A Touchy Subject

I’ve always been a rather touchy person. I’m big on hugs, kisses, and cuddles. I’m like some kind of curly haired labrador. My canine counterparts sniff people’s hands before rolling over for a belly rub, and I go in for a hug before I decide whether or not you are a human with a heart. You could be a cylon. We don’t know. I tend to trust good huggers more than the non good huggers, regardless of anything else I might know about you. You could be a serial killer, but if you hugged me warmly first, I might believe that your problems stemmed from a crappy childhood and not your messed up mind.

Go figure then, that I move to a country with a culture that is not big on dogs or hugs. My first few months here, I encountered my fair share of cold shoulders. Mainly because I would try to impart a shoulder squeeze or hand pat onto members of my host family and they would shy away as if I had a disease none of them were willing to talk about. I should have seen this “you can look but not touch” thing coming. Here in my Muslim corner of the world, men and women sit separately (something I learned my first day of school when I tried to take a seat with my male co-teacher). A handshake is what I have come to refer to as “the sweaty fish”, in which two individuals will lightly and briefly touch fingertips, usually with zero eye contact and lots of head bowing. With most men I meet, touching them is out of the question, because you know, men and women touching…yeesh. Instead we bow very solemnly to each other from a safe distance. I essentially try not to touch anyone anymore. The personal space bubble has become an almost literal thing for me here.

Six months of not touching people, or rather being afraid of touching a person and offending them, has even made me afraid to be near other male volunteers. What would people think if they saw me sitting with a guy friend on (dare i say it) the same small bench? I knew I had gone off the deep end with this touchy stuff last weekend, when my good friend Mike came to visit me at my site. We had a great few days together chumming it up. The morning he left we sealed our friendship and said goodbye with a quick and furtive…high five.

To properly tell the story of how I transformed from a lovable cuddle bug, to a love-me-at-a-distance bug we have to go back a few weeks to when I joined the Ibu soccer team.

Waiting on my bed one afternoon was a very formal looking invitation from what can only be termed as the “Mom Club” to participate in an upcoming soccer tournament. I couldn’t say yes fast enough. Or rather, the Ibus couldn’t get me to say yes fast enough. Not an hour after receiving the invitation, two women were at my house ready to escort me to our first practice.

Our coach was a local farmer who moonlighted as our team’s fearless leader. His main role seemed to be barking warm up stretches at us all while puffing on his hand rolled cigarette. Let me paint this picture for you real quick: we were terrible. Not only did the women on my team tend to run away from the ball screaming, but in scrimmage the strategy seemed to be to kick it as hard as you could in any direction you felt like. This resulted in more free throws and corner kicks than actual playing, so we usually could hang around on the field and carry on a pretty decent conversation while a few women on the other side scurried around frantically. There was this one time I kicked the ball over the goal post and Coach’s eyes lit up and his jaw dropped (the cigarette stayed put though). You would think he had just discovered the next Pele. He made it his mission to take me aside after every practice and impart his great strategic wisdom to me, telling me that I “must kick with all my strength”.

The tournament itself was a hoot. There are moments in life that are so especially surreal and funny that you worry experiencing them all on your own for fear that nobody will believe you when you talk about it later. That is my reality here. The day of the game, there were over a hundred rabid Ibu fans out on the field. Vendors were selling sodas the flavor of colors instead of fruits. It was quite a spectacle. Our first round of competing, I kept hearing my name broadcasted loudly above the crowd and realized someone had made the poor mistake of sharing my life story with the game commentators. So while my team and I were chasing down the ball from misplaced kicks, the crowd was enjoying little tidbits about “the American player, Ms. Emil”. (Sidenote: Yes, unfortunately my name is a tad difficult to pronounce here. In my community I am known simply as “Emil”). Over the turned up speakers, the commentators would discuss the fact that I was able to eat rice for breakfast (“She eats rice for breakfast, even though she does not in America!”), that I have a tall sister (“She has a younger sister…who is taller than she is!”), that I speak Indonesian (“She speaks Indonesian, but she does not speak Javanese!”) and that I enjoy running every morning (“Some mornings, you can even see her running!”).

My team won in a very movie like moment when I did as Coach had instructed and kicked the ball with all my strength up and into the corner of the goal. The crowd rushed the field, a few of my teammates started to cry. One Ibu even fell to her knees praising Allah for our win. Everyone was shaking my hand, pulling me by the elbow into photos, and cheering my name. It was all rather exciting. The most incredible thing though, was that I hadn’t experienced that kind of sheer volume of human touch since I had left the states. And honestly? It was weirding me out. I kept trying to bow people away from me as they rushed me with open arms. Arms wrapped around me, hands were on my back, cheeks pressed against mine, and yet I felt completely disconnected to the people around me. I didn’t know them at all.

Touching is not something I really do here anymore. I have to rely on my other senses to convey and create connections. Stripped of casual embraces or a quick kiss, I have become much more aware of others around me. I listen harder. Not only to the words people say, but the way they say them. I watch people, even when they are not speaking. I am the Radiohead definition of “Creep”. There are so many quiet boundaries we wrap around ourselves to keep the more complicated parts unseen. A hug, with it’s cheerful largeness sometimes crashes right through these delicate layers we all have, leaving no room for a more meaningful exchange. I moved here hoping to gain a little perspective, and certainly some meaningful exchanges, but mostly I came here to acquire a heightened sense of empathy. The trick? Take a step back.

