Round Three

America is great. Or is it just that America is home that makes it great? When I'm home for the summer, I am wholly me again, assured and confident in familiar surroundings. In Indonesia, I am stripped of some of this confidence and independence.

Getting back behind the wheel of a car is so simple, but it is an enormous pleasure that I cannot experience in Indonesia (I could, but choose not too because of crazy traffic and that whole right-side drive thing). This might explain why I put over 2,000 miles (four new brakes and two tires) on the VW in the span of two months. I love driving. Surfing the wind with my hand, blaring good cruising tunes, and shifting like I'm starring in the next Fast and Furious film. There is a freedom in it as well. I can get from point A to point B without tracking down a taxi, bargaining poorly with an ojek driver, or burdening a friend or coworker for a ride.

How I feel when I drive:

Even without wheels, I can lace up and go for a lone run or a ride on a bike without concern for offending passersby with my exposed knees or shoulders. I can wear short shorts and tanks in Jakarta - a very moderate city in the world's largest Muslim nation - but I would only do so with a herd of other runners dressed similarly. To do such an act alone would surely invite unwanted stares and comments in a culture where modesty is highly valued. It's not that I am particularly immodest, but there was something about pounding pavement in just a sports bra, shorts, and shoes that is sublime.

How I feel when I run:

And then there are the simple things: Drip coffee. Drip coffee alone in the house before anyone wakes up. Drip coffee shared with a friend over breakfast in a local diner. Nines without tails. Fish without heads. Water from the tap. Understanding casual conversations of others in line while waiting for my Subway sandwich. Subway sandwiches. Everything bagels. Sweater weather at night.

But then, asks everyone, why do you keep going back?

Comfort is nice in small doses, but if I'm not careful, it can lead to a very boring, fat, and small me. My colleague Tabitha wrote a great piece about having an American hangover that explains this in a bit more detail: Hi my name is Tabitha, and I'm an Ameriholic.

Everything from eating fish with heads to standing in front of 300 teachers or students of English is a challenge that makes me grow and understand the world around me just a bit more. And Indonesia is so much more than its religious beliefs (which vary largely, by the way). I experience a level of generosity here on a daily basis that boggles the mind. At birthday celebrations here, the birthday girl or boy pays for everyone else's meals. There is also a sense that Indonesians don't take themselves so seriously. They joke openly about weight and other physical shortcomings and tease easily with one another about gaffes, fumbles, and farts. It's a bit refreshing to not worry so much about embarrassing or offending someone as we do in our sometimes uber sensitive American society. My ego can take it (usually) and be all the better for it. Finally, there is a refreshing friendliness among complete strangers here, as described briefly here by an expat writing about Indonesians' affinity for taking photos of white folk:

Americans are generally more wary of strangers than were the Indonesians I encountered. Maybe it relates to the prevalence in our country of telemarketers and door-to-door salesman. In any case, a stranger’s request to take a photograph would be received suspiciously by many Americans, who would worry they were about to be taken advantage of.

'Western Tourists Visit Indonesia for the Sights, and Become the Attraction' - featured in the Jakarta Globe

It's true, we do often have great reason for not striking up a conversation with every person that crosses our path, but I've witnessed here how those small extensions can lead to big discoveries about the human spirit and warmth.

In the past two years, I've commenced my blogging with a goal list usually revolving around me. How can I be a better teacher, language speaker, traveler, adventurer? This year, maybe I'll focus on something a little outside of me: generosity, levity, and friendliness toward others.

Southpaw Living

In honor of National Lefthander's Day, I feel it my duty to dedicate blog-space to the southpaw experience. I am one of the 10 per cent of the world's population that can claim left-handedness. I am also part of the first generation that wasn't forced to be right handed. My uncle should proudly pen with his left hand, but my grandmother did what society mandated and saved him from doing the Devil's work. Even today, I still experience Southpaw persecution: I cannot eat with my left hand while in Indonesia - a country where eating with your hands is common. The left hand is considered unclean (I'll not get into why, but it involves the bathroom) and should not touch food. I had to sit on my left hand during meals for the first few months in my new home so as not to offend my friends or inadvertently spark an international-relations crisis. Even when I can use cutlery, I'm exiled to end of the table, where my elbow cannot interfere with you right-handers. Don't even get me started about trying to find a left-handed desk. 

