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!

PART I: seasons greetings from the top of bali

I haven’t done an especially great job blogging about my travels outside of Java, but seeing as the prospect of gallivanting around the world was a significant part of why I initially joined Peace Corps, I feel that it’s important to integrate my travel anecdotes into the increasingly uninteresting tales of life at site. Traveling from island to island offers new and wonderful (well, most of the time wonderful) experiences abroad, and I’ve therefore been inspired in Indonesia in ways I never anticipated. This past school holiday I was fortunate enough to travel around Bali-Lombok area for about 2 weeks where I was able to meet up with an old friend from home as well as a few of my favorite PC comrades. And thus begins PART I of my most recent journey…

I’m proud to be a Colorado girl. Born and raised in a state that takes unpretentious gratification in its colorful outdoors and being active year round regardless of the season. So when the prospect of climbing Gunung Agung, the highest peak in Bali, presented itself (even though it’s the rainy season), I was completely onboard. What better place than Bali to hike my first volcano and who better to do it with than a friend visiting from my beloved home state?

Eagerly anticipating the 2 am sunrise hike, we went to bed early- headlamps, warm clothes and provisions neatly tucked away in our backpacks. Our guide picked us up a few hours later and we were soon on our way to the sanctified site. Due to the impenetrable cloud cover coupled with a new moon, this most sacred mountain was completely imperceptible; had it not been for the immediate burning in my calves as we began the alleged 3-hour trek up, I may not have believed that we were actually at the base. Gunung Agung is considered the most holy mountain in Bali, which is the only predominantly Hindu area in all of Southeast Asia. A mere 5 minutes into our ascent and our mandatory guide stopped at the undetectable temple to make the first of 3 periodic offerings to the Hindu gods. Incense-and-floral-infused-banana leaf-basket offered, we continued, knowing that the spirits were on our side. It was a tough hike up, especially in the dark. But the benefit to starting so early was that we didn’t have to see the near perpendicular, jagged terrain we would be climbing. Had I been aware of the sheer incline, I may have been more hesitant to continue. But then again, probably not.

A few hours later we paused again to hydrate and make the second woven leaf offering. Above the cloud barrier the stars were unbelievably clear. No light pollution and just the 3 of us on this divine mass. It was an unbelievable feeling; so removed from the chaos of my Javanese urban village. The mountain, still shrouded in pre-dawn darkness, deceptively gave the illusion that we were almost to the top. But as the first light began to illuminate the rice paddied landscape thousands of meters below, our guide informed us that we still had a very vertical climb above the tree line ahead of us. The obscure trail completely disappeared and we were forced to keep up with our mountain goat guide using our hands and shaky foot holds as he seemingly trotted up the mountain without the slightest hint of fatigue.

But we made it! And with only minor aches and signs of weariness as a result of the arduous climb up. We savored our dry bread and hard boiled egg breakfast as we rested at the crater and tried to catch intermittent glimpses of the scenery below as green fields and coastline fleeted in and out of the clouds. We missed sunrise from the top, but I’m not sure we would’ve had the best view anyway. At the peak we were in a deep fog, but it still felt amazing to be at the top of the Balinese world.

Rockin' my School's Neon Sport Uniform at the Top of Gunung Agung with the Fabulous Ashley Gamble

View Into the Crater

Last Offering Overlooking the Crater

After our final incense offering, we embarked on the downward voyage. One look down and I was suddenly struck with bewilderment as to how we managed to maneuver our way up in the first place. I was completely perplexed as to how we were going to get back down. Our guide, however, had no intention of analyzing the most secure route of descent, and once again trotted down the steep rock as I ungracefully slid my way down failing to keep pace. Several bumps, bruises, scratches and shaky muscles later, we still hadn’t made it to the tree line. I looked desperately to my friend who, despite saying that she was also in pain, was keeping fair stride with our guide. “Please call Peace Corps and have them medevac me off the mountain. My legs don’t seem to work anymore, so I think I’ll just stay here.” Where was my Colorado mentality now that I needed it most? The next 5 hours were full of similar sentiments and I cursed my initial enthusiasm for hiking this ridiculously steep mass of volcanic rock. If lava would only start to steadily stream out so I could float atop a hefty shard of rock over the seemingly infinite vastness to the microscopic temple below! Anything would be preferable to trying to use my legs…even luging down scorching molten rock.

