Harus Bisa

I’ve wanted to volunteer teach at the local special needs school (SLB) since arriving here. I’ve noticed that people refer to people with special needs as “abnormal” and make really offensive jokes. People do that in America, too, but it seems more prevalent and acceptable here.

So my goal is to start volunteering there and to eventually recruit some of my middle school students to help, too, so that they can be exposed to this demographic and realize that there’s nothing “abnormal” about them. I want them to realize that their offensive jokes are not funny, and as a result, share their realization with others.

Last week, I asked SLB if they wanted some help. I’m assigned to Indonesia as an English teacher. I conveyed this to the teachers at SLB. I thought they’d want me to teach English. But they had something else in mind, something beyond my skill and perhaps comfort level.

Basically, they think the perfect job for a native English speaker is to teach traditional Javanese dance to Javanese students.

Let me preface by saying I’m not a dance teacher, and I have no idea what a traditional Javanese dance looks like. But I have YouTube with me. And my willingness to try everything once despite how foolish I look. I can’t imagine this is the assignment they want me to take on. It’d be an amazing sight to see an unskilled American girl teach Javanese dance to Javanese students. I smell a prank coming on.

Naturally, I sought help from a dance teacher at my middle school. I kept saying the following affirmations:

“I can’t dance”

“I can’t teach dance”

“I can’t do this!”

He said I need to stop saying I can’t do it. The students need me. They will be entertained, and since I have experience with special needs students, it’ll be a good experience for everyone involved. He said I need to stop saying I can’t do it. He said:

“Harus bisa.” I must be able to do it.

His affirmation is a lot stronger than mine. His is more positive. I may have no experience at all with this assignment, but I have to try. I’ve pushed myself so much these past eight months without having the experience. So why can’t I also do this?

Starting February, I will be a volunteer English teacher moonlighting as a traditional Javanese dance teacher. Bring it on!

New Environment

I’ve been in Indonesia for eight months, and it still feels like a new environment. I have a better handle on the language and social norms than I did a few months ago. But it still doesn’t feel like home. And I’m afraid it never will.

I assumed I’d fall completely head over heels in love with this country. And although I dearly love several aspects, I’ve had to redefine a lot of my values to suit the new environment. Adapting was an expected aspect of Peace Corps service, but I didn’t realize just how much I had to sacrifice. I’m still on survival mode when I’m supposed to be fully adjusted, and it’s making life very confusing. Thoughts that cross my mind:

Which level of Javanese am I supposed to use for this person? (there are about three or four levels of Javanese)

How should I go about walking past this person?

Wait. Which hand am I supposed to use to accept that plate of rice?

Things don’t always go as smoothly as I hope, and the kicker is: I’m starting to forget my American habits and values. They say transitioning back to America is just as hard as transitioning to our Peace Corps country. After expressing this to my mom, she assured that my eight-year old niece would be there to police my behavior and make me American again. As much as I appreciate that attention, I’d prefer if someone here would help me become Indonesian.

Indonesia will continue being a new environment to me until I find that one thing or person that’ll propel me forward. Until then, I’m thinking it’s okay to accept that plate of rice with the wrong hand. Here's to the next 18 months figuring it all out! 

Palette Cleanser

Before joining the Peace Corps, I had very rigid ideas about what was polite and what was impolite. You could even say I naively assumed those ideas were universal. They are not. For example:

I asked my Indonesian co-worker what I should wear to the swimming pool. American bathing suits are not appropriate in Indonesian villages. People usually swim fully clothed. He said if I wear a bikini people would wonder if I’m a cow or a buffalo. After I got offended he said he didn’t mean to offend me.

Uhhh…

It was said so nonchalantly. In this instance, another of my Indonesian co-workers at school loudly used my body shape to compare two student girls: one heavier than the other. I’m like a reference for size in this country.

Apparently, talking about weight in Indonesia is not taboo. At least in the village, weight, age, and marital status are discussed often and publicly. I’m told that people ask because they care and not because they judge.

Because those heavy topics aren’t considered rude, I never know what’s polite and impolite. Every day, I test boundaries and see what’s accepted. What can I say and what’s forgivable because I’m American? It’s been a great learning experience so far even at the expense of my upbringing.

I think I’ve been so jaded by American culture. A lot of things seem taboo. There are so many boundaries and so many rules. This is a definite palette cleanser. I can take this opportunity to try to redefine all the rigid ideas I cultivated before joining Peace Corps. Everything’s up in the air, and I control how everything’s organized when it hits the ground.

In the spirit of integration, I’m joining my family to the beach tomorrow. And considering I’m not allowed to wear an American swimsuit, I’ve chosen to be excited about getting into the water fully clothed. Do as the Romans do.

Running On Adrenalin

I’m extremely lucky to be serving in the Peace Corps. I’m so lucky to be serving in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. In my short experience here, Indonesians seem to genuinely want to help others. They have a lot to offer the world, and I’m so proud to be able to serve here.

Before moving here, I never realized the high market value Americans have. I get a lot of positive attention just for being American. Some days the attention makes me feel like a mascot or a pet, but overall it’s been a good experience.

