a new twist on a colonial pastime

A Neighbor Burning Trash

There’s nothing quite like waking up to the foul combination of diesel fumes fusing with the stench of burning garbage in the morning!  The hazardous particles of which ruthlessly waft through my unscreened window, stimulating my sleepy senses, and acting as a malodorous wakeup call for the day.

Today this amalgamation of odors intermittently couples with the roaring sound of the unmufflered exhaust pipe of a large truck trying to navigate the narrow, mucky road between my house and my neighbor’s.  Relentlessly getting stuck, the driver shouts out the window for guidance as his partners arduously lean into the massive vehicle with all their weight and bellow back “Terus! Terus! Terus!- Go straight, go straight, go straight!”  Their shouts dissonantly blend with an absurdly lengthy sequence of stall-start-stall-start as the engine momentarily resurrects itself then fails again in its struggle against the mud.  Good thing someone recently cut down the two large fruit trees that once framed a striking panorama of lush rice fields and the silhouette of Mt. Panangunan, otherwise this truck would have no chance of steering its way out.  But it manages, not unlike most machines imposed on nature, and successfully delivers its load of rock to the most recent construction site on my street...less than 30 feet from my front door.  Enough large stones to get through a solid day’s work, but not enough to warrant the cease of early morning truck deliveries for the next couple months.

I really can’t complain though.  It’s already 5:30 on a Sunday morning, the latest I’m able to sleep in these days.  My early mornings are not typically the result of noxious vapors and clamorous trucks, but I’ve certainly had more than one day start in this manner.  Usually it’s because I’m asleep no later than 9 pm the night before- the result of complete exhaustion from teaching in the unbearable heat coupled with the fact that not much happens after Maghrib (evening prayer at sunset), especially as an solo women.

Bamboo Lamp Posts & Building Into Paddies

But today is Sunday.  This, by my Indonesia tradition, is defined as Bike Riding Adventure Day, and doesn’t merit much negative thinking.  I throw on my conservative athletic clothes, toss my lukewarm water bottle in my front basket, and pedal off to Bu Sari’s house, greeting the numerous construction workers lining my street with a traditional Javanese, “Monggo!”  Every day there’s another house that’s been built, another dirt path that’s been paved over, or another leafy tree that’s mysteriously been chopped down in order to make room for additional infrastructure.  It breaks my heart to see every last bit of verdant land transforming into colorless cement in just my relatively brief time here.  But people have gotta live somewhere, and although it seems risky to build on top of the sodden rice paddied land, they’re running out of options in my neighborhood.  Their kids will be the ones who have to deal with rice shortages and unstable foundations in the years to come…

Newly Adorned Colonial Bike

The real purpose of this rant is to highlight, yet again, one of the many dichotomies that characterize life in East Java.  From archaic concepts of gender roles where marriage is concerned, to having a prominent headmistress at my school and female vice mayor of our city.  From complete apathy towards the abundant trash littering nearly every inch of land, to students creating art out of recycled materials and composting organic waste at school.  And on this day, from the unremittingly progressive, development-centered world of a modern Java, to an older generation who still delights in the employment of a simple, old-fashioned contraption left behind by the Dutch: a subculture of colonial bicycle preservationists.

Traditional Uniforms

In an attempt to venture out of the cement walls that encase our neighborhood, Bu S and I headed out of the city confines on another ambiguous excursion, this time stumbling upon the show floor of an antique bike show of sorts.  Our adventure sense first started tingling when we noticed an increase in biker activity on the usually solitary roads, all of whom were en route for the same place.  Naturally we rode in for a closer look and were immediately welcomed by the legendary sepeda ontel riders, a group of mostly older men devoted to the preservation and maintenance of their 1940s bicycles, a vestige of the former Dutch rule (Indonesia finally gained it’s independence from the Netherlands then Japan in 1945 following centuries of colonial rule).

Matching Shirts

Sepeda ontel (the traditional bikes) are a common sight in the more rural parts of Java; farmers, street vendors, and plastic gatherers, among others, all use the decades-old equipment for daily life simply because alternative transportation is too expensive or unavailable.  But today just happened to be the congregation of ontel clubs from all over Mojosari and the surrounding areas.  And the nearby stadium in my town just happened to mark the rendezvous point for said clubs.  Bu S and I joined forces with our local team - whose bike show we’d just crashed - and headed off with our new friends to see what this sepeda ontel shindig was all about.  As the first group to arrive, we examined each subsequent cluster of riders - identified by matching t-shirts or period-themed uniforms - as they rowdily rode into the stadium area and meticulously lined up their historical cycles.

