Ramblings from Patti

time is both passing incrementally and then also monumentally as the countdown to leaving is this friday. we splurged for an a/c room in an a seaside hotel with all the types of things that work. Fresh water (4 nights w Salt water in the Gili Islands), private garden, amazing island beach view, hot water, air conditioning (our first), no ants, yes crickets/termites, real mattress, butter (not marg), evaporated milk for coffee (my first as usually is sweetened condensed) and fresh towels everyday. got a screaming deal of $35 a night including tax as we are one of only three in the whole place so it's as if we own it. met some divers from Hungary on the boat coming back from Gili Islands who have their own private driver for a month who gave us a half hour ride to Candi Dasa and this hotel. it's a beautiful spot. They are living the high life as it is so inexpensive and do whatever they want.

traveling on the cheap has been a mental strain for me and something i work through. to live in pure luxury by western standards is so cheap (ie. our $35 room above) and yet we have opted until now for $10-15 places with the fan and waking up soaking wet in the middle of the night from the lack of air flow/humidity/temperature. sleeping on the Gili's was definitely challenging for me (wondering what would be in the room at night when turning on the lights to go to the bathroom) and i kept asking myself why to do such? maybe to remember early days with Tweeter (when a fan would have been a luxury in the south pacific), respect Julia's student minded budget or think that it really doesn't matter to me. Yahoo- i have two nights now of $35 here and then we go to the 5 star hotel in Kuta which in retrospect i must be COMPLETELY out of mind to pay $100/night!). Good thing i booked it two months ago! so, getting older definitely has it's handicaps as my flexibility is not so resilient. Changing between locations is another area for me to improve.

admittedly when julia would discuss not knowing if, when or how she might be going someplace in the last three months it would occur to me that it was julia's communication style. i had completely forgotten what it is like to be traveling - my fault! communication here is much like playing telephone with young children as there is never a concrete policy or schedule for anything as it is always changing and takes place incrementally as each person calls the next. getting to Gilli was like this with so many people being involved in the issuing, touching, calling,contacting, transferring and taking of our sole ticket. we looked at the one ticket as if it was our passport and were very nervous when it was out of our hands! once when it was out of our hands and the person gone for 10 minutes we thought surely we had just lost our $75. not the worst issue but one that undermines your trust in the next experience especially as we do hear stories of this.

the Indonesians are very nice especially all of the men who constantly approach you for taxi, tour or motorcycle. there are many men all around us all the time for this and other foreigners and women are especially hidden in the background. this is so hard for me in two ways: as one being a woman it makes it obvious how women (even tourist)stand from the man's perspective; and also just seeing the lack of freedom and opportunity for the women in general. they say that 40% of the Muslim population in the world is under the poverty limit and julia and i would guess that Indonesia would be more along the lines of 90% or more. people are really at some bare levels here as we find out anecdotally through individual stories all the time. $5 to come and visit a son that has lived away for 7 years is just too much bus fare for the parent to afford. this is heart wrenching to think about this money separating families on a long term basis and makes me feel so sorry for the priorities that must be met first and recognize the complete ease of our life in the states.

well, it's almost $1.25 of my internet time and thinking in terms of rupiah $12,000 is my goal instead of thinking in dollars. That way it's more of the local shock of saying, "really, $15,000 rupiah for a beer? too much!!!!"

all is quintessentially well in my travels, world and life and reflecting on this from a past, present and future tense is also included.

The Pasar

The traditional Indonesian market, the pasar, is all but extinct in most of Indonesia, slowly replaced by the convenient one-stop supermarkets. On the island just east of Bali, Lombok, few pasar exist at all, but on Bali, the pasar still thrive, sustained by the ancient rules of Hinduism. Hindu people are required by their gods to dedicate offerings several times a day, and they are required by their village to buy the supplies for the offerings in the pasar. Hence, while the traditional markets throughout a densely Muslim Indonesia disappear, the markets of Hindu Bali thrive still.

From the early morning on, women lay out their wares to sell. In Ubud, the local women selling food and offerings from woven baskets to other local women leave by 9:00, opening the space for more permanent stalls to open for the tourists, selling textiles and handicrafts. It is clear, that before 9:00, the tourist does not belong in the pasar, and after 9:00 they only represent a healthy and naïve wallet. I unknowingly entered the pasar at 7:00 one morning in Ubud in search for some fried bananas to snack on a pre-breakfast walk. As soon as I walked up to the lady selling pisang goring, among other things, the surrounding locals started commenting on the tourist trying to mingle. After five harrowing minutes, I bought my four pisang goring for four thousand Rupiah and fled, knowing I had been scammed- I should have gotten 20 for that price- but too afraid to try to bargain.

After my failed pasar experience, I decided to go with the experts, and next time arrived to a pasar near the orphanage with Komang, the cook, and another girl, Cynthia. We walked through every type of fruit my American imagination could fathom and more. Ginger was spread on the road between stalls under the sun drying. Baskets filled with small purple onions stretched into the shadows of the stalls, covered by tarps, while rows of baskets of small dried and bony fish sat waiting with hundreds of glassy eyes unseeingly staring ahead. Traditional Balinese dresses for religious ceremonies hung on models colorful rainbows of lace, and in the next row down, a woman chopped up chicken on a stump of wood with a machete. The ground, damp from yesterday’s rain, had spilled and wasted produce littering the main walkways while the traditional offerings, the life source of the pasar, tucked under poles and behind baskets, wafted incense into the air.