Our Guide Getting Ready to Trot Down the Rugged Rock Face

What we Climbed Up. Then Down.

Again, we persevered and somehow endured the drawn out descent. As we walked past the now visible temple, worshipers steadily started to pour out of the ancient structure and glide by me in unimpressive sandals while simultaneously balancing oversized baskets on their heads. I felt completely incompetent at that point and in my state of hostility, vowed that I would never attempt to hike another volcano again. Those feelings have since faded, but at that point in time, the promise was made in all sincerity. I think I just needed a bit more time for the pain to fade in my memory and for the bliss of being back on a mountain to overshadow the resentful recollections of ineptly tumbling down my first volcano.

Beautiful Balinese Girls at the Temple

Balinese Balancing

We spent the remainder of our time in the Agung area recovering in the remote little village of Sideman. We spent the afternoons walking through terraced rice fields sprinkled with tiny Hindu shrines permeated with the scent of strawberry incense and interacting with the local weaving community. Hand-woven shawls and sarongs start upwards from $100 for just 2 meters of the uniquely patterned cloth, and go into the thousands as the design gets more elaborate. Most pieces take months to weave using the wooden hand looms and are then exported and sold to wealthy foreigners abroad. It was incredible to see how quickly and flawlessly these women worked as they explained the process to us.

Weaving and Talking

Weaving in Sideman Village

*And thus concludes the first part of my Balinese-Lombokian adventure. Stay tuned for future tales of Christmas, New Years, and near death at the waterfalls*

Thanksgivings Abroad: First Love and New Loves

November 29, 2011

I’ve had my fair share of Thanksgivings abroad, but being away for the holidays is still one of the most difficult parts of living in a different country. It’s never an easy time to spend away from family, crisp autumn weather and Mom’s homemade pies, but I must admit that I’ve had some rather fortunate experiences overseas throughout the years.

Regensburg: My first Turkey Day away and I somehow got finagled into making a thank you speech on behalf of our study abroad group (in my less than stellar German) at our host university’s annual English Department Thanksgiving dinner. With some encouragement from my Gastfamilie and a much needed glass of wine, I stepped up to the microphone with shaky hands, and successfully spoke of tradition and the concept of hand turkeys. Not much else from that night stands out besides spending an excessive amount of time mashing potatoes prior to the event and going out for a time-honored German beer afterwards- the latter of which led to a most auspicious introduction…

In an attempt to welcome the new Amis to Deutschland, a few former German study abroad students invited the Americans out after our overindulgence in turkey and pie. My girlfriends and I couldn’t stop whispering about how attractive ‘the blonde one’ was, and after an evening of intercultural sharing with our newfound friends, I was completely twitterpated when he asked for my phone number. I didn’t know then, but that would be the story of how I met my first real love. I was sure that no other Thanksgiving abroad could top that magical evening, but then Thanksgiving 2011 unexpectedly stumbled into my life.

Mojokerto: More than 5 years later and I still manage to get beckoned to the microphone to give some semblance of a public proclamation in a foreign language. Somehow my impromptu thank you speech (yup, my hands still shake when I hold a microphone, even after all these years of practice) turned into a public forum on why I should marry the Village Head- after all, our babies would be the most beautiful in all the Mojokerto Land. But the most memorable part of this fourth Thursday in November will forever be the public acknowledgement of Bu S and Bu E’s hard work. Our proposal, PowerPoint, and heartfelt speech won over the visiting mayor who was eager to support and discuss future plans for our English Kids Camp volunteer program.

The Mayor with the Mic, Village Head Looking Down

Shortly afterwards, still soaring on a natural high from our success, I headed off on the multi-transit bus ride to the big city. I was eager to reunite with PC friends with whom I’d partake in service events followed by Thanksgiving dinner at the Consulate General’s the next day. We celebrated our first night together by going out to the highly anticipated new Twilight flick. It was a much needed, albeit not necessarily anticipated, evening of in-theater laughing and new group bonding. The night ended with a giant slumber party….

