A Traveling ELF

The Book End

2011-07-04T11:15:00.005-05:00

It seems only fitting to add the final note of this journey a full year after my last post abroad.

Traveling expands the brain, separates you from mundane worries, broadens the heart, pulls the wings out from beneath tense shoulder blades and creates space where the everyday tends to crowd. My last post was written from a tiny one bedroom cottage in the hills of WA (Western Australia). This entry is written from my couch, in cozy Andersonville, Chicago, North America. My cat is sprawled beneath the window captivated by local birds and a summer breeze. My knees are swollen from yesterday's run along the Lake, and I'm treating then with bags of frozen peas. Pretty fancy.

This past year flew by at lightning speed. Indonesia was the longest year of my life, the hardest, and the best. Since coming home, time has taunted me, flitting forward as I stand still...growing imperceptibly on the inside. At the moment I find myself perched in a major crossroads as I decide what kind of life I want to live. I was utterly elated to return last summer. Everything about Chicago, about this country, made me skip down sidewalks. I drank in my city like I never have. I wore sleeveless shirts and skirts with sneaky mirth, drank my fair share of cosmos, reconnected with beautiful people, and sat in the sun. I moved in with a friend from graduate school, took my cat back, and settled into a wonderful apartment only five blocks from where I'd left back in 2009: a younger, more naive woman.

Fall came (I thanked the Universe for seasonal changes). Teaching once again filled my weeks, leaving me domesticated on weekends, dating, catching up with friends, and re-adjusting. Winter brought initial excitement, and then depression as it dragged on and on. I was assuaged with trips to Oregon, North Carolina, and Boston to visit family and friends. Those were all lovely jaunts, but I've been home bound since January and am ready to claw through what I increasingly feel is a cage.

I chalk my encroaching panic up to two things: being a restless Aquarius, and not having been on stage for two years. I came back to Chicago to be an artist. I was offered the chance to stay in Malang a second year and declined because I felt fraudulent calling myself a full time instructor. And yet, I've chosen teaching as my vocation because I need meaning and purpose in my life. I dislike waiting tables. I've paid my dues in health care. The problem lies in the fact that although I live a relatively sparse existence, I still have champaign taste on a beer budget. And let me tell you: part time teaching ain't lucrative.

Thus, my task for the summer of 2011 is to land a stage role that pays actual money. I've been auditioning, and it's been a luxury. But there are times where I feel like I should have been doing this eleven months ago (where did time go?). Meanwhile, I think about where I've been and when I was most happy. Survey says: 1) with the orangutans in Borneo 2) the last time I updated this blog, on that farm in WA. I look back at those photos and see a face full of bliss. Real joy living behind my eyes, shining through my pores, negating the need or want for makeup. I hardly post pictures now because the woman captured in those shots is brooding, conflicted, and a little sad. What a downer!

I was listening to NPR the other day. Tom Hanks was being interviewed. I have loved that man ever since his two year stint on "Bosom Buddies" so of course I was attentive. The host asked him what he would be doing as a career if he wasn't a world famous movie star. He responded that he would probably be a tour guide of some sort because he's an innate story teller. He then recalled to us listeners how he remembered touring an old Maxwell House plant as a child, and the grandfatherly guide explaining to his group how the smell of the beans would captivate him when HE was a child. Tom explained that as that old man spoke those words aloud, he swore HE could smell that very brew too, in the same way this tour guide had done years before. No longer a coffee drinker myself, I still appreciate the smell (I have been known to inhale my roommate's coffee beans on occasion) and even more so appreciated the nostalgia inherent in this story.

The host then asked Mr. Hanks why telling stories is so important to him. He responded that, for him, stories have the power to transport people in a way that is a direct counter to cynicism. And cynicism is a killer.

I could not agree more.

Moving forward, I've decided to follow my bliss. I have no idea how that will unfold. I do know that teaching one class at each of my Universities is what fits me mentally, but not financially. I know that I have to learn how to manage money for the first time in my life. And although I've known some magical Fairy Godmothers, I'm not one for Sugar Daddies.

I've learned that travel is a non-negotiable part of who I am and want to be. So...I have the somewhat daunting task of figuring "it" out for as long as this summer stretches.

Wish me luck fellow travelers. May we find each other on the flip side.

Love,
Courtney Elizabeth

The Fruits of Labor

2010-07-03T22:13:00.007-05:00

It's fascinating how quickly and completely things can change. I've been on this farm a solid week now, and in that time my life has done a total 180. As I type this, I'm sitting cross legged on a bed covered in flannel sheets and multiple thick blankets. I have two pairs of socks on. Each night I sleep like the dead, with nothing to wake me except a distant rooster or perhaps a cockatoo. About a foot in front of me, through the large picture window, sits acres and acres of fruit trees. Beyond those, National Forest. Of all the trees dotting the hills before me, only the lemon, orange, and mandarin remain unpicked. Yesterday my friend Jacob and I went to the small Lake on the property and let the sunshine warm us as we ate the fruit we'd just gathered on our walk back from "town". We didn't talk much. We've only known each other for 7 days. He's from Hong Kong, but is a month into a year off he's spending farm hoping. You meet people like this when you travel alone. Other singular wanderers. We got along instantly. I've taught him how to play Scrabble and Uno, he's made me Chinese food. There are only two other WWOOFers like myself here: Jacob and Tim. Tim's French, and a 20 year old tall, lanky, happy-go-lucky chap without a care (seemingly) in the world. Emily and John own this property...it's been in John's family for 70 years. They have two beautiful daughters and live just up the hill. I couldn't ask for a better host family. Emily picked me up from Perth center four days after arriving in the city, took me to my little cottage, bought me groceries, and introduced me to her family (who live nearby). My first afternoon here was spent mostly in her Mother's kitchen: a huge wooden room with foot thick beams crisscrossing above your head, a massive picnic table in the center, and a coffee machine making delicious brew on a long counter filled with freshly picked veggies from the gardens outside. Dogs and children ran around me as I tried to soak it all in while her relatives asked me questions about who I was, why I was here, etc. My head was spinning by the time we got "home", and every day since then it's settled down considerably. And now, I'm just about as happy as can be.

Quite the contrast from my last week in Malang. Because of my life long tendency to procrastinate, I left the packing up until the last 48 hours. If it wasn't for Wayan's tremendous support, I never would have gotten out of there on time. The grading was painful. Fifty quizzes consisting of essay questions in one day kills the brain. But I got it all done. My boss and his assistant paid me a visit on my last full day, for business reasons, and I had to sit through a two hour meeting about housing issues, cultural differences, how to treat the next ELF arriving in September, etc. It was a whirlwind of paperwork and tediousness. What made it memorable were my students, who waited hours for me outside of my office while I ran around town, selling my bike, running errands, and looking generally frazzled. There was a cluster of about six of them, all patiently watching me come and go, hoping for a final conversation. Their kindness floored me, and when I gave them all hugs, I lost it. I'd forgotten why I was there, what I accomplished, and the effect of my year at that school. But when I gathered their tiny frames into my arms, it all made sense. Their attentiveness made up for the fact that at my staff going away party, I was served two pieces of processed cheese between two buns when I'd ordered a "cheese burger" (when I asked what had happened, they said I should have ordered the "burger with cheese" if I'd wanted meat). Their unabashed sweetness forgave the fact that my counterpart did not show up to my going away party, and the fact that even though I'd gotten rid of multiple bags of stuff before packing, they still charged me $36 in excess baggage weight at the airport. None of that mattered. And from the view outside my window right now, I'm brought back to the present, and to the simple, expansive joy of living, once again.

My schedule is pretty amazing. I'm asked to work four days a week. I have Wednesdays off, and full two day weekends. Work begins at 8am. I break for an hour at noon, and am finished at three. So far I've picked fruit (LOVE climbing the trees), packed fruit, pitted fruit, sorted fruit, labeled fruit, and eaten a lot of fruit straight off the trees. It's the middle of their winter, so I'm bundled up most of the time, but my tiny cottage has a large space heater that keeps the place pretty warm. At the moment, it looks like I'll be here another five days. Next weekend I might go back to Perth and try to check out the neighboring Fremantle, which is supposed to be an artsy little town with a good music and coffee shop scene. My last week and a half will be spent at another farm about two hours south of here. Again, I have no idea what to expect, but I'm not worried. Nothing risked, nothing gained, right?

Looking forward to more peace and quiet, more delicious food and new people. I love listening to folks talk around me, love noticing their unique colloquial phrases, the lilting intonations of their accents. Western Australia is a beautiful place. So grateful to be here.

Until then...happy 4th of July America! I'll be seeing you.

Wrapping up and Moving On...

2010-06-13T02:43:00.006-05:00

I leave Malang in nine days. This weekend is full of grading. Next weekend will be full of packing. What carried me this far?

Perhaps it was the fact that my favorite cafe (the very spot where I'm typing this blog entry) knows what I order each time I come, that I don't want egg on my chicken burger, but I do want cheese, that I don't want gula (sugar) in my tea, but I want it iced, and that I stay for 3-6 hours at a time doing work next to a window where a pond sits full of koi fish 2 feet behind me. Or maybe it's the fact that I bought a handful of snake fruit and coconut milk yesterday, went home after a long day, and ate my fruit on my couch while watching season three of LOST, totally alone, totally at peace. The back door was open, a breeze was slowly fanning the curtains, and the smell of burning garbage was not present.

It could be the ease with which I bike around town, on my motorcycle, free to roam into the rice fields, up mountains, and visit a waterfall about 30 stories high if I so chose. Or maybe it's due to the fact that my students showed up to present their final projects and about a third of them began by thanking me for being their teacher, for giving them all that I did, and for being part of their lives for ten months. I know I'll miss the $17 massages at the Tugu Hotel where I can take a hot shower afterwards and talk in broken Bahasa Indonesia to Nunik, my incredible masseuse that also treated the ELF before me. Of course I'll miss the ELFs that I've come to know and love (Tana Toraja would not have been as fun without you ladies), and going to see a movie for a dollar fifty.

Either way, it's been real. I'm going to miss the constant sunshine and sudden pounding rain, the fresh melon juice, and the overall simplicity of living. The lack of pressure to look a certain way. The easy smiles given to me by people at my University who've never met me but know who I am. I'm not going to miss the cigarette smoke wafting into my lungs uninvited, the gender discrimination, the homophobia, the constant honking of horns, or the little critters that follow my every crumb.

After a week of heroic paperwork and packing, I leave for a few days of decompression in Ubud, the artistic capital of Bali. There I will visit Healers, make jewelry, and observe temple worship. June 24th I fly to Perth. I'm scheduled to start work on an orchard, and a woman named Emily is picking me up at the airport. I might travel to Brisbane, where I've been invited to go hiking and biking, or I might fall in love with Western Australia and stay put all four weeks. Before landing on Chicago soil I'll spend one more weekend in Malang with my two Indonesian families, soaking up their hospitality and kindness.

Once back in Chi-town I have a place to stay while I find the perfect apartment, and a film to shoot in Pennsylvania in mid August with two of my genius film making friends. I plan to go on roller coasters at Great America, spend ample time at the beach, be with the people I left behind as much as possible, and bone up on my tarot card reading.

All in all, it's going to be a great summer. I can feel it.

An Education

2010-05-07T04:47:00.003-05:00

It’s happening again. The same phenomenon occurred in Chicago as soon as I knew I was moving to Indonesia. Suddenly, I have an out. I can see the circle of light at the end of a very long tunnel, and my vitality returns. I’m enjoying each and every day like it could be the last. What is it about endings that make one feel like they just began?

I have five more weeks of teaching. My return flight to Chicago has been booked. Various Australian farms are awaiting my arrival. And of course, my services are more in need at my University than ever.

It’s been a packed month or so... Where to begin?

I’ll start at the canteen. I eat lunch most weekdays on campus because it’s convenient and cheap (about a dollar per meal). The other day I went to feast on some mie ayam (noodles in a chicken broth...DE-licious) with Wayan, when two women from my department saw us walk in and asked us to join them amidst the throng of students. I’d seen them before as they had attended my workshops on campus, but we’ve never spent any time together socially. They are both 26, both Muslim, and both unmarried. One wears a jillbob, the other does not. The uncovered teacher is really assertive and smart. I remember her comments at my presentations, and I recall being quite impressed with her. The lady with the covered head (forgive me, I’m terrible with names) is also very smart, but much less forthright.

About 10 minutes into our meal, Wayan had to leave, so the three of us starting chatting. They asked the usual questions about how much time I had left (not long), when was my next presentation at our University (possibly never), and what was I going to do when I left (pick some apples in Australia for a month). The conversation then morphed into: “So, as an American, what has been the hardest thing about living here for you?” I responded that I don’t like feeling so watched all the time, and that I felt like there is an Indonesian Courtney, and a dormant American Courtney (who sometimes needs to be dusted off and shaken out at home while listening to hip hop). Mostly, I feel restricted here by cultural “norms”, or rules, that people live by. I have to look a certain way, talk a certain way, and keep all skeletons firmly in the closet. They quickly added that they indeed understood. I paused. How could they? They live here. This is THEIR world. I raised an eyebrow, asking how they felt limited, and they said they are routinely grilled about their unmarried status. In Indonesia, the panic sets in at about 24 (according to them), and after that, you better get engaged or dry up and float away. Neither of them want to marry any time soon. They love their life: their job, their friends, their freedom. Being married means giving most of that up. Men are in charge here, and when they tell their friends that they teach so much because they enjoy it, they endure comment such as: “She’s working so many hours to escape marriage. Something is wrong with her.” Now, this revelation probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but it was the first time I’d sat down with local teachers and had such a candid conversation. It’s one of the first times I felt like I was on the same page with my colleagues on a personal level. We continued to talk for probably an hour, about teaching, being a women in Indonesia, men, our students, etc. They asked me advice on what to do with their students, I tried to offer up what I could, and then they bemoaned the fact that I had to leave so soon. And in that moment, so did I. The need for reform is so great here that I have moments of wishing I could stay. The less time I have, the more I love East Java.

One of the perks of living here are the numerous temples dotting the landscape. Last weekend I made it out to the number one tourist attraction in Indonesia: Borobudur. It was crawling with locals and international tourists. Quite overwhelming. I took an overnight travel van 8 hours West to get there, as I’m trying to hold on to my remaining rupiah (the van is ten dollars each way). Thus, I opted to sleep in upon arrival instead of book the sunrise tour. If I ever go again, I’m not going at 10am on a Saturday. Nothing about it felt sacred, and I was overcome with an urge to tell all the people crawling atop the Buddhas to sit down and look, but for the love of the Universe, don’t touch. In 50 years, humans will have once again eroded history. It’s a shame. Not many 9th century structures of this magnitude remain.

The highlight was Mendut, which sits a few miles away from Borobudur. It is a small Buddhist temple away from the crowds, with incense burning and a real feeling of thousands of years of prayers being whispered under its cool peaked roof. Few people were around. I sat there, staring at the three Buddhas sitting next to each other, and just thanked whoever brought me there. I could have stayed for hours. I wanted to lay on the ground and soak it all up. There is nothing so peaceful as thousands of years of altruism in one concentrated spot.

This was my second time to Yogya, and I enjoyed the international food at every opportunity (out of this world Indian food, and spectacular pizza with WINE-- God bless WINE)! I was lucky enough to see a few American friends on this trip, both new and old. Before leaving Central Java, I took a trip to Prambanan village, where 16 of 224 Hindu temples still remain. Also crawling with tourists, this place was a little less oppressive, and for me, the Hindus have it right. I always feel safe and comfortable among their traditions. Statues sat inside each temple, honoring the gods and goddesses individually. It’s a soothing feeling stepping inside one of them as you transition from the hot, sweaty sun into the damp stone structure; the only sunlight filtering in from a single doorway, bathing the treasures inside with minimal light. My favorite was the four headed goddess. Unreal. If I could go back, I would. Maybe someday I will.