Just One of Many Rows of Bikes

Seats, Lamps, Racks & Packs

Although a large portion of the morning was dedicated to perusing the old-fashioned transport and elaborate getup of one’s peers, the stationary lines of traditional bikes were just the precursor to a much more impressive event.  All at once people mounted their bikes, signaled their imminent departure with a swift ding! of a bell, and set off in a mass of eccentrically costumed sepeda ontel fanatics.  The mob animatedly made its way through the crowded main roads, then through the more serene back streets dividing village and paddy, and eventually ended in the same location where we had originally met our sepeda ontel friends.  The hour-long spectacle culminated in a giant dance party set to traditional Javanese music surrounded by scrupulously arranged heaps of traditional food and spare sepeda ontel parts for sell.

The Next Generation of Ontel Riders

Final Dance Party

Even though the older generation may have stronger ties to the past, there were plenty of kids involved in this year’s event.  From toddlers to teenagers, adolescents dressed up in traditional garb, perused replacement pieces for their grandfathers’ bikes, and enjoyed the ambiance just as much as their slightly more senior counterparts. This tradition is bound to continue for years to come, continuing to blend the antique with the modern.

52 Days...

It happens when one least expects it. Almost simultaneous with the moment when one finally feels comfortable tallying down the days remaining and grows ever more appreciative of the dwindling number of times one has to wear that unflattering, sweat-inducing, khaki uniform to school. When one can imagine nothing more delightful than to step on the first of several planes back to one’s Home of Record. Then without warning, an epiphany 2 years in the making shakes the body to the core: in some inexplicable way, I belonged here. Maybe not forever and maybe not in the same capacity I initially anticipated when filling out the Peace Corps application so long ago. But I was meant to be in this place at this time and live through these struggles so that I could one day appreciate how beautiful and unpredictable this experience truly is.

Exhausted by Indonesia, I recently succumbed to the daily countdown that so many of my PC colleagues have been employing for months now. 52 days or the equivalent of 10 more times wearing that unpleasant khaki teaching attire, Alhamdulillah!

My mind was already home, or, at the very least, on my post COS travel plans. I had bought my ticket to Phuket, Thailand and was not only mentally, but physically, starting to pack up my room and organize the hodgepodge of odds and ends I’ve accumulated over the last 2 years. Swaths of batik fabric, an assortment of personalized keepsakes from students, matching mugs with my host family’s faces prominently displayed…each memento prompting a buried flashback from my time here. I was reflective, but not overly sentimental about leaving. I felt ready to abscond from this Indonesian life in which I could never really fit in, skipping the awkward goodbyes and partition of my material possessions.

But then something unanticipated happened.

It happened at nearly the exact moment when I felt irrevocably and completely comfortable with the bearable amount of time I had left at site. That’s when feelings of abandonment slipped past my seemingly callous exterior and infiltrated deep within. Feelings of me abandoning my students. Of me abandoning my newfound friends. Of me abandoning my teachers. Of me abandoning my host siblings. Of me abandoning the kids. All within a single day. Only 52 days.

It first happened in the moment when I felt too tired to go to English Kids Camp and lethargically strolled in late with profound feelings of apathy towards teaching radiating through my body. But I threw on a smile and nonchalantly made my way to the back of the room so I could passively observe my high school students doing, as always, an excellent job captivating and stimulating their pupils’ minds. That apathy was all at once supplanted by complete and utter pride as I reflected on how much they’ve grown in such a short time. 52 days or 7 more English Club meetings.

It happened again in the moment when three of my third and fourth graders bashfully approached me with youthfully wrapped packages in hand; tiny parcels for Ms. Maggie ‘just because’. A few flamboyant hair accessories and one seashell broach later, I was full of melancholy sentiment as I thought about saying goodbye to these little prodigies. 52 days or 4 more times with my English Camp kids.

