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?