Trading Bungalows for Bikes

I believe in the adage too much of a good thing - chocolate, menu options, goals, boyfriends, etc. And I discovered that even sitting on the beautiful beaches of Bali can also fall into that category. Take a dip, read, snooze, gaze at the waves, snooze, read, take a dip, watch sunset....rather, rinse, repeat. It was broken up with an (failed) attempt at surfing, and some adorable little girls trying successfully to use their powers of cuteness to get me to buy their bracelets. But over all, after a week and a half, I was beginning to sound like these guys. So I was grateful when a Fellow friend suggested trading in our bungalow for motorbikes and exploring Lombok, Bali's neighboring island. I've always been more of a playitsafe kinda girl, and the thought of a semi-unplanned (we still had the guidance of a good friend and our internet-capable phones to fall back on) trip was very alluring. Three of us packed up our gear and boarded a boat just after New Year's to let come what may.

First came the zombies. As our boat ran ashore in the harbor, half a dozen old, leathery men closed in on the bow of the boat with wrinkled hands out-reached for luggage. Baaags....baaags....The young Californian girl in front of me sternly chided a man in a Mets shirt as one of the zombies grasped his small, red bag. Baaags....baaags.... No, no don't let him....now they're going to charge you....baaags....baaags....

Then came the rain. We, in our excitement to get out of Dodge, hadn't really considered the fact that spending lots of time on motorbikes during rainy season would results in us getting wet, really wet. After finding a shady "International Hotel" and renting two bikes, we stopped at a road-side store to buy Jen some rain gear (see picture right).

Rain gear and motorbike helmets make perfect bank robbery outfits, so Jen decided to do that next. Jon and I waited outside the bank while Jen walked in with full gear, unable to ever lift the broken visor on her helmet. This alarmed the guards.
Guards: Please take off your helmet.
Jen: (lifts visor) What? I can't hear you, I have a helmet on.
Guards: Hahahahahahaha. 
(Jen, Jon, and Jackie get on bikes and exit stage right)
Guards: Hahahahahahaha.

We made a clean get away and headed east across the center of the island. Our goal was to get to the Northeast coast before dark where our friend, Jess, had called in a favor at a local's homestay. An hour and a half in, not even our rain gear could hold back the cold and wet, so we stopped at a road-side restaurant to get something hot to eat and drink. We were well into our delicious rice, veggie, and chicken meals when the man with an automatic assault rifle walked in. This alarmed my travel companions and I, who had been periodically passing the time by reading aloud a book about Indonesian military and police human rights atrocities against innocent civilians. We all shoved food into our mouths with one eye slanted toward the man with the gun. He and his companion were not there to kill us after all, though. They waited for takeout, and left with a friendly nod in our direction.

We continued. I called Jess for more directions on how to get to the homestay. Go to the end of the island, turn left. Pass the Jurassic-Park like trees, go left around a really big curve, and over the bumpy road. You'll see a blue sign on your left. Right. When asking the locals resulted in even less help, we just decided to drive on. Remarkably, we found the place.

The next morning, we boarded a sea-worthy vessel - we were pretty sure - with three young Indonesian men and a guitar. They took us on a short ride out to three small islands, each only big enough for a few fisherman huts and farmers. The first two islands only took about 20 minutes to walk the perimeter. The snorkeling off the coast of these islands was spectacular. Blue star fish, hermit crabs, Nemo and his friends, and much more laid just under the water off the coast. We explored to our hearts content, and then explored some more.

Sea-worthy Vessel - probably.

Hearts contented.

With Northeast Lombok conquered, we packed up after one night's stay and headed to the South, to Kuta Beach. This time, we lucked out with the rain and only got half-drenched during the morning hours. By the time we got to the South coast, we were dry and lost, instead of wet and lost; an improvement, as being lost anywhere along the coast in Lombok results in amazing views of bright blue bays laced in vibrant green palm trees. This is where a brave Jon let me take over control of the bike and navigate the windey, but empty roads - just a few dogs and cows meandering on and off the road. We didn't crash, and I got to live out my dream of driving a motorbike somewhere around Southeast Asia. Thanks, Jon! I handed back over the controls as we entered the more tourist-populated area of Kuta Beach. We stopped to eat lunch on a white-sand beach and re-group about what to do next. While we ate our authentic Mexican food (probably) two young boys of about 11 or 12 approached us.