My English Camp Givers and Their Gifts

Walking home from the camp, it happened yet again in the moment when my closest friend/ neighborhood head/ community counterpart/ bike-riding buddy/ co-founder of our English Kids Camp/ Indonesian sister casually mentioned that we haven’t hung out in sooo long…we hadn’t seen each other since Monday! Days get busy and people fade in and out of each others’ lives, but best friends are best friends. I never thought I’d have a best friend here with whom I’d feel like 7 days was ‘sooo long to be apart’. And as I was selfishly counting down the days until I could finally leave, I realized that that’s the same number of days I have left with my close friend who will soon be oceans away. 52 days or 6 more adventurous bike rides together.

It happened once more in the moment when, on that same walk home, my 5-year old neighbor Bunga ran up and breathlessly grabbed my hand, blissfully and uncontrollably giggling, in hopes that we could navigate our way through the towering sugar cane fields in pursuit of the other neighborhood youngsters. How do you explain to someone so young why you have to leave presumably forever? 52 days or 40 more walks home from school.

Dani, One of the Naughty Neighborhood Youngsters,Who Has Nonetheless Found His Way Into My Heart

The feelings of bittersweetness intensify as days pass by. Sure I have moments when I can’t wait to be back in the land of toasted bagels and a heterogeneous community into which I can blend. But there are also those rare moments when my heart sinks at the thought of disserting my students and Indonesian colleagues so that I can greedily take the next life step.

Just when I was starting to distance myself, to organize my belongings and finalize my post COS travel itinerary, and to not feel accountable for the seemingly never-ending 52 days left in country, I realized that I only have 52 more days and I need to make the most of those limited 1248 hours.

Only 52 Days or 3 More Flag Ceremonies

too young...

One of my earliest childhood memories is of overhearing stories about how the preteen son of a family friend died in a catastrophic ATV accident. Morbid, I know, but it’s something that’s stuck with me over the years. I don’t think I’d ever met him, but I would have been too young to remember anyway. In any case, it was just a story, and until this week I felt detached from it in the same way that people feel detached from any other fable with a sad ending…it touches something inside, but I simply couldn’t relate to it. I was too little to understand how tragic it is to lose someone young and in such a violent manner.

In the months leading up to my departure for Indonesia, I was once more confronted with horror stories of ATV and motorcycle accidents; this time as an EMT trainee, yet still as an objective 3^rd party. Of course our lecturer tried to prepare us for the gruesome reality associated with these types of collisions: explicit images projected on the front wall, personal stories from the scene, and tales of attending more than one funeral. But in the mock scenarios, we were trained to look at a situation using a methodical approach; not to regard the individual as a person, but as a very delicate prop in the implementation of a detailed life-or-death procedure: check the ABCs, stabilize the neck and spine…the rest blurs together at the moment as I reflect on recent events here in Mojokerto. Rarely, if ever, did those mock scenarios involve an adolescent. We have too many laws and safety regulations protecting our children in the U.S. This week I was reminded of the impact those strict parameters have; one may not realize it until they leave the U.S., but the system there is far more advanced, or, at a minimum, better respected. Clearly, grisly accidents still happen on the seemingly safe streets of Colorado, but, by comparison, they happen infinitely more often here in Indonesia.

This past Friday evening I received a shockingly painful message from one of my students: ‘Dwi Effendi was killed in a motorcycle accident’- my student had lost her best friend. That in itself is heartbreaking, but I just so happen to be texting buddies with Effendi, a promising student from another school. As the only native speaker in a fairly large radius, my working with students extends far beyond my immediate workplace. Effendi was an optimistic, talented kid at the vocational school my host mother teaches at in a neighboring town. As a member of their English Debate team, Effendi and I had a number of interactions via SMS, debate prep at my house, or when I’d join my host mom at events at her school. Periodic interactions…not enough. I should have responded quicker to his messages, made more of an effort to reorganize my time so that I could meet him and his friends more often, or at least praised him one more time on his ever-improving English. But I didn’t. And I can’t, because now he’s gone.