Speaking of Hindu traditions, I had the pleasure of participating in a monthly ritual last week. It was the full moon, and Wayan’s family was making their routine offerings. The materials: a single knife, a pile of coconut leaves, and handful of bamboo sticks. The product: beautiful hand made baskets constructed to hold rice, fruit, sweets, and other foods for the gods. I was over at Wayan’s for some mundane reason, and her Mom was sitting in the living room, on the floor, quietly working. She speaks no English, so our interactions are usually minimal. This time Wayan asked if I wanted to see what her Mom was doing. I came in, feeling guilty for my terrible language skills, and peered at the pile of art gathering around her. All organic materials, and all intricately woven with her hands over a period of patient hours. I sat down with Wayan, was handed a pile of leaves, and shown what to do. It took a few practice runs, but twenty minutes later I was doing a pretty good job. As usual, the power went out mid-project, at which point Wayan lit a few candles and we continued our work. I’m not sure how long I sat there, but as I listened to them giggle and converse in Indonesian, I felt my blood pressure lower, my heart beat slow, and my breathing roll in and out like waves. The only thing I can liken this activity to is knitting. It was so relaxing, so natural, and left me feeling quite proud of the fact that I was sitting in an Indonesian living room, weaving a basket for the moon, with two women who amaze and humble me routinely. We stopped because our stomachs were begging for food, and as I walked to the noodle shop with my Indonesian sister, I understood why the Balinese live such long lives. Ritual is important. Doing the same thing daily, monthly, with your family sitting all around you is so good for the soul. It’s subtle meditation. It’s restorative medicine. It was a lovely afternoon.

-----

I’ve said this before, and I’ll risk repeating myself again. I teach because I love learning from my students. There is so much I don’t know and never will, but as the person in charge of the classroom, I’m subjected to the opinions and reactions of each one of my pupils. It’s exhausting, yet enriching. I’ve been with some of my students since September now, which is a long time considering the longest I have students in Chicago is ten weeks. I know these kids now (I’m sorry, in Indonesia, a 20 year old is a kid). I am starting to understand them, and form real bonds. I adore them. And every so often one of them gives me a swift slap across the face. Metaphorically, of course.

I have this male student named Ahda who is whip smart. He’s also tall, which is unusual, and has a very deep voice with a rich vocabulary. His face is friendly and broad, and he tends to lean forward in class, listening to me but not taking me too seriously. In my American Studies class, we’re up to the 1970s, and that means it was time to touch upon the taboo topics: abortion and gay rights. Two nights ago I showed my class the film Milk for our weekly movie, based on the true story of Harvey Milk, the San Francisco politician who was murdered for his trail blazing bravery. I knew this was going to be a fraught evening, as Indonesians are not known for their easy acceptance of homosexuals. It’s against Muslim religion, and most people here find gay people “disgusting” (quoting my students response to witnessing the gay community in action, on film, from their recent reaction journals). In anticipation of their innate resistance to this topic, I glibly warned them to “leave religion at the door and think like an American” while watching this film. I explained that I would be remiss to teach an American Studies class without mentioning Stonewall or Mr. Milk, as it’s part of our history and culture. Therefore, I was going to risk their adverse reactions in order to educate them on another country and the lifestyles of the people within it.

About ten minutes before I was scheduled to start the film, Ahda walked up to me in the control booth. He asked if he could have a few minutes of my time. He was shaking. I said of course. And the conversation proceeded something like this:

A: Ma’am, I wanted to tell you that I’m having a really hard time.

Me: Ok. With what?

A: I’m sorry if this is bothering you, but, this topic is really really hard for me.

Me: Which topic? Gay Rights?

A: Yes.

Me: Ok. I know it’s not very common here.

A: Well, you see, you said, in class, to “leave religion at the door” when we watch this movie, and, well, I can’t do that. Ever. I was born Muslim. And it’s against our religion. This is who I am. I can’t leave it at the door. I’m sorry.

Me: That’s fair. Perhaps my comment was a bit harsh.

A: I’m sorry Miss, but, I’m trying. I really am. I’ll try to “watch this movie as an American”, because I want to learn, but I am who I am, and I just can’t not be me, you know?

Me: Yes, that makes sense. I don’t want you to be anyone but you, and again, I’m sorry if that was too harsh a statement. It’s hard for me to understand what it is to feel so strongly about God. But I respect where you’re coming from, and I really appreciate you talking to me. Be yourself, but just try to keep an open mind.

A: I will. Ok. I’m sorry to bother you.

Me: I’m glad you did. I’m sorry that I made you feel like I was asking you to change who you are. I’m not. I just want you to learn how other people live in other cultures. You don’t have to like it.

A: Ok, thank you. I’m trying. I really am.

Me: I know you are. Thank you.

A: Ok, thanks Miss. Sorry to bother you. (Exit)

As I type this, it’s hard not to get choked up. Who am I to tell anyone to leave their God “at the door”? Sometimes my innate privilege (being from a free country, bring able to chose whether or not I worship a God, being born after a certain decade) rears it’s ugly head and my big mouth loses all tact. Just when I thought I “got” this culture, I’m reminded that I don’t have a clue what it’s like to live in a world where God rules all. Not that I mind. I believe someone (maybe God, maybe not) gave humans great minds and those minds are meant to learn, not to follow a leader like cows in a herd. I’m not saying religion is about being mindless, but I had forgotten that my students are proud to be who they are, and for me to ask them to remove a part of themselves is exactly opposite of what I’m trying to achieve here.

I want them to be unafraid of change. I want them to think for themselves. And yet, in doing so, I inadvertently instructed them to think like me.

Looks like I still have a lot to learn. Thank you Ahda. You and Harvey Milk have more in common than you know.

Parting is such sweet sorrow...

2010-03-27T03:35:00.003-05:00

It was a short, but wonderful, relationship. Perhaps star crossed from the very beginning, we lived together in easy companionship. Each morning I would wake up and open the back door, finding her waiting on the other side. I’d feed her, pet her, tell her good morning, and go about my routine of making tea and toast. When I left for the day, I’d say goodbye, give her more affection, and leave her to the backyard where she could chose between the sun and the rain, the shelter or the sky.

After a full day of work, before the front door was shut behind me, I could hear her meowing hello. I’d put down my bags, run to the back, and let her in. She’d purr, wrapping herself around my feet (I think she secretly loved it when I tripped), and meow for dinner. As I turned on the music, or the cable, she’d sit in the living room, watching me, or crawl underneath the television, finding a secure place between stacks of DVDs to nestle. We’d watch movies and American Idol together (I actually got sucked in this season...never thought that would happen, but they got me). When I felt restless, I’d sit in back with her, looking up at the sky, and we’d enjoy the sounds of Malang at night.

She had the loudest purr of any cat I’d ever met. It was a small roar, like an engine running, or a tiger snoring. While she laid in the sun, she’d turn herself on her back and cover her eyes with one paw. Other times, when I was rubbing just the right corner of her back, she’d lift up her hind legs and lower her front legs, dip her head in between her paws, and rub her chin and cheeks on the ground with glee. When I’d had a bad day, she was always there, walking around my body sat next to her on the tiles, crashing into my crossed legs, looking at me with those huge blue eyes. Sometimes she’d suddenly roll onto her back, turning from side to side, and let me pet her stomach. For a stray cat who’d seen nothing but trash and exhaust fumes, she was so loving and endlessly sweet. She made my house warm. She made being alone so peaceful. She was my girl, and we were in this together.

However, recently she’d stopped eating. I noticed her drinking a lot more water, and when I pet her, I felt more bone than flesh. One day (skip this part if small squiggly things gross you out) I saw a white worm crawl inside of her body, underneath her tail. Parasites are one thing, but the hernia on her lower body was also growing. She’d been on her special food from the vet for a month, so it was time to take her in for another blood test. I got the text Friday morning that not only were her kidneys still bad, but her liver was also failing. The blood test showed that her body was giving up. Her restricted diet had bought her more time, but could not cure her condition.

When I’d brought her to the vet, I was not prepared to leave her there. I went in to see her the next day, and could tell she was done. Her skin felt leathery, and she refused to look at me. I’d never seen her so hopeless. She knew she didn’t have much time. That morning she’d thrown up worms. The vet said the only thing that could save her was a kidney and liver transplant with a blood transfusion, and they don’t do that here in Indonesia. The vet said that if I force fed her daily, she maybe had anywhere from a few days to a few weeks left. I couldn’t imagine staying home with her, making her eat when it was clear she was ready to go. All of this information was delivered with Bonni, my wonderful Indonesian friend, at my side. He translated everything in a calm, even tone, grabbing my shoulder for strength when I felt it draining out from my feet.

This morning I returned, and although we’d both tried our hardest, we let go. Stella was ready. She’d given it her all. She’d survived so much, and lived longer than most others would have. All I wanted for her was to know that she was loved before she passed, and I think she got the message. As the injections were taking hold, she let out a little noise, like a purr, before she went completely still. The vet and her assistant were amazingly gentle and kind. I could tell this was their least favorite part of the job. They treated her with the utmost respect and reverence, placing her body into a comfortable pose and cleaning her of dirt and blood before wrapping her in her favorite blanket.

They buried her this afternoon, in a pet cemetery across from the clinic. I felt that being there for her passing was enough. Her body was only a vessel. Her spirit was what I fell in love with. She was tough, kind, and so very brave. We had so much fun. I miss her presence all around the house. Although I never let her sleep indoors, I could always tell she was just on the other side of the wall. Sometimes she’d see the tiny lizards that hang out, eating mosquitoes, and chase them hilariously, running from one side of the cabinet to the other, waiting for them to emerge. She hated the bawdy bobcat that strutted atop the roofs of the neighborhood, and would wait for me in the kitchen when he came calling for her. We knew each other’s patterns and habits. We took care of each other.

Every other time I’ve had to let cats go, my Mom has always been there to handle the dirty work, to make the tough decisions. This was the first goodbye I had to handle on my own (aside from Bonni), as an adult. I had sworn she wouldn’t die on my watch, but learning how to deal with death is part of life. Stella chose me, perhaps, just as much as I chose her. She needed someone during her last months, and I’m grateful it was me. I’ve always been an animal lover, but I think she came into my life to teach me, in part, how to let go. Relationships have their own expiration dates. They don’t always end with our permission. The wisdom comes in knowing when it’s time.

-----

Since my last entry, life has been full. I was lucky enough to travel to the jungles of Borneo in order to observe gorgeous and funny orangutans in the wild (along with Proboscis and macaque monkeys). That weekend on the boat, floating down rivers, healed something in me and opened my eyes to how small we are, and how essential it is to restore the health of the forests and her species. Then came the Hindu holiday on the beach, next to (and in) a six hundred year old temple. Last weekend was spent on the island of Lembongan, which is located off the south east coast of Bali. There I saw my first stretch of black sand, snorkeled amidst pink, blue, yellow, green, and orange fish, and hung out with some of the other Fellows as one of us turned 30. Next week brings the month of April, and with that comes more plans of final trips in May and eventually returning home.

Classes are going really well. I’m learning things I was never taught in school in order to teach my students how not to view the world through blinders (I'll do my best). Our weekly movies are inspiring and entertaining. I love coming back to them on Monday nights and observing their reactions to films about American culture. As I gather more and more information on each decade, I’m both horrified and empowered by the history of my country, and so very grateful I can return to it. Although, as I’ve been going to my weekly language lessons, I’m more at ease here than I’ve ever been. Understanding breeds patience, and the more I know about how the local people communicate, the more I’m watching my world perspective shift. I found myself hanging out with faculty members on the stone wall outside the department the other day, enjoying the fantastic weather, laughing with them about the many ways to misunderstand language cues across cultures. It was a conversation fit for nerds, no doubt, but one I’d never even tried to share with them before. I felt truly included for probably the first time since becoming part of that department, and for a moment, the internal politics vanished.

I’m able to compare where I come from to where I am on a less personal level now, as my comfort and ability to communicate grow wider. I recently found out that on Indonesian identification cards, citizens are required to print not only their date of birth, address, sex, height, etc...but also their marital status, religion, and occupation. Something so simple explains quite a lot. I’m still woken up daily by the call to prayer (and people wonder why I go to Bali so often--I can actually sleep there), but it bothers me less when I know that the man who teaches me Bahasa Indonesia makes $170 per month. Less than two hundred dollars A MONTH. And he’s happy. They all are. Indonesians are happy with enough. They don’t need more. If their car takes them to and from work, it doesn’t matter if it was manufactured in 1981, or if the shade of blue it’s covered in is out of fashion. A local family told me that they live on $7,000 a year, quite comfortably, and I exhaled my shame of feeling poor making only 30 grand annually in Chicago. I no longer wonder what the hell is wrong with Indonesia as much as I wonder how I’m going to function back in the good old USA. I frequently can’t wait to go home, but I’m not sure I know how to live like an American anymore.

I know I’ll figure it out. I’ve got time. Thankfully. I have a body that has yet to give up on me. I have memories of souls, both human and animal, that have altered mine irrevocably. And for that, I am so thankful. Goodbye sweet Stella. May your spirit find a body fit for a Queen.

Saving Stella

2010-02-15T22:29:00.003-06:00

I was recently adopted by a cat. Months ago this little white scraggy looking creature started hanging around my house. Out of pity, I put out my tuna cans for consumption. She'd eat, then skulk away, and maybe come back a few days later. This went on for a while, and then she disappeared. I think perhaps to have kittens, who I don't think survived, as she, at the time, looked quite pregnant and walked with a limp.

Fast forward to about two weeks ago. My little friend had returned, and this time regularly. I bought actual cat food and she camped herself in front of my house, not moving a great deal. Her eyes were usually half closed and glassy, she was filthy, and quite lethargic. Then one morning I went to open my front gate to leave for school and she ran across my front yard, startled by the noise. However, her "run" was lopsided and clumsy, as if her left rear leg wasn't properly in the socket. She looked terrible. I had to do something. I could no longer watch this creature suffer on my doorstep.

I came into work unable to concentrate. My co-workers suggested we ask the people in the Animal Husbandry department (their version of a Veterinarian) if they could help. When I walked into their office, I met the "vet", a 28 year old woman who looked no older than 18, about five feet tall and 100 pounds soaking wet. They were kind and the vet's assistant spoke decent English. She gave me her cell phone number and told me to call her if the cat continues to get worse. They offered to come to my house and check on her. I breathed a sign of relief. Thank God for animal lovers.

Later that afternoon I found her in the back lot behind my place. There was blood on her tail and she could not walk. She looked like she hadn't had access to fresh water in weeks. I called the vet. They arrived with medical supplies in hand and we spent a good 30 minutes getting her into a box and had to inject her with a sedative to calm her down, scratches and bites covering our arms. She was so dehydrated her skin stuck together when we pinched it, and although her leg was not broken, she howled when we touched her hip. After much negotiation and translation we hoped in a cab to take her to a vet across town that had the proper X-Ray machine. Once there, they tried to insert an IV into her arms, but her veins had already collapsed and the only way to get water into her system was to inject it directly under her skin. That seemed to work, thankfully. The X-Rays showed her leg was dislocated from the hip. She was, however, too weak for surgery of any kind.

We decided she needed to recover back at the clinic on my campus. In the cab ride there we almost lost her. She laid in a cardboard box on my lap, and I never took my hand off of her. Her body temperature was getting quite low, and she wasn't moving. My dormant maternal instincts kicked in and I swore to myself this cat was not going to die on my watch. I sat there, in the dark, pouring rain and traffic outside the window, helpless tears begging to fall down my checks, promising her she was going to live. Willing her to keep breathing.

Two days later, after constant visitations and love, the vet suggested I take her home to recover at my house. The responsibility was huge, but I couldn't say no. As we were about to put her in the carrier I had purchased for the transfer, I was informed that in addition to her dislocated leg, she also had a hernia. The poor thing must have been so uncomfortable. But again, there was nothing they could do until she got stronger. I was apparently the first "native" speaker they had had as a client, so before we left they took pictures of me, got my contact information, and asked if they could come to my house on occasion to practice their English. I said of course. These women saved an animal's life and I owed them so much. Before I left the vet looked at me and said, "I'm so glad I met you". The feeling was mutual.

I've had her for 6 days now, and the first 4 were quite stressful. She barely moved and ate sporadically. I had to force fluids into her mouth with a syringe, which she hated. I kept an eye on her, giving her love and affection as much as possible while still trying to respect that she is a wild animal. Then, two nights ago, she turned a corner. She went from resenting me for capturing her to purring like mad every time she saw me. She now wolfs her food gratefully and walks around my back "yard" on her own. I'm not sure what happened, but I'm a lot less fearful to come home at the end of the day. I named her Stella for her strength and will to live. She reminds me of the Tennessee Williams character in so many ways. She's a survivor, and a welcome addition to my life.