Although I have to say that all the attention is giving me a major ego trip. As a result, I run mostly on adrenalin for the bulk of the day. It’s great. I feel so alive. I’m able to push myself to do things I wouldn’t normally have the courage to do. But then comes the time of day when the adrenalin wears off. Then it’s time to reflect. It typically goes like this:

The time is flying so fast! I’ve been in Indonesia for nearly seven months. What have I accomplished? Why am I still here? What are my intentions? Are my dreams for making the world a better place foolish?

But the reflection typically turns positively. I’ve met so many good people here. I’ve found a new best friend that noticed I was so shy when I first arrived at permanent site. He gave me motivation and strength and continues to do so every day.

Realizing that I’ve made a connection like that usually ends my sour reflection and lets me go to sleep. The next morning the adrenalin runs high again, and it all cycles again. It’s a vicious cycle.

I know I have the power to balance out my emotions. The time is moving so fast, so I hope I can figure this all out before my last day in Indonesia. A quote I have to tell myself every time my mood turns sour:

“The bad news is time flies. The good news is you’re the pilot.” 

Air Conditioning: A Challenge of Posh Corps

Early one morning, my ibu and I have a short conversation (translated from Indonesian):

IBU: Charisse, do you like air conditioning?

ME: Of course I do, ibu! I live in Indonesia. I’m sweating as I answer your question. Air conditioning is my best friend.

IBU: Okay.

(pause)

Eat some rice. 

A few hours later, I see Samsung boxes in front of my bedroom door labeled Air Conditioning Unit. The realization hits: My ibu is installing AC in my bedroom. This cannot be the real Peace Corps experience.

I’ve known that Peace Corps in Asia is referred to as Posh Corps. It’s somehow fancier in Asia than in other parts of the world. I mean I still get the run-of-the-mill flying cockroaches and geckos falling from the ceiling and on to my head, but they’re fancy flying cockroaches and geckos. Apparently.

Sometimes I feel like I should be challenged more. Sometimes I feel like I could be learning more about my abilities and limitations if I weren’t serving in Posh Corps. If I were serving near the Amazon or the Serengeti, for example, then maybe I’d become a warrior woman. I’d be like Crocodile Dundee or even Xena!

When one first thinks of Peace Corps, mud huts, well water, and intense sacrifice come to mind. Instead, I get air conditioning. As ridiculous and ungrateful as it sounds, it all somehow doesn’t feel fair. I mean I love my air conditioner. I thank my ibu every day. Unfortunately, along with the satisfaction I feel when 20° C air washes over my sweaty face, I also feel like I was swindled out of a life-affirming experience.

Despite my grumbles, I look forward to the next two years. I’m assured that Posh Corps makes up for its lack of physical challenges with a host of mental ones. Until those arrive, I’ll just wait in my temperature-controlled bedroom, which is stocked with plush pillows on a firm mattress resting on an intricately hand-carved bed frame standing on tile floor, and enjoy an ice cream from a mini mart a block away. Such sacrifice! Kasihan!

A Second-Class Citizenship

I consider myself a competent bicyclist in America. I think I’m pretty skilled at weaving in and out of fast lanes. I can handle myself on the road. 

Things are a bit different in Indonesia. I thought I was good at asserting my presence on American roads, but in reality, American drivers actually stop for bicyclists. The hierarchy of having the right of way is: pedestrians, bicyclists, and then car drivers.

In Indonesia, no one seems to have the right of way. Or I guess if there is, the biggest gets the right of way. Indonesian drivers don’t stop for pedestrians and treat bicycles as cars. I get honked at a lot. At first, I was flattered by the honks. People notice me. But really it’s because there’s no bike lane and barely enough room for both cars and bicycles. They don’t honk because they admire my awesome calves; they just want me to get out of their way.

When I bike in Indonesia, I’m considered as just another car, but with the lack of comfy seating and cup holders. Obviously I try to embrace this new role as a car, but on a bicycle. I want to show Indonesians that I can integrate. I get pumped every time my bike tire meets pavement because it’s just another challenge Peace Corps has given me. I accept!

But this plan backfires. I’ve been biking on the road for a few weeks and it suddenly feels like cars are way too close as I bike beside them. They don’t leave me any room. There were many times when side view windows grazed the sleeve of my shirt. Tidak sopan.

Maybe my problem is that I have car envy and try to act too much like a car. Maybe I haven’t realized that although I’m still considered a car on the road, I carry a second-class citizenship. It’s survival of the fittest and those with motors come up on top. 

I want to become a competent bicyclist in both America and Indonesia, so I will try to not let this experience deter me from achieving my goal. I may be a second-class citizen on the road, but I’m going to try very hard to respectfully assert that first-class position.

Six Things I've Learned So Far In Peace Corps

1. Beware of cats with one eye

Let me preface by saying not all cats that have only one eye are bad. This particular cat, Ngang-Ngang, is a particular terror. Not only is his name Ngang-Ngang, which should have been an immediate red flag because I still struggle making the “ng” sound in the local language, but also his meows are just plain sinister sounding.

