Learning Indonesian

"Learning Indonesian" Photo Show: Seattle Coffee Works, 3-6pm, Friday, March 19

2010-03-17T01:29:00.000-07:00

I am so excited to announce my first photo project: “Learning Indonesian” is now on display at Seattle Coffee Works (1st & Pike) through May 2010!

Join in the fun and swing by a little reception this Friday, March 19, anytime between 3 – 6PM. Seattle Coffee Works will be pairing the luxurious flavors of freshly roasted, amazing Indonesian coffees with 16 photos. Hopefully the start of something good–I hope to see you!

Proceeds donated to fund a school & scholarships for 70 at-risk kids from the poorest families in Coreg, a village in West Java, Indonesia.

This & other good stuff at:

www.globalgiving.org

Saya mao pulang (Heading home...)

2009-10-14T15:00:00.000-07:00

I get up early, and have the quiet pool to myself. After a morning swim, I walk to breakfast. Rich and Luke, the Aussies, are already there. I greet them with my best lazy Australian. They cheer and toast to my improvement, as I pull up a chair. After general trash-talking and joking is completed, I point to Luke. He counts carefully to 5 in Indonesian. He asks me for the next 5 numbers -- gnom, tujour, delapan, semilan, sepuloo -- roll of my tongue so easily now as I watch him struggle. We work on greetings, Indonesian has two words for goodbye. Salamat Jalan is said by those staying to those leaving while Salamat Tinngal is said to those staying by those leaving.

I'm proud of Luke. He's taken a new interest in Indonesian and admits he should have done this much earlier. Rich wraps muscular arms around his chest and rolls his eyes. He confides they've been so focused on surfing they've not been out at night properly. To him the trip is a disaster, without a row of conquests to recount later. I laugh openly at his frustration - is that really all this is to you? I ask, unembarrassed.

I'm guy. He shrugs.

I don't think that's the problem. I think you're a bit shallow. (smile) Maybe if you took a little more of a personal interest, in Indonesia it'd take more personal interest in YOU!

Luke laughs. Rich stares at me. I stare back at him and laugh. Unmoved by his surfer-model physique and smoldering brown eyes that tell me he's used to having his way. It's like looking into a sandbox, I think. No depth. All walled off and unwilling. Then comes a shift.

It was cool to hear you speak Indonesian with the girls the other night....You say you picked that up in one trip? I've been here 8 times already. Had no idea what you were talking to them about.

I love it! No better time that to start here and now. Say satu. That's one in Indonesian. I'm getting the coffee, you guys want satu or dua. Rich, dua is two?

I walk over to the bartender and start chatting him up in comical Indonesian/Balinese multi-lingual mix while waiting on my cafe lattes, the best I've had since leaving Seattle one latte-free month ago...The bartender puts down the palm strip he's been bending into decorations for the big ceremony that night (the whole town is getting ready for it -- like Indonesian Christmas they smile at me). When he see me inspecting the palm leaf, he leaves my coffee to show me how to fold the slices of palm into a series of winged strips. We laugh as I get the hang of it and offer to take over production while he finishes his work for the morning. I toss the finished leaves to the man whose hanging them, in rows across the restaurant. When Rich and Luke pause in their counting practice, they look back and bust out laughing.

What the hell are you doing now, mate?! Rich roars.

Luke pays me the biggest compliment: Joya, you travel like no other American, like no one else I've met here! Like no one else, really...

It's funny to me because they have no idea I'm only now just figuring it out, making it all up as I go along, watching one thing, word, smile lead to the next. But I feel like this is the kind of travel I've always wanted to do but just was never sure enough of myself to know how to do it. But here it is. And it's working out beautifully! I bring the pile of palms to our table and I finish the decorations as we sip lattes, the guys chuckle and sit amazed at my stories of the last month (shopping, ceremonies, tooth filings, dinosaurs, scooters, small villages, snorkeling...). They tell me stories about rude Aussie tourists. Last night they'd had a close encounter with a brash friend of Rich's who put them to shame. Rich tells me how he ordered around the staff, demanded they run out and fetch him bug spray, rudely called out his sweet wife...

I smile at Rich. There it is. That's your wall coming down just a tad. It's good to hear this kind of talk from you.

He smirks and counts slowly to three, in Indonesian, it's a start we agree. You have to start somewhere.

Staff members stop by to say hello and goodbye (word has somehow spread that I'm leaving), they admire my palm weaving, ask when I'm coming back, and ask repeatedly if I require a Balinese boyfriend. Maybe I come back and to get married, ya?

Nanti, nanti. I sing back happily as we trade words. Rich, Luke and I talk of Costa Rica surf, Mexican food and the language. Luke promises me he actually will keep practicing Indonesian though Rich still rolls his eyes, yawns, and tells me a comical (but dirty) little fable about a Porshe driving mouse and a hippo, with a moral I cannot repeat (though I thought about it...).

I grab the last of my rupiah and head to the streets. I talk to a teen, Excel, and his sister in their tiny music store with one wall full of CDs. I tell them to pick out music I should listen to--traditional, modern, reggae, all things Indonesian--as they pick them out and play songs for me, we talk of politics, drugs, Obama and dentistry. I buy 14 (likely illegally) ripped CD's for $10. I buy silk scarves and seashell necklaces for friends and family. I take some last photos of the tougher-Kuta street crowds and hoards of 80's dressed Aussies (with their mullets and neon). I pack my bags and pay the bill. Bowing and nodding goodbyes to staff and pool-side Aussies on my way out.

I drive through the hot streets of Kuta in a cool air-conditioned taxi. Incredibly exhausted beyond belief, but walking through the airport now -- 4 weeks later -- I can't believe how at east I feel. I now hear numbers and words in the Indonesian broadcasts. I confidently smile and communicate with stunned staff, while familiar gamelon trickles and crashes from glossy souvenir stores -- reminding me of burning incense and kneeling for hours on rough cement in the hot Bali sun. Matahari.

I see the palm bag I've been looking for the entire trip as I'm just steps from the gate home. It's big enough for my lap top and things, sturdy and $10. The saleslady, a woman, my mother's age dressed in sarong and kabayah, and I chat in Indonesian. She laughs as I hastily dump my valuable possessions into the new bag, check the pockets of the black messenger bag I'd been carrying around for one last time -- straighten up to slowly hand it to her.

Can you use this? I ask quietly. I don't want to insult her by assuming some discarded trinket of mine would have value to her, but I also don't want to throw this away, maybe if she can't I can suggest she give it to a child.

I point to my new bag when she looks at me curiously. In Indonesian I piece somethign together: I go home with this one bag to always remind me of Bali. I already have one bag, this I can't use.

I hold my black bag to her. She takes it carefully.

I smile and nod. I thank her for taking it. I pick up my new little $10 palm bag.

Instead of being insulted, when she understands I really am giving it to her, she clutches it to her heart, with both arms. She smiles and bubbles like a child at Christmas. I'm overcome with the beauty and honest joy she takes in receiving my gift. This too is an art to practice: to be genuine, thankful. Her appreciative smile gives me more than I thought possible. She reaches for my hand and softly holds it to her heart as she blesses me, quietly. She tells me she is so happy, in Indonesian. She wishes me happiness, love, life.

Sama Sama. Sama Sama.(It's Balinese for "The same to you" but it rolls from the mouth of Balinese like syrup--quiet syllables smoothed into the other, sounding like the sweetest melody mixed with something intangible, something almost holy, some greater, peaceful feeling I know only from visiting the remote temples of Bali...) It's all I can say, over and over. I am so overwhelmed, so warmed with her profuse, intense, sincere gratitude.

We bow, hands together. No longer strangers.

Salamat Jalan, she says.

Salamat Tinngal. I reply.

Then I whisper the Balinese special goodbye to her, which means and feels like something much more beautiful and soothing when spoken softly, with familiarity. A familiarity I've finally gained as it slips from my lips: Ohm santi santi santi ohm...

As I walk to my flight, I catch her reflection in a mirror, running and laughing as she tell her friend. I clutch my new palm Bali bag and smile.

I'm not sure what's next. I know some of it will be immensely good, I know some of it will seem insurmountable and difficult. But I'm not afraid. I'll just do the best I can when I get there. Try to embrace both the turquoise shallows and the murky depths. Both have such value. I will try to make it up--more often--as I go along, figuring it out as I round the corner to the next word, the next smile, the next tear, the next fall, the next climb, the next view, the next phase. I think as long as I see it this way, as long as I live life in this way, as long as I give this way -- give more than I take-- as long as I can receive the warmth of others this way, as long as I always push myself to connect with those in my life -- really connect, in new, fascinating, vulnerable, exciting ways --the good and the bad and the utterly chaotic that will surely come, over and over in my life, will never have to stop being this amazing. Wherever I go, whoever I'm with, whatever I do.

It's exciting. I'm starting to see new ways I can keep going this way: growing, evolving, changing, traveling, learning, helping, struggling, loving, smiling, laughing, being...

Aku cinta kamu, sampai jumpa nanti (I love you...see you later)

2009-10-13T23:59:00.000-07:00

By 2pm in the afternoon on Tuesday, I'm on my own again, quietly counting down my final 24 hours before I also fly home (Karmarin tamon pulong. Satu hari, saya mau pulong d'America.) and put my increasing Indonesian fluency to rest. I wrap up errands, I write last thoughts, I think of how I want to remember this trip. I miss Jo and Christine's conversations, laughter and joking. I miss sharing the days "adventures" with someone else...And I LOVE that I'm missing that. I love that I can be alone now, if only to fully appreciate the warmth and wonderfulness of their company from a new perspective. In acknowledging their absence, I know I've connected with them, and that makes me feel happily human.

I lay on my hotel bed, in air conditioned silence, flipping through the days of one month of Indonesian memories, experiences, adventures, tastes, good times, frustrations, challenges, and smiles of lessons learned. I just want to stop today and remember this, understand it, dive deep into what it is I want to incorporate into my day-to-day life d'America, after this trip.

I want to always remember my openess, my quiet strength to just accept what is and take what comes -- as it comes -- savoring both the good and the bad and learning fully from each experience. I want to always remember to be open to the people around me and not be afraid to chart new paths to unknown things. I want to make mistakes, learn, grow, and start over. I want to give those in my life the same freedom...and encouragement. I want to pursue new things that make my heart pound wildly, I want to put more good into the world. A domino effect of good things; started with a single smile, a kind word, an unguarded mistake.

I'm sincerely blown away by the people I have met on this trip. Their honesty, kindness, openess and willingness to connect with me, my camera, my life. Even now as I write, I can't sit outside, alone, because suddenly -- literally -- overnight, I find myself friends with all its occupants: the Hawaiians, the Aussie surfers and their families, the Balinese staff who eagerly test my Indonesian on every occasion. Within five minutes of sitting on the deck of my room, I draw a crowd of 10 Balinese hotel staff, then look up to see the construction workers next door have stopped hammering to listen to my faulty banter. Tossing out laughs and corrections and encouragement. When I ask, they tell me it is very rare to hear a tourist speak Indonesian, a few have never even seen it done. It makes me a little sad, ashamed of my tourist roots. This is how we, the majority, experience the world -- expecting others to do the work for us, to learn our language, to observe our customs and culture so we can feel at home in their country. It's not just Bali, it repeats in Mexico, Costa Rica...I wonder if it's not just tourism, but how our society lives. I wonder if it's how I live? Expecting others in my life to understand me, before I understand where they are coming from first. I promise myself to go home and practice this more.

How amazing to see this from the inside.

The phone rings. It's Mark, the Chicago transplant turned Hawaiian. I think about my plans to rent a scooter and solo it out to Uluwatu for a last quiet night of reflection...but have a feeling the phone ringing now is a sign I shouldn't. I pick it up. They're watching the sunset from their top floor room balcony, drinking Bintang, do I want to join?

I laugh. I've not even tried Bintang (the local $2 beer) since arrival. Keeping my promise to myself to not drink while traveling alone in the third world. My homage to the travel gods to keep me safe. It's worked so far. Tsunamis, earthquakes, bombings, flooding, fires, car crashes, rabis deaths, attacks, murder of a single Japanese tourist girl are all things I hear but never touch me on my travels.

30 minutes later I'm sitting on the tiled balcony railing, in the least-dirty shirt I own, chlorine-sundried curly hair looped back in a bandana, mountain bike scared knees, sun-burnt cheeks and chapstick-smile.

They're tanned, muscled, goofy and full of stories. They've been friends since they were kids. Mike talks about now teaching school in Hawaii. His jokes about being a hard-ass give way to sensitive insights and a teacher's passion to see all children succeed even as they face increasing number of ice-addicted parents, populations ravaged by poverty, tug of war between resentment and adoration from locals of their white Hawaiian counterparts. I feel a tug to take my camera there, someday. I've always loved Hawaii. It was where I learned to surf.

Under the surfer-brah act, they're older than me and see things I don't. They're unilaterally, unabashedly impressed that I came here for the first time, alone. Have since made friends and speak the language. Another round of ice-cold Bintangs are ordered up and I revel in their adoration, encouragement and cold beer. We talk of bikes, snowboards, Baker (always Baker...;), and surfing. I can't get enough of surfing. I love when they start talking of spots and I actually know some of them from my Hawaii wanderings, years before. I'm invited to stay and surf Bali with them, they leave for the other islands on a charted boat in the morning.

For 20 glorious minutes I contemplate what it would take to extend my trip and head to Nusa Perdida, Lombok and beyond. It's where I've been dying to go since I took up the trip. Mike says he knows enough people in Bali to work out the visa paperwork (smile). But I know it's not the right time for me. There's something tugging me homeward. Something I need to do there before setting sail on the next trip. I just have no idea what it is. I don't say no, I say Belum. Not yet. I know I'll be coming back to surf the endless, turquoise waves. This has just been the beginning.

Another round of Bintang as we listen to reggae. Mark's a music producer and owns a recording studio on the island when he's not working at his parent's vacation home...the home he offers to me to stay for free if I make it to Hawaii. They like how I travel and live these days -- they all promise to take me out surfing Hawaii style, show me the ropes from the inside out as we practice our pigeon. (Dakine.) It's like finding out you have three older brothers, I laugh, as I promise to take them up on the offer.

The other Mark is a fishing captain, smart as hell, muscled arms as big as my head and an easy-going attitude reminds me instantly of big Steve B in both look and demeanor. By the end of the night, as we talk about traveling alone as a woman, the fisherman two times bigger than me teaches me basic self-defense tactics and divulges vulnerabilities for my future travels.

Between smokes, Mike tells amazing-hilarious-scary stories of his first travels to remove Philipines islands to visit his diplomat father....but mostly to surf. Stomach turning stories of eating dog, turn to his travels to Indonesia, his latest quest to find the woman who got away three years prior. He's realized some things, he says as he inhales and smiles. I curious what they are but don't ask him what things. It seems like those things you have to come to on your own, over time. Instead he tells me her name, Lilius.

It's beautiful, I tell him.

They dated off and on and then lost touch last year. He went to her house two days ago only to learn she'd taken a job on another island, her family had moved too, no one knew how to reach her now. He'd tried talking to everyone. No luck.

Then when he'd given up. She called him. The word of his search had spread across islands. His smile is huge when the guys tease him. He tells the story how he took her out to dinner once. She was starving and wolfs down a ceasar salad. She's Muslim and doesn't eat pork. He watch her curiously to see if she'd realize there were bacon bits all over her salad. Instead she loves it. He laughs and doesn't have the heart to tell her as she orders another on their every visit.

The cigarette in his mouth burns intensely in the black night. Then an exhale. It's one of those things I'll tell her when we're 60 or something.

I love the simple, beautiful way he talks about the two of them together at 60. He talks of taking her back to Hawaii when her contract with her new job is finished. We'll figure it out. It's a good thing. Life, love and travel -- it's not a real adventure until something goes wrong.

I smile. At some point, life - and its struggles -- do seem to become too beautiful not to share. It's not that they're perfect or that they've finally figured it all out. I'm realizing, at least for me, it is what it is and the beauty is figuring it out as you go along. It's the chorus to the travel hymn, I've been humming to myself on this trip. I drink my Bintang as bats circle the pool and deserted beach chairs and Aussies stumble to bed.

I teach him how to say "Aku cinta camu, Lilius." (I love you!).

They'll be gone sailing by the time I get up in the morning. It's hard to leave. They each hug me and kiss my cheek. They tell me to keep going, keep doing what I'm doing. I tell Mike to find Lilius and give her a big hug. I tell them to catch some waves for me and I know I'll see them soon.

As I close their door and walk to my room, I know I will. It's funny when you let yourself be lost, let yourself drift, let yourself live in the moment and stop trying...how you're suddenly drawn to new, beautiful places.

Capek deh & Kuta... (Indonesian slang & Kuta)

2009-10-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

It's hard to leave sleepy, small Amed...and my fabulous-fun-time scooter rides. Bags are packed up once more. We say our goodbyes (and at their request, take final pictures to make our pretend "husbands" at home jealous...;) to our exceptionally flirty Balinese hosts, who - even in their tireless quest for female attentions -- are just as devout in their religious duties; visiting the temples until late in the day, dropping off breakfast with jokes and fanfare only to return later to say quiet prayers as they seriously pile fresh offerings on our room's shrine...much to my genuine surprise.

We pile into the van of friend of one of the Bali boys. He apologizes as he quickly stops 30 minutes later, to swing by a friend's house on our way. Tidak apa apa! (It's no problem) we laugh and sit back for a long drive south. Despite surviving Bali driving as a passenger and a driver for the last three weeks, this guy puts all our nerves to the test.

We race between scooters and truck caravans. Careening through stop lights and passing on corners, uphill, and repeatedly coming within inches of destruction, all while he laughs and signs off-key to Indonesian punk-rock.When we both spot the "Rancid" sweatshirt, we laugh. We practice Indonesian -- he teaches us slang. He teaches us to say "Capek deh" (sounds like chop-it deh) to taxi requests and just general frustration in general but it's difficult to get an exact translation on what it means exactly. When traffic slows to a halt, he shouts, Capek deh!

In the increasing hot day and I start to doze in the front seat. We lazily start a "from the moving car" bad-photos-for-the-heck-of-it shoot of streetside randomness of driving three hours across the island. We leave the parched, desert-like east and head through lush, rice fields and mountains again. Cars, trucks piled high, moto-bikes speeding by, and people working, carrying massive loads stream by. Driving is a colorful collage, constantly changing. I can feel the trip winding down in my aching head and muscles. I'm tired, honestly, thoroughly tired. I've learned a new language, made new friends, I've traveled, worked, written, photographed. I've celebrated, eaten, laughed, cried. I've swam, driven, walked, dived. In every instance of every moment, I have tried my best to push myself a little further to new levels. The last few weeks have been infinitely beautiful, challenging and I've learned some unforgettable things about myself, others, and this lovely world. I laugh at myself. Maybe it's ok to just be tired now. Maybe it's ok to not push for a little while. I close my eyes and free my body to sway in time with the crazy, speeding van. Indonesian punk rock changes, surprisingly, to a worn Cold Play tape?! I guiltily force myself to admit as cheezy as I think they are, I like the words to the song, in fact it somewhat fits the dramatic scenery, the vibrant people flying by, the thoughts in my head, the day's journey:

Give me time, give me space
Give me real, don't give me fake
Give me strength, reserve, control
Give me heart and give me soul
..............
Open up your eyes
But give me love over this

Kuta was the last minute, we-just-need-somewhere-easy-to-stay-close-to-the-airport-before-flying-out-because-we're-too-tired-to-think-or-make-any-other-decisions kind of decision. Despite numerous warnings to not stay in Kuta, whatever you do, don't stay in Kuta...we do it anyway. It's just easy. But when we arrive to a polluted beach town, streets and walkways choked with noisy traffic and hoards of pale tourists sporting bad tans and worse silicon enhancements with equally bad manners -- after the peaceful, beach days in Amed we are all shocked and a little sad. The only redeeming factor here is our air conditioned hotel room and the swimming pool. At the pool, after I've had enough of the kids splashing, I run and cannonball into the deep end (that'll show them!). When I come up for air, I get a "Good on ya" from Rich, the tanned, buff Aussie surfer lounging in the corner. We chat about surfing and Indonesia. He's been to Indonesia 8 times. I'm impressed. I ask where he's been, in between gulps of water that I immaturely spit out, impersonating a fountain.