I don't let her in the house because she is indeed dirty and loves to sit among the plants and bugs in the back garden. But I now eat my meals and check my email in the back with her, and we sit down each night and chat. She likes to watch the rain and lay sprawled out in the sun. My goal is to let her stay at my place for another week or so, and then take her back to the vet for the necessary operations. I'm also going to get her fixed. She doesn't need anymore dying babies, as I'm pretty sure if she did have kittens, they didn't make it (however, now I know it could have been her hip/hernia causing the lopsided stride). This whole process has been expensive, but if I don't take care of her, no one will. She chose me. I will not let her down.

I will eventually let her back out into the "wild", but only when her body can handle it. When I leave for Chicago, I hope to find a local family to look after her.

It's so nice having another living creature at my house. I've come to accept (and admit) that I'm fairly lonely in my huge house alone. I recently installed cable t.v. because I couldn't stand not hearing conversation around me any longer. And the four types of HBO don't hurt.

In other news, I've been buried under books about US History and culture. I'm teaching two sections of American Studies this term and have never been so excited about a class. I've been in constant touch with friends from home, asking for help in making this course as exciting and rich as possible. I've ordered quite a few movies and books online and literally dream about their arrival and reception by my students. I'm also teaching Drama again, but this time Shakespeare and pre-modern works. Challenging to say the least. I cannot wait!

My class schedule allows ample time for travel this semester. Next weekend I'm planning to visit Borneo with the other Courtney in Malang to drop in on some orangoutangs in the jungle. I have a good feeling about my last four months. I'll keep you all posted.

A Hermitic Mid Year Report

2010-01-27T20:36:00.003-06:00

Blaming Indonesia is counterproductive. It’s not an entire archipelago's fault that I’m stick. Again. The island of Java wouldn’t even blink if I left. But I can’t, and I won’t. The show must go on.

I feel like a fraud. You see, I like teaching. I do. Sometimes I even love it. Every job has aspects that are unpleasant. With teaching, it’s the planning and the grading that I detest. When I’m in the classroom, or working with a student one on one, I’m happy. When I’m talking directly with my pupils, watching recognition flash across their faces as they “get” something for the first time, I couldn’t ask for anything more. But when I have a stack of papers to grade, I freeze. I literally have to force myself to do the work. And it’s a painful process.

I’m not a terrible teacher. Sometimes I’m even decent. There have been moments when I would dare say I was kind of good. However, to be honest and risk looking like a selfish, horrible person, my primary reason for applying for this Fellowship was financial. And when you do anything for the sole purpose of money, nine times out of ten, you realize that although money makes the world go round, it also can never, ever, buy contentment. Lesson learned.

A ways back I read in some book (probably The Power of Now) that “dis-ease” is caused by an imbalance in your life. We all know stress makes us sick. I also believe that living the life you were not supposed to live also makes you sick. Very sick. Finding balance, no matter where you live, is a life saver.

What gave me balance in Chicago was having the privilege to teach during the day, and then having the pleasure of going to rehearsal at night to work with a group of artists: creating a piece of live theater. I’ve come to understand that yes, I do use theater in the classroom, but more than that, both teaching and theater are harbingers of change. That look of comprehension that flashes across a student’s face when you’ve finally explained something in a way they can understand is the same as the look on an audience member’s face when they walk out of a stunning piece of theater with eyes glazed and a small smile dancing on their lips. If the teacher is good, and the production is good, you walk away from both the classroom and the theater a different person. And that is what I want to do with my life. I want to be part of that process in others. I want people to walk out of my classroom, or my theater, altered, and better for it.

But I need both. I need teaching (and my students) to keep me intellectually challenged, grounded and sane. I need acting (and the audience) to keep me creative, inquisitive and expressive. With only one and not the other I tip over, a scale with one end up and the other on the floor. Hence my recent fever of 102, stomach cramps, and porridge for a week while watching Grey’s Anatomy and weeping into my hoodie. Tidak bagus Berne.

Let me backtrack (I know, I do that a lot) and say that I admire teachers as much as I admire Meryl Streep. My senior year English teacher in high school, Mr. Malone, will remain infamous in my memoirs. He taught me the beauty of literature and poetry; the prowess and relentless acumen necessary to properly dissect a piece of true genius like an e.e. cummings poem, or a Shakespeare play. And Dr. Nike Imaru, my fierce Theater teacher from England will always live in my mind to remind me to push myself, find the answer, dig deeper and never give up searching. Teachers are heroes. I may not be into pedagogy, or type up my lesson plans, but I have the spirit and drive required for the classroom. And I’m able to see where I need improvement after a lesson doesn’t go as smoothly as it should have. I’ve never been short of that.

Why the excuses? This duel title of actor/teacher carries with it some explanation. People want you to chose. They want you to pick one and focus on it. But I’m saying it’s OK to want both. To need both. I’m an actor who teaches. Except, in Indonesia, I feel like a teacher who used to act. And it’s wearing me out. The jig is up.

This brings me to why I got out of bed to write this entry. Today is the half way point. I arrived five months ago. I have five months remaining. With my latest bout of illness I seriously considered going home. I’m tired of the misdiagnoses, the “maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s that, but we don’t really know and have no way of knowing, so take some mylanta and sleep”. I miss Western medicine (I know, I’ve lost a lot of fluids), the certainty of science. I miss tests that come back conclusive. I miss doctors NOT laughing at you when you say it feels like there is a hole burning through your stomach. But that’s what I signed up for. I asked for this. I said yes to ten months of teaching in a developing country where there is no real theater.

In times like these I have a few tactics. Movies and tarot cards are my main sources of insight. When I can’t go to rehearsal, I pull three cards and listen. The first card is where I’m coming from. The middle card is the bridge that I must cross, and the last card is where I’m headed. As usual, Mr. Crowley was right on. The Queen of Disks was the first, and boy can I relate to her right about now. The Hermit fell into the middle. And at the end awaits the Wheel of Fortune. According to the little book inside the tarot card box (“Instructions for Aleister Crowley’s Thoth Tarot Deck”), The Hermit signifies: “Illumination from within. Divine inspiration. Wisdom. Prudence. Circumspection. Retirement from participation in current events.” Damn, he’s good.

Last night I watched the adorable and uplifting Julie & Julia and received confirmation that I am indeed where I’m supposed to be. Indonesia is my Hermit card. This is a journey. Sort of like a very long intermission. But like any good theater goer (or teacher) you do not leave when the actors are taking a break, or when the students look confused. Hedda Gabbler does not walk off stage if she’s just not feeling it. Blanche Dubois does not suddenly tell Stanley he’s right and leave the apartment to go get herself a life. That is why Julie Powell made all 524 of Julia Child’s recipes; because she said she would.

I’m not going anywhere. At least, not for my remaining five months. This show most certainly will go on. And when it’s over, there will be many more. This Hermit has some balancing to do.

You give me Fever

2010-01-12T06:32:00.003-06:00

It's been awhile, I know. To backtrack: December was an incredibly busy time with out of town speaking engagements, end of semester duties, and travel planning. And then the Dengue hit. Hit me hard. From now on I swear by mosquito repellent.

Dengue Fever is spread by tropical mosquitoes that bite during the day. There is no vaccine against this, nothing to do besides wear protective cream and arm your house with anti-mosquito oils and plug-in killers at every outlet. About a week before leaving for my semester break vacation, I was exhausted and burning with an internal fever that made me feel like a caged animal wanting to claw out of her confines. I went to my acupuncturist for treatments, and talked to friends who took me to pharmacies for pills. I thought I had worms or was maybe hosting a parasite. And then I showed up at my weekly dance lesson, unable to stand up. Toto, my teacher, suggested he and his wife take me to see one of their friends who happens to be a doctor. Thank God he did.

The first word this doctor said to me while shaking my hand was, “Fever!” I was burning up. My eyelids, feet, knees, everything felt like it was on fire. I don’t think Peggy Lee was referring to this when she sang the infamous “Fever” as it was nothing like the moody pop song indicates. I wanted to pell off my skin and bath in ice cubes. I wanted to jump out the window and float to Antarctica on an iceberg while licking icicles. Dr. Saraswati asked me some questions as I sat slumped over in a chair, and left the room to get my “treatment”. I should mention that this woman runs an alternative clinic and has cured cancer with her esoteric remedies. Normally a fan of non-Western medicine, I was quaking with fear that my trip would be canceled and I’d die in Indonesia, evaporating on the spot. Dengue effects your brain. My thoughts were as rapid fire as my pulse, and as foggy as smoke from a house fire. Another reason why I didn’t update my blog in December.

My task was to drink a concoction every three hours around the clock until the “medicine” ran out. I was handed a plastic bottle filled with brown liquid labeled “Kopi 2”. I was told to mix three table spoons of this liquid (which was a mixture of Chinese herbs and instant coffee) with honey, adding two egg whites and one egg yolk. Raw. She put my first dose in front of me and told me to either plug my nose or close my eyes and don’t think as I swallowed. I did my best, but the smell of raw egg and the consistency of human mucus made me gag. Bring brave, I finished my cup and grabbed the nearest candy (which was waiting next to the cup) to get ride of the vile taste. She smiled and said I had done well. This was to be my only job for the next few days. Rest, and drink this. When I asked her how much I owed for the treatment, she replied that I was a friend of a friend and to not worry about payment. Which is ironic, because I actually have health insurance for the first time in years, and I’ve not used it once.

I had my blood drawn three times over the next week, and my red blood cell count did rise due to doctor’s orders. Two days after seeing Dr. Saraswati, I was a crying heap of heat, aching all over and wishing I could just sleep (in a bed of ice). My dear and wonderful friend Wayan had to stay by my bedside for 24 hours straight, waking me up to feed me my “eggs and coffee” every three. Without her, I’m not sure I’d be here, typing this. I had the kind of Dengue that causes internal bleeding due to burst capillaries in your lower intestines, and 5% of those cases end up being fatal. It was just my luck that I was bitten by a really evil mosquito.

My vacation was postponed three days as I rested and started to feel confident walking across a room again. Wayan cooked for me and felt my forehead, making sure I didn’t exhaust myself in my stubborn attempt to be healthy. Miri and Toto also bought me groceries, stocking my fridge with these electrolyte drinks that I was instructed to swallow regularly. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to my two Indonesian families for being with me while I was so sick. At almost 32 it’s no less scary being ill when you’re so far away from home.

Instead of spending 3 days in Bali before Australia, I was there for less than 24 hours, leaving Supafly on her own in our hotel room to grade papers. Once I arrived, I knew I was not back to my old self, but I put my faith, once again, in non-traditional healing remedies and pop culture. For those of you who have read the best-selling novel Eat, Pray, Love you will know who I’m referring to when I say I went to see the infamous Wayan in Ubud. Jules and I walked into her “clinic” (more like a restaurant/massage parlor/organic heaven) and spent the next five hours receiving treatment. I told her about the Dengue, and she made me drink a series of five different herbal teas with leaves plucked from her garden. Before I knew it, I was sweating out the last of the Fever. Everything we put in our mouths was straight from Mother Earth, and it all had innate healing powers that I could actually feel restoring my system. She then read our palms and did a body/energy check, explaining where our systems were weak, and telling us how many babies/husbands we would have.

The Balinese take their time, and we were not the only “patients” in her care. She was able to walk between tables of people, giving us all what we sought in due time. That being said, nothing was private, and my future was read aloud in front of total strangers who walked passed wrapped in sarongs post bath. To make sure all ran smoothly, Wayan had cooks in her kitchen making organic vegetarian meals and boys that massaged and bathed her clients. We were the last to spend time in the upstairs portion of her den, which was an unforgettable experience. I’ve been receiving massages since high school, but I’ve never been adorned with garlic, ginger, herbs, oils, and other organic material while being massaged by three, yes three, young men at once. One on each side, and one at my head/shoulders. This was all in an open air environment, with Jules laying in the bed next to me and the sound of people walking up and down the worn wooded stairs with more supplies to use on our bodies. At one point Wayan stood between our tables as we lay in total relaxation and joked “In your country, they don’t give you three men at once, do they?” We all laughed. Certainly not. To cap off the experience I was then escorted to the bathroom, where I was bathed by one of my massage boys and an elderly woman, wrinkled and brown, in the most loving and non-threatening way imaginable as hot water cleansed my skin and the Fever circled down the drain.

I walked away knowing the Dengue had left me for good, but as the evening wore on, I could feel a head cold creeping into its place. Part of the massage was meant to drain your lymph nodes, and I was still filled with toxins. I tried to drink tea and rest, but by the time I woke up the next day, I was sick. This time with the run of the mill head cold. I took this illness to Australia with me, hoping I could sleep it off.

We spent an extra day in Bali due to a mechanical malfunction on the plane and were put up in a five star hotel by the airline for 24 hours as compensation. I took that opportunity to sleep, but I was angry at my body for failing to recover, and wanting more than anything to be Down Under instead of down and out. Once again patience was my only tool. I had to keep breathing and hoping that I’d heal.

We arrived, this time with Cooky in tow, in Sydney on Christmas Eve. I was still under the weather, and took in the sights of Balmain, the neighborhood we were staying in, slowly. By now I was going through a box of tissues every two days and looking like I’d survived, well, dengue fever, but I tried to keep my spirits up as we celebrated an orphan Christmas with a few Brits and Aussies also away from home. Being that it was the middle of summer in Sydney, it was perhaps the most surreal holiday I’ve ever had, but I was happy to be on a new continent.

Something I noticed right away was the release of tension in my body once arriving in a country where I was no longer the “other”. Here I could wear what I wanted, do what I wanted, and no one even thought to look at me twice (unless I opened my mouth, in which case I was asked what part of the States I was from). What also may have added weight to my awareness was the fact that I was in the process of reading Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali (thank you Penny--I couldn’t put it down either) and although it made me grateful for living in a more or less “liberal” Moslem country, I still had over 5 more months under the watchful eyes of Allah. Being in Oz was exactly what I needed. My defensive armor began to fade within an hour of Sydney living. And you can drink the water Down Under. I practically ran from drinking fountain to water spout with abandonment and glee, skipping and splashing like a lunatic.

The only discomfort was the change in price from Indonesia to Australia. While in Sydney my accommodations were mostly free, thanks to Jules’s friend Natalie and her house-sitting gig, and that helped, but my US dollars no longer went a long way. That said, it was worth it, as my days were soon filled with moments I will treasure for years to come.

I’m saving the savory moments for my good old fashioned pen and paper journal (as I still guard the private and dole out the public in spurts), but I will touch upon the next leg of my journey and let the facebook photos tell the rest.

December 27th marked our departure to Hunter Valley, which is located about 2 hours outside of Sydney. We rented a car for the journey (which I drove for a brief 15 minutes before realizing that I had the parking break on...not used to cars after months on a motorbike) which proved stunning as we passed through forests and rolling hills. I saw my first kangaroo on the drive, and had a smile plastered on my face the whole time. Once in the Valley, we checked into our YHA room and picked a bunk bed (I’d been staying in the bunk bed of a five year old boy in Sydney, so I was used to this by now). Then it was off to wine tasting for the next few days, which I did gingerly as I knew drinking was not conducive to improving my immune system. Not a huge fan of wine (read: I have a low tolerance), I did enjoy the many varieties of vino and the craftsmanship that went into the making of said bottles. The people that ran the vineyards were an eclectic sort, and by the end of our day long tours, one of the owners was calling me “Chicago” while I giggled (I said I have a low tolerance) and poured the extra liquid in my glass into the spittoon while his back was turned. I hated to waste all that talent, but I am still a cheap date after all these years. At least now I have the capacity to stop myself before things get ugly (ie: before I fall asleep after two glasses).

Back in Balmain I stocked up on products you can’t find in the third world and continued my detox. While receiving a facial, the owner of the spa commented that not only were my pores clogged from not having access to hot water for four months to wash my face, but I had parasites in my chin. Apparently the products in Indo strip your skin of its natural moisture, so mine was over-producing oil to compensate. And that oil was building up because cold water does not dissolve it properly. I will now be wearing bug repellant AND boiling water on a daily basis.

New Years Eve proved low key with the most exciting part being the view of the stunning fireworks over the Harbor Bridge. New Years Day was spent at Manly Beach, which is just a ferry ride away from Balmain. The water temperature was a little below my comfort level, but I did find some shells to take back to Chicago, and I swam in a rock pool, which was, well, just a pool made of salt water. January 2nd was spent exploring more of the city, including the MCA and the Botanical Gardens (both lovely). On the 3rd we took a train to the Blue Mountains and hiked what was probably the most beautiful trail I have ever seen. Unfortunately the weather was misty and unseasonably cold, leaving the view from steep cliffs up to our imaginations. I felt like I was in the rain forest while also being cuddled by some ancient creature who only let us see 15 feet ahead of our noses (probably best considering my fear of heights). I also felt like I was alternating between scenes from The Neverending Story and Lord of the Rings, minus the Luck Dragon/Hobbit parts.