…then started again at 1 in the morning with horrific stomach pains which, in my delusional dream state, led me to consider that I was experiencing sympathy pains for Bella’s semi-vampire pregnancy. I was confined to my bed for the rest of the morning, missing out on the first volunteer event, but was determined to participate in the second. In the interim period I was graced by visits from new and old volunteers alike, each bearing get well wishes and one special ginger infused dark chocolate bar.

Inspired by my friends’ compassion, I stumbled into the shower and managed to get dressed in time to go to the second service event at a local Islamic orphanage. Again, the renowned hand turkeys made their way into our cross-cultural lesson and we spent the afternoon with Mr. Sketch markers drawing on the floor. Unfortunately tracing hands exhausted the remainder of my reserves. Feeling completely incapacitated, I thought it best to stay behind and pass on the much talked-about Thanksgiving dinner…not an easy decision to make.

Very Creative Hand-Foot Turkey

Despite feeling completely debilitated for a majority of the day, this was one of my most special Thanksgivings in recent memory. I realized how strong the intrinsic bond is among the members of PC-Indonesia. I barely know the new group, but that didn’t stop Southern Dan from getting my medicine, Cody S. from bringing me chocolate and Thanksgiving leftovers, Brianna from tirelessly offering saltines, carrots, and an abundance of other treats from her Mary Poppins-like goodie bag, or Taylor and Erin from being my comical entertainment for the evening. It goes without saying that the 19 people I originally came to Indo with are like my family, but I’ve finally come to realize that our keluarga is growing, and will continue to grow as each new generation accepts their invitations to serve in Indonesia.

November 2011 has not been ideal for me health wise, but I will gladly sacrifice a few days of feeling fit in order to recognize how lucky I am to be a part of Peace Corps Indonesia. Although my blonde-haired German and I have gradually drifted out of each others’ lives, he will forever hold a special place in my heart. After this long weekend among friends, I know, without a doubt, that so will the people I’ve connected with on this distant little island of Java. Instead of falling in love with one person, I’ve fallen in love with several individuals who have fortuitously been placed in my life. From my counterparts at site, to my new PCV family, I couldn’t have asked for a better support group to be surrounded with in this long 27 months abroad. And that is what I’m most thankful for this year.

And after a great deal of analysis, I’ve come up with an exact formula for a perfect Thanksgiving abroad:

Tremblingly Holding a Microphone + Hand Turkeys + Falling in Love

a few random thoughts from a few random days

November 15, 2011

I’m Turning Javanese, I Think I’m Turning Javanese, I Really Think So...

Throughout my time in Indonesia I’ve been told that I’m destined to marry a man with facial hair (because I didn’t sweep the floor properly), that my future fiancé will leave me before our wedding (because I’ve eaten standing up in a doorway) and that I’ve been at constant threat of a genie inhabiting my body and mind (due to my natural proclivity to daydream). Apparently becoming dispossessed is a fairly strenuous process, so lately I’ve been trying to not let my mind drift off to lands of bacon cheeseburgers and margaritas.

The list of Javanese superstitions is endless, varying from province to province, and even village to village. I’m not sure which to believe (actually, as of now, I don’t believe any), but I regularly try to appease whatever company I’m in by complying with his or her innate convictions- I sweep more meticulously, step out of the doorway and sit down to eat, and try to keep my mind focused on the present. Like a good number of superstitions from around the world, I have a strong inkling that these originated as an attempt to cultivate proper behavior in young ladies by threatening what a Javanese woman should value most: potential matrimony and piousness.

In any case, it appears that my future has been decided for me. All I need to do is sit back and wait for a mustached man to leave me at the altar.

A few more amusing Javanese beliefs:

· Massage cures almost any ailment from a simple cough to serious motorcycle injuries

· Firmly rubbing the edge of a coin on one’s back until it leaves long red streaks is a sure way rid the body of masuk angin. Masuk angin, literally meaning ‘entering wind’, is caused by any number of unwise scenarios: lying on a cool floor when it’s hot out, sleeping with the fan on, drinking a beverage with ice in it…the list goes on and on. Needless to say, neither I nor any westerner I’ve met thus far have ever suffered from this condition.