He waves his hand around the pool, Kuta. Oh and I've been up to Semiyak. He adds.

I choke on a gulp of water as I laugh and have to dive underwater to save face.

Oh....Really?! (Semiyak is a few miles north of drunken, flashy Kuta. The guide book condescends to describe it as even MORE fake and MORE plastic than the parade of tanned, silicon, made-up throngs of Kuta party-goers). When I recount the story to Christine and Jo later, we get a good laugh. I'm a little relieved it's not just Americans who live sheltered travel lives.

Later we run into Rich and his friend Luke, surfboards in tow. I hang on their every word about the surf, but after watching a few power close-outs on the beach I'm so desperately tired (in every possible dimension) already that I make no effort to surf myself despite the huge desire. The guys think I'm crazy. But it's just not been that kind of trip...and I've had plenty of gorgeous surf trips to gloat over in my past. So I keep telling myself, I'll come back to Indonesia later, check out the other islands and surf, Christine and Jo and I have this idea of renting real motorcycles and touring the other islands next time.

As Rich and Luke talk, they're joined by two young looking girls, beautiful smiles but shy Indonesians who speak halting English. It gives me sick little stomach chills. Seeing these two everyday guys sporting what seems like an obvious third-world booty call. The girls are seem super sweet and kind. Ugh. I'm intensely intrigued by the whole interaction. Rich's self-absorbed and utter lack of personal interest in the girls--aside from the sexual--when he asks me for some of the slang I'd jokingly used to flip him off, earlier. I won't tell him. Instead, I greet them with Salamat Malam and we're off, making small talk in Indonesian. After growing comfortable with the really basic phrases and words in the past weeks, it's funny to think how foreign it sounds to the unfamiliar. But I think I see this register on Luke's face as his jaw drops lower and lower when both guys are forced into uncomprehending, awed silence.

Over dinner at a crowded, loud bar that plays comically tragic American hip hop (some refrain about "she was a white girl with a booooooty!") to drunk and smoking Australians--Christine, Jo and I laugh at the Aussies, the perpetual night-life parade that is Kuta lives up to every bad review we'd heard before arriving. Then we try to make the best of it. I realize I forgot my Indonesian dictionary and run back, through the chaotic Kuta night, to get it.As I watch the dizzying display of Aussie's gone wild against the backdrop of assimilated Indonesians -- I realize this too is part of the adventure. This too is part of what I need to experience, for some reason. I think about what it might be, what I want it to be.(This is the bad to balance out all the amazing good I've been handed this last month. Time to pay your dues, Hoya! I laugh even as I'm repulsed by the whole scene.) I realize that all of this is making me appreciate Amed and Ubud, my Indonesian lessons, midnight ceremonies, walks with Anni and Oka, silk sarongs, far off temples, smiles from strangers, spicy fish, front porch afternoons, joking with children, sharing new food and words with adults. I realize that I've been able to experience something many of these people will never know or see...maybe even never want to know or see. It's a little sad, but also makes it that much more special to me.

Over dinner we decide to make the most of it. At my request, Jo starts teaching me "Australian" as I work on my accent for the next day -- to the utter amusement of everyone listening, including our next door Aussie neighbor who tells me I sound a bit "pommy" (ie. British, which is bad...) when I ask him to "Git me a glass of watah, mate". By the end of the day--in between practicing Indonesian with increasingly impressed hotel staff--we have the pool-side Aussies stopping by to give us more slang, tips and words to practice. Christine and Jo's last 24 hours in Bali tick down to a stop as we swim, talk and drink the final mango juice cocktails of our trip together. I watch them leave and feel little pangs of sadness. But we all feel like we'll be traveling together again, it's just a matter of when. Not if.

I try to distract myself with work or writing. But I'm too tired to do either. So I walk through the sweaty-hot streets of Kuta, snapping shots and thinking a bit on things, life, and such.

Hadidah, Anak & Dinosaurs (Gifts, kids & dinosaurs...)

2009-10-11T11:31:00.000-07:00

Our two night stay in Amed has slowly rolled into four nights and it's time to start the journey south back to the airport. Our last night the power blows out over dinner, we monitor typhoon warnings from battery-powered laptops before going to bed, but wake, safe and sound, to another sunny day. I can hardly believe a month is almost over...

We start bright and early the next day, layering tank tops over sunscreen and bug spray. I want pictures of the little towns we've known and have yet to explore, Christine and Jo are both game. We head out of Amed, inland, pulling aside at a little market. It's a ruckus, chaotic mess of baskets, produce, goods and people--food of all sort, shapes and colors moved on the backs of sweating adults as children run in and out of corners. It becomes clear this is not a tourist attraction but a regular "real", much used Indonesian town market. Over my time here, I've made a habit of buying little things (more often than not, for no reason or necessity at all) from strangers. Instead, a $1 bottle of water or $.50 in noodles gives me an opening to talk to them, practice my faulty Indonesian, build a little trust and inevitably lead to some new experience and, hopefully, if I'm lucky, a photo or two later to remember the moment shared.

As we enter the market to curious looks and stares, I buy a handful snake-skinned salak from the woman surrounded by fruit after she peels and hands one to me to try. She tells me the Indonesian name, "Salak" but I laugh, and tell her "Saya sudha engat!" (I already know!). To the amusement of those in earshot, I name the fruits: pisang (banana), chabae (chilis),< buwon puti (garlic) buwon mera (red onion), oranges (jerop), rumbutan (...rumbutan), tomat (tomato), durian (ick--durian)...

I hand a couple colored pencils to the young girls standing, watching us. They laugh and giggle at my clumsy words and animated reactions as we chit chat about where we are from, how long we've been in Indonesia and so on. Christine and Jo are instant converts, and join in the small purchases & conversations. For the 1000th time, I appreciate my fabulous, good-natured travel company. We move to coffee and peanuts, incense and water. Buying a little here and there, I'm always careful to ignite a conversation, spark a smile, bow my head and wish the elders Salamat Pagi(good morning) to which they respond by looking at their clock and correcting me with a laugh: Salamat Cian(good late morning).

Saya lupa! (I forget!) We share a laugh, a photo. Each time I pull out a colored pencil, I'm floored by their genuine appreciation and the way the simple gesture opens up all kinds of interactions: from three year old girls, groups of young boys to an elderly lady with stained teeth, weaving palm baskets. By the time we leave the market, there's a chorus of goodbyes and well wishes.

We scooter on! I pull over for a shot of freshly harvested peanuts, drying in the sun, on blue tarps along the road. I look across the street at the group assembled in front of a tiny store and outdoor bbq and decide I need to buy water here.

Christine and Jo in tow, I head over and with them good late morning (Salamat Cian!)! The serious man in military garb (and holstered gun) looks at his watch and laughs, Salamat Pagi! He corrects me.

Saya lupa! (I forget!) We share a laugh and as Indonesian spills from my mouth, as we chat and talk about where I've come from, how I've come to speak Indonesian, and so on. I ask the woman cooking over a make-shift bbq what's roasting in the banana leaves -- Ikan. Fish. She invites me to try one.

I've been curious what the banana wrapped fish will taste like but haven't worked up to it during my time in Amed. But here I am! I nod excitedly. She points to it, Pedas Secali(Very Spicy!) 10:00 in the morning and I mentally prepare my stomach for spicy, hot fish...for an Indonesian to call something "very spicy" means this is probably going to be disasterously hot. I can tell they're excited for me to try this and I hate to disappoint. (Plus, as I look up, Christine has her camera quietly shooting the scene.) The men then motion for me to sit and join them. The military man and the one next to him make moves to offer me their seat on the bench. But I wave them off, I'm already sitting on the concrete step like the other two women in the group. In my attempt to put people at ease in front of me and my camera, I do everything I can to observe what's taking place and mimic it, to make as few touristy ripples, so I can (hopefully) pull my camera out with ease later.

The woman picks a charred banana packet from the line up (I smile nervously at Christine and Jo--who decline a fish bite) as another woman wraps and folds fresh green packets to take it's place. They unwrap it and place a bite of fish piled HIGH with the same green spices (I recognize from babi guling) and bits of chili peppers. Just the heat (penas!) of the meat off the bbq sears my hand -- they laugh as I blow on it to cool and then take a bite. My first bite I taste only a bit of fire and a bit of bone that the fish meat sits on. I take a second brave bite, avoiding the bone, and I yelp with the heat! PEDAS!!!! PEDAS SECALI!!! AY!!!!

I fan my mouth and they laugh, AIR! AIR! (Water! Water!) I shout! More laughter and I'm presented with Indonesian bottled iced tea. When I can breath again, I say it is delicious, I finish the spicy, spicy hot meat and smile. We chat, we laugh, and watch fish bbq. The wind blows. I point, Siwa! (God of wind) They then teach us the symbols for each three gods: Brahma (fire), Wisnu (water) and Siwa (wind). A man stops by to order 5 packets to go, I warn him, "Ini pedas secali, hati hati, ya?" (These are very spicy! Careful, yes?) They all laugh. We grab our helmets and scooter on across town and up and around increasingly rough roads, through remote hills to a tiny village/dead end. Tiny houses perch on stilts, into the mountainside. Electric wires are strung from bamboo poles. Laundry hangs as chickens scratch the ground.

Our arrival stops just about everyone. We buy cokes and strike up a conversation, there's really no English to be had, just Indonesian. We walk through the tiny town, children, men, women stand outside their homes and cross the street to look at us, greet us, and sometimes just stare. We sing out Salamat Cian (good late morning!) only be corrected yet again: Salamot Pagi (good morning!) We shrug and laugh -- apparently the distinction between morning and late morning is village specific as it changes back and forth as the morning hours tick by. I practice colors and with a man who offers to take us to the Holy Springs, but sadly we don't have time. We keep walking up hill. A group of rag-tag boys stare at us. I'm desperately tired and weary from all the intense social interactions -- but get fired up seeing these boys. However, despite every ridiculous effort and goofy smile I can manage, they remain cold. I take a photo. I give up.

We make a move to go home. Then I remember! Bronto! (I'd packed a deflated plastic dinosaur toy, the mascot for the like named email delivery service we'd been evaluating for a client before leaving. They sent Bronto over for Seattle photos, when I volunteered to show Bronto my Seattle backyard and downtown before heading to Indonesia.) I pull Bronto from my pocket now and kneel down as they gather around me, with curious looks. As Bronto inflates, their smiles grow, skeptical little eyes sparkle. Jo, Christine and I smile at each other. I pretend to play with Bronto, then hand it to the ringleader who takes it carefully. I point to the dinosaur and say hijou (green!).

We laugh and play. I make my best imitation of a Indonesian clown for their amusement.Then we head back to our scooters. I turn around and see them laughing, playing with Bronto. The sun shines on the rough volcanic mountainside. I bite my lip. It's simple. It's beautiful. Why have I waited so long to do these simple things. It's not hard. It just takes a little effort on my part -- and look at the reward. Huge toothy grins, laughter, smiles. In the golden, hot sunshine of that small town, I promise to do more simple things, like this, more often, when I return home and on my subsequent travels. I'm so tired from the busy days, and this beautiful morning, so beat down from playing the perpetual, outgoing clown -- repeatedly putting my heart and happiness way out there, in the chance I'll be able to slowly warm the smiles of the reserved. But for some insignificant aches and pains on my part -- and cheeks tired from smiling & laughing on demand -- I know this is more than worth it.

The boys spot me watching them then, and I give them a huge, exaggerated wave (positive they'll still be too shy to respond). But they all wave back, I wave, they wave back more excited with each wave, they hold up Bronto. I shout victoriously: "Hijou!" (green!). A happy chorus of little voices shout back "Hijou!" (green!). I shout "Biroo!" (blue!). An increasingly animated chorus of little voices shout back "Biroo!" (blue!). So it goes - me happily shouting colors in Indonesian to children 20 feet away, shouting the same colors back, with greater enthusiasm and energy than my own - as we walk down the hill to our scooters and out of site as I feel little tears sneak into my eyes. I'm going to miss this place, these experiences, these people. I've missed interacting with kids and start thinking of ways to do more when I get home. I know I'm always going to wonder who these boys will become. A silent prayer that in my putting a little more good out in the world, it will eventually pay dividends for these ones and I hope they live good lives. I don't want to go.

Helmets on and engines revved. We look down the road, and it's surreal, hundreds of Indonesians, dressed in white, carrying flags, offerings pack the narrow road. I move to sit on a rock to watch the unexpected procession stream by, but instead they pause and pool around me. I'm drenched with questions, laughter, beautiful colors. As they sit on the ground and listen (and laugh) at our stumbling answers after they shout out questions. We're invited to stay but we have a day of travel yet to attempt. We have to go. We say our good-byes, the crowd parts as we carefully pedal our way through the surreal crowd until we hit the open road and gun it back to Amed.

Berenang... (or swimming, into the wreck)

2009-10-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

We race past parched fields, withered palm trees and dusty concrete and palm houses of eastern Bali. The hot sun above me, the turquoise ocean beside me. My scooter is a laugh-riot. After surviving enough close calls with oncoming traffic and tight, decreasing radius corners taken too quickly -- almost immediately after Christine warned us about the hazard -- my scooter and I are like old friends. Flitting along the narrow roads, speeding past slower traffic, all on the left side of the road. We turn off the main road, onto a rough path, downhill. We pull up in front of a dive shack. When they see we already have flippers and masks, they leave us alone.

We walk past a handful of beach-restaurants and tiny hotels, resplendent with pale tourists.

The beach is composed of smoothed black and blood-red rocks that cook under the afternoon sun, and scald toes on the touch. I wait until the last possible minute to discard my flipflops and trot to the water. Typhoons off the Phillipines and the weather has shifted slightly in the last day, still stifling hot, but the tranquil water is now rough to the touch. It heaves upwards in massive piles and mounds. Yet schools of snorkelers flutter on its surface, like dead men discarded from a ship while armies of black, gear-laden divers walk to the water and slowly, slowly, slowly disappear from site.

I flop on flippers and tighten my mask. Sit back and set sail. I love the feeling of flippered feet, moving so swiftly through the water. We’re not sure where it is. The wreck. But like everything else on this trip, we have no doubts we'll find it. We face down and stare for it.

Then I see the divers. They walk on the ground 10, then 15 feet below me. I float tens of feet above them; weightless and curious. Then its there. In front of me. Massive walls and a gaping blue-black hole that is at least three times my height. Metal now blanketed in swaying, colorful coral. It’s the wreck. USS Liberty, a WWII cargo ship torpedoed by the Japanese and pulled to Tulamben, where it sat until 1963 when Mount Agung erupted and the resulting earthquakes pushed her to deeper water, where she lies today as I circle around her. I motion to the girls to join me. Hardly believing that just 30 or 40 feet from the shore, below my toes, is this mammoth structure.

Schools of fish swim around me. I hold my breath as long as I can and dive down as deep as I am able, until my head starts to ache. I trace the lines of the once magnificent ship, something once unliving from my world, now part of something else entirely, at the bottom of the ocean, alive in a completely new way.

Bands of golden sunshine flitter through the clear water. I want to go deeper, I want to see what the divers are seeing, but I know I can’t know this, I can't go there, at least not yet. I just circle the wreck, the words of a poem I’d loved from an almost forgotten summer quarter in college, now finds me in Bali. I can’t remember the exact words then, but I remember the sentiment. Of diving into the wreck, alone, to know the thing itself; and not the story or myth that others tell each other of the wreck. I think sometimes that is what this trip is, a journey to explore, to observe, to understand those things that I only knew of from stories, but had yet to experience and see for myself.

I inspect its sides, the massive proportions--now softened with coral fans and bright blue starfish. I watch the fish that keep it company, dart in and out, of dark corners. I swim with schools of colorful, beautiful, agile creatures. They are not afraid and stare curiously at me. I dive down again and again, deeper and deeper into the quiet blue -- slowly making out the angle it rests on the ocean floor. You have to hit the bottom before you can come back up. Against her massive, solid hull, I feel my overwhelming smallness and human-ness, in comparison. I feel the ages that passed for this wreck to grow so alive and beautiful again. I want to know it, all of it. I want to remember this always: swimming quietly around disaster.

I look up the passage I remember when I get online that night. Sitting in the bamboo chair on the bungalow porch, I read it to myself in the dark as soft waves lap a tired, rocky shore and somewhere, softly in the pitch-black distance, the Balinese hotel boys and their friends laugh and play Bob Marley's "Don't worry about a thing, cuz every little is gonna be alright..." on their four-stringed guitar.

Adrienne Rich’s Diving Into The Wreck

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty

(Underwater pics compliments of the fabulous Christine Estrada.)

Seribu tangga di malam (1,000 steps in the night)

2009-10-08T20:00:00.000-07:00

Over dinner after my afternoon search for (and failure to find) internet, we laugh and talk, we all agree that the laki-laki flashing is a sign that work isn't supposed to happen this day. Christine and Jo are still on a high from cruising the island all day on scooters. When I hop the back of one to dinner, I realize why...they're f'ing fun!!! I rent a scooter for $4/day, the next morning. Giving up on work for the day, flying down narrow roads and up curving hills, zipping past slower vehicles and groups of locals lounging outside open buildings with the rest of Bali, feeling the hot wind on my shoulders as I take in enormous gold-mountains and turquoise seas...it's like nothing else. It's silly, ridiculous, fast and fun. It's like the first time I tried mountain biking -- I know within seconds I'm hooked. (Christine and Jo laugh about me getting a real moto-bike when I get home...I laugh too. I know now it's just a matter of time. A totally fun, environmentally friendly solution to my in-city driving vs. winter biking vs. slow bus conundrum). On the first drive out we stumble across the elusive Amed Dive Shop internet signal source! (I laugh -- having let go, my largest problem yet resolves itself and I resolve myself to remember to let go more often...Maybe I just need a day of fun!)

So I tell Jo and Christine about the temple with 1,000 steps that the man on the road had told me about. It's difficult to find in the official tour books I've brought with me and makes us want to find it that much more! We ask around and get rough directions to Lempuyang Lehur (head out of town, turn left, keep going...turn left or right depending on who you ask, remembering it's probably 50% accurate as it's good in Bali to never say no).

We're not totally clear on where to turn or what to do. But decide getting lost in Bali on scooters isn't a bad thing in the least. After a morning snorkel outside the bungalow, a few hours of offline work, we pack up the bikes, and fly out of Amed in hopes of making the mystic temple for sunset. We head back to beautiful, lush mountains. We stop once at one of the many roadside "gas" shacks to fill up on binson (ie. Indonesian for "gas"). A man in a black sweater (because it's a chilly 75 degrees on the mountains...) pours a liter of gas from re-purposed plastic water bottles for each of us, which will last for a day, at $.50/liter. We chat with the other locals stopped to purchase gas and durian, get specifics on the next couple turns head, then off we go.

The road grows simultaneously narrower, steeper and curvier. Houses, perched on mountainsides, grow more rustic and smaller. People stare with increased curiosity and intensity. A gentle fog sets in as we climb and the view is blanketed in a soft white. We reach the ridge of what feels like the mountain top, park our scooters in line with the others and are instantly surrounded by curious Indonesians. All men. They push up to the three of us. Each asking questions, mostly all Indonesian, a word or two in English. They laugh and joke as we stand there a little overwhelmed. In my weeks in Bali, it's always been the women to descend on me in groups. This is the first time I've known the 1 or 2 women to sit back in the palm huts as 20 or 30 men clamor for our attentions. It's my only moment in Bali where I feel myself grow slightly tense, ready to jump back on my scooter and race out or ready to fight if any of them touch Christine or Jo. I have my eyes fixed tracking the movements of the two tallest.