I have this one student, named Rindu. In Indonesian “rindu” means “miss” as in “I miss you”. He told my counterpart and I that his father named him Rindu because he works on a different island and only gets to see him once or twice a year. Rindu is a great kid. My favorite thing about him is his big, toothy grin. Unfortunately, Rindu is always falling asleep in class, and he doesn’t always complete the homework assignments. When a student behaves this way, many teachers at my school immediately write him or her off, declaring that student to be “lazy” and “unmotivated”.

Last weekend I went for an afternoon walk and passed Rindu’s house. He was out playing soccer in the front yard with a few other boys. In typical Indonesian fashion, I was ushered into the house by his mother and served a glass of tea. It was from her that I learned Rindu is the oldest boy and is therefore responsible in helping her maintain the small half acre of land the family owns, as well as care for his younger sister and cousin, who also lives with them.

Seeing and hearing about Rindu’s home situation made me want to cry. It is, unfortunately, not an uncommon story. Many of my students live with distant relatives, or in boarding homes while their parents work in distant cities and countries. It kills me that adults are dismissing these kids as “unmotivated”. They certainly have a lot more on their plates than I did at eleven years old. It makes me want to gather them all up in a hug. But a hug, aside from making my students incredibly uncomfortable, won’t change anything. So instead I sit and I listen. I listen with all the love and compassion I have. I hear what they are saying and I try to absorb and remember it all.

In writing this post I looked up the root of the word empathy. It comes from the Greek empatheia–em (into) and pathos (feeling), which to me suggests a kind of penetration, or travel. You enter another person’s pain and insecurities as you’d enter another country. Something I find fitting as I have traveled far to live in a completely different life here. While I listen and do my best to understand where my students, fellow teachers, Peace Corps volunteers and community members are coming from, I often can’t. But I think that this is okay. Empathy requires knowing you know nothing. It requires acknowledging a horizon of context that extends perpetually beyond what you can see: a student sleeping in class is connected to his early morning chores is connected to helping his mother run the house is connected to his long distanced father is connected to an Indonesian province with little employment opportunity is connected to a country still shaping it’s own national economy.

Empathy is always a precarious balance between gift and invasion. Offering yourself up as a sounding board, as a sponge for someone else’s excess emotion is lovely. It can also be frightening, when someone asks to see the things we keep locked inside, especially in a culture that tip toes around everyone else’s feelings for fear of embarrassing or upsetting others.

Yet, I find myself listening and asking people here anyway. Empathy isn’t just remembering to say that must be really hard–it’s also about figuring out how to bring difficulty into the light so it can be seen at all. We do after all, try our hardest to keep the complicated, heavier, more grotesque pieces under wraps. Being empathetic isn’t just about listening, it’s asking the questions whose answers need to be listened to, no matter the answer.

Six months into my service I’m learning that empathy isn’t just something that happens to us, like a synaptic flight or fight spark response. It is also a choice we make: to pay attention, to extend ourselves. Deciding to listen to another’s sadness even when you are deep in your own. Or, truly listening to the trials of another  when your world is nothing but happy rainbows and sunshine. To make the decision to empathize in itself suggests making an effort. It isn’t easy, when you think you have enough going on in your own life already. But, like most things I’m discovering at this ripe age of 24, not all can be solved with a hug and a giant soccer tournament trophy (although trust me, a shiny trophy definitely helps). So next time you go out to happy hour with your friends to catch up on life or ask a co worker how their weekend was, I encourage you to really listen. What you discover may expand your world and your relationship, filling it with more love and understanding than you initially thought was possible. And then give that person a hug, because even if I don’t get another solid bear hug for the next 21 months someone else out there should 🙂

*Thank you all for the birthday wishes earlier this month! I had a great time celebrating with my students and Indo family. I’m so blessed to have all this love in my life, and I already know it is going to be a fantastic 24th year. Hope you enjoyed your September wherever you all are in the world!

Beyonce and the Bule

A little while back a friend told me about an absolutely pointless but amazing tumblr called “Am I Beyonce Yet?” The title kind of sums up the entire blog, which documents the user waking up every morning and affirming that she isn’t Queen Bey…yet. Before this goes any further let’s both lean in closer to each other and confess that we all have had days where we wish we were living Beyonce’s life and not our own. Personally, I tend to pine for a Freaky Friday switch with Bey on bad hair days, when I watch that moment in her “Drunk in Love” video when she does that freaking awesome arm and hip twirl to ankle kick dancey thing, or that one time I foolishly thought I could pull off naming my future offspring colors. Beyonce, to use her own word, is flawless. The great appeal is that while her celebrity makes her someone to talk about, recently it seems everything she does isn’t just fodder for gossip magazines, it’s actual news. I’m referring to her knocking multiple socks off at Obama’s Inauguration Address a few years back, her restructuring of the music industry through her unannounced new album, and her not so subtle stance on feminism. Yeah, it would be cool to strut in Beyonce’s shoes but for most of us all we can do is dream on. Except–and let’s just suspend reality for a moment–what if you did, as the tumblr hoped, woke up one day as Beyonce?