Ngang-Ngang bit my ankle a week ago, which prompted me to travel six hours for post-exposure rabies shots. I’m not a big traveller, especially when the destination is a doctor’s office. But my mood to travel was saved when my Indonesian co-teachers offered to drive. We bonded over Starbucks, sang cheesy Indonesian love songs in the car, laughed at my sad attempts at the local language, and even found time to lesson plan for the first few English classes we’d teach together. It was amazing, and as much as I hate to admit, that one-eyed cat might’ve helped solidify healthy working and personal relationships for the next two years.

2. Actions aren’t always consistent with each other

One of my neighbors bought me a traditional-style blouse (batik). It had a beautiful red pattern, and I was excited to try it on and show my ibu (host mother). But alas, it was too small. I showed my ibu that it was too small, and all she did was laugh, point at my body, and say “too fat.” I was already used to the cultural practice of expressing opinions about physical appearance, so I wasn’t offended. I just nodded, took off the batik, and gave it to my ibu.

Ten minutes later, my ibu knocks at my door with a huge plate of rice and says I need to eat more so I won’t get sick. This is one aspect of Indonesian culture I have trouble understanding. If she called me fat, shouldn’t she want me to eat less? This particular mystery will take a while to figure out. In the meantime, I will accept that actions aren’t always consistent with each other. And I will also try to accept that rice is the medicine for all ailments.

3. Do not be too emotional

One of the teachers at my school asked me to offer commentary during a volleyball tournament. I have zero experience commentating sports events. Plus, our three months of Bahasa Indonesia (BI) lessons surprisingly offered no sports vocabulary. I declined and instead sat next to him. He spoke quickly in BI, so I could only catch certain words. A few minutes in, he took a break from the game and asked me a question in English to the crowd of students. Not many of the students could understand English, so the commentator graciously translated my response into the microphone. Instead of translating my response correctly, he decided to make a joke and told everyone in the local language that I thought he was so handsome.

I know my language skills are still lacking, and I’ve gotten used to people laughing at my poor attempts. But this time people were laughing not because of my mistake but because of a joke about me. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been so emotional. I should have played it off by grabbing the microphone and playfully and charmingly correcting him. Instead, I walked away and probably reinforced the stereotype that Americans are too sensitive.

4. Know thy neighbors

When I lived in America, the Internet was always there if I became bored. Things are a bit different living in the village. I currently only get Internet at school, so a lot of my free time at home is spent wondering what to do. I wander the neighborhood. I talk to the neighbors. I let the kids follow me and sing songs. I take the time to smell the flowers, an act I seldom did in America.

That’s the habit I will definitely bring back home with me. Things could be progressively better if people just took the time to talk with their neighbors. My social anxiety is still there, and I’m haunted by it every time I meet a new person. But at the end of my walk, I feel more re-energized than any online cute cat video could make me.

5. Indonesians are the most helpful people I’ve met

My co-worker took me to the nearest mall. She parked in the parking garage across the street. Pedestrians in Indonesia do not receive the same rights as they do in America. Pedestrians here do not get the right of way. We kind of have to weave through the traffic. There’re not really any traffic lights for pedestrians either. It was sort of traumatizing the first time I crossed the street by myself, but I’m kind of a pro at it now.

Anyway, my co-worker didn’t know I was well versed in the dangers of menyeberang (crossing the street), so she caringly grabbed my hand as she weaved through traffic. At first I thought she was babying me and I was a bit offended. But then I realized I haven’t been babied in a long time. It felt sort of nice. So I let her hold my hand even after we were well away from danger. I let her hold my hand as we rode the escalator inside the mall. Hell, it felt nice. Why not?! Although I realize now that my liking to hold hands crossing the street kind of takes away from my independent American street cred at work. Meh. It’s a small price to pay for such comfort.

6. The guy doing the adan this morning sounded like Alan Rickman

Islam is the reigning religion in Indonesia. There are mosques everywhere. In America, there are Starbucks on every corner. In Indonesia, there are mosques. As a result, there is a call to prayer on a loudspeaker five times a day. I’ve gotten so used to it that I no longer awaken to the 4:30am call to prayer. But this particular morning, the adan (morning call to prayer) sounded like Alan Rickman reciting verses. I attribute that to my not having watched anything in English for a few months and my neglect to bring any movies spoken in English. I also attribute that to the hallucinatory side effects of my malaria medication. And I got to say, if I’m going to hallucinate anything, Alan Rickman’s voice is not a bad choice.

PST: A Love Story

Peace Corps Pre-Service Training (PST) has been good to me. It’s really been like being in a healthy relationship. I left a kind of unhealthy relationship in the States before moving here, and it feels like I finally know what love is about.

I mean, yeah, I know I’m not literally in love with PST. But it sure has challenged me in ways I expect a partner to challenge me. It’s made me learn new things the way I expect a partner to make me learn. It’s made me unearth flexibility and resilience the way I expect a partner to make me discover. It’s even made me physically sick and tired in ways I expect a partner to make me feel.