Sadly, the damp air and arduous hike left me with yet another chest cold, and I flew to Uluru feeling asthmatic and in desperate need of the desert. Our first night in Ayer’s Rock we went on a stargazing tour. From the middle of the Outback you can see both the Northern and Southern hemisphere stars at once. This was breathtaking. As an astronomy nerd I ate up the information our guide gave us about the constellations, planets, and solar systems. I could have looked through telescopes all night. The peace you feel when you realize how small we really are and how immeasurably large the universe is must be experienced every so often. I went to bed that night so very grateful for all that I was able to experience.

The activity just kept coming as the next morning I went on a sunrise tour and listened to an Aboriginal guide talk about life in the Bush. We sat in caves with ancient paintings and learned how to kill a kangaroo. The Aboriginals in Uluru have been there for 40,000 years, surviving on nature and ritual alone. Their culture is primitive (by our standards) but made sense to me. Duties are assigned to individuals in the group and responsibility is shared. They do not need currency (although, after the White Man came, of course things changed) and because there is no such thing as “possession”, they actually do not have a word for any number over 5. They figure if they have to count over 5, then there is too much of one thing and someone is being greedy. I was reminded of the Native Americans a lot when learning about the original Australians. Sometimes I think I should go back to school for a degree in anthropology as I ate up the information readily after years of enduring inadequate history lessons from teachers who should have retired long ago. Why we repeat patterns of dominance and cultural genocide throughout the world, I will never understand. I was, however, happy to learn what I could and tried to let the heartbreak of the damage that has been done to this indigenous culture go. We can only fix the future and maybe, some of us, can learn from the past.

Our last full day in Uluru was spent riding camels (a smile spreads across my face at the memory of these spectacular creatures) and walking through the Olgas, another huge natural rock formation in the middle of the desert. We watched the sun set this time, while drinking champagne (I barely finished my glass as trepidation over my health loomed) and learning more about Australian culture from our guides. I have to say I was very impressed by the tours given at the Ayer’s Rock Resort. Everything was professional, on time, well organized, and the people were fantastic. I’ve never laughed so hard with strangers in a foreign country. I was so at ease, and they made everyone on board feel welcome and comfortable. By the end of this last tour I was chatting with two older British men and a woman from Africa like we’d known each other for years. I love that about traveling. You build relationships quickly and with genuine interest.

Leaving Uluru was hard. I enjoyed the quiet beauty of the blood red landscape and the surreal hue of the bush. Flying over the Outback for the first time I swore I must have been hallucinating because the combination of the red earth, the mint blue shrubbery amidst light green trees seemed impossible. However, standing on that ground, carefully walking around ancient rock formations while listening to birds you’ve never heard before, feeling small but so very alive was incredible. The dry heat restored my lungs, and the relaxed atmosphere of the culture soothed my routine bouts of anxiety from teaching 90 Indonesian students on a regular basis.

There was less than 24 hours of turn around time between when I finally got back to Malang (suffered mechanical issues on the plane into Bali that delayed us 6 hours) and when I had to leave again for the island of Sulawesi to attend a teaching conference. My saving grace right now is the other English Language Fellows. We’re all fresh from vacations with stories to tell, wishing we had more time to transition. These ten wonderful people provide the perfect buffer to the abrasive and daunting environment I’ve returned to. Today alone went down as typically Indonesian as I watched teachers answer their cell phones while participating in training workshops and sat above crushed cigarette butts littering the tile floor of a University building. Let’s just hope I can keep the Fever at bay for the second half of my time overseas...

Tid Bits for Turkey Day

2009-11-25T19:32:00.005-06:00

Warning: This blog entry is a series of random events that have occurred as of late. Or, things that would never happen in the States.

To begin: the other night I was sitting on my living room couch, talking to a friend after a hard days work. Suddenly, like a trail of black dust blowing past, I see a large rat silently scurry across my floor, coming from the Master bedroom headed towards its apparent refuge under my refrigerator. I didn’t scream, I just pulled my feet up under myself and waited for the “Rassie” (Rat + Lassie, named by my friend Cappy due to its polite nature and intelligence at having avoided thus far the poison I’d placed for it) to return to the place from whence it came. My constant exposure to cockroaches, ants, and flying insects must have dulled my fear of critters over these past three months.

Today I was teaching a makeup class for my Drama students outdoors. The breeze was just right and the sun shone bright and nourishing. One of those days where I wonder to myself: “Wait, what month is it? November? Where am I?” I’m giving instructions to my class for a group project when a large, gorgeous black and white spotted butterfly lands directly on my left hand, which was formerly gesticulating to make a point. My whole body stopped, looked, and smiled at the stunning creature. My students echoed an “Awwwww, Miss! So cute!” as I stared, dumbly transfixed by the sheer joy of that moment. Then, just as nonchalantly, the butterfly wandered off. A.Mazing.

Later, I’m at my desk reading a 20 year old girl’s journal during a tutoring session and notice that she used the term “youngsters” and “youths” a few times each. Being quite "youthful" and naive herself, I had to chuckle at the word choice.

On to even more unrelated topics: the other day I was asked to attend a meeting. Some sort of Indonesian Secretariat was going to visit my University to monitor the “Native” teachers currently employed at BU from other countries. At the initial meeting with the Rector’s Assistant to discuss this upcoming visit, the Japanese and Korean lecturers show up to also talk about what will happen the next day when the government officials come to ensure the international agreements between our bosses and Brawijaya are up-to-date and kosher. Having never met before, we introduce ourselves, and the Japanese instructor looks at me and goes, “So, how many classes do you teach?” I replied, “Four”. He burst out laughing for what seemed like five minutes. “Four? Really? What a waste of resources!! Ah ha ha ha!” I did not think this was particularly funny. I replied, somewhat reluctantly, that I also privately tutor my writing students 6 hours a week, and have other responsibilities outside of the classroom (and that my contract limits my teaching time to 12 hours per week in order to make room for cultural activities and outside speaking engagements). I then ask him, “How many do you teach?” He shrugs and pretends to be cavalier, “Oh, 12 or 14 maybe”. I inquired as to how that’s even possible, and he says, “Well, that’s what I’m planning to ask the Monitors tomorrow. Ah ha ha ha!” In that moment, I’m quite thankful I hail from a country where sanity and “me time” are priorities.

The next day the meeting with these said “officials” (two women about my age) goes well, albeit the 45 minutes I spent sitting there while they all spoke Bahasa (which I still don’t) and then turned to me and said (in perfect English), “We already know about your program, and your documents are up to date. All we want to know is if you teach private lessons outside of the classroom?” I replied: “My contract states I cannot, therefore, no, I don’t.” They smiled, “That’s the answer we wanted to hear. Thank you.” Why I had to sit there for almost an hour to answer that one question, I don’t know. That’s Indo for you...efficiency is not their forte.

To switch gears again: while riding to school this week, I’ve been passing temporary holding pens housing multiple goats. These goats are being gathered and in preparation for Eidul-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice. On Friday the 27th, all of these goats will be slaughtered to symbolize the sacrifice of Abraham’s son Ismael. One third of the meat from each goat will be donated to the homeless (the other two thirds typically go to family and friends of the person responsible for the slaughter). Every time I drive past the poor creatures, I want to run towards them, throw open the gates, and shout for them to run free. Now, I know I’m not a vegetarian, but I try to stay away from more exotic meat like veal. It’s wonderful that homeless individuals will not have to worry about where to find food this weekend, however, I cannot imagine the amount of blood that will flow two days from today. Right after Thanksgiving. Which I will miss for the first time in 31 years. Ouch. I’d much rather be on my Grandmother’s farm with my Aunt, cousin, the llama, chickens, puppies and a turkey...

And finally, last week, I almost had a roommate. I was pulled into the Dean’s office Monday afternoon after just returning from a weekend in Central Java with the other Fellows, when I was informed that a visiting lecturer from Australia (she’s Indonesian but received her PhD in Oz) was returning to BU for three months and was going to move in with me. That day. I was asked to hand over my house keys to make copies, and was told that I would have to move my clothes out of the ONE closet in the house and move my personal papers from the ONE desk to a different location as soon as possible. Stunned to say the least, I asked the Dean if RELO (“Regional Location Officer”, aka, my boss) knew about this, and she replied that no, they did not, but if I wanted to call them and inform them of this change, I could. I walked out of her office stunned at the complete and utter professional disrespect that was just shown to me, and called my boss’s assistant in Jakarta. She assured me that she would look into this right away, and apologized for the very un-Indonesian manner in which this situation was handled. For the next 24 hours my counterpart, my co-teachers, and my friends went to the Dean on my behalf and explained that when it says, “private accommodation” in my contract, it means I ought to live alone. Apparently, I was told, the Dean chuckled and responded, “She has a key to her bedroom, that’s private enough. Besides, that house is too large for one woman to be living in by herself”. When I heard this, my claws came out. I’ve been living independently for 13 years, and when I’ve had roommates, I’ve chosen them. They have not been plopped down into my house by an outsider who knows diddly squat about me or my history, completely out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever.

Thankfully, my boss’s assistant in Jakarta, Dian, is a rock star and solved this issue by the following afternoon. Because the Dean did not sign my contract (in fact, I learned later, refused to) and because the house I live in belongs to the Rector of the University, she technically has no right to “assign” me roommates (especially not ones 25 years my senior). Her “misunderstanding” of the term private was egregious, and a formal complaint was filed against her with the Department of Cultural Affairs. I was informed, by the Rector himself (a very kind and generous man) that his “extra” house was to be used by me and me alone for the duration of my contract, and that he was sorry that I was put in such a position. I thanked him profusely.

The copied set of “my” house keys were eventually returned to me, four days later, by the Rector’s assistant, only after the Dean approached me and told me she wanted to “destroy” them, to which I informed her that my counterpart should actually have them in case of an emergency, to which she told me she had to “check with the Rector” before she could agree to “not destroying them” because they “should never have been made in the first place”. Precisely.

Seriously... Only in Indo...

Temple of my Familiar

2009-11-09T18:27:00.003-06:00

Two months ago, had you told me I’d be doing the Cha Cha with a Indonesian man in his fifties while his ten year old son circled us on his scooter, I would have suggested you see a doctor. Lo and behold, yours truly is learning to ballroom dance. And cook. As I type this I’m enjoying a meal of grilled eggplant, onions, green beans, and chicken breast, soaked in lemon, extra virgin olive oil, oregano and garlic (while drinking a San Miguel and listening to Billy Idol). Earlier today I showed my “slow” Writing class the “Yes We Can” music video/Obama speech as an example of persuasive writing, and they walked out of class singing “We want change! I want change! Yes. We. Can!” To top it all off, I rode to my dance instructor’s house this evening without getting lost. Didn’t have to turn around once. That is the first time this has happened in two weeks. It’s been a darn good day.

My previous hours since my last entry have been rough. Hence, my lack of updates. I simply refuse to blog if I’m going to be a Debbie Downer, thus, my waiting patiently for a day like today to shine on me. Flashback to last week...

The education system here is set up like a construction site without a blue print. You have an idea in your head, but no standards, albeit some extra wood and maybe a few nails. Perhaps, there are a few people willing to build something, when they get around to it. In the end, you might get a structure that stands upright, with a roof, and perhaps a door, but it don’t keep ya dry.

I teach three sections of Writing 4 (and one section of Drama 2). That’s the highest level of writing offered for undergraduates studying English. Our task is the argumentative essay. Each class averages 30 students. Each class meets ONCE a week for 100 minutes. Each class usually has only one teacher, who also has 7 other classes, over 200 students, a family, and administrative responsibilities (that is not an exaggeration). There is no one on one interaction or tutoring unless the student finds the teacher, on a good day, and takes 10 minutes of their time...which means a student’s chances at improving are slim to none.

Now consider that Writing 1, 2, and 3 are prerequisites for not only Writing 4, but also for most other classes students needed to graduate on time. Which means, if they are held back in writing, they are held back from most other required courses. There are no standards for grading: each teacher has their own rules. There is no set curriculum, and there are no text books (but plenty of photocopies...which the STUDENTS have to copy themselves...when they can afford to). ‘You tube’ is banned on campus. The wireless network at my University will not allow you to see it. Back in the States, I used you tube weekly as a teaching tool, and had text books galore, for free, from the publishers. All supplemental “handouts” were made by me, for free, and given to the students in class. Not here. I try to make copies for my students and the other teachers click their tongues at me and tell me I’ll go broke if I keep doing favors the kiddies. I tell them, where I come from, students are broke. They shake their heads and remind me in Indonesia students live with their parents and get monthly allowances. Right. Silly me.

The obvious result of this “system” is that 50% of my students cannot write their way out of a paper bag. Nor can they express themselves to me verbally. Nor have they EVER written creatively. I’ve been tutoring students (54 to be exact) for about a month now and some of them even plagiarized their JOURNAL entries. They did not understand that journals are about freedom of expression (ie: there are no rules aside from stick to the topic given). What? No thesis statements?? But Teacher, I don’t get it...

After realizing quite quickly there was a problem here, I met with my three team teachers and explained that I would need their help. It’s physically impossible for me to meet the needs of my entire class with such varied degrees of ability, thus, they were going to have to give up a few hours a week to asses the students who are below level and work with me on finding some sort of solution. The first meeting went well. The subsequent meetings have been me sitting at my desk, waiting for the other teachers to show up, and then watching them walk out of our meeting when their cell phones rang, not to mention them asking me what exactly it was I wanted them to “do” with the students once they made tutoring appointments with them. Insert me banging my head against a map of Indonesia here.

However, there are diamonds hidden in every dark cave. I had a student come to me last week who is one of my rare exceptions. Her writing is brilliant; her ideas are critical, accurate, and well crafted. Since she’s stellar, I told her she could move ahead of the pack, and so she came to me with a journal about schizophrenia. It started out with her talking about the film “A Beautiful Mind”, and moved to her admitting she is a schizophrenic. She then proceeded to advise her reader on how one can be a motivated, positive, and healthy mentally ill individual living and thriving in “normal” society. This woman is Moslem (like 85% of my students), and as she read her words out loud to me, her jillbob (the head covering) clung tightly around her face, neck, and hair. It was all I could do to not weep with elation and relief. FINALLY! Someone direct, shrewd, honest, and brave. Someone who is willing to stand alone, to stare normality in the face and tell it how very boring it can be.

I cannot wait to see her again.

This leads to me follow up on my Halloween Party. It happened, finally. My rookie mistake (as Momma Goose would say) was to expect anyone to show up during the first hour it was scheduled. I’d forgotten that Friday is a very holy day, and Indonesians must eat rice before they can eat chocolate, and so, I sat alone, with the Tech guy, for 45 minutes...feeling quite small and neglected by my students who had told me they were coming dressed up like Balinese monsters. One by one, a little head peeked around the door frame, giggles filled the hallway, and I see my students clustered in a smiling bunch. I beaconed for them to enter, and they shook their heads fiercely, leaving me quite puzzled. I hadn’t even started the scary movie, what on earth was their problem? The one student in the room with me at that time informed me that these girls could not actually come inside the room without their friends next to them. They move in a group. Always. And that’s how it began. People waiting in the hallway, coming in with another girl’s hand attached to their forearm, bowing slightly to me as they passed. Hence my flood gates of affection towards my schizophrenic dare devil willing to brake the mold.

I suppose I have my hands full (and now I know why they sent me to this island). But I’m learning to ride my motorbike to the store, the coffee shop, my friend’s houses, the gym...alone. In traffic. On streets with no name or names I cannot possibly pronounce while passing ojeks and oncots (public modes of transport). Maps are useless to me as I need to see the places where I turn as opposed to memorize road names, so I'm learning, week by week, how to get myself where I need to go. It feels good to grow out of the toddler stage of culture shock and enter a level of autonomy...

I did visit some temples this weekend from the 10th and 14th centuries, and bathed in outdoor pools of crystal clear water before meditating with my Hindu friends over incense inside dark, cool enclosures against well worn stones smoothed over by centuries of hope and prayer. I’ve met some lovely people and now know I’m not the only white woman in Malang. I bought patio furniture so that I may eat my meals under the orange moon, or with the morning birds and my cup of instant coffee (surprisingly tasty).