Boy 1: You want a ticket to the moon?
Jon: A ticket to the moon, eh? What do you mean?
Boy 1(holds up a plastic bag full of mushrooms): You eat these, and you go to the moon.
Jon: Oh. What do the police think about me going to the moon?
Boy 1: The police are happy when they eat these. 
Boy 2: Ticket to the moon! 
Jon: Ha. I don't think so, but thanks. 
Boy 2: You can put them in your food. Pancakes. Burritos. Gado-gado. You be happy. 
Jon: Oh yeah? You're such a good salesman, but no thanks.

After avoiding our little hawkers and potential imprisonment (hey, I've seen Locked Up Abroad. No, thank you), these guys walked in front of our chairs. And with that, we decided to leave Kuta. 

Based on this one time when Jon saw some pretty Google images of Southwest Kuta, we decided to get back on the bike and go there. I used my smart phone to find accommodations on yet another island off the coast called Gili Gede. I talked on the phone with Peter Jones, an American originally from Columbus, Ohio who likes to jam with his flute. Peter agreed to reserve his one remaining room. So we went. And we saw this along the way:

Crystal blue bays.

Beautiful rice terraces.

Stunning harbor views.

Untouched lands.

Eight to nine hours total on the bike, and we were ready for bed by the time we reached Peter Jones' Secret Island Resort on the edge of Gili Gede. We politely excused ourselves from a jam session, and watched one more spectacular sunset in silence; I guess there is one thing you can't have too much of.

We had nearly circumnavigated the island of Lombok over three days, on motorbikes that cost a total of $26 - and that's including the cost of gas. The next day I headed to the airport; a sore bum, my suitcase full of putrid smelling clothes, and thoughts of a vacation well-played turning up the corners of my mouth.

Here's to you, 2012

Robyn Brown - of Allyn Street fame - used to ask me every birthday, "What was your best moment of the last year?" Since the world didn't end, I thought I would speed things up this year and reflect on the question as the ball dropped (and ask everyone else as well because I wanted to pass on the warm fuzzies that come with reflecting on all of your happiest moments). Before I dug deep into my memories of 2012 - which is a difficult task for someone who can't remember what she ate for breakfast - I had to define happiness. I came up with this definition: A feeling of complete satisfaction, wholeness, love, and the absence of any sadness or worry. The longer I dug, the more I came up with. Here are some noteworthy ones in no particular order:

- Landing in LAX in June and walking through immigration in the "Citizens" line after two days on an airplane. Had the following conversation with the immigration officer:
Where are you coming from?
Indonesia.
How long have you been there?
Ten months.
Welcome home, Ma'am. 
Thanks. 

- Ok, this one was actually 2011, but it was noteworthy and close enough: Going to visit my cousin at her house around Christmas time last year, and catching her parents outside just as they were leaving. Standing in the brisk night air, I passed presents of Indonesian chocolate bars through the window of their truck. I can't remember just what words were exchanged, but I remember feeling so loved at that exact moment.

- End of the Bintan triathlon in June. Surrounded by hugs and friends.

- Random but awesome cha cha with a guy from Columbus.

- Bike ride with Lo through Rocky River near Cleveland.

- Reaching the top of Mt. Rinjani.

- Sitting with My Mo and her handsome lil' man at her house and at DnDs diner in good ol' East P.

- Driving

- Running the 3 mile trail through the woods near my big brother's house in VA.

- Coming in from the above trail run to the sounds of my two little nieces running and screaming, "Aunt Jackie's back!!"

- Getting 'lost' during hide and seek with a handful of Indonesia teenagers and listening to them holler their feelings of freedom in the middle of a field, on the edge of a cliff, just across the creek, on the other side of the world.

Here's to you, 2012.

Reflex-what-ogy?

Best part about being a quasi-athlete: the post-race pampering. This is especially true in Indonesia where pampering comes pretty cheap. There are more types of massages than you can shake a stick at, and they all run around $10 USD for 90 minutes. I know, I know, at these rates, who needs to be an athlete? How am I not walking around in a constant jello-like state?

My first year in Indonesia, I experienced fish therapy for which I dangled my feet into a tub of water and let hundreds of tiny little fish nibble away at my toes. This year, I finally tried the famous cream baths, which have nothing at all to do with baths. It's a scalp and upper back massage. You get to pick out the cream of your choice: avocado, chocolate, ginseng, honey, or vanilla. Then, for at least 30 minutes, they paint it onto your head and massage it into your scalp. Your hair smells like the flavor of choice for at least three days after. Delicious.

Gorgeous lady Fellows post cream-bath

Same ladies a bit less gorgeous. Fashion means sacrifice...like wearing plastic bags on your head in public because you forgot your umbrella.