Of course, I don’t expect to receive all the benefits in this relationship. I’m no pillow queen. I intend to give as good as I get. But I need to be given the chance. As appreciative as I’ve been for the ibu coddling and the strict scheduling, I’m finally ready to move onto the next step. And the next step may actually prove to be more difficult because I’m finally given the opportunity to show what I’ve learned.

Regardless, these are all the challenges I expect from a healthy relationship. The challenges are necessary for making this a great experience. I can imagine my continuing relationship with Peace Corps to thrive and to be dually beneficial. And I can only make this dually beneficial by taking the chance to show what I’ve learned.

Frankly, I want to be so transformed from this overseas experience that I won’t be able to recognize the person writing this right now. So please Peace Corps: it’s your move. Silakan! Saya bisa.

Messiah Complex

I’m figuring out so much about myself living here. On the most part, I love it. I love learning how my value for certain things has changed. Every time I deal with a situation that questions my readiness to serve, I ask: What am I willing to sacrifice to have this experience? Is this experience worth that sacrifice?

As liberating as all this self-discovery has been, there have also been things about myself I don’t enjoy discovering. For example, I’ve been called condescending. I’ve been told I’m too focused on the job. And most surprising, I’ve been called too competitive. These are three characteristics I would have never used to describe me. But put together and considering all the random comments I’ve received about my behavior, I think I finally have come to terms that I suffer from Messiah Complex.

Messiah Complex is always wanting to help others, thinking that I am wiser, and in turn, thinking that I always know better. And when I’m not actively helping people, I want nothing to do with them.

This is obviously an exaggeration of what I’m currently going through, and since this is my first experience outside of America, emotions are amplified. All of my character flaws are magnified and examined. I’ve accepted that I suffer from Messiah Complex, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to change.

A friend suggested that if I wanted to change, I should embody the characteristics of fictional people I admire. I currently admire Sherlock Holmes from the TV show Elementary.

Watson asks Sherlock Holmes if they are cut off from the world because their current lifestyle is focused solely on the job. Sherlock says:

“We’re not cut off from the world. We’re engaged in creating one that’s actually worth living in. One that addresses our needs entirely and eliminates anything extraneous . . . Then I met someone called Irene Adler, and that forced me to reexamine those convictions. She, of course, turned out to be a criminal . . . I feel liberated. I am now and forever post-love. And as such, I’m free to pursue a life of meaning.”

So, yeah, he is cut off from the world because he doesn’t accept its current state. Those who are busy creating and organizing how something functions rarely have the opportunity to experience how something functions. He sees living as a science rather than as something that ebbs and flows naturally.

I don’t know what it means for me to want to embody the characteristics of Sherlock Holmes, but I do. Until I find another fictional character that moves me as much as he does, I’m not going to try to change. I mean I’m working on not being so condescending, but other than that, take me as I am.

Mosquito Indiana Jones

I’m doing an absolute disservice for myself by trapping mosquitos in my mosquito net with me at night. It’s accidental, of course, but I woke up one day with bites all over my right leg. This misfortune has made me question my competency for life, or to be more specific, my competency for surviving Peace Corps service.

How does one make preparations for success only to have those preparations fail? I’ve begrudgingly accepted that no matter how prepared, there’s no such thing as a sure thing. I’ve accepted that sometimes things just happen; in those cases, timing is everything.

That mosquito must have already been hiding in the covers or pulled a crazy good Indiana Jones as I was stuffing the ends of my net underneath my mattress. Regardless, it’s just another reminder to stay on my toes in this country.

Figuratively, Mosquito Indiana Jones will forever undercut my attempts for success. I like to imagine that his role is the self-doubt that naturally manifests from attempting to adapt existing skills to new jobs in different cultures. He’ll make me nervous before a big language test. He’ll give me food poisoning before an important social function. He may even be there as I board the plane back to America in two years. He’ll always be there, and all I can do is work hard just to stay in the game. All I can do is try to find ways to close the mosquito net before he can fly in. Basically, I’m on the defense until I can figure out the rules here.

Although I have to admit I started to overcome my fear of Mosquito Indiana Jones when a cockroach fell from the ceiling and onto my head. Apparently, I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

Assimilating and Integrating

My intention was to keep my hair pixie hair short during my time in Indonesia. I knew it was going to be hot, and I needed a hairstyle that was as low maintenance as I expected my Peace Corps lifestyle to be. But I neglected to consider how Indonesian cultural norms would affect my American lifestyle choices while living here.

I haven’t had a haircut since I was in the States because our schedule has been jam-packed, so my cute pixie cut kind of morphed into the bowl ‘do of Lloyd Christmas in Dumb and Dumber. I am due for a cut. 

I went to two hair salons the other day, and they both refused service. One hair stylist was afraid I’d get mad if she messed up and the other hair stylist refused to enable my masculine life choices. So I decided to just grow out my hair. Having my hair a certain length didn’t mean the world to me, and I wanted to get along with community members.