As we talk it becomes increasingly clear, they're just intensely curious. It seems pretty rare that white-tourists make it up to the high, remote mountain temple (one of four on this mountain), let alone three Indonesian-speaking girls on scoots. But Christine, Jo and I are all grateful we're together on this one to keep the experience enjoyable.

We turn down offers to guide us. And set off, up 1000 steps, in the foggy, overcast, humid afternoon. We never see another tourist. Instead, we are warmly greeted by Indonesians (all coming down) balancing offering baskets and toting children or elders by the hand. We pass a woman in jeans and a pink-striped shirt, balancing long, large heavy poles of bamboo on her head. She slowly sways left and right, as she simultaneously balances and lifts her awkward burden up the 1,000 steps. Even in the hardest, manual labor, she is both strong and graceful and uncomplaining. She greets us with a smile as we wish her good afternoon.

As we ascend to the heavens, the fog thickens and large tropic rain spits at us through giant fern-trees. We continue the climbing, past abandoned palm huts and shrines, as the trail grows dark and slippery. On both sides of the stairs the mountain drops off into steep nothing and fog. Mountain gusts flit the silk sarong around my sweating legs. Hiking up a steep mountain side to a temple in Bali, in beautiful silk. Soaked with warm rain and sweat, perfectly happy and content to be here now.

When we reach the top, it's quiet and deserted. Safe from the eyes of locals, we prance and pose and joke like the tourists we are. Christine holds her famous trans-continental "crow pose" as I shoot. Just as we're ready to leave, he calls to us. (There is someone here!) Zan-Zan has the kindest demeanor and most peaceful eyes that we'll talk about days later. He speaks perfect, flowery English after traveling the States, New York, Los Angeles, even Seattle! He and invites us to join him and the priest for a blessing. He tells us the story of the temple, it's the birthplace of the Balinese people and therefore one of the most important temples on the island....which we happened upon by utter chance, after hearing about it from a lounging Balinese man while on my quest for Internet. Amazing!

Zan-Zan works for the same cultural museum Jo was intending to look up in Ubud, another amazing Bali coincidence. He's halfway through a two month, 24 hour meditation on the mountain temple. After we sit on the temple grounds, are splashed with holy water and squish white rice to our temples and foreheads, he'll stay to weather another 20 nights of silence before returning to Ubud.

We leave quietly, escorted by the priest who speaks a few words of English. We mime the actions to learn the Indonesian words to tell eachother "hati-hati, lechin tangga, saya mau jatuh" (careful, slippery steps, i'm going to fall!). In return, we teach him English words for pig, duck, and frog. In no time, we've descended to the parking lot, the sprinkling rain at our backs. A hurried goodbye to the mountain men, still assembled around our bikes, we're anxious to get back before dark and rain set in...considering we really made up the route to get here as we went along, and none of us are clear how to get back, but we all smile. We'll figure it out!

It's a mad dash down the mountain. All the way down the steep road, elderly, young, and adults in temple white clothes (that match the increasing white fog) wave and wish us good evening, good travels, we call back in Balinese and Indonesian. It feels like we talk our entire way down the mountain. It's the friendliest descent I've ever know. When we get turned around, in the increasing dark, we stop and chat in Indonesian, get directions and go on our way with smiles and warm wishes. I'm more and more thankful for my 3 weeks in Ubud and the great practice I've had to prepare me for this night. As I drive I breathe in incense and sounds of a quiet Balinese life in the mountains, where three tourists is a rarity.

Soon we're driving the curving, steep roads in pitch black--just a scooter light and that of wildly swerving oncoming traffic to guide the way. We pick through accidents, slow traffic, bug-in-the-face attacks, and sleepy towns. We pause at intersections an look to the sidelines at the group of lounging teens (always collected at street corners of small towns, it seems...).

We call out: Amed?

They hoot and holler, they excitedly yell for attention, they simultaneously laugh and ALL point the way ahead -- tens of arms waving and pointing as we wave and laugh! Wishing them well as we speed ahead until the next junction, where the hand waving and excitement repeats itself over and over. Until finally we're within familiar roads to Amed again.

Curious to see what this little machine can do, Christine and I tuck in and gun it on the flats. Sans street lights, we race through midnight fields, speeds pushing 50, then 60 then 80 KMs as a warm wind whips my face and shoulders as my heart pounds. Its beautiful, daring, wild fun. I've missed my mountain bike, I admit to myself. I needed this rush. Faster and the bike starts to shake, and wobbles, I see I've reached it's limits. I have a strange vision of hitting a dog or falling -- the very thing I don't need as it would ruin this night and this feeling. This has been enough fun, it's ok to let go of this feeling too for right now. I slow down, and down. Just then a dog meanders directly into my path. Brakes. A gasp. I veer within inches of the pup.

I instantly call out -- in Indonesian -- in the midnight-black village streets: "ANJING! Hati Hati ya?!" (DOG! Careful careful, yes?!)

Laki-Laki and Amed (Boys and Amed)

2009-10-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

A whirlwind of activity, bags are packed, last minute errands, we watch a man shimmy up a tall coconut tree trunk outside the villa to cut down coconuts -- only rough ropes tied around his feed to keep tension for the climb -- and we leave the villa. It's bittersweet. I'm craving freedom and look forward to new travel and adventure with my girls. But after three weeks, it's sad to say goodbye to Anni and Oka -- they've shown me so much.

At my request, Christine smuggled in an REI travel clock (for Anni) and a headlamp (for Oka). I give Anni and Oka final payment and a tip. I give Oka a pile of colorful pencils I'd brought over from the states, just in case, for his kids (anak) if they could use them? He grins and imitates their excitement. I also give Anni a pile of "small money" (anything under 10,000 rupiah, I'd been saving for two weeks after seeing Anni give her spare change to those she deemed worthy) and tell her it's for her to give away to the good people of Ubud, because I want her to save her tip for herself.

It's a three hour drive north-east to Amed, a tiny beach town, where we have no reservations. Instead Christine and I join Jo and thinking positive thoughts about finding a really great, cheap, beach room, next to the sea. We head over mountains, and tiny towns, along the turquoise coastlines. The scenery changes from lush and tropical to dry and deserty. Only two brief showers in the last 6 months, giant palms become sparse and withered. Dark volcanic mountainsides are terranced with dried rice fields and feels something like a cemetery. Tiny shacks made from palm fronds and corrugated metal line the streets. Brown cows stand idle. People bathe from street gutters as scooters stream by.

We step out of the car to oppressive heat. We check with three hotels. Tired, we settle on the cheapest run by three mid-twenties, T-shirtless Balinese boys (the word for boy is laki-laki and is right up there on my growing list of double-words I like: hati-hati, cupu-cupu, cudong-cudong, jalan-jalan, pulong-pulong...) who are quite obvious flirts used to getting female attention. We use it to our advantage and get a private bungalow ten steps to the beach for $10 each/night for the next two nights. I hug Anni and Oka, thanking them over and over and wishing them well...

That night I taste my first fresh barracuda sauted in garlic. We trade piles of fresh mango for glasses of fresh mango juice (an amazing $.80 each). We practice Indonesian with pleased locals. We walk on the beach and watch the sunset over the enormous, surreal volcano. It's too beautiful for words.

The only downside is the lack of internet. My internet solution doesn't get a signal like I was told it would (Frustration!). Christine and Jo head out on scooters for the day. I am determined to work. Until I get fed up with paying by the minute at the hotel next door. It's time for "Plan B", walk around asking for the location of the only wireless signal and offer them money to use it.

I set out with my camera and start asking, in Indonesian, for the Amed Dive Shop (the name on the wireless signal I found). I'm told it's maybe 2KM west, so I head west down a remote road through dusty fields and sea-salt production plants (ie. coconut trunks cut in half and left baking in the Amed sun until only crystals remain), talking to locals who curiously peek heads out of doors and windows. When they realize the tall white girl speaks Indonesian, I draw tiny crowds. They eagerly point west to the dive shop and as I walk the distance grows steadily less. Until one man, scratches his head and points back in the direction I'd come from: 2KM.

The Indonesian art of never really saying no gets me. An afternoon lost as the sun starts to set and I stand in the nearly deserted road ready to laugh because I finally give up. There will be no internet and there will be very little work. I don't know what else to do but let go.

I turn around and start the walk back. Strangers on my walk out, most now greet me like old friends on my walk in. I'm invited to ceremonies and dinners. I'm invited to sit and drink iced tea. I'm invited by a man on a scooter to check out the temple with a 1,000 steps. It's on the top of the giant mountain, not far (on a scooter from here): Lempuyang Lehur. Amazing view. I thank him and remember to tell the girls when I get back. I turn down his advances to get a ride with him and keep walking.

There are three of them, about 20 or so, a concrete wall in the middle of a field hides their naked bodies from chest down. One boy tosses buckets of cold water to the other two, laughing and showering, boys. As I pass by, a murmur spreads through the ramshackle huts and the boys spot me. I laugh and wave and greet them in Indonesian. I keep the Indonesian tradition of never saying no and instead say "Nanti! Nanti!" as I keep walking

But they call back and wave at me. They want me to join them. They don't stop. The chorus rises from the houses around the shower -- as locals watch and cheer from front porches. I laugh it off. But they keep at it. The boys wave wildly and call "Hayyy Babbay!" in English.

What else is there to do - I reach for the tourist girl's only line of defense. I point the camera at them just as their ringleader thrusts himself up on the shower wall, over the fence. The houses, the boys, I erupt with laughter. I hear applause. I hear shrieks.

I lower my camera and he falls back behind the wall. It settles and I call out in Indonesian, to more neighborhood cheers:
"Tidak teri mi kasi!" (No thank you!)

Practicing the art of being real (no translation available...)

2009-10-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

The next few days fly by faster than ever. Christine and I trade off using my wireless internet modem to work, in between jaunts into town to explore, we accompany Jo to a raw foods cafe and enjoy wholesome (and surprisingly delicious) raw tacos, ravioli and even a chocolate cheesecake. We all embrace the theme of just experiencing the moment, trying new things...anything and revel in the good, bad, ups and downs. Our days end with delicious dinners and animated/hilarious late-night conversations around the villa table, about life, dreams, travel. Every day starts and ends with plate fulls of fresh, juicy, perfectly sweet wild mango that sell for less than a $1 USD at the market. Already the three of us know we'll be traveling again in the future. It's been that kind of connection.

There's been little time to read or write. When I finally sit down to get caught up, I'm finding -- for days on end -- that I can't do either. The easy flow of words from my head to hands is suddenly uncomfortable and awkward. It feels forced. I've stalled on the post about staring into the eyes of an elder priestess at the wedding ceremony...and quietly breaking apart in an intense moment. Do I post this? Do I put these words in front of friends and strangers? Will they understand, will they relate? Or will they laugh or just brush it aside as Joya being melodramatic and emotional. Will it even make sense? Will anyone be honest with me and admit that sometimes life, even the best days, also have their downside. Or will they just ask for more goofy stories of the best times traveling around Bali.

Jo and I talk on the topic a great deal. It's these discussions I love the most. We talk about chasing happiness, only, in our early years (for her that's like last year...;), and slowly realizing now that it's facing the honest sadness, the difficult times that will test you and strengthen you. Pushing past comfort levels and into uncharted and sometimes confusing water that will help you grow. That it's being kind and honest with yourself and those around you that get you through these times. That understanding and trust start building in those moments when you let yourself break, fall to the bottom, and slowly, carefully, intentionally crawl back up until you're walking, running, laughing again. Never holding too tightly to either emotion, as life is a process of change. How those lessons are the ones we need most, how love and forgiveness is what we need to practice most. But when I put the words in writing, when I think of posting the thoughts anywhere else but my journal -- it feels like standing naked and exposed in front of a crowd. But at the same time, if I don't post, am I letting myself off the hook? I started this journey, I started this blog in an effort to practice being more open, more honest and more real. As I think, Indonesia continues to be amazing, each moment precious and rich with new experiences and realizations. But I feel numb and tired, worn. So I do other things, hoping this too will pass. It's another 90 degree day, when I forget to drink water regularly. I walk home my entire body nauseous and aching, I'm sad and disappointed and crave quiet time to think and be alone.

In the dark, listening to the tune of rabid frogs and electric chorus of bats chirping, I scribble out my hopes and dreams, my fears and doubts about the next few years of my life, in the journal I've carried with me for years. Good and bad, it all comes out. My birthday is tomorrow, and I'm eager to hit 31. I'm curious what the next years will hold -- as the last few, good and bad, have been more amazing than I could believe. When I turned 28, I spent a week alone, giving my life and who I wanted to be serious, new thought. I wasn't sure then on the specifics of how I would get where I wanted to be, but I realized I wanted to stretch to become much more than I was that day. I wanted to start building an intentionally different, new life. I called it the 5 year plan. At the end of 5 years, I hoped to be divested of corporate life, doing something on my own that provided sufficient income for a more "alive" life where I did more than just work. I dreamed of buying a little shack, anything with a pretty ocean view that I could fix up over time. There I could escape from time to time and enjoy a life not ruled by possessions, accomplishments, 60 hour work weeks, and indifferent disconnected personal interactions. Maybe someday there would be someone in my life who would understand where I was coming from, who could share the ocean view and this life with me. But I wasn't going to wait anymore. I decided to start building a new life at that moment. One I would consciously define and challenge myself to forge each day. I'm not sure how to get there, or if I can, but figure I should try and see what happens with this dream of mine. I paddle out to the surf the stormy day of my 28th birthday and she paddles over to me. The only other woman on the gray Oregon surf break, Leslie. Brown-black hair, athletic body wrapped in neophrene, graceful surfer, mountain biker, amazing smile, engaging energy. She lives in Bend with a husband she is crazy about, they spend weekends at their beach house overlooking this (my favorite) break. When I ask her what she does, she tells me she owns her own furniture store. It's like meeting the person you want to become someday. I see the life she's created off in the distance and it continually inspired me to walk bravely in new directions. It still does.

When I get home I hammer out a vacation rental business plan - positive this was the most attainable goal of mine while putting off finding another revenue source/job as the last thing on my 5 year list. Funny how life has other ideas sometimes. Two years later, I helped see my vacation rental plan work on a boyfriend's property and then put off a rental of my own to quit my corporate job to try out freelance marketing work using the savings I'd put aside (for the beach house down payment) as my safety net. There were terrifying moments when I honestly didn't know if it would work, if I had the strength to see through falling crazy in love, a log cabin remodel, a new business, a new life. But one day at a time, it all somehow works itself out. And I'm stunned how it just requires the simple action of putting one foot in front of the other. It's not always what I would have chosen, but I know I'm learning and growing and living -- and I wouldn't change any of this.

Getting this far now, seeing things I never thought would work become successes beyond my dreams, owning a little house with a garden, working for myself during the worst economic times, climbing mountains, racing bikes, traveling halfway around the world - alone - getting into writing, photography, and just doing these things now, feel like a surreal dream that I can't believe is coming true -- whereas, when I'm honest with myself, other areas of my life feel like failures. I'm still learning the art of relationships, and the art of being real and honest. I realize more than ever that this is an ongoing process. Not one that is presented, wholesome and complete -- but one that is molded, shaped, formed and weathered over days and months of good and bad. I hope that the people in my life understand this when I'm less than perfect, less than 100%. More than that, I hope that I am able to be that person who understands this in others. And then lately, discovering that a prescription I'd taken for the last two years was causing a gradual, chemical depression. One that, over time, strained relationships and suffocated my spirit. Like being slowly lowered into a deep well, the radius of light so gradually decreasing until suddenly there was nothing but unavoidable darkness surrounding me, with no idea how I got so low. It wasn't until things completely fell apart, it wasn't until I grew so physically ill after getting off the prescription, shaking with withdrawal and fever and severe nausea, day after day in a 200 year old bedroom in New Orleans that I knew something was just wrong. Winter turned to spring and slowly the medication drained from my bloodstream. Months pass and I hear myself saying to myself that I feel like "me" again. Energy, light, enthusiasm, happiness, kindness, wildness. I line up the symptoms with journal entries. The start and end of cycles with wildly varying physical side effects. Such a huge relief to find out I'm ok and safe from this forever more -- such huge confusion to wonder at the last two years of my life and love, lived in such a numbed, shadow. When summer arrives, I start one by one, mending strained relationships. Asking friends and family to see past what I was for these years, and look to what I'm becoming. I'm relieved to find love, forgiveness and acceptance. I work on trying to find the same for myself. Now I find myself in Bali. If not for these things, I would not be here now, realizing, learning, growing as I am.

I look at my hopeful smile, my bike scarred knees in the bedroom mirror. I take a breath and send a few emails to friends who will support me. I send one email to someone I'm not sure will -- but whose support I realize I honestly want anyway. I feel a huge wave of relief just putting out my honest request for support, insights and advice. I'm perfectly fine if none come back to me, here. I just know how the freedom, the strength in asking for what you need. Confident that either way, I'll find what I need I just have to take the first step to ask, instead of bottling fears down inside, as I have the tendency to do.

Within the afternoon, words of love, encouragement (even astounding praise of my words and pics) and a reoccurring reminder to just let go and experience what is, are sent my way. I apologize to Jo and Christine for being tired and sick the last day. For holing up while I write and think some things out. They both laugh and wave their hands at me -- after a few days here, with friends, they're sweetly impressed that I'm having one bad day in my weeks alone, after learning a new language, culture, people along with showing them the ins and outs of working in a strange place. You're only human, everyone has those days, and you're doing what you need to do to feel better.

I feel a huge wave of relief.

It feels good to be free to just be, to be human, and still be loved for that. In breaking down, I discover the beauty in simply, honestly asking for the things I need most. It doesn't make me weak or needy, just more honest and real. It gives the people around me the opportunity to give back some of the joy and compassion and kindness I hope I've shared with them. I feel like, more and more as I start to better understand the give and take of life, these people in my life get that. I stop questioning the last couple years, the inadvertent depression and resulting troubles. I feel confident these are all things that needed to happen to help me come to the conclusions I'm finding now. I feel like I'm diving into life and relationships with new understanding, I feel like I'm starting to chart a new course for my personal life. My words find me again, I post one moment after another, and the journey continues.

Bulan, bintang, matarhari & kambing (Moon, stars, sun & goat)

2009-10-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

Christine's first day mirrors my own -- getting used to driving on the left side, weaving within inches of scooters and oncoming traffic on narrow roads, driving past temples and massive statues in the dripping rain and post-storm puddles, swerving around women in sarongs (heads piled high with baskets and offerings), familiar letters arranged in completely unfamiliar ways. Jo and I start Christine on the basics: counting to 5 and good morning, late morning, afternoon, evening, goodbye I, goodbye II and our favorite: Hati-Hati (careful!) as we drive to the villa after a stop at the supermarket for food (we load up on mangiis, wild mango and white rice).

Dinner together, in the outdoor kitchen, is fabulous. We laugh and chat and make plans. The next day, we walk down to the market and shop for sarongs for Christine and Jo for the full moon ceremony that night. We'll attend with Oka's family as he's receiving the blessing. We leave the market loaded up on silk sarongs, kabayahs, silk scarves, and beach dresses purchased from Anni's friend's shop. (The only downside to the day, Anni promised me the best price from her friend--I hesitate then pay the asking price. It seems rude to barter now and question Anni's friend's integrity - surely it must be a good price...Anni's always said something if I'm paying too much -- so I expect I'm getting a deal. Christine follows my example, then Jo - on a tighter budget - quietly barters to below the asking price. We've been had. I don't do anything, I've committed to a price--so I keep my word and pay it. This is part of the experience too. But I feel my good-natured trust in Anni shaken.)

After work and dinner, we dress in our sarongs with help from Anni who must individually wrap and tie each of us up, making sure the wrap the material so the end sits just before the left leg. I slip into a simple moon-white kabayah that I'd seen Oka's wife in. I love the feel of my legs moving under the light lotus-imprinted silk of my new sarong -- so much more luxurious than the batik sarong of my first days. I laugh with Christine and Jo as they grow accustomed to moving within the confines of the traditional clothing and we all revel at the grace and beauty of women, balancing side saddle on the backs of scooters, as we all race to the temple in the night.