I’m adjusting. Colors are no longer striking dissonant chords in my brain, nor am I simply walking to and from but not actually going anywhere. I am here now. And with that presence comes a letting go of my former life, of the past in general. Which is why, as I sat in that first temple this weekend and placed my hands palm up on bent knees, my eyes spilled over with a mixture of grief and gratitude.

Back in Black

2009-10-30T06:18:00.002-05:00

My first movie theater experience in Indo was awful, and quite eye opening. No wonder my students are writing journals about vapid Americans having “free sex” (sex before marriage) and the “liberal/dirty” behavior of us Westerners. They actually think we walk down the street, point to someone we find attractive, and go home with them that very night. Katherine Heigl should be ashamed of herself. She’s (almost) turned me off of Dr. Izzie Stevens forever. For a woman who I thought could actually act, she’s not doing any of us American ladies any favors. Granted, if I knew I was a walking international paycheck....well, I hope I’d still make better character choices. That’s right. I saw “The Ugly Truth”, and left with a smutty aftertaste. It was like a bad dream, except a Hollywood studio actually spent time and money to film it, with real actors, and ended up with not a single shred of redeemable “art” to show for it. What a shame. So, why did I go? It was the best choice available. The other films, believe it or not, were worse. The crap that gets distribution over here is embarrassing. I was ashamed. My country is better than that. We have integrity. We’re not shallow puppets. Except, how are my students supposed to believe that when all they see is utter cinematic slop?

It’s been a heck of a few weeks. Let’s start with Halloween. I decided to throw a Halloween Party (Indo style) for my students so that they could experience the creepy fabulousness of one of our most incredible holidays. I like Halloween, very much. On the last day of October, we don’t stuff ourselves with too much Cool Whip (I admit I’m just as guilty as the next girl), forget that Christopher Columbus was a genocidal murderer and call it a day, nor do we celebrate the birth of a child from the womb of a virgin, nor is it a day about bombs bursting in air. Instead, we play, we create, we cross over into the unseen (or, undead, depending on who you ask). Where else do adults who don’t do theater or film for a living get to put putty on their faces, wear ridiculous clothes, and be someone else for a night? Granted, our teeth hate us the next day, but we have the best dental hygiene of any other country I’ve seen, so it’s forgivable.

Anyway, I’d planned the “party” for Friday the 30th, and have been trying to confirm the time and place on campus for over a week when the head of the English Department came to speak to me. She said the Dean had asked her (not me, mind you...that would be too direct for South East Asia) “Why did Courtney have to start with Halloween as her holiday/cultural event? Why couldn’t she have started with, say, Thanksgiving instead?” (here we go with the genocide again) It just so happens the Dean and Vice Dean of my University are not going to be in town this weekend, and so they’d asked two other faculty members to be at my party, making sure the students arrive in costumes that were appropriate. There is to be no dancing, no live music, and obviously no booze (that I of course understood...I do know I’m not in Kansas anymore). I was given three hours, total, and the students had to be out by 8pm (mind you, I do teach at a University). I was told to “keep it simple”, and to show a movie that did not have too much violence. Now, I do know that part of my job is to respect the new and different culture I’m in, and to adhere to sensitive boundaries, but 8PM? NO LIVE MUSIC? Do they know we’re in Indo? There was LIVE music, ON CAMPUS, YESTERDAY, DURING my Writing class. I could hardly concentrate while I was teaching topic sentences because someone was singing karaoke 20 feet away, outside, at 2pm. Not to mention there were two men sharing coffee and a smoke on the other side of the wall behind my white board. Instead of hearing the sounds of my students’ brains digesting the material, I heard a conversation steeped in fumes. I had to stop class, poke my head outside the door, and politely ask the men to take their conversation elsewhere, as there was a class being conducted 3 feet away.

So, back to Halloween. The students have been so excited. This is the first Halloween Party at BU’s campus, ever, and they very much want to gather together, dress up, eat sweets, and watch a scary movie together. I’ve kept the agenda innocuous and have tried to find an exciting prize for the costume contest. However, because the Dean and Vice Dean want to check up on me, it has been rescheduled, for a week after the Day of the Dead. I guess I should count my blessings. It’s just hard to do when I know my friends back home are having a Hellishly good time walking through amazing haunted houses, carving pumpkins, dancing to Thriller, buying fake blood, and reliving nights of trick or treating. Ah, Indo. What a G rated web you weave (except when you go to the cinema)...

Oh, and the love songs! So help me...my department swoons over saccharine ballads of the heart. They pump all day long while I’m trying to grade quizzes, and seem to favor the pipes of Celion Dion, Brian Adams, and LeAnne Rimes. If I hear “My Heart Will Go On” one more time I’m going to start eating ink pens with my Nasi Ayem (fried chicken). I think they have a total of TWO CDs on shuffle, and they’ve had them longer than I’ve been addicted to coffee. Why they don’t branch out into tunes past 1996, I’m not entirely sure. Except, I think it’s related to this “G” rated phenomenon. It’s like being stuck in a doctor’s office, or an elevator, for 8 hours every day. The brain, as much as it tries not to, absorbs the ideas of love everlasting and eternal dedication, and all hard edges start to soften as the hours wane. By the end of the day I leave feeling...fuzzy, kind of like a Sesame Street character, or a Walk Disney reject. Sometimes I have to put in my ipod before I get on my bike and zone out to the Stones/Rob Zombie/Metallica/Busta/ACDC just to get the blood flowing again. It helps having a motorcycle waiting for you in the parking lot, I have to admit.

However, when I need a solid dose of realism, I can just pay attention to some of my male co-workers across the way. Yesterday, one of them belched, loudly and proudly, three times. I’ve also seen them picking their noses (my students seem to like to go digging for gold as well) as if they were, well, raised in a barn. Once, I saw a man blowing a snot rocket off the side of a boat. As I’ve noted in previous locations to certain individuals, not only does privacy not exist, but there is no division between “outside” and “inside” over here, and I mean for that to have a double meaning.

Speaking of privacy not existing...I was recently asked by a co-worker if I had a problem with the meals I’ve been receiving at the office. You see, a group of us “order” boxed lunches to be delivered to our desks daily, but you never know what is lurking under the lid. The other day it was fish. The entire thing. Head and tail included, guts in tact. In Malang, they serve you the whole sha-bang, and the locals pick at the meat and discard the bones. I, instead, chose to put my little Nemo aside (he was looking at me funny), lost most of my appetite, and threw the box away. My actions apparently were reported and circulated, because days later, I was being questioned as to why I did not finish my lunch (by someone who was not present at the time of my disposal of Mr. Fishy). Oh, and when I do finish the TINY portions they give me in under 15 minutes because I forgot my snack that day and haven’t eaten in five hours, I’m told I should eat slower. I guess it’s permissible to eat a fried fish head (slowly) if it’s kosher to burp in front of co-workers while checking your email. Silly me. I ought to refer to my barn yard manual more often.

One more thing I have to note that puzzles me before I retire with my book (side note: I highly recommend The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram. Even if you don’t teach a language or are not a teacher/English nerd at all, this novel is an exquisite pleasure. Thank you Vanessa for your recommendation), is pulsa availability. “Pulsa” is the word for minutes on your hand phone (cell). People don’t have phone bills with plans out here. They pay for minutes as they go (at least the ones I know). Thus, there are pulsa “dealers” all over the place, both in phone stores, in private vendor stalls, and in the office. My dealer is a sweet man who works at a desk down the hall from mine. I don’t know how he does it, but I give him money, and he adds minutes to my phone. The other day I approached him requesting he “top me up”, and he shook his head. “Sorry Miss, today not good day for pulsa”. I asked why, and he said he didn’t know, but that I should try again tomorrow. Having a fantastic memory for minor details and a horrible memory for important things like where I put my keys, I returned the following day. Again, the smile and head shake. “Bad day for pulsa again?” I asked. He nodded. “Sorry Miss. Try again maybe tomorrow?” Fast forward to day three. Apparently, the pulsa Gods were in a better mood and communication has been restored.

That, in a nutshell, is my experience of Indo. Some days it works, and some days are just not good. Ah well, at least I can hop on my bike tomorrow morning and ride to school, invisible broomstick tucked in my backpack, Back in Black pulsing in my head.

P.S. I've decided to go to Jakarta and spend Halloween with Momma Goose and Cappy, dance, dress up, and feel somewhat American for a night. Thank god for Lion Air.

A rather short, but full, weekend

2009-10-11T07:29:00.011-05:00

I blew my very first fuse at 7am today trying to charge my camera for a morning of monkey watching. The electric pop sparked behind the outlet, and so I got ready vowing to simply remember my day rather than document it. My counterpart (Iis), her adorable husband Reza, and Reza's 9 year old little sister and I drove about 20 minutes away to a water park/monkey hang out. Buses, children, and families clamored outside the gates. Peddlers hawking their goods, beggars asking for money. The same grey monkeys I saw in Bali were all over the grounds. At first I was enamored, as I always am with animals, until I saw the monkey on a chain. A man sat in a folding chair not far from the main entrance, a small drum in his hand. At the end of a "leash" sat a monkey, dressed in clothing, wearing a hat, and hissing at his audience of mildly amused pedestrians. I stood stone still, my hands over my mouth, as this man jerked the chain back and forth, made the monkey do flips, made him stop, made him pick things up with his hands, made him behave like a circus freak. It took all I had not to walk right up to him and...well...my Mother taught me better than to say what. I was enraged. Animals do not like cages or chains. They need wide open spaces, good healthy food, and peace and f*#king quiet. Not a drum that bangs endlessly in their ears, or people throwing peanuts and then screaming when they peel the shells and ask for more, unable to find their own food.

We kept walking. We had fun on the bumper cars, merry go round, and dirt bikes. People stopped to take pictures of me on the massive three wheelers because, as usual, Bules are a hot commodity. This time I actually smiled. They were genuinely excited to have me there, and shoot, who doesn't like such attention? However, the reality of Indo was inescapable, despite my moments of joy. The small lake where we went row boating was filled with trash. Small fish swam over forks, plates, plastic water bottles, and god knows what else. Once ashore, I saw a monkey up a tree chewing on a dirty, abandoned sandal. CHEWING it. Like it contained actual food. Next to him perched a monkey nibbling on a plastic spoon. Below him, a monkey trying to eat the lid of a soda can. Looking closer, I noticed these monkeys had growths, bubble like additions to their jaws that looked like small white marbles protruding from their cheeks. Many of them. Cysts? Tumors? Who knows. My stomach turned. Walking out of this "park", I tried to rationalize what I'd seen. However, I cannot escape the fact that animals are treated terribly in this country. Cats are kicked, tails are cut off, and rats run wild.

I came home to two rooms that had light and thankfully, a fridge that was still cold. Iis had found the circuit breaker on the outside of my house and flipping one of those switches seemed to turn on a few bulbs. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the dirt off my floors, and doing the usual Sunday tid bits one does when one doesn't have to be anywhere (or when one is trying to avoid doing school work). The sun set with still no air conditioning or DVD watching in clear sight, and so I took a walk around the homestead, looked in every room, and could not find the answer to my dilemma. Seeing no alternative, I sent my counterpart a text message, and she agreed to come over and help. She lives 30 minutes away, with her husband, in-laws, and his family. She's incredible to even offer to come back after driving me around all morning.

While waiting for her arrival, the white cat who has visited me in the past showed up at my door once again. Her eyes still in a daze, her fur still matted. I fished out the chicken in my fridge, filled a bowl with filtered water, and left it out for her. She pecked at it, and snuggled next to the water. I noticed her gait was a little slow, and her hind legs were spread wider than usual. Dear God, "Pus pus" (one of the names for cats in these parts) is going to have kittens.

Iis and Reza arrived, took one look at Pus pus and agreed that she was indeed pregnant. Reza took three steps into my sitting room (yes, I actually have one...this place is the biggest house I will never pay for in my life, better appreciate it while I can) and found the second circuit breaker box. He flipped a switch, and the air was back on. With my lights. In under 20 seconds my problem was fixed. How I had missed the box labeled "Curcuit Breaker", I don't want to know. Feeling terrible that I made them drive out to my place for the second time today, I offered them cookies, teaching materials, etc. We decided on a night I would take them out to dinner this week, and then I mentioned the cat. I simply cannot let her deliver kittens when she's obviously sick and no one gives a hoot whether she lives or dies. Turns out, Reza's Uncle is a vet.

Part of me wonders if Miss Pus Pus found her way into my house and flipped a switch of her own to rig this situation. After they left (books and cookies in hand), I filled a shoe box with a towel, a bowl with tuna fish, and set both on my front porch, just in case.

Looks like I've been adopted by a cat.

In other, more academic news, school is going well. I had my first formal presentation on Saturday (yes, my day off, but, you have to show up when invited to such things) where I spoke on Language BA programs in the States as the Language Department at Brawijaya is revamping their curriculum and they wanted to know how things are done back at the ranch. However, I had to wait and listen to 4 hours of Bahasa before it was my turn. At about hour one I felt completely ridiculous and totally unqualified. I need to get on those language lessons, and fast. (The actual presentation went fairly well.)

I'm also tutoring my writing students outside of class on how to, well, write better. This is a daunting task as I have over 70 of them. 60 of them really need my help but their classes meet once a week and there are about 30 of them per class. Thus, I've started a program of sorts where I sit for a half hour with any student who signs up to see me, voluntarily, and we review a one page journal entry on a topic they enjoy writing about. As exhausting as this is, it seems to be working. My students are coming back to see me at least twice per assignment. They thank me often, and they leave feeling, hopefully, a little more capable. I'm so proud of them. And so lucky to be here.

Before I sign off I have to mention that I start bike lessons tomorrow (mine is a standard and I've never actually driven a motorcycle before). Watch out world. This lady's got her very own hog and she intends to ride it like the wind (while adhering to the speed limit and wearing a helmet at all times, of course)! Goodnight ya'll...

Because it's October

2009-10-02T23:11:00.000-05:00

I now have internet at home, which means my blog entries might just be a bit more frequent. Lately, I'm feeling the need to say how much I miss the change of seasons.

When I applied for this Fellowship, it was February in Chicago: a deep, dark, and soul sucking time of year. As much as I heart Chi-town, that's about the month where I give up and say "I am never doing this again, I'm done, I hate it here, get me the heck out!" So I move to a country where there is the rainy season, and the dry season. When I got the job in May, I thought to myself "Well Mr. Winter, time to take that long walk off that short pier once and for all!" And now...well...the grass is always greener.

I miss Fall. I miss scarves and long sleeved jean jackets, boots, and cardigans. I miss the trips to the knitting shops with Sandra (Arcadia!) to buy yarn for my yearly project, booking a flight to Oregon for Thanksgiving, pumpkin carving, Halloween parties, baking cookies, and the general feeling of a city stocking its shelves for the long winter up ahead. Chicago comes together in the fall. People are walking the crisp streets, enjoying the last few days at the Lake, going to the last few restaurants that still have outdoor seating, drinking the fall beers at the local watering hole (Ok, I'll admit, I never finished my beer, but I gave it a good try).

While I'm typing this, however, I could not be further away from the feeling I grew up with associated with school supplies, new clothes, new books, and hot apple cider. My front door currently lays wide open in front of me, letting in the 80 degree breeze. Butterflies flutter in my back garden, the trees out there desperately needing me to water them, the air conditioning cooling my bedroom into a hazy, cozy temperature perfect for burrowing under the covers with a book. I am wearing a t-shirt and cut off jeans, no shoes, hair pulled away from my neck. It's October, but I'm stuck in a terminal June.

I've always been the type to learn the lesson by actually living it. And so I admit that yes, I like cooler weather, I like coats, and perhaps, maybe, a small part of me even likes February in Chicago. Perhaps only because for the first time in 8 years, I won't be living it. This is, in fact, the first time in my life I'll be missing a winter altogether. Never ever thought I'd long for a season I used to loathe. There's still a good chance, if I do come home for the holidays, that I will long for Indonesia just the same, while the wind bites at my ears and freezes my fingers. I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Hope you're sitting down. This is a long one. Might as well get comfy.

2009-09-30T00:53:00.000-05:00

I have a Balinese vacation hangover. Coming from a place of literal culture shock, this tiny spot in Indonesia brought me back to life, slowly and surely. Where to begin?