Gone in such a graphic way that it makes my blood boil and my stomach turn all at the same time. Anyone who’s visited Indonesia understands the chaos on the streets, and it’s no wonder that PC bans volunteers from riding motorcycles in any part of the developing world. But here, it’s a necessity for one’s livelihood and education. Yes motorcycles are the main form of transportation, and kids start driving at an early age; even my 11-year old neighbor who helps at his father’s mechanic shop after school is sporadically seen cruising around town unaccompanied. And yes, more often than not people do not wear helmets even though required by law. And yes, any distance within 1 km of one’s house seems like a relatively safe length to go without any serious mishaps. But no, none of those things make it easy to accept the fact that a 17 year-old boy was instantly, and pointlessly, killed within shouting distance of his home by a hit-and-run driver at 8:00 in the morning. His family couldn’t even identify the body because his face was so badly smashed in and bloodied.

It’s just not fair! Hearing this story was like a punch to the stomach. But what’s equally distressing is that by now I should have grown impervious to it, right? This accident was just one in a long string of ill-fated events that have plagued the lives and thoughts of my community, and now me. My host sister was in a life-threatening accident within months of me first arriving at my permanent site. Just weeks after her 17^th birthday she was run off the road by a sleepy truck driver while she was coming home from studying Al Qur’an with her friends. Thank goodness she was wearing a helmet! But the malicious scars that cover half of her body, paired with the memories of seeing her unconscious in the hospital for days on end, are a reminder that not everyone is so lucky. And then there’s her best friend who was killed days after their high school graduation. She wasn’t a student of mine, but she was constantly over at the house studying with my sister or choreographing aerobic routines for their sports class. 18 years is simply not long enough to experience everything one’s supposed to experience in life!

These are probably the most horrific stories from my time here. Of young life lost and loved ones left behind without reasonable explanation. The promise for Indonesia’s future is being needlessly picked apart left and right in such a horrific way, that I don’t know how I can sit by and watch it keep happening. But I also don’t know what I can do to change it. In my seemingly short 24 months here, I’ve had 2 students die, visited another half-dozen in the hospital for critical injuries (most of the treatments their families are unable to pay for), and had countless others who miss one or two days of school, then miraculously show up limping into class, badly bruised or scratched up…all because of motorcycle accidents.

If I were a better volunteer I would have started a Helmet Awareness Program or had my students sign some type of pledge vowing to wear a helmet every time they hop on the back of a bike. But I can’t even get my neighbor to throw trash in a trash bin. With only three months left I’m starting to lose the enthusiasm that once drew me to Peace Corps…if I had done something earlier would it have made a difference? Would Effendi still be with us?

On an less related note, it’s recently been brought to my attention that some people believe that PC blogs are ‘romanticized,’ highlighting only the positives or dramatizing other aspects to make the 2 years seem like more of an adventure. Although I enjoy colorful language and the occasional hyperbole, I feel like I’ve been fairly honest in my writing, with only minor censoring on behalf of PC staff. This story is nothing more or nothing less than how I honestly feel at this moment in time. I wish I had even the slightest hint of poetic genius to leave you all with a more polished ending. But alas, I don’t.

A response to my condolence message to another member of Effendy’s Debate Team:

“Until now I still not believe about it…I’m very shock when hear it…But that is fate of god…We just can pray to effendi…Effendy is good boy…We hope god forgive his sins…aNd I believe god give him good place in there.”

PART IV: Deceptive Waterfalls, Rocky the Child Hawker, and Home Sweet Home

As much fun as Gili T was, I think we were all ready to leave the all-night party scene and head over to the more serene Indonesia we’ve grown to know and love. And so we found ourselves once again on a long rickety wooden boat, this time heading back to the main island of Lombok.

It was another picturesque car ride through traditional villages and terraced rice fields as we approached the base of Mt. Rinjani a.k.a. Gunung Agung’s slightly larger (by about 600 vertical meters) big brother and principal landmark of Lombok visible from nearly every corner of the island. Although it may be hard to believe, we opted not to partake in the 3-4 day hike up this treacherous volcano; my body started to ache just thinking about the 12-hour trek we had taken up its diminutive-by-comparison neighbor less than a week before. We continued to drive north towards the village of Senaru with visions of majestic waterfalls flowing in our heads. Those visions were soon realized, but only after a minor squabble with an illegitimate tour company claiming that an exorbitantly overpriced guide was obligatory for the 20-minute marked walk. As Indonesian tourists passed through the gate paying the equivalent of 50 US cents for the entrance fee, schemers attempted to charge us nearly US$50 for the same trip. Living in my Javanese village I sometimes forget that there’s often a local price and an inflated tourist price, and by day 10 of our trip I was not in the mood to be taken advantage of, again. We eventually settled on a significantly lower price and began the leisurely walk to the arresting falls.