During a particularly hot day a week later, I shed a layer of clothing and was clad in only a tank top and pants in my host family’s home. While I usually donned this relaxed attire in the States under cooler circumstances, it felt inappropriate to show so much skin after having been trained for the past two months to cover almost everything.

After an uncomfortable ten minutes watching television with my host family, I felt completely obliged to run to my closet and cover my collarbones and elbows. I strive for integration but seemed to have erred on the side of assimilation.

Conforming to culturally appropriate hairstyles and sacrificing physical comfort kind of scared me. Was I integrating too much to this culture? I don’t want to integrate to the point of turning my back on American privileges. When will I find that balance of incorporating both cultures into my daily routine? 

I realize that because I’m so used to covering my body here that I now stare at my Ibu’s cleavage and knees when they show. I look like such a perv, but I’m really experiencing shock at such audacity. And that pervy moment is when I realize I need to figure out this whole integration thing. I mean if my Ibu can show some skin, shouldn’t I also be able to? If she can integrate and find that balance between her culture and her physical needs, I should be able to, too. 

Forgetting English

We’re all required to take malaria medication as Peace Corps volunteers in Indonesia. We are given two options. One option makes me vomit every morning; the other gives me vivid dreams. Since I’d rather not vomit every morning, I now go on magical adventures almost every night.

Most of the dreams are about humdrum everyday life, but they are colorful, vivid, and therefore memorable. Then there are some dreams that border on aggressive and violent themes.

In one of the more aggressive dreams, I forgot English when I returned to America. I became an outcast and was exiled back to a small island in Indonesia. Although this seems more comical than aggressive, it was terrifying to be incompetent at something in which I had assumed fluency.

A current volunteer said volunteers typically return to the States and kind of snap back to their usual selves but with some noticeable differences. Forgetting English better not be one of my noticeable differences.

The dream was particularly aggressive to my emotional well being because not remembering English totally took away from my roots. I had no support in America anymore, and I had no support in Indonesia because not knowing English meant I was no longer considered an American.

And it didn’t help that I woke up from the dream laughing out loud. The strange thing is I don’t know if the medication caused that or if growing paranoid and a bit crazed is a typical Peace Corps milestone.

Donning Hulk Mode

I get a lot of attention in my village. When I say hi to an Indonesian on the street, my accent is apparent and I receive giggles in return. But because I’m Filipino-American and can pass for native Indonesian by appearance, I don’t get as much attention as the other trainees.

The bulk of what Indonesians know about Americans is from the movies. Movies like Herby and Home Alone inform Indonesians about what an American can and I guess should look like. Sometimes I get jealous when my fellow trainees are hailed down the street with:

“Bule! Bule! Hey Meester! Meester! How are you, Meester?”

I know it sort of annoys the trainees. Bule is derogatory. I don’t honestly want to be victim of derogative remarks also, but I am trying to convey the frustration I experience when not being automatically identified as American has caused me stress.

For example, principals have already asked during school visits if I am in fact American and can speak English. I understand where they’re coming from. Those principals want to make sure that the native English speakers they requested are actually native English speakers. And if all they assume about Americans comes from the movies, I shouldn’t be surprised by this question.

Despite that understanding, every time I have to answer that question, I feel so disrespected. My blood boils. I start to feel like the Hulk. My veins start to bulge (metaphorically), my shoulders expand (metaphorically), and my pants button pops off (metaphorically and literally because I’ve been eating so much rice lately).

As I open my mouth to respond to this ignorant, yet culturally fair, question, one of my fellow trainees becomes my ally and responds for me:

“Of course she’s American. She was born in America.”

Despite the affirmation, the principals still look skeptical, but at least they put off their interrogation. Because of my allies, I won’t need to don Hulk mode. But when I move to my permanent site after training, my allies will not be close by. Instead, I’ll have to make new ones. I will struggle through that process, but it can be good for me to practice how to accommodate ignorance despite the turmoil it causes my inner Hulk. After all, we can’t blame people for their ignorance. But we can take that as an opportunity to understand in hopes to educate. Basically, that’s the bulk of why I’m here.

Laba-Laba: Site Preference Criterion

Fellow trainees go on and on about where they’d like to be placed for their permanent site after training ends in June. They’d like to be placed close to the beach, high on a mountain, or biking distance from another volunteer. My preference criterion is based on one thing: laba-laba (spider in Bahasa Indonesian).

After being stared down by a gigantic laba-laba while squatting in the kamar mandi (restroom), I began to feel paranoid about who or what observes my daily routine. I constantly feel like I’m being watched and discussed. And it doesn’t help that every time I say hi to an Indonesian on the street, he or she giggles. Because I already have the village residents gossiping and keeping an eye on me, I’d rather no other creatures follow suit.

There is little possibility that my request will be taken seriously. Because my fear could probably be cured through exposure therapy, there’s no doubt in my mind that Peace Corps will choose a site for me with the most laba-laba if I request otherwise.

Current volunteers constantly say I will love my permanent site. Or rather, I will be very good at convincing myself that I do. I may fear laba-laba in general, but apparently the laba-laba at my permanent site will be an exception. They will, instead, become part of the family, part of the village, and in turn part of me.