I had only wanted to come to the market to watch, to discover what prices Komang wrangled from the sellers, to learn how to bargain. But Komang had decided to come to the market for me, thinking I wanted to buy something. Luckily, while the pasar is a great place to buy fruits and vegetables, it is also a wonderful place to buy traditional sweets. From stall to stall, Komang practically danced, knowingly examining rice sweets and explaining her white shadow with a laugh. She didn’t bargain, just requested, received, and paid the given price. Only one time, when looking at some sweet oranges, did Komang walk away from a price. She started examining the oranges, squeezing and smelling while the vendor assured her they were sweet, opening one for her to see, maybe even sample. Komang didn’t touch it, asked how much for one kilo (10,000 Rp, I think), shook her head, and walked away. I was surprised by her either downright acceptance or rejection of products, and I wondered also: would those same women have given me the same prices for those same items had I been by myself? (Since then I have received some bargaining lessons and pricing guidelines from Chi Chi, my problem solver.)

My local pasar experience was much more enjoyable than the few harrowing moments I spent in Ubud. Accompanied by two locals, I was excusable entertainment, a tourist with an appreciation for traditional sweets and a good humor, essential when everyone else knows more than you, but even with them I didn’t quite belong. If I have the choice, I will probably choose to avoid the early morning pasar in any village, venturing in later, after the seriousness lifts and just before the hot weather sets in. And if I lose my humor and still cannot find my place in the pasar, I know that the Circle K just down the street has banana flavored, SpongeBob themed ice cream bars with smiley faces.

Cynthia

Some girls live in the orphanage because their families are too poor to afford to feed them and send them to school, others are here because they have no family, and finally a few are here because where they live is not safe. Cynthia is from the island of Sulawasi. She came to the Untal-Untal orphanage because just before she was about to start junior high school, riots broke out in her town. Her father woke her up in the middle of the night, told her to get dressed, and together with her mother, her family fled their home and their village. From a hilltop, she watched her village light up in flame, and at one point, her father showed her which fire was their house. Thankfully, it was not her house that was burned, but the small building right on the road which they used as a small store. When Cynthia returned to her village, she found out three people were killed, including her favorite teacher. In order for Cynthia to go to junior and senior high school safely, her parents sent her to Bali while they remain in Sulawasi fulfilling their service as pastors.

. Cynthia is amazingly generous with her time: if she has a holiday, she spend it in the kitchen frying tofu balls for dinner, and once she spent over four hours helping me find a lady in Denpasar to figure out my visa. A wonderful friend, she told me once that if her friend needs help she will do anything to help them, and if she cannot help them she becomes really sad and cries. That’s another thing about Cynthia, she wears her emotions right out there on her sleeves, and sometimes her attitude crosses over from emotional to down right dramatic (which is quite hilarious, really). One night we corrected a practice test she took in preparation for the final exams, and she had a few answers which she had changed the right answer to the wrong one. As we went through and came upon each these problems she would exclaim, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh. My. God. OhmyGod!” I thought the world was about to end right then and there.

Originally Cynthia wanted to become a doctor but after finding out how long she would have to go to school for, she decided that maybe a nice English degree would be just the right thing for her. Besides taking national exams and school finals, she has been applying to university English programs (I guess Senior year is the same everywhere). Now, she is just looking forwards to returning home to Sulawasi and her family for a month in June once she gets her test scores.

It is easy to forget or never even learn what really happens to people after violence or disaster because that reality is either not newsworthy or so long lasting that the world cannot keep interest. But Cynthia is a living, breathing, tofu-frying reminder of the reality of conflict. When I read about all the “bad stuff” that happens, now I don’t just think of the families of the people killed, I think of the children like Cynthia, who had to run from their homes in the middle of the night and watch their safe place burn.

　

Chi Chi

It took me over three weeks to learn everyone’s names at the orphanage. When I first arrived, I couldn’t tell anyone apart by how they looked, and so I had to depend on recognizing their earrings or hairstyle. Now, I laugh at myself for only seeing brown skin and black hair because everyone looks so different to my trained eye. But that’s what I required: training. Now that I know everyone’s names and stories, I thought it would only be right to introduce you to some of the people who I have spent so much time with for the last ten weeks.

Chi Chi was my first friend at the orphanage. The evening I arrived, jetlagged and blurry-eyed, she came right up to me and asked for help with her English homework. From that point on though, she’s been helping me. Because she has some of the best English of the girls here, I constantly ask her for translations, and she and I would often sit up on the balcony exchanging English grammar for Indonesian vocabulary. Chi Chi goes to a vocational school close by where she learns all about multimedia.

She loves computers and technology in general. Her dream is to own an iPod, and she often comes into my room to listen to mine. Everyone here loves pop music; it is the only type of music they listen to, and I don’t think Chi Chi is particularly impressed with most of the songs on my iPod. When Chi Chi has a CD or tape cassette (who knew those still existed) she listens to it over and over again. One evening she listened to “21 Guns” by Green Day three times in a row before I had to ask her to change the song. Besides Green Day, Chi Chi loves Justin Beiber, and because of her multimedia background, she is able to take pictures of Justin and photo-shop herself into them.

Besides her music preferences, I go to Chi Chi whenever I have a problem. She helped me pick out my outfit the first time I went to church and reminded me to bring a few thousand Rupiah to put in the basket they pass around; she has killed the countless cockroaches that live under my desk and find their way into my bathroom; she even helped me de-lice my hair with minimal humiliation.

I’m not sure what Chi Chi wants to do with her life. She is only 15, but with her English skills and knowledge of computers I am confident she can create a good future for herself. She has a family who loves and supports her and good friends. I know that she will do fine without me, but already I am beginning to worry what I will do without her! She helped me transition to life in a different country, with a different language and customs, and I will miss her and, as much as I make fun of them, her photo-shopped pictures of Justin as well.