I didn’t exactly fall asleep and wake up as a femme tour de force. For me, it took a little longer than that. Precisely, it took a move across the world, a thirteen hour time difference and a job in the Peace Corps to transform me into a diva. I have been living at my permanent site here in Indonesia for almost three months now, and I have to say, it is like no life experience I have ever encountered previously. I could wax poetic on the conglomerate of religion and culture here, my first few experiences slaughtering small animals, the incredible people I am surrounded by, or the suffocating heat. And I will at some point, certainly. These wonderful, frustrating, fantastic, sob inducing experiences are very fresh, staccato like nudges in my mind that I live on the edge of my comfort zone every single day here. The more constant, daily reminder of this is that I’m kind of a small town celebrity, and what I do and say isn’t just something to flip through in the market produce line. I’m real news too.

The first indicator of my newfound fame was the slip n’ slide sized banner with my face on it at my new school. The second was the ceremony that followed. This shindig was complete with a heartfelt, karaoke edition of Josh Groban’s “You Raise Me Up” sung by my teaching counterpart, as well as the final parting of the crowds to reveal my new host family. I in turn, felt obligated to speak/sing the requested ballad “I’m Yours” to show my appreciation for such a turn out. And people were losing their minds.

I kind of anticipated making a few waves moving here. It’s to be expected when someone so strange and foreign just kind of pops up without warning. The town is gonna talk. For many of my neighbors and community members, I am the first bule (foreigner, white person) they have ever met. The range of emotion people feel when seeing or meeting me for the first time is extreme. Children will generally cry, or freak out and then cry. I was recently mistaken by an elderly woman for a ghost. In general, everyone is speechless at first, and then they sort of shake themselves out of shock to ask me five things: where am I going, what is my religion, what is my marital status, can I eat rice, and am I happy here. I have become a pro at these mini press conferences (Beyonce would be proud). The initial excitement over my arrival I understand, but I didn’t believe my fifteen minutes of fame would, or even could have lasted this long.

It is a strange feeling to be celebrated for being a bule. I didn’t win any competition, I am not a world class athlete or performer. I have not organized a protest against a corrupt government, nor taken a bullet standing up for my beliefs. Heck, I didn’t even make a sex tape (looking at you Kim Kardashian…not like that would be allowed in Indo anyway). But celebrated I am. I have received a constant barrage of social invitations to festivals, parades, soccer games and ceremonies. Who knew I would join the Peace Corps and become a quasi socialite? With all the showering of praise and appreciative comments from my fellow community members it is easy to get caught up in the glamour of it all. As I have learned though, it is dangerous to start buying into your own hype, mainly because you start to believe it. I am all for a healthy self esteem, but crossing that line by accepting everyone singing your praises as a fact rather than opinion is exactly what Carly Simon was crooning about too. And there are so many moments where my vanity must be checked at the door here. Because although my community wants to make everything about me, it is my job to make everything about them. I am here, quite simply, for everyone else. Easy to say on the internet, but an oh so hard thing to put into practice.

Being the shameless student and goody two shoes that I am I have put into action all the habits and suggestions Peace Corps recommended during training. Maybe I was hoping I would get a gold star for my efforts. I have thrown myself into participating in community events, and saying yes to activities that I know will make me uncomfortable and put me outside my comfort zone. I visit my neighbors and fellow teachers in their homes. I have lost count of how many fish heads I have eaten to make the Ibus happy.

For all that I put into my community and for all I have already been given in return, I am still on the outside looking in. It can be exhausting explaining day in and day out what I am about. I am an American, yes. I am a white female, yes. I like to run on my own but that doesn’t necessarily make me “very, very, very brave”. I know how to wash my clothes by hand. No, I do not like bakso. No, I cannot marry your son. Yes, I love Indonesia. I have become my own walking, talking Wikipedia stat page, an open book for everyone to read and analyze. It is not an easy thing to do, always affirming for others who I am, especially when I myself am still trying to figure that out. It can be lonely in the spotlight. Beyonce might as well have been singing “if you were a bule I think that you’d understand”…

The upside to all this unwarranted attention is twofold: First, I have uncovered vast reserves of patience I never knew I had. The second is all the free fruit swag. To the people of Indonesia: a sincere thank you to all of you who bring me baskets of my favorite fruits and then sit and watch me eat it every week. You make my life more delicious.

Not even the tastiest mango though can turn my more difficult moments sweet. There have been times–and here I have to be honest–where I wish I was someplace else. Mainly, back stateside. Because life in a culture you grew up in and know so well is so easy! Nobody questions what you eat, wear, or do. I do not need to convince you that I am not sad just because I am sitting by myself reading a book. I do not need to give a speech every time I participate in a social activity. But to have these difficult conversations has tended to bring about a much deeper satisfaction, something I didn’t experience in America. In short, the tough stuff has (so far) brought me the greatest joy in the long run.

This is where the patience comes in. A few days ago, I found myself sitting in a stranger’s house in a room full of people speaking Javanese (a language I do not, probably will not ever understand). I wasn’t sure what was going on, and I had no idea when it would be over. A few months ago this would have made me mad. I would have been frustrated that this seemingly endless afternoon was pointless as I couldn’t understand what was being said. I would have been irked because people kept pointing at me and sneaking photos of me on their cell phones. I would have thought that I had better, more productive things I could be doing. That was me three months ago. The me now is completely unperturbed. I sat there for four hours chatting while hardly understanding what was being said. I ate a handful of homemade coconut candies to make the host happy. It was a very pleasant afternoon.

What I have recognized as of late is this, and it seems so obvious but still: the only thing you can control is your attitude. This is such a bland thing to say. It’s the kind of generic phrase one might find on Pinterest set against a photograph of a sunset or something equally dumb. It is a universal truth I would have written off three months ago as being overused and cliche. Not so now.