Left-handedness even affects the brain, or at least I'm a firm believer that it does. Here are things I blame on being left-handed:

Inability to give directions (interestingly, I mix up my left and right in another language as well as in English), childhood mispronunciations (lemonwellon/watermellon, panshoe/shampoo, psgetti/spagetti), misspelling, delayed shoe-tying ability, flexible ear cartilage, missing-my-big-chance-with-the-Rockettes-because-I-couldn't-tell-my-left-foot-from-my-right-foot-during-dance-class, excessive palm sweat, letter reversals (particularly b/ds), adult mispronunciations (I call it vowel dyslexia), frequent board-writing smudges, fear of heights, sloppy handwriting, gear shifting amnesia, and gravy boat accidents.

Of course, it's not all bad. To balance out my suffering, I also get to be "right-minded." This means that I'm more creative and artsy. This is true. I have a pretty steady sketching hand with which I like to do henna and draw tattoos for my siblings. I can choreograph dances with some success. My creative writing is not bad. And, I have a knack for visual layout (i.e. I rock power point). Being that I'm not totally left-hand dependent (I can do everything but write, eat, and bowl right-handed), I can enjoy the more pragmatic left-mindedness. I am a supreme list maker, for instance. 

For good, bad, and befuddled: Here's to you, Southpaws of the world!

To Be Continued...

One week to go before the sun sets on year two in Indonesia, and I feel...exhausted. Physically, my body needs a good break from training; mentally, I need to catch and put to rest all those flittering work thoughts; and emotionally/spiritually, I'm on E. These are a few of the reasons this week can't go fast enough. I'd be lying if I said this cycle wasn't tough. But then again...it takes me one minute to look over pictures from these past 10 months and remember all that went right.

Pasha and I shared finish line glory

First off, I am a triathlete...or at least on my way to being one. I finished the sprint distance of the Bintan triathlon in Indonesia, second in my age group. The race was an incredible rush in which I constantly thought about how to make it better the next time. The feeling of crossing the finish line was immense, but it feels small compared to the amazing friendships that got me there. There is not a doubt in my mind that I could not have done it without the incredible athletes and friends I made throughout the ten months who supported and pushed me to the finish line.

Top L - Bottom R: Me, Om Wailan, Karesna, Chadir, Jason, Peter, Tabitha, Mira, Silvia, Harki, Donny, Tanya

L - R: Anna, Me, Forie, Lina, Chadir, Bertha, Robby

Sprint Champions

One of our many post-practice feasts!

My bike and I should be under surveillance at all times. Thanks Albert. 

Crew off to Bintan

I had no idea what I was doing when I first signed up to do a triathlon, but once a week (sometimes twice), I could count on these guys to whip me into shape. Special thanks to Miranda for hauling my butt and bike everywhere, to Donny for being in charge, to Harki for being an amazing coach, and to all others for the support and laughs. I don't know what I would have done without those weekend workouts. I don't even know what was being said half the time, but I always felt welcome. Chalk it up the endless generosity and friendliness that all Indonesians seem born with.

I also managed to get in some great sights during trail runs, hikes, and travels across the country. I've already posted about most of my trips. Here are a few photos from some recent trail runs (Thanks to Chadir and Om Wailan for setting these up):

Finally, my site still continued to provide great camaraderie with coworkers, laughter with students, and cool, cool side projects. I got to meet and network with so many other professionals working in the field of English for uniformed forces. Hearing about their successes and learning about their projects was endlessly fascinating for me. And then there were always random happenings like this terrorist bomb simulation, that kept me from ever getting bored:

Last year was all new adventures in living abroad and teaching English for Police. This year, I still had plenty of adventures, but my salvation was in the friendships that carried me through. I didn't even mention the great American friends I made along the way or sustained from last year, but they are numerous. I really long for my support system back home in Ohio and PA, but I am endlessly grateful for the roots I've made here as well.

It was not an easy decision to stay in Indonesia a third year because of what I knew I was giving up back home. I am unsure about what a third year will bring, but I can say with certainty that I won't be alone.

Uphill All the Way

New friends, some of whom are seemingly trying to kill me.

My experiment in becoming a triathlete this year has led to a lot of new friends and many new adventures. Some of these adventures end in bodily harm (jellyfish, heat exhaustion, etc), but it's fun to see what one is made of. A few weekends ago, I learned that when it comes to uphill cycling, I'm made up of a squishy lack of resolve that smells like shame.

It was suggested that we take our bikes an hour outside of Jakarta to a place called Sentul. This area is known for its picturesque landscapes and cool temperatures. It is also made up of 90% uphill. We started with a 12k run on said hills. We survived, and I was actually feeling pretty confident after having stretched my long legs on some fun down hills. This is how downhills should be enjoyed; with firm grip beneath our feet, but I digress. So, I had a pretty good outlook for the bike ride that would follow our run. I even decided to use my special road bike shoes that clip into my pedals for the first time. This, as it turns out, would not be the last of my bad decisions of the day.