· The existence of pocong, Javanese ghosts whose hands are fastened across their waists, with burial robes bunched and tied atop their heads, and who hop from place to place on account of their bound feet. Everyone in my village is consequently inclined to cross to the other side of the street when walking past the cemetery - day or night - and cautious to leave one’s house after Maghrib.

For the duration of my time here I’ve adamantly disputed the existence of pocong and masuk angin, but last week my whole skeptic belief system was shaken to the core; sorry, no ghost stories yet. I did, however, wake up in the middle of the night, head spinning as if I had been twirling in circles for days. My stomach was turning too, and in a state of midnight disorientation I convinced myself that I had just dreamt that I was on a rollercoaster and that by opening my eyes and turning on the lights I could clear the whirling in my head. As soon as I stood up, I suffered from extreme vertigo and was instantaneously crippled to a half kneeling position, crouched over, and incapable of moving for fear my brain might fall out. Sweat saturated my clothes as it surged from every pore. Spinning and sweating out of control, I somehow managed to find a semi-tolerable position lying on my cool tile floor (a closer option than my bed 8 inches away), occasionally drifting in and out of a dizzy sleep until I heard the morning call to prayer. One way or another I made it up into my bed where I stayed, impaired by feelings of faintness and queasiness, for the remainder of the day. As I lay imprisoned in my mosquito net-enclosed bed, a result of my own ineptitude, my mind raced through all of the plausible causes that could have possibly led to my current state. Nothing quite fit my symptoms except for the mythical masuk angin. I assure you that I didn’t get it from sleeping with the fan on or by eating ice cream, but my host mother did suggest that it could be a possible result of exhaustion from spreading myself too thin over the past couple of weeks. That, I can accept as true.

Although I’m not quite ready to believe in hopping ghosts or my bearded betrothed abandoning me due to my improper sweeping technique, I am willing to concede that there is such an ailment as masuk angin, and that the reason I momentarily suffered from this medical condition was because I’ve adapted so much to the Javanese way of life. This incident, coupled with my increasing plumpness, ‘darkening’ skin, and limited, yet improving, aptitude for the Javanese language, has warranted several remarks akin to ‘Mbak Maggie menjadi orang jawa- Maggie is turning Javanese.’

*************

November 17, 2011

As the sweltering heat transforms into thunderous rainclouds, my students are more intrigued than ever to know what my favorite season is. When asked, I automatically gush about winter and rave about all its wonderful qualities: snowboarding, family holidays, snow days, hot chocolate, snuggling in warm blankets, rosy cheeks, snowflakes on eyelashes...I can go on for awhile. All of which, however, are completely lost on my kids- those are scenes from a make believe land, not real life. They’d rather know which I prefer: the rainy season or the hot season. In addition to the fact that I’m already missing out on changing leaves and sledding in knee-high deep snow, neither of Indonesia’s seasons is extraordinarily appealing. This is a less than compelling debate for me to participate in. Nevertheless, my Type-A American self made a list of pros and cons for each season:

SEASON	PROS	CONS
RAINY	· Much cooler temperatures · Misty mornings · Legendary thunder storms · More likely to see my mountain in the mornings · Occasionally wearing a long sleeve shirt to ward off a potential chill · None of the dry season cons	· Every conceivable nook and cranny becomes a squalid breeding ground for flies and other disagreeable winged creatures · Flooding · Molding everything · Taking cold bucket baths on chilly mornings · Difficult to ride bike/walk on muddy ‘roads’ · Laundry in a perpetual state of dampness between the afternoon downpours and continuous cloud cover
DRY	· Clothes dry in one afternoon · Greater appreciation for the occasional cool morning (until 6 am at the latest) · Cool bucket baths after a sweaty day of teaching · None of the rainy season cons	· Unbelievably high temperatures · Sweating profusely 24-hours a day · Droughts and dying crops/plants · Increase in disease-carrying mosquitoes

And some things remain constant year-round. I will always perspire, day or night, and wish for a fan; there will always be Dengue-ridden mosquitoes droning about; it will always be relentlessly humid. The levels of each of the aforementioned simply fluctuate as one season morphs into the other.