The gamelon pounds music, the full moon lights the courtyard, and kids circle and run and laugh as adults sit and watch. Now flanked with two other non-Indonesians, I notice the kids keeping their distance from me again. They shyly smile, only to dart and hide when I motion to them. I'm greeted with soft hands and smiles by Oka's wife and sister, his daughters and young and old sons. To watch Christine and Jo wander through the strange newness of it all (and remember how overwhelming it first felt to me too) and then to be where I am now, two weeks later: relaxed and energetic, communicating so much freer in Indonesian, laughing over shared jokes and histories, recognizing faces and smiles, trying bits of food, being welcomed (my hands embraced within their hands as I learn the Balinese greeting "Om swastiastu") as a friend and family member into this little community.

[I've started to notice the presence of swastikas on temples, homes and now in Balinese speech. The word swastika actually comes from the Sanskrit svastika which means good fortune or well-being and was used thousands of years before Hitler's abomination. Knowing the history helps me say the words, but I still get strange nervous tension upon seeing the symbol with its offerings piled high--I can't help but think of so many other things...]

Minutes pass slowly as we wander through one holy display after another, past the giant roasted pig offering (yes, real pig) that's adorned with a tall red crown, laced with goat and pig satays (yes, hundreds of pig and goat on a stick). Oka's son-in-law does his best to talk us through each. However, upon questioning, it becomes apparent that religion and ceremonies are village specific -- apart from the shared three gods Brahma, Wisnu, Siwa there's little information he can tell me as he's not from the village. Christine is still jet-lagged and tired and in desperate need of food. I let Oka's son know we're going to sneak out for some peanuts or something (from the small roadside warung)...and maybe some fresh air. I remember how overwhelming my first day was.

When we make a move to leave, Oka's family escorts us out and sits us under a dirty blue tarp in front of a small cart. A thin man with a faded blue baseball cap dishes up rice, coconut grilled satays drenched in dark peanut sauce, nankat fruit soup (and my stomach jumps remembering the pig tufts from a few days prior) in chipped china dishes. Anni looks at me -- I get you drinks, you get food.

Of course. After offering to pay for dinner, with gratitude, it's now become expected for every meal, every day, and as my travel budget explodes, I'm realizing the joy in giving is depleted some when it's taken for granted. But at the same time, they've welcomed me and my friends into their homes and most private lives -- let alone their country. So I pay. I look at Jo and Christine. Tired and overwhelmed. I try to entertain the crowd around us -- grab the spotlight so they can take a breath and eat. I'm hoping good Indonesian food will revive our waning full-moon late-night spirits.

I chat in Indonesian with the man next to me about the food we're eating. I know rice, I know soup. I guess we're eating sapi (beef) satays.

He laughs. Shakes his head. Kambing.

I think. I know this one. What is it again? Christine and Jo are looking at me, expectantly. Then I remember: Oh! Kambing!! Goat!!!

I smile widely that I've remembered. Then I look at Christine. She's pale and her eyes are wide. She's starving and running on empty -- and not looking like she can take goat, or much of anything right now. I try to whisper to her to just eat the rice.

Then pick up the banter, hoping to keep the attention away from her and on me. I know how they love to see people eat, so I put on the best multi-lingual show I can muster sitting in a muddy field, under a blue tarp, in a silk sarong with my adopted New Zealander, my mountain biking friend (who know little Indonesian) and Oka's family (who know little English).

Poor Christine finishes what she can and we head back to the ceremony. The moon shines through the clouds and the priest arrives. I know this now too. I tell Jo he'll decorate himself in beads and material, then light incense, then his prayers begin, while the bell rings incessantly, then we all pray, then it's over.

As we sit, minutes and hours pass. Bells ring, processions begin and incense lit. By now, both Jo and Christine are aching and tired -- surrounded by a sea of sitting people, there's nothing I can do but sit and wait. Oka's youngest son sits next to me and Oka's grandson reaches across him, from his mother's lap, to tug at my sleeve and then hide. I mimic him and we both laugh quietly. I point to the moon and tell Oka's son the words he taught me only few days before: Bulon.

He nods solemnly.

I make fists and say "bintang".

He smiles slightly.

I make a circle and then wave my fingers for rays of the sun: Matahari

He laughs.

Saya engat!(I remember!), I clap.

Tidak, tidak! The eight year old shakes his head: Ing-at. Ing-at. (No no, it's Ing-at, Ing-at! -- For some reason "I remember" is the hardest sound for me to form)

Satu cali lagi, I tell him (One more time!).

We do it together, Bulon, Bintang, Matahari. The 2 year old grandson moves his tiny hands with us, the old ladies behind me whisper with us. Over and over. As the bell chimes and the incense burns and the moon shines.

Finally the prayer. The hushed sounds of hundreds of bodies moving, at once, to face the East. Followed by the sounds of silence from hundreds of bodies, praying in unison, under a full moon in the dark, warm midnight. The ritual I remember. Hands picking out imaginary flowers and holding it in my fingertips briefly before my eyes, until the bell rings. Eyes close. Hands lift. The bell rings slowly, slowly, slow. Minutes pass. It speeds and stops. Eyes open, bodies shuffle as the flower is placed in the hair and a new one picked. Over and over and over and over.

I watch as a group of 5 or 6 men, late teens and early twenties with a pierced lip and styled hair, stop their talking to carefully, quietly pray and lift flowers to their hair. I finish my prayers with the masses, and watch as Oka's oldest daughter hands her young son to his father, then lifts a flower in her hands, pauses and closes her eyes to pray, kneeling alone, in a sea of softly moving people.

In the confusion, we finally make awkward moves to an unknown exit. The ceremony continues until morning. We drive home in tired silence.

Kucing makan kacung (The cat eats peanuts!)

2009-10-02T19:03:00.000-07:00

The next day, Anni waits to walk with me to meet Jo and bring her back to the Villa. (We'd agreed to meet the next day since I found it hard to give someone directions to the exact random roadside footpath, across from the ramshackle warungs, through the rice fields that led to the villa). The night before Anni had shocked me--she was so pleased to hear I'd have company for my travels. (A few times she's mistaken my "work hours" for "boredom". Though I laugh that it's impossible to be bored in Bali, but am glad for the company to share in the amazing-ness of day-to-day discoveries). I tell Anni when she meets Jo, she'll know why I'm so excited. It's not just any friend. Jo is different. But it takes me a few days to figure out what that is.

Anni shocks me again when, later in the day, she is so completely protective that she's borderline aggressive when actually meeting Jo. A slew of questions about travel plans and rates, disapproving cold looks, it goes on -- I can't seem to make Anni stop and it takes me a few days to figure out what it is that causes her reaction. I pull Jo aside and I quietly ask her to ignore Anni and we agree to hang out and see what happens as I feel absolutely 100% fantastic about my New Zealnad stranger. It's amazing feeling to be able to share the villa with another unaccustomed to Indonesia, with someone who can revel in the beautiful, strange, and newness of it all. I've also been craving discussions with more depth (and sentences longer than three or four words -- all present tense) than the basic, halted conversations (food, activities, animals, grammer...) I'm limited to with Anni and Oka. While I work, Jo explores the town. At every step she is thankful, appreciative and enthusiastic. I feel the big, old villa breathe new life. Over dinner and breakfast, we sit and talk about life, dreams, work, school, snowboards and Baker (always Mt Baker! ;) as Anni cooks and schools us in Indonesian.

We leave early for Sanur, a quick stop before picking up Christine at the airport. Oka drives while Anni tosses back Indonesian phrases for Jo and I to pick apart, practice, repeat -- as we sit, both with our matching Lonely Planet Dictionaries open. We flip to words we don't understand and those we don't yet know. We remember and forget. I teach Jo her numbers and the other words I know. We laugh happily over our mistakes and the difficult nuances of a Asian-based language, so different from the romance-languages we've studied in the past.

After weeks alone, I adore the company. The added energy, the ability to now share these experiences. We wander through the sleepy beach town of Sanur. We eat peanuts (kacung) and confuse it with similar sounding word for cat (kacing) -- as in pointing to the peanuts and asking the smiling waitress in Indonesian if we could get more cat (kacing) to eat?! Confusion leads to peels of laughter from everyone at the table. We devise one of many tongue twisters to remember:
Kacing makan kacung. (The cat eats peanuts!)

Then flip it over for elementary more laughs: kacung makan kacing! (The peanut eats the cat!)

At Jo's suggestion, after counting from 1 to 10 on our fingers in Indonesian (like any 5 year old) we learn to follow it up with "Saya suda besar -- I'm a grown up!"

We learn to say "I'm only kidding" (Saya bercanda!)

As we walk along the beach after lunch, I point to more things I know and give Jo the words -- like a proud older sister. She drinks it in and we share the joys of learning a new language together, like two kids. While Anni laughs, smokes and gives us new words -- calling out "hati-hati" when we wander close too close into the way of bikes and scooters -- we walk past smiling vendors who seem genuinely pleased to hear us chatting Indonesian (and throw more new words our way) in a sea of disinterested German, French and Aussie English.

We end up at the airport and wait with the hoards of hotel men in sarongs. We talk about learning the art to waiting, only mastered in third-world countries. We wait more. Hours tick by. Finally I pick out Christine in the crowd. We pile into Oka's car and head to the Villa. Sitting between Jo and Christine, laughing in Indo-English, I get the feeling that a new leg of the journey has begun.

Saya mao jalan-jalan (I go walking)

2009-10-01T17:54:00.000-07:00

I work at a small warung while Anni smokes cigarettes. When I first arrived, I waved her smoking aside. In the open-air villa kitchen it was easy enough to avoid. Now, as she lights up her third cigarette in the last hour, I’m getting annoyed.

But it’s more than the cigarette, I'm starting to realize it’s the constant company (that feels akin to chaperone, at times). I feeling the need for some time alone, to sort things out, to watch things move, to just be quiet and listen to what’s going on in this world around me. But every time I start to make a move, I’m pulled backwards as Anni and Oka insist on accompanying me. I try to explain that part of the joy of traveling for me is the exploring, getting lost, fumbling with new words with unfamiliar people. That I want/need to do this intentionally isn’t something they understand. So finally, I tell Anni she must take the rest of the day off. She’s not sure what to do with herself. I tell her to go visit a friend or maybe watch a good movie, or take a long walk.

She looks at me – you come home after work here? I shrug my shoulders and laugh. Tidak saya tao. Nanti nanti. (I don’t know. Later, Later..)

With you it’s always Nanti Nanti! She mimics me. I realize she won’t leave me alone until I take her extra cell phone and nod when she tells me to call her if I plan on doing anything after working: She’ll come and meet me.

I’m simultaneously touched and completely annoyed by the suffocating levels of caring. As I watch her leave, and I feel like a kid skipping school as I wrap up work and duck out of the restaurant on my solo jalan-jalan (walk).

My head and heart feel calmer already, just moving with the world without a making a sound. Armies of scooters and delapidated trucks race around narrow streets emitting a constant stream of gassy emissions that makes me feel like I'm in a perpetual drag race. I snap shots on a whim. I buzz down rows of streets with pretty shops. I greet Indonesians and the few white tourists I spy with a smile. Only the Indonesians smile back. I eventually give up smiling at the other (obvious) tourists -- they seem to busy with their own goings-on to notice anything more than themselves-- and I just wander and watch. School kids in matching blue uniforms tease eachother and clog the sidewalks, busy markets with things of all shapes and sizes, Aussie tourists haggling over prices of some trinket or another, offerings being prepared and prayed for by devoted women in sarongs, fashionable tourist men with spiky hair holding the hands of women in tiny beach dresses and high heels--picking their way, uncomfortably, through mud puddles and third-world construction chaos. I have no idea where to go next and am looking forward to it – I convinced my friend Christine to fly in and join the tail end of the trip and she arrives tomorrow. I decided it was easy enough to stay at the villa another 5 days and then move on to something new, just sorta make it up as I go along I tell myself. (It’s worked great so far!)

I pause at the street to let traffic pass. She’s on the other side of the street, also pausing to let the traffic pass. Gold-brown hair and sunshine-yellow shirt, and a friendly face you can’t help but smile at. Instead of passing on the street, we stop to talk. She’s lost, first day in Bali, traveling alone, looking for the organic, raw foods café—she’s from New Zealand and talks with an awesome accent. I meet Jo two weeks after the first day I arrived alone, in Bali.

I offer to walk her to the store, try to find it together. I know that overwhelming feeling of arriving in a strange place; alone. How great it is to have someone to just share these experiences: good and challenging. She completely agrees; she’s grateful and sweet, she says she’s so happy she could hug me. So she does. It’s awesome.

There’s something about her. The way she speaks honestly and openly about her excitement and disappointments on her journey so far, with a depth that's decades beyond her 20 years. She was feeling alone and wanted to share this with someone--I nod--and then she saw me and had a feeling about this, about me. I laugh, not because it's funny, but because I've been so focused on careers and number-crunching these past years, that I'm only now finding my courage to write about feelings--let alone trust them, talk about them to those I know or random strangers. But right then, in that moment, I feel strongly -- to the point of just knowing -- that this is going to lead to unequivocally good things. As we walk, it’s like talking to an old friend. I’m a little in shock, it’s my first real conversation in English in two weeks…She’s been trying to pick up Indonesian too, and I give her some of my most helpful words, when she tells me she has a hard time with Thank you! I laugh. I then tell her the trick my friend Ben told me: Tear my car seats! She peels out a laugh just as golden and sunny as her complexion and from that point on has no problems with Thank you. I thoroughly enjoy her company in those shared five minutes at an Ubud street corner and am thinking it would be fun to keep in touch with this one. Then, her story comes out and I find out her lodgings aren’t working out. I have an extra room at the villa until Christine arrives and after that, we’d figure something out. It would just be awesome to share what I've found with another traveler. She knows what I mean. She hugs me again. I know that I love this woman, instantly.

I walk through Ubud and back to the villa in the dark, smiling widly. Now I know why I had to go for that walk today. Now I know why I had to go on that walk alone. I think if I’d been walking with Anni, we would have been practicing Indonesian, and probably too busy to notice, too closed off to the company of others. I’m less sure what my last two weeks will hold, but am excited with the addition of Jo’s company and laugh as I write the email to Christine giving her the advanced warning that I’ve now spontaneously adopted a stray New Zealander, but already know she’s going to love Jo. Being just as cool-natured as Jo, Christine responds immediately and equally excited to meet Jo and share the adventure.

Solo men on scooters slow to offer me a ride, over and over again. Head-lamps glaring as they slow to ride alongside my walk, until I shoo them away in Indonesian and determined looks. I set out to walk and have no intention of stopping now. I pull out my hiking headlamp (a last minute packing addition) and trek on. It's been a whirlwind, the last two weeks. Caught up in the moment, it's not until this afternoon, talking with Jo and recognizing in her exactly just where and how I started here in Indonesia, that I appreciate how far I've come. I can't wait to see what will come.

Anni’s cell phone rings belligerently in my bag as I walk through the rice padi to the light of the villa, saying good evening to all the animals in the fields whose names I know in Indonesian. They flow from my brain and roll off my tongue, most naturally: Salamet Malam Bebek, Salamet Malam Cudok, Salamet Malam Cuching, Salamet Malam Sapi….

Hanya satu puloh ribu hari (Only $1 dollar a day)

2009-10-01T04:41:00.000-07:00

They walk by the fence of the villa. Heads wrapped with old, wet towels to keep cool during the 90 degree days, topped by ragged, grey-brown old straw hats. From the kitchen Anni and I greet them in Indonesian. They all smile and wave or sing Indonesian back to me. After they pass by, Anni tells me they are field workers. The poorest of Indonesia. They work very, very hard in the fields, they make 10,000 or 20,000 rupiah a day ($1 or $2 USD for 10 or 12 hours of back breaking work)…when they can get work, sometimes they will go for days or weeks with no work. It is very hard life. They good, good people, she says, because they work hard.

I’ve adopted Anni’s philosophy on giving while here. Give to the elderly and the crippled, anyone who can’t work. Children and “mothers” holding babies (which Anni tells me really aren’t their children, everyone here knows it’s a rouse for the tourists…that and the money ends up going to someone else entirely) with their hands outstretched are kindly turned down. But the field people, Anni nods in their direction, are not like that. She tells me she sometimes walks out with copi (coffee) and snacks because they not have money.

I ask if we can do it today, buy the women food and drinks. I have to work this morning, but if I gave her money would she buy snacks for them. I run upstairs to grab some change. I count out 50,000 rupiah ($5 USD, pocket change) and Anni laughs and shakes her head. She thinks I’m still confused about the exchange rate: This too much money for snacks.

I shake my head – spend it, please, Anni. Maybe they could use the leftovers another day.

She smiles and heads out to the walk to the market. When she returns, she points to my camera, knowing I hardly leave the house without it. But I still feel the little prickles of hesitation. Do I? Do I really go out and take their pictures, like another tourist attraction? But it’s not like that, to me. These women are not like that, to me. I’ve watched them for a few days now. Beautifully lined, rugged faces. Dark almond eyes. Bent backs, covered with lacy kabayah or t-shirts. I am fascinated by their routine, their life, their existence so different from my own. And more and more, I’m realizing if my writing is my way of processing my world – my camera captures it.

I take it. I’ll see how they react. If it seems alright, I’ll take some photos. But I don’t want to force this or any moments to film. I want permission. Because I think I’m learning that’s what creates the magic, the honesty, the depth of my favorite photos. I like the beauty of un-posed, soft, honest moments of real people. I like when people turn their faces, or stare into the sun, or thought passes through their head that no one else sees, but my camera. To get that, to let me see this after a large camera is presented, there’s level of trust that I try to build—through my demeanor or words and in situations where I speak only remedial bits and pieces of the language used, I try to communicate this through my actions: a quiet smile, a soft head nod, and open heart I hope they can feel.

Now, we take off our shoes, to walk barefoot along the rice padi walls—like the workers do. Where a wall crumbles, we sink slowly into gray-green mud past our calves. They see me coming from a distance. I stand before them, mud covering my legs, greeting them in soft Indonesian. They smile wide when they hear me trying out my new words. We present the food and cold soda (for the hot day). They point to my camera and ask questions. I ask if I may take their pictures. When I’m done, I show them. I’m dripping with sweat in my t-shirt and shorts. They are smiling, and warm in their wet rags and long sleeved shirts. They laugh as we flip through photos. I point to faces and call them beautiful, very beautiful. Because they are. The depth, the lines, the warmth. I can’t believe this is on my camera. A woman with a missing tooth and lazy eye, points to me then walks to her bag. She pulls out a small, fistful sized bag of coffee grounds. She thanks me, the women nod their thanks as she holds it out to me.

At first I don’t get it. I’ve intruded on their day, I’ve watched them work, I have a slew of shots I can hardly believe, all for a bag of snacks. And this woman, who works for dollars a day, will give me her coffee to thank me. I put my hands to my heart and bow low to thank them and try to find the kindest words to turn it down, they have given me so much already. She must keep her coffee for later. There is warm confusion and laughter as my heartfelt words get lost in the difficult translation. We walk back in the hot sun on my back, barefoot, through the cool mud, to the house. I look back and they smile at me. I wave. They hold up their cold sodas and wave back, rice padi and coconut trees behind them. I’m completely speechless. (I’m relieved to find with all the amazing people and things around me of late, I’m still not used to it--I can still just revel in being blown away.)

Ruma Oka (at Oka's house)

2009-09-30T23:08:00.000-07:00

Just when I think we are on our way home, the children are asleep in the way back seat, the car slows to turn into a lonely road. We’re in the middle of jungle. No one’s said anything to me. It’s just assumed that I’m also planning on spending the rest of the day--with them--at Ruma Oka. In the games I play with my mind to remember strange words: ruma oka is one that sticks. The house of Oka.