My confidence carried me through the first few kilometers of slight uphills. Those slight hills, however, very quickly turned into nasty, never-ending climbs. Miranda and I, new to this particular form of torture, were encouraged by our male counterparts. We responded to this encouragement with everything from grunts to begging to death threats. Miranda at one point even admitted...out loud...that the bike ride was "almost not fun." 

I couldn't have agreed more. I like a physical challenge as much as the next guy, but I was having a particularly bad time with this one. First of all, it seems I wasn't quite as familiar with my bike's gears as I had previously thought. Secondly, we weren't alone on this monstrosity of a road. There was a company of Brimob police officers running up the hill, being paced by motorbikes. While I didn't recognize any as former students (thank God), it wasn't much fun having so many witnesses to my floundering. Finally, my shiny new shoes and I were having some disagreements about how they should freely let me on and off of my bike. It turns out that trying to 'clip in' to pedals on a ridiculously steep hill (or any hill at all...or flat space that contained a speed bump...) was too much for me to handle. My friends would pass me by and put several hundred meters between us while my bike and I had many arguments about getting started. The bike won when it threw me onto the gravel (I got in a good kick, though). I picked myself up, swallowed my pride, and carried my bike up the hill with cheers of encouragement from the Brimob officers who watched the whole thing. Aduh.

We all did make it up to the top of the hill eventually. Which was nice....until we then had to go back down the hill. If you recall from my last blog post about Rinjani, I recently discovered that I have a particular talent for falling when it comes to descents. Miranda and I exchanged nervous glances before we took off down hill. Even with both hands constantly pumping the breaks, the ride was terrifying. I could see Mira in front of me skidding to a stop when the grade became too steep. I couldn't stop, of course, because my feet were stuck in death traps. I made it a bit further down the road until it leveled out enough for me to clip out and wait for Mira. I was just about to start worrying that she had crashed somewhere far up the hill, when I spotted a motorbike coming towards me. The driver oddly had two bicycle wheels behind him like wings. Then I spotted the pink shirt that I'd known Mira to be wearing. I shouted out at her as she drove past with her bicycle upside down in her lap. Well, that was very clever, so I decide to hire my own ojek to get me down the hill. As I assumed the position, I wondered at the wisdom of the decision. One pedal was poised to impale my throat, and the rear gear box was positioned to either decapitate me or slice off my face at any sudden stop. But, hey, at least I was no longer in control of my fate. 

Luckily, Miranda and I both made it safely down the hill with bikes in tow. So, what, you may ask, did I learn about my experience? Uphills are dumb. Never trust anyone who thinks otherwise (cough...ChaidirandAlbert.../cough).

Ego check 1,2...1,2...

As it turns out, I'm a lousy planner. And, being that I'm not so hot at being spontaneous either, I may be the world's worst travel partner. Luckily for me, Indonesia is very forgiving, always making up for even my worst laid plans with some unexpected charms. Thankfully, the country proved itself again last week when my friend, Tim, of UA Ballroom Club fame, came from the states for a week long visit in Indonesia....even if it did nearly kill us and our egos in the process.

Tim requested that our trip take on more of an adventure-feel than a beach lounger-feel, so I booked us a 3 day/2 night trek to Mt. Rinjani, Indonesia's second largest volcano. The package seemed innocent enough, peppered with hot springs and a sunrise view from the summit. We were filled with explorer spirit as we began our first morning with a spectacular sunrise. 

It's only four kilometers...straight up

We met our guide, a happy Sasak man named Pak Pahi. Pahi has lived in the shadow of Rinjani his whole life and started working as a porter for treks when he was about 18. For nearly ten years, he carried camping equipment up the mountain, balanced on a pole across his shoulder, for tourists from around the world. He taught himself English from books and practiced on the tourists during the trips until he could speak enough to become a guide. Now he makes a trip to the summit at least twice a week - a fact that made our admiration for him grow the longer we hiked.

The closer we got, the taller it grew

The first part, while hot, was not so bad. We hiked swiftly through rolling hills to the first post. There we met a slightly-more-than-middle-aged woman from Canada. She was already having a hard time with the trek, but was determined to see us again at the crater rim. Tim and I were doubtful that we'd see her again, but we wished her luck. We reached post two shortly thereafter and were instructed to sit back while the porters whipped up a spectacular lunch of nasi goreng (fried rice). There we met two more Canadians with whom we shared our enclosure and conversation. So far, the trip was just the right brand of adventure we were looking for.