Sarah on Our Way Up to the Second Waterfall

The Four of Us at the Foot of Sindang Gila

Half an hour later we found ourselves at the foot of the second of two impressive drops. We decided to take advantage of the beautiful day and made our way for a swim in the larger of the 2 falls. Our wobbly walk across slimy, unstable rocks was rewarded by a chilly yet refreshing dip in the fresh water pool. Unaware of how powerful the ostensibly peaceful flow was, I ventured over to see what was behind the misting falls. The pressure from the nearly 40-meter cascading water pushed me under into an angry whirlpool. I used every ounce of strength I could muster to fight my way back to the surface, only to be unfavorably greeted by half a breath of misty air followed by a vigorous pummeling from the deafening falls. I’m convinced that had it not been for Sarah’s keen eye and Travis’ strong build pulling me to safety I would have perished unnoticed into the depths of the imposing falls. Just more proof that I’m not destined to be a water girl.

Sarah and Ashley and a Slippery Walk

The Scene of My Near Death Experience

We spent an inconsequential night in Sengiggi then set off for Kuta the following morning for the remainder of our stay on the island. On our way south we sojourned in the charming weaving village of Sukaraja in order to appease Travis’ sarong addiction- he was quite zealous about adding a handmade, hand-woven piece to his exponentially growing collection (just teasing Travis!). As with most shopping detours when you hire a private car, the driver eventually receives a certain percentage from the passengers’ purchase; it was later rumored that in this particular weaving community the driver gets 50% of the proceeds…wow! In an attempt to encourage local economic support, we were given a guided walking tour of the village where we observed elderly women weave intricate patterns then were dressed in handmade wedding garments and paraded about. All the textiles were dramatically vibrant, each with a unique variation from the traditional design. We also learned that a girl is considered unmarriageable if she doesn’t learn this time-honored trade. I would not fare well here.

Weaving

Weaving 2

Weaving 3

Vibrant Fabrics

Getting Dressed In Wedding Attire

Final Look

We continued down to the surfers’ haven and were immediately enchanted by the tepid crystal blue water and tranquil beaches of Kuta. At any given time there were no more than 5 people within eyesight on our pristine stretch of shoreline as we waded out into the striking salt water. But as lunchtime approached and school let out, there was a mad rush of child hawkers swarming the scantily clad beach goers and surfers who were attempting to grab a bite to eat. Every day after school kids ages 6-12 tenaciously push self-made bracelets on the tourists in order to pay for school books. And thus begins the tale of how we first crossed paths with the most charismatic 8-year old I’ve ever met.

Panorama of Kuta's Coastline

Dressed in his worn out sports uniform from school, Rocky promptly introduced himself and flawlessly delivered the handful of English phrases he’d clearly rehearsed on countless foreigners before: “How are you?”…“What is your name?”…“Where are you from?”… Completely unabashed at the prospect of talking to complete strangers, he continued his spiel, ingenuously winning over the hearts and wallets of Aussies, Brits, Germans, and an abundance of other international visitors. He was completely loveable, with a tinge of mischief hidden behind his amiable façade. Upon further inquiry using our ever-improving Indonesian, we learned more about Rocky and his adolescent cohorts with names like Tony and Rocco- clearly not local names. In order to establish a more familiar bond with non-natives, each child chooses, or is given, a westernized name and encouraged to use it when initiating conversation. Within minutes of knowing that we spoke Indonesian and were familiar with Islamic culture, Rocky sat down unsolicited- no longer trying to sell us bracelets- and morphed into a normal 3^rd grader, unconcerned with finances and more inclined to learn about Sarah’s unusually long, blonde arm hair and Ashley’s aviator sunglasses. He all at once opened up about his school day and family life over a cold soda, but was soon beckoned back to reality by his colleague-classmates who were on a mission to raise school fees.