On a lumpy, muddy road, we drive slowly,but still bounce up and down, while squeezing between narrow and steep mossy rock walls with the car mirrors tucked in. Up the stairs into the compound. It’s simple, well-worn, and dirt-covered. Past pens of ducks and pigs, chickens scratch the bare ground in front of the house, laundry hangs to dry, and sun flits through the spaces between rambutan and manga trees. Roosters for fighting crow from straw cages. Barefoot kids dart between sunshine and shadow. A lone motor bike guards the small family rice field. Two small buildings are joined by a traditional Indonesian kitchen. No stove, no gas. But a coconut-husk fed fire that has blackened the walls and contents of the kitchen with soot. Anni shows it off – great taste here, not like the gas stove. In the corner fresh, dark blood spills from a board, and pools on the ground. It was probably a chicken.

Oka sits, dressed in white (a stark contrast to the drab surroundings) watching the day, cross-legged on the long covered porch, smiling. He welcomes us and instructs me to sit with him as his wife brings out three plates of fruit and coffee. I try to eat, because I know it’s expected, but I am so full I can hardly stand the tie around my waste anymore (that and the pig incident has left my stomach just a little queezy still). I appease them with sips of strong copi (coffee). Then the coconuts (colapa muda) are brought out. Oka hacks them open and inserts a straw for me to taste it. His wife teaches me to say “rasmana manis” (those are sweet). Then I learn the names of more fruit as Oka’s tiny grand daughter points her brother’s camera at me to take pictures of me making silly faces. The kids run around the yard. Newly wed sister, in a sparkling kabayah, chases them and picks them up, for hugs and kisses against their will. Everyone laughs. The boy who’s picked on the most, but who has the best joking demeanor, finally hides behind the farthest wall of the compound and starts to sing.

Maybe six years old, his soft voice, like tissue paper, sometimes rips and tears on the high notes – it’s sweet, light and beautiful. The other kids join in at parts, he gains confidence then sings at the top of his lungs. The only word I understand: “My darrrrrling! My darling!” Everyone laughs. I join in for reasons of my own: I’m in Bali, sitting cross-legged in the family compound of the descendent of an Indonesian king, sharing new words with his family and children. Three weeks ago, I was working in a coffee shop, in Seattle.

Nothing much happens. Just a series of simple minutes, that drift into hours. A lazy afternoon with a group of strangers-turned-family, like all the others. This is Indonesia, they tell me, as we sit and peel rumbutan and mangiis. Eating, sharing, talking Indonesian. Jokes and smiles and gossip is traded. Kids play. I snap photos as they correct my Indonesian. Then lean back, imagine what it would be like to have grown up here, and let myself whither after long hours in the sun. Oka drives me home, escorts me back to the gate. I thank him many times for honoring me with a visit to his house. He is pleased and wants to take me to new Indonesian places tomorrow or the day after next, or after that? I am so worn out again from so many busy days. I know I need to rest, work, and after being surrounded by a pool of such fabulous people, so constantly: I feel the need for some serious down time. (So American, but it’s what my heart and mind are now yearning for.)

I smile, Ya, ya nanti, nanti… Saya kerja! (Yes, yes, but later, later….I work now!)

Tidak, tidak, tidak: Lampang! (No, no, no, lampang!)

2009-09-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

Are we heading home? I ask. Nanti (later) Is the response I get. The children need food.

We drive far away. I laugh at my insistent need to get things done, when I know this is enough. We go for babi guling at a grimy warung. I snap a couple shots (in case there was any doubt just how Indonesian I am eating these days) and watch a busload of tourists unload, and walk by without a glance. The kids hand me things to smell and taste. I like the slightly spicy fried bean crackers called lampang, I’m ok with the flavorless fried pig skin that acts as babi guling spoons, I devour the meat and start in on the nankat (jackfruit?) fruit soup eagerly. The yellow-brown broth is delicious, savory and sweet.

As I drink more and more, the broth slowly lowers. Finally I have to lower my head to the cup…allowing me to see the inch long tufts of thick pig whiskers attached to a large bit of pig meat that finally rose to the top of my soup cup. In my fearless mission to try it all for the last couple weeks, it’s the first time I am really, truly floored by nausea. I look again. Yes. Tufts, floating in a pool of green-brown savory broth. The smell of everything—the once delicious soup, the bits of nankat, the spicy meat, even the bland white rice--suddenly seem raw and clammy. I try not to think of the pig, or it's origins. But only think of it more. Snorting and moving...and...If not eating is rude, I imagine throwing up would ruin my “accepted” status with Oka’s children. As the room spins and my stomach churns, I sip on my Coke, I reach for more lampang, I laugh, I eat bits of white rice, I try not to glance at the butcher’s block at the front of the store where a woman hasn't stopped hacking at the steaming hot flesh of another pig.

I ask for more words and the distraction works. Oka’s children are all eager to teach a ton of new words: “Saya mao pergi ker pura”, bulon, bintang (they all laugh when it hits me that bintang, or star--we create little fists for "star"--is also the most popular Indonesian beer--we create circles with our hand and pretend to drink!), engat, lampang, cupu-cupu…and then always "Tidak, tidak, tidak!" (No, no, no!) My brain is on hilarious overload trying to keep them straight. Plus the price for getting it wrong is nerve-wracking! Not understanding the complexities of a new language yet, children are brutal teachers: erupting with laughter at my every hint of a mistake, firmly correctly the slightest miss-pronunciation in a chorus of: “Tidak, tidak: lampang. Lammmmm-pang! Lammmmm-pang!” slowly sounding out each syllable until my slow ears find the right match for my slower tongue.

It's awesome playing with them, learning words from them. Watching them warm up to me. I am their non-stop entertainment. I try to imagine what they must think of me. The puti-pale, tall girl who can just barely form the words they mastered years before. No idea (or care) that I once climbed a corporate ladder, have my own house and pay a mortgage, live by my mad-crazy Microsoft Excel skillz that are just above my mad-crazy mountain bike skillz. They don't care at all, about any of it. Instead, we chomp on fried pig skin and spoon rice, with the fingers on our right "good" hand, to our mouths as they also grow more comfortable with my big camera. Often it captures their laughter. Other times, I’ve seen each pause, for minutes at a time to look into my lense with the most genuine, curious, or serious face I have yet to see.

Saya tidak "turis" (I am not a tourist)

2009-09-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

Once again, I'm awake before sunrise. Annie and I drink hot copi, eat sweet wild mangoes, then I tuck a couple plastic wrapped chocolate-rice millet sweet cracker into my purse for later. (Annie laughs that when I say I want to try alllll Indonesian food, I mean the mass-produced, made in Jakarta or Java, cartoon labeled sweets that I throw in our shopping cart. It’s one of the things I like about traveling: reveling in the authentic real food and pop-culture trashy food with equal exuberance!) These ones are called “Better” (and they’re pretty good in a trashy kind of way!.
Two hours late (on Balinese time) our ride appears. We barely all fit into the car. Oka’s newly-wed daughter in a sparkling lace kabayah, son in law, Annie, Oka’s three other sons (out of the 8 total, very blessed is his family, Annie tells me.)

When we arrive, the procession starts as a cavalcade of cars, trucks full of people, and a host of white-shirted men driving colorfully laced women (often balancing offerings, baskets, young children) on motor bikes. On the way to our ceremony, we pass three others. “this is how it is!” they laugh. We hop from the car and run as carefully as my sarong will allow to the plaza under the giant holy banyan tree.

I hear the bamboo and drum gamelon first. Large bamboo poles, wave red and yellow flags. Men in matching red and black sarongs shoulder bamboo litters of flowers, ducks and chickens. Incense burns. The crowd follows: children in tow, offerings piled high, irredescent lace kaballahs sparking. The dragon-beasts come nest. Brown, stringy hair touches to the floor, bits of mirror scattered on its gilded body reflect the sun at all angles. A garish, masked face with bulging eyes. More clanging and drumming and pounding of metallic notes. The priest dons a black crown, wraps himself in orange cloth, and whispers incantations as incense burns. We sit, in the sun, on the ground. Then I hear the golden bell. It rings, now like an old friend, with incessant predictability. A procession of women, with offerings around the plaza. I see Oka’s wife among them. Devout and angelic.

I feel like I recognize it for what it is, or at least means to me right now: chaos. Utter and absolute chaos. And it’s not a bad thing, it’s just chaotic because I don’t know it from before, I am not yet familiar with part of my life yet, but I'm getting there. Like my first Indonesian syllables, the green kaballah and mismatched sarong, the rise and fall of the unpredictable gamelon, the wedding: I learning to trust my own step forward, and let this all swirl around me, loving it for what it simultaneously is and is not. I am becoming part of this. It’s been interesting to witness my own process of exploring, learning, sometimes falling, always growing. It makes me dream more and more about bold new things.

Kids race around the plaza. They smile shyly at me. A group of boys take turns shouting “hello lady”. Squealing when I say “hello” back. They say “teri mi kasi” and I bow my head “sama sama”. They squeal louder and whisper to their friends. The little girls on my side join in. Pretty soon we’re all counting to ten, and they’re cheering me on in the early morning sunshine, in a temple of stone carvings. There’s a collective rustle of fabric in the plaza as hundreds of bodies re-arrange to face the rising sun. Panic. What now? Annie whispers to follow what she does. She is Muslim but says she knows how to pray Hindu.

I look at her. Pray Hindu? What?
She shooshes me and motions to follow her lead. As she places a small palm basket of flowers before us and a white-dressed holy man douses us in flicks of cold holy water.

I remember the wedding prayer. I think of Oka’s wife and daughter. Graceful, reflective, beautifully quiet.

We each take a single flower from the basket, place it between our hands, then the bell rings. Slow, steady, reassuring. It rings a meditation. My eyes close. I take slow deep breaths. Feel the sun on my face and the warmth in my heart. I give thanks for all that I have, all that I have beheld, all that I hope to become. The ringing bell speeds faster. Then. Silence.

Open eyes. I am kneeling in a temple in Bali, praying. It is as it should be, I hear over and over in my head. Slowly place the flower my hair. Then reach for a new one. Deep breath, a smile, a single blossom between the fingertips. The bell starts slowly and my eyes close.

I pray in the sunshine. For long, slow, golden minutes. At high noon, sweat trickles down my face and arms. I open my eyes on the bells command. With each prayer it gets easier and easier. I am less nervous. I relax more and more into this new place I have found.

At the bell’s command I open my eyes, smiling. Like seeing the world for the first time, over and over and over. Then I open my eyes, and see the tourists. Sarongs loosely tied, powershots in tow, they stand on the outside, looking and pointing. Then they see me. More pointing and I nod my head and smile. Looking at them, I realize just how lucky I am to be included in this. At the bell’s command I close my eyes and shut them out. I find my prayer for happiness and understanding, kindness and peace, and unstoppable kick-ass wildness. I smile. When the bell insists, I open my eyes and he’s leaning against the pillar, 50 feet away, watching me. Smiling. I wonder if this could be as beautiful to him as the wedding prayer of graceful mother and daughter was to me. I feel beautiful and warm. I feel that it is. I feel sweetly at peace with the world, myself, chaos, fear. All of it. It's just another blossom to bless and put in your hair. The bell rings and I pick a flower, lift it to my head and close my eyes. When I open them again, he’s backed off. Then reappears. Camera in hand this time. Like a western shoot out, I reach for mine and take a picture of him taking a picture of me.

Annie and the others see this and shriek with laughter, patting me on the back.

The holy men come around again, this time, we are doused in holy water. It’s refreshing and cold after a long sit in the hot noon sun. We take bits of rice in our hands and press them to our forehead and temples. There they dry and remain for the rest of the afternoon.

Saya mao tidur secorang (I go to sleep now)

2009-09-25T01:22:00.000-07:00

After so many days, overflowing with so many golden hours of stunning amazement and emotion and languages and people, I find I am craving some quiet time.

I get up with the morning light, jalan-jalan (walk) to the market with Anni, we eat delicious, hot noodle soup -- on a hot day -- from her friend's warung (little restaurant) and somehow it's the best thing ever, I practice my Indonesian every chance I get, learning more and more words every day. Impressing Anni and Oka's friends and family with my new fluency (Pintar! or Smart! They point at me.) My words are almost as impressive as my iron-clad stomach, as I keep my vow to try everything put in front of me. And I do. The only thing I don't try is Anni's ayam (chicken) soup with two, whole and cooked to a golden-orange-hue-I-can-see-their-eyes-beaks-and-head-flappy-thingys-in-her-soup-as-I-drink-mine chicken heads floating on top. (Since it was Anni's soup and it wasn't put in front of me so I didn't feel compelled...)

At dinner, we each leave a little left on our plates at dinner, claim to be full, and one by one drop bites (sometimes plates) of food in front of bony & threadbare Anjing - the wild dog who's slowly getting less fearful of our voices and sudden movements. Sometimes she even sits at my feet as I work. (Yes, I work in Bali...but I don't mind at all. I'm pretty happy to have a job that lets me do this. I can't believe it actually. And I like the "break". It feels good to use my head, crunch numbers and think logically. It's a great balance to the Indonesian immersion lifestyle I've found myself suddenly living). I greet passing neighbors and strangers in Indonesian. I read books I've been trying for years to finish, I sit on the teracotta balcony railing, feel the sun and watch the ducks, the fireflys, the trees, the world doing it's thing. I stay up well past bed-time, writing. Madly typing out the memories of the day in fear I'll forget the magic, if I put it off any longer. I think and I dream, a lot. It's a quiet and magical time. Something about being here, getting here after all the struggle to make it happen, the last minute altercations, the doubt that it might not be good, that I might be making a mistake, but knowing it just had to do this...it makes me realize how valuable it is to push through difficult situations, past comfort zones and doubt -- into brave, new, colorful worlds.

I read a colleague turned friend's post on fear and hope. How often we react(and live life reacting to) only our imagined fears in the mind's quest for certainty. It's much easier than admitting to the presence of real doubt, uncertainty and fear--and willfully staring into these things and pushing through it....the childish fear of the bogey man in the closet, until we will ourselves to open that door and stand still while we see what's there--only to find nothing, or something else entirely. Reading his words echo somethings I think I'm starting to realize now, in my heart and head and life. I want to embrace my doubts more, know what they are, so instead of running from them, I can ease into them slowly, gently like a yoga pose or deep breath. Until I am walking forward and I am letting go of fears. I think that's why I've been writing, posting, flinging open various doors and windows in my life the last few months. I fear putting so much out there -- the good, great....and the most vulnerably human part of myself when I'm falling down -- but at the same time, I just want to try living my life, exploring who I am and this world and how I connect with other people, in a more open, honest way. See what those in my life do with this. What I do with this! And somehow, I think this is a start to something...

Days and nights merge lazily into others. I sleep to the sound of talking frogs, who constantly gurgle in the muddy depths, outside my window like little slimy madmen.

And, then the internet breaks. It's my Balinese lifeline -- without it I can't work. Fear. Frustration. I don't know what happened, just woke up one morning and it was gone. Again and again, I try all I can think of, still no internet. Calling an Indonesian help desk is not going to be fun. So I go another route, I set out a cup of Coca Cola and one of my "Better" chocolate crackers on the table. I say a quick prayer to the internet gods. Anni laughs, and I cross my fingers. Four hours later the internet is back. I work from the dinning room table, as Balinese breezes blow through the open kitchen. For the most part, it feels like a dream. And I hear myself wonder: what next...

Pendeta (The Priestess)

2009-09-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

When I feel like I’ve had enough (it’s been hours – sitting, eating, listening in the hot sun--since the priestess arrived) still, the rituals continue. The gamelon plays. The bell rings. The people talk and laugh. I have no familiar context, no familiar words, no familiar ritual, no familiar taste, no familiar sound, no familiar face, nothing. Two and a half intense days, lost in time and another world. It’s been immensely beautiful, but also immensely challenging for reasons I never expected. I love how it all makes me start to think new things and feel new things. And yet, when I stop and sit, it feels like chaos, swirling around me. I watch Siwa blow through the palm fronds, I feel the warmth of matahari (the sun) touch my skin through my thin kaballah. Then I look up.

The priestess sits high above me, on her gilded pedestal, hand mechanically ringing the bell, her brown eyes hooked on one thing: me. There’s no one behind me, no one around me, nothing to distract her from me. When I look up to meet her gaze, instead of turning away, something in her eyes holds me there. Looking up at her. Instinctively, I smile. I want it to be gracious and effortless. But I’m tired and worn. My cheeks hurt from trying so hard all day. It feels fake. I feel fake.

Frustration. My smile comes crashing down. Sitting there, I can’t hide. I can’t hide my real confusion or honest pain, my intense desire these days to push myself in new ways, to be better than I was before – not just to myself but to those who find their way in my life. But how does one do this? How does one live, love, dream in this way? I stare at those feelings. I stare at my fear that I might fail in my trying. I might fail over and over. I have already failed, trying, many times already. But I realize that's part of this life. Part of living, it is trying. Learning, growing. Then trying again. Because, now, I can’t run away either. I’m tired of running. From myself, from others. I'm tired of hiding. From myself, from others.

So I sit there. I let my eyes fill. A bit of hard-earned salt-water drips slowly from my eyes as she watches. My worn-out senses can only trace it’s warm path down my cheek. I feel it slowly evaporated by a golden sun. Honest pain dissentigrates in the warmth of the day. A deep breath. I look down then. At my hands, at the carved stone, at the bits of magenta and gold flowers on the dirty cement. I close my eyes. I sit in a courtyard in Bali, I feel all these new things closing in around me. The gamelon crashes and falls and crashes and falls so loudly now, people talk with more passion, my sarong is damp with sweat, smoky incense bites my nose and throat, and the high-pitched golden bell vibrates through the air, faster and faster and faster. I feel her staring at me, still. I’m not sure if it’s her eyes I feel, or the honesty of my own eyes staring into new, previously unknown depths of my soul that I feel I’m discovering as I take one new, brave step--directly into the path of my fear—after another: I just know deep down there are parts of me that are scared, nervous, I am not sure any of these things I dream of will work out, I am not sure what is for sure, I am not sure what to trust, I am not sure what to be, I am not sure where to go, I am not sure what to feel. I'm not sure how I'll translate this moment to words. My head aches with new and old words, new and old emotions. Fire, water, wind. Brahman, Wisnu, Si…

Even as the ceremony spins around, the bell stops. I stop. My tired senses and over-worked emotions can take no more. And that is when it stops. I lift my head and open my eyes, to the gaze of a high-caste Balinese priestess, who hums incantations I can’t understand. Red crown, white dress, ringing bell, but something has changed. When I look up to her brown eyes, still staring into me, I see a new depth. A kindness, a gentleness, an understanding – not of my happiness – but of my confusion, my pain, my honesty and my own internal chaos. My humanity. It is this that binds me to the people around me. It is not for me to change, it is only for me to experience, on a never-ending path to learning, loving, living, and understanding. Life--it’s never just done, it always unfolds and continues, up the next mountain, around the next corner. A deep breath as I let go. I see it clearly. Her lifetime intersecting with mine, for just that moment. My mistakes and my falls that create chaos ARE the things I need to celebrate! It’s through realizations from these powerful things, where I am truly finding new depths to my heart and new strengths to my mind, and in the process new honesty, openness and connection with those people around me – long time friends and utter strangers. It’s through these things I begin to uncover my strength. I smile again. It feels real and true. Let there be chaos! Let there be great unknowns! Let there be huge risks! Just let me have the honest strength and kind wisdom to try and experience these fully, to the best of my ability, however, wherever they find me! Let me fail miserably in the trying and always get back up to try again: stronger, lovelier, kinder than before. It’s my own anthem, repeated in my own words, with its own song, in my head.

Holy water is flung from palm fronds to those in the ceremony. They drink it fervently and feverishly. They touch it to their face and wipe it through their hair. They reach for more as I quietly watch, wondering if I'll try to post about this moment. If this will be understood or tossed aside, even though it doesn't matter to me. I know I'll try to post something. It's part of the process. Then the procession starts through the compound. A sea of gold and rainbows against the dirt-gray walls. Through all halls they go, chanting, proclaiming, smiling. It ends where it began, in the center. And it’s over.