The people: my fellow “ELFs” are amazing. Not sure how I ended up being chosen as one of them, but I find myself marveling at the company. As far as I know, I’m the only one of us who has never taught abroad before, and the only one who does not speak another language, fluently. The ages range from 26 to 35, and the experiences are boundless. Some of us have taught in Muslim countries far more restrictive and violent (places where public execution by beheading is still practiced) than anything I could live with or near, some of us have taught the blind in Europe, some of us scuba dive, others are Linguistic masters, all are adept travelers, beyond competent at navigating new and unfamiliar situations, and each of the Fellows are totally hilarious in their own ways (and I must say we’re not bad on the eyes). It took time to peel back the layers within people who were strangers only a month ago, but by the end of our 8 days together, I felt like I’d found my family away from home. Thus, we made up “call names” for each other (in case we come across CB radios) based on personality traits, and these I list below for posterity sake (in no particular order).

-”Big Daddy Sheik” is a man of grand stature and goofy smile. I’ll admit, I massively misjudged the fella upon first encounter. A dry humor so subtle it fooled us all, this lovely man has a gushy heart of gold beneath the seemingly simple and unaffected exterior. Who knew a burly, dark haired Ken doll could recite the names of all respectable “chick flicks” in the last 20 years? All I can say is wow. You da man Big D. I’d be stuck on a desert island with you any day.

-”Blackjack” is the opposite of Big Daddy in age and size. This sassy sweet woman can talk to anyone, and frequently was beloved by our cab drivers and street vendors because of her limitless openness to strangers. At one point the man driving us to the ATM broke into song in the front seat along with a Brian Adams oldie and Blacky and I shouted back karaoke style as we bounced around the curvy roads together. Who does that? People who ride with Blacky, that’s who. Oh, and the type on her computer is in Portuguese. Cause she’s fluent (who isn’t?).

-”Supafly” was my roommate the whole time and not only did I NOT want to kill her by the end, but I actually liked her MORE. This lady is pure, simply put. The spirit beneath the corn-flake blue eyes is both innocent and wise, and her energy is unassuming and ultra giving. I probably talked her ear off way too much during our mosquito net chats, but she never complained. I also give her props for being so adventurous and daring as to climb a volcano with a heights scaredy cat like myself. And she’s fluent in German and French (and has been to Iceland--SO jealous!!).

-”Cooky” got her name because she is a self professed “foody”. She’s also a walking Encyclopedia Britanica, a Linguistical wizard, and an idiomatic talking fool. Nothing gets past this lady. Organized and whip smart, she could kick my rear end at Trivial Pursuit any day. She’s also ADORABLE. Love the pig tails. They remind me of a Winnie the Pooh character that shall remain nameless.

-”Princess” got her name because of her posh digs in Jogja. She has two servant boys and lives in a palace. However, this woman ran up that volcano like she was running to the post office. A PhD student at UMass Amherst (Blaky is also a UMass alum) she’s wicked smart and could take us all in an arm wrestling competition or a triathlon. Her man back home is a lucky boy.

-”Merlin” takes no b.s. from anyone. This gal knows what she likes and sticks to it. I respected her standards of living (ie: nice hotel room with WiFi over mosquito netted bed in the woods) and her unwillingness to compromise. She and I never got to go on our horseback ride, sadly, but I’m hoping we do someday. A sly cowgirl and a great listener, I found I wanted to hang out with her the more we spoke about life issues and lady stuff.

-”Mother Goose” took care of all the travel arrangements and paid everyone before we got there so that her little ducklings could have a seamless adventure. Trained in elementary education, “Mo” was the master organizer and chief party planner. I don’t know how she lives in Jakarta full time, but after having lived in Oman and China, she can take any city you throw at her, blindfolded and hog tied. Impressive woman with the quickest wit since Richard Prior. And best head of blond hair I’ve seen in a long time.

-”El Capitan”...so much to say, so little room. One of my favorite memories of the trip is when I woke up one morning to find 11 text messages on my phone, all sent from him within the span of 45 minutes the night before. Only one of them was in English (the others were in German, Spanish, and Bahasa...and some Gibberish and Pig Latin thrown in for good measure). Another favorite memory is his Lacan impression of the Theory of French Fries. It isn’t a party without Cappy. A dancer to rival the late M.J., this man needs little sleep and attracts an entourage wherever he goes. I heart you.

-”Wonder Woman” is what they call me. Cappy mentioned it was because I apparently look like Linda Carter. I’d like to think it’s because I run into the ocean with my invisible bathing suit on at the blink of an eye (I was wearing clothes Mom...inside joke) or because I can repel bullets with my fancy arm bands. Either way, I’ll take it.

The places: There was a lot of driving from one end of the island to the next. That meant a lot of bathroom breaks. There are no “rest stops” in Bali. When one of us had to use the facilities, we simply pulled over (gas stations don’t seem to have bathrooms or candy here, just gas) in front of someone’s house. The driver then asked the old woman sitting outside on her stoop if we could come inside. Now, I can be messy, but I always make sure my house is respectable. These houses were...not what I expected. The bathrooms were all squatters (no flushing toilets) and I had to bring my own paper and hand sanitizer (which, to be fair, I bring everywhere). Upon closer inspection I would find a toothbrush stuck into a crevice between the stones in the walls, or underneath a crack in the roof. But hey, they were free, and one doesn’t have time to clean for unexpected visitors. “Cooky” developed a rating scale for the bathrooms, and we had a good time whispering “that one’s a negative 2” to each other in passing. “Big Daddy” had a great scale for bathroom use urgency, a “10” being you were actually to the point of peeing in a cup while driving. To amuse ourselves, there was one point during a drive when we spoke only in idioms, and the texting between cars (you have to take 2 with 10 people...the extra one being Rich, “Momma Goose’s” sweet as pie boyfriend) was constant and incited much spontaneous giggling.

Oh, and when you order a carbonated beverage at a road side stand and mention you are taking it ‘to go’, they pour the contents of said beverage into a plastic baggie for you, and provide a straw. In case you’ve never tried it, soda is hard to drink out of a plastic bag (and they don’t refrigerate the cokes at such places, so it’s luke warm at best). They do this so they can keep the bottle and get the return on the glass. Just in case us Bules want the 5 rupiah, to bad for us.

Villa Toke was our first accommodation in Ubud. We had this place all to ourselves, and the showers had hot water (HURRAY!!!) and rose colored soap. Evening dance parties on the patio and breakfast at the long wooden table, we played in the pool and watched videos over burgers (The Hangover made me almost pull a “10” in my pants). An artsy town made famous by the book Eat, Pray Love, it was indeed my favorite place. For those of you on facebook, this is where I ate the green coconut cake and took the photos of monkeys. This is also were I bought a lovely red silk scarf, delicate flowered pink fan, and soy milk for my morning coffee. The stars in the sky were plentiful, and we were there during a Balinese ceremony that decorated the streets in flowing cloths and colorful offerings. The cab drivers were super talkative and if you want to shop for anything while in Bali, Ubud is the place to go. Ex-pats were everywhere. And I could finally wear a tank top without feeling like a flaming hussy.

And then there was Tristan, the 10 year old French boy (who spoke English, obviously) that lived next to our Villa. Walking back from the beach one day, we ran into him near the front gate. Around his right hand was a python. A baby python (I’m pretty sure it was his pet). Fearlessly, he was winding it around his wrist, watching it move slowly over his skin. Because “Supafly” speaks French, she initiated conversation, and we soon found out he was born in France, but spent many years in Morocco before coming to Bali. So he spoke Balinese, Bahasa, French and English. It must be mentioned that this little man was stunning...in another ten years he’ll stop traffic, and have tons of stories to tell at the bars, languages to speak, and hopefully a happy life ahead of him full of opportunities. He was also quite sweet, talking with the adults with very little hesitancy. We were all enamored, and I walked away hoping that my children (or child) has the same amazing life available to him or her. One thing is for certain, all children should learn languages while their brains are still spongy and open. Being able to communicate with others is a key to survival. We all deserve that much.

Our second accommodation was called the Manjangan Resort, and it lay in a nature reservation dotted with rust colored deer (“manjangan” means deer) and more monkeys (careful, they hiss when approached). This place was rustic, and right on the ocean. We broke into pairs and slept in grass covered huts with sliding doors that did not lock and hardly shut (it was, however, quite safe, save for the rat that ate poor “Princess’s” beaded purse). We ate in a restaurant made of local wood and palm leaves that had five stories, and the view from the top was straight out of a postcard. We were escorted around in a double decker bus (the resort was on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, so you could not get around much on your own unless you were willing to walk for miles on end with nothing much in sight) that was essentially seats on platforms with four wheels, and it was here that we went snorkeling (while the brave scuba dived). I saw fish in these clear waters decorated in fluorescent blues, glowing yellows, and every other color in the rainbow. The coral was perfect, and the temperature was soothingly warm. The boat that took us to our diving point was more like a skipper and on the way back we were splashed by the waves to the point of utter drenchville. Two of us actually vomited from sea sickness (the innocent shall remain unnamed). Coming from someone who thinks she could live on a boat (like Cooky did in the Caribbean), this was a bit much. The wind was freezing due to how fast we were going, and by the time we got to shore, we all felt like dryness was a distant ideal never to be reached again. Note to anyone thinking of traveling near the equator: the only people who did not get scorched by the sun after layers of sunscreen were wearing dive suites. Cover. Up. My back is peeling into my bed sheets and water blisters keep popping under my clothes. Not attractive.

Before leaving this part of the island, five of us took a ferry back to the East coast of Java and climbed the Ijen Kawah (a HUGE volcano/crater). The ride from the resort to the ferry was about 30 minutes, once on the ferry, one hour to Java, then 90 minutes to the middle of the volcano, at which point we spent another 90 minutes hiking. We left at 5am, and got to the top of the volcano some time around 10. Black monkeys swung from trees and colorful birds chattered all around me. Because volcanic lava produces the richest soil on earth, the trees and greenery going up the volcano were the most beautiful I have ever seen with hanging “leaves” that looked like a cross between spanish moss, weeping willows, and silky spider webs. We also passed a coffee “farm” on the way up, and little did I know that coffee beans are actually bright red before they are roasted to the deep brown we see in the bags at the shops. And no, you cannot smell coffee while it’s hanging from the branches. Much to my dismay.

We got to the top (props to all who suffered the thinning oxygen and perilous rocks) and I thought was going to collapse. The view was incredible, something out of a fairy-tale cartoon with slopping hills and mist everywhere, but I couldn’t see all the way down to the road we came in on because we were literally above the clouds. The reason my legs almost gave out was the view INTO the volcano itself. That sucker was deep. And the interior walls looked like they were covered in vanilla icing cracking over a black forest chocolate cake. Sulfur is yellow (didn’t know that either) and near the “inside” of Ijen little sulfuric chunks lay scattered about. Those chunks are actually frequently removed, and locals carve them into mini sculptures and sell them as souvenirs. “Big D” bought a few for ‘ole ole’ (gifts to bring to people after a trip away) and we made fun of him for being a softy on the way back.

This volcano has a lake in the middle as well. When the smoke was blowing in the right direction (parts of the volcano were hissing hot grey smoke that smelled like rotten eggs straight up into the ether) we could see the most science-fiction looking blue I will probably ever see outside of a Star Trek episode. I can imagine that is the hottest water found in Indonesia. Wish I could ship some of that back to Malang to pour into my shower water. Ah well. Cold showers make you stronger.

I sat myself down on the rim of this massive organically made crater and felt not only proud of myself for making it all the way up, but also so utterly at Mother Nature’s mercy in a way I cannot really explain. With my sunburned skin and the feeling of the solid yet potentially fatal rock beneath me, I understood fully how superior Mother Earth really is. I sat there in awe, and a deep and infinite peace washed over me. Now, I believe that there is something far greater than us humans in existence...but “God” has never really been my thing because the Western Christian “God” is based on a story book about someone (granted, Jesus was a righteous dude) who lived thousands of years ago. I’m sorry if I’ve offended some of you by typing this, but, sitting there, I felt humbled by the smallness of us humans and in utter worship over the planet we live on. I just hope my children and their children to follow can revile in the same striking beauty that I did that afternoon...hint to those who don’t recycle...start now. Cause Momma Nature is in charge, and she has one hot temper.

The descent from the top was just as hard as the hike up because of the slippery steep angle, but this time we were stalled at least four times by the locals taking pictures of the Bules in the “wild”. That was actually sweet. Families would see us from a distance and motion to their cameras while saying “Picture! Picture!” I even had one guy stop dead in his tracks, put out his hand to shake mine, and say, “Hello! Where are you from? My name is.....You are so beautiful!” Once back in the car we shook and bounced to the bottom, our behinds actually lifting off the seats between dips in the road. Much like the skipper ride back to shore after snorkeling, this was super fun at first, but after a while I found my backside quite sore and glad I’ve never been one to succumb to carsickness.

Our last place of rest was called the Padang Beach Resort in Padang Bai. This area had as many Bules as Ubud, but instead of Australians, it was littered with Frenchies (hence Cappy’s impression of Lacan) and Germans. A few doors down from the resort was the Topi Inn, which had internet (when it felt working), workshops, tours, and darn good food. Thus, we spent most of our time there. “Merlin” and I took a motorcycle tour of two of the nearby temples (there were many more that had to be skipped over due to time) and through isolated and quiet rice fields, which was totally amazing. The intricate details of those places of prayer, filled with historically mythic paintings floored me. However, I got to a point where I felt over stimulated and the stone carvings started to look the same. That’s when I knew I needed some down time, so I broke out the Uno cards with Cappy and Big D for a few hours of mindless smack talk. The local vendors in this area were really chill, and I bought a necklace that is now my new favorite from a woman who made me swear I would never forget her.

There was one moment in my final days in Bali that I hope to take to my grave. I was sitting alone at a table in the Topi, waiting for “Merlin” to show up for our temple tour, and an adorable little boy maybe two years old walked over to me. He was dressed in bright clothing, and wearing a little black hat with tufts of jet black hair escaping from under the edges. Smiling, he grabbed my right hand with his, and held it, looking straight into my eyes. I smiled back, instantly in love. He then turned my hand over in his so that the back of it was facing up, and then brought it to his lips and gave me the sweetest little kiss (all the while not taking his eyes away from mine). He let out a little giggle as I said “thank you”, and ran back to his Daddy’s lap (who was sitting a few feet away from me) with a shy blush to his cheeks. He looked back at me with a smile only a child can muster and it was all I could do to not follow him and scoop him into my arms. For all the complaining I do about getting starred at and having people stop me to photograph my white skin, it is this joyous, open curiosity that gets me about Indonesians. They are so kind.

...

I am one lucky woman.

"M" is for Magic

2009-09-13T22:28:00.000-05:00

Yesterday: “...me, and a gun, and a man on my back...but I haven’t seen Barbados, so I must get out of this...”

An old and dusty Tori Amos song circa Little Earthquakes wafted into my new bedroom as I swept behind a bed that had not been moved since the time of Christ. This song of hers is one of her more raw, brutal tunes (and one of my favorites because of its honesty). Simultaneously, as I scooped the dirt of years past into a dustpan, I could hear the call to evening prayer all around me, outside my windows, permeating the air waves. An Arabic male reminding disciples of Allah what time it was. Tori singing acapella on my computer.

As usual, I had gotten distracted. In the middle of my living room sat an open box filled with gifts from previous female American ELFs in Malang. A DVD player, an iron, novels, maps, hair gel, Bahasa lesson books, English lesson books, a blender, kitchen rags, batik shirts, pot holders, a rolling pin: all gifts from women who came before me to a woman they would probably never meet. Tori and the Qur’an still battling it out around the pile at my feet.

It’s been a full few days while I settle into my apartment. Four cockroaches, countless mosquitoes, and endless scrubbing. Outside my nesting routine lays a much more chaotic and unpredictable scene. Venturing to the mall alone for food still renders staring. The other day a group of teenage boys “accidentally” brushed up against me on the escalator, got in front of me, then turned behind their shoulders to look at me, smiling mischievously, waiting for my reaction. Thankful for my many acting classes, I resisted the urge to move a single muscle in my face as I met their gaze. Stupid Bule (Bule= “native”, “foreigner”, think “gringa”) I am not. Crazy, maybe.

I control my anger in situations like these because for the first time in my life, I am the “other”. I’ve been a privileged white girl for 31 years. I’m here for a reason. Besides, anger is so banal. I know they’re curious. These boys, in my opinion, were quite rude, but the ones that look and don’t touch just want see the real thing. The American in 3D. Alone, I am an anomaly. A pale female freak out and about. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever had to think about why people might not be able to stop themselves from starring at another human being. I never knew I had it so easy.