Patience, it seems, is the source through which I can carry myself with grace through the Peace Corps. It is what helps me keep my cool when people follow me on their motorbikes yelling “hey mister” and it is why I’m okay explaining why I’m not married over and over again. Patience has helped me stop caring so much about the little grievances and refocus on the big picture. I could be aggravated that there are teachers at my school who want to bust my chops for not teaching as many hours as the others (Peace Corps rules, sorry). Instead I choose to appreciate the teachers who are passionate about their students’ education and all my amazing kids who are so excited to learn.

My new found fame comes with a lot of responsibility in terms of sharing a small piece of my old world with this new one. It’s hard. It is hard to break open your heart and let everyone in, even when you don’t think you can, or want to give anymore of yourself to the experience at hand. The great George Saunders once wrote that we must live our lives “so open that it hurts, world without end, amen” and that truly is what I must do here. All it takes is all I’ve got to have a good day in the Peace Corps. And when I am absolutely depleted well, that’s what the Oreos sequestered in my room are for. I’ve grown up a lot these past few months, and my skin has gotten thicker. I’ve adopted a potentially annoying zen attitude of “que sera sera”. The secret is to be patient and give it all you’ve got. I’m happier living my life this way, because when it’s good here, it’s great. Maybe that’s Beyonce’s secret too. She just does it in a leotard.

* I apologize for not posting in a while, I didn’t have consistent enough Internet for an update! I miss you all very much. Do me a favor and eat a bagel for me. Appreciate that hot shower. Hug all the loved ones who are physically in your vicinity right and know that I am sending my love to you all across the ocean.

On Cults And Courage

Stepping off the yellow angkot, something wonderful but vaguely creepy happened: namely, none of us knew what time it was. Right after we passed through the gates, a few of my students came giggling up to me “Selamat Pagi Miss!” “Pagi Miss Emily!” Pagi? Morning? Am I dreaming or is it not actually dark outside and 7 o’clock in the evening? “Oh no miss,” one of the braver girls replied to my confused question, “it is always morning here.”

For the past few weeks a clump of soon to be Peace Corps volunteers and myself have been completing our teaching practicum at the Selamat Pagi School in Batu, Indonesia. When we first arrived, we couldn’t believe our luck. On our first day we were greeted at the canteen with cold (real glasses!) of floating lychee fruit in sweet coconut milk. It is the custom of Indonesian hospitality to be warm and welcoming to guests, but these kids are on another level of psyched. Can you imagine a pre-teen girl and her best friend at a One Direction concert? Take that enthusiasm and direct it towards the sweaty American subtly trying to shake pee off her pants.

It is inspiring and gratifying to see these children so happy, because they come from not so great backgrounds. You see, this school is a special place. Not for your average Indonesian high schooler, the student body is comprised of 100 hand picked boys and girls. To be accepted into Selamat Pagi, a student must be orphaned, or come from a very difficult home situation. Knowing this, and after hearing a few of their stories, it makes me want to hug every single one of my students. “Thank God they have this place” I think to myself. That is until I put down my fruit juice and take a real hard look around.

Hanging from all the trees and cheerfully painted buildings are strings of modified prayer flags with catchphrases like “Grateful Is Our Breath”, and “Integrity Is Our Action”. Words that are a little short on sense and a little long on whimsy if you ask me. Resort music is always thrumming around the compound. It’s a constant playlist of songs like that weird O-zone ditty “Mai Ah Hee” and throwback Shakira jams. This is a privately funded school and home for these kids, which means that it has to generate its own income. The founder of Selamat Pagi decided to harness the enthusiasm (and maybe naiveness?) of youth and make the school a quasi retreat/conference location for businesses, families and other schools to bring in money. It’s what I’d imagine going to school at Club Med would be like. While we hold classes in beautiful outdoor bamboo classrooms, I can see other kids in the distance leading middle aged businessmen in a choreographed dance number to a Justin Bieber song. There is a swimming pool with aquatic aerobics for kids. Did I mention the zipline?

It is the peppiest place in Indonesia, but I’m not certain what they are doing here is legal, or entirely pc. To live and study here, the students must also run the place. While I get to sleep in every morning until the ungodly hour of 5am, chances are my students have been up since 3:30, cooking for the conferences that day, cleaning the compound, out in the fields harvesting produce to sell or rehearsing for the performances they have a few times a week for paying guests. The work is hard. It is easy to get caught up in the general cult like atmosphere here and frown at the structure of this school. Apart from a few secret society and kool-aid jokes here and there, we are glad that the students live in a safe and nurturing environment, and that schooling can be had when they are not putting on elaborate shows (there is fire breathing and acrobatics!)

To live my life as a Peace Corps trainee but also work every day at this school is like stepping off the angkot and into the twilight zone. This is not real life, and certainly not what I am expecting my actual school and students to be like once I reach permanent site. At Selamat Pagi, my students don’t leave the compound, because everything they could possibly need is there, and everyone they love is there too. It’s actually similar to how I’ve come to feel about PST these past three months. In PST we trainees never have to plan our own days, as Peace Corps organizes everything for us. And hey, we all get to do it together as one big bewildered and happy family.