A cremation ceremony procession in Mas.

An oh-so-cute monkey in Ubud.

Just the Way We Get By

I have spent the last however many weeks with mismatched flip flops. It’s not too obvious that I am wearing different shoes, but I can never forget because one shoe is more worn than the other. So my left foot always has a slightly more comfortable walk than the right. I brought them with me because when I was packing for Bali, I couldn’t for the life of me find a matching pair of flip flops in my house, and so far, I haven’t seen a need to buy a new pair since these different flip flops serve the same purpose as matching ones would.

A lot of Bali is mismatched and well worn. Like America, people use what they have, but unlike America, people keep using what they have and work around what they do not have. For example, the Untal Untal orphanage only has 2 cutting boards. One is wooden and about the size of a paperback book. Although it is thick, the wood has warped, but the cutting surface is still usable, and therefore, we use it. The other cutting board is plastic, a pastel mint green. We can only use one side of it though because the other side has been burnt or melted and dirtied. Because this cutting board has been warped as well and doesn’t lay flat on the table, it is important to place the board the right way and cut in the right spot. We use these two cutting boards to feed over 70 people 3 times a day.

In an American household, replacements would have been bought years ago and these items (and items like them) would have been thrown away for the sake of efficiency, quality, and ease. It is true; it is much easier and much more enjoyable to work with quality equipment. But the Balinese are not as spoiled as us Americans, and it seems to me that they work with what they have until it disintegrates. No one complains or talks about replacing the warped cutting boards, dull knives, our single ragged mop, or shortage of spoons. That is just the way life is, and the Balinese work with what they have.

This use-until-disintegrated habit can seem like a less wasteful, more responsible way to use resources, but it is not by choice, and given the opportunity, I think the Balinese would adopt consumerism enthusiastically. I work with what I have here, but my frugality is self-imposed. I could buy a new pair of shoes across the street for $2 if I wanted; I just don’t care enough to do so. The Balinese work with what they have because they cannot afford to have more, and if and when they can afford to do so, the Balinese will explore new found wealth and will adopt American-like consumerism just like they have with cell phones, Valentines Day, and Facebook.

In Bali, I am fine walking around for over two months with mismatched shoes because it’s just the way life is. But in America, I would have bought new shoes months ago, probably even before I realized I had a pair of mismatched sandals, probably before I noticed that the right foot was worn. I prefer to have nice, easily usable things, although I believe that our American consumerism is wasteful and irresponsible. (I am a walking, talking contradiction, but acknowledging I have a problem is the first step to solving it.) I think that it is important to find a balance between Balinese frugality and American consumerism which optimizes comfort and sustainability. I am already excited to embrace quality and flat cutting boards when I return to America, but while I am in Bali, I will work with what I have and continue to favor my right foot.

Traditional Ogoh-ogoh

Nypei

Many aspects of Bali would never fit in American culture. Laws state that buildings cannot be higher than the coconut trees and that one day of the year, no one is allowed to leave their houses. The streets are patrolled in the cities to enforce this, and in addition, you are not allowed to make any loud noises: no TV, no music, no screaming or yelling. The island is silent, as if for one day, all of the people just up and left. Which is exactly the point.

This day, called Nypei, is the traditional Balinese New Year. On the night before Nypei (which we will call ogoh-ogoh night), the entire island makes a racket, rousing up all of the demons from their hiding places to join in the festivities. On Nypei, the island goes silent, in order to trick the demons into thinking there are no humans on the island, so this way they get bored and go away.

The Balinese lure the demons out by parading around homemade statues, called ogoh-ogoh, which are anywhere from 8 feet to two stories tall. Some are traditional demons, with large, frightening faces, teeth, and hands, while others take a more modern approach. (I saw a couple punk rocker ogoh-ogoh as well as a Spongebob Squarepants likeness.) The ogoh-ogoh are carried on bamboo bases by anywhere from 12 to 20 men or boys, depending on the size. The carriers make the ogoh-ogoh dance in the streets to loud gamelan music which basically sounds like a lot of drums and gongs smashing together. The ogoh-ogoh are shaken and shaken during the dance, and when they lose heads or arms or break altogether the crowd cheers. With the music, the darkness, and the ogoh-ogoh, it is easy to believe that demons are flying about, joining in the festivities. In the darkness, fireworks boom and flash, and the atmosphere seems exactly like a demon’s cup of tea.

The of day of Nypei seems a little less straight forwards than ogoh-ogoh night. I was originally told that on Nypei, people are not allowed to do anything. I thought this meant that I would get to sleep in, and that there would be no cooking, cleaning, using electricity, and talking above a whisper. But it seems that the rules here at the orphanage are pretty lax. (Of course, living in a Christian orphanage is not exactly the most traditional way to experience this holiday.) I woke up at 7 (Yes! I got to sleep in an extra hour!) and ate a freshly cooked breakfast, read, and basically sat around.

I definitely expected a different few days than what I ended up experiencing. I thought that on ogoh-ogoh night, we would all stay out late and be loud, and I thought we would get to light the ogoh-ogohs on fire. I thought that on Nypei, we would all be silent and bored. Instead I ended up watching a parade and having a pretty normal, if quiet day (ahh, the absence of motorcycles…).

Regardless of my expectations, I still had an amazing experience, sitting on the street, the pavement still warm with small pieces of gravel sticking into my legs, and watching a green ogoh-ogoh dance above torches to the sound of gongs, drumming, and singing. I looked up into the stars (Nypei is always held on the new moon) and saw the Orion constellation. For the past few weeks, I have begun to see Orion as a connection to home, but I looked up, and instead of seeing a ancient Grecian warrior, I saw a Balinese demon, dancing across the night sky.