Jess convinced me to join her for a particular type of massage called "Foot Reflexology" a week after the Phuket Triathlon. I was aware of the term because I saw the parlors in every city I visited, announced by the familiar colorful picture of feet:

 

I wasn't sure what I was in for, but because my feet really did hurt, it seemed like a good idea. We walked into a nearby parlor. It was dark inside with vines covering the ceiling, sheets of glass with water pouring down them separating each chair, and natural sounds mixed with classical piano over the loud speakers. Still seemed like a good idea. The prices on the wall said 50,000 Rp ($5) for 60 minutes or 60,000 ($6) for 90 minutes. Seemed like an even better idea. We selected 90 (I mean, c'mon...), and were directed toward our chairs.

Enter creepy mustache man with purple sunglasses.

This man, dressed in what appeared to be a black uniform and military style ball cap, stood in front of our chairs and started asking questions. He was slowly counting Indonesian money from a wad of folded bills in his hand. I knew this was going to be one of those surreal OnlyinIndonesia experiences, so I braced myself.

"Do you want to get a massage?" Um...yes? 
"Where do you live?" Near here. 
"Where do you work?" Far from here.
"Where are you from?" America.
"Oh, America! I studied at UCLA, and my sister lives there now with her Australian husband" Nod. Eyes closing to indicate disinterest.
"You speak Indonesian!" Yup. One eye peaking open.
"Wow. I think it's great when foreigners speak Indonesia." Mmhmm. Eyes closed again. Please go away creepy man. 

Creepy man leaves. Ok, still seems like a good idea.

Then the torture began. A young man, about a foot shorter than me, sat down on a stool in front of me. He placed my feet on yet another stool and started going to town. And by that I mean, he started digging his finger tips and knuckles into every part of my feet until I squirmed in pain. I tried biting my fist, grabbing the arm rests, texting friends, deep breathing...nothing could keep my mind off the pain this little man was inflicting on my body. Well, there was some comic relief when the man next to me belched loudly in time with the strikes on the back from his masseuse. That started me on a laughing jag that I couldn't suppress for a good ten minutes. Again, OnlyinIndonesia. Then back to the pain. I'm fairly convinced that getting a tattoo for 5 hours was less painful.

I guess the idea is that your feet carry the lion's share of the stress in your body, and that your foot acts as a map of your body. For example, your five toes represent your two ears, two eyes, and nose. When the torturer, I mean masseuse, scrapes his bony little finger down the underside of your toes, it's like he's scraping all the bad toxins and stress away from the matching areas of your body.

There are other benefits, I'm told, but none that I can think of right now. I think this is one massage I can live without, even if it is super cheap. Don't take my word for it; go out and get your toxins scraped today!

3 before 30: Laguna Phuket Triathlon

A few years ago, I made two challenges for myself:
1). 26 miles before 26 years old
2). Triathlon (3) before 30 years old

I checked off number one in Cleveland, May of 2009. Since I'm edging in on 30, I needed to make a plan fast to get number 2. In May of last year, I did a sprint triathlon with the Tribuddies in Indonesia. This didn't count because it wasn't an olympic distance, but I was riding so high on endorphins after that sprint, that my friend Miranda and I quickly signed up for the Laguna Phuket Thailand International Triathlon about a week or so after the sprint. This maybe wasn't the smartest thing I ever did.

It turns out that those feel-good endorphins can have the same affect as beer-goggles. We signed up for the Thai triathlon without realizing that it was A). longer than an olympic distance, B). it is considered one of the top ten races in the world - i.e. professional athletes would be competing there, and C). the bike course is infamous for four treacherous hills. So, I did what anyone else would do, I recruited friends Jess and Tabitha to join in our misery.

Here's what we were up against:
1.8 K swim (part in the ocean, part in a fresh water lagoon - just FYI, this is nearly half-iron man distance)
55 K bike (four makemenweep hills in the first 15 K)
12 K run (through a nice flat golf course)

Luckily, I had Jess and Miranda to keep me on track with training. We started as soon as we arrived back in Jakarta. Miranda sacrificed her van and sleep to carry us and our bikes outside of the city each weekend to climb hills. Jess kept me in the pool (my least favorite part) and the gym at least four times a week. Tabitha kept lockstep in her own training program in central Java and motivated us by her unwavering dedication. I would have been miserable without those ladies.

 

November 23rd rolled around, and we boarded our plane to Thailand. We arrived in Phuket and our private villa owned by the sweetest little Thai woman, Ladowan, and her three dogs. She went beyond the call of duty to drive us to registration the next day and take us around the course. I think this is when the four of us realized we were in trouble. We stared down those hills that even Ladowan's car struggled to get up and took turns muttering four-letter words just under our breath. The only thing we could do now was get enough sleep, eat and pray.

