fine.  Obviously it was much crazier than driving through your average American city, but I was already used to the city driving of Malang.  However, after we got out of town, things got real.  There were no freeways, although people chose to drive the same speed that they would on an American freeway.  The next few hours were filled with ample swerving, passing cars with head-on traffic quickly approaching, and ample cursing due to all the "stupid people" on the road.  During this five hour car drive, I went through at least five stages of emotion:  unsure, frantic, terrified, hysterically unsure, and finally, at peace with the thought of death.  However, not only did this car ride challenge my mental sanity, it also gave me the worse bought of carsickness I have ever imagined.  I sat curled up in a ball, moaning, going from being at peace with the thought of death to welcoming it.  Finally, we were almost there.  We survived?  It was an eerily miraculous thought.  "This is the road!" I heard as we made a turn onto a grassy lane, no more than 8 feet wide, surrounded on either side with deep trenches of water.  The joke was on me, I had spoken too soon.  After determining that the lane we were tight-walking on was, indeed, too narrow for comfort, we reversed off the lane and went the alternative route.  I had never been so grateful for my cramped, bloated body to touch the ground. 

A quiet cobblestone street in Tulungagung.  Photo courtesy of Catherine.

Throughout the trip I had heard the word "sunatan" thrown around quite loosely although emphatically.  Every time I questioned my host mom about the meaning of the word she made a scissor motion with her fingers.  I decided to turn to my handy pocket dictionary.  Ah, now I understood.  CIRCUMCISION.  So confused.  No question could clear this up.  I decided to just be at peace with my confusion. 

Immediately upon arriving, I was told we were going straight to the circumcision party.  I begged my host mom to let me change, but she assured me it didn't matter what I was wearing.  Since she was attending in her t-shirt and yoga pants, she convinced me she meant it.  All my host aunts and uncles were in attendance as well, but my host mom and I were the only ones wearing athletic gear.  We walked to the circumcision party, where I discovered the entire population of the village in attendance.  In their best attire.  Well, there was no turning back.  Another exchange student, Catherine, was staying with my host mom's sister, so she was there with me as well.  She was wearing jeans though, so she couldn't much sympathize in the situation.  I decided to stick by my host mom.  At least we matched.  Walking in, everyone turned to stare at the "bulehs," the Indonesian term for gringos.  I smiled as if I liked what I was wearing.  Assuming we were Australian, the DJ thanked us for coming all the way from Australia to honor the boy who had recently been circumcised.  (This was a relief, at least they would pin this wardrobe disaster on the Australians, and not associate it with Americans.)

After having various cameras shoved in my face, I felt confident in my ability to mask my complete humiliation brought on by my wardrobe.  We were then informed that the main musical performer of the evening, who appeared to be a beautiful woman, was actually a transvestite.  I laid down my pride and approached her for a picture.  Parachute pants and all, it was worth it.  Also, it should be noted that she had one of the most beautiful singing voices I have ever heard.

Host cousin/fellow exchange student Catherine, the transvestite singer who had the most angelic voice I have ever heard, myself, and my polyester parachute pants.  Photo courtesy of Catherine.

After the circumcision party, we headed back to "grandmother's" house, where we ate various sweets and salties, swept the bugs off the walls, and called it a night.  I now treasure this experience as a night of bonding with my host family, my polyester parachute pants, and on some levels, with myself as well. 

Traveler's Tip #3:  When attending a circumcision party, leave your parachute pants at home.  They will only bring you shame and unwarranted humiliation.