Nothing a Good Sense of Humor Can't Handle!

If one would assume that after living in a foreign country for two months I would be able to struggle through a conversation in Indonesian, one would assume wrong. My Indonesian can do little more than ask “How are you?” but if someone asks me how I am in return, the only answer I can reply with is “Fine” or “Not fine.” Indonesian is surprisingly simple however; there is no grammar and everything is spelled like it sounds and sounds like it’s spelled (just remember “c” is pronounced “ch”). I feel lucky that Indonesian is so easy; all I really need to do is memorize vocabulary words. However, this memorization can get extremely confusing when the girls give me a Balinese word instead of the Indonesian word without telling me.

In the cities, most people speak Indonesian, while in the traditional villages people speak Balinese. (Indonesian is spoken throughout Indonesian, while Balinese is spoken only on Bali.) Balinese is ridiculously complicated because not only is it a whole different language, but there are three levels used according to class, each with its own vocabulary. In the villages, the uneducated and older people cannot speak Indonesian and speak only Balinese. There is also an animosity in the villages towards the less traditional city dwellers who can’t speak Balinese, and those city-folk are not considered true Balinese.

I have two primary reasons for not learning much Indonesian. First of all, I am here to speak English, and so I have not been forced to learn the local language, instead forcing other people to practice my foreign language. Being able to speak English in a tourist driven economy is one of the most important skills a worker can have because it helps get better jobs in the tourist industry instead of as a day laborer, and these girls need all the practice I can give them. The second reason I have not learned Indonesian is because it is a one purpose type language. It’s purpose is to be spoken in Indonesia, and I do not expect to need to speak it ever again in my life, unless I return here.

However, I do enjoy using the Indonesian I know and learning more. The vocabulary sounds so different that it is fun to say, and a lot of relationships between words make sense. For example, the word “kapala” means “head” while the word “kalapa” means “coconut.” Although I admit that I don’t use the words “head” and “coconut” very often. Instead my conversations go something like this:

“Julia, suda mandi?”

“Tidak.”

“O! Bao!”

“Ok, ok, saya mandi!”

This roughly means:

“Julia, you already bathe?”

“No.”

“Oh! Smelly!”

“Ok, ok, I will go take a shower!”

(One of the Balinese habits is to take a shower in the morning and in the evening before dinner. I have had a hard time adapting.)

Besides knowing daily needs and greeting type conversations, I can also order food. The Balinese do not use the word “please” at all; I think I learned the word (“tolong“) after being here two weeks and only after looking it up in the dictionary. To order food, you simply say, “Mother (or Father), I want fried rice!” I learned how to order fried rice while cutting vegetables one morning. While practicing with a fellow vegetable cutter, I repeated, “Ibu, saya mau nasi goreng!” over and over again. After practicing that same sentence for about ten minutes, the cook, Kumang, brought out a plate of fried rice. Apparently, my Indonesian was so convincing she thought I actually wanted some even though saya suda makan pagi (I already ate breakfast).

The few Balinese words I know a just entertaining to say and completely unrelated to anything I would ever want to say. For example, “lab blab” (pronounced, lob blob) means boil. I just walk around the orphanage saying “lab blab” over and over again because I like the way it sounds. I also know the word arm: “limeh” (leem-uuh) not to be confused with the Indonesian word “lima,” (leem-ah) which means “four.”

While I may not be learning quickly, I have enjoyed picking up Indonesian slowly (“plan plan” pronounced “pulahn pulahn”). If I need to learn a new word or two, I learn; if I am bored during the day, I learn. I can say what I want and ask for what I need, and when it comes down to it, all a person really needs to communicate is a smile and good sense of humor anyways.

　

Important words to know in Indonesia:

Hot: panas (pahn-ahs)

Spicy: padas (pah-dahs)

Beach: pantai (pahn-tie)

Crazy: gila (ghee-la)

Water: air (eye-air)

I often feel like my time here, while worthwhile, is not as helpful as I hoped it would be. Much of my time is spent doing nothing. I read, I nap, I play Bejeweled on my computer, I sit in the office and distract whoever is working. I spend only 4 hours or so per day physically helping people here by helping prepare meals or working with groups of girls on their English.

English lessons themselves are mostly just conversation. These girls have already learned basic English in school; there is very little for me to teach. Instead, I feel that our English lessons are an opportunity to practice and remember the English the girls have already learned. So, while sometimes we read from the New Testament to practice pronunciation or translate American songs to appreciate culture and slang, mostly we just start a conversation with a dictionary on the table. Usually, we end up talking about true love and broken hearts, but it is amazing how much vocabulary one can practice while talking about past and present loves.

It is hard sometimes to reassure myself that I am earning my keep; however, I am starting to understand that my real contribution is a little more subtle. I realized this when one afternoon, a girl, Vicka, and I were sitting on the driveway waiting for dinner. She started telling me about a dream she had; in her dream, she and I were walking up a mountain and I told her I was staying until July. Then she woke up. I was so happy to hear this dream of hers, because while it was short, it made me realize that the girls here really do like me and don’t want me to leave. Also, the fact that the dialogue in her dream was all in English, made me feel really good about myself, because it means that these girls are embracing English even in their subconscious.

I may be a slow vegetable cutter and a bad sweeper, but just by being here, I am helping. I am teaching a different culture, forcing people to practice a new language, and encouraging girls to be successful and independent. And so when other visitors and volunteers show up with balloons and chocolate, I just have to remember that my influence here is much more long lasting and memorable.