So it was a bit of a wake up call on all switchboards earlier this week when two things happened. First, I looked at the calendar and realized I only had a week and a half left of training before I move to permanent site. Second, I taught a class on occupations and careers. I started class by asking my students if they had thought about what they would do when they graduated Selamat Pagi. Silence. I asked again, “what will you do, what do you want to do when you leave school?” Again, nothing. At last, my best student raised his hand. “Excuse me Miss, but we will want to stay at Selamat Pagi and work here after we graduate”. I didn’t really know what to say. Don’t they know that there is life outside of this school with new experiences to be had and new people to meet? Don’t they realize that there is a big, wide world waiting for them?

I could say the same thing for myself. I could never compare the suffering and real atrocities my students have encountered in their young lives to my own, but these past three months have been no easy cake walk for me either. It’s because of these past months that I understand why my students would be afraid to leave the only home and family they know. I’m scared too.

After the stressful and incredibly emotional months leading up to leaving for Peace Corps, it has been a blessing to fall into a routine here, and to be with people who completely understand what it means to be a PC trainee. My fellow trainees have become my biggest support system here, and it’s hard to imagine a day without them in it. That is why it was a shock to realize that once again, a week and a half from now, all that initial discomfort and confusion will be repeated, but this time I’ll be flying solo. It doesn’t help that Peace Corps has warned us time and again that the first three months at permanent site are the most difficult to get through. It’s like being pushed out of our cozy American nest with nothing but potential depression, physical illness, anxiety and other unsavory things below. Gee, thanks.

Let me tell you I have given myself many a pep talk these past few days to gear up for The Big Move. Motivational speeches in front of my mirror that may or may not include me gripping the edge of my desk and quoting the Somalian pirate from “Captain Phillips” (“Look at me, look at me, I am the Captain now!)

At the core of it, I know that I have to take to heart the same advice that I want to tell my students. I want to remind them (and myself) that being afraid of the unknown is the human condition, and it is the price we pay for this wild ride we call life. And if this fear of the unknown is inevitable, I think we can, and should all breathe a little easier. Because the truth is, the worst thing that could ever happen is death and that’s going to happen eventually despite all of our worries and effort. If you think about it in these stark terms it’s irrational not to say fuck it, and just go for it. Not that I would ever swear in front of my students. But if I know the upcoming months are going to be difficult, I’m not going to sit here and worry about it being difficult. Life keeps going and we have to keep going with it. I’m not saying that I am going to move to permanent site and defy my impending fear by riding motorcycles, or start hanging around outside my local mosque in a tank top and cut off jean shorts. I’m not going to tell my students to leave Selamat Pagi after graduation and start having sex before marriage or eat pork. But I guess I’m not going to tell them not to do those things either if that’s what will make them feel most alive. It would be a real shame if my students and I only schlepped through our days to “get through” them. Life is hard, but maybe it is supposed to be. So why not embrace it? PST has been a happy prelude that allowed me to transition into my new life here. Eventually though, the bubble had to burst and I will have to take whatever comes my way and figure out what will make me happy through it all. I guess at some point we all have to turn off the party tunes and face the real music.

Bug Bites

Amidst our card game and half drunken cups of sugary coffee an unexpected visitor fell on it’s back and stirred no more. This was a big one, the length and width of my thumb, with twitchy legs that seemed to stick out at all angles. “Huh, look at that” noted our friend Travis nonchalantly “here Em, split the deck”.

Unconvinced the cockroach had kicked the bucket, Ben got up and tentatively gave it a little nudge with his foot. The cockroach sprung to life, as if it had anticipated Ben’s big toe and buzzed loudly a few feet off the ground. There may or may not have been a few surprised shouts from our group. We were saved by Ben’s host dad, the fearless Pak Gianni. Pak delicately caught the roach in his hand and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Smiling he carried it with him back into the other room. “Why didn’t he let it outside?” “Why didn’t he squash it?” “Wait, why is he taking it with him?”

The next morning there was another bug incident. My good friend Nahal lives with my host grandparents, so that makes her my surrogate aunt and real life favorite family member. It’s nice to have another gringa present at all the family gatherings we attend. Halfway through our morning bowls of rice and tempeh Nahal relayed that Kakek (our toothless gramps) had caught a cicada that morning and tied a string around it’s head. “He was like, just carrying it around and then put it beside him on the table…is the cicada our new family pet?” This is a very legitimate question. And no, we still don’t have the answer.

These bug scenarios essentially sum up my past two months in Indonesia. I feel like I have a fair grasp on this new culture, new environment and new life, until people start carrying around roaches and leashing cicadas. Every day here is like a happy surprise and a slap in the face all rolled into one. To move through it, one has to employ all the senses, taking in new tastes, smells, words, and bug encounters as they come. It’s exhilarating, and it is exhausting. These last two months I have been happy, if not necessarily comfortable.

I live in an Indonesian fishbowl, where I’m both the exotic fish being stared at and I’m the one doing the staring at the same time. I think the real take away this month has been that it is a good idea to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. I’m going to find roaches in my clothes, I’m going to swallow a fly in language class (true story), I’m not going to understand what is being said fifty percent of the time, and I’m going to be in a state of perpetual confusion. Once I accept that everything is going to make me feel vulnerable (and very very sweaty) I can internalize it and move on to the real business of figuring out how to make a life here. It’s a lesson I have to relearn all the time.

My amazing sister tucked a letter into my backpack before I arrived in Indonesia and in it she wrote the following quote:

“There is a season for wildness and a season for being settled, but this is a season for becoming”

When things get tricky over here in my neck of the vegetable paddies, I remember these words and take a deep breath. I’m not at rest here, but by digging in and sticking out the discomfort I can feel myself expanding with new perspectives. I’m not comfortable, but I’m transforming, and right now that is everything I could have hoped for from these past months. Bring on the bugs.

