Jungle Mode

I have less than six months of service left, and the greatest thing I’ve learned is how to survive on my own. Before serving as a Peace Corps volunteer, I’ve lived away from home but never this far and this long. The mental preparation for this kind of experience forces me to really step out of my comfort areas that are not only good opportunities for me to grow, but also are just plain uncomfortable.

For example, I’ve been living out of my bag for the past year. Volunteers are encouraged to explore the community in which they live, and that requires that I bike everywhere. There are days when I visit a university, another volunteer, or some other organization and there are requests that I make a professional not-sweaty-from-biking appearance. When that happens, I first wipe the sweat from my eyes and open up my backpack of supplies: soap, deodorant, hairpins, underwear, first aid kid, etc. It is honestly exhausting to have to put on my Peace Corps persona after having just biked 10km. But I do it; all the volunteers do.

As a result from the past year’s habitual change, I take all my things with me everywhere. I even did this when I visited California last month. It’s like my safety net. After leaving the house in torn cargo pants and a fully packed bike oil-stained bag, my fashionably clad friend looked at me like:

“Where are you headed, Indiana Jones?”

I often feel and look this way after a long day

Do you ever get into that survivor jungle mode but then forget you’re not in the jungle?

Even my ibu and the teachers at my Islamic middle school started to call me, “Nekat,” which roughly translates to too adventurous or reckless in Javanese. I am just trying to survive in the most efficient way I know how. I am not allowed the convenience of staying clean and pretty because my bike is my main form of transportation, so I adapt. 

I started to realize the negative effects of my ways when I visited my first Indonesian host family last week. After lying on my old bed in my old bedroom and staring at my old Winnie the Pooh clock on the wall, I became very emotional. Nostalgia took over and memories from the past two years flooded my mind. There were memories of the times before I learned how to survive well in this country, which were confusing times. And then there were the times when I felt really integrated and never wanted to go home, and those were confusing, too. Basically, I had a mini cry fest while holding my old Hello Kitty pillow and hearing my host family watch an Indonesian-dubbed SpongeBob Square Pants episode. I tried to time my cries to the laughter of Patrick.

I think my ibu knew that I was crying. She knocked on my door, immediately handed me my favorite cassava chips, and said I could eat rice soon. She took care of me. The night I visited, she cooked my favorite Indonesian foods, bought my favorite snacks, stayed patient while trying to understand my terrible Indonesian, and allowed me so much privacy. She said I didn’t have to worry about anything. It felt really nice to let go of that survivor mode. She’s right. I didn’t have to try so hard to survive in her house, so I just lay down and rested. It was the best sleep I've had in a long time.

Having to turn on my survivor mode for biking home through a flood and thunderstorm and for trying to ignore Indonesian men stare at my chest at bus terminals, it felt good to let go and have my ibu ask if she could put more water in my cup during dinner. Yes, ibu. That would be really nice.