The gamelon still plays, the puppet show mimes a holy tale, people continue to talk and laugh and eat. Some people leave. More people arrive. They will continue to arrive into the night and the days to come. More food will be made. More coffee will be served in teacups. The bell stops ringing. Without a word, to anyone, the priestess packs up her things and leaves with her followers.

A quiet, tired, long drive home. I thank Oka and Annie over and over. I head upstairs light a candle, and prepare a room-temperature bath. I close my eyes and lay on my back with my ears underwater, until there is no other sound but that of my own breath, until the dark night of another day finds me.

Nanti, nanti (Waiting for later...)

2009-09-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

1pm arrives. Then 2pm. 2:30pm. Nanti, nanti (later, later), people whisper but are not alarmed. The ceremony might not start until 4. I struggle to stay awake and smiling. But finally, the priest comes, except the priest is female. Gray-white hair, soft face, serious brown eyes. She neither smiles or frowns. But takes her position on the ceremonial table, wraps herself in beads and gold bands. After incense, soft murmurs of incantations, she begins ringing a gold bell. Over and over. It “tings” to its own consistent beat. As the gamelon crashes and plays to its own consistent beat. Then the sacred puppeteer adds his own small melody and voice. And still, the older women from the morning ceremony sing into a microphone their own songs and chants. Joined at times by a man who, in an off key that hits my ears in an uncomfortable way like hitting your funny bone, talk-sings. Meanwhile, people come and go, talk and laugh, move through the 20 square feet of the compound where this is all assembled.

I sit at the steps of the wedding building, watching and feeling my tired brain kick into overdrive again (and not having the energy to stop it, I let it go and watch): I feel it trying to make sense of these disparate pieces. Strange rituals, smells, music and people. Laughing because I’m starting to realize -- only now after three days of Indonesian immersion with maybe just one English-speaking interaction -- what it wants: to again find something it recognizes, some certainty, something it can know--instead of drowning in the totally unfamiliar, the chaos of utterly new, coming at me from all angles. It seeks to find it in a wedding ceremony it knows from its past: it seeks one with a distinct itinerary, start and end, quiet decorum, one where a preacher talks and everyone knows listens, one where the musicians sing and everyone sways, one where a man says I do and everyone smiles, one where a woman says I do and everyone gets a little misty-eyed, one where a man kisses the woman and everyone applauds. One where I feel my heart inspired to reach for another. Then the celebration. Then, done.

Instead, I watch as five different things take place at one. All clashing and crashing, in a mismatch of colors, music, and activity, tones and words. The wedding ceremony of Oka’s daughter is combined with the tooth filing ceremony for the other three. Standing before their family, then sitting before the priestess, they are guided through a complex series of rituals and prayers. Flat rocks placed on palms, kicking an egg, tiny strings placed behind ears, tying of green rice leaves around the head, symbolic crushing of rice, then the eating of rice, the drinking of a potent liquid that leaves one girl almost gagging, the passing of sacred things behind and in front of the body. (Doing it over when it’s not done correctly). The elder women, the mothers of those in the ceremony, hover around their children; helping, guiding, instructing, encouraging with touches and silent but approving looks.

More hours pass, people come and go, talk and laugh, eat and drink non-alcoholic beverages. I am ever-fading from the long hot day and wander through Indonesian traditions and conversations. The party stands up to walk to the family temple.
A man with a mini-camcorder positions me in front of the kneeling, golden women. Behind them, the other women line up. Then they pray. Each woman picks a holy flower from the palm tray in front of them, holds the beautiful thing lightly, between gentle fingers. Around them the party continues, the gamelon plays. But kneeling there on the ground, every eye is closed with reverent beauty. The bell rings for a slow minute or two. The bell rings faster and faster, then stops. Silence.

Eyes open, they place the flower in their hair, behind their ears, mothers and daughters reach for a new flower. Again the bell rings slow then fast. Then stops. The flower is placed with the others. Simple and beautiful, it continues. Until they return to the priestess. There are never any words of love, instruction for living a life together, or what it will require of them. Instead, silent rituals are passed from one to the other. Looking around at the people gathered, I realize it’s this community that will help them find their way through this new life they are starting.

Wedding? Belum... (The Wedding? Not yet...)

2009-09-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

It’s a long drive back to the compound. Already a full day, I realize it’s only about to begin, at 1 with the wedding which I am told will be very, very long. Tired but excited, I am now greeted with familiar waves and warm smiles—-I laugh, the jolly green giant from America has returned! The kids tug at my hands to show me the beautiful gamelon, now playing. As I take photos of men intently playing, the boys try to pile in my picture, everyone laughs, even the players. Oka teaches me the three main gods: Brahama (fire), Wishnu (water), Siwa--Oka pauses and a gust of wind blows through the compound, we laugh (wind!)!

I repeat the Hindu gods and their English attributes. To everyone’s amusement, when I get to Siwa (wind!) I pause to look at the sky expectantly. Then mocked frustration. I can’t seem to make the wind blow with Siwa’s name, as Oka did. Everyone laughs.

Rounds of copi (coffee) alternates with rounds of air (water) and soda pop. I unwrap a gelatinous cone of brown-red rice from palm strips. I untie little packets of sweet white rice with bits of fruity nankat (yak fruit? They tell me it’s called in America, though I’ve never had anything like it). Both are homemade treats from Oka's wife. I eat orange-colored potato chips from the long potato. I am careful to monitor my smiles and exclamations--as they only seem to result in people bringing me more snacks. And this, Annie warns me, is only appetizer. Noon passes and I am fed two more plates of piled with savory, rich, delicious food (more curries, satays, babi, naci puti, ayam goreng, vegetables...) by various people eager to watch me eat and savor this taste of Bali.

I try to follow the Indonesian talk, to pick out a few words, and add a few of my own. We laugh and talk and eat. I am quietly greeted by Indonesian women my own age, with children and husbands for the last ten of my years. (Aside from Oka and the bridegroom and the small children, none of the men talk to me, or approach me--though they all smile when I level my camera to their faces. Conversation seems left to the women) Far from the travelers hub of Ubud or the touristy havens of Kuta and Denpasar, being alone as a woman is much less common. They have many questions. I can't understand or answer all of them. So I let Annie talk for me. I can see they are in quiet awe that I can travel alone, and do. Annie tells them I work for the internet, have a little house with two adopted kittens (Annie loves animals) in America (it's never the United States, always America). I take photos and write. I am smart and I learn Indonesian very, very quickly. I rent villa. (which I think comes with some implied status, being able to rent the villa--single-handedly--and stay in Bali. When I hear my story told, I try to smile kindly, make a joke, kneel to photograph something simple or play with a child--anything to appear just "everyday" in their eyes, perhaps someone they could relate to. Because, sometimes I feel my American tourist status, accidental villa accomodations, and bank card elevate me to something more than I want to be to them. For this time, I want to be accepted, as one of them, as much as possible.) Annie then proudly brags that I always eat with her the real Indonesian food from any of her favorite roadside warung (restaurant) and never sick. Not like the other tourists, sick the next day. It's this that really impresses people at the wedding. More plates of food are brought out (I say a little prayer of thanks that my ongoing Seattle "taco-truck-or-any-food-from-a-truck-or-hole-in-the-wall" love affair seems to have slowly strengthened my little stomach, to be in perfect Balinese shape! I seriously have just been eating EVERYTHING, ANYWHERE. With no regrets. I am always saying, "Yes!" and am always suprised just how extra-awesome my iron-stomach has become! To get Balinese props at a wedding because of it, even better!)

It is my story, in Indonesian, I hear repeated over and over.

At the same time that they are curiously impressed, the women wonder aloud why I am alone, not married. (It's like taking on 15 or 20 of gentle mothers or grandmas, at one time--they all want to know) I laugh off their honest curiousity. Shake my head and reply: Belum ("not yet" because it is always rude to say no). I am not ready yet. I needed to come to Bali first. Then maybe... They love that I am enjoying Bali and that I can mash together rough replies in Indonesian.

I haven’t told anyone about my photo project. I don’t want to lie about my intent, but at the same time, I feel the best photos will be authentic and unposed. I want those around me to trust me and feel comfortable showing me their less guarded sides. Not self-conscious about (what may likely never actually see the light of) my little altruistic photography show idea. The hiding of this idea is also a little for myself: when I think of putting my photos to the public scrutiny of others, my hands grow stiff and my eye gets nervously cold, focusing on the end result and not the content in front of my lense. When I let myself forget, I am back to taking photos as I like to do it: capturing the many depths and shades of beauty, as I see it so I can better connect with what’s before me. As they day goes by, as I am part of the "ceremony" of simply, patiently waiting (a ritual, I think, is not really known in my country...) they grow more and more comfortable to my clicking shutter, even inviting it, and I discover it gradually easier to move through the day; capturing more natural, beautiful moments of a wedding day unfolding.

As I drift in and out of a jet-lagged lull, I get to do my most favorite of all my activities: watch the world. The intimate goings on of an Indonesian community. The offerings that are replenished, the personal rituals repeated, the greeting of old friends and respected elders, the mischief of children, the laughter of adults, the worry of a mother, the anxious look of a young daughter, the fixing of hair, the whispered talk of family and friends sitting in outdoor hallways of a traditional Indonesian kitchen, in front of enourmous baskets of all kinds of food, chopping, cutting, preparing, soaking, frying, cooking. Stoking the fire with dried coconut husks, to add extra flavor and warmth to food I already know will be amazing.

This afternoon, it’s the women who seem to shine in front of me. The women in the morning's ceremonies reappear - all gold and flowers. I can hardly believe the site of them floating through the crowds and sunshine. Like gilded angels. They eat nothing, to keep to the fasting until after the ceremony, and sit in the shade. Resting, waiting, watching. A smile is never far from their red lips, but it's also doled out carefully to those deserving. I see more solemnity from the young women. One of the girls seems to hurt beyond belief. Tears well in her eyes as she sits, and the others comfort her.

My favorite is Oka’s daughter, naturally beautiful in the early morning, she is now resplendent in a towering, flowering, gilded headdress and burgundy-gold wrap. Wherever she steps, she reflects the light of the sun, matahari. Whatever she does, it’s with light, graceful movements. There is gentleness mixed with playfulness. I see both holds the hand of an elderly woman or tickles the cheek of her friend's child. Whomever she greets, seem to momentarily shine in her presence. When she smiles, it seems there's no one who can't help themselves but to return the gift.

Slow minutes pass in the Balinese sunshine as we wait. Belum, belum, belum...

Matahari & Air (Sun & Holy Water)

2009-09-23T11:00:00.000-07:00

Oka is waiting at the car to take us to another temple, the temple of holy water. This water you can drink, Annie tells me, or swim. But it is very cold. More highway close calls, and we descend to another temple. We navigate stairs and turns, past koi ponds and gardens and vendors. (Annie points out how they attach themselves to the other tourists, but not to me because I wear traditional Indonesian dress). We stop at the long square pools of blue-hued water (In Indonesian, water is called “air”: pronounced “ire” and don’t forget to roll that “r” like it’s Spanish--my favorite part).

Above mossy black-green headstones, carved spouts shoot icy water onto the men and women, young and very old, submerging themselves, and their prayers, in its cleansing stream. It’s beautiful to watch. They place their smoldering incense and palm and flower offerings on a headstone, the price for entry, then slowly wade through the icy blue. They clasp hands under the stream, heads bowed. I try to imagine what they pray for, what cold holy water feels like, what they see when they submerge themselves. Some hold their breath and wait, others pop up quickly with surprise. All are dripping. Dry clothes that had once billowed on entry, now trace all each body’s most intimate shapes and curves. He holds his head under the spout, in prayer, letting the water stream down his head (the most holy) for minutes at a time. A old woman in an eggplant-colored kaballah, fill a white bottle with water to be used later or left on some shrine someplace else. My curious eye or camera shutter never distract their fervent devotion.

The sound of the camera shutter, or a strange woman peering over the brick wall, does distract the men next door. A few feet over is group of 50 or more men standing in a smaller, higher—thus more holy--fenced off pool. There is shouting and
yelling, scratching of heads, and speculating. Talking over the rusted iron fence, one of them invites me to watch as they hoist a massive, tarp covered stone pagoda onto a giant bamboo gurney (the bamboo poles appear almost a six inches in diameter -- are large beyond belief, but still seem like they'll snap under the weight), then lift it, over their heads, to a high pedestal in the pool. One man shouts orders from the pedestal, the masses grunt, heave, argue and eventually laugh.

I revel with how many men it's going to take to lift this one small stone. I think of Annie’s one holy man with big powers, carving out the stone temples and hoisting rocks 100 times the size of this. It’s much more magical to envision one man doing amazing things, alone. But it’s much more interesting watching this large group of men—all focused on the same goal, all practicing the same religion, all wearing similar style clothing. Yet all so different, the angle of a jawbone, the jutting of a lip, the lines of a face, the silhouette of a nose as the sun hits it. It’s the perfect time for watching, and for photos, since they’re too busy struggling to hide or pose.

As I snap my camera, Annie laughs that it’s always something with me. Always something happening. I see nothing else like it. You show up in Bali you go to big ceremony, you find kaballah, you go to wedding, you show up at stone temple, it is yours alone. You come here, there is this. Always something. We stand in the Indonesian sun. I am laughing. I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know, Annie, guess I just got to Bali at just the right time. (There is no Indonesian translation for what’s been happening lately.)

Even when there is nothing – with you it is something…always see something else.she pauses...I think it is good.

I think I know what she means and I think it's good too. I’ve kneeled to grab a shot of the sun hitting an empty, upturned, silver offering pan. I have to squint to look up at her. Hmmm, I don’t know. But I like it. I am glad you like it.

Then, in the corner of my eye, I see her look around and then down to actually see me. What you taking picture of? She laughs, exasperated.

The sun, Annie! It’s the sun—what is the Indonesian word for sun?

Matahari.

Eye of the day. I repeat it over and over. Annie teaches me bulon (moon) and bintang (star…which is also the name of the Indonesian equivalent to Rainier Beer back home.)

As I snap more shots of the men and make up my mind to leave after this one last try (we’ve been here for hours), I mouth matahari over and over--trying to familiarize my tongue to its form, as I stand in its light.

The stone pagoda is lowered, and pushed back up. Lowered and pushed back up. As matahari shines, the human machine continues to exhale and lifting.

Then they try again. Thin muscles strain even more, men leap from side to side, splashing in holy water, pushing and holding. The bamboo poles never break, only bend, under the enormous weight. Then finally, in a slow and back-breaking push, they make it to the top. One massive stone rests on the other, where it will stay for its single lifetime, and hundreds, perhaps thousands of ours. All the while, in the midst of the chaos, the steady stream of quiet worshipers continue to wade through the pools, past floating bits of magenta and orange flowers, and offer prayers to their gods.

Visiting the "Stone Temple" of Bali

2009-09-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

Miles away (and maybe a hundred highway close calls later), bapak Oka parks the car in a deserted lot. Annie takes my hand and we head down the empty street. The morning sun has just edged up over the mountains, as we descend the hundreds of stairs, the only two people at the temple, past amazing terraced fields, down to the Stone Temples (it is what Annie and Oka call it, I need to find it's other name). Annie looks at me, you are not bleeding menstruation, ya? I shake my head, already passed. Good, she says, you cannot enter the temple if you bleed. It is bad karma, you know, and I not take you. I do not want you have bad karma.

I didn’t know. But I am thankful I got that out of the way before Bali, I reassure her and thank her for the instruction as I do not want bad karma either, and we continue walking down the steep, old, mossy steps.

Cut directly from the stone mountainside and carved with intricate designs, a series of temples sit facing each other, cut in the middle by a rushing stream. The stone temples are amazing and very old. Taller than the palm trees, they ascend to the heavens. To the sides are tiny rooms in the stone, for meditation. With no other people around, this early in the morning, we wander through the sacred grounds and Annie tells me more Indonesian stories, of the single holy man who built the entire stone temple long ago. I ask if she’s serious – how could one man do it. Surely he had help. She looks at me very seriously: Noooo. Holy man alone. Holy man cut temple from stone mountain. Holy man have big powers. How else could one holy man do it?

Through the empty temples, past troughs of holy water that trickles from the mountainside, across old bridges. When we pause for a moment, there is no sound, but that of an old, sacred world languishing. I stop myself again, to just breathe it in. To feel what is around me. There is something about these places they take me to that is more than a tourist park. Not sure what it is, but when I am standing there, contemplating the eons, lives, and offerings that have passed in the making of this temple – and so many others – I am overcome with both awe and peace. Annie dismisses the new part of the temple as maybe only 500 years old. Very new. I laugh. I tell her at home, that would be considered very old. I tell her in Washington, there are not many things that are still around that are that old.

Annie walks off to something else, as I stand for a minute on the most sacred ground just trying to drink it in. It’s then I see a single blood-red hibiscus flower. I smile and kneel to take try to capture it with a camera. Only four years old, growing up in a smog-filled Los Angeles suburb, I always remember picking tea-cup sized blooms from the backyard shrubs. Jewel toned colors, like doll umbrellas, with orange-toothbrush stamens adored by hummingbirds.

Years later, I find them still enchanting, familiar, vibrant, and sweet. Hibiscus is the single thing I am able to paint. I keep one growing in my sunroom at home, when it blooms in the Washington summers, I set it outside for the hummingbirds. Here, a world away, it blooms red between the mossy and white crags of an old stone temple. So brilliant. So beautiful. I recount the various roads it has taken to get here, to stand in this deserted temple plaza in the early morning; the bright days and dark nights endured. I am thankful for all these things: good and challenging. I don’t know that I would appreciate this moment otherwise. Overcome with so many big, new things in the last few days, months, and years: It’s this single flower that holds me captive and speechless. I offer a quiet prayer to my gods: the ones that tumble with me through quietly breaking emerald waves of a secret break, the ones that float through blue sky powder days and bikes through rugged mountains, the one that falls down – gets bloodied—and gets back up to try again, the one that dances, smiles and sings, the one that works and dreams. The one that imbibes the essence of amber ales and salty fries shared with close friends. The one that laughs with all her heart, but can feel sadness sometimes -- her own and the pain of others. The one that loves. The one that knows this is all part of life, part of growth. The one that, I now think, must wear blood-red hibiscus in her sea of long brown hair.

More photos and then we climb up, in the hot morning sunshine, its hundreds of stairs to the top. We stop to sit halfway up to rest, Annie and I giggle at the tourists (in t-shirts with cheap see-through fabric tied loosely around blue jeans, in an attempt at respect) start their noisy descent down.

Metatah & the giant (tooth filing & the giant!)

2009-09-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

It’s still dark as night when I wake up. Annie dresses me in the sarong and brings up a necklace she wants me to wear today. The wedding of Oka’s daughter will start at 5AM with the traditional Balinese tooth filing, or metatah. Long teeth hold evil vices like, greed, jealousy, and deceit. Filing cleanse the body of evil and is the traditional right of passage for young Indonesians. We drive for an hour, to a small village, walk quietly through a narrow blue door, around a short wall that keeps evil spirits from the house (because evil spirits cannot turn corners), into the compound. There are five large open, empty, buildings. The only sounds come from the one building that is packed tight with people – old and young – crowded around a small bed, framed with massive palm and dyed rice displays, offerings of food and fruit, smoking incense. An old woman sings a slow, strange song.

I feel I’ve walked into something very special and very personal. I hesitate, it feels like walking into the bedroom of a person you just met. It’s so intimate. But Oka pulls me up the 5 stairs (stairs always lead to holier grounds) to stand among the people around the bed. Floating 4 feet higher than the ground, it’s then that I see two men, in their early twenties, dressed in gold, covered in a purple and shining gold blanket. The women and men huddled around them hold their hands and legs down on the bed as one elder works at
filing down the men’s teeth. We stand there, until a woman looks up, sees me and whispers to the one next to her. Like a wave, whispers spread, and the crowd of people turn from the bed and the boys to stare at me, with confused, less than welcoming eyes at my obvious outsider status. I smile, bow my head slightly to show respect, and quietly say good morning in Indonesian (wishing they would go back to the ceremony.) Oka says something, smiles at me, the woman chants again, another woman turns to me. Sizes me up and down. Then delivers the verdict, in careful English: giant.