On an unrelated note, I want to thank my super cool Dad for sending me a xeroxed copy of his face with the word “hi” written on his forehead, Mom for shipping me the hiking boots I forgot (sorry and thanks) my wonderful Aunt Donna and Aunt Cynthia for the great letters, Grandma for dropping me a line, and my favorite fluff Megan for your sweet words. I so appreciate getting snail mail here! Please keep them coming. It’s nice to put them around my room and show people here different English words and handwriting styles. I have written you all a letter and will be sending them out this week when the post office is actually open in between religious holidays…

Another shout out goes to you, Nicki my awesome cuz and favorite fellow pekoe tea drinker. Happy almost cumple! Thanks for always paving the way (four months ahead of me) to the next year of our lives. You the bestest 🙂

Favorite Parts of the Day

Selamat pagi! It is 4:20am and I am writing in bed under my mosquito net, listening to the morning call to prayer blasting from the mosque speakers a few streets over. I can hear my Ibu in the kitchen already, frying the tofu and tempeh we will be eating throughout the day. In writing this post, I have resorted to a family game we used to play back home called “Favorite Parts of the Day”. It’s pretty self-explanatory. The thing is though, that every part of my day here is my favorite, and I can’t pick only one. The mornings here are my favorite because I wake up, exercise, mandi (bucket bathe) and then eat my breakfast of rice and vegetable soup on our rooftop patio. Sitting cross legged with my Indonesian homework out for review, I can look out over the mist covered rice paddies and cabbage fields. This is the time of day I usually pinch myself (figuratively) to say “I’m in Indonesia!”

Bahasa class is my favorite part of the day because I get to spend four and a half hours with my fellow core group volunteers, who also happen to be six great individuals. There’s nothing like figuring out pooping in a hole, initially understanding none of the language (not talking to you Josh), and trying to understand a completely new culture to bring people together in such a tightknit way.  Not to mention our fantastic Cultural Liason Ebbi, whose patience and contagious laugh keeps us together.

Seeing the neighborhood kids is my favorite part of the day. They are the best people to practice my Indonesian with. For some reason, they are always inside my house, or loitering around it on their little bikes. I’m guessing they like to watch and giggle at the strange American girl fumbling with Indonesian words and eating rice awkwardly with her hand. It’s also because my youngest host brother Ardi is the greatest and everyone wants to be where this kid is at. You would think all this awesomeness would give Ardi a big head and a badass attitude, but in fact he has the kindest soul and the sweetest of dispositions. We like to watch Spongebob Squarepants together and jalan jalan (walk) around the desa where we play the game “What’s That?” It’s an easy game. I ask what something is, and Ardi gives me the word in his kind voice, as if to say “How charming, poor Emily has never seen a child drive a motorbike before”. You’re right Ardi, that was a first for me.

The late afternoons are my favorite because I have them all to myself. What is written above is all true and all wonderful, but do not be fooled, PST is a hard and grueling process. Our days are long, and (as Peace Corps stresses) ours is a 24-7 job representing our home country and culture. Living in a cultural fishbowl is not easy. That is why, after my long day of training is over, I like to come home up to my rooftop view and read or listen to some very American music (lot’s of country and Lupe Fiasco y’all).

My evening meal and mandi is my favorite part of my day. This is the time I get to spend with my host family and I love every second of it. There are many people in my house this time of day. Neighbors stop in to say hello, kids come in and out, and my Ibu and Bapak sit in the living room with everyone, holding court. It turns out my Ibu is kind of a big deal. She is the village coordinator, organizing social and political events, and bringing larger issues to the attention of local government. She won my friends over with her constant supply of snacks and drinks for our study sessions, and she makes me feel at home with her smile. Maybe more of an Ibu than my actual Ibu (you know, because Ibu is out there gettin’ shit done) is my Nenek. I wasn’t sure if my Nenek liked me at first, because she was always yelling at me to do things. “Eat now!” “Go take a mandi!” “Eat more!” “Put on these slippers!” “You are tired, go to sleep!”. As my bahasa has improved, I see that Nenek is watching out for me, and always has my back. She stands over me while I practice what I learned in class, and she thumps me on my shoulder when I get it right, and pulls me into her big, jolly belly, chuckling when I get it wrong. She is my very own Indonesian grandmama-bear.

After my evening mandi, lying in bed before I fall asleep is my favorite part of my day. I tuck in my mosquito net and I listen to the crickets outside my window. I like to watch the gecko that lives in my ceiling scramble around in the moonlight. This is the time of day when I take a moment to remind myself of how glad I am to be here and how wonderful Indonesia is. I know there will be times in the coming months and years that will be challenging, and tough times always makes it easy to forget the good ones. I close my eyes and try to imprint this happy feeling on my brain, so I can recall it when I need it most. With my eyes still closed I then send my love and good thoughts to all of you back home. I miss you very much. I think about what you are doing, what you are having for breakfast as I fall asleep (please have a bowl of granola and yogurt for me) and wish you all the very best. And with that, my day is done. *I am writing these posts at home and then blogging when I have the time to run to an Internet cafe. In the mean time, a letter would be wonderful! I promise I will write you back 🙂

Poco a Poco

Poco a poco. It is, hands down my favorite mantra. A common saying in Spanish, it literally translates to “bit by bit”, or “little by little”. This phrase took on new meaning for me the year I lived in Santiago, Chile. My host padre was the one who reintroduced it to me, explaining it one evening after I became frustrated trying to explain the basic concepts of fracking in Spanish. As I trailed off, Gerardo (my host father) reached across the table and kindly patted my hand. “Don’t worry, Emily. It takes time to find the right words. When trying anything new, we must be patient with ourselves. Poco a poco, it will fall into place. He was right. After a year assimilating to the bizarre culture that is Santiago, I was always able to find the right words, as long as I told myself to try poco a poco.

