Allah Up in my Room

It was Mohamed's birthday last month (happy belated, Mo!) and the big marble-floored mosque down the dirt road was pumping out the holy jams for the celebration.

Having never been in a Muslim country before, I hadn't realized mosques have badass sound systems, nor that said systems could project prayers into my bed at 5 a.m. More bass, less treble, please, Allah!

The big, fancy mosque, presiding high above the lean-tos and shacks the locals lived in, was having an all-out hi-fi praise-off with the smaller, modest mosque a mile away that made up for its homeliness thanks to the alliterative pizazz of its prayer leader, the Kasey Kasum of Indonesia.

Calls to prayer start at sunrise, then go on throughout the day, but on Mohamed's bday the real FUN starts at dusk when religious chanting has that fervency unique to a 1,441st birthday party.

I can imagine how Muslims may feel between October and December, when they must endure the cacophony of sleigh bell carols that is Christmas every time they go out for toilet paper or milk for that other guy's birthday. The music may be secular now, but Manheim Steamroller wouldn't exist without the Reason for the Season!

Jesus H. Christ. It was loud. It was religious. It was completely foreign and totally cool.

I decided I should make every effort I could think of (which wasn't much) to fit into the world's most populous Muslim country:

I went all Mormon missionary - long skirt, short sleeves, open, forgiving expression, ready to convo about celestial kingdoms. I even wore my name badge that said, 'Ask me about your FREE post-mortem baptism today!' (nobody did).

I wore a long scarf to cover my head at a moment's notice, but the moment never came. It just made me sweat more in the 95 degree, 100 percent humidity, but I was prepared to blend.

I changed my gait to be less Western (with purpose?) and more godly (without purpose?). I floated along the sweaty, polluted, noisy Jakarta streets like I walked alongside the Prophet himself. 'Watch out for that rotting durian in the acid rain puddle!' I'd shout, and he'd sidestep with the ginger grace of god.

In the end, I became completely self-conscious about being a godless westerner for no reason at all. Maybe it was just my experience, but Indonesian Muslims are the nicest people on earth, always greeting me with a big smile and informing me President Obama is not only Indonesian, but a Muslim too!

'Well, of course he is!' I'd reply, with my most understated, JC Loves You eyes.

Where were all the men refusing to make eye contact with a woman? Why wasn't anybody asking where my husband or father were (or both?) Where were all the women in black glaring at the slut waltzing around with her elbows out?

And, most curiously, where did I get the idea this was how it would be?

Eduardes

It seemed I was meeting Eduardes at the pinnacle of his possession.

Earlier in the day I had come across Vermont Lew, an affable carpenter trying to cope with the dissolution of his 25-year-marriage by traveling through the most remote villages of Indonesia and waving at every passerby and shouting, 'I'm Misterrr Lew! From Am-er-i-ka!'

Lew is a very proud Jew who picked Indonesia after the Israeli ambulance charity, to which he contributes annually, ignored his requests for two months of ride-alongs.

Lew was nonplussed and for the last two weeks, he has been driving around Flores, a lush island east of Bali, with Eduardes, a slight, 50-something Indonesian with dark skin and light eyes.

Eyes cursed by the devil, actually. No, literally, by demons, or at least this is Eduardes' self-diagnosis brought on by symptoms common to all possessed people:

1. inability to sleep
2. inability to eat
3. constant cough that could easily be mistaken for The Devil's own voice

To combat these problems, Eduardes took to obsessive Bible reading late at night, with the book 3 inches from his tired, evil eyes.

'See, it started out great the first few days, but then he just got weirder and weirder,' Lew said, his unkempt white mustache waggling from side to side while his eyes bulged from behind thickly prescribed glasses. 'I kept having to wake him up and watch the road! Kids! Dogs! Golly, he just stopped paying attention sometimes, and it was just the weirdest thing.'

I nodded, as if having a devil-gripped Indonesian insomniac operate a moving vehicle for 14 consecutive days in a hazy shade of Lucifer is totally normal. I couldn't really disagree, having no experience with possession myself.

After dinner, Lew invited our random group of German, French and Americans a ride into town to visit the Internet cafe. What's a girl to do when presented with an opportunity to ride with the devil?

I was the first to jump into the car. Eduardes ambled in, apparently perturbed Misterrr Lew had interrupted his meditation on speaking in tongues. It was dark at 9 p.m. and Eduardes peeled out onto the road and took us through a scenic tour of the ditch before we righted the wheel and he brought us back to the left side of the road.

Eduardes was coughing and hacking every few seconds now, making little retches and filling the car with the burpy air of would-be vomit, if there was anything in his stomach to regurgitate. Halfway to town, he became distressed for no apparent reason and started chanting.

'Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...'

All under his breath and between hacks, but it was loud enough. If anybody needs Jesus in this world, it's this guy. Being the seasoned traveler, the epitome of cultural respect and communication, all I could do was giggle. Luckily, he ignored me.

After some wrong turns, we ended up at the cafe, where Eduardes proceeded to pace for an hour before announcing to the group we would have to leave, he needed to do some *reading*.

The next morning, I heard him promise Misterrr Lew he'd seek a doctor and a priest to help exorcise his demons, or at least give him some cough drops.

I hope the devil lets him rest.