Without internet at home or a television worth watching (Indonesian t.v. makes zero sense to me) I’ve been devouring Obama’s book, Dreams From My Father. The man can write. Well. Both having lived (living) in Indonesia and Chicago, I foolishly feel we have something in common, regardless of how marginal. But the more I read, the more I realize why he’s so much more than our current President. And the more I’m proud of my country for electing him.

Driving along the roads of Malang, women stand in the dirt, off to the side. Their hands outstretched, hair unbrushed, faces unwashed, bellies empty. Human trafficking happening. Women and children for sale. I hold my breath in utter disbelief and horror as the cars and motorbikes start to move away from them. Why don’t I see that in Chicago, even though it happens there too? How (and when) did we learn to hide it so well? More importantly, where is the police to take these women to a safe house?

Earlier today I was eating breakfast in Duncan Donuts with Wayan when a white man in his mid 40s walks past our table. They extend a familiar greeting. I perk up in my seat at the sight of another ex-pat. I’m not the only one! Hurray! “M” is from Texas and has been living in Indonesia for 10 years. He’s the father of four young children and teaches English in the area (he used to teach at my University, hence his greeting with my co-worker and friend Wayan). His Bahasa is perfect. We get to talking, and I feel myself relax as I speak to his daughter (maybe 9 years old) about their most recent visit back to the States when Mike asks if I’d like to join him and his family for a “meeting” on Sundays where other ex-pats will be gathered. I said, “Yes, I’d really like that”. He then continues, “Now, I don’t know if you’re a Believer, but we usually go to Wendy’s afterwards for dinner, and....” Suddenly he goes mute. The word “Believer” hangs in the air between us as his mouth continues to move, forming words with blurry, distant sound. All I can do is study his shiny gold wedding ring, look at his perfectly groomed head of ash blond hair, notice his nicely pressed clothes and think, “No, not here”. The coffee colored girls at the side of the road flash before my eyes once again with nowhere to go. Not here.

It’s explained to me later that “M” no longer works at my University because he converted a number of former Muslims (students) into Christians. A Missionary in Teacher’s clothing. Perhaps I’m being too sensitive, but those who are hired to teach English abroad have one job: teaching ENGLISH. That’s all. Religion is personal. What happens between you and your God is no one else’s business. Change someone’s religion, and you change their way of living. Literature class is not an invitation to pass out fliers that invite students to “free conversation classes with native speakers” only to have the topic of conversation be about Jesus and why he should be your personal savior. The white man with the invisible cross “teaching” his students a new way to pray. I thought I was here to educate college kids on contemporary drama, not to evangelize. I thought they hired me to plan lessons, not to persuade. He leaves our table with a smile and a wave. I sit in silence. Yes...even here.

Every day I notice walls I never knew I had inside of me being pushed. Bending a little in slightly uncomfortable directions. I’m going to this “meeting” because I have to observe before I condemn. And because I’m curious as to how I will be approached and how I will chose to respond.

Not to worry; this liberal feminist knows where she stands and to whom she prays. She’ll listen, meet new people, and then return home to familiar lyrics playing in her clean corner while mutable, unfamiliar chaos buzzes past her door.

I recently underlined an excerpt from Obama’s book that eloquently captures the root of (some of) what I’ve been experiencing while mopping my tiled floors and meeting other “natives” over iced Americano:

“For there were many churches, many faiths. There were times, perhaps, when those faiths seemed to converge-- the crowd in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the Freedom Riders at the lunch counter. But such moments were partial, fragmentary. With our eyes closed, we uttered the same words, but in our hearts we each prayed to our own masters; we each remained locked in our own memories; we all clung to our own foolish magic” (163).

I think I'm gonna like it here

2009-09-08T02:36:00.001-05:00

The title of this post comes from the film "Annie". The one with Carol Burnett, Tim Curry, Albert Finney and Bernadette Peters filmed in 1982 that I used to watch religiously as a little girl. (I played Grace Farrell in the stage version in High School...I like to forget about that chapter in my life as I cannot sing, and still feel empathy for my poor cringing audience) The song "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here" is the one little orphan Annie sings when she arrives at Daddy Warbuck's mansion and dances all around the shiny floors with the maids and her new "Mom" (Ms. Farrell). I've caught myself singing that song in my head a few times. Today I wanted to shout it from the top of the Crystler Building.

I finally got in front of a classroom this morning. Thank Sarasvati (the Hindu Goddess of knowledge and peace of mind). You see, I don't do well without structure and a schedule (that's the Tarot Emperor in me). Left to my own devices, my head gets me into a lot of trouble. I can forget why I do things. I can forget who I am. (I know--David Lynch would tell me I need to find the inner universe of infinite happiness within me...working on it) This morning I had a "SLA" class (two in a row, actually) which stands for Second Language Acquisition. Initially I was not thrilled. Theory? Ick, groan, no thanks. However, nothing is as it seems here. The students were amazing. Excited, curious, polite, kind, eager, knowledgeable, sweet, and brave.

I noticed two cultural differences right away. 1) They are hesitant to speak up. 2) They only speak up when the group allows it. They consult their friends first, then ask the question. The collective mentality is big here. Individualism is an American concept. Being quiet, listening well, and thinking deeply are stereotypically Asian characteristics. I find it refreshing in a lot of ways. No one interrupts each other. No one talks over anyone else. No one thinks they are the smartest person in the room.

To transition them, I introduced myself at the beginning of all 3 classes, and spoke a little about why I'm here and who I am. The conversations that followed went something like this:

Me: So, now that you know a little about me, I'm sure you have some questions. Don't worry, there are no stupid questions. You can ask me anything.

Silence/wide eyes

Me: Ok. What do you know about America?

Students: The American Dream (whoah! huge side conversation about what that means, how everyone is *not* rich in America: education, health care, etc...too much to type). Hollywood!

Me: Ok, great. Who is your favorite American actor?

Students: Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Adam Sandler, Jim Carey (in that order)

Me: Has anyone been to Chicago? (nope, heads shake) What do you know about Chicago?

Student #1: Chicago Bulls! (giggles) It is a movie. It won the Oscar. (giggles)

Me: Ok, great. What did you learn from the movie?

Student #2: Well, we want to know, do people sing and dance a lot in Chicago like in the movie?

Me: Yes, actually. Chicago is a very artistic city with a lot going on. There is every kind of art in Chicago and people from all over the world. It is diverse, big, and beautiful. (I'm a little partial) Other questions?

Student #2: How much does it cost to go to the theater in Chicago?

Me: Depends on the theater and on the show. Theater tickets can range anywhere from $10-$60.

(Collective gasp)

Student #3: Do you know where Oprah works? Have you seen Harpo Studios? (giggles)

Me: Yes, I have. But Harpo is sort of hidden. I lived in Chicago for about 7 years before I saw her studio. What other famous American (whose name starts with an "O") is from Chicago?

Students: OBAMA! (smiles)

Me: And he's from Indonesia as well, right? (nods) So he can speak Bahasa Indonesia and Chicagoan. (I smile because I crack myself, and usually only myself, up in the classroom)

Student #4: We have studied American culture and we know a lot about America. We hear that there was a lot of racism there. Is that still true?

Me: (pause) That is a very hard question to answer...(long explanation ensued that included elements on culture, history, stereotypes, hope for the future, etc)

Student #5: What languages do you speak?

Me: (blush covers face, deep breath) Just English (collective gasp). That is why I'm here now. As a teacher of students who speak multiple languages, I feel ashamed that I only speak one. So, I'm learning Bahasa Indonesia while you are learning English. I hope we can help each other (collective nods and smiles).

Student #6: Why are you a teacher?

Me: I'm a teacher because I love to learn. There is an African proverb that says (write on the board) "She who learns, teaches". I believe that we all have things to teach each other, and I am happiest when I'm learning from others. I also love people. I love working with them and helping them (mental flashback to Planned Parenthood). So teaching makes me happy because I feel that I am always learning and I hope I'm helping as well (voices echo that yes, I'm helping them because I am there).

Student #7: Where else have you lived besides Indonesia?

Me: I've lived in about 5 states in the US and in two areas of England. This is my first time in Asia. (eyes grow wide)

Student #8: What do you think of Malang?

Me: I think it's beautiful. The trees, birds, flowers are all new to me. I've only been here 5 days so I'm still experiencing a bit of culture shock (giggles and nodding) but I like it. Honestly, I found Jakarta hot and crowded (nodding) and I'm happy to be in a smaller city.

Student #9: What did you know about Indonesia before you came here?

Me: Very little! (gasps)

Student #9: You knew about Bali, right? (giggles)

Me: Yes, I did, but like most Americans, I didn't know where it was. Someone asked me if Indonesia was in India! (Loud gasps and sounds of disapproval) Someone else asked me if people spoke Spanish here (loud laughing and sounds of shock). I know, it's common. Americans know very little about your country. I hope to help change that. (smiles) I knew about the tsunami in 2005. I knew that it was located on the equator. And I've read a few books (Eat, Pray, Love and Tales of a Female Nomad) by Americans who have traveled here, so I knew a little more based on what they wrote.

Student #10: Did someone pay your way here, or did you pay by yourself to come here? (explanation of ELF program followed--as a final side note: "small talk" does not exist here, hence the personal questions. In a country where the weather is always more or less the same, you can't 'talk about the weather' so they move right on to the real issues...which I actually don't mind).

And that is why I think I'm gonna like it here.

Gotta motor if I want to make it to the electronics store.

The Circus is in town

2009-09-05T21:02:00.000-05:00

And you guessed it, I am the circus. Now, being an actor, I'm used to having eyes on me. This, however, is entirely different. This, is me being watched all the time. Cameras click behind my back, children gather all around me, looking at what I'm typing, whispering openly in each other's ears as strange sounds come out of my mouth. Today I was brave and ventured out onto campus where the only "hotspot" is outdoors, next to the local caged rooster. What people don't realize is computer screens reflect much like mirrors. And what they don't know is that I can see their group, poised behind me, right now, taking pictures of my back. When I turn around to smile at them, they are shocked that I caught them in the act. They giggle, and return to watching me. No stage, no curtain, but still, the circus has arrived.

Bathrooms. Oh the glory. At my University, in my department, there is no flushing toilet. Although my campus is stunning, the facilities are way outdated. To use the lav, one must bring their own toilet paper, or take a "wet" bathroom break. There is nothing dry about the experience of using the bathroom, even if you have your own paper. You're going to come out of the experience with something splattered on you. Picture a small tiled room like the inside of a shower. Except there, in the corner, is a "potty", and you are supposed to remove your pants (put them where? no hooks, so be creative) and squat on either side of the pot. You do your business, and then get dressed again. The toilet paper goes on the shelf next to you. I still have not figured out who removes it, but every time I visit this little room, the tissue and what I left behind have been removed. The sink is outside the wet room. There is soap, but there is not always water. Sometimes the pipes just don't feel like producing anything, and sometimes they do. Thank God for hand sanitizer. I take it everywhere I go. Oh! For those who do not use toilet paper, there is a spigot on the wall of the wet room for you to "wash" (no soap) yourself after you are done (using your left hand). How you dry yourself is still a mystery to me. No towels. And the floor is always wet, so you have to wear bathroom sandals to use the bathroom as your regular shoes will not suffice. You'll end up slipping and soaked in god knows what.

I start teaching tomorrow, but before then I'm going to get a hot stone massage. They cost $15 here. My pedicure yesterday (I had to...my toes are on display every day and they were in dire need) cost $3. It was nothing like the pedicures back home. My feet were placed in a bucket that had little bumps on the bottom. They were washed, and then the woman grabbed my ankles and rubbed my feet back and forth over the little bumps. Afterwards she took about 45 minutes removing the dead skin, bit by bit, from the bottom of my feet until I swear I'd lost 5 pounds. My feet now look nothing like they usually do. They look brand new. Like baby feet. Smaller, and as smooth as a stone at the bottom of the ocean. Then the massage. This tiny woman was so strong I thought she actually was going to pop a blood vessel on my shins. At this point my friend Wayan was with me, and I told her to ask my pedicurist if she could cut my nails. Apparently she was not planning on doing so, but she did after it was requested. Then came the polish. They had 6 choices (total) for me to choose from. I chose clear. Once the polish was applied, my amazingly strong new friend blew on my toes. That's right. She BLEW on them to dry them. With her mouth. No fancy machines here to do that for you. Everything is manual. I'm glad she didn't pass out from the loss of oxygen. So, the hot stone massage should be interesting. I'll be sure to report back.

And that's it for me. It's 9am and everyone around me has been up for many hours. No such thing as sleeping in on the weekends around here. People were up and active by 6. Their buzzing motorbikes were proof. And the starring has begun again. Behind me. In front of me, all around me. The children are the worst. The adults at least try to control it. Some of them. The women seem more attune to how it all might effect me, while the men look at me as if I'm not wearing a shirt. You see, as I type this, my collar bone is showing. And I think a tiny bit of back tattoo might be as well (it's the weekend and I'm tired of looking like I work in the White House). Where's my Scarlet Letter? Quick! Somebody find me a big red "A".

In the mall, rockin' out to Arab tunes

2009-09-05T00:02:00.000-05:00

Praise Allah, I finally found a wireless connection that doesn't take three years to load a home page. Sadly, it's a motorbike's ride away from my guest housing. Longing for the day when I don't have to depend on my super wonderful counterpart to take me around. Not used to not being self sufficient. As I type this, Iis is off looking around and reading magazines. Poor dear. Having to babysit me until I'm in my apartment, unpacked, and know where the heck I'm going.

She is so generous that it almost kills me. But don't be mistaken, she's a little firecracker. Dressed in traditional Arab attire, she's 100 lbs soaking wet and rides her motorbike like a Harley Davidson Queen on fire. I've seen so much of this city from the back of motorbikes these last few days. And I have to say, I LOVE traveling with the wind whipping my hair and the locals starring at the white lady dwarfing her drivers. Everyone here is tiny. But strong. Iis is a smart, capable, truly lovely person. I feel very lucky to be in her care (until I'm on my own two feet).

So, observations. Let's start with food: if you order "American" you get the simplest version possible. The other night I went to a restaurant and asked for a cheeseburger (I was not feeling adventurous at the time as my stomach was still suffering from what I call the "small knives"--cramps that feel like little amoebas are eating at your insides) and that's what I got. On the square plate they brought out sat a cheeseburger. Alone. Lonely, crying for a side dish. No french fries, salads, or cole slaw here. Just the burger.

Yesterday I was in my office, sitting at my desk, starving (people are fasting all around me, so the fact that the American needs to be fed can sometimes be overlooked), and my wonderful Hindu co-worker offered me crackers to snack on. Wonderful! I pictured round, supple Ritz crackers dancing in my head, loaded with peanut butter. Silly me. She was proud to present me banana/cheese crackers instead. The "cheese" was in the middle, the wafer was banana flavored. I declined and had an apple instead.

Last night I went out for "real" Indonesian food and was pleasantly surprised at what was probably the most delicious thing I have had here yet. Don't have any clue how to spell it, but it was essentially noodles with lightly shredded chicken, scallions, and onions, sitting on a bed of greens. Then a separate, smaller bowl was brought to me containing the broth and two dumplings. I poured that into my noodle concoction and heaven arrived in my mouth. Not too spicy, hardy, and chock full of flavor. To drink was coconut/orange juice with chunks of "young" coconut swimming in the glass. They give you a spoon to scoop that into your mouth. The best part, I left with nothing chewing at the inside of my stomach. And I was brought home on the back of a bike. So. Much. Fun.

So, they have McDonald's here. D-n-D is here. KFC is here. The catch: "McDs" delivers. 24 hours a day. For only $1 you can have them bring a big mac to your house. The novelty.

Although I'm on the island of Java, no one drinks regular coffee (kopi) here. They all drink instant. I finally asked Wayan (my Hindu/Balinese friend) why this was the case last night. She said that regular coffee keeps you awake (really?? no one told me!) and it's hard on people's hearts here. So they prefer the weaker instant brands. Ah ha! Finally cracking the culture codes. Sandra: remember how you said you'd send me Metropolis coffee? I'd give you my first born child for some real java....mailing address arriving soon in your inbox!