By seeing it that way, I guess I can kind of get aboard that train. I mean I’m far from adopting a laba-laba and welcoming him into my home. But, uh, I guess I can kind of be open to eventually trying to, well, build some sort of working tolerance for those leggy creatures.

Benadryl-Induced Emo Binge

Taking Benadryl almost made me want to early terminate my Peace Corps service. I’m told that every volunteer has those what am I doing here? moments where he or she suddenly pauses and questions everything.

As I squat to take a cold bucket bath every morning, I have that moment. As I stuff the ends of my mosquito net underneath my mattress every night, I have that moment. As my Ibu stares me down every lunch to eat rice with a spoon instead of a fork, I have that moment.

What am I doing here? I could be having a hot shower in America right now. I could be concentrating on more productive things in America rather than on my chances of catching malaria right now. I could be given the choice of ANY other carbohydrate in America and be eating it with any damn utensil I choose right now.

I thought I’ve been keeping good pace with the pre-service training schedule. But on our way home from visiting another volunteer, I had another what am I doing here? moment while my body was wearing off the effects of the Benadryl I took earlier that day.

The pace was finally starting to take a toll on my mental and physical health. As for many people, my tolerance threshold is low when I’m tired. I said things I didn’t mean. I lashed out on angkot drivers and fellow trainees and was all kinds of crazy.

Basically, things got emotional fast. I really wanted to go back home to California. I missed certain people and certain privileges. Maybe I wasn’t really happy here. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this kind of commitment. Maybe Peace Corps isn’t for everyone. Maybe I should lay off the emo.

Eventually, the Benadryl wore off and my perspective came back into focus. I can’t turn away from an experience I’ve wanted since high school. This unfortunate Benadryl incident may be the first of many obstacles that may potentially prevent my finishing service. And although those trainees I lashed out on no longer reply to my texts, I better get used to these obstacles. It’s going to take more than some Benadryl-induced emo binge to get me to go home.

Ibu Network

One aspect of Indonesian life I struggle acclimating to is the Ibu Network. For example, my Ibu (host mother) knows about my day before I have the chance to tell her about my day. News – not even exciting news – travels faster than my legs. So I’m not surprised when I come home from training and am immediately victim to a recap of everything I did and ate that day.

That’s insane to me. How does she know everything?

Furthermore, it makes me uncomfortable when people who aren’t in charge of making my schedule know about my schedule before I do. But I guess that’s a cultural thing I have to accept? It’s my Ibu’s way of showing that she cares. She invades my privacy only because she wants what’s best for me. Privacy is a foreign concept to my Ibu. It doesn’t exist the same way it exists in the States. Therefore, her presence and influence is ubiquitous.

Although it can often be a pain to have that constant attention, it can sometimes be pleasant. For example, one of my favorite things to do is to watch people iron clothes. I’ve yet to discover why it relaxes me, but it’s one of the coping strategies I rely on while in country. And since ironing is an important activity in my Ibu’s daily schedule, I take the time to watch her iron clothes because it triggers both nostalgia and relaxation.

In addition, my Ibu can be the sweetest person. She surprised me one morning with my favorite sandwich: grilled cheese, banana, and peanut butter. She’s convinced that I can’t be well fed without rice, yet she still made the sandwich for me because I said it was my favorite. She sure knows how to pull at them heart strings. It meant a lot to me despite her trying to force rice down my throat immediately afterward.

There are definitely benefits to engaging with this kind of overbearing culture. It may be frustrating sometimes. It may be suffocating. But for the next two years, I’m willing to readjust my definition of privacy to accommodate her cultural needs. I will try to appreciate her methods and what they mean. It’s worth it because I receive so much in return. I will try to appreciate her. And although I’m still unable to stop her from ironing my underwear in front of me, I will try to appreciate her.

Constant Stream of Adrenalin

Watching all the resource volunteers during pre-service training and seeing how much energy they all have is a bit unnerving. I started to wonder if they just put on a show for the trainees and aren’t regularly like that or if being a Peace Corps volunteer offers a constant stream of adrenalin.

My initial adrenalin rush ended a few days ago. I’ve been in country for a month. I’m getting use to the food, the language lessons, and the pre-service training pace. That steady break-neck pace quickly emptied the gung ho adrenalin I’ve been making withdrawals from since leaving the US. So I don’t know how these full-fledged volunteers do it.

Where does this energy come from? Is there some untapped resource I’ve yet to find as a trainee?

They constantly say our Peace Corps lives don’t really start until we arrive at our permanent sites. That’s when we’ll face the real challenges of having no other English speaker in sight and having no real structure. We’ll be bored out of our minds if we don’t create structure for ourselves. So is that process of creating structure when volunteers find that energy? It’s been said that necessity is the mother of invention. Will my need to have meaning give meaning?

Heavy.

Perhaps I shouldn’t worry about this yet. I have nearly two full months to ponder the source of this energy. Maybe it would be a better use of my time to concern myself with the giant pile of pisang and rambutan in front of me. Enak! 