In Ladowan's courtyard.

The night before. Calming our nerves with pasta and Facebook stalking.

At 0500 the next morning, Ladowan dropped us off at the transition area. We did one last check on our bikes and equipment, pumping up the tires and setting out our gear. Then we boarded a ferry to take us to the swim start where we joined a wave of other pink-capped athletes warming up in the ocean. Jess and I ran into Rebecca, a type A, cancer-surviver/triathlon coach who had flown all the way from Alaska with her husband. She filled us in on some last minute tips, encouraging us to hang back in the swim and to conserve our energy for the bike. Later, at the awards ceremony, we would run into Rebecca again and discuss the finer points of peeing on command.

The gun fired, and I remember Rebecca. I walked to the water's edge and let the chaos of swimmers stretch out before me while willing my heart to beat normally. Finally, when the water was about thigh-deep, I dove in and started my stroke. It was amazing. Apart from getting kicked, grabbed, and slapped at various points, I was able to regulate my breathing and keep a strong, smooth stroke throughout the entire swim. I knew I was making good time when I exited the water and heard the announcer yell out Miranda's name. She was just ahead of me, and she was our strongest swimmer. I arrived at my bike and started my rehearsed transition: Energy chew, sunglasses, helmet, belt, socks, bike shoes, gloves. Go.

My confidence from the swim was sucked out of my chest as soon as I mounted my bike and headed towards those hills that kept me up half the night. Hill one: I joined the ranks of riders around me pumping the pedals and breathing heavily. It occurred to me about halfway up that because I was "clipped" into my pedals, the only way I could stop would be to fall over and potentially start an ugly pile up. With panic for fuel, I made it up to the top of the first hill. There were only a few kilometers before the next hill; not enough time to stop the hammering in and dread in my heart. I decided to dismount and walk my bike up the second hill. This is when Jess passed me and like a drill sergeant, tried to get me back on my bike. That was the last time I walked. 

After hills three and four, the course flattened out and winded through villages along the beautiful beaches of Phuket. School children lined the streets with flags and hands outstretched for high fives. It didn't take long before I caught a second wind and finished out the bike strong. That's when disaster struck.

I wheeled my bike into the transition area and looked frantically for the sticker that indicated where to put my bike. I couldn't find it. For four minutes I couldn't find it. I had wheeled myself into the wrong row, and my sticker was only visible from the other side. Frustration and embarrassment nearly had me in tears when I finally threw down my helmet and ran to the next row over. This stupid mistake cost me the podium.

I eventually gathered myself enough to start the run with the mantra "just focus on now" running through my head. It helped that out of the transition area, I started passing people easily. I told myself that running was my sport, and the race wasn't over yet. I fell into an easy pace and made sure I was passing more than being passed. The mantra was quickly replaced by Aretha Franklin singing It's Raining Men, and I knew I was in the right mindset to finish and finish well. I ran into the finish line at 3:51, under my goal of 4 hours. Halleluiah. 

I met up with Jess, who had made it in 9 minutes before me, and we waited to cheer on Miranda and Tabitha. My favorite part of the entire experience was when we all grabbed hands and crossed the finish line together. I still get goosebumps just thinking about it. We had not only survived, but we'd all done pretty damn well.

Post race was sweet with free massages, beer, and burgers. Jess got first in her age category. I was number four, just seconds behind the number three girl (making me kick myself all over again for that bike incident). Still, it was great to watch the announcer call Jess up to the stage and hand her a golden Elephant. We finished the night well with wine glasses raised in a toast to our strong finish and stronger friendship.

Super-Model

Last Saturday, I sat in on a teacher professional development workshop led by one of my fellow Fellows. During a Q&A session, one of the participants very eagerly shared her advice that teachers need to be "supermodels" in the classroom. Stopping just short of parting student desks to make a catwalk, I think she had it just about right.

Cue Rupaul.


And when you walked in to the room
You had everybody's eyes on you

Jess and I are wrapping up and saying goodbye to the sixty officers we've been teaching since September. We met with them four days a week inside the classroom to talk about everything from traffic accident reports to human trafficking. Every day was a challenge to A) learn about the policing concept ourselves first (what is the difference between assault and battery? Is that a blood spatter or splatter?), and 2) pull out the English language features to teach to our students. Don't get me started on how awkward the unit on sexual harassment and rape was to teach to a class full adult males. They were a credit to the badge, though, and perfect gentlemen...apart from the occasional question about why my face can turn so many shades of red.

Luckily, we did manage to get them outside the classroom and away from the textbooks for some less serious talk. 