And then things got really steep, really fast. Soon we were willing our legs to follow the sure footsteps of Pahi as we ascended into the clouds. Our breaks became more frequent, and our porters - in their sandel cepit (flip flops) - took off in front of us carrying twice our load and smoking while we caught up.

Once we were well on our way up to the crater rim, we could watch the clouds roll up the mountain at our heels and finally submerse us. I remember reflecting on how there must be levels of silence just as there are various levels of noise because the silence of these clouds offered a deep peace.

 I have experienced it before in Ohio just after a large snow fall at night before anyone can disturb it. I drank it in, willing my own racing heart beat to slow down to its rhythm. I think those moments were my favorite of the entire trip.

At some point, when the trail became, as Tim said, "an endless stepper machine on the hardest setting," we could hear shouts of motivation from somewhere in the clouds above us. Soon, we met up with a gaggle of university forestry students who were taking a rest. They cheered us on until we joined them for a brief chat. We couldn't sit long because the temperature was dropping, but we were grateful for their energy. The students invited us to join them at 1am to start climbing to the summit, but we decided to stick to our guide's plan to leave at a much more reasonable 3am.

We finally reached the crater rim just before 5 pm (we started around 8am). The summit still loomed ahead of us, but everything was still covered in the clouds so there wasn't much to see. We barely made it through dinner before we collapsed into our tent. At 2:30 am, Pahi's gentle voice pulled us outside of the tent into the frigid air. I cupped some hot tea with both hands and choked down a small breakfast while watching an intimidating snake of flashlights that had already begun the ascent to the summit. Those flashlights seemed impossibly high. At that point, Tim decided the best course of action was to crawl back inside the tent and go to sleep, so Pahi and I started of on our own, the last to join the chain of flashlights.

This is what the climb looked like in daylight. I did not have the luxury of daylight.

Two hours into the hike and the summit didn't seem any closer. Pahi and I were moving at a fast pace, though. We had already passed the university students and the two Canadians. At that point we joined a group of Europeans who were steadily climbing up the loose, volcanic glass. Eventually, we passed that group and silently continued on. Thirty minutes to the top, we caught up with a French man and his guide resting near some big rocks. The path had become so narrow at this point, with steep drop-offs on either side of the path, that I was terrified to look anywhere but at my feet. We followed the French man the last 30 minutes to the top. I admit that I tried to catch up and pass him, but he was very fast, so I settled with being the second person to arrive at the summit. I was rewarded with the promised sunrise and a view of all of the surrounding islands. 

To the east was the spectacular sunrise, and the the west we could watch as Rinjani cast its shadow across its own crater lake and the neighboring island of Bali.

I didn't stay long at the top because it was so cold that I couldn't control my fingers enough to take pictures. Pahi and I started the descent, a terrifying type of rock surfing that was more falling than walking. What took us two hours to climb up, we surfed down in about 20 minutes. We stopped long enough to shake the mountain out of our shoes and take pictures of the now visible crater lake. In the center of the lake another, much smaller volcano sat smouldering.

Back at the crater rim camp, I joined Tim for a large breakfast of banana pancakes while looking out over the rim. We were soon joined by one, then two, then an invasion of monkeys who were very interested in our breakfast. We may have annoyed our porters when we were too distracted by taking pictures of the monkeys to stop one of them from stealing our cup full of sugar for our tea. The little bandit ran down the hill with his prize, fighting off anyone who tried to share his bounty. We were amused, but we could tell our porters were not when they had to chase the monkey down the hill to retrieve the cup. Oops.

It was while we were on the rim, that Tim and I quickly agreed to cut our trip one day short. His feet were covered in blisters and my legs had turned into jello. So, we smiled for one more picture at the rim, and started the still 5 hour descent back the way we came. It turns out, going down was much harder than going up. Tim and I tripped and slipped along until our guide finally took pity on our shaky legs and fashioned us some walking sticks. These helped a bit, but they couldn't undo the damage to our egos. This was the down part...how could it be so hard? We feebly clung to our sticks, though, with the thought of sipping Bintang on the beach overpowering our fear of tumbling down the mountain.

A smiling Tim...so happy to be down the mountain

We spent the last few days of Tim's visit bumming around the beach area. Honestly, we couldn't do much else. We were a pitiful pair, hobbling around and covering ourselves in tiger balm and band aids. It wasn't all bad, though. We were able to salvage the week with some excellent Indonesian food and some wonderful - yet painfully slow - strolls on the beach. Not exactly what I imagined when I planned our trip, and I'm certain it wasn't what Tim had in mind either, but he still left with a smile on his face...or was that a grimace...