Even with my systematic table, I’m still not ready to commit to a preferred time of year. I usually give a rehearsed, culturally sensitive answer describing all the great things each season has to offer. In actuality, I long for Colorado’s ever-changing seasons and the nostalgic sentiments associated with each of them. I’m sure that when I finally am home and that first dry snowstorm hits, I will long for the hot, humid days of Indonesia. But for now, Colorado is perfectly preserved in my mind as the land of ideal, yet continuously changing, weather conditions.

**********

November 19, 2011

Most days I have nothing better to do than toil over my less than trivial dilemmas like which of Indonesia’s two seasons is less desirable. Then a situation arises which makes me feel extraordinarily guilty and selfish for wasting my days away contemplating such inconsequential foolishness.

One of my soon-to-be graduating senior girls is being forced to marry as soon as she finishes school in May. I know this happens here. It won’t change within my remaining 6 months in country. It will forever be one of my least favorite parts of my host culture. But it hits so much harder when it’s one of my own. A girl I’ve taught in class and mentored in English Club. A girl with whom I’ve choreographed aerobics routines, enthusiastically sung ‘Alice the Camel’ and ‘Five Little Monkeys’, and giggled wildly about my cultural faux pas. The real sting comes from the fact that, unlike a majority of my students, this girl comes from a family with money. While most of my kids do aspire to continue on with their education, financially, it’s just not an option. Neither situation seems fair to me, but the idea of a bright, monetarily well-off student’s dream to continue onto university being thwarted by her own parents simply on account of her gender is a difficult pill to swallow. I feel so helpless. Feelings of guilt once again rage through my head and heart. I’ll soon be back in my liberal by comparison homeland while archaic concepts of sex and gender continue to thrive here. I know they’re changing, but just not fast enough!! Should I be content that at least she wasn’t pulled out of school to marry a man ten years her senior like in so many stories I’ve heard from fellow volunteers? Why can’t the future of my student(s) be spared in this battle against conforming to tradition?

Idul Adha 2 and the Unrelenting Rain

The evening started with a stream of distraught tears from 7-year old Ryan (pronounced Ree-an). “We’re (sob) late, (sob) and I wanted (sob) to join Takbir!” It may have been the first sentiment of remorse for being late in Indonesia that I’ve witnessed over the past year and a half. Fortunately we could see the mob glowing paper lanterns just ahead, so Ryan hopped on the back of a neighbor’s motorcycle and sped off towards the candle-wielding parade of village children.

It seems almost surreal that I’ve been in my village long enough to have already been party to two Idul Adha. This second Takbir around I was still in awe at the toddlers- with their fumbled, exhausted steps- carrying their disproportionately sized flammable lanterns; all the while their older elementary-aged cohorts whizzing by, flame in hand, weaving in and out of the bewildered munchkins, trying to catch up with their mates from school. But fear not: should the littlest tykes feel too overwhelmed or fatigued to take even one more step, a concerned parent or neighbor would swoop in on their exhaust –generating motorcycle (scorching hot exhaust pipes at just the right height for 3 and 4-year olds to breathe in profuse amounts of fumes) and scoop their little one to safety. We’d never allow so many child safety hazards in America: open flames; overweight, splinter-ridden lanterns; scalding exhaust pipes; direct inhalation of harmful vapors. But here, it works. The kids had a blast, and I can honestly say that I enjoyed my nighttime, color-lantern lit stroll through the neighborhoods. Whereas last year there were unrelenting shouts of “bule/londo/tourist” through the entire event, this year I was excitedly addressed as Ms. Maggie by kids and parents alike. It felt like I was legitimately a part of this cultural evening rather than an outsider trying to sneak in.

The Glowing Lanterns of Takbir

Early the next morning (Sunday) I headed to school to partake in the other obligatory Idul Adha traditions: communal prayer followed by a symbolic slaying of cows/goats. The mist coated dawn was idyllic for preserving the cool temperature for the duration of the morning. And again, I realized how much I’ve become a part of this community and how comfortable I felt amongst my praying students. Although I didn’t actively join in the prayers, it was nice to be in the middle of such a spiritual setting.