I found the phrase again at the end of my first semester. I would be leaving Santiago for a few weeks to travel with my American family in Patagonia before returning to Santiago in the Spring. The eve before my departure I was excitedly recounting to Gerardo all the things that would be coming up. “Before you know it though,” I said “I’ll be back!” My host dad grinned. “Yes, you will soon be back, and we will be happy when you return. But don’t rush ahead so much, take everything poco a poco, and keep your heart where your feet are”. Clearly Gerardo was some sort of spiritual guru in a past life or is simply one of the wisest people I know.

-Be kind and patient with yourself (especially when learning new things)

-Keep your heart where your feet are

I am reminded of these things whenever I glance down at my wrist. This past week I have been looking at those words quite a bit. After more than a year long application process, Friday is the day I finally embark on my Peace Corps adventure (!!) My bags are (basically) packed and I have said some very difficult goodbyes. Through it all, I keep my mantra in the back of my mind, trying to be patient with all these emotions, and truly trying to stay in the moment, where my heart and feet currently are.

I have enjoyed and cherished everything about these past few weeks and I want to thank family and friends alike for the outpouring love I have received. Voicemails, text messages, emails and Facebook messages wishing me well on my way mean so much. It has been a beautiful reminder of all the love I have in my life. To my parents, I say a deep, and heartfelt thank you. Encouraging me to leave and pursue a dream I have talked about since middle school takes an act of selflessness, and I am grateful. The hardness of these last few days, and these final goodbyes has a tiny silver lining in my mind. It leaves me incredibly determined to not only make it through these next 27 months, but really make the most of this experience. If I am to leave everything, and everyone I know behind, then I am going to give this job everything I have.

As I head into Staging in San Francisco and then Pre-Service Training (PST), I will probably not have access to a phone or internet for a few weeks until I get settled. Until the time we can Snapchat/Facetime/Whatsapp/email again I would love a real, old fashioned letter! Honestly, I’d love a letter anytime. I promise if you send me a line or two I will respond as quickly as I am able. You can address notes to:

Emily Werner

Peace Corps Indonesia
Gedung Perpustakaan Lt. 1 (Library Building 1st floor)
Kampus III Universitas Muhammadiyah Malang Jl. Telogomas 246
Post code: 65114
Malang-Jawa Timur
INDONESIA

Until next time (or blog post!)

Emily

Trailblazing

“Spiritualism can suck it.” Surrounded by quaint stone farm homes and acres of green rolling hills, this seemed like an out of place thing to utter. But no. Amidst the natural beauty of northern Spain, with it’s damp smelling forests, quartets of birdsong and not another human soul for miles, spiritualism could indeed, suck it. Splayed rather grotesquely by the side of the road, my sister, having just muttered the above blasphemous sentence was peeling off her sweaty, bloody mess of a sock to reveal a blister on her heel the size of a scoop of ice cream. I collapsed down beside her. Ignoring the horse flies, I pulled out a melted granola bar and took a defeated bite.

Walking the Camino to Santiago de Compostela wasn’t supposedto be this arduous according to every book, film and article I had read prior to embarking.  Wasn’t I supposed to have like, a transcendental experience? The pilgrimage to Santiago, also known as The Way of St. James, is deeply rooted in Christian faith. After the resurrection of Jesus, St. James (well, back in the day, you could just call him James) became the leader of the Church in Jerusalem. James traveled to Spain to spread the Good Word and, following his death, was buried in a tomb in northwestern Spain, a location which fell into oblivion and was all but forgotten for centuries.

Around the year 815, a Spanish hermit named Pelayo had a dream in which he saw a bright light shining over a spot in a farmer’s field. His dream was investigated, as dreams often were in this era of outpouring belief, and a Roman-era tomb containing St. James’ body was found. Around this shrine the city of Santiago de Compostela (Compostela, roughly translating to “field of stars”) grew. The tomb drew devout Christians across Europe, and by the eleventh and twelfth centuries, a half-million pilgrims were making their way to Santiago every year on foot to pay their respects.

Centuries later, my family and I first caught wind of the Camino through (how else?) a little sleeper indie hit of a film called “The Way”, starring Emilio Estevez and his dad Martin Sheen. I was living in a different Santiago at the time, but was convinced immediately that the deep soul purifying and paradigm shaking pilgrimage that Martin  Sheen undertakes in the film was exactly what I needed too. It’s unclear whether it was the guitar laden soundtrack, gorgeous cinematography, tear jerking plotline, or all of the above, but my parents, sister and I were sold. It was decided we would walk the Camino after I graduated from college.

Our departure for the Camino could not have come at a more salient moment. I had just turned twenty-two and like most people my age, was vaguely terrified of the future, but too distracted in my attempts to look like I had it together to do anything about it. Everyone began asking me what my post-collegiate plan was. A question that, to my freaked out synapses was always translated along the line as “When are you going to prove that this ridiculously overpriced undergraduate degree was worth it you big dumb cluck?”