A shriek of laughter, as they take turns then, smiling and laughing repeating the English word. I join in for a laugh, happy to be the butt of their jokes if I can now be included in this circle. And I am. Instantly. They turn their backs to me and continue with the ceremony. The men rise, spit juice and blood into a hollowed coconut. A rail-thin woman with mangled teeth
holds the small mirror, as they see for the first time their flattened canines, the elders nod in approval. It is the Indonesian coming of age ceremony. Two women take their place. They are dressed in gold wraps with gilded flowers in their black hair. Prayers are said and fresh incense lit. They are given something to chew on, spit, and repeat and then the filing begins. He holds their mouths open, one at a time, and goes to work. It looks like uncomfortable and painful. But they say nothing. The mirror is held, more work is needed, then approval.

The women rise and join the men in an empty building, they are all gold and burgundy. In the early morning, it’s beautiful beyond belief. Oka presents me and I bow low as I wish them good morning. I want to somehow show them my respect. I tell them it was all very, very beautiful (chantik).

They ask me to sit with them. Coffee and cake is brought out for the guests, but the men and women of the ceremony are fasting for the day. They will eat nothing and drink only water. I practice faltering Indonesian, as one of the men (the one who will marry Oka’s daughter) practices his halting English with me. We laugh and smile as words are carefully chosen, contemplated, translated, pronounced, shared. He works sometimes for the cruise ships. We trade email addresses. I meet Oka’s wife and daughter, both are both beautiful, warm, and gracious. There is a closeness with the people, family and friends, that delights me. Oka, his family, and friends have no problem grabbing my arm to shows me things I should take pictures: family temple, the traditional kitchen, the women and men cooking in the open hallways of the compound kitchen. Everything I greet with interest, smiles and a mix of Indonesian and English questions. I am always greeted back with slow answers in an equal mix of Indonesian and English.
The kids run after my sarong and take turns to grab my hand or a bit of fabric and say, Hello! Only to squeal with laughter, when I turn and respond with an emphatic “Hello!” worthy of a good Balinese giantess. I take their pictures and show them the big display. They squeal and race around the compound. The women look into my eyes or softly touch my hand and tell me, “chantik” (beautiful). I ask if I may take their photo, they always agree, and I show them the display afterwards – chantik, I say back. The men nod in approval when they overhear me practicing Indonesian. Oka proudly tells them I’ve only been in Indonesia for three (tiga!) days and already speaking good words.

The young bridegroom asks if I need more food. Annie nods for me. (It’s impolite not to eat, she says, and they have been cooking fresh food since 2am.) I thank him and ask for only a little, in Indonesian. The takes my hand and leads me to the buffet line. He picks up a plate and teaches me the Indonesian names as he scoops rice, gurring, curries, potato, dried coconut, three kinds of babi (pig), vegetables, fruit, fresh grilled satay (some coconut and some curry) A little turns into a little of everything! They gather to watch as I eat and exclaim over it all. Enak sicali! (Very delicious!) over and over. It’s spicy, hot, fresh and amazing. Oka is proud, Annie pleased. Despite two cups of Indonesian coffee, I feel a food-coma induced, jet lag enhanced sleepiness coming on.

But it’s only 7 am and the wedding starts at 1. There is a long way to go. Annie tells me to eat nothing the rest of the day, as I must eat again and again and again at 1pm (and eat a lot), otherwise I will be rude. I pretend to complain and pat my belly, saya kunya! (but I am full!) In response, Oka and Annie each grab one of my arms and tell me they must take me somewhere, despite my attempts to decline leaving the compound on such a special day. I want to say no, but then I hear myself say Ok, yes, I'd love to go. Please show me.

Internet & Iyam Burring (Internet & Chicken)

2009-09-22T22:00:00.000-07:00

With Oka’s daughter’s wedding on the 23 of September, I know today is my one day to get work done. Every day I say I will work a few hours, every day Oka or Annie nod only to take me to a new “very Indonesian” thing to try, taste or see. It’s fantastic. I feel like I’ve been suddenly embraced by a whole new world and family. (And at times feels a little suffocating.) Everyone is so friendly to share with me. But to stay in Indonesia for a month, I must work or I have no money, I finally tell them.

Annie drops me off at the hotel next door. I meet Ketut and Dwan by practicing my Indonesian. They carry out a table from the little hotel to the hut at the pool. There I sit, drinking iced green tea, working on email marketing strategy and spreadsheets, as it softly rains and ducks sift through the muck of the padi. I pay four dollars for me 3 hours and tea.

I need internet at the house. For work and I want practice writing. I want to share the day-to-day adventures with my friends and family at home. I realize that is what I miss, traveling alone. It is not being alone – I enjoy experiencing times of solitude and find myself fully open to new things – but at times, I’m overwhelmed with the honest desire to simply share this beauty, adventure, sensations (and frustrations) with someone too. To experience and figure it out together. There is as much richness in that, as there is in being alone.

I talk Annie into helping me find internet for the house. We stop at the computer store, I meet Gabby, stunning blond Swiss transplant who sold all she has to set up a yoga directory, for Bali, on the internet. Annie finds out from the boys at the computer stand that there are modems in the market at Denpasar, then get a sim card, then prepay for internet, finally: internet.

Oka takes us to Denpasar, where Annie smokes cigarettes as she barters ruthlessly with the teens at every stand. Only to explode with words, grab my hand and walk to the next. I get tired, I don’t care about the best price anymore. I just want internet and just want to be done. But she claims it’s all too expensive and, besides won’t work at the house! I’m not sure I agree, but I can’t understand all they say and Annie gets frustrated translating at this point. I have to blindly trust a woman who’s never used the internet to get me the pieces, otherwise, it’s another 2 hour drive to the market and back tomorrow. A younger man steps up, to say hello to the American. He practices his English as I explain the problem – I need internet and I’m not sure we know what we need. He steps in to help direct the conversation. Adding technical savvy to Annie’s Indonesian. I am grateful as he finds the modem he’s sure we need, Annie barters one last time, I count out $800,000 rupiah ($80 USD) then another $300,000 rupiah ($30 USD) for about 30 hours of internet. I can refill my card in the Ubud market.

I’m too full for dinner, but Annie and Oka still need to eat. My journey for internet took well past dark. They stop at a roadside warung (restaurant). The plastic tarp roof is tattered, the walls are dirty with grime, but the food is good Annie tells me. The three men manning the warung laugh as I pull out the camera to take pictures and tell them, with a smile, in Indonesian: Saya "turis”. (I am tourist) Annie laughs the hardest, she gives me the correct Indonesian word for "tourist", which I forget, and tell her I forget (Saya lupa!) in Indonesian. Everyone laughs.

Chicken burring (roll the “r” like it’s Spanish!). Rice, cucumbers, sweet-spicy red chili sauce, and fried chicken are piled into brown paper “packets” which we open at the villa, bringing an extra for Oka’s son who as guarded the villa in our absence. We sit to eat. Wash fingers, Annie tells me, no forks. I scoop rice and chili laden chicken up with cucumbers and eat. It’s a surprisingly great combination, absolutely delicious. (Enak!)

After the men leave, I slowly set up the software, from Indonesian prompts, with Annie’s help translating. After a few attempts, it works. Internet, I love you.

Annie teaches me to say: I work now (Saya kerja)

Pura and Gamelon (temples and gamelon)

2009-09-21T23:59:00.000-07:00

During the long drive over, Oka tells me about the castes, I repeat their Balinese names and forms of address, but intentionally forget them (I decided I don’t want to reinforce the practice--and learn instead the national Indonesian language which lacks caste distinction--but I am curious...). He tells me stories of palaces, families--people who are good on the outside but not the same on the inside--and of the Kings of Ubud and how he is descended from the high royal caste, just below the highest priest caste. I’m being escorted by the descendant of a king: kind bapak Oka.

Giant pale statues point to the way. My heart pounds with distant music. We walk slowly into a massive gilded temple, along with crowds of men and women in traditional sarongs, gracefully carrying children or balancing piles of food or bamboo and flower offerings on their heads. In the dripping rain, the smell of incense still overwhelms everything. There are thousands of people. Some walking, some kneeling, some praying, some talking, some reaching open hands to the white-clothed priest to receive holy water. They are all beautifully clothed, smiling, welcoming, quiet. I am the only tourist.

The music of the gamelon starts slowly. Xylophone notes, seem unevenly spaced. The notes are sparse, then gather strength, and then gather speed until they bleed into others, they crash and fall. The strength vibrates through my body. It’s melodic, heavenly, and hollow. Metallic and intense. So intense. Like a new language, I have trouble picking out the melody. I have trouble picking out anything I recognize, I’m not sure what to make of it. If I like or don't like it. I just let it hit my eardrums.

Then I recognize in the sounds of the gamelon: the feeling of rain first beginning to fall from a heavy sky, clouds moving, waves crashing, landscapes changing, lifetimes passing, machines pounding, time never-ending. When I stop trying to understand it, and search for the melody, I can let myself be carried along this strange, new path--with no note, no one, nothing familiar – and revel in the moment of feeling more lost in the world than I have ever felt in my entire life, and yet at peace with this realization, and with what is taking place in this moment, in the music, and maybe—I think -- in my life.

This music. It feels so big, so grand, so extraordinary. As it unfolds and crashes and rises, with the perfumed smoke, before massive stone temples, carved with both friendly and garish things: it is ethereal, it is sublime. Row after row of people, in their best dress and dark hair, bend to their knees and earnestly pray to carved gods wrapped in black and white material, sheltered by red and yellow silk umbrellas, flanked with gilded tables laden with rice, bread, coffee cake, fruit, flowers, bamboo. At Oka's command I sneak shots without a flash, crossing my fingers that some of the grainy images will turn out; convey the brilliance of this other life against the dark night.

Rain continues to drip from the black sky, the ceremony will go on for another week, day and night, as men sitting at their instruments mechanically pound out another unreal rhythm, and incense smoke rises to rafters of tall temples. I imagine the unfamiliar gods I am meeting here are looking down, in subdued amusement, as Oka tugs at my tourist arm and motions for me to take picture after picture of the most extraordinary moment I never, in my lifetime so far, imagined I would see. To the gods, this is merely business as usual.

Back home, just before midnight, fireflies flit before me, like friendly little hallucinations, and an old rice padi smolders with slow flames. After the fire, it begins anew the continuous cycle of growth. In the days to come, the field will be tilled, watered and planted with small green shoots. But for tonight, even as the smoke chokes my throat, its dim orange light guides my feet through the dark. Oka grips my arm and we count aloud our steps in Indonesian, up to ten, then start again at one. [It comes to me then, years ago we'd slowly, painfully, biked up a steep gravel road, in the hot sun, discovering we liked the same mantra for pain: count the levels from one to ten; when you reach ten, make that the new one.] Every time we reach satu (one), I think of one thing. By ten, I imagine I'm letting it go. Leaving it here, in the midnight rice padi in Bali for the leyek (nightime evil spirits) to devour and destroy, so I may always push myself to reach ten on any scale, yet find a way to start over again, at one, fresh and new.

My body aches with sleep. After good night and good sleep (salamet jalan, salamet tidur!) is said, I climb the stairs to my room. I stare in the mirror at the face of a girl--with brown eyes, brown hair, dua metres tall, 30 years, and dreams still unfolding--as I unwrap myself from the wet sarong and hang it carefully. Hanya dua hare, it's only been two days.

I fall asleep breathing in the earthy, smoky incense of the rice padi burning through the night, trying to imagine what a lifetime of days, like this, can bring...

Cunung cunung... (fireflies & getting dressed)

2009-09-21T19:00:00.000-07:00

We walk home as it grows dark. My body, still the reverberation of drastic time differences, feels like its floating through the day, ready to drop asleep at any moment, then wide awake the next. I am ready to sleep, but instead, Annie dresses me, wrapping the sarong tightly around my body, securing it with a knot and an elastic band.

She then motions me to take my tank top off. You not wear that. It is funny.

I look at the green kaballah, with all its intricate embroidery – and strategically placed, lacy but massive holes up the bodice and along the chest. Without a tank top, my bra is in plain, naked, ridiculous sight. After so many warnings about the Indonesia’s Muslim conservative tendencies, and the fact that I’m going to a religious ceremony in a temple--though Hindu and not Muslim, still: I can’t go showing my entire bra to the world. I think about trying...then think of seeing kind babak Oka (father Oka) or the other men in my bra. Ick. Despite what she tells me, it doesn’t feel respectful or right, at all to me.

[Though Annie is right - at each gathering I attend, on the jalan or at home, I see more women dressed only in an everyday-no-frills-kind-of-bra topped in see-through lace kaballahs. Fashionable in Bali, yes! But I still won't do it because I still feel like I'm sitting around in my underwear with family, of course!]

Annie insists, all the women do it. Some have covers, others just wear their bras, lacy top. That’s it. I imagine walking in with just my bra and a perfectly see-through covering in the US. Really?!

Another tactic: I point to the rain--I don’t want to get cold.

She gives in. I walk carefully down the stairs, in the tight sarong. Oka appears at the gate, nods and smiles in approval. He takes hold of my arm and grips it high, to steady my step as we walk the muddy path past padis, sleeping ducks and the talking frogs. I see my first fireflies (cunung cunung), flitting through the dark. Like magic.

Babi guling & pensar (suckling pig & the market)

2009-09-21T15:00:00.000-07:00

Annie tells me Oka will take me to a big, big ceremony tonight. But I must dress Indonesian. She will take me shopping at the Ubud pensar ( or market). But first, lunch. She wants me to try babi guling (or suckling pig) As a Muslim, Annie doesn’t eat babi – and doesn’t think she’d get the spices right, not to mention a pig is a lot of work. We wait for a break in the rain and dart down the muddy path to the disheveled sidewalks. She calls out Hati-Hati and points to a step or hole or pile of rocks. I sing back, Ya, hati-hati!

We stand in a long line. Offerings find their way to the babi guling sign as buses of tourists stop and go, directed by men in sarongs and baseball caps. The family in front of me is Australian and friendly. We sit next to a couple from Germany. The other two at the table are Chinese. A woman hacks at the flesh of a barbequed pig, freshly pulled from its roasting pit. Again, the food is amazing. Tender, juicy, spicy. Still on a mission to try it all: I eat something that resembles dried, red sausage. Despite its look, it tastes amazing.

Past the palace, flip flops sloshing through puddles of water, we go past the shiny stores, around a narrow path – where stick-thin vendors sit amongst souvenirs piled so high they almost block out the sky – up two flights of stairs, another path, then stop at a tiny shop.

Batik, of all designs and colors, line the walls. Silk ties and blouses fill any leftover space. Annie explains my mission to the woman of the store, who speaks no English. She asks me which design I like. Each blue or gold pattern I choose with met with frowns and shaking heads.

It is nice, but you are so white -- You can wear bright color. Not many in Indonesia can. But you, it is very pretty! You see. So I tell them to dress me, and make up my mind to buy whatever they deem appropriate and Indonesian.

I’m wrapped in a swirl of dark brown, green and red. Then re-wrapped, again. Finally it works. The women laugh. Annie asks me how tall I am – I laugh, due metres (two meters). The women laugh and giggle and point, in shock. Indonesian women are not tall like that, they tell me. They dig in bags for a kaballah, frowning at the growing pile of clothes that won't fit the dua metre, until they settle on a bright, ornate, chartreuse shirt. (There are no changing rooms, so they have me strip in the corner of the store as Annie holds a sarong as high as she can to shield me from the crowds) They tie brown silk around my waist. Finished.

It’s not what I would have picked out. I feel like I'm wearing clashing patterns and colors, all a little different and mix-matched. It's an aesthetic, I admit, I can't seem to appreciate. But at the same time--I just want to go with it, see what happens. And, I like that they’ve dressed me. That these colors and patterns are good in their eyes, this is Balinese, to them it is beautiful and I want to experience that understanding that is different from my own. After they button my shirt and pull at the sleeves so it sits just right, both women nod in approval. Salamet sore! I greet them and bow low. They laugh, clap their hands, and greet me back.

Wild bartering begins. Annie throws her hands up and down and they say things I don’t understand. Finally, they call the owner. Then it’s settled. $20 for a handwoven batik sarong and kaballah. As we start to leave the rain pours and we decide to sit it out at the shop. Annie points to the one chair. But I’m already sitting on the concrete floor, like they are. While they talk, I listen for the few words I understand. Children run in and out. A small boy with dark hair and darker eyes peers at me. When I smile at him, he hides. I start practicing my numbers then, counting my fingers slowly. When I get stuck, he emerges from the folds of the shop’s materials to point to my second finger.

Dua. he whispers as he touches my finger tip.
Dua. I repeat. And I smile. Then tickle his cheek.

He giggles, and points to himself. Again, softly, Dua. I smile, he is two. he’s my nephew’s age. He pulls his older sister from another corner, and we all count my other fingers, until we reach lima! (five!). Warm Indonesian rain pours down gutters and pools in the road. Again, we count to five, and then ten. Then again.

The boy plops in my lap and I start counting his fingers and toes. He touches my nose and my ears and my eyes. When I make funny faces, he laughs and laughs. And, as we sit together on the concrete floor, counting, and trading smiles and giggles, we all - an almost 2 meter tall American girl, a 2 year old Indonesian boy and his 5 year old sister - grow more and more excited, as the others talk with words we don't understand, or care to learn for that moment.

When the rain stops, he waves and hugs my legs as we leave the pensar to head home.

Mangii & rumbutan (mangosteen &..rumbutan)

2009-09-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

I learn the Indonesian names of fruit as I eat them. Watermelon, papaya, and mangoes give way to salak - with a hard, brown, snake-like-skin that peels back to reveal strange, white, effervescent fruit. Football sized durian (my least favorite) with the spiked yellow shell that opens to layers of large seed pods, wrapped in a damp, stringy husk you eat that tastes both sweet and like the most pungent garlic. I think it would be a great additive to a meal, eating it straight, in the morning – the mushy, intensely savory taste I don’t associate with fruit is overwhelming.

It’s the first thing I’ve had here that I have a hard time eating. But I keep trying. Rambutan (there is no English name for these) come in purple, spiked shells that peel back to golf ball sized sweet, slightly sour, white fruit, that tastes something like a sweet-tart, big peeled grape. I love these. But my favorite are mangiis (mangosteens). Chartreuse stems and purple-brown, 1” thick “husks” of ripe mangiis peel back surprisingly easy to reveal supple, bright white fruit, surrounding small pits. The consistency of an extra soft, soft orange, but with a taste 100 times more intense and sweet than anything I’ve known. Each bite of mangii disintegrates in your mouth.

As my Indonesian fruit-tastic smorgasboard winds down, a tired & thin dog finds its way through the rain, to lay in the shelter of the open villa. I call her Anjing (which means "dog" :). She has the best of manners. Sitting far away as we eat, never venturing to whine or beg or even bother the Annie’s cats (Peter and Kitty) who whip at her tail. Docile but hungry, she seems pleased to simply rest and observe in our presence. Annie and I give her bits of leftover egg and bread, which she eagerly devours, then returns to the entrance to lazily guard the villa as I type.

Satu, dua, tiga, emphat, lima (1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

2009-09-21T10:00:00.000-07:00

Before bed that first night, I count my push-ups in Indonesian. When I get to five, I start over. Five times. I like five (lima!) the best, it makes me think of Peru. I never forget it. What comes between one and five is much harder. I fall asleep only half believing I’m really in Bali, alone. I wake up twice, to the sound of rabid frogs (cudok), in the pouring midnight rain, going crazy outside my window. If frogs could fight – that’s what it sounds like. A big amphitheater of fighting frogs. Like a loud, upset, rumbling motor through the room. For a minute I think I’m back in Seattle. When I wake up again, after a long sleep, it’s morning. I open the windows to the rice padi. I feel amazingly rested.