Winda and Nia rocking the unicycles

Cleaning up our irrigation ditch. I have learned to dread holidays.

I know what freedom feels like; wind in my hair, rain in my eyes, my right wrist sore, and my left ankle cramped. Yes, I have finally learned to drive a motorcycle. I have been wishing to learn for the last month, slowly discovering who has personal motorbikes, slyly mentioning how I don’t know how to ride, and finally saying, “Ok, people. Teach me!” That was about two weeks ago, and, today, I finally got my wish. And what an auspicious day to learn as well because today is a Hindu holiday which celebrates transportation, and in the modern world, that means celebrating cars and motorcycles.

I began just in the driveway of the orphanage, 1^st gear, feet out. Then Dessy, the girl who was brave enough to teach me, and I grabbed some helmets and ventured out onto the real roads. After riding to a quiet street, Dessy let me take over, and I held the first feeling of freedom. Of course, this first freedom was quite bumpy as I hadn’t figured out the whole changing gears thing and since I was concentrating on changing gears so much that I failed to avoid a couple of potholes. But after about ten minutes, my teacher deemed me ready, and we set off towards her school, about 15 minutes away.

Oh, it was exciting. The roads in Bali are like the beginning of a race course, when all of the competitors are together, testing out their speeds and positions (xc skiers, think J2 Girls‘ skate mass start in which people end up on the ground somehow facing the wrong direction). The roads are narrow (although usually well paved) and people pass on the left and the right, giving a little “I’m passing you” honk as they go by. Basically, in a nutshell, it’s sketchy. But once we had maneuvered out of the village and into the rice fields the mass start anxiety was worth it. The wind blew the light smell of rice and smoke over small Hindu temples and homes, and we could see people in traditional dress walking towards temples to celebrate the great inventions that I now know how to drive.

I am especially happy to learn how to ride a motorcycle because now I have more independence to explore by myself once I leave the orphanage in April. I want to set out without a destination (so that way I can’t get lost), and just ride around, stopping at beaches, at warungs, at banyan tree temples. I want to have a fast way to experience Bali slowly and authentically (every modern Balinese family owns a motorcycle), and now that I have the basic ability, all I need is the courage, the bike, and the helmet.

Reality Shaking

I have spent the last few days editing summaries of each girl’s background; each fills my heart with a heavy, desperate feeling. Most girls come from families who are too poor to even afford rice, let alone pay for any education. They know a world that I cannot even imagine, and I sit with them, wondering what secrets sustain them. Most of the time, the girls seem optimistic about their lives; they are getting educations, they are well-fed and clean, they have many friends. A lot of the time, these girls are just like my friends back home in Idaho. But there are always those sometimes, when the façade slips, and reality sneaks up and grabs them hard and shakes them until that fragile optimism breaks away.

But before I get all depressing, I want to tell you about Marta, the girl on the left in the picture. Marta is one of my favorites here (shhh! Don‘t tell!). She is eighteen years old, and she has pretty good English. When she was a young girl, her father abandoned her family, leaving her mother to try to provide for her and her siblings as best she could, which really wasn’t very well at all. But you would never guess Marta’s history from her personality now. She is almost always smiling and happy, and she seems happiest talking about boys. Marta loves boys. At one point, she had three boyfriends (her now ex-boyfriend was reclaimed by his ex-girlfriend). But she is very upfront about all of it, even with her boyfriends, and this accountability makes her very endearing.

One night the orphanage was invited to eat dinner at a warung in the area. A warung is a informal restaurant with low tables; you sit on the tiled floor and eat with your hands, but make no mistake, the food is still delicious. Low tables perched around fish pools and gardens, and we enjoyed rice and whole fish, separating meat and bones. But while treating the girls to something exciting and special, this outing also served as a reminder of everything that they do not have. Most of the girls have never eaten at a “real” restaurant that has waiters, a menu, tables, and chairs; they are learning how to be the waiters, the cooks. So even this special dinner to a warung, reminded them of the restaurant they cannot eat in, only serve at, the house they do not own and will only clean, the money they watch on TV but never hold.

And after what I thought was a glorious dinner, I sat next to Marta, and we talked about discotheques. She’s never been to one and wants to go. I’ve never been to one either, but for very different reasons, mostly lame excuses. Our conversation dwindled after I used the word “sketchy” too many times. In the silence, she leaned her head against my shoulder and asked, “Why?” She could have been asking any question, but I interpreted her why as “Why was I born into a life in which I am too poor to even live with my own family? Why does money have to determine how I can live and what I can and cannot do? Why can’t I go to a real restaurant, why can you come and live in an orphanage just for an experience while I have little choice? Why why why?” It was such a sad question that it brought back the feeling from every girl’s background summary and wrenched my heart out, and all I could say is that life is just not fair. A lame, ambiguous answer, but I felt like it answered all of the questions that she had attached to that one word.

I knew that I would be living with poverty before I came to Bali. But I only knew the word, I hadn’t seen the faces, visited the homes, heard the stories. Now, I know poverty well, or at least it’s victims, children with the bad luck of being born in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like their parents. Poverty really is a cycle, from one generation to the other, and one of the few ways to break the cycle is education. So when reality comes creeping back towards all of us, I just rely on education to help these girls break free from the poverty which defines all that they can and cannot have.

Now That's Entertainment!

Indonesian television is definitely entertainment, although not for the reasons it’s supposed to be. There are three types of shows: modern fiction, fantasy, and reality. They are all ridiculous.

The modern fiction shows are all the same. First of all, like American television, everyone is beautiful, but here beauty is determined by the paleness of a person’s skin. Every person in these shows is like a porcelain doll, with skin whiter than mine. I dislike this portrayal of modern Indonesia because of the message it sends the girl watching: if your skin is brown, you are dirty, and you will never be successful or find love. Besides having pale and perfect skin, these characters live in huge mansions. Let me tell you, there are very few mansions on Bali; most people live in rundown homes the size of my living room and almost all of the houses has at least one wall made from woven palm fronds. These perfect characters are made even more boring by the plots which they are forced to follow. Every episode of every show is the same: boy and girl meet and sparks fly, they are cruelly separated, they find a way to get back together. I know when a show is especially bad because I know exactly what is going on, basically what is being said, and I can predict the ending.

The fantasy shows have about the same filming integrity as the home videos made by American teenagers. The animation that is coarse, obvious, and hilarious. Whoever made it really tried to make a believable giant or a life like tiger, but their efforts are so useless that they might as well of not made any animation at all and used a sock puppet or paper cutout instead. Other parts of the shows use such substitutes; for example, in a recent episode I watched, the good guys were sneaking away from the bad guys through a forest. This forest was, however, a clever arrangement of potted plants placed on someone’s lawn.

Indonesian reality TV is based primarily on music. On an MTV like channel, live bands are always playing. The music is pretty good, and I like that there is always music to listen to. The only problems are the hosts who just like to hear themselves talk, who occasionally break into a song and dance themselves, and who wear huge sunglasses in every situation: inside, outside, in the rain, in the sun. They remind me of pre-teenagers who just got their allowance and decide to walk around the mall to prove to the opposite sex how cool they really are. Besides playing live music, other shows incorporate it into various fame and money winning contests. One show is like a mini American Idol, where the contestants are children about 10 years old who sing songs, competing for votes from viewers. Another show has contestants naming song segments played to them and then they get to sing, although I’m not really sure what the point of that one actually is.

My favorite reality show is not based on music. It is one that I can’t understand, but from what I do know, it is like The Bachelor or The Bachelorette. The only difference is that the bachelor or bachelorette chooses a companion in about ten minutes, based primarily on looks but also on a question or two. Once paired, the two love birds get to go on a date (off screen), and are given money if they end up marrying each other. It’s priceless.

A World of People

The other day (ok, two weeks ago), I went to Java, the island of Indonesia which holds the capitol. This trip was a spur of the moment invitation from the director of Widhya Asih; I had come out of my bedroom and he asked if I would like to go to Java. I said yes, and ten minutes later I was sitting in the bus, sadly, naïve about what “going to Java” really means. Basically, it means that it takes about 5 hours, in one direction, on small, barely two lane roads which corner and curve and bump and jostle for the entire road.

During the drive, I had time to ask myself why I, and every one else, was going to Java in the first place. I thought that we must be going to some big meeting, something that would review the annual report, something that would greatly affect all of these important people I was sitting with. I started to wonder why I had come to Indonesia at all. I tried to think of what I liked about traveling anyways. I don’t like to be uncomfortable; I don’t like public transportation, I don’t like not knowing where I am and what I am supposed to be doing there. With that list of dislikes, I might as well stay home and venture occasionally to the neighborhood pool.

We arrived at our destination, and instead of being led into meetings, we were welcomed into the home of a newly wedded couple. Their wedding had been the day before, and everyone who had been in the bus knew the groom very well. Although even though they were very close with the groom, the men and women segregated, and besides greetings and goodbyes, the men and women hardly talked or acknowledged each other at all. We sat on the floor, and our hosts gave us some food, which we welcomed. They followed this food with more food: Rice, three types of chicken (one of which is called sate and is served mashed and then cooked on a stick), rice crackers, eggs, and fruit. I was stuffed. Unfortunately for me and my metabolism, I was sitting next to the grandmother of the newlyweds, and she kept offering me food. I would have a banana that she offered me, and then she would offer me another one. Later, someone explained to me that by not having at least seconds on everything, the host thinks the guest did not like the food.

This woman was older, in her late sixties or early seventies. She wore glasses, and because she was Muslim, she covered her head as well. Her face was defined by wrinkles, but she still had good skin. She couldn’t speak any English, or at least she didn’t speak in English, instead using Kristine to translate instead. After hearing that I was on my way (eventually) to university, she offered me advice, telling me to work hard in school, because that is the best way to achieve all of my ambitions. She asked what my ambitions were. I told her I wanted to be happy.

Kristine took out her camera and took a picture of us. I wrapped my arm around the grandmother sitting next to me, and she pressed her face against mine, smiling dearly. And with her soft cheek pressed against mine, I remembered everything. I remembered Kristine taking my picture, I remembered the girls at the orphanage, I remembered the couple I stayed with in Singaraja, I remembered Kristine’s niece. The people who make up your life are much more important than any thing that a person could ever own, really. Traveling gives me the opportunity to fill my life with people who I would never, ever meet otherwise, and in this way, it fulfills me. So no matter how much I complain about bug bites or public transportation or spicy food, it is all worth it because of all of the wonderful people who I meet through all of these troubles.

I will probably never see my new friend again, but that doesn’t matter, because in just a few hours, she has touched my heart and affected my thoughts more than any class or a number of people ever have.

Lumpiang!

Tofu, potato, hard boiled egg, and some cabbage covered in peanut sauce (which according to my people is full of MSG) and chilis!

Magic Metabolisms

The Balinese should all be fat. But they are not.

I have no idea why the people in Bali are so skinny. Somehow, they are able to eat massive amounts of rice and fried foods and still maintain bodies of short supermodels. Every meal’s staple is white rice. At the orphanage, we usually have white rice and fried noodles and fried tempei for breakfast, and white rice, boiled vegetables, and a fried protein for lunch and dinner. Every day, I watch girls as thin as a small tree branch shovel plate after plate of rice into their bodies, and I wonder 1) where does all of that food go 2) how are they so thin and 3) why can’t I eat that much and look like that? And those three hefty meals are supplemented daily by fruit, doughnuts, meatballs, and other deep-fried treats.

Besides eating a lot of rice and food in general, the Balinese also use a lot of spices. Every single vegetable dish is boiled with chilies, and the little red and green bits hide behind cabbage and other vegetables, waiting. While I have become more accustomed to spicy food, I still have to hunt each little chili piece down before eating, but while I do that the girls next to me supplement their meal with a whole chili! I watch in horror and disbelief while the girls, holding the chili in their left hand, take a bit of the rice and spicy vegetable, bite off a piece of chili, and repeat.

My favorite part of the traditional Balinese meal is how the meal is eaten. While most of the time at the orphanage, we use spoons to eat, it is not unusual for the girls to just eat with their right hand, always the right. It requires a bit of skill to pinch a mouthful of rice and other food together, but I swear, everything tastes better from your hands than from any utensil. I think the trick to eating like a true Balinese though is to avoid "the chicken wing," in which the unpracticed diner sticks his or her elbow out to the side instead of tucking the arm close to the body. The speed at which a traditional Balinese diner can stuff food into their mouth is truly amazing, and definitely divides the amateurs from the experts.

While spicy food is not my favorite food in the world (although in a few months, it might be), I have found some favorite foods. My favorite fruit is the mangostene which is a white, fleshy fruit encased in a thick purple skin. The fruit is light, sweet, and so delicious that I can easily eat at least a kilo and probably more. I think heaven might taste like a mangostene. I also really like deep fried bananas, called pisang goreng, and unfortunately, I can buy a whole bag of them from a vendor 3 minutes from the orphanage for about 75 cents.

I love the Balinese food. It's a little spicy and most of it isn't particularly healthy, but a month into my stay, I do not miss any foods besides sharp cheddar cheese (I can buy quality chocolate at the supermarket). I just hope that one of these Balinese girls will reveal the secret of their practically magical metabolism, so that way I can eat as many fried bananas and as much white rice as I want.

Some of the girls, from left to right: Cynthia, Novie, Marta, Chi Chi, and Wangi

Giving Thanks

The days here are generously supplemented by prayer and song. In the mornings, I often wake to singing, the prelude to praying itself; before and after meals, we all bow our heads in thanks; at night, someone is chosen to read from the bible and lead everyone in song and more prayer. Twice a week, the older Christian girls meet with members of the church and rehearse the song which they sing on Sunday. In this small corner of Bali, we are constantly giving thanks.

Unfortunately, I have never been a particularly religious person. Spiritual maybe, but never religious. Basically the only time I have ever gone to church has been for funerals or, when I was little, after spending the night at a friends house. Although I think I went once with my Grandma, and I remember I became so hungry during the service that I went up and received the host because at the time, I thought it was just a cracker. Oops. So all of this praying is kind of a new thing for me. But I like it.

I like taking time to think about what I am thankful for, because there is so much to be thankful for. So while everyone thanks the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I just send out a wave of thankfulness. I’ve told some people that I do not have a religion, right after revealing that my hobbies are cooking, reading, and traveling. Usually, after sharing my godlessness, I am asked to repeat myself, because usually, the girls cannot believe that not only am I not Hindu or Muslim, but that I am not Christian either. But now, I am just starting to say that I am a Christian, but a bad one who has never gone to church or been involved in any youth group. It is much easier, especially because I am worried that I would be asked not to sing in the choir. Yes. I sing in the church choir every Sunday.

And I like it. I like going to church too because everyone has so much love in their hearts and is so passionate about their God. Every Sunday is a beautiful celebration of love. My favorite part is when we all shake hands and ask God to love and forgive each other. It makes me cry (just a little bit), because everyone is so genuine and their words are so heartfelt. They really do want God to love me and forgive me, and I really do want Something to love and forgive them. I wish we would go around everyday to everyone, wishing them love and forgiveness. The world would be a much better place.

Church does get a little tricky though sometimes, especially because the pastor speaks very good English. One day she asked if my parents were Christian, and not wanting to lie, I said no, they were not. She replied that maybe when I returned home I would be able to save them. She went on to say how hard it is now, in the modern world, to stay on the right path without the guidance of Jesus. I think I mumbled something, and then very carefully replied that I think there are many right paths and many right ways to walk along the right paths. She sort of nodded and changed the subject.

I was perfectly serious though. I know a lot of good people who have a religion, and I know a lot of good people who don’t. Both groups are happy, and both groups give much of their heart and energy to helping others and making the world a better place. I figure that both groups have found the same thing, but perhaps they just have different names for their motivation. That’s really what it comes down to, I think: names and definitions. I think that at a core level, people walking along the “right” path have found the same thing, but they just call it differently: enlightenment, Jesus, God, Buddha, and all sorts of other names. But it is all the same because the core of all of those names encourages people to be good people who make the world better for themselves, for their neighbors, and for strangers. Who cares what anyone calls it.

The Mosquito

If I know one insect, I know the mosquito.

My relationship with this pesky bug has existed basically as long as I have. Like any relationship, we’ve had our highs and lows, but mostly lows. I remember a particular hike in Hawaii which ended in me fleeing the coffee bean forest in tears, running straight into the ocean to escape from the bites. I remember counting the bites on my body, usually averaging out at an even 60. Recently though, I thought that the mosquito population in general had lost interest and had moved on to another victim.

I was wrong. The mosquitoes here in Bali love me as they love no other. The first thing I do when I wake up is spray bug repellent all over my exposed skin, but every night when I go to bed, I count more bites. The worst bites are the ones on my fingers and toes; I have a bite on each big toe. Maybe they haven’t had any American blood for a while, maybe they will grow tired of me.

I hope so, because our relationship will suffer as I try to kill more and more of the local mosquito population. However, the important word in that previous sentence is try. Not only do these bugs love me more than any bug in Idaho ever has, but these guys are the fastest and trickiest I’ve ever waged a war against. Unlike their American cousins, the Balinese mosquitoes are light and agile; they do not lumber through the air, instead they flit across the currents, taking advantage of each breath to fly a little farther, a little faster.

The mosquitoes are able to enter my room through the bathroom, which has a permanently opened window, and although I try to keep the door closed, some eventually find their way through the door. This would be ok, except that not only to they find their way into my room, but they also sneak into my netted bed and lie in wait, violating me the moment I fall asleep. Like I said, our relationship is suffering.

Until the day when these stupid bugs get tired of my blood (unlikely) or the entire population is wiped out by a super smart bomb, I have to put up with my own slapping, clapping, itching, picking, scabbing, and swearing.

Thankfully, if I know one cream, I know hydrocortisone.

Interaction

Because I wake up before the sun has fully risen and go to bed relatively late, my days stretch on, making me feel as if I have lived here at the Untal-Untal Orphanage for months instead of days. But in the few days I have been here, I feel that I have discovered how I will stay happy: constant interaction. It may seem that surrounded by 60 other people, that I would never be lonely, however, because I have a room and bathroom to myself, I often find myself alone.

Here, four girls share one room, and the rooms that they share are about haft the size of mine, holding two bunk beds and a wardrobe which they all share. In my room, I have a cabinet, a desk, and a tv with a stand, as well as a mosquito netted, canopy bed. I love sitting in my bed while the resident geckos start chirping because I like to pretend that in this bed I am safe from everything outside, even though the occasional mosquito gets inside.

The second best part of my room is the air conditioning. I was excited to go to Bali and to be warm. I did not fully appreciate that warm in Bali means sweltering. While I like to think that in a month or so I will grow used to the heat, right now, my air conditioner is my best friend.

But with my new commitment to interaction, I doubt that my steady relationship with any air conditioning could stand the pressure of human friendship, which I am slowly finding in each girl. Although I came to Bali thinking that I would be living with girls who have absolutely no family, I’ve learned that most girls are not orphans, but that their families are too poor to pay for an education for them.

These girls go to several different schools: junior high school, senior high school, vocational school, university, and the very little ones still march off to elementary school each morning. Dedicated to their education, most see the value of speaking English, and slowly, shyly they have begun to speak with me. We speak about hobbies, religion (mostly Christianity), American and Indonesian culture, and aspirations. Chi Chi, although studying multimedia, wants nothing more than an iPod; right now she stores music on a flash drive and plays Jay-Z and Lady Gaga on a community laptop while doing homework. Ulan is studying Christianity so she can be a teacher. Betrini wants to be a cook, and if she has enough money, wants to open a restaurant in her home village where her parents still live.

When I talk to the girls here, they open my eyes to what commitment and sacrifice mean. In Indonesia, people often think that girls do not need an education because they will grow up to be housewives; even their school books say so (Cooking is a good hobby, especially for girls who will grow up to be housewives). But these girls live far from their families in order to receive an education and to have the power to be self-sufficient business women, but regardless of educations and aspirations, I hope that regardless of what they learn in school, the 60 or so girls here learn how to stay happy.

At Home in Idaho

In four days, I am going to get on a plane and fly off to an adventure which I have been planning since May. I will go to Bali; I will work in an orphanage; I will learn about myself; I will learn about the world around me. It is quite a simple adventure, with quite simple goals.

But to tell the truth, as I sit here in Idaho, composing this blog, I am absolutely terrified. Whenever I share that I am going to Bali, everyone is always so excited for me. They tell me it will be “awesome” and “amazing” and lots of other really exciting words. Their eyes light up with a bit of a fever as they imagine the beaches, the surfing, the diving, the monkeys. But when I think of Bali, from here in my chair, I think of an orphanage with 73 teenage girls; I think of a language I had been determined to learn before I left until I was advised not to because it is so complicated; I think of a huge city, filled with poverty and filth and millions of people, and yeah, that is exciting, but at that same moment it is terrifying.

Most of my friends are in college right now, and I imagine that they experienced something similar to my fear and excitement, but when they were apprehensive about moving to school and making friends, they didn’t need to be concerned about malaria or salad (I won’t be able to eat raw, unpeeled anything for a long time, if at all) or what the toilet will be like. They knew that when they left for school everyone would speak their language, that there would be programs and classes to help them assimilate into their new world.

From what I understand, I am the first foreigner who has worked for and lived with this orphanage, this foundation, for such a long period of time. What I am doing, is not only new to me, but also new to them. Together we will create a relationship in which we will both help each other. And this relationship is what calms me, because I believe that while the outside of things will be different, (a different language, different customs, different city) the insides are the same. We all share a basic need to be valued and to be accepted. What I am most excited about is not the beach or the diving or even the monkeys, but finding a familiar thread which binds all humans together.

When it comes down to it, the most concrete thing I know about Bali is that right now it is 72 degrees Fahrenheit (although it feels like 78). There is mystery, excitement, and adventure in the air, and I invite anyone to follow me as I discover Bali, its people, its cities, its customs, and myself. It’s quite simple, really.