My usual tactic in these scenarios was to assume an expression of calm confidence, reply “Peace Corps” and then steer the conversation away from my doomed future. This answer was a truthful one. Joining the Peace Corps was something I had wanted to do since middle school. Back then I think I got a kick out of the “good for yous!” and overall impressiveness the Peace Corps answer elicited. As I grew up, my decision to join became less a good party trick and more a realistic life choice as I weighed my different options. Due to the false advertisements of our culture and perhaps the faulty perception of every young generation, we assume that most dreams die at age thirty. We are warned through sitcom and tragic novels alike that kids, a mortgage and a dissatisfying job will quash the aspirations of youth. Truth or not, I haven’t experienced it yet to say. Regardless, and erring on the cautious side, I did not want my Peace Corps dream to end up in my inspiration (aka “I wish I would have done this”) scrapbook. So I filled out the outrageously long online application in the fall of 2012 and awaited a response. I passed the application’s interview, medical exams and background checks, but by graduation, I still had not received my Invitation.

Nebulous worry clouded my future. What would I do if I didn’t get accepted? Where was I going to live now that college was over? How was I going to take the next step forward in my life? These questions kept me up at night, which I am aware, is such a first world, young twenty-something year old problem. But there you have it. I was stressed. Within twenty four hours of walking across the stage and receiving my university diploma, I traded in my cap and gown for hiking boots as my family and I boarded a flight bound for Spain. I was on the brink of a major life change and was looking to do some serious Self Examination on the trail to Santiago.

I wasn’t initially concerned about the walking. As a Colorado native, a hike is a walk unless you are sloping vertically, and then it’s really just a steep walk and stop being a baby about it, just hurry up already. Here’s the thing: In lieu of my fragile first world stressed state, I might have been drinking and munching a little more than usual to quell the panic of graduation and imminent free fall called my future.

Here’s the other thing: My family members are all shameless athletes. My parents are the kind of people who run or do physical activity daily. If they can’t due to travel or work, they are doing squats and lunges down the grocery store aisles and pushups in cramped hotel rooms. My sister is no slouch either. At the time of this trip, she had sustained a serious stress fracture from training for a half marathon, and yet still figured she’d be able to complete the walk (which she did…show off). My excuse was that I had partaken in a few too many glasses of Moscato, and that’s not really an excuse in this family. Stop being a baby about it, just hurry up already.

So we start to walk.

The first day on the trail, I want to sit down every kilometer, and hope a lone passing car would take pity and drive my sorry ass to that evening’s destination. My parents take off, marching confidently in the direction the yellow shell markers point. My injured sister, and my sweaty self limp almost an hour behind, slapping each of those shells as if we have just summited a 14er. The shells. The scalloped shell can be found on the shores of Galicia and has long been the symbol of the Camino. The grooves on the shell represent the various paths each pilgrim has traveled, eventually arriving at a single destination, (the tomb of St. James). The shell also serves the practical purpose of denoting that you are a traveler on the Camino. Many pilgrims attach a shell to their packs or their walking sticks at the beginning of their journey, thus allowing them to hunker down in some refugios or hosteles for free. With the shell as your identity, everyone you meet on the trail will call out to you as you pass by “buen camino”, literally translating to “good walk”, and implying well wishes for the way ahead.

The days that follow the first are even worse. Blisters form, muscles tighten and I don’t have the mental capacity to contemplate my spiritual fate, Peace Corps or future once, except to mentally note that it all generally blows. My mother, being the badass that she is, has taken her army knife and literally carved out a square in her boot to make room for her badly swollen ankle. “How much further” is not a question I ask anymore, instead keeping my head tucked inside my rain jacket and putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not all bad though. Our evening meals have never been more satiating after an eight to ten hour day of walking, and sleeping has never been easier to fall in to. The people we meet are good natured and encouraging, shouting their “buen caminos” at us like shining little good luck charms.

On one particularly hot afternoon, after emerging from the woods with piss on my pants and blood on my hands (don’t ask), a kind and elderly farmer offers me half his sandwich. We are both sitting on a low stone wall surrounded by farmland as he watches his sheep graze, and I do my best to clean myself up. We chat for a while, his lisping Spanish accent hard for me to understand, our miscommunications and explanations making us both laugh. As the sun sinks lower, he and I stand up, shake hands and walk in opposite directions. A hundred feet away I hear him whistle once, high and short. I turn to look at him as he calls out “buen camino!” waving with both hands. I find myself grinning stupidly and waving with both hands back.

Our last day on the trail, there are many miles behind us, and the beautiful Cathedral of St. James is in front of us, I look around and assess my significance in this spiritual place, really for the first time. I haven’t thought once about my Peace Corps application, nor what I will be doing with my life after this trip is over. Each day here, I have instead taken it one kilometer, and one step at a time. A church bell is ringing somewhere, and mass begins. I hear prayers floating out of the Cathedral, where they hang suspended above the town square. I close my eyes and breath in that old city.

You never see the view from the valley, (or, I suppose in this case, the tomb from the trail). I learned my lesson after walking the Camino was over and the lesson is this: the walk never really ends. Life will continue, even if you are uncertain of what the future holds. You will wake up the next morning and carry on because really, what other choice do you have?

Stop worrying, start walking.

Buen Camino.

*I received my Peace Corps Invitation a few months later, to serve as an Education volunteer in Indonesia.