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.