Eggs are served with hot sauce here. My breakfast at the guest house usually consists of a tiny omelet (two eggs max), some toast with butter (only white here...ick), and a little saucer with one half ketsup, and one half hot sauce. Not bad. My palette is getting used to strange fair...

In addition to the fast food chains listed above, Pizza Hut also exists on the other side of the world...but the Indo version. Which is kind of like the British, Australian version. I had to try it, so I ordered a stuffed crust personal pizza (the size of a regular American omelet) with tuna and sweet corn on top. It was delicious. To drink, an avocado smoothie. Michal, I finally understand the obsession. It was amazing!

No one tips here. Waiters, that is. You DO, however, tip the man sitting in all the parking lots for the honor of stowing your bike. Not to worry, the "tip" is the equivalent to 10 cents.

There is a "monkey park" in Malang. The word for monkey is "monyet", or "kera". They are the smallish kind, and I cannot wait to see them. We passed this monkey park on the way into town coming from the airport on Wednesday. I squealed and jumped up and down in the back seat when I realized what it was, and my counterpart smiled at me, which happens a lot. She must think I'm a trip. My big barrel laugh that you all know (and love) is culturally quite shocking. Women cover their mouths when they laugh over here, or close them altogether. I think it's a shame. But it's the norm.

Another cultural thing I'm noticing that would simply not fly in good old America is the covering up of men who make "mistakes". I'm around quite a few strong women here, and there is one man in particular (who shall remain nameless) who is a coworker of mine, that seems to have issues with the competence and adaptability of his female counterparts. The reason I'm staying in guest housing and not in a real house is his fault. He didn't do his job before I arrived, thus, my counterpart, the amazing Iis, found me something else within a day. And because he then looked stupid in front of her hard work and quick thinking, he retaliated with lies and purposeful miscommunication that sent her to the Dean's office and brought tears to her eyes. During Ramadan, one not only fasts. One cannot cry. One must obstain from quite a lot, apparently. And this...man...made her cry. Needless to say I hope karma kicks him where it counts. I'm not a fan of watching men mistreat women, no matter what form that takes, but here, instead of telling him off, Iis had to apologize to him, and stick up for him, make excuses for his behavior, etc. It was terrible to watch.

And finally, there are roosters in cages here, waking us all up in the morning (with the prayers and motorbikes of course). They are apparently quite rare and endangered, so the University has various places all around campus where roosters pace, back and forth, crowing and strutting, on display. The Recktor's "favorite" rooster is right outside my guest house. I have not introduced myself, as it's hard for me to observe any creature in a cage. It kills me. There is a Tennessee Williams quote about the wild left in cages (it's an Angelina Jolie tattoo...you can look it up) that comes to mind whenever I see anything behind bars. I asked Iis what would happen if they let him go free. She said someone would sell him, as he's worth quite a lot of money. Sigh.

That's it for today. Except for the purple elephant stirrer. I just got a coffee, which is really instant coffee mixed with milk and frankly tastes disgusting, delivered to my table. No lie, there is a purple plastic elephant head sticking out of it, used to stir up the milk with the instant. I think I'll keep the elephant and leave the drink. Bye for now.

Malang kota yang indah.

2009-09-03T23:47:00.000-05:00

Translation: Malang is a beautiful city. And it is. Cool breezes in warm fluid air. Tropical birds singing new and joyous songs. Smiling faces, palm trees, apples, sunshine, and the ever present sound of motorbikes. So much to type, so little time before my first staff meeting.

To be quick for now: I'm staying in University Guest housing while my place is fixed up. The accommodation I arrived expecting to stay in was inhospitable (moldy walls, broken windows, mosquitoes excited to bite the foreigner). What would take ten minutes in the States to fix took two hours here to negotiate. My room at the guest house is not bad. The toilet flushes and I have a standing shower (plush digs!), but the place is currently under construction, so my quiet time is relegated to the wee hours of the night. And the wireless is down. Hence my lack of blogging while I am introduced to Malang. Sorry guys, doing the best I can here to get by one day at a time.

Within a week I hope to be in the Recktor's spare house. He's the big man in charge of my University, and his offer to let me stay in his "extra" house is very generous. It has more space than I could use, but it's furnished, with curtains for privacy and an enclosed outdoor garden that I will have all to myself. Guests are welcome! There is more than enough room, with beds for my friends and family. It's on University grounds, and close to the gym, post office, mall, and coffee shops. My co-worker, Wayan (from Bali) has already agreed to go to yoga classes with me. And once I get a motorbike of my own, I'll be one of the locals (sorry Mom, I have to get one, there is no other way to travel in these parts).

I've not started teaching yet. That's next week. I'll be "team teaching" all of my classes. I have mixed feelings about that, as it's new to me, but I'm trying to go with the flow and adjust my expectations. Resistance is not part of this culture. So when I came back to my guest room last night and found tiny ants crawling all over my toiletries, I didn't scream. I just quietly took my alcohol swabs and doused the suckers until they ran screaming. There is a saying here (I'll translate), "Wherever there is something sweet, there will be ants". And how.

September, Bali, and other random items

2009-09-01T17:34:00.000-05:00

I surrender. I have to. It's the only way. Up at 5am, can't sleep. Why? Because last night I took a nap pre-dinner, just to recharge, and woke up after dinner (3 hours later), more groggy, and not wanting food anywhere near me. You see, my stomach and Indonesia are in a fight. Not sure whose going to win, but "Operation: get skinny" is looking pretty doable.

Yesterday was the last full day of orientation. Thank the good lord. We're all ready to get to our cities and actually teach. Ready to stop talking about what it is we'll be doing and just do it. I've met my "ETA" (English Teaching Assistant) who is an adorable Fulbright scholar named Courtney. She and I will be good supports to each other in the field. I've also met my "counterpart", Ibu Iis. She's my Indonesian teacher-friend there to help me set up my life and fit into our University, etc, etc. We'll be flying to Malang (pronounced "Ma-long", emphasis on the Ma) this afternoon and she'll take me to my apartment. I'm SO looking forward to unpacking my suitcases and having keys to my place. Love hotels. Just not for this long a stay.

I've learned so much in the past few days that it's going to take some speedy fingers to write it all down before I have to go to breakfast. Quick facts: Jakarta is the third most polluted city in the world. I concur. It's scary. Everyone here drinks bottled water, and they do not recycle. It's hard to watch. That said, Indonesia has amazing marine biodiversity overall, but a major deforestation issue and obviously pollution issues. So, the ETAs (I have three technically, but only one in my actual city) and I have decided to do some workshops and projects together around education and awareness of the environment, etc. at our schools once we get settled. The ETAs are recent college grads (BAs only) with tons of great ideas and enthusiasm. I'm to serve as a mentor and collaborator for them as they navigate through the high school systems. It's nice having them around, to be sure.

Another fact: Indonesia consists of about 17,000 known islands. Only 6,000 of them are known to be inhabited. So, I'm starting with Bali. In late September the ELFs have booked a week long trip to the little island and we're going to whoop it up! I'm so excited. It'll be very. Many of them want to climb volcanoes. I'll be happy to hold down the beach while they're risking their lives. Either way, I'm thrilled!

Fact #3: There is no legal drinking age here. Or smoking age. One of the ELFs literally saw what looked like a ten year old on the side of the road smoking only yesterday.

Fact #4: There is no such thing as a "non" smoking section here either. You see people lighting up everywhere. Sometimes I feel like I'm caught on an 80's movie set when that happens. Very strange.

Fact Five: Obama will be visiting Singapore November 14th and 15th. There is a rumor that he might visit Indonesia while he's at it. The fact that he grew up here and speaks Bahasa is huge. People's attitude towards America has vastly improved due to this fact since the Bush administration finally ended. Oh, and to copy Julianne on this one, we were told yesterday that "Indonesia is the biggest country that Americans know the least about". It's true. Look at a map. I had to. For some reason this country is not on people's radar.

More facts: Indonesia is now a member of the "G20". It has the freest press among all of Asia. It's the third largest democracy in the world. It's a newly independent country as the Dutch only left it for good in 1949. And finally, there are 130 malls in Jakarta alone.

That about wraps it up for now. See you in Malang.

Stray cats, shopping malls, still jet lagged

2009-08-30T08:57:00.000-05:00

Oy. Trying to sleep through the night this time sans sleeping pills, so I'm writing to keep myself awake just a little longer. Today was the best day yet. Cultural awareness orientation. Actually quite well done. We took the bus to another swanky hotel across town. The colors here are bright. Perhaps it's to make up for the lack of color in the sky (no such thing as "blue" up above). I've noticed this layer of haze that never seems to lift (like the clouds and the sky got stirred up until a sort of gravy hangs above us instead), thus, the buildings abound with smatterings of purple, orange, yellow, blue, etc. Sort of like someone colored in Jakarta with a box of crayola and then stood back and went, "Yup, that looks about right! Should distract people from looking up." (sorry guys, said I was exhausted, can't claim to make any logical sense in such a state) The hotel we went to was mostly orange. I dug it. A fabulously educated and funny woman lead us through some very insightful discussions about preconceptions, miscommunication, open minds, mental conditioning both cultural and otherwise, etc. Good food for thought. And speaking of food, I'm being fed like a stuffed pig these days. Can't say I know what I'm eating. Looking forward to arriving in my city where I have to fend for myself and actually learn how to cook. Translation: get skinny.

After our morning of deep thinking, we took a 180 degree turn and experienced a shopping mall for the purpose of buying cell phones. There was 3 hours allotted on the schedule to accomplish this activity. At first I was puzzled by such a huge chunk of time for one simple task. Afterwards, I understood. Indonesians are not, ever, in a hurry. Ever. They walk slowly, talk slowly, and handle their transactions not so fast. Thus, a group of ten needing 7 cell phones total did indeed take close to 3 hours. By the time we were done, I collapsed in the back of the bus, after buying (and yes, I did feel remorse for doing this, but, when in Rome...) DVDs for the equivalent of 70 cents each. Pirated indeed. It was either that, or sit in a Dunkin Donuts filled with cigarette smoke (you can still smoke anywhere you want here, and people do) while I got starred at, pushed around, and ingested far too much caffeine. Hence, the bus.

While spending so much time en route to various locations, I've seen a lot of stray cats running around the streets. And it makes me sad. They're so skinny, so dirty, and because I couldn't afford my rabies shots before arriving here, I can't touch them. I want to take them all home. When I get home. Which will be on Wednesday. Until then, I'm restricted to watching them fight in the alleys and hide under cars. I just hope they don't drink the water. (Cooper my darling, Mommy will be home...in about 10 months...break my heart)

After the mall it was over to the home of the brilliant speaker from this morning. I'm so glad I got to visit an Indonesia house filled with the authentic stuff of a South East Asian Muslim family. The place was four stories high. White walls. And a spiral staircase that lead up to a rooftop garden. Very angular, tall, and cramped actually. In Jakarta there is no such thing as personal space, so you must build up, and keep it narrow. The part that was hard to swallow was the Australian Muslim in attendance who gave us Americans a little "talk" on what it means to be part of his religion. Now, I know I'm just a stupid Yank, but I've taught Muslims for two years now, and I do know a think or two about where my students come from. I don't care who you worship or how you do it. "God" is great, "God" is good, thank you for my food, Amen, rah rah rah. What I do have a problem with is arrogance, blindness, and hypocrisy. And this man was not in short supply of any of these. Needless to say, us ELFs couldn't wait for the food to begin, and for this darling religious "advisor" (not being snarky, that's what his business card calls him) to eat as much of it as possible so that we could enjoy it in silence.

The bus ride back to our little temporary abode was lovely. I really like the people I'm marooned here with. We're from all over: some east coasters, some southerners, some pacific northwesterners, and some in between. All of us cool cats. All of us seasoned and some of us sassy. Although none of the other ELFs are from my little world in Chicago, I do feel like I have a little bit of home with me. Thanks for that. And goodnight ya'll.

Sleeping through time zones

2009-08-29T13:00:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe I slept through a Balinese massage. As in, I was in my bed in my hotel room, papers strewn across it, clothes piled on top of it, and me...dead to the world, when I should have been stretched out on a different bed in the hotel spa, allowing someone to work through the airport stagnation in my body. Just goes to show how powerful this jet lag stuff can be. And massages here are SO cheap. Like, the average price for a 90 minute massage is $15. And I slept through that!!!

Now I sit, waiting for the sleeping pill I was forced to ingest to take effect. Thought I'd jot down some observations before the sand man welcomes me once again.

1) You pay for water here. At a place of dinning. Water is always bottled for safety reasons, thus, it arrives at your table, straw in place, at 10000 rp ($1.00) per serving. No more endless cup after cup. (except for in my swanky hotel...we're spoiled in house)

2) The sun comes up in Jakarta, but it is not "sunny". At least not lately. The air is thick here, with the fumes of so many people in such a small space, so when the sun rises before 6am and everyone has finished morning prayer, it's light out, but in that sort of hazy L.A. feeling one gets when one lives out West. Very David Lynch...with an Asian bent.

3) Apparently there is no real legal age at which one can operate or ride on a motor vehicle. And if there is one, no one cares. I literally saw a ten year old on a bike, waiting for a light to change this afternoon. My heart stopped. His feet didn't even reach the pedals. Then I saw the "driver" was merely chatting with someone off the bike before remounting. Moments later, I saw a family of four on another bike. Father, Mother, child, and toddler. Toddler did not have a helmet on, so Mother was holding the child's head in her hands....lordy.

4) One never knows what one is eating, even after one reads the label. The amazing meals at this hotel have been an adventure. What looks like scrambled eggs tastes like grits. What I thought was a sausage roll was actually a banana and chocolate concoction. What should have been a sweet dessert tasted like coagulated rice with loaded sweetener. I have a feeling I'm going to lose a bit of weight before this is done.

5) I know more than I think I do. I've only been teaching English to international students for 2 years. Why did they hire me again? Little did I realize that the teachers I will be working with at my University (Universitas Brawijaya) have an average score of 450 on their TOEFL exam. To those of you not in the ESL profession, that equates to about a fourth grade reading and speaking level. Maybe lower.

6) My knowledge will get me far. I've already been asked to speak at a conference on graduate schools in the United States at the end of the month. This event will be held on the island of Java, but in another town. Not sure of the details just yet, but I think I'll have to be flown there, and I hear the area is nice. Lordy.

And with that, I'm going to let sleep take me back to dream land. I wish I could post pictures, but I cannot locate the chord that connects my camera to my computer just yet. I'm hoping I packed it so well it's just hiding from me. If not, I'll have to look into buying another one. Sorry for the delay. And goodnight.

Jet lag in Jakarta

2009-08-28T17:36:00.001-05:00

It's Saturday morning, and I can't sleep. So much to take in over the last few days. I've flown on planes with ten seats across and two stories high (I'd forgotten how amazing international flight are. So many movies, socks and toothpaste). I've sat in Hong Kong's bright and shiny airport looking out at the mountains engulfing the planes that bring people to and from their destiny. And now I perch, unable to sleep, in my hotel room in Jakarta. Feeling waves of bewilderment, sadness, excitement, and wonder.

This is one hell of a city. A third world New York. Packed, hot, sticky, with eyes starring at you in all directions. The people here seem sweet. Even the men at the airport helped me pull my three oversized, overweight suitcases with grace and genuine kindness. Once at our hotel (a beauty on the website but surrounded by slums in reality), we showered (western bathrooms here, thank god) and went to find food. I like the hot air. Always have enjoyed humidity. But the air conditioning in the restaurant was chilling my bones, reminding me of Chicago in March. The food was also not what I expected. My plate of fried rice with seafood was served as an upside down cup of rice with prawns and squid (not my favorite). Since I've been told not to eat cold vegetables for fear of food poisoning, my cucumbers remained untouched.

My fellow ELFs (English Language Fellows) and I went to get converters for the electrical sockets. Word to the wise. They cost $2 here and $30 in the States. And the one I got in Chicago, feeling oh so prepared and savvy, I can't even open due to my lack of scissors and over packaging...ah, the many lessons I will soon learn.

I'm adjusting. I'm suffering from culture shock and a seriously confused sense of time. But I'm happy to share this with all of you. I miss you. I miss Chicago. My cat, my front porch, all the lovely people that I've shared eight years with. I plan to return. But before then, I'll be here. Doing things I never thought I could or would do.

The sun is rising. 5:46am. Hazy city outside my window. A day of orientation and more culture shock for sure.

This is my first blog. It's going to be under construction for a bit. Bear with me.

Love,

Court