Merry Christmas. Running water has temporarily run out, so we’re all washing dishes with, and wiping our asses with, and drinking, boiled rainwater, or, you know, we would be, except it hasn’t rained for a week. Because of this, Nick has reinfected himself with the same stomach virus two or three times, whereas I remain inexplicably immune. I would really like to take a break from the squalidity for awhile, though. Is squalidity a word? I am heavily feeling my American privilege right now. The fact that I can even consider taking a break. Even though it will stay that – just considering – it somehow sets me apart.

Christmas here is a little like Halloween in that everyone cooks a feast and then waits for everyone in the neighborhood to come visiting and partake of the feast. Wade says that the reason behind that is that any of the visitors could be the Messiah. And who could live with themselves if they accidentally refused food to the Messiah? Unfortunately, bules can’t be the Messiah, I guess, because even though our household, too, cooked a feast, we just get LOOKED AT all weird when we show up at other people’s houses. This, plus the fact that all the stores are closed for Christmas, plus the fact that there’s no water, means that we’ll pretty much starve all day, except for the gratuitous amounts of chocolate my parents sent in their Christmas packages. Isn’t Papua great? Isn’t Christmas great?

I’m depressed here lately. I don’t know if you can tell, because I focus endlessly on minutae instead of whining about it (thankfully). But I am. I wish my culture shock would follow the approved trajectory outlined in my helpful ‘Dealing With Culture Shock’ pamphlet, but my culture shock apparently doesn’t read pamphlets, because it’s marching to the beat of its own depressed little drummer. According to the pamphlet, I should have had a honeymoon period for the first month or so, then about three months of frustrating assimilation paired with sleepless nights and homesick thoughts; then, at five months, begin to feel at home in the new culture. In truth, I had a honeymoon period during the second month only, during which I happily drew all the nature around me, took photos of it, chattered away in broken Indonesian to any curious local who approached me, obviously creepy or no, and spent lots of free time coming up with fun, complicated games for my classes. The first month was spent getting pissed off about showering with cold water from a bucket and the like, and the third and fourth month were spent in a foggy state of apathy. Now, in the fifth month, I’m just sick of everything. The next person who tries to get my attention with a ‘Sssst!’ through their lips, like I’m an animal, is getting punched in the face. The next person who tries to touch my arm while we’re both riding motorcycles really fast by riding up dangerously close to me and yelling ‘BULEBULEBULEBULE’ is going to get ridden off the road, and then punched in the face.

Louise used to tell me stories about how she bloodied people’s noses, and I would be amazed at how anyone could take that much offense at what was obviously harmless, but now I understand perfectly. I am so on edge that I get filled with rage now when I think of how uncreative Indonesians are with their cooking, even, or when I see someone throwing their soda cans and peanut bags into the ocean, like everyone does all the time, or when I rent a movie and notice that half the scenes have been censored. If I try and comfort myself by eating, my choices are some form of rice or some form of noodles with bitter, tough spinach and some overcooked fish, all generously soaked in MSG no matter how many times I tell the person to tidak pakai vetsin. I mean, please. MSG COSTS YOU MONEY TO BUY, AND FOOD WITHOUT MSG DOESN’T COST LESS TO SELL. IF SOMEONE SPECIFICALLY DOESN’T WANT IT, YOU SAVE MONEY BY NOT PUTTING IT IN. I’m so lucky my Indonesian is still terrible. If I could say everything that I wanted to say, someone would have shot me by now.