Women In Back

The Men In Front

In Full Prayer Robes

Little Boys in Kopia

Divided for Communal Prayer

From Above

My X.5 Boys in Sarongs and Kopia

And once more, I was surprised at how accustomed I’ve become to situations that would have made me uneasy in the past. Sure, the sight of spurting blood coming from the neck of an animal that is still groaning in powerless distress wasn’t the most charming part of the day, but it was nonetheless amazing to be a part of this distinctive culture and finally understand the history and the ritual behind the occasion. This year I was close enough to the slaughter site to hear the uttered prayers of the surrounding executioners as they slit the throats of the sacrificial beasts; somehow that made it seem all the more pious. From the four cows at school I headed to my neighborhood mosque to observe the partition of 15 butchered goats + 1 cow (in accord with Muslim tradition, 1/3 is donated to the poor, 1/3 to family, and 1/3 to neighbors/friends) and enjoy a bite of ice cream with some of my English Camp girls who were not at all inclined to help handle the meat. On my way home for breakfast I stumbled across Bu Sari and friends working on the largest cow I’d seen by far. I was unsuccessful in my attempt to remain an innocent onlooker, and somehow ended up in the packaging assembly line. Luckily I was only in charge of opening the plastic bags and was not compelled to touch any raw cow parts. That brings my bystander total to 15 goats and 6 cows, all before 9 am. I felt that qualified as my daily cultural integration, and was much obliged to promptly go home and take a cold bucket bath.

The one negative (aside from the haunting images of cow heads being chopped off, layers of fat being stripped away, and pools of blood brimming over the edges of man made holes) was the abundance of flies that took up residence wherever there was even the slightest indication that uncooked cow had momentarily passed through. Naturally, the floor-level sink where my ibu washed the dirt and grass off the donated slabs of beef was swarming the next morning. Then, stepping outside the front door on my way to school, I was again greeted by an unpleasant buzz from the new the tenants. Fortuitously, however, a torrential shower of much needed rain poured (and still is pouring) down, challenging the longevity of those pesky little bugs.

A BRIEF HISTORY

In Islam, Idul Adha is considered the ’Day of Sacrifice’ and commemorates the Prophet Abraham’s compliance to sacrifice the life of his only son, Ishmael, for God. God spared Ishmael, replacing him instead with a sheep. Muslims today observe this event by slaughtering one or more animals and giving the meat to family, friends and the needy.

During this multi-day event, all Muslims perform the morning Eid prayer in a large congregation, either in an open space or at a mosque. Muslims in Indonesia who have adequate means then sacrifice a cow or goat, but in other countries it is often a camel, sheep or ram (animals which were present during Abraham’s test of loyalty), each symbolizing Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son. The sacrificed animals, called al-Qurban, must meet certain requirements in order to be considered acceptable to sacrifice. For example, a cow must be no younger than 2 years in order for it to be a satisfactory sacrificial candidate. Families that can not afford livestock often make a donation to the larger community who will then donate meat to the needy. After the killing, the meat is then carefully weighed and divided into three parts: one-third is kept by the family, one-third is given to relatives, friends and neighbors; and the one-third is donated to the poor in the community. In addition to the sacrificial slaughtering, community members continuously chant the Takbir before Eid prayer on the first day and then again after prayers throughout the remainder of Idul Adha. Both are considered indispensable acts on this momentous day for Muslims.

Takbir:

Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar

la ilaha ill Allahhu

Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar

wa li-illahil-hamdu

Allah is the Greatest, Allah is the Greatest, Allah is the Greatest,

There is no deity but Allah

Allah is the Greatest, Allah is the Greatest

and to Allah goes all praise

In an attempt to share my experience with those back home I took a myriad of photos, none of which do the day justice, yet still manage to give a glimpse into the holy day of sacrifice. WARNING: there are some graphic photos below, but the animals were all killed mercifully in accordance with Islamic law.

School Sacrifices

Draining the Blood to Help it Die More Quickly

Peeling Back the Layers

Did you Know a Cow's Stomach was That Huge?!?

Cow Hide, Basket of Intestines, and Tethered Bovine

Mosque Sacrifices

This is What 15 Slaughtered Goats Looks Like

Completely Intrigued by What the Big Boys are Doing

Not Wanting to Get Too Close

Ice Cream Girls

Neighborhood Sacrifice

Weighing Out the Meat to be Distributed

The Assembly Line

My Honorary Indonesian Nephew Doing What I'd Rather Be Doing: Making a Bridge