Bad Habits

Along with my smoking, crossing of the legs, and using the left hand, a bad habit that’s been hard to quit is my feelings toward people back home. There’s one person in particular I can’t shake, and every obsessive thought seeps in and overtakes a part of my experience here. Tidak bagus!

I’ve had the great fortune of being introduced to the comic Calvin and Hobbes. The insightful Calvin says to Hobbes:

“There’s never enough time to do all the nothing you want.”

I like to excuse my smoking and my obsessing as doing nothing. I like indulging in doing nothing. But honestly, these bad habits aren’t just nothing. Nothing can be just nothing and can be healthy if done in moderation. However, doing nothing in dollops can be unhealthy.

One aspect of the human condition I try to avoid is sappiness, but my current condition’s got me playing Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away” on repeat:

“I should have told you what you meant to me 

Cause now I pay the price” 

To be honest, this person meant a lot to me. But I didn’t really do anything about it. I pay the price every day I’m here. I daydream and fantasize and sometimes neglect to see the beauty in front of me. This realization is killer.

Perhaps one of my most self-destructive is the habit of fantasizing future scenarios: confrontations, reunions, and vendettas. I like to think that when I come home from Indonesia, I’d make the opportunity to confront the one that got away. But that honestly won’t happen.

I need to develop good habits of letting go and moving on. Indulging in so much nothing can’t be good for you. They say you are what you eat. I heartily believe you are what you think. I’ve been thinking about a whole lot of nothing lately. And that’s not what I want to be. He may have been the one that got away, but I’m not going to let who I am follow.

Language Barrier

In the circus, acrobats have safety nets to catch them from plummeting to the ground. In Peace Corps Indonesia, I’m starting to believe volunteers are given mosquito nets not only to protect against insects, but also to protect against awkward social interaction.

The first day with my host family was partially spent under my mosquito net in bed under the guise of “settling in.” The mosquito net has become my safety net in a way. I struggle leaving my bedroom because I know I have to play charades just to get a simple thought across. I escape to my safety net to recharge when my tolerance runs low.

I’m basically insecure about my Indonesian language skills and avoid practicing because I can. My host parents are probably experiencing the same emotions about their English language skills, and they are really trying to communicate. They constantly hold a dictionary and pen and paper when talking to me. They’re wonderful. I miss home, but my host parents have made my transition tolerable. The baby still doesn’t talk directly to me, but I count her giggles and smiles toward me as more than welcoming.

Even though my language skills have improved since that first day, I still sometimes hide underneath my mosquito net. But I know I’m going to get over it. I mean I’d still need the net to avoid getting malaria and to hang laundry, but figuratively, I will probably be okay without it.

Breaking The Habit: Part Two

My Ibu (host mom) asked if I smoked. I told her I did in America, but not in Indonesia. It’s true. I’m a different person here. I wouldn’t necessarily say better, but I’m supposed to play a different role here. Five days after I quit in America, I caved in Surabaya. But it was the city, and it’s more lax there. But now that I’m in the desa (village), I have to adhere to more strict gender roles. And one aspect of that role is not smoking. So although I caved in Surabaya, I think it’ll be easier to quit in the desa because everyone is curious to see what the American will do and judge her accordingly.

Every day I weigh the costs of being seen smoking in the desa. What will each puff cost me? Is this puff worth damaging my reputation as a teacher? Does that puff go against Peace Corps expectations of integrating into Indonesian Muslim culture? I’m not trying to force my way into this culture, especially not while blatantly disregarding one of its more important values. But there isn’t a day when my right hand doesn’t beckon the feel of its favorite accessory.

I understand that this is a symptom of withdrawal. When I see men smoking here it feels like they’re mocking me and asserting their manhood. I hope that one day it won’t feel that way. I hope it’ll feel as a reminder that I finally made a good decision about one of the bad choices in my past. Until that clarity comes, I’ll have to live in the smoky shadow of men in front of me, smelling that sweet, sweet smell. Enak!

Boldness

The drivers here are bold. They weave in and out of lanes, sometimes floating in between. I’ve never seen anything like it. And despite the chaos, no driver seems anxious or nervous. I guess weaving in and out of lanes, grazing the shirtsleeves of pedestrians, becomes second nature at an early age. Adding an extra level to their coolness, they don’t seem to worry about losing that control.

It reminds me of the scene in the film American Hustle where Sydney Prosser talks about the boldness that comes from dancing:

“[Dancing in a strip club] can feel kind of sexy sometimes. There was a boldness in it. But where would that boldness take me? I didn’t know, but I was gonna find out.”

Although I have no dancing or performing arts experience, I can relate to the sentiment. Indonesian drivers and Sydney Prosser seem to have that boldness in common. They both seem to know exactly what they’re doing. At the starting point of reflecting if I’m good enough to be a full-fledged volunteer, I ask:

Do situations drive human behavior and attitude or does attitude drive the success of situations?

On one hand, situations can drive attitude. Sometimes people display acts of courage when they have no one else to rely on. When I moved out of my parents’ house, living independently came easier than expected because I stopped relying on my parents to solve my problems. When people are expected to perform, they usually muster up the courage to do so.