I do a set of pushups: Satu, dua, tiga, emphat, lima!
Again: Satu, dua, tiga, emphat, lima!

Somehow, sometime, while I was sleeping, it stuck. Strange words from last night are suddenly familiar friends. They tumble from my mouth without effort! I run down the stairs, Annie’s already up making breakfast.

Salamat pagi, Jowya!

Salamat pagi, Annie! Satu, dua, tiga, emphat, lima! I can count to five!!

Annie is pleased. [If my life were a musical, this is the precise moment when the music would kick in and we would dance around, celebrating my break-through moment in a spontaneous song that names everyday things in Indonesian…I am that excited it’s starting!] I run around the house pointing to the ducks, the chickens, the cow, the cat, the dog, the child, the bread, the rice, the rain. The rain! It’s pouring rain. It's pouring hujan!!!

Oka arrives and I count to five for him. He is also pleased. He’s traded western pants from the airport for a traditional sarong, now and he prepares the offerings –small woven palm baskets of bright flowers, layered with banana leaf and rice, sometimes fruit, sometimes incense -- for the spirits of the villa. They will imbibe the essence of the offering over the day. (Occasionally I spy various animals of the padi making off with worldly "shell" of that offering.)

Only one day. Hanya satu hare. I learn more words as I eat breakfast. More guilt as they wait on me. When I try to clean up after myself or help with the cooking, they resist. I am the guest. I realize I'm also their livelihood. So I sit down and ply them for more words. Annie places food in front of me, giving each an Indonesian name. Egg (tulor), tomato, (tomate), bread (roti). Coffee (copi)... It’s verrrry verrrry strrrong Oka tells me.

I confidently take a big sip of the thick brown liquid (thinking this has nothing on the standard 6am cup a coffee, on a powder day, at the Baker House) only to sputter on a mouthful of grimy coffee grounds. They smile. verrrrrry strrrrong I'm reminded. I laugh and nod. The grounds are poured into hot water – no filter. Just straight.

I try again, but it’s like drinking directly from the coffee filter. All gravel and muddy grime. Panic – a month without coffee? It's the one familiar thing I feel myself wanting to cling to here, when everything else is new. There must be a way. I learn to wait awhile longer that I would at home, the coffee grounds eventually settle to a 1" layer at bottom of my cup. Then I drink. Strong, dark and familiar.

I think of my friends and family at home, half a world away now. It’s 5PM in Seattle and they’re finishing up my yesterday. (I send them my love and hope they will feel a whisper of something good cross their dreams tonight. I know, from somewhere, I feel their well-wishes here, this morning, in the rain.)

Hanya satu hare (Only one day)

2009-09-20T22:00:00.000-07:00

Annie calls me for dinner. It’s simple Indonesian, just for first night. she apologizes. It smells and looks amazing.

We sit to eat. I grip my napkin in my lap with my left hand. Trying to distract it from helping me eat. (Right hand good, left hand bad). Naci puti (delicious white rice), topped with spicy tuna and a coconut curry of fresh Indonesian tofu (soft and tasty), tomatoes, and long beans (literally 2 foot beans, that we’d bought at the market earlier). I’ve been teaching myself to cook Indian food back home, from homemade masala and curries to paneer – suddenly inspired to start on Indonesian when I get back. Such beautiful flavors, simple ingredients: every bite is sensational.

Over and over I say the words: teri mi kasi, sapi, hujan, salamet pagi, salamet sore, salamet malam. Annie teaches me more words as we eat. I learn new names for animals, for fruit, for eating. I learn to say “No rain! No rain!” I learn to count to five. It’s not easy. The most simple things, not easy. I must try, make mistakes, be corrected, try again. Over and over. It’s like feeling my way around in the dark, trying to make the correct sound form on my tongue, when I am not sure what the correct sound is. When all it wants to do, is return to what it knows. I start writing down my new words so I can see them, not just feel them rolling around in my head.

I feel more like a child than ever before. Suddenly being cared for, cooked for, taught words and how things work. So many new things. And I let myself be cared for, cooked for and taught.

Annie is pleased I am trying to learn Indonesian. The woman who rents the house out has never tried. From my numbers, she teaches me to say: “It’s only been one day”. Hanya satu hare.

This first day, filled with so much. I can wonder what day two (Dua hare) will bring. Hanya satu hare.

Hujan! (or Rain!)

2009-09-20T20:00:00.000-07:00

Annie tells Oka to stop at the market, rows of fresh fruit and meat. At the check-stands, mediocre karaoke singers take turns serenading shoppers as they come and go in the dripping evening. I point to things like a five year old and ask for the name, I repeat it over and over, I forget and remember how to count to five or say good afternoon. I remember how to say “I forget” (saya lupa) only to forget. We laugh. My head swims with strange new sounds. My tongue trips over unfamiliar syllables. I have eager teachers. I make many, many, mannnny mistakes. But it's fun learning as I go. It’s a shopping experience like nothing else.

Oka pulls to the side of the road and points to a path: Villa Shivaloka. We grab bags and backpacks and head down the muddy path. My body’s floating with jetlag and I imagine the house just around every corner, but we keep walking. The plastic grocery bags grow heavy and rip into my hands. A gust of wind and the tolerable, dripping evening turns to a torrential downpour.

“Hujan! Hujan!” Soaked, tired, but happy, I shout the Indonesian word for rain. We all laugh and plod through mud and warm rain, past water pools, lotus flowers, and motor bikes. Annie points to a brown cow, standing under a banana leaf shelter, and looks at me. “Sapi!” I call back. Mud puddles turn to sturdy concrete squares, past a green pool with a single, pink lotus flower. The narrow jungle path suddenly opens to a lush, terraced, green valley, that stretches for miles. Herds of brown and black ducks (bebek), numbering in the thousands, mumble to each other as they route through freshly harvested rice fields (padi). With our approach, they scatter and run, then pool and reverse. Hundreds of heads flipping one way, then simultaneously turning the other way. It’s like watching feathered fish, school and play. Past the browning harvested fields, fresh green rice shoots go for miles.

(It’s said that once upon a time, a giant threatened to take the children of the village. The villagers pleaded with the giant to spare their children until the rice harvest. The giant agrees and the villagers staggered their rice harvest, constantly sowing, growing, reaping rice so that the harvest continued infinitely. So it is, rice grows continuously—in all stages--around the island, every 4 months or so the cycle starts again.)

In a sea fresh green, white, blue and yellow flags of all sizes wave from sticks, to keep the birds away. Then the villa.

Guilt. It’s huge.

I wanted a place to start, alone, where I’d feel secure and learn the ropes, then move on. But this is story-book amazing. Open air kitchen and dining room, two bedrooms, giant carved furniture, and a linen-netted bed. As I unpack, cicadas begin their electric hum, the sun sets and as the ducks bed down, frogs begin to grumble from the muddy fields. Thousands of frogs! One sounds like the drop of a mallet on tin. It’s hollow, and metallic, and perfectly timed. Another is high pitched and yelps. The majority sound like a herd of goats, hundreds of goats. I keep looking over the fence, surprised to see nothing but rice fields for miles.

Hati-Hati!

2009-09-20T15:00:00.000-07:00

It takes two hours to get through the visa line. I talk to equally tired, disoriented travelers as we wait. It impresses them that I’m staying for a month, that I found my house on Craigslist, that a last minute snafu over dates makes me uncertain whether or not anyone will be at the gate to pick me up. I’m confident I can find something in Denpasar for a few nights, if it doesn’t work out. Just have to wait and see as the house as no number and I have no email at the airport. I walk past the “Death penalty for drug smuggling” sign (sneaking a pic) and into the dripping, warm tropical afternoon into a sea of people with signs of all sorts. Tired eyes read them all, and stop at “Jowya Villa Shivaloka” held by a sweet faced, petite woman with ageless brown skin and warm brown eyes. Annie!

She grabs my hands, across the gate, and we smile! She touches the shoulder of an older man, leathery skin, curly black hair seasoned with gray, and equally warm brown eyes: Oka. He takes my backpack before I can object. We pile into Oka’s car, steering wheel on the right side, drive on the left side. We race down the narrow streets, flanked by scooters, everywhere, scooters. New, shiny, sleek. Girls, boys, men, women. Most with helmets, often without. Some with white-burlap bags of stuffed with rice, padi. It’s called padi until the rice is harvested, then it’s called beras, until it’s cooked, and then it’s nasi. Nasi puti (white rice). There’s also black rice for pudding and red rice, but Annie doesn’t like red rice – it’s too rough. Annie asks me if I like rice. Love it! And meat? Yes! Organic? I want to eat whatever you eat, I want to eat all Indonesian food. I have heard you are an amazing cook. Please just cook Indonesian for me, I like all food and will be very happy. She smiles wide with approval. Sometimes, she has guests who don’t like Indonesian food. I gasp with disbelief. (Though I admit, I honestly am not sure I know exactly what makes Indonesian food--I'm excited to find out!)

We stop a stop light, and scooters speed to the front to crowd around the cars, coming within inches of each other, and inches of oncoming traffic. We come within inches of oncoming traffic. But it’s my favorite part of traveling, just sitting back and trusting in the crazy, local, mode of transportation. Buses, taxies, strangers but friends.

Within 30 minutes, I’m invited to attend Oka’s daughter’s wedding. Teeth filing and music! He smiles to me. I can hardly believe my luck. Pointy canines are considered uncouth in Indonesia – so they’re filed down as part of the coming of age ceremony. Then food. Lots of food. Hours of eating and music. Then more food. Lots of good Indonesian food. I can’t wait, it’s on the twenty three of September. Dua tiga. (Dua tiga, I repeat to myself) Annie points to a small field, overlooking a river, temporary cemetery, she tells me. After death, bodies or the “shell”, are cremated after the spirit departs, in one of the most dramatic ceremonies yet. Bodies are buried until the right time, then exhumed, the town gathers for the procession, where the body (placed inside a paper-mache bull) is set to fire. It sounds strangely beautiful and I’m sad I can’t see this. (I’ve been fortunate to see both Mexican and New Orleans burial processions, I would have been interested to see this) But it’s not to be.

Oka then reaches into the glove compartment and unwraps a wood statue: elaborate strokes craft an exotic woman, her fine face uplifted, her arms dancing, her body covered in an ornate wooden lace. She is beautiful. And he gives her to me. I read it’s polite to turn down generous offers. I try to refuse, a wedding and the statue is too much – they smile happily until I finally give in, with gratitude, and hold her carefully in my lap on the drive home.

Conversation lulls and I watch massive stone temples, give way to ornate carvings, wrapped in black and white plaid material stream by. Simple homes and simpler square shops line the narrow street. Their wares hug the space between shop and street. Familiar stone Buddhas give way to unfamiliar elephantesses which relent to even stranger –almost hideous—giant eagle-dragons things that I've never seen before. Everything looks, appears, seems, feels truly foreign to me. I quietly read to myself unfamiliar names of familiar things. The strange new syllables stumble from my mouth. It sounds and feels awkward, like a two year old, learning to how to speak. Oka speeds up to swerve to the other lane past a shop with a sign in the road, next to a pile of rocks that spill into the road: Hati-Hati!

Finally something easy, fun I can sound out—it spills from my mouth. Annie and Oka both swing around with shock – what did you say?! They ask.

Hati-hati – the name of the store, back there. Did I say something wrong?

Annie laughs. Rattles off something to Oka. Then turns to me, Hati-hati means be careful!

We laugh hard over my inadvertent back-seat-driving.

Sama Sama (or You Are Welcome II)

2009-09-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

I have the entire row to myself, in the double-decker jet. After a chicken and rice dinner served by green pin-striped waitresses, I don EVA Air’s bright green travel slippers and curl up in the 4 pillows and 4 blankets left to my row with a book of a woman’s solo travels around the world, including 8 years in Indonesia (Travels of a Female Nomad, recommended by my immunization nurse after rounds of typhoid, hepatitis, tetnus, and polio shots in preparation for the trip). The stewardesses swing by with platters of lemon and Chinese tea. They fill up my bright green tea cup and minutes later I’m asleep as we fly up to Alaska, around the Bering Strait, down through China finally landing in Taipei, Taiwan (where the toys come from! I try not to think…)

Pink and gold sunrise warms rough, unpainted concrete square buildings and tin shanty-style shelters that huddle on the edges of green fields and deserted roads. From the plane, it looks like the same patched work quilt of half-finished community that I recognize from other parts of the world. I’ll remember Taiwan for its airport. Hello Kitty Stores and cardboard cut outs, strange symbols-that must be telling me something important -accompanied by stranger cartoon characters, giant orchid displays, enormous “green rooms for relaxing” with zen gardens lined by plastic plants and giant greenscape photo backdrops replace empty terminals. I sit for dim sum style bean curd pastries and spicy beef noodle soup, with one horrible latte (in an attempt to ward off simultaneous caffeine headache and jet lag).

He asks me the time. Joey from Los Angeles – Brentwood, rather – California. His story comes out quickly: wildly successful but disillusioned real estate agent, he found life in Los Angeles lacking something essential, something real, he’s not sure, but he just was ready for a different life, something more meaningful. It’s a refrain I’m hearing more often in my own thoughts…and as I show this side of me to others around me, instead of laughter, I hear agreement from more and more people in my life too. Tired of the game, and the show, and things that seemed unreal, he spent the last 8 months traveling through Asia only to fall in love with Indonesia. He returned to the states to sell everything he owned and move there permanently.

My story comes out more slowly. Like everyone else these days, I can see he’s impressed that I have my own little business, and that I’m taking the time to make the most of it. He tells me where to go, what cell phone to use, what to watch out for, to be careful as a woman traveling alone in Indonesia (it’s just that it’s different here). It’s not the first time I’ll hear this. We trade emails when he goes spear fishing often now and tells me his friend has a yacht going to the Gilly Islands, not the touristy one but the others. I ask him to stall the tour until after I leave Ubud, maybe I can still talk Christine, Jeannette or someone into joining me—I get the feeling that this is all going to be incredible and I’m not even there yet! Whether it actually works out or not, it feels good to now have a friend.

When I say teri mi kasih, Joey responds in Balinese with sama sama. (Indonesian was made the official language in the 1930's, while island specific lanuages - often with caste specific nuances - are still spoken throughout.) I've been learning (non-caste) Indonesian. I've just learned the Balinese way to say you're welcome.

Kemabli (or You Are Welcome)

2009-09-20T01:00:00.000-07:00

It’s 1am at the Sea Tac airport. It’s deserted and dark. Security takes all of 20 seconds. I ride the shuttle, through concrete tunnels, alone. I clutch an Indonesian dictionary and practice. Kembali or you are welcome. The escalator ride up deposits me into a sea of voices I can’t decipher. Utterly unfamiliar to my untrained ear, it sounds like chaos. It's amusing to watch how my mind instantly switches to the other language it knows: Spanish. It works in overdrive, sprinning through the verbal chorus of sounds, trying to find something, anything, it can recognize. It rattles off Hispanic words it knows, naming things it knows, trying to re-assert its value, as I flip through summer in Spain, weeks in Mexico, a month in Costa Rica. It’s then that I realize how much I’ve learned of one language over the years. It’s then it sinks in that I’ll truly be starting over. It’s 1 am and I’m alone in the airport, surrounded by voices that hold passports from far off places I have yet to go: China, or Thailand, or Taiwan, or Korean. It doesn’t seem all that far now. It seems like something I’m going to do—just a few years ago, unthinkable, but now it’s “eventually”. Standing here, in the airport at 1am waiting for a plane to take me to Indonesia for a month just feels right. I smile and they all smile back.

I send a few last minute texts and emails. His phone rings then. A stoic elderly man, with whisps of black hair, framing bi-foculed almond eyes. He looks at the phone with indifference. Then lets the song play: I laugh that I can actually recognize poplet Miley Cirus voice. “The Climb”.

The refrain: my sendoff.

There's always going to be another mountain
I'm always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes you going to have to lose,
Ain't about how fast I get there,
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb

Teri Mi Kasih! (or Thank you!)

2009-09-19T23:00:00.000-07:00

I brush the last coat of stain on the most exposed wall of my house. Breathe a huge sigh of relief to be done for the year. They show up around 8pm. As I stuff what seems like the equivalent to the REI range of DEET products and a mini-pharmacy (malaria pills, sepro, antihistamines, immodium for a month), linen shirts, and tank tops into my new orange pack, Cara, Christine, Ben and I eat dinner and drink wine, exchanging travel stories: the good, the bad and the hilarious.

Australian Ben has the best, after living in Indonesia as a civil engineer for 2 years. He teaches me how to say good afternoon, how are you, how to count to 5 and thank you or teri mi kasih (it sounds like: “tear up my car seats”). More importantly he tells us epic stories of bathrooms that leave us in stitches.

Cara takes me to the airport and I thank her for again for doing this. She was right, being dropped off and hugging your little sister as you’re about to step off to a new adventure is much better than a quiet taxi ride with a complete stranger.

Driving through the night-time city, we encourage each other to keep dreaming big, chin up and live life. One more time, I squeeze the little girl I shared a bedroom, fights, dreams, disappointments and play with for the first 18 years of my life, someone who knows me better than most, someone who I'm beginning to realize loves me just the same, someone who’s become one of the most beautiful women, inside and out, that I know. I try to think of a way to put this all in this one hug.

Last Day and a New Idea

2009-09-19T17:07:00.000-07:00

My last day in Seattle is a sunny, warm blur. No time for slow buses, I drive downtown for the final sprint of last minute errands, in between alternating hours of work and a final coat of stain on my little cedar shingled house, before winter rains come while I’m off traveling and working for a month. Sailing through green lights and Seattle crowds, all of my senses--knowing this is goodbye for awhile--devour it all. The deceptively warm air on the verge of autumn, sunshine bounces off glassy buildings from which stream glossy armies of business men and women, clutching cell phones and leather accessories, brokering deals at crosswalks, trying to decide on dinner tonight, or trying to decide how to get the kids from soccer practice, all rushing past me with purpose, as flocks of bicycled police race around dreadlocked street urchins and a white submersible tank filled with grayed tourists. I pause to let it all stream by me and drop a $1 into the hand of a pierced, tattooed man playing a dirty accordion. Tomorrow I will just be gone. I’ll be in Indonesia. And this world, my world, will spin madly on.

When I think about the next few weeks, I laugh. I'll learn the language as I go. I'll figure out my plan as I am there. I will hope to make friends along the way. Trips before, there's always been someone I know, somewhere. This time there will be no one. This time I’ll just get on the plane and figure it out when I get there. Just take the first step and try, then try again, even if I fall, fail, get up and try again, and again.

I sit with my cup of coffee and tell my new friend Sebastian that I’m leaving tonight for Indonesia. I ask if he’ll do something for me. Then I pitch a new idea. Photos of third world Indonesia – the coffee, the people, the daily lives – and sell them for first world prices in Seattle, in a coffee shop, like this one, maybe? After my costs to print the photos are covered, 100% of the proceeds would go back to Indonesia, to a charity that I will find. Because I promised myself if I made it working on my own for one year, I would start doing things different, big things, or maybe just small things. I’m not sure. But I’ve made a year. Now I hope to do more, give more. I hope to travel and give something back, hopefully more than I take. I’ll throw my heart into marketing it (and just hope word gets out) the photos sell, those who created my experience – and my photos – would get something in return. His business gets the goodwill and local marketing in the holidays, as the tourist season dies down, and… “Of course! We love to do things like this!” exclaims Sebastian.

“Really!?” my voice cracks, I wasn’t prepared for such an easy sale.
Then he, understandably, retracts, “Of course…but with the caveat that I have to see these photos first. You know. Not that you wouldn’t bring back good photos, but they must be good.”

I tell him I can send him links to my albums, that I get pretty good reviews. I don’t tell him that I really have noooo idea what I’m doing or if I will get "good" pics, but I just want to try. See if I can make this idea work. Refine the idea, then maybe take it to my other travels, pitch it to other coffee shops. I figure it's worth a shot. My hands shake with nervous excitement. I finish my coffee and cross it off the list.