Let me just say that being famous is the worst thing in the world in my opinion.  Having complete strangers stalk you, take your picture when you don’t want them to, making every piece of your life public, would be a death sentence in my eyes.  Yet strangely, that’s basically what happens to me here in Indonesia, which is why it’s a constant struggle.

Perhaps I can deal with it for the time being because I know it’s temporary.  I’m approaching the two-year mark in this place, and after that amount of time enduring such abuses, I will soon be able to hold my head up high as I walk into a crowd of people and happily disappear into anonymity.  Oh…how I dream of that.  Not to be stared at.  Not to be stopped five times by pedestrians asking for a photo.  Not to be in the middle of something and having men a few yards away TRYING to stealthily take my photo…and FAILING HORRIBLY….

My knowledge of being famous basically comes from the little I know about Hollywood stars.  Yes, those people are glamorous and rich and all of that…which I care nothing about…but they use their wealth to buy or build things to keep them protected and isolated.  Private jets get them where they want to go and their houses are more like compounds.  They have walls and guards and gates.  They serve as houses, resorts, gyms, studios and parks, so their isn’t much reason to ever leave.  They have people to do their shopping and cooking, which can further limit their interaction with everyday people, if they so choose.

None of that ever interested me, until I moved to a place where I was on display…by just being me.  And right now, that notion of isolation does sound appealing.  After enduring the harassment, the stares, kissing babies and posing for pictures at every moment when only solitude was desired, I relate to wanting nothing more than a compound to hide in for a while.  The weight of a stare, in a country where I’m the opposite from the locals on many levels, can crush my confidence and resolve and reduce me to wanting to hide in a corner for a respite.  And forget underwear shopping!! Anything remotely private gets put under a microscope and can easily become uncomfortable, especially with an audience wherever I go.  It’s these moments when I want to throw my hands up and say, “why not find someone ACTUALLY famous?”

I had a conversation with a coworker the other day about foreigners at the beach.  I couldn’t get my coworker to understand how inappropriate and uncomfortable it is to stalk people at the beach and take endless photos of someone in a swim suit (without asking) just because they have a different skin color.  I had to explain that even though people are choosing to be sunning themselves near the ocean, it’s still a private action, a matter of personal space that deserves respect.  But, it was like telling a small child “Look, but don’t touch,” only to have their grimy little hands crap up your polished silver.  Needless to say, my coworker didn’t learn the lesson I was trying to teach…which means her friends or children won’t learn a lesson in cultural sensitivity either.  Apparently anywhere I go, I will be treated as an object of personal amusement to the locals because I’m caucasian and won’t get a say in the matter.  Hence…I need a private compound for breathing room….

I suppose the experience might be different for a man, considering many come here and enjoy and even seek out the attention from the local women.  And I suppose it’s easier for a woman to get exhausted by the multifarious harassment, but a female perspective is the only point of view I can truly comment on, for obvious reasons.

I just can’t help but think of how crazy this would be back home.  I grew up in a small town that was pretty homogenous, but a person of a different cultural background would be part of the community from time to time.  But those individuals would be slightly avoided, as to not offend them with stares, not be stalked!  I wouldn’t run up to someone and yell out “Asian” or “African,” take their picture and then secretly (not so secretly…) follow them through a mall to watch where they were going.  I get that in Indonesia these things happen out of a fascination with white people and it’s thrilling to see one, but geez…I’m still a human, and kind of a boring one at that!  I’m not a supermodel, singer or actress, in which fan fare would be expected.  I’m just a teacher who happens to be a fair Westerner.

I suppose this is one area I may never truly understand.  All I know is that for the next 4 months, I’ll pose for about 100 more photos, be followed around shopping plazas and be called “Bule” (the Indonesian word for a light Western foreigner) multiple times.

Ahhh, that’s Indonesia.