And it don't matter what you do
'Cause everything looks good on you

On Oct. 31st, Jess and I held the first-ever Sebasa Halloween Extravaganza, complete with costumes, candy, and a pumpkin carving contest. On a whim, we decided that we needed to introduce our students to this great American holiday. In return, the students got into the spirit(s) of the holiday and came in costume. We told them about the origins and trick-or-treating, and they introduced us to some of Indonesia's famous ghosts like the pocong (featured in the bottom left corner) and kuntilanak, a Ring-like lady with long black hair covering her face and a hole in her back.

My favorite part was the jack-o-lantern contest. These guys had never carved pumpkins before, so they all got out their smartphones to look up examples. Then with care and precision they dug in (with their own knives, of course). Here are the results:

I'm not sure what this costume was supposed to be, but I love it!

 

Wet your lips and make love to the camera.

We also had Native Speaker Day, in which we invited nine folks from America, Great Britain, and Australia to come act as suspects in a murder mystery simulation. They were all superb actors, conjuring up fake tears and nervous ticks along with their fabricated alibis. The students worked in small groups to interview them all and come up with their accusations. First, the students had to introduce themselves with an English yell-yell, or chant. This was the favorite among the guests:

No, Mr. Rusli, you're not supposed to laugh at Deirdre...I mean Rose, the housekeeper, when she cries.

Adam throwing out red herrings like he's a pro...or like he's done this before.

Jon worked out his nervous ticks...rocking and hand wringing.

The guilty were brought to justice!

Work, turn to the left
Work, now turn to the right
Work, sashay, shante 

Last up, Jess, our fellow Fellow Jon, and myself took over morning exercise last week to introduce some more American cultural charms. We split up into three stations: Ultimate Frisbee (Jess), American Football (Jon), and American Line Dancing (me...duh). The classes rotated through each station, staying at each for 30 minutes. In that time, I was able to squeeze in The Electric Slide, The Cupid Shuffle, The Cha Cha Slide, and The Chicken Dance. So, I basically took them through an American wedding reception minus the booze, and they still had fun!

Jon explaining American Football

Frisbee!

Three months and one group of students away.
I have just one things to say, You. Better. Work.

Lists

Some of you may have been asking yourself, "Gee, I wonder what Jackie does when she's trapped in traffic jams for hours on end?" 

I'm so glad you asked. 

Sometimes I try to keep from going insane by making chitchat with the taxi driver. Sometimes I have to resort to blasting music through my headphones to maintain sanity. But, sometimes, I make lists.

Today, for example, while trying to get the airport this afternoon, I started making a list of things that were being sold on the street around my cab. Since the traffic may only move a few feet every 30 minutes, it makes good business sense for entrepreneurs to parade their goods past the windows of the trapped passengers. In one section of the road, I could have purchased:

1. Calendars
2. Magazines/Newspapers
3. Plastic toy airplanes
4. Pool rafts
5. Inflatable football helmets
6. Kripik (a kind of rice or shrimp cracker that is very popular in Indonesia. Pictured below)

On other occasions, I've seen:
7. Puppies
8. Bronze horse statues
9. Mango slices (mmm)
10. Inflatable penguins
11. Inflatable sharks
12. Inflatable Spongebob chairs

Google Image: Other inflatable things for sale in Jakarta.

13. Drinks 
14. Waria (wanita + pria = woman + man = transvestite; they get so excited to see bule!) 
15. Individual cigarettes
16. White boards
17. Those fighting figures that punch each other when you push the button on their backs
18. ShamWows
19. Jamu (a traditional medicinal drink that is mixed together for you on the street depending on your ailment)

Google image: Jamu Lady

20. Pant-less people (8 and counting...)

Another list I've been working on: Irrational Fears I've Developed Since Moving to Indonesia.

1. The manhole covers on the side walk on the way to the gym will burst up into the air because of incredible pressure building up in the sewers below. Said manhole cover flies straight up into the air as I am about to step over it, therefore catching my chin and taking off my entire head.

2. I forget to look where I’m going as I’m walking out on the tarmac to get on a plane, and I walk straight into the turbine. 

3. I walk under the boom gate that guards every single parking area in Jakarta just as the gate comes down and hits me on the head. 

4. My ojek falls into one of the gutters on the side of each road that is filled with the ‘bog of eternal stench.’  

5. I fall through the sidewalk. (this one is more rationale than irrational given the state of sidewalks in Indonesia).

6. Monitor lizard attacks.

7. Getting hit by the Transjakarta bus. This is a large bus that has its own lane, through which it barrels horn a blazing.

And now you know.