The Lovable Rocky

Trying On All of Our Sunglasses

Through the duration of our two weeks of adventure, I was faithfully accompanied by a strongly recommended book. Page after page I continued to draw uncanny parallels between the author’s account of life on an isolated Pacific island in the The Sex Lives of Cannibals, and my own daily experiences from 2 years with Peace Corps on Java. Frequent power outages and stomach issues. The ceaseless playing of the same unbearable song over and over again for hours, days, and even months on end. Mangy, malnourished dogs and other supposedly domesticated animals meandering around freely. The progressive transition from organic banana leaves and coconut shells as eating devices to widespread usage of plastic substitutes which are inevitably disposed of in the same manner as their biodegradable predecessors resulting in the devastation of a formerly pristine environment. On more than one occasion I found myself laughing out loud and sharing passages with my empathetic PC companions.

Palm Tree Silhouette and Moon in Kuta

After the two weeks was said and done, one of my most beloved memories was arriving back in my village with the most overwhelmingly enthusiastic, genuine greeting from my students and neighbors. As I strolled into school the following afternoon (a Sunday) I was bombarded by a flock of eager 3^rd graders who had shown up on the off chance that our bi-monthly English camp had started a week early. After sweet comments like “It’s been so long time since I’ve seen you Ms. Maggie- you got more beautiful!” and sharing about their holiday break, we played a few games of Simon Says until the university students arrived for our scheduled interview. And back at home it felt so comfortable to hang out with my host siblings, catching up and goofing around in Javanese rather than trying to decipher the local Sasak language of Lombok. Truth be told, I would have loved to stay in Kuta and the surrounding area longer to explore and document ‘The Lives of Child Hawkers’, but it was the absolute greatest feeling to be enthusiastically greeted by both my les kids and high school students. And so concludes this holiday journey. It feels good to be home.

PART III: new airports, bad djs, and good friends

A 30-minute flight from Denpasar and we safely landed at Lombok’s new international airport. So new, in fact, that up until the point we touched down I thought we were flying to the old airport- in a different city- erroneously reassured by the destination printed on our tickets. After a moment of panic as I tried to confirm where we’d actually be meeting the two Nishas and Travis who would be flying in from Surabaya in a few hours, we sat down on the virtually deserted airport floor to pass the time playing cards. Three tall fair-haired girls shuffling and dealing was apparently the most entertaining thing the airport staff had seen in awhile, and in next to no time we were surrounded by an audience of 20+ airport drivers, travel coordinators, and security personnel clad in military garb giving us game advice while simultaneously trying to figure out the rules. Needing a break from cigarette smoke and propositions of matrimony, I scooted to the outskirts of the pack and naturally struck up a conversation with the only two people under the age of 20- two sixth grade boys whose parents were working in the adjacent fields. Before Indonesia I was never the person to approach kids and start up an educational dialogue, but I find myself doing it regularly here; on buses, beaches, and, apparently, airport floors. I can’t pass up the opportunity for a student to modestly show off his/her English skills by diffidently spewing out the numbers 1-10 or passing my colors quiz. I love the unpretentious smiles that cross their faces when they can answer what their name is or what class they’re in. I’m not sure I could be a career teacher, but I’m convinced that there will always be a little piece of me that appreciates an impromptu lesson.

Hanging Out at the Airport While Their Parents Work in the Field

As the sun set on the Bali Sea and all of its island dwellers, we glided over the turbulent waves to the tiny island of Gili Trawangan. Notorious for its party reputation and international SCUBA status, we figured it would be an ideal place to spend the New Year while half of us got dive certified. The days and nights leading up to 2012 were spent lazing about with only minor intervals of physical activity. We rented bikes the first day and journeyed most of the way around the small island until the sand became too wearisome to pedal through. That same evening Ashley and I rode over to the western side of the island to watch the equatorial sun descend behind the infamous Balinese mountain we had conquered just days before. Well, Ashley conquered, I stumbled down. After seeing it across miles of sea, I began to take more pride and express less resentment towards our prior feat- that was a big pile of rocks that we climbed!

Ashley Watching the Sun Set Over Bali

Early Morning Boats and Clouds

Another afternoon was spent snorkeling off a boat in between the other minuscule Gili islands then grabbing a noontime bite to eat on the practically uninhabited Gili Air. On a few occasions we also managed to make our way down to the rocky beach- the result of broken coral washing up on shore due to flawed tourism practices. I’m neither excluding myself, nor claiming to be an ecological expert, but I did try to minimize the impact I was having on the surrounding aquatic environment. Although there are reconstructive measures taking place to help restore the adjoining reefs, there is still a lot of room to educate both tourists and locals about ways to help prevent further devastation of the contiguous coral and marine life.

Waiting for Lunch on Gili Air

Broken Coral Beach

Boats Down at the Beach

And, as happens most years, another 365 days had inconspicuously passed and we found ourselves counting down the hours then the minutes to 2012. While enjoying the last moments of 2011, we were subjected to, unarguably, the worst DJ ever. That didn’t stop my fabulous friends and I from having a blast on the dance floor- a true testament to how amazing the people I surround myself with are. One may wonder why we didn’t leave the appalling music (I’m talking “Ice, Ice Baby” and “U Can’t Touch This”) and I answer with this: the inebriated horde of exceedingly underage locals blocking the street made it nearly impossible to change locales without getting groped and gawked at. I like to think I’m a fairly tolerant person, but even sweet little Nisha was ready to throw down in an attempt to defend her personal space. I’m glad we had our token boys with us, but if truth be told, I’d rather Nisha had my back any day of the week. Even with the temporary off-putting vibes surrounding the mob, New Years Eve 2012 will forever be one for the memory books. Front row, beachside seats to a spectacular fireworks show shimmering back in the waves before us. A post-midnight swim in the warm ocean water. And fully grasping, yet once again, that this is my life and I am one lucky girl.

Our Initial New Years Crew for the Night

Fabulous Friends

Fireworks from the Boats

Midnight Fireworks

*Tune in soon for the final installment of this 4-part series, Adventures in the Bali Sea*

PART II: a royal balinese funeral

Christmas day 2011 started with a scenic bemo ride from Sideman down to the cultural center of Ubud where Ashley and I would ultimately meet up with my PC friend Sarah. Despite a minor altercation with a dishonest bemo driver whilst attempting to commence our journey, we quickly became enchanted with the surrounding landscape and unconcerned about when we would reach the city. Even with our distracted minds, we couldn’t help but notice that we must be getting closer to our final destination as the Indonesian-Tourist ratio steadily inverted so that the local population was soon in the minority. After 2 years in a conservative village, I found myself trying not to gawk at the pale underdressed foreigners as if they were some kind of anomaly. I can now relate to my students’ initial reaction to having a stereotypical American enter the classroom for the first time; I predict some serious reverse culture shock once I’m back stateside. We settled into our gorgeous hotel room with a view (thanks to Sarah’s logic that one’s allowed to splurge during the holidays) and full-heartedly welcomed the realization that this was our life. Reliable internet access for Skyping, a lagoon-like swimming pool, and my first taste of delicious suckling pig- not the worst way to spend my final Christmas in Indonesia. Nothing else extraordinarily noteworthy happened; just mohitos at the Laughing Buddha and enjoying the company of good friends, old and new.

Sunset From Our Hotel Window

Gunung Agung From Afar

Christmas Mohitos

We only spent a few days in Ubud, but my first impression of the cultural hub of Bali was much more positive than that of its overdeveloped neighbor to the South, Kuta. I embraced the traditional art, food, music, and morning yoga of Ubud, while all together savoring my first bite of reasonably authentic Mexican food in over 20 months, ordering a delicious pitcher of sangria and perusing the handicraft shops clearly intended for tourists. Ashley and I also spent a couple of hours walking through the jungle oasis of the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary, taking pictures of the adorable little primates and scoffing at the people trying to feed them ice cream then kicking at the poor macaques when they got too close. I’m not claiming to be an ape expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s not considered appropriate etiquette towards monkeys.

Family of Macaques

The following day we happened upon the funeral procession for a member of the Balinese royal family. The vibrantly adorned funeral tower, or bade, carrying the deceased was making its way from Ubud Palace toward the hallowed Hindu temple Pura Dalem Puri at the heart of the city. Leading the colossal multi-tiered bade was a massive manmade bull ornamented in gold which would later serve as the final cremation vessel. Both creations were being transported atop substantial bamboo frameworks carried on the shoulders of at least 100 men in black and white checkered sarongs and traditional Balinese turbans. As the convoy of family members, locally concerned citizens, and incongruous tourists in tank tops and short shorts (this writer was to some extent more appropriately dressed for an impromptu funeral) made its way to the public Palabon (royal cremation) site, a marching gamelan orchestra gonged along, changing tempos as the route altered. As the throng went uphill or around a corner, the gonging got louder and faster. I discovered afterwards that the increase in tempo and momentary bursts of running or sudden shifting from left to right- all while carrying the giant structures- was an attempt to confuse the evil Balinese demons which are also conveniently deceived by corners; hence the customary wall immediately past the entrance to many Balinese complexes.

Example of Immediate Wall After the Entrance

The Gamelan Gongs Following the Bade...Around a Corner

Once the mob of spectators reached the temple, a set of bamboo stairs was brought over to the newly stationary funerary tower. Porters transferred the corpse from the highest level of the bade to the hollow bull below. Again, the gamelan rhythm increased in intensity as the anticipation of moving the body augmented. Those bearing the recently departed (well, 2 weeks ago departed) under the cover of brightly colored parasols, laughed jovially as camera-wielding tourist snapped away (I’ll plead the Fifth as to whether or not I partook in similar imprudent actions). The body was placed in the bull sarcophagus, feet facing southward so as to walk in the direction of the dead, followed unceremoniously by the departed’s last effects in an unremarkable white plastic bag. Family members walked counterclockwise (the dead always to the left) around the tomb 3 times carrying offerings and a garlanded photo of the deceased as a sign of respect. Female relatives in sarongs and matching emerald green lace tops and silk sashes waited patiently nearby, impressively balancing ornate offerings of fruit, flowers and palm leaves on their heads as priests whispered holy mantra beseeching a safe journey of the soul. The bundled offerings would eventually be relinquished in a seemingly unmethodically manner at the base of the funeral pyre. According to Balinese Hindu belief, the final rites must be carried out quite meticulously otherwise the spirit of the dead could remain a ghost, unable to join his/her ancestors. Tradition also dictates that after the soul ascends into heaven (following cremation) it is eventually reincarnated in another being, usually a future family member, in a never ending life cycle.

Towering Bade on Bamboo Frame

Moving the Body from the Bade

Transferring the Body to the Bull

Carrying the Offerings to the Pyre

A light rain began to mist the funerary backdrop and soon hard drops pelted down. Those dogged enough to witness this unique experience in its entirety huddled under the nearby roof protecting the gong and gamelan ensemble from the natural elements. Family members lit incense and approached the raised bull facing regally towards the North. All at once the previously majestic bull went up in flames, smoke and ash spiraling from all conceivable directions. In order to ensure a speedy cremation, high-powered gasoline pumps were vigorously pushed towards the bull’s underside and the scent of benzene mixed with burnt hair quickly permeated the vicinity. Within minutes the bull’s stomach collapsed and a charred foot dropped out, exposing the skeletal remains. Another result of being immersed in a new culture for 2 years is the capability to observe a cultural event objectively; whereas this might have been a disturbing image prior to Peace Corps life, I was able to watch the scene without feelings of queasiness. That being said, I’m opting not to get into the gory details of the sounds, sights and smells of frying fat, charcoaled bones and roasting flesh. It’s enough to say that the flames bursting from all sides of the imperial bovine pyre were a sure sign of the soul’s inevitable liberation.

Lighting the Incense

Approaching the Bull

And the Liberation Begins

Despite the seemingly somber act of saying goodbye to a loved one, relatives and onlookers alike seemed quite good-humored during the event. After all, the cremation represented the successful execution of a most sacred responsibility: releasing the soul from its earthly body to continue its journey into heaven and beyond.

High-Powered Hoses

After the hours-long process fizzled to an end, the thing that stuck with me the most was the shifting blend of mysticism and modernity. Gasoline pipes instead of traditional wood to feed the fire. Shorter bade than in years past due to the abundance of electrical cables lining the streets. Traditional lace tops and Balinese sarongs next to t-shirts and sunglasses. Incense and cigarette smoke blending together as relatives say their final goodbyes. One can only speculate as to the effects our ever globalizing world will have on the future of Balinese cremation rituals as technology, ostentatious displays and the concept of “quicker is better” become increasingly ubiquitous around the world.

And on that note, so concludes my time in Bali. Next stop: Lombok and Gili Trawangan!