On the other hand, attitude can drive situations. One approach to finding the right attitude is through context. Everyone has experiences in which he or she feels bold. Depending on the people or the demands of the situation, I adjust my boldness-meter to fit the needs of the day. But because I’ve never experienced anything quite like living and working in another country, I wonder if that strategy applies here.

In the States, I’m able to turn my boldness-meter up and down based on social cues and rules. However, the rules are different here and hence, strategies will have to be disregarded or modified. In other words, my boldness-meter will need to be recalibrated to appropriately assess an Indonesian social climate.

In Sydney’s case, the opportunity to be a master con artist inspired the courage she needed to perform, and the coping skills attained from past situations enabled the smooth and successful transition. Sydney was able to transfer her boldness from the dancing spotlight to the business arena. Will I be able to strut myself the same way?

Perhaps success of anything requires a bit of both perspectives. A demanding situation could inspire courage, and courage ingrained and practiced from past adverse situations can easily promote success.

Perhaps I need to be more like those Indonesian drivers that weave in and out of lanes. Those drivers let the current of traffic move them as well as actively push through it. They create that balance of waiting to be inspired and using skills to accomplish goals. I’m finally embarking on the adventure I’ve wanted since I was 17. My desire to have this adventure has a boldness in it. But where would that boldness take me? Indonesia, here I am. We’ll see where it takes me . . . and where I take it.

Breaking The Habit

My plan is to put a hold on smoking cigarettes during my 27 months in Indonesia. I’ve smoked habitually since 2008 and have wanted to quit for some time. I remember the last cigarette I had. It was my last day in America. I had just finished on the treadmill at a hotel gym. It was 5am. I went down to the lobby and passed the front desk still in my gym clothes. It was dark and windy outside, but the residual sweat from my workout kept me warm. I sat on a window ledge in front of the hotel and lit that last one.

*Nostalgically close eyes and breathe in and out*

My goodness it was wonderful. I thought I was on top of the world because I was in control of my smoking. I was in control with how I wanted to spend the next 27 months. I put out that cigarette and tried to get ready for the new chapter in my life.

By day four into service in Indonesia, I got major cravings. I had no replacement behavior in mind. I knew I had a lot of Bahasa Indonesian to study, but the cravings wouldn’t go away. And while I’ve never supported my smoking, I considered several different points around my place of residence where I could secretly indulge. I used to always try to find some secret place to smoke, ashamed of what had become my most satisfying habit.

While I harbor these secret plans, I know that if I want to be a successful volunteer in this country, I need to stay away from my treasured cancer sticks. And I need to understand that I’m here for a reason: to explore and help improve the well being of my assigned community. In my current deprived state, I can say with 70% certainty that that reason is worth more than my habit. And I’m sure once I learn more about this country and learn to appreciate my mission here, that percentage will rise until I won’t even need that certainty to know I’m doing the right thing.

At least that’s what I hope.

A Dollop of Desperation - A Walter Mitty Version

I obsess. I over think. I sometimes think I enjoy making myself miserable. I don’t really know why I continue to do this. Perhaps I spend too much time by myself, escaping in the depths of my mind. Robertson Davies writes in his novel, The Manticore:

“So much of this thinking is just mental masturbation, not intended to beget anything.”

And Davies is right. A lot of what I do is bascially dwell on things that are out of my control. And the dwelling isn’t intended to beget anything despite my desperate attempts of convincing myself otherwise.

I’m a fervent advocate for learning through experience. I always have. But once I’ve experienced something, I overanalyze its implications until it has no meaning, the lesson lost in my convoluted inner dialogue.

To add insult to injury, I was recently told my “thoroughness” kills the mood and that I don’t know how to enjoy life. This was an obvious bummer, so I afterward treated myself to the film, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Walter Mitty is a desperate person who is too afraid to stand up for himself and talk to the woman he admires. He’s a regular victim of zoning out into his own little world to the point of completely losing the moment.

I feel something akin to dread when I see how similar he and I act. He’s desperate to change but doesn’t seem to know how. The eventual catalyst to his transformation comes from who I call his alter-ego, Sean O'Connell – the photojournalist who manifests Mitty’s fantasies of adventure and inner strength.

We’ve all got a dash of desperation. However, some have a dollop. The mental wanderings for my purpose in life have left me desperate for any kind of meaning, even attempting with people and in situations that I know are unhealthy for me.

This is why I have such intense wanderlust. Some ask why I have to leave the country to have meaningful, life-affirming experiences. Why can’t I just find what I’m looking for at home? This is a fair question. I subscribe to the notion that having these life-affirming experiences is all about perspective. If I just changed a part of how I view the world, it’s true I don’t have to travel far to discover myself. But perhaps I currently don’t know how to change a part of how I view the world. Maybe this physical exploration will enable a mental exploration. So yeah, it’s true about perspective. And I’m taking this opportunity to travel to figure out just how to do that.

Sean O'Connell beckons my attention, too.

I've only to escape